I remember the first time I met a Lutheran. It was while volunteering at Habitat during my gap year of voluntary service. I was assigned to work with him that day and we drove around in the blue, barely-running work truck talking theology and stopping to load cabinets. I asked him, at some point during that day, what Lutherans believed. He replied, "grace." The church he was from, a rural mid-western congregation, was the church that, in typical small town fashion, everyone attended. He had a nickname for it (though I don't remember what it was) and described it as a town where everyone did what they wanted during the week and went to church on Sunday-- believing and allowing God's grace to forgive them for their sins. My social-activist Anabaptist origins quickly dismissed his theology and, until recently, erased it from my memory. I've been taking a class this semester on the origins of Anabaptism. Origins which are predominately Catholic and Protestant. Although there are clear distinctions between the Protestant and Anabaptist reform movements (and historical contexts that account for why Anabaptist traditionally root for the oppressed) both came out of Catholicism. Both came out of a religious understanding that God forgives us for our sins. As Mennonites, we do not like to talk about sins and we carefully word conversations on forgiveness. We talk about forgiving one another, forgiving our enemies, asking for forgiveness when we have wronged a neighbor. But we don't talk enough (or sometimes at all) about God's grace. I am guilty of this. I love to talk about how the Bible is a political book that paves the way for a revolutionary way of living that cares for the oppressed and connects to the land. I do not love to talk about sin. I do not love (or like or often even do) admit that I sometimes knowingly and intentionally do things that hurt myself and others. I recognize that mistakes are part of being human (my counselor likes to call them 'life experiences' and not 'failures') and most days I am pretty good about feeling that they are okay and I can move beyond them and God understands. But in fear of falling into a theology that focuses solely on the personal and allows me to close my eyes to injustice, I do not allow myself to frame that hope in God's understanding as grace. Yet I wonder, could this contribute to injustice? I've been in conversations recently about the acceptance of LGBTQ people in the church. I feel strongly about this issue. If I go into ministry I will have no problem co-pastoring with someone who identifies as LGBTQ and, if it came down to it, I would lose my credentials if it meant a gay or lesbian couple could be married in the faith community in which they belong. In fact, opening my life to serve alongside, sing alongside, question alongside, and break-bread alongside a diverse group of people (for how sad would the church be if it were all the same?) is what gets me excited about majoring in Biblical and Theological Studies. What I've discovered, however, in these conversations, is that people who do not support marriage licensing or ministry credentials for LGBTQ people in the church (or even membership) often do so out of the concern that God wants them to be agents of God's work. This work being to make sure (well, I'm not totally certain but answers range from forced celibacy to "driving the gay right out of them" through invasive and spiritually abusive conversion techniques) and that in failing to do so, they remain accountable to God. Now, personally, I think that if you're afraid of being held accountable to God and/or you want to be an agent of God's work you should first only buy local, sustainably sourced food; make your clothes out of homegrown hemp; and live within biking distance of your legislator so you can visit during every session to push for healthcare, a livable minimum wage, and no more tax breaks for the wealthy. However, realistically speaking, none of us live that way. I have grapes in my fridge from Chile and an avocado from Mexico. I'm wearing a dress from Old Navy I bought at a thrift-store in Kansas. I don't think I have called a senator in the past two weeks. Within a decade my goal is to produce and/or locally source 90% of my food. I am fine if I never buy a new article of clothing unless it is ethically and sustainably sourced and produced and it is underwear or gear. The next election I plan on helping with grassroots campaigning. As I work towards and continually fail at the life I am called to live, I take comfort and the courage to press on knowing there is truth behind that Lutheran's answer of 'grace.' There is solid Biblical evidence on both sides of the LGBTQ debate. How solid it actually is, of course, rests on the interpreter's understanding of God and the rest of the canon. And I can argue until I am blue in the face (I've tried it, though it may have been the Winnipeg cold) and not been able to out scripture my way past someone who looks to the Bible to justify their discomfort with LGBTQ people. In contrast, someone who believes "one man and one woman" could pummel me with scripture all day and I would still turn to the Bible looking for evidence of a loving, merciful, creator God. When we have these discussions, we