#Voices

whispering children

Sometimes the voices can be so clear.

I consider myself incredibly lucky to be able to live the gift that has been given to me. At a deeper level there has always been a deeper truth that this is what I am supposed to be and to do. We all want that sense of meaning and purpose in our lives….Don’t let your life go by without hearing what God is asking of you. Make sure you listen.”

This voice is Ruben Garcia’s.

He spoke these words five years ago. I had been interviewing him by phone for an article on his faith journey. And although he hadn’t been offering this advice to me personally, the voice was clearly speaking to me.

I got off the phone and cried. Spirit had accessed my heart.

At the time I had recently returned to Virginia after volunteering in El Paso. I was trying to settle into a daily routine while discerning what was next. Feeling uncomfortable and uncertain. I wanted to know what God was asking of me. I wanted to have Ruben’s certitude.

For that to happen, I knew I needed to be still and listen.

I began to pay attention.

Las Cruces cloud formation
Coming upon an unusual cloud formation above Organ Mountains

 

If you’re a regular reader, you know by now that listening more deeply is what inspired me to make this grand move to El Paso.

But what keeps me here? After all, it hasn’t been a once-and-for-all kind of message.

There are moments of doubt, moments in which I’ve wondered where this is all going, what it is I think I am doing. In those challenging moments, I’ve tried to listen more deeply. Tried to pay more attention to my Higher Self and give less credence to the distrustful, worrisome voices.

And sometimes that still, small voice accesses my heart through the voices of others. Like it did that day through Ruben.

Like it does through my border community and fellow volunteers.

The voices of Joe and Linda, for example. They leave their home in California periodically throughout the year, to come to El Paso for several weeks at a time to volunteer with us.

When Joe says, “This is church – this community. It’s lifegiving,” his words resonate in my core. Yes, Joe, I truly get that.

When Linda says, “We all know that this horrible immigration system is broken, and until something is done to change that, this is what I can do,” I know this is why I am here, too. To do something positive to counter all the ill and hate being heaped onto immigrants.

2_Linda accompanying family at EP airport
Linda accompanying mother and child at airport

And when Janet, an El Pasoan who has been with us since the early days of Loretto Nazareth, says” “This has been my most powerful experience of God in others,” I hear the truth of that. Because it has been for me, too.

I’ve experienced it in the simple gratitude of the migrant women. Voices that humble me and remind me again that something greater is holding all of this: “Muy amable, gracias.  You have been so kind. You have given us back our dignity.”

Sometimes the voices pose questions. Questions that don’t require an answer, yet cause me to go deeper.

 “What are our souls longing for, that we would do this work for the immigrants?”

Sr. Missy asked me this more in amazement than anything. She’d opened her congregation’s house on Grandview Avenue to board the countless volunteers who came from out of town to help at our hospitality sites over the years. She wondered aloud about the dedication of so many.

Her question stayed with me.

In listening, I discovered that what my soul longs for – the God I long for – is right here, hidden in my encounters at the border. It is here that God continues to access my heart.

But do you realize how few people listen to that voice, much less follow it?”

This question is Peter’s, my spiritual companion. His voice carries Spirit’s desire for me to acknowledge and honor my faithfulness. And I pause, and take that in.

This Saturday, many more voices will access my heart as I attend the Voice of the Voiceless, Annunciation House’s annual fundraising dinner. It’s an opportunity to honor those who speak for the least among us. But this year’s dinner is unusual in that Ruben is honoring those who don’t normally have a voice – refugee children.

Many of us have heard these children’s voices. We’ve heard their cries for their “mami” and “papi” (mommy and daddy). We’ve heard the tapes after their separation and witnessed their pain close up. These are clearly the most challenging voices of all to hear. And they are still crying out.

Will we let God access our heart through these voices?

Annunciation VOV

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Walk With Me

Las Cruces August sunset
Sunset viewed on my evening walk

I’m learning to walk again.

Relearning the power of what it means to walk with another. To show up. To connect.

Even in silence. Even in the midst of language barriers.

And discovering how vulnerable you can be in the process.

Recently I was invited to join a group of volunteers who will lead walking meditations at the CAC Conspire conferences. This weekend I’ll be co-leading my first one.

Even though my interest in walking meditation began years ago, I usually practiced it alone. On my own terms. With my heart intact.

Then last spring while attending an “intensive” with fellow Living School students in Albuquerque, I joined a morning walking meditation. We walked silently in pairs. Shoulder to shoulder. Our slow footsteps in sync.

I didn’t know the woman walking beside me, other than that she was from Wales. Not a word had passed between us prior to this walk.

But somehow, during our 45 minutes of slow, mindful stepping, I felt deeply connected to her. I prayed for her, for her needs, for her peace and happiness. And she apparently was praying for me.

