JV Stories

Strangers No More

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Fri, 10 Jul 2015 13:29:00 +0000

By
Victoria Richey, Berkeley 14
East Bay Community Law Center
Seattle University 14

“Wait, I have something for you guys!”

My three roommates and I paused, our non-verbal hesitancy on full display as we kept a clear radius from this stranger, yet still subject to the gravitational pull of common courtesy.

“Trust me. You’ll want this,” she said, as she rummaged through an ambiguously labeled box and made the rare promise of a free gift.

We still weren’t convinced. “We have to be somewhere soon,” my roommate said shyly.

“Trust me,” the stranger lady said.

To our surprise, she pulled out a box of fuschia orchids, and gave each of us a stem of orchids to take with us.

Only hours later did I realize the irony of our hesitancy at receiving a beautiful gift from a stranger.

We had been en route to a canvassing event, where we would be going door-to-door asking people to oppose a slew of ordinances against homeless persons recently proposed by a Berkeley council member. One of the ordinances would make it illegal for anyone to have an object larger than two feet in a public space for more than an hour, so essentially people could no longer sleep outside on any sort of makeshift bedding. Another ordinance would make it illegal for anyone to lie down on a planter box. A third would criminalize the ownership of “noncommercial expressive materials,” like a guitar case, in public spaces. The list of ordinances goes on. If passed, the default punishment for violating these ordinances would be six months in county jail, a $1,000 fine, and a criminal record. (The stakes are high: In California, adults with a criminal conviction—even if it’s later dismissed—cannot hide it from government employers, licensing boards, hospitals, schools, and more.)

The postcard we were asking Berkeley residents to sign acknowledged the “problem” of homelessness in Berkeley, but said it should not be addressed by rerouting people into the criminal justice system. Plus it unfairly targets homeless persons. Would a drunk college student be cited for public urination? Maybe. Would a homeless person be cited for it? Definitely.

People experiencing homelessness make up one group, but not the only group, that does not receive equal treatment under the law. Like other marginalized groups, they are disproportionately pulled over, cited, and harassed by law enforcement officials. They do not have access to private attorneys, and do not get free legal representation on non-criminal matters, like in traffic court.

When my roommate and I rang doorbells in Berkeley, we expected its famously liberal residents to quickly side with us and recognize the injustice of these ordinances. Instead, we received a variety of responses, some quite disappointing, including a few quick door slams.

“Berkeley has been liberal enough,” a gruff man said.

“There is trash everywhere, and they’re bad for business,” another person said.

The most frustrating response came from one resentful woman, who told us sharply, “I want to see my downtown cleaned up.”

My teeth clenched as she spoke about homeless people as if they were pieces of dirt that should be swept away, and as she spoke about the Berkeley community—her downtown—as if it belonged solely to her.

Her fear of strangers—similar to my fear of the stranger offering us flowers—is perpetuated by the distance she has created between herself and the people experiencing homelessness. Cognitive psychologists have demonstrated how our implicit bias exists at the neurological level. Studies have found that the regions of our brains which are activated when we see a person who is homeless can be the same regions activated when we see an image of a non-human animal. This dehumanization allows those who are privileged to be callous to the problems of those on the economic or social margins. How can we close the distance between us and strangers, so when they offer us a great gift, we are ready to accept it? This is the question I hope to take with me as I transition out of my placement in August and embark on my new, ruined life.

Underprivileged and Determined

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Mon, 15 Jun 2015 15:48:00 +0000

by Patrick Decker

Belize 2012

As director of retreat ministries at St. Peter Claver Parish, I have the unique opportunity to work directly with hundreds of diverse principals, teachers, and students from 30 different village schools in the Toledo District of Belize. My experience is not limited to the classroom. Each trip to the village is accompanied by a customary visit to the home of a teacher or student. Although facilitating reflections in a classroom often leaves me feeling inspired, nothing rivals the stories and friendships I have formed while sharing meals in these homes. Through dialogue in the villages, I have come to understand how patriarchal authority can marginalize not just a school but also an entire community.

Working side-by-side with dynamic teachers like Ms. Jasmine, I strive to address gender-based inequalities. I organized a series of 13 fine arts competitions for students known as the Christian Spirit Award. The award was shaped to spotlight the creativity of young Belizean students and to encourage artistic expression and public speaking, especially with girls in the remote villages. I have seen the light of the Gospel message shine through enthusiastic students who bring to life classic Bible stories through essays, art projects, poetry, musical showcases, and quiz bowls.

In Belize, I have witnessed the strength and determination of teachers and students in underprivileged school communities. These individuals have shaped me in innumerable ways and I will carry their spirit with me as I continue to work for a more just society in the United States.

Unconditionally Welcomed

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Thu, 21 May 2015 21:02:00 +0000

Anna Ryan, Boston 14Saint Joseph's University

In many ways, communication has been the theme of my year in JVC. I have learned what good communication looks like—open, honest, based in active listening. I have learned what terrible communication is—hasty decisions, awkward follow-up conversations, relationship break-downs. I have learned and continue to learn how to listen, how to engage others in constructive dialogue, how to share and to hear others’ sharing. But perhaps most importantly, I have learned a remarkable amount about how to communicate without speaking at all.

I work at Casserly House, a neighborhood education center in Roslindale, where we provide adult English language and literacy classes, an after-school program, and participate in community organizing initiatives. Our morning adult students come from across the globe—about 20 different countries speaking 10 different languages. Each day I am challenged to re-conceptualize what it means to communicate with our students, some of whom don’t know much English beyond being able to share their name and where they are from. And somehow, despite frustrations presented daily, I have developed the most meaningful relationships with these students who have the smallest English knowledge, with those students with whom it is most difficult to conventionally communicate.

One student, Sadaka, is from Bangladesh. She’s been in the U.S. for two years, having moved here with her husband and children to escape the terrible work conditions in Bangladesh. She is the sweetest woman, cooking lunch every day after class for Sr. Nancy, my supervisor. But at the beginning of this year, I was convinced she hated me. She wouldn’t look me in the eye. She would ignore me when I said hello. Confused and slightly put off, I continued to smile at Sadaka each day she came for class, not knowing what else to do. “Hi Sadaka,” I’d say. “It’s good to see you today!” Usually with little response.

In December, we took some students to see the Nutcracker, including Sadaka and her daughter, who is my age. Once we entered the beautiful Opera House, our students were mesmerized, taking pictures all over the place. Sadaka’s daughter pulled me aside and asked me to take a picture of her with Sadaka next to a giant nutcracker. After I snapped the picture, Sadaka grabbed me by the arm and pulled me close to her, signaling for another student to take the camera from me. “Daughter,” she called me and smiled as the three of us had our picture taken together. As she pulled me close for a hug, I held back tears. Perhaps she had noticed all of that smiling I was doing every morning. How quickly I had assumed that her lack of a verbal response meant that she disliked me.

I have learned a million things about communication this year, and perhaps the most important has been through acknowledging the significance and power of nonverbal communication. A smile goes a long way, particularly in building confidence, courage, and community within the immigrant population. My friendship with Sadaka illuminates the power in simple actions shared between two people. Sadaka speaks up more in class now; her increasing confidence is hard to overlook. My friendship with Sadaka is one of many ways in which I have been humbled to become part of the Casserly House community this year. We do not save or help or serve or transform. Rather, we bear witness to the powerful transformation that occurs within a person when they are unconditionally welcomed. We grow together when we share a smile, a hug, a word of encouragement. We build each other up.

Mother Teresa diagnosed the world’s ills in this way: we’ve just “forgotten that we belong to each other.” This year, I have encountered the sameness between myself and the people who come to Casserly House, and have truly encountered God in these friends of mine. In sharing our lives with people living in poverty, we seek kinship. Fr. Greg Boyle, SJ, writes that “Kinship is not serving the other, but being one with the other. Jesus was not ‘a man for others’; he was one with them. There is a world of difference in that.” For me, a smile has been the first step on the road to kinship with the people who have graced my life this year. Through compassionate (oftentimes nonverbal) communication, we continue to grow together.

Lent: Forty Days of Penance and Truth

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Mon, 16 Mar 2015 18:24:00 +0000

By Samantha Lin, Georgetown University 14, Chicago 14

The season of Lent is a drag. I hate giving up potato chips and swearing (my two perennial vices) and the general air of depression that dogs the celebration of the Eucharist.

I’m much more a Christmas person. Joy in the air, lights on trees, bursts into song and random acts of kindness are the norm. But Christmas is only twelve days long. Lent, to my disappointment, is nearly four times the length of the Christmas season.

I’ve often perceived Lent as forty days of mourning, but perhaps it is better understood as forty days of truth. From the get-go we are reminded that at one point we simply weren’t and at some point we will not be: “Remember thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.” It’s heavy stuff, but it is real.

Let’s face it: The world is suffering. In Syria chemical weapons are used against children, in the Congo rape is used as a weapon of war, and in Chicago gun violence is destroying a generation of young people. Death is very real.

During Lent we contemplate that. But that’s not all we focus on, because while Lent ultimately ends with our Savior hanging from a tree, we still smell the lilies and eat stale Peeps on Easter morning. Death is not the end. “In the world you will have trouble but take heart! I have overcome the world” (John 16:33).

But still, why spend forty days in penance? I don’t have a theology degree and I admit I skip mass sometimes, but I do believe that in Lent we are given an opportunity to take part in redemption. We examine ourselves, realize that we are broken but lovely human beings, and, most of all, recognize we are not alone in our brokenness. Jesus has given us all a part in redemption, to live it everyday. Lent shakes us from our complacency and asks us, “Do things have to be this way? Do we live in silence knowing our brothers and sisters suffer?”

Joel answers in the first reading for Ash Wednesday: “Rend your hearts, not your clothes” (2:13). We cry out to God, “Break our hearts for what breaks yours!” and we are moved to action. We follow in Jesus’ footsteps as we seek to bring redemption to one another.

I serve refugees, some of the most vulnerable people—denied citizenship, buffeted around according to the whims of a powerful few and subjected to international apathy. Forced from their homes and unable to return, a few are given the opportunity to resettle in Chicago. They come with nothing; we meet them at the airport with boots, coats and a “culturally appropriate” hot meal. They too have faced death; many have lost family members in years of war, all have faced the death of their former lives in their home countries. They begin again here in Chicago. Theirs is an obvious lesson in the pain of redemption.

