The House on Boom Street

You’re staying at the manse? Oh, that is a mission!

We were standing outside of the church after prayers on Monday night, talking with some of the youth our age, when Nicole made that bold statement about where we are living. We laughed about it, but honestly, it’s probably true. Well, at least it feels true right now.

The manse is the house on the church property where we are living for the next 10 months. Apparently people have been moving in and out of this house for years so that the upkeep of the place has, well, let’s say not been kept up to par. At all. And sometimes in the mornings, it is a challenge to get out of bed knowing that I am going to have to spend a majority of my day in this house. Here are some things that get me depressed:

The manse is actually divided into two houses. We live on one side while Congo refuges live on the other side. Unfortunately, the “wall” that divides the two houses isn’t really a wall. By that I mean that it is really, really thin. So I hear them talking or the children screaming every morning. Ugh. (And their conversations probably aren’t very loud the wall is just that thin). (They are currently watching Toy Story and we can hear it loud and clear).

Mice have been dominating this house for years. Years. There are mouse droppings everywhere. The carpet and cabinets reek of mouse poop. Kyle killed one the other day, but then later on we saw two on the counter. They are very bold and do not care about the food we left them on our trap. (Actually, if they avoid it forever we might try to budget for a cat. Now that would be fun).

Mice droppings actually leads me to my next point: I am one of the people in charge of the budget and well, money has always stressed me out. Yet, we were not prepared for this house to have nothing in it when we came. So since we had to buy practically everything, our budget is really, really tight now. That alone stresses me out but I really want to get more cleaning supplies to ride this house of the smell. But we might have to wait until November.

We feel very trapped here. None of know how to drive shift or on the other side of the car and road. Plus, “our car” is really crappy and needs some serious work so we are completely dependent on others right now. Public transportation here is pretty nonexistent especially compared to Chicago living. It’s been hard to get used to that. To make matters even more complicated, it isn’t really a good idea for us to venture out and about. So we have this awkward balance of trying to be safe and smart as well as not living in fear. Today, Connie and I were headed off the church property to go up a few blocks to the post office when a man who works here came walking towards us. He then told us that we shouldn’t go at all because it was not safe for us to walk a few blocks at 2 in the afternoon. We eventually convinced him that we knew where we were going (we did) and that we’d be okay (we were), but it’s pretty discouraging to think that all the freedom we had in Chicago is completely gone now. I feel really stuck.

I know we’ve only been here a week, and as time goes on we’ll be able to make this place more like home. Just look at the flat at JPUSA. I hated being there at first, but by the time we had to leave I was really sad. (Thanks to JPUSA living sharing a room with two other girls seems like nothing compared to being crammed in with 7 others). So I know that as time goes on I will eventually come to love this place too.

But for now… it’s going to take a lot of effort…

So this is Africa?

I should've know that if the first thing we heard as we stepped off the plane on to Africa "soil" (aka the Jo'burg airport terminal) was Justin Timberlake's song Bringing Sexy Back than this journey to Pietermaritzburg was going to be interesting. Very interesting.

We as North Americans have a lot of stereotypes about what Africa is like. You know, living in huts and all that jazz. Well, welcome to the world of globalization. I knew that Africa wasn't going to be like that. After all, I am living in a city. Still, I never really realized how "westernized" everything was going to be until I found myself standing in a mall in Bloemfontain. weird.

Thanks to globalization, there are many things here that make things seem fairly familar - like KFC's everywhere. Yet, at the same time everything is so completely different than what I am used to.

I have a lot of issues with the United States. Part of my reason for participating in Radical Journey was to get out side of the American perspective. However, now that I am here I actually find myself missing home. And since "home" for me is a combination of missing North Carolina, Illinois, and Ohio all at the same, it basically comes down to one simple thing: I miss the States.

Wait. What?

Yeah, it's weird for me to say. Actually embarrassing. Still, it's where I am from so it is still an essential part of my story and who I am. I guess I never really realized it until now as dumb as that sounds.

So here I am in Pietemaritzburg, wondering how do I make a place where I am not comfortable home? I am not sure. I know, in time, it will come. But as I scrubbed the mouse droppings off the counter tops and floor in the kitchen, I couldn't help but think, I wonder how long it's going to take...

