The People Shaping Me

I have some pretty incredible people in my life whom I get to call friends and family. I am able to do what I do and be where I am because I have people in my life who support my hopes and dreams. Many of them devote their lives to service and social justice themselves. Some of them even keep blogs. While I hope my words encourage and challenge you, I want you to also hear the stories of my friends. These are individuals - a best friend from college, fellow volunteers, inspirational mentors - who encourage and challenge me. Their lives enrich mine. Some are abroad and some may be in your neighborhood. All are shaping me. I have added a list of their blogs to the left. Go check them out. These people are my companions and role models. There are breathtaking photos, snap-worthy poetry, and genuine reflections on what it means to be true to the life a person has been given.

Love, love.

I am Because We are

Good thing I am trying to follow the spirit of Lent more than the law of Lent because I completely failed blogging every day this week. Oops. Hey, life happens.

I have reached the halfway point in my JVC experience and that in turn has made me reflect on why I am here. Why am I doing what I am doing where I am doing it? I do not think I will know the actual answer to these questions this year, or for many years, or perhaps ever. However, I do know that a desire to be in community played a significant role in my choice to do a service year. Two years ago this spring, I was preparing to study abroad in Zambia. There is a saying in Africa that translates to "I am because we are and we are because I am." This idiom speaks to the heart of what it means to be community. We are all interconnected. Humanity draws strength and creativity from humanity. This in turn fosters the ability to be a unique individual and contribute something essential to the community. We all need each other.

Nine out of ten Gonzaga students (yes, I just made up that statistic but I guarantee you that the actual number is very close to this) when asked what they love most about my alma mater will say community, myself included. Part of why I joined JVC was because my college experience showed me how important it is for me to be in meaningful relationships with those around me. My time on the East Coast has been defined by these relationships.

Yesterday, I spent my Friday off with my roommate Marlena at her placement. Mar works as an after-school coordinator at an inner-city charter school in SE DC. She is in charge of 100ish kindergarten through third grade students plus staff. Marlena's work environment is nearly a complete opposite of mine. At Joseph's House, I work with adults and though it can get busy, my work practically drips with the quiet of peaceful afternoons, soothing voices, and gentle touches. On Friday I found myself surrounded by kids and noise seemed to come from every corner. No one was meditating or taking mindful breaths. Everything was chaos and fast and full of an energy that I am not used to.

Yet in the midst of a place that is not my place, there was community. Marlena, who is nearly six feet tall and has extremely blonde hair, had told her students that she was bringing her sister, me, to work. When I walked in, her students started jumping from excitement. In the time it took me to blink, I had second and third graders hanging off my arms. I was Marlena's sister and since they loved her they automatically loved me. It did not matter that I looked more like the black students than I did my Italian roommate. I was family and I was there and that was all that mattered.

Community holds us together. On Thursday night, I stayed at work late to sit with Mama as she was beginning her long process of dying. That morning, after many days of being together, she had looked at me and had not known who I was. I had to walk away to keep from crying in front of her. And just as quickly as I had been hurt, I returned to her side. She is my community. Part of my identity is shaped by her and I needed to fulfill the part of her that is shaped by me even in those final moments when she was going in and out of lucidity. Mama passed away this morning, peacefully and in a community that loved her.

Community, even on the days that are challenging and annoying, is a blessing. It is an awesome thing to be able to share life together. Who are those people that have and continue to shape who you are? Where is your community? Thank them, even if in the moment the process hurt you. For some reason, that made you stronger, wiser, more human. And in turn, your life shaped them, too.

I am because we are. We are because I am.

Sharing Yourself

"Sharing yourself is always better than not sharing yourself (within safe confines)."

- Dr. David Hilfiker

Joseph's House was founded by Dr. David Hilfiker. At the time, David was practicing medicine at Christ House, a residential medical facility for those who are homeless. He noticed that many of his patients were not only homeless, but alo suffering from HIV/AIDS. He saw a need for a place of both healing and community. Joseph's House, just around the corner from Christ House, became that place.

I am still a bit star-struck by David. If he had not been brave enough to listen to the calling that inspired Joseph's House I would not be where I am right now in my life. You can feel David's intelligence and passion when you are with him. He practiced medicine for nearly two decades, has written extensively on issues of social justice, and teaches classes - one on urban poverty in which I am in now. I am walking in a legacy that David created. His brilliance and compassion has very literally changed my life.

A few weeks ago, David very honestly shared with his wide network of friends, acquaintances, and colleagues through an e-mail his experience so far of having Alzheimer's disease. Today, at the Joseph's House staff meeting, he spoke about how the disease is changing his relationship with his sense of identity. Throughout his entire life, David has identified as an intellectual. So much of his success has been based on his mental prowess. He took pride in this, established a life through this, created good because of this. Now things are different. Now this man who I admire so, so much is literally losing his mind - and he is in tune with himself well enough to know it. Furthermore, he is embracing this process that many people fight. He is letting go of the identity he gave himself and is allowing himself to be more than he ever realized he could be.

