2008

To encapsulate a year in one blog post seems mightily overwhelming, but as an exercise in brevity, here it goes. My "top ten list" of lessons learned in 2008:

10. I am less adaptable to change than I like to think.

9. Life is a constant lesson in humility.

8. My calling in life is NOT to work with elementary school children. This knowledge increases my level of respect for elementary school teachers.

7. My identity is so much more than just what I do for a living. A crucial point to remember in upcoming years.

6. My tolerance level for ignorance and stupidity is very low.

5. Good and loyal friends are worth their weight in gold...and if I could, I would share that gold with all of them. Assuming that I either won the lottery or became a leprechaun, of course.

4. Sometimes decisions must be made that you don't want to make, because neither outcome seems appealing. And in the end, even though you chose the best solution, you may not be happy. But sometimes it's not about you.

3. Family is one of the most powerful forces in existence...through thick and thin they are still your family. No matter what. Forever. And ever...

2. There is a very good reason to only get married one time: weddings. The light at the end of the tunnel is marriage...which is the greatest and most rewarding challenge I have ever undertaken.

1. Life swirls and changes around us every second of every day, and its unpredictability is part of the excitement and terror of living. It means that above all, I am not in control. I will be learning this lesson every day of the rest of my life.

the age of innocence

Thanks to the snow day today (which I feel was somewhat unnecessary), yesterday was my last day at work. Because of changing schedules and financial situations, I won't be returning to my job with the YMCA after Christmas break.

So I've been reviewing what I've learned this past semester in the presence of these kids. The conclusion I have come to is that the age of innocence no longer truly exists in this selfish, chaos-ridden, morally declining world. I realize that I grew up in a state of relative naivete, not knowing or caring about "adult" topics, like swearing or using the middle finger or liking the opposite sex or watching movies with anything other than a PG rating. I led a sheltered childhood, protected from the world of divorce, abuse, homosexuality, drinking, drugs, and any other toxins that may have invaded my young, impressionable soul.

But the kids in my program weren't so lucky. I had a 5-year-old get a detention for saying the F word in his classroom. I had a first grader tell me she had to go to court and pick which of her parents she loved more to decide who to live with. She told me she was going to pick her mom because her mom loved her more; when I asked her if she loved her dad, she said, "No, because he doesn't really want to be a dad." Almost half of the kids were from divorced families, with step-brothers and sisters coming out the wazzoo. I had an 8-year-old ask me if I had seen the movie The Day After Tomorrow, assuring me that it wasn't scary; he would know, he watched it. I had a 7-year-old get an iPod with the new Indiana Jones movie installed on it for his birthday. I had an 8-year-old who couldn't read, spell, or do math problems; who bit my assistant's arm; who hurt other kids; who couldn't control his anger; who was really only looking for some positive attention most of the time. Virtually none of my kids knew how to respect an adult or listen when another person was talking.

I really and truly fear that we are entering a state where morals and values are going to change significantly; that right and wrong are going to become more black and white, and therefore more controversial. Perhaps my standards are set too high; perhaps I have unrealistic expectations of childhood based on my own experiences; perhaps the world is going to hell in a handbasket. I do think there is hope for all of our kids, but this society, this generation is making it hard to find amid the vulgarity and outright meanness running rampant in schools today. I don't want to shield my kids from the world, but I want them to know what certain words mean: respect, honor, boundaries. I want them to be safe and happy and somewhat ignorant of the underside of humanity, at least for a little while.

Don't kids deserve to have an age of innocence?

a rant

OK, I just need to rant for a few minutes here.

With the Christmas season in full swing, the kids at my school have been discussing their anticipated gifts, and although the majority of my particular group is in grades 2-4, they were almost all talking about getting CELL PHONES for Christmas.

If you can't tell by the capitalization in the previous sentence, I find this ridiculous. Why on earth does an eight-year-old need a CELL PHONE? As if your parent doesn't know where you are and when you need to be elsewhere. As if you do anything when you're eight that requires you to have a cell phone. It makes me sick. These kids have things like iPods and PSPs, and as if that isn't already an excessive amount of expensive technology, they think they need cell phones too.

I'm sure that my thoughts and emotions about parenting will change once I actually become one, but I'm pretty sure I'm not going to buy my eight-year-old a cell phone. But who knows what else it will be? In the (approximately) 10-15 years before I actually have an eight-year-old, the world might just go technologically insane.

OK, and now I must remember that these are not my children and I don't have to live with them.

The most ironic part of the title of this post is that my new cell phone is called the Rant.

being a christian

For most of my life I've felt like I had a pretty good handle on what it means to be a Christian. Growing up with it helped. I had no sudden epiphanies, no real moments of shock or surprise, just a continual depth of understanding and knowledge that the root of my Christianity is in my own heart, no one else's.

But there are some fundamentals, right? I feel like I've had several conversations lately that have challenged me on this, on explaining what it means to be a Christian--not just calling yourself one, but actually being one.

On Friday at school, one of my little first grade girls was wearing a shirt that had a big Tweety Bird on it and said "Jesus is the tweetest." I made a comment to my assistant that I would never send my child to school in a shirt like that. He asked why and I told him that although I am a Christian and am not ashamed of my beliefs, sending your child to school in a shirt like that is just a cry for negative attention and mockery, and why subject a 6-year-old to that? He made a comment that he is a Christian too, but then proceeded to tell me that he doesn't "believe in the whole church thing...or the Bible, really."

Everything in me wanted to fight at that moment, to tell him why he was wrong (because his logic was not good), and to explain to him that the Bible and the Church are two fundamental properties of Christianity. Sure, you can be a Christian without going to church (although not a thriving, growing one), but there's really no way you can claim Christianity without a basic belief in the Bible. Otherwise it becomes a story, something along the lines of a fairy-tale with extraordinarily impossible events which lend an air of incredibility to the whole plot line of Christianity. If I don't believe the truth of the Bible, I have no foundation upon which to stand.

So many people are "Christians." So few of us actually are.

believe

This morning I had a conversation about Santa Claus.

Usually when Santa Claus comes up in conversation people are quick to denounce their belief in him, saying, "Oh, I stopped believing in Santa since I was, like, five," or something to that effect. But this morning I talked to a second, third, and fourth grader about Santa and how each of them believes that he exists. Who else eats the cookies? Why else is he at the mall? How come my dad hears the reindeer on the roof every year?

As adults, it's easy to listen to these questions and logic everything away. Seriously, your parents eat the cookies, it's a guy getting paid to sit in the suit, your dad is lying to you. My mom likes to tell us that when she was a little girl she truly believed she heard reindeer on her roof and saw Santa's sleigh flying away from her house one Christmas Eve. I think part of her wants to believe it still, and she's 61 years old!

So today I did not dissuade my kids from their discussion. I did not try to reason with them; instead I told them about my mom, and their eyes grew wide--another adult giving supporting evidence to the case for Santa Claus. For once I allowed myself, for a few moments, not to be a skeptic, and to wonder what it would be like if there really was such a character as Santa, and to get caught up in the childlike excitement in my kids' voices.

I love the movie Miracle on 34th Street. (Lucas doesn't know yet that we are going to have to watch it this Christmas, and probably every Christmas from here on out.) Part of why I like it so much is that it puts all our doubts to shame. What on earth is wrong with believing? What harm would it do to put aside skepticism, if only for a month or two, and encourage the belief?

There is intention behind our belief; I am attempting to put the wonder back into my heart. Where it went, I can't say, but it comes back bit by bit, on threads of spiderwebs, on flurrying snow crystals, in frozen sunrises and faded sunsets, in two-year-olds' laughs, in the intricate patterns of the branches dancing in the wind.

Believing with your lips is easy. I can say it all I want.

Believing with your heart is harder.

halloween

Halloween is probably one of my least favorite holidays, maybe because I don't really consider it a "holiday." (Apparently, though, the Oswego school district does--they are off today due to it being Halloween.)

