This project, Colma, started a few months ago when my friend John Murphy told me he was working on an EP of original music. Murph plays for a jazz fusion band called Dynamo (if you haven’t heard them, I’m very sorry), and the group has a VERY distinct sound. If I threw out a hundred words to describe their sound, nothing close to ‘folk’ or ‘Americana’ would ever pop out of my mouth. So it came as a huge surprise when I found out Murph’s originals gravitated toward the acoustic, the sensitive, and the deceptively simple.
For several weeks, we e-mailed back and forth little ideas for songs–he would send me a riff, I would send him a section of lyrics to see if the tone was anywhere near what he was looking for. And then occasionally we would sit in the same room and try the two halves together and tweak the details. Thus went the process for the first two songs, “Every Time You Go” and “San Francisco, 1906”.
For the third song, however, the process looked very different. I remember seeing a quote on Facebook one day. It was posted by my old Houston church, Ecclesia, and it was from an old favorite guest speaker, Gideon Tsang. “I don’t think we’re called to change the world,” it said. “God is changing the world, and has been. We’re called to find our place in the garden, and tend it faithfully.”
I had had one lyric swirling in my head for a few days, but it didn’t make any sense to me. I just loved how it fit with the guitar part. When I saw that quote, though, it all came together. This was going to be a song about how we navigate the world’s craziness without letting it destroy us.
So within a few minutes, I had written the first verse and a chorus (save a minor tweak we made later, because Murph said it sounded too much like a Carrie Underwood song when I used a certain phrase. Oops). And here’s what it said:
Sunrise, you’re sittin’ on eighty acres, lookin’ out at your quiet town
Can’t drown out the voice on the televesion, says we’re all on a steep slope down
Right now, you can’t put the two together: nightmares and American dreams
Right now, the problem’s gettin’ bigger and the whole world’s goin’ batshit crazy
Hold on, it won’t happen like lightning, keep workin’ in the garden
Stay true, and the weight of the world ain’t meant to fall on you
This song is meant to address various perspectives on the question of what to do with a world that is going utterly insane. If you’re offended by my vocabulary in this song, I do apologize, but I also dare you to disagree after watching or reading the news for a few days. The world has been and is going batshit crazy.
Sometimes, we feel a pull to go out and save the world. We go on mission trips so we can feel like we’re fixing things. And anyone who’s done further research into the topic of mission trips knows it’s not that simple… Short term missions can be like a hit and run and, if done incorrectly, can cause more harm than good. Side note: I love mission trips. There are plenty of people who do them right. But that doesn’t mean all mission trips are effective or carried out with the right spirit or follow through.
Other times, we’re so overwhelmed by what’s going on in the world that we bury our heads in the sand and refuse to hear what’s going on. It’s generally unintentional; it’s a defense mechanism. You know you should be moved by hearing about some tragedy but your emotions automatically shut off and distance you from the problem. How could we possibly feel the weight of all the world’s tragedy and still manage to do anything at all?
Some people teach a simplistic viewpoint. They offer a tidy answer to all the world’s problems. Their answer is often presented in simplistic catch phrases (or rhetoric like referring to the president as B.H. Obama). Not particularly helpful.
All in all, knowledge of the world’s problems is utterly overwhelming, and can either leave us feeling like we must personally be responsible for saving the world, or like we have no responsibility to act because the world is just too messed up and how could I ever change anything?
Both of these responses are incorrect, I believe. I think Gideon Tsang sums up beautifully how people should respond to the world, whether they’re coming from a faith perspective or not.
You were made for a purpose. You were made with likes and dislikes, skills and struggles, strengths and weaknesses that make you perfect for a unique purpose. You were placed in a place intentionally. You have met people and experienced pain and joy that make you a beautiful tool to be used for improving the world. You don’t have to fix the world on your own, but you should acknowledge your unique skill set, calling, purpose, or whatever you want to call it, and tend to your place in the garden.
I am a musician. Much of what I write is inconsequential. But some of what I write influences people, or encourages them, or helps them to experience something outside of themselves, which is a minute reflection of what life with God is like.
My friends Jessi and Hannah are starting to sell produce from their own garden. I can guarantee you they won’t end wars with their cucumbers, but I can also guarantee they will change their plot of earth for the better by carrying out their calling.
My father is a pastor. He has never led a megachurch, nor has he brought the masses to salvation. His calling might not feel glamorous, but he has faithfully tended his place in the garden for decades and I believe that his work pleases God very much. And I know firsthand what an incredible and positive influence he has on people around him because of the love he shows.
