You should watch this.

Little by Little

My parents are amazing. At the moment, they are in Haiti for the second time this year for just over a week. Twice a year for the last 3 years they've taken a group made up of about 15 medical people- my mom's friends who are doctors and nurses, students from the PNP program where she teaches, along with a handful of others who, like my dad, are able to provide support in other non medical ways. I think my mom leaves a bigger piece of her heart there each time she goes. A medical professional with an incredible breadth of knowledge and an even larger heart and generous spirit, it's not surprising that she has truly found what she might very well have been made to do. This year they began a non-profit organization called Little by Little, named for a Haitian proverb "little by little, the bird builds his nest." Which is what they are trying to help the people in Haiti to do. Improve their standard of living and access to health care and preventive medicine in ways that matter. I was touched by my mom's update email, so I thought I'd share it with you, my faithful readers :)

Hi Everyone -

We arrived safely to Gramothe, Haiti and have quickly moved into "high achievement mode". ALL of us and our 40 suitcases of medicine and supplies made it with absolutely NO glitches!!! And when we arrived into the village that evening we found almost 200 people waiting for us...they had heard we were coming into town on Wednesday, and thought there would be clinic that day! The day came and went with everyone just waiting and waiting (patiently, I might add)...so, your prayers for our safe arrival and for God to bring us people who need our care were definitely heard!!! We got up to the mountain first thing Thursday morning to full smiles and hearty "Bonjours"! Just imagine...that would never happen in the states!

It has been raining here constantly, but somehow the downpours have been very strategic with our plans. No rain during the long truck ride from the airport AND no rain until every suitcase was completely unloaded - no rain going back and forth from the clinic - including our walk outside back and forth to the school for lunch!!! It has been amazing to watch God keeping us safe and dry.You may not be able to appreciate this little miracle to the extent that we do - but believe me...it is very significant!!! And the best part of this is that Willem (from Mountain Top Ministries) has completed the waiting/education room which holds more than 200 people sitting on benches and has standing room beyond that, so most everyone patiently waiting for us has been kept dry.

Our team is very prepared and is working so very hard to see everyone during the day so no one has to stay overnight, but again, your prayers for people to find us have been answered...there are so many waiting, we have to give return numbers to more than 100 for the next day - and people are walking from farther distances than ever, and have many unusual ailments.

We started right away with our TB screening, so our timing will work out well to read the skin tests we are placing. We were welcomed at the school with the kindergartners singing to us and showing us there good manners with formal greetings in french :)

We also had the opportunity to send a small team to another school in Petionville to care for the children and teachers. This team was also greeted with song and smiles! How precious everyone is!

We are caring for a man with congestive heart failure, stopping at his home each morning and evening, trying to develop a safe medical plan to save his life. He is in a bad way - so please pray for him. I am more than humbled (is there a more expressive word for that in English?) as I walk into his little stone home. It is one small room with one concrete bed, a small table, several ragged blankets and towels, a rope to hang the few clothes they have, a bucket to urinate in, and at least a dozen family members around this patriarch, loving him and doting on him. Children were sleeping on the floor, along with a woman sitting crossed legged with her nursing infant on her lap (can't imagine the back ache). As we entered this home there was an aura of contentment that is beyond our American comprehension!!! How can I bottle this peace and love the Haitians seem to have in spite of their harsh living conditions and political disaster of a failed state?

Thank you all for remembering us as we carry you along on this journey - we feel your prayers and support!

Love, Brian and Sue and all our team

Out of the wreck I rise.

The morning after the day of Brad's accident, I woke up totally clueless as to what to do with myself. I decided to get a cup of coffee and sit down with my Bible and copy of My Utmost for His Highest to see what the Lord would like to do with me, and in an effort to live out the words of my favorite hymn, "It is Well with My Soul." Turns out the following words were printed as the devotional for the day of May 19th, and on that morning I remember feeling that more fitting, more comforting words were never written.

