My dog is old. She's fifteen, and if it's true that 1 year is like 7 dog years, that makes her, wait a minute...105 years old. Yes, my dog is old. And she, like all of us at some time or another, is presently modeling cruel absurdity to me. She's been given to pacing lately. She goes up and down stairs repeatedly, many times in a row, as if she keeps forgetting why she traveled from one place to the other. I'll be in the middle of giving her treats, something will distract her, and I'll be left with half a piece of American cheese in my hand and no dog begging me for it. Last night as I was sitting on the couch reading, she walked dozens of laps around the coffee table, her nails clicking on the hard wood floor, annoying me to the point I would have locked her in the basement if I didn't feel the guilt that comes with thinking that she could die at any time. About a week ago, she jumped on the couch, and then being scared of the height, in order to get down she jumped into a pile of presents, which of course gave way beneath her, which of course left her scrambling, knocking ornaments off of the Christmas tree and shepherds out of the nativity. We opened crunched packages this year.

Dogs getting old and dying seems cruelly absurd to me. As do broken relationships, intentional violence, natural disasters, careless accidents, infertility, homelessness, ethnocentrism, thoughtless words, and destructive gossip. Yes, good can come out of these, and that's all proof to me that God still holds the key over this world. People say that without hurt there would be no healing, without loss what appreciation would we have for what we possess. And I agree that trials are acts of God's providence in our lives, drawing us seek after Him. But, isn't it absurd that we wouldn't already seek after Him? Isn't it absurd that we wouldn't trust Him in the first place?

Suffering is commonplace in this world. Watching my dog get old makes me think of how much has changed since she was a puppy - people have died, houses have burnt down, divorces have been finalized, friendships have been severed. Within each sad story there are hundreds of others. People sometimes ask why there is suffering in the world. I don't know. I know it doesn't make sense. I know it seems absurd. But sin is absurd, isn't it? Affairs, gossip, all of it - it never does anyone any good, it causes more suffering than satisfaction, yet we continue to do it anyway. And that first sin of creation was absurd. Trust the Creator who has never done you wrong or trust the one with the chip on his shoulder? Take advantage of abundance, or desire the one thing you can't have? And absurdity has followed over sense.

It's not always going to be this way. You know that pain that is so great it feels like your entire body cannot contain it - it's not always going to be that way. The heartbreak of a failed relationship - when that person you were sure you were going to marry has second thoughts - it's not always going to be that way. People dying, growing senile, losing dreams, harsh disappointment, hunger, hate, violence, all of it. It's not always going to be that way.

Perhaps my favorite verse: 'Now the dwelling of God is with men, and he will live with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be their God. He will wipe every ear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away'- Rev 21:3-4

I desire something to look forward to - there it is. Death, mourning, crying, pain - all gone. Even memories won't cause pain. Let the dwelling of God be with men, and let us be rid of the absurdity we have caused.

Christmas time is here, I'm home from college, and Mom is doing my landry. I really have regressed in my journey into adulthood. Last year I was a teacher, worked regular, long hours, had my own place, and brought home a more-than-sufficient paycheck. This year I have a part-time 10-hour-a-week job as well as sub jobs at a daycare, the money from which pays my rent, utilities, and one week's worth of groceries. Savings and loans take care of the rest. I work long, irregular hours interrupted by hilarious antics of my housemates, and I get frustrated with the lack of room in my basement bedroom and shower. Yet, in seminary, I'm not nearly as tired in the evenings as I was with teaching, and Mondays don't feel much different from Fridays. However, though I'm not nearly as emotionally exhausted after a day, a month, or a semester of teaching, I feel more emotionally burdened, carrying spiritual questions about the past, present, and future. I wonder what the answers to those questions look like in the tangible form of the days of my life. Mom today asked me questions about a future job and 401k's, Roth IRA's, health insurance, etc - more questions I don't know the answer to, and more questions that weigh upon me. I look forward to seeing how the Lord will provide for all of this - what work He will give me, where He will take me, and what with what assurance He will lead me. I feel burdened yet watchful. Yet, if it be any encouragement to you, I feel more burdened than anything else. It will be only by God's grace that my worry will turn to watchful expectation.

What would you do?

What is the appropriate response when one of your dearest friends loses her semester project due to a computer crash? I, Person A, smile and laugh, not excessively, but enough to be aggravating. I don't mean to laugh, and I really don't think the situations are funny, but I always laugh in stressful situations involving other people. A friend has a nervous breakdown right in front of me - and I laugh. It's happened!

Person B at our table, in empathy for my dear friend, starts cussing - repeatedly - and loudly - in the seminary community room.

Person C starts retelling a time that it happened to her, and gives instruction on why saving is so important.

Who responded best? I would have to say Person B, though crude, showed the most understanding of my friend's pain. I obviously have something wrong with me because I keep compulsively laughing at other people in crisis. And Person C, well, I think there must be a proverb about Person C.

Melissa and Andy

They're married!

Snow

What is it about snow that makes me want to jump on a roommate's bed at 2:00 in the morning and say, "Look out the window - it's snowing!" ?

Read my previous post, then forget it.

Okay, this morning's post was a sham. It is full of feelings of guilt about not enjoying seminary to the fullest, and, to put it succinctly, it is me trying to be better than I am. I am tired. I am confused. Issues of covenants, the Church, women in ministry, baptism, predestination, etc... weigh me down. Grace so often is a comforting idea; right now it's just loaded with burdensome theological implications. Right now I just feel like pulling back from all things religious. I know this is part of seminary; it's normal to feel this way at times, especially nearing the end of the semester. A professor made the mistake of asking me how I was doing today, and as I teared up in telling him exactly how I was feeling, he knew precisely what I was talking about. There's no reason for me to pretend like I'm not struggling at all, and my struggles certainly aren't new around here. It's hard for just about everyone. I am grateful to be here, but it's hard.

Crunch Time

It's the week before finals, and I'm overwhelmed. Book reviews, Scripture reflections, papers, and projects are due in rapid fire succession over the next two weeks. Why am I feeling the same stress I did when I was in my undergrad years or when I was teaching? I am going to school, doing the things I love most: reading the Bible, reading Christian thinkers, analysts, and scientists, and responding in writing to it all. I used to resent my studies and work because I wanted more time to do those very things; now they are what fill my time - almost exclusively. I get to read a wonderful book and write a thoughtful reflection tonight. That's what I should be thinking.

I'm Here!

Well, I've arrived. I just bought Christmas presents, paid my rent, Mastercard, and Discover card bills, and balanced my two checkbooks with my laptop perched on the kitchen counter, waiting for my tortelini to cook and my hair to dry. Now, I'm blogging while eating my tortelini, and will probably check the online discussion forum for class before I actually walk across campus to get there. I'll get this 21st century mutlitasking thing down sooner or later, but this is beyond where I've ever been before.

Hanky please

I just finished watching The Family Man for the second time. The first time I watched it, I was relatively unaffected, thinking it was just an okay movie. This time, I cry my eyes out. What a difference two years makes. And, for all of you cool, strong, intellectuals, I don't care if it is sentimental, romantic sap - when Nicholas Cage pleads, "I choose us," it's beautiful.

Unsettled

A guy asked me out today. I had I hunch that it was coming, and I turned him down. I feel so bad about it though. I know I don't want to date the guy, but I wanted to cry afterwards. I wish everyone could find acceptance where they long for it.

Autumn

Autumn reminds me that things pass quickly. The leaves in St. Louis turned vibrant this weekend, so much so that I have been startled by glances out windows and steps outside into the oranges, browns, and reds. Within a week and a half though, it will be over. The trees will be bare and though the weather may be beautiful, the sights will not be. We’ll start saying things like, “I bet that ridge is beautiful in the spring.” I better appreciate the colors now, because they won’t wait for me to think I have time to take them in.

Good News

"For if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has gone, the new has come. All of this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation: that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting men’s sins against them.
And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation. " (2 Cor. 5:17-19)

People are being crushed under the weight of their sins. What would happen if they understood God's message of reconciliation? Is it that they just don't understand, or is it that no one has told them? God has committed to us the message of reconciliation. Do we communicate that God is reconciling the world to himself, or do we communicate that the world better get its act together before God gets too mad. God has commited to us the message of reconciliation. Are we good stewards of that message?

Long overdue post

Hey everyone. I know I've been a neglectful blogger lately. I really hope to be better about posting sooner than later! I just thought you all would like to know, however, that I am happy. I was walking home from work last night and saw the half moon in the sky over the house I share with friends. I thought of the many times I walked out of work in Waterloo and saw the moon just above the steeple of the UCC. Though the moonlit scene in Waterloo is a more beautiful one, my heart felt lighter in seeing the moon in my current surroundings. I love the work I am doing right now. Relationships are in abundance. I already feel comfortable in my niche. I am happy.

