Reclaimed

Over the last year now my dad and I have been hard at work becoming amateur carpenters. We've successfully built a shelf for a few of my coffee mugs and a serving tray for, yes, coffee. I've learned more than craftsman skills and I've made more than just pieces of wood.


   
Each project has been unique as I spend hours doodling plans in the margins of my notes. Time flies as I scroll Pinterest and binge HGTV for inspiration and big ideas. My dad and I spend hours rummaging through piles of soon to be reclaimed lumber from the Habitat Restore, our family's farm, or the dumpster conveniently placed behind our house to find just the right orphaned piece of wood or pallet for the project. Our pieces are one of a kind for sure.

Do not be fooled, we are far from professionals. However what we lack in proper training and equipment we make up for in creativity and style points. I even sported a pencil behind my ear to Home Depot (taking the running total of trips of the current project up to 3). It's the little things our amateur eyes can't foresee that often sends us back to the store for screws, or finish, or a new saw blade. I have begun to carry a tape measure in my bag as we randomly stumble across similar pieces, such as a prayer bench at church. We measure twice and cut once, and sometimes it fits and sometimes it doesn't.


It's been a humble learning experience as a city raised daughter learns from her farm boy Dad. Apart from the craftsman skills I've been learning a lot from my heavenly father as well. I am reminded of the book, The Three Trees, you know where each tree has lived a life with dreams and ambitions only to be cut down and worked into something less grand than their expectations. The feeding trough, fishing boat, and straight pieces of lumber are eventually used as a part of a greater story, the one of Christ.

How true it is about us too. We too are being reclaimed, sometimes distressed, often sanded down but continually being made into something new to be used as a part of God's story. My Dad and I are doing more than just daddy daughter projects (although it makes a good title for an HGTV series) the stories we are building is time well spent.

my happy place

The semester has sunk it's teeth deep in my life. The colorful scribbling in my planner prove the rigor of a scholarly and social life. With junior year comes serious talk of the future. My classes blur together as I wade deeper into my major. Everyday I'm hit with words of community, relationships, growth, and authenticity until my head spins. I find myself in junior life crisis as I begin to question what the hell I'm doing. It's in these moments that turn into days of apathy, frustration, doubts, and business that I long for my happy place, for a sanctuary. Days like today.

So I ran away, well drove actually, to my happy place. I wrapped myself around a warm mug and drank in the wonders of a coffee shop. The coffee shop playlist floats in my ears as clattering cups and bits of conversations are occasionally interrupted by the sound of an espresso machine. I look deep into my hazelnut latte in hopes the foam would give me a clear sign, and I'm whisked into my day dream.


For a few years now I have joked about my love for coffee, but coffee is never really to be joked about. One day I even decided to create a blog titled the same as my make believe coffee shop. So as I hide away with the foam of my latte cooled in the bottom of my cup I day dream of the shiplapped walls that run perpendicular to the exposed brick. I arrange then rearrange the wall of funny sayings like "just brew it" and cheesy Jesus and coffee quotes. I imagine the eclectic arm chairs and reclaimed pew booths  filled with regulars and new smiles studying for their next test and catching up on life's events. Then I see a familiar face of a young woman searching for a sanctuary, momentarily escaping the pressures of life as she
pecks out a blog post.

I'm shaken back to reality as the waitress asks if I'm done with my drink. With a smile and a nod I think to myself, I'm done for now. Today, the one cup has sufficed in restoring a little clarity back into my life, grounding my soul in the things I know to be true. I will continue my studies and my social engagements as I find joy in both, but I won't quit on my day dream either.

16 Thoughts of Reconciliation

Today my feet reconciled with my socks. Rain washed over campus in waves inviting me to wear my (slightly more pink than I would care to admit) rain boots or as my favorite South African professor calls them, wellies. This decision warranted the need to pull out my sock draw and pull out a pair of tall warm socks. Of course the pair laying on top was none other than a pair of purple and grey fitted smart wool socks that had made the 155 km pilgrimage with me. In the month since I have moved back to school more than my dirty socks have surfaced from my summer spent in Santiago, Spain.

When I think of Joy, this is what I see.  

I first must ask for grace.  Grace as It has taken me this long to write and grace as I continue to find the words to share. Here are little pieces of stories.

Siesta time is beautiful time of daily rest, I now take the sabbath seriously.

Just because something has healed, does not mean that I do not have scars.

Scars are marks of the stories of life, some are joyful, all are painful - mine and yours.

We need people. Even independent people, like me.

A little bit of home can be found everywhere, Midwest nice can be found anywhere.

This earth is not our forever home, but I must take care of it, public transportation is a blessing.

Trying new things does not mean forgetting the old. I ate amazing food, mint chip gelato.

Rhythm is soothing and brings beauty to the mundane.  My steps were like music.

