These are my people

We came as individuals, a merry fellowship of misfits with only one thing in common: the uncertainty of our year ahead.  With 10 one-way tickets to the United Kingdom, we held hands and walked forward, becoming a union of disciples that would become a family through Christ.  Now our years are ending, and while we still face the uncertainty of our lives ahead, we will leave holding hearts and a bond only created through the deepest vulnerabilities. 

To Kari, the lover of life and life to the full:  I am forever thankful for our Tuesday dinner dates of burgers and sweet potato fries while debriefing our London weeks of children, poverty, and ethnicity.  You have a beautiful way of listening and reflecting the positive gifts you see in all our lives.  Thank you for giving me the courage to continue forward so many times while showing me your confidence in the Big Man upstairs.  I’m so glad we finally realized our placement sites were so close so we could use public transportation for what its best used for: bringing two great friends together.  

   

To Emily, the free-spirited Minnesotan who has a heart for education and creativity:  We experienced some of our most vulnerable moments and hilarious mistakes together when first moving to London.  From learning the importance of signaling for the bus driver to stop to discovering the best food shops together I’m thankful for our shared space of living in Peckham together.   

To Vickey, the storyteller who’s blood runs British:  I’m so glad you were given the chance to interview with Paul and Victoria Sunday morning at DIP!  Our group just wouldn’t be the same without you.  Way back in the beginning when we were roommates in Chicago, I was so grateful for your confidence of living in England.  Even though trains sense your presence and are always delayed, you’ve had quite the impressive year with your successful placement.  You’ve got some mad writing skills and BMS World Mission is blessed to have you sharing their stories.   

To Abby, the girl who needs a nicer word than nice to describe your compassionate personality:  I feel like we are the long lost friends that had to find each other across the world.  Of course we both did marching band, were drum majors, applied to LVC, and ended up serving together in the United Kingdom.  I think my favorite memory of us this year was our simple meal together at Pizza Express while we talked and ate and talked some more.  Thank for you always giving us the gift of your genuine friendship and leading by love. 

  

To Elie, the one who’s never ceasing to laugh in the beauty of blessings:  Newcastle is so lucky to have you for another year!  You’re the person that lights up a room whenever you walk in, smiling, laughing, and forever telling stories of your endlessly wacky adventures.  You are always seeking out the one, the one who may feel left out, misunderstood, or upset, and comfort them with kindness.  Jean jackets and sorority Jesus fish for life. 

To Scarlet, the North Carolinian artist who’s not afraid of a little challenge: I’ve admired the way you’ve patiently stayed strong while the winds of hardship have been relentless.  You've taught me so much about the importance of taking the scary leap of faith… and having a great 90s ballad on hand for guitar jam sessions.  I hope you always continue to share your gift of music; I know it has been such a blessing to so many people.    

To Mike, the radical Jesus lover carrying a guitar and an apple: It’s been a blessing to watch you grow as a worship leader and youth director this year.  You definitely have a gift of leading through faith.  I’ve admired watching the way you are never afraid to speak out in a group (#extrovertproblems) and share your experiences of how the Holy Spirit is alive.  I could always count on you for a prayer, a hug, a good apple, and a medley of camp songs.       

To Nick, our loyal Chandler Bing, food photographer, and man with a heart of gold: INFJs for life.  You were the first person I sat next to at DIP, before this adventure had officially started and we had no clue what lay ahead along the yellow brick road.  I am so thankful for your friendship and the way we have processed this journey together.  You always seemed to know before I did when I was struggling with a part of this year and appreciate all the times you just sat and listened.  I am forever amazed at the words you find to describe this thing we call life and cannot wait to see where your next step will take you. 

To Erin, the organized organizer who has been my friend through it all:  We sync so well together whether it’s traveling through England, visiting markets, eating excessive amounts of food, or watching excessive amounts of Harry Potter.  I am so grateful we both served in educational settings, discussing our students contrasting lives of posh wealth and poverty – and the neglect they both receive.  You've been such a great role model this year for both your girls at school and us as volunteers.  You’re already a great teacher and I cannot wait for you to have a classroom of your own someday. 

How lucky am I to have a family that makes saying goodbye so hard?  These are my people.

Notice the Small and Give Thanks for it All

On January 29, 2006, Bob Woodruff should have died.   As the newly appointed co-anchor for ABC world news tonight, Bill was left in critical condition -and not expected to survive- when a roadside bomb exploded in Iraq as he was reporting back to America. 

On Friday June 13, 2014, I sat in Westminster Hall to celebrate the commencement ceremony of my host brother graduating high school, listening to Lee Woodruff tell the story of their family and her husband’s miraculous recovery.  As the chosen commencement speaker, her words of injury, recovery, strength, and family revolved around one main theme: Gratitude. 