Fortunately, I think we are getting off easy this year--no dressing up (that I know of!), which is a relief since Lucas has a lot of really...interesting?...costume ideas. If you ever want some abstract/chuckle-worthy ideas, please contact him. He specializes in couples' costume ideas.

I don't know exactly what it is about Halloween that I don't like...it's possible that it bothers me that I considered Halloween a fun and innocent day for kids to dress up and go trick-or-treating, and the retail industry has made it so much more. Or the fact that high school and college kids (girls in particular) treat it as a day to look trashy on purpose. I used to dress us as harmless things, like a pumpkin, or a crayon, or a bluebird, or a pilgrim (yes, those are all actual costumes that I have worn). Or it could be that I don't like to be scared. I don't like scary movies, or gory movies, or anything that has the word "Saw" in the title.

I also hate haunted houses because I hate not being able to see where I'm going (haunted houses are dark) and I hate the idea of things jumping out at me (that's what they do at haunted houses). I think I've had approximately 2 haunted house experiences, and that was enough to convince me that I don't like them. I don't even like corn mazes. This is just a bad time of year for me.

I blame the people-jumping-out-at-you fear on my dad. When we were kids we would go visit my grandparents several times a year, and my cousins would usually all be there too, so we could usually persuade my dad and uncle to participate in a game of hide and seek with us kids. My dad's favorite thing to do was make little noises--like whistling or saying something like "woo-ooh"--to clue us in to where he was hiding. This was great until you figured out where he was, and someone had to open the door to the room or the closet (he always hid behind a door of some sort)...at which point he would burst out with a roar and scare us all. Every time. Eventually we stopped asking him to play.

So there are a combination of factors at play here. Let's just say that I like the candy part of Halloween...that's about it.

make up your mind

Have you ever entered a situation thinking that you had your mind set on an issue, or a person, or a possibility?

This has happened twice for me lately. One situation I don't think I can write about here, but the other I will share.

So, I now work as a site director for the YMCA's before-and-after-school programming at a school in Aurora. I basically keep the kids in my program, ages K-5, out of trouble and occupied in the morning and the afternoon until their parents can come get them. Most of my kids are tolerable, but I have one who I was warned about before school even started in August.

His name is Torian. He has a condition called Oppositional Defiant Disorder (yes, ODD), which basically means he cannot control his temper. So he goes to a special school for kids with behavior disorders and gets sent to my school in the afternoon.

I immediately did not like Torian. He is angry, and rude, and disrespectful, and a downright bully to the other kids in my program. I made up my mind about him the first week of school and was convinced it would not change.

Torian is in third grade at his school. I have come to the conclusion that third grade at a BD school is not equivalent to third grade in a regular school, because I also have Torian's younger brother Tahj in my program. Tahj is in kindergarten and is one of the cutest little boys I have ever seen. Tahj can write the alphabet, and sentences, and when he asks me to spell words he can sound them out and usually come really close to being right. Last week we sounded out the word absolutely...aside from the silent E in the middle he did all right.

So Tahj is a pretty sharp little guy. Torian, though, brought homework out for the first time last week, and it looked like the homework my kindergarteners work on--writing the letters A and B, and then short sentences using those letters. He can barely write his own name and can't read a lick, and he gets mad at me that I "won't help him" read.

So I'm a pretty big fan of reading, we all know that, and this not only breaks my heart, it infuriates me. That a child could be in third grade and not know how to read is preposterous and outrageous. A good day at his school means he got to play video games and get a soda. There is a serious breakdown in the educational system somewhere.

So after two and a half months of spending time with Torian, I am finding myself changing my mind about him...slowly. He still gets under my skin like no other child I have ever met, especially when he throws chairs and pushes the smaller kids and gets in fights and swears at me. But in the long run, if this path continues, I don't think he even has a chance at life.

And it's hard to see the world give up on someone before he really has a chance to start, no matter how oppositional he is.

I have been wondering for the last few months why I am at this particular job (since I don't particularly enjoy it), and Lucas suggested that maybe I should help Torian learn to read. Maybe there is a point to being at this particular school after all.

I'll let you know if I make up my mind.

FAQ

A question that I have been asked frequently in the last month is if/when Lucas and I plan on having kids. Just to set the record straight, if all goes according to plan, it will be several years. I am not at all anxious to begin that phase of our lives...I am much too selfish to be ready for kids.

That doesn't mean, though, that I don't enjoy hanging out with other people's kids. Today, for instance, we spent an enjoyable afternoon at the pumpkin farm down the road from our house with Luc's family and the Keens. Normally I try not to mention too many people's names on my blog for the sake of keeping favoritism to a minimum, but I figured the photos would give it away anyway. The Keens are some of our favorite people to hang out with, and I find Maggie hilarious, but she is usually in bed when we hang out with them, so we had a blast listening to her almost-2-year-old chatter. Our niece is also almost 2, but talks less and sings songs.

The funny thing about this outing is that if you know Lucas very well you know that he does not want to have a daughter. He grew up with a brother, so he doesn't know any better. But he loves hanging out with Keira (niece). And today it was Maggie and Keira. Two little pumpkins running around the pumpkin farm. It was so cute...and then they went home with their parents and I blogged about it. Ah, the way life is meant to be.


Keira and Uncle Luc (she calls him Uncloo)


Maggie


Keira and Aunt Charissa (my name is Ga-witsa!--
yes, she pronounces it with the exclamation point)

the long goodbye

When I was in first grade a new family moved to Mt. Pleasant, Michigan and decided to start attending the same church my family attended, and to send their kids to the same school that my sister and I attended, where my dad also taught. This family had four kids--their oldest son was in my class, followed by his brother, their younger sister who was the same age as my sister, and the littlest sister, following several years behind, only a baby really when we all first came together.

This was how we met the Koefoeds.

It may come as a surprise that as a child I was slightly competitive--in a subtle way: I was competitive about school. Not to brag, but kindergarten was kind of a breeze for me. And first grade was going fairly well too, until this family moved into town. Suddenly I had competition. Over the course of first, second, and third grades Jonathan Koefoed remained my chief competitor in the race to finish tests the fastest, to get the best grades on our homework, to earn the most extra credit points. It was a friendly competition, of course, and one I would never have admitted to, for those of you who know me well will recognize that I do not claim to be competitive when there is a chance that I could be beaten.

For three years my family and the Koefoeds were close friends. Jonathan and I had our ongoing contest in school, Rebekah and my sister Becky became the best of friends, and whenever Becky and I spent the night at their house, Daniel and Jonathan would both pretend that they didn't want to play with us girls, but inevitably they couldn't resist. We went trick-or-treating together, stayed over at each other's homes, ate meals together, played in the snow together, rode in their station wagon, jumped off cushions in their family room together.

After third grade my family ended up moving to Grand Rapids, about 2 hours from our previous home in Mt. Pleasant--a distance small enough to keep us connected to our old friends. I remember going to visit on weekends and holidays, hanging out with the college kids that Scott and Sally Koefoed ministered to, feeling really cool as a fifth grader.

Over the years my parents have kept in touch with Scott and Sally, although neither Becky nor I have maintained our former friendships with their kids. My mom used to show me the family photo they sent each Christmas after we moved down to Illinois, and though the kids all got taller, they still looked the same, and I think I will forever see them at the ages they were when we last turned their living room into a couch-cushion fortress.

Memory has a way of tricking us into believing things don't change.

Which is why it came as such a shock to find out that Sally Koefoed had cancer.

It feels strange to be so affected by news of someone you haven't seen or communicated with directly in years; someone who at one point was a major player in your life. My parents always talk about trying to drive through Mt. Pleasant on their way up to my mom's house in Canada, and somehow it has never worked out, up until about two weeks ago when my mom finally got through to Scott and arranged to stop and see him and Sally on her last trip up to Canada.

She is so thankful that she did that, especially since I called her today to let her know that Sally died last night.

