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Will you feel me better?

Several weeks ago, I started jotting down ideas for a post on toughness: on how our society, in both implicit and explicit ways, teaches us to hide our struggles, our sorrows, and our pain from one another, and how our stifled emotions end up surfacing in other, damaging ways such as anger and violence. I was dwelling on this topic because my youngest daughter, who is five, asks me this question—will you feel me better?—whenever she gets upset. It occurred to me how wonderful it would be if we all felt free to ask one another this question when we feel sad, scared, or lonely.

Well I feel sad, scared, and lonely right now. After listening to the news and scrolling my Facebook feed this week, I find myself wanting to crawl into a burrow and cry. In fact, I did cry today when I was accused of being brainwashed by Democrats because I don’t think that President Trump has fostered unity in our country. I wrote a comment calling for people on both sides of the aisle to be willing to listen to the other side and engage in productive dialogue, to listen to one another’s ideas rather than assuming the worst of one another, and this means I’m brainwashed by Democrats? What on earth is happening to our country? Why are so many people being so hateful to one another? Why do we make so many assumptions about people we don’t even know, in whose shoes we have never walked? Why are we all so angry at one another?

Maybe it has to do with that little question we’ve been too afraid to ask since we were seven: Will you feel me better? It troubles me that my seven-year-old is already starting to hold back from asking me to “feel her better” unless she is really feeling desperate; she is working on developing a tough outer shell while in the meantime, her delicate inner feelings cry out for recognition. As I observe the expressions on her face when she gets upset recently, a mixture of anger is beginning to cloud over her hurt. It alarms me, but I seem unable to convince her that it is okay to cry and ask for comfort when she is upset—to admit when she wants or needs help.

Maybe I’m wrong, but I suspect that much of the spitfire we are hurling at one another on the airwaves and on social media stems from the smoldering embers of pain and frustration that we all hold inside—all those pent-up emotions that we haven’t been able to talk about since we were kids but haven’t been able to brush aside either. We’ve all absorbed the message that we’re not supposed to show weakness, not supposed to admit when we don’t know something, not supposed to reveal fear or need. So instead we stand on our own separate pillars, defending our islands of belief, refusing to admit that we don’t have all the answers and that no one we vote for does, either.

The truth is, research in all types of settings, from board rooms to classrooms, has shown that we do need each other. We need each other’s ideas, insights, experiences, and strengths in order to find solutions to complex problems. The Democrats don’t have the answers. The Republicans don’t have the answers. The blacks don’t have the answers. The whites don’t have the answers. No one has the answers. But collectively we can begin to generate some answers, if only we are willing to begin by admitting that we do have needs, and that those needs aren’t being met by our current social, economic, and political order.

Putting things in perspective

I’ve heard more than a few people comment lately that we can’t just spend the rest of our lives locked up to avoid spreading the novel coronavirus. Too many people are sacrificing their livelihoods and facing prolonged uncertainty to keep the virus at bay.

During the current pandemic, many of us are revealing ourselves to be very impatient with sacrifice—eager to return to life as normal, counting down the days until we can once again socialize, open up our boutiques and restaurants and bars, plan our weddings and children’s birthday parties—yet if we stop to think about the way the world works, the way the economy churns on, we would realize that our “normal” depends on a huge amount of sacrifice on the part of others. We seem so concerned right now about those being asked to sacrifice for the greater good, but every day of our lives leading up to the pandemic there were (and still are) people around the world sacrificing themselves for our good—people on whose behalves we have never collectively spoken up for and for whom we have never demanded a change as many are doing now for their neighbors and friends.

Let us pause to consider people like the teenage factory worker in China who spends 350 days a year living in a dormitory owned by the sneaker—or clothing or accessory or electronic—company for whom she works six days a week, 12 hours a day. Like many teenagers you know, she has a cell phone and enjoys texting her friends, going out to eat, and shopping on her days off, and dreams of a day when she can escape her current confines and perhaps have her own place and her own family. Unlike many teenagers you know, she doesn’t get to see her family except for once a year because they live hours away in the countryside and her one day off per week doesn’t allow for her to travel that far. And unlike many teenagers you know, she is not in high school or college all day, acquiring knowledge that will help her to secure a well-paying job; instead, she toils at tedious work that hurts her fingers and her eyes for little pay so that you can purchase at low cost the items she helps to assemble.

