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I am having Willie Nelson attacks. I’ve been on the road since Monday and loving it. I’ve stopped in Colorado Springs, all over Denver, Greeley, driven through Nebraska and South Dakota (just missing a turtle on I-90) and am now warming myself on the sun porch in Brookings SD.
I love the opportunity to travel and see my friends and catch up. I’ve met children, heard of moves, jobs, surguries, new homes and new boyfriends. I’m sharing my photos and stories and just loving sitting on a friends couch in a sweatshirt having tea. I am being renewed as I spend time up late nights with my friends. It warms my heart.
So if you see me over the next few weeks and hear me humming under my breath, you can be sure it’s a little bit of Willie. Well, Willie or Wicked, that’s almost always in the cd player these days.
I have a variety of new albums online now for your perusal.
Road rules are very different in other places around the world. Kenyan drivers are quite aggressive and any rules that exist seem to be mere suggestions. I’m remembering that this is not the case in the U.S.
I was driving up from Amarillo to Liberal and took a right turn after stopping at a red light. Rubes was quick to tell me, “I’m pretty sure that was illegal.” I didn’t believe her at all and even twenty minutes later asked her about it again. She’s certain I am wrong. I have no idea.
The light turned red and a motorcycle in front of me stopped. I stopped and then proceeded to go to the right of it and turn. There was no turn lane, as such, but there was plenty of space and it’s not like I went up on the curb (like many would’ve done in Kenya).
When I was in Michigan I went to a great little tea shop a friend told me about. As I parked my car on the right side of the narrow street near the stop sign I wondered if that was legal. I had absolutely no idea. But I parked there anyway and sat near a window where at least I’d see if I started to get a ticket or towed. Neither happened.
Re-entry has been OK but there are definately things that are catching me off guard. Road rules are merely the start.
Martin Luther King, Jr was killed in ‘68.
Brown vs. the Topeka Board of Education and the Civil Rights Act were in ‘64.
Amy Rebeka Thompson was born in ‘73.
Not only have I used the last two years to learn about Kenya and community development but also racism, African American culture and history. I still sometimes feel like I know nothing but I’m trying.
I look at the dates above and marvel at all the history. Those three monumental things happened less than ten years before I was born. That’s amazing to me. We’ve come so far and yet, we still have a long way to go.
I don’t pretend to know or understand the life of minority. I definitely was in the minority in Africa. And yet, it was nothing like what I hear my friends saying their lives are like at times.
I don’t have any miraculous breakthrough. I was just doing some reading earlier this week and realized how close these things happened to the beginning of my life. I think maybe I need to have some conversations with my family to see what they saw and experienced in that time.
If nothing else, these past two years have been a huge learning experience for me and the learning continues.
I’m having a hard time putting things into words. I have a list or two on various pieces of paper tucked into books, my purse or backpack. These lists are full of great things that I would like to blog about for you. The words just aren’t coming out right. I’m trying, so forgive my randomness (more so than usual) and lack of luster in my writing.
My debriefing process required me to visit with a counselor so I saw someone yesterday. It went really well for a lot of reasons. The two I want to share with you are these. 1. I have a lot of things that I want to write to both you and myself (in my journal). However, while I can take short notes and write lists about what I want to say, as noted above, I just can’t get it out. That will come. 2. I’ve always thought that therapy was a wonderfully helpful thing for everyone – except me. However, after my experiences with a counselor in Kenya and this visit I am now comfortable seeing a therapist. Look at me, I’m growing!
Oh, I did go back to that store today. That store where I had my mini-meltdown, if you will. I walked in and greeted ‘my’ clerk. He smiled and went straight to the back room.
I’m OK with that. I successfully did my own shopping this time around.
I had the joy of attending ‘potluck Friday’ at my friend and coworker’s home tonight. I had been learning from her for about two years, I’d heard her home joys and frustrations, I’d heard her talk of the garden and the community. The intentional community is what really interested and struck me. She lives in community with 7 others (one being her husband). There are two houses with four apartments and one giant garden. I know this is happening with one of my coworkers and friends in the Burlington office as well. Are others doing this? Has this started to happen while I was gone? I know this isn’t new but who else is doing this? Do you like it? Do you wish you were doing it? Wanna get together with me and try it? Although I don’t know where I’ll be living yet, there are definately aspects that intrigue me and give me comfort.
God calls us into community. Scripture says how God created them male and female to be joined together (my incredibly loose translation, sorry). We are called to be in community and fellowship, learning from one another and challenging one another. That’s exciting! That’s scary!
I will tell you that community is a gift. Don’t take your friends and family for granted. It is not the same everywhere. Also, please look out for the outsider, the loner, the lonely, the visitor, the guest. WELCOME THEM! Bring them home! Love them! Don’t leave them! You will be blessed.
Tonight I was surrounded by people I’d never met sharing a meal that we all helped to provide and it was a giant family. We shared food, wine and stories. We shared our lives. We had missionaries from Kenya and Mexico and people from Algeria and all over the US. We had new friends and old. We had boyfriends, husbands, girlfriends, Franklin Farm community members (nickname of my friend’s intentional community – they live on Franklin street and have a backyard that is all garden), parents and coworkers.
Dinner wound down and homemade meringue pies came out. Laughter abounded and a few hometown stories came out. It was warming to my heart to talk about home and my surrounding areas. Beaver and Hooker Oklahoma (don’t ask) and Coldwater.
Coldwater is my Dad’s hometown. Population around 1000. No stoplight. Home of the Lazy T, the bar my Uncle and Aunt own. Home of my Grandad and his old farm equipment where I used to play and make up grand stories as a kid. I remember even writing a poem about playing in the grain truck when I was in sixth grade.
Somehow Coldwater came up and Steve said he’d been there, or maybe that he was from there. I was shocked. I didn’t know what to say except, “Really?” He mentioned the even smaller town nearby and I suggested Haviland (although what I really meant was Wilmer). He said no and then someone clarified that I was probably referring to Coldwater, Kansas and he was probably referring to Coldwater, Michigan. We laughed and I shared my surprise that anyone there had been to Coldwater, Kansas. No one had after all.
It was a beautiful evening and I really enjoyed myself. As I stood to bid farewell, one of the final things I heard before I left was Steve.
“We’ll always have Coldwater.”
Indeed.
