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.

Casa Loud and Casa Quiet

Yesterday was the big, big holiday, Eid al-Adha, the holiest feast of the Islamic calendar. I've written about it here before, too. Kind of like Americans obsess over turkeys on Thanksgiving, sheep are the distracting center of this holy day. Yesterday was all loud prayer and sheep slaughter in the morning, and all quiet fires and cooking throughout the afternoon.

Margaret and I stole around the block looking for a few sheep scenes. As we walked, we avoided the swinging machetes of men whose function all day was butchery. If the machetes weren't enough to identify them, their clothes were covered in drying sheep's blood (we assume), and they wore huge, satisfied smiles.

We also found merry gentlemen on the street corners, burning the skin off of sheep heads, cooking the cheeks and brains for later. All this is done with a similar ease as I recall the men in my family going out to fix something on a car after the Thanksgiving meal. Most sit or stand while one or two does something useful to the task. The difference in Morocco is that no one is holding a beer. But here are those men.

Cool guys burning sheep heads.

Later in the day, I was visiting a neighborhood outside the city, and I don't know how common this is, but some children had dressed up in the fresh sheep skins, and were dancing and singing for tips. It looked and smelled so strange. This photo makes it look like The End has come, but in person they were not the least bit intimidating.

Weirdo neighborhood kids after the Eid feast.

The feast having lasted all day and late into last night, Casablanca was a sleeping child at 8:30 this morning. As I walked home from breakfast with Margaret I realized I had never walked more peacefully through the streets. I opened the gate to our villa, and the sun was just beginning to shine on the roses in Habiba's garden. It smelled like heaven come down. The wind whipped up some dried bougainvillea petals on the walkway, and I heard a child laughing on the rooftop apartment of the mosque overhead. It was the sweet kind of laugh where you just know someone is tickling him.

Habiba is my landlady, and she keeps the most beautiful, healthy roses.

My heart is extra light knowing that the poor of the city are eating well this week, because families who can afford it buy not one but two sheep to slaughter, and give up to half the meat to the needy. Beggars are invited inside. The Kingdom come.

In other news...

• Margaret leaves for Jordan today; and what a wonderful time it was to laugh and chat freely while keeping her from accomplishing her schoolwork. Maggie is a friend from Lancaster, visiting Morocco between semesters in Jordan. And this is us holding Mexican flags at an American-style burger joint. 

Now you are a bit of two of my homes, Maggie!, Lancaster and Casablanca!

• With the holiday behind us, my students will be coming back to the city in time for the second week of school, making this Wednesday the de facto first day of classes.

Lighthearted Reflections on 2016

New Year's Eve 2016 found me with people I hadn't known the year before, so of course, we didn't have a shared ritual or even a basic knowledge of each other's lives beyond the scope of the past few months. So we created a ritual that I hope to take up again and again. We asked questions and told stories! Here is an abbreviation of what I shared.

Where were you on NYE 2016?
-My living room, Casablanca

Who were you with on NYE 2016?
-Janine, Stacey, Bria

What was the hardest you laughed in 2016?
-Possibly, some conversation with Stacey and Caty Mac on the bus
-Or, possibly Abby falling onto an occupied air mattress while attempting to capsize it

What was the best moment of 2016?
-Crying in front of a Rothko with Kelly in Chicago

What was an embarrassing moment of 2016?
-when the H & H delivery guy called me "Claire" in front of my co-worker after flirting with me for a few minutes

What day in 2016 would you live over and over?
-one of any Sunday that included the following elements: WEMF, House of Pizza, hiking, friends

What was your favorite song of 2016?
-"Sorry" by Bieber (I'm conflicted as to whether or not to apologize for this being true. The irony.)

What was your favorite movie/show of 2016?
-"The West Wing" show
-"Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them" movie

Most memorable trip of 2016?
-Chicago with Krystle, Rachel, and Kelly
-Fez and Casa with Bethany, Janine, Sarah, and Derek

What was your biggest lesson of 2016?
-I have value as a person without doing anything more.

Who was the most influential person in your year?
-Betty

What was the bravest thing you did in 2016?
-Dating and breaking up

What was the kindest thing you did in 2016?
-... it's good to think on that one, but maybe not publish an answer, you know?

