presence

“You may never pass this way, with these people, again.” - Dr. Stroope

India taught me about presence and seasons.

We moved around a lot throughout the trip. We spent 2 days in Los Angeles, 3 days in Hong Kong, 4 days in Hyderabad, 3 days in Chennai, 2 days in Cochin, 3 days in Jaipur, 5 days in Kolkata, 3 days in Varanasi, 2 days in Agra, and 3 days in Delhi. There were also a cumulative number of days spent in the in-between spaces of airports, train stations, and buses.

When I am home I have a bad habit of pushing things off until later. Specifically I tend to squander moments with people in the now because I feel that there will always be a later for more meaningful interaction. I plan eloquent emails in my mind where I will tell so-and-so how much their time and the sharing of themselves meant to me…instead of looking them in the eyes and saying it then. I engage in chattering small-talk with people who I plan to later reach out to sit down for coffee so I can hear about something specific in their life that interests me…instead of initiating that conversation during the time we are already spending together.

While in India it was harder to justify these habits.

The journey through India was fast paced, yet somehow time slowed in certain moments.

I can’t pick a favorite place or experience from the journey to and from India. But, the time I speak of most was when we were in Hyderabad. There was one night in particular when we sat around Sagar’s home sharing food and hearing of the ways God is faithful and active in the lives of his family, our new friends. I wanted that night to continue forever. I wanted the chance to return to that moment again and again and continue hearing about the new ways God was working in between spurts of laughter, Bollywood dance numbers, and the historic inaugurations of political leaders. Sitting there I realized that I probably will not have the chance to do that. From there, two thoughts struck me. The first was that I needed to keep my mind in the room and be fully present. If this was my only opportunity for this moment, I wanted to experience it fully.

The second realization was a comfort and a challenge to my first thought. Because of our identity as brothers and sisters in Christ we will come together again one day. We have a hope in a resurrected Lord who will one day return to restore all things. I don’t know what that looks like or means exactly, but I believe the brief moments we share together now in places like a living room in Hyderabad are a small taste of something much greater to come. And I want to practice savoring those moments now even as I anticipate a joy I can’t fully imagine of our reunion in the future.

Back home, I find myself navigating the tension between these two thoughts.

Over the past year I have been blessed with deep friendships that developed very quickly. Waco is not a permanent destination for most. So, these deep friendships come with the understanding that our time together in the same place will expire. I also carry the understanding that I am not great at keeping up with people over long distances. I am improving but I’m still not great at it.

Seasons are fluid. It’s hard to say with certainty how long they will last. Maybe people will hang around after graduation. Maybe I will get a chance to return to India. Maybe this time I will be awesome at keeping up with people who I don’t see every week. But maybe not. How can I better approach time with family and friends as if it is all there is? Am I soaking up and offering up everything I can in every moment? Or am I guilty once again of assuming there will be another opportunity later and using that as an excuse to not invest and engage deeply?

Presence is an act of love and the opportunity to be present with certain people and places is a blessing that comes through the ebb and flow of seasons. India awakened me to this truth that already surrounded me. 

under the foil

I am dog-sitting this weekend. The home where I am staying is beautiful. The backyard has fantastic trees and landscaping. They have internet, of course, but I choose not to use it when I’m here. Instead, I spend time reading, cooking, watering plants, playing with the puppy, and watching TV. I’ve chosen not to have a TV at home so, when I come here I get the chance to binge on HGTV and Food Network.

I particularly love the Barefoot Contessa. Ina Garten teaches me that store bought is fine...sort of. 

She uses wonderfully fresh ingredients that are typically out of my budget. But, I love her show – and cooking shows in general – because I pick up tips and techniques. Cooking fascinates me. I am continually floored by the chemistry and transformative nature of the process. It is absurd to me that you can take ingredients - which are pretty unimpressive when raw and alone - combine them and add heat and get cookies (or whatever). Magic.

The other day Ina cooked halibut with Caesar dressing. The recipe itself sounded (and looked) awesome, but what stuck with me was the very last step in the process.

She used a beautiful chunk of fresh fish. This fish was caught, descaled, deboned, cleaned and sold. Ina bought it, brought it home and went to work. She rinsed it, dried it and laid it out on a cookie sheet. Previously, she mixed together the ingredients for the thick, homemade Caesar dressing. As the fish lay on the pan she spooned this mixture over its top and put it in the oven. While the fish baked its color changed from a translucent pink to a flaky white. It looked delicious when it came out of the oven. However, it was not yet ready to eat. Ina covered the pan tightly with foil and left it to rest for ten minutes. She explained that by allowing the fish this time all of the sauce and juices would soak back into its flesh.

She could have eaten the meal straight out of the oven. Everything was cooked. It would not have harmed her. It probably would have been delicious – no one would have turned it away. But Ina, a trained chef, knew that for the fish to reach its full potential it needed to rest.

