I feel close to God when I experience joy and wonder or when I can help others experience joy and wonder.
That latter often comes in the form of children’s laughter as I chase them around a church in a silly game (btw Tiffany, I still owe your kids a brownie with rainbow sprinkles, I haven’t forgotten, I promise) (1) or the jumping, screaming, silliness that is reciting vine references with my housemates or the gentle smile brought out in a well thought gift. These are the moments that feed my soul. The happiness of others buoys me in difficult times. Perhaps this is my extraverted side talking. However, I am learning that I have some introverted tendencies too. If I gain vitality in the loudness of people, I find stillness in the solitude of nature. What I am beginning to understand is that these states must exist in a balance. I spend too much time out in the city, and I come home exhausted and irritable. I seclude myself away from the world, and the first conversation I have goes in thirty-seven directions while I’ve simultaneously destroyed half my fingernails.
Often, I feel as if my whole life has been defined by movement - overloading myself with leadership positions, volunteer opportunities, and plans until I collapse and a stillness is forced upon me. I excelled in school, writing papers that were top marks, but were rarely, if ever, turned in on time. There have been many a tearful email written close to or after midnight when my manic/detached lifestyle has betrayed me to the linear progression of time.
I never work better than when under pressure. (If you need proof of this, then look no further than this blog, which has again been started after my own personal ‘due’ date has passed. It’s Nov. 1st if you’re wondering and this is ‘October’s’ post. Ha, not anymore.) And the mental gymnastics it takes to create ‘pressure’ when there is none is exhausting. If I need to meet a friend for lunch at noon, and it takes 15 minutes to get there, I need to set a MUST-leave-the-house-by time for at least 10 minutes earlier. Then, I have to give myself at least 15 minutes to get ready, so my official start time for a noon lunch is 11:20 am. Yet after I have meticulously thought out this detailed schedule at 10 am, I get distracted (yes for over an hour and a half - there were dishes and a cat and then laundry (oh shoot, I have to fold my laundry) and a blog post and then an email and a text and now Instagram) and suddenly it is 11:25 and everything is already f*cked. Not to mention I forgot to factor in the 10 minutes it takes for me to go to the bathroom, tie my shoes, fill my water bottle, lock the door, start my car, and get my music all set up. If I’m lucky, I’m only 10 minutes late. Consistently.
If you’re reading this and thinking “Dear God, Allison, this is insane…” Yeah, I know, it is. (Alternatively, if you’re like “This is a Tuesday” perhaps you and I should get tested for ADHD together or maybe just a lot of anxiety.) This is a brief snippet of what is constantly going on inside my head daily, for everything. Even if I look still on the outside, I am constantly in motion on the inside. There is no such thing as silence or thinking of nothing for me. There are distractions - picking at my nails and skin, cross-stitching and embroidering, tapping pens and bouncing legs. There are outlets - writing, friends, exercise. There are quiets - reading, photography, baking. In all my years of living entirely in my mind, there is only one thing that has brought me true peace and that is: awe.
Awe - that slap on the chest that knocks the breath out of you just for a second. Like walking head first into a half-opened garage door - forcibly paused in your path. When the beauty, the starkness, of the world smacks me in my face, I can’t help but stop and be amazed. In that amazement, my eternal internal chaos is nonexistent.
Coming from the East Coast, my experience of such awe has been forests and lakes, rolling hills and local farms. I was afraid I would find little beauty, and little peace, in the barrenness of New Mexico. However, I have discovered that against the backdrop of the high desert, many things I took for granted back home now carry much more weight. The first of these is the sky. People talk about Carolina blue skies but NC holds nothing to the open, vibrant expanse that stretches across the Southwest. It is like hanging over an ocean with no end, not even tree branches there to catch you before the plunge. It is intense and intrusive, pulling you apart as if peeling your skin and setting all your thoughts and insecurities before the universe, bare on the dust and stone. Often, I feel as if I am looking into a fragment of the iris of God. Though, I don’t believe God’s eyes could be described as “blue” - that’d be too simple (nor do I believe God has eyes like we’d imagine - that would be too boring). Yet only there under the gaze of the heavens do I feel like I might just be able to gaze back.
