In Crisis

When people ask me how my semester has been, there is one phrase that jumps out almost immediately: a semester of crises. From a family death to an old friend’s suicide to a month of pneumonia to supporting friends through their own crises to family conflict to the most demanding reading list I’ve ever had as a university student, the list is ongoing and overwhelming. My friend Andrea has a habit of asking me questions I don't anticipate, and she asked me a few weeks ago what I felt like I had learned/God has been teaching me through this semester of crisis. So, here goes… 

When I moved back to Canada, I struggled with a strained, awkward relationship with all my extended family. After years of not knowing what it meant to be a part of this family and now feeling like a stranger, I was uncertain of how to proceed and more often than not, avoided contact with them. So, what I’ve learned is that sometimes being family means nothing more than showing up. Overcoming my anxiety about strained relationships and showing up, enduring the awkwardness. My grandmother had been quite ill for months before she passed away a couple weeks ago. I visited her at the end of the summer, when we thought she didn’t have much longer. It was brutal, as she grew emotional at the thought of not seeing my dad/her son one last time (my parents were flying out the following morning). I was inadequate, unqualified in that moment, but I could hang onto her hand, share a smile with her one final time, and let her hug me as long as she needed to. 

I also learned about grief this semester. The Rosslyn community, of which I was a part for 5 years, was brought to its knees by the loss of one of its young and beloved previous students. My friends, my classmates, my teachers and I all knew him by name or by personal friendship, and we mourned. Across the globe, in the midst of separate lives and separate worlds. We grappled with the impossible questions of life and its ugly hurts. Later, I lost my grandmother, and attended my first funeral. I was reminded on that day of the flatbed trucks that used to drive by our house in Mozambique, crammed full of mourners, singing to remember their friends and loved ones. We are more structured in our grief, here in the West. We gather in a church, place the family at the front, surrounded by other mourners. I found myself crying that day out of a deeper well of sadness than I had felt in the days after her passing. Crying in front of strangers, crying for memories and loss of physical presence, and crying for who the hell knows what, in the end. I kind of wish we could have filled the streets of Truro with that overflowing well of grief. I was uncomfortable with others’ grief, even with my own, but realized that these deep, dark things need to be expressed. 

I learned about my limits. Pneumonia has a way of teaching that lesson pretty well. Turns out, I didn’t learn the lesson well enough. A ear/throat infection and cold later, I’m still terrible at prioritizing my own self-care over other concerns/responsibilities. Oh well, I’ll go get my flu shot and work on that one. 

Speaking of which, I learned about priorities. Always prioritize the things that make you feel alive. I flew to Dubai the last week of October to visit my parents in their new home. After a week of jet lag, I ended my stay with a violent throat/ear infection, but I would take the sleepless nights and sickness over not travelling, any day. Keep in mind that I had basically 24 hour access to cuddles with my two beautiful golden retrievers, I’m a creature of travel and adventure. You buy me a plane ticket; you invite me to come visit? I’m on that plane. On a Tuesday night, we took a taxi down to the marina, and I pulled the classic rom-com heroine in New York move, sticking my head out of the taxi window to stare up at the skyscrapers. On Thursday, I watched this insane, extravagant fountain show set to Thriller by Michael Jackson, reflecting off the gravity-defying magnificence of the Burj Khalifa. It was a fairy tale, and I was in love. With the city, its elegant eye for design and sparkle. It was a delight to see my parents so happy and settled in the shadow of this crazy city, finding a vocation and job that match their abilities and gifts. It is, of course, no secret that I’m so proud of all they have done and continue  to do, and they continually inspire me with their passion and humour. Worth the infection? Every painful swallow, in fact. I’m excited to make many more visits, and find my place in this new home of theirs. I’m excited to see and do more things in this city that set my imagination on fire. 

Speaking of passion (high fives for on point segues), I am learning to not shy away from mine. For the last year and a half, I’ve been co-hosting a radio show with my friend Zach in which we explore topics of personal interest, but of global/local relevance. I initially let my cohost do the ranting and raving, but so far this year I have made impassioned statements on global citizenship, oppressive and unhelpful societal practices regarding women (i.e. beauty pageants), "terrorism” rhetoric in Western media, and most recently, made strong statements re: the use of military drones (shoutout to the American government, I’m harmless I promise, just opinionated). Overburdened by the events of the Ferguson grand jury trial, I completely re-vamped a chapel service I led earlier this semester. Apathy, disinterest or perennial optimism is the disease of the generation of youth of which I am a part, and sometimes, you get sucked into the mentality. But, the world is broken, friends. And we can play no part in making it less broken until we get angry and passionate about it. I am not a loud, or eloquent social activist or advocate, but I want to learn to care deeply about the fates of my brothers and sisters around the world and I refuse to be silent about my concern.

