Processing Paris

Last February I took a trip called Sankofa.
It's essentially a multi-day road trip with stops scheduled intermittently so we can keep our brains on overdrive and stretch our legs. The point of Sankofa is to reconsider how we talk and and process race. It's a conversation that is ongoing, and the trip helps it get started.

Each year looks different depending on the group of students who participate. Last year we stopped on a plantation, at the location of the Mike Brown Shooting, and at an old underground railroad house. Historically the trip has been focused on white-on-black racism, as that narrative is hardly taught and greatly misunderstood. But the trip last year boasted other minorities as well. Students of non-black ethnic backgrounds, of alternative sexual orientation, of non-evangelical religions, and of the mental health community all started raising their voices by the second day saying "what about my pain?"

On Sankofa I learned that when we become afraid of scarcity, things get ugly.
When people's stories weren't told completely, when they felt that they might be minimized to a footnote or an anecdote, the pain came out. #blacklivesmatter turned into #blacklivesmatterasmuchbutnotlessthanlatinalivesandqueerlives #anddontforgetmentalhealth #orwhitepeople And by the time we were done hash-tagging, there was no room for another message. Our character limit had been met, and our characters were worn thin.

I've seen this happening in an odd way with the Paris bombings. Statuses calling for attention for Kenya, Beirut, Nigeria, Chicago, and Palestine came pouring in. And the feelings of scarcity began to overflow.

At first I was also angered by the focus, then I completely disengaged. Because, if Paris is overshadowing Beirut and Palestine and Pakistan, maybe I should just close my eyes to all of this.
I'm tired. And overwhelmed. And I have a paper to write. You know?

Instead of letting ourselves sit in the shock of Paris, we were attacked for caring.

And yes, white people caring about white people and not brown people is ANNOYING. I agree. Our ethnocentric response of "that could happen to me" when Paris gets hit and not when Beirut does is wrong.
When we hear that children are dying in Gaza and that roads are shut down in Hebron and we say "makes sense, that place is a mess," we have learned nothing.

Let us stop this battle for headlines and status updates and instead start a battle for humanity. Paris is the whole world. Paris is Palestine. Paris is Beirut. Paris is Chicago. So let's stop acting like if we all have blue white and red profile photos that Paris will just be Paris, and instead let's let our hearts mourn with refugees and Muslims and Parisians alike.

If sitting on that Sankofa bus taught me anything it was that people desire for their pain to be acknowledged, but sometimes we need a gateway into understanding.
If Paris teaches us nothing else, let it teach us to have our hearts broken.
Let it teach us to mourn violence as a whole--not just victims, but also victimizers
Let us seek to deeper understand global desperation.
Let us light candles. Not just at vigils but as a daily practice for reminding us how crumbly this world can start to feel.
And let us get on the bus, and never get off as we partner in a the journey to humanizing.

Fine, I'll settle.

When I was very little I planted a Scrub Pine seed in the ground and a tree began to grow.
It's planted at the camp where I committed to Christ, grew up, and spent a summer of college. I remember, as an eight year old, being filled with anxiety about planting the tree at our home in Oregon. I didn't want to ever lose my tree. I didn't want it to get chopped down, or taken for granted, or neglected. I wanted it to be deeply rooted in a place where it would thrive forever.

For a long time, I compared my own life to my tree. I saw its struggle to grow in poor soil as my own failure to find a healthy community throughout middle and high school. I saw its stunted growth as my struggle with self-worth and anxiety. I compared both of our opportunities to be planted and rooted deeply as my journey of leaving Oregon and moving to Chicago.

Now I envy my tree. For over ten years it has grown taller than I can understand and has gotten to stay in the same place. After high school my solution to being hurt by Church and community was to move to Chicago. Over the last two years, I have felt a stronger and stronger desire to move and live in Palestine--something I had the opportunity to do this past summer. Now, quite unlike my tree, I feel my roots being splintered between three distinct communities.