As someone who has also self-identified as an intellectual throughout my life, David's situation scares me. The thought of forgetting memories, loved ones, and then myself is terrifying. Yet David says that this is the happiest time of his life. That he feels both freedom and beloved. He is documenting his disease through his blog, sharing what is most vulnerable in order to create a space for something sacred. David says that he is not courageous in his choosing to share his personal loss so openly, but he accepted when my staff insisted that he was being generous. Wonderfully generous in letting us into his life to experience with him something so new, intimidating, and real.

Alzheimer's disease takes a lot away, both from the person losing cognitive function and from the people around him or her. Yet many people note that relationships do not disappear. Memories and details may be forgotten, but love still remains. How miraculous are humans that our minds may lose strength but our hearts do not? It made me think, if I was to get Alzheimer's today, what loves would my heart remember? What relationships would sustain what my brain no longer could?

I am aware that I am learning things at a very young age that some people never learn. How not to fear disease and loss. How not to cling tightly to things that were never mine to keep. How to be gentle with myself. Today I am thankful for the many loving, life-giving relationships that have brought me here and to David for continuing to leave a legacy of courage (even though he would never agree to that) and peace for me and everyone who is touched by Joseph's House.

Why are Irish People so Cool?

Liz is the eldest of my housemates and the only one of us who has done JVC before. Last year, as a member of JVC Northwest, she was placed in Wenatchee, Washington. Maybe that is why she reminds me so much of home. I admire Liz because she is always asking questions and seeking truth. A couple of months ago she lent me a book by John O'Donohue called Anam Cara. O'Donohue was a Celtic mystic, and though it is taking me forever to read it, Anam Cara is beautifully written. The poem that O'Donohue uses to dedicate the book is particularly poignant to me, and when I am having a rough day I re-read it for encouragement. Here is the poem:

BEANNACHT
For Josie

On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.

And when your eyes
freeze behind
the gray window
and the ghost of loss
gets into you,
may a flock of colors,
indigo, red, green
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
in the curach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.

And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

Life According to Bob Ross

A couple of weekends ago, two of my housemates and I stumbled across a rerun of Bob Ross's show "The Joy of Painting." You know Bob Ross. That artist with an incredible afro and calming voice? Awesome, I know. We sat transfixed in our living room as Bob turned a blank canvas into a stunning landscape. The man was a terrific creator.

As I watched him, I was also struck by his wisdom. As he painted, Bob gently instructed his television audience on how to recreate what he was doing on the canvas. According to Bob Ross, we can all be master painters. I have my doubts about that, but I was flattered by his faith in my skills. Bob offered guidance on how to create vivid colors and realistic imagery, but I found myself realizing that maybe his advice on how to paint was actually advice on how to live life. At one point, as he lovingly created clouds out of nothing, Bob told the audience that a painting is your world. You get to make it however you want it to be. He calmly noted that, "if you are not happy with the world you have created, you have only yourself to blame."

Huh. What a thought. So often I try to find others to blame when something in my life goes wrong. It is society's fault for not properly caring for and therefore signing the death certificate of the Joseph's House residents who die even though I love them so much. A messy house is the fault of my housemates. Forgetting a Skype date with a friend who I was really excited to talk to is my church's fault for making the Ash Wednesday service too long after an already exhausting work day. As much as possible, I try to avoid blame. If I can find another person beside myself to assign fault with, I do.

But according to Bob Ross, who is nearly as wise as Mr. Miyagi, I am in charge of my happiness in this world I have created. There are some things that I can not control, like society determining who are and are not valuable in our culture. So much of the little things that frustrate me though, like messes and my own forgetfulness, just need a change of perspective in order to have a different outcome. I can alter the result by a few words or actions. With enough persistence and faith, I can even alter the big things.

This, of course, requires a certain level of humility, courage, and grace that I am not always willing to live out. It is much easier (and fun even) to be snarky and miserable about things I do not like about my life rather than doing something about them. I want a beautiful world, though. I want my life to be as awe-inspiring as a Bob Ross painting. So I might as well take both the credit and blame for what I am creating. I get to make it however I want it to be. It might as well make me happy.

Never Forget

There is a resident at Joseph's House who I find myself calling Mama. I always remember how long she has been with us because her first day at Joseph's House was my birthday. Mama is used to being the primary caretaker for others in her life. She was a single parent and worked multiple jobs to put her oldest grandchild through college. Her entire life revolved around providing for those that she loved. Cancer, however, is not impressed by hard work and devotion. It comes when it will and does not care that everything must stop to face it.

