deep, but not profound?

home: let me go ho-o-ome!

2011-06-10T10:43:00.003-04:00

One of the classes I sat in on at the UAP was ¨Ciencia y Religion¨- Southern´s equivalent of Earth Science, which I never took. So I learned some new things (at least partially learned) about tetonic plates and dinosaurs and volcanoes. The teacher is really passionate about the subject matter, so the recent volcano in Chile was an exciting thing to talk about in class.

But not so exciting in real life... I had heard that some flights out of Buenos Aires had been grounded by the volcanic ash, but the news predicted flights today would go out as normal, and I had heard that flights yesterday afternoon left as well. So last night at midnight, I boarded a flechabus to Buenos Aires. I arrived early this morning and spent the day exploring the city, blissfully away from internet and news. I got to the airport extra early just to make sure all went okay. When I tried to self-check in, the machine couldn´t find my itinerary. That´s when I noticed the long line of red ¨cancelados¨flashing on the screens. The next flight they can put me on (hopefully) leaves Sunday night - 3 days from now.

Since this is the weather´s fault, the airlines don´t help with anything. Hostels and affordable hotels are full all over the city. Ultimately, it´s cheaper for me to take a 6-hour bus ride back to la Villa tonight (in 6 days, I will have spent 4 nights on a bus), spend a few more days there, and come back to Buenos Aires again later in the day Sunday.

I was really looking forward to coming home today. I´ve enjoyed this trip so much, but I´m tired - physically, mentally, socially, and emotionally. I feel like I just want to sink into a big, soft bed of comfort - effortless communication, friends who know me well, jokes that I get, and just having the things around me be familiar instead of unknown.

I hear that I´m supposed to adapt in times like these. Well, I don´t really have a choice. The clock keeps on ticking, whether I´m happy or not. So I´m going to try to be happy:

I have 12 pesos left in cash (about $3), but I have a free place to stay at the UAP and free cafeteria food (which is not bad, actually. My last post may have made the food situation seem worse than it is. There is some food here I like a lot, like chipas and orange-flavored soy milk!)
I have to ride the bus again tonight, but this time it´s cama (last night it wasn´t).
This complicates my upcoming trip out West, but at least I´m driving instead of flying, and hopefully Jones will wait a day for me...
I´ve had a lot of extra practical opportunities because of this to stumble along in Spanish.
Although some people in the airport were not helpful (in fact rather difficult), I found many others who were, like the guy who gave me his map today and the airport security guard who walked me to Retiro when we returned after dark.

If you can´t tell, writing this is my way of giving myself a pep talk. As much as I wish I were on a plane to Miami right now instead of in an internet cafe in the bus station, these next three days of life are still a gift, and I will try to find things I enjoy in them.

la comida rica

2011-06-02T13:20:00.005-04:00

People had warned me that the food here is a little boring. Many Argentines have German or Italian heritage, so the food here reflects the cuisine of those countries. But I think the spices were lost on the journey across the ocean. The food doesn’t taste bad – it just doesn’t taste much at all. The most common flavoring agents are salt and vinegar, and if someone likes to cook, maybe oregano and a little garlic.

I hear that the meat, on the other hand, is world class. Too bad I don’t eat meat. (You can imagine how, if I can’t keep the names of different meats straight in English, I am completely lost in Spanish.) The option sin carne is typically pasta. Since I’ve been here, I’ve had gnocchi, ravioli, fettuccine, cannelloni, and some kind of giant ravioli called “quesonudle” or something Spanish/German-sounding like that. The pasta is often homemade, and sometimes it’s not bad. But I get bored eating pasta twice a day.

Thanks to Krista, I found some places to eat in la Villa that serve other vegetarian food, and then they fixed the oven in my apartment so I could cook for myself. Unfortunately the principle of supply and demand governs the spice aisle in the local supermarkets; there are only a few options, mostly mixes for marinating meat. So my home cooked meals have been fairly bland as well.

Some of my classmates have ventured further than I have to shop for groceries. The other day the Careys went to a Walmart about 45 minutes away. They told me it’s a little different from the Walmart at home. For example, they lock up your purse in a bag until you pay. But they said that mostly, it was still Walmart.

Last night, I had a dream that they invited me to go back to Walmart with them. But it was very, very different – more like a cross between Costco and an arcade. The store was dimly lit, but the ceiling had all these red and green and yellow neon lights zigzagging across it. The air was filled with beeping noises and clashing electronic music. Instead of the regular straight aisles stocked with cans and boxes, there were different stations haphazardly placed throughout the store. At each station, there was an attendant with big hair, gaudy makeup, and a flashy costume. The attendant would let you play a little game in order to try a sample or buy something from her station.

Most of the samples had meat in them, but eventually I played a game that let me into a lighter, more peaceful section of the store where a few people were sitting around a bar. On the counter were little egg-shaped coasters with samples of Indian food on them. I tried one, and then another, and then another – they were so flavorful! Eventually, with my coaster of curry in midair, it hit me that if they had samples like this, they must also sell the ingredients! I raised my eyes, and sure enough, there was a lovely aisle of spices stretching before me. Each glass bottle glimmered like a spotlight was shining on it, and I could read the pretty handwritten labels - cumin, ginger, cinnamon, basil, red pepper flakes, even citrus grill! This may sound like your average spice aisle in America, but it was so beautiful. Past the spices, there was a section of curry pastes, and beyond that were mixes for other kinds of Indian food. And everything only cost about 3 pesos (around $0.70).

It was too good to be true! I kept asking my companions (who now included Chris Clouzet, a girl I met in Argentina, and Richard Parker in a raincoat) if I was dreaming. They assured me that it was real; I could buy any of these items that I wanted.

Sadly, I woke up before I made it to the check out line. When I walked into my kitchen for breakfast this morning, I was greeted by a lonely packet of finely ground black pepper on top of the microwave. No curry for me today. My taste buds will have to be patient for one more week.

PSA

2011-05-26T18:43:00.005-04:00

Cama seats still hold more resemblance to a dentist’s chair than a bed. But they are more comfortable than semi-cama, blankets are provided, and the evening meal comes with a Styrofoam cup of wine.

Speaking of wine, look at my Bingo card from my ride home!

[Pretend that you can see a picture of a Bingo card here, full except for one number. The internet here is too slow to upload pictures...]

You have to get two rows in order to win, but I had two full rows at least three rounds before the next person. And I swear I understood correctly! After trying to learn to count in French (who decided 93 should be four-twenty-thirteen?!), numbers seem so easy in Spanish. Anyway, the prize was a bottle of wine, and my fellow passengers seemed pretty intent on winning it. So I kept my mouth shut, happy to be a real Winner.

el omnibus

2011-05-21T17:03:00.004-04:00

Everyone told me that the buses here in Argentina are super nice. I don’t know what kind of luxury I was expecting exactly, but I definitely set my expectations too high. The long distance buses here are nicer than buses in the States, but they are still buses. You can get two kinds of tickets: semi-cama, which means your seat reclines about halfway, and for a little more you can get cama, which means your seat turns into a bed. For my ticket to Mendoza, the only available option was semi-cama. I thought that it would be fine – I’d even save a little money that way. It turned out to be pretty uncomfortable though. The seat does recline quite a bit, and there’s this leg rest thing too, but each part of the seat is the wrong length for my body, so my circulation gets cut off at some point no matter how I try to sit.

To make things worse, during the night the bus got really cold! And there were no blankets. I put on my scarf and extra sweater and wrapped my jacket around my legs, but I was still freezing. Ah. It was a miserable 16 hours…Did I mention it’s like 700 miles from la Villa to Mendoza? I may be on the skinny end of this continent, but I've basically crossed this it now.

There were a few funny parts to the bus ride though. They had TVs on the bus, and they played a variety of entertainment, including an Argentinean movie, Date Night, and a Marc Anthony concert (he’s so ridiculously dramatic!). There was no option to watch TV or not – the volume was controlled by the steward. Sometimes it would be a while before he realized the DVD had finished; we must have listened to the DVD menu loop for Date Night for at least 20 minutes. Another thing we did for entertainment was play Bingo! All those times I played Bingo in Spanish class, I never thought it would actually prepare me for the real world.

When I arrived, I got to experience another kind of bus. If there were a stuffwhitepeoplehate.com, “taking guided tours” would certainly make the list. Exploring a place on your own is much hipper. And cool things seem even cooler when you just stumble upon them and feel like you’ve made a lucky discovery. Plus I like to feel like I’m really experiencing a place when I travel, and being herded along by a chipper guide, holding a flower on an umbrella, reciting a mechanical speech into a crackly microphone is not my idea of an authentic or desirable experience.

Well, my student Edith had considerately arranged a tour of Mendoza for me, which I was planning on canceling. But my walk from the bus station to the hotel (only 17 blocks on the map…but it turns out that’s a long ways) made me realize that it would take an awful lot of walking to just stumble across the cool stuff. Plus I didn’t have much energy to explore. So I decided it might be worth $15 to be driven around to all the best parts of the city.

The tour bus was about 45 minutes late to pick me up, and when I climbed on board, I realized everyone else was probably getting a senior citizen’s discount on this tour. What started off as a bad impression only got worse when I found out this tour was in Spanish only. Perhaps I should have rejoiced at the opportunity to practice listening comprehension, but trying to listen to tour guide talks (which I already dislike in English) seemed like an overly taxing request for my exhausted brain. I spent the first part of the tour wishing I was back in my hotel room sleeping.

But when we got off the bus to see our first statue, I realized I had hit the gold mine for conversation practice! Old people are so sweet and patient. They want to know all about your life and naturally ask their questions a little more slowly. You can slaughter the language up and down, but as long as you say things like “que preciosa!” to pictures of their granddaughters, they’ll compliment your Spanish. Also, they can blame their hearing aids for asking you to repeat something they didn’t understand. And the best part of all – they don’t know a word of English.

In la Villa, people often speak to me in English, even when I try to speak only Spanish. So they think I understand less than I do, and when we speak in Spanish, they usually “help” me by telling me the words instead of giving me enough time to figure out how to say something. But these problems disappeared with my tour group companions. They spoke to me like I understood, and magically, I did (at least, mostly…) Even better, I felt like my tongue was loosed. Not that I suddenly could say things quickly or easily, but a lot of the nervousness that often blocks me from remembering something I do actually know was gone, and I could converse near the level of knowledge I actually have. In linguistics, this is called performance vs. competence – see how I’m growing as a professional on this trip?

In the end, the tour itself was about as lame as I expected. The best part of this area is the mountains that surround it; Mendoza itself is just a big city with a bunch of nice plazas. But I think the confidence I got from talking with these old people for a few hours was worth it.

The next day, I sucked up my pride and got back on the tour bus, this time for a trip to the mountains. I considered taking the regular bus, but the tour cost half of the bus ticket, and it included stops to walk around, take pictures, eat, etc. This tour was actually enjoyable. We spent the whole day driving through the Andes, got to see Aconcagua from afar, and drove up a super steep, windy dirt road to a statue called Cristo el Redentor at 4,000 meters (I don’t really have a good grasp on meters or sea level, but it was high enough that my body felt funny). I didn’t follow the tour guide exactly, but there was a long fight between Argentina and Chile over where the border is, and they finally agreed on where it is now: Jesus’ nose. I’m not sure if this would make sense even if I had understood everything.

