Random Rambling about books, trips, ideas, movies, music . . .

In lieu of working on a presentation on leadership in nursing, I thought I’d think through writing about some of the things on my mind and heart.

This week marked a strange anniversary for me–I can no longer say “A year ago I lived in Ethiopia.”  This adds another challenging piece to the ‘identity crisis’ of the past year.  I am still far from settled in my life here in Dallas, and often wish I could speed up the process of becoming a part of a place.  But the hours demanded for both grad school and work suck me dry, and I’m not often faithful to put the remaining few hours toward investing in people here.

Through the transitions of the past year,  and especially over the past couple beginning weeks of Lent, I’ve been thinking a lot about joy–what does it mean?  Where does it come from?  How do you hang on to it? What does it mean to pray for the Father to “restore the joy of Your salvation” (Ps 51), to understand what Jesus meant when He said, “Abide in Me . . . if you keep my commandments, you will abide in My love . . . these things I have spoken to you, that My joy may remain in you, and that your joy may be full.” (John 15).  Fullness of joy–how much more satisfying is joy than anything this world has to offer?   I want to hit the road running this week to try to make it through John Piper’s “How to Fight for Joy” conference messages.  And I’m thinking about picking up D. Martin Lloyd Jones’ Spiritual Depression again, and actually making it through the book this time.  I find I am worn down by the weight of the world–my own busy schedule is a small part, hectic crazy life is another, but the immensity of poverty, war, disease, and brokenness in world is the largest.

I’m reading–finally, really reading–Philip Yancey’s What’s So Amazing About Grace.  Today’s chapter dealt with the unnatural act of forgiveness.

The very taste of forgiveness seems somehow wrong.  Even when we have commited a wrong, we want to earn our way back into the injured party’s good grace.  We prefer to crawl on our knees, to wallow, to do penance, to kill a lamb–and religion often obliges us.

These words struck me–how often do I try to “earn” my way with God, with my family, friends, classmates–instead of seeking forgiveness and forgiving?

This past week was my spring break (it felt a little strange to have one again.  But I’m sure I could get used to it!).  I spent a few quiet days in Albuquerque, and Leah let me spoil myself a bit. 

We both got haircuts and pedicures (then of course it was cold when I got back to Dallas and all I wanted to wear was wool socks!!).

I could stand to live around the mountains again!

It rained a bit there (I should get an award for bringing the first rain of the year, right?) and a striking rainbow appeared–a perfect arc of reminder.

One night we went to see Slumdog Millionare–I realize that pretty much everyone else and their dog has already seen it, but it was only the 2nd movie I’ve seen in the US in the last 3 1/2 years!  I’d been warned by a few friends that the movie might be hard for me, that the slum life of India might hit too close to home.  I thought I did ok, the credits were rolling, I was quietly mulling how amazing a film it was, when Leah asked, “So, what did you think?”  The tears came then–the movie was real.  I have no doubt they veiled the brutality of religious violence, of the pain of poverty, of the fear of bondage–but enough was shown to make me long for the day when justice will roll down.

Recently I picked up my tattered copy of Christy (sorry for the cover art on the edition Amazon offers!!).  I’ve read this book, or parts of it, many times–but over the past few months I have appreciated it a lot more, I think mostly because I could more readily understand the struggles of poverty, disease, familial breakdown, and hopelessness.  In thinking about evil that had torn apart families and destroyed communities, the author wrote,

I had to step aside and ask Someone else to do the fighting for me.  And every time I thought of my particular battle–usually many times a day–I had to step consciously out of the way again and give gratitude to Him for the battle He was waging on my behalf right then.  Sometimes it took days, sometimes longer, for evil was rarely flimsy but the outcome was sure; sure becasue He was and is the Lord of life.  And sure, because evil is at the last a coward that slinks away when finally challenged and faced down.

How grateful I am to know that the outcome is sure, and evil is, at last, the coward–because some days it doesn’t seem so.