That fish offered its body to this process. From the moment it was caught, and arguably before, it was journeying to the moment that it would become this meal. Inedible parts were discarded. Germs were washed away. It underwent a time of intense heat surrounded by foreign ingredients. And then it was allowed to rest. Ina gave its new identity time to solidify. The halibut sat in the dark under the foil and felt the heat begin to fade and the fragrant juices soak into its meat.

I have a hard time resting. It feels like I should always be adding new ingredients for the sake of my formation. I want to experience new things, meet new people, and engage new thoughts. But there are seasons when I must sit under the foil and rest. I must allow the juice to soak in and get comfortable with who I am now.

This half of my summer is a much slower pace and much more familiar than the half in India. But I think this time is vital to the experiences that I had in India, and thus far in seminary in general. I don’t know what comes next in my journey. So, in this time of rest I choose to be thankful and make the most of where I am in this moment. I will enjoy a summer with minimal work surrounded by so many friends and family. I will lay in the sun on the lake or river. I will wander shops and look for deals. I will cook good food and read and write. I will wait on the master chef to make the call as to how long this season of rest should last and when I am ready to take the next step in this journey. 

pass the plate

One way to mark our time in India is through meals.

There were slow mornings that ended with stomachs full of milky, sugary coffee and buttered toast. There were lunches where our sweaty bodies filed off buses and into local restaurants. There were dinners around long tables, or seated on floors, with no time frame and deep, good conversation. There were hours of chai time and snacks.

One of the first things we learned was to eat with our hands. Abbi, one of our tour guides, described it this way: Indians like to experience life with all of their senses.

To see. To smell. To hear. To taste. To touch.

When you eat with your hands you engage a little deeper than you do with a sterile fork and spoon. You get to play as you use your fingers to mix together rice, sauce, and protein. You feel the heat. Turns out our hand makes an excellent spoon if contorted correctly. Think of your four fingers – on your right hand, of course – as a shovel, and your thumb as a broom. Your fingers touch your lips as your tools deliver each bite. Add to that the experience of hot, buttered naan. The swirling and folding of the warm bread through the sauces becomes a sort of dance.

Most of our meals were delivered family style. Little bowls of sauces peppered the table between large bowls of rice and heaping plates of naan. Eating family style is a game of compromise and communion. You must take into account those who don’t eat meat or certain grains when ordering. You must think through which dish might be a favorite and make sure to order enough. You must share. Sometimes someone will take the last bite that you really, really wanted.

But the understanding and grace is this: there will be another meal with these friends as you continue the journey. Next time, orders can be switched up and someone else can be served first.

There was a point in the trip where the western, individualist in me got tired of the communal nature of our meals. I just wanted to order the dish I wanted and not have to share with anyone. Maybe that’s the only child in me as well. I also really wanted to use a fork. Eventually there were times when we did just order for ourselves. But, as the trip went on I found myself seeking out others to split dishes with me again. And my fingers found themselves covered in sauce.

There is something about the discussion and the sharing that solidifies the meal.

We move beyond utilitarian nourishment when we eat this way. We touch the life on our plates and the life sitting next to us with a little more thought and care. 

on the road

We may be lost, but we are seen. We are known. We are loved.

There is something about getting in my car and driving with no GPS. The hills and farms that surround Waco are good places to explore with no agenda or timeframe. I spend some afternoons doing this. There is something comforting about being present in a space when only God knows where I am. 

Getting lost teaches me to pray with expectancy.

India is a great place for this practice.

My sense of direction is lacking. If I should go right, my inclination will always be to go left. In India, and in America, I typically rely on others I trust to lead the way and notice land marks.

Sometimes the people I am with and the people I trust don’t know the way.

We wind through the alleys and streets of Jaipur, India – The Pink City. The alleys are narrow and full of life. Shops open. People bathe. They worship. Cows wander. Motorbikes speed past. I pray. My nose fills with dust from the artisans crafting statues and gods. My nose fills with fragrance as people burn incense and welcome the day with devotion.

People stare as we wander through their street. They stare just as I would if unfamiliar people walked through my yard or took up the space that was usually available for my morning commute. The staring can be unnerving. So I smile at the women and children while doing my best not to make eye contact with the men. I trust that my friend – walking a few paces behind me - is embracing his role and watching out for me.

We have a map but it is too small and doesn’t show our meeting place. We find ourselves in a roundabout that we think should be our final destination. Cars, rickshaws, auto-rickshaws, camels, dogs, food carts, and humans. So much sun. So many noises. So many smells. I’m out of water. My buddy shares. We don’t see the rest of the group and it’s getting close to the time to meet. We climb the stairs of a tall temple and look out over the scene for familiar faces, bags, or clothes. No luck.

As we come down the stairs we ask someone for directions. He doesn’t speak English, but a nearby teenage boy does. He overhears us and says he is going that way too. So, we follow him. As we walk he tells us about the shop where he works and how close it is to where we are going. We reiterate that we must meet our friends. We walk and talk.

I chat with God as we walk and am thankful for this young friend whose presence is an answer to prayer. And then I think…what if he isn’t actually a friend? What if we end up further from where we need to be? But I choose to trust and continue following.

My trust is in my God who sees me and cares for me intimately.

