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            Since my last post, I spent the majority of June back in the States to visit with family and friends. It was pretty weird.

            Essentially what happened was that over the course of the last ten months I forgot a lot of my old American life rules (Oh right, we hate carbs. Oh right, we don’t just sing and dance whenever and wherever we darn well please. Oh right, we don’t just talk to strangers. Oh right, we should always be efficient and busy. Oh right, we don’t actually talk about God. Oh right, we are supposed to know the next 10-year span of our lives, which definitely should include very predictable, serious things (i.e. please please anything but creative writing)) as well as missed ten months worth of stuff that I needed to care about (Orange cream Twizzlers, Old Town Road, and JoBros 2.0 are all great advancements, by the way. Dad shoes as high fashion may take some more warming up to.)

            Had I become somewhat of an un-conditioned wildwoman?

            In a way, I suppose. In a way, I wish moreso that I had. Because in some moments back on Planet America, I caught things feeling a bit scattered, a bit hollow. Meaning I accidentally slipped back to buying the pretty rules, the hologram concept of who I “ought” to be once more, to be good, to be happy, to have succeeded today. As if the Finca had taught me nothing. Ha! As if.

           Now, I’m back on the wild Caribbean sands once again, and the truth stands like the red sun. No, really, there’s a time when it’s pure red. It never actually sets or goes anywhere but right now I can’t get around looking at it.

            Recently I was sitting with a fellow volunteer at our massive dinner table —we both just simultaneously busted one another for opting out of the same mandatory event in favor of staying in the house to breathe.

            “Hey, you know what I realized?” I say after a while.

            “What’s that?”

            “I realized, actually just now when I was laying on my bed, quite physically unable to change into a skirt and go to Holy Hour…that… the Finca has been the most humiliating experience of my life.”

            My friend doesn’t know what to say to that, so I continue, “and like, that’s been the best part about it.” Then follows a shared laughter that sounds like freedom.

             See, despite the fact that I’ve seen this episode before, part of me still showed up to this place last October ready to be a really “good” person here. All I had to do, my subconscious decided, was constantly be available and extroverted, disappoint no one with an unlimited “sí” generosity, always knock out pristine lesson plans for the schoolchildren in the morning and have the energy to play soccer with the resident children in the afternoon, ultimately warp “service” into some kind of Self-neglecting, self-glorifying effort to do it all as I’d gotten the sense I ought to. Step-by-step, by the rulebook. One day I’ll arrive. *Wistful look into the future* One day I’ll be…”good.” (Yes, friends, I beg you, please laugh with me about this.)

            So I tried it out, for a little, as my stubborn arse tends to do. And then I was bed-ridden for nearly a week. That process happened about six times (Currently in the sixth, actually. Greetings from bed) before it more tangibly sunk in that either I will never actually be a good person ever at all or that everyone, including me, always has been, no matter what we have done or haven’t done. Something about the heat, the HD-clear dominion of nature, the close-quarters living with a lot of people, the general material and technological lessness, and the whole being an apparently rather sickly foreigner makes it delightfully harder to pretend here. For that reason I’ll be grateful to this place until the day I die.

            No matter how high I crank up the try-hard dial, I will never fit the “ought” here. Were I to anonymously conduct a survey, I run the risk of plenty of people in my Honduran life reporting that I am, at best, a strange sort of happy idiot, and at worst, a selfish, lazy Gringa (a truly welcome contrast to the idealizations that can get flung on me in America).

            How very okay that is after all. How fun to allow none of it to stick, to feel no urge to correct it, to smile, to know we can always be Jim from The Office and break the fourth wall to look at God like, “Well at least you get me, Mate” and hope one day all the bros and sis’s will remember their invitation to the Party too. That’s the day I dream of.  And there are always those who accept me unconditionally, the ones with whom I’ve been able to form those rascally, liberating bonds that have a lot to do with not taking things so seriously, and a little to do with that thing called Love.

            In the same way, when I dug my heels in so as to not get swept away by the current of the “ought” during my Stateside time, when I looked not to the mirage of judgment–tempting as it was–but to the people, the Goodness, my own happy (though maybe culturally divergent) truths right in front of me, things deepened. Real recognizes Real. And oh, it’s a wonderful today we have here, guys.

            There’s a stubborn choice we must make in every moment that knocks our “ought” images down— in my case, moments of being a disappointing “no” sayer, a frequently immobile ill person, a grammatically inelegant Spanish speaker, a teacher who’s a little too forgiving for the local discipline norms, a girl whose hair, skin, and stomach haven’t matched a beauty standard in months, a community member who cannot hide the fact that she cannot in fact do it all—to not despair that we don’t fit the “good person, good life” template, but rather to laugh with God, shouting joyously from the rooftops: “WOOHOO YES, I AM ODD AND UNIMPRESSIVE!!!” What sweet relief to get that one off our chests.

            A secret: I think that’s where real life begins.

            I think on the other end of embracing “I’m odd and unimpressive” is the genesis of any truly alive human being. Because you can only really be free when you aren’t afraid to let go of your shiny, transient “ought.”

