This is a piece I've been writing since the night I got back from my recent mission trip to Toronto- it's long (10 pages-- prepare yourself), but it relates most of my experiences- the lessons I learned and the people I met. It needs a bit more editing, but this'll have to do for now- so please be merciful.
Enjoy :)
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So a couple hours ago, I got back home from a mission trip. There are several very strange things about this fact.
First of all, I’m awake. Mission trips are, generally speaking, sleep depriving adventures. And yet, at 1:33 am on Sunday June 15, I am definitely awake.
Moreover, when we arrived back into the airport, we were singing. That’s right- singing. Not stumbling or grumbling or sitting in exhausted silence. We were singing.
Really odd. Trust me.
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I left for Toronto feeling a little spontaneously lopsided. I’ll explain: The week before, I had gone to the preparation meeting with little previous thought. I packed for the trip as part of any other daily, to-do-list-cross-off item and left for the trip as if getting up at 4:15 was a perfectly normal, average Sunday activity. I brought stuff to study and read on the plane and slept anyhow. I carried my guitar on. I was tired.
It was all very normal and routine. Nothing suggested to me that this trip was going to be life-changing. In fact, I have been on so many mission trips that I figured that, like most other churchy, spiritual-high type things, it would be a sort of cliché, tolerable, annual obligation as a leader of the youth group.
There was no spiritual preparation, no sense of excitement or anxiety, no worried interrogation flooding me from the parental end. It was just a routine summer to-do item. Next Saturday, it would be crossed off the list.
I don’t like being wrong- I mean, I’m mature enough to admit when I mess up and wise enough to know when to laugh at myself. But I don’t generally like being wrong.
My exception to this is when it’s the Lord himself who’s laughing at me. I get that picture of some friendly, honest, Morgan-Freeman-like face in my head smiling and giving me a hug. With him, well, I guess he’s used to me screwing up, and he doesn’t make me feel bad about it. Instead of me letting him down, I think he enjoys the chance to remind me who I am (that is- not God), and I think he really loves being the one to catch me when I come off balance.
So tip your hats to Jesus; kudos go to him for a week of proving Juliet wrong.
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First assumption: When I got really close to the counselors on the mission trip I went on in seventh grade it wasn’t because they were really awesome people, it was because I was a naïve seventh-grader who was idolizing them and it was because it was such a small mission trip- not several hundred people. Therefore, this trip, I will not find the counselors all that spectacular because I have a much more realistic and mature perspective on life now. I will be there to do work and not waste time building stupid relationships with people I’ll never see again anyhow.
Wrong.
The Youthworks counselors on this trip were amazing. Three of them really stood out to me- in the way that I’m convinced that God had them there specifically, at least for me- for a real purpose. Like Madeline L’engle, I’m not much of a believer in coincidences.
Darcy Bundy is a lanky, curly-topped, Canadian energizer bunny with an overflowing excitement about Jesus that floods his smile with an eagerness to serve. That is about as concise and accurate as I can get. He’s usually good with words. He’s downright terrible with names. But he has an infectious excitement and genuine love for living- and an inspiring confidence in the role Jesus has had in that life.
Gemma Pineda is a very small, very sincere and focused doer who gets things done and has no problem getting others to help her. She notes details and prays like the words are flowing out of Niagara falls themselves. She is kind but honest. She seeks to live and love so genuinely and she has a heart of hospitality that leaves the South lacking.
Joe was absent on sick leave a grand portion of the week- yet somehow God still willed that he have an impact on my trip. In fact, he may have had one of the greatest impacts. Joe is an introvert who deals with younger teenagers in much of the awkward way I do. He hasn’t been dealt the Royal Flush in life, but he doesn’t really complain. If I could give only one word for him, I’d say honest- about how he feels, about what he wants, about what he thinks- not in a rude way, but in the down-to-earth, sincere, you-know-he’s-not-just-saying-this-to-make-you-feel-special way. There are very few people that real out in the world today, and that alone made him worth spending some time with.
