everything small

Reducing

2012-02-01T12:23:00.001-08:00

Today I was in the middle of a to-do list that extends throughout 12 sticky notes when I retreated to my office window to watch downtown Nashville move. And as I was simply sitting and watching, I realized I was praying. I was desperately praying. Recently, I've identified a few very poignant desires in my heart that have gone unmet or unrealized. I rather candidly told God exactly what I wanted, and was in the middle of asking Him why I didn't have it when the thought came to me:

Preoccupation with self is a harmful reduction of the gift of life God has given me.

What I mean by this is that when I am primarily focused on my own will, my own needs, and advancing my own agenda, I reduce the larger picture of what life (in all its glory) is meant to be to my own self-gratification. My self-obsession and inward focus blinds me from seeing that I'm a small part of a more complete picture. And this reduction does not help me honor the true significance of why I was created— to glorify God and enjoy Him forever by living as a co-heir with Christ and co-laborer with my brothers and sisters—working to call out, usher in, and welcome a Kingdom far greater and more encompassing than my happiness.

I don't want to reduce life to a self-centered preoccupation with needs met or unmet. I don’t want to reduce God to simply a giver and withholder. And I don't want to forfeit the joy available
to me now for the discontented anticipation of something “better”. "For to me, to live is Christ..."

I want to remain open and thankful, humble, and free from self-occupation.

The Little Things...

2012-01-24T11:42:00.000-08:00

Last night I sat in on the tail end of Bible study with the women I work with-
women who are often marginalized and judged by larger society,
women who are hilariously invasive of my middle-class comfort zone,
women who are precious and hungry to learn,
and women who are well aquainted with loss.
And as Bible study was closing up and I was ready to make announcements, one of the women meekly raised her hand and said, "You know- I just gotta share this. I lost my momma when was 8 and I lost my daddy when I was 16. But I'm kinda thankful, because how else would God have shown me that He's my momma and my daddy?"

What a gift to have these profound voices in my life every day. They correct and humble me on a regular basis.

“O Lord, my heart is not lifted up; my eyes are not raised too high; I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me. But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; like a weaned child is my soul within me.”
Psalm 131

Fertile Ground

2012-01-14T07:38:00.001-08:00

For the past year and a half, I have been calling myself a student of the contemplative life. My mind has been opened up to practices like centering prayer and solitude...and frameworks in which to understand humanity like Thomas Merton's false self and true self. Through some painful experiences, my life was ripe for reorganization around the Spirit, and God was so good to allow those experiences so that I would find Him.

In pursuit of healing (or in a desperate attempt to make the hurt go away), I called up a little convent an hour north and asked if I could come visit. The Sister on the other end of the phone informed me that my request was not weird and that they actually offered their home to many people seeking private retreats. Did I want two nights and a visit with the Spiritual Director for $75, or a one-day, 3-meals included visit for $30? I thought maybe if I visited with the Spiritual Director, she could peer into my future and tell me I was going to be okay, so I chose that option.

After twiddling my thumbs for a week in anticipation, I finally made the drive north, and the second I pulled up the lane to the convent, tears streamed down my face. The Sister who received me and showed me my room acted like it was normal for guests to quietly suppress sobs, and from that moment I knew I was in a place where I could heal.

I took long walks around the large and inviting property and spread a blanket out below the Fall trees. I listened for God's voice and tried to overcome my insecurity when I had to ask what the winding, maze-like looking thing was out below the Library..."That's a prayer labyrinth. Have you ever walked one before?" (“A prayer what?”)

I met with the Spiritual Director, a kind and wise woman with a small dog that followed us into her office. She listened to my story and assured me that God was very near to me and that it sounded like He was doing good work in my spirit already. I wanted to know if my dreams were going to be fulfilled and she said, "Yes- but maybe not in the ways you think." Hope began to grow and I wondered how she got to do what she does for a living.