Heaven and Hell: Two Terminal Tales

Part 1: Heaven invades O’Hare

Kyle, Tim, Connie, Gabby, and I stood at the KLM counter stumbling around our large bags, trying, with great effort, to look like we knew what we were doing. We did not and to the people working at the O’Hare International Airport in Chicago, it was pretty evident.

It took a few minutes, but we finally had our boarding passes in hand. We then proceed to head towards the security check point when I heard someone call out my name. Someone who was not on my team. In confusion, I quickly turned around and saw quite a surprise. Roger and Sandy Miller (members of Asheville Mennonite and probably some of the coolest people I will ever meet) stood right in front of me with huge smiles on their faces.

Due to their kids’ employment with Delta Airlines, the Millers are able to fly standby to anywhere they want for free. So, they decided to come up and surprise us before we headed out of the country. I think my sister describe them and this event the best: they are so crazy and so wonderful all at the same time!

With plenty of pizza to go around, we sat with Roger and Sandy for a good hour before we had to head out. Angels, I believe, is how one of my teammates described them and their surprise. Who does stuff like that? Awesome people with large hearts.

I have been so completely blessed by the Millers and Asheville Mennonite Church as a whole. I cannot begin to explain how comforting it was to see them right before we left our familiar stomping groups for a whole new terrain. Because of them, we lifted off the ground towards the graying heavens with full stomachs and smiles on our faces.



Part 2: When hell invades…

It was shortly after 3 am Tuesday morning that I found myself wrapped in my pink blanket I had dug out of my carryon, sitting in the empty terminal. I had been trying to sleep, but there I sat, awake despite my exhaustion. My teammates were scattered on the floor or the bench beside me, rather sleeping or sitting in the deep silence of the Johannesburg airport.

“If there are any dimensions to hell,” I said to Kyle, currently the only teammate awake at the time, “then one of them is probably sitting in an airport terminal. Forever.”

This wasn’t supposed to happen. We arrived to Jo’burg without any problems (minus the inability to sleep on the ride there). But when we got through customs we discovered that the money that was supposed to be wired to our group’s checking account for our room for the night was not there.

Uh… now what?

After a lot of indecision (mostly on my part), the group opted to crash at the airport instead of pulling our own personal funds together. Was this the best choice ever? Probably not. As I tried to get comfortable on the cold, metal bench, I found myself thinking, “this was a terrible, terrible choice.”

To make matters worse, I was only running on about 3-4 hours of inconsistent sleep in the past 30 hours. So beyond healthy rest habits beyond my control, my emotions continued to rise and once again began to wonder what the heck am I doing here?

Even though that breaking point in the empty terminal has past, the question still hovers, sometimes frantically, in my mind. Honestly, it completely sucks that I do not know the answer to that question and there is a good chance that I won’t know the answer for a very long time, maybe not even until we get back to the States. And that, right now, seems a lifetime away.

It’s helpful to acknowledge that lack of sleep typically means lack of perspective. With that in mind, I realize that this is probably a moment we’ll look back on and laugh. But for now, I think I need get a few more hours of sleep before that can happen.

I cling to the promise that things will get better. They just about have to.

The end of Chicago Life

This is the last time that I will blog in Chicago.

It’s pretty ironic. I am really sad to leave this place. Yeah, this place -the place where I had a really hard time being the first week. But, here we are, at the Radical Journey Orientation and I cannot help but feel this sadness that has settled among us during these last few days. It sucks.

Yet, I think about all the things that have happened and the living conditions we’ve been staying in and I cannot help but laugh about all the ridiculous things. Here are just a few things that I’ve come to think humorous and are now somewhat endearing.

We have this black velvet couch in the living room. Whenever someone sits down it makes a noise like a seal or maybe a dolphin.

Speaking of living room items – we also have this ghetto green chair that becomes an amusement ride once you sit on it. If it’s not learned against the wall than you will fall backwards in it. (Actually as I writing this blog, Devon just fell backwards in the chair).

One time Ashley told us to “suck it up and serve the Lord.” Someone wrote it down and posted it on our bulletin board in the hall. We’ve been saying it ever since.