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September 2
My first foray into the wild of New Mexico was led by Rev. Andrew Black (2) during our Orientation to ABQ week back in late August/early September. Andrew is a Presbyterian minister who advocates for and believes wholly in the sacredness of our wild spaces. He has combined faith and environmentalism in a beautiful way, seeing the protection and care for nature as a personal calling and a way to respect our native forebears, whose conservationist wisdom we often ignore. Andrew works against this historical tradition of American apathy by striving to protect a wilderness called the Caja del Rio, or Box of the Rivers, which is one of New Mexico’s only areas where you can find traditional petroglyphs, or rock carvings, from the native indigenous peoples. He works alongside Brophy, a medicine man from the Jemez Pueblo and a member of the Eagle Society of Pecos, to educate groups on the meanings and significance of these petroglyphs, clean up trash and litter people have dumped around the park, and lobby the local and national government for more stringent protections.
As Andrew led us over the land, describing the stories Brophy had once told him, he explained its significance to local Native Americans. He pointed to white-covered stones, bearing the mark of calcium, and therefore water, from long ago times when such a hilltop would have been seen as the center and birthplace of all creation. Some indigenous groups still view it as such. Americans tend to view it as target practice.
Emma and I, excited about our first hike-oriented outing, found ourselves amazed by the quilted land spread out before us, broken only by the sky and distant mountains. That was when the sense of such surreal awe started to sink in for me - and the inkling that this would be a norm for NM (3).
September 9
Our next great adventure in New Mexico came by the way of our housemate Savannah, who was invited to preach in the small, northern, mountain town of Taos (4). The usual head pastor was gone to Ghost Ranch, and lucky for us, she allowed us to stay
in her casita (5) for the weekend, and apart from Sav’s ministerial obligations on Sunday, we were given freedom to roam (6). We had lofty plans of hiking through the Taos wilderness which were quickly dashed after the early morning, three hour drive, and 4 person tussle with Emma’s tent.
Regardless, the views from the casita alone were astounding. Surrounded by waves of fields and mountains that scraped the clouds and random dustings of sunflowers, I think we all felt as if we had just walked onto the set of some strange, ethereal movie.
The awe I had felt up to this point was astonishment for a beauty different from the one I had previously known. Mountains do not hit in the same ways as forests or even hills. However it wasn’t until I was clutching the railing to the bridge that spans Taos Gorge did I realize that awe here can also include terror. It makes me think a little bit of how the Old Testament sometimes describes God: Awesome. Beautiful. Terrible. All-encompassing. All-unknowable.
I like the use of these single adjectives. In their simplicity, they somehow get closer to the greatness of the divine than paragraphs of poetry. If you want to try and know God, I encourage you to gaze into the depths of a gorge and follow your tininess deep into your toes. And even then, when you walk away and your breath returns to you and your shoulders untense, you will be certain only of your fragility against the infinite. This is good. It keeps us human.
September 25
September had turned out to be a very busy month for us, shuffling between dinners to meetings to a new work environment and weekend volunteer opportunities, we rarely had a chance to ourselves for rest. So when a Sunday came around that none of us had any plans, we decided to take our church out into nature.
Back when Emma and I had hiked the Caja, Andrew mentioned that this time of year was perfect for seeing elk up in the Valles Caldera, an old volcanic oasis nestled within the Jemez mountains. Having no other plans than getting up there and spotting some giant deer, Savannah, Emma, and I left our house at 6 am and made the 2 hour drive into the mountains. As we did, the world changed. Pines appeared along our winding way up the only road, the sunrise just beginning to break across the mesas and bluffs behind us. When we finally arrived, we all piled out of the car and squeezed together under Savannah’s blanket to peer down the rise into the bowl of the caldera hoping to catch just a glimpse of some elk. Then, in between our foggy puffs of breath, we heard the high whine and squeal of them calling. I pulled out my camera and my zoom lens, and we took turns passing it back and forth because none of us had thought to find a pair of binoculars.
This trip stands out to me not just for its awe but for its reward of effort. It was freezing and tiring and our day had only just begun. We had also planned a three-mile hike in a high elevation that Emma and I were still struggling to adjust to (7) back in Albuquerque, let alone on the top of a mountain. Yet, after we had sufficient time for elk watching, we tucked ourselves back in the car and drove down to the visitor’s station for a bathroom stop and then on to the trailhead. From there, we adjusted our backpacks and were off.