I listened to her speak of the rock that rolled across her husband’s neck and landed on his carotid artery.   I heard her speak of how the army doctors that saved her husband’s life were actually ordered to take safety away from the bombsite, but only stayed by Bob’s side.   I paid attention as she spoke of the way Bob’s skull was removed to allow his brain to swell, and the way she stayed by his side as he lay in a coma for a month.    

Bob wasn’t supposed to live, but he and his family survived with the gratitude that can only be explained with a thank you that is too big to find words for.  Lee talked about the major events that filled her life with gratitude, but she also focused on the little, small events that stich our days together in blessings of happiness.  “When I was grateful for all the little things in my life, I became a better wife, mother, friend, and daughter.” 

As she made her closing remarks and the ceremony continued on, I felt I’d come full circle this year in lessons of gratitude.  It feels like just yesterday (while simultaneously years ago) that I was sitting in my new room in London in September, reading a book on gratitude while buckets collected dripping water from my ceiling.  It was a time of extreme vulnerability, but it was also a time of deep reflection.  I looked for the daily blessings.  I kept a list of the small stuff I was grateful for.  I was deeply challenged by the daily living and consumed by the Holy Spirit.    

It has been a long time since I’ve written anything on this blog.  A long time since I’ve sat down at my computer and allowed time to form words of reflection on my daily life here.  It could be because I’ve found my new normal; I finally am understanding how to live in the culture of London and don’t need to think or plan as intently as I did in the beginning.  It could be because I only have one month left (yes, that’s right – one month!!!) and I am super busy trying to experience as much as possible.  Really, I think when everything is “going right” it’s too easy to forget to reflect on those small miracles that form our lives.  I stop noticing the way God is in the boiling water dancing on the stovetop, or the way a small child’s fingers grip a pencil as they write

.

But life is good and so is God.  And I am grateful that I was sitting in Westminster Hall on the 13^th of June, celebrating my host brother’s graduation and listening to Lee Woodruff’s words on noticing the everyday blessings.  I may only have 5 weeks left in London, but that’s five more weeks to notice how God is alive.  If it’s one thing I’ve learned this year – it’s to notice the small and give thanks for it all.      

Fellowship and Food

Forks in our left hand, knives in our right.  The occasional scrape of metal to the plate is overridden by the chatter and chewing.  Diminishing food parallels the filling stomachs.  Hearts are happy.  Bellies full. 

I recently heard a sermon on fellowship, and the distinction behind the meaning.  It was compared to the relationship families have when getting together after a long period of time.  Stories are shared, there may be laughter or tears – sometimes both - and food is often a main component.  It is a time of listening and a time for showing love to the ones we care about most.  As brothers and sisters of Christ, our time of fellowship is a time of family members coming together, to share, to listen, and to break bread. 

Staying in a hostel in the middle of nowhere Wales, I don’t know the name of the person sitting to my right, but by the end of dinner I will know that he lives in London, tutors adult students in English, used to live in Bermuda running a luxury resort, and has a sister that graduated from Wittenberg University.  The woman diagonal to me lives in Slovakia, has a daughter that waitressed in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, visits Canada regularly, and thoroughly enjoys British custard.  We’ve all traveled from different places, carry different stories and experiences, and we will part again soon. 

But for tonight, our paths have crossed.  And as storytellers, aren’t we all just looking for someone to listen?  Sitting around a full table where each individual does not know the other creates a unique and vulnerable situation.  But I can only smile as my heart now understands the beauty of fellowship and the creation of old family members reuniting, if only for a meal.  

A Good Friday Scramble

With my feet and arms spread out from under me and feeling a bit like an awkward starfish clinging for dear life, I am paralyzed.  One more move and I’m pretty sure the only directions I’ll be going is backwards.  The summit is just within reach, but my muscles are strained from the athleticism I have suddenly required of them and I am so unbelievably tired.  The loose rock under me starts to shift and I am taken over by gravity as I slowly slide down the steep incline. 

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Tying our shoelaces for the morning, my brother and I were getting ready to hike up one of the easiest trails to reach the summit of Snowdon, the highest mountain in Wales.  As official N.A.R.P.s (non-athletic retired persons) we are the first to admit how out of shape our bodies have become since our college days of swimming 20+ hours a week.  This backpacking trip through Wales was a holiday for both of us, and while we wanted the views of the majestic mountain peaks, we were going to take the easiest way to get up there.  No shame. 

All set and ready to go, we met a fellow traveler who was staying in the same hostel as us.  We mentioned the trail we were going to take, and he looked back at us with surprise.  “Don’t you want a challenge? I like to feel accomplished when looking back on the journey I’ve climbed.”  Well, what were we supposed to say to that?  Our competitive spirits taking over, suddenly we found ourselves starting our hike on a much different trail than originally planned.   One of the hardest paths offered, based on the extreme elevation change and loose scree (broken rock fragments) towards the summit.

