The Things I Carried

Do you know that moment when you think you’re  completely packed up and ready to move out only to discover an entire cabinet or drawer that you neglected? Usually, there’s nothing too important in it. The important things get packed up right away, checked and double checked. But I think the leftover things in that last cabinet or drawer are important in their own telling way...

Last week, this is what I found:

A can of Orange Fanta: Coming into this year, I would have told you that was my favorite soda. It contains no caffeine, but it is bursting with bubbly orange sugar. I discovered it years ago. Now, though, I have this obsession with Dr. Pepper Ten. I know, I know...it’s not for women. Whatever. DP10 got me through my fiction writing class during the first half of this semester...the days when I left my room at 9:15 and went from class to work to the Children’s Museum to class to Bonner meetings, lucky to be back home by 9:30 to start my homework for the next day. On top of that, fiction writing was a hard class. My professor challenged me in so many ways, and after hearing him bark out my last name frequently in my twice a week, three hour long class, I was weary. At the end of the class, I actually cranked out a halfway decent short story and had a bonding moment with my professor where we realized we were both believers. He had a lot of good advice for this young, aspiring writer. Was it worth the stress and exhaustion? Probably. But I think Dr. Pepper Ten will forever taste like the sound of my name being barked at me.

Partners in Crime

A bottle of green spray paint: In perhaps one of my most unique and creative Halloween costumes ever, I used the spray paint to make a Psych t-shirt. Inspired by the “American Duos” episode of my favorite television show, my roommate and I were Gus as Michael Jackson and Shawn as Kurt Smith of Tears for Fears, respectively. It was so complicated to explain to people, but the looks on the faces of the people who follow the show were priceless. The costume was fairly accurate in describing our friendship, too. Like Shawn and Gus, we do our share of ear flicking and driving each other crazy, But in the midst of the INSANE  year we both had, it was good to have a partner in crime willing to make banana pancakes in the shape of the Millennium Falcon and make life seem just a little sunnier. We spent our last night together on Sullivan’s Island, just watching the right angled light beams from the lighthouse pan overhead and talking about all the adventures we’d had--the good, the bad, and the incredibly ugly. We’re going to be roommates again next year. It’s going to be awesome.

A jar of apple butter: From the Mennonites of Abbeville, SC--it’s amazing. Seriously. The only ingredients in it are apples and spices, no sweeteners and no preservatives. I appreciate that. It was a perfect discovery from last summer, since dairy was no longer a dietary option after my trip to Honduras and I needed to find new breakfast foods I could eat. Spread some Mennonite apple butter on a couple slices of toast in the morning and life was very sweet. Even more, I appreciate that my grandparents are the ones who supply the apple-y goodness. They were my rock of stability in the midst of moving around a lot growing up: they were always in Greenwood, in the same house with the same huge tree in the backyard with the same unending love just when I needed it. They are both amazing people.

A bar of soap: It was still in its little box, just waiting to be used. The soap seemed insignificant until I recently found a list of all the random things I wanted to do this school year that I typed up on my iPad back last summer when it was brand new. This list included everything from “Cook supper for one person at least once a week” to “Sing in the shower frequently, but don’t feel obligated to shower every day.” (The latter is my explanation for not finishing off my soap supply for the year.) Why would I make it a goal to shower less? I blame it mostly on my trip to Honduras. While there, we had (if lucky) an hour of “running water” each morning. That didn’t translate into a hot, comfortable shower...it meant a trickle of cold water that couldn’t really get all the shampoo out of your hair. It made me more aware of the massive amount of water Americans use daily. We really take our clean, seemingly unlimited access to water for granted. So in an effort to be a better steward of the water I’ve been blessed with, I spent this past year taking shorter and fewer showers. For my information, see Water Missions International's website. I’m quite smitten with their organization.