But passion and activism bring me to a consideration of how to channel this energy into a productive and useful career or vocation. So, what did I decide about my future this year? Well, in the midst of my many personal crises, I concocted a ten year plan for my life… She says with a giant smirk on her face. I live in an alternate universe to those with ten year plans. It’s called the universe of the “I think I have this next month/week/day figured out” people. This semester, I realized what I don’t want to do. I’m too young, too free spirited, to do what is convenient and sensible right away. I’m sure I’ll eventually get there. But, maybe I’ll go learn a second language first, or be a professional world wanderer, or do a Masters in literature or move in with my best friend, Beka, and be the coolest best friends to ever co-habitate. Lord knows, really. All that I require for my future at this point is: A. A place that is warmer than Canada and B. Proximity to old, historic libraries that I can get lost in and spend hours reading undisturbed. I’ll fill in the details as I go. My pragmatic friends and family members are shaking their heads as I wax eloquently of my ideals of post-undergraduate life. We’ll see. It’ll be an adventure!

In the midst of crisis, though, you must dance. And so, I bring you the paragraph where I tell you about Taylor Swift and her relevance to my life. My iTunes Library indicates that I have listened to Shake It Off 69 times since I downloaded it… While it’s a catchy pop tune, it’s actually pretty sage advice from America’s awkward, multi-billionaire sweetheart. People will always be petty. They will always draw conclusions about you and your words/actions that do not actually reflect your heart or intentions. You can’t let the illegitimate children get you down (as my friend Rihanna says, loosely paraphrased for my more sensitive readers). People will drag you down for perverse, selfish reasons. Shake it off. Keep moving. Keep loving. Keep making intelligent, compassionate choices. And let the haters hate. 

At the end of September, in the midst of one of these crises, I went to a Deep Roots concert and fell in love with the magic of the festival and its featured artists, but I was profoundly moved by a story and song that Rose Cousins shared. She reflected on an experience at some sort of musician gathering and the feeling of community that is inspired by a group of professional nomads. So, she ultimately wrote a song about these people, called Stray Birds (at a play count of 38 in my library, which is impressive considering I bought her EP at the end of September). There’s something about the tradition and stagnancy of this part of the world that makes my wandering feet feel like a bit of a flight risk. People don’t get my comfort with constantly moving between places and worlds. But, much like my passion, I'm learning not to apologize for this part of who I am. My tribe, my people, are out there, living in Portugal, in Kenya, in Texas, in Virginia, in Georgia, in Illinois, or on adventures in far flung regions of the world. 

“to the road I’m bound

to the road I’m bound

but love will travel all around

of nothing are we ever sure

cause you and I are stray birds

may my heart be forever stirred

and music be the holy word

and you and I be stray birds”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M7r_yQ_GQx0

The Road goes ever on and on, my friends. In seasons of crisis, in season of joy, it goes on. And whither then? I cannot say. 

Valuable

I was listening to my professor this morning with an engaged intellectual interest as he talked about how women were commodified in the 18th century as wives who fit a profile of beautiful, graceful helpmate for their husbands. How marriage was a market place where your physical, intangible qualities and economic standing were your main selling points. When he started talking about how we do the same thing with a university education in relation to its relevance and usefulness in the job market, a switch flipped in my brain. Illumination, my friends. Revelation. An epiphany.

And for fans or at least loyal readers of this blog, you know what happens when I have an epiphany. A many-paragraphed rant, with a liberal sprinkling of sass, undying optimism for the resilience of the human state, and references to irrelevant pop culture figures. So, here we go…

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a conversation with my friends where I or they have said, “I don’t get it. I’m so ______ (fill in blank with appropriate positive quality). Why does no one find me desirable/beautiful/worthy of their affection?” Yes, friends. In my reasoned wisdom, I know that this is a foolish argument to make. Life, love and attraction is much more complex than that. But, I realized the even larger flaw with this argument. We are commodifying our value as a romantic/sexual being. Yes, it isn’t in reference to skills like needle point or raising an 18th century brood of 10 children, but it’s still commodifying! I am incredibly proud of my abilities and successes, developed through hard work and natural aptitudes, in the academic realm. However, if I see my smarts as a commodity (i.e. if I’m smart, people, for romantic or relational reasons, will flock to me), does that not impact how I understand my intelligence? If I succeed in my academics, should I not be succeeding (whatever that means) socially? If I turn in a crappy paper, does this then mean that I lose value in the eyes of the people around me? 

