An Inadequate Apology

Sister, brother. I owe you an apology. 

I am so sorry.

You know me, and you know my heart. You know that I love to celebrate with you, and study with you, and preach with you, and to be your friend. I pray for you every day. 

You know that when you dance, I will be dancing right beside you. When you laugh, I hope that I'm the one who started it. When you study for tests, I'll sit at the table with you and study with you. But I'm afraid you also know that when you grieve, I grieve behind you. 

It's not that I don't like you, because I do. It's not that I don't love you, because I do. It's not that I don't believe that you deserve everything that I have, and more, because I do. 

You deserve the world.

But I haven't done my part to show others that I believe these things. Yes, I've stood in my pulpit and preached that racism is alive and real, and that we are all culprits. Yes, I have cried with you and stood with you and my heart has broken for you over and over again. 

Yet, I will never know your pain. I will never know the depths of your heartache, because I am a white, privileged, wealthy female. I feel hurt when men expect that I have and know less than they, or when they do not trust my opinions or authority; these experiences are few and far between compared to the times you have been slighted because of the color of your skin. 

On the night after the 15-year old black young woman was forced to the ground by a police officer in a city I know well, I was pulled over for speeding close to my home. I responded respectfully, and the officer took my information and sent me away without as much as a warning. I wept in my car for the black young men who have such a different experience from mine, and for the men and women who have been hurt by our political and justice systems. But I didn't tell you about it, because I was too scared. Honestly, I was embarrassed to admit that my privilege is a real monster of a thing that allows me to trick myself into believing that I'm better than I am.

I now know that speaking up isn't enough. I owe you more than that. 

Because of my privilege, I am so far removed from your pain and suffering and the times that you have been slighted and looked down on and passed up for opportunities because of the color of your skin. I have tricked myself into believing that simply SAYING that I am not a racist is enough. Simply SAYING that I love you is not enough. Simply SAYING that you deserve to have everything that I have and more, because you are beautiful and smart and passionate and a child of God is not enough. 

Here's the thing that really has thrown me for a loop.

The shooting in Charleston, in my opinion, was absolutely an act of racial terrorism. The hate that motivated the man who shot and killed 9 church goers cannot be isolated to an incident of mental illness. This is the result of systemic hate that is pervasive in our system. It is heartbreaking and wrong. 

But the bigger issue here is that we can call that racism more easily than we can other situations. We, as a community, are operating from an old definition of racism which no longer holds itself up. Yes, racism is evil and wrong and horrible and opposite of God's dream for the world. But we cannot stop there. That racism is big and ugly. But the racism that has MY hands and feet bound is much more manipulative and covert. No, we don't tar and feather black people anymore. But we (I!) allow men and women with "black sounding" names to frequently lose out on job opportunities to people with "white sounding" names. We (I!) hold our purses tighter when we pass black men who dress a certain way. We (I!) say that we are hurting when our black brothers and sisters grieve, but I stand behind you because our reality is so far removed from your heartache. 

I could go on forever about how this racism of complacency that is seeping between the cracks in our country is deeper than most white people would admit. I could write paragraphs about the ways that I have participated in keeping my black brothers and sisters back. 

But I'll spare you these confessions, because they are not for you; these confessions would simply be the result of a white woman trying to feel better about the way she treats her black sisters and brothers. That is inadequate and selfish. 

I have been listening. I have been praying. I know that these things are not enough. 

I am sorry. Painfully, wholeheartedly, desperately sorry. And I will no longer be silent. I will stand with you and for you. I will continue to pray, but not just with my words--I will pray with my actions and my life so that in our lifetime we might see glimpses of God's dream for justice, for equality, for reconciliation, for the world. 

Living the...Dream

I have always found pride in the fact that I am typically considered a pretty authentic person, especially in ministry. I work really hard to be sure that I have what some people call a "consistent character."

My friends who know me best might disagree; seeing as they've seen me at my hangriest, that's probably fair. I'm a walking Snickers commercial.

Anyway.

When I started working at the church in which I currently serve, I worked really hard to have that "consistency of character." I wanted to be sure that I was (relatively) transparent, and that people were able to see that I am 100% pastor and also 100% human. To me, this means silly stories, random dance parties, constant encouragement, and usually complaining about my pants being too tight. Of course, it takes some time to break into the system of a new church. There are a lot of relationships that have to be tended to before you become "one of them" instead of "the new girl."

