Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Dear Kenya,

I meant to write this sooner but it seems I have a hard time making all my many thoughts (thought bubbles are what I like to call them) come together in a clear, concise letter.

I also love words dearly so I tend to over think and analyze each sentence.
 
So I decided, for this letter, I would try my best to stop thinking so hard and just write.

I'm excited to meet you.  I'm excited because I love travel. Though what I love more is traveling with a sense of purpose or reason. Travelling to get your hands dirty, to sleep in not so comfy conditions, to give even when it hurts.  That's the kind of travel I love.
 
A door opened to come see you, unexpectedly, it was after I had let go of planning and thinking and researching.  It was when I thought, "Well, maybe, now just isn't the time.  Maybe going to Africa will have to wait."
 
And then you showed up, through a dear friend to suprise me.
 
Two open spots on her trip, with this organization.  That was all she said.
 
So I prayed and bought my tickets and now you are here - I meet you tomorrow. 
 
I hope you know I only want to do what is best for you.  So if that means talking to people all night and into the wee hours of the morning - I will. 
 
If it means lifting heavy things in the hot sun all day - I will.
 
If it means being still and quiet and not saying anything at all - I will.
 
If it means dancing, jumping for joy, lifting my hands in the air, running with kids - I will.
 
If it means praying with strangers, when sometimes I struggle to pray out loud - I will.
 
Just tell me what you need. 
 
I pray you take all you need from me and leave the rest.   I pray that you change me, for good.  I pray that I come back to you again, if I am meant too, and that it is for a long, long time - not just a week or a few days. 

I pray that I come home refreshed and encouraged and full of joy.   

I can't wait to meet you:)
 
Love,
Maeve
 
 
​​

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Hammocks and Tears

Last Sunday in church I had one of those really good cries.  They don't come often but when they do I feel completely free and brand new.  I didn't expect this one, it came through a worship song.  All of a sudden, before I knew it, my hands were lifted high up in the air and my shoulders were shaking and tears were streaming down my face.  I took communion with a bright red nose and cheeks and mascara blotches around my eyes.  

It felt great.

This cry made me think back to my last really good cry.  My last cry was so good I had to write about it.  I wrote it while on the farm in Nicaragua and I apologize in advance for the length- I just can't get enough of words and this cry cannot be understood without the full story.  At least, I think;)


My hands aren’t completely soft like before; they are calloused from using a machete.  The dirt underneath my toenails will take a few pedicures to clean and my arms and shoulders look fat, to fashion magazine standards, though I see new muscle and feel proud. My belly is bigger from always going up for a second helping of rice and beans. 

It took two planes, a car, two buses, a ferry and another cab to get to the Island with two volcanoes. One of which is still active.

Was I scared?  Yes, beyond belief.  Though I was more scared of how I’d feel if I didn’t go. 

I knew what I was doing but also I didn't.  I'd ask myself, "Why exactly are you here?"  and reply with wavering confidence, “To help, to serve, to learn about farming in a developing country.  To make the world a better place?”

It all seemed somewhat clear.  

What is clear is that our world is beautifully complex, full of people with really calloused hands, all doing their part, to make it better.   These aren’t people we read about or see on TV, they go on, building and creating, like tiny leaf cutter ants, completely unnoticed. 

Details from the farm have woven together, making for one blessed experience.  Some I can remember well, while others I can't seem to recall.  

I can recall little homes, with lots of people sitting outside them in worn plastic chairs, women sweeping dirt floors. Each wrinkle on their face told a story of resilience and strength, one I might not ever understand.   I see piles of trash being burned and can taste the plastic fumes.  I hear cows, donkeys, horses and pigs roaming the streets.  I see children with really big smiles playing outside with lots of other kids with really big smiles too. 

I’m hopeful the details I can’t seem to recall now will turn up, when they are meant too. Though a certain day I can recall, as if it were just yesterday, is this. 

The morning chores were over and I was feeling a bit restless. My sister and I hadn’t spoke in quite some time; we’re both busy bees, running to this and that, always finding a way to squeeze just one more thing in.  Though the farm taught me how to slow down, the beauty in simply being.  Something powerful happens when we connect to that place. 

Our conversation moved from work and relationships to Grandma.  She had few words; just “She looks so frail.”  I always had a feeling that she might not make it until I came home but I selfishly wanted God to wait.  I wanted to delight in her company once more, to make up for all those should haves.  Should have asked more questions, should have sat with her at Thanksgiving dinner, joined her in making Irish Pudding, asked her how she made the perfect cup of tea every time.  Be careful, we can make ourselves go crazy over all the Should Haves. 

The sadness became too heavy to carry and I needed a place to simply be. Though the farm offers little room for privacy.  There is no shutting the door.  There is face your problems, insecurities and frustrations full on in front of the group.  For someone afraid of being so open and raw, it is completely embarrassing, challenging and humbling.  

The tree house is your only escape; a short climb up a ladder to a hard wood surface, surrounded by trees and sky.  I often sat up there to meditate, to be silenced from the clouds atop the volcano. Sometimes my thoughts were so heavy I worried the branches might break; sometimes I merely counted the leaves on the tree above me.   With no family around to hold me, I sought this tree too. 

