Comfort

As I write this, I’m, quite literally, in the middle of the woods, just outside Hungry Mother State Park in southwest Virginia.  I barely have any cell phone signal and, of course, no wi-fi.  I just took a cold shower, which I guess there are worse things.  Earlier today I took an hour long nap, which was nothing short of marvelous.  I’m what you might call slightly out of one’s comfort zone.  But for me, not really.  I grew up around woods and the sounds of nature, so actually, it sort of feels like home.  And naturally, since there isn’t anything out here but the aforementioned sounds of nature and my own thoughts (the guys are out fishing), I’ve been thinking a little about my VISTA term.  

I’ve mentioned, on more than one occasion, what I walked away from to become a VISTA; a full-time, benefited job that paid well and was in my field.  In short, I took a pretty substantial pay cut.  Things were kind of tough for a while.  Heck, I suppose they still are.  But I’ve learned a lot these past eight, almost nine, months, and one of those things is that sometimes we have to step out of our comfort zone, in a sense falling off the cliff of security and familiarity, into something that is often scary and unpredictable but certainly rewarding.  At least that’s how I see it. 

I know a lot of VISTAs who sacrificed a lot more than a cushy paycheck to get where they are.  Some left family and friends behind, trading in spending time with spouses and children for sometimes long hours.  Some moved hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away into areas they knew absolutely nothing about- I’ve known this to be true with a lot of VISTAs serving in eastern Kentucky.  Some had to learn an entirely different skill set in order to complete the tasks of their assignment.  Some work for organizations that are, quite frankly, not at all supportive of the VISTA program.  All, I’m sure, have worried if they’re going to be able to pay their bills on time.  All, I’m sure, have seen communities, neighborhoods, families, people, crippled and devastated by unrelenting poverty. 

Being a VISTA is far from comfortable.  It’s hard.  It stretches you mentally, sometimes physically and emotionally, financially.  It takes you to places that you may not necessarily want to go.  But what I take comfort in, pardon the pun, is that I’m part of this network of people from all walks of life, dispersed all over the country, that at one point or another, know exactly the struggles and challenges that VISTAs face.  I’m part of an organization that is trying to make a difference through something that we so often take for granted: food.  I have a small community of supervisors and VISTA leaders, both local and in the state office, whose job, among many, many other tireless responsibilities, is to assure that I can be the absolute best VISTA I can possibly be.  I also have a God, who saw me fit to have all of this just because He’s good like that.  And no matter where I am, whether I’m in the middle of the woods in southwestern Virginia or back at my desk in Berea, I always find my comfort in that.  Even if I have to take cold showers.  

But sometimes you just get punched in the face with beautiful scenery!