The Desert Path

“Love seeks the desert because the desert is where man is handed over to God, stripped bare of his country, his friends, his fields, his home. In the desert a person neither possesses what he loves, nor is he possessed by those who love him; he is totally submitted to God in an immense and intimate encounter.” -Madeleine Delbrel

My feet crunch along the gravel of a hidden path by the hidden river in the city I now call home. I am headed to the riverbank, to the sacred space I was led to a few days ago on my first pilgrimage. My breathing is labored from the heat and my skin is beading with sweat, but still I continue on.  The river is far below, obscured by a cliff of sparse trees and foliage on my right and tall grasses on my left, but with each step I am drawn closer towards the sound of its waters.

The path is monotonous much like my even pace upon the crunching gravel. As I progress along the path, the gravel stops and the beaten earth alone tells me where I am to go. Forward, always forward, trusting the steps of those who have gone ahead of me to guide the way, the beaten path proof of their presence. I pray with a deep breath in, a deep breath out, connecting myself to the ground, the trees, to those who have gone before me, to all.

With each step I am slowly being stripped to the nakedness of my soul, being beckoned to let go of all that I have put my identity in and all that I have tried to seize control of. I seek the desert—the renouncing of all in order to taste the communion. The renouncing is painful, the humidity and drenching sweat fitting the spiritual process of submission. I know my God is here, but I fear I’ve cast Godself too far aside in my own mess and broken depravity.

I crave the stillness, the sweet stillness. The intimate communion.

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I am sitting on a large rock in the middle of the rushing river. I breathe in, out. In, out. The waters are rushing and frazzled all around me, reflecting the state of my frenzied soul. Some part of me finds irony that I’m sitting on a still rock in the midst of the chaotic waters—the stillness being what I so desperately want but seem to be unable to have control over obtaining.

On this rock I am raw to the touch, and I cry out to be delivered from this seemingly self-inflicted hell. I cry and I pray and I cry and I pray and I cry. I cry because I know stillness is within, and that the way to peace is to surrender. I cry because even though I know this to be true, I can’t figure out how to surrender. I am desperate, just in want of the stillness that comes with the surrender. Be still, just be still. Just do it. Just get over it. The flashbacks come steady and quick, and I feel panic mounting within me. I try the deep breaths—in, out, in out—with no avail. Tears shake my being. Anxiety courses through my veins like the water on the river, and I see no way out of this seemingly self-inflicted hell. My God. My God.

This is my desert.

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Soon there is silence.

Quiet tears. Shaky breaths. 

My head is drawn towards the center of the sky.

Who are You that made the birds, and me?

Who are You that made the birds?

Who are You?

Silent, awe-struck tears cascade down my cheeks.

The stillness, the communion, is here.

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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. 

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.  

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.

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.

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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

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.

Schooled on the Mainland: Part 1

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Coming into Mission Year I anticipated that I would learn a lot about culture from the community surrounding me. I was moving into a neighborhood in Southwest Philadelphia where the majority population was African American as well as a large African population (from many countries). The neighborhoods I had lived in before in Akron and Bowling Green had been overwhelmingly populated by European Americans—these were the people I built relationships with. One reason I chose to sign up for Mission Year was a desire to build cross-cultural relationships to learn more about how we as people can perceive the world differently depending on where we come from.

I anticipated that this would happen by living in Southwest Philadelphia. What I didn’t anticipate is that this cross-cultural learning would also happen by living with my team in my house community.

If you would have asked me what I thought about Hawai’i before this year, I may have mentioned that it’s a vacation place to escape and unwind, a tropical paradise of sorts where all your problems melt away. I may have mentioned that I thought Hawai’i was the epitome of paradise (the pictures I had seen were beautiful), and the ultimate vacation get-away.

I may have told you about the many themed “Hawaiian Days” we had every year at school where people dressed up in grass skirts and tropical shirts and wore plastic leis from Party Place and a coconut bra (that’s only if you were really getting crazy with the theme, of course.) I may have also told you about the Hawaiian-themed birthday parties I saw or went to. There would be relaxing island-themed music, more leis, tiki torches, grass skirts, hibiscus flowers, pineapple and ham, the limbo, swimming, flip-flops, more pineapple—Hawaiian themed party.

That’s what I knew of Hawai’i coming into this year. I knew a caricature of a place based on grade school theme weeks, birthday parties, and escapism vacation advertising. In my mind people didn’t actually live on Hawai’i; it was just a paradise-land that people visited—a paradise land where all your problems went away.

Growing up with this framework, one can see why meeting my teammate Brandon was a disorienting experience. Brandon was born and raised in Hawai’i. I had never spoken to someone about Hawai’i who wasn’t a vacationer (although I didn’t think about that at the time.) Upon having just one interaction with him at Mission Year’s National Orientation, it was clear to me that my knowledge of Hawai’i was poorly informed and needed to be dismantled immediately. I found myself beginning to ask this question: What does Hawai’i look like not from the perspective of a vacationer, but from one who calls Hawai’i home—from one who has laughed, cried, and flourished there? Brandon spoke of Hawai’i not with the flippant commercial escapism I had heard from others coming back from vacation, but he spoke as one deeply in love with the land. With my framework of “Hawai’i as the ultimate vacation get-away” and his deep love for the land of Hawai’i, it became clear that he had much to teach me if I would first humble myself and listen.

Thankfully, I chose this road less traveled, and admitted that what I knew of Hawai’i was a caricature and not at all representative of the reality that my teammate knew. I owned my ignorance: I knew nothing about Hawai’i, but I wanted to learn. Since that day, Brandon has been relentlessly gracious into inviting me into the Hawai’i that he knows—a Hawai’i rich in history and culture, a Hawai’i that has a valuable perspective and worldview to offer the mainland (and the world).  

This year in building a relationship with Brandon I am continually being invited into seeing Hawai’i as a place and not an objectified paradise. I am being schooled on the mainland. And I think both of our lives have been enriched by it.

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