I will surprise no one with this next declaration: This Is Hard. It is hard to sit in silence on a bus with two angry toddlers just to make sure that their mom knows how to get to the clinic (not speaking Kinyarwanda prevents much conversation). It is hard to see Rohingya kids without any formal education thrown into the Chicago public school system. It is hard to know that even with this chance at redemption, despite our best efforts, some of our clients will fail.

This is all Lent; pain and redemption, death and resurrection, the chance to show each other redeeming love and then to have our vulnerable love rejected. It is hard. But the end, the Easter lilies, the stale Peeps and, of course, God’s everlasting love, is worth it. So we go on in agonizing hope, looking for those small, daily moments of redemption.

Learning from Young and Old

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Mon, 23 Feb 2015 13:37:00 +0000

By Eileen Borczon

Casa Dorothy Day, Oakland

Xavier University '14

Spending a year doing post-graduate service is choosing to live in a way that counters cultural norms. As a Jesuit Volunteer (JV), I live in community with three other JVs. Each of us works at different social service agencies serving the needs of the most vulnerable people. We pool all of our money to pay for rent, utilities, groceries, and transportation. We talk about spirituality, social justice, and simple living. We create an intentional community where we place the needs of others before our own and live in solidarity with the poor and marginalized, something that can be difficult to do. It’s quite different from how I have lived my entire life, but even on the most difficult days, the blessings and gifts that I have gained have made those difficult days worthwhile.

As a JV, I work at St. Mary’s Center, a senior services agency that serves people ages 55+ in Oakland, CA by providing hot meals, justice and advocacy programming, case management, health services, and a lively community of people that care deeply for one another. My primary role is as a case manager serving seniors who are currently homeless or at risk of homelessness. Our team assists clients with finding affordable housing, providing counseling and support groups for substance abuse and mental health disorders, money management, and continued support to clients so that they stay permanently housed.

In just a few months, I have seen how necessary these services are for the community. One of my first days at work, I was shocked when a client revealed in an interview that he had been homeless on and off for about 40 years… 40 YEARS! I haven’t even been alive for 23 years and I can’t even imagine how 40 years of unstable living feels. Many of the seniors that I work with have had lives peppered by some combination of poverty, hunger, injustice, disease, trauma, tragedy, violence, addiction, prejudice, discrimination, and more. Our efforts are often the last chance for people who have never know stability to know what it is like to feel safe, comfortable, and healthy – basic human needs.

I love working with seniors because they are so lively, so joyous for a new opportunities, and so grateful for each day that they wake up feeling well. I’m happy when I spend time with them, but one day a week, I work as a teacher’s aide in the St. Mary’s Center preschool. Wait, a senior services organization has a preschool? Let me explain. The community expressed the need for a preschool for low income families in the area, so St. Mary’s Center delivered. The preschool is a sanctuary for the students it serves. It provides a safe outdoor play area, free from the crime and drug riddled atmosphere just outside the school’s doors. The teachers work with the kids on colors, numbers, letters, building friendships, and preparing them for the challenge of full-time school. The kids are full of energy and excitement for learning, but it is clear that the kids don’t have perfect home lives. There is lots of evidence that education is one of the most importance pieces in breaking the cycle of poverty. If kids can be supported by a few people that want them to succeed, they can achieve a life of opportunities and possibilities. With early intervention, I hope that these children I know that love creating art, reading books, playing make-believe, and digging in the dirt for bugs never have to know a life that includes being homeless for 40 days or 40 years.

One year is a long time, and, at the same time, only a blip on the timeline of my life. This year is as much about putting good into the world as it is about personal growth. I feel capable of talking about issues of social justice in our society with a greater awareness of what life is like for those at the margins of society. I have been able to take time to discern the next steps that I want to take in my life. I've been able to evaluate what things in my life bring me closer in relationships to God and others, and what things take away from that connection. Each day I learn new things about myself and the world around me. No matter where I head next, I am confident that my time as a Jesuit Volunteer will provide me with irreplaceable experiences and a strong foundation of values that will remain with me long after the last day of my JV year.

Getting Out of Comfort Zones

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Wed, 21 Jan 2015 15:39:00 +0000

By Aimee Fritsch, Jack Morris House, Twin Cities

This week was a catalyst for reflection. I hadn't realized just how much doing the same thing day after day creates a comfort zone until one little incident made me think. My roommate rode the bus with me to work.

Usually, I commute on my own, but since she had a training in downtown St. Paul, we took the same two busses. On the second bus, I tried sitting somewhere with more room for two people, and it felt wrong. You see, I have a spot. On every other bus ride, it doesn't really matter to me, but on the 94 in the mornings headed to St. Paul, I have a spot. I sit in the last sideway seat, closest to the middle of the bus, on the left side. Every day. In the rare occasions when that seat is taken, I sit in the first seat, also on the left side.

So when I sat on the right side instead, it felt wrong. So wrong that I moved seats to sit in “my spot.” I laughed at myself, but I did it. And the world felt right again.

It makes me pause and think about the little ways I carve out a comfort zone: having my coffee every morning, having my spot on the bus, making the staff/volunteer board at work every morning, wearing my favorite shirt when I need an extra boost. It's been on my mind especially since work this week called for me to come out of my comfort zone.

Early in the week, I learned what high on meth looks like, as we had a guest who was extremely high and hanging around the desk all day. Then, on Thursday I broke up a drug deal for the first time. Usually, I'll try and grab another staff member to intervene in something like that, because as much as I know it's a liability, I still hate conflict. But in this situation, I was the only one that saw it, so I stepped forward to take care of it. It made my heart race, and gave me the shakes, but I did it. And while I disliked every minute of it, I know that I can and will do it again when I need to.

Thursday turned out to be a primer for Friday, when I witnessed my first fight at work. It's been months since a major incident, but on Friday two guests got into a fist fight out on the sidewalk in front of Listening House. Our policy as staff is to never go into a situation like that without backup, and I was the backup for another staff member as we tried to deescalate the situation, and then called the police when that was not going to happen and they began hitting each other. I was safe the whole time, but it still made my heart race during the situation. Especially since I knew one of the guests, to see him getting hit and blood flowing onto the sidewalk. It was a bad situation, and one I hope we don't have again for a long time.

So after this week, I went back to my comfort zone. I slept for 12 hours last night, and took time to write letters in the late fall sunshine. Since I work this upcoming weekend, I'm going to use my Thursday and Friday off to practice self-care, including finding a Pumpkin Cheesecake Blizzard from Dairy Queen.

It is a balance, between drawing strength from what makes one comfortable, and then using that strength to grow and make a difference. My prayer for myself and for us all is that we continue to find that balance, taking care of ourselves along with growing and giving of ourselves.

Theology of Coffee

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Wed, 21 Jan 2015 15:39:00 +0000

By Jaqueline Shraeder, Casa Antonio Ruiz de Montoya, Andahuaylillas, Peru 13

The following article originally appeared on January 2 at God in All Things.

When I was still a youngster in high school, my gaggle of gal pals and I loved to bring each other Starbucks in the morning. Nothing was better than the sugary winter drink of a white chocolate mocha, under the guise of coffee. Nothing made me feel better than my cup of ‘joe’ in hand, flaunting the red holiday cups and demonstrating my maturity as a coffee drinker. A few years passed, and I moved to Seattle to go to college. There, I soon became acquainted with real coffee. My flirting with real coffee quickly escalated into a full on relationship. I tried to learn more about the history, the roasting styles, the economics, and growing patterns—even going so far as to spend a summer in Costa Rica volunteering on a farm that grew coffee. Now, in my post-grad life, I am a Jesuit Volunteer outside of Cusco, Peru. Here my budget only allots for Nescafé or other brands that do not offer the top tier coffee in regards to business practices and ethics. But this drop in quality does not necessarily suspend my relationship with coffee in the morning.

I have heard used the phrase, either giving or receiving the comment, “Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” I’m usually too tired to fire back a snappy comment, but it would be something along the lines of, “My bed is fine! My coffeemaker isn’t working today!” Is it a bit of an addiction? Easily. But is coffee something more? Yes. Would I even say that it is a spiritual, sensory experience that creates a space for me to greet the morning, myself, others, and God? Yes.

Ignatian spirituality suggests invoking our senses and imagination to encounter God and ourselves. When I am holding a cup of coffee, the warmth radiates through my hands, forearms, and shoulders. The smell wafts through the air from the dark caramel color, almost black. The whole experience is sensual, and helps my sleepy self greet the day with gratitude and a tranquility that I feel from this warmth. It induces a peaceful demeanor, which invites me to meet God and my own thoughts. In these moments, I review the previous and forthcoming days, reflecting on both the harder and easier parts in order to create my hopes for the new day.

Coffee helps facilitate my conversation with God and myself in the morning, therefore making it quite literally a vessel in which I see, taste, feel, and talk to God. Dorothy Day was once quoted saying that “My strength returns to me with my cup of coffee and the reading of the psalms.” She identified this as a way to ready herself for the day and her work through simple practices. With the work toward which Day committed her life, it was vital for her to find daily practices that facilitated conversation between herself and God. What are our daily rituals that help us encounter ourselves in the morning? Is it the comfort of a mug, a morning stroll, the dog scratching at the door? By finding God in the daily habits and becoming mindful towards what could be mundane, I have found some of my most precious moments throughout the day. Here’s to a cup of steaming coffee and rich conversations: may the silence be rich in conversation.

God in All Things

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Tue, 16 Dec 2014 20:17:00 +0000

By Sarah Estrada, Syracuse 14

University of San Francisco 14

Months into my JVC experience, I feel as if the rose-colored glasses either broke due to the dropping temperatures in Upstate New York, or went missing in the pile of leaves that have been accumulating outside of our house. Living according to the stipend keeps me from trying different restaurants or travelling locally to different events and festivals. Contemplating various social justice issues makes buying items, or even having small luxuries, an experience of guilt. Being in a house with six unique individuals is messy and exhausting. Feeling bogged down by the negative makes finding consolation, positivity, and ultimately hope, all the more challenging given that I already possess a sensitive, broken mentality about the world.

