despidiendo de nuevo...

The office is quiet and I'm between wrapping up semester stuff and packing for my trip home. Last week was full of reflections and final projects goodbyes, and really moving realizations from the students.

I really dislike having to watch them all go every 6 months, but I love getting to hear about the changes that this program has caused in their perspectives, in their approach to the world and their future work. The last week is always that shot of adrenaline that reminds me why I love this job and believe so much in learning from the stories of the underdog, in the growth and change that comes from living and learning in community, in looking at your own country, own people from a new viewpoint.

The things we hear during the process of the semester can be at times horrifying and overwhelming, and yet, people continue on with their struggle. Personally, if I try to look at it all at once, I'm almost dizzy. However, last week as I sat and listened to the students, one by one, talk about transformation and awakening things felt slightly closer to 'changeable'. This work of changing the status quo is slow and frustrating and seemingly impossible at times but important and honestly, I hope that it's always what I'm dedicated to. Whatever form it takes.

For the students who just left, and those who left a year ago and 7 months ago, thank you for taking this journey and taking it all to heart.

Do not depend on the hope of results. When you are doing the sort of work you have taken on, essentially an apostolic work, you may have to face the fact that your work will be apparently worthless and even achieve no result at all, if not perhaps results opposite to what you expect. As you get used to this idea, you start more and more to concentrate not on the results but on the value, the righteousness, and the truth of the work itself. And there too a great deal has to be gone through, as gradually you struggle less and less for an idea and more and more for specific people. The range tends to narrow down, but it gets much more real. In the end, it is the reality of personal relationships that saves everything.

- Thomas Merton

grateful...

It's 9 am Thanksgiving day and already 84 degrees and rising. I walked into the kitchen this morning and was greeted with a 'Como amaneciste?' as the cooks were already starting to prepare our traditional United States-ian feast. Certainly it's a strange thing to be in such a different place on these larger holidays. The table at my parents' house seems so far away, and yet it's all I can think about today.

Thankfully, Thanksgiving is one of those holidays that doesn't let you off easy. You just can't be grumpy on Thanksgiving - it's contrary to the whole essence of the holiday. This day demands gratitude; and that's a lovely thing, I think. My mother speaks often of gratitude and raised us in a house that demanded we be conscious of all of the ways that we were blessed. And, over the years, it's become clear to me how much happier I am when I'm grateful, how much more motivated and willing, believing and open I can be when I'm conscious of my great fortune.

I'm reading a book right now in which the main character talks about 'big bursts' and 'little bursts' as getting her through life. Big bursts like my stunning, new, little nephew, having a job that i adore, the engagement or marriage of a dear friend. And the more day-to-day things that keep us going - little bursts: a letter from home, dancing until I'm exhausted, opening a new jar of peanut butter, or my companero Chepe managing to crack me up every day.

And then there are the over-arching things that don't really burst at all, but gently exist as a glowing foundation below it all. I am grateful for the unconditional love of my family, the friendships that embrace me tenderly as I grow and transform continually, the tenacity I see in the people here and the idea - the stubborn hope - that progress and change, and justice are possible.

I am grateful today. Sweating, but grateful :) I miss you all.
Happy Thanksgiving.

20 years later...

Today is the 20 year anniversary of the assassination of six Jesuit priests, their housekeeper and her daughter. These priests, through their classes at a Salvadoran university, their writings, and their work with local communities openly struggled against the violence of the 12-year civil war and worked towards peaceful negotiations to end the conflict. Because of their work, they were brutally killed by the Salvadoran army, which was financially supported by the US.

We visit the place they were murdered with students and have the chance hear the history while being in that sacred space (to read old blog posts about our visits, see: 'six of many' or 'hidden in plain sight'). If you have a chance today (or this week) think of El Salvador and educate yourself on it and the United States role in its history.

If you're in Northfield: attend the commemorative events at St. Olaf!
Monday, Nov 16th at 7:00 pm - "El Salvador, What happened to Liberation Theology?" Father James Torrens, Viking Theatre
Wednesday, Nov 18th at 7:00 pm - Documentary "Enemies of War" followed by Q & A, Holland Hall 501

If you're not in Northfield check out a movie about El Salvador:
'Voces Inocentes' - a film made about the civil war in El Salvador
'La Vida Loca' - a recent documentary on gang life in El Salvador
'Hidden in Plain Sight' - a documentary on the School of the Americas

And if you're not a film person, just say a prayer for peace.

