Friends

The last six months have been Jake and me taking time to re-identify ourselves as married. It's time-consuming, getting used to that new identity. Time-consuming and wonderful; like Song of Songs, we have spent time talking to each other, admiring each other, knowing each other better and better! And, like in Song of Songs, we have had the approval and blessing of our friends.

Those little interludes where the friends say kind things, they're important to me. Our needs will change and shift outward again in due time, and the many thank you notes I write will be forgotten. But there is this overall sweetness to your blessing. I hope our union grows that care and affection. 

Lines for Some of You

Here are disembodied lines I'd like to tell some beloved people, none of whom are likely to ever read this. Though I'll tell you, the first one is for Jake.

"I love you more and more. I want that love to uproot the many fears I have, so I'm constantly entrusting you to Christ."

"I am not sure I ever knew the real you, but I miss you terribly."

"Please, please, put the phone down and talk to me."

"Thank you for the money."

"Are you okay? What do you want from me? I at least want to know, even if I can't do anything about it."

"Forgiving you for what you have done feels like admitting that what I knew about morality and good behavior was not applicable to you. But I also know the truth is ten times more complicated than the version in my head. So I re-forgive you, and ask myself the quarterly question: is it time to call?"

Parables of Ivy

I regret not attacking the ivy sooner.
The roses would have thanked me
because maybe they would have bloomed at all.

It was half ignorance—ivy is pretty enough—
and half negligence as it spread greedily over
everything, cutting all off from the sun.

This afternoon found me ruthlessly pulling
and pulling in the dirt, each time grabbing
stemmy, networked vines all holding onto the earth with many hands.

As I neared the fence, I found a thick root that corkscrewed
deep into the ground at a difficult angle to reach,
for the fence, as I said, was nearly on top of it.

As I worked at it with fork and trowel
many metaphors struck me, all about sin
and how it grows unchecked: demanding hedgemony.

I couldn't get to the bottom of the root.
I knew my constraints would not allow it,
not today, probably not ever.

The tattered ends I could not see would eat and grow.
Perhaps ivy is sin.

Shall we now abandon that line and turn our thoughts to love?

If the ivy is love, then all you have invested in your child's life,
all the relationships you cared about, no matter how they ended,
all the smiles, money, agreements, promises that have been broken off
and you now no longer see,
have a root so deep that earthly instruments cannot remove it.

A few seasons from now will prove that love is no fragile flower bud.
You may not be there to see it.
But there it will be, growing.

Nightmare

I had a nightmare on Saturday night. It was about our wedding this coming weekend. (CAN YOU BELIEVE IT'S THIS WEEKEND!?!)

Everyone was seated around their tables at the reception that was taking place in a gymnasium that somehow resembled the throne room of the Red Keep. And it was entirely silent, because literally everyone was on their phones, scrolling and being bored. When some time had elapsed, I slid my legs from the armrest of my chair in a casual manner, and expressed to my new husband (Still Jake. I guess even my imagination has limits as to whom I can fictionally marry.) "I guess we can go now, right?" So we left the throne room gym full of guests not having fun and not interacting at all. It was terrible.

Things You Can Do in the U.S.

I can turn on a dishwasher, a clothes washer, and a dehumidifier to be sure that work in my home is being done by machines while I leave the house.

I can go to the mall in search of something called "shapewear" in my size.

I can go there wearing "athleisurewear," meaning basically long, stretchy underpants and a top with no sleeves that reveals a colorful bra.

If my hair is wet from a recent shower, that's also okay.

Being Not Catholic

Jake's best friend, we'll call him Michael, had recently returned to habitually attending Catholic mass.

A few weeks ago, Michael and I were both at Jake's family's house for Jake's birthday weekend. It was a time of playing a few games and cooking a lot of food. But we made time to go to mass with Michael, since it was such an important habit, and since there was a Catholic church one block away. We walked there in the drizzle and took seats in a pew by ourselves.

Sidenote: Okay, seriously, it's getting out of hand, churches everywhere, when you are referencing a hymnal, a hymnal supplement, a pewback card, the bulletin, the bulletin insert, and general liturgical knowledge. It's a lot. It's hard. I never thought I'd say this, but it may be time to consider PowerPoint.

