A Book about History: Devil in the White City

**This blog is a part of a series, as I read my way through 2017.  To see my book list and/or recommend more, see this post.**

5. A Book about History: Devil in the White City - Erik Larson

(Shoutout to Mrs. Donna Manning
for recommending this book to me.)

Devil in the White City is the true tale of "murder, magic, and madness" at 1893 World's Columbian Expedition.  (Like, really true. I found it in the non-fiction section.  Had to use Dewey Decimal system. Felt very accomplished.) Mrs. Donna's recommendation was enough to get me interested, but once I realized it basically combined the Chicago World's Fair with an episode of Criminal Minds, I was sold.  Full disclosure, I love anything and everything about Chicago.  That gorgeous city gave me my first real breath of independence and missions and multiculturalism and changed my world forever. I've also always had a fascination with the World's Fair, but knew relatively little of the details surrounding it.

Larson takes us on a wild ride through the creation of possibly the largest single event in U.S. history, alongside the evolution of America's first recognized serial killer.  Now, I will be the first to tell you that I am shamefully ignorant when it comes to history.  Dr. Ford tried really really hard to instill some knowledge in my freshman brain, but all I can tell you is that in 1066 William the Conqueror won the Battle of Hastings.  That's all I came away with.  So for me, this book gave me a look at a historical event and historical figures in a way I've never experienced.  Larson's not shy about name dropping, and we catch glimpses of folks like Annie Oakley, Buffalo Bill, Thomas Edison, Elias Disney, Frank Lloyd Wright, Sitting Bull, L. Frank Baum, and so many others all throughout the novel.  If you had previously told me that all of these individuals existed in the same year, I would've laughed at you. I have no sense of chronology when it comes to our history. I know, shameful.

I expected to be thoroughly creeped out by the serial killer story running parallel to all of this, but it stayed tame enough that I had no trouble going to sleep every night while following the story.  The story of H. H. Holmes is really interesting from a psychological perspective.  Juxtaposed with the tale of creating the World's Fair, there's a fascinating view of some of humanity's best and worst all crammed into one place.  Lines are blurred and boundaries are pushed, and it seems to me that the question running alongside all of this is whether we were really ready for it. In my head it's a very tower-of-Babel-like scene, and I look at today's world with all the technology and progress we've made and wonder the same- are we really ready for it? Can humanity be trusted with all of this? (History says: probably not. But we'll make it work.)

In the end, I found myself missing Chicago, and wishing for a day long past when excitement spread slowly and infectiously, without the benefit of Facebook live, Instagram, and the media. I felt the thrill of waiting on the newspaper headlines to reflect the latest development telegraphed from the big city.  I felt the awe and wonder of hundreds of thousands of people gathered to take it all in- the living work of art that eclipsed any other similar experience. I felt the swell of patriotism at realizing how much beauty was created solely for love of country and pride in their city. This book quickly placed itself high on my list of favorites, and inspired me to take a closer look at the history of my country and to fall deeper in love with one of our greatest cities.  10 out of 10 stars- Go read it yourself and enjoy it as much as I did!

A Book By Its Cover: The Mysterious Benedict Society

**This blog is a part of a series, as I read my way through 2017.  To see my book list and/or recommend more, see this post.**

2. A Book Chosen for Its Cover: The Mysterious Benedict Society- Trenton Lee Stewart

This was the second book I chose to read in 2017, and also second on my list!  I chose it by rambling through the children's section of my local library and grabbing the first book that looked interesting.  I will admit that while the cover was one appeal, the other was the length.  It's a good-sized "chapter book" that I thought would hold my interest and keep me busy for a few days.

As it turns out, I was quite right! The Mysterious Benedict Society follows a group of exceptionally talented young people on the adventure of a lifetime as they are selected for a very special mission to rescue their society from "the Emergency."  I abhor giving away vital plot details, so I'll spend most of my time here focusing on the big picture, and I'll leave the mystery for you to solve alongside our young protagonists!

This book, while not the absolute best in its genre, is definitely near the top.  It's compared to the likes of Roald Dahl, Lemony Snicket, and even dear J.K. Rowling (who has been slaying on twitter this week- just sayin').  I personally got some definite Madeline L'Engle vibes, which always bodes well.  The story is clever and will absolutely keep the late-elementary/early-middle schooler on their toes.  It kept me engaged, and while certain moments were a bit predictable, there were a few great plot twists that surprised even me. The characters are lovable and relatable, and ultimately believable heroes. They struggle with self-doubt and courage and identity, and even selfishness, and learn important lessons as they pursue their quest for truth.  They're flawed, and that makes them even more dear to us as we get to know them.

Much of this book seems to me to be about the power of friendship/family/belonging. At the same time, it offers great insight into a society that is all-too-ready to accept a norm of panic and chaos at the expense of independence and truth.  Some very Orwellian themes lie just below the surface, and would make great discussion points for any age group. I think a bold enough teacher could even use this as a companion novel for something like 1984 or Fahrenheit 451, or even an alternative for students who aren't quite up to that high school reading level.

But I digress. Overall, I think I made a fantastic choice in judging this book by its cover and joining my new friends in a great adventure to prove I'm up to the job of joining the team and saving the world.  I'm also glad to say there are a few sequels floating around out there, so my journey with these clever kids doesn't have to end here.  I highly recommend The Mysterious Benedict Society to readers of all ages!

A Biography: Twelve Years a Slave

**This blog is a part of a series, as I read my way through 2017.  To see my book list and/or recommend more, see this post.**


4. A Biography: Twelve Years a Slave - Solomon Northup

This was the first book I read for my 2017 reading challenge (the order having mostly to do with what I found first at the Harrison County Public Library, West Biloxi branch.)  I have to take a moment to praise my library.  While my branch is not especially large, it's close to home, and it has a fantastic inter-library loan program with all the other branches of the Harrison Co. system.  The librarians are also great- helpful and always have something good to say about one of the books I've chosen.

So I started my journey with what might actually be the most difficult subject matter on the list.  Twelve Years a Slave (now a movie, too) is the autobiographical tale of Solomon Northup, a free black man kidnapped and sold into slavery, where he remained for 12 years.  First let me say I was very impressed with the readability and accessibility of the text.  For a novel written by a black man living in the mid 1800s, the work is easy to understand and relate to, even for a white woman in the 21st century.  The story is crafted so well that I often had to consciously remind myself that I was reading a biography rather than a work of fiction.

I suppose that's where the difficulty of the subject matter comes in.  While the story would be a brutal work of fiction, much of the violence is nothing we aren't accustomed to seeing on prime time television.  It's hard to hear of characters subjected to cruel, inhumane treatment, but it was much harder to force myself to keep in mind that the events of this book are things that actually happened to a singular man who really did live, and happened not too far from where I am sitting tonight.

When we're taught about slavery in school, it's mostly in context of human labor in the cotton fields and the civil war, leading up to the emancipation proclamation.  I find that in the South, history teachers will often focus on the misconceptions about the role of slavery in the Civil War and in so doing, minimize or gloss over the facts of slavery's role in our past.  So while I was never under the impression that slavery was actually a pleasant thing, the reality of it never quite hit home, I suppose.
This book certainly reframed that narrative for me.

I now picture a society that was bold enough to venture to another continent, lie, cheat, and kidnap actual human beings and bring them to America to be sold as property- hardly better than an animal. Northup describes his own ignorance as a free man, and his shock upon fully understanding the absolute lack of value a black life had in the South, save for its ability to work. He recalls standing on the auction block and being examined like an animal, with buyers inspecting his body, feeling his limbs, investigating his eyes and teeth for sign of defect.

He later describes the predicament of a female slave who is regularly raped by their master, and thus hated and punished continuously by the master's wife.  On one occasion she is strung up naked and whipped and beaten nearly to death.  And she's entirely powerless to change a single thing about her situation. Northup attempts to intervene on her behalf as often as possible, and she makes it clear to him that she feels his presence is the only thing that has kept her alive this long, but that she'd be better off dead anyway.  To the whites, she is considered nothing more than property to be used and abused.

One thing I found incredibly striking was Northup's description of his first master, a pastor.  He said the man was kind and generous, but a product of his environment who never considered that a human being should not be the property of another.  It simply never occurred to him that life could or should be any different.  As kindhearted and pious as he may have been (Northup only speaks well of him) he still participated in the systematic oppression of an entire race of people, depriving them of the inalienable rights of freedom and equality.