must have them trusting in grace. Knowing that each side is 'right' and each side is 'wrong.' Asking that God be with us as we discern and cry and mourn that those who believe differently than us (whatever we believe) could be so terribly mislead. But the church cannot stop with doctrinal questions that will take years (or, as I once heard "a whole lot of funerals") to sort out. So I ask that, when encountering LGBTQ people in and outside of the church, we remember grace. We remember that we worship a God who forgives 'just because.' We remember that grace is only part of the equation and works are important too (and that there are a whole lot of tangible works we can be doing before angering one another over unanswerable debates). Most importantly, we remember that the grace we are given is a grace we are called to extend. Meanwhile, while as a church we are "figuring it out" let us gracefully and graciously open our hearts and our congregations to the experiences, convictions, and community our LGBTQ sisters and brothers bring. Perhaps, in doing so, answers will appear. -Lizzie
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It has been a dark winter. I've spent the last 3-4 months existing in quiet agony. My shoulders stooped in a perpetual schlump bearing the unbearable weight of the world: coping with the theft of human rights and clean air; knowing that I can expend every last ounce of my love for creation and it's inhabitants and it will never be enough. Reeling from the slow and arduous process of untangling myself from a romantic relationship: learning that 'making right' sometimes mean letting go; finding my own place in a community I shy from claiming my own. All the while as the wind whips by and my running shoes ache for the predawn routine of flying--uninhibited by ice, snow, or ten minutes of layering up-- across pavement, pounding out problems and prayers. Mostly I am crushed by religion. By my own intellect broadened daily by textbooks, research, and lectures that laps up a deeper, more articulate understanding of religious convictions I have always leaned towards--only to turn and meet a world of underdeveloped and often harmful religiousity. I saw a knick-knack (do people still call decor that?) that boldly exclaimed "Ya'll Need Jesus" the other day. I studied it for a moment, contemplating where it stood theologically. On one hand, of course "ya'll need Jesus." Imagine a world where we lived like Jesus. Where we unquestioningly fed the hungry, clothed the naked, peacefully protested human created systems that serve only the powerful, broke bread with strangers, placed our love for one another over material security, and had mothers who elbowed us to turn water into wine! However, "ya'll need Jesus" also aligns a little too closely with Christian colonialism to be taken seriously and reduces Jesus to some miraculous Parmesan cheese-like substance that makes everything it touches taste better. Here's the problem: Christianity doesn't work that way. Our world is that of a deeply broken humanity made up of deeply broken humans. There are some problems- mental illnesses, religious conflicts, famine- that you can't just sprinkle a little Jesus on and hope it gets better. This is not to say that healthy religious communities (if there are such things) do not or cannot provide essential support nor to claim that God doesn't work within that brokenness (read the Old Testament (OT)- working with brokenness is kind of what God does). Rather this is to say that telling someone who is broken and hurting that they 'need Jesus' or should 'try praying/give it up to God' shows a rudimentary and immature understanding of God and the Bible. The OT is the story of a broken people who become healed by God only to re-break. Yes, often this brokenness is the result of human actions (if you think of individual sin I would encourage looking up the book of Amos) but there are stories (Job) that recognize sometimes bad things just happen. Terrible things: flooring, soul-crushing, unexplained and undeserved bad things happen. Things that people spend years sorting through and working out- sometimes to be met in the midst of recovery with more bad things. Problems that won't disperse with prayer alone. To tell someone or a community that is hurting that they should try and pray it out is problematic. First, it assumes that they are in a spiritual place where they can pray. There have been points in my life (days and months) where the closest I came to prayer was lobbing expletives at God. Am I ashamed for this? No. The loving, merciful, forgiving God the Bible and my mother lead me to believe in understands. Second, it indicates that their faith is not strong enough. The last thing people who are struggling (especially if their struggling involves faith) need to hear is that they aren't trying hard enough or aren't good enough. Third, it downplays the importance of therapy, community, and restructuring of corrupt social systems. All of which, depending on the problem, can play a significant role in healing. Finally, and this is perhaps the most important reason, it assumes brokenness is not a part of being a child of God. The Israelite people were a broken people. Jesus ate dinner with