          This is what purifies the tiresome gunk away. From here we no longer act in accordance to a prototype we’ve seen before, but rather in accordance with Creation itself. God Himself now moves us in the new and natural flight we were created for, and we don’t get to be the ones who judge it “good” or “bad” this time. We act not to prove ourselves to the world, but to love it. And sometimes we realize the world doesn’t need us to act at all, but rest in the knowledge that there’s a good Higher Power that’s got this.

            I feel the freedom of Marvin, the fisherman who introduces himself as his crew spreads their net out in the sea before us. “Girls, this is how we Garifuna people been living for hundreds of years! We are a people who live close to the land, day by day. And it’s a good life.” This strikes some ancient chord in me. A life off the land. Working just to live, not striving, just enjoying. Odd and unimpressive. Happy, human, and good.

            I join Grandma Bartoszewicz at the family barbecue, perched in her patio chair, with nothing to prove through debate or cornhole competition. She simply smiles and says, “Oh, I just love you all so much.” I realize that’s our natural state.

            I listen to Grandma Steiner as she tells me she’ll gladly pass a day with her hands in the dirt of her garden or in the piecrust dough of her kitchen. After ordering biscuits and gravy at the healthy millennial breakfast joint we’re dining in, she tells me of the poker nights she hosts and says that the best part of being 84 is “84 years of just a good life, Ally.”

            I laugh with my band of tiny five year-olds. Tiny five year-olds are almost entirely lacking of useful skills, yet are prodigies of, as Merton says, “cast[ing] awful solemnity to the winds, and join[ing] in the general dance.” That, I realize, is an eternal kind of skillset.

            I’m sitting in the story that Ruthie serves us at the dinner table. Her late youth minister stands before a congregation that has been charismatically praying for the healing of his cancer. He is hairless bones with a protruding plastic tube, and he tells them with undeniable peace, “Thank you, guys, but you know… I am perfectly alright, whether I am miraculously cured or not.” Also an eternal skillset.

            I’m a stream from this living water: Could Jesus have been ultimate witness to the fact that Love will always have the last word around here, if he had gotten all caught up in “Oh, but I ought not disappoint everyone’s expectations of the buff, kingly, gold-plated expectations of a Messiah!”?

            Of course not.

            And so I too observe myself, as I slowly give her permission to like carbs, to sing as she pleases, to talk to “strangers” on the bus, to name the the taboos we all want to talk about anyways. To say “no” sometimes, and happily, guiltlessly sit among trees, or sleep. To do yoga in a Catholic compound and know it’s the same God. To be the eccentric teacher who declares every Wednesday a holiday so that Kínder can spend a chunk of the day surprising another class with a massive scribbly card, off-key song, and clumsy dance because she thinks that matters too. To unabashedly say, “God’s running this one, not me,” to the relatives who ask about long-term plans—because let’s face it, He’s really the only one who knows what “good” looks like anyways. To indulge in that silly “writing” thing she seems to just keep doing anyways…

            To let people see something other than a hologram. To give them that chance to remember for themselves.

            To love all as is.

            Come this December, I will be on American turf once more, indefinitely, and I really want to hold myself accountable this time around, guys. So I think I’m going to get some “I am odd and unimpressive” bumper stickers printed, and then put one on whatever car I’m driving, as well as on my water bottle, travel mug, bathroom mirror, laptop, phone, keys, sunglasses, toothbrush, pen, fork, forehead, etc. so that neither you nor I is ever fooled again.

            The Kindergarten classroom of Centro de Educación San Pedro sits in a place where anyone who is in the library, the teachers’ lounge, or the principal’s office can hear everything. This includes, but is not limited to: the angelic lulls when each of my five year-olds is fully committed mind, body, and soul to his/her respective Lincoln Log pile, the clamorous transition into lets-throw-some-Lincoln-Logs-at-the-ceiling-fan time, the random shrieks from the kid who doesn’t know why he’s shrieking either, the seemingly endless simultaneous appeals beginning with “Profaaa”(to tie shoes, to call out the latest puncher, to hear what they brought for merienda, to listen to the story about the frog that was in their aunt’s bed last night), the time the bookshelf fell over when Tomás climbed up to get the toy airplane on top (Tomás lives on, not flattened, merely shaken, praise God), the strum of the uke, the rich bonn of the steel drum, the time I taught the second part of the Spanish “heads, shoulder, knees, and toes” as “eyes and sheep and mouth and nose” (and the poor lil guys all just kinda went with it), the soft operatic vibrato I use in order to avoid my own shrieking when there are tiny headlocks and wrestling matches at my ankles, and in the earliest days, the one or two times I truly yelled.

            The Kindergarten classroom of Centro de Educación San Pedro sits in a place where no one in the library, the teacher’s lounge, or the principal’s office would ever assume it was a room of perfect people. But if they stepped inside, and stayed long enough, they might just see a miracle.