A bottle of pure maple syrup: Half-used and left over from some sweet potato souffle, it was a remnant of my goal to cook for others. I knew I liked to cook, particularly for other people, but I mostly put this goal out of my mind once life got crazy (basically day 1). I was lucky if I got to cook for myself, much less anyone else. About halfway through fall semester, though, I grew very uneasy with the way I was doing life. Still without remembering this idea that I should cook weekly for other people, I decided to start, with Courtney’s help, cooking one meal a week for the people on our hall. I sought organic community, and what’s more organic than the people I live with? This easily became the most rewarding and exciting part of my week. Courtney and I tried out great recipes, made great friends, and created a home for ourselves and others in Rutledge 407. I didn’t even realize I had accidentally fulfilled one of my goals until a couple days ago. Crazy. Perhaps the saddest part of the year ending has been realizing that even when we go back in the fall, it won’t be the same. Next year, we’ll live with an entirely different crew...I guess that’s both saddening and exciting.

That’s it. The last year in five random household items that were almost abandoned when I moved out. It’s too simplistic. It’s much too final. But there it is. 

The Awkward Blogpost

Something inside of me has been rebelling against the word "awkward" for a while now. It's so much a part of my generation. Every encounter is ranked on a scale of 1 to 100: how awkward was it?

Eating dry cereal for breakfast: 12
Walking down a long hallway toward someone you know and having to decide when to say hello and where to look the whole time: 46
Getting a Facebook message from someone who likes you a whole lot more than you like them: 78
Accidentally starting to pray at the same time as someone else during popcorn prayer: 107!

I propose that the only reason we interpret all of life's events as awkward or not awkward is because of the existence and popularity of the word "awkward" itself. Really, it's an awkward situation. Back when I was a small child (to clarify...that could mean 6 or 9 or 15), the word wasn't popular. There wasn't much concept of awkwardness. Things were weird. Things were different. Things were uncomfortable. I didn't know what to do with my hands. Life was less awkward for me because I didn't know what awkwardness was. I didn't understand that one day I would see a Citadel cadet running down Calhoun St. in the center of April at 1:16 in the afternoon wearing a beanie and comment on how awkward it was.

We create awkwardness in ourselves and in our society by having and using the word. Suddenly, any feeling that isn't complete happiness is translated into awkwardness. Even the idea of awkwardness is awkward. Awkwardness is taking over the American culture. Everyone loves Zooey Deschanel. Quirky is the new normal. Awkward is the new everything.

I think more people get drunk and get more drunk now because of the word. It's a reason to drink: I feel awkward around lots of people. I feel awkward dancing. I feel awkward when I'm not drinking and the people around me are. The drunk people around me are awkward and it makes me feel more awkward. The solution: Drink away the awkwardness. I don't know about this. I don't drink. I just think about alcohol and awkwardness. What a pair they must be!

I don't like when my hands smell like food. It's distracting. I try to accomplish things, but I smell onions and remember the pizza I had for lunch and don't accomplish anything.

I tried to replace the word "awkward" with "stupid," but it was an awkward/stupid idea. It didn't mean anything. It was like using "laughing my feathery armpits off" instead of its less polite counterpart. Essentially, you mean the same thing, but for some reason--morality concerns, nearness of children, speech impediment or hearing impairment--you just replaced the "bad" words with "better" ones. It doesn't change the concept. Instead of saying "I laughed so hard it was awkward," I tried to say "I laughed so hard it was stupid." Nothing. No difference. Apples and oranges.

Mr. Tony of "PTI" and "The Tony Kornheiser Show" likes to say, "The kids have a word for that these days: awkward!" He also likes to do the penguin dance.

Someone somewhere decided to call this postmodernism. It's really just awareness of the language I'm using and how it shapes my thoughts and perceptions. But that's not official enough to teach an entire Western Civ lecture about so they call it "postmodernism." I like things that are meta and postmodern...like "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" and "The Office." I like when things think about themselves, what they're doing, why they're doing it, and then make fun of themselves. I wish the word "awkward" were more aware of itself. I wish mini microwaves existed named "Hitler." I like that I can use quotes and throw everything's "meaning" into "question." It feels like power.