Sav led us on (and just a little bit off) a trail that took us up an outcrop of rocks, into an abandoned cabin, and over a creek by way of several logs. If Taos had felt like a movie, hiking in Valles felt like wandering Middle-Earth. I can’t even come close to describing it, and pictures do not do it justice. If you ever find yourself in New Mexico, I highly suggest making the journey to see it.
Then, we found ourselves at the end of our trail, a barbed-wire fence in front of us marking the abrupt stop of park lands and the start of private ones. I’m not sure if someone said anything or if Sav just sat down, but a minute later we were all on the ground, cross-legged or laying, saying nothing and watching a swarm of gnats float over the river as if dancing a two-step to their own music.
I listened to the babble of the stream, looked for shapes in the clouds, and fidgeted wild grass into a rough crown. I focused on the warmth of the sun soaking into my skin, on smelling that absent freshness of a clean breeze, and on clearing my mind of all thoughts except awe and gratitude. There were no hymns for us that Sunday, no scripture nor pews. Yet God was watching, and it was worship all the same.
October 9
Another lesson I am learning from New Mexico is perseverance. Maybe to some this was obvious. What else would you do in a desert but persevere? I thought it was a lesson I had learned well working in the barn throughout my childhood. Yet it’s just when you think you know everything that the universe comes around to show you that you don’t. I think this is what people mean when they say God is laughing. Well, laugh they do, but hardly ever with us (8). The best example I have of this was during Albuquerque’s International Balloon Fiesta.
If you’re from Albuquerque, you loathe the week’s congested roads and tourist-packed shops and restaurants. I believe the local approach is much like that to a blizzard back in PA - don’t leave the house unless you absolutely have to, and if you do, be prepared for disaster. If you’re not from Albuquerque, Balloon Fiesta might just be the one thing you know about the city other than the show Breaking Bad. It is a week dedicated to the event (and sport?) of hot air ballooning and the groupies that follow their favorite teams and balloons around the world. I did not think balloonists and zebras would become a part of my vocabulary when I moved here, but damn if I wasn’t hunting down those striped-shirted wind referees by the end of the week to see if the weather was finally just right for the balloons to lift off.
See, Balloon Fiesta is an internationally beloved event in the ballooning community because of the rare weather phenomenon called “The Albuquerque Box.”
This means that on special days, the wind is blowing in opposite directions at different altitudes, which can effectively push the balloon in a vertical cycle, or a box, by blowing north, ascending, blowing south, and then descending. However, like the personal tragedies that happen to casts who foolishly put on a production of Macbeth, the week of Balloon Fiesta is almost always a magnet for all the bad weather in a New Mexican fall.
Emma and I learned this first hand…several times.
Balloon Fiesta Attempt 1: Monday
Emma, Savannah, and I wake up at 4:30 am to drive to Balloon Fiesta Park. The morning patrol starts at 6 and we’re worried about traffic.
Sav parks in a Planet Fitness Parking lot and we all shuffle, bleary-eyed and grumpy and wrapped in blankets down to the field. It takes 20 minutes. We wander around tents and groups of people looking for food. Luke, our site coordinator, calls us. It takes about 30 minutes, 7 phone calls, and 2 circuits around the field to find him. We listen to the men on the loudspeakers talking about previous Balloon Fiestas. They have nothing interesting to say. Nothing happens. The sun starts to come up over the Sandias. We befriend an errant group of balloonists. They tell us the weather’s not looking good. They’re not sure they will get to take off. We wait around another hour. The zebras call it - storms to the north, no go on flights. Some balloons matchstick (blow their torches), some stand their envelopes (the balloon part) up. We run around and take pictures. Go home at 10 am a little bit bummed.
Balloon Fiesta Attempt 1.5: Tuesday
On my way to work I see balloons in the air even though the weather is worse today than it was yesterday. I text my roommates and complain. We are all in agreement: the world hates us.
Balloon Fiesta Attempt 2: Thursday
Emma and I plan on attending the “Special Shapes Glowdeo” in the evening after work.
This is when the balloons are stood up across the field and all set to glow, but not take off. It happens only on some evenings, and this is the one time where all the special shaped balloons are out. Unfortunately, I get sick at work that day and come home early. I do not go to the Glowdeo, but instead sleep. However, Emma does. A thunderstorm rolls in, and it gets rained out. Emma has to walk back to the car in the rain. She comes home soaked.