            I think it’s around day 24 of school—probably after one of the mornings I lost my patience and yelled and would soon be sent Larygitis the Great Pacifier once more—when I cross paths with the principal of the school, who gives me a warm chuckle, the saintly nonjudgmental soul she is. With a pat on the back, she says, “Profa Ally… y Sus Terribles,” as if all she’d heard from her office (and, as established, she definitely heard it all) was her storyboard pitch for a novel, and she’s already envisioning a cover page.

            I chuckle right back. “Ah, sí. Sus Terribles Preciosos.” Ah, yes. Her Precious Terribles.

            “Pero mejor cada día, no?” But it’s better each day, right?

            “Sí. Verdad. Verdad. Mejor cada día. ” Yes. True, true. Better every day.

                        Though still very much a neophyte in this teaching world, I was no longer, praise God, the same Kindergarten teacher I was after day 6. That one who could barely get the kids out the front gate before the frustrated tears started flowing. Who sat by Enrique the security guard, as he wisely but to a very non-receptive audience kept repeating, “Oh Ally, Ally. I told you it was going to take a special patience. I told you.”

…..

            Patience. Not so much the wait, but moreso the acting now with the utter trust that it’ll play out as it ought to, that the victory song incessantly sings its fanfare on some plane that transcends all that tries to tell you otherwise in this world.

            So you quiet down to hear its melody, act as that Victor prompts you to. No matter how crazy it feels.

…..

                  After Day 6, the puffy-eyed Profa Ally walks away from Enrique the security guard, back to her classroom, and makes a Valentine card for every one of her students instead of napping on the floor or resigning or giving every utterly objectively adorable five year-old a 2-week suspension. All of which seem like fair options.

                Starting with the girl who keeps robbing markers from my desk and scribbling on the wall: “Isabela is kind and creative and I’m so grateful she’s in this class.”

              The boy who scaled the feeble bookshelf and keeps sucker-punching everyone: “Tomás is full of spirit and intelligence. He has an incredibly pure heart.”

            The girl who rallied half the class for an exodus to the playground in the middle of my well-planned-out colors game, who consistently knocks down all the block towers of the blameless quiet kids who don’t provoke anyone: “Sonia is a leader in our classroom. She is intelligent and she is kind.”

           As far as I remember, these weren’t written with a smile, at least at first. Yet something beyond my petty, tired thoughts knew that I was writing truths, what needed to be said. And Peace found me once more as I remembered these kids as they are.

                        I sent the notes home with the precious terribles the next day, with the instructions that they have their parents read them out loud.

            The next morning I preceded blocks time by dramatically announcing each student’s name, with a drumroll and a radio voice.One by one, I called out their gifts, expressed their important place in our class, thanked them for coming. I asked each stand up, and then prompted the rest to give a fuerte round of applause to each and every announcee. Quickly they warmed up to the strangeness of the production.

          And though I had yelled before and though I’m a second-language, grammatically questionable, kinda unqualified profa when you get right down to it, at the end of the wee ceremony, Julián calls out, “¿¡Y la Profa Ally?!” so I stand up and receive an applause only a baffling-ly loving God would ever allow me to deserve.

…..

             June, 2016. Profa Ally, three summers ago. For the sake of letting you all in on a secret. Father Joe, the tiny old Italian priest, sits down with me for lunch in the midst of my orientation at the St. Louis Center. Amidst all the policies and paperwork and “behaviors” and seemingly impossible task of being the primary caretaker of a unit of young men with disabilities, he speaks stillness into my cerebral control-freak storms: “I know everyone makes this place out to be so hard. But the trick with our kids… is to let them know you love them.”

             Let them know you love them.

…..

             It gets crazier, one might say. Profa Ally, Day 25. Peace also prompts me to abandon my original popsicle-stick-in-colored-cups “behavior management” strategy completely, and replace it with a lot more affirmation. I begin repeating “Somos amables,” We are kind, such an obnoxious quantity of times that now I can at any moment say, “¿Somos qué?” (We are what?) and there will be at least a 75% response rate of, “¡¡¡AMABLES!!!”

             I reward particularly kind moments with the blessed magic- adhesives-sent-from-above we call stickers.

           As for the particularly unkind moments, which still happen a lot, we remind ourselves to breathe. (Particularly, I remind myself to breathe.) We are….amables.

           “Mírame,” I’ll say gently as I kneel to Sara’s altitude. Look at me. “You are kind.” That hasn’t changed, even though you forgot it, disregarded every instruction, and crumbled Lina’s Rainbow Fish project. “I believe that completely, you know that?”

             Usually, eventually, they’ll meet my eyes. Eventually they’ll nod. On a good day, Sara turns to Lina and says she is sorry. On a less ideal one, I’ll tell Lina, “I’m sorry this happened. You don’t deserve it. Watch, we can make your project even better than it was.” Both forget about the conflict in about fifteen seconds.

            Sonia steals Tomas’ blocks and Tomás puts her in a headlock, so we step back, we breathe, we remind ourselves who we are, and then at recess I catch Tomás gleefully helping push Sonia on the swing. Two smiles of kids who were never bad.