I couldn't keep the tears out of my eyes as I read the last update posted by Scott letting their family and friends know of Sally's passing. She was an amazing woman of faith--they were an amazing family of faith, really--and her confidence in God, even after the trauma of her cancer, was evident in the peace she felt at going to sit at the feet of Jesus. I have no doubts that Sally is being loved this very moment by the Savior to whom she was so faithful.

I look at myself in light of people like Sally, and think how far I have yet to go. My faith is so shakeable, weak, selfish at times. Hers never was. I believe that the brief period of time I knew her impacted my own development; that knowing her kids played some part in my growing up process; that one person can leave a legacy that will outlive their physical presence. And I believe that the world is different because of Sally Koefoed.

the slow fade

I was hoping to make my triumphant return to the blogging world with an amazing story about how my life has changed in the last few months, but alas, all I have at the moment is that it's been so long since my last post that my computer didn't even remember the link...I had to type in the whole thing by hand.

The last few months have had their fair share of insanity. Since my last post I have started a new job, survived my own wedding and one of my best friends' as well, made it to Hawaii and back with a motion-sickness-prone husband, moved completely out of my old apartment into our home, and begun the settling in process. It may seem that I have been busy, and some days I feel that way. But Lucas and I both said yesterday that it feels like our wedding was much longer than a month ago (our one-month anniversary is this Tuesday).

But what has struck me lately is how life often fades from one day to the next without my notice. My life as Charissa Holland has slowly faded into my life as Charissa Motley--I still am not entirely a Motley, I have yet to change my bank account and credit cards, but my driver's license declares that I have forsaken my former name and claimed another...and cue Motley Crue jokes here.

But it's more than that. Watching the change of seasons has a similar effect; the slow fade of summer into fall, as the leaves change and drop, the combines lay bare the landscape once more, predicating the impending winter; waking up cold, turning the furnace on for the first time and turning it off in the same week as the climate debates its allegiance to fall and summer in a matter of days.

I measure my life in weeks these days, waiting anxiously for weekends when I don't have to wake up at 5:30 a.m., when I can spend more than a few hours with my husband, when I don't come home from work with a headache and a crazy story about my day. Monday through Friday has become nearly intolerable as I attempt to adjust to the new schedule, the sharing of life with another person, and on top of it all feeling like I am constantly waiting for more, like I will feel more productive, whole, complete once I go back to school in January, once I finish my degree two years from now, once I get the house organized, once Lucas and I figure out how to live together instead of just in the same house.

And as I type this now, the day slowly fades into dusk, toward evening, into night, slipping, slipping ever-so-gently into tomorrow, and when I wake in the morning I will watch the night slowly fade into morning, the process so breathtakingly smooth that it passes before I can absorb its grandeur under the ritual of it all.

great america

So we had our Stuco trip to Great America this week, which was also my first trip to Great America. Somehow I managed to convince Lucas that he should come along for the ride (pun intended). This is what I learned:

1. Theme parks are a rip off. I guess I should have known that, as I have suspected it all along, but still. We passed up several roller coasters because Lucas was carrying a backpack and they wanted him to pay a dollar to store it. At each ride. And due to the immense heat we spent half the day in the water park, where we ended up paying to rent a tube just so we wouldn't have to wait in lines all day.

2. Students are funny. We had one kid who came and didn't like roller coasters at all, so I'm not sure what he did all day. One of my students was adamant about the fact that she was NOT going to ride Raging Bull, but she got talked into it. Peer pressure is one of the more amazing forces of nature.

3. People do things that normally would repulse them when in close quarters. For example: while floating on the Lazy River (at Six Flags or elsewhere) you may in fact brush up against other people. You may in fact have physical contact with their arms or legs or sometimes even their feet, and there isn't anything you can really do about it if you are sunk into an inner tube. I don't typically enjoy touching strangers, but sometimes you just end up doing it, and it's not as weird as it would be if you encountered them elsewhere.

4. I am so glad I am no longer a teenager. Being a teenager is trying and traumatic, and I'm pretty sure I was either very sheltered or very naive during my teenage years, because I got off easy. I see all of these kids just trying to learn how to be themselves, and learn who they are so that they can be themselves, and it's such a painful process it makes some of them want to give up. Thank goodness for the company of youth groups. I love our Student Community. It feels to me like one of the most accepting environments I have ever encountered. We have such great kids.

5. I really am getting old. I remember taking my own youth group trips to Six Flags in St. Louis, arriving when the park opened and staying until it closed. We didn't get there until after lunch and Lucas and I were wiped by about 7:00. We both admitted our pathetic-ness.

the cynic in me

Lately I have been experiencing a kind of cynical block about "religion." And by lately I really mean for the last several months. See, I am struggling with the balance of being excited about my faith and the power of God and the cheese factor.

What is the cheese factor, you ask? I can most accurately describe my attitude about it in two words: Christian DJs.

In order to break some of my cynicism I have started listening to more Christian radio, but I can't stand the DJs. They just infuriate me sometimes with their pat answers to everything, their happy, everything-will-be-ok-with-God comments. I can't really explain why it bothers me as much as it does. I think it comes down to a lack of faith on my part, that when I hear someone talking about praying and the power it has, sometimes I scoff in disbelief. Even though all my life I've experienced the power of prayer, I still have a hard time sometimes believing it does any good. This is my cynical side.

In light of so many atrocities in our world, I frequently despair that anything can make a difference. Sometimes not even our pleas to God seem to change things. And when I'm hurting and someone tells me they're praying for me, all I can do is smile at them and say thank you, even though I want to ask why, why they think it will make a difference...

Those are my darker moments. When I let myself undo the foundations of my whole life. Ultimately I am rooted on the promises of God, that He is faithful, that He never leaves us alone and vulnerable. All I have to stand on most days are those promises, and the lingering dream of who I could be if I truly, truly, firmly planted my feet in them, not to be moved.

The good news is that I have heard a few songs on the Christian radio station that I love. One is by Brooke Fraser (from Hillsong United). I love these lyrics. They are like water on my dry soul:

Walking, stumbling on these shadowfeet
toward home, a land that i've never seen
I am changing, less and less asleep
made of different stuff than when i began
and i have sensed it all along
fast approaching is the day


when the world has fallen out from under me
i'll be found in You, still standing
when the sky rolls up and mountains fall on their knees
when time and space are through
i'll be found in You

summer reading list

I finally finished the first year of grad school! What a relief. I had to go out for ice cream Thursday night after finishing my final (three hand-written essay questions...yuck. Major hand cramping!). So now I will be taking a break until the winter quarter in January, what with the wedding and moving and all.

But just a disclaimer, if you've been noticing my reading list to the left, unless you want to feel really depressed, don't bother with any of the following books:
McTeague
In Our Time
Paris Trout
No Country for Old Men
Seize the Day
Winesburg, Ohio
Ballad of the Sad Cafe

I must say that part of the huge relief of finishing this most recent class was not having to read any more depressing, dark, hopeless books--or at least not having to finish them should I accidentally start one. Everyone in my class was joking about wanting to go see a happy movie after finishing the class...but no, we went to see The Dark Knight last weekend. Great movie, terribly dark. I think my professor I just had would love it.

So now I am moving on to happier things, like wedding planning and moving and finding another job, etc. This is a bittersweet time, as I LOVE summer, but am dying for the next 2 months to just disappear...I am ready to have all this wedding stuff taken care of and just be married.

watch your language

Recently I have become excessively aware of the way I speak. Finally, being an English major is starting to sink in.

What really triggered this new awareness was an incident last week. My boss and I had a "meeting" (lunch) with several women from the South Barrington community (= rich), and one of them was older, probably around 65 or so. We ended up talking to her for about 4 hours (I also have a theory that older women are lonely and take every opportunity they can to talk to anyone they can...another post, perhaps), and in the span of that 4 hours, she never once used the word "like" except in its appropriate sense--of comparison.

The word like is meant to be used in simile form (comparing two things using like or as). Bet you haven't thought about similes in a while. Consider this a brief summer school session.