Balloon Fiesta Attempt 3: Saturday Morning
Emma and I have agreed to help a local photographer, Val, sell her prints in the artists’ tent at the festival. We manage her stand so that she can go take pictures of the balloons.
In return, she gives us extra tickets to attend the fiesta a couple of times. All of our chances to see the balloons are because of Val. Thank you Val. She has been photographing balloons and selling prints for 15 years (9)! It is her last year at the Fiesta and we help her make it her best selling year of all! However, the day is dreary and cloudy and the balloons do not go up. Val lets us go home early at 9 am and Emma and I crash into hard naps for several hours.
Balloon Fiesta Attempt 4: Saturday Evening
Emma, Savannah, and I contemplate going to the evening glow because Val gave us some more tickets. We are all dressed and ready to go and at the last minute decide we would rather stay home and watch Harry Potter instead. This was a good decision. The glow got rained out and didn’t happen. Sav had also advocated for us going Sunday to maybe, just maybe, see an ascension. She is very persuasive.
Balloon Fiesta Attempt 5: Sunday
One last time, Emma and I drag ourselves out of bed at 4:30. Neither of us have much energy. We get to the car and down to the field for the last day of the festival. We try not to hold on too tight to our hope that the balloons will go up. We beeline for the artist’s tent to say hi again to Val (because she’s awesome) before the morning patrol is supposed to start.
I impulse buy a cat stained glass that looks like my childhood cat, Buda, we had to put down in July. It is one of my best purchases in my life. The day is already emotional. It’s probably just the excitement. Emma and I sit on a blanket in the middle of the field. And we wait and we wait and we wait. Then, after the sun is already stretching beyond the Sandias, a cheer starts up and leaps around the field. The balloons are going up! We jump to our feet and run towards where we can see the first row begin to bulge.
People are everywhere, taking photos, huddling around the warmth of the torches, pulling lines to hold the envelopes open. There is chaos and movement and color and all around balloons are rising, straightening up and waving in an unsteady line. Then, one begins to lift and the basket creeps off the ground and everyone cheers and then it's up and up and rising faster. A few balloons down, another starts to take off and there is nothing more astounding nor heart-racing than seeing these lumpy weird contraptions defy all logic and gravity. Sav was right: the ascension was simply magical. After an hour of running around from balloon to balloon and snapping photos left and right, Emma and I decide to head home before the traffic gets bad. We are back in bed by 10 am, relieved to be done with early mornings.
October 25
If you read that previous section and thought, “Hey Allison, you didn’t talk about God at all in that last bit,” then I suggest you read it again. At the beginning of this post, I said I feel closest to God when I feel awe or wonder. If you don’t believe that balloon ascension was full of wonder, I think you need to take a trip out here and see it for yourself (but make sure you plan for several days, as it might take you a couple tries). But in all seriousness, I am playing up the lightheartedness of the Balloon Fiesta because what comes next isn’t lighthearted at all. Remember when I said that awe included terror? That’s the tunnel we’re diving down in this ending.
The last full week of October, I had the incredible opportunity to travel to Tucson, AZ and then Agua Prieta, Mexico in a Border Delegation made of my peers in the Tucson YAV group and a Tucson Mennonite Volunteer group. Together, the eight of us twenty-something-year-olds and our respective site coordinators bounced between Douglas, AZ and Agua Prieta as we explored these two cities positioned on the edges of their worlds. We met people of incredible faith and people who serve others everyday and people who dream a community bigger than walls. We met people who fear for their lives and people who are lost in the limbo of paperwork and people who have done terrible things and live with them. All of these people exist on both sides of the border. I promise to delve into these interactions more in the future, but this post is about nature. So, I shall tell you about the Tree of Life and the wall.
We headed out to the “Tree of Life” with Agua es Vida, or Water is Life, a group of people who practice radical nonviolence by simply providing water to those who wander through the wilderness. Our van bounced over the potholed back road in the Mexican desert, and forty minutes into our drive, it got stuck in a wide plash of mud. The pickup in front of us paused enough for the three men in the back to get out and help push. They hacked at nearby branches with machetes and laid them under our tires and I wondered for a moment just what the hell I had gotten myself into. At that point, I did not know that those men would be our guides through the desert on foot. More people from Agua es Vida jump in to help push, and after we all exit the van, we finally get it going. From there, it was not much further to where we were headed.