broken people. These broken people were God's people. You can be medicated for depression-- and still go to church for forty years, direct choir, immerse yourself in theology, and become a pastor. You can battle anxiety--and still sit atop a mountain awash with the warmth of God. You can numb yourself with the contents of a shot glass--and, in a chapel ringing with voices raised in 606, remember among God's people you are home. Brokenness and experiencing God aren't mutually exclusive. Prayer can do amazing things but it cannot be the only answer. Even at the end of this seemingly eternal winter- God brings hope in new signs of spring. As the year draws to an end, I've spent some time reflecting back on my 2016 New Year's Resolution. The idea came from a quote by Cheryl Strayed, author of Wild and Tiny Beautiful Things, who wrote "The best thing you can possibly do with your life is to tackle the motherf*cking sh*t out of it." After the knock me down and kick me while I'm there brutality of 2015, my goal for this past year was to come back, in chin-up and shoulder's squared style, swinging. As I remince on this wild, wonderful year, I cannot help but feel as if I truly have. It was hard to feel like I was tackling the sh*t out of life (or really anything for that matter) when I didn't feel safe walking down the street and when I hated to get out of the vehicle because I would undoubtedly be the intended recipient of some lewd comment. Or when I averaged four hours of sleep a night- stressed to the max between cooking for groups of 10-25 people and convincing myself I was not in love with the kind, adventurous, hard-working Manitoban who would make a point to stop by the kitchen to say hi and steal cookies. In addition, I certainly questioned what I was doing as I awoke, day after day, to rain on the shelter roof only to roll over, cry, pull on yesterday's still sweaty/damp clothes, and then hike another 15 miles. Or when I got lost, biked aimlessly around South Anchorage for 2 hours and finally flagged down an ice cream truck to get directions. I shouldn't even mention the maze of plane tickets that were the result of last minute life-decision panic. And, as anyone who has ever stared at the first, meger, 100 words of a 3,000 count essay knows- in those moments nothing gets tackled before chocolate and wine do. But all of those things I never foresaw at the beginning of this year- selling my car, falling in love, moving to Canada- their ensuing difficultues and the hours in between, are precisely what I mean when I claim to have tackled the crap out of this year. In January I aced my interterm course and acknowledged my capacity to write. In February I began to heal through and from the church with drywall dust in my hair. In March I opened myself to the revered ritual of Yoga (and in December I finally managed to hold Bakasana through a breath cycle!). In April I allowed another human being to love me and chose to let myself love him in return. In May I completed a 12-day solo hike on the AT- a 165 mile journey of living out my dreams. In June I learned to be content where I am at- even when it was several thousand miles from with whom I wanted to be. In July I spent a week biking a 30 mile round trip to work just because I could. In August I slept in my brother's car, didn't shower for a week, and climbed both Table Mountain (Tetons) and Pike's Peak. In September I moved to another country. In October I mastered the art of GF/Vegan muffins- a great accompaniment to the homemade peanut butter and nutella I also learned to make. In November I ran 30+ mile weeks. And in December I allowed myself to once-again embrace all the wonderful aspects of my religious upbringing: it's emphasis on community and simplicity, the importance of family, and the Jesus as an example and inspiration for a new social order focused on others. Tackling life--running 9 miles, recieving a comprehensive education, long-term volunteering, standing on top of a mountain, learning to love--involves taking risks. It means realizing you bit off more than you can chew. It involves being cold, wet, and lost. It means sometimes your really frigging nice bike gets stolen during an unnecessary 'getting over you' haircut. It means crying, a lot. But there is unparalleled beauty in the unmapped route. And there is grace, strength, and a springtime of growth in the road untravelled. Most importantly, there is a seed of hope in unconventionality. A seed that is planted in healing, watered with seeking, and brough to full bloom with a life that forgets the powers and patterns that attempt to define our world. A seed I plan to keep on cultivating in 2017. I float in a chasm of pain. Thunderous waves of sorrow spill from my heart as if I were a boat, sinking in the middle of a sea of despair. As the storm rolls around me I lower my lashes and hum mindlessly. Remembering a farm pond on a hot summer night. The home I can always drift back to, eyes glued to the stars, the laughter of those who have known me all along holding me buoyant. ... The eye of the storm I am at once calm and powerful. My lungs burst with air, my skin caresses the entire ocean. I ache, fully aware I am alive. I am in the midst of a break-up. I am gasping for air