One day about a month after I began work at this church (and while I was still the new girl), the weather turned really ugly. My boss recommended that we just stay in the safe parts of the office until it passed. The rain was coming in sideways, the thunder was like putting your head between two roaring timpani, and the lightning made you sure that you were going to be struck next. When the tornado warnings starting rolling in, that's when people started calling. 

"Oh hey (insert name of family member or friend here). Yes, I'm at work. Yes, the weather is pretty ugly. Yes, I'm fine. Yes, I'll keep you posted."

Eventually, those calls got boring. As a self proclaimed life-shaker-upper, I started getting silly with my responses.

As several members of the church staff sat in the front office, we all continued to answer our phones, to check the forecast, and to nervously laugh with each other about the fact that we were supposed to be closed 20 minutes before.

When one of my friends called while we were all sitting together, and shortly after I attempted to run to my car to get my rain boots (yes, I know they don't help me if they are in the car. Yes, I learned this the hard way), I answered in pretty typical fashion.

Me: Hiya! What's up?

Them: Hey! Are you okay! I saw the weather reports and it says that it's really bad out there. How are you?!

Me: Oh, you know, we are just living the dream out here! It's a wet dream, but it's great!

Silence.

I, Jenna Morrison, the new Associate Pastor, just told a person on the phone that we were living the wet dream in front of my staff. 

Mortified. 

Distraught.

Embarrassed.

Afraid.

These were all the emotions I experienced as my eyes darted around the room; no one said a word.

They just stared.

And stared.

And stared.

I nervously scanned the room, certain that I was about to lose my job.

For about two seconds (I mean, it felt like two years, y'all).

And then it happened.

She laughed. 

Not just a chuckle, but a guffaw. A belly laugh. A laugh that spread like wildfire around the room. 

I hung up the phone as the tears started flowing. 

Like the rain, of course.

I don't want to take all the credit, but the weather lightened up shortly after that.

You're welcome.

Journey into 2015

Welp. It's that time of year again...about the time that people are beginning to abandon their New Years Resolutions. I, personally, have never been great at resolutions because I make them all year 'round. Sometimes they stick, but mostly I just wind up feeling bad about myself when I don't get that far.

For me, 2015 began as could be expected: with the declaration that this year will be "THE YEAR OF JENNA!" You know, the year that I do all of the things that make me happy, whether that includes a pint of ice cream for dinner or training for a 5k. Or going to see a spur of the moment show, or staying at home in my onesie all day, or dying my hair an outlandish color, or painting my nails with sparkles. I just set out to be the best, most content version of myself that I could be. 

Usually, this version does not include early morning workouts, because mornings make me grumpy. Or lots of salads, because they take too long to make fresh. This version instead, tends to include lots of laughing at myself and being surrounded by friends. Buying tickets to see every concert and show possible. Making spontaneous plans to see friends. You know, the works. 

But last week, I got crazy. 

"What would it look like if you stopped eating out for as long as possible, Jenna?" I thought to myself. "How long could you make it without Sonic?!"

Let's be real. I lasted less than 24 hours. 

I freaking love Sonic. 

I worry that many of us, especially women, are programmed to believe that this kind of behavior should cause us shame. We immediately feel guilty about our inability to say "no" or control our impulses. We know that Route 44 Vanilla Coke Zeros aren't the best for our diets, and so when we cave (after less than 24 hours) in order to avoid an emotional meltdown over something we have no control over, we feel terrible about it! 

It breaks my heart that somewhere along the way, someone has taught us that we should feel like this--the shame, the guilt, the worry over something so small. It feels like someone takes those pieces and stomps on them repeatedly when I realize that there are people who are made to feel this way by the church on a regular basis. Instead of seeing the successes, some church somewhere has taught a person that she is defined by her weaknesses, her failures, her insecurities. 

Well, people, I need to be reminded.

It's 2015! THE YEAR OF JENNA! The year that I will work my hardest to help others see their worth through my eyes, and hopefully the eyes of Christ. Because it's not my weight, willpower, hair color, or the number of friends who define me, or my faith. Not even the broken church can define me and my success, or my worth. The things that define me are my deep-rooted desire to help others see and reach their potential, my willingness to share (even my Sonic grilled cheese with bacon), my valiant attempts to be a good listener, my ability to hold onto the joy when life really seems to blow, my constant hope and prayer that the world might know healing.

It's my choice to live life in yellow: not muted grays and cloudy creams, but in bright, vibrant yellows. 

