I've been recalibrating my sleep schedule, my eating schedule, my day-to-day life. Here is a small timeline of the summer, starting with my return to the U.S.
June 30: Back in the U.S.
July 2: Acquired a phone. (This is a long story of Sprint and the horror that is all U.S. mobile networks. Not a fan.)
July 1-9: Borrowed cars, driving to various family gatherings.
July 10: Was officially hired at a private Mennonite school, mere minutes before losing cell phone reception for a week of camping. (Wow. What a great fit. What a great story of God working things out and me circling through frustration, cluelessness, grief, and trust. Maybe I'll write it here someday, but probably not.)
July 10-18: Camped at Wild Goose Festival in North Carolina with Jake; visited his sister in Tennessee.
July 19-31: Drove back and forth from Baltimore in yet more borrowed cars; slept at Plum Street in borrowed beds while my friends rotated in and out on vacation. This was the hardest part of the summer. I had a ton of errands to do to build a sustainable life. Meanwhile, I was searching for a car I could own, and rather uncertain as to where I would find to live for the year.
August 1: Bought a Honda Civic at Carmax. Couldn't sleep.
August 2: Returned the car to Carmax.
August 3: Bought a different Honda Civic from a different place for 1/4 of the Carmax price.
August 1-11: Stayed at Dale and Kendra's house while they were on a cruise; cared for Kendra's rabbits.
August 11-12: Visited my niece and nephew. They're so tall, bright, interesting.
August 13-15: Moved in to Plum Street
August 16-30: Work began. I was so far behind in doing all the putzing around a classroom that it takes to get a schoolyear organized. I'm still doing those things: deciding on how to grade, deciding on early units, deciding on policies, decorating, laminating, buying necessary school supplies. On a weekend in there, I coordinated Krystle's wedding day.
I have been finding footing, figuring out how to do all the normal things in new ways with very little continuity or routine to reward me. There has to be a better word than "busy."
It must be said that almost none of these things was done without help and support. The first draft of this post had each person's name and what they did for me this summer. But I hesitate to post it, because I know you did the things with no expectation of praise in this life. I think you did it because you love God and because you love me, and I will not hear differently. I'm so, so grateful. I will list some of the names, though, because I feel I must for my own sake:
Jake, Dan, Mom, Coley, Bethany, Elizabeth, Sarah, Carmen, Kendra, Dale, Christine, Luke G., Sara G., MJ, Leah, Krystle, Monica, Chadwick, Cathy S. Thank you.
Showing posts with label gratitude. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gratitude. Show all posts
Friday, August 31, 2018
Sunday, February 12, 2017
Russian Reader
In my stats, I have noticed a faithful Russian readership, and it appears to be human readership, not just crawling. And maybe it's a proxy, although what situation you must be in to choose Russia as your proxy, I don't care to guess.
I sound like I know what I'm talking about when it comes to the mysteries of the internet, and I assuredly do not. All this to say that I appreciate you, Russian friend(s). Thanks for reading for the past six years.
I sound like I know what I'm talking about when it comes to the mysteries of the internet, and I assuredly do not. All this to say that I appreciate you, Russian friend(s). Thanks for reading for the past six years.
Friday, December 2, 2016
When I Love You
Don't worry, Little Heart. I love you even in the dark.
I love you in the light of day,
safely tucked into the crowd.
I love you in the summer's shade,
when breezes run along the ground.
I love you as the clouds grow big,
brooding and alive with rain.
I love you when the results are rigged,
contempt's cup full, its dregs you drain.
I love you when you're sick and sleeping,
or when you're numb from grief's hard blow.
I love you when you're lost, and it's raining,
surrounded by country not your own.
I love you when you don't remember home.
I love you when the electric's dead,
the bulbs are blown,
the house is cold.
I love you while the stiff wind blows,
when you feel useless and alone:
when you watch too much TV, and make bad decisions about what to eat, and hate yourself for it all day long, dreading the hard work that hangs over your head.
I love you, Little, Feeble Heart.
I love you even in the dark.
I love you in the light of day,
safely tucked into the crowd.
I love you in the summer's shade,
when breezes run along the ground.
I love you as the clouds grow big,
brooding and alive with rain.
I love you when the results are rigged,
contempt's cup full, its dregs you drain.
I love you when you're sick and sleeping,
or when you're numb from grief's hard blow.
I love you when you're lost, and it's raining,
surrounded by country not your own.