and expelling it to the tune of a Beyonce song. I am hurt and I am heartbroken at hurting. I am in a house with all windows shut save one cracked delicately sustaining me with fresh air. James Agee, my intellectual soulmate, articulates my heart: (No; no; oh, Jesus, no, no, no!). That it should come to this again. That all the lying on my back, staring up into the nothingness where God is acclaimed to reside, slipped me back into the devil's playground. That the walls of Jericho built up around my heart I let crash down should never have been removed. That the cross I beg to bear, in doing so, is invariably consumed by the cross I refuse. And I. I as passionate for life as birdsong and wildflowers in the sunshine of a spring day find myself inevitably swallowed by the reoccurring shadow of the oak. ,.. This is what it comes down to. Late nights and cups of tea and an alarm clock set way too early. A fear of incumbent darkness, of closing my eyes, of resurfacing memories. ... I sang my way down the Appalachian Trail- each day devoting a love song. I spent my summer waking and waiting for the hour to come in which I could talk to (and one day see) my lover. I learned to smile through life on the joy that I loved and was loved in return. I moved to another country because I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. In my faltering, my bruising, my abyss of sorrow, I cannot help but ask "Is it worth it? Is falling in love worth it?" Far more eloquently than I Hillary Clinton answers: "Never stop believing that fighting for what's right is worth it. It is. It is worth it." It is worth it to have discovered what I need in a partner. It is worth it to have discovered who I am and how I got here. To know, a little better and a little more boldly, what I believe about God and politics and this ironic thing we call life. It is worth it to once again be reminded that I am a strong enough woman to stick to my convictions when all the world seems against me. It is worth it to have found a broader community that understands from where I come. It is worth it to be getting a CMU education, to be striking out on my own, to be tackling the sh*t out of life even when it leaves me cracked and bleeding and dismayed in the process. And, above all, it is worth it to have loved deeply and wholeheartedly. It is worth it to have loved to the tune of a John Denver song. To a confidence that this kiss or this soup or this Christmas tree will be the first shared of a lifetime. It is worth it to have put my whole heart out there. To have exposed my innermost being. To have been mistaken so gracefully. It is worth it to know I am capable and I am worthy of feet up on the dashboard, hours on a park bench, schmaltzy songs in the kitchen kind of love. It is worth it to have been given the gift of the tenderest, most sincere, most serene parts of another human being. And it is worth it to have learned I can give that part of me too and let it be held and let it be cherished and let it be given back all the better for having known and having loved and having been returned with a note attached: Find a heart and a mind that can know yours all along. Dear Christian Friends,
I want to start by saying thank you. Thank you for believing in the goodness of humanity. Thank you for believing in its future. Thank you for loving the next generation and for standing up for what you believe in. Thank you for having hope. Mine is nowhere to be found. I've realized, as I sit with thunderous waves of grief and despair roiling from my chest, that calling you a hypocrite, that using harsh words, is not making this situation better. And after reading this article, I realized that I do love you and I truly want to respect you. But, yes, I would also be lying if I denied the strong conviction I feel to change (not your mind) but your worldview. I want you to see what exists beyond rural America. And, being the selfish person I undoubtedly am, I want you to share in the great burden for our country's future that sits on my heart. The first lesson I learned about alcohol is that when you get the terrible spins- you just have to ride them out. The same applies to deep soul pain. As I sit here, feeling disconnected, utterly alone, and as if I have no hope- please allow me to attempt at understanding that this is how you might feel if a pro-choice candidate had won. Please allow me to apologize for using harsh words- I am sorry for contributing to the hate. I am sorry for striking out at you in my despair. But please, please allow me to show you my point of view. First, know that I am not pro-abortion. I don't think anyone is. But I also know that I will never have to be. I was privilege to an excellent education. I have incredible support groups from Alaska to Kansas. I have parents that could take a child and me in without question. I have health insurance (actually, my parents have health insurance) that will cover a $1000+ IUD. I was raised to see sex as a sacred gift reserved for the context of love. But I know that not everyone has access to the same fiscal and emotional resources that I do. Know that we agree on the sacredness of life. Know that we both believe in healthy, flourishing families. Know that we both love babies (okay, I'm