A Very Specific Survey (or, General News With a Particular Focus on Sleep)

What food have you been eating the most?

Squash from Joella and Carmen's garden. Sweet, savory, with bread, without bread, in a stew, in a pie. Always delicious.

What is your current relationship to sleep?

Aw, yeah. Every time I get in bed at the end of the day, a feeling of euphoria sneaks over me, and I giggle a lot, and squirm and am so thankful to be going to sleep. With all that joy and love I associate with going to sleep, you'd think I'd be in bed half the day. I'm not in bed half the day. I'm rarely in bed the allotted third of the day. 

In fact, this past week, I needed a holy reminder of the sacred nature of sleep. At an extended prayer meeting on Thursday evening, let the record show I had come a half hour late anyway, I was falling asleep during the group prayer time. Then, Luis sent us off to spend time with the Lord, listening and in quiet. Wow! What an opportunity to reach out to God, to listen. I didn't want to miss it, even though I couldn't seem to think straight. The world's edges were blurring; I was losing perspective and becoming more miserable by the moment. I kept thinking of the many things I'd left undone, the endless "to do" list I sometimes torture myself with. I went outside and put on a song I'd been thinking about, attempting to turn my eyes upon Jesus. Failing.

Out came Michelle and Troy and their baby son. "You're going home?" I asked. 

"Yup. The little man's gotta get to bed," Michelle responded. Then she stopped, "I wanted to sing this during the meeting, but I didn't have the guts in the moment. It's a song I was thinking about, and maybe it's for you..." And she sang a beautiful lullaby of God calling his child to rest in his presence. Too tired, I said, "That's it. I'm going home, too." I went inside and grabbed my coat, explaining my leaving to but one soul, and not attempting to excuse myself, feeling that God himself was calling me to rest. I went home, and to bed. 

What good things happened today?

One roommate announced her engagement. Another roommate announced her brand new nephew's birth. And after Chelsea had lost her phone all day, I found it in my car!

What upsetting thing happened last week?

A good friend lost her job. 

What question has been floating in your head recently?

What does it mean to finish well?

I Think This is Why I Haven't Been Writing

3 Prayers: Desert, Ocean, Home

I dream of the desert

where winds sun stone

Red orange yellow--

blue purple black.

I dream of the desert

where breath catches slow

round swirls on the ground

every touch pays water of its own.

The desert does not dream of me

it knows what I can’t know,

and doesn’t care that I will never

be carefree indifferent windblown.

---

You are unmoved by me

unchanged by me

in you I see

my Creator

---

The cat is bathing herself

again.

Her snuffly breaths anchor me

with a sense of belonging:

this is right, to be at home of an evening,

cooking something, playing something,

straightening here and there,

and finally turning off lights, and bowing

face down, to say "thank you, God. Won't

you bring such security to the whole world?"

"God, may the young women have a moment to stop and think,

a space to breathe in.

"May the young men have a purpose they can believe in that

will earn their self-respect.

"May the old ones have families.

"May the young ones have dreams.

"May all have the food they need.

"Amen."

Poetry Is...

a fever, sung

a slow-working medicine

one distilled thought

the shortest essay, and the longest version of the story

how we remember

a last resort

annoying, poignant

sand in your eyes, balm on your skin

a splash of water, a driving rain

a jump, a leap

a whispering wind

the moment you know that

you couldn’t have said it better yourself.

How I Grade and How I Think

(I began this piece last spring. It's true. I wasn't often working at an optimal mental level for the last three years.)

I was sitting in the park, admiring the stream, having just half-composed a poem about the leaves against the sky. I opened my grading folder, and started in. One paper later, I received a phone call from a friend, also a beginner teacher. "Hey, Carolyn. I'm calling to hear about your grading philosophy..." Hahaha! I couldn't have planned it better. Of course, while this conversation took place, highly gratifying, though it was, nary a paper was graded.
___

Teachers: talk to each other about grading. What does an "A" mean to you? I would be willing to bet a lot of us are actually grading on effort over product most of the time. If you're not "in education," you might find it surprising how many books and classes center on this very issue.
___

I wish I knew how to teach a works cited page and avoiding plagiarism, and to do it calmly. I wish I knew how to do anything calmly. To sit quietly and grade 22 papers fairly and consistently, and afterward to keep my head clear and just do a load of laundry and go to bed.

I wish I knew how to stop watching YouTube clips and move through the day. Why does Buzzfeed have to format their articles with lists and gifs? Lists are my favorite way of organizing my thoughts. My thoughts are like cats, sitting on sofas and tabletops, each prowling, playing, sleeping, and sunning as they have need. And lists are like herding these unlawful creatures into a straight line.

