Where We Come From: Homesick

The year was 2007, and it must have been either June or July. Holly, Keren and I had, on this random night, decided we were going to "roadtrip" to Ivanhoe's for ice-cream, as college students spontaneously do. I don't remember what else was on the playlist that night, except for two of Keren's favourites at the time. The windows were down, and we were singing at the top of our lungs, "Hey, hey, you, you, I don't like your girlfriend!" and "Oh, **** it, I'm gonna have a party!"

I don't know what it was like for the Holly and Keren. But six years have passed, and I look back at that "roadtrip" now and think of it as a coming of age marker for me. Only a couple months ago, I had walked across the platform in Kardatzke Wellness Center as a celebration of the culmination of three ridiculous years' work towards a bachelor's degree. Anderson University had by then become a place where I had struggled long and hard with my self-identity, and just like that, those three years were over. Keren and I had by then had several long discussions about our dreams about the future, and she was just beginning to find her place while I was still looking for mine.

You see, Keren was a Third-Culture kid. Born in El Salvador, she eventually moved to Romania when her parents took a missionary assignment with a church there. She, and my other TCK friends, talked often about how they could never simply check one box when it came down to filling out forms about where they came from. She was at a conference for international students once, and when it came time for breakout sessions, attendees were asked to split into groups based on the region she came from. Was she to go to the one for Latin America or the one for Europe? There was never one single box to check.

I remembered one of our conversations being about the things we were passionate about. She said she was slightly jealous of friends who had found their niche in their passion for social justice, or art, or something of the sort, because she hadn't found her own. I remembered thinking the same thing. I loved music, but having studied it at the college level with an over-emphasis on performance (which I hated) killed it.

Then one day, she had just gotten back from a weekend in Chicago where she had been a part of a conference called, "Displace Me". It was a movement about creating awareness of displaced people. After all the time spent trying to figure out which box to check, she finally found it. Her passion. Working with displaced people because she herself was displaced.

That had all just fallen into place weeks before that summer. Then before that summer was over, her life was taken.

It was years before I started really processing everything that happened that summer. You see, I had forgotten about the phonecall I received that night on the "roadtrip" to Ivanhoe's. In our laughter and singing, we missed the ramp for the motorway twice, and ended up halfway to Columbus, Ohio. We had gotten so frustrated that we eventually decided to simply head home, but ended up missing the off-ramp for the Anderson exit as well. Somewhere in the midst of all the chaos, Dad had rung up to chat and was asking about how things were progressing with my job search. By the time I hung up, I was even more frustrated from trying to explain to Dad the cultural differences in the job search process.

Holly and Keren calmly listened to my ranting for a while before Keren finally said, "You know, our parents haven't lived here themselves. They may have some ideals about what life is like here, but they are not the reality that we live in. And it isn't anybody's fault, we just have to learn to adapt to this new reality that we live in different worlds now."

It wasn't until years later when I began processing that I realised I had become displaced too. I had spent significant amount of time with my Missionary Kid/Third-Culture Kids friends while in college to know the traits of a TCK, and to begin to understand the way they think. But I had never saw myself as a TCK until then.

For a few years after that, I struggled to navigate the waters of this new revelation that a new chapter had begun in the pages of my self-identity. It was hardest around November because I would be celebrating American Thanksgiving with Danielle's family, thinking about the right time to call or e-mail Dad on his birthday. Then right after that, the countdown towards the time I left wintry Anderson for sunny Singapore would begin and I would get particularly homesick thinking of time with the cousins, the BFFs, the church family and all the yummy food. The night before I boarded the plane would usually be the worst. I always love going, but I hate leaving. It's in that in-between time that I feel most displaced.

Nine years later, this displacement hasn't gone away. I've moved yet again, and the understanding of homesickness has re-shaped itself as well. It doesn't help that even with all the diversity in Auckland, folks here still take one look at me, hear me speak and automatically ask the dreaded, "Where are you from?" Yes, I know I'm yellow on the outside, sound like white America, and have the black, red and gold of Germany hanging in the Snuggery where I live, but the truth is, I have too many other colours on the inside. I would happily don the black, red and green of my Kenyan sister, Emily, the vibrant flowers of my Island whanau, while wearing the intricately beaded headpieces of the Lakotas, a people near and dear to my heart.