Or people like the migrant worker who picks our fruits and vegetables, laboring in rain or shine, often without protection against the chemicals that were sprayed just days before the harvest. He doesn’t need to be protected because as an undocumented worker; he has no rights and can’t complain to anyone—just like he can’t complain for the less-than-minimum wage dollars he earns and quickly wires back home to his family to put food on a table he is no longer able to sit down at because he has spent his last five years in the United States. He suffers and sacrifices so that we don’t have to pay the true cost of produce and can use the money we save to purchase the other luxuries we enjoy.

And what about all of the service workers in our country who do earn minimum wage? Minimum wage is currently $8.50 in Montana, meaning a minimum wage worker who works a respectable 40-hour work week only brings home about $1,200 per month after taxes—all so that the products sold by the store he or she works for can be cheap enough for you to buy in every style and color so that you have one for every occasion.

Sacrifices are being made every day in this world, and most of them are made to benefit people like you and me. I think it’s high time we make as much of a racket about those injustices as we do about the current injustices we perceive with respect to the pandemic restrictions. As we’ve discovered during the pandemic, we can all survive with a lot less convenience than we are used to. Let’s demand fairer conditions for our fellow human beings and be willing to make some sacrifices ourselves so that billions of people around the world aren’t required to suffer just so that the lucky quarter of us on top can get on with life as normal.

The status quo should not be a status to which we wish to return. We need to redefine “normal” in a way that enables all people to enjoy the basic satisfactions of being human: sipping clean water to quench our thirst; patting our bellies after a satisfying, nutritious meal; engaging in meaningful work for which we receive adequate remuneration; sharing leisure time with loved ones; and tucking our family members in at night under a secure roof, knowing that their needs have been met.

Sacrifice

I’m writing this on Easter Sunday, which seems a particularly poignant day to write about the topic of sacrifice. Many of us around the world have been making sacrifices in the past weeks and months, working from home, shuttering non-essential businesses, foregoing social gatherings, refraining from visiting even our closest loved ones.

Our ability to make so many sacrifices so quickly to slow the spread of a deadly virus makes me wonder why we have never made such sacrifices before for other deadly diseases that have wracked our nation and world—social diseases such as poverty, starvation, ethnic violence, child abuse, and other illnesses of the soul that cause thousands of deaths every day.

To put just one of these social diseases in perspective, 5.4 million children under the age of five died in 2017, the most recent year for which data is published (World Health Organization). As of today, April 12, there have been 105,952 deaths from the novel coronavirus since reporting began in January. Even if we multiply this value by four to scale up to the number of deaths that might occur in a full year, this number of coronavirus deaths represents only 7.8% of the number of deaths that occur among children in an average year.

I can’t help but wonder whether we care less about these deaths than about deaths from the novel coronavirus because they aren’t directly putting us or someone we love at risk. Or could it also be that most of these deaths—and many of the other deaths associated with social illnesses—occur disproportionately among people of color and the poor? The coronavirus, on the other hand, doesn’t discriminate by ethnicity or income, so we all feel the threat—and hence we all act to quell it.

But if we don’t feel motivated to make sacrifices to quell the tide of death when we aren’t directly threatened by it, can we really consider ourselves humanitarian and selfless because we are willing to stay at home and sacrifice social interaction right now?

I implore all of us in a position of privilege to seriously meditate on this question (and if you are reading this, then you are probably in a position of privilege because you have the funds to own a device to access the Internet). In this time of sacrifice, I ask us all to consider why it is that we are willing and able to make personal sacrifices for the greater good right now, but up until a month or so ago, we continued on with life as normal—working, socializing, saving, and spending as if there weren’t millions of people suffering every day in this world who beg for our attention and for a willingness to sacrifice something for them too. If we can unite across the globe to reverse the exponential spread of a virus, then surely we can unite across the globe to reverse the spread of corruption, selfishness, and greed that result in a small portion of the world benefiting from the vast majority of its resources.