Re-Entry

I went through the pains of what I have heard missionaries call "re-entry" when I returned from my first short-term mission trip to Arizona at the age of 12. What was it? Everything was different; home wasn't home. As I re-entered my old world, I recognized that it, too, was new. Those losses had to be mourned.

I didn't experience it to any great degree when I returned from Honduras, nor upon my return from any other foreign country.

But I've found myself experiencing it this summer, those aches of loss, now I have moved out of the life I've known for the past three years. I haven't always phrased my work as a missionary assignment, though my availability to friends and family has been that of an ex-patriot. (Besides, why would I call myself a missionary? Our lives are ours to use how we will, and if you're a Christian, your life is yours to use how God wills. So we live out our mission. All Christians are also missionaries.)

Yet... aside from rarely being available to hang out, I've been surrounded by people of a different culture and language, and I've been a spiritual mentor. And I guess those are what I have always thought of as a missionary's callings.

Now that I'm living outside of the residence hall, here's what's been on my mind:
1. I have to cook. What is "to cook"?
2. I just did a lot of packing and downsizing: my classroom and my apartment were all placed or displaced in the house I now share with three other women. And most importantly, I don't miss any of those items. Maybe possessions are silly.
3. Is it time to move to another country in a few months? No.
4. Aren't all jobs supposed to be full of purpose? Or are some jobs editing copy, making coffee, and praying that God would receive glory in that? Yes.

The Latest Transition

It's been hard to find a place in my new domicile in which I feel comfortable writing. Today I cleaned and moved some furniture, and I feel more at home now. But writing requires inward inspection. To turn my eyes inward requires an effort when my outer world is so stimulating. There's a whole kitchen to use, and food to be made out of necessity, not just luxury. There are so many living room chairs to sit in and find the comfortable spot. There are so many modes and tones of lighting to try in each room. It takes time and dedication to know and love a place. As I move into this one, I'm slowly settling in. It'll probably take 11 more months before I feel at home.

I hasten to add that I feel comfortable here on the whole, and am glad to be here. But it's different living with three other people in the same house than having an apartment, as thin as the walls were, as intruded-upon as I was. In this house, it is possible to...

• run out of milk (I was always throwing away 1/3 of the smallest milk containers.)
• stay up talking without having to turn off floor alarms (In a dormitory for high schoolers, you need floor alarms.)
• light candles (Again, it was a dormitory, and an old one, that couldn't be subjected to fire code.)
• wake up at 6 am, and see humans moving (High schoolers don't wake up that early.)
• come home, and find a party is already going on (At the dorm, if there was a party where I lived, it meant someone had broken into my apartment.)
• experience a breeze (In the dorm, I had all West-facing windows, and none too breezy.)
• find no room in the freezer (I generally kept ice trays with water evaporating in them.)
• walk to the front door without passing through your job (And that is beautiful, my friends.)

Self Love: Let This Be My Death Knell

[written in March 2014]

Sometimes I re-read my blog posts (way oftener than you'd think) to re-acquaint myself with myself, because I forget who I am so easily. Sometimes I address my wider readership (i.e. hey, Mom...), but more often I am writing to an imaginary person who has never met me, but wants to get to know me: someone who is doing research.

Said imaginary person is delving into the depths of these writings, looking for nuances and stuff, to get to know me. And it occurs to me today that that person is me. I am the one for whom I write, not for a long-distant, blog-reading, unknown-to-me, in-reality-creepy lover.

A worse fact of my narcissism is that I was at dinner a few nights ago, with five students laughing together as someone read their horoscopes in Chinese. In the interest of conversation, I asked them to read mine and translate it. "The lion looks like he loves everyone. But the lion loves himself."

In my heart, "Lord? You wouldn't speak through a horoscope, would you?" But it's true: I love myself, no matter what I say. Even writing this is vanity. I am in love and hate with myself. Jesus said that we have to find a way of loving others as much as we love ourselves. He knows that I love myself, that my own comfort and care is at the top of my priority list unless repeatedly otherwise stated.

Just Your Typical Fairy Tale...

I came across this thought in a student's research paper on Marilyn Monroe:

It started out as a typical fairy tale story of one young girl dropping out of high school to be with an older man with hopes that they would live happily ever after. That was not the case.

I plan to submit the idea to Disney. If that fails, Dreamworks. If that fails, I'll go straight to Michael Bay, and maybe he can combine it with some robots and other forms of banal failure.

Taking Myself in Hand at a Time of Transition

Take this in-between, through-the-cracks moment, and be quiet:

You are a person made of dust.

If there is glory to be had, don’t reach for it.

If the office is quiet, and the internet is down, go ahead and breathe.

Work will come, or it won’t.

Remember tea in Lachelle and Brian’s kitchen last night?

Remember sleeping in that big bed for the last time?

Remember entering the dorm office, the air scented with something that harkened you back like laughter continuing from a distant room of friends you’ve just left?

