(for more photos of Julie's week see the previous blog entry featuring her father's photography from their week on the rez)
The Life of Faith
As we laid out sleeping bags and suitcases on the old carpet of a Sunday School room in Harrah Community Church, White Swan, Washington, I realized I had left my Bible and journal in my bag in the car, which was locked. This was the first night of our mission trip to Sacred Road, a ministry which serves the Yakama Indians, and it was almost lights out. Dad, keeper of the van keys, was settled into a tent in man territory (girls were in the church, boys were in two tents and a house behind the main building). So I accepted, first begrudgingly and then trusting that it truly was best, that I would be without these tools until breakfast the next day.
I woke early on Sunday morning, the sun just throwing its golden light on the underside of the green leaves outside my window, coloring the sky a perfect blue. I rolled over on my stomach and began to pray. Surrounding me, in my room and the two rooms next door, were thirteen young girls with a special place in my heart, many who had been on this trip before, all who were eager to be serving together this week. One by one, I prayed for each girl, for any special concerns I knew of or guessed at, and for their ministry in the week ahead, and there was no rush to be done praying. I got up a little before 7:00, dressed for the day, and went to the piano. The sleeping rooms open off of a balcony around the sanctuary, but all three of the girls' rooms had told me the night before that they planned to have their alarms go off at 7:00, and I figured the fans were loud anyway and would provide some white noise if people wanted to still be asleep, so it would be okay if I made a little noise. I played for an hour, talking to my Father in the words of the songs and lilt of the music, and also sharing my own fellowship with God with all the girls and women in the church. The message God had for my heart in all this was: "Let go of your expectations and routines, and trust me to do my work in my way. You don't have to have your usual trappings to meet with me. Learn to live a life of faith, depending only on me." It was the same message He has been laying before me at home, in the context of my relationships with unbelieving coworkers: trust Me, live by faith. I looked forward to seeing how He would flesh out this lesson during the week.
After breakfast, we gathered for Sunday School. We met in a big circle of folding chairs in the pavilion behind the church, and after we sang a few songs, Chris (head of Sacred Road) opened the Word. "Most of you probably know that Isaiah 58:6-12 is a passage that is special to us here at Sacred Road," he began. I was awestruck for a moment, and then filled with warmth at the sudden knowledge of my Father's specific preparation of my heart.
Two days before, on Friday, it had been so warm and inviting on the bench beside the house that I took a break from watering, laundry, and cleaning and brought my Bible and journal out to spend a moment with God in the midst of the busy afternoon. I was preparing to be gone from my house sitting job for a week, and coming to terms with the fact that I was going on one of those mission trips I always looked down on.
Why, I wondered, would we leave the mission field God had placed us on, spending money (ours or the money of friends and family goaded by support letters) to travel to a people whose culture and language are totally unfamiliar, staying for only a brief window of time and then leaving the needs and brokenness totally behind and returning to our comfortable daily lives? Why not serve the needy who we see every day at work, on the way to the grocery store, on the bus, next door? Why not serve in a place where we have already gained trust through daily relationships, where the language and culture are second nature, where God has already opened doors and orchestrated connections? Mission trips seemed to me like a guilt-soothing endeavor to be good people, to fulfill the year's requirements for good deeds so that comfortable, affluent lives could be maintained for the remaining 51 weeks.
Yet I was going on one. So it was time for a heart-to-heart with God about my attitude on this trip. "God," I asked. "Why am I going on this trip? What purpose do you have for me here?" He directed me to Isaiah 58, and I turned there with eagerness. I have felt a strong pull to this chapter in the past, and have loved the richness of the promises found there. But it has made me feel guilty: do I, could I EVER live up to these words? Do I break the yoke of the oppressed, clothe the naked, care for the poor, stop doing what I please in order to do as God requires? I read the chapter hungrily, with an excitement that perhaps this week I could do some of these things and gain a vision for continuing to do them in my daily life back at home. I saw that what bothered me about mission trips bothered God too: "Is this the kind of fast I have chosen, only a day for a man to humble himself?" Only a week in Mexico for a man to serve the poor? Holding these pictures and promises in my mind, I returned to my packing, eager for what the week would hold.
