The Art of Pondering

     I once had a writing professor who upon hearing any story about some challenge one of her students was facing would get this wild look in her eye and exclaim,"writing material!" This particular professor would also take swigs from a large bottle that we were all convinced was champagne, until someone finally confronted her about it and we learned that it was mineral water. She was one of those teachers who had a genuine passion for the subject she taught, and I really felt that I thrived in her classroom. I've thought about her over the past few weeks, as Covid-19 has transitioned from something that was barely on my radar into something that has affected several aspects of my life and brought my regular routine to a screeching halt. She would surely see this situation as excellent writing material.
     Every time I try to write anything about this surreal experience we are all going through, my mind goes back to a picture I took when I was visiting my family in August, when I took exactly one week of vacation after finishing two years at an incredibly demanding job before jumping right into the next one. We went to Nags Head for a day, and stopped at Jeanette's Pier right as the sun was setting. At some point each of us went off on our own for a few minutes, and when I turned around from whatever I was doing, I saw a sight that brought comfort to my weary heart. My father and brother in a stance I've seen both of them in from time to time for as long as I can remember; hands in their pockets, staring off into the distance. Sometimes the object of their attention is a truck or a boat, sometimes it's just whatever scenery happens to be in front of them at the moment. I've never asked them what they are thinking about during these moments, because it doesn't really matter and I don't want to interrupt them. I just know that it brings me a sense of peace and a bit of pride to know that I grew up around men who are comfortable being alone with their thoughts, and I can't help but believe that the world would be a bit better if more of us were.
     I've always thought of this habit of theirs as pondering, and it's something that I hope to do more of while my regular routine is interrupted. Whenever I set out to write, I always try to connect a deeper meaning to my life experiences, to uncover some profound wisdom that people will find interesting. But maybe we don't have to uncover a deep spiritual meaning to all of this. Maybe we don't have to find three new hobbies or dive into full Marie Kondo mode while we have extra time at home. We certainly do not need to engage in spirited debates online about whose fault this is, because some things are no ones fault, and that conversation does nothing to improve what is happening.
 Sure, it's good to be productive and to not let our minds spiral into despair. But I also believe that in between our periods of productivity, this is a good time to practice the art of pondering. To find a window to look out of, or a large body of water or field if one is accessible while exercising social distancing, and just stand still for a few moments. Be alone with whatever thoughts you have, and acknowledge them without analyzing them. Just be still, and see what comes to you. You've got nothing but time, and you're not missing anything by taking a few moments to just exist.
     Right now, no one can really say when all of this will end. It is an uncertain time, and like everyone else I have plenty of worries about what the next few months of my life are going to look like. I worry for people who are sick or have sick loved ones, and for those who put themselves at risk every day for the benefit of the rest of us. While I recognize the seriousness of this pandemic and hope that it goes away sooner than later, I'm trying to remember that all that has really changed in my life is the illusion that I was ever in control of anything. And while I was at first slightly terrified by that revelation, I am gradually becoming relieved by it. It's nice to stop and realize that the world is so much bigger than me. Maybe that's what those two pondering men have understood all along.

