Yo no sé mañana

This last week I submitted an application to participate in a faith and writing conference at the end of September, which meant that instead of writing new content to share with you wonderful people, I was sifting through hundreds of posts and tens of thousands of words for the perfect 2,000 words to offer as my writing sample. *I love rereading old journals, little notes I’ve written to myself over the years, and notes of encouragement from others, but I find I rarely reread my blog posts.  It’s just not as fun to cozy up with my laptop as it is to unfurl a battered, well-loved journal sprawled with hopes and dreams and rants and prayers.But these posts are the same, a chronicle of my hopes and dreams and rants and prayers.It was good for my soul to look back at the ways God has gifted me with words— not in the I’m-so-talented sense of that phrase, but in that sense that each blog post, each reflection, each whisper of words He’s given me to record and reflect on has been nothing but gift.Today I’m particularly thankful for a post that I wrote awhile back reflecting on a chunk of T.S. Eliot’s poem, The Journey of the Magi. I hope that maybe it will resonate with you, too.“Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,And three trees on the low sky,And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.But there was no information, and so we continuedAnd arrived at evening, not a moment too soonFinding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.” I wrote,

“I’m struck by the line “But there was no information, and so we continued.” Not “and yet” or “but” we continued. No, “and so.” There was no information, AND SO we continued.That is not my usual response. On all my metaphorical camel clad pilgrimages, the darkness and the silence and the lack of clues and INFORMATION is a sign of failure, of defeat. A signal to turn back. To search harder. To turn the running streams and water-mills and old white horses into a divine code that gestures to my success or my defeat.I don’t often think to just keep going. To walk anyway. To trust anyway. To  the Magnificent Star that first drew me out of my comfortable quarters so many distant miles back.And so the Magi continue. And guess what, they arrive--“not a moment too soon.”They arrive. We will arrive. I will arrive.The darkness will end. The search for information will be satisfied with relationship, with a meeting of the Messiah.I ask today for the courage to walk anyway. To trust anyway. To not be discouraged by the lack of information, but to rejoice in the hope of Who I will find.And so I continue.”

I can’t help but think how apropos this post is today. With only two months until I hit my year mark of living abroad and have to decide—yet again—what the heck I want to do with my life based off of a startling lack of information and certainty, it’s a good challenge to be present, to be here, to continue, even when I don’t know what the future holds.I don’t know where I’ll be living in two months. I don’t know what kind of job I want to look for back in the States. I don’t know if the Bible study I started here in Guatemala will grow deep enough roots in the next two months to continue in my absence. I don’t know if some incredible job opportunity or relationship opportunity or some other dazzling opportunity will be dangled in front of me that will convince me stay here in Guate longer than I had planned.I don’t know where I’ll be living in two months.And so I continue investing in the community I have here while staying connected to friends back home. I don’t know what kind of job I want to look for back in the States. And so I continue to give my best to the job I have here now.I don’t know if the Bible study I started here in Guatemala will grow deep enough roots in the next two months to continue in my absence.And so I continue praying for growth and connection. I continue inviting new people. I continue showing up every Friday night even when I want to give up or my Spanish feels inadequate or I’d rather go to pizza with my friends.  I don’t know if some incredible job opportunity or relationship opportunity or some other dazzling prospect will be dangled in front of me that will convince me stay here in Guate longer than I had planned.And so I continue to pray and seek guidance. I continue to look for ways to give and serve and be here now.If there’s anything that being in a foreign country has taught me, it’s that I don’t know a lot of things—or words or phrases or cultural subtleties. But I can continue anyways. I can find meaning anyways. I can find God anyways.There’s a really popular song here in Guatemala called “Yo no sé mañana,” meaning basically, “I don’t know about tomorrow.”And today it really, really feels like I don’t know about tomorrow. I don’t know what the next two months or the next two years will hold.And so I continue. And I hope you will, too.

**I also had the pleasure of hosting two friends from San Diego, which filled my usual writing time with volcano hiking, crepe eating, Youtube video watching and general merriment making. Thanks for visiting, Frank and Kellie!

