To Do List...

|| Make jam
|| Have a picnic under an old tree
|| Make cookies and give them to neighbours
|| Eat a banana split for breakfast
|| Learn to love and trust

|| Covered in life {..} and thankful.

It's like I'm covered in life. It's like it's wrapping me up. The memories of these past few days, when seen through eyes that are careful to beauty and gratitude, surround me like a blanket. I don't think I can quite say that as I look back over the past few months. Maybe with time. The moments of darkness and loneliness and ingratitude are like slaps in the face whenever it's their turn to swing past the door of my thoughts, or whenever they have latched themselves onto another particular memory or smell or song. Slaps in the face that bring me into an anxious place called choice. Where I can choose to allow that memory to be the reason why I am stuffing my face with raspberry pastries and spanakopita, or I can choose to let those memories be what usher me into the presence of the crucified Christ, as his Daddy turns his back on him,  because he's filled with my sin.
whoa. now that image is dusty and filled with wisdom.
Dusty like sleeves.
Like my sleeves today.
From digging up dandelions and cutting away young trees shoots and dried raspberry stalks. I am thankful for gardening gloves. And sunglasses that acted like safety goggles more than once...
And the smell of cinnamon, apples, nutmeg, cloves and maple syrup as it simmers down to apple butter.
And for cushions on wooden chairs.
And slippers.
I'm thankful for green tea, and clean dishcloths, and that sourdough comes off measuring cups after being soaked in water, and leftover party finger-food, and the book of Colossians. I'm thankful we can buy 20kg of bread flour for $14 and that I have hot water to wash the dirt off from between my toes, and that when I give Jesus my brokenness he gives me innocence and love. I'm thankful I have fingers so I can learn to play guitar, and that I can hear Audrey Assad's lyrics, and that I can read One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp. I'm thankful that I don't have to be good enough, that I don't have to prove I am worthy, godly, polite, nice, strong, or lovely. I'm thankful for spaghetti with fresh basil and feta at 10:11pm on a cool Sunday night.

Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the world. // Sarah Ban Breathnach

{..}By Being Amazed...

I realized I filled out my Starbucks application based on how I worked at Starbucks 2 years ago. I wonder...have I changed? There must have been some maturing that went on these past months. Then why do I feel that the same insecure, timid, people-pleasing girl is still behind these same brown eyes?
My fingers smell like garlic.
I made quinoa with sauteed onions, garlic, lemon juice, dill and crab meat for supper, which I just finished eating. Katherine, Keryn and I had made 4 loaves of artisan sourdough bread earlier today, so I had a thick slice of that (it was still warm from the oven) with goat cheese and local Three Hills honey. I also tossed a few raisins, dried apricots and fresh strawberries onto my plate. Oh, and a cup of vanilla soy milk. Delish. I ate it on the back balcony wrapped in an organic smelling blanket, listening to jazz: Art Blakey, Diana Krall, Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie...
It's raining. Or hailing. My slippers have rain drops on them. It's bouncing off the neighbour's metallic roof. It sounds like hundreds of little birds chirping. Or popcorn popping. Or ice cracking.
I went for a run in the rain this morning. It's awfully freeing to run in the rain, and through thick, cold, muddy puddles, and to end at the graveyard. Makes me think of the futility of amassing wealth and prestige, and the beauty and contentment and satisfaction found in running through puddles, and crafting loaves of bread, and sharing life while wrapped in an organic-smelling blanket. I was also reading some Anne Lamott:

Even the second person of the Trinity had to learn by doing, by failing, by feeling, by being amazed. God sent Jesus to join the human experience, which means to make a lot of mistakes. Jesus didn't arrive here knowing how to walk. He had fingers and toes, confusion, sexual feelings, crazy human internal processes. He had the same prejudices as the rest of his tribe: he had to learn that the Canaanite woman was a person. He had to suffer the hardships and tedium and setbacks of being a regular person. If he didn't, the Incarnation would mean nothing. - Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith

I'm learning to let go. To let go of needing to be needed. I think.
As I was saying, when I filled out my Starbucks application, my answers to questions were partially based off of who I was 2 years ago. Maybe I can reread my answers in a few months and see how much I have grown. I'm learning. I'm learning by doing, by failing, by feeling, and by being amazed.
Amazed at the flavors of quinoa, dill and crab; and fresh sourdough bread,goat cheese and honey. I'm amazed at the sound of hail on roofs and the feeling of rain on my face and in my shoes, and of course the smell of organic blanket.

