A love note to the 330:

I miss you, Akron.

I miss you and your big city attempts yet small city reality.

I miss your empty sidewalks with the occasional straggler who nods in greeting.

I miss your community that I desire to ravish with love.

I miss your people waiting (desiring?) to be mobilized.

I miss your children with potential far beyond the resources and opportunities they have been given due to systematic injustices.

I miss your missionaries, ready to tell Akron’s story and to work towards Restoration.

I miss your one-way streets, your college, your corner stores, your neighbors.

I left you to “get educated”

(Whatever that means)

And I have learned a lot, I’ll admit.

I’ve learned that I know nothing,

And I think that is one of the best things I could learn.

And I’m trying my hardest to finish this degree

(Seven months left, woo!)

But every day I’m finding that I really just…miss…

You.

Even as I busy myself learning about social stratification and poverty and race relations and socially conscious business models and community organizing and the South Bronx and all of these incredible, applicable knowledge bases ---

(you are still always on my mind.)

So I’m thinking, 330.

I think I want to live with you (for a while, maybe forever?)

Yes, Akron, I know it will be incredibly hard (the summer taught me that).

I know that I am young—that I am naïve and idealistic.

I know I don’t understand much about city life (or anything at all).

But you have the beauty of a sunrise on the countryside and I want to be a part of that story.

(I want to be a part of your story, if you would let me.)

And I know I’ve got a lot to learn,

    but I’ve been in school for sixteen years now and

    I’m ready for 50 more if it means that I get the

    privilege of being your student.

Of learning from you, Akron.

Of fighting alongside you, Akron.

Of dreaming and failing and moving forward and crying and celebrating with you, Akron.

Pray for me please, Akron.

Pray that I would know that this deep yearning in my heart is not mine,

But His.

*

One week ago I sat in a room that smelled like fish and learned how to shoot heroin.

“Where are you all from?” the robust woman in purple inquired as we reached the Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center. Desperation throbbed from out of her, desperation and devastation that I could almost tangibly see from her.

“Ohio. We’re here to learn about community development and community organizing,” someone answered. The door to the Harm Reduction Center in Manhattan opened, and we filed in one by one.

The woman’s sharp, parting words to someone beside her rang in my head as the door closed behind me. “Why are they here? Huh? You tell me. They’re only here because they want something and they get something. That’s it.” 

We had entered her pain—not just her pain, but also the pain of all of the participants at the Harm Reduction Center. Here, the Center gives heroin addicts access to clean needles through needle exchanges, reducing the risk HIV transfer through dirty needles. We had entered her pain—we being a bunch of privileged college students—pain that for her might be associated with shame and desperation. 

I remember turning the corner off of Chinatown (with the crowded jewelry shops and the foreign chatter) and being hit with a wall of damp silence. People walked the gray sidewalks in silence. Newspapers blew across the solemn street like tumbleweed. The cold air had decay and desperation clinging to every breath I inhaled.

“You know what? I can’t even think right now about my major or why I’m here or anything that you just asked us. All I can think about is how we turned the corner from the main road and the atmosphere just changed. It was like smothering desperation. Just like that. In like, a split second. I didn’t even know what had happened, but it was there. I can’t wrap my mind around it.” I confessed to the Center presenters after a long pause.

Looking in their eyes I could see that they understood exactly what I was referring to. The heaviness--the weight of the struggles of the Harm Reduction Center participant's brought with them. The weight of addiction, something I had never been in that proximity with before. 

“They’re smart. Drug addicts are really smart,” one presenter said, an ex-addict himself. “This little cotton ball is used to filter the heroin, catching anything that shouldn’t be in there.” 

I remember how he showed us where the best entrance veins are for the heroin, explaining exactly why one vein would be better than the other. I remember him talking about why people turn to drugs, and how many times it is a learned coping strategy. I remember him relaying his journey to the Harm Reduction Center, and being amazed as his story. I remember hearing the Center's door close behind me, feeling like I had been given a small glimpse into someone's day-to-day reality, so different than my own. 

One week ago I sat in a room that smelled like fish and learned how to shoot heroin.

