Like cold water to a weary soul
Is good news from a distant land.
Proverbs 25:25
Hello friends! My entries, of late, have been few and far between, and for this I truly am sorry. But not too badly... the many life interruptions that have prohibited recent writing opportunities are very worth the time they take - and I will say that I have been amassing quite a lot of excellent writing material during my time away. You can expect that in about a week or so, when the fury of life slowly calms and I am left only the responsibility to rest. I would, however, like to inform you all on the general happenings of life, in hopes that it may shed a few rays of light on my purposes for staying away so long.
First of all, the end of year has brought with it all the joys (and stresses!) of graduation - from high school and from the community college, with my AA in general studies and a full-ride scholarship for ASU next year as a junior... goodness, it makes me sound old. ;) I'm both elated and rather frightened at this new door that awaits my entrance... but He knows the plans He has for me, and in that I take great courage. One can scarcely imagine the manifold doings and activities and parties and responsibilities that graduation brings... until it strikes and you wonder where your life has gone to. (!) I praise the Lord, though, for His faithfulness in getting me through this year (especially this final semester!) - and I can't wait to see what's up ahead.
Secondly, EVBC Summer Camp '06 has just finished - we rode 13 buses out to the coast on June the 9th, and rode 12 back on the 13th. (Technical difficulty, you see.) What an incredible time of growth - and rather painful stretching at the same time. You can expect a full account of this upon my return from this next... Caborca.
Yes, friends, it has come again, and I feel hardly prepared. I'm really just drained at the moment - physically and spiritually - and I wonder what else I could possibly have to give. I guess this is the point where my reliance on His strength and His alone becomes absolutely crucial. You don't realize your dependence until weakness like this sets in. But His grace is sufficient - His strength is made perfect in our weakness. What a glorious truth!!!! (His truth always is.) Now all that is left for me is to trust - to live like I know it. To step forward and live out the Gospel, as the Lord girds me with strength and good news. Wow... we are bringing good news from a distant land to people who have never heard it before. Just think about that for a moment. They have never heard of salvation; of Jesus Christ, Savior and God; of justification by faith; of the greatest news man can ever expect to hear. And we are messengers. That's all. We have no merit in and of ourselves - in fact, quite the opposite is true. But He will make His name known - and He has chosen to use us as ambassadors and tools for His name.
What better purpose can one have in life?
I challenge you to come up with one. ;)
However, this Caborca could be considerably more difficult than past trips. There are considerably less students going down with us, and I have therefore been given a great deal of responsibility and leadership in this new endeavour. I would greatly appreciate prayer there. (!) Secondly... oh, how can I put this... well, here's the deal. Certain relationships have come to my attention among those venturing south with us that may make focus a much harder goal to attain, and that dreadful distraction factor much greater. I pray that I may be of great service while there, and that my mind would be on Him and on His glory. I would ask that you would lift these needs up to Him who knows and fully understands my struggles, and who has promised to answer the prayers of those who ask in His name. Thank you.
Until next week then... may the Lord bless and keep you all, cause His face to shine upon you, and give you great hope. As for us, may He dwell in the midst of us, uniting us for one cause, and prepare the hearts of those He should, in His great sovereign will, choose to save. Let us remember that He has promised to complete the work He began in us - to fulfill us and to sanctify us into His beautiful image.
We have this hope as an anchor for the soul.
After reading this short update, you should read Hebrews 6 sometime. You really should. And Isaiah 61 - herein lies my new life verse (and, being a rather goal-oriented individual, my purpose for life, as well), and will figure rather prominently in the account of my last venture to sunny California with East Valley student ministries.
1 The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is on me,
because the LORD has anointed me to preach good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners,
2 to proclaim the year of the LORD's favor and the day of vengeance of our God,
to comfort all who mourn,
3 and provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
a planting of the LORD for the display of his splendor.
I expect great things of a great God.
Amen. That's all for now, folks.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Conversations
Never Confuse Movement with Action.
Matthew 25:14-30 - "Again, it will be like a man going on a journey, who called his servants and entrusted his property to them. To one he gave five talents of money, to another two talents, and to another one talent, each according to his ability. Then he went on his journey. The man who had received the five talents went at once and put his money to work and gained five more. So also, the one with the two talents gained two more. But the man who had received the one talent went off, dug a hole in the ground and hid his master's money.