I’ve seen many memes lately questioning what aspects of “normal” life we really want to return to after this pandemic abates. Right now, let’s consider what sacrifices we can continue to make so that we can contribute to solutions to social illnesses even when the threat of the coronavirus is no longer present. How can we simplify our lives so that we demand fewer resources to support our quality of life and can instead redistribute those resources to people who desperately need them? What can we give up so that we can give back? And how can we turn our collective hoots and howls for healthcare workers into collective hoots and howls for our hungry, abused, and neglected brothers and sisters around the world?

Fear

I recently finished a fascinating book entitled Shantung Compound about the life of American and European ex-patriats who were rounded up by the Japanese during World War II and placed in internment camps in occupied China. The book is largely about how people behave when they find themselves in situations in which the normal securities in life are no longer guaranteed, and the picture is not always pretty. Little did I know that what I was reading about was going to play out shortly in my own community.

In one chapter, the author Langdon Gilkey shares the time when the American Red Cross sent hundreds of aid packages to the camp, each of which included a coveted rationing of foods not available in the paltry camp meals. There was more than enough food for everyone at the camp, but a group of Americans insisted that the food belonged only to them because it came from their country. Not that the Americans were the only ones guilty of hoarding and outright stealing in this eerily relevant tale.

As I think about the bare shelves now spanning pharmacies and supermarkets across the country, and about the stories I’ve heard of people stealing medical supplies right in front of nurses’ eyes, I realize how timeless the portrait is that Gilkey paints of the human race. When we fear for ourselves and our families, we lose sight of our neighbors and we rationalize our selfishness so that we don’t feel guilty about our behavior.

As I sit here writing, I too am fearful. Listening to the story of a 43-year-old woman in Italy who was in tip-top health but is now on a ventilator due to COVID-19 sent a chill through my body earlier this evening when I was making dinner. I am healthy and strong, but I am clearly not immune from the potentially life-threatening complications of this virus. The thought of not being here to love and support my daughters as they grow up is heart wrenching.

At the same time, this heart-wrenching feeling gives me pause and makes me think of the millions of mothers around the world who have had to live with this feeling every day of their lives for years on end. Mothers in active war zones. Mothers in countries racked by terrorism. Mothers in countries where there is not enough food to feed their children, or enough medicine to care for anyone who becomes ill.

Thinking of these mothers brings real, hot tears to my eyes. As I watch my daughters fall to sleep by my side each night after I tuck them in, I think of how unbearably painful it must be to not even have a blanket to tuck your child in with–yet these women, and men too, bear it.

I hope and pray that something good will come of this virus despite the death and pain it will undoubtedly continue to cause for the foreseeable future. Rather than selfish fear, I pray that it will arouse in us a compassion that our world has not yet seen–a recognition that we truly are all in this together, whether we are discussing this particular virus or climate change or a famine on the other side of the planet. We are all responsible for one another and we cannot simply stock up and pretend that other people’s problems aren’t also ours. A world in which the economy will tank if people actually slow down for a few weeks and spend time at home with their families is a very sick world in need of saving, and only we can save it.

In his closing pages, Gilkey writes,

Our particular jobs of salesman, professor, or senator may prove useless in a camp or even in the next historical moment. But our neighbor is always with us, in the city, in the country, or in the camp. If the meaning of life on its deepest level is the service of God–which in turn means the service of the neighbor’s needs and fellowship with him–then this is a task that carries over into any new situation. (p. 241)

Fortunately, there are wonderful stories of bravery and compassion  woven through Gilkey’s tale–of people who rise above their fears and place the common good at the forefront of their concerns. It is these people who enable the collective survival of the prisoners for their two long years of internment. May I have the strength to be one of those people in our contemporary situation.

