I saw Bill Maher’s movie “Religulous”* last week, and I laughed—out loud—numerous times. The thing is though, Bill Maher has very legitimate questions; unfortunately, he went to zero legitimate sources and received zero legitimate answers. The guy dressed as Jesus at The Holy Land Experience, at Orlando's DisneyWorld, asked Maher if he wouldn’t rather just believe and be safe rather than sorry at the end of the world. Basically operate on the side of caution. You can just about imagine Maher’s response. And as a person who follows Jesus (not the one at the Holy Land Experience), I think this is such a lame response or offer. It’s a pay now—results later mentality. And who wants that? For Americans especially, we live in a right-now society. We want communication, answers, food, money RIGHT NOW. We have drive-throughs for cash, pizza, coffee, prescriptions, even alcohol—at least in Wisconsin and Mississippi. We're like Veruca Salt on "Willy Wonka": Give it to me rrrright NOW!
So what about the offer of operating on the side of caution for the rest of your life just in case it may pay off years from now sounds remotely appealing?
I’m reading the book Wholly Jesus written by my pastor in California, Mark Foreman. He says, “...rather than offering to get people into heaven with the real results to come later, Jesus’ offer concerns itself primarily with getting heaven into people and thus transforming culture now.”
And notice he says Jesus’ offer, because I don’t think it’s the offer of many churches or pastors out there right now. Sadly. But anyways, I believe Jesus’ is a results-now operation. It’s not just about heaven later. It’s about heaven now! I believe following Jesus changes things right here, right now. So, to the Jesus at the Holy Land Experience I say: LAME.
* “Religulous” is a documentary written by and starring political comedian Bill Maher. Rated R, the film is a satirical look at organized religion and religious belief. Maher interviews a U.S. Senator, a Muslim British rapper, and a Catholic priest, among many others, including the Jesus at the Holy Land Experience. So far, it’s made more than $9 million at the box office.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Monday, October 20, 2008
SIGNAGE
The double, triple or quadruple posting of election signs in yards is like all caps in emails. Most recently I received an email from the security department where I go to school. It was about getting updated parking permits. GET YOUR PERMIT NOW. STOP BY OFFICE. Ah! Ok! I mean I felt like if I didn’t get it within minutes, something horribly awful would happen to me or my car.
So goes posting of election signs.
MCCAIN MCCAIN MCCAIN or
OBAMA OBAMA OBAMA…OBAMA
Ok. I got it. One sign is good. Why do you need three of the same sign in your yard?
But then again, I guess if someone steals one of ‘em, you’re good to go. Like the campaign helper who was eating breakfast at the Maple Grove Perkins and saw out the window, across the street, someone pulling up all the signs supporting this particular campaign helper’s candidate. And I have to wonder: First, did the guy finish his pancakes? And second, if you’re the person pulling up the signs, do you care if people see you? Do you care what people think? What do you do? Do you casually pretend like you’re investigating the shape of the sign, like you’re the sign patrol—just making sure all are in tip-top condition and if they’re not, well, you need to get rid of them. That way if someone asks, you say you’ll be back to replace it with a better one. Or do you not care? If someone asks, you just tell them where they can shove their vote.
And then there’s a friend of mine. She got home from work one night and saw a “Women for McCain” sign in her yard and thought it rather presumptuous of her roommate to put that up in their yard without asking. Well, actually her roommate was thinking the exact same thing! Neither one of them had put the sign up. So, does someone just go around and randomly place signs in yards? And when do they do this? In broad daylight? Late at night? The idea of someone setting their alarm for 3:30a.m. to post "Women for McCain" signs...
But, I watched one of my neighbors put up a second Obama sign yesterday in his yard. And I was thinking, oh, now I REALLY know you’re for Obama. That one sign wasn’t enough. I was still wondering who you’d vote for.
So goes posting of election signs.
MCCAIN MCCAIN MCCAIN or
OBAMA OBAMA OBAMA…OBAMA
Ok. I got it. One sign is good. Why do you need three of the same sign in your yard?
