Following God's lead across countries and across the street
14 May 2013 Leave a Comment
I walked to the beach today.
Up LaSalle, down Oak,
across Michigan.
And these two,
together in the big city,
she held his finger and they walked.
I don’t know them,
and soon I passed them.
But I walked slow, for a moment,
to stay behind them
and watch
their downtown
handholding
walk.
~Natalia
13 May 2013 Leave a Comment
in Family, Health, Kiddos, Love, Parental, Sleep
6am, I’m the only one awake now. Staying at home for the weekend in order to work at the pool, I share a room with the three little ones. Sisters back to back in their big bed, pink blankets and stuffed animals scattered around them. There’s a toddler bed at the end of their bed; blue sheets, Superman blanket. The little guy’s not in there, though.
He slept there last night. Fell asleep with his Elmo milk cup, dark little hands tucked under his soft cheeks. I heard him when I went to sleep, his breath rattling, shaking. He’s got a cold now, and he coughed and sputtered in his sleep; rubbing his itchy nose in his dreams. I fell asleep in the room, listening to his sleeping breath alternate even, resting, with coughing. But he left the room sometime during the night, and it’s quiet now.
I get up, shuffle across the hall to the bathroom. The old, dark, wooden floor creaks, just in one spot. I hit that spot, accidentally. My backpack, overnight bag, is in the bathroom. I find my pants, step over the creaky floorboard to my closet, flip through dresses, skirts, tops, to my purple work shirt. Brush teeth, hair in a pony tail, bathroom light off.
In the kitchen, I stand against the counter, eat a yogurt. There are five different bottles of vitamins in the cabinet, labeled with black Sharpie. N, mine. G+L, the little girls. T, the mother. I eat two of mine, the gummy ones, in the dim light of the kitchen.
The kitchen window faces a brick wall. Across, offset by two feet, someone’s laundry room looks into our kitchen. Between, there are two cement walkways, a thin strip of green plants between them. It’s the middle of May- spring- even though it’s still chilly, and the sun is rising quickly, casting pale white light onto everything in its path. The flimsy plants glow bland green in the growing light.
My ride will be here soon. I find my pens, shrug into my yellow coat. I’ve only brought flip-flops home, but I’ll be barefoot at the pool, anyway. I step into the living room, past the front door, to glance out the front window. The blinds are closed, though; this couch room, play room, school room, living room has been transformed into a bedroom.
The mother sits in the corner, at the very front of the house, rocking the baby boy. It’s hard to breath lying down when you’re sick, and 3am, she woke up with that little boy, and now they’re both sleeping there in the rocking chair. She’s pulled the special grey blanket- her Christmas present to herself- around them both, and his head is slumped, tired, against her. Sitting up against her, he breathes clear, easy.
Later, in a couple of weeks, the little boy will leave; he’ll return to the mother who gave birth to him. But for now, he sleeps on the blue sheets and he eats out of the Cars bowl in the seat at the end of our table. For now, we love him and teach him and feed him and dress him. And the mother, she gets up at 3am to change him, rock him, love him.
~Natalia
01 Apr 2013 Leave a Comment
in Faithful, God, Love, Writing
I spent some time just now, looking through files and folders on my computer. Searching for something finished, something already accomplished, that I could put here for you.
I suppose I liked the idea of posting something pre-created because it’s 11pm and the list of things to do is perpetual. Finding something I’ve already worked on, something that doesn’t require quite so much immediate effort as all the other things, sounded marvelous.
I found some things, too. But they weren’t just right. Some things I write will never make their way onto the Inter Web, some things will- eventually. But none of them will right now.
But I did find a form that I was supposed to turn in last Thursday, which, sitting still on my desktop, may very well be the grading rubric that breaks the camel’s back.
But I’ll turn it in tomorrow and life with go on, which statement tastes heavy of hope and forward motion and the step, step, step of feet following a God who never forgets assignments, nor does He abandon His children when they inevitably do forget.
All My Hope
by Hillsong
Light in my darkness
Peace for my soul
You are my rescue
You never let go
All my hope is in You
All my strength is in You
With every breath
My soul will rest in You
Here in my weakness
Always the same
Your love is my shelter
Your life is my way
All my hope is in You
All my strength is in You
With every breath
My soul will rest in You
Constant Savior
Friend forever
Lord You have my heart
Sure foundation
Never failing
Lord You have my heart
All my hope is in You
All my strength is in You
With every breath
My soul will rest in You
All the earth beneath You
All my life before You
With every breath
My soul will rest in You
With every breath
My soul will rest in You
~Natalia
29 Mar 2013 1 Comment
in Family, God, Happiness, Home, Love, Moody Bible Institute, Remember, Target, Train
I’ve written before about my dorm floor at school. I’ve told you about my dorm. I’ve written about The Neighbor and The Roommate and Nelle and Jen and Mar and Ellie Rose, and the collection of other lovelies that live up and down that carpeted hall. I’ve told you how I want to remember these times, these conversations, these friends.
