Coal

So, in a week I have to preach on 1 Corinthians 13. I'm dreading it. Don't get me wrong, I (along with most everyone for the last 2,000 years) think it's one of the most beautiful, comprehensive, poetic statements of the Christian faith we've been given. And that's just the problem. The passage is so complete, so concrete, so...self-contained. An image comes to mind (a strange one)- I imagine an egg, made of marble, and I see myself with a chisel, trying to crack it, trying to get inside it, or at the very least trying to carve something onto the surface. In my imagining, it's impossible. I don't succeed.

That this is my image of love- the concreteness and completeness of it, the body of it- it's unsettling. As if I'm being left out, it's something I can't get inside. As if it's a language I don't understand. And I guess it is, to an extent. The language of 1 Corinthians is...well, it's absolutely beautiful, but I find myself reading it from afar. I can't seem to look it square in the face. "Love is patient, love is kind...". I want it to be a cathedral, quiet and high-ceilinged- I want to walk into it and wander, I want to take each phrase as I would stained glass windows, following them down the long walls of the chapel, stopping for each one, admiring each chip of glass, alight in a different way. I'd like to look and look and see the face of Jesus, broken and glorified, looking back at me. I'd like to be inside that place, with the winds outside howling and pushing the careening trees.

There's no better way to realize how little you know, how little you are, than to prepare a sermon. There's nothing in the world to make you feel more inadequate and false. Each time you do it, you search for the face of God, for anything you can say about that beautiful, terrible face that will do it any justice at all. Our language is so small. Our lives are so messy, our thoughts are petty and our imaginations almost nonexistent. Sometimes you do find Him, or rather, you find words to express some small piece of Him, but not before you've laid all your shit bare.

Today I came across the passage from Isaiah 6, the one that begins with the epic proclamation: "In the year that King Uzziah died I saw the Lord sitting upon a throne..."- and I saw myself standing next to Isaiah, surrounded by earthquake shakes and wings and smoke- and I heard myself say with him, terrified and despairing: "Woe is me! For I am lost; for I am a man of unclean lips, and I have seen the King, the Lord of Hosts!". How I wish for that burning coal, pressed against my lips, burning away all my falseness and disorder and guilt! How I wish to be clean from the filth and drudgery of my life. Such a strange, terrible, comforting image, that coal touched to the lips. A gift and an invitation. The gift of forgiveness, an invitation to the freedom of love, the smolder starting at the lips and moving throughout, shining through skin like a flashlight.

We know partially, and we prophesy partially,
but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away.
At present we see indistinctly, as in a mirror,
but then face to face.
At present I know partially;
then I shall know fully, as I am fully known.
So faith, hope, love remain, these three;
but the greatest of these is love.

United We Stand

Today, while sitting at a red light behind a red pickup truck, my attention was drawn to a decal on its back window. It read 'United We Stand', and underneath the words was a polar bear surrounded by a pack of voracious dogs moving in for (what appeared to be) the kill.

I find a certain, strange pleasure in wondering about ambiguous bumper stickers, blinding billboards, effusive highway graffiti. I'm almost giddy when I come across one. Oh, the mystery! The hidden meanings! I'm mainly interested in the origins of such oddities, and the people passionate enough about any given topic to go to such great lengths to have their message heard. I'll give a few real-life examples, some of my favorites:

1. A billboard towering high above the interstate- wildly bright orange background, huge bold black letters reading, 'HAVING A HEART ATTACK? PULL OVER AND CALL 911.' Huh. My first thought is, well- my real first thought is- what kind of an idiot needs a billboard to remind him (or her) that he's having a heart attack? So, my second thought then: is this a memorial of some kind? Did someone die here from a heart attack? Was this put up by a loved one hoping to honor their fallen friend, as well as a preemptive warning for those yet to come?

2. Graffiti scrawled on an overpass- 'L, I LOVE YOU MORE THAN THE TREES- P'. I love it so much! Who is 'L'? And who is 'P'? What is the nature of their relationship? I love the poetic quality of this- this is no 'Kevin+Laquisha 4Ever'- this is whimsical, imaginative. And then there are the several possible meanings. Does P mean that he (or she) loves L more than he loves trees? Or does P mean he loves L more than the trees love L? Or maybe the trees are a metaphor for something?