Also, on this tour there was a group of 8 middle-aged men who went to high school together. Every four years, they get together and travel somewhere. I know we talk about doing this hypothetically, but guys - let's actually do it! These men were having so much fun. They made me think life can still be full of adventure and friends when I start getting the senior citizen's discount.

I’m about to walk back to the bus station and board my 16-hour ride back home. This time, I have a cama ticket. I’m trying not to set my expectations too high, but I’m sure hoping it’s an improvement.

la comunidad

2011-05-15T19:04:00.002-04:00

As I boarded my plane to Buenos Aires, I felt mostly excited for the next four weeks. But a small part of my heart was worried. A year full of deep community just concluded, and next year will be different. Now I will be spending a month by myself, surrounded by strangers, trying to communicate in a foreign language. Could the contrast between isolation and community could be any more extreme?

My life is usually overflowing with people who are so funny and smart and interesting – mostly those of you reading this blog. And I’m so lucky to be around you that I sometimes forget that there are still other people out there worth being friends with. (This sounds snobby. I know.) But this evening (I wrote this blog on Friday), I was reminded that you can never have too many friends. Oscar’s secretary is about my age, and she invited me to her house for dinner. Beforehand, I was a little nervous. My shy, introverted side can only handle so much small talk, even in English. But as it turned out, everyone there spoke English, and so we spoke mostly in English all evening. This is not my goal, but it was a nice break. No work on the Sabbath, right? :) And instead of awkward small talk, we had lively conversation about all kinds of interesting things. I didn’t leave till after 1:00 a.m.

At one point in our conversation, I tried to explain the dynamic of our community. I told them that we are all mixed up in each other’s lives, even our friends who live on the opposite coast. We share everything – food, music, stories, laughter, and tears. No one calls before coming over or knocks before coming inside. We always know that we want to be around each other - that life is better when we’re all together.

I got a little emotional trying to explain the depth and beauty of my community. It’s truly unique. But here, an overnight flight away from my dear home, I am experiencing a different side of community. It’s not so deep or intertwined. But it’s beautiful nevertheless. No one on this continent has any real reason to care about me, but since I arrived, I have been the recipient of so much thoughtfulness. I met Anthony’s mom and family at the airport and caught a ride with them to la Villa so I wouldn’t have to brave public transportation by myself just yet. Our driver paid for our dinner at a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant. When we arrived in la Villa, Mrs. Handal’s friend escorted me to the president’s office. Oscar thought of everything, from finding me an electrical adapter to giving me money for dinner. This morning, he took me on a tour of the campus and introduced me with pride in his voice to other important people at the university. Another one of my students, Edith, smiles so encouragingly at my fumbled attempts at Spanish. She’s already made sure that my weekend is full of plans.

When I try to describe it concretely, their gestures seem small, but they have made me feel absolutely welcome during a time when I am self-conscious of not belonging. There’s a level of formality to this kind of community, and I don’t feel like any of us have really chosen each other. These people aren’t benefiting from my time here; they are caring for me only out of the goodness of their hearts. But somehow, it feels good to be cared for just...because.

Love stories still exist.

2011-01-13T19:57:00.005-05:00

For the first few weeks of the semester, there are four faculty here from River Plate University in Argentina. Usually I teach them grammar, but today, I had them for "Conversation." Fun! We talked about families. It turns out in Argentina, college is where all the Adventists meet their spouses. Or at least, that's how it worked for all my students.

"Don't worry," they told me. "It could still happen for you!"

And then Oscar told me this lovely little story about his grandparents. I wish you could hear his smiling, soft voice telling it in simple English, because it was the best.

His grandpa, Eduardo, and his grandmother, Leonidas, grew up together in Argentina. They were childhood sweethearts - literally. With the folly and faith of youth, they promised each other they would get married someday.

When Leonidas turned 13, however, her parents decided to move to France. She and Eduardo said a sad goodbye. Three long years went by, and Eduardo missed Leonidas terribly. Finally, he decided life without her was too much - or too little? He got on a boat and sailed across the ocean.

When he found her parents in France, they were very surprised to see him. Leonidas was only 16. But Eduardo was 18, and the year was 1914. So when he told them he wanted to marry Leonidas and take her back across the ocean, they said yes. And so Eduardo and Leonidas got married, escaped the war, sailed back to Argentina, and spent the rest of their lives loving each other.

Isn't that nice?

The Gift of Thrift

2010-09-13T21:52:00.010-04:00

Last time I took that 5 Love Languages test, I scored a 0 on the gifts section. That's right, a zero. So I’m not sure how it is I got to be such good friends with Elisa, who is the Queen of Gift Giving.

Awesome gifts I’ve received from Elisa include (but are not limited to):

A mug shaped like a flower pot (when the garden project actually had a garden)

A National Geographic from the month and year of my birth

My favorite teaching shirt

A pancake batter dispenser (because I cannot make round pancakes for the life of me)

An Oklahoma – the Musical album

Most recently, my favorite running shirt

And don’t even get me started on all the edible gifts...

The amazing thing about Elisa’s gift giving is that she often finds these extremely personalized treasures at thrift stores. So to celebrate her birthday, we’re going to have a White Elephant Gift Exchange Samaritan Center style – all the gifts have to be purchased at thrift stores.

So if you're in Collegedale on September 19 at 5:00, come to my house to party!

Dress for Success

2010-08-29T14:36:00.005-04:00

Friday was my first day of classes. I'll be honest, I was a little nervous about teaching at Southern. But only one student showed up to my first class.

It's not as bad as it sounds - there are only supposed to be two students. Anyway, that kind of took the intimidating edge off teaching. The two of us wrapped up promptly at 8:50. My next class started at 9:00, so I had ten minutes to switch out my books from my office on the third floor and get all the way from Brock to the Hulsey. I knew I couldn't dawdle along the way, but whether or not it was feasible seemed like something a Freshman would worry about.

But when I got to my office, I realized I had left my key in my classroom back on the first floor. So I ran down three flights of stairs, grabbed my key, ran back up three flights of stairs, switched my books, ran back down all those stairs. Several people had told me to wear heels so I would come across as more powerful, but I was glad I had not heeded their advice.

My watch said 8:59 when I got to the Hulsey. Oh man! I ran up one more flight of stairs to what I thought was my classroom, but apparently I was mistaken. So I was frantically searching for my room when I bumped into another girl who looked like she wasn't sure where she was going either. She asked me if I was lost.

"Uh..I'm looking for 3149," I sputtered.

"Is that Comp?" she asked, with this hopeful, help-me-find-my-way look in her eyes.

"Yes!" I said. "Come with me."

It didn't occur to me that she didn't realize I was the teacher and that this must have seemed a little strange to her...until we found our room and I walked to the front of the class amidst a torrent of whispers, which mostly sounded like "What? She's the teacher?" (or "she's the teacher?")

To make matters worse, it was 9:01 - I was late to my first day of class. This was going to make covering the Attendance portion of my syllabus a bit awkward. And the little lost girl I had saved? She actually belonged in the comp class that happened to be meeting in the classroom next to mine.

In spite of my awkward start, class went really well and I was reminded again of how blessed I am to have a job I enjoy so much. But today in the Samaritan Center, I was tempted to buy an Anne Klein suit in the shade of "shocking pink" (according to Wikipedia's color categorizer). Dr. Haluska tells me I need to dress for upward social mobility, and I thought it might firmly establish me as the teacher when I walk into a classroom. But when I tried it on, I felt like the Legally Blonde Barbie. Good way to get students to take me seriously? Probably not.

I'm practically a giant!

2010-08-11T22:26:00.003-04:00

This morning I put a bunch of crying Japanese girls on a bus to the airport. Although they brought a lot of stress and extra work into my life, I was sad to see them go. For one thing, I've never felt so tall amongst adults. It was the first time in my life that I have been asked to turn on the projector because others couldn't reach it. Also, my cat made my house a bit of a tourist attraction. (Nate Dubs, you were right about small, cute, and/or sparkly things being a hit.) In my short teaching career, I have been blessed with many wonderful students, but as a group, these were the sweetest and most pleasant.

Teachers aren't supposed to have favorites, but some students do bring me extra joy. The girl on my left in the above picture is the one I lost. She is so funny; she makes noises all the time. One of her most common exclamations was "Eeee - haa," uttered in two distinct syllables at very different pitches. For a while, I assumed she was saying something in Japanese with extra animation. Then I thought maybe she was just making some kind of expression through sound. Finally I discovered that Becca had taught her to say "Yeehaw."

Teaching ESL always guarantees a good laugh. Why is it so funny when our language is misused? I've blogged about mistranslations before, but I can't help myself from sharing www.food-faq.com with you. I'm not sure exactly how this site works. I think a bunch of people ask and answer questions about food - but maybe through an internet language translator?There are countless gems to be found, but here are a few of my favorite excerpts thus far:

Q: Is it ok to chomp through chickpeas every day?

A: Chickpeas are very low contained by saturated curvy and cholesterol. They are also a very dutiful source of dietary fiber, Vitamin B6 and Folate, and a very appropriate source of Manganese... I would say you could own them every day, but cut-off date your portions size... don't overindulge.

Q: Is the banana that is used surrounded by vegan banana cake as polite for you as if you just ate it unprocessed? If not, would I be better off not drinking it at all? I don't approaching raw banana.

A: Usually you lose some nutritional efficacy when you cook a raw fruit or veggie.

Q: I want to crumb and fry some vegetarian chicken-substitute fillet so that they have the flavour of Yukky Fried Chicken and after put them in buns beside mayonnaise to surprise my vegetarian boyfriend. He used to resembling it when he was a kid but won't devour real chickens now. What should I put in the crumb mix?

A: Tell him to act close to a man and eat some meat.

Q: Who think knees are better than elbows? (I'm not sure how this made it onto faq about food...)

A: A knee to the facade hurts far more than an elbow to the face.

Q: Can breakfast really be served adjectives year?

A: its always pious!

Q: A small dumpling octopus, forgot the autograph. Please aid!

A: Tako yakis are the bomb! Potato and egg starch are squirted into this tennis ball size mold on a hot plate. And boiled octopus tenticle will put inside the globe later.

Seeking the Lost

2010-07-29T21:49:00.004-04:00

The Japanese ESL program has finally begun, and I've been having camp flashbacks all week: trying to make nervous/excited girls feel comfortable and have fun, playing name games, counting heads...though counting 19 is a bit more challenging than 8 or even 12. And they all have the same color hair. But today I was afraid every counselor's worst dream would come true: Missing Camper Drill. But this time I knew there was no ice cream bribery or hidden water coolers involved.

Communication break downs have happened fairly often this week, because the students' English is really limited. I have the sponsor translate the most important announcements into Japanese, but her English is also somewhat limited, so I am never sure how much anyone understands accurately. But I try to establish meeting places and times with exceptional clarity.

So I was a little concerned today when a host family showed up to take one of their girls home for dinner at 4:00, and she was nowhere to be found. I walked around campus until I got a blister on my toe (Did I mention it was 93* outside in the shade?), and still could not find her.

