Monday, September 4, 2017

Transition; A lifestyle and a finale



Today marks one month since I left Grand Bourg. This time last month I was running home to finish cleaning the house before my dear friends came to haul me away. I remember leaving with such mixed feelings. There was a part of me physically drained from a week long marathon running back and forth between Grand Bourg and Puerto Madero to obtain the proper paperwork for Penne to return with me back to the United States.
Penne made it to Chicago
Two hours there and two hours back every single day. I was also emotionally tapped out from anxiety. It would be a challenge for me on Friday morning to give my final good byes to the precious students and staff that I have grown to adore this past year. Deep in my spirit though I knew it was time to go. Under the surface I was thrilled to begin this approval process for ordination, to begin a new position in a hospital setting, and to finally move somewhere and start a normal life without Big Brother looking over my shoulder. There was so much to process in this transition that there were truly no room for words.

Moving back stateside proved to be much stranger than I originally imagined. There were plenty of nights back in Grand Bourg that I dreamed of seasoned food and amazon prime. Some times I would specifically think of using New York MTA and ordering food from the bodega. After hearing a number of stories about reverse culture shock, it became a habit for me to keep into perspective what I once knew back home. Silly- maybe. However I was not moving back to New York and I knew almost nothing about my new home in Chicago so all of this memory work I thought I was doing really did not matter much. Chicago would be an entirely different beast to battle and the transition back would be much different than I imagined.
My parents and younger sister Bri drove to Chicago to help me move.

Language: Even though english is my first language, I struggled expressing myself the first few weeks back. I would stumble on words or have to stop and fix my own grammar. I have always used phrases like “mira, pero, como se dice,” and such however I found myself using a lot more every day phrases in english conversations with strangers. The other day at a taqueria I comfortably ordered all my food and had bits of conversation with other patrons present. The Argentine dialect is a bit different than standard spanish as well so even in spanish I am trying to adjust back to certain forms so I am not looked at crazy. On both sides the readjustment has been quite entertaining.

Transit: Chicago Transit has a similar swipe system to Buenos Aires and I found myself waiting for my card balance on-boarding the bus one morning. I stood in the doorway waiting for a number to flash as the bus driver looked at me with a side eye. Uber is available in Argentina as well however after they broke the Taxi Strike at JFK I stopped using their services. Needless to say my return to the states included this very luxurious usage of Lyft. The cost of both public transit and car sharing is significantly different in the U.S. than abroad which hit my pockets much faster than I expected. Luckily my parents carried my bike from New York to Chicago which allows me the ability to opt out of driving and public transit for the time being. The style of driving and the quality of the roads and sidewalks in Grand Bourg made me hesitant from purchasing a bike for the year. I am now re-experiencing a love of mine that I have missed greatly.

Community: I moved from a predominately european/ mestizo region of Argentina into a culturally and racially diverse city in the United States. In many ways it was a breath of fresh air to see myself and familiar identities in my every day life. It was a relief to not constantly be the sore thumb in a room or to have strangers grab at my hair. Making friends has been incredibly easier and more of them exist outside of my work sphere. Previously much of my network was within San Lucas and the Greater IELU community. On the reverse side to this, I no longer live in a place where I know every store owner and employee. I am unattached to a church. There are no abuelas inviting me to lunch at their house or family asados on the weekends. I still scroll through my social networks and see family gatherings back in Grand Bourg and I wish I was still around to laugh and fellowship with them. I did not realize how much I enjoyed congregational relationships.

If you have been following my blog this year, you have seen many of my highs and lows in a parish setting. You have read or listened to my many joys in Argentina. With that being said I  cherish this year abroad serving at Iglesia de San Lucas. I am thankful for the gift of language and the synodical support in my formation. My supervisor was incredible and my site gave me exactly what I needed for my own growth. Being a Horizon International Intern made sense for me. I was challenged and allowed space to truly evaluate my call to the church. There were times during evaluation periods where people would ask me “What does this question mean? Why are they asking US this question? This seems very tedious. Nothing has changed here.” As I explained why we the ELCA do the things we do- having to verbalize many of our processes and reasoning made me also very weary of how “efficient” our process may not actually be. To see church function differently made me both critical and appreciative of how the ELCA is designed. Though we still manage as an empire in many ways, one can see the way we are slowly undoing these structures. 

To also be true to myself, I must admit that a year with Global Missions did me justice as a future leader in the ELCA. Prior to seminary I only saw myself as a full time parish pastor. I did not really know that there were so many avenues of ministry. Soon I became aware of chaplaincy in various capacities. Missionary work however still held (holds) this white savior connotation that never resonated well with me. Taking on that title and training with dozens of others who would be deployed in other countries around the world in different capacities forced me to recognize that mission work (in the ELCA) is not forcing Christ down someone’s throat in exchange for resources our neighbors may need. We work with other already established Lutheran Churches and local NGOs that partner with the people already living and doing there. We bury ourselves in accompaniment theology, training, and practice. I would have probably never been exposed to any of this if it were not for this opportunity. Because of this I can now better discern where I am called to be in this body.

What’s Next


Penne and I are now settled in our new home in Chicago. He will continue to serve as a guard cat, slayer of all mice and insects, and I have begun my position as a Chaplain Resident at a Trauma I hospital in the South Chicago area. I took on this residency to explore the field of Chaplaincy and more specifically to better understand trauma. This may come across mildly strange after reading about my community’s traumatic experience this past June. In reality I do feel called to be on the caregiving side of trauma but there were many factors involved that I was no where near prepared for while on internship; children deaths, children being my students, cultural differences in grieving, and the language barrier. June also exposed areas of growth for me. When envisioning where I want to be in my call this type of work will only be an asset.

While I serve as a Chaplain I will be in the process of receiving approval for ordination as a Minister of Word and Sacrament in the ELCA. If approved, I will be entering the assignment process which is essentially a National Draft of Lutheran Seminarian Graduates. At the moment it is still unclear of what exactly I will do but I am hoping to serve as a part- time pastor in a Latino or African Descent context while taking full employment elsewhere as either a Chaplain or in Non-Profit work. In regards to international work, I am not quite sure if the spirit is moving me to leave the U.S. so soon but I am open to opportunities that may arise. 

