gain

So, I'm finding that the temporal put next to the eternal makes the former look like brass and glass opposing the gold and precious jewels of our inheritance. When i see the imminent loss which must happen in order to simply have an inheritance – forgive me, I’ve never been very impressed with glamour, dollar bill living suits me just fine – sometimes I’d rather the temporal, the cheap.

So, in order to really emulate the Kingdom lifestyle I know to be true, there must be more than a reward system to pull me forward. There must be a clear understanding of who I am and Who He is and what I deserve and What He deserves. There must be daily death, not to compensate for His death - He’s already taken care of that – but to know Someone who, no matter how close we are, will always remain a mystery. And I think that I’m finding that knowing a mystery is a very motivating pursuit.

cares

Burrowed in a blanket of self pity and an X-large black leather jacket, I watched the rain fall on the windshield and matched heaven's tears to my own. Desperate to be in a place where this is okay. This being away. Being different. Being almost alone. Longing for the physical touch of someone who really cares and isn't just greeting me traditionally. Longing for a really deep conversation with someone in English.

It's all so superficial, but it reminds me that I was created a human and the only way I can reconcile these feelings of need is to remember that I was created to know lack, to know lonliness, to feel discomfort - I was created for the purpose of knowing the lack and filling it with Him.

But why does it hurt so much?

observe

Remember walking to George Eastman's house? I asked her. We walked in the autumn chill. Our sweaters keeping out the cold but still feeling the sting of rain on our bare faces.

I wish I had loved memories like that like I love them now. But I didn’t. For what reason, I don’t know. Maybe because they were commonplace: we made memories daily. Buying muffins and hot drinks and grocery shopping became a tradition. Hossmer hall became a haven. That CD, our soundtrack for the past season. My bed, a hideaway. The New Testament, our favorite book. Road trips, a lucky getaway. All things I miss and love so much more now. It makes me want to savor everything with an aggressiveness that can only be matched by the passivity that I am apt to walk with.

Today I felt a breeze. I was sitting outside my classroom, going over the day’s lesson plans and cutting out hearts to glue on valentines, and I felt my hair blow across my face. I looked up and watched the tree in front of me, its leaves shuddering at some thought. My only thought was of the wonder of it. It had been so long since I’ve felt both intense heat and a cool breeze together at the same time, I was afraid it would be short lived and I’d forget it again as quickly as it appears I’d forgotten it at first.

It was beautiful.

Riding the bus was fun for a week. Dozens of bodies shoved, sitting, standing, piling on top of one another, while the indigenous women still maintained the baskets of market wares on the top of their heads, was a fun experience. I’m tired of it now. The routes always take forever and we are so close to our destination so many times it seems like it would pay to just walk.

Today I was determined to enjoy it: my belated New Year’s resolution is to do everything without grumbling or complaining.

I saw:
A beggar, wrapped up in a purple cloth, sleeping on the doorstep of a corner store.
Girls greeting one another in front of their school building, kissing each other on the cheeks and smiling in the cool of the early morning.
A carnival, still asleep for the night, its tent flaps tied shut.
A little boy trying to ride his bike, falling and getting up, again and again.
Someone decorating their bakery with red and pink streamers.

And I enjoyed it a little bit.
Maybe it will increase with each effort.

water

Psalm 84.5

How blessed it the man whose strength is in you and whose heart is set on pilgrimage.

It reminds me that I am blessed as long as my heart is kindled by the fires of heaven and not by the small flame of this world.

I am not such a good pilgrim. At least, not as good as I’d like to be. My heart is prone to wandering and my head is apt to meander. Still my steady desire is to learn to desire Christ. This is something I’ve almost been trained to do, desire Christ – It’s my new nature kicking in. I always want to spend time with Him, dwell on his words and meditate on the things of His heart, but I do not steadily pursue the knowledge of Him. He is neither my daily substance, nor my food. Not in the way I want Him to be.