Remember that it’s time to go, and that’s right.
Leave now.

You won’t be alone along this road.

But even if you are alone for a while, and your fears materialize: (they haven’t,  yet, but supposing) your car battery fails, and your phone is maddeningly right where you placed it last night and trustingly left the house this morning---supposing all your first and second plans don’t pan out, I mean:

just wait a moment longer.

Your job becomes simpler: breathe and remember.

Someone has jumper cables. You’re someone’s son, someone’s daughter.

The only real disconnection is separation from God. And, thank God! That’s 
something you can remedy even now.

But back to the car: just know that a thousand possibilities swirl around you in times like these.

Raise your head in wonder, reach up, and pluck one star.

You can keep it.

Best of the QuoteDoc (3-Year Edition!)

Insights

“American food isn’t something you need to explain: just put cheese on top, and then eat it… with your hands.” -Vy (2014)

“There’s one thing I need to point out: I said your voice is ‘lovely.’ Did I say it was good?” -Gao (2013)

“Facebook...yeah, I give it 2 months tops before it’s completely dead.” -D’Angelo (2012)

“This looks like a condom package. But it’s actually a love movie.” -Jeffrey (2012)

[In a sing-songy voice] “An apple a day, don’t need to see a doctor!” -Vy (2013)

“Sounds Spanish for ‘I’m pissed.’” -Ben B. (2012)

“The difference between democracy and Communism is that in democracy, you have a cow, and the government takes a percent of milk. In Communism, you have a cow, and the government takes it, and puts you in jail.” -Ivan (2014)

Carolyn: Is there anything you don’t get tired of hearing, Chad?

Chadwick: Yes. “See ya later.” (2012)

“[Chad and I] don’t talk; we just parent.” -Monica (2011)

Carolyn: How unethical is it to use a toaster I confiscated?

Ben B.: It’s called "recycling." (2011)

Exclamations

“F*** my English!” -Song (2012)

Song: Carolyn, Ben died.

Carolyn: What!?

Song: Ben died... B-A-N-D-A-I-D!  (2012)

“You can ask me, I’m a narrative speaker.” -Andy X. (2012)

Vy: Frank, you are dressed like half Ben, half Luis!

Gao: That’s a mixture of disasters. (2014)

“Aww, you would look cute if you had cancer”- Yokabed to Vy, who was wearing a nylon stocking on her head. (2014)

“Hey, don’t be so gaycist” -Vy (2013)

“You have a Moomoo and a Nono. And now a Queenie? Someone has to tell them that these aren’t names. I won’t do it: I won’t say ‘would Queenie please report to the office?’” -Rachel D. (2012)

Could You Repeat the Question?

Adviser: How do you feel, Steven?

Steven: I feel myself. (2012)

Adviser: Frank, in New York, did anyone steal anything from you?

Frank: My father. (2013)

Adviser: Johnny, who are you living with now?

Johnny: My backpack. (2013)

Written:

Andy’s “sickness” was that he “couldn’t move” because his skin hurt when it was touched.  This happened because he took a shower last night, and the window was open.  It “takes a long time” to dry off, and the wind blew on him the whole time.  Ben said that he needed to take care of himself and close the window, but he insisted that he couldn’t do that because it was a was a public area and people would say he was a bad person. -Incident report by Ben H. (2013)

The joy of a misunderstood idiom:

Carolyn: Lachelle, remember that student that tried to hit on us?

Vy: Oh I do that all the time to you guys. (2014)

To lie together vs. to lie together:

(Carolyn to Ben H.) “That’s what our job is, to lie together.” (2014)

Worst-case scenario:

“The first thing we do if there’s a meningitis outbreak is hire a documentary film crew.” -Chad (2011)

Our Faces When...

For three years, Lachelle and I have worked as part of a team at the residence hall. We often wear similar colors, finish each others' sentences, pray together, stay up late at a kitchen table while she does graduate work and I grade papers, or we sit there with tea and talk everything over. 

But what do our interactions with the students look like? Behold, Our Faces When...

... a student sets off the alarm at 1 a.m. for no reason.

... a student refuses to lift the trash bag off the floor, and ends up getting a line of trash juice from the bathroom to the dumpster.

... a student doesn't understand why he is grounded after breaking curfew.

[Photo credit: Vy Ho]

Robin Rescue

I've told you before about the mother robin in her nest that's visible from the dorm office, in a small, gratuitous vista where the windows line up just so. This mother robin may be a different one from that of prior posts, I'm not sure, for she seems to remain quite aloof, never drawing near when some human inhabits the porch. Her babies just hatched three days ago, but had made not a stir upon their arrival, and so I had assumed they were still eggs.