This is where the book became most personal for me. This sort of predicament terrifies me, to be quite honest, as I look at my own life and wonder what parts of my own culture have been so ingrained in me that I never think to question whether they are in fact wholly upright and Good. Do I allow injustice to continue around me, simply because I have never known anything else?  Do I remain silent as a matter of culture or convenience when my voice as a daughter of God could be used to fight for "the least of these?"  Oh, may it never be.

May I stand with the forgotten, lend my voice to the voiceless, fight for the helpless, and always seek to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with my God.  Even, and especially, when it flies in the face of everything I've been taught by my culture, my government, and even my church.

2017 Reading Challenge

I've been looking for good motivation to blog more often (as it's been a year and 3 days since my last post.) I write a lot for my job, so I think writing for myself has been a bit neglected. But one thing I've found to be true is the more that I read and write, the more I want to read and write, which usually leads to improvement in my writing, which is always good.

So, right around new years, my friend Wes Kinsey posted on Facebook that he was looking for a good reading challenge, and as he received suggestions I received motivation.  With the help of the FB Group he subsequently created and a lot of great suggestions from friends, I came up with a list of books that match up with the prompts.

It is as follows:

1. A Memoir: Talking As Fast As I Can - Lauren Graham
2. A book chosen for its cover: The Mysterious Benedict Society - Trenton Lee Stewart
3. A book from a different genre: The Secret History- Donna Tartt
4. A Biography: Twelve Years a Slave- Solomon Northup
5. A book about history: Devil in the White City - Erik Larson
6. A book targeted to my gender: In the Unlikely Event - Judy Blume
7. A book about theology: The Explicit Gospel - Matt Chandler
8. A children's book: TBD at the Library
9. A book being published in 2017: Exit West- Mohsin Hamid
10. A book over 100 years old: Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
11. A book about a different religion: Seeking Allah, Finding Jesus - Nabeel Qureshi
12. A book by a person of color: Americanah - Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
13. A book about food: French Kids Eat Everything- Karen LaBillon
14. A book whose main character is different than me: The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time - Mark Haddon
15. A book becoming a movie in 2017: Wonder - R.J. Palacio
16. The 1st book in a series I haven't read: A Series of Unfortunate Events- Lemony Snickett
17. A book of poetry or a play: Harry Potter & The Cursed Child - J.K. Rowling
18. A book of short stories or essays: whatever I can find from Wendell Berry or Walker Percy
19. A book by an author I haven't heard of: My Name is Asher Lev - Chaim Potok
20. A book recommended by a friend: Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman
21. A book recommended by the media: A Partial History of Lost Causes - Jennifer Dubois
22. A book I started but never finished: A Severe Mercy - Sheldon Vanauken
23. A book relating to current events: The New Jim Crow - Michelle Alexander
24. A book whose title makes me think: The Name of the Wind - Patrick Rothfuss
25. A book that feeds my wanderlust: TBD at the library
26. A book that I love: A Wrinkle in Time - Madeline L'Engle (...probably)

Over the course of 2017, I plan to blog about each book as I travel through my list.  I'm sure a few will change as I find what is and isn't available at my local library (which is FANTASTIC, btw) and perhaps I'll even find time to share a few other things throughout the year.  So here's to a2017 full of good books and good thoughts and lots of words... Cheers!

P.S. What am I missing?  If you know of a GREAT book that deserves to be on my list, make your case!  I might be persuaded to add a few!

Dreaming

Today is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.  A holiday observed in America to celebrate the life of a famous civil rights leader.  A pastor, a leader, a freedom fighter, and a peace keeper.  A man who fiercely believed in equality and justice, and was not afraid to speak up for those beliefs.  Not a perfect man, but a purposeful one. A sinner, and yet a saint.

A dreamer.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed; "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal." 

 I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.  

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.  

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.  

I have a dream today! 

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers. 

I have a dream today!

The words stir my very being.  Oh, Dr. King...I, too dream.  And alas, it is still a dream.  Although we are closer than when those mighty words of longing were spoken, we are yet so far.  

I know, because I fell in love with a man whose dark brown skin compliments the fair, peachy pink of my own. A man with the greatest smile you'll ever see, and the gentlest words, and kindest eyes, and brightest mind. And when I brought him home, there was much rejoicing that God provided a man who loved Him to love and care for me. 

And there were questions. And stares. And quiet whispers and long, loud, silences of those who want nothing to do with reconciliation.  Who have misunderstood the nature of the Gospel that frees them.

I know, because my definition of family changed in a matter of moments.

I know, because I heard the joke told in the office.  I saw the instant of shame, almost imperceptible, and not enough to quell the laughter or even change the subject.

I know, because I heard the presidential candidate spew vile words of hatred and scorn, and I heard the masses agree. And so few stood up to stop it. 

   "In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends."

Today is a day for remembering.  A day for repenting.  A day for forgiving.  A day for changing.  A day for redeeming.  A day for embracing.  A day for learning.  A day for listening.  A day for loving.  

"I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear." 

Thank you, Dr. King.  Let us keep on dreaming.  And let us invite others to build those dreams with us.

Seeking Refuge

Whew. You guys, these last few days on social media have been brutal.  I broke some personal rules.  I try really hard not to engage on FB. Like, I'm okay with posting a status that says something worthwhile, but I try not to let conversations flow from that. Because even though I write better than I speak, you lose some of the human aspect in a facebook comment flow.  So after a few lengthy posts and a few long threads of comments, I decided a blog post was necessary for the sake of my aching heart.

There is so much I could say, but it all starts for me with a summer I spent in Chicago.  I worked with a mission/church that primarily operated amongst refugees.  I spent my entire summer surrounded by people who had run for their lives and wound up dropped off in a suburb of Chicago with refugee status attached to their name.  Some of them were born in refugee camps where they received almost no education and where weekly fires that burned large portions of the camp were a regular event.  Where food was scarce and disease was common and childhood was not really allowed.  Some of them gave birth while running through the jungle, fleeing for their lives from people who bombed their villages and attacked their families.  One man (a Christian) even spent years leaving the relative safety of the refugee camp to go back into the jungle and seek out other believers who were fleeing like him, and guide them to safety. Another man had to flee because he became such a threat to the religious leaders in his homeland, as he'd planted dozens upon dozens of churches who worshipped the true God.  He's on a most wanted list, of sorts.  All of them came to the US with little more than the clothes on their back.  Some came not speaking English because they'd never had access to education.  Some came with years of established careers as pastors, teachers, doctors, lawyers, and were forced to work here as custodians or long hours in factories, despite their old age and years of experience.  All came here because they felt that it was their last hope of safety.  Because all the trials they would face here paled in comparison to the place they could no longer call home.  Because being poor and perhaps even unwanted is still better than being dead.  While I got to know these people, a few shared their stories.  On July 4th we gathered to watch fireworks and celebrate America, on the weekend that marked their 1-year anniversary of arrival.  That night they shared what it was like living in the camps, and what it was like to be the 18 year old man of the family seeking out enough records for their family so they would be eligible to begin the process of applying for placement in the US or the EU.  Many of them came here worshipping other gods.  Some came having given up hope on any God.  But little did they know that already there were churches in their context in Chicago, waiting to welcome them in with the love of Christ.

These same refugees, many of whom lived in we would consider to be the most impoverished communities in the USA, took this young ignorant college student in, without ever questioning my motives, and fed me.  They invited me into their homes and offered food and laughs and stories. They hugged me and loved me and one night a young girl literally slept at my feet, holding onto my ankles, desperate to let me know that our friendship was real.  They patiently taught me bits of their language and anxiously asked me to share more of mine. They practiced for citizenship tests and collected resources amongst themselves for a family whose apartment burned. They taught me the meaning of community and illustrated to me that my God was so much bigger than I'd ever imagined he was.  I learned to pray like they prayed, and learned to sing like they sang, and learned to worship through dance and through chant and through feasting together.

So this week, when I heard so many Mississippians (and Americans) loudly cry, "we do not want them!" I was devastated.  When I saw Christians rejoice as we turned away the needy, I mourned.  When I saw many react in a spirit of fear rather than in a spirit of love and truth, I balked.  And when I realized so many were ignorant of the plight of these humans seeking refuge, and the process they go through, I was saddened.  And I could not remain silent.