            Julián is having a particularly tough time not sucker-punching anyone who invades his bubble today, so I take his hand and lead him just out of the classroom to speak some Truth into him, so he bites my finger, which totally catches me off guard, even though in hindsight I probably should have seen that coming, so I call out in a bad British accent to my Kiwi friend in the teacher’s lounge “Charlie bit me!” and I’m able to smile at Julián in a way that he knows I hold no guilt over him, though his face displays full-on shit-I-just bit-the-Profa mode, and then five minutes later he’s happily coloring and offering genuine compliments about the crayoning abilities of Mariana. Kind words of a kid who was never bad.

            When I ask my five year-olds, “¿Quién nos ama?” (Who loves us?) there’s about a 95% success rate of the response “¡¡¡DIOS!!!” (GOD!!!!)

            “Sí. Y Profa Ally tambien,” I’ll add. (Yes. And Profa Ally does too.) “¿Ustedes saben eso, verdad? (You guys know that, right?)

            “¡¡SÍ!!”

…..

            The Kindergarten classroom of Centro de Education San Pedro sits in a place where all of the teachers and students in grades 1 through 6 must walk by it on their way to the front gate. This means that—given that my brain isn’t a little pile of ashes from the morning and I do in fact have the luxury of leaving the door open— my prep periods after I’ve said adios to the tiny people for the morning and before I say hello to first grade English are often scattered with visitors. Chats of weekend plans, with touching my ukulele and steel drum without asking me, with impromptu photoshoots, with planned ukulele lessons, with confirming that the rumors of my famous stash of American pencil grips left behind from the last Kinder teacher are indeed true/ coincidentally having the complaint Profaa my hand hurts when I write, and with simple, “Hola Profa!” pop-ins.

            One day a fifth grader swings by and offers her sympathies based on her interpretation of the Kinder situation. “¿Usted anda en relajo con los de Kinder, no?”

            In the rural Honduran colloquial, this translates more or less to “You operate in mayhem with those Kinder kids, huh?” but “relajo” in other contexts–or perhaps merely other perspectives–can also mean peace, or tranquility. Kind of like standing in the midst of what seems like mayhem, and just knowing that you need not despair. Strumming the ukelele during the thunderstorm. Giving a double hug to two five year-olds about to kick one another in the noses. Loosening your grip on needing your class to walk in perfect lines. Handing over the illusion of control, trusting one day it’ll all fall away and Love will have the final, eternal say.

            Sometimes what looks like utter chaos (and yes, still often feels like it) is actually what I now think is the richest part of my job. I love that the first part of Kinder’s morning assembly has become a huddle where everyone lets me know how they’re doing, tells me about the snake they saw on the way to school, confirms that they saw me running yesterday, informs me on the latest Chupacabra sighting. Or how we learn about the letter C by making imaginary cometas (kites), running until we trip over ourselves to launch them, and “flying” them out in the grass to the amused bewilderment of more dignified onlookers. How we are all perfectly comfortable parading through the library, belting out about the maravilloso love of God. How if a visitor comes to the classroom or the playground these days, the response is less frequently hiding in shyness and more frequently yelling, “¡¡Buenos Dias!!” as they stumble over one another into bear hug formation. I think it is hilarious and delightful that in the middle of my dramatic reading of Green Eggs and Ham:

Julián: *indicates* You have a zit on your face, Profa.

Profa: Yes.

Julián: I pop it?

Profa: No.

            Or, in the middle of coloring in the “B” worksheet:

Mariela: Profa, profa, profa!

Profa: Yes, Mariela?

Mariela: You have no boobs.

Profa: Yes, Mariela.

            And though very rarely in the moment itself, I actually love that at least twenty times a week I find myself in the middle of class at a total loss as to what to do, likely with closed eyes and yoga breathing, on the brink of wanting to call it all quits, fully aware of my long list of unqualifications, unable to really do anything other than say, “Oh Good Lord, I really need your help. Lead the way. Show me how you see this. Show me Your miracles working beneath the surface.” Because without fail, He does. And I recognize that it was never in my hands. That I can go on trusting unconditional love and that will be just crazy enough.

            I can love sitting down with the five year-olds during blocks time, making phone call with the rectangle pieces and being the only customer passing through their boat shops. I can love that Tomás gets so excited that it’s blocks time that he actually falls off his chair and breakdances in a circle. (Though I’m still struggling to love that Tomás’ parents give him coffee every morning). I can love that when the time comes for Prayer Intentions of the Day, it becomes a cacophony of the names of every single one the Kinder scholars’ family members for the past seven generations. I can love that my post-lunch coffee, novel, and nap will be extra glorious and absolutely guilt-free.

            I can love the relajo in the chaos sense, even on the days where it seems like no one is going to follow a single instruction, because it doesn’t alter the relajo in the Peace sense I know, and of course, love. I can love that we are just a band of humans–the little guys in a big new world, led and loved but certainly not controlled by the strange, tall, clumsy, soft-spoken Gringa–slowly finding perfect freedom in this place against all odds.

