this is a song by an awesome singer i recently came across named lindsey kane. it's helped me a lot recently--check it out, it's really wonderful. other songs i've been impacted by in my time here are "arise and by comforted" by watermark and "you are not alone" by kate hurley.
just when i thought this valley couldn't get any deeper,
just when i thought i was stepping out of it.
just when i thought the mountain was in my view,
that's when i saw You.
You didn't take me out of it, but You joined me in it.
You didn't lift me out of it, but You lifted me up in it.
You didn't pull me out of it, but You pulled me toward You in it,
and i know that i'll be okay.
just when i thought this mountain couldn't get any steeper,
just when i thought i was falling off of it.
just when i thought that valley was in my view again,
that's when i saw You.
(chorus)
Jesus, where would i be without Your sovereignty...
Jesus, where would i be without Your sovereignty...
thank You for this valley...
in it i will praise Thee.
25.3.10
20.3.10
Nina comes to Peru!
My sister Cristina was able to come visit me a couple weeks ago, and it was a great time with a cool little sis (who is not so little anymore...[tear]). We caroused in Lima, didn't sleep for 24+ hours in order to get ourselves to Puno (via the god-forsaken town of Juliaca, also known as hell), and stayed busy in Arequipa. Overall, she was here for six days (tooooo short).
She is a blessing.
Also, thanks to my parents for letting her come and forking over the cash for the plane ticket. :)
**Below: Ginny, Nina and me on our sea lion adventure in Callao; Nina trying to get herself through a hole in Parque del Amor in Lima; Nina and me in Puno on Lake Titicaca. The video is of some ladies singing to tourists. They knew the song in a million languages, including Japanese. The sound in the background is a store in a boat that sells things....you can hear Marta say "Mira la tienda."
She is a blessing.
Also, thanks to my parents for letting her come and forking over the cash for the plane ticket. :)
**Below: Ginny, Nina and me on our sea lion adventure in Callao; Nina trying to get herself through a hole in Parque del Amor in Lima; Nina and me in Puno on Lake Titicaca. The video is of some ladies singing to tourists. They knew the song in a million languages, including Japanese. The sound in the background is a store in a boat that sells things....you can hear Marta say "Mira la tienda."
15.3.10
psalms.
just because...some good words i read the other day.
Psalm 55...
22 Cast your cares on the LORD
and he will sustain you;
he will never let the righteous fall.
Psalm 55...
22 Cast your cares on the LORD
and he will sustain you;
he will never let the righteous fall.
23 But you, O God, will bring down the wicked
into the pit of corruption;
bloodthirsty and deceitful men
will not live out half their days.
But as for me, I trust in you.
Psalm 56...
3 When I am afraid,
I will trust in you.
4 In God, whose word I praise,
in God I trust; I will not be afraid.
What can mortal man do to me?......
13 For you have delivered me from death
and my feet from stumbling,
that I may walk before God
in the light of life.
Psalm 57...
2 I cry out to God Most High,
to God, who fulfills his purpose for me.
10 For great is your love, reaching to the heavens;
your faithfulness reaches to the skies.
11 Be exalted, O God, above the heavens;
let your glory be over all the earth.
13.3.10
forward thinking.
It started with a Southern Living magazine.
I am sitting in a cafe in Arequipa, Peru, which has come to mean home to me. Behind me are Argentines speaking beautiful Spanish. While I listen to this tongue that I love so much, I also long for the South. However, I can't shake the other longing within me: Some seemingly impossible life in South America, Latin America, or Spain.
Flipping through the pages of this coveted gift that my mom sent me in an even-more-coveted box filled with goodies, I am reading the prose that describes my other home, browsing through images of perfect houses in Charleston and New Orleans, and imagining myself attempting these do-it-yourself projects that I know I'll never actually do. Beautiful photographs of my beloved South jump off the page at me: The mountains of Georgia and the coastal towns of the Carolinas remind me of long-ago memories.
And I just start to cry.
I don't think I'm crying because I miss America, but rather because I simply love the Southern states, my old stomping ground. And it hit me: I will be back there in about five months. One would think I'd be happy. Sure, there is excitement in the prospect of return, of seeing my family, hugging my puppies, drinking sweet tea, driving with the windows rolled down on still-sweetly warm August evenings.
But I know myself. I get restless.
I know that when I'm in Georgia, or wherever I end up, I'll miss my Peruanos, my ex-pat friends, drinking mate, going to the market on an almost-daily basis, walking everywhere, and having a ton of ridiculous stories that only come from living in a culture that is not your own.
