Par-tay

So, when you go to a divinity school Halloween party, don't expect the normal monsters...
Expect:
Pope Fabulous and Cardinal Sin!


And also a very tall, very hairy, very white Tina Turner.

I, on the other hand, went as myself in a dress... truly unusual indeed.

Oatmeal, Special Days, and Voting

Yeah, as I'm looking at this blog, I can tell it's mid-terms, and life has gotten a little hectic.
Last week I ended up working most of the week for the Pediatric Palliative Care Conference that the Institute put on, so it wasn't much of a fall "break," but I did get the opportunity to work with an amazing group of people who do amazing things...

A few weeks ago we welcomed William Holden to earth, and even though I've not yet met the kid, I love him something fierce. My next trip to FL is now something very special to look forward to...



This morning I made a pot of pumpkin spice coffee, a bowl of oatmeal, and I ate in the sun room with a little bit of music and Eragon (a book I reccomend to anyone with imagination) to keep me company. It was a luxurious way to start a day in which I celebrate 6 years of clean veins and (sometimes) clear thoughts.

In other news, I picked up my local voter's guide yesterday, and noticed that half of the candidates were supported by Elizabeth Dole, which (instead of freaking me out) made November 7--an already very important day--even more important. Y'all get out there, educate yourselves, and vote! :-)

Things I do instead of papers...

Basketball Campout

Too much beer by some
it's worth the b-ball tickets--
that puke on my leg.

(Photo a la Kara Eidson)

I went to the shrine of my other religion--Cameron Indoor Stadium--where I paid homage 26 times at a check-in line-
Sometimes at 3am, sometimes 7am, sometimes noon.
But my group secured tickets for a season of fanatical blue hair-dying, screaming, chanting, and occasional (very occasional) crying.
Yes, I am a Cameron Crazy again.
I figure I should get it while I can because parish life won't be like that at all--
the blue hair-dying, that is.


The Princess Tent (a.k.a. "Beverage Castle")

The Weekend

(I just finished typing this, and I feel better. That said, I know I'm not perfect, nor is what I say. I'm still posting it, though.)

I think they wanted me to go to the UMC conference on HIV/AIDS because I just got back from South Africa, and I still wear my little beaded AIDS bracelet around my wrist.
So, I went. I was glad for the chance to drive with a favorite professor, glad for a chance to get to hang out with an energetic 4-yr-old, glad to get to know two other travelers a bit better.

We got there. No hitch. Got into the room--no problem. Got to the registration desk...and now it gets a bit tricky. Sheila and I only had one registration between us. We figured we'd swap child care help, so we only really needed one name tag. I asked if they wanted me to register anyway. The woman running the gig, clearly stressed, opened up a verbal can of whoop ass. Negative, I thought to myself. That's okay. I'm still allowed to go to the big group things.

Fast forward. Dinner time. Sheila and I aren't too hungry. We'll share a plate.
Not without a nametag. She wasn't allowed in without a nametag. Not even if we're sharing. Sharing is what we tell our children to do--adults, apparently, don't share.

So, that was the conference. I did get into dinner that night, and even got my own chair and salad because there was too much food for the "over-crowded, standing room only" dining room.

I think the thing that got to me was that people stood up crying the first day, talking about how the practice of hospitality is so important, especially when it comes to HIV ministry. Heck, I was even surprised as some brought up the reconciling movement, and one man even said that hospitality even extends to the LGBT community. Yet here we were, the body of Christ, not even practicing hospitality within the doors of our own conference! I mean, if you want my honest opinion, I'll tell you that I think we are light years away from being able to even grasp the concept of hospitality within the confines of many churches.
But I didn't need a conference to tell me that when there are friendly reminders like paragraph 304.3.

Ah, I digress...

Anyway, I am not sure where I'm going with this except to say that if we cannot practice things among ourselves--love, acceptance, hospitality, sharing--then we shouldn't kid ourselves into thinking that we can do better in different situations.

I know I'm rambling a bit, and I no doubt will hear from a wiser being about how it is harder to show compassion and care among the people we love most, etc.

