Singing My History

I have lived a short history.

Today, I stood in the kitchen making pancakes from a recipe I have memorized, and I thought about how it has come into being through many adaptations, through many kitchens. I know they existed, because this recipe exists.

I started to sing a familiar song. That, too, even more than the pancake recipe, is a continuity with my past. Even though the kitchen bears no resemblance to my past kitchens, the sun and shade, the patterns on the tile walls are all unlike my past worlds: the song is from there, and the song exists inside me and outside me, and is evidence of another world.

I have had lots of different Christmas ornaments, wall hangings, measuring cups, and all of them are gone or packed away somewhere.

Songs carry my stories.

Singer/Soldier

Today in church, the worship leader led some new anthem. It was beautiful, declaring our newness in Christ, our deaths to our old lives. The rest of the worship team followed the leader like a well-trained platoon. That's what our worship team often reminds me of: an army. 

Perhaps it's strange to think of singers as being equal to trained soldiers. Soldiers are so tough and so cool. Singers so often earn their keep by ingratiating and entertaining. But sometimes we sing to God; sometimes we sing declarations to our circumstances. In my church here, the singers lead us into battle, reminding me of Jehoshaphat's army the time it was led by musicians and singers. *

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A gigantic army is facing Jehoshaphat and the Israelites. He calls all of Judah together to fast and pray and call on God. "God, you gave us this land because you wanted to. We've built you a temple where we can assemble when we're in dire need; we'll wait on you here, asking for help, and you can save us.

"Oh, great God! You told us to spare these enemies long ago, but here they are, massed against us, and there's no way we can defeat them. We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on you."

All the frightened families of Judah were there, waiting. 

It's Jahaziel, distant grandson of the famed poet Asaph who speaks up, prophesying, "Listen up, everyone! The Lord says that we will not have to fight this enemy. We must go down to meet them tomorrow and take up our positions, but God will deliver us himself. Do not be afraid! Do not be discouraged! Go out to face them tomorrow, and the Lord will be with you."

The other singers in the Tribe of Levi start to praise God. It gets loud with the many voices, every other child has found a percussive instrument. Jehoshaphat falls down on his face, praising and worshiping the God of his deliverance. I bet they're up all night, praising God, believing and trying to believe in the words of Jahaziel; that is their one and only hope of surviving this encounter.

The next morning, instead of appointing snipers or scouts to surveil the area ahead of their army, Jehoshaphat puts the worship team at the front. The people of Judah sing and drum their way to the site of their enemies, thanking God, lifting up his name with great sound. While they do this, God is ambushing their enemies. God HIMSELF is AMBUSHING their enemies. How? Like, how? With great balls of fire? With fear so that they turn on themselves? How? I don't know. But GOD AMBUSHES all these other armies so that when Jehoshaphat and the worshipers of God crest the hill on the path that leads down into the desert gorge, there's nothing left to do but pick up the plunder of their enemies.

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*paraphrase of 2 Chronicles 20

His Last Supper

The room is low near the entrance, and the enclosed space makes me dizzy, so I move to the furthest corner of the room, near a window with no light. Darkness fell hours ago as we made our cut-rate preparations, and all that was left was to endure the meal, our last. That is, our last if I go through with it.

I have had enough of this charade, and I feel eager to do something. He's powerful, but he's not the Messiah. I haven't seen one prisoner set free. Not one. God isn't a pansy-ass, hymn-singing, destitute weirdo. He's strong. He's going to set us free from the Romans so we can be His People again. Fa! I'm actually sick of this.

He overturned those tables today like a petulant child throwing a tantrum. His contempt for businessmen shames me: they have families, you know. They find a way to get ahead, and he comes by, forcing them out. What are they going to do now?

In a few days, this nonsense will be over, and I'll at least be rich. Okay, I'll be set up to get rich. I'll buy the land near my father's field. With his oxen I'll start to cut out a corner of the farmland and build houses to rent. Then, with skilled increases, the land nearby will eventually benefit from the renters' work, and I'll take my cut.

It's not hard to become rich and have a place to stay and food to eat that you aren't handed like beggars. Thirteen able-bodied men living on handouts. It's embarrassing. It's not responsible, and I won't keep it up.

No. We have to pay for what we get, and nothing comes cheap. Except this bread. It was pretty cheap. The leftover money I took, my fee for finding a bargain.

...