…..

            Profa Ally, the Saturday after day 51. I’m next to Enrique the security guard again, but the eyes are dry this time, minus all the sweat. He’s accompanying fellow volunteers Ruthie, Anna, Dayelle, Olivia, and I up the mountain to the home of Sonia, where we’ve been invited for lunch. My first time officially visiting a student’s home.

            Her mother, Maria, fries a chicken for the occasion. Her dad, Paulo, buys the 3-liter Coca Cola. Every plastic chair from their one-room home and a tablecloth-ed fold-out table occupies the entirety the front porch. Sonia and her older brother sit on the railing, eager to show us the iguana that Bear the dog (…or is it Dog the bear? I ask with feigned horror) caught this morning, that they put out of its misery and tied up in preparation for dinner this evening. Later by the outdoor fogón Jamison climbs the tree to show us the resident baby birds. We have an impromptu belting out of the “Yo tengo un gozo en mi alma” (I’ve got a joy in my soul) song with the cousins and neighbor kids who wander in too, my eyes drinking up the towering green palmed mountains all the while, and Maria laughs with/at me, “Still holding classes, are you, Profa?” And all I can think is:

            This is a beautiful scene. This makes absolutely no sense.

            That’s when you get quiet again. The victory song is still going strong. Something beyond this place tells you, “From here it does.”

……

“And so we know and rely on the love God has for us. God is Love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them.” 1 John 4:16

 

 

Located outside a small coastal town of Honduras, Finca del Niño (Farm of the Child) is home to 26 children brought here for purposes of orphanhood, abuse, neglect, and other circumstances of compromised safety. Also on the property is a medical clinic and school, with open doors to both those living in the Finca and in the surrounding villages. I’ve committed to living here and working as an international volunteer for at least a year and a half.

 

Why do ants bite?

Every once in a while things like going for runs and doing abdominal exercises at 4:30 in the morning sound like a really good idea to me. I wanted to lead with that, to provide an early exit from this post in case it qualifies me as an unsuitable narrator in your eyes and you’d prefer spending your time reading the blog of someone bit more practical.

 

So my first Wednesday here at Finca del Niño, when the seasoned missionary Kassidy asked me if I wanted to join her and some of the older girls from the Finca for a 4:30AM run and ab workout the next day, I said a silent apology to my sleep schedule and gave my “absolutely.” And as a messy procession of bouncing iPhone lights and headlamps, we did our dark-and-early laps around the soccer field. The milky way was actually visible. The Caribbean, maybe 30 yards away, tried to direct my breathing with each wave. Roosters cock-a-doodle-dooed as if they’d mistaken the early emergence of the pale Gringa for the sunrise.

 

The run was good, fast enough to justify a shower but slow enough where you don’t start to resent your companions, and it almost felt like college again. We formed a circle, busted out some squats and lunges, and Kassidy announced the commencement of “8-Minute Abs.”

 

And that, my friends, is when I planked in an anthill.

 

I’m not sure I can linguistically do their work justice, but I’ll say this: The speed with which the entire colony of fire ants rallied around the cause was truly extraordinary. Within three seconds it felt like someone was branding an entire Shakespearian play on my arms and legs.

 

According to a quick Google search I did later during my weekly WiFi, fire ants bite and then sting anything they perceive as a threat. I must’ve looked like quite the Godzilla. I tried to brush them all off, removed myself from their angry mob, finished the plank a little bit afuera del círculo, may or may not have shed some silent tears.

 

When we got back to the house, I stopped itching for a second to catch my reflection in the mirror. It was worse than I thought. More thorough than I thought. If I looked like Godzilla to the ants before I couldn’t imagine what they’d think now. I was horrified, and increasingly itchy, but then I met my own eyes and something else took over… I smiled.

 

“Guys, I look like a pink pickle,” I announced a bit later to some other missionaries.

 

And there’s something about that moment, of our laughing despite an objectively ugly reflection, of sympathizing for something objectively uncomfortable, of seeing something beyond it. The knowledge that, despite it all, I was absolutely fine by some measure beyond our own. The itchy pink pickle skin would eventually heal and fade away, but that peace and that freedom that allowed me to still smile nonetheless never would. And I didn’t have to wait to access that.

 

 

How do we look, and still see?

 

I’m no zoological expert here, but when Google said ants only bite/sting out of fear, it was a very “of course” kind of moment. The ants weren’t enacting a plot to cause Ally all-encompassing searing pain—they were just terrified and acting for their own survival. In a similar way, but in less of a so readily “of course” kind of way, I will always stubbornly believe that no human wakes up saying, “I’m going to be a cruel, difficult person today because that is who I am and that is deeply fulfilling to me.”

 

When we act (or react) in fear it’s because, whether we’re conscious of it or not, fear’s convinced us it’s our best option. That we ought to ignore that deeper calling to something better if we want to make it out alright. That we need to attack in order to maintain any semblance of control. But the de-escalation of violent cycles can happen only when we finally accept the storm-calming truth that we are all on the same team here, the one that can in fact witness to that something better.