I have some polity to read and some sandwiches to make before parking lot camping on Friday. I'll stop typing now...

On a Preaching Sunday

Sunday I preached at all three services at St. Matthew's, Hillsborough. It went very well. I realize now that my nervousness about writing the sermon was not because of stage fright--I mean, I was more afraid of not getting the processional choreography right--it was my fear of not conveying the message of the gospel well. (Okay, and it was really, really important to have a good first sermon at a church I love so much.) A nerdy reason for my fear, indeed! But everything went really well, and I think the Divine showed up.

But the feeling of exhileration regarding Sunday was not about my capability to sermonize, affirming as it was. My feeling happened because of the presence of the holy, mysterious love that I encountered at the Eucharist. I don't know exactly what it was, but there was something amazing and colossal about serving each individual--about watching each person's reflection in the chalice as they made their personal encounter with Christ--about seeing how each individual has their own interesting or quirky way of taking communion--and about somehow being a part of all of it. I can only describe it as the same feeling of wonder I felt when I was in the delivery room as my friend gave birth to her son. It was that kind of mysterious to me--that kind of inspiration in my heart. Yesterday I mentioned it to someone whom I look up to very much, and she said that this feeling probably will not happen every time Eucharist does, but my prayer is that I and we as a church can continue to be aware of the holy mystery that is offered weekly (monthly, annually, for some).

I leave you all with my opinion for the night...Whoever says that the Holy Spirit does not exist in institutions like the Episcopal Church has yet to darken its doors.

community?

I think this haiku will change this year. I hope it will. I pray it will.



Community when?
We rarely look at the part
That says "Unity"

Clients Who Came from the Park

Night time Africa
A bath warms my chilly skin
What warms the homeless?


a view of the park from the inside of the church's first gate
--
A warning to my Gramma: There are a lot of incomplete sentences in this post.

And I love you.

I watched every night from my window as the drug addicts came alive at night. It scared me at first, and I'll just be honest, it's not like the thought did not cross my mind that I could use just once more without getting caught. That was when I picked up the phone and called another addict... I had to deal with it. Hands down. No questions. And those recovering did their job. They took me to meetings. This was good because the dope man came around for a food parcel the next day…

We serve a funny God. The people I encountered needed help. Sometimes it felt like they needed more help than I or even the church could give them. They kept coming around, though, so we kept offering it. A cup of tea, an ear to listen, a book, a prayer, a plate of mealie-pap. But they gave me so much in return. Years of knowledge and experience in a world I do not know, levels of discomfort that I needed before parish life, ways of living that I had not yet encountered, etc. What richness in sight of a people struck by all the poverty and shit that life can hand at you!

I’ll say that it was not the best way for me to begin a career of counseling. I have had minimal training--the best teaching ever received was by being in the chair opposite a counselor for a few years myself. Still, what most clients needed was an ear and an occasional someone who had a room in which they could cry and shout and curse and shake their fist at the Divine. I think it’s neat how God works in that. I also think it’s neat how the church so willingly gave a space in which that could happen. A loving church, a loving bunch of clients, a loving Modimo, a loving life. It’s good. Real good.

this is one of the projects that the church uses to help with homelessness. it's called Living Stones, and it's a transitional housing development that they built when a church member said, "we've got to do something about homelessness, and we have flat roofs so why not build apartments?"

Fun pictures

As promised...
Some fun pictures. :-) (click to enlarge)




Hummingbird who lives on the top of Table Mountain. (This thing followed us around, but rarely sat still long enough for a good photo.)



Neat, I had Julian of Norwich on the brain when I was taking the Table Mountain photos--her vision of the hazelnut in particular. It wasn't until I had these pictures developed that I even noticed the caterpillar on the flower. (Then again, the flower was the size of a half-dollar.)



I like birds, can you tell? This is a Lilac Breasted Roller. He lives in Kruger Park.



Cape Point-the southernmost point in Africa. To the left is the Indian Ocean, to the right is the Atlantic. Crazy. We saw a whale that day. She didn't hang around for a photo op, though.