My search was interrupted at 5:12 by a call from the Japanese lady who is staying my home. "I am sick in the Student Center. There is vomiting all over my bag." If you know how I feel about throwing up, this was a very stressful call to receive. I'll spare you the gory details, but I managed to fake calm/cool/collected until Campus Safety came to my rescue. (That's not a joke...they really did.)

After my guest was safe in bed at home, I resumed my search. I thought my missing student might show up at our meeting point for shopping at 6:00, but no luck. I asked the other girls if they had seen her anywhere; they all shook their heads. I was starting to get worried. There was no camp staff to comb the buildings or dive in the duck pond. There was no director to assume responsibility. I had lost a sweet Japanese girl with big glasses and little English, and I had no more ideas of where to look. Out of desperation, I kept going back to the same places over and over.

At 6:26, I walked into the Student Center once again. There was now a printed sign over the vomit area: "Service Department, please clean the carpet under this sign." Then I looked to my left and saw my missing student, sitting with her Bible in her lap, maybe sleeping a little.

I felt like Mary & Joseph after coming back to Jerusalem to find Jesus - overcome with relief and a little bit of parental irritation. I wanted to shake her and say "Do you know how worried I have been about you?!!" But I tried to conceal my concern, because she seemed quite at peace. I asked her where she had been, and she pulled out her electronic dictionary. The entry she showed me read "slow, late." I wasn't sure if she was referring to herself or me, but I didn't really care. The lost had been found. I drove her to the mall to meet her classmates and treated myself to a pretzel.

Things I've Been Missing Lately

2010-06-23T15:08:00.009-04:00

This weekend Elisa and I dropped Dishon off at camp. I was a little nervous about going, actually. It's easier to distract yourself from missing camp when you're somewhere else, doing other things that are good in their own way.

It was a little surreal being on the other side of registration day, but I was warding off the nostalgia pretty well, until we dropped him off at his cabin. The four boys who were already there jumped up in excitement when we walked in. They eagerly helped Dishon choose a top bunk by the window and all climbed up, pulling his sleeping bag and pillow up for him.

“I have an idea! You should put your head this way so you can have a nice view!” drawled one of the boys, whose face reminded me of a cartoon dinosaur (the cute kind).

As we were about to leave, I heard Dishon say he wasn’t sure if he could get down from the bunk, and his cabin mates all chimed in. “Here, let me help you!”

Oh, how I love adventure campers! They may be needy and delicate, and their angelic attitudes rarely last the whole week. They pee in the wrong places and cry a lot. But the innocence and sweetness in their hearts never fails to inspire me.

So far when I’ve missed camp, I’ve been able to console myself thinking of the many blessings in my life. I'm happy to be where I am, doing what I'm doing.

But the kids...they’re irreplaceable.

Christ lag in Todesbanden

2010-04-04T09:31:00.004-04:00

It was a strange war, when death and life were struggling,

Life retained the victory, it has swallowed up death.

The scripture has proclaimed this,

How one death devoured another,

Death has become a mockery. Hallelujah!

- Martin Luther

How House Hunting is Like Dating...I hope.

2010-03-26T18:03:00.006-04:00

Last week I went to Tennessee to find a house. I had heard it’s good to make a list of things you are looking for, so you don’t get suckered into moving into a home you don’t like and have to go through the pain of moving again. I really hate moving, so I made a list.

I didn’t think these were unreasonable requirements. I just wanted a clean place that I could be healthy and happy in.

I was kind of excited about house hunting at first. I thought it would be fun to choose where to live. But then I started, and realized that most of the options out there were nothing like what I was looking for.

After House #15, I was getting really stressed. I started re-evaluating my priorities. I would definitely have to give up the cat, and also probably the woods, the porch, and the fireplace. I did find one house I could imagine myself living in, but the location was no good – 20 minutes away. If I wanted to be closer, I’d have to give up some of my other Must Haves. As the end of my trip approached, compromise appeared inevitable.

But then, the night before the last day of house hunting, we found it: The Ski Chalet.

Four bedrooms.

Walking distance from Southern.

Tons of kitchen counter space.

The cheapest rent I found.

And a fireplace, a huge porch, in the middle of the woods.

There were even cool things I didn’t know I wanted, like a spiral staircase.

And I can have a CAT!

Why was I so worried about finding the right house? I should have known God already had it picked out for me.

Between the Lion and the Lamb

2010-03-10T20:38:00.004-05:00

Why can’t writing research papers be as enjoyable as writing blogs?

I’ve been literally writing the paper I should be working on right now for months. I hate it. I’ll do anything to avoid it. I was just now trying to avoid it by packing for my Spring Break trip to Southern. Usually packing for Tennessee is fun, but as my “study bag” started to get fuller than my “clothes bag," my heart started to get heavier.

As I was pulling books off my shelf to pack, an old To Do list fluttered to the floor. I’m a big list maker, because I love crossing things off. Sometimes I even add things I've already done to my lists just so I have more things to cross off.

You may be able to see that only one thing was crossed off this list. But I’m sure it all got done.

I have a file saved on my desktop right now entitled “March Madness.” It outlines what I need to accomplish every day in the month of March. I thought breaking the big tasks up into daily bite-sized chunks would make me feel better, but no luck. Every time I look at it, I feel nothing but despair.

This old list reminded me of my last semester of undergrad. That semester I was trying to finish writing papers for my correspondence classes by an early April deadline. Writing them was sooo painful. And I felt guilty about being so undisciplined, about how I cannot make myself choose homework over sleep, even when I have to. And I felt stressed about getting everything done, but then I felt worried because I really should have been feeling even more stressed than I was, because I was on the verge of not graduating, for crying out loud.

Did someone push the repeat button on my life? If I want to graduate again, I have lions to slay before March goes out like a lamb. If I don’t finish these papers, if I don’t study hard for Comps, if I don’t do my regular homework, if I don’t send in all the Student Missionaries' paperwork, if I don’t find a place to live…

"Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly."

- Matthew 11:28-30

We Will Fight Pancakes With Syrup

2010-02-26T23:18:00.009-05:00

Forget about deciding what’s right for each other. Here’s what you need to be concerned about: that you don’t get in the way of someone else, making life more difficult than it already is. – Romans 14:13

My roommate, Jamie, is getting married in May. Jamie is working on her Ph.D. in Christian Ethics; needless to say, she is a woman of principle. She wants her wedding to reflect her values, including simplicity and good stewardship, which are not common words in bridal vocabulary (I know this because we’ve been watching Bridezilla clips to help Jamie remember that she is sane and balanced.)

While it probably won’t be fancy or extravagant, I think Jamie and Daniel’s wedding is going to be beautiful. Their love and commitment won’t be buried underneath tulle and tuxes; it’s going to be the focal point of the wedding. So they've cut out some of the things that are traditionally found in weddings.

Unfortunately, everyone has an opinion about what her wedding has to include. And even though it’s Jamie and Daniel’s day, these other people seem to think their opinion matters. And apparently one of the things that you can’t have a wedding without is cake.

Now neither the bride nor the groom particularly enjoy cake; they decided they would like to eat a dessert they actually like at their wedding. But when two of the seminary secretaries found out Jamie was not going to have cake at her wedding, they were appalled. One of them told Jamie she at least needed to have cupcakes and brought her a cupcake cookbook the next day. The other thought Jamie would start loving cake if she just tasted the right vegan frosting. So she took it upon herself to go home that night, make a batch of frosting and a cake to put it on. And she brought it to work the next morning for Jamie to sample.

Sounds considerate and thoughtful, right? Except she forgot Jamie is highly allergic to cashews. And guess what the primary ingredient in the frosting was?

Cashews.

So my poor roommate had an allergic reaction to the frosting made by a co-worker who wanted to force Jamie's wedding into a cookie cutter...or cake pan.

***

You are masters at making yourselves look good in front of others, but God knows what's behind the appearance. What society sees and calls monumental, God sees through and calls monstrous. – Luke 16:14

I don’t really like eating cake either, but I like baking cakes because they’re so pretty and fun to decorate. There are a few untraditional cakes that I like eating though. My favorite is medovnik, which means “honey cake” in Czech. It’s made of lots of thin honey flavored wafers interspersed with cream filling, which soaks into the layers and makes the whole thing moist and rich and delicious. And there’s no real frosting, which of course is the worst part of cake.

So Dylan is coming to visit next weekend, and he suggested we make some Czech food, possibly including a honey cake. But then I found out Elisa is coming too, and baking for Elisa is like preaching a sermon in front of Dwight Nelson or John Nixon. So I decided I should bake a practice cake before they got here.

I’ve made a honey cake once before in Prague with Emily. It didn’t look that pretty, but it was pretty tasty. Unfortunately, I lost the recipe. So I scoured the internet for recipes and picked the one that was written in the best English. Here is the finished product:

Looks pretty good, eh?

The problem is…it doesn’t taste very good. Not only is it dry, it also doesn’t have much flavor. I even tried drizzling caramel sauce on top, but it still felt like I was eating spoonfuls of flour and sweetened condensed milk. Gross.

***

What you say goes, God,
and stays, as permanent as the heavens.
Your truth never goes out of fashion;
it's as up-to-date as the earth when the sun comes up.
Your Word and truth are dependable as ever;
that's what you ordered—you set the earth going.
If your revelation hadn't delighted me so,
I would have given up when the hard times came.
But I'll never forget the advice you gave me;
you saved my life with those wise words. -Psalm 119:89-93

I tried another recipe tonight. This one was written in Czech, so I thought it might be more legit.

Oh, how I love Google Translate! Check out these gems from the recipe:

If you looked very thin, just let him rest a little longer.

Cream download sites for painting the top of the dough, but do not care!

If-because of the children you give rum flavor, be sure to put more water.

We will fight pancakes with syrup.

We will be with him, then well handled. Thus all bake cakes.

That's how prepared we can eat honey cake in 24 hours, but of course you can have longer to ripen.

The cake doesn’t look as pretty as the last one, but I think it’s going to taste better. And making it was such an adventure!

***

Lessons Learned from Cake:

1. When your opinions cause allergic reactions in others, maybe you should keep them to yourself.

2. Looking good is no good unless you taste good too.

3. Some Instructions are hard to understand, but following them is worth it.

JK 4eva!

2010-02-03T17:37:00.004-05:00

I have a new appreciation for the idiom "it's been a roller-coaster ride."

After I thought of all the reasons going to Southern would not be the best thing for me, after I tried to convince myself that I didn't really want to live in Tennessee after all, after I drooled over maps of other continents for hours...

I got an email from Southern the next day with the subject line "Hold everything!" They were creating a new ESL/Comp teaching position and would like me to fill it.

So...that put me in a bit of a quandary. What happens when a door is opened that you thought God shut? Do I really want to go back? What about all this talk about living a life that's not predictable or comfortable?

Guess I'll have to figure out how to have adventure and growth at Southern, 'cause it's official. I'm moving to Tennessee!

Redirection: No Volvo for Me

2010-01-27T22:13:00.006-05:00

This morning in the shower, I was thinking about the blog I would write if I didn’t get the ESL job at Southern. But before I mentally composed the first paragraph, I decided this was a silly waste of shower time. I can’t really know what that will feel like until it actually happens, I thought.