We stopped on a rise above the tree, and hopping out, paused to take in the rust brown scar that slices the expanse in front of us into two separate nations. It was a moment before I could look away and begin the trek down to the tree. As we followed our guides, I noticed that the tree’s reach was wide, its limbs rising from the ground as if individual entities themselves, not just pieces of a whole. It provided an umbrella of relief from the sun and the opportunity to climb and get off the ground for just a little. Not that a migrant would take that risk - better to save any climbing for the wall. Next to its trunk was a large, blue, plastic rain barrel with a spigot. Our new friends from Agua es Vida told us that this water barrel was the only one left from the several they had placed around the desert in years past - all others had either been slashed or stolen. They come out about twice a month to check on and refill this one, which is sometimes the only source of water for miles. Gazing out at the empty land around us, no traces of humanity in sight, I had a thought that gutted me to my core: who could be so intentionally cruel as to destroy water in the middle of a desert?
At this point, most of us were stunned by the pure fact we were standing where countless migrants, countless people, had sheltered and passed. One of the members from Agua es Vida nonchalantly kicked dirt over the dark mark of an old fire. Perhaps he did it to hide their presence, perhaps he wondered whose hands had built and stoked it, perhaps in erasing their past he was blessing the earth for their future. I don’t know. I was too afraid about speaking Spanish wrong to ask.
Then, Davíd, one of our partners at Frontera de Cristo, the border ministry group who had arranged all of our visits and outings in Agua Prieta and Douglas, called us together in a circle (10). Before we were to go into the desert, we were going to do a Bible reading. Davíd had several of us pull up the scripture for Ephesians 2.11-22 which goes as follows:
11 So then, remember that at one time you gentiles by birth, called “the uncircumcision” by those who are called “the circumcision”—a circumcision made in the flesh by human hands— 12 remember that you were at that time without Christ, being aliens from the commonwealth of Israel and strangers to the covenants of promise, having no hope and without God in the world. 13 But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ. 14 For he is our peace; in his flesh he has made both into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us, 15 abolishing the law with its commandments and ordinances, that he might create in himself one new humanity in place of the two, thus making peace, 16 and might reconcile both to God in one body through the cross, thus putting to death that hostility through it. 17 So he came and proclaimed peace to you who were far off and peace to those who were near, 18 for through him both of us have access in one Spirit to the Father. 19 So then, you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are fellow citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God, 20 built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the cornerstone; 21 in him the whole structure is joined together and grows into a holy temple in the Lord, 22 in whom you also are built together spiritually into a dwelling place for God. (NRSV)
And, as Davíd had us read two versions of this scripture, I will also copy a second version here. This comes from the First Nations Version: An Indigenous Translation of the New Testament:
11 You Nations must not forget that before you knew the Chosen One you were not natural-born members of the tribes of Wrestles with Creator (Israel). You were called ‘the outsiders’ by the ones who call themselves ‘the insiders.’ But remember, the sign that marks them as insiders is cut into their flesh with human hands.
12 You Outside Nations did not share in the promises or the peace treaty that the Great Spirit made with those tribes. You were out from under their special care and protection--unaware of and apart from the Chosen One. You shared no common hope and were outside the help Creator gave to them in this world.
13 But no more! Even though you Outside Nations were far away, you have now been made close by the lifeblood offered by Creator Sets Free (Jesus), the Chosen One. 14 He is our great peace, who has brought the people of all Nations together with the tribes of Wrestles with Creator (Israel), making them into one new people by removing the barrier that separated us.
15 In his own human body he removed the hostility between us when he did away with the rules and requirements of our tribal law that separated us. This is the way he recreates people--making one new humanity out of the two. This brings us all together on the path of peace.
16 Even though we behaved like enemies, we are now friends with the Great Spirit and with one another. When Creator Sets Free (Jesus) died on the cross, those things that made us enemies died with him. We are now joined together as one people in one body. 17 He brought this good story of peace and harmony to people who were far away from him and to people who were close to him. 18 Because of him we both have a clear path, through one Spirit, to the Father from above.