I was “ruined for life” the moment I recognized that my liberation is bound to a woman named MC, whom I met during my semester abroad in the Casa Bayanihan program in the Philippines. One night, I had a simple dinner of fish and rice with MC and her two children. It was a quiet meal until MC started talking about how the improvements to her house were made because of her husband’s work abroad in the Middle East. MC shared how her husband has been abroad for a year and had yet to see MC’s youngest child. It was the first time while I was abroad that I genuinely felt my heart connect with a total stranger. I shared with MC how my father also worked in the Middle East, and felt in MC the loneliness and distance my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins must have felt while my father was away. Talking with MC challenged me to recognize the hurt I feel about being away from family and also to be consoled by our shared experience of loneliness and pain at the expense of a “better life”.

This year, my JVC placement site is Northside CYO at Catholic Charities. For the last two weeks, I have been sitting in an employment class my agency offers for New Americans (individuals who were refugees in their home countries who recently were granted the ability to come to the United States). This class educates individuals about the United States’ employment process and what individuals need to do in order to apply for and maintain a job. During each class session, the instructor emphasizes the responsibility each student has in understanding the large amounts of information. And with each session, some students forget to do the assigned homework or struggle to conceptualize the class material.

Today, the instructor concluded the class by sharing her struggle to come to the United States. As she shared her story of leaving her home country to the New Americans, I witnessed both brokenness and healing before my eyes, and sat in my desk chair in the wonder and mystery, and in hope.
Coming from such an experience abroad both clouds and reveals a silver lining in the overcast skies hovering over me so far. I am realizing that finding God in all things entails sharing the moments in my life in which God reached out to me. Maybe this is the year to “ruin” my experience abroad in the Philippines with my current JVC experience, or maybe it is the year to “ruin” the lives of others by breaking my heart open to connect to and heal the brokenness of another. If anything, I am learning that to be “ruined for life” means seeking out ways in which God calls me open up, to revisit the brokenness and the pain, and to allow all things, in their own unique way, to help me heal.

Emotional Erosion

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Tue, 18 Nov 2014 21:00:00 +0000

by Audrey Longfellow
Fairfield University 13
Minneapolis 13 & Philadelphia 14

Adapted from her blog at alongfellow1733.blogspot.com

“…Some of you will be so changed
by weathers and wanderings
that even your closest friends
will have to learn your features
as though for the first time…”

I’ve been revisiting this stanza from the poem Passover Remembered by Alla Bozarth lately. I’ve been considering my experiences as a JV, worried that I’ve shifted too much. This is in the forefront of my mind as I prepare to reunite with some college friends at Fairfield’s Alumni Weekend. When I compare my life today to how I envisioned it as a college senior, there isn’t much overlap.

What sticks out to me in this stanza is the word weathers. It takes me back to 4th grade, when I learned about weathering and erosion. Initially the word erosion has, for me, negative connotations related to destruction, but I have started to understand the necessity of the process and the beauty that can accompany the altered landscape. I encountered an article discussing the role of river erosion and landslides in maintaining some of the world’s most iconic mountain ranges. While erosion maintains mountains, it also proves the malleability of the Earth’s surface.

I think our minds, hearts, and thoughts are malleable like the Earth. My one-year-plus of JVC has eroded the exterior layers of my metaphorical heart.

And this makes me nervous, because perhaps I feel too much now. I am nervous because I am not sure what landscape my heart is taking. I wonder how the men I work with at Bethesda Project will continue to erode the crust of my heart, and transform it into something unrecognizable. I am the most nervous about not being recognized by myself and by my family and friends. I am afraid of becoming a stranger in the lives of those I value from my past.
There are these conflicting moments of dual clarity and confusion regarding my emotional and intellectual erosion. As I walked home from the subway after work, I was thinking about the physical property of volume and how I could no longer remember how to solve an equation for volume, something that came naturally to me while in college. I became concerned, “I’ve lost all of my knowledge and all I have are feelings!”

Though after a few minutes I was able to remember the correct formula, I gained a new appreciation for the saying, “if you don't use it you lose it.” I use my empathy regularly in my work. This consistent use of empathy and compassion are the two rivers that I feed, and are responsible for the erosion of my heart, and the reshaping of my life.

UCA Martyrs Reflection

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Tue, 18 Nov 2014 20:59:00 +0000

Megan Marshall, Detroit 04
Campus Ministry
University of Detroit Mercy

When the Jesuits and the two women were murdered in 1989, I was just nine years old. I didn’t know any of these individuals personally, but their life, and their death have impacted me greatly.
When I was 25 I moved to El Salvador and lived there for almost two years. I spent time in the communities they pastored and fell in love with people in El Salvador. I now understand why they stayed and why their vision for a better University and another world is so necessary for us to hear today.

In the late 1970s and early 1980s the Jesuits at the University of Central America were envisioning academia in a new way. At the time 90% of the wealth of the country was controlled by 14 families. The poor suffered right in front of their eyes, while governmental policy continued to protect the interests of the rich. And so when the Superior General of the Jesuits, Fr. Pedro Arrupe, asked them an important question, they could not help but refocus. Fr. Arrupe asked them, and all Jesuit institutions of higher learning, “Have we educated you for justice?”

This call to action began a movement in Jesuit education that highlighted the University of Central America specifically. Additionally, the educators themselves, the Jesuits, were under the microscope because of their work and because of their vision.

So the question is what was and is so revolutionary about the UCA?

In the context of El Salvador, the Jesuits focused on the poor. And when one lives and works with the poor, simply offering charity is never enough. Rather, your heart is compelled to ask the important questions: 1. Why is there a need and 2. What can I do to change that problem? – This line of questioning became the foundation for the UCA.

In fact, as the Jesuits began to envision how an education for justice would be different, they imagined a learning institution that would place the students as agents of change. It was imperative that the actual learning at the University was engaged with the world around them, which included the civil war that was breaking out. It was understood that students would be formed with a mind for critical judgment, able to critique the reality, but also have hearts full of hope, always focused on the possibilities of peace and justice.

The Jesuits at the UCA were educating the future of El Salvador, one student at a time. They were forming men and women for others, always placing people before profit. Not only were students finding creative ways to resist unjust social structures, but they were finding radical ways of dismantling those structures, so that people on the margins would benefit from everything that the University was doing. In effect, through the leadership of the Jesuits, the UCA community was becoming an agent of change within a socio-political reality that was hostile and even deadly.
The poor were being liberated and that was a very real threat to the wealthy oligarchy of El Salvador.
When the six Jesuits and two women were killed on November 16th, the oligarchy hoped to send a strong message of fear. They wanted to halt a movement of hope. But instead, 25 years later, we remember them in a very real way.

So in closing, I ask the same question that Fr. Pedro Arrupe asked all Jesuit institutions, the same question that enlivened a mission, and sparked a Christian resistance movement built on love, justice, and education.

“Have we educated you for justice?” --- or rather, Are we educating UDM students for justice?

• If Detroit is bankrupt, where will our students be in the future of that struggle?
• If the water is being shut off at our neighbor’s house, how will we react?
• If people are taking to the streets in protest of an injustice, where will our students stand?
• As our country continues to engage in war-making across the world, how will UDM graduates envision creative, peaceful solutions?
• As the poor of the developing world die of malnutrition and disease, what will a UDM education mean in the context of hope?

If we are to celebrate the lives of the six Jesuits and the two women killed in 1989, we must also continue OUR work with the same passion for love and justice that they had.

Sitting in the Uncomfortable

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Fri, 17 Oct 2014 21:18:00 +0000

By Kathleen Kardos
Wangari Maathai House, Dar es Salaam
Tanzania 12
University of Scranton 12

adapted from her blog: withlove-fromtanzania.blogspot.com

Since I've been living in Dar es Salaam, at least once a day if I’m being honest, I have felt uncomfortable. I’ve gone through a great range of emotions, a love-hate relationship really, with this idea of sitting in the uncomfortable. In the beginning, I had an “embrace it all” attitude, ready for this new and exciting adventure. I was green, ready to blossom in all the ways I imagined I would. Nothing could get me down, not the longest bus ride or the most confusing conversation, because I was having an “experience of a lifetime.”

With time, however, my attitude shifted. It was no longer an “experience of a lifetime.” It was simply life. A life that almost all my friends and neighbors will live forever. This is not a choice for them, this is not a grand adventure, and this is not temporary. So, for a while, my mindset became: sit in the uncomfortable in order to better understand the lives of the people you love and to be in solidarity with them. Do it because they do day in and day out.

This is still the bedrock of my philosophy. Being in solidarity is at the center of understanding and my desire to work for change. But now what I have to consider is how I will walk with them from thousands of miles away, instead of in the same neighborhood, experiencing the same struggles and triumphs sprinkled among the everyday injustices. That is a whole new kind of uncomfortable. With the views and ideas I’ve formed in the last two years, I’ve been able to understand more fully what life is like in the developing world. I will never fully understand; of this I am certain.

However, with more extensive knowledge, I can be a better advocate and challenger of the imbalance between developed and developing. I have experienced daylong power outages and weeks without running water. I have sat in silence and sorrow as my friends mourn the (often premature) death of their children or parents. I have watched countless children sent home from school because their parents or guardians could not pay school fees. I have encountered people who have been so screwed by the system that they resort of thievery or booze. I have seen homes and communities destroyed by flooding that could have been avoided with better infrastructure and waste management systems. I have met people who were failed by the education system, which is brittle and full of holes. I have had many opportunities to sit with people in the midst of their own discomfort.

More recently, I’ve found myself with a “sit in the uncomfortable because you won’t have to do it too much longer” outlook. This is where the real problem comes about. Does this mean that I believe once I get back to America, I no longer have to be uncomfortable or challenged by the things I witness and experience? And if I do believe that, what have the last two years been about anyway? This is a formation experience…a way to get a better grasp on the world and be a witness to the way most of humanity (aka the developing world) lives in it. Just because I don’t really have to live uncomfortably if I don’t want to, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t.

I must challenge myself to continue sitting in the uncomfortable. I must keep asking if I am contributing to the further destruction of the earth, what I am consuming, which organizations and companies do I support and how are they (if at all) supporting the people in developing countries that are not receiving a fair wage or their most basic human rights? What am I doing to tip the scales of justice and in which direction?

