Quaker Connections

In January of this year, Lydia and I went on the Quaker Connections Study Tour with the Bolivian Quaker Education Fund. As young adults, our trip was funded through a joint effort between New York Yearly Meeting, the Bob Bacon Fund, and the Spiritual Life Fund at Multnomah Meeting in Portland, OR. We recently offered a second hour at Multnomah to reflect on our experiences, and I wanted to know how this trip tied into the larger story of Lydia’s experiences as a Quaker. The following interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Caitlin: Thinking about our trip to Bolivia, what were the highlights for you? I’d love for you to discuss your favorite projects that we visited, the specific experiences that stayed with you, or the broader themes that emerged.

Lydia: It’s hard to hone in on any one experience in particular because every aspect of our trip felt impactful in a different way. It’s easier for me to identify the themes that really grounded me throughout the trip. The first was that it was an intergenerational experience. It wasn’t just a group of peers; our travel group had Quakers from all stages of life, from a preteen all the way up to someone in advanced retirement. That generational diversity was mirrored when we met with Bolivian Quakers. We connected with beautiful elders who held the history of their communities, and we also spent time with Quaker youth in the scholarship programs and very young children in the Aymara villages. It felt like a truly age-diverse, cross-cultural Quaker exchange.

Another theme that emerged for me as we met with various groups and communities was this theme of shared trust. I believe there’s a deep inherent trust cultivated between people when folks are able to speak to their own needs and define their own solutions. Each Quaker-supported Bolivian organization we met with spoke to us with clarity and honesty about their needs and what it would take to further the solutions they identified. I was struck by the faith it requires to directly ask for the support you’ve discerned is needed. In the world of NGOs and global development, you often see a top-down approach where a resourced group of people from outside a community comes in and decides what’s “wrong” and what the appropriate “fix” is, often disregarding the historical and cultural knowledge of the people they’re claiming to support. But that’s not the dynamic I witnessed in the relationship between our US-based Quaker organization and the Bolivian organizations. People said, “This is what we need,” and the response was, “Let’s see how we can make that work.” I have this gut sense that trusting people as the experts on their own needs, and in exchange trusting that the expressed needs will be met with an open and collaborative spirit, somehow ties into that Quaker energy of “letting your life speak,” though I’m still figuring out how to marry those two concepts perfectly. There’s something there about recognizing the holiness in self-determination.

Caitlin: Can you discuss the specific projects that felt most significant to you under those themes?

Lydia: The visit to San Pedro Chonchocoro State Prison was a really significant, sobering experience for me. There were so many parallels to draw between the conditions of the prison in Bolivia and the system here in the United States. We learned about the work of Proyecto Alternativas a la Violencia (PAV) which is the Bolivian iteration of the Alternatives to Violence Project (AVP). Seeing the impact that AVP had on inmates—men who were told they were unlikely to ever leave that prison in their lifetime—was profound.

The water project in the remote Aymara villages was another meaningful highlight. This was a perfect example of self-led work. The community said, “This is what we want to do.” They had a member from within the larger community, Efren, providing the engineering support, and they were doing the labor themselves. They just needed support with the logistical piece of paying for the materials, like the cisterns and wells.

In the grand scheme of global funding, the financial investment was quite small, but the impact on the quality of life was massive. As my F/friend Gabe pointed out during the trip, the project improved their lives without requiring them to change their traditional way of life. There was no “assimilation factor.” By making water accessible for cooking and cleaning, it allows people to stay in their ancestral villages rather than feeling forced to move to larger cities to survive. You aren’t just giving them water; you’re giving them a more sustainable connection to their own culture and to each other.

Caitlin: You mentioned earlier that these projects made you think about the darker side of Quaker history. Can you expand on that?

Lydia: Both of those projects—the prison work and the Indigenous village water project—hit me hard because the entire time I was holding onto Quakerism’s own historical relationship to these systems. There is a lot of room for learning and repair there. We talk a lot about “right relationship,” but we often overlook the harm Quakers have caused while trying to do “good.”

