my witness challenge

i came across this blog in a complicated, seven-degrees-of-kevin-bacon type of internet stalking, and have been checking in on the status of this man, whom i've never even heard of, and this work, which i've also never heard of.  but i thought the following assignment, among the other topics he's shared with his at least partly anonymous audience, was interesting:

He writes:

What about you and me?  What’s our witness?

• First, think. Think long and hard about your workplace, your neighbors, neighborhood, city.  What are the needs around you, where you are right now today?
  
• Second, dream.  If no one would think you were nuts… If you held nothing back… If you were brave and full of compassion… What could YOU do to meet those needs?  What could your service be?
• Third, write about it.  Put your answer down in words.  Post it if you have a blog.
• Fourth, share your answer with us.  E-mail me.  Message me on Facebook.  Leave your answer or a link to a blog post about it here in the comments of this post.  Or twitter it - use hashtag #MyWitness if you do so I can find it.

think, molly:  what are the needs of my workplace?  my neighbors?  my neighborhood?  belize city?  where i am right now, this moment?

in my two years here in belize, i've observed that the handful of students i've worked with here at st. martins primary school are a pretty good representation of the greater injustices, poverties, and needs that plague this country on the whole.  on any given day, most of them don't have pencils, notebooks, breakfasts, lunches, fathers, mothers, toilets, electricity, doctors, new shoes, or the abilities to read, to count, to spell; some of them don't have hope, or goals, or attention, or encouragement, or love.  most of them don't know the promises of god.

sometimes, the prospect of "witnessing" in the face of these grave, desperate needs is daunting.  in fact, i will admit, it's so intimidating that i usually fail to even attempt to fulfill my call -- i think as a christian -- to testify to the power of god's mercy and christ's transformative love in my life.  

plus, an added burden is the question of, "who am i?" -- not in the existential way, but in the way of entitlement.  who am i to encourage these children to do their homework when no one else, including their parents or teachers, really care?  who am i to tell these kids that they are smart, and talented, and beautiful, and loved by god, when i don't feel those things myself most of the time?  who am i to tell these kids that they should have hope -- god so loved the world! -- when, tomorrow, they'll be abused, neglected, forgotten, discouraged, or told that it's okay to have sex with whoever they want whenever they want ... or drink alcohol ... or do drugs ... or skip school ... or hit someone back ... stab someone ... shoot someone ... 

belize is a devil's stronghold.  it is not as outwardly impoverished as some countries in africa, asia, or even some of our neighbors in central america -- you won't see starved children with no clothes on, laying under a tent with malaria.  but the intrusion of abuse, alcoholism, laziness, violence, corruption, and i might add MTV, have carved avenues for the values of pleasure, indulgence, and the laid back feel of the caribbean, man.  the "belizean way" has left little significance, generally speaking, on education, accountability, responsibility, family building, or the word of god.  

and so, the needs -- not unlike other parts of the world, or even our own blessed u.s. of a. -- are immense.  and lord only knows where to begin.  how to witness.  how to be a light in a dark place without shouting about it, or pushing it, or imposing it.  my light, however bright or dull it is, can be uncomfortable, indeed unfathomable, for the belizeans around me at times.  of course i love god:  i have a nice house to move back to in the states, i have a college degree, i have a faithful and loving soon-to-be husband, i have a savings account, and i have white skin.  god is good because "i have." 

and so what would i do, if no one would think that i was nuts?  how would i show compassion on these people?  i don't know!  i wouldn't start a church; they have too many church buildings here.  i wouldn't preach; there are plenty of preachers.  i wouldn't teach in a school; the whole system is flawed.  i wouldn't change the government; it would just fall into the same patterns again.  i wouldn't be a doctor; these people don't just need medicine.  i wouldn't bring millions of dollars; it would still land in the hands of the few.  i wouldn't start a revolution; that would lead to more violence, more death, more suffering.  i wouldn't even just sit and "be" and love god and pray; i'm not faithful enough for that and i would lose patience, and energy, with the sounds of gun shots and cussing at 5 am (that actually happened this morning!) outside my house. 

god, what would i do?

well, i can say honestly that the only thing i would want to do is to lead one person -- one child -- to the lord.  i would want to grow with that person spiritually, to read scripture with them, to pray with them, to teach them what i know and to let them teach me what they know about god and love, and to be bridge the divide between "white folk," top-down evangelism and the perspective of the bottom-up theology of those who are told all their lives that they are underprivileged and underdeveloped because they don't have money and their streets aren't paved.  i would become a fool for christ with this person, and hug tightly to them in the shadow of the lord's wings.  we would reduce ourselves to knowing nothing together -- truly knowing nothing but the lord -- and we would both give away all that we have:our possessions, our heritage, our love.  i would love this person solely out of my love for jesus, and they would feel the same way about me.  we would not be citizens of the world, living for today, but siblings in the lord and living only for the glory of the kingdom.  when i looked at the person, sat with that person, held hands with that person, i would see only jesus christ.