If you can’t change places, change perspectives

The level of discontent in our society troubles me, especially when I see it surface in the people around me. I watch and listen as so many people bemoan busy schedules, too many chores, tight budgets, a desire to purchase things they don’t have… and the list goes on.

As someone who has ended up in a city I never wanted to live in sharing my children with an ex-husband who refuses to co-parent productively, I have plenty to complain about. I could easily dwell on being stuck in Billings, missing out on nearly 50 percent of my children’s lives, and any number of negative outcomes associated with my circumstances. But that would make a sucky situation even worse, so since I can’t change places, I choose instead to change my perspective.

It’s easy to look inward and feel sorry for ourselves when life isn’t going as we had hoped or planned–but these are precisely the moments in which we need to instead look outward and focus on the opportunities in our circumstances rather than the constraints.

Let me share a few examples. When I found myself divorced and living in a small apartment in a city far away from any family or close friends, I felt panic arise in my gut. I was stuck where I was for the foreseeable future without the ability to relocate to find a new job or to pursue graduate school or even to recover from my marriage amidst loved ones. For a wanderer like me, my new reality was a hard pill to swallow–but in it, I also recognized opportunity: the chance to finally set down roots and really get to know a community well enough to make the kind of lasting difference I had always hoped to make as a young idealist. Rather than wallow in my isolation, I became more actively involved in local movements to improve the quality of life in Billings. Through my involvement, I made close friendships and did contribute to making change in the form of a local food hub that now enables community members to purchase healthy, locally grown foods from farmers and ranchers right here in the Yellowstone Valley.

Another example: I spend many nights packing lunches, soaking beans and lentils, prepping sourdough, and otherwise ensuring that my family will have wholesome food to eat each day. While I could (and sometimes do) grumble about my lack of free time or inability to just chill out on my couch at the end of each day, I view my time in the kitchen as an opportunity to connect with women around the world, many of whom still spend a majority of their days consumed by food preparation. I feel a sense of camaraderie standing alone in my kitchen at the same time as countless women around the world stand in their kitchens, engaged in the very important work of sustaining their families. I also feel a strong sense of gratitude, for I know that many of those women have to work far harder than I do to provide far fewer calories to bodies that need much more than the women are able to offer.

Every moment of our days is an opportunity to be a part of something bigger than ourselves and to be thankful for what we have, whether or not it is what we thought we wanted. There is opportunity to learn and grow from discomfort, to challenge ourselves to turn discontentment into contentment and even joy.

If you think your glass is half empty, it will remain so. But if you think your glass is half full, you will soon find it overflowing for it is our perspective on life that matters far more than our circumstances.

 

A Gemini sense of home

This past weekend, I visited my home town for the first time in four years. The visit generated—or perhaps simply released—unexpected emotions. When I first purchased my plane tickets, I couldn’t wait to go “home.” Then a slew of invitations to do fun things in Billings during the weekend I would be gone dampened my enthusiasm such that I drove to the Billings-Logan International Airport with a mixture of excitement and regret.

When I arrived at the University Park Airport in State College on Friday night, I still felt a measure of regret at having chosen to spend one of the last of my summer weekends in Pennsylvania instead of Montana, where I could have gone mountain biking, played volleyball, practiced acrobatic yoga, and helped friends herd cattle. As soon as I exited the airport terminal, an equally strong regret of having not been able to bring my children with me to PA surfaced upon seeing the flickering lights of fireflies dancing across the forests and fields that blanket Centre County; Libby and Paige would have so loved to run about catching these glow-in-the-dark bugs that are elusive in Montana.

Over the course of the weekend, as I relished in old friendships and the green, moist beauty of central PA, my regrets at having chosen State College over Billings faded (although I still dearly missed my children). By Monday afternoon, when I was supposed to pack up and return to Montana, I wasn’t disappointed at all to receive a text message from United informing me that a leg of my return flight had been canceled (due to “traffic control conditions,” whatever that means) and that I would instead be placed on an early-morning flight the next day. I had one more night to converse with Dr. Yapa and to watch the lightning bugs emerge and take over the lawn, trees, and bordering stream bed like twinkling Christmas lights—and to take some photos that I hadn’t bothered to take up until I was granted an extended opportunity to capture PA’s beauty so I could show it off to my husband and children across the country.