3. A cute little message spray-painted in green cursive across my parents' garage in the middle of the night a few years ago: 'F*** YOU SHANYLE I F****** LOVE YOU!' (My censoring.) Now, my questions. Who the f*** is Shanyle, and what is the nature of her apparently polar relationship with this outraged, love-crazed lunatic of a boyfriend? Did he get the wrong house on accident? Or maybe she drives by everyday on her way to work...maybe we've even seen her. (All wonderings aside, I can only hope to one day drive by a random house and see a love letter of my very own: 'F*** you Hannah I f****** love you!')

Anyway. So, back to this particular bumper sticker. I have some questions. Assuming the 'We' is the United States of America: are we the polar bear, being savagely attacked by the rest of the ravenous world? Or, are we the pack of dogs, uniting behind the sacred cause of destroying and potentially devouring the polar bear? What does the polar bear represent?...

Unfortunately, the light turned green and the truck was off, leaving me in the wake and roar of it's exhausting broken muffler. For the rest of the day though, I'm left with this image: somewhere in the world, there is a factory cranking these bumper stickers out, maybe right now. Somewhere there is someone thinking these messages up and slapping them on adhesive. If I were to find this someone, I would ask him what it means, the polar bear and the dogs. Would he know?

Do I dare to eat a peach?

When it's 11:40pm on a Tuesday night and I am mulling things over, I often make promises I fully believe I'll keep, and hardly ever do. It never fails- after about 11pm on any given night, I come alive, and I start thinking things are possible, that I can live larger in the world, that tomorrow, tomorrow, I will be a more energetic, hopeful, helpful version of myself. I seem to come to the brink of myself that holds on to all the hurt and uncertainty, and I let go. And forgiveness feels possible. Freedom starts to seep in, like the source of a spring, and at some point I fall asleep in that freedom.

I never do learn my lesson. I can never quite give in to the empirical reality that I will wake up late tomorrow, that I'll spill a glass of water as I get up to leave, that I'll scramble around all day, forgetting to eat meals in the mayhem created by my expectation that I can get more done in a day than I can, that I can be more than I should be.

At 12:06am on this Tuesday night, I decide I will start blogging again, after,... I don't even remember when. Right now, I believe I can be a person who blogs. A person who is in such control of their life that they somehow have time to share that life with the world wide web. A person audacious enough to believe that her life is worth sharing. A person confident enough to air her dirty laundry. (Hm. I like that phrase- it gives me a very specific picture.)

In conclusion, just for a little flair: from the mouth of ol' J Alfred, the archetype of the struggle between hope and self-doubt.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—	40
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare	45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

top 5: best memories from 36+ hours and 8,000 miles of travel.

One of my (top 5) favorite things to do is make Top 5 lists. I make them for pretty much everything. (For instance- Top 5 best names of US presidents- that kind of thing.) I don't know why I do it, but I guess it beats biting my nails or collecting stamps. So anyway. I compiled one this week as I made my way from one side of the world to the other because, ironically, I didn't have much else to do.

(In chronological order)
1. The late-50's bear-of-a-man next to me on my overnight flight falling asleep on my shoulder. Multiple times. (Ok, disclaimer: sometimes I employ sarcasm in the Top 5 as a coping mechanism, but all the rest are serious.)

2. Reading Wendell Berry's Window Poems in the Amsterdam airport at 6 am- wrapped in the awesome blanket I stole from my KLM flight, with a Dutch coffee, as it poured the rain outside, planes shuttled in and out of bays, and people were everywhere, scurrying around. Here's an excerpt from "Window Poem #5":

Look in
and see him looking out.
He is not always
quiet, but there have been times
when happiness has come
to him, unasked,
like the stillness on the water
that holds the evening clear
while it subsides
- and he let go
what he was not.