My mom and brother both work for Visa, and I promise that this is not their life passion. But they carefully tend the relationships in their lives, perform their jobs with excellence, and by very nature of approaching their piece of the puzzle with love and hard work, they are making the world a better place.
We are neither called to complacence nor to the delusion that we will personally be the world’s savior. But stay true, keep working in the garden, and trust that something bigger than you is holding this mess together.
https://abigailyork.bandcamp.com/track/bobby
Three afternoons a week, I leave my job at Panera in downtown Nashville and drive across the Cumberland River into East Nashville to babysit. The other day I looked up at the name of the bridge–the Korean War Veterans Memorial Bridge–and was struck by the irony. Here, like in so many major cities, we have a grand monument to our nation’s veterans. Yet how many of those veterans are homeless, struggling to maintain material provisions? How many did I pass on the street today? Do they ever walk across that bridge on their way to find a cool spot to avoid the heat of the day?
According to the National Coalition for Homeless Veterans, there are nearly 58,000 homeless veterans in the US on any given night. The reasons are varied, but as the NCHV explains, symptoms of PTSD and substance abuse partnered with a lack of family or other support often contribute to the situation.
Robert Franklin was one of those 57,849 men and women. Let me be the first to say: I am not qualified to tell you Robert Franklin’s story. To be honest, there might not be anyone who really knew his whole story, but I am probably the last person who deserves to tell you about Robert. I can only tell you about my interactions with him, and I can only relay my limited knowledge of his situation.
From September of 2013 to July of 2014, I lived in Houston, TX and served with a program called Mission Year. I, along with my 7 teammates, volunteered full time with a community center and a church. The church was called Ecclesia and it originally met at 2115 Taft St. Taft St. was home to a lovely coffee shop, as well as an art gallery, small tattoo parlor, offices, and worship space. In a city as hot as Houston, Taft was a miniature oasis for a variety of people, including a pretty regular group of homeless friends.
Robert would sit in Taft, drink his coffee, and work on art many days. I don’t know how long he’d been an integral part of the fabric of life at Ecclesia by the time I met him, but it was always clear that he was recognized, known, beloved in this community.
On Fridays, my team mates and I had our “sabbath” day–a day to rest in whatever sense we needed. This meant no scheduled work, no scheduled team activities, and a little freedom to explore the city if needed. My sabbaths early in the year often let me to Taft St., despite the lengthy bus ride, because the atmosphere was deliciously reminiscent of Nashville. It was there that I occasionally interacted with Robert. I remember him trying to sell me a piece of his art, once. It was a beautiful, intricate pen drawing, but I certainly couldn’t afford it. When I told him that, he said he’d draw me something else for a price I could afford. So for $5, I received a simple, abstract pen drawing that is now priceless. Some days, Robert was a shrewd salesman.
I also remember him approaching me one Friday to talk. It seemed, though, that he couldn’t find his voice. I think he wanted a cup of coffee, but it took a long time for any words to come out. Several of the people at Taft knew him much better and could tell, without many words, what he wanted to communicate. I smiled politely, not fully understanding what Robert wanted to say, but someone else interceded and asked him what kind of coffee he wanted. Some days, Robert was slow to speak.
Around Thanksgiving, Ecclesia held a feast at Taft and bussed in homeless neighbors from across the city to enjoy a buffet of home cooked food, shared around tables with other members of the church. Robert was, predictably, present at Taft that day (when didn’t I see him there?). I went outside to watch two men play chess and saw that Robert seemed very agitated. Someone who knew him better (probably Manuel) was talking to him and trying to figure out why he was angry, trying to calm him down. But Robert was clearly upset and, at one point, threw something sharp a few feet across the patio. A few men who cared for Robert stepped in to de-escalate the situation, but I know this is the one time I felt afraid of Robert. I never saw that side of him on any other day. But some days, Robert was angry.
I remember hearing stories from my friends in Houston that one very common Robert-ism was for him to make certain… off-color remarks or jokes. Many an Ecclesian later laughed fondly at some unrepeatable story he had told on this day or that. Given my newborn-deer-esque awkwardness, I’m halfway glad I never met this version of Robert, but a part of me will always wonder just exactly what things he said to make people blush as they recalled it. Some days, Robert talked like a sailor.
In February of 2013, Robert passed away. If I remember correctly, he collapsed one evening at Taft and was taken to the hospital immediately. His stay was brief, but full of visits from the many people who considered him family. I remember hearing that our friend Cameron was, if not at the moment of his passing then near to it, by his side singing hymns as he rested in the hospital.