Like has become the most overused word in the English language. And all of a sudden my awareness has been heightened, and it's driving me crazy. I accidentally yelled at Lucas last weekend for using it too much. I try to catch myself in conversation--not only is it a matter of sounding more intelligent, it is a matter of the state of the English language.

We have an excessive number of words constituting our verbal capacities, and we only use a tiny fraction of those words. I am afraid that we are becoming less eloquent as the years go by and technology makes it easier for us to slum our vocabulary. I get upset when I think about the fact that we are raising an entire generation on text message and IM lingo. These methods of communication are based on brevity, lack of punctuation is the norm, and spelling? Forget about it. If you can convey a word with fewer letters than it actually has, congratulations.

I get frustrated because I think of the papers I'm going to have to grade in future years (if I ever finish my degree).

I get frustrated because Americans already have a reputation as being one of the least expressive or eloquent nations of the world--a nation with mandatory education policies.

I get frustrated because I do it too.

So remember, "like" is a word to be used in comparison. Not as a stall tactic. Not as a filler when you don't know what to say. Not because everyone else is doing it.

And please, for the sake of your brain, watch your language.

the afterglow

Since Lucas has been living in Sandwich for the last few months, once or twice a week I end up driving out there so that we can see each other, which is a long haul but very worthwhile. One of the best parts about driving to Sandwich, though, is that it feels like driving out in the middle of nowhere--country roads hemmed in by cornfields, scattered houses, the occasional stop sign. All these things remind me of being back in central Illinois, where I grew up. My parents' house edges right up against a field, alternating between corn and soybeans, and driving out straight west from there house takes you deep into the heart of the stereotypical Midwest.

I love it.

I love driving out there at dusk, stopping the car, and looking at the glowing world. I think dusk may just be my favorite time of day, as the sun drifts below the horizon, leaving behind a spectacle of colors, bordering at times on brilliant. In the afterglow of the sunset, the tiny lights of evening poke their heads, and out in the country, away from the city lights that glare orange against the sky, you can see them all, tiny glowing points, sparkles, glitter against the night. One of my favorite high school activities was driving out to the middle of the fields and then lying on the hood of the car to take in the vast blackness scattered with stars. Where there are no city lights, the stars seem to multiply, and constellations pop out of nowhere. My dad and I spent one summer trying to memorize as many as we could, and I still have a few favorites that I can point out if it's dark enough to see them.

The other glow that creeps up in the summer over the fields is the lightning bugs. They may be the only tolerable kind of bug, mainly because they don't bite but also because they seem to float in a kind of magical glow over the corn fields, giving off an aura of pixie dust and magic. There is a sweet smell in the air--the scent of crops and humidity and sweat and earth, tinged with the coolness of evening--that I love to breathe deep. I can't get enough of it in the all-too-short summer months.

It's worth reveling in the summer afterglow. It never stays long enough to satisfy me, but maybe that's what makes it so delightful.

identity theft

Sometimes I have moments (days, weeks...) when I look at myself in the mirror and wonder who I really am. Generally I have a pretty good idea, but just occasionally it comes into question. So often I identify myself by the things I do...and lately that has all changed. Less often I identify myself by the things I know are true--even though I recognize those truths, they feel like the easiest things to be stolen away from me, leaving me with those moments of question.

In leaving my job at CCC, I felt like a huge part of my identity just disappeared. I have completely changed what I do for a living, what I do in my spare time, what occupies my mind, who I interact with on a daily basis. It's enormously dissatisfying to know that a part of you is missing. Currently on my reading list is Nancy Beach's book called Gifted to Lead--about being a woman leader in a world run by men. She reminds us that God didn't make a mistake when He made women leaders. That's reassuring. But only when I think of what could happen in my future life. Not in the context of my present life.

My identity constantly shifts--the things that identified me in high school and even college have morphed and adapted to new situations, my personality reflects some of these changes. There are parts of me that I like much better now than I did in high school. But there are parts of my high school and college identity that have been lost in the shuffle of my becoming someone different, someone more adult, someone more in control, someone needing order and balance in her life.

I don't think I can always control my identity. Sometimes it just happens to be who I am in the moments when I'm not conscious of my actions, when I have no one to impress and nothing to lose. I want more of those moments, but the reality is that I just care too much how I am perceived. I think this is a chronic condition...it's not going to go away no matter how successful or confident I become--I will still be somewhere inside the little girl I used to be...the little girl who envisioned herself doing great things but stayed within the limits of what she thought was actually achievable.

If I put my identity in the hands of the things I do or the hands of people around me, I will never keep it for very long. Those things are stolen from me every minute of every day. I am learning the art of gracefully accepting the identity stuffed inside my balanced and controlled exterior...and sometimes I look in the mirror and for a split second and see that true identity.

habits

I have been sleeping in the same bed since I was 13. No joke. It is a wooden framed daybed, and I have grown quite fond of it. The mattress is probably conformed to the shape of my body by now, and the springs are a little squeaky, but at the end of a long day or after being away, there is nothing like sinking into my squeaky little bed.

I sleep on my stomach. It's really the only way to sleep. And I am a heavy sleeper. Once I am out, I am out. My phone has rung in the middle of the night, right next to my head, and I don't hear it. Thunderstorms? Nope. Not even the air conditioner which runs right outside my window can keep me awake.

I was thinking about my sleeping habits because the days are growing shorter until I am a married woman, and sleeping seems like a big thing to work out. I have to sleep under the covers, usually pulled up around my head, even in the middle of the summer, which means that then there has to be a fan running. Ceiling fans are preferred, but when lacking, a circulating floor fan will do. I cannot sleep under the covers during the day, no matter how cold it is--if I nap during the winter, I sleep on top of my covers with a different blanket over me. I find that I can't get into bed at night if it hasn't been made in the morning.

Lucas thinks some of these things are ridiculous. But I have been doing them for 25 years...how do you break 25-year habits? I guess I will find out soon enough. But still...I've been wondering how many of my idiosyncrasies will have to go 79 days from now.

morbid curiosity

Last week I saw the saddest thing, and I'm going to write about it even though it's a little gross, so skip ahead if you would like...

I was leaving my apartment last week and on the sidewalk leading to the parking lot there are always leaves and such on the pavement. I happened to be watching my feet (a habit I wish I could break--wouldn't you rather look the world in the face as you walk instead of studying the ground?) and noticed some weird little grayish-brown blobs on the sidewalk. I of course wanted to know what they were. (I was a little afraid it was dog poop.) On closer inspection I found that they were little, featherless, baby birds. Dead on the sidewalk. They hadn't been eaten by any animals. They must have just fallen out of their nest prematurely and been left by the parent birds (because really, how is a bird going to put its baby back in the nest?).

I can't explain why, but it was just so sad to me to see these little completely helpless denuded little bodies, probably about the size of a half-dollar, with beaks and wings and little feet (yes, I studied them fairly closely with a sense of morbidity and curiosity). I've been trying to think of some metaphor to relate this experience to something in my life, but I can't, and believe me, I've been processing this since last week.

It's strange what things stick in our minds...

All I can think about is those little birds that never even had a chance. And that probably no one else even noticed they were there.

what i think

I am at the Willow Creek Arts Conference this week. It's always one of the highlights of my year. There is something so comforting about being surrounding by people who are all artists of varying degrees, to be in community with right-brained people, to feel the collective sigh of appreciation over a great piece of art.

So here are some thoughts. I think art is the most subjective subject ever created. Even artists can't all agree on what constitutes as art. The great tragedy of this is that if artists don't value each other, the chances of the world at large valuing us is increasingly diminished. Art is frequently viewed as frivolous, an extraneous form of expression, by people who don't "get" art. For me, art is like breathing fresh air when you've had months and months of coldness, rain, or excessive humidity...that fresh air just sweeps through everything in you and restores the soul to a place of hope in the goodness that really does exist in the world. Art does that for me. Without it, I would be even more cynical than I already am.

