Sarah Wiant
The Reason, In A Nutshell
Hi! My name is Sarah, and I’m 23 years old. This past December I graduated with a B.A. in Adolescence Education and English. Since then I’ve been working as a substitute teacher in two different school districts and with the Boys and Girls Club after school program in Buffalo, NY. I absolutely love my jobs and can honestly say that I enjoy getting up in the morning to go to work! As excited as I am to do Mission Year, it’s going to be hard to say goodbye to these beautiful kids I’ve been working with and grown to love over the past few months!
I grew up in Williamsville (a suburb of Buffalo) with my mom, my older brother, and my maternal grandparents. I’m very close with my family, especially my mom, so I wanted to go to a college that was close to home. Houghton College, just over an hour away from my house, was the perfect place. Its small student body (at about 1200 when I started, and smaller than my high school!), strong Christian community and rigorous academic standards were exactly what I needed at that stage in my life. It is also a safe area, which is what I was used to: Williamsville is continually ranked one of the safest places in the country, and Houghton was no different with a 0% crime rate. My education there, however, has taught me that life is not meant to be safe. There are many reasons I want and need to do Mission Year, but most importantly I want to break out of the bubble of safety to which I’ve become so accustomed. Oswald Chambers claims “the Christian life is gloriously difficult,” but I haven’t truly experienced that yet. I’ve had a glimpse by listening to the heart breaking stories of my campers at the Buffalo City Mission, and seeing the social activism of my professors and peers at Houghton, but now I’m ready to take the next step. I’m ready to be stretched and broken in an attempt to find and practice genuine faith and love on a daily basis. This next year is going to be one of the most difficult, scary, and amazing years of my life, and ya know what? I can’t wait!
~ Sarah
About Mission Year
Mission Year is a year long urban ministry program focused on Christian service and discipleship. We take teams of young people, place them in an area of need, and help them to serve people and create community. We are committed to the command of Jesus to “love God and love people,” by placing the needs of our neighbors first and developing committed disciples of Christ with a heart for the poor. Learn more about our first year program…
Sarah Wiant's Blog
1/8/10 - Christmas Break / Jan 14, 05:52 PM
So after three and a half months of living in Roseland, working with women and children in a shelter, getting to know our neighbors, and getting used to the idea of being the only white people around, we all got to go home for two weeks to celebrate Christmas with our family and friends. I was really excited to go home, and I certainly had fun, but it was a lot different than I expected it to be.
For one, my grandmother is a lot weaker than she was when I left. We’ve always lived with her, and she’s been one of the strongest, most independent women I know. This was the woman who, at 90 years old, was saying I didn’t need to stick to just one boyfriend, but that I should “play the field” (and yes, that is a direct quote). To see her not able to get out of bed in the morning or make it down the stairs by herself was a difficult thing for me. There were moments when I was compassionate and helped her in any way I could, but then there were other times when all I could think was this is not my grandmother. My grandma is not weak. She’s faking and I’m not going to play along. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I simply could not accept that she’s getting weaker by the day. In my mind, I was failing at compassion and grace.
I was excited to come home and talk with people about what was going on here in Roseland. I wanted to tell people about the way Javarie smiles when he runs out of the house ready to practice writing with us, or the way the men who work at the Center bring us samples of the delicious food they make, or how I felt like I was finally becoming my own person our last week of being here instead of being seen as “one of the interns”. With all these thoughts running through my head, I couldn’t express them. Whenever someone asked about Chicago, I said “oh, it’s great!” expecting follow up questions and we just moved on to the weather or sports. I’m not trying to say that I always need to be having in-depth conversations about the plight of the homeless, but I guess in my mind I had just assumed that people would be asking more specific questions. I found myself withdrawing from conversation because I had no idea where to begin to talk about my experiences and I didn’t know how to contribute to what other people were saying; I was consumed with thoughts of the family I’d left in Roseland. In my mind, I was failing at sharing “the real story” of Roseland.