Though I didn’t know him well, Robert’s passing affected everyone in our community in a mysterious and heavy way. No one was left untouched by his life or death, and it was only natural for me to take this abstract but dense feeling into song. I imagined Robert in heaven, the place where our earthly bodies are made whole and our true selves are restored as God intended us to be. What would that mean for Robert? I had encountered so many different versions of him in my brief time in Houston that I couldn’t tell what his whole, perfect, restored self would be like. Would he be more normal, more average, more like me? Or would he have all of his many faces, like a heavenly Picasso, simply strengthened and made bolder in the perfect iteration of each ‘personality’? “Bobby” is my attempt to explore that idea, and an avenue through which I processed the grief of his passing.
Scott the Painter made a beautiful portrait of Robert for his memorial service, and you can see it here. It is the second picture in the 2013 collection on this page: http://scottericksonart.com/studio/#!lightbox%5Bgroup%5D/1/
You can also view photos of Robert at https://www.facebook.com/rememberrobertfranklin. If you knew him, I dare you not to cry looking at these fantastic pictures. If you didn’t know him, I assure you the depth and beauty these photos show will make you wish you’d had an opportunity to meet him.
I wrote “Take It Slow” a little over 2 years ago. It was late at night and I was feeling a bit giggly over a crush. Having a simple crush was, at that point, very significant in how insignificant it felt. There’s much more to say about that, but the short version is that my heart had felt heavy for so long that I was relieved to find out it was still capable of a childish, innocent crush. I wrote the song, recorded a little GarageBand sketch to help me remember it, and didn’t touch the song for quote a while.
Over time, I realized how fed up I was with hearing popular lyrics like, “we’ve only got tonight,” or, “party like the world is ending,” etc. I’m not opposed to making the most of moments, but all these songs border on saying that we don’t need to plan ahead or take responsibility for our decisions. I had a deep desire to counteract these messages, and I realized eventually that I had already written what I wanted to say when I wrote “Take It Slow.”
When I first sat down and sang that song in my bedroom in Virginia, I don’t think I meant all the things I said–there wasn’t an actual man I had in mind for whom I was willing to wait a lifetime. But as I grew dissatisfied with the lyrics I was hearing on the radio, I realized how much I believed in what I’d written. Our world desperately needs to be reminded that the most valuable things in life are worth waiting for. Gardens grow slowly and their fruit is beautiful. Strong relationships take years to solidify and they are what make life sweet. Careers, skills, talents, they all develop over a lifetime. This long term pursuit of beautiful things (community, nature, meaningful careers, etc.) should be celebrated!
Though “Take It Slow” certainly does not encapsulate some distinct theme for the rest of the song on the album, I felt confident through the recording process that its message was the one I was most passionate about relaying. I hope that the lyrics will connect with listeners and remind them of the valuable things in life that they’ve waited for and patiently, tenderly cultivated. If you have any thoughts on the song or the album, please let me know how it makes you feel!
In February of 2013, I participated in an online community project called “February Album Writers Month” where people across the world aim to write 14 songs during the 28 days of February. I challenged myself not online to write the songs but to write them with a theme: I wrote songs about death from a variety of perspectives, not merely grief.
This song in particular is based on a very small, moving, and difficult experience I had on a mission trip during the summer of 2011 (I think it was 2011 anyway).
That summer, I went with my new church to Guatemala on a mission trip. For many previous summers I had gone to the same spot in another country and had grown comfortable with the routine and the people. This was a new experience and in many ways, it was unsatisfying because I compared it with my previous experiences. One encounter has stuck with me for years, and is the basis for a song I wrote called “Jerusalem”.
The orphanage where we were trying to serve in Guatemala was one of few, if not the only one, in the country that was equipped to care for children who were on dialysis. The week we were there, the orphanage was preparing to welcome a child who was very sick. We were told, when we asked, that they did not expect the girl to live more than a few weeks. A few of us were given the task of cleaning her room in preparation for her arrival–we needed to disinfect every surface because her immune system was so weak. It was a nearly silent task, a few of us women armed with sponges and disinfectants, wiping down every inch we could reach. The atmosphere was almost tangibly heavy with the knowledge that we were, essentially, preparing a space for a child to die with dignity and care.
I’ve never been in that situation before and I hope to never be in it again. I never saw the little girl who was coming to live in the orphanage. I can only imagine what her face looked like, what her name was, or what dreams she held in her small but infinite soul.