This is a somewhat facetious example, friends, but I will own the fact that I have allowed my sense of self to be shaped by the somewhat arbitrary assignment of value known as educational assessment. And this applies to so many other skills/talents that I posses or don’t possess but others do. In reference to my 18th century peers, I have far more opportunities and privilege afforded me as a woman, but has the root of the problem disappeared with superficial reforms? If your experience is anything like mine as a young woman, then my guess is hell to the no, to quote Mercedes Jones. 

Also, I know that the Christian community spends a lot of time railing against the overly-sexualized culture in which we live, how it turns people into objects of lust and nothing more. Yes, my friends, yes it does! Our modern world commodifies sexuality like there’s no tomorrow. But, here’s where things get tricky. You know that exercise young women are encouraged to do in faith settings where they compile a list of traits they want their future mate to have?…. COMMODIFICATION, my friends! It is EVERYWHERE. Now, hang on. I’m not saying to do away with all standards. But really, if I think back to my own list, how much of that list was actually influenced by Godly reflection and how much of it was informed by my childhood crushes on Mr. Darcy and Gilbert Blythe? Because in our rebellion from over-sexual culture, we swing hard the other way and demand perfection before we enter into a romantic relationship. 

This ultimately fails, though, because we have crushes on and we like imperfect people. So, do we then use our lists as justification for stringing them along but never emotionally committing or do we just end up wracked with guilt because we failed our list? 

Yikes, my dear readers, yikes! If you’re angry with me for being unkind to this tradition amongst our faith community, keep in mind that I just deconstructed my own happy ending too… 

So, where does this leave us? Why do we allow our sexuality to determine our value anyway? Or at least allow our other facets to inform our value in our sexuality? Where does this crazy commodification bullshit even come from? 

If you’ve ever read Song of Songs (and giggled, high five to you), sexuality is born out of deep, passionate love, as represented through that poetry. Now, I must temper that by saying that this is a Biblical ideal of sexuality and love, so it may not be your frame of mind and thought (if so, please let me know, I’d love to hear what you have to say). In my frame of mind, though, this means that sexuality is born out of a connection to the love that is personified in God. God is love. Yadda yadda. If we’re going to take this whole “created in his image” thing seriously, this is the logical progression. Hmm… Is the love of God based on our market value?… Does God only love you if you’re having a good hair day? Does God only love you when you get an A on your test? 

All together now, rapt audience! NO SIRREE. So, why do we understand love in those terms? Why do we turn love into a list of desirable qualities? Why do I turn my passion for education and learning into a reason that I should be desired? Why do I turn what I see in the mirror into a value judgment on how many people will notice me and show interest in me today? 

Now, I’ve focused on the romantic/relational aspect of this, but my professor also talked about how we view ourselves in relation to the job market. For better or for worse, we are numbers, mere statistics in a system. I take that back, none of those things are for better. None of these numbers represent the soul and heart of the human being they are intended to represent. Okay, calm down, Davita. The job market is a soulless machine that chews up college graduates and turns them into uninspired, paradigm-perpetuating clones. We must conform, or we will fall victim to natural selection (shout out to my friend Darwin). No, no, no, no, no, I reply, emphatically. The issue is not with the practicalities of the job market. It’s that we confuse our job with our vocation. Our vocation is the personal stuff. The stuff that makes us tick. So, we then, by proxy, confuse our job market desirability with our vocational value. Have you ever met someone who’s found their vocation? In recent years, I’ve watched my parents find their vocation. Yes, they are working a job that is sometimes frustrating and always lots of hard work.  They only partially teach, though, for the pay check, because when they teach, they parent and they inspire. I know this because I’ve heard the affirmation of their students. They model love. They model learning and intellectual curiosity. I could give you so many examples of people who have found their vocation, and I hope that you can think of some, because, my friends, that is what we should be striving for. Not for high-paying, prestigious positions (although those may come along as well), but vocational fulfillment. Okay, so yes, flaw in my argument, some people only care for money and power (insert examples of heartless politicians or leaders in other large corporations here). 

Yes, well, as Britney Spears said, that’s their prerogative (an out of context reference that I absolutely do not apologize for). And it’s your prerogative, should you so choose. But, if you’re stuck in a spiral of letting numbers, superficial facets of your character and accomplishments define you and this is unsettling for you, then screw that. Cultural norms and pressures are powerful things, but you also have power and privilege, my friends. If you are educated, with relative financial independence and stability, you are not forced to comply with anybody’s wishes or pressures, especially when those are damaging to your sense of self and self-worth. 

