Sunday, December 16, 2018

A Good Enough Christmas

     When Pastor Charlie asked me to speak today, he mentioned that the topic should relate to Christmas. At first, this seemed like a pretty easy task. There’s no shortage of material, because out of all of the stories in the Bible, the Christmas story is the most well-known. Even those who don’t attend church regularly have most likely heard about the birth of Jesus at some point, or at least heard a reference to it in a Christmas song or movie. 
     The problem turned out to be finding something to say about Christmas that hasn’t already been said. I grew up in a family that went to church pretty regularly, and If I add up all the years of my life, that’s twenty-three Christmas sermons I’ve heard. And considering the fact that most pastors start talking about Christmas at the beginning of Advent, it feels like I’ve heard just about every aspect of Christmas talked about at some point. 
     I’ve heard the same narrative throughout my whole life, about Mary riding to Bethlehem on a donkey and Jesus being born in a stable because there was no room in the inn. I can tell you how many wise men showed up, and what they brought with them. I don’t lack knowledge about Christmas, but there have been times this year I have felt lacked the usual joy this season brings. I have always been taught that Jesus was born to bring hope to the world, and I’ve always trusted that. My problem during Christmas since moving to Nome is celebrating a holiday that represents hope, when I am surrounded by circumstances that often feel hopeless. Don’t get me wrong, I love living in Nome and I know that there are many great things about this community. It is probably because I love it so much that I get so discouraged when I see all issues that I would still  
like to resolve.
     How do I make the connection between Bethlehem and Nome? It was easy to get excited about Christmas when I was growing up. I knew that the world wasn’t perfect, and that suffering existed, but I was still able to celebrate Christmas and find hope in what it represents. But now, the suffering is personal. It happens to children I’ve grown to know and love. It happens to people I’ve gotten to know at the food bank. There were many nights before NEST opened up that I found it hard to sleep, knowing that several of my neighbors would be spending the night outside in the cold. 
     Many of you know that I am here as a US-2. We are sent out by the Methodist church into communities that we become a part of and serve alongside. I am very proud to be a US-2, and I take it very seriously, sometimes to a fault. We are supposed to be seeking justice and connecting the church in mission. I remember thinking when I applied for the program that two years was a long time. It didn’t take me very long to realize that it is actually an incredibly short time in which to accomplish all of the things this program sets us up to do. I worry a lot that I am not doing enough, even when I am exhausted at the end of the day from all of the things I have tried to do. 
     In the process of trying to sort out all of these thoughts in my head, and make the connection between the birth of Jesus and the hope it represents, and all of those situations around me that feel hopeless, I considered a person in the story I’d never given much thought before now. As a woman, it’s fairly easy to empathize with Mary, especially knowing how young she was when she was given such a huge responsibility. But Jesus had another earthly parent, who also had a great responsibility, and I’ve never really given him much thought.
     I wasn’t able to find many details about Joseph in the Bible, but I can’t help but think that there must have been times he felt inadequate. And that is the root of my Christmas problem this year. I have been aware of this hope forever, and I became a US-2 so I could share it with others. Looking back on the past sixteen months, it would be easy to tell you all the times I’ve made mistakes, and all of the ideas I’ve had that just didn’t work. But if you asked me to pinpoint a time I brought hope to someone, I would have to think for a very long time before I could come up with anything. I made a covenant to advocate for justice, and I think about that lot, when I’m standing in the kitchen at Boys and Girls Club, trying to put together a meal that covers all of the demands of the USDA, and looking up every five minutes to ask yet another child to please stop sitting, or standing, on the pool table. As I was working on writing this, I thought that if Pastor Charlie heard the way I sometimes speak to children when my patience is being tested, he would seriously rethink his decision to allow me into the pulpit. The fact that I so frequently lose my patience even though I’ve worked with these children for over a year now is just another way I feel inadequate to do the job I promised to do. 
     Working at the Boys and Girls Club, I spend a lot of time with other people’s children. I am obviously not their parent, and I have never even met most of their parents. Yet, I play a role in helping them with their homework, making their dinner and correcting their behaviors when needed, all things my parents did for me. I feel a great responsibility to help them reach their full potential, and I also struggle with the reality that at the end of the day, my position as a staff member of an after school program has its limits. I can help them create some positive memories for a few hours after school, but that is where my sphere of influence stops. I wonder if Joseph felt this way about raising Jesus. He could provide all of the important things that earthly fathers should, but he knew that Jesus was on earth to complete a mission he could take no part in. 
     At a conference about after-school programs I recently attended in Anchorage, there was a speaker who gave a piece of advice to all of the attendees. She said that when making difficult decisions, we should let good enough be good enough. When I initially heard this, I did not like it at all. I am constantly aware that I only have two years to be a US-2, so every decision I make feels very important. I also work with children, so it often feels like everything I do is going to affect their development either positively or negatively. I don’t want to look back on these years and see that they were just good enough. As I thought about Joseph and his role in being a father figure to God’s son, I realized that I can’t let the fear of being wrong stop me from ever making a decision about anything.
     When Joseph first heard that Mary was going to have a child that wasn’t his, the Bible says that he had in mind to divorce her quietly. At the time, he could have had her stoned, so divorcing her was actually one of the most honorable things he could think to do. One of the few things we are told about Joseph is that an angel visited him and told him not to be afraid to stay with Mary. In that moment, Joseph had a decision to make. He could say that raising a child he didn’t plan for was too much. He could have cracked under the pressure of raising such an important person. But he did what he was asked to do, and history unfolded in the way God intended it to. 
     He was good enough, and that was all God needed him to be. For the rest of this Christmas season, I am going to try to focus on that. I wish that I could provide the kind of Christmas I grew up with to every child who comes to the Boys and Girls Club, but that is out of my power. So, I will keep making ornaments with them, like the paper chains I used to make with my brother when I was growing up. Christmas won’t change their circumstances, but I have to trust that if I do everything I can to make it good enough, God will do the rest.
     Recently, someone offered to make me a kuspuk. I have wanted one for a long time, but wasn’t sure if I should have one since I am not Native. I know that plently of non-native people where them here in Nome, but I still felt I needed some reassurance that it was okay.  I decided to ask one of the teens who comes to Boys and Girls Club what she thought of non-native people wearing them, since teens can usually be counted on to be brutally honest about things like that. She assured me that she saw nothing wrong with non-native people wearing kuspuks, and I laughed when she said her only request was that I never ask if she lives in an igloo. 
     When she came in a few days later and I was wearing the finished product, her eyes lit up. She said that she liked it, and in that rare moment, I felt that I was good enough. 
I was just a white person wearing a kuspuk, trying to have a positive impact on Native youth, showing up and messing up a lot, and losing my patience a little too frequently. And like Joseph tasked with raising the son of God, it was enough, because that’s the way God planned it. 
This year, I hope to not have a Merry Chirstmas, but a good enough Christmas. And I hope the same for all of you. 