Thanks for checking in; I'm headed to the mountains for a few days. I'll be back in a week.

"All the blood of martyrs shed in El Salvador and in all of Latin America, far from plunging us into discouragement and dispair, instills a new spirit of struggle and new hope in our people. In this sense, even if we're not a 'new world' or a 'new continent' we are cleary and verifiably...a continent of hope."

-Jon Sobrino, Jesuit Theologian

what to do about water...

Water has been on my mind lately. And those of you who know me well know that I haven't always been great about actually drinking it. It's just not something I think about often. I haven't had to. And yet, whenever I've wanted water, it's been right there waiting for me. Easily accessible, without a thought nearly my entire life.

Life in Latin America has made me much more aware of water. The heat demands it, the faucet often unexpectedly fails to dispense it in the city, and the lacking resources in the country make it tough to find and too dirty to drink. 1 in 6 people globally do not have clean drinking water. Families that have taken me in and generously shared their homes with me, walk miles to get water and carry it home, use it scarcely and respectfully and still, tragically, in the last few years, they have watched their children die of diseases caused by dirty drinking water.


Earlier this year a friend recommended the documentary FLOW: For the Love of Water, to me and watching it changed the urgency with which I think about water. (http://www.flowthefilm.com/trailer) The scarcity is scary, absolutely. But what's more frightening to me, is the ease with which we're letting companies bottle and sell us something we can drink for next to nothing from our faucets. That's scary in a country with resources, and even more so in countries where expendable incomes are something known only among the elites.

As I was looking around for different facts about water today I went to google and was less than thrilled to be reminded about our little $79 million moon-bombing to look for water there. I just don't get. Not at all. Am I way out of line to feel that we should start taking care of water sources here on Earth first? That we should start claiming our Earthly water sources for people and nations and thirsty populations before large corporations buy, pollute and exploit them?

After a visit from my family here and their wonderfully relentless asking 'what can we do about it all?' I've been thinking about how to give more ideas for action and hope here in this little blog space I call my own. Of course these are always just suggestions, and I'll hope you'll keep reading even if not moved to action, but I know that being witness to life in a third world country is both a privilege and a responsibility. I personally need to remember that I am connected to people of other nations. That I can affect their lives positively. Probably not as much as I'd like to, but who doesn't need water? This is one sustainable, tangible, easy way we can improve people's quality of life.

A few ideas:

Those of us privileged enough to have regulated, drinkable tap water, should drink tap water, and encouraging our local and state governments to protect it and the water sources in our home states.

Educate yourself about water!
- Watch FLOW (Rent it or search for it online, many documentary sites provide free links)
- Read one of the many books out there bringing this issue to light: Blue Gold, Bottlemania, etc...

Donate to organizations helping abroad:

charity: water - building wells in Africa to bring clean water to entire communities

Potters for Peace - Helps potters around the world set up facilities to produce and sell water filters to families that don't have access to an uncontaminated well or other clean water source. The filters are low-tech, low-cost ($15-25), and effectively eliminates 99.88% of most water-born diseases.

"The banks of a river may belong to one man or one industry or one State, but the waters which flow between the banks should belong to all the people."

-LBJ, 1965 when singing the Clean Water Act

fascinated with family...

It's been nearly a week since my family headed out from their week long visit to Nicaragua. And still, at least one person a day asks me how the visit went - I guess I mentioned it to a few people! It's fabulous to be able to say that we had a wonderful week and that I'm continually reminded of how fortunate I am to have family like them.

It went ridiculously fast, as expected and after a day in colonial Nicaragua, a day at the lake, time in Managua, a visit to an ocean resort and an interesting (rainy) day on a nearby mountain with friends...they were hugging me goodbye. And suddenly I was no long surrounded by this group of people who somehow manage to make me feel more me than nearly anyone else can.

They left and I laid down and cried - sad to see them go of course, but also overwhelmingly grateful. To have a family that affirms the decisions I've made and the things I love by coming all the way here to see them, to laugh and love through it, and to remain so entirely open to the experience and whatever it might gift them...well, I think that's remarkable. I think I'm remarkably blessed.

give us roses...