I know there's a chance that members of ISIS might try to masquerade as refugees and infiltrate the US. I know that at least one man who perpetrated the attack on Paris did just that.  I also know that a few months ago two young people at Mississippi State University were conspiring to join ISIS.  And I know that the Lord is capable of saving the darkest of hearts.  I know that one man responsible for penning a good portion of the Bible I read was a murderer.  I know also that the man who wrote most of the New Testament was a Christian-murdering terrorist. I know also that Simon the Apostle was a member of an extremist group responsible for terrorist attacks. I know that God has saved Muslim friends of mine through dreams and visions with scandalous love and grace.  I know that the God I now worship died a cruel death on a state-sanctioned instrument of torture while I was yet monstrously opposed to him and hated him. I know that if His love was not sacrificial, I would refuse him still. I know that I've read and quoted from Jim and Elizabeth Elliot, who had no sense of self-preservation.  I know that the grandchildren of Nate Saint call the man who killed him "grandfather."  I know that immense sacrifice was made in each of these circumstances.

Someone said something to me yesterday along the lines of "Why don't we pile all the Syrian refugees into camps and let the Christians put some action to their words and THEY can take care of them."  And while I adamantly and vehemently oppose the idea of camps, I embrace the idea of the Church taking this challenge to heart.
This morning in the early hours before daylight, as my heart was burdened for these people, I had this vision of the Church doing just that.   I imagined us taking in refugee families and housing them in our churches and homes.  I imagined one person opening their home, or a church sacrificing their parsonage or extra building to house a family or two.  But then I imagined others coming along side them and bearing the burden with them.  Perhaps there are a few teachers in the congregation.  One might take responsibility for taking the children of the family to school and watching over them there. One might spend some time studying the language and culture of the family and teach the congregation so that they'll be able to welcome them in a way that feels familiar.  Another teacher might spend a few hours a week helping teach the family English.  Each family in the church might take responsibility for providing a meal to them, and perhaps a stay-at-home-mom will bring the mother into her house and teach her about cooking and shopping in America.  The men of the congregation will come alongside the father and teach him about finances in America, and how to manage a household.  They'll provide tools and resources for him to eventually be independent.  The children of the church know best how to make friends, as smiles transcend culture and language and race, and they will love with the encouragement of their parents.  And in time, this family will realize that the love of Christ prompted complete strangers to take them in.  Perhaps a Saul will become a Paul.  Perhaps a family in the church will realize they're called to go minister to others in that context.  Children who might have been washed up drowned on a foreign soil or recruited into a terrorist group will be loved and grow into thriving adults who also show love. I know it's idealistic.  I know I'm still young and I'm sure you think me naive.  But Jesus said the kingdom belongs to those with childlike faith.  Jesus said that I had to take up my cross (state-sanctioned weapon of torture) in order to follow Him. Jesus said that the last are first in his Kingdom.  He said that it was better if I stored up wealth in heaven instead of on Earth.  He said if I wanted to gain life, I had to first lose it. He said that what I do for the poorest and neediest of people is actually done to Him. He didn't qualify those statements.  He didn't give me an out for when I was scared or worried or feared consequences.  He said that He had nowhere to lay his head on this earth, and if I want to follow Him, that's what I must be prepared for. He said some crazy things, and they make me uncomfortable. But I see life in those words.  I see a love and grace bigger than I could have pictured without them.  I see hope and promise of eternal life.  I see a God who took me in when I hated Him.  Who created me knowing I'd reject him.  I see a Father who adopted the child who wanted to murder Him.
"Love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul, my life, my all." 

New Indeed

      Well, I'm changing things up a little bit over here. The blog got a mini-makeover aesthetically, and it also got a new web address.  Because, as much as I (still) hate to admit it, "allisoninmalawi" is no longer in Malawi. I suppose after 2.5 years of being back in the U.S., it was finally time.

      You may also have noticed that I've posted exactly twice in the past year. Needless to say, I've been a little bit busy doing things like getting married and stuff. But I've also been working, which involves staring at a computer screen from 8-5 every day, so making myself look at a computer when I get home hasn't been on the top of my to-do list. If I'm honest, though, there's more to my absence than the practical aforementioned reasons.  There's been a whole host of internal processing that's just been too scrambled for words in the past year.

     I was told at some point that it takes someone half as long as the time that they lived out of the country to re-adjust to being back "home".  In other words, having lived in Africa for two years, it would take one year to feel "normal" again.  And I found that to be a pretty conservative estimate.   I'm really not here to talk about Malawi, as I know it's old news for most of you.  But it's so real in my heart, and it took me a good two years to find closure and answers and simply be emotionally stable enough to let myself process the havoc that was wreaked by going from 4 years at Mississippi College to two years in Malawi to moving back into my parents' house in my hometown and entering into an inter-cultural mega-long-distance relationship.  To be honest, I was a wreck.  And I'm just starting to feel like I'm okay with my life again.

     Writing and reading and language have always been an outlet for me. Sometimes they've been an escape.  But they are always emotionally charged. I write with various combinations of logic and passion. I have never read literature without an emotional response to it. (Okay, don't tell Dr. Smith, but the closest thing to an exception would be what little I read of Shakespeare's histories. I'm sorry. I. Do. Not. Care.) In all seriousness, though, part of the reason I have been unable to write is that I have been unable to handle the emotions involved in letting myself process, whether by blog or journal or other means.  (Also, why would anyone want to read the messy emo explosion of words that would likely result? That's not attractive.)

     Anyway, all this to say...I think I'm back.
     I work in a job right now that I have a very love/hate relationship with.  It's the greatest place I could dream up to work, and the environment is fun and wild and spontaneous and creative and I adore it. My coworkers are all the best kinds of crazy, and my boss is seriously incredible.  However, large portions of my job involve numbers and money and figures and rules and regulations.  Not this English lover's ideal.  And lately I've realized how much I miss the world of language and literature and writing and debating and interpreting and theorizing and simply enjoying a work of art.  (Side note: I read way too much goofy silly teen fiction. I think the library lady is really confused about my actual age.)  But I miss academics.  While I'm not itching to be back in the classroom, (on either side of it, actually) I AM itching to do something that I love.  To exercise the part of my brain that God tweaked so that it produces a bit of a high when I even think about an uninterrupted afternoon with C.S. Lewis's works. The part that is about 2 seconds away from taking a day off work and paying a lot of money just go hear Lois Lowry for an hour.  The part that inspired me to take Greek, and still remembers ridiculous amounts of French, and willingly subjected itself to hours and hours and hours in the 3rd floor of Jennings Hall discussing the use of capitalization in this poem or the absence of dynamic females in that novel.  The part the gets a little bit giddy learning new words, and falls in love with a good novel in all of 2 minutes and then refuses to be separated, devoting continuous hours to it and basking in the feelings it produced when it is all too soon ended.  (That's also the part of me that hasn't finished writing Thank You cards, so sorry about that. I'm working on it, I promise.)  

So, consider this another new beginning in the blog titled All Things New.
Expect to hear from me more. Apparently, I need to write. 

Hearts at Home

Sixteen days ago I stepped off of a little plane and onto the cracked concrete of the airport runway in Lilongwe, Malawi. The cool breeze and warm sun embraced me like old friends.  The auburn dust that populates the capital city invaded my senses, metallic to taste, chalky to touch.  The familiar yet distant trees and flowers crept their way back into my mind.  The coolness of the floors and walls, the warmth of the smiles, the rhythm of the language, the depth of the voices all came flooding back, sweeping me off my feet, welcoming me just the way home should.

It's incredible to me how much love there is in my heart for a place that was only "home" for a couple of years, the permanent expression of which is tattooed on my wrist to represent, remind, refresh my love for this country, these people, the years here. Life-changing years.  I suppose it's true that my love for the place has been enhanced and defined by my love for one of her sons- my dear husband-to-be.  Malawi embraced me these two weeks and I emerged changed yet again.

