Today, for the first time, I visited a mosque and experienced an Eid al-Adha celebration. The Muslim Student Association took a van to the mosque in Somerset, so we left at 7:30 and drove about an hour to join the cheerful community celebrating Eid, which involved a service and a potluck and merriment that was sort of like Christmas. I was excited and pleased and amazed and thoughtful all at once because this event held a lot of meaning for me after the studying and searching I've been doing.
Of course, a new adventure could not come and go without a little Cassie-Goes-to-Kaniv moment. If you don't know what Cassie-Goes-to-Kaniv means, or have somehow forgotten (I fail to believe that anyone who knew and ribbed me about it for weeks has forgotten) I advise you read the May 12th 2009 post of this blog.
But back to the present. It all started over the weekend when I innocently did the laundry. The dorm laundry room is equipped with three washers and three dryers that are usually more or less functioning. We share. Sometimes stuff gets moved or "disappears." Sometimes there is malevolent intent, but mostly I think that the dryers, like every other dryer I have encountered thus far in my existence, have a taste for socks.
This one apparently prefers striped fleece ones, because somehow, one sock from each of my two favorite pairs of Ukrainian fleece socks vanished this weekend. I was very sad, especially because the Kentucky weather has taken a bitter turn of late. My boots will be lonely without them.
I rose at 6:00 this morning to a cold, wet world and crept to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Brittany was still asleep and it was dark as Hades.
Now I was well aware that I was visiting a mosque today, and after all, I have been to Afghanistan. I knew there were certain things you shouldn't wear in the setting I would be in, but I still tried a little research online to see if there was anything I should consider as far as dressing in a way that wouldn't offend. So I put on what I had picked out, a pretty normal outfit from my generally conservative wardrobe, slightly modified with a headscarf. So far, so good.
By 6:50 I had dressed, had breakfast, and made a cup of tea for the road. I was about ready to meet the others at Alumni Circle. But it looked so cold outside, and there were my boots. I looked down at the sorely un-matching socks I had left in a sad little huddle by my nightstand. Both of them were striped, but one was blue, white and gray, while the other was all dark brown, blue, and black. I looked back at my boots. I looked back at the socks. I needed to leave, and I needed to be warm, and oh-what-the-heck-who's-going-to-see-my-socks-anyway? No one would ever know.
I pulled on the fleecy goodness and my black boots, grabbed my tea, and headed out into the drizzly cold. No one was waiting outside the Alumni Building and it was 6:59, so I went inside to our alternate meeting place, the little prayer room inside the building. The other students greeted me, and I went into the prayer room with Ayuna, the other girl in our group. It was only when she started taking off her boots at the door that the realization hit me: my little secret was about to be exposed, not just to my four classmates, but to the whole Somerset Muslim community within the hour.
The guys said their prayers and Ayuna and I sat quietly on the benches. I tucked my blue striped foot behind my brown striped foot and prayed silently too.
In the end, socks don't matter so much. We got to Somerset I don't think anyone really noticed; or if they did, they graciously didn't comment. I felt like I was welcomed into a family. The smells of delicious slightly unknown food, the reverent whisper of sock feet on perfectly vacuumed carpet, the rythmic prayers in Arabic and the thoughts about Abraham's unswervingly obedient faith, the little kids kneeling with their parents, the almost-kisses the women gave me and each other on both cheeks, all combined to give me a sense of awe and wonder.
We were sleepy on the ride home. The rain slid down the fogged windows like tears and clouds hung mysteriously in the hills along 75. Somebody turned on the radio and it was hip-hop, and then it got turned off again. I thought a lot about what devotion means and how holy God is. I thought about the paradoxes in my life and the way my socks don't match. I thought about what it's like to wrestle for answers till you're worn out, and what it's like to be so in love with God Incarnate that He's the only answer you end up wanting after all.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
People of the Heart
The days are long now. I don't mean anything having to do with seasons. I just mean that I feel disturbed that the moon is shining a greeting to me in the morning as I walk to food service and it is shining again when I get to bed at night. And the hours in between are full of activities and challenges that pull at my brain like it's silly putty (which it feels like at this point). I hope it will harden up a little by the end of the semester.
Tonight I tried multitasking by doing stretches and reading an assignment at the same time. It worked pretty well because I sort of forgot what I was doing and stretched back and forth for a long time. I'll probably be quite aware of it tomorrow.
Speaking of stretching, we did Danish Gymnastics in PE the other day. When I tell people about it and act excited they want to know how it's different from other gymnastics, say, Finnish ones. I guess I wouldn't know, seeing as I've never had Finnish gymnastics or any other kinds of gymnastics. All I know is that one of the few somewhat reasonable compensations for having to be at class at 8:00 in morning on a mournfully rainy and chill day is listening to good music. And since we, as beginners, did only very simple moves, (not ones you have to bust out, but just gentle ones) it was incredibly relaxing.
Today I visited my Archaeology professor, because she offered bonus points to anyone who would come see her at her office this week and bring some object that is dear to them as a conversation piece. She's cool like that. She said some people have brought their sisters before. I couldn't bring my sister because she is about a 1000 miles away right now, so I settled for my big, beautiful blue and gold Islamic art book, since that's what I wanted to ask her about generally anyway.
I still am uncertain about my major. I just know what makes me feel alive. It's a little complicated because I love Jesus so much and I'm entirely committed to Him, while all the while I'm going giddy over Islamic architecture. My logical side says this can't work, but some little voice inside me says it's supposed to be this way. What's a girl to do? Nobody offer trite platitudes, please; I've already thought through them.
But for now I'm not going to worry. Luckily I've got time to make the decision. And as T.S. Eliot wrote in The Love Song of Alfred Prufrock: "In a minute there is time/For decisions and revisons which a minute will reverse." Even if this four year education business threatens to push me into becoming someone I don't want to become. I'm not talking about religion here, I'm talking about the toughness you have to assume in order to get through it all. I don't want to become hardened at all. I wonder if I have to. I wonder if I really want to go where this path logically leads me. I wonder if I can survive the "real world" and why I would want to anyway if it's just about achievement and getting your rights.
Tonight I was reading a book that a fellow student loaned me by a guy named Osho. The book, called Intuition, made me sad at some places, but it did have some interesting points. Osho said:
"[The heart] knows love, but love is not a commodity of any use in the world. It knows beauty, but what are you going to do with beauty in the marketplace? The people of the heart-- the painters, the poets, the musicians, the dancers, the actors,-- are all irrational. They create great beauty, they are great lovers, but they are absolutely unfit in a society that is arranged by the head."
As I researched for my Peace Research Project today about the heated issue of the Islamic Center in Lower Manhattan, I struggled between sets of information and ideas that oppose each other and yet both seem plausible to me. I am quick to see the reasoning behind both sides of an argument, which makes me a great sympathizer and a horrible debater. It's a blessing and a curse. Sometimes I feel guilty for not making up my mind about my "convictions." To some people the issues are so clear cut, but I feel that they are so layered and nuanced I'm likely to drown, suffocate, or run screaming from the room before I ever come to a conclusion.
It was in the midst of this that I felt a great welling up of God's love for me, right where I sat at my desk this afternoon. In my mind I could see a stream flowing over rocks, and I sensed God saying that He made me this way and He has grace for my slow processing, my malleability. I am the water flowing around the rocks; the rocks are the solid ones who are standing on beliefs that are clearly marked out to Him. All of us are necessary to Him. He doesn't see me as betraying Him, but seeking deeper than the surface. He is there. He will not leave me. I trust His leadership.
Tonight I tried multitasking by doing stretches and reading an assignment at the same time. It worked pretty well because I sort of forgot what I was doing and stretched back and forth for a long time. I'll probably be quite aware of it tomorrow.
Speaking of stretching, we did Danish Gymnastics in PE the other day. When I tell people about it and act excited they want to know how it's different from other gymnastics, say, Finnish ones. I guess I wouldn't know, seeing as I've never had Finnish gymnastics or any other kinds of gymnastics. All I know is that one of the few somewhat reasonable compensations for having to be at class at 8:00 in morning on a mournfully rainy and chill day is listening to good music. And since we, as beginners, did only very simple moves, (not ones you have to bust out, but just gentle ones) it was incredibly relaxing.
Today I visited my Archaeology professor, because she offered bonus points to anyone who would come see her at her office this week and bring some object that is dear to them as a conversation piece. She's cool like that. She said some people have brought their sisters before. I couldn't bring my sister because she is about a 1000 miles away right now, so I settled for my big, beautiful blue and gold Islamic art book, since that's what I wanted to ask her about generally anyway.
I still am uncertain about my major. I just know what makes me feel alive. It's a little complicated because I love Jesus so much and I'm entirely committed to Him, while all the while I'm going giddy over Islamic architecture. My logical side says this can't work, but some little voice inside me says it's supposed to be this way. What's a girl to do? Nobody offer trite platitudes, please; I've already thought through them.
But for now I'm not going to worry. Luckily I've got time to make the decision. And as T.S. Eliot wrote in The Love Song of Alfred Prufrock: "In a minute there is time/For decisions and revisons which a minute will reverse." Even if this four year education business threatens to push me into becoming someone I don't want to become. I'm not talking about religion here, I'm talking about the toughness you have to assume in order to get through it all. I don't want to become hardened at all. I wonder if I have to. I wonder if I really want to go where this path logically leads me. I wonder if I can survive the "real world" and why I would want to anyway if it's just about achievement and getting your rights.
Tonight I was reading a book that a fellow student loaned me by a guy named Osho. The book, called Intuition, made me sad at some places, but it did have some interesting points. Osho said:
"[The heart] knows love, but love is not a commodity of any use in the world. It knows beauty, but what are you going to do with beauty in the marketplace? The people of the heart-- the painters, the poets, the musicians, the dancers, the actors,-- are all irrational. They create great beauty, they are great lovers, but they are absolutely unfit in a society that is arranged by the head."
As I researched for my Peace Research Project today about the heated issue of the Islamic Center in Lower Manhattan, I struggled between sets of information and ideas that oppose each other and yet both seem plausible to me. I am quick to see the reasoning behind both sides of an argument, which makes me a great sympathizer and a horrible debater. It's a blessing and a curse. Sometimes I feel guilty for not making up my mind about my "convictions." To some people the issues are so clear cut, but I feel that they are so layered and nuanced I'm likely to drown, suffocate, or run screaming from the room before I ever come to a conclusion.
It was in the midst of this that I felt a great welling up of God's love for me, right where I sat at my desk this afternoon. In my mind I could see a stream flowing over rocks, and I sensed God saying that He made me this way and He has grace for my slow processing, my malleability. I am the water flowing around the rocks; the rocks are the solid ones who are standing on beliefs that are clearly marked out to Him. All of us are necessary to Him. He doesn't see me as betraying Him, but seeking deeper than the surface. He is there. He will not leave me. I trust His leadership.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
A Bit of Solace
I love families. Can I say that again? I love families. And if I can't be with my own family, it's somewhat of a solace to be tucked away in the hills of eastern Kentucky for a weekend with my room mate and her family. Putting roots down in Appalachia.
This morning the ridge behind the house sits solemn and overcast under a bank of clouds, and raindrops hang on tree branches. Outside the kitchen window the dogwood tree is full of red berries. I feel that red berries will be the ticket to my survival through a long winter. Not eating them, just feasting my eyes on something of good cheer against this untellin' lonesomeness.
"Untelling" is a word I picked up from Brittany. She's an Appalachian Studies major and knows these things. I love it and think it should be in Websters. Where my mom might say, "How many hours of sleep do you think you'll get this week," and I would reply, "There's no tellin,'" I'd say instead, "It's untellin.'"
It's getting cold outside. The birds are jumping around in the dogwood tree nibbling at the berries. Inside, I'm at the kitchen table and can hardly say how pleased I am to be in the center of a house full of a family, Brittany and her parents and two sisters and Michael, her boyfriend. In a few hours, after a warm home-cooked meal, it's back to The Bubble for us. But small delights go a long way. I won't give up hope just yet.