It was these Sisters (over a couple of visits) who inspired me to practice the things I was learning in the books I was a reading- practices like centering prayer, solitude, and lectio divina. They lived simple lives completely opposite of my frenetic pace. Committed to a contemplative life, they knew how tender the healing heart is...and they welcomed the outpouring of mine all over their home.

Now I minister to others for my job. To some I say I work for a non-profit and to others I admit that it’s really vocational ministry. Among other things, I serve women who have grown up in systemic poverty and I try my best to find something to say when they share with me life’s hurts. And I’m finding that I can’t do my job without my own exploration and admition of my hurts…without practicing a contemplative life…without finding my own voice and then listening to and receiving God’s.

To be a soft place for others to land (to welcome the outpouring of their hearts), I have to remain fertile ground, open and willing to receive Him- His voice, His correction, His grace, His affirmation. And hopefully, through the receiving, He will continue to give me His grace to give to others. I really need it.

Take and Receive

2012-01-12T10:49:00.000-08:00

"Take, O Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, and my entire will. All that I have and possess, you have given all to me. To you, O Lord, I return it. All is yours. Give me your love and grace, for this is sufficient for me."
-St. Ignatius of Loyola

Why in the world would I ever pray this prayer? Honestly, I mostly did it because an author I greatly respect did. And I figured if it worked for her, it would work for me. I'm just chuckling now at the naivety with which I've prayed these words.

The past six months of my life have been nothing short of amazing. After enduring a season where I was almost certain God would always ask me to walk the hard road, he gave me the gift of excitement! He moved me to a new city, gave me friends way too cool for me, provided me with a job I didn't even know I could ask for, and let me experience freedom from a pervading heaviness that had settled in my soul. I prayed for ridiculous things, just like a kid begging for inordinate amounts of candy, and He answered "yes" way more often than "no." He gave me blissful unawareness of myself and allowed me to relax from thinking too deeply and taking life too seriously. I found myself saying "I love my life!" way more often than I ever thought possible.

For a minute there, I even thought I had transformed into one of those kinds of humans whose deepest and most pressing thought is about what shoe to wear that day...flat or heel? (This, my friends, can also be a holy and wonderfully blessed way to live- I'm convinced.)

And while I can honestly and truthfully still say, "I love my life!," I feel that I'm transitioning into a bit of a more sustainable season, one where I'm sobered and humbled by God's recent interventions. As I've been praying for him to take and receive my liberty, my memory, my understanding, and my entire will (whew...I mean- what does it mean to give your memory to God?), He's been kind to do some taking, and reveal to me the gods I've been worshipping that aren't Him.

The god of happiness.

The god of self will.

The god of understanding.

It could be that Nashville is losing her luster (don't think so) or it could be that God is placing both my feet back on the ground, faithfully, yet gently. Afterall, Richard Foster says that "in one sense, humility is nothing more than staying close to the earth"...and I've naively prayed for that virtue, too.
So here I am, thankful for both the ridiculous gifts and the sobering ones...for the cup I drink that contains both relief and conviction.

May you be blessed with the same!

Not God

2012-01-07T06:39:00.000-08:00

Today I was reminded that there's a Savior...and it's not me.

So relieved.

Caps and Gowns and Moving On

2011-05-10T20:32:00.000-07:00

It's 11:26 p.m. and I'm exhausted, albeit very much awake, anticipating the arrival of this inevitable veering in my journey. In five days I will walk across a stage in a cap and a gown and that will be that- graduate school complete. Three days ago I ran across a finish line with one of my best friends, hand in hand, and that was that- 13.1 miles complete.

All of the activities, the goals, the degrees, the finish lines I've worked so hard to cross are suddenly coming to a close and life. is. changing. Even my dreams are changing.

The time is nearing for me to catch my breath, to fully climb into the boat I've been trying to hang on to for dear life, and I'm terrified.