And now, first thing on Sunday morning, God was already reinforcing His vision to me. We divided into three groups and discussed three aspects of the passage. Our group looked for qualities of God described in Isaiah 58. He is a generous God, and one who wants to restore and repair that which is broken. Someone pointed out that it's a lot easier to start from scratch than to keep the old structure and rebuild it, but that renewing and remaking is exactly what God does to our hearts. In the week ahead, I would see a lot of brokenness on the Indian reservation, a picture of the state of every human heart. God does not want to wipe us out, but to rescue us from the cycle of death we are trapped in.
Sunday afternoon, we went to the Yakama Cultural Center, where the interns, staff, and Granberry kids guided us through the museum, making the exhibits come to life and answering our questions. Sadie and Josh talked about the Indians' attitude toward nature, their gratitude for the sacrifice the salmon, elk, berries, and roots offered to make in order to feed the Indians. About their worship of one God, and their belief in many spirits that needed to be placated or honored or acknowledged. About the dam the white men made which flooded the falls the Indians had gathered at and fished from for hundreds of years, and the boarding schools they had formed for Indian children, purposing to "kill the Indian to save the man," and the treaties the white men had signed, requiring the Indians to hold up their end without showing integrity to their own side of the treaty.
Back at the church, Chris asked for our impressions of the museum, specifically what emotions it aroused in us. Shame, said Hani. Hopelessness, I said. It's such a mess, and I don't see how it could have been done right in the first place, much less how to fix it now. Chris talked to my statement for a long time, answering with such passion that tears gathered in my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. After his first trip to the reservation with his Alabama youth group, he asked some of the same questions on his flight home. As the plane flew over the reservation, he looked over the broken land, asking God how it could ever be healed and what to do with all the brokenness. One word shone in his mind: HOPE. God is not overcome by these problems, though they could never be solved by human solutions. God is a miracle worker, the healer of the broken heart, able to bring hope even to this dark place. I think Chris's eyes were wet, too, as he shared the vision God has given him for this place. It is not to formulate solutions to all the problems of abuse and alcoholism and unemployment, but to invite the presence of a God who heals. My heart said, "Amen!" to his words, knowing that there is no such thing as hopelessness where God is concerned.
Monday morning I again woke to the golden glow of the first full rays of sun, and I enjoyed Bible and journal to enrich my time with God. At the end of my devotions, I wrote, "I feel totally unable to build meaningful bridges with the Indians--the time is short, we are so different, I'm not very good at that anyway—and I'm totally content with my own inability. I fix my eyes on Jesus, the author and finisher of my faith, Christ in me, the hope of glory. You make your appeal through me—I am your body. I am a jar of clay—the excellency of power is from you. What have I to fear--the LORD is my helper. I eagerly expect and hope that I will in no way be ashamed but will have sufficient courage so that now as always Christ will be exalted in my body, whether by life or by death. To live is Christ. Can this be said of me? May I conduct myself in a manner worthy of the gospel of Christ."
At 8:00 the mayhem of the day began with Cheerios and English muffins, mayonnaise, sandwich bags, and granola bars in the church basement. Somehow everyone discerned which of the four worksites they were assigned to, and the water coolers and lunch ice chests were loaded in the right vans and trucks. Mom and I were together with a bunch of other girls, Jay Stacy, Super Al (an Indian friend of Sacred Road's) and Joshua, an intern and the leader of our project. We unloaded a pile of brushes, buckets, tarps, and ladders at Peaches’s house. She came out to say hello, making the effort to shake each person’s hand. Joshua gave us instructions and we went to work. I loved that prayer was counted of utmost importance, and that two workers were always praying while the rest were painting. Susan Dedo and I prayed together each day, forging a new bond. The day went fast, and when it was time to leave at two, the house was scraped and swept and we were well into the first primer coat.
Kid's club was the focal point of all the stories the kids from our youth group had told me about White Swan. The love and enthusiasm of the children had touched their hearts, lending passion and personality to their stories even months and years later. And I love kids, anyway, so I was excited for the time with them.