This weekend I went to Paris to join a whole host of extended family (most of whom I’m not actually related to!) to celebrate the 80th birthday of my “extra” grandmother.  It was a sweet time of celebrating her life, and seeing the astounding legacy of a life lived for love of God, family, and people.  My cousin Amory sang a fitting song entitled Legacy

I don’t have to look too far or too long awhile
To make a lengthy list of all that I enjoy
It’s an accumulating trinket and a treasure pile
Where moth and rust, thieves and such will soon enough destroy

I want to leave a legacy
How will they remember me?
Did I choose to love? Did I point to You enough
To make a mark on things?

And last, but certainly not least, I’ve been savoring the new U2 album, No Line On the Horizon.

It’ll probably take me awhile to give a final verdict on the album, but so far I like.  I’m intrigued.

Now this dry ground, it bears no fruit at all
Only poppies laugh under the crescent moon
The road refuses strangers
The land, the seeds we sow
Where might we find the lamb as white as snow?

I think it’s time for me to stop here.  Past time, you’re probably thinking!  Time to go running, and then–it’s always time for Girl Scout Thin Mints.

And maybe, finally, that presentation.

go in peace

Life is one beautiful, crazy, busy, confusing, hard, delightful, painful, joyful mess, isn’t it?

I’m back in Dallas after a rather insane Christmas “break” that included scattered extended family, two weddings out of state, and a job that doesn’t quit when the holidays come.  It was truly a joy to see friends and family–some of whom I hadn’t seen since before I left for Ethiopia.  There were sweet, sweet times–watching friends get married, dancing (and I can’t dance), eating, playing games, road trips, soaking in a panhandle sunset.  But there were hard times too–exhaustion, the continued sense of loving two worlds and only living in one, spending precious, hard time with my grandmother.  And now, I’ve been back in the swing of work and classes for a couple of weeks, wondering if that Christmas break ever really happened.  This semester will, I’m certain, be very busy and demanding, but I hope a bit less consuming than the last.  I just got a box of (very expensive) medical equipment in the mail, so I guess it’s official that I’m going to be the one poking and prodding and shining lights in your eyes:)

This month I’ve reflected a lot on what a strange, full, hard year 2008 was.  It was in January of last year that the reality that my time in Ethiopia was drawing to a close really struck me.  I began to prepare, as much as you can, to think about life here and, in essence, end life there.  And I guess it’s been that way ever since.  I wish I could say I’ve learned how to deal with such a drastic transition, but I don’t have those words of wisdom.  Rather, I have continued to learn that the heart of the Father is so much larger, more encompassing, more faithful than I can begin to imagine.  He loves the world in a way I must learn much of.  His love, through suffering, granted the peace, redemption, and restoration that we daily long for and fight for.

I’m reading Luke.  Jesus’ words of LIFE and acts of healing strike me anew.

“As Jesus went, the people pressed around him. And there was a woman who had had a discharge of blood for twelve years, and though she had spent all her living on physicians, she could not be healed by anyone.

She came up behind him and touched the fringe of his garment, and immediately her discharge of blood ceased. And Jesus said, “Who was it that touched me?” When all denied it, Peter said, “Master, the crowds surround you and are pressing in on you!” But Jesus said, “Someone touched me, for I perceive that power has gone out from me.”

And when the woman saw that she was not hidden, she came trembling, and falling down before him declared in the presence of all the people why she had touched him, and how she had been immediately healed.

And he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace.”

Would that my faith would cause me to fall at His feet.

ding

This morning on the way to church, my friend Laura Christel and I stopped by the gas station to grab some gum.  As the iron-barred door dinged our entrance, I glanced up at the clerk and immediately recognized that she was Ethiopian.  I waited in line, noticing her name tag: Tigist.  Patience.  I placed my Orbit on the counter as I said “Amerigna tichilalesh?” (do you speak amharic?).  Her eyes widened, and flew to my face.  Ow, she said, tichilalesh? (yes, do you speak?).  Just a little, I said.  It’s a lot, she replied in surprise-I’ve never met an American who speaks Amharic.  We talked briefly, and she asked if I thought Ethiopia was beautiful.  Yes, very much, I said.  I love your country.  Then we left, and as the door dinged again, I called over my shoulder, “Egziaber yeebarkish”.  May God bless you.