Chicago is a sweet place to live. There is something interesting (or out of control) going on (and lot’s crazy people to interact with – especially at JPUSA). For example, while I was writing this blog, Kyle came into the room and said, “There is a guy outside juggling knives.” To that Jono responded, “Oh, Chicago.” Yeah. That pretty much sums it up.

Our kitchen does not have a sink.

Some of the RJ-ers are pretty talented in making strange noises. The latest craze is trying to make wookie noises. Most of the time it ends up sounding like people are making “dentist” noises.

Our beds are set up “camp style.” I sleep on the second bunk, adjacent to Devon. So sometimes when I wake up in the middle of the night, her feet are right by my face. I mean right by my face. It’s pretty funny.

It all the little things that have made this beginning part of Radical Journey really memorable. But I guess that’s a given. After all, living with 18 people is not always pleasant. Nevertheless, sticking a lot of strangers into a small place is a great way to build relationships. It doesn’t give you much of a choice. But it’s been really good. Living with Ashley, Shae, Stephanie, Becca, Gabby, Connie, Kyle, Tim, Daniel, Jono, Rose, Ruth, Naomi, Devon, Rachel, Tiana, and Becca (Nebraska) has given me a lot of joy – even in the hard times. It hasn't always been the easiest, but a privilege nevertheless.

It’s sad that this is it. But I know that God has all of us moving on for a reason.

Pietermaritzburg, South Africa – here I come.

Revolutionary Kitchen Work

Everyone wants a revolution but no one wants to do the dishes.

That quote from Shane Claiborne and Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove’s book Becoming the answer to our prayers, ran through , my head a lot today as a group of us stood in the kitchen at Cornerstone (one of JPUSA’s homeless shelters).

I relate a lot to this quote. Often, I have these great ideas running through my head and heart but often it’s the little things I overlook – seeing them as insignificant (and a real drag to do). After all, who wants to do the dishes? No one.

Well I didn’t do the dishes today. I stood in the kitchen at Cornerstone, awkwardly not knowing what to do. Actually, there wasn’t a whole for us to do. At all. In fact, when we arrived the staff at Cornerstone didn’t really know we were coming. (How the hippies at JPUSA ever get anything accomplished is beyond me). So we were eventually packed into the kitchen.

In the end, I helped serve lunch, followed by scrubbing down the walls in the cafeteria. It was a pretty uneventful day (especially since my group got to leave the latest and arrived back at the flat before everyone else). Yet, I know that the little things are helpful. Ed, the head guy in kitchen, told us that we helped them get stuff accomplished that they typically wouldn’t in one day. So I guess that’s something, even if it feels like nothing.

Scooping out peaches for Jesus is never exciting. But that's what I did today.

Eating Habits

Here, we get really excited for Sunday nights. Why? Well, it’s simple really. The food at JPUSA on the weekends is, well, how do I put this, less than to be desired. Unless we decide to go out to eat, I find that I barely eat on the weekends. That is until Sunday evening supper when we remember three wonderful words: Grill your own.

Grill your own. When we hear that we remember the light at the end of the tasteless food weekends. Grill. your. own. You wouldn’t believe exactly how psyched we get until you’ve had the “mushroom” gravy on Saturday (which tends to have no mushrooms in it but tons of salt), the under cooked zucchini muffins for breakfast, and the beans and rice for Sunday lunch (which aren’t even seasoned with salt).

But then Sunday evening comes and the smoke and smell from the charcoal grill rises from the JPUSA playground area. And we remember to hope again.

I realize I am being overdramatic, but it’s rather easy to do that when I am hungry. It’s important for you to know that I love food – cooking it, serving it, eating it, whatever I love it all. So adjusting to all the dirt on the dining room floor is an uphill battle. Yep. Way up hill.

For some reason, this weekend there have been no mugs (which we use as cups for everything). Instead, we use the tiniest Styrofoam cups I’ve ever seen. The other morning, I ate my cereal with a fork. (The spoons like to disappear. A lot).

My favorite thing yet is this ridiculous peanut butter mix that we “RJ-ers” have been making and inhaling at quick rates. It’s our attempt at making “granola.” (Well, I guess you can call it that. I am not sure if it has a name yet). This is what we do. We take a bowl and spoon out a huge chunk of peanut butter. In this bowl we combine plain oats (yep that’s right – plain, uncoaked oats), crasins, tiny chocolate chips, and maybe sunflower seeds. We mix it all together and rather eat it right away or pop it in the fridge in our “kitchen” (aka the room with the ridge since that’s basically the only thing that makes that room a kitchen). It’s easier to eat if it’s cold so the peanut butter clumps.