I also didn’t have a chance to talk about the experience while on the trip. I think it was too scary and strange for me to feel comfortable talking about, and no one else brought it up so it stayed inside for a long time. But then the time seemed right to write out some of my feelings during that February of writing songs about death.
Here are the lyrics of “Jerusalem”:
Empty walls so quiet and small surround your humble bed
Fragile feet will part these sheets, these shrouds of rosy red
No mother weeps, her child to sleep beneath the rocky ground
I try hold my quaking soul but can’t contain the sound
Sleep little baby, the sun going west says, “Slumber awaits you, sweet eternal rest.
I’ll hold you, my darling, until your sleep ends; you’ll wake up tomorrow in Jerusalem.”
Empty hands in foreign lands are all I have to give
I confess my helplessness: I cannot make you live
No story tells how funeral bells haunt the motherless child
All I can do is prepare your tomb and send you to bed with a smile
Sleep little baby, the sun going west says, “Slumber awaits you, sweet eternal rest.
I’ll hold you, my darling, until your sleep ends; you’ll wake up tomorrow in Jerusalem.”
I recorded the song using my very limited technology during Mission Year, out in the garden with the beautiful chirping birds. Please excuse the poor quality 🙂
I’ve been reflecting a LOT on the past lately. I tried to outline a comprehensive blog post and realized no one in their right mind would read for that long. So I’m gonna break my reflections down. Today I’m gonna share about why I think remembering the past is important.
You’ve probably heard the following lyric before–perhaps more often than you’d like:
Here I raise mine Ebenezer; hither by Thy help I’m come.
I talked to a friend once who hates “Come Thou Fount” because of that line; “everybody sings it, but nobody knows or cares what an Ebenezer is!” In case you have ever been confused by that line, here’s what it is. In the book of 1 Samuel in the Bible, there’s a story where the Philistines are coming after the Israelites. Samuel pleads with the Israelites to put away their false gods and cry out to the Lord alone for deliverance. They do this, God delivers them, and Samuel “sets a stone” in a certain place to commemorate what God has done for them. He calls it Ebenezer, or “The stone of help.” The forgetful Israelites need a reminder that it was GOD alone who delivered them. Throughout the Bible, we see the command to remember over and over again. Especially in Deuteronomy, God is always telling the Israelites to remember how he delivered them from Egypt, lest they forget and long for the days of captivity. So remembering the past is important because it can point us back to God. For the Israelites (and for us, I think), God’s deliverance was an integral part of their identity as a people. To remember who they were, they had to remember what He had done.
If you’ve known me for very long, I’ve probably tried to read the following quote aloud to you. It’s from C.S. Lewis’ Out of the Silent Planet. In this story, a man named Ransom has been captured and taken to a strange planet. He escapes his captors and befriends an alien species. In this excerpt, he’s talking to a friend (Hyoi) and learning about the culture on his planet. Ransom asks if Hyoi’s people (the hrossa) ever struggle with overpopulation.
‘…But why should we have more young?’
Ransom found this difficult. At last he said:
‘Is the begetting of young not a pleasure among the hrossa?’
‘A very great one, Hman. This is what we call love.’
‘If a thing is a pleasure, a hman wants it again. He might want the pleasure more often than the number of young that could be fed.’
It took Hyoi a long time to get the point.
‘You mean,’ he said slowly, ‘that he might do it not online the one or two years of his life but again?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why? Would he want his dinner all day or want to sleep after he had slept? I do not understand.’
‘But a dinner comes every day. This love, you say, comes only once while the hross lives?’
‘But it takes his whole life. When he is young he has to look for his mate; and then he has to court her; then he begets young; then he rears them; then he remembers all this, and boils it inside him and makes it into poems and wisdom.’
‘But the pleasure he must be content only to remember?’
‘That is like saying, “My good I must be content to eat.”‘
‘I do not understand.’
‘A pleasure is full grown only when it is remembered. You are speaking, Hman, as if the pleasure were one thing and the memory another. It is all one thing… What you call remembering is the last part of the pleasure…When you and I met, the meeting was over very shortly, it was nothing. Now it is growing something as we remember it. But still we know very little about it. What it will be when I remember it as I lie down to die, what it makes in me all my days till then–that is the real meeting. The other is only the beginning of it. You say you have poets in your world. Do they not teach you this?’