And the in-between times... Gosh, the in-between times are the worst. Nina who has become one of my Auckland church mums came up to me at church yesterday, gave me a big hug and said, "You've been a bit homesick, haven't you?" The tears came really close, but I wasn't sure if it was because someone noticed, or if it was because I hadn't even noticed it myself until she pointed it out. There's so much here that I love and wouldn't be ready to leave, even if just for a month. But there's a part of me that's already in Portland having bubble tea with Arthur and a massive pow-wow with Cassie. Another part of me has already tasted the corn and cherry tomatoes from Heidi's garden, and solved all the problems of the world with the semiNerdian friends. And still another part of me has already snuggled with Hannah and thrown fries at Amanda.

And maybe that's why I love airports so much. Because I feel less alone in the in-between-ness, even if no one else in the waiting lounge is as crazy/displaced enough to be processing these thoughts.

I was scrolling through old photos on Facebook earlier and found this one, taken in front Brandenburger Tor in Berlin. It was one of the first days we were there and there were various exhibits that we could take photos with. Some were historical; others political; still others, simply funny. This little guy here though, reminded me too much of myself. By the time I got to Germany, I had come to the realisation that no matter what part of the world I move to or how many times I move, wherever I sleep that night would be home, but I would also still be homesick for at least one of the other homes.

That is the new normal now. And it will be ok.

Emily sent me this photo via Whatsapp today. I hadn't expected it because it wasn't a significant date. But it was the reminder I needed that I wasn't alone in this warped in-between place. A few months after Keren died, they planted a tree on campus in remembrance of her. When I still lived in Anderson, I would visit on her birth and death anniversary with the yellow flowers she wanted on her last birthday. It became a place of solitude in the summer months as well. Months before I moved, I told Emily that I wasn't sure what I would do anymore on her birth and death anniversary. She offered to simply bring flowers to visit whenever she was able. Emi, thank you.

This. This is where we come from.

Silence Again

I've been silent again.

After the week of two posts in a row, I had another one I wanted to write, but then something came up. Then something else. Then something else.

Now two weeks later, here we are.

In the middle of a conversation with a friend this week, the three majors on my bucket list came up again. Yes, the three that have been life-goals since 2007:

1) Running a bed and breakfast or backpacker
2) Running a cafe
3) Experiencing homelessness for a week/month

The friend laughed when I mentioned the one about homelessness. He asked if I thought that experience would make me a better person, or if that was the "spiritual thing" I was wanting to do for Lent.

I got really defensive in that moment because it was something with a personal meaning for me and I wasn't appreciating being mocked. What I didn't realise then was that the issue of homelessness hit a little too close to home for him.

In that moment, I was brought back to a conversation that I had with Will a few years ago, about how some over-romanticize the "problems of the world" to make ourselves feel better that we're trying to bring about change.

We eventually moved on to something else in the conversation that happened this week, but it left me feeling slightly guilty. It's easy for me to talk about wanting to experience homelessness because I come from a privileged background. And even if I did eventually get around to that experience, I knew I was going to be able to get out of those situations at the timeline I decided for myself. It wasn't going to be real.

But then I realised my motivations for wanting to experience homelessness had nothing to do with wanting to feel good that I had experienced such depravity. No, the years in Anderson taught me that because I come from a privileged background, I have the responsibility to speak against systems that work against the underprivileged. The short time spent with the women on the streets of Berlin taught me that I'm actually not that much different from them. Their stories could just as easily have been mine, except we were born in a different time, at a different place. And my place of birth was not decided based on my own righteousness.

We don't do advocacy simply out of sympathy or because our hearts are broken for a cause. We do advocacy because Jesus himself called us to "Cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons. You received without payment; give without payment." (Matthew 10:8)

And so I stop again for a few brief moments, repenting for when I have gotten self-righteous about helping with self-serving agenda. In the moments of silence in between, I found myself wrestling with these words that stumbled out of my mouth:

"I won't work in a church forever, but I'll be a pastor no matter where I go. It's the call on my life."

And in those moments of silence, I realised as much as I struggle with the "pastor"/"preacher"/"minister" titles, to deny that is to deny the very responsibility to love my neighbours.

"Preach the gospel at all times. When necessary, use words."

Joy: A Paradox

I've started writing, stopped, deleted the draft and walked away. A few days later, I come back to that same place of starting, stopping, deleting and walking away.

How do we talk about Joy of Advent while this heaviness looms over our heads?

People are hurting.
People are talking.
People are rallying.
People are fighting.
People are trying to find someone or something to blame.