Under the Same Moon

Since my time of service as a missionary for the Methodist church ended in August, I've written several honest reflections about the experience, without trying to put a positive spin on them or wrap them up with some sort of motivational message. With each post, I've watched the number of readers decline. It seems that everyone is getting tired of listening to me complain, and I've come to the point where life is starting to move on, as life does, and the hurt is not so fresh anymore. It's still there, but I've stared it down and confronted it directly and it has lost some of it's power. And so, I will climb down off of my soapbox with no guarantee that I might not get back on it at some point.
So if I'm going to stop regaling my ever shrinking audience with tales of the perils of being a missionary, what will I talk about? I guess will have to stop talking about the past and move into the present.
I'm working at a smaller non-profit now. The experience of working closely with someone who very genuinely cares about the work we are doing and gets excited about being able to help people has already started to remove some of the cynicism about the non-profit world that I had developed over the past two years. I'm getting to experience what it's like to be respected at work, and that has been very important for me.
I also have a really interesting job through the hospital that I can't talk about for privacy reasons, but I feel that it is a very good opportunity for me. Although my feelings of hurt are very real and completely valid, they are able to coexist with the positive feelings I have about the opportunities I am currently experiencing.
Yesterday, I stood waiting for an airplane to pick me up in Wales, Alaska, which is almost as far west as you can get and still be in the U.S.A. It was a cold, clear day and I could see the moon in one direction and turn around the other way and watch the sun set. I thought about my eighth grade world geography teacher, who was such a good teacher that she got me into the school's geography bee even though to this day I can hardly read a map. She would probably be one of the few people who could understand what I was feeling in that moment, because her class and the way she taught unlocked my fascination with the world outside of the small town I grew up in.
I will never be able to fully describe what it's like to travel to an Alaska Native village in January, and hear stories of polar bears and whales from an elder, and to see the moon over the tundra and know that everywhere in the world, people are seeing that same moon.
I will also never be able to fully describe what it feels like to move across the country because you genuinely believe in your heart that it is what God is telling you to do, only to be met with what is hopefully the most challenging workplace experience you will ever face. I may never have the words to convey what it feels like when you tell the truth about your experience believing that open communication and honesty will lead to reconciliation, and it doesn't.
All I know is that I stood there fascinated by the moon, I remembered the children who experienced unspeakable traumas and were still able to experience pure excitement upon seeing a rainbow. How wonderful it is to realize that even when we have experienced hurt that seems insurmountable, we have been given the capacity to fight through it and experience wonder again, if only we are brave enough to reject the tempting choice of cynicism.

Put Me to Suffering: Reflections on my Missionary Experience

     Before I moved to Nome, my first mission trip had been with a group of people, and my second trip had been to visit missionaries who lived in a community of other missionaries. They were both very communal experiences throughout the whole process. After both of these trips, I had the opportunity to stand in front of a congregation of people and share my reflections. The beauty of these short term missions is that whatever struggles that come with them are brief, and everyone's excitement for you is still fresh when you return.
A two year mission term is not a trip, it is a life change. I moved across the country to a remote place in Alaska, and by the time my two years as a missionary concluded, people back home had moved on to new things and so had I. After a week long visit to see my family, I returned to continue my life in Nome.
     That week was full of much needed time with my family, but it also brought up some confusing emotions for me. I wondered if anyone really cared to hear about the kind of work I had been doing here, or if they would just prefer to hear exciting stories about living in a state most people have only seen on T.V.
     It was recently suggested to me by someone who had no idea that I like to write that maybe writing would be a good way to process my emotions about the two year mission experience that is now over. I did not tell that person that I have not written about those experiences because I have become doubtful that anyone truly wants to hear about them in detail. But, writing is what I do, and so here we are.
      I may have written this before, but there was a very poignant moment on the last day of training when we were practicing for the commissioning service. We were reciting the Wesleyan Covenant Prayer, which contains the line "put me to doing, put me to suffering.". We were made to recite that line several times until we said the words "doing" and "suffering" with equal enthusiasm. Throughout my two years, "put me to suffering" became the first phrase to enter my mind whenever something stressful happened at work. Whether I was asked to take on a weekend project on a week when I had already done at least 40 hours, or when I was trying to juggle multiple tasks and find solutions for constant crises while coworkers twiddled their thumbs, my internal sarcastic mantra was "put me to suffering." It eventually became a twisted joke between myself and my cohort of missionaries whenever one of us was given some extra task to add to the multiple projects we were already responsible for.
 When I said the words "put me to suffering", I was picturing occasional, intermittent suffering. I did not realize that for much of my time as a missionary, it would become part of my daily life. I imagined suffering because of the issues within the community, issues I believed I would work with my placement site to improve. It never crossed my mind that the majority of my suffering would be at the hands of the people who I thought wanted me here. I naively believed I was going to a placement site that had a genuine passion for the causes that the US-2 program is geared towards and I never suspected that young adults moving across the country to work with communities around social justice issues would be taken advantage of by being overworked. US-2 missionaries are on a stipend and therefore did not get paid overtime. From a financial standpoint, I guess it made sense to have us work as much as possible, but from a mental health standpoint it was a very difficult role to play.
     The realization that an apology for this treatment is never going to come is an difficult fact to live with. Learning how to forgive people who don't even understand why they should be sorry is a huge challenge for me. But for the sake of my own well-being, I'm trying.
     The missionary experience was not what I thought it was going to be. I was put to types of suffering that I never saw coming, and my inability to live up to the standards of what others thought a missionary should be caused me to doubt myself at times. But even with the struggles, I still believe the good outweighed the bad. I got to experience what it feels like to become a trusted adult for youth who have every reason not to trust anyone. I developed the kind of friendships that only form when you endure suffering together. And if I ever have to work 60 hour weeks in the future, I have lots of experience to draw from.