I’ve told you all that and it’s all been true: I love the school I attend, the floor that I live on, the ladies I live with. But recently, these past weeks, a shift that’s been creeping up quiet came slowly into focus, and I realized that my floor really is a home; these girls really are sisters.
It sounds a little bit redundant, probably, or maybe simplistic and obvious. Of course it’s home- I’ve lived there for almost two school years. Of course they’re sisters- aren’t we all family in Christ anyway?
And yes, I have lived on the floor rather a while (and I have every intention of returning to the same room this fall), and yes, we are all children of God, but these past days, I’ve settled into that floor, that home, like never before. God dropped me onto the floor, pushed me right along with That Roommate, 18 months ago, and I can only believe that He’s the One who’s making it home, making us family, now.
It’s a funny feeling, almost. Funny because I didn’t even think about it, didn’t realize it until later, because it all felt so natural, so settled, so peaceful, so right.
Felt like that when Jenny and I dumped backpacks in rooms, and grabbed jackets and purses for a Tuesday afternoon outing to Target. Maybe you remember that my love for Target is deep and wide, and it’s a long and lengthening list of floor sisters who I’ve accompanied on errands to that wonderful red and white store.
Jen and I rode the train, just a short trip deep under the busy Chicago streets, and it felt even shorter because there’s a bond of mutuality from living, studying, being together on that floor, and we talked about everything. We got to the big Target, the Roosevelt one, and pushed the cart up and down Easter aisles, past the school supplies, upstairs to look at mattress pads, and to survey the cute baby clothes, because we had a little time. Walking back down the hill is easier, and I bought a snack, we took turns dipping miniature crackers into the accompanying frosting all the way back to the underground train.
I study and I work, and my calendar is full of little boxes delineating just what there is to be done, but sometimes those things can be done alongside others; I took my computer into Nelle’s room the next day, to study and socialize. But she wasn’t there, even though she said she’d be, and the opportunity couldn’t be passed up. So I slipped right into that space between the wall and the bed, and knees curled to my chest, that’s where I did homework. And soon enough, the door clicked and swung open, and I waited a moment before raising my head, peeking my eyes over the side of the bed, and what a stroke of luck. Nelle was looking my way, and the silent surprise of a head appearing on the side of the bed made her eyes spread wide and her eyebrows shoot high, and in the moment before she could raise her voice against my creeping, we were already laughing.
We do Target and creeping and homework and laughing, but she comes into my room on Monday night, because the door was open, and I’m on the bed, surrounded by homework, doing not a thing. So she sits on my desk chair and I was right there on the bed, we talked about God and boys and sovereignty and fear, and the verse that she put on my wall.
And really, when you think about it, there’s so much that could go wrong, so much that could get off, that when 24 girls come together to make home, it really can only be the work of God.
~Natalia
26 Mar 2013 Leave a Comment
It’s rather late this evening.
This is a result of several factors,
including- but not limited to- the fact that I was doing homework until an hour ago
and that The Roommate is still up.
The Roommate dictates my bedtime.
My mind and body got together and decided that I cannot sleep
until at least thirty minutes after The Roommate has drifted off.
And that I must wake up 1.5 hours earlier than her.
But it’s not morning yet, so we won’t worry about that.
What is more pertinent is that she’s awake now
and therefore so am I.
There were many topics of the day,
topics of the heart,
because I’ve rather much to do before Friday afternoon,
at which point I’m taking the train home
because my brother is having his wisdom teeth out
and I want to witness his pain bring him ice-cream
like he brought me last August.
There are a million other things I’d like to tell you about
because I like writing, like talking with you,
but tonight, let’s not.
Because I was talking with Nelle,
a long talk that started with honest and ended with prayer,
and there are To Do lists and To Be lists
and tonight, there’s a To Not list.
I’m just going to not.
Not stay up too late.
Not stress about things I can’t change anyway.
Not work so hard to earn love that He’s promised isn’t going anywhere.
Just not.
~Natalia
13 Feb 2013 Leave a Comment
in Love
I don’t know if there are cupcakes outside your door, or letters in your mailbox. I don’t know it you’re getting fancy because you’ve got someplace to go with someone, or you’re finding a way to occupy your time, or maybe just plugging along through your week.