What do you do when life comes to an irrepressible halt? When you no longer need to "just survive"? What do you do when you can no longer hide behind papers to write and races to finish and duties to attend to?

I was reading a passage in one of my favorite books, Pilgrimage of a Soul (Phileena Heuertz), earlier today and stumbled across this passage, originally penned by Tilden Edwards:

"Ceasing from work tests our trust: Will the world and I fall apart if I stop making things happen for a while? Is life really gifted and the Spirit moving through it, so that I can truly rest and taste this restful caring? Can I trust that this caring will be the bottom line when I rest, beneath all the suppressed and repressed sides of myself that are likely to rise when I relax my controlling reins?..."

There are suppressed and repressed parts of myself that will surely rise in this time of rest, this time of uncertainty about the future. Like oil rising to the top of the water, I can sense the deeply embedded emotions of my being beginning to reach the surface. In moments of reprieve, a memory floods, a conversation replays. It's almost as if my emotional life needs a cleansing, and my mind and body know that the time is nearing to actually stop, feel, reacquaint, reevaluate, and rest.

This is a veering in the life's path for sure. Where will it take me?

Without Condition

2010-10-13T21:46:00.000-07:00

Today I was reminded of a simple, yet profound truth: It’s love and acceptance without condition that truly transforms people. Apparently in one of my more inspired teenage moments, I uttered this realization to my mother. And today, she decided to toss it back my way. Inevitably, this reminder took me back to my freshman year of college when the discovery of unconditional acceptance became reality for me.

To set the stage, I was a very talkative 18-year-old (and 12-year old, and 3-year-old). To make matters worse, I developed severe anxiety thinking twice as much about what I said after the fact and continually beating myself up about my perceived failure of “coolness”. Social scenarios ran through my head like regular marathoners. Play by play’s of every interaction consumed me as much as my homework. I looked in the mirror at every opportunity and was constantly borrowing other’s identities. Like coats, I would try on other's phrases and mannerisms, coffee drink orders and musical tastes.

With me at all times were my many deficits. Like little coins stuffed in my pocket, I was always aware of their weight, yet exhausted from trying to keep them hidden…

Until one day, I woke up and realized I had friends. Real friends. The kind that let me borrow their language and lists of favorite things. The kind that let me stop by and offered me space to figure myself out. The kind that kept inviting me sit with them at chapel and be seen with them at lunch.

And over time, I noticed myself changing…opening up, forming my own opinions, and listening to others for the first time. My internal chatter began to quiet as my striving became less and less. I suddenly breathed deeper and stood taller, more comfortable in my own skin. The difference?

I knew I was loved. And accepted. Even enjoyed (by people that weren’t my parents). One of these women that offered me her unconditional acceptance is my good friend, Lissa. I can still hear her voice ringing in my ears as she constantly reminded me...“Maeven- there has never, ever been anything to prove.”

It wasn’t cognitive behavioral therapy or medicine, or even the right sermon that helped kick-start this journey of self-acceptance. It was love without condition. It was an invitation to belong, always, no matter what.

Sure- I still look in the mirror too much and grow self-conscious at times. But I find myself celebrating more often than criticizing, owning more often than borrowing, and listening to myself and others far more than ever before.

It's love that changes people. It's acceptance without condition. Not a new idea- just a much need reminder.

Sandals

2010-08-28T15:40:00.000-07:00

Two and a half years ago, I bought myself a really expensive pair of hiking sandals. I distinctly remember going to the bank, withdrawing the money, driving to Extreme Outfitters, and selecting the perfect pair. In great anticipation of adventure, I strapped those sandals to my feet and flew to Africa.

Fast forward to yesterday… I was moving all of my belongings into the new place where I will live when I noticed how much dust had collected on my beloved sandals. I racked my brain for the last time I had strapped them on and well, honestly, I couldn’t remember. Had it been a year? At most. A couple months? At least.
Naturally, I kicked myself a little on the inside for allowing the sandals to go unworn and all the earth I should have walked upon, un-trodden. In the somewhat foreign space of my new closet, I decided today would be the day I would strap those puppies back on and bravely call this change in my life my new “adventure.”