I can't fathom being in Georgia for too long. I'm deathly afraid of going back to little prospect of getting a job, of living with my parents for who-knows-how-long, of the all-around awful economic situation that America has found herself. Perhaps even scarier is the thought of me staying and getting sucked into suburban vanity. As I read the magazine, I think to myself, "I don't want perfection, I don't want this Southern Living life."
That brings me to this: I don't think I'm meant to live in the United States forever. Or perhaps I should conjecture that I could live in a country not my own. This is a huge realization, one that I am unsure will come to fruition.
God granted my prayer, my dream, to come to a Spanish-speaking country and teach English. This was planted in my heart long before I met Him. He made it better and allowed that dream to evolve into ministry.
As I prepare to leave, to journey into the next step, what would God have me do next? What dreams and prayers set forth will he grant--to His glory?
My mother says that to quench my travel desires, I should be a flight attendant. I pray fervently (and sometimes shed a couple nervous tears) during every little shake on a plane. "Maybe a student tour guide, then?," she suggests. I remember my class trip to Spain when I was 16. God bless my tour guide. I still remember her: Kate, from England. If I were Kate, I would have hurt my obnoxious 16-year-old self. Another no-go.
My desires seem to be all over the place right now, and I confess it's hard to trust the Lord. I don't really know what I want, to be honest. Deep down I do long for stability, for a career, for a family. Kentucky writer Wendell Berry's words echo in my head, with themes of "staying" suspended in my conscious.
What do you do when you've fallen in love with two places, two peoples, and two cultures that are polar opposites? When the thought of leaving your birthplace for a long time floats through your mind, anchors in your heart, and you begin to ache? My stomach twists in knots over this idea of creating a home so far away from the South. From my family, my food, my traditions. My language and my vernacular. My weather, my sports, and my memories. And yet, I'm still enamored with this prospect.
Where is my next stop? Am I meant to practice the art of staying? That would be hard for me, I think. And yet, it would be another lesson to learn.
I am sitting in a cafe in Arequipa, Peru, which has come to mean home to me. Behind me are Argentines speaking beautiful Spanish. While I listen to this tongue that I love so much, I also long for the South. However, I can't shake the other longing within me: Some seemingly impossible life in South America, Latin America, or Spain.
Flipping through the pages of this coveted gift that my mom sent me in an even-more-coveted box filled with goodies, I am reading the prose that describes my other home, browsing through images of perfect houses in Charleston and New Orleans, and imagining myself attempting these do-it-yourself projects that I know I'll never actually do. Beautiful photographs of my beloved South jump off the page at me: The mountains of Georgia and the coastal towns of the Carolinas remind me of long-ago memories.
And I just start to cry.
I don't think I'm crying because I miss America, but rather because I simply love the Southern states, my old stomping ground. And it hit me: I will be back there in about five months. One would think I'd be happy. Sure, there is excitement in the prospect of return, of seeing my family, hugging my puppies, drinking sweet tea, driving with the windows rolled down on still-sweetly warm August evenings.
But I know myself. I get restless.
I know that when I'm in Georgia, or wherever I end up, I'll miss my Peruanos, my ex-pat friends, drinking mate, going to the market on an almost-daily basis, walking everywhere, and having a ton of ridiculous stories that only come from living in a culture that is not your own.
I can't fathom being in Georgia for too long. I'm deathly afraid of going back to little prospect of getting a job, of living with my parents for who-knows-how-long, of the all-around awful economic situation that America has found herself. Perhaps even scarier is the thought of me staying and getting sucked into suburban vanity. As I read the magazine, I think to myself, "I don't want perfection, I don't want this Southern Living life."
That brings me to this: I don't think I'm meant to live in the United States forever. Or perhaps I should conjecture that I could live in a country not my own. This is a huge realization, one that I am unsure will come to fruition.
God granted my prayer, my dream, to come to a Spanish-speaking country and teach English. This was planted in my heart long before I met Him. He made it better and allowed that dream to evolve into ministry.
As I prepare to leave, to journey into the next step, what would God have me do next? What dreams and prayers set forth will he grant--to His glory?
My mother says that to quench my travel desires, I should be a flight attendant. I pray fervently (and sometimes shed a couple nervous tears) during every little shake on a plane. "Maybe a student tour guide, then?," she suggests. I remember my class trip to Spain when I was 16. God bless my tour guide. I still remember her: Kate, from England. If I were Kate, I would have hurt my obnoxious 16-year-old self. Another no-go.