This chapter of my life is officially closed. #ReclaimMissionary will no longer be. For those who have followed me on this year long journey I am beyond thankful. It is my hope that you learned a bit about me and the work I love. I hope this journey has given you life to go out and do what you too are called to do. Above all I am just grateful for your companionship. Many of you have been very supportive this year and have reached out to me on numerous occasions. It  has been life giving to still be connected with my friends and family back home. I am planning to start a new writing segment entitled Chaplain Assassin. This idea developed in my first unit of Clinical Pastoral Education about a young woman working as a Chaplain while trying to escape a former unconventional life. Chaplain Assassin will be a retelling of the life in Chaplaincy trauma work while exploring the complexities of being a young person and clergy. While I am not quite sure if I am a strong enough writer to pull this off I am certain it will be a much more entertaining way to explain chaplaincy work. If you are curious to see where else life takes me then feel free to stay tuned. More information of how to read Chaplain Assassin will be posted soon.



#Reclaimed

Monday, July 31, 2017

Vicar Goes to Winter Camp

We are at my final days on internship and there is still so much left. Last week I went to camp (again) with my youth from Grand Bourg and another IELU congregation in Caseros. This time instead of going out to the campos we stayed local and did our three day event at the Sedes in Olivos.

My video below is more of a reflection/ resource for youth ministry curriculum based on the Matthew story of Peter denying Jesus three times. I discuss the gospel, our conversation starters and a follow up Luther oriented game to bring the show home. I hope other youth ministry types can find some sort of value to the games and set up.

#ReclaimMissionary



Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Resource: The Parable of the Talents

This week the YAGM had their final retreat. The coordinator invited me to do a session with them as kind of a full circle since I spent much of orientation with them as well. My topic was Spiritual Gifts, a topic I have been working on with the congregation I am serving. After a year of serving overseas it seems only right to come together and assess what one can offer to their home communities whether that is a congregational setting or the workplace.

For those who are not familiar with the Spiritual Gifts Assessment it can be found on the ELCA website and search "Spiritual Gifts Assessment Tool" for a prinatable and online copy.

The session began with a retelling (transcript pasted below) of Matthew 25:14-30 the Parable of the Talents. This retelling was done with visual items made at home. As the story was told slowly and steadily the pieces were placed on top of the large fabric and moved around as needed. Characters that were speaking were centered while others disappeared.This included the following:

-A large solid color fabric or paper. This worked as the background and way for the audience's eyes to maintain focus.
- Four cut outs of a family (Mother and three kids). The cut outs were very basic shapes and shared the same pattern for the bodies. These were the four main characters.
-Two paper cut outs of a farmer and rancher. These are supporting characters added into the parable.
-One industrial cityscape and one farm. These are basic drawings made but help stimulate the imagination.
(All of the above is made out of color paper and markers. In this case sticky fabric was added to the back of each for easier movement.)
-Five seeds
-Two eggs
-Ball of yarn

This style of teaching was introduced to me during a Christian Education Seminar at LTSP. Dawn Stewart came into class with a box of well crafted tools that she would use to tell us the Parable of the Sower. She had the entire class sit on the floor as she sat infront of us slowly pulling our her accessories and speaking in a warm and calming voice. The difference here was Dawn's intended audience. She was simulating working with children so her reflection questions were quite simple. She then had us break into creative spaces where we could draw, paint, or collage our thoughts and reflections from the parable. We would later come together and share our art.

Rather than breaking into artistic spaces, the volunteers and I turned our attention to the Spiritual Gifts Assessment. As I read each question out loud, the entire group graded themselves between 0 and 4 then adding up their scores in certain categories to see which are their gifts. Then we took time again to reflect on what qualified as a gift and if any were shocking to receive. The session continued with a clear explanation of each gift along with where in the church their skillsets would best be utilized. Reflections continued as the reality of some of these gifts began to hit us. Some quivered at the gift of evangelism as the term has become tainted with fundamentalist hate speech and hollering on the streets. Others were overwhelmed at the gift of pastor/ sheperding as that had only recently began to cross their minds.

"Isn't discernment personal? How is that a gift? Why is mercy a gift? Shouldn't everyone have that?"

It is quite amazing how some gifts we really do not think twice about. Faith, for example, is a gift. One would think anyone taking this assessment would already have faith being a relatively active member of the church however even faith is not guaranteed. For that reason it is important for us to know each others gifts as we may accompany each others in areas of our weaknesses and uplift each others strengths.

After two hours of Spiritual gifts we concluded in prayer but we are beginning anew.

*Below is the Parable of the Talents which can be used and adapted as needed*

______________________________________________

There was a small Toban family living in the campo of Chaco. There was the Sheu, the eldest, then Eliseo, and Nalpapi. Their father worked over 2500 kilometers away in the oil fields near Comodoro. Mother was their healer- their dwelling- their caretaker. Then one day Mother gathered the children around.

“Sheu! Eliseo! Nalpapi! Come here- come here”

Mother’s children gathered around her feet curiously gazing upwards towards her face.

“My darling children, soon I will be leaving you to visit your father. When you were younger I would carry you on my back back and forth across the coast. But now you are older and must care for the few things we have here.”

“We understand Mother.”

“Sheu, my child I do not have much but please take these seeds. I only have five of them but I am sure you will do well with what you are given.”

“But  Mother,” said Sheu “you know I do not work the lands. I tend to the needs of the house.”

“Trust in me” said Mother. Then Mother turned to Eliseo and said, “Eliseo my child I do not have much but please take care of these chickens. We are down to two but I am sure you will do well with what you are given.”

“But Mother,” said Eliseo “you know I do not care for the livestock. Since I was a kid I maintained the fields.”

“Trust in me” said Mother. Then Mother turned to Nalpapi and said, “Nalpapi my child I do not have much but please take this ball of yarn. It is only one kilo but I am sure you will do well with what you are given.”