Can you picture the sixty smiling graduates, marching with all the pomp and circumstance to the cheers of proud mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, cousins, celebrating the culmination of years of hard work and countless sacrifices? Shall I tell of the winding road to Salima with tiny huts and villages decorating the gorgeous hillsides? Of the white grainy sand that turns to powdery black as it meets the pure blue of the Lake of Stars? Of waking to the smell of the sweet morning smoke from fires in the fields that burned all night, providing warmth and light?  Should I describe the artistry of the pottery in Dedza, with classic Malawian scenes portrayed on the sides of mugs and faces of plates?  And what of the British influence on the one-of-a-kind Kamuzu Academy, founded by the original president of Malawi, named in his honor, and responsible for so much of my love's childhood world?  Can I allow you to hear the gleeful shouts of "azungu!" as cars, bikes, motorcycles, busses, tuktuks, and pedestrians pass by the open windows of our car, with the breeze carrying the sounds further and further away?  How can I portray the warmth of the smiles and hands that are extended with a "muli bwanji?" to the bemused foreigner who has fallen in love with one of their own?  And the dancing! The dancing that goes on and on and on, as friends and family bestow blessings and hugs and colorful kwacha on the grinning nuptials who have chosen this strange but wonderful path that none of them imagined.

The red dust of Africa clings to my shoes, the smell of her sweet fires still permeates my clothes, and the warmth of the heart of Africa has yet to leave my soul.  And I don't mind at all.

A Processional

Tonight the thoughts won't let me ignore them.  Tonight the words demand to be written, the feelings demand to be felt, the thoughts demand to be heard.

I've never been good at handling my emotions.  It turns out I only have two settings concerning emotions- Feel EVERYTHING deeply, or Feel NOTHING at all. I recognize that's not healthy.  I'm working on it.

When I left Malawi, There was too much to just feel nothing, but I also didn't have the capacity to handle everything.  So I stuffed a lot of things away somewhere and planned to come back to them when I was in a slightly less terrible state of mind. I do understand that processing is important, and I really did intend to come back and work through some things.  But my state of mind took a real long time to stabilize (as in, it still hasn't) and free time lasted too long and then not long enough, and...well, I still haven't found all those things I stuffed away.  Sometimes they find me.

This week, they're everywhere.  Emotions popping up out of nowhere, with a ferocity I am not accustomed to. One I do not appreciate.  (ha)  

This week, I'm hurting.  And I don't know how to process it all.  And some things I don't have the liberty of sharing. But tonight, I'm processing.  Just a little.

So tonight, I choose to feel. Tonight, I hurt.

I hurt for a friend who lost a job, a friend, and nearly her daughter.

I hurt for a mother whose son was shot and killed by a Ferguson police officer.

I hurt for the family of a Ferguson police officer whose life was destroyed by his work.

I hurt for a community who sees no hope.

I hurt for friends whose newly adopted child cannot yet love them.

I hurt for a child who has been without a family for so long.

I hurt for the woman who wants friends so desperately she chases them all away.

I hurt for the wife and 5 children of a man who was killed for illegally selling cigarettes.

I hurt for a nation who is at a loss.

I hurt because texts between continents cannot adequately express love.

I hurt because my dearest friends are spread between continents and countries and states.

I hurt because hurting is okay.  Because Jesus also hurts.  Because he is near to the brokenhearted. Because so many others around the world are hurting.  Because children are hungry and orphaned. Because mothers cannot support their children.  Because fathers don't know how to father.  Because families are broken, and nations are divided.  Because the color of a man's skin is still more weighty than his character. Because people are mean. Because hearts are dark. Because we are fallen.

Tonight on my way home, I saw Christmas lights.  And I was reminded that even though it doesn't look a lot like Christmas in my heart right now, Christmas has come. A Saviour is born.  God with us. Immanuel.

So tonight, I hope.

Come, Thou Long Expected Jesus!

born to set thy people free

from our fears and sins release us,

let us find our rest in thee. 

Israel's strength and consolation,

hope of all the earth thou art;

dear desire of every nation,

joy of every longing heart. 

Counting

August 4, 2011, I saw my African home for the first time.

October 8, 2011 there was a rat in our toilet.  Some nice college guys came to rescue us from the rat, and on my way back up campus, I met them. Ndaba, Zach, Owen, and Andrew. ("I don't think that's the same Andrew.") (It wasn't.)

Invitations were extended.

5 hours later, a pizza party.

1053 days ago.

About 600 days later, we said goodbye, desperately hoping it wasn't for long, but not quite sure what the future held.

178 days after that, I watched him walk off a plane in Columbus, MS.

Our story is one full of numbers.  Ironic, for such a lover of language.


14 days ago he asked me to be his wife.

4 days ago he got back on a plane to Malawi.

110 days til I see him again.

226 days til we meet in Malawi again.

4 excruciating goodbyes down, one to go.

3 Visa Applications.

7 time zones.

Countless plane rides.

Innumerable text messages.

Thousands of dollars.

339 days until the goodbyes stop, and we get to be a family.

339 days until we actual live in the same place.

339 days...

IF the paperwork goes through.  IF the government says it's okay.  IF we don't have any typos.  IF we can afford all the fees.  IF we have the timing right.  IF the wait isn't longer than planned.  IF the interviews go well.  IF....IF....IF.

The if's are killing me right now.

I know there are lots of happy things to be said about trusting God and His timing and I just want to ask, when was the last time you planned a wedding with no guarantee you'll even be in the same country for it? Knowing you'll only get 6 weeks together, 6 months before-hand.  Knowing you can go see him, but he can't come see you after that.  Praying he'll be on the flight back with you, 2 months before the wedding, but knowing that won't be a given until it actually happens.  Spending money on "Save-the-dates" and Invitations hoping there will be a groom present!  Wondering if you should reserve two dates, just in case?

Anxiety threatens to overcome me at any moment.  It's a new feeling for me.  It doesn't reconcile so nicely with this new ring on my finger.

And sometimes, you don't need advice.  Sometimes you don't need well-meaning reassurances. Sometimes, you just need a hug.  Or a cry.  Or a coke.  Or a friend.  Sometimes you just need to turn the numbers into words, so that they aren't so strange and scary.  So sometimes, you write.

Do I know anyone who can?

I read an article today about teaching, and about how there's always something else to be done- there's never a feeling at the end of a week/month/semester/year of "Man, I did a great job. We did everything we needed to do, and I gave everyone what they needed to succeed." Boy, can I relate to that.  And it came on the tail of a message from one of my students, asking if I could help his older brother (another of my students).

So there's this one thing that's been a continuous burden to me since I returned home from teaching in Malawi.  I know that I did a lot of great things, but I know that there were a lot of gaping holes in my self-designed curriculum and impartation of knowledge.  I also know that since I've come home, I haven't been nearly as involved in the lives of these young friends/family whom I love dearly and helped along their way.

To elaborate, I'd like to tell you a story.

Imagine for a moment, that you're a 17 year old guy, who is a citizen of a little-known African country.  You spent some time growing up in some first world nations, and most of your friends are wealthy.  Many of them are American, but some of them are from the same country as you, or a number of other European, African, or Asian nations.  Your family is well educated, and spent years working hard to ensure that they allowed you the privilege of a great education, knowing how important it is.  As a result, you don't get to see your parents as much as you'd like, but you recognize their sacrifice is for your sake.  You're the oldest of your family, so you feel responsible for your younger siblings.  In fact, you're one of those rare children- wise beyond your years- who is burdened by your duty to your family and friends.  You love deeply, and know that you need to do well in school to ensure you can get into a good college and return that support, as well as fulfil your own dreams.  You've grown up in a world that encourages you to dream big- you can do anything if you work hard enough!  Your English is perfect.  You're at the top of your class.  All of your friends are receiving their acceptance letters to universities, planning to move to other countries to live with family and pursue a college degree, and the future they've been promised.  You apply to some big schools in several countries, and slowly the acceptance letters roll in.  You've even qualified for a few scholarships!  Graduation day comes, and you're awarded top honors in your class.  You know at this point, that the only path forward that will honor your family's sacrifice, that will fulfil your potential, that will be true to who you are, is college in America.  It's your only goal, your only dream.  And then the reality of your financial situation hits you.  You have no family in the states willing to sign affidavits of support, or sponsor student visas, or let you live in their garage for a while.  Your best hope is the help of your friends and teachers who are back in the states, who have moved into a new phase of life already.  You know you can't ask them to pay for your schooling.  You recognize college is expensive, and you recognize you can't ask someone random to support you through this.
What do you do?
Where do you turn?
What happens when your world is crumbling and you're powerless to change it.
You see the time slipping away.
You feel the weight of expectations falling on you.
You can't really remember anymore exactly what you thought would happen, but this isn't it.
What do you do?