Whether we realise it or not, whenever tragedies strike, we try to find someone or something to blame.

If she hadn't gotten into the car that day, that wouldn't have happened.
If we had done more for his mental health, he wouldn't have gone and shot kids.
If people were in better agreement about the legal stand on violence, he would not have owned the gun in the first place.

She said...
He said...

Today I went over to meet with Nina about costumes for the kids for something we're doing on Sunday. We both knew we had most of the ideas sorted but we always need that one extra meeting just to talk it through again.

But today, we didn't really do much work. We sat outside and watched the dogs play. And we talked about the heaviness.

This is Nina's first Christmas without her dad who, for 51 years, had been the rock in her life. She said she kept putting off the Christmas cards because she didn't want to not be able to send one to her dad.

And then we talked some more about death and dying. And about how we always feel the need to find something or someone to blame--the forces of nature, God, legislature, sin... the list goes on.

"But that's not what really matters, is it? I mean, we think that finding someone or something to blame helps us bring closure when the reality is, with some things there will never be closure."

Every August, I watch the seasons change, remembering the autumn leaves that sat with me in a very dark place when first Keren in 2007, then my uncle and grandpa in 2008, died.
Every time a kindred from SOT days posts something on Facebook or Twitter that makes me jump up and down excitedly screaming inside, "YES! Someone gets it!", I weep a little that I never had time to grieve leaving one of many communities I hold dear to my heart because everyone was ushering me off into the excitement of New Zealand that I wasn't ready for.

Arthur says it's important to remember. "It is, I'm convinced, a spiritual practice that, like all practices, needs to be practiced!"

So we sit outside and sip wine when Erin arrived after picking the girls up from school. And we talked some more and remembered some more.

"So what do we do? We just love one another. People are not going to stop dying or leaving. But loving one another--that, we can do."

So we sit outside a little longer and watch the sun begin to finish its round for the day, and welcome the evening air. The sun lifts the spirits, but sometimes it's too much, too strong, and too soon. But a greater Light is coming that will defeat the darkness not in a piercing ray, but in tenderness that says,

"Very truly, I tell you, you will weep and mourn, but the world will rejoice; you will have pain, but your pain will turn into joy ... So you have pain now; but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you."

And until then, we keep on carrying each other's hearts.

O Come Emmanuel 

The Wax House

She stood watching, with tears streaming down her face. Too many years had passed since the last time she played an active role in the hustle and bustle of activities in that old house.

She visited the old house every year since she left. It had become like a ritual for paying homage to the role the old house played in her life. Some of her old friends had left; others that stuck around noticed the different energy with the new faces that came. Most seemed excited about the different energy, and she hoped it was for the best.

Then one day she noticed the paint starting to peel away. The flowers looked thirsty, and she wondered if she was the only one who noticed. She could water the flowers, but she didn't have enough time to start the paint job. She left and again, she hoped it was for the best.

The next year, the garden was parched, and the paint had become even more splotchy. She wondered again if she was the only one who noticed. Again she watered the garden, and as she did, she began to see an image of what the old house would look like if nothing changed. She shuddered and wondered if their little old house was about to become like the story of the lighthouse that she heard not too long ago. She told a friend of that wax house she saw in that image. It looked like someone had made it into a candle with wax slabbed around rusty iron poles and set the whole thing on fire. Beyond that, she wasn't sure what to do. That old house had been her stomping ground as a child, but there were others running the place now.

Not too long ago, she made another visit. The energy again felt different, and again she hoped for the best. There were new flowers in the garden, and they asked if she would help water the garden. But how could she when she had just given immense amounts of energy starting a different garden from scratch? And besides, it still bothered her that nothing had been done to change the soil or to create a better environment for the flowers to thrive better.

Still she did what she could while she fought to ignore the voice that said, "Change doesn't come with a new garden, or a fresh coat of paint. Remember? Real change never comes from the top down or the bottom up. It comes from the inside out." She found her own way to make a difference, ways they may never recognise as anything of significance, ways they will probably see as rebellious. Not that she really cared anymore what they thought. She had spent too many hours grieving the loss of too many flowers to care.

But still she wept. She wept for the old house that didn't feel like the house she grew up in anymore. She wept for the years gone by and the flowers that faded away. She wept for how the old house was starting to look more and more like the image she saw way back when. She wept for the flowers that told her to leave them alone. She wept for how she had just spent so much of her life in that land elsewhere putting pieces back into place for other old houses that have been down that same road. She wept for her own fears of being sucked back into those dark places when she grieved the other old houses.

