God in the Rubble

It has been two and a half years since I have posted on this blog. In 2010 I posted about studying abroad in Cape Town (those posts are now hidden). In 2014, about working in Nairobi and traveling in East Africa and Europe.

I am now in my third year at Yale Divinity School, and well into the process of becoming an ordained pastor in the Lutheran Church (God-willing). I have been exposed to amazing thinkers. Developed many of my own thoughts. Yet in some ways I have crawled into a shell of uncertainty, unsure of what I have to say in this world of competing doctrines and agendas.

It's time to come out of that shell. I'm challenging myself to post, at least once a month or more often. If you are reading this -- hold me to it!

Here is the sermon that I preached this morning, November 13, 2016 at Bethesda Lutheran Church in New Haven. It was my first sermon from a pulpit. The text was Luke 21:5-19.

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Good morning. It is an honor to be with you. My name is Liesl, and I am a third year Masters of Divinity student up the hill. I am a Lutheran heading toward ordination, and Pastor Keyl invited me to give a sermon today.

I’m grateful to him and to you for this opportunity to preach after such a week in our country. My hope is proclaim today that God is present with us, even in the midst of disorientation and pain.

In Luke chapter 21, Jesus speaks to his disciples about a time of terror—when nations will rise against nations, when there will be earthquakes and plagues, persecution and hatred.

I have wrestled with passages like this in the Bible, passages in which it seems that God is predicting, and somehow calling into being, a world of suffering.

On Tuesday night, my eyes and perhaps yours too, were opened to a level of division in our country that I hadn’t seen before. That I hadn’t wanted to see.

I hadn't wanted to see that a candidate’s harmful remarks could appeal to so many people. I hadn’t wanted to see the disenfranchisement of rural Americans.

I hadn’t wanted to see that we have shamed each other and spoken past each other to the point of not seeing each other. That I am implicated in this.

I hadn’t wanted to see that the media, my interpreters of world events, really do not have their fingers on the pulse.

In this country, our country,

I don’t know who we are anymore.

I don’t know who I am in this moment, in this place.

No matter who you voted for on Tuesday, one painful thing is clear: we are a country divided. Now our eyes are open to each other. And we are disoriented, bewildered. Many people are afraid. Many are angry.

With this realization, I found that in this passage, Jesus is not calling into being a world of suffering and separation— He is describing the world as it already is. A world in sin.

Jesus preaches to his listeners that the temple shall be thrown down, stone by stone. The temple—a building which at that time was at the heart of Jewish identity. Where you go to offer sacrifice, to make your standing right with God. The temple—where you go to find God.

If the temple is destroyed, Jews may have wondered, then who are we? Where is God? And who among us can we trust to lead?

Does this disorientation sound familiar?

When temples in our lives—the institutions and values at the heart of our identities—are threatened, or even crumble, we may ask ourselves the same questions.

Jesus describes for his listeners wars and division, earthquakes and famines, persecution and split families. But the hardest and the scariest part of this reality is that the temple is gone.

We are living in a new and uncertain place, and we don’t know who we are.

Yet, Jesus speaks into this moment. God does not run away from the ruins. God is here.

It is in this place, in the rubble of the temple, that God assures us “Don’t be terrified.” But testify.

“Don’t prepare in advance,” Jesus says, “For God will give you words and a wisdom.”

God has something to give us here, in the midst of the rubble, in the heart of our wounds.

God gives us words and a wisdom,

that we might testify.

Notice that Jesus doesn’t say, “Then the world will stop fighting, and people will make up their differences, and everything will be fine.”

Jesus doesn’t promise resolution.

Notice the juxtaposition in verses 16 through 18:

“They will put some of you to death. You will be hated by all because of my name.”

and immediately after, “But not a hair of your head will perish.”

How can these both be true?

The world in our lifetimes will not be cured,

But eternally, we are already healed.

In God’s love, we are safe.

And so we endure this world, holding fast to the good news that God has already secured our salvation.

Let us consider the temple again.

The temple is not only a building in history,

The temple is not only institutions in our lives,

But the temple is God’s own body in Christ Jesus.

Christ took on flesh, and Christ was destroyed in that flesh, stone by stone, on the cross,

So that God might be fully present in the most painful moments of human history.

In the destruction of his bodily temple,

Christ did away with the need for sacrifice,

For us to do anything to gain our lives, to know who we are.

God has made Her way to us, in the midst of the rubble,

to say, I am here.

And you are mine.

Friends, that is who we are.

We are God’s beloved.

So it is here, in the ruins of the temples of our lives,

in the ruins of God’s own body,

where we receive Christ,

In the Word of God,

and in our hands at the Table.

In our brokenness,

We receive God, who broke Herself for us.

Let us open our eyes and our hearts

to God’s presence in this moment

and in this place.

Amen.

Home and Family

The last chapter of this journey was joining up with my family in Munich, where we joined a tour group to hike and adventure through the alps of Germany and Austria. Afterwards, my parents and I spent an extra week in Salzburg, Vienna and a day in Bratislava before flying home.

I couldn’t begin to account for all of the fun things we did. So rather than say what we did, I’ll say how it was:

So nice to be with my people.

I love the moments between moments. Sitting next to my mom on the bus, and playing cards with my dad, and laughing with my sister in law, and noticing how grown up my brother is.

I guess sometimes you have to go far away to do the things that feel most like home.

***

To answer the frequently asked question, being back is not so strange. Spending my last few weeks in the western world with the people I was most eager to see made for a very smooth transition.

Maybe it’s also easy because I have adjusted my expectations for who will be interested in hearing my stories, and to what extent. It is easier to ask for updates about other people’s lives in the past six months than to try to summarize my own. We have short attention spans for stories that depart from already-known people and places.

This is not to sound disparaging - It’s true for me too, and I think most people.

So credit goes to Grandpa B for having so many genuine and detailed questions when I first saw him and Grandma. It means a lot to know that he has been invested and interested in every step of my journey. Thanks, Grandma and Grandpa. I love you.

***

Friends, I am home. I have been home. It feels like I’ve been carrying home around with me this whole time.

My heart has grown with new friends and passion and understanding. But there is still a deep longing for my cousin that I know will always be there. Five and fifty years from now, it will be there.

Everything is changed, and nothing is changed. And that feels about right.