“But Mother,” said Nalpapi, “you know I do not work with textiles. I provide for the animals in the yard.”

“Trust in me” said Mother. So Mother packed her things and left for Comodoro and the children went on their way. Sheu went into the town and saw a farmer with their child in tattered clothing. Sheu approached the farmer and offered to watch the farmer’s child and fix their clothing in exchange for the farmer to grow the seeds and to feed their neighbors. That summer the farmer grew the seeds in abundance and provided crops for their neighbors. Sheu and the farmer had met once again and where the farmer offered her back twice the seeds Sheu had first given him. Eliseo too had walked into town where a rancher was complaining about dead grass his livestock could no longer eat. With feelings of compassion Eliseo offered to fertilize and replenish his grass if the rancher agreed to mate the chickens. The rancher did not only that but acquired enough eggs and chicklets to provide meals for the homeless in town. Eliseo and the rancher had encountered each other in town again where the rancher provided Eliseo with four new chickens in gratitude of compassion. Nalpapi however, did not take the ball of yarn into town. The yarn was placed in a small crevice of the house where the sun does not touch and the water does not leak. Nalpapi kept that yarn there since Mother had left for Comodoro.

Then the time came when Mother returned. She was greeted at the house by Sheu, Eliseo, and Nalpapi.

“Mother, Mother” cried Sheu, “I have something to share with you. You gave me seeds to care for even though I maintain the home. I shared these seeds with a farmer in need and the crops came in abundance. People were fed all around Resistancia and in return the farmer gave me twice of what I offered him.

“Sheu I am so proud of you. Thank you for caring for what was given to you.” said Mother.

“Mother, Mother” cried Eliseo, “I too have something to share with you. You gave me chickens to raise even though I work the land. I shared these chickens with a suffering rancher and the chickens flourished like spring flowers. Our community in Resistancia is cared for and in return the rancher doubled what I offered him.

“Eliseo I am so proud of you. Thank you for caring for what was given to you.” said Mother.

Nalpapi was quiet and hesitant to speak. “Nalpapi, what about you my child?” asked Mother.

“Mother I saw how much you loved the ball of yarn and when you said to care for it I decided to keep it safe from everything. So I buried it in a crevice in the house until you returned.” said Nalpapi.

“But my dear Nalpapi, why would you hide anything I ask for you to nurture? You were given yarn even though you care for the animals. You were offered freedom from your self inflicted limitations but you chose to remain closed off from your neighbors and keep something from others that could have helped someone else. How does one build community without sharing and indulgence? Now we see that those who act in abundance will receive in abundance while those who act as though the lack will have nothing to show.”

#ReclaimMissionary

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

"500 Years"- The Mural Nobody Asked For

This is an ode to other people in various faith traditions who struggle with connecting their ministry with their passions. For many years I did not know how to use my craft to enhance my role as spiritual care giver. It took many tries from painting and preaching to a variation of art therapy for me to finally come up with a concoction that works. If you are still trying to find your way I encourage you to keep trying and I can almost guarantee that something will click.


My Truth
I packed paint brushes for my internship in Argentina already certain that they will come in handy. They are not particularly good brushes. Many come from basic sets. Some with shedding tips. But I know these brushes as if they were my own finger tips. They work for me and that is all that mattered.

This particular journey began at the end of October when the High School Director asked me about projects I had planned to do with the students. I proposed us doing a mural since I had just spent over five months painting rooms of murals in my previous position. At this point I already had a sufficient method for the task and enough enthusiasm to sell the dream. The enthusiasm worked as more students were pulled into the office to begin brainstorming ideas. They provided interesting bible verses that related to baptism and God caring for us. It was nourishing. The Director then gave me the objective to complete a rough colored draft of the concept and we would determine next steps from there. 


The Process
We began at the beginning of November as the school year was slowly winding down and recreo became more common.
Cay and I
At first it was quiet. Students seemed curious as I sketched but not too anxious to help until the paints came out. Soon enough a dozen students at a time would ask to help during their mere fifteen minutes of freedom between sessions. I would struggle to explain what I needed them to do but somehow they always managed to make it happen. Some were better than others at english and doubled as my translator. 
It did not take long for the ones who really enjoyed both art and english to really latch on to the mural. There was one in particular, we’ll call her Cay, who soon became my go- to artist with her very steady hand. 


The mural was used for our mannequin challenge as a bunch of second and first year students grabbed brushes and paints while standing as still as possible in strange positions.


 Mannequin Challenge
The mural became a point of brief conversations like when a student first asked me about my thoughts on God. The mural acted as a source of amazement for the primary school students every time they marched across the patio from one class room to another. The mural was a moment of escape as the girls who worked the indoor kiosko came when their boss went to purchase more inventory. This did not belong to me. It belonged to us.

As it became harder to reach from the ground and on school desks, we finally put the brushes down along with our school books. School was over for the summer and the mural was put to the rest. It was nearly halfway done and although the bottom half was really coming together, it looked quite strange without the draft at hand.

The new school year began in March but we did not recommence at the mural until June. We were waiting for a scaffold that would give us the necessary height to finish such a tall mural. In many ways it worked out for the better. The first few months back were incredibly warm making the patio unbearable and the Lenten and Easter season turned out to be much more overwhelming than expected. But church culture did not necessarily translate to school culture as students and staff continued to ask about the mural. A half finished piece can only be “Que lindo” for so long.
The Half Way Point

Shift in Perspective
I returned to the piece but this time with spectators instead of teammates. Many remained interested in painting however precautions needed to be followed as the scaffold made things more complicated. Mural time went from community to a fishbowl where I was the only one inside of the glass. Students would stare during recreo, others would make gestures and assure me of my work. Cay and I continued to miss each other as well though we managed to make time for conversation when we could. It turns out she will be transferring schools so she can pursue art in a classroom setting. I couldn’t even be upset. If you have the confidence then you should pursue what you love. 
My "Fishbowl"

While I was secluded standing above everyone else in the patio, painting alone allowed me to use recreo time to better engage with students instead of supervising. Sometimes I would just sit next to some students with open books and talk about the classes they are taking. If I needed something, students were more than happy to pass me paint or refresh the water. Other times I would simply sit back and enjoy them being their goofy teenage selves. Surely they spent enough time watching me be goofy dancing to my choice of music while painting. Primary school students would still wave at me from the hallway and stare opened mouth while walking by. It was different- but it was Okay. The students knew me now. We really did not need the buffer that was the mural. My spanish is better. I see them in town. The mural had served its purpose. 