I also think that art has the power to change the world. No, really. Hang with me here. Art in all its forms--film, literature, painting, sculpture, music--can impact cultures and political systems. I just finished writing a paper on the effects that a new kind of criticism can change our perceptions of the environment and the role we as humans play in its destruction, restoration, and preservation. Everything is interconnected, and the more we realize it, the better off we will be. Art gives us a reason to appreciate the beauty of the world. It gives us reason to take notice of God's miraculous creation and to place our lives in the context of something bigger and better than ourselves. We cannot isolate ourselves from the world. Not in any manner--politically, socially, environmentally. We live in this world, and ultimately it's God's world, not ours. What have we done? How can we rectify our human history? How does art change our perceptions?

These are the questions I ask myself. I also have a rant about the state of the English language...but I will save that for another time and post.

where to start...

I have been meaning to write this post for the last two weeks and just haven't worked myself up for it. It's one of those posts I've actually been dying to write, and somehow the moment just never seemed right. So instead of waiting for the moment to feel right, I'm just going to write.

This was my first weekend away from home. For almost four years I have been a part of the CCC family, and this was my first weekend away. I didn't hate it and I didn't love it...it was what it was.

I'm not a huge fan of change. I know, shocking, right? But really. I can roll with the punches as well as the next guy, but ask me to voluntarily change something major about my life, and I'm a bit resistant. I've known this was coming since December, and still...it's a little like leaving my world behind. Not only am I no longer working as an Arts Director, I am now attending Luc's church in Plano--which is hugely exciting for us! It is unfortunate, though, that it requires me to say goodbye (for now) to a place that has changed me in a few short years.

Life really is all about people, isn't it? It has taken me the better part of 25 years to realize that it's our relationships in life that make all the difference. Working in ministry really opened my eyes to that, for better or worse, and there are so many relationships I would never have experienced if not for being here and being part of CCC. God really always knows what He's doing, He has proved that to me consistently, and bringing me here was one of those situations that I knew was too coincidental to be mere coincidence. I am fully convinced that He brought me here to meet the people I did, establish the friendships I have, find myself and grow into that person, meet my husband, and continue a journey of faith and trust, pushing me to the limits of my self.

I'm not a huge fan of goodbyes, either, and so while I could name drop for another whole post, I won't. So many people have contributed to my journey in the last three and a half years, and it would be too hard to say goodbye through a blog post. So thank God for the internet, which allows us to follow each other's lives even though our paths may not cross again.

Oh, and what am I doing now, you ask? I just started working for a small publishing company in South Barrington as an assistant publisher for a local magazine (finally putting that English degree to good use). I'll be around. I'm still the go-to girl for proofreading, if anyone needs something edited. I actually get paid to do that now...

It's been a trip.
Where to start?
Where to end?

untitled

let the spring come,
let it wash away
all my thoughts of yesterday—

let the wind blow,
let the newness sweep out my soul—
let the rain fall,
let it drench my thirsty heart,
let it drown the weight that
suffocates the better parts of me—

let the tulips bloom
i will smile for you
i will smile at you
when the tulips bloom—

let the leaf-light in,
let it flood through the windows
and twirl in my footsteps—

can we dance in time
with the crooked sunlight?—
with the popping rain?—
can we dance in time
with the pouring wind?—
can we dance in time?
will we dance in time?
will the spring bring life
that will kill our doubts?—
that will let us shout?—
that will keep our faith?—

come and kiss this mouth, oh laughing spring;
i wait with hands outstretched:
bring your best
and your worst,
only give me the chance
to shout out my heart to the sky;
let the flowers wave
wave their heads at the wind—
let the sapphire sky
swallow my shadows—
let the spring come—
let it bring me
you

american sports

I went to my first ever Cubs game yesterday. Actually, it was the first major league baseball game I've been to since approximately 1991, when my family when to a Detroit Tigers game. (Hey, we were living in Michigan, not a lot of options.)

Here are Lucas and I making cotton candy mustaches. Man, I forgot how much I like cotton candy...



OK, but here's the point. The Cubs were winning the game going into the 9th inning. They brought in Kerry Wood, who proceeded--on his first pitch of the game--to hit a batter and let 3 runs score. The stadium was ticked. I'll bet Zambrano was sitting in the dugout fuming, after pitching the first 6 innings and hitting the first home run of the game, and (for those Arrested Development fans out there) I'll guarantee that Lou Pinella was sitting there thinking "I've made a huge mistake."

This is my beef with professional sports. So Kerry Wood had a terrible day yesterday. But he's still making $4 million this year.

$4 million! (Yes, I did look that up.) Are you kidding me? And now, think of how many professional athletes we employ in this country. Most of them are making upwards of $1 million a season. I don't even want to know how much money that adds up to that this country pays to athletes.

Before you protest, don't hear me say that I am opposed to professional sports. I respect the amount of time, energy, determination, and hard work that goes into being an athlete, although I myself make no such claims. I am but a lowly everyman. I work hard, multiple jobs, to support myself. Most of the rest of the nation does the same. So how does it make sense that a guy who pitches half an inning a game makes $4 million a year?

This makes me sick. We can't afford to pay our teachers efficiently, yet we can put out this kind of money to support athletes? I'm going to go out on a limb and say that the education of this nation surpasses in importance any game in existence. Call me crazy, I know. This is a dichotomy that shows no signs of disappearance, and it is upsetting. We live in a nation that can afford to pay baseball players obscene amounts of money but can't manage to live within our federal budget, can't employ, feed, or house everyone living in this nation, can't properly solve the problem of poverty in this country or any other. It's a major discrepancy. The money made off sporting events could be used for so many other things.

What is this world coming to?

art in the church

Last Saturday I got to present a paper at Wheaton College on the role of art in the church and reproducing artists in the church. It was a new experience for me--I can perform on stage without any fear, but speaking in front of a group of people was a little unnerving, especially since I was the only presenter at this small conference without a PhD. I think it went over well, though.

But since then I've been thinking a lot about art in the church, and have had multiple conversations about it. Lots of people have lots of opinions. One thing that I will contend is that the church has recently fallen behind in producing good art. I think the secular world regards much of our art as being of a lesser quality than theirs, and they may have a point. I find it difficult to produce art without adding the "cheese" factor that turns off non-Christian artists to Christian art.

The interesting thing is that historically art was commissioned by the church. Most of the great masterpieces of the Medieval period through the Renaissance were paid for by church officials, commissioned of the great artists of the time regardless of their religious beliefs. And we uphold these as great pieces of art, timeless though created centuries ago. Now art in the church has become something less than respectable by the rest of the world.

This makes me sad. We have the ultimate source of inspiration and yet we struggle to create art that compels the world to see that ultimate source. While I think that we have the capacity to redeem secular art for the sake of the church, I also think that as the church we need to create redeemed art. I think we have a long way to go in certain areas--film and literature in particular. But I think we have the capacity to get there, and I love that at CCC we create art that to some degree stirs at least interest in the secular world.

I think the church needs art. We need good art. But we also need real, authentic, and vulnerable art that expresses the heart of the journey of faith. Where do we go from here?

going green

Yesterday was Earth Day. I meant to write this post yesterday, but I of course forgot, or ran out of time, or had some other lame excuse like that.

So on Earth Day (pretend this was posted yesterday), I am thinking about the concept of "going green." It seems to be kind of a trendy thing to do...or at least an up-and-coming trend. People are claiming to be more interested in our environmental debaucle on this planet...everyone from politicians to radio stations like 101.9, one of Chicago's biggest radio stations. On the Mix you can hear daily tips on how to help Chicago go green, things like unplugging your phone charger, turning off the water when brushing your teeth, adjusting your thermostat by one or two degrees to save energy, even having a night where the whole city turned off its lights for a few hours.

I find this admirable. I find this a cause I can get behind. Growing up with parents who are religious recyclers and a father who has an interest in all things environmental, I was brought up to turn off lights when leaving a room, wear sweaters in the winter because the house was always cold, reuse plastic bags and eat leftovers. So I've always felt that I am an environmentally friendly person. It drives Lucas crazy that I bring my recyclables over to his house since we don't have recycling service at our apartment complex. I don't know what I will do when he moves.

