Anecdote

Day 3: The Gratefulness Project

2010-03-07T23:19:00.004-06:00

So it turns out that the church I've been going to since I moved home is really into the rodeo. The Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo started last weekend, so this Sunday was deemed "Rodeo Sunday." There was a petting zoo set up, roping demonstrations, cowboys and their horses--all sorts of rodeo themed fun. Oh, and all the music was country. The church has a very good worship band, but I looked upon this morning's prepared set with a dubious stare. However, I was proved wrong. It was so much fun! I mean, I wouldn't like for every song on every Sunday to be all twangy and two-steppy, but it was a good time for one day. It is undeniable that good country and bluegrass music has a certain joy and unimpaired spirit to it that can be infectious.

Therefore, I am grateful for the gift of music. I know that God can reach us in countless ways, and he certainly doesn't need music, but I think he realizes that some of us do need it. There are times that music can take me to a place that words cannot.

I am reminded that I could not enjoy the gift of music without my sense of hearing, so I am all the more grateful that I have ears that work. Without them, I could not hear the violin swell or the banjo wail. I could not hear the sound of my mom's voice or falling rain. It is a true gift to be able to hear.

On a completely separate note, the pastor said something at church today that stuck out to me: "When we're praying for something that will take God's place, his answer will always be no." Wow. Harsh. But true. I think... but then, I'm reminded of Israel crying out for a king, and God's (slow and begrudging) concession. What does that mean? I haven't thought out all of the implications of that statement, whether it is true when weighed against the Bible, and so on, but I found it to be very much worth taking note of.

Day 2: The Gratefulness Project

2010-03-06T23:42:00.002-06:00

I am so thankful for Saturdays. And sunshine. And temperatures in the high 60s. What a beautiful day it was today! Now that I am subbing a lot more often and no longer work at American Eagle, I have Saturdays off and I don't have to feel bad about it. In fact, it feels great to have a Saturday off when I don't feel 1.) guilty that I'm not working or 2.) obligated to do some form of homework. I just slept in a bit, spent some time outside, enjoyed cooking dinner, and watched The Godfather: Part 2 with my dad. And it was a beautiful day. Thank you, God, for Saturdays.

Day 1: The Gratefulness Project

2010-03-05T22:27:00.002-06:00

I am grateful for the ability to read. I spent a lot of time reading Jesus for President by Shane Claiborne and Chris Haw today, and it has been opening my eyes (and my heart) to many things about Jesus and the Gospel. It occurred to me that I would not be able to realize such things--at least not without God intervening in some other way, but that's for a different discussion--without the ability to read. Then I thought about the myriad of opportunities that I would not have if were not able to read. Wow. The implications are sobering.

Therefore, I am also grateful for teachers and my parents. Without them, I would not have the education I've had, and I would not have the same opportunities.

21 Days of Gratitude: The Gratefulness Project

2010-03-04T22:10:00.002-06:00

It happens so quickly. One little thing doesn't go "my way," and I forget that I have so much to be grateful for. To cut myself some slack, there are times that the thing isn't quite so little, but that still does not change the fact that I have much more to be grateful for than I do to be bitter about.

We talked about this a bit in my small group tonight. I tend to expect God to give me good things when I've been "good"; I feel that I deserve them. However, when I've been "bad," I don't ask for God to give me bad things, even though I deserve them. Instead, God has provided an alternative known as grace. He extends grace and mercy whether I'm "good" or "bad," never giving me what I deserve, only his unconditional love. That is so much better than always getting what I deserve (or think I deserve).

Lately, I've been thinking that I deserve a lot of things. And when I don't get them, I am bitter about it. One thing leads to another, and before I know it, I'm not grateful for anything anymore. ICK!!

So I'm going to keep a gratitude journal, and I'm going to keep it here on my blog for you to read. This is partially to keep me accountable. They say it takes at least 21 consistent days to change a habit, so for at least 21 consistent days, I'm going to make a very conscious effort to be grateful. The hope is that this will lead to a way of grateful thinking and behaving that is second nature.

With that, I invite you to read for the next 3 weeks about the things that I am grateful for!

Finding the Center

2010-02-09T22:35:00.004-06:00

I've been trying to find an open studio where I can keep up my practice in pottery, and I've been ruminating over the whole process of "throwing" quite a bit lately, and over all of the similarities the it bears to my walk with God. By the way, I'm well aware of how often this comparison is made--I mean, we find it in the Bible itself! But oh well, I wanted to share my experience with the metaphor.

Last year I took a ceramics class at ACU. I should have taken it pass/fail--my mistake--but still, it was one of the classes that I most enjoyed adding to my transcript, despite the "B." We started out with handbuilding, rolling slabs, coiling little pots. That was all nice and very quaint, but I was anxious to graduate to the potter's wheel.

Finally, the day came, and it was spoiled almost immediately. I was terrible at it! The first step in the process is to literally throw your ball of clay onto the wheel, aiming for the center, hoping it will find its way there and stick itself good. I found myself blindly wielding my clay, afraid to watch lest my hand-eye coordination be proven any worse than it already was. After getting my first decently-centered-and-stuck piece of clay, I proceeded to center the clay. This is the part where the potter actually begins to spin the wheel and work with the clay, trying to form a nice dome of perfectly centered clay that is ready to move on to the next stage.

Centering is considered the most important step in this process, as well as the most difficult by many. It requires (especially for the beginner) a good deal of patience and strength. You will often discover if you stuck your clay well enough upon the first rotation of the wheel. If it has not adhered to the wheel adequately, it will be spun right off. This not-so-phenomal phenomena elicited many a "Son of a . . . !!" from me over the course of that semester. But once it has proven itself stuck, the potter begins by pressing in on the clay from opposite directions. I usually began with the heels of my palms, and as the clay began to soften and press itself inward, I would allow more of my hands to wrap around it. The potter then applies enough pressure to both sides to force the clay upwards, allowing it form a conical structure. Next, the potter uses the bottom of a fist to apply pressure on the top of the cone, while the other hand applies some pressure to the side of the cone, pushing the clay back down, allowing the hands to once again encircle it in order to form a dome.

The point of this step is the get the clay ready to be stretched and to find the perfect rotational center from which to form the vessel. During this step, the potter's hands are constantly on the clay, hardly leaving but to retrieve some moisture, some nourishment, if you will, to keep it from becoming too dry. Its hard on the clay, and often times, frustrating. When watching a demonstration, it is the most boring part to watch, and when it is performed by a very experienced potter, it can go by pretty quickly. But that does not make it unimportant. Without a well-centered piece of clay, the vessel will not succeed. The rotational pull will be too much for the clay to sustain as the potter tries to stretch it and mold it into the shape he has planned for it. Finding the center makes all the difference in the world.

A general wondering

2010-01-26T23:48:00.002-06:00

I was just fixing to go to bed, thinking, "What will I do tomorrow?" Unless I get called in to substitute, which seems to be highly unlikely, I won't have any pressing plans. I started thinking about the different activities I could fill my day with, and it surprised me how few of them are things that bring me true joy. So I was wondering, why is it so easy to fall into a routine that is not fulfilling and life giving?

Satan is a crafty one.

But the victory belongs to the Lord.

Non-fic-tion

2010-01-12T00:03:00.002-06:00

I need a routine. Without regular working and/or school hours to force my life into a routine, I'm floundering around, starting a project here, reading a page or two there, without really getting much of anything done. Pray that I get a job in the teaching field soon. Please. The district that I live in is not hiring teachers or substitutes. Neither is the district next door. How can this be??? I was counting on at least getting on as a substitute in order to make it through until districts start hiring for next school year. I am feeling pretty downtrodden. I applied with the Sylvan Learning centers that are hiring around the Houston area today. We shall see.

I decided to assign myself an essay. I've been thinking about my summer in New York a lot lately, so that is, naturally, what I'm going to right about. It will be nonfiction, clearly, but I think I can say with some degree of certainty that there will be slightly fictitious embellishments. Anyhow, I wrote a couple of "introductory" paragraphs a little while ago, so I'm just going to post them here for you all to read and let me know what you think. Do you like where it seems to be heading? If I were going to expand on anything I've already written, what would it be? What would you change? Etc. The title is a working title, one that I borrowed from a much shorter essay about NYC that I wrote in a nonfiction workshop. But I think I'll keep it.

Southern Fiddle

To begin is the most difficult task. After all, when something (or some place, in my case) means as much to you as the city of New York means to me, where do you begin to tell the story? And how do you even decide what the story is about? It was one summer, and it is the one summer that feels like the only summer there ever was.

I am positive that were I to return today, the lenses would be lifted and none of the buildings, subway cars, or sidewalks would look the same. But still, its just like when people speak of the great loves of their lives—they never recall the bad times, that time you screamed at each other all night over (initially) the credit bill, his jugular throbbing and threatening to explode all over the newly-installed kitchen tile, you making a show of putting together an overnight bag, because you were going to spend the night at your sister’s, goddamn it, if he couldn’t talk about this like a reasonable adult. We never remember stuff like that. This story will not remember stuff like that, because this story, my friend, is a love story.

Red Scare

2010-01-09T23:48:00.004-06:00

I recently began reading A People's History of the United States by Howard Zinn, and the first chapter alone is enough to keep my mind racing for weeks. What has really got me thinking is his description of the 17th century Iroquois tribe. According to Zinn, who I am fairly confident can be trusted as a legitimate source, this tribe was made up of 5 smaller tribes, and it consisted of thousands of people who all spoke the same language. A group of thousands who speak the same language, that is spread across a large portion of northeastern America, and is, by all practical definitions, unlinked by accesible communication? To a technology dependent, 21st century American, that is a pretty impressive feat. But what I find most impressive is this--they shared.

An account from a French Jesuit priest, dated in the 1650s, reads: "No poorhouses are needed among them, because they are neither mendicants nor paupers. . . . Their kindness, humanity, and courtesy not only makes them liberal with what they have, but causes them to possess hardly anything except in common."

This was a civilization that was--by and large--untouched, unspoiled, and untainted by the outside world. These people existed as they had for generations before them, which leads me to wonder. . . is this human behavior at its most basic level? Is it humanity's natural tendency to share with one another, to take care of one another?

If so, it would appear that some form of what we generally refer to as "communism" is in our blood, and I have to say--would it be such a bad thing? I mean, greed, materialism, and "progress" haven't seemed to work out too well for most of the world.

I hope Senator McCarthy's ghost doesn't come after me for this.

Chocolate Puppy, Colossians, and Tony Dungy

2010-01-08T00:57:00.007-06:00

It is unreal how swiftly and deftly God can move through your life.

He has been present and active in my life in the strangest ways this week. He moved in quickly, and with such precision, such accuracy. He got right down to the heart of things.

To begin: Sunday morning, I had to work at American Eagle. When I got off around 1 pm, I checked my phone for messages. My dad left me a voice mail asking me to call him before I left from work. I figured he needed me to pick up something from the mall before coming home, so I called to find out what he needed.

What he actually needed was for me to meet him at the vet hospital. For those of you who don't know this, my dog Scout is very special to me. I could say a lot more, but suffice it to say that I would be pretty shaken up if she died, especially right now. Anyways, it turned out that my dad had accidentally dropped an open bag of dark chocolate chips while cleaning out the pantry, and after forgetting to pick them up, Scout, well... got high. Chocolate is like speed for dogs, and being that she weighs about 7 pounds, it can be fatal for her. My stepmom, Kathy, realized what had happened, and she and my dad rushed Scout to the vet clinic. They induced vomiting, but because she had eaten about 4 ounces (which is around 4 times the fatal dose), they recommended that she be kept there overnight for treatment. It would cost umm... a lot more than I could afford. But my dad stepped in and paid the cost for me.

