I'm Baaaaaaack!!

After several long weeks of saying goodbye to my Nicaraguan home, I am finally back in my Michigan home. And I can't even express the utter joy I feel right now. Happiness doesn't begin to cover it. I feel light, excited, giddy even.  And a little bit cold too :)

Which isn't to say the move has been easy! Weird might be a better word to use. I've come home, and yet it feels so very alien. Things are the same and yet nothing is. I have a new room. Actually, my family has renovated several rooms in our house. We even have a new dining room table. Rhys is taller than Evan and I now hug his waist. Evan has a funky new hairstyle and a beard. Sarah and Jordan have a new home and a new puppy.  Mom's hair is longer and Dad's hair is grayer.  I hardly recognize us.

West Michigan, I’ve noticed, is very different too. My church has a new sanctuary.  There are new coffee houses and breweries on every corner.  Our gas station has a new walk-in beer cooler. There’s a new Japanese restaurant near home, plus countless others I’m sure I don’t know about yet. There's even an outlet mall not 10 minutes from my house. 

And that's just the start of what's new here!  Apparently, I am going to feel like a tourist here for a while.

But I'm excited about it :) I get to wander the streets of downtown and rediscover the hidden treasures there. I get to be excited about colder weather and cloudy days. I get to indulge in holiday delicacies like candy canes and peppermint mochas. I get to revel in a new wardrobe of sweaters, scarves, hats and boots.

Most of all, I get to see you all again.

I know I'm different. And I know you're different. I look forward to getting to know you again :)

Until it's Gone

“Only hate the road when you’re missing home.  Only know you love her when you let her go.”  These lines keep running through my head, the catchy tune in Michael Rosenberg’s folksy voice and a guitar strumming away in the background.  I’ve always loved the lyrics to his song “Let Her Go” as I feel they describe oh so well several moments in my life.  Now, more than ever, I feel like it’s my theme song, played in the background of some epic movie about a girl who goes off on adventures and makes her home wherever her feet tread, only to realize she misses that which she has left behind.

The truth of the matter is: I don’t really know it’s been my home until it’s not anymore.  Does that make any sense?  Yesterday, I had this really surreal moment of trying to feel sad about moving and leaving everything I have come to love here in Nicaragua… and I just couldn’t feel as sad as I wanted to.  It then dawned on me that, as I soak up all these last moments here and savor every bit of adventure left, I won’t miss it here until I’m gone.  I won’t miss the sun and heat until I’m stuck in the snowy cold north.  I won’t miss the crowded streets and the nosy hustle and bustle of city life until I’m trying to sleep at night and all I can hear is the wind and the crickets.  I won’t miss the people here who I’ve come to call family until I feel the distance of the thousands of miles between us. 

I won’t miss it until it’s gone.

But, Nicaragua, do not worry! 

For I will miss you, that I can guarantee.

I will miss your green hills and volcanoes that line the horizon.

I will miss your sunny smile that wakes me in the early hours of the morning.

I will miss your sandy beaches and palm trees and salty waves.

I will miss your noisy markets and streets full of traffic, animals, people and random surprises.

I will miss your fireworks and parades and marching bands and spontaneity. 

I will miss your people and their open hearts that have welcomed me here and loved me as family.

I will miss you, a lot.

But not until I have left you.

So, Nicaragua, in a few days when I finally leave your land, wave me goodbye and wipe away your tears,

Knowing that I leave a piece of my heart behind.

And that someday, I will come back to get it.

How Long Does a Goodbye Last?

Today, as I'm sweating from the intense tropical heat, it's hard to understand that we have arrived at the first day of December.  Yes, here in León we have Christmas music playing on the radio, Christmas decorations and gifts for sale everywhere, and Christmas lights decorating houses here and there. Sometimes you can even get a glimpse of a decorated tree in someone's living room. Even so, it doesn't really feel like December should be here yet... Like when did that happen?

I also have to admit that as I sit here and type these words, my sight is a tad blurry from unshed tears.  Quite suddenly it's hit me just how close the end is.  I know I am not leaving for another 20 days, but guys, I'm leaving in 20 days!

I've already started saying goodbye. To people. To places.  I've started planning the bigger goodbyes, going-away parties with my students, my host families, my coworkers, my friends. My next couple weeks are going to be filled with these goodbyes.

And I hate it.

I hate saying goodbye. I hate thinking that in just a little while I won't see you again. I hate knowing that I won't be able to just pop over and chat with you in your kitchen, or meet you for coffee, or enjoy a random parade or fireworks or a gigantonas performance that we run into on the street. I hate to admit that there will be no more street-food dates at that place behind the cathedral, no more long bus rides together to Managua, no more jaywalking and dodging traffic, no more movie nights in our living room. Really, I just can't stand the fact that I have no idea if I'll see you again.

So how long does a goodbye last?

A few weeks? A few months? A few years? Forever?

