“No Man Is An Island.” A redundantly cliché poetry line; but, nevertheless, has been stuck in my head over the past several days. Humorously because we are indeed on an island.
When I think of an island, I do not think of the people. To be an island is to watch ships sail past, perhaps host a lighthouse, and to be surrounded by a deserted beauty that few come close enough to see. I do not know why, but, when I think of an island, it is deserted.
I think of islands as lonely places, full of undiscovered and lost things.
I think of islands as watchers; forever observers of life on the water around them but never grasping the picture or the concept of the vastness of the sea.
Maybe it took an island for me to realize that I am not one. Or at least, am not fully supposed to be. One of the ways that I described my emotions leading up to this trip was “hard-hearted and overwhelmed, but, open to change.”
I have indeed been an island. A part of me has loved it. A part of it has felt like home.
On this trip, we have joked a lot about the difference between being a “thinker” or a “feeler.” I would consider myself a feeler.
Sitting inside the chapel writing, looking up at the three crosses on the wall, it strikes me that even in His most devastating moment, Jesus did not hang alone. In fact, He made moments of community even on the Cross.
God continuously puts us in opportunity for community with those we sometimes least expect. He makes unexpected people and places feel like home. Even if just for a moment, even if we are just strangers cemented to our own deserted islands.
“Community on an island” is my personal theme for this trip.
As mentioned, I’m a feeler and, as a feeler, I’m big on places, people, and things that feel like home to me. It has felt like a constant searching, a redundantly backward visitation, and a lonely looking for a comforting niche to call my own.
When answering the question of what I hoped to gain from this experience, my words were as follows:
“I hope to gain a better view of the bigness of God’s work in the world beyond my own life.”
And “A better perspective on my own self, mission, and path forward – all with a granted sense of peace.”
I think that I picture islands as deserted because I have taken my isolating myself on my own little inner island. I have taken it to an unhealthy point of finding a stagnated home in myself and preferring to just feel and watch out of the hurt and terror of moving forward and moving on. Comfortable, but, out of touch with a community.
Unaware of the vastness of the sea. The tangible bigness of the work of God. I found moments of community on this trip. I lived minutes where I laughed like I have not in a long time. Truly, I had not laughed wholly and genuinely in a very, very long time.
Starting out, I did not feel confident that this trip was where I belonged.
But, despite it all, God provided moments and people that unexpectedly felt like home.
On an island outside of myself; I can appreciate that parallel. I found moments of home with so many team members on this trip; but I recognized and felt a similar lonely island within Katrice, who I met on our prayer walk through Murphy Town.
She was smoking alone outside of a shed at, what our team dubbed ‘the wailing house’. I recognized her because I saw myself. Physically and metaphorically, I have been there too. She was my trip-transforming “home” moment. More than a laugh, it was a recognition of pain – outside of myself. And within the meeting of two souls with similar core pain, we were able to embrace and laugh. I see and feel my own pain inside of so many others every day. I do not know why it was Katrice, but she was my transforming one.
My time in Abaco, Bahamas with Many Hands showed me over and over again the bigness and omniscience of the work of God. However, my interaction with Katrice displayed to me the vastness of the work left yet to do – the need for a million little islands to be connected with a country, a community, and a place to call home.
That is a very Bahaman lesson and analogy but, one that I feel, think, and believe is still incredibly relevant as a call to love in action as I leave these islands and return home.
When I get home, I hope and commit to, not only recognizing other islands like myself but, reaching out as a tangible community and home. That will require my willingness to desert my own island.
Leaving an island, when stranded or alone, typically requires a rescue. Deserting my own island will require accepting others’ help. It is not a job that can be done alone; that would be a little contradictory.
So, as I head for home, I commit to grabbing ahold of the hands that reach out, both expectedly and unexpectedly. In the hopes that one day, I might reach out my hands to offer the opportunity for community to someone else.
I truly trust that God can bring islands together to form a place for me to call home.