Now, as I write this blog post, I’m sitting in the room I grew up in for the very last time. It’s so eerily empty that my voice echoes in the bare space. For the past fifteen years, I have slept, dreamt, worked, talked, sang, and cried in the space between these four walls. It has been my little corner of the world in which to grow and become. And today, my task is to try to figure out how to leave it.

If you’ll scroll down, you might notice that a year ago, I posted on the concept of pilgrimage. I now look back on that post (when the experience of loss was rather new to me), and am in awe of just how much rockier the road has been since that time, quite unexpectedly. But I’m also in awe of how God has gifted me with the opportunity to walk instead of stay seated, and to move forward instead of dwell in spaces no longer meant for me.

Today, I say goodbye to my childhood home and my parents who are moving north. And even though I am staying in the same town and shopping at the same stores, worshiping at the same church, and grabbing coffee at the same Starbucks, I will have those old sandals strapped on, all to remind me that this is my new adventure…

Learning how to say goodbye.
Learning how to find my pace.
And learning how to keep on going.

"Blessed are those whose strength is in you, who have set their hearts on pilgrimage."
Psalm 84:5

Daily Joys

2010-03-22T20:47:00.000-07:00

I stare at my wall almost every day and ask myself, "Are you SURE you want to keep doing this?" (School, that is...getting a masters degree in social work, to be even clearer.)

And then I think...

Yes!

...as long as I get to keep a color-coated, week-by-week, to-do list of all my upcoming assignments. And then have the pleasure of ripping down one sticky-note at a time upon completion of stated assignments.

Sticky notes are gifts sent from God. And tearing one off the wall is such a fulfilling moment of magic each day.

Please see above.

Pain

2010-03-12T21:38:00.000-08:00

It’s taken me 23 years to really “get” that there is no way around brokenness. The clean and kept world that I grew up in has yes, protected me, but also tricked me into thinking I don’t actually have to tolerate any real pain—the kind of pain that leaves one feeling helpless and terribly unprotected.

I always thought the pain everyone else “less fortunate” than I goes through, would just pass on by my front door. Maybe something like the way the Lord passed by the blood-painted doorframes of the Israelites.

(Did mom and dad forget to paint my doorframe?)

And when the pint sized pangs of adolescence did come… when I realized I was chubbier than the other 11 year-old girls and my hair was frizzier and that there was no hope for me in succeeding at any sport, I just took my little morsels of grief and massaged them with dreams of a skinnier future.

By college, I realized that if real pain ever did catch up with me and try to seize me and stick me in it’s cage, I’d plan to either:

1. intellectualize my way out of it

2. buy my way out

3. flirt my way out

4. or negotiate some deal.

And if all else failed, I’d stick my dad on it.

Then life suddenly turned very adultish. It didn't work for dad to shoulder my responsibility and I became alarmingly vulnerable to the risks I was taking.

And in the trial and error of the risk taking, I got burned. And I burned another. Deeply.

Which leads to me where I am now- sitting at my computer in the middle of the night finally realizing that surrendering is so much better than negotiating.

I’m learning to surrender to the fact that asking “why” doesn’t help me walk forward with the Holy Spirit. I’m learning how to accept the discomfort of knowing I gave up control when I chose obedience. And I’m learning how to accept that following Jesus will always be many seasons of discomfort and pain as he strips me of my "old" and clothes me in "new".

But the hope of it all comes on the other side of brokenness. The side where I suddenly wake up into the sunlight and realize that while this wound is still very visible, it’s beginning to grow new layers of skin.

And through resisting the temptation to self-sooth,

and diminish,

ignore and suppress,

I am experiencing true healing by the Spirit.

It feels good to say that.

