My kids and grandkids are spread around the country. Getting together has gotten more and more difficult as the grands have grown and have jobs and sports and camps. Our son and his family have a farm with pigs, cattle, chickens, and ducks—they can’t leave for an extended time.
Tijuana is a lot like where I live now, in San Diego. The sun smiles down on us daily and the temperature is almost always within a degree of perfect. We have the same dry dust, rugged plants, and we are both situated between the sea and low coastal mountains. Our cities would be one, except for the border running through them.
“You need to write.” My eyes blinked at the woman sitting next to me at the pastoral gathering. She was like me in a way, but further along the journey. We had both moved from our homes in other countries to plant our families on the black sand shores of Iceland. This island straddled across two continents that held the beautiful tension of Fire and Ice.
“Week 6: Task #5. Send postcards to five friends.” That was the assignment. That’s where it all began. Well, sort of. Intentionally reaching out to encourage loved ones or to let them know they were on my mind and ask how I could pray for them had been a regular habit for several years. But usually only by text.
“You’re holding up people’s deliverance,” my spiritual director said recently, in response to all the hesitancy and resistance I was feeling about offering myself to God’s work in the world. The words hit deep. They were both convicting and empowering.