Internal tangle of rubber bands keeps bouncing off my brain and my heart

It is a strange thing being a full time college student again. I grieve the loss of my professional status, my structured work week, and my own bathroom. However, I am enjoying a return to green campus lawns, going to class without makeup, and bellyaching laughter with housemates. I miss the stories that came with teaching, though: mice falling out of ceilings, teachers throwing rodents from windows, and homecoming floats dismantling mid-parade. Teaching is external chaos in pursuit of internal order. There is a lot of external order here at seminary; though I have to admit, speaking for my own self, internal chaos is raging.

Back in December, a friend challenged me not to go to a conservative seminary but rather go to a place like University of Chicago where I would encounter views radically different from my own. I countered that though I would love to go to the University of Chicago, I was not looking for a place where I could just study religion, but rather a place where I could also learn from those who had experience in ministry and who could give me insight into practicing vocational ministry myself. Though the University of Chicago would give me access to great education through religious studies, I doubted that they could help me much in training for Christian ministry. That entire conversation seems ironic now, for I am realizing that challenges in perspective do not come only from those who hold polar opposite views, but also from those who look at things just a little differently than I do. I didn’t have to go to a liberal university to be challenged. I’m at an evangelical Christian seminary, and my assumptions and even educated conclusions are being challenged at times to the point of pain. Predestination, believers’ baptism, women in ministry, etc. Debatable issues among brothers and sisters in Christ. I have my opinions on all of them. I believe that my conclusions come from Scripture. My brothers and sisters in Christ who differ in opinion from me believe that their conclusions come from Scripture. What is it that Scripture really says? And if tradition says something different from Scripture, what am I to do as an individual in the church, and later, as a leader in the church?

For instance, at this point, I really can’t see how infant baptism fits in Scripture. I know it’s an old, old tradition, perhaps having its roots in the early church, but I just don’t see how Scripture supports it. I’m at a PCA seminary. The PCA supports infant baptism. While I consider those who love the Lord and practice infant baptism my brothers and sisters in Christ, I cannot in good conscience support it. If I can’t support it, I obviously can’t work at a church that supports it. Also, I can’t marry anyone who is a leader in a church that supports it. So, here’s my question: do I let this be an issue? Is it a sign of a lack of maturity to let this be an issue? Anyone have any insight or wisdom?

Daughter of a King

My heart gets broken sometimes. At times it’s because I carelessly left it out in the street, just asking for someone to run over it, but sometimes, no matter how careful and wise I am, my heart, as well as I, end up broken. I’m so thankful during those times that God has revealed to us that we are not just his subjects but that we are his children. When I cry to Him it is not mortal to immortal, but a cry from daughter to Father. And the comfort that I receive, the assurance that I rest on, is that of a Father to his daughter. That I would always remember that I’m a daughter of a king. That I would always remember that when things go awry, that when I feel mistreated, that when my own wisdom falls short, I have a Father who knows my heart perfectly, who knows this world perfectly, and who will keep me in His own best interest for me. I really do have nothing to fear.

prayer and blogging

My problem with blogging lately has been similar to a common hazard with prayer. I want my blogs to be meaningful and profound. I want the insights to be fresh yet spring up from deep roots. I want the words to be careful, thoughtful, and undoubtedly true. To write in such a way takes solitude, an examining of motives, a guarding against selfishness, and a weighing of word against word, phrase against phrase. Such deliberating requires time. So, I think perhaps I'll have time to sit down tonight and form my thoughts into words on screen. Or, perhaps I'll be more refreshed first thing in the morning. Or, maybe after I study a little while, make my bed, eat lunch, or take a nap. The blogging never gets done.

Such it is in my prayer life. I imagine that I'll have a lengthy block of time later in my day to devote to prayer in which I can inwardly wrestle and quietly listen with and to God's directives for me. Right now while I'm feeling sick or tired or distracted won't do. I'll wait until later when I can do a better job at it. I'll be better at praying later in the day, I think, so I save every petition for that time. Therefore, people don't get prayed for. Situations don't get prayed over. My inward and outward life goes unexamined. Blocks of time for prayer are important, but so are moments. Waiting for the opportune time and inward feeling will not result in frequent and honest prayer. Praying in the midst of the distractions, unfavorable conditions, hurriedness, and just plain unspiritual feeling is far better than trying to take care of the day's checklist first.

I'll try to do a better job a regular blogging. I'll try not to worry about impressing all of you but rather give you my honest feelings and ordinary activities. And also, does anyone need prayer? I'll sit down and lift you up right now.

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...

Lightning bugs

Lightning bugs make me cry. Four years ago, as Kristen and I were at a training camp in southern Illinois before leaving for our prayer journey to Scotland, we found ourselves sitting in the grass next to a pasture at sunset, disclosing some of our most deeply rooted hopes and fears of the future. That night marked a new phase in our friendship: a transition from friends who enjoy one another's company to friends who trust, love, and need each other. And that night we delighted in lightning bugs. It was the end of May, so the fireflies should not have been that prevalent, but they were there all the same. And ever since then, summer nights and lightning bugs take me back to memories of time spent with Kristen, and I miss her painfully. My head keeps telling me that I am going to make so many new friends soon, but the other part of me jerks back like a little kid and exclaims, "I would rather just be with my old ones." And so it goes, life continues, and I will embrace the new friends in my life. I still miss my old ones though.

Media Coverage of Middle East Conflict

Much has been said of a society with 24-hour-cable news. Those of us with cable know more about what is going on in the world faster than ever before, and with images. Yet, at about midnight last night, as I was flipping through CNN, CNN Headline News, MSNBC, and FOX futilely trying to get information on the Israel/Lebanon conflict, all I got were repeated broadcasts of Anderson Cooper, Nancy Grace, Rita Cosby (I think - I had given up on MSNBC by then), and Brit Hume. Israel was bombing the airport in Beirut and Hezbollah was sending missiles back and no one was covering it. These cable news channels have swelling music scores and dramatic graphics to indicate breaking news, and they do announce breaking news often, yet when the news is huge but at an inconvenient time, there is nothing.

Now, I must say that CNN did interrupt Anderson's re-run for a little while and switched to the international broadcast and FOX did put a thick red bar announcing that the Beirut airport had been hit, but the attention given was sorely lacking compared to the magnitude of the situation. Also, I will admit, there was information available online and there was no practical need for me to know everything that was going on in the Middle East before I went to bed. Still, I was disappointed that when stark news came at a time when the celebrity anchors were at home, the priority of the networks was to show their perfectly taped graphics-laden, musical-score enhanced programs rather than cover a legitimate crisis in an explosive area of the world.

Ostentatious Rambling

My Google homepage quote of the day:

"An ostentatious man will rather relate a blunder or an absurdity he has committed, than be debarred from talking of his own dear person." - Joseph Addison

Well, perhaps blogging is, for many of us, a medium for us to satisfy our narcissism and ostentatious nature. I mean, we sit around and write about ourselves with the expectation that other people will actually read our thoughts which are, many times, about ourselves. Yet, I kind of like reading others' self-centered ramblings - especially the blunders and the absurdities.

My blunder today: I'm not visiting a new church because I can't find my wallet. My credit cards, my cash, my checkbook - I have no idea where they are, and I don't want to drive to West County without even my license. I think my wallet may be in an O'Fallon friend's car, but she hasn't called me back yet. The ironic thing is I just bought this wallet to replace my Eastern key chain wallet. It's a "big girl" wallet - long and with compartments as opposed to the little pocket sized photo id wallet I have used since college. I assumed it would be harder to lose, since it is bigger and all. Guess not.

I'm not sure what I'm going to do about church today. It's 10:30 now, and no wallet. Grrr...

No edification in this entry. Just ostentatious rambling. I can't find my wallet, and, by golly, I want the world to know about it.

Help

Does anyone happen to have access to any of the machines below that they would be willing to give away? A cousin of a good friend of mine was in an accident last December and was paralyzed (almost completely) from the neck down. His insurance company doesn't cover a lot of the expensive equipment he needs. Also, the insurance company isn't covering as much physical therapy as the family originally thought, so he will be returning home sooner than expected into a house that isn't ready for him.

If any of you know of a way the family could get access to this equipment for no charge or for very low cost, you can use the link below to contact the family.

Rotating air bed $6,500
Standing machine $800
Estim machine $850 (this works the muscles in his arms)
Estim bike $15,000
Deltoid aid $4,000
Full-size handicap van
http://www.caringbridge.com/cb/inputSiteName.do?method=search&siteName=mikeready

Another turning point...

Sometimes negative behavior can be traced to an unrealized and/or unacknowledged emotion. A common such emotion is anger, which can manifest itself in self-destructive behavior if not addressed. Another commonly present yet denied emotion is fear, which I have only moments ago realized is controlling my action or lack of action. I fear the vacuum cleaner.