This tiny, divinely appointed encounter challenged me anew to realize this amazing, diverse world around me.  It’s so easy to get caught up in my demanding schedule and life of grad school and work.  My day, though, is richer because of Tigist.  I don’t want to forget.

fall

On Thursday, I declared celebrate fall day.  In honor of the crisp air, I went running, baked banana bread, and made chicken noodle soup.  It was satisfying:)

Today I worked for 13 hours.  It was both strange and familiar to be back on a cardiac unit in a hospital–it’s not the life I want anymore, but it’s the means that have been provided to the end I hope for.  As I sprinted down the hall while a patient was coding, I felt again the sobering adrenaline rush that hits when life is hanging so precariously in the balance.  I’ve been hesitant about this job, and it’s not going to be easy to balance with the damands of school.  But today  I was given, yet again, the privilege of holding the hand of a fellow human being who was walking through pain and suffering and fear.  It may not be the context I want to practice in the rest of my life, but these patients are still in need of care, skill, comfort, and compassion.  I pray that I will be filled more and more with the One who is compassion.

I’m trying to press on to Thanksgiving.  It’s my favorite holiday, and it’s been three years since I’ve celebrated it with my family.  I’ve set surviving until then as my short-term life goal:)  Two tests, two papers, one major project, and a many hours spent like today are between now and then.  I will have much to be thankful for besides the pumpkin pie and poker.

But then, I already do.

What looks like failure is success
And what looks like poverty is riches
When what is true looks more like a knife
It looks like you’re killing me

But you’re saving my life

But I give myself to what looks like love

And I sell myself for what feels like love
And I pay to get what is not love
And all just because I see things upside down

What looks like weakness can do anything
And what looks like foolishness is understanding
When what is powerful has not come to fight
It looks like you’re going to war
But you lay down your life

What looks like torture is a time to rejoice
What sounds like thunder is a comforting voice
When what is beautiful looks broken and crushe
And I say I don’t know you
But you say it’s finished

What Is Not Love, Derek Webb

New Identity

Bonnie has one, while I am still looking for mine.

I was sad to give up the “Happy” Mississippi plates.

Yet she deserved to be a Texan again at some point in her life.

In other news, I am studying.  All of the time.

And the weather is amazingly gorgeous.

Those two things are almost incongruous.

shrinking and climbing

Written too late last night:

My house is dimly lit, filled with the quiet melody of Natalie Merchant’s “Break Your Heart”:

I know that it will hurt/I know that it will break your heart
The way things are/And the way they've been

It’s been a wonderfully cloudy, windy day that seemed to usher in the crispness of fall. I’ve needed a melancholy weather day for awhile, but when today came I just wanted to revel in the coolness. So I went running instead of making hot chocolate☺

I live in Dallas now. I’m in grad school. I (finally) got a job.
And those three things have been enough to send me through another tailspin transition, another season of struggling to adjust to new places and things, to find joy in what I have now and not wish for what was the past.
I am really glad to be here, and I’m glad to know I can unpack and be for awhile. I like where we live—SJ and I reside in a character-rich apartment that is part of a 1930s historic home in the middle of a diverse community. We are minutes from the bus stop, the grocery, the pharmacy, the PO, and our work/school locations. I love the heartbeat of the city, and I’m glad to be in the center of a city.

But, alas, I’m not heart-settled yet. I’m not sure, though, that I ever will be again. I’m not sure I should be, but I still want it. I feel weak and overwhelmed and incapable of facing the small mountains ahead of me: surviving (and thriving? Is it possible?) grad school, beginning a challenging new job, seeking out and investing in a new community and new needs.