 

We can always look around and find a lot that’s wrong—the human rights abuses, the shootings, the wars, the discriminations, the gangs, the poverty, our own shortcomings—and I don’t think we should look away from those things. But I wonder what happens when we change our sight. When we don’t deny that these realities exist in our world, but instead of adding more attack to the equation we dig deeper, plant ourselves a bit firmer into the source of hope that isn’t of this world. Of a God that will always carry us through.

 

When we look into the eyes of whoever we’re perceiving as weak, guilty, wounded (bitten), difficult, mean, arrogant, horrible, and we see something beyond this world of fear and its shifting byproducts: the very face of God.

 

Parts of orientation here have been heavy. Listening to the realities of the lives of kids who live here, confronting my own realities and then immediately turning around to play soccer with the kids, was admittedly, humblingly, jarring. Fear’s put up a good fight. But it never lasts. It never gets the last word. Because Rosa is open up the field waiting for that pass. Because Sofia wants to show you her photo album with all the friends she’s grown up with here. Because later, at the evening prayer service, Marco offers up an intention for the incarcerated. Again. Because he knows the truth of hope: God’s cheering for us all, right now.

 

Why are you still eating the table?

 

I’ve been officially cast in the role of the next Kindergarten Teacher here at our Centro de Education San Pedro. It’s a privilege, a dream, a joy, and, as I’ve realized at times during this shadowing period, often all of my biggest fears dancing onstage at once.

 

For example, this past week, the very talented current teacher Melanie asked that I read a book to the class before recess. There’s a whole lot of temptation to see Kindergarten as a teacher-versus-all match when you look up from the book you’re reading to them, all vulnerable in your second language, and see one girl with her face on the floor and her shoes on the table (because, comfort), one boy head-locking another boy (but they’re both laughing about it?), a third boy ripping the edging off the nice donated table (occasionally pausing to admire his work and put his entire mouth around it), another girl talking to no one in particular about nothing in particular in a particular volume your reading voice gets hopelessly lost in. I was shaken, but eventually found the calm to wait, to regain their attention, and finish the book.

 

Later I was sitting next to the boy who had been chowing down on the table. He was crying because Melanie had moved his clothespin, with lots of reason, into the red section of the behavior chart. I could tell he wanted to do better. This had so much potential to be a valuable learning moment. But then, in the height of his distress, his hands absentmindedly grabbed at the table edging once more….and then, mid sob, his mouth found the edging again. Dude.

 

I had the question translated in my head and everything: ¿Por qué todavia estás comiendo la mesa?? But then it occurred to me that Juan Manuel probably honestly had no idea why, at the end of the day, he was in fact still eating the table. He didn’t wake up saying, “I’m going to eat the table today and try to pick some fights with my classmates and refuse to color the ‘T’ worksheet and make the new teacher question everything because that is who I am and that is deeply fulfilling to me.”

 

So I asked God for some guidance, and switched up the approach.

 

“Juan Manuel,” I said gently, tapping his shoulder. “Yo creo en ti.” I believe in you.

 

It wasn’t immediate, but I knew he heard me. And I’ll never know if it was what I said that did it, but something shifted in the kid after that. Within minutes, he was coloring the “T” worksheet with astonishing in-the-lines precision, proudly showing Melanie and me the finished product. With the extra time remaining, he took El Arbol Generoso off the shelf (aka The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein if you’d like to cry along with me) and sat next to me. “Léemelo, Profa.” Teacher, read it to me.

 

If I don’t have the faith to look past fear and see as God does, as Jesus does, I will fold as a teacher. But if I can turn my eyes into the chaos, and then beyond it, to find the God who’s already transcended it, the realization that we always have been on the same team, I might just have a chance.

One final question: How do we save the world?

 

Oh goodness child, don’t stress yourself out! We aren’t here to save the world—God’s already taken care of that. Let’s just approach our lives, our selves, and each other in a way that witnesses to the light that shines beyond this world. Look in the mirror and smile. Pray for the incarcerated. Welcome the stranger and all their messy backstory. Believe in people. Harness the hope that fear cannot ever fully snuff out and we’ll realize we’re all on the same team, being cheered on by the same God.

That kind of hope doesn’t make sense to the world but it’s the realest thing I’ve ever known.

 

I’ll hand this conclusion over to the maestro of this mode of living:

 

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”  -Jesus     ( John 16:33 )

 

 

 

 

Hey kiddos!

 

Yesterday was Día del Niño (Day of the Child) here in Guatemala, which means the streets of Antigua were filled with music and kaleidoscopic decorations to honor the invaluable art of simply being a kid. To remind us of all the ways kids can be our leaders and our teachers (in, ya know, frivolous things like being open, loving, imaginative, etc…)

 

With only a few days left before I take off to work at Finca del Niño, this little life party could not have come at a more perfect time. But celebration of childlike whimsy ought to be an everyday kind of festivity, don’t you think?