This morning the ridge behind the house sits solemn and overcast under a bank of clouds, and raindrops hang on tree branches. Outside the kitchen window the dogwood tree is full of red berries. I feel that red berries will be the ticket to my survival through a long winter. Not eating them, just feasting my eyes on something of good cheer against this untellin' lonesomeness.
"Untelling" is a word I picked up from Brittany. She's an Appalachian Studies major and knows these things. I love it and think it should be in Websters. Where my mom might say, "How many hours of sleep do you think you'll get this week," and I would reply, "There's no tellin,'" I'd say instead, "It's untellin.'"
It's getting cold outside. The birds are jumping around in the dogwood tree nibbling at the berries. Inside, I'm at the kitchen table and can hardly say how pleased I am to be in the center of a house full of a family, Brittany and her parents and two sisters and Michael, her boyfriend. In a few hours, after a warm home-cooked meal, it's back to The Bubble for us. But small delights go a long way. I won't give up hope just yet.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
A Post That Could Be Taken Very Wrongly by A Lot of People
Sometimes I cry because I miss God. It's true. Today I did. I've never seen Him, but I miss Him. It's not because He isn't with me, but because I can't see Him and talk to Him as flesh and blood.
Today was a very good day. I got very little done this weekend out of all the homework I have. I find that I'm very slow at getting homework done, which is sometimes because I dread it and other times because I love it.
Last night I worked for a long time but got very little done because I was lingering over Gurney Norman's exquisitely written but sometimes painful and peculiar book, Divine Right's Trip. It's about a guy who is always on drugs, and his girlfriend who is almost always on drugs. I can't believe I like it so much, but I think it's because Norman is so sensitive to detail and the communicates the lostness that human beings feel in life.
I was supposed to read 100 pages and write a two-page response, but instead I just read and read and scribbled notes in the book and thought and read and admired the book because it is a brand new book and it belongs to me and I had forgotten what a delicious feeling it is to have a brand new book that belongs to you, especially when it is a book worth reading.
After a very good morning at church (I love the preaching at River of Life!) I spent a while in the art building with two of my classmates staring at a tiny ancient bowl from Palestine. I've never looked at a bowl for so long before, but it was important to do so because I need to write a paper describing it artistically. It's for Archaeology.
My classmates were writing about another object, a small Egyptian figurine with hieroglyphs all over him. David named him Billy Bob. I don't know how the Egyptian figurine felt about that. I decided he must be from Southern Egypt. Julianna took tons of notes, but I consoled myself with the thought that my handwriting is smaller than hers, so I should have plenty of notes too. Unfortunately that is not quite true; I'll have to go back tomorrow. We were so still that the motion detector lights kept going off, leaving us in the shadows.
After about forty minutes of standing in line at the cafe for tea + fruitless work on the beginning of my paper while gazing longingly at the hills of Berea forest from the patio, I decided on a brisk hike up Brushy Fork trail. I just needed to talk to God. I missed Him.
I hear people talk about God like He's an object that can be shelved if one feels like it. A lot of people look down on God like He can be put under a microscope and analyzed scientifically. Or others seem to think of Him as a warm coat they can interchange with other coats depending on the weather that morning. Few people, even self-identified Christians, are willing to accept the incredibly unpopular idea that God is the I Am and doesn't owe us an explanation for His actions.
In the past week I've heard people say that they used to believe in God, but then they got educated and realized they couldn't responsibly believe that anymore. They are people who really care about society and injustices in the world. I'm glad. Now it's all up to them to fix this mess. Good luck with that.
Admitting to God and subsequently submitting to God is scary. Even with my Pollyanna glasses on, I know that it is. The big problem is that the password to the Door is "I believe," and until we're able to say that and step through the Door in faith, we won't ever begin to understand God's character. We can't know Him unless we say yes, but we don't want to say yes till we know Him. It seems quite unfair.
There's an incredible arrogance afoot that says that God needs to be fair and logical for us, intelligent humans that we are, to accept Him. It's a good thing God hasn't been fair or logical with us lately or we'd all be dead. Including me. No one can see God by putting Him under a microscope. He isn't willing to be brought down to size, not unless you count the exception for love when He chose to become a man on earth for our sakes.
I'm sure I'm doing a dis-service to my reputation by putting all this out there. Please know that I don't condone mindless acceptance of any idea or religion, even my own. In the end, each of us will have to account for whom and what we placed our faith in, and that's a choice no individual can make for another. I only know that the more irresponsible my commitment appears and the more uncomfortable it becomes, the more willing I must become to say what is rooted deep in my heart.
In the woods, expressing all this to God, all the love I know I don't have to earn or prove flooded back to me. I have chosen a road less traveled by. In a society that recoils from the idea of submission in any form, I have chosen to submit myself to a Man I've never seen. I've decided to believe that the book so many consider a myth is actually the Word of God. I've chosen to believe that someday I will meet Christ in eternity and be completely fulfilled.
What do I get for all this strange belief? Not exactly a cozy blankie of religion to comfort me on cold nights. Comfort, yes, in times of pain and fear. But it leaves me with a lot of explaining to do, something I'm not skilled at. It's beginning to put me in uncomfortable places. It's the kind of thing that could get you in a lot of trouble, this being absolute and all.
The reward isn't material wealth. It isn't a free pass on trial and hardship. It isn't a cheat sheet with all the answers to the hard questions. The reward He has given me is Himself. The love pent up in His heart, He has poured out on me. The help of His Holy Spirit, He has installed in me. The work of complete transformation, He has started in me. I can't prove it scientifically, but it is. I might never be eloquent enough or theologically studied enough to discuss it with some of you. But just as I can't explain this bond, I can't break it either. I am incapable of going back.
Today was a very good day. I got very little done this weekend out of all the homework I have. I find that I'm very slow at getting homework done, which is sometimes because I dread it and other times because I love it.
Last night I worked for a long time but got very little done because I was lingering over Gurney Norman's exquisitely written but sometimes painful and peculiar book, Divine Right's Trip. It's about a guy who is always on drugs, and his girlfriend who is almost always on drugs. I can't believe I like it so much, but I think it's because Norman is so sensitive to detail and the communicates the lostness that human beings feel in life.
I was supposed to read 100 pages and write a two-page response, but instead I just read and read and scribbled notes in the book and thought and read and admired the book because it is a brand new book and it belongs to me and I had forgotten what a delicious feeling it is to have a brand new book that belongs to you, especially when it is a book worth reading.
After a very good morning at church (I love the preaching at River of Life!) I spent a while in the art building with two of my classmates staring at a tiny ancient bowl from Palestine. I've never looked at a bowl for so long before, but it was important to do so because I need to write a paper describing it artistically. It's for Archaeology.
My classmates were writing about another object, a small Egyptian figurine with hieroglyphs all over him. David named him Billy Bob. I don't know how the Egyptian figurine felt about that. I decided he must be from Southern Egypt. Julianna took tons of notes, but I consoled myself with the thought that my handwriting is smaller than hers, so I should have plenty of notes too. Unfortunately that is not quite true; I'll have to go back tomorrow. We were so still that the motion detector lights kept going off, leaving us in the shadows.
After about forty minutes of standing in line at the cafe for tea + fruitless work on the beginning of my paper while gazing longingly at the hills of Berea forest from the patio, I decided on a brisk hike up Brushy Fork trail. I just needed to talk to God. I missed Him.
I hear people talk about God like He's an object that can be shelved if one feels like it. A lot of people look down on God like He can be put under a microscope and analyzed scientifically. Or others seem to think of Him as a warm coat they can interchange with other coats depending on the weather that morning. Few people, even self-identified Christians, are willing to accept the incredibly unpopular idea that God is the I Am and doesn't owe us an explanation for His actions.
In the past week I've heard people say that they used to believe in God, but then they got educated and realized they couldn't responsibly believe that anymore. They are people who really care about society and injustices in the world. I'm glad. Now it's all up to them to fix this mess. Good luck with that.
Admitting to God and subsequently submitting to God is scary. Even with my Pollyanna glasses on, I know that it is. The big problem is that the password to the Door is "I believe," and until we're able to say that and step through the Door in faith, we won't ever begin to understand God's character. We can't know Him unless we say yes, but we don't want to say yes till we know Him. It seems quite unfair.
There's an incredible arrogance afoot that says that God needs to be fair and logical for us, intelligent humans that we are, to accept Him. It's a good thing God hasn't been fair or logical with us lately or we'd all be dead. Including me. No one can see God by putting Him under a microscope. He isn't willing to be brought down to size, not unless you count the exception for love when He chose to become a man on earth for our sakes.
I'm sure I'm doing a dis-service to my reputation by putting all this out there. Please know that I don't condone mindless acceptance of any idea or religion, even my own. In the end, each of us will have to account for whom and what we placed our faith in, and that's a choice no individual can make for another. I only know that the more irresponsible my commitment appears and the more uncomfortable it becomes, the more willing I must become to say what is rooted deep in my heart.
In the woods, expressing all this to God, all the love I know I don't have to earn or prove flooded back to me. I have chosen a road less traveled by. In a society that recoils from the idea of submission in any form, I have chosen to submit myself to a Man I've never seen. I've decided to believe that the book so many consider a myth is actually the Word of God. I've chosen to believe that someday I will meet Christ in eternity and be completely fulfilled.
What do I get for all this strange belief? Not exactly a cozy blankie of religion to comfort me on cold nights. Comfort, yes, in times of pain and fear. But it leaves me with a lot of explaining to do, something I'm not skilled at. It's beginning to put me in uncomfortable places. It's the kind of thing that could get you in a lot of trouble, this being absolute and all.
The reward isn't material wealth. It isn't a free pass on trial and hardship. It isn't a cheat sheet with all the answers to the hard questions. The reward He has given me is Himself. The love pent up in His heart, He has poured out on me. The help of His Holy Spirit, He has installed in me. The work of complete transformation, He has started in me. I can't prove it scientifically, but it is. I might never be eloquent enough or theologically studied enough to discuss it with some of you. But just as I can't explain this bond, I can't break it either. I am incapable of going back.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
The Unfairness of Time and Grammar
Sometimes life feels unfair. And maybe I'm being unreasonable, but I hardly feel the unfairness more keenly than when hearing grammar technicalities being applied to writing. The Henry David Thoreau in me that would stare at a single, crimson leaf for three hours at a time feels a sort of dying sadness when writing has to become scientific. I could cry.
It's fall, the best time to write. Alumni field is full of fog below my dorm in the morning, and just before dusk the yellow flowers there look like they're going to miss the sun. A lot. "It's crispy outside," I told Mikheil, when we went to the Labor Office. Crispy can be chicken nuggets, but it can also be aged leaves and fresh notebook pages. And that's why it's time to write.
Time is the key, though. Writing feels like something illegal when I've got homework due. My classes are billowing with assignments that feel like they're hung out on a clothesline in my back yard in a gale with gimpy safety pins. Some of them fly away and are forgotten, to my chagrin and shame.
Last night I sat on my bed and skimmed through a chapter of a writing handbook. It was very well made, and I liked it as writing handbooks go. But I guess I felt a little of that dying inside when I thought of applying science to my soul. And citations. There won't be those in heaven, I think. We'll just know who said what and whose research that really was and MLA and Chicago Style will cease. Hallelujah. Forever and Ever, Amen.
It's fall, the best time to write. Alumni field is full of fog below my dorm in the morning, and just before dusk the yellow flowers there look like they're going to miss the sun. A lot. "It's crispy outside," I told Mikheil, when we went to the Labor Office. Crispy can be chicken nuggets, but it can also be aged leaves and fresh notebook pages. And that's why it's time to write.
Time is the key, though. Writing feels like something illegal when I've got homework due. My classes are billowing with assignments that feel like they're hung out on a clothesline in my back yard in a gale with gimpy safety pins. Some of them fly away and are forgotten, to my chagrin and shame.