lofty goals, hmph.  but, as i recently memorized for a bi-monthly scripture memorization regimen, "i can do everything through him who gives me strength." (phil. 4:13), right?  

what's my witness, then?  i wish it were, well, witness!  emptiness and fulfillment all at once in god; sharing it with someone intimately, not for our own pleasure, but for the delight of god.  i want to sit at the feet of christ, rubbing his feet with my soft hair and with the nappy hair of a kriol belizean, all at once with no restraint and no awareness of the burdens we carry.  

so for today, i'm going to get back to shuffling paperwork and later, i'll join that handful of students in the library for some tutoring, some book-reading, and some regular elementary school shenanigans like sticking out tongues, playing pretend, and hitting/spitting/kicking/screaming inappropriately.  i'm not sure where i should begin to meet the needs i see around me in this loud, smelly, raucous city; but i am certain that believing that it is me who can do anything at all is not the place to start.

 

broke my bonds: an exodus.
led through the desert; i was starved.
belize heaps my daily bread.

I won a half marathon.

Therefore, strengthen your feeble arms and weak knees. "Make level paths for your feet," so that the lame may not be disabled, but rather healed. -- Hebrews 12:12 - 13

Since I've been tagged a "bible-thumper" recently, I decided to open this quarterly report (way overdue, I know) with a verse that's been resonating with me for the past few days. At first, upon reading it, I took it as some inspiration for the day -- "Man up!" it called to me, after a few days of self-pitying and moodiness. "Get dressed, go to work, slap a smile on your face, and remember that God is good." And I did that ... Well, mostly; I got dressed, went to work, tried my best to smile, and made it through another, hot, loud, chaotic Belizean day.

I remember a time just about a year ago while riding my bike to downtown Belize City to pick up the mail or something, thinking to myself: "I'm tired of being pushed around by this place. I'm tired of feeling sorry for myself and not fighting back. Get scrappy, Molly. Get scrappy." With years of athletic discipline in my bones, that tactic worked for a while: when I was homesick, I set my eyes on July 15, 2008 for the visit of my family; when I was frustrated at work, I turned off all my appliances in the office and copied things only by hand and didn't check email for weeks at a time even though the internet was literally a click (and a power button) away; and when I was feeling lonely and isolated, I filled my mind with short stories and books I found in our house library. I ran probably about 25 to 30 miles a week, I didn't communicate with people from home very often, and I withdrew from a growing spirituality for fear, I think, of confronting the real questions of why Belize was so dang hard for me.

And, with all of that effort, I made it. I stayed here. I saw my family in July. I finished a year of work. I won a half marathon. I found a lot of authors I liked.

And my heart was hard.

I know I have written a bit about "humiliation" in my previous updates, but that continues to be the ongoing theme of my experience here, so I'm going to let it flow again. Besides being told yesterday at the dentist that I have 22 cavities (!!!!!!! very embarrassing) and besides ripping the backside of my shorts in front of the youth group while racing someone to a stray volleyball (it sounded like a huge fart, which made it even worse), the most humiliating thing that has happened to me recently was a conversation I had with a friend, a Belizean. She told me that for some time now, she's hated me. She listed off -- openly -- the many ways that I've hurt her, the many ways I've failed to support her, and the many ways she laments the distance that has grown between us in the past few months. Wow. In my meek defense, I will say that there are some cultural and personal circumstances that have also contributed to such miscommunication, but the bottom line is that this friend, in whom I've invested the most effort, the most intentionality, and the most care over my past 20 months in Belize, doesn't feel loved at all. Now, with two months left, my heart is broken for the self-absorbed determination that has been hammered between me and someone I love.

And so, my reflection leads me to recall the second half of that verse from Hebrews. What it speaks to me, then, are not words of chastisement akin to the "encouraging" words of coaches and even sometimes parents who tell us to get back up, to try a little harder, to fight a little more scrappy ("Get to the bloody ball, JP!!!!!!!!!!" -- Amy Milhomme and Kristen Blake know exactly who I am talking about!). Instead, these are words from a loving God who wants us to be disciplined in Him, focused on Him, so that the "lame may not be disabled, but rather healed" on His even path. I think that is so beautiful; I don't want to be strong for only myself anymore, or to speed crazily along my own bumpy path focusing only on the end result and not the fact that I'm getting serious whiplash and also dragging people along behind me -- so far, that method has got me nothing but a hard heart and a lot of awkward conversations! No, thank you.