This is where I am.  I get emails, I get messages, I get pleas from younger siblings to help their big brother accomplish his dream.
"What if everyone in your church gave like $10, Miss O? Could that at least help him pay for a year of community college?"
"Miss O, couldn't you ask people to help?"
"What can we do, Miss O?"

I've told people for years that I believe in the power of words.  I believe that words can change things.  If you know me, you know I'm a cynic. You know I have a hard time holding up hope when circumstances look dismal. I'm a realist. I tell him I can't help, because my own finances are shambles, and that I don't know who can.

But is that true?  I mean, can I not do something?  Do I really not know ANYONE who would be willing to take a little risk for an amazing kid who definitely deserves this chance?  Do I not know ANYONE who works for a college who could help make things happen?  Do I not know ANYONE who cares?

Well... you tell me.  Do I know someone who can help?

Shaming No

I read this wonderful lady's blog on how it's okay to say no, (she wrote it a year ago, but somehow I stumbled upon it today) and it brought me back to a question I've mulled over for the past 6 years or so.  See, I know it's okay to say no.  I'm actually pretty good at saying no.  I'm even better at telling other people to say no.  But in a Southern society that is really really good at shaming you while smiling and pretending they're concerned, I'm constantly battling to balance the "just say no" and the "make people happy" battles raging within me.

So here's my question for you:  Is it REALLY okay to say no?  And if so, why do I feel so much judgement when I do?

I'm gonna give you a couple scenarios to help explain what I mean.

1. When I first came back from Malawi, I wasn't attending a Sunday School class, because I wasn't ready for that kind of commitment, social event, depth, etc.  But when people asked if I wanted to come to Sunday School with them and I said "No," I was often met with some very confused and offended people.  Even though I tried very hard to say no politely.

2. I agreed to teach a class that I didn't really want to teach, because there was no one else to do it.  Now that I'm attending a different church, and another capable leader has stepped in, I'd like to relinquish those responsibilities and serve at the church I'm attending in ways that suit my personality/gifts better.  I'll admit that I haven't had the chance to sit down and explain this entire situation to everyone involved, but when I mention leaving, the response is all about guilt and shame.

3. I'm invited to a church-related party.  I'd rather have a date night with my boyfriend. If I simply choose the more appealing option, is that okay?

4. I HATE how busy I stay on Sundays.  If I don't attend church on Sunday nights, is that wrong?  Is it okay to want time to myself or with my family or my significant other, instead of having another time of corporate worship?  Is it okay to attend a mid-week Bible Study instead of Sunday night church?

5.  Is it okay to say "No, I don't want to serve in that way" if I AM serving in other needed ways?

6. Is it okay that I don't really have high ambitions for my life?  Okay, this is a little unrelated. But it does involve saying no.  Because people always want to know if I want to move up in my job, take on more responsibilities, become more important, etc.  What if I don't?  What if I really do just want the job that involves answering phones?  Who are you to tell me that's unambitious?  Who are you to tell me I should want more?  Why should I be ashamed of my current lack of work-related ambitions, when I have high ambitions for my relationships, spiritual life, etc?

 Is it okay to say "no" even if it's church? Even if it's good stuff happening?  When presented with two options, is it okay to choose the one that makes ME happy, rather than the one I know I'll be shamed for if I skip?  Do I have to explain these choices?  Is it okay to remain misunderstood?  Is it okay to know people are going to be upset and do nothing about it?  Where are the lines in saying "no"?

I want input on this.  Seriously.  Discuss, please. Give me thoughts and answers.  Argue with me.  Agree with me.  Shame me so I can use you as an example! ;)  Just kidding.

identity

I'm not sure whether to entitle this "words", or "lazy".  I haven't yet filled in the title box. probably when I do, i'll choose something else altogether.  But those are the words that bring me here tonight.
Since I've been home, I've done a lot of reading.  I say "a lot", but really I've managed about 8 books since I've returned.  And they're not anything special.  I'm not reading the classics, and I'm not reading good Christian inspiring literature (as if literature can have a soul and join the ranks of the Redeemed...but that's another rant...)  I've mostly been reading young adult literature.  I stumbled upon another friend recently who loves this genre and it made my day.  I love finding a kindred spirit in my silly quirks. But that's not really what I'm intending to write about either.  Just felt it was worthy of mentioning. Anyway, I read this young adult lit for a variety of reasons- it's mindless, it's unassuming, it's thought-provoking, (yes, mindless AND though-provoking).  I guess what I mean to say is that it allows me to think without forcing me to think.  And we all know I don't like being forced to do anything.
And that brings me to the issue of laziness.
When I read certain ones of these books, I'm reminded of how much I love words.  See, I've found most authors do one of two things, usually.  They create characters that love words, or the create characters that HATE academics.  There's rarely an in-between.  They tend to create a character they understand, and most authors understand what it means to love language.  They've danced with words in moments of intense passion, soaked in them like a luxurious bath after a long day.  And as I read the characters, I realize I'm one of them.  I do this.  I love this.  I LOVE language.  I can totally geek out talking about words, or the history of words, or the origin of words, or the theories behind words.  Some days I want to abandon the head knowledge of them and just experience them, but a lot of days I can really enjoy all the academic stuff behind language.  And yes, I still use words like "stuff."
I'm so self-conscious about my writing.  I think it's because I realize how many people there are who are better than me.  See, for a long time I didn't. In high school, I was pretty much the best.  I realize that sounds arrogant, but it's true.  I wrote well, I had perfect grammar, I never proofed my own work, I always proofed everyone else's.  Then I went to college and everyone was good, and I was just one of many good writers.  In fact, I was a good amongst greats in a lot of cases.  I know I'm good, but I now know there are MANY out there who are MUCH better.  This does not diminish my talent, it simply acknowledges that there are those with more.  That's simply a fact of life.  A fact I enjoy, because it means I get to relish in the words of others.  I get to read this blog and enjoy that I had the privilege of being in class with such a beautiful writer, thinker, and girl.  Or I get to read this blog and find one of those kindred spirits I mentioned before, whom I've hardly met yet feel like I know so well.
But here's the difference- I am incurably lazy.  I say "incurably", though I'm sure it's not true.  I'm sure there's a cure for my sloth.  But I've had professors and teachers and friends and family assure me at some time or another that I've reached only a tad bit of my potential, and that is because of my lack of dedication to the task at hand.  If I had a dollar for every time my piano teacher laughed in frustration (probably to keep from crying) at how much I could accomplish on basically no practice time, I'd have been a rich little girl...and a rich teenager.
If I had a dollar for every knowing look from my favoritest might-as-well-be-british professor, upon realizing that the B level paper I just turned in would've been so much better if I'd begun working more than 48 hours in advance...
If I had a dollar for every time Aly and Amber laughed and/or stressed at my habits...
I should've capitalized on this long ago.
Or perhaps learned from it, at least.
So here's my big confession- here's the big problem I have:
I am so afraid that I'll put in the work and still not be good enough.
I'm terrified that if I finally buckle down and do something I feel is excellent, it will still only be considered good.
I am scared that my assessment of my abilities is larger than reality.
I'm afraid of failing, and being so hurt I never try again.
Is this a pride problem? Probably.
But it's a matter of identity for me.  It's who I am.  If I try hard and fail at something I thought I was capable of, then who am I?  Then what do I do?  How can I trust anything then?
Is this extreme and silly? Somewhat.
Is it still an issue for me, however ? Most definitely.
Is my current job search and (subsequent rejection) bringing me dangerously close to the feelings I just described?  YES.
Am I afraid?  YES.
Am I angry? yes.
Am I bitter? not yet
Am I desperate? soon...
Right now the afraid part wins out though.
What if I'm not good enough?  What if I can't find a job?  What if no one wants me?  What if I find a job and can't do it well?  What if I'm miserable(r)?  What if I never make any money and can't afford a family and never have a stable life again?
What if I just want normalcy, despite the fact that I realize normal will never feel normal again?
And now I don't even know what this post is about.
But because I love the words, I come back here and write it all out for everyone to see.  Because the words have power, even over me.  And when I name something, I know it.  When I name it, I begin to master it.  Then it's less scary.  Less overwhelming.  Less foreign.  When it has a name, I can do with it what I do with other words. Write it, feel it, soak in it, and perhaps begin to understand it. And eventually, use it... for good. 

