Drat, they were right.

July 27th, 2013:

A few weeks ago when I updated my blog, I wrote that I thought the theme of this trip would be “change.” It turns out, ironically, that the theme itself for me has changed.

The dominating factor of this trip to South Africa has, in fact, been more about perspectives than anything.

Sitting behind the desk in a different capacity than the last has afforded me an incredible opportunity; one that, admittedly, I haven’t always felt so grateful for.

Yesterday, for instance, I found myself ending the day with two fingers pressed firmly to my temples as I walked to the main house, the general frustrations of the day and the week finally getting to me.

It’s easy to find obstacles wherever you are – Oregon, Texas, South Africa, Australia, Indiana (the ones I can speak to) – and, because we live in society and are (hopefully) surrounded by people, those obstacles often come from differing, ahem opposing, perspectives. I recognize that this is universal, but even so, the variety of perspectives that I have encountered in my short month and change here is drastic, to say the least, compared to my other lives. (Perhaps “other lives” should be in quotes there.)

Sitting behind this desk just after shift change, eating an orange (the fruit here is wildly delicious), I’m struck by all the conversations I’ve had sitting in this office alone. Business people, caregivers, children, social workers, therapists, family, friends (South African and American), and college students among others have graced this (in my world) sacred tile floor, all with different ideas and knowledge, backgrounds and motives, needs and wants (a line difficult to navigate, not only for the children). I have sat and listened patiently (and not-so-patiently) to people making their case for the same issue with dramatically different paths and outcomes and felt very struck by how much sense they all made.

Turns out mom was right when she said life isn’t always fair. I vividly remember hearing that so many times when I was young, usually as a result of something Reed got that I wanted. But back then I pictured justice as the singular right way that things should be. It seems that life is unfair not only because something is or isn’t possible to carry out, but because sometimes, there are multiple forms of justice and not all of them can happen at once. I’ve said it over and over and over again, but where my thoughts always land is balance.

Drat, seems my dad was right too with all his talk of meditation and equilibrium.

So as I move forward, less than two weeks left with the sunrises and sunsets so beautiful they’ll take your breath away each and every day, I recognize that each day I need to allow myself to be OK with the in-between. It’s important to dwell in the in-between. It might feel as though some side effects are self-doubt and insecurity, but in actuality these are not side effects at all; they are the tools we use to prevent ourselves from wandering into the extremes: metaphorical relativity bumpers, if you will.

At 7:30, the birds chirping have been overpowered by the kids screeching (“why must you should everything?”), so I’d best wrap it up here.

Rest assured, every journal entry I’ve written still ends with something along the lines of: “I’m so blessed to be here” or “love thee Open Arms.” God is in this place, and I’m not sure what I did (or more likely what I’ll do) to earn a place in this family, but I am so grateful that I am.

Where's the thesaurus? I need to look up another word for "change."

June 22^nd, 2013

The early morning wake-ups are the same. Groggy and tired, I shut off my alarm. Ambling in the dark down the path to the main house is like stepping into the past. So much has changed at Open Arms: new kids, the deserted main house kitchen, tatas (male childcare workers), and yet, it took no time at all to feel as though I’d come home.

It’s hard to explain. I’ve erased this paragraph about fifteen times now. Change, it seems, is the theme of this trip, but I know I will contradict myself in the next few entries; after all, consistency is what we’re aiming for here.

What a strange phenomenon it is to be here, two (plus) years after my first departure. Everyone assumes how weird it must feel to see the kids two years older. Yes, they are taller. Yes, they are beautifully and wonderfully, brighter and more self-assured. They have so many more stories and so many more experiences to talk about. And, of course, there’s all that baggage they pick up along the way too. But oddly, it’s not them that I notice the most change in. I arrived to Open Arms seeing the world from what feels like a different set of eyes than I did before.

I didn’t know it was possible, but I think I love them more. I find myself watching them play, or talking amongst themselves, or doing work, and I am blown away by the incredible young people that they are.

A few years ago, I swiped a quote off of a friend’s Facebook wall (thanks, Charlie) that I scribbled down on a scrap of paper. It has followed me around for some time now, but currently it hangs beside my bed in the white house at Open Arms:

I did not know then, as I know now, this quality of in-loveness when we see individuals as God sees them, in all their beauty; and all the earth seems transformed. Suddenly, all around me the world has lightened, the fog has lifted, and the air has cleared, and one understands what we are capable of becoming and how many ways we are indeed the image of God.