Also Cape Point. Funny...people say that baboon looks like me.

Current Reflections on South Africa

I think I know why I have been having such a hard time explaining my experiences, and I have to thank Billy Hagwood for dragging this out of me.
Of course culture shock, jet lag, overarching tiredness, waiting for my energy to return, etc. have played a big role in making me "not normal," but part of the reason why I began to blog was to perhaps sort out some thoughts and reflections on my South Africa journey. Still, when I talk to people and they ask me questions, I have had a really hard time expressing just what this journey meant. And I think I know why now.

There were some really, really good days--days when I did nothing but teach children how to paint with a brush and teach adults how to paint with their fingers; days when we celebrated CD4 counts rising to over 700 or births of new family members. There were days when I sat with people who were first discovering light inside of them. And then there were days when people saw no light. There were a lot of days when people came into the office hungry and tired and beaten by the sun and the streets. There were days when family members died or were killed. There were days when I sat with people who were too drunk or high to even understand that they were being listened to.
Good days and bad. Days when everyone who came in the office tested HIV negative. Days when everyone who came in the office tested HIV positive--men, women, children just getting out of school.

And I haven't been able to talk about it much. A big part about it is confidentiality, but another really big part is how those days haunt my mind, my dreams, my spirit. What an honor to sit with someone who is on the very edge of crossing over into death or someone who is struggling with living life on life's terms or someone who is just coming into the knowledge of their HIV status (either + or -)--an honor that I do not feel worthy of, an honor that has forever changed me. At the same time, what an intense and trying time.

I think that's why when people ask I say it was a really wonderful, really challenging time.

My friend just came back from two weeks on the pilgrimage of pain and hope in South Africa, where they toured around the historic places, and in a sense, walked through the sorrowful history of the country into the places of hope that are happening now. She said to me, "two weeks was enough for me, I can't imagine two months." Granted, I didn't have days with information overload, but sometimes as I look back, I can't imagine two months either.

Okay, so that's what's on my mind right now.
I'm not at home, but when I get there this evening, I think I'll post some of the pictures I have enlarged and hung up. They're light and fun. I won't bog down the internet blog-world too much with heavy thoughts. :-)

Where Jesus Lives

It's funny, when I write or speak publicly, I rarely talk about Jesus. I don't know if it is a PC thing or if I'm afraid or if I just want to be cool, but rarely do it. I do believe in the guy, and I feast at his table every week.
This summer in Africa, Jesus was a common word in my journal, in my mouth, and in my life. That's what I noticed most about this journal entry from June 7.



06-07-06
A classroom in an old rural township on the outskirts of Tshwane, not much bigger than my living room at home, holds 85 children between the ages of 3-6. They meet daily to get fed, educated, and loves for only R5 (less than a dollar) per month. Right now many of the children are sick and passing it on to each other. The outdoor bathrooms at least have roofs on them this year, which is the newest addition. This is Letabong, a place where the richest woman in town lives in a 1 bedroom concrete house with a tin roof (she also serves the community by teaching at the school and visiting HIV patients). Jesus lives here. I met him today in a garden full of plants meant to help HIV/AIDS sufferers. There he was, behind the small classroom. He didn't have shoes, and he spoke a different language, but I knew he meant love. That's where my Jesus lives. Not in a rich white person's car or house nor at my house or school, but there with these people who practice love in unusual ways.




A word about Letabong.
It is still a village, in that they are still as formed as a tribe led by a gonvernment can be . HIV is a problem there. Many people have it, but no one will go forward with testing because the last person who was seen getting an HIV test got her house burnt down. That's why the garden of medicinal plants is behind the school--so nobody will find out. A woman and her friend take these plants and SEJO, a meal mix with all essential nutrients to the people who show 100% outward symptoms of HIV, yet will not go forward to get treatment, etc.