I have never enjoyed vacuuming, but, until I went to college, I never had to do much of it. Growing up, all of the floors in my home were hardwood, and though vacuuming was occasionally required, a dry mop usually was sufficient. When I moved to college, my roommate and I decided we would get wall to wall carpeting, but still, even wall to wall carpet in a tiny dorm room does not amount to much. Then I moved into Cov. House, and it is there that my loathing of all things vacuum firmly established itself in my psyche. First of all, though the carpets weren't bad, they weren't all that great either, and a well-vacuumed floor did not look that different from a floor that had not been vacuumed. Also, hair would continually get caught in the vacuum and I would have to take a pair of scissors and cut it all out. Third, the belt often would burn leaving the nauseating smell of burnt rubber throughout the entire house. Vacuum cleaners since have been complicated mysteries to me. They clean my floor, but they are fickle, smelly, unpredictable machines that I am sure sometimes spontaneously combust and injure dozens each year.

Knowledge is often the antidote to fear, however, and I am making strides to get to know my Dirt Devil. I changed the bag today. It wasn't that bad. I changed it, but I put the new bag in, and everything's good. Plus, the vacuum cleaner works better now. Yes, hair is still a problem, but I'll try to maintain that. Filters - I can change those too. Maybe, with enough attention, the Dirt Devil will become my friend. If not, that's okay. Now that I've peered inside it, it's not so scary anymore. Good vacuum.

Freshman

I wrote this a couple of weeks ago. I'm just now getting around to posting it.

I have that freshman rock in my stomach. Remember it? Think back to when you first started college. After hauling your Steralite bins full of prom pictures, phone cards, dishes, and socks, your sweaty dad slipped you forty dollars and kissed you goodbye, your mom fought back tears as she gave you one more hug, and your teenage sibling awkwardly gave you a hug because he knew he had to. They then drove the SUV away and you were left, knowing that all the laurels on which you had once rested didn't matter anymore. Of course, on the other hand, nobody knew about the time you tucked your skirt into your pantyhose at Homecoming - or about the time you shanked the field goal needed to win the game, but nobody knew that you were a trusted keeper of secrets, a good sportman, funny, interesting, scared, loveable. Nobody knew you. You had to start all over again.

Today was orientation for the start of my studies at seminary. Nametag on, notebook in hand, purse over shoulder, I walked into the lower-level chapel classroom filled with humming chattering of men and women, most of them in pairs, talking about Greek paradigms, PCA this, wife and job that. Grunge and prep, men and women, newlyweds and couples with children, all mingled together. I didn't know anyone. Even more discomforting, no one knew me.

I hadn't felt that sinking weight feeling in a long time. I thought that this time around, because I am older, more experienced, more mature, I wouldn't experience it. I was wrong.

I tend to imagine that these people won't want to get to know me. I inwardly accuse people of all sorts of hautiness when I feel threatened. I think that because I am single, I am looked down upon. I become convinced that because I am not firmly rooted in Reformed theology, I am thought to be spiritually inferior. I wonder if because I don't have a Bible undergraduate degree, my intellect is questioned. Maybe this mind game of mine is a defense mechanism. Maybe it's Satan playing the role of the accuser.Either way, I should know better. The wife, the mother, the Bible college student, the Calvinist - all of us are just trying to find our footing. Whether single or married, women want other women to talk to. And whether a Bible college student or a state university student, young people want purpose and passion and direction.

I take a deep breath before I walk into rooms full of strangers. I need to fix my will before swimming through the unfamiliar voices. But, before long, they will become familiar. I know before long I will love some of those voices and perhaps even cry when I miss them. For now, however, my will needs to be steadied. This time, my parents aren't dropping me off and leaving me - I'm driving myself. This time, I know the accusing thoughts aren't worth listening to. This time, I'm sure of the rock beneath my feet. I just need to keep that rock beneath me - and not in my stomach.

-

Summer

I love summer. A warm scented breeze blows by, and still I am startled, delighted, so glad that winter is over. I love the laid back pace of summer. My dad and I have stripping and painting my old bedroom for almost a week now. He does good work, and we haven't made any mistakes, but we're still not nearly finished. On day one, we stripped wallpaper at an intense pace, and I was ready to strip until we were done. It got to be 4:00 and Dad said we'd do the rest tomorrow. What? Do the rest tomorrow? But Dad was determined to clean up and enjoy the summer evening. I decided to follow suit. I'm a little anxious, just wanting to get it done, but I'm trying to get in step with him, enjoy the work as we go, and look at this project as something to keep us busy and not as something to get done and out of the way. Kind of like summer.

So in love...

My brother got married earlier this month. I can't imagine a more perfect fit for our family than Linsay.

Strong and Courageous

Be strong and courageous. Be strong and very courageous. Love God's law. Meditate on God's law day and night. Do not be terrified. Do not be discouraged. Be strong and courageous.

I'm reading Joshua right now. When the spies hid at Rahab's home, she told them that when her city heard about the Hebrews' escape from Egypt and their victories since, their courage failed because they knew that the Lord, the maker of the heavens and the earth, was with the Hebrews as their Lord, their God. The Cannanites knew enough that their courage failed when they saw the Lord against them. Why was it that the Israelites could not muster enough courage even though they knew the Lord was with them? The Lord is with me. Why is it that my courage fails? The Lord is not against me - if so, then I should be afraid. But, no, the Lord is not against me; He is with me. I should be strong and courageous.

I'm nervous about the fall. I have resigned from my job as a teacher. I have gone back into school a couple of times since the summer began to clear the last few things out of my room and to gather what I needed from the computer. Walking into that building has hurt. I walk back into the cave where my and Jane's rooms are, and I think of how wonderful it was to teach with Jane just across the hall. I think of how wonderful it was to be part of a team of individuals who were dedicated to provided the best opportunities for the students. I wonder why I have given up a noble profession and an ideal environment in which to carry out that profession.

I need to hold on to what I believe was God's communication to me that although what I'm doing is good, it is not best in terms of where He wants me. I need to have courage that moving, new faces, and new challenges will not overwhelm me. I need to have faith that God will provide where I cannot manage, and the fact that God is with me is the source of my courage, my strength.

Be strong and very courageous.

Moving on

Wednesday was my last school day with students, and Friday was my last day of work overall. I've been so busy, or at least distracted, since then that I haven't missed it at all. People have asked me how it feels to be done, and I haven't been able to give them a precise answer. There have been moments in which I have felt sad, yet there have been moments when I have felt giddy excitement. I was expecting more of a climactic moment of at least one of the two though. I was sure I would cry at some point during my last week, but I haven't. Yet, excitement of what's coming hasn't blanketed my emotions either.

Things hit me with a little more force today though. The English Dept. was hired to format and type some reading modules for next year, so I went to work today to do that. Walking in the building, knowing that I really don't work there anymore, pricked something inside of me. I have developed such a sense of ownership for that building, for those walls, for those floors and doors. Then, later, the custodians called me into the lounge and gave me a gift. The custodians gave me a gift. I have received some beautiful, thoughtful gifts in the past week. Jane gave me a beautiful commentary set that I am sure I will use again and again during seminary. The English dept. girls got me a certificate to a beauty salon. Students gave me plants, candles, and even Dr. Pepper and Little Nutty Bars. But, a gift from the custodians... I wasn't expecting that at all. And then came a real moment of doubt as to whether I had done the right thing... with people around me who love me and care for me like this - am I really supposed to leave. I am part of a community here. The teachers, the staff, the administration, the parents, and, oh yes, the kids... I am part of the fabric of the school. Am I really supposed to give that up?

Yes, I think I am supposed to give all of this up. It's another milestone in my life at which I am looking back, seeing the trials vividly, but also clearly seeing that God was faithful through every day. He once again provided me with a community that I cannot imagine can be surpassed anywhere ever again. But I assume He will work beyond my imagination. I'm counting on it.

Perfect

As I was journaling tonight, I wrote the word perfect in relation to a prayer for a friend, and my pen lingered at the end. I wrote it again. Perfect. Perfect. God’s ways are perfect. God’s wisdom is perfect. God’s hand over my life is perfect. God’s faithfulness is perfect. God’s love is perfect. God’s plan is perfect.

My ways are not perfect. I leaf backwards through my journal and see expressions of gratitude and praise at God’s work in my life. Prayers that I had prayed for so long had been answered in ways more amazing than I even hoped for. The way things turned out were practically...perfect. Those times of such visibly answered prayer were followed by my grandiose expressions of surrender, trust, and faith. Yet, as the days and weeks wear on, I become less confident in God’s hand over the details of my life. I start maneuvering to make sure things happen the way I think they should. I think about what I want and what games I need to play in order to get it. I forget that God’s plan is perfect. I forget that I don’t have to claw and fight to survive. I forget that God’s faithfulness is perfect. I forget that God’s provision is perfect.