I started reading Helen Roseveare’s He Gave Us A Valley months ago. She was a physician who spent many years working in Zaire. I put the book down a long while back because Africa was too fresh on my mind and the pain and horror in the book was too real and unbearable. I recently picked it back up and finished it just this week. And the end—it alternately thrills and sobers me. This woman experienced suffering in ways I have not (and I shrink from)—and yet, yet she could say that her 20 years of hard, painful work was worth it. It’s astounding.
I feel small and foolish for cowering in the face of the tasks I’m called to in this season of life. But, somehow, this is for me the mountain to climb. And if I learn to climb not for myself, in the end it will be worth it.

They had called Him ‘a worm, no man’. I said I wanted to be identified with Him, yet did I really want to be a worm, trodden on, spurned, ignored? No!
Yet this was the privilege He offered . . .”
H. Roseveare.

Not together

The last time I balanced my checkbook, I think I was 17. Seriously.

I’m looking around at a mess, and feeling messier inside. Around me I see half-packed boxes, half-unpacked suitcases, piles of bags and clothes and papers. The disorganization frustrates me, but really points to a deeper soul disorganization. I do wish I balanced my checkbook (sort of), but even more, I wished I lived better. I wish these transition months weren’t so yucky, that I had a better attitude, that I grew and learned through them more.

I’ve actually written a couple of posts in the time since I’ve blogged, but I haven’t been bold enough to post them. Words can belie what we can hide in our faces . . . and sometimes “we’re most of us stories we’re scared to explain” (Ellery)

I’m thinking October will be good. In my (fairy tale?) dream, most everything will be more settled then and I’ll have a rhythm and routine of life, school, work, church, and community. Either that, or I’ll need to be banished to a desert island.

I’m looking forward to this next season; I’ve not by any means moved past the pain of leaving the last season, but there will be sweet joys ahead. Living with Sarah Jo, finding a new community of co-laborers, growing in my knowledge of medicine, running outside, having Friday night cousin dinners, finding the nearest hole-in-the-wall Ethiopian restaurant, volunteering at a community clinic . . . I know so much of this is ahead, yet still my faith is frail. He’s never failed me, but somehow I doubt that God can or will bring these things about in my life. I’m so grateful that my faith, and God’s provision, is not dependent on how I feel in the midst of this current chaos.

“I’m lookin’ forward to lookin’ back on this day.”

Over the Rhine

night drive

Memory seeps from my veins . . .

It’s late and I’m driving 75 down the fluorescent-lit interstate.  I’m lost in my thoughts as the miles fly behind me.  I’m here, but in my mind I’m thousands of miles away.
I’m in Addis on a late night, looking out the smudged taxi window as we travel through the night-barren streets at 40.  Then, I’m thinking about life—about how big it is, how uncertain I am about my future, how I’m not sure how to leave.  We make the big roundabout turn towards my home, under the bridge, down the rough rocky road, up to the big grey gate that hides the house.  I pay the taxi driver $4, say thank you, unlock the metal door, and step inside the quiet compound.
I shake my head, trying to chase the memories away.  I’m thinking about life, about how to live here, how to savor the good and accept the hard.  I turn my blinker on, smoothly take the curve onto my street, hit the garage door button, and pull in.  I unlock the green door and step into the quiet house.

lyrics by Sarah McLachlan

Being and moving

I’m still alive.  Life has had a lot of ups and downs lately as I’ve wrestled with re-adjustement/re-entry/culture shock.  I still don’t savor the idea of malls, wal-mart, and small talk.  But I am beginning to understand that this stage was also part of my calling to Ethiopia.  I don’t like this part and want it to be over with (quickly) but must learn that this, too, is just a tiny part of the call to suffer, to be, to experience, to grow as we journey through this broken world.  I still wish I could just go to Addis for the weekend, that I could be more connected to a place that has become such a huge part of me.  But I’m grateful for the small things–email with co-workers, a phone chat with friends, photos and stories that remind me of the richness of life there.