What was the best advice you gave, or the best conversation you had in 2016?
-SO MANY good conversations!
-I advised my seniors not to go straight to college. I'm waiting for parent emails to come in.

Eid al-Adha

This week we had a five-day vacation, including the weekend, to celebrate Eid al-Adha. The holiday celebrates when Abraham was spared killing his son because God stayed his hand and provided a ram instead. People celebrate the holiday by buying and killing a sheep for a big feast with family and guests.

A city full of sheep for a week, all making their sounds and smells, and suddenly, Monday afternoon, things get very quiet. (I have heard people refer to it as the silence of the lambs, but I don’t know if they were joking.) After the slaughter, the streets are littered with sheep remains, next to dumpsters or smoldering in small fires. I walked past a few burning sheep heads, and accidentally kicked a smoking ram’s horn. You know how in the middle of the night, you go downstairs for something, and step on a Lego brick? Well, this was way weirder than that. Bad comparison.

This story of Abraham and Ishmael (Abraham and Isaac in Judeo-Christian tradition) is not an atonement story in Islam. Like most of my life right now, I don't understand. I don't understand how atonement doesn't enter into it. [What I think I understand is that] Islam says the story is about Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice even that which was precious to him*, and how we all should be willing to give what Allah asks, like the sheep gives its own life to God.

To me, the story of Abraham and his son is largely about foreshadowing the coming of Jesus’ sacrifice, the sacrifice of the lamb and Son, who would take away the sins of the world. I got to be reminded of that with every bleating of sheep from over the wall.

*Islam is no closer than Christianity to condoning, let alone promoting child sacrifice, so we agree on that big time.

OnetwothreefourfiveHA!

My music on shuffle, “Rocky Road to Dublin” by Young Dubliners catches me off guard this morning. Against my will, I’m transported to a back kitchen with blaring music and waiting dishes. 

One, two, three, four, five! Hey! I grab a giant serving tray and fill it up, in an instant attempting to memorize the placement of the special-order plates. I failed as often as I got it right.

On that first night, never having served an evening before, I was working with one other server. The other had walked out. Asked me was I hired, wages I required, / I was almost tired of the rocky road to Dublin./ One, two, three four, five. Ha! All the staff knew I was a newbie, and accorded a kindness and understanding that I still did not know was foreign to food service. I had left my home that night fully knowing that this might be the only night I ever had the chance to serve tables. The business was in trouble, and they needed someone to serve through their last week of reservations. I made up my mind as I applied my lip gloss that I would make the most of it, and absolutely have fun, and not be deterred at all. Then off to reap the corn, leave where I was born, / Cut a stout black thorn to banish ghosts and goblins; / Bought a pair of brogues rattling o'er the bogs / And fright'ning all the dogs on the rocky road to Dublin. / One, two, three four, five. Ha!

Through the evening, I constantly asked my fellow server about the menu, about the computer system, about timing, about drinks. I constantly asked the chefs to name the dishes that were up, repeat the specials, list the desserts. I needed help with a check, I needed a hand with a tray, I didn’t know what was in a hot totty, or how to describe the shelf merlot. All this I acknowledged with a humble humor. The room was full, the tables were lit up by their tealights and softened expressions. The whole room was aflame with a joy of living, it was like church.

At the end of the night, I tallied my tips: $210.60. Seriously? We must be overcharging. Or they must have felt pity for me. The Galway boys wer by, / and saw I was a-hobblin’ with a loud array, / they joined me in the fray / soon we cleared the way on the rocky road to Dublin. / One, two, three, four, five. Ha!

I took off my apron, and wrapped up my black book. Lee, the sous chef, came up to me, “wow,” he said, eyes bulging beneath his thick, black glasses, “you did a great job. I mean that. I’m not just saying it.”

“Thank you,” I was so surprised at his sincerity.

“No, I mean it, if Drew [the chef] takes over, he wants you to stay.”

“Lee, are you serious? I might have a job here? I’ve never done this before. I am not sure this is the wisest thing you could do.” It was true, and I’m still not sure it was the wisest thing they could have done.