Well…I didn’t have to wait for long to find out. Right before I went to teach my morning class, I received a very nice email letting me know they had chosen someone else for the position. Someone who is much more qualified than me. I wasn’t that surprised; I’d known all along that the odds of this happening were pretty good. If I were in their position, I would have made the same decision. But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t disappointed.

The emotional side of Amanda felt the same way I did when my heart got broken for the first time. Lunch was hard to swallow. The smiling cheerfulness of the people around me felt like lemon juice poured over a paper-cut. I spent the day counting down the minutes until my 7:30 pm class finally got over and I could retreat to my home, fill my tummy with comfort food (good thing I made that pie), and enter the blessed state called sleep, where pain and anxiety are temporarily numbed.

But the logical (and, luckily, dominant) side of Amanda knows that in the same way that two years’ hindsight showed me that getting married to the man who broke my heart would not have been the best plan, perhaps my future will eventually show me that working at Southern was not the best option for this time in my life either. People talk a lot about closed doors and God's will and stuff in times like this. And sometimes I wonder if they're just making themselves feel better. And maybe I am too...but I really do believe that God led in this situation. And is still leading.

So what is the best option for my life now? I don’t know. And that’s terrifying to me, because I panic without a plan. There were many things that made Southern seem like a wonderful plan – a good job description, fabulous friends, co-workers could double as mentors, a pleasant climate, and a community I already belong to and love. It would have been a nice story, but…maybe a bit predictable. Maybe it would have been easy to turn it into a story with limited adventure and limited growth. And I guess I’m not sure exactly what I want, but I think I do want those things.

(But if quality friends, respectable co-workers, nice weather, and a healthy community just happen to be in that story too…I won’t complain.)

This is the Day

2010-01-26T21:34:00.010-05:00

A few weeks ago, my roommate and I watched The Sound of Music. That same week I had to walk to school several days because my car battery died and, inspired by Julie Andrew’s positive attitude, I started humming “My Favorite Things.” But as I was trudging through the knee-deep snow, it hit me that snowflakes do not “stay” on my nose and eyelashes. Rather, they melt and run down my cheeks and feel remarkably similar to tears.

While it’s a nice song with plenty of charming images, if I had to come up with new lyrics, I think I would write instead about my favorite people. And someone who would certainly have to be included is Kessia Reyne Bennett.

I used to be really intimidated of Kessia. You know, she’s extremely smart and funny and above average at, well, everything. So when we were both still at Southern, I thought she was way out of my friendship league. Thankfully, she befriended me when I came to Michigan, and this has made my life here much happier.

I guess we often share something in common with the people we make friends with – a similar sense of humor, an interest in a certain hobby, or some common values. But beyond those things, I feel like I have significant differences from most of my friends. My heart and mind seem to work together in different ways from most people’s.

I was surprised and delighted to discover that Kessia, however, is very much the same as me. The quirks that make us different from most people are the characteristics we share. So talking to her is like reading a personality book written especially for me. (Which is great, because I love reading personality books, but the descriptions never seem to fit me quite right.)

My most recent self-discovery via Kessia is that I have a fear of using things up. I always have. When I was a kid, we would pick up candy thrown from floats in the annual Jellico Christmas Parade. The other kids would eat all their candy before the New Year; I made my bag last until at least April. I had a cupboard full of lotions and soaps and bath salts that I would never use because I didn’t want them to be gone someday. I had a whole box of stationary sets that I never wrote on because I didn’t want to run out; instead I would use plain old notebook paper. I felt like someday there would be the perfect occasion for using stationary, and I didn’t want to encounter such a situation and (imagine the horror) find my stationary box empty!

I was telling Andrea Keele about this silly fear (because Andrea also understands Kessia and me) and she said she has a hard time cooking because she is afraid of using up her groceries. I laughed at her a little…until I went to my freezer and saw that my side is overflowing with peaches and blueberries that I picked on Labor Day and carefully preserved for the winter. We do have several months before this silver-white winter melts into spring, but still…it’s been six months since I put that fruit in the freezer, and I haven’t used a single bag yet. I guess I have been waiting for the Perfect Day for Peach Pie.

But when is that going to be? So I decided to make a pie tonight. Not for anyone or anything special. Just for me. Just because I felt like it.

My Future is Untold

2010-01-03T22:15:00.012-05:00

My family isn’t a big movie-watching family; I can probably count on two hands how many movies we’ve watched together. But the finger for one particular movie would have to be really fat, because we've seen it sooo many times. Every Christmas Eve for as long as I can remember, we've watched It’s a Wonderful Life after we finish presents. And every year, we all end up sniffling and wiping our eyes.

You might think we’re silly; after all, if you’ve actually made it all the way through, you know the movie has a happy ending. But George Bailey pays a sacrificial price for his wonderful life, and every year I cry for the dreams he gave up to improve the lives of the people around him.

This year, the movie made me a bit uncomfortable because I related to it more than ever before. Young and craving adventure, I'm inclined to say like George, “I know what I'm gonna do tomorrow, and the next day, and the next year, and the year after that.” But people keep telling me that’s not how life works; you can’t plan it out like that. And that stresses me out a little. I have a lot I want to do, and I feel like I need to be strategic in order to fit it all in. Then again, I wonder if I would want to plan it out like that if I could. It seems that our dreams change along with us, and sometimes what we want turns out to be so different from what we once thought.

*****

I spent New Year’s Day with my grandparents. We were looking for some of my dad’s high school basketball pictures, and in the process looked through album after album of family photos. There was a whole box of “Amanda” pictures. Luckily I was really cute when I was little. Before you think I’m bragging, I’ll be the first to admit that things went downhill quickly when I went to school and I thought braces and glasses were the ultimate fashion statement and my idea of a cool hairstyle involved lots of fluffy bangs.

Speaking of big hair, when we finally got to my dad’s pictures, we found one of his teacher who had a huge beehive. That will forever be the most mysterious hairstyle in my mind; how in the world did they make that happen? Also, my dad had hair. Not enough for a beehive, but there was still some on the top of his head. Weird.

As we kept going back in time, the pictures kept getting less colorful, but much more interesting. My favorite ones were of my grandparents when they were my age. There were a bunch of pictures of my grandpa being silly, and quite a few of my grandparents when they were dating. There was a whole page labeled “going steady for 6 months.” My grandpa played a lot of baseball, and one of my favorites was a picture of him in his uniform with his bat. He’d written on it “To Pat, my favorite fan – Love, Lee.” When I commented on this, my aunt said that Grandpa and written Grandma a whole book of poetry!

These pictures blew my mind. Grandpa does not seem like the type to take goofy pictures, and I can’t even fathom him writing Grandma poetry. In fact, I don’t think I have ever seen them exchange a loving gesture or even a complimentary word. Although I haven’t witnessed this myself, I’ve heard tales of Grandma chasing him around the house with a frying pan.

Pictures can be deceiving, but these were definitely taken before the days of photoshop. They seemed like pretty concrete evidence that my grandparents had been in love at one time. And apparently Grandpa had been good enough at baseball that he tried out for the major leagues.

I think it was so hard for me to understand these pictures because now my grandparents seem to have lives that are pretty difficult and not very happy. It had never occurred to me that they once had dreams for the future and strong feelings of love for each other.

*****

When I was 5, I wanted to be a queen.
When I was 9, I wanted to be an elementary school teacher.
When I was 13, I wanted to be a math teacher.
When I was 15, I wanted to be an interior designer (a drastic change!)
When I was 17, I wanted to be a counselor.

Now I am 24.

I want to be a missionary and live abroad.
I want to teach ESL at the university level.
I want to develop an ESL curriculum for churches and train people to use it.
I want to write a book or two.
I want to be a wife and a mom.

But maybe I still I don’t really know what I want - except that I want it to be wonderful.

*****

I don’t like to think of having to give up some of my dreams; of course I’d rather do them all. But maybe I'll grow out of some, and maybe some will have to be sacrificed while pursuing others. I just know that when my grand kids see pictures of me when I was young, I don’t want them to be surprised that I had dreams once.

"My name is Amanda, and I'm a snob."

2009-10-31T14:03:00.005-04:00

Usually I'm lazy and get the pictures for my blog from google. But the following image is legitimate, carefully clipped from my fine institution's students newspaper. I know it's kind of small, but grab your magnifying glass and just skim it. See if anything jumps out at you.

Reading the student paper is often an exercise in patience for me, but I usually persist. However, my patience has never before been tried as it was with this little gem.

My roommate happened to walk in the room as I was reading it and chose that inopportune moment to ask me how I was doing. I started into a passionate tirade, ending with "Do they even have a copy editor? Or an editor at all? What were they thinking? Was the person who write this even thinking at all?"

Jamie started laughing at me as a I kept sputtering. "Maybe you should get your verb tenses right before you start criticizing the newspaper," she said. It took me an awkward 30 seconds to catch my own error.

Why am I so terribly critical?

I hate to think it's the whole "find the flaws in others so you feel better than them" syndrome... it's so shallow, but so true, for me at least. I criticize people for trying to be cool, when I am doing the very same thing in the act of criticizing.

Also, I don't seem to have a problem criticizing things I don't value. I don't pick apart people's outfits, because I'm not a particular dresser. I don't judge people's hairstyles, because chances are they spent more time fixing their hair than I did. But when it comes to things I want to do well, like writing or speaking up front or teaching, I am uber critical.

The other day, for example, I sat in class and made a list of all the things I have learned not to do from my professor. Wow. That's about the jerkiest thing a student could do. If one of my students made a list like that about me, I would be crushed. But I even felt justified at the time. Like I was learning how to create my high standards by seeing how he fell short.

But what if I worked on my high standards by looking for what's good instead of what's wrong or lacking? I want to see goodness and light and love in the world around me. But it's like I have this caustic gland that secretes criticism, and the more it's exercised, the more acid rushes through my system, eating away at the positive hopeful parts of me.

This is not the kind of person I want to be! I don't want to have a bitter soul.

I've heard the first step to recovery is admitting your condition. Okay, check. Now...what's step 2?

oh, irony!

2009-09-24T18:27:00.006-04:00

So we made the above video to show in Missions chapel today (if you can't see it, click here). It wasn't my idea (since I wasn't deep in the Amazon jungle and to my knowledge, I didn't eat any bugs while I was an SM), but I do what my boss tells me to.

This morning I decided to cook some rice to take with my lentils for lunch. I was in a hurry, so I just poured the rice and water into the rice cooker without washing it first. As I was about to put the lid on, I noticed quite a few brown flecks floating in the water. Hm, I guess there's a good reason for washing rice after all, I thought.

But upon closer inspection, I noticed the brown flecks were moving. On their own volition. My rice was riddled with bugs, and this was no dream.

The bugs had gotten into the entire bag of rice, so I dumped it in the trash, likely canceling out all the rice I've ever donated to starving children through freerice.com. Luckily the bugs had not discovered my bag of brown rice, so I didn't starve for lunch.

Funny story, right? So supper rolls around, and I eat some random leftovers. I decided to finish my meal with cinnamon graham crackers and homemade applesauce. Yummy...

Yucky! There were bugs crawling all over my crackers!

Unfortunately, I didn't even notice until I'd already eaten several crackers. Apparently I can't be a hypocrite even if I want to.