Last night I sat on my bed and skimmed through a chapter of a writing handbook. It was very well made, and I liked it as writing handbooks go. But I guess I felt a little of that dying inside when I thought of applying science to my soul. And citations. There won't be those in heaven, I think. We'll just know who said what and whose research that really was and MLA and Chicago Style will cease. Hallelujah. Forever and Ever, Amen.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Cannonball off the High Dive
The lamp throws a warm light around the room. The air conditioning unit thrums rythmically in the corner. Emily Dickinson sits calm and green on the desk beside me in the quiet room. A book of her poems, that is. And I? I'm finally at college, in a dorm of my own.
As it happens, my room mate hasn't shown her face yet. So I have a room (a big room!) to myself until she materializes, or someone takes her place. Which I expect to be any day now.
I definitely won't be able to recount all the bliss and whirlwind of the past few days since I arrived for orientation on Saturday. (Is it really Tuesday night?) It feels like a year since I left. In a good way.
After yesterday's extreme schedule makeover, I find myself the proud, happy, and excited enrollee of an Ancient/Near East Archaeology class and a Conflict Transformation class, plus Appalachian Literature taught by a local author I'm already really appreciating. Also a writing class and a health class.
Berea is crawling with possibilities. Opportunities. Chances to try things I've always wanted to do and didn't have the guts to. I know that voice lessons, cross country running, and swing dancing aren't fear factor fare for most folks. But for me, it's what Hasan Davis at freshman convocations called "the cannonball off the high dive." Now is the time to leave behind the excuses we've always carried around with us.
I love my home, but in a way I feel like a prisoner released from a life sentence, or a cancer patient restored to health. Being landed a place like Berea with $100,000 tuition covered and everything from free laptop and very low cost music lessons to unbelievable study abroad options feels like being handed a new life.
It's not just the opportunities though-- it's the atmosphere. I'm quick to let others "name" me and allow the tradition of who I've been and how I feel defined by myself and others rule everything I do and don't do. I have my excuses following me around like mongrels on a leash, yapping at my heels. And anybody who really knows me would wonder why I'd stay okay with that, 'cause I'm certainly not a fan of dogs.
The biggest thing that has impressed me so far at Berea is the diversity and respect that is cultivated in this place. I don't agree with everything condoned by people on campus. Or a lot of the things. But I can't begin to say what pleasure I get from seeing black people and white people walking around on campus together, looking an African American in the eyes and smiling like we're actually friends. Cause we are. And for some reason, even when I wanted that to be a possibility, it was a struggle at my community college at home.
I can't begin to tell you the relief, surprise, and dignity I feel when, in an auditorium NOT homogonously Christian or even religious, students can stand on stage and say they want to stay a virgin in college, and the place erupts in cheers. Respect. I feel it for real here. And I like it a lot.
I feel like I've entered some kind of bubble, some kind of dream world. I have four years here max. I want everything to count. I want to love people. I want to do the things I've craved and dreaded. In the midst of it, the heart of it, I want the Holy Spirit to be my Teacher. I want to listen and hear "This the way, walk in it."
I want to ask the important questions, like "How do you see me?" and hear Him say, as I felt Him say to me out of the blue during a very worldview-challenging session, "I think you're beautiful." I want to constantly exalt Him to the highest place, because He deserves it. I want to give everything to Him because $100,000 tuition is nothing to the new start He has given me by the sacrifice of His Son's beautiful life.
A guy named Jake in Ukraine talked to us in a retreat about how he always thinks of the scene from The Count of Monte Cristo (movie) where the main character beats the pirate Jacapo in a fight (I think this is what happens; it's been a while since I've seen it) and Jacapo, after being mercifully released from death, pledges his life to serve him. His words in that piratey accent keep coming to mind, "I am your man forever."
I guess the gospel shoulders fresh meaning when I realize that He's offered me every opportunity for new life free from the fear, guilt, and shame that was always dogging me, if only I would step up to the challenge of faith. The challenge to obey His Word and see what happens, forsaking every doubt, fear, and self-will for the sake of an enduring loyalty for the Friend of Friends, who first gave His love to me.
It's time for the cannonball off the high dive.
As it happens, my room mate hasn't shown her face yet. So I have a room (a big room!) to myself until she materializes, or someone takes her place. Which I expect to be any day now.
I definitely won't be able to recount all the bliss and whirlwind of the past few days since I arrived for orientation on Saturday. (Is it really Tuesday night?) It feels like a year since I left. In a good way.
After yesterday's extreme schedule makeover, I find myself the proud, happy, and excited enrollee of an Ancient/Near East Archaeology class and a Conflict Transformation class, plus Appalachian Literature taught by a local author I'm already really appreciating. Also a writing class and a health class.
Berea is crawling with possibilities. Opportunities. Chances to try things I've always wanted to do and didn't have the guts to. I know that voice lessons, cross country running, and swing dancing aren't fear factor fare for most folks. But for me, it's what Hasan Davis at freshman convocations called "the cannonball off the high dive." Now is the time to leave behind the excuses we've always carried around with us.
I love my home, but in a way I feel like a prisoner released from a life sentence, or a cancer patient restored to health. Being landed a place like Berea with $100,000 tuition covered and everything from free laptop and very low cost music lessons to unbelievable study abroad options feels like being handed a new life.
It's not just the opportunities though-- it's the atmosphere. I'm quick to let others "name" me and allow the tradition of who I've been and how I feel defined by myself and others rule everything I do and don't do. I have my excuses following me around like mongrels on a leash, yapping at my heels. And anybody who really knows me would wonder why I'd stay okay with that, 'cause I'm certainly not a fan of dogs.
The biggest thing that has impressed me so far at Berea is the diversity and respect that is cultivated in this place. I don't agree with everything condoned by people on campus. Or a lot of the things. But I can't begin to say what pleasure I get from seeing black people and white people walking around on campus together, looking an African American in the eyes and smiling like we're actually friends. Cause we are. And for some reason, even when I wanted that to be a possibility, it was a struggle at my community college at home.
I can't begin to tell you the relief, surprise, and dignity I feel when, in an auditorium NOT homogonously Christian or even religious, students can stand on stage and say they want to stay a virgin in college, and the place erupts in cheers. Respect. I feel it for real here. And I like it a lot.
I feel like I've entered some kind of bubble, some kind of dream world. I have four years here max. I want everything to count. I want to love people. I want to do the things I've craved and dreaded. In the midst of it, the heart of it, I want the Holy Spirit to be my Teacher. I want to listen and hear "This the way, walk in it."
I want to ask the important questions, like "How do you see me?" and hear Him say, as I felt Him say to me out of the blue during a very worldview-challenging session, "I think you're beautiful." I want to constantly exalt Him to the highest place, because He deserves it. I want to give everything to Him because $100,000 tuition is nothing to the new start He has given me by the sacrifice of His Son's beautiful life.
A guy named Jake in Ukraine talked to us in a retreat about how he always thinks of the scene from The Count of Monte Cristo (movie) where the main character beats the pirate Jacapo in a fight (I think this is what happens; it's been a while since I've seen it) and Jacapo, after being mercifully released from death, pledges his life to serve him. His words in that piratey accent keep coming to mind, "I am your man forever."
I guess the gospel shoulders fresh meaning when I realize that He's offered me every opportunity for new life free from the fear, guilt, and shame that was always dogging me, if only I would step up to the challenge of faith. The challenge to obey His Word and see what happens, forsaking every doubt, fear, and self-will for the sake of an enduring loyalty for the Friend of Friends, who first gave His love to me.
It's time for the cannonball off the high dive.
Friday, August 13, 2010
In Which I Actually Shed Tears of Pain but Consider it Worth the Results
I have a lot of questions about life. Especially here. Especially now. But despite the metaphysical ponderings, one question rises above all the others, begging to be resolved:
How, I wonder, does one go about picking one's nose with a nose piercing?
I guess that question has been on my mind more than usual in the past 48 hours: On Wednesday I got my nose pierced. Connor drove me in Little Stu, his Toyota, and on the way we ate dark chocolate because he was in a mood for driving around and eating dark chocolate. And I was pretty much in the mood to get my nose pierced, though I was trying not to give myself time to think about it too much.
I have thought about it, off and on, for about four years. But since the strained phone call between me in India and Mom and Dad at home in which I asked their blessing to pierce my nose and was met with mildly appalled and incredulous responses, I left the idea dormant.
But it was always there, and I guess I hinted a little that since I was going away and Dad wouldn't have to look at my face anymore, it might not be such despicable thing. He didn't answer. But on Wednesday, he came into my room where I was sitting on the floor, surrounded by cardboard boxes, sorting clothes and notebooks and things.
Later I realized that he had that look on his face that feels like he's hugging me, the look he gets when I'm going somewhere for a long time. Because we were talking about something, and then suddenly, he handed me some money and told me I could take it and get my nose pierced. Which, in that moment, showed me how much my dad loves me because that was a lot of money to give someone to do something that you personally think is disgusting, especially when that someone is your oldest daughter. It was totally a sacrificial gift. Not to mention a surprise.
So naturally, there was no going back on it. And I really still wanted to do it. So I wheedled Connor into going with me. I just wanted someone to stand there while I got punctured. Cause wow, it hurt. I knew it was going to hurt, but I thought it would be really quick, like getting your ears pierced...just shoot it and you're done, and it just stings for a little while.
But instead of a quick little shot, Tattoo Man grabbed the inside of my nose with a clamp (not too big of a deal) and then put the needle through it (a much bigger deal). And it wasn't quick. Their was a major piercing moment, and then I thought Tattoo Man was going to let go, but he didn't. Just sat there with the needle in my nostril while the tears squeezed out of my eyes.
I wasn't trying to cry and I never expected to cry, but suddenly, there they were, warm, fresh tears popping right out and rolling down my cheeks. Two to three seconds felt more like twenty minutes. "Aw, you're crying," Tattoo Man said. "Yeah, it hurts." I said. "I want my mom." Somehow I figured my mom wouldn't have much sympathy for me at that moment.
But I sat up, dried my eyes, and looked in the mirror, and there it was, a sort of bloodied sparkle sitting on my nose, reminding me of Queen Esther and Agra, India at sunset and a little girl named Jaya.
And now, I am happy with it. I must say it presents a few challenges on the practical side of things (hence the all-important question of nose-picking). But who am I, after all, if I can't embrace a few challenges for the sake of something beautiful and meaningful to me? Let it be a reminder for the future, I tell myself, that there's always a price to pay for the things I really want. And may a little clear crystal in my nose be a symbol of always wanting the good things, the true things, the eternal things that really cost you something in blood, sweat, and tears.
How, I wonder, does one go about picking one's nose with a nose piercing?
I guess that question has been on my mind more than usual in the past 48 hours: On Wednesday I got my nose pierced. Connor drove me in Little Stu, his Toyota, and on the way we ate dark chocolate because he was in a mood for driving around and eating dark chocolate. And I was pretty much in the mood to get my nose pierced, though I was trying not to give myself time to think about it too much.
I have thought about it, off and on, for about four years. But since the strained phone call between me in India and Mom and Dad at home in which I asked their blessing to pierce my nose and was met with mildly appalled and incredulous responses, I left the idea dormant.
But it was always there, and I guess I hinted a little that since I was going away and Dad wouldn't have to look at my face anymore, it might not be such despicable thing. He didn't answer. But on Wednesday, he came into my room where I was sitting on the floor, surrounded by cardboard boxes, sorting clothes and notebooks and things.
Later I realized that he had that look on his face that feels like he's hugging me, the look he gets when I'm going somewhere for a long time. Because we were talking about something, and then suddenly, he handed me some money and told me I could take it and get my nose pierced. Which, in that moment, showed me how much my dad loves me because that was a lot of money to give someone to do something that you personally think is disgusting, especially when that someone is your oldest daughter. It was totally a sacrificial gift. Not to mention a surprise.
So naturally, there was no going back on it. And I really still wanted to do it. So I wheedled Connor into going with me. I just wanted someone to stand there while I got punctured. Cause wow, it hurt. I knew it was going to hurt, but I thought it would be really quick, like getting your ears pierced...just shoot it and you're done, and it just stings for a little while.