My desires seem to be all over the place right now, and I confess it's hard to trust the Lord. I don't really know what I want, to be honest. Deep down I do long for stability, for a career, for a family. Kentucky writer Wendell Berry's words echo in my head, with themes of "staying" suspended in my conscious.
What do you do when you've fallen in love with two places, two peoples, and two cultures that are polar opposites? When the thought of leaving your birthplace for a long time floats through your mind, anchors in your heart, and you begin to ache? My stomach twists in knots over this idea of creating a home so far away from the South. From my family, my food, my traditions. My language and my vernacular. My weather, my sports, and my memories. And yet, I'm still enamored with this prospect.
Where is my next stop? Am I meant to practice the art of staying? That would be hard for me, I think. And yet, it would be another lesson to learn.
11.3.10
preparation.
I never thought I'd share this with the internet world. The thing is, I'm currently writing like a crazy woman, and I think this poem will not only help me craft the words that will be coming to you shortly, but it will also give you a glimpse into the emotion I'm feeling.
I wrote this for a class I took my senior year of college (spring 2008, now about two years ago). I loved that class (shout out to my prof, Greg McClure), and writing an "I Am" poem was one of my favorite assignments.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I am Sarah Junco.
I am from my mother and my father,
from the rolling hills of the South and the dense jungles del caribe.
I am the red clay under my fingernails.
I am honeysuckle summer sweetness dissolving on my tongue.
I am fireflies squished in my hand,
accidentally, of course.
I am in the dusk, and it in me,
riding bikes up and down streets for hours.
I am splashing in puddles after the rain.
I am five-cent lemonade on the corner.
I am summer water and fall mountain mist,
the sound and sight ever with me.
I am sweet tea y cafe con leche, collards and arroz con pollo.
I am chocolate anything.
I am "Iced Venti Americano, Unsweetened, please."
I am mama's spaghetti, the best thing she makes.
I am my father's daughter, cereal as midnight snacks.
Yo soy una mujer, una hija, una hermana, una nieta,
who has orgullo to be una Americana, pero tambien,
Yo soy una mezcla.
I am a wanna-be 'hippie,' and too-easily influenced by fads.
I am, and always will be, friend to dogs, suspicious of cats.
I am a Bulldog, bleeding red and black forever.
I am blessed with big dreams: Some faded, not failed, some yet to pass.
I am filled with the music of generations, always eclectic.
I am dew drops, skin-settling on early Athens' mornings.
I am dust collecting on the bookshelves, surrounded by friends.
I am ink in my veins.
I am from the I AM.
I am a Follower of Jesus Christ.
"I am making all things new," He says.
I am newly born, newly made, a new creation:
I am free.
I am for a reason, and
I am just beginning.
I wrote this for a class I took my senior year of college (spring 2008, now about two years ago). I loved that class (shout out to my prof, Greg McClure), and writing an "I Am" poem was one of my favorite assignments.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I am Sarah Junco.
I am from my mother and my father,
from the rolling hills of the South and the dense jungles del caribe.
I am the red clay under my fingernails.
I am honeysuckle summer sweetness dissolving on my tongue.
I am fireflies squished in my hand,
accidentally, of course.
I am in the dusk, and it in me,
riding bikes up and down streets for hours.
I am splashing in puddles after the rain.
I am five-cent lemonade on the corner.
I am summer water and fall mountain mist,
the sound and sight ever with me.
I am sweet tea y cafe con leche, collards and arroz con pollo.
I am chocolate anything.
I am "Iced Venti Americano, Unsweetened, please."
I am mama's spaghetti, the best thing she makes.
I am my father's daughter, cereal as midnight snacks.
Yo soy una mujer, una hija, una hermana, una nieta,
who has orgullo to be una Americana, pero tambien,
Yo soy una mezcla.
I am a wanna-be 'hippie,' and too-easily influenced by fads.
I am, and always will be, friend to dogs, suspicious of cats.
I am a Bulldog, bleeding red and black forever.
I am blessed with big dreams: Some faded, not failed, some yet to pass.
I am filled with the music of generations, always eclectic.
I am dew drops, skin-settling on early Athens' mornings.
I am dust collecting on the bookshelves, surrounded by friends.
I am ink in my veins.
I am from the I AM.
I am a Follower of Jesus Christ.
"I am making all things new," He says.
I am newly born, newly made, a new creation:
I am free.
I am for a reason, and
I am just beginning.
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