Monday, October 22, 2018

A Time of Wrestling

     In every writing class I've ever taken, from high school journalism to research writing in college, I've been taught that one of the most important rules of writing is to know who your audience is. This makes a lot of sense, because if you know who you are talking to, you can say what you want to say in the most effective way possible.
With a blog, it's hard to know who my audience is. I can see how many people are reading and of course whoever leaves a comment, but that's about it. Based on what information I do have, I used to think that many of the people reading were people who went to my church and I based the way I wrote on that information.
     I have not been to that church in fourteen months and have not been in contact with many people from it in that same amount of time. Since I left it, it has gone through an interim pastor and now has a new pastor who I have never met. It would appear from what I can see on social media that many people who attended there fourteen months ago do not anymore. I have a lot of opinions about some things that have happened there, but I also understand that I'm hearing everything secondhand from thousands of miles away. Now more than ever, I don't know who my audience is.
     I just got back from visiting one of the Native villages near Nome, and I had four days of no internet and fewer hours of work than I'm accustomed too, and a lot of time to think. I thought a lot about this post, and what I wanted to say. I thought a lot about why I have a blog, and why I think it's worth my time to write things for people to read, especially if I'm not sure who those people are.
     I've given myself a lot of excuses for not writing much lately, but during my time in the village I finally let myself face the real reason I haven't written much lately, a frustration with my supposed audience.
     Maybe I'm mad because church taught me about the hungry being fed, and the homeless being taken in, and it let me believe that that it genuinely cared about people.  It painted a picture of a world where justice prevails, and led me to believe that goodness will win in the end. It did not prepare me for all of the times it won't. It did not inform me that following what Jesus said only matters to the church until you no longer have enough time, resources, or money to feed the hungry and shelter the homeless.
Every time I drive down Front Street, it makes me sad when I see so many people who don't have a permanent place to live, and seeing the way even the church treats them hurts me deeply. Maybe I'm just naive, but the faith I inherited from my grandmothers at a very young age led me to believe that no one should have to go without food or shelter, regardless of the life choices they have made.
I've wanted to write about this subject for a long time, but I shied away from it because of my fear of what my audience would think. No church wants to hear that the missionary they commissioned is angry, they want to hear the success stories that happen once the anger has passed. And no community wants to hear that a missionary living among them is struggling with these issues, because we are expected to put aside our own problems and always be helpful.
   A few years ago, I was going through a hard time and tried to keep a scheduled speaking arrangement at church after I wasn't able to go on the mission trip I was supposed to speak about. Needless to say, that did not go well. Afterwords, my pastor at the time told me it seemed like I was wrestling with God. I was initially embarrassed to receive this comment from a pastor, but he did not seem to disapprove of my wrestling, he only seemed to be making an observation.
     I think I'm having another time of wrestling right now, maybe not with God, but with everything I've been taught about God and what it means to be a person of faith, and how that holds up, or doesn't, against the harsh realities of the world. And maybe I am breaking the most important rule of writing by saying things my audience might not want to hear, but I do not think I will be able to continue writing further until these things have been said. Maybe I'm breaking one of the most important rules of writing,  intentionally writing things I know it could be hard for m audience to hear, but in a way I'm honoring another piece of advice from a very influential journalism teacher who encouraged his students learn the rules, so we could break them.