Ode to Ireland

Ode to Ireland,

Where we walked the Wicklow Way

Glendalough to Glenmalure to Kyle to Shillelagh

Meeting Irish day hikers

Each one commenting on the lovely weather, without fail

Where we wandered over hill of timber and steps of schist, through farm gates and past more sheep than we could count in our sleep

And waded through fields of purple flowers

And relished each step, saying,

This is what we came here for.

Ode to Ireland,

Where we rented a car and drove to the west coast

And yelled for joy when we came over the hill for our first view of Dingle Bay

Where we stayed with Margaret in the Last Cottage

And met housemates who would become drinking buddies

Hopping through pubs brimming with music and foamy stout on tap

Where we kayaked on the sea

Through caves and over sea swells and under intimidating cliffs

And past Fungi, Dingle's very own dolphin.

Ode to Ireland,

Where we stuffed ourselves at breakfast, snacked through the day and split a meal at night

With frequent exceptions for ice cream and beer

Where we drove on the left

R with maps on her lap, and me at the wheel

Pulling over at every lookout

Scraping up against bushes on narrow single-lane roads

Circling roundabouts until we decided which exit to take

And returned the vehicle with a mysterious crack in the brake light

But we thought we did very well, all in all.

Ode to Ireland,

Where we lingered at the Cliffs of Moher

And arrived in Galway at nightfall

With just enough time for a drink at the Quays and a few hours of sleep

Before the morning ferry to Inishmore

Where we saw an ancient fort falling into the sea,

Three thousand years old

And where we saw a baby calf, just born, blinking its first blinks in the bright sunlight

And where after dinner, I hiked to the lighthouse at the highest point on the island

To see the sun set at 10:15pm

With no one in sight

Until a car full of locals pulled up to catch the dregs of red light

And gave me a ride home.

Ode to Ireland,

Where back in Dublin we embraced our tourist desires

Hopped on and off buses

Laughed at witty tour guides

Saw Trinity College, the Jameson Whiskey Factory, the Museum of Archeology

And evensong at St Patricks Cathedral.

Ode to Ireland,

Where we said good bye

Knowing we could gush over memories soon enough

And make custom mugs with our selfies

Shamelessly delighted with it all.

Miniature Wonders

Lift up your hearts!

Today, a post in honor of our grand, healthy, newest love — the aptly named Eliza Joy. Congratulations Danielle and Jordan! We are dancing for you!

So folks, Ireland. What can we say? Not much. Too exhausted. But briefly...

My college (and soon to be grad school) roommate R and I are hiking the Wicklow Mountains. We have just completed our second of three days. Today, 14 miles and 1900 feet of ascent. Not bad.

But for all the big views, what makes Ireland feel like Ireland is the micro scenery: peaks into mossy groves; water trickling over rocks; sun sparking on schist, crumbling beneath your feet; and grass in as many shades of green as you care to count. It makes you feel like a leprechaun could show up at any second. Magical, mystical, fairy tale. This is a very special place.

Loves, raise your glass of Guinness. Here's to the miniature wonders of the world!

Whales and Harbors

When I returned to Paris from Taize– just for one day, before I set off again to the south–M and I discussed young people and old people.

He explained what a priest had once told him. That young people are like whales in the ocean. They move a lot of water. You can hear their cries from miles away. They are an enormous presence, they cross oceans, they move in groups. They are entire ecosystems unto themselves. (I don't know if the priest said that last part but I think it's true.)

But whales, for all their motion, need harbors. Places they can come back to, that don't move. Safe places. M said, older people can be like harbors for young people.

Whales and harbors.

After turning around in Paris, I spent three days this week in Dordogne visiting M and B, friends of my parents. They live in a hamlet, a small group of houses in the middle of French countryside. The region (and most of France I think) is organized by small villages each about a day's walk from each other.

Every village has a church, a town hall, some have small schools.

The region is covered in forest and agriculture. There are layers and layers of history to be found– prehistoric caves next to 16th century churches built on medieval ruins, etc. The churches are amazing, each one beautiful and different in its own way.

M and B got a kick out of showing me around their favorite places, and I was very happy to be shown. They keep a garden, flowers and fruit trees. Each breakfast we had B's freshly made jam with fig bread and coffee. A homegrown and homemade kind of place.

Then back to Paris for my last three nights. I have been lucky that two good friends from home are also here, so it has been wonderful to connect with them and enjoy the city. We mostly wandered by foot and stopped to eat as often as we could justify.

And of course, I spent time with the lovely M and V and their daughters, being comfortable in their home, laughing at everything and anything. Their way of speaking to each other reminds me of a sitcom. (It helps that I don't understand French.)

As M drove me to the airport this morning before 5am, I shared my realization with him that he is a harbor for a lot of people, not just his own daughters. Yes, he said, for priests and artists and Spitzes too.

So I said, eeeeeeeeeeeeeooooooouuuuuaaaaaeeeeeoooooaoaaaaaeeeeeoooooooooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuhhhhh!

Which is whale-speak for "thank you."

With my Work (in Kenya) and Staying With Friends (in Uganda and France) chapters now complete, I am now entering the Purely Tourist chapter. This enormous fish has just arrived in Ireland.

To you and yours, friends– the time is going to fly, and soon we will see each other again!

PSA #4-6

4. When making a train transfer, please pay attention both to the platform AND the exact departure time. Or else, friend, you will realize in a few stops that you are not headed to Paris as planned.

5. If you ARE taking the scenic route, it would be convenient if there is also a national train strike going. Because: you will fit in with your confusion; It is unlikely someone will ask for your ticket; Being extremely late is now in fashion.

6. In such cases it is advisable that you purchase a baguette sandwich as soon as possible, to heighten your enjoyment of "the ride."

Taizé, Part Two

Loves,

Here is part of a letter I wrote during this past week in silence. The week, in short, was boring, a bit maddening, and profound.

Enjoy.

...

I'm writing on my fourth of five full days of silence. We are about 15 girls altogether, living in a beautiful old house with an enormous garden in the tidy French countryside.

It has been a week to send my best friend Skepticism away on vacation. A week to suspend disbelief, and fall into a world of faith.

The most challenging part has been not lack of communication (maybe because I've broken that rule) but lack of mental distraction. No music, podcasts, books, nothing to pull me out of the present moment. That's the thing. The silence is supposed to be internal.

But quiet is rarely ever quiet. It's more a chance for the shy feelings in me to come out and have their say - the ones I usually drown out with Beyonce. (Bless her.)

What I've been feeling is longing. For Tiffany. For my love. For my future.