Quakers have been supporting prison reform for a very long time, but part of that history includes the invention of a practice we now recognize as incredibly cruel: solitary confinement. It was originally conceived by Quakers as a “humane” way for a prisoner to sit in silence with their conscience and God to reach “penitence”—hence the word penitentiary. But in reality, it became a tool of psychological torture.

Similarly, Quakers were involved in the Indigenous boarding school programs in North America. While the intention might have been framed as “help,” the result was the systematic stripping away of culture, language, and family bonds. Being in Bolivia and seeing Quaker-affiliated projects that don’t require people to change who they are felt like a necessary move toward right relationship. It was a way of seeing the work done through a lens of equality and respect rather than paternalism.

Caitlin: What else did you find difficult or challenging about the trip?

Lydia: One thing I love about Quakerism is that something feeling “challenging” doesn’t mean it’s bad. To me, “challenging” feels interesting. The biggest challenge was holding the nuance of my own very liberal, unprogrammed Quaker upbringing alongside the much more scripted, programmed, evangelical Quakerism practiced in Bolivia.

The Bolivian spaces were churches, complete with pastors, worship teams, and sermons about sin—concepts I rarely encounter in my U.S. Quaker spaces. Usually, if I’m in a faith space in the U.S. where people are talking about sin, it feels like an unsafe space. Yet, here were these beautiful, generous people who share the identity “Quaker” with us, even if the “flavor” is entirely different.

The challenge was figuring out how to connect authentically while upholding the integrity of my own values. For example, if a church believes something I’m not morally aligned with—like not marrying same-sex couples—it feels like a compromise of my integrity to just let that idea hang there as if I tacitly agree. Transparently, I was apprehensive about disclosing my sexual orientation or the gender identity of my partner because I didn’t want to create a barrier…but I also didn’t want to circumvent the conversation in a way that felt dishonest. I wanted to practice an equality of belief without putting my own beliefs on a pedestal, but also without erasing who I am.

There’s also the question of evangelism. In my unprogrammed youth, one of the few loosely-defined “rules” seemed to be “we don’t proselytize.” Yet a lot of the vital work in Bolivia—the scholarship initiatives, the prison work—is being done through evangelical structures. I don’t have a resolution for that tension, but my path forward was to just meet as many people as possible and see the light in how they carried out their work.

Also, on a purely physical level: going up two flights of stairs and being out of breath as a “fit” young person while Bolivian elders danced circles around us? That was incredibly humbling. The altitude humbled me.

Caitlin: Can you talk about your personal journey through Quakerism? You’ve been involved in Baltimore Yearly Meeting (BYM), Tallahassee Meeting, QVS, and now you’re on the West Coast.

Lydia: I say this mostly in jest: this question always makes me feel like a bit of a fraud; I’ve seen a lot of discourse in my life around the experience of being a “birthright” friend versus a “convinced” friend and neither fits quite right. I usually say I was raised Quaker, which feels true, but neither of my parents are Quakers; they’re pretty secular. My “motherland” is the East Coast, specifically Baltimore Yearly Meeting.

My introduction to Quakerism was a BYM camp, Opequon Quaker Camp, in the Shenandoahs. Neither of my parents ever joined a meeting, but my mom really connected with Quaker values and wanted her children to grow up in that space. Every summer at Opequon felt like coming home. It was where I found my spiritual footing. Because my parents didn’t have deep spiritual conversations at the dinner table, camp was the space where I could ask questions about God and identity with other earnest, curious young people.

Meetings are beautiful, but they are often demographically dominated by people of retirement age. Having an intense concentration of Quaker and “Quaker-adjacent” youth was formative. Our counselors were young adults who made the space feel safe. It was an open container where you could find your way without worrying about being “wrong” or “stuck” in your faith exploration.

Caitlin: How did you transition from being a “camp kid” to the Quaker adult you are now?