As the morning sunlight blanketed the mountains of Snowdonia, we set off.  We basked in the rich vitamin D soaking into our pours as we crossed through the farmlands and ascended up to the slate quarry.  We paused at the beauty of the gushing waterfalls and gave our heartbeats a chance to slow down with the rapid incline.  Our thighs burned, our backs were sore, and our cheeks were sunburnt.  And we were loving every bit of it. 

Right before leaving, that fellow traveler had asked me how experienced I was with “scrambling.”  My brother responded to my confused and blank stare, saying I have never done it before, but I would be fine.  It wasn’t until we were halfway up the mountain that it dawned on me to ask what scrambling meant.  Not a big deal, he replied, you’ll just have to use your hands and feet to support your weight because there will be a bunch of loose rock under you. 

Right, no big deal.     

I am apparently not the best with this scrambling business and suddenly I am wishing for some solid ground under my hands and feet.  The loose rock under me starts to shift and I am taken over by gravity as I slowly slide down the steep incline…but as I start to slide down, I am desperate to go forwards.  So like a dog on a frozen pond with ice skates attached to her paws, I literally scramble to the summit.

Hiking has always seemed to carry significant parallel journeys of the happenings in my life: a descent down the Mountain Kingdom of Lesotho birthing a beautiful friendship, a calm stroll through John Bryant days before graduation.  It all holds special meaning and allows the opportunity for reflection on how Christ is alive. 

On this particular Good Friday, I am able to lie down and close my eyes on the top of the mountain.  I reflect the struggle, the weight, and the paralyzed fear this day holds for Jesus.  I think of the struggle, the weight, and the paralyzed fear this year has held for me.  I think of the new trail I will take to descend, my hike not yet finished, and the unknown trials and gifts it will bring.  I think of the new journey I will take when this year is finished, and the unknown trails and gifts it will also bring.  My brain is spinning, but eventually the stillness of my body with the calm presence of mountain air takes over, and for a moment, I am just present.      

Looking back on our journey climbed, it was definitely a challenge, but I wouldn't use the word accomplished to describe my feelings. 

Grateful.  Awe-filled.  Loved.     

The Kids Are Alright

Sounds of boiling water pop in a rhythmic pattern to my left, but my eyes are drawn forward to follow the joyous sounds of laughter coming from outside.  Peering out the window and four stories below, I see a tiger madly twirling a hula hoop around her flailing body in every attempt to keep it above her knees.  Batman is running in circles, his head thrown back as he screams in harmony with the wind.  Cinderella and Snow White are jumping rope with Spiderman, while Dorothy is playing hopscotch; a long way from the home of Kansas. 

It’s world book day, and the school is alive in imagination. 

Somewhere in the directions of dressing up as your favorite story book character, the translation was lost to the sheer opportunity to play dress up.  But in the masses of princesses and superheroes (with some book heroines in-between) a message of hope in the season of ashes radiates brighter than the sky on this rare sunny day.  Unaware to the vulnerability that sews their soul together, the children play on.  

The kettle starts to whistle, signaling the tea is ready to make, lessons need to be planned, and resources need to be copied.  But right now in this moment, faith grows in the laughter of the young.  

Some say faith is a childish game.  Play on children, like its Christmas day.  

Welcome Home

A guilty conscious is my shadow that never alters or diminishes in accordance to the ever rotating earth around the sun.  Like a looming darkness ever present, my thoughts are always one step ahead to judge my actions, forming questions in a never ending battle over what is right or wrong.  In a year of intentional living within another culture, this shadow has only grown in size as my body never wants to dip a toe into the waters of ignorance or shame. 

Recently I was posed with a terrifying statement: “You can make your own decision.”  With repairs to the in the original house I am supposed to be living in still underway, the family I have been living and growing with offered me an invitation to stay with them for the rest of the year.  Bringing the invitation to my supervisor, she gave me the choice to make my own decision. 

My housing situation this year has been one of the most challenging experiences that I have had, and an invitation to know where I was going to live for the rest of the year brought waves of tears in thanks and comfort.  Every gut reaction I could possibly have inside of me rose to scream yes and unpack my suitcase for the first time in 6 months. 

But of course, that guilty conscious was ever-present and within seconds I doubted if this was the right decision to make.  I’ve currently been commuting an hour each way to work every morning, creating a division of separation between the community my students live in versus the community I live in.  This is quite a contrast to the intention of walking in solitude and mutuality.    

But it was recently said to me that sometimes the boldest decision you can ever make is to take care of yourself.   I’ve learned in every psychology class in college that shelter is a basic fundamental need.  Those words in a book became my reality this year as I’ve physically been in need of shelter while also emotionally wrestling with the uncertainty of where I could call home.  The invitation came by the protection from God, in the form of the most giving family I have ever met.  The invitation came, and I realized that I needed to accept it. 