My dad is a very kind, compassionate, and caring man. But when it comes to animals, he's a country boy at heart. He enjoys having a good dog around the house, but he has never been one to put a lot of time (and certainly not a lot of money) into a pet. I would have never expected him to pay for my dog's veterinary costs. But as he hugged me outside the clinic, he just said, "I understand what Scout means to you." Many, many times, I have felt misunderstood by my dad. And I'm sure he has felt the same about me. But at that moment, I knew that my father truly understood at least that part of me. At that moment, I could feel the love of God flowing through my dad to me.

In addition: I recently started working with this little book that some awesome people I went to church with in Abilene recommended to me--the Spiritual Disciplines Handbook. (Yeah, I know, awful title. But give it a chance!) It addresses a slew of practices that the author labels as "spiritual disciplines," many of which are not considered "traditional," and whilst reading through the laundry list, I made note of a few that I felt compelled to try and implement in my life. But somehow, I ended in a section called, "Practicing the Presence." This discipline is meant to draw one deeper into the presence of God, to make one more privy to God's presence in the minute details of a day. One of the scriptures listed in this section is Colossians 3:3-4 (taken from The Message): "Your new life, which is your real life--even though invisible to spectators--is with Christ in God. He is your life. When Christ (your real life, remember) shows up again on this earth, you'll show up, too--the real you, the glorious you. Meanwhile, be content with obscurity, like Christ."

With all of the discontentedness I've been feeling lately, I know that God meant for me to read that scripture. It became so clear to me why God has placed me here. Okay, maybe clear isn't exactly the right word for it! Because I don't know if anything is ever clear while one is living in the midst of it. But I do know this: I have wanted something for quite some time now, and even though I want it out of the goodness of my heart, that doesn't mean that I'm entitled to it. I want to be out there, in the schools, reaching out to young people. And I want a lot of other things. But first and foremost, I want to start my career so that I can start my life. But God showed me that my life has already started. It started years ago when I gave it up to Christ. Now that its his, I should be content with whatever it is he asks of me and wherever it is that he takes me. I'm not saying that I went from feeling discontent to content overnight--I know it will take time and prayer--but I am saying that I understand my father a little bit more, and I know that he understands me.

To finish: I watched the national championship football game tonight (is that supposed to be captialized? I'm sure the college football purists among you can say). At the end, when the field became an interview stage for all of the sports correspondents to get their sound bytes, Colt McCoy (the Texas quarterback) made a touching comment. Now, allow me to put this into perspective before I continue. I'm not really that into football. I know who Colt McCoy is, and a few other players on the UT team, but I wouldn't call myself a fan. I didn't follow their season, or anyone elses, for that matter. What I'm trying to say here is this: don't disregard what I'm fixing to say because you might think that I'm biased. Anyhow, the losing quarterback, who was taken out of his last football game as a Longhorn player due to an injury, congratulated the winning team, and said that at the end of the day, he knows that God is in control of his life, and he is thankful to be standing on the rock.

So after hearing that, I got curious about him and looked him up on Wikipedia. Because that's what you do with anything you're curious about these days. And under "Personal Life," there was a mention of a video that he made for something called, "I Am Second." So I Googled that. It took me a few minutes to figure out what it is. Its basically a website with video testimonials from several people about their relationships with God. The whole idea behind it is that we are all second, and Christ is first. Growing up in the church and all, I've found myself to be kind of (I hate to admit it) quick to judge this sort of thing. But these really intrigued me. I realized that they weren't only done by sports stars or celebrities, which has me more convinced that this particular group is pretty legit.

Anyhow, I watched the video done by Tony Dungy, and holy smokes, it was like God was speaking directly to me. I mean, who knew that God's voice sounds like Tony Dungy's? I kid.. :) He was talking about the dissappointment he felt after being fired as head coach of Tampa Bay. He said, "That's one of the hardest things in life, when you have an idea of how things are going to go, what you hope for, what you dream about, what you pray for, and it doesn't come through. That's when its easy to be dissappointed with God. I had to realize that it worked out. It just didn't work out the way I had planned."

I've heard so many people say something like that. But tonight was the first time that I really understood the weight of it. I think its because I felt like he validated my heartbreak.

God's presence has been all around me. From my chocolate puppy, to Colossians, to Tony Dungy, he has been revealing himself to me. Praise be to him.

ps. You should check this out for a minute or two: I Am Second

Frankly

2010-01-01T19:25:00.003-06:00

I don't know why I have decided to keep up with this sometimes. Most of the time, I'm pretty positive that I'm the only person who returns here every few days. Every time I start to write a new entry, I kind of mock myself. And if there is someone reading this, I know how this sounds, but I'm really not trying to fish for compliments. I'm just being transparent, which is something I made a commitment to be when I started writing this a year and a half ago.

Because tonight is one of those nights. Its one of those nights when I feel like going to bed at 7:30. I feel like the day beat me up, and not because it was demanding in any way. I washed some clothes. I went by work to pick up my schedule. I returned a Christmas present I got for my dad that didn't fit him in exchange for some socks (because socks always fit, unless they're kid-sized. obviously). Demanding, right? But somehow, the day still kicked my ass.

Because somehow I've wound up curled up in my bed, hugging my dog, and wondering how I ended up here. Last night was New Year's Eve, and I didn't go anywhere or see anyone but my dad and step-mom. I went to bed at 10:30. I miss my friends.

I'm trying to stay positive. I really am. I applied for another job yesterday, this one in Round Rock. I'm keeping my fingers crossed. Truly. I know Round Rock, Texas isn't New York, Chicago, or New Orleans, but at this point, its sounding like paradise. Because its not that I don't appreciate my parents letting me live with them rent free, or helping me out with a new car, or the part-time job I know that I'm lucky to have during an economic situation like the one we are in, I just want to start my "adult-life" the way I saw it starting.

Can you relate?

I'm wondering if Jesus can. I wonder if he sat around at 22 and thought, "Well, Dad, I thought we'd have this whole Savior career in full-swing by now. What's the deal?? I barely have any friends because I left them all in Nazareth when you told me to come Galilee. But now I'm just waiting for some guy to get put in prison so I can go and preach? Sounds kind of unlikely. Thanks for all the support."

Yeah. I know God knows what He is doing. I just wish I did, too.

Love Thy Neighbor

2009-12-30T02:08:00.006-06:00

You may have heard about Rosenberg in the news lately. In fact, you may have heard about the very street I live on. If you have, its probably because a man that lives down the street from me is under suspicion for killing his wife and mother-in-law in her home, just a few streets away from my home.

Is it safe for me to write about this on a blog? Or even legal? I mean, its not like I know any information. Anyways, the point is that the police have been on my street, searching a man's house for evidence of murder. The man hasn't been around, and as far as I know, he hasn't been found. I know I should probably be afraid, but I'm not. What does that mean?

Its so terrible. They have children. I'm not sure how old the kids are, but I am sure that it doesn't matter. I don't know what else to say about the situation.

Well, there is this: I've been contemplating the old adage "love thy neighbor" quite a bit. I think, "Its difficult to conceive of loving someone despite an act like this." So then I start thinking about the times that I've visited prisons with Seekers, and I remember how deeply I felt for the inmates. Their guilt was visible, from their IDs to their jump suits, as was their shame. And as we all stood under the same roof to praise God, I thought, "What really makes me any different from these men? Aren't we all made the same way?" When we lined up at the door to shake their hands, many of them hesitated to make eye contact, and they let their handshakes go limp. There was no confidence there, no pride. They were stripped. It made me hurt for them. I know that criminals must be served justice, and that they have stripped innocent people of their pride, confidence, and in many cases, much more. But I struggle with revenge v. justice. Where do you make the distinction? I just don't know... but that's for a different entry. Still, I wanted them to know that I saw a different future for them, one where they are not convicts forever labeled as guilty. They are my neighbors, and I want to love them the way Jesus loves them.

But I am not Jesus (surprise, surprise). And I am finding that it is more difficult to conceive of loving my neighbor when he is truly my neighbor. I just can't stop thinking about those children.

I would title this "Diverse City..."

2009-12-23T00:37:00.003-06:00

... if only Toby Mac had not taken that title back in the day. Yes, I know who Toby Mac is. I'm cool like that. And if you know who he is, well... you're cool, too!

After moving in with my dad and stepmom in lovely (maybe?) Rosenberg, Texas, I've found myself as scattered as ever. All of my stuff is finally in one place again, but I feel more unsettled than ever. After four and one-half years in college, I definitely did not imagine myself "striking out on my own..." back in with my parents?! Hold it. That is not the dream. No, no, no. The dream is graduate, score the dream job, secure the trendy loft apartment at a criminal-low price, buy the new car, and start the first day at said job to an overwhelming welcome of applause from the general public (who lined up to greet me at the doorway, obviously).

Hmm... not so much. Although I have been blessed to fulfill one part of the dream. My dad helped me to buy a new car. Thank you, Dad.

Other than that, I'm pretty much doing the same thing I did in Abilene. I'm working at American Eagle and looking for a teaching job (still, to no avail). And looking for sources of inspiration to keep my mind from degenerating into a pile of goo now that I don't have classes to stimulate my thinking. Oh, how I miss my English classes! It turns out that I really am a nerd.

Today I had an experience in diversity that really got me thinking. I worked the register for six straight hours today. That is a lot of talking. "Hi How are you Do you have an AE All Access Pass Would you like to sign up for one No Okay that's fine Will this be all Do you need a gift receipt Thank you Have a good Christmas!" As "diverse" as some people tried to make Abilene out to be, it has nothing on Houston, a fact that I've been smacked by over the last few days at AE. I enjoy diversity. In fact, I sometimes crave it. I get so bored when everyone listens to the same music as I do or uses the same colloquialisms as me. Still, I am human, and like most humans, I settle quite comfortably into homogeney. But today, diversity was hard. A woman came to the register and asked me to search for her in our customer database. She had a very thick Indian accent. That, coupled with the high volume of the rockin tunes (heh) and my manager's voice yammering in my headset ("Everyone be sure to greet all the customers!! Tell them about the promos! We need to get our conversion up! Other managerial phrases!!"), made it difficult to understand her. She gave me her last name (twice before we resorted to spelling it out: "I'm sorry, was that a "P?"), then her first name (three times), her address (I lost count), and her zip code (numbers are easier, thank God). We were both frustrated to say the least. I cannot speak for her, but I feel confident in saying that we both wanted to give up. "Who cares? So you (I) don't get the points for your (my) purchase? At least we'll stop screaming letters at each other."

I've realized something--it is at this point that me must committ to plow through. Diversity is worth it, even if it is hard.

An explanation of "ubuntu"

2009-12-23T00:03:00.003-06:00

In my previous blog, I referred to this philosophy called "ubuntu" without properly explaining it. Please allow me to do so briefly. Lately, I've become deeply interested in South Africa--and no, not just because "Invictus" just came out (although I did really enjoy that movie!). It is an African concept that basically says, "I can't be human without you." Desmond Tutu explains, "We think of ourselves far too frequently as just individuals, separated from one another, whereas you are connected and what you do affects the whole world. When you do well, it spreads out; it is for the whole of humanity." This speaks so much about the complexities of human relationships and so much about how God asks us to treat one another. That is what I want to explore in my writing. You, me, they, we, us--interconnectedness.

Shout out to Ben Berry--thanks for cluing (I can't believe that is the correct way to spell that word!) me in.