{..} Check out some music that i like..

{..} The New Friars..

So I chose to read this book called The New Friars: The Emerging Movement Serving the World's Poor by Scott A. Bessenecker for one of my classes (the class is called: Principles of Christian Sustainable Development) and it's got some beautiful/inspiring/challenging/perspective-changing thoughts. It invites those who are tired of suburban Christianity to embrace solidarity with the world's urban slum dwellers. It invites the reader to join the movement of North American young people choosing to live under the same roof and eat the same food as those they are serving, kind of like how the monks did it from the missionary monastic orders of old. They become brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers instead of "missionaries" and "development workers."
If you don't mind, I'd like to share a few quotes with you:

"Perhaps what we as outsiders to garbage communities see as resignation or hopelessness is really a healthy dose of realism - a very practical view of the world."

"God's heart yearns for his children to have more than the dung that surrounds them: not riches, but a life in which their needs are met in a way that doesn't mask their need for him."

"Sin is more expensive in poor communities."

"The communities of men and women moving into slums with a commitment to love and to preach are building the kind of trust relationships that breathe life into the brokenness of the poor. They have an innate sense of what a holy life looks like but are sinful enough themselves to know not to preach from a pedestal but from the dirt."

"The disciples needed to strip themselves of the insulating power of money, food and extra clothes. Their profound neediness was a gift, a gift that would force them to depend on the Father whom Jesus talked about and upon the generosity of the townspeople to whom Jesus was sending them (Luke 10:7-9)"

"They would become real to the poor by becoming poor themselves, imitating Christ who voluntarily chose physical poverty and "moved into the neighbourhood" (John 1:14 The Message)."

"Living alongside drug users, asylum seekers and refugees taught her the lessons that kindergarten teachers long to teach us but rarely take root - to share our things and play well with others."

While the qualities that are emerging among new friar communities seem radical, they are ones all of us would do well to embrace:

• Incarnation - tearing down the insulation and becoming real to those in trouble
• Devotion - making intimacy with Christ our all-consuming passion
• Community - intentionally creating interdependence with others
• Mission - looking outside ourselves
• Marginalization - being countercultural in a world that beckons us to assimilate at the cost of our conscience. 

These new friars are saying to the prostitutes: "See, your Savior comes" (Isaiah 62:11.) They are carrying within them light, they are holding the hand of one of his beloved and they are telling her she is remembered. For her Savior remembers her. He comes for her, to her, into the darkest of nights, into her darkest of rooms. He stands with her there and holds her hand. 

See, your Savior comes.

"It gets darker and darker, and then Jesus is born." - Wendell Berry

{..} life in Chimaltenango..

How can I spend 3 hours listening to sermons and writing notes about Jesus and then when I'm in the ice cream shop in Chimaltenango, Guatemala I can depersonalize the boy who's trying to get a few quetzales (Guatemalan money) by selling little candies? I just brushed him off saying "no, Gracias" without even thinking about it as I handed the lady 13Q (about $2.00) for my double-scoop, chocolate dipped waffle cone. I glanced at his face as we walked out the door. He was probably around 10 years old, wearing a slightly ragged, dirty blue sweatshirt and black pants and I didn't get the sense that hope was gushing from his soul. Krysti and I stopped our stroll back to the seminary where we've been living the past month as we contemplated whether or not we should buy him an ice cream. The shop was filled with local Chimaltecos (people living in the city of Chimaltenango)...would it be culturally inappropriate for 2 white girls to buy the boy an ice cream cone? We decided we'd ask him what he wanted [Jesus did that often, right? check out Mark 10:51...I love how Jesus asks a blind man what he wants...obviously he wants to see. I wonder why Jesus asked him what he wanted...maybe the man had to realize what he really wanted...] When we got back to the ice cream shop, he had already left to try to sell his candies someplace else. I wonder if Jesus would have handed the lady the money then looked the boy in the eyes and asked him what he wanted, and if he said ice cream, given him his double-scoop, chocolate dipped waffle cone. Or maybe Jesus wouldn't have talked. Maybe Jesus would have put his hand on the boy's shoulder as he left the ice cream shop...
On our way back to the seminary, we were followed by an attractive man in a wheelchair.
For supper, we had hot dogs with no buns ("cheveres" in Spanish), with salty creamed black beans (mmm!), a slice of salty cheese ("queso" en Espanol), corn tortillas and coffee juice (hot, watered down coffee with loads of sugar) and watched soccer ("futbol" in the latin language) on the TV.
I love this country.
Last night, for supper, I ate 6 white buns, 2 sweet buns ("pan dulce") and a cup of coffee juice. Then I went to watch Alex play in a local men's league basketball game. Kyle and I were sitting on the cement bleachers, talking about high school teachers, living on sailboats and whether or not it's culturally appropriate to cheer in Guatemala. Since no Chimaltecos were loud an obnoxious, we decided to cheer on the inside.
At breakfast this morning, there was a group of Americans eating, and I hadn't been around other North Americans (outside of the Seminary Staff and Discover communities) for a few weeks. I sat with my Guatemalan friends, conversed in Spanish and ate my beans and tortillas, thinking to myself how cool and culturally-savvy I am. Oh, goodness. There goes my pride again...doing it's thing...
Here's a photo of some beautiful Discover chicas; we're getting chocolate covered bananas and mangoes in the rain in Chimaltenango. This was taken about half an hour before I got my 80's style hair cut while watching a Mexican version of Oprah, and right before going to the gym for my daily aerobics class. The gym is legit. It's called Perfect Body and the walls are bright yellow. To get to the mirror-lined aerobics room, you have to walk past the sweaty ladino men lifting weights, and give Greyman, the bouncer, the customary greeting: a kiss on the cheek. Evelyn, the instructor, is fantastic! She has purple hair, shimmery eye-shadow and a contagious smile. She counts out hundreds of squats, lunges, steps, and kicks as we "aerobicize" to Spanish techno and disco remixes. We then finish with between 500 and 1000 crunches/sit ups. Oh, goodness. It's amazing. (the second photo is of our seminary "aerobicizer" crew in front of Perfect Body ;)

