"O Little Town of Bethlehem"

"O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting Light;
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight."

This summer on my trip to the West Bank, I often caught myself humming this hymn that I had sung on so many Christmas Eves before. I found myself singing it quietly to myself in Manger Square or while walking throughout the streets of Beit Jala. This meoldy seemed to narrate my experience as I met with a pleathora of people from different nationalities, religions, and political persuasions, as I visited holy sites, and as I sat on the roof with a young family and heard their heartbreaking story of tragedy that is all too famliar to the people of the West Bank. In the short time we were there, my view of the world began to take a huge shift.

At some points while we were there, it was so hard to believe that Mary and Joseph would have wandered the same streets. The quaint, rural town of Bethlehem I had imagined wasn't there. It was busy and crowded and full of injstice and confusion. Surely, this was not the Bethlehem where Christ appeared...

Other times during the trip, the times I truly cherish, I felt as if Mary and Joseph might as well have been walking alongside me. The glimmers of hope I experienced in conversation with friends, in worship with fellow Christians, and at the sight of flowers that stubbornly worked their way through the cracks of the concrete to bloom reminded me of the God who became incarnate in that very town.
Two thousand years later, the area surrounding the place where Christ was born is one of the most tension-filled areas in the world. Surely, this is the place where a loving God would send Christ to appear.

Tonight, as I give thanks that God is not afraid to dwell among us, the last verse of "O Little Town of Bethlehem" is my prayer:

"O holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us, we pray;
Cast out our sin, and enter in, be born in us today.
We hear the Christmas angels the great glad tidings tell;
O come to us, abide with us, our Lord Emmanuel!"

Where the Heart is

Alright, you knew it was coming. If you know me you can only expect this to happen. You probably predicted it by the hundreds of photos on Facebook, or by the number of soapstone statues I brought home. When I bought the Sabra hummus that doesn't seem to taste as good anymore, you probably figured it out. When I insisted on wearing a scarf in May and my new Aladdin pants in front of my new coworkers, you got the message. I miss Zimbabwe, and I miss the West Bank.

This always happens. When I was in youth, I would miss mission trip. And then it was Glen Lake, and then it was Birchwood, and then McMurry, and now this. I don't think I understand. So many nights I've cried myself to sleep wishing I was back in Alaska, or shaking in excitement for the next mission trip. Now I daydream about what it would be like going to Africa University or living in the West Bank-which is almost ridiculous. I just got back a week ago, I'm not even done processing yet! I guess this is part of it....

As of now, I'm in Glen Rose for the next 2.5 months or so, and I only know two options. The first is to continue to live in this state of constantly longing to go back. A state where I weep and laugh at memories, where the people of Africa and the West Bank are close to my heart, and I think about it all the time. This option scares me. I don't think my heart can handle it all. My heart aches just thinking about it.

My second option is to recognize I'm not there anymore, and to try to live life in Glen Rose/Abilene. I know this doesn't work, that the experiences I had on this trip cut far too deep into my soul to be able to compartmentalize them. However, I'm scared this is what I will try to do, that I'll act how I did before because it sounds easier than truly missing these places.

People always say "my heart is in _____" or "my heart beats in _____." I get what they're saying. My heart beats in Vivian, in Shertz, in Gonzales, in El Paso, in Mrs. Reed's classroom, in Alaska, in Bethlehem and Jerulsalem, in Mutare, in Abilene, at Glen Lake. But my heart also beats in my chest. I carry these things with me. And while I'm still figuring out what to do with and how to make sense of all these feelings, I do know I am thankful I have them. Even when all I can do is cry, it reminds me I am connected to my friends across the world.

As our driver dropped us off at the Harare Airport he shook my hand and said "Don't forget us." And as we drove out of Bethlehem and passed the separation wall I remember reading "Don't forget the struggle." It is my prayer that I never forget my brothers and sisters. I pray that I never forget or become immune to people who are suffering just because I can't see them. And maybe-somewhat ironically, I pray God gives me peace in knowing that this uneasy feeling and tension will probably never go away.

Who are we not to be?

My name is Carly and I am not the most consistent blogger anymore. Trust me, I have a few good stories I'd like to tell that are tucked away in my journal, but the deeper I get into my coursework, the more papers I have to write, and the more tired I get of having to create, structure, and edit papers (my journal doesn't grade too harshly when I use "their" instead of "her.") Therefore, most of my exciting stories have not made my way to the world wide web just yet. And you better believe my life is full of exciting stories. I mean, I ate a whole can of Lima beans the other day.

Other than eating vegetables traditionally rejected by society, I've been interning with a special-needs Sunday School class the past two semesters. The handful of individuals that I spend my Sunday mornings with have taught me lots about God's love. We have laughed together, been sad together, and learned together. They ask every week about my family and friends, even ones they have never met. They care about people, and they never cease to amaze me.

Part of my internship entails home visitation. Just about every week I visit the group home where the ladies in the Sunday School class live. In total, there are about 15 residents who live in the home where they eat, sleep, and live life together. Most of the residents are high functioning, but aren't quite capable of living on their own. This living option allows them to live independently of their parents, while still being given any extra care they might need. They basically are at camp all year round, and I'm kinda jealous.

I've gotten the privilege to build relationships with most of the ladies there, and as soon as I walk in the front door on Saturdays I am reminded that I am loved by their warm welcome. This afternoon I happen to arrive before their talent show. Yea, TALENT SHOW! They totally are at camp all year round.

Beforehand, a few of the ladies I talked to were excited about the talent show, informing me they would be performing a George Strait or Kenny Rogers song. However, about half of the ladies I talked to had decided they wouldn't be doing anything.

We gathered in the living room and were waiting for the first person to perform. All of a sudden, Elizabeth stood up. Elizabeth is one of the members of my Sunday School class, and had told me she wouldn't be participating in the talent show. I've known her for almost 2 years, and appreciate her gentle disposition. It didn't seem out of character for her to not want to sing in front of everyone.

I was taken by surprise as she took her walker to the front and began to sing. We all watched and listened to her beautiful voice. She put everything into that song, singing from the bottom of her heart. When she was done, we clapped, and she sat back down.

Immediately after that, a few of the ladies ran to their rooms to go get their own CDs so they could sing. They had also originally chosen not to participate, but now they were inspired. One by one, each of the ladies got up and performed some sort of dance and/or song. From that I was reminded of the quote by Marianne Williamson;

And as we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fears, our presence automatically liberates others.

You could see the joy on their faces as they spun around the room or swayed back and forth. Busting out Elvis, Reba, or a song about Columbus, it didn't matter if someone sang more in tune than someone else- we weren't comparing. It was understood that each person had something equally important to contribute. As they took turns, they spurred one another to share, until almost every person, even the ones who were shy at first, were given a time to sing. Every time someone would get done singing, we would all clap and cheer as if to say "that was great! You're so special!" Then they would sit down and clap for someone else as if to say in return "hey, you're special too!"

For those 30 minutes, I got to experience the joy of people living into their full potential. By letting their light shine, they created a space that allowed others to do so as well.

In a world where we focus on the age, stature, financial status, criminal records, and IQ of a person, today I am thankful to have the opportunity to see people through a different lens. I am thankful to have  participated in celebrating what gives the world light. I am thankful to have been reminded no matter how inadequate I think I am, I do have a light to shine.

This experience intrudes my soul and beckons me to ask myself the question posed by Marianne Williamson later on in her poem;

Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?

Actually, who are we not to be?

How will you let your light shine?