I know I want to see you again. I want to go to the beach with you again, watch the sunset, marvel at the stars. I want to have drinks with you on the third floor and spend too much time chatting and people watching. I want to speak Spanglish with you and laugh at how bad our English is getting, or be proud of a new Spanish word or phrase we learned. I want to do spontaneous things with you like birdwatching or going to a concert or going for an ice cream run or running home in the rain. I want to have sleepovers and air-conditioning dates and weekend getaways. I want to just be with you, doing whatever we fancy at that moment.

Bottom line: I don't want this to be an End. No capital E's here. Just nice pauses, a "see you later", a "nos vemos cuando nos veamos".

I’m going to pretend that this isn’t just a fanciful wish of mine, a fleeting hope that “ends” don’t exist, not really.  Yes, I will see you again.  Someday. 

Until then,

Kelsita

Lord, we are tired

Lord, we are tired.

We look around and all that we see makes us profoundly weary…

Tear-filled eyes.  Shattered glass.  Screeching sirens.  Shivering bodies.  Harsh words.  Closed doors.  Cold hearts. 

Death, death, and more death.

We long for a day when our newsfeed wouldn’t fill up with stories of yet another massacre.  When pictures of blown-up buildings, dead children, and overcrowded shelters wouldn’t barrage us day after day after day.  When our mornings would be times to be thankful, and not times to be heartbroken and despairing. 

Today is not one of those days, Father. Today, we are hurting.  We are all hurting. 

And we don’t know how to handle that.

We are ashamed, ashamed to admit we are growing used to the violence, numb and silent to its piercing call.  Our only response is “not again”…

We are scared, scared that one day we too will suffer in our own homes.  So we respond by closing our doors and shuttering our windows.  Out of sight, out of mind…

We are angry, angry that people could commit such atrocities and we can’t do a thing to stop them.  We are angry enough to lash out, to hate, to condemn…

We are frustrated, frustrated in ways that keep us from taking deep breathes and finding the compassion in our hearts.  We want answers, we want solutions, and we want them now.  But we don’t get any…

But most of all, we are tired.  Bone weary tired.  The kind of tired that not even our dreams at night can help us escape.  The weight of the world bears heavily on our shoulders and keeps are feet buried in the sand, knees locked and legs shaking, sinking deeper and deeper. 

We can’t hold on much longer.

Lord, we want you to come.  Preferably now, if at all convenient.  We’ve quite suddenly reached the end of our supply of patience.  We’re scraping the bottom of the barrel and coming up dry.  There’s simply not enough to make this all right again… 

Please, come and restore the world before it gets much worse.

Please.

And thank you in advance.

Better yet?

It has come to my attention that many of you are suffering from "seasonal depression". It’s that time every year where not even the promise of hot cocoa and the sound of Christmas music can warm your spirit.  People get sleepy, crabby, and frankly a bit boring.  I blame the heavy grey clouds that loom overhead, the chill of the wind that makes your bones ache, the wet damp feel of everything around you.

So I thought I'd help you all out a bit.

At this very moment, I am quietly rocking away in a beautiful dark wooden chair located in the gazebo at the Nehemiah Center. Surrounding me are green things of all sorts--plants, grass, hanging baskets, trees, and the green coffee mug on the table by my feet. Big fluffy clouds with a hint of grey are moving in, promising a brief shower of rain later this afternoon.  It's lunchtime here and so I am practically here by myself, the only sounds I hear are the birds cooing and singing in the nearby trees, the leaves rustling in the wind, the school bells of the campus next door, and some distant pop music playing in the background. The air here is warm, not hot, with the sun shining down, kissing the earth here and there with its golden light. The shade brings me some relief from the 85 degree weather, but the slight breeze feels even more delightful as it gently caresses my skin and flutters through my hair.

It is peaceful here, like taking a deep breath or snuggling under a warm blanket.

And I can't help but feel happy as I sit here, describing all of this to you.

Now, I’m not writing all of this to make you jealous!  Instead, I hope my words bring you to a place where happiness can fill your heart today. I hope the greyness and dreariness of approaching winter doesn't drag down to its gloomy depths. I hope that you find that cup of hot cocoa and listen to Christmas music and snuggle with a loved one under a big, heavy blanket.

Mmmm, yes, that sounds delightful doesn't it?

I AM with You

I am with you, He says.  In the darkness, in the quiet, in the joy, in the pain—I am there.  I always have been.  You are never alone.

Do you hear His voice?

In these past two weeks, my heart has felt the weight of pain not my own.  I have cried tears of suffering, suffering that I myself did not experience.  It physically hurt me to hear the story of someone I love who endured not months but years of neglect, to hear the pain in that rejection and loneliness.  To hear the story of tragic loss as a mother loses yet another child to the murderous power of the gangs in her neighborhood.  To hear the shaking voice of a man sharing his story of losing 21 members of his family in one day to a landslide, one man among many who lost loved ones that day.  To hear the agony in the voice of a close friend who suffered physical and sexual abuse as a small child from those who were supposed to protect her and love her.  To hear of a young soul who could no longer bear the weight of the world and so tragically cut his own life short.  Story after story after story. 