"Hearts can starve as well as bodies, give us bread, and give us roses!"

- Utah Philips, Ani de Franco

Amid packing, and final projects and an intense Yankees game, we're wrapping up the program in El Salvador. This last week has involved chances to speak with different organizations working with women's issues, the environment and neoliberalism. I've learned a great deal - and would love to write about some of those things (perhaps I will a bit later) but tonight I'm just signing in to say that it hasn't all been heavy.

We've made time for a bit of fun - we got to go to a futbol game last week (El Sal v. Honduras - Honduras won and qualified for the World Cup) and bowling in a pre-celebration for a student's birthday. And, I am blessed enough to have a great deal to look forward to - my family arrives in Nicaragua in a few short days! I get to spend my vacation soaking in their presence and showing them around country that has become very important to me. Amid all of the weight of the issues among us and the change that's necessary - I'm grateful to have moments to lighten things a little, moments of hope with speakers, moments to remember all of the good that continues to bless me.

were you there?

I've done this semester trip a few times already; so I've been through most of the activities once or twice. And while I don't get bored - this does afford me a sort of luxury in being able to mentally and emotionally prepare myself for certain activities.

Yesterday I knew, as we took the boat across the lake, that we were headed toward a massacre site. I knew that while sitting there in that sacred place, we would listen to a difficult testimony. Testimony of a man who was just a boy when he watched an unjust, bloody attack by the army take the lives of his entire family and another 100-some people from his community.

His community had been persecuted by the government army because of the suspicion of a 'guerrilla presence'. During one foreseen attack the majority of the civilians had escaped across the lake, but returned too soon, before the army had gone entirely, and they were seen at the banks of the lake. And here begins his story, running down the hill, watching rolling boulders smash other children, watching his parents, his siblings, aunts and uncles get shot and fall into the water, watching body parts of the people escaping in boats be severed and strewn through the air by grenades viciously hurled. And as if this red mess at the shore weren't enough, they marched the survivors through another three days of torture. All the time telling them that they were headed toward the capital and then, at the end, raping and killing the girls and dividing the remaining people into three groups and killing each in a distinctly cruel way.

His story is long, and it wasn't the first time I had heard it. I watched the ants and centipedes and all variety of bugs crawl past me and under me and I broke twigs and kept my hands busy throughout. He did the same, ringing his hands, placing them on his hips, crossing and uncrossing his arms, constantly moving but somehow much calmer this time than the last. He has said before that the telling of his story is difficult, but shedding light on such an extreme reality is important and for him, healing.

I sat there and wondered how it was that I wasn't crying as I listened to the first hand testimony of a man who was 9 years old when he watched his entire family be brutally killed, while he watched a man get hung from a tree and beat to death as if he were a pinata, when he watched dogs and vultures eat the raped, assassinated bodies of the young women with whom he had spent his childhood. Of the three times that I had heard it, never had I cried. Until yesterday.

Our professor had requested that our Olaf student, a violin player, bring her instrument and play a benediction of sorts. She stood up after nearly 2 hours of testimony and with a few lines from three, perfectly chosen hymns, she beautifully embodied the pain and bewilderment, the hope and commitment of the moment.

"Were you there when they crucified my Lord?" was the first one, and as soon as I heard it, I couldn't help but weep. Hymns can be so powerful and this music is just so much a part of the base of my faith. A faith that has changed and grown and begun to encompass a world full of extreme hurt and beauty. This month has truly pushed me to look for the divine in people, to serve God by serving 'the least of these' to see our 'suffering servant' in the poor, the oppressed. And talk about new light being shed on old theology: I was sitting there where they crucified so many, where they crucified my Lord. And that question had never felt so personal, so pertinent, so demanding. How could one not tremble at the thought of it all?

I am here where so many are being crucified. The armed conflict was terrible, but in many ways, things continue on the same. Gang violence and hunger, unjust economic policy and brutal assassinations on the immigration path to the United States continue to rob these people of life and the opportunities that my 'higher power' has clearly stated belong to all. ALL.

And last night, I laid in bed and listened to the little boys in my homestay (the nephews of the man who gave testimony that morning) giggle as they recited their own versions of the Lord's Prayer. I was reminded of a piece of our professor's re-written 'People's Prayer':

"Forgive our giving up, our fixation on being
comfortable and powerful...
Forgive our inability to see beyond our street and experience,
thereby denying the lives lived by others
and denying the power and complexity that is you.
We have trespassed on your fullness,
your design, your sacred spaces.