A week and a half into break, I was supposed to send a little devotional thought through email to my teammates, and I found two passages to be exceptionally helpful. The first was 1 John 1:5-10, where John basically says we’re kidding ourselves if we think we can be perfect. There’s no way we can do this life right, the way it was intended, and the only thing we can do is confess it, ask God to forgive us, forgive ourselves, and move on. It’s a simple truth to understand, but I need to be reminded of it on a daily basis…especially the “forgive myself and move on” part. The other passage was Joshua 1:6-9. Moses had just died, and Joshua was preparing to lead the people into the Promised Land. Three times, God tells Joshua to be “strong and courageous” (v. 6, 7, 9), and continues to encourage him by saying “Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go,” (v. 9). As I felt like a failure, not doing anything right, I was encouraged that God was with me no matter what and that I didn’t have to be afraid. Again, simple truth, but I still need a constant reminder of that.
While I got my reminders a little later than maybe I would have liked, the encouragement changed the last few days of my break. I was a little bolder in sharing stories about what I’ve experienced here, and people were then a little more interested and asked more specific questions. Those last few days were exactly what I needed to come back to Roseland encouraged and refreshed, and I’m ready to face the challenges and joys that this trimester will bring.
Identity / Nov 3, 10:12 PM
This past Saturday my friend Bekah was in town. She was on her way to visit another friend who happens to be going to school near Chicago, and she had a hugely long layover between flight and bus (train?), so we walked around downtown for a bit. The first time I met Bekah was when we decided to live together with two other girls for student teaching last fall, but she has been an amazing encouragement to me, especially since I’ve been here.
It was nice to spend time talking with her about her experiences as a first year music teacher. While walking around millennium park, she mentioned her personal struggle with teaching music and what the true benefits are. This led to a discussion of how important music is in general, and how much I missed playing. We walked by the Symphony and I noticed a few of the upcoming performances and remembered how much I missed hearing quality music.
I hadn’t really thought about classical music much until Solitude Day last week when I listened to some as I was journeying. I realized that when I was in college, and even in part when I was in high school, music was a huge part of my identity. Most of my close friends were in the music program, most of my time was spent in the music building, and some of my greatest memories involve musical performances/gatherings. And yet, this identity is something that the people I’m living with now have no concept of. I hadn’t realized I missed it so much until I expressed that part of my identity again when Bekah came to visit.
We’ve been talking a lot lately about race and racial or ethnic identity. A question was asked last night at our discussion about whether or not it was important for minorities to find their identity in race or ethnicity. As a white female, that particular identification may not be so important to me, but to a black female, it is completely different. It is a more obvious part of who she is because it is different from the mainstream. In the same way (even if it’s not to the same extent), my identity as a musician is extremely important to me because it’s what separates me from others, though it’s taken me a while to realize it. It’s part of who I am, and in not being able to express it, I feel like I might be losing part of myself.
If my mom (or anyone who knows my identity as a musician) is reading this, she’s probably laughing to herself because I was always the one who NEVER practiced. I was always in groups, playing every day anyway, so the desire to practice more was never there. But now that I don’t have it, I miss it. I would love to be in a group somewhere, but there’s simply no time for it. Bekah mentioned getting involved with a school group, so I suppose that’s an option I need to look into. We shall see…
So mom, you were right. I should have brought Henrietta (my bassoon) with me. Maybe I’ll be more inclined to practice when I get home…
:-)
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10/24/09 - Solitude Day / Oct 27, 09:06 PM
Yesterday we all piled into a 15 passenger van and a car and drove up to the north side of Chicago. There’s a seminary there with gorgeous woods and a lake, and the goal of the day was to simply get away from the busy-ness of the city and be alone with God. As I walked around the campus, two specific things really moved me, but to explain, I need to give some background.
For a long time I’ve struggled with a fear of being forgotten. I feel like I’ve been mediocre or even good at many things (academics, softball, girl scouts, playing the bassoon, etc…), but I haven’t found something I’m great at. As a result, I find myself searching for that something that will make me worthy of being remembered. Often times, my attempts at “greatness” have failed, which is even more frustrating. I think this might be part of why I want to teach in the city: it is something that other people think is a noble profession, and I could be remembered, like the teachers in all the movies I love.
Anyway, the first thing that caught my attention was when I was walking through the Stations of the Cross. For those of you who don’t know, it’s a series of statues that depict certain points of Christ carrying His cross and His death. One of these statues was called “Veronica wipes the face of Jesus”, and my first thought was why is this important? What good is it to wipe His face when He’s walking to His death anyway? Then I began thinking about whether the little things I do in an attempt to give myself worth actually mean anything at all. How is my playing with a two year old now going to impact anyone when he won’t remember me by the time he starts school? Again, my fear of being forgotten reared it’s ugly head.
