Swtizerland Part II Episode II

Though I've had a massive monkey on my back that just-won't-get-off over the past few weeks, it's been fascinating being here at the UN. Oh, for sure, the amount of sheer bureaucracy is enough to make one weep. However, the ideas that are enshrined by its very existence are hopeful, and heaven knows, humanity can use some hope. The idea that perhaps we actually can find a forum to cooperate, despite our differences, in order to make things better for all of humanity is beautiful, though practically hard to do.
Discourses on the right to health have also been encouraging, though I know it is very difficult for Westerners to understand, agree with, and particularly, to endorse. Getting my mind blown at the occasional talk I make it out to is also really great.
The work itself? Kind of slow and tedious, but at least I can see the purpose and usefulness of it. Besides, what else are interns for, but to do the slow and tedious work? I'm OK with that. Besides, the tedium helps while away the hours before I can return home. Home being where the heart rests, after all.

Switzerland Part II Episode I

So, here I am again in the land of yodeling, chocolate and incredibly accurate timepieces. This is a long haul one this time, spending three months working/volunteering at the WHO. It's kind of cool, but also kind of a bit of an interruption in my life. I suspect, if they'd caught me ten years ago, my adventurousness and relish for novelty would be more helpful than now. Now is different circumstances: family, career and responsibilities actually make this a bit of a necessary hassle.
That being said, being able to room with my sister again is a good thing. As well, having her as a cultural ambassador, and a person that knows how things work here is incredibly helpful; it makes the cultural transition slightly easier.
It's been exceedingly chilly and rainy, and is forecasted to continue this way for at least the next two weeks. This is changing my idea of how to commute to work, which would either be a very long walk or a long bike ride. Instead, at least for now, I'm going to do the (much more expensive) option of taking (dry) public transit. Having had the weekend to dealt with almost perpetually wet socks, this will be helpful.
Nothing of note yet, though we did go for fondue at what the New York Times had noted as the "best" place to have fondue in the world - strong words! Yet tasty, tasty cheese did we have. We've also been driven into France (which is actually right on the border of town) to have lovely croissants and seafood to eat. This kind of eating, though incredibly delicious, does not bode well for how this summer's goals will end up being...

The wait...

I think I used to be interesting, once upon a time. Perhaps being old has something to do with it. Or school. Or waiting.
I'm not sure what it is, like the baited breath, waiting for... what? Exactly what drives me now? I worry sometimes, with all going well (well, at least with me, not with the world), with little to rile up feelings of indignation or antagonism (except for, perhaps, the Mayor, but he's still pretty small-fries in comparison with defending the Bride), that perhaps that I'm not interesting anymore.
Particularly during this Holy Week, on pondering on the great suffering, the great love, the great sacrifice that occurred, leaves one considering how hugely dramatic events that unfolded this week drove incredible transformation in the universe.
And so, I sit, pondering how to make a difference, yet again. I wonder if now my dreams and ambitions are too small, too cloistered for what God could truly do with open hands and a willing heart. And then I wonder if it's inevitable; that eventually our dreams must become too small, and that God can indeed use our small loaves and fishes, but we must be willing to want them to be used to feed the five thousand. And perhaps I no longer want to feed the five thousand anymore.
Perhaps, in losing (or conceding) the battle, it has made me lose the war. I know not. I think I've journeyed from wandering away from the battle, and wandered into the desert to seek my burning bush. And I never found it. I found great priceless treasure and great immeasurable joy in the meanwhile, but I did not find that burning bush, that holy ground that shakes and makes me fall prostrate to the ground in awe and fear, that Voice that tells me to go and set His people free, to go and tell His people His message, to go and call His people back to Himself. Is that terrible? I don't know if joy is an adequate substitute, in and of itself.
I wonder also if it is a false choice, that I am indeed allowed to have both joy and fire at the same time. But, in some ways, I cannot see how that can be so: the cool comfort that joy provides inevitably chills the blazing heat of the fire in my bones.
And so, I wait. Wait for Him to show Himself, whether in the earthquake, or the storm, or in the quietness of night. And I hope that I am able to hear.