 

THAT BEING SAID, please accept this invitation to have your own Día del Niño today!

 

Here are some ideas to get the fiesta started for the children in your life, and for the childlike spirit you can never, and should never try to, extinguish:

 

1. When you recognize gifts in a kid, speak them–not with expectations, but affirmation. Things like, “You are a leader,” “You are patient,” “You have a beautiful voice,” “You know how to brighten people’s days,” “Your Power Ranger moves are mad impressive” can be the truth about themselves they’ve been needing to hear.

 

2. The next time you’re talking to a child, listen without an ounce of condescension. 

“Imagine the child is your teacher. Let her tell you about the drawing or the toy, or where the story goes next. Let her show you her view of the world, in her own words. Follow her lead. Be willing to be silly, and let go of trying to direct the kid. You ask the ‘why?’s and the discover the world as she directs the kid in you.” -Bert and John Jacobs, The Life is Good Book

 

3. Buy some bubbles and don’t use them sparingly. Bonus points if you’re in public.

 

4. Say, “Screw it, let’s go get some ice cream.”

 

5. Talk to strangers, and more than “How are you?” Dig deeper. Ask them the significance of the logo on their shirt, the best knock-knock joke they’ve ever heard, or actually sincerely how their day is going. Speak from the randomness of your heart. Rediscover curiosity.

 

6. Make homemade cards for the people in your life.

Example: This one was from 7 year-old Kiara, the bright, sweet poet (from the family–mom Nicole, dad Eric, and sister Adelina– who sold their house in Seattle and are coming to live at the Finca for two and a half years!) I was rather stuck in my own head on the day she gave it to me, and it truly turned things around:

 

 

7. Sing. A lot. Create with abandon.

“It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child.” -Pablo Picasso

 

8. Cheer kids on, whether they are playing a sport or showing you the play they wrote themselves. Suspend your opinions and be their biggest fan. Give them the space to discover where their heart is.

 

9. Try something completely new.

 

10. Call up some friends. Make forts in the living room. Play “Would You Rather.” Have a water gun fight, rent a mechanical bull, create your own occasion.

 

11. Take in your surroundings and evaluate playground potential. Shopping cart as a skateboard? Curb as a balance beam? The car-windows-down breeze as a flight simulation? Dashboard as a drum set? Break room as a dance floor?

 

12. Be aware of your individual vulnerability/dependence, but also of the strength you find in community and in faith.

 

But Jesus said, “Let the children come to me. Don’t stop them! For the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to those who are like these children.”

Matthew 19:14

 

 

Your invitation is this: Celebrate kids. So, by extension, celebrate exactly who you are.

 

Feliz Día del Niño!!

 

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:

 

1. 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.

Hii! Truth be told, guys, I don’t really know where any of this is going. But I think that’s actually a very good thing. I’ll come back to that. For now, I’ll try to lay out where I’m coming from with all of this, though it’s the type of spiritual jello that’s near impossible to nail down with words. But it’s worth a shot, no? It appears that I’ve already mixed metaphors and inadvertently called this post a spiritual jello shot, so I’d say we’re off to a good start.

Here’s the scene that’s been in my head a lot lately, begging that I write it down:

There’s a room, and it’s grown a bit darker over time. In it sits a whole assortment of characters—each has been told in various ways that they are bad, inherently wrong in their existence. Perhaps they made a mistake, and now believe it’s who they are. Perhaps they have a limp, a lisp, a bald spot, a slow metabolism. A job that inspires invisibility treatment. A family who doesn’t want them anymore. A mom who never approved. A disability. A disease. An ineptitude for mathematics. An ineptitude for athletics. A long list of polite rejections. A grieving or post-trauma season that they haven’t gotten over yet, long after everyone said they should “get over it.” Age. Acne. Asthma. Cellulite. Infertility. Impractical talents. Impractical dreams. The wrong color of skin. The wrong number of toes. The wrong width of waist. The wrong length of skirt. The wrong relationship. The wrong religion. The wrong language.

A whole group of people who have been told that they are the world’s “have-nots,” and who believe it.

But then this guy walks into the room. He turns the light on, looks around, sees everyone, and sees absolutely nothing wrong.

“This is perfect. Let’s have a party.”

Which inspires some raised eyebrows. Someone speaks up, “Sir, we can’t party. We are have-nots.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“Well uh, we’re just bad. We’re mistakes. We’re not as good as the haves.”

The guy shakes his head. “I’m afraid I still don’t know what you’re talking about. Because I’m throwing a haves-only party and you’re the first ones who were able to receive my invitations.”

Then he found a case of Dasani, and suddenly it was 1992 Screaming Eagle Cabarnet. One of the kids in the room had a sleeve of saltines, and suddenly it was twenty large pizzas. There was some crying. But then there was singing. There was dancing. And they celebrated exactly who they were.            

The End.

Actually, it’s the beginning.