Being strong and courageous does not mean that I know everything.

We are not running a race, I get to take each step at my own pace.

We often miss what is right outside our windows, I almost forgot about the cathedral some days.

Drama is unnecessary for living, its a cultural choice I can choose not to participate.

Service is a state of living. I can make the choice everyday.

Help can come in many forms, for me it was two walking poles.

Living for God is sacrificial, but nothing that we have was ever ours, my call to ministry is a gift.

We truly are never alone, the wisdom, encouragement, songs, and stories that those who I love speak are forever in me.

As I pulled each sock over my freshly healed feet this morning I whispered prayer and hoped for the best. For the first time when I took off these socks I was not in pain nor greeted by new sores. My feet have the marks of a pilgrim that may last forever, but they have reconciled. I face new challenges each day as I try to integrate my experiences into daily life, reconciling old habits with new thoughts. Everyday I am in the business of reconciliation as God slowly brings heaven to earth through his people-us.

I have lots of stories to share, but there is no greater story than the one God is continuity to write, one of reconciliation. Ask me, seek me, and I will tell and listen to your story as well, over a warm tasteful cup of sweet joy. It's a date. This was just a taste of the stories and I am excited to see where my feet take me next.

An Open Letter To My Friends

I want to say thank you for your unceasing support and excitement for making the choice to go on “exciting adventures” which often includes leaving you behind.

 

But, I would not be writing this, if that is all I had to say. 

I want to say that this season of new experiences may not be what you are expecting or are imagining. It is not some star-dusted, lime light, motion picture worthy, high stakes adventure; or is it a time of grueling, dusty, tear jerking, heartbreaking story. I am just living life. While I have stories that could fall under either category, I believe the majority are adventures and stories called “everyday life”. I wake up in my own bed every morning. I speak broken Spanish and point a lot just to order lunch. I cook eggs and bacon because that is all I know how to make. I hike mountains on the weekend. I sip coffee in shops all afternoon. I can see an ancient cathedral out my bedroom window. I go to the store to buy toilet paper and laundry detergent. I meet people from all over the world. I jam and dance to TSwift and HSM. I am living life here in Spain all the same. Soon, I too, will be living back in northwest Iowa, land of churches and cornfields. Truth be told, I will take many of the same “adventures” there as I do here.

You are living an adventurous life right now also.

It is neither the view out the window, nor the language that flows through the streets that classify an adventure. Rather, it is the spirit, the mindset, of the adventurer. God called me to Spain for this season, for apparent reasons and many yet to be discovered. God called you to live summer wherever you are, too. For when Jesus commanded us to go, he meant it as an everyday adventure of engaging in the world waiting outside our doors.

I realize how fortunate (#blessed) I am to have been given this ability to travel, to learn from the world, and go on unique adventures. It is a season of new and exciting times for all of us. So do not be envious of me, of the pictures on the screen in front of you, and I will (try) not be envious of your pictures of campfires, vacations, and adventures without me. Go wherever your feet take you. Do what you love to do. Live out side the door. The adventure, called life, awaits us both.

much love,

your friend.

The Feet of a Disciple

I was reminded tonight of the pain that I had endured and continue to experience as I peeled away dead skin where there once were blisters. My mind wandered back to the small farming towns where I often stopped due to cows crossing the path or heard the hum of tractors in fields off in the distance as took step after step along dusty cobbled path. Because my Camino brought pain, I am able to find healing. I was given and a new understanding of what it means to have the feet of Jesus.

The first day my shoes declared war on my feet. My socks chose to make allies with my shoes. Every step was a battle. Every night I spent what seemed like eternity unwrapping my bandages, peeling off blister protectors that had lost their stick, and hobbling around to find more Compeed at the nearest pharmacy only to use the whole package on one foot  (dramatic emphasis mostly accurate). Each pinky toe, big toe, and heal required my fine tuned first aids skills. I labored as I strategically bandaged the most awkward of places on the human foot. In order for these bandages to stay I had to use my trusty athletic training skills (thanks rooms) and gauze pads to ensure the safety of my feet and to give them a fighting chance against my shoes. Well by day three this all had become tiring and nothing seemed to be healing.

I was hurting. I was frustrated. I wanted to quit.

In the early hours of Friday morning, I pulled out my trusty Chaco’s and slowly pulled their straps over my sore feet only after adding a few more pieces of tape where it had peeled away over night. My feet needed a break from war. Every pilgrim I passed that day looked down and with pain in their eyes would shake their head and tell me to take care of my feet. You think I want to feel this pain with every step?! Your sympathy does not help. Thank you very much! I wanted to yell, but of course I smiled and only responded with “Buen Camino”. With all the tape, my feet looked worse then they felt and I knew that healing was coming, eventually, so I kept on. To be honest, I hid most of the pain behind a smile. But I think you do too. 