Yum.

I am not sure if this is really good or if we are so deprived that we have convinced ourselves that it is. Either way, there is typically someone sitting around the flat eating a huge bowl of it. I often find myself sitting on the couch with a huge spoonful of peanut butter, wondering why in the world I am eating it. I have no idea. So I spoon in another bite.

These great food moments, like grill your own and homemade “granola” help us get through eating at JPUSA. That and for a good three days we had nine cartons of ice cream in the freezer. We consumed that really fast. Seriously fast. There is nothing like a group of girls sitting around the table with cartons of ice cream and individual spoons.

It’s beautiful.

(Disclaimer: I am grateful for JPUSA’s willingness to have us here. And this blog is meant to be more humorous than me just complaining, even if my writing can be sarcastic).

The Silent Retreat

We sat in silence today. Not because we were angry, not because we didn’t have anything to say, but rather because we choose it. (Well, kind of).

Thursday we exercised the spiritual discipline of silence. It wasn’t the type of silence where we had to sit still and do nothing, but rather we were given the space to do what we wanted to (or needed to do). Our silence started at 11 am and lasted until 4 pm. So yeah, I am glad we were given the freedom to explore the silence otherwise it would’ve been a long day.

What I wanted to do during this time was explore various ways to pray – to think outside of the box when it comes to communicating with God. Prayer is so much more than just closing our eyes and muttering a few words, yet, it’s basically the only form I use. I really like the verse in Acts that says “In Him we live and move and have our being…” But what does that look like? Well today, I tried to explore that verse mostly when it comes to notion of prayer.

During the early part of the afternoon, I headed out to the lake (which is only 2 blocks away from JPUSA. Yeah, it's sweet). After wandering around for awhile, I found a good spot, pulled out a notebook, and started writing out my prayer. I was in the midist of things when I wrote down "I come to you by the water and give you my hand."

I stopped writing after that. I reread what I wrote.

I come to you by the water and give you my hand.

As I reflected on that sentence, I started to wonder if if I was the "I" in that sentence. I hand meant it as part of my prayer to God, but the more I thought of it, the more like it sounded like that's what God was trying to tell me. Maybe that's true, maybe it's not. But the more I thought of it, the more fitting it seemed to add "Come walk with me" right after it.

Come and walk with me.

So I finished up quickly, stood up, and walked for a very long time. It seemed fitting. It seemed like I was walking in prayer. Yet, it wasn't a prayer walk in the sense of how we traditionally think of them. I tried to pray for the city a little bit, but eventually I just walked. Although there was noise all around me: people fishing, listening to music, and generally enjoying the beautiful afternoon. Yet, there was this profound sense of silence around me. A silence that sounded, or felt, like holiness. As if the movement of my feet alone was a prayer.

Thinking back on that long walk (which lasted about two and half hours), I can't even remember what I thought about exactly. But I do know that it was somehow profound. After all, it got me thinking; what if we lived and moved and had our being completely in Christ? If everything we did was a prayer, an act of worship to God. Even something as lame as walking around.

I found a lot of beauty in the silence today.

Come, walk with me...

A lesson in Shalom

We eat all our meals with JPUSAns (aka someone who lives with Jesus People) and since there are about 450 people living in this intentional community, we never really know who will end up at your table.

During the first week when the JPUSAns still didn’t really know who this large group of people was staying in their “youth flat” we got asked a lot of questions. (Apparently, being here for a month is abnormal. Usually groups only stay here for a week or two). Since we were so “odd” (which is a weird word to use when comparing us to JPUSAns – ha), people frequently asked us who we are and what in the world we’re doing. On one occasion, someone asked me what Mennonites believe.

Uh…

Okay don’t get me wrong. I know what I believe. After I did go to a Mennonite university (even if it was Bluffton – okay that was a poor joke. Sorry Bluffton). Yet, for some reason I was at a complete loss for words when I was asked this question. And no Radical Journey people at my table seemed willing to jump in. I was on my own.