Life Taking and Life Giving
Then tragedy hit my community the last weekend of June where three of our students lost their lives and one was in critical condition. The school closed for over half of a week as the entire community gathered to celebrate them and the other twelve who had died. Out of grievance I returned to the mural and painted. For three hours I sat in the empty patio and incorporated memorial ballet slippers laced into the hand of God and posted it on Instagram.

Memorial Ballet Slippers
When students caught wind of the adjustment, the image was shared by the dozens. After releasing it on Facebook the cycle of sharing continued. Between Tuesday and Wednesday of that week the image ended up in the hands of the parents who lost their girls.

The following day two blessings had come from what was a reflexive act. One of the parents of our three girls passed by the mural and told a local staff person his daughter was present in the mural. After a morning of grieving he was able to see the beautiful life that was in his little girl in this simple piece of art. Then later that afternoon I was summoned by the school staff to meet a set of parents in the patio. They were the parents of another girl, the mother’s only child. As I walked up from behind there I saw the father snapping photos and the mother just staring. The two literally left their home today just to come and see the mural in person. They were both familiar with my face from the wake but we had not spoken before. The mother asked if this was my work and when I informed her it was she responded to me with a warm embrace. Her husband did the same as he continued to tell me “Thank you. Thank you.” Two days ago I did not even know how to speak to them in their time of trial but today we were able to connect over painted ballet slippers. The anxiety I once had about being present in their pain suddenly vanished and a piece of the mural was given new purpose. I will never forget that the day.

It was not long before I learned my young artist Cay was niece of the mother who gave me that warm embrace. She had lost her cousin. Soon I began skimming through my photo album to see if her cousin too was part of my dozens paint crew. This became very heavy.

Peace
The development of the mural did not end there. In fact, it is just beginning. A group of fourth graders entered the patio as I was finishing up on Luther. They began to applaud by the command of the teacher. There was 60% chance of tears. The mural was completed by 6:00pm on Wednesday July 5th, much sooner than anticipated. Tomorrow students will see it completed in person for the first time. Hopefully so will students ten years from now. This project brought me a lot of joy and I know it has been a symbol of joy to others as well. I look forward to students pointing at it and claiming their mark. It excites me to think maybe some other kids will inspired enough to want to coordinate their own mural. I hope visitors gravitate to it like the Bishop of Hungary or another IELU pastor. But above all, I am eager for others to share their own stories around the mural and how it impacted them. 


"500 Anos"


Description

The mural would be an ode to the 500 anniversary of Lutheranism and the Latin@ Americana context. After it was mentioned that there were no images of Martin Luther in the entire school, I incorporated a colorful portrait of the Founding Father. Next to him would be his historical Latin quote “Solus Christus. Sola Fide. Sola Gratia.” or as we know it in english, “Christ alone. Faith alone. Grace alone.” This is a staple to the understanding of salvation in the Lutheran tradition. Below the quote contains the flag of the Indigenous people of Argentina used in the Province of Buenos Aires stamped with an indigenous drummer symbol. The idea was to incorporate the rich history that is Argentina which begins with the original people. In the center of the mural there is the hand of God holding a young girl. The holy waters of baptism are being poured upon her as she is craddled in the hand of the creator. Both the girl and God are painted intentionally with darker skin as it was important for me as the artist to convey a God of my understanding rather than a colonized representation. The girl is equally brown as she is not unique to Argentina but could represent from nearly any cultural context. what makes her distinct to the school is the IEA uniform that she is wearing. The symbolism here always works for our three girls. Finally at the opposing end of Luther is the renowned Mexican artist Frida Kahlo. She is a feminist icon and her image is posted all over Buenos Aires. Incorporating her was an intentional decision to combat machismo culture and male- dominated spaces. It is important for young femme students to be able to look up on a wall and see greatness in their own image. The crest of Frida’s attire is the Luther Rose. It seemed fitting to incorporate the rose into a 500 year memorial piece. While the piece is very symbolic, the strange designs and color palette are a clear expression of my identity as an artist. 

#ReclaimMissionary

*For the record this is an entirely hand painted piece*

Thursday, June 29, 2017

A Community In Grievance Part 2: Casket to Casket

Tuesday June 27th, 2017

When clergy begin their ministry they are given a faucet. This faucet is placed in front of their heart and it leaks. It pours out compassion, love, empathy, and energy. One cannot always stop the leak and so they are drained. Slowly yet surely there will be a drop where there was once a pond. Somehow there is never a drought. It is as if this faucet just digs deeper and deeper into the soul finding something to consume and eject. How does one fill their pond before a well is dug? How do clergy types tighten the leak?

My faucet was leaking the entire night as I wrestled in my blankets texting my congregants about the viewing. I had no desire to wake up hourly or cada media hora. By 2:00am it occurred to me that sleep would be required. As the woman always preaching self care to my students and friends it seems that I am failing to take my own advice- per usual. It was not the sleepless night that bothered me so much but the spurts of anxiety that accompanied it were what was painful.

5:45am First alarm goes off.

“I can’t get up. I just can’t do it.”

6:00am Second alarm goes off.

“But I made a commitment. Has the sun even dawned upon my window?”

6:20am Third alarm goes off.

“Nic. It’s time.”