God is perfect. And His will will be done. Why do I forget? To forget God's faithfulness is to fight it. I don't want to fight God. I don't want to fight the perfect. I want to see His perfect will unfold. And I want to enjoy it. And I want to be part of it.

I'll never be perfect. I'll never be anything if not sustained by His love. But I get to participate in it. The flawed brought in by the Unblemished, the unsteady brought in by the Absolute, the wayward brought in by the Constant. The rebellious and selfish brought in by Perfect Love. I forever created. God forever Creator. Mysterious. Dumbfounding. Perfect. And do I dare tread so lightly? Do I dare tweak what is not flawed. Do I dare insert my ambition into perfection? I hope not. Oh, I hope not.

Sheesh

I think I've about had it. I almost starting crying tonight when I couldn't find iron-on hem fixer stuff at Walmart tonight. Then I felt like crying because I don't know how to sew and when I was in junior high in home economics I had to stay after school for sewing because I always messed everything up. My seam-ripper got more use than any other seam-ripper in the class, and even after staying after school and having to do it over and over again the stitches on my home-made locker organizer were still crooked. I can't sew a button on and I can't iron a shirt very well. I'm scared of 100% cotton. And I have a headache and a kid left a roach on my desk this morning. I wish I could be one of those teachers who stay steady and calm and remove insects, rodents, and all things disgusting without reaction or disruption. I, on the other hand, scream and according to one kid, "totally trip out." I went to Arby's drive through today and drove off forgetting to wait for my $15.00 in change. I'm a high-strung, domestically impaired, spacey twenty-something who is quitting her steady job. Sheesh. I'm going to bed.

My mom makes me laugh

My mom is a school librarian. I love her emails...

May 5, 1:27 PM
"Well, I hope you are all having perfectly peaceful afternoons! As for me, I was just getting started on the ageold story of the Blind Men and the Elephant with kindergarteners when Dylan jumps up screaming at the top of his lungs, "I lost my tooth. I lost my tooth."

Normally when this happens, I just tape the tooth to an index card so it does not get lost and have them stick it in a pocket. But not Dylan. No, Dylan keeps screaming at me to "Put it back in. Put it back in. I don't want to lose my teeth. I don't want to lose my teeth. My mom will be mad if I come home without a tooth!" Now he is sobbing uncontrollably

Being a very empathetic group of kindergarteners, two or three also start sobbing because Dylan is sobbing. Then two others become somewhat distraught because they are scared their teeth might start falling out in some sort of twisted oral pandemic affecting LeRoy six year olds.

I go to get a kleenex for Dylan and the entire class follows me across the room alternately crying, yelling, some begging to see the empty spot in Dylan's mouth - which further heightens Dylan's terror -etc.

Luckily Tricia appeared, a miracle to be sure, and whisked the tooth out of the room seconds before total anarchy broke out.

Hope you all are having a lovely afternoon!"

For Karen

I had never heard of a vole until a few days ago when my friend Tammy exclaimed, "Maybe it was a vole!" My other friend Carrie and I looked at her incredulously as Carrie remarked, "And now you're just making up creatures." But, sure enough, voles are real. Why hasn't anyone taught me about voles before? Apparently they're everywhere.

According to that bastion of unfallible knowledge, Wikipedia, the meadow vole (microtus pennsylvanicus) is a small rodent that creates pathways in soft brush or burrows just beneath the ground's surface. They are commonly called field mice, although they are not mice. They have more fur, have smaller ears, and are the only rodent whose molars never stop growing throughout their lifetime. (However, it being that it is rare for them to live over one year, I don't see what's so special about their molars never reaching maturity).

The meadow vole is not the only species of vole out there; several different types of voles exist throughout the world. Although the meadow vole is not indiginous to Florida, the Florida salt marsh vole has its home there and is considered an endangered species. So, JP, if you ever rescue a Florida salt marsh vole, don't throw it out a window.

Vole

Opening up my blog to that spider was just unpleasant, so I'm posting something more soothing. No spider bite so far, and I, and any other spider in my house, survived the night last night without incident.

However, my week this week contains not just one, but two wild nature adventures. Two days ago an ashen-faced girl approached me in the hallway and said a mouse had just crawled over her feet in the girls' bathroom. This disturbed me greatly, mostly because it was my planning period and I really needed to use the restroom. My first instinct was to find a custodian to kill it, but there were no custodians around. I could have gone to another restroom, but the idea of using another bathroom while a panic-stricken rodent was zig-zagging across the floor in the first one seemed irresponsible, not to mention dangerous.

Then I thought of Nina. Nina is the German teacher with whom I went to Germany last summer. This woman rocks my world. She loves animals - all animals; the woman adores slugs, rescues mice, and clasps wasps in her bare hands and sets them free. I don't understand her love for filthy little vermon, but I respect her for it, and I know I can count on her to rid my space of disgusting and dangerous creatures. I stepped into her classroom and told her I would watch her students if she wanted to go rescue the mouse. She took off without looking back and seconds later came back with this tiny creature wrapped in a dishcloth. It wasn't a mouse after all - it was a baby vole, a creature I had never even heard of until two days ago. We ooo'd and awe'd over it, and then, as gracefully as she came in, Frau threw the vole out of a second story window. She threw it out the window! We all gasped, a girl yelled, "You totally just killed the thing," and Frau ran to the window, saying, "No, that couldn't have killed it!" I'm pretty sure it died. I'm pretty sure Frau saved it from the girls bathroom only to throw it out the window.

Though I think it died, I told a heart-broken Frau today that it was probably alright. They don't weigh very much, so maybe the impact of a fall isn't very great. Maybe it stopped moving because it was just taking a nap. Maybe it was taking time to appreciate life after two near-death experiences.

Oh my goodness, I know this sounds sordid, but I was laughing so hard yesterday I was doubled-over. And I can't tease Frau about it, because she is upset about it. Oh, but I was crying I was laughing so hard.

Brown Recluse

This morning I found a brown recluse spider - in my bed. It was dead, squashed, I'm assuming victim to the weight of my own body. The question is: did it bite me before I unknowingly yet mercilessly ended its life? If it had bitten me, would I know by now? Let's say the bite is in the middle of my back where I can't see it. Would it itch or burn or anything like that? I have a student who was out for two days last week recovering from a nasty recluse bite on his leg. I saw it. Any experts out there?

I'm not going to miss this

Tonight I think I can alter careers in good conscience. Standardized testing of aptitude in writing. Need I say more? As of right now, one standardized test requires a five-paragraph persuasive essay with no concession point. Another standardized test requires a concession point. Put a concession in one and get marked down. Fail to put a concession in the other one and lose a ranking. And it's not like the criteria for such tests are given to the students ahead of time for them to process, plan, and organize. It's just that one group of people decided that concession points are effective, and therefore all students should realize that too. Another group of people decided that concession points are not effective, and therefore students should be smarter than the other test designers and not put in a concession point.

We teachers can teach both. Of course we can. We teach several styles and purposes for writing, and we engage students in discussion of what techniques are most appropriate for different audiences and situations. Yet, to tell a student to write an essay on a standardized test and then evaluate them according to arbitrary formats instead of their skill in effective communication is ludicrous. Put in a summary sentence. Don't put in a summary sentence. Preview the main points. Don't preview the main points. This is so ridiculous. Evaluate someone's ability to communicate through the written word. If the essay grabbed a reader's attention, kept her interested, and presented facts in a clear, thought-provoking manner, why does it matter if there was a summary sentence or not? The workforce doesn't care. Higher academics doesn't care. But the state cares because it is something clear that can be quickly identified and scored on a rubric. Test. Evaluate. Rate me as a teacher. But please, evaluate what matters.

I am not going to miss those guidelines - they are lead balloons on a teacher's perspective. I know that no matter where I go or what I do I will have to jump through hoops, but, I'm enjoying a moment of relief knowing at least I won't have to jump through the standardized testing hoop next year.

