When Conversing with a Professor

I sat across from a university professor yesterday, watching her try to understand the thing that was my life. 

"So you graduated with a degree in Film Production, but instead you chose to go into ministry and be a missionary," she inquired.

I tilted my head at her, unsure. "I'm not sure what you mean by ministry or missionary but I suppose that's one way of looking at it, though those are not the words I would use to describe what I do or my life."

It was a strange moment in the conversation. I was watching someone from the outside looking into my life and trying to put it into conventional boxes that made sense to her. After a few questions, she told me confidently that I was doing ministry. I think her confidence in labeling my life was more for her than for me. 

She stared at me, inquisitive. "You're an example of living into your passions. I talk with so many students who are majoring in one thing because of the money or because their parents tell them too but you're a living example of what it looks like to live into your passions."

I didn't tell her that I wanted to kill myself 3.5 years ago and that's why I decided to "live into my passions." That probably wouldn't have done well for the conversation.

We ended our conversation with her saying she would love if I came and spoke on a panel to her class of 80+ students. I stated that if it fit into my schedule, I would absolutely be open to doing that. As I walked out of her office, I felt like I was in another dimension.

What just happened? How the hell did I get to a point where I was being asked to speak in front of classes as if I have something to share and give? What is going on?

In many ways I haven't processed my story since Mission Year. The last 3.5 years of my life have been a daily walk of trust that God would lead me without a larger vocational blueprint after I dropped film. Directionless, I prayed daily after my time in the psych ward "Use me," less as a pious desire and more as a logical and cynical statement because I wanted to kill myself and didn't want my life so God (whoever that was) could have it because I was stuck on this earth anyway even though it was hell. (This was the state of my mind.)

It's not that I hated life it's just that I couldn't see how things could get better (socially, interpersonally, everything) and when you don't see how things will get better hopelessness makes sense and numbness is a by-product of a logical thought pattern. And no "Hallmark goody goody" hope phrase can get you out of that space. You're pretty much done for.

My experience with depression has been the pivotal point in my life. It is a journey that in many ways I have had to walk through by myself (though many have walked with me in ways that they were able.) It has been a deeply spiritual journey, one that has formed me in ways I have yet to put into words. In that space I had to muster up the resilience of my soul to seek the joy, beauty, and gratitude when my mind would tell me that these don't exist (and has really good arguments for saying so). It was the point when I had to choose to believe that even though I didn't feel the beauty of the flower that the beauty was still there. My feeling one way or another did not determine the truth that was--the flower was beautiful.

This has been the anchor for my soul prone to deep pain, depression, and anguish. Even if I do not feel the beauty of the flower this does not negate that the beauty isn't there. Truth is apart from my feelings and logic. Yes, life is painful and difficult, full of stress. In fact, I would argue that logically there is no reason to be alive (Ecclesiastes is my favorite book of the Bible.) The world is one massive shit-hole (pardon my language). The anchor that keeps me grounded is Truth, which means something different for me than it may mean for you.

Grounded in Truth, I see the healing is in the midst of pain, the resurrection in the midst of death, the reconciliation in the midst of separation--the beauty is in the cracks of the pain spaces.

It is in this paradox that I have chosen to live, because I have found it to be home. 

So when you say, professor, that I'm "living into my passions," I'm not quite sure I agree with you. You see, 3.5 years ago in college I decided to live into and lean into the pain--of myself, of my neighbors, of the world, of my Christ.

And that choice has made all the difference.

(I'm not sure that's exactly the message you want your students to hear.)

Ever-present

Remind me that the breath of the tulip reverberates with mine,
That with each day we are both waxing and waning beneath the ever-present moon.
She closes, I open, but we both respond to the heartbeat of the sun.

The sun.
Drench me with rays til I am wet with dew.
Sing your song to me in the morning and I will respond, opening up to your rays.
Glory.
(This is what we do not speak of in the night--how the willow bends in an embrace to weave its hand in mine.)

Remind me that the breath of the tulip reverberates with mine.
Remind me what it is to dance in the land of the living.
Remind me that though I am closed in the cold of the night that the Promised Sun still beats deep within the shell of the earth.
Remind me, Love.
(It is your warmth I seek.) 

On Grieving Community

Tonight wisdom was spoken to me where a woman said that our bodies can travel by plane, but our soul travels by foot. In it she was speaking to the reality that your body can leave a place, but your soul can linger there for much longer.

In many ways my body has been in Akron since leaving Philadelphia, but my soul has been elsewhere. It has been traveling by foot, trying to make sense of an intense year of life and love. What an intense pilgrimage—what an intense journey.

Walking in this has been an incredibly lonely process. Even as people in Akron pursued me in support and I surrounded myself with people I have still felt incredibly alone. In many ways, it came down to the reality that the six people who knew the journey (my journey) best were no longer around me—my teammates.

I was relaying to a dear friend who has journeyed with me awhile about how I’m doing lately and three fourths of the way through something struck me, “I think I’m grieving the loss of my team,” I stated, tears streaming down my face and my voice cracking. “This feels like a break up and I’ve never even had a break up!” I was frustrated and exasperated at the incredible sadness I was experiencing at the loss of my team, even three months after Mission Year's end.