So, I am a pilgrim, weary and vagabond at times, lost and hungry almost always. Seeking the new land, the new nature, the new spring and finding a good many brick walls. But I am still a pilgrim, so long as my eyes are set on seeking and finding; so long as my feet continue to trod; so long as my strength is in Someone besides myself. So long as my strength is Christ, I am victorious.

clarity

The picture grows clearer and I am dismayed. Somehow the opaque and muddy fog was more comforting, more substantial. Now there is nothing, nothing at all to grab ahold of. The reflection stares back at me, never breaking eye contact until I do- and even then I take small peeks back, just to see.

Just to see what?

Just to see my sinfulness? My utter discontentedness with myself and all my small infractions and minor infidelities? Just to justify my compatibility with the sinful flesh: we were made for each other, didn’t you know? Just for what? What is it which draws my attention to the masked horror in front of me? His outstretched arms are no longer welcoming me, a child, into his Kingdom, but capped with index fingers pointing at the sinfulness nailed up on either side of him. I see the gruesomeness of the face and forget the power of the gospel. His last words permeated of forgiveness and even painting us as the innocents: The know not what they do. And yet still, I stand at the bottom casting lots for my memento of a deed well done. My piece of the Prince of Peace.

And so quietly, so stealthily, darkness settles and the crowd dissipates. It is me and a dead man I called Lord a few days ago.

It is me and a force to be reckoned with.

It is me beside you and finally I believe.

Not because there were miracles, not be 5000 were fed. I am not suddenly a believer because I have seen or hear great things about you – or even about eternity.

I believe because I am alone, in the dark and, to be honest, my body of death is no more defensive than yours. I believe because it is death which stares back at me, the fog has lifted and the veil torn in two. I see my sinfulness and I see your pain.

I see.

bigger

I watched monkeys swinging from their unnatural habitats roof and drove along a garbage littered street in Mazate to a church filled with people and a language I struggle to grasp and love. I left to go to a birthday party where we toasted champagne and abused a hanging paper man until his leg fell off and the group of mid-twenty year olds suddenly became nine years olds grasping for their portion of the lot. I sit through church without an interpreter any longer and yet barely comprehend a single flow in the conversation around me. Laughing, talking, teasing and singing – all such familiar things to me suddenly become a citadel to overcome.

I am not big enough for this, my mind and heart protest. I am not strong enough for this, my weak faith contests. I am not made for this my nature contends.

‘Ah, but I am’ comes the voice I’m beginning to really hear.

being

I am sitting in the Parque Centro of Xela, Quezaltenango. We make the trek here early every Saturday to study the language we now find ourselves immersed in. The simple world of Buenos, mi gusta and te amor has long since left and we are conjugating, simplifying, and making a general mess of everything of late.

So Xela – this beautiful city we long for all week. We long for it in the belief that it will mean freedom and maybe we’re right. It is a city full of foreigners, blue eyes, blond hair, Jansport book bags and Canon camera straps. A city familiar with a white faced vagabond who has probably smartened up enough to not carry enough money to be worth the trouble. So, provided we leave detailed instructions of where we’ll be when and plan a clear rendezvous, we are allowed to wander the streets until he gets out of class and we go in. It tastes like freedom, but only because our lives are constrained in a one acre sardine can and here we only have the confines of as far as we can walk.

I love to sit in this park though. Surrounded on all sides by cathedrals, universities, schools and colorful markets, it makes me feel like I’m just visiting instead of desperately trying to make it home. It makes me proud of my blue eyes and light brown hair. My white skin and very American clothes – because here I am a tourist, a wanderer, someone who is just visiting for a day. Tomorrow I will go back to working at being comfortable and Monday I can glance at the slowest moving calendar. Thursday I can be frustrated with my verbs and asking simple questions. But today, today, I will browse through the market, fingering woven tapestries and carved candlesticks. Today I will grow excited at the prospect of sending a postcard home and today I will take some photos of people and places. Today I will be okay with being different.