The life I feared for my tree is the life I have led for the last three years. The night before I left to come back to North Park I wrote "I'm tired of being transplanted". I am tired of putting roots down for a few weeks and then leaving. I am tired of processing self, past, future, and present in different places.

Right now, if I could choose where I would go, I would take root in Palestine. I would move to Bethlehem. I would learn Arabic,  do research, and coordinate college students. I would find community among like-minded scholars, activists, and peacemakers. I would get a master's degree.

But right now, in reality, I have thirty-two weeks of college left. Right now, my roots get to hold tight in an eight-person house. Right now, I am planted at North Park for one more year. I'm resistant to this.
For one thing, it feels backward to go to Palestine for the summer and then to be forced to come home and to sit though meetings and classes when six weeks ago I was LIVING THE DREAM.
And THIS IS ENDING AS SOON AS I GRADUATE.

So there isn't a lot compelling me to really enjoy and embrace this season of life.
I need to admit that. I need to be honest about that.
I don't want to be here.

So right now I'm learning to settle; in all senses.
To settle into a place that feels temporary and transient and irrelevant.
And to settle for the fact that this is not a season of life in which I can be rooted in the way I wish to be; where I choose to be.

So I'll start working up the courage to drop some seeds into the ground where I am. And I need to have faith that something might actually grow; like it did so many years ago.

Grief and joy

It's yearly meeting week, which is easily one of my favorite weeks each year. Memories of children's picnics and daycamp mix with stories of middle school mischief and learning how to grow up well.
My best friends came from this week. Today I got to see many of them; to sit in silence, as we have learned to do, and to worship together in the spirit. Some call it culty, we call it worship and I call it home.

As we gathered and meditated on what we might envision as our future together we all saw images of light, of testimony to togetherness, of laying down ourselves for the sake of the whole. We saw unity.
And one friend spoke about grief.

There is a lot to grieve, and we avoid it. Dreaming of together is so much easier than looking one another in the eye and saying "you made me feel pain, hate, and gassy multiple times today". Talking about moving forward in unity is easier than recalling painful words or awkward moments that have sat and festered as open wounds for too long.
But grieving and facing these things gives us the opportunity to actually see and experience the joy of being together.
There is deep joy that comes from healing. And grief is our way of doing that well.

Yearly meeting drama aside,
I have a lot to grieve.
And while tonight's centering was about our community as a whole...I understood so personally that message.

I have learned the imprtance and significance of grieving to be fundamental in my own life. BUT it's also a lesson that has to smash itself over my head every time for me to remember it.
I instinctively run away, or keep running into the perverbial fire. It's healthy. I know.

So I'm going to let this blog be long. And incomplete. And a bit cathartic. Because I need to stop numbing being home. I need to grieve that I have left a place that became home in seven weeks. That I discovered myself on the rocky hills of the Makhrour and in the lofts of Ramalah. I have to grieve that I have left a family who welcomed me as one of their own-for better or for worse.
I have to grieve that I thought I found love, and that I am still coming to terms that I did not. I have to grieve being away during graduations, construction projects, festivals, protests, jagger parties, nargilla breaks, and trips to Tel Aviv.
I have to grieve that all I might have to look forward to is a 3 week trip in March.

I have to grieve that I am not there to shiva face in person. That I miss the craziness of Palestinian drivers and the anxiety of Goin anywhere. I miss catcalls and acid wash and araq. I miss lemon and mint tea and Mish Mish week. I miss arguing with my host brother about everything and sweating through my shirt on the walk to work. I miss church bells competing with call to prayer and the peace of Ramadan.

Hell. I even miss the wall.

And I have been so worried about letting myself be open about this for the sake of wanting this transition to go smoothly.
And that was wrong. Because I need to grieve. I need to be honest that this is hard and that I wish I was still there and that I would do anything to go back.

So here's to finding joy in presence by letting myself grieve the past.
Prepare yourselves.

