The Christmas season has come again. I know that because a) it’s December, b) everyone and his brother and his brother’s uncle’s friend’s pet dog is wearing festive red Santa hats, and c) the WalMart greeters have taken to saying “Merry Christmas!” instead of “have a nice day!”
I’ve had probably a hundred people wish me a Merry Christmas in the past week. It’s kind of heartwarming. Brings a smile to my face every time. But do they ever stop to wonder what that phrase means? Do they ever think about what this holiday really stands for, or what it really looked like to the characters who were most intimately involved in the story of the Christ?
There are many things that we think of when we hear the name “Christ.” Who is this Man to us? He is the Messiah. The Savior. The Lion of the tribe of Judah. The Root of Jesse. The Hope of Israel. Immanuel. The Prince of Peace. The Redeemer. The Ruler. The fulfillment of an age-old promise of redemption given to our forebears at the beginning of time. He is God incarnate. He is perfect man. He is the author and finisher of our faith. He is our High Priest, the one who sanctifies us. He is the Payment of our ransom, the Restorer of our standing with God.
And yet, who was Christ to the men and women of his day? An illegitimate child. The son of an unknown father. The bastard offspring of a lowbred woman, raised in a town of no consequence, part of an insignificant family made up of working class men and women.
And because of who He appeared to be, the Jews and the Gentiles alike missed the reality of Who He truly was. They failed to recognize that our God is a God who uses the ordinary to accomplish the extraordinary, that He allows our frailty to showcase His strength, and that He possesses a wisdom which confounds the minds of the wise.
I thought of this as I was out running errands yesterday, watching the endless streams of humanity bustle about doing their last minute Christmas shopping.
Each one of these men, women, and children appear to be one thing or another, I thought, and yet, who are they REALLY? If I could see deep down inside, could read the thoughts, could sense the emotions, could know their past, could feel the inner hurt that each one feels, could understand the struggles they face…what would I find? WHO would I find? Who would they find in me? What enormous depths of meaning am I missing as I look merely on the outside? If Christ came today, would I pass Him by?
I left the mall that day somewhat sobered by the realization that I, like many others, often fall into the trap of judging the man by his appearance, by his family, by his geographic location, by his hobbies—how often do I really invest in people and get to KNOW them like they deserve to be known?
It’s a question I can’t afford not to answer. Because today, just as for the Jews of 2,000 years ago, it is entirely possible to pass by Christ without recognizing Him. He tells us that what we have done to the least—those that society didn’t value, couldn’t see the worth in—we have done to Him.
I hope that this Christmas season is a valuable reminder for each one of us of the fact that how we treat the most vulnerable members of our society—the least desirable men and women, from a social standpoint—is a reflection of what our character really is, what our values truly are, and what effect our love for Christ has truly made on us as persons…
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
A few days ago, a friend and I set off in a little white car from Lynchburg, Virginia, to make the nearly 20-hour trek to Wausau, Wisconsin for Christmas break. It was exhilarating, to be sure. But more than that, the numerous quiet hours stuck behind the wheel of a car, listening to the steady hum of the engine and bemusedly watching my weary travel companion attempt to sleep in the seat beside me, provided a much-appreciated opportunity to think.
It has often seemed to me that the human existence is somewhat cyclical with regard to the emotional states an individual passes through. There are seasons in life when it feels like the heavens are silent, like God has hidden Himself, like the answers which we so desperately seek are nowhere to be found, and furthermore, like no one particularly cares--that we are abandoned to struggle absolutely alone through the moments of our greatest necessity and despair. (Granted, this sensation is just a feeling, but for the vast majority of humanity, feelings are, in that particular moment, their reality).
There are also seasons when one feels that the sun, the moon, and the stars have all propitiously aligned, that the world is only beautiful, and never horrifying, that God is particularly close, that His love is exceptionally real, that the answers to life’s deepest and most critical questions are within reach, that humanity beams upon us with affection and approbation…in short, that all is right with the world.
I have come to realize, over the course of several years and many conversations, that this sequential ebb and flow of the emotional tides is not unique to me—rather, it seems to characterize the vast majority of human kind to a greater or lesser degree, especially in our spiritual walks. And I begin to suspect that this is by design.
After all, the facts—the foundational truths upon which our worldview and our lives are constructed—don’t change. Our circumstances might, and our feelings definitely will, but if we act based upon the Biblical truth that we know, and allow what we know to rule our feelings, this creates an emotional maturity and stability that creates a solid foundation for the building of a robust character…
These were the thoughts that were spinning around behind my eyeballs as I drove through the long hours of a frigid winter night…and somewhere around hour twelve of the trip, I was reminded of a passage from The Screwtape Letters in which Lewis offered some characteristically perspicacious insight into the matter. This captures the perspective of a demon writing to his nephew, Screwtape, with some words of advice regarding the best ways in which to destroy the human soul:
“You must have often wondered why the Enemy does not make more use of His power to be sensibly present to human souls in any degree He chooses and at any moment. But you now see that the Irresistible and the Indisputable are the two weapons which the very nature of His scheme forbids Him to use. Merely to override a human will (as His felt presence in any but the faintest and most mitigated degree would certainly do) would be for Him useless. He cannot ravish. He can only woo. For His ignoble idea is to eat the cake and have it; the creatures are to be one with Him, but yet themselves; merely to cancel them, or assimilate them, will not serve. He is prepared to do a little overriding at the beginning. He will set them off with communications of His presence which, though faint, seem great to them, with emotional sweetness, and easy conquest over temptation. But He never allows this state of affairs to last long. Sooner or later He withdraws, if not in fact, at least from their conscious experience, all those supports and incentives. He leaves the creature to stand up on its own legs—to carry out from the will alone duties which have lost all relish.
It is during such trough periods, much more than during the peak periods, that it is growing into the sort of creature He wants it to be. Hence the prayers offered in the state of dryness are those which please Him best…He cannot “tempt” to virtue as we do to vice. He wants them to learn to walk and must therefore take away His hand; and if only the will to walk is really there, He is pleased even with their stumbles.
Do not be deceived, Wormwood. Our cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our Enemy’s will, looks around upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken…and still obeys.” –Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis (p. 39)
It has often seemed to me that the human existence is somewhat cyclical with regard to the emotional states an individual passes through. There are seasons in life when it feels like the heavens are silent, like God has hidden Himself, like the answers which we so desperately seek are nowhere to be found, and furthermore, like no one particularly cares--that we are abandoned to struggle absolutely alone through the moments of our greatest necessity and despair. (Granted, this sensation is just a feeling, but for the vast majority of humanity, feelings are, in that particular moment, their reality).
There are also seasons when one feels that the sun, the moon, and the stars have all propitiously aligned, that the world is only beautiful, and never horrifying, that God is particularly close, that His love is exceptionally real, that the answers to life’s deepest and most critical questions are within reach, that humanity beams upon us with affection and approbation…in short, that all is right with the world.
I have come to realize, over the course of several years and many conversations, that this sequential ebb and flow of the emotional tides is not unique to me—rather, it seems to characterize the vast majority of human kind to a greater or lesser degree, especially in our spiritual walks. And I begin to suspect that this is by design.
After all, the facts—the foundational truths upon which our worldview and our lives are constructed—don’t change. Our circumstances might, and our feelings definitely will, but if we act based upon the Biblical truth that we know, and allow what we know to rule our feelings, this creates an emotional maturity and stability that creates a solid foundation for the building of a robust character…
These were the thoughts that were spinning around behind my eyeballs as I drove through the long hours of a frigid winter night…and somewhere around hour twelve of the trip, I was reminded of a passage from The Screwtape Letters in which Lewis offered some characteristically perspicacious insight into the matter. This captures the perspective of a demon writing to his nephew, Screwtape, with some words of advice regarding the best ways in which to destroy the human soul:
“You must have often wondered why the Enemy does not make more use of His power to be sensibly present to human souls in any degree He chooses and at any moment. But you now see that the Irresistible and the Indisputable are the two weapons which the very nature of His scheme forbids Him to use. Merely to override a human will (as His felt presence in any but the faintest and most mitigated degree would certainly do) would be for Him useless. He cannot ravish. He can only woo. For His ignoble idea is to eat the cake and have it; the creatures are to be one with Him, but yet themselves; merely to cancel them, or assimilate them, will not serve. He is prepared to do a little overriding at the beginning. He will set them off with communications of His presence which, though faint, seem great to them, with emotional sweetness, and easy conquest over temptation. But He never allows this state of affairs to last long. Sooner or later He withdraws, if not in fact, at least from their conscious experience, all those supports and incentives. He leaves the creature to stand up on its own legs—to carry out from the will alone duties which have lost all relish.
It is during such trough periods, much more than during the peak periods, that it is growing into the sort of creature He wants it to be. Hence the prayers offered in the state of dryness are those which please Him best…He cannot “tempt” to virtue as we do to vice. He wants them to learn to walk and must therefore take away His hand; and if only the will to walk is really there, He is pleased even with their stumbles.
Do not be deceived, Wormwood. Our cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our Enemy’s will, looks around upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken…and still obeys.” –Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis (p. 39)
Friday, December 17, 2010
It is commonly hypothesized that before setting out on a long and arduous journey to the nether regions of the world, one ought to look over his or her vehicle in order to ensure that all of the parts of aforementioned vehicles are functioning properly and in order.
It was on account of this hypothesis that I found myself at Walmart this morning, hunting up and down the automotive aisle to find windshield wipers to replace the rather dilapidated set which had come with my car.
Now this whole process of thinking about cars and doing things with them required a somewhat different kind of brain power than I am accustomed to using in my little library world, and perhaps this is why I began to feel a bit overheated at some point prior to the beginning of the wiper shopping process, but however that may be, I had decided before entering the store that I no longer needed my coat, so I was traipsing around in my shirtsleeves, bemusedly watching these poor Virginians shiver in the sunny, slushy, sloppy weather.
I found the automotive aisle in Walmart, (this was a somewhat momentous event), and with a great deal of much-appreciated and much-needed phone coaching from my awesome dad, I was eventually successful in selecting two black rather rubbery things which looked wiperesque in nature and were apparently of the appropriate size for my car. Step one complete. Check.
Purchase wiper blades. Check.
Find car in parking lot (why on earth does EVERYONE drive white cars?! Makes this step so confusing!). Check.
I decided to put the new wipers on right there in the parking lot, since the sun was out, and the world was happy, and I…was also happy, mostly because I’d found my car.
I managed to get the old wiper blade off of my vehicle, but the instructions on the back of the new wiper blades were somewhat incomprehensible to me. I’d been standing there for several minutes, fiddling with the new wiper, feeling very blonde and very female, and looking inquisitively at certain aspects of the old one with my head cocked thoughtfully to one side, when a friendly middle-aged black dude strolled up with a confident smile.
“Darlin’, are you havin’ some issues?” he laughed, not even waiting for an answer as he took the wiper blade out of my hand. Apparently he’d been watching me struggle for longer than I knew.
I grinned a little sheepishly, and admitted that I was apparently lacking in many of the basic car skills that every competent woman ought to possess (silently vowing to myself to spend a number of hours in the garage with my dad over Christmas break to remedy these grievous deficiencies). He laughed again, and looked at me sideways as he effortlessly snapped the wiper blade onto my car.
“Are you a college girl?”
I nodded.
“Waell, then, I wouldn’t worry about that too much. In college, all most girls know is gas and go.”
“I, uh, know how to check the oil…?” I mumbled, distracted by his apparent proficiency in changing wiper blades.
“Are you a mechanic?” I asked finally, a wee bit envious of his skill.
“Naw, I’ve just been around, lived some life, you know? You’ll get there.” He laughed again, finishing his installation of the second wiper blade. He grabbed an alcohol wipe from his car then, and carefully explained to me that after installing a new set of blades, one should “wipe the rubber coating” off so the windshield won’t streak the first time you use them. I watched in silent admiration, and listened to everything he said, and nodded appreciatively, and thanked him for his time, and marveled to myself at how nice some people will be to a complete stranger.
“Now honey, you just take these old blades, and you throw ‘em away…and for the love of heaven, put a coat on yourself! And you have a nice day.” He gave me an enthusiastic high five, and with that, he was off, smiling, whistling a little under his breath…leaving me behind with a rather broad smile on my face as well…and an armful of trashed windshield wiper blades.
I love my life.
It was on account of this hypothesis that I found myself at Walmart this morning, hunting up and down the automotive aisle to find windshield wipers to replace the rather dilapidated set which had come with my car.
Now this whole process of thinking about cars and doing things with them required a somewhat different kind of brain power than I am accustomed to using in my little library world, and perhaps this is why I began to feel a bit overheated at some point prior to the beginning of the wiper shopping process, but however that may be, I had decided before entering the store that I no longer needed my coat, so I was traipsing around in my shirtsleeves, bemusedly watching these poor Virginians shiver in the sunny, slushy, sloppy weather.
I found the automotive aisle in Walmart, (this was a somewhat momentous event), and with a great deal of much-appreciated and much-needed phone coaching from my awesome dad, I was eventually successful in selecting two black rather rubbery things which looked wiperesque in nature and were apparently of the appropriate size for my car. Step one complete. Check.
Purchase wiper blades. Check.
Find car in parking lot (why on earth does EVERYONE drive white cars?! Makes this step so confusing!). Check.
I decided to put the new wipers on right there in the parking lot, since the sun was out, and the world was happy, and I…was also happy, mostly because I’d found my car.
I managed to get the old wiper blade off of my vehicle, but the instructions on the back of the new wiper blades were somewhat incomprehensible to me. I’d been standing there for several minutes, fiddling with the new wiper, feeling very blonde and very female, and looking inquisitively at certain aspects of the old one with my head cocked thoughtfully to one side, when a friendly middle-aged black dude strolled up with a confident smile.
“Darlin’, are you havin’ some issues?” he laughed, not even waiting for an answer as he took the wiper blade out of my hand. Apparently he’d been watching me struggle for longer than I knew.
I grinned a little sheepishly, and admitted that I was apparently lacking in many of the basic car skills that every competent woman ought to possess (silently vowing to myself to spend a number of hours in the garage with my dad over Christmas break to remedy these grievous deficiencies). He laughed again, and looked at me sideways as he effortlessly snapped the wiper blade onto my car.
“Are you a college girl?”
I nodded.
“Waell, then, I wouldn’t worry about that too much. In college, all most girls know is gas and go.”
“I, uh, know how to check the oil…?” I mumbled, distracted by his apparent proficiency in changing wiper blades.
“Are you a mechanic?” I asked finally, a wee bit envious of his skill.
“Naw, I’ve just been around, lived some life, you know? You’ll get there.” He laughed again, finishing his installation of the second wiper blade. He grabbed an alcohol wipe from his car then, and carefully explained to me that after installing a new set of blades, one should “wipe the rubber coating” off so the windshield won’t streak the first time you use them. I watched in silent admiration, and listened to everything he said, and nodded appreciatively, and thanked him for his time, and marveled to myself at how nice some people will be to a complete stranger.
“Now honey, you just take these old blades, and you throw ‘em away…and for the love of heaven, put a coat on yourself! And you have a nice day.” He gave me an enthusiastic high five, and with that, he was off, smiling, whistling a little under his breath…leaving me behind with a rather broad smile on my face as well…and an armful of trashed windshield wiper blades.
I love my life.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
This morning I found a box outside my front door…with my name on it. I love it when that happens. It always feels like the beginning of a big mystery to me. Although, the mystery usually ends as soon as I open the box. Whatever.
Using my clever deductive reasoning skills, I gathered—from the return address—that this particular box came from my beloved family. Now, which family members, I still didn’t know. But at least, it was a start, because knowing the home of origin eliminated some billions of other possibilities—as well as decreasing the probability that the box contained explosive devices designed to help me meet my Maker sooner.
Inside the box, there was a letter, well, actually two of them…and a bunch of other stuff. The first letter, which was from my dad, opened as follows:
“Dear Darling Thea,
Mom says I can’t send candy, as you are more practical now and we need to send more practical stuff—don’t know what that has to do with it…”
I laughed. My dad has been sending me massive boxes of candy since I first left for college some three or four years ago. And not just space-filler candy—my dad is one of the best candy shoppers out there, and if he sends you something, it’s gonna be good. In fact, he was the one who single-handedly kept my entire hall supplied with Snickers candy bars during finals week of my first semester freshman year.
I could tell that he was somewhat disappointed that Mom felt I had outgrown the need for candy…I strongly suspect that he used to kind of get excited about the candy shopping thing more than he wants to admit. (I’ll admit that I was always pretty excited to be on the receiving end…it’s like…Christmas. Only you don’t know it coming. Awesome!)
