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.  

Making Mistakes

They’ve only made their first step out from the giant doors marked *Exit Only* at the Heathrow airport, and I want to cover them in bubble wrap and create a giant force field bubble surrounding their entire being.  

Yes, I am the worrier in the family, but it has taken me 3 arrivals now to figure out why I am so nervous waiting at the international arrival gate for a loved one to arrive. 

No, I don’t think for a second they are stepping into peril danger.  It’s just that almost everything I have learned about living in British culture, I have learned from making a mistake, and some part inside of me wants to shield them from this process of learning.      

A Few Points in Case:

I learned to not buy food in bulk after my bread started to mold after 3 days.

I learned to only stand on the right side of the escalator after being almost plowed down by a hurried Londoner.

I learned about the importance of setting a specific time into google maps when planning a journey, after I left out this step and was stuck on a bus an hour longer than expected during peak travel time.

I learned to call pants “trousers” after I told a child I liked his pants and was told I just said I liked his underwear.

All of these little mistakes were my daily routine back in August and September (and October and November…); my days would be filled with the attempt to live the “normal” lifestyle while correcting and learning from the countless mistakes I made from a different cultural perspective.  So maybe part of me wanted my loved ones to not have to make these mistakes while I guided them through London, and another part wanted them to see me as the “expert”.

Both are pretty selfish I would say. 

These mistakes gave me the opportunity to learn about the differences in culture.  I was allowed the opportunity to grow in understanding and be able to reflect upon the importance of the cultures deeply rooted into our unconscious minds.  To try and protect anyone from learning about culture would be denying them an invaluable experience of infinite learning. 

As a perfectionist, I never thought I would be giving thanks for the mistakes I’ve made thus far, but I am learning this year about the beauty of accepting ourselves as broken, messy, wonderful creations of God.

Cheers to the mistakes we’ve made, and hope of many more to come.  

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.