Lydia: Not to be dramatic but aging out of Quaker camp is devastating! You’re left wondering, “Well, what do I do now?” When I went to college in Florida, I started attending Tallahassee Monthly Meeting. I was the only Quaker I knew in my “real” life, and I missed that groundedness. I fell in love with Tallahassee Meeting. They are my spiritual home.

Graduating college brought a lot of despair—I was in a soul-crushing job and didn’t know what was next. My meeting ran a spiritual formations class, and in that tiny, dusty library, I saw a poster for Quaker Voluntary Service (QVS). It felt like a divinely timed opportunity. I applied and got placed in Portland, Oregon.

That year in the QVS house was intense. Living in an intentional community during a pandemic—bleaching groceries and sharing one shower with six people—was a pressure cooker. But it allowed me to explore Quakerism independently of my childhood experiences. It turned into a career in the nonprofit sector, and even though I learned I never want to live in an intentional community again (it’s a lot!), it was a formative experience that moved me closer to the faith.

Caitlin: It seems like a recurring theme in your life is that these “high-intensity” Quaker experiences only happened because of financial support.

Lydia: I hate to reduce it to money, but it is an essential piece. None of these experiences—Quaker camp, QVS, or Bolivia—would have happened without financial ministry. My mom could only afford to send us to Opequon because BYM allowed her to work in the kitchen to offset the tuition. They even accommodated her physical disabilities so she could participate.

When I moved to Oregon for QVS, I didn’t have the $1,500 it would cost to drive across the country. My local meeting in Tallahassee cut me a check. They asked, “What do you need?” and they made it happen because they believed in me and the importance of my spiritual development.

Asking for help is vulnerable and scary. It can create a power imbalance where the asker feels subservient. But in Quaker spaces, I’ve always felt like I was being met by an equal. Having earmarked funds—like the Spiritual Life Fund that paid for this Bolivia trip—makes it feel like the program is designed for you. It’s not “charity”; it’s an investment in the “community churn.”

Caitlin: I felt that during our presentation. We received the funding for the trip, and by sharing our experiences with the Meeting, we were completing that spiritual cycle.

Lydia: Exactly. Symbiosis. We aren’t exclusively receiving; we are enriching the life of the meeting by bringing back these perspectives. The people contributing to these funds aren’t looking for “metrics” or a “grade” on our usefulness. They have a genuine curiosity about what we saw and felt. That trust is what makes Quaker youth programming work.

Caitlin: You’re currently a “Quaker Youth” in your 30s. How do you feel about the transition to being a “Quaker Elder”?

Lydia: I have angst about transitioning from “Quaker youth” to “Quaker!” Is there a ritual? A special Fire Circle? How do I uphold the responsibility that comes with being an “elder”? Is there a course? Being a Quaker youth has been my identity for so long. I don’t know how to be an elder yet. I think the only way forward is to keep showing up, keep learning, and keep roping people into the big “experimental” religion. George Fox described it as an experiential religion, but “experimental” feels more accurate. It’s a continuing revelation.

Caitlin: The “experiment” of Quakerism only continues if we invest in the people who are doing the experimenting.

Lydia: Right. If you want Quakers, you have to build the systems that support them. You have to support the parents who work in the kitchens and the young adults who need gas money to drive across the country.

One final thought on why this matters for young people: Quakerism teaches the inherent dignity of the individual. In a world where children are often treated as property to be controlled or managed, Quakerism teaches them that they have an Inner Light. In Quaker spaces, children and young adults are given ownership of and responsibility for themselves and their faith experience. The fundamental respect and equality extended to young people in Quakerism teaches them to trust themselves. That’s a unique, powerful thing to give a young person who is trying to figure out who they are. It reinforced my own sense of self and gave me a foundation of acceptance for others—especially the “no-duh” inclusivity of the queer community at camp—that I didn’t even realize I needed until years later. It’s a uniquely Quaker culture and without the intentional investment in Quaker youth experiences, I would not be a part of that culture today.