“The way you handled tonight, tables at a time. Servers with way more experience get all grumpy and flustered. And you’re in the kitchen making jokes, just getting it right. It was awesome.”

This was not a normal complement for me to receive: that I kept my head about me, was relaxed in a stressful time, made smart calls when it mattered most. This was not the kind of thing to which my temperament is accustomed. So I took the job, in hopes of winning more such favor. One, two, three four, five, Ha! / Hunt the Hare and turn her down / the rocky road and all the way to Dublin, / Whack follol de rah !

I never quite did as well as that first night, when the pressure was on the most.  

God's Signature: Happy Easter

"If it's beautiful and it multiplies, it must be God's work," said Pastor Josef this morning. It was a fitting comment, for the entire congregation seemed to be wriggling with new life. In a group of perhaps 320 people, babies under one and a half years constituted perhaps 20. Children under three years... oh my. That would be many more. And it would be far too awkward to try to count the children who are soon to be in our midst: pregnant women were all over the borrowed gym for today's service, taking part in the wriggling in their attempts to get comfortable.

I glanced over at J and M with their new baby. But I can never just glance. I looked. I stared. It's a wonder they haven't mentioned something about it, actually. J and M lost a baby over a year ago just before she would have been considered full term. We all mourned this loss deeply, just as we had all celebrated wholeheartedly when we first found out they were expecting.

"It's not fair," I thought repeatedly. I was just as quick to fire back at myself, "Of course it's not fair. A lot of things aren't fair. Are you gonna cry about it?"

Yes. I am going to cry about it, I hope.

But in not too much time, J and M decided they would begin to do foster care.

Just a few weeks after beginning the paperwork, a newborn girl (who looks as though she had been born of the two, seriously) was put into their arms by the foster care system. Hopefully this is a long-term thing. It sure is lovely to see them. And this morning, their little girl was in her baby carrier, fast asleep in a bright Easter dress and a little pink ribbon around her head. Of course, I gained all this by staring, like I do. And when she gave a start and awoke, M took the baby and rested her on her shoulder. Because she's her mom.

Beautiful. And despite their loss, their love is still multiplying.

So, what do I know of fair? I could easily get stuck in that place of "fair": telling God how things should work out.

Like Pastor was saying last week, some people believe that being a good person is good enough for God. But what do we even know about what is good? He expounded, saying, "God has changed my mind many times regarding the definition of good."

I like this new rule. if it's beautiful and it multiplies, it's of God.

Love Poem: Valentine's Day

I don't feel loving this moment.
Especially if "loving" translates to "lovable,"
Forget it.
Seems like only narcissists pine.
All I want out of this day that promises so much
is for the sun to rise,
to have a second second second chance
to do the everyday things with passion and joy
and more love.
That's all I want... to want.

Life Tastes Sweet

Funny how tempting it is to blog about blogging or to make apologies for long, informative posts. Ha. This blog is about my life, so I feel justified in a few very long posts now and then that solely relay strings of experiences.

The painfully anticipated break is nearing its end, and I have lots of feelings and few moments to share. But I don't enjoy writing or reading about feelings. And I love to write and read about moments. So here are a few that come back to me, with their corresponding food of the moment.

On Christmas eve eve, I visited Krystle. We baked banana bread and talked and talked. She presented me with a gift of a beautiful hand-made afghan that rests snugly over the shoulders. It reminded me of Joella's grandmother's prayer shawl. I am wearing the afghan even now. Turkey Hill Double Dunker ice cream.

On Christmas eve, Stephen (my brother), my sister-in-law Megan, and my niece and nephew Aida and Holden went to Megan's aunt's house for dinner. Everyone eats and drinks and dodges children in the kitchen, dining room, and living room. One moment, I found myself on a big, well-stuffed chair, with Aida sitting next to me. We were discussing something. Then her cousin Maddy found her way to my lap. Then her cousin Luke found his way up the back of the chair, covering me in children. They fell over and on top of me, a sweet, laughing kid puddle. Orange sherbet punch.

Christmas day, we stayed inside like bums and watched A Christmas Story in segments that amounted to three full viewings. Sweet potato souffle.