So, partly to be funny, and partly to prove a point, and partly just because he’s random like that, my dad had put together a box of practical things for me. Made. My. Day.
The first thing I pulled out of the box was an MRE…which, I have to admit, is going to be highly practical at some point. Very, very practical. Plus, I’ve never actually HAD an MRE, so I’m pretty pumped about this opportunity to create a new life experience. (Score two for dad!)
Using my clever deductive reasoning skills, I gathered—from the return address—that this particular box came from my beloved family. Now, which family members, I still didn’t know. But at least, it was a start, because knowing the home of origin eliminated some billions of other possibilities—as well as decreasing the probability that the box contained explosive devices designed to help me meet my Maker sooner.
Inside the box, there was a letter, well, actually two of them…and a bunch of other stuff. The first letter, which was from my dad, opened as follows:
“Dear Darling Thea,
Mom says I can’t send candy, as you are more practical now and we need to send more practical stuff—don’t know what that has to do with it…”
I laughed. My dad has been sending me massive boxes of candy since I first left for college some three or four years ago. And not just space-filler candy—my dad is one of the best candy shoppers out there, and if he sends you something, it’s gonna be good. In fact, he was the one who single-handedly kept my entire hall supplied with Snickers candy bars during finals week of my first semester freshman year.
I could tell that he was somewhat disappointed that Mom felt I had outgrown the need for candy…I strongly suspect that he used to kind of get excited about the candy shopping thing more than he wants to admit. (I’ll admit that I was always pretty excited to be on the receiving end…it’s like…Christmas. Only you don’t know it coming. Awesome!)
So, partly to be funny, and partly to prove a point, and partly just because he’s random like that, my dad had put together a box of practical things for me. Made. My. Day.
The first thing I pulled out of the box was an MRE…which, I have to admit, is going to be highly practical at some point. Very, very practical. Plus, I’ve never actually HAD an MRE, so I’m pretty pumped about this opportunity to create a new life experience. (Score two for dad!)
The second thing that tumbled out onto my covers was a number of little boxes. Three of them were tea, and two of them were the same KIND of tea (I think this may be his way of telling me that I’m supposed to acquire an addiction for Sweet & Spicy Good Earth tea), and then, just for good measure, there was a box of hot cocoa mix. Whoa. Again, very, very practical. Not gonna lie, I was feeling pretty impressed by this point about my dad’s ability to pick out practical things. 
The third thing that fell out (and landed on my foot and tried to murder one of my toes) was a little jar of hand cream that I strongly suspect was my mom’s idea. Totally useful. I’m deeply grateful. And again, definitely practical. Good going, guys.
And the fourth and final thing was a little Ziploc bag on which my dad had written “Practical Stuff.” It was packed with gum, and a pen, and GermEx, and toothpaste, and Emergen-C packets, and cough drops, and…dried cranberries? I really laughed then, because I KNOW that that one was assembled just to prove a point to my mom.
And then it was time to go back and do second inspection...after all, what's actually in an MRE? And do I really want to know?
Yeah, you're right. I really don't want to know.
After all, anything that's wrapped in brown plastic and labeled "vegetarian" is sure to be healthy AND tasty, right? Of course right.
Thanks guys. You never cease to amaze me.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
A couple of days ago, a bunch of spontaneous college boys and a couple of their naïve female friends packed into four cars and drove to Devil’s Marble Yard to engage in the age-old pastime of mountain climbing, a somewhat mind-numbing sport that pits man against the unforgiving incline of an apparently never-ending upward slope of earth and rock.
It was a Thursday afternoon of finals week, and I wasn’t sure that I could afford the time—but I reminded myself of the fact that time is a gift which we must invest in memory-making as well as studying, and then came to the conclusion that I couldn’t afford NOT to invest the time wandering around the mountain with this lively group of young people, because who knew when or if the next opportunity would come?
To be honest, this past Thursday, I needed the mountains. There are periods in our lives when we need to climb—to feel our strength draining away into the remorseless stones of a stolid and silent mass of rocky barrenness… to grit our teeth and work until physically we have nothing left to give, and we’re forced to stop and wipe the sweat out of our eyes and listen to the silence and the eerie moaning of the wind, and let the vastness of our surroundings sink in deep and permeate to the very depths of our being…
As I stood alone on the side of the mountain, surrounded by boulders the size of young elephants, there was no one within sight or earshot, and I was reminded of something that Elizabeth Elliot wrote in her book, Passion and Purity. She explained that “waiting silently is the hardest thing of all…the things that we feel most deeply, we ought to learn to be silent about, at least until we have talked them over thoroughly with God.” She’s right…but sometimes holding everything inside requires so much effort that the thoughts you attempt to hold back threaten to strangle you the minute your guard is relaxed even the slightest shade.
For the past two weeks, I’ve been wrestling—almost subconsciously—with an ever-increasing sense of loss. I realized it that day on the mountain…and again today, when it finally got the best of me, and I spent a few bittersweet moments sobbing over a philosophy assignment at my desk.
Why? Because I’m going home in a week. Going home because my little sister’s getting married. And I’m gonna miss her. A lot. Maybe even more than a lot.
All semester, ever since last summer, I’ve been running from the fact that this change was going to become a permanent reality…that eventually, she was going to leave—for good—and start a new life somewhere else. Subconsciously, maybe I thought that if I just kept busy with school, with ministry opportunities, with whatever or whoever would keep me from having time to think, the change would never become permanent. But now that break is less than one week away, the illusion of permanence and stability and changelessness is crumbling rapidly.
I know that when I go home, on some level, it’ll be to say goodbye to her…I know that after this, we won’t see each other nearly as much, won’t talk as often or as long, won’t be close in the same ways that we were…and I know that that’s ok—good, even…probably great, beautiful, and wonderful. But as with most major transitions in life (at least, the ones that I can remember), there’s a keen sense of loss, a dull aching emptiness that you feel in the moment…until it subsides with time, or until something else takes its place.
There will be something that will come to fill the void. I know that, because there always is. It’s the nature of our God to take us, and comfort us, and show us a new aspect of His character and His compassionate heart for mankind in the moments when we are most vulnerable and most needy and most alone... and then He gives us a new task, fills our lives with different people to pour into, and transplants us to give us more room to grow.
He will do all of those things in the next few years, both for Michelle, and for me. There’s a part of me that wishes I could know what that process will look like, but I’ve come to understand that often it’s the process of waiting without knowing that prepares us to better appreciate the gifts that God gives to us in His own perfect timing.
And so I wait. And I promise myself that I will learn to love the waiting, and the uncertainty, and even the pain…because I know that I know, in the deepest, most private corner of my heart, that our God is one who makes all things beautiful in His time…
It was a Thursday afternoon of finals week, and I wasn’t sure that I could afford the time—but I reminded myself of the fact that time is a gift which we must invest in memory-making as well as studying, and then came to the conclusion that I couldn’t afford NOT to invest the time wandering around the mountain with this lively group of young people, because who knew when or if the next opportunity would come?
To be honest, this past Thursday, I needed the mountains. There are periods in our lives when we need to climb—to feel our strength draining away into the remorseless stones of a stolid and silent mass of rocky barrenness… to grit our teeth and work until physically we have nothing left to give, and we’re forced to stop and wipe the sweat out of our eyes and listen to the silence and the eerie moaning of the wind, and let the vastness of our surroundings sink in deep and permeate to the very depths of our being…
As I stood alone on the side of the mountain, surrounded by boulders the size of young elephants, there was no one within sight or earshot, and I was reminded of something that Elizabeth Elliot wrote in her book, Passion and Purity. She explained that “waiting silently is the hardest thing of all…the things that we feel most deeply, we ought to learn to be silent about, at least until we have talked them over thoroughly with God.” She’s right…but sometimes holding everything inside requires so much effort that the thoughts you attempt to hold back threaten to strangle you the minute your guard is relaxed even the slightest shade.
For the past two weeks, I’ve been wrestling—almost subconsciously—with an ever-increasing sense of loss. I realized it that day on the mountain…and again today, when it finally got the best of me, and I spent a few bittersweet moments sobbing over a philosophy assignment at my desk.
Why? Because I’m going home in a week. Going home because my little sister’s getting married. And I’m gonna miss her. A lot. Maybe even more than a lot.
All semester, ever since last summer, I’ve been running from the fact that this change was going to become a permanent reality…that eventually, she was going to leave—for good—and start a new life somewhere else. Subconsciously, maybe I thought that if I just kept busy with school, with ministry opportunities, with whatever or whoever would keep me from having time to think, the change would never become permanent. But now that break is less than one week away, the illusion of permanence and stability and changelessness is crumbling rapidly.
I know that when I go home, on some level, it’ll be to say goodbye to her…I know that after this, we won’t see each other nearly as much, won’t talk as often or as long, won’t be close in the same ways that we were…and I know that that’s ok—good, even…probably great, beautiful, and wonderful. But as with most major transitions in life (at least, the ones that I can remember), there’s a keen sense of loss, a dull aching emptiness that you feel in the moment…until it subsides with time, or until something else takes its place.
There will be something that will come to fill the void. I know that, because there always is. It’s the nature of our God to take us, and comfort us, and show us a new aspect of His character and His compassionate heart for mankind in the moments when we are most vulnerable and most needy and most alone... and then He gives us a new task, fills our lives with different people to pour into, and transplants us to give us more room to grow.
He will do all of those things in the next few years, both for Michelle, and for me. There’s a part of me that wishes I could know what that process will look like, but I’ve come to understand that often it’s the process of waiting without knowing that prepares us to better appreciate the gifts that God gives to us in His own perfect timing.
And so I wait. And I promise myself that I will learn to love the waiting, and the uncertainty, and even the pain…because I know that I know, in the deepest, most private corner of my heart, that our God is one who makes all things beautiful in His time…
Had a conversation in the library with a friend named Darryl who…frequently sees things from a different perspective than I do.
We were talking about dating relationships, because Darryl has a rather pessimistic outlook on life and relationships and many things happy. (He has just a bit of an argumentative streak, too…meaning most of our conversations would look like arguments to the average observer).
I don’t remember how it came up, but I told him at one point in the conversation that I hoped he married someone who was super sweet and would never argue with him. His face registered shock, and then deep dismay.
“Who’d wanna marry someone they couldn’t fight with?!” he protested. “That would be BORING.”
“I think it’d be good for your character,” I said absent-mindedly, not really watching his face.
“Fine!” he fumed, "I hope that you marry someone who will never fight with YOU either, then!”
“I hope so too!” I said, laughing.
Darryl was seriously put out by this point.
“Gosh!” he spluttered, “that’s the most selfish thing I’ve ever heard IN. MY. LIFE.” And with that he picked up his book bag and stormed out of the library…
I was laughing too hard to really notice where he went…
We were talking about dating relationships, because Darryl has a rather pessimistic outlook on life and relationships and many things happy. (He has just a bit of an argumentative streak, too…meaning most of our conversations would look like arguments to the average observer).
I don’t remember how it came up, but I told him at one point in the conversation that I hoped he married someone who was super sweet and would never argue with him. His face registered shock, and then deep dismay.
“Who’d wanna marry someone they couldn’t fight with?!” he protested. “That would be BORING.”
“I think it’d be good for your character,” I said absent-mindedly, not really watching his face.
“Fine!” he fumed, "I hope that you marry someone who will never fight with YOU either, then!”
“I hope so too!” I said, laughing.
Darryl was seriously put out by this point.
“Gosh!” he spluttered, “that’s the most selfish thing I’ve ever heard IN. MY. LIFE.” And with that he picked up his book bag and stormed out of the library…
I was laughing too hard to really notice where he went…
Last night, I had the privilege of going to a Christmas party hosted by one of my lovely nursing professors and her equally lovely family.
It seemed as though a lot of people must have been going to Christmas parties last night, because the roads were crazy…as in, really crazy. I almost felt like I was driving in D.C., except in D.C., there would probably have been more Smart cars weaving maniacally in and out of traffic. So I was glad that I was in Lynchburg.
I was on the phone with my sweet little mother as I drove, which may not have been helping my already-directionally challenged self to navigate to this new and unknown location. I was armed with mapquest directions, however, so I felt somewhat confident in my ability to eventually find my way from point A to point B.
During a particularly intense point in the conversation with my mom, I had come to the point where apparently I needed to take a right on Cottontown road. I saw a sign up ahead that read “Cotton…” something, but a telephone pole was obscuring the second half of the word. I assumed, and took a right.
It was one of those roads that started out ok…and then there was a railroad track…and after that, the road got really bad rather quickly. I have never seen such large potholes. Neither has my car, apparently, for a few moments later, I felt the bottom of the car hit the top of the earth’s surface with a rather sickeningly-solid, grinding thud.
Yeah. That…wasn’t my road. It was Cottonwood road. Very crumby road. I would recommend you don’t take it unless you’re riding a fourwheeler, or a camel, or something.
I found the right road, found the right house, met some awesome people, had a lot of fun watching Elf with them, heard their stories from the seasons of yesteryear, enjoyed some really incredible culinary delicacies, and finally decided that I had better see myself off to home before the clock struck midnight.
My instructor’s adorable little eleven-year-old daughter, Katie, and her twelve-year-old son, Jessie (who is every inch a boy, and one of the most hilarious little dudes I have ever met) had been conversing with us off and on throughout the evening, and now as I stood at the bottom of the staircase buttoning my coat, Katie was standing on the stairs just above me, smiling almost wistfully.
“Thank you for coming,” she said in her sweet little girl voice, “I’m really glad you came. I enjoyed it.” And she meant it. And I was touched, and wanted to grab her up in a big hug…I remember what it was like when I was that age, but I doubt that I was half so charming as little Katie. (She, like her brother, is possessed of social graces far beyond her years).
I went with Katie into the kitchen to say goodbye to my gracious hosts and some of the other Liberty faculty members in attendance at the party. As we exchanged hugs and Christmas blessings, one of nursing faculty smilingly shared a couple words of encouragement that brought a smile to my own face, and a bigger one to my heart. (We forget that we can be generous with our words, but in fact, our praise and affirmation is perhaps the single biggest gift that we can give on a consistent basis).
Maybe my head was a little off as I left, or maybe I’m just still very much in need of practice with reading directions in reverse, but…I got lost on the way home. Like, really lost. As in, stop-for-directions lost. As in, had been driving somewhat aimlessly for thirty minutes lost.
It was almost eleven o’clock on a Friday night as I pulled up in front of one of the few houses on the street that had its lights on and still looked somewhat alive.
I cringed as I rang the doorbell, hoping that the person inside was not the frazzled mother of a colicky baby that I’d just wakened with the bell.
There were voices moving around somewhere upstairs…happy sounding voices full of life and energy, which was especially impressive given the lateness of the hour.
The person who eventually came to the door was a pudgy, cute-as-a-button little black girl who peered curiously out the window of the door without seeing me. She opened the door then, and leaned out, looking first to the right, and then to the left. As she turned to the left, she caught sight of me standing there for the first time.
I’m not sure what she expected, but I was apparently not it. She jumped six inches up and possibly as many more to each side, and her heart visibly leaped into her throat from its former perch inside of her chest. Her beautiful brown eyes got wide as saucers, and a shrieking gasp burst from her mouth as she clutched the door frame with both hands and stared for a wide-eyed moment.
I smiled what I hoped was a reassuring smile, explained my predicament, and asked if her mom or dad were around to give me some pointers as to how to get back into Lynchburg.
She smiled proudly then, tossing her little head with its proliferation of braids, all of which ended neatly in a series of brightly colored plastic beads.
“Oh, AH can tell you THAAT,” she drawled in a friendly little accent, “You just git raaght on this road here, and ya fallow all the cuurves, and you don’t tuuuurn, and then, yew’ll git to the CVS, and that’s Lynchburg.”
I assured her that she had been most helpful, and that I was grateful. And then I left thinking “I’ve been all the way to the end of this road. It ends in a cornfield…”
But I resolved to find the CVS of which she spoke, regardless of how many turns it took, and eventually, I found it—and I smiled, remembering how much I’d loved to give directions when I was a kid about the same age as my little friend with the braids…like her, I usually managed to leave out most of the necessary turns, but if you say something confidently enough with volume and conviction, it doesn’t really matter, because people believe you anyway.
There were several things for which I was very thankful as I drove home last night. I was thankful for my mom, whose words of wisdom have very much blessed my heart and straightened my thinking during this past semester. I was also thankful to be back on familiar territory, headed towards a known location—that was awesome.