Don't Let the Bed Bugs Bite

2009-08-28T09:20:00.008-04:00

I had never been a bridesmaid before, so when Natalie called and asked me to be in her wedding, I was super excited. I wanted to do a really good job, so I made sure to get my dress and matching shoes months in advance and I bought my plane ticket to be there a few days early so I could help with all the wedding preparation.

Everything went great all week. We tied bubbles to programs and put tablecloths on tables and stuck roses into green foam. I practiced my Spanish a lot with Natalie's patient inlaws. We even threw Natalie a legitimately fun bachelorette party.

The big day finally came, and all the bridesmaids got together to get ready. This was the part of the wedding I was mostly nervous about. I don't have many skills when it comes to hair and make up. Natalie had this vision for our hair including braids and baby's breath, and I wasn't sure that I could see the same vision. So I asked Kimmi to do my hair for me - she's a nice girl, and seemed like she might have some potential as a beautician.

I sat down in front of Kimmi and she started pulling back my hair. Suddenly I heard her gasp.

"Maranatha, come here!" Kimmi said in a strangely panicked voice. I wondered what was wrong. Were my split ends really that bad?

Maranatha walked over and inspected the back of my head.

"Amanda...your head is covered in lice."

I thought immediately of our lice scare at camp this summer. We thought the girl just really needed to wash her hair, but she must have actually had lice...and I had caught it from her.

The rest of the bridesmaids crowded around my chair. I could see their horrified faces reflected in the mirror.

"Maybe it's just really bad dandruff?" one of them asked hesitantly. I think this was supposed to make me feel better.

"I just saw one move!" squealed another bridesmaid.

I don't know if I've ever been so mortified. I couldn't think of a worse bridesmaid scenario. But before the shame killed me, I woke up.

I was not wearing my bridesmaid's dress; I was in my pj's. Maranatha was not combing through my hair; she was sleeping next to me on our twin-sized inflatable mattress. I don't know that I've ever been so relieved to find that I had been living a dream.

It only took 2 hours or so before my itching head allowed me to go back to sleep.

Home Sweet Home

2009-08-17T15:46:00.005-04:00

They say home is where the heart is. If that’s true, it’s no wonder I feel like I have homes all over the place. There’s my parents’ home in California. I’ve never actually lived there, but your family’s house is always home. Then there’s Tennessee, of course. Elisa’s house is like my vacation home. And camp is kind of my summer home.

But when people ask where I’m from, I’m starting to say Michigan. I’m driving to this home today. My organized inner self is itching to unpack. Oh to have a closet and dresser drawers! I’ve only been living out of a suitcase for 3 ½ months.

I think back to when I first made this drive, 355 days ago exactly. I stayed as long as I possibly could in Collegedale, and by the time I tore myself away, I was a wreck. I think I cried all the way to Nashville and tried to drown my sorrows in the bitter taste of CRUNK!!! I called as many friends as I could, just to make sure they still loved me. I listened to “The Wheel has Turned” by Aaron Roche on repeat at least 15 times, trying to accept that I would be okay going my own way.

Today is different. I leave as early as I can in the day so I can have time to catch up with Jamie when I get to Michigan. I listen to Switchfoot and N*SYNC and Mika, lots of happy sing-along music. I’m looking for my favorite landmarks along the way – the store that sells hundreds of lampposts and the giant yellow rocking chair big enough for Goliath's grandma. I think I’ll go to the beach tomorrow after I hear Dwight bring the word. Maybe I can pick some fruit on Sunday…I wonder if the blueberries are still in season. And peaches I bet!

As I cross the border into Michigan and start counting down the miles to Exit 15A, I am surprised to feel the same burst of excitement and anticipation that I get when I round the bend on 24 and see Chattanooga spread before me.

Why is this trip so different than it was a year ago? The friends I’ve left behind are only dearer to me now. There are still lots of unknowns up here, except now I know what it’s like to get frozen inside your own car.

I guess what’s different is that now I am coming to the place where I belong. In all my other homes, I will always be a visiting member of the family, but this is my spot. Not just because I pay rent and utilities here, but because this is where I have a purpose outside of my selfish need to love and be loved. This is where I chase my dream via a master’s. This is where I help students go do mission work. This is where I get paid to teach people how to talk and write.

I think I’ve been fighting belonging here. It hurts a little to have your heart in so many different places, and I didn’t want to invest in another. It seemed like to much work, too much risk.

But maybe a little heart stretching is good now and then.

Friends & Family....here I come!

2009-07-28T07:04:00.016-04:00

Today Ben Schnell and I are leaving on a road trip around America.

Yesterday we were driving to the VM to get some lunch. For those of you who have been gone from Southern for a while, University Drive is blocked off because they're putting in a roundabout. So traffic is detoured behind the school on Industrial Drive. I was on the phone with Andrea, so I was a little distracted, and I started turning left onto Apison.

He started pointing to the right. I didn't know why.

"We're going to the VM," he said.

"I know," I said, turning on my left blinker.

"The VM is to the right," he said.

"No, it's not!" I insisted.

Oh dear. I think Ben will be directing this trip.

Look at all the people I get to visit!

July 28 - St. Louis, MO

I haven't seen my grandparents and cousins for years. And Natalie is driving the other way across the country and we're meeting in the middle!

July 29 - Lincoln, NE

That's my cousin, Jeanette. Family resemblance, eh? And I couldn't find a picture of Dylan Wren, but I did once ask a tag question about him on my leg.

July 30 - Camp Ida-haven?

Not sure if we'll make it to this stop or not, since it's 19 hours away from Lincoln. But we figure it'd be fun to hit up as many camps as we can. Friend here include Phillip Sherwood, Carl Canwell, and Kevin Ekvall!

July 31-August 1 - Hayden Lake, ID

I can't wait to see all these people that I love! And Camp MiVoden! Oh man..I'll also be seeing Ben Foote and Nick Livanos here too, but since they might be joining us for the rest of their trip, I'm not posting their pictures. I'm also running out of time and would like to start this journey.

August 2 - Spokane, WA

I love Emily Wilkens so so so much! It's been far too long since we've connected.

August 3 - Sisters, OR
I worked with Keith Bowman in Campus Ministries for a year, but apparently this was never documented in photographs. Nevertheless, I'm excited to see him at Big Lake - one of the top ten camps in the country!

August 4 - Wawona, CA

Andrea will be out visiting Donnie and Rachel. We're both super excited to check out Yosemite - and our vacations perfectly collide. Couldn't have planned it better! Hope some other Wawona friends are still around as well.

August 5-7 - Loma Linda, CA

Yeah! Mom & Dad! And Sarah in her brand new home!

August 8 - Grand Canyon, AZ
I'm so excited to see this place!

August 9 - Albuquerque, NM
More camping. Or maybe driving through the night.

August 10 - Bristow, OK

I'm looking forward to my second visit to Fisher Family Farms. This time, we're going to see a live production of the musical Oklahoma! complete with real horses and guns. Oh boy!

August 11 - Collegedale, TN
Ah...back to my temporary home for a few days until I head back up to Michigan.

Caution: Contents WILL be hot!

2009-07-02T09:28:00.005-04:00

"You're too skinny to be eating all that cake and chips."

I turned around and smiled hesitantly at the man behind me in Bi-Lo's only open checkout line. He was wearing shorts and a t-shirt and looked like he was in his late 30s. Maybe the type who watches ESPN all the time. He was buying some painkiller and an ace bandage. I explained that my cart full of food was for a party, not just for me.

"Looks like there will be some underage kids at that party," he said. Before I even understood what his point, he started talking about how much you can tell about a person by what they have in their grocery carts. I guess I agree. I don't serve alcohol at the parties I throw. Maybe that should tell you something about who I am.

Then he started making jokes about his age, and I didn't really understand why. "I'm so old I sat behind Jesus in 3rd grade!" he said, laughing loudly. I gave him a less enthusiastic smile and started to turn back around, hoping he would get the hint that I didn't like his joke.

But apparently he thought he was quite funny. "Why are you wearing a whistle? Either you coach some children or you use it on all the guys who are stalking you."

I thought the words "Cohutta Springs Youth Camp" on my lanyard could have given Mr. Observant a clue as to which of those options was true, but I patiently and positively explained that I worked at a summer camp just down the road.

"I haven't heard of it. I just came to the area to start a business with one of my buddies. You'd think I'm a bad person if I told you what kind of business it is though."

I wasn't sure if that was an invitation to ask, so I didn't, and tried to turn away again. He moved closer.

"What are you doing when you're not working at summer camp?"

I considered using my whistle on him. Instead, I told him I go to school in Michigan.

"What part of Michigan? I was born in Michigan!"

Could the cashier be any slower? I like people, and I usually don't mind chatting it up with strangers, but something about this guy just made me uncomfortable.

Finally, after a few more cheesy joke attempts, it was my turn and I moved up to the checkout, thinking we were done.

"Don't mess up her change - she'll blow that whistle on you!" he said to the cashier. I smiled weakly.

After I paid, I grabbed the groceries from the bagger and made a beeline for my car. I noticed my bright blue Michigan license plate. What was I thinking, telling this weirdo where I live?

As I was unloading the bags into the back of my station wagon, I saw him heading across the parking lot toward me. I started searching for my keys so I could put them between my fingers and punch him in the face if he tried anything. Yeah, I've read those email forwards about creepy guys in parking lots.

"Hey Tiffany, Samantha, Allison.....?"

I assumed he was talking to me and reluctantly turned around. He was holding a postcard sized piece of paper and handed it to me.

"Come get a free drink at the coffee shop I'm opening. It's just down the road in Chatsworth - the Bikini Beani. Unfortunately for you, it's Hooters' style, you know, all the waitresses are Beani Babes and wear bikinis and stuff... But there's a drive through!"

Oh good. If I don't see it, I won't have to be offended and demeaned by it. In fact, maybe I'll even continue to support such an establishment after the drinks are no longer free.

Thanks...but no, thanks.

His Eye is on the Sparrow

2009-06-23T16:08:00.009-04:00

About a week ago, Lemmy found 5 baby birds by the water slide. They were on the ground with no nest in sight, and one of the birds was already dead. So Lemmy put them in a box and took them to the office to try to save them.

I was pretty sure they wouldn't survive, so I decided not to get attached. That hasn't been very hard, because these birds are ugly as can be. But some of the staff apparently have more heart than I, and they have been attempting to care for the babies. Bird accessories have started to clutter the counter - bits of boiled egg yolk, eye droppers, raisins soaking in water, canned liver. (The internet says this is good food for them. I think they would eat anything you stick close to their squawking little mouths.)

As I predicted, they've slowly been dying off, and now there's only one left alive. It's a pictoral definition of the word pitiful, and I've been trying to avoid the office because I don't want to be around when it dies. Unfortunately, I've had to go there frequently this week because there have been lots of challenges with campers.

One of those challenges is named Ashley (not really, but for this story, she is). I remember Ashley from last year as a cute, clingy camper whose life is a sad story of abuse and dysfunctional foster care. I put her in one of my best counselor's cabins and hoped for the best.

We were in the middle of supper line call yesterday when Pastor Rob's son rode up to me on a bike and told me a counselor needed me right away. I ran up to the cabin and was greeted by 11 very concerned adventure campers. "Ashley won't come out! She hit our teacher! Look, our teacher's crying! We're hungry! Can we still get honor cabin?"

