none of it goes to waste

Maybe the discovery happened during the years I spent working at a senior retirement community. Maybe after the many repeated conversations, answers to questions, looks of confusion and frustration...maybe that's when I started to fear forgetting.

Or maybe it's because of Latin America -- a semester there that had such a significant impact on me, so many relationships and stories that I didn't know how to fit into a less-than-fifty-pound suitcase or in a 60 minute coffee date with a friend. I knew I was going to forget some things, and that thought was a little terrifying. I journaled constantly -- and on one occasion when walking home by myself and considering the risk of getting robbed, decided to take my journal out of my purse in case it was stolen. Money seemed frivolous compared to the thoughts and words my journal held.

I came across my Nicaragua journal the other day and remembered something I hoped for -- I don't say prayed for because I don't know if I ever did actual pray for it. I would like to think I did but I hope for a lot of things that I don't bring to God, so I'm not going to give myself the benefit of the doubt on that one. I wrote that I wanted this experience to be a part of who I am.  I didn't want it to make me act in a certain way necessarily, but that it would influence the ways I think, how I relate to people, how I see differences and commonalities in which to connect. I wanted to remember the people and what they taught me, remember their laughter, their straight faces or blank stares. I wanted to remember those conversations.

And three years later...part of the fear is realized: I have forgotten parts of Nicaragua. I don't remember all the names. I don't remember all of the emotions, or the conversations that led to the tears or to the laughter or to the smiles. I don't remember each day's activities like I had wanted to.

But three years later...I think God answered the prayer that Nicaragua would be a part of who I am. Maybe I don't remember every conversation, every song we sang in Spanish, every miscommunication. But it's because of Nicaragua that I spent time last week researching immigration reform, it's because of Nicaragua that I view the nature of immigration and deportation differently. It's because of 10 days there and three months living abroad that I want to speak Spanish and engage with a community that comes from a different culture than my own.

I'm thankful that three years later I know those conversations still matter and they're still informing the way I see the world and how I invest in the things I care about. I wish I could hold onto all of the details, but I'm realizing that's less important than letting the details do the work that they already do: shaping and paving the way ahead.

Latin America is only part of my life experiences (which is not a huge number considering I'm a twenty-something), but I hope and pray for the same result from other experiences in my life: how I grew up, my family, my education in California and Massachusetts, my work now in medical billing, the relationships I'm building here. I hope three years from now I can also reflect on how today's experiences shaped me for the future.

I fear forgetting, obviously. But I'm more committed to giving up that fear and allowing experiences to shape me into the kind of person I want to be. When my faith feels small, I cling to this kind of God: one who works in mysterious ways and is committed to his people and that nothing in his kingdom goes to waste -- even the little details like pick up truck rides on a starry-night and the way laughter came after stumbling through verb conjugations. I believe that none of it goes to waste.