But instead of a quick little shot, Tattoo Man grabbed the inside of my nose with a clamp (not too big of a deal) and then put the needle through it (a much bigger deal). And it wasn't quick. Their was a major piercing moment, and then I thought Tattoo Man was going to let go, but he didn't. Just sat there with the needle in my nostril while the tears squeezed out of my eyes.
I wasn't trying to cry and I never expected to cry, but suddenly, there they were, warm, fresh tears popping right out and rolling down my cheeks. Two to three seconds felt more like twenty minutes. "Aw, you're crying," Tattoo Man said. "Yeah, it hurts." I said. "I want my mom." Somehow I figured my mom wouldn't have much sympathy for me at that moment.
But I sat up, dried my eyes, and looked in the mirror, and there it was, a sort of bloodied sparkle sitting on my nose, reminding me of Queen Esther and Agra, India at sunset and a little girl named Jaya.
And now, I am happy with it. I must say it presents a few challenges on the practical side of things (hence the all-important question of nose-picking). But who am I, after all, if I can't embrace a few challenges for the sake of something beautiful and meaningful to me? Let it be a reminder for the future, I tell myself, that there's always a price to pay for the things I really want. And may a little clear crystal in my nose be a symbol of always wanting the good things, the true things, the eternal things that really cost you something in blood, sweat, and tears.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Cleaning the Closet of Catastrophe: A Date With Disaster
I am organizing my room. Finally.
For weeks I've been avoiding eye contact with my fourteen year old sister just because I'm ashamed that I'm the one who thought I was a neat freak but can't seem to control my junk piles.
But now, I've finally dived into the Closet of Catastrophe. I spent yesterday morning and part of this morning exploring the Harrowing Hanging Rack, then plunged into a Rubbermaid tub of Lamentable Lingering Letters. Tomorrow, the Shelves from Sheol and Daunting Desk of Doom. And finally, if I keep my courage, the Banal Bookshelf.
I love that bookshelf. And I love the books in it. Every last little one of them. Like children. So the Banal part is picking which ones stay and which ones go to Berea with me, where I can almost guarantee there will be no space for them, and my room mate will hate me forever and ever Amen.
To steel myself, I continually quote Laurie from Little Women:
"Jo, I won't be taking all of Dickens to college with me..."
Fortunately, I've not yet acquired a taste for Dickens. A few less tomes to agonize over.
Today it was the letters I had to work with. Ever since I concluded that at least part of my life will probably be spent moving to and fro over the globe, I figured I should forget collecting excessive amounts of anything.
Haven't convinced myself of this entirely regarding objects made of paper. And though I'm more than willing to rid myself of some of the ponderous proof of correspondence from the past fourteen+ years of my short life, the process feels a little like trying to get rid of the toilet paper after having your yard rolled.
Wow. That really makes it sound like I don't appreciate all those letters. But that's not what I mean. In fact, the reason it's so hard to toss them is that I feel like I'm betraying my friends by throwing away their letters.
So if you're one of the friends who wrote me letters, and you feel betrayed, sorry. Of course, I still have all the really pretty ones and the ones that still move me when I read them. Just not the whole rubbermaid tub-ful.
Due to the time consuming nature of having to open every card and letter to skim it before making the fateful decision, the tub of Lamentable Lingering Letters may have to be finished another year.
For weeks I've been avoiding eye contact with my fourteen year old sister just because I'm ashamed that I'm the one who thought I was a neat freak but can't seem to control my junk piles.
But now, I've finally dived into the Closet of Catastrophe. I spent yesterday morning and part of this morning exploring the Harrowing Hanging Rack, then plunged into a Rubbermaid tub of Lamentable Lingering Letters. Tomorrow, the Shelves from Sheol and Daunting Desk of Doom. And finally, if I keep my courage, the Banal Bookshelf.
I love that bookshelf. And I love the books in it. Every last little one of them. Like children. So the Banal part is picking which ones stay and which ones go to Berea with me, where I can almost guarantee there will be no space for them, and my room mate will hate me forever and ever Amen.
To steel myself, I continually quote Laurie from Little Women:
"Jo, I won't be taking all of Dickens to college with me..."
Fortunately, I've not yet acquired a taste for Dickens. A few less tomes to agonize over.
Today it was the letters I had to work with. Ever since I concluded that at least part of my life will probably be spent moving to and fro over the globe, I figured I should forget collecting excessive amounts of anything.
Haven't convinced myself of this entirely regarding objects made of paper. And though I'm more than willing to rid myself of some of the ponderous proof of correspondence from the past fourteen+ years of my short life, the process feels a little like trying to get rid of the toilet paper after having your yard rolled.
Wow. That really makes it sound like I don't appreciate all those letters. But that's not what I mean. In fact, the reason it's so hard to toss them is that I feel like I'm betraying my friends by throwing away their letters.
So if you're one of the friends who wrote me letters, and you feel betrayed, sorry. Of course, I still have all the really pretty ones and the ones that still move me when I read them. Just not the whole rubbermaid tub-ful.
Due to the time consuming nature of having to open every card and letter to skim it before making the fateful decision, the tub of Lamentable Lingering Letters may have to be finished another year.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Chickpea to Cook
"A chickpea leaps almost over the rim of the pot
where it's being boiled.
"Why are you doing this to me?"
The cook knocks him down with the ladle.
"Don't you try to jump out.
You think I'm torturing you.
I'm giving you flavor,
so you can mix with spices and rice...
Eventually the chickpea
will say to the cook...
You're my cook, my driver,
my way into existence. I love your cooking..."
-Rumi
From "Chickpea to Cook"
(Coleman Barks translation)
I tried making a chickpea curry for the first time a few days ago. It was surprisingly good. I didn't have to hit my chickpeas much, because it was more simmering than boiling. I went the easy route and used canned chickpeas.
I was going to write something about the honest terror I feel at leaving most of what I know and love to go to college in another state (don't try to comfort me with shallow platitudes; they've already told me it's a wonderful opportunity and how I'll make lots of friends, etc.) New friends are great. I would just like to keep the old ones too.
I don't want to be melancholy, because I said I was going to practice gratitude instead. And because I know in a short time, most of the shallow platitudes will prove to be true. Even if it involves some boiling.
Because, eventually the chickpea will say to the cook...
where it's being boiled.
"Why are you doing this to me?"
The cook knocks him down with the ladle.
"Don't you try to jump out.
You think I'm torturing you.
I'm giving you flavor,
so you can mix with spices and rice...
Eventually the chickpea
will say to the cook...
You're my cook, my driver,
my way into existence. I love your cooking..."
-Rumi
From "Chickpea to Cook"
(Coleman Barks translation)
I tried making a chickpea curry for the first time a few days ago. It was surprisingly good. I didn't have to hit my chickpeas much, because it was more simmering than boiling. I went the easy route and used canned chickpeas.
I was going to write something about the honest terror I feel at leaving most of what I know and love to go to college in another state (don't try to comfort me with shallow platitudes; they've already told me it's a wonderful opportunity and how I'll make lots of friends, etc.) New friends are great. I would just like to keep the old ones too.
I don't want to be melancholy, because I said I was going to practice gratitude instead. And because I know in a short time, most of the shallow platitudes will prove to be true. Even if it involves some boiling.
Because, eventually the chickpea will say to the cook...
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Consequences
Well, I'm back. Don't feel threatened. It's just me.
What do you really say after a trip like that? I feel a sudden urge to flee this blog entry and go make banana pancakes, even though it's one in the afternoon and I'm not even that hungry.
I returned from Afghanistan with great joy last Tuesday, flying into the Shreveport airport. An intensity of green everywhere. It felt like things should have changed while I was gone, but it didn't seem that they had at all. I had to keep reminding myself that I wasn't even gone four weeks. Not even Ethan had time to grow perceptibly.
The flight was delightful, as most of my flights seem to be. We'll just omit the part about the food. To think, I would survive (and thrive) on Afghan food for a month, only to fall prey to a container of discolored rice. Let's just say my layover in Atlanta was more exciting than last time. Ahem.
I loved the part where I got a window seat flying out of Kabul so that I could say a proper goodbye, because I have no idea when I'll get to come back. I spent half the flight water coloring frantically in order to finish the storybook I was making of the trip. The rest of the time I watched two thought provoking movies and conversed with a rather outgoing marine biologist who had just spent two months on a boat near Dubai and must not have talked to ANYONE during that time. Because she had a lot to say to me. And she likes dogs.
And on the flight between Atlanta and Shreveport I had another window seat and couldn't sleep, so I put a kink in my neck staring out the window at my homeland going by. So green! (At least that part of the country.) Prayers filled my heart for the place I was leaving and the country I was flying over.
I think on this trip my heart has been tenderized and my eyes opened to how people all over the world are in deep bondage, all kinds of bondage, without the power of Jesus. And how prayer is the way that His power changes things. Prayer, obedience, love. And it has to involve His bride. Us.
In Atlanta, pressing through a very disorganized line at five in the morning, I found myself feeling bitter and frustrated with my fellow Americans for the lack of dignity, the slouchiness, the sense of flopping all over the place. It was silly and petty, and pretty soon I was hit with how much we all have our issues, all over the world. One society might have strength in certain areas and another in others, but we're all a hopeless cause without Jesu, joy of man's desiring.
I guess the consequences of getting nosy and crossing oceans is that you find yourself torn between two (or three or four or five) sets of customs, scenes, mindsets, people, and experiences, and it's impossible to ever put yourself back together again. But that's a price I'm willing to pay.
I've decided to practice gratitude wherever I am for the good things in the spot I'm in today. Such as my family members. Good coffee. Fast internet. My bed. Going for walks and singing as loudly as I want. Worshiping with a big fellowship full of people who are seeking. Stuff like that.
What do you really say after a trip like that? I feel a sudden urge to flee this blog entry and go make banana pancakes, even though it's one in the afternoon and I'm not even that hungry.
I returned from Afghanistan with great joy last Tuesday, flying into the Shreveport airport. An intensity of green everywhere. It felt like things should have changed while I was gone, but it didn't seem that they had at all. I had to keep reminding myself that I wasn't even gone four weeks. Not even Ethan had time to grow perceptibly.
The flight was delightful, as most of my flights seem to be. We'll just omit the part about the food. To think, I would survive (and thrive) on Afghan food for a month, only to fall prey to a container of discolored rice. Let's just say my layover in Atlanta was more exciting than last time. Ahem.
I loved the part where I got a window seat flying out of Kabul so that I could say a proper goodbye, because I have no idea when I'll get to come back. I spent half the flight water coloring frantically in order to finish the storybook I was making of the trip. The rest of the time I watched two thought provoking movies and conversed with a rather outgoing marine biologist who had just spent two months on a boat near Dubai and must not have talked to ANYONE during that time. Because she had a lot to say to me. And she likes dogs.
And on the flight between Atlanta and Shreveport I had another window seat and couldn't sleep, so I put a kink in my neck staring out the window at my homeland going by. So green! (At least that part of the country.) Prayers filled my heart for the place I was leaving and the country I was flying over.
I think on this trip my heart has been tenderized and my eyes opened to how people all over the world are in deep bondage, all kinds of bondage, without the power of Jesus. And how prayer is the way that His power changes things. Prayer, obedience, love. And it has to involve His bride. Us.
In Atlanta, pressing through a very disorganized line at five in the morning, I found myself feeling bitter and frustrated with my fellow Americans for the lack of dignity, the slouchiness, the sense of flopping all over the place. It was silly and petty, and pretty soon I was hit with how much we all have our issues, all over the world. One society might have strength in certain areas and another in others, but we're all a hopeless cause without Jesu, joy of man's desiring.
I guess the consequences of getting nosy and crossing oceans is that you find yourself torn between two (or three or four or five) sets of customs, scenes, mindsets, people, and experiences, and it's impossible to ever put yourself back together again. But that's a price I'm willing to pay.
I've decided to practice gratitude wherever I am for the good things in the spot I'm in today. Such as my family members. Good coffee. Fast internet. My bed. Going for walks and singing as loudly as I want. Worshiping with a big fellowship full of people who are seeking. Stuff like that.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
SARS?
