We’re a rag-tag group of people vigilantly pursuing self-sustaining educational & employment opportunities with and for students and their families living in rural communities in developing countries. We believe in asking hard questions like, “What do you need and how can we help?” We believe that communities know their needs better than we do and that it’s our job to listen. We’re big on being kind for the sake of kindness and we believe that even the smallest acts of kindness can make a big difference. We believe in keeping vigil over one another and watching for opportunities to help, no matter how far off the beaten path those opportunities take us. We’re vigilant in our belief that God has given each person unique gifts and that one of the highest forms of worship is using those gifts to serve others. We believe God has a purpose for each life and Vigilante Kindness is our purpose. Join us as we live out wild adventures in service of God and others. Join us in committing acts of Vigilante Kindness.
This week I’m thankful for…
Remember being a kid on the first day of school? If you were anything like me, it was a bittersweet day, the end of summer nearly eclipsed by the excitement of a new year.
You probably woke up before your alarm clock sounded. If you were lucky, your mom woke you with a kiss on your forehead. You’d hurry into the bathroom to brush your teeth, but only the front ones because today was not a day to waste time on petty things like molars.
After your teeth were clean enough and your hair combed to perfection, you’d pull on your First Day of School Outfit, laid out carefully the night before. You’d check your reflection in the mirror and nod. Looking good, looking REAL good.
You’d top off your outfit with your brand new pair of shoes, pristine shoes scant of scuff marks.
You’d pack your lunch, a PB&J with the perfect jelly to peanut butter ratio, into your brand new lunchbox.
You’d navigate your Trapper Keeper and your pencil box full of freshly sharpened pencils and place your lunch gingerly inside your backpack, the one you’d picked out specially, agonizing over the selection in the backpack aisle until you found the one that was just right.
With any luck, you’d get to school early.
Maybe even early enough to meet your friends on the playground for a little before school recess.
And then you’d summon your courage and walk to class to meet your teacher, who upon first glance seemed a little nutty.
You soon discovered that your teacher was the kind who not only loved music, but art, too.
When it came time for math, your teacher explained it in such a way that you, the kid who hated math, felt like Einstein.
Before you knew it lunchtime came around and nothing, nothing was such a relief as when a friend rescued you from sitting alone at the lunch table.
After lunch and a sweaty recess of dominating the tetherball court, your teacher would lead you back into class, where you’d cool off, rest your head on your desk and maybe even nod off a second or two under the calming rhythm of your teacher’s voice reading a good book.
Then you’d pull out your notebook, all the pages crisp and white, just waiting for your words, your magnum opus, What I Did On Summer Vacation.
If you were really lucky, you visited the library. The librarian, who smelled like chocolate chip cookies and old books, helped you check out a stack of books to take home.
And just like that, the first day was over. You’d race home and tell your mom all the details of the day. And then before the summer sun settled down for the night, you’d ditch your school stuff and race out the front door to play with your neighborhood friends.
After all, even Einstein didn’t study all the time.
This week I’m thankful for…
Saturday afternoon I pulled on my tights and arm warmers and all sorts of other layers that would keep me warm on such a frigid day. As I got dressed, my nerves bounced around like rubber bands being fired in my stomach, plinking off the insides of my ribcage.
It was the day of my first bike ride of the year.
I love riding The Rocket, but there is just something about the first ride of the year that makes me all a jitter. Maybe it’s that a new cycling season is so ripe with possibility. Or maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t ridden outside in a couple of months and I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how to clip in and out of my pedals and I’m convinced I’m going to crash. At least once. Yeah, that’s probably it.
The night before, I pumped up my tires and took a minute to get re-acquainted with The Rocket. I checked her brakes, shifted and listened for any new squeaks. After a couple of neglected months, she had good reason to whine, but no, she is a bike who holds her tongue, a lady who thinks before she speaks.
I gave her the once over, eyeing the little chips and scratches on her frame, each one a battle scar, proof that we have been places, that we’ve seen the world together. I ran my hands over her, making sure all her parts were in working order. She was in prime condition.