3. Learning in SkyMiles magazine that jousting has made a comeback as a recreational sport in recent years! I was pretty excited about that. I also learned there are all kinds of jousting now, along with the traditional medieval kind- including (get ready!)...bicycle jousting. I would love to see this. Or participate.

4. On my flight from Amsterdam to Detroit, the "inflight entertainment" was a little mischievous. Every time you selected a movie to watch, some other movie you hadn't selected started playing, usually in Chinese or Spanish. It became a game to me, trying to find the movie I actually wanted to watch, and instead being surprised by a lot of hilarious, strange things. At one point though, someone in First Class "happened across an adult film" (as the stewardess explained over the intercom), and because it somehow then began playing on everyone's personal screens, the entire system was immediately shut down. It was mayhem for awhile, as I'm sure you can imagine. Small children crying, their parents furious and fuming, old women scandalized. The poor stewardesses.

5. Flying through a terrifying lightning-and-rain storm from Detroit to Canton and seriously wondering whether I was actually going to make it home- only to arrive safely and find my parents waiting for me, at the end of (what I'm convinced is) the longest hallway ever constructed, with a bouquet of roses.

.you have our faith with our bodies.

You have our trust, Father,
and our faith,
with our bodies
and all that we are and posses.

Father, help us to do with our bodies what we proclaim,
that our faith be known to you
and to others,
and be effective in all the world.

-excerpt from a prayer by the Masai in Tanzania-

(Disclaimer: this will be a long entry, but it may also be interesting.)

How do I even begin to tell you about the last week and a half? This prayer seems a good starting point, as it's become very important to me these last weeks, as I've read it over and over again since July 1st. Without being too dramatic, I think I can safely say that on July 1st my life changed forever. Maybe someday I'll feel differently, but my life seems divided into two eras now- pre-July 1st, 2011, and post-July 1st, 2011.

After work on July 1st, I went to Rossyln, a private school in town, to exercise with my roommates. Nothing at all out of the ordinary, except that while we were there I unexpectedly suffered a severe seizure and was rushed to the ER. My life since has been surreal and unrecognizable to me- a series of doctor's appointments, brain scans, blood tests, and big, hard, life-altering decisions. I can't believe it's been so long since everything happened- it feels like one long day. I've only just begun to recover from the side-effects of the seizure, and have finally begun to feel somewhat like myself again.

I spent July 4th in a neurologist's office, and after an hour's conversation Dr. Hooker (lovely name, and my new favorite person) diagnosed me with epilepsy. I've since had multiple tests which confirmed his diagnosis and have catapulted me into a world I know nothing about- after a CT Scan, MRI, EEG and ECG, we learned that I have a very rare developmental brain disorder called "periventricular heterotopia". If you're dying to know more, keep reading. =)

Apparently, this condition forms during a person's early development in the womb, and the cause is completely unknown. As best I can understand, parts of my brain that were meant to move to the outer cortex during development never did, and instead took up residence in my inner brain, in the fluid-filled areas where no brain matter is supposed to live. Thus, somehow, mysteriously, seizures. This condition is usually, but not always, hereditary. The bad news is- because it's developmental and probably genetic, it will never go away. I will have epilepsy for the rest of my life. I will be on medication for the rest of my life. But there's good news too- the condition doesn't require surgery. The out-of-place "gray matter", as the doctor called it, will never grow or morph or become life-threatening. (Very good news.)

This has been a lot to digest, especially for someone who can count on two hands (maybe one) the times she's been to the doctor. I've realized in the last week how little of my life I spent thinking, worrying or caring about my body. As most of you know, I've had what I self-diagnosed as "night terrors" for at least 6 years. It was kind of a joke with my friends- "Hannah's weird night episodes"- but several people encouraged me to have them checked out, and I never did. As it turns out, I should have, because I've actually been having seizures in my sleep for the last 6 years. (Jeremiah- I deserve an "I told you so" from you especially. =)