(from the 24th)
Hello all!
Here it is, my last night in Afghanistan. I maybe be contracting SARS already…what expats here call “Severe Afghanistan Return Syndrome.” You come, and then you have to come back. It’s a mystery really, but I see what they’re talking about.
As I rode back through the city this evening at sunset after an afternoon with two local girls, I found myself soaking in every last sight. The sunlight pouring its haze over the mountains in the distance, the pink and green lights coming on in the nan shops, bicycling guys bumping down the street with scarves draped haphazardly over their heads. Little kids holding hands and flying kites. Street vendors selling oodles of melons. Toyotas everywhere, often highly decorated, sometimes with a sticker on the back that reads “Masha Allah,” or roughly, “God protect us!"
The past week has been a blast. It’s incredible to be part of a huge family that is spread across continents.
Earlier in the week there was an international peace conference here, which meant tighter security resulting in a public holiday. We couldn’t go out much, so it was sort of like being snowed in. Only there was no snow. So friends came over to the guest house and we had good conversation and ate together and played Taboo for quite a while. The guest house has been so quiet that it was nice to have a little group.
I’ve wondered a lot about the purpose of this trip. I still don’t have the answers, but I have confidence that it was right. I’m glad for so much time to soak up the little glimpse I’ve had into this complex country. This house has been the perfect haven, with the roof that’s cool in the evening with a view of the lights coming on in the houses on the mountainsides, the rhythm of gathering for delicious meals three times a day, the quiet room...
So at the end of that day when we had a time of singing and reflection, a little spark jumped in me suddenly at the thought that someday I could provide this same kind of haven to seekers, learners, pilgrims. Maybe people who are struggling with questions. I love the idea of meeting people coming and going from all different places. That’s something to chew on.
The pictures this time are from Babur’s Garden, Balkh-e-Babur. It’s a big, beautiful that was built up in the 1500’s by Babur, the founder of the Moghul empire. He spent a lot of time in India (His descendents built the Taj Mahal) and was originally buried there, but later they moved his remains to this garden, because that’s where he wanted to be buried. According to Wikipedia (since my Persian’s not so good) the inscription on his tomb reads:
“If there is a paradise on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this
(revised from my first email update five days ago)
So. I never dreamed I’d be spending the 4th of July in Afghanistan, playing softball with Afghan girls, eating lamb kabob with mint and cilantro salad, or jerking along a dusty road with a view of the mountains around Kabul. But that’s exactly what I did today.
I arrived yesterday morning at 6 am, very excited. My hand was shaking so that I was having trouble filling out my visitor’s card at the Ministry of Interior desk.
A staffer picked me up at the airport, and we made the exciting ride through the busy, rather smoggy streets of Kabul. I spent the day getting a little orientation at the house and settling in. It’s a very homey, welcoming place, and my friends here are very gracious, to say the least. Last night I got some time chillin’ on the roof, listening to the city’s sounds, enjoying the light breeze, and watching the lights come on in the houses up the nearby mountains.
I’ve learned a lot in just the two days I’ve been here.
1. I’ve learned some Dari phrases, such as “Salaam,”“Hello,” and “Naama Chst?” “What is your name?”
2. I’ve learned that no matter how hard it is to keep your headscarf on and no matter how many things you’re looking out for at once, you have to pay enough attention that you don’t run slap bang into metal bars that appear out of nowhere.
3. I’ve learned that Duck Duck Goose is NOT child’s play at 5800 elevation when it’s 100 degrees out.
4. It would be the work of lifetimes to understand this place.
I slept well, and in the morning went along with a team of five ladies who have been having a sports clinic at the community center started by the organization I’m with. I went to observe and participate to get to know the girls a little, as I’ll probably go out there some days to help with English lessons.
What an amazing experience. I find myself standing by a garden of sunflowers surrounded 20-25 bright eyed little girls in trousers, tunics, and scarves. They’re shy at first. They already know the other team and they cling to their hands and arms, grinning, laughing. Quietly I wade in, like a cautious swimmer in new waters, and before long they’re grabbing my arm, speaking a lovely but unfortunately unintelligible string of sentences. They want affection. They want to be on my “team.” They nearly knock me out (Duck Duck Goose is challenging on multiple levels.)
It’s all a little surreal. I keep looking up at the mountains rising behind the community center building, thinking I’ve never realized that massive chunks of such dusty, desolate rock could be so majestic, and even beautiful. They seem to say, “We are Afghanistan. We are ancient. We may look desolate, but there’s nothing you can to move us.” I sense this determined hardness in the girls, even in their affectionate curiosity. But I’m very excited to be here. There’s just a “rightness” about this trip, in a lot of different ways.
Kuda Hafez (goodbye!), until I blog again...
Friday, July 2, 2010
Agh! My Google is in Arabic...and other small obervances
I only have 12 minutes before battery runs out on my dear little overheating computer, but I had to take advantage of the rest of my Dubai layover. Here I am, finishing hard-earned chicken dimsums and and a pepsi.
My Checking in process will start in about an hour, and so far things are looking pretty good in the transferring department, though there have been a few hairy moments. I'm on a major learning curve. In fact, I suspect that this may actually be a circle. I'm just going to keep going 'round. But thank heavens for 7 hour layovers. I've spent the better part of it inspecting the nooks and crannies of DBX.
I have to say that I can hold no grudge toward anyone in this airport after experiencing the free hot shower...utter bliss to aching bones. Even if I did wash my hair with body wash. And did somebody say that Dubai was dry? No, no. One trip down the sidewalk to another entrance and my hair completely poofed. Not that I care right now.
From the safety of the shower cubicle, I could here the girls and ladies trickling in and out, giggling, laughing, talking, scolding...and I felt that, yes, they are just like me, and everything is going to be okay. If I don't trip over my headscarf and strangle somewhere along the way.
Love to you all.
...end of battery life...see you in Kabul...
My Checking in process will start in about an hour, and so far things are looking pretty good in the transferring department, though there have been a few hairy moments. I'm on a major learning curve. In fact, I suspect that this may actually be a circle. I'm just going to keep going 'round. But thank heavens for 7 hour layovers. I've spent the better part of it inspecting the nooks and crannies of DBX.
I have to say that I can hold no grudge toward anyone in this airport after experiencing the free hot shower...utter bliss to aching bones. Even if I did wash my hair with body wash. And did somebody say that Dubai was dry? No, no. One trip down the sidewalk to another entrance and my hair completely poofed. Not that I care right now.
From the safety of the shower cubicle, I could here the girls and ladies trickling in and out, giggling, laughing, talking, scolding...and I felt that, yes, they are just like me, and everything is going to be okay. If I don't trip over my headscarf and strangle somewhere along the way.
Love to you all.
...end of battery life...see you in Kabul...
Friday, June 25, 2010
Just in Time is Not Too Late
I've decided not to take offense at the way God works. I sure would miss out on a lot of awesomeness. Yesterday was a payment deadline for my trip. I owed $1035, and it was supposed to go in a week before I leave.
In my mind, "a week before I leave" was Wednesday the 23rd, not the 24th, however. Seven days before, my bank account was empty and the modest contents of my wallet pledged to the voracious gas tank of the Great White Beast. I had been reading about some awesome men of faith who saw God provide at the last minute over and over again, and I just knew He was saying that He was going to give me the money the day I needed it, if I was willing to trust Him to that degree.
Gifts came in from unexpected places. $500. $100. People were just giving me hundred dollar bills. So Tuesday the 22nd came, and I had this miraculous wad of hundreds, but I was still short $335. In the morning, the thought came into my mind that I was going to get $300 dollars that day. Why three hundred, I wasn't sure, because there would still be $35 to go, but I just let it slip to the back of my mind.
The day passed, and in the evening, a good friend came over unexpectedly. She wanted to give a $100 to me, and $100 each to my brother and a friend of ours who were going on a different trip. When she handed a hundred to Connor, he grinned and said, "Well, really this should go to Cassie because we just got $80 over what we needed today." The math wasn't too difficult...I got $300!
The next day (Wednesday the 23rd, the "deadline") I fully expected the money to come to my doorstep. I didn't know what else to do. I wasn't getting paid till Friday. I spent all morning working very hard to rest in the conviction I had. I didn't get much done at all because I shut myself up in my room, hashing out the desperation I was feeling.
$35 is not a big deal in itself. But the other $1000 appeared to be useless without it, especially since I barely had gas money to get to the bank and deposit it. I could have borrowed gas money, could probably have worked something out, but I really wanted to see God do what He had said He would do. Eventually it got late enough that there was no chance of going to the bank.
Some doubts tried to come..."But God, don't you love me?" It's hard, maybe impossible to love someone completely when you don't trust them. But since this is not the first time in the past few months that we had had this conversation, I knew right away that I couldn't take offense at the way God was choosing to work. Like Meshach, Shadrach, and Abednego, I needed to be able to say, "I know you will deliver me, but even if you do not..." I told God I would love Him even if I felt disappointed or ashamed that it wasn't working the way I had envisioned.
So, I scraped myself up off the floor, collected about four dollars in quarters from my room (to go to coffee with a friend...but then she paid!), and borrowed $20 from my account for gas, remembering that I would have a $20 babysitting check that night. Then I left. Before going, I realized, with a look at the calendar, that "a week from today" was really the following day, the 24th. It wasn't too late yet!
Judging from the way the story has gone so far, I'm sure you won't be surprised when I tell you what happened. I was just walking to the door after babysitting for the Testimonies class that night, when a family I've barely even met before stopped me and the guy asked if he could donate toward my trip. He proceeded to hand me, yes, another hundred dollar bill!
As grateful and relieved as I was, it was almost anticlimactic, because the biggest miracle had really happened earlier when God gave me grace to commit my love to Him even when it looked like he wasn't coming through for me.
In the morning, Thursday the 24th, I jaunted off to the bank with a grateful heart, made the deposit, and made the payment. And now I just laugh at how just in time is not too late. I hope to never be offended by God's timing.
In my mind, "a week before I leave" was Wednesday the 23rd, not the 24th, however. Seven days before, my bank account was empty and the modest contents of my wallet pledged to the voracious gas tank of the Great White Beast. I had been reading about some awesome men of faith who saw God provide at the last minute over and over again, and I just knew He was saying that He was going to give me the money the day I needed it, if I was willing to trust Him to that degree.
Gifts came in from unexpected places. $500. $100. People were just giving me hundred dollar bills. So Tuesday the 22nd came, and I had this miraculous wad of hundreds, but I was still short $335. In the morning, the thought came into my mind that I was going to get $300 dollars that day. Why three hundred, I wasn't sure, because there would still be $35 to go, but I just let it slip to the back of my mind.
The day passed, and in the evening, a good friend came over unexpectedly. She wanted to give a $100 to me, and $100 each to my brother and a friend of ours who were going on a different trip. When she handed a hundred to Connor, he grinned and said, "Well, really this should go to Cassie because we just got $80 over what we needed today." The math wasn't too difficult...I got $300!
The next day (Wednesday the 23rd, the "deadline") I fully expected the money to come to my doorstep. I didn't know what else to do. I wasn't getting paid till Friday. I spent all morning working very hard to rest in the conviction I had. I didn't get much done at all because I shut myself up in my room, hashing out the desperation I was feeling.
$35 is not a big deal in itself. But the other $1000 appeared to be useless without it, especially since I barely had gas money to get to the bank and deposit it. I could have borrowed gas money, could probably have worked something out, but I really wanted to see God do what He had said He would do. Eventually it got late enough that there was no chance of going to the bank.
Some doubts tried to come..."But God, don't you love me?" It's hard, maybe impossible to love someone completely when you don't trust them. But since this is not the first time in the past few months that we had had this conversation, I knew right away that I couldn't take offense at the way God was choosing to work. Like Meshach, Shadrach, and Abednego, I needed to be able to say, "I know you will deliver me, but even if you do not..." I told God I would love Him even if I felt disappointed or ashamed that it wasn't working the way I had envisioned.