When I awoke at 5AM for my flight and noticed a message from my husband, I realized my dilemma in responding to him: how does one say she will shortly be on her way home when she is also leaving home? I ended up avoiding the word altogether and simply texted that I would soon be on my way back to Montana.

As my flight from State College to Dulles departed, I was surprised to find my eyes welling up with tears. The last time I flew out of State College, it ended up being four years before I returned. How long will it be this time? While my plan in my mind is to bring my girls and, hopefully, my husband next summer so they can get to know the people and places that I loved for two decades of my life (and still love to this day), I can’t know now whether I will be able to do so or not. It could be another four years or more before—if—I ever get back.

It is a somewhat melancholy feeling to have such deep, meaningful relationships to both the land and people in two distinct places—especially when you are the only entity connecting those two places. My husband has never been to central PA or met any of my friends there, nor has my youngest daughter. Although my oldest daughter was with me at a dear friend’s wedding four years ago, she was too young to remember it, or anyone. And none of my friends from PA have yet made it out to Montana, so they only know of my life here through my stories and Facebook posts. I feel a longing for these two worlds to meld together: for my daughters to experience the place where I grew up—to roll in thick, soft grass and catch lightning bugs like I did as a child, to play with my girlfriends’ children, and to get to know the people who helped to shape me—as well as for my friends “back home” to see and experience my current world in Montana—to attend a powwow, to hike in snow-capped mountains, to ride across the prairie and feel awe at the vastness of a land uncovered by dense forests and foliage.

On the one hand, I feel a desire to have my two worlds become one. Yet on the other, the Gemini in me enjoys having two worlds to straddle, in having parts of me that are only known to certain people in certain places, and other parts of me that are a mystery to those people in those places.

It’s a curious feeling I harbor now as I fly across the country on my flight between Dulles and Denver, leaving one world to return to another. I realize that due, in part, to my many addresses, my world travel, and my tendency to ruminate more than talk, only God and myself, and a few select people who have conversed with me at length about my ruminations, really know me very well. It is simultaneously a saddening feeling and an exhilarating feeling.

Somehow, I am both a person who longs for and relishes deep connections with others but who also finds a sense of personal intimacy in not being fully known to others. During many moments of my life, it’s just me and God, and I like those moments. I feel deeply rooted in myself and my beliefs no matter where I am in the world, and it must be that feeling that enables me to thrive even when I’m far away from people I dearly love—which happens to be an everyday experience for me.

lEtting GO

But the other part of our dilemma is to confront the monstrous self that occludes our vision, separates us from other beings, and makes death such an intolerable prospect.

Barbara Ehrenreich pens these words in her new book Natural Causes: An Epidemic of Wellness, the Certainty of Dying, and Killing Ourselves to Live Longer. An underlying thesis of the book is that we are so obsessed with ourselves—with our own health, success, and happiness—that our egos end up dominating our lives. If we are not attempting to control others, most of us are at least guilty of attempting to control every aspect of our own lives, from our schedules and expenditures to our diets and appearances, often to the detriment of the health and happiness we seek. We chide our children and others by reminding them that the world doesn’t revolve around them while simultaneously living as if the world revolves around us.

In her book, Ehrenreich quotes Susan Sontag, who wrote the following in her personal journal as she suffered from cancer: “Death is unbearable unless you can get beyond the ‘I.’” Life too, I believe, is unbearable unless you can get beyond the “I.” I remember a time in my life when my personal desires were a significant source of anxiety. I would get frustrated and cranky when plans didn’t pan out—even short-term ones like getting to bed by a certain time at night—and I held tightly to my money, doling out only tiny percentages to programs or charities I wanted to support.