So, friends, deconstruct, criticize and analyze away. In my mind, walking out of this institution in two-ish years with a diploma is not half as worthwhile as walking out of it with an intelligent, informed and critical mind with a sense of responsibility to address and change the negative culture surrounding us (also, grab your diploma on your way out, you paid a lot of money for that piece of paper). 

For my deconstructive lunatics, this one’s for you: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aoyAg75PsTA

I’m out. *drops mic, kicks soap box, and most likely stubs toe*

(Re)Dignified

Humans spend a lot of time complaining. Myself included. Just ask my parents about the car rides home after a frustrating day in high school. Not all of this is bad. We all have problems. With the way things are ordered in this world, we all encounter issues from minor inconveniences to really deep hurt and pain. To vent and express our frustration, anger or sadness can be therapeutic, especially if it helps us not to dwell too deeply. 

In the last few days, I’ve come down with a nasty case of pneumonia. It’s left me tired and achy and cough-y, during the first week of classes. Joy upon joy. Yesterday, I was sitting in a clinic for yet another doctor’s appointment, and while waiting I happened to overhear the conversation of the woman sitting across from me. She was explaining to the man sitting next to her about the chronic illness that keeps her in bed most of the time, telling a tale of medications that have stopped working, doctors who wouldn’t take her on, etc. Then another woman’s name was called and she got up, walking towards the doctor with a bowed head and a pronounced limp. 

In that moment, I was transported to the stories of Jesus’ healing, especially the stories in Mark I studied at the beginning of this summer at MarkEast. The stories of people whose lives have been defined by being rejected and ostracized for their pain and crippling diseases. The stories of identities intertwined with disease. And finally, the hand extended or word spoken by God walking amongst us to restore health, and begin the process of restoring dignity and value. 

Even with the wonders of modern medicine, we still have people living in our developed societies who are marginalized because of the state of their health, not to mention their economic status, race, religion… The list goes on. 

See, the issue with complaining and venting is that so often it ends there. We spend an hour unloading on a friend and don’t ask them about the events of their day. Quite simply, we forget to listen and cultivate the skill of empathy. We cannot have experienced the exact pain or anger as all of our fellow humans, but drawing from our own experience, we can understand the emotional root of their distress. By remembering the ways that certain events have knocked our legs out from underneath us, we can reach out in humility and often silence, not with trite turns of phrase, to acknowledge the difficulty of life. 

One of my favourite things about the way that Jesus heals in the gospels is that he rarely just addresses the physical illness. He addresses the deep soul decay that happens when your life is controlled by your pain or your loved one’s pain. He is in the business of restoring dignity to His children. In Grade 11, I travelled with some of my parents’ colleagues to meet a woman living with AIDS and some of the leaders of a organization that supported women and children with AIDS at a local level. Sitting in that smoky, chilly house out in the tea hills, I saw a woman with dignity, thanks to the drugs, resources and community support coming her way via a local church. 

The more I hear stories of people like that or from people who work in the business of restoring dignity, the more I’m amazed at both the resilience of the human spirit and the transformative power of sometimes simple and sometimes great acts of love. And, the more I’m convinced of the value of listening, listening for the needs of your friends, your family, strangers even as expressed in their complaints. 

These last few days, different members of my Wolfville family have jumped in to take care of me in different ways, picking up responsibilities I had to drop, feeding me, driving me, giving me a place to sleep and recover. Each reminding me of the love and value this community has given me, even while sick and unable to muster coherent thoughts or perform some basic tasks. They couldn’t make the pneumonia in my lungs disappear, but they could do everything within their power to make me more comfortable and speed my recovery. 

See, just as we need to be channels of Jesus’ mission of restoring dignity, we also need to be on the receiving end every once in a while. If we spend too long only on the giving end, we can become tired, disillusioned and grouchy about serving. We need many, sometimes daily reminders, big and small, of the transformation Jesus has worked in us through His Spirit and his followers, to keep us grateful, empathetic and dignified. 

Now, for those of you wrapped up in semantics, when I say dignity, I do not of course mean social dignity or decorum. For those of you have witnessed me at a dance party, I think it’s safe to say propriety is not high on my list of priorities. What I do mean is your value, your sense of confidence and purpose. Please continue to laugh loudly and dance badly. 

If you want to see a great example of human dignity, resilience and the importance of projects that tell the stories of all, take the time to read and laugh/weep along with the stories of Humans of New York, especially those from his recent international tour with the UN in conflict torn regions. I never cease to be moved and humbled by this revolutionary project. 

Friends, thank you for reading. Blessings on your day and on your head (and your shoulders, knees and toes, just for good measure). What, you thought you get out of this blog post without one of my cheesy jokes? HAH. Thank you for the dignity you have brought to my life and the dignity you bring to those around you. Keep fighting the good fight.