{..} like multivitamins & probiotic/antioxidant/dietary supplements..

{..} Be not wise in your own eyes; fear the LORD, and turn away from evil. It will be healing to your flesh and refreshment to your bones..
Proverbs 3:7-8


{..} My child, be attentive to my words; incline your ear to my sayings. Let them not escape from your sight; keep them within your heart. For they are life to those who find them, and healing to all their flesh..
Proverbs 4:20-22

Like a platypus{..}

"Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining."  - Anne Lamott

For the past 22 minutes I've been thinking about the authors that I really like. And Anne Lamott is one of them. And so I googled "Anne Lamott quotes", since I didn't bring any of her books to Guatemala. I was reading through them while listening to "I Have Loved You Wrong" by the Swell Season, and was nodding my head in agreement with one after the other, and "mmhm"-ing to the parts that spoke into my life. When I read this one (the one I quoted at the top), I smiled. And I wondered if the skin around my eyes wrinkled. I hope it did. I'm exited to grow old and have wrinkles.
I feel like a platypus walking through an overgrown jungle when I'm writing for others to read. [Even when I'm writing to myself, in my abundance of journals, I rarely go back and reread them, and if I did I'm pretty certain the only parts that would make sense were the quotes I copied down.] I don't much like the feeling because it feels like I wasn't made to write, or I was made to write and I don't know what tools I have in my belt. Like I'm pulling out a word here and an idea there but I'm not sure how to hammer them together and what shape of nail or what size or color staple I should use. Kind of like a little kid learning to swim, flapping around all over the place, getting water on the dry towels and in Dad's mouth. woopsies. I should carry a sign around with me. It would say: "When asking Sarah to tell you who she is, you will need a dictionary, and a large piece of paper and your favourite song." The dictionary because I'll need you to give me definitions and words that I can nod my head at "mmhm that sounds right, I think that's how I be!" You'll need the large piece of paper because I'll need to draw you a picture to give you an idea of who I am, or I'll draw you a mind-map of words I think give you some insight. Finally, would you share with me your favourite song? Because I'll find something in the lyrics or the rhythm that I like and then I'll tell you and then you'll know me a bit more. But you gotta ask. Because I want to know you more than I want you to know me, because "me" is a little up in the air. Kind of like a bunch of helium-filled balloons of all different shapes and colours that you had in your hand, and I squirm away because I know when you ask me a question, I'll get lost in my thoughts and it won't come out right, and I'll end up standing in a tangled jumble of words. See, I'm like a platypus in a jungle, getting caught in vines and dragging them into other vines and creating very long sentences of vine-y words. Oh, exasperation.
What is my motivation for writing this post? hmm...I think it was to make you smile. I like it when you smile. And I think so does the person sitting beside you, or across the room from you or down the street. I like how your skin wrinkles around you eyes. I wonder if your skin does the same thing Jesus' skin does when he smiles...