I did manage to muster up some lame response about being a peace church. Yet, I walked away from the conversation completely frustrated at myself. Yeah, Mennonites are against war but it’s so much more than that. I couldn’t remember what I was leaving out – until these past few days.

On Tuesday and Wednesday, James Krabill (who works for the Mennonite Church) came to speak to us about peace and all its implications. Together, we discussed how peace and evangelism cannot really be separated.

Wait? What?

Yeah, peace and evangelism really cannot be separated, which blows my mind. I had never thought of it like that before. Thinking about both of these things in a dualistic way really puts a new, more positive spin on evangelism. Before hand, the term “evangelism” really had (and still has) negative stigma thanks all the terrible things people have done “in the name of Jesus.” That or evangelism makes Christianity appear pushy, forceful, insensitive, aggressive, and imposed.

Yet, Jesus is the gospel and the gospel is peace. Thinking about peace in that way makes it impossible to place peace in a tiny pacifist box when peace is all encompassing. Peace is not just the absence of violence. In fact, shalom is more about all creation being restored to God.

Although this wasn’t all completely new, it was really good to remember all of this.

God and God’s shalom are way bigger than I give God credit. Thank goodness.

Hospitality takes to the streets

Why are you doing this?

I looked at the lady next to me in line and fumbled awkwardly with my wallet.

That's a good question. Why am I doing this? Why am I standing in a Starbucks downtown trying to pay for someone's coffee? I don't even know this person.

Earlier that Monday morning, we met with Krista (one of the RJ staff) at Union park where we sat on blankets (ate Tim's birthday cake for breakfast), and talked hospitality. What does it mean to be hospitable?

I've been struggling with this question for awhile now and how its implications impact my actions as a follow of Jesus Christ. I remember learning during my time at Bluffton that in the Greek hospitality literally means love and stranger. But what exactly does that look like? How do we love people we don't know, who walk the streets of Chicago not making eye contact, and who are way outside our realm of comfort (especially when we have limited - or no - financial resources to use)?

So there I was in Starbucks getting shot down. The plan was to buy a coffee for myself and somehow figure out how to slip extra money to the cashier, discreetly letting her know my intentions. Well, it didn't go as planned. Thanks to the excellent service I did not have time to carry out my plan. So instead I turned to the woman who was getting ready to pay and said, "um this is random, but can I buy your coffee?"

She tactfully refused to let me.

Although I stood there, rather disappointed, we did manage to have a little conversation about why I was trying to hard to buy a total stranger coffee. I am sure they thought I was crazy, but hopefully it brightened their day a little bit and got them thinking.

Okay, Plan B.

In the end, my group (consisting of Ruth and Rachel) spent the rest of the morning handing out water to the homeless sitting along the streets.

So beyond my aching feet from walking in circles downtown, came this deep sense of what it means to love people through simple actions. Making genuine eye contact with the homeless (and truly seeing them) gave me a fresh perspective of God's love. As well as new insight to who God has called me to be.

This week, I've been reading Rob Bell's book Velvet Elvis, and this quote really resonated with me. "I have been told that I need to believe in Jesus. Which is a good thing. But what I've been learning is that Jesus believes in me... the rabbi thinks we can be like him."

Jesus believes that I have the capability to love people like he does. Me? Really? Even though I am liar, a fool, and a failure? Often times, I let myself get completely overwhelmed with how much is wrong in this world and how little I can do about it, if anything. Yet, Jesus still believes I can be like him.

right now. in this place.

Yep. That's awesome.

It's amazing how something as simple as handing out water bottles could teach me something so important.

Cramped Comfort

Ew.

I find myself saying that word a lot in our “youth flat” at 920 W. Wilson, Chicago IL. Sometimes? Well, maybe that is an understatement… um, yes. It definitely is.

It does not take long for 18 people to make one space feel rather small. I would say that our flat is an averaged sized one (maybe even more than average since we technically have four bedrooms and three full bathrooms). Yet, 18 people? Yeah, that’s a lot of showers in the morning. It not hard to imagine that things often get messy (in more ways than one – sorry for that cliché Jeff Gundy).

There is always a ton of hair all over the girls’ bathrooms (there are 14 females of us). Always. Even a few hours after I’ve clean it. Literally. We should start manufacturing wigs.