Maybe technology makes us awkward. We text and message and chat...via technology. And so we're hyper-aware of ourselves when we experience real, face-to-face interactions with other humans. Suddenly, without the assistance of emoticons and "lolz," we don't know where to put our smile or our arms and it's awkward. But technology can only make us awkward because the word "awkward" exists and allows us to understand the concept of awkwardness.

The elevator in my building got angry and then tried to take me to the fourth dimension today. It was awkward.
Autocorrect on my iPad changed "wuwei" to "Susie" in my Religions of China and Japan term paper and it was awkward.
I listened to song by Jude Moses called "Mistaken Hands" and thought he was singing: "I'll make you sufferrr. I'll make you die." He was actually singing, "I'm make you supper. I'll serve you wine." It was awkward.



I wrote a blogpost about awkwardness and how much the word affects our lives and it was awkward.

I feel like the Knights Who Say Ni...because I can't stop saying the word "awkward." Ah! I said that awkward word again! Ah! It's so awkward that I can't stop saying it! Now I feel even more awkward! Ah!!!

I fear that if we stop the word now, we will lose ourselves. What will happen to our skepticism and cynicism? What will happen to self-awareness and these feelings inside of us that alert to awkward moments? Remember awkward turtle? I liked to make up random awkward animals when I was in high school. I felt cool when I did it. I wasn't. I was just another teenager with braces, lame jokes, and "original" ideas, the very definition of "awkward." Henceforth, you can just call me "Awkward posterchild."


Coming soon: The Hipster Blogpost
A look at the word "hipster" and an explanation for why they burn their tongues all the time.

(Not really...I just wanted to make you feel awkward about another popular word/cultural phenomenon. You're welcome.)

Costa Rica and Toxic Charity

As I scooped my laundry out of the dryer and into my clothes hamper this afternoon, I groaned. I dried my Costa Rica soccer jersey all the way again. Now, where it used to say “SAMSUNG” is just a few random black lines, and “BIMBO” emblazoned across the front is very faded. (Yes, I proudly wear a shirt that brands me as a bimbo. It happens.) But anyway, seeing how faded it has become took me back to my trip to Costa Rica in the summer before my senior year of high school. I went with nine other youth and adults for a weeklong mission trip there. We spent time in a neighborhood that had been built on a landfill. Raw sewage ran along the dirt paths and into a giant river. The breeze tossed around trash and the smell of gang violence, prejudices, and hopelessness. I remember it feeling very apocalyptic until people emerged from their homes into the streets, especially the children whose smiles made the neighborhood seem like a much happier place.

I vividly remember two kids in particular. One was a boy who recently had surgery on his leg. His leg had many stitches running down it, and a metal contraption around his calf kept him immobile. Two of his friends carried him to us so I could paint a bat on his face. The other child I remember was a girl with short curly hair that latched onto me. She didn’t say a word the whole time she was around me, but she became my shadow. I wondered what it was like to live their lives in this place where fathers where a rarity and an armed guard stood outside the nearest ice cream stand.

But then the week was over—it went by much too quickly—and we had some time for a shopping adventure on our last day. Before soccer jerseys were even the cool thing to wear, I wanted one (I might as well just succumb to my fate as a hipster).  And just as vividly as I remember the two children who made me rethink the life I was living in America, I remember my great American blunder in the little store that last day. Several of us were scrambling around trying to find the right size in the coolest jerseys, pulling jerseys out of their little plastic wrappings and trying them on over our t-shirts. We were the only ones in the store except for the shopkeeper and our bus driver Cory. And we caused quite the commotion and mess. Maybe, if you’re an United States-ian reading this, our actions don’t seem bad. We were shopping as only Americans can. But now when I look back on that moment, I can’t help but cringe. We were so loud. We left behind us such a mess for the shopkeeper to clean up. I still remember Cory’s face: he seemed surprised to see the competitive, covetous prey we turned into when faced with souvenirs. Everything we had seen in Costa Rica was forgotten in the high of buying memories.