And then he came and took her by the hand.

"My child, it's time for you to leave now. You came for rest but you found you had to hide your face. Your heart cannot be broken for so many places and this is not a house for you to grieve over anymore. Let it go. Let the flowers go. I am still in charge. Remember that lesson from way back when? Feed my sheep. But they still are MY sheep."

Listen to the Children

vi·o·lence [vahy-uh-luhns]
noun
an unjust or unwarranted exertion of force or power, as against rights or laws

Woke up that morning
Still heart sick
Another act of violence
Another child whose innocence was robbed.
Oh Lord, how long?
Listen to the children...


Stop Kony
Make Kony famous
Their signs and websites read.
Discussions back and forth
Bickering for and against
But what about the children?
Oh Lord, how long?
Listen to the children...

Katniss. Peeta. Rue.
Gale. Cinna. Haymitch.
Thresh. Cato. Prim.
All just names in a book
Stories. Fiction.
We laugh.
But what if they weren't just fiction?
Make Snow famous.
Sure. Then what?
What about the children?
Listen to the children.

You wanted my time at the breakfast table.
So I sat and I waited.
You said nothing,
So I talked.

His name wasn't Peeta, and he wasn't a baker's son.
He simply lived on Kurfürstenstraße while his girlfriend worked the streets to support them
He had no identity to anyone who hadn't heard his story.
He was just "another one who made a bad life choice"
If you consider getting sold to drug-dealers at twelve a bad life choice.
Where were you?
Why didn't you redeem him?
Didn't you hear the children?

Her name wasn't Prim, and she didn't have a protective older sister.
She simply tried to figure out how to make sense of the world
After life robbed her of her innocence.
Make her violator famous.
Sure. Then what?
What about her?
Why didn't you redeem her?
Didn't you hear the children?

I don't understand.

I walked away from breakfast
Moved on with my day
How could you, the God of Love
Allow such violence?
Didn't you hear the children?

Walked in to church.
Ariel shows up with the last book in the trilogy.
And again I wonder.
Violence.
Poverty.
Inequality.
Why, Lord?

Listen to the children...

They ask if I have anything I'm thankful for.
How can I be thankful?
Wasn't this the whole point of passion week?
You came to redeem
You came to deliver
So why don't you hear the children?

I stare at the screen as the song lyrics appear.
But my mind wanders back to Constructive Theology classes
How can I possibly construct a theology that you are good
When there's so much violence in the world?
Are you hearing your children?

But your goodness isn't dependent on what you do or don't do now.
That you are Creator, Redeemer and Sustainer should be evidence enough.
Right?

And then I hear little Phoebe
Her voice louder than everyone else in the room
"Glorify, glorify
Let your name be lifted up and glorified
Let the earth tremble at your name
Let your name be lifted up and glorified"

How can I glorify you?
I know you are deserving, and I am unworthy
But how do I justify glorifying a God that allows violence?
Listen to the children,
I hear you say.

My mind is still spinning as Steve starts introducing the next song.
"Draw me close to you..."
And I start weeping

The first night in Anderson when I cried myself to sleep
You were there

My first Sunday at Park Place when we sang that same song
You were there
Back when I was still innocent and the world wasn't so bleak
You were there


And then I hear you saying,
"You are a child too.
I hear you.
I see your heart that's buried under all the ashes."


But that doesn't solve anything.
It doesn't make the world a better place.


I've been feeling a lot like Abraham
And I think you know it
Uprooting and moving isn't the hard part--
I'm used to being nomadic now
Most blessed of tent-dwelling women is Jael
Yeah, yeah. Alright.

I may never get to Canaan,
And it will be alright.
But do I have enough faith that you will protect me from Pharaoh
So that no harm has to come to Sarah?
Do I have enough faith to leave Isaac at the altar?
Do I have enough faith that you will give me my heir
So that I don't have to take Hagar?

How do I teach kids about Abraham this week when I'm relating too well to his weaknesses at the moment?

Victor Hamilton writes,

"Possibly their mistake is seeing the promise of God not as a privilege, but as an obligation. Instead of saying, "We're going to have a baby!" they say, "We've got to have a baby."

And then I realise...
I've been fighting you
Asking you why I have to wear the title of Children's Pastor for this season
Why I have to do something so unfamiliar
Listen to the children.
I won't do them any good.