Your voice cries in pain with ours,
will not remain Silent in the
face of injustice, will not let violence strip
Love from Life.

For you are the Creatrix,
the season-changer, the maker of snow,
the center of hope, a Spectrum of Aliveness. "

like any other moment....

"Liberation theology isn't just 'of a moment' but since bible times, since there have been believers, there has always been a theology with liberation at its base. This moment may not be the biggest or most critical moment in time; but still - like any other moment in history - the social structure has to change. And maybe it will always be that way. As a result, liberation theology has something to say about current issues; liberation theology will always be relevant."

- Jesuit priest and professor in El Salvador

for they shall inherit the moon...

"It's official: we're bombing the moon" - my coworker Chepe

So I looked it up, and he's right. Scheduled to happen tomorrow - and why not? Crash something into the moon to see if we can find water. And who is this water for? Potential, future, moon-dwellers it seems. Now, I am fully aware that I am not a scientist, and probably don't even realize all of the ways that I benefit from technology developed, in part, by discoveries made by NASA.

But even so, even if that is the case, over the course of the last year, I have met plenty of people who don't even benefit from the luxury of clean water. Over the last year I've seen levels of people living in conditions I couldn't previously imagine. Those of you who have been reading for a while may remember my visit to the Acahualinca dump in Nicaragua. (see post: trash, Dec 2008). This breaking news brought a poem to mind; about the moon and the people of Acahualinca, Nicaragua. It's long, but an interesting commentary, so I'll post parts of it below.

Really? We can't figure out how to get water to all the people that need it here on Earth, but we can start bombing the moon to see if there might possibly be some for potential, future dwellers?

The Earth is a Satellite of the Moon

Apollo 2 cost more than Apollo 1

Apollo 1 cost plenty.

Apollo 3 cost more than Apollo 2

Apollo 2 cost more than Apollo 1

Apollo 1 cost plenty...

Apollo 8 cost a fortune, but no one minded

because the astronauts were Protestant

they read the bible from the moon

astounding and delighting every Christian

and on their return Pope Paul VI gave them his blessing.

Apollo 9 cost more than all these put together

including Apollo 1 which cost plenty.

The parents of the people of Acahualinca were less hungry than the children of the people there.

The parents died of hunger.

The people of the Acahualinca are less hungry than the children of the people there.

The children of the people of Acahualinca, because of hunger, are not born

they hunger to be born, only to die of hunger.

Blessed are the poor for they shall inherit the moon.

- Leonel Rugama

a bride...

When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.


When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

- Mary Oliver

somos realistas...

We've delved into classes since arriving here in El Salvador on Sunday. We just spend four weeks here, but they are four of the most intense weeks of the program; for me, El Salvador has an energy, and electricity about it. In three days our conversations have touched topics from abundance to 'the gift of anguish', corrupt politics to 'integral development', extreme violence to stubborn hope. It's so much, that I'm often unsure where to begin when I sit down to write.

El Salvador is a tiny, chaotic country with an overwhelmingly distressing past and present; and still, I see such obstinate hope in the people that I can't help but be encouraged. In so many, I see a faith that lies not in a God that's bigger than them, beyond them and distant, but in the idea that there is extreme potential for the 'divine within' to manifest itself in the people. And I like that.

"No somos exceisvamente pesimista.
Somos realistas.
Sabemos que hay obstaculos grandes,
Pero no negamos la potencial en la sociedad Salvadorena".

"We're not excessively pessimistic.
We're realistic.
We know there are huge obstacles,
But we do not deny the potential of Salvadoran society".

human connection...

In previous semesters I have spent my last week in Guatemala at 'the mountain school' - a Spanish school in a rural area of Guatemala near Colomba. This semester (since our group is mini) we all ventured out together to a new rural community about a half an hour from Xela.

Mornings consisted of Spanish class (for me as well! still working on the subjunctive, unfortunately enough) and the afternoons were filled with activities teaching us about issues the community is facing and initiatives the people are taking in response. We dove into topics such as immigration, water, deforestation, education (i.e. lack of funding for education) and cooperatives. I learned an incredible amount, all of this set in a breathtaking corn'field' tucked away in the mountains.