"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? —Romans 8:35

God does not keep His child immune from trouble; He promises, "I will be with him in trouble . . ." ( Psalm 91:15 ). It doesn’t matter how real or intense the adversities may be; nothing can ever separate him from his relationship to God. "In all these things we are more than conquerors . . ." ( Romans 8:37 ). Paul was not referring here to imaginary things, but to things that are dangerously real. And he said we are "super-victors" in the midst of them, not because of our own ingenuity, nor because of our courage, but because none of them affects our essential relationship with God in Jesus Christ. I feel sorry for the Christian who doesn’t have something in the circumstances of his life that he wishes were not there.
"Shall tribulation . . . ?" Tribulation is never a grand, highly welcomed event; but whatever it may be— whether exhausting, irritating, or simply causing some weakness— it is not able to "separate us from the love of Christ." Never allow tribulations or the "cares of this world" to separate you from remembering that God loves you (Matthew 13:22 ).
"Shall . . . distress . . . ?" Can God’s love continue to hold fast, even when everyone and everything around us seems to be saying that His love is a lie, and that there is no such thing as justice?
"Shall . . . famine . . . ?" Can we not only believe in the love of God but also be "more than conquerors," even while we are being starved?
Either Jesus Christ is a deceiver, having deceived even Paul, or else some extraordinary thing happens to someone who holds on to the love of God when the odds are totally against him. Logic is silenced in the face of each of these things which come against him. Only one thing can account for it— the love of God in Christ Jesus. "Out of the wreck I rise" every time."

I decided to speak at Brad's funeral and used these words when I did. I clung to these words and these passages of scripture in the weeks that followed, and re-read them each year as a reminder of God's goodness and faithfulness in all things.

6

It's been six years. Six years exactly from that morning that I woke up and my life was totally, irreversibly changed.

Strange as it is, my most vivid memory of that morning is of standing at the sink in the bathroom trying to put mascara on and being unable to do so because my hand was shaking so much. A silly detail to remember on a day like that, but it is what it is. That's the first picture in my mind when I think about that day, trembling, fear, dread, an unwillingness to hear the words spoken outloud. And with that one split-second image comes an overwhelming onslaught of emotion that really just blurs together everything that happened in the hours following that moment.

The police officers and counselor at the table with my parents, the looks on their faces, my dad's silence, my mom's only word "Bradley..." said in a way I will never forget, having to wake Kyle up and tell him. The phone calls, the loss for words, the dry feeling in my mouth for days and inability to eat. And despite the fact that she was in the middle of working at camp an hour and a half away, how Emily showed up what felt like immediately. More food, more visitors, more time moving so quickly you couldn't feel it and then moments that seemed to be frozen painfully in time. My dad's best friend Joe's face on the porch as he raced into the house straight from Wisconsin, a beautiful picture of friendship I'll never forget. Trying to sleep, trying to stay awake. Trying to understand, trying to pray, trying to stand up on my own two feet. Funeral arrangements, sorting through pictures, the seemingly endless stream of visitors and food that we were so thankful for as the quiet moments were the hardest then. Visitors bringing caramel macchiatos that never tasted so good and trying so hard to go through the motions. Watching my parents try to grasp what just happened. Minutes bleed into days and hours in what is both the longest and shortest week of my life. From that Sunday when we heard, through the processing and planning and sitting and making decisions to the endless hours standing and talking, center of attention at the wake, the funeral, giving the eulogy, the celebration afterward, the quiet days that followed. I remember every moment of all of it, that week is burned into my brain.

It's been six years since we lost Brad in a motorcyle accident. It's gotten easier in a lot of ways. Each year, it sort of gets easier. But the ways that I've been totally changed forever are still there. I still flinch on the freeway everytime a motorcycle passes me. Every time. I still strain and try to hear his voice in my mind. I still feel the weight of the loss of a brother when other people talk about theirs, or when I go to weddings or think about my childhood. I still feel the significance of losing him when I celebrate a birthday each year, thinking that his young life was cut so short. Here I am, on the edge of 25 and my big brother is frozen in time at 21. I still struggle with the answer to the question "how many brothers and sisters do you have?" Such an easy question for everyone else, one that is anchored in pain, sadness, sometimes anger for me.