With a gift so selfless I know I’ll never be able to repay, I can only carry this experience forward in understanding and appreciating the physical, emotional, and spiritual needs in having a place to call home.   When the shadows of guilt start to loom, I can now feel the sun telling me I am supposed to be exactly where I am. 

Welcome Home

p.s. If you’d like to join me in giving thanks to the Tuckers who has extended their home to me, simply let me know and I’ll send you our address 

Power of the Pen

I often don’t know the stories that weave together the soul of each child I work with.  Bits of information will come through from the school… whether or not they receive free school meals, how many brothers and sisters they have, if they are on a special education plan through the school…. but the real stories the children carry in their hearts always shine in their writing. 

A picture speaks 1000 words. This one only has 64 to be exact.  But the story of love rings truer than ever.  

"Dear Mum

You have been a great mum because you always help me improve my reading and my writing. You help me improve my spelling and you always care about me.  Also you have so much fun with me.  And you teach me so much stuff and you let me play games too.  So that’s why you are the best mum in the world."

  

Entertaining Angels

With the news of my host dad’s much deserved promotion, it was time to pull out the fancy clothes, invite the neighbors, and reserve a table at the highly regarded steak house near Piccadilly Circus.  Touched to be included in such a family affair, I was once again immersed in the hospitality of my host family.  I did my best to wear fashion worthy of the London streets at night and suppressed my natural jaw-drop reaction as we approached the 4 floored, black walled, music-bouncing restaurant named none other than Gaucho.

The evening was filled with plenty of laughter, mouth-watering Argentinian steak, and room made for dessert.  This was the first time I’ve experienced a steak house that didn’t need to serve the meal with a steak knife…the meat was that tender.  We shared side dishes of sweet potato chips, cooked spinach, and empanadas, while ordering our own desserts of cheesecake, chocolate cake, ice cream, and sticky toffee pudding.  Needless to say, plates were wiped clean and everyone around the table was full.  British culture has a tendency to never rush a meal, so it was completely normal to be asking for the check around 10pm.  With stomachs and hearts happy, it was time to head back home. 

Stepping outside into the cool, damp night, we headed down a side street to take a known short cut to our bus stop.  Two steps down, and my lungs depleted as I noticed the man sitting to the side.  With bags of rubbish he had collected from the back of the restaurant piled around him, I can only guess he was looking for a little food and a little warmth.  We immediately made eye contact.  Without my purse, holding my wallet and the extra granola bars I always carry, I had nothing material to offer him.  I put my head down, and I continued to walk with my family.  He continued to look through the trash.

There is this term I’ve learned as a psychology major.  It explains every reason why the more people we are around, the less likely we are as an individual to step forward in a time of need.  That night, I let cognitive dissonance win as I pretended to not notice the hurt and pain that was sitting to the side.  I pretended to let the fact that I didn’t have any money or food equate to the lie that I couldn’t offer any kindness.  I continued to walk with the generosity I was being handed, instead of stopping to offer some generosity to another.

I only pray that I keep being offered these chances of raw, gut-wrenching vulnerability.  And that when I make mistakes, I can recognize God weeping with me and let the London rain storms wash over in a renewal of Baptism. 

So tonight, I rest in the healing of grace.

Hebrews 13:2 Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it.

Measure in Love

January 16, 2013 – A time of panic and worry as I attempt to describe myself in less than one page for my YAGM application.  A time of doubt as I wonder if I’m making the right decision applying for service organizations rather than grad school.  A time of excitement as I begin my last semester at Wittenberg University. 

I have to admit, I was very naive last year as I filled out my application; picturing the experience I would have if I was admitted into the program.  I pictured poverty, diversity, and a community of faith…but only in the simplest of ways.  At this point last year, I had no idea that I would be living in London – it was honestly the last place I could have predicted – and I think it says a lot about my naivety that I expected a year of missionary service to include poverty and diversity.  But I am learning.  And this time in London has been nothing of what I could have expected and everything that I have needed.  Really, every theme I envisioned about my year came true.  Just in a very different way than imagined. 

