Dwelling

Since I last published on this blog, I have been writing. I've started and left unfinished several trains of thought that I desperately want to finish and share with you. They threaten to burst out of me, but the collective is so large it's overwhelming and I don't even know where to start. The thing is, all of my experiences in Tucson have been so life-giving that I keep drinking in more, that I keep breathing in more without adequate time to reflect, write, and share.

I process best through writing. That's not to say I'm a great writer, it just means I am healthiest when I judiciously choose each individual word and its place because words have meaning, and looking back at my experiences, I want to know I spent the time to express each thought as fully as I could. I still want to tell you all about Operation Streamline, about immigration "reform," about my program's time on our own border delegation in Mexico, about Tucson's way of celebrating Day of the Dead, but that is still to come, I promise.

This weekend us Tucson YAVs have been invited to San Francisco Theological Seminary's Inquirer's Weekend. We are here to learn about the programs and environment the seminary has to offer, and to begin the process of discernment about future careers and the graduate education we would potentially need. Many from our program through the Presbyterian Church (USA) will go on to seminary, and these couple days are foothills to that mountainous path if we feel so called. For Heather, Amy Beth, and I, some sort of theological education or deep church connection runs in our lineage. My momma was ordained towards the beginning of the time frame when it was revolutionary for women to do so (and humans are still in the middle of that time frame), and I think of her often here, especially thinking about her work as a prison chaplain before I was born, as the other man here for Inquirer's Weekend has been doing prison counseling in Texas - phew!

When I sat down with paper in front of me yesterday morning, I was supposed to be devoting my full attention to our brief orientation, but phrases connected to our life in the desert spilled out as doodles in the beautifully arranged and tabbed binder complete with resources for the weekend and beyond. Perhaps all I needed was a change of scenery. And a good night's sleep.

I don't really know what this is, kind-of poetry, kind-of spoken word but written? I cannot claim a culture or upbringing or any sort of education around spoken word, but I imagine the syllables caressing my tongue, spitting out as rapid-fire as my audience could take it, and leaving spaces. Spaces to breathe. Spaces to dwell.

Here we have been called to dwell in God's words. 

And we are dwelling in the beauty of God's creation. 
Changing leaves. 
Hills. 
Fog. 
Micro-climates. 

And it calls me to remember the beauty of the desert that used to take my breath away six times daily, that perhaps I now have gotten too accustomed to, or grown complacent with. 

I have gotten so busy with daily life in the desert and have these amazing experiences all rolling around in my head of the vast world, but my focus gets buried in my bike frame and a street-level panorama.

Responsibility takes me out of the clouds and grounds me, but every so often I need to dance in the sky;

leap from star to star;

dance in the rain! 
when it appears...

What I really want to do is push those pedals until a streetlight stops me and breathe and reflect and soak and dwell. And later write. My head is super-saturated, but my body needed rest. 

In this time of reflection that I can share with you all, I pray that I will never forget those who will may never see the beauty of the desert as I have, and those who face more of the dangers of the desert than I ever will. 

Those who face the sticks and spines of more than just cacti and cholla and burrs, but of polleros, Border Patrol, and barbed wire.

Those who crawl in silence through the deep night in more than just el desierto, but also through the shadows of life without the right kind of documents and the right kind of language. 

Those who are injected with more than just poison of rattlesnakes but of loss, desperation, racism, and repeated discrimination. 

When we return to Tucson, I pray that I will never forget to appreciate the expansive sky and think of all those who journey under it. I pray that I will never forget God who makes the stars twinkle, who touches the horizons, who touches my heart and calls me to walk in Jesus' footsteps to, in some small way, use my life to walk with others out of their time of darkness, however that is manifested. 

Until next time friends.


The passage preached and reflected on this week: Colossians 3:12-17
So, chosen by God for this new life of love, dress in the wardrobe God picked out for you: compassion, kindness, humility, quiet strength, discipline. Be even-tempered, content with second place, quick to forgive an offense. Forgive as quickly and completely as the Master forgave you. And regardless of what else you put on, wear love. It’s your basic, all-purpose garment. Never be without it.

Let the peace of Christ keep you in tune with each other, in step with each other. None of this going off and doing your own thing. And cultivate thankfulness. Let the Word of Christ—the Message—have the run of the house. Give it plenty of room in your lives. Instruct and direct one another using good common sense. And sing, sing your hearts out to God! Let every detail in your lives—words, actions, whatever—be done in the name of the Master, Jesus, thanking God every step of the way.