The day after, we decided to eat at the Waffle Shop in State College. We waited for 15 minutes to be seated because it was so crowded. I sat between Aida and Holden. A teething Holden was biting the side of the table as our waitress came up. I forget our conversation. But she told us that she had been a waitress for 49 years, and she loved to serve people. Blueberry pancakes.

In Waynesboro later that week, Kelly, Sladana, Jack, Chelsea and I stopped at Sheetz for a snack before arriving at the movie theater. We sat in the round table and chatted about nothing, I'm sure. But the moment was sweet, there on the quiet edge of a spinning world. Macaroni bites.

Chels and I sat down together and watched The Prestige. I took Benadryl for some strange and awful allergy. I shouted out my guesses at the plot. She shouted out how annoying that was. Decaf tea.

Thursday lunch Sladana, BJ, Kelly, Josiah, and I ate together in Chambersburg. We sat in the draughty Subway sharing potato chips and stories and ideas. Sladana had work, so we remaining went to Starbucks. On the drive, we recalled our long and glorious history of loving Homestarrunner. Flurries had kicked up, but we were warm. Grande, soy, no vanilla, Mocha Frappuccino.

Thursday night, I joined Kelly's mom's dinner party out at some barn-like bed and breakfast. We sat with Kelly's mom's friends and chatted the evening away. Her friend Kim was telling us about the Alaskan village where her father lived and died, and their communal practices of supporting families through grief. Meanwhile, a bluegrass band with lovely vocal harmony played just behind us. Peppermint ice cream pie.

I leaned on my mom's bed as she woke up from her evening nap (she works nights) and we chatted before I left for Lancaster again. We talked about the things on our minds that mattered. It's funny, sometimes I wonder if I have anything important to say. But talking with Mom makes those trifling thoughts melt away, and what remains feels rock-solid, like it matters. The cat lay on the down blanket, with an occasional wistful sigh. LifeSavers peppermints.

On New Year's Eve with Joella's family, Anita and I talked in the kitchen while the other young people played a game in which players are "shot" and eliminated one by one. Asher came to join us. Our conversation intensified a bit, as we listed single ladies for him to consider. Then Tobias joined us, also "dead" to discuss the pros and cons of casual dating, if there is such a thing. The conversational intensity grew another notch. By this time we were all seated on the kitchen floor, weary from standing. Then Zion. Then Isaac. Then Tirzah. Then Boni and Joella. The conversational intensity had evened out around the entrance of Tirzah, and dropped off around the coming of Isaac. Olive cheese balls.

Midsummer Days

It's been so good. Mini-week was full of adorable little kids. So little. So lovable. The week is so short, since the children are so young. But it was enough for me. It was difficult to always be hung upon and questioned. I found myself occasionally yearning for teen week. We happened to play a game (called Bug-Bug) in which half the camp ends up "dead" on the far side of the ballfield. The rest of the camp must carry or drag the "dead bugs" to the other side of the field. It is a wretched, hot game to play. I found myself yearning for teen week as I lay dead under the bushes. Small children came up to me, lifted one of my legs, then dropped it, quickly deciding that I was too much for them to muster.

Mid-camp break began when mini-week ended. On Wednesday, the little children headed home for much-needed naps, and we went (napless) to Camp Andrews for a relaxing Wednesday night and Thursday. We spent the day loving their climbing equipment, and their beautiful creek, and their hidden caves, and their pool. On Friday, Black Rock treated us to a day at Hershey Park!

It rained in the afternoon. We left for Chocolate World after waiting unsuccessfully (in the rain) for an hour in line for Fahrenheit. Everyone was in Chocolate World. You could have lost a limb in the crowd and not known it til much later. We eventually returned to the main park and rode a few more roller coasters, including Fahrenheit. The best part of the day was the companionship of the people. Camp contains the combination of people where you can never go wrong, no matter how you slice it. There is no boring, or lame, or undesirable group. I know because I'm sitting in a room full of them right now. They're practicing swing dance, throwing tape at each other, practicing a skit about Cupid shooting people (to advertise archery), tripping over large white boxes, and smelling strange because they were canoeing all day... actually, the last is just me.