wait

Well, I haven't blogged in months.
Sometimes emotions are bigger than me.  Sometimes my capacity for handling them is insufficient, and writing, though it is often helpful, sometimes just hurts too much.
So there's your reason why.
A lot has happened, and perhaps I'll talk about all of it some day.  There are things I long to share with someone else, and things I'm still not ready to share.
I am intensely lonely at times.  Which drove me to buy a kitten, against the wishes of my parents.  I really do try to respect them- I realize they're supporting me completely right now in my state of unemployed unsettledness. But I needed someone...something... And along came Eliot.  That's her name today. I've been switching it out every few minutes/hours/days.  Tonight she's El, Ellie, Eliot. We'll see how it lasts.  I suppose ultimately her name, or lack thereof has been a bi-product of my inability to commit.
Another biproduct would the shortage of clothing in my closet.  Followed closely by how often I say "I don't know."
And this conversation:

"What are you up to these days, Allison?"
Nothing
"........Do you have a job yet?"
Nope. Still Searching.
"Oh, well...what do you want to do?
Anything that makes money...
"So, you'll be teaching, then?"
Guess I should've said, 'Anything that makes money and isn't teaching'
".........Oh.  You don't want to teach?"
I'm not certified to teach. (this is my attempt to not say "I HATE TEACHING" because people react poorly to that)
"Well...what about working as an assistant teacher? Or in a private school? Or tutoring? Or some other teaching-related job?"
Well, see...I really don't want to teach...at least not right now.
"Oh, I see.  So...what do you want to do?"
Anything that makes money....
"Well, what skills do you have?"
I'm an English major with 2 years of international experience
"Have you thought about teaching?"
*Explodes*

I attempt to keep the exploding part internal. But one day it's gonna come out.  Well, I guess that's what's currently happening.  Don't get me wrong- I KNOW people want to help.  I KNOW they're just trying to be nice.  I know every time they tell me that it will all be okay and God will provide and something will come up and my random pointless job experience and degree aren't actually useless... I KNOW they mean well.
And I KNOW that God WILL provide for me.
But good heavens, would it hurt us to sometimes just give people a hug and not ask them the same 18 questions every week? Or at least listen to the answers they give??
Again, I do truly realize no one is trying to upset me, or offend me, or be unkind.
I guess you just don't realize how empty words can be sometimes until you're on the receiving end of them in the midst of a tough time.
One dear woman told me she realizes that this is a hard thing to go through and that I'm at a bit of a disadvantage, but she'll be praying for me.
THAT. That is the most helpful thing I've heard since returning from Malawi.

And so I wait.
Patiently or impatiently, I wait.
I cuddle with my kitten, I visit friends, I enjoy family, I eat and get fat...
And wait.
And fill out applications.
And wait.
wait.



Wait on the Lord;
Be of good courage,
And He shall strengthen your heart;
Wait, I say, on the Lord!
Psalm 27:14

Realizations and Reality Checks

"When are you leaving?"  "Do you have a plane ticket yet?" "What are your plans for when you get home?"
If I had 100 kwacha (roughly 25 cents) for every time I've heard (and dreaded answering) these questions in the past few months, I think I would have enough money to buy that ticket I don't yet have.

"Why don't you just write a letter?" Aly keeps asking me.  I'm the expert with words around here.  I write and edit support letters and updates and newsletters for us and for others.  I enjoy it.  Words come easily for me.  I've had to handle the money a lot more around here, and that's something I'm terrible at. Any of several men around campus can testify to that, when I've shown up at their door begging to exchange a little money because I didn't save enough kwacha to do any number of random things that come up here- doctor bills for staff, school fees for their children, trips to the tailor (not necessary, I know...but...a week at home leaves a girl too much time to plan wardrobes!)

So, when it came time to buy that plane ticket home, Aly made a reasonable suggestion I've made to her quite a few times in the past two years.  "Write a letter/email/facebook message home asking people to help out!"  And for some reason, this time, I couldn't bring myself to do it.

I kept saying it was because I feel bad because we were so recently asking for money for the December Christmas surprise trip home.  "I forgot."  "I'll do it later."  "Yeah, I'll think about it."  I have no end of excuses. (I know, I know...me? excuses? shocker!)  Today, though, I sat down and thought about writing that letter.  After all, she's right.  I could use a little extra help this time.  My support is way down from what it used to be, and even with a little help from ABC, I don't have enough money to live life here, pay my taxes, and buy a plane ticket.

And then I realized that there's a little more than a slightly shameful lack of humility preventing me from writing this letter.

What would I say?  How would I begin?  There's no way to sum up the past 2 years.  There's no way to explain that my spring break 2 years ago began the most terrifying and wonderful experience of my life.  How do I begin to bring to a close the thrill that 2 years in Africa has been?  How do I say goodbye?

Writing that letter would be the first step.  Writing that letter would be admitting that the "4 months" we insist we have left really is much less than 4 months.  Writing that letter would involve admitting, to myself and to you, that this is ending, and I am totally, completely, 100% clueless about what that means for me.

Well, this is my letter.  This is me telling you I'd appreciate any money (or job offers) that you can give, but that I'd equally appreciate any prayers you can give.  I can temporarily hide from the IRS (though I realize it's not a great idea), but I can't hide from the reality of the change that's ahead of me. It's coming quickly, and I am quite unsure of how to handle it.  Two years ago, two years seemed a long time.  Today, two years is disappearing before my eyes.

There's a link at the top left of the page that tells you how you can donate money.  Or you can message me, or talk to my parents about that.
As for prayer, well...
I think you know how to pray.  :)

So thanks. Thanks for two years. 

Overflow

Sometimes, I get these feelings. These pit-of-my-stomach-sorta-nervous feelings.  My heart feels a little fluttery, and I get this excited little jumpy feeling.  It's weird.  I can't ever tell exactly why.  But it always means something is coming.  I know it sounds silly.  But it's big. It's a big feeling.  I got it when I realized I was coming here.  I got it when I first realized Jesus loved me.  I got it when I was a little girl who didn't understand completely, but knew God was calling her to love His people. I have it today. I don't know what's coming.
I read this blog today. It was a random impulse thing- I saw someone share it on facebook. I don't even know who shared it. I don't know the girl who wrote it.  I know nothing about her. It took every tiny shred of self control I've ever had to not cry through my free class today.
Basically, I realized something.
Now, don't get me wrong. I love Jesus. I really do. But...how often do I say that and...do nothing?  I mean, I know I'm a missionary and all.  I know that should probably mean I'm all fulfilled and happy and following Jesus and reading my Bible and praying and loving orphans and giving all my money away and blah blah blah blah blah.
So...news flash- this life is HARD.  And sometimes I'm unhappy.  And most of the time I'm really selfish.  I want my own room, my own time, my own space, my own life, my own friends, etc.  And seriously, don't give me all this crap about "you are doing such a good thing, dont be so hard on yourself".  Jesus didn't call me to do good things.  Jesus called me to love him with reckless abandon, to sacrifice everything to him, to feed his sheep. To care for the unloved and forgotten, to give everything up. To grab the nearest method of torture (take up your cross) and follow him.  To leave behind friends and family if necessary.  To realize that HE IS EVERYTHING.  To have all the world offers plus Jesus is no better than having Jesus plus nothing.  I mean, seriously.  This stuff is serious!  Jesus' teachings aren't easy all the time.  And how often do I apply those hard ones to my life? Wouldn't I rather just "love my neighbor" in some vague and unspecified way?
I've been so focused on myself.  I don't want to do this, I do want to do this, what do I want when I go home, blah blah blah...  I mean, it's not all about me, ya know?  But it's as if I didn't know that sometimes.  I think I'm rambling... but...well... it's my blog.  And I need to get all these things out.  But I know this:
Something has to change. Something is already changing.  The feeling is there.  I know this is the beginning of something new and big.  He's making me new. He's restoring and refreshing me.  He's calling me to himself, and I can do nothing but respond.  Love like that doesn't allow for anything else.
I don't know what adventure is coming next.  It might be living in Columbus. It might be coming back here.  I don't know.  And I don't know if I'm ready for it.  I am pretty terrified, if I'm honest.   Life is really scary sometimes.  This whole big adventure is usually more than I bargained for.  And sometimes I love that, and sometimes I hate that.  But man...my God is big. So big.  He loves me so much.  I mean, he really really does.  And although I know that in my head, today I feel it. I feel it all over.  I can't explain. I can't make sense of all of it.  I realize the something big coming may not be "good".  But my God is Good.  No matter what.  And though that is somewhat hollow coming from me in a mostly happy time in my life, I trust he's faithful to reveal himself and his will to me. And with the father I read about in the gospels, I pray in faith, "Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief." Lord, I surrender; help my selfishness.  Lord, I trust; help my fear.  Lord, I will go; help my unwillingness.  Oh, and He will!  I know he will.  I know he'll finish the incomplete mess I am.  To Him be glory, forever.