What I will most remember from the week though is, without doubt, our host-family. Grandma, Grandpa, Mom and her four children were, without exception, utterly endearing. Home stays are a part of my job, and while I always appreciate getting to chat with people and hear different perspectives, I don't generally expect to get attached in a week anymore. I think that the 6 year old daughter in this family stole our hearts the first day and throughout the week we (Joe and I) only grew to appreciate them more.

They were just such strong people. People who have worked incredibly hard, have been integral in the creation of their community, have advocated for people's rights, who continue, with what little they have, to provide for both their children but also a widow from the war and neighbors who have even less than they do. It was humbling and heartwarming to see the ways in which they battle for the good of their family, of their community.

And yet, so often it was just heartbreaking to spend time with them. Grandma would walk into the kitchen to see all of her grandchildren eating and smile and say 'mis pollitos' (my little chickens) -- you could tell that she was content, proud even, to see them all eating. And yet, they weren't sure where their next meals would come from.

I could write much more about them, but really, what it boils down to is that they humanized poverty for me. I wish that all of my loved ones could meet this family, could see this community, could laugh with them and be touched by the way in which they continue to fight when the odds are impossible. I wish that all of my loved ones could see this poverty up close, could hear about it's viscious cycle from those most affected, would be filled with the just anger of knowing that, despite their beauty and diligence and love, these kids just don't really have a shot.

Small comfort comes from the fact that it wasn't just me out there last week. I was there with 8 students who were hearing the same stories, seeing the same injustices. I am increasingly convinced that only through human connections will we be truly motivated to change...and I guess that's why I love this work.

escarlatina...

One thing I love about my job is that I am constantly learning new things about history and globalization and Central American politics…and, as it turns out – bizarre medical mishaps. Many of you may remember the post last year about the ‘fire plants’ that gave one of our students second degree burns. This year, we started off right away with an equally strange case. One of the girls let me know that she was getting a rash, but we weren’t all that concerned at first…until it started to spread, *quickly*. Never in my life have I seen a rash so red and so expansive.

Over the course of the following week, this trooper of a student visited three different doctors and received a different diagnosis from each, first it was an allergy/a reaction to her malaria meds, then is was Rubela, then is was an allergic reaction again, and finally, at the last doctor she was treated for Scarlet Fever. Scarlet Fever? I don't think I've heard of anyone getting that since Beth from Little Women got it from the baby next door.

I'm still skeptical about the whole thing; she was treated for so much stuff that who knows what it actually was. But the antibiotics for Scarlet Fever worked. And as she started to heal, the skin started to peel (see pic of arm in process on the left). I repeat, she had a marvelous attitude through the sleepless nights of burning and the shedding and re-shedding of her skin and we're thrilled to report that she's no longer losing skin and the redness has almost entirely disappeared.

quick update...

I've neglected to write this week - and apologize, but wanted to check in quickly...I'm still here and I'll post something of substance soon! Certainly there is lots going on; we went to the market town of Chichicastenango (see pic of me with Eliett and Joe) last weekend and this coming weekend is our free time. I'm headed to the capital for a night and then to Lake Atitlan.

(And it has finally started to rain!)

'tut tut...'

From a very early age, I was socialized (in part by Winnie the Pooh and his 'tut tut...looks like rain') to think that talking about the weather was not only something that we do in the face of strange phenomenon or awe, but something we do even when we don't have anything to state but the obvious.

The obvious here in Guatemala this ‘winter’ (aka: the rainy season, which should be upon us) is that it does not look like rain. And it’s what I end up talking about with people, quite a bit actually. This is partially due to the fact that weather is a safe neutral topic, most people will agree – we either need more rain or we don’t. Which is much easier than coming to a similar agreement in regards to, say, taxes.

But this year, it’s not that all that simple really. The gravity of the situation makes it emotional, makes it political. Droughts at home are terrible I, in no way, mean to minimize the pain they cause. Still, it almost seems there’s no comparison to the way that a few months without rain here can affect people. The majority of rural Guatemalans live on less than $2/day. A season without rain, in a country where so many depend on the corn they grow to feed the mouths at their table, means that thousands are dangerously hungry. In the last four months, the number of Guatemalan families at risk for severe malnutrition has quadrupled.