a little scared of them) and celebrate pregnancy and really wish our culture would stop selling and degrading sex. I think it is important and okay for me to say that these are some of the reasons I voted for Hillary. I voted for her because I do not think Donald Trump embodies these values. I do not think Donald Trump values the black grandmothers I met in Detroit. I don't think he values the Yup'ik and Tlingit men I worked with in Alaska. I do not think he values my LGBTQ friends. Living, breathing people whose lives matter. And I know that Donald Trump does not value the wild animals and wild spaces that I feel most at home among. And so, good Christian friends, whether we want to be or not, we are in a predicament. We are facing a presidency that does not value life in the same way we do. And while yesterday I accused, today I apologize, and tomorrow I hope we can all act. I hope that we can act with love and decency and kindness. I hope we can act against the bully of an administration that is striking fear into our fellow country men and women who are Muslim, hispanic, black, native, LGTBQ, lovers of all people, lovers of the earth. And while the time for blame has passed (and I'm sorry that it existed but I hope you understand that I do not always know how to deal with sorrow) the time for hope is here and now. It is among us. Love, Lizzie Dear Christian Friends,
If you voted for Trump solely because he stands on the pro-life republican platform: you are a hypocrite. Those are harsh words to write. I can imagine that they are probably harsher to read. I was not going to write this letter. It is not loving or positive or accepting-- three characteristics I try to embody. Instead, it is condemning, judgmental, and critical, incredibly critical. This letter is a response to a comment I saw on Facebook. I try not to pick social media fights- I don't think they resolve anything- but I am tired and I am weary of seeing comments such as "all the babies slaughtered in the womb" and hearing white, wealthy, Christian women give "a #violin for your #safespace." Before you call me a baby-killer, a murder, a child hater- know that I am not pro-abortion. I don't think anyone is. And while I would love to go in-depth on my personal views about abortion (if, of course, you would be interested in hearing them) this letter is not about abortion. It is about life. If you voted for Trump because you believe his platform is pro-life, you have been very, very mistaken. Although official reports have not been released, Eight transgender youth have reportedly committed suicide in light of Trump's win. The number of callers for some LGBTQ suicide hotlines have doubled. Living, breathing humans "formed in the womb" are already dying. Hate crimes against Hijab wearing Muslim women have skyrocketed since the election outcome was announced. The physical safety of people "made in the image of God" is in danger. And the environment (oh my heart aches) thinking about the imminent danger the planet and its inhabitants are in under a presidency that believes climate change is a hoax. The planet that God created and said "it was good" is in a grave, grave situation. I do not think I will convince any of you to change your minds. In fact, you'll probably feel more firm in your convictions that voting pro-life is the most important way to vote. And maybe you'll be angry, or embarrassed, or sad that I think this way. But as I sit here in Canada, safe from hate crimes, deeply grieving the outcome of this election, know that I wish I would have written this a month ago. I wish I would have conveyed every new iota of knowledge about the environment and theologians that have led to harmful Christian thinking I have learned this semester and over the past year. Know that I am kicking myself for choosing to be silent, for keeping these uncomfortable thoughts and accusations to myself and my like minded friends. Know that I am done shutting my mouth and backspacing on the keyboard. Know that I am probably one of the least qualified of your Facebook friends to be writing a post from a Christian perspective. Know that Christianity has caused me a lot of pain and that I have spent the subsequent year and a half calling God names and utterly failing at giving up on the church. Know that in that process I have become crushingly aware of my narrow-minded, sheltered, privileged worldview. Know that "The truth will set you free. But first, it will piss you off."