Searcing for God Knows What?

I don't always finish the books that I start. (see previous blog confession) However, I just finished a reading a book that struck something inside—this delicate chord that sways between who I am and who I want to be. It named something for me that I have been wrestling with and questioning.

I have grown up surrounded by Christians. I have gone to church for as long as I can remember. I am a person of faith and I continue to learn what it means to be a follower of Christ. My faith has shaped who I am and how I think about the world and my place in it. I am nothing but grateful for my parents and siblings and friends and professors who have loved me, prayed for me, challenged me and graciously, given me room to change.

In recent years, especially since college, I often come back to this question "What does it mean to claim to be a Christian in a society where the word "Christian" often has such a negative connotation?" I sometimes sit and cringe when I hear certain right-wing political commentators claim to know God's agenda and I am often embarrassed by televangelists on TV who profess this cheezy, game-show host kind of a God. I don't know these men and women personally, so maybe they really love God and love people, but sometimes I am sad that they become the image that people conjure up when thinking of a Christian. And I get angry when Christians spend the sum of their energy talking about the two hot-button issues; gay marriage and abortion. I don't understand how Jesus' message of "love God with all of your heart, soul and mind" and "love your neighbor as yourself” gets reduced so quickly to two issues. I just don't get it. I write hesitantly on this topic, because I know it can lead to heated arguments with pointed fingers and hurt feelings, none of which is my intent. But I write, nonetheless, to acknowledge what I am learning and thinking and to be true to who I am. It feels a little risky because I know some may misunderstand me or misjudge me, but I guess that goes with the territory of publicly posting your personal opinions on the internet : )

Donald Miller articulates it better than I can in his book, Searching For God Knows What? He writes, "The person who believes the sum of his morality involves gay marriage and abortion alone, neglects health care and worlds trade and the environment and loving his neighbors and feeding the poor."

When I read parts of the gospels and look at the life of Jesus, I am continually amazed at the life he lived- he was a radical, who believed in peace and truth and not buying into the expected norms of the day. He spent time with the marginalized and the poor, he ate with prostitutes and tax collectors. He challenged the Pharisees and the religious leaders. He loved people—all people. It wasn't about “us” versus “them,” or proving people wrong. He asked questions. And listened. And loved.

In church today my pastor spoke from a passage in John 11. It's a story that most people at some point in life can identify with; it’s a story about two mourning sisters and a dead brother. It's a story of pain and grief and of a God who offers healing and hope. One of the most poignant verses is verse 35. "Jesus wept." It’s so simple and yet I sat in church, filled with emotion, and thought what would happen if our society saw this Jesus- a Jesus who weeps with us in times of pain and grief, a Jesus who empathizes with our longings and desires and more than anything wants to bring us healing and hope and redemption. I started thinking what would happen if as a Christian, I truly lived a life where I wept and empathized with people.

Some of the men and women I admire most in this world are not famous authors or speakers or Nobel Prize winners, but they are family and friends, who have chosen to live how Christ lived.

One of my friends shares a meal with homeless men and women while they get access to medical care every Wednesday night. Another friend has chosen to not to raise her standard of living, so whenever she gets a raise at work she gives that money away. I have been inspired by a family who recently planted a city garden and are now advocating for more sustainable food sources in our city. I’ve watched a dear friend who spends time with an international student to help her feel welcomed and comfortable in a new country. I have a friend in law school who is studying Spanish and pursing her law degree so she can advocate and defend immigrants and minorities who are treated unjustly. And I could go on…

These are people who call themselves Christians. It almost seems too simple: they love God and love people. I sometimes wish that when our society heard the word "Christian" they would think of these men and women. People aren't perfect, no one is. Christians, Muslims, Agnostics, Catholics, we are all bound to make mistakes. But I am learning that if I claim to be a Christian, someone who wants to follow Christ, then I want to be someone who tries to live generously and patiently, someone who is quick to forgive and willing to listen, someone who takes care of creation and advocates for those who can’t stand up for themselves.

As I continue to struggle to keep this at the forefront, to make it not just an ideal but an actuality, I am reminded of a verse in the book of Micah:

"And what does the LORD require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God."