Interestingly enough, when one looks simply at the GDP or other ‘economic indicators’ of how Guatemala’s doing, it’s not all that bad. Disparities unaccounted for and Guatemala is doing ok; however, Guatemala boasts 'the sixth worst rate of chronic malnutrition in the world' (for more stats/info see: 'Hungry in Guatemala': http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200908u/guatemala-hunger). I read an editorial this morning that argued that poverty is humanity's natural state of being, that richness is really the exception and we shouldn't be so shocked or upset that so many are on the edge. And while I may agree that living simply is closer to our 'natural state', I just can't swallow the idea that some have so much while others have so devastatingly little.

Perhaps what's most sad about the situation is that the future prospect for these families doesn’t look good. Without much in the ways of government aid, many have been desperate enough to eat their seed corn, an understandable act if your children may die before the dry spell is over. But in doing so, have devoured both their ability to plant next year’s crop, as well as the freedom they previously maintained from genetically modified seed.

I wouldn’t say that I’ve been passionate about the weather in the past, and know that I complained about the wet September here last year. But this year, when the dark clouds roll in, I find the phrase ‘tut tut…’ always comes to mind, almost as a petition for those who may be able to salvage part of their harvest, for those who have tired of dry, sunny days.

beginnings...

After a couple of days with the new crew of students, I'm thrilled to report that although our group this semester is small (just eight as opposed to recent groups of 18) thus far the group has been lovely. Considerate, informed, very interested and grateful - they have been a joy to be with and I'm happy and hopeful for a fabulous experience with them all. I love this job and the ability to hear things more than once with people who are hearing it for the first time - there's a consistency and perseverance to it accompanied by new observations and wide eyes - a combination that feels utterly life giving.

Battling a headache tonight, I'm excited to get to bed, so I'll keep it short. Our time here in the capital is already done. Any thoughts and prayers appreciated tomorrow as we wind through the mountains to Xela: our new home for the next few weeks!

on the road again...

After a gorgeous day Saturday, including brunch with my dear family and then an afternoon celebrating Mandy and Craig's union, I headed out early early Sunday morning to fly back to Nicaragua. I spent almost a week there, some of it reconnecting with coworkers, and re-acclimating to the heat, the culture, and the language of Managua (Nicaraguan Spanish is *so* different than the Mexican Spanish I got used to this summer). I also spent a few nights away in a nearby cloud forest, with a day trip to the ocean; it went by all too quickly, gorgeous surroundings, fabulous conversation, great food, and incredible company. It was a sweet little getaway - time to think of nothing but exactly where I was, to disconnect from the life to which I so recently said goodbye and the life we'll pick up from in the airport on Monday.
And now, I write to you from San Salvador, en route to Guatemala with my ever-entertaining compañero Chepe (it's such fun to be traveling with him again). We got in yesterday afternoon and head out today for Guatemala City. It's been fabulous to see all of my coworkers again and everyone is so genuinely excited for the new semester to begin that preparations have been a joy. We're headed for the bus station again in a few minutes, so I should head out. Best wishes to all! I miss you Minnesotans already!

the summer in review...

It appears as though my summer vacation also turned into a short hiatus from my blog. After a month and a half of not having written, I feel I should have more to report. But the last two months have been nearly entirely about focusing on people and letting myself sink into the relationships here at home that remind me who I am. When I'm out and away it's easy for me to focus mostly on who I could be, what my potential is, what the need is and how I might be able to shape my life accordingly.

Home is about who I am, right now. Home offers roots, friends offer space to be ridiculous and be appreciated for it, family offers endless support and insight that portrays a love I can't fully understand. I think that at times I'm tempted to see one place as more valuable than the other, or as more necessary at specific periods of time. It's an obvious realization, but it's clearer after some slower time here that they're immensely different, but of equal value.

After my last blog post I finished up the book "The Country Under My Skin" by Giaconda Belli (very worth reading) and she writes about moving to the United States with her partner after a life of service and loving dedication to being Nicaraguan. She writes more beautifully than I ever could about some of the same feelings I have attempted to express in recent posts. So, I'll paste a quote below and put up a couple of pictures from the summer. And I'll be writing with much more frequency again, so check back in soon.