I was thankful too, for children. For little boys. For little girls. For the fact that their young hearts are often so tender, that they’re so gifted as listeners, as empathizers—so much more than we often give them credit for. Inside of each one of them lives a man or a woman who will one day walk a path very different than what we can today imagine for them…but I was challenged last night to remember always to treat each little one as an individual, to converse with them in such a way that they know that they matter to me…
You never really know what children remember from the social interactions they have, but I know that when I was younger, before I hit my teen years, there were a couple of college kids who took it into their heads to take an interest in me as an individual…and it changed my life. And somehow, in some way, I wanna pass that on…not just to kids, because I guess we need to be relating to every individual in our lives as though they matter, as though we genuinely care…but I want to be especially aware of it when I’m relating to kids. Because they do matter…so much more than they know.
It seemed as though a lot of people must have been going to Christmas parties last night, because the roads were crazy…as in, really crazy. I almost felt like I was driving in D.C., except in D.C., there would probably have been more Smart cars weaving maniacally in and out of traffic. So I was glad that I was in Lynchburg.
I was on the phone with my sweet little mother as I drove, which may not have been helping my already-directionally challenged self to navigate to this new and unknown location. I was armed with mapquest directions, however, so I felt somewhat confident in my ability to eventually find my way from point A to point B.
During a particularly intense point in the conversation with my mom, I had come to the point where apparently I needed to take a right on Cottontown road. I saw a sign up ahead that read “Cotton…” something, but a telephone pole was obscuring the second half of the word. I assumed, and took a right.
It was one of those roads that started out ok…and then there was a railroad track…and after that, the road got really bad rather quickly. I have never seen such large potholes. Neither has my car, apparently, for a few moments later, I felt the bottom of the car hit the top of the earth’s surface with a rather sickeningly-solid, grinding thud.
Yeah. That…wasn’t my road. It was Cottonwood road. Very crumby road. I would recommend you don’t take it unless you’re riding a fourwheeler, or a camel, or something.
I found the right road, found the right house, met some awesome people, had a lot of fun watching Elf with them, heard their stories from the seasons of yesteryear, enjoyed some really incredible culinary delicacies, and finally decided that I had better see myself off to home before the clock struck midnight.
My instructor’s adorable little eleven-year-old daughter, Katie, and her twelve-year-old son, Jessie (who is every inch a boy, and one of the most hilarious little dudes I have ever met) had been conversing with us off and on throughout the evening, and now as I stood at the bottom of the staircase buttoning my coat, Katie was standing on the stairs just above me, smiling almost wistfully.
“Thank you for coming,” she said in her sweet little girl voice, “I’m really glad you came. I enjoyed it.” And she meant it. And I was touched, and wanted to grab her up in a big hug…I remember what it was like when I was that age, but I doubt that I was half so charming as little Katie. (She, like her brother, is possessed of social graces far beyond her years).
I went with Katie into the kitchen to say goodbye to my gracious hosts and some of the other Liberty faculty members in attendance at the party. As we exchanged hugs and Christmas blessings, one of nursing faculty smilingly shared a couple words of encouragement that brought a smile to my own face, and a bigger one to my heart. (We forget that we can be generous with our words, but in fact, our praise and affirmation is perhaps the single biggest gift that we can give on a consistent basis).
Maybe my head was a little off as I left, or maybe I’m just still very much in need of practice with reading directions in reverse, but…I got lost on the way home. Like, really lost. As in, stop-for-directions lost. As in, had been driving somewhat aimlessly for thirty minutes lost.
It was almost eleven o’clock on a Friday night as I pulled up in front of one of the few houses on the street that had its lights on and still looked somewhat alive.
I cringed as I rang the doorbell, hoping that the person inside was not the frazzled mother of a colicky baby that I’d just wakened with the bell.
There were voices moving around somewhere upstairs…happy sounding voices full of life and energy, which was especially impressive given the lateness of the hour.
The person who eventually came to the door was a pudgy, cute-as-a-button little black girl who peered curiously out the window of the door without seeing me. She opened the door then, and leaned out, looking first to the right, and then to the left. As she turned to the left, she caught sight of me standing there for the first time.
I’m not sure what she expected, but I was apparently not it. She jumped six inches up and possibly as many more to each side, and her heart visibly leaped into her throat from its former perch inside of her chest. Her beautiful brown eyes got wide as saucers, and a shrieking gasp burst from her mouth as she clutched the door frame with both hands and stared for a wide-eyed moment.
I smiled what I hoped was a reassuring smile, explained my predicament, and asked if her mom or dad were around to give me some pointers as to how to get back into Lynchburg.
She smiled proudly then, tossing her little head with its proliferation of braids, all of which ended neatly in a series of brightly colored plastic beads.
“Oh, AH can tell you THAAT,” she drawled in a friendly little accent, “You just git raaght on this road here, and ya fallow all the cuurves, and you don’t tuuuurn, and then, yew’ll git to the CVS, and that’s Lynchburg.”
I assured her that she had been most helpful, and that I was grateful. And then I left thinking “I’ve been all the way to the end of this road. It ends in a cornfield…”
But I resolved to find the CVS of which she spoke, regardless of how many turns it took, and eventually, I found it—and I smiled, remembering how much I’d loved to give directions when I was a kid about the same age as my little friend with the braids…like her, I usually managed to leave out most of the necessary turns, but if you say something confidently enough with volume and conviction, it doesn’t really matter, because people believe you anyway.
There were several things for which I was very thankful as I drove home last night. I was thankful for my mom, whose words of wisdom have very much blessed my heart and straightened my thinking during this past semester. I was also thankful to be back on familiar territory, headed towards a known location—that was awesome.
I was thankful too, for children. For little boys. For little girls. For the fact that their young hearts are often so tender, that they’re so gifted as listeners, as empathizers—so much more than we often give them credit for. Inside of each one of them lives a man or a woman who will one day walk a path very different than what we can today imagine for them…but I was challenged last night to remember always to treat each little one as an individual, to converse with them in such a way that they know that they matter to me…
You never really know what children remember from the social interactions they have, but I know that when I was younger, before I hit my teen years, there were a couple of college kids who took it into their heads to take an interest in me as an individual…and it changed my life. And somehow, in some way, I wanna pass that on…not just to kids, because I guess we need to be relating to every individual in our lives as though they matter, as though we genuinely care…but I want to be especially aware of it when I’m relating to kids. Because they do matter…so much more than they know.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Sometimes, in the craziness of daily life, the confusion of the inner struggle becomes a dull roar, and the voice of reason and truth becomes very difficult to hear in the midst of the chaos. Today I had to ask myself why it is that, knowing all that we know, we still wrestle with and fight against the truth that God brings to our attention. Why is it often times so difficult to submit to and be changed by what we know to be right?
Perhaps because we so quickly forget that to refuse to submit to God's draw on our lives is infinitely more painful and significantly less profitable in the long run. Perhaps because I lose sight of who it is that I'm serving...or where it is that my focus must be consistently fixed.
Today, I am reminded again of how blessed I am to have mentors in my life who point out to me the areas in which I'm refusing to submit to the truth of what I know, the ways in which I'm not being consistent to the worldview I claim to espouse...
As I ponder tonight, I realize yet again that while truth is sometimes painful, it is also healing, purifying, and helpful.
Kinda like that grape-flavored cough/cold medicine that my parents used to give us when we had stuffy noses...tastes disgusting at the time, but helpful later on...yeah. Perspective. Very important thing in life. ;-)
Perhaps because we so quickly forget that to refuse to submit to God's draw on our lives is infinitely more painful and significantly less profitable in the long run. Perhaps because I lose sight of who it is that I'm serving...or where it is that my focus must be consistently fixed.
Today, I am reminded again of how blessed I am to have mentors in my life who point out to me the areas in which I'm refusing to submit to the truth of what I know, the ways in which I'm not being consistent to the worldview I claim to espouse...
As I ponder tonight, I realize yet again that while truth is sometimes painful, it is also healing, purifying, and helpful.
Kinda like that grape-flavored cough/cold medicine that my parents used to give us when we had stuffy noses...tastes disgusting at the time, but helpful later on...yeah. Perspective. Very important thing in life. ;-)
Friday, December 3, 2010
There were two note-worthy experiences that occurred over Thanksgiving break which were memorable in…very different ways than the rest of the break.
The first occurred before I even got home. You see, I’m currently enrolled in an online philosophy course, and since it’s only an 8-week course, it doesn’t break for holidays. Thus, there were assignments due over the week of Thanksgiving, and so I decided that my time in the airport would be well-spent if I used it to read for my philosophy class (we read a book every week…more reading than I’ve done in quite some time for one class, but…enriching, doubtless).
So I was reading a fascinating book about the art of Metaphysics while I sat at my gate. I would glance at my watch every little while to see how close my plane was to departure. I remember at one point looking up and thinking, “Odd. Why are they not boarding? It’s definitely time for them to be boarding.” I decided—in a rather naïve display of lack of airport savvy—to go check one of the flight screens in the hall, to see if the gate had possibly been switched without them announcing it.
The gate hadn’t been switched. The screen read that my flight was “boarding.” Oh. Ok. By the time I got back to the gate, I could see the plane slowly backing away, headed towards the runway. Fail.
First time I’ve ever missed a flight because I was reading in the airport. I groaned inwardly as I rescheduled for a flight that left seven hours later, realizing that my five siblings would never pass up such a prime opportunity to tease their oldest sister about acting blonde. (They didn’t, either). But I was grateful that there WAS another flight going to Wisconsin that day—would have been a bit more of a bummer if missing the first flight would have meant spending the night in the airport.
The second incident occurred the morning after we got back (my poor father drove until nearly two in the morning to get us both home from Milwaukee that night in time for my sister’s bridal shower the next morning…he was SOOO wiped)
When we got home at almost two, several of my family members were still awake—plus my sister’s fiancé was over, and his younger brother had tagged along. Oh goodness. A party. I just love those!
I’d only managed to get about four hours of sleep the night before, however, and thus, despite my desire to enjoy the company of my long-lost family, I was shortly forced to go to bed by my circadian rhythms and my concerned mother.
I remembered to take out my contacts. I was rather proud of myself. Since approximately half the herd at the home place has or wears contacts, there are bottles of contact solution all over the place, and nobody’s terribly possessive of any of them, so you just grab the closest one when you happen to be in need of contact solution. Which is exactly what I did. I didn’t really look at the bottle that closely, because all of the bottles, historically, have been the same stuff…normal saline solution that you can use as eye drops or contact solution or spider drowner, as the case may be.
Well, unbeknownst to my not-quite-coherent self, this bottle was…different. I didn’t find that out until the next morning, when I put my left contact in and experienced an odd burning sensation unlike anything I’ve ever experienced in the past (or hope to experience in the future). That was possibly the fastest I’ve ever removed a contact.
I thought to myself that I must have somehow still had shampoo on my hands from showering, or something, so I washed my hands veeeery thoroughly, and splashed some water into the eye to try to stop the burning, and waited for the little fellow to calm down and chill out…which he eventually did.
Michelle came in to stand beside me at the bathroom sink right about then, and instantly noticed my dilemma. She explained to me that that particular bottle of solution was peroxide-based and acidic, and thus, contacts must be thoroughly rinsed in regular solution prior to insertion. Um, thanks. I appreciate that tidbit. You have no idea how much.
So the second time, being one of those individuals who attempts to learn from previous errors, I rinsed the contact in regular solution…and put it in.
Ok, so it didn’t burn as bad…but it still burned. Quite a bit. So that contact just went into the garbage, and I opened a new set.
The eye, however, was irritated and watering for the rest of the day. Michelle had a bridal shower that morning, as I stated, however, and I had been asked to MC, so there was really nothing for it, I thought, but to just suck it up and go and pretend the eye would recover if I ignored it long enough (I am told that this is classic nurse thinking, for those of you who may have been wondering).
It was a lovely shower, and we had a lot of fun eating, and singing, and crying, and laughing, and watching Michelle and Joel open gifts, and for me, it was an opportunity to meet people that I’d not seen in over two years, which was special.
By the end of the shower, it was early afternoon, and the eye had gotten progressively worse to the point where I could only squint out of it. It had been watering away like an Artesian dribbler all morning, and by one o’clock, it had swollen almost completely shut and wasn’t overly comfortable.
My Dad is a wonderful, merciful, compassionate man, and thus it was that when he came to the shower towards the end to help with clean up, or whatever (I confess I was a little out of it by this point), he decided that he and I should just go home.
I thought maybe if I took a nap, the eye would miraculously get better. So I took a nap. And when I woke up, the eye was swollen completely shut and I could hardly see anything out of the other one either. Fail.
And so we decided that perhaps, we should have someone medically trained take a look at it. The only thing open that night was the emergency room, so…we went to the ER.
I was holding a washcloth over one eye, and the woman behind the desk looked at me with concern. “What do you have in that eye?” she asked. The look on her face suggested to me that she was expecting to see a knife protruding from the globe of my eye when I removed the washcloth. I was oh-so-tempted to say something like “well, my little nephew and I were fighting with forks at the dinner table…” but sometimes, you realize that the situation is just not appropriate. So I told her it was a chemical burn, and Dad showed her the bottle of contact solution, which he had brought along for show-and-tell.
After a lovely visit with my dad in the waiting room, a man in beautiful blue scrubs ushered me to a sterile-looking back room and asked me to please sit in the funny looking chair in the middle. He was a third-year resident named Ken Ugalali, or something like that…I think perhaps he was Kenyan. Whatever he was, he was certainly quite amusing to me that night. He towered above me, topping off at about 6’6”. Looking down with his black face full of deep concern, he asked what I had gotten in my eye. I told him the story, and handed him the bottle of contact solution.
He turned it over and over in his huge hands, reading the list of active ingredients.
“Number one in comfort,” he read slowly, reading the label on the front. He looked towards me. “Well, not for YOU,” he noted matter-of-factly. I cracked up.
Another doctor burst through the door at that point. He needed supplies from our room, and, while apologizing for his intrusion, he headed towards the medicine cabinet on the back wall to get what he needed.
“Oh, it’s quite alright,” I said, “We welcome any and all visitors. Thank you so much for stopping in!” He looked a little bit confused, and then he kinda laughed, and said he’d never heard that before.
Ken Ugalali wanted to examine my eye, so he had me sit opposite one of those big ophthalmoscopic machines like you find at an eye examination place. He sat on the other side of it, and tried to figure out how to turn it on.
I confess, I was very much amused by the process. He flipped a few switches, and then smacked it with his hand.
“Aw,” he grumbled, “it never works for me. And then the other guys come in, and it turns right on!” He smacked it again with his palm, and then started fiddling nervously with a bunch of knobs whose function he clearly didn’t quite understand.
“Maybe if you flip that switch right there?” I offered. He flipped it, and a few others, and eventually a light went on.
“Good job!” I said. “It’s working.” He grinned proudly, and nodded, and if he’d been a fellow-nursing student, I would have high-fived him. This medicine stuff is so much more complicated than people realize, you see.
He needed to look at my eye, but the eye was swollen shut. This posed a problem, one which he was unsure of how to fix. He took a very long q-tip, and poked at my eyelid, trying to get it to stay open. Not so much working. (I really wanted to suggest to him that we just use a toothpick to prop it open, but I was afraid he might not understand that I was joking).
Finally, looking very uncomfortable, he decided to just use his thumb to hold the eye open. I was laughing really hard on the inside by this point.
After completing his examination, he went to get his senior doctor to verify his findings (I actually am not sure if he found anything…but he gets props for doing the examination in my book).
The senior doctor came breezing in and did the same examination all over again. The look on Ken’s face was precious when the senior doctor reached out without hesitation to hold the eye open with his thumb. That time I laughed out loud.
Eventually, they reached the conclusion that I had a chemical burn of the cornea, and after irrigating the eye with two liters of saline solution, they decided that I could go home.
I was completely soaked at that point, because the saline had all kind of run down the back of my neck rather than running out into the little tray that they put under my head. It was really cold that night, snowing outside, and I was wearing about five layers, so I decided to just take some of them off before I put on my coat.
The attending nurse was ok when I pulled off the hoodie and said I didn’t need to be wearing a soaked sweater. Then I decided I didn’t need to be wearing a soaked shirt, either, so I whipped it off.
His face registered shock. “How many layers do you have ON?” he asked. I just laughed, and said probably more than the average person, cuz I’m still not used to Wisconsin frigidity. He left shaking his head. He’ll recover. And so did I. So thankful for the fact that corneas mend themselves rather rapidly.
The first occurred before I even got home. You see, I’m currently enrolled in an online philosophy course, and since it’s only an 8-week course, it doesn’t break for holidays. Thus, there were assignments due over the week of Thanksgiving, and so I decided that my time in the airport would be well-spent if I used it to read for my philosophy class (we read a book every week…more reading than I’ve done in quite some time for one class, but…enriching, doubtless).