My favorite thing about Joe was his attention to serving in the smallest, most unnoticed ways. He did play guitar for worship and lead a volunteer group and cooking group and such, but what most people didn’t see was the little things he went out of his way to do: like change the compost bag, or flip on the light in the dining hall, or go get a new tub of butter or straighten out a crooked table. He took the time to serve in ways that were so small that they couldn’t be recognized, and so seemingly insignificant that it was amazing he could give them such significance.
The Youthworks counselors, by the end of the week, had taught me a collection of lessons about myself and others and God himself- lessons that don’t necessarily fit into words. My admiration for their various qualities led to some introspection, that, for the first time in a very long time, had very little to do with what I looked like and if I could get a boyfriend or if I would ever get married, and a lot more to do with what God had planned for me in the near future. I know I don’t act like I’m preoccupied with such nonsense as my own being single, and I do make quite an attempt to not be- but do I make that attempt because I don’t want to be desperate and therefore unappealing? Or do I make that attempt because God has something greater planned for me?
And they led me to question my own evaluation of my gifts and abilities. I will never, in a million years, be able to equal one day of Darcy’s energy. And my guitar skills, though decent for almost any camp-style worship song in the key of G, are significantly lacking. But from this trip I now know that I can work quietly for hours and do tasks without being asked. I can listen and comprehend details and follow instructions that I don’t actually have to be told. I can relate to tons of different people because I have so many interests and likes. I can be encouraging to kids younger then me and can deal with them on a level that doesn’t make them feel uncomfortable because I’m older. I can give the leadership that people look to me for when I am called on to do so. I can, as per my old fortune cookie’s instructions, “compel myself each day to do something I’d rather not do.”
I don’t know if these are newly acquired gifts. I think not- I think that maybe, really, I just always assumed things; always placed a box around myself and actually limited myself to what the world has always told me I am. But God obviously wasn’t satisfied with the person I was forming myself into. So he put some counselors in my life that put value on me for some different things. It’s amazing how only a few words can have such a difference on one person’s life
I have known that forever, but God’s always reminding me. Note to self: there might be a reason for that. Words.
So the counselors were amazing.
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On to Toronto itself.
I kind of had assumed that Toronto was going to be like New York- as in, a dirty, big city which I feel uncomfortable in and do not like.
Toronto is nothing like NYC.
I have a terrible habit of falling in love with the places I travel to and live in. I loved Italy- Rome, Florence, the northern Lakes- it all feels like home. I loved Breckenridge, Colorado with it’s outdoor concerts every night, and Arizona with its dry air and mountains and stars. I love Chicago with its windy waterside park and its famous architecture and shopping. And I fear that I now must add another to my list, because I loved Toronto.
[Side note: funny pronunciations. Canadian people pronounce pasta and tacos with the a of “apple” instead of “father.” The also say “ow-oot”, instead of “out.” And they say, “eh?” at the end of questions and and interjections and side commentary. A lot. It’s funny.]
The U.S. likes to call itself a melting pot and brag about its diversity, but let me tell you something about diversity. In the U.S., the diversity is spread out across a whole country. In Toronto, in the week I was there, I met a person from every territory of Canada, from Korea, from Norway and Ghana, from Rwanda, from Niger, from El Salvador, from China, from Brazil, and from South Africa. And I was only there a week. And I was only talking to homeless people and church pastors. Toronto is home to more than 110 languages. One city. Now that is diversity.
And the coolest thing is how accepted it is. Being bi- or tri-lingual is perfectly common. Street and store signs are rarely in just one language. And there’s an element of pride in origins. If an area of town is associated with a certain ethnicity or lifestyle, the street signs reflect it. Differences aren’t hidden or hushed up; they’re embraced. For several blocks even, all of the street signs have rainbow stripes. And we thought there was freedom in the States.