As I trekked along dirt and rocks, over cow droppings, and through the pain my feet changed. At the end of the day my sandals were covered in dust, my feet were dirty, smelly, calloused, and sun tanned. My feet literally became what I imagine a first century disciple’s feet to look (and smell) like. I have been praying to be more like Jesus, and I guess I should be more careful what I say to God.

A couple summers ago a camper asked me what it meant to 'pick up your cross and carry it' a common christianese saying. I mumbled through an answer only to conclude I really had no good explanation. As the kilometers passed, with every step I was reminded of pain, but I gained a clearer picture of what this saying means. I think picking up one's cross probably looks a whole lot like a sweaty pilgrim tightening their dusty shoes, slinging on their worn and heavy pack, strapping it tight around their waist, whispering a little prayer for strength, and taking a step knowing that the path ahead will bring pain. 

It is so easy to focus on the love and mercy Jesus talked and walked that often I forget about the pain that had to happen first for the love and mercy to be shown. In order for the bleeding woman to be healed, she first had to be unclean. In order for his sight to be restored, the man first had to be blind. The same goes for the man with leprosy, the paralytic, and those with legions of demons. Now, I am not saying that God inflicts suffering upon people. Rather, without suffering, we are unable to experience healing. In order for God to redeem His world, Jesus first had to suffer. Jesus suffered. When each person met Jesus, he never left them by just healing their physical illness. Jesus says to each of them, and to each of us, "Go in peace and be freed from all your suffering." 


My Camino was about suffering, but that also makes it about healing. With every step my prayer to become more like Jesus was being answered.

¿Buen Camino?

Home

Yes I am millions of miles and a couple of time zones away from the textbook definition of my home. However, I have found many similarities, comforts, and reminders of home while on the Camino and here in Santiago. Today, in our global community, my definition of home has expanded beyond the four walls of a house to include the people I meet, no matter where in the world, as my neighbor. While in Spain I have seen many cows and several John Deere tractors, but this might be the craziest and most mind-blowing story from my Camino. It still amazes me, and while it may not be the adventurous tale you are looking for, still prepare yourself…

I headed off the first morning down a mountain called O’Cebreiro. Being that it was my first day, my spirits were as high as the 1,270 meter mountain. Filled with schoolgirl giddiness for this amazing adventure that surly lied ahead, I set off walking. Well compared to my ending pace, it was more like flying with the goal of breaking the sound barrier. I paused once or twice for a breathtaking photo but kept my pace set to Olympian. Every time I came up behind a weary pilgrim (I passed many that first day) I would open my mouth and a cheerleader like ‘Buen Camino’ would fly out with smile. In a few days I found this type of enthusiasm thoroughly annoying, is it too late to say sorry?

About an hour and a half into my enthusiastic Camino I realized many pilgrims were stopping to enjoy some breakfast and cafés scattered in towns along the Camino. I took the hint and headed for a rather small café just of the path in a small farming community. I ordered a café con leché (the first of many to come) and took a seat at a corner table. Okay Lizzy, I thought, this is your time. Meet people, make friends, that is what the Camino is suppose to be.  I scanned the café and decided to continue to munch on my toast and coffee instead. In the midst of my thoughts, I found the English floating from the table across from me rather comforting. I continued to munch and think, unsure of how to approach anyone or even what I was really doing. I stood up, ready to get back on my way, headed to the counter and so did one of the guys from the English-speaking table. We made some small talk at the counter. Being that we were conversing in common Midwestern English, it did not take long for him to ask me where I was from.

Now being from a small town in the Midwest, I am no stranger to the “Idaho” and “Ohio” interpretation of Iowa. So whenever I am asked where I am from I always start with the States then proceed to the Midwest, and then if the other half to the conversation seems to be tracking I finally answer with Iowa. After working through this answer, all the while this stranger nodding along, he looked at me as his three other travel companions joined us and he asked, “Well where in Iowa?”

A little taken back, I answered with the typical, “Des Moines area, you know central, the capitol.” With even wider, eager eyes and ears perked up like dogs all four guys leaned in and asked, “Yah, but like, where at in Des Moines?”

I thought back to all those articles I had read about women traveling alone in a foreign country and decided to ignore them and all my mother’s good teaching so I answered, “Grimes, it is a little town northwest of Des Moines.”

 

“NO WAY!” [insert gasps and random noises of disbelief as I stood rather confused]  

“Uh, yah I really do live there,” was my quizzical response. I finally took in all their enthusiasm as I took a better look at the four similar aged men who stood in front of me and recognized the high school shirt one of them sported. I joined in the astonishment.