"I was often tormented by the fear that I would become soft and compliant, assume the attitude that people term ‘realistic’, hang up my gloves and resign myself to the idea that we lost the battle or, in the best of all worlds, that the fight to achieve new utopias would now fall to other people. But reality taught me otherwise. Life has shown me that not every commitment requires payment in blood, or the heroism of dying in the line of fire. There is a heroism inherent to peace and stability, an accessible, everyday heroism that may not challenge us with the threat of death, but which challenges us to squeeze every last possibility out of life, and to live not one but several lives all at the same time. To accept oneself as a multiple being in time and space is part of modern life..."
- Giaconda Belli

quiet comfort...

I can't get over how quiet it is here. I sit in my room in the house I grew up in and all of life sounds subdued. It's a chilly morning and I can hear birds out my window, but they're chirping softly, in the distance. In my room in Managua birds woke me up most mornings (if not the heat) and did so with volume and abrasiveness and persistence that seemed fitting to the intensity of that place. Their calls and cries shared the soundtrack with the pleas of street vendors and aggressive drivers, horn happy and sin muffler.

Here in my other reality - my first reality - the neighbors are exchanging niceties, cars hum by, a lawn mower purrs down the block: consistent, gentle, throwing that quintessentially small town, fresh-cut-grass-smell into the air. For a few days, I felt somewhat out of place here, and I suppose that won't go away entirely. But I don't know that I'll ever feel totally out of place here, this is where I grew up, this town is in me. As much as I marvel at the contrast between life here in small town Minnesota and life in Managua, it's frighteningly easy for me to start thinking that this, this quiet, comfortable way of existing is normal. I struggle with the temptation of that comfort, it's alluring in many ways.

I'm beyond blessed to have a few months here at home before I head back down to Central America for another year of work with the same program. I'm very much looking forward to the opportunity to work with my team again and be part of a process that I so strongly believe in. But in the meantime, I've come home to a new nephew, to loads more family that I adore and to friends that squeeze every possible drop of meaning and humor out of any situation, and that constantly teach me how to grow. I'm home and I'm happy, not comfortable but cognizant of all of my blessings.

new light...

One of my favorite phrases in Spanish is 'dar a luz' which is used to talk about women giving birth. However, literally it translates to 'to give light' or 'to bring the light'. This week, the Menning family was blessed with new light!

Anyone who has talked to me at length in the last 9 months has likely heard about how excited I have been to have a niece or nephew. Pues, por fin soy tia! I arrived home just in time; Monday night at the airport I talked to my brother as Bri was about to go into labor. Best homecoming gift ever! On Tuesday, I got to meet little Noah Elloyd and, as a proud aunt, thought I should share a few pictures here as well.

where the streets have no name...

I spent a better part of last weekend at my coworker's house as a little getaway. Her family is endearing, the house is beautiful and I'm always grateful for an invitation to enjoy their company. On Saturday, a friend called to see if I'd like to go out for drinks and said they'd swing by to pick me up. I stuck my head into my coworker's room to ask for her address and she chuckled and said "give me the phone, I'll explain how to get here". How silly of me, I forget sometimes that here in Managua an address and the directions of how to get somewhere are the same thing.

You see, here in Managua streets don't have names. Buildings aren't generally numbered either. So how do you find a place without street names? Easy enough for locals, you pick a big landmark and work your way toward your destination from there. For example, to grab a cab to the Theatre Justo Rufino Gray you'd have to tell them: "from the Montoya statue, 3 blocks down, 20 meters toward the lake". It seemed to me, from the beginning like some sort of cruel joke - 'down', 'toward the lake'? But really, it's just a system one must learn. Down means west, because the sun goes down in the west. Logically following that, 'up' means east, where the sun rises. The lake is situated to the north of the city so 'al lago' means north and ...well, south never got a code word I guess, you just say 'al sur/to the south'.

It baffles me that this system works...mostly when I get addresses that start with "donde fue el Hotel..." -- 'where the Hotel...used to be'. What if you don't know where the hotel used to be? Or when they finish with "and 20 'varas' up", what the heck is a 'vara'?! (I just looked it up for this post, it's apparently an ancient Spanish unit of measurement measuring approx .875 meters...that will help me when I can finally remember how many feet are in a meter.)