What am I going to do differently than I had done before coming here? Which lessons and intentions from my time here will follow me home? Will I continue to be careful of how much water I use and the way that I use it? Will I take time to do things like cook instead of paying for the convenience of pre-packaged food? Will I actively choose to take public transportation instead of getting into my big car, filling it with gas, and driving somewhere alone? Will I remember to take time for people, instead of isolating myself in Facebook World or TV Land? As a professional educator, how will I commit my life to improving education internationally? How will I treat the people I encounter who come from all walks of life?

Sitting comfortably is the same as being quietly satisfied and I refuse to be still and silent in a world that is in great need of social change.

How will I gently, without losing courage or conviction, push my peers toward the same call to action and advocacy? I cannot shrink away from the essential beliefs I have built upon during the last two years because I am afraid to challenge others and they are equally as afraid of being challenged. I must stand strong in my desire to stir the pot of complacency.

I will not sit and I will not be comfortable. We must go out into this big world, understand how we are failing it and each other, and do something about it…whether through being educated on issues of social justice and conservation or using the knowledge we already have, in partnership with our passions, to devote our lives to greater change.

When the Future Clouds the Present

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Tue, 07 Oct 2014 18:32:00 +0000

Harry Huggins
Fordham 13
Detroit 13

Life continues after JVC. Our priority for this year is to serve in our placements, embracing wholeheartedly the values of Social Justice, Community, Simple Living and Spirituality. Our experiences with JVC will absolutely shape our future selves, but in 10 months (or 1 year, 10 months), we’ll add the F to our title as JVs and go out into the world.

I am one of many JVs applying to graduate school for next fall, so post-JVC thoughts are already in my mind. It can be disquieting. I spent the last few weekends in coffee shops with a roommate applying to medical school, intently focused on how our current skills and past experiences can lead to future success. We drank too much coffee on our couches and thought for hours about why we wanted to go to these schools and what we plan to do after graduation.

Here we are, not even two months into JVC and already discussing our goals two or three life steps from now! For me, grad school is a necessary part of putting this year of experience to use; I’m applying to graduate schools specializing in social justice journalism so I may become a skilled reporter of social injustice issues. (How many times have I typed that sentence in the past week? Too many.)

But looking forward like that also stops me from living for this moment––this unique, extraordinary moment of service that I longed for all last year. At least in a small way, thinking so much about where I’m going takes away from appreciating and reacting to where I am. I want to be here—and wholly here—but I struggle.

What can I do to keep myself present? So far, I’ve limited myself to only weekend mornings for writing grad school applications, although thoughts about the apps invade my mind daily. Last year, I would have spent every free moment honing these essays. This year, I’m sitting out in the living room discussing the music of Sam Smith until bedtime (a slight exaggeration).

My roommate offered a better suggestion. It’s more of a way of thinking than an action: writing her essays forced her to explain in writing why she is taking this year for service. The applications make her think of this year in terms of her overarching goals and how JVC and its values help her reach them.

Thinking this way, JVC is nothing like a gap year or an intermediary before we start the next phase of our lives. This is our preparation. This is our unofficial grad school.

Maybe this is better preparation for our future plans than many of our peers will have fresh out of undergrad. My roommate’s placement forces her to practice patience and understanding with her clients every day, skills many experienced doctors still lack. In researching programs to implement at my placement, and in listening to residents’ stories, I’m learning about the agencies, systems and problems on which I’ll report in my future work.

We gain useable skills just as much from struggling to live JVC’s four values. Already in two months, I’ve learned more about compromising my seemingly nonnegotiable opinions for the sake of community. In doing so, I’ve practiced observing objectively something on which I have subjective opinions. I’m also learning how my previously tenuous relationship with spirituality can nourish me through difficult days.

I hope I can remember these thoughts in the coming months when future hopes cloud over my present focus and intentionality. And I hope I remember these experiences next year as I begin my next step.

(P.S. If anyone reading this has an in at the journalism schools of Northwestern, Columbia or the City University of New York, hook a FJV up!)

Discovery: Gathering Evidence of a New City

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Tue, 23 Sep 2014 17:37:00 +0000

by Harry Huggins

Fordham University

Detroit Rosa Parks House 14

Discovery is a cable channel that, like all cable channels (and all TV channels for that matter), I do not watch anymore, in keeping with JVC’s value of simple living.

Discovery is also a legal process before trials, when both sides can learn more about each other’s case by requesting evidence. Exploring our new JVC cities is a lot like this second definition of discovery.

Before moving, many of us sought information about our future communities. Before considering any placements here, I already knew as a Chicagoan that I should loathe the Lions, rebel against the Red Wings and pity the Pistons. I knew Detroit’s reputation as the once-mighty motor city, turned post-apocalyptic by the recent recession. But beyond that, I knew little.

Forever a Journalism student, I turned first to the New York Times when I wanted a fuller understanding of Detroit. An in-depth profile on Detroit ran in the Times Magazine a couple months before our departure date. Like anyone with little information to begin with, I believed most of the suggestions the story made: that one man was a particularly strong embodiment of the hopeful, “post-post-apocalyptic” rebuilding of Detroit, and that the locals (my future neighbors) generally liked anyone “saving” the city.

As August approached, I think many of us looked for a meaty history of our cities. I consulted a well-praised book on the history of Detroit written by a local reporter, “Detroit: A Biography.” It succinctly retold centuries of history from French fur traders to the Emergency Manager and Bankruptcy of today. After reading a whole book that diagnosed Detroit’s many disorders, I thought I knew everything I needed—only a physical sense of the city’s neighborhoods was left.

When I finally arrived in Detroit, however, I was blessed with the opportunity for further discovery. Bob, an unofficial community contact, invited us for an afternoon tour of Detroit’s vastness via his minivan. We bounced around from the colorful walls of Mexicantown to the decaying shells of the Lower East Side, from the splendor of Midtown and Downtown to the paradise of urban agriculture in Brightmoor.

By soaking in the sights of each neighborhood and listening to Bob’s detailed and personal history of each area, I developed a picture of Detroit’s uneven development over time. I understood that pockets of the city were cheaply and quickly built and poorly maintained, so that decades of decay became blight. I learned that these are the pockets targeted by the national media outlets, along with the bright and shiny downtown and artsy midtown. I also discovered that many residents did not agree with the happy tone of the Times’ article.

I discovered the real neighborhoods I want to explore this year, and I imagine JVs internationally experienced a similar path of discovery. We all discovered that our previous, pitiful amount of evidence taught us only the surface of each city’s situation.

But in the legal world, the process of discovery is mutual; what information did Detroit want about me? While I try to understand my new habitat, what does this city ask of me?

One refrain in many documentaries on Detroit’s struggles revolves around the motives of those flocking here to be part of the city’s impending resurgence. I think the city rightfully questions my motivation, my awareness of my actions’ far-reaching consequences and my representation of Detroit in stories like this. It’s a process that will last this whole year, but I know I will enjoy each new discovery, and I hope Detroit will think the same of me.

A final disclaimer: I write this only a few weeks after moving to Detroit’s Mexicantown with five new roommates I met a month ago, so these ideas will undoubtedly shift and evolve as I continue discovering this city. But this is me now.

Confronting Time

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Tue, 19 Aug 2014 20:44:00 +0000

by Jamie Richardson, Tanzania 13

When people ask me how long I have been here in Tanzania (almost one year and eight months) I get one of two responses: muda mrefu! (a long time) Or, mwaka moja na nusu tu? (only a year and a half?, emphasis on the only.) I myself have similarly mixed feelings. Time is a funny, fickle thing like that; it never lets you define it completely.

Recently a teacher returned to St. Peter Claver High School after completing a 1-year long master’s program in Ghana. He was teaching at SPCHS when I arrived in December 2012. We were co-workers for 6 months before our community bid him farewell. We kept in touch over Facebook throughout the year. Now, he’s returned to Dodoma, complete with his master’s degree, and he’s found me essentially where he left me a whole year before. Where has time gone?

As a volunteer, there is a sort of temporality that permeates your consciousness. I entered this country knowing I would be here for two years in total. There is a finite understanding of yourself in this position and because of it you can compartmentalize your life based on this fixed deadline, unlike other areas of your life. “I am going to work as a volunteer in Dodoma, Tanzania for two years,” you can say, unlike “I am going to be a mother for two years,” or “I will be financially unstable for two years.”

Throughout my first year here, I wasn’t looking at the inevitable “finish line”
of my time in Dodoma. In fact, even into the first half of my second year, I continued life as normal, more or less intentionally ignoring the fact that I would leave a place I’ve come to love abundantly. But when people ask how long I’ve been in Tanzania, they usually follow up with another, more agonizing question. “And when will you leave?”

“Why not stay longer?” Is a common question too. Now that my departure date is approaching rapidly (only four months from now!) I am obliged to respond with forced matter-of-factness. “Adopt me and pay off my college loans and I will!” is all I want to say, but of course hold back, trying to exercise some self restraint. Instead, I say: “Siwezi. Lakini, Mungu akipenda, nitarudi tena na tena.” (I am not able to, but if God wishes, I will return again and again.)

The passage of time is inescapable. To deny that reality is a misuse of time itself. And indeed I owe so much to the passage of time. The amount of Swahili that I know now (compared to even 3 or 4 months before, not to mention 1 year ago,) is in fact due to time. My understanding of Tanzania culture, although filled with gaps and holes, came by witnessing life here, and one cannot do that in a short period of time. The relationships I have and value—close friends, acquaintances, co-workers, Jesuits, neighbors, choir members, shopkeepers, students, or familiar faces around town—I can credit all to the passage of time. I am not a tourist here—I live here—and shared time waters the soil of those personal relationships.

I came to discover this capricious connection I have with time—a relationship that both recognizes and rejects the finality of my time in Dodoma— somewhat recently. Three Jesuit scholastics came to spend just over 6 weeks here in Dodoma, specifically staying at St. Peter Claver High School, before they would begin their studies elsewhere. My community mates and I hardly knew much about these three guys, but the bonds we built, the experiences we shared, and the capacity in which we created friendships in a short amount of time both surprised and comforted me.

Among the first days that these three arrived, we climbed the “mountain” of Dodoma together and life from there proceeded without hesitation, tumbling into deep friendship, support, and endless amounts of laughter and fun. It’s amazing how friendships can come to life as quickly and effortlessly as God breathed life into Adam from the dust of the Earth: in an instant, something great and lasting is formed.