Thirty minutes in saw us dutifully fulfilling expectations of the liturgy, attempting to keep up with the responses to the calls and the lyrics to the hymns. We did forget to bring offering, so the basket passed us by. The homily was about the table of God. At the table of God there is "room for everyone. Jews, Hindus, Atheists! There is room," Father Maugham said. This explicit invitation to the table of God convinced Jake that taking the Eucharist would be acceptable, when the time came. I was tuned out, to be honest, and when a churchman in a suit stepped into our pew and tapped me on the shoulder, I felt caught red-handed, absent-minded. He beckoned to us three to come along. He whispered something about "offering," and I wondered if he knew we had not given to the offering. We stumbled out of the pew, I still grasping a hymnal, hoping against hope that it counted as "offering."

We were stopped at a tiny table in the aisle where the elements and a book were sitting. The man in the suit handed each of us one of the items from the table. I was perplexed, afraid, "I... am not Catholic, and I don't understand what's going on," I whispered frantically, for I did not know what I was saying. Luckily, Michael is actually Catholic, and he led the way up the aisle to the waiting Father Maugham, who took each element in its turn, and dismissed us to our seats.

I thought the worst was over. I let the spasms die down within, and enjoyed the dismissing of the rows, one by one, who gathered in two straight lines to receive the Eucharist. I had decided early on that I would receive the body and blood of Christ with any Christians, regardless of smaller differences. So I waited in line, noting how each believer held their hands out, one on top of the other, to receive the wafer. When it was my turn, who should be standing in front of me, dispensing Christ's body one wafer at a time, but the churchman in the suit, who had heard my panicky confession of not being a Catholic. He could not unhear it. Though my hands were outstretched, he whispered, "didn't you say you're not Catholic?"

"Yes," I whispered earnestly, "but I'm a Christian."

"Just hold your hands like this, for a blessing," he instructed. And I crossed my arms, like he said, but I don't remember his giving me a blessing right then. Maybe he had forgotten what words to say. So I turned back to my seat with a red face, fiercely angry at myself for having tried, at the churchman for having asked a stranger to complete the office of altarserver. The anger didn't last long, though, because it was supplanted with admiration for his obedience. He was obeying the rules, even when they made him squirm, not just when it was comfortable.

Bucking Tradition

Because rings seem to me to have a tradition of ownership behind them, when Jake and I started talking about getting engaged, I bulked at the idea of a ring. He was delighted not to have to spend several paychecks (as modern tradition tells it) on a piece of jewelry. So we skipped the ring. 

To be clear, I took and take no issue with a financial declaration of intent, a gift of engagement. In Amish and or other plain communities, a sewing machine or other household item seals the deal perfectly well. I am not that useful of a person. We thought together about what kind of gift we both might enjoy, and I got stuck on the idea of a painting for our home together. 

Looking back at these conversations, I can tell he admired my idea, but it's difficult to tell how much of his heart is in the idea of a painting in general. I researched what I liked, gave links and recommendations of artists' work I liked, but Jake's sister, Hannah, does beautiful watercolor work. Why leave home? We asked her and she agreed to paint us an engagement landscape to be commonly enjoyed. 

Jake asked me to marry him in another blogpost, someday maybe, and I said yes. I am sure I cried, though I can't remember. I just remember being happy, and wanting to pick up rocks and flower petals and leaves to commemorate the moment. 

We began to announce our engagement. (Reader, I'm going to marry him!) In lieu of pictures of us with my left hand proudly pronounced, we just called people and enjoyed bits of conversation. I still appreciate that simplicity of announcement, because it was real and close with nothing fancy happening at all. 

I slept easily, I assure you, after we made the no-ring decision. What a magnanimous, forward-thinking gift maven I have become, I congratulated myself in the car mirror every morning for a week or two. But then, after we were officially engaged, did I look in the car mirror, did I fix a hair, and did my eye linger on my left hand? Far be it from me! 

One morning, at breakfast, I confessed my ringlessness to Rachel. I couldn't believe it mattered. I had no need of Jake to mark his territory (Yeah! And when I say it like that, rings are insulting!)! 

"Or have I been wrong?" I asked. "It seems to me that it would be nice to have a marker of a change in my life, especially when we're still living so far apart."

"... You could just buy a silver ring from Walmart for $15 and stop thinking about it!" Her suggestion seemed like a cheat of the system. Does it count as an engagement ring if it's not expensive? Of course! Does it count if I buy it for myself and give it to myself and don't tell Jake? Uh. Sure!

I bought a $15 ring I liked, and told Jake about it, blushing at my own inconsistency, my admittance of being indeed just as basic as I feared to be. He felt betrayed: "I thought we agreed you didn't want a ring? If you do want a ring, I want to give it to you." Later that week, when we saw each other again, I took off the ring, handed it to him, he presented it to me, and again asked if I'd marry him. I cried again and said yes again, and wear the ring quite happily.

