It's Sunday afternoon, the day after returning to New Orleans (ok, technically, we pulled into my driveway at 3:30 a.m. but only my exhausted mind and body are counting) . My heart is full--it's been aching since we pulled onto 10-West 30 hours ago. I'm having a hard time just being--I can't really focus on home, this place, or what's coming--my heart is so focused on everything that just happened. I'm concerned that this summer will be this way, too--I wonder how I'll handle moving from New Orleans again, onto Palestine, then Athens, then Valencia, and everywhere in between. As much as I love to travel--embracing the new people, the streets, the sounds, the smells--I hate the way everything slips away so much faster when I'm living out of backpack. I hate--and love--the lonely freedom of this (dis)position.

Still, this week completely exceeded my expectations (which isn't hard when you don't allow yourself any, but hey). It began with apprehension, for sure. I prayed going into it for patience and right hearts--and this was def. needed as one thing after another went "wrong." From leaving 3 hours later than planned, to eating our first meal in a mock-strip joint, to moving a 'few' boxes at the Rev's house, to Igor's tetanus adventure and our 4 trips to the ER, there wasn't one moment that came easy on this trip. But these fleeting frustrations aren't what hurt my heart right now.

No, this heaviness comes from the vibrancy of the people I met and will miss. Their vulnerability and kindness--the hopefulness in their broken lives--stunned and humbled me.

My first lesson in humility approached me timidly in Jackson square, as the seven of us sat eating Yo Mamma's takeout. For twenty minutes, we'd been discussing our meal plan for the week--venting our frustrations at the cost, the miscommunication, the inconvenience. And as we sat, eating a meal we'd purchased with relative ease, a man walked tentatively over to us, quietly asking if we were going to finish everything. Michelle passed the rest of her meal up to him as I dug out the last of my change, my cheese-covered baked potato sinking heavily in my stomach. I sat silent for a moment, reflecting on the stupidity of our complaints...and prayed for a spirit more like God's.

My next lesson came the following day, as I was painting the soffits on our 3rd street house. I was standing precariously on the top rung of a ladder squeezed between a chain-link fence and the classically New Orleans-style home. The neighbor's two dogs, thankfully leashed, growled ominously every few minutes at me as I reached awkwardly under the roof's overhang. I worked quietly until my thoughts were interrupted by a child's voice, "Hey lady! What'cha doin' up there?" I turned to see a young boy, no older than five, looking curiously up at me. His name was Rahim.

Descending the ladder, I looked into his backyard, truly taking in his environment for the first time. Where the rural Illinois backyard of my childhood had graceful trees, a wooden swingset, and an above ground pool, his had overgrown weeds, a broken wheelchair, and puddles of fresh sewage . As I leaned over the fence to talk to the child, I heard over the dogs' low growls an unfamiliar noise--pop, pop, pop. Rahim's eyes widened, and he turned to run towards the woman screaming his name in front of his house. Twenty minutes later, he returned as though nothing had happened. Singing and dancing, we both played to forget about the gunshots of only moments ago. Before leaving, I reached over the fence, it's triangular metal edge digging into my chest, to hug him. I returned to the fence for the next three days, hoping to see his beautiful little face again, but found only the dogs and the debris.

Those first 24 hours set the tone for the rest of the week--glimpses of beauty in a neighborhood that seemed terminally ill. The more we worked on those broken streets, the more I saw broken people and the more I was stunned by their perseverance and encouraged in my own broken journey. From the vulnerability of our own group to Dave, Cory, Jessica, Andre, Chet, Adam, Leann, Darryl, and Marcos, I was touched. Truly, these last few months have been heavy on me, as I literally felt my heart hardening, my cynicism growing. I was thankful for the stirring that happened on this trip.

There is one moment in particular that I hope to hold onto--even as I already feel it slipping and time corrupting it's place in my memory. For a few minutes, I reached out and touched another person in a beautiful way--felt myself kiss his soul--and then kept moving. I want to preserve everything about that moment--but I'm afraid to ask more of it. I know that time continues to push me forward---I'm never able to step out of this current--but once in while, I am blessed enough to feel life slow long enough for me to truly touch it. It's as though I'm on one of those carnival rides--my car swinging into another spin, slowing just a moment as it shifts into a new direction. That moment--when I feel the force of everything preparing to pushing me forward--I am able for just a split second to stop and sigh. And in that sigh, in that moment, I remember what life is for.

I hope that I have learned how to hold onto these moments--and how to let them go. So much of me wants to wait in that moment--to stretch it out into something more permanent than it is able to be--and yet I know it's just a collection of seconds like any other. Still, its composition--the way it all fell in place for just a moment--I'm holding on to this one for a little while longer. Even as this present moment carries me forward, I wonder, is it possible to keep this one for myself? The heaviness in my heart tells me no--I don't think I can hold onto these places, these experiences, these people--I can only appreciate them--truly embrace them with all that I have--even if that embrace is temporary--and hope for a heart that is open enough to welcome those whose paths, sadly, only cross mine, beautifully, for a moment.