How could I ever express how much I love those words? They’re so heavily beautiful to me. They show how remembering is also important because memory is often the real growth and substance of a moment or experience. For me, Mission Year happened. It took place over 11 months. But that experience will grow and develop things in my heart over a lifetime. I don’t need to experience it again; I need to remember and reflect.
I know a lot of people, including myself, who will talk with friends and remember ‘the good old days’: some time in the past when things felt easy, exciting, restful, or significant. I know one friend group in particular that frequently laments the breaking of their fellowship, so to speak. It appears, from the way the act, that they believe the world would be better if they could relive their glory days–both relationally and musically. On the one hand, remembering those times is important! You can ache for the past (that’s actually what nostalgia means) in a beautiful way. You can let the memory grow something wise or lovely in your heart. You can celebrate and remember the good things God has given you or done for you. But this habit becomes twisted (or bent, as Lewis would say in the book mentioned above) when we allow a desire for the past to overtake us. It becomes ugly when we actually desire to relive the past instead of diving into the present. I think when those friends long for the past, it can rob them of the joy that’s present in their lives now. Friends, the past is the past. We weren’t meant to have it forever, and we have to receive (with hope and expectancy) the new wave of life that God sends our way.
(In my next posts, I’m going to talk about how change is inevitable and hindsight isn’t always 20/20. Then we can talk about how accepting these truths can help us deal with the past in a healthier way :))
I’m sitting here at my computer, not sure what to write. It’s been a long time since I wrote here, but it finally struck me that it’s time. I’ll never be ‘ready’, but it’s time to push myself and start unpacking what happened.
6 months ago, I wrote in this blog about the phrase, “It’s okay,” and how often we misuse it. Many times, what we really mean is that we’re powerless to change a situation, so we cover it up by saying it’s okay. Many times, it’s not okay. So I believe it’s important to acknowledge, in those circumstances, that it’s not okay–whether we can do anything about it or not. I also believe that telling stories is a powerful way to say it’s not okay… It’s a way to look at an unjust situation or experience and not allow it to have power over you.
So today I want to tell a story. Whether anyone ever reads it or not, I want to take this opportunity to say: It happened.
In the summer of 2012, after an amazing junior year of college at Belmont University, I applied on a whim to a program called Mission Year. Mission Year is essentially a faith-based volunteer program that allows young people to move into a city and live in intentional Christian community and learn what it means to love God and love people in an urban context. I didn’t apply to this program because I was unhappy at Belmont or because I was incapable of doing excellent work there. I just applied. And a series of doors opened for me so I decided to follow God into a weird and beautiful adventure of a year.
So on August 31st, 2012, after a lot of talking, praying, and asking my best friends and family for their blessing, I moved to Houston, TX for 11 months. I worked at a community center, I volunteered with my church, and I spent a lot of time with my neighbors and 7 housemates. I cried a lot, I learned a lot, I worked a lot, and I laughed. A LOT. Last year was the most difficult, wonderful, and transformative year of my life. It’s a very complicated thing to try and explain.
Among us Mission Year kids, we often joked about being “war survivors.” We’d often wonder, as a group, how anyone who goes through Mission Year could end up marrying someone who didn’t (shout out to Carly and Carter Abel!) because how could your spouse ever really understand what you went through? It’s hard to explain why such a beautiful, wonderful experience can still feel so much like a war we survived. I guess it’s just the classic story of growth–there’s the painful pruning that precedes new growth. But we experienced spiritual grooming and growth at an unnatural rate. Under such strange and unique circumstances, we went through more of a blender than a gentle pruning. The result was huge transformation with a great deal of pain alongside it. My time in Houston was an emotional workout and my muscles are still very sore from it.
It literally takes my breath away to try and fathom the fact the I spent a year of my life in that place doing those things. Probably a hundred walks across the bridge to Ecclesia. HUNDREDS of bus rides. Dozens of new friends (and family members, really). Maybe a dozen different furniture arrangements in the living room 😛 And the sweat. I have no idea how I could measure the amount of sweat we each expended last year… After the daily walk to work, weekly prayer walks and grocery trips, Sunday afternoons playing volleyball or chess with homeless friends at the park, hours of dodgeball and basketball and soccer with the kids, dance parties with the neighbors, frequent jogs, mile-long walks to the Washateria, afternoons in the garden, setting up chairs at church, and the mile or so between the bus stop and church (all in Houston’s finest heat and humidity), how could I ever measure the sweat? And really, how many days of our lives did we spend waiting on Houston Metro?
There are a few very specific aches that go along with the transition back to college.