Saturday was frigid. I think at one point the temperature got up to a balmy 39 degrees. My friend, Laura, and I cruised down to the river trail. We chatted and pedaled, our breath puffing around us as we rode on the mostly empty trail. There are a ton of newly paved sections and I was excited to try out a nice, steady climb.
We turned onto the new part of the trail and a creek to our left burbled down toward the river as we pushed up the hill. We were quiet, only a word or two popping between us. I’d like to say our conversation lulled because we wanted to enjoy the sounds of nature, but the truth of the matter is after a couple of months off the bike, I had to choose between talking and breathing.
One of the best parts of cycling is that I never know what I’m going to see, every ride is a surprise. And as we turned a corner, there it was.
A beautiful, old, red boat.
You might not think it’s beautiful, but on a day when the sky was a gunmetal swath above the gray river, and the air was wrapped in fog, the red boat was a stunning punch of color in an otherwise subdued landscape. I yanked off my gloves and willed my frozen fingers to work the camera.
A boat, a beautiful, red boat. In the prime of its life, it could have held 30 men, maybe carried them down the creek into the river. And here it was landlocked on the side of the trail. I wish I knew the story of the boat, but there wasn’t anything or anyone around to offer an explanation. I slipped my gloves back on and tucked my camera in my jersey pocket. I thought about that boat for the rest of the ride, inventing a history for it, keeping my mind busy while my legs turned the cranks.
The temperature dropped and a drizzle covered my glasses in a sheet of mist. We hurried back to our cars, willing our legs to spin faster as our fingers and toes ached with cold.
Back at home, I stood in the shower, letting the scalding hot water needle my skin. I piled on layers of clothes and slurped hot tomato soup under a blanket, but no matter what I did, I couldn’t shake the cold from my bones, couldn’t keep the goosebumps at bay.
I like to think the goosebumps on my skin that day weren’t a result of winter’s icy grip. No, I think they were the result of standing tiptoe on the edge of a new cycling season, holding my breath knowing adventures full of unexpected beauty are just around the corner.
A long time ago in a space that seems fuzzy and far away, before I owned a road bike or called myself a cyclist, my step-dad, Chris, used to take me mountain biking. I use that term loosely because it’s not like I was hopping up boulders or screaming downhill, whipping through singletrack or anything. I was riding mostly flat dirt trails on my mountain bike.
Often Chris would bring along his dog, Jack. Jack was the blackest dog I’ve ever seen. His coat was a glossy obsidian color and as he ran alongside us, his pink tongue would hang out. His tongue had one black spot right in the middle. In his more nimble days, Jack would get so excited about riding bikes that he would bite at our tires. I would nudge him away with my foot, half smiling at his mischievous side. Not that I could relate or anything.
As I tootled along the dusty trails, I tried, with varying amounts of success, not to get lost and not to crash. Quite often I got separated from Chris and he’d send Jack to find me. I was never afraid of being lost when I rode with Chris because I knew Jack would always come back for me. As I stood befuddled as to which way to turn on a trail, Jack would lope up to me, his polka dot tongue waggling at me. I would say “Hi, Jack. Thanks for coming to get me. Take me to Chris.” And sure enough, Jack led me to Chris every time. He was my own personal rescue dog.
Today Jack died. And I am sad. I know he was old and no longer spry enough to run rescue missions on the trails. And I know he wasn’t even my dog. But I am sad. Sad that he will never nip at my tires or grin at me with his silly polka dot tongue.
I rode my bike to school today and in the late morning Terry dropped by my classroom with a bouquet of stark white roses. When it came time to go home, I jimmied the bouquet into my backpack and strapped on my helmet. The roses bumped against the back of my helmet as I pedaled up the hill home. Every little bump seemed to release a new wave of fragrance into the air. It was lovely.
As I inhaled the scent of the white roses, I thought of black Jack. I thought of how grief is anything but black and white. It is shades of gray, birthed from black sorrow and white joy stacked one upon the other, like crying and laughing in the same breath.
When I got home today, I plunged the roses into a vase of water. A lone petal fell onto the counter. I fingered its pale skin, grateful today for the juxtaposition of loss and love. I stood in the kitchen and gave thanks that in my life there is more laughing than crying, more love than loss, more white than black.
Vigilante Kindness 