Another member and I agreed to meet that morning at the church and walk together to see the girls. She was their Catechism teacher. For nearly a year they all spent every Friday evening together reading bible stories and playing games. When they received their first communion, she handed each of them the wine and embraced them individually to celebrate the sacrament. Today she would witness another one. The weather turned cold as if the earth knew there would be no sunshine in our hearts today. It was dreary across Grand Bourg. Shops were closed. Most people were walking in the same direction as if the Holy Spirit was guiding us.

We arrived to what I learned would be the first velatorio by 8:00am where Marianela and Valentina resided. We walked two blocks west of the church to find an abundance of people already grieving on the streets. As we approached the driveway familiar faces popped up around the crowds. Every single teacher from IEA was there gathered in groups by grades. All pale and tender faces, slightly red and puffy around the eyes. Women that were normally well decorated in makeup stood around in raw form. Hair pulled back in loose pony tails and messy buns. Palms clenched tissues like a pearl in an oyster. This was not unique to the teachers as other students stood with their parents in like attire. Everyone came as they were completely out of uniform with each other. Some mourners were in sweatpants and sneakers while others were in jeans and sandals. Then here I was in a full collar and suit already being the most obvious stranger to many. 

The velatorio consisted of three rooms; room one with closed doors and people inside grieving who I believe to be another victim of the crash, room two was also closed with no signs of people, then furthest from the entrance room three which contained a more secluded waiting area and our two girls. It was packed from wall to wall. My member and I walked in a line passing through rivers of tears and sleeping children. Most viewers stood outside of the door just staring. A cross sat between two closed caskets covered with photos and disheveled parents. Big brothers were held by friends. Mothers held by their sisters. The photos lingered in my head as we stared into this crowded space for over ten minutes. We stood there like the rest. By the time we turned around our faces too where covered in tears, mine triggered by the moans of family. 

“Donde estaba Dios?”

As we left the room for air it seemed as dozens of more people arrived. In the center of the open roof lobby the two of us stared towards each other but into the distance. Another member arrived. We were silent as there were no words to speak. I watched my teacher groups slowly disperse down the driveway and back towards the school. Further into the distance were over a dozen men lined up on the adjacent sidewalk staring into the velatorio. 

“Donde esta la otra chica?” I broke the silence.

I learned Maria Sol was at another velatorio a few blocks over. I asked the second member to lead me as the first one left for work. It was 8:42am and the crowd easily doubled in size. As we walked out through the driveway we would see another hundred people gathered in clusters and walking towards us. The entire town grieved.

We walked two blocks east and past the church to south east down another. The two of us circled around the plaza where we once stood for the vigil. Melted candles stood boldly on the plaza stage as the light drizzle began. Wax hardened down the sides of the stage and flowers were piled up in the center. We continued on our journey and turned right passed the local pool house. A large green and white sign hung over another large crowd of people. The same teachers were there but now there were more strangers. This two room partially enclosed patio led to two rooms. The front room held another victim and kept the doors relatively closed. Her mourners leaned on the windows of the building separated from us by an imaginary wall.

We walked towards the back of the patio where more school administration and family members stood. The entrance slightly differed from the first as there seemed to be two separated lounges but just as many people standing in the doorway. Her mother stood by the right side of the entrance where people walked over to embrace her. Supporting her were her sisters and mother. On the opposite side was her father leaning over her open casket as the Vice Principal held him. He too was once a student at IEA. The open casket broke my spirit as this sleeping angel laid there draped in white like her first communion. Flowers from Tio y Tia laid upon her legs with small cards and other trinkets. I remember her face. My loss of words were evident as I could not even speak to people I knew well. All I could do was watch.

Soon after I paid my respects I found my well seasoned supervisor. I felt overwhelmed. Maybe it was the walking back and forth between two funeral homes or knowing that two different homes were completely occupied from the same accident. Regardless, there was a lot of pain to encounter. This was not what any of us sign up for when we think about parish ministry. Unpredictable accidents involving children has trumped nearly any other trauma I have had to deal with in the past. We were not only dealing with three families but dozens of staff and hundreds of students. I was hoping to find guidance in what to do by my supervisor but it she too had to walk through the same trenches and that was just as difficult to observe.

Before the hour ended we walked back to the first velatorio expecting to watch Marianela be taken away to the cemetario. The girls were scheduled to be removed by the hour. Following her would be Valentina and then we would walk back to Maria Sol before noon. The walk back from Sol was much more difficult than this morning. It was not only my supervisor, member, and I but now majority of the IEA staff. We passed by other mourners walking in both the same and opposite direction as us. Many were with children. Adults walked in pairs. One could tell who was participating in this pilgrimage due to their body motions. Many people held each other and walked quietly. Steps were not as powerful. Familiar faces intentionally stopped to greet each other. It was unlike anything I had experienced before. 

Returning to the first location was no easier than getting up this morning. The Vice President of IELU met us in the lobby so we could then walk together to view the girls again. This time around I noticed the grieving parents and how much they differed from each other. One of the fathers could barely sit still as he clenched his daughter’s lime green winter coat. He tied it around his neck like the invisible cloak, like it was protecting him from the realities of the world. The other girl’s mother weeped more softly moving between chairs near her daughter’s casket to the benches in the lobby. Shortly after our arrival the fire department arrived to also pay their respects. Marianela’s casket was moved one last time into room two before her final departure. It was then when her mother took a seat outside of her room where she sat and smoked a cigarette as a crowd of people rushed into to see her precious daughter. Pained.

I could not bear to stare any longer at closed caskets and drenched faces. The clock had finally struck 10:30am and Marianela’s chariot awaited. Grievers lined up the driveway. The men across the street grew vastly in numbers. People were still in room three with Valentina and others were outside of the building talking amongst themselves. I had counted over 50 people alone in the 10 feet radius of me after most people cleared space for the pole bearers. Slowly as the driver pulled off with our girl, the crowd began to collapse in on each other following the vehicle to the street.

We wept. 

