The Invitation

In these last few weeks, I can't help but return to the same image again and again. In it, sometimes the sun is shining bright so I have to squint, and other times the sky is a palette of greys, blending with the frozen lake. No matter what, there's the tree. Bare of leaves except at the tippy top. There, on the small branch coming from the larger one, coming from the trunk, there's a leaf. One leaf, just hanging there.

When I first saw this, I sat, puzzled and feeling contemplative with my cup of Earl Grey in hand.

Then I heard, so clearly from somewhere inside of me or maybe whispered from the tree: 
"you weren't created for this."

But what, exactly, is this? Does this refer to the place I'm at right now? Or the place I'm preparing to go? Or maybe it's more of a spiritual state I'm in? Or a way of operating? Is it the friends I have or maybe the ones who have left me? 

There's no answer. So, I continue returning to this image and continue asking this question.

I wrote a poem about the leaf (what a tree-hugging Romantic, I know...bear with me). And as I re-read it, I realize that maybe it's addressed more to myself and to you than to a leaf. 

The Invitation 

When the southern winds move northerly, there comes the invitation you were created for, though maybe you didn't know it until the winds themself sung:

"Come learn the dance which begins

with letting go of what you know

until something greater can grow.

But first you must leave.

It's in your name, you see.

Come,"

she laughs and dances on.

But you stay, somewhere between being a faithful companion and a stubborn coward, and ask questions on the details of matters you can't yet comprehend.

So you see seasons you were never prepared for, full of joys and tears and trials just as life always is. And when you finally pause you hear, again, the never-ending chorus of the winds:

come, let go of what you know, and join in the journey.

Again and Again

After your soft heart has been ripped through

by Suffering Unexpected

and it seems nothing will grow here again,

Grace remains

patient to hold you tight when you pound and pound,

begging questions with no answers.

Held tighter still.

Grace that never stops, always present

and chasing after you as you

scurry about,

retracing memories and promises and always

needing just one more piece,

looking under rocks through the woods

and sometimes the houses too.

Which began when first words were uttered, now,

it sits with you, on this tree stump

and tears help flowers grow

where life was taken.

A Dance

During my short, 

and bone-chilling walks 

through the snow I often 

admire the bold Evergreen. 

He stands tall and rarely 

bows to the wind; 

reminding me that 

life and hope prevail. 

Then, today, I looked 

to the great Oak. 

She, too, stands out amongst the others 

with her old brown crunchy leaves clinging 

closely to the branches. 

"I'd prefer the Evergreen," 

I thought. 

Then, I heard her leaves rustle. 

And I realized, the great Oak knows, 

more than any other, 

to dance with each whisper 

of music the wind provides.

Under the Oak Tree and the Cloud-Covered Sky

This year is the one when I learned that each belief I hold has at least eight (sometimes eighty) equal and opposing doubts. This year is the one when I learned that my strengths combination of learner and belief lend themselves to skepticism. This year is also the one when I learned, after grieving my skepticism, that actually it can be quite healthy. 

Now, more than ever before, I am learning how to hold tension and embrace where I am: physically, spiritually, relationally, and in every other way. A year has felt like a long time, but the more time progresses, the more I deeply realize that these things I'm learning are just the beginning. Just the beginning of stories I know coming into conflict with new stories I'm told. Just the beginning of being okay asking questions. And just the beginning of understanding that questions are worth being asked even if the answers may never be known. 

At times, when I'm tired of wrestling with the intangibles, I look to the more concrete to be my teacher. Rather, the opposite of concrete: the skies and the trees. 

Minnesota winters are cold and the days are short. For almost two weeks, I could count on one hand the hours when the sun shone and I could bathe my scarf-wrapped head and bundled body in its rays. During times like this I hold incredibly tight to the hope and belief that, beyond the visible layers of clouds, the sun shines brightly. Darkness in the day is different than darkness at night. Night I know won't last and I know, in fact, that the sun is already and still shining. It's this sense of "already, but not yet". But darkness during the day seems so backwards. The daytime is set up for the sun to shine. Yet, for two weeks it barely did. 

In my faith and my questioning, I kind of feel like its daytime, yet I can't even see the sun. 