No matter how wide you stretch your fingers..

"There is hurt here that cannot be fixed by band-aids or poetry." Maybe this hurt isn't meant to be fixed. I'm sitting in the suffering because I've been told suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.
Amen.
Poetry heals. Holy poetry. I am reading through the Proverbs, one for every day of the month, so today I read 24. I'm wearing the proverbs like a layered dress of white fabric, letting God's love letter surround me and cover me, letting his wisdom unfold the darkness that is like a loose leaf piece of paper. It's covered in lies written out in black Sharpie. The lies have soaked through the other side of the paper, so that even if you put it up to a mirror the lies would seep into your perception. God is wrapping me up in truth and grace and righteousness, and like a warm washcloth on the forehead, his love is soaking into my clenched body, mind and soul.
mmm wisdom. So sweet, like sugar that melts in your mouth, like honey. Proverbs 24 says that wisdom to our soul is like the sweet taste of honey on our lips.

"No matter how wide you stretch your fingers your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Don't keep your nose up in the air like that you're just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him or else find the boy who lit the fire in the first place to see if you can change him. Rain will wash away everything if you let it. There will be days like this, when you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises. When you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you want to save are the ones standing on your cape. When your boots will fill with rain and you'll be up to your knees in disappointment and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say thank you because there is nothing more beautiful than how the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it is sent away." - Sarah Kay "B"

Amen.

hmm...

Let me ask for your patience. Trying to figure out this blog is a bit like darning old [my thoughts are old; I've got nothing to share with you that is new] grey socks for the first time. Ever. I'm not quite sure what color thread [design, content] to use, because I think they would look cute with lime green thread, but then I remember I'm not the one wearing [reading] these socks [blog.]  hmm...I'm not sure how to go about this in a unique way, being a little behind the times starting a blog. But then, so what if it's not unique. Every pair of grey socks is different, right? I forgive you if you are bored. Or confused.
hmm...Should I apologize if these words I am spitting through the tips of my fingers embitter you or frustrate you?
But who are you to tell me who I am.
I have a secret to share with you:
I'm sick of secrets.
Darkness, sneaking, lies, deceit, fake-ness..hmm...
I'm just trying to impress you, so you think I'm "calidad", as my dear Guatemalan friends would offer when asked for the translation of "cool".
I want you to tell me who I am, because I'm quite confused, a bit like one of those purple pipe cleaners you glued to a paper mache mask in kindergarten or made into caterpillars with fuzzy pompoms. I'm like a purple pipe cleaner that was supposed to take the shape of the finger it was placed on, but it won't come off smoothly and perfectly, it gets a little twisted and crooked and distorted as it's pulled off that delightful index finger. You are that finger. You who, if I meet and drink 3 cups of tea with, will try to imitate. If I were a Jewish boy, I would give you a Hershey's Kiss and 200Q if I wouldn't be one of the top students of a Rabbi. I would be covered, absolutely encased, in the dust of my Rabbi. Rob Bell would be proud. I can just about taste it, I can taste the flavor of following Christ with my whole heart, soul, and strength. It kind of tastes like bananas dipped in chocolate, or roasted cocoa beans with honey and chilies, or avocados with salt and lime. I think that's also the taste of freedom, of joy, of identity, of reality. hmm...
Jesus, touch my mind, touch my heart with your delightful fingers. You probably don't nibble and pick at the skin around your fingernails like I do. I wonder what your hands look(ed?) like. I wonder if you had hair on your knuckles, or how many splinters were embedded in your calloused palms. I wonder what your voice sounded like when you sang. What would you have sung about? What lyrics would you have dropped for John or for Peter? What rhythms would you have made for Mary or Judas using an old oil jar or plate or wooden box? I wonder what it was like to celebrate with you. I wonder how your skin wrinkled around your eyes when you threw your head back and laughed. Did you giggle, or bellow, or wheeze when you laughed?   
So I sit back against the concrete wall and sigh, hmm...
Oh, life.
All these questions. All this trying to figure out who the heck I am. I think I'm giving myself a headache.
Let me drink more water and listen to "I Have to Believe" by Rita Springer one more time. They say that helps with headaches. Drinking water. hmm...
I don't think I've found what I'm looking for.
But I think I can taste what I'm looking for.
It tastes like bananas covered in chocolate and roasted cocoa beans wrapped in honey, and avocados mixed with salty limes.
I think I'm looking for Jesus.
hmm...