But then I started reading a book by Barbara Kingsolver that has introduced me to the detrimental effects of America's eating habits, not only to our health but to our environment, due to our need for instant gratification of our every food want and need.

Going green is a harder lifestyle than I think I am ready for. I have heard more and more stories of people growing their own food or buying local, which I am starting to explore--buying local, that is. I don't think my apartment complex would allow for the planting of a full vegetable garden. And that would be a lot of work. So the whole local food commitment is a big one that I am thinking about, but it means only buying fruits and vegetables in season, which stinks. I love a good strawberry in the middle of the winter, which is clearly not in season. So mainly I'm just looking for farmer's markets right now. Whether I actually buy there or not is a different matter. I have an enormous amount of growing respect for people who choose this lifestyle. It takes a lot of dedication.

I was thinking about trying to ride my bike to work in order to use less gas, but that is an even bigger commitment, what with weather conditions being so unreliable.

And green is my favorite color. That should count for something, right?

words from the president

Those of you who know me know I am not good at following current news stories. I did just read an article about the pope's visit to the US, though, and it was really interesting. (Badly written, but interesting nonetheless.)

President Bush reportedly told the pope, "We need your message [in order] to reject this dictatorship of relativism and embrace a culture of justice and truth." I like the phrase dictatorship of relativism, it strikes me for some reason as a phrase which not only could our president not have created himself, but also one that I think would be interesting to evaluate in light of our current culture. Are we living under a dictatorship of relativism? Are we capable of embracing a culture of justice and truth?

Sometimes I think truth is much too abstract and at the same time too concrete a concept to be lived out in a nation consumed with itself. The article also said: "Bush showed off America to its important visitor, ticking off what he said are its best virtues: a nation of prayer and compassion, a nation that believes in religious liberty and welcomes the role of faith in the public square, and one that is the most "innovative, creative and dynamic country on Earth" but also among the most religious."

I don't know that I believe that on the whole we are a nation of prayer and compassion, or a nation who welcomes faith in the public square, or among the most religious nations in the world. I think we tend to be on the whole a selfish and self-absorbed nation, focused on meeting its own needs above anyone else's, no matter the cost.

I also believe, though, that we have the capacity to change all that. I would love to live in a nation of prayer and compassion, focusing on how we can do good by the rest of the world rather than consuming it all for ourselves. I think the church is a huge part of this and we are making massive strides in the right direction, but it's a slow process and it's hard to stick with it when immediate results aren't visible, especially in a culture of instant gratification.

I am not immune from any of this. I live in this country. I succumb to the temptations of capitalism, living for myself, ignoring the problems I see around me, not only in the world on a large scale, but in my world on a small scale. I want to embrace a culture of justice and truth.

moe's

Last Tuesday I went to Moe's. It was my first time there. Moe's is a pseudo-Mexican restaurant in the same vein as Chipotle and Qdoba, though the people I accompanied to Moe's claimed, of course, that it was highly superior.

Apparently I am not a good judge of food. I have been told that I should be able to tell the difference between World Famous Tacos and...all other kinds of tacos, but honestly, a taco is a taco to me. Yes, Moe's was good. I will admit that. And they have sweet tea. Which makes it better than any restaurant that does not have sweet tea. (I am slowly coming to believe that I was really meant to live in a much warmer climate...say, Georgia...judging by my penchant for warm weather and sweet tea.) My vegetarian burrito was tasty. (No, I am not a vegetarian.) But overall, it was pretty comparable to the other pseudo-Mexican restaurants in the area.

What made this dining experience interesting, though, was the company with which I visited this fine establishment. I went with some co-workers, Bill Carroll, BT (last name unknown), and Chris Heller. Apparently Chris frequents Moe's. As we walked in, several of the workers knew him BY NAME. I have never eaten somewhere frequently enough to have the staff know me by name, not to mention by order. It was so great. In a highly impersonal society, the workers at Moe's know Chris Heller. I love it. It may make Chris seem a little sad, I'll admit, but it's good to know that we still have the capacity to establish relationships with people beyond our circle of friends, acquaintances and coworkers. It's like being in a small town where there's only one restaurant so of course the workers know their regulars, but we are in the suburbs. I find this fascinating!

Nice work, Chris. Way to eat at Moe's so often that the workers know your name. I congratulate you on this shining accomplishment.

over my head

Several things have happened lately that lead me to believe that I am in over my head, in more ways than one.

This whole comment debate on the two previous posts has generated a lot of thought on my end. As a disclaimer, I would like to say for the record that none of my students (and I have many) read my blog. They don't find me all that interesting. Reading what people have to say about my thoughts is somewhat overwhelming. I believe that I am entitled to write whatever I want to write on my blog. But I thank you all for reading. I suppose that if I am entitled to my opinions you are entitled to yours.

Next instance:
I started my new class last Thursday--it's called Theories of Literary Criticism. Doesn't that sound fun? I'm with you, it does NOT. But it's a required class, so I figured I might as well get it out of the way. But the scary part is that I haven't even touched anything having to do with Literary Criticism since undergrad, which was a good four or five years ago...so when on the first night our professor asked us all to tell the class what kind of critic we are, which was a stretch because I can't even define all the types of literary critics. It amazes me how much the brain is capable of forgetting. Then we covered the history of literary criticism--from ancient Greek up through the 1800s--in about 45 minutes. My brain hurt.

Next instance:
I am "presenting a paper" at a conference at Wheaton college at the end of the month, and after having a conference call a few weeks ago, I was completely overwhelmed by the intellectual level of ALL of the other speakers. I'm pretty sure I contributed nothing to that conversation, and am not even sure why I was asked to speak at this conference--the subject matter differs from almost everything else happening. It's very bizarre. So I'm halfway done with a 2500-word paper that I will be presenting in a few weeks. Yikes.

So, in the words of the Fray, there's 8 seconds left in overtime....everyone knows I'm in over my head.

Speaking of overtime, I know I've shared before that I'm a sucker for sports movies, but I re-watched Glory Road the other day and cried. That's all I wanted to say about that.

warming up

I can't even begin to express how happy it makes me to look at the weather forecast for the next five days and not see snow anywhere in the near future. The effect that this has on my overall mood is simply outstanding. I must be affected by the whole seasonal depression thing, slightly at least. So this is a welcome change.

As the weather warms up, so does my attitude toward a lot of things. I am warming up to the idea of new things (which has been only overwhelming for the last few weeks), warming up more to certain people who God seems to have placed in my life for reasons I can't imagine, warming up to the idea that there is a larger plan in place here, and I am simply along for the ride.

I love watching the world come back to life in the spring, as the green comes back into the grass and the leaves come out and flowers speck the ground with all my favorite colors and people actually go outside after their 6-month hibernation. It all rings of life. Sometimes I feel like I start cruising on auto pilot in my life, and it's good to feel the life come back into me every once in a while. I feel it like the slowly rising temperature.

learning how to like someone

I have a problem.

I am quick to jump to conclusions about people. Sometimes this may be considered judgmental. I prefer to say I make incorrect assumptions. It softens the blow a bit.

Most recent case:
I have a student that I have a difficult time with. Sometimes I just don't like her. She has a tendency to be a bit annoying and most things that come out of her mouth are completely self-centered...although I guess these actions are fairly typical of a student, for some reason she bothers me more than my other students.
As I was venting to someone about this, though, I felt really convicted about feeling this way. So I'm trying to learn to like her. Maybe that's too big a step...first I'll start with just trying not to dislike her.