One is the feeling that last year didn’t happen. 99 out of 100 times here, I’m the only person in the room who spent last year in Houston doing Mission Year. So naturally, the collective mindset is that last year happened in Nashville and I was absent. On the contrary, my personal experience is that last year happened in Houston, and as much as I tried to keep up with Nashville, it was still distant. As much as they love and support me, many of my friends here just aren’t (and probably shouldn’t be expected to be) consciously aware that the last year of my life happened. As a result, I sometimes feel strangely isolated, and maybe even a little forgotten.
Another little source of pain is my lost reputation. The fact is that I worked hard at Belmont for 3 years. I participated in many ensembles, earned excellent grades, and grew as a performer, vocalist, and songwriter. I made friends and endured the everyday pains and frustrations of cultivating relationships. I experienced some successes in music and survived some failures (can anyone say “junior departmental”?). And then I went away for a year and most people forgot about me. Here I am, back at school, and most of the key players in my everyday life have no recollection of who I was or what I did. They don’t care that I ‘put in time’ to try and build a modest reputation at school. To them, I’m just a new kid. I guess it’s a good reminder of how irrelevant and fleeting our reputations can be. But it still doesn’t feel good when an instrumentalist repeatedly bails on me without notice because I’m not ‘popular’ enough to put on the calendar.
Finally (for now), I struggle with how my priorities have shifted and are now a bit different from my peers’. I think it’s safe to say that knowing a popular band’s full repertoire is markedly less important to me than investing time in my friends now. Yet I’ve been scolded (and a bit embarrassed) many times this semester for not knowing a song that everyone else seems to know. I’m also quite sensitive to certain types of humor now, though many of my peers aren’t bothered by it; in fact, they often feel judged or frustrated that I don’t find it funny. I promise that I love to laugh and I am trying to be less sensitive in some areas! But I also won’t be swayed when it comes to using humor that dehumanizes an individual or group (particularly the homeless, minorities, or homosexuals).
Friends and family, please bear with me as I process the transition back into my old life. Rather, it’s a transition into NEW life in an OLD setting. Maybe that’s the most confusing part for me. But thank you for reading along and allowing me to acknowledge that it happened.
This is a blog post I’ve wanted to write for a while. It keeps popping up in many areas of my life.
Let’s rewind several weeks—I’m in the gym at “work” (my volunteer site, Mission Centers of Houston). It’s a typical weekday afternoon, and the 10-15 year olds who attend Preteen Club after school are scattered about the gym. Some line the walls; we are ‘out’. Some are still in the game: an intense round of dodgeball that is closely watched and monitored by all.
Dodgeball gets very intense at Fletcher Mission Center. This leads to a set of specialized rules that you wouldn’t expect to need in dodgeball. Yet here we are, with a set of rules we’ve developed for the multitude of disputes that inevitably arise in each game. These rules answer questions like “Who is out if the ball hits me, bounces off, but one of my teammates catches it?” or “Is it a head shot if the victim ducked into the ball on purpose? Does it count if a girl’s ponytail gets hit?” or “What if I guard my face with my hands, but the ball is thrown so hard I get smacked in the face anyway?”
So in this story, I’m standing on the wall with one of my favorite preteens. Yes, I have favorites. No, I’m not sorry. So my homegirl Cristal and I are standing together, carefully watching the game (like everyone else) so we can help settle disputes. On the other side, an adult male is still playing. One of his teammates gets hit in a complicated scenario that allows for arguing about whether the kid is actually out or not. And the adult male does argue, loudly and persistently, until his player is allowed to remain in the game. Cristal turns to me and calmly but with disappointment says, “that same thing happens to me all the time, but no one ever argues that I should still be in!” This inequality in the calls in dodgeball—calls that clearly favor the older, the stronger, the boys—is a frustration that is very close to my heart. Wanting to compensate for my often-oversensitive nature, I responded with something like, “Yeah… It sucks because they always argue for the boys who are good, and they don’t really care about the rules if it applies to someone they don’t think it good. It really stinks, but it’s okay.”
And Cristal says, cool and and nonchalant, “No… It’s not.”
I can’t tell you how significant those words were to me. It’s like as a child I learned the simple addition fact that 1 + 1 = 2. Imagine that one day, someone decided they could benefit from making this fact disappear. So they start a rumor among the powerful that 1 + 1 = 3, and this rumor makes its way around, and soon everyone is just repeating it. And I’m repeating it, though it feels wrong, because I don’t want to be criticized by those in power. And then one day a child says to me, “No… It’s not.”
