Today I found myself once again scooping ice cream and making hot dogs at
the concession stand in Hartville. Last year ago this was my summer job
that mainly helped to pass the time in that strange season
between post-grad and the start of Mission Year. Now the job helping in providing a few dollars and cents to keep me going until I find
a more steady income.
It was strange being at that concession stand at Hartville. As I arrived,
I said an enthusiastic “Hi!” to co-workers from last year, excited to see
them. Many knew I was headed to Philadelphia for the year. My boss introduced me to a new employee. “This is Amber.
She went on missions last year!” I smiled at her, shrugging with a
small smile. One could say that's what happened this past year, for sure. “Oh!
You were on missions? Where?” “I was in Philadelphia.” “How was it?” “It
was intense.” Intense is the best word I've come up with to answer this
question. It's important to me to be honest, and “Good” just doesn't quite
cover the breadth of it. Plus I'm never certain people actually care to
hear my honest thoughts about the year anyway. Not yet, at least.
(I think about the pain. Always the pain. I think about what I saw and how
I can't go back to unseeing the pain we cause one another and how I wish
so desperately that we would see the pain in each other's eyes and wake
up.)
I scrape the bottom of an ice cream container. Scrape scrape scoop. Scrape
scrape scoop. It's a repetitive motion that is laced in a prayer. Last
year my prayers were potent in preparation, in the centering of my heart
for the year that lie ahead. Jesus be with me. Jesus be with me. I will
walk with You. Teach me this year. Lead me this year. Scrape scrape scoop.
Scrape scrape scoop.
Now one year later I find myself without words. Scrape scrape
scoop. Scrape scrape scoop. The motion is still calming. I know that
my God is with me here.
I don't know how to put into words what I've been taught this past year. I
don't know how to put into words what I've learned. But I know that I have
changed—that I have been a part of the transformation. And I await eagerly
the day when I can put all these feelings into words, these experiences
processed and reading for speaking and sharing.
But for now the changes are subtle and quiet, but there.
Like how suddenly a grandchild translating an order
from his Spanish-speaking grandmother to me is a beautiful moment of
connection and an embodiment of resilience. Like how I look around the
water park and I notice a distinct Polynesian influence in many garments
and I think about how it's new to be noticing that. Like how I pull money
out of the tip jar to cover a couple, because I see that they wouldn't
have had enough and somehow I feel this and I know it doesn't have to be
that way because there is enough for everybody and we're just fooling
ourselves in thinking there isn't.
(I remember standing underground in 30th Street Station, feeling like I
was going to have a panic attack because I was so anxious because I didn't
know when the '36' trolley was going to come and I just wanted the trolley
to come and I didn't have control over anything and no choice in the
matter and I tried to calm down but all I could think about was how limited all my choices currently were and I stood in
the station and I tried to breathe and I tried to remember that I had
a choice in breathing and it helped a little. Once I read about the psychological
effects of living in poverty. This isn't what I experienced, but I know that this moment was a reflection of how living intentionally below the poverty line (and other means of solidarity) did influence me.)
“Amber can you get a two scoop Raspberry Oreo in a cone?” I snap quickly
from my musings at the voice of my co-worker in the concession stand in
Hartville. “A two scoop in a cone?!” We pass knowing glances at one
another—a two scoop in a cone is a lofty order (literally).
Chuckling, I
walk to the tub of ice cream, grab a scoop, and once again find the rhythm
that led me into Mission Year, and now leads me out, transformed.
Scrape
scrape scoop. Scrape scrape scoop.
(I quietly sit down, ingesting Your words, seeking a sliver of Hope with the desperation of one who seeks a life raft in
deep water. “The Spirit of the Lord is on me
because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me
to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind,
to release the oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor.” (Luke
4:18) All at once I am weeping, knowing that something deep has resonated
inside of me. “He has anointed me to preach good news to the poor.” My God does not ignore the pain of the
poor. My God is a God who sees pain and responds. My weeping is a worship, my hands
raised, my tears and heaving chest an acknowledgment, a raw and humbled
“Thank you, God.”)
My eyes well-up as the moment hits me once again, as raw and fresh and beautiful as the first time. I take a quick breath and redirect my thoughts to the ice cream in front of me, swallowing my tears.
Scrape scrape scoop. Scrape scrape scoop.