 Poverty.  It was recently stated that London, England is among the top 10 wealthiest cities of the world.  And here I am, a simple, Lutheran Ohioan, living on roughly 10 pounds a day.  This being said, I’ve never lived in an area with such great contrast.  There is a term I’ve heard whispered around here, combining both the wealth and race divide.  The term?  “Crossing the river”  While I still cringe hearing it casually used in conversation, there is truth behind this statement to the segregation that lies in the geographical distribution of wealth.  On the north of the Thames, one can experience the iconic scenes of London; Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, and the black suit and tie workers of the finance district.   On the south side, I walk through a different city.  I say hello to the same faces sitting under the overpass on my way to and from work.  I step over the litter thrown about on the streets, look up at the council housing strewn with laundry hanging from the balconies. All the while wondering how families can budget the cost of the city while I can barely manage worrying for the cost of one.  In a city of consumerism, fashion, and the ever demanding need for time, London is not without the crippling disease of poverty  

Diversity.  London has been teaching me about the real difference between race and ethnicity.  In past experience, diversity seemed to be defined by the color of my skin compared to those around me.  Here, there is such a rich diversity of ethnicities.  The children I teach might all have darker skin, but one student speaks Nigerian while another speaks Somalian, Turkish, Spanish or French.  They are all raised in different subcultures of where their roots lie, creating a much colorful array of beauty to learn, grow, and walk hand in hand through.  

Community of faith.  The Evening Standard today read loud and clear:” London is the Most Popular Destination for Tourists in the World.”  With so much business, with so much consumerism, with so much wealth, and so much speed, this city can become quite challenging to make connections and really slow down.  To find a church that is more than a building – but a community of faith – was a trial that, at first, left me wondering if I would be able to make a single companion or friend here in the city.  But with time, comes growth.  And finding the Lutheran church in London, with members visiting or living here originally from numerous different countries, has helped me understand how to slow down and soak in the love of Christ that is all around the urban poverty and diversity.  

So there it is.  A mishmash of thoughts and themes of this year, which is by no means complete or even close to an answer for a purpose of why I have been led here.  As I look back on my innocence from a year ago, I can’t help but wonder what I’ll think looking back a year from now.  The funny thing about time is that no matter what, we cannot help but to move forward.  So already 16 days into the new year, I pray that these themes only continue to keep developing into clarity of direction and intention.   

       

How do you measure a year?  In late nights, in resumes, in studying, and graduation.  In campfires, in summer nights, in laughter, and tears.  In hellos, in goodbyes, in plane flights, and British accents.   In hardships, in bus fares, in walking in faith.    

A Christmas Poem

Twas the night before Christmas

With no room at the inn

So a manger was taken

To give life from within

A baby was born

From a virgin most plain

For a lesson that taught us

God loves everyone the same

The wise men would follow

A star shining bright

To lead them to the king

Giving us all eternal life

So in the season of advent

We wait and prepare

For the birth of our Savior

In intentional prayer

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Tis the night before Christmas

And my parents are here

To celebrate the season

With good ol’ British cheer

I waited at the airport

For them safely to arrive

Until at last, reunited

We hugged and we cried

The past few days

We have spent all together

Riding double decker buses

And battling stormy weather

Now Christmas Eve is upon us

And how we do glee

At the ordainments adorned

Amongst the great Jesse tree

During church today

Voices sang Silent Night

Reading the Gospel of Luke

By Warm candle light

So tonight we will rest

All snug in our beds

And give thanks to God

For a stable roof over our heads

But for now I must say,

With much awaited delight:

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

A Very Merry Unbirthday to You!

It was a normal Tuesday morning; waking up early and catching the tube, changing at Elephant and Castle to catch my train and journeying onward to school.  Overcast skies, children filling buses in their jumpers and beanies, Metro Times scattered across sidewalks and bins.  Typical Tuesday. 

Walking into school, I was greeted by my center manager, very cheerful for an early Tuesday morning.  “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KATHARINE!” were her first words to greet me, along with a birthday card and various British mints and chocolates.  I was so surprised for various reasons…one of the main being that my birthday is not until December 31. 

“Thank you so much Ann! *awkward pause* But do you know today is not my birthday?” 

After spending the remainder of our morning administrative tasks laughing in the enjoyment of a mismarking on the staff calendar, I was left filled with the love only an act of random kindness can bring.  The tasks seemed lighter, the children seemed more willing to learn, their progress reports seemed more hopeful than anything. I realized by celebrating an unbirthday (as explained by the Mad Hatter, there are 364 unbirthdays in a year) I was allowing Christ to enter more fully into my heart.  I was noticing his gifts.  I was rejoicing in his presence.  Of course, nothing changed in my actions – it was all a change of mind.  A change of heart.  And suddenly all of my actions had meaning and purpose to carry and shine God’s love. 

In the waiting of advent, in the coming of the birth of Christ, I pray that I continue to celebrate each day as an unbirthday.  A chance to prepare my heart to receive the greatest gift of all on the birthday that saved us all.  A chance to unwrap the full love story of Christmas 

A very merry unbirthday to you! 

The Bakerloo Line

I now have the ability to morph into a fish.

It all starts with a blue plastic card. I tap it, the gates open, and I am lowered down into the deep waters.

At first I hold my breath, panicked that I might not be able to breathe.

But without fail, my gills open.  I not only can breathe, I can swim. 