I went inside the cabin and found Ashley hiding in her sleeping bag in the corner bunk. The words that began coming out of her mouth were some of the saddest I've ever heard.

"I'm a bad girl. I don't deserve a real family. My case worker is mistaken about me. I don't deserve anything good. People who say I'm not a bad girl don't know the truth."

I talked with her about the difference between bad choices and bad people. That God will forgive anyone. That we can always have a new start. That everyone deserves a family.

A few times her eyes would peak out of her cocoon, but whenever I tried to scratch her back or stroke her hair, she would recoil instantly.

"Don't call me sweetheart!" she screamed. "I'm not good! You don't even know!"

Eventually, she sat up and started shrieking and banging her camera against her hand. "I don't want these pictures. I don't want memories anymore." Then she started biting her Disney Princess sleeping bag, trying to rip the fabric. She ended this tantrum by curling back up into a ball and crying for her mommy. As she wore out, she finally let me hold her and comfort her.

She spent the majority of the next 24 hours with me - sometimes sweet as can be, holding my hand and begging for piggyback rides, other times throwing more tantrums and crying for her mom. She literally ran away from me once...that's the second camper who has tried this week.

Camp is not staffed to provide one-on-one care, which is what she seems to need, so we sadly concluded that Ashley should go home. So I took her down to the office to call her foster family. As I was looking up the phone number, Ashley discovered the box with the one remaining bird. By now, the bird stinks and it looks absolutely disgusting. If the bird flu is still around, I'm pretty sure this guy has it. But Ashley picked up his gross little body and started stroking his head.

"Does he have a family?" she asked me.

"No, they all died," I said, as the phone began to ring. "You should put him back in the box. He's sick."

"No! He is lonely! He needs a family! He needs someone to love him!" She carefully cupped the bird in her hands as she crooned little girl songs to him.

The phone call was a wreck. As I was talking to the foster mom, Ashley started screaming in the background that she didn't want to go there, she hated them, she wanted to go to her real home with her real family.

We finally worked out the details and after another emotional breakdown, Ashley was back to clinging on to me. As we left the office, she asked me if we could come see the bird tomorrow. "He's just like me...he needs a family."

Oh how my heart hurts. The world is just so broken, and little kids are paying the price. Ashley is only one of the sad stories I've met this week. And that's just one week, at one camp, during one summer.

I wholeheartedly believe in the ministry of camp, but sometimes I feel like we can barely do as much good as egg yolks and eye droppers...camp is no substitute for real parents. I poured as much love as I possibly could into Ashley, but I only spent a day with her. One day to counteract years of dysfunction and pain.

As I watched Ashley crawl into the back seat and ride away to a place where she clearly isn't loved, I felt so helpless and inadequate. I wish there was something else I could do to help, but I guess I can only trust that God cares about her more than I do.

Thank goodness He's not helpless.

The Challenge of the Other Cheek

2009-05-17T16:46:00.012-04:00

Last weekend I got flipped off by a two-year-old child.

Elisa and I were picking up Latoya* to go to a Bible study, and I saw the cutest little boy wandering around the yard. His little onesie was unbuttoned and his diapers were peaking out. As we got in the van and drove away, he stuck his tongue out at me and raised his middle finger.

I'm not sure what I did to prompt this gesture of hatred.

In the van, Latoya asked me for some advice. "There's this girl at school who wants to fight me. Should I fight her?"

I remember when I was a kid, my dad had to read lots of books on personality as part of his doctoral work. He gave me a bunch of personality tests, and I would always come out as "The Peacemaker" or whatever funny title someone thought of to describe a person who just wants everyone to get along. This is no surprise; I've always hated conflict. If I were ever presented with the question of to fight or not to fight, the answer would seem obvious to me.

"What do you think you should do, Latoya?"

"I think I should fight her."

Apparently the answer is not so obvious to someone who lives in a neighborhood where you learn to flip someone off before you learn to use the toilet.

This weekend I was playing with some of the same kids on the playground. They were swinging on the monkey bars when Derik hit Jamar. (This isn't an uncommon occurrence with plenty of kids, I suppose...but it happens pretty regularly with this bunch.) Thankfully, I was close enough to make peace before things got out of control. I asked the assailant why he hit his friend.

"Jamar cries all the time, like a baby! I'm just trying to make him stronger. He'll never learn otherwise."

More logic that is foreign to me. I've experienced little violence or aggression in my life, and sometimes I am overwhelmed by its presence in the real world. I wanted these kids to understand that violence is a cycle. The more you hate and hit, the more you get hated and hit. The only way to escape the cycle is to love.

This is a hard thing to tell kids though. I can't promise Latoya that if she is nice to the girl who wants to fight her everything will be okay. Maybe it will. Or maybe the girl will still beat her up. Turning the other cheek doesn't come with a guarantee that that cheek won't get hit too.

Perhaps what makes it hard to explain is that turning the other cheek isn't about self-protection, which I think is (understandably) a primary concern for kids growing up in this environment. And to a degree, it's a natural human instinct to look out for your own interests.

But thankfully, God wasn't too concerned with self-protection when He thought up salvation. And while His call to follow His example may seem harsh and difficult and contrary to the logic of the world, He asks anyway. Maybe because He can see the end from the beginning. And maybe He knows that even when we are the ones bruised and humbled at the end of the day, ultimately love wins.

"You're familiar with the old written law, 'Love your friend,' and its unwritten companion, 'Hate your enemy.' I'm challenging that. I'm telling you to love your enemies. Let them bring out the best in you, not the worst. When someone gives you a hard time, respond with the energies of prayer, for then you are working out of your true selves, your God-created selves. This is what God does. He gives his best—the sun to warm and the rain to nourish—to everyone, regardless: the good and bad, the nice and nasty. If all you do is love the lovable, do you expect a bonus? Anybody can do that. If you simply say hello to those who greet you, do you expect a medal? Any run-of-the-mill sinner does that.

In a word, what I'm saying is, Grow up. You're kingdom subjects. Now live like it. Live out your God-created identity. Live generously and graciously toward others, the way God lives toward you."

-Matthew 5:43-48 the message

*All names have been changed. Except for Elisa's.

If the Shoe Fits

2009-04-29T09:33:00.003-04:00

This Sabbath there was a special dedication for the Student Missionaries, so I went to church with my boss. We were sitting on the front row of the alcove, so we had a great view of both the platform and the congregation. He took this opportunity to educate me on men’s fashion.

For you to really appreciate this, you’d probably have to know my boss. Japhet is British and he pops the collar of his Pathfinder Camporee polo shirts. Clearly I should trust his fashion sense.

So I learned the suitable thickness of the soles of shoes you wear with nice suits (thin – definitely not chunky) and the proper way “trousers” should hang on a man’s legs. When a man sits down, he should hike his pants up just a bit so you can catch a glimpse of his socks (which must be taught, not rumpled).

I always thought this meant your pants were too short. Silly me.

“You can tell a lot about a person by their socks,” Japhet said, looking down on me knowingly.

He seemed to feel like he was giving me an invaluable gem of wisdom. A bit of dating advice, perhaps. If any suitors come to your door, check their socks before you let them in!

My boss isn’t the first person who has told me that socks reveal important information about someone. I’m guessing these people think highly of someone who spends extra money for really nice socks. Maybe quality socks reflect quality character.

Right then, I made a mental note to never let my boss see my socks. To me, socks are a purely functional item of clothing – they provide warmth, prevent blisters, and probably absorb some foot sweat. But in my experience, cheap socks do all those things too. I still wear socks from high school; I don’t know why you’d get rid of socks until they have holes in them or are irreversibly dirty. But who knows, maybe my socks are way out of style by now.

I don’t know what this says about my character. Please don’t judge me.

a poem for this morning

2009-04-10T09:24:00.006-04:00

when the birds chirp
during a thunderstorm
are they singing
or screaming?

.

On Pity, Pride, and Petitioning

2009-04-07T21:34:00.003-04:00

I’m writing this blog on the back of an old quiz from my GRE class, sitting atop a warm clothes dryer. It just finished its cycle and is making the same popping and cracking noises my car makes when I turn it off. Ah, the comforting sounds of old machinery. Why am I writing in the laundry room, you ask? It’s a bit of a long story…

It started this afternoon, actually. A series of unfortunate events left me feeling lousy. After contemplating all of the ways I could throw myself a pity party, I decided on a nap. I pulled off my stiff teacher clothes, put on some comfy pj’s, set my phone alarm for 5:00 pm, and crawled under my down comforter. Ah...pity.

Life was really much better when I awoke. I ate some supper, put my teacher clothes back on, and headed back to school to teach my evening class: 7:00 – 7:50 pm. I only agreed to this horrible time because the other alternative was Friday afternoon.

Tonight, one of my students had to stay late to make up a quiz. While she was working on it, I ran back to my office to get something I’d forgotten. In the process, I forgot something else in my office: my keys. I did not realize this until I had collected my student’s quiz and was headed toward my car to go home.

Irony of the day: This morning in comp, in an effort to explain the difference between showing and telling, I gave this example: “Don’t tell me your friend Emily is forgetful – show me! Describe how she forgets her phone and misplaces her keys...” Oh how quickly these words came back to haunt me. As I searched through my purse a second time for my keys, I realized my phone was not there either.

I’m a minimalist when it comes to purse contents. I carry my wallet, my Andrews ID, my gym card, 1 pen, chapstick, and usually my keys and my phone. It would be hard to miss those items in my purse, but I checked a third and fourth time just to be sure.

I could no loner deny the truth. My phone was still sitting on my bedside table, right where I’d left it after my pity party nap. And my keys…likely sitting on my office desk.

My office! I headed back over, hoping the professor I had seen there minutes before would still be there and let me in. No luck – he must have just gone home.

At this point, I realized I had two options: I could call Campus Safety and have them let me into the office so I could get my keys. Or I could walk home. I thought it might be faster to walk home, and it certainly sounded like more fun. The thought that my roommate had book club tonight and might not be home was tickling the back of my brain, but I ignored it and started to walk.

It’s only a little over a mile to my apartment, and the sunset was beautiful (even if it was behind me). But the sensible heels I wore today were starting to seem not-so-sensible…particularly when I got to the cornfield behind my apartment.

About two weeks ago, this field was plowed and fertilized. Every time it rains (or snows and melts, as was the case today), the lovely aroma of fertilizer surrounds our apartment - and most of Berrien Springs. I have to admit, the soft and squishy field was kind of fun to walk through, but now my heels were caked with manure.

As I entered the parking lot, the fear that had slowly been creeping toward the front of my brain was confirmed. Jamie’s car was not in the parking lot.
That’s okay! I thought optimistically. Maybe she left the door unlocked. Unlikely – we even lock the door when we’re inside.

Sure enough – locked. My neighbor came out of his apartment to check his laundry and I rang the doorbell to look like I had a purpose for standing there, staring at the locked door. When he left, I ran around to the side and tried the side door. Also locked. I took off my shoes, sat down on my doormat, and started to grade GRE quizzes.

Does Jamie’s book club last from 7:00 – 9:00 or 8:00 – 10:00?