I heard someone in my church group say that Toronto was dirty, but I beg to differ. Toronto would definitely be classified as a big city, which is characterized by a certain level of dirtiness that may be apparent- when compared to our dear, Disneyland-esque South Tampa. But really, it is very clean. Recycling is everywhere too- really intense. And there are so many parks- real parks, not the paved cement boxes with interspersed patches of grass we call a park back home—real green fields with benches and swings and little pathways for walking and little kids playing.
I am in love, and I can’t wait to see the rest of Canada. Toronto was awesome. I felt safe, I found it beautiful, I thought its architecture was fascinating, and most of all I loved its people—which leads me to my next assumption.
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I figured that since I would only be serving a week, none of the people and none of the relationships I built would have an impact on me.
Yet again, I was wrong.
First of all, relationships can be built in just a week. Second of all, people that you meet only once can still have a great impact on your life.
Case in point: Pastor Steve. Street pastor of 17 years, founder of [Sanctuary], church for the homeless. Tall, commanding, and carrying a ton of experience with a world most of us try to avoid. Obviously got some courage and will—unafraid of proclaiming the truth.
Monday night, we meet this guy. He sends us into Toronto for a three-hour walk based on the following premise:
You are a 13 year-old girl. A few years ago your parents got divorced and your mother and you had to move out of the suburbs and into the projects. You had to start wearing thrift store clothes and could never invite anyone over and you soon became the weird girl- the one without any friends. Then your mom gets a new boyfriend, who has money. You move back into the suburbs and you get your cool clothes and ipods and whatnot. But pretty soon, your stepdad starts to sexually abuse you. When you mention it to someone at school, a phone call goes home. Your mom is furious that you would let slip the secret. She likes having her normal life back at whatever price. You don’t have the guts to upset her life, so you don’t turn her in. But you can’t stand the abuse.
You run away to the streets of Toronto.
For three nights straight you spend time walking the streets of Toronto in fear. You are vulnerable to all the crimes out there so you walk from well-lit area to well-lit area. You cannot just sleep anywhere because you will be invading the territory of the established, older homeless people and you just might get beat to death for it. As a thirteen-year-old, it is illegal for you to be homeless, so if you go to any sort of help agency, you will be returned to your parents and everyone involved will get in trouble. So you are on your own, and you must keep running.
You are allowed to spend $2.50 at the max. You must answer the following questions ASAP if you are to survive: Where will you bathe? What will you eat? How will you get money? How will you find water? How will you entertain yourself? And where will you sleep?
None of these questions had easy answers, we soon learned. Though many of the answers were, in Steve’s words, “Fair game,” they also had consequences that we couldn’t foresee. What struck me the most was an experience my walking group had trying to find water.
We walked the route on the map in its entirety- through the prostitute’s street, through the gay neighborhood, through the rich shopping area. On the last stretch, we were just beat, and my water bottle had run out. I was thirsty. So we went on a wild chase for water. We went through a mall, but couldn’t find the bathroom, so we assumed somewhere else would have water. We went into another shopping center and the bathroom was closed for cleaning. We asked a restaurant and they said sorry, they were closed. By this time, most stores were closed. Finally, we eyed a Starbucks and we went in and explained that we had been walking for two hours and we were from Tampa and could we have some water? But what if we hadn’t looked like clean tourists? Apparently, dehydration is the number one killer of the homeless. That seems ridiculous to me.
A lot of it seemed ridiculous to me. How could it be that these people—who either have a mental problem and can’t take care of themselves, or have an addiction and can’t help themselves, or have had some bad luck financially and can’t afford their old life, or have immigrated here to get a better life and can’t get on their feet-- how could it be that there is no safety net in place for them? Even in Canada, which has a relatively socialist government? How could all those people fall through the cracks? And what options exactly do these thirteen-year old girls have?
In reality, all they’ve got is prostitution.
In their fight just to survive, these people stop thinking ahead. The question isn’t how am I going to get off the streets- it’s how am I going to find my next meal? Where am I going to sleep tonight? How can I get a couple of bucks to feed myself? They begin to live like animals. Everything about their lives is only a fight to stay alive.