I've learned so much in six years, and so much of that learning has been filtered through this lens. I've learned more about grace, about faith, about the goodness of God than I ever would have thought. I've lived in and experienced lament, something so central to the scriptures that I'd never quite grasped before. I've learned about hope, about letting go, and about clinging to scripture and also to the treasured memories and moments. I've lived in and through anxiety, in fear, in anger, in redemption, in peace. I miss my brother. And today, exactly six years later, I'm mourning the loss of what could have been. The man he could have become, the wedding with Lisa that could have been and the nieces and nephews I could have been holding this weekend. I'm always going to miss Brad, but on days like today, when the loss feels more real, he needs to be celebrated, too. He needs to be remembered and missed and held on to for the man that he was, the brother and friend and son that it was so unbearable to lose. Although, that part doesn't really get any easier. Six years.

Small Town Girl

Santa Barbara is not exactly small town U.S.A., but it's definitely not a booming metropolis either. I enjoy visiting big cities, but I've always considered myself a small-town person. While I grew up just outside of Chicago, my little suburb had not much more than a main drag; we didn't even have a movie theater. It's expanded quite significantly in recent years, what with the conversion of an old Naval Air Base into a strip with some restaurants and shops, but the community is small. It feels like everyone knows everyone, and people like it that way. There just aren't that many places to go, so you wind up bumping into people everywhere. I didn't go a single place in Glenview this weekend where I didn't bump into someone I knew, a fact that reminded me of my roots, of why I am who I am and the piece of this midwestern girl's heart that loves community in the ways that make you feel totally connected to where you live and who you're living alongside.

I picture my "someday" life off in the hazy daydreamy world of the future, in a small (usually Southern) town like the ones you sometimes see on tv and movies or read about in books. Where people all eat at the same three restaurants and attend town festivals and live within five square miles of the solitary and picturesque main drag. Whether or not these cozy towns exist in reality doesn't actually matter, although I've visited enough of them to firmly believe that they do. Like many Americans, I've romanticized the idea of living where everybody knows your name and I like to keep the fairy dust on that mental image. Of course the proximity of this town to a city large enough to provide good shopping and a wider variety of incredible restaurants is a must as well.

Santa Barbara is described decidedly among locals as having a small-town feel. I would venture to say that it feels even smaller to those of us deeply entrenched in the Westmont world, but really everyone here is more or less connected through six (at most!) degrees of separation. I've found it's generally more like two to three degrees of separation tops. I do love that about this place. I see the same people at farmer's market, down town, the pharmacy, the beach. I recognize people on my lunch break, and more often than not can find a point of connection with anyone if I try hard enough. I enjoy the times at work or church or when I'm trying to come up with the name of that-one-person-from-Westmont-who-did-that-one-weird-thing-and-dated-that-girl-who-lived-in-page-and-sat-here-in-the-DC... (you know the conversation) and other people actually know exactly who I'm talking about.

But last week, for some unknown reason; this quaint-ness, connected-ness, this three degrees of separation was making me feel more claustrophobic than anything else. It was a surprising turn of events. I'm going to play the Jesusita card, because I think I can. This town started seeming amazingly small as you could feel the energy being wrung from this place as we collapsed under the stress of our collective state of emergency. Everyone knew someone who was being affected-a fact that was a source one moment of solidarity the next of anxiety or sadness. The size of our medium city shrank even more to me this week as I realized how deeply I have become rooted here-almost but not quite against my will-as my heart was totally caught up in every shift and change the fire made. But that was really just a springboard for the rest of it, the personal, hard to put your finger on, not-totally-good-or-bad-or-easy-or-hard stuff.

Really, there have just been a handful of normal everyday things snowballing, propelling me toward a need to return to Glenview and see my family, see my old friends, visit the Dairy Bar, catch up with my ever-changing cousins, meet the people my parents are taking to Haiti with them, and take a deep breath. Relationships, changes, stress, celebrations, good-byes, moves, and everything in between. So I took a moment to breathe in the midwest this weekend. Bought a last minute ticket and soaked up a few days of good old fashioned midwest springtime, and it was just the right amount of time and totally worth it.

I mean, look at them. That's Sophia, my cousin and god-daughter swinging on the elephant tire swing in my backyard, and then Sophia, Mia, Nick, Bella, and Riley doing a coreographed dance to "hoedown throwdown" in the driveway. Just your average Sunday with the Walshes.