I heard the children.
What?

I heard the children. I hurt with them.
But I also see your heart. That's why you're here.
You don't see them as a babysitting gig
You don't feel the need to impress them with entertainment
You do exegesis for them
You listen to them
I didn't put you here to do things for them
Remember? 

Hopes said it to you in a loud, audible voice before you left Anderson

You make room

Remember?
You make room for people of all ages to simply be
That's what you're good at
Have you forgotten?
Try and do anything else and you're likely going to flop 

You ask me to listen to the children
I have.
That's why you're here.
You make room for them to ask questions and feel pain. You make room for their animals even if you don't believe they have souls or will go to heaven. You make room for them to be silly, creative, funny and thoughtful. 

You make room for them to find me 

I heard the children in Uganda, and Panem, and Berlin. But I cannot give you answers for them. They are not your responsibility. Your responsibility is for your immediate community.

And then I realise...
I asked you to listen to them as if it were your obligation.
When really, it is our privilege if you do.

For that reason alone,
I will sing as little Phoebe did.
I will listen to the children.

Making Sabbath, Brain Vomit

Katherine commented yesterday that I apparently have been doing a lot of thinking recently.

I guess meltdown cycles have become so normal to me. Just keep doing stuff, don't stop and think, then eventually, crash and my mind cannot stop spinning as it starts processing all the stuff that has caused the meltdown. So I start writing. By the time I get to just about recovery, the cycle repeats itself.

Mia and Kya asked me yesterday what my job was. I told them I was a pastor. Mia then asked what I did in my free time. I had to stop and choose my words carefully because Mia was having a hard time dealing with having to grow up. She has as much quiet confidence as one can possibly get in an eleven year old, but the thought of leaving childhood and free time behind is making her dread becoming a teenager.

I couldn't possibly fib about how much fun growing up can be if I didn't believe it myself.
I couldn't tell her I don't have much free time because I don't know how to say no, and I don't know when to stop.

I don't remember how I answered her question, but it definitely made me stop to think.

The reason why I don't have much free time is because I don't choose to make time to be free.
I'd easily make time for just about anything under the sun--except myself.
Oh, and God.

Dang.

But what's my problem? Why can't I stop? What am I trying to prove?
Truth is, I don't know.

Came across these truths in this week's lectionary readings...

"All the ends of the earth shall remember and turn to the Lord; and all the families of the nations shall worship before him. For dominion belongs to the Lord, and he rules over the nations. To him, indeed, shall all who sleep in the earth bow down; before him shall bow all who go down to the dust, and I shall live for him. Posterity will serve him; future generations will be told about the Lord, and proclaim his deliverance to a people yet unborn, saying that he has done it." - Psalm 22:27-31

This.
This should be the very reason for my existence.
This should be why I eat and why I sleep, and why I do what I do.
But is it?

Some time ago, in a discourse on pastoral theology, a dear wise friend put it (somewhat) in these words.

Creation came into existence because of God's overwhelming love. It isn't just a giant act of masturbation, but one that yearns for a response.

His words left a deep impact with me only partially because his use of the M word made the 13-year-old girl in me giggle. But it made me think.

How many times have I tried to use the things I do to try to show that I'm in relationship with my Creator?
How many times have I been guilty of trying to fill the hours of my day with more things to do hoping that it would fill some kind of hole that only Love can fill?
How much easier is it to pretend that actions earn love when the truth is I'm too proud to accept something that I can in no way claim credit for?

The truth is, Love isn't something that exists because God was showing off.
It isn't a warm, fuzzy feeling that everything is going to be ok.
It isn't even a thing, an act or a feeling.

Dr Ross once explained that the reason why God was so upset with the Israelites worshiping idols made out of their jewelry wasn't just simply because they had broken his commandment about idol-worship, or that God was jealous. In those days, jewelry were a symbol of covenant relationship (ie marriage), and to have taken their jewelry and melted them into an idol would be the present-day equivalent to taking one's wedding band off and whoring oneself to another.

It's never been simply about breaking commandments as much as it is about intentionally violating covenant relationship.

This after all, is the Lover that so selflessly passionate that it yearns for a response like a young man or woman so smitten in new love.
This is the Lover that sent a rainbow to Noah and his family saying, remain in covenant relationship with me.
This is the Lover that gave Abraham his new name saying, through my covenant relationship with you, I will bless the nations.
This is the Lover that passionately pursues Israel even after she has whored herself out to others as many times as she did.
This is the Lover that says I will die for you no matter how many times you throw my wedding ring away.