In think in some way, we are all longing, that it's part of being human. Longing for people, for places, for futures, but most of all longing to be loved.

I think God is in the longing.

Not that one necessarily longs for God— but that as we long, God is there.

There is a song here that goes, "I am sure I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living." I find that one very hard to sing. It reminds me of the reception center in Kakuma.

It's not that there was no hope or goodness there, but I didn't sense God in the goodness. I sensed God in the desperation.

At the moment there are hundreds of German teenagers in Taizé for essentially a week of bible camp. (Lord help us.) Too many of the girls appear unhealthily skinny. I saw one girl in short shorts with straight scars in rows up her thigh. There is desperation here too.

It reminds me of Jesus showing his scars to the disciples, to prove that he was the same person who had suffered and died on the cross.

What matters is not that God is good.

But that God is God.

Which somehow feels like something I can hold onto. It's enough.

Even when Skepticism comes back from holiday, refreshed and rejuvenated- it will still be enough.

I have one and a half days of silence to go, so if Jesus comes to me in a ray of light, or if any woodland creatures start talking to me, I'll be sure to let you know.

...

There were no woodland creatures.

This morning we broke silence - it was really fun to finally learn the names of the girls in the house, who I had come to know as "the one with the beautiful soprano voice" or "the one who doesn't eat cheese." I learned that I was "the one who laughs out loud during bible study."

Now - onward. Back to Paris then to the Southwest for a few days. Yet another chapter of travels waits ahead!

Taizé, Part One

Friends,

It's been one week in Taizé and I'm already losing words. You would think that spending hours each day in song, silence and reflection would give rise to beautiful formulated thoughts. But at least so far, this has been a time of unwinding, undoing, unthinking. Letting words fall away.

In prayer, I try to focus on listening to the soundscape surrounding me, whether it be a chorus of sniffles and coughs or wind in the trees. I learned in high school choir to listen to the group as a whole rather than only my voice or section. I'm finding that philosophy applies to any moment when I have the wherewithal to pay attention.

In more concrete terms, my week at Taizé has consisted of attending morning, midday and evening services, a daily chore, a bible study with one of the brothers, eating, walking, hiking, running, and getting to know people here from around the world. The schedule is simple, the place is clean, the scenery is beautiful, and the people are friendly.

It's a place just to be for a while. To remember that every moment is a gift.

This coming week I will be in silence, staying with the sisters in the next town over. I'm hoping I will be a good time to process this journey that is suddenly mostly over. How did that happen?

Until soon loves.

From South to West

The train station at terminal two of Charles de Gaulles buzzes with efficiency and self-sufficiency. The schedule is on the board. The tickets are at self-serve kiosks. Figure it out, move quickly, don't ask questions. But if you must, ask the man at the information booth.

When I went to the information booth, of course, the man rolled his eyes when I started with "How are you?" Maybe I should have asked, "Where are we?"

Contrast this train station to the bus park in Kampala, where I arrived with  D four days ago to get a ride to Fort Portal in western Uganda.

Downtown Kampala, crammed with people and public taxis and trucks spewing smoke. I mean crammed. Every inch of space is fair game for the next person or object who cares to squeeze into it. I follow D as we weave through crowds, him often grabbing me as we cross the street to be sure I stay out of the path of motorcycles. As we near the bus park, three or four men hurriedly approach to guide us to their respective companies. D has an exchange with one—at the time I think he's telling the man to leave us alone, but he's actually agreed for us follow him.

We head in. I hold on. Buses are parked tightly next to each other, a mere one or two feet between, enough for one person to pass through and board the bus.

Once on board, the aisle is packed, if not with passengers getting on and off, then vendors hawking watches, socks, toys, electronics, drinks, snacks, and full meals on plastic plates.

The bus does not have a schedule. It will leave when every seat is full. We wait for an hour before heading out.

Kampala's bus park is chaotic, unnavigable without my companion. The place demands intuition, dependency on friends and strangers.

In Charles de Gaulles, you could be a robot and find your way without a hitch. In fact, I doubt people would notice a robot getting on the train as long as it didn't bother anyone.

Friends, I have arrived in the land of earbuds and wifi and automatically flushing toilets. People relate to their gadgets, to maps, to systems. You do you, I'll do me over here. Mind your own business.

Uganda is relational. Your business is my business is our business is his business over there. We are in this together.

This comes with a sense of moral imperative, too. Mob justice and sweeping social policies. I once heard an argument break out on a public taxi, about whether the passengers wanted to squeeze in more people and each pay a lower price. Eventually one woman turned to another and said, "You are the source of conflict here. Get out." She did.

Despite their differences, both places work. People get where they want to go. The man at the information booth in Charles de Gaulles let me know that I had been trying to swipe my receipt rather than my ticket. Ah yes. Thank you, I'm on my way. To Paris.

Paris!

Please don't get me wrong.

All of my culture shocked griping aside, I love Paris. Really. Wow. Although I'm not sure if I was more excited about eating a croissant or drinking tap water. It's going to take a while for this all to sink in.

Just two hours after my plane landed, I walked up to the door of V and M, family friends who are kindly hosting me as home base for the next three weeks. M is an artist who became friends with my mom at business school in Chicago many years ago. He and V have four daughters. They live in a beautiful home.

V fed me breakfast, helped me get a SIM card, showed me where to get my hair cut, taught me how to use the laundry machine. I sauntered around in the one clean piece of clothing I had—a dress that was too short to wear in Uganda. In a house full of petit French women, V lent me the biggest sweatshirt she could find to keep me warm.

I have arrived.

I am on my way.

I am writing from the train—a very fast, clean train that left on time—eating the last peanuts from a bag that D and I bought for the bus ride back to Kampala, after two days of hiking and dancing and marveling at sunsets in Fort Portal.

This train is taking me to Macon Loche, where I board a bus to Taizé - a Christian community where I will spend the next two weeks. If you read about it on Wikipedia you will know more than me. All I expect is that I will be spending a lot of time singing and praying.

Which leads me to a last thought - an anecdote that has stuck with me for the past few weeks.

Someone asked Mother Theresa what she says when she prays to God. She said, "I listen." Then, she was asked, what does God say?

"God listens."

Thank you for listening to me, loves. Here's to our open ears and minds and hearts. On we go.

*note this was posted a day after it was written!