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Long Street (Akron, OH): The Beginning
We sat together and ate a meal—fifteen of us. On the outside
it may have appeared that we didn’t have much in common—we’re quite the rag-tag
bunch from all walks of life. The oldest there is in their 60s, and the youngest
is a mere five months. Soon we gathered together in a circle for the meal.
The circle is a symbolic shape—sacred to many. It is a shape
that reflects connectedness and wholeness, and in this space these are
realities. Around the circle each of the fifteen is valued as a part of the
larger whole, a value that is shown in the confidence of lifted heads and the
humble assurance of presence. Eyes meet with quiet smiles as the food is
blessed and we eat.
Soon conversations break out among the circle, and
connection is built. Wholeness is in the robust laughter and knowing glances,
in the gestures of inclusive conversation and validation of thoughts. Wholeness
in the inquisitive postures and celebration of people. Wholeness is in the true
“seeing” of people—face to face, being to being.
After dinner, the circle formed once again and we opened up
our stories to one another as we talked. It was quickly apparent that this
rag-tag bunch came from all walks of life, with many journeys that didn’t make
much sense meshed together in the same place. The stories looked different on
the outside—some stories of substance abuse recovery and getting back on one's feet, others were stories of finding purpose in post-grad and a desire to align values
with lifestyle. Some were stories of incredible pain and suffering and others were
stories of growth and change and a deep desire to love. Beneath all of the
stories, though, was the common thread about how our lives (through twists and
turns and happenstance) intersected with the community that we all are a part—a
church.
Many times church is experienced as a place where people go
and leave. The church is experienced as a common-space rather than a
common-unity, and is many times a place of pain and suffering rather than one of wholeness and healing. In that circle, though, we were not only meeting in a
common-space.
The Church, a beloved community, was here.
Monday, August 10, 2015
Watercolors: A Lament
I remember standing at the trolley stop watching
the pigeons eating mounds of rice on the sidewalk
and I cried because I thought they were going to
die because their stomachs would swell from the rice and
explode.
It reminded me of when I was younger
and how I read about survivors of concentration camps
and how they ate too much food too fast after being released
and they died and how it made me sad because
their first taste of freedom after being held captive for so long
was their unintentional death sentence.
Maybe I was crying because of the pigeons but
maybe I was crying because of the people
I don't really know anymore sometimes it's hard to figure out
because everything is really sad and everyone is in pain
and much like watercolors it all blends together.
One day on the trolley I stared at a woman who looked so
incredibly sad
and I wanted to give her a hug but I was white and she was black
and I didn’t know her so I just stared at her until
I got off at my stop and cried and wondered if maybe I should have
just talked with her anyway even though she was black and I was white
but she was sad and even if I don't understand what it is
to be black I understand what it is to be sad
and maybe a hug would have been nice for both of us.
Sometimes I stare at the sun and think about all of the people in all of the world
who are looking up at the same time at the exact same sun and I wonder
about how we got to a point where we're so disconnected
and how everything is sad and everyone is in pain
and how its like a watercolor painting in the rain
and how tears are for pigeons and people and all of creation.
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
Schooled on the Mainland: Part 2
This is part 2 of a blog series where I reflect on how I've been "schooled on the mainland" by my friend Brandon who is from Hawai'i. You can read part 1 here.
* * *
It was last fall when my teammates Brandon, Erin, and I first went to the Asian supermarket in South Philly. We were going with a small amount of cash from our weekly food budget to get some items that we couldn't get at our local Save-a-Lot.
Brandon had advocated for us to go because what we were eating was not what he ate on a normal basis in Hawai'i. He had said that we could go to the Asian supermarket so he could get some food he was familiar with to make for him (and for all of us.) The conversation leading up to this decision was incredibly fascinating to me. I remember Brandon explaining his perspective to the team. "I don't eat mac and cheese and all of this at home," he said. "This is not what I want to eat." I remember staring at him, thinking "Doesn't everyone eat mac and cheese? What do you eat if you don't eat all of these things? I don't understand Hawai'i at all. Like, at all." I didn't say this out loud of course, but I was definitely thinking it.
I wanted to understand where Brandon was coming from, but I had no framework to understand. It appeared that I was once again about to be schooled on the mainland. To me, mac and cheese had always been a comfort food. To me, what we were buying was fine and good and "normal." By Brandon advocating for something different, he was showing me that my "normal" was not normal for everyone else. It seemed that I would have to take a step out of my worldview and step into the worldview of another.