In our own backyard

Teaching turns your perspective upside down. You don't need to go to a famine-stricken country to realize how lucky you are; you just need to go to your local public schools. I teach in an affluent white-collar community. Yet, I know I teach homeless students. Well, I don't know for certain, and I couldn't tell you who exactly was homeless, but I know not every kid is welcome in his or her parents' home. They may have an address, but they don't always go home at night. They go from one friend's house to another, and if they are lucky, they land with a family who actually cares about them, and, if they make the right choices, they'll stay with that family, stay out of trouble, and finish high school. Have you ever driven by an outdoor high school hangout in the winter's cold and observed some sordid-looking 13 -17 year-olds? Have you ever wondered why they would stay outside smoking in the freezing cold instead of go somewhere warm? Have you ever wondered why they would rather be there instead of home? Do you really want to know the answers? Some of the kids are there because they've chosen to reject the guidance and wisdom that their parents have tried so hard to give them. Some of the kids are there because they are emotionally and physically safer there than any other place they've ever known. I live in an affluent community where everyone is supposed to be happy, where it is supposedly safe to walk at night, where lawns are neatly trimmed, where brick banks offering 10K CD's pop up on corners. Yet I still have students who have parents in prison. I still have students who are trying to get reacquainted with their mothers or fathers after years of absence. I still have students who are raising their younger siblings because there is nobody else to do it. I still have students who know they shouldn't ride with a drunk driver but don't know what to do when it is their very own parents who are drunk. Pain is everywhere. It's down the street from you. Literally.

Monday, May 1

1. 5:30 wake-up call from Kristen Browning. I really don't want to start my day.

2. Turn all lights on in the house. Make hot caffeinated beverage. Sit down with Upmost for His Highest. Read about daily, unremarkable servanthood in comparison with fleeting mountain-top emotional highs. I am comforted. 5:30 in the morning feels a lot like servanthood and not anything like mountain-top emotional highs.

3. Think back to an argument that I had with a friend yesterday. I begin to think that the argument is more my fault than I at first realized.

4. Grade a couple essays.

5. Get dressed, make-up, hair, jewelry, yada yada...

6. Get to work on time, even a couple minutes early.

7. Make copies for the day.

8. Go to get a Dr. Pepper from the soda machine and hear a teacher complaining about how students standing in front of the entry doors don't even step aside for her when she walks in. I go outside and give a short lesson on how to hold doors open for people. They don't take me seriously, but they are amused. One boy opens the door for me as I go back in. I tell him he's my favorite student.

9. Discuss emotional problems of student with special ed teacher.

10. 7:50, time to start class. Explain why a writer should not use all caps in formal writing. Explain why three exclamation points after a sentence is not a professional move. Threaten students that if they don't have their essay done on Friday their grades are in danger of dropping two letter grades. Trust me - it's not an empty threat.

11. - 152. Pass out ballots for class elections, collect ballots for class elections, go upstairs to teach class there, come back downstairs to teach class there, act out Brutus' death scene, deal with angry student failing because of plaigarism, tape a student's paper to his desk because he can't stop rolling it up long enough to write down any answers, lunch duty, track down drama president, make drama president mad, counsel a girl that it's okay if she is not sure what she wants to be when she grows up, tell Jane it'll be okay, eat lunch, substitute teach for home ec. teacher, lose class election ballots, find election ballots, check email, go to visitation, come back, drama banquet, get sound system to work, make drama president mad again, eat food at banquet, help clean up banquet, organize papers, write emails, come home.

153. There was a spectacular lightning show as I was driving home tonight. Shards of light jumped from one cloud to another around the entire sky's rim. When I walked into the house dancing light was pouring in on all sides. I've heard several friends talk about electricity in their romantic relationships lately. I smiled as I watched the flashing light reflect over my pictures, books, and dirty dishes. Electricity on top of material blessings on top of relationships on top of God's presence with me throughout the day. Perhaps a mountaintop moment was in store after all.

Column worth reading

A blog I read regularly featured this recent column by John Kass at the Chicago Tribune. I wanted to share it.

"No doubt about Easter's true meaning" Published April 16, 2006

It is Easter Sunday for millions of Western Christians. Those of us on the Eastern Orthodox side of Christianity will celebrate next week.

And somehow, whether this week or next, writing about colored eggs and butter lambs and avoiding the Jesus Christ part of it just won't do.

Obviously, I work in the secular media, and we're usually skittish about spiritual matters. But we're quite dogmatic when it comes to some other things. For example, we're almost severe in our collective belief in scientific progress, in the ability of government officials and technology and reason to solve the problems of the modern world. The mention of Christianity, except in an anthropological context, is often avoided. It carries certain risks.

One problem is that you might insult or infuriate those of other faiths, or those who are firm in having no faith, or those who are ambivalent and want to keep it that way. Please, no offense is intended here. I'm no theologian. My sins haunt me, and what they've left behind reminds me that I'm nobody to tell others about what should be in their hearts.

Still this is Easter Sunday for so many of you and the beginning of Holy Week for others like me, and millions upon millions of people are being driven to their knees.

Just think about that. All across the world on Sunday, and again next Sunday, millions of folks will confirm their belief in something that can't be proven by scientific means. That yearning is news, isn't it? Even though it takes place year after year, it's still news.

What drives us to our knees has little to do with cute bunny rabbits and tiny marshmallow chicks. It has little to do with Easter bonnets, or Earth Day. So while reading the papers on Friday, considering this, I glanced at the front page of USA Today.

"Hollywood turns to divine inspiration," said the headline, and above it was a photo of actor Tom Hanks and a French beauty in the new movie "The Da Vinci Code."

I hope the headline about divine inspiration was a pun, since the Hanks film appears to be a response to Mel Gibson's "The Passion of the Christ." But Hollywood wants inspiration to produce movies that make almost $400 million, as Gibson's did, especially since Hollywood refused to help Gibson with his movie.

Most of you know that the Hanks movie was taken from a badly written book, informed perhaps not by the Holy Sprit, but as conservative writer Tom Roeser said the other day, by feminist politics. Also, that the new Hanks movie involves one of those Jesus conspiracies. In this one, Jesus has a child with Mary Magdalene, the first in a line of French nobles, and conservative Roman Catholics dispatch a crazed albino monk to assassinate anyone who may reveal the big secret.

Recently, there was news that trumpeted the discovery of the so-called Judas gospel. This gospel apparently expiates Judas' guilt. He can't be a betrayer if he and Jesus were allegedly in the conspiracy together. Although early Christian bishops ignored that book, it is being offered, again during the Easter season, as an archeological find, as a goad.

I usually skip such news. The incredible lengths to which the anti-Catholic "Da Vinci Code" has been marketed and the coverage of the Judas gospel as if it were a missing companion to the other four prove me right. It's always so relentless and familiar. It always revolves around the same basic premise:

Doubt.

And doubt sells.

A few months ago, a newsweekly ran a portrait of Jesus on the cover. Such magazines give prominent play to Christian themes in winter and spring, and the portrait was from the Renaissance, and he wore a crown of thorns, and there was this headline:

"How Jesus became the Christ"--as if what happened after the Crucifixion was merely a matter of good public relations.

A friend who worked at one of those magazines had a theory about all of the new Jesus news.

"Jesus saves--circulation," he said.

Surely their numbers don't lie. Casting nagging doubts must drive newsstand sales, or they wouldn't do it.

Some hands that reach for such stuff are thrilled, their own positions validated. Others who don't reach are wounded, wondering why there is so much constant effort made to whittle at belief.

This year is no different. Next year there will be something else. That much is certain. It's been that way for almost 2,000 years. It's always the same, and it goes like this:

A group of strong men rolled the rock away from the tomb, the Resurrection didn't happen, and it defies scientific reason, which is the new church to many.

But in countless other churches, in storefronts and cathedrals, there is a response to such doubt. It comes from the Last Supper, when Christ speaks to his disciples and says: "I am the way, the truth, and the life; no man cometh unto the Father, but by me."

For those of you who celebrate today, happy Easter.


----------jskass@tribune.com

Who wants $130.00?

I can't make a payment on my student loan this month. I want to make my payment. I have the money to make a payment. BUT MY STUDENT LOAN COMPANY SOLD/TRANSFERRED MY LOAN TO ANOTHER PARTY AND NOW I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE IT IS! I logged on tonight to pay my loan, since it is due tomorrow, and it says I can't make a payment because I no longer have a balance with them. As of Tuesday I did. But today I don't. And I have no idea whom to pay. And now I'm going to get punished for late payment because, right now, I have no idea where my loan even is. GRRR!!!! No respite tonight - only a very frustrated Jessie.

Afraid to move

"...an irrestible desire to be irrestibly desired" I can't remember right now where the quote comes from, but it's splashing up against and violenting reacting to my dreams of the freedom to go wherever, whenever, in the pursuit of a life lived recklessly for God. I love Jesus so much, and I want to go wherever He calls, and as His call seems to be pulling me towards full-time ministry, perhaps over-seas, perhaps of an itinerant nature, I can't help but think the devotion to husband and family would prevent me from such ventures. I would put all dreams of husband and children aside for the work God has set aside for me, but, even so, to be irrestibly desired by someone here on earth, someone in the flesh who desires me at the end of the day, to be someone else's one and only - that is a blessing I want, a blessing I covet. I'm not saying Christian service and family life are incompatible. I'm not saying that at all. But, realistically, unless someone's dreams and careers are very closely aligned with mine, I just don't see how it could work. I'm scared to pursue anyone - or allow myself to be pursued - for fear that I will just have to give it up in the end, leaving two people hurt. And even more than that, I fear that I wouldn't give it up even if I knew I should, and then settle for a desire that was less than what God wanted to give me. So, I'm pretty much afraid to move. Is there anyone else out there feeling like this?