Aesthetically Speaking: Budondo

Friends, this is overdue. Blame it on a lack of wifi in the past three weeks. I write today from Paris, but Paris will have to wait. First, Budondo.

In the past I have obsessed over finding purpose for my trips to the village. Research, workshops, discussion, whatever justified the time. This trip was different. I had little to no agenda and relaxed into the day to day with the family. Moments between moments. Time moved slowly but the days flew by.

Budondo is a tiny corner of the world, and yet a world within itself.

Bukoko, baby chicks, picking for bits of food around the front yard, sleeping in heaps in the smoky kitchen after dark, running over my bare feet screaming chio chio chio!;

Impassible sugarcane fields, thick gardens of bananas, vegetables and wildflowers, sweet potatoes growing in neatly lined heaps of dirt, passion fruit seedlings creeping up banana fiber ropes;

Water warmed over wood fires, mixed with cool water in a plastic bin for your shower, splashed with your hands over your shoulders, stomach, knees, hair, feet, in that order;

Squat toilets, cleaned meticulously, daily, smelling fresh, haunted by the occasional lonely fly. Look up and spot the biggest spider you've ever seen, who diligently keeps the pests away;

Drinking and cooking water pumped and hefted home in jerrycans from the nearby borehole. Note that yours truly has set a personal record of carrying two 3/4-full cans in one go;

Clothes washed by hand in plastic bins with bubbly detergent and bar soap. Scrub twice, rinse once. 

Fabric on fabric. Let the boys clean the towels and the jeans, tough on the hands. With enough sun, it's all dry by evening;

Early morning runs around the village, followed by pointing and screams of children, Mzungu Mzungu, white person white person!;

Morning greetings followed by humming call and response: "wasuzeotia sebo, bulungi, kale, wena wasuzeoyia nyabo, bulungi, kale, mmm, mmm, mmm, mmm...";

"Alikuega lusoga". Yes, I'm learning lusoga. "Eeeeeh benange, my god...";

Schedules follow meals and weather rather than clocks. For instance: "We will go after we take breakfast, which is after we fetch fresh chapati, which is after the chapati making lady finishes 10 pieces, but it's raining this morning so she started late. So maybe we'll go after lunch";

When it rains, it roars. Tin roof turns deafening. In my room, mice nest in the rafters. Mornings after the rain I find a baby fallen on the floor, to take outside and throw into the banana plants. Sad day, but that's life;

Mama and Betty cook on three stones over a wood fire in a closed room. I love to sit, listen, chop veg and laugh along, but when the smoke gets too much I have to leave;

Sometime I just sit close by and touch my hand to mama's shoulder, to show I'm paying attention and appreciating;

Tea with every meal. And when I'm lucky, hot, fresh, whole milk boiled with ginger. With a spoonful of sukali, sugar;

For breakfast lunch or dinner, matoke, mutiere, cassava, posho, beef stew, beans, eggs, greens, cabbage. Served with hot sauce, my personal contribution to the meal;

Evening stories from Mukisa, Dad, whose every thought is animated with a smile, punctuated first with "Ah ha! You see:" and concluded with a sigh, a chuckle... then "Yes";

The night still with crickets and wind blowing in the sugarcane, every bed creak and footstep echoing, then before I know it the rooster crowing, then dishes clanging, and voices murmuring. Morning;

And more and more and more.

Corners and Chapters

Just a few days left in Kenya. It's hard to look at endings. I didn't realize how much of a nest I built up here with the help of some wonderful friends. Something about the environment - whether it's planning a weekend adventure, finding the best peanut butter at the grocery store, figuring out how to cook new vegetables or navigating ever-changing security issues.... This is a place to make fast friends.

Saying good bye to C, my coworker, housemate and best friend here was especially hard. Who knows when we will meet again, Australia being where it is. (Really Australia... so far!)  But sad as I am, I feel lucky to have met him. It is a great reminder that a new best friend might always be around the corner.

So, speaking of what's around the corner: While I'm putting finishing touches on my life novel entitled "filmaid: my first real job," I'm also setting up my Yale Divinity School email and perusing classes for the fall. The identity shift from working-for-salary to all-for-the-sake-of-knowledge hasn't happened quite yet, but it's out there. I'm excited.

And in the meantime, a beautiful chapter of vacation and life adventures has just started. Mom has been here for a week. We have enjoyed breakfast with elephants in the Maasai Mara, meeting my Nairobi friends, nursing me back to health from an infection (thanks Mom!) and most recently a harrowing hike around the rim of a volcano crater. Let's just say it involved more rock climbing than she bargained for. Basically my mom is a champion, first to fly herself to Nairobi and second to go on these adventures I've (mostly, sometimes inadequately) planned!

That's all for now. Thankfully part of finishing with FilmAid was also giving back my laptop, which means I am largely screen-free for three months! So at the risk of being bad at email and posting less often... I am enjoying reading actual books, looking at things far away and making more eye contact. What a concept.

Much love, friends.

Easter in Kakamega

I spent this Easter weekend with B, an 81 year old Kentucky-born missionary who has called Western Kenya her home since 1982.

B lives in a mud house, plastered and painted to look like a brick house: a small island of Americana way out in the bush. Inside the walls are bright yellow, with dark blue flowered fabrics for curtains, velvet-upholstered furniture, two bedrooms and a bathroom. B takes bucket showers with river water and washes her vegetables with bleach solution. She throws her compost under a banana tree she's growing in the back yard, feeds meat scraps to a dog who lives on the front porch, and burns any remaining trash once a week. B told me about her own grandma who worked a midwest farm on her own until she turned 100. B, it seems, is on the same track.

It's a cozy home and B has everything she needs, including power, an oven, a refrigerator and several close Kenyan friends, neighbors, family and frequent visitors. On Saturday we got on the back of two piki pikis (motorcycles) to take the 40 minute bouncy ride over dirt roads to Kakamega town, where B does her weekly grocery shopping. We brought home huge bags of groceries, tied with strips of tire onto the back of the piki pikis. B's driver also held between his arms a big jug of bottled drinking water. This week, groceries included a treat– canned peaches. "Don't tell them I'm not suffering" she told me.

But B does miss pickles, pudding, jello and chocolate chips, and brings them back from the United States anytime she goes. For Easter weekend we baked four loaves of banana bread (three of which to give away) and made potato salad with olives. B taught me to play 13, her favorite form of solitaire. I taught her how to text. Over one dinner conversation she recounted the entire detailed plot of the Silvester Stalone movie Cliffhanger, complete with her critique of his mountain climbing technique (for she herself was a climber and a spelunker before she moved to Kenya). The 15-minute story ended with a prompt, "Well that was a pretty good movie, I guess." It was a fabulous time. In a big way, I felt like I was with my own wonderful grandparents.