We all eat the bargain bread, and I notice that I am finished first. What else is there to do here? I want to find an inn, wash up, and sleep past dawn. In the morning, maybe I will send the guards.

The Rabbi is the oddest man I have ever known. That much I might miss... He never ceases embarrassing himself, and it shames us, to have our rabbi doing strange and unclean things. The others usually just watch, hiding their shame, but I can't get over it: like he was raised in a cave with animals.

Now is no exception: he has taken off his robe, and begun to wash our feet like a slave. I watch him do it—is he shaming us for not having thought to hire another servant for this night? Well, I won't be ashamed: servants are expensive, and we don't need clean feet to eat a meal.

Bible Quiz Coaching: An Incident

Before I tell you this story, you have to understand a few things about my church. Let's start with my church's floor plan. First, there are two floors: the downstairs used to be a bar, and has an open floor plan you'd expect of such a place. It has two entrances, one can be unlocked from outside, the other must be unlocked from within. The second floor, only reached from the outdoors, used to be a small apartment and includes a bathroom, kitchen, and three rooms we use for Sunday school. It's a warm place you might enjoy holing up in if you're without a home, and you happen to find the door unlocked.

It is also useful for you to know that some people attend my church who are homeless, and homeless for diverse reasons. It has been a matter of course, though somewhat unnerving for me, to leave the Sunday school rooms after Bible Quizzing practice of a winter evening, and find the luggage and detritus of a homeless person, though only once did an owner thereof accompany his few belongings. (It was -20*F with the wind chill, and I fussed at him to go to the shelter to find safety. It briefly occurred to me that it would be nice if he could inhabit the Sunday school rooms, but the plan died right away: way too complicated.)

That one rather simple incident with all its implications made me forever-after hesitant to arrive to Quizzing practice alone. The very next week, though, found me arriving alone, at 6:50 pm. We were going to celebrate our first victory with ice cream that night, so I unlocked the downstairs, which includes the kitchen, though we usually have practice upstairs. I went to unlock the other door, but found it already unlocked. I paused, knowing that I might not be alone in the building. I checked the bathrooms and storage room, turned on more lights, and began to feel that I was alone. But, ah, I had left the Quizzing lights upstairs. Outside, I tried the door handle to the upstairs, and found it already unlocked. Again, a bad sign, what was it with our lackadaisical security? Most of us live in the city, and know that you lock your doors. And if not your own, surely the empty church building's doors!

I turned on the light, fairly certain that I would meet with some desperate person - whether in or out of their right mind was the question. "Hello?" I called.

At the top of the stairs, I opened the door, and saw no lights except for the TV, which displayed only static. "Hellooooo?" I called again, but was arrested at the faint sound of children's voices singing. A kid's worship CD was playing. What the hell was going on here?

Chairs had been strewn about the room, and the other doors in the room were closed. Everything was wrong with this picture. I was suddenly and overwhelmingly certain that this was the scene of a grisly murder, and that if I were to open the door one inch more, it would be caught on a corpse lying just beyond my line of vision. The killer was probably still in the room.

I went downstairs, to the sanctuary, telling myself I could wait until another adult arrived to survey the room. Then I heard it, just above my head, footsteps treading right where I had been not a moment ago. So this is how I die, I thought. I went out to the porch to confront the stranger and warn off the quizzers. I knew I couldn't run away, because the quizzers would be arriving any minute, possibly to encounter a dangerous person. I also knew I couldn't call the police. In the worst case scenario, they might use excessive force; in the best case scenario, they would have far too many questions.  I decided to call Pastor Josef. Someone should know how I died. 

"Hello, Carolyn!"

"Hi, Pastor Josef, how are you?"

"I'm good! How are you?"

"Well... I'm not great..." I quickly explained how I had found the doors unlocked, and the creepiness of the upstairs, and most importantly, that there was still someone up there, and I didn't feel safe.

"Do you want me to come over to the church?" he asked.

"No," I said, "I'm sure someone will get here soon." Whatever was going to happen would be finished long before he could arrive. Right then, the door from the Sunday school rooms opened, and Pastor Josef heard a desperate scream come from the other end of his phone - this was the end, surely!

"Are you okay? Carolyn? Who's there?"

"Pastor, I'm fine. I'm... I'm just fine," I was shaking as I tried to explain, "I am so sorry to scare you... I'm fine. But I am going to have to kill the quiz team. I know it's been a lot of work getting a team together. But I am just going to have to kill them. At least, Tyler and Isaiah. Sorry, Pastor. But I'm going to kill them."

