For Lent I've been trying to actively seek out "hope", and then document it when I find it. This has proved to be wonderfully easy as my time spent in Las Vegas and “in transit” seemed to be full of such encouragements. And, for the first time in a long time, I felt myself inclined to recognize them. It seems that I have been lacking hope and peace for a while now, and despite my efforts have not found any solution up until now. Then in Las Vegas last week, like a flood it hit me. As if the joys I’d been experiencing the last few weeks in Philly reminded me of the joys I once felt about Life. It was wild to come down from a “big picture” type worldview where the state of the world stole much of my joy, hope and peace, to a “smaller picture” worldview where all I could see was the beauty in my immediate surroundings—in the faces and hearts of friends, in songs, in words, in laughter, in buildings, in sunsets, in bike rides, in children… I feel as though my “Ecclesiastes” type attitude made these small gifts to be “vanity and a striving after the wind.” Then in a moment, as if a switch had been turned on or off, there it was—my hope, my joy, returned, or new, I couldn’t quite tell, but there it was. I felt like the mornings would never be long enough to write all I wanted to write, or hear all I wanted to hear, or say all I wanted to say. I felt utterly humbled as the weight of my questions, doubts and fears rested on my mind, while at the same time the weight of the presence of Love and Hope rested on my heart.

My confusion is still present, and seems to linger like fog around my mind, but I cling to the hope that I feel no matter how small, or inadequate it may very well be. It feels good to hope. And perhaps some days it’s okay to choose the hope and the joy over the questions of truth. I wonder if that’s what faith truly is? I wonder if I’m alright with that? Today I think I am. It feels quite good to be one of Hope and Joy, Peace and Love. And it feels even better to let the one of doubt, fear, anger, and bitterness fall to the ground in loving surrender.

Here I sit, in Texas. My layover has been extended a number of times, and the actual time of departure is far from being nailed down. At this rate I will not arrive in Las Vegas until very late tonight.

It was sometime yesterday that I realized I would be leaving today for Las Vegas. As soon as I processed my leaving, I realized my stomach feeling a bit uneasy. I do believe that I’ve grown to love my new home in Philadelphia, and do not feel quite ready to leave it, even if only for a few days. I thought of the daily schedule I’ve grown used to, my hand crafted bed, and my wonderful friends. I thought about missing house dinner tonight and how much fun we usually have; all 11 of us and a handful of guests crowded around our wonderful dinning room table. I thought about cell group on Tuesday, and how much I enjoy gathering together to talk about God, and our lives. I thought about missing Lost, and how I’m growing to love the show, and the comical company/conversation surrounding it. Life… just as it happens. Home… in Philadelphia.

I grew more excited to leave as I reminded myself of who I was going to see. I thought about the Broyles boys and my dear friends Jon and Lealah. I thought about how much fun I will surely have with them. I remembered my six months in California spent in their home, by their side, and them by mine. As I sit here now in Texas, in transit, I miss Philly already, but look forward to time spent with old friends.