Side note: I’m going to resist quoting a certain Taylor Swift song right now, especially after my reference to bad dancing. But now, it’s probably stuck in your head and I win.

“And then you will see that I love you; you’ll rest with me all our nights; You say I know a place where your heart can be safe; and you’ve said your last goodbye” 

Pricey

I woke up with an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach this morning. Another headline of militant attacks on the coast of Kenya. More reports of unrest and corruption and oppression in Brazil in the midst of the World Cup Tournament. I, like the rest of the world, have been enjoying the World Cup thus far. It’s been dramatic, tense, heartbreaking. All of the things that good football should be. But, at what price? 

I also read about power rationing and the government purchasing extra power so that Ghanaians across the country could watch the US Ghana match last night. The article’s writer chalked it up to a move by the government to appease the people for all of its other failings. So here’s my question to myself today, and a question more of us should be asking. What am I willing to let slide to be entertained? What am I willing to let slide to be caught up in a rush of national pride (vicariously, of course, since none of the countries I have lived in long term are in the tournament)? 

To say that I am spoiled is an understatement. I get to live in a town where the biggest danger I face is walking home with my groceries through the rain or dodging the one car who doesn’t understand Wolfville’s unique pedestrian rules. I get to sit on my couch, well fed and dry and warm, watching the World Cup matches live streamed on the CBC for free. I am employed and able to support myself, even as a young student. In a few days, I get to see my family again for the second time this year. Read this man’s letter to the Kenyan president in case you also need a reality check for how spoiled you are: http://www.jambonewspot.com/kenyan-writes-president-uhuru-following-mpeketoni-attacks/

Yes, I am angry. But before you get defensive or think that I’m sitting here judging you, let me just remind you that I am perhaps most angry with myself. Only topped by how angry I am with systems worldwide that leave the average man oppressed by inescapable poverty. Only topped by how angry I am with cowards worldwide that leave the average man oppressed by fear to live out his daily routine. 

By no means, am I suggesting to boycott the World Cup and deny yourself of the security and tranquility of a privileged life. Those are extreme reactions, that may or may not be actually useful in the long run. I’m just asking myself (and you, if you should choose to) to sit with the price for a few minutes. If you’re anything like me, it’s going to be uncomfortable and probably very hard to come to terms with. 

Even in my anger, I don’t presume to know how to lower this cost. How to turn a money-making machine like the World Cup into something that celebrates human dignity and spirit in all quarters. All I’m asking is that as fans and global citizens that we pay attention to the voices that aren’t wearing jerseys and scoring goals in this next month. That we let them roar as loudly as a stadium full of passionate football fans. That we mourn with them as deeply as we mourn with our favourites who suffer defeat or humiliation on the pitch. If there’s anything we can learn from this tournament, it’s the power of a common cause to unite millions of people. I mean, Team USA even got Americans excited about football yesterday (okay, obligatory American jab taken care of, sorry, American friends). 

In conclusion, let’s not be the brainwashed, ignorant people the media hopes for us to be. Let’s pay attention over the next month, keep careful stock of the price, and be aware of our own issues with privilege and entitlement. Enjoy the games, cheer your hearts out, but don’t forget the rest of the story.

Here's a photo essay regarding Rio that makes me incredibly uncomfortable. It's worth your time. http://animalnewyork.com/2014/picture-rio-many-brazilians-hate-world-cup/

Sacred

I receive a disproportionate amount of joy from very minor things. When the hook of my favourite song of the week hits at 8 in the morning as I prepare for class. A professor who asks me at the beginning of an exam if my Superman T-shirt will give me X-ray vision. Blasting Footloose at the 80s party I planned for our Christian Fellowship. Jogging along the dykes when the spring sun finally makes an appearance in Nova Scotia. Splurging on chai lattes and London Fogs at Just Us and smoothies at Pete’s. Sitting in a sun beam at morning chapel like a contented, purring kitten. Blasting Billy Joel on a long road trip. 

Amongst all of these happenings, I live with a regular amount of angst by university student standards. My problems are maturing with me, aka less unrequited crushes and flubbed auditions and more family drama, monthly budgets and income tax forms. I’m approaching the big 20th birthday this summer, my friends are getting engaged, and I oddly still feel like I’m 15. A 15 year old with a demanding university course load, but a 15 year old nonetheless. Chances are I’m in denial about the more permanent parts of growing up. Before we delve into amateur psychology, though, I thought I’d start off with a little update for those of you who read this blog to keep up with my life (the joke’s on you, though, because I’m notoriously bad at writing these days) instead of just to hear me grouse about the state of human existence.