But this I do know: the God who created you and I, the only true God, the most magnificent, incomprehensible, wonderful God, knows your heart more intimately that you even know yourself. He knows everything. And He knows that without Him, we are broken and we are helpless, and we need a Savior. He knows all that, and He love you, loves us, so unbelievably more than we can imagine, that He chose to lay aside the unspeakable wonder and power that is being God of the Universe, and He chose to become a human, in order to save us.
Because He knew we needed help, we needed a rescue, and we weren’t getting ourselves anywhere.
He knew our need. And when we daily, hourly, dishonor Him, shun Him, disobey Him, His heart breaks for ours, and His death on the cross is the bridge we need to get to Heaven. But before there ever was a cross, there was God become man, bridging an eternal gap to reach out to us,
because He loved us.
Happy Valentine’s Day, love.
~Natalia
27 Dec 2012 Leave a Comment
in Beauty, God, Longing, Love, Mexico, Miss, Questions, Spanish, Weather
There’s snow falling outside. Well, actually, it’s stopped falling for the moment. But it was before and I stood in the kitchen and watched the white specks swirl past the window. Kitchen faces the brick wall of someone else’s world, but in between this home and that home, snow flakes fill the open air.
I drove to work. Drove carefully, carefully, but I’m worried about being late and I should have wiped the snow off the car windows before I left. I can see what I need to see, visibility’s not incredible right now, anyway. And there’s a thin heap of snow balanced on my window, and I’m only rolling fifteen miles an hour, surely nothing can go wrong. But you never know and I roll down the window, watching snow pack together in a heap, and the air is cold and flakes swing gently into the car, landing soft on my face, my hair. And the light is green and the window’s still rolling down and the tiny snow bank on the outside of the window collapses into the car, and I’m driving up the street with a pile of frozen white on my arm.
It kept snowing while I was at work, too, and the parking lot’s near empty by the time I come back out. There’s a snow scraper in the car and I’m careful to use it, but I almost forget to clear the snow off my window again, because I can hear Taylor Swift on the radio inside the car, and I’m thinking about Mexico again.
And the car wiggles on the way around the corner, but I’m driving so very slowly and it’s more fun than scary, really. I park in the garage, because I think that’s what the mother would have prescribed, but I don’t like going in the back door, so I walk around to the front. Walk straight up the middle of the alley, and it’s so still that I can hear the snow packing together under my boots. A soft, straining, settling sound. And the snow’s still falling gentle and wet on my head and coat and it’s settling on everything it can touch.
And before I shuffled the car into the garage, before I pulled around the corner to the street I’ve grown up on, there’s a stop sign on the corner, and snow is everywhere and snow can be so much. Because glance up, look around: snow is beautiful. Stunning, breathtaking wonder on every surface that it can get its sticky grip on. But there are other words with snow, too; like dangerous and wet and slippery and cold. And there’s an inches-thick white layer on everything in sight, but can you even tell what’s underneath? Because snow can be deceptive, tricky, disillusioned, too.
And God’s put beauty in this world, and He’s shattering this night with the silent wonder of snow falling, and a strange guilt starts to creep in, because I should be appreciating all this. And I am, actually. I really do love the snow, and I do breathe in tight when white-laden branches catch my eye; bright ice reflecting soft yellow street light glow. But I answered my mother’s phone because she was wrist-deep in dish water and the other end speaks Spanish and I forgot to not, and one time Hermana Tere asked me about snow.
And Mexico missing’s not always so close by, and the ache of longing softens with distraction. But Skype conversation at midnight says unless you do what you love, you will never be happy and there was more, too, but there’s snow outside and tightness in my heart because I know what I love and I know where I love, but snow isn’t just snow, and it will never be that easy, will it?
~Natalia
25 Dec 2012 Leave a Comment
in Casa Hogar, Chicago, Christmas, Family, Food, Friends, God, Happiness, Love, Mexico, Sovereign
It’s been four years since we were in this city, this state, this home, for Christmas, but if Christmas is His incarnation, redemption born in a stable, then it’s not just a day we’re commemorating; it’s a way of life. A way of life that breathes grace and mercy, wears redeemed like a cloak, and leaves God’s love deep in everything we touch, do, say.
December 25th is one day, one very special day, but it’s not so much different from any other day, because this day and those days God is truth, God is love, and God is just, and Jesus is the perfect redeemer we’re drowning without. The special of today is not that He’s more Him today than any other; the special of this day is that today we’re thinking about it.