Meditations in a Crisis (well, not quite)

2009-12-06T22:26:00.004-06:00

I was driving home from dinner with my dear friend Arielle last week when I was rudely reminded of something I had forgotten. At the corner of Judge Ely and Ambler, I got into a minor accident when I rear-ended the car in front me. Bummer. I followed the car until it pulled over on the side of the road, parked behind it, and switched on my hazard lights. A girl stepped out of the car. At that moment, "the car" ceased to represent an obstacle in my drive home and came to represent a life. I had forgotten about the lives in the other cars.

Before you freak out and call the DPS, demanding that my license be revoked, let me explain myself. I don't mean that I had forgotten that other people are in those other cars that fill the road beside me. I haven't been swerving and sliding down the roads, like an unstoppable moron with complete disregard for the physical lives of other drivers. I am well-aware that these other cars are not operated by robots. What I do mean is that I had forgotten about the life my fellow driver lives. While we were on the road, totally disconnected from each other by barriers of white stripes, stop signs, break lights, and steel frames, we were not aware of each others lives. I forgot she had plans for that night, just like me, and that they were disrupted by the night's unfortunate events. I forgot that she was listening to music that probably was not the same as the music I was listening to, and that she was phoning friends who I had probably never met while she sat in her car, waiting for the cop to arrive, just like me.

In short, I knew she had a life, but I didn't think about it being lived. I've been so wrapped up in myself, worried about, "Am I going to find a job? Where am I going to live?" and on it goes . . . I have forgotten the very thing that drives me as an educator, a friend, a daughter, and a Christian--my life is not about me. Just like George Eliot wrote, there is a roar on the other side of silence that is someone else's life, and I've gone deaf to it.

When the cop came along, I was written a ticket, obviously. But so was she. Her tags were expired. In that instant, I was reminded of "ubuntu." My actions had affected her life, and not in a positive way. I know I am not guilty for her tags being expired, but the fact still remains.

How deeply--and sometimes, shallowly--are we all connected. And how easily do we forget it.

On the Poets Walk in Central Park

2009-06-02T21:57:00.000-05:00

Resting on a park bench, I think on the lives of poets
who gave this stretch of gravel its name,

marvel at the power of biology and imagination,
both flowing through space and time, down sinewy limbs

and bursting to life at the ends of pens cradled in hands.
Their words fell like seeds from the beaks

of greedy birds and took root in the dirt. Years passed
and their names grew tangled in the roots beneath the feet

of passersby like me. Though still today grand trunks
line the path and leaves form a ceiling for women and men

to rest shaded, baseball capped on park benches,
and wonder about things like old lovers, and the age of trees.

Update

2009-05-11T02:25:00.002-05:00

I graduated this weekend! I am now the official holder of a Bachelor of Arts in English. Yay! My plans for the near future have been changing about as quickly as my outfit over the last couple of weeks, so here is the current, affirmed plan: I am staying in Abilene to get my teacher's certification. McMurry University has a Post-Baccalaureate Fast Track certification program which requires me to take 5 summer courses, and to student teach in the fall, and then--I'm done! After that, I may move up to Chicago if I am able to find a job up there mid-school year, or move back home and substitute teach until August 2010, by which point I should be able to secure a teaching job in Chicago.

I'll be getting certified to teach Secondary English/Language Arts, which I am SUPER excited about! A lot of people have been asking me if this is a default plan. To be honest, it is. If I had been able to secure a job in Chicago right out of school, you can bet I would have taken it. However, after applying for 20 or so jobs, ranging from basic retail to entry-level youth counseling/mentoring, I did not hear back from anyone--and it was two weeks before graduation! So I started to re-evaluate. I firmly believe in doing work that one finds meaningful, so I started to think about what I needed to do in order to put myself in a position to be offered jobs that I truly wanted--felt called to, even--work in. Since I was in high school, teaching has been a possibility that I've thrown around, but never committed to. I can't explain it without making it sound trite, so I'm just going to simply say it: I believe the Lord has placed a love in my heart for the written word, and a desire to positively shape the lives of young people, and teaching seems like the most natural culmination of these gifts. So I decided to do it. And its great, because I can teach anywhere. It can take me down the street, or around the world. It puts me in a position to serve and love young people who may not get what they deserve from other people in their lives. So is this really a default plan? No way!! I think its what the Lord wanted me to do all along; I was just too thick to see it.

Still, this in no way means that I will stop writing, or stop pursuing creative writing. I'm going to keep writing for myself, or for those who are willing to read and offer suggestions for me. And hopefully, someday sooner, rather than later, I will be in the financial position to go back to school for my MFA in creative writing. But until then, I'm excited about continuing to nurture that budding talent on my own.

So, if you are in Abilene anytime during the summer and fall of 2009, we should hang out! Cause I'm still going to be here, and I'm actually really excited about it!

Maya

2009-04-06T22:24:00.004-05:00

So this is a "lyrical essay." Don't ask me what a lyrical essay is; I'm still trying to figure it out myself! (All of the italicized text is taken from Sanjay Patel's The Little Book of Hindu Deities)

Maya

"In Hinduism, God is thought to be made up of three gods. This holy trinity is known as the Trimurti. The three forms of this trinity are the gods Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. Hindus believe that the gods within the trinity represent ... creation, preservation, and destruction."

Welcoming Committees

"In the beginning, while Vishnu slept in the infinite coils of the great serpent Sesha, it is thought that he dreamt up the creator god, Brahma, who emerged from Vishnu's navel already seated upon a perfect lotus flower. Brahma then began the work of creation, starting with the four yugas ... Each of these ages repeats 1,000 times in each cycle of creation, known as a Kalpa, which is then followed by the disillusion of the universe, known as Pralaya. It is believed that this all takes place within Vishnu's dream, which is our reality.

Thus, everything we know is maya (illusion), or merely a figment of Vishnu's imagination."

Upon deboarding my Hong Kong-Mumbai flight, I promptly made my way to the restroom, where I struggled to understand how to flush an Indian toilet. I gave up after several minutes and used my elbow to push my way out of the swinging door, ignoring the pleas for a tip from the frail, sari-wrapped restroom attendant, a gift-wrapped welcome present, my first official Indian acquaintance.

My traveling companions and I stumbled from a flurry of government forms and coolies chattering in Hindi into Mumbai’s slippery night air. Mangy dogs roamed the parking area, their tails curled like question marks, just like I imagined them. We clambered into a cab, and my first taste of India was the intense scent of marigolds and body odor. I kept the window rolled down for the duration of our ride to the hotel. My glasses fogged and Mumbai was veiled in a dense mist. It smelled of fish, fresh earlier that morning, left to spoil in the abandoned street markets, turmeric, chilies, and curry, wafting out through open windows, and cow dung heaped in holy piles on the side of the road. I was overwhelmed by the urge to vomit.

That night, I went to bed in the Hotel Grant, trying to stifle sobs on a worn-out mattress covered in itchy linens, of which I questioned the cleanliness. The street outside was lined with rubbish and beggars, whose moans I now imagine must have risen in through my barred window, but I did not care to hear them that night.

Yet, after several days, Hindi started to sound like musical notes tinkering off the tongues of train passengers, especially late at night when the words danced through the cars, left in the care of bony men beating out ancient rhythms on drums they held between their knees.

Rains

“It is said that good and evil forces are always battling for control of the world--the gods work to preserve the good, and the demons work to spread evil. Vishnu’s role in the great trinity is that of the invincible protector. Generally, when all is going well, good and evil are in balance. When things fall into chaos, however, Vishnu takes a trip down to earth to preserve justice. Sometimes he comes as himself, a blue four-armed
god ...”

I spent the fifth evening in the Hotel Grant hobbling between the restroom and my bed, my stomach retching with little success. A fever sent chilly tremors through my body while sweat soaked through my nightclothes.

I felt well enough the next day to venture out with my companions to the other side of the city, where we were to spend the evening with a family whom we had become acquainted with throughout the week. In the midst of our visit, the fever returned. I felt my body temperature climbing out of the confines of my punjabi suit. Despite the ever-present heat radiating through the thin walls, the chills set in, and I noticed Shakuntrala watching me from across the room.

The old family matriarch was perched on the bed with the end of her blue sari draped over her head. She smiled and patted the space next to her, the universal motion for inviting someone to sit beside you. I went. The tiny woman took my hand and drew it to her lap, placing her other hand on top of mine. Shakuntrala gently rubbed my hand, starkly white next to her leathery skin. She murmured to me in the language that I did not understand. I stared out the window and watched the monsoon, there to preserve the fertility of India's earth, drip down the leaves of the Banyan tree. The sunlight filtered through and diffracted into miniature rainbows, and India opened herself up to me. Or, maybe I opened myself up to her.

Elephants

"Shiva is one of the oldest gods of India and plays many important roles. He is a devout meditator and yogi, a cosmic dancer setting the rhythms of the universe, a benevolent protector and husband ... Some think that when Shiva finishes dancing, the world will come to an end ..."

We were traveling by rickshaw through Dadar, an area of the Mumbai that was popular with the city's upper-middle class. The air was so thick with moisture that my legs kept sliding off of the vinyl seats. As usual, our auto was stopped in a traffic jam, and I occupied myself by watching the foot traffic. There were men trickling in and out of a Hindu temple, from which a symphony of finger cymbals and chanting was pouring out onto the sidewalk. I strained my neck to see inside. It was about that time that one of my traveling companions shook my arm.

"Wasn't that elephant awesome?" he exclaimed.

"What elephant?" I said, searching the street for a sign of it.

"It was just right there," he motioned to the intersection before us. "Yeah, some guy was riding it through the street, for money I guess. It was painted."

I tried not to let my disappointment show. The temple elephant had been one of India's iconic images for me. I imagined what he must have looked like. He would have been gilded with golden paint, which would have woven an intricate design, like henna on a bride's foot, up from his hoof to the fuchsia, crushed velvet saddle on his back. There would have been giant, elephant-sized anklets jingling around his feet. His name would be Ganesha, for he would have been the son of Shiva, bringing luck to his devotees. He would have been a fairy-tale brought to life, but I had missed him.

Several days later, we were visiting an old palace of one of India's fabled maharajas. It was a well-known tourist spot, complete with a pair of camels and an elephant, available for rides around the palace grounds. I eagerly purchased my ticket and climbed the shaky ladder up to the elephant's back. The saddle was more like a cage, and it was not made of crushed velvet, fuchsia or any other color. His tusks had been roughly trimmed back, and they did not glisten like glossy ivory, but rather like yellowed teeth. There were cracks in his hide, and he trudged around the circular trail without barely lifting his magnificent head. I was suddenly very aware of the heavy camera around my neck and the traveler's checks stuffed in my pockets, my burdensome tourism that he bore around the countryside. When the ride finally ended, I climbed down with my own head, far less magnificent, hung low. I silently asked Ganesha for forgiveness.

That night, the trains were not alive with dancing.

"Thus, everything we know is maya (illusion), or merely a figment of Vishnu's imagination."

First Night

2009-03-23T22:42:00.002-05:00

This isn't a new poem. I haven't been writing poetry lately. But I have been thinking about India a lot lately, after seeing Slumdog Millionaire, and now that I'm reading a book about India. So I thought I'd share this. I wrote this last semester. During my trip to India, and even soon after, I tried to write poetry about it, but all of it was terrible. It was too cliche and trite. I think I had to be removed from the experience for a while before I could write about it.