   





Sunday, August 19, 2018

A Year in Review


     The day I first started writing this post, I was climbing all over a research boat with children who were mentally overstimulated by all of the sights and sounds it contained, and I did not feel anything but frustration and exhaustion. It felt like asking them to focus on the tour guide and follow the rules in this environment was asking too much of them, but I needed to try because they do need to learn to follow directions, even if that means learning it differently and at their own pace. In that moment, I felt defeated. I came home and tried to begin writing an inspiring tribute to my first year of this mission experience, and I could not do it. So, I went to sleep and tried again later. 
      Today, I have lived in Nome for one year, and I've gotten pretty good at the skill of trying again later, over and over again. 
     I work with many children who live with a challenge I hardly ever heard of before I moved here, and it is a daily learning experience for me. I feel grossly under-qualified most of the time, but I find hope in the fact that they seem to accept me anyway. The truth is that most of the time I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm just cooking and washing dishes and doing crafts and playing one more game of UNO, acknowledging the many forms of trauma that surround us and trying every day not to be defeated by them.  
     At US-2 training, they tell you there will be hard times, but at that point everyone' is talking about God all the time, and you all sing some fun songs together and they give you a fancy anchor cross, and you do not care about the hard times yet. At the start, the hard times sound like just another adventure. And yes, living here in Nome is an adventure. But the hard times come with an intensity I have never experienced before. One of my biggest challenges writing about my experiences this past year has been describing the hardest times while respecting the privacy of children. To put it in perspective, this is the third job I have had where I have been a mandated reporter. At the first two jobs, I never observed anything concerning enough to be reported. At my current job, I stopped counting after the third incident. 
     I am trying to come to terms with the fact that two years is actually a very short amount of time to make an impact on the life of a child. I am also having to accept that the few hours a day I spend with these children are competing with the rest of their day, which may not be spent in a positive, healthy environment. I was recently told that I'm working with some children who are re-traumatized every weekend, and that gave words to a feeling I've been struggling with for months. 
     While there is really nothing easy about working with so many children who come from backgrounds of trauma, the amount of fun I have had this year is unreal. Between all the tantrums and tears and bickering, I have had the privilege of spending time with some of the funniest, most creative children I have ever met. I've gotten pretty good at maintaining a rational detachment to keep myself from getting too weighed down by all of the challenges these children carry with them, but sometimes when they're all sitting down to dinner and talking to each other, the thought crosses my mind that it feels like a family. 
     One of the objectives of the US-2 program is to "grow in personal holiness" and I sometimes cynically joke that this job is actually making me less holy. But the truth is that while my faith has been put on the back burner for the sake of work more than I'd like to admit over this past year, living in a new place, away from everything and everyone that was familiar to me, has given me the chance to explore what my relationship with God really is when there's no one around to steer it in the right direction. And although I'm ending this first year with more questions than answers, I'm also left with the feeling that I am right where I'm supposed to be. And that is all I need to keep trying again later, every day. 
     
