Dress Rehearsals and Mexican Fires
"This is life. There is no dress rehearsal."
--Georgia Lass, Dead Like Me
What a whirlwind it's been lately.
I didn't really think that I had time or inclination to write, but I've been on such an extended emotional roller coaster it only seemed fitting to type some thoughts out while I could still make them really known.
The past two weeks have been an absolute blur. School ended on June 20th, and yet I had no time to process, as I had houseguests over the weekend, and a very special wedding to attend. While the ending of school came and went with out much ability for me to process no longer being a first year teacher, the other events hit even harder--I adjusted to seeing and hosting very dear friends that I rarely have the opportunity to visit with now as they live in San Francisco, and I went to Mo and Jason's wedding where I was moved by how much they love each other and horrified by the absolute foulness of people I once ignorantly believed were my friends--but whom instead chose to cast me in the role of a villain that I simply never was.
After an intense drive up and down to and from Los Angeles, I hosted friends for another day, then dropped them off at the airport a mere hour and a half before getting picked up at 7 am to go to Ensenada, Mexico, where I spent a week ostensibly building homes (and ignoring stressors and the very real hurt of false friends). Having gone last year, I thought I had some semblance of an idea of what to expect. No, I had no clue for what I'd see, feel, touch, experience. I was picked up by my friends Will and Stephanie, two college sophomores with a huge amount of heart and energy that I'd known for some time back in L.A. (Steph in particular--we've been friends for a decade), and groggily crossed the border, singing songs and listening to bad pop music on occasion from my iPod.
We did several things in Mexico; first and foremost, we built a house for a family in the local church we were working with. Valeria, her husband, and her three daughters (Sonia, Miriam, and Sara), who were gracious, loving, and very kind. When we arrived there was just a large concrete foundation poured. In the remaining five days, we built walls, separated the house into three rooms, installed windows, electricity, lighting, drywall, papered and plywooded the walls, put a roof on, sealed it, built and installed doors, textured, primed and finally painted the walls, and did finishing touches. In short, in five days with some definite Divine help, we created a casa straight out of the polvo. Weird.
When we weren't doing that, we as a team of 16 odd folks visited families in need of prayer, prepared a children's service, shared with church members, helped a local family in building a squatter home on a hillside from garage doors, watched a drug raid on a nearby home, laughed at me as I was confused with Lenny Kravitz by local children who wanted my autograph, and worked to crazy exhaustion.
When in Mexico, i tend to adopt a different name, Timoteo. I use it mainly because it is cumbersome to explain in Spanish why your name is "T.J." Do you call it T.J. in Spanish--like "Tay Jota"? or do you simply Spanify the existing name ("Tishe"). And don't get me started on my real name ("Tyrone"? "Tiron"?). Timoteo removes those obstacles. I chose it three years ago, when I was looking for an easier name in Mexico City. I couldn't choose between the young headstrong leader, Timothy, or the incredibly loyal yet tragically doubtful Thomas (Tomas). I personally feel Tomas would've worked better, but I was being optimistic at the time. And I tried to remember more of who Timothy was, and how he, like me, had a strong Christian mother and grandmother, and a very confusing upbringing with his less than Christian dad, his cultural differences, and his attempts to understand the world around him. So Timoteo I was. Indeed.
On Friday morning, I was part of a small group that woke up early to help on the second house. At 7:30 in the morning, we had been working for nearly an hour, and the marine layer settled heavy over us in our dusty hillside, the damp, cool air, coating us like a blanket, chilling and protecting us from the sun's devastating rays later. Banda music played softly, and the sound of hammer and nails clinking interrupted the peaceful morning. Softly, in the distance, from our dusty hilltop, we could see the first wisps of grayish black smoke a few blocks away from a house. We thought people were burning trash, until we realized the house itself was on fire. I, along with three other guys, dropped everything and ran full tilt to the burning home. I tripped and ate it on the way, skinning knees and cursing under my breath in two languages. But I rose and we huffed over to the burning home. Soon the street was abuzz with people. Buckets proliferated, jugs and hoses and bowls carried water. I found myself doing everything from filling buckets to throwing water directly on the minor inferno, turning the smouldering pyrotechnics soon into a charred, ashy mess. Fortunately no one was hurt, but half of the family's meager property was gone, absolutely devastated. We trudged back to build the ramshackle home we were helping with while the remainder of the team continued on the larger home.
When we last gave the keys to Valeria, she wept, we wept, the children wept, I think even God might've gotten misty. It was bizarre to see something that we, so messed up and broken, and little, were able to do completely out of our own power. It was a total trip.
Coming back was another story. Jon, one of the leaders at my old church in L.A. drove the truck carryign me and all the luggage. After dropping me off in San Diego, he promptly broke down in Del Mar, 20 minutes north. I then picked him up, took him in for the night, and then eventually drove him and the luggage BACK to L.A. before driving back down to SD that night--we were waiting for the SD body shop to finish his car. So I felt I was completely unable to process, as I had a houseguest
and was unable to separate myself from those responsibilities for the moment and really just sit and run through my emotions.