With the widest of smiles they introduced themselves and finally answered that they all had attended Dowling Catholic and lived in surrounding towns. We even have mutual friends. I am sure our loud enthusiasm earned us some sideways glances and a few mumbled ‘Americans’, but nothing could stop the cheesy smile stretched across my face. Here I have traveled across an ocean only to meet and continue to travel along side four guys who lived just over the fence of my back yard.

Meeting and getting to know these four guys brought me more encouragement then they could ever know. The rest of the day I replayed our encounter with every step I took. As the days wore on, my enthusiasm rose and fell with every hill, but I got out of bed each morning encouraged, knowing I would see their familiar faces, and many others, around whichever foreign town we stopped in for the night. An hour and a half into my Camino and I had gained four friends; seven days later I had four brothers, a close sisters, and many others whom I will forever consider family. 

Buen Camino

First Steps

The Camino was one of the hardest things I have ever done- physically, mentally, spiritually. Before I completely dive in off the high board, we need to first get your uncalloused toes a little wet. First thing first, I still have many unprocessed thoughts in regards to my experience, so much of what I have to say will not be written well or even written here at all. Second, the Camino is unique to all who walk it, so I am in no way trying to tell you how to walk the Camino, or even the typical experience of a pilgrim. (Spoiler: no such thing exists.) 

Lastly, this post has been days, almost weeks, in the making and is not even a complete post. I wrestled with how best to invite you, my reader, into my Camino experience. I could give you the facts, the times I woke up, who I met, how far I walked, what I ate, and where I slept. While yes that sounds like a boring list, often the setting becomes another character in the story. Would it be best to post chronologically, a diary entry, merely pictures, just words, high light reel, or raw emotion. I wrote some of each but was never able to complete the... I could invite you into my daily thoughts and talks with God while walking, but words often fail at describing... 

So this is far from a complete post. It is rough, wobbly, a little awkward at times maybe, but that is how we all must start. I invited you on this walk with me long ago, so all we can do is continue step by step. Within each step is triumph and failure and a lesson to be learned. I learned about blister care, self-care, culture, community, more about who God is, and more about who I am. Although I am done walking on the Camino, I am still learning to take steps in light of the Camino. One day I may learn to run, but I am sure there will be many more stumbles in the weeks and months to come.

 

However, for now, I can tell you what I hope this space can be. I imagine there being some factual aspects and many deeper thoughts, both characteristic of the Camino. One thing I am positive of, is that there will be many café con lechés poured into these posts. Most of all I hope this will be a place to share stories of joy and struggle, a place to share pictures of beauty and ugliness, and a place to invite you into my Camino.

¡Buen Camino!

The Way

Why? Why and I walking the Camino? 
I have prepared and planned and now it is here. My bag is packed and I am on my way. Santiago is behind me but soon will become my destination. As the kilometer tick away my heart and mind race competing for control. My mind racing from concerning thoughts to encouraging words. My heart beats rising and falling in melody of worry, excitement, confidence and anticipation. 

In my two days since arriving in Santiago, I've settled into the apartment a bit. I've got a room to myself with a futon that was all set up thanks to my new Wheaton friends. They have, and continue to l, make this whole "independent" (read: alone) thing a whole lot less lonely. On the brink of becoming accustomed to a new normal I had to leave. I am prepared for this adventure, I think, but ready or not I am going. 

A flaw in my planning was failing to purchase a guide book. I understand no all pilgrims use one but having it previously would have at least made my mom a little more at ease (who wants to bet she goes and looks at one after reading this?). But I have heard a saying "The Camino provides" and already my new roommates have jumped in offering one of theirs, written by John Brierley . Now, I believe, I am prepared physically anyways. But am I spiritually? 

Last night during our dinner of homemade burgers and fries (proudly named Freedom Feast) I was asked the weighted question why are you walking the Camino? My response was a deer in the headlights look on my face. I had thought some about it but I realized I had no good answer. With a chuckle I was assured it would not be the last time I was asked such a question and was told, with great wisdom, to think and pray on it. 

So here I am, less than 24 hours later still thinking, praying and searching for an answer for me. The answers I have arrived at have left me just shy of feeling guilty. Here I am in a foreign country sent by friends, family, and my faith to work and serve others yet my reasoning for deciding this location, to walk the Camino, could be found under the definition of selfish. 

I came to Spain for a new experience, a new challenge, and for new stories. I am walking the Camino to simply get myself from point A to point B day after day. I am walking for a break from working with youth. I am walking to distance myself from the normal of my world, to find my way. I am walking to find rest. The irony is not lost on me to say I'm going on a 155 km backpacking adventure to find rest. It may sound a little backwards, but so did Jesus when He said the first shall be last and the least the greatest. I am walking to find rest, to take a break, in hopes of becoming a little bit more like Jesus. The Way for me is Jesus. I am simply must begin.