But deep connections and friendship is not what surprised me the most about the time these guys spent in Dodoma. I’ve learned a great deal about the capacity people have for friendships if they are willing, from the many generously kind and openly hospitable citizens of Tanzania and East Africa at large. Rather, what shook me deeply were my own time-based limitations reflected in theirs.

Saying goodbye to these guys when their time to leave arrived, almost without warning, was not painless. I think that feeling was mutual. And once they left, I felt a physical and emotional deficiency in the spaces they once occupied. My dear friends have left me! I mused momentarily, only to see the situation reflected on myself. I too, was going to leave. And not just after six weeks of exuberance, but after two full years of highs, lows and mediocre in-betweens.

To whom do I owe this pleasure? Time, of course. I am embattled with feelings of guilt. Who am I to pass through people’s lives—their precious time—like this, only to leave suddenly and with uncertainty of meeting again?

I am met with no answers, only with gratitude. I am not the only one haunted by time and its ventures into our ever-changing lives. So I will continue to value the time I still have (with recognition of its restrictions,) and appreciate the time already gone.

As people here have been telling me: “Utapokuwa zowea Tanzania, umefika muda kuondoka.” (When you get used to Tanzania, you reach the time to leave.) Whether or not it is right or fair, this is the life we have. We leave it to the divine workings in our lives to sort out.

Human Suffering (and other light-hearted topics)

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Tue, 17 Jun 2014 12:48:00 +0000

Alyson Van Tiem

Tanzania 13,14

My adopted continent has endured numerous tragedies in the past few weeks. From abductions in Nigeria to bombs in Kenya to ongoing wars in many countries, the news from Africa is often bleak. And even though Tanzanians pride themselves on their country’s peace, suffering still invades (as it does everywhere).

My usual response to tragedy is a prayer for God to comfort those who mourn followed by a quick shift back to my “cup half full” worldview. And in Tanzania, there are numerous positive things to focus on rather than human suffering: the beauty of God’s creation, the warmth of community, the vibrancy of the culture and the love of my many new friends here. However, last week I went to visit a woman at the country’s largest hospital, and what I saw shook me to my core. In the place where people turn for help in their darkest hour, I saw flies landing on open sores, chickens, cats and lizards in the wards and patients who had not eaten or been cleaned in days. The feeling of hopelessness that permeated the hospital was overwhelming.

A short prayer and a return to positive thinking was not possible after being confronted with this depth of human suffering. So I realized that it was time to re-evaluate how I respond to tragedies. I want to learn to hold in balance my gratitude for the incredible goodness in the world with my sorrow for the inexpressible evil that is also present. For I know that to deny either is to risk missing out on half of the human experience.

I started by listing all of the people who I know are suffering and committing to praying for them regularly. At first my prayers felt so weak and anemic. I doubted what difference my few words could make in the midst of such tragedy. In addition, I began to question my belief that pain is a result of our God-given free will and the ever-present evil in the world. Mostly, I wanted a superhero God who rushes in to save the day.

As I contemplated this, I created a prayer from Psalms 10 & 46 and 1 Kings 8:37-39:

“Why oh Lord does it seem as if you stand far off? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble? The innocent are crushed, they collapse. Arise, Lord! Lift up your hand, O God. Do not forget the helpless. Call the evildoers to account for their wickedness. Listen to the cry of the afflicted, encourage and defend the oppressed. Please be their refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. I pray that those who suffer may know that you are God, you are with them, and you are their fortress. In the each of these disasters, I beg you to hear my pleas as I spread out my hands to you. Please hear, forgive and act! Amen.”

I don’t have any pat answers for the cause of or God’s role in human suffering. But I do know that as I’m learning to include in my daily prayers both words of heartfelt gratitude for my many blessings as well as intercessions on behalf of those who suffer, I have a deeper peace. So if God is prompting you, I invite you to join me in being more mindful of praying for the people and places whose suffering touches your own heart. And even if God doesn’t answer us as we think he should, may God grant us the faith that the Jewish refugee of WWII had when he wrote: “I believe in the sun even when it is not shining. I believe in love even when I am alone. I believe in God even when He is silent.”

FJV Lenten Reflections

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Wed, 23 Apr 2014 11:34:00 +0000

To All Jesuit Volunteers,

Today is Mardi Gras . . . and tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent.

In addition to providing you with the reflections in Sacred Space, JVC has engaged seven Former Jesuit Volunteers to contribute a weekly reflection, based on the Ash Wednesday readings and then each of the six Sunday readings for Lent. We have also provided links to the scripture readings.

We hope that these short reflections from a range of FJVs, written in the light of their JVC experience and written especially for you, will help your own preparation for Easter this year.

Lenten blessings to all,

Kathleen Haser, Director of FJV Relations

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Reflection for Ash Wednesday

Michelle Cimarole

Michelle Cimaroli, acj (Baltimore 07) was a JV at Cristo Rey Jesuit High School. She is now a religious sister with the Handmaids of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, an international Ignatian community. She is currently studying education at St. Joseph’s University and teaching math at Cristo Rey Philadelphia High School.

jl 2:12-18

2 cor 5:20-6:2

mt 6:1-6, 16-18

When I sat down to pray about what my Lenten focus might be this year, immediately the word “community” popped into my head. It is through this lens that I encounter our readings for Ash Wednesday.

With his lively description of the gathering of the people, Joel reminds us of the communal dimension of our call to conversion. We need each other to become the best versions of ourselves, to become the People of God. One of the hardest things for me is to recognize my need for others. I forget that I need the support of my community, who communicates to me the love of God in a profound way.

The individualism of our culture constantly tries to tear us away from the truth of our neediness. So, when I get too wrapped up in all that I have to do or too dissatisfied by the quality of our community life, I’m going to seek the grace to enter more fully into communion with my sisters, to receive and affirm all that they are and offer. I also hope that we’ll participate in some communal Lenten practice because an action done in common does much more for solidarity than one done alone. In a world broken by division and conflict, an act of unity is the most effective sign we can offer.

My hope for this Lent is that it be less about a self-denial of things for personal satisfaction and more about a denial of self-reliance for growth.

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Reflection for March 9, 2014

Steve Noga

Steve Noga (Bridgeport 99) worked as a case manager at Prospect House shelter. For the past twelve years, he has taught religion (particularly scripture and Ignatian spirituality) at Xavier High School to students from the greater New York City metro area. Steve and his wife, Carla, live in Hoboken, New Jersey, and are expecting their first child.

gn 2:7-9; 3:1-7

rom 5:12, 17-19

mt 4:1-11

“Get behind me, Satan...then the devil left him and, behold, angels came and ministered to him” (Mt 4:10-11). In today’s gospel, Jesus’ experience in the desert presents us a challenge to reflect on being “ruined for life.” When we reject values that stand in direct contradiction to God’s Reign–asserting popularity, wealth, and political power over others–we come closer to God’s desires for all humans. Jesus experiences real temptations (hint: he’s really one of us!) and invites us to walk the path of servant leadership characterized by a richness of mercy.

Practicing mercy–a ‘ministry of angels,’ as the end of today’s gospel states–lies at the core of each JV’s life. Your days follow Jesus’ path when you compassionately respond to each person’s suffering and you embrace each person’s joys. When you give voice to marginalized persons’ emotional, physical, and spiritual needs and hopes, you practice this mercy. To draw on a theme from Ignatius’ Spiritual Exercises, such mercying (as Pope Francis has said) resists the side effects of the anti-Reign’s relentless pursuit of fame, wealth, and power.

All of us who act with mercy need nourishment so that we don’t cease being angels and submit to the messages of the anti-Reign. How can we nourish our spiritual lives this Lent so that we can continue mercying? Let me propose that the skipped-over portion from today’s first reading can provide us sustenance. It’s easy to focus in on the last portion of the that reading (from Gn 3) which speaks of how trust disintegrates, particularly since the second reading from Paul’s Letter to the Romans is a direct response to the mistrust that develops in Gn 3 between Adam, Eve, God, and all creation.

The portion of Gn 2 not proclaimed in today’s first reading, however, calls us to be co-partners with God and other humans in the pursuit of building up God’s creation. As JVs, we are called to foster trusting relationships that ultimately give us life and sustain us. Our relationships within our JVC communities, however messy they may be, anchor our commitment to living simply and our pursuit of justice for the marginalized. If we can confidently echo Jesus’ words, “Get behind me, Satan,” then we might be able to discern the wideness of God’s mercy in our lives.

At the start of this Lenten season, let’s give thanks for the myriad ways that our community members continue to nourish us so that we can continue to practice mercy.

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Reflection for March 16, 2014

Peaches Dela Paz

Maria “Peaches” Dela Paz is an FJV who served at Xavier High School in Chuuk, Micronesia (2010-2012). She graduated from Saint Peter’s University in Jersey City, New Jersey, where she was first introduced to Ignatian spirituality and now she loves all things Jesuit. Currently, she is a college campus minister in Alfred, New York.

gn 12:1-4a

2 tim 1:8b-10

mt 17:1-9

I once had an unassuming student in my history class for two years. He would fall asleep every so often and I never really gave him a second glance. One afternoon, he looked at me differently as if seeing me for the first time and said, “Miss, are you having a bad day?” I was taken aback and answered him in all honesty, saying that I was tired after a long day of teaching.

Then he said, “You know, miss, you’ve been taking care of us since we got here. You’re like our mama bear.” I smiled at this analogy and responded, “That means you’re all my baby bears.” A special connection was made that day and both of us were re-energized to finish the day on a positive note.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus leads us up to the mountain and is transfigured before our eyes. How many times have we seen Christ and ignored him? How many times have we needed to open our eyes and realize that Christ was there all along? On that particular day I awakened to see Christ in my student and vice versa. He reminded me why I was there in the first place: to love and be present to the people whom I serve despite my tiredness, and he realized that I wasn’t just there to teach him meaningless dates and events. It is moments like this, everyday flashes of transfigurations, when we realize that Jesus was there the whole time!

During this second week of Lent let’s reflect on where we see Christ in our lives: in the people whom we serve, in our community, in the beauty of the world around us, in the arduous and never-ending work of fighting for justice. Because when we see Christ transformed before us, it is then that we find strength in our mission to follow him.