It's 2015! YOUR YEAR! The things that define you are not your failures or your outward appearance. You are not defined my another's perception of you, or your ability (or inability) to keep up with a resolution. The things that define you are the deep love for you from your God, your love of others, and your constant working out the kinks in your own life. It's your hope, and your joy, and your desire to care for others that defines you, not your fear.

It's your choice to live life in yellow: not muted grays and cloudy creams, but in bright, vibrant yellows.

I hope you can hold on to that when the emotional meltdowns are heading your way and you're parked in the stall at Sonic. That's what I choose. So drink up, and enjoy! 

Welcome to 2015!

A Spider!

There's this spider--about the size of a silver dollar--that has taken residence on my back patio. 

Although the web didn't seem too beautiful when I almost ran face-first into the center of it, as I jumped back into the doorway I was quickly attentive to a big, colorful, spider and mounted in the center of a beautiful, HUGE web. It glistened in the light of my cheap white light bulb, and rocked gently in the breeze off the man-made pond. Super classy for a spider, of course.

I couldn't bring myself to break it, so I ducked underneath it as I let the dog out and walked her around the corner to do her business. 

I ducked under that web for two days until I felt like things were getting a little ridiculous; I finally caved and pulled one tiny strand of the web (one that appeared to be a major anchor) and guided it into the others. The web collapsed on itself, yet the spider was no where to be seen. 

I felt a twinge of guilt for ruining such a beautiful creation, but after all, it was a spider! 
Not a big deal, Jenna. Get it together! 

That night, I went to take my dog back outside and realized that the big spider was well to work again, carefully weaving a brilliant pattern with his web, re-building the home I intentionally destroyed. As I sat and watched, I realized I couldn't bring myself to tear that web down again. So I ducked low and crawled underneath as Hadley ran off to do her business. 

This morning, after weeks of this pattern, I sat on my little patio with my Honey Nut Cheerios and my babygirl (dog), and pondered that web which was there last night, and no longer there this morning. 

Why is it that this big spider chose my porch of all places? Why is it that day after day and night after night, this spider chose to RE-build that web over and over again? Carefully, meticulously rebuilding that which was destroyed. The same pattern, the same anchors, the same height from the ground. 

Does there come a time when the spider knows that it's time for him to move on? I'm not going to give up, no matter how beautiful that web is. 

Does there come a time when the spider gives up on his gloriously large and ornate webs and is satisfied with something a little more out of the way, a little less flashy? It could be strung with gold and I'm pretty sure I still wouldn't want to run into it at night. 

Does there come a time when weaving webs loses it's appeal? Perhaps Mr. Spider should consider...a dam. Or a cave. Anywhere, really, as long as it's not my patio! 

Sometimes I wonder how much I am like that spider, and how much I am like the person tearing down the web (substitute: dream, self-esteem, comfort, confidence, safe place, etc). I wonder if building my own little web will ever become such a burden that I finally decide to move locations. Am I so tied to my man-made pond and the big, loud fountain that I doom myself to monotony? How many times will I miss out on the adventure of trying and experiencing something new because "that cheap white light just makes everything look so stinkin' good!!"? Is the lighting really better on the other side? Will I ever give up all the extra *stuff* I place carefully around me to make me for comfortable when I finally realize that I can't take any of it with me? 

I'm not really a huge fan of spiders, but I can see beauty in their work.
I still don't want them living on my patio, but I think there is something to be learned here.

Matthew 6:19-21: 19 “Stop collecting treasures for your own benefit on earth, where moth and rust eat them and where thieves break in and steal them. 20 Instead, collect treasures for yourselves in heaven, where moth and rust don’t eat them and where thieves don’t break in and steal them. 21 Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

As children of God, we are called to do so much more than build webs. In fact, I think that had Jesus been a spider, and we were all spiders, he would call us away from our webs daily.

"Dude! Leave that web behind! We'll get our flies another way and trust God for our safety. Just do your best to trust me to take care of you instead of relying on your own handiwork. Your web is nothing compared to my creation"

                                            ***

And so we would leave our webs of comfort and our personally-made stores of things that make us feel good and safe and venture out into the world where our webs don't mean much anymore because value isn't drawn from them.

But let's be real...I love my web, and I love my porch. I love surrounding myself with things that make me feel good because sometimes I can convince myself it's all necessary to "make me better at my job."

What a joke.

I think I'm more like that spider than I'd like to admit. I'm not ready to leave my web just yet, but I think perhaps this is a new seed that has been planted in my heart--something to strive for.