This is my prayer for today.

Word of the Day

Rain boots are probably not the most essential item of clothing in Santa Barbara. It rains maybe, maybe 5 days out of the year here, so, any cloudy, slightly drizzly day is a good enough excuse for me to pull out my rain boots.

Today I marched into work wearing my cute, cherry rain boots. About 10 minutes into 1st period, when the rest of the class was busying coping notes off the board, one of my students in the back made a comment just loud enough for the whole class to hear:

-woah, ms. acker's boots are flossy.

Flossy? Is that what he said? I ignored the comment partly because it was off topic, but also because I had no idea what it meant. Flossy. Is it a good thing or a bad thing?

Thanks to the fine folks at urban dictionary.com I learned a new word today:

Flossy (adjective): Superficially stylish; Showy; Attracts attention with looks or nice things; similar to "bling"; someone or something that is considered cool or stylish

examples:

"Your new cell phone is so flossy" or "We're gonna show up all flossed out."

Apparently Fergie's song Glamorous also refers to "flossy flossy."

Oh, the things I learn from high schoolers. Ill add flossy to the other slew of slang words my students say (words like dank, baller, trippin, days, hater, bumpin...and I could go on!)

At least I can rest assured that wearing flossy boots is a relatively good thing.

Some Things Never Change

When I was growing up I was one of those kids who didn't like to miss school. I feared falling behind and or worse yet, missing out on something. It didn't matter if we were going on a family vacation, taking a trip to Disneyland or going for a routine check-up to the orthodontist, I did not like to miss school. And I absolutely hated it when I got sick. Most often I tried to convince myself that I wasn't sick and on the rare days when I was actually a sneezing-coughing-running nose kid and beyond the point of self-deception, I would bargain with my parents to let me go to school for half a day.

Some things never change.

I still don't like to miss school. And I still try and convince myself that I don't get sick. I figure if I am going to take a day off work, then I want it to it be one of those sunny-lie-by-the-beach, visit-good-friends type of days. I hate, HATE taking sick days, when I am actually sick.

But today I gave in. I called the district sub line at 6:25am and requested a sub. My left eye had been bothering me all night and it was not any better. So with a red-watery eye, I laid in my bed moaning from the pain and discomfort. The doctor's office didn't open until 9:00. I couldn’t see out of the one eye and it felt like someone was scraping my eyeball with a piece of glass. And perhaps, the worst part was I couldn't do anything about it.

I spent those first three hours just mad—I was mad at my eye, mad at the doctor and mad that I had to miss school. I couldn't read or watch a movie or journal or go for a walk- all things I would happily do on a "day off." No, instead I had to just lie there, with my eyes closed because any bit of light caused excruciating pain. I had to lie there and do nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was like some cruel joke.

I was humbled; humbled by my weakness and my inability to do anything.

Maybe this is what it takes sometimes for me to stop and pay attention and slow down. As I lay there I prayed. I selfishly prayed for healing (because lets be honest, its hard to pray for anything but yourself when you want to tear out your own eye). I prayed for people who are hurting in Santa Barbara and our country. I prayed for men and women and innocent children in places like Iraq and Afghanistan and Palestine-- they are hurting in ways that I will never know. I laid there and dozed on and off, in-between prayer and restless sleep.

Two doctor’s visits, two separate co-pays and two trips to the pharmacy later (thank you, to the American insurance bureaucracy) I was diagnosed with a scratch on my cornea. My eye didn't get immediately better, but my perspectives on the day did. For one the doctor gave me these glorious numbing drops that stopped the pain and then he recommend I wear a patch to keep out the light! All in all I am pretty impressed with modern medicine and the fact that some magnifying machine can look into my eye and see tiny scratches and infections. I was not however so impressed with the patch idea. But I've learned I can't really negotiate or argue with doctors. If they say wear a patch, then I will wear a patch…ever so reluctantly.