I kept walking and came upon a stone that looked like a grave marker in the middle of the woods. Curious, I walked closer and found it had a picture of hands holding a baby, but the baby was cut out of the stone. The words are what really struck me, because in big capital letters it read “I WILL NOT FORGET YOU”. I had to do a double take as tears filled my eyes because that is exactly what I needed to hear. The people of this world WILL forget me. There is nothing that I could do, short of being Mother Theresa or Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., that would ensure my being remembered for years to come. Everyone is not called to such greatness. But, even if I don’t say another funny, interesting, or intelligent thing for the rest of my life…my God still remembers me. He created me (and you) in this place, this time, this way for a specific purpose. I’m not completely clear as to what that purpose is yet, but I know He hasn’t forgotten me. And He never will.
“…yet I will not forget you! Behold, you are engraved on the palms of my hands…”
Isaiah 49: 15, 16 (ESV)
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PRoP / Oct 13, 10:07 PM
PRoP stands for Pauper’s Rite of Passage. A day for us to take a glimpse at what homeless people experience on a daily basis. I went to the library and typed out a two page post about my day on Saturday, and then got to Panera and realized two things. First, that my Word document wouldn’t open on Kerry’s Mac computer, and second, that I wanted to go in a completely different direction with my post. I started out wanting to share all that I learned and observed as I sat on the streets of downtown Chicago hoping someone would be kind enough to give me some money or food. What I’ve really learned, though, is that this is still the beginning of a much longer process. Change does not happen overnight, or over a week, or even over a month and a half. I find that as much as I learn, I slip up and fall back into the same habits I’m trying to break.
Saturday was certainly an experience I will never forget. I felt embarassed, sympathetic, foolish, guilty, frustrated, and bitter. My partner Ruth (from the Englewood team) and I spent time talking with Beverly, a homeless woman who sits in front of a Border’s book store every day (and has for over a year), hoping to make enough money to eat before heading back to the shelter at night. I was angry because Beverly explained that sometimes she goes to visit her daughter and grandkids or a friend to get a hot shower and a warm, safe place to sleep at night. Why weren’t these people taking care of her? She was quick to explain that she never asked these people who cared about her for anything unless she really needed it because they had other people to take care of. She’d rather sit and beg and do it on her own. She also spoke against the bitterness so many homeless people feel when people walk by and don’t give. In her mind, she has no right to judge. Yes, those people may have money they can give and choose not to, but maybe they don’t, and she’s grateful for what she does receive. I remembered those words later in the day when I found myself staring at people as they walked by just to get them to acknowledge my existence. She’s been living this way for at least a year, if not much longer than that. If she can act out of grace, why can’t I?
For part of the day I sat across the street from New York & Company. My back was to it, but I saw the storefront reflected in the window I was sitting in front of. There have been so many times when I’ve passed a store and thought to myself I can’t wait to go shopping when this is over, or even trying to save some stipend money to buy a really cheap sweater. There is still a huge part of me, bigger than I want to admit, that wants the stereotypical suburban life: the perfect husband, the perfect kids, the perfect house, the perfect job, the perfect car, etc. But there is another part of me that wants to live in the city and give everything I have to help people and suffer along with them to better understand what they’re going through. I can’t bring myself to believe that there is anything inherently wrong with the suburban life I’ve been blessed to have grown up in, and I’ve spent a lot of time struggling with how I can reconcile both my desire to have that “perfect” life and my desire to live in the city. I need to be able to find a balance. The book Restoring At-Risk Communities has been a huge help in dealing with this struggle, and I feel like it can explain why I’m here doing what I’m doing in a way that I simply cannot articulate. I recommend it to all of you.
I struggled with the way I treat homeless people. It’s one thing if they come to the shelter for a break from the cold, or the church for a free meal on Sunday morning. Then I’m serving them and can talk with them and try to understand their sorrows. But if I’m downtown, and I see someone with a sign about how they’re hungry and just need help to get some food, I walk by without a second glance. I am the person I so despised on Saturday who saw me, read my sign, and walked away. We are told not to give money to people who ask for it, but rather give food, or offer to take them into a store to buy what they need. At the end of the day I found myself thinking from now on, I’ll always have extra food with me so I can give it to someone if I see they’re in need. I remember how hungry I was, and I was only out for a few hours. Today, just two days after this “revelation”, I’m sitting on the train in my nice clothes ready to go downtown for our sabbath, looking forward to a warm meal at Panera, and a man comes on the train with his little girl. Honestly, my first thought was another attractive man with a child! How cute! I smiled at the little girl and she smiled back. He went on to explain his situation and ask for money or food, and I became very interested in my ipod. Did I pack extra food like I had vowed to do on Saturday? No. I had a candy bar in my purse that I had purchased from a woman earlier today fundraising for some school band. Did I give that? No. Why? Because old habits die hard. Because change is a process. Because my sinful nature wins out so much more than I like to admit.
