The Beauty of Cincinnati

Every year I'm like a child who can't sleep the night before Christmas when it comes to mission trips.

I can't sleep because I'm full of anxiety, excitement, and wonder. This year was no different.

My black and white luggage overflowing with clothes, already stuffed in the back of a white van in the church parking lot.

Once we get in the vans, I've escaped. 

I'm free of the weight of the world, and I'm just surrounded by my church friends. My family.

People break out the snacks, cards are given out for games of Mafia.

The van is either to cold or too hot, and everyone is always asking for the driver to change the condition of the AC.

The co-pilot assumed the position of the DJ, picking the songs for us to yell the words to as we make our way to Cincinnati.

There's always restaurant stops. Greasy french fry bags, lines extending toward the entrance. 

As we inch closer to our destination, excitement pumps through my veins.

There's a sense of magic that's impossible to explain when entering a new city.

The tall buildings in the distance become more distinct, and you've entered a new place.

The trees, cars, landscape all seem to whir by and my mind is captivated.

Then the skyscrapers are behind us now. We keep driving.

We didn't come here to see the shiny and pristine parts of Ohio.

The homes come in every hue imaginable, every size.

Bursts of colors catch my eye, there are murals on the sides of buildings and walls.

Some of them depict people. Some of them are flowers. I've never seen so many in such a small radius.

Our van turns on Hamilton Ave. and pulls into the parking lot of World Outreach Christian Church.

This would be my living space for the next 5 days.

I've been waiting for this week since last year's mission trip. What do I do now?

We unload our bags, and fragile ol' me does my best drag that darn thing up the stairs to the room.

The sleeping quarters were already lined with air mattresses and suitcases flung open.

Each girl claims a spot wearily, hoping they will get to be next to their friends all week.

I'm immediately drawn to the small library attached the main sleeping room. I set my stuff there.

There's a queue of people waiting to make name tags while there's also a game of four square going on already.

It's hot, but lacking in the humidity Tennessee provided (thankfully). One of the leaders has Taylor Swift blaring throughout the parking lot we stood in.

Fading, poorly-penned and sharpie-written name tags that are inviting people to get to know us. There's so many of us.

Dinner seems to come too early. Dark blue HUMC shirts seem to overpopulate the place, and they all seem to be inseparable from each other.

Icebreakers. I mean, you have to get to know the other churches somehow, right?

Orientation. More four square. Bucket of Doom. Then sleep.

Air pumps are passed and shared between friends and strangers, introductions are made. Lights out.

The fan to our non-air conditioned room provides comfort to a restless sleeper like me.

I watch the ceiling for a while, and observe the reflection of car lights and hear the wailing of sirens as I lie motionless in my bed and the rest of the youth sound asleep.

The next thing I remember is waking up with little rest but hopeful for a great day ahead.

Sleepy eyes and groans were apparent from most as they lazily poured milk into their cereal.

We debriefed about out work sites, then took off in a white van.

West End. My groups was West End.

The YMCA didn't sound like the kind of place where I would have to be "working" all week.

Where's the paint brushes? The power tools?

But then a little kid approached my shyly, asking me to play air hockey with him.

A little kid wanted me to toss a ball around with him.

When we went swimming, they wanted me to throw and catch the ball with them.

They would jump up and down and wave at me to get my attention, to try to get their chance to catch it.

One thing led to another and I got separated from my group of kids. I felt like I had let everyone down. Fear started to creep in.

Every corner and turn made me feel like I was in a maze, a daze.

I joined another group who walked across the street to a garden.

The blistering heat made me feel weak. I carried the grocery sack the YMCA leader gave one of the kids because they could no longer bear to carry it. 

I glanced from side to side because I was still unsure if this was where I was supposed to be or where I could even be.

The children sat down on a tarp in the garden, with vegetables and supplies strewn about in front of them. They were going to make salsa..

Children being empowered to create, cook, and use their resources? Priceless. And it tasted good.