I looked at my watch. 8:30. I was starting to get cold, and the dryer vent was blowing linty moisture onto me. I decided to relocate. I scribbled a note to my roommate and stuck it on the door: “Jamie – I’m in the laundry room. Come get me when you get home!”

…...

I was just talking with Kessia this morning about needing to be more intentional about building community. Step #1: lock yourself out of your apartment. I met several of my neighbors while in the laundry room. Mostly very awkward first interchanges – “Don’t stay here all night!” and “Are you sitting on that dryer because it’s broken?...or can I use it?” and “You’re still here?!”

They all offered to help in one way or another. But I stubbornly and politely refused, insisting to sit in the laundry room and grade my quizzes (and organize my folder, and write tomorrow’s quiz, and throw away old papers, and…write a blog?).

One guy told me that there was a key box here that I could get the code for if I called the landlord. I smiled and thanked him, and didn’t tell him I didn’t have my phone.

When he came back an hour later, and I was still sitting there, he insisted. So I admitted my second fault, and he went and got his phone. By this time, it was 10:10. I felt awful for calling my landlord so late. But this guy wouldn’t let it go! When I got voicemail, he went and got his rental agreement to find another number. No luck with that one, so he called the first number again. This time the landlord answered and gave me the code.

So I entered my apartment at 10:27 pm and began typing. My roommate’s headlights shone through my window at 10:36. I bet she is wondering where my car is.

......

If you're still reading, I'll reward you with a moral. I was very tempted to resurrect my pity party at quite a few points throughout the night. Why me? Why such a bad day?

Well actually, the bad day was almost entirely my fault. At every turn for the worse, there was always the opportunity of asking for help. But instead, I clung to my stubbornness and pride until I was practically forced to accept help.

Why do you think God tells us to ask for what we need? He already knows. Why doesn't He just provide? There are probably lots of good reasons. But maybe one is that He wants us to realize our dependence on Him. To deflate our pride, admit our inadequacy, and say, "God, I need!"

I need help. Every day. I don't have enough wisdom to be an excellent teacher. I don't have enough discipline to do my homework before the last second. Enough patience to wait for things I want now. Enough courage to do what is hard. Enough love for people who frustrate me. Enough humility to admit what I lack.

Oh God, I need YOU...

Numbers and Figures

2009-02-28T17:24:00.000-05:00

A few months ago, I went to Youth Specialties. I find that these types of conferences are usually awesome and inspiring, but the last session is over and you pack up and head home, life pretty much goes back to normal. But occasionally there are moments that stand out, moments that make a significant difference in the way you think about the world. I had one of these moments at Youth Specialties. It wasn't listening to Tony Campolo or Shane Claiborne, but rather someone I'd never heard of before: Chap Clark. I was drawn in by the seminar title: "Deep Justice in a Broken World."

Oh man. That hour and a half was worth the whole trip for me. He quoted some pretty challenging statistics. These are just a few - check out the websites for more.

$20 billion - the amount American spend on ice cream in one year
$18 billion - the amount the World spends on perfumes in one year
$7.8 billion - the PROFIT Starbucks made in 2006
1.8 million - the number of children who die each year for lack of clean water and sanitation
$10 billion - the amount of money the UN estimates is necessary to provide clean water and sanitation to the whole world for one year

I'm typically pretty cynical about these kinds of facts. Sure, it's statistically possible for Americans to solve a lot of the world's problems if they would just practice a bit of discipline and sacrifice. But how to make that happen?

About a week after I heard those numbers, I got an email from my friend Luke who's working at an orphanage in Zimbabwe. He wrote the following about a cholera clinic he visited to pick up the brother of one of their boys:

Driving into the gate of that clinic was like driving into a nurse's worst nightmare. People were being wheeled in in wheelbarrows. There were crowds outside of the building waiting to be registered and seen. Actually entering the building was like entering a vomiting and diarrhea hell on earth. There were long rows of IV bags hanging from bailing twine stretched down the halls and in lines across the rooms. Underneath the bags were rows of people collapsed onto benches, draped across chairs, slumped directly on the concrete. Eyes sunken in, half open, but not seeing. Each person had a 20 liter bucket. Most were half full with watery brown liquid. The floor was wet in puddles. There was a full time mopping crew, but it didn't keep the floor dry. And that was the "observation area." Patients that were actually "admitted" got a cot with diarrhea hole cut in it with a bucket underneath.

It makes this whole problem of dirty water a little more personal. It's estimated that over 3,000 people died in this particular epidemic in Zimbabwe, and those numbers are probably low because people stopped bothering to report deaths. Numbers again, I know.

But what's the way to solve numerical problems? We can throw up our collective hands and say it's hopeless, and continue living our comfortable, safe lives. But this kind of skepticism and lazy selfishness have never accomplished positive change in the world. I think we need to have hope and optimism. Cliche as it sounds, maybe the best way to bring about change is ONE person at a time. It's a little number. Seems insignificant. But it's an awful lot better than zero.

Chap Clark had some good stuff to say. He hit short-term mission trips pretty hard. I've been on two, and I feel like I learned from both of them. But are they really the most effective use of money and resources? Don't get me wrong; I believe in missions and helping the world. But I've often felt that we do small isolated acts of goodness - build a church, sponsor a child, give a family a bag of random canned goods at Thanksgiving - and we pacify our consciences. We think we're doing our part to help. But are we making any real sacrifice? Are we giving of ourselves at all?

I think what matters in the world is relationships - perhaps more to our generation than any other. I saw Mrs. Litchfield at the seminar and she had an interesting idea. What if each person or family focused on one person or family to reach out to? What if love actually became the motivating factor in our help, because we actually had a real relationship with those we were helping? Chap Clark was stressing the difference between service and justice. Service is good, but it tends to happen in shallow, disconnected events. But this concept of deep justice is that helping/loving/ministering to people should be an integral part of our lives, not an event.

These are challenging ideas. For me at least. But I think we should be actively struggling with them. I also believe it's possible to live this way. One reason I believe that is because I see my friends doing it. I've seen the difference that some of you reading this blog have made in others' lives by giving selflessly of your time, money, energy, and most importantly love. Is it easy? Not always. Do you always know how to best help? It sounds like sometimes you have questions. Do you wonder if you're doing any good? Sure. But you don't use those excuses. You keep loving and praying and learning and doing. Thank you for inspiring me and challenging me and reminding me of what (through God's strength) we are capable of.

62*

2009-02-10T21:24:00.003-05:00

Today was an awesome day. Here's why:

1. I did not wear a scarf, a hat or gloves. Or boots. Or long johns. Or even a coat!

2. I saw the sun.

3. I felt the warmth of the sun on my hair. And in my car. According to Switchfoot, the shadow proves the sunshine. But clouds sure don't. It's nice to be reassured every once in a while that the sun is real.

4. I smelled rain. I think snow is prettier than rain, but it doesn't have that oh-so-fresh scent.

5. I splashed around in puddles. I used to get grumpy at Southern when there were puddles, because the bottoms of my pants would get wet and water would seep into my shoes and just about the time I would dry out, I would walk outside again and get soggy feet again. But today I loved puddles, because they meant the weather was warm enough for water to stand in a pool and not turn into ice!

6. I talked to Sarah, who is sunshine for my soul.

7. One of my students emailed me and voluntarily asked for help on his most recent essay.

8. Everyone here is sick, but I am not.

9. I bought car insurance, got my Michigan driver's license, and a new license plate. This may not seem very exciting, but it's one of those things that I've been putting it off for months. I can't tell you how many to do lists I've written it on. And..since my tags just expired and I want to drive through Kentucky on Friday (without getting a ticket), it was good to finally cross it off.

10. I wanted to have 10 reasons because it seemed like a good even number. But I think there were actually just 9 reasons. It was a great day though.

the people who walked in darkness
have seen a great light.
for those who lived in a land of deep shadows--
light! sunbursts of light!

isaiah 9:2

By Our Love

2008-12-23T02:27:00.003-05:00

My best friend lives about 3 streets away from my parents. I think the only living situation that could possibly be more awesome would be if all my favorite people in the world decided to move to the mission field and all live together.

So California is wonderful to me because I am with Maranatha. A few nights ago, she took me to see the lights at Mission Inn in Riverside. It had that creepy-Christmas feel, with lots of moving mechanical elves and carolers with their faces frozen in rather menacing expressions. I think I would have been terrified if I were a child.

We milled around for a while amidst the throng of happy holiday-ers. Maranatha bought some toasted pecans from the Nutty Bavarian, and we stopped to listen to a hellfire and brimstone preacher wearing a leather jacket with a big American flag on the back. He had his own PA system set up on the corner, and someone (it appeared to be one of his friends) was videoing the "sermon." Another preacher was sitting nearby, flipping restlessly through his Bible, waiting to tag team when his parter ran out of fire.

"The FEAR of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom!" the preacher barked into the mic. "I don't mind telling you to be afraid! Fear can be a GOOD thing! Fear can keep you from jumping off a cliff!"

I looked at the poster next to his sound system. Would you trade your eyes for a million dollars? it asked. I didn't get the connection.

As the preacher continued attempting to scare his meager audience into repentance, we turned away. It hurt to watch for too long. "What if people just had a really cool magic show, and at the end said 'Jesus loves you!' ?" Maranatha asked.

The words were still entering my ears when we were approached by a guy who looked about our age, maybe a little younger. He was holding up two crescent shaped cards, one red and one blue. "Which one is bigger?" he asked.

"The one on the right," we both answered.

He clumsily switched the cards and then asked again.

"It's still the one on the right."

"Pretty cool, huh?" He handed us the cards and started to walk away. Maranatha turned them over, and noticed that there was text printed on the back. It looked like it was about Jesus. Crazy!

She caught the guy walking away, and told him that we were just talking about how someone should do something like that. He called over his friend to apparently show us another trick. It was a "good person test." I put my thumb on a silver square, and followed their instructions to hold it for exactly 15 seconds. If I was a good person, it was supposed to turn green. Well apparently, neither Maranatha or I are good people. I didn't understand the magic in this trick, and asked what the point was.

"What would you do if you had to stand before the throne of judgment today?" Magic Boy #1 asked me. "Think about the ten commandments. Have you ever told a lie?"

"Yes."

"What does that make you?"

"A liar?"

He seemed to think that was the correct response, and moved on. "Have you ever stolen something, even a paper clip?"

"Yes." (I said this because I knew I was supposed to for this game to work, although I can't ever remembering stealing anything. But I'm sure I've taken a paper clip. A post-it note for sure.)

"What does that make you?"

"A thief."

"The Bible says that looking at someone lustfully is the same as the act of committing adultery. Have you ever looked at someone lustfully?"

"Yes."

"What does that make you?"

"An adulterer."

"So we have established that you are a liar, a thief, and an adulterer." He looked down at me with a gaze as menacing as the creepy elves. "How does that make you feel?"

"Thankful for the gift of grace!" I said.

"But how does that work?" he asked. The tone in his voice told me he wanted to trap me.

"Well, I've sinned for sure, but I've also been forgiven. I believe that Jesus paid the price for my sins through his death on the cross." I assumed he was a Christian, and I thought this idea was pretty basic to Christianity. But somehow we didn't seem to be connecting.

"But you have to repent!"

"But it's not my repentance that saves me, it's Jesus!" I felt like he had memorized a script, but I wasn't saying the lines I was supposed to.