So, I scraped myself up off the floor, collected about four dollars in quarters from my room (to go to coffee with a friend...but then she paid!), and borrowed $20 from my account for gas, remembering that I would have a $20 babysitting check that night. Then I left. Before going, I realized, with a look at the calendar, that "a week from today" was really the following day, the 24th. It wasn't too late yet!
Judging from the way the story has gone so far, I'm sure you won't be surprised when I tell you what happened. I was just walking to the door after babysitting for the Testimonies class that night, when a family I've barely even met before stopped me and the guy asked if he could donate toward my trip. He proceeded to hand me, yes, another hundred dollar bill!
As grateful and relieved as I was, it was almost anticlimactic, because the biggest miracle had really happened earlier when God gave me grace to commit my love to Him even when it looked like he wasn't coming through for me.
In the morning, Thursday the 24th, I jaunted off to the bank with a grateful heart, made the deposit, and made the payment. And now I just laugh at how just in time is not too late. I hope to never be offended by God's timing.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
How a Flight Over a Particular Desert Four Years Ago Changed My Life: An Unfinished Love Story
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes...and ships...and sealing wax...
Of cabbages...and kings..."
This quote from Lewis Carroll's The Walrus and the Carpenter has always made me very happy, though I seldom chance to remember the words correctly. I do know this quote is correct, however, because I looked it up just now. It's not terribly relevant, but then, when is Lewis Carroll ever relevant to anything?
I suppose the relevance lies in the fact that it is now time to talk about the journey I'm about to embark upon. A journey that a part of me, deep down, has been waiting to make for four or five years now. To this place:
At least, somewhere near this place, if my calculations by the vague airliner's map were correct. I took this rather prophetic picture on the flight to India several summers ago, while we were flying over some of the "Stan" countries. There was a lot of desert, and then there came this.
Something happened to me on that flight. This area of the world had already been on my mind, but when we flew over it for real, my chest got tight and I cried a little, and something like love that I really didn't understand welled up inside me. It was just the jet-lagged emotion of a seventeen-year-old, maybe, like some kind of crush, but it's stuck with me these past four years, so much so that I've now taken the physical steps to make it real.
But maybe my journal explains it best. I chronicled like mad at that time in my life, and I'm not sure what use it is to me now to know what I puked up the morning we left Yavatmal. Or how many hours I slept on the top bunk on the train ride to Delhi, but I still have those three journals. This is what I wrote impulsively as we flew over an expanse of desert. I lost track of the countries exactly, but like I said, they were "Stan" countries.
"We are over the desert. My heart is crying out! It is Samarkand and Tashkent and Kabul and Dushanbe. Around Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, and nearing Afghanistan and Pakistan and then India...But my love is poured out on the desert.
And then there were those barren, creased mountains that met a green, tan, brown quilt-blocked place, an inhabited place. There were cities, orderly cities from this view, in lines and rows and curves of lines and rows and roads. It was a valley, because there were more mountains on the other side.
Out the plane window I could see both mountain ranges with the valley looking like a paved, cobbled road stretching out into the dim, distant horizon, over the rim of the world.
It is beautiful. So beautiful. That kept going over and over and over in my mind. Beautiful to me in its barren way. The man sitting in front of me said that this part of Asia is "the stage of history, the heart of the world." And the world's heart is dry and thirsty.
And on the way home, flying out of El Paso:
"Staring off into the flat earth curving away to the horizon haze, I'm filled with love. I remember what the rest of the world looks like. I remember that desert and I will go back one day. I don't know what that means for my life...for now I'm awed and somewhat surprised. As we took off over El Paso it just flooded back to me from our first flight..."
And so, in less than two weeks, I'll be on a flight over the same patch of beautiful barrenness I first saw four years ago. Only this time I'll be landing. The grandparents are on their knees more than they've ever been before, bless their courageous trembling hearts, and the looks I'm getting from the people I tell about my trip are...different.
(In line for passport photos:
Lady: So, are you going on a cruise?
Me: No, actually, I'm going to Afghanistan.
Lady: Smile vanishes, blankness spreads over the face.
Me: Um, well I won't be in the south...)
Nothing comes out of the TV but bad news, so it's no wonder that people are worried. I understand that things can happen, and do happen, but it's too bad more people don't get to hear the hope stories. I guess that's what I'm after.
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes...and ships...and sealing wax...
Of cabbages...and kings..."
This quote from Lewis Carroll's The Walrus and the Carpenter has always made me very happy, though I seldom chance to remember the words correctly. I do know this quote is correct, however, because I looked it up just now. It's not terribly relevant, but then, when is Lewis Carroll ever relevant to anything?
I suppose the relevance lies in the fact that it is now time to talk about the journey I'm about to embark upon. A journey that a part of me, deep down, has been waiting to make for four or five years now. To this place:
At least, somewhere near this place, if my calculations by the vague airliner's map were correct. I took this rather prophetic picture on the flight to India several summers ago, while we were flying over some of the "Stan" countries. There was a lot of desert, and then there came this.
Something happened to me on that flight. This area of the world had already been on my mind, but when we flew over it for real, my chest got tight and I cried a little, and something like love that I really didn't understand welled up inside me. It was just the jet-lagged emotion of a seventeen-year-old, maybe, like some kind of crush, but it's stuck with me these past four years, so much so that I've now taken the physical steps to make it real.
But maybe my journal explains it best. I chronicled like mad at that time in my life, and I'm not sure what use it is to me now to know what I puked up the morning we left Yavatmal. Or how many hours I slept on the top bunk on the train ride to Delhi, but I still have those three journals. This is what I wrote impulsively as we flew over an expanse of desert. I lost track of the countries exactly, but like I said, they were "Stan" countries.
"We are over the desert. My heart is crying out! It is Samarkand and Tashkent and Kabul and Dushanbe. Around Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, and nearing Afghanistan and Pakistan and then India...But my love is poured out on the desert.
And then there were those barren, creased mountains that met a green, tan, brown quilt-blocked place, an inhabited place. There were cities, orderly cities from this view, in lines and rows and curves of lines and rows and roads. It was a valley, because there were more mountains on the other side.
Out the plane window I could see both mountain ranges with the valley looking like a paved, cobbled road stretching out into the dim, distant horizon, over the rim of the world.
It is beautiful. So beautiful. That kept going over and over and over in my mind. Beautiful to me in its barren way. The man sitting in front of me said that this part of Asia is "the stage of history, the heart of the world." And the world's heart is dry and thirsty.
And on the way home, flying out of El Paso:
"Staring off into the flat earth curving away to the horizon haze, I'm filled with love. I remember what the rest of the world looks like. I remember that desert and I will go back one day. I don't know what that means for my life...for now I'm awed and somewhat surprised. As we took off over El Paso it just flooded back to me from our first flight..."
And so, in less than two weeks, I'll be on a flight over the same patch of beautiful barrenness I first saw four years ago. Only this time I'll be landing. The grandparents are on their knees more than they've ever been before, bless their courageous trembling hearts, and the looks I'm getting from the people I tell about my trip are...different.
(In line for passport photos:
Lady: So, are you going on a cruise?
Me: No, actually, I'm going to Afghanistan.
Lady: Smile vanishes, blankness spreads over the face.
Me: Um, well I won't be in the south...)
Nothing comes out of the TV but bad news, so it's no wonder that people are worried. I understand that things can happen, and do happen, but it's too bad more people don't get to hear the hope stories. I guess that's what I'm after.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Dis-Orientation, or My Dizzying but Blissful Day at Berea Transfer Student Orientation
I really need to go to be because it's really 10:30 here. But my computer and my body both say it's only 9:30 even if it has been a very long day. So I'll blog anyway.
It came at last. Berea orientation. I'm not sure I was terribly oriented by the end of the day; actually I was a little dizzy with all the information and activity. But when I crossed the sunny parking lot behind Presser Hall and found my Dad and little brother again, I was happy because the day had been a success. And because now we could go eat pizza at Papalenos.
This morning I was a little nervous about the whole thing, which was demonstrated in the five or ten extra minutes I spent in front of the hotel mirror, fiddling with my bobby pins. "Come on, Cass," Ethan urged, heading out the door on his way to breakfast. He and Dad were, of course, ready to eat and not concerned about their hair at all. "Just give me a minute," I said. "Girls always want their hair to look perfect when they go somewhere new." In fact, this is the part where you say, "Wow, Cass, you look super amazing today." And then I feel better. And then we get our waffles and orange juice sooner.
Soon I forget about my hair, finding myself in a little knot of 8:30 in the morning-ish looking people in Presser Hall, with a blue folder, thinking it's too bad that the raspberry danish I just plucked from a platter is going to be entirely wasted. There is no way I can eat at this moment. My goal today is to greet people, meet people, and generally be sociable if it kills me. I notice that the lady I didn't have the gumption to talk to at the hotel continental breakfast (where they had the waffles) is in the corner with a girl my age who must be her daughter. We start talking, and by the end of the day we're both in Appalachian Lit. Then I talk to a few more people. And they are so nice. People are just cheerful here. I like it.
We got a lot of info in a short time. Most of it hasn't sunk in yet. I just pinned down the important bits like when we have to pay for things and what classes I'm taking. I aimed to branch out in my classes, explore Berea's unique offerings.
So I started out with Writing/Critical Thinking, Scientific Knowledge and Inquiry, Human Rights/International Law, Fundamentals of Drawing, and Outdoor Adventure Activites I. But because of schedule and classes filling up, I had to change the last three to Approaches to Ethics, Appalachian Lit., and a basic health class.
I'm so excited about being in a place where they like to learn that, where, where basics are concerned, I'll be happy with pretty much any class I get. If I managed to enjoy college algebra last semester, I figure I can learn something from anything.
I was even going to take Middle Eastern Dance instead of Outdoor Ad. Activities, except that was the wrong time, too. I mean, the worst thing that could happen is that I'd fail, right? Note on transcript next to the gigantic red F: She couldn't move her hips. At all.
Moving right along...I had very pleasant talks with a few folks in the Study Abroad and International Student offices, and then visited the campus job fair downstairs, which was close to closing up but still miraculously had three 10 hr. per week job openings for working with the international center on campus.
That's exactly what I hoped to do when I heard about Berea's labor program, but also when I heard about Berea's labor program, I thought I'd start out doing something more like mopping, which, don't get me wrong, is a noble pursuit in itself, but to tell the truth, I'm pretty experienced in that line of work and I'd love to try my hand at something else. So I applied and...it might just happen!
Wow. The idea of having work and school in the same place is amazing. No car necessary (or allowed, the first year). They actually have these things called sidewalks here, little paved pathways beside the road...they're ingenious. You people from Longview should come check it out; I know you've never seen the likes of this before. Well, not ones that actually go somewhere.
Nah, there are certain things I love about my hometown, but absence of sidewalks and destinations you can reach by sidewalks are not some of them.
So really, I've supplied the juiciest details now and really (I'm starting to use more reallies because I'm really getting really tired and at this point that's really all that really comes to mind. Really.) Umm, Yep, I'll go to bed now...now that you have the story of my orientation at Berea.
It came at last. Berea orientation. I'm not sure I was terribly oriented by the end of the day; actually I was a little dizzy with all the information and activity. But when I crossed the sunny parking lot behind Presser Hall and found my Dad and little brother again, I was happy because the day had been a success. And because now we could go eat pizza at Papalenos.
This morning I was a little nervous about the whole thing, which was demonstrated in the five or ten extra minutes I spent in front of the hotel mirror, fiddling with my bobby pins. "Come on, Cass," Ethan urged, heading out the door on his way to breakfast. He and Dad were, of course, ready to eat and not concerned about their hair at all. "Just give me a minute," I said. "Girls always want their hair to look perfect when they go somewhere new." In fact, this is the part where you say, "Wow, Cass, you look super amazing today." And then I feel better. And then we get our waffles and orange juice sooner.