The work day came to a close at the playground, and I watched the kids swinging, pushing each other, chasing each other,

In my mind I saw Marks, Mississippi. I saw Cante, I saw Bam Bam. I saw all of the children in the park on their swings. 

That's where they felt at home. 

That's where I felt at home, too.

But a home is not always permanent, and it's not always a location I learned.

I also saw myself in the kids as they walked along the black, rubber, playground border and tried to balance on it like a tightrope.

I did that at W.A. Wright with my friends. We aren't so different, these YMCA kids and I.

A shower drowned out the stress, the sweat, and made me feel refreshed.

The echoes of D-MAUB's refrains replay in the back in my mind.

Bodies bounced up and down in sync with the beat. Fists pumping.

Leaders handed out their "Monkey Butt Awards" for the first time, and more Bucket of Doom ensued.

Traditions bring us together in a unique way.

Back to bed we headed, in dire need of sleep.

Lesley's "meowing" fan caused no disruptions for me this time.

Would the kids remember me by the time I came back tomorrow?

I walked in to their room once again the next morning and kids already started clinging to my arms and waist.

Mrs. Nicc brought out her nail polish and chatted with us.

"Can I call you Ms. Polly?" asked one of the girls as she fiddled with strands of my hair.

"Sure!" I said with a grin. She cared enough to give me a name.

Endless games of Bingo and Uno. The children never stopped wanting to play.

They practiced dance routines as if they were in a hip-hop class.

I had to say goodbye, and I didn't want to. I could only hope I impacted them in the time I had.

Time to spare led to downtown adventures.

Ice cream stops, then to the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center.

In school I always read about slavery in my history books, but we never make it the part where it talks about how it still goes on today.

Kids, teens, adults, all battling forms of slavery.

Battling their environments, their inner selves.

Photos of children bearing the weight of items far beyond their own body mass.

I was frightened and concerned.

I wish I could do more.

There has to be more I can offer.

Before exiting, the walls were covered in photos of these same kids, but with lit candles.

The photographer wanted to convey hope to its audience. 

They deserve better lives. Nobody should be bound back by chains. 

I have hope and count my blessing for those who can't.

For the second night in the row, "How He Loves" flashes across the projector screen during worship.

My arms go around the people to my left and right without a second thought.

But for some reason, there's tears.

I start to let them flow, because I am reminded of all the times we sang it together.

I think of Marks, us in the room upstairs with the comfy couches and metal, foldable chairs.

I think of Warmth In Winter, Jacob strumming his guitar as we all gather around of him.

I think of hearing "sloppy wet kiss" for the first time, and just hearing the passion in the older kids as they yelled the words.

Someone might see that in me because of what I saw in a present-day college student or graduate so many years ago.

It made me feel welcome and a part of the family.

The crowd and location may vary, but the impact never does.

A new project was placed on us to handle the next day- cleaning the streets and sidewalks of Cincinnati.

Dirt seemed to constantly be flying in the air around us,

The heat persisted on making us fatigued, that didn't stop some. 

Shade underneath trees was our friend.

Cigarette butts seemed to multiple each time we would throw away a few.

Thick, gardening gloves almost seemed to slip off my hands as I wore them to pick up trash.

Gas station Powerade has never tasted so good after sweating so much.

Community members thanking us for our work fueled us to persevere until the end.

Laughter, tools clanking in the trash can as we headed back. Sighs of relief as we approached the church.

Free time. We went to the levy and split off into groups.

The town seemed to take on a blue-ish tint- the water, the buildings, the bridges.

Hands interlocked, skipping down the Purple People bridge.

Beautiful scenery that I got to experience with friends.

No phones, no distractions. Just being together with each other was enough.

Monkey Butt Awards. Bucket of Doom. Bed. One full day left of work.

Harvesting food from the garden did not take long that morning.

We shoveled compost into the proper area.
I went back to the Y to shower, and my group of kids passed.
They called out, "Ms. Allison! Are you going swimming with us?"
I still can't believe they remembered me. 