     
     




Friday, July 13, 2018

Long Term Lesssons

     It's the middle of summer, which means it's the peak of short term mission season. There are currently two mission teams here in Nome (that I am aware of), one of them staying in the place where I live, and the other coming to the place where I work. This is the first time in my life that I will see these teams come and go from a place that I will stay in, and it's given me a lot to think about.
     First, I should say that short term and long term is all about perspective. When I started out here, two years sounded like a long time, but now that I'm almost a year in, I know that it's really not. I'm almost halfway done and there is still so much I have left to learn. I also know that to people who have devoted their entire lives to mission work, two years is short term.  I have been on a ten day mission trip, a three week mission trip, and now I am in the middle of a two year experience that I don't like to call a trip because I have a permanent address and I am living as a part of this community. This has been my experience, and it is only from this experience that I can speak. Other people will have different experiences, and that does not make either of us right or wrong.
     When I look at these teams of people and try to see the world through their eyes, I admit that I think of some of the things they will not do. They will never have to experience what it means to be a mandated reporter, and they will never sit in Trauma 101 or suicide prevention training. They will be gone before they become familiar, so they will not know what it's like when you're no longer new and exciting. They will get tired, exhausted even, but they will not be here long enough to go through periods of burnout. They might learn a little about the boarding schools and generational trauma, but they will not be here long enough to see how it is woven so tightly into the fabric of the community that you can almost miss it if you don't know where to look.
     One of the things I've noticed about mission work is that everyone loves to call it "God's work." Although I think this title is quite pretentious, (imagine the reaction if an accountant, or teacher, or stay at home parent dared to give their work such a title, even though their work can easily be just as Godly as mine), I guess I can understand where it comes from. And if there's one thing I know at this point in my life, it's there is a whole lot about God and God's work that I do not know.
     So, the short term teams will do what they feel is their part of their work, and I will continue to do mine. When they express their excitement about being in a place where a reality show was filmed, I will try not to roll my eyes, if only for the sole reason that my mother taught me that it's rude to do that, and I suppose missionaries should try not to be rude. When I see them excited for the work they are doing, I will be happy for them. I will do my best not to join the debate about whose work is more important and more effective, because my desire to do this comes from a selfish place, not a call from God.
     These teams will leave soon, but not without teaching me something. I have very strong feelings about the way mission work should be done, especially in a region that has been so deeply damaged by people calling themselves missionaries. But my strong feelings do not make me the ultimate authority on the subject. And if we are indeed going to have the boldness to call this God's work, then I should be so busy consulting God about how my part of the job is to be done that I have no time left over to criticize what anyone else is doing.


A random picture of a wildflower I took recently, because nothing else seemed to fit with this post.





Sunday, June 10, 2018

Do I Look Busy?




     It was a young volunteer that asked the question, after the rush of people had died down and we had a moment to sit quietly at the food bank.

She held up a nearby clipboard, pretending to write on it.

"Jennie, do I look busy?"

     She was just playing, probably mimicking actions she's seen from from adults. She had no idea she had just vocalized a question I'm constantly asking myself.
     Being this busy is a somewhat new thing to me since moving here, and that's part of why I cling to it so much. In the months before I moved, I was without a job and bored out of my mind in an unhealthy way. For this reason, I sometimes equate the busyness I now experience with the overall healthy mental state I feel like I'm in, and I know that this association could potentially lead to problems if I'm not careful. But it's more than just my own mind that tries to tell me that busy is good.
      I had lots of opportunities back home to do Sunday school classes and Bible studies with women just a few years older than me, and I always found it a bit backwards how much time was spent talking about how to fit God into our busy lives. I never understood how it has become such an admirable thing to be so busy with our own lives that even God is just another commitment that we scramble to fit in somewhere.
     When I think of the women in my own family, I think of busyness. There's always something to be done, usually something selfless and helpful to others. One of my favorite pictures is of me as a young child, laying on the floor surrounded by my mother, my grandmother, and my great grandmother. When I first discovered this picture, the thing that struck me the most about it was that it showed four generations of women in my family all sitting down at one time. But it also serves as a reminder that no matter how busy the women in my family were, they were never to busy to love people, including me. There have been a few moments over the past months when I've been able to see a glimpse of them within myself, and I can't think of many things at all that make me prouder than that.
     As I sit here trying to finish writing this post, my mind keeps wandering to the last minute things I need to do for the day camp I'm leading starting tomorrow. I want it to be a success, and I've tried my best to make sure that it will be. But what if my best isn't good enough?
    That question is often the driving force of my busyness, and I wonder if the women of the generations before me ever asked themselves the same thing. What I do know is that their busyness came from, and still does come from a place of love and a willingness to serve others, not a desire for self promotion or worldly recognition.
     I think it's going to take me a long time to figure out how busy is the right amount for me, but I hope that I will always remember the women who taught me what it means to be busy for the right reasons.

