Sophomore year at Notre Dame, I was in the library, all isolated, feeling like a restless little ant among the bouldering gloom that tended to be final exams season. I needed to change my major. I needed a chocolate cookie and 15 shots of espresso. I needed to drop the whole academic thing, adopt a pseudonym, and move to a Caribbean island to farm coconuts. I needed something. My fingers navigated to the YouTube almost without my consent…turns out I really just needed short films.
Actually, one particular short film called “Post-It” (highly recommend you stop and watch it in all its glory before I go ahead and ruin it).
The video ends with Clara and Elroy–two unlikely bus stop friends–using Elroy’s mother’s legacy and office supplies to gallivant around the town, writing compliments on Post-its and sticking them on all the unsuspecting townsfolk. It’s an awkward, delightful, contagious, gorgeous scene.
I was totally stoked about the whole production, and posted it on Facebook, figuring it could help some of the other finals week ants’ blues. My beloved pal Kaliyah texted me almost immediately.
“Wait. Girl. That video you posted. We should do that.”
That hadn’t occurred to me, the whole, ya know, actually doing it thing. Kaliyah turned the light on.
Initially I had this huge concern that people would get annoyed with such a childish antic and it would decimate my whole reputation and sabotage all future employment, but I couldn’t deny that suddenly I was on fire from this idea, born again from the ashes of academic despair. “YES YES KALIYAH WE HAVE TO. How about in the library?? And like in a way that no one sees us???”
“YES.”
So we bought a whole bag of KitKats from the Huddle mart. We blew off our studies for about an hour to write a lot of encouraging, complimentary, sometimes straight-up weird notes on Post-its to stick on them. And that night we ventured into the darkest corners of Hesburgh Library, hid behind book shelves, placing and/or launching the motivational KitKat bars into the study spaces of our unsuspecting collegiate townsfolk. All with the very over-the top flare of spins and tumbles and everything.
It was awesome. The whole thing gave us a rush in its own right, because really, how often to you get to play secret agent as a twenty year-old? But there’s also something to be said about witnessing people:
a) struck by the randomness of each apparating KitKat (and, sometimes, struck by the airborne KitKat itself… If you were one of those victims, know that I’m the one with the bad aim and I am SO SORRY and will happily treat you to froyo sometime when I’m back in the States) and
b) reading the note, smiling, laughing, remembering that there are ways other than the gloom sometimes, and that there are people who will love them no matter how that O-Chem test goes.
And sure, some people did think we were weird for it, and never quite lost the ‘seriously, what the hell’ look, but ya win some, ya lose some, and Kaliyah and I could always laugh it off. Because at the end of the day, we were doing this little antic for its own sake, and having the time of our lives despite the world telling us stress ought to be our only option. And our finals still went just fine.
Thus began the biannual tradition of “Library Ninja,” which became one of my absolute favorite memories from those four years.
happy little adventures
Alright, so why is Ally telling you about Library Ninja on the blog that you’re reading to follow her current escapades in Central America? I’m glad you (Mom, Dad, Grandma) asked!
It’s because the thing I’ve been thinking a lot about these days is that which is called, well, a “calling.” And I think if I would’ve led with that, it probably would’ve freaked a lot of people out, myself included, because a “calling” tends to sound like finals week—that big bouldering gloom next to our ant-sized individual human existence.
However, I would like to make the argument that something as little as Library Ninja is actually a far more accurate depiction of a calling. More and more I’m finding that a calling comes to us in those little dictates, those instances where the idea of doing something resonates with you so profoundly, so inexplicably, yet it’s a weird step into some unknown territory that makes you think,
“That sounds wonderful, but I couldn’t actually do that, could I?”
To which God, the caller, the only One who truly knows what’s going on and really just wants you to be in that happy, on-fire-about-life state all the time because He loves you and didn’t put those deep resounding desires on your heart on accident, responds,
“Yes, actually, you can do that. Because I’ve got this.”
When I heard about the Finca, and dared to believe that it was something I could actually be a part of rather than simply read and watch videos about, it was the same “YES. YES WE HAVE TO” kind of moment. But the mere decision, the “Yes” to move to Central America and work for this organization was just one of a long succession of little callings. It felt no bigger to me than the decision to disrupt the sophisticated toil of the Hesburgh Library with stealth (or lack there of), chocolate covered wafers, and Post-It notes.
God’s proven time and time again that He knows the way, 100% better than I do, 100% better than the people who say “that’s weird,” “that’s risky,” “that’s difficult” “that’s impractical,” “that’s just gonna get you socially rejected and destine you to a life of hermitry” do. I need only happily sit in the passenger seat, singing along with the window down as we take each loving turn, detour, passenger pick-up, photo op, pit stop. And He’s overjoyed to let me hop back over to that incredible shotgun seat He’s reserved for me, no matter how many times I get scared, take back the steering wheel, and end up real, real lost.