When Jon left on Tuesday (which was sad, as I enjoy him), I sat in my car and had a good cry for everything. For the friends who mistreated me in Los Angeles and treated me like crap for something i DIDN'T EVEN DO, for the immense poverty and injustice in Mexico, for all of my weaknesses, for my failings as a friend, for the first year of school ending, for the fact that I am a long way from being 'whole" or happy with my lot in life, from the awkwardness of actually seeing God work in peoples lives--including my own. From not having had time to process, I cried four times on Tuesday, did laundry, drank coffee, lay on my floor, and thanked God for life.
My Fourth of July was my second one here in San Diego, and the first one where I felt like I was part of a 'real' community; my local community group/small group got together in a cool family's house, and barbecued, hung out, and got to know each other better. It was surreal. Absolutely surreal. And I loved it. It was weird to feel love coming from a strange group of people coming better, a mission that's been happening directly for a year now in North Park, and for awhile in San Diego in Ethnos, and forever in humanity with God. I dont' know, understand, or comprehend the idea that I'm loved by God ultimately or fully, and I am puzzled at my chronic inability to live for myself. Terrified of ending up like my dad, I chuck my fully formed and articulated personality and needs anytime someone is remotely distressed, selfishly setting myself up for disaster, potential resentment, and frustration--I don't know how to stop living for other people.
These past two weeks I've been a bit lost in feelings and emotions--unable to tell which were mine or belonging to others. It's been hard to tell who I was in the midst of it all.
I've made a lot of mistakes,
I've made a lot of mistakes
You came to take us--all things go, all things go.
To recreate us--all things grow, all things grow.
We had our mind set--all things no, all things no
You had to find it---all things go, all things go.
I started watching a quirky show on SciFi yesterday called "Dead Like Me." Intrigued, i bought the whole first season yesterday. I love it. The basic plot is that a select group of people after death are stuck being grim reapers, collecting souls and ferrying them to the other side. There's a lot of loneliness, a lot of sadness, a lot of poignancy, and a lot of confusion. I see hearts and minds reaching out, dying to be loved, and trying their damnedest.
The quote from the top of the page came from the last episode. The week before the main character died, her mother told her that life wasn't a dress rehearsal, that it waits for no one, and that there is life to be lived. And I am terrified by the fact that life exists out there, waiting to be savored and enjoyed, not just on the terms of others, but really on my own. I'm growing, I'm learning, and I'm terrified. And I'm trying to find myself at a point where I can forgive the terrible betrayal and hurt of former friends, although i'm not there yet.
And I'm getting more whole, hopefully--bit by bit.
Paz, mis amigos.
--Georgia Lass, Dead Like Me
What a whirlwind it's been lately.
I didn't really think that I had time or inclination to write, but I've been on such an extended emotional roller coaster it only seemed fitting to type some thoughts out while I could still make them really known.
The past two weeks have been an absolute blur. School ended on June 20th, and yet I had no time to process, as I had houseguests over the weekend, and a very special wedding to attend. While the ending of school came and went with out much ability for me to process no longer being a first year teacher, the other events hit even harder--I adjusted to seeing and hosting very dear friends that I rarely have the opportunity to visit with now as they live in San Francisco, and I went to Mo and Jason's wedding where I was moved by how much they love each other and horrified by the absolute foulness of people I once ignorantly believed were my friends--but whom instead chose to cast me in the role of a villain that I simply never was.
After an intense drive up and down to and from Los Angeles, I hosted friends for another day, then dropped them off at the airport a mere hour and a half before getting picked up at 7 am to go to Ensenada, Mexico, where I spent a week ostensibly building homes (and ignoring stressors and the very real hurt of false friends). Having gone last year, I thought I had some semblance of an idea of what to expect. No, I had no clue for what I'd see, feel, touch, experience. I was picked up by my friends Will and Stephanie, two college sophomores with a huge amount of heart and energy that I'd known for some time back in L.A. (Steph in particular--we've been friends for a decade), and groggily crossed the border, singing songs and listening to bad pop music on occasion from my iPod.
We did several things in Mexico; first and foremost, we built a house for a family in the local church we were working with. Valeria, her husband, and her three daughters (Sonia, Miriam, and Sara), who were gracious, loving, and very kind. When we arrived there was just a large concrete foundation poured. In the remaining five days, we built walls, separated the house into three rooms, installed windows, electricity, lighting, drywall, papered and plywooded the walls, put a roof on, sealed it, built and installed doors, textured, primed and finally painted the walls, and did finishing touches. In short, in five days with some definite Divine help, we created a casa straight out of the polvo. Weird.
When we weren't doing that, we as a team of 16 odd folks visited families in need of prayer, prepared a children's service, shared with church members, helped a local family in building a squatter home on a hillside from garage doors, watched a drug raid on a nearby home, laughed at me as I was confused with Lenny Kravitz by local children who wanted my autograph, and worked to crazy exhaustion.