So. I'm coming home, to learn to accept and understand my diagnosis. It was a hard decision; neither coming home nor staying here for the next few months seemed wholly satisfactory. I want to be here- I love MOHI, I love Mathare Valley; there are so many pictures yet to take, and so many good, untold stories. But I want to be fully present here while I'm here, and I can't be right now. And there's something about learning you have a chronic illness that makes you ache for the familiarity and safety of home. When your own body suddenly becomes a mystery, an unknown to you, everything seems unknown, and the need for something known becomes ever-present and urgent. I need to come home, and learn how my world still makes sense. I need a big, long hug from my mom, I need to work in the New Seeds garden, I need to be at Hopwood, and I need to be able to cry on some of your shoulders as I struggle to understand what it means to live with a chronic illness. (I'm also hoping to have a Lifetime original movie made about me. Just kidding...maybe. =)

There's a good possibility that I'll be able to return to Kenya in September, after taking the next few months to adjust. If I receive medical clearance from an American doctor, CMF sees no reason why I couldn't return. And the possibility of being able to return is greater since I already have a good neurologist and have gotten my first few months' worth of medication here.

Although the last week and a half has been traumatic, my overwhelming feeling is one of thankfulness. God is so faithful, and He's teaching me so much. He has made His presence known to me in unmistakable ways. He's placed good people around me to cushion the blow, so to speak- to protect and encourage me. He's ordained my steps throughout this whole process- leading me to a good, kind doctor, and granting me time and space to recover from the trauma. He's impressed on me the need to take care of myself, and has given me peace about the decision to return home. He's also given me a strange peace about, and a new love for my body, the body He created, mysteriously, with epilepsy.

A few nights ago I was reading Psalm 139, and I broke down, because I realized that for some strange reason I believe it more deeply now than I ever did before:

You hem me in- behind and before;
you have laid your hand upon me. (vs 5)

For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.
My frame was not hidden from you
when I was made in the secret place.
When I was woven together in the depths of the earth,
your eyes saw my unformed body.
All the days ordained for me
were written in your book
before one of them came to be. (vs 13-16)

some catch-up.

I've been slacking big time on adding photos, so I'm trying to make up for it now. The photos above are some of the work I did for the Micro-finance Dept during my first week at MOHI. Below are a few from the medical camp CHE held last week.

There are many more pictures to come, but I think for now I'll end with these twins, Patrick and John, and their monogram sweaters.

for the awesome wasems.

One day I walked imagining
What work I might do here,
The place, once dark, made clear
By work and thought, my managing,
The world thus made more dear.
I walked and dreamed, the sun in clouds,
Dreamer and day at odds.

The world in its great mystery
Was hidden by my dream.
Today I make no claim;
I dream of what is here, the tree
Beside the falling stream,
The stone, the light upon the stone;
And day and dream are one.
-Wendell Berry, Sabbath Poems-1989 (VIII)

Thanks to the Awesome Wasems (Jane and Tim), I have this beautiful poem with me in Kenya- and how glad I was to come upon it in my reading today. It expresses very well something of how I've been feeling about my work since I've been here- the need I've felt for dreams I had before coming to be brought into alignment with what the place in its actuality requires, needs, and demands. The two are not necessarily at odds, but I feel strongly these days both the newness and unfamiliarity of what I have come to be a part of, and a lingering uncertainty, both of myself and of how I will fit here.

But this poem fills me with the hope that if I am patient and attentive, in time the place, in all its mystery and intricacy, will open itself to me and reveal to me my belonging, how I fit- and not only how I can best serve and help, but also how I can be changed, stretched, and grown. I have always loved Berry's emphasis on the truth that we must be molded by our place, instead of vice versa- now I find myself very much challenged by the idea- both excited and scared for the ways in which I'll be formed by this place.

God is teaching me so much already here- about being assertive, imaginative, and confident- both in the abilities He's given me, and in the strength He provides when we are unequal to the task. The Kenyan workers at MOHI are such a model of this, and they assume and expect it of me and the other American workers. It's terrifying to me, but also freeing and exhilarating. My prayer is that God gives me the vision to see what needs done, and the strength to do what I can do, until, as Berry says, "day and dream are one".

PS- pictures to come soon, I promise.