Speaking of lost!
Here’s a scene from four weeks ago, during my second week of language school, akin to finals week gloom:
At approximately 2:37 in the morning, I woke up alone on the bathroom floor in my Guatemalan host family’s home. I was on the floor because I had passed out, and I had passed out most likely because I had eaten an unwashed apple, and my soft Gringa stomach was really wishing I hadn’t eaten an unwashed apple, especially considering the fact that I kinda knew I shouldn’t be eating unwashed apples.
I used to think that sicknesses were random horrible things that we just needed to get through, or pop some DayQuil and try to ignore. My wise friend Payton was the first person in my life to turn the light on the fact that there’s actually a gift in every ailment, every injury. A lesson to be learned. A chance to slow down, pay attention, and receive the love that’s only possible when we’re vulnerable enough admit we can’t do it on our own.
My body’s reaction to this “forbidden fruit,” then, made me realize that there must’ve been some toxic apple in my mindset as well. Which I really couldn’t ignore any longer, because it’s a bit tough to feign “I’m perfect and got this all under control” when you wake up alone on your Guatemalan host family’s bathroom floor in the middle of the night.
…Hi God,
I know you’re seeing this ugly little quandary. We’ll probably laugh about this one day but my stomach might just jump ship if I do that now. Anyways thank you for this life, and everyone you’ve placed in it, and I’m really sorry it’s been a bit since I reached out. Please help me see where I chose wrongly.
Prayer’s a really cool thing when I actually do it. (PRO-TIP: Pray often, pray intentionally, don’t be hardheaded and wait until you’re on the bathroom floor like Ally)
It didn’t take long for God to bring my deviant fear-thought to light: I was stressed because my Spanish wasn’t progressing nearly as I thought it would. It all felt too big, too impossible. My call to be a teacher at the Finca sounded wonderful and all, but deep down I felt that there must’ve been a mistake. “It seems like a great life, but for someone far more qualified,” was my unconscious declaration. I had taken the steering wheel back, and could feel the dead end approaching.
So I went back to language school the next day and did my try-hard best. Which was muy, muy bad. Like, inspiring my sweet, hilarious teacher to ask, “Ally, ¿qué pasó?” bad.
So bad that at one point I retreated to my apparent go-to prayer venue–another day, another bathroom. (My sincerest apologies that that’s the recurring setting instead of the flower-adorned, mountain-framed, cobblestone streets of this city I have to remind myself every morning that I am actually living in.)
I needed to be only in the presence of our true first language in this chattering, distracting world: silence.
*Whispers* God, I need your help.
God, I need your help.
God, I need your help.
God’s response to this prayer was this soft internal spiritual whisper, clear as day, and I can’t make this up:
*Whispers* Ally…you’re fine.
And so I was. Not saying I came back and the Spanish was Jiffy smooth, but just saying that I was…fine. That’s the little miracle here.
I’ve always loved the story of God calling Moses, roughly:
God: Alright so you’re going to help me lead your people to freedom, and pass along some pretty key messages from me, capiche?
Moses: Uhh, okay that sounds really cool, God, but you realize I have a speech impediment, right? You sure you wouldn’t rather choose someone else?
God: I’m sorry Moses, did I stutter?
Then they’re laughing until the tears start streaming, and Moses realizes he never exactly imagined he could be in conversation with a burning bush either, and yet here they are. So they get to stepping, one foot in front of the other at a time, accomplishing the impossible on the way toward the Promised Land.
It seems to me that it isn’t our inadequacy that blocks us from realizing God’s will for our lives. It’s our belief that we need to do it on our own, with our own limited (See Also: borrrringgg) ideas of the process and the result.
the GPS of soulstuff
Realizing I was fine meant considering that maybe, just maybe, I was exactly the kind of quirky fumbling speaker God had in mind for what we’re going to work together toward today– in order to eventually realize the big masterpiece He has designed, the one I barely even have a faint idea of.
And once I accepted that I was fine, I started hearing the little Library Ninja dictates again– the calls from the babbling brook of my soul, rather than the arid dessert of my stress. They weren’t “Stay in your room for the rest of your time in Antigua and memorize the Spanish dictionary!!!” or anything grandiose and horrific like that, but rather ideas for little adventures, such as:
Tell your teacher the funny, but kinda embarrassing story about the birthday candles.
Ask the language school’s cool intern Benjie if he can teach you Guatemalan songs on the ukulele.
Say “buenas días” to that man. And that woman. And that girl. And yes, even that guy. And all of them. Stop and actually talk to this woman. Ask names and remember them.
Listen.
Hike the volcano and basically interview the guide who spends most of his days hiking volcanoes.
Listen.