This is the Lover that says,

For my covenant that he would inherit the world did not come to Abraham or to his descendants through the law but through the righteousness of faith. If you simply adhere to the law just so you can be an heir, faith is null, and my covenant is void. For the law brings wrath, but where there is no law, neither is there violation. (Romans 4:13-15, paraphrased)

I've been in the middle of my fifth/sixth month lull for a while now. MaryAnn says that "5 months is about right for what you are feeling [like crap]." It's supposedly the time when the novelty of everything is starting to wear off. Chad speaks of memories of his fifth/sixth month with such "fondness".

In the midst of life happening, trying to figure out how to not screw up my job, and trying to put an end to my year of transition and change in community/whanau/gemeindschaft, I've tried to ignore my need for some sense of constancy, even if just a thin thread of something. I don't like change very much, and even if I've come to a place of acceptance of its place as a by-product of something I love far greater--the adventure--there are moments of loneliness and a deep desire for a constant. Don't get me wrong, I don't feel alone. It's just a longing for a something or a someone that has stuck around since the awkward TK days, to the time when I fell in and out of love, to the milestones in Anderson, to the times of questioning in Berlin, to the most recent year of transitions.

Something or someone that sticks around just because.

Oh wait.
There is a someone.
And a Someone that does love me.
Someone with a love so passionate that no matter how many times I might screw up or find myself unworthy and try to walk away from the covenant relationship, continues pursuing.

I don't even have to do anything to prove myself worthy.

And so I make my mind stop spinning for a while.
And take a deep breath.
And write.

Not because I have to.
Not even because I need to.

But just... because.

Looking in the Mirror of My Books
Yesterday Seeds of Contemplation arrived and it is very handsome. The best job of printing that has ever been done on any book by me. I can hardly keep my hands off it. Jay Laughlin says the burlap effect we have on the cover is really a material they are using now on the walls of nightclubs. Well, it is the Christian technique: sanctify the saturnalia and lupercalia with Christian liturgy: turn them into Christian feasts.


Every book that comes out under my name is a new problem. To begin with, every one brings with it an immense examination of conscience.


Every book I write is a mirror of my own character and conscience. I always open the final printed job with a faint hope of finding myself agreeable, and I never do.


The Passion and Precious Blood of Christ are too little in this new book -- only hinted at here and there. Therefore the book is cold and cerebral. What is the good of trying to teach people to love God without preaching through Christ's wounds? The reason I do not do so is because I am still selfish. I find myself thinking about what we ought to get for dinner in Lent; about how to distribute signed complimentary copies of the deluxe edition of this book. I should never have gone into such a thing as a boxed special edition. I must be nuts.
- Thomas Merton (March 6, 1949, II.287)

New Plymouth Roadtrip #3: Spiritual Guardians

Wednesday saw us stopping at the Rangimarie Maori Art and Crafts Center after breakfast and a fair amount of puzzling. But more on the puzzling in a bit.

It wasn't a huge art and crafts center, but there was a fair amount of the traditional black, white, red Maori art pieces, weaved baskets and sculptures.

It was here that I was struck with the awareness that we really are a whole lot more connected to each other than we take time to think about. The weaved baskets, possibly made from harakeke (Maori for flax) reminded me of the weaved baskets I had seen in 鹤山 when we made the 寻根(literally translated as "looking for roots") trip to Grandpa's village in China two years ago. And the sculpturing brought back images of watching the workers carefully carving each buddha for the temples in Cambodia.

So much of how we communicate is done through art and music, and if so many different parts of the world find themselves communicating in similar fashions, are we really as different as we like to think we are? It made me question why I sometimes used the excuse of "differences in culture" to get away with not knowing or understanding something or someone. If I'm completely honest with myself, "differences in culture" is not, and should never be used as a lame excuse for my own laziness and fear of looking/sounding stupid when I try to build bridges cross-culturally.

Silent Guardians
"All humans are spirits only visiting this world. All spirits are forever beings. All encounters with other people are experiences, and all experiences are forever connections."
(Marlo Morgan - Mutant Message Down Under)


My favourite piece of sculpture at the Art and Crafts Center is titled "Spiritual Guardians". It was a piece that had at least four different faces, depending on what angle you are looking at it from. It reminded me of the many "spiritual guardians" I've had in my life, some of whom I didn't even realise how much they spoke into my life until years have passed since our interactions. It reinforced for me the idea that we really are more spiritually connected than we realise, and that every interaction we encounter creates in us a sense of responsibility to each other.