A Picture of God

Several years ago when I was in confirmation class before getting baptized, I remember one specific moment that really stuck with me. We were instructed to draw a picture of God, and I remember being completely dumbfounded by this assignment.

Up until that point, I had always pictured God as an old man with a beard wearing a white robe. But when faced with the task of committing the image to paper, my vision suddenly seemed childish. 

I think I ended up drawing some flowers and a sunrise, which still didn’t feel right, but it was the best I could do at the time.

I am a different person now than when I drew that picture. I have moved across the country from the place where my faith began, and I have begun to see that things are much more complex than I realized back then. I no longer believe that the image of God is always flowers and sunshine.

If I was given that assignment today, it is not a bearded old man that I would draw, but a series of moments when I saw God’s image reflected in the people around me.

I would draw a huddle of children from complicated backgrounds facing daily challenges, staring in wonderment at the biggest rainbow any of them had ever seen.

I would draw the Alaska Native elder who gave me, a white missionary, an Iñupiaq name.

I would illustrate the moment in which a teenager who refused to say one word to me for the first six months I was here ran to greet me with a hug when I walked in the door of the Boys and Girls Club to visit last week.

I would draw the moment when my fellow US-2 who moved here with me asked me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding, when she will marry the guy who was my first real “non-missionary” friend in Nome.

We have experienced layers of emotions and stress together that I have never had to experience with another friend. I have not always reacted well to those emotions, and she has seen the worst parts of me. Because she possess enough grace to realize that the way I handle negative emotions is not who I really am, we have been able to forge a solid friendship, and that is something I can only describe as holy.

When I started my two year mission, I felt very confident about the state of my faith. After two years of challenges and experiences that were nothing short of life-changing, I realize that everything is far more complex than I realized back then. I am losing my black and white, good and bad, right and wrong view of the world. I am learning to explore the discomfort of the grey areas.

I may have come through this journey with more questions than answers, but there is one thing I know for sure; If someone asked me for a picture of God, I would know what to draw. 

What Do You Do with the Mad That You Feel?

When I worked at the Boys and Girls Club, one of the programs I was in charge of was the behavioral health curriculum. It was my job to occasionally plan activities about feelings and emotions, and the way our brains work, and I loved it. One of the things I implemented as part of the program was the “Today I am Feeling” board. Youth could come in and write their name by the emotion they were feeling, and sometimes it led to some really important discussions. I loved watching children of all ages pause in front of the board, and stand quietly for a minute as they examined their inner thoughts and identified how they were feeling. I have a theory that the world would be a better place if adults had a feelings board like that.

One of my favorite memories associated with that board is when a teen girl came in one day and without saying a word, grabbed a marker and wrote her name in bold letters beside “angry”. She then gave me one of those crushing glares that only teenage girls are capable of, as if she was daring me to challenge her. I asked her if she wanted to talk about it, and she said no. I then told her “Anger is a valid emotion, and you’re allowed to be angry, as long as you’re not hurting yourself or anyone else, or being destructive.” She seemed surprised by my response, and sat quietly be herself for a few minutes before joining her friends and moving on with the day.

That was the day I learned that something really significant happens when you give people, especially teenagers, permission to be angry. We are often taught to suppress our negative emotions, and be ashamed of them. I’ll never know what she was angry about that day, but I believe I gained a new level of respect when I validated that emotion that is so often viewed as an inherently bad thing.