So what is B doing so far away from home? She is building a health clinic next to her house, which will have outpatient services, a pharmacy and a maternity ward. B is a nurse–a profession that has served her very well–and has set up multiple clinics around Kenya since 1982. While she gets some donations from churches in the U.S., she supplements those funds with her own small pension and social security check. There's no doubt she's bringing something good to the community she lives in.

But first and foremost, B is a missionary, spreading the gospel come hell or high water. Suffice it to say B and I have very different approaches to Christianity. I have a lot of opinions and feelings about that, but this is not the place. If you're interested in unpacking it with me, let's do it face to face and preferably over a drink back in the States.

Our differences didn't stop us from eating, praying and celebrating Easter together. B brought me to the mission church on Sunday, where congregations from five different churches gathered to meet the American visitor (me) and celebrate Easter. Fifty or sixty people gathered in a big mud building–some of whom had been walking since the break of dawn to arrive around 11, when the service started. B and I stayed for the two hours of beautiful music, lots of announcements, and three sermons including one from B. Six or seven pastors were present, all men. I myself stood up when asked to give a testimony– I introduced myself, said some things about Jesus and resurrection and hope, and taught the congregation a song (St. Lydia's-style). Friends, that might have been my first ever sermon, clocking in at three minutes!

I'm very lucky to have gotten to know B's amazing world. She treated me as her own granddaughter, showered me with love and gifts, and was sad to see me go. She is an extraordinary person, and her story will stick with me for a long time.

Close Encounters

The past couple posts have been a pretty heavy, so it's time for a good old fashioned wildlife photo shoot. This is from our visit to an animal orphanage in Nanyuki, a three hour drive towards Mt. Kenya. C took these on his fancy camera.

Waterbuck give wet kisses.

Black and white colobus monkey shares his secret: woo visitors into giving him bits of potato.

The regal crowned crane.

Bongo Bongo Bongo Warthog Warthog Zebroid* Bongo.

Pigmy hippos only ask to be taken seriously.

Are you porcupining for a bite of compost?

Samango monkey helps himself.

Oh hello!

And finally...

The hungry cheetah.

 That's all folks!

*Zebroid is a cross between a zebra and a horse.

Landscapes

Lately I've been more serious, more lost in my thoughts. Visiting Kakuma has brought me back to Tiffany's death. I've realized the past few months in Kenya have provided some welcome distraction from grief.

I've started to think about emotions as landscapes that take shape over the course of our experiences. Some places form over long periods of time, the way glaciers carve out valleys. Some places change suddenly, the way volcanoes burst open the earth.

Tiffany's death was a terrifying earthquake. The world is a different place.

There's something to be said for seeing a place with your own eyes. Maybe I had read the guidebook and seen the photos. But I had never experienced grief like this. Not like this. Now it's part of my body, my internal landscape.

What does grief look like? It is cavernous. It is dark. It is empty. It is craggy. It is deep. Over time, maybe this place will be smoothed over by the weather. It will be less frightening as I become familiar with its cracks and corners. It will be a place to share with my fellow humans.

In the days after Tiffany's death, I thought about other people who live with grief. People who live in places of violence and disaster. People I have never met. People I meet every day. It makes me realize the many emotional places I have never seen or imagined that might be central to another person's life. Truth is what you experience.

Undoubtedly, my experience with grief is tied to faith. Resurrection has never been so true for me as it is now. When Jesus died, the earth shook, the sky went dark, the temple curtain tore from top to bottom. The world was a different place.

If emotions have geography, they also have seasons. At last the spring is here to shed some light after a long, dark winter. Easter is only two weeks away. It will be especially important for my family this year, as we remember that three days after Jesus died,

He rose.

There is life in death. There is hope in disaster. God is not finished.

The Edge of Humanity

I spent last week in Kakuma refugee camp in northern Kenya, close to the border with South Sudan. The camp now has 150,000 people from more 10 countries, with South Sudanese and Somalis each making up a third, and the rest coming from all over Africa and the world.

Kakuma is, for a start, the single hottest place I have ever been. Imagine Texas, during a heat wave, with no air conditioning, and all dust. When it rains, the dust turns to huge sloshing mud, and water flows right through the floor of the tents where new arrivals stay. When it doesn't rain, there are dust storms so thick you can't see ten feet in front of you.

Yeah - it's miserable. No wonder Kenya is happy to lease the land to the UNHCR. This is a place for people who have nowhere else to go.

On Monday, C and I got to visit a screening FilmAid was putting on at the reception centre for new arrivals. Between 300 and 700 people arrive every day fleeing violence in South Sudan. However they get themselves to the border–by foot, bus or car–the UNHCR then picks them up in huge trucks, that travel along a paved road to Kakuma. At the reception centre, they are registered, provided meals and tents, and health care as needed. In a few days they will be moved to Kakuma 3 or 4, sections on the outskirts of the camp, to live in big white UNHCR tents.

It had just rained when we got to the centre, and the place was overrun with children ankle-deep in mud and dust. Everyone there had left their homes somewhere between two days and a few weeks earlier. The adults in particular looked exhausted. I tried to imagine what was going through their minds.

What was the final straw, that led them to make the decision to leave? Who did they leave behind–too sick, too stubborn, or without money to afford the bus ticket to the border? Who is missing–on the front lines, in hiding, or dead?

This is the edge of humanity–of what it means to be human, to stay human, when all is lost. Of what it means for humans to help each other. In some sense I felt like I was looking at foreign policy turned inside out. These are our mission statements, our international conventions, our tax dollars in play. I felt at once proud to be a part of this response system, and so sad that this is the best we can do.

We are all the same. This could happen to any of us–persecution or danger chasing us out of our homes, jobs, communities, everything normal. How would we want to be treated then?

***

Not everywhere in Kakuma is in crisis. In fact, the majority of people in Kakuma have been there for a long time–several years, and longer. Some people have been there since the camp was opened in 1992. Some were born and have lived their whole lives in the camp.

This is how a refugee camp works: the UNHCR has a mandate to provide specific services to refugees, like food, shelter, education, health services, water and sanitation infrastructure, etc. It partners with the Kenyan government and international NGOs to get this work done. To a large extent, life for refugees is structured around these services.

