Titles, Resolving, and 2010

When I started this blog two years ago, I agonized for hours on what to name it. “Walls for the Wind” is the perfect name for it, for so many reasons. Not simply because it’s a lyric from an Irish blessing (though that adds to the appropriateness, certainly) but because that lyric describes me and what I’m doing here very well.

If you now me well enough, you’ll know that I’d much rather you didn’t people didn’t seem me vulnerable or emotional. In fact, if you read this, odds are in my favor that you’ve never seen me shed a tear. Not because I don’t feel, but because I don’t show it. Not normally. It’s a defense mechanism; I’m working on it, in any case. Besides, it’s for your own good, too! Once you get past that key layer in my defenses, it’s tough to get me to shut up. ;-)

“Walls for the wind” works for other reasons, too. In the physical sense, we want walls to keep the wind out—it’s a nice, alliterative term for shelter, safety. I do take refuge in words.

Here’s what I wrote in my first entry on this blog; even here I wasn’t overt about my purpose in writing.

“I used to write on LiveJournal. That little corner of cyberspace put up with my musings, complaints, and questions for several years, but it's time to start fresh. Some of those days, I hope to stay in the past. The other ones will live in my memory. So farewell, LiveJournal.”

I did delete that old LJ; most of it was just whining that embarrassed me. In my mind, “starting fresh” as I said, meant writing deliberately, about truths, about things that matter to more than just me. In fact, I started the  blog as a New Year’s resolution going into 2008. To write more and about truth—specifically, I resolved to use blogging as a way to deepen my understanding of the Bible and strengthen my relationship with Christ. That’s why many of my entries are spiritual in focus; it’s to keep myself focused. And hopefully, draw your own interest in.

In the final sense, “walls for the wind” is a title that reflects that purpose. The writers of the New Testament often compared the Holy Spirit to wind, or breath.

“The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.” John 3:8

Even the strongest of believers is guilty of building walls to hold the Spirit out. We don’t want to concede our plans for the will of God; we think we can live our lives better on our own terms, do we not? My words on this corner of Cyberspace make up my expressions of these walls of my own paltry understanding.

More than anything, I write to break down walls, not to build them. Break down my own emotional walls so I can be closer to others, put out of my comfort zone, and to break down my “walls for the wind” so I can let the Spirit lead me.

Hopefully, now, some of my musings make more sense to you. They do to me. And now, finally, I wish you and yours a very Happy New Year.

-Hillary

Old Long Since

Apparently, that’s the literal Scottish translation of “Auld Lang Syne",” the song typically sung at New Year’s. The song with the melody everyone knows and the words no one knows. More “idiomatically” (according to Wikipedia), it means “long, long ago.” That seemed more appropriate for a near-end of the year blog post.

Yesterday, I aged another year without the world being profoundly different for it. For me, however, this year has been one of the most influential of my life.

Long, long ago, I stepped off a canoe onto the banks of a Peruvian village called “Shevojah” where I slept in a tent, ate more power bars than I ever care to eat for the rest of my life, and faced the first major and irrevocable change to my life plans in quite some time.

Long, long ago I made the decision to return to CLR for summer 2009. Anyone who has ever spent more than an hour in my company knows how integral that place has been in my life for the past year. Past three years, if we’re honest with ourselves.

This year I went to more weddings and heard about more engagements than ever before; however, I’m certain 2010 will surpass 2009 in that happy respect.

This past semester, Fall 2009, was my last semester in undergraduate classes; I worked harder in those four months than I think I ever have at more tasks than I’ve ever had to tackle. I think I miffed many people with my slightly hermit-esque behavior at school and with my tendency to flee to camp almost every other weekend. I don’t regret it, but I do hope to cling harder to my social life in 2010. Perhaps as a student teacher, that is a fool’s hope. We’ll see.

This year taught me many pretty lessons, the most stunning of which was learning that being a professional writer is not actually one of my dreams. Even the world of fiction writing becomes tedious if visited too often and out of obligation. My goal for my life, then, is balance. Never making the things I love too overtly into jobs.

Many people make resolutions at this point… mine, I think, are simple enough.