Wherever you are; be there

Yesterday, something weird happened to me.
I went on my back porch.
I don't do that very often mostly because there is always a TV show to watch or a song to listen to or a friend to see. Why would I ever go outside?

and then yesterday, in the midst of jet-lag and bad sleep habits and iron deficiency catching up to me all at once, all I wanted to do was sit outside.
so I did.
and what did I learn? Oregon sun is just as warm as Palestine's, and it smells nice out there.

Today, after watching Inside Out, my mom and I decided to walk home instead of riding in the car with Ken.
It was strange, making a decision like this. When the easier thing to do was to hop in the Saturn and be home really fast.
But it was so nice out, and Oregon was calling me to be present.
And I've learned recently that it's really hard to be present because I spend a lot of my life in countdown mode.

sixteen week segments of life separated by short-term adventures and retreats into nature
I have thirty-two weeks of college separating me from the rest of my life.
And only twenty-four weeks of classes, tests, and monotony separating me from going back to Palestine.

One week ago I started saying goodbye.
You see, countdowns are a two-way street.

It seems to me that I am constantly conscious of the passing of time, how I am drifting farther and farther from key moments, and how I am drifting closer and closer to tomorrow.

Rarely am I rooted in the present.
And for now, all I want to be is here. And, if we're being honest, there and there. But there is time to be there, especially if I am here. and now I feel like the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland, without the nargilla.

Homesick

I'm homesick.
And not just because I'm in a foreign country. Not just because it's father's day. Not just because my host sister returned home for the first time after studying in the US for ten months and seeing her see her family and seeing their joy gave me stomach cramps--no.

I am homesick because I have not been home for twenty-four weeks. And in those twenty-four weeks life has been unbelievably full. Lifegivingly full--but full none the less.

I left home to spend four days in Washington DC with a group of like-minded college students to strategically coordinate an advocacy group for Israel and Palestine.

I returned back to college to face the confusion of navigating broken relationships, changed living situations, and readjustments. 

I took a full class load, worked about 12 hours per week, coordinated events, attended hours and hours of meetings and rehearsals, figured out my summer plans, and went to counselling.

In February I spent a weekend traveling through the south--Alabama, Georgia, Missouri, Ohio, Tennessee--on a racial reconciliation trip. This set the tone for much of the rest of the semester.

In March I took a week off and went on a spring break trip to Florida. That was fun.

I spent Easter in Bloomington Normal, as per usual. 

I went to Ireland and Northern Ireland, and spent two very full weeks with classmates witnessing, experiencing, and wrestling with reconciliation on a personal, relational, and societal level.

and now I am in Palestine--for two and a half more weeks. 

I am tired.

And home has come to be a place where trees stay green forever and water tastes good from the tap and cheese is perfect and beer is the best. And all I want right now is to sit on my papa's lap and cry. 

two and a half weeks to go. six months. And then home.

Mostly, all of this is teaching me the importance and the meaning of rest.

Yes, I can go to tel aviv for a day and relax. I can go for hikes or take every Saturday to ride the train through the city. I can get comfortable reading alone in a coffee shop or going for walks. 

I can get used to taking naps and reading for fun and doing restful things. But I have yet to find a portable sanctuary that is as rejuvenating as Oregon. As my home.

Explaining Racism in Palestine

Yesterday two really tragic things occurred:
Near the Sea of Galilee, the church that pays tribute to Jesus feeding the 5,000 was gutted, vandalized, and burned. The Israeli teens who were suspected as responsible were arrested, and later released.

And in South Carolina a pastor and eight of his congregants (all of whom were black) were gunned down by a white man who were attending a prayer service.

Both of these bear a parallel to something I have been reflecting on frequently during my time in The West Bank. The idea that there is a presence of a privileged, dominant, power elite in both Palestine (I use this term for the entire region, not just the occupied territories--sorry) and in the Unites States is one that is not easily ignored. And it would be a lie for me to assume that being convicted deeply about one excuses us from being convicted about the other.