Around 7:30 yesterday morning, I was performing whatever office duties are necessary in those three hours before another soul is awake on a weekend, when a giant, malevolent crow swooped under the gable, batted its wings for a moment in front of the nest, and flew off once more, carrying a hatchling in its beak. In the process, the entire nest was knocked to the ground, leaving four newly-hatched robin babies barely moving about on the cement porch.

A pitiful sight it was: one little brother with tiny fuzzy feathers inched himself around on the porch, subject to the biting morning wind. A smaller one fell out of the sideways nest, and rolled a bit, but could not lift his own head. Neither were old or strong enough, it seemed, even to chirp.

I am ashamed to say my reaction was merely to watch with heartache. I thought surely there was nothing I could do. I had the notion that if I interfered, the mother would not touch her babies again, or worse, I might be subjecting myself to some kind of bird disease. Gloves occurred to me, but only in passing.

Grace, an ambitious, excited tenth-grader who hopes to be a crime scene investigator, had just woken up, and was now keeping vigil with me. Her first remarks, I think, had to do with perhaps intervening, but I gave her my thoughts on the subject, which made her feel that it was impossible to save them. Dissuaded, she began to expound without abstraction on the Darwinian example before us, even asking if she might be permitted to dissect one of the unfortunates. I told her it would be indecent to discuss the matter until they were certainly dead.

The mother robin had returned to find her hard-built nest fallen, one baby taken, another (a large, but entirely featherless one) sprawled out in death, and three barely moving but to shiver. She squawked in anger from the deserted perch. Another robin hailed her, and they surveyed the wreckage. It was tragic; how can I tell you? I wanted to know how an animal comes back after such a devastation; could I learn from her example? She moved from floor to perch to ground to banister, chirping about her losses to the wide sky and the robin world. The crows were not listening. She could not rescue her babes.

Finally, Grace and I surveyed the disaster up close instead of through a window. It looked so easy to push the creatures back into their nest, and put the nest back. Grace was already arrayed in gloves, and fearless, ready for the impending and promised dissection. Without needing the ladder, she had all the living back in place before I had even arrived. We went away, hoping the mother would not reject her young despite our meddling.

But Robin did no such thing. She seemed overjoyed to have her life re-assembled for her. A day later, I see three little craning necks supporting three tiny and vigorous beaks in their rescued nest. The mother flies in and out, in and out to give them each their fill. She needed help. Grace had the courage to give it.

What became of the dead baby bird? I wish I could skip this part: Grace dissected it on a foam plate on the table.

Leaving the Dorm: Thoughts and a Prayer

"You Can Never Go Home Again"
I explain this concept a lot when I talk with residence hall students about returning home. After several months abroad, with unfamiliar food, less-than-clean bathrooms, loud roommates, and boring Sundays, they have in their heads an idealized version of what being at home will be. They imagine the simultaneity of all their favorite things. They imagine being able to control their lives, only sunny days.

I have learned that home is growing even while we're growing in another place. We (who "we" are, precisely, I'm not qualified to say) have this tendency to complain about wherever we are, then to idealize it when it's gone.

It seems right to attempt to disabuse them by explaining the phrase, "you can never go home again." (And I promise I don't whisper it in a raspy voice, like a threat...)

The Menial and the Repetitious
Last night, as everyone was headed to their halls around 10 pm, Wendy (a tenth-grader) and I sat on the floor in the hall, and talked about our impending loss of each other's company. We agreed that even though I would visit next year, "It just won't be the same." What is it about how things are right now that's so good? How is the menial and repetitious so sacred? And why don't we notice it in the moment?

What do I mean by the menial and repetitious? Just the normal stuff.
The people who live here just do normal stuff together:

- We say goodnight five or six nights a week. 

- We eat breakfast together once or twice a week. And when we are sitting there in the cafeteria at 7:20 am, we barely say anything. There is nothing to say. (We clearly stayed up too late last night, and every night.)

- We take the trash out together late at night.

- We laugh at Youtube videos. 

- We complain about the weather. 

- We talk about food, teachers, classes, and homework.

- And on a not-so-rare occasion, we talk about the heart and its workings. 

Next year I'll be on the outside of it all. I'll be back for visits. But it won't be the same, because life is built with the menial and the repetitious. I know that I have already lived some of my greatest moments, and am unaware of what they were: it was something I said, did, or did not say that a student will remember forever, that may change the way he or she treats his or her own kids... and who knows where that ends!?

A Prayer
God,
I'm humbled when I think of the impact of all those interactions, for better or for worse.
If there is glory to be had, may it be yours alone! 

Unlike Odysseus, I Know When to Give Up

In ninth grade English, we read portions of The Odyssey. Today we were in Book 10, where Odysseus meets Circe, who has just turned his men to swine. But Odysseus was made immune by the god Hermes, at Zeus' request. Since her first plan did not work, Circe attempts to ensnare Odysseus (presumably) by making love to him. 

