I am Coming Home

I am coming home.

This just keeps running through my head, over and over.  Honestly, I thought it would drive me crazy.  I thought I would be dreading it.  But I’m not.  There’s part of me that so, so badly wants to come home.

In fact, I’m making small, hypothetical plans; about people I’m going to see, what I might do, where I might go, what I might eat.  More often than not, the image of sharing coffee with my family on my mom’s back porch just keeps running through my head over and over and over.  

But, there’s a problem.  I’m so looking forward to everything at home that I know reality isn’t hitting me.  A little over a year ago, I made the decision to come to a new place, and I could plan on everything feeling new and different.   Now that I’ve been here for almost a year, Uruguay doesn’t really feel different anymore; it doesn’t really feel new, either.  It does feel like home.  I came to Uruguay not knowing anyone, but now I have friends here who I can’t imagine not seeing every day.

I think my biggest problem is this; in my head, there’s a continuum between where I am now and my people here and the people I’ll see in Wisconsin.  I have yet to fully grasp the fact that these two communities uniquely meet in my experience; I won’t be able to reference people who I’ve met here in Uruguay and have my friends in Wisconsin know who they are, just like I felt at the beginning of this year, when I came here and none of the people I met knew anything about my stories from home.

I’m coming to the realization that I’m going to have to be reintegrated at home, and that it may take time, like becoming integrated here in Uruguay did.  

There is a huge focus on the transitions and changes that a YAGM goes through during their year of service in their host country.  But I’m about to enter another phase of this program- crossing back, coming home.   I think the gifts, fruits, and lessons from this year won’t be fully revealed for a long time.   And that is going to take patience, both on my part, and for those who might be so kind as to listen to me.  Right now, I can’t promise I’m going to know how to be patient in this.

So, I want to ask all of you fine people at home a favor.

Please drink mate with me.

Mate is proof that God is good and wants us to be in community with each other.   Let me explain.

Mate has three parts:

·         The mate- the squash gourd from which you drink

·         The yerba- the tea leaves that you put in the mate and infuse in hot water

·         The bombilla- the metal straw that you sip the tea out of

When you drink mate, the majority of the time, you share it.  You sit with your friends, and you pass it along, refilling it between each person.  It is done in community- in fact, before you can even use a mate gourd for the first time, it has to be cured.  To do this, you need old, used yerba leaves, which you get from someone else’s mate.  You can’t even start this tradition without relying on someone.  It’s wonderful.

My fellow volunteer, ready to share a mate.

Sharing mate was one of the first things here in Uruguay that helped me identify that I was part of a community.   It’s a simple act that lets people know they’re included and helps them feel at home.  It’s a simple way of marking time together; drinking the mate is a small act of “doing” while, in reality, it creates a space for friends to just be with each other.  During this year, I’ve laughed, cried, been bored, been crabby, been content, all while sharing a mate.

As I come back to the U.S., I know that sharing mate is something I’m going to want to bring home.  I’m going to want to have that set time of just hanging out, where I hear about your year and you hear about mine, or we just talk about the day.

Seriously, though; you + me + mate.  It’ll be a small way to combine my two worlds. It'll be great. 

See you all soon.

This is a picture of where I got my stitches taken out.  (Oh, I had to get stitches a few months ago- two, in my right knee, to be exact.)

Anyway, this is where the doctor took out my stitches.  It’s a very open room, and did you notice those glass doors looking right onto the street?  It’s this cool medical theory they have here- patients should have a visual reminder of the outside world during doctor’s visits so that they remember, when all’s said and done, they’re going to re-enter into society.  So, while I waited to be free of my stitches, I watched others walk around, care-free.

No, I’m kidding.  This isn’t a doctor’s office, and I just pulled that theory out of nowhere.  It’s actually the foyer of my building…which is also the Lutheran church…and a dental office. 

But, part of that was true- a doctor really did take my stitches out in that foyer.  And I want to use this as an example of the sanitation of our culture.

…the “sanitation of culture” is kind of a loaded, anthropology-ish sounding phrase.  Rightly so, as the only time I’ve heard the phrase “sanitation of culture” in real life was in an anthropology seminar…but I still want to use it to talk about some stuff I’ve been sorting out.

I got my stitches taken out in my home, by a doctor I happen to know through my church.  She came to the building where I live to open the doors for the Alcoholics Anonymous group that meets here a couple days a week, and then suggested we take advantage of her presence by taking out my sutures.  So, in between greeting people, she removed the tiny threads from my healed wound (in a totally hygienic and safe manner- Mom, Dad, Heidi).   And then we both continued on with our days.