---

Tyler and Isaiah had been dropped off early, and a dad with a church key had let them in to the upstairs, and gone his merry way, incorrectly assuming that they would use the time to study the Holy Word of God. And maybe Tyler and Isaiah thought they would do that, too. Until, after 33 seconds, one of them slowly closed his scripture, and said to the other, "Wouldn't it be funny if ..."

Checking Out at the Grocery Store: My Best Line Yet

Please forgive me. I have re-written this introduction enough times to acknowledge that what I am about to share here is likely to become more fodder for an ever-growing list among my friends and family: Reasons Carolyn Will Never Marry. But those who have ears, let them hear. When it comes to weak game, a girl should take no prisoners.

I had gone to the grocery store late at night for the simple reason that it was my turn to do household grocery shopping, and my day had been full of responsibilities and intense conversation up to the very minute I stepped into the store. I was a ragged, mute specimen of humanity dragging myself down only the necessary aisles. I managed to avoid any gazes and any banter in crowded areas; not even an "excuse me" passed my lips.

The checkout lay ahead, my last obstacle of interaction before the freedom of driving in darkness and falling into bed.

The problem: both the high-school aged cashier and the high-school-aged bag boy seemed eager to talk to me; so eager, in fact, that I wondered if they were in some sort of competition with one another. Their zeal annoyed me. The cashier attempted a thought, to which I responded with silence.

Then the unfortunate bag boy ventured a purposeful observation: "Sunflower seeds. Cool. What did I make recently with sunflower seeds?"

A beat.

"Was it an attempt at conversation with a woman in your checkout line? 'Cause I think I was there for that."

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.

"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!

Arctic Wildlife

Prompt Part I. List your favorite words.
frazzled
urbane
franchise
dismember

Prompt Part II. Create a scary story, and use all the words listed.

Aboard the arctic fishing vessel, Jeremy pulled in the haul of cod.He had seen several seals that day, but no sign of Rick, his urbane friend who had begun the fishing franchise, and the brains of the small operation.

Hours passed, and the air temperature dropped, the rocking of the boat would not keep the water surrounding it from freezing in these shallows. Jeremy knew he had little time: he would have to decide now if he were going to stay here all night or get underway. But of course, where could he be?

The frazzled polar bear mother returned to the den with the larger part of a seal carcass which she had hunted to feed her lone cub. At least, she thought it was a seal when she came upon it swimming in the bright blue depths: all alone it was, with a strangely-shaped head. Yet, it appeared, with its sleek black body, to be a seal, though sickly, perhaps, which explained why it was swimming all alone. No matter. She had thought very little about it. Food was scarce, and she had hunted for days. 

But as she dismembered it, it tasted so very strange. And it had two strange layers of skin, the outer of which tasted so terrible that she nearly dropped it back into the depths. 

Immovable Object, Meet Unstoppable Force

Maggie, a student here, is obsessive-compulsive when it comes to her bed. She wants it to be clean. So clean. It must remain clean. Each night, after her shower, she goes right across the hall, changes quickly, and gets in bed before she has the chance to encounter any more dirt.

On Wednesday afternoon, people were coming in and out of the dorm, claiming their children and their children's clothes for the five-day holiday. One student's five-year-old sister, Sara, was running through the halls at this time. Sara has Down Syndrome, and she is the busiest kid I've ever met. She runs and runs. She runs to the edge of the stairs on the girls' hallway, looks around, then goes down the stairs and up to the boys' hall. She's tough to catch up with, and impossible to stop.

Maggie and a few other girls happened to be with me in my kitchen that afternoon, when Maggie's roommate came in, asking in Chinese who the little girl was. We told her, and she said, "She came into our room, looked around, and went to Maggie's bed. She moved all the covers, and left!"

Maggie bolted out of my kitchen to collect her sheets and blanket, and immediately did a load of laundry. Maggie's roommate stayed in the kitchen, looking puzzled. "I don't understand it," she said, "She just came in, went straight to Maggie's bed, then left. It's like she knew."

Friday Moment

This happened and you have to believe me.

I had taken my class to the library for a research paper, and we were getting settled down to do work. Ashley, a student who used to live in the residence hall, stopped me and took me by the shoulders, and placed me to the side of the computer aisle. She then proceeded to run past me for a total of five feet. I was dumbfounded, without a clue. She then whispered in my ear, "Do you smell the perfume?"