First Night
“See Mumbai the beautiful with this map being helpful!”
- from a tourist map

The Hotel Grant is crumbling
on your first night in Mumbai.
The taxi wallah kept your change,
but you don’t know that yet.
It will be weeks before you understand
the exchange rate, the way things work
here, where the chai does not come iced
or sweet, and the rickshaws crowd
even your sleep.

On your first night in Mumbai,
you weep in the shower, beat
your fists against the geyser, and repeat:
“It’s not bad, just different.
Not bad, just different.”
Not bad like the curry that scorches your tongue,
or the deadly stench of fish
and leprous beggars, or the Delhi Belly
that ravages your body nightly.
Not bad like the mattresses,
as flat as the nasal voices of Bollywood
actresses, or the assaulting scent
of Ganapati flowers, and the popping
of skulls on funeral pyres
on your first night in Mumbai.

You don’t know this yet,
but on your last night in Mumbai,
you will cry because you know
how you will miss
fairytale elephants in the street,
naan dripping with ghee,
the barefoot children who greeted
you with happy Namastes,
brilliant saris and sparkling bhindis,
tablas and finger cymbals, all of it
dancing with you on the trains
on your first night in Mumbai.

Just a little freak out...

2009-03-03T18:26:00.002-06:00

This post isn't any sort of creative writing. Its just me writing about my life. I'm feeling pretty frustrated right now, kind of like I'm flailing in the pool with just enough swim-knowledge to keep myself afloat, but not enough to get to the other side. The semesters until graduation have finally become months, and the months are now starting to become weeks. In case you don't already know, I decided a few months ago that I will move to Chicago. I'm super excited about this, albeit, pretty intimidated by the prospect of blizzards, frozen sidewalks, and traveling on foot through said conditions. But that's okay. I'll adapt. Everyone does, eventually. Right?

No, no. What's really got me imagining how pleasant an extra semester in Abilene could, in fact be, is this task of finding a job. There should be a class for this sort of thing that all graduating seniors are required to take. During your first semester at ACU, you are required to take a one-hour credit course referred to as the University Seminar, or U100. Its primary reason is to orient you with life as a college student. Most of us hated this class. I hated this class. But now, I'm wishing I could take a Real Life Seminar, or U400. During class meetings, we would discuss job-finding strategies, help each other write resumes, role-play in preparation for interviews, and so on. Sometimes, its pretty hard to find time in your schedule to do these time consuming things when facing the other demands of life as a graduating senior. And I'm not even one of those who are planning a wedding! You can tell that I've thought about this quite a bit. I could probably teach the class. That is, I could if I knew how to do all of that.

Anyhow, not only is finding a job a seemingly insurmountable task (I know that, in reality, it isn't. I know that after my first two jobs or so, finding a job will be just like any other thing I used to think I'd never figure out. Like cursive), deciding what kind of job I want to look for is a frightening challenge in itself. I've thought about several different sorts of things. Teaching, editing, publishing, media writing, dancing on bar counters (okay, that last one is a joke. Sort of). Some of these sound more appealing than others to me. But, as it turns out, I'm not particularly qualified for any of them. Nobody wants an English major graduating with only a bachelor's and no work experience in their field. Don't get me wrong. I've enjoyed being an English major, but unless you're going to graduate school or combining the major with another more marketable major, its worthless. But hey! If you've got a book you need read, send it my way! Why didn't someone stop me?!?! Oh, I'm sure I wouldn't have listened to you anyways.

All of that being said, there are a few rays of sunshine in the future of my employment. I hear back from Teach for America next week. Honestly, I'm still not positive that I want to work for TFA, but I am more positive about it than doubtful, so that's a good thing. I've also re-discovered non-profits, such as the Inspiration Cafe in Chicago, who I would love to work with. The only problem with non-profits is that they're usually small and don't hire very often. But if you know of any who are hiring, let me know!

Also, after a recent trip with Seekers to the juvenile detention center in Brownwood, I'm excited about the possibility of working for a detention center. Detention centers are in need of teachers, counselors, and other jobs of this type. After the poet Liza Jessie Peterson visited our campus and told us about working as a teacher of sorts in a detention center, I felt really inspired to find a similar career path. So, I've started talking with the chaplain at the center in Brownwood, and will hopefully start volunteering out there pretty soon. She said I can attend any of the activities they already have scheduled, or can meet one-on-one as a mentor, or even work with her to start my own program. Imagine how cool it would be if I were able to teach a writing workshop?! That is what I would really hope to do if I were employed by a juvenile detention center - to teach students about writing prose and poetry for therapeutic purposes. I'm trying not to get my hopes us too high about that, though. It is already March, and I graduate in May. I'm sure it would take a while to get something like that going. Still, the thought is really exciting!

I know most of you who may be reading this have probably already heard me rant about this countless times, and if you've actually read this the whole way through, I'm touched! I guess what I'm trying to say is that I need direction, and I'm open to suggestions. So if you have any, I would be thankful to hear them!

So here is the finished essay

2009-02-26T17:41:00.002-06:00

I finished the essay! I passed out copies to my workshop for them to read and critique yesterday. And here is a copy for you to do the same. It turned out a bit differently than I had anticipated. Its funny how writing does that, just kind of... writes itself. Anyhow, its kind of long, but I'm not apologizing for it. Hope you enjoy it!

My Mother Told Me Not to Swear

I suppose every young person goes through a time of silence, a time in his or her life when communication between child and parent is virtually impossible, and never pleasant. For most of my adolescence, my silence was directed towards my dad. I have tried to figure out how it happened, to sift through my shoebox of memories and pick out the one with the caption, "And here, the silence began." I have imagined that the still-frame would depict a dramatic scene of dissension between my dad and I, but the best I can do is trace it back to the first night I said, "Shit."

* * *

In true loyalty to the immature child who still lives in some corner of my body (probably behind my spleen), I have tried to figure out who taught me the word, and thus, blame all of the subsequent difficulties on the perpetrator. I have taken myself back to the second grade, placed myself at the desk I shared with Aaron Kiehler during math, and strained to hear him utter it. To my frustration, it appears that Aaron's second-grade mouth was not as bold as his high-school mouth. So I sit patiently in front of the television at age five and sneak peeks at such violent, and therefore banned, programs as The Power Rangers. Still, no luck - shocker! The psychological community (the “community” being my roommate, Erica, who happens to be a fourth-year psych student) says that our minds can invent memories so vivid and realistic that we are convinced of their veracity; I find even this phenomenon failing me. I cannot remember the first time I heard someone utter the word.

* * *

I can recall the first time I uttered it. To be truthful, “uttered” is too light a word to describe the way I entered the forbidden new world of swearing. I was born into this world with celebratory displays of fireworks on a humid Fourth of July.

I was about eight years old, obviously naive and very cute, with my red curls bouncing around my face and my big brown eyes, innocent as a cow's. Certainly not the kind of girl who swore. We were gathered at my Granny's house in Alleyton, Texas to celebrate the Fourth with my dad's side of the family. The event was, as were most with my family, marked by barbecue, Budweiser, and my cousin Brandon experimenting with firearms and birds in the backyard. While my girl cousins and I waited inside for dusk to fall, arguing over watching MTV (their choice - they were all older than me) or Bug Juice (my choice - I told you, I was tragically innocent), a loud "crack" would ring out, followed by "And there goes the beak!"

When night finally came, and the sky started erupting into sparks, I stood at the gate watching my cousins shoot Roman candles at each other. It was around this time that some neighbor decided it would be a super idea to show his appreciation for American independence by shooting a gun. Well, at least my memory remembers that it was a gun. I'm pretty positive we found shotgun shells littering the street the following morning (at least now the previously mentioned phenomenon is proving itself useful). Anyhow, when the shot rang out and lodged itself in the corner stop sign just behind the house, I screeched, "SHHIIIIIITT!"

My cousins, assorted aunts and uncles, and mom stared at me in astonishment. At the time, I did not understand the weight of the word. I did not know that years of the use of French in England had banished "common" words into the land of immoral language. All I knew was that people said it when they were surprised. My family told me I was lucky that my dad was inside and had not heard me swear so passionately. But suddenly, my mom was yanking me into the bathroom by my elbow, and my mouth was being stuffed with a bar of Dial.

I cried as she told me never to say that word again, and especially not to let my dad hear me say it.

* * *

Over time, I learned not to let my dad hear me say a lot of things; my silence was not limited to the use of dirty words, which, I can assure you, I continued to use like my new favorite toy. As a third grader, I delighted in swearing in front of my best friends, mixing these shiny, new words in with the sand I threw around on the playground. I felt daring, and somehow, disillusioned with the secrets adults kept from us.

Yet, as I grew out of that phase, the list of things I could not say to my dad grew longer. Through most of elementary school, the list mostly consisted of the names of boys I liked (Nick, Adam, Aaron Kiehler), the mean things I may have done to my classmates (or had done to me), and, in the case that we were in the car, the fact that I had to pee (he always tried to hit potholes if I divulged this information).

* * *

By the time I reached high school, the list included more serious topics. As freshmen, my girlfriends and I were pleased to find ourselves in the company of an older, more mature group of junior guys. In the recounting of this story, I am tempted to classify them as boys, for that is what they were. Yet, my friends and I felt the time had come for us to stop hanging around with "boys." Being that "men" were our dads, we decided to call them "guys." They were in Pre-Calculus, they could drive, and they could grow goatees. Well, some of them could. Almost.

It became our Friday night ritual to plan a big group outing. We would spend hours on the phone, deciding which movie we would see, which restaurant we would eat at, which guys would drive, which girls would ride with whom. "Whitney had to ride with Todd, because they were like, talking. The other Danielle wanted to ride with Josh because she was totally into him, and I couldn't ride with Brent because he liked me, but I didn't like him." And so it went.

When we were returning from one of these such events, I ended up alone in the truck with the guy I had a crush on at the time after he had dropped off all our other friends. Oh, how lady luck was toying with me. I was excited to be alone with him, but as we drew nearer to my house, I started to freak out. We did not live in a particularly affluent part of town, which was not the problem, because neither did he. Our house, however, was in poor physical condition. The faded paint was peeling in most places, and, thanks to the outrageous Gulf Coast humidity, one side had grown to be covered with obnoxiously green mildew.

For years, my dad had been promising my mom that re-painting it was next on the list of things to do, but a demanding job that never seemed to pay quite enough and a nearly debilitating thyroid problem kept this promise unfulfilled. I could tell that she held it against him, which I pretended to find unfair, but in truth, I did as well. I felt that my friends looked at my house, and therefore me, with an unpleasant taste in their mouths. It was the same taste we all got when, if we were honest with ourselves, we drove through the "bad" part of town, one mixed with pity, disdain, and disrespect.

As the truck got closer to my house, my mind was racing to find a solution to the insurmountable problem. I considered the old "just drop me off here" trick, the one where you get the guy to drop you off a few houses before, wait till he drives off, then walk. If one approached it from the north side of town, like he was, my house was situated at the first corner of the first block. I would have him bypass it. However, I must have forgotten that he had been by my house before, probably with a more trusted, less-cute friend of ours, and vaguely knew where I lived.

"This is it, right?" He had stopped right in front of it, too soon. I panicked.

"Oh, umm... yeah." I groped helplessly for the door handle and yanked it open. "Okay, bye," I mumbled as I hung my head in shame and ran inside.

He knew where I lived. He knew this ramshackle house was mine. And I knew he would never ask me out. The next day, I could not look my dad in the eye. All I felt towards him was bitterness and shame, and the silence grew.