Marine Layer

I am not always the hugest fan of the dense, foggy marine layer, but today it is working in the firefighters' favor so I love it. This morning when I turned on the news to check the progress of the fire, instead of the 24 hour coverage that began Tuesday I was greeted by Hannah Montana. And at the press conference this morning, the public was informed that officials are no longer on the defensive and have switched to the offensive. Instead of the fire chasing them, they are now chasing the fire-a good sign.

Check out this LA Times slideshow of images from the fire.

On Empathy

It has been a very out-of-the-ordinary-week, here in Santa Barbara.

We, as a community are in the throes of another tragic and devastating wildfire. The Jesusita fire is dominating our foothills and flirting dangerously close to our downtown and highly populated areas. There is something incredibly unnerving about seeing huge clouds of dark smoke hanging over your city, and it get's worse when you can follow those smoke trails to big, huge, bright red, dancing flames. Last night, the old Johnny Cash song played in my mind with new significance as I actually saw a burning ring of fire. The familiar foothills of the beautiful city I call home, hills where friends, co-workers, neighbors live looked more like Mordor or the inside of a volcano, or hell, than I could've imagined possible.

Tuesday afternoon, as word spread that a fire had broken out in San Roque, my heart sank immediately; as I think did the hearts of this whole community, still grieving and beginning to heal from this winter's Tea fire. It was like we all just sighed deeply, in unison: "Again?! We just did this..." Some of us had to make lame attempts to go about our day as usual, amidst power outages, breaking news updates, evacuations, road closures, and snowstorms of ash. Emergency vehicle after emergency vehicle, reverse 911 call after reverse 911 call, and growing numbers of evacuees, homes lost, and acres burned made life-as-usual difficult to say the least.

My friends and I became lost in the hours of news coverage, but more than that, I'd say we became totally consumed with empathy. It didn't feel right to just go have a light-hearted margarita at Los Arroyos when people were fleeing from their homes and brave men and women were battling the flames to keep people and structures safe. I felt something akin to guilty, knowing that some people were on the verge of losing everything they owned for the second time in six months while there was again no real threat posed to me personally by the fires.

I'm not particularly fond of any type of natural disaster, but this year I have been faced with the absolute awfulness of wildfire. Growing up in Illinois, the only disaster we prepared for was a tornado. The siren would sound at Elm Park, a warning would flash on the bottom of the tv screen, and we'd know what might be coming. Someone would report a sighting of a funnel cloud, usually out in Kane or DuPage county, and we'd head to the basement, or if at school, to the hallways and wait it out. I was terrified of tornadoes back then (and I'm sure I still would be if I lived there); but at the moment, as far as disasters go, they're not sounding half bad. Today, the unpredictability and grueling madness of a California wildfire is almost too much for me, a mere looky-loo who will walk away relatively unscathed.

I'm humbled and nothing short of amazed at the bravery, the stamina, the selflessness of the thousands of fire fighters battling the blaze. I'm heartbroken for the families who have lost everything, and anxious with those who are waiting, evacuated, to hear news of their own precious homes. So, figuratively there has been a dark shadow cast over Santa Barbara this week- much like the literal cloud of dense black smoke blanketing our little corner of the world. We still know, from experience, that God is good, people are generous, and a little gratefulness goes a long way. I know that eventually-and soon, I hope-the flames will all be put out. The firefighters will return to where they came from, and the long and painstaking process of rebuilding will begin. Again.

But this week, tonight, I feel helpless and restless. I believe more than anything in the power of prayer, and in God's loving kindness and sovereignty. Tonight though, I'm afraid to say that praying doesn't quite feel like enough. Of course, it has to be; so I continue to pray. But quietly, silently, my heart is breaking as I pridefully, sheepishly wish that I could do more.

I am a Feminist.

I took a Gender and Communication class in college that changed my life. I'm sure I use that phrase a lot for crucial moments and mundane discoveries alike... "Diet Coke with lime changed my life;" "that book changed my life;" "Butterscotch Wow Cow frozen yogurt changed my life;" "Rhetoric class changed my life;" etc. Guilty as charged. While I do hope and pray that my life is in fact being changed all of the time, that is another conversation for another day. Today, I am confessing: I am a Feminist. This is a discovery I made about two weeks into Dr. Dunn's class, sitting on her living room floor discussing the different definitions of feminism. The course itself was a fascinating, intellectually stretching and enlightening, emotional journey for me. I vividly remember writing my final paper with more conviction, humility and connection to my words than in any class before. Even moreso, I remember the lengthy, thoughtful, handwritten note I recieved from my professor after the course came to an end. She was proud of me, challenged by me, moved by how she watched me learn and grow and change, and interested to see where I would take my interest in and passion for studying gender, communication, and relationships.