There have been a handful of times when I can find no more perfect words than these to describe my experience, but now they seem more fitting that ever before.

These children are often difficult, frustrating, irrational, and sometimes just plain mean, but I suppose the long and short of it is that we all are; something which I was kindly reminded of when one of the children asked me if I had ever sinned. Ultimately, you know it’s love when, despite it all, you still find them so beautiful.

I have changed so much in this two years, and while I do want to address this more, I am quite tired and quite in need of some sleep.

Rest assured, I have worn four different pairs of sweatpants (to which the children kindly ask: “Why are you wearing pajamas?” each morning), and just polished off an entire Cadbury bar (Turkish Delight!) in the last three minutes, so I guess not too much has changed.

Oh yeah...

Forget everything I just wrote.

Unbelievably excited to be reunited with my kiddos. Nothing else really matters, right? 12 more hours!

Déjà vu

I was not asked to write this and it occurs to me that writing a blog about my own experiences might be considered egotistical (a thought that, I’m sure, is impressively un-earth shattering to those who know me). Regardless, I am going to write and post anyway because it’s always been more about processing than broadcasting. Anyway, enjoy.

June 12^th, 2013: Typical.

How to explain the sort of non-alcohol induced buzz that the thought of Open Arms sends through my limbs? Not to play into gender stereotypes or anything, but I’m not sure I fully understand how I’m feeling about the whole thing just at the moment. I, quite literally, frolicked around the house with joy when presented with the opportunity to go back. (Just ask Nick and Maria.) But while I am beyond excited, I am also picking up on an emotion that feels an awful lot like fear.

When I came back from South Africa just over two years ago, I was sure I was ready to face ACE with the passion and grace that my biggest fans (you know who you are) expected of me. I thought that my time in South Africa would prepare me for everything. Foolishly, I thought I was above the “adjustment period” I had been warned about.

I was not.

I was, and am, not above anything or anyone. I was ill-prepared for just about everything and I found I had left something of the passionate and graceful me thousands of miles away. I came back scared, anxious, and upset that I couldn’t live up to the newly cultured and compassionate Keaton I had intended on becoming during my time away.

First summer of ACE was misery despite the nearly ideal company (I’m looking at you ACE 17 and 18). But it wasn’t the heat or the cramped quarters of Zahm Hall or the early rising for practicum or even the pink eye that caused my tail-spin; it was the fact that suddenly it was very unclear who I had been, who I’d become, and who I was going to be moving forward.

It’s taken me the better part of two years to feel the sort of peace in the person that I am once again. In February, when I became the final member of DallACE 18 to commit to staying in Dallas for another year, I was overcome with a sense of certainty and peace I’d only known two other times. In March, I became more obnoxious than I had been in a while, declaring that if any more good came to me, I’d explode.

Don’t get me wrong, I am no master teacher, but looking back over these two years, I feel as though I’ve made something of a difference. I have loved coming home tired after tutoring and soccer practice and lunch duty; I have grown more patient with, and appreciative of, even my most challenging students; I have loved living in community and meeting up with coworkers outside of school and exploring Dallas a bit. And while I still hate grading, I feel as though my life has direction. Passion and grace (OK, maybe not grace) have crept back into the picture and, truth be told, I’m a little scared to shake things up once again.

But something that Greg said to me one afternoon on the way back from school resonates with me: for someone who claims not to like change, you sure do invite big changes into your life. 

Thinking on that, I recall the original interest form I completed to work at Open Arms. In it, I write about how drawn I am to discomfort and how important I feel it plays in our growth. We need that discomfort to shuffle priorities and fuel the discernment process. So while it’s a scary thing to knowingly open yourself to alterations, I know that it’s a necessity to the person I am.

June 16^th, I’ll get on that plane and prepare to let the kids lead. And August 8^th, I’ll land in Dallas, hopefully a little better for having relinquished control.

Late

I should be asleep, but I can’t because it never fails: nighttime quietly whispers in my ear the names of the people and the places I love and miss the most, and I’d rather stay up and miss them than forget that I loved them at all.