Totus Park was a dry field, more dust than grass; a concrete pad with plywood skateboarding ramps; a single gracious tree who gave the gift of shade; a scattering of garbage and broken glass. The kids flowed in from the nearby houses; Veronica drove the Sacred Road van around the rez to pick up those who lived farther away. I set up the craft for the day on a tarp under the shade tree, helped kids get started with their beaded bracelets, or tied it when they were done, or helped them to choose colors. One little girl, Trinity, accepted and even requested my help, but was quiet and withdrawn, speaking so softly I could hardly hear and staring into space, not meeting my eyes. But after I tied her necklace around her neck, holding her dark hair out of the way with my arm, she looked straight into my eyes, slipping her hand into mine. "Let's go play something else together," she said. And that was it. We were friends. "I want to get on your back," she said next, and her body was warm and trusting on mine, giving little squeezes, laying her head down on my shoulder. We wandered around the park, visiting her friends and mine, and it was soon time to clean up the craft and have snack and story. Trinity settled into my lap, eating and listening quietly as she leaned into me. Janelle and Rebecca told the story of Jesus healing Jarius's daughter. We sang a few songs, Chris prayed, and Trinity and I had time for one more piggyback ride before we loaded into our vans to go home, and she ran across the street to her blue house in Totus Park.
Monday night I sat with my cousin Mary in the front pew of the church, taking in the C.S. Lewis quote fest which had been organized in honor of Pastor Eric’s birthday. I loved hearing why each quote was chosen, learning a bit more about both the people who shared and also Eric’s influence and ministry, and I loved sharing it all with Mary. Dan, Jana, Mary, and I led a few songs to start the evening off, and then the quote readers were supposed to share from youngest to oldest. It wasn’t a polished event, but instead of feeling clumsy, it felt like we were family. There was a sweet letting down of the guard, an opening of our hearts to each other.
Tuesday morning, sitting in a folding chair at the edge of the basketball court and waiting for the sun to come and bring some warmth, I read about Joseph in Matthew 2. Because of a dream, Joseph gets up in the middle of the night, wakes his wife and son, and leaves the country. Would I even get out of bed after such a dream? If I did, would I wake others who might think I was overreacting? And if I woke the others, would I pack and leave, go to a foreign country, right at that moment? Eustace, in the quote Dad had read the night before, let Aslan rip through ALL the layers of dragon skin that kept him bound. Joseph, too, held nothing back—God owned him. Above reputation, homeland, and ease, he honored God. I asked God that morning, “I still have not given all, have I, Father? Today, what does that look like, that lying flat on my back beneath the lion’s claw?”
The day was long with painting, kid’s club (Trinity wasn’t there), and dinner at the longhouse (we joined the weekly dinner which Mary serves every Tuesday before Bible study) and left me a little flat at the end. Had I really done it, trusted in God to live through me instead of seeking to accomplish good on my own? Thinking the day over before bed, I looked for God’s hand in what had occurred:
~ Devotions in the sunrise for almost one and a half hours. What could be better preparation for any day?
~ The gift of a bag of cherries from a family who was selling them in the longhouse parking lot. Perhaps it was the end of their cherries, all that had not sold; perhaps it was because I was chatting with Peaches, the lady whose house we were painting and also a friend of this family. I received it as an echo of the free and undeserved gifts that God give to us.
~ Peaches: we gave her a ride home from the longhouse, and met her son when we dropped her off at her house – what a sweet and open heart she had towards us.
~ Chats with some of the girls in free moments throughout the day – with Emily in the bathroom, with Sally while waiting for some next event to begin. Their desire to share their view on life with me is something I treasure and do not take for granted.
~ Phone chat with my brother Tim, at home. He asked to talk to me after he’d chatted with Mom for a while, and we shared fun and interesting bits from our weeks thus far – nothing important, but a welcome connection and a reminder of his love for me.
No, God had not been absent from the day.
Wednesday night we had Girls’ Night and Ladies’ Night. I pondered which I would attend – while I was neither a high school girl or a mother, I felt welcomed by both groups. I first joined the women’s circle, where we shared Random Facts and learned who used to be disco dancers and scuba divers and who had visited sketchy parts of Mexico, and then shared about what God is doing in our lives right now. I shared about living by faith in the context of witnessing to Jana at work, and delighted to hear the hearts of the other ladies, and to pray together for them. And then I joined the girls, whose event had started later. They were still in the midst of their Ceremony, an annual event involving many rituals whose details cannot be spoken of outside the four walls of the gathering room. We, too, shared Random Facts and then impressions of the week, especially asking those who were in White Swan for the first time what their perceptions were. I love to hear how God is shaping their moldable hearts.