I’m in Baltimore right now and have just spent a fun evening interspersed with speaking bits of Amharic.  I miss this being a part of another place, the laughter and jokes over coffee with the project staff.  But tonight was a reminder that maybe there is a way to morph these worlds and press on in what I’ve been called to.

Tomorrow I head to Pennsylvania for disaster response training.  If I survive the camping and the mosquitoes then I’ll report back in a few days:-)

And later this summer, I will move to Dallas to attend Baylor University’s graduate nursing program!  I’m glad to know where to plant myself for this next season of life and am excited about what is in store there.  It’s going to be different than the last two years, yes; but it, too, will be a rich time of learning and growing and being.

A long silence

My silence is not because I have no words.  Rather, I have far too many.  I am overwhelmed with words and thoughts, visions and memories.  Welling up inside me are words of fear, joy, sadness, grief, rebuke, anger, loss, gladness, confusion, excitement, uncertainty.  I can’t begin to process through all of these thoughts and emotions.  I cannot think clearly.

Today marks a month of being back in the US.  I cannot believe that.  Ethiopia fills my heart and mind still–I burst with words in Amharic that I cannot say aloud.  I think and dream of friends and staff and patients–I worry how people are, I wonder what’s going on.  People here say, “Welcome home!  Aren’t you glad to be back?” and in the second before I respond I am frustrated that I usually cannot say what I really want to say, “I feel as though I just left my home.  This, this does not feel like home yet.  So it is hard to be here”.

I don’t want to be misunderstood here.  There IS much joy to being here, to reconnecting with family and friends, to enjoying cappuccino chunky chocolate frozen yogurt, to worshiping with my home church, to having a car again, to independence and the ease of getting whatever you decide you need/want.  I don’t want to throw out all these good things as I acknowledge that this place is hard right now.

I guess I thought that somehow I could morph these two worlds more easily.  But they are so incredibly separate.  It is not just the 10,000 miles and the ocean that separate them.  The whole way and focus of life is different.

It’s hard to come back and actually live through everything having changed.  I knew that people had gotten married or moved away or just moved on–but until now I haven’t had to live life with those changes being a present reality.  It’s particularly difficult to come back to a place that I used to belong in, used to have a niche in.  There are still people and things I love dearly here–but my place is gone.  I currently have no job, no home of my own, no knowledge of where I am moving . . . in short, life feels incredibly out of control.  Out of my control, that is.  When I think of stability, of belonging, the earthly place my thoughts go to is Addis Ababa.  I have a home, a job, friends, a community there–a place of belonging.  Now I’ve left that place physically, and I don’t doubt that for the next few years I am called to live in the US, to pursue grad school and grow in the gifts I have been given.  But daily I still have to emotionally and mentally sorrow for the loss of Ethiopia and choose to BE here in this new place of calling.

Even as I wrestle through all of these thoughts and emotions, I feel the heavy burden that in Ethiopia my friends and patients and brothers and sisters are struggling to eat and live.  How do I deal with that?  Now I can watch cable on a big screen . . . and Abeba’s hands are raw and aching from washing clothes all day just so her two little girls can eat.  I don’t know how to love Ethiopia and live here.

I want to burn the peppy re-entry books that make it sound like if you are just prepared for a few key struggles you’ll be ok as you adjust back to your home culture.  The truth is, this isn’t easy.  The truth is, I don’t WANT to live through the next days and weeks and months of uncertainty and turmoil.  The truth is, I just have to live through these days of readjustment.  The truth is, we weren’t made for this world.  The truth is, I’m never going to completely “belong” to a place until I reach heaven.

The truth is, my life isn’t about me.  It never was, it isn’t now, and it never will be.  And someday, all things will be made new.

Bind my wandering heart to Thee.

-Robert Robinson