Pilgrimage

2009-09-13T19:32:00.000-07:00

I open my eyes and suddenly realize that every feature in the terrain of my life is unrecognizable.

A new mountain stands erect where once my ocean of peace swelled. And, oh, how this path has narrowed before me, and that field of opportunity has shriveled.

There is a new beauty in the change of landscape, but it's uniquely different. Other. Foreign.

Like a second mother.

This has been my life the past several weeks. Graduated from college, moved back home, suffering the first great loss of my life, and beginning a masters program in social work (with not only a a whole new set of new ideas, but a new paradigm in which to filter them).

However, I read something today that saved me...

Blessed are those whose strength is in you,

who have set their hearts on pilgrimage.

Psalm 84:5

Pilgrimage. Journey. More than buzzwords, I hope. New meaning carves itself from those words based on my present life circumstances. To realize that life is not found in an end, but rather in the means is becoming the lesson of my life.

And sometimes the means is unfair, and produces a swarm of grief and confusion. But the means is also where Jesus meets me.

It's where the truth of his love is realized in such poignant ways, humbling my false notion of entitlement.

Some small part of me is pretty sure I'm grateful for these lessons, and this pilgrimage. But it's still a small part.

Baby, Baby

2008-10-23T21:30:00.000-07:00

We carefully stepped into the dimly lit maternity house, cool mud plastering the walls, mats distributed on the floor. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, and for my head to realize what was about to happen.

Karen and I followed the midwife to the back room, where we were invited to sit and left to wonder where the expecting mother was. As walls and objects continued to come into focus, I noticed her. She was lying on the ground in the room next to us, the outline of her body illuminated by the glow of a lantern.

The Birthing Room

The darkness and silence surprised me…I don’t know why. Maybe American TV has conditioned me to believe that birth is a loud event- lots of yelling, Lamaze breathing, husbands fainting, doctors running—and all under nauseating, florescent hospital light. I've seen Father of the Bride II way too many times.

But this night was different. The mud birthing center was cool and calm, ambient, and peaceful.

The midwife invited Karen and I into the birthing room. It was time to check the position of the baby inside the mother. I was surprised to see a cardboard box of latex gloves on top of a worn, wooden shelf. Where the heck do they get latex gloves in the middle of the Bush? I couldn't even get coffee. But I put on my latex gloves and was guided by the midwife’s hand to where the baby’s head was. It would be another couple of hours before the mother was dilated and ready to push.

Pastor Phiri, Karen, and I used that time to drive back down the mountain and to Namanda Village to gather more supplies: sleeping bags, dinner, a lantern.

Two hours later, we arrived for the second time at the birthing center, nervous we would miss the big moment.

It did not take long.

By the time Karen and I were situated next to the aunts and agogos, we heard the mother cry out for the midwife. Grabbing a small stool to sit on, Karen and I followed the midwife into the birthing room.

Twenty minutes later, I was the first to hold her. After tying and cutting the umbilical chord, the midwife took the baby from the black plastic sheet outstretched underneath the mother and placed her in my arms. I was so elated and humbled to see this wiggly, beautiful girl handed to me. And I cradled her with fear and trembling.

Her face was like soft clay, creamy and fresh. Her tiny body still wet and slippery, wrapped in a faded chitengi.

At this moment, I was aware that I was experiencing one of those unique times when the gift, and the realization of the gift come packaged together. I was acutely in the moment, feeling the weight and wonder of it all.

There is definitely more to be said about this night. I could write a book- one chapter for every minute. I could write about how Karen had the privilege of naming the child Catherine, and why she chose that name. I could recount the story of when we took Catherine and her mom home, and how Catherine’s grandmother came out of the house, wrapped in nothing but a chitengi, and held her new granddaughter close to her breast and cried, “God has blessed us! God has blessed us!"

I could tell about the moments after the birth when I sat with Catherine’s aunts and oohed and aahed over her wide eyes and wrinkly toes. There was a lot of “woman” in that room, and I never felt more awake to all the emerging maternal parts of my 21-year-old self.