And so there we were, outside of the Asian supermarket in South Philly, ready to shop for...something. We walked in and I immediately found myself in unfamiliar territory. The packaging was all unfamiliar on the dry goods, with languages I didn't know and brands I had never heard of. The fruit section had jackfruit (look it up) and rambutans (look them up) and all of these other fruits I had never laid eyes on. The coolers on the edge of the supermarket housed noodles and green vegetables and eggs and lots of other items I can't name. The candy looked fun, but the only items that were familiar were Pocky sticks.
I had never been in a place that was so unfamiliar in a space where I was living. I knew that if I were told to make a meal from items in this supermarket, it would be incredibly hard for me because I couldn't identify what items were. In that moment I saw the strength of people who enter a different cultural context (via immigration, migration, refugee status), and navigate the unfamiliar. (Let's be honest, this strength is in people everywhere who are navigating a new context, but more on that later.)
Although the supermarket was unfamiliar to me, Brandon was having quite a different experience. "Oh! These candies are great! This is my childhood." "Kimchi. YES." "Look. Amber. This is a taro." "Oh, these are the best when you heat them up." "MOCHI ICE CREAM. YES." I walked behind him as he commented on items on the shelves. Granted, he didn't know everything in the store, but he sure knew a ton more than I did. I found myself giggling at him, smiling--his spirit was incredibly alive in that place, more alive than I had seen in a while. In the familiar, he flourished, and it was beautiful to witness.
Being in the Asian Supermarket was a humbling experience for me because I recognized that unlike Brandon, I would not flourish in this place because everything was so unfamiliar. This state of being humbled shifted something in me.
My eyes were opened to see. For the first time I saw the hardship of being in a new context where all was unfamiliar. I saw how moving from one cultural context to another may be one of the most isolating and lonely experiences of one's life. I saw how sacred and important familiar spaces are to people who are navigating something different. I also saw how often these spaces are marginalized and disregarded, not funded and dismissed as unimportant (much like how I've seen people moving from one cultural context to another being marginalized and disregarded--not reflective of Love.)
On that day I was converted--I was schooled. I saw the importance of these spaces, and I knew that from that day on that I wanted to support these spaces in whatever capacity was appropriate.
Today was the rocky start of living that out in Akron, Ohio.
I found myself meandering the aisles of Hana Asian Market in Akron, looking at goods that were now familiar (mochi, kimchi, Kikkoman,) but a majority that were still not familiar to me. I was reminded of that day when I was first invited into the unfamiliar, and how that was the start of a large change in myself (full of the Divine in ways I have yet to be able to name). I asked the owner how long the market had been there and she said seven years. I wondered about how that journey has been for her. I wondered about the AAPI (Asian American Pacific Islander) population in Akron. I wondered about ASIA Inc. I wondered about much more. After taking a solid inventory of the market, I bought edamame and sweet chili sauce to share with my family (and a coconut juice for myself), and drove home.
It's a small step, but it is the start of something. All I know is that I'm committed to living out in Akron how I've been so graciously schooled on the mainland in Philadelphia.
And although I don't know what this "living it out" is going to look like in the 330, I pray that God would guide my steps the next few months in wisdom and a really healthy dose of humility.
I pray that in some small way, you, reader, are schooled on the mainland right along with me as I stumble awkwardly alongside others towards building Beloved Community in Akron, Ohio.
“Beloved community is formed not by the eradication of difference but by its affirmation, by each of us claiming the identities and cultural legacies that shape who we are and how we live in the world.”
-bell hooks
* * *
It was last fall when my teammates Brandon, Erin, and I first went to the Asian supermarket in South Philly. We were going with a small amount of cash from our weekly food budget to get some items that we couldn't get at our local Save-a-Lot.
Brandon had advocated for us to go because what we were eating was not what he ate on a normal basis in Hawai'i. He had said that we could go to the Asian supermarket so he could get some food he was familiar with to make for him (and for all of us.) The conversation leading up to this decision was incredibly fascinating to me. I remember Brandon explaining his perspective to the team. "I don't eat mac and cheese and all of this at home," he said. "This is not what I want to eat." I remember staring at him, thinking "Doesn't everyone eat mac and cheese? What do you eat if you don't eat all of these things? I don't understand Hawai'i at all. Like, at all." I didn't say this out loud of course, but I was definitely thinking it.