Pastor Steve told us about one of his friends, a young prostitute who worked really hard to get off the streets. She did after several years- a real success. But after another several years, she succumbed to the AIDS she had acquired during her days of prostitution.
Pastor Steve didn’t just tell us about homelessness. He actually succeeded in making us homeless for an evening- making us face these decisions ourselves. I learned more in those two hours than I usually learn in an entire week at school. And unlike most of my history and math lessons, I won’t forget what Pastor Steve showed us.
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My group spent a lot of time cleaning walls for some reason. At the Bloor Central Salvation Army we cleared out a room and then cleaned its walls to prepare for a wedding reception. And we stacked chairs and cleaned the walls of the sanctuary to prepare for the wedding itself. At the Evangeline women’s shelter, we cleaned the walls of the kitchen and the foyer and the hallways.
Cleaning walls is such a menial task, and I’m sure that if I were any younger, I would have felt frustrated at having to do such work when I could be doing something so much more necessary and “significant.” But on each wall, I took the time to scrub at each stain and slowly but surely, the stains would come off. In those moments, each stain was the only thing I was thinking about.
I now feel honored to have been given the task of cleaning walls. I cleaned them to the best of my ability. It was a task that probably will never be noticed by most the people I served, and I am grateful to have been given the opportunity to serve in such a small and menial fashion. I once thought that in order to make a difference in the world, I had to fix everything at once, all by myself. But cleaning walls, I became just a nameless, faceless servant, part of a giant group of people that make a difference in the lives of Toronto’s homeless women. I have begun to understand that even the smallest bit of help can be a huge act of service in the eyes of God. He has such a different way of measuring service.
One day, our theme was based on what Mother Theresa said: “There are no great deeds, only small deeds done with great love.”
I think I understand.
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I grew up in upper-middle class, white, American suburbia. I was raised to believe that homeless people, though not necessarily bad people, are all alcoholics and drug addicts, and that you should never give them money or recognize them because it will only encourage them to keep drinking.
In fact, because I don’t drink and don’t have any clue how to deal with drunken or alcoholic people, I was terrified of them. I was terrified of homeless people.
So, of course, God decided to put me in the group working with homeless people.
The first two days we didn’t deal with people- we just cleaned walls and sorted old clothes. But on Wednesday, we went to Evangeline, a women’s shelter. It was the first time I had ever been to a shelter, the first time I’d ever been given the chance to talk to a homeless person. I was nervous, but kind of excited about what God had planned.
We were briefed in the chapel, and then we were shown around. Then we went and cleaned some walls in the kitchen. Finally, we were going to help serve lunch.
As lunch was being prepared we sat in a lounge sort of room right next to the balcony, where lunch was going to be. About 5 residents were sitting in the lounge watching tv or reading the paper or just staring into the distance. Our group entered and we all began to talk. Some of the ladies were really friendly and seemed perfectly normal. Some lacked social skills or had something else wrong. After a few minutes I got up and went to talk to a young girl in the corner. She was probably just my age. She had just come from Rwanda about a month before. She was nice and very friendly. And she had dreams too, that she told me about.
I wonder who it is who decides who is allowed to have dreams. Where I grow up, all the kids are told to dream big, that they can do anything. But somewhere along the way, I’ve learned that only some people actually have the right to dream. Only those with the brains or the skills, with the advantages like a family with money.
I guess part of me still thinks like a child, because I think it’s unfair that not everyone should have an equal chance. And only children are that optimistic.
I was in charge of passing out ice cream to the ladies. I did as respectfully and best I could- smiling and being nice as I could. Then I went and sat down with some of them. Of all the things in my life that I could be proud of—my class rank and my successes—I think that that moment, when I faced my fear and took the first step to go talk to the homeless ladies I was serving, was one of my proudest.
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You ever notice how it’s a lot easier to notice God in retrospect? I look back in wonder at the last few years. It’s so fascinating—almost creepy—to see the little things too specific to be coincidences that changed the course of my life. If watching a thunderstorm roll in, or seeing a mother with her child, or watching a sunset sink into the ocean, or falling in love, do nothing to convince you of the presence of God—then look at the past. Because he’s there, guiding, in the smallest things.