I could write about all of that, but I’ll just say this instead:

Watching Catherine be born was one of the greatest gifts God has ever given me. It brought hope that all of the incubated brokeness in me would one day be delivered into something beautiful and fresh, and uniquely purposed.

I take time to remember this now as I sit in the middle of the night with mountains of homework and requests of all the things I wish to be delivered from, in the middle of Indiana, far from Africa and that night. I sit here and remember the hope.

Catherine- Peace and joy and provision to you, baby girl.

Among the Aunts

We Had Fun, Too

2008-10-05T09:12:00.001-07:00

So...not everything was so heavy and serious in Africa.

We had fun, too. :)

In fact, we played "goat tag" at camp once or twice in the evenings... because that was about the only thing to do...you know, after a heavy day.

Enjoy.

A Little More Matrida

2008-10-04T07:52:00.000-07:00

I couldn’t get her off my mind. Out of my head. Pieces of her story would flood my thoughts as I tried to interview others.

So I went back to her, and kept going back to visit.

Upon arriving at her home, she would look up from the groundnuts she was busy shelling and quickly escape into the mud hut. A minute later, proceeded by a tall, grass mat, she would emerge, ready to greet us.

The first time back, we (Papa, myself, and Logan) sat on her mat for about an hour as I listened about her week, her ailments, her distractions. A squeamish two year old crawled between all of us as she recounted a dream she had endured the night before…

Two men were entering her house through the roof, one of them handing her a medicine she felt a strong urge to resist. Their presence in the house was disturbing, frightening. They were forcing her hand open to receive the medicine when…

She woke up. Rolling over to draw her young son to her side, Matrida discovered that her baby, two-year-old boy was not next to her sleeping on the mat. Heart racing, she began feeling for his body in the cold black of the hut. Finally, she found him sitting near the doorway, his tiny body shaking with a mysterious force.

Matrida then told me about the surprise visit her ex-husband had paid her earlier in the week. She was still physically recovering from the blows he left, her heart sore from the indignity of the abuse.

When she was done talking, her eyes turned downward and we sat in silence for what seemed like forever. I had absolutely no idea what to do or say.

What do you say to that?

What do you do for that?

Here I am, a measly, 21 year-old American girl, terribly unacquainted with such blatant spiritual and physical warfare. But she was looking toward me, waiting for my words.

I don’t know how, but I found myself reaching deep within to heave out memories of my own personal pain. I had to try to meet her somewhere in that pit.

Unable to find words of my own, and with a throat dry from the emotion, I read to her from Lamentations 3. Papa translated.

“I have been deprived of peace; I have forgotten was prosperity is. So I say, “My splendor is gone and all that I had hoped from the Lord.” I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall. I well remember them, and my soul is downcast within me. Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope:

Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness…”

In that moment of sharing

laments,

hope,

and loads,

something small, but profound happened...

Matrida’s eyes met mine for the first time.

She actually looked up from the ground and saw me. Saw me with her.

There is a certain beauty in choosing to sit with someone in their pain. And after sitting for a while, achy and scattered, you rise and discover that another part of you is put back together, restored, whole.

An Introduction

2008-09-28T15:41:00.000-07:00

Walking around the trails of the bush, I always carried with me the fancy title of “Women’s Advocacy Intern”. Really, it was all in my head, considering the Malawian women had no idea what I was doing until I visited with them and explained.

I would turn to my translator, Amayi Kachingwe, signaling that I needed her to translate, and would slowly begin…

“Hello.”

Pause.

“My name is Maeven and I have come from the United States…”

Pause.

“I have come because I have a special interest in Malawian women. I see how hard you work…”

Pause.

“…and how much you love your family. I am encouraged by your strength and faithfulness to provide every day for your husband and children…”

Pause.

“…I’ve seen you in your gardens. I’ve seen you at the watering hole with your buckets.”