Lower East Side Harm Reduction Center

http://www.leshrc.org/

(;;;Restoration)

To talk of the Destruction without the living reality of the Restoration is missing half of the picture. To talk of the Restoration without the Destruction is to idealize the world in naive ignorance. A balance of focus on the Restoration and Destruction leads to a sound mind who is able to walk with others through darkness with compassion. 

*  *  * 

I want to be involved in the Restoration, my hands daily bleeding from the toil of war--

(my eyes piercing tears of firm love) 

I want my days to be full with laughter, but not the kind that comes without merit;;;

--the kind of laughter that is relished after days of endless heartache-- 

I want to be part of the Restoration, ripping down (socialized) Berlin Walls to once again unite Germany.


I want to be a mediator between the East and the West, creating safe spaces for driven dialogue about the origin of the Walls and the effects of the separation that it brings between my brother and brother. 


I want to urge others on their own individual paths of Restoration--coaching, encouraging, and mentoring them through their journeys.


Most of all, I want to know Restoration deeply-----

(what He smells like and the taste He leaves on my tongue) 

I want to know every corner and reflective facet of Restoration (so I will not get lost in translation)

  I want Restoration.

                    (;;; Restoration) 

Honest.

I have not been able to write for almost thirty full days.

I’ve sat in a comatose-like state, staring blankly at walls, at books, at my hands--wishing to express the pangs of my heart onto pages to be shared with the masses. I’ve sat silently in my room, sobbed in my car, ached so deeply (even though there have been smiles on my face for the entirety of this time.)

I’m so grateful for those who have listened to me during this time. I’m grateful for those who have helped me work through reconciling my new self (the self who spent her summer in the inner city) with old environments at BGSU. Friends, to be honest, the work has yet to be completed. And I’m starting to realize that it never will be completed in this lifetime. There will always be some part of me that I’m holding back, some part of my true self that I choose to keep concealed due to fear of rejection or insecurities or ignorance. 

*     *     *

As I’ve started to dive once again into educating myself on the reality of human trafficking in the world, from first world to third world countries, I find myself asking plenty of “Why” questions. Some days, I can’t empathize at all with the traffickers to manipulate and take advantage of entire families to work at a brick kiln for the trafficker’s own personal gain in profit. Other days I feel like I have a better grasp on what power is and how it affects not only traffickers, but myself as well. Some days I find myself being so critical of what I complain and bicker about, recognizing that people are going through tougher circumstances than what I perceive to be my tough circumstances. Some days I lie awake at night, thinking of girls ages 12-13 who have had nine customers or more that evening.

It is a roller coaster of emotions, grasping the reality of the world I live in. 

*     *     *

As I left Akron this summer, I knew one thing to be true—I could no longer remain silent. I can no longer live life as though all is perfect in the world and in America. Education has driven me to pursuit of what is everlasting, and that pursuit has led me to action. This boldness and courage goes against every grain in my being, yet I keep pushing forward, confident not in myself and my abilities, but solely in Love. That is a loaded statement that I'd be willing to unpack more in person, but not in this post.  

*     *     *

Smiles have more weight, tears more compassion. Everything carries weight, every action I can choose sacrificial love or choose self. I sit next to a friend, listening to struggles based on race that I can't even perceive. I attend another event where injustices are greater unveiled, where people believe themselves to be undervalued because of society's perceptions and opinions. 

Anger boils beneath my skin, although I can't tell if it's anger at the situations I'm in and what I'm learning, or anger at my own ignorance of injustices I aid in fueling. 

*     *     *

With all of what I've learned this summer and the few weeks that I've been back, it's easy to get overwhelmed and not have a plan of action. This is one of the reasons that I am grateful to be Stop Traffick Fashion's Campus Representative. As my peers around me learn about the atrocity of human trafficking, they have a direct plan of action through STF to aid in being part of the solution globally. And I speak not only for my peers when I say that, but for myself. 

*     *     * 

There is so much more to say, but this is the core: I desire for all to know of their inherent worth and value that is not based on the opinions and passions of a people, but of the Eternal.

Final thoughts: May you be true to your convictions and live a life of integrity. 