As I plunge into the ocean of an underground, sights and sounds change.  There is a rumble in the distance and vibrations pick up through the waves.  Moving bodies together create friction and heat.   With time, the ocean had greyed.  The colors are dull and rubbish floats to the side.   

The current is swift with many different channels to choose from.  As one tiny fish, it is easy to get lost.  But I continue to move forward.

With the first dive, I must choose the school headed in the right direction and link in to the group. We swim and we swim and we hurry and swim.  And then we wait.  I wait for the whale to swallow me whole.

A deep rumble signifies a whale is close.  It quickly crescendos, and suddenly piercing eyes are lighting up the dark ocean as the body swimming past causes hearts to accelerate and lungs to gasp.

The jaws open wide, inviting fish inside.

Sometimes their belly is empty.  Sometimes their belly is full.  But as I wait in the pit of its stomach, I say a prayer.

And I listen. 

The fish sitting with me are vastly different.  And themes of their appearance match with the location of the whale.  Up north, most fish have pale scales with decorated black and white garments.  Wearing blazers, pantyhose, and ties, these business-fish are swimming for work and tote their briefcase under their fins.  As the whale moves south, the fish change.  Gone are the pale scales and a new pattern emerges.  The whale swallows fish that adorn many different tones; black, brown and tan shimmer through.  As a pale fish, I am in the minority.  But I still belong in this school.  And I continue to travel onward.

And I think.

While swimming through the fast paced underground, there are some fish who are not moving, who are overlooked again and again by the schools.  These fish are the ones to the side, sitting with close to nothing and asking for a little something.  But the schools continue to move past; never dropping their eyes in fear of making contact. As a school of many, we forget that we are just made up of lots of individual, free-thinking fish, the same as the one who isn't moving… 

The journey can feel like three days and three nights. 

But always, the jaws open again and I am dispensed once more into the ocean of an underground and must swim my way to the top.  This is the most dangerous part, moving against the current.  As hundreds of other fish swim quickly down, I have to pursue my way up, swimming upstream as I feel my gills morph back into lungs and I am gasping for air.  For sunlight.  For the shore. 

A touch of the card, a beep of a green light, and I am once again on solid ground. 

I used to be scared of fish.  Now I feel myself trying to become one.   

Sometimes accompaniment isn’t about walking.  It’s about swimming.  

 

 

 

It's About Time

At 2:15 today, I was headed down the hall to pick up my last student for the final lesson of the day.  I was tired, battling a cold, and feeling defeated from a day of little productivity.  When knocking on the classroom door and sticking my head in, the teacher informed me that they were in the middle of a test and my student couldn’t come to his lesson. 

My first reaction: Thanks be to God!  I sang His praise for this gift of time and started to mentally think of how I could convince my supervisor that I could now go home earlier than usual.  I was sure that God was telling me to take a much deserved break and that my work for the day was done.

Like a (loving) slap from God saying, “Pay Attention!” Leave it to my 8 year old, Nigerian boy, Ndulu, to teach me about the real meaning  and truth of discipleship and time.  

As I was walking down the hall back to our intervention room, Ndulu (who I wasn’t scheduled to teach today), was outside of his classroom reading quietly to himself.  Glancing up and seeing his tutor, he immediately sprang up and ran towards me, asking if he could come to Springboard today.  Hesitation took place in my mind as I thought of this precious extra time being taken away from me, but looking back down to his smiling face left me wondering how I could ever even think to deny this bright, optimistic boy the opportunity to learn.   

With the approval of this teacher, we headed off for his extra lesson; working on the sound ‘igh’ and reading a book about magic tricks.    I had nothing elaborate planned, but all we needed was some paper, a pencil, and the real meaning of the gift of time.

So now as I tiredly enjoy a bowl of warm chicken soup that was awaiting my arrival home from my new host mom, I pray.

Heavenly Father, Keep my eyes to serve, my hands to learn.  Keep me rooted in your love.  Rest my soul not through extra time, but through real time; through service and opportunity and a child’s innocence and compassion.  Give me the strength to continue your work and little by little plant your seeds of faith and love into this world. 

Amen

I Was a Stranger and You Welcomed Me

It has taken me awhile to write this entry.  About 3 weeks to be exact.  But to be able to express such a deep level of gratitude is challenging and I wanted to be able to find the right words. But eventually had to succumb to perfection and just do the best I could to messily write about grace in its deepest form.

I have been someone who has been blessed to always have a stable roof over my head.  My house has always had electricity, air conditioning, and heating.  I grew up with a dishwasher and internet and a fridge full of food.  But for the first time in my life, I found myself living in another country where the roof was literally caving in over my head.  And I didn’t know what to do. 

When I first told people I was placed in London, I was usually given a comment generally focused around a year of easy living.  To be fair, I probably would have thought the same thing, but I feel that part of my journey in accompaniment must include telling the story of London untold; the poverty and diversity that is segregated into communities far away from any line of focal view in a tourist’s camera. 