By 11:17am the clergy crew and I were on our way back to Maria Sol for the last time. This is when it dawned on me that I had very little strength to continue. My supervisor on the other hand made her way around these spaces able to provide that same sort of care she delivers any other day of the week. I was in awe. V.P. was no different in her approach to grief. The two of them tagged teamed and made their rounds within the velatorio spanning from staff to family to neighbors to children. The two of them have always inspired me in the way the minister. Their ability to sense and embrace exceeds that of many others I have seen. Their presence is powerful without being overbearing. They can do this, I however am falling behind.

In the moment I labeled this as traumatic when the proper word would be draining. Staring at caskets and bodies is draining. Watching strangers cry which then makes you cry is draining. Feeling for every single person because you have a bad habit of trying to figure everyones relationship to the dead is draining. We lamented for four hours before I finally took a walk. 

For an hour I caught my breath trying to process what was even happening. I found security in my local eatery. The waitress approached me in my collar and knew immediately where I had been.

“Las chicas estan mis estudiantes. Tres asistieron la escuela aca.”

I was frazzled and raw blurting these things out before I properly greeted this familiar face. Am I panicking right now? I felt premature for my position and irresponsible for walking away. Staff members  that saw me leaving made sure to check me as I passed. Am I abandoning my tribe by taking a break? Nevertheless it did not stop me from calmly sipping my coffee and watching others trek a similar path back and forth. By the end of the 12th hour I headed back into the deep end to be guided by clergy into a car. Trustingly I asked:

“Dale, a donde vamos?”

We were heading to another velatorio. 

My heart weakened and my eyes drifted close. 

We arrived.

We grieved.

We left. 


We planned for tomorrow. Today had hurt. My pond is empty. The faucet still leaks. But those who are thirsty will still need to drink tomorrow.



#ReclaimMissionary

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

A Community in Grievance Part 1: Candelight Texts

Monday July 26th, 2017 10:02am (Day 309)

I slept peacefully in Capital Federal electronically disconnected from the world, a rarity for me. It was my version of the weekend. After over ten months in country it no longer occurred to me that tragedy happened. I felt like I escaped that. As if I was fleeing from R.I.P. T- shirts and police brutality. I arrived to this land foreign to me with generations upon generations living, trauma that was not quite fatal, and baptisms in abundance. Maybe six months into this journey I had completely written off the idea of preparing for a funeral. The joke is on me  I guess.

As my alarm sounded, I asked my friend for a wifi password. I was carefree- for a moment.

“Nic fallecieron 3 chicas del colegio en el accidente. C.C. esta destruido. Te necestiamos.” (8:57am)

“Estamos en el templo.” (9:52am)

My eyes stretched over the message confused at what I was reading. “Three of my students were in an accident. I don’t understand what this says though. Fallecieron?” Someone else had to explain to me that my students were dead. My face dropped. This could not be happening. 

But I’m not in Grand Bourg. I’m an hour away. What do I do? More messages popped up on my phone from the congregation with lists of girls that were hospitalized or potentially dead. My brain could not even compute what I was reading. This happened last night? Mendoza? 100 different things raced through my mind as I tried to stay calm in front of others while putting the pieces together. 

“Yo vengo.”

What was a forty two minute train ride felt like three days as SZA played in my headphones. I scrolled through Instagram stories where majority of my connection with students reside. Our youth are aching something awful. Our community is disheveled. I finally began to cry. With no idea who these students at the time, my heart continued to ache for Instituto Evangelico Argentino (IEA). Our community has this bond I have never experienced before. Parent support exceeds the boundaries of our building and into field trips like Rosario. Teachers love students like they are their own. I have watched them cut food for students during meals and prepare children’s clothes during shower time. Familes and staff of the school watch these children grow up together from nursery throughout high school. And it doesn’t end there either. Iglesia de San Lucas sits right in the center of the school acting as the Lutheran alternative to Communion class, confirmation class, and youth related activities. Majority of our first communion kids are students of IEA as well as most of the attendees of Saturday LIGA. We are as bonded to the spiritual nourishment of IEA students as we are to our baptized members. This was not merely losing students, this was like losing your own kin.

I arrived at the school by 11:16am while teachers gathered in a circle of mourning and the directors clicked through Facebook photos. They showed me the last videos the girls, Marianela, Maria Sol, and Valentina, posted before the accident. Savoring the precious moments. While standing there in silence they finally explained to me what happened. A dance studio from Grand Bourg were on a trip in Mendoza. Something happened while on the bus which was difficult to understand. What was presented in the papers and on the news was a turned over bus leading to fifteen deaths, including our three girls. Others were severely injured and remain hospitalized in Mendoza. Another one of our students is part of that group. I did not know until then that there were others involved in this tragedy. I could not even begin to fathom what this meant for the greater Grand Bourg community. As each second passed the day became more grim.

The school was so empty that morning. I remember the erie silence in the halls where children normally play. Cleaning staff continued with their tasks as tears dropped on the very floors they wiped. They were our girls. Words could not crawl to my tongue fast enough. Just teary eyes and cold hands. Even with a room full of staff it felt like each one of us were alone. While there was community and embraces passed amongst each other, facial expressions displayed various essences of grief. As they should. Tell me, what does one say to broken hearts and empty spirits?

As they hour grew longer I felt myself back in CPE at Grady Hospital. There was a gunshot wound to the head victim, teenage girl, found on the side of the road in the early morning. I remember when her parents arrived. Her mother was unconsolable and her step father was too at a loss of words. I remember the strange discomfort I had around accompanying her and my consistent inability to speak. How far into the room should I be? Should I say anything? Do I rub her shoulder blade? I remember the regret I felt after leaving them feeling as though I did not do my job. Like there was more that could be done to provide care to those in grief. These feelings resurfaced as teachers greeted and walked past me to head home for the day. My mouth wanted to move but to say what? How do I embrace them so they know they are fully supported? Am I doing this pastoral care thing right? My anxiety has an appetite.