One mom had asked me when we arrived if I would like to chaperone the girls and sleep in the area of the church they were occupying, or if I would rather sleep with the women. I learned later that she had told Mom she thought my age a hard one, out of place with every group. I went to bed on Wednesday night thinking I was the perfect age because I can fit into ALL the groups.
The last sentence I wrote in my journal on Thursday morning was “And please bring Trinity back to kid’s club.” Thursday was our free day, and I joined the six-car caravan to Rimrock Lake. It felt cleansing and childlike to plunge into the lake, to eat a picnic lunch on the bank while listening to Hannah read “The Magician’s Nephew,” to sit quiet in the sun.
We left the lake in time to get back to the church and prepare for kid’s club, arriving at Totus Park at 4:00 as usual. And Trinity came. I was busy with the craft, answering questions and passing out supplies and trying to keep order. She came to the craft area and sat down, quiet, beside me. When I looked up, there she was! She was my little shadow, decorating her canvas bag at my side as I both helped her and kept the others going with their crafts. I traced her hand on her bag and wrote “God Loves.” Then I asked her if she knew who God loved. “Church people,” she answered. “Trinity, God loves YOU!” I told her. Her brown eyes registered surprise at this. When she was finished, I left the craft tarp with her on my back, and we spent the rest of the afternoon together. She watched her friends jumping rope and worked up the courage to take a turn herself. She snuggled in my lap for snack and story time, and sang the songs in my arms, doing the motions to “My God is so Big” awkwardly around me. After one last jump rope session, when it was time for me to leave, I helped her pull on her socks and shoes and she raced away across the cement pad, gone for another day. We only had one left.
Thursday night, after the mostly comic refreshment of a talent show, I sat outside the church with Dad, Mom, Kathy, and Eric, discussing spiritual gifts, the health of the church, and, once again, the life of faith. The youth gathered in the pavilion behind the church to sing together, and my heart was torn between the meaningful conversation we shared around the flower planter and worshipping with my young friends. I delighted in the sound of their voices soaring up to the starry night sky, and my heart was raised with theirs to our Father.
Friday we finished painting Peaches’s house, taking a final picture of our group (including Peaches, who had joined our team, painting and eating lunch with us every day) on her porch in front of the fresh, clean house. Wreathed in smiles, eyes misty, she said goodbye to Lisa and me on the sidewalk, trying to put words to the uplift and encouragement she had received this week. II Chronicles 29 came to me: “But who am I, and who are my people, that we should be able to give as generously as this? Everything we have comes from You.”
In the in-between hour before kids’ club, I helped cut up watermelon for the snack and got the final craft ready for each site and then wasn’t sure what to do with myself. I felt in limbo, anticipating the shift that was approaching with our departure the following day. Not knowing what else to do, I sat in a chair by the craft corner in the basement, watching the comings and goings, talking to God, asking Him to un-disgruntle me. Veronica came in, looking for someone who wanted to ride in the van to pick up kids. Yes, I did—maybe that’s what I had been waiting for.
The land was beautiful, wide plains running to meet rolling hills and blue sky, Mount Adams crowning the horizon. The homes, mostly on gravel side roads, were surrounded by all that was old and rejected and ugly. The children ran out their front doors at Veronica’s tap on the horn, eager smiles lighting up the bleak surroundings. I delighted in each one, and in their willingness to befriend me immediately. Allen and Damien, though their speech is delayed, engaged me with smiles and welcomed me into their world with games of high five, peek-a-boo, and tickle fingers. Damien grinned from ear to ear as I “searched” for him while he hid his eyes behind his hands, then leaned forward to place his small hands over my eyes so we could reverse the rolls. Other kids clambered into the big van, all eager.