So I was reading a fascinating book about the art of Metaphysics while I sat at my gate. I would glance at my watch every little while to see how close my plane was to departure. I remember at one point looking up and thinking, “Odd. Why are they not boarding? It’s definitely time for them to be boarding.” I decided—in a rather naïve display of lack of airport savvy—to go check one of the flight screens in the hall, to see if the gate had possibly been switched without them announcing it.
The gate hadn’t been switched. The screen read that my flight was “boarding.” Oh. Ok. By the time I got back to the gate, I could see the plane slowly backing away, headed towards the runway. Fail.
First time I’ve ever missed a flight because I was reading in the airport. I groaned inwardly as I rescheduled for a flight that left seven hours later, realizing that my five siblings would never pass up such a prime opportunity to tease their oldest sister about acting blonde. (They didn’t, either). But I was grateful that there WAS another flight going to Wisconsin that day—would have been a bit more of a bummer if missing the first flight would have meant spending the night in the airport.
The second incident occurred the morning after we got back (my poor father drove until nearly two in the morning to get us both home from Milwaukee that night in time for my sister’s bridal shower the next morning…he was SOOO wiped)
When we got home at almost two, several of my family members were still awake—plus my sister’s fiancé was over, and his younger brother had tagged along. Oh goodness. A party. I just love those!
I’d only managed to get about four hours of sleep the night before, however, and thus, despite my desire to enjoy the company of my long-lost family, I was shortly forced to go to bed by my circadian rhythms and my concerned mother.
I remembered to take out my contacts. I was rather proud of myself. Since approximately half the herd at the home place has or wears contacts, there are bottles of contact solution all over the place, and nobody’s terribly possessive of any of them, so you just grab the closest one when you happen to be in need of contact solution. Which is exactly what I did. I didn’t really look at the bottle that closely, because all of the bottles, historically, have been the same stuff…normal saline solution that you can use as eye drops or contact solution or spider drowner, as the case may be.
Well, unbeknownst to my not-quite-coherent self, this bottle was…different. I didn’t find that out until the next morning, when I put my left contact in and experienced an odd burning sensation unlike anything I’ve ever experienced in the past (or hope to experience in the future). That was possibly the fastest I’ve ever removed a contact.
I thought to myself that I must have somehow still had shampoo on my hands from showering, or something, so I washed my hands veeeery thoroughly, and splashed some water into the eye to try to stop the burning, and waited for the little fellow to calm down and chill out…which he eventually did.
Michelle came in to stand beside me at the bathroom sink right about then, and instantly noticed my dilemma. She explained to me that that particular bottle of solution was peroxide-based and acidic, and thus, contacts must be thoroughly rinsed in regular solution prior to insertion. Um, thanks. I appreciate that tidbit. You have no idea how much.
So the second time, being one of those individuals who attempts to learn from previous errors, I rinsed the contact in regular solution…and put it in.
Ok, so it didn’t burn as bad…but it still burned. Quite a bit. So that contact just went into the garbage, and I opened a new set.
The eye, however, was irritated and watering for the rest of the day. Michelle had a bridal shower that morning, as I stated, however, and I had been asked to MC, so there was really nothing for it, I thought, but to just suck it up and go and pretend the eye would recover if I ignored it long enough (I am told that this is classic nurse thinking, for those of you who may have been wondering).
It was a lovely shower, and we had a lot of fun eating, and singing, and crying, and laughing, and watching Michelle and Joel open gifts, and for me, it was an opportunity to meet people that I’d not seen in over two years, which was special.
By the end of the shower, it was early afternoon, and the eye had gotten progressively worse to the point where I could only squint out of it. It had been watering away like an Artesian dribbler all morning, and by one o’clock, it had swollen almost completely shut and wasn’t overly comfortable.
My Dad is a wonderful, merciful, compassionate man, and thus it was that when he came to the shower towards the end to help with clean up, or whatever (I confess I was a little out of it by this point), he decided that he and I should just go home.
I thought maybe if I took a nap, the eye would miraculously get better. So I took a nap. And when I woke up, the eye was swollen completely shut and I could hardly see anything out of the other one either. Fail.
And so we decided that perhaps, we should have someone medically trained take a look at it. The only thing open that night was the emergency room, so…we went to the ER.
I was holding a washcloth over one eye, and the woman behind the desk looked at me with concern. “What do you have in that eye?” she asked. The look on her face suggested to me that she was expecting to see a knife protruding from the globe of my eye when I removed the washcloth. I was oh-so-tempted to say something like “well, my little nephew and I were fighting with forks at the dinner table…” but sometimes, you realize that the situation is just not appropriate. So I told her it was a chemical burn, and Dad showed her the bottle of contact solution, which he had brought along for show-and-tell.
After a lovely visit with my dad in the waiting room, a man in beautiful blue scrubs ushered me to a sterile-looking back room and asked me to please sit in the funny looking chair in the middle. He was a third-year resident named Ken Ugalali, or something like that…I think perhaps he was Kenyan. Whatever he was, he was certainly quite amusing to me that night. He towered above me, topping off at about 6’6”. Looking down with his black face full of deep concern, he asked what I had gotten in my eye. I told him the story, and handed him the bottle of contact solution.
He turned it over and over in his huge hands, reading the list of active ingredients.
“Number one in comfort,” he read slowly, reading the label on the front. He looked towards me. “Well, not for YOU,” he noted matter-of-factly. I cracked up.
Another doctor burst through the door at that point. He needed supplies from our room, and, while apologizing for his intrusion, he headed towards the medicine cabinet on the back wall to get what he needed.
“Oh, it’s quite alright,” I said, “We welcome any and all visitors. Thank you so much for stopping in!” He looked a little bit confused, and then he kinda laughed, and said he’d never heard that before.
Ken Ugalali wanted to examine my eye, so he had me sit opposite one of those big ophthalmoscopic machines like you find at an eye examination place. He sat on the other side of it, and tried to figure out how to turn it on.
I confess, I was very much amused by the process. He flipped a few switches, and then smacked it with his hand.
“Aw,” he grumbled, “it never works for me. And then the other guys come in, and it turns right on!” He smacked it again with his palm, and then started fiddling nervously with a bunch of knobs whose function he clearly didn’t quite understand.
“Maybe if you flip that switch right there?” I offered. He flipped it, and a few others, and eventually a light went on.
“Good job!” I said. “It’s working.” He grinned proudly, and nodded, and if he’d been a fellow-nursing student, I would have high-fived him. This medicine stuff is so much more complicated than people realize, you see.
He needed to look at my eye, but the eye was swollen shut. This posed a problem, one which he was unsure of how to fix. He took a very long q-tip, and poked at my eyelid, trying to get it to stay open. Not so much working. (I really wanted to suggest to him that we just use a toothpick to prop it open, but I was afraid he might not understand that I was joking).
Finally, looking very uncomfortable, he decided to just use his thumb to hold the eye open. I was laughing really hard on the inside by this point.
After completing his examination, he went to get his senior doctor to verify his findings (I actually am not sure if he found anything…but he gets props for doing the examination in my book).
The senior doctor came breezing in and did the same examination all over again. The look on Ken’s face was precious when the senior doctor reached out without hesitation to hold the eye open with his thumb. That time I laughed out loud.
Eventually, they reached the conclusion that I had a chemical burn of the cornea, and after irrigating the eye with two liters of saline solution, they decided that I could go home.
I was completely soaked at that point, because the saline had all kind of run down the back of my neck rather than running out into the little tray that they put under my head. It was really cold that night, snowing outside, and I was wearing about five layers, so I decided to just take some of them off before I put on my coat.
The attending nurse was ok when I pulled off the hoodie and said I didn’t need to be wearing a soaked sweater. Then I decided I didn’t need to be wearing a soaked shirt, either, so I whipped it off.
His face registered shock. “How many layers do you have ON?” he asked. I just laughed, and said probably more than the average person, cuz I’m still not used to Wisconsin frigidity. He left shaking his head. He’ll recover. And so did I. So thankful for the fact that corneas mend themselves rather rapidly.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
You know how sometimes the cleaning frenzy strikes people, and they find themselves unable to rest, chew gum, or do homework until everything within the line of sight is spotless and neatly arranged in symmetrical patterns? Yeah. I suffered an attack of I-must-cleanitis two days ago, for no particular reason that I could identify upon much reflection.
This is why my room is now spotless, and, secondarily, why I am unable to find half of the items I’m accustomed to using on a daily basis. Fail.
This is why my room is now spotless, and, secondarily, why I am unable to find half of the items I’m accustomed to using on a daily basis. Fail.
I met an adorable little dude in the library a few weeks ago. On that particular night, he was working feverishly on a massive research paper covering the historical development of certain doctrines within the church—apparently this brain exercise is part of the degree completion plan for a Master of Divinity program.
Now, there are lots of adorable little men and women who work feverishly in the library on a regular basis. This is hardly outside the realm of the normal and expected. What was particularly striking about this little fellow, however, was the fact that his dad was working with him, helping him to edit the paper, and as they worked, they were conversing together in low tones, sometimes even bantering back and forth. I was intrigued.
I was working on a paper myself that night, but when the little dude took a quick water fountain break, I took the opportunity to strike up a quick conversation with his dad. I’d assumed that his dad must be a pastor, if he was helping him with the paper, but not so much—Little Man’s dad smiled at my assumption, and informed me that he was, in fact, an engineer, qualified to edit papers simply by virtue of the fact that he had written and read so many of them himself. He told me also that his son was an undergrad student, that he was enrolled in a Master of Divinity program online through another university, and that this massive paper was due at midnight (it was about 10:30 at this point). I was impressed that Little Man would enroll fulltime at two different schools, but he returned from the fountain just then to resume frantic work upon his paper, so that was the end of the conversation.
I’d mostly forgotten about Little Man until I bumped into him (not quite literally) outside the elevator yesterday. He has a full head of intensely black hair, with large black eyes that are equally intense and appear to be always observing. He’s a rather quiet sort of fellow, and thus, when I nodded in his direction, smiled, and said, “Oh hi!” he simply gave me a puzzled look, and said nothing. Apparently he was quite positive that I couldn’t have been speaking to him, or else he was secretly wondering whether I was a lunatic (in which case, he may also have been wondering if he should run in the opposite direction very quickly while screaming for assistance).
He did neither, however, and so we stood in very awkward silence for a long second, and then I laughed, and explained to him where we’d met before, and asked about his paper, and how it had turned out. His face lit up with recognition then (much to my relief—it would have been excruciatingly awkward and irresistibly funny otherwise), and I realized that perhaps his silence was simply the result of a little mind trying desperately to remember where this tall strange person would know him from.
He politely introduced himself, began talking animatedly about the paper, and answered a few questions about his student status. He told me bits and pieces about what it was like to be a commuter student, and how, although his sister is older, he’s the one who has the car—he grinned a little when he said that, shrugged, and said that maybe it was luck (or perhaps a state of affairs decided by virtue of the fact that he possesses a Y chromosome, but I didn’t ask). And then we were at my classroom door, and so we parted ways of necessity, and he went off smiling to find whatever it was that he was looking for…
But as he strode away, the thing that stuck with me was his intensity. Perhaps part of it is just his being rather shy (although it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s a bit outgoing when he’s with his family) or the fact that he has piercing black eyes, but the youngster—I discovered that he goes by PJ—was one of the most focused little dudes that I’ve met for quite some time. His walk, his tone of voice, his facial expressions—everything conveyed a sense of urgency which spoke of an inner drive uncommon in today’s average college student (it may also have been caused by a mild case of indigestion, but I doubt it).
I found myself shaking my head, and wondering…wondering how he’d been parented, where he’d gone to middle school, what he wants to do with his life after Liberty, what his parents are like, and what the family dynamic might be…because from surface appearances, it would seem that his parents have done some things very, very right.
Now, there are lots of adorable little men and women who work feverishly in the library on a regular basis. This is hardly outside the realm of the normal and expected. What was particularly striking about this little fellow, however, was the fact that his dad was working with him, helping him to edit the paper, and as they worked, they were conversing together in low tones, sometimes even bantering back and forth. I was intrigued.
I was working on a paper myself that night, but when the little dude took a quick water fountain break, I took the opportunity to strike up a quick conversation with his dad. I’d assumed that his dad must be a pastor, if he was helping him with the paper, but not so much—Little Man’s dad smiled at my assumption, and informed me that he was, in fact, an engineer, qualified to edit papers simply by virtue of the fact that he had written and read so many of them himself. He told me also that his son was an undergrad student, that he was enrolled in a Master of Divinity program online through another university, and that this massive paper was due at midnight (it was about 10:30 at this point). I was impressed that Little Man would enroll fulltime at two different schools, but he returned from the fountain just then to resume frantic work upon his paper, so that was the end of the conversation.
I’d mostly forgotten about Little Man until I bumped into him (not quite literally) outside the elevator yesterday. He has a full head of intensely black hair, with large black eyes that are equally intense and appear to be always observing. He’s a rather quiet sort of fellow, and thus, when I nodded in his direction, smiled, and said, “Oh hi!” he simply gave me a puzzled look, and said nothing. Apparently he was quite positive that I couldn’t have been speaking to him, or else he was secretly wondering whether I was a lunatic (in which case, he may also have been wondering if he should run in the opposite direction very quickly while screaming for assistance).
He did neither, however, and so we stood in very awkward silence for a long second, and then I laughed, and explained to him where we’d met before, and asked about his paper, and how it had turned out. His face lit up with recognition then (much to my relief—it would have been excruciatingly awkward and irresistibly funny otherwise), and I realized that perhaps his silence was simply the result of a little mind trying desperately to remember where this tall strange person would know him from.
He politely introduced himself, began talking animatedly about the paper, and answered a few questions about his student status. He told me bits and pieces about what it was like to be a commuter student, and how, although his sister is older, he’s the one who has the car—he grinned a little when he said that, shrugged, and said that maybe it was luck (or perhaps a state of affairs decided by virtue of the fact that he possesses a Y chromosome, but I didn’t ask). And then we were at my classroom door, and so we parted ways of necessity, and he went off smiling to find whatever it was that he was looking for…
But as he strode away, the thing that stuck with me was his intensity. Perhaps part of it is just his being rather shy (although it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s a bit outgoing when he’s with his family) or the fact that he has piercing black eyes, but the youngster—I discovered that he goes by PJ—was one of the most focused little dudes that I’ve met for quite some time. His walk, his tone of voice, his facial expressions—everything conveyed a sense of urgency which spoke of an inner drive uncommon in today’s average college student (it may also have been caused by a mild case of indigestion, but I doubt it).
I found myself shaking my head, and wondering…wondering how he’d been parented, where he’d gone to middle school, what he wants to do with his life after Liberty, what his parents are like, and what the family dynamic might be…because from surface appearances, it would seem that his parents have done some things very, very right.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Tonight I sit and listen to the moaning of the wind in the shrubs outside my window. There’s a misty sort of coldness in the breeze, and a melancholy fog has settled into the low places in the road. The last of the autumn leaves are rustling amidst the skeleton branches of the trees out in the yard, and the clouds have obscured the light of the moon and the stars.
Yesterday the moon was beautiful and the stars were bright. Yesterday there was no rain, no fog, no moaning wind to interrupt the stillness of a crisp night…but yesterday is gone.
All of the yesterdays are gone.
It’s incredible to me—sometimes frightening—how quickly things can change. Babies are born, children grow up, young folks marry, create new homes, new families, new lives…and then one day, they die…and the cycle of life continues.
But somewhere along the line, I hope that there comes a moment in time when each man or woman wonders keenly—maybe desperately—what it is that he’s really living for. I hope that in that moment, every woman thinks about what exactly she’s pouring into each 24-hour period of her existence…and I hope that every man realizes that every day, he’s trading 24 hours of his life for something…and I hope that this realization startles them, challenges them, changes them…frightens them.
Today I wondered about what it is that I’m trading my life for. What’s the legacy? Is it God’s vision...or I am trying to force His hand? Am I living life fully, and am I living it well?
Perhaps the key in answering that question is to zoom out, to remind ourselves what the big purpose is, so we can better understand the little part that we play.
Isaiah 45:5-7 clarified some things for me tonight:
“I am the Lord, and there is no other, besides Me, there is no God; I equip you, though you do not know Me, that people may know, from the rising of the sun and from the west, that there is none besides Me; I am the Lord, and there is no other. I form light and create darkness, I make well-being and create calamity, I am the Lord, Who does all these things.”