1. Love more.
2. Talk less.
3. Walk more.
4. Sit less.
5. Read more.
6. Watch less.
7. Pray more.
8. Worry less.
9. Trust more.
10. Hide less.

We’ll see how it goes, won’t we?

A Day for a Poem

It's never scientific, after all.
There is no checklist, no empirical process
no necessary weather forecast or
emotional state of being.

It's not a particularly sunny day, now
the rain has settled into stagnant pools among
the dead leaves, and the sun hides behind dull
clouds like the word you can sense but never find
when you need it.

My feet are cold, and my house nearly emptied.
My mother must have turned on the Christmas tree
before she left, and the dogs sleep beneath it like presents;
however, Christmas is still to come.

Today is no one's birthday, nor the anniversary of
a sweet gesture, so far as I can remember.
It's almost lunchtime, and no one has died,
or proposed, or graduated.

But most of our problems stem from being too
inwardly focused, I think, so just because I can't find
any socks, or see sunlight shatter in beams through clouds,
or make note of this day as when I found true love

doesn't mean that it hasn't been a tear-soaked,
laughter-filled and unforgettable day for someone else on
the other side of this earth. So I put my glasses on
and decided today was as good as any day for a poem.

Distractive Listening

Walking around my college campus, for what will be my last year, I've noticed a few things that might have slipped my notice in years passed. For example, I've always been aware of how students and others walking around the city walk with their headphones or earbuds on, listening to music as they walk from place to place. However, I've not stopped to think about this new tendency until today.

I passed a friend of mine today, who was listening to her music, smiling distantly, and even bobbing her head a bit to the music. I waved and called her name, but she couldn't hear me. I laughed it off as we always do, but I couldn't shake the sense that this picture of extreme individualism was more than just a society-wide affinity for good tunes.

Why is it that we are so apt to slide on the headphones and turn on the iPod as we walk crowded streets? Why do we want to cover up the sounds our surroundings with music? Just walking back to my apartment after passing my friend, I was so much more aware of the sounds of my city: people talking, tourists, the sound of cars and footsteps and hoof-beats from carriage tours. Maybe I wouldn't have noticed the wind whistling through the changing leaves and my hair.

Even when jogging or working out, the first thing we do is put in headphones, to watch the TV perched on the  edge of the treadmill or to listen to our favorite playlists as we run a capricious path between buildings and patches of grass. Why is that? Do we not want to hear our own labored breaths or the sounds of our own feet pounding against the ground? Would we rather focus on the beat of the music than the beat of our hearts? Why the distraction?

Perhaps, instead, it is a ploy to keep our privacy. When you walk or jog down the street with buds in your ears, you are less likely to hear someone call your name, or call for help. If you're waiting at the corner for the light to change, a stranger is not going to strike up a casual conversation with you once they see the headphones. The tiny white buds are a great wall.

I wonder if this isn't some grand metaphor playing out before our eyes; so many people among us are walking through life with buds in their ears, listening only to what they want to hear--not hearing heir own labored breaths and racing heart and pounding footsteps as they jog, a reminder of their fragile grasp on life, of impending mortality. Maybe none of us want to hear ourselves running because we'd have to then acknowledge from what we are fleeing. So many people around us, waiting on the light to change, have in the ear buds, not wanting you to start a conversation with them outside of their convenience, not hearing the Voice calling their name.

Or maybe we are the ones with the headphones on. Maybe we don't want to acknowledge our surroundings, hear the cries for help, or even hear the sounds of city and nature. "In the world, and not of it," we might say to ourselves as we jog, taking Words out of context as we are so apt to do and running, running from the faces and stories and waving arms, not waving but drowning. And it's all too easy to say we didn't hear, but the truth of it all is we fail to listen.

fear

things i fear:

• clowns
• bees/wasps/flying stinging things
• breaking my nose
• pain
• missed opportunities
• losing control
• being a poor leader
• stupid mistakes
• disappointing someone i admire
• hurting someone else
• being hated and not knowing it
• losing my brother
• failure

things i don't fear:

• death

Stories Can Save Us.

Today, I sang "Happy Birthday" to Tim O'Brien, Vietnam Veteran, "older father" (as he put it), and world-renowned writer of The Things They Carried, among other poignant novels. Obviously, I wasn't the only one singing--the rest of the audience crowded in the Carolina First Arena joined in to sing to him after he spent over an hour speaking to us about stories, truth, life, and war.