Despite priding myself on volunteering my spring breaks and other weeks during the year to sacrifice my time for good causes, I eventually came to realize that my commitment to making a difference in the world was limited to times and places that were convenient for me. Sure, if a friend or family member needed me in the middle of the night or in the middle of a workout routine due to an emergency, I wouldn’t hesitate to interrupt my activity for them—but to be ready and willing to live my life for others in a way that might compromise my ability to maintain a type-A schedule on a regular basis? Certainly not.

I first realized how self-centered I was when I read Kisses for Katie, an autobiography by a young woman who gave up her college plans and settled in Uganda after being moved by the poverty she witnessed there during a post-high school mission trip. She ultimately adopted 13 young children and became a mom while founding a non-profit that ministers to thousands of people each year. Whoa. I was doing nothing like that despite the fact that my desire to change the world was strong. For the first time in my life, I realized I had a significant deficit as a Christian and as a citizen of this world: I was only willing to sacrifice myself when it worked for me.

I had a strong desire to grow beyond my self-centeredness and learn how to find contentedness and even joy—rather than frustration—from living a life devoted to the needs of others rather than my own. God answered my prayers, but not in the way I expected: he didn’t send me to Central or South America, which would have been my preference, but instead granted me two consecutive unplanned pregnancies. I think God knew that if he sent me to a third-world country, I would still end up finding a way to do His work on my terms; the only thing that could force me to truly live my life for others was to have children, whose needs I couldn’t escape at the end of the day.

My daughters are a gift from God not only for the typical reasons we consider children to be gifts—they bring giggles, joy, and unconditional love into every day of my life—but also because they finally released me from myself and enabled me to realize that it is actually quite freeing to not even have the option of fretting about my sleep or workout schedule. I still fit these things in when I can, but I’ve learned to just let go when I can’t. I’d always found joy in helping others, but until I had children, I’d never found joy in letting my time, energy, and money be dictated in large part by others and not by me. It was a big step I needed to take in my growth as a Christian and as a person, whether Christian or not, who desires to make a difference in the world. It’s difficult to make a difference when the number one priority is self—even when we delude ourselves into believing that we place our ideals above ourselves. How willing are we, really, do to dirty, tiring, tedious and self-effacing work for the sake of others?

I have a picture of Libby in a frame that reads, “While we try to teach our children how to live, our children teach us all about life.” What my children have taught me is that real change happens within the mundane and often boring day-to-day work of caring for each other. This is where people learn to trust, learn to love, and learn to let go of themselves. I firmly believe that these three qualities—trust, love, and selflessness—are a prerequisite to any sort of grander change those of use “movers and shakers” wish for the world. We can’t change the world if we can’t touch individual lives, and we can’t touch individual lives if our ultimate priority is the self.

Math as proof of God

Yesterday I was at a math conference during which one of the presenters suggested that there is no ultimate mathematical “truth” for humans to discover, but rather that the field of mathematics and its definitions, proofs, and formulas are human inventions. His assertion set my mind to wondering. Is mathematics a human invention? Or could it be that there is indeed ultimate mathematical truth for us to discover and describe?

I pondered this question from a perspective of faith. I definitely believe that there is a higher power, and I’m pretty sure that I believe in the Christian God (I used to harbor a healthy dose of doubt about this, but most of my doubts have been quelled by the book The Reason for God by Timothy Keller, which I highly recommend to anyone who struggles with belief). In any case, whatever kind of higher power exists has created a beautiful, magnificent, and confounding world that humans of all walks of life have been attempting to describe, define, and explain for millennia.

Mathematicians, scientists, sociologists, theologians, laymen, children, etc.—we all endeavor to make sense of our surroundings and to answer questions about what makes the world turn and why we exist. And as we do, we discover phenomenal characteristics about ourselves and about nature that, I believe, only a perfect being could have created and that we, as humans, are in the process of gradually discovering. Take, for example, the fact that the Fibonacci sequence that many of us learn about in middle-school math class actually appears in the spirals of sunflower seeds. In fact, Fibonacci numbers appear in numerous instances in nature.