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Reflection for March 23, 2014

Colette Cook

Colette Cook (Washington 84) worked at Catholic Charities’ Project COVE (Community Outreach to the Vulnerable Elderly) as a case manager. She now works a religion teacher at LaSalle Academy in Providence, Rhode Island. Colette is married to Christopher Koller (Washington, D.C. 83) and they have a son in college and a daughter spending a gap year in Nicaragua and India.

ex 17:3-7

rom 5:1-2, 5-8

jn 4:5-42

Perhaps you’ve seen this commercial: Two men are wandering through the desert, desperate for water. “We are so dead,” one says. A car comes by - it’s Sean Combs. “Guys, would you like some water?” he asks. One of the men is elated at their good fortune, but the other holds him back saying, “It’s a mirage. It’s not real.” Later, they come upon an oasis - a party in the desert. Again, they are offered water. And again, the men decline, convinced that it’s not real. As they wander off, Combs says, “Now, they’re really going to die.”

The desert is the spiritual geography of Lent. And like the Israelites and the Samaritan woman in the readings this week, we are thirsty and ask for water. What jumps out at me in the readings is not the thirst or the water but the asking. For me this means an awareness of need (I’m not yet a fully realized individual) and an openness to receiving. This is an attitude I try to bring to whatever spiritual practice I am doing. It is putting myself in a place of humility and receptivity that I hope to carry over to work, to the grocery store, the highway at rush hour, and even watching commercials on TV.

Unlike the men in the commercial who couldn’t fully trust what they were seeing, I hope to recognize living water when it’s offered, in unexpected places, by unexpected people. Because you never know where you might find water.

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Reflection for March 30, 2014

Carolyn and Kevin Snyder

Kevin Snyder and Carolyn Smith Snyder (Richmond, Virginia 01) have been married for almost eight years and have three beautiful children: Conor (4), Madeline (3) and Ryan (1). Kevin is a public defender in Orange County and Carolyn has been fortunate to be home, being a mom, for the past 4 1/2 years and recently went back to the classroom as a 5th grade teacher. JVC made a significant impact on our lives and we are forever grateful for the experience we shared and the values we lived by that have truly shaped who we are today.

1 sm 16:1b, 6-7, 10-13a

eph 5:8-14

jn 9:1-41

In today’s readings we see the tension between having faith in God and the world as we see it through our senses, perceptions, and personal judgments. Naysayers in our society often label our trust in the Lord as “blind faith.” Ironically, that is exactly what the readings suggest is the best way we can experience God's love. Attempts to explain and define our reality through logic, ration, science, or our physical senses often block our ability to simply feel and live in the unabashed beauty and wonderment of God’s love. God’s love cannot be defined or explained. It is simply best experienced through an abiding trust. Today’s readings present this message in different scenarios that demonstrate how the “blinders” we wear (i.e., our intellect, logic, perceptions, and often judgments of others) prevent us from “seeing” the miracle of God and His love as presented through other people.

For example, how often have we seen a homeless man or woman slumped on the corner of a freeway exit with a sign begging for help but just drove past them? How often have we rationalized the reason for not stopping? We might think they’ll use the money to buy drugs, or someone else with more to offer than me can help, or essentially they won’t use the money in a productive way to change their situation. How many times have we stopped, like Jesus did with the blind man, to help see life from their perspective and listen to their story; to hear the message God is presenting through them?

Being either a current JV or an FJV, it may be difficult for us to imagine that the above example applies to us. We are the lucky ones who walk or have walked hand in hand with the poor. We are those people who stop to share the Good News with our fellow man, especially because of their plight. We are men and women for and with others.

Sure, that is true most of the time. However, let’s flip the scenario on its head. Imagine now walking past a smartly dressed couple with bags from Gucci, Prada, and Neimen Marcus as they load up their Bentley with their goodies. Do you offer a hello or do anything to acknowledge and connect with them on a personal level and discover what the message is God is trying to present to us through them? Or do you have passing thoughts wondering how they can be that wealthy, how the money they’ve spent could have been “better” spent helping others, or that they obviously appear to have it together and do not need any help? However, we do not know this couple, who they are, what they believe, what they do for others, or what their struggles are despite their outward appearance. We might make bad judgments based on appearance just like others do of the homeless person in the example above and miss an opportunity to meet God through them just like we miss that opportunity when we drive by the homeless man or woman on the street.

God is not more present in the poor than the wealthy, the sick than the healthy, or in the blind man more than the naysayer Jews or Pharisees in the readings. God is fully present in ALL of us. We just need to take the blinders off to see it.

Are you open to the miracles of God’s love like the blind man? Or do you tend to be more skeptical like the Jews and the Pharisees in the readings?
What are some of the daily miracles (big or small) you have witnessed through your journey in JVC? Think about the times you have seen God and His love through others. What about those experiences have allowed you to be open to God in those moments? Have there been times when others have seen God’s love through you? What do you think has allowed them to do that?
What blinders do you wear? Can you think of times in which they may have prevented you from experiencing and seeing God’s love? Are there ways that you might be able to challenge yourself to take these blinders off?
Even the blind man after his sight had been restored was unable to recognize Jesus upon first sight as his human senses blinded him to the truth before him. However, he trusted and believed Jesus when Jesus told him who He was. Have you had experiences this JVC year (or life in general) that have challenged your trust and faith in God or the vastness of His love? How has your trust in your relationship with God helped you work through those challenges?

Many blessings and prayers this Easter season.

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Reflection for April 6, 2014

Jim Swanson

Jim Swanson (Worcester 86, JVC staff 87-89) has worked at Creighton Prep in Omaha as a counselor, teacher, and coach since 1991. He has had two sabbatical years during that time, one in Guatemala and one in Ireland. He is married to Frances, who is from Dublin, Ireland. They have two two sons, Dermot, 15, and Aidan, 13, students at Creighton Prep.

ez 37:12-14

rom 8:8-11

jn 11:1-45

“Jesus wept.” Without a doubt this is my favorite passage in the Bible. The humanity of Jesus shines through in his sadness over losing his friend. Can’t we all relate to that? We lose a friend, a family member, an heirloom, a relationship, a marriage, we lose important “stuff” all of the time and often, we cry. Just like Jesus did.

It feels good to feel like Jesus felt, in such a real way. It also feels good to have a God that feels like us, in such a real way. Jesus was unabashed about his emotions. He was angered in the temple. He cried for Lazarus and he laughed, we can assume, at the wedding feast at Canaan and many other times in his life.

Weeping is usually a sad event. "Jesus wept" takes me back to a long ago day on the streets of Philadelphia during my days on the JVC staff. I remember walking near South Street and a man, obviously down on his luck, came up to a friend and me and sobbed as he asked for money. I was taken aback. How do I respond? Do I ignore? give comfort? give money? offer
to help? cry myself? I was incredibly touched that this man was so despondent that he would bawl to two strangers on the street. Or maybe he was so manipulative that he was willing to debase himself to sobbing in front of strangers to earn a few bucks. Either option is maddening and does make one want to cry at forgotten humanity.

There is a lesson here from Fr. Horace McKenna, S.J., when he was questioned about his service to the materially poor. He said, “Did Jesus ask if someone needs or deserves love or help?” No one serves out of humility and true love. That is a healthy approach to service. Serve out of kindness. Help out of true compassion. Weep like Jesus did to truly feel the joys and pains of our own human nature.

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Reflection for April 13, 2014

Marcos Gonzales SJ

Marcos Gonzales SJ (Chuuk, Micronesia 06-08) is a Jesuit scholastic, studying philosophy at Loyola Chicago. He enjoys running and making music with a Jesuit band called "The Folking Jesuits." He also writes for the Jesuit Post, and you can read more of his writings here https://thejesuitpost.org/author/mgonzalessj/

mt 21:1-11

is 50:4-7

phil 2:6-11

mt 26:14-27:66

Being from Southern California, I have only recently appreciated what it means to have seasons. After experiencing one of the most brutal winters in Chicago’s history, I am incredibly appreciative of what this time of year brings: new life. As the signs of spring begin to manifest in the sprouting buds on trees and the color returning to the grass, I am deeply aware of the process that each of these things had to go through to get there. The trees had to shed their leaves, the grass had to die.

In many ways, it’s difficult to imagine myself at the foot of the cross, hearing Jesus cry out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” The incredible brokenness that he experienced in all his humanity relates to the death and dying of the grass and leaves, and the brokenness that we experience in our own lives.

As JVs we go through some rough experiences that will challenge us, and ultimately “ruin us for life." Perhaps you too have had a moment this year where you have felt broken, abandoned and crying for help in the same way Jesus did. Yet, we are able take hope in the fact that this is not the end of the story. The resurrection comes soon after, the flowers and trees will bloom again, and we too are growing more fully into who God has created us to be.

Where or when have I experienced brokenness and a need to cry out, like Jesus?
What areas of my life need resurrection the most?
How can I be more attentive to the new life around me? Within me?

Loved to Life

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Tue, 22 Apr 2014 21:56:00 +0000

Casa Henriette Delille: Daniel Radwan, Kelsey McLaughlin, Bekah Newman, Jenna Vagts, Jeff Aube and Grace Williams

Loved to Life

Jenna Vagts and Grace Williams, '13 New Orleans

A soil unloved

A garden unborn

The hard ground packed into the grassy back yard

Determination packed into our minds

Brick pieces, bullet casings, bottle glass, and bugs buried in the brown dirt earth

Can this soil be loved to life?

Gardening in our back yard is turning over grass to expose soil, sand, and clay

Not having a shovel or an understanding of what might be underneath

Accomplished-feeling week nights, and weekends

Sharing prior knowledge of past gardening experiences

Making something out of nothing

That is our garden in New Orleans

Our potential legacy in the back yard of the future JV’s.

Passion, energy, mistakes, ambition, skill, ignorance

flow from our fingers dirty and raw into the soil,

Into the seeds, the water, the sprouts, the vegetables.

We’re not gods, but the power is unmistakable.

Buying little seeds with community funds

Transplanting new soil to nourish them

Our knowledge is less than our will.

All the potential held in the small paper envelopes

is just potential without the water, dirt, and sun.

So there we stood

Armed for a battle against all odds,

Armed with borrowed shovels, a cracked watering can, dirty tennis shoes, and a bright Louisiana sun.

Is August too late to start a garden?

Weeks passed and our answers came.

Answers came in the tiny light green sprouts and in the little flower buds.

They came in the shriveled seeds, the barren soil, and the wilting leaves.