 

August Newsletter & Closing Thoughts

Recognizing Reality

A 14-year-old South Street regular has aspirations to build a hospital in Cambodia, and I find myself angry about it. I'm not angry because of her servant’s heart or her ambitious dream (which will evolve as time goes on, I’m sure). I’m angry because she told me that her uncle told her that it will never happen based on where she grew up. I’m angry because as much as I want to disagree with the man who said this, I find myself asking if it’s possible as well. I’m angry because I think that if I wanted to build a hospital in Cambodia (or intern for little pay over the summer at a ministry) that I could do it. That if I wanted to go to medical school, with a lot of hard work, it could probably happen.

You see I have the luxury and privilege of really being able to do whatever I want to do whenever I want to do it. I have the money, the means, and a way. I have societal power; a power that this 14-year-old may not have growing up in a disadvantaged neighborhood. This is not to say that growing up in an “advantaged neighborhood” (if that’s a real term) would make this dream a reality for her, but I have to think that it may sure make it a lot easier.

This is why South Street Ministries is so close to my heart. The Executive Director hears this girl’s dream and desire to help others and he says, “I know someone who runs a non-profit to help middle school students reach their goals. Let’s look into that for and with this girl!”

Here I have seen what it is to truly care for my neighbor, both my advantaged neighbor and my disadvantaged neighbor. Here I have seen what it truly looks like to treat each person with the respect and dignity, regardless of circumstance. Here I have seen what it is to distribute resources justly, and what happens when resources are distributed unjustly. Here I have seen what the Lord meant when he said His desire was that we “loose the chains of injustice” and “set the oppressed free” (Isaiah 58:6). Here I have seen that gap begin to be bridged between rich and poor, black and white, between the Church and the world, between stranger and neighbor. Here I have seen Jesus Christ through people being His hands and feet.

Here in Akron, I have seen redemptive love.

The Elephant in the Room: Part 2

Note: I grew up in a middle class, suburban(ish), predominantly white neighborhood. South Street Ministries is in an urban area, predominantly black, lower class (majority) neighborhood.

Soon after I worked through the cultural shock of these differences, I soon found that my “middle class” values clashed constantly with the kids. Once, a young girl told me that she was going to fight another girl who was poking fun at her brother. I was repulsed when she said this. Yet as the summer went on at South Street, I realized that fighting was more cultural. Fighting was a way to exhibit protection, either over a relative or over oneself. The girl wanted to protect her brother; fighting was the way to communicate that to the threatening girl. In addition, I learned that fighting is a form of protecting oneself. If fighting isn’t chosen, one may be depicted as a “wimp,” thereby lessening one’s credibility of sorts (to my understanding.)

My time at South Street Ministries has helped me to recognize that Amber Cullen’s “middle class” values and cultural doings do not reflect the way that everyone does things. Through experiences like these, I have learned what it means to actively listen to an individual, community, and an entire neighborhood. 

And to be honest to you, this notion is absolutely radical.

                                                                             Sending much love to you all,

                                                    Amber

A video I created for South Street Ministries last summer! Check out what's going on here!
(If the entire six minutes cannot be viewed here, click on the link to see the full video on YouTube!)

Lesson of the Summer: Kids Give Great Gifts

Gifts have always impacted me deeply. No, I'm not talking of the gifts given at Christmas or birthdays (although those sometimes deeply impact me too). I'm talking about those gifts that you show off to others, not because it's the latest iPhone, but because with this gift you know that you are deeply loved and were deeply thought of in the creating of the gift.

Like the gift where my uncle unveiled a mini-fridge sized painting that he created for me for Christmas. The gift where my grandma preplanned a graduation card and gift for me before her death--a gift that I received two years after her death at my graduation party. 

A little note written from my dad on a Post-It, a letter from one of my best friends affirming me in the middle of a struggle.

These are the gifts that stick with me through the years. They are the ones I save and treasure, relaying a story with each one, a story of the creator of the gift, and the relationship behind it.

This summer I have received my fair share of gifts. I truly believe that children express love through gifts--colored pictures, crafts, anything tactile. Oh, and hugs. Hugs are definitely up on the list. I want to share these gifts with you, and the stories and people behind them.  





It was one of my first days at South Street during the evening's Urban Gardens. I carried my notebook with me (it was the first day; Of course I had to be prepared!). She came up to me, asking if she could write me a note in my notebook. How was I to say no? Twenty minutes later, the notebook had been passed around and five pages were filled with hearts, stick figures, smiles, and notes of love. Even though I didn't know her well, I could see her desire especially to create something I would love, as she took the initiative to ask if she could create me something. This was one of the first gifts.  