Pause.

“ You work so hard and are so valuable to your village.”

Pause.

“Do you know that?”

At this point, almost every woman would look toward the ground, staring at the mat below her like it was the first time she saw it. A few would try their best to suppress shy smiles.

It was during these times of meeting and interviewing women that I woke up in a way.

In the midst of the most isolating bouts of culture shock, when every part of my being had turned inward and self-focused, the words and stories of these women turned me inside out.

I will write more about her in the future, but one of the women that did this was a 24-year-old single mother of two.

The first time I met Amayi Matrida I was with Pastor Phiri. (Circle of Hope's Malawian director). I listened intently as she explained the crisis that engulfed her life for the past several months.

After a short, 4-year marriage, Matrida’s husband wanted to bring another wife into the home (polygamy is still a rampant reality in the villages).

She refused.

She protested.

She knew the effects and what would happen.

So he beat her and left. But this wasn’t the first time he beat her. I later found out that Matrida had suffered two prior miscarriages because of the abuse. I listened as her broken voice would trail off into whispers...

To feed her young children, Matrida often went deep into the bush to “cut grasses”. She would then take those grasses and sell them on the side of the road. When she had sold enough to feed her family for a while, she began to build a fence around her mud hut with the remaining reeds.

I couldn’t help but think of the fence as a poignant picture of the isolation Matrida felt inside.

Or maybe it was for protection…

from ex husbands and the disapproving stares of neighbors.

Pastor Phiri and the others went on to pray for this woman, who at the time was a stranger to me. I didn’t know that she would soon become one of the biggest influences of the change in me that continues to evolve.

Violet

2008-09-23T20:15:00.000-07:00

The red dust began to plaster my feet as we walked toward the village where Violet lived. I trailed loosely behind Abusa Mwachipa (my resident translator/ pastor/ Malawian grandpa).

And by “trailed loosely”, I mean… I slugged all the way down the trail and back in Katingeza Village for the third day in a row. By this time, Africa and I had ended our honeymoon stage, and I was willing to admit that life in the bush was becoming quite uncomfortable. I was so tired, so spent. And I was positive that I could not bear one more story of heartbreaking proportions.

But we were going to visit a woman named Violet, who desperately needed someone to listen to her story.

I had met her only a few days before, during one of my routine interview mornings, and knew that this woman had more to say.

A subsistence level farmer, a wife, and a young mother to two children, Violet was steeped in a lifestyle of survival. My interest in her had peeked in our previous interview when her reply to one of my questions caught me completely off-guard. I was asking about her education and why she spent ten years in school, barely completing the 3^rd grade. Even across the cultural communication divide, I caught the matter-of-factness in her voice when she turned to me and simply said…

“I have no intelligence.”

My heart stopped in a way. This woman truly believed she had no intelligence. Beginning school at the age of ten, she could not pass the tests to go on to fourth grade by the time she was 20. Talk about persistence! And exhaustion.

Ten years in three grades.

There was an obvious undiagnosed learning disorder in the picture here. I thought the rest of the day about the implications of Violet’s belief. And then I came to this realization-

My country values intelligence so much. It is the ethos of our culture that drives us toward success, toward full lives. But this woman’s value was not completely stripped by a false belief, which explained the peaceful smile on her face throughout both of our interviews. While this belief is degrading, it didn’t affect her everyday thoughts and behaviors. Malawians have this amazing way of identifying their value by relationships, by family.

This evokes two things…

One. My own feelings and my self-worth were called into question. Ouch.

Two. How could I help Violet to realize she did possess intelligence? She cooked and parented, raised crops, enjoyed church services. She went on to tell me that she eventually wanted to pastor a church, and had a desire to try the whole learning to read deal again.

I walked away from Violet’s house confused, but heartened. I didn’t mind the dusty feet as much (okay…feet absolutely caked with dirt), and I couldn’t deny the movement in my heart...an attitude refocused by the plight of someone else.