(Yes, we're still getting the painting done.)

We're Neighbors!

The chirping was one I knew well: a smoke detector needed a new battery somewhere in the house. I searched high and low in our house and found not one smoke detector to be chirping. The task was made more arduous due to the long intervals between chirps. Where could it be coming from? I questioned, as I looked up at the basement ceiling. I thought I had followed the noise, but to a dead end. I edged closer to the corner of the basement that touches the backyard. There it was! Was it outside? Impossible! Who installs a smoke detector on the outside of the house?

I went to bed. Not one night, but two, were harassed by the constant, muffled chirping.

Then the answer came to me on my way home from work.

I burst into the house certain of my mission, and seeing Elizabeth in the kitchen I asked, without so much as a greeting, "Is it still happening? The beeping sound?"

"Yes," she replied evenly. I didn't even take off my coat. I went back outside and knocked on the neighbor's door. I intended to speak kindly and frankly to the neighbors about their terribly loud smoke detectors and offer to help them change the batteries. They were clearly home: the dog was barking madly, some voice was quieting him, and a blue glow from a TV filled the front room. When no one came after five cold minutes, I stomped back through our house and to our backyard, separated from their backyard by only a thigh-high iron fence.

Sure enough, just as I had pictured, on their glass picnic table lay two smoke detectors, chirping on off rhythms, every one or two or three minutes. Who installs a smoke detector on the outside of the house? No one. But one might leave smoke detectors with old batteries outside if they were too annoying indoors, and one had no idea how to change the batteries.

I hopped the short fence and easily removed the first battery, laying it beside the shell. The second was not so easily arranged. It was a one-time-use machine. To stop its sounds, you have to destroy it by pushing a difficult notch of plastic down. I couldn't do it just then, and took the offending apparatus with me back across the fence. After several attempts, I took a hammer to it.

I thought, now isn't that funny looking? I ought to leave it on their front porch with a sign on it saying, "We're neighbors!" Then they'd see I only wanted to help and that I shared in their distaste for the persistent noise--what a laugh!

When I floated the idea to Elizabeth, she was horrified. "That sounds more than vaguely threatening." And we shared a laugh. But I was kinda serious.

My only regret is that I didn't go straight for the hammer.

"How do politics enter into your classroom?"

A while back, I had the opportunity to write to some concerned parties who saw my public Facebook page and were concerned that I might let my classroom be too strongly influenced by politics. Here's that letter minus their context, which is a story I don't know. I'm posting this here because it's worth reading, and because I don't want to fall silent if it matters. It's so easy to live thoughtlessly, I partly want this here to remind myself of what matters to me, and how politics should and should not enter into my classroom.

Dear ---,

Many thanks for the invitation to express myself more fully, in light of my more politically-framed posts online. I like to share in writing and I believe it’s one of the most thoughtful ways to convey ideas for posterity, so I wish to thoughtfully address how my politics, as it were, affect my teaching.

I believe a classroom is a sacred space for discovery. I do not see it as a place to clutter with my opinions; nor would I condone practices that discourage discussion. The podium at the front is no pulpit, and I would not presume to educate on my particular views of justice in the world. It is enough for me to present the sources and allow students time and space to talk together, to talk with you, to think, to pray, and then to write, when appropriate.

When research and argument are part of the middle school ELA curriculum, what I hope my students learn is the value of all sides of an issue. In a Language Arts class, our focus is not which side of the argument to take, but rather how to do justice to all sides, how to interpret texts and scan for bias, how to mediate multiple ideas. Instead of seeing an argument as warfare (gaining and losing ground, defeating or winning, enemies and allies, etc.), I would prefer that we treat it as a dance in which the participants must respect and keep in step with others to accomplish a greater thing.

On a more personal level, my ideas as to what makes a Christian an obedient Christian are constantly changing. I have never interpreted my Christian walk through the lens of a political party, and am even now registered as “Independent,” for better or for worse, because no party represents the incarnate Kingdom of God: that’s the work and the joy of the global Church!

I affirm the Anabaptist conclusion that we belong to no empire of the world before we belong to the Kingdom of God. As our forebears in faith, I have a strong suspicion of all things relating to the military, to nationalism, to charismatic dogma, and to any attempts at polarizing discourse on complicated issues. I cherish all life, and hope to be ever more loving. I cherish the poor and under-served of our society, people in prison, people without work, people who are sick; and I hope to be ever more cherishing.

My hope is that any participation I may have in discussions of politics will always be with the immeasurable grace with which God has dealt with me. Furthermore, I understand discussions of politics in the classroom require extra restraint from me (and all teachers, to be sure) to avoid taking advantage of the incredible power a teacher has to influence young minds. I’m humbled by the challenge.