It didn't register at the time. I felt no shame in what I saw as just another part of mission trips. You raise money, you go, you "serve," you buy some stuffs, you come home, you tell people how awesome it was, you make an album of your killer "pics" on the Facebook machine, and you put it out of mind as life goes on.

I recently read a few chapters from the book Toxic Charity: How Churches and Charities Hurt Those They Help (And How to Reverse It) in my Honduras class (and I'm on the waiting list for the book at my local library).  The section I read talked about the dependency we create when we go into a community and give the people clothes, food, even a well. It sounds very noble, and we feel good after we do it. However, we don't think about the long term effects of our actions. As we discussed this needs-based approach to charity in class, I remembered a picture I saw in a WMI presentation of several Haitian men getting water from a new Water Missions International water pump. The man doing the presentation pointed out that one of the men in the picture wasn't wearing shoes. Apparently, the man could buy shoes—he had the money and there were local businesses producing shoes—but he didn't see any reason to buy shoes when he knew someone would come in and give him a pair for free (ummm...TOMS). This mindset can be detrimental to a developing people and to developing local businesses. Hearing "toxic charity" explained that way was a DUH moment for me.

Naturally, not all charity is toxic. In emergency situations, we should definitely go in and help. I think everyone involved in a church should go on a mission trip at some point in their life (sooner rather than later, though!). Youth, in particular, should spend time serving, painting houses, replacing roofs, serving food at a soup kitchen, doing inventory of supplies in a women's shelter because doing so can reveal a plethora of opportunities for their futures that they never knew existed. And as I told my friend Julia who is studying abroad next semester, I believe every American should try to spend some time in a third world country—not to experience extreme sympathy and not to serve in a way that births arrogance, but to get a new perspective on the way we live.

With short term mission and service trips, I like going in and serving an organization already established in a community that serves the community. In the world of volunteerism, we call that "indirect service." I think it's beneficial to use short term missions as an opportunity to do indirect service because instead of leaving a giant mission trip footprint that crushes the "needy" people you serve, you empower an organization that is already doing good work in the community to continue doing so.

Robert Lupton, author of Toxic Charity, proposes an oath for compassionate service:

Never do for the poor what they have (or could have) the capacity to do for themselves. Limit one-way giving to emergency situations. Strive to empower the poor through employment, lending, and investing, using grants sparingly to reinforce achievements. Subordinate self-interests to the needs of those being served. Listen closely to those you seek to help, especially to what is not being said. Above all, do no harm.

We have to give and serve in a way that empowers others. The best part is that when we do that, we are also empowered. Our actions become more than an album on Facebook, more than a soccer jersey dried too many times, and more even than the inside jokes that inevitably arise out of mission/service trips.

I guess it's really just a matter of deciding what you want to gain when you give: a feeling of pride because you gave that man a pair of shoes or a feeling of empowerment because you gave that man the ability to buy his own shoes from people in his own community.

 

Apples and Oranges

But they're both fruits...

I am awful at idiomatic expressions. Seriously. I just create my own idioms: Take a shot in the dark! That’s a whole different ballpark. This is problematic for me since I am a writer. As Ziva of “NCIS” once said, “Ah! American idioms drive me up the hall.”

What’s even more problematic is that my roommate is also awful at idioms. We don’t even pick up on each other’s mistakes anymore. The other night, she tried to explain how two things were the same by saying, “Apples and oranges.”* If I had been present for this conversation, I would have probably nodded my head and gotten on with life. But no. She was with people who actually grasp meanings of expressions. They laughed…a lot.  It’s okay, though. Now Courtney and I both understand how to use the phrase. See below:

You can’t compare the Harry Potter movies to the books! That’s like comparing apples and oranges!

How can you say pens are more useful than scissors? You’re comparing apples and oranges.

*Disclaimer: “Comparing apples and oranges” is not to be confused with the diametric expression “same difference.” Thank you and have a good day.