I am sure I looked ridiculous with my black, pirate patch plastered over one eye. I sat in a coffee shop with my black looking pirate patch, I walked to the grocery store with the black object still there and I even did a little shopping at Ross complete with my black, pirate piece. Pretty soon I just started ignoring the blank, empathetic (or maybe slightly concerned) stares. I pretended no one else noticed : )

I did feel much better after my incredibly culturally savvy sister reminded me that this same thing happened to Monica on Friends. Maybe Monica and I have more in common then I'd like to admit. I mean c'mon she doesn't look that bad with her eye patch on, right?


Hopefully, tomorrow I will be back at work...without an eye patch!

It shouldn't be this hard, right?

When I got my first car in high school, (and by "got" I mean, I got my dad's used, 1988 white Volvo station wagon) I also got a tire gauge. It's like the two went hand-in-hand; some rite of passage for an over-excited new driver. You get your license. Get a car. Oh, and then get a tire gauge? go figure. But I assume my dad wanted me to be a prepared and competent driver, so like a dutiful daughter I have kept that little tire gauge in my glove department ever since.

Last night, trying to be the responsible car owner that my dad taught me to be, I noticed one of my tires looked a little low. I pulled into the gas station on the corner of San Andres and Carrillo and pulled out my nifty tire gauge. And I must admit that I felt quite proud of myself and as I unscrewed each of the valves and checked the pressure for each tire. Sure enough, my front tire was low. It read 20 psi and it was supposed to be at 30 psi.

I looked at the air pump standing before me and thought, well, this shouldn't be that hard, right?

Little did I know.

I spent the next 20 minutes feeding quarters to the machine, screwing the pump onto my car, attempting to fill the tire with air, only to check the psi and notice it was going to down! My now not so nifty tire gauge read 15 psi. What the heck? How is my tire pressure going down? I paced back and forth. I must be doing something wrong.

At this point I was frustrated. This was supposed to be easy. I mean in all seriousness, I wasn't changing a flat tire or anything; no, I was just filling up my tires with air! I stood there turning over every possible solution of what I was doing incorrect, but I couldn't figure it out. My tire was now flatter than when I started and I now I couldn't drive home on it. I conceded to the fact that I needed someones help. I needed someone to just tell me what I was doing wrong or better yet, show me how to fix it.

So, who do I call when I have a car/life/home/problem-to-be-fixed question? My dad.

He didn't answer.

Second best is my brother, but he didn't answer.

I called one of my friend's husbands who lives down the street, but he didn't answer.

I even called one of my former students who is a mechanic, but he didn't answer!

What is it with men not answering their cell phones on a Monday night? All I needed was someone, anyone, to help me fill up my tires. I know it sounds pathetic and albeit, I am slightly embarrassed, but I really just wanted a guy to come fix it. sorry, ladies, no offense to those who are much more car competent than I.

I was now annoyed as I frantically started scrolling through my contacts. Who else can I call?

Just then two latino men climbed out of their white pick-up truck, probably ending a tiresome day of gardening and tending to people's yards- (mind you, yards that may have been three times bigger than their own small apartment.)

In a thick Spanish accent the older man looked at my car and asked, "Que paso?"

With an empathetic head nod, I tried to explain in Spanish that the air pump wasn't working and instead of gaining air, my tires were loosing air. I don't even know what exactly I communicated, considering I didn't know the words for tire, pressure or pump in Spanish.

But before I could explain myself any further, Julio, and his son Eduardo bent down picked up the pump and started mumbling in a quick, spit-fire Spanish that left me standing there not understanding a thing. They some how figured out that there was a leak or hole in the air pump and so obviously air was not being pumped into the tire.

They wiped their already stained hands on their jeans and stood up smiling. I'd like to think they were thinking, "Man, it feels good to help someone" but they were probably thinking something more along the lines of, "Aww, stupid gringa, she didn't even check to see if air was coming out of the pump."

Regardless of what they were thinking, I was so thankful. These men stopped, helped and it meant the world to me. Some part of me felt like this is what neighbors are supposed to do. Neighbors are supposed to graciously give and share just because we're neighbors, and we live in the same community, share the same streets and city. I am always challenged by the simplicity of Jesus words, "Love your neighbor as yourself." His command is not to like all of your neighbors or even to know all of your neighbors, but simply to love them. It made me want to be better neighbor.