Strive indeed.

What an adventure, this messy and beautiful life is!

(Though I could live without that real spider on my porch. For real.)

The Storm

I've always loved storms--good, long, loud Texas storms. I love falling asleep to the sound of steady rain on my windows, wind blowing through the trees, and lightning lighting up the sky. Maybe they were scarier when I was a child, but I don't remember that time of my life. All I remember is feeling safe.

Of course, I haven't always felt completely safe in storms: there have been times I've panicked and worried like the rest of us. And of course, some storms should be feared. I've seen the devastation from storms in the past: tornadoes, hurricanes, lightning storms all have the capacity to elicit major damage--damage that I've seen and experienced, and worked to help clean up. 

I've realized over the years that there are two ways that people can react to storms: panic and fear (and in turn, isolation), or they can gather together and work together to achieve some pretty incredible stuff in the face of panic and fear and devastation.

Last Tuesday night, I arrived at the Manila airport as it was beginning to rain. We all knew it was coming, so we weren't too worried...until our bus was short 17 seats (we had 20 in our group). Some of our group went into the airport to wait while three of us stood in the rain to watch the luggage (which was, by the way, getting soaked). The rain began to pick up as we waited for transportation for over 30 minutes. Finally, our transportation arrived, we got all the luggage loaded, and we were on our way to Tagaytay, Philippines where our hotel and the GYPC-LA was located. 

Traveling was slow, as we had to stop to avoid hitting fallen trees. The wind was so strong it pushed the cars while we were driving. The rain was so hard it made it hard to see. All we knew was that we were wet and cold, and ready to get to our warm beds. 

We pulled up to the CCT, and immediately knew something was wrong. We were quickly ushered inside without our bags (to be unloaded for us), and informed that we could not be placed into hotel rooms because of damage done to the hotel already. Instead, we should gather only what we needed and head into a large gym to wait. 

None of us knew how bad the storm really was--it wasn't like the Texas storms we were accustomed to. No loud thunder, no bright lightning. Just steady rain and loud gusts of wind. 

Eventually, I dozed off on the stage, wrapped in a rain coat and my airplane pillow under my head. I woke up periodically to the sound of crashing glass and bending steel. We didn't realize how bad it was until the following morning as we all woke up and started to look outside. 

Truthfully, none of us really knew how devastating it was until we made it to the fishing villages of Rizal and saw how it affected their livelihood, and got out into the city to see how crazy it all had become so quickly. When we asked locals about it, they simply told us this is what they do: they just keep going. Just keep repairing. Just keep living. Typhoons are just a part of their existence. They choose to gather together and make things work because there is no other option. Isolation is not a choice. Resiliency is the only way to survive. 

The typhoon was not the only storm we encountered. While it was tangible and visual, it was not the only storm we weathered at the GYPC-LA. 

This other storm was one I expected, but hoped could be weathered with more grace. At the GYPC-LA, we were set to deal with the same issues that the general conference faces, and that people around the world are facing daily. The "issue" of homosexuality in the Book of Discipline and in our local churches. I knew that we were divided, but I didn't realize just how polarized that division was.

We spent two days of legislation trying to work through the wording in the Book of Discipline and four pieces of legislation pertaining to these words. Feelings were hurt, emotions ran high, and there seemed to be no way to approach this topic with grace and love. Each person felt they were right, and there was no convincing anyone of anything different. The storm raged in and between and among us, and it looked as if there was no way we could ever repair the damage that had been done. 

But there was one piece of legislation that was different. The approach was different. The words were different. The conversation was the same, but because the author of this legislation took the time to really get to know people on each side of the argument, they were all able to see each other as human beings who simply wanted to offer the most love.  And so perhaps for the first time, people looked past their biases and preferences and simply saw a way to offer love. 

The vote on this storm was the closest it could have been: 54 votes for and 54 votes against. A TIE. 

During our time in the Philippines, we all knew that we had lived through a huge storm. 80 people in Tagaytay were killed. We survived, and survived well. However, had we not been surrounded by men and women who worked tirelessly and continuously to provide for us, our time as refugees in a giant gym would have spanned much longer. We could have stayed wet and hungry and without any place to go, but instead we were well-fed, and were found warm, dry places to stay. The staff at each hotel we stayed in worked around the clock to provide for us. There was no isolation, only gathering together to make things work because there was no other option, just resiliency. 