But on top of that, Kakuma operates with its own economy and society. People come to a refugee camp from all economic and social backgrounds. So people who had wealth in their former lives are able to start up businesses and pay for extra services on Kakuma's private market–extra food, power, supplies, whatever it is. All kinds of goods are imported from Nairobi and East African neighboring countries.

Life here is not what you'd expect.

For instance, over the weekend, C and I joined some other humanitarian employees for Ethiopian food, owned and run by Ethiopian refugees, in groovy, brightly painted restaurant. I also got to attend a training for one of many community theatre groups that create and perform skits in their communities on social issues. And you might not know that Kakuma is home to extremely talented and competitive hip hop dance troupes. Check it out. 

It's an inspiring place, and like any other–people bring their talents, their passions, their resources.

***

Here's the thing about a refugee camp. People here are extraordinary.

Refugees, by definition, are people who are fleeing persecution "for reasons of race, religion, nationality, membership of a particular social group, or political opinion." C and I had many conversations with one person, M, who fled his country because he had led an organization criticizing the government for violations of human rights. He is much younger than me, and has accomplished incredible things. And for that, he was kidnapped twice and received death threats, and is now living in Kakuma until he can pursue higher studies or be resettled to another country.

Every single refugee, or someone in their family, faced extreme and unsafe conditions in their home country, and had the guts to pick up and leave. Each person I spoke with has an amazing story. And story, it seems, carries more power here. Your story, and how you tell it, is what gives you the chance for resettlement through the UNHCR. Your story might put you in danger. Your story might save your life.

And stories can take your mind off things for a while.

Enter FilmAid. We do a lot of things in Kakuma–training refugees as filmmakers, creating films on issues from cholera prevention to violence against women, running education workshops and investing in local arts groups... The list goes on. Essentially we are a communications organization that works in the crazy niche of humanitarian operations and refugee life. In this setting, information can be life saving, and entertainment can be its own form of relief.

FilmAid's original and favorite activity is evening screenings. We set up a huge screen on the side of a truck and project cartoons, PSAs on health or protection issues, and full-length "family favorites." Thousands of people gather as it gets dark, the stars come out and the screen lights up. When I was there one of the movies we screened was Airbud. Imagine the sound of a thousand kids cheering when a golden retriever scores a soccer goal. Ridiculous? Perhaps. But also just amazing. You have to smile.

***

I'm not sure what exactly I'll take away from this experience. One response is a resounding "What the [fill in the blank with your favorite expletive]." How is this possible. How is this real. How have I never understood to this extent, that humanitarian crises have a profound implications not just for people who are living through them, but for all of us.

I'm thinking about how I can live in response to this deeper understanding. I think faith can play a big role. Not to give explanations, but to open the space for questions. Perhaps most importantly–How can we help? I know that churches, for instance, have served a lot of South Sudanese refugees in the resettlement process in the United States. I know that Lutheran World Federation provides essential services in Kakuma. There is always room for more partners, more funding, more prayer and mindfulness of those who are suffering.

It can be overwhelming to take in what's really happening in our world. It's so much easier to turn off to the news, to think of some reason why people must have brought suffering upon themselves, to forget about what's not right in front of our eyes. I know I will again.

Let this be one more reminder. We are all the same.

Aesthetically Speaking: Nairobi

There's a blog post bubbling up here, and I'm not sure how it will take form.

I want to write about the aesthetic experience of traveling, of Nairobi, of now. The small spaces I'm getting to know intimately. Like memorizing the back of a cereal box as a kid. It's all in the detail.

Let's start easy - the smells, the tastes, the colors. Smoke and exhaust. Lentils, papaya, and boiled water. Red, red, red mud and dark rain clouds.

At home: Tiny fruit flies flying out the sink from unwashed dishes the night before. Damp laundry on the line. Waxy bar soap. Tooth paste that is pink and tastes like baking soda, with writing on the back of the tube translated into six languages. Tucking the mosquito net under the mattress.

On the weekends: Hot sun on a long run, cooking with black beans, listening to Wait Wait Don't Tell Me, eating chocolate after breakfast. One adventure a day. See monkeys like squirrels in the park.

At friends' house: Miss brekkie? No wuzzas, have some homemade gluten-free bread with Vegemite. Learn the rules to Australian football. Cuddle up with the friendly cat named Fish.

On the street: Awareness of my color, my wealth, my everything. Looking up from tree trunks to see how high they go. Huge puddles from rain the night before. Eye contact with strangers, and feeling strange.

At work: Greeting every coworker with a handshake. Obsessing over Dropbox. Sweet-talking harddrives. Endless photos of refugee camps -- crowds, kids, filmmaking. Indie music. Asgeir's Leyndarmal on repeat. On Friday afternoons, Indestructible African Beats and UK's Top 40 of 2004. Procrastination in the form of bookmarking progressive Christian blogs. Tea in the morning, tea in the afternoon.

A sense of falling out of myself, and falling into myself.

Especially as I pass the middle-mark of my time in Nairobi, I crave to experience new things each day. And hand in hand with that, there is occasional exhaustion – and getting lost in thoughts.

And writing them down. For you.

Reunions, Mountains, and an Archbishop

Every day in Cape Town was full with some kind of adventure.

As it turned out, my FilmAid boss S was in Cape Town for three days while I was there. She came for a conference on "video for change" in Africa, organized by Witness and STEPS. I got to join her there. It was interesting to learn from different organizations using video in sub-Saharan Africa, and get a feel for how FilmAid functions in comparison. In particular I got to know Nuba Reports, which trains journalists in South Sudan to document bombings and atrocities in the civil war there.

I also spent some time helping M, the University of Cape Town drama professor who co-founded the Magnet Theatre. Between the conference and going to M's office, I was fairly busy Monday through Wednesday, a nice compliment to the unstructured touristy fun to come.

I also got to spend time seeing friends. S, who worked at the Magnet while I was an intern, told me that she was pregnant on my last week in Cape Town in 2010. Now, she has a beautiful and rowdy 3 year-old and an infant of two months. I got to spend one afternoon and evening at a mall with her whole family, and had the 3 year-old attached to my back by the end of the day. I may have grown a lot in the past four years, but I'm not the only one.

