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.

students' last few weeks...

It has been far to long since I've posted and I apologize for letting time slip. I forget sometimes that people are actually checking, but a dear friend wrote this morning, encouraging me to write something - so here I am!

We returned from the countryside and headed into our last few weeks of programming with the semester students. As much as people have talked about being homesick and being excited to be home throughout the semester, the end approaches and the fact that being home means they will no longer be here becomes much more of a reality. It's been fun to watch students, with that realization, really take advantage of time with their host families and see much more of the country.

This last week has been a bit strange - what with the flu scare and all. It seems both scary and maddening to me to watch the news, not being sure how much is just alarmist media and yet being very concerned for loved ones in Mexico. It has also given me new perspective on living in a 3rd world country in the midst of something like this. Were I at home, I don't know that I'd worry, I have faith that if I got sick, they could treat me and I'd recover. But Nicaraguan hospitals are painfully lacking in resources; this just isn't a good place to get sick.

Last week also included incredibly sad news - a friend in Mexico was murdered. Reasons for the murder are unclear and I only hope that, among the current chaos there, space is made for people to grieve this enormous loss. Here in Managua, I'm taking the space I need and am ever impressed with all of the ways that my work team here supports me emotionally. For now, I'm taking time to rest, to be in touch with people at home and in Mexico and...from now on, to blog a little more often :) As always, thanks so much for checking in.