It is interesting to me that the more I have learned about math and science, the more I have come to believe in God—not less. Despite the intricate complexities of nature, it seems mathematicians and scientists are nonetheless able to discern underlying patterns and structures that bespeak a beautiful and awesome God that has instilled the world with magnificence and wonder in order to engage us in pursuit of His perfection. I truly believe that mathematics is just one of many ways in which we are able to get a glimpse of God.

If only I were able to pose such possibilities to my math students without being fired for proselytizing, perhaps they would begin to see math as an awesome subject rather than a dreaded one! I thought about that this morning in church and smiled to myself as a student of mine sat down just two seats to my right…

Uncomfortable with comfort

It’s been so long since I’ve written on my blog that I took a peek at my last entry to see what I had written about. Lo and behold, it included advice that I needed to be reminded of today: have faith that the direction your life is taking will lead to fulfillment even if you can’t imagine it now.

It’s not so much that I can’t image feeling fulfilled now—to the contrary, I feel quite fulfilled in my roles as a mother, wife, community volunteer, and faculty member at MSUB—but there is a facet of my life that continues to nag at me and I’m not sure what to do about it. Unless you know me extremely well you’ll think I’m crazy for writing about this, but the one thing that bothers me most about my current life is my level of comfort. Allow me to explain.

As a college student, I had the opportunity to witness the extreme income gaps that exist in our world. I was shaken to my core when I traveled to South Africa and saw wealth so opulent and poverty so staggering, both coexisting within view of one another. I saw children with distended bellies and flies in the corners of their eyes and people living in cardboard boxes—literally living in cardboard boxesjust around the corner from clean, modern, air-conditioned buildings. I’d seen similar scenes in Mexico and Brazil, but the level of poverty in South Africa was far more extreme. It was on that trip that I realized the gravity of our world’s condition and became fully committed to being a part of the solution and not a part of the problem.

Yet here I am today, feeling as if I am indeed part of the problem. I am part of the five percent who consume twenty-five percent of the world’s resources while others don’t even have a stable roof over their heads or food in their stomachs. I have a four-bedroom house that consumes more natural gas and electricity in a month than some will ever consume in a lifetime. Although I bike when I can, I still drive vehicles that consume gasoline, a commodity that has caused immeasurable death and destruction in battles over rights, access, and pricing.

I don’t want this level of comfort for myself and my children. Safety, a solid roof, and food, yes, but not this much. Not while others have so little. I have a desire I will never shake to unburden myself of it all and go serve others in some backwater place without all of these conveniences. The happiest, most deeply satisfying moments of my life have been the moments I’ve spent unshackled to convenience, dirty and tired after a long day of building something for someone and sharing a simple meal in the company of people who have little but love much.

But at the same time, I recognize that the coincidences in my life have been too great to simply be coincidence: I do believe that God has me here, in this place, for a reason. He hasn’t sent me out to the far corners of the world to do mission work, at least not yet. It somewhat perplexes me that He gave me such exceptional foreign language skills then led me to Montana; as the saying goes, the Lord clearly works in mysterious ways. I’m learning to be content with the place He has put me in and the roles He has given me, and to even embrace this place and these roles, but I still can’t shake this discomfort with my level of comfort. Maybe it’s just God’s way of keeping me on my toes and not letting me become acquiescent to comfort so that when the time comes for Him to call on me to relinquish it, I’ll be ready. I can only hope that’s what He’s preparing me for because some day, I do want to relinquish it all and give my life fully to Him.

I’ve been reading Katie Davis’s latest book about her experiences living and working in Uganda, where she has adopted a house full of orphaned daughters and launched a successful non-profit organization. As I read her reflections about how she sometimes struggles with the situation she is in, I chuckle to myself as I realize that I struggle because I’m not in her situation. I long to be, but that is for another time… or maybe it’s not. I don’t know what God has in store for me years down the road, but I do know that as long as I keep my eyes, heart, and mind toward Him, whatever it is He assigns me to do, I will indeed feel fulfilled.