T.S. Tuesday: Be Here

"Time present and time pastAre both perhaps present in time futureAnd time future contained in time past.If all time is eternally presentAll time is unredeemable.What might have been is an abstractionRemaining a perpetual possibilityOnly in a world of speculation.What might have been and what has beenPoint to one end, which is always present."--Burnt Norton, Four Quartets, T.S. Eliot 

Birds called in the distance as I panted my way up the hill, hiking one foot in front of the other to my favorite spot in Antigua, El Cerro de La Cruz. It's my favorite because there are trees and the hill curves upward and it reminds me of the foothills of Northern California where I grew up, where I first learned to pray in the hushed quiet of a forest blanketed with pine needles and smelling of Christmas. A soft haze hung over the city and my lungs burned and my legs burned and my rear end will not be happy with me tomorrow (although hopefully the stair steps will yield some perky results in the long run.) And I can't explain why, but it even looked like a better day.A day when God would speak. A day when light would pour in to the lonely places and the sad places and the hum drum and homesick places.A good friend of mine was just telling me that she misses doing things with people--active things like walking or dancing or making food. It's one of the deepest ways she connects and she feels she doesn't get enough of it.And it got me to thinking about how I connect. Not just with people, but with God. And it made me miss the salt and the spray and the startling beauty of the cliffs where I used to run in San Diego. Where I would pound and pant and start to pray again after a very long time of silence.

Somehow God always seemed to show up there, at the edge of the cliff, on the edge of the world, in my quiet morning workouts before the work day. He was in the lapping waves and vertical cliffs and smell of sulfur. He was in my lungs as I ran. He met me when I stopped.

I know I connect with God in nature, in movement, but I haven't really done it here. Not in this town where the streets are ankle-twisting cobblestone and people say it's not safe to run alone. Where the cat calls abound and I know women who've had their butts slapped and their dignity degraded on an afternoon jog.

But I'm sick of staying inside. I'm sick of treadmills and spraying down work out machines.But more than that, I miss hearing God speak.So today I ran up to the cross. Lungs burning and legs burning and heart wide awake.And you know what? God spoke. I've been wrestling with the temptation to focus on the AFTER, to stew in my discontent. Lately I've let myself get bogged down in missing my friends and my life in San Diego. In missing my church and holding hands across the aisle to pray at the end of the service. In missing my routine and my car and the relationships that give my life such fullness, grace, and color.I wrote it on Friday and it's a daily surrender: Be here. Be present. Don't miss this life here.And as the birds called to one another and the haze began to lift and my labored breathing began to slow, I looked out at the city I have chosen to call home for now, and He whispered,"Be here--because I am here."And today didn't just look like a better day. It was a better day.

T.S. Tuesday: Driving Out Distraction

Being a T.S. Eliot aficionado finally came in handy when, last night at a trivia pub quiz, one of the questions asked which 20th century poet is best known for the poem "The Wasteland."But I digress. Today's T.S. Tuesday post features an excerpt from my favorite Eliot poem, Burnt Norton from Four Quartets.

"Only a flickerOver the strained time-ridden facesDistracted from distraction by distractionFilled with fancies and empty of meaningTumid apathy with no concentrationMen and bits of paper, whirled by the cold windThat blows before and after time,Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs"

That line: "Distracted from distraction by distraction." How is it possible that Eliot wrote that line before Facebook and Twitter and obsessive email checking and iPhone dinging? Heck, how did he write it before the invention of the internet or even computers?

Apparently, we've always had trouble concentrating; the internet just eases our way into distraction by many memes and web browsers.As I try to set a schedule, a rhythm, a structure for my life, I want to find ways to minimize distraction. To step out of a haze of "Tumid apathy with no concentration."To AWAKE and remain awake. To the mighty movements of God. To the places of pain of those around me. To the gracious gifts of a generous Giver. To the opportunities for engagement, encouragement, connection.I can choose to be awake, to notice. In the moments on the microbus, with my head bent down and shoulders pressed up to the ceiling, crammed next to old women with their woven baskets and old men who smell of sweat and too much cologne. As the bus boy yells out our destination and we careen up the mountain to the small town where I work. Even then, amidst the cacophony of indigenous languages and holding on for dear life, I can choose to notice the glory of God's creation, the diversity of people and backgrounds and destinations that await us all. I can choose to take a moment to pray, to give thanks, to be awake.In the moments at work, as I sit in front of a computer and will myself to stay off Facebook, I can choose to invite God into my work, into the words that tick across the screen. I can ask Him to bless my efforts, to give thanks for the brain He has given me and this opportunity to create as He creates. I can be awake.In the moments alone in my room, when I miss my friends and family from back home, when I miss their bubbling laughter and quirky schemes, I can turn the longing into a prayer. I can take out my prayer cards scrawled with hopes and dreams and words of encouragement built up over half a year of missing and praying for their good. I can choose to focus. I can choose to pray.I can awake. I can breathe in His presence.With each breath of wind in and out of my own unwholesome lungs, I want to be aware of His presence. Aware of the breath of the Divine within me. And ready to be fully present in the tasks at hand. To drive out distraction with direction from the One who breathes in me.