The chain of events goes back so far—I’m sure before I was even born. It’s the butterfly effect all over again. If you’ve ever seen Happenstance (a rather melancholy French film that I don’t necessarily recommend), think instead of one day and one girl whose life sucks, think more like 7 years and one girl whose life was really too good to be true.
If after 6th grade, I hadn’t decided to go on a mission trip, and if I hadn’t decided to bring an Architectural Digest magazine with me, I might never have met my best friend of the last 8 years. If I had never met my best friend, I would never have gotten the chance to learn guitar with her from her dad. A few years later, if I had never gone to get ice cream, I wouldn’t have met one of my closest friends, Nathan. If Hyde Park hadn’t decided to build the magnolia building (a new building, built largely to house the youth, which I feel was an extravagant and poor use of money and priorities), I might never have started church hopping. If I had never been a church hopper, I might have lost my faith. If I had never met Nathan, I might not have picked up guitar again. If I had not picked up guitar again, and if I hadn’t been inspired by Nathan’s role in his own youth group, I might never have offered to be my own youth group’s worship leader (just a random, spontaneous thing one afternoon). If I had never offered to be worship leader, I might not still be around at Hyde Park at all. If I weren’t still around at Hyde Park, I might not have gotten the chance to see our youth group begin to recover from the loss of a youth director. If I weren’t still at Hyde Park, I might have lost some of my closest friends and mentors. If I weren’t still at Hyde Park, I wouldn’t have been in Toronto last week.
A bit of ice cream and an Architectural Digest magazine—that’s my life in a nutshell.
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So I never understood what people in Bible studies meant when they said, “Let God use your weaknesses,” or “In my weakness I found my strength.” I found that so confusing; we’re always taught that God gave us our gifts and talents to be used by him for his purposes. But then we’re told that God doesn’t use our strengths but our weaknesses.
That would seem a contradiction.
I once had a youth director that said that there are three signs that you are called to do something. First, the idea appeals to you in someway or is nagging you all the time. Second, you really can’t do it without God’s help. Third, it scares the crap out of you.
Now, I’m not a particularly talented guitar player (this would be a case of God using my weakness), but I’ve been leading worship for almost 2 years in my youth group, and like usual for mission trips, etc., I brought my guitar to Toronto.
That guitar- one of my weaknesses indeed- completely changed my experience. The guitar alone has stories in plenty.
I found it oddly coincidental that Joe was ill the week that I was there, because I play guitar and lead worship—which was his job for Youthworks. When he finally appeared on Tuesday after sleeping all day, I ran into him in the kitchen. He looked miserable.
I told him so.
But then I offered to do anything I could- whether it be lead worship or help him lead worship or do anything I could, assuring him that I didn’t want to take his place or put myself out, just help. He said thanks.
On Wednesday afternoon, I did not cook with my group, because Joe and I went upstairs to practice for worship. We went through the songs. I tried to change the keys because I couldn’t sing half the songs. Joe, in his laid back manner, declined such complications. I passively obeyed, and sang really low notes, very quietly.
After we went through the songs and figured out what we were doing, we broke into talking about other things, eventually coming back to music. What bands do I usually do? Crowder and Tomlin, some classic camp stuff. You? Do a lot of Hillsong United- heard of them? I’ll look them up when I get home. Ever heard of Jimmy Eat World? Yeah. The old album? Do you know the song “Hear You Me?”
“Hear You Me” is one of my all time favorite songs. It is rare that a song has a great guitar part, a great melody, and really profound lyrics.
Joe began to play the song for me and I couldn’t help but smile.
Both Wednesday and Thursday nights I played and sang with Joe during club time. In itself, this was a great experience—but getting up with the Youthworks team and worshipping in front of everyone came with some other things.