More than anything, I wanted to be one of the loud freshman and cautiously excited faculty members that popped from their chairs in a rush to line up in front of him for an unscheduled autograph. I can imagine how the conversation might go...

"Hi, Mr. O'Brien."

"Hey, there. What's your name?"

"H-Hillary." I would stutter here, certainly. Even being 15 feet away, I was starstruck.

"Tell me about yourself, Hillary." I think he'd be interested, or at least, would pretend to be so his signature could have a note before it. But listening to him speak and seeing how personable and humble and sincere he was, I think he would genuinely want to know a little about every person whose book he signed. And I know what I would want to say and how embarrassed I would be say it, especially to Tim O'Brien.

"Well, I want to be a writer. I'm working on a project now about a soldier's return from Afghanistan and how he and his family react to his return." Except I'm sure I would stutter much more here and fail to explain my project with any semblance of clarity.

I don't know how he would react to my admission; I'm sure he and writers of his caliber hear similar rushed confessions every time they speak. Maybe he would nod and say, "That's great, keep working at it." Maybe he'd say, "Good luck, kid." Maybe he would smile empathetically and think on his life, when he was first starting out and sign "You'll make it," above his name. I'm not sure.

But I'm willing to bet that if I sat down with Tim O'Brien and let him read my manuscript, he might tell me the same thing that my advisor, Anthony Varallo, tells me, the same thing that Bret Lott and Carol Ann Davis told me when they reviewed the first half:

"Don't be afraid."

Of what? Well, here's what I've got so far.

Don't be afraid to lie. Tim O'Brien said this tonight, and as a young writer who hasn't had the experiences that he has, I can see the necessity of this. I've always been told, ever since writing workshops as a nerdy fifth grader, to "write what you know." Because of this, I've been afraid to venture much beyond my own experiences in my writing. But as a not-quite twenty-two year old who grew up in the suburbs and tried to make as little trouble as possible, I haven't had too many experiences that readers might find striking. I shouldn't be afraid to use the imagination my parents often laughed at when I was young.

Don't be afraid to tell the truth. Just because it's fiction doesn't mean real life is off-limits. In fact, things that are close to my heart are going to be the most believable on the page. When I had my bachelor's essay committee meeting at the half-way point, I thought I was in a group therapy session instead of a formal review. The three accomplished writers reading my very rough draft could read my prose and see details of my life that I had never revealed. So this story is born out of your fear, one of them said. Reveal that; your narrator isn't you, but she is very similar to you. Just as you're afraid of what will happen if your kid brother goes to war, so she is going to be afraid of failing her brother who has returned from it.

Don't be afraid of conflict. The characters are pulled from your own life and experience, and even though they're different from those people who inspired them, you don't want to hurt them or put conflict in their lives because they are so similar to people you love. But if your characters don't fight or get in trouble or worry or make waves, no one will want to read about them.

Don't be afraid of happy endings. Just because the trend in modern fiction is to be pessimistic about everything doesn't mean your story can't end on a positive note or your characters can't get what it is they are wanting. But if they get it too easily, the end won't ring true.

It'd be great if I took a moment to revel Tim O'Brien's lessons and then, clutching my laptop to my chest, ran into my bedroom, shut the door, and churned out the rest of my book in shining, clear prose that brought my incredibly talented panel of advisors to tears. Instead, I think I'm going to sit on my couch tonight, watch a movie with my roommate, talk, laugh, and live until I go to sleep. Why?

Living is not about writing; writing is about living.

How Things Change

Over the years, I've found a constant thematic story in my own life and choices. I make plans; God waits until I think I have every detail ironed out to step in; He lets me believe I have everything under control.

I probably should have learned my lesson long ago; even as a child, I was a control-freak. Not in the sense that I was overly bossy (though my younger brother may testify differently to that) or obsessive-compulsive (unless we're talking about board games. Seriously. I do not mess around; my Monopoly money is organized into rubber-banded bundles and the property and Chance cards are inside separate plastic bags. I do not mess around.)