I invite discussion, accountability, and correction within a diverse community of people trying to figure out how to love God without standing still. That’s how I will know Jesus better, and that’s what matters to me most.

All My Best,
Carolyn McKalips

There Will Be a Place For You

It was a promise I have held onto. It came from Carmen, who I have approached in the midst of many crises. Her magnanimity is inimitable.

This summer, I didn't know where I would live, but I knew that my church community and family would be able to make space for me. My friends on Plum Street let me stay there; my friends on Clay Street let me stay there; a few other places were possible. Carmen said as I returned from Morocco, "There will be a place for you."

A few weeks later, Sarah announced that she was moving down the street as a more permanent place to live (weddings were impending), and would I like my old room back? I said yes. The weddings didn't bother me; they seemed a long way away. But if we've spoken within the past four months, you know that wedding planning and weddings are what's been happening since August. Carmen's is under two weeks away.

The details will bore me now to write, but for a while I wondered if I would have to move out of Plum Street. Again, Carmen said it in a morning conversation, "There will be a place for you," with such confidence, like the eldest of three sisters that she is. When someone says it like that, you need to believe them.

A few other people I like were looking for roommates, but I hated the idea of moving all my things, which balloon up when I settle for more than a month, and I cherished a hope that there would be a person wanting to move here. I didn't have a second choice for a roommate, just the first choice, and she came to live here in January!

Change is always on the horizon. I want to at least believe the promise of a place for me, but I also want it to extend to you, and to people at their wit's end; to people returning from somewhere; to people estranged from loved ones. There will be a place for you. I pray it now, and proclaim it: there will be a place for you.

Broken Hearts Week

The year 2018 began with an inauspicious string of break-ups in my social circles. One after the other, one involving my heart, too, left me even more skeptical of love and commitment. I labeled it "Broken Hearts Week" on my digital calendar, and left it to repeat annually, hoping that one year would show a turned tide.

Without naming names, always my challenge here, I will express what I know to be true about the changed situations.

B. met an acquaintance a month after Broken Hearts Week, and they got married in November.

S. still wonders about the person she was so into, and why it never went further. Another relationship rose out of many doubts, then faltered in Broken Hearts Week.

R. has hope. The deep kind of hope that God pours into us, not merely the hope in a romantic interest.

M. and S. are getting a divorce.

H. and M., who had been dating for a few months, have parted ways forever, and M. is now engaged to a wonderful person. H. is off in another country pursuing a certification that is one step closer to her dream.

And I. I am learning about how to love as action, and how to put imperfect trust in a person who is imperfect like I am. I'm learning that relationships can be filled with laughter and growth.

Comfort

Before Christmas vacation and on the last day of school, the office empties out the lost and found bin. That's how I got this navy blue hoodie and a few other items that have now found new homes by way of Christmas gifts. I will not describe the hoodie, for fear that it's yours and you want it back, but I will tell you that it is very soft, and has the exact right thickness for everything.

It made my last load of laundry, and I packed it into my giant suitcase as an afterthought before I left the house at 8 AM on Saturday. A few stats for Christmas vacation.

Days of vacation = 10
Days spent at my house = 0
Days I wore the sweatshirt for some period of time = 8 (a washing occurred) 

Over the last ten days, I have needed much comfort. My thoughts are unsettled by family matters, by imminent changes in housing, by my own fears. I think I'm easily out of sorts. Irregular sleep, different beds, irregular food, tons of cookies, and little exercise contributed to feeling unsettled. This should be a much longer paragraph in which I delineate all that worries me, but alas, I will pay a therapist significant money to be allowed to create that list in a confidential office. At the end of this holiday, I'm asking myself, where do I get comfort?

Nobody was around when I came home tonight, and the first thing I noticed was that recently-wed Bethany had completed her move-out, leaving almost no wall hangings. A few essential items she left, like the shower curtain and the utensil holder. I suppose it would have been rather Grinchy to take those before we had substitutes lined up, and she is certainly not Grinchy. Still, I felt comfortless without the trappings I was familiar with. Before I knew what I was doing, I reached for my suitcase, and put on the sweatshirt over my other layers. I made tea, ate some cookies, and prayed that God would be my comfort. I tried to give myself space to cry for all that is wrong without giving in too completely to melancholy. I have so much to be grateful for, and I am.

I'm cozy in bed now, ready to close my eyes and start over tomorrow, when mercies will be fresh and the sun can decorate the walls.