About a week ago, I wrote my last exam for my second year of my undergraduate degree. About a month ago, I made a decision to switch from a regular double major in English to a double major plus a second honours in English, aka I have signed up for double the academic punishment in my final two years of university. So, if you ask, I’m a Bachelor of Science with Honours in Mathematics hopeful, with a second major in the realm of a Bachelor of Arts with Honours in English. The ambitious, academic loving side of my personality is easily seduced by the thought of taking highly focused, research based Honour Seminars. Bring on the tears and late night existential crises. I can’t wait. 

In terms of school, I have fallen unabashedly in love with my chosen courses of study. I took a course on Tolkien, his sources and the Lord of the Rings mythology in the fall that fed the geekiest parts of my soul. I had a productive semester determining which Middle Earth hero I would most likely fall in love with. I also took a Canadian literature course that quickly became one of my favourite courses, mock trials and all. Even with a reading list populated by repressed pastors’ wives and axe murderers, I enjoyed myself immensely. This year, I also found myself entering a happy, respectful relationship with stats. Besides the fact that its accessible formulas made for a nice reprieve from the headier discipline of literature, it’s also a field of the mathematical realm that has very tangible applications to the world around us without requiring a whole lot of conceptual knowledge. Graph Theory and I entered a mind-bending, exhaustive relationship this winter, but I think I emerged with a healthy respect and enjoyment of the subtleties of mathematical proof. 

In terms of life, I have learned many important things in the past few months. A, how not to fall and break your skull open on thick sheets of ice. B, Canadian winter is best in small doses, aka not all 5/6 months of it. C, when you start celebrating 5 degree Celsius weather, that’s a bad sign. D, there’s nothing like the bond forged out of the commiseration brought about by bad weather. I feel like I have been at least partially initiated into Canadian culture now. Maybe my journey will be complete when I spot my first moose? 

In other news, I have learned the great joy of having my own personal space furnished to look and feel like a real home. I have learned to cook, with a modest degree of success. I have learned to roll with the punches of late night fire alarms and broken water heaters and a consistently dysfunctional stove. I also have learned the joy of living with two great roommates. A random, last minute pairing has turned into a truly magical sisterhood, leading us all to the conclusion that

it was indeed God smiling down on the chaos of our decision to live together. Robyn, from Vancouver. Chipo, from Nairobi. Davita, most recently from Nairobi. We share our volume of voice and volume of personality. We also share academic and professional ambition. We also share a unique sense of humour. Quickly, all personal boundaries were crossed, and all secrets were revealed. We became the friends who keep each other humble by laughing at each other’s pain and the sticky situations we would find ourselves in. When going out in public together, we almost always made a scene of some sort and by we, I mean Robyn and I while Chipo walked away embarrassed. We also watched the most recent season of The Bachelor, and ultimately got so invested that our frustration with the end of the season turned into lengthy rants. I have lived and laughed deeply with these two girls and my experience of this year has been richer for it.

Finally, I have spent a great amount of this year extending my network of friends more deeply within

the community. In the winter, I continued with my math tutoring from the fall, but this time, had the company of my crazy stats grad student friends, Kanika and Andy. I can only dream of the shenanigans we will unleash on the math department for the next year. We, along with ort friend Mohsin, formed a Bollywood dance troupe for the International Banquet. To say that it was a frustrating experience is to put it lightly. To say that I have never laughed so much while performing bhangra is not an understatement. I’ve also spent the year acting as Tim, campus chaplain and Wolfville’s resident Sith Lord’s minion. Serving in the campus chapel has brought me into contact with an odd cross section of campus and the wider community. In the midst of this job, I’ve been able to be involved in special services in the community, from the Remembrance Day ceremony to an Advent service to the chapel’s anniversary to the local ecumenical Good Friday service. Beside the fact that I was well rewarded for my work (McDonald’s trips primarily), it’s been fun to have some experience beyond the young adult demographic. After all, the existential crisis of the twenty-something is only interesting up to a certain point.

I’ve also taken an active role in the life of Wolfville Baptist. In fact, I’ve made the rather important decision to be baptized there this summer. From the bizarre variety shows to choral cantatas, this family of God is never dull. Similarly, I have enjoyed a new year of frustration and growth serving with Acadia Christian Fellowship. With both hard changes taking root in the community, joyful communities being born and some really important mentorship relationships being forged, I continue to learn both practical skills and spiritual lessons. Our small groups journeyed through Exodus with Moses this semester. Moses’ sense of inadequacy and deep identity crisis resonated in very clear ways with my own sense of calling to personal ministry and to this small little town of Wolfville.