I was a control-freak in the fact that I was overly-independent. I wanted, even as a child, to make my own decisions, do everything by myself, go away from home as much as possible. I was way too eager to make decisions for myself and plan my life out. I was the kid looking at college websites in middle school.

But over and over again, God has taken the nice little plan I've drawn out and shaken it up and away, like an Etch-a-Sketch drawing. Poof! Gone. In high school, I just knew I was going to go to the Governor's School for the Arts and study creative writing my junior and senior year, and then go off to some artsy school in New York and write novels. Most of you know that story. :-)

So I finish up high school, and after years and years of swearing that I would never be a teacher, I find myself applying for the Teaching Fellows scholarship thanks to a wonderful woman who had an enormous influence on my life. A lady who would never have taught me if I had gone to another school like I'd originally planned.

And after that turn-around, I'm going through college, studying to be a teacher. God's plan merges with my desires, and I'm ready. I'm thinking I graduate college, go to grad school somewhere to work on my writing some more, and then start teaching.

Yes, well, that wasn't the whole plan either. The next big detour from my carefully (if altered) plans occurred at a place that I've come to love more than most any other: Camp Longridge. And that wasn't in the original plan either. I applied to another camp...and got rejected. But some time later, I get an email from the guy who interviewed me, wondering if he could pass my info onto the director of another camp that I'd never heard of. I think, why not? But then, the rest is history. After one summer working there, one summer wishing I was working there, and another summer working there, the world started to look at bit different. Not so simple.

CLR, combined with an eye-opening trip to the jungles of Peru on mission, took the nice little diagram of my life and turned it on its head. If you had asked me at this point three years ago what I was going to do after college, I would have said, "USC for graduate school, and then move to Charleston to start teaching."

Ask me now? I don't have all the answers (which drives a person like me to distraction) but more and more, I think that, along with teaching high school, I have something new in my future that I hadn't planned on--seminary. Years at Longridge teaching children made me so aware of exactly how much more I could learn myself. A week in the jungle trying to teach Old Testament stories made me that much more aware of how little I know.

So, the saga continues. Hillary thinks that she knows where she's going; God comes in and turns the map around. After all, you all know about my sense of direction.

Just Give Me Jesus.

Part of me is annoyed every year that my spring break is nowhere near Easter. This weekend, I went home, ate way too much, sang loud at church, laughed with my family, but the entire time, the obligations of school never left my mind. I wished that school didn't hover over me on the happiest day of the year, when all I wanted to do is eat candy and hang out with my brother.

We all let this happen. We let the concerns of the world, the worries of this life that seem so important take away from what really matters. But, honestly, school is not as important as Christ. If I had to choose between goals that I have (like keeping my scholarships, getting a degree, going to graduate school, becoming a teacher, and owning my own house) and Jesus, all the other crap goes. There is so much more to life than a checklist. Just give me Jesus.

This week, I'm going to my cousin's wedding in Minnesota. And contrary to popular belief, not all girls freak out over weddings. I'm not a fan for mostly selfish reasons. Weddings remind me of what I don't have; they make me less content with where I am in my life. But I have everything I could ever need and more.

Also, on a tangent, weddings are filled with ridiculous etiquette and polite mumbo jumbo that I just find tedious. I'd probably be the bride that skips the reception. Or as I keep telling my family, I'll just elope. ;-)

(They'd kill me.)

Whether or not you want to drain your life savings into a Cinderella wedding or not, I'd say most girls (and guys) do spend a lot of time thinking about dating, getting married, settling down, etc. Especially at this age, which I like to call The Bridesmaid Era. But honestly, these thoughts are nice if you can't fall asleep at night, but really fantasies are just another distraction, just like school or work. I want to find that special someone as much as any other person, but if it comes down to loving a man or loving the Son of Man...Just give me Jesus.

How to Remember

Last semester, I took a course about the Psychology of Terror and Terrorism. My professors showed the film United 93 on September 11th and 13th. I never want to see that film again. I felt sick watching the first half, the build up to the shot of second plane crashing into the second Tower, that makes me weep even seven years later.