I find myself making these sorts of judgments too often. Sometimes I'll say I don't like someone, and when asked to give a reason, I can't really come up with anything. I just don't like them based on a personality trait or a misplaced comment or the fact that I have a very low tolerance level for annoying people. So I've decided that my tendency toward pre-judging people (or making assumptions) needs to be toned down a bit. After all, God loves us all. He even likes us all, which is the bigger issue.

confessions of a bookaholic

I love to read probably more than a sane person should. If I am in the middle of an exceptionally good book, I will choose reading over watching TV, movies, or sometimes even hanging out with other people. I will curl up in my papasan chair (which I bought for $5 at a garage sale) with a blanket and not move for hours, and when I finally get up my legs won't support the rest of me because my knees give out from being bent for so long. It's pathetic, really.

And I am one of those people who reads books more than once. In fact, some books I read more than twice. I can't count how many times I've read some of my favorite books. I just finished re-reading Pride and Prejudice for the second time (the first time was in high school, so it doesn't really count). It's a tough read. At least this time I understood what was going on.

I would rather read than do just about any other activity. If I am not in the midst of reading two or three books at a time, I am lost. I have to go to Borders. Or I will be forced to reread something from my library, which cannot all be contained in my apartment. It's true. I had to store books at my parents' house. They can't wait until I have my own storage space.

I claim that it's their fault, though. My dad (a combination professor-pastor) is also a bookaholic. One entire wall of his office is lined with books. In my family, books are a more-than-acceptable gift. In fact, we usually give each other a list of books before any major gift-giving holiday. We collect books like other people collect more normal things--video games, movies, trophies, etc. I have long been aware that we are somewhat freakish in this regard, an awareness which was heightened the first time I brought Lucas home to meet my parents. He thinks we're all freaks.

Lately I have made a rather comforting discovery. I am not alone.

There are other bookaholics in the world. I just started reading Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott (a book on writing) and compared to her I seem a little more sane than I originally thought. Other people are freakish too.

I think that all any of us want in life is not to be alone in our freakdom. I am so relieved that other people wallow in the world of books, trading reality for the pages of a different reality.

I, of course, know the difference between fiction and reality. I'm not THAT bad.

men will be...boys

Let's face it, the saying "boys will be boys" is applicable not only to small children, but to grown men as well. I am of the firm belief that men never really grow up--sort of the Peter Pan syndrome, but without the magic of flying away to a mythical land, which would definitely spice up life a little bit.

Digression: I loved Peter Pan when I was growing up. Actually, I was (and to some degree still am) a huge fan of almost any Disney movie. I remember the first Disney movie I saw in the theater--Grandpa took all of the grandkids to see The Little Mermaid. I was probably seven or so. I think it was my first movie theater experience, and the part where Prince Eric stabs Ursula with the prow of the ship and they flash her skeleton was permanently etched into the back of my eyelids for weeks afterward. I was a highly impressionable child.

Back to my point: I am at Luke's house at the moment, and there are four grown men playing the newest edition of Smash Brothers. They are highly invested in this game, and it is raucous and uproarious. I am listening from the loft. It is most entertaining. But this scenario proves the point I am trying to make. Men in their mid-to-late twenties are no more grown up than boys in high school. Sure they have their moments of maturity. I will concede that point. But for the most part they are funny and silly and appreciate an inappropriate joke, no matter whether they are pastors or not.

Obviously I speak only from my own experiences. Perhaps I overgeneralize. I think not.

Also--I must make a disclaimer that I had to "clean up" my list of blog links on my site. If yours was deleted, please don't take offense. It's just that some of you don't post very often, and the list was getting too long. I still love you.

who we used to be...

I love my mother. Please understand that before I say anything else. But she has the power to make me more frustrated than any other single person in my life. Today she called me for the first time in a few weeks and was asking about the wedding plans, and when I told her all the things I'm trying to process, she says: "Whatever happened to the simple cake and punch reception you always talked about?" I have no recollection of that conversation, but she insists that in high school I always said that I wanted the simplest of receptions when I ended up getting married.

I may have said that. But that was then.

I would like to state for the record that I am in no way, shape or form the same person now as I was in high school. Traces remain of the girl I used to be, but on the whole I am perfectly happy with the woman I have grown up to be. I am a thousand times more confident in who I am today than who I was in high school. Everyone goes through a period of extreme self-consciousness and personal discovery, I know. But I can't imagine being the intimidated freshman anymore.

I was always the quiet one, the studious one, the good student, and the obedient daughter. Maybe that is who my mother misses, who she wishes I could still be.

Unfortunately...I still pride myself on being studious, but I don't think that on the whole the word quiet would describe my personality. Somewhere around my senior year of high school I realized I could actually talk to people. It turned out to be pretty fun. In college I learned that I had ambitions and talents that I hadn't known about in high school. After college I took a totally different life path than I had anticipated.

And I have no regrets about that. I think things have turned out rather well, I must say.

But some people get stuck on knowing you one way, and resist watching you change into someone they claim not to recognize. This is the case with my mother. She has expectations of me that fit who I was eight years ago.

Eight years is a pretty long time. I would be disappointed in myself if I had not grown into who I am now, leaving behind who I used to be.

thoughts on leap years

I pretty much only keep track of leap years by the fact that they coincide with election years.

I think leap year is one of the strangest concepts ever invented.

I also think that the term leap year is a contradiction of itself. In an actual leap year (such as this one) we add a day to the calendar. Every other year we skip that day--we leap over it, if you will--so really this is the real year and the other three are leap years...if you think about it hard enough and agree with my conclusions, which you are under no obligation to do.

I would hate to have my birthday on February 29.

I am glad tomorrow is the beginning of March. I find March to be a more hopeful month than February--I anticipate the weather getting nicer, and even if it doesn't actually deliver for me it is easier to hope in March than it is in February.

I am also glad it didn't occur to Lucas to get married on February 29. It would make it much too easy for him to forget our anniversary.

all we can do is keep breathing

Do you ever have those days when you wish you just didn't have to care about people? I'm serious. Between my students and the leaders on my team and my volunteers....sometimes I get so overwhelmed with everything going on in everyone else's lives that I wish I just didn't care. But the thing is that I do care--I have to care. I don't know how to not care.

Which is just so burdensome.

It would be easier to not care. But it also would be incredibly selfish. My problem is that not only do I care, I want to solve. I am a fixer. I need to have answers and solutions when things go awry. It is hard to admit that I can't fix most things.

Some days all we can do is keep breathing.

In the midst of all the hellish crap going on around me, all I can do is breathe...in...and out. And pray to God that something breaks, eventually. Because it can't always be this hard, right? It can't always hurt this much to watch people's lives fall apart, right?

Twenty five years is long enough to know that it never gets easier.

in the end...

Past the point of exhaustion and sanity and hope and all that makes us function as normal human beings, we reach the end of what we think we can handle. And then if we're lucky, we realize that we still have faith, and that even though we can't SEE or TOUCH or often HEAR God, He is there in the end.

And in that moment, the end becomes the beginning.

God's pulse beats for us. It stopped beating for us. The challenge is to believe it. And to communicate it to high schoolers who think they have reached the end of what they can handle or want to handle. And we get a tiny glimpse into the heart of God, knowing what it is to feel frustrated and helpless watching a student you love WANT so much to give it all up and really LIVE...but not having the strength to do it. It's a choice you can't make for anyone else, the decision to believe in love and Life and hope. It's infuriating to watch hope slip through her fingers like water through a sieve. And all the love you try to give, you try to smother her with it in hopes that it punctures her skin somehow, that it reaches her heart...and she won't take it. She won't believe in it. She won't trust it, or you, or anyone else for that matter.

And it's heartbreaking. It's a heartbreaking world.

Sometimes I think, in the end, that once our hearts are broken we have two choices. We can either leave them lying on the floor in pieces, or we can use all the strength we have to bend down and pick them up, holding them in our hands and crying out with all we are for the faith we need to let someone else put them back together. And while we hold those pieces, the blood runs through our fingers, our own blood pouring out of us and dripping to the ground, our lives seeping out of us in slow, steady drops. Which is why we mustn't hold on too tightly, or the wounds will never heal...we cannot do this alone. It is foolishness to believe that we can solve our own problems without the help of someone whose pulse beats Life into our dying hearts.