I also saw S, the wife of T, who founded and runs the Stanford program in Cape Town. And J, the service-learning professor for Stanford students. Both of whom were such gracious and supportive figures. We hashed over old memories and friends -- and, as usual, it was an interesting experience to share about my path ahead. I never know how people will react when I say the word "pastor." Telling someone about my own experience with faith, even a little bit, often brings the opportunity to learn about theirs. …But that's a topic for another post.

One highlight from the week was seeing "Passage," a play co-produced by the Magnet and the Baxter Theatre. It was about male rites of passage, in Magnet Theatre's style of "physical theatre." You can go back to my posts from 2010 to read more about that -- but in short, it was an incredible performance. I am entirely biased, BUT -- I don't think there is any better theatre on the planet. My boss S came with me to the show. And in her words, it was a-MAZ-ing (wish you could hear the Kenyan accent).

That was the night after the conference ended. So the next day, S and I had a day of vacation together. We took the train down the coast of False Bay. There were stunning views all down the coast -- mountains close on one side of the train, and beach starting just after the tracks on the other side. In Muizenberg we stopped to walk along the beach. In Kalk Bay we ate huge chunks of fish, walked along the wharf and saw sea lions. Finally at Simon's Town, we walked to Boulders where the penguins are, and got to walk right up to them on the beach.

The last two days I spent with D, the Australian cricket journalist travel buddy who I had been staying with. The test match between Australia and South Africa ended on Wednesday (note: Australia won), so we were free at the same time to get some serious hiking in.

On Friday we hiked Table Mountain, starting in Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens and hiking up Skeleton Gorge -- one hour straight up. Then suddenly you're out of the trees, and beautiful views of Cape Town and surrounding suburbs are endless… at least until the fog rolls in. Thankfully we had clear skies all the way across the mountain. Once across the top, we took the cable car down, and headed over to Lion's Head - our second hike for the day!

We scrambled straight up, into the fog that was now swirling all over the city. Usually Lion's Head is famous for its 360 degree views of the Atlantic, of Table Bay, Table Mountain, Camp's Bay, and the city bowl. But at the top, all we saw was white fog. It felt like the end of the world. Although it wasn't the sunset we hoped for, it was a surreal and peaceful experience in its own way.

My last day, we went down to Hout Bay, over Chapman's Peak and finally to Noordhoek, where D's (cricket journalist) friends live. There we walked along the river in Silvermines Park (there's no silver, but it is beautiful), and up to a large, beautiful dam. D's friends had a big friendly dog who they take swimming in the dam every day (or close). Lucky dog.

Lucky me. I've saved the best part for last.

C, who works at the Stanford Centre, knows Archbishop Desmond Tutu through her family. She shared on Thursday night that Tutu would be presiding over mass at St. George's cathedral on Friday at 7:15am. I was there! It was a fairly small service in a side chapel, with maybe 100 people. True to form, Tutu was a delight. He was silly, lost his place in the service, made faces and side comments throughout. One particularly beautiful moment was when he prepared the Eucharist in English, isiXhosa and Afrikaans seamlessly.

Before serving communion, Tutu asked all visitors to stand up an introduce themselves. There was a funny moment. Apparently Tutu is a huge cricket fan. When D said that he was there to cover the Australian team, Tutu said, "Forgive me if I try to strangle you slowly." Never thought I'd hear those words from an icon of peace! (He followed it up with, "We love you.") After the service, Tutu greeted everyone on their way out. I shared that I was going to study to be a pastor. He asked which denomination and said "we're together" - meaning Anglicans and Lutherans - then "God bless you."

God bless you too, Tutu. It was a moment I'll remember forever. All of the music for the service where a cappella chants from the Taize community in France, where I hope to go on retreat in June. I love the resonances. It feels like the start of something new.

I feel sad to leave South Africa again. But at the same time, it's nice to have some closure, and to make space for new ways to grow. I am optimistic that I will come back some day. I'm sure I will be a different person then.

In the summer of 2010, L, L, J and I used to sing a song "Heart of Mine." The words always take new meaning. At the risk of being entirely too cheesy, I'll share the chorus.

The walls are coming down and down and down
And life is going round and round and round
And love it will be found and found and found
It's all inside of you

Sobonana, South Africa. Until next time.

PS Check out the Instagram feed on the right side... now you can see my most recent photos!

The Birthday Post

If it's possible to be infatuated with a place, that's how I feel about Cape Town. A little tipsy, heart racing, adoring. If you were here, you'd feel it too.

Everything is dramatic. Cape Town doesn't bother with much middle ground. The mountain is next to the sea. Poverty next to insane wealth. Boutique health food stores, and the highest HIV rate in the world. Diversity in every dimension. A vibe that is at once peaceful and in-your-face.

My name is Liesl Spitz, and I love Cape Town.

It's remarkable to land in a place so far from home, and feel such familiarity. I know the streets. I have memories everywhere I turn.

The bar where Matt and I watched World Cup games, the restaurant where I first ate Koeksisters, the walk through Company Gardens, the view of Table Mountain from the taxi park, the storefronts on Main Road, the QuickSpar grocery store in Observatory, the boxes of Five Roses Tea on the shelf.

And of course, the Magnet Theatre, where I interned for my five months. I spent most of my waking hours there, day after day, organizing, cleaning, hanging, unfolding and refolding, inventory-ing, filing, mopping, doing whatever remotely helpful or unattractive task I could find – a bargain. Because in return, I got to watch the making of brilliant theatre, form friendships with artists, and gain a whole lot of perspective on life in South Africa.

This morning I got to watch a run-through of Boom Umthi, a production for children that the Magnet is taking to a festival in Italy this week. Afterward Margie, my former supervisor and (current) life coach, took me to cheese cake and cappuccinos with her husband and daughter.

No wonder I love Cape Town. It's not the cheesecake, or the beautiful weather (it is summer here, sorry East Coast), or the constant view of Table Mountain. It's the relationships I made here, and the intense growth I experienced here.

If today I feel that I know myself, it's in large part because of the work that happened here four years ago.

Every day I thought about identity. I thought about my grandfather's experience in South Africa decades earlier (hi Grandpa!), and how my family's history ties into my personal story. I thought about culture as identity; about identity as performance; about performance as ritual. I thought about service, and about relationships, and how inextricably linked they are.

I thought a lot about beauty.

Interestingly, I didn't think much about God. My four months in Cape Town was probably the longest time in my life that I haven't gone to church.