I ached for a good cry.  You know the one where it starts from way down deep, deep within the gut of your stomach and then your whole body seems to shake and you can’t stop.  Suddenly your crying for all the times you should have but decided not to.  It’s as if your emotions are saying, “Yes, I am here.  Don’t you remember?  Honor me.  Feel what you feel.  You know you want too.  It’s okay if you do, I’ll still think you’re strong.” 

So I sat there to be alone, to honor my emotions, to allow the severity of she looks frail to set in, still no tears.  I thought if I waited long enough they would come and the healing could begin.  

I heard footsteps up the ladder and Joe’s gentle voice.  His Irish accent was a remedy as my Grandmother emigrated from Ireland in 1953.  I peeked back to give him a smile and saw that he was carrying something. He didn’t say anything just started tying his hammock to either side of the tree.  

I tried to say something, anything, though I was overwhelmed with gratitude, from his simple act of compassion.  All he asked was that I didn’t wear my shoes when in it. 

Lucky for him, I was already barefoot. 


It was the nicest thing anyone had done for me in quite some time.  I curled up in the large hammock, so big that it even offered shade from the sun, and then it came.  Way down deep in my heart I began to weep.  I hadn’t cried that freely and heartfelt in so long.  It felt amazing.  Why had I been waiting for?  

Suppose all I needed was a softer place to land.  Thank God for hammocks. 


Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Honesty


I always said I would wait.

I would wait until I began rocking at a really cool job, got married, had a baby, or made a meal so delicious, easy and healthy that it just had to be shared. I would wait to begin writing until I felt I had something worthy to share. 

Because, the fact of the matter is, there are so just so many crafty, talented, beautiful people out there (whom I love and adore) that make it somewhat intimidating to begin telling your own story.   

So I continued to wait, despite feeling overwhelmingly inspired by the stories and thoughts that were running through my mind on a daily basis.  And while my stories seemed rather simple and ordinary, I couldn’t help but wonder..are other people thinking these thoughts too?

My stories were of my first sip of coffee in the morning or better yet, sipping coffee with a really dear friend and how time seems to stand still and suddenly you feel really good & thankful. 
I love how warm beverages always seem to open you up.  Do you agree?
Or the story of noticing that same homeless man, every single day, on the corner of where I turn for work and kicking myself for never once saying hello.  And feeling overwhelmingly concerned when I passed by his usual corner and he wasn’t there.
Or the story of deciding to turn my music down in the car and instead talk with God, and having it feel like I was talking with an old friend, even though it had been quite a while since I had reached out to Him.  He never once stopped listening. 
Stories are happening all around us. 
And I desperately want to share, so that you too, might share with me, and together we can find hope, faith and encouragement. 

I realized recently that my hesitations for writing stemmed way deeper than feelings of inadequacy, feelings of not being crafty and creative enough.  It all stemmed from a fear of being honest.
Because the writers I love the most have a raw voice.

Their voice doesn’t pretend it’s okay when it’s really not. 
Rather it cries, gets angry and laughs really loud.
Their voice doesn’t hide mistakes and heartache, rather honors them, recognizes them, embraces them and moves on. 
And maybe, most importantly of all, their voice rarely apologizes for it’s many flaws and quirks. 
A voice like this is honest, against all odds. 
I like this voice. 
So at the core, my voice was afraid, afraid of being that honest.

I blame a weekend with Grace and Sara for my sudden vulnerability.
I met Sara and Grace freshman year of college.  Sara lived down the hall and I immediately wanted to be her friend because she had adorable style and an even more adorable nose ring.  Superficial? Maybe.   Though I’m so glad I asked her to be my friend because little did I know that she’d be the kindest girl I’d ever met.  

She's someone who can turn a pile of scraps into a beautiful piece of art.
Someone who never fails to notice the little things; a blade of grass, a dandelion swaying in the breeze, an old couple sitting on a park bench holding hands.  
Sara makes everything seem not so simple, but intricately made, purposefully made, worthy of our attention.

I’ll never forget the moment I knew Grace would be someone I not only wanted to have around for my life but also desperately needed. 
I got really sick my freshman year.  The kind of sick where all you want is to be home, lying on the couch, with mom by your side.  Moms will make you toast and tea and rub your feet and change the washcloth on your head without complaint. Though in college, when you share a small dorm room, everyone stays as far as they can from you.  Poking their head in every once in a while to make sure you’re alive but reluctant to take care of you because they too might catch the awful thing you have. 


My fever kept going up and down and one night, when I thought I was getting better, it shot back up again and I was so over being sick and everyone running from me so I laid in my bed and just began to cry, hoping the tears would cool my burning head. 

Grace came in my room, took the warm washcloth off my head, and ran cold water on it under the sink.  She placed it on my head.
She then placed her hand on my head.
Then, she prayed.
She prayed over me, asking the Lord to lift my fever and make me well.
I remember feeling the pressure of her hand on my head and began to realize, this is what friendship is.  

This is what I have been waiting for. 

So I thank these two women for reminding of what it means to be alive and be free and ultimately, be honest.  

May the stories begin:)