by Cory Johnson, Communications Intern ’25-26 (he/him) Boise, ID ’23-24 & Anchorage, AK ’24-25
Leaving a place is the biggest ego booster on the market.
Take the end of my first JV year. Everyone at my service site sang my praises. The local support folks sent us off with signed cards and momentos to remember Boise by. Our community reminisced on the past year: “Cory, remember that time you slayed boarding down the sand dunes for the first time without any effort or flaw whatsoever?” (Boy, do I!) And so many cakes with my name on it!
Sure, we were all in shock of how quickly the year went by and, in some ways, devastated to leave. But, we all knew it was coming, right? And cutting through the grief was an intense excitement for what was to come: I signed up for a second year! In Alaska! I studied up all about my new service site and city. I read through the bios of my new community mates. I searched the house address on a map. I was prepared, with high expectations.
Then I landed in Anchorage, where it seemed to rain every day in August. I got to my service site and saw their needs were different than what I expected. A new housemate ate the leftovers I claimed in my head while I misplaced the borrowed car keys (again). I went through a breakup and struggled to navigate relationships with all my friends not in the subarctic.
In the first check-in call with my program coordinator Micahel, it seemed like I had nothing but disappointment to report. I cried and laughed at what felt like a comedy of errors. Then, I shared those challenges with my house, the magic of both JVCNW and Alaska set-in, and everything came together.
At least, that’s how I usually like to tell it–because I love a good Western-style story in all of its distinct parts. I love a resolution story arc because I hate an unsettled story with no closure. That’s a problem. Especially when it comes to sharing about my JVC Northwest journey. Even though it’s been 10 months since I’ve lived in a JV house, that story remains unfinished.
As I’ve continued to tell about my own journey and get to share the stories of others’ encounters in our JV movement with my work as the communications intern, I understand more about my two years of service and intentional community–how it shaped and is still shaping me. What I share with Maggie and Tess, dear friends I last saw at my first orientation, on a midwest visit 3 weeks after leaving Alaska is draft 27 of my story. Many pages are already written, but the people I share in “reading” those with help me interpret them in a new way.
Pages are also added all the time as the relationships formed in my JV years continue to grow. Visiting my Moose Haus brother Mason and getting to hang out with his new JV community in Montana is folded into draft 53. Moving across the country to become neighbors with the Tacoma, WA JV house becomes version 56. Visiting my Boise buddy Hailey at her dad’s house in South Carolina for the holidays is draft 61. Going back up to Alaska to see many old JV friends at the state folk festival, nine months after I moved away, adds many pages to draft 73. There will never be a neatly packaged finished product, much to my chagrin.
Getting to share current JV Taylor Williams’ reflection on our blog–where he says “I love you” in Kazakh translates most literally to “I see you clearly”–gets stuck in my head for months. I say a quiet thank you to everyone who’s seen me clearly. And I say a little prayer of forgiveness from the people I’d try to see with a big smudge on my glasses that I neglected to clean.
I realize now that part of the excitement to move to Alaska came from the things pulling me there as much as what was pushing me away. Our Boise house was burnt out. My go-to characterization that our community of three people was always bound to be a unique challenge as a small, odd number is partially true. But I’ve also been given the grace to see that I often failed in that service year as a community mate.
I want the Spirit to call me to these big works of justice and mercy in the world, but I often overlook the opportunities right in front of me in my daily life.
That first year as a JV was often spent serving alongside folks trying to avoid eviction during the day. Our staff wore shirts declaring “I love my neighbor”. I really enjoyed the mission there and felt we were making a difference in the city.
Then I’d go home–where I’d frequently fall into a pattern of identifying habits of others in my house that didn’t mesh with my own, and complaining about it to everyone except the person in question. My evening shirt more accurately read: “I love the idea of my neighbor”. My impressive knack for avoiding conflict and resolution got in the way of real relationship.
Living in community inherently comes with a unique level of closeness–like it or not. Proximity, at its best, reaps love and kinship. It creates an environment where we are known and appreciated for our strengths, flaws, and quirks. Proximity, without humility, grace and authenticity creates a space ripe for animosity and distrust.
While working on a video to honor our 70th anniversary of JVC Northwest, I choked up in a conversation with Claire Lucas (Ashland, MT ‘19-21) as she described community living:
“I think people often see the service as a way to respond. But I would say the commitment to community is arguably just as important. Literally, it’s so radical to say ‘these people I know nothing about, I am agreeing to be in relationship with them, to communicate, to pursue these values, to resolve conflict.’ Commitment is just so important in our current climate, and I just hope people continue to see the connection between those things.”
It’s a commitment that has an inflection point on a daily basis. A crossroads where we can choose relationship with each other above all else, or not. Often in my first year I made the wrong decision. I failed to seek common ground, or listen and open up to people I found challenging to relate to as a false means of ‘protecting my peace’. But, thank God, that’s not where my story ends. Reflecting on Claire’s words–six months after my final day as a JV–becomes draft 87 of my JV story.
Claire’s words struck me so much because I’d been thinking about the exact same idea one year earlier when I was invited on a podcast with two Catholic nuns. They were particularly interested in hearing about my thoughts on the intentional community of us young JV men in Anchorage. It was January…in Alaska…and I was sweating…bad. Who was I to tell this story as someone who both cherished community and often screwed up in it? I blacked out during the hour we recorded. I came away not remembering a single thing I said. Listening back, I couldn’t believe the ideas I brought forth; thoughts that could not have come from my mind alone. It was one of the most Divine experiences of my life.
In Anchorage, I reflected on my current and previous role in community and watched my brothers model generosity like I’d never seen. When my world felt like it was falling apart, I let them in, and they helped me keep it together.
We committed to an acceptance that we’re not going to see eye to eye on everything. I will fail you and you will have habits that irk me, but I see you as a holy being. When you leave a light on and I whistle too loudly, that still adds up. We’re not creating this utopian community where we’re totally removed from these earthly challenges. But when we’re assuming the best intentions of each other and we’re pursuing reconciliation, we honor each other’s strengths and weaknesses as individuals. We’re truly being the church.
When we commit to this intentional community from the very beginning–we’re also saying that we’re going to be challenged in this year and we might keep score, but we’re going to put down the sharpie and pick up the pencil. We’ll try our best, with the Spirit’s help, to erase that count with every breath and start with a new slate until we slowly give and receive enough grace that our heart and mind can be transformed to lose interest in keeping score entirely and shift our attention to that which really gives us joy.
Today is my last day as the communications intern for JVC Northwest. Leaving a place is the biggest ego booster on the market. I’ve been showered with affirmations this week (which I actually disdain for derailing my Irish goodbye plan). While I listen to what others have appreciated from my work, I’m quick to think of the things it feels like I’ve also left undone. And then I realize: I don’t think anyone else is keeping score. It’s just me. Keeping my own score.
So I take a breath. I erase. I read “Santiago” by David Whyte again. And I wipe the smudge from my glasses so I can look in the mirror and see myself more clearly–to appreciate the ways I’ve grown and honor all of the people in my big JVC Northwest community that have shaped me these past three years. I give my past self a little squeeze of grace. And I nod to myself that is still becoming, as he writes draft 96 of his JV journey. This is not the end. There never will be an end to this story. It’s unsettled. I hate that. And I’m so grateful for it.