The Coming Back

I’m back....back to grocery shopping and grading papers, back to the putting away, the picking up, and the sorting through the stuff that we call life. I don’t always like the coming back. Even though I’ve been to Guatemala three times I consistently fail to remember how hard it is to come back.

Don’t get me wrong, I have a lot of good things to come back to: dear friends whom I love, wonderful roommates, a home that’s a few blocks from the beach, a job that is fulfilling AND enjoyable, not to mention being able to flush toilet paper down the toilet again. (Trust me this is a luxury that many central American sewer systems cannot handle). But there is something, something about Guatemala that is hard to bring back with me.

The people.
The culture.
The language.
The richness of simplicity.
Having time to linger over meals.
Freedom to wander and wait without a sense of urgency.

Surprisingly, I am able to find joy in what I would normally classify as inefficient or impractical. I have been able to see and experience first hand what happens when a country chooses to value relationships over accomplishments. Guatemalans will sacrifice any task at hand to be with a person. It’s a beautiful thing, really. And one that I am often guilty of neglecting when I am in my-north-american-practical-efficient-to-do-list-gotta-get’er done mentality.

The highlight from the trip was working with the 17 teachers from the two schools, Proximos Pasos and Vida y Esperanza. Now, I tend to always like teacher-type people (probably because I am one) but I get easily frustrated with some teachers when all they do is complain about the school, the students, the administration, etc, etc. I was so encouraged by these 17 teachers because not once did I hear them complain. And if any of you have sat through any type of conference you know that it can be draining and tiring (even the most exciting types when the speakers bring games and candy)

yes. this is me trying to teach a review game complete with candy prizes : )

We spent four days talking about learning styles and different ways to engage students in the classroom. We modeled some different techniques and activities for introducing new vocabulary and some review strategies to aide in memorization. We gave the teachers time to practice and had them share some of their ideas and struggles.

Perhaps what was the most interesting for me was getting to hear some of their stories.

I met Edgar: a 20-year old, who wakes up at 4am everyday to help his uncle as an ayudante for his bus company. He does one trip from his village to the capital and then takes a 40 min bus to the school, where he teaches 28 2nd graders. When school day ends at 1pm he goes back to work with the bus company and gets home around 8pm. Then does the whole thing over again!
And Joselino: He’s a 26-year old, talented musician and excellent teacher who walk around always humming a tune. He spent over 10 hours gluing empty egg cartons to the cement walls of his classroom just to improve the acoustics!

And then there’s Vivian: a 20-year old women, who stands barely 5 feet tall, but she manages and teaches 31 kindergartens and Pre-K kids with the grace and patience of someone twice her age. She takes 2 buses to get to and from work each day and she spends her Saturdays studying English.

And I could go on and on.

I have the utmost respect for these men and women, many who are between the ages of 21-24 and working for less than 12 dollars a day.

As I was talking with Wally, (the principal at Vida y Esperanza) he shared his monthly struggle to make sure the school has enough money to pay its teachers. Mirna, (the principal at Proximos Pasos) expressed how she often has to choose between “Do I pay the teachers their salary or pay the electric bill?” (She often opts for the former). And where I feel so humbled is that we are not talking about thousands or even hundreds of dollars we’re talking about 80 queztales a day (which is roughly $11.50- that’s how much I spend on a sandwich and a drink for lunch).

It just keeps things in perspective. I have access to money and resources that many Guatemalans will never know, but on the other hand they have mastered the fullness and richness of loving people. While I was there I spent some time thinking and praying.

Maybe I should to move to Guatemala? Maybe I could teach here at one of the schools?

But…no.

I felt a very real, yet subtle reminder that I am supposed to be in Santa Barbara right now. I have students and kids and friends who I care deeply about. I spent one day wondering around the quaint, tourist infiltrated streets of Antigua. In the heat of the afternoon, I parked myself on a bench right near the fountain in central park. I sat silently and watched as a little boy, no more than 8 years old scrubbed and shined the shoes of an elderly man on the bench across from me. The little boy came over to me next and motioned to my shoes. I explained empathetically that my black and white converse didn’t need to be shined, but we started a conversation.