As much as I loved that moment, I still have a lot to learn when it comes to my own anger. Out of all of the emotions, anger is the one I  am least comfortable with. Whenever I feel it, it is followed quickly by shame. I have been trying for so long to figure out how to write about the past two years without mentioning anger, and I have finally come to the conclusion that I just can’t get around it. Like I did for that teen that day, I have to give myself permission to be angry.

I couldn’t, and still can’t say much about my work experience during my time as a US-2, because I worked for a very prominent nonprofit in a very small town.

What I can say is that I experienced a lot of anger about the way I was often treated, and the fact that I felt like I was held to a completely different standard than other people simply because I was a missionary. I also watched the kindness of people I cared about be constantly taken advantage of, and that made me even more angry.

But as much as I could rant about the injustices I encountered in the workplace, I can’t deny the fact that the person I have become the most angry with is myself.

Because I couldn’t fix everything I wanted to fix in two years. Because even though I had the title of missionary, I was no holier than before. I still got cranky when I was overworked, hungry, or things just weren’t going my way. I still said things I regretted in moments of frustration, almost every day.

Because when people tell me about bad experiences they have had at a church and ask why they should go back, I do not have an answer. Because I go through phases where I ask myself that same question. Because even though I worked as hard as I could for two solid years, there are still countless insurmountable problems in this community that I now call home.

As I reflect on all of this, a quote comes to mind from my favorite philosopher, Mr Rogers. It’s actually a song that he sang, called “What Do You Do with the Mad That You Feel?”

Since trying to ignore the anger that I felt and hoping it would just go away did not work, I now have to figure out what to do with it. I could use it to try to inspire change, but I have learned over the past two years that change is often a painfully slow process.

And so for now, I will start by simply acknowledging it. The thing about anger is that, at least in my experience, it starts to lose it’s power as soon as it is brought into the light. Even as I write about the work related trials I faced, I think of all of the children I worked with, and how much joy they brought me. And when I think of all of difficult things I went through, I know that it was worth it to get to know them. They are some of the best people I have ever met.

Lamentations

I recently completed my term as a US-2, and spent a week at home visiting my family and friends.

During that week, I was asked nearly ten times if I had "found" a boyfriend, as if people thought I had been commissioned by the church for the sole purpose of moving across the country and searching for someone to enter into a relationship with.

I was not asked about the children I have spent almost every weekday with for the past two years. I was not asked about the culture of this community that I have grown to love. I was not asked about the friends I have made, or the things I do for fun.

I was not asked about the state of my faith, about the ways in which it has been challenged and changed by this experience. I was not asked about the things that I have struggled with, the things I have seen that have broken my heart, the things that have made me angry.

When I returned home after spending two years of my life as a missionary for the church, I was not asked to share any of my experiences with the church I am a member of. I also did not volunteer to speak, so perhaps that one is on me.

I was told by several people that they could never move to Alaska because it's too cold, a backhanded way of saying that they don't understand why I would enjoy it. I resisted the urge to respond that nobody ever asked them to move here, and that I could never stay in Virginia because it's too hot.

Once during that week, a friend sat down beside me and said "tell me all about it," and then listened while I did. And then on the way to the airport to return here, in the midst of talking about farming equipment and boats and trucks, all of the things I grew up rolling my eyes about when they dominated family conversations, but are now oddly comforting when I hear about them, my brother asked the question that meant the most to me. "Are you happy to be going back to Nome?"

Over the past two years, it has often seemed as if my happiness is the last thing on anyone's mind. And I tried my best not to complain about it, because that's what I signed up for. But I have not yet reached a point of selflessness where I never have the urge to talk about myself sometimes, or just feel like someone cares enough to want to know how I feel.

During this experience, I found that it became difficult to write about situations as they were happening, and my demanding job never seemed to allow my mind to slow down and gather my thoughts together enough to write a decent blog post anyway. But now life has slowed down a little, and I'm ready to look back and remember, and to look forward to what's next.

Perhaps it is not in my best interest to return with such a brutally honest post, but if there's one thing that this experience has taught me, it's that sometimes a brutally honest conversation is the best way to move forward.

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.