"After a long time the master of those servants returned and settled accounts with them. The man who had received the five talents brought the other five. 'Master,' he said, 'you entrusted me with five talents. See, I have gained five more.' "His master replied, 'Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and share your master's happiness!' "The man with the two talents also came. 'Master,' he said, 'you entrusted me with two talents; see, I have gained two more.' "His master replied, 'Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and share your master's happiness!'
"Then the man who had received the one talent came. 'Master,' he said, 'I knew that you are a hard man, harvesting where you have not sown and gathering where you have not scattered seed. So I was afraid and went out and hid your talent in the ground. See, here is what belongs to you.'
"His master replied, 'You wicked, lazy servant! So you knew that I harvest where I have not sown and gather where I have not scattered seed? Well then, you should have put my money on deposit with the bankers, so that when I returned I would have received it back with interest. " 'Take the talent from him and give it to the one who has the ten talents. For everyone who has will be given more, and he will have an abundance. Whoever does not have, even what he has will be taken from him. And throw that worthless servant outside, into the darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.'
__________________________________________________________________
Well, friends, it's been a while. A long while. It's not that there wasn't time, or that my extensive repertoire of words suddenly ran short. It wasn't that my computer spontaneously combusted, or my great great grandmother was in intensive care, or anything of the sort. In all truth, I'm not sure what I was waiting for. Being the dreamer that I am, I was probably sort of hoping for a sign or wonder or some sort of miraculous happening - a vision or direct, divine revelation to shock and astonish and entertain the world. And yet - despite all my dreaming - I'm slowly coming to grips with the fact that life is not all adventure and excitement, romance and drama. In fact, it often has very little to do with any of those things. The real struggle is in the everyday, the commonplace - what we do with the time we are given.
The semester is finally drawing to a close, with all its joys and inconveniences (that's all they really are anyway), and I've learned a few valuable lessons. I feel the need to sum them up and get them into words... if they remain in wordless form for too long, they never crystallize into anything life-changing - or even thought-provoking, and are of no use to anybody (me in particular). That you all might know, the number one (#1) lesson of the semester was this:
I learned the impact of even the smallest opportunity.
I've never really been one for talking... at least not well. You can give me a month or so to plan a speech and I can come up with something real nice and forceful and convincing... but only because I wrote it all out first. ;) Confrontation - of any sort - is not something I do well. (In that aspect, I'm much like Paul.... " ") Despite my fears and shortcomings, however, I've grown to realize that I'm never going to get anywhere like this. I'm never going to make a difference in anyone's life - I'm never going to be a real part of the Great Commission given us by Christ unless I pursue - instead of wait for - opportunities. So, while I was looking (and praying intensely!) - I found a few.
It was my second to last day (yes, I was counting!) student teaching, and, as I walked across campus and up the stairs to my classroom, I began mentally kicking myself for being so... so... quiet. There had to be opportunities somewhere! Maybe I was so used to passing them by that I had forgotten what they looked like. Today, today, I told myself. Come on, old girl. Today's the day. Yeah - that's right - motivation!!! And yet, out of mere habit, I began to go through all my well-worn excuses. Come on, Hannah... it's not all about words, it's about what your life looks like. Yeah! That's the real truth. Lots of people share the Gospel. Besides, you're only supposed to teach her how to spell. Not how to pray.
I reached the door and reluctantly pulled it open, heading to my own little designated seat and desk, my smile nervously painted on as my student approached. (Ok, "approached" is a rather non-descript word, evoking a sense of calm. Repose. Let me rephrase. Correction: bounded. Lept. Flew through the air. While screaming.)
"Yes! Tuesday!" she cried, hugging me fiercely as she threw the contents of her former desk onto mine. "I'm just gonna sit here now," she said, "so you can help me all the time. Ok?"
"Um... yeah. Alright, well... just let me, uh, get my things off here and we'll get started."
What? I didn't sign up for full-time tutor. I'm a volunteer. VOLUNTEER. Definition: one who renders a service or takes part in a transaction while having no legal concern or interest. Fourth-grade translation: PART-TIME. Wasn't a good half of this supposed to be observation?
By the time I realized where my trail of thought was headed, it was too late - the words were spoken, though only to myself. But I knew Someone Else had heard. I prayed a quick prayer of repentance, and penitently threw myself into literature with Kaya.
By about 11 - Kaya's voice still droning on in the background - my eyes were semi-permanently glued to the class clock face, as that torturous second hand counted out 60 seconds. 1 minute. 2 minutes...