What was surprising to me yesterday, in the wake of both of these tragedies, was that the elitism of the crimes was severely overlooked.

Attacks are attacks and terror is terror. And just because those responsible are white, hold power, and have the privilege to express their frustration with such violence without it reflecting the morals of their entire community, does not mean we should not begin to be critical.

Two weeks ago I sat in a bar with some of my co-workers and I brought up the Black Lives Matter movement and my experience visiting Ferguson with the North Park Sankofa trip this past February. My American counterparts engaged in dialogue about this openly, with support. My Palestinian coworkers didn't understand.
"you have a black president," "what about MLK?" and "what do you mean there are still such extreme tensions between the communities?" have been common responses to this discussion.

It's been strange educating my host brother about the ways that the occupation parallels our own militant policing structure in the US. While Palestine has roadmaps, the US has pipelines. Segregation exists as a policy in both places.

It's been strange feeling like in both incidents yesterday what happened was viewed as a random occurrence and not a symptom of a greater problem.

It is impossible for me to sit here and not think about what would have occurred had the roles been reversed in either case:

If a black man had assassinated a white representative, a pastor, and seven others in a prayer service: the media would be feasting on the crime. The concept of mental health would be absent from the conversation all together.
If Palestinian Christians had torched a synagogue yesterday: Israel likely would have responded with tanks and guns and arrests would have already been made. Imagine if it had been Muslim Palestinians who attacked a synagogue. It would have been another nail in the casket of Islamaphobia and westernized misconceptions of Arab violence.
In a reversed situation the crimes would have affirmed concepts of prejudice which led to these crimes being committed in the first place.

What I'm saying is that because the powerful individuals were the ones who committed the crimes--our reporting and response has become muted. Blurbs go out, updates are made. But where is the outcry?
Why are we not holding ourselves accountable and doing more to speak for the vulnerable victims in these situations?
How many more buildings do we have to lose, how many more people have to die? What is the cost we are willing to pay for living in a myth of dominant-narrative self-determination?

I'm frustrated by this. I'm frustrated that in both places where my heart lies--there is silence. There is submissive victim-hood. There is misguided frustration.

I am frustrated. The end.

Baggage claim

My name is Katie, and I admit that my feminism has sometimes made me distrusting of men.

Admittance is the first step.

backstory:

I got dumped this year. That shouldn't be news to anyone, and if it is...welcome to my life. After that I did a lot of soul searching with friends, my parents, my counselor, and God...and I admittedly got pretty angry. At men. In general. I got called out a couple times, so I stopped talking about it so much. But the anger still kind of festered.

today:
I was riding in a sherut (group taxibus) back to Bethlehem from Ramallah. I was in between two young, Palestinian guys--who were probably my age and couldn't seem to understand that I don't speak Arabic. But they kept trying.
I knew enough to tell them my name, age, social security number (ha, just kidding, mom), and that I wasn't married. Azra was nice enough to hang my purse next to his coat on the seat in from of him. Mohammed was nice enough to pay for the twenty nis ride.
I managed to figure out that both of them had been arrested for throwing stones in Bethlehem (this is common) and that Azra likes vodka and smoking cigarettes (this is what one and a half years of language study gets you at a liberal arts university). I tried explaining that I was living with a family in Bethlehem for seven weeks, but we never got to that chapter in al-kitaab (the useful stuff doesn't come till after the words for varying degrees of education and governmental positions. Thanks for literally nothing, jamyat George Town.).
At this point, it all sounds pretty innocent. But...just hear me out.
Mohammed kept tapping his fingers next to my leg or touching my leg, Azra offered for me to lay on his shoulder. I think both of them offered to come to my room and buy me a beer...but I might also be getting those words confused with other things. the point is. in the moment all I could think about was how pissed I was that I was in a country where I didn't speak the language, was entrapped by two guys I don't know who made me feel really objectified, and how frustrated I was that I couldn't do anything about it for risk of cultural faux pas.