I don’t think I’ve ever really recognized the trajectory of my journey as a whole, or in a conceptual fashion. Rather, I have had striking moments of truth and inspiration along the way that fill in the blanks. I credit it to my understanding of God and spirituality. But I also freely admit that I have no clear sense of the right answers. The more people I meet, the more stories I hear, the less I’m inclined to make sweeping statements about certain groups of people. The more stories I hear though, the more I’m inclined to making my life one of significance and one of action. Acadia has seen an outcry of voices on the issue of campus rape culture. Although sexual assault is a horrendous breach of personhood that I can’t begin to understand, I know that I want to be part of the conversation of changing cultural understandings of gender and sexuality. I also want to find a place for myself in the wider spectrum of community services that serve the marginalized and disadvantaged. So, I continually have new opportunities to seek out. 

The other night, I found myself in a cave with my friend Carrie and some of her fellow Covenant College students. We turned our headlamps off and sang for a little while. The space became

sacred in that moment. Ultimately, I think that’s
what I’m really looking for. Adventure and sacred spaces. Each of those moments I mentioned at the beginning of this post have taken on a spiritual, sacred meaning to me in these past months. They are a distant reminder that God is in fact who he says he is, even when everything in my life contradicts it…

In our Exodus studies, one of our last passages was from Exodus 33. After the golden calf incident, God has said that he must remove His Presence from the journey of the Israelites because they are a stiff-necked people. Moses, in conversation, asks God to reconsider, “If your Presence does not go with us, do not send us up from here. How will anyone know that you are pleased with me and with your people unless you go with us? What else will distinguish me and your people from all the other people on the face of the earth?” Moses’ request is bold, but it is also desperate. His identity has become so irreversibly wrapped up in his leadership partnership with God as he has led his people out of slavery. To move forward without God’s presence is to move forward without identity. In some ways, Moses asks too much of God. The Israelites have been grouchy, combative, and subversive with both God and Moses. They have been given a number of second, third, fourth chances and still they defy God and Moses’ leadership. So, really, if this was a question of deserving, God’s decision would have been clear. But, we learn at the beginning when God calls Moses that it has nothing to do with his qualifications, it has everything to do with God’s presence. Here, we see that it has nothing to do with the Israelite’s suitability, but has everything to do with God’s presence in relationship with Moses. 

Going forward, I need Presence. I need the Spirit of justice, adventure, love, and joy that has captured my heart and soul to go with me. What else distinguishes me from my peers? My peers who suffer from physical and emotional abuse, who suffer from mental illness and depression, who are victims of sexual assault and other kinds of violence, who suffer from loneliness and a lack of clear direction for their life. I cannot pretend to share their experience, but I share a common bewilderment at the pain and difficulty that life can be. With the Spirit of God within me, I am therefore distinguished quite simply by redemptive hope. A hope that I should share, in word and deed. 

I also need the spaces that are made sacred by God's presence in my life. The other stuff, my to-do list, my schedule, is all important too. But, it tires me out and in the interest of balance, the sum total of my life must be more than that. As I walk through the metaphorical desert, I need a guiding hand to guide me to food, water and rest. The reason the wilderness metaphor works so well, is it embodies a place of basic instinct and survival. Sometimes life can feel like an exercise in day to day survival, so it’s comforting to have remnants of the sacred in the midst of our seasons in the wilderness. 

“Fire before us, you’re the brightest. You will lead us through the storms. Fire before us, you’re the brightest. You will lead us through the storms. My lighthouse, my lighthouse. Shining in the darkness, I will follow you. My lighthouse, my lighthouse. I will trust the promise, you will carry me safe to shore. Safe to shore. Safe to shore."

New

One of the best things about being back in Wolfville was joining with two congregations dear to my heart for a celebration of Epiphany, the campus chapel and Wolfville Baptist. As I was welcomed back by one individual, they mentioned that at least this was more home than Portugal. Surprisingly, that couldn’t be further from the truth. In a country where I speak the language with a limited vocabulary and spotty grammar, I have felt perfectly at home for two weeks. Maybe it’s the familiar flavours of childhood: Pao de Mafra, palmeiras, fresh clementines, Portuguese frango, and mountains of delicious European chocolate… Maybe it’s the familiar voices of childhood speaking rapid Portuguese in my direction and showering greetings and kisses on my family. Maybe it’s the winding cobblestone streets and orange trees. It was as if every corner we turned contained yet another beautiful memory of one of my favourite places as a child. I remember building houses and making salads out of garden greenery with my brother. I remember birthday parties and treasure hunts and yet another round of Parabens. I remember cold tile floors and snuggly Christmases. I remember days at the beach and being introduced to Bocce Ball. I remember dancing in the living room of Casa Azul. I remember the pirate ship playground wonderland at the Parque de Eduardo VII. I remember climbing on the cannons at Castelo Jorge. 