I eventually had to kneel on the ground I was laughing so hard.

Halloween Story

Prompt: Begin by listing your favorite words... then write a story using ALL of them!

bilious
Ulster
jiggle
unanimous
sylvan

Under cover of night, in the County Ulster, the parent-teacher association was attempting to solve the problem of rebellious teenagers. The problems with rebelliousness were innumerable: drugs, sex, yes, and rock and roll. A storm was rolling in from the sea, and the sylvan country was enveloped in thick cloudfall.

The committee unanimously voted against further rebellious attitudes, and was about to enjoy Ms. Heb's Jell-O mold.

All gave an abrupt start as they heard a great, jarring roar!

"The storm," Ms. Heb said, as she held the Jell-O mold. But when it happened once more, only louder and clearer, she jumped and the Jell-O mold flew upward, jiggled in mid-air, and was soon covering the heads of several members.

A dark creature growled into the window. Ms. Bruin and Ms. Heb gave a scream, but the rest were too startled to do or say anything. They sat frozen. The dark creature burst through the window, all hair and teeth. His claws grasped Ms. Heb, his body filled the room with a bilious stench. Ms. Heb fainted in her terror, and looked as though she were dead already. The dark creature stood in the center of the PTA meeting room and loosed another shattering roar. Ms. Bruin and several other members at this moment could hold themselves together no longer, and also gave way to a faint. The remainder were simply stunned and staring in horror, for the beast, at least 8 feet tall was sniffing Ms. Heb's face. He growled in a small way, and set her down. Apparently he had decided she was already dead. For the first time, he looked around.

What he saw was half a dozen corpses with their brains gushed out (for the creature was, as of yet, unaware of the existence of Jell-O). He thirsted only for live blood. Curse his ill luck for entering the only room in his radius which contained only the already-dead.

He dropped Ms. Heb and climbed back through the shattered window in search of those still waiting to be made victims.

When the committee members finally came to, they all agreed that this had been their most productive meeting yet, however, to this day they cannot stand the sight of a Jell-O mold.

[Update 10/24: Aaaand let's say Ms. Bruin's husband is both an expert hunter and the county sheriff, who took action the moment his wife called with an alert of a blood-thirsty, hairy, toothy monster on the loose. He saw the creature as it was headed down West Grube Street, and followed in his car. One well-placed shot was the end of the potentially long and gory saga that no amount of Jell-O could have fixed.]

The Longest Day of My Life

Prompt: describe the longest day of your life 

[A story of when I was returning from a mission trip in Australia at age 15. More significant events took place, but this one sticks close in my memory.]

Technically, it would be the day you cross the international dateline, right? What could make that set of flights longer? How about a 24-hour virus that caused you to fill your sick bag every time you experienced turbulence?

While all your friends gleefully bought kangaroo jerky at the Sydney airport, you put your head between your knees and tried to disappear from earth. But, no, you had to line up to go through passport check? or something, and then security, where you discover too late that you had a water pistol in your backpack. But what's worse than holding up the security line for an inadvertent water pistol? Your friend being stopped instead, by mistake. As security searches her extensively, you once more wish to disappear, because of course you aren't thinking about your stupid, delaying-everyone water gun that could have righted the whole situation. You're looking for a trash can to throw up in.

Then everyone in your group of 72 has to board late, and the plane had to wait, and so you're last in the queue to take off, and when you finally arrive in Dallas, you're feeling great, but a little tired from living two days.

Off Day

Snatched this gem from my old xanga (xanga.com/carolynofgreengables). It's appropriate for today. And the past week.

Off-Day: Is there some French word for that?

It's easy to believe that off-days never really happen when you're not having one. But today has taken that notion's family hostage and made it beg for mercy. (I started with "But today has blown that notion out of the water," but it felt too cliched. We have cliches for a reason, though. Tested and proven.) I showed up late to my last final of the semester. I mean a half hour late kind of late. Then I couldn't understand the directions. After asking if I was on the right track (I kid you not) three times, I finished and left the classroom with 40 minutes to spare. Wow. Easier than I thought. Then I got to the restroom where some girls who had just finished the test were saying that it was harder than they expected. I ascertained the instructions from them. Then I swallowed whatever shreds were left of my pride and whispered the situation to my professor. "Carolyn, is this an off-day for you?" she remarked. I think she thought that I was going through something especially difficult: heroine withdrawal, a break-up, a death in the family. Praise God, no! I just can't seem to FOLLOW DIRECTIONS EVER. So then I finished and it may have been "B" material at best. Also, why can't we find any stars for the top of the tree? Or, more to the point, where can we find a star for the top of the tree? haha, "to the point"