They came in our abundance of cucumbers, squash, and basil throughout our New Orleans Autumn.

Now we stood shocked that life burst from this brown dirt earth.

Shocked that this dirt earth produced a fruit that we could eat

Volunteer cilantro spouting where we didn’t expect it to be

Snap peas and mint leaves never made it to our kitchen table

Failing and accomplishing are all a part of gardening.

Planting and watering and weeding

Tomatoes and broccoli still had yet to be seen

Answers came again in our first New Orleans freeze.

An icy January anywhere else, a mild month here in any other year.

Tiny oranging tomatoes clinging to hardy green vines one night

Sad, drooping, defeated, deflated the next day

Cilantro and broccoli--our only survivors of this bad weather

Dirt on hands, dirt on feet, dirt on knees

Washing off and feeling a new sense of clean

Looking up and inventing new recipes

Pesto, pickles, pico, fried southern squash, and leafy greens

Sharing this backyard plot, loved to life, with our community

The first season in this brown dirt earth has come to a closing

Now we turn over the soil

and do it all over again for the Spring.

An Evening Bike Ride

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Tue, 22 Apr 2014 11:58:00 +0000

Mary Schletzbaum '13, Dodoma, Tanzania

Saint Michael's College

An evening bike ride:

a dirt road winding endlessly through fields, villages and back yards;

a small child sucking on the head of a hammer;

a white duck waddling through someone's back yard;

a middle-aged man working in a corn field;

two men pulling wooden carts filled with unidentifiable goods;

several women laughing around a pot cooking something over a fire;

children dressed in white and maroon school uniforms returning home;

a crowd of people holding baskets and bags waiting to board a daladala;

a small girl driving a motorcycle as a father sits behind;

small boys using sticks to steer bucket lids down the road;

deep ruts and puddles from last night's rain;

heavy heads of sunflowers bent over in fields;

a man landscaping a border around a house;

two young men raising a metal gate in a yard;

three women carrying full baskets on their heads emerging from a field;

two men repairing a bicycle puncture alongside the road;

a blue sky filled with white cumulus clouds that sit just out of arm's reach;

a cool breeze promising another nighttime rain;

a friendly parishioner sharing part of his story alongside me;

a sun setting behind the distant mountains;

a time for reflection.

I Understand

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Fri, 14 Mar 2014 16:06:00 +0000

Rebecca Krieger, Susquehanna University' 13, serves at the St. Joseph's Center, Casa Maura Clark, Los Angeles

I understand your anger and frustration; I feel them too. Resources are limited and paperwork endless. No father should have to hide his worry and pretend to smile so that his children do not know how afraid he is that they will have to sleep in their car for another night, let alone another month. Stereotypes persist that everyone who is homeless has done something to somehow deserve it. Patience wears thin quickly.

I understand your questions; I have them too. Why is it so difficult to get this low-income family signed up for desperately-needed welfare? Why was that client denied food stamps? How can people walk down the street and completely ignore the injustices all around? And why, why does this client refuse the help I have to offer?

I understand your exhaustion; I feel it too. I am tired of telling people no, no I cannot help you, I’m sorry. I’m tired of knowing that a client can do everything possible each month to save money and still fall short on rent. As awful and selfish as it sounds, I’m sometimes tired of thinking of everybody else before myself all the time. Our jobs can be both physically and emotionally draining and I am tired of being tired. There are so many problems and I cannot fix them all.

Every now and then, I look around and think, “Something is broken. I think it’s our society.” And it pains me to know that I cannot fix it. Sometimes, I must acknowledge, I contribute to the brokenness.

But then I remember that it is not my place to save the world. Such a feat is beyond my power, and beyond any one of us. In fact, not only can we not save the world, we’re not supposed to. God did not give us dominion over his creation, he gave us stewardship. We are the caretakers of this planet and these people, of each other. We are only asked to care. James 2:14 says, “Faith without works is dead.” In other words, believing in Christ’s message should lead us to care, and that belief and caring should lead naturally to a desire to act on it. Ideally, that means doing everything you can to help, to solve the problems right in front of you and maybe even some bigger ones.

And what is wonderful is that we are not asked to do it alone. We are a “we,” not an “I,” a family, a community of people who have all heard and recognized that call, cared, and decided to try to help in whatever way we can. So we can take all of our frustration, anger, and exhaustion to each other, support each other, and be supported. And maybe someday, while working with the immediate problems, you and I will become part of a bigger solution. But it will not be an individual task or accomplishment, and I look forward to that community.

I don’t think my year in JVC will change the world. But I do hope that God will act through me to create some positive changes, however large or small, in the lives of those I serve. Because a big part of this year, for me, is accepting the role I am to play in caring for this world and these people, as well as accepting all of the anger and confusion that comes with it. It is not easy, but it is worth the good I want to see. Much like James, Mahatma Gandhi said, “To believe in something, and not do it, is dishonest.” I believe in helping, and trying to make any part of this world a better place. I will do this.

You see, I understand your hope; I feel it too.

Bridging the Gap between JVC and Civil Engineering

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Fri, 14 Feb 2014 18:06:00 +0000

Olivia McCracken, a 2013 graduate of the University of Portland, is a Youth Coordinator with Margaret Donnelly O'Connor Education Center at Ethel R. Lawrence Homes in Camden, New Jersey

Bridging the Gap between JVC and Civil Engineering

During spring semester of my senior year at UP, my professors and classmates would ask that question that was all too known, What are you doing after graduation? When the answer, I’m applying to JVC came out of my mouth, I got puzzled looks. So, you spent four years doing engineering and you’re not looking for an engineering job? Of course, their doubt made me question why I was choosing to go a different path and I felt like the odd one out. I began hearing about my classmates who already found jobs or got into grad school, sometimes feeling a little jealous that I was choosing to not go that route. When I got my placement at the Margaret Donnelly O’Connor Education Center, I was very excited to work with kids, but I still had that wonder in the back of my mind, how was I going to use my engineering?

I started at my placement with a vague idea of starting a Lego Club. I had come across a few websites that had challenges for children who wanted to build and send in their pictures to the website. In August, I got a better idea of what my supervisor wanted to see from the potential club so I came up with a proposal. A couple of weeks in I secured $200 from a donor in order to purchase Legos and a set plan. The Lego Club is every other week and provides an opportunity for the kids to learn about a fundamental part of engineering and then to apply what they learned through building. The club was originally started to have a maximum of 10 students per session, but has grown to 25 students per session, mostly first through fourth graders, but some fifth and sixth graders like to participate. The purpose of the club is to get the students interested in engineering by giving them an opportunity to complete a task using the materials given. It also allows them to be creative and work on teamwork, which is always a challenge because some groups end in tears. I did not realize how challenging it would be to take what I have learned and make it understandable for kids as young as first grade. I have used the three little pigs as examples for building houses and what materials are strong enough. It is always very cool to see what creations the kids come up with; they are always so detailed in whatever they build. I have also seen a lot of growth in the kids that participate, some started with hating the idea of coming to Lego club, but every time they participate they build some of the coolest creations. The kid’s ability to work in groups has also improved and they are now able to communicate their ideas to the other kids. Some of things we have learned about have included bridges, skyscrapers and dams. This club has also helped me realize that while it is fun to share my passion for engineering with them, that it is more fun to help them use their creativity and work together.

Kuuliza Si Ujinga: To Ask Is Not Stupidity

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Sat, 18 Jan 2014 01:35:00 +0000

Kathleen Kardos (University of Scranton), Wangari Maathai House, Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania ‘12

When I started thinking about what I would write to mark one year in Tanzania, I had all these great ideas: a clever title, funny stories, and lessons I learned. So, I began writing—I wrote for almost five pages. And when I came to the end of my train of thought, I realized that all the nitty-gritty details were not interesting to anyone, except maybe my mother (and that’s only because she has to be; it’s a part of her job description).

So I reread what I wrote and tried to narrow it down to one idea that I could easily share and that wouldn’t take an hour to read. Luckily, finding a theme in all my rambling was not too difficult. So here it is: If I have learned anything in my first year, it’s about perfection—and how unrealistic it is. As I reread that sentence, it seems silly; it seems obvious. No duh. Nobody is perfect. BUT for a perfectionist like me, it is a difficult realization to accept. As I reflect on this past year, I have learned that I can’t always, and I rarely will, get it right the first time.

In every aspect of my life in Tanzania, I have learned that perfection is far from attainable and that no one ever expected me to be perfect, except for myself. I have imagined and dreamed about being an International Jesuit Volunteer for years. I had it all planned out; I knew exactly how it was going to happen—and I was sure it was going to be perfect. But now, my life, the way I view the world, the way I spend my time, the way I interact with people has changed so much. And for the better, I think, as I move farther and farther away from striving for constant perfection. Mistakes are bound to happen—especially when you live in a foreign country with a drastically different culture.

The first time I made chapatti (like a fried tortilla), they were incredibly salty and dry. The first time I tried to take a dala dala (public bus) home from the city by myself, I got on the one with the less direct route, which made my trip an hour longer than it needed to be and dropped me farther from our neighborhood. The first time I tried to use the verb in Swahili for “to understand” (kuelewa), I used the verb for “to be drunk” (kulewa) instead. When I made all those mistakes, I didn’t think I would ever make it here and was too afraid to ask for help for a long time. I didn’t want to look silly or incompetent by asking too many questions. But making mistakes and asking questions is how a person learns; it took me an entire year to be okay with that fact.

Nothing about my life is perfect, and I am slowly but surely learning to find the beauty in that. I’m still not a master at washing clothes by hand; I am not very good runner (though I did complete my first half marathon on December 8); I don’t always cook the best tasting food; I’m not the best at communicating with friends and family at home (I’m working on it!); I am not the best teacher; I am not always the most wonderful friend; I am not always pleasant to live in community with; the list goes on. But I am still doing all of those things and trying the best I can at them.

I spent my whole first year here trying to figure out how to operate, how to make this experience go smoothly. I have realized that in order to learn and give this experience my all, I will have to become comfortable with often looking like a fool or asking too many questions. The other day I was studying one of my Swahili books, and came across this proverb: “Kuuliza si ujinga,” which means “To ask is not stupidity.” So, that’s what Year Two will be all about… asking questions so that I can learn and do more. I won’t do it perfectly but at least I will have tried.