Noon is coming... noon is coming...
"Teacher?"
Silence.
"Miss PAASCH? HELL-O??"
"What? Huh?" My mind was suddenly jolted from its reverie and, reeling, I turned to look at my student, whose foot was gleefully employed kicking, shoving, and otherwise maneuvering mine to make me as comfortable - and lucid - as possible.
"How do you spell, um, chocolate?" (We're reading Willy Wonka.)
"C - H - O - C - O - L ..."
I glanced over at my other little friend, redhead Lydia, whose eyes were fixed on me. Kaya looked up, waiting.
"So, um... guess what I did for Easter!" I exclaimed, sensing a lull. Now's as good a time as any.
Blank stares.
"Well... let me tell you!!!! I sang six services - that's right, six - at my church on Sunday. YEAH! Do you believe that? I had to wake up at 3:30 in the morning, too, just to be there on time. I know! It was crazy, but it was great, and..."
"I don't really go to church anymore," Kaya muttered, staring down at her paper.
Oh, ok! Here's a start. " Really now?"
Suddenly even I was engaged. God saves fourth-graders!
"Nawww... not really... I mean, like, sometimes... but my mom's always working, and - my dad lives in Brooklyn, and my stupid brothers won't take me!"
"Guess what?" said Lydia, eager to put in her two cents. "My pastor says that before Jesus comes back there's going to be this Tribulation for seven years, and then there's going to be the Rapture, and..." She went on to tell me about all sorts of signs and wonders and strange stories of things to come - something about a cloth folded in a triangle signalling the Apocalypse...
(I don't know. I really don't.)
"WELL," I said, "I've never heard of that before. But... about that Jesus fellow..."
I muttered and stumbled and fell all over myself. I would have sounded like a perfect blundering idiot to anyone over 10... but these girls were right with me. The Lord really does have a sense of humor... He knew how much I could handle (or couldn't handle, more like), and He gave me just that. Just as I ran out of breath - and words - Kaya (who had remained mostly silent), looked up and asked...
"So, Miss Paasch, do you think Jesus would save even a ten-year-old who doesn' t know what do with her life?"
I took a deep breath, and grinned - I'm sure - from ear to ear.
"Yes, Kaya. I'm sure He will."
"Guess what?" she said, two days later, the moment I walked into the room. "I prayed already."
"REALLY?" I said, oozing excitement. "What did you pray?"
"I prayed for Jesus to save me, and my family too."
Wow, I thought. God, You're pretty cool. And somehow, I suddenly felt that all those early Tuesday mornings were now worth every inconvenience.
More to come...
Conversations
Sara Groves
I don't know how to say this
I don't know where to start
I don't know where to put my feet or where to put my hands
I've got them in my pockets
My fingers are freezing cold
They're wrapped around a ticket stub that's four weeks old,
And I don't know how to say this
I think we've figured out
That this world is bigger than you and I
And we've exhausted our wealth of knowledge
And no more answers for mankind
And we've had every conversation in the world
About what is right and what has all gone bad,
But have I mentioned to you that this all I have...
This is all that I am
And I'm not trying to judge you
No, that's not my job
I am just a seeker too,
In search of good...
Somewhere, somehow this subject became taboo
I have no other way to communicate to you
That this all that I have, this is all that I am
And I would like to share with you what makes me complete
I don't claim to have found the truth
But I know it has found me
The only thing that isn't meaningless to me
Is Jesus Christ and the way He set me free....
And this is all that I have, this is all that I am -
The only thing that isn't meaningless to me
Is Jesus Christ and the way He set me free,
And this is all that I have, this is all that I am,
It's all that I have and it's all that I am
It's all that I have and it's all...
_____________________________________________________________
Oh the beauty of real, God-given, God-glorifying conversations... and what real, undying satisfaction there is in knowing that someone else knows and understands the beauty of my Savior. Oh the beauty of being faithful - in little things, in small opportunities...
... in the Great Commission.
Matthew 25:14-30 - "Again, it will be like a man going on a journey, who called his servants and entrusted his property to them. To one he gave five talents of money, to another two talents, and to another one talent, each according to his ability. Then he went on his journey. The man who had received the five talents went at once and put his money to work and gained five more. So also, the one with the two talents gained two more. But the man who had received the one talent went off, dug a hole in the ground and hid his master's money.