It’s comforting to be reminded of the fact that He equips us, that He doesn’t ask us to do anything that He hasn’t done Himself, that He understands every nuance of everything that we feel, that He has personally wrestled through the same struggles we fight on a daily basis…in short, that He has designed us, commissioned us, and cares more deeply about us than we will ever fully understand. He’s not just the coach who tells us how to run—He’s also the dad who meets us at the finish line with outstretched arms.
And to live in light of that knowledge ought to change the way in which I view the cycle of life. May we learn to make each day count as an accomplishment from an eternal perspective…
Yesterday the moon was beautiful and the stars were bright. Yesterday there was no rain, no fog, no moaning wind to interrupt the stillness of a crisp night…but yesterday is gone.
All of the yesterdays are gone.
It’s incredible to me—sometimes frightening—how quickly things can change. Babies are born, children grow up, young folks marry, create new homes, new families, new lives…and then one day, they die…and the cycle of life continues.
But somewhere along the line, I hope that there comes a moment in time when each man or woman wonders keenly—maybe desperately—what it is that he’s really living for. I hope that in that moment, every woman thinks about what exactly she’s pouring into each 24-hour period of her existence…and I hope that every man realizes that every day, he’s trading 24 hours of his life for something…and I hope that this realization startles them, challenges them, changes them…frightens them.
Today I wondered about what it is that I’m trading my life for. What’s the legacy? Is it God’s vision...or I am trying to force His hand? Am I living life fully, and am I living it well?
Perhaps the key in answering that question is to zoom out, to remind ourselves what the big purpose is, so we can better understand the little part that we play.
Isaiah 45:5-7 clarified some things for me tonight:
“I am the Lord, and there is no other, besides Me, there is no God; I equip you, though you do not know Me, that people may know, from the rising of the sun and from the west, that there is none besides Me; I am the Lord, and there is no other. I form light and create darkness, I make well-being and create calamity, I am the Lord, Who does all these things.”
It’s comforting to be reminded of the fact that He equips us, that He doesn’t ask us to do anything that He hasn’t done Himself, that He understands every nuance of everything that we feel, that He has personally wrestled through the same struggles we fight on a daily basis…in short, that He has designed us, commissioned us, and cares more deeply about us than we will ever fully understand. He’s not just the coach who tells us how to run—He’s also the dad who meets us at the finish line with outstretched arms.
And to live in light of that knowledge ought to change the way in which I view the cycle of life. May we learn to make each day count as an accomplishment from an eternal perspective…
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Snippets from the Homestead
For what seemed the first time in many ages, I had the privilege of returning to the home place this past week. In many ways, it felt momentous. Like the turning of a page, or maybe the end of a chapter…or the beginning of a new book in a series whose end I cannot foresee.
You see, my baby sister and I went to the bridal shop this past week to get dresses fitted and pick out jewelry for the upcoming wedding. Her wedding.
There was something incredibly sweet, and yet strangely heart-wrenching about seeing her stand on a pedestal in her wedding gown, glowing as she tried on different necklaces and played with her veil, dreaming all the while of the blonde blue-eyed groom who will claim her as his own in six short weeks.
I have seen many brides in my time, but none quite so special to me as this one (not many as pretty either, but I’ll admit I’m biased). She has been my playmate, my companion, and my best friend from the first moments that I can remember. She is my sister, I thought, smiling wistfully as I watched her. And yet somehow, while she is still my sister now, she is less…mine. Because she is more his, and it really cannot be both ways.
Not that she was ever mine to keep. But I liked to think to myself sometimes that we shared a special relationship, a unique bond, a rare kind of intimacy, a unity of the soul. They say that nothing can break the sister bond, and in a sense I believe that—but at the same time, I have come to realize that, like every other relationship, the sister bond will change over time, and the role of the sister is never the same from one year to the next.
There is a part of me that resents the change, if I am honest with myself. There has always been a small place in my heart that protests loudly when things begin to change from what they have always been. But there is a bigger part of me that is intensely happy—wistfully, painfully, wonderingly, sincerely happy—for my little sister. It’s sweet to see the perpetual sparkle in her eyes, the glow on her face, to hear the almost-giddy laughter which seems to spring unbidden from her soul these days. It’s amazing to realize that this is God’s way of answering the prayers of many people, prayed over the course of many years. It’s awesome to see that God has given her His best, that He has carefully prepared a man uniquely suited to minister to—and be ministered to by—my little sister.
For all of these things, I am deeply and truly grateful. And yet…it hurts to see the boxes stacked in the corner of our bedroom…to know that in six weeks, she’ll leave—for good. To know that never again will we be just two sisters walking hand-in-hand under the moonlight, wondering aloud about an unknown future. To know that when I come back to the home place from now on, her bed will be empty…that there won’t be any more of those long sister talks into the wee hours of the night.
I will miss all of those things keenly. And yet, I would not for a moment turn back the hands of time. So on her wedding day, I will stand beside her with a smile on my face and tears in my heart, like sisters do, and I will rejoice in her joy and share in her laughter and send her off with much love to begin a new life with another…and it will hurt, but it will also be good, and right, and beautiful. And I’ll always be glad it happened the way it did.
You see, my baby sister and I went to the bridal shop this past week to get dresses fitted and pick out jewelry for the upcoming wedding. Her wedding.
There was something incredibly sweet, and yet strangely heart-wrenching about seeing her stand on a pedestal in her wedding gown, glowing as she tried on different necklaces and played with her veil, dreaming all the while of the blonde blue-eyed groom who will claim her as his own in six short weeks.
I have seen many brides in my time, but none quite so special to me as this one (not many as pretty either, but I’ll admit I’m biased). She has been my playmate, my companion, and my best friend from the first moments that I can remember. She is my sister, I thought, smiling wistfully as I watched her. And yet somehow, while she is still my sister now, she is less…mine. Because she is more his, and it really cannot be both ways.
Not that she was ever mine to keep. But I liked to think to myself sometimes that we shared a special relationship, a unique bond, a rare kind of intimacy, a unity of the soul. They say that nothing can break the sister bond, and in a sense I believe that—but at the same time, I have come to realize that, like every other relationship, the sister bond will change over time, and the role of the sister is never the same from one year to the next.
There is a part of me that resents the change, if I am honest with myself. There has always been a small place in my heart that protests loudly when things begin to change from what they have always been. But there is a bigger part of me that is intensely happy—wistfully, painfully, wonderingly, sincerely happy—for my little sister. It’s sweet to see the perpetual sparkle in her eyes, the glow on her face, to hear the almost-giddy laughter which seems to spring unbidden from her soul these days. It’s amazing to realize that this is God’s way of answering the prayers of many people, prayed over the course of many years. It’s awesome to see that God has given her His best, that He has carefully prepared a man uniquely suited to minister to—and be ministered to by—my little sister.
For all of these things, I am deeply and truly grateful. And yet…it hurts to see the boxes stacked in the corner of our bedroom…to know that in six weeks, she’ll leave—for good. To know that never again will we be just two sisters walking hand-in-hand under the moonlight, wondering aloud about an unknown future. To know that when I come back to the home place from now on, her bed will be empty…that there won’t be any more of those long sister talks into the wee hours of the night.
I will miss all of those things keenly. And yet, I would not for a moment turn back the hands of time. So on her wedding day, I will stand beside her with a smile on my face and tears in my heart, like sisters do, and I will rejoice in her joy and share in her laughter and send her off with much love to begin a new life with another…and it will hurt, but it will also be good, and right, and beautiful. And I’ll always be glad it happened the way it did.
Monday, November 22, 2010
I was in the library on Thursday, before coming home for Thanksgiving break on Friday. It’s quite possible that I may have been working on an assignment for philosophy, or for any number of other classes. However that may be, I distinctly remember that I was attempting to study.
On my left was a little Kenyan dude named Vincent, who was sitting there with his perky little dreadlocks sticking out all over the place as he worked feverishly on his computer, a look of focused concentration on his face. With him was a decidedly not-Kenyan friend, a little blonde-haired blue-eyed kid named Ian who was supposed to be assiduously taking notes and learning a great deal about the mysterious world of higher mathematics from the enlightened Vincent.
We were all studying, in some sense or another (ok, ok, Ian may have been merely pretending). But occasionally, one or the other of us would lean over into the other’s cubicle and make a joke, a smart comment, or a helpful suggestion. We all had class at 3:35, however, and thus as that fateful hour drew nearer, we all began shuffling stuff into our bookbags to leave.
Ian had been making jabs at Vincent for no particular reason during this packing process, and as we were pushing back our chairs to leave, he attempted to get me to take his side by nodding in my direction and then saying to Vincent, “Dude, she hates your guts!”
I decided that perhaps Ian was in need of some instruction regarding appropriate social interaction, and thus, in order to take advantage of this teachable moment, leaned over to explain to him that there is a difference between an attack on a behavior and an attack on a person.
Vincent, however, was not in the mood for teachable moments. Slamming one fist on the desk in front of him, he bounced slightly out of his chair, black dreadlocks bobbing as he said with great conviction, “That’s right! You preach it, sistah, and I will collect the offerings after!”
Needless to say…that was the end of any serious point in the conversation. But I left feeling richer…because I am SO going to use that line somewhere in the next month. Maybe on someone I barely know to give them the impression I’m Pentecostal…
On my left was a little Kenyan dude named Vincent, who was sitting there with his perky little dreadlocks sticking out all over the place as he worked feverishly on his computer, a look of focused concentration on his face. With him was a decidedly not-Kenyan friend, a little blonde-haired blue-eyed kid named Ian who was supposed to be assiduously taking notes and learning a great deal about the mysterious world of higher mathematics from the enlightened Vincent.
We were all studying, in some sense or another (ok, ok, Ian may have been merely pretending). But occasionally, one or the other of us would lean over into the other’s cubicle and make a joke, a smart comment, or a helpful suggestion. We all had class at 3:35, however, and thus as that fateful hour drew nearer, we all began shuffling stuff into our bookbags to leave.
Ian had been making jabs at Vincent for no particular reason during this packing process, and as we were pushing back our chairs to leave, he attempted to get me to take his side by nodding in my direction and then saying to Vincent, “Dude, she hates your guts!”
I decided that perhaps Ian was in need of some instruction regarding appropriate social interaction, and thus, in order to take advantage of this teachable moment, leaned over to explain to him that there is a difference between an attack on a behavior and an attack on a person.
Vincent, however, was not in the mood for teachable moments. Slamming one fist on the desk in front of him, he bounced slightly out of his chair, black dreadlocks bobbing as he said with great conviction, “That’s right! You preach it, sistah, and I will collect the offerings after!”
Needless to say…that was the end of any serious point in the conversation. But I left feeling richer…because I am SO going to use that line somewhere in the next month. Maybe on someone I barely know to give them the impression I’m Pentecostal…
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
As part of an education at Liberty University, each student is required to put in a certain number of hours of community service each semester. Part of my community service is to sit at the local public library each week and take people’s blood pressures. And I happen to wear a white lab coat while doing it. Which apparently qualifies me to answer questions on anything from blood pressure to parenting how-tos. It is incredible to me that simply donning a white lab coat instantly makes one a medical guru.
News flash: they sell white lab coats at Goodwill. I saw them there. So I know. And that means that anybody or his brother or his uncle’s cousin’s monkey could go and purchase a white lab coat for approximately $3.00. (They might charge the monkey more than that for coming in without shirt or shoes).
And people would assume upon the authority of the white lab coat that its occupant was somehow qualified to pass out medical information (or create large chemical explosions…people in white lab coats do that too, I think).
It sort of made me wonder about how much stock I personally put in appearances.
Am I more ready to take advice from the man behind the pulpit simply because he’s there, behind the pulpit, in a suit? Do I respect someone’s opinion more depending on the school he graduated from, the kind of clothes he’s dressed in, or the kind of car he drives?
Do I say I believe in absolute truth and live as though I believe it’s conditional, relative, and situational?
In my friendships, am I partial to those who dress better, talk smarter, and appear to have it all together? Do I look beyond what’s merely skin deep? Do I take the time to know the heart hidden beneath the suit? If not, shame on me. That makes me little different than the medically uneducated who religiously consult quack doctors and drink large amounts of snake oil. Or the Biblically illiterate “Christians” who naively accept as truth anything which proceeds from the pulpit. Or the annoying mosquitoes that refuse to be repelled by bug spray. Wait, maybe not that last one.
But you get the picture.
Christ says in Luke 6:45 that a man speaks “out of the abundance of his heart.” What we say reveals the content of our character, the depth of our thinking, and the motives of our heart.
It’s time to move beyond the immature fascination with the white lab coat and really listen to what people are saying…forget how they look. Is their character good, are their thought processes biblical, and are their motives honorable?
Life is too short to refuse to go deep in our relationships, dealing with the sometimes-ugly realities rather than our comfortable assumptions about people. May we all learn to listen…with our brains turned on and our hearts intensely compassionate.
News flash: they sell white lab coats at Goodwill. I saw them there. So I know. And that means that anybody or his brother or his uncle’s cousin’s monkey could go and purchase a white lab coat for approximately $3.00. (They might charge the monkey more than that for coming in without shirt or shoes).
And people would assume upon the authority of the white lab coat that its occupant was somehow qualified to pass out medical information (or create large chemical explosions…people in white lab coats do that too, I think).
It sort of made me wonder about how much stock I personally put in appearances.
Am I more ready to take advice from the man behind the pulpit simply because he’s there, behind the pulpit, in a suit? Do I respect someone’s opinion more depending on the school he graduated from, the kind of clothes he’s dressed in, or the kind of car he drives?
Do I say I believe in absolute truth and live as though I believe it’s conditional, relative, and situational?
In my friendships, am I partial to those who dress better, talk smarter, and appear to have it all together? Do I look beyond what’s merely skin deep? Do I take the time to know the heart hidden beneath the suit? If not, shame on me. That makes me little different than the medically uneducated who religiously consult quack doctors and drink large amounts of snake oil. Or the Biblically illiterate “Christians” who naively accept as truth anything which proceeds from the pulpit. Or the annoying mosquitoes that refuse to be repelled by bug spray. Wait, maybe not that last one.
But you get the picture.
Christ says in Luke 6:45 that a man speaks “out of the abundance of his heart.” What we say reveals the content of our character, the depth of our thinking, and the motives of our heart.
It’s time to move beyond the immature fascination with the white lab coat and really listen to what people are saying…forget how they look. Is their character good, are their thought processes biblical, and are their motives honorable?
Life is too short to refuse to go deep in our relationships, dealing with the sometimes-ugly realities rather than our comfortable assumptions about people. May we all learn to listen…with our brains turned on and our hearts intensely compassionate.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Solitary Sundays...
This morning I drove to church. Alone. It’s the first time in a good while that I’ve gone to worship the Lord by myself, and somehow, there was something almost painful about the solitude of the car ride. I guess it’s just that I’ve gotten accustomed to the reality of worshiping God in the company of friends. And this morning, when the friends were all busy elsewhere, I suddenly realized how large a part each one of them has come to play in this day that I claim belongs to the Lord alone.
As I drove, listening to the radio playing in the background, and absent-mindedly glancing at the other drivers on the road, I wondered silently to myself why it is that we, as humans, are often times so afraid to face the harsh reality of being alone.
What are we afraid of? I whispered. What am I afraid of? What is it about myself that I’m unable to face in solitude and silence? Am I running? Am I trying to crowd out the voice of conviction? Is God attempting to speak, and am I really listening?
I glanced into my rearview mirror and saw a sporty little blue Corvette preparing to whiz by me on the left. I shook my head.
We live in such a state of frenzy that we don’t allow ourselves time to think…to listen, I thought ruefully.
Over on the right shoulder lay a deer—dead, bloated, swollen with decay under the rays of the October sun.
Maybe that’s what we’re afraid of, I whispered. Afraid of being separated from the pack, of falling victim to our circumstances, of being forgotten, of being insignificant…of being left to rot while life goes on all around us.
It’s true. As humans, we desperately want someone to care. To care about the individual within us, to care about our circumstances, to care about the burdens of our heart, to care about the emotional wounds and the psychological scars…we yearn to encounter someone who loves deeply enough to come alongside us with Christ-like patience and humility, and—upon seeing us lying there in the mud with bloody knees and tear-stained faces—who will have the compassion to reach down, grab our hand, and pull us to our feet again, reassuring us that the race can be won, that the goal is in sight, and that the battle is worth fighting.
As I watched the deer fade into the distance behind my car, I was struck with the realization that if indeed this was what I wanted, then doubtless everyone else wrestles with that same yearning, on some level or another.