Talk to Manuela the artisan who made your new blouse, and visit her often. Talk to Manolo the awesome baker you’re buying the banana bread from 3 to 8x a week. Bring all your friends from school to his bakery during the mid-morning break.
Listen.
Go to salsa class with your pals even though you could very well follow nothing and look like a clumsy Gringa buffoon.
Conspire with others to plan top-secret surprise gifts for people on their birthdays, on their “hasta luego” days, on they’re just-really-going-through-it days.
Write creative sentences about things you actually care about on the vocabulary section of the exam, even though your chances of Sonia taking off all the grammatical half-points are greater.
Ask your host mom about the most interesting student she’s ever hosted. Ask your host mom how she met her husband.
Listen. [In a little aside, I had this big realization recently that listening is actually the ultimate adventure. I mean, being completely open to the unknown of another person’s experience and loving it unconditionally, without trying to control or fix or talk over it? That’s basically like hopping on a plane to some foreign land, with that liberated ‘come what may’ traveler mentality, except way more profound and valuable and, also, way cheaper. I’m hoping this frame will inspire me to up my game in this department.]
Say “yes” to the invitations to the birthday party, the open mic night, the family prayer night for a niece gone too soon.
Don’t be afraid to rest.
Do your best learning this language simply because you love it, and because you love the people who speak it.
All of these are the ideas that first and foremost I just genuinely was really fervent about doing–even though doing them meant speaking with very imperfect Spanish, doing hard work, risking judgment, feeling a little uncomfortable, and/or proceeding with no certainty of the outcome. That’s how I knew they weren’t coming from me.
From there, life became once more a string of happy, creative, freely loving little acts–and each one, as always, moved me from ugly isolation to rich community. I could find freedom in every moment I was no longer paralyzed in the rigid itinerary, the bouldering pressure, of my concept of “success.”
And then, get this: While I was just out there having a time, my Spanish went ahead and really got its act together, the cheeky bastard!! Weeks later I just noticed, almost in afterthought, that I was talking to lots of people and saying lots of things. Certainly not perfectly, but freely. Naturally.
Each of us need only make the happy little leaps into that particular unknown which animates our section in the Divine orchestra. We need only show up loving whoever, whatever, is in front of us. Even if it looks a little messier, or less “productive,” we’ll eventually look back and realize God’s artistry’s been perfectly playing out all along.
Thank you, thank you, God.
let’s hit the road, shall we?
Though I anticipate new, much much larger challenges and stumblings upon relocating to Honduras next week to begin the main work, I know God’s sense of direction is perfect, and that I need only do my best to listen to it. Stay tuned to see if I actually stick to that, or if next episode we will indeed once again find Ally on that holy bathroom floor…
I’m also happy to report that you, too, are just fine. No matter where you are in relation to those big goals you have in your head. God, love, your GPS of soulstuff, is sound as well. Trust me–it’s going to be even better than you could ever imagine.
And what comes after our decision to follow this guidance, make these little leaps? …well, enter the Haves-only Party of course!
Because when we come back and say, “Sorry I was afraid, I’m ready to trust You with my life again,” God doesn’t waste precious time to shame us. No no no, He calls up all the neighbors and He buys a lot of food, because He’s located the lost sheep, He’s found the lost coin, the Prodigal Son is home. He says, “The passenger seat’s still yours, my friend, and check it out, I bought you some Raisinetts [/insert your favorite road trip snack here] while you were out.”
Where your treasure is, there your heart will also be.
Matthew 6:21
The best thing about simply paying attention to God’s little momentous callings is that we end up being surprised by so many opulent things that our boring, rational minds never ever thought to draw up on our vision board. The treasures we find despite–and actually more often than not because of–the tangles of what we perceive to be difficulty, mistakes, rejections, and failures. The little instances that affirm that we are, in fact, exactly where we ought to be.
So, in the interest of giving somewhat of a visual update on my life here (You’re finally welcome Mom, Dad, and Grandma! Thanks for making it this far!), I give to you a small collection of these little treasures I’ve found along the way, the ones I never saw coming when I first gave the little “YES. YES WE HAVE TO” to this whole shebang:
- Enough said.
2. My host mom invited me to her grand-nephews 1st birthday party. I was really awkward at first, but then the grand-nephew’s father insisted that I take a few swings at one of the three massive piñatas. Later an abuelo and I were the first ones to turn the event into a dance party. The night was topped off by a bunch of adorable youngins going all Be-Our-Guest on the situation and preparing me a three-course meal made of the deflated balloon scraps.
3. Benjie the cool intern met Anna, Dayelle (two golden-hearted fellow soon-to-be Finca volunteers) and me at a café one evening. I handed over my ukulele, and was quickly very humbled by Benjie’s mastery as he performed some Guatemalan tunes for us. Eventually he handed it back and said “Tu turno,” but I only had a few songs in the archives.