Dose of reality

Something about this short blog entry from a reporter in Iraq struck me. Please read: http://www.cnn.com/CNN/Programs/anderson.cooper.360/blog/2006/04/no-politics-in-combat.html

Impact

There are four and a half weeks left of school, which, when you take out the week for finals, means that there are only three and a half weeks left of instruction. Being conditioned to do so since kindergarten, part of me is jumping up and down, squealing inside that summer vacation is almost here. However, the other part of me is simply stunned. Three and a half weeks. Only three and a half weeks in front of my captive audiences is left. Only three and half weeks left to give my students everything I want them to know. After three and half weeks, it's over - my opportunities will be gone. It is literally now or never.

I think we all meander back and forth from doubting of the real impact of our lives to self-inflating the influence we have on those around us. In other words, we somehow simultaneously come to view ourselves as gods while questioning the significance of our existence. We think the world cannot continue without us, yet we question whether we make a difference at all. The tug of war between stress and depression leaves us, well, stressed and depressed.

I had an incredible weekend last weekend. The final performance of the spring play was Friday night, and, for added poignancy, it was Jane and I's last play as well. There were flowers and tears and hugs, hugs even from students I know cannot stand me in the classroom. I believe I had more affirmation from students on that one night than I have had in the three years I have been teaching. I will never forget how one girl came up to me after the play, though. She had tears in her eyes, and suddenly she started gushing forth what impact I had made in her life. Well, the truth is, although the impact may have been great, there was no extraordinary action on my part. It was simply a matter of being in the right place at the right time with the right background. In other words, it was a total God thing.

Last Friday night brought serious questions to my mind. Did I make the right decision to go to seminary? In seminary, and later working in a ministry, will I have meaningful relationships with people who aren't Christians? What kind of access will I have into people's lives? If I work for a ministry, what doors will slam shut? What will happen to the kids I am leaving behind? Will anyone else care for them and nurture them?

It's easy to be stressed. Yet, the entire point of the story about the girl was not that I am a genius with kids in a public high school (trust me - I'm not). It was that my encounter with her was a God thing. I was in the right place at the right time not by coincidence or luck, but because God gave me the privilege of being the one to recognize something and having the resources to nudge, just nudge, her in a certain direction. And if that is true, if there is a Lord who is master over my days, then I must trust Him as He leads me elsewhere. I have three and a half weeks left of instruction, but my impact is nothing without God's hand. The fruit of my work is dependent on God's power. To be disobedient to God for the sake of serving God better is a ridiculous, and fruitless, idea.

To know that in Christ we have value can keep us from circumstantial depression. To know that it is in Christ alone that our days have significance can keep us from undue stress. I am to continue on away from teaching knowing that, in Christ, my worth in inestimable. I am to continue on away from teaching knowing that each day is His, and He works through my obedience. I am to continue on knowing that it is by His power that people are comforted and encouraged and healed. I am to continue on, trusting, for it is by His own power that my life will glorify His.

Spring Break

Spring vacation is just a mere 48 hours away. Just 48 more hours. 6 whole days of family and sleep and reading and journaling. I can make it.

800 E. Center St.

I didn't go to church this morning. Right before I left I went to my email to send my co-teacher some information about lesson plans for tomorrow, and I received the following email from my mom:

It is about 2 a.m. here. I just came in the house to get warm for a minute. Sarah and Dan's house is burning down. We gave Vickie our car to take Abbie to Vickie's mom's because she cannot get theirs out of the garage.. Abbie is a wreck. The house has been burning for about two hours. I really do not know what else to say. Very sad. Love you, Mom

Living just two doors down, Sarah and Dan were like grandparents to me and my brother, and Morgan, Evan, and Lizzie next door. Sarah babysat us when we were little and watched over us when we were sick and Mom and Dad had to go to work. Our parents were always over there or they were always over here. Every single day Sarah and Dan and my parents would sit and talk somewhere. If it was nice outside, it would be on their patio around the picnic table. If it was semi-nice, it would be in the little nook just off of the kitchen. And, in the winter, it would be around their dining room table. There were Christmas Eve gatherings and New Years Eve parties and cookouts and birthday parties. Sarah collected pigs, and I would periodically count every pig in the house to keep an accurate tally of just how many pig figurines she had. I remember Dan helping me make a wooden lute for a school project down in the basement. We played flashlight tag and ghost in the graveyard in their backyard, cards in their den, and hide and seek throughout their entire house.

During my sophomore year in high school, Sarah and Dan moved back to the Rockford area in order to be closer to their kids and grandkids. Still, Sarah and Dan came back for my high school graduation, my brother's high school graduation, and other important events along the way. They have still been part of our neighborhood, and though they've been away for over ten years, their house stood as a monument to the memories we shared there.

It's sad. Time is marching on in a hurry, and, no matter how deep my sentimental attachment, time and nature is dealing its blows. So, goodbye 726 E. Center St. Thank you, Father, for the love and the memories that were provided in that house.

beginnings of thoughts on the difference between manipulation and discipleship

Have you ever been in a discussion with someone, and then something, perhaps just a very small detail, lodges itself in your brain and sends a sense throughout your entire body that something is just not right? I had that experience today when talking with someone who I have always thought to be a Christian. In chit-chatting with her today, casually talking about my seminary plans for next year and my desire to equip people in the church with the knowledge, means, and encouragement to be effective ministers in their own environments, she started talking about her own church and small group and peers within her congregation. Something she said about the small group didn't sit right with me - something about a family that just wasn't committed in their faith. The evidence was that they often did not come to small group. I started thinking, wow, how many times have I cut out on small group. Sometimes I'm sick, sometimes I'm exhausted, sometimes I have play practice or am up against a deadline or something like that. Gathering with other Christians on a regular basis is important, and my small group record isn't stellar, but should small group attendance be the measure of spiritual committment? Then, she said something about the International Church of Christ. hmmm, I thought. That probably explains it. I knew some Churches of Christ are mainstream non-denominational Christian churches and some Churches of Christ are manipulative and cult-like. I couldn't remember which category the International Church of Christ fell into. I looked it up. Yup. It's the cult-like one.

If you don't know about the International Church of Christ, research about it. It embraces a form of compulsory dicipleship. First of all, one is not truly saved until he or she is baptized by an International Church of Christ member. Secondly, once one is saved and therefore a member of the church, one must be discipled by another - and here is the really scary part- one must be fully subordinate to the one who is discipling him or her. Therefore, whether the issue is marriage, work, major purchases, church involvement, etc., the one who is being discipled must submit to the authority of the other.

I'm saddened now. I don't really know where my friend stands in all of this. Does she fully embrace this doctrine or is she ignorant of it? I really don't think she's ignorant of it, which leads me to wonder what she's been thinking of me all this time. Am I saved in her eyes? Or, does she think I believe the same things she does? And, when I was talking today about discipleship and equipping, what was she thinking about? I'm sure we think of very different things when the word discipleship comes up, and right now I am sick to think that she might believe I actually endorse controlling people's lives as true discipleship.

It's a scary world out there. I hate cults. I hate groups that use the name of Christ to manipulate and control. I hate groups that use the most freeing message in the world to put people into bondage. I hate groups that manipulate so much that people lose their sensitivity to what bondage really is and then joyfully lead others into their own captive state.

My friend means well. But, it's just all so wrong.

I'm going to have to comment more about this later.

It's back!

JP made a special call from Florida today to tell me he saw a commercial for the PogoBall on Nickelodian this morning. Very exciting indeed. I wanted one so badly when I was younger, and I finally received one on Christmas of 1987. It was yellow with an orange ball. I wonder whatever happened to it?

Red Velvet with Chocolate Buttercream Frosting or Yellow Butter with Bavarian Cream?

I've been shopping for a dress to wear as I stand up with my brother at his June 3rd wedding, and somehow, somewhere in this process, the wedding industry has decided that I myself am engaged, and I am now receiving plenty of wedding planning materials in the mail. Did you know that a wedding cake runs at $2.25 a serving? Well, according to this letter, full of congratulations about my engagement, that's what a wedding cake costs. Has anyone ever had apricot filling? There is also a wide array of wedding invitations out there designed to fit my unique personality. I like the cards that look like old West wanted posters myself. Or maybe the motorcycle invitations. "Born to be wed."

Oh, and if you want striped napkins, they're going to cost you $13.00 more than solid colored napkins. Watch out. The stripes'll get you.

