Church home

I start searching for a new local church tomorrow. It makes me feel sick to my stomach. I’m committing at least the next two years of my life to the church that I choose, and the teachings, ministry, and people I encounter there may have enormous sway over the decisions I make and the opportunities I choose once I graduate from seminary. Plus, I dread walking into churches for the first time. I’ve gotten pretty good about walking right up to the welcome table, telling my story, and asking questions, but, oh, I still loathe it. Going to a new church is an emotional thing. It evokes homesickness on all levels. Past churches once called home are brought to mind, and the voices and faces of those past congregations, from which I am now absent, become particularly haunting. If I go alone, I can’t help but feel alone with an empty chair or pew space on either side of me. If I am not sitting alone, I can’t help but feel embarrassed when I start to cry in front of this stranger who was kind enough to offer a seat. These services are about coming together as a community to worship God. This shouldn't be so painful. But it is. Why?

Day 1

This is the first real night in my new home on the campus of seminary. Tricia (my fellow basement dweller in this house) and I have not been satisfied with our shower. I describe it as the most stressful shower experience I have ever had. Tricia's mom calls it intense. Someone described it as an attack of water. It's small. It creates a vacuum in which the shower curtain blows in and clings to the body. The water pulsates down, and there is no where to escape. So, I decided to put on a new shower head so that we at least could redirect the water when needed. I couldn't get the original shower head off, so I asked Jeremy from next door if he could try. Well, he detached the original shower head - by completely breaking the pipe out of the wall. So, I'll make the call to the resident assistant tomorrow. He'll probably have to call the plumber. Then I'm sure he'll heartily welcome me to the seminary community. I completely rendered the shower unusable within twenty-four hours of arriving on campus to stay.

Corn Spill

I believe this picture was taken in 1984, perhaps in the autumn of 1985. I'm the little kid in the blue jumper and white t-shirt kneeling down at the edge of the corn. My little brother, J.P., is in the middle of it. Grandpa is in the back, and my mom is standing with her back to us. I remember when this happened and how I thought it was one of the most delightful accidents that could ever occur. J.P. and I trampled through it, tried to make corn angels, made it snow corn, tried swimming in corn, etc. I lost one of my shoes, and then we got to treasure hunt for it (we never found it). For all of Grandpa's faults, I am grateful that he wasn't the type of person who kept kids out of the way. He would rather have kids romping through a mess than be alone cleaning it up. Tipping a grain wagon over obviously equals a very bad day, but whatever bad mood Grandpa may have been in didn't distance him from us. Kids underfoot remained a very good thing.

Recurring Dreams

I assume most people have at least one recurring dream that invades their slumber at least occasionally. My longest running recurring dream is of a plane crashing while I watch from the ground below. Sometimes the incident is in the middle of a city; sometimes it is in the middle of a pasture out in the country. I'm never on the plane, which may be because I started having these dreams before I was ten and I never got on a plane until I was nineteen. However, because of these dreams, I always hold my breath when I hear a plane flying low overhead, bracing myself for an explosion that might follow.

Yet, as somber as this little introduction to my entry may be, this is not the dream that is plaguing me right now. You know those college dreams in which it is the end of the semester and you discover that you are registered for a class that you haven't attended all semester? Or, you dream you slept through the final exam - or that you got your schedule screwed up and you showed up too late for the final exam? I've had those ever since college, but I'm not having them now. Instead, I keep dreaming that I'm back in high school and that I keep forgetting to do my homework. Sometimes the teacher is Mrs. Straub, my favorite teacher from high school, and sometimes the teacher is one of my colleagues with whom I taught at Waterloo. However, I'm always a high school student, sitting in class when the teacher asks for an assignment that I forgot to do. And then, this chronic forgetfulness of mine always leads me to flunking the class. Tammy G., you haven't been the teacher in my dreams yet, but if you start yelling at me about my homework, I'm calling you. Upon waking up, I've had to reassure myself that teachers cannot collect homework before the first day of class and that the dream wasn't real. I will right down my assignments in my planner, I say. I will not forget to do my homework. Golly, I'm freaking out.

Moving hazard

Yesterday, I moved all of my stuff to St. Louis, but I spent the night here in Waterloo because I had to take my car to the Waterloo mechanic today as well as CLEAN this place top to bottom. However, this morning I realized that all of my clothes are in St. Louis. Great. To at least meet public decency standards, I dug through the old t-shirts that I was going to tear into rags, found some deodorant in my emergency travel kit, and don't even ask about my underwear...