* * *

The silence continued through the rest of high school, all the way up to my freshman year at college. As the move to college approached, I could tell that something was wrong between my parents. In fact, I had sensed it for a few years. I forgot to mention it before, but not only was I a cute child (I feel that most of my high school portraits will prove that I had grown out of that phase as well by this time), I was also intuitive. But, as was the custom in our family, we never talked about it. My mom and dad had been taking turns snoring on the living room couch for some time, and we never did anything as a family any more. At one point, I even tried to take this into my own hands. I foolishly attempted to institute one of those "family game nights" you sometimes see annoyingly happy Milton-Bradley families participate in during commercial breaks from CSI. Never mind that I was well past the age when playing games with your parents on a Friday night is acceptable. It did not go over well.

Anyhow, when it came time for me to move into my first dorm room, they united to make this transition smooth. After a last breakfast together the Sunday before student orientation was to begin, they dropped me off at my dorm, placed a wad of money in my hand, and hugged me goodbye. I watched them get into the same car, and thought that maybe now, with me out of the house, their marriage might improve. With their only child gone and an empty nest, they may have to find solace in each other, fall back in love with each other, and all those other things that happen in romantic comedies about middle-aged men and women.

Every time I called home, though, it seemed that my parents never talked. I would recount a funny anecdote about my exciting college life to my mom one day, only to find that, when I spoke to my dad the next day, he had no idea what was going on with me. My parents still were not communicating. This realization really hit me when, as hurricane Katrina was approaching the Gulf Coast, I asked my dad what their plan was. He explained to me that he was going to stay at home, maybe board up a few windows if it started to look serious.

"Well, what about mom? Isn't she worried?"

"Oh, I think you're mother is going to Houston to stay with her mom."

I was shocked to discover that my parents would not be staying together for this predicted disaster. What if my mom and grandmother were in danger in Houston? Why would my dad stay at home and allow that possibility?

As worried as I was, I still could not bring myself to break the silence. The hurricane, as we now know, was a disaster, but it did not hit my home or Houston with any serious damage, and I dismissed the situation from mind. A few weeks later, though, I went home for my first visit, and on the Sunday morning that I was to return to school, my mom climbed into my bed with me and told me that she and my dad were separating. I laid there, unmoving, as she stuttered through her sobbing, and played with the frayed edges of my bed sheets. After the news had been delivered, my dad came home and realized what had transpired. He was upset; he thought they had agreed to tell me about this at a later date. I pretended like I was okay. Actually, I probably was, but not because the news had failed to upset me. I was already entering a state of denial. I packed my bag, ate a quick meal of chicken my dad had grilled. It was his special recipe, a robust marinade of butter and spices, and it was my favorite. That much I remember. I cannot remember what kind of side dishes there were. Probably mashed potatoes. I was always a meat-and-potatoes kind of girl.

My parents sat at the dinner table watching me closely in case (I suppose) I flew into a violent rage. I was calm, though, as I told them that I did not want to talk about the details of the situation. All I said to them was that I wanted them to work it out peacefully, without putting me in the middle. Then I robotically hugged them goodbye, climbed into my car, and drove up to Houston to pick up one my friends from school, who had also gone home to visit that weekend.

I do not remember much of that drive, either. I am sure I listened to upbeat music, probably some terribly peppy crap about the goodness of God, in efforts to cheer myself up and ignore the drastic turn my life had just taken. I guess I forgot to say so earlier, but I had been raised in the church for most of my life, raised to believe in things like the goodness and holiness of God, which I really did believe at the time. In fact, I still do. It just looks different now. But, all of that is for another story.

Anyhow, I do remember one thing about the drive very clearly. I was entering the north side of Houston, a part of the city tangled in tollways with which I was unfamiliar, and in my ignorance, pulled into the "exact change only" lane. In fairness to myself, I did have exact change, just... not in change. When my turn came to toss my coins into the basket, I searched in vain for a slot to feed my dollar bill into, and realized that the coin basket was the only available option. I promptly broke my (almost always) ban on swearing.

"SHIT! Shit, shit, fucking shit!"

I was mad at the Houston toll system, I was mad at my parents, I was mad at God, but I was especially mad at the growing line of cars behind me who kept honking incessantly, as if that was going to help me figure out how to get out of this predicament. I sat in the car for what felt like ten minutes (but was probably more like thirty seconds) stared at the open road in front of me, and the gate blocking my way. I considered crashing through it, nearly convinced myself that my car could handle the impact and that my dad would not mind paying for the damages, especially considering the events that had taken place earlier that morning. After a few moments, I came to my senses and realized that that was a bad plan. Cops would probably chase me. But I could out run them, right? No. I still knew it was a bad idea, so I climbed across the console, frantically fumbled with the passenger door (there was not enough room between the driver door and the toll booth to climb out... I had already tried), and ran to the car immediately behind me. I knocked on the back window (why the back window, I will never know) where the young couple who sat in the front seat had safely tucked away their young son. He shook his head in confusion, and his mom rolled down her window. I offered a my handful of dollar bills, which that bitch toll booth refused to accept, and tried to explain my situation. I think I even told her about the bombshell my parents had just dropped in efforts to make her understand just how truly dire my need was. She shoved the change into my hands and rolled her window up. I must have looked like a madwoman. I ran back to my car, threw the change into the basket, and the blessed gate rose and allowed me to pass. I laid rubber peeling out of there.

* * *

When I got back to school, I called my parents to let them know I had made it back safely. I did not talk to them about the separation, or the coming divorce, and I wouldn't for a long time. When I finally did, it was with my father on the way home from a visit to my Granny's. He sat in the passenger seat next to me as I drove us home. The silence had been heavy, and when he opened his mouth, and he made that sticky sound lips make after they've been locked for too long, I knew it was coming. I breathed in deeply, and the scent of the earth my dad worked in rose off of his work clothes and into my nose. I had never noticed it so intensely before. It was so strong I could taste it on my tongue, like mudpies in my grandma's backyard, or carrots so fresh you can still taste the dirt they grew in.

He told me that he had tried to save their marriage. He had done everything he knew how to do. He had not wanted a divorce. And he told me he was sorry. I had already known that.

* * *

I did not say much, but not because I was angry. I just did not know what to say. I still don't. But I do know I can tell him more than I ever could when I was growing up. When the last election was coming up, I could tell him that I was planning to vote for Barack Obama, a decision that was in stark contrast to my conservative, Republican up-bringing. I can tell him that I believe homosexual men and women have the right to be married, and he will listen with thoughtful respect. I can tell him that I sometimes have doubts about the existence of God. And these days, when I drop something fragile, or stub my toe, I can say, "Shit!" without eating a bar of soap.

A new beginning, and a couple more paragraphs

2009-02-20T21:26:00.002-06:00

(New beginning)

I suppose every young person goes through a time of silence, a time in his or her life when communication between child and parent is virtually impossible, and never pleasant. For most of my adolescence, my silence was directed towards my dad. I have tried to figure out how it happened, to sift through my shoebox of memories and pick out the one with the caption, "And here, the silence began." I have imagined that the still-frame would depict a dramatic scene of dissension between my dad and I, but the best I can do is trace it back to the first night I said, "Shit."

* * *

In true loyalty to the immature child who still lives in some corner of my body (probably behind my spleen), I have tried to figure out who taught me the word, and thus, blame all of the subsequent difficulties on the perpetrator. I have taken myself back to the second grade, placed myself at the desk I shared with Aaron Kiehler during math, and strained to hear him utter it. To my frustration, it appears that Aaron's second-grade mouth was not as bold as his high-school mouth. So I sit patiently in front of the television at age five and sneak peeks at such violent, and therefore banned, programs as The Power Rangers. Still, no luck. The psychological community (the “community” being my roommate, Erica, who happens to be a fourth-year psych student) says that our minds can invent memories so vivid and realistic that we are convinced of their veracity; I find even this phenomenon failing me. I cannot remember the first time I heard someone utter the word.

* * *

(new paragraphs to add to the end of the last entry)

Over time, I learned not to let my dad hear me say a lot of things; my silence was not limited to the use of dirty words, which, I can assure you, I continued to use like my new favorite toy. As a third grader, I delighted in swearing in front of my best friends, mixing these shiny, new words in with the sand I threw around on the playground. I felt daring, and somehow, disillusioned with the secrets adults kept from us.

Yet, as I grew out of that phase, the list of things I could not say to my dad grew longer. Through most of elementary school, the list mostly consisted of the names of boys I liked (Nick, Adam, Aaron Kiehler), the mean things I may have done to my classmates (or had done to me), and, in the case that we were in the car, the fact that I had to pee (he always tried to hit potholes if I divulged this information). By the time I reached junior high, the list included my true feelings about religious faith.

Starting the Personal Essay

2009-02-16T00:29:00.011-06:00

Well, I haven't posted in quite some time. It appears that my "accountability" plan isn't working out so well. Or is it?! Because Daniel called me out the other day, asking me why I hadn't posted in a while! Thank you, Daniel. So, I've started writing a personal essay for my creative nonfiction class, and I'm going to post sections of it as I write them. Thus, the very beginning of an essay in the works for your reading pleasure. It will appear to you that this essay is all about swearing, and indeed, that is all it is about at this point. If you find that offensive, I apologize, but I must contest that it is a part of the world and a part of almost every young person's development, and therefore, cannot be ignored simply because it is offensive. Also, I want you to know that this essay is not actually all about swearing. You will find out what its about if you continue to read in the posts to come! So, here it is:

I have tried tirelessly to dredge up the memory that contains my first exposure to that word. I have taken myself back to the second grade, placed myself in the seat next to Aaron Kiehler in Mrs. Dorris’s Language Arts class, and strained to hear him utter it. To my frustration, it appears that Aaron Kiehler’s second grade mouth was not as bold as his high school mouth. So I sit patiently in front of the television at age five and sneak peeks at such violent, and therefore banned, programs as The Power Rangers. The psychological community (the “community” being my roommate, Erica, who happens to be a fourth-year psych student) says that our minds can invent memories so vivid and realistic that we are convinced of their veracity; I find even this phenomenon failing me. I cannot remember the first time I heard someone utter, “Shit.”
* * *
I can recall the first time I uttered it. To be truthful, “uttered” is too light a word to describe the way I entered the shiny and forbidden new world of swearing. My birth into this world was welcomed with celebratory displays of fireworks on a humid Fourth of July.

At this point in my childhood, we gathered at my Granny's house in southeast Texas to celebrate the Fourth with my dad's family. The event was marked by barbecue, Budweiser, and my cousin Brandon experimenting with firecrackers in the beaks of dead birds. By the time dusk fell, the sky over my Granny's Alleyton neighborhood was erupting in sparks. On this particular night, some neighbor decided it would be a super idea to show his appreciation for American independence with a gun shot. When the shot rang out, myself and the family members surrounding me were, understandably, startled, and I shouted out, "SHHIIITTT!!!"

According to my family, it was lucky for me that my father was inside and had not heard me swear so passionately. At the time, I did not understand the weight of the word. All I knew was that it was a word people said when something surprised them. But suddenly, my mom was yanking me into the bathroom by my elbow, and my mouth was being stuffed with a bar of Dial. I cried as she told me never to say that word again, and especially not to let my dad hear me say it.

(that's it for now. more to come!)

Why I Write

2009-01-13T17:37:00.003-06:00

As this piece of work (essay, prose poem, journal entry-- how is one to refer to this?) is a mere assignment, I will make an effort to avoid becoming too wrapped up in the grandeur of the manifesto that the title of the assignment implies. That being said, this may be the first time I have ever seriously considered the question "Why do you write?" and I do intend to try and answer that with honesty, which may result in some rather lofty prose. We will see how it turns out.