Are you awaiting some life relevancy? If not, you can stop reading now. If so, here goes.

Christians love to pray that God would reveal to them His will for their lives. I think they really mean “plan,” but they say “will” and it changes everything. Let’s just say, though, comparing God’s will and God’s plan for your life is like comparing apples and oranges. It doesn’t work.

³ God’s will is for you to be holy, so stay away from all sexual sin. ⁴ Then each of you will control his own body and live in holiness and honor— ⁵ not in lustful passion like the pagans who do not know God and his ways. ⁶ Never harm or cheat a Christian brother in this matter by violating his wife, for the Lord avenges all such sins, as we have solemnly warned you before. ⁷ God has called us to live holy lives, not impure lives. ⁸ Therefore, anyone who refuses to live by these rules is not disobeying human teaching but is rejecting God, who gives his Holy Spirit to you. 1 Thess. 4:3-8

My Community Group leader shared these verses with us a couple weeks ago, just days after I had to make a decision about my summer plans. His wife laughed as realization ran down my face like a raw egg: earlier that week, I'd sent her an email asking her to pray for guidance as I was seeking God's will for my summer. In Community Group that night, we discussed all that God's will for our lives might entail. Then we talked about how it's different than God's plan for our lives. 

Quick differentiation:

God's will: Be holy! This can involve a lot of different things: i.e. the Great Commission, the Ten Commandments, love your neighbor as yourself. But the idea is that God's will is the same for all believers. It's also immutable and set in stone.

God's plan: This is different for each believer. God's plan for my life might involve overseas missions or going to seminary or working at a summer camp (*cough cough*), whereas His plan for Courtney's life might involve teaching in an innercity school or spending her summer at home. This is usually what Christians want God to reveal to them. We know, because of Jeremiah 29:11, that God's plan for our lives is good, but we want to know what it is going to involve. I think we feel apprehensive about this because it seems easily changed and shifting...

I had a miniature panic attack over spring break when I was deciding between India and Camp Longridge for this summer (which was really like deciding between an apple and orange). I wanted to make the right choice, but I wasn't sure what it was. At some point in the deciding process, though, I realized that I am following God's will for my life...or at least trying my best to do so. I also realized that the Holy Spirit indwells me and acts as my counselor. So even if I wasn't feeling some supernatural conviction, the Holy Spirit was still helping me decide.

Feeling paradoxically empowered and insecure, I made my decision...(drumroll please)...and I'm going to be a counselor at Camp Longridge. God's will would have my go either place and be holy: do good and share with others (Heb. 13:16). God's plan has me ministering to kids and youth at Camp Longridge this summer. I'm excited. Aaaand very ready for the summer to get here already!

(They're kissing.)

Ruth's Story, My Story

It begins with Naomi…and her husband Elimelech. They had two sons, and after Elimelech’s death, the two sons married foreign women named Orpah and Ruth. When the two sons died, they left their two widows in a distant land with their mother. Orpah, upon the bidding of her mother-in-law, returned to her home and her family: the rational decision. Ruth, on the other hand, refused to leave Naomi alone: the irrational decision. Because of her irrationality, her kind stubbornness, it then becomes Ruth’s story.

I went gleaning today with Fields to Families. I’ve worked with them once before, and they’re a really awesome organization that I should work with more often. At ten this morning, I met up with a few friends and a few strangers in downtown Charleston to head out to Rosebank Farm on John’s Island. We took a red minivan and a silver SUV…like the cool people we are. We had some adventures trying to get there. RocketVan, as our red minivan became known, made some awesome u-turns, though, and in spite of a faulty GPS, we made it. It was beautiful in that drawling way that the Lowcountry has, with Spanish moss dripping from old oaks that form endless archways over dirt roads. The field where we were gleaning had lines of collards that had burst into little yellow flowers as tall as me, which is impressively tall for a collard green plant. We were gleaning collards…

Fun fact: you can eat the leaves, the stalks, and the flowers of collard plants. And I definitely tried all three parts while gleaning today.