Here's the kicker:
The sherut dropped us off about 4 blocks too soon. I tried to stay in until the last stop, but the driver insisted I exit with my new pals, promised "they're nice boys, they will get you home" and drove off. The first thought through my mind: Katie-0, Arab Patriarchy-victory. Also I amde sure I had minutes on my cell phone so I could call my coworkers or host dad, just in case.

Turns out. When I figured out where I was, explained (several times) to Azra and Mohammed that I really was okay to get home walking at 6pm, and said goodbye. It was fine. They shook my hand, said ma salema and walked away.

WHAT THE HECK?!

Here I was worrying for literally the entire ride from Ramallah to Bethlehem about how to say "no, I don't want to drink, smoke, or hang out with you, I want to go and sit with my host family and eat goast cheese" when really the situation was (more or less) under control.

Yes, feeling uncomfortable was VALID. (because feelings are valid and women do get put in awkward and vulnerable positions all the time) but letting those feelings cloud my understanding of who Mohammed and Azra were was kind of unfair. I never gave them the chance for me to have to tell them to back off. I just let out my feminist anxieties and planned my escape route if they followed me home.

I ignorantly let my anger cloud the fact that these are two men who, aside from a cliche arrest record, were really really kind. Azra gave me gum, Mohammed closed a window for me...yani, maybe I need to redraw the line between caution and engagement. And maybe I need to rebuild my perspective of actions and who is preforming them being separate.

Some solitude

I got to spend a lot of time with people this weekend--it was incredible. I had the opportunity to celebrate the Virgin Mary in the Christian Quarter of Jerusalem, I got to eat real Palestinian Barbecue on the roof of a 120 year-old building, and I got to play with a seven month old baby. a lot. It was strange though, as I went about my day today I felt this deep sense of loneliness, of emptiness.

I had known this would happen eventually, that at some point of this journey it would hit me that I am alone here. Yes, sure, I am being housed by an incredibly kind and caring family; I have a good number of people to visit and meet with; and I have some international colleagues who occasionally invite me out for argilla or beers; but none of those people are the people who know me most intimately--and they won't be, because I am only here for seven weeks and seven weeks is still an arm's length away.

It was hard that it hit, though, because it made me realize something bigger about the work I hope to do with my life: this is probably how it is going to always be. Yes, I will make friends. Yes, I will find stronger community than this. Yes, all those things and those buts and ors and ands. But, from here on out, there is very little being rewarded for the work I'm doing. Gold stars ran out when I started public school. People will only be impressed with me for so long. And in the real world there is no diversity awards banquet that gives me a free alarm clock just for showing up to meetings.

I think the above paragraph can be read as a mourning, but I intend it more as an honest realization. This trip is showing me more and more that I WANT to be doing this work. It has me thinking the future in a way I never have before. Yes, the goal is STILL Palestine, the call is STILL to live in this place and to be with these people. But what is changing is how I see myself doing that.

Will I get a master's in urban development? Or tourism? Or education? Or business? Or management? Or economics?

Will I stay in Chicago after graduation with hopes of getting an Americorps scholarship to work in an industry or to do work with entrepreneurs?
Will I go to Europe, to South Africa, to Portland, to Ohio, to Nortre Dame? Maybe. At this point, the idea of what opportunities lie one year away from me make me more nervous than trying to figure out what to do HERE. And here is BIG.

But guys, there is this new anticipation, this new strategy, this new need to learn something so I have something to GIVE, something tangible.

Palestine doesn't need more NGOs, it doesn't need more international peacemakers coming in and asking for a room to stay in and for shoddy Arabic lessons. It doesn't need more international schools, or summer camps, or storytelling sessions. It doesn't need more documentaries. It doesn't need better hashtags. What Palestine needs is itself. It needs to be invigorated.

And in a lot of ways, maybe the reason I am so drawn to this place, so hopeful of what it can be for me and what I can be for it; is because I need that too.

Inshallah, filisteen, someday.

Put a bow on it and call it a wrap.