After Odysseus makes her promise that she'll do no more witch's tricks, he goes to bed with her.

At this, my class was outraged! 

Student 1: "Again!?" 

Student 2: "This guy!" 

Student 3: "Isn't he still married!?" 

Richard (the one and only): "Did they at least use protection on this island?"

Greg: "Yeah, that's what the Trojan War was all about."

Class. Over.

Thoughts on Berry's Hannah Coulter

In the booth at the cafe I sat, crying my eyes out as I read Wendell Berry's Hannah Coulter. Hannah told me about her gratitude in having a community surrounding her for her whole life. She told me of the trials and joys, and gave thanks to God for all of it. As I bawled, I thought of all the dying farms, the broken communities, the people dying alone and forsaken, the strip malls, the brokenness of our society that plans for things to break down so it can sell us something new. And it is right to cry for it.

Though the book is Hannah's recollections covered in gratitude, it is a lament. In chapter 22, she considers the changes wrought in her farming community, once so tightly-knit, but now,

The old neighborliness has about gone from it [...]. The old harvest crews and their talk and laughter at kitchen tables loaded with food have been replaced by machines, and by migrant laborers who eat at the store. The old thrift that once kept us alive has been replaced by extravagance and waste. People are living as if they think they are in a movie. They are all looking in one direction, toward "a better place," and what they see is no thicker than a screen.

Hannah laments for all of us, for she finds the old, communal ways to be the more fulfilling, though they cost more sweat. She is one who has made this transition from the sweat, grit, and teamwork of farm life to

... [A] new century, also a new millennium, and it is the same world still. Here in Port William, it seems, we are waiting. For what? For the last of the old rememberers and the old memories to disappear forever? For the coming of knowledge that will make us a community again? For the catastrophe that will force us to become a community again? For the catastrophe that will end everything? For the Second Coming?

Berry has said it well. He is shouting it through Hannah's quiet reflections out her kitchen window, dishtowel in hand. We wait for some catastrophe to knock the phones out of our hands. We wait for the electricity to go out so that I can stop writing this post, and go out into the 72°-non-humid weather and LIVE. We wait for rescue from our insularity, because we can't extricate ourselves. We love shows like Revolution, and books like The Hunger Games because they show what we hope we really are inside: clever survivors, courageous fighters, people who matter. We hope we can make our own way when it comes down to it: kill our own meat, raise our own crops, carry our own water. But it rarely seems to "come down to it" when we have grocery stores and water taps. And we fear the loss of it all quite deeply. Did I say "we"? I meant me.

Not only was Hannah Coulter thought-provoking, it was at times simply provoking, for I can't quite feel satisfied with his farm utopia. He speaks of membership as if it were something everyone had but doesn't have anymore. He speaks of landowning as its own heaven, farming and housework as if they were their own salvation. He speaks of death as if people used to be quite comfortable dying, but are not anymore.

He speaks of education as though it were un-redemptive--and he's not just talking about the educational system in the U.S., but any education that requires a person to go away from home. Well, a job might as easily do that if there were a drought in the farmland. Education can bring you away from home, yes, but education only empowers a person to do what's in his or her heart. There's the test.

And so Hannah was entirely satisfied with the simple life? Maybe she was. Or maybe she's just a hope that Berry cherishes: that silence and hard work alone will feed our souls all they need. So much so. But Christ is all. And I am certain that he calls us to silence and hard work more often than I hear; but it is his call. 

"Two Dads": The Story of a Parent-Teacher Conference

One get-to-know-you activity that I do at the beginning of each semester involves standing in front of the class and sharing a few things about yourself. (Whatever, okay? It works.)

Richard Beeler had just finished and was in a hurry to return to his seat. I quickly asked him, "Richard, can you add one interesting fact about your family?"

"I have two dads," he said without hesitation.

I thought that was interesting. I didn't know of any other gay parents at this school. Or perhaps he meant that his mother remarried, and he called his stepfather dad also. I noticed at mid-quarter that one of Richard's parents had signed up for parent-teacher conferences. It read only "Mr. Beeler."

When Mr. Beeler came in, I was surprised to see a lovely lady of his same age accompanying him. Either Richard's father had remarried also, or Richard's other father was identifying himself now as a woman. I proceeded without missing a beat, sure that all would "fall pat," but looking discreetly, nevertheless, for an Adam's apple.

Our conversation revealed that they had two other children. They spoke about their family as though there were no second-marriage- or sex-change-type of complications. And upon my own study, the aforementioned Richard did look a good deal like the two people sitting before me. It became quite clear that this couple had indeed biologically parented Richard, and very likely his siblings, with all their talk of inherited traits. I finally had to breech the subject: "Mr. and Mrs. Beeler, I hope you find this amusing, but Richard mentioned at the beginning of the semester, during a get-to-know-you game, that he had two dads."

