Concession

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.