One day and one week until my butt is in a seat heading back to Chicago. Praises be.

In the last month, I have begun anxiety counseling. Mostly, I have been reminded of the importance of belly breathing, how to write constructively in columns and on note cards, and how to notice my thinking. It has also made me 300% more aware of every little thing that gives me anxiety. This blog gives me anxiety. Summer gave me anxiety. Waking up and going downstairs on Sunday mornings gives me anxiety. Everything, more or less, contributes to this overriding experience of anxiousness.

In the last week, my family had a yard sale, I saw people for the first time in two years, and I started to say goodbye. These things all suck. Know what else sucks? Packing. I started that too. I am currently on step 1.5: hoard all possessions in a pile in your room without thinking about what you actually need for the next four months. Next comes step 2: feel anxious that it won't fit in the four pieces of luggage you are allowed. and ends with step 4: arrive in Chicago fully ashamed of the sheer number of items you tote around every 16 weeks. Blessings.

Thanks to anxiety counselling, now I no longer need to endure simply being mindful of the packing anxiety that exists, I also get to ride it out. I no longer get to blow up in the final 12 hours of packing (stage 3.7), instead I get to calmly explain how I am feeling, and maybe even make a note card about it.

But mostly, I am much more aware of how possessions have been a crutch. When I begin to feel pressure, anxiety, or tension; my instinct is to consume. (Right now, for example, I really think that I need a new pair of jeans, and some grey and black striped shirts. I do. I promise.). As one may imagine, having a yard sale where we give away items that are full of sentiment may have been one of the dumbest things to do. Especially since I just had this wave of sadness roll over me as I lamented: "why did we sell all the Peru wall hangings, how will I remember my childhood?" I will, I have faces, and memories of smells, and how the wooden benches in adobe churches made great coloring surfaces, and how itchy everything always was, and how good eggs tasted, and salt. I don't need possessions to be compete and to have valid memories.

What is the most interesting about such a revelation, is that belongings have been holding me back from having the memories be the possession. I think our society does the same with pictures. We have all these things that we use to trigger ideas and feelings, without allowing our brains and mental recall to do that for us. I can remember every dress I wore to the dances, and every nasty thrift store dress I bought thinking shoulder pads were cool, and every par of shorts I owned that made me feel like I had fat thighs. I can remember what junk I bought on missions trips and on family vacations, but I have a difficult time remembering faces, names, joys, and sorrows from those times.

I wonder, then, as I wrap up this summer of rest and calm and creation, how I could possibly characterize this summer by something different. How can I begin to undo my mental dependency on physical triggers, and instead live in a healthy mental recall state? And how, on earth, can I make packing a single-step-non-hassle-process?

The end.

Today I am fasting.

Today, Friends, I am fasting.

I have been blessed with many opportunities this summer to increase my understanding of what my call is and what it means to be a peacemaker. 

My first encounter with this theme of summer was two months ago in the backyard of a fellow Friend, who shared with me that her call is to midwife to others. Not literally, but in the sense that it is her hope to sit with people and help them work through the tensions, the stress, the angst, and to be able to arrive at a mutual understanding. This image of mediation is one I have held onto dearly this summer, and has shifted my thinking away from this idea that peacemakers carry around clipboards and gavels in order to condemn and accuse, but that peacemakers are gentle, and aid in the difficult and painful process of reconciliation. 

This image seemed to serve just fine, and then a week ago Matthew 10:16 was brought to my attention. In this verse disciples are called to be serpents and doves. Peacemakers are not just called to help through pain and offer comfort, we are also called to be engaged in political discourse, to understand the ways of the world, while simultaneously being a prophetic voice for justice one behalf of others. 

So now my understanding of my role was turning into some strange pokemon character: midserdovwife.