Afterwards, we hugged and then she hesitantly said she had something to tell me.
During our walk, she’d had a powerful vision about me. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but she figured I needed to hear it.

Clearly, she felt vulnerable in sharing the message she’d received. As I listened, so did I. She must have noticed my eyes moistening. Caught the tears I tried to swallow.

Although she knew nothing about me, this woman’s words and vision were amazingly right on target. Letting myself become even more vulnerable, I began to share a bit of my story.Brene Brown courage
Barbara Holmes, an African American theologian, author, teacher, contemplative, and a recent Living School presenter, tells us that there are stories within us. Important stories that we need to share.

“We need to spend more time telling our stories to one another,” Dr. Holmes says.

Her words, and my vulnerability on that morning walk, remind me of the connection that can happen when we walk alongside someone and share our story.

It makes me aware of the tremendous vulnerability of the migrant men and women who share their stories with me and my fellow volunteers. Stories sometimes shared on a late-night walk accompanying a refugee mom and her kids to the Greyhound bus station where they will spend the night before leaving for a very early departure. Stories shared as we accompany a dad and son up the escalator at El Paso airport.

Powerful stories that emerge from within and invite us to pause and to listen.

Linda at EP airport
Linda, my friend and fellow volunteer, walks a mom and daughter to security at the El Paso International Airport

And sometimes it’s not about talking at all. Sometimes it’s about simply coming together and listening together in stillness.

When we do this, we discover who we are.

“Listening creates a holy silence. When you listen generously to people, they can hear the truth in themselves, often for the first time. And in the silence of listening, you can know yourself in everyone.”   Rachel Naomi Remen

Will you walk with me this evening? Take my hand and help alleviate my fear? Share my joy? Feel my suffering? Know my heart?

Whether it’s walking together on a downtown street in El Paso or a dirt path in the bosque (woods), you sometimes discover “The Beloved has passed this way in haste.”

And sometimes you discover that the Beloved is you.

 

On Belonging

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Where do I belong? It’s a question I’ve asked many times over the course of this journey. It came up whenever I found myself starting something new and unexpected. Facing unfamiliar surroundings.

That happened a lot this past year.

I moved so many times the post office didn’t know how to handle my forwarding requests. Neither did I!

Late July I started out in a simple room in a convent in Mexico City to attend the missionary program’s two-week orientation. My ministry began in a one-room apartment in San Antonio — a place where I felt more alone than in my cabin in the woods. By early November I had changed ministries, and locations — a coworker’s guestroom in the suburbs. Then on to my cousin’s outside of Austin while I awaited news about El Paso, where my heart continued to call me. Not willing to wait until mid December when “permanent” housing would be available, I moved to two different locations in El Paso before finally settling into my little bedroom at Grandview House.

With each move, I’d mindfully set up my personal things, trying to create sacred space as best I could. On my little altar, my special talismans and touchstones offered comfort.

Uprooted so many times, it’s a wonder I could feel grounded at all. Sometimes I’d stand in the middle of a kitchen trying to remember which drawer held the silverware. Or I’d awaken during the night, needing to pee. Disoriented, I’d have to sit up and be fully conscious of my surroundings before I could find the bathroom.

The journey challenged me for sure.

But even in the midst of it, I wrote in my journal:
I am not lost. I have not lost my grounding. I am sure-footed as I walk the trail, feeling my emotions as well as my certainty that I want to follow this path all the way through to the other side. I trust the wisdom and guidance of my heart and Spirit. I trust something deeper and more imaginative than reason.”

Like the migrants and refugees I served in El Paso, I learned what it means to depend on God, to trust in the mystery called “divine providence.”

Primero Dios. The migrants’ favorite saying. Always God came first in their lives. With simple faith they surmounted grueling circumstances. Trusted they’d be given what they needed.

Like them, I found the Universe provided exactly what I needed along the way. Often at the very last minute. Almost as if to sharpen my ability to trust. In God. In myself.

And something else, too. I found that this very loss of control over my circumstances is what led to my freedom. I finally didn’t have to know what was coming next. I didn’t have to figure it out.

Now I’m back “home” in Virginia. Friends ask if I am settled in. I don’t think I ever will be. Settled in. Because home doesn’t feel like where I belong anymore.

So, where do I belong?

That question no longer preoccupies me.

During the course of this journey I have learned what it means to belong to myself. To belong to the God within. I have learned that I belong nowhere — and everywhere. My true home is within God.

And I have come to understand — in a way I didn’t before — that I can never be separated from that “home.” No matter where I find myself.

Once again, John O’Donohue’s poetry resonates:

“At its heart, the journey of each life is a pilgrimage,
Through unforeseen sacred places
That enlarge and enrich the soul.”

And the pilgrimage continues.John ODonohue river flows