First of all, before worship, the Youthworks team prayed alone, backstage (so to speak). I’m not much of a praying person; in fact, I’m inconsistent about praying on my own, and tend to drift off in long group prayers. But somehow, when Gemma with her pink toe-nails started praying Wednesday night, I felt like I genuinely meant, from my heart, every word she said. And when we left that room, I really was doing something with a God-focus. A prayer does have power, if it’s sincerely prayed. If.
So where is my heart when I pray? Where is my mind? Am I talking to God or to myself?
The other result of standing in front of everyone was a bunch of people introducing themselves to me. I am a bit of an introvert, some mixture of focused and serious and insecure and shy and self-confident. I do not go out of my way to get to know lots of people. But with this guitar, I had random people ask me to play them songs, to borrow my guitar, to sit near me while I played. I had a girl actually tell me excitedly that she wanted me to be a part of her circle of mission trip friends.
Even though I didn’t really end up building any close relationships with these people- just a Facebook friend or two—they blessed me with a number of memories-the kind that make me smile to myself and laugh out loud. And honestly, their welcoming and persistent hearts gave me hope and comfort on so many levels.
On Thursday, our last day of mission work, I brought my guitar with me to Bloor Central Salvation Army’s weekly lunch.
I had never actually served a meal to the homeless before, but I was actually looking forward to this one. As the trip had gone on (or as my youth director says, as the mission work became “Thursday coming”), I had come to recognize my fear and prejudice, and I was really excited about facing my fear to overcome it. Though cleaning walls and organizing clothes had taught me some things, after going to the women’s shelter, I really wanted to be proven wrong again- wanted to face my fears. A song by Deep Forest says that “sometimes fear and dreams must collide,” and I have found that it is rare that they do not. So I was finally going to face my fear.
My first table was a group of Asian women who spoke hardly any English. I served them as best I could, and everything seemed to go fine. When they left, I cleared their tables. As I approached the counter to drop off all of the dirty dishes, one of the other servers—a Portuguese man who in reality spoke not a lick of English—approached me and began to speak very forcefully with his hands and some language that perhaps resembled very broken English. Everyone (that is, all of the rising 10th graders in my group) nearby, including myself, was confused. But then, I did something spontaneously courageous.
All Summer long, I have been attempting to teach myself Spanish- watching movies and listening to radio and reading books and studying grammar (I even have gone to Spanish church). The reasoning behind this is somewhat complicated—and for the most part illogical. But in that moment in Toronto, I guess it all made sense.
I said, “Look, do you speak Spanish?”
And he launched off in Spanish. He had to say it twice, but I got the gist of it. He wasn’t scolding me. He was just telling me what to do with the dirty dishes and how to go about re-setting the table. I was relieved—and really excited to have been given the opportunity to use my Spanish.
[On a side note, later on, I met a very kind and interesting man from El Salvador who talked to me in English and helped me a bit with Spanish and generally made my day worth all of the work. He was the kind of person I would like as a grandfather- caring and kind, quiet but smiling, showing an interest in me. He kept our conversation going and even told me about a Spanish festival that sounded really cool that was happening that weekend (I had to miss it). I never got his name, but I will never forget him.]
After the major lunch rush, I finally got to pull out my guitar. Charles turned pages for me and sang with me and picked most of the songs. I started with just worship music, then I got a couple of requests and then a little tiny Jamaican girl climbed onto my lap without asking. She was beautiful, and adorable, and was obviously going to be a natural at guitar, so I gave her one of my pink picks, and I played some songs for her and let her try a strum or two, trying to help her. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before—I am not usually good with little kids at all. I’m awkward and unsure and easily annoyed (classic youngest child syndrome). But this little girl didn’t ask much of anything except to sit on my lap as I played.
And yet, she was coming to the Salvation Army for food. That little angel of a girl. Would somebody tell me why? What is wrong with the world?