My reaction to the film was visceral, emotional, physical. And seven years ago, I was safe with my family on the other end of the East Coast. After watching it, I experienced many of the things we'd talked about in class: flashbulb memories (remembering clearly where I was that morning) and intrustive thoughts (found myself remembering that day long after the credits for United 93 rolled).

As Americans, we were all traumatized by September 11th, to some degree. And we don't want to talk about it any more. We want to hide behind conspiracy theories, we want to sling political mud, we want to ridicule insincere patriotism... we want to forget.

We can't forget.

I'm not too far away from believing in the idea of a collective consciousness; the idea that we all as a nation are still traumatized. Similar things have been written about the Irish and the Great Famine--even centuries later, scholars contend that because no one wants to talk about the Famine and haven't wanted to since it happened, that the Irish haven't coped. Some scholars go as far as to point to the Famine when looking at Ireland's higher than usual alcoholism and domestic violence rates.

Certainly September 11th and the Great Famine are not comparable events; though both tragic, the nature of these tragedies are radically different. But I'm not so sure I can discount the idea that as a nation, we might all be headed for collective psychological side effects because we won't cope, we won't deal with 9/11. We laugh when Family Guy makes fun of how politicians use 9/11 in thier campaigns, we avoid looking at the pictures and video footage from that day. We want to blame all our problems on the Bush administration and we just want to forget.

Forgetting is not healing. Asking any trauma psychologist. And whether or not one of your friends or family members was on those planes or in those buildings, we were all victims, violated and terrified and completely helpless. The world could only watch as the world's only superpower shuddered.

But we can't. We can't forget because it isn't fair to those who died, to those who fought back, to those who attempted rescue. We can't forget because the world is changing, whether we want to keep up or not. We can't forget and become forever cynical. We can't forget because it isn't possible, no matter how hard we try.

Watching United 93 was traumatic because we try to bury the images. We want flee from the fear we felt, from the horror. It's the most basic of human instincts: fight or flight. Flee from what hurts, fight to survive. Writing this paper on the movie is tough; I don't want to revisit it, but in the case of these memories, which each of share, it is better to fight, to cope and heal, than to flee and forget.

I don't know if anything I've written here makes a lick of sense to a single soul out there. But I couldn't focus on my paper until I collected these thoughts. Perhaps you remember now where you were; perhaps you regret reading this since your smile disappeared; maybe you will try to forget.

Don't. You can't, anyway.

Good Friday

Only on this day do the words "Thank you" seem completely meaningless.

Wednesday

Let's talk about how God is real and how He does intervene in our lives and how He has a definite sense of humor.

Today's Facts

Fact: I have a ten page paper due Friday.
Fact: I have written three other papers so far this week.
Fact: I am slightly stressed.
Fact: The ministries in Charleston put on something tonight called Downtown Community.
Fact: Downtown Community is a public celebration of Easter in Marion Square Park.
Fact: I was only going to stay for a few minutes because I was going to work on my paper.
Fact: My friend called me and asked me to go with her to an event.
Fact: I got distracted while on the phone, and walked out with only my cell phone, effectively locking myself out of my house and away from my essay.

Fact: That was totally supposed to happen.

It's Holy Week, and I've had my mind on school. Not Jesus. People say that life distracts them from school... well, school distracts me from life.

Fact: Through some hilarious circumstances, God basically slapped me upside the head, locked me out of my own house while my roommate was working, and said, "Hillary, whether you like it or not,you're going to go fellowship with other believers and celebrate Easter. You're going to forget about that essay for a few hours, and you're going to laugh, sing, be still, and remember Me."

Turns out I liked it.

Lesson learned. God > School

:-)

Passion Week: Palm Sunday

Oh, dear one. I see how you toss and turn in your sleep, feeling guilty and even panicked simply because you closed your eyes to rest. I have watched you flee back and forth to your library, yawning and moaning and worrying. I know how important these things seem to you now, how crucial they feel at this moment in your life. I know the number of times you tapped the backspace key when you wrote resigned emails to professors, just like I know how many phone calls you've ignored when were working hard.

I have placed you here for a reason, and that reason was not so you could drive yourself into the ground in desperate chase after sets of letters that cease to matter: A's, B's, BA's, BS's... No, I have given you a far greater purpose: to learn, to grow, to teach, to search. You've taken your instructions much too literally, I see. You've learned neatly-bulleted lists of facts and dates, and you've grown weary of the things that used to bring you joy. You've taught yourself that if you are not at the top then you have failed, and you've searched books and websites for everything and everyone but Me.