19 Now we are all his holy people and members of one new nation. No one is on the outside of this great family that our Father is creating. We are all related to one another and initiated into Creator’s lodge that is built together with wooden poles-- 20 the message bearers and prophets of old. Creator Sets Free (Jesus) is the main pole binding us together, 21 like branches being weaved into his sacred lodge. 22 Joined together in this way, we become a dwelling place for his Spirit. (FNV) (11)
When Davíd had us read this scripture, several of us picked up on the language of removing barriers and walls, which seemed especially relevant as we stood before the wall. Yet Davíd said something that stuck with me.
“It’s not about tearing down that wall,” he pointed in the general direction of the border, “but about tearing down the walls in our hearts that keep us from knowing and loving each other.” Then, he led us in prayer, first in Spanish and then with an English translation from one of our bilingual speakers - the ebb and flow of the languages pulling at each other like the tides.
The prayer finished and one of the machete-wielding men called for our attention. This day was not just about study and reflection but also about understanding peoples’ journeys. He spoke to us in Spanish, and Lisett, one of the Tucson YAVs helped to translate. He told us that we were going to experience the desert like migrants experience it. That meant that wherever he went, we followed; when he told us to run, we ran; when he told us to get down, we got down. Anyone who could not keep up would be left behind. Then, he turned and led us slowly down into a dried creek bed and under a rusted bridge. From there he pointed to the hills that surrounded us and told us that the local organized crime controlled this area.
He insisted that there were scouts on those hills even at that very moment. They knew we were there, but they wouldn’t bother us, because they also knew that we were no threat. Besides, they were
used to Agua es Vida being in the area and would not disturb their work. Our guide then pointed out to the patches of brambles and bushes and low-hanging trees that dotted the desert. He said that there could be people out there hiding, even now, waiting for the scouts on the hills to radio in and tell them that the coast was clear to go.
Then, he looked back at us and told us to run before dashing up the bank and through the desert. We followed after him, trying to keep up and stay on our feet as thorns and brambles snatched at our arms and legs. I ran with my arms crossed in front of me, hoping to protect my face and eyes from the hungry reach of the desert. It felt as if the land itself was trying to grab and pull me down. We wove around bushes and cacti, more desperate to keep up than to avoid stepping into a hole.
The man ducked under a branch and I followed the person in front of me, only I didn’t realize our path dropped into a gully, and I fell. As my stomach dropped, and I smacked my knees off the ground, I realized that I had the privilege to fall and get hurt. I would never have to worry about being left behind to die in the desert alone. Proving my point, several of my peers paused to check on me. But I was not injured, so I got up, brushed myself off a bit and continued on after our guide who was now much further ahead than he had been before. Under the pounding of the sun, I didn’t have much time or thought to register anything other than the constant press of the mental command “Keep up.”
He took us down into the shade of another gully then paused, and I, thoroughly winded at this point, was glad for the chance to drink some water and rest. He pointed to some discarded belongings and trash that lay in the area, noting that these had been discarded by migrants who knows when. The empty water bottles, dirty flannel, and lone glove told me nothing about who they once belonged to. Was their owner even still alive? I will never know. The wilderness of our borders is vast and harsh, and many who run into them do not emerge. How many families are still waiting to hear from a loved one? How many people have to make peace with never knowing? I am lucky to not need to ask these questions, to never know such pain.
By now the wall was looming, and as we approached it, slowing, I took a second to look at its edge pressed to the sky, and I realized how exposed, how fragile, I was standing there in the open palm of the desert. I was bare before that metal hulking snake, bare under the gaze of cameras and scouts and countless other hidden eyes, and as I looked into that sky, I was staring not into an ocean but into a pit. In this land, with adrenaline pounded into my chest, I felt the terror of coming face to face with an apathetic and empty god. Yet, as I approached the wall and touched the cool of its steel beam, I began to understand that that indifferent god did not lie in the heavens but beyond the gap where I could stretch my hand through and reach for a myth of a dream.
Footnotes:
1. I feel vindicated in that I actually dropped off those brownies last week, so while I may be late to keeping my promises, no one can say I don’t follow through.