* Love, Your deeply concerned, and a little hesitant, friend. Fellow Countrymen (and women), I've been meaning to write a post on moving to Canada for quite some time. Today, perhaps more than ever, is the appropriate time to write such a piece. Friends, I made many comments a year ago about moving to Canada if Trump became President. At the time both moving to Canada and a Trump presidency seemed mere impossibilities. They have, however, each become not only possibilities but realities. I did not move to Canada because I feared a Trump Presidency. In fact, until I woke up several times last night from dreams where Trump had won, I never imagined it would become reality. I moved to Canada because I had no solid game plan towards my next life move. Canada offered a private-school education I could afford that happened to be an hour and a half away from a man who has never failed to show me the selfless, giving, and forgiving love I still believe America is capable of. Canada is not perfect. Just like America, it has its own set of problems and, in many ways, continues to fail at addressing them. And to me, an American, Canada is missing the square-shouldered, forward blazing confidence that, although historically problematic at times, is definitive of the progress oriented, mover and shaker mindset that is so ubiquitously home. Over the past few months, as I have become accustomed to a new place and grown okay with not being in Alaska, I have realized how dedicated to my nation I truly am. Growing up in the pacifist tradition-- patriotism was often associated with militarism and therefore negatively con-notated. This is a misconception I have worked hard to overcome. I miss the vastness of America. From the Appalachians to the Tetons and Denali to the Grand Canyon, our homeland is as geographically beautiful and diverse as its people. America is a land where refugees can become citizens and, sometimes for the first time in their lives, vote. America is a place where a woman whose life has been greatly impacted by natural and medical disasters, still puts her time and energy in making sure her neighborhood is fed. America is home of the Krispy Kreme Burger and the Ironman Triathlon. It is a place where yogis, pastors, politicians, and scientists join together to cheer for a Superbowl win or clean-up from a natural disaster. It is a nation that was founded by immigrants, progressed by minority groups and women, and matured by its own mistakes. America, yesterday you made a mistake. Yesterday you chose hate, bigotry, and money to govern you. Yesterday you forgot your own rich and vibrant history. Yesterday you forgot what it was like to be a refugee, a stranger in a foreign land, a loving neighbor. To my American friends who see this mistake: cope. Run 7 miles, eat the damn chocolate, allow yourself a glass of wine, do what it takes to remember you are alive. But please, my white, straight, middle-class American friends, recognize that while telling yourself 'it will be okay' is largely true, telling your black, Muslim, LGBTQ(+) friends the same, is probably a lie. And my American friends who fall under the former category, those who are hastily looking up housing and immigration in Canada: close the browser window. Close the browser window and call your friends in the latter category. Tell them you love them. Offer to bake them something. And for the next day or two, mourn together at the power of hate existent in our nation. But my American friends, we will have to move on. We will have to do more than cope, than come accustomed to the tragedy that has begun in our lives. We will have to observe the patterns of history as it begins to repeat itself and we will have to learn ways in which we can convey those patterns to our neighbors who wont seek them out themselves. We will have to protect and serve our friends whose beautiful non-white/christian/straight selves are now at risk. We will have to answer, on every level, the message of fear and hate with one of love and compassion. I am living in Canada. I have friends and professors that have shown support and solidarity in my fear for my country. They do not understand what we are going through and they know they do not understand. And though Canada will be my home for the next 3-4 years, know that not a day passes that I am not utterly aware of my Americanness. Know that as certain as I am in my need to stay at CMU, to earn a degree, to cherish the man whose heart is as into making the world a little brighter and who feels as alive in nature as I do-- I have not given up or forgotten my homeland. Now, more than ever, she needs me. She needs us. Love, An American in Canada "Keep close to Nature's heart... and break clear away, once in a while, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean."- John Muir Washing my spirit clean is exactly what I did this past week as I backpacked through the Jedediah Smith Wilderness and Grand Teton National Park in northwestern Wyoming. Stunning alpine meadows, breathtaking mountain vistas, and still forests served as a picturesque backdrop for a period of reflection and thinking. As I walked in quiet not-quite solitude, I allowed my mind to roam wherever it pleased. Sometimes I thought in numbers: 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8 repeat. Sometimes in breathes or taps of my trekking poles against the hard-packed trail. Most often, however, I thought in memories and experiences. I relived my time in Detroit, fondly recalling the friendships I made, work I completed, and sense of wholeness I regained from giving what little I could offer to a city as fragile and strong as I. I acknowledged my friends in Kansas and those who have become my family in Alaska- realizing that I have come to a point where my presence in both feels at home. And I reflected upon my time at Bethel, the partying that initially covered up the pain of leaving Alaska and throes of guilt at being privileged enough to earn a degree, and my recent visit to CMU. Recognizing that if I