"After a long time the master of those servants returned and settled accounts with them. The man who had received the five talents brought the other five. 'Master,' he said, 'you entrusted me with five talents. See, I have gained five more.' "His master replied, 'Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and share your master's happiness!' "The man with the two talents also came. 'Master,' he said, 'you entrusted me with two talents; see, I have gained two more.' "His master replied, 'Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and share your master's happiness!'
"Then the man who had received the one talent came. 'Master,' he said, 'I knew that you are a hard man, harvesting where you have not sown and gathering where you have not scattered seed. So I was afraid and went out and hid your talent in the ground. See, here is what belongs to you.'
"His master replied, 'You wicked, lazy servant! So you knew that I harvest where I have not sown and gather where I have not scattered seed? Well then, you should have put my money on deposit with the bankers, so that when I returned I would have received it back with interest. " 'Take the talent from him and give it to the one who has the ten talents. For everyone who has will be given more, and he will have an abundance. Whoever does not have, even what he has will be taken from him. And throw that worthless servant outside, into the darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.'
__________________________________________________________________
Well, friends, it's been a while. A long while. It's not that there wasn't time, or that my extensive repertoire of words suddenly ran short. It wasn't that my computer spontaneously combusted, or my great great grandmother was in intensive care, or anything of the sort. In all truth, I'm not sure what I was waiting for. Being the dreamer that I am, I was probably sort of hoping for a sign or wonder or some sort of miraculous happening - a vision or direct, divine revelation to shock and astonish and entertain the world. And yet - despite all my dreaming - I'm slowly coming to grips with the fact that life is not all adventure and excitement, romance and drama. In fact, it often has very little to do with any of those things. The real struggle is in the everyday, the commonplace - what we do with the time we are given.
The semester is finally drawing to a close, with all its joys and inconveniences (that's all they really are anyway), and I've learned a few valuable lessons. I feel the need to sum them up and get them into words... if they remain in wordless form for too long, they never crystallize into anything life-changing - or even thought-provoking, and are of no use to anybody (me in particular). That you all might know, the number one (#1) lesson of the semester was this:
I learned the impact of even the smallest opportunity.
I've never really been one for talking... at least not well. You can give me a month or so to plan a speech and I can come up with something real nice and forceful and convincing... but only because I wrote it all out first. ;) Confrontation - of any sort - is not something I do well. (In that aspect, I'm much like Paul.... " ") Despite my fears and shortcomings, however, I've grown to realize that I'm never going to get anywhere like this. I'm never going to make a difference in anyone's life - I'm never going to be a real part of the Great Commission given us by Christ unless I pursue - instead of wait for - opportunities. So, while I was looking (and praying intensely!) - I found a few.
It was my second to last day (yes, I was counting!) student teaching, and, as I walked across campus and up the stairs to my classroom, I began mentally kicking myself for being so... so... quiet. There had to be opportunities somewhere! Maybe I was so used to passing them by that I had forgotten what they looked like. Today, today, I told myself. Come on, old girl. Today's the day. Yeah - that's right - motivation!!! And yet, out of mere habit, I began to go through all my well-worn excuses. Come on, Hannah... it's not all about words, it's about what your life looks like. Yeah! That's the real truth. Lots of people share the Gospel. Besides, you're only supposed to teach her how to spell. Not how to pray.
I reached the door and reluctantly pulled it open, heading to my own little designated seat and desk, my smile nervously painted on as my student approached. (Ok, "approached" is a rather non-descript word, evoking a sense of calm. Repose. Let me rephrase. Correction: bounded. Lept. Flew through the air. While screaming.)
"Yes! Tuesday!" she cried, hugging me fiercely as she threw the contents of her former desk onto mine. "I'm just gonna sit here now," she said, "so you can help me all the time. Ok?"
"Um... yeah. Alright, well... just let me, uh, get my things off here and we'll get started."
What? I didn't sign up for full-time tutor. I'm a volunteer. VOLUNTEER. Definition: one who renders a service or takes part in a transaction while having no legal concern or interest. Fourth-grade translation: PART-TIME. Wasn't a good half of this supposed to be observation?
By the time I realized where my trail of thought was headed, it was too late - the words were spoken, though only to myself. But I knew Someone Else had heard. I prayed a quick prayer of repentance, and penitently threw myself into literature with Kaya.