Bittersweet news

I just got off of the phone with my good friend, Liz, who excitedly told me that she has been "released," meaning that she has raised sufficient funds and will be going back to her mission in Bolivia just after Easter. I praise God that He has provided the means for Liz to return to the land that her heart never left, but I want to cry inside too. Liz and I don't get to see each other very often since she is in Chicago and I am in St. Louis, but the knowledge that I probably won't be able to see her for at least two years puts a damper on my joy indeed.

Liz and I met during my freshman year at Eastern. She was an upperclassmen and had spotted me at the Christian Campus House, easily identifying me as someone who didn't seem to know a lot of people and who was lacking a secure place. She had transferred in as a junior, so she didn't know a lot of people either, but she possessed a greater social and spiritual maturity than I: her focus was as much outwardly on others as it was inwardly on herself. She had also seen me around campus, at the library, and such, and she felt a compulsion to reach out to me. I remember the night that she finally caught the opportunity to talk to me, yelling hi and speaking to me as if we had known each other for years. We were walking down the slope leading to the Campus House at the time, and I was peering through the darkness of the late autumn night, trying to figure out if I knew this very assertive person or not. I finally asked, "Do I know you?" A sheepish grin replaced her full smile, and she said, "No, actually you don't - I just wanted to say hi." We introduced ourselves to each other, and that was that. We didn't see each other after that, until the next semester when we both happened to sign up for political science at the last minute and found ourselves in the auxiliary class added to accommodate a surplus of students. When she walked in the door I smiled and waved hi and she immediately sat down by me. We started talking and were friends immediately. Especially in new situations, especially around new people, I'm usually shy and reserved - or at the very least quietly observant, trying to figure out if I can trust a person or not. Liz is perhaps the very first person I was able to completely be myself around right from the start.

Our friendship grew, and she became an unofficial mentor for me. We laughed and cried together, went camping together, left crazy messages on each other's answering machines, and studied and prayed together. She graduated, I pressed forward in college; she went to Bolivia, I student-taught and tried to figure out what was next. I started teaching; she came home from Bolivia. Yet, through a slew of phone calls and e-mails, we have remained in touch.

Now, she is leaving again, and my heart is a little sad. Her leaving for two years puts things in a stark perspective. It leads me to think of all that might change in the next two years. God willing, I'll be finished with seminary when she returns. Who knows where I will be living? Who knows where I might be preparing to move? What will her life be like then? Will she be planning on returning to Bolivia? Will she always be in Bolivia? And if so, how will the political, economic, and cultural climate there affect her life, and what changes will she have to make to adjust with the shifting times? What changes will we both have to make in our lives to adjust to the shifts and tremors that occur as time continues on?

I am so glad that I am not in charge of making sure that this all turns out okay. I am so glad I am not in charge of working out everything to the best for everyone. A lot can happen in 2 to 3 years. It's scary to think of everything that might happen - good and bad. Once again I am led to trust in God to care for me, to care for Liz in the coming years. Once again obedience and trust hold out hope and peace to me. If I had no one to obey, if I had no one to trust - that would mean I was in charge, that the spin of the world was left up to me. The rise and fall of those around me would be because of me. I'm glad I can just obey God. I can sleep at night.

I'm going to miss Liz. It's kind of scary knowing all that could happen in the next few years while she is not right here. But she's not in charge of all this either, and the same God I am seeking to obey is the God of her heart as well. And this God we serve has shared His heart for Bolivia with her, so she must obey and go and love and worship. And I'll do the same as I go back to school. And I'll look for those people who don't seem to know anyone too well and don't have anyone with whom they feel secure. And Liz will as well. And we will be fine. With Christ as our Savior, what have we to fear?

Hurts so bad

"Oh God, it hurts so bad to love anybody down here."My friends in Waterdeep give words to the essence of my emotions once again. People are hard to love. I don't mean it's hard to engage in the task of loving. I don't necessarily mean it's hard to perservere in the task of loving, or at least that's not what I'm speaking of in this context. I mean it's just hard. It's hard to get it right, and I mess up. Others mess up. And how do you know if you're doing a good job? How do you know when it's okay to be tough and when you're just being a jerk?

I feel hurt and betrayed tonight, but more than that, I feel angry. I have been betrayed, but someone I'm close to has been betrayed more deeply, both of us by the same person - someone we care about, someone in whom we have invested time, energy, and love - though my friend's investment has been greater than my own. In the startlingly brief time of just a month, we have watched this person shovel a trench for himself, and now we are just watching him dance around it, knowing that the swan dive into the murky water is just moments away. He's been in that trench before. He knows what it is like. He's kept himself out of it for years. But now, now he's heading back. We've tried tenderness. We've tried tough love. We've explained his choices. We've shone light on the path that would take him away from the rough, impoverished lifestyle he is preparing for himself. Yet, each day reveals that he is either not trusting our judgement or does not think he can handle the responsibilities we've urged him to embrace. And now, he's almost gone. I feel betrayed because of the responsibilities I joyfully entrusted to him and he joyfully accepted are now laying shattered at my feet. I feel hurt because I thought he respected me more than that. And I feel angry because I don't deserve to be treated like this, and because I have seen others pour themselves into him, more so than I have given of myself, and he is disappointing them as well.

It's hard to love people. I mess up. They mess up. I kick myself for what I do wrong, and yet I know, painfully, that even if I do everything right, people will not necessarily make the right choices. There is no guarantee. I know my sorrow is one God feels more than I could ever bear. I know He has felt the sting of betrayal more profoundly, and more personally, than I experience my hurt. He knows it's hard. He knows that there can be love and acceptance and still a person will walk out, choose his own way, reject what is best for him. Sometimes people reject love for a psuedo-acceptance - actually, most of the time people reject love for psuedo-acceptance.

I'm still angry. We put ourselves on the line. We held out what this person needed most. And we were rejected. The choice was bad, and the consequences are going to be bad. And we're just going to have to watch it happen. It's so hard to love people down here. When you love people you get hurt, mostly because you have to watch them get hurt while knowing it didn't have to be like this. God, I know you know this more than I do. If this is participating in the suffering of Christ, I'm willing. But show me how to do this. Show me how to not let this eat me up inside.

Good day for a walk

Sometimes you have to drive a little bit for a really good walk. I’ve been missing my friend, Kristi, lately. She lives two hours and forty-five minutes away, which is a bit of a drive, yet it is still an easy day-trip, and one I take every now and then. Even though I knew I would not have any extra time this weekend (contest play is the 17th, grades are due on Wednesday, I’m getting evaluated this week), I needed a long outdoor walk with Kristi so badly I threw everything else aside. Kristi, Gracie (a slobbering pit-bull anxious to love everyone she encounters), and I set out on the streets of Charleston this afternoon, jumping over mud puddles (well, Gracie galloped through them), waving to kids and bike riders, making conversation with idle neighbors in their yards, and visiting with some friends. We talked about the weather and our jobs, dogs and home renovations, Bible studies and church, our past and our futures. We romped with Gracie and wore ourselves out, and then after an hour and a half we collapsed on Kristi’s yellow couch and enjoyed the sun pouring through the window. It was a good day for a drive and an even better day for a walk.

another day

I can't go into much detail about today, pending criminal investigation, but I can't stand the smell of burning hair.

Dancing

I don't like dancing. Well, I usually don't like dancing. I love waltzing, square dancing is fun, and I think I would like any sort of dancing that involved only my feet and had prescribed moves. But, when it comes to parties and receptions, dance mixes and strobing lights, I loathe that dance floor, and it is other people who make it so bad. Why can't people just accept someone who doesn't like dancing? Why do they always have to drag you out onto the dance floor? Their intentions are good: they don't want anyone to be left out of the fun. But usually, I end up having less fun that I would at a table talking. It's not that I don't like the people out on the dance floor. It's not that I am trying to snub them. It's not that I am trying to be a loner. I just feel so uncomfortable out on the dance floor sometimes that I want to cry. Does anyone else feel the way I do?

No turning back now

It's official. It's on the web. I got the hand-signed letter in my mail box today. My resignation from teaching high school English is official. I really am leaving. I haven't been prepared for the reactions of those around me. Several weeks ago I told Jane, my professional and spiritual mentor, and I sat in horror as I saw the muscles in her face twitch and tears came to her eyes. I should be the one crying over leaving her, not the other way around. I need her; she doesn't need me. The expressions of bittersweet support have come from several corners of this district, surprising me and embarrassing me as I remember all of my mistakes and believe that there are several very competent individuals out there who could take my place. As others tell me that they are so sad to see me go, I tell them what a hard decision it was to make, that leaving a district that has been so good to me required me to muster a lot of faith. I feel like I should tear up in front of those with whom I work and I love. But I don't. I don't even feel like crying, though the emotion lies deep within. I wonder if they believe me when I say I am sad to go. I wonder what they think when I just say thank you and sit in silence. I hope my gratitude comes through. I hope they know how thankful I am God has brought me here. I hope they know that this place will forever be remembered as a sign of God's grace in my life.

