Jessica's Adventures

I’ve been thinking about transition, dreams, and contentment a bit lately. It’s that time of year when my family asks me for a Christmas list because, for many of us, our love language is giving gifts. Or, at least, it’s one of our love languages, a way of saying, I value you, I treasure you, I want you to be happy.

So, my cousin contacted us to let us know that our lists were insufficient. Probably because my grandpa starts Christmas shopping in July. So last night, just before we turned in, my husband remarked, “I don’t know what else to ask for that’s not really expensive.” I thought for a moment, then named 5-6 things I could imagine he could want or need. We laughed at how well I knew him and how good I am at thinking of gifts. Then I asked him to try to do the same for me, since I don’t have any idea of what to add to my list either. He was stumped. I think his exact words were, “If I knew what you wanted, I would know what to get you every year.”

As I lay down, I pondered his words. Why is it that I don’t want things? Why is it that I can’t come up with a good list of things that can be ordered and wrapped and given? Honestly, I think it’s because I’m content with my life for the most part. I have everything I need and then some. Sure, we have recurring needs – diapers, wipes, food, gas, etc. – but not the kinds of things that most folks think make good gifts.

But I refuse this year to ask for wasteful things. In the past, I’ve filled up lists with books that look good that I’ve never read, movies I like but never sit down to watch, or music that sits dormant on an ancient iPod. There’s something within me that has known this was not right, but this year, is adamant in saying, “No!”

Perhaps it’s because I’m in a different place this year. I’ve now been a mom for over a year and my perspective has been radically, irrevocably changed. Honestly, I feel like I’ve been in transition for that year and am just now finding my footing again. The transition of my body that occurred during the birth of my son – that agonizing, amazing time – was only the beginning of this transition of my life.

Recently on Facebook, I’ve been reminded of the fragility of our lives and how many things can cause these transitions. A friend posted the other day that it was 2 months ago that his daughter was born, who has since died. Then today, a friend who had announced that they were expecting shared the hard news that they had miscarried. It all made me think of this poem:

“Harlem” by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?
            Does it dry up
            like a raisin in the sun?
            Or fester like a sore –
            And then run?
            Does it stink like rotten meat?
            Or crust and sugar over –
            like a syrupy sweet?

            Maybe it just sags
            like a heavy load.

            Or does it explode?

Sometimes transition comes on the heels of a dream deferred. And lately, in my experience, that has looked like the lives of children being tragically short. I look at my son, who laughs and plays and tries to run, feeling the precarious nature of things. Last week in youth, we talked about joy and I taught that joy is an abiding gift of God that is deeper than happiness. I wonder in those moments of watching my child, if I could still feel joy if something happened. I trust, by faith, that joy would still be waiting, like a deep pool of peaceful waters, beneath the tumult of trouble or despair.

But when you’re in transition – when all you can do is breathe and cry and curse and try to run from the inescapable pain that will not be denied because it is a part of you – it can be hard to know anything else. I pray for all of us that we will not dry up or fester or rot or become sickeningly sweet or sag or explode. I don’t believe that is the will of God. I believe the tragic times of transition in our lives are a byproduct of the broken, sinful world we live in. But I also believe that God is with us in the transition, no matter how painful, waiting expectantly to bring new life into being.

I’ve come to the conclusion that camp is amazing, exhausting, wonderful, challenging, and transformative. There are endless bumps, bruises, and bug bites. But there are also endless opportunities. And a lot of what you get out of it depends on what you put into it. I know that for a lot of campers, they are at a liminal moment, a threshold time between where they are and where they are going.

Yesterday at dinner we had a hunger banquet. At the door, all 225 campers along with the 30 senior counselors were given a ticket at the door that directed them to an upper-class section (with tables and chairs), middle-class section (with chairs), or lower-class section (on the floor). We embodied the reality that the earth’s resources, which are sufficient for everyone, are not fairly distributed.

The 15% in the upper-class enjoyed a 3 course meal served to them in their seats, with two people nearby to get them whatever they wanted. The middle-class folks received rice and beans on a plate as they went through a buffet line. The lower-class folks were given a pot of rice and a large bowl of water on the floor. There were not enough bowls, cups, or napkins for all of them so they had to figure it out. You can learn more about hunger banquets at Oxfam.

I had never attempted this sort of experiential activity with so large a group. I was apprehensive about whether or not the campers would embrace it or just try to ignore it. Many of them asked me, “Is this all we’re getting tonight?” My response, “This is dinner.” It was a statement of fact to let them live in the moment without comforting themselves that there would be pizza later in the evening.

It was startling to see how quickly the folks relegated to the lower-class group turned on each other and their fellow campers as they tried to get food. Some chose not to eat since they didn’t like rice, which is not an option for folks who are truly hungry. And when the upper-class got cheesecake for dessert, there was an audible outcry from the other parts of the room.

It was a great social experiment to bring these things together in one room. In our debriefing, we noted that most of the time the poor are invisible because we push them to the margins, out of our sight so that we are not bothered by our self-indulgence and waste. One of the girls who was sitting in the upper-class said at the end of the meal, “I feel bad throwing away this food.” The impact of seeing many of her fellow youth go hungry had hit home. I nodded and asked, “Did you throw away any food at lunch?” I saw her eyes go wide as she realized she had, but she had been unaware of the impact that had made.

We also noted that they are junior high youth and they may not get much say in what food their parents buy and how resources are used. But they are not powerless. There is always something we can do. When we imaginatively perform small acts, the world can be transformed. Glory be to God!