Within the first few weeks, I was honored with my first gift from Artist Boy, age 7. At this point, I was not aware of his extreme love for arts and crafts--he was simply another young child creating something. He walked over to me, "Here you go! This is for you!" His front-toothless, sincere grin made me giggle, immediately feeling honored to have such a piece. "Thank you," I replied, smiling.

Artist Boy was intensely creating a masterpiece. Eyebrows furrowed, I watch him focus and blend colors and textures, already having a natural inclination for art. I find myself pleading that as he grows older that his talent in art will be encouraged, not discouraged. I see seeds of discouragement and disdain from others towards his love of art already; my heart breaks. 

Artist Boy places this artwork in my hands. I pause. "Is this for me?" I can't believe that he would let me have this craft that he worked on for the entire block. This was a special craft, not just something created from the Upper Room's plethora of supplies. A volunteer brought this craft in. He smiles and nods at me, walking away. "Wait, buddy, wait! Come back here!" He strolls back on over. "What is it?" There is an immediate look of overdramatic sullenness on his face and I quickly clarify, "No no no! I love it! I really do! I just want to be able to tell people what your beautiful creation is! Is it a fish? A hot air  balloon? An ice cream cone?"  I felt like I was grasping at straws. He wouldn't let me know what  he meant for it to be, but that didn't really matter. I went home and showed off his gift for family, friends, anyone that would listen. 

My favorite gift from Artist Boy. I was busy creating bracelets one day, and he pestered to have some of the supplies. Trying to focus on what I was doing, I quickly relented, telling him to take whatever he needed. Five minutes later he came back, "IT'S A PERSON!" he exclaimed, putting it into my hands. I could only stare at him in awe. 

Artist Boy may have expressed a lot through art, but there were two other gifts from the summer that are definitely going back to college with me, as they came from two young ladies who aren't very expressive through words, yet managed to express love through gifts.

*  *  *

She had had an impact on me since day one. Although we're ten years apart, I sensed in her a common spirit with myself. Under her fiery and sometimes fighting personality I saw passion, a thirst for things to be right in the world, and a desire to change yet maybe not being aware of what that meant or how to make change happen. 

It was late July. I was preoccupied with maintaining Camp. She came up to me and wrapped a string around my neck. Disoriented, I turned around to see her walk away. Later, she came up behind me, put this necklace around my neck, and tied it secure. I couldn't even hold in my joy. "You!" I said, turning and giving her a hug. We sat there like that for a while, me finally being able to say, "Thank you so much." I wore this necklace on the last day of camp as a gift to her. She noticed. We're both in agreement that there will be tears with the goodbye.   

Mari. I knew she was making this for me, yet that didn't lessen the impact this gift had. With each sassy comment about how long it was taking her to make this, I could see the underlying excitement to give me this gift. "It's a butterfly! I absolutely LOVE butterflies, Mari!"  She responded with such sass, "I know, that's why I picked it." I couldn't help but laugh and feel incredibly loved and thought of at the same time. She gave it to me with a blunt, "Amber! Here you go." I literally squealed in excitement and tackled her with a hug. "THIS IS SO GREAT! I'M GOING TO PUT IT ON MY WALL!" 

With each thoughtful gift received and each thoughtful gift given, there is an underlying reality that love is underneath each gift. And that, my friends, is what drives me to keep on giving gifts to others, affirming and expressing my deep love for them. And it is what makes gift receiving one of the greatest affirmations of love that one can ever give me. 

What's the most thoughtful, loving gift you've ever received from another? 

"I SHALL CALL HER BESSIE!"

It was early June that her bright orange color and basket back seat caught my eye...

“Wow…this bike is beautiful.” I said, running my hand over the quirky frame. I immediately found myself wondering who would be the proud owner of this eccentric, old-timey bike. It had definitely seen its better days, but it was nothing that a little elbow grease and love couldn’t fix.

The leader of Bike Shop, Joe, walked over. “You like that bike, Amber? Have it. It has been in the shop awhile; we were just going to scrap it.” He looked at me to the bike to me again. “Actually, this is the perfect Amber bike.”