Today just as any other this is a building of six separated, but the lines swirl unreadable between neighbors and friends, between friends and family, and there are four breakfast casseroles here. Our ceiling is their floor, all day, every day, but today, we’re all sitting around one table, please pass the mango juice, and can you even imagine the weaving of life strings in this room?
Because I’ve got a story and upstairs has a story, across the hall, too. My story is me and yours is you, but there’s one God who holds all stories in the palm of His grand Story. And I know He’s wise, I know He’s sovereign, because He’s winding each story together and I’ll never quite understand. I’ll never quite understand how story meeting story means there’s wise words to soothe nervous hearts, little hands ready to play together, and six units of family wound together tight just when we need it.
December 25th is a snapshot of a year; close your eyes, I bet you can tell me where you were last 12/25, and the one before and before, well into years behind. True for you and true for me and turn around, last year today the mexican sun was hot and white bright through the VIPS window. And it’s funny because it really all started in this mexican diner chain; Mexico City in 2008, I’d been in Mexico four hours and really didn’t know what I had ordered.
Last year little family squinting in the sun in a downtown Mexico diner, at least we all know what we ordered. This year there’s snow finally, finally, dusting the Chicago streets outside, and I’m peeling dinner potatoes when Mom says call Mexico.
I always hesitate, and I’m really not sure why, but I call the Casa Hogar and Christmas has traditions, they’re all watching movies. But the voice on the other end rings happy, hits deep in my heart. Wise woman, woman whose love binds tight and holds strong. And we’re trading words over this Skype call; asking questions, murmuring assent and understanding, soaking up details because it’s been a long time and it’ll be longer until we’re face to face.
And then Rubi’s on the line and I suddenly realize that different countries, schools, families, skin tones really don’t matter because three years running friendship, Rubi was in my class at school in Mexico. And there’s a grip, a trust settling in my heart, because I trust Him to do well, and I trust Him to do right, and these are not friendships I have to fight to keep a grasp on, these are gifts He’s given because He is gracious.
And later, later, the day’s winding down but my phone is buzzing and cousins are friends, too, and the cousin-sister sends me back to Skype, once more. And it’s funny because I can hear them maybe a little, but they can’t hear me. But a picture is worth a thousand words and a video chat is worth more; words or no words. The other side of the country is 4×6 inches on my computer screen and I’m waving and blowing kisses to family I adore.
And Christmas is a day just like any other, and God is God every hour always, but pause, celebrate: Christmas is so very special, too.
~Natalia
22 Dec 2012 Leave a Comment
in Bible, Church, God, Love, Teach
It’s a rare day that there aren’t extra hearts, visiting smiles, in this house, and one extra is three little girls running around. We’ve finished nails and I’m not fixing them anymore, so please just sit still for a moment more. But they’re off and ready to play again and the tall one, the neighbor child, has a list of games as long as my arm.
I nix Sardines and Freeze Dance and Hide and Go Seek. I shake my head to running around and an accident waiting to happen, but then she’s waving a hand in the air, freshly blue nails gleaming, and what about Wax Museum?
And suddenly, she’s not the third-grader anymore, I am. I’m nine years old and I’m nine years wise to know that this might be the best Sunday School class I’ll ever be in. It’s the best truly, but it’s so very different, too. Because we’re not sitting around a table, and this room is painted dark, painted Narnia.
There’s a pond in the corner with real water and Aslan’s on the wall, eyes bright because there’s glow in the dark paint and black lights on the ceiling will do that. It’s a fun classroom to be in, but I’ve been there during the week and the people make the class.
An older couple, his beard is long and white like her hair. He’s tall and she’s short, and nine years old there are few people I respect more in that church body. Third, fourth, fifth graders in that woodland magic classroom, and maybe I don’t remember the Bible lessons, but sometimes real life, real hearts, teach much more than a curriculum.
Because we sat in a circle by that tiny Narnian pond, and the buzzer passed around beeps faster and faster. Hold your breath, it buzzes on you; these teachers love the LORD and they adore the Word and do you know the verse? Because we’ve each got a stack of little yellow papers, so very many verses, and I’d rather be in this class than any other, but these two people of God take Him seriously and I’m motivated by their passion for Him because I want to know Him, too.
And they invite us over to their house for a movie; elementary school students packed into the TV room to watch. Pizza and soda and even their dog is excited. Because do you know the weight of value, the weight of worth, settling on third grade shoulders because these two, these two who led by serving, these two love us and we can feel it in everything they do?