Wednesday was Ash Wednesday. Our church had a vigil, as it does every year, and that I’ve attended now twice. As we walked in I searched for an open place to sit on the floor. The heaviness and feeling of contemplative thought was deeply felt. I wove through the endless amounts of bodies, and found myself a spot in the front. Music was playing, and the lights were dim. I sat and tried to process the practice we were intended to be participating in. I realized in that moment, I had arrived completely unprepared for the vigil, and had only gone because “that’s what you do”. As I sat there I tried to breath under the heaviness, and for a moment felt an old, wonderfully familiar feeling, one I used to recognize as the presence of God. Our friend and pastor Joshua, instructed us to take a piece of paper and write down something we wish to “give to God”. I got my paper, and struggled for a minute trying to think of something to write. Then as my pen met the paper it began to write and didn’t stop until both sides were full of words; words of pain, anger, heartache, and struggle. I wrote of doubt, and fear, and what I’ve been experiencing these past 7 months. When the paper was filled I sat there and thought about the things that were written on it. It wasn’t long until my thoughts were interrupted by Joshua asking us to come forward to a candle just above where I was sitting, and put our papers up to the flame. I stood in line, awaiting my turn, and continued to process what I was about to do. What was I committing to in this process? If by burning this paper I was saying that I was finished thinking about these things, then I wasn’t sure I was ready to burn the paper. I stood there, inching my way towards the candle, when all of a sudden there was nothing separating me from the flame but empty space. I held my paper up to its heat and felt it devour my troubles. If only it could be this easy. After I tossed my burning paper into the tin beside the candle, I sat down, and thought. My thoughts were again interrupted by Joshua talking about the tradition of putting ashes on our foreheads. He spoke of the old ways when marking your forehead with the name of your master was a sign of great commitment, and how people would wear ashes as a sign of mourning. He also explained that the ashes we would be using were from last years palm branches. We were encouraged to go forward and put ash upon our foreheads. I sat there for a long time. I wanted so badly to get up, but something inside just wouldn’t do it. I felt so empty as if there weren’t enough strength to get up; as if there were not enough courage, or passion, or belief to mark myself with a symbol I’ve loved so deeply for years, but so heartbreakingly have questioned over the last few months. My stomach turned under the struggle of getting up and doing something I once felt so honored to do. I thought about how deeply I wanted someone else to do it for me. How I needed someone else to do it for me. Just then Danielle came to me and asked if we could go up together. I immediately began to cry. I was quickly aware of my tears, and of the many people surrounding me. But they continued to fall as I said I didn’t know if I could. She said she had envisioned drawing a cross and saying with each stroke, “Abba, I am yours.” My heart began to ache with her words, with this promise… And I rose to my feet, and left that night with an ashen cross across my forehead.

Last night I had dinner with my dear friend Becca Carter’s little sister, Liz. Becca was one of my staff on the Birth Attendant School, and quickly became a treasured friend. Lizzy was just as I imagined her, and just as Becca had described her in all of the stories told through out our travels. As I walked into the house where we were to be eating dinner, I recognized her immediately. She looked, sounded, and laughed just like Becca, and it was almost all I could do not to burst into laughter and tears at the same time. Becca is in Sudan with the Birth Attendant School running presently. I miss her very much, as well all of the other girls on my school. Every once in a while I remember that the school is over, and my heart breaks a little every time I realize I won’t ever be going back.

The skies in Philly this past week have been almost more than I can handle. The backdrop they provide for this city stirs me, and excites me for the things to come. I think of spring, and summer, and Revelation 21.

Peace be with you.

It’s been awhile. I have, for the most part, settled into my new home in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. My home is a bubbling hub for community and friendship, and a home that I confidently say I am proud to be a part of. I wasn’t planning on working for this month and a half before my trips to Las Vegas, and then Italy, but work somehow found me. I am, to say the least, thankful. I have been taking care of a little 20 month old girl called Olivia 3-4 times a week. It seems that I am daily amazed by her animated little personality. Her faces, her babble, her humor, blow me away. I have also really enjoyed getting to know her mother, who is a good friend of Danielle’s. It’s been amazing to see her strength, courage and composure over the last month, as Olivia’s father passed away a few days before Christmas. I wasn’t planning on continuing in the “nanny business”, but I am increasingly thankful, on many levels, for this little surprise. If you live in Philly, or somewhere close, you should come out to Johnny Brenda’s on Sunday night (Feb 3) for a memorial/benefit show to remember Steve, and help out his family.

I’ve begun to read a book called “Three Cups of Tea”. It’s the story of Greg Mortenson, a mountaineer who, in his failed attempt to climb K2, came upon an impoverished Pakistani village in the Karakoram Mountains. The story follows him through his failure to conquer the massive mountain while eventually finding his joy in building schools (especially for girls) in impoverished Pakistani villages in the “forbidding terrain that gave birth to the Taliban”.