Posted 12/11/2008 10:54 PM

A Dorm Story: What I Learned About Knees

Students were getting in and out of a taxicab minivan in front of the residence hall. Lachelle and I happened to be talking there when we suddenly noticed that Krysta, a student from China, was leaning pitifully on the floor of the minivan, awkwardly situated with her knee. 

Upon closer inspection, we found that her kneecap had dislocated, and it lay at an odd angle, frightening the poor girl almost as much as the pain. It became evident that in no way was she moving from the edge of the cab.

Lachelle went to find crutches, of which the dorm has an abundance for reasons untold. We called 911, and waited. I suggested that the perplexed cabdriver keep his meter running, for she could not move even the vertical meter upward to sit in the van and be taken to the Emergency Room. She could not, in other words, have chosen a more expensive seat upon which to become immobilized.

To make matters worse, the tough but shy Krysta was “parked” directly in front of the residence hall entrance, and it happened to be dinner time. Students were pouring out, wondering and gawking. Krysta, did not hesitate to tell them, I’m pretty sure, to keep moving and to mind their own business. 

When the EMTs arrived, we had racked up a sizable cab fare. But Krysta was treated almost immediately in the ER, and experienced great relief, after which we waited for three hours to get the x-ray and its results. 

If you’ve ever had knee trouble, you know the story does not end there. We were in and out of physical therapy for the rest of the school year. As inconvenient as that continued to be, it was actually an incredible use of time, because I got to know Krysta on these frequent drives, and she got to see that the advisers cared for her. I found that she was not actually shy, and that she had a great interest in a friend of mine: Jesus. The story continues this fall. In the meantime, some morals:

Moral 1: take care of your knees,

Moral 2: especially when the only seat available is going to charge you by the minute.

Lesson #33: Don't Pretend to Know What You're Talking About

This blog contains many life lessons. I estimate that we're about to lesson 33. Either Twain or Lincoln said it well, "Better to be silent and be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt." Merely for the sake of illustration, I present to you a real-life story.

When I was student teaching, there were a few days when my mentor teacher was out for illness. As per the law, a substitute teacher came into the classroom for the whole day. But I was de facto teacher for the day. That was fun and all, but I wanna talk about the one substitute teacher. He was studying to become an acupuncturist. Ladies and gentlemen, even now I have no idea how acupuncture works. And for the purposes of this lesson, all you need to know is that when, we'll say, Kevin, explained it to me, he used the term "meridians," in a non-condescending, non-threatening way: "So, I'm not sure if you've heard of these, but acupuncturists believe the body has many meridians..."

In as sophisticated a manner as possible, I responded that yes, I had in fact heard of meridians, and in an unlikely place: Star Wars Episode I, ain't it just the darn'dest?

Midichlorians. No, Carolyn. No.

Providing in Real Time

God provides in real time. Recently, I've struggled with uncertainty about where I'll live and work for the next... ever. I am puzzled and sometimes whiny, but God keeps knowledge about the future on a strictly need-to-know basis with me. So, I trust God sometimes, when I'm not freaking out and crying to all my friends about how unfair it is that I don't know everything and have it all figured out, and that my life isn't just already lived-out and decided for me.

A second problem that I've been facing is how to teach this crazy Bible class. I have trouble feeling prepared for it. I can't see very far past the day's lesson, because it's all I can do to keep up with the Bible-reading and study it takes to teach the Bible. I have confessed here before about how I have no degree that is related to God/Jesus/Bible-anything. I find myself burdened with my own questions, let alone those of the students, which overlap often.

Tonight, in the grocery store, God showed up. Actually, it was my friend, K.

I went to the grocery store to pick up essentials (you know, vegetables and chocolate), and I turned and saw K there, saying hey! "Hi, K! What a neat place to meet, so weird, right? I almost never buy groceries..." No. Really.

As we chatted, I realized I had a beautiful opportunity before me; K is trained in theology, and was a professor at M College for a while. So I asked her the burning question inside me this week: how do I make First Samuel interactive for the students... or whatever?