I head something whisper, in the back of my mind, that this desire—perhaps the most intimate longing of our hearts—is filled not by seeking out those who will give us attention, but by first seeking the heart of God, and then seeking to meet the needs in the hearts of others...
And so it was that God placed me this morning beside a young woman who was frightened, shy, and alone…a beautiful fragile soul in need of a reassuring smile and some words of encouragement.
I had to laugh about the whole situation as I drove home—alone—after the service. Because God is so much more capable of meeting our real needs than we can even imagine. And He's so faithful to stretch us outside of our comfort zones to show us our weaknesses as well as our strengths...
Hallelujah. What a Saviour.
As I drove, listening to the radio playing in the background, and absent-mindedly glancing at the other drivers on the road, I wondered silently to myself why it is that we, as humans, are often times so afraid to face the harsh reality of being alone.
What are we afraid of? I whispered. What am I afraid of? What is it about myself that I’m unable to face in solitude and silence? Am I running? Am I trying to crowd out the voice of conviction? Is God attempting to speak, and am I really listening?
I glanced into my rearview mirror and saw a sporty little blue Corvette preparing to whiz by me on the left. I shook my head.
We live in such a state of frenzy that we don’t allow ourselves time to think…to listen, I thought ruefully.
Over on the right shoulder lay a deer—dead, bloated, swollen with decay under the rays of the October sun.
Maybe that’s what we’re afraid of, I whispered. Afraid of being separated from the pack, of falling victim to our circumstances, of being forgotten, of being insignificant…of being left to rot while life goes on all around us.
It’s true. As humans, we desperately want someone to care. To care about the individual within us, to care about our circumstances, to care about the burdens of our heart, to care about the emotional wounds and the psychological scars…we yearn to encounter someone who loves deeply enough to come alongside us with Christ-like patience and humility, and—upon seeing us lying there in the mud with bloody knees and tear-stained faces—who will have the compassion to reach down, grab our hand, and pull us to our feet again, reassuring us that the race can be won, that the goal is in sight, and that the battle is worth fighting.
As I watched the deer fade into the distance behind my car, I was struck with the realization that if indeed this was what I wanted, then doubtless everyone else wrestles with that same yearning, on some level or another.
I head something whisper, in the back of my mind, that this desire—perhaps the most intimate longing of our hearts—is filled not by seeking out those who will give us attention, but by first seeking the heart of God, and then seeking to meet the needs in the hearts of others...
And so it was that God placed me this morning beside a young woman who was frightened, shy, and alone…a beautiful fragile soul in need of a reassuring smile and some words of encouragement.
I had to laugh about the whole situation as I drove home—alone—after the service. Because God is so much more capable of meeting our real needs than we can even imagine. And He's so faithful to stretch us outside of our comfort zones to show us our weaknesses as well as our strengths...
Hallelujah. What a Saviour.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Quote of the Day
"By all means marry; if you get a good wife, you'll be happy; if you get a bad one, you'll become a philosopher." --Socrates
If this were really true, there would be a whole lot more miserable people philosophizing. It appears, however, that they are just...miserable.
If this were really true, there would be a whole lot more miserable people philosophizing. It appears, however, that they are just...miserable.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Inspiration comes in many, many different forms. One of the people who has always been most inspiring to me on rainy days is Dave Barry. So I'm sharing some of the profound statements that inspired me today.
"Although golf was originally restricted to wealthy, overweight Protestants, today it's open to anybody who owns hideous clothing."
"Dogs feel very strongly that they should always go with you in the car, in case the need should arise for them to bark violently at nothing right in your ear."
"Eating rice cakes is like chewing on a foam coffee cup, only less filling."
"Geographically, Ireland is a medium-sized rural island that is slowly but steadily being consumed by sheep."
"It always rains on tents. Rainstorms will travel thousands of miles, against prevailing winds for the opportunity to rain on a tent."
"Life is anything that dies when you stomp on it."
"Magnetism, as you recall from physics class, is a powerful force that causes certain items to be attracted to refrigerators."
"My problem with chess was that all my pieces wanted to end the game as soon as possible."
"Skiing combines outdoor fun with knocking down trees with your face."
"The leading cause of death among fashion models is falling through street grates."
"The simple truth is that balding African-American men look cool when they shave their heads, whereas balding white men look like giant thumbs."
"The word user is the word used by the computer professional when they mean idiot."
"We'll try to cooperate fully with the IRS, because, as citizens, we feel a strong patriotic duty not to go to jail."
"Although golf was originally restricted to wealthy, overweight Protestants, today it's open to anybody who owns hideous clothing."
"Dogs feel very strongly that they should always go with you in the car, in case the need should arise for them to bark violently at nothing right in your ear."
"Eating rice cakes is like chewing on a foam coffee cup, only less filling."
"Geographically, Ireland is a medium-sized rural island that is slowly but steadily being consumed by sheep."
"It always rains on tents. Rainstorms will travel thousands of miles, against prevailing winds for the opportunity to rain on a tent."
"Life is anything that dies when you stomp on it."
"Magnetism, as you recall from physics class, is a powerful force that causes certain items to be attracted to refrigerators."
"My problem with chess was that all my pieces wanted to end the game as soon as possible."
"Skiing combines outdoor fun with knocking down trees with your face."
"The leading cause of death among fashion models is falling through street grates."
"The simple truth is that balding African-American men look cool when they shave their heads, whereas balding white men look like giant thumbs."
"The word user is the word used by the computer professional when they mean idiot."
"We'll try to cooperate fully with the IRS, because, as citizens, we feel a strong patriotic duty not to go to jail."
Friday, September 24, 2010
A few days ago, I was driving down the highway when I suddenly became painfully aware of the fact that my car was running a bit low on petrol. However, as this is America, there are gas stations everywhere. So Thea pulled into the closets BP station and inserted the magic wand into her car before heading inside to talk to the nice little man who stands behind the counter and gets paid to take people’s money.
As I was exiting the gas station, a mildly-stunning black dude appeared from somewhere and held the door for me. Charming. I was touched. Well, I was almost touched. But I WAS appropriately grateful for his gesture of gentlemanliness, and I told him so. That apparently is not normal.
He looked at me hard, and then got a really big grin. “Are you single?”
I thought I heard him wrong. I thought he’d asked if I was ill, but I wasn’t sure, so I asked him to please repeat.
And then I wished I hadn’t.
What is up with this?! I can only speculate that the hands of Cupid’s clock have finally landed on that magical month in which it is suddenly appropriate for college girls to be randomly propositioned by unknown strangers in fast food joints and gas station parking lots.
I laughed, told him I was, and that he should have a wonderful night, and then I hopped in my trusty car and drove away. And as I drove, I thought of all the things that I could have and perhaps should have said:
“Are you single?”
“Well, yeah, because…oh, well I might as well just tell you. You remember Mike Tyson, the boxer? Yeah. That ear biting thing? He kinda…got that from me. Bad habit. Just haven’t been able to kick it. Most guys just…don’t understand that. So yeah, I’m still single.” (followed by a puzzled shrug)
Or I could have given him the clueless stupid stare look for a torturously long moment…and then said, “um, duh!” before turning and getting in my car.
Or I could have chuckled, shook my head a little bit, and assured him that if he would just brush his teeth a little more often, he wouldn’t have to resort to such desperate measures for finding a date.
But I didn’t do any of those things, because deep down, I labor under the delusion that social interactions ought to be governed by some undefined standard of normalcy, simply for the sake of not causing needless psychological damage to unsuspecting strangers...
As I was exiting the gas station, a mildly-stunning black dude appeared from somewhere and held the door for me. Charming. I was touched. Well, I was almost touched. But I WAS appropriately grateful for his gesture of gentlemanliness, and I told him so. That apparently is not normal.
He looked at me hard, and then got a really big grin. “Are you single?”
I thought I heard him wrong. I thought he’d asked if I was ill, but I wasn’t sure, so I asked him to please repeat.
And then I wished I hadn’t.
What is up with this?! I can only speculate that the hands of Cupid’s clock have finally landed on that magical month in which it is suddenly appropriate for college girls to be randomly propositioned by unknown strangers in fast food joints and gas station parking lots.
I laughed, told him I was, and that he should have a wonderful night, and then I hopped in my trusty car and drove away. And as I drove, I thought of all the things that I could have and perhaps should have said:
“Are you single?”
“Well, yeah, because…oh, well I might as well just tell you. You remember Mike Tyson, the boxer? Yeah. That ear biting thing? He kinda…got that from me. Bad habit. Just haven’t been able to kick it. Most guys just…don’t understand that. So yeah, I’m still single.” (followed by a puzzled shrug)
Or I could have given him the clueless stupid stare look for a torturously long moment…and then said, “um, duh!” before turning and getting in my car.
Or I could have chuckled, shook my head a little bit, and assured him that if he would just brush his teeth a little more often, he wouldn’t have to resort to such desperate measures for finding a date.
But I didn’t do any of those things, because deep down, I labor under the delusion that social interactions ought to be governed by some undefined standard of normalcy, simply for the sake of not causing needless psychological damage to unsuspecting strangers...
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Of dreams and nightmares...
Supposedly we always dream when we sleep. We simply don’t normally happen to remember what we dream—at least, I know I don’t. But last night was exceptional—even a bit startling—for the fact that the dreams lived on in memory even after I’d awakened.
Maybe it had to do with the fact that I got up at 4:30 to bake scones…or that the essay I’d been working on the night before had slightly twisted some of the synapses in my brain. It was only about 5:30 in the morning when the scones had been safely removed from the oven and left on the counter to cool, so I decided to catch forty winks before seven o’clock rolled around.
I entered the dream world without realizing it…sometimes everything is so realistic you can’t help but fancy that it’s happening in real time as it plays out in your head. I remember standing on the doorstep of my house, clutching a 300 lb. book bag in one hand and fumbling with my keys as I tried to open the door. When I touched the handle, I found that it wasn’t locked. Strange, I thought…although sometimes Stephanie forgets to lock the door if she’s the last one to leave…
My car was the only one in the driveway…which meant that I was the only one home. I remember walking down the hallway in the dark towards my room, still holding the book bag. I remember putting my hand on the doorknob to enter my room. I remember the door swinging open, and I remember noticing that the covers on my bed were lying in a heap in the middle. That was made when I left this morning, I thought, the alarm bells beginning to go off in my head. Something felt off about the house…there was an eeriness I couldn’t explain. Who had been in my room? It was at that instant that I felt—or sensed—the pressure of someone on the other side of the bedroom door.
I remember feeling a sense of utter panic as I realized that there was no one within earshot. I jerked my hand off the doorknob, and stepped back, screaming, as a man in a black trench coat and a ski mask yanked the bedroom door open from the inside. I turned to run, and slipped on the linoleum…and then he was standing over me, and I was staring down the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun…
And then I woke up, sweating, mumbling feverishly in my sleep, with my heart pounding away inside of my chest as if it was trying to escape. It took me about five minutes to realize that it had been a dream…part of me thought I’d been kidnapped and was now in a body bag being shipped to California, or something…
The most disturbing thing about the whole scenario is that as I lay awake pondering, I realized that if I were in fact placed in that situation…I would be just as helpless as I felt in that dream. God, are You warning me? Are You trying to tell me what’s coming? I asked silently, staring at the dark ceiling.
Was it forewarning? I don’t know. I honestly don’t. I sincerely hope that it wasn’t premonition—but if it was, then I hope that I remember in that moment that God has a sovereign purpose in all that He allows to happen…and that I’m merely an instrument with whom He can do as He wills.
I drifted off to sleep again…and dreamt that a cookie monster sneaked into the kitchen and ate all of the scones while I slept. When I woke up, that one hadn’t come true either. Phew.
Maybe it had to do with the fact that I got up at 4:30 to bake scones…or that the essay I’d been working on the night before had slightly twisted some of the synapses in my brain. It was only about 5:30 in the morning when the scones had been safely removed from the oven and left on the counter to cool, so I decided to catch forty winks before seven o’clock rolled around.
I entered the dream world without realizing it…sometimes everything is so realistic you can’t help but fancy that it’s happening in real time as it plays out in your head. I remember standing on the doorstep of my house, clutching a 300 lb. book bag in one hand and fumbling with my keys as I tried to open the door. When I touched the handle, I found that it wasn’t locked. Strange, I thought…although sometimes Stephanie forgets to lock the door if she’s the last one to leave…
My car was the only one in the driveway…which meant that I was the only one home. I remember walking down the hallway in the dark towards my room, still holding the book bag. I remember putting my hand on the doorknob to enter my room. I remember the door swinging open, and I remember noticing that the covers on my bed were lying in a heap in the middle. That was made when I left this morning, I thought, the alarm bells beginning to go off in my head. Something felt off about the house…there was an eeriness I couldn’t explain. Who had been in my room? It was at that instant that I felt—or sensed—the pressure of someone on the other side of the bedroom door.
I remember feeling a sense of utter panic as I realized that there was no one within earshot. I jerked my hand off the doorknob, and stepped back, screaming, as a man in a black trench coat and a ski mask yanked the bedroom door open from the inside. I turned to run, and slipped on the linoleum…and then he was standing over me, and I was staring down the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun…
And then I woke up, sweating, mumbling feverishly in my sleep, with my heart pounding away inside of my chest as if it was trying to escape. It took me about five minutes to realize that it had been a dream…part of me thought I’d been kidnapped and was now in a body bag being shipped to California, or something…
The most disturbing thing about the whole scenario is that as I lay awake pondering, I realized that if I were in fact placed in that situation…I would be just as helpless as I felt in that dream. God, are You warning me? Are You trying to tell me what’s coming? I asked silently, staring at the dark ceiling.
Was it forewarning? I don’t know. I honestly don’t. I sincerely hope that it wasn’t premonition—but if it was, then I hope that I remember in that moment that God has a sovereign purpose in all that He allows to happen…and that I’m merely an instrument with whom He can do as He wills.
I drifted off to sleep again…and dreamt that a cookie monster sneaked into the kitchen and ate all of the scones while I slept. When I woke up, that one hadn’t come true either. Phew.
baby steps & childhood scars
I have a good friend who was raised in a highly dysfunctional home. She’d experimented with cigarettes, alcohol, drugs, cutting, abusive relationships, and a number of other self-destructive behaviors by the time she had hit her sixteenth birthday. Her home life had disintegrated, her personal life was meaningless, and she was drowning in an ocean of depression—possibly going under for the last time—when Christ touched her heart and transformed her mind like He’s so very good at doing.
But last night she said something that rocked my world. We were sitting next to each other on a couch, talking about life, and she looked over at me, and sadly remarked, “Thea, sometimes I think I would trade my salvation if it meant that by doing so I could just have experienced a normal childhood.”
I was stunned. Shocked. The magnitude of what she’d just said stopped me in my tracks.
“Whoa, hold on,” I said slowly, silently praying for wisdom as I gathered my thoughts. “Let me explain something to you. Each one of us has a different home situation. Some people have what looks like a ‘normal’ family. Others of us grow up in homes that are clearly dysfunctional. But there’s something that I need you to understand: All of us grow up broken. Talk to any man or woman that grew up in an apparently perfect family, and they will tell you that they feel scarred, that they’ve had their hearts ripped open and trampled on, that they’ve felt dirty, and defiled, and worthless…because that’s what life does to everyone. Yeah, if we grow up in messed up homes, we feel more messed up. The scars are bigger, the pain runs deeper, and the sin is more obvious, perhaps. But those of us who grew up in idyllic families are broken in many of the same ways. Ask anyone on this planet, regardless of their home situation, and they will tell you that life hurts. It’s excruciating. It scars you. And sometimes the very pain of the brokenness of life causes you to doubt yourself, your worth, the love of others, their character, God’s heart...but in the end, it’s the pain of life that brings us—weeping and hopeless—to the foot of the cross where we find redemption and healing. No childhood, however perfect, has the capacity to spare us the pain of life. It’s only in redemption and forgiveness that we find the meaning and the joy that helps us to make sense of our childhood.”
I don’t know that she believed me. But as I thought about it later, I realized that sometimes God causes us to say words not because someone else needs to hear truth, but because we need to hear those words ourselves. And that night, I needed to see the events of my childhood from His perspective.
But last night she said something that rocked my world. We were sitting next to each other on a couch, talking about life, and she looked over at me, and sadly remarked, “Thea, sometimes I think I would trade my salvation if it meant that by doing so I could just have experienced a normal childhood.”
I was stunned. Shocked. The magnitude of what she’d just said stopped me in my tracks.