I love you when you don't remember home.
I love you when the electric's dead,
the bulbs are blown,
the house is cold.
I love you while the stiff wind blows,
when you feel useless and alone:
when you watch too much TV, and make bad decisions about what to eat, and hate yourself for it all day long, dreading the hard work that hangs over your head.
I love you, Little, Feeble Heart.
I love you even in the dark.
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Forming a Philosophy of Life
I have recorded my college experiences here, and my first few years of teaching and advising. And now I wonder what comes next. Because, unless I die accidentally, there will be a next thing. And more people. I realized recently that I have been forming a life philosophy, and I am as disturbed as you are that these are not verses from the Bible.
1. People are the same everywhere.
That's not to say that individuals are not special to me. Individuals are irreplaceable in my life. But so far as I can tell, people present the same problems and the same solutions, the world over. People are going to be petty, ridiculous, overly-serious, and suddenly-political no matter where I live or what job I have. And people are the answer to that particular lonely feeling I get, and that disheartened loss of faith I know so well, and that cluelessness I feel in new places.
2. We can do no great things, only small things with great love.
Ken gave me a bracelet with this inscribed on it, and Mother Teresa, apparently, said it. I have longed to make a difference in the world. I have longed to use whatever is special about me, my sensitivity, my ability to say words backwards, my peculiar family background, whatever I am, to bring some good to the world, to really get the ball rolling toward this goal of bringing people to Jesus, all in their own languages, at the same time, yes, thank you. It's not gonna happen like that. I'm not gonna do this alone. I'm not even at the center of Jesus' plan of salvation. He's assembled a vast team that spans time and space, in which I'm a pinprick of His light; to think that I could do anything greater than small, daily deaths to self as I look for His face in this world of loss, is ludicrous and possibly idolatrous. Thank you, Jesus, for this freedom! May your Kingdom come!
1. People are the same everywhere.
That's not to say that individuals are not special to me. Individuals are irreplaceable in my life. But so far as I can tell, people present the same problems and the same solutions, the world over. People are going to be petty, ridiculous, overly-serious, and suddenly-political no matter where I live or what job I have. And people are the answer to that particular lonely feeling I get, and that disheartened loss of faith I know so well, and that cluelessness I feel in new places.
2. We can do no great things, only small things with great love.
Ken gave me a bracelet with this inscribed on it, and Mother Teresa, apparently, said it. I have longed to make a difference in the world. I have longed to use whatever is special about me, my sensitivity, my ability to say words backwards, my peculiar family background, whatever I am, to bring some good to the world, to really get the ball rolling toward this goal of bringing people to Jesus, all in their own languages, at the same time, yes, thank you. It's not gonna happen like that. I'm not gonna do this alone. I'm not even at the center of Jesus' plan of salvation. He's assembled a vast team that spans time and space, in which I'm a pinprick of His light; to think that I could do anything greater than small, daily deaths to self as I look for His face in this world of loss, is ludicrous and possibly idolatrous. Thank you, Jesus, for this freedom! May your Kingdom come!
Monday, December 2, 2013
Thanks, Mom
Prompt: Indulge in nostalgia
I don't normally think about the positive things I associate with being a kid. My childhood is filled with half-gratified desires. I often think about how hard I had it. I always had questions that needed answering, and I longed to grow up so I could be taken seriously.
The library. As a child, my room had lots of picture books, and we were always at the library swapping them out. We rented movies from there, too, especially during the summer. I remember the first time I saw Princess Bride. My brother was skeptical that it was going to be "a girl movie" (ha!!). It should go without saying that we were both entirely satisfied by the viewing experience.
Midnight Snack. How it got started, I don't know. And it was never actually midnight when my mother indulged our young cravings for sweets. She put a few Graham crackers out with cups of milk. I became a pro Graham-dunker. Good job, Mom, on not giving us fruit snacks or candy at that hour. She knew nutrition, even if our babysitters were sometimes less than aware.
Reading to us.Why does no one read to me now? It's so comfortable and cozy to sit and listen to someone else's voice, on and on. As I rested my head on her side, I closed my eyes and heard her voice, swallowing my thoughts and spooning a thin layer of honey all over the world. She read to us before bed almost every night, when she wasn't working, of course, and she'd dismiss us to bed with, "first one to bed gets first hugs'n'kisses!" We scrambled for our rooms, and made such a fuss if she didn't judge correctly the "winner" of the game.