Ruth's story took her to Bethlehem in the early spring—just in time for the barley harvest. One day, Ruth asked Naomi if she could go out into the fields and gather grain behind the harvesters. A relative of Naomi's husband, Boaz, happened to own the field where Ruth went to collect food for Naomi and herself. He inquired about Ruth, and his foreman explained to him how hardworking she was, collecting grain tirelessly and rarely taking a break. 

Anyone at a loss for what “gleaning” means? It’s central to what Fields to Families does. Local farmers with extra crops that they aren’t going to use or that they want to give to others let volunteers come in and harvest the extra. Then Fields to Families take the extra and give it to organizations that feed hungry people who, under normal circumstances, don’t have access to healthy food. 

Boaz went to Ruth and welcomed her to his field, encouraging her to help herself to the water in the well if she became thirsty and inviting her to eat lunch with his harvesters. His kindness confused her, and what she didn't even know was that he also told his harvesters to purposefully drop extra barley for her. 

We worked for a few hours, bent over inspecting leaves and breaking off healthy ones. We filled about ten garbage bags with the green leaves—a little over a hundred pounds of collards. It didn't feel like we were out there long enough. The breeze was gentle and cooling in the warm March sun, and even though the bees were constantly buzzing around our heads, there was something wonderfully relaxing about the manual labor. One of the girls gleaning with us commented on how nice it was to be so connected to the source of our food. It's true. Food looks so different once it's in grocery stores. Most of it is processed, canned, or boxed. Even the produce, though, has a certain degree of "perfection" to it that you just don't see in the fields. After gathering our bags of collards and loading them into the back of RocketVan, we sat in a circle on the ground and reflected, talking about food deserts, the accessibility of healthy foods for people with a lower income, educating children to make healthy choices. I drew circles in the dirt with my finger and thought more about Ruth and the world she lived in.

At the end of the day, Ruth took home half a bushel (I think that's about 20 quarts) of barley to Naomi, as well as leftover food from her lunch. Naomi was delighted, not just at the amount of food Ruth had provided but moreso at the generosity of Boaz.

I've never looked at Ruth's story before with a focus on Ruth. I always hear about Boaz and how his role as the "kinsman-redeemer" is allegorical for Jesus's role in saving us. I hear about the romance between Boaz and Ruth, and probably like a lot of Christian girls, I've been told about how incredible it is to have a kinsman-redeemer marry you. I was talking to my dad about my plans to go gleaning today, and he pointed out the connection to Ruth. I jokingly asked if he wanted me to go find my Boaz while on John's Island today. In all seriousness though, I was astonished at how beautiful Ruth's story is. As I was collecting the leftover collards, I thought about her story and her character, and I began to admire her more and more. Ruth was resourceful. She was humble and submissive, not usually admirable qualities in people by the world's standards today, but qualities that I undoubtedly admire in her. She was hardworking and generous. And she had loyalty to her mother-in-law and to godly love that I envy.

At the end of our day, we loaded back into RocketVan and the SUV (that wasn't cool enough to have a nickname) and left John's Island. The RocketVan took the bags of collards to Crisis Ministries, attempting to make some more awesome u-turns in the process ("attempting" here meaning that we tried and just ended up doing a 3-point turn in the middle of an intersection under the pressure of oncoming traffic). My roommate and I went back to our dorm and cooked up some stir fry that featured collard greens and collard flowers. Wow. Trust me when I say food tastes better when you harvested and cooked it yourself. So good.

 . 