This week, child, you may have more things to do than you have minutes in your day, and you may have more on your mind than on your heart. But don't forget what this week means; don't be distracted by your obligations, and don't be distracted by commercials for painted eggs or chocolate rabbits. Remember. Remember what you were taught as a child. And if you were not taught, then learn. Read. Pray.

On this day, two thousand years ago, I rode into a city full of smiles and waving branches and joyful cries of Hosanna! Save!

Cry out Hosanna to me, and I will rescue you from your fears of inadequacy, your heavy to-do lists, your attention deficit, your worries about the future, your unfulfilled desires. I will help you remember.

Today is Palm Sunday.

We Asks for Gifts: God Gives The Giver

I probably can't lucidly describe the degree to which my eyes have been opened in the last seven hours.

Tonight, a few in my BCM gathered together to study (on a Friday night) the word of God as it pertains to the Holy Spirit. The study was a part of the Secret Church series as presented by David Platt's ministry at Brookhills Church in Alabama; it's called Secret Church because the gatherings take place from 6 to 12 on Friday nights, as this is when persecuted believers across the world meet to study the Word and worship Christ.

For more info: http://www.brookhills.com/secretchurch/

I can't even begin to scratch the surface of everything I learned tonight in one entry, especially at this hour. However, if there was a single image of the Spirit's work in man that will never leave me, it is the image of Simeon. (Luke 2:25-32)

Take this in:

25Now there was a man in Jerusalem called Simeon, who was righteous and devout. He was waiting for the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him. 26It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not die before he had seen the Lord's Christ. 27Moved by the Spirit, he went into the temple courts. When the parents brought in the child Jesus to do for him what the custom of the Law required, 28Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying:
29"Sovereign Lord, as you have promised,
you now dismiss^[a] your servant in peace.
30For my eyes have seen your salvation,
31which you have prepared in the sight of all people,
32a light for revelation to the Gentiles
and for glory to your people Israel."

____

Imagine this old man, living so many long days while still clinging to the hope that he will see the Messiah before he dies. The Holy Spirit leads his weary body to temple one final time. And when Mary and Joseph bring Jesus to the church, Simeon knows it in each of his tired bones that before him, this child, is the Lamb of God that will take away the sin of the world. And Simeon, old muscles trembling, takes this child in his arms and cries out, "God, as you promised, I have seen the Messiah with my own eyes, and so now let your servant die in complete and utter peace!" Precious.

How much are we like Simeon, living each day searching for the fulfillment found in a loving God, for redemption and forgiveness and unconditional affection, and how much more are we like Simeon in that once we have found Christ, we should be able to say, "Now, Sovereign Lord, dismiss your servant in peace" because I have seen all I need to see on this earth.

In this life, I have never seen any physical, tangible event that I could call a miracle. For example, I have not seen a sea part, or a lame man get up and walk, or a man walk on water. I have seen the Spirit of God moving in mighty and compelling ways in my own life and in the lives of my family and friends. And I have seen both old and new believers fall to their faces in shame of their sin and adoration of their God who redeems. I have seen the face of God in sunrises (thanks Phil Wickham for the lyric) and I seen the love of Jesus in the eyes of believers in Peru and I have seen the Holy Spirit stirring passion in hardened hearts.

So when the time comes for me to die, I will fall at the feet of Jesus Christ who loved me enough to die as my ransom, and I will cling to Him, and though I can't begin to imagine this moment, I think my words will be something like Simeon's.

____

My words are clumsy, and the hour is late, so forgive me. But I thank God for the His Spirit permeating believers around the world.

http://www.brookhills.com/secretchurch/

Peru: Days 1-3

School has very quickly consumed most of my free time, so today I find that I have some time to sit down and take a breather, so I wanted to share some more about my trip to Peru for those who are interested. Below, I've described the first few days in more detail.