And so after the example set for us by our Filippino family who provided so well for everyone present, the young people of the UMC joined together in beautiful, tangible ways at the end of our convocation. While our beliefs remained polarized and our legislation did not pass, for the first time we the Global Young People's Convocation were able to see that there can be compromise in our denomination. There can be a way forward. We can work together to find a resilient way to move into the future, because for us there is no other option. 

On our last night together, we danced together as if there was nothing between us, because there really wasn't. We worshipped together as if there was nothing between us, because there really wasn't. We laughed together as if there was nothing between us, because there really wasn't. 

Sure, our minds hadn't been changed, but we were able to recognize that that which unites us is and will always be stronger than that which divides us. The love of our God and the love of our Church prevailed. 

So we voted almost unanimously that last night to produce a statement of unity. Not because we sorted out all of our differences or came to be of one mind, but because we were able to clearly see that that which separates was no match for that which unites us. 

I am so proud to have been a part of this convocation which, in my opinion, has gone to show that weathering the storm together is so much more fruitful than seeking to go about the business of life in isolation. I have so much hope after seeing that with genuine conversation and open hearts, there really can be a way forward. I have so much love for my people-my church--which I believe can find a way through this that does not relish in victories or votes won, but in seeking perfect love. 

The storm might not be over, but for now, I take respite in knowing that we can make it through...together.

Chewing on El Salvador

I quickly became tired with the way people asked about my trip.

I walked around for days, hearing people excitedly asking me: "how was your trip? Was it wonderful?"

And I cringed.

I cringed because I had spent a week in El Salvador, doing nothing but learning about what life was like for Salvadorans. I didn't come back feeling all warm and fuzzy. I didn't have pictures of homes I built or churches I renovated. I didn't have stories of offering hope or respite or really even something to eat. I felt no sense of entitlement or even the feeling that I had anything of worth to offer a hurting world.

For the first time, maybe ever in my life, I couldn't (and still can't) hide behind any physical accomplishments that improved the quality of life for another, or the ways I influenced or enhanced the spiritual lives of others.

I cannot pretend like the lives that these "others" lived were really any better for meeting me and experiencing my timid and broken Spanish.

I cannot pretend like I have anything to offer that can do much to affect the fear and pain that so many of these people experience daily.

I cannot pretend like I did anything to lessen the weight that these people carry daily--the weight they live and breathe and love under.

Instead, I have been left with the weight of their suffering. As we walked around some parts of El Salvador, the pain was so thick I could taste it.

I spent my week cracking jokes because that weight was just too much. Looking through photos of Jesuit priests, murdered in their pajamas. Gazing upon gardens planted on top of the sites of massacres. Speaking with people who feel abandoned by the world. Listening to people talk about the Church as something to be avoided rather than sought out. Watching young girls divert their eyes from my gaze because they have been taught they are worth nothing. It was just more an I could swallow. More than I could wrap my mind around, and more than I cared to.

So...I cracked jokes. I made silly faces at my new friends, and skipped down the sidewalk, and danced on the bus, and did my best to love the others in my group. I did everything I could to offer joy (which included the above, in addition to belching, singing, climbing trees, and pretty much anything goofy and over the top) so that our hearts could take a break from breaking. These actions aren't atypical for me--I'm usually bubbly and energetic--but I didn't always feel that way in El Salvador. 

Why is it that I hid behind humor? Why is it that I kept making light of such gut-wrenching reality? Why did I keep changing the subject and trying to make people laugh and smile?

I didn't realize that I was doing it at the time. I really thought I was making things better.

But what if I wasn't making things better at all? What if I was just continuing a cycle of indifference? What if my offering of joy was contrary to that which God was trying to offer our group?

So often we find things--anything, really--to hide behind. We see pain and fear and heartache and suffering and we run away. We turn our backs because it's too hard to face the fact that we live comfortable lives where our fears are limited to disease and loneliness and failure when there are real people who live in fear for their lives and the lives of their loved ones at the hands of unmerited and inhuman violence (in addition to our first world problems). It's too upsetting to really wrestle with the dark places in life: the places where pain bubbles to the surface and it cannot be ignored. It changes the taste of life; it's no longer light and sweet. Instead, it is thick and difficult to chew.

Today, I'm chewing. Two weeks later, I'm still chewing. Knawing. Pulling bits and pieces out of my teeth as I try to swallow the reality of this life that I find so easy to spit back on my plate and give to another to clean up.