When in Mexico, i tend to adopt a different name, Timoteo. I use it mainly because it is cumbersome to explain in Spanish why your name is "T.J." Do you call it T.J. in Spanish--like "Tay Jota"? or do you simply Spanify the existing name ("Tishe"). And don't get me started on my real name ("Tyrone"? "Tiron"?). Timoteo removes those obstacles. I chose it three years ago, when I was looking for an easier name in Mexico City. I couldn't choose between the young headstrong leader, Timothy, or the incredibly loyal yet tragically doubtful Thomas (Tomas). I personally feel Tomas would've worked better, but I was being optimistic at the time. And I tried to remember more of who Timothy was, and how he, like me, had a strong Christian mother and grandmother, and a very confusing upbringing with his less than Christian dad, his cultural differences, and his attempts to understand the world around him. So Timoteo I was. Indeed.
On Friday morning, I was part of a small group that woke up early to help on the second house. At 7:30 in the morning, we had been working for nearly an hour, and the marine layer settled heavy over us in our dusty hillside, the damp, cool air, coating us like a blanket, chilling and protecting us from the sun's devastating rays later. Banda music played softly, and the sound of hammer and nails clinking interrupted the peaceful morning. Softly, in the distance, from our dusty hilltop, we could see the first wisps of grayish black smoke a few blocks away from a house. We thought people were burning trash, until we realized the house itself was on fire. I, along with three other guys, dropped everything and ran full tilt to the burning home. I tripped and ate it on the way, skinning knees and cursing under my breath in two languages. But I rose and we huffed over to the burning home. Soon the street was abuzz with people. Buckets proliferated, jugs and hoses and bowls carried water. I found myself doing everything from filling buckets to throwing water directly on the minor inferno, turning the smouldering pyrotechnics soon into a charred, ashy mess. Fortunately no one was hurt, but half of the family's meager property was gone, absolutely devastated. We trudged back to build the ramshackle home we were helping with while the remainder of the team continued on the larger home.
When we last gave the keys to Valeria, she wept, we wept, the children wept, I think even God might've gotten misty. It was bizarre to see something that we, so messed up and broken, and little, were able to do completely out of our own power. It was a total trip.
Coming back was another story. Jon, one of the leaders at my old church in L.A. drove the truck carryign me and all the luggage. After dropping me off in San Diego, he promptly broke down in Del Mar, 20 minutes north. I then picked him up, took him in for the night, and then eventually drove him and the luggage BACK to L.A. before driving back down to SD that night--we were waiting for the SD body shop to finish his car. So I felt I was completely unable to process, as I had a houseguest
and was unable to separate myself from those responsibilities for the moment and really just sit and run through my emotions.
When Jon left on Tuesday (which was sad, as I enjoy him), I sat in my car and had a good cry for everything. For the friends who mistreated me in Los Angeles and treated me like crap for something i DIDN'T EVEN DO, for the immense poverty and injustice in Mexico, for all of my weaknesses, for my failings as a friend, for the first year of school ending, for the fact that I am a long way from being 'whole" or happy with my lot in life, from the awkwardness of actually seeing God work in peoples lives--including my own. From not having had time to process, I cried four times on Tuesday, did laundry, drank coffee, lay on my floor, and thanked God for life.
My Fourth of July was my second one here in San Diego, and the first one where I felt like I was part of a 'real' community; my local community group/small group got together in a cool family's house, and barbecued, hung out, and got to know each other better. It was surreal. Absolutely surreal. And I loved it. It was weird to feel love coming from a strange group of people coming better, a mission that's been happening directly for a year now in North Park, and for awhile in San Diego in Ethnos, and forever in humanity with God. I dont' know, understand, or comprehend the idea that I'm loved by God ultimately or fully, and I am puzzled at my chronic inability to live for myself. Terrified of ending up like my dad, I chuck my fully formed and articulated personality and needs anytime someone is remotely distressed, selfishly setting myself up for disaster, potential resentment, and frustration--I don't know how to stop living for other people.
These past two weeks I've been a bit lost in feelings and emotions--unable to tell which were mine or belonging to others. It's been hard to tell who I was in the midst of it all.
I've made a lot of mistakes,
I've made a lot of mistakes
You came to take us--all things go, all things go.
To recreate us--all things grow, all things grow.
We had our mind set--all things no, all things no
You had to find it---all things go, all things go.
I started watching a quirky show on SciFi yesterday called "Dead Like Me." Intrigued, i bought the whole first season yesterday. I love it. The basic plot is that a select group of people after death are stuck being grim reapers, collecting souls and ferrying them to the other side. There's a lot of loneliness, a lot of sadness, a lot of poignancy, and a lot of confusion. I see hearts and minds reaching out, dying to be loved, and trying their damnedest.
The quote from the top of the page came from the last episode. The week before the main character died, her mother told her that life wasn't a dress rehearsal, that it waits for no one, and that there is life to be lived. And I am terrified by the fact that life exists out there, waiting to be savored and enjoyed, not just on the terms of others, but really on my own. I'm growing, I'm learning, and I'm terrified. And I'm trying to find myself at a point where I can forgive the terrible betrayal and hurt of former friends, although i'm not there yet.
And I'm getting more whole, hopefully--bit by bit.
Paz, mis amigos.