Set up tables and arranged chairs for the cookout that got moved inside.

It was a pretty relaxed day. 

Classic jams played on shuffle from the phone of a YouthWorks leader continuously.

Dinner was prepared, I tossed the salad.

Community members start to trickle in as the rain outside becomes a steady stream.

As I look around, I see youth chatting with strangers. I see connections being made.

Children playfully running laps around the tables, causing us to jump out of the away to avoid be collided into.

Kids gravitated towards certain teens, and they would accept them with open arms.

I may have not learned all their names, but I remember a few. Lyric and Pumpkin were two of them.

Three girls came selling bows to raise money for their family and left with 90 more dollars.
The youngest jumped up and down, overjoyed and overwhelmed.

Thursday night was an experience that made time freeze, the twilight shining above us.

Our church sat in a circle with shoes removed and awaited the washing of feet.

Washing feet was always was awkward for both parties. I didn't anticipate the result that was coming.

I leaned backwards to stretch out and stare at the tranquil sky.

As I stared at the sky searching for answers, I saw a single star through the clouds.

Mom. It was my mom.

When I was little I always thought of the stars as people in heaven, and that reminded me my mom had been watching me this whole week. Did I make her proud?

Some parents write their kids letters when they get sent off on trips, but I see my mother watching over me. I started sobbing.

I felt a hand reach out to mine to provide comfort.

Andrew made his way to me with a white tub filled with water, and a towel.

I wiped the tears off my cheeks, and he patted me on the head. 

He called me a wonderful woman through a whispered, on-the-verge-of-crying voice. Or it at least sounded like it.

With every pair of feet washed, a heartfelt prayer followed.

No one rushed. No one hesitated to let out their feelings. We became vulnerable.

Next, we shared our memories, life stories, and experiences one by one, going around the circle.

People who had been at church their whole life spoke about feeling God's presence.

People who had never been at our church before spoke about feeling changed forever.

People who felt unimportant, struggled with the past or anxiety, spoke about how they felt welcomed around us.

I don't think one face was dry after that. Everyone had to be crying. The occasional laugh would arise when someone would try to lighten the mood.

But one word seemed to resonate the deepest with the whole group, and it was repeated often: family.

We are a family. We are there for each other. No boundaries. Just love.

But time was moving on without us, and every moment has to end.

Back to sleep for the very last time on semi-deflated air mattresses.

I didn't want to leave.

It was a long night writing notes to everyone. A flashlight on one side of me as I attempted to position it to read what I was writing. 2:00 came around as I wrote the last signature on a note, and I hoped that we could possibly sleep on the way home tomorrow.

Waking up was easy when music was involved.

My luggage just seemed to re-pack itself effortlessly.

I grabbed my "Northside Notes" bag and read the "warm fuzzies" I was given.

Sooner than it felt possible, the vans were loaded with our stuff once again.

The Interlude played through the speakers of one of the vans, causing a flash mob in the church parking lot.

Goodbyes were exchanged, along with numbers, social media, etc. with our friends from Pennsylvania and Texas.

We disappeared from the streets that had felt like our own for a few days, that we had explored and cleaned.

The co-pilot DJ was back at again.

The fast food lunch plan had returned.

Maybe it's just me, but the ride back always seems to take longer than the ride there.

I tried to sleep, but no one would let me.

Vans raced one another to see who would end up at the church first.

It's so pure, so fun to be surrounded by these people I call my family.

Objects kept being stuffed into the A.C. vents in the back since some vent covers were broken.

We pulled into the Hermitage United Methodist Church parking lot, swarmed by parents.

Cars pulled out, with the children they had missed dearly along with them.

The numbers dwindled, the luggage disappeared.

I was back home. My third senior high mission trip was over.

I pray I don't forget the stories I heard.

I pray I don't forget the people I met.

I pray that the raw emotions I felt stay with me.

I don't want to forget.

I won't dare forget it.