This understanding was furthered by a Friend I had the opportunity of meeting with who spoke with me about her new ideas about the blessing of being an outsider. Now. Anyone who has gone on  a missions trip, taken and international communications class, or encountered any sort of learning trip through University Ministries knows that the emphasis that is put on being an outsider is negative. Adaptation and acceptance are key. Yes, you want to be critical, but in country you want to follow the rules, avoid sidewalks, and never question why things are done the way they are. So, given this educational background, the concept of the outsider being a blessing was strange to me. But here is what was so important about what she had to say. 

The outsider is able to come in and look at what is being done and what has been done and give critical feedback about practices or actions or attitudes which are hindering the entire process. Instead of going in and saying "I understand," outsiders are able to go in and say, "I understand, but..." this opened my eyes to an entirely new arena. 

As a peacemaker I am not only called to advocate and challenge for others, but I am also called to challenge those I work with in the same way.

And finally, the cherry on top. I was reminded of the importance of Christ and His teachings of peace and neighbor love. The past Saturday a couple of friends and I participated in a protest for Gaza in Portland. The entire event was emotionally charged, chaotic, and individual. This was the first Palestinian activism I had done in a non-christ-centered setting. And it was hard. It was hard to utter words like "long live the intefada" and "Palestine will always fight" as a pacifist. It was hard to block sidewalks and see fellow protesters yelling at cars or individuals who gave opposing feedback. It was hard to see signs that read "end zionism" or "no more Israel". Because, friends, these are not Christian testimonies. We are called to love our neighbors regardless of how they hurt or insult us. We are called to welcome the foreigner, no matter their past wrongs to us, and we are called to pray for those who persecute us, not to condemn them. 

Before I end this: a quick note on prayer.
Yes, we should be praying for peace in Gaza and Israel. But perhaps, more effective than praying for peace (what really is peace, anyways?) I encourage all of you to be praying for the political leaders of Gaza and Israel, that they would begin to think about the consequences of their actions. Pray for the families who have lost children, who are fearfully living outside their homes. Pray for mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers. And pray for justice. 

I have been so blessed to have my understanding of who I am called to be shaped in so many ways by so many individuals and experiences, and I am thankful for future opportunities to further hone this understanding. As the way opens, you know what I mean?

Today I am fasting because it is a way to stand with those families in Isreal and Gaza and the West Bank who have lost family and neighbors. As it is Ramadan, and today is also a Jewish Fasting Holiday, many people around the world have found today to be a day where we can all begin to seek peace by meditating on the hunger in our stomachs, understanding that we hunger for peace in the same way.

Blessings,
Katie  

Since October...

Since october a lot has happened, and the process of divulging relationship tumult, travel experiences, and life development seems exhausting. So I'll explain as needed, which will save both of us some drama and heartache. Some things need to be held inside a little bit longer before I find words to process them out onto a screen--and that is acceptable, needed, and healthy.

I'll start with where I am this summer.
Three months ago this summer was going to be the best. I was going to be working at a camp, or traveling to the Middle East, or working with sex trafficked women . . . and none of that really worked out. And I realized (through prayer, conversation, and my own ingenious rationality) that I was being lead to be home and to rest for the summer. Wow.

So here I am. Working two super-super-part-and-a-half-time jobs, helping my parents organize, sort, clean, and maintain our home, and reconnecting with old friends. It's been about a month, and it still seems super uncomfortable. I missed research papers, and roommates, and the CTA, and walking everywhere, and cooking for myself (sorry, mom). But it's also been a process in finding the difference between wasting a day being lazy, and spending a day preforming tasks that allow me to rest, meditate, and grow.

It's been a process of settling into something I tend to avoid--down time. And that has been healthy.

A lot of this blog is going to serve as a tracker for my in the following two-and-a-half months on what I accomplish, what works, what doesn't, and how I intend to keep certain activities in my life when I return to the hectic world of Chicago.

It's a process I have never gone through before. I'm used to programming and being told when to go to bed and wake up, used to having daily schedules which dictated my whereabouts. And now--it's all on me. In a lot of ways I am my own summer camp counselor. Which a weird analogy I will never make again.