Of course it’s not. Let’s all say it together… IT’S NOT OKAY. Lies are not okay. Injustice is not okay. Abuse of power is not okay. Taking advantage of the weak for the benefit of the strong is not okay. Let it sink in for a moment. It’s a fact that I forgot because I was tired of hearing
You’re oversensitive
You’re just being emotional.
Girls are crazy.
She must be on her period.
There are a million ways the world can wear down your willingness to admit it’s not okay.
To be honest, it’s frustrating to know it’s not okay sometimes. We say it’s okay when there’s nothing we can do about it in that moment. For many scenarios of injustice, there may be nothing we can accomplish in our lifetime to help the problem. So over time, there’s nothing I can do about it turns into it’s okay.
I am here to shout from the rooftops that it is not okay. It is not okay for the culture at my volunteer site to subtly teach young girls that they are less important than young boys. It is not okay for my friends to ignore me while I’m in Houston because it’s inconvenient or challenging to keep in contact. It is not okay for the world to be the way it is, where so many go hungry and so many suffer from overeating. I can’t change the world. Let’s just be honest: I can spend my whole life in protest to injustice and never really change anything. But that is NOT the same as the world being okay.
Please, be brave today and acknowledge the areas in your life where you are frustrated and essentially powerless. Then calmly reassure yourself that it’s not okay. We can’t let our pride—our frustration with feeling powerless—transform the truth (the world is broken and unfair and I am a small, weak being with little to no control over the broken world’s fate) into an apathetic and numbing statement (it’s okay). Recognizing that something isn’t okay often does not change the world, but it does help us to retain our humanity. It does remind us that we are in need. And oh how we are in need! We are weak and in need of the Strong. We are broken and in need of the Healer. We are selfish and in need of the Selfless. We are a people deeply in need. We lose sight of that fact when we convince ourselves that everything is okay.
I know no one has malicious intentions when they say that phrase, but I think it takes more courage to say it’s broken and I’m powerless than it’s okay. Please, let’s listen to my dear little Cristal and remind ourselves of the truth.
I haven’t written a blog post in a long time. I mean several months. I think I realized, at a certain point, that people are often looking for stories with a bow tied on them–clean and clear messages to go along with my adventures. I sort of ran out of those after the first few months. I don’t think my previous posts are inaccurate, but I think they may have lacked real context. In the past few months, I’ve built up a lot of things that I want to tell people, but I can never find the right way.
Today, though, I knew I had to address a particular issue. Let’s call this my first ‘public conflict resolution.’ Or maybe instead of ‘conflict,’ a better word would be ‘misunderstanding.’ I want to address a phrase that many people have said to me with great intentions.
If you’ve said this phrase, you’re not wrong.
You just don’t have the full story.
“It’s a good thing you’re doing.” I can’t count how many people have communicated to me some variation of this sentiment. They’re not wrong! Good things are happening here in Houston, and I’m a part of some of them. We’re growing relationships with our beloved neighbors, and it is good. We’re learning to speak to one another with love in our house, and it is good. We’re meeting a lot of people’s physical and spiritual needs, and it is good.
Honestly, though, sometimes the idea that I’m doing a good thing makes me a little sick. If good things are happening, it’s through God and certainly not through me. My side of this whole experience has really (really) been primarily about learning my own weaknesses. The real story of Mission Year is the story of my mess. My goodness is not even really a minor character in this story.
So here are some stories of my mess:
-Often, one of my housemates may do something that frustrates me. Typically, I react by shutting off emotionally or harboring bitterness toward them. On some rare occasions, I address the conflict and we work it out peacefully. God redeems the mess.
-Often, while playing dodgeball with the preteens at work, I become angry either because someone is cheating, is using disrespectful language, or they are simply playing too well. One time last week, I told an 11 year old boy, “you’re a dirty cheater!” Most times, God gives me the strength to offer a sincere apology. God redeems the mess.
-I can’t even begin to describe to you how often I complain. I am benefitting from some of the most extraordinary generosity I’ve ever heard of, I’m in perfect health, I’m young and capable, and I’m receiving opportunities to use music all the time. And I am never, ever satisfied. I am obsessed with my appearance and unable to look at God’s beauty instead of worrying about my own. Sometimes, when I walk home from work, I notice the sky and how it’s astonishingly decorated. I remember God is infinitely bigger than my wildest imaginings, and I forget about myself long enough to praise for a moment. God redeems the mess.