They taught humility in action, respect in their own, love in every word and deed. We learned and we played and we trusted and we grew. And sometimes, at the end of class, we played Wax Museum in the dark, the strobe light flashing white over two faces whose love was tangible in that Narnia classroom.
~Natalia
21 Nov 2012 Leave a Comment
in Love
Weird Sunday and everything I thought I would be doing is exactly what I’m not doing. Praxis didn’t receive my registration and the five hours that I had blocked out of my afternoon are suddenly a blank slate. Two train stops from the testing center back to school, and I choose to walk back, stepping up the same dark sidewalks I traipsed down with Kat the evening before.
Momentary disappointment at the disruption of my original afternoon plan stings first, but breathe deep and breathe fresh and Sunday morning sun on towering buildings calm my heart. Optimism stirs somewhere deep and the prospect of an unexpected afternoon to accomplish things seems so very appealing. By the time I’ve stepped back on the still Sunday morning campus, I’ve a plan already mapped out.
The sun’s shining brilliantly into the empty room and I’ve created a mental checklist of all the work, all the books, all the study accessories that I need. Throw two notebooks and a textbook, a computer and headphones into my backpack. My desk’s a carbon copy of sameness every semester, and my computer charger is woven tight alongside the desk, dingy white cord coiled haphazardly the same day in and day out. It’s a funny kind of comfort to do the same thing again and again; unplug the charger, thread the cord out from under the desk. Every time.
Backpack’s heavy but not too bad, even though the wait for the train is longer than the train ride. There’s a Barnes & Nobles here, and I stay to work, tucked in a corner of a basement bookshop. It’s quiet but not cozy and something’s odd that I can’t put my finger on. But fingers type on keyboard and information fills the screen and things are getting done.
Until I realize the outlet under the table doesn’t work and thank goodness I saved that file before my computer died. It’s an odd place to study and maybe I don’t really regret a broken outlet- a whole wall full of ineffective outlets. So unplug the charger, backpack swishing against my back again and maybe I’ll try Starbucks next.
It’s not the one that I had planned on visiting, but there’s that round, green emblem and I’m twirling through the revolving door into clean black floor and early afternoon’s not coffee hour; this line’s short and my smoothie’s cold in my hand soon.
There’s a seat open just in time, but it’s so funny and maybe I should have found somewhere else to study. Tiny table’s low and round and I’m sitting on the booth side of a two-person space. Backpack and coat hang on the back of the chair across from me; invisible date’s not much help for this homework.
Headphones in my ears blast Relient K to cover coffee shop ambiance, and I’m ever so focused on the square screen in front of me. But peripheral vision gets the best of all of us and just looking up is a study break. Everywhere in front of me there is something to garner my attention and I’ll willingly observe; people watching’s as universal as people.
Paper’s half-way done, more than, actually, when the pair arrives. He sits on my side, the entire booth bench sighing a bit when he sits. She’s across from him, sliding front and center into my range of view. I can’t hear them, but I can see, and glances from my growing paper to her face become more and more frequent.
They’re older, at least 60s probably, and they sit across from each other, sipping their drinks and looking at one another. But they don’t speak. At least, not that I can see. They sit and drink and I’m completely separate from them, but I feel so very a part of the chasm of silence that I’ve read into their space, their relationship.
So I write and I think, and I bemoan their silent coffee time, grieved at the wordlessness of their relationship. I’ve read everything I need to read into my observer’s vantage view of their communion, when I suddenly realize that she’s speaking. I’m not eavesdropping, and I can’t make out words, but I lower the music just a little and I can hear the rumble of words rolling soft off hearts who’ve seen much.
Furtive glances back and forth between my coffee shop neighbors, all the while my fingers type distractedly words I’d much rather save for later. I glance and I watch and the booth seat shifts when he does, and I slowly began to realize what I’m seeing, begin to see the truth of what is happening eighteen inches to my right.
It’s not a sad case of softened skin and dried up words. I’m not witnessing a snapshot of a joyless, wordless, communication-less relationship in its older years. I’m an outside partaker in one of the highest forms of communication I’ll ever attain to. I realize with a weight that strikes my heart cracking and sinks it aching hard that they’re not so done with one another that they can’t scrape out a word, they are so well with each other, so very suited to one another, that sometimes, words are not necessary.
And I, so young and inexperienced, and so very unwise, blinked in an instant and labeled sad, labeled loss something that two people have worked to achieve since decades before I was born. And the hope and gentleness and faithfulness that I suddenly saw where it had really been all along bent my heart with an ache and a longing and I honored them so much and maybe someday, I’ll taste what they have.
~Natalia