So we ended up translating “Three Little Birds” into Spanish and together all singing it really slowly, brokenly, but happily amidst the patio of confused coffee drinkers.
4. My Spanish classes are 1-on-1, so my teacher Sonia and I end up telling a lot of stories amidst our grammatical crash courses. I told her one about how I bought those really childhood-scarring re-lighting candles for Olivia (another jackpot of a fellow Finca volunteer)’s birthday, and how we almost started a fire in the bakery as a result. But Sonia corrected me during this recount, and we realized I had asked the party store people for whales (“bellenas”) instead of candles (“velas”) that day, and then went on to the gas station to ask for, naturally, something to light the whales. Sick. A reputation for planning zoological atrocities is always good when you’re a newcomer in a foreign land.
This horror story is a treasure because Sonia and I laughed until we cried when we figured all this out, which I think is the prettiest human scene.
5. Our seven nerdy missionary hearts were set on visiting the “Hobbit Town” we’d heard was perched atop a nearby mountain, but we were informed, at the bus stop, that the bus driver usually in charge of the 5:00 wasn’t doing it today because, “He’s at the bank.”
Right before we gave up, a Tuk Tuk driver pulled up to us, and insisted he could take us all. Note that we were double the amount of people in what would be considered a “full Tuk Tuk.” I ended up in the shotgun seat, which is especially wonderful because Tuk Tuks don’t actually have shotgun seats.
We chatted, we took in the views, we held on for dear life around sharp turns, at one point the mountain was so steep that the driver dropped half of us off and delivered us to the destination in two separate trips. The Hobbit houses definitely did not disappoint, but honestly they aren’t my favorite memory from that day. There is, after all, nothing like looking(/defying every law of physics), if you want to find something.
6. During my day of food poisoning quarantine, Dayelle and Jaideep, no questions asked, trekked the entire way across town to deliver the most restorative purple Gatorade I have ever consumed. No dramatic illustration could ever fully convert how so very exactly-what-I-needed it was in every single aspect.
7. I’ve pushed my body to its limit more times than any doctor would probably recommend (400m runners, holler!!), but this time was different. It was 5:45 in the morning, really dark, and every step toward the top of Volcan Acatenango was not only about 89 degrees upward, but also was onto a lot of loose rocks, making it feel like we were on some torturous StairMaster for an hour with little to no distance to show for it. Every time our guide Alfredo said “Vamos!” to keep us on pace, I had some really choice thoughts for him, but thankfully not the respiratory capacity to voice them.
I didn’t feel like vamos-ing, Alfredo, I felt like stopping. And every time I did stop, Anna paused with me.
“Anna…I think my death is near.”
“Yup.”
And then by some miracle I’d find the strength to continue.
Very few things will ever surpass the feeling of reaching the top of that volcano, that chromatic haven above the clouds, in the exact moment of the sun’s first appearance. And there was Alfred, arms open wide, with Anna next to him, applauding me on.
8. On the same day I asked the gas station people for something to light the whales, I also got (very politely) kicked out of Mass because I was wearing shorts.
So taking a seat on the steps outside of the San Francisco church that day to wait for my friends could have been a big “I don’t belong here” moment, but a woman walked up to me almost immediately. She introduced herself (Maria), and told me about this library in the ruins behind the church, that is only open on Thursdays. Basically an exclusive invitation to the Secret Library Club.
When I entered the ruins that Thursday, Maria gave me a hug and directed me to the Promised Land. I climbed the stairs of the ruins, rang the doorbell, was let in by the attendant, and found a window seat with a view of the mountains and every rooftop in my neighborhood. And all was well with my soul.
9. All was not well with my soul when our crew entered the little art gallery in Chichicastenango, quite frankly because my wallet was just stolen in the market and I wasn’t wholly convinced todo estará bien.
But then I saw this giant bongo drum in the corner. And I cannot simply pass a giant bongo drum. So to the embarrassment of my very travelers I asked the nearest worker if I could play it, and con permiso gave it my best beat.
Then there was a faint echo.
Across the room, a boy (of no more than 3 years old, sorry Mom) had his brown eyes locked on me, and was drumming his Crocs on the table to the same rhythm I’d just invented. I continued the conversation with a new beat. Now the whole room was listening.
When the collaboration reached its end, I went over to introduce myself and ended up meeting his Teddy bear and T-Rex as well. You can catch us all on tour fall of 2021.
10. And, finally. You know what also felt like a really big calling that stressed me out a lot at first? This blog post. You know how I actually ended up writing it?
I just chilled out. I went about my life. And then, every day, out of seemingly nowhere, I’d get these little one-or-two-line ideas. Which I would write down, one Post-it at a time. And here we are.