I wanted to understand where Brandon was coming from, but I had no framework to understand. It appeared that I was once again about to be schooled on the mainland. To me, mac and cheese had always been a comfort food. To me, what we were buying was fine and good and "normal." By Brandon advocating for something different, he was showing me that my "normal" was not normal for everyone else. It seemed that I would have to take a step out of my worldview and step into the worldview of another.
And so there we were, outside of the Asian supermarket in South Philly, ready to shop for...something. We walked in and I immediately found myself in unfamiliar territory. The packaging was all unfamiliar on the dry goods, with languages I didn't know and brands I had never heard of. The fruit section had jackfruit (look it up) and rambutans (look them up) and all of these other fruits I had never laid eyes on. The coolers on the edge of the supermarket housed noodles and green vegetables and eggs and lots of other items I can't name. The candy looked fun, but the only items that were familiar were Pocky sticks.
I had never been in a place that was so unfamiliar in a space where I was living. I knew that if I were told to make a meal from items in this supermarket, it would be incredibly hard for me because I couldn't identify what items were. In that moment I saw the strength of people who enter a different cultural context (via immigration, migration, refugee status), and navigate the unfamiliar. (Let's be honest, this strength is in people everywhere who are navigating a new context, but more on that later.)
Although the supermarket was unfamiliar to me, Brandon was having quite a different experience. "Oh! These candies are great! This is my childhood." "Kimchi. YES." "Look. Amber. This is a taro." "Oh, these are the best when you heat them up." "MOCHI ICE CREAM. YES." I walked behind him as he commented on items on the shelves. Granted, he didn't know everything in the store, but he sure knew a ton more than I did. I found myself giggling at him, smiling--his spirit was incredibly alive in that place, more alive than I had seen in a while. In the familiar, he flourished, and it was beautiful to witness.
Being in the Asian Supermarket was a humbling experience for me because I recognized that unlike Brandon, I would not flourish in this place because everything was so unfamiliar. This state of being humbled shifted something in me.
My eyes were opened to see. For the first time I saw the hardship of being in a new context where all was unfamiliar. I saw how moving from one cultural context to another may be one of the most isolating and lonely experiences of one's life. I saw how sacred and important familiar spaces are to people who are navigating something different. I also saw how often these spaces are marginalized and disregarded, not funded and dismissed as unimportant (much like how I've seen people moving from one cultural context to another being marginalized and disregarded--not reflective of Love.)
On that day I was converted--I was schooled. I saw the importance of these spaces, and I knew that from that day on that I wanted to support these spaces in whatever capacity was appropriate.
Today was the rocky start of living that out in Akron, Ohio.
I found myself meandering the aisles of Hana Asian Market in Akron, looking at goods that were now familiar (mochi, kimchi, Kikkoman,) but a majority that were still not familiar to me. I was reminded of that day when I was first invited into the unfamiliar, and how that was the start of a large change in myself (full of the Divine in ways I have yet to be able to name). I asked the owner how long the market had been there and she said seven years. I wondered about how that journey has been for her. I wondered about the AAPI (Asian American Pacific Islander) population in Akron. I wondered about ASIA Inc. I wondered about much more. After taking a solid inventory of the market, I bought edamame and sweet chili sauce to share with my family (and a coconut juice for myself), and drove home.
It's a small step, but it is the start of something. All I know is that I'm committed to living out in Akron how I've been so graciously schooled on the mainland in Philadelphia.
And although I don't know what this "living it out" is going to look like in the 330, I pray that God would guide my steps the next few months in wisdom and a really healthy dose of humility.
I pray that in some small way, you, reader, are schooled on the mainland right along with me as I stumble awkwardly alongside others towards building Beloved Community in Akron, Ohio.
“Beloved community is formed not by the eradication of difference but by its affirmation, by each of us claiming the identities and cultural legacies that shape who we are and how we live in the world.”
-bell hooks
Monday, August 3, 2015
The Transition
I've been in Akron for two days. Four days ago I woke up in Southwest Philadelphia and said goodbye to an intense year of learning and loving. I said goodbye to people, place, and a structured life where my values and actions aligned most closely.
Now I find myself in Akron, and though it is so lovely to be back in this city, I find myself wondering: "What does it look like to live in the values I did in Mission Year here in Akron? Do I still want to live into these values? What do I want my life to look like here?"