We're preparing for teen week, folks. Tomorrow the older kids come. And it will be so good.

The New Year

New Year's Eve was the last night that the little restaurant was open. A good night:

Becky, Leah, Kirsten, and Ty came near the end to have appetizers and to see the happening band which they had been promised, but which didn't exist.

But, hark! What was that exciting party going on upstairs? A party for a bunch of Greek people, I said, friends of the owners. Sure, we can go up for a look.

I felt so privileged entering that fun without having to pay.

Possibly the only light-haired people in the room, Leah and I moved toward the front where a group of maybe 40 people were dancing holding hands in a circle--ah, you know, Greek-style, right? Who can resist that? Not us. We joined right in.

We came back to the house to clang pots and pans to ring in the new year.

Resolutions? I want to be fearless.

A Plea

Oh come, come, Emmanuel.

I think I need you more and more the older I get.

I need you, Jesus, more than hot cocoa, fake snow, real snow, a good show, caroling, stockings on the mantel, and tea lights in the window.

What perverse part of me ever supposed that those things matter, that without them, I am somehow missing out on Christmas?

No, what I need and what I got was dirty hay, a draughty cave, and the Savior of the world.

Come, Emmanuel.

Machetes, Mission Bamboo, Family

Why was my forearm hurting on Tuesday? Why was my hand cramped? Because I was wielding a machete all Monday. At Joella's family's home, affectionately called The Hideaway, some of her family, Becky and I worked at landscaping. We hacked at weeds and poison ivy, growing in large, jungly ropes up the sides of trees thick and tall. Some of the vines were so hefty that they were suitable for Tarzan-style swinging.

After the larger part of the work for the day was finished, it was decided that some of us should go find bamboo to be assembled into an archway at the end of the lane. The only problem was that no bamboo grew on their property. Normally, this is a blessing, for bamboo is invasive, as Asher pointed out, and Joella, and Zachary... "but the old place has bamboo!" "But we can't just go creeping around there. It's too visible. Plus that'd be weird." "There's some bamboo down the road at the neighbors'!" "Yeah!" "I'll go along if we can sing the 'Mission Impossible' theme!"

And so, Becky, Joella, and I took Snickers bars and the family pick-up down route 441 to a stand of bamboo on the shoulder of the road. We clambered out and hacked away, no doubt to the bewilderment of all passersby. But, I ask you, what would you do if you needed bamboo RIGHT NOW? That's what I thought.

We worked quickly, and I sat in the back of the pick-up with the 12 green stalks, my legs and arms around the bases of the stalks, foliage flying. Joella did not go slowly the half mile down 441, and several times the stalks wrenched almost free of my grasp, and out into the wide world. At the end of the lane, we deposited the bamboo and went flying up to the house to "get into our party clothes" for a picnic with Jo's family.

The Garbers are so sweet. The celebration began in a circle of lawn chairs, with Jared and Sarah, in unintentionally matching shirts, introducing the strangers to the family. Then we ate, and I drank up the atmosphere of family. Joshua, the one-year-old, was all the centerpiece anyone could wish for. He played alone in the middle of this circle, with the occasional family member stopping by to help him play his colored xylophone.

In little time, the circle had divided into three groups: the men, the women, and the youth, with Joshua, of course, on the outer edge of all three of these. I remained a member of the youth group for the purposes of this gathering, for even some of the young married folks found themselves still in the youth group. We told jokes and chatted about the silliest things. Haha, running barefoot...

It made me wonder what my family would do on such an occasion (if, say, we were ever to have one). Would there be outsiders? Would there be awkwardness if we were to so align ourselves in time and space as to be together? Would the men find a common interest? Would the women? Would there be pettiness? Probably not much, pettiness takes a certain level of comfort... I don't know. But I want to find out someday. I miss what I know of my extended family.

Gardens and Grandparents

Now and then, the alarm clock and I are friends. On Thursday, at six am, I truly appreciated it. I quickly dressed and added a few items to my backpack. I gulped a glass of water then reached for my keys, closing the door quietly and facing the freezing air of morning. Thin snowflakes whipped about my heavy head as I turned toward the train station, taking the route down James, then Queen street to stay in the streetlights. [Hmm, streetlights: do they give one company, or make a lonely walk even lonelier merely by their contrast at the very moments when one might have accustomed herself to the darkness?]