Magic Boy #2 seemed nervous with how this conversation was going. "Are you guys from around here?" he asked and effectively diverted us into small talk. When they found out I was from Michigan, they asked how we knew each other. Maranatha said we had met in academy, and #1 asked what that was.

Hallelujah, at least they're not Adventists.

"It's school," Maranatha replied rather curtly. I think she didn't appreciate being the victim of this witnessing crusade, and we left soon after.

I think the goal of both the preacher and the Magic Boys was to call people to repentance. Now that's not all bad. John the Baptist sure did it. Sometimes Jesus made people pretty uncomfortable too. I don't think the Christian message to the world always needs to be warm and fuzzy. I don't believe in preaching cheap grace; genuine repentance is necessary.

BUT... I felt like the understanding of repentance these people had was so twisted. Instead of the fear-based repentance of the hellfire preacher or the guilt-motivated repentance of the Magic Boys, I believe that true repentance happens when the Holy Spirit helps us realize that sin is awful because it creates distance between us and God. I ask forgiveness not so I can avoid hell and not because I feel guilty for breaking a rule, but because I want desperately to have a real close relationship with God.

This whole experience was particularly unnerving to me because I could see the sincerity in their attempts to proselytize, and I've been on their side of the fence before. This is the first time a perfect stranger has tried to witness to me, and even though I probably believe many of the same things as he does, I was offended. What would this experience do to someone who had not yet made up their mind about Christianity? I am more and more convinced that witnessing is about sharing my relationship with God with people I also have relationships with. They will known we are Christians by our love.

When Satan comes to tell you that you are a great sinner, look up to your Redeemer and talk of His merits. That which will help you is to look to His light. Acknowledge your sin, but tell the enemy that 'Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners' and that you may be saved by His matchless love. 1 Timothy 1:15 ...We have been great sinners, but Christ died that we might be forgiven. The merits of His sacrifice are sufficient to present to the Father in our behalf. Those to whom He has forgiven most will love Him most, and will stand nearest to His throne to praise Him for His great love and infinite sacrifice. It is when we most fully comprehend the love of God that we best realized the sinfulness of sin. When we see the length of the chain that was let down for us, when we understand something of the infinite sacrifice that Christ has made in our behalf, the heart is melted with tenderness and contrition.

- Steps to Christ, 36.

The News from Lake Michigan

2008-12-11T12:35:00.002-05:00

I think this post will be more fun if you imagine Garrison Keillor reading it out loud, PHC style.

Yesterday the temperature reached a high of 41* in Berrien Springs. The snow on the ground seemed like it wanted to rise up in celebration of the warmer weather, covering the landscape in a fuzzy white haze. Michigan looked like God had opened it up in photoshop and turned it into a watermark, draining it of color and distinct edges.

It even rained yesterday. I've been faithfully carrying my umbrella around in my backpack for weeks, even though the only precipitation we've had since October has been various forms of snow. As evening came, the temperatures dropped to the below freezing zone and the rain resumed its solid state. Sidewalks turned into long lanes of ice, causing young and old alike to adopt the nursing home shuffle, that cautious way of walking which anticipates the pain of the fall.

I had been spoiled by a day of warm weather, so I didn't leave much time to clear off my car this morning. It did appear to have a bit of snow on the windshield, but I thought I'd turn it on and warm it up while I brushed off the windows. I put my key into the lock and tried to open the door. Nothing. My car was frozen shut.

'93 Toyota Camrys are known for lousy door handles. If you find these cars in a junk yard, the door handles have always been stripped off. When I bought my car, the handle on the driver's side had been snapped off. Every time I opened the door, I had to pry it open with the little stub that remained. I lived with this for several months before a family friend found a way to fix the handle without paying half of what the car was worth. I waited a long time for that handle, mismatched though it may be, and I don't want it to break off. Ever.

So when I found the driver's door was frozen shut, I didn't try to force it. Instead, I tried to force the back seat handle. Who cares if it gets broken? After much effort, I eventually succeeded in wrenching the back seat door open. I turned on the car from the backseat and grabbed my ice scraper. No need for a snow broom today!

My car was parked right outside my roommate's window. She often comments that she is awakened in the morning by people scraping their windows across the parking lot. This morning, I was sure that I was the one waking up my roommate. This was no delicate Tennessee frost. Underneath that pretty topcoat of snow was a serious layer of ice. The parking lot seemed to echo with the scratch of my scraper skittering across the top of the ice. Usually I like station wagons, but on days like today, I wish I drove a car with a few less windows.

After a full upper-body workout, I finally had all the windows cleared. I thought that by now, the car would have warmed up and the door would be unfrozen. No luck. So I got in the back seat again and crawled up to the front, bumping my car horn in the process. Sorry, Jamie. Finally ready to go, I inched onto the glassy parking lot and cautiously drove to school.

A few summers ago, I worked in the housing department in the basement of Thatcher South. They were remodeling, and sometimes I would be the only person in the entire building. On one such occasion, Campus Safety changed all the door access while I was still inside. My ID card was instantly useless. When I tried to leave, I discovered I was trapped in the hallway, unable to get back into my office and unable to get out of the dorm. While I knew in my mind that I had a cell phone and could call Campus Safety to come rescue me, I felt sudden clausterphobia. Panic is not rational.

Today when I got to school, I thought that by now - for sure - my car door would be unfrozen. But when I tried to open it (from the inside this time), and it wouldn't budge, I again felt extreme clausterphobia. Every rational fact was blocked from my conciousness. I was trapped, and the only thought in my panicking mind was a screaming question.

What if?

Oh, The Weather Outside is Frightful!

2008-12-02T08:42:00.016-05:00

Today I walked a mile to school in the snow. I’d like to say it was uphill both ways, but I live in Michigan.

It turns out the alternator in my car is dead. I needed a jump start to get me to and from Sarah’s house in Wisconsin for Thanksgiving. Now my poor station wagon is sitting forlornly in its parking space, collecting snow, waiting for me to have some free time to take it to the mechanic to give it new life.

In Phonetics & Phonology today, the girl who sits next to me (who is also my neighbor) asked me if she could ride to school with me tomorrow. When she was scraping the ice off her windshield this morning, it collapsed. Apparently that happens sometimes. I told her I’d love a walking companion.

I’m learning all kinds of new things about winter. Wal-marts in Michigan sell something called a “snow broom.” When I first saw them, I had no idea why someone would buy one. To clear ice off a window, you need a hard edge to scrape with, not a bunch of soft bristles. I quickly recognized my ignorance when I tried to clear a foot of snow off my car with my 10-inch ice scraper. I need to buy a snow broom.

I have bought the following items of clothing since I moved to Michigan: 4 pairs of long johns, 1 coat, 1 pair of gloves, 1 pair of boots, 1 coat, 2 hats, and 6 scarves. (And a cool shirt that Zach McDonald designed, but that doesn’t have anything to do with a blog about snow.)

Sometimes when I get to school in the morning, I'm saluted by rows of parked cars with their windshield wipers sticking straight out. I’m still not exactly sure why people do this – I think it has something to do with them not getting frozen to your windshield? I haven’t experienced this yet.

Andrews uses funny little green and yellow John Deere tractors to clear snow off the sidewalks. On warmer days, the tractors have a circular broom-like attachment added on the front. It looks like a giant round brush for blow-drying hair, and it just whisks all the dirty snow of the sidewalks. Some of the sidewalks, however, are heated! Imagine! When I first heard this, I thought it was just a legend. But it’s true. They purposely put the hot water pipes underneath some of the main sidewalks, and sure enough, the snow is always neatly melted off those special sidewalks! I’m still not sure exactly how it works, since I thought water was heated inside buildings…but I guess that’s why I’m not an engineer.

Jamie and I haven’t turned on our heat yet. Our apartment is hovering around 65, and it’s a little chilly. But I sort of want to see if we can last til Christmas break. Only 12 days to go!

I’m not gonna lie, I like the snow much more than I thought I would. It makes Michigan a whole lot prettier. But there is something about having a wonderful thing become commonplace. If we got this much snow in Tennessee, there would be dancing in the streets (and certainly no driving in them). Snowballs would be flying, and the ground would be littered with snow angels and lumpy snowmen. But I haven’t seen anyone playing in the snow here. Not even the neighborhood kids. I’m sure it happens sometime (I hope). But it’s like how the camp director’s kid gets bored on the blob or how Taco Bell employees get sick of 7-layer burritos. Some of the magic is gone.

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Tomorrow I’m going to make paper snowflakes. It might seem a little ridiculous when the real thing is everywhere. But I want to remember that snowflakes are beautiful. And I’m going to put on as many of my winter clothes as I can and make a snow angel and get wet snow down my neck and up my sleeves and in my boots. And my cheeks will get chapped and my nose will be runny. And winter will be magical again.

Shane Claiborne

2008-11-24T22:17:00.001-05:00

The best criticism of what is wrong is to practice something right.

On Quitting (and beginnings)

2008-11-11T18:18:00.007-05:00

I must have been 6 or 7 when Brittany Gimbel convinced me to join a T-ball team. I hadn't yet discovered that there's a reason my family has always been full of nerds instead of jocks, and Brittany had a really cool trophy from her team's victory last year. So I talked to my parents and they signed me up. I went to Walmart with my dad and picked out my first (and only?) baseball glove: black pleather with red trim. My grandma bought me my very own T-ball stand and I spent hours practicing in our driveway.

But things didn't go exactly as planned. Somehow I ended up on a different team from Brittany, a team of complete and total strangers who talked funny and didn't go to my church. You have to understand that I was incredibly shy when I was a kid. On my first day of school, I peed my pants (actually it was a dress...) because I was too afraid to ask if I could go to the bathroom.

Needless to say, I never got to show off my newly acquired T-ball skills because I spent the whole first game hiding in the trashy ballpark bathroom that smelled of stale popcorn and cigarette smoke. I went home and cried until my parents let me quit T-ball.

I've always wondered what would have happened if I had stuck it out. Maybe I'd have a Southern accent like my teammates. Maybe I'd like playing sports with balls involved. Maybe I'd even have a cool trophy or two.

I haven't quit much since T-ball, but I think it's because I stopped trying to do things unless I knew I would be good at them. It's a dumb way to live. I hope you're not guilty of it, but if you are, welcome to the club. (Let's quit it.) There's a metal brick in my office that has the words What would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail? engraved on it. I almost laughed out loud when I first saw it. Please. Inspirational knick-knacks are about the lamest way to spend money I know of.

But maybe I need inspiration sometimes?

Anyway, recently I've learned that sometimes quitting can be healthy. Not quitting out of fear or shame, but quitting when it takes courage. Last Friday, I quit my job at Accounts Payable. I've never quit a job before in my life, and it took me about a month to work up the guts to do it. As my friend Ben Schnell reminded me, sometimes you have to quit in order to honor a contract with yourself - a commitment to do (or not to do) based on what you can give to the world if you don't let good things distract you from the best things.

I felt as awful as I expected I would as I watched my boss wipe her eyes and try to smile for me. But as I walked out of the Administration building, I knew it was good and right. It's like the painful and pricey freedom that comes from breaking up with someone you knew you shouldn't be dating. But glory hallelujah, isn't it worth it?