When we got to the park, Trinity was back, and warmed up to me even more. “Why do you always wear this same skirt?” she asked me. I told her I hadn’t brought very many clothes, because I was only there for a week. Furrowed brow. Then something else she wanted to tell me: “See, I have a skirt on today, too.” I smiled, and recognized the sense of responsibility that comes with someone looking up to me so surely and trustingly. Yet I would be gone so soon. She worked some more on jump roping. She was improving, but something was bothering her bare foot, so she finally sat down to have a look. A drop of blood oozed from her foot, and I knelt down to pull out a sliver of glass and then went to find a Band-Aid. Barefoot in broken glass—that was daily life for these kids. “Why do you have those brown dots on your arms?” Trinity asked as I bent over her foot. I told her they were called moles, and that that was how God had made me. “God made you?” she asked, incredulous.
At the end of the allotted time, I walked Trinity, in her skirt like mine, to her house across the street, setting her down in the weed patch next to her house to play with the two stray dogs who cavorted in the weeds. It was not a traumatic goodbye; how many goodbyes has she said, and in her five short years of life, has she known the security of even a single constant presence?
Veronica was backing up the van when I returned, so I climbed inside to join the kids for the trip home. I was finding my seatbelt when Mikey tapped me on the shoulder. “Did you see that guy playing Jesus? That was me! She picked me! I’m going to tell my dad she picked me. Maybe it was because of my yellow shirt. She picked me!” Janelle had chosen him to help act out her story of the day about Jesus healing the blind man—he had been quiet and shy on “stage,” but now I saw how he really felt about the matter! Veronica passed out cherries to us all, and Allen began singing with Joshua in the back seat to the music that was playing (the song was Micah 7:7; he sang “walk – name – Lord – forever, ever, ever”); Takoda asked me if I would like to be her friend, and Damien grinned and played beside me. My heart was at home with these kids.
Friday night was the sharing service, and I had been trying all day to sort through the kaleidoscope of lessons and impressions I’d gathered over the week in order to bring some shining jewel to the surface. But I ended up in the pew still lacking a concise, shareable testimony. I released the matter to God: “At the moment, I have nothing to share—or rather I have everything to share, but it’s too much. If You want me to say something, put the idea in my mind and prompt my heart!” The service was supposed to be done in time for us to head over to the powwow going on that night, and there wasn’t time for everyone to share; maybe it was a time for me to listen rather than speak.
We listened to Jack, an Indian friend of the Granberry’s (who had provided us with fresh salmon for dinner), share about his initial mistrust of Sacred Road and the immense gratefulness he now has for the work they do. Kids and adults shared about how God had touched their hearts. Moses, another Indian friend, shared, also grateful. Suddenly, I knew. I knew that I must speak, and exactly what to say. I raised my hand and stood. I told about my moment of irritation the first night when I discovered my Bible and journal were locked in the car, and the sweet time of fellowship I had with God the next morning even though my usual tools for connecting with Him were unavailable. God was preparing me for a week that would be outside my usual routines and expectations, and he was asking me to trust Him, to live by faith. This lesson was not just for a week in White Swan, but was a continuation of what He had been teaching me at home, and something I could take home with me when the week was over. Chris picked up where I left off, reading my heart so perfectly I knew the same Spirit was speaking to both of us. He encouraged us to live the life of faith all the time, not just on a missions trip.
Saturday morning, after we had packed and eaten and cleaned and packed some more, we milled in the church foyer and parking lot, waiting to say goodbye to the Granberrys, staff, and interns. They arrived and we milled some more, one of those long goodbyes where you run out of things to say but don’t want to leave. Chris came over to shake my hand and say he’d love to have me back, for a weekend or a summer or . . . I said I would love to come back, and I’d be in touch.
Re-entering the routine at home, I am desperate to continue to live by faith, to be unafraid of the impossible and the hopelessly broken and the challenges that dwarf me and my abilities. Eric addressed the life of faith again in his sermon on Sunday, and at prayer meeting. Jana at work asked me about the week, and her response was what mine had been: hopelessness. I told her that White Swan is not the only place that is hopeless by human standards, but that there is One who holds out hope, for the Indians and for us, too.
“Unto thee, O LORD, do I lift up my soul.
O my God, I trust in thee.
Let me not be ashamed, let not my enemies triumph over me.”