So here are my summer goals:
walk places
read books that grow my understanding of Theology, the World, and what I can do.
Reflect on these books through journaling
stay up-to-date and reflective on what is going on in the Middle East (did we all know that Fatah and Hamas are together now?)
craft (a lot, this can include baking)
and spend quality time with people doing things that I enjoy--and honesty with this.

That's all for now.

Quarter-life Crisis

Dear friends,
This last month has been hard. Between failing an exam, waking up at 4 am unable to breathe, and feeling as though everything is about to fall apart--I have been struggling. I live in an apartment with my three best friends and we have all been struggling.

But, in the last two days redemption has happened in unimaginable and blessed ways.
On Monday, I woke up and began to cry. I was so overwhelmed. I wanted out.
I texted my pastor and set up a meeting, I knew I couldn't keep going on how I was. As soon as I was in her office everything came out. I hated the way living in the apartment felt--it was hostile, unwelcoming, a felt alone. And I hated what I was doing in school. I hated Arabic, I hated my major, I hated that I was pushing myself down a path that three years ago seemed perfect and now seems forced.

There's a lot of dimension to this and so I'm going to break it down in a way that helps me process and perhaps helps you to understand as well.

I'll start with the living situation and how that came to be resolved:
All four of us carry a lot of fear with us.
Fears of being alone, of not being loved, of doing the wrong thing, of not loving others, of never getting married, of failing academically, of futures....breathe. It's a lot of force constantly pushing down on us. And those fears began to manifest themselves in spiritual torment. It tore us apart. I honestly began to hate the women I am living with.
Which is absurd. I love these girls.
So last night as we all accumulated after jobs and study sessions and activities, we began to identify the demons in our lives. The demons of fear that were causing us to hate each other and to hate our home. We prayed. I honestly don't think that I have ever prayed such a genuine prayer before in my life. We cast those demons out of our house and invited the Lord back in and instantly the room was full of peace. We laughed and celebrated and drank cocoa. And it was home again.

Now the only reason why I was able to do this, was because what had really been plaguing me since June had begun to be resolved.

I hated what I was majoring in. And that was especially difficult because this was the major I had been declaring my identity in since my sophomore year of high school. And this was the life path that I had been pursuing since I was two. Seriously. But now, at 19 I was realizing: there has to be more to life than this.

As I sat in my pastor's office on Monday I sobbed that I didn't want to let the people in my life down. I didn't want to feel like the last 19 years of my life had been a lie, or a waste or that I was suddenly going to end up doing nothing but mothering 13 children on a farm in Arkansas...breathe.
She looked at me, with more empathy than I have ever received from anyone, and told me to mourn it. "Mourn it like a baby that died", she told me. Because then I don't see it as a waste. I don't see it as a lie. But instead I can start to understand it as something good, that just wasn't ready for the world. As something that did have a life, but that life was a bit shorter than expected. For 19 years I have been a global studies major. for 19 years I have wanted to save those in occupation, and wanted to love those who needed love.

I still want that. And those desires will live on until I am 85 and rollin' in a wheel chair.
I am just realizing that those desires are not synonymous with spending the rest of my life outside the country. I am realizing that I also want a family.
I want lifelong relationship with the people around me.
And the path I was going on didn't allow for that.

So. As of today, October 16, 2013. I am a Sociology and Conflict Transformation Major.
And I am blessed to know that I am still following the will of God, and I am still pursuing a life which advocates for the least of these. Now, I am just able to do that anywhere that God leads me.

Doing this has also given me the freedom to choose the activities I am involve in. No longer do I look at MESA or the upcoming Bethlehem trip or studying abroad as things that I "have to do" because they are major requirements. Instead I get to do them because I am passionate about them.
No longer do I have to feel trapped in a minor that I feel stressed and overwhelmed and frustrated by, instead I can say "let's figure out this Arabic thing," and one of my options is to let it go. To celebrate the life it had, but to be able to say "it is finished."

I am at peace. And God is with me.
Praise the Lord.