Sometimes God’s grace comes through paradigm-shifting experiences, and sometimes it comes through small conversations with Malawian women. Either way, I’m thankful.

My Busy Heart

2008-09-18T13:03:00.000-07:00

This weekend I went to Old Navy and bought one of those cool scarves that everyone is wearing- that in fact became cool two years ago (I just haven’t caught on until now). Then I saw a shirt for $5.99 and thought, “Hey. I don’t have this color. Besides, it’s so cheap.” And then I saw the black version of a pretty pink, lacy shirt I had purchased on another occasion only two weeks before…

I love that pink shirt.

I might as well get the black one, too. Besides, it’s on sale.

But as soon as I began driving away from my little splurge episode, my heart sank. I reasoned with myself all the way down 146^th street…

“Maeven. Seriously. You gave yourself to the poor in Malawi all summer. It’s perfectly fine to get three little measly things for yourself.”

“No big deal, Maeve. Keep driving.”

“Maeven! Stop worrying. No one is going to judge you.”

So this went on for a while, until I put on that new black shirt and scarf and headed back to school feeling quite trendy and secure.

Since Malawi, I’ve become so sensitive to all of the

inventions

ideas

noise

desires

materials

messages

plans

and feelings

that move in and make a home in my heart. Nothing is simple; there’s everything to think about. I recognize how motivated I am to find myself in an assortment of other gods- people’s opinions, the fulfillment of plans, security, my abilities. And I recognize that my heart sank, not because of my purchases, but because it was so heavy with the crowding.

Like my closet.

Like my schedule.

And now my heart was having to make room for more to keep track of. More to deal with. More to reconcile.

There is a reason why the Psalmist reminds himself two times that his soul finds rest in God alone (Psalm 62). I found this unique rest in the heart of the bush, surrounded by swollen-bellied children, roaming goats, oppressed women and their cries, the eternal golden, sand color of the dried crops.

I remember the peace of the four Malawian pastors that lived with our team in Namanda Village. I remember the slow, steady pace of my translator as we hiked our way through the trails, visiting distant villages. And I remember, like a faint dream, what it felt like to be at peace with the little I possessed.

My heart was wide open to good and nurturing things.

I'm seeking to find that invitation of openness here.

Six Weeks Later

2008-09-16T21:09:00.000-07:00

It's been six weeks since I arrived back in the United States. Lately, with the beginning of the school year, Africa has seemed so far away and distant. But there are little pockets of memories that tend to seep through my everyday activities. Walking to class, working on a homework assignment, shoving my laundry in the dryer, driving home. I'll be going about my business, consciously present, when the dusty face of a Malawian child interrupts my thoughts.

Just the other day while I was driving back to school from home, I imagined what it would be like to pull my '92 Toyota Camry into the drive of Namanda Village. The image was so intensely vivid in my mind that I fully expected to be able make it a reality. When I realized that I was a 34 hour journey (by air travel) away from my thought, I was overcome with sadness and grief.

Malawi isn't tangible anymore.

I'm beginning the process of working through all of the emotions that come after exposure to such poverty. It's so tempting to shove them into a drawer, or my back pocket. I tell God, "I don't have the time or the emotional energy."

But process, I must.

In the next few entries I will begin to tell stories...little snapshots of village life...or larger pictures of culture. I will tell you about Amayi Matrida and our friendship, about baby Catherine and brave Lekani.

I will write about progressions and regressions of my heart. The making whole and the breaking. I'm learning this all takes time.

Malawi Oh Eight

2008-08-02T17:41:00.000-07:00

So...I spent the past two months in Malawi, Africa. And this is my way to share Malawi with the world.

The point of my trip was to bring the stories back of "the least of these"...women who are oppressed, marginalized, hidden, and very beautiful.

So my stories will be coming very soon as I begin the journey of processing...in pictures and in words.

Thanks.