So here we are. It’s almost over.
I’ve come to the end.
In 10 days I head back to the states.
A lot of people out here are relieved. Even more are just plain ready.
I’m not.
I’m not avoiding. Or scared.
Of what will be or won’t be.
Of who I’ll be or won’t be.
I’m me, you know?
Still.
I’m just finding myself hopeful.
Here or there. Central America or Chicago, America.
I hope I know more of the Father.
I desperately hope that.
I hope that when you see me, you see more of Him.
I hope I look different to you.
I hope when you see my tanned skin you think of all the hours outside, building schools and churches and relationships and laughter and people.
I hope when you see my new wrinkle lines and the lack of make up on my face you see the beauty of this life. You see that even when it hurts, He’s healing.
And that life lives in the spaces the world says are ugly.
I hope my eyes show you more of the Father’s heart. That when you look at me, you see less anxiety and searching. I hope they stare right into you. Holding His peace that surpasses all understanding, drinking you in.
His peace that lives in the depths of poverty and lives in bugs in your skin, and the intensity of quiet, desperate souls.
I hope you can see that kind of everlasting peace in my eyes.
I hope that you see arms that rocked babies and a heart that’s bursting to hold more.
Gosh, I hope so much that I realize maybe you’re not ready for my hope.
It’s pretty big, you know?
His hope that feels so great and so steady and bigger than anything you could throw at it.
Maybe you won’t be.
There’s something about seeing so much of the world that requires more of you. I can’t come back to Chicago and be the same. Ever.
The gift of the world that Papa tied up in a raggedy, handcrafted bow, especially made for me, must be held preciously.
And powerfully.
Explored and stared at.
How can I sleep in giant bed, surrounded by pillows and down comforters, remembering her sleeping on wooden slats on a mud floor?
How can I see a woman using boxes to protect herself from the hot Nicaraguan sun as she sells her fruit? Painfully.
Agonizingly oppressed by the sun.
And then when I go home and get on my boat with my family, finding myself pleased with the warmth of the sun soaking in my skin.
Relishing in the release of being cooled with the wind in my hair and the rush of the water on my face. All as I laugh with them.
I did nothing to have gifts of laughter and freedom and naïveté and silence. I was born into privilege just by being born in the United States.
I lived in that space before.
The bliss of privilege that doesn’t acknowledge privilege.
And I could again.
The reality is that I don’t have to think about what I’ve seen, if I don’t want.
What a sad, awful truth.
Jesus, don’t let me forget. Let me be bold with the stories I have. In sharing their faces and their hurt and all that they work for.
The disparity is too great.
But that’s the thing
I have plenty yet I’m left lacking. I can’t abandon the plenty. It only separates all of us more.
The only way to bridge the space in between is to talk about it and plead for it.
To tell the stories.
To show the faces.
To cry and ask that you feel too.
To be disappointed but be bold anyway.
To feel misunderstood and keep trying.
Because the woman with the boxes on her head in Nicaragua deserves it. The baby selling drugs on the street in Nepal needs it. And the young mom in Mozambique begs for it.
And He wants unity of the body. He wants us all together.
And so I’m going to ask.
I’m going to hope for more and and ask that you all to believe in the hope that I have.
All that bridges us is His hope.
I guess it makes sense then.
That when I think of going home, I don’t think of relief. Or feel longing.
All I have is hope.