This ain't gonna be pretty...

Today was not an enjoyable day. I think there was a secret meeting over the weekend - a conspiracy, a plot, a plan for my demise. Never since my substitute teaching days has a student run away from me. In the past two days, on two different occasions, two students have run away from me rather than do what I asked them to do (one: pull up his pants; two: take off his hat). Two other students have bluntly refused to do what I asked them today. What am I doing wrong this week? Why the sudden lack of respect? Was respect ever there to begin with, and, if so, why did it dissipate this week? What happened, and is this the way things are going to be until the end of the year?

Also, I feel a little set up and then handled. Like, someone set me up for failure, and now they are "handling" me. They won't tell me they disagree with me, but they will manipulate and drop hints. I feel like the subject of a behavior modification plan.

March is going to be a long month. March has always been my least favorite month. TS Eliot said April is the cruelest month, but March is more oppressive, heavy, and bleak. The kids at school are tired of each other and the teachers. The teachers are tired of each other and the kids. Energy is gone, and we are gloomy, weary spirits walking around in exhausted shells. March is not good. The number of discipline referrals skyrocket in March. Kids act up, and teachers aren't nearly as patient as they used to be. It's a volatile environment.

I'm not looking forward to March. I am tempted to stew about it and play the part of the disgruntled teacher; I know I could play the part well. I'm trying to step outside of myself though. I'm trying to look at this coming month of March through the perspective of eternity, through the eyes of Christ. Grace and submission would never be so sweet as in a gloomy, dreary month of March. A gentle touch, a word of peace would never be so healing as in a time of weariness. Selflessness is never so hard, yet never so valuable, as when I just want to fight for myself in a month such as this. I still feel tired, though. I still long for spring, a shorter stack of papers, respectful and grateful students, and joyful, hopeful hearts everywhere. That's why I need God's strength to get me through this. Denying myself is going to mean not allowing myself to walk around grumpy all month. This ain't gonna be pretty...but it might at least have some grace.

Mom

I miss my mom. She calls me “pretty girl” and “princess,” and not in a derogatory way either. She says it because she thinks I’m the prettiest girl in the entire world, and she makes me feel that way too. And I can make her laugh. There is no one in the world I can make laugh as consistently as her. And, though I have that power, I know I could break her heart just as easily. And she could mine.

When I go home for a visit she makes me breakfast of French toast or pancakes or sausage or something and stands there and watches me eat, ready to spring into action if I should face, let’s say, an empty saltshaker. She didn’t smother me like that growing up; trust me, she saw the value in my learning how to get the saltshaker on my own two feet, but something about the way she dots over me when I visit home secures me in the knowledge that I am treasured – delighted in. I miss my mom incredibly. I miss the way she lets me bury my little-girl fears in her embrace, yet makes me feel like the strong, competent woman I always saw in her. I am a girl and a woman in her eyes, and she knows how to meet the needs of both. I wish I lived closer to my mom. I really do miss her right now.

I can stand cheering for Pittsburg

I didn't know who to cheer for in the Superbowl tonight. I wasn't at a party or anything; I was just sitting at home grading papers, watching the game for any teachable moments I could add to classroom discussion tomorrow. I didn't know who to root for. I decided that I would rather live in Seattle than Pittsburg, so I thought that was just a good a reason as any to support the Seahawks. However, I later discovered that the white jerseys for whom I was cheering belonged to Pittsburg - not Seattle, but by that time I had already emotionally invested in the Steelers, whether I knew their true identities or not, and I could not abandon them. So, for three quarters of the game I cheered for Pittsburg. Annie Dillard wrote about her childhood in Pittsburg. She spoke of the glory of football, the magical moments of throwing off all hesitation and fear and plunging yourself at the back of someone's legs to bring them down - it was all or nothing - the way life should be. I can stand cheering for Pittsburg.

Laugh at me

I just found my W2. I was right where I thought it should be; I just didn't recognize it. I'm so glad that this world is not relying on my competence.

Has anybody seen my W2?

I have never been the most organized person in the world. When I'm at home, my mom allows a ten-minute cushion before leaving the house in order to give me time to find my keys, my shoes, and my keys again after I set them down to look for my shoes. I did lose my work keys one time, only to find them the next day in the mail box. No, they were not being returned; I had set them down inside the mail box while retreiving the mail the previous day. However, I have never lost any important documents, and, the rate at which I lose things is directly related to the amount of sleep I'm getting and the amount of stress I'm feeling. So, the fact that I've lost my W2 is a warning sign to me that my life is getting a little out of control. I'm setting enough time aside for sleep, but my sleep isn't good. I wake up several times during the night and feel stressed as I fall asleep and when I get up. I feel a little nauseated most of the time. I lack energy, which leads to getting less done, which leads to more worrying and stress. So, I'm in a bit of a predicament. I really wish I knew where my W2 is. I really wish I didn't feel sick all of the time. I really wish I had two weeks off work right now. Yet, the chances of all that aren't incredibly good right now. I think I'm just going to have to pray. And trust. And pray again. I doubt I'll ever find that W2, but maybe I won't get so worried about it.

Blog Plug

There's been a whole lot of blog-plugging going on in my circle of friends lately. I haven't really opened myself up to recommending web logs, as you can tell by my lack of links. However, I won't be able to go to sleep tonight unless I refer my circle of readers to Dave Ferguson's blog, Velocity. I discovered the blog about a month ago, I guess. He writes with contagious passion about leadership and ministry in a way that excites me, motivates me, and refreshes me. Seriously, when I feel drained and frustrated, I can read his blog and come away with a renewed sense of purpose. If you are actively involved in church ministry, go to a church, have driven by a church, or can vaguely remember hearing something about a thing called "church" sometime, I would recommend this site.

more thoughts on prayer...

I struggle sometimes. Sometimes the load feels crushing, and yet it is I who must bear it. There is no more delegation left to do, or, when it comes to burdens on the heart, I cannot give them away, get them done, or get them over with. I've written recently about the importance of listening in prayer. Tonight, I find it difficult to overemphasize the importance of praying for others - our brothers and sisters, in matters small and large in their lives and in their ministries. I am realizing that I need my brothers and sisters, not only for the encouragement they bring me, the lessons they teach me, the practical ways they serve me, but I need them to offer prayers to God for me. I need them to offer those prayers. I am dependent on those prayers. The struggles I face - struggles which might be unique in minute details but by no means special in terms of what is common to man - remain toilsome struggles as long as I keep them to myself, even if I do silently offer them to God. Often, relief only comes when I make the request for others to pray on my behalf. Why? Why would the prayers of my brothers and sisters be more effective than my prayers alone? I have not studied this issue extensively, and frankly, I'm not going to take the time tonight. However, I have a hunch. In order to ask for prayer from others, I have to make myself vulnerable. I have to admit my dependency on something besides myself. I can't follow Christ in a vacuum. I can't be a Christian in isolation. I need others. And God designed me to need others. And prayer is one avenue through which I become the most vulnerable, the most dependent, and the most grateful and thankful towards others. To know that I would have a difficult, painful time making it through my day if it were not for the faithful prayers offered by others in my behalf increases my love for those people, the connection I feel to them, and strengthens me and my love for God and His church. Wow, God. You get more beautiful every day.

Wonderful Rejection

I just got rejected in the most wonderful way this weekend. A guy is doing something right when he makes a girl feel better about herself during and after he tells her he doesn't want to spend more time together than before. I've been talking to, e-mailing, seeing a little of, a guy for the past month and a half or so - since around Thanksgiving I guess. We seemed to have a lot in common, He loves the Lord with all his heart, and conversation between us was easy yet meaningful. He recently came to the regretful realization that there was still healing work to be done in his heart from a past relationship, and he wants to call it quits for awhile, and who knows if our paths will ever cross again. I believe him about the past relationship, and I respect his decision to not go forward if he believes his heart is still attaching itself to something in the past. The reason I believe him is that he treated me with the utmost respect during this entire month and a half. He treated me with reverence - he knows I'm the daughter of a king, and he treated me as such. Therefore, when he wanted to stop spending time with each other and he told me it would not be right for him to string me along, I did not feel like he was making things up to make me feel better. His rejection was consistent with his asking me out in the first place, it was done with respect, with a little fear, and with my well-being in mind. I actually felt better about myself after he rejected me - or at least it did no harm to my self-esteem. I left the conversation feeling valued and of priceless worth. Of course, I know it can't be this way all the time. After all, I only knew the guy for almost two months and was cautious and respectful the entire time. However, I think this, "I don't think we should hang out anymore," was one of the most encouraging experiences I have ever had! This guy just raised the bar. Good for him.