The days are busy. America is busy. My days in America are busy in a way that they couldn’t be in South Africa. And it breaks my heart that this revelation only comes to me in the dead of night, when I’m reminded so much of my time in the purple house, thinking about life, and love, and all those things that really mattered.

Who have I become over the past year? Who and what have I fallen in and out of love with? Have I changed? Coming home was so much more confusing than I could ever have imagined in a way that I can never describe. They said it wouldn’t be easy. I knew that. But no one warned me that it would be hard in ways that I could never identify.

I’m happy. There is no question. I feel purpose. I feel loved. But I would be kidding myself (and everyone else) if I didn’t admit that a part of me feels missing sometimes. I don’t like to acknowledge it except in my rehearsed, script-ey kind of way, because then the reality of it all slips away for a bit. But every once in a while, in the dead quiet that brings with it images of tall grass with beautifully bright stars gleaming high above and waist-high hugs with magically untamed smiles, a calm panic grabs my heart and the tears well up but never come.

I sit down to get it all out, knowing full well that it’s impossible considering the fact that even I no longer understand the emotions and events and relationships that once seemed so simple. And yet, here I am, in the dead of night, typing nonsense to everyone who’s not me, because I’d rather stay up and miss them than forget that I loved them at all.

Germaphobes Beware.

I realize that I've returned, but there's still a lot of reflecting to be done - so my apologies, but bear with me. It helps!

This was originally written for my English Content class as part of a larger photo essay project reflecting on our lives as future teachers. This bit of writing went with a picture of one of our children whose hands are covered in yellow and orange paint:

She is my little princess and this is (arguably) my favorite picture from my entire time abroad. The pot belly, the confused expression, the multi-colored hands, the sheer innocence of it all - I mean, what's not to like?

But most of all, I love this picture because it reminds me of the beauty in messiness. Open Arms is chaotic; any piece of paper you put down is likely to have "I love you" scrawled across the top immediately, no matter how important or official it looks. Little hands get into everything. Weird, disgusting things get pulled out of tiny mouths. Organization is flighty and ringworm is rampant.

And yet, you fall in love. You fall in love with the untidiness of the bookshelves and the stains they put on (every one of) your shirts: the nail polish on my favorite sweatpants? A memory from girls night. The blue paint smears across my beloved Oregon sweatshirt? Remnants from the time one of our babies butted up to our freshly painted wall.

Bleached and sanitized memories swirl around only to be cycled out, but yellow and orange hands made imprints on my mind long ago.

I have come to learn that messy thoughts are the only ones that truly stick.

My most recent journal entry

Written on May 6th, 2011:

It's late and I should be getting to sleep, but instead here I am, staring at the thatched roof of the Purple House and wondering where the year went. It seems impossibly heartbreaking to imagine leaving this place -- my home. Because Open ARms truly has become my home, and these children, well, they're (partly) my children -- this is my family. THe past two days that odd "leaving" feeling has crept in, casting a glow on everything and everyone: the children, the mamas, the grounds...Oddly I don't think I believed that I would experience culture shock in going going home until this very moment; but truly the notion of being in my room at home and then back at Notre Dame makes me feel ill. Now obviously it goes without saying tha I absolutely adore both places (and the people that surround them even more so!), but imagining my life without the 100+ hugs a day, without the noises of children laughing and shouting, just leaves me feeling completely empty. The quiet, even in my imagination, is overwhelming.

What a year it's been. Yesterday I sat on the bed next to mine and so vividly remmebered unpacking my clothes into drawers and sobbing wildly. I remember frantically calling people back home and feeling so lost and alone at night out on the porch. Who was that person who couldn't yet appreciate the beauty in just about everything at Open Arms? This palce is unbelievably special; these children are unbelievably special; and I don't think the extent to which I have loved them has ever hit me so hard until this moment.

Yes, they drive me nuts sometimes. Yes, I get impatient and I miss my friends and family and American convenience (and hamburgers), but ultimately I love everything about Open Arms. I love that I know how to navigate the property in the dark, that I know their routine so well, that I've made irreplaceable friends. I love that love and God are so present in every crevace of this place. How will I ever leave? It truly makes my heart ache in a very physical way.

Wow, I'm starting to get really worked up. Regardless, these children and the volunteers and this place will stay with me always, as they have indelibly changed me forever.

More to come soon I'm sure.