In those moments, I could do nothing.  I could not comfort them.  I could not bring back their loved ones.  I could not heal them, make their lives whole again, give them peace.  In my completely helplessness, I could do nothing but obey the Spirit and weep with my fellow brothers and sisters.

Do you know what word kept running through my mind as I heard these stories?  Immanuel.  Literally God with us.  I AM WITH YOU, His voice whispered to me.  I AM WITH ALL OF YOU, AS I ALWAYS HAVE BEEN AND ALWAYS WILL BE.

Really, God?  You were there?  In those moments when your children needed you most, you were there?  Where?  You didn’t save them.  You didn’t wipe away their tears.  You didn’t protect them from the rivers of mud, from the gun’s bullet, from the abusive hands.  You didn’t.  So how can you say you were there??

Because He was there, even when we didn’t have the eyes to see Him. 

Every beating, every abandonment, every loss, every death—God felt every single one of those.  In those intense moments of hurting, God hurt too.  That’s what Immanuel means.  Not God by us, not God around us, not God above us or beneath us…  No.  God with us:  “…whatever you do to the least of these, you do to me” (paraphrase of Matt. 25:40).  None of us was ever alone.  Ever.

I don’t know why but this gives me such Hope.  “In Christ we see God suffering – for us. And calling us to share in God’s suffering love for a hurting world. The small and even overpowering pains of our lives are intimately connected with the greater pains of Christ. Our daily sorrows are anchored in a greater sorrow and therefore a larger hope” (Henri Nouwen).   Our suffering ties us not only to God in an unbreakable bond, but also to others around us who are suffering as well.  We are led to lives of great compassion, literally "to suffer with", to seek out the outcast, the hurting, the persecuted, the lonely and to bear their burden with them, recognizing that this is “the way to the truth that we are most ourselves, not when we differ from others, but when we are the same” (Henri Nouwen).  We are called to solidarity, to togetherness, with our brothers and sisters.  We weep with our weeping brethren; we rejoice when they rejoice; we are because they are. 

And we are because HE IS, right here with us.

Small

Have you ever felt how big the world is?  No, not thought.  Felt.  I’m talking about the feeling that you get when you imagine you are just one drop in an ocean, that feeling of immensity, of infinite.  It’s the feeling you get when you look down into an abyss, or up at the stars, or into the eyes of the person you love.   There’s just something hugely indescribable about it, isn’t there?  There comes a moment where you have to pause, look around you, and marvel at how BIG everything is. 

Ok, take a deep breath and come back to normal.  Everything is as it was before.  Now, this time, I want you to feel how small the world is this time.  Think about how easy it is to fly across the ocean.  Think of how many times we’ve visited the moon.  Think about how fast you can hop in your car and drive to the nearest coffee shop.  Think about your loved one whom you Skyped with not moments ago.  I am 3,200 miles away from most of you and yet here we are chatting. 

My mind jumps to all of the people I’ve met in my life, years ago or moments ago, and how suddenly they’ve connected me to places I had never been before, places I never even cared about.  Now, I have friends living in Houston, Abuja, Târgu-Mureș, Mexico City, Cairo and Santo Domingo (and many others!) and those places mean something to me.  I also now care about Sioux Center, Iowa because of all the Dordt people I’ve come to know and love.  I think about my friends spread throughout Central America and Mexico, their pueblos meaningful to me.  I think about my family all around the globe, and how strangely their homes are important to me.  Me, little ol’ me, is connected to places everywhere.

So in my mind, the world is small even though it is big.

This week I had the opportunity to feel just how small the world can be.  I had the privilege of attending the international conference Synergy 2015 in Guatemala City (http://cmtguatemala.org/synergy-2015-realities-opportunities-challenges/).  It was a gathering of men and women from around the world to talk, discuss, dive into and celebrate one thing: God and the City.  Voices that spoke a variety of languages came together to talk and to laugh and to share.  We walked the streets of Guatemala City, experienced the love Guatemalans have for their people, and participated in loving their city with them.  We learned of the pains Guatemalans continue to endure, but we also saw the joy Guatemalans have in the abundance of their beautiful country and their God.  I can’t speak for anyone, but I daresay that we all came away from this conference inspired.

What truly took my breath away during this conference was the diversity of the people gathered there in that conference room, eating meals and drinking coffee together.  Bangladesh, Egypt, Kenya, Nigeria, South Africa, Romania, Korea, Central America, North America—faces from many places.  We prayed in Spanish, English, Creole, and a myriad of other tongues and dialects to the same great God above.  And in that moment, the world didn’t seem so big.  In the hands of God, the world seemed very small indeed.