I spoke with someone recently who spent the last nine years in Mexico. He left England with its crusty society and fine manners to be a teacher in a drug-ravaged, poverty ridden desert.
He said he had wanderlust. I heard courage.
There was nothing there to pull him, no lover, no job, no good reason. There was nothing at home, either, pushing him away, no grand desire or fashionably acceptable cause. There was just the soft call of doing something different somewhere else.
He's back now, in the land of Narnia's birth and Highland moors. Rebuilding himself.
Seems the desert burned away the lack of passion teaching held for him, and he's decided 38 is the new 20.
My mother fell three times this week. The first time made a Facebook update. The second was more of a stumble. The third she didn't tell me about until the following evening.
When someone who used to be an intimate of my mother's asked what her faith community could do to help, I went on a Facebook rant. I was angry and frustrated, short on patience. Someone asked something I thought was obvious and should have already been realized.
And I tore into them as much as my Southern manners and respect for elders would allow.
I thought I was being emotional and mean, the voices in my head were so loud and driving. I must be wrong, I must want what I shouldn't. Where is the logic in presenting the idea any community really exists as pure and as loving as that of the Church?!
And then I was questioned - again - by an elder of my personal faith community, a light on my personal ethics horizon. She asked if I had considered assisted living, thought of the time and effort involved.
She asked if I knew I was getting myself into. Three years after the start.
And I found a cross to die on.
I've always wrinkled my nose at that phrase. It reads as melodramatic and irrelevant, only speaking to those who only talk to themselves. But secretly, I wished there were something so important to me, I'd not care what others thought or argued; I'd stand by it.
Just... some idea, some truth, some.. something.
Some thing that could hurt me. And be used to hurt again in the same way, for the same reason. Something worth holding my frustration, my sustained hurts carefully so it didn't rot, didn't turn bitter and damaging.
Some thing I could accept those I most wish understood not understanding; an experience or idea I could find the patience to explain again and again because I understood why those I wanted to understand didn't.
And because it mattered enough it didn't matter if they ever understood. Because someone took the time to explain it to me over and over until I got it.
My cross' name: Community.
That curious magic which turns a cup of coffee into a bared, vulnerable conversation. Which resides in some mystic room of the soul, but seeps in to hallow the cold, empty spaces of life. Makes more of less, leaving any memories before it pale and wanting.
And only requires the cost of fear.
Of setting aside the notion where we're familiar is where we're meant to thrive. That what we know we know isn't what we're meant to learn. That who we were dictates any aspect of our future at all.
Grab your bag. Grab your coat. Mexico calls.
He said he had wanderlust. I heard courage.
There was nothing there to pull him, no lover, no job, no good reason. There was nothing at home, either, pushing him away, no grand desire or fashionably acceptable cause. There was just the soft call of doing something different somewhere else.
He's back now, in the land of Narnia's birth and Highland moors. Rebuilding himself.
Seems the desert burned away the lack of passion teaching held for him, and he's decided 38 is the new 20.
My mother fell three times this week. The first time made a Facebook update. The second was more of a stumble. The third she didn't tell me about until the following evening.
When someone who used to be an intimate of my mother's asked what her faith community could do to help, I went on a Facebook rant. I was angry and frustrated, short on patience. Someone asked something I thought was obvious and should have already been realized.
And I tore into them as much as my Southern manners and respect for elders would allow.
I thought I was being emotional and mean, the voices in my head were so loud and driving. I must be wrong, I must want what I shouldn't. Where is the logic in presenting the idea any community really exists as pure and as loving as that of the Church?!
And then I was questioned - again - by an elder of my personal faith community, a light on my personal ethics horizon. She asked if I had considered assisted living, thought of the time and effort involved.
She asked if I knew I was getting myself into. Three years after the start.
And I found a cross to die on.
I've always wrinkled my nose at that phrase. It reads as melodramatic and irrelevant, only speaking to those who only talk to themselves. But secretly, I wished there were something so important to me, I'd not care what others thought or argued; I'd stand by it.
Just... some idea, some truth, some.. something.
Some thing that could hurt me. And be used to hurt again in the same way, for the same reason. Something worth holding my frustration, my sustained hurts carefully so it didn't rot, didn't turn bitter and damaging.
Some thing I could accept those I most wish understood not understanding; an experience or idea I could find the patience to explain again and again because I understood why those I wanted to understand didn't.
And because it mattered enough it didn't matter if they ever understood. Because someone took the time to explain it to me over and over until I got it.
My cross' name: Community.
That curious magic which turns a cup of coffee into a bared, vulnerable conversation. Which resides in some mystic room of the soul, but seeps in to hallow the cold, empty spaces of life. Makes more of less, leaving any memories before it pale and wanting.
And only requires the cost of fear.
Of setting aside the notion where we're familiar is where we're meant to thrive. That what we know we know isn't what we're meant to learn. That who we were dictates any aspect of our future at all.
Grab your bag. Grab your coat. Mexico calls.
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