Our flat has mice. We catch them in live traps and then have to “dispose” of them. (I am conveniently never around for those moments).

I would not be surprised if I found out that all our furniture in the living was found sitting outside a dumpster in an alley.

Although I am grateful for JPUSA’s hospitality, the food here is nasty. (For all you Bluffton people, I would rather eat in Marbeck any day than eat here).

Yet, this is home – at least for the next few weeks. I sometimes have to remind myself that I chose to be here. I chose this?

I recently finished reading Sarah A. Lanier’s book Foreign to Familiar about the difference between hot and cold climate cultures. In her book, Lanier discusses how important community is to hot climate cultures, while cold climate cultures (like us) place more importance on space and individualism. I know this about my culture and especially now, living in a tightly compacted space, I find myself longing for my own space. Shoot. We can’t even unpack our suitcases and we certainly cannot escape each other, not even when we’re sleeping.

Still, deep down inside of me is this constant longing for community – real community – a kind that is intentional, loving, and authentic. So how can I get so annoyed about my lack of space but still want community more than anything else? I am a walking contradiction.

Stupid space issues. I finally realized that I have been placing way too much importance on space that I have been getting in my own way of having community. I want to be included but don’t realize that what I am doing is isolating myself. Community isn’t going to land on my lap. I have to be intentional about cultivating and sustaining it. Although all this sounds rather elementary (duh, Anna), but I never saw it in such a clear light until I read Lanier’s book.

With this revelation, I now try to look around at our intentional Radical Journey community with a brighter perspective. Although it’s still very easy (and I do mean VERY easy) to get annoyed I think I rather choose to find comfort in our closed quarters. To laugh, instead of getting grumpy when 2 people yell stuff in their sleep in the early hours of the morning. To smile, instead of roll my eyes when I can’t find a quiet corner. To dance, instead of spend all hours reading, when a sudden wave of energy hits the group of girls in the living room. These are the moments I crave, and I find that I mostly overlook them when I am so focused on “getting away” from it all. When really, “it all” is what I’ve been searching for this whole time.

Duh.

Cultural Mosaic

This past weekend I was filled to the brim with culture. As I watched men and women kick and swirl to traditional Greek music or as I listened to the Spanish lyrics and the sultry high notes of a trumpet, I realize something I’ve known all along: I’m very white.

Sometimes being Caucasian makes me feel like I have no culture at all. Not that there is anything wrong with being who I am. After all being ethically Swiss-German Mennonite does have its perks. Yet, when I saw and tasted the cultures at the Taste of Greece at Greek Town and the Viva! Latin Music Festival at Grant Park I found myself wishing that I could ditch my horse and buggy and whoopie pies and move my hips to the beat.

I like this about Chicago. If I wanted to, I could “go all around the world” just by walking about the city. Even simple things like sitting on the el train makes me very aware of different cultures and, more importantly, God’s beauty. Every time the doors on the el open and close I see so many types of people, all of who reflect, in some way, the image of God. Don’t get me wrong, most of the time I find it really difficult to see this. After all, people look funny, crazy even, and sometimes smell really bad (which makes for a rather uncomfortable el ride. Today I felt like I had smoked a cigarette by the time I got to my stop. ew.). Nevertheless, some days I look around the train car and love that I don’t see very many people who look like me. I enjoy being a part of a bigger picture- one small face in a mosaic of God’s kingdom, moving to the different beats of the city. It makes me appreciate where I am more.

This knowledge really became real to me today wheb we headed over to the Church of the Brethren on the West Side where Pastor Orlando emphasized the importance of stories – our own stories and other’s as well. What stuck out to me the most was when Orlando reminded us of the simple fact that we cannot change where we’ve come from. Regularly, I find myself being rather apologetic (even if only internally) about coming from a white, rural culture. Hearing Orlando’s perspective helped me shift my thinking.

I don’t need to be apologetic about who I am and where I’ve come from. As I soak in the Chicago cultures, I realize that I am part of a greater story – God’s story. The more cultures I take in, the more my story unfolds. And the more my story unfolds to include more people, the bigger and greater the reality of God becomes.

I am eager to head back out into the city for more festivals and cultural experiences soon. I’m sure it will be easy to spot me – I’ll be the awkward white girl in the midst of all things, smiling brightly; taking it all in.