Yes, die to the old.

But choose Life.

All we can do is choose Life. Every single minute of every single day for the rest of our lives. I choose the abundant Life that Jesus came to give me, Life to its fullest, the only Life that sets me free from drowning in my own blood and living through His.

updates

The girl in my class who annoys me wrote her last piece on holiness. Of all things.

And the rug outside our door is gone.

mysteries

Me: JK, when did you get that rug outside the door?

JK: I was going to ask you the same thing. I almost texted you when I left for work yesterday but I didn't want to wake you up.

Me: Funny, I was going to text you the same thing when you were at work.

JK: So, you didn't buy the rug?

Me: No. I thought you did.

JK: Did Lucas bring it over?

Me: No, it was outside our door when he came over the other night. That was the first time I saw it, so I just assumed you brought it with you after work.

JK: I didn't see it until Friday morning when I left for work.

Me: So, neither of us bought the rug?

JK: Nope.

Me: Weird.

piety

Evangelism is not one of my gifts.

Case in point: last week in class I overheard a girl saying to the guy next to her (both of whom I know are Christians) "sometimes I just want to stand up and preach the Gospel!" I had a vague idea of what she was talking about, it had to do with some comments/language used in class. What does this have to do with evangelism, you ask?

In a setting like that I would not presume to push my religious beliefs on anyone else there. Her judgmental-ness was so off-putting that when I read her essay about going on a mission trip to Honduras, I was not nearly as moved as I should have been.

Call me a cynic--go ahead. But I cannot stand Christians who have a holier-than-thou attitude. They make me afraid to claim that I am one of them.

I think piety has gained a negative connotation in our society. The word itself (defined as reverence for God or devout fulfillment of religious obligations) is unassuming enough, yet has been transformed into a synonym for that kind of judgmental Christianity. Would you want to be called pious?

In our attempts to "modernize" Christianity, many words that people like my parents grew up using have become irrelevant, and even harsh--words like pious, devout, zealous--and they ring in my ears in a very negative tone.

I know that my classmates probably need Jesus--in fact, some of them need Him very much. (I have read their work about their lives--some of them are distressed indeed.) But hearing that girl make that comment left me with one reaction: What a pious and judgmental thing to say.

And now of course I am perpetuating the situation by judging her and her overly-zealous faith. None of us have this down.

vulnerability

I am currently enrolled in a class called "The Personal Essay." I enrolled for two reasons: it fit in my schedule and I didn't have to drive to Lincoln Park. Plus the title of the class was interesting.

The class entails writing our own personal experiences....and then letting everyone in the class read what we've written and comment on our essays.

I didn't really know what I was getting into when I registered.

For me, blogging is an exercise in vulnerability. And I'm not even that deep in my posts. Writing a personal essay is a lot more intense than blogging...and a lot more personal. And then to open yourself up to twelve other writers for their feedback of your portrayal of your life...it's a bit intimidating, to say the least.

But I must say, I survived. Thus far, at least. We had our first workshop on Monday, and I survived my essay being on the table for all to critique. It was actually a good experience.

Which made me wonder why it is so difficult to be vulnerable. It's easy to share certain life details with certain people, to stay on the surface for the most part, to hole up the major emotional battles going on inside, to keep people at arm's length. Yet vulnerability is strangely liberating if done correctly. Sharing my essay with my class was almost a relief--so much of my life is so personally contained in my brain that very few people get to experience it with me. Plus, how do you get to experience someone's whole life with them? Only when we open up the curtains does the light come in...metaphorically speaking, of course.

And of course, I think it comes more naturally to some people than others. People who can just open up about their whole lives....it amazes me.

snippets

the silence breaks upon us
in a sudden brutal wave.
in its aftermath a trail
of bruises on our hearts.

*

wake up!
the tide is ebbing
and there slip away our lives—
we leave temporary imprints
on the cold earth’s eyes.
we see but for an instant
how to clear away the dark
to keep the sea from coveting
the stories of our hearts.

*

the black horizon summons
calling shamelessly its own;
but the sunlight breaks the silence
calling all the stragglers home.

allegiance

I admit that when it comes to politics, I am an apathist. Yes, that is a word I just made up, but it describes me perfectly. I don't care, really. I am as apathetic as one can possibly be about politics. I voted in the 2000 election--because I could. Because I had just turned eighteen that year and there was a small measure of excitement in voting. And I haven't voted since then. I blame it on the fact that I moved and am not registered where I live now...which is lame, I know. It all comes back to being an apathist.

Sometimes I want to be a more aware, more involved citizen, but it never lasts. And I pretend that I know what's going on in the caucuses right now, and at least I know the candidates' names...but that's the extent of it. And I never want to be involved enough to actually do it.

I wonder where this comes from. I've heard some sad statistics about the percentage of the population that votes; if I remember correctly, it's distressingly low. Yet despite the low level of actual involvement in the decision of our country's leadership, everyone later becomes a critic at some point. And I'll admit I've made my fair share of jokes at the expense of the president--but this joking manner generally pertains to his unusual vocabulary (which I technically can no longer mock since I myself invented my own word earlier in this post) and his lack of eloquence when speaking publicly.

I saw a sign a few months ago on my way home from class in Lincoln Park--it said God Bless America, God Damn Our President.

Really?

Maybe the person who made that sign did vote. Maybe not. But something about that struck me as somewhat offensive...and I don't even have strong feelings about the president one way or another.

And lest this becomes a forum for political debate, let me repeat: I am apathetic toward our current government, our future government, and the state of politics in general. I wish I cared. I'm sure that eventually something will make me care. I have never felt a real sense of allegiance to this country, though. Maybe it is rooted in the fact that my mother is Canadian--she has lived in the US for twenty-six years and is still a Canadian citizen...she carries a green card. Maybe it is rooted in the fact that I find so many other countries so much more interesting than this one--and though I live here, I have never felt that I couldn't live somewhere else.

Maybe I find it something of a paradox to ask God to bless America and damn its leader at the same time.

Maybe my allegiance lies to something bigger than borders and public policy and presidential candidates and the Constitution. Which may be heresy. But I might also just chalk it up to my apathetic state.

being a writer

I've known for a while that writing is something I enjoy, and am relatively good at (and I say that without any sense of superiority--it's just been reinforced over many years), and would possibly be interested in as a career. But I still have a hard time calling myself a writer. In fact, whenever someone tells me they are a writer I am a little skeptical. I want to say--prove it. Show me something you've written and I will decide whether or not you can legitimately call yourself a writer.

I have come to the realization that writers come in all shapes in sizes and just as you can't judge a book by its cover, you can't judge a writer by their appearance. I started a writing workshop class last night that will last for the next ten weeks--and is full of people who I would never assume to be writers, yet there they are, in my writing class, all claiming that if they could do anything in their non-existent free time it would be to write.

Which just goes to show me.

I'm really excited about this class because it is going to give me a real chance to be critiqued by other writers. But it's also a little intimidating. I've always felt confident about writing, but I also fall into the trap of comparison far too often, and I judge myself too harshly against other people's standards. So it should be interesting.

I have found that being a writer is a strange fate, one that I would never have anticipated in my high school years being a viable career option. On my better days I have lofty aspirations of being published, of actually making money by writing, of being respected as a writer. The rest of the time I satisfy myself with blogging and journaling and keeping a file on my computer full of poetry and unfinished stories and short essays on my life that I never show anyone yet value as much as everything on my hard drive.

It is a strange and terrifying journey, this discovery that one can be a writer, and that writers are all around us, hiding in our midst, waiting to take our everyday experiences and turn them into novels and poems and short stories and essays, waiting to breathe life into the everyday mundane. We are the keepers of the English language if we are functioning correctly--we strive to expose the enormity of a language full of powerful and beautiful and absurd words...these little things that fall off our tongues like water, without thought, with the greatest power anyone can have.

The weight of this has prevented me from taking upon my shoulders the title of "writer."

But the weight of anything important is never as heavy as we believe it will be.