She asked what resources I'd come across so far (nice, K), and I mentioned this book I've been using, and she was all like, "yeah, that was the book I used. The editor is in our theology department." Seriously, K?! Without the exclamation point!?!! This was a big deal for me, because I'm still easily starstruck, perhaps, by people who have written books. But, STILL. I left the grocery store with excitement, feeling affirmed in every which way.

THANKS, K: I hope you still had time tonight to bake for the thingy tomorrow morning.

And NICE one, God!

I Remember

how Ken ruined Battleship for me.

I remember sitting in Ken's basement deciding how to pass the time. He really wanted to just "talk" all the time. And I couldn't stand it. It was too intense. I felt as though I were being mined for thoughts. So I walked to the game shelf and found Battleship. Yes. I had decided, and he was going to play with me. But He was so reluctant. Finally, I shoved the game board into his lap and just told him what he would do. He rarely minded that. He thought it was cute, occasionally, when it wasn't annoying. I couldn't tell what he thought this time, as I readied my board.

"D6," I declared.
"Hit," he responded!
"No way! First guess! Alright, D7."
"Hit. Sunk."
"Your patrol boat? Seriously? Well. G10."
"Hit"... and so on.

One by one, I was halfway through annihilating his fleet when I began to suspect foul play. His giggles should have tipped me off. How silly I must have looked to him, my little red pegs on the top of the board declaring my false triumph. I finally turned his board around to find it empty of pieces, not a ship in sight. He hadn't been playing Battleship, he had been playing me. And what a game it was! I didn't speak to him for the rest of the evening, a preview of years to come.

A Story I Never Tire of Hearing

Just a few days ago, Peter had done the unthinkable: he had betrayed his best friend, after years of swearing undying allegiance. In an impetuous moment, he had thrown it all away and denied even knowing the guy. Then the man was killed. And Peter would never get to say I'm sorry, never get to explain himself. And what would he say, anyway? He has no answer even for himself. He hates himself. His mind trails back to that strange encounter and his heart stirs into thumping: the Son of God was alive again. And then gone, disappeared before he could talk to him. Perhaps it was not important to the Lord, but Peter knows he cannot stand it until Jesus tells him face-to-face that he has forgiven him.

He has to find something to do with his hands, to stop the endless thinking: he tells his friends he's going out, and they all know where he's going. Peter always goes fishing when he's troubled.

They tag along: they put in a night's worth of half-hearted work, and have nothing to show for it. John looks at the sweating and straining Peter, shaking his head. He's gonna pull a muscle at that rate. But John says nothing, because when your heart is empty, and your mind directionless, your mouth is empty, too. Your hands pull at nets in mechanical motions.

The sun begins to rise.

They descry a figure on shore, tending a small fire. He yells to them, "friends, have you caught anything?"

"Nothing," John replies.

"Throw your nets to the other side of the boat!"

James chuckles, even as Peter and John tug at the net to comply. Why not? They cast the nets to the right, closer to the figure.

It seems only a moment until their net is pulling on the boat's side, alive with their catch. Had all the fish congregated to this place, to see their friend on the shore?

John looks at Peter, eyes wide with his sudden excitement, "it's the Lord," he says.

Peter bolts upright. He grabs his long garment and jumps into the water. John looks at his friend, now swimming with quick uneven strokes to Jesus: he remembers another moment, so long ago now, when Jesus had come to Peter in the boat on the lake, but by walking. Now Peter, swimming or walking, would come to the Lord.

John looks at James. With a great laugh, they take the oars and haul the fish to shore.

I Doubt It

When I got back from London,
you gently demanded (how could you do that?)
a get-together.
We would decide what to do
when you got here.

You picked me up.
Sunroof open, sun in our hair,
We went to the park.

[My park. My favorite park.
How did you know? Did I ever tell you?
You never forgot a single thing I said.]

"I was thinking we could go fly kites," you said
As you pointed to two kites in your backseat.

[How odd, I had just been thinking about kites, I remember.
Did you know? Did I ever tell you?]

We ran about wildly inexperienced, getting our kites in the air.
Up they flew. Up. Bright. Sun in our hair, on our faces!
I was so relieved
That you had no confessions,
And I no heartbreaks
To share today.

I entangled my kitestring with yours and tried to pull it down.
You smiled and laughed, not to be bothered.
I loved you for it.

[Did you know? Did I ever tell you?]