I'd rather not wrestle with the realities  of femicide and patriarchy and gang violence and poverty and fear and manipulation and social/economic/gender/racial inequality. Do I have to face this?

Do we, as blessed people, have to face this?

The obvious answer, of course, is yes.

Dang. 

But I'm still searching for my "how" because let's face it: anything I can do isn't enough. It's something, but it isn't enough. No amount of money, no supplies, no building, no home, no lecture or book or website seems like it will ever be enough. I can't tell enough little girls that they are world everything, or enough little boys that their worth isn't measured by the fear they instill in others. I can't heal the sick or raise the dead or even speak calm into the hearts of Salvadorans. 

But I'm going to do something. I'm going to figure out a way that I can help inspire change. It's already happening without me...slowly...but there is progress being made. I just want to be a part of it.  I have to be a part of it. 

Because the bite of El Salvador that I took was heavy and tough, but it was rich and full of flavor--a history rich with self-sacrifice for the good of others, deep ties to community and relationship, and a commitment to a God who not only suffered for others, but suffers with them still today. 

If I'm to be like Christ, I've got to figure out how to suffer better. To walk beside those who have nothing and listen. To feel the ache in my feet and my heart, and to sit with it. And sit with others. And chew. And chew. And chew. Until eventually I can swallow again, and take another bite. 

I don't want  El Salvador to eat alone. 

Surprise?!

I don't know why I'm still so surprised when God shows up.

I feel like by now, Jesus and I are pretty tight. I mean, we are on a first-name basis. I've come to expect him in my day-to-day activities, and to listen to me when I celebrate or complain, but if he does more than listen, I'm still surprised. And then, I'm surprised when I'm surprised.

(Did you really just follow that?)

The other day, I was on a plane next to a very clearly sick woman, who, kept her barf bag extremely close to her face at all times. She panted a little bit, and rocked back and forth, and let's face it. I was totally freaked out. It could have been the stomach flu. It could have been a virus I didn't want. If she threw up, I was toast, too. Not good. Not good at all.

I offered to help however I could, and we chatted every once and a while when she wasn't checking on her sister, trying not to lose the in-flight dinner, or trying to sleep. She finally was able to rest, and when she woke, she seemed to be feeling much better. Of course, having a twinge of pastoral instinct, I engaged her in conversation to see if there was anything I could do for her. She looked at me, after thanking me profusely for my kindness, and proceeded to tell me that she was on her way to El Salvador with her sister because that morning, she had found out that her father had suddenly passed away. She was sick with worry and grief, and had been en route to her family the entire day.

Here I had been, complaining to God for three hours about the fact that I didn't want to get sick before the plane even landed, and the reason my new friend was sick was that she had just lost her father.

I would have been sick, too.

Surprise?!

Hello somebody.

Sometimes God shows up, and I'm surprised. Other times, God shows up and I feel a bit ashamed that I get so wrapped up in my life and agenda that I miss the powerful ways God is moving through my world.

Thankfully, I was shaken out of my self-absorbed moment quickly enough that I don't think I caused damage. My friend won't ever know that I was so concerned with my own well-being that I was grossed out, or that I wished I was in a different seat. She will only know that I was the woman beside her who asked her name, her father's name, and promised to pray for her and her family on her pilgrimage to make preparations for his burial, who offered weak smiles and pain killers on the three-hour flight.

So far on this trip, I've continued to be shaken out of my bubble. The reality of the deep-rooted, systemic pain and violence of this society does not allow for self-absorption. There's no room for worry about not liking the veggies on my plate or misery from the lack of Coke Zero. There's not a place for my concerns about what I'm missing at home, or the fact that I could really use a pedicure (yes, the toenails on my left and right feet are two different colors because I was interrupted mid-painting and never got around to finishing).

I feel like someone has gotten a hold of my heart in their hand, and they're squeezing my insides, making it hard to breathe. The weight of this violence is nearly unbearable, and I've only been here for two days. I have so many questions, and the solutions to the questions aren't coming quickly
enough.

Yet still, the people here still believe in a God who has continually showed up.

I'm surprised.
They're not, and that surprises me, too.

Have I mentioned that I'm not a huge fan of surprises?
Sweet fancy Moses.

Someday I'll write more about the specifics, because people don't know enough about this place they haven't had time to fall in love with these people. To experience tiny pieces of their pain, their suffering, their hope. 

But that's a surprise for another day. 

Thank goodness I believe in a God of surprises.