I was a part of that community, which included living in an old housing complex owned by council housing.  Because of this ownership, I was put on a long waiting list when the upstairs neighbor’s kitchen sink started leaking into my bedroom ceiling.  For eight weeks I lived without electricity and with buckets on my floor and towels on my bed, collecting the water falling from above.  When the ceiling started to crack, I was bumped up slightly on the repair list, but when water started to seep in from the walls and the leaking drips started to become a constant trickle, nervousness started to settle in my mind of health, safety, and the need of a stable home.

Shane Claiborne expresses in his book, The Irresistible Revolution, how “we have eliminated the need for miracles.  If we had enough faith to depend on God like the lilies and the sparrows do, we would see miracles.”  I think for much of my life I was so dependent and expectant of material structure that I had let these miracles go unnoticed.  But now this was stripped away and I was left with a raw and vulnerable need for my dependency on God. 

Meet Susan and Bill Tucker: a family who moved to London in 2001 from Atlanta, Georgia and have raised their three sons in British culture.  Susan’s mom works with my Aunt Patty at Our Savior Lutheran Church in North Carolina.  My aunt told Susan’s mom of my situation, she told Susan, and suddenly I found myself with an invitation to come live in their home.  It was that simple.

So once again I found myself packing my belongings, now only needing one suitcase to fill what mattered most, to follow a call of a true miracle.  For the first time in two months, I was being offered a dry place to sleep…and from people who didn’t even know me.  They only knew I was in need and that they had an extra bed.  It was that simple.     

I have reflected deeply on this journey of accompaniment, and cannot hide the feeling of guilty abandonment as I left my community in Peckham.  I recognize that I am privileged to have had the offer to move, while other families are stuck in the cycle of poverty and will continue to live in council housing.  But I am also reflecting on the lessons I have learned from the Tuckers about the real meaning of servanthood. I think often of Matthew 25: 34-40 and if I would have enough faith to offer my place of refuge to someone I did not know.  A dear friend and fellow YAGM wrote recently about the grace that accompanies us through kindness from strangers.  I can only end this blog by posting the same quote she shared from Paul Loeb’s book, The Impossible Will Take A Little While:    

"To feel the intimacy of brothers is a
marvelous thing in life. To feel the love of people whom we love
is a fire that feeds our life. But to feel the affection that comes
from those whom we do not know, from those unknown to us,
who are watching over our sleep and solitude, over our dangers
and our weaknesses -- that is something still greater and more
beautiful because it widens out the boundaries of our being and
unites all living things."
            //Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda

1000 Gifts

This one is for you, Noelle

 

It seemed as though everything was going wrong. As the phrase, “when it rains, it pours” started to become all too real in my life, I was looking for heaviness in the drops instead of the rainbow shining through.  From dripping ceilings, to no electricity, to clogged sinks, to broken routers, to overcast skies, I was missing home and all of the people in it.                 

My placement work was slow to start, and with all my extra time I looked to take notice in all the little things I had not expected to happen.  I was using my time to question why I was on this journey, and how God could call me to such a place.  I was negative, I was desperate, and I was lonely. 

Before leaving for London, a family friend left me with a gift I managed to pack in with my luggage.  A book she cherished, hoping the words that touched her could find a way to guide me as well.  It was a simple gesture of kindness, and she couldn’t have known that a month later this book would be my saving grace in bringing light to my journey and filling me with the Holy Spirit.  One chapter in, I was hungry for more words, more God, and more challenges. 

Thanks to this book, I have started a list.  It’s simple really.  It’s a list of gifts I witness every day.  Gifts as small as dew on a vibrant pink flower petal, or the smile of the crossing guard stopping traffic on my way to school.  I'm also learning to see the "ugly beautiful"; when I might not understand why I am faced with a specific challenge, but can focus on the gift it holds.  We have a God of specifics, and as he is giving us 1000 gifts every moment.  It’s our privilege to be able to stop and notice them.  As we notice these gifts, we are noticing all the ways God loves us.  We are giving thanks to his glory and letting the Holy Spirit fill us with joy. 

Two months in… and as my list continues to grow longer, the rain seems to be letting up.  Sure, I’m still soaked when I step outside, but instead of focusing on the rain, I see, taste, hear, and enjoy all of the million sunbeams shining through. 

So for now…

252. Sharpened lead to paper

253. The smell of fresh pencil shavings

254. Legs carrying me on a walk to school

255. Wind carrying the sound of shrieking laughter

256. Missing my train to stop and share an apple

The City is Calling

Standing at the top, I easily let the feeling of accomplishment wash over me as the wind dances wildly through my hair and my heartbeat pulsates from the steep elevation.  Standing at the top, it’s easy to look down at the journey I’ve just taken, up the long, rocky trails through pastures and acres of land.  And for a second, I can just take in this moment and be happy.