Later I came to understand that I was growing spiritually, in a big way. That we don't (necessarily) encounter God in religion, but in relationships and experiences. That will always be true. And perhaps more true -- that seeking God is not our job. God seeks us.

So many truths that carry me through these days, I learned then.

Cape Town was also the first time that I lived on my own. (Although I don't think I have ever lived truly on my own.) My schedule, my groceries, my health, my safety–my responsibility.

It's only four years later, but I feel ten years older. Here I am, and I love myself. For my birthday, humor me. Own it with me. Self-love is so important. It looks different every day.

Today, self-love looks like nostalgia, adventure, and a bit of indulgence.

After cheesecake with Margie, I visited the Stanford house on Herschel Road. Then I took a taxi to the Newlands Cricket Stadium, and saw my first ever cricket match. (The friend I'm staying with here is a journalist who's covering the game.) I took the train back to town, and took a long bath complete with rice crackers and Camembert, a view of the fog creeping over Table Mountain, and Beyonce's newest album.

***Flawless.

Today is Quarter Century Day. I feel grounded, and unbelievably lucky. When it's cocktail hour in your time zone, join me in raising your glass to the road well-traveled and the road ahead. Here's to however we know (and likely love) each other. This is the stuff of life.

Doing, Not Doing

Suddenly, work is picking up, trips and friends are multiplying in number, and time is flying. As it should be. Times like these call for bulleted lists.

In case you wanted to know more of my day to day experience -- this is for you!

Things I am Doing

• Developing FilmAid's Dropbox account (SHOUT OUT to Matt Spitz for being awesome; ask him why!) and Salesforce database, for use across our teams in London and Nairobi
• Project managing the writing and design of our annual report
• Working through transition of staff in my office, trying to plan out how work (particularly communications) gets done with not enough staff. Aka working at a non-profit.
• Getting to know my way hip, super hard working and impressive Kenyan colleagues.
• Hanging out with loads of wonderful Australians and picking up their patterns of speech.
• Making friends with some open hearted, deeply empathetic and inspiring individuals. Wow.
• Listening to a lot of people's stories about their religious and spiritual backgrounds (If I speak to someone for more than 20 minutes, the conversation will get there 75% of the time)
• Eating the same thing for lunch every day: dengu (lentil stew) with rice or ugali (maize mash), a side of kachumbari (tomato and onion) and fresh juice (if the blender is working! not often the case but I ask every day!)
• Getting out of Nairobi to see beautiful countryside and wildlife (pictures coming from this weekend!!)
• Dancing to Beyonce and learning songs on ukelele
• Loads and loads of yoga with Samson, a teacher from Africa yoga project
• When I'm in town, going to Catholic church with a young American family also from the Bay Area, then joining them for brunch!
• Washing my underwear in the sink
• Relying on a few very kind and trustworthy taxi drivers, who make navigating the city possible in the day to day

Summary: I am living a very comfortable and fun life, getting to know interesting people, and generally having a great time.

Things I am Not Doing

• "Serving," not really. FilmAid is a NGO doing both humanitarian and development work. But I'm working rather than volunteering. For that and other reasons, my mentality is very different from my time in Cape Town. I'm less critical, more sure of my role. For better or worse, I feel that I have something to contribute here, based on my experience working for FilmAid in New York for a year, and given prior relationships (even from afar) with my colleagues.
• Getting stressed out about work, so far - yeah! Something about the atmosphere here, even if things are extremely hectic, is far more laid back. Either it gets done today, or the next day. Maybe I'm on tourist mode or maybe I'm not picking up on how Kenyans deal with stress, but I'll roll with it for now.
• Fully sharing my beliefs/identity, unless I am clearly with like minded company. Kenyan society is very conservative, very Christian, and people perceived as outsiders aren't necessarily viewed or treated well. (Sound like any other places on the planet, near or far?) That being said, I haven't had any negative experiences.
• Going for any night time walks. Security and safety issues in Kenya lead to a more restricted lifestyle -- there are rules about where is safe and what is okay -- but within that, I do feel free. I'm lucky that I have a salary which covers living in a nice area, and taking cab rides whenever I need them.

Summary: I'm navigating day by day and person by person. It's been very interesting.

Coming up in the next post -- Pictures from Lake Naivasha!

Remembering

Now a moment away from Nairobi.

This Friday will be eight years since the death of my Aunt Ruth. The next day will be two months since the death of her daughter, Tiffany.

I miss them.

Certain images have come to hold significance, as I process their lives and their story in my family. Angels. Purple. The Organ. And now- Stars. Candles. Country.

It is strange, yet very real, how these images weave their way into my experiences and come to create meaning. When B, the admin manager in Nairobi walks into the office with purple scarf and shoes, and a bright smile. Ahh, purple is my favorite color, I tell her.

Moments like this seem to come especially when I need them. I think stories and miracles in the bible take on meaning in the same way, as themes and images resurface throughout to tell a bigger story.

On the plane ride here, I read the first chapter of Mark, knowing that my fellow congregants St. Lydia's would be reading the same in the coming month. A few images were striking that I want to share.

First, of the voice crying out in the wilderness. Tiffany's husband shared how "O Come Emmanuel" has taken on new significance for him, as grief feels so much like "mourning in lonely exile." We have found ourselves in an empty, lonely place.

The wilderness: far from civilization. The wilderness: no screens, no distractions. Where you are left with your mind, and your survival instincts. Where a voice cries out, prepare the way of the Lord.

Jesus shows up in Mark not as a baby, but as an adult receiving the Holy Spirit. And just a few verses later, he is driven into the wilderness to spend 40 days with the devil.

Here is where I lost it. While Jesus is in the desert, it says:

the angels ministered to him.

The day I left New York, it had been 40 days since Tiffany died. Sitting on the plane, I thought of my time in the wilderness and the angels who ministered to me. So many friends, some very close and some unexpected, who held me together. Sleep overs, serious conversations, meaningless conversations, salads, desserts, text messages, phone calls, and one letter.

My good bye party in New York had been planned for the same weekend I flew to Minnesota for Tiffany's funeral.

More than a month later, I was able to invite friends over for a potluck brunch during the 12 hour layover I had between San Francisco and Nairobi. And they came - so many people came. With food, and smiles, and music. I left for the airport while many people were still at my house. They formed a tunnel and cheered me out the door.

I don't know if Jesus got a tunnel of angels on his way to the airport, but I bet he would understand the feeling.

This is the feeling:

There is love, there is love, there is love.