Endurance

Well, my Sunday blog schedule is clearly quite flexible.  I'm not updating every week, but here we are a few Sundays later and I'm finally getting back to this.  I wanted to blog last Sunday, but it was a busy day, with us saying goodbye to our sweet roomie, Pam, and then doing lots of house cleaning and separating all our junk again.  We discovered some clothes we'd forgotten existed, so that's always exciting.  Anyway, my reason for desiring to blog last week was to tell you about our Saturday. So I'll do that now.  But first a little of the back story...

Earlier in the year I asked my 11th graders to write a journal (relating to a poem we'd read) that basically said how'd they'd face death, if they knew it was coming tomorrow.  I was surprised to hear their answers.  Overwhelmingly, they expressed sentiments about wanting to do more with their lives, wanting to make a difference, wanting to make their parents proud, and wanting to be remembered.  They felt like their lives hadn't done enough of these things.  Well, as their overambitious English teacher, I couldn't just let that go...

So, I did some research on the concept of Service-Learning, and took on the exciting task of having my students create individual Service Learning Projects for themselves to complete in the following months.  I asked them to come up with something they can do to benefit or serve their community in some way.  They then had to write a project/research proposal with a description of their project, ways they were gonna make it happen, a schedule, a proposal for a research topic connected with their project, and why their idea was of value from a Christian worldview.  (Don't worry...I was nice when grading these. I realize it's a lot of work!)

All this to say, last Saturday 2 of my students began working on the practical aspects of their projects.  Ryan Epperson is one, and he began a project in connection with the organization his dad works with.  I must admit he's way more knowledgeable than I am about what he's doing, but it involves planting A LOT of trees to combat the massive amount of deforestation in Malawi, as well as teaching youth from Gusu and/or Jidi villages about ways to take care of the environment around them.  It's a really neat way of encouraging Malawians to be good stewards of the natural resources in the gorgeous country God has given them.  Ryan is awesome, and though I happen to know he wasn't very excited about this project, I'm very proud of what he's been doing and the difference he'll make through this.

The other student, Kaitlin Harthoorn, took on the massive feat of swimming 25 kilometers across Lake Malawi to raise money to buy Bibles in Chichewa for Adziwa orphanage (I'm hazy on details of the name here, so my apologies if I'm not 100% correct.  My understanding is that Adziwa village is being aided in taking care of the orphans in their area, and families who agree to take in children are given a stipend to help out in the process.  So Kaitlin wanted to provide a Bible in Chichewa for every family and Chief involved in this project.  Now, Kaitlin is already a pretty incredible swimmer. She's on the ABC swim team, and travels around southern Africa participating in swim meets and such.   I thought it was cool she was using her talents/skills for such a good cause.  So Saturday, Aly and I went to the lake to meet her as she swam in from the opposite side of the lake.  A man from South Africa, I believe, had been helping Kaitlin train, and he swam the lake that day as well.  Their goal was to beat the current record time (something like 9hours 45minutes).  Kaitlin's trainer swam ahead of her a bit and came in somewhere around 8.5 hours I believe.

I have to admit, when Kaitlin told me about this project, I was pretty impressed, but I didn't realize the determination it would take.  This girl had been training something like you'd train for a marathon, only in the pool.  She had to change her eating habits a bit leading up to the swim, and put in crazy numbers of hours in the ABC pool working toward this goal.  As they were planning for a 8+ hour swim, there was the issue of how to stay nourished and keep one's body going during that time in the water without a break.  Kaitlin was determined though, and choked down some not so yummy gooey pastey stuffs while swimming to make this work.  Pretty crazy.  Did I mention she's only 17?

So, as Aly and I sat on the beach all afternoon being totally lazy, Kaitlin was ready for her swim at 5 am, but weather difficulties delayed her start til around 7:30 that morning.  Her parents, brother and sister, and swim coach were travelling beside her in a support boat piloted by a family friend.  Her family swam with her at times, encouraging her along the way.  At some point, the weather got rough again, and her dad reported 4 and 5 foot waves in the middle of the lake.  After just over 9 hours of nonstop swimming, Kaitlin was met by a cheering crown at Livingstonia (yes, named after David Livingstone) beach in Salima, Malawi.  Exhausted, and not one for the spotlight, Kaitlin chose to remain in the water to cool down and get some strength back in her tired limbs.

It was a really neat experience for me.  I assigned these projects hoping to help my students feel a little more purposeful- to find some meaning in their lives.  I knew it would be hard work for them, but that's good!  I still think this project was a good idea, and I look forward to hearing more about the amazing things my kiddos are doing.  What I didn't count on was the effect this would have on their teacher, their families, and even the international community.  Kaitlin received hundreds of thousands of kwacha (our currency) and was able to buy 54 Bibles and is donating the rest of the money to help with other needs in Adziwa.  As cool as all of that is, I have to say, the most moving event for me was watching Kaitlin's mom come off of the boat.  (Kaitlin's dad had left a few hours earlier with a nasty bout of seasickness, so he was actually in the water swimming out to meet her.) This wonderful momma watched her daughter endure some really really hard things in those 9 long hours.  She had hugs for everyone around, but soon collapsed into a chair nearby, exhausted physically and emotionally from the experience.  She'd just done a really hard thing- watched her daughter endure unnecessary pain for the good of someone else.  Talking to her later, she told me of Kaitlin's determination and attitude.  I can't quote directly, but basically Kaitlin told her after everything was over, "Ya know, mom...we prayed for God to take away the storm but instead He gave me the strength to endure it."

What a beautiful picture, ya know?  First, of a mother's love.  Hope you don't find me blasphemous, but God is given motherly imagery in scripture- such as the idea of a mother hen gathering her chicks under her wings to protect them.  So I see this mother's love as an incredible picture of God, ever beside his children, watching them endure the storm that He's allowed to come their direction, knowing it's for their good.  Not to mention a picture of God's love for Christ, allowing Him to make the ultimate sacrifice on MY behalf.    And then, the love of her father, standing anxiously on the shore, waiting for her to arrive.  Soon, that wasn't enough.  He couldn't just wait.  We watched him excitedly wade into the water and swim in Kaitlin's direction, escorting her in, swimming the last meters with her.   I mean, how much sweeter does it get?  What wonderful love Christ gives us- not just waiting for us to arrive at the finish line, but swimming out to meet us, experiencing the trial with us, meeting us where we are.  And finally, I was so encouraged by Kaitlin's perseverance.  Like she said- I'm sure they prayed (we all prayed) for God to provide calm weather and good conditions on the lake.  Though conditions were save, God chose to let the storm come, and instead of sheltering Kaitlin, he gave her the strength to press on. To endure.  What faith in such a young girl to trust her Heavenly Father in such a huge task...
Kaitlin inspired all of us.  This young lady's determination and faith are beautiful things.

And I don't mean in any way to take away from the work of any of my other students.  Their tasks are challenging in so many ways, be it working with people from other cultures, organizing and scheduling events, or simply finding time in busy schedules to take on more responsibility than has been expected of them in the past.  It's a huge thing I'm asking of these kids.  I'm asking them to be adults.  To give of themselves sacrificially.  To take on a burden that they normally would not.  But as they go, I hope you'll be praying for them, that God will give them strength to endure.  And I hope you'll pray for me as I attempt to guide them through the process.

And most of all, I hope you'll endure whatever storm you're currently swimming through.  Search for strength in the God who cannot turn you away. The God who feels, who understands, who is running to meet you, who is allowing this for your good, though his heart is pained with every agony you endure.  As Paul (or whoever wrote Hebrews) encouraged us,  "Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run  with perseverance  the race marked out for us,  fixing our eyes on Jesus,  the pioneer  and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross,  scorning its shame,  and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.   Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart."  