It was hard to hold back my tears for the rest of the train ride. I was angry at myself for not growing and changing after a day’s experience. I have a feeling that this year is going to be a long road of being disappointed in myself, but my hope is that these setbacks will become fewer and farther between. It is difficult to describe to you all that I saw and experienced on Saturday, partly because it’s too abstract for me to articulate, and partly because I’m still processing it myself. Though I’m having a difficult time here, it is a good kind of difficult. It is the kind of difficult that comes with growth and change (even if it doesn’t happen overnight), and I welcome it with open arms.
Well…most of the time. :-)
Thank you so much for all your support, love, and prayers. I hope you all are well! Expect a newsletter in the next week or so with a broader update of what I’ve been up to!
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Hot or Cold? / Sep 28, 09:49 PM
Situation #1: Two white cops in bullet-proof vests stop two white girls in a predominantly African American neighborhood. The cops ask the girls if they’re alright. After the girls respond with a confident “yes”, the cops ask if the girls know where they are. Laughing, the girls reply they live a couple blocks away and are out grocery shopping. An African American man witnesses the event while walking by and laughs as he says to the girls “they don’t think you’re safe, do they?”
Situation #2: A child who has become a recognized individual in a community is sent away from the community to live with his father. The community does not know the father, and is outraged with the pregnant mother for arranging for her son to leave. Bystanders hear anger and hurt in the voices of those scolding the mother, who claims that someone will be around to take her baby when he or she is born.
Situation #3: Two young men are doing yardwork when they realize they don’t have a weed-whacker. Upon this realization, one makes a comment to the other about how they should ask to borrow one sometime. Unbeknownst to them, a neighbor from next door hears this discourse, and brings his son over to weed-whack the lawn, without being asked, and goes back home. This same neighbor happens to lead an irreputable business in the neighborhood.
My question to you is, which situation displays the most love?
Last night at dinner, our team began discussing how divorce and mobility are seen as commonplace where we’ve come from. Stereotypically, urban communities are thought of as areas with huge percentages of broken families, and we were wondering why it is that leaving an area seems to be such a bigger deal here than where we’ve grown up. “Family” has a much broader and deeper meaning here than in Williamsville. Of course I love my family, and I’m blessed to have grown up with my grandparents and cousins being such an important part of my life. I also feel like I have a strong church family; people I have met at church have become like a second set of parents or siblings to me. But do I feel that way about my neighbors? Not really. Maybe Mrs. Fink has become like a grandma to me, but for the majority, I don’t really know my neighbors back home. Here in Roseland, family means the people you live near and interact with on a day to day basis. We have become family with the people who live next door, the people across the street, and the people we work with at RCM. I believe it is because of the fact that broken homes are so common here, that people need to cling to whoever is around. This leads to extreme feelings of love for people next door, but also paves the way for more destruction when one of these neighbors leaves the community. Leaving seems to me to be worse than getting into a severe argument with someone, because at the end of the day, arguments can be settled, or even forgotten. Leaving is so much more permanent. Where I’m from, it is common for people to get divorced, for kids to move away and go to college, but it doesn’t ruin lives the way it does here. Where I’m from, we don’t love our neighbors the same way. I believe that here, where the ups and downs are so drastic, community is being lived out the way it was meant to be.
It’s made me think a lot about Revelation 3:15-17, the passage that talks about being hot or cold. At least with hot or cold, you know you’re feeling something. Anger, joy, frustration, sorrow, whatever it is, I feel like emotion is felt stronger here, with these people. I’m hoping that after this year I will be able to take some of that home with me; that I won’t be afraid to let myself feel as deeply as these people do on a regular basis. Yes, that opens myself up to more heartache, but the joy that follows it will be that much greater.
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