He asked me, “De donde eres?”

Soy de los estados unidos.

He looked intrigued. Normally, someone would follow up with “Que parte? or “Cual estado?” But this little boy asked me, “Por que vienes?

That question made me think. Why do you come?

I answered, “estoy visitando solomente.”

I am visiting.

Yes, I was visiting. And I know, without a doubt I’ll go back.

Guatemala...tercera vez!

Yes, I am going back! This trip wasn't exactly planned or expected, but it's hard to turn down an offer to go to Guatemala. About 3 weeks ago I got an email from one of the schools where I volunteered last summer. The principal wanted to know if me and another teacher (who went on our trip last summer) would come down to do some teacher in-service training. Before I even knew exactly what "teacher in-service training" required, I said yes. I am not usually so decisive. Typically, I tend to gather all the facts and find out as much information as I can and then, and only then, do I try and make the best decision. It's really not always the easiest way to do life (sigh) but, its often my m.o.

But this felt different. I just knew. No part of me had to think about it or calculate or ask any questions. I knew in my gut and in my heart. I wanted to go. I sometimes don't give space to listen to that part of me- that part of me that "just knows." But when I do listen to it, that part inside that just knows without a doubt, almost with childlike simplicity, I am always surprised at freeing it feels.

So, I am flying to Guatemala in 1.5 hours. I will be working with the two schools where I volunteered last summer, Proximos Pasos and Vide e Esperanza. The Guatemalan school calendar ends in October and then they start a new school year in January. Tim, a veteran teacher and former principal, and myself will be doing the in-service seminars  before the school year starts. What is encouraging is that I have met most of these teachers before. They are highly motivated, hard working, inspiring young men and women- many only 19 or 20 years old. They are often in a classroom with 30-40 kids and little or no supplies or curriculum. They are my heroes. They emailed Tim and I a list of areas that they would like training on; things like reading instruction, classroom management, holistic education, etc, etc. I am not sure if I am qualified to teach on any of those areas per se, but I am willing to try and learn along the way.

If you're a person of prayer, please pray for safety as we travel and a sense of unity that bridges cultures and languages and....

Oh, they are announcing my flight. Lacsa 641. I probably should listen. 

I will write more for Guatemala.....adios!

A First

I did something yesterday that I have never ever done before.

I went to see a movie by myself.

And I don't mean the-rent-a-movie, curl up on the couch, kind-of-see-a-movie. No, I actually I took myself to see a movie in a movie theater. gulp. I don't know why this was such a big deal. I will gladly sit in a coffee shop by myself for hours or go to dinner by myself. Heck, I'll even travel to a foreign country by myself. But somehow the unfamiliar terrain of going to a movie by myself felt like the epitome of awkwardness.

I know people do it, but this was a first for me. One of my friends swears it's the best experience to sit by yourself in a big theater and be completely absorbed into a movie. I am not sure if I buy into that just yet. Perhaps one of the main reasons is because I am a "verbal processor" (yes, you can insert the word talker if you like). I like to talk about the movie- before it starts, during and after its over. This probably breaks some common social norms (especially the talking during the movie part) and annoys my friends and family, but its true.

After standing in line to buy a ticket, silently praying that I wouldn’t see anyone I knew, I walked into the theater. I had tried to time it just right, so the previews would have already started and it would be dark by the time I walked in. Low and behold, the previews has started (phew) and it was dark (yessss!) but it was also almost completely full (oh, crap.) I had not prepared for this. I paced back and worth in the back, trying to decide which row of people looked the smallest so I could gracefully squeeze by them without making a scene. Scanning the audience in the dark I found a row in the back corner, and I not so gracefully climbed over two elderly people and nestled down into my seat against the wall.


For the next 120 minutes I was thoroughly entertained and impressed by one of thee best movies I have seen in a long time; Slumdog Millionaire. I loved it. It captures the typical rags-to-riches story, but with a beauty and depth set in modern day India. I tend to like these somewhat intense, dramatic films that trace pieces of the human experience in a culture and language different from my own. It's definitely worth seeing. Maybe even by yourself.