Hello All,
Well, I haven't even been home for a full week, but it's already been productive. I have been through everything that I own from my apartment and in my parents' house. I only have one more place of storage to go through things. It's actually been so much easier to shed the past and the stuff than I thought it would be. I have great incentive. I am so homesick for Honduras as always. Last night, I watched a documentary called Which Way Home. It was amazing and felt so much like home. It's about these children who leave from various Central American countries to get to the United States. And do you know one of the biggest reasons each child (many from Honduras) listed for risking their lives to get to the US? They do not have the love of a father or a mother. Their fathers and mothers don't want them, or they are trying to earn the love of their fathers and mothers by reaching the great US to send financial help home. That heartbreaking fact alone is the reason that I am moving. It's the reason that I don't want to live in the US--because I was sitting in my comfortable living room, wrapped up in a blanket, with my loving parents snoring beside me while these children are all alone riding trains to reach an illusion of hope. I wanted to love each one of those children as my own.
If you are reading this, please pray for Honduras. I talked to Roy last night, and he was sharing with me some of the struggles of the ministry right now. It has to be God's work. You can offer a child food, shelter, godly instruction, education, and even a sense of family, but if that child does not believe in his or her heart that he or she is loved (which is a revelation only within God's power to reveal), it is not enough. He is the only thing that is enough. . .which means that once again, the ministry doesn't really need more money, more food, more programs, or even more workers. What the ministry always needs is more of God and His presence.
Anyway, as I was going through some stuff recently--old papers and the like--I came across this reflective paper that had written last year following a trip to Washington, D.C. I just thought I'd share it now:
Life unfolds like a blossom--quiet, at its own pace, and with unexpected curls and aromas. It's not to be forced or willed into our time frames. It takes much undivided attention, or it will be missed. My trip to Washington, D. C. was a slice of this life, a continuation of an unfolding blossom. Free of concrete plans and full of glorified wanderings, my trip with Emma was charming with hints of God's aroma and curls of His presence in the most unlikely places.
I have a tendency whenever I meet some people to feel an inexplicable drawing towards them. It is as if parts of their souls are greeting parts of mine that don't speak but wave hello in shared glances and common laughter. Emma was one of those people. In her plaid, with her coffee, she moved with a wind that asked me to follow, so I took the opportunity. I didn't know how the trip would go, but I knew we'd be instant friends when, in the morning, I saw Emma snap her fingers the way that I learned in Honduras-- a snap that is more commonly associated with tobacco chewing in the US. I know of no other woman in the United States who can correctly do this gesture.
This finding set the kindred tone for the entire trip. When we exited the train, we set off like women on a mission although neither of us had really prepared with directions to Galladeut University--the only defined aspect of our day. When we arrived after making a few necessary loops, it was a delightful haven in the midst of concrete grime. Emma signed with a lady at the information kiosk, and I was amazed at her ability to carry her own in the conversation. I took sign language class when I was homeschooled, but that was many years ago, and I have lost almost all of what I learned.
The campus was understandably quiet--silent in fact. It was a peace I don't believe I've been exposed to before. Very few students were milling around; the place appeared abandoned. We found our way to the information building, and after a short wait, we began a tour. The tour was so beautiful. The idea of a language where you must watch the person intently in order to understand is mesmerizing. There is no possibility of half listening. Suddenly, I began to think from the perspective of a deaf person, and the world had an entirely different light. The campus was gorgeous with visually-stimulating architecture and serenity--a place I believe deaf individuals could appreciate more than perhaps the hearing.
During the tour, we heard of a man who adopted deaf, orphaned children and worked to establish a school where they could receive an education. My heart was captured by that part of the story. While we were in the student center, amidst all of the quiet, suddenly, a piercing, unbridled laugh invaded our standing existences, and I decided that the laugh of a deaf person had to be one of the most beautiful sounds in the world because they are unafraid. They don't try to stifle themselves for fear of being too loud. They don't muffle the joy that erupts--it's a strain of unblemished happiness straight to the ears of God because in some cases, there is no one else around to enjoy that sound.
Touring Galladeut solidified my desire to take a sign language class next semester. I may not always know how knowledge that I consume in college will be used in my future--perhaps it never will--but I am ever intrigued by the ways that God reaches me or teaches me something new in the most unlikely of places. As Emma and I left, discussing our love for languages, Quakers practices, and our plans (or lack thereof), He was there.
Our next stop, following lunch, ended up being the Botanical Gardens which we traveled to on a whim. It was amidst the giant room of nothing but a variety of orchids that I wondered if God doesn't speak sign language to us sometimes. As Emma and I traipsed through the room enchanted by a number of colors, patterns, shapes, and names or orchids, I thought of all the beauty that we miss because perhaps we don't speak--or rather listen--in God's language.
We keep asking God questions, sometimes speaking louder thinking that perhaps He'll understand better if we do. We keep begging Him to explain Himself, to be real, to do something for us so that it is easier to trust Him. And He answers, but not always in the language we feel He should speak. We want audible, concrete words, but he gives us orchids. We want tangible signs and wonders, and He grants us the shade of an oak tree. We get frustrated, and we're only half listening anyway as we scramble down the pathway of of life until finally circumstances--an obstacle, a heartbreak out of our control--forces us to look up. We see His hands. They are moving in a dance of meaning, swirling in significance. Sometimes, we understand; sometimes, we look away, searching elsewhere. All the while, His hands are a flurry of action trying to spell out His truth for us, yet we miss it, refusing to learn His language.
In actuality, even the language of His hands, the graceful movement of His fingers in and through our lives sculpting cacti and babies' hair, love stories and families, tears and dimples, is more than mere words. His hands and their work are only a greater invitation to look at His face, to see the love mouthed by His lips, to read the tenderness of His eyes. I believe there are times that God speaks sign language because He wants us to finally seek His face. Only His eyes can see the stories of our hearts. Only His hands hold the keys to time. Only His face speaks the comfort we seek.
Thus, my time with Emma in Washington, D. C.--so outwardly ordinary--was amazing because I saw a glimpse of His hands as He made the petals of orchids. I knew a few of His phrases from the signs of our tour guide. I saw the tenderness of His eyes in Emma's kind smile. And life further blossomed as the day unfolded.
Lots of love,
Sarah
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