“Whoa, hold on,” I said slowly, silently praying for wisdom as I gathered my thoughts. “Let me explain something to you. Each one of us has a different home situation. Some people have what looks like a ‘normal’ family. Others of us grow up in homes that are clearly dysfunctional. But there’s something that I need you to understand: All of us grow up broken. Talk to any man or woman that grew up in an apparently perfect family, and they will tell you that they feel scarred, that they’ve had their hearts ripped open and trampled on, that they’ve felt dirty, and defiled, and worthless…because that’s what life does to everyone. Yeah, if we grow up in messed up homes, we feel more messed up. The scars are bigger, the pain runs deeper, and the sin is more obvious, perhaps. But those of us who grew up in idyllic families are broken in many of the same ways. Ask anyone on this planet, regardless of their home situation, and they will tell you that life hurts. It’s excruciating. It scars you. And sometimes the very pain of the brokenness of life causes you to doubt yourself, your worth, the love of others, their character, God’s heart...but in the end, it’s the pain of life that brings us—weeping and hopeless—to the foot of the cross where we find redemption and healing. No childhood, however perfect, has the capacity to spare us the pain of life. It’s only in redemption and forgiveness that we find the meaning and the joy that helps us to make sense of our childhood.”
I don’t know that she believed me. But as I thought about it later, I realized that sometimes God causes us to say words not because someone else needs to hear truth, but because we need to hear those words ourselves. And that night, I needed to see the events of my childhood from His perspective.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Memory Lane...
Sometimes it’s difficult not to look back with heartfelt longing at what once was…to want to return and relive our sweetest and most meaningful memories.
Today was one of those sort of dreamy days when I look back with wistful eyes at some of those significant childhood moments…and I must remind myself that I’m not that child anymore. Those days have served their purpose, and they have passed into history…for better or for worse.
While there is a part of me that would summon them back—a part of me that wants to curl up in the big armchair and be a child again in my mother’s arms, or spend an hour out in the garden picking beans with all my little siblings yammering around me in the heat and occasionally breaking out into tomato-splattering competitions (there’s a reason our barn was always red)—I must submit to the fact that while those moments have left an indelible mark on my character and my person, they’re not a part of my current reality…and God knew what He was doing when He planned life that way.
And so we’re called to move forward with both eyes eagerly and expectantly fixed on the path that stretches away into the distance before us, all the while acknowledging that we’ve been shaped, chiseled, molded, and strengthened by all that lies behind us…
But be that as it may…I think I’m gonna go get a big Snickers bar and whip out my old journals tonight to take a walk down memory lane.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
the Problem of Pain...
This week, I had the privilege of listening to several online episodes of Ravi Zacharias’ program, Let My People Think. I have always valued Ravi’s wisdom, his insight, and his compassionate heart for humanity, and I was challenged this week by one of his itinerant pastors, Arun Andrews, who did a two-part series called “My God, My God, Why?” He addresses what he calls “the memories we cannot erase, and the feelings we cannot escape.” At one point in his address, he remarked, “There is this pain we go through in which we feel that life is not fair to us, and we discover, as this pain strikes us, that we are locked in a struggle of sleepless nights, the desire to hide away from all people, the scary nightmare of depressive thoughts and even suicide, and the realization comes to us that time does not heal—it only makes the reflection deeper.”
I wondered for a moment if that were really so. Is it true, that when we say, “time heals all wounds,” we are merely lying to ourselves, trying to create an illusion of future relief to help us cope with the agony of the pain we are experiencing in that moment?
It’s September 11. Nine years have passed since the day when hundreds of men, women, and children stared in disbelieving horror at the image on their television screens and realized that their lives had changed forever. Maybe they lost a father, a brother, a sister, a mother…or maybe it was simply their illusion of security that had been forever shattered. Does time heal those wounds? Does it ease the pain of remembering? Do we forget what it felt like to experience that kind of desperate agony—the moment we realize that someone we loved is never coming home again, never going to walk through that front door and smile, never going to say the words “I love you.” Does time heal that pain? Or does it merely change it?
In speaking of suffering, Arun brought up the story of Elie Wiesel, one of the young men who, by virtue of his being Jewish, was taken to the living hell of Auschwitz…and then Buchenwald…and somehow survived.
As he remembers the horror of passing through the gates of Auschwitz for the first time, Elie says this:
"Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, that turned my life into one long night seven times sealed.
Never shall I forget the smoke.
Never shall I forget the small faces of the children whose bodies I saw turned into smoke under a silent night sky.
Never shall I forget those flames that consumed my faith forever.
Never shall I forget the nocturnal silence that deprived me for all eternity of the desire to live.
Never shall I forget those moments that murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to ashes.
Never shall I forget those things, even were I condemned to live as long as God himself.
Never."
Does time heal this kind of pain? I don’t think it can.
Elie speaks of a time when he was made to watch the execution of three Jews within the camp…two men, and a small boy. The three of them had been hung, while others in the camp were forced to look on.
Elie describes it thus:
"The two men were no longer alive. Their tongues were hanging out, swollen and bluish. But the third rope was still moving: the child, too light, was still breathing...
And so he remained for more than half an hour, lingering between life and death, writhing before our eyes. And we were forced to look at him at close range. He was still alive when I passed him. His tongue was still red, his eyes not yet extinguished.
Behind me, I heard the same man asking:
"For God's sake, where is God?"
And from within me, I heard a voice answer:
"Where He is? This is where--hanging here from this gallows..."
Arun points out that such, indeed, is the nature of our God. Not that He ignores our anguish, or refuses to feel our pain…but that He suffers with us…that He is the God who is right there, hanging from the gallows.
Does it lessen our pain to know that we have a God who understands and experiences it with us? Perhaps not. But if should give us a sense of purpose and hope in the midst of that pain. And it should motivate us to DO something with that suffering. Elie expresses that better than I could:
"Better that one heart be broken a thousand times in the retelling …if it means that a thousand other hearts need not be broken at all."
It is our most painful moments which most powerfully transform us, which change us into something we were not capable of before. For Elie, the horror of Auschwitz was the agony which drove him to challenge the way men think:
"We must not see any person as an abstraction. Instead, we must see in every person a universe with its own secrets, with its own treasures, with its own sources of anguish, and with some measure of triumph."
"I've been fighting my entire adult life for men and women everywhere to be equal and to be different. But there is one right I would not grant anyone. And that is the right to be indifferent."
"We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Sometimes we must interfere. When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant. Wherever men and women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must - at that moment - become the center of the universe."
For each one of us, there are going to be many moments in life when we are confronted with a situation where our actions determine the spiritual, emotional, or physical fate of a human being. And we need to take that seriously. That situation needs to become the center of our universe. For most of us, the problems we deal with may not be as dramatic as the pervasive horror of Auschwitz, but may we have the courage to stand up and testify for truth in the face of whatever twisted darkness we are called to confront…because our faith is supposed to change us, to make us different…and cause us to care in a way that leads to action.
I wondered for a moment if that were really so. Is it true, that when we say, “time heals all wounds,” we are merely lying to ourselves, trying to create an illusion of future relief to help us cope with the agony of the pain we are experiencing in that moment?
It’s September 11. Nine years have passed since the day when hundreds of men, women, and children stared in disbelieving horror at the image on their television screens and realized that their lives had changed forever. Maybe they lost a father, a brother, a sister, a mother…or maybe it was simply their illusion of security that had been forever shattered. Does time heal those wounds? Does it ease the pain of remembering? Do we forget what it felt like to experience that kind of desperate agony—the moment we realize that someone we loved is never coming home again, never going to walk through that front door and smile, never going to say the words “I love you.” Does time heal that pain? Or does it merely change it?
In speaking of suffering, Arun brought up the story of Elie Wiesel, one of the young men who, by virtue of his being Jewish, was taken to the living hell of Auschwitz…and then Buchenwald…and somehow survived.
As he remembers the horror of passing through the gates of Auschwitz for the first time, Elie says this:
"Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, that turned my life into one long night seven times sealed.
Never shall I forget the smoke.
Never shall I forget the small faces of the children whose bodies I saw turned into smoke under a silent night sky.
Never shall I forget those flames that consumed my faith forever.
Never shall I forget the nocturnal silence that deprived me for all eternity of the desire to live.
Never shall I forget those moments that murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to ashes.
Never shall I forget those things, even were I condemned to live as long as God himself.
Never."
Does time heal this kind of pain? I don’t think it can.
Elie speaks of a time when he was made to watch the execution of three Jews within the camp…two men, and a small boy. The three of them had been hung, while others in the camp were forced to look on.
Elie describes it thus:
"The two men were no longer alive. Their tongues were hanging out, swollen and bluish. But the third rope was still moving: the child, too light, was still breathing...
And so he remained for more than half an hour, lingering between life and death, writhing before our eyes. And we were forced to look at him at close range. He was still alive when I passed him. His tongue was still red, his eyes not yet extinguished.
Behind me, I heard the same man asking:
"For God's sake, where is God?"
And from within me, I heard a voice answer:
"Where He is? This is where--hanging here from this gallows..."
Arun points out that such, indeed, is the nature of our God. Not that He ignores our anguish, or refuses to feel our pain…but that He suffers with us…that He is the God who is right there, hanging from the gallows.
Does it lessen our pain to know that we have a God who understands and experiences it with us? Perhaps not. But if should give us a sense of purpose and hope in the midst of that pain. And it should motivate us to DO something with that suffering. Elie expresses that better than I could:
"Better that one heart be broken a thousand times in the retelling …if it means that a thousand other hearts need not be broken at all."
It is our most painful moments which most powerfully transform us, which change us into something we were not capable of before. For Elie, the horror of Auschwitz was the agony which drove him to challenge the way men think:
"We must not see any person as an abstraction. Instead, we must see in every person a universe with its own secrets, with its own treasures, with its own sources of anguish, and with some measure of triumph."
"I've been fighting my entire adult life for men and women everywhere to be equal and to be different. But there is one right I would not grant anyone. And that is the right to be indifferent."
"We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Sometimes we must interfere. When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant. Wherever men and women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must - at that moment - become the center of the universe."
For each one of us, there are going to be many moments in life when we are confronted with a situation where our actions determine the spiritual, emotional, or physical fate of a human being. And we need to take that seriously. That situation needs to become the center of our universe. For most of us, the problems we deal with may not be as dramatic as the pervasive horror of Auschwitz, but may we have the courage to stand up and testify for truth in the face of whatever twisted darkness we are called to confront…because our faith is supposed to change us, to make us different…and cause us to care in a way that leads to action.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Weekends in Lynchburg...
This post is dedicated to my parents, on the odd chance that they might someday suffer from a fit of morbid curiosity and wonder what on earth their firstborn daughter is doing with her time these days.
This is my bookshelf. It is filled with my best friends. We spend LOTS of time together every day. These friends are inanimate, which is both good and bad...good in that they don't talk back, and thus I'm hopefully not picking up bad manners from them, but bad in that they have no personality whatsoever, which gets rather tiresome when you try to hold a conversation with one (something I've been doing more often of late, I confess).
This is my bookshelf. It is filled with my best friends. We spend LOTS of time together every day. These friends are inanimate, which is both good and bad...good in that they don't talk back, and thus I'm hopefully not picking up bad manners from them, but bad in that they have no personality whatsoever, which gets rather tiresome when you try to hold a conversation with one (something I've been doing more often of late, I confess).
This is...my bed. I make it a point to try to use it every night, unless I need to spend more time with my best friends. 
This is my desk. This is where my friends and I mostly hang out, although occasionally we take a fieldtrip to the library. It's very exciting there too.
This is me, with one of my best friends. He's a beeg beeg one, who hopefully will impart prodigious amounts of valuable information to my sadly unedumacated head. (His name is Theo, because he's a theology textbook).
I'm thinking...next weekend? I'm gonna actually leave my room.
Last night, I had an opportunity to spend some time with a few of my favorite Liberty students when Fish Hsu invited a couple of Varsity teammates over to her apartment for a taste of real Chinese cooking (she told us later that they toned it down considerably for our sheltered American palates).
One of the things that I LOVE about spending time with foreign exchange students is their English. They say the cutest things!
As we were sitting around Fish's living room, marveling over the flavor of several wondrous culinary inventions of whose ingredients we remain entirely uncertain, the topic of conversation turned to the furry little rodentian pet in the corner.
It was a chinchilla, one of those almost squirrel-like animals which were originally native to the Andes mountains in South America, and were presumably transported to the United States to serve as pets because of their exceeding cuteness or their general stupidity, both of which are endearing qualities.
Now, chinchillas very very soft, and rather touchable, and so pretty soon there was a crowd of curious college kids crowded around the cage...and a few of the rather curious college kids have a rambunctious side...so somewhere in the process, a pillow fight started, and the poor chinchilla's cage appeared as though it might end up in the mix.
It was at that point that Fish swooped in to rescue the chinchilla, carrying him off and locking him in the closet.
When she returned, she very solemnly informed us that chinchillas must not be badly frightened, or "they will become psychic!"
Poor Fish. She meant psycho.
She stood there looking mystified while the whole group howled with laughter until we couldn't breathe anymore. For the rest of the night, anytime someone mentioned a psychic chinchilla, it set the whole group off in fits, and Fish would just sit there shaking her head...
One of the things that I LOVE about spending time with foreign exchange students is their English. They say the cutest things!
As we were sitting around Fish's living room, marveling over the flavor of several wondrous culinary inventions of whose ingredients we remain entirely uncertain, the topic of conversation turned to the furry little rodentian pet in the corner.
It was a chinchilla, one of those almost squirrel-like animals which were originally native to the Andes mountains in South America, and were presumably transported to the United States to serve as pets because of their exceeding cuteness or their general stupidity, both of which are endearing qualities.
Now, chinchillas very very soft, and rather touchable, and so pretty soon there was a crowd of curious college kids crowded around the cage...and a few of the rather curious college kids have a rambunctious side...so somewhere in the process, a pillow fight started, and the poor chinchilla's cage appeared as though it might end up in the mix.
It was at that point that Fish swooped in to rescue the chinchilla, carrying him off and locking him in the closet.
When she returned, she very solemnly informed us that chinchillas must not be badly frightened, or "they will become psychic!"
Poor Fish. She meant psycho.
She stood there looking mystified while the whole group howled with laughter until we couldn't breathe anymore. For the rest of the night, anytime someone mentioned a psychic chinchilla, it set the whole group off in fits, and Fish would just sit there shaking her head...
Friday, September 3, 2010
You know, I had so much fun selling plasma the first time that I decided to go back again today and repeat the experiment.
Only, being your typical savy college student, I thought to myself that it might be wise to eat/drink something BEFORE I went this time, to avoid potentially passing out on their nice clean linoleum floor. However, I was coming directly from school, and I'd forgotten to pack anything before I left this morning, so...that's right. Thank You, Lord, for Taco Bell.
I hadn't been at a Taco Bell for...I don't know...a year? I noticed immediately that the staff of this particular place in downtown Lynchburg was remarkably friendly, especially for a fast-food restaurant. Maybe it was just the fact that I was a girl, and I was alone, or maybe I just have "SUCKER" written across my forehead, but either way, I had to kind of chuckle at the enthusiasm of the young man who beamed down upon me with warm benevolence as he proudly handed me two tacos.
All I wanted was to get something with a little protein, grab some fluids, eat, and then get out, but no sooner had I sat down at a little table off to one side than the resident PR man came striding proudly up to my table. He must have been in his early seventies, and his name was Irvin. He asked me if I was from these parts, and when I said I haled from Wisconsin, his face lit up and he proceeded to tell me enthusiastically everything that he knew about Wisconsin from his brief tour through the state.
His enthusiasm and earnestness were endearingly cute, so I kept him going with a few questions here and there as I ate my tacos. I think perhaps he was lonely, and I've a bit of a soft spot for lonely old people (hey, some day I might be one myself, you know). He stood beside me talking animatedly, with me nodding appreciatively since I couldn't get a word in edgewise anyway, until his sense of duty pulled him away to speak with other guests of the establishment.
As soon as Irvin had moved on, the young man who had so smilingly handed me my order came breezing out from behind the counter and politely asked if he could take my tray, if I was through with it? I smiled, and said he might, and marveled to myself at receiving that kind of service at a Taco Bell. As he walked away with my tray, he called back over his shoulder, "I'm Jake, by the way."
Hi Jake. Nice to meet you. Thank you for clearing my tray.
I sat for a moment longer, looking out the window at the traffic, enjoying my sweet tea, and pondering the deeper lessons of life.
Irvin came back to chat for a few moments--he was on his second round of the establishment, and the other five people in the place hadn't been much for conversation, apparently.
We talked a few moments, and then Jake came over. Irvin nodded to him proudly, "This is Jake. He's my pupil. I'm teachin' him stuff about PR."