I'll be writing much the next few weeks, processing this past year of my life. To me it's fascinating to be in the same place I started before Mission Year (location wise), and how though I am in the same place, I am a different person. There is much I learned and saw that I cannot forget, and a lot of these next few months will be naming what I learned and finding a new normal in Akron after this intense year. As far as I'm aware, a majority of the people who follow my blog are people either from Akron, or connected to a city that is similar in many ways to Akron. I see cool opportunity to invite you all into my processing as I discover Akron in a new way, and seek what it looks like to love God and to love people here in the 330.
I want to share this transition period with you not because I have to, but because I want to. Many of you reading probably supported me in some way through Mission Year--through reading my newsletter or supporting me financially. A lot of what I will be working through in the upcoming weeks is directly correlated with my experiences of this past year. To think that the journey ends at the conclusion of the year is not true. My journey towards a deeper understanding and breathing of Shalom and a greater intimacy with Jesus began far before Mission Year started and will continue long after I'm out of the program. God has worked in mighty ways in my life this past year, and I think the best way to invite you into that is through sharing.
To be honest, my hope is that in sharing, change will occur in you, reader, as we journey together. Maybe you'll discover your hometown in a new way just as I re-discover mine! Maybe you'll think more about what it looks like to love God and love people right in your own sphere of influence and I seek to do so in my Akron sphere. I want these blogs to be a catalyst for conversation, transformation, and change!
I'm writing from a secret space that will be my sanctuary during this season of transition. To me, it's important that I rest the next few weeks and really process the past year rather than charging head first into life in the 330. I'm excited for prayer, for lament, for rekindled intimacy with my Love (Creator). I'm excited for conversations, and coffee, and tears. I'm excited for prophets and poets and art and books and a sweet sense that all is well.
Already there have been sweet glimpses of the Kingdom here in the 330. I'm learning that we need not go far away to be a part of the work of God's kingdom on earth. The kingdom of God is flourishing, alive and well here in our own backyards.
I can be a part of the work of wholeness and flourishing here in the 330. I can love God and love people here in Akron, Ohio.
You can, too.
Now I find myself in Akron, and though it is so lovely to be back in this city, I find myself wondering: "What does it look like to live in the values I did in Mission Year here in Akron? Do I still want to live into these values? What do I want my life to look like here?"
I'll be writing much the next few weeks, processing this past year of my life. To me it's fascinating to be in the same place I started before Mission Year (location wise), and how though I am in the same place, I am a different person. There is much I learned and saw that I cannot forget, and a lot of these next few months will be naming what I learned and finding a new normal in Akron after this intense year. As far as I'm aware, a majority of the people who follow my blog are people either from Akron, or connected to a city that is similar in many ways to Akron. I see cool opportunity to invite you all into my processing as I discover Akron in a new way, and seek what it looks like to love God and to love people here in the 330.
I want to share this transition period with you not because I have to, but because I want to. Many of you reading probably supported me in some way through Mission Year--through reading my newsletter or supporting me financially. A lot of what I will be working through in the upcoming weeks is directly correlated with my experiences of this past year. To think that the journey ends at the conclusion of the year is not true. My journey towards a deeper understanding and breathing of Shalom and a greater intimacy with Jesus began far before Mission Year started and will continue long after I'm out of the program. God has worked in mighty ways in my life this past year, and I think the best way to invite you into that is through sharing.
To be honest, my hope is that in sharing, change will occur in you, reader, as we journey together. Maybe you'll discover your hometown in a new way just as I re-discover mine! Maybe you'll think more about what it looks like to love God and love people right in your own sphere of influence and I seek to do so in my Akron sphere. I want these blogs to be a catalyst for conversation, transformation, and change!
I'm writing from a secret space that will be my sanctuary during this season of transition. To me, it's important that I rest the next few weeks and really process the past year rather than charging head first into life in the 330. I'm excited for prayer, for lament, for rekindled intimacy with my Love (Creator). I'm excited for conversations, and coffee, and tears. I'm excited for prophets and poets and art and books and a sweet sense that all is well.
Already there have been sweet glimpses of the Kingdom here in the 330. I'm learning that we need not go far away to be a part of the work of God's kingdom on earth. The kingdom of God is flourishing, alive and well here in our own backyards.
I can be a part of the work of wholeness and flourishing here in the 330. I can love God and love people here in Akron, Ohio.
You can, too.
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