What happens when you look honestly at yourself, exactly as you are, and recognize that despite all you think is horrible and ugly and wrong, you were considered a “have” by God from the start?

My trip to the party

Once upon a time, I tried to wear the facade of a worldly “have,” mainly because I cared a lot about what people thought and was really terrified of being a have-not. And I was born into a position where this charade, the status, the power, the look, the *ideal life plan,* the “perfection” was in my reach. I could act like I had it all under my control, and people believed it.

Of course deep down I knew that I didn’t. I was desperately trying to uphold something that doesn’t exist.  I was blindly following rules because I was afraid of other fearful people’s opinions and so the real stuff–good and bad– couldn’t get through. That isn’t happiness.

My story from there is a string of situations that basically exposed all the very humanity I was afraid would make me a have-not. I don’t claim this as a pretty scene. With every blow I became so exhausted and empty from trying to cover it up that eventually I was like “Alright, God! You got me! I do in fact have all the makings of a ‘have-not’ and I don’t know what I’m doing and I could really use your help!” Thus bringing me into that state I mentioned at the beginning of this sprawling post: Truth be told, I don’t really know where this is going.

That admission was terrifying for me at first, but then it became liberation. My channel was clear. Help showed up. I could find joy in all the places I thought were hopeless.  Life is good when the façade of who I think you want me to be is gone, and I’m a kid who doesn’t pretend to be an expert at this life game, who gets dirty and makes mistakes and doesn’t count calories and talks to strangers and sings and gets paint in her hair. When I’m taking risks in the name of love because no outcome could be worse than living in fear. Every *ideal plan* I could ever concoct looks like total cliché poppycock compared to what happens when I hand the reigns over to the quiet moment-by-moment dictates of God, of Love, of the Universe, and don’t worry about the outcome.

From there, anything is possible.

From there, there aren’t good and bad people, haves and have-nots, “them” and “me.” We’re one. So there’s no use judging.

From there, I may not be liked by all, but I can be seen, and thus recognize that I am deeply, radically loved. And that’s where everything starts to shift.

It’s from that state where I’m finally open enough be able to receive the invitation to the party.

I owe the people in my life who are bravely dancing the dance despite those telling them they shouldn’t—the strange gorgeous genuine shameless loving types—so much. They led me into the party. (I hope you know who you are!) I owe the main guy who walked into the room and reminded us all that according to some other measure, there’s nothing wrong…Well, I owe him everything. Truly everything. (I know you know who you are! @Jesus @God)

Which brings us here.

There’s a one-way ticket to Antigua, Guatemala with tomorrow’s date and my name on it, and I’m so very excited, guys. But I’d like to get something straight. After language school, I move to Honduras and my job title at Farm of the Child will officially become “missionary” and eventually “teacher”… but I’d really really prefer to be called student. Or maybe even just an adult kid. Because when people aggrandize it as this big favor I’m swooping in and doing for the poor orphaned children, I gag a little. No no no no no.  I’m not helping anyone by thinking that “I” am helping the “them,” because that’s reinforcing the whole haves/have-nots BS we need to de-bunk here, am I right? I’m still re-learning this dance after all. I’m just hanging out with my fellow humans, and probably sharing some English language.  (I’m really excited to get to the part where I tell them that thorough, tough, through, thought, and though all sound completely different. I think that’ll go well)

Any position we hold can be service, just so easily as it cannot. The Finca kids and I will be most helpful to one another by reminding ourselves, and then each other, that there’s something bigger than our worldly circumstances and it’s possible to be happy, to love each other. That I’m joyful even though I’m that stuttering-white-peliroja-fish-out-of-water, who does yoga and plays the ukulele very imperfectly, even though I’m just a kid who is far from an expert at this life game. And despite their traumas, their burdens, their day-to-day struggles of just growing up, it’s a joy possible for them too. That’s where we grow and re-learn the dance again, way more than from people’s efforts to “fix” us.

I guess, if we must call me “teacher,” I think back to the many teachers in my life who pointed me toward the party and say: If I can be the eyes that see each of these kids, like really see them, and they eventually are led to see for themselves that they are not indeed “have-nots” after all, I cannot think of a higher God-given honor. I’ll do my best. We’ll see. I’ll love them either way.

Edwina Gateley wrote a really awesome reflection I read for a theology class in Notre Dame (You’ve officially found the one nerd who hoards class readings), and I think this quote rings true here: “True compassion is not about being one with one’s own social cultural group, but it is being able to see and know oneself as connected to every human person without reservation. The words of Jesus, ‘I am in you and you are in me’ became gloriously real and alive on society’s edges. That experience itself is magic on the margins.”

And while we’re quoting people who say it better than I can, here’s another one: “In the presence of love, the laws that govern the normal state of affairs are transcended.” -Marianne Williamson, A Return to Love

The Haves-Only Party is not a gated community. All are welcome. Come as you are, whatever that looks like, and eventually you’ll see in a new light. There’s nothing wrong. There are only Haves. And we’re all in the same dance.

(“Dancing Figures” by Keith Haring)