The train station was lit with high chandeliers and in motion with commuters and a few droopy-eyed travelers like myself. On the train, I began to focus on my book, but I put it down in short time, noticing that the east was brightening ever so slightly. Around me, professional people picked up binders and pens and text messages beeped.

We reached the Downingtown station. I was the only one to get off, while a dozen alighted to take my place. I saw Grandma and Grandpa, snugly wrapped to ward off the windy morning. The sky was fully awake now.

We talked and laughed at our breakfast in their sunny kitchen, anticipating our day together. Grandma politely asked if Grandpa wouldn't mind her driving to Longwood, for we both knew he would get confused, and she would be reminding him of our destination the whole time. He consented with a humorous grace and opened her door for her, as he has done for the past 52 years.

My stomach full, and the sun in my eyes, I fought sleep as we wound around a few back roads to reach the gardens. We entered Longwood with few other visitors. We had the gardens to ourselves so early on a weekday, and we explored the treehouses and hiked around the back ways toward the pond. I resisted the urge to run toward the meadow to the left. A green pathway extended far off the road over a rill and into a grove of firs. The walk would have worn out my companions unnecessarily, and we decided on an early lunch at the Terrace cafe.

We stayed over an hour at lunch, talking about the most important things: baptism, the Holy Spirit, family, coffee, teaching, hospitality. It turns out my grandparents know a thing or two about what makes guests comfortable, and I was glad to learn from them by experience. My grandmother once took a class on flower arrangement, and ever since has created a centerpiece for the table when hosting, giving it as a favor to her guests.

I had almost forgotten that we had yet to visit the Conservatory. It was all the more spectacular because I had not been expecting it! We passed through walks of dapper cyclamen, poinsettias arranged around decorated Christmas trees, one of which had a thousand electric-blue butterflies, slowly flapping their wings! I explored the children's labyrinth of fountains. We entered the orchid room... if only I could tell you! Then the palm room, which they maintain at a balmy 80 degrees. It was the first time I'd been that kind of warm in months! I wanted to remain in the very midst of it all, clinging to a large palm leaf and drop into the center of the rainforest below the walkway. But Grandma moved us on at a stunning pace for a woman of 75 years. On and on we went, room after room of sunlight and green and moisture. We whipped through the desert room, always my favorite, and took seats in the rose room. It was there where I finally realized how much I missed summertime, and how rejuvenated I felt.

Spring is not so far away, after all. We passed a Magnolia tree with buds.

Back at home, we played cards and talked about the news. Grandma always has stories to tell me about both sides of my family, for she was good friends with my father's family, as well. I listened. Then we sat down at the piano and we sang until my voice went hoarse. I'm still not recovered.

I was refreshed. Their slower, steadier burn of energy renewed my spirits. I felt what some people feel their whole lives and never know it: belonging. This is a place where I find pictures of myself through the years on their walls. This is a place where we talk, and we both have a right to say whatever will benefit the other. When I return with them to the gardens in the spring, I'll bound up that hill in the meadow, nothing can possibly stop me.

Christmas Break

Hustle and Bustle
and
breathe.
Hustle and Bustle
and
breathe.


Finals claimed my last three weeks of this semester. I am so grateful to the Lord that I had the chance to focus completely on my schoolwork. I was only distracted by meandering thoughts and the insatiable desire to make things rhyme, or put words to cadence. My winter break will include: another go at the Lord of the Rings, a visit to the Fulton Theater, a visit to the Vietnamese restaurant down the street, dusting, some working, talking on the phone, and some quiet contemplation.