I write because its fun. I write because its one of the few things I have every felt truly good at. I write because of word jumbles and puzzles and equations in my head that I have to solve before I can sleep. I write because there are some things that I cannot speak. I write in order to relieve my mind of the thoughts that pester me. I write so that I can remember who I was yesterday, today, and tomorrow. I write so that there will be a record of my short and relatively inconsequential life - my thoughts, my friends, the people who have influenced the person I am becoming - for those who care to read it, just in case I disappear into some obscure rabbit hole someday. I write to document the mundane and the massive. I write to imagine the lives of the old couple down my street, what they say to each other while they plant flowers, how they hold each other while they sleep. I write to try and get outside myself, and, if only for a moment, to expel the demon of self-centeredness that can control me. I write because, sometimes, I have to, and not in the puffed-up, driving, unavoidable, "I was born to write and can do nothing else" sense that that phrase implies; I literally have to in order to make the grade. I write to learn. I write because I read. I write so that I have to research and expose myself to other ways of thinking, believing, loving, and living. I write the way I dream, working out problems in my subconscious that my conscious self does not want to deal with. I write to relate to others. I write to inspire others. I write to inspire myself. Some days, I write to get myself out of bed when nothing else can convince me that the day is worth living. I write so my mom will know I love her. I write so my dad will know I still need him. I write so my family will know I am thankful for them. I write to dig up my roots. I write so I can hear the sound of words penned simply because they are beautiful. I write because of the path laid out for me by poets, novelists, journalists, essayists, critics, and the daily diary authors of the past. I write to affirm the fleeting gift of life, so that perhaps one day, somebody, even if that body is me, will pick up something I have written and think, "I want to live today."

The Dearly Departed

2009-01-11T22:49:00.005-06:00

There is a dead cat in a box of trash on the sidewalk
following Freeman Street. The tail is unfurled in deep rigor
mortis and its paws are flexed, revealing claws that used

to scratch couch corners. The tabby rests beside a baby
doll, her plastic flesh colored black, her brown cow eyes gazing
straight ahead. As if she is bored with death. Which is unjust,

I think every morning as I pass the box. Trying to avoid the dead
stares, I picture freshly planted roses, or sugar cookies,
warm and gooey, as I leave them there and shuffle
past, with my tail between my legs.

Poetry as I see it

2009-01-11T21:15:00.005-06:00

I enjoy writing of almost all sorts, and I want to learn to write better material. The only way to do that is to write! Go figure. The problem is that there are some days when I do not feel like trying. So, in an attempt to keep myself accountable, I've decided to turn this blog into a sounding board for my writing.

I never truly enjoyed poetry until last year. By way of scheduling circumstances, I wound up in a course on 20th century Irish poetry, and I was not excited about it. When we started off the semester with W.B. Yeats, I came to dread class even more. (Since then, I have come to appreciate Yeats, but I still cannot say I particularly enjoy his poetry.) As the class wore on though, we started reading such poets as Eavan Boland and Seamus Heaney, and thus began my love affair with poetry.

During the same semester, a few poets who are most often classified as "Spoken Word" poets, and have appeared on Def Poetry Jam, visited our campus. I had heard of their form of poetry, but had never really experienced it. After hearing Liza Jessie Peterson and Steven Connell perform and talk about their philosophies of poetry and art, I knew poetry had taken me. In class, I was reading poetry by "academics," and then I had been exposed to this more relaxed, yet highly skilled, form of poetry, and I found a connection between the two of them: poets like Eavan Boland and the Spoken Word poets were affirming life. Neither of their art forms were about using their academic prowess to confuse ordinary people, and neither of their forms were about diminishing the value of the ordinary person's life. Their poetry was not filled with the things that make "traditional poetry" beautiful, things like unfamiliar words or complicated meter. It was filled with simple observations and descriptions about life. I could dig this!

Since then, I have been trying to read and write more poetry, both Spoken Word and, for lack of a better classification, "traditional" poetry. Most of what I post here will probably be poetry, and I tend to write more "confessional poetry," so some of it may be pretty intimate. Don't let that scare you, though! If I am not afraid to share it with you, you should not feel uncomfortable reading it. And feel free to ask me about it if you want to! But please, be respectful about what you read here. I also have a strong interest in writing fiction, so hopefully, I will manage to post some of that as well. I want to hear what you think about it! Please be honest. (That is not a license to be unnecessarily mean though!) Enjoy!

This one's for you Emily

2008-08-11T11:35:00.001-05:00

This is an official shout out to Emily Jorgenson. Word.

Home Sweet Home

2008-08-10T16:51:00.005-05:00

Today is my last full day here in the Bronx. I board a plane heading for Texas at 11 am tomorrow. I'm sorry that I haven't kept up with my blog at all lately. These last few weeks have been pretty crazy. Not only have they been busy, but they've been filled with so many unexpected experiences. It is going to be really hard to leave tomorrow. There is definitely a part of me that wants to stay here. But I know that once I get on the plane and see New York City shrink away, I'll be excited to be coming home. I know that I need to get back to a sense of familiarity and consistency in order to work through everything I've experienced, to be surrounded by the support that I've been blessed with in my little family of friends. Perhaps after I've begun to do that, I'll be able to write about it more clearly.

Thanks to all of you who have supported me monetarily and spiritually this summer. You are all so special to me. Blessings!

Summer Soundtrack

2008-08-01T11:56:00.002-05:00

These are the songs that have been playing repeatedly on my iPod all summer.

1.) All For You - Sister Hazel
2.) All This Beauty - The Weepies
3.) Beating Heart Baby - Head Automatica
4.) Brothers on a Hotel Bed - Death Cab for Cutie
5.) Campus - Vampire Weekend
6.) Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa - Vampire Weekend
7.) Cath - Death Cab for Cutie
8.) Do You Remember? - Jack Johnson
9.) Don't Be Shy - Cat Stevens
10.) Follow You Down - Gin Blossoms
11.) For the Widows in Paradise, For the Fatherless in Ypsilanti - Sufjan Stevens
12.) Get Up, Stand Up - Bob Marley
13.) Gotta Have You - The Weepies
14.) Head Over Feet - Alanis Morisette
15.) I've Just Seen a Face - Jim Sturgess (from the Across the Universe soundtrack)
16.) It Had to Be You - Motion City Soundtrack
17.) Let Your Troubles Roll By - CarbonLeaf
18.) Love Is My Religion - Ziggy Marley
19.) Merry Happy - Kate Nash
20.) Never Let You Go - Third Eye Blind
21.) Please, Before I Go - Derek Webb
22.) Poison - Bill Biv DeVoe
23.) Samson - Regina Spektor
24. ) Slide - GooGoo Dolls
25.) Slow Dancing in a Burning Room - John Mayer
26.) Such Great Heights - The Postal Service
27.) When You Come Back Down - Nickel Creek
28.) The Wind - Cat Stevens
29.) Wish You Were Here - Incubus
30.) World Spins Madly On - The Weepies

The light of my life

2008-07-18T15:41:00.003-05:00

There is a convenient store on the corner underneath our train stop. It is open at almost all hours of the day, and we stop in there quite frequently. About a week ago, I discovered a tiny orange kitten that lives in the store. Now, I stop in every time I walk by so I can play with him. I call him Calcetines, which is Spanish for "socks." You guessed it: he has white paws. But it had to be Spanish, because the owners of the store, and many of the customers, speak Spanish.

When I hold him up to my face, he plays with my hair. And when I put him back on the ground, he chases after me and paws at my feet. It makes my heart all warm and fuzzy to hold Calcetines. Maybe because he is all warm and fuzzy.

Exchanging Pleasantries

2008-07-16T10:43:00.003-05:00

The past few days have been so pleasant. Not fun, although there have been fun times, and not exciting, even though a few things have excited me, but pleasant. And this was precisely what I needed coming into this week.

When days are fun and exciting, its great, but that quickly becomes exhausting. I've been exhausted for a while. I was ready to try for restored. So on Monday, we had some time for reflection after our weekly meeting with Jared, and I went down to lower Manhattan and caught the ferry out to Staten Island. I love water, and boats, and while a ferry isn't exactly the same thing as a boat, and the East River isn't very pristine, it was still an excellent ride. I could go into all these descriptions of things I felt, saw, and experienced, but it would come out sounding cheesy to you, and I don't want to cheapen it. Let it suffice to say that I felt like a true and whole individual, glad to be where I was, but ready to reach land again.

Yesterday, on our day off, Clarissa and I went to the Bronx Zoo, which is supposed to be the best zoo in New York City. It was beautiful, and there was a new exhibit which opened recently: Madagascar! There were lemurs, fossas, and... Madagascarian hissing roaches! Oh heck no. They were disgusting. I avoided those and spent most of my time with the lemurs. After a few hours there, we left for Manhattan to meet up with a group of our friends in Central Park. The New York Philharmonic was playing their second free concert in the park. This is a truly New York experience, a summer tradition, that attracts thousands of people and packs out the Great Lawn. We had a huge spread of blankets, and all the wine and cheese we could desire. The best part about the night: one woman I had a conversation with asked me how I was enjoying my time in New York. Of course, I said that I loved it, that I could certainly see myself living here for some time. She replied that I already seem like I do.

I'm not sure what God is doing in my life, or where he is leading me. In fact, these past few weeks I've been faced with a great amount of doubt and questions, and I've wondered where God has been and what the heck has been going on. But these past few days have convinced me that he is moving slowly and steadily, which is... pleasant.

I haven't posted in a week

2008-07-13T13:13:00.003-05:00

Wow! It's been a whole week since I've posted. I'm sorry! Things have been really busy, and it's hard for me to find internet these days.

Last Monday, we had a meeting with Hugo, who works with the church here. He is also a counselor, and that is what brought us to our meeting with him. Jared had scheduled for us to have a discussion on brokenness, which is really vague, I know, and Hugo was asked to lead the discussion. He has a great deal of experience dealing with brokenness here in the city, in situations ranging from divorce to deep psychological problems, so he had a lot to teach us. Basically, we barely skimmed the surface of everything we talked about, but it was one of the most engaging discussions, for me, that we've had so far.

I've been thinking about it a lot this week... See, much of the work that we do here is highly evangelical, and I'm beginning to discover that evangelism may not be one of my gifts. It's difficult for me to strike up spiritual conversations with complete strangers. For a while, I've felt like admitting that makes me a "bad Christian," or at least a bad missionary. A few of the other interns are really good at it, and so I've spent a lot of time feeling frustrated that I haven't been able to contribute as many potential contacts and people to follow up with as the others have.

But during our meeting with Hugo, some things started to click for me. I may not be good at most of the evangelism stuff (which doesn't stop me from trying), but I do care deeply for people. My gift may not be evangelism, but I am passionate about cultivating relationships, about truly getting to know people and being there for them. Listening to Hugo talk about the ways that he has worked with people - restoring marriages, helping women to get out of abusive relationships, and so on - it made me so excited.

It reminds me of the way Paul describes us in 2 Corinthians 5:18-19, as ministers of reconciliation:
"All this newness of life is from God, who brought us back to himself through what Christ did. And God has given us the task of reconciling people to him. For God was in Christ, reconciling the world to himself, no longer counting people's sins against them. This is the wonderful message he has given us to tell others."

Sometimes we sing this song that asks the Lord to make us his instruments of peace, and I think that may be the best description of what I want to do with my life. It's broad, but I believe it is a good basis.

I don't care who you are - fried Oreos are mad tasty!