Friday, May 25, 2018

You Wouldn't Understand

     There is something I've been wanting to write about for months now, but I haven't been able to let myself do it. I've started many times, but I've stopped myself just as many times because I care too much about what you think.
     I care too much to find out that you don't really care. I don't mean that in a rude way. I just mean that you have your own life, and reading a blog about my life is a very small part of it. The words that I spend hours choosing carefully will be read within minutes, and probably forgotten about within a day or two. I'm not mad about it, it would be strange if someone's whole life revolved around this blog. It's just hard sometimes to throw my most vulnerable thoughts into a medium that is consumed so quickly and soon forgotten. But my writing is the best way I know to share what matters to me, and there are some things about what I do here in Nome that I haven't shared.
     So while I have your attention for a few minutes, I want you to know that what I'm about to tell you is very important and even sacred to me. It may not mean much to you, but it means everything to me that I'm choosing to share this with you at this moment in time. So, as you read this, remember the pictures I've shared of the children I have the privilege of spending time with every day. Remember how cute you might think they are, and how sweet you think they look.
   What goes through your mind when I reveal to you that many of them are living with Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorders? Do you want to gasp and say "Bless their hearts"?  I could write a whole post on my strong dislike for that sentiment, but we'll get to that later. Do you think about some out of context fact you heard once about Native Americans drinking too much? Do you cast judgement on the mothers of these children? I did too, until I had enough education and self discipline to lay down that judgement. And to be completely honest, there are moments of deep frustration when I let that judgement creep back in, but I am working on it.
     What is your reaction when I tell you that these children are the children and grandchildren of people affected by trauma? The majority of the people that caused that trauma caused it in the name of God. They called themselves missionaries while removing children from their homes and families, and telling them that their culture was sinful. This meant that an entire generation grew up separated from their family and their culture, and the effects of that separation are still visible in their grandchildren and great grandchildren today.
    Maybe you were raised to believe that everyone should just pull themselves up by their bootstraps, and that every obstacle in the world can be overcome if you're willing to work hard enough. I grew up in a place where that mentality runs rampant, but it is not a mentality that lines up in any way with anything my faith teaches me.  It also does not line up with anything I've learned about trauma, and the way it literally changes the structure of the human brain. I know that many of you who read this are living where I grew up, where I'm sure that mentality is just as prominent as it was when I left back in August. Since I know this, I've waited over nine months to share this information with you. I don't want you to use that mentality to make judgements about people you have never met, who are people that mean a lot to me.
     But as much as I might like too, I cannot control what the rest of the world thinks. I can only write about things as I see them, and hope that something good will come of it. So there it is, I've finally written about the thing that I haven't been able to write about for months. And maybe it turned out to be just another blog post. Or maybe, someone out there will stop and think for just a minute, and begin to see things a little bit differently.
   


Friday, May 11, 2018

Rocks in My Pockets

    When I was little, I had a habit of picking up rocks and bringing them home in my pockets. Whether they were from the playground at school, the beach, or even my own driveway, every time I saw a rock that looked pretty to me, I picked it up and put it in my pocket.  I did this so much that at some point, my parents got me a box to keep them all in. It was perfect. it had dividers so I could sort the rocks any way my young heart desired, and I called it my "rock box."
     Earlier this week, on one of the warmest days we've had here in months, I decided to take a walk on the beach, and I soon discovered that I have not outgrown my desire to collect every pretty rock I come across. But knowing that I don't have anywhere to put a bunch of rocks, or anything to do with them other than look at them, I took a picture of my favorite rocks and left the beach with just one piece of sea glass in my pocket. 
     Although it seems I've learned some restraint when it comes to picking up actual rocks, the thing that lead me to taking some alone time on the beach that day was my habit of collecting metaphorical rocks.