"That's so great," I told Irvin jokingly, "You guys probably know everything there is to know about this place."
Jake nodded, and Irvin just looked slightly confused. A moment later, Irvin wandered off to continue his second round of PR visits, and Jake just came and stood beside my table looking rather awkward.
"Hey," he said finally, "I was wondering if I could call you sometime." He had to repeat it three times before I heard what he said, because he was so nervous he was mumbling, and talking reaaallly quiet.
Inwardly, I was thinking, really? Are we now SO desperate for prospects that we proposition the stray college students who come into Taco Bell?
I joked around with him a little bit, and eventually he realized that despite the fact that I was blonde and feel comfortable talking to pretty much anyone, I'm not so naive as to be giving out my phone number to every Joe, Larry, Dick, and Harry and their distant cousins.
So he very generously gave me his phone number instead, and told him that I should just call him. Um, yeah. Definitely will be getting RIGHT on that, buster.
As I drove away, I wondered if I should have taken his humanity a little more seriously...maybe sat him down, asked him some questions, explained why I don't date, told him why it's probably an unwise investment of time to have phone conversations with people one doesn't know the first thing about, and asked him where he was headed in life, what his purpose is, and whether he's ever personally encountered the love and grace and forgiveness of the God who binds up the broken-hearted and comforts the chronically single...
But the other side of my mind told me that it wasn't my place...because he's a guy, and because his motive in asking for my number was probably not that of seeking for genuine conversation with an individual who cares more about his humanity than his gender and the amount he can benchpress.
All in all, it gave me something to think about this afternoon as I watched my lifeblood oozing away into plastic bottles...because in an odd sort of way, it's funny to think about the emotions and drives that make us tick--that cause humans to do the crazy things that we do.
On a different note, musing on how strangely we sometimes behave gives me a new perspective on--and new appreciation for--the patience of my friends and family, and the long-suffering persistence of God as He continues to walk beside each one of us in the long and often tedious process of sanctification...woohoo!
Only, being your typical savy college student, I thought to myself that it might be wise to eat/drink something BEFORE I went this time, to avoid potentially passing out on their nice clean linoleum floor. However, I was coming directly from school, and I'd forgotten to pack anything before I left this morning, so...that's right. Thank You, Lord, for Taco Bell.
I hadn't been at a Taco Bell for...I don't know...a year? I noticed immediately that the staff of this particular place in downtown Lynchburg was remarkably friendly, especially for a fast-food restaurant. Maybe it was just the fact that I was a girl, and I was alone, or maybe I just have "SUCKER" written across my forehead, but either way, I had to kind of chuckle at the enthusiasm of the young man who beamed down upon me with warm benevolence as he proudly handed me two tacos.
All I wanted was to get something with a little protein, grab some fluids, eat, and then get out, but no sooner had I sat down at a little table off to one side than the resident PR man came striding proudly up to my table. He must have been in his early seventies, and his name was Irvin. He asked me if I was from these parts, and when I said I haled from Wisconsin, his face lit up and he proceeded to tell me enthusiastically everything that he knew about Wisconsin from his brief tour through the state.
His enthusiasm and earnestness were endearingly cute, so I kept him going with a few questions here and there as I ate my tacos. I think perhaps he was lonely, and I've a bit of a soft spot for lonely old people (hey, some day I might be one myself, you know). He stood beside me talking animatedly, with me nodding appreciatively since I couldn't get a word in edgewise anyway, until his sense of duty pulled him away to speak with other guests of the establishment.
As soon as Irvin had moved on, the young man who had so smilingly handed me my order came breezing out from behind the counter and politely asked if he could take my tray, if I was through with it? I smiled, and said he might, and marveled to myself at receiving that kind of service at a Taco Bell. As he walked away with my tray, he called back over his shoulder, "I'm Jake, by the way."
Hi Jake. Nice to meet you. Thank you for clearing my tray.
I sat for a moment longer, looking out the window at the traffic, enjoying my sweet tea, and pondering the deeper lessons of life.
Irvin came back to chat for a few moments--he was on his second round of the establishment, and the other five people in the place hadn't been much for conversation, apparently.
We talked a few moments, and then Jake came over. Irvin nodded to him proudly, "This is Jake. He's my pupil. I'm teachin' him stuff about PR."
"That's so great," I told Irvin jokingly, "You guys probably know everything there is to know about this place."
Jake nodded, and Irvin just looked slightly confused. A moment later, Irvin wandered off to continue his second round of PR visits, and Jake just came and stood beside my table looking rather awkward.
"Hey," he said finally, "I was wondering if I could call you sometime." He had to repeat it three times before I heard what he said, because he was so nervous he was mumbling, and talking reaaallly quiet.
Inwardly, I was thinking, really? Are we now SO desperate for prospects that we proposition the stray college students who come into Taco Bell?
I joked around with him a little bit, and eventually he realized that despite the fact that I was blonde and feel comfortable talking to pretty much anyone, I'm not so naive as to be giving out my phone number to every Joe, Larry, Dick, and Harry and their distant cousins.
So he very generously gave me his phone number instead, and told him that I should just call him. Um, yeah. Definitely will be getting RIGHT on that, buster.
As I drove away, I wondered if I should have taken his humanity a little more seriously...maybe sat him down, asked him some questions, explained why I don't date, told him why it's probably an unwise investment of time to have phone conversations with people one doesn't know the first thing about, and asked him where he was headed in life, what his purpose is, and whether he's ever personally encountered the love and grace and forgiveness of the God who binds up the broken-hearted and comforts the chronically single...
But the other side of my mind told me that it wasn't my place...because he's a guy, and because his motive in asking for my number was probably not that of seeking for genuine conversation with an individual who cares more about his humanity than his gender and the amount he can benchpress.
All in all, it gave me something to think about this afternoon as I watched my lifeblood oozing away into plastic bottles...because in an odd sort of way, it's funny to think about the emotions and drives that make us tick--that cause humans to do the crazy things that we do.
On a different note, musing on how strangely we sometimes behave gives me a new perspective on--and new appreciation for--the patience of my friends and family, and the long-suffering persistence of God as He continues to walk beside each one of us in the long and often tedious process of sanctification...woohoo!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
As a college kid who's still currently in the job search, I've been keeping my eyes open for time-efficient opportunities to earn a little extra gas money. Which is why I found myself in line today to sell plasma. (People do crazy things for money, seriously.)
It was truly a most interesting experience, and one from which I am still apparently recovering as I sit here munching saltines and patting the pretty blue elastic bandage wrapped tourniquet-style around my left elbow.
After a bit of meandering around trying to find the building (this is normal for me...I'm directionally challenged even when armed with Mapquest directions), I discovered a squat looking little brick place in the center of a strip mall that, from the sign outside, was apparently a plasma donation center.
Found the place. Check.
I was greeted inside the door by a jolly plump black matron who squinted one eye at me, raised an eyebrow, and asked, "Did you play basketball? How tall are you? You probably get that question a lot, don't you?"
I told her that I: 1) don't play basketball, 2) am approximately 6'1" tall, and 3) don't get asked about basketball more than ten times on an average day, so no worries...it's a very original question.
This introduction was followed by a barrage of paperwork that lasted about an hour and forty-five minutes...after which point a shriveled little Oriental doctor with a cute little mouse-like face beckoned me into his office to ask...you guessed it! more questions. But he was really nice about it, and asked politely if he could please check a few things (presumably to make sure I wasn't dead or dying...which I wasn't).
Part of the exam is a deep palpation of the kidneys...did I mention that I'm REALLY ticklish? The poor little doctor started palpating my stomach to try to find my kidneys, and I busted out laughing...which of course tightened all of my abdominal muscles, making it impossible for the missing kidneys to be located...
The little Chinese physician cocked his head to one side quizzically, and then nodded understandingly as he said, "It ok! I very ticklish too."
But apparently I passed the physical, because another plump black matron escorted me into the back room, where dozens of squishy green chairs were lined up, some of which were filled with people of all shapes and sizes who had, like myself, chosen to let their lifeblood be drained from them in exchange for filthy lucre.
Everyone was terribly nice, and the whole situation was really almost comical. I began to have second thoughts right about the time that I saw the phlebotomist coming towards my arm with a needle the size of a small ice-pick.
"Um...what gauge is that needle?" I asked, trying to smile nonchalantly.
"It's a 17-gauge," she replied equally nonchalantly. "It has to be big, so we can return your red blood cells to you, because we just keep the plasma."
17? Did she say SEVENTEEN? The biggest I'd ever seen was a 12 gauge, but I nodded, my head keeping time with the flipping of my stomach. You know, Thea, other people are doing it, and it hasn't killed them yet. Except for that little old lady over in the corner. Ok, kidding...she wasn't quite dead yet either.
Once they get the ice pick into your arm, tho, it's really not all that bad. And apparently Liberty students are their primary source of plasma. Now that I think of it, maybe that should tell me something about the intelligence of college students, but...whatever.
I felt pretty good as I walked out, until I got to the door...then I kind of almost passed out, which was fun too, because all the voices suddenly started to sound kind of echoey and really faaar away...and I remember thinking to myself, Self, you should probably sit down...or, as one of my professors likes to say, 'You'll be horizontal veeery soon.'
So I sat down, which was kind of an admission of weakness, but several of the employees bustled over with Gatorade, and the shriveled little Chinese doctor came running in with one of those spinny office chairs and offered to wheel me to my car. Yeah right. I'm approximately twice his height...I mean, never underestimate a Chinaman, but seriously?
I told him I was good, which I was after just a few moments. One of the plump black women placed a concerned hand on my shoulder and told me I should eat something as soon as I got home.
"Oh don't worry," I chirped, "that's one of my favorite things to do!"
She got a taken-aback look on her face, and then she tsked at me, and laughed. "Sure, dat one of yo favorite tings to do. You ain't nothin' but trouble, girl!"
If she only knew the half...my poor parents.
But at that point, I bid all the friendly blood-sucking employees a happy adieu, and came home to eat saltines and drop crumbs on my floor and do homework...in that order.
It was truly a most interesting experience, and one from which I am still apparently recovering as I sit here munching saltines and patting the pretty blue elastic bandage wrapped tourniquet-style around my left elbow.
After a bit of meandering around trying to find the building (this is normal for me...I'm directionally challenged even when armed with Mapquest directions), I discovered a squat looking little brick place in the center of a strip mall that, from the sign outside, was apparently a plasma donation center.
Found the place. Check.
I was greeted inside the door by a jolly plump black matron who squinted one eye at me, raised an eyebrow, and asked, "Did you play basketball? How tall are you? You probably get that question a lot, don't you?"
I told her that I: 1) don't play basketball, 2) am approximately 6'1" tall, and 3) don't get asked about basketball more than ten times on an average day, so no worries...it's a very original question.
This introduction was followed by a barrage of paperwork that lasted about an hour and forty-five minutes...after which point a shriveled little Oriental doctor with a cute little mouse-like face beckoned me into his office to ask...you guessed it! more questions. But he was really nice about it, and asked politely if he could please check a few things (presumably to make sure I wasn't dead or dying...which I wasn't).
Part of the exam is a deep palpation of the kidneys...did I mention that I'm REALLY ticklish? The poor little doctor started palpating my stomach to try to find my kidneys, and I busted out laughing...which of course tightened all of my abdominal muscles, making it impossible for the missing kidneys to be located...
The little Chinese physician cocked his head to one side quizzically, and then nodded understandingly as he said, "It ok! I very ticklish too."
But apparently I passed the physical, because another plump black matron escorted me into the back room, where dozens of squishy green chairs were lined up, some of which were filled with people of all shapes and sizes who had, like myself, chosen to let their lifeblood be drained from them in exchange for filthy lucre.
Everyone was terribly nice, and the whole situation was really almost comical. I began to have second thoughts right about the time that I saw the phlebotomist coming towards my arm with a needle the size of a small ice-pick.
"Um...what gauge is that needle?" I asked, trying to smile nonchalantly.
"It's a 17-gauge," she replied equally nonchalantly. "It has to be big, so we can return your red blood cells to you, because we just keep the plasma."
17? Did she say SEVENTEEN? The biggest I'd ever seen was a 12 gauge, but I nodded, my head keeping time with the flipping of my stomach. You know, Thea, other people are doing it, and it hasn't killed them yet. Except for that little old lady over in the corner. Ok, kidding...she wasn't quite dead yet either.
Once they get the ice pick into your arm, tho, it's really not all that bad. And apparently Liberty students are their primary source of plasma. Now that I think of it, maybe that should tell me something about the intelligence of college students, but...whatever.
I felt pretty good as I walked out, until I got to the door...then I kind of almost passed out, which was fun too, because all the voices suddenly started to sound kind of echoey and really faaar away...and I remember thinking to myself, Self, you should probably sit down...or, as one of my professors likes to say, 'You'll be horizontal veeery soon.'
So I sat down, which was kind of an admission of weakness, but several of the employees bustled over with Gatorade, and the shriveled little Chinese doctor came running in with one of those spinny office chairs and offered to wheel me to my car. Yeah right. I'm approximately twice his height...I mean, never underestimate a Chinaman, but seriously?
I told him I was good, which I was after just a few moments. One of the plump black women placed a concerned hand on my shoulder and told me I should eat something as soon as I got home.
"Oh don't worry," I chirped, "that's one of my favorite things to do!"
She got a taken-aback look on her face, and then she tsked at me, and laughed. "Sure, dat one of yo favorite tings to do. You ain't nothin' but trouble, girl!"
If she only knew the half...my poor parents.
But at that point, I bid all the friendly blood-sucking employees a happy adieu, and came home to eat saltines and drop crumbs on my floor and do homework...in that order.
Friday, August 27, 2010
The summer in review
Now that I'm officially back at Liberty, I feel like I ought to try to do at least some sort of photo review of the summer. Granted, most of the truly life-changing moments that happened during the past three months didn't look like anything special, and there's no pictures to express all that they meant...but some of my teammates were amazing at capturing the Kodak moments that occurred when the team was together on the weekends. A special thanks to Fish Hsu and Jared Yax for sharing these shots!
Sharing a moment with Bethany Lake...
To be perfectly honest, all of the kids on the team became almost like family to me this summer...we knew each other well enough that sometimes we got on each other's nerves...we knew each other's weaknesses, and we could admire each other's strengths...
...and I think that's why I came to love each one of them almost like siblings.
This is me and Hannah, who was my cheerleader, my pal, my partner in crime, my sister in Christ, and one of my best friends this summer...only at this point, we were newbies who didn't know each other and had no clue what we were going to find out there in Bedford county...
As the summer went on, the people that I had known nothing of in the beginning began to become my friends...
Sharing a moment with Bethany Lake...I began to realize that I really, really liked the people on my team. They were stinkin' funny.
I don't remember what I was laughing at in this shot...I just remember that there were lots of laughs any time the team got together.
Several individuals were unfortunate enough to have birthdays while out on the field...so yeah, of COURSE we made them do embarrassing things in front of the whole team.
"Lisa! Over heeeeeerreeee!" Glenn's lucky he still has his nose. Lisa was pretty quick with that stick...and clearly didn't have a real good idea of where that pinata was...
And finally, the last week of our time together, we all took two days to go to Fort Bluff Camp and do some recreational stuff as a team...which was incredible.
Lisa and Adriane discussing something important moments before being launched off the Blob...
I don't remember what I was laughing at in this shot...I just remember that there were lots of laughs any time the team got together.
Several individuals were unfortunate enough to have birthdays while out on the field...so yeah, of COURSE we made them do embarrassing things in front of the whole team.
"Lisa! Over heeeeeerreeee!" Glenn's lucky he still has his nose. Lisa was pretty quick with that stick...and clearly didn't have a real good idea of where that pinata was...And finally, the last week of our time together, we all took two days to go to Fort Bluff Camp and do some recreational stuff as a team...which was incredible.
Lisa and Adriane discussing something important moments before being launched off the Blob...
Yeah, I'd never done a water slide before...but good grief, I'm from Wisconsin, and it's not hot enough there that you need water slides...up there, we settle for spraying each other with the garden hose.
To be perfectly honest, all of the kids on the team became almost like family to me this summer...we knew each other well enough that sometimes we got on each other's nerves...we knew each other's weaknesses, and we could admire each other's strengths...
...and I think that's why I came to love each one of them almost like siblings. I'm gonna miss each and every one of them in a different way, but I'm so grateful that God gives us incredible things even when we don't know exactly what we want...that He uses others to fill the needs of our hearts even before we're aware of what those needs really are.
The relationships that I've formed this summer with my teammates are some of the best friendships that I've ever had, and I've been incredibly blessed to be able to serve out there on the field with each one of them. :-)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)