By about 11 - Kaya's voice still droning on in the background - my eyes were semi-permanently glued to the class clock face, as that torturous second hand counted out 60 seconds. 1 minute. 2 minutes...
Noon is coming... noon is coming...
"Teacher?"
Silence.
"Miss PAASCH? HELL-O??"
"What? Huh?" My mind was suddenly jolted from its reverie and, reeling, I turned to look at my student, whose foot was gleefully employed kicking, shoving, and otherwise maneuvering mine to make me as comfortable - and lucid - as possible.
"How do you spell, um, chocolate?" (We're reading Willy Wonka.)
"C - H - O - C - O - L ..."
I glanced over at my other little friend, redhead Lydia, whose eyes were fixed on me. Kaya looked up, waiting.
"So, um... guess what I did for Easter!" I exclaimed, sensing a lull. Now's as good a time as any.
Blank stares.
"Well... let me tell you!!!! I sang six services - that's right, six - at my church on Sunday. YEAH! Do you believe that? I had to wake up at 3:30 in the morning, too, just to be there on time. I know! It was crazy, but it was great, and..."
"I don't really go to church anymore," Kaya muttered, staring down at her paper.
Oh, ok! Here's a start. " Really now?"
Suddenly even I was engaged. God saves fourth-graders!
"Nawww... not really... I mean, like, sometimes... but my mom's always working, and - my dad lives in Brooklyn, and my stupid brothers won't take me!"
"Guess what?" said Lydia, eager to put in her two cents. "My pastor says that before Jesus comes back there's going to be this Tribulation for seven years, and then there's going to be the Rapture, and..." She went on to tell me about all sorts of signs and wonders and strange stories of things to come - something about a cloth folded in a triangle signalling the Apocalypse...
(I don't know. I really don't.)
"WELL," I said, "I've never heard of that before. But... about that Jesus fellow..."
I muttered and stumbled and fell all over myself. I would have sounded like a perfect blundering idiot to anyone over 10... but these girls were right with me. The Lord really does have a sense of humor... He knew how much I could handle (or couldn't handle, more like), and He gave me just that. Just as I ran out of breath - and words - Kaya (who had remained mostly silent), looked up and asked...
"So, Miss Paasch, do you think Jesus would save even a ten-year-old who doesn' t know what do with her life?"
I took a deep breath, and grinned - I'm sure - from ear to ear.
"Yes, Kaya. I'm sure He will."
"Guess what?" she said, two days later, the moment I walked into the room. "I prayed already."
"REALLY?" I said, oozing excitement. "What did you pray?"
"I prayed for Jesus to save me, and my family too."
Wow, I thought. God, You're pretty cool. And somehow, I suddenly felt that all those early Tuesday mornings were now worth every inconvenience.
More to come...
Conversations
Sara Groves
I don't know how to say this
I don't know where to start
I don't know where to put my feet or where to put my hands
I've got them in my pockets
My fingers are freezing cold
They're wrapped around a ticket stub that's four weeks old,
And I don't know how to say this
I think we've figured out
That this world is bigger than you and I
And we've exhausted our wealth of knowledge
And no more answers for mankind
And we've had every conversation in the world
About what is right and what has all gone bad,
But have I mentioned to you that this all I have...
This is all that I am
And I'm not trying to judge you
No, that's not my job
I am just a seeker too,
In search of good...
Somewhere, somehow this subject became taboo
I have no other way to communicate to you
That this all that I have, this is all that I am
And I would like to share with you what makes me complete
I don't claim to have found the truth
But I know it has found me
The only thing that isn't meaningless to me
Is Jesus Christ and the way He set me free....
And this is all that I have, this is all that I am -
The only thing that isn't meaningless to me
Is Jesus Christ and the way He set me free,
And this is all that I have, this is all that I am,
It's all that I have and it's all that I am
It's all that I have and it's all...
_____________________________________________________________
Oh the beauty of real, God-given, God-glorifying conversations... and what real, undying satisfaction there is in knowing that someone else knows and understands the beauty of my Savior. Oh the beauty of being faithful - in little things, in small opportunities...
... in the Great Commission.
Overthrow
Batter my heart, three personed God; for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn and make me new.
I, like an usurped town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but Oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, should defend,
But is captived and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betrothed unto your enemy:
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free -
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
- John Donne
Sunday, April 02, 2006
The Terrific Tales of Tuesday
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...
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...
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?
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