A program I'm trying to help out with is fading away due to lack of attendance and people start to ask questions, that's a rock in my pocket.

The food bank runs out of community donations again despite my best efforts, and another rock goes in my pocket. 

My apartment starts to get messy because I don't have the energy to make myself clean it after working all day, and another huge rock goes in. 

I try to make a newsletter that's supposed to include "success stories" and my mind goes blank. If my newsletter was about things I feel like I haven't done well enough, it would be ten pages long. 

     Whenever this habit comes up in conversation with people who know me and care about me, which it has several times this week, I'm advised to stop taking everything so personally, and stop being so hard on myself.
     I would love to take this advice, if only I knew how. I've been called sensitive for as long as I can remember, and maybe my habit of carrying things in my mind is rooted in that sensitivity. But if losing that sensitivity means I stop caring about things that really matter to me, like running the food bank well, and contributing to my job and my church in helpful ways, then maybe I don't want to lose it.
     I think I'm always going to be a rock collector, whether it's the occasional pretty stone I find on the beach, or the things I care about that I carry around in my mind. I just need to find a way to have a rock box for my metaphorical rocks, because they are to heavy for me to always hold them in my mind.      
I regret not picking up the rock on the left with the perfect stripe. That's a good rock. 

Saturday, April 28, 2018

Reflections from a 19 Hour Layover

    I spent 19 hours straight in an airport recently. It was not originally planned that way, but my flight out of Nome was cancelled because of fog, of all things. You would think it would be a blizzard, but it was just some standard hazy weather that threw the entire plan off.  So, I eventually made it to the second stop, but had to wait those nineteen hours before catching my flight to the third stop. There's something about being an an airport that makes me feel like the world outside is detached and distant.
     At some point during the layover, I think of the children I left behind. I wonder if they are still struggling through that compass worksheet, the one that frustrates me to no end but made me laugh endlessly when in a halfhearted attempt to answer "Which direction is the school from your house?" one of them confidently replied, "Seven!" and then smiled proudly at me, hoping their humor would get them out of finding the right answer, and reminded me how much I love spending time with them even though I sometimes forget because my emotional energy is drained.
     I also think of my fellow Fellows that I will soon see, and wonder if they struggle with the same things I do, or if they are all expert missionaries and it's just me who doubts myself.
     This airport is neutral territory. It is a no-mans-land between the place where I will try to put into words all I have experienced over the past eight months and try to remind myself that I have nothing to prove to anyone about the validity or effectiveness of my work, and the place where I have been constantly attempting to live up to everyone else's expectations, a habit that I know is futile, but one I can't seem to break. I am a stranger to everyone except one other person in this airport, and it feels nice to have nothing to prove to anyone.
     In this airport, I read 78 pages of a book just for fun. Not a book I was assigned to read for spiritual growth, just a fun book that I chose on my own and will never have to discuss with anyone unless I want too. When I'm hungry, I go get something to eat. When shopping sounds good, I go shopping. When I am tired, I find a comfortable spot and go to sleep.
     The 19 hours pass slowly, and somehow too quickly. All too soon, it is time to board a plane and rejoin the outside world with all of it's demands. 19 hours will not be long enough to convince me to stop trying to meet the demands altogether, I would need a much longer retreat to convince myself of such a drastic concept. But those 19 hours reminded me of who I can be when I have no one to please, and that is a part of myself that it is nice to see again.

My view for much of the layover. 


   



Friday, March 23, 2018

Waiting at the Finish Line.