They both burst into surprised and mirthful laughter. They had no idea why their son would say that, but admitted that Richard was terribly quick-witted, and often unexpected; they continued to laugh as they explained all this. Upon their departure, I shook hands with first Mr. Beeler, then, when I got to Mrs. Beeler, she made an effort at a deep, masculine voice, "Thank you for your time, Ms. McKalips," and shook my hand firmly. More laughter.

Four Parts to a Working Car

Part I. Inspection
I went to my very reputable mechanic, who makes everything work perfectly, and does it all right. If it has a problem, he'll be sure you know about it and have a reliable estimate within a timely manner. If you give the go-ahead, he could have your car back on the road before closing time. He's superb, and I respect him a great deal. But he couldn't pass my car because of a menacing list of issues which totaled $2,500 to fix. He had already passed it in emissions, though, so I had one of the two needed windshield stickers to legally drive in Pennsylvania. That was the Civic's death knell, I supposed. I would have to scrap it and finance a new vehicle, which is especially inconvenient at this precarious moment in my working life (I'm about to switch jobs to I know not what).

Part II. Stephen Speaks
I told my brother about my car problems, giving him the minutiae that I was finding online as we spoke. "Carolyn, tell me something: does your mechanic smoke?" he queried.

"Uh... I don't think so..."

"I mean, do you see cigarette butts around the shop, a cigarette in anybody's mouth in the shop?"

"No. No way. That's unprofessional."

"Not in this business," he scoffed. "And does he have any pictures of ladies? Any beer cans or bottles lying around?"

"Stephen, ew, no."

"Here's what you need to do," he paused to light the requisite cigarette between his own teeth,"Find a mechanic who smokes, or at least has a cigarette behind his ear, maybe has a few days' stubble. Look for a picture or two of ladies on the wall, nothing major, I mean, but some Sports Illustrated girls, you know? And if there are some guys just hanging around, that's the right place. You go to him, and ask him what it'll take just to keep the car on the road. He'll know what to do."

Part III. We'll Call Him "Big Jim"

I found Big Jim through a friend's sister.

The first thing I heard when I walked into the shop was some guy sitting on a stool (doing nothing at all) telling another guy, "Man, tell him if he doesn't like it, he can suck my--!" He got his last word in before he locked eyes on me, the only woman in the place, and looking out of place, to say the least. I walked over to the two men, obliterating their hanging conversation.

"You want me to tell whoever he is for you?" I said calmly, the joke in my eyes. "Is Big Jim around? I made an appointment for 2:30."

Yes, I had made an appointment. And it took them all of Paul Walker's final movie playing in the office, and then some, until I had an estimate of what it would take for the little Honda to pass inspection. The estimate was under $200. I would have sat through the movie again for that price, so the time was negligible. But I strongly suspect that the diagnostic took so long because guy #1 was off test-driving it. Why do I think that? Twice during the movie, he came in and asked me what I would take for the car, and would I go any lower? I found out that he didn't even work there.

I was not discouraged. I knew Stephen would be satisfied with this place.

Part IV. Taking Out a Transmission Appears to Add $300 in Labor

I suspect no foul play from Big Jim's shop. None whatsoever. But a few days later, I couldn't put my car into gear when it was turned on. The internet and a friend said it was either the master or slave cylinders, or it was the entire clutch. Estimates ran from $300 for the cylinder to $900 for the labor and parts for the clutch.

For the first time ever, my car had to be towed away, to yet another garage, this one chosen not for its reputation, but for its proximity.

And it was the master cylinder!

And I drove it home the next morning!

When I Say "I'm a Teacher," I'm Just Getting Started

Lachelle encouraged me to look back over the day and look honestly at what I had done. Who knows? This kind of data may be too tedious for the average reader. But I found it interesting to take a minute-by-minute look at one of the busier days of this week. I recently read in an article that we only think we are busy because we see it as a symbol of status. We take pride in our busyness, as though it meant we are important. I am getting over that. I find less and less joy in too-busy-all-the-time girl, and more and more fulfillment in can-look-you-in-the-eye-and-listen girl. As I looked at this hourly, I found a few things to be true: 1.) people matter most. 2.) variety is a joy. 3.) class prep time matters,too, and even though people matter most, don't let people take that away from you!

6:30-8:30 am     Office shift: dealt with some sick kids; scrambled to schedule two doctor's appointments for two different students with two different problems

8:30-9:50 am     Prayer Action Team meeting in my apartment--so convenient!

9:50-10:22 am   Usually this is my preparatory time for class. It was instead taken up with talking about a truant student who caused a commotion near the gym.

10:27-12:14 pm     English 9 (winging it more than I like)

12:14 pm     Help RH student back into the dorm to find her glasses; run into lunch date friends I had nearly forgotten about; ask them to wait just a moment while I deal with glasses; forgot to check to make sure all sick kids had gone into school.