2. In continuing with my theme of welcome from last month, Andrew was another of those wonderful people whom we met in our orientation to New Mexico that extended incredible hospitality to us. He and his wife invited Emma, Luke, and I to the baptism of their two-year-old daughter, Brooke, up in Santa Fe. Of course, upon receiving such an invitation we knew we had to go, so a few weeks later we made the trek north and got to celebrate with them in this Christian tradition. In addition to having a Christian baptism during the service, Andrew’s friend Brophy also offered and described an indigenous blessing for Brooke. Getting to witness such an act of love between friends of different faiths was something that deeply touched me and gave me some hope for the future of Christianity. When we respect and honor our neighbors and their spiritual agency, we open ourselves to a more vibrant expression of our faith. At the end of the day I believe in a God who places more value on loving and upholding other’s dignity than being ‘right.’ If you’re interested in looking into some of Andrew’s work, you can follow @the_earth_keepers on on Instagram. Link: https://www.instagram.com/the_earth_keepers/.
You can also read an article that Andrew wrote for The Hill on protecting the Caja here: https://thehill.com/opinion/energy-environment/3622788-protecting-a-national-treasure-that-embodies-the-american-southwest/.
3. If you want to keep up to date on all of our YAV adventures, follow @abqyav on Instagram! Link: https://www.instagram.com/abqyav/.
4. No joke, every 3 out of 4 pastors we had met during our orientation were traveling this weekend to the mythical Ghost Ranch, or the western version of “Presbyterian Heaven,” a title they fight Montreators over (Montreat is a Presbyterian conference center in the mountains of North Carolina). The pilgrimage of the pastors was due to a music festival held at the home of Georgia O'Keeffe's most infamous muses and headlined by the renown band, The Head and the Heart. For the people who usually consider themselves the hippies of the Christian world, there was simply no better place in the universe to be than at Ghost Ranch on September 9-11 2022.
5. Casita is a common term in New Mexico used to describe a smaller house attached to a larger property, like an in-law suite. The name comes from the Spanish word “casa” or house. The suffix -ita (or -ito) adds a connotation of something small or cute, so literally a “small house.”
6. If you’re interested in listening to Sav’s sermon at Taos, click this link: https://www.facebook.com/FirstPresbyterianChurchOfTaos/videos/454996713226110f.
7. Something else I never before moving to NM is that altitude sickness is a very weird and real thing. Basically, if you’re used to a lower altitude (aka living your whole life on the east coast) and travel to a region that is higher in altitude (aka the southwest), you will need roughly six weeks for your body to adjust to such a change. In those six weeks you are more prone to headaches and breathlessness and the only real balm is to drink plenty of water. I consider myself to be in generally good physical condition to the point where hiking is not much of a strain on me, and it took a while to understand that losing my breath when out and about was not a sign of a slowing stamina but that my lungs were a little freaked out at the elevation change. Higher altitudes do apparently have thinner air. If you’re curious like me, and want to know more about altitude sickness, here’s a link to a Cleveland Clinic article: https://my.clevelandclinic.org/health/diseases/15111-altitude-sickness.
8. Like I said in my blog post, “My Faith Journey to Date,” I believe in using different pronouns for God as a way to creatively think about/acknowledge the mystery inherent in the divine. Purely describing God in he/him language limits God with human conceptions of gender. This idea of allowing for a genderless Creator is not a new concept but has been supported in feminist and queer theology for decades. Here are some interesting links on this and related topics:
Susan Shaw - http://scarc.library.oregonstate.edu/omeka/exhibits/show/multiculturalvoices/item/34401.
Justin Welby - https://www.theguardian.com/world/shortcuts/2018/nov/21/not-in-his-name-god-is-gender-neutral-says-archbishop-of-canterbury.
9. Please check out Val’s website here: https://visenhowerphotography.com/. She also has a book on the intersection of photography and spirituality that I will definitely be reading sometime in the future because that is so cool.
10. Frontera de Cristo is a Presbyterian founded organization that focuses on border ministry. Not only do they host groups to learn about people’s lives on the border, but they support and build relationships with many other organizations in the area which are working to serve the unique needs of their communities. You can find out more about Frontera and their partners here: http://fronteradecristo.org/ministries/.
11. If you’re interested in getting your own copy of the First Nations Version of the New Testament, you can find all the information here: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/first-nations-version-terry-m-wildman/1138454257. I would encourage you when shopping for this or any other book to avoid actually purchasing from Amazon or Barnes & Noble and to instead order it through your local independent bookstore. In buying local we keep our businesses local, and what better way is there to invest in our communities?