never would have attended the wrong place at the right time, I may never have discovered CMU. As I thought about the past, I thought about the future. Of what it would mean staying in Alaska- picking berries and making jam on rainy fall days, attending potlucks with POPMC, embracing all Alaska has to offer with friends who have become family. But also taking on complete adult responsibility, supporting myself full-time while dragging out a degree, seeing my family only a few days a year. And I thought of what I would miss giving up my last shot at being a traditional college student. Of spring-break road trips and late night wine (it's legal in Canada) and paper writing sessions. Of Christmas breaks spent wearing the same pair of sweats all week and gaining three pounds. Of opportunities to study abroad and hold poor-paying but incredibly fun summer jobs and feeling no shame at sleeping in the car I'm bribing my younger brother to sell me for $20 or a consumed piece of bacon. And yes, tucking my independent head down and knowing I'll probably have to ask my parents to co-sign for a student loan and buy my groceries when I'm back home. And trusting that the friends I have and the ones I will make [in Canada] won't leave me stranded on the side of the highway if the '97 Buick with 170,000 miles and windows that refuse to roll down decides to die on me somewhere between Winkler and Winnipeg. And so, as seriously as I have entertained the idea of staying in Alaska. I'm not ready to make this incredible and awe-inspiring place the entirety of my home. Spending 15 hours listening to NPR had me longing to take Global Politics and chat with my professors over papers. Walking 40 miles with 40 pounds on my back through rugged terrain that so desperately needs to be protected brought to my attention the necessity of a degree to incite change. And waking up, my face freezing and my legs stuck together with dried on dirt and sweat at the base of a mountain I was about to climb, ultimately reminded me that there is still a lot of adventure outside of Alaska. Although the voice in the back of my head saying, "you are privileged, you are advantaged, you do not deserve this opportunity more than the next person," has not grown softer, I have realized that I must tamp it down. I need an expensive piece of paper and the knowledge that accompanies it to leave the world brighter than I found it. And as I learned in my discovery of James Agee, having guilt is not the problem, it is how I choose to deal with it. So I blaze on, yes, a child born into wealth and opportunity and the choice to work my way full-time through college or be college-student broke (i.e. whine about the price of organic produce) but also a born adventurer, a born dreamer, and a born servant. One day I will return. I will serve this land that washes my spirit clean each time I walk outside. I will serve it's people who have accepted me as one of their own. And no matter where the road takes me, here my heart will always be at home. I hike in what feels like a generally uphill direction. Even on my last day, the descents seem too short and too sweet to remember much of. When I began, twelve days ago, my pack weighed at least forty pounds. I was carrying seven days of food, most of which I did not eat. Two rookie mistakes. Yet, even walking in a never ending uphill direction with forty pounds on my back (lovingly nicknamed "Fang" after Hagrid's three headed dog in Harry Potter) I held up okay.
Those first few days of my trip were golden, albeit sweaty. Literally. They composed three of the four sunny days I spent on the trail. As I walked, I glowed with more than the sweat streaking down my newly rediscovered glute muscles: I glowed in the delight that I was finally fulfilling a part of my dream. The summer before I attended eighth grade, I signed up for a week of wilderness camp in the Colorado Rockies. I spent months beforehand watching shows on wilderness and survivor expeditions. I read books and blogs on backpacking and emergency preparedness in the back country. I wrote and rewrote my gear list at least twenty times. Backpacking at summer church camp was, in my twelve year old mind, the real deal. I was going to carry everything I needed with me deep into the woods and spend several nights there. I thought I was the coolest! And as I realized last week on a twenty-one mile day, that sometimes it's okay for me to still sort of think I am. During that time of discovery and exploration of what has since become my favorite hobby, I happened upon Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods. While absorbing the book in a matter of days, I fell in love. I fell in love with the idea of walking over 2000 miles with everything I needed to survive resting on my back. I fell in love with the idea of having nothing to do but walk, breathe, experience, and embrace. I fell in love the way a quirky seventh grader who knows she'll never quite fit in the materialistic and athletics centered world in which she finds herself to be (and, perhaps deep down does not want to) falls in love with a dream that may one day carry her to the people with whom she belongs: other dreamers, misfits, and folks who would rather count miles than baskets. I fell