What happens next? It was now almost 1:00pm and the Candelight Vigil at the plaza was not until 7:00pm. I had no desire return to my home and isolate in fear of letting my own grief destroy me. So I walked up to the secundaria and returned to my newly beloved scaffold. I stared at the mural as my back faced the same seats the seventh and eighth graders would sit during recess and after school. Our girls were the same age. They too would linger by the recess tables or run in and out of the girls bathroom which resided on the left side of the mural. This patio felt sacred. In pure emptiness I could almost feel presence of these friend groups strolling by and staring. I remembered all the various students that would ask to help during break. I could hear the whispered “Que lindo”s from the lips of teens. Our youth are so sacred.

By the end of the session three pink ballet slippers hung from the hand of God. The same hand that held a girl in the waters of baptism. It felt prophetic for a minute to see this image of the baptismal water as we are given new life through this Holy Sacrament. We believe that through this sacrament death is not the end result. Rather, death is the point of transition to where we begin our eternal life with God our Creator in Heaven. It hurts today to lose our loved ones in their physical form and by no means is the acceptance of death easy. However, in baptism we trust in God’s eternal love for us and the gift of eternal life through our faith in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. I guess the challenge is then believing that God still loves us even when we lose someone we love. Accepting the fatality of innocent children is a spoonful to swallow. It is an unbearable pain for parents and caretakers. A travesty such as this makes it difficult to reconcile with a loving God and a God often taught to be a puppeteer of daily life. My family too had to reconcile with this issue as I’m sure plenty of others had to as well. I try to preach about a responsive God rather than a commanding God. The God of  the Israelites who led Her people out of Egypt during times of slavery and genocide. I hope we can imagine a God who hears Her people and aches with them equally. God loves us so much that she gave us the power to live autonomously and hopefully humbled.This accident is of human origin and how we will all heal is of God’s power. Though that may be tough to digest today I cannot imagine leading a life of hate and resentment over something out of my own control. In other words, the God of my understanding is the one who is life giving, pain bearing, and earth making.

It was now 6:42pm and I had 18 minutes to prepare to publicly grieve with my community. Part of me wanted to walk home and shut down. But the streets were filled of people walking towards the plaza. Flower stores and candle stores had lines out of the door. Text messages kept coming in from congregants. I sat on the sidewalk in front of a local restaurant trying to develop the courage to walk. Then a student from the primary school passed me and waved. We all need each other.

I am curious how often pastors need to find the courage to face people. Tell me, has this ever happened to you? When we heard the Grand Jury did not indict Darren Wilson, heading in to Center City Philadelphia to protest and grieve was not even a second thought. One’s presence had always been instinctive. Then something like this happens and it seemed like my instincts were fading. I am ashamed.

The night was warm as if it were the bosom of God Herself. I walked over to the plaza with an ice cream cone in my hand as an irrational method to keep calm. Members of San Lucas waved me over as the vigil began. We lit our candles in silence and retreated to a less crowded space. Then a woman walked up to the stage where the TV cameras were. She invited the cluster of us to pray the Lord’s Prayer for the girls. Maybe is was the tearful mothers next to me but in that moment something clicked. As hundreds of community members entered the plaza, I began walking through the crowds to find my people. There was this bizarre juxtaposition throughout the space. Small children carelessly tinkered on the playground while their parents were swallowed in each others arms. High school kids that once laughed on the grass they stood on were consumed by tears. Hallow trees felt more full than the onlookers on the streets.  For brief moments I embraced youth, teachers, directors, and mothers. My tongue was still tied and my anxiety still thrived but it was important to check in on as many of us that I could. It was hard. It was uncomfortable. Yet it was intentional- the spirituality of presence. 308 days ago Grand Bourg welcomed me with open arms and invited me to accompany their ministry in the world. They offered me steadfast love and entrusted to be an equal participant in their community. Whether or not I am deserving of that invitation, they are deserving of all the love and support any stranger could possibly offer. 

The night concluded well after I departed as we all planned to regather at 11:00pm at the viewing of the bodies. We never reconnected. In reality is was better this way. There was no way anything healthy could come from us rushing through the evening to grieve once again. Everyone was tired if not physically at least emotionally. Eyes were swollen and red. Hands were filled with tissues. 

Not tonight. 

Tomorrow we would meet again. 



#ReclaimMissionary


Monday, June 19, 2017

The Patriot


Before I left for the States I managed to solidify a chaperone position on the fourth grade field trip to Rosario. To be honest I really had no idea what I was getting into. To me it sounded like a great opportunity to get to see another province of Argentina and Nic never says know to a chance to travel. In reality this was an academic/ social experience for our children to explore Argentine History already taught in schools and to be exposed to a different lifestyle than what we had in Grand Bourg. Our school, both primary and secondary, incorporates a lot of camping and trips  into their programming for this exact reason. Student formation is not exclusive to education. Rather, it is multidimensional and intentionally incorporates life experience and diversity. Without trips like these, many of our students may never receive these opportunities otherwise. To me, youth development that incorporates all of the person is greater than our traditional styles of schooling that I see in the U.S.

For the past sixteen years Instituto Evangélico Argentino has taken their fourth grade class to Rosario, Santa Fe for the Annual Flag Ceremony. There, hundreds of students from across the country gather in uniform with their oversized Argentine flags, Argentine pins, and pledge allegiance to the flag in unison. They sing songs of their country like the National Anthem while their parents and spectators gather behind them and cheer. Flags all across Rosario are raised as neighbors sit on their balconies to watch. This celebration happens on the center of the city between major monuments that form the shape of a ship almost. Behind is the eternally burning flame which symbolizes the unity of the country and the lives sacrificed for freedom.
In front of the crowd is the Monument of the Flag, also called the Tower. Inside the Tower contains a memorial to Manuel Belgrano, creator of the Flag, and an elevator that takes you to the top where one can oversee the river and the rest of the city.
It was on the shore of the Paraná River where the flag was first raised in celebration of Argentina’s independence from Spain in 1816. After the celebration students normally visit the neighboring city of San Lorenzo to learn about the war and explore historical sites such as the Franciscan mission where Jose de San Martin (liberator of Uruguay, Peru, Argentina, Chile, and Paraguay) had slept. Incredible to say the least.



