8 a.m. War Call

As part of the Vista House community, we all share our narratives during the year. In the process of attempting to articulate my story & theology, I wrote the following prayer:

I am deliberately writing this out - pen to paper, heart to soul. As a daughter of privilege, seeking to follow my Father to His crucified people - this is my only connection - the contact point inside my head. My people, my fragile and beautiful friend group - my tribe cannot handle this. I can barely handle this.

God, give me peace of mind. Peace of Spirit. Trust.
Let me trust my community.
Let me be confidant in my story of faith, in my testimony. - that I have found You in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. that you did not find me in Bible studies and white suburban churches. I don't want to look for you there, because if there - you would be the predictability I was resisting. You did not fit nicely in between the American dream of 3 kids, a Volvo and a gated community.

Lord, give me peace. Give me righteous anger, but take away this rage.

I have more peace of mind abroad, in the face of extremes, than here. There, I can exhale and trust you. I know I am in the Kingdom of God. But, here - am I strong enough to fight my own head? Take this morning- I woke alone a little before 7 to shower and prepare to lead Morning Prayer. I turned on Al Jazeera for the morning news. Listening from afar, I heard news of a sniper and immediately thought Sarajevo. I looked to see if I recognized the buildings, the neighborhood - kinda. Sure enough, and to my dismay, it was BiH. At least abroad, I am braced, ready for the 2 extreme worlds. But, here, it is the subtlety that is alarming - I am not just a 22-year-old getting ready one Tuesday morning. I am shocked when I complete my outfit with a scarf, and realize, I have put on Sarajevo. I am wearing her. This is intimate. This is a lifestyle.

I am trying to process the thoughts and feelings of seeing Sniper Alley, people running for water - for their life. Srebrenica. These violent thoughts follow me down the stairs and into the kitchen. As I make coffee, I think - you don't know me. You cannot possibly want in my head. It's barely 8 am, and I've already been to war.