Change of plans

A few months back I purchased a throw pillow that reads, “Sometimes our plans don’t work out because God has better ones.” It seemed a fitting motto for my life, which has taken directions I never would have imagined as a college student majoring in Latin American Studies fifteen years ago. Had someone told me I would be living in Mexico, Brazil, or Argentina by 2017, I would have eagerly believed them and anxiously awaited my future abroad.

Had someone told me, on the other hand, that by 2017 I would be a divorced mother teaching math in Montana, I would have been taken aback–and maybe even cried. What would I use my foreign language skills for? Why would I be teaching math? How on earth would I take care of two children on my own when I wasn’t even sure I wanted children?

As I drove across Interstate 90 last night between Billings and Livingston, where my boyfriend resides, I reflected back in wonder at the unexpected twists and turns my life has taken. Passing the Crazy Mountains, still capped in white above the greening prairie below, I recalled my first trip across Montana in 2003, when I hitched a ride to Seattle with several students from the University of Washington who had volunteered on the same construction project in Lame Deer as I had. At the time, I had never before seen snow-capped mountains or driven across mile-high passes; I remember thinking that the Continental Divide between Whitehall and Butte resembled the set of Indiana Jones in MGM Studios because I had only seen such massive boulders as replicas back east.

Now I drive past the Crazies several times a month and, although I am still awed by Montana’s magnificent beauty, it is no longer a novelty but rather home.

Had someone told me the mere facts of my current life over a decade ago, I would have tried to change it–but had they told me the feelings I would enjoy (and suffer) and the incredible growth I would experience, I would have left God’s plan well enough alone. I never would have guessed that I would make my difference in the world in the middle of Montana, but this is where God wanted me, and I know this to be true because I feel an indescribable sense of belonging and purpose in this place even though I have no family history here and no childhood memories that connect to any state west of Ohio.

And this is why God doesn’t allow us to see into the future: because we can’t predict the ways in which either the expected or the unexpected will shape us and change us. Just like no mathematical model can perfectly predict climate change because there are simply too many variables to consider, our non-omniscient human minds could never hope to map out our own futures and know that we would be sending ourselves down a path of fulfillment.

I ended up in Montana because I acted on a gut feeling to take a job teaching math on the Northern Cheyenne Indian Reservation. I have no doubt that “gut” feeling was, in fact, the Holy Spirit whispering in my ear to make the move out west and abandon my personal dreams of living abroad. Had I taken an overseas job with the federal government (I was, in fact, offered one), I would have made great friends, increased my language fluency, and thoroughly enjoyed South American music and cuisine–but those are all personal pleasures that wouldn’t have satisfied my core desire to contribute something significant and positive to the world. In fact, it likely would have done just the opposite because the information I would have been gathering would have been out of my hands and in the control of the federal government, which would have done God knows what with it (and God surely knew, which is why He gave me the gut feeling to decline the NSA job and accept the teaching job).

Now that I have met a man who shares the unique blend of passions and interests that I have–and, most importantly, a faith in the same God–I am even more convinced that I am right where I am supposed to be.

The moral of the story is to twofold: for one, have faith that the direction your life is taking will lead to fulfillment even if you can’t imagine it now. Believe me, I was struggling mightily a year and a half ago when I was newly divorced and wondering what the hell I was going to do in Billings, MT, for the next 16 years while my girls went through school (because I wasn’t going to move them away from their dad). But I maintained my faith and my prayers, and almost magically, a position at the university was offered to me despite not having the full credentials (yet) for a tenure-track position. And somehow, I’ve managed to both perform well in my position and maintain quality time with my girls, who have taught me about the tattoo I got on my back before they were even a thought in my mind: “The greatest of these is love.” Oh, what we think we know before we have children!

Second, learn to trust your gut. I believe this comes along with prayer, because my most convincing gut feelings have come when I’ve first taken the time to pray earnestly about my situation, as I did during and after my divorce. The most helpful prayers for me have not been of the form, “Please God, let x happen,” but rather, “God, help me to sense your will and have the strength to follow it.” I sensed, I followed, and I honestly don’t think I could be happier, especially not if life had gone according to my own plan.

Amen.