     If you saw any pictures I posted last week, you already know that the Iditarod dog sled race happened, and that I was pretty thrilled about it. I have been aware of Iditarod since I was a child, but I never could have imagined while watching the Balto movie that I would ever get to witness this historic race in person.
     Sometimes when you look forward to something for a long time, as I have looked forward to this ever since I learned I would be coming to Nome, that thing can turn out to be a dissapointment if it doesn't quite meet your expectations. I am happy to report that was not the case with Iditarod. It was everything I hoped for, and now that I know what it's like, I'm already looking forward to next year.
     One of my favorite things about it was how close the public can get to the action. About 15 minutes before a musher is expected to arrive, a siren goes of that can be heard throughout the town. People (mostly tourists and me) gather at the finish line to greet them. After the first few mushers are in, the crowds start to decrease and it's pretty easy to get a spot right at the front. Getting to be mere feet from the dogs and their mushers, and to later get to meet many of them, was better than anything I imagined.
     It goes without saying that churches don't send missionaries to paradise, and Nome certainly has it's share of problems. I get so worried sometimes that if I post to many pictures or talk to much about things that are fun, people will lose sight of the reason I am here, or think that I somehow cheated the system and am enjoying a 2 year vacation sponsored by the Methodist church. Although that's not true at all, I briefly considered taking a critical look at how the bars being open until 3AM during Iditarod week affects the community, but it would have been halfhearted. The truth is, that just added a few more hours to a problem that already existed here, and will continue to exist long after every musher has gone back home. And honestly, Iditarod was a great experience, and sometimes it feels good to just share a fun experience I had without trying to find a deeper meaning in it. But even as I write those words, I realize that I did find a deep meaning in my first Iditarod, completely by accident.
      It's nice to be there to see the end of someone else's race, to have no responsibility other than to cheer them on and enjoy the moment. It's even nicer to be reminded that in order to inspire other people, I need to have people (and dogs) that inspire me. I've never been an avid sports fan before, but in the Iditarod, I have discovered something to be a fan of, and some athletes to be inspired by. I'm still so excited that I got to experience part of the "last great race on earth", and I'm ready to gather with the tourists in subzero temperatures once again next year, to wait at the finish line and be inspired.



Thursday, March 1, 2018

A Moment in Time

     A few nights ago I snapped a picture of children playing together at the Boys and Girls Club, thinking I would share it on social media. But as I looked back at it, I knew I had more to say about this picture than I could fit in a Facebook post
      You can't tell from this picture that at least one of these boys struggles with peer interactions, so to see them all playing together civilly without the prompting of an adult was a big deal, even if it only lasted a few minutes before the bickering began,
     You can't tell from this picture that these boys are growing up in a place that is beautiful and wild, but at the same time isolated and limited in many ways. You can't see how myself and many others like me spend so much time and emotional energy wracking our brains for any idea that will enrich the lives of these children.
     You can't tell from this picture that just before I took it I had returned from the food bank, emotionally exhausted, and you would never know just by looking at this picture how much I needed to see this brief moment of children just being children.
    Witnessing this brief interaction reminded me that it is okay, and even important, to love people as they are. In my line of work, there is always a goal to reach, which is something I need to keep me motivated. But sometimes I forget that it is okay to enjoy the moment even though the goal hasn't been met yet, and watching this simple interaction reminded me that I  need to do more of that..
     Maybe that's why I have been having trouble putting my experiences into words lately. Because at first glance, this looks like a standard picture of some children playing together. But if you had been there, you would know that it is so much more than that.

Saturday, February 17, 2018

I'm Not Supposed to Tell You This


Six months ago, I was at training, spending three weeks cooped up in the same building with forty-four other young aspiring missionaries. We had countless hours of discussions about difficult topics that are usually avoided. We sang songs in everyone's native languages, we had debates sometimes, and though I can't speak for everyone, I know I felt empowered. At the end of it all, I really believed I had been equipped with the information I needed to go out into the world and make a real difference.
Now I have been here two days shy of six months, and I have had enough time to start getting a more realistic view of my role here. The days begin to blend together, afternoons and evenings full of Perler beads and Candy Land, of "Close the door, it's below zero!" and "jump ropes are for jumping, not tying each other up." and even once "Why did you throw the doorstop in the trash can?"

It's not exactly what I thought it would be, but oh how I love what it is.

