Afraid of my mission to Monterey

I’m about to depart for a youth group mission trip, and I have some fears on my mind. I’m not so afraid, this time, of the stress or the travel. It’s only to Monterey, so we can’t get too lost and we don’t need to pass through any TSA checkpoints. In previous mission trips we’ve had worries (and actualities) ranging from major thunderstorms to 100+ degree weather to running out of insulin. This year those particular risks don’t threaten. Perhaps we may get sunburned, or tip over in our canoes on ElkHorn Slough, but we’ll have our life vests on. 

No, this year my fears aren’t logistics or weather or transportation; my fears are a little deeper and harder to address. 

I’m afraid, you see, that I’ll fall in love. 

I’m afraid I’ll fall in love with something fragile and vulnerable, something in mortal peril — that is, I’m afraid to fall in love with the the ocean and its creatures. We’re going on an ecological mission trip, and ecological work is a difficult undertaking in this age of climate change where species extinctions loom on every side. It’s more important than ever, but it runs the sharp risk of heartbreak as you stand there on the shore, throwing starfish after countless starfish back into a warming ocean. I’m afraid my heart might break open with compassion for the plight of some struggling sea creatures, and that it’ll be too painful to bear. 

I remember feeling this way as a college student in Europe. I was studying abroad in the Czech Republic, which is a lovely jumping-off spot from which a couple of college students might visit many other countries, but midway through the semester I started dreading our weekend adventures. The weight of nostalgia was pulling me down — I already missed the town I’d visited last weekend — and my photo album was thick with photographic adoration of cities and castles and gardens. How could I go on another trip? How could I add another place to love? 

And I remember feeling this way the night before my first date with Michael. Could I really open my heart to one more human being? I had already loved and lost - my ex-boyfriend had died in a work accident - and I didn’t trust the sentimentalists who rhymingly assured me ‘twas better to have loved and lost. Was it really? Grief hurts. Sometimes it incapacitates. It changes you. Did I really have the strength to open up again? 

My nephew - age 4 - said tearfully after a trip to see old friends in another state “sometimes I feel like there are so many people in the world that I love, and I wish we could all live together in one big house.” That’s the pain I’m talking about here. I don’t want to go to Monterey and meet some endangered herons or something. I already had my moment - with Great Blue Herons as a camp counselor in West Virginia fifteen years ago - and they still hold a heavy nostalgic weight in my heart. I can’t fit another creature in, especially not an endangered one. 

Opening up to ecological work is like deciding to fall in love with a person who might (or might not) be terminally ill. It’s like deciding to walk into a hurricane: you wouldn’t do it on purpose. Well, I’m going anyway (when you read this: I’m already there) and so I’ll have to pray my way around this block in my heart.

 Here’s what I’m working on: 

God is love 

Love is of God 

God created us fragile, perishable 

God created the world fragile and perishable too 

God loves the world

God loves fragile and perishable things 

God is vulnerable 

Vulnerability is part of love 

This pain, then, that I feel, is God’s spirit in me 

God aches for and loves the creatures in their peril 

It is our holy work to care for the fragile creatures and ecosystems that God so loves 

It is a holy thing to love what death can touch 

By the time you receive this, who knows what may have developed? The pastor hosting us may have spoken to my fears. The ocean herself may have soothed my worries. I'll share more...