In spite of the cancer, Mama refuses to stop living. She has turned the attention that she gave to her jobs to everyone who comes through Joseph's House. On her first night with us, she pulled a stool into the kitchen and proceeded to peel potatoes and wash dishes while supervising what my coworkers were cooking on the stove for dinner. She spent the next few days diligently learning the name of every staff member and resident. She knows all about our families, our love lives, and our dreams for the future. She lectures everyone to wear jackets in the cold and kisses my cheek every night when I go into her room to say goodbye.

I love her. I cannot help it. I appreciate her thoughtfulness and how she tries to take care of everyone. She reminds me of my mother and my grandmother, and she in turn has introduced me to people as her grandchild. I love her and I cannot help it even though I know that she is dying. Even though every day brings us one breath closer to goodbye. Her presence feeds my spirit and I delight in her. I cannot stop loving her and that makes each day harder. Rounds of chemo have made her voice raspy and her body weak. She tells me that she is tired for no reason and I feel my heart drop because I know the fatigue is a sign of her worsening health. Her independent nature is now reduced by unsteady footsteps and frequent bouts of shortness of breath. She is dying and it is breaking my heart.

Yet in the midst of everything Mama is experiencing she still is thinking of others. One afternoon I sat side by side with her on her bed in our normal style. We were holding hands and laughing at our own jokes. She then patted my hands and said, "No matter what, honey, don't you ever forget that you help keep me alive. You save my life."

When I explain to people what I do, many ask how I can do such difficult work and not become depressed. They say that they could never do it. I wish I could tell them stories like this, how the weight of my sorrow is made bearable and even greatly diminished by the sweetness of being in relationship. I wish I could save Mama. I would carry the cancer in my own body if it would give her even one more year with her beloved grandsons. But, man, how awesome is it that for this brief time I get to revel in her love? How fortunate that I get to learn from her what it really means to love in a way that is selfless and unconditional. I will never forget.

Unexpected Lessons

I am learning how to measure life in breaths.
Early morning breaths on the way to work that have to ease into the shock of winter winds.
Joyous, deep, homecoming breaths as my feet carry me like a feather up the stairs of Joseph's House.
Breaths coming in the rippling, uncontrollable peals of laughter around the dinner table.
Easy breaths as pillow talk sinks into sleep.

These are my daily breaths.

I am learning how to measure life in breaths.
The short, anxious gasps before a resident collapses.
The round, full breaths as conversation increases with health.
Sweet, sweet breaths,
sweeter for the immense effort they take,
with my fingers intertwined with older fingers 
and a sweet, sweet head
falls asleep on my shoulder.

These are my daily breaths. 

I am learning how to measure life in breaths.
The breath that was carrying me out the door
until my exhale caught in my throat in a way that told me
to go back and say
goodbye.
A breath held and savored
as I feel the spirit of someone I still love 
touch me as I walk past his favorite chair,
even though his breaths ceased months ago.
The shifting of breaths as I hold vigil by the bedside
that tells me that time is running short.

These are my daily breaths.

I sit on the bus amongst strangers 
and by listening to their breaths,
just listening,
I know their lives.
I feel their sadness, excitement, pain, 
their hopes.
And I almost turn to apologize,
to say that I only know because my life is intricately tied 
to the breaths of five people 
who also were once strangers.
That I have slowly come to learn how to listen 
to the silences between the breaths.
How I never knew that I would be able to tell you,
by just listening,
when someone is going to die.
I never knew.

I am learning how to measure life in breaths.

A Lenten Offering

January was hard. My work schedule was busy, my intentional living community was in transition, and I had to face what sometimes feels like a looming future. Added to that was, of course, the very natural grief and joy of every day living at Joseph's House. There were many, many feelings that pulled and stretched my spirit. I felt vulnerable and ridiculously young. Homesick and yet realizing that this may be my true home. So I did what my inner shy child likes to do when I am unsure: I withdrew. I did not share my life on this blog. 

Though a blog is a really cool, hip form of expression, it can and has been for me a way of sharing intimacy with people I normally do not allow into my sacred space. Writing in such a public forum is scary. This year is vastly different from any other time in my life, though, and I wanted to grow in every aspect of my life. I know and understand why I did not write in January (either blogging, journaling, etc.), but I also know that it kept my spirit from deepening. By not allowing you into my experience, I crippled myself.

So in honor of Lent, as Christians around the world walk in somber humility alongside a Messiah who sacrificed everything for us, I have decided to do a vulnerability fast if you will. This is partially because I love food and would really prefer not to have to give it up, but also because blogging every day is going to be a sacrifice of time, honesty, and privacy that will be much more challenging and meaningful for me than giving up chocolate. You may get sick of it in a few days, but I ask for your grace in this. I am trying to live out a faith that does justice and I am young and growing. Maybe, though, this will bless the both of us. That would be great.