To put it in a more Christianese way, every interaction we have should be an opportunity for us to be the Light and Love of Christ. We have the responsibility to community to help each one discover our spiritual connectivity in the love of Christ.

In The Blackfield
She wants to stay and talk all day
So I remark when it gets dark
All the pale things under the earth
Will reverse
(Blackfield - Blackfield)


The backpacker we stayed at while we were in New Plymouth brought us into close proximity with a few really cool folks from around the world.

Laura, a young artist from Germany, here trying to get an internship to add to her portfolio for admission to university back in Germany.
Ann-Sophie, from Quebec, French Canada has been hitch-hiking through New Zealand with Laura ever since they got acquainted a few weeks ago.
Julien, a medical/information systems professional from Germany, here for a one-year break from working closely with cancer patients the last couple of years.
Tomoko, a surfer-dudette from Japan, temporarily working at Seaspray House, the backpacker where we met.

As we shared kitchen and dining space or sipped wine and worked on puzzles together, I found it refreshing to simply be sharing space with people who could simply be. Each one brought to that place our own baggage, whether it was fatigue, a thirst for adventure, the need to escape, or whatever other stories there might be. But in the space of that lounge area, nothing mattered more than simply putting our brains and hands together to work on a puzzle, to laugh and to simply be in each other's company.

It was one of the moments that made me miss being in Berlin. Whether we were having sushi parties, hanging out at the park with neighbours, we were meeting new people not just from all walks of life, but from all parts of the world, and each one with a different story, as we were trying to figure out what it means to live the XZ (Christ-centered) life in those communities.

Julien would join us for a few meals here and there. When he shared the story of what brought him to New Zealand, the same thing that tugged at me when I heard "Justin's" story when I was in Berlin came back. "The story isn't over..." Even though these were two completely different stories, something tugged at me to want to know how the next chapter would look like for Julien. I only wish I had managed to get his contact information before we left.

Our last night in New Plymouth, Steve and I stayed up with Laura, Ann-Sophie and Julien, working on our last puzzle, laughing, trading stories, and simply being. Laura showed me some of her art work, and I was blown away by the stories she shared about what inspired her. And then we proceeded to play some of the games we used to play as kids... which, as it turns out, are fairly universal :)

But it came back to the same thing. The simple act of simply being, and simply living in community because we shared space with each other for the few days.

All encounters with other people are experiences, and all experiences are forever connections.

New Plymouth Roadtrip #2: Rainbow Through the Rain

We were on the roads somewhere on Tuesday when Steve came up with the annoying brilliant question, If you could identify your personality as any one thing, what would it be and why?


Allow me to introduce the crew of this roadtrip with the answers each of us gave:

Kathrin, the Cat: dear friend, big sister and housemate
Emily, the Ostrich: Steve's friend from Ohio, here for a visit
Steve, the Tree: friend, "pricker" (Seminary friends, think Dr Froese) and youth pastor
Jael, the Cactus

Amanda once described my personality like that of a cat's, but I decided to go with the cactus this time. A few good friends once used it to describe the personality of someone who really means well deep inside, but keeps their pricks out so you're not really sure what to do with them.

While the other three made their way up Paritutu Rock which I avoided because of my phobia of heights, I took the time to think a little bit more about the Cactus.

The cactus is almost always a solitary figure in the desert. In my driftings around the world, it's easy to feel like I'm alone in the desert, struggling to sink roots deep enough to tap into the source of Life deep below the surface of the desert. The struggle to sink roots represents both my wrestling with questions of faith, and the thirst for Life in community every time I'm uprooted. Because of the struggle, the pricks that develop keep others at bay, and they'll have to work past the pricks to find the source of Life.

On the flip side, I once read somewhere that potted cacti are gifts of friendship the way flowers are gifts to lovers. The potted cacti reflects my friendship with the world, and my desire for community that is unlike the solitary experience of the desert cacti.