There are many theories and definitions of feminism which I have no intention of getting into right now, although most people have a tendency toward associating the word with a late 60s or early 70s image of a man-hating women's lib activist. I'm not that kind of feminist, although if I was reaching early adulthood sometime before 2009, I may very well have been active in any one of the mainstream feminist movements. Feminism is really no more (or less) than the idea that women should have political, social, sexual, intellectual and economic rights equal to those of men. This is no longer a brand new idea to us as educated upper middle class west coast Americans. Most people that I know believe this. Including the man from my office that I'm about to tell you a story about.

I love where I work. It's not necessarily a career-advancing position, but it's perfect for me right now. It's a pleasant work environment where I am good at what I do back in my corner; people are nice, they treat me well, and I generally have a good time at work. More often than not, I feel as though it is pretty Dunder Mifflin-like over here. We even have a "league" for Trashketball, a game we play daily at 12:45 in the kitchen. It has a legit rulebook (that we made) and an annual tournament (with a trophy). Clerks, receptionists, secretaries, attorneys, even the managing partner all get into it. It's really pretty strange, but totally awesome.

Yesterday right before Trashketball as everyone was gathering, one of the attorney's (who also happens to be one of my favorites) went to get coffee from one of the 4 large pots that are always available to all. Lo and behold, as is often the case in the middle of the day, the coffee pots were all empty. We're all in the same boat over here at m&h, when the coffee runs out, you scoop one premeasured scoop into a filter that is right next to the coffee maker and push a button. It's as simple as that, and everyone has coffee. We're all saved from the disappointment of an empty coffee pot when you're about to fall asleep at your desk. Everyone does it, it's like an unwritten understanding based on mutual consideration and convenience. So, he tried and failed to fill his coffee cup, then just walked away. If he didn't want the coffee that bad we may have let it slide for the next person, but he went on to complain about it. I suggested that he could make another pot, scoop the grounds and push the button, like everyone else. His reponse was "I don't make coffee, and besides, it's not in my job description." Curious, I had to ask whose job he thought it was, since he went ahead and spent a couple of minutes making it very clear that he felt it was beneath him. In so many words, he alluded to the fact that he thought it was mine.

So I stood up and I made the coffee (although it is definitely not in my job description either). I really don't mind making coffee-I do it every morning because I'm the first one in the office. I actually was not personally insulted or offended, but the interaction bothered me greatly on an intellectual level because of what it represented. There's more backstory involving other individuals in the room, men and women. The things they said, buttons they pushed including the unfortunate tossing around of the word "chauvenist," and their role in escalating the whole interaction.

But the exchange between myself and him was as brief as that. After lunch when he walked past my desk he stopped by to apologize for being out of line. I thanked him because I did feel that it was warranted, but I also responded with "I like you, and I know that you didn't mean to be offensive. I want you to know that I truly don't mind making coffee and was happy to do it; but I did have to try very hard to pretend that it didn't feel a bit like it was 1952 and I was making the coffee solely because I am a woman." He understood, and I understood, and I think it was a teachable moment for both of us. I know that I thought about it quite a bit yesterday afternoon. I wondered why it got to me, why it got to him, and why it got to everyone else in the room. Fairness, equality, and courtesy are important to all of us, but at the root of that, more intimately connected to how we feel and respond in those situations is our gender-which is so critically, uniquely, and beautifully central to our way of being in the world.

This is fresh on my mind because I am studying it passionately. I am reading books on gender, sexuality, marriage, and communication. And this week I'm also thinking, talking and reading about the state of the body and gender and sexuality relative to the study of popular culture and theology. It's fascinating, every day, everybody, often tough-to-navigate stuff. It's stuff that gets down to our very core, to how God created us, how He loves us, and how we feel in our own skin, which is worth a little thought. And yes, I love school.