Day 1: December 27

At 8 AM, I said goodbye to my brother, and my parents drove me to the airport in Charlotte. The night before I didn't sleep much at all for the anticipation and the nervous energy, and I think I may have talked non-stop on the ride up to the airport. We got there about 9:45, and I checked in. I only knew two faces of those going on the trip, and I didn't see either of them. I said goodbye to my parents, and got in the security line. My parents, however, don't seem to understand that once I say goodbye, that's it. I only want to do it once! But they hovered around the line and watched me go slowly through the security line until I got up to the X-ray thing. I felt a little guilty for not waving goodbye to them, but like I said, if I have to say goodbye, I only want to do it once.

I went to the gate and sat down for a while, and finally, Kristi and Bryan (the only two people I knew) showed up with most of the team, and it turned out that I was sitting next to one of the other team members the whole time. That was pretty funny. The group seemed to gel right away. Our plane took off at 12:20pm-- and no, I didn't really sleep on that one. Too short. At about 4:40 (which was later that we expected) we took off again, from Houston, and we landed in Lima, Peru after midnight that night, and most of us had slept very little on that flight.

Day 2: December 28 (my 21st birthday!)

From about midnight until after 1:30 AM, we wandered around the Lima airport, stuck in line at customs for almost that entire time. Bryan and I got separated from the group and spent our entire waiting-in-line-at-customs time sharing camp stories. Good times. We finally left for the hotel and got there about 2AM. This was pretty ridiculous that we had to pay for a night in the hotel that would really only consist of 2AM to 5AM. Most of us didn't sleep at all during that time because we had to pump our water bottles and reorganize our packs or shower. I, however, passed out for about an hour on a bed with three other people. Somehow, all five girls had to share a room with two single beds, and the boys all had full beds to themselves! Jerks. ;-)

At 5AM, we got up to load the vans and after we prayed, we drove for almost twelve hours. So long story short, I spent the majority of my 21st birthday in a van with near strangers, driving over the Andes Mountains. However, the time seemed to fly because I slept almost the entire way. But during the times I was awake, the view of the mountains was absolutely breath-taking. Probably the only thing I've ever seen that was more beautiful were the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland, and it's a close race. We stopped a few places for restroom and snack breaks along the way, (and stopped even more often once one of the girls started to get altitude sickness: poor thing!) and finally, we stopped at about 5:30pm in Mazimari. It was here that I got my last legitimate shower for a week! So, that was another thing that made my birthday special! ;-)

We had dinner at a local restaurant, where we all had rotisserie chicken and fries (which was kind of like our last supper in some ways, because we didn't really real food again until we got back to Mazimari a week later. So another special part of my birthday!

After dinner, we had a team meeting, discussed the trip and our goals and our responsiblities, then we all went to our rooms to pack, study our stories, pray, and sleep. We got to bed just before 10, I think. And though Mazimari is a small city in comparison to Lima, it was a loud one all night. Both cars and roosters made plenty of noise. Roosters would eventually drive me insane later on the trip. ;-)

I did miss being around my family and celebrating my birthday, but really, I'll never forget my 21st, no matter how old and crotchety I get. I had an unforgetable day. Where many of my friends will likely forget their 21st birthdays (for various reasons, haha), I can't. The gifts I recieved were the beautiful views of Peru's landscape, new friends whom I hope to keep for a long time, and the joy of knowing I was exactly where I was supposed to be. And though no one sang Happy Birthday that night, there was still singing--Peruvian children sang to us and the new sounds of Mazimari put me to sleep. And though I spent most of the day asleep, it was pretty much the coolest birthday I've ever had.

Day 3: December 29

This is one of the coolest of all the travel days.

We left the hotel around 6, and took taxis down this ridiculously bumpy road until about 9:30AM. I was impressed with myself in that I was able to sleep through most of that ride. At one point, the taxis drove onto this ferry, that was really not much more than three giant canoes tied together with boards nailed down for the cars to drive onto. Slightly nervewracking, but functional. All ten college students were out of the taxis taking pictures of the ferry ride.

When we got to port, we met our boat. The boat was basically a very large canoe with a motor on the back. And this was one of my absolute favorite things about the trip. We took a boat ride for seven hours down the Tambo River in Peru, taking in all the sights of the jungle, stopping to pick up people from other villages (who almost always brought fresh fruit with them to share) and the weather was perfect: cloudy, but not rainy, so it wasn't too hot and it wasn't soaked. We would find out later on that this kind of day was quite rare for a summer in Peru.