I am a determined person by nature, and I like a challenge just as much as the next adventure-seeking tomboy. But how blessed am I for the experience here that has shown me which things are worth being determined for, and which adventures and challenges are worth seeking. I know from documentation in the pages of my four filled journals from last year that my main goal was "to make it." To make what? My time commitment to JVI, to St. Martins, to Belize? I think, in reading between the lines of my own writing, my actual goal was "to not fail" -- to not fail that time commitment I pledged to, to not fail my job responsibilities, or my placement in this program. But instead, I failed myself and more importantly, as He already knew -- and already accepted -- that I would, I fell short of how God has called me to be.

For some strange reason, this whole bit makes me think about my dad and the skating rinks he used to build in our backyard for us growing up. They were awesome, and certainly the coveted "toy" of the neighborhood. Kids who I was never even friends with would suddenly start talking to me at school, or even less discreetly, would just show up at my house with their skates and a hopeful smile. Anyways, my dad would be out there in the yard in the wee morning hours, shoveling the snow off the rink, spreading a thin layer of hose water on top and circling the ice with his homemade zamboni broom/cloth contraption that smoothed out the water over all the bumps and cracks in the ice. By the time we came home from school, the ice would be hard, smooth, and ready for me and my "friends" to skate and play hockey for the afternoon. The few times when bumps resurfaced, or cracks split in the ice, I remember wiping out unexpectedly, and falling flat on my face. Playing pick-up hockey on bumpy ice was a) not fun, and b) dangerous; while my dad's disciplined daily care of the rink was a little bit a result of his control compulsion, it was also in the sake of his concern for us. He understood that it was to his own benefit to make that ice good quality: when he evened out the ice and made it look nice, we wanted to play. And when we wanted to play, we wanted him to play with us. And when he played with us, he knew he would always win.

If you have the time, which I know most of you who have real jobs and mouths to feed probably don't, I'd love to hear your personal reflections or thoughts on the verse above, on life, on my aimless emails, whatever.

Much peace and love to all,
Molly

It's really all of your business.

My experience of JVI so far (I still have a lap to go) has felt nothing short of being blind-folded and sent out onto a stage in front of thousands of people buck naked. Seriously. The people I have met here have shined a gi-normous spotlight on my most private parts (not the external ones) – the parts of me that I've worked very hard over the past 23 years of my life to cover up. For all this time, I’ve been ashamed of who I am and what I (fail to) stand for; being in Belize has swiftly and effectively stripped my soul of that inner shame, and slapped it right on my forehead for all to see.

It’s been really great to be one of oh, say, about 12 white people in this small city where everyone’s business is quite literally, everyone else and their mother’s business. There’s really nothing like being yelled at, “White girl, you’re getting wet!” while bike riding in a rainstorm. Yes, I know, thank you. I can feel it. What if I am choosing to ride in the rain? What if I enjoy bike riding in the rain? And if I am not choosing to, and I’m not enjoying it, then that probably means I’m disgruntled because I’m 15 minutes late to a meeting and all my crap is soaked – so STOP YELLING AT ME! Kind sir with many rasta dreadlocks wrapped around your head, my rainy bike rides are really none of your business.

I am beginning to accept the degree of my incompetence, I think: how incapable I am at controlling things, how my thoughtlessness results in hurting people, how easy it is to fail others’ inborn and sometimes unexplained expectations, and of course, how limited I am in my skills and knowledge of “how to do things.” The “how to do things” part covers most of what people usually call “common sense” – after spending some time recently with my younger sister Martha, I would guess that this deficiency is genetic, but I can’t be sure. In any case, it inhibits things like my cooking skills, my card playing skills, my general wit, and of course, “getting things done” in the workplace. Well, maybe that has more to do with motivation and investment, but whatever.

While all of this is humiliating even as I write now, there has been nothing as humiliating (and correct my common sense if I’m wrong, but I’m using the word humiliating as in, “it incites humility”) as living in an intentional community. Jeepers, talk about inescapable confrontation with one’s own very human and not-so-capable self. I can say, knowing that my favorite part of community is the second best aspect of my life, that the worst—the hardest, most uncomfortable, most frustrating—parts of community living have actually given birth to some of the most meaningful experiences and conversations in my life.

Basically my experience of community living has looked, at different points in time, one of two ways: either I’ve been wandering around the house, internalizing my perceptions that I’m annoying and can’t do anything right OR I’ve been in a conversation where I’m being told that I’m annoying and can’t do anything right. I’m kidding, kind of – what I mean to say is that community living, for me, has been a humbling affirmation of all the complications that my feelings, experiences, and beliefs bring to the table. Those added to all the feelings, experiences, and beliefs of my housemates – all of which are equally as valid as my own – makes for some pretty permanent knots and kinks in our relationships.