-I often volunteer to go grocery shopping on weeks when it’s not my turn. It looks like I’m trying to help out a teammate who is having a busy day. The truth is generally that I like having control over something, especially over money. I love bargain shopping. I love working out the puzzle of how to purchase all our needs on a small budget. On a good day, I am able to help bring home good food for my Houston family. Despite my ugly motivation, my team is served, and God redeems the mess.
I could go on for a long time about the things I am doing poorly and the ways God is showing me my weakness. The goal is for this revelation of my weakness to lead to transformation. And I strongly believe it is in many ways!
But it’s a messy thing we’re doing. That’s okay, because the point isn’t really for us to fix anyone or anything. The point is for us to follow where we believe God has called us. This experience has been one of the most formative and influential periods of my life because it’s showing me–in high definition–where my greatest weaknesses are, and how desperately I need God to step in and redeem my mess.
To be completely honest, the last thing I want is for people who love me to say, “it’s a good thing you’re doing.” That is a nicely tied bow on top of a pile of crap. What I really want is for people who love me to come alongside in some way and learn about the mess. Learn a little bit about how we’re trying to handle the mess. Learn my teammates’ names. Listen to the little stories about my day to day interactions. Soak in a little taste of this year, and understand that I’m being transformed, NOT transforming others. The best way for anyone to love me right now is to pay attention to some of what is going on. Walk with me a little bit, and understand that I can’t come back the same person (this is DEFINITELY for the better!). Ask some questions, and maybe try to relate to some of the challenges here. My hope is that God will use my process of transformation to draw other to Himself, but be assured that the “good things” I’m doing are hardly even part of this story.
Understand that my time in Houston is a story of change, of learning, of growth, of motion. Understand that it is not a journey from which I can return unchanged or unheard.
Wow! It’s been a while since I’ve written in here. Life is flying by and every day holds many stories that I’d like to tell, so I settle on telling none. One of the more significant stories from recent weeks is about solitude.
Last Friday, all of us Mission Year kids in Houston went to the Ruah Center at the Villa de Matel convent. It is a silent retreat center where people can come and interact with spiritual advisors, then pray and worship silently in the 70 acres of land the Villa maintains. From a beautiful chapel to porches lined with rocking chairs to acres of still, green woods, there were plenty of spaces in which to connect with God in silence and solitude.
People tend to have a lot of strong feelings about silence. Silence feels like a punishment. Silence feels like a waste of time. A little silence is one thing, but hours of it? When we try to be silent, we realize that “not speaking” is very, very different from a true quieting of the mind. In fact, as soon as you sit down for a time of intentional silence, you will probably be the most aware, out of all times, of all the bills you need to pay and friends you need to call and groceries you need to buy. Often, the last thing we can fit into our brains is time with God.
What the Sisters are trying to show, through the ministry of the Ruah Center, is that solitude with God is a place of healing, rest, and peace. When you come to God without running your mouth (how often are our prayers merely lists of things we think about with little heart behind them?), He can speak. He probably won’t speak when or how we would like Him to. And times of healing can be painful, because we have to open old wounds to let Jesus pour into them with healing. But silence is a sacred space for meeting God.
It seems like there was far too much taught during our silent retreat (who would have thought?) to convey in a blog post. But here are some highlights. We read about the prayer of collectedness, how we need not really be SAYING anything to God in our minds. Rather, it is enough, as a start, to come to God and fight off the voices in our head that try to steal our attention. It is enough to fight for a quiet space in your own heart, a quiet meeting with God where He can restore the spirit or do what He wills. We also read about a series of questions you can reflect on in order to “restore the well.” The main point of this is, in silence, to talk to Jesus about your joys and give thanks for them, then to talk to him about your frustrations, disappointments, and anger. Mourn your disappointments with Him. Think of ways to offer up your anger to Him. Ask him for healing. Ask for a thankful and gracious heart, despite whatever hurts you may still be processing.
I found this process very sweet. I encountered God’s presence in stillness and I encountered it in movement of the heart. I encourage you to to practice, on a daily basis, a short time of silence–perhaps 5 minutes in the morning–in which you can present yourself quietly to God. Don’t be surprised if it takes a good amount of time to start silencing your mind! Also, consider researching silent retreat centers in your area. Don’t miss out on the beautiful opportunity silence and the beauty of God’s presence presents 🙂
Here’s a picture I took as I walked onto the Villa’s grounds!
This was the sky my housemate Tracy and I observed at the bus stop yesterday morning. It is a privilege to be slowed down every day and allowed to savor the triumphant beauty in the confusing world around us.
abigailyork 