 

American life lets me be lazy. I don't work with my hands. I'm not out in the hot sun meticulously picking up the barley harvesters overlooked or dropped. But even beyond that...I am lazy. I'm done with my week by noon on Fridays. Most days, I watch TV or oversleep. I realize it's good to rest and have time to recharge, but I should actually do something worthwhile and tiring beforehand! Forget about anything past Ruth chapter 2, forget about her and Boaz's romance that most Christian girls are ready to swoon over. Ruth was a beautiful, godly woman....even before Boaz (I can hear the gasps of shock now...). Maybe I'm alone in having only been taught Ruth's story in relation to Boaz, but even if you've heard it before, I encourage you to go back to Ruth and look at her life. I spent an afternoon living the life of a gleaner, and I saw Ruth's story come to life. It began in a field on John's Island, harvesting collards and paralleling my life with hers. But hopefully, the connection doesn't end there. 

1,000 Ways (for Your Summer Plans) to Die

God and I have this little joke these days regarding my summers. It goes something like this: I apply for only one program and tell God to call me there. I explain to Him that the program fits in perfectly with the plan He has for me and even makes His job of planning my future really easy. Months later, He tells me that He is not calling me to follow my plans, and I get a nice little rejection letter from my program of choice. I'm upset--not at Him but at myself--for awhile before I get back up, accept that He has something even better planned for me that He planned out without my feeble attempts to help, and look around like a newly born giraffe for options.

I feel like my promise to go wherever God calls me has become a punch line in my life. I make that promise to God and then inform Him where He's calling me. Then I have to make the promise all over again without attaching any strings. God, I will go wherever You call me...seriously, wherever.

Last year, it was SummerSalt. I prayed that God would call me there, and when He didn't, I ended up in Honduras. (See for how God not only did incredible things last summer in Honduras but is also continuing to use me to serve His people in Honduras.)

This year, it was the Critical Language Scholarship. I applied to study Hindi in Jaipur, India, through a fully government funded program for the entire summer. What could be better than God using the U.S. government to fund a future missionary's studies? Well, apparently something. I don't know what, but there is something better awaiting me. Anyway, I got my rejection email and just didn't understand. I told God that He'd missed His opportunity, that I'd made it so easy for Him and He had let my plans fall flat. Ha. My plans always fall flat. Thank goodness!

My college Sunday School class used to go through passages in the New Testament, always asking three different questions: What does this tell us about God? What does this tell us about Jesus? What does this tell us about the disciples? We usually answered the last question with something along the lines of, "They're dumb." Yes, the disciples had some serious dumb moments. They were walking alongside Jesus and following Him on such a literal level that I often find myself jealous of their position. But they were also human. And as humans, we do dumb things. If you want to argue this statement, let me direct you to that television show "1000 Ways to Die." It so gruesomely screams examples of dumb humans. Seriously, what were they thinking?

Seriously, what was I thinking?

I spent two days after picking myself back up completely set on India. I was going to India, darn it, and I would do something even more incredible. My dad and I had a little reality check moment, though, where I realized options were good. I was so open to options that I even considered applying for a SURF grant in biology to do experiments this summer. The way I saw it, I could be a light shining anywhere and I might as well try something completely new while I was at it. I'm just not very good at shades if gray...there's really no in-between for me. Since I really needed to find an in-between as far as no options versus infinite options go, I settled on applying again to work at a summer camp while also pursuing another route to India.

Camp Longridge: a Christian summer camp for older kids and youth where I would spend a full, intense summer living with and pouring into the campers.

India: an enormous country that has fascinated me for quite some time now where I could do anything a missionary could hook me up with...and maybe then some.

And don't forget to do good and share with those in need. These are the sacrifices that please God. Hebrews 13:16

Because I want to do good and share with those in need, I applied for Camp Longridge and requested help from a former Journeyman in India. In the craziest, fastest turn of events I have ever experienced, I got my application and three references in to the good people at Camp Longridge and got the email address of a young missionary in India. Before I knew it, I had an interview with Longridge and had sent an email to this young career M...

...

Sorry. I promise I'm not building suspense just for you. It's for me, too. I don't know how this one ends, yet. Everything happened so quickly once I got the ball rolling, but now I'm waiting. Waiting...and praying...and waiting...and reading Not for Sale...and writing blogposts...and waiting.