Oh Love That Will Not Let Me Go
Tell me now where was my fault
In loving you with my whole heart
(Mumford & Sons - "White Blank Page")


Monday morning saw us leaving Auckland a little after 10 am. We weren't too far into the journey when Emily shared something that she was reading that morning that included the line, "I trace the rainbow through the rain," familiar words from one of my favourite old, old hymns, Oh Love That Will Not Let Me Go.

The journey to Auckland has felt like a dream, almost too good to be true. But with the visa dateline getting closer and closer, the feeling that I'm about to wake up and realise this has all been a dream is getting stronger and stronger. At one of the many lookouts where we stopped for photos, I found myself confronted with the possibility that this could well be my last trip around New Zealand for a while, if things with the visa don't end up the way we hoped. Deep inside I knew this was a worst-case scenario, but I found myself asking the question, if this was the end of the road with Aotearoa, will it be ok? The truth was, there's still a rainbow that I could trace through the rain because of the love that will not let me go.

Has the past couple of weeks here been challenging and discouraging? Yes. But having to wrestle with the possibility of this all coming to an end soon made me realise that as many challenging and discouraging moments there have been in the last two months of being here, I wouldn't want to be anywhere but here right now.

Two months ago, the eight hours I spent at BNE led to learning the lesson that as long as I'm not living life here with complete abandonment; as long as I'm not giving my heart away freely and completely to this land and this people, I'm still living in fear and not trusting enough that the the Source of Life will be enough. Two months later, I realised I've fallen in love with the land and the people.

Tell me now where was my fault in loving you with my whole heart...

New Plymouth Roadtrip #1: Soul Journey

I've been reading Marlo Morgan's "Mutant Message Down Under," a book recommended by Jen and Miriam. The book had pretty crappy reviews on Amazon, but I'm really enjoying the book so far, and not because it's good historical fiction or anything like that, but because of the narrative of the spiritual journey to appreciating the complexities of the simple things in life.

This roadtrip that Kathrin, Steve, Emily and I just came back from has been a little bit of a spiritual journey for me as well. The journey to Aotearoa itself has had its mystical elements in making me feel even more connected to the earth (thank you Caity Stuart), but this roadtrip was a soul journey of a different kind.

To begin, I carried with me a heaviness from the last couple of weeks as we started the roadtrip. As much as I tried to be present for the trip, the fact that the visa business was still not taken care of made it difficult. Do I begin to withdraw, simply out of the possibility that this could well be my last travel around New Zealand for a while?

Ironically, just before we left that morning, Kathrin and I had a brief conversation about something Michael posted on Facebook by Thich Nhat Hanh:

"In the United States, I have a close friend named Jim Forest. When I first met him eight years ago, he was working for the Catholic Peace Fellowship. Last Winter, Jim came to visit. I usuallyy wash the dishes after we've finished the evening meal, beofre witting down and drinking tea with everyone else. One night, Jim asked if he might do the dishes. I said, 'Go ahead, but if you wash the dishes you must know the way to wash the.' Jim replied, 'Come on, you think I don't know how to wash dishes?' I answered, 'There are two ways to wash dishes. The first is to wash the dishes in order to have clean dishes and the second is to wash the dishes in order to to wash the dishes.' Jim was delighted and said, 'I chose the second way- to wash dishes to wash the dishes.' From then on Jim knew how to was the dishes. I transferred the 'responsibility' to him for the entire week.

If while washing dishes, we think only of the cup of tea that awaits us, thus hurrying to get the dishes out of the way as if they were a nusiance, then we are not 'washing the dishes to wash the dishes.' What's more, we are not living during the time we are washing the dishes. In fact we are completely incapable of realizing the miracle of life shile standing at the sink. If we can't was the dishes, the chances are we won't be able to drink our tea either. While drinking the tea, we will only be thinking of other things, barely aware of the cup in our hands. Thus we are sucked away into the future-and we are incapable of living on moment of life."

- The Miracle of Mindfulness, Thich Nhat Hanh, pgs, 6-8.

It was then that I realised, I was leaving Auckland and had already decided to stay disconnected from the real world. Fretting about the real world stuff wasn't going to change anything anyway, but I couldn't get my mind off the possibility that this roadtrip might well be my last for a while.

Human-ness. What are we to do with that?

I proceeded to try and get my thoughts organized so that I wouldn't dwell excessively on one thing or another. But you know that Voice, the one that I hate sometimes? The voice said, "Let the past sweep over when it sweeps over, rather than try too hard to control the flow of your thoughts."


And so the soul journey began. I'll write more eventually, but my brain is about to combust.