I resided in a strange place between nostalgia and awe. They reminded me so much of what is was like to be in elementary school; singing on the bus to pop songs, not knowing how to brush ones’ own hair, wanting to touch, wanting to explore, the curiosity, snuggling up for girl talk in the bunk beds fortress, and unknowingly seeking approval from your elders. It was pure bliss at times especially on our day of play. A dozen kids rushed to embrace me with joy before we walked over to the basketball courts.
“You have all these children now."Such loving people I hope they continue to be. I translated Lutheran camp graces before meals. We sung my broken spanish graces that resembled Superman and Jaws.


Surrounding us was beautiful sand and the Parana River kissed every night and every morning by Mother sun herself. There was not one day that this felt like actual work.


My children taught me patriotism by the enthusiasm in their eyes at 6:30am on a Friday as they prepared to brush their teeth for the ceremony. Every single one of them with eyes lit like an eternal flame preparing to carry their flag into a parade of other flag bearing schools.
We were greeted by parents upon our arrival to the monument. Majority of the cheering section were Grand Bourg supporters. From abuelos to primos, love flowed in from all over. These parents were so thrilled to see their children at the Promesa a la Bandera Ceremonia, a morning filled of joy and delight. There was live entertainment keeping the crowd lively. The entire audience sung along to whatever came out of the band’s mouth. It was truly beautiful as thousands of people gathered from all across the country merely to celebrate the flag. And as we sang songs about the skies being the inspiration one could look up and see exactly how the celeste y blanco mirrored the soft clouds coddling the sun while the deep sky blended into this canvas. Increible.

#RealTalk

To be honest when I first arrived in Argentina I was skeptical of things like this. I noticed immediately how often I saw the Argentine flag incorporated into graffiti and art. Every night at midnight the National Anthem is played on the radio stations. Every single holiday is related to the Independence of Argentina and students are taught folk dance routines and made to wear traditional costumes at festivals. Displays of patriotism were like triggers to me. They brought me back in a state of discomfort as I imagined what the U.S. flag meant to me back home. I think of people who still dress like Confederates and reenact the Civil War. The American flag feels like it has been conquered by white- nationalism and every time it waves another innocent Black person is murdered by the police. Yes, I recognize this may sound absurd to many U.S. citizens reading this. However keep in mind that we just celebrated Juneteenth, the day African Americans (though should be all Americans) celebrate the liberation of an enslaved people which was only 152 years ago. My point here is, I did not understand what patriotism should look like because the declared “patriotism” exposed to me back home tends to be overwhelmingly toxic .

With that being said for the past year I have had to really sit with this concept of people loving their country and not terrorizing other people that live in it. Well, that too may be a bit of a stretch considering previous posts about femicide, anti- abortion legislation and domestic violence in the nation. But you will not find Argentines burning down the Mosque in Palermo or defiling a Jewish cemetery. The police do not exert unneeded power during protests nor does the military occupy space in nearly every other country. When your nation manages to generally stay in their lane, it is much easier to have an undying love for your flag without having to be fed a military industrial complex. How different is it for the love of a nation to not be bound to being coerced to also love war under the illusion of freedom.

For a number of years now I have struggled with the concept of patriotism. We have this very misinterpreted way of telling the story of American history. We go from the underdogs to wolves and begin to do things to others that we obviously did not want done to us. Those in power continue to colonize the term patriot used to justify acts of discrimination against people who were seeking the same liberties European colonizers sought upon their arrival. The difference here is that we are now the reason why many have to seek asylum away from their place of birth.

Embarrassingly enough what I am slowly beginning I comprehend this year is that the liberation of My America was, is and will continue to be bound to the liberation of all Americas. The representation of many of these American countries did not always resemble what they are today. Those who declared their freedom in countries such as Argentina also had a large colonizing class of people that came from Europe. And even after their liberation, the European elite were still very much maintained power. For me, some of the major differences are how they responded to the racial differences in their countries. Argentina for example abolished slavery in their constitution which was first written in 1853, before slavery was abolished in the United States. There were not developments of mass genocide of indigenous people though the marginalization of non- white people may still be present.

What the US does and continues to do to non- white people are daily acts of injustice. Whether it was illegal internment camps for Asians and Asian Americans, travel bans against predominantly Muslim- Arab nations, mass incarceration of black and ethnic- Latino people, or flat out discrimination in the workplace, we continuously participate in acts of violence against ourselves and our neighbors. I struggle with patriotism because the way we show our affection to our country is through manipulating our narrative and claiming any rejection of American crimes is hate towards soldiers and freedom.

My elementary school did a wonderful job of teaching us all the folk songs and making sure we all pledged to the flag even though most of my classmates’ families came from an exploited nation. We learned all about the founding fathers, the civil war, “slavery”, manifest destiny and the Native American groups of our state. We were brainwashed to believe that we were all made free even though we had a war less than a hundred years later proving that we weren't. We were assured reservations were just allocated plots of lands to Native people and sharecropping was better than slavery. Imperialism was glorified as if it were some sort of Pokémon edition to catch all the already claimed land of brown and black people. Rather, land was spoken about as if it were just empty and culture was optional. Genocide was only taught exclusively when reading about the Holocaust. The intentional mass murders of people who would fail a paper bag test did not get a name. They barely got a chapter in the history textbooks. But I digress.



I struggle. I am cautious of the word patriot because of the connotations made with it in the era that we are in. I struggle with being patriotic to a country that has benefited off of the bodies of my ancestors. I am conflicted in the present day relationship my country has with people in the margins both domestically and abroad. How can I be patriotic when my country cannot even admit people like me existed as anything other than slaves and Rosa Parks? I want to be able to love my country without my criticism of our imperialistic behavior being associated with hating our troops. I want a love that is not limited to freedom but also to the diversity and various cultures that are celebrated all over the country. I want a love that is demonstrated through universal healthcare, affordable higher education, and justice for people of color both living and dead. But maybe I am selfish for asking my country to love its people. All of them.

#ReclaimMissionary