in love with the woman I am growing up to become. It was in this spirit that my smile emanated with happiness those first few days. After all that time dreaming, wishing, and waiting to grow up and follow my dreams, I was finally there, walking in the sunshine, singing beneath the trees. As the week progressed the weather did not hold and, after a bad experience or two about which I will not write at this time, my spirits did not either. But as I later reminded myself underneath the sun on a twenty one mile day: even though the trip was not indeed perfect, I still have every right to be proud of myself for taking the chance to follow my dreams. Despite all that had happened at the end of Service Adventure and the beginning of college, I still have the guts to take chances. And in the same way that my dorky thirteen year old self beamed at the fact that she was going backpacking and not to basketball camp, it's okay to sometimes think I'm pretty cool. I went out walking the other day in the woods just outside of Bluffton, Ohio. It was a gray day: cloudy and far too cold for the beginning of April. Yet upon arriving at our host's house, one of the other long term volunteers and I set out for a hike. As we trudged across soggy fields and past thorned trees, our conversation deepened. There were no complaints about the weather and our haranguing against the previous week's aggrieved volunteers eventually fell to a halt. We talked about life and love and our last year's obstacles. A conversation of substance. A conversation of trust and mutual dissatisfaction with a lifestyle society often presents as the status quo.
After a while, we approached a broad tree that had fallen out across the water. And, climbing out on it, we paused our conversation to sit in silence and soak up the moment. It was one of those moments wherein all facets of life appear flawless. The snow softening the trees and the quiet burble of the brook were the essence of peacefulness. The tree, on which I was mounted, had seemingly fallen at just the right moment in the decades of her existence to create a perch for my comrade and me. And we, as human and inevitably flawed as we both are, were, for that moment, perfect. The time that we sat there and the thoughts that crossed my mind during that span of five seconds or twenty years will be forever seared in my memory. For in that moment, I once again felt whole. Wholeness is a feeling that has evaded me over the past year. I have felt empty since I walked out of the Service Adventure house the day after I turned nineteen. It was a hollowness I first tried to fill with hymns and prayer. After all, hadn't they worked before? My end of the equation: believe a little stronger, try a little more and God will heal you. (DOPE-SLAP!) When I began to realize that was a load of crap, I was no longer among the mountains and mankind that had held my heartstrings together. So I sought to fill that hollow between my breasts and hammering in my head with booze and boys (okay, people) who cared only that my brain would help them pass. Upon realizing that dorm room liquor and lost sleep over papers for attendance sheets my name didn't grace was not filling me either, I switched gears once again and poured myself whole-heartedly into an institute that reeked of a life I had left behind. Eventually, I realized that deep soul pain cannot be covered: it can only be given time and grace in which to heal. I still felt broken when I came to Detroit two and a half months ago. Despite a dedication to my studies, I had dropped out of college and felt as if I was pedaling through life far too fast. No longer was I the pure and good girl who flounced in the innocence of an Easter morning Baptism. No longer could I fit in with the all-american dreamers of mortgages and Sunday potlucks. Yet, I was still clinging to the hope that the Christianity of my youth would emerge and that the wholeness I had once felt in that coddled environment would fill me again. It didn't. Instead of finding wholeness in our hymn sings and prayers. I found wholeness in the basements of East Detroit. I rediscovered my happiness with lumber in my arms and drywall dust in my hair. I hardly knew what to do with that emotion as I found myself yearning to be social and not hiding in my room. These people, without knowing it, have helped me feel whole. People who are patient, forgiving, ornery, goofy, and good. People who also desire to shirk conventionality and in some cases, to converse in the woods. People who have reminded me that I, too, don't have to be perfect, to be good. It took an eight month "sabbatical" from the Mennonite Church and three months living among it for me to realize my wholeness cannot come from the God Christianity taught me to believe in. In a way, I've come full circle. For in my desire to find peace within religion, I have found peace both with and without it. Life exists beyond religion. Spirituality exists beyond religion. And if sitting on a log with a dear friend makes me feel whole, well then maybe I should do it more often. |
Elizabeth SchragAdventurer. Biblical and Theological Studies major. Borderline Vegan. Rebel with a cause. Archives
March 2017
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