In any case, I write this today (yes, I’m finally getting to my “point”) to share some of what’s been going on in my life. Not a smooth segue, I know, but what’s been happening over the course of the past six months has contributed to these insights on community living, and the feeling of vulnerability that’s associated with it.

As you (all four of you who read this) probably are aware by now, Trey and I have decided to get married. We are elated, not only because, in the wise words of my good friend Jenny Bilsten Woodrow, we’ve “found someone we want to hang out with for, like, forever,” but because we both feel as though this is an important step in our respective spiritual walks, and soon, in our joined service to God. Discerning marriage was a confusing and muddled process at times, but sorting through the thoughts and ideas surrounding both my fears of commitment and my compatibility with Trey has been so rewarding. I feel remarkably at peace about my life with Trey, and all that God has planned for us. When it comes down to it, I can rely on Trey to be by my side in my efforts to love God, and Trey knows that I will be there likewise for him.

All that said, this decision has of course made a splash. I mean, six months ago, I was still debating whether or not I wanted to stay in Belize because I was so unhappy – and since, I’ve not only met the love of my life, but have decided to get married? Just eight months ago I questioned God and declared that life was just easier if I didn’t believe – and now I’ve come to Jesus, yearning to feel loved, desperately so, and trying to get to know God as deeply as humanly possible? Yes, these changes are sudden and, in the way that they’ve been sewn together, inexplicable except if I trust that God has put them there with great intention. And I do.

But in the reality of my circumstances, this newness of my spirit is hard to convey. In community, for example, it’s been heart wrenching to see the ways that my happiness has inflicted discomfort on others: the seriousness of my relationship with Trey is not an advisable practice in intentional community living, and my spiritual conversion has been defined by an affection for Protestant doctrine. Moreover, it’s aggravating to see the ways that my own pride has come between protecting my relationship with Trey and developing relationships with my two other community mates, and also in my attempts to explain my spiritual regeneration. How is it that my heart hurts for these circumstances and the unhappiness or discomfort they’ve created for others, yet selfishly, I have found a deep joy in their very essence? Complicated, I tell ya.

Even beyond community however, the implications of these changes in my life have created tension and confusion in my family. I understand so clearly how surprised they have been with my seeming fickleness, but that’s just it: I think I’ve been fickle my whole life – that’s the Molly they know – and now, for the first time, I’m not. But, this is just the beginning and there’s really no way to prove that these changes in heart and spirit are lasting. And anyways, I don’t think that those things are really mine to prove.

Kind of like the rasta man on the side of the road who so aptly pointed out to me that it was raining, or like the people waiting for the bus outside of the post office who like to remind me to lock my bike as I’m wrapping the chain around my wheel, or like the students who like to tell me that I have chalk on my butt or tell me I’m fat, or even like the grocery store clerks who look intently at each of my items and sometimes even ask me what I’m planning on doing with them, hearing—perhaps for the first time ever—what my most beloved friends, family members, and community mates are concerned for in my life is all at once embarrassing, frustrating, and even though I don’t want to admit it, helpful. With the exception of a few creepy men who have said things to me here on the streets of Belize City that aren’t really worth documenting, all of these people have expressed themselves from a place that falls along a spectrum of care. Okay, maybe not the kids who call me fat, but everyone else. Most of all though, I have felt in the presence of these tough questions and even tougher answers the love of my family: my mom, my sisters, my dad; my community mates. Even when it's hurt.

There is much about being open with people and sharing yourself that seems scary, and I will attest that such a fear is a legitimate one: the risk, and my result for one, is that you bare your soul and instead of being wrapped in warmth and love and told that it is beautiful, it is poked and prodded. If I took one valuable lesson away from my business degree though, (besides LIFO, FIFO, and pension accounting, of course) it is that the greater the risk, the greater the reward. That is not a necessarily conditional statement in that order—great risk can obviously lead to great loss, too—but in reverse, it is: in order to have great reward, great risks are necessary. And I believe in a God who provides for us, for me, when I take great risks in His name. Moving to Belize was one of those choices, though unbeknownst to me at the time, and marrying Trey is the same deal. And while it’s been trying and disappointing, I’m more than humbled that such a clear decision to me has been so unclear to many others … Why, I ask myself, would one let herself be pushed onto a stage in front of thousands of people, blind-folded and naked? The best answer I can come up with is, of course, another question: Well, why would God let himself be dragged and nailed to the cross? Perhaps, then, that's what I'm called to do: to hang my business, all the substance of myself and what my life stands for, out for all to see.