I guess the system all started after the earthquake in '72. Apart from killing nearly 20,000 people, it also demolished buildings and seriously altered the grid patterned streets of this capital city. People figured it out, they made up a new system...one that works well enough that they apparently still don't feel the need to create a new one, or put up street name signs any time soon. And while I miss street names and house numbers, this is certainly an exercise in my sense of direction.

*photos taken and kindly shared by Jenny Ajl

a little shock...

It’s raining here again. And we’ve been waiting for it. After months of oppressive heat in a dusty, dry Managua, I was anxious for water, for green, for anything that might cool it down a little. And last night, it poured. Infrastructure is lacking here and roads easily flood with a torrential downpour like we had, so plans to go out with friends were quickly canceled and I was trapped in the house.

Thunder and lightning accompany any good storm and rolling, rumbling thunder can actually seem comforting to me, even alone in this big house. I like the reminder that things aren’t always quiet and peaceful, that there’s beauty and variation in tumult. That this energy and falling water ushers us into a different part of the year, a part full of growth. And in the midst of this reflection (which was likely partially to keep me from feeling as alone as I was) there was an instant of light - everything illuminated – followed rapidly by a crack of thunder that felt like it was all encompassing, felt like it split through space and was somehow inside of me and I jumped and gasped… and then took a few deep breaths and smiled at myself.

It was kind of funny. I’m sitting there, listening to thunder, contemplating thunder, waiting for more thunder, and when there’s a crack I still gasped, I was still frightened by it. It’s instinctual, I suppose, because it didn’t actually scare me. But it threw me off for a second and certainly got my blood flowing.

As I was talking about last night’s storm with the cook this morning, I realized that my moment of thunder shock bears striking resemblances to my preconceptions of my upcoming return to the US and my anticipated culture shock. I’ve been thinking lots this week about the joys that await me in Minnesota this summer, but also about the transition time, the anger and confusion about all the ‘extra’ at home, and the fact that Managua’s reality and Northfield’s reality exist simultaneously. To imagine these two different worlds makes sense to me. They make sense when they are separate and disconnected, they make sense when I keep them detached from each other…but in that instant of light, that week where I’ve been in both places and they’re both still so real to me - the contrast between the two is jarring. Questions split through theoretical space and somehow become a constant part of me, relentless, driving, without answers. As much as I’ve been contemplating it and waiting for the tumult, it’s still frightening.

It’s instinctual, I suppose. A raging thunderstorm or long-awaited flight home. As much as we are wired to jump when we hear loud noises I believe we’re designed to gasp in the face of such belligerent disparity. A little shock gets the blood flowing.

a tiny fraction...

The students left this morning. I was utterly exhausted after 4 nights of little to no sleep and the emotional wear and tear of reliving my last days in Cuernavaca and then saying goodbye to them all. I slept for much of the day, and this afternoon my heart seems to be waffling between sadness, numbness and excitement for them all to get home and realize how much they saw here.

As I was preparing for our last meeting together a few days ago at the lake, I found this prayer written by Oscar Romero. I decided not to read it to the whole group - maybe taken out of context it could sound cheesy or idyllically altruistic - but it keeps coming to mind; knowing who Oscar Romero is, and having lived the last four months together it seems more than appropriate. This semester was hopefully just a tiny fraction of the learning that will continue to expand and blossom as students resettle into North American life. And to any of you students who are home, in your carpeted houses, surrounded by family or lovers or friends, know that I'm in the back den with all of you on my mind.

A Prayer of Hope

It helps now and then, to step back and take the long view. The kingdom is not only beyond our efforts, it is even beyond our vision.

We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction of the magnificent enterprise that is God's work. Nothing we do is complete which is another way of saying that the kingdom always lies beyond us. No statement says all that could be said. No prayer fully expresses our faith. No confession brings perfection, no pastoral visit brings wholeness, no program accomplishes the Church's mission. No set of goals and objectives includes everything.

This is what we are about. We plant seeds that one day will grow. We water seeds already planted knowing that they hold future promise. We lay foundations that will need further developments. We provide yeast that produces effects far beyond our capabilities.

We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that. This enables us to do something and to do it very well. It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way, an opportunity for God's grace to enter and do the rest.

We may never see the end results but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker.

We are the workers, not the master builders, ministers, not messiahs. We are prophets of a future not our own.

Amen.