So, for two weeks, I re-lived this joy. I swung in a Indian fabric chair in a restored farmhouse listening to guitarists play off each other’s skill and joined in conversations of faith and life. I rang in the New Year by singing music I had sung in Sunday School as a child, not even missing the unwritten but always sung “bum badum bum bum bum”. I spent our last night in the country with more dear friends,

trying to figure out how to explain the discipline of calculus in Portuguese. I existed in this pleasant space between childhood and adulthood and let the happiness settle around my soul. 

I also had the privilege to explore Lisbon with my parents and discover Granada, Spain. Monasteries and monuments and churches and castles alike took my breath away. My parents’ SLR has never been so well suited to a task as recording these wanderings. I wish I could capture what it’s like to climb a castle’s stone steps in sparkly shoes or what’s it like to let exhaustion catch up to you in a castle garden and giggle while the endless stream of guided tours walk by. It is good, good life. 

I find it terribly difficult to be ungrateful after this trip. While this life holds hurt and pain and difficulty, I have been so richly endowed with experience and relationships that complaints are empty. Portugal is just one piece of the rich journey I’ve travelled. 

So life is not new because it’s a new year. Life is new because I have fresh perspective and fresh breath and fresh energy. I read Charles Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities this break for the first time. Shocking, for a self-proclaimed literature geek. It was marvellous. Last time I was in Portugal for Christmas, I fell madly in love with Jane Eyre. This time, I giggled my way through Dickens’ classic. My parents have been accusing each other of “floppin’ agin me” for years and I finally caught on. His scathing satire of all things nobility and wealth was remarkable. And I was struck to the core by the image of Madame Defarge and her knitting. What an incredible picture of the sweeping forces of revolution. So, about halfway through, I made a decision. There’s a magical second hand bookstore in Wolfville brimming with classics. So, I will take it on my hands to buy one classic book at a time and finish each one before buying the next, and in such a way, savour the delight of finding a life-changing story even amongst the more tedious ones. Because I need to be more of a bookish nerd. As Rachel Lynde would sing, “At least all those books haven’t spoiled the beauty of her looks”. One can only hope!

I’m glad that one of the attributes that has carried over from my childhood is an ability to look at the world with fresh, eager eyes. This ability is clouded as stress and work and responsibility pile up, but they can’t crush it completely. Last semester, I lost all sense of dignity every time a beautiful sunset lit up the valley sky. And, it’s those little moments that continue to keep me encouraged and refreshed and joyful. I read an article for my Tolkien class about how sorrow and joy must exist in partnership for joy to be complete in an eucatastrophic ending. There’s something beautiful about bad existing with good, so that the good is that much sweeter. Beside the mundane, the extraordinary shines even brighter. Beside the stress, the freedom of laughter is sweeter. Beside the rush, the moments of quiet and space are more powerful. Beside the drudgery, the moments of inspiration are all the more striking. 

Carrying me into the new year is the beautiful intermingling of past and present I was immersed in. In a place that has only been a brief part of my present, it’s difficult to find the same gravity that pulls me back to the winding roads of the Algarve and the sunny streets of Nairobi and even the sweaty coasts of Mozambique. It’s good to be back in a familiar bed and back amongst familiar faces, but the fit is still not as easy as I could hope. Thankfully, I have new perspective. A friend of ours made a comment that most people she observes seem to be uncomfortable in their own skin and out of place in their respective crowds, no matter how acclimatized they look. Maybe I just like this thought because it makes my situation less solitary, but it carried some weight for my thoughts… Maybe Portugal fits so comfortably because it really has no logical reason to fit in reality. Instead, it’s just another sign that our God is so so good in the way He provides for His children.

In the mean time, my heart is open and looking for the social discomfort around me. I believe that men and women are made in the image of God and all carry the potential for the extraordinary. Now to treat them like it. The more I travel, the more fellow nomads I meet, the less I’m satisfied with ordinary. In my brush with adulthood, I’m starting to understand that that’s a challenging dissatisfaction to be left with. But hope lives in my heart, next to all the inspiration and joy and energy brewing. Adventure is as much of an attitude as it is an actual event. And it’s an old attitude that I intend to keep around this year. 

This song was a favourite of my dad’s to play this Christmas and I can’t complain. The melody, the words, carry such beauty and such power. It’s such a comprehensive picture of passion, in all of its forms. So, I’ll let Dylan finish this one off: 

"The storms are raging on the rolling sea, and on the highway of regret. The winds of change are blowing wild and free. You ain’t seen nothing like me yet."