"Go outside and play." In my imperfect memory, Stephen always seemed to be outside with his friends, riding bike, or skateboarding, or playing street hockey, or... many other mysteries. None of my friends lived in town for a long time, so I confined myself to the yard, learned nothing there, and felt lonely. But at least I was outside, and so was Stephen, usually. Once, though, I recall he and Logan and Danny (together, the Three Musketeers, but without the noble intentions or code of honor) were playing in the basement. They were there for a long time, and finally came upstairs giggling. They had spray-painted their initials on a yellow, metal cabinet, long unused, in the tiny work room. The fumes had been getting to them, but they also thought that they were the cleverest little rascals to ever strategically spray paint their initials. The "LSD" cabinet remained in the house for a long time.
"Why don't you stay home tonight?" In high school, my mom would tell me that I couldn't go out, just because "you've already gone out three nights this week. It would be a good night to stay in." I so little understood how much my bitter, "But why?!" could have hurt her. My "why?" to the request to stay home implied so much: that I wanted to get away from her and the family, that I didn't think they were worth my time, that I had better things to do, better places to be, in short, that I didn't value my home community and consider it worth my contribution.
I wish more parents would tell their kids to stay in a few nights a week. When I tell it to dorm students, they are frustrated. They say things like, "It feels like I'm in prison!"; "I hate this place!"; "Why do you want to control me!?" But by the end of the year, they realize that the time they spent here was valuable. They wish they had spent more time getting to know the other students and advisers. They realize that this was their home for a while, and wish they had owned it more, contributed more.
I don't normally think about the positive things I associate with being a kid. My childhood is filled with half-gratified desires. I often think about how hard I had it. I always had questions that needed answering, and I longed to grow up so I could be taken seriously.
The library. As a child, my room had lots of picture books, and we were always at the library swapping them out. We rented movies from there, too, especially during the summer. I remember the first time I saw Princess Bride. My brother was skeptical that it was going to be "a girl movie" (ha!!). It should go without saying that we were both entirely satisfied by the viewing experience.
Midnight Snack. How it got started, I don't know. And it was never actually midnight when my mother indulged our young cravings for sweets. She put a few Graham crackers out with cups of milk. I became a pro Graham-dunker. Good job, Mom, on not giving us fruit snacks or candy at that hour. She knew nutrition, even if our babysitters were sometimes less than aware.
Reading to us.Why does no one read to me now? It's so comfortable and cozy to sit and listen to someone else's voice, on and on. As I rested my head on her side, I closed my eyes and heard her voice, swallowing my thoughts and spooning a thin layer of honey all over the world. She read to us before bed almost every night, when she wasn't working, of course, and she'd dismiss us to bed with, "first one to bed gets first hugs'n'kisses!" We scrambled for our rooms, and made such a fuss if she didn't judge correctly the "winner" of the game.
"Go outside and play." In my imperfect memory, Stephen always seemed to be outside with his friends, riding bike, or skateboarding, or playing street hockey, or... many other mysteries. None of my friends lived in town for a long time, so I confined myself to the yard, learned nothing there, and felt lonely. But at least I was outside, and so was Stephen, usually. Once, though, I recall he and Logan and Danny (together, the Three Musketeers, but without the noble intentions or code of honor) were playing in the basement. They were there for a long time, and finally came upstairs giggling. They had spray-painted their initials on a yellow, metal cabinet, long unused, in the tiny work room. The fumes had been getting to them, but they also thought that they were the cleverest little rascals to ever strategically spray paint their initials. The "LSD" cabinet remained in the house for a long time.
"Why don't you stay home tonight?" In high school, my mom would tell me that I couldn't go out, just because "you've already gone out three nights this week. It would be a good night to stay in." I so little understood how much my bitter, "But why?!" could have hurt her. My "why?" to the request to stay home implied so much: that I wanted to get away from her and the family, that I didn't think they were worth my time, that I had better things to do, better places to be, in short, that I didn't value my home community and consider it worth my contribution.
I wish more parents would tell their kids to stay in a few nights a week. When I tell it to dorm students, they are frustrated. They say things like, "It feels like I'm in prison!"; "I hate this place!"; "Why do you want to control me!?" But by the end of the year, they realize that the time they spent here was valuable. They wish they had spent more time getting to know the other students and advisers. They realize that this was their home for a while, and wish they had owned it more, contributed more.
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