2008-07-06T13:28:00.003-05:00

It's been raining every day... for the last few days at least. I don't care for rain when my main mode of transportation is walking. On the bright side, it keeps the city from getting too hot. That's nice.

I hope you had a fantastic fourth of July! Mine was awesome. We went out to Coney Island for the afternoon. Most New Yorkers I talked to told me not to do it. They all said it was run-down and dirty. It was both of these things, but it was glorious. We went by the original Nathan's and ate the famous hot dog. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at), we missed the hot dog eating contest. The little amusement park felt like a county fair, but Coney Island is home to the world's tallest ferris wheel of it's kind - it has stationary and swinging cars. We rode in a swinging car, obviously, which was super fun! Then we ate lots of sugary foods that are really bad for you, like fried Oreos - holy smokes! - and wandered through the crowded boardwalk.

We made our way over to the Brooklyn Bridge after that, where we managed to find a prime spot on the promenade in front of the Macy's barge, which is where the fireworks are set off. They were the loudest, most beautiful fireworks I've ever seen. But I'm lame, so I didn't take any pictures. Oops.

The fourth was a lot of fun, but I must also share this with you: I miss you. Whoever you are, I miss you!

"The peace sign makes a comeback in the Bronx, where residents ..."

2008-06-29T15:09:00.007-05:00

Lately it seems like everyone's got world peace on their minds. This past Friday at the prayer station, we had several people come by and write requests for world peace. There were a few variations of it, such as "Pray for world peace. We are all one family," but my personal favorite was written by a young girl, maybe 9 or 10 years old. She stopped by with her mom, and as her mom wrote her prayers on the board, she tugged at her sleeve and looked at her quizzically. "Write what you want to pray for," she told her. She stood with the marker in her hand and stared at the board for a few seconds, then wrote "All I want is peace."

There is a lot of strife in the Bronx. It seems like every person is dealing with at least one broken relationship that needs restoring. Many people are dealing with addictions, and others are suffering from serious illnesses. People are facing eviction, barely able to pay the rent that keeps them off the streets. There is not a lot of peace in the Bronx.

And there is not a lot of peace in our world. I'm not sure why so many people were so conscience of this last week. But I know that the only way to true peace is through God. Maybe we can start by seeing each other as the holy creations God made us, and honoring one another for being such a creation.

Last week, the lesson we taught the kids at Power Hour was "Love your neighbor as yourself." It's funny. We taught it, but I really don't think we get it. That message holds such great power to bring peace - it could transform our lives, and our world.

Another Brick in the Wall

2008-06-26T16:01:00.006-05:00

I didn't realize it until Monday night, but it turns out I am a real klutz. I jumped up (maybe 6 inches off the ground) to snatch a leaf off a tree branch, landed wrong, and now my foot is all swollen and bruised. Walking hurts, but I can walk. I'm going to assume for now that it is merely a sprain and will heal in time, because I refuse to deal with a broken foot in New York City. And that's that.

Mary is out of the hospital. We went over to her house for Bible study last night, where she cooked us a delicious meal, and we got to meet her daughter. Her daughter, along with her boyfriend, have just moved into Mary's house. I'm sure this is a real stress on Mary, but I think it is probably a good thing, because now her daughter is there living with Isaiah, who is her son. Isaiah needs his mother around.

Tuesday was our day off, which I spent relaxing in Manhattan. I got to go for a walk in Central Park, where it promptly began pouring down rain, but at least it waited until after I finished my ice cream! Anyways, by the time we reached our destination, the Poet's Walk, the rain was coming down hard and my clothes were soaked all the way through, but it was still absolutely beautiful in the rain. Maybe even more beautiful.

I was supposed to have a conversational English lesson with a young woman yesterday morning, but I found out at the last minute that it was canceled. That was a bummer. I didn't make it out to the prayer station yesterday, on account of my foot. I was so depressed laying in bed at home. I don't care what condition it is in tomorrow, though, because I can't stand to miss out on it again! Tomorrow is Friday, and Friday's are always good days. Prayer station, Power Hour, maybe some poetry late at night ... yes, tomorrow will be good.

Anyways, I am asking you for your prayers. I feel like I'm kind of hitting a wall here, and need some encouragement to push through to the other side. Lots of plans just aren't working out as well I as I hoped they would, and now I have a purple foot.

Where is the love? (Yes, I am quoting the Black Eyed Peas. I'm that cool)

2008-06-21T11:12:00.002-05:00

Well, I finally feel as if life here in New York is becoming routine. The subway system is starting to feel a lot more familiar, I'm not getting lost very much anymore, and each day is beginning to have a rhythm. This is good. I want to feel as at home here as I can, and it feels like that is starting to happen.

Our various projects are going really well. There are lots of things I could tell you about the prayer station, Power Hour (kind of like a sidewalk Sunday school for kids), or our house church meetings, but that's not what is really on my mind.

Our friend Mary is in the hospital. We met her a little over a week ago when we went to have a Bible study with her in her home. She's been a member of BFC, but hasn't been around much lately. So last Wednesday, a few of us went over to meet her and study with her. I ended up playing with her 3 year old grandson, Isaiah, during the meeting. We played hide-and-seek (always in his little bedroom, where he hid under his blanket every time!), colored, and talked about Spider-Man.

Mary took her grandson in when her daughter could no longer take proper care of him. Yesterday, during our visit with Mary at the hospital, she was very upset about the state of her family. She believes her children have turned out poorly, and she believes it is all her fault. Please pray for her. Pray for her health, that she will heal quickly and get out of the hospital soon so that she can go back to work and continue to provide for Isaiah. Also, pray for her spirits, that they will be lifted by the Lord, the provider of divine healing and comfort. And pray for her children.

There is one story from the prayer station this past week that I feel compelled to share now, in light of Mary's situation. A few new teachers approached our station yesterday afternoon. They were three young women who were doing their training with the New York City Teaching Fellows (really cool program - Google it), and they were so passionate and excited about teaching here in the Bronx. They've been trying to get to know the area, to know the population of students they will be working with, and they asked a police officer what the biggest problem was in the Bronx. They expected to hear him say something like robbery, or gang murders, but he didn't. He said the biggest problem is that there are not enough fathers. Absent fathers who are not around to provide their children with the most basic need - to know they are loved by their father - is the biggest problem that plagues the Bronx, according to one police officer.

This is a spiritual battle. Children are growing up without knowing the love of their fathers, and ultimately, without knowing the love of their spiritual Father. I think that police officer is on to something.

Soul Poetry

2008-06-16T19:07:00.005-05:00

I went to a poetry slam at the Nuyorican Poet's Cafe this past Friday night. Words flowed like honey from their lips. They were words of hope, pain, humor, and suffering, and I mixed them in with my milk, swallowed them like I'd never sipped milk before, and went back for more. Not only was the slam amazing, but the part of town the cafe was in was exactly my kind of place - kind of on the Lower East Side, in what is sometimes referred to as "Alphabet City."

It was a soul experience. I can't wait to go back. That's really all I can say about it.

An Unexpected Third Place

2008-06-13T11:27:00.002-05:00

I spent half of yesterday in the emergency room. Don't worry! I'm fine.

Early in the morning, I started having pretty bad pain in my back, and began to feel nauseated, but after resting for an hour or so, I felt better. After lunch, and a good time playing in the park with some kiddos, the pain and nausea returned. This time, though, it got worse much quicker and wasn't going away. So after an hour, we went into the ER. By that time, the pain was in my abdomen. It took about 4 hours to be seen by a doctor, after being hooked up to an IV and laying on a stretcher, drifting in and out of sleep. The doctors couldn't find anything. Much of the pain had subsided, as had the nausea. They thought about doing a CT scan, thinking I may have appendicitis, but didn't want to make me go through it if my symptoms were improving so much. So finally, they released me with a few pain meds and an encouragement to come back for a follow-up.

None of that was fun. But some really amazing things happened in those hours. For one thing, Clarissa, my fellow intern and roomie for the summer, stayed with me all the time. Even when I threw up on her a little. She was so amazing. I can't express how thankful I am for her. My other fellow interns stuck out much of the evening with me, too. God has blessed me with great friends to work with.

Another cool thing was the community that was formed between the patients. We got to know some beautiful people there in the ER. Patients who were in pain and frustrated just like me were offering encouragement, sharing their stories, and being such a comfort. Clarissa, especially, got to know several of the women around my bed. As I drifted in and out of sleep, she just listened to them, laughed with them, and helped them find blankets when they were cold, or water when they were thirsty. By the time we left, Carmen, the woman next to me for most of the night, was giving us hugs, telling us she would come visit us in Texas, and even gifted Clarissa with her favorite sparkly hair clip!

We've been talking a lot about "third place" ministry here, which basically means finding the places where people have already formed community and joining them in order to bring the Gospel to them. This could be a gym, or coffee shop, or the park. Last night, we found one in the ER. It was unexpected, and maybe not the most enjoyable way to do it, but it happened. And for that experience, I am thankful :)

Poconos, Prayer, and Pizza

2008-06-12T12:02:00.001-05:00

It's been a while since my last update, and there have been lots of great things going on that I could share with you. So many, in fact, that this post would be a short novel if I did, so I've chosen three things that kind of sum up this past week.

Poconos
Last weekend, we went on a camping/paintball trip with the youth group in the Poconos Mountains, which are in Pennsylvania. This was quite the experience! Some of the teens were excited about camping, but mostly, they couldn't wait to light each other up with paint. But first, we camped. When we arrived, we promptly assembled our tents and left to explore. We found a lake where Heath taught everyone to skip rocks, and returned to camp where a fire was ready to roast hot dogs for dinner. Yum! After dinner we had a devotion and a time of prayer around the fire. Some of these teens don't know God, or are just starting to find their way towards Him, and it was such a beautiful experience to stand hand-in-hand with them as they offered up some of their first prayers. They were simple, and humble, and so much more than the long-winded, superfluous prayers that some of us "mature" Christians sometimes resort to when we feel the need to impress God, or rather, to impress each other. I felt like I was witnessing a birth, only without all of the terrifying noises and gooey mess!

The next day, we went paintballing at Skirmish, which has been voted the best field in America. They have over 50 fields, with 700+ acres. Of course to me this only meant "How long will that take?!?!" I'd never been paintballing before. Each time I've discussed the possibility with various friends throughout the years, it always ended with them showing me their latest welps and bruises, and me saying, "Maybe some other time." But I went! And it was really scary at first. But I got hit once in the bicep, and decided it wasn't so bad. I started to get into it. I felt like Rambo, with my camo suit, helmet, and gun in hand. And I am pleased to say that my team won almost every game that day! There was lots of winning to be done, by the way. We played for 8 hours ... I know!! Crazy.

Prayer
Here in the Bronx, a large part of our job as interns is all about prayer. We've been doing a great deal of prayer walking, which has been good, but twice now, we've set up a "prayer station" on one of the busiest streets in New York. The first time, myself and two others prayer walked the area while the other two interns manned the station. The second time, though, I volunteered to hang out at the station. This was pretty far outside my comfort zone. I'm comfortable praying. Praying alone, silently, out loud, with friends, or even just with people I "kind of" know, but with complete strangers? I've never really done this before. And the fact that we were just standing on a street corner with this big sign ... I was doubtful that people would stop.

But they did! So many stopped. We set up a white board for people to write their prayers on, and offered to pray for them on the spot. Some took us up on this offer, and others didn't. Some came over to share with us about how God was blessing their lives, and others came over to mourn. Some were old, and some were young. No matter the case, though, it was clear that God was at work. And not because of anything we had done, and especially not because of anything I had done. I felt so foolish for being doubtful! I learned so much about God's power, the people He has created, and prayer. I can't wait till we do it again (Friday, 1 pm, at Fordham and Grand Concourse, just in case you're in the area!).