And on the boat ride, before we dropped off half of the team in Anapate, the team surprised me by singing "Happy Birthday" to me, first in English and then in Spanish! And let me tell you, that made my day!! I still haven't figured out whose idea it was, but I loved it! Thanks!!

After about 3 hours on the boat, we drop off the first half of the team in Anapate, and the rest of us continue on for another four hours almost to Shevojah. This boat ride was perfect: we talked, we laughed, we took TONS of pictures, and we even dozed off every now and then. By the end of the boat ride, I felt like I'd known the team for years instead of days.

We landed in Shevojah at about 3:30. We pitched our tents in front of the church, and the girls went down to the creek to "bathe." Imagine airquotes here, because though the boys had a nice area where they could swim and get all the way in the water to wash off, the area for the women was a creek, about ankle deep or a little higher. So really, we would wash off as best we could with our clothes or bathing suits on, bend over to wash our hair, and that was it. But let me tell you, it felt great. :-)

We ate dinner, which for most of us consisted of beef jerk, power bars, nutrition bars, pop-tarts, or some combination of those. That night, we were fine with it. Later, it would get old. Quickly. But after we ate, we all came togther to talk, and when it got dark, we all retreated to our tents to study and read, and probably we were all asleep by 9pm.

That concludes the first entry of my Peru trip! Now that the travel days are done, and we're in our jungle village, I can tell you now about the real mission.

to be continued...

Post-Peru Life Crisis

Several times, I've sat down before my laptop, fully intending to start writing about my time in Peru and the words just escaped me. Now, I'll make a valiant attempt at introducing trip and following up with a summary of each day later on.

I have to preface this by saying that my time in Peru pretty much turned my world upside down.

I am a notorious planner. Not so much in that I write down reading assignments and appointments for daily reminder in a planner, but in that I have a plan for my life that usually goes at least 5 years into the future, and I stick to it.

PRE-Peru:

• May 2010: Graduate from College of Charleston with my English degree and Teaching Certificate.
• August 2010: Enroll in MFA Program, most likely at USC
• May 2012 (approx.): Graduate with Masters Degree
• August 2012: Begin teaching English (probably somewhere around Charleston, where I plan to eventually move)
• Teach for the 4 years I owe the Teaching Fellows, begin or continue graduate work on a book to publish, get involved in a new church and work with the youth.
• Eventually (no date attached for obvious reasons) get married and start a family, be life-changing teacher, write great-American novel, live happily ever after. The end.
  

POST-Peru:

• May 2010: Graduate from College of Charleston with English degree and Teaching Certificate.
• GOD ONLY KNOWS.

Why the change?

Well, Peru was amazing. I've been on mission trips before, mind you. I went to Pennsylvania, Maryland, Tennessee=on these trips I focuses on people's physical needs, giving out food, helping out local shelters and doing church planting, performing in impromptu worship services in parks, doing surveying door-to-door, etc. I did see God move on these trips, and I was humbled over and over again each time.

But the Peru trip was an entirely different experience. The people of Shevojah (the village where I was) have almost nothing. They live in houses made of bamboo stalks and banana leaves with mud floors, they eat what they can grow or raise, they have extremely limited electricity and plumbing, no health care, no money to speak of. But I spent a week there and my purpose there had nothing to do with their physical needs, which were immense.

Instead, I was there as a visiting storyteller. Everyone there called me "Hermana."

Sister.

I was there to teach them part of Moses' story--the story of Mount Sinai and the 10 Commandments. And these people travled for miles and sat for hours to learn it--along with nine other old testament stories! Their thirst for the Word was like nothing I'd ever seen.

I spent six days sleeping on damp ground, in a hot tent, with no computer, no bathroom, no phone, getting bit by bugs and falling in the mud while playing games with kids who didn't speak English, and those six days were enough to put my life plan on its head.

I have my entire life to settle down, teach Walt Whitman, and drive kids to Little League practice and Sunday School.

The time when I am most free to go to the ends of the Earth to teach about Jesus is limited. And it's NOW.