If there is anything I can say for certain about what I’ve processed it’s that living among a group of committed people (community) changed me. There is much I learned about commitment and love this past year that I’ve only ever talked about but have never lived out. The “isms” became real. Like “You choose to be for each other even when you don’t feel like it” and “Stick it out because you’re committed.” I’ve usually heard these phrases used in regards to romantic relationships, yet our team spent a year cultivating non-romantic committed relationships. There were days when I didn’t want to do life with my teammates. There were days where his quirk was too much for me, or her quirk irritated the crap out of me, or weeks where I could no longer meet someone’s brokenness with grace and chose instead judgment.

It was real, raw, earthy life in community—and we were in it together.

In many ways this living experience was redemptive and I haven’t quite been able to put that into words (the Body of Christ does not have to be just a metaphor). But there was something about breakfasts made with love in the mornings and water ice in the evenings. There was something about trying to make sense out of a common experience and spurring one another on in our growth. There was also something about the painful loneliness of feeling misunderstood and wanting so desperately for everyone to get along but reconciliation having its own timetable. (Distance has not negated the reality of what went down last year in community—it was freaking hard and a lot of work.)

But then again, I’ve heard many people say that about relationship in general.

Tonight I was at a Bible study in Akron with eight other incredible women and I was noticing the hardness of my soul. It is a cynicism and bitterness and anger that has increased in recent weeks that I haven’t been able to name. I sat in the corner of the couch, aware that I was shutting everyone out. Here were eight incredible women, a community right in front of me, and I was unable to open up to being loved and loving because the grief from my last community dispersing has been incredibly hard to walk through.

There is a quote I cling to by Anais Nin. I find it applicable in many transitions and seasons of change. She says, “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”

I stared at the carpet, no one knowing the internal struggle within me. Tears began streaming down my face as I once again found myself in the cyclical grief and deep pain. Within me I heard a whisper “It’s time.” At once I found myself resistant to those words and the tears increased.

The war within was not about the women in front of me, but with my past experience with my last community. The pain of leaving after growing so close. The pain of watching everyone go their separate ways, knowing you will all probably never be together in the same physical space again. The pain of isolation and loneliness after a deep sense of belonging and intimacy and knowing of one another.

The pain is great, but the pain of holding onto the pain is even greater.

“What if I choose to open myself up to love again?” I whispered internally to myself, tears streaming down my cheeks.

My soul, resistant, reminds me of the pain. "I can't." It reminds me that the pain and heartache is hard and not worth love in the first place. Yet there is a knowing in my soul that recognizes that this is not true, and that at the end of the day that I will choose love because it is what I have found to be lasting in a world that is meaningless.

And so I open my teary eyes and look at the women around me, allowing myself for one moment to open myself up to the idea that my community is not scattered across the United States, but that it is right here in front of me, and that I can love here. 

And though I cried because there was still pain, my soul no longer seemed bitter, but at peace.

(Oh grief, though you are painful and full of heartache, you contain a beauty beyond words.) 

 

Moments

Spent the last four days being intentional about noticing moments where my soul was full of joy and contentment. Gratitude is a medicine for a restless spirit.

Some moments:

Holding five patterned scarves in my hands, each a different story and piece of art and feeling like I wanted to consume them because they were so beautiful.

Staring at a birthday plate placed in front of me in celebration.

The moment when the river came into view after a leaf-crunching earthy stroll through the woods.

(Playing the drum on the banks of this same river, recalibrating my soul.)

Driving on the long stretch of highway with the sun setting red, pink, orange and yellow across the Ohio plains.

Watching dancers and chanters tell stories through hula--awestruck.

Art. All the art.

Being in a constant state of communion where poetry is my prayer.

 

 

 

24

I’m drivin’ down the highway at 65mph

And I’m lookin’ out on the plains, the beautiful Ohio plains

With trees standing solitary in the middle of the vastness

And the sky so blue like the most satisfying drink of water

And the tires are pounding the pavement and my hair is out and

All at once I’m laughing, tears flying, exhilarated to be—just be.

Not like the world is any less painful or that things are any less messed up

Or like somehow I’ve convinced myself that these plains are the escape from it all

Because it all is still here (right here) and everything is still hard

But for now Ima sit with the rhythm of the plains and just be.

 

My spirit is drinking up the joy of pounding on a djembe

And singing with a fullness that fills the car

And I wonder if they’ll pull me over for drummin’ while driving

But I just can’t contain myself and there’s no one around anyway

Just me and a djembe and roads and plains as far as the eye can see

And I laugh because this is beauty and I laugh because this is life

Where my spirit remembers that it is made with the fragility of dust

But also knows that it’s made with the resilience of the earth

That has been pounding beats for millennia

And I remember that I will continue on and we will continue on

And our song is not yet done.

 

You know me all too well because you gifted the pulsing warm sun

And the expansive plains and the whisper of a breeze on my face

And the djembe in the car

And the narrow footpath between the trees that led down to the surprise river

Where you whispered the most intimate of belongings to my soul

And at the river’s edge among the rocks I laughed as I cried because you know me

And I laughed as I cried because you haven’t forgotten the song of my soul

And I laughed as I cried because the you are the water that draws me into knowing

That being is the cultivating of resilience

And our song is not yet done. 

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.

*  *  *

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.

*  *  *  *  *

*  *  *  *

*  *  *

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.

*  *  * 

*  *  *  *

*  *  *  *  *

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.