Next to me, Amy was playing board games with a little boy—around 12, but small for his age. Turns out, that boy was the Portuguese server’s grandson, and as the crowd we were serving thinned out, the server himself came over to talk to me. He began to talk excitedly in Portu-Spanglish, and once again I got the gist of what he was saying. He told me that he’d been traveling for the last forty years, and read all different bibles and was now a fisher of men- he wanted to be a pastor. He proudly pointed out his grandson, and then he asked to borrow my guitar.
He began to play a Portuguese worship song, singing in a lovely baritone. He looked so proud to be able to share his own worshipping with me, and I was just as eager to listen.
On the way home, Courtney said that she’d been talking to Cheryl, the Salvation Army volunteer coordinator, while we were playing guitar together. Apparently the Portuguese server had never opened up like that to anyone before. Cheryl had never seen him like that—he was always just business. She’d never seen him so excited or happy.
As I write this I’m smiling in wonder at how God could actually use my lousy Spanish and my guitar for something so amazing.
I think that maybe God measures and judges our gifts and talents differently than we do ourselves. I can use my strengths and gifts for God’s purposes- but God can use my weaknesses to create strength.
It’s so incredible, it doesn’t even make sense.
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The stories that came out of Toronto have taught me so much about life, about myself, about how God sees things.
After Thursday came and went, we left Toronto Friday morning- taking with us our lessons learned and our memories and our thoughts and even some friends. Being the introvert that I am, I was really missing being alone at this point. I was in dire need of sleep and I really missed my music (much as I love my guitar, I am severely limited the songs I can play and sing). We got through customs and the speed limit signs changed from Km/H to MPH. The French translations vanished. We were driving back.
But we weren’t done. Eric Johnson (youth counselor who was in charge when the trip had been planned) had one more trick up his sleeve. He was sending us out on a jet boat ride in the rapids near Niagara falls.
Being from Florida, I am of the opinion that water in northern New York is, well, cold. And apparently the whole point of this jet boat ride was to get wet.
It was cold. And I was wet.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was fun—in an insane “I’m freezing and laughing and can’t help it” way. But I was so relieved to finally change into dry clothes again. We drove to dinner at this New York Style pizza and wings place.
And then, we went to that carnival Americans call Niagara falls. I mean that literally—there was even a hot air balloon, and rides and street music and flashing lights.
I think it’s a shame that such a beautiful wonder of nature is now surrounded by so much man-made tourist crap. It’s like they don’t get the point. I mean, I’m sure there’s no way to hide Niagara falls away in a corner to protect it from all the people, but I really wanted to.
Niagara falls is a sight to behold. Just imagine a ton of water flowing out of a river and pouring over the edge of this cliff, falling into a misty abyss that can’t be seen because of the mist. At sunset (when we were there), the water looks like little shards of glass as it first falls, slowly morphing into what looks like molten diamonds, finally vanishing into the mist.
The most amazing thing about Niagara is that it never stops. I know that sounds stupid and obvious, but standing there I could have watched it forever. In our world of on and off, pause and play, I couldn’t believe that here was something so continual. I know that someday it will erode away, and maybe eventually it will dry up—but can you imagine a waterfall—a fountain of water that just keeps pouring out? You can never see what’s under the mist because the water isn’t going to stop crashing down. It keeps flowing no matter if anyone is watching or if the sun is up or down or if people are laughing or crying or a factory gets built or a road is paved or a carnival springs up. The falls keep falling.
I wonder at such a simple and incredible detail of God’s creation. I stand amazed.
And maybe that’s what this trip was really about. I have gifts and self-confidence and values and dreams already. And, yes, I did learn a bunch—especially about the homeless and about serving and about possibilities for my own future. But really, maybe what I needed most was just to be amazed by God, to be reminded of what his love can do. I needed to be reminded what God values in me.
Maybe I just needed him to remind me that he really is walking right next to me. Always.
“And remember, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.” Matt 28:20.
[Thanks, God.
You rock.
I love you.
Amen.]
☺
Juliet Buesing, Graduated Senior, Plant High School -- Heading to Yale!
Once upon a time, a few months ago in the 