Christ-más. More Christ

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Tue, 17 Dec 2013 20:08:00 +0000

A Reflection by Megan DeRosier, Xavier'13

Colegio Miguel Pro

Tacna, Peru

When the first Sunday of Advent suddenly appeared, I was a little shocked. It’s December, it’s Christmas, already? Without my usual cues of Christmas – lights on houses, snow and cold, ugly sweater parties, trees of sharing and food drives, Christmas music constantly on the radio, and an inescapable barrage of advertising – I realized how much I have relied on these external cues to alert myself to the Christmas season, instead of preparing my soul for the coming of Christ with real, internal work.

Don’t get me wrong, Christmas is celebrated well here. Last night the students from many schools gathered in the main plaza to sing Christmas carols, and tonight I will join professors from other Catholic schools to sing some more. There are red and green banners on the lights downtown, light up ‘Feliz Navidad’ signs, Christmas music, and a large Nativity scene and huge tree complete with shimmering gold star on top, in the main plaza. But I’m not assaulted by reminders every minute of every day. There is Christmas music on the radio, but I rarely hear the radio. There is absolutely commercial advertising, but as we aren’t downtown shopping, I’m not around it much. It’s also HOT; I am sweating when I am usually shivering in December. It’s just a very different feel. (I hear on Christmas Eve they drink hot chocolate here, even though it’s hot out, and it apparently tastes very different. My thought: it’s chocolate. Score!)

While it is a sad realization that without external/material cues I have to remind myself of Christmas – I feel like I am not the only person on the planet who would admit to feeling this way. It is also an exciting realization that I feel less clutter around me and feel more able to prepare myself more completely for the coming of Christ. I have a real desire to do some inner work this Christmas season to ready and excite my soul when the Savior babe re-comes into the world, but what does it mean to ready and excite my soul? I’ve read great pieces lately on making space, on spending less not only being about money and material goods, but what does all of this mean to me? What do I do with it personally?

There have been a lot of babies being born in my life lately, so I started to think about preparations parents today make for children about to arrive in the world. Though I am not a parent, and this baby coming into the world will always take better care of me than I do of him, should I not prepare in the same way? Parents today paint a room and obtain the necessary furniture to make it a beautiful, loving, comfortable environment where the baby can rest, play, and grow. Do I prepare space in my heart for Jesus to dwell, where we can grow together? Parents spend time choosing a meaningful name for their baby. Do I know what I call Jesus, and what that means to me? Parents read baby books on how to best care for their new being. Do I read to learn more about Jesus’ life and teachings or on how to better care for our relationship? Parents have baby showers. Do I invite my friends to celebrate the coming of Christ with me in word and action? Parents go on ma(pa)ternity leave or stop working in order to care for their child. Do I change my schedule to have plenty of time to spend with and get to know this new precious miracle? Why is welcoming baby Jesus into the world not the same as any other anticipated newborn? This may be simple and obvious, but for me, it was a concrete way to check myself, my thoughts and actions. Am I truly, actively, preparing?

For me, this preparation has been manifesting itself through time and awereness. Spending the time to pray, learn, thank, love, and receive makes me more aware of my thoughts and actions, and fills me with life-giving joy. For me, I have to physically stop. Sit in silence instead of turn on my music. Take moments out of my day to center myself and express gratefulness, frustration, joy or confusion, and receive the comfort graced to me for turning to the only one who can hold all those things for me and for the world. This awareness and time during Christmas, much like the time and awareness spent preparing for a new baby in the family, will help condition me to practice these things all year long, which will hopefully turn into a lifestyle for me.

It will be odd spending Christmas without my parents, sister, and grandparents, and I will obviously be thinking of and missing them. Here though, I am excited to be sharing Christmas with a mix of my host family and my community and to truly be alive with deep joy, awe, and graditude when the baby arrives.

I pray that each of you find time this advent season to prepare in whatever ways you need. May peace, peace, peace (so much peace!) be with you.

Three Months

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Thu, 21 Nov 2013 17:39:00 +0000

Brittany Bachant, a 2013 graduate of Boston College, reflects on the beginning of her 2-year placement in Pohnpei, Micronesia. While teaching a poetry unit to her 7th grade class at Pohnpei Catholic School, Brittany offered an inspirational poem to her students to demonstrate the power of poetry.

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I have been here for a little over three months.

Three months.

I left my home, my family, my friends, my school, everything I love and came here.

Here to one of the most luscious, beautiful, green places I’ve ever seen.

Here to one of the most fragrant, dewy, coconut-y places I’ve ever smelt.

Here to one of the most humid, sweaty, kind, open, generous places I’ve ever felt.

Three months.

And I miss my family and friends more than I ever thought imaginable. I miss the weather, the changing leaves, the seasons, Boston College, jeans, coffee shops, cities…but mostly I miss the people I carry in my heart.

Three months.

And I want them here.

I want them to see, smell, feel what I have.

I want to bring them to mass in Weno, with the singing in the big open church and the service in Pohnpeian. To one of the most sacred experiences – where I always feel immensely peaceful and full of grace.

I want to bring them to school! And have them meet all of you. My students, who are naughty, loud, lazy – but who are also amazing, dynamic, helpful, brilliant, beautiful – inside and out, and so FULL OF LIFE.

I want them to meet Meredith, Kristin, and Brian – my roommates, support system, and family. But it’s okay if they don’t because there will be another chance. These people will be in my life forever.

Three months.

Sometimes it feels like more: eons, centuries, lifetimes. Sometimes it feels like seconds, although less often.

Three months.

And I have a host family that calls me one of their own. Who wonder about my well-being and share their home, food, time and love with me. Me. A family that loves BINGO and laughs when I announce N-silihsek limau. A family made up of at least 50 people who could not be more welcoming.

Three months.

And I’ve fallen. Too fast. I’ve fallen in love. I care too much. I feel hurt and guilty if my students fail or get in trouble because I believe in the goodness of each and every one of them.

Three months.

And my favorite part of the school day is just talking to the students outside of class. And hearing their stories. Stories that are inspiring. Stories that are funny. Stories that are true. I wonder if they know how much I have to learn from them.

Three months.

And I already know Karat are udan yo and I am “pretty good at hula for an American.” But I also know that Pohnpei will challenge me more than I ever thought possible. So many people here want to go to Xavier or college in the U.S. How are they all so brave?

Three months.

And I know that bioluminescence is real and confuses the twinkling stars with the twinkling seas.

Three months.

And I know this is the second wettest place on Earth and the rain often brings the most incredible rainbows. Teaching me that grey skies are the best backgrounds for bright and colorful futures.

Three months.

What will two years be like?

Fields of Detroit

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Wed, 30 Oct 2013 09:00:00 +0000

by Sarah Neitz '12 Albuquerque, '13 Detroit. Photos by Elizabeth Mahoney '13 Detroit.

Detroit is burnt out. There are areas of the city that you drive through and say, "Woah, it's burnt out here," and it's funny, because I think in other places that might be a metaphor. But formerly bustling streets in the city now are eerily unoccupied. Whole blocks are full of empty storefronts, windows punched out with graffiti adorning the inner walls. And everywhere, there are burnt buildings. The night before October is called "Devil's Night" in Detroit, a night where arsonists run wild, burning down abandoned houses for the glory of the flames, or maybe for insurance fraud, or to spite the zoning laws. There are many reasons to burn down a house.

I think what I love best are the fields. This is such a green place. I missed that in New Mexico, and the foliage seems luxurious to me, bursting greenness everywhere.

This is my second year in JVC. I carry the stories of my clients and friends from New Mexico. I carry the knowledge that, often, people don't change. I carry the soul-crushing truth that, often, things get worse.

Some lots, left long enough, become green again. Weeds grow high over the black ash and sodden doorframes. People throw glass bottles and trash into the empty lots, but the green covers them, too: proud Queen Anne's lace bobbing their heavy white heads, cheeky dandelions in the smallest of sidewalk cracks, clover and violets beneath the shadowy remains of human dwellings.

Many Detroiters speak eloquently of the renaissance downtown. I've seen the shiny new buildings, the sleek steel. It looks like a lot of other places I've been.

There is still broken glass in the fields, if you dig beneath the weeds. Some people do dig, and they find that plants will grow. One thing I learned in New Mexico: if a weed can grow in a place, then so can other things.

Out in the fields, the buildings have fallen. Some mornings, dew covers the few bricks left to remind us of what happens. The field aches to tell its story, like so many people I've met. It's pretty, too, responsive to breezes and sunshine.

I'm not here to fix Detroit, or to be the change. I only blow dandelion seeds into the wind and point in joy as they grow. I'd like to sow hope - the hardy kind, that's hard to pull out. The kind of hope that will grow anywhere, that keeps spreading every time a breeze blows.

I think every place needs more weeds.

Hermana Rosario: A Hero for Her Students

noreply@blogger.com (Jesuit Volunteers) — Tue, 29 Oct 2013 19:26:00 +0000

by Brian Harper
JVC '11, Peru
Marquette University '11

Every school needs a hero. Amongst those working at Fe y Alegría 44 in Andahuaylillas, Peru is Hermana RosarioValdeavellano. A Lima native who has lived and worked in the Andes for 40 years, Hermana Rosario, 71, is a nun in the Society of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, a member of the school’s management team and a lifelong defender of the poor and marginalized Fe y Alegría seeks to support.

Fe y Alegría is a popular education movement established in Venezuela in 1955. In Peru alone, there are 79 institutions that serve more than 80,000 children. But Fe y Alegría is more than a simple collection of schools. Teachers work not only to educate young people but also to impact the way they see and live in the world.

“It is a very clear option for the poor,” says Hermana Rosario. “The values are to form Christians who contribute in transforming society from less human to more human, according to the values of the Kingdom or the Gospel.”

Andahuaylillas (pronounced On-duh-why-lee-us) has initial, primary and secondary-level Fe y Alegría institutions and has been home to the movement for 19 years. Working alongside principals, academic coordinators and teachers, Hermana Rosario is a tireless advocate for the roughly 880 students Fe y Alegría educates in the small Andean town. She often travels to Lima to meet with other administrators and to other parts of the world to fundraise on the school’s behalf. Though she does not teach students in the classroom, she takes advantage of Monday morning assemblies to address them as a group and free periods to get to know them as individuals. She also does all of this voluntarily, receiving no salary for her countless efforts to change society and lives.

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