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.

moments of wonder...

Last week I was lucky enough to return to a rural community in northern Nicaragua for the students' last "rural homestay experience". It was my third time back and it's one of my favorite places to visit. Not only is the climate more agreeable (much cooler than Managua), but the food is fabulous, we sleep 12 hours a night while we're there (one advantage to no electricity) and the people are incredible.

One of the older women in the community always tells her life story to our groups, a recent history of the community. As a child she essentially worked as a slave on the 'finca' (a plantation-like system); as a grown woman she saw revolution change their reality: they were given land, she was taught to read as part of a national literacy campaign, and they became producers in their own right, not just workers. And then, as she tells it, less than ten years later the 'spring' of their existence came to an end as the Contra war began in Nicaragua. Living in the north of the country, and being a rural community they were repeatedly attacked by the contras (who were largely financed by the US through the CIA) and burned to the ground, despite the fact that they had no desire to be a part of this battle.

And as I think about their experience during the contra war, and for that matter, before and after it - everything looks different. The mountains are gorgeous and peaceful at first glance, but as I climbed to the top of a lookout to take in a sunset with students, I couldn't stop imaging people running through them with guns, houses burning along the path we took, people hiding in the crevices carved out long ago by water and nature and God. The man walking with us must have been an adolescent in those years when he was fleeing the US funded troops that came to scorch their earth...and now he's leading us up the mountain to share with us one of their greatest beauties.

And there are moments when I wonder if travel is selfish, moments when I wonder if education is really enough to change things. And then there are moments when all I can do is revel in the generosity and tenacity and beauty of these communities. Moments when the questions quiet, when I feel broken open and stretched and healed all at once. And it's so much more than enough in those moments.

something about Mexico...

I'm back in Managua after an incredible week in Mexico. I ended up staying in Cuernavaca for the whole week, but I got to relax, to dance, to enjoy some really good Mexican food and most importantly, to catch up with many old friends. Whenever I get to return, and perhaps more so this time because it had been longer, it feels like a celebration. People weren't really sure what to make of my 'new accent' (central american influence, but unidentifiable at this point, i guess) but were encouraging about where I'm at and remeniscent of my time there.

It's been five years since I first went to Mexico, and while I've now spent various months living in four other countries in Latin America (that I have also loved) there is something about Mexico that wins me over. I adore that country; it was fabulous to be back.

That being said, the trip also gave me really wonderful perspective. When I get to tell people about my current job and talk about the things that we're learning/seeing/doing here, it re-energizes me and reminds me how much I love my current situation.

semana santa...

It's 12:30 am and my taxi to the airport will arrive in approximately 4 hours, but I can't sleep. Latin America celebrates Easter like it's Christmas and nearly everyone gets at least a week of vacation (if not two) - people flock to the nearest body of water in most cases. I, however, am headed to Morelos, Mexico. It's been over a year since I've visited and I'm so looking forward to seeing friends, former coworkers, past students and hopefully making a short trip to Puebla.

Needless to say, I'm excited. I love the pre-vacation anticipation! I hope you all have a lovely week and (for those of you in the northern-midwest) that with Easter, the cold slips away and lets spring back in. Feliz Semana Santa!

far away...

I've heard through various sources that it snowed at home last night - yuck. Life here is sort of on the other end of the spectrum, it was 96 here today and uncomfortably humid. In the midst of the morning heat, I checked my email and saw a message from Tory updating me on Katherine Olson's trial. Her killer was sentenced to life in prison with no parole today. As I read through the Star Tribune article, I couldn't stop crying. I couldn't stop aching for her family, can't imagine what they're feeling. From all I have seen they have moved through this situation with faith and grace and extreme love for their gorgeous, curly headed daughter. It's strange to be in such a different place when things like this happen; Katherine's name doesn't mean anything to people here. Which is probably why my emotions about it get bottled and then more drastically released.

It snowed at home last night and I woke up sweating today; I can feel so far away, so disconnected. I've let myself fall out of touch with many lately, and I apologize for doing so. A phone call with my parents last night and the email from Tory today remind me how good it feels to reconnect with home. I'm more conscious today that, to a certain extent, I can be in control of how 'far away' I feel. And I'd like to choose to be closer - a new goal, of sorts. I am so grateful for the people who remind me how life-giving home can be.