We find our friends; much quicker than if we were alone. We thank our new travelling companion and talk a while longer. Sometimes getting lost allows you to find others and really see them.

Throughout my time in India I was continually struck by how lost I always am. It is easier to overlook my dependence on God’s mercy and provision with GPS, when help is always a cell phone call away, when I speak the same language as everyone around me.

I feel in control and safe within the city limits of Austin, Waco or College Station. I forget that I exist within my Father’s sight and care – and not because of my own effort. India reminds me that there is nothing wrong with using tools, with relying on friends and neighbors, but these people and things are worth thanking God for because they are a form of mercy and provision.

I need to be reminded that I am lost because it gives me space to be grateful that I am also found. I am seen, I am known, I am loved. 

no power

Do you know what you can do in 2014 with no power? Your phone will probably die. You can’t make morning coffee. You put your makeup on in the dark. The meat in your freezer will begin to rot. You can’t dry your hair. Your alarm won’t work. No internet. So what can you do? Be a little more resourceful. Rely on friends who do have power. Get in your car and find somewhere with wifi. 

Inconveniencing? Sure. Another good reminder that I don’t really need or deserve these things? Absolutely.

I’m home from India. I’m sitting at Starbucks because our power went out last night and hasn’t come back on yet.

My friends and I sat in a fair number of coffee shops over the course of 5 weeks. We soaked up free wifi and fueled our caffeine addictions as we took breaks from the Indian heat. This moment doesn’t feel much different.

While last night and this morning was an inconvenience overall my perspective has changed. 

People want to hear about India, and I want to tell them. I want to tell you. But, how do you speak of 5 weeks of your life? How would you sum up your past 5 weeks? So as I look you in the eyes – if I have the privilege – I will share. I will tell you of meaningful moments and people that I love. I will tell you of the way a night in a train station strengthened my faith in God and humanity.

But, I can’t say it all in one sitting. So, I am also going to share here. A little at a time. As I process and piece together life before India, life in India, and life now. I won’t ever be able to say it all. But I want you to know as much as you want and as much as I can give.

Journey with me if you’d like. 

AlphaSmart

In 7^th grade I took a typing class. It was required. Too many 13 year-olds were shoved into a tiny room with tiny keyboards and spent hours each week with paper covering our hands typing books of the Bible as fast as we could. Each week we took a typing test. The fastest and most accurate typist got to use the REAL computer the next week. They got to sit at a full sized desk where they could stretch out their elbows and actually see all of their words as they worked. The rest of us sat with our little AlphaSmart keyboards and only saw three lines of text at a time.

                                                                                              source: google images

I got to sit at the real computer once. One of the girls in our class was from England and she had taken typing lessons for years. She almost always got to use the real computer.

Practice pays off.

This morning I am preparing for a class, Missional Church. It is my task to read everything I can by and about Dietrich Bonhoeffer and speak from his perspective as our class comes together to discuss the church. As I read primary sources and gather quotes I am thankful for those hours in that tiny room as I learned to type quickly without looking at my keyboard. I now move nimbly through the necessary task of quotation and get on with the more pertinent task of considering what these words mean for the essence of the church.

I complained daily about keyboarding class when I was in the midst of it.

This week God is inviting me and guiding me to rest in the unknown.

Right now, I am in a season of preparation. Seminary can be defined as “seed bed”. I like that image a lot…but sometimes it is hard working with seeds. They can be so tiny and nondescript.

Sometimes it is hard being a seed. Sometimes the dirt is dark and cold and you know you are buried in it for a reason but you wish more than anything you could know what that reason is. What will it look like when you finally push up through the surface? What will the fruit be? What seemingly mundane tasks will I look back upon with gratitude? How are these friendships and committees and jobs and prayer and scripture coming together and forming me to be more like Christ? How will I emerge and serve out of my transformation?

In life, as in 7^th grade keyboarding, we often only see a few lines of text at a time. There are moments we sit at the teacher’s desk with words sprawled out in front of us. There are moments when we have a glimpse of what life will be like after the AlphaSmart exile. But those moments are few and far between.

It is only through faith in my graceful, loving God that I have a shot at navigating this time peacefully.

It is through experience that I proclaim that God is faithful and working even when I don’t know how…even when I can’t see all of the text…even when the seeds are not yet a garden.

Rest. Rest in the unknown. 

full of thanks

Today I am thankful.

Thankful that God is beyond my pronouncement that “I am out of grace”[1].

Thankful that despite these past moments/days/weeks/years I am loved just as I am.

Thankful that I am too loved to be left as I am.

Today I am thankful.

Thankful for the sun and the cool weather.

Thankful for tears and laughter and the ability to feel.

Thankful for wise words and friends that are willing to simply be.

Thankful for phone calls, texts, and trees.

Thankful for water and food.

Thankful for God’s provision and even God’s timing.

Today I am thankful…

…and I am finding amidst the chaos that I am thankful for this anchor.

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[1] Uttered by me yesterday evening when the world and everyone in it - especially me - was dark and irritating.