Soon I forget about my hair, finding myself in a little knot of 8:30 in the morning-ish looking people in Presser Hall, with a blue folder, thinking it's too bad that the raspberry danish I just plucked from a platter is going to be entirely wasted. There is no way I can eat at this moment. My goal today is to greet people, meet people, and generally be sociable if it kills me. I notice that the lady I didn't have the gumption to talk to at the hotel continental breakfast (where they had the waffles) is in the corner with a girl my age who must be her daughter. We start talking, and by the end of the day we're both in Appalachian Lit. Then I talk to a few more people. And they are so nice. People are just cheerful here. I like it.
We got a lot of info in a short time. Most of it hasn't sunk in yet. I just pinned down the important bits like when we have to pay for things and what classes I'm taking. I aimed to branch out in my classes, explore Berea's unique offerings.
So I started out with Writing/Critical Thinking, Scientific Knowledge and Inquiry, Human Rights/International Law, Fundamentals of Drawing, and Outdoor Adventure Activites I. But because of schedule and classes filling up, I had to change the last three to Approaches to Ethics, Appalachian Lit., and a basic health class.
I'm so excited about being in a place where they like to learn that, where, where basics are concerned, I'll be happy with pretty much any class I get. If I managed to enjoy college algebra last semester, I figure I can learn something from anything.
I was even going to take Middle Eastern Dance instead of Outdoor Ad. Activities, except that was the wrong time, too. I mean, the worst thing that could happen is that I'd fail, right? Note on transcript next to the gigantic red F: She couldn't move her hips. At all.
Moving right along...I had very pleasant talks with a few folks in the Study Abroad and International Student offices, and then visited the campus job fair downstairs, which was close to closing up but still miraculously had three 10 hr. per week job openings for working with the international center on campus.
That's exactly what I hoped to do when I heard about Berea's labor program, but also when I heard about Berea's labor program, I thought I'd start out doing something more like mopping, which, don't get me wrong, is a noble pursuit in itself, but to tell the truth, I'm pretty experienced in that line of work and I'd love to try my hand at something else. So I applied and...it might just happen!
Wow. The idea of having work and school in the same place is amazing. No car necessary (or allowed, the first year). They actually have these things called sidewalks here, little paved pathways beside the road...they're ingenious. You people from Longview should come check it out; I know you've never seen the likes of this before. Well, not ones that actually go somewhere.
Nah, there are certain things I love about my hometown, but absence of sidewalks and destinations you can reach by sidewalks are not some of them.
So really, I've supplied the juiciest details now and really (I'm starting to use more reallies because I'm really getting really tired and at this point that's really all that really comes to mind. Really.) Umm, Yep, I'll go to bed now...now that you have the story of my orientation at Berea.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
You Can Play This at My Funeral...
I must, I must keep blogging. Life has gotten busy, but I don't want to abandon the blog.
I'm in Berea! I love Berea. This cozy Kentucky town is just right for me. It's just as charming in the green summertime as it was in a snow-dusted January. The rolling green farmlands on the trip here were a soothing treat.
Tomorrow is Berea College orientation for transfer students, and I'm both nervous and excited. Mostly excited. It's just, no matter how much I like the town and the school, the thought of starting over where I don't know a soul is a little...oh, daunting. But thrilling too. As you can see, my emotions are mixed.
But no matter what I feel, I want a challenge. And here it is. An adventure, if you will. I hope to meet lots of people tomorrow. Talk with them. Laugh with them. Get comfortable with them, even a little. Maybe I'll find a roommate. Maybe she's right here at this hotel and we'll meet suddenly at the continental breakfast in the morning, in line by the waffle machine.
I honestly have no idea what I want in a roommate. When I think through it, I vacillate wildly between hoping for someone compatible and like-minded and someone vastly different whom I can learn a lot from. The most important thing, when all is said and done, is agreement about lights out. I think I can adjust to any personality as long as there aren't crazy parties going on in my room at 4 in the morning and I can get some kind of sleep.
I have high hopes about Berea. I want to learn all kinds of mind-boggling things, I want to write, engage in conversations. I want to make friends I can share with, laugh with, pray with. The sense I get about the place is that there will be room for me to grow as a person. And I do need that :)
I can't help thinking of our visit here five months ago when I was hoping so hard I'd get accepted, and so uncertain of the future, and here I am, orientating tomorrow! What will come in these next few years, I wonder? God just blessed me so much. For so long I just never thought I'd find a school I liked that would be possible for me to attend. And here I am.
Today Ethan, Dad and I did two tours at Mammoth Cave, about 120 miles from here. So now I can say I've officially eaten lunch in a cave. A boxed lunch. Complete with apple, cookie, and vegetable soup. The soup was necessary, let me tell you. It was damp and 54 degrees. I was prepared this time, however, after the experience Dad and I had two years ago at the same place.
I believe I've blogged about it before. After an intense downpour that drenched us on the way into the cave, we spent 2 hours in the 54 degree cavern...in dripping shorts and t-shirts. Brr!! But I definitely have vivid memories of that tour.
Today, Ethan enjoyed his first real caving experience (ok, if you call following a five foot wide, artificially lighted, tour guided path a "real" caving experience). "I think I want to live in here." he announced. "You could have a pet bat," I told him. "They're like little chicken nuggets with wings," a little girl in the group said.
On the way from Bowling Green to Berea, we listened to an older Mark Shultz cd that I'd dug up from a dusty cd case. "Running Just to Catch Myself" is a family favorite and we hadn't heard it in a while. It's an upbeat, funny song about a day of rat-race in the corporate world. Ethan approved. "You can play this at my funeral," he told us. "'Cause I don't want ya'll weeping at me." "And pour coffee on me," he added. "But no roses. Only the girls can put roses on me." I'm glad he's getting all this straightened out now.
Gotta love these little moments.
I'm in Berea! I love Berea. This cozy Kentucky town is just right for me. It's just as charming in the green summertime as it was in a snow-dusted January. The rolling green farmlands on the trip here were a soothing treat.
Tomorrow is Berea College orientation for transfer students, and I'm both nervous and excited. Mostly excited. It's just, no matter how much I like the town and the school, the thought of starting over where I don't know a soul is a little...oh, daunting. But thrilling too. As you can see, my emotions are mixed.
But no matter what I feel, I want a challenge. And here it is. An adventure, if you will. I hope to meet lots of people tomorrow. Talk with them. Laugh with them. Get comfortable with them, even a little. Maybe I'll find a roommate. Maybe she's right here at this hotel and we'll meet suddenly at the continental breakfast in the morning, in line by the waffle machine.
I honestly have no idea what I want in a roommate. When I think through it, I vacillate wildly between hoping for someone compatible and like-minded and someone vastly different whom I can learn a lot from. The most important thing, when all is said and done, is agreement about lights out. I think I can adjust to any personality as long as there aren't crazy parties going on in my room at 4 in the morning and I can get some kind of sleep.
I have high hopes about Berea. I want to learn all kinds of mind-boggling things, I want to write, engage in conversations. I want to make friends I can share with, laugh with, pray with. The sense I get about the place is that there will be room for me to grow as a person. And I do need that :)
I can't help thinking of our visit here five months ago when I was hoping so hard I'd get accepted, and so uncertain of the future, and here I am, orientating tomorrow! What will come in these next few years, I wonder? God just blessed me so much. For so long I just never thought I'd find a school I liked that would be possible for me to attend. And here I am.
Today Ethan, Dad and I did two tours at Mammoth Cave, about 120 miles from here. So now I can say I've officially eaten lunch in a cave. A boxed lunch. Complete with apple, cookie, and vegetable soup. The soup was necessary, let me tell you. It was damp and 54 degrees. I was prepared this time, however, after the experience Dad and I had two years ago at the same place.
I believe I've blogged about it before. After an intense downpour that drenched us on the way into the cave, we spent 2 hours in the 54 degree cavern...in dripping shorts and t-shirts. Brr!! But I definitely have vivid memories of that tour.
Today, Ethan enjoyed his first real caving experience (ok, if you call following a five foot wide, artificially lighted, tour guided path a "real" caving experience). "I think I want to live in here." he announced. "You could have a pet bat," I told him. "They're like little chicken nuggets with wings," a little girl in the group said.
On the way from Bowling Green to Berea, we listened to an older Mark Shultz cd that I'd dug up from a dusty cd case. "Running Just to Catch Myself" is a family favorite and we hadn't heard it in a while. It's an upbeat, funny song about a day of rat-race in the corporate world. Ethan approved. "You can play this at my funeral," he told us. "'Cause I don't want ya'll weeping at me." "And pour coffee on me," he added. "But no roses. Only the girls can put roses on me." I'm glad he's getting all this straightened out now.
Gotta love these little moments.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Blackberry cobbler. That's what I smell. That's what I taste, in the back of my mouth, where a seed or two is still stuck between my molars.
I just pulled the cobbler from the oven. My cousin, Kim, and I made it as a reward for the team berry-picking efforts of the day. Dad rounded up the troops, armed with cut-off milk jugs and dressed in jeans to defer the thorns.
Kim is visiting from Tennessee, where there aren't many fire ants. And according to her, no ant bite like the one she got a few days ago while we were decorating for Connor's graduation party. It swelled to about two inches in diameter and got red and itchy, so naturally she was a little apprehensive about more ant encounters.
"It's no big deal," I told her, "All you have to worry about are a few berry briars, cows, snakes, wild hogs, mosquitoes, thistles, and cow pies." "Remind me why I'm doing this again?" she asked.
We reached the aluminum gate, which we had to climb over, and Ethan said, "Ladies go first, but they're not wearing skirts, so I'll just go." And he did. I only wear skirts twice a week or so, but apparently Ethan sees a difference.
The cows didn't appreciate our intrusion to their sunny pasture. In fact, when we made it down to the lower pasture, they silently followed us, creeping in around us with stealth unnerving in a beast of that size.
But then, I've always found cows unnerving, ever since I was old enough to lay awake listening to their far-off mooing at night when the windows of our old mobile home were open. Very freaky for a three year old, let me tell you. I had cow nightmares. But I've probably already shared that before.
But the creeping cows...they eyed us with contempt but did nothing really menacing. Mostly they disliked the dog, I think, who felt it his duty to chase them off if they got too close to his people.
The best berry spot was a patch of little bramble islands, each one full of dewberries (yes, I've been calling them blackberries, because they're so similar, but they're really dewberries. Just sweeter and closer to the ground.) So it was WWII in Japan all over again, with us hopping from one island to the next. That's a horrible thought, actually.
Nearly every "island" was situated around a thistle, which pricked much worse than a berry bramble. And wouldn't you know that the best berries were tucked right under the thistle leaves. I was down on my knees hunting out the berries, attacking almost, getting a sunburn, smooshing berries into the knees of a decent pair of jeans.
I'm very reluctant to go berry picking, because I know this is how it will be. Once I'm in, I can't seem to stop. I'll be the last to go, but probably the last to come home. Except Dad.
Finally, part of the crew headed back with most of the berries and Dad and I explored another pasture. We weren't going to pick anything, just check to see what there was. But there was that one bush...loaded with shiny berries...and we couldn't just let them rot. There was another patch, and another. But we soon we were wandering back home through the pastures, with me a little disoriented and Dad knowing just where we of course, thank goodness. Glad it wasn't just me and the skulking cows.
Kim and I made the cobbler, with berry patterned aprons on and everything. And seeing as there was that bit of extra crust, and a drizzle of berry juice, and a cookie sheet to bake it just to flaky perfection...we've been have a little preview snack before the real cobbler this evening. Hence the berry seeds behind my teeth. Amen.
I just pulled the cobbler from the oven. My cousin, Kim, and I made it as a reward for the team berry-picking efforts of the day. Dad rounded up the troops, armed with cut-off milk jugs and dressed in jeans to defer the thorns.
Kim is visiting from Tennessee, where there aren't many fire ants. And according to her, no ant bite like the one she got a few days ago while we were decorating for Connor's graduation party. It swelled to about two inches in diameter and got red and itchy, so naturally she was a little apprehensive about more ant encounters.
"It's no big deal," I told her, "All you have to worry about are a few berry briars, cows, snakes, wild hogs, mosquitoes, thistles, and cow pies." "Remind me why I'm doing this again?" she asked.