Of course, it’s only for a second.  Then my mind starts to wander about the journey I’ve just taken and how hypocritical I’ve been.

Spending a week in Derbyshire for a conference with my fellow YAGMs, we were given the opportunity to go on a hike led by one of the professors leading lectures.  We set off in the morning, and I loved falling behind at the back of the pack – camera in hand - as I looked through my lens attempting to capture the beauty the Artist created.  I focused and I gave thanks, over and over again zooming in clarity and clicking the shutter. 

Thinking from the top, not once on the journey up did I ever falter or doubt.  I trusted blindly in the professor and expected to complete the hike safe through his guidance.  I did not know where I was, what trail to take, or what would happen when I reached the top.  All I did was continue to move forward, one foot in front of the other, camera in hand, in perfect harmony with the movement of the wind and the people in front of me. 

The hypocrisy lies in the contrast in which I trust in God.  Here walking up this unknown mountain, I could trust in our guide and enjoy while giving thanks to God.  Yet every day in my unknown climb through this mountain called life, I doubt and I worry and I falter.  Every day I forget, and every day I must remind myself that it is not about a guide but The Guide leading me, as I put one foot in front of the other.

Mountain hikes have always held significant meaning in my heart, and I know I will always think of this particular journey as the important reminder of ultimate trust.  

This week was one of rejuvenation, of growing friendship and intellectual conversation.  It was also an easy week, living in the comfort of a college where my meals were prepared for me and the dishes were cleaned behind common eyesight view.  I was taken cared for by the staff, and only had to follow the schedule given to me (once again, just blindly trusting without given thought).  As I return to London, hesitation comes naturally to the known hardships corresponding with the true aspects of simple living, but I remind myself to trust in God as I put one foot in front of the other.  I must continue to move forward, on the narrow path leading me on.

The mountains speak their ever powerful voice in the structural awe in which they’ve been created.  But I cannot stay. My real mountain this year lies in the city; in my budgeted spending, classroom planning, ceiling leaking hike, in the true, hard beauty in the eyes of the Artist.   

So I pack my bags.  The city is calling, and I must go.

Timeline

25 October, 2012: A YAGM alum comes to Wittenberg to talk about her experience in Uruguay.

1 February, 2013: My YAGM application is turned in

7 February, 2013: I have my first phone interview with a YAGM alum

28 February, 2013: I have my second phone interview with a YAGM staff member

Tuesday, 19 March, 2013 4:20 PM: I receive my invitation to the discernment interview process

18 April, 2013: DIP weekend arrives, travel plans are changed, and a small road trip commences

21 April, 2013: I receive my placement with the United Kingdom

Thursday, 25 April, 2013 12:46 PM:  I accept!

11 May, 2013: I walk across the stage at commencement to receive my diploma

4 August, 2013: Peace Lutheran’s arms outstretch as I receive a blessing to continue God’s mission

14 August, 2013: I say my final goodbyes as I head to Chicago for Orientation

21 August, 2013 4:05 PM: We say a prayer as our flight takes off for the UK

22 August, 2013: I look out my new bedroom window into the London landscape, thinking of the timeline that brought me here and the many people that carried me along the way.     

Romans 12: 2 “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God – what is good, and acceptable, and perfect.”

Going on a Treasure Hunt

Saturday night we were greeted with a challenge:  “Get into your country groups and take these clues to find your dinner location. Your YAGM alum from your country will be waiting for you!”  We were given the clues along with a bus pass, and scrambled to collect ourselves to journey through the city – we were really hungry and determined to find this place fast!

About 40 minutes later we were famished, but greeted with a victory – a quaint British pub equipped with fish and chips and shepherd’s pie. 

 We realized each country group was able to dine at a restaurant that was unique to our country’s culture, but in order to get there we had to navigate the way.  This required a lot of walking, dependence on public transportation, and not being afraid to ask for help.  Reflecting back, it was a great way to glimpse into the coming year, when I’ll have to blindly trust I am going the right direction and depend on human kindness to offer me help along the way.

 

I think one of the important lessons I am learning this week is the use of public transportation.  Growing up in the suburbs, I never had to rely on a bus or train to travel.  I had the luxury of a car, with spacious room, and air conditioning or heat to control.  As one who becomes overwhelmed in crowds, I’m learning a fast lesson that this simply does not matter when riding the bus or train.  We all pack in together because we all have somewhere to go.   While thinking about navigating all of this by myself next year, instead of worrying about getting lost or claustrophobic., I anticipate a great feeling of accomplishment when I’ll be able to venture out on a destination by myself successfully (and safely, of course!). 

As for now, we travel in wonderful groups as we learn and experience Christ (and Chicago) together! 

 

 

 

God's peace, 

Katharine