And I'm enjoying God's little punch line for the second time regarding my summers: 

"My thoughts are completely different from yours," says the LORD. "And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine. For just as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts higher than your thoughts." Isaiah 55:8-9

So now regarding the title of this post: "1,000 Ways for (Your Summer Plans) to Die." Just make 1,000 of your own plans and tell God what they are. Yeah. It'll go over really well.

TO BE CONTINUED.

I'm Going to Honduras...Again!

Good things come to those who eavesdrop.


Ok maybe not. But I did learn in my Fiction Writing class that Wikipedia, staring, and eavesdropping are three best friends for writers (I also learned that creativity arrives through discipline and that I know nothing). Usually when I eavesdrop, I hear random college chatter that doesn't mean much to me. But over 6 months ago I overheard some seriously important information...I was gathered around a bonfire on Seabrook Island with several of my fellow Bonners and our director. As smoke bit at my eyes, I heard something like this:

Yeah, we're going to try to do two Maymester trips this year. One will be to wherever the student leaders choose and the other is going to Honduras. 

How do you already know that one is going to Honduras? 

Dr. Folds-Bennett and Mary Pat are planning that one. Dr. Folds-Bennett has worked with an organization in Honduras before so they'll be working with that NGO. 

Is there a student trip leader for that one yet?

The last question was actually mine. It was one of those moments where your voice speaks without your permission. But I managed to insert myself into the conversation just long enough to hear all the details that had been established so far before I raced up the dark path to the cabins where we were staying. I grabbed my cell phone off my bed and immediately called my parents. If there was an opportunity to go back and work with LAMB (the organization Dr. Folds-Bennett has experience with and the very one I spent three weeks with last summer), I wanted to jump on it fast. I remember standing on the porch of my cabin in the sticky evening air, pacing up and down as I related the details to both my mom and my dad.


What has now become "Honors in Honduras," was once just an idea of a new model where the Center for Civic Engagement pairs up with the Honors College at College of Charleston. Why Honduras? Simply for the reason that Dr. Folds-Bennett (henceforth known as "TFB") had connections there.


I didn't actually agree to be the student leader until I was on the Alternative Break trip leaders retreat. Everyone paired up for spring break trips and the other maymester, and it was apparent to everyone except me that I would be the student leader for the Honduras trip. I may have just agreed by default. I wasn't sure I wanted to go back to Honduras because it was such a hard trip for me, but I certainly didn't want to pass up an incredible opportunity just because my last trip there wasn't bump-free.


So last Wednesday we had our first class...
It was such a strange feeling to sit in a circle (it was more of a rectangle really) and discuss Latin American history and U.S. foreign policy with TFB, Mary Pat, and the other eight students going on the trip with me. All eight students had been through an application and interview process, where the most we could tell them about what we'd be doing in Honduras was that we were waiting for the team at LAMB to decide for us. We were trying to live the asset-based community development model...this is a hard thing to do when you're trying to plan both a class and a three week trip.


After finalizing our team, we started having weekly meetings to discuss fundraisers, practice Spanish conversation, talk about the alt break components (drug- and alcohol-free, diversity, education, orientation, training, reflection, reorientation, strong direct service), and prepare for an intense honors course in community-based research where we would learn the ins and outs of NGOs, program management, Honduran politics, capacity building for projects, and asset-based community development. Eventually, we will put together an entire project to execute while in Honduras working with LAMB based on what they tell us is their area of need.


That's a lot of technical words, I realize.


All of this is to say that since August, this idea has been unfolding, and now it's happening. It's exciting. It's terrifying (I'm taking eight girls to Honduras for three weeks?!?). It's oddly surreal.

I think about the time I had getting to Honduras last year. It was so last minute and there were so many weeks where I just really didn't know if I was going to be able to go. I took a lot of blind steps, and God showed up in awesome ways to get me there. And now I have the opportunity to go back and to take other CofC students--some who are believers and others who aren't--to this place where God is so real. Again, it's surreal. And I am honored to be a part of it all.