We reached the aluminum gate, which we had to climb over, and Ethan said, "Ladies go first, but they're not wearing skirts, so I'll just go." And he did. I only wear skirts twice a week or so, but apparently Ethan sees a difference.
The cows didn't appreciate our intrusion to their sunny pasture. In fact, when we made it down to the lower pasture, they silently followed us, creeping in around us with stealth unnerving in a beast of that size.
But then, I've always found cows unnerving, ever since I was old enough to lay awake listening to their far-off mooing at night when the windows of our old mobile home were open. Very freaky for a three year old, let me tell you. I had cow nightmares. But I've probably already shared that before.
But the creeping cows...they eyed us with contempt but did nothing really menacing. Mostly they disliked the dog, I think, who felt it his duty to chase them off if they got too close to his people.
The best berry spot was a patch of little bramble islands, each one full of dewberries (yes, I've been calling them blackberries, because they're so similar, but they're really dewberries. Just sweeter and closer to the ground.) So it was WWII in Japan all over again, with us hopping from one island to the next. That's a horrible thought, actually.
Nearly every "island" was situated around a thistle, which pricked much worse than a berry bramble. And wouldn't you know that the best berries were tucked right under the thistle leaves. I was down on my knees hunting out the berries, attacking almost, getting a sunburn, smooshing berries into the knees of a decent pair of jeans.
I'm very reluctant to go berry picking, because I know this is how it will be. Once I'm in, I can't seem to stop. I'll be the last to go, but probably the last to come home. Except Dad.
Finally, part of the crew headed back with most of the berries and Dad and I explored another pasture. We weren't going to pick anything, just check to see what there was. But there was that one bush...loaded with shiny berries...and we couldn't just let them rot. There was another patch, and another. But we soon we were wandering back home through the pastures, with me a little disoriented and Dad knowing just where we of course, thank goodness. Glad it wasn't just me and the skulking cows.
Kim and I made the cobbler, with berry patterned aprons on and everything. And seeing as there was that bit of extra crust, and a drizzle of berry juice, and a cookie sheet to bake it just to flaky perfection...we've been have a little preview snack before the real cobbler this evening. Hence the berry seeds behind my teeth. Amen.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Stir and Enjoy...My Life
"Just stir and enjoy."
Those are the words I saw this morning on the peanut butter lid as I was making my toast. It's the all natural kind of peanut butter that comes with an inch of oil on top that you need a concrete mixer to mix. When I use it I usually sprinkle a teaspoon of sugar on my toast just to "help the medicine go down."
But when I saw those words, I got tickled and had a little laugh to myself, as I'm prone to doing more and more lately, because I thought of how true the words seem to be for my life. I envision myself as a little pot of pudding and God as Himself, with a spoon. And every time the pudding seems to be settling and thickening up, he sticks His spoon in, stirs, scrapes the goo up off the bottom, takes a good lick, and...smiles.
I, to throw in a very different comparison, feel like a wet cat at the stirring, but the thought that God loves me enough not to let me settle into globby old pudding is really a relief. And I feel His enjoyment of me. I am glad because He is glad.
Stir and enjoy.
So, finals are over and I'm very satisfied with them. I'm done with Kilgore college, presumably forever, since I plan to transfer in the fall to Berea. Today was my first unschool day of the summer, and I spent it running, reading, and housecleaning, in that order.
And I thought a lot. Not about what I was doing, unfortunately. I realized that taste-testing is not the brightest way to find out whether the liquid in a spray bottle is water or not. I was 99% sure it was either peroxide or water, and since Mom sometimes uses peroxide as mouth wash, I knew it wouldn't kill me.
After a hasty thoughtless squirt in the mouth, I remembered the 1% possibility of it being some extremely toxic chemical. But of course it was too late and I'm not dead yet. The strange taste, I decided, must be that of stale peroxide. And with an optimistic laugh I applied it liberally to the sink, the toilet, and the tub, and scrubbed away. Just wait. It'll end up being some kind of liquid super-glue, and tomorrow my mouth will be stuck shut and someone will be stranded on the toilet. Ha.
Today I ran for thirty minutes and came home flaming red, having worked up an admirable sweat and stench. The sweat and stench I was proud of. The redness of face I was not. Too much like embarrassment.
Running is stretching me. Not just my legs, but my mind, my heart, my faith, my will. I began sneaking out of the house to run because I was ashamed to let even my family members see me attempt something I've failed at consistently, mostly in the willpower department. And I didn't want them to see me all red and soaked. And I wanted it to be just between me and God at first. Him stirring the pudding and smiling. Me running. And smiling.
I am half way through a seven week plan which, if all continues to go well and I don't get heat stroke, will have me running a modest three miles in somewhere under a modest 30 minutes and, more importantly, confidently grinning at passersby from an unashamed, crimson-hued face.
For the first time I'm liking running, because it seems to be an allegory of life, that I do over and over. I practice living. Practice fighting the good fight. Practice grinning instead of flinching when people drive by. I know they don't care if I'm red or not; it's me learning not to
care.
That guy who just went by in a black PT Cruiser, he doesn't know my story. And you don't know his, a voice whispers. He has no idea how far I've come or how far I'm going, and I don't know anything about him except that he looks middle-aged-ish and I think he's wearing a black suit. And I will never see him again. Phew.
Stir and enjoy, folks, stir and enjoy.
Those are the words I saw this morning on the peanut butter lid as I was making my toast. It's the all natural kind of peanut butter that comes with an inch of oil on top that you need a concrete mixer to mix. When I use it I usually sprinkle a teaspoon of sugar on my toast just to "help the medicine go down."
But when I saw those words, I got tickled and had a little laugh to myself, as I'm prone to doing more and more lately, because I thought of how true the words seem to be for my life. I envision myself as a little pot of pudding and God as Himself, with a spoon. And every time the pudding seems to be settling and thickening up, he sticks His spoon in, stirs, scrapes the goo up off the bottom, takes a good lick, and...smiles.
I, to throw in a very different comparison, feel like a wet cat at the stirring, but the thought that God loves me enough not to let me settle into globby old pudding is really a relief. And I feel His enjoyment of me. I am glad because He is glad.
Stir and enjoy.
So, finals are over and I'm very satisfied with them. I'm done with Kilgore college, presumably forever, since I plan to transfer in the fall to Berea. Today was my first unschool day of the summer, and I spent it running, reading, and housecleaning, in that order.
And I thought a lot. Not about what I was doing, unfortunately. I realized that taste-testing is not the brightest way to find out whether the liquid in a spray bottle is water or not. I was 99% sure it was either peroxide or water, and since Mom sometimes uses peroxide as mouth wash, I knew it wouldn't kill me.
After a hasty thoughtless squirt in the mouth, I remembered the 1% possibility of it being some extremely toxic chemical. But of course it was too late and I'm not dead yet. The strange taste, I decided, must be that of stale peroxide. And with an optimistic laugh I applied it liberally to the sink, the toilet, and the tub, and scrubbed away. Just wait. It'll end up being some kind of liquid super-glue, and tomorrow my mouth will be stuck shut and someone will be stranded on the toilet. Ha.
Today I ran for thirty minutes and came home flaming red, having worked up an admirable sweat and stench. The sweat and stench I was proud of. The redness of face I was not. Too much like embarrassment.
Running is stretching me. Not just my legs, but my mind, my heart, my faith, my will. I began sneaking out of the house to run because I was ashamed to let even my family members see me attempt something I've failed at consistently, mostly in the willpower department. And I didn't want them to see me all red and soaked. And I wanted it to be just between me and God at first. Him stirring the pudding and smiling. Me running. And smiling.
I am half way through a seven week plan which, if all continues to go well and I don't get heat stroke, will have me running a modest three miles in somewhere under a modest 30 minutes and, more importantly, confidently grinning at passersby from an unashamed, crimson-hued face.
For the first time I'm liking running, because it seems to be an allegory of life, that I do over and over. I practice living. Practice fighting the good fight. Practice grinning instead of flinching when people drive by. I know they don't care if I'm red or not; it's me learning not to
care.
That guy who just went by in a black PT Cruiser, he doesn't know my story. And you don't know his, a voice whispers. He has no idea how far I've come or how far I'm going, and I don't know anything about him except that he looks middle-aged-ish and I think he's wearing a black suit. And I will never see him again. Phew.
Stir and enjoy, folks, stir and enjoy.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
The Room
There is a place of love
Where not even questions go
Behind the stained-glass window of my heart
Into the sanctuary
World-wisdom hesitates
At the door; turns and leaves,
Silenced by a sight of profound intimacy
Doubt enters, only to incinerate
Paranoia passes into recognition
Of the Expert Lover
Sin is laved from me
By the blood of His own heart
The spinning world outside
Knows nothing of this knowing
I, in turn, am for a moment weaned
From its portfolio of counterfeits
In the place of love
Where not even questions go
I find
That You are no stranger to me
That Your LOVE
Has become my nature
That this PLACE
Has become my portion
That YOU
Have become my desire
That my HEART
Will continue to seek You
All
The days
Of my life
And I will dwell
In the House of the Lord
Forever.
I don't know what to think, because this was supposed to be one poem, but it acts like two. Same thought, two different expressions. It starts in hopeful timidity and explanation and crescendos into confident truth. And maybe I'll leave it this way, because I feel that the movement signifies a sudden change that comes over our lives much as it happened in this poem.
Where not even questions go
Behind the stained-glass window of my heart
Into the sanctuary
World-wisdom hesitates
At the door; turns and leaves,
Silenced by a sight of profound intimacy
Doubt enters, only to incinerate
Paranoia passes into recognition
Of the Expert Lover
Sin is laved from me
By the blood of His own heart
The spinning world outside
Knows nothing of this knowing
I, in turn, am for a moment weaned
From its portfolio of counterfeits
In the place of love
Where not even questions go
I find
That You are no stranger to me
That Your LOVE
Has become my nature
That this PLACE
Has become my portion
That YOU
Have become my desire
That my HEART
Will continue to seek You
All
The days
Of my life
And I will dwell
In the House of the Lord
Forever.
I don't know what to think, because this was supposed to be one poem, but it acts like two. Same thought, two different expressions. It starts in hopeful timidity and explanation and crescendos into confident truth. And maybe I'll leave it this way, because I feel that the movement signifies a sudden change that comes over our lives much as it happened in this poem.
Monday, May 10, 2010
A Little Exuberation
Oh happy day! Math class is finally complete. A complete success. A final completed. A successful completion...Oh I'm happy.
I was the last person to leave the room this morning after two solid hours of math final. My concern toward the end was not so much that I couldn't do the work as that I wouldn't finish in time. But it worked out just right. Just as everything about this class miraculously has, even after long travail. It is so satisfying to stand at the top of the hill and gaze over the long trail winding through forests, valleys and morasses and know that I've finished. And not only finished, but finished well, with a sigh of contentment and not of resignation. I've learned what I came here to learn.
Yes, it's just one class. Please bear with me as I exuberate, if that non-Webster approved word can be allowed. All semester, algebra class has been a picture to me of my race on earth, the perseverence, the trust, the everyday miracles. So it's no wonder that the day of the final would feel like heaven. But lest you think I rely on works to get me through, know that working though algebra has in itself been all God's grace! Through faith I kept trying...but I know God was the one "doing!" Even in math.
I was the last person to leave the room this morning after two solid hours of math final. My concern toward the end was not so much that I couldn't do the work as that I wouldn't finish in time. But it worked out just right. Just as everything about this class miraculously has, even after long travail. It is so satisfying to stand at the top of the hill and gaze over the long trail winding through forests, valleys and morasses and know that I've finished. And not only finished, but finished well, with a sigh of contentment and not of resignation. I've learned what I came here to learn.
Yes, it's just one class. Please bear with me as I exuberate, if that non-Webster approved word can be allowed. All semester, algebra class has been a picture to me of my race on earth, the perseverence, the trust, the everyday miracles. So it's no wonder that the day of the final would feel like heaven. But lest you think I rely on works to get me through, know that working though algebra has in itself been all God's grace! Through faith I kept trying...but I know God was the one "doing!" Even in math.
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