I guess that’s not too crazy, my accident prone younger brother informed me I could have just taken the stitches out myself, like he does…that seemed a little too un-sanitized.

Anyway though, back to what I wanted to say about that sanitation stuff.  I feel like back home (the U.S.), we have this need to categorize and to arrange in neat corners of our brain what goes where.  We have vacation time, down time, family time, etc.  And I can’t help but feel that this is true of religion as well.  For one, we often want to keep our church-ness to Sundays.  And for another, we want to keep those Sundays, well, clean.  We dress up, we smile nicely, we pretend we don’t swear or speak badly of things. 

But then, if we look at the stories, there’s just no way Jesus was that clean.  He was walking around barefoot, vulnerable to the hospitality of others.  I’m currently reading Life of Pi, and the narrator describes Jesus in this way;

          “This Son is a god who walked, a pedestrian god- and in a hot place, at that- with a stride like any   human stride, the sandal reaching just above the rocks along the way, and when He splurged on transportation, it was a regular donkey (p.56).”

Guys, I think Jesus was kind of a dirty hippie.

No, I am not suggesting that we all stop showering and mimic the actual hygiene practices of this time period.  Metaphorically, I’m trying to figure out why religion is so compartmentalized in our lives, and why it’s hard to let all parts of our lives flow together freely. It extends beyond religion- I think it is often a challenge for us to find continuity between whom and how we are at work, how we are at home, with friends, in new situations, etc.

As I think about being the second half of my year in Uruguay, I have started to reflect on how I will carry this experience home. What do I have to expect when I get back, what will I be able to bring home, how will I make sure that I don’t file away the experiences I’ve had here, in Uruguay, as only relevant to now?

I feel like I’m putting a lot of questions and thoughts together in this blog, but I like this image of my foyer/ doctor’s office as a sounding board and I wanted to share it.  I simultaneously was in my home, at the doctor, with a friend, opening the doors for an AA meeting and watching all walks of life go by outside.  And I like wrestling with the duality of these faces of religion as I know it- the crispness of a Sunday morning, and the image of the Son of God as a common person, walking down the street next to you.

I’m just questioning how to let it all flow together.

My Dad Tells a Lot of Jokes.

My dad tells a lot of jokes.

That was a total lie.  He does not tell a lot of jokes.  My dad has told the same four jokes for my entire life.  And, they are more are less puns, and more or less things only dads find worthy of repeating.

A couple weeks ago, when I was on skype with him, he started in on one;

“So, Kari, last night I went to bed really, really hungry.  And I had this dream that I ate a giant marshmallow.  And then when I woke up, my pillow was gone!  Boy, was I down in the mouth.”

I think I pretended to laugh or something. 

A couple days later, something weird happened.  I was with some of my friends here, and I said “my dad told me his joke again the other night.”  And then I listened to myself retell it.

And then something even weirder happened.  My friends laughed.  No, not a polite, “thanks for trying!” laugh, they legitimately laughed.  Like, it shook them deep down in their bellies; one of my friends was even doubled over, supporting himself on his knees he was laughing so hard.  And I couldn’t even translate the “down in the mouth” pun, which is arguably the only clever part of that joke.

So, why does this story make it onto my blog?  Well, boys and girls, I want you all to know, that with enough ambition and a good ol’ college try, you can all someday, just like my father, turn your pillows into giant marshmallows.

Totally kidding.  Aren't I funnier than my dad??

No, but really, here’s my point.  There is a lot of beauty in this YAGM year that we have been given, but arguably one of the most beautiful and valuable parts is that it is new; we are hearing the jokes for the first time. 

I can’t role my eyes at the “punch line” of having friends and a community with whom I can share, and I am constantly amazed at the difference a good listener and a good conversation can make in my day.  Simple every day, repeated tasks are painted with the fresh coat of my new surroundings.  This year, I experienced Advent and Epiphany during summer, so I had to look at the seasons differently, and re-examine what had previously seemed so familiar back home. 

Now that I am about half way through with my year, I am understanding the context more and am more able to laugh along with those around me, while still appreciating the surprise and newness in each day.

I think this is where my joke metaphor ends, but I feel as though for the sake of parallel structure, I should end with another one…Here we go:

Pete and Repeat were in a boat.  Pete fell out.  Who was left?

(My dad was a big fan of that one in the 90’s, thank goodness it has since fallen out of his repertoire.)