I didn’t know what an “Amber bike” was, but it didn’t matter at that point. All that mattered in that moment was the creeping feeling of attachment latching onto the 1950s style bike. It was going to be mine. I would be able to fix it up with the kids at Bike Shop, a group effort. Years down the road I would ride the bike and remember the summer at South Street and how the bike came to be mine. A smile slowly spread across my face. 

“I SHALL CALL HER BESSIE!” I announced to the kids and volunteers surrounding me.

 “You picked that bike?” the kids stared at me skeptically, gathered around the old, rusted bike.

“Look at this bike! LOOK AT HER! She’s a beaut!” I channeled my inner Vanna White as I attempted to persuade them of Bessie’s beauty. “See this rack thing on the back tire? I can carry books in here! Check it!”

I lifted the rack and lowered it, producing an “Oooo” from my 10 and under crowd. “That’s pretty cool,” one admitted.

“All she needs is a new seat, brakes, and she’ll be good to go!” I stated enthusiastically.

With the help of my little posse, we put Bessie back in the Bike Shop, her temporary home.

  *       *       *

Each Bike Shop I would check to see if Bessie was still there, waiting for the time when I finally had the chance to finish fixing her up. And indeed, every Bike Shop she was there, hanging up in the back corner, untouched by anyone.

You see, Bessie was mine in my mind but there was always the option that a kid would realize the gem that was Bessie and decide that she was the bike that they wanted. If this were to happen I would get over it (as Bike Shop is for the kids), but luckily this had yet to happen. Although there had been a few false alarms where Bessie had been pulled out of the shop, after tinkering around a bit with the brakes, the kids would decide that she wasn’t worth fixing and put her back in the shop.

It remained this way for two months.

Last Wednesday, however, this all changed.

I got out of my car and frolicked to Bike Shop like any other Wednesday evening. As the Shop came into my sight, I scanned to see the kids that were attending and stopped as my sight was quickly caught by a flash of orange. Bessie was out of the Shop in in the hands of a young boy, preteen age. Looking at him, I couldn’t tell the seriousness of his interactions with Bessie—had he chosen her as his bike? As I got closer, however, my heart dropped into my stomach.

There was duct tape with his name on it on Bessie’s frame.

In Bike Shop lingo, this meant that the bike was indeed his and he was committed to working his hours, fixing her up, and taking her home.

On the outside, it was no big deal (I knew that this might happen and I was okay with it), but on the inside, I was a mess of emotions.

My Summer Camp co-leader, Bobby, was standing next to me. “Bobby, I’m about to lose it. I’ve got to get out of here. Man. I am way more attached to that bike than I thought.”

I quickly ran up the stairs to find solitude in the Upper Room.

It was here that I allowed the tears and the cries to break free.

*        *        *

Grief is a very strange emotion. As I have found myself wrapping up these last few weeks at South Street Ministries, there has been a lot of grief. Grief over a summer that has sparked a lifetime of action. Grief over the incredible men and women that I have met this summer who have inspired me with their lives and stories. Grief over the state of the world and the slap of reality that this experience has given me. Grief over pain, and that there is pain. Grief over feeling like going back to school is not where my heart is, yet where I need to be. Grief. Grief. Grief.

As I’ve been navigating these emotions, I’m finding that grief surfaces in the strangest of places.

Grief in the form of an orange bike I randomly named Bessie, an orange bike that somehow became a representation of my summer somewhere deep in my subconscious. An orange bike that was with me at the beginning of this adventure, and didn’t make it with me to the end.

That young preteen boy taking Bessie as his is just one last thing I can’t control. I can’t control that time is passing. I can’t control that the summer is coming to a close. I can’t control that in less than a month I will be back at Bowling Green experiencing culture shock and grief once more, although it will look different than it has in Akron.

Transition is hard. Saying goodbye is hard. This I'm learning continually. 

*        *        * 

As I compose myself and depart from the Upper Room, I approach that preteen boy as he inspects Bessie’s handlebars. “Hey man,” I say, “Is that your bike?”

He looks up at me and nods, engrossed in his work.

“You picked a good one,” I paused, watching him take the bolt from the seat. “Can I tell you a secret? This is my favorite bike in the shop. Good choice, man.”

I walk away before the tears take over once again, leaving behind the orange bike Bessie and a summer of drastic, empowering change.