Danielle and Lindsey are in Nashville this weekend, leaving me to fend for myself back here in Philly. With my wide-open schedule, I decided I’d treat myself to my favorite breakfast place in Philly, and possibly elsewhere in the world--- Honey’s. As I sat there eating my two eggs, toast, home fries drenched in salsa, and coffee, I tore through the pages of my new book. I was enveloped in the stories of the Himalayas and mountain climbing. Comforted by stories about the Pakistani/Muslim culture, so similar to the ones I’ve experienced myself in India, Nepal and Egypt. I sat there in Honey’s, a place I dreamt about so desperately while I was gone, only to find that when sitting there this morning I was longing to be on the rugged, dangerous roads of Pakistan, mobbing through the Himalayas, drinking cup after cup of chai, wearing wool scarves and the smell of curry, hearing the call to prayer, and embracing the peace of a simple life. I laughed to myself as I realized how romantic I make things. I remembered, quite realistically my own journey through the foothills of the Himalayas in Nepal, and being so utterly terrified I wrapped my scarf around my head as not to see the deadly cliffs we teetered so close to. I try to recall how frozen I was at just 20 degrees when it snowed in Philadelphia last week. I laugh at the idea of attempting to climb at temperatures much less forgiving than that. I also can’t say I’m willing to give up my daily warm shower just yet… So, today I’ve been trying to delve into the beautyl of my reality presently.

I live in Philadelphia. At times I wonder if our neighborhood is not more like a developing nation than it is North Philly. Its streets are littered with rubbish, needles in the gutters, and dark allies you avoid. Drug deals, drug busts, and drug offers are common, as we live next to the largest drug corner in Philly. Abandoned, dilapidated buildings are found every few blocks, as well as the chains of poverty. The “el” (elevated train) runs right next to our house, and can be seen and heard from my second story window. I ride my bike under its shadow on my way to work, or if the weather is bad, I ride in its warm and crowded cars. Some days if I allow my imagination to run, I could be right back in Garbage City in Egypt. I am ever aware of my color, gender, and over all appearance. I am ever cautious and aware of my surroundings. It is in these times, when I realize my surroundings are quite similar to those of my travels, that I find myself at peace. Though the scenery of poverty and addiction can be intimidating I’ve found people are actually quite kind. My apprehension to venture out into our streets alone has slowly dwindled over the last month, as my preconceptions of my neighbors have been daily proved wrong.

I so often want the romance of traveling to exotic lands, and encountering exotic people. I find it incredible that I can look out my front door and find the complexity of humanity right there in front of me. There are people of different races, speaking different languages, having grown up in vastly different worlds, with drastically different worldviews. They are people so different, yet so inherently similar to me. I suppose this is why I travel, to take in this baffling mystery of humanity, and to take in its beauty, even in its flaws.

I’m still working out the kinks of the last bit-- its “flaws”. I continue to struggle daily with the problem of pain and evil in the world and how it relates to a “God of love”. But today I will choose to look past the vast space of questions and choose to see humanity in her raw and damaged beauty, choose to believe there is more, and that there is hope. Instead of longing to be in the Himalayas I will look at the beautiful shades of brick that line the streets; I will admire the pink cheeks of winter on people passing by; and I will love that I live in Philadelphia, a world far different than the one I was born into, yet still so wonderfully similar.

I leave for Las Vegas in a bit over a week. I’m going to help out the Broyles again, as they go to Pool a fashion tradeshow with there clothing company “Something Sacred”. I look forward to reconnecting with these dear friends.

A few days after I return from Las Vegas, I head out to Italy to visit my brother Chris with my Dad, step-mom and aunt. I am looking forward to seeing all of these loved ones, as well as the beautiful historic sights of Italy. I will return to Philadelphia at the end of February to really settle down, and start digging my roots…something that scares me and excites me all in one breath.

Peace be with you.