  I am slowly coming to terms with the fact that it is very likely that nothing I do during my two years as a US-2 is going to leave a noticeable, long-lasting impact. I know I'm not supposed to say that, but it's the truth. There are some barriers that I just don't have the resources to break down. Please don't take this as me fishing for compliments, I don't need anyone to tell me that what I do matters, because I know it does. I just needed to come to terms with the fact that I am only one person, and my sphere of influence has limits.
    I'm not being cynical, I'm just being realistic. In order to make a permanent impact on these children outside of the four walls of our after-school program, I would need a social work degree, or a law degree, or some other expensive piece of paper that I don't feel led to acquire at this point in my life.
So I've decided, after receiving some solid advice and doing a lot of thinking, that I just have to make the hours these children spend with me the best they can be. Many days I fail at that, but I'm working to become better. I can't change their circumstances, but I can listen if they need to talk. I can find crafts for them to do, and help them with their homework, and remind them for the hundredth time that jump ropes are for jumping, not for tying your friend to a chair. And while these things will likely not even be remembered a few years from now, at least I can take comfort in the fact that they matter in the moment.
    If I've ruined your vision of what missionaries do, I'm sorry. I'm not supposed to tell you this, but people who work with and for churches are still just people. It is time for me to accept the fact that there are some things I cannot do. Once I have done that, I can focus on doing my absolute best at the things I can do.



Friday, January 26, 2018

The Work of Love

     I've been working on this post for days, searching for the right way to say what's on my mind. Over and over again, I see my fellow missionaries making passionate statements about systems of oppression, and other popular buzzwords, and I support them in their desire to make those statements.  I am sometimes envious of the way my colleagues use the power of words to bring their experiences to life.
     My dilemma is that the work I do in my day to day life as a missionary doesn't match up with any popular buzzwords. To many people it may look like I just play with children all day, and while that's partially true, there's more to the story that I don't share much about because I don't want to exploit stories that don't belong to me. Many of the children I see everyday are in the foster care system, and last week there was a situation that left me feeling emotionally drained, and reminded me that there really is a need for missionaries here because there is a lot of brokenness that you might miss if you don't stay for a while and pay close attention.
   I feel that most of the time when people in the mission field share stories, they rush through the middle to make the story more appealing. They tell you about someone struggling, then there's a small part about some action, and then suddenly there's a beautiful come-to-Jesus moment and then everyone lives happily ever after. What you don't often hear about is all of the minutia and the struggling that happens in between.
     I'll probably never have a job writing greeting cards for Hallmark, because the truth is I've come to realize that sometimes loving people is hard work. That is especially true when you encounter people whose life experiences have made them need to put up walls in order to survive, and you are one of the people who is trying to help them break down those walls.
    I don't mean to be cynical or imply that there are no breakthrough moments in the work I do. I've seen them, they just don't typically happen in loud ways. And by admitting that this kind of work can be draining, I do not mean to say that I don't enjoy it. It is without a doubt hard work, but at the same time it's the most fulfilling work I've ever known.



Sunday, January 7, 2018

Unwritten Moments

     There was a lot to write about in 2017. I started the year off applying to be a Global Mission Fellow, spent a good part of my summer at training meeting new friends that have similar passions, and spent the last few months of the year acclimating to life in Nome, Alaska.
    I wrote about a lot of that, but the start of the new year has inspired me to think about all of the things I haven't written about yet.
      I haven't written about all the time I spend washing dishes. It's not glamorous, but when you're cooking for a large group of people, it's something that needs to be done and as part of the staff, sometimes it's my turn to do it. And then there are my own dishes at home, which never seem to be clean even though sometimes I feel like I spend half of my life standing in front of a sink. People love to hear about the moments in the life of a missionary when there are inspiring breakthroughs, but in between those moments there are many more moments spent doing mundane tasks like washing dishes.
     I haven't written about the days when everything seems to go wrong and I become frustrated and act in ways that I regret, or the days when bad experiences from past jobs haunt me and I start to doubt myself.
     I haven't written about my internal struggle with a large part of my job as part of a faith-based program being at a place that is not faith-based. I've come a long way with my thoughts on that as I've struggled with it privately, and maybe some time in the future I'll be ready to write about it.
     This year, I want to get back to writing authentically. Not that I have been lying in my writing, but sometimes I have elaborated on the happy moments and swept aside the difficult moments. I've put the pressure on myself of satisfying everyone back home with stories of a grand adventure, and forgotten that by definition, adventures are unusual and even hazardous.
     I've been told a lot lately that I seem very happy, and thankfully I can report that I truly am. But as a person who also knows what it feels like to be very unhappy, and felt that way in the not so distant past, sometimes my desire to convince myself and everyone around me that I really am happy now has made me afraid to acknowledge anything unhappy in my life.
     In 2018, I will strive to write a more authentic story. I will attempt to share more of the challenging stories, but also the moments of success and joy. I hope you will come along with me for this year of authentic stories.