It's amusing, though, because as much as I long to see the sun, when the clouds finally do make a way, even for the briefest of time, I can't look at the sun. For a second I can, but any more is too much for my eyes to handle, lest I go blind. I can only see the sun in part, yet I know its power. I see the plants grow and the snow melt (well, not yet). I see my own skin change color and "angel kisses", as my aunt calls them, land on my cheeks. But these are merely by-products of the sun's power. Still, they're enough for me to understand.

I see the by-products of love, of truth, and of hope. My faith tradition tells me that these things come from One greater. But, I can't see this One, this God, in its fullness. And sometimes the clouds seem to cover Him and my questions bounce right back to me.

I'm at peace, though, because Minnesota winters have taught me that often the same clouds which hide the sun are also the clouds which blanket those below it, keeping whatever semblance of warmth that is possible. Anyone who has lived here can probably attest that some of the coldest days are the ones with no clouds and great sunshine. The clouds keep us warmer during this season. So, I can trust that even when I don't see the sun for seasons at a time, where I'm at is good. And, dark as it may feel (or be in all reality), more good, hope, and healing can come out of this situation than would come out of any other situation I could experience at the time. 

So, again, I learn from the trees, especially the great Oak Tree. I've been told that once trees let their leaves fall, they enter into a season of soaking up the nutrients and making the preparations for the next season to come. While the trees look barren and many call them "dead", they are, in fact, more alive than ever. They are resting, and in this time of resting they are doing the essential work that must be done. Work that cannot be seen and will not show results for a time. 

For me, this year I've had less measurable, result-bearing experiences with my faith; less prayer sessions and worship times. Maybe this year has looked more like an Oak Tree during the winter time: more time sitting and being and asking questions. And in this, as I imagine the Oak Trees do, I trust.

May I--may we--, like the trees, trust and hope that even in seasons of little light and few answers, we are being prepared for a season yet to come.

Introductions: Myself & Burma

"Please use your liberty to promote ours" -Aung San Suu Kyi

Many years ago theses words of the respected Aung San Suu Kyi stuck with me and I began to use my connections and relationships to promote Burma's liberty. All of my friends know the name of this country; I've hosted documentary events, snuck snippets of information into casual conversation, and brought prayer requests from Burma to my church community. 

--

My story is one interwoven with pieces of creativity and education, also of shame and loneliness. As I continually seek to reclaim falsities within my story, they are being replaced with justice, inclusion, and surrender. The start of these has also come with the introduction of a country which now holds a dear and special place within me: Myanmar/Burma.

It was a cold January day in 2010 that I sat down at my desk and began learning the Burmese alphabet. I was a junior in senior high school, living in my small hometown in Iowa, and I was hungry to learn about the wide world beyond the cornfields I was surrounded by. As I struggled between tones and new shapes for letters, I also started to study the country of Burma.

I read all the news articles I could get my hands on that were written in English. I studied the country's complex history with Britain and Japan. I watched footage from student protests of 1988 and 2007. I cried tears of sorrow over the stories and lives influenced under such oppression. Then I cried tears of joy when I found pieces of hope and change. Pictures of Burmese pagodas, monks' robes, and thanaka face cream were the images I carried in my mind's eye throughout the day.

The more I learned about Burma and the people within it, the more my heart grew with compassion and a love that's indescribable. By the time I graduated high school I wanted to move to Burma but instead moved to the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul in Minnesota. Here I worked with and befriended Karen people--refugees from Burma. All my studies of a country on the other side of the world were brought to real life and human relationships in my new neighborhood. These friends have taught me what deep forgiveness looks like and perseverance more than I have ever known.

As I continued my informal Burma studies and also my undergraduate studies I had the honor of living, studying, and teaching for six months in Chiang Mai, Thailand. These were six months of many firsts and much growth. My students and many of my friends there are Shan people--migrants from Burma. Again, I was humbled by those around me as I learned about second chances and the power of education. In my months there I had dinners with people who hold so many connections in Burma that I still have to pinch myself to remember that I know these people. 

Today, once again in the cold Twin Cities of Minnesota, I continue being a student of a country on the other side of the world. I no longer study Burmese but instead study the Thai language, trusting that where I am now and I do now is of great importance for what is to come. I feel honored that such an introduction to a beautiful country has happened in my life. I hope to always continue learning what it means to promote liberty and justice in Burma and for all places and peoples.