A Deli Christmas

First things first: this is finals week, and the week before Christmas, and there is a lot to do. But at work, there is not a lot to do. By what evidence, you ask? Wayne was inspired by the muses this afternoon and rewrote the Twelve Days of Christmas for me, complete with props, it was beautiful.

an old moldy wedge of brie cheese
two chicken breasts
three french fries
four thawing burgers
five onion rings!
six geese have laid these [eggs]
seven olives swimming
eight pints of milk [that's one gallon, to the layman]
nine honey mustards
ten leaves of lettuce
eleven peppers pepping
twelve hashbrowns browning

Also today, Bill got locked inside the ladies' room for over ten minutes. He always uses the ladies' room, see. And the lock had been finicky for months. But, o fates!, the door has always managed to open in the past, despite great difficulties that the poor customers suffer. He called Leonardo, the prep guy, from his cell phone. Leonardo, doubtless, recognized on the caller ID that it was Bill calling. But he is kind of vindictive. So he let it ring. Finally Gary came to the rescue and opened the door. Bill then posted a sign that read something like: You may enter, but good luck getting out, the lock is broken.

My Thanksgiving

Ride the train to see your friends. Let them pick you up.
Have a seat in the living room. Sink into the familiarity.
Do not take it for granted.

Enjoy the trees without their leaves. Meet the gray sky with
steely resolve to be happy no matter what,
As you glide along the highway.

Enter a warm house and start right in.
Don't expect the red carpet,
For it wouldn't be home that way.

Go to the church service in the passenger's seat.
Experience the strangest sensation to be driven by someone you
Used to take to school.

Look at faces so dear, that used to fill your heart
So full that they still do. But it's not the same.
And you don't take them for granted.

Feast.
Laugh.
Walk in the blurry four o'clock, almost snow, almost rain.
And do not take it for granted.

Muppet Christmas

Beginning in last October, when I would think about winter coming, I would have brief flashes from A Muppet Christmas Carol. It has been over ten years since I have seen that movie, but it must have made quite an impression on me! Being opposed to cold in my life, it is perhaps my only happy association with the cold. Plus, the city is so innocent and filled with joy. Very soon, I expect to walk out of my front door in Lancaster, and join in with a line in a song spanning the entire neighborhood.

Wayne will step out of the deli's door, saying something about there being "one more sleep til Christmas."

Jonathan and Lis will have a duet in the street, playing with the other children, keeping time by bouncing their kickball off the side of the theater building.

Justine and Jake will sit out on their porch with their huge dog and sing, "we're always much warmer, this time of the year!"

Linda will stroll toward Harrisburg Avenue, holding a cigarette, whistling in cadence while

Charlotte will hold out two Turkey Hill iced teas, spinning on the corner of Mary and Pine, "we cannot wait til Chriiiiistmaaaas!"

I am almost afraid to see the movie now, for being disappointed.

The Fourth of July

My dad turned 50 on the fourth of July, and everything worked out to visit him and my brother, Megan, and Aida. I have to give a shout out to my fruit salad, as I had never successfully made one before. If you've never tried it, don't say it's easy. All kinds of fruits don't mix together well, and who would have thought that orange juice from concentrate is the best base mixture? Not me; that is to say, allrecipes.com has sort of bailed out all of my cooking events.

My brother manned the grill, and Aida did her best to keep herself posted on all the goings on in all the rooms of the house while still watching Phineas and Ferb. She's nearly four. But she acts and speaks like an older child. I often feel that she sort of skipped toddlerhood in favor of childhood; and I wonder just as often if that is a healthy thing for a person. Either way, she's adorable and more interesting than ever. She's at the time in life when she has a working understanding of most conversations and can participate in them to a fair degree. Yet she still manages to ramble on about E.T. and Elliott, her imaginary friends who are, by turns, her fiance or her brother, or non-existent even to her, making you out to be the insane adult.

After dinner I presented Dad with his card and a print-out of "Every Season" by Nichole Nordeman. I have loved that song for a long time and decided that Dad's gift would be an experience rather than a thing to fill his apartment. So I sang it! I've rarely performed alone, and never for a close crowd like that. It felt like I was holding my heart outside my body for a minute and a half. But as I finished, I felt like it didn't even matter if they had liked the song or not. I think I was real. And I now think that that is more precious than I had ever suspected. I see now what George MacDonald was talking about as he repeated that the Lord is not a harsh taskmaster: He teaches humility in creative, not torturous, ways.