Sunday Blogday

I've decided to make Sunday my blog day. I feel like I don't update enough these days.  I mean, I don't suppose there's any prescribed time line for blogging, but every Sunday I think I'll try to share a little of what life has been like in the past week.  Or if nothing else, a little of what's been going on in my head.

This week was exam week at the academy (yay midterms!) so I've stayed pretty busy and pretty run down.  A twist of fate (so to speak) left 9-11th grade with the ability to get out of school at noon Wednesday through Friday, which was probably the biggest blessing I can think of.  But, in the midst of the chaos, I started the week on a pretty low note. Discouraged, tired, and overall very negative in my attitude towards things like waking up, going to school, teaching high schoolers, etc.

My friend Liz (Elizabeth McCormick, people...go see how amazing she is) is serving in Mexico at an orphanage right now, and about the middle of the week a facebook message popped up on my screen and Liz, knowing I was feeling a bit downtrodden, was challenging me to join her in this idea of counting blessings, writing down the little things every day that make life beautiful. The things that reflect the face of God in the midst of chaos and confusion.  A few things from her list: (which was much longer than this)
teeth flashing smiles in darkness
warm blankets 
jagged shadows on brightly painted walls
running barefoot

So I decided to join her.  Now, I have to admit I was slow to the draw- I only have a few things on my list right now, but I plan to add to it every day.  I know there was this facebook trend of "I'm thankful for" statuses approaching Thanksgiving last year, and it was nice, but I have to say some days it felt like reading lists of "look how good my life is" instead of "I'm so undeservingly blessed."  So this week especially, and hopefully every day I have in Africa, I want to look for the small things that can bring joy to my life.  The details that God took time creating and weaving into my day just to give me a smile and breathe some life into his weary daughter, whose circumstances aren't always bright. So far, here are a few things I've found...

raindrops on a tin roof, and the cool air the rains bring
Abi's tiny little braids and her sweet voice calling hi to "Aly and Allison," always in that order

late night giggles from Pam when she hears me doing dumb things
the joy someone middle schoolers got from toilet papering my car
the colorful organized chaos of the market, and the baby sleeping through all of it

warm pavement on bare feet walking home in the rain

Here's to you, Jesus. Thanks for brightening the circumstances. Thanks for the details.

all our fears are washed away

"When we see you, we find strength to face the day.  In your presence, all our fears are washed away."
I led our church in this refrain this morning.  Proclaimed it to the body of believers with which I worship.

Let me just say, the past week has involved a lot of chaos for me. My professional life (school) seems to be spinning out of control.  I won't give you details, but we started the year short staffed and are 5 upper school teachers shorter since then.  I feel overworked in every way, and feel like I haven't the ability to do my job well.  One week back from Christmas and I'm already feeling the weight of burn out.  I don't say this to ask for pity, though your prayers are greatly desired.  I would really love that.
The point, though, is that on Friday, I was pretty convinced I couldn't face the next week.  I was ready to be done with the stress and chaos and hard work that never seems to be quite enough.  And then, this morning...

When we see You, we find strength to face the day.

I mentioned earlier feeling incapable of doing my job well.  I've discovered recently that I elevate success to a much higher place than I thought.  There are some strange reasons for that, but of course it all hits back at pride, in a roundabout way. I am terrified of failing.  Realizing that this sounds terribly arrogant, I'll say I've never had much trouble with academics.  I'm good at school.  I AM an academic. I didn't ace all my classes in college, but I came out well.  Greek was a challenge I gave myself, and was one of the first times in my LIFE that I risked failure of my own accord.  I mean, I recall the risk and subsequent embarrassment of a senior piano recital (I am not a pianist)...but I didn't feel like I had much choice in that.  And for the record, I did try to back out.  I quit things when I realize I'm not gonna succeed.  When I don't do well on something, my identity is challenged a little.  Allison is good at stuff.  And when she's not good at stuff, she doesn't attempt that stuff.  Therefore, Allison (almost) always succeeds.  So when Allison fails, I have a hard time reconciling that with my view of myself.  Again, I realize how arrogant and hollow I sound.  This is me being vulnerable.  I've been terrified and my identity has been challenged in this whole teaching thing this year.  It's not easy.  And I don't always succeed in the ways I would like to.  And I don't know who I am. And that's terrifying.  So I want to quit.  And then, this morning...

In your presence all our fears are washed away.

Is it any wonder the next line of the song is "Hosanna!"?  It's an eruption of praise, of joy, of pure delight that God restores my dignity, tells me my failure is inevitable and his love is unchanging, removes my fear and confusion, identifies me with his Son, and gives me strength to face what's ahead.  Just enough for today, so that I'll continue to seek his face and to hunger for his presence.  It's the only way I can survive.

You are the God who saves us! Worthy of all our praises!  Hosanna!! Come have your way among us, we welcome you here, Lord Jesus!

Home

There are a million things I could write about tonight. It's been a while, and in the short (read: VERY LONG) month since I last posted, so many things have happened.  Christmas programs, dozens of graded papers, 3-4 days of airplanes and airports, months of planning coming to fruition in one big surprise, hugs, laughter, tears, hellos, goodbyes, and lots of turkey-eating.
My time home was a huge blessing, and a much-needed period of rest and escape.  It came on the heels of a slight emotional breakdown, and ushered in a few more, but was truly a blessing.  It's amazing how a change of scenery can offer a change of perspective.  Sometimes we need to escape where we are to see our surroundings a little more clearly.
In the past month, I think I've started to come to grips with how much sacrifice has been involved in this whole journey.  My heart has been divided between two homes, and two groups of people I love very much. And it seems easy to stand in the middle and hold on to both, but no matter how hard you try, the thick ties binding you to each extreme begin to slip from your grip.  If you don't let go of one, perhaps you'll be stretched too far... Perhaps you'll never return to your normal, proportional, balanced self.
Every repetition of "just six more months" in the last 3 weeks heightened my awareness of the stretch.  I felt it in every "we can't wait til your home for good."  And though the well-meaning loved ones surely meant to comfort, my discomfort grew each time.  A little more stretching...a little more distance between one half of me and the other.  A little more of the irreversible change.
I started asking why. Why me, God?  Don't you know I have this tendency?  Don't you know this is more than I can handle?  Why would you choose me for this journey?  Why does it have to be so hard? Why is one home so easy and so comfortable, and the other so difficult, but so fantastically purposeful?  Why are there 8 stupid hours between the two?  Why is communication so tough?  Why can't I be rich enough to make this whole thing easier? (Because, though money does not buy happiness, it sure does help if you wanna see or talk to someone on the other side of the world.)
Well, God didn't really give me an answer. But here I am. Thankful for this opportunity, slightly bitter at times that it isn't what I'd like it to be, and often hurting that whether my time here ends, or whether it continues, the stretching and longing and missing and distance will always be there.  That's how you can pray for the missionaries you know.  Their hearts will be torn in cruel ways- between the people and places God has called them to love, and the people and places they were born loving.  And neither of the loved groups will fully understand until they've been called to the same journey.  Someone will always feel hurt or left behind.  And that is how I know this earth is not home.  It just can't be.  And I guess I'm glad.
So, six months til I will leave Lilongwe for Mississippi.  I feel the clock ticking even as I type.  I feel the questions that aren't yet answered about the future.  Whether my return is "for good" I cannot say, though I highly doubt it.  One thing I do know is that I won't be home for good until I've reached my eternal dwelling with Christ Jesus.

Then Jesus said to them, "If anyone wishes to come after me, he must deny himself, take up his cross daily, and follow me.

  As they were going along the road, someone said to him, “I will follow you wherever you go.” And Jesus said to him, “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” To another he said, “Follow me.” But he said, “Lord, let me first go and bury my father.” And Jesus said to him, “Leave the dead to bury their own dead. But as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.” Yet another said, “I will follow you, Lord, but let me first say farewell to those at my home.” Jesus said to him, “No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”

(Luke 9:57-62 ESV)

Now great crowds accompanied him, and he turned and said to them, “If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not bear his own cross and come after me cannot be my disciple. For which of you, desiring to build a tower, does not first sit down and count the cost, whether he has enough to complete it?
(Luke 14:25-28 ESV)