Pizza
This past Tuesday was our first official day off. We slept in a bit before heading towards Manhattan. The plan: explore the Metropolitan Museum of Art, eat some good food, and stay out of the heat. The heat has been nearly intolerable these past few days. On Monday and Tuesday, the highs were in the upper 90s, with the heat index over 100. And many apartments and establishments do not have AC. Yikes! So we were hoping to stay cool inside the museum for most of the day, which we did. We meandered through the Met for about 6 hours. This was almost enough to see everything. It's monstrous. And beautiful. I would try to explain the experience beyond that, but I can't. Just try it for yourself. Pop in your headphones and listen to whatever gives you good vibes (I recommend the Weepies), and stare at the most moving piece you can find.

So after that, we came back to the Bronx and ate dinner at Joe and John's Pizzeria... or was it John and Joe's? They've been there for 26 years, and it was the best atmosphere. John, or maybe it was Joe, invited us behind the counter, offered us an apron, and joked with us about soda prices, the heat, and the pizza oven. It was the first time I felt like I was experiencing the quintessential New York experience. While we stood at the counter, a little boy came up and ordered, handing over a $5 bill, which wasn't enough to cover the price of his order, and John/Joe gracefully made up the difference. Tell me, where else does that happen?! Anyways, I'm pretty confident that we will become regulars there.

Good times!

All Things to All ... Yankees Fans?

2008-06-05T14:08:00.006-05:00

Back in the day, I claimed I would never support the Yankees. But last night, I took one for the team. I decided to follow in the footsteps of Paul and be all things to all people. That is, last night, I was a Yankees fan.

A few of us interns ended up having the night off. We had work plans, but they fell through, so we decided to go out for dinner. We didn't know where we wanted to go, though, so we just hopped on the train at the nearest stop and rode until we felt like getting off. We just went down a few stops, two stops before we hit Manhattan.

We eventually ended up at a pizzeria which was only a few blocks from Yankee Stadium. After we ate, we had some time to kill, so we took a walk over to the stadium. We had no idea if there was a game last night or not, but we thought it would at least be cool to see the stadium. This is the last year the Yankees will be playing in their historic home; it is being torn down after this season. This means that the tickets to this season's games are expensive, and selling out quickly. We've been worried that we would never be able to get tickets for a game this summer.

But last night, we did. It turns out that there was a home game , against the Toronto Blue Jays, and we were able to get $10 bleacher seats! They weren't the greatest seats - we were at the back of the field - but they were cheap and they weren't nosebleeds. And wow! It was so much fun.

I've been to plenty of Astros games, which I love, but there was something different about a New York Yankees game. The fans, especially in the bleachers, are so much more dedicated and boisterous, which makes for a great atmosphere. There was one guy a few rows behind us wearing a Blue Jays t-shirt AND a Boston Red Sox hat. I guess he was hoping to get harassed. For example, when the song "YMCA" was played, the crowd surrounding him for at least 20 feet in every direction chanted at him, "Y R U gay?!" He took it like a man. You go, cuz!

I know I used to say I could never be a Yankees fan, and I still don't think I ever will be, but now I've decided that I could never be totally against them. And wow, it was really cool to be in the same stadium where guys like Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig played, especially considering that this is the last season it will be standing. What a good night. The Yankees won, by the way.

No luggage? Oh no!

2008-06-02T18:37:00.002-05:00

So my flight went fine, praise God! Upon arrival in NYC, however, I discovered that my luggage had been "delayed."

There are two possibilities concerning this incident:
1.) A spiritual attack. Instead of enjoying my first day here, I was stressed about whether or not I would ever see my suitcase, or rather, the stuff inside it, again. It was so difficult to participate in all of the conversation without allowing myself to be totally distracted. I was so excited and ready to take on whatever the city had to offer with confidence, but suddenly I was feeling severely unsettled and lost. It is intimidating to be facing an entirely new city and culture without the simplest of familiar possessions.
2.) A spiritual lesson. I felt like God was putting me in a place where I had no choice but to accept hospitality, a truly humbling position to be in. He could also be teaching me how little value material possessions have. They can be replaced. After all, He takes such good care of the lilies of the field. Surely, He will keep me clothed. And it is also possible that He is teaching me that I am truly lovely, and worthy of love, in my most vulnerable state, without my own clothing, makeup, or hair products to make me feel comfortable.

I believe that both of these possibilities go hand-in-hand. God taught me a lesson (a few, actually) through a spiritual attack. I woke up this morning after a good night's sleep, feeling much better, and read through Matthew 6:25-34 a few times. "So don't worry about having enough food or drink or clothing... Your heavenly Father already knows all your needs, and he will give you all you need from day to day if you live for him and make the Kingdom of God your primary concern." God takes care of his children.

And at 7:00 this evening, I finally got my suitcase. Happy!

I'm ready for take off!

2008-05-31T21:03:00.003-05:00

Tomorrow is the big day! After six months of planning, fundraising, and anticipation, I finally arrive in New York City. I'm sure most of you already know, but incase you don't, I am going to live and work as a missionary intern in the Bronx for ten weeks this summer. I'll be working with Jared Looney and some other cool cats, and the Bronx Fellowship. The Bronx Fellowship is a simple church network, otherwise known as house churches. It's a totally awesome ministry. You can check them out at www.bronxfellowship.org.

I'm so excited about this opportunity. I've been blessed to be part of a house church here in Abilene this past semester, and have developed some meaningful relationships with people through it. Our church often met at the house I live in with three other girls, who were also part of the church, and our time together consistently entailed dinner and communion. We would sit around the table together and share with each other what God had been doing in our lives as of late, pray for each other, or share our creativity with each other. And we almost always ended up watching a movie. That was a typical Sunday at church.

The great thing about doing church the simple way was that we didn't just show up once a week and sit next to each other while we sang. We shared life together as we helped each other to walk in the way of the Lord. I know that sounds kind of heavy, and those of you who are reading this who were a part of church with me this past semester may be wondering why I say that, but that is how I view what we did. Because not only did we meet on Sundays, but we saw each other almost every day of the week. A few of us literally lived together, and a few others were over so often that they practically lived with us, which we loved. We were in each others lives in such a natural and pleasant way that we were able to be there for each other through good times and bad, to hold each other accountable in a way that wasn't forced by the familiar title of "accountability partner," and to share what we had with one another.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not saying it was a utopia. There were facets of church that we were lacking in. However, it gave me a glimpse into another way to be the church, a way that is as ancient as the very faith we participate in. This is the kind of church I will be a part of this summer, the kind of church that I will have the chance to learn about living and working in. The network of house churches in the Bronx has been around for some years now, and I am so psyched to see it in action.

I know that God has so much for me to learn this summer, and I plan on "taking notes with my eyes" (name that movie!). There is a great possibility that I may be doing what I learn this summer with some dear friends, Mark and Katrina Willis, in Chicago after I graduate. Check them out at http://godgrown.net. They're awesome.

So if you have a chance, please pray for my team and I. I will be there with four other college students: Heath, Katie, Jordan, and Clarissa. We will be living and working together all summer, so pray for our team, that we would work well together. Pray for our safety. But most of all, pray that God stretches and grows us in our faith, and that we learn what He has to teach us. Thanks for all your love and support!

PS: The movie was "Almost Famous." Go figure, right?!

Voy a casarme con Principe Caspian (I am going to marry Prince Caspian)

2008-05-25T16:12:00.002-05:00

So I realize that the title of my blog makes no sense to anyone except Emily Jorgenson, and even she is probably wondering why I would choose this phrase as the title. Allow me to explain.

Last weekend, Emily and I tried and failed to go see Prince Caspian twice. It was sold out, even in the middle of the afternoon on the day after it opened! So after we were denied entrance the second time, we bought tickets for the next show, which would begin 3 and 1/2 hours later. Keep in mind that this was on a Saturday afternoon in Abilene, after most of our friends had left town for summer vacation. That means... we had nothing to do.

In Abilene, there are usually about five options:
1.) go to the movies
2.) get coffee
3.) go bowling/roller-skating/or putt-putting (I realize those are three separate things, but let's be honest... they're all pretty much the same thing)
4.) go out to eat
5.) go to church.
Okay, the last one is kind of a joke, but if you've ever spent an extended period of time in Abilene, you know just what I mean. Wow! I know - so many choices. But can you believe it? We weren't in the mood for any of them. And mostly, we were annoyed that our movie had been sold out again.

While we were driving home dejectedly, we passed by Primetime, this "family entertainment center" which is a lot like a Celebration Station, and thus began a ten minute rant about the lack of quality entertainment in Abilene. All Primetime could offer were high-priced activities similar to those listed in #3. Good times were had by all. Then Emily suggested going by Sonic for Happy Hour drinks. We're crazy, I know.

"Great!" I replied. "We could go to the batting cages!" The particular Sonic that we frequent has a sand volleyball court and a few batting cages for the entertainment of customers. I've never used a batting cage. And despite where you think this story may be leading, I still haven't. But Emily and I had a terrific time making jokes about the inevitable humor that would ensue if we did give it a whirl.

"A ball? Flying towards my face at 80 MPH?! Some man must have invented this. Leave it to men!" That is what Emily said her mom would say if she found herself trembling before the machine with bat in hand. I love it.

That day was just so telling of my life right now. Everyday, I wake up with a general plan, and some days it goes as planned, but most of the time, something unexpected happens. Occasionally, these unplanned events come on hard and strong, and the results of many of these experiences have been hugely life-shaping, for which I am thankful. But most of the time, these unexpected adventures are just a short and sweet experience. Like riding around with Emily, with no plan and lots of laughs. I can't wait to see her years from now and laugh about that day.

God is in all things. He is in the big and the small, the exciting and the mundane. Experiencing Him in the exciting is great, but experiencing Him in the mundane is a gift. So I've been training myself to view each day as a day with potential for grand adventures, and like I said, I can't wait to find out what tomorrow has to offer.

So it begins.

2008-05-24T13:43:00.002-05:00

This is my first official blog post, and be that as it may, I feel a lot of pressure for it to be good. Because what if it isn't? Will you, dear reader, ever return? I do hope so. I'll give it my most earnest effort with the most sincere of wishes that this would touch you, and thus, bring you back.
You see, I have been resistant to the thought of starting a blog for a few reasons. Let me begin by being completely transparent with you, something which I intend to do in all posts: I've been hesitant to start doing this because I'm afraid no one will read it. Yikes!
I've always felt it was a bit presumptuous to assume that if my musings were posted on the world wide web for all to read, they would surely do so. What makes my thoughts so special? Also, the temptation to allow this to become all about me is strong. In all things, I should seek to glorify God, to seek first his kingdom. I've struggled with how this accomplishes those things.
But I've decided it's time. It is time to start doing this because my friendships and relationships are becoming more and more scattered across the globe, and this is the most efficient way to keep people informed on the course my life is taking (at least my life for the next... however many days/months/years I keep up with this). It is also time for me to do my small part in claiming the resources of this world for the glory of God. The more I thought about it, the more blogging seemed like such an obvious way to do it, because it is true, what I wrote in the first paragraph. It is my most sincere wish that this would touch you, and that you would feel compelled to read more, but not because of anything I've done, but because of what the Lord has done.
I hope you read something here that makes you laugh, or makes you cry, and gives you a glimpse into the kingdom, because He is in all these things.