My Last Night at the Church

On my last day living on church property, I made a chocolate cake, and had a very small gathering up in the flat. After a little bit of visiting time, the two women in the right in the picture, took me by the hands, and led me out of the flat and into the flat across the hallway where, much to my surprise, they began to undress me. It was a little strange. After I was dressed down to my skivvies, they began to wrap me in fabric the same hot pink color as my shoes. Turns out, the traditional way to get dressed in those kinds of clothing is with the mama or the older sister dressing you. Before I knew it, I was decked out in an elegant Congolese dress, my hot pink shoes to match. Then they paraded me through the church and taught me a shout. After we got back to the flat, we laughed for the rest of the evening. It was a great goodbye present.
In the mean time, Ndlandla and his sister(whose name I have written down somewhere-I only knew her for a few days, she goes to school in Jo'burg where her mother lives) had asked for the remnants of the floral decorations from a conference happening at the church. Then they picked some flowers around the church as well, and showed up at the door with a big bundle of sticks with a few flowers at the end. It was so cute and so thoughtful!
All in all a good night for Lauren.

Rafilwe

Rafilwe: her name
It means a gift that's given
She doesn't think so.



This is another woman's family, not Rafilwe's, but the picture does tell her story.

Ndlandla

June 14, 2006
Ndlandla is my across the hallway neighbor (or, at least, one of them). He has impeccable Zulu, but is only beginning to learn English. When I first met him, all he spoke was Zulu to me, not knowing that I don't understand him at all!
Kids are funny that way.

He is only three, though, and by four, he will have master two languages. Until then, my name remains Lion, because it's the closest pronounciation. Not bad, if you ask me. And it's heartwarming to have a name. Before, he didn't call me anything at all.

I'm pretty sure he's just using me for the fruit (he always demands fruit), but I like the company, and he has a peaceful presence.

Tonight Ndlandla came over in his PJ's, and we (Kumarie, Ashwell, Ndlandla, and I) popped popcorn, shared an orange, and watched "That Darn Cat." His laughter is contagious.

Sleepless Nights

I've been reading over journal entries from my time in South Africa. I guess I really didn't sleep much there. This was one of those nights.

July 8, 2006
Tonight I cried
For the children of Darfur
And Uganda
Because I realized
As the sun went down

That darkness marks the beginning

Of fear.
And that I watched the
Sun go down
At the same time as they
Watched the sun go down
Meant that my night
Is their night
And I cried.

Friends (pastors) from Uganda who are working for change (we're on tea break in the pic).

Mamelodi

Today I met you,
Nkulukulu Lord God,
In Mamelodi.

I made a friend in South Africa. Her name was Betty. Every day of the counseling course I took, she sat next to me. We laughed and cried and shared information together as work buddies. The last day of class, she invited me to go home with her and make some mealie-pap. So we hopped in a crammed taxi, and headed off to Mamelodi, an informal settlement on the outskirts of Tshwane. I didn't take my camera because Betty is not a novelty, she's a friend. (This picture was taken on the first day of our arrival in Pretoria, as we drove past Mamelodi on a car tour.)
Anyway, this woman invited me into her home--something that we in the US would call a shack--made of scraps of time, a car door or two, and a corrugated tin roof. And under the roof, we made the gummy mixture that is the staple of Africa, pap. And we laughed. And we danced. And we sang. And she offered me one of the three tomatoes she had lying around. And we ate that and the pap together.
Then she kicked me out.
Because it was getting dark, and it's dangerous for her even to walk her own streets at night. And it's dangerous for me to be there no matter what. And its dangerous for her to be there with me who is dangerous no matter what... you get the point.

I think that if Jesus lived in South Africa, we would find him in Mamelodi.

A Midnight Blog

I thought the feast day of the Transfiguration of our Lord would make a great day to begin a new blog.
My Xanga site got lost in cyberspace after I stopped paying the evil Xanga tariff for posting pictures. (Okay, it's not really that bad...)
So here's a place where I can post pictures. And reflect. And haiku.
So, I guess a warning and then a picture.
Warning: if you don't like fragmented thoughts or haiku poetry, I don't reccomed you read this blog. Not that you're reading it anyway...
Now for a picture.
This is Magnolia. A few months ago, she decided that she wanted to make cozy between me and the sofa on which I was sleeping. End result: a 2 am photo shoot.


Fab.