12:18-12:44 pm     Hang out with these two dears who had come to visit as many teachers as they could, and instead found that they were not allowed, and could only enjoy their lunches with a very distracted, overly-caffeinated teacher that neither of them had had officially.

12:48-1:31 pm     Academic Writing class (I have to skip out during the free write to do the copying that I didn't do in the morning or during lunch)

1:31-1:45 pm     Cover for another teacher who had to pop out for some brief thing.

1:45 pm     Call mechanic. Bill is less than half of my greatest fear. I will keep the car.

1:45-2:08 pm     Do odds and ends around classroom. (Each thing is small, but as a whole, they are the difference between teaching during class and just moving papers from bookshelf to desk to podium and back for 43 minutes.)

2:08 pm     In the school office, finding answers to attendance questions. On the phone, finding advisers to give rides to aforementioned students with nearly simultaneous doctor's appointments in different locations. It is decided that I will take one of the students... everything will work out.

2:10-2:30 pm     Blank space. I have no idea. I think I tried to find some food in my apartment. Unsure if I was successful.

2:30-4:30 pm     Trip to dentist to get student a root canal.

4:30-4:35 pm     Stop to get someone birthday present.

4:35-5 pm     Drive back. Stuck in traffic behind wreck. Realize I must hurry because of senior presentation night.

5-5:25 pm     Dinner at cafeteria. The hardest part of the evening, dealing with some relational struggles among staff... left early when Ben arrived so I could be anywhere else.

5:25-5:50 pm     Being present in dorm office.

5:50-7 pm     Finding food in apartment. Reading Anne of the Island.

7:15-8:30 pm     View two senior presentations. (These, in some form, are required for all seniors to graduate in Pennsylvania.)

8:30-9:50 pm     Grading notebooks in classroom.

10-10:35 pm     Saying goodnight to girls on my hall.

10:35-11:20 pm     Praying and listening in the lounge with one student and Lachelle.

11:20-11:30 pm     Talk with Lachelle about issues from the day.

11:30-12:30 pm     Blog, grade, Facebook, Hulu, YouTube, etc.

On the First Spring Afternoon: Nothing of Substance

I smelled the earth as it woke up, walking outside on Saturday morning. The mother dove had returned to her nest, and was making repairs to her long-abandoned summer home in the corner of the porch ceiling. She sang as she did it, and I sang, too. But the hours passed, and the sun rose to its zenith and began its descent by the time I was free to leave the office again. Stretching from leaving that box, I realized afresh that I had arms and legs, and muscles to move them.

I was out of doors in minutes, dressed for a run, hoping for a sweat that was the result of sun pounding on my back, and not just the few miles I aimed for.

As I completed the third lap at my favorite park, I saw a man and his wife getting up off a bench. He had only one leg, and was supported by two arm crutches. I "felt instinctively," as Anne of Green Gables so often felt, that there was a conversation to be had here. So I stopped, and said, I kid you not, "No way! You only have one leg!" Somehow, in the moment, it was not as bad as it sounds to you right now. You will just have to trust me on this... You weren't there, okay?

He responded, "I wish I could do what you're doing!"

"What I am doing is far less impressive than what you're doing, sir! This was going to be my last lap, but now I'm going to run another lap, in your honor!" He chuckled, and off I went. It was the worst lap. I wanted to quit so badly after the third one, but I had made a promise to a man with only one leg. If I broke that promise... something inside me told me my legs would be in danger.

On I went, and got to thank them as they left the park. They were very supportive of a poor soul with no filter. I was sure that was the best the day had in it, and was content.

As I walked on, I found myself at the bottom of the walking path: surrounded on all sides by field, grasses, and swamp. It occurred to me that this moment was the furthest I'd been physically away from people in perhaps four months. A wet little lab-spaniel puppy came bounding up to me, banishing serious thoughts with her jumping and rolling. She was owned by four small Amish kids who were fishing in the stream, and she followed me for several yards, impervious to their calling. I felt the honor of her precious attentions. Eventually they had to catch up with me to get her back, despite my prodding her to return to them.

On the first true spring afternoon of the year, nothing was covered in snow, I had all my limbs, and a very cute dog had just made my pants muddy.

A Survey For Early March

The fact that this interviewer asks about hickeys and milk preference as if they were important is... well, hard to take seriously. So, for fun, because I saw the tiniest bud of a tulip in my window today, a survey for early March.

1.) What curse word do you use the most?
Dammit.

2.) Do you own an iPod?
No. I don't. I'm one of a surprisingly large number of people in this category, I'm finding.

3.) Who on your Myspace “Top 8″ do you talk to the most?
Stop it.

4.) What time is your alarm clock set for?
7:30 am... And I'll reset it several times, no doubt, in order to wake up at the last minute.

5.) What color is your room?
It's, like, devoid of color. White walls, no curtains, just white blinds and a cream carpet.

6.) Flip flops or sneakers?
Sneakers. It's endless wintertime. Get a life, survey.

7.) Would you rather take the picture or be in the picture?
I'd rather be in it, and not just because I'm totally obsessed with myself, but because I don't like taking pictures very much.

8.) What was the last movie you watched?
Part of Argo in the residence hall's open lounge, but it was interrupted by a fire in the microwave. It turns out, you can't put two pieces of dry bread on a plastic lid for two minutes on high. Now we all know.

9.) Do any of your friends have children?
So many! This survey is probably meant for 15-year-olds.

10.) Has anyone ever called you lazy?
No. That would have been a sore spot for years, I'm sure.

11.) Do you ever take medication to help you fall asleep faster?
No. I'm blessed to be able to fall asleep almost at will.

12.) What CD is currently in your CD player?
Switchfoot's Vice Verses is in my car.

13.) Do you prefer regular or chocolate milk?
Regular. With cereal.

14.) Has anyone told you a secret this week?
I'm sure someone has but I'm unaware of its being a secret.

15.) Have you ever given someone a hickey?
No.

16.) Who was the last person to call you?
My mom. I texted her, though, and was like, "Hey, call me." So maybe that doesn't count.

17.) Do you think people talk about you behind your back?
I know they do. I'm a teacher. Comes with the territory.

18.) Did you watch cartoons as a child?
All the time! Bugs Bunny was my hero for a long time.

19.) How many siblings do you have?
1 brother, 5 stepsisters

20.) Are you shy around the opposite sex?
Inwardly. I try not to let it show. I do a good job with it.

21.) What movie do you know every line to?
The Muppet Christmas Carol

22.) Do you own any band t-shirts?
Switchfoot... again.

23.) What is your favorite salad dressing?
Balsamic vinaigrette

24.) Do you read for fun?
Yes.

25.) Do you cry alot?
I know what the question is getting at, and the answer is no. But check this out:
http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/04/alot-is-better-than-you-at-everything.html

26.) Have you ever farted in public?
Definitely.

27.) Do you have a desktop computer or a laptop?
Laptop, carved out of stone.

28.) Are you currently wanting any piercings or tattoo?
I have plans for a nose piercing.

29.) What is the weather like?
Cold. Brightening. Hopefully I've seen the last snow for 100 years.

30.) Would you ever date someone covered in tattoos?
Sure thing!

31.) Is sex before marriage wrong?
I advocate abstinence until marriage for lots of reasons. Ask me about 'em.

32.) When was the last time you slept on the floor?
A month ago?

33.) How many hours of sleep do you need to function?
I have a sleep debt that outweighs my student loans, so that's pretty serious. 6-7 hours are a normal day. 8 hours are perky. Less than 6 hours mean that I will be taking a nap right after school and before residence hall duties.

34.) Are you in love or lust?
Neither.

35.) Are your days full and fast-paced?
Yes. Quite.

36.) Do you pay attention to calories on the back of packages?
Not usually calories as much as sugars, fats, and proteins.

37.) How old will you be turning on your next birthday?
26

38.) Are you picky about spelling and grammar?
Yes. But nowadays I'm paid to be so.

39.) Have you ever been to Six Flags?
Yes. What the heck?

40.) Do you get along better with the same or opposite sex?
I like people.

41.) Do you like Cottage Cheese?
I'm glad you asked: no. I hate the stuff.

42.) Do you sleep on your side, tummy, or back?
All of those.

43.) Have you ever bid for something on eBay?
Yes.

44.) Do you enjoy giving hugs?
Yes. But I don't need them every second.

45) What song did you last sing out loud?
"The Kingdom of God" from the Taizé community

46) What is your favorite TV show?
Parks and Recreation

47) Which celebrity dead or alive would you want to have lunch with?
All I can think about now is having lunch with a dead person. I can't get past how unappetizing that is.

48) Last time you had butterflies in your stomach?
A few days ago. Don't pry.

49) What one thing do you wish you had?
A level head.

50) Favorite Lyrics?
"I wanna see the earth start shaking, I wanna see a generation finally waking up inside!" -Switchfoot, "Where I Belong" I get chills every time I hear it. It's the prayer of my heart.

Evidence Supporting the Little-Discussed Possibility That I May Not Be a Responsible Adult

I kinda strong-armed Asher into driving back from Longwood Gardens because I was hungry, never mind that he was both tired and hungry...

"When is your inspection?" he asked.

"I dunno. October maybe?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure it's this month. Unless this sticker is wrong."

"Really? Huh. That's... huh. I don't know when I would have noticed that if you hadn't pointed it out."

Inspection Friday.