But then again, I guess if someone steals one of ‘em, you’re good to go. Like the campaign helper who was eating breakfast at the Maple Grove Perkins and saw out the window, across the street, someone pulling up all the signs supporting this particular campaign helper’s candidate. And I have to wonder: First, did the guy finish his pancakes? And second, if you’re the person pulling up the signs, do you care if people see you? Do you care what people think? What do you do? Do you casually pretend like you’re investigating the shape of the sign, like you’re the sign patrol—just making sure all are in tip-top condition and if they’re not, well, you need to get rid of them. That way if someone asks, you say you’ll be back to replace it with a better one. Or do you not care? If someone asks, you just tell them where they can shove their vote.
And then there’s a friend of mine. She got home from work one night and saw a “Women for McCain” sign in her yard and thought it rather presumptuous of her roommate to put that up in their yard without asking. Well, actually her roommate was thinking the exact same thing! Neither one of them had put the sign up. So, does someone just go around and randomly place signs in yards? And when do they do this? In broad daylight? Late at night? The idea of someone setting their alarm for 3:30a.m. to post "Women for McCain" signs...
But, I watched one of my neighbors put up a second Obama sign yesterday in his yard. And I was thinking, oh, now I REALLY know you’re for Obama. That one sign wasn’t enough. I was still wondering who you’d vote for.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Keep passin' the candy
Last Thursday I had an all-day strategic planning retreat for one of my departments at work. We sat in a large classroom, at long tables forming a U shape. After lunch, someone started passing along the U a plastic Target bag of miscellaneous candy, Milky Ways, Twix, Peanut Butter Cups, etc. I passed it to the next person without taking any because I had just finished eating a cookie. When it got to the end of the U, the last person had to actually get up, cross the room behind the person speaking in front, and give the bag to the person at the beginning of the U. And what did that person do? Began passing it again! And I’m thinking, ok, I just said no about three minutes ago. I haven’t changed my mind! And some people had grabbed two or three pieces the first time, thinking they wouldn’t see the bag again, silly them. So, the bag was passed again. No, thanks. Still none for me. I passed it on and got up to go to the bathroom. I got back and guess what? The bag was going around for the third time. Are you kidding me? Thankfully others had noticed the absurdity of this and were smirking.
Sheesh. Enough with the candy! I hadn’t changed my mind.
But sometimes I do.
As I’ve been unpacking and organizing my belongings, I’ve come across pieces of clothing, books and movies that at one point in time, didn’t interest me. Some books I started and couldn’t get into. 10 pages in I knew it wasn’t working. I put it aside. But then a year later, I picked it up, started it, and interestingly, it sucked me in! I wanted to read it! And movies. You know those ones you saw once and thought it was so not what everyone hyped it up to be. But then you saw for a second time a couple months later and loved it. And maybe it was because the company in which you watched it was better. Or your mood was different. Something. And I was putting away some scarves last night. Many of them I didn’t wear for awhile, but now, for some reason, I’m wearing. I’m bringin’ ‘em back! Certain cds are the same way.
I love how different things speak to us, work for us, at different points in our life. My mind changes about them. Same thing happens for me in reading the Bible. Sometimes something I’ve read a trillion times falls on me like snowflakes. The snowflakes that because it’s so cold out, don’t go anywhere; they don’t melt. They just begin to cover you, softly, gently. Read another day, I wouldn’t have paused; the snowflakes would have immediately melted. But for some reason, that particular verse or chapter on that particular day is so unique and pretty. It hangs around long enough, like snowflakes, for me to see the twinkling white, crazy patterns.
Yesterday that verse was Psalm 46:10.
“Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.”
I’ve heard and read and even sung this verse many a time. But I think because stillness is not something I’ve participated in over the past month—at all!—it struck me like it has never struck me before. Like cold snowflakes, they're stickin' right now.
So, I guess I’m thankful that the candy keeps getting passed around. I may change my mind and take a piece every now and then. That peanut butter cup may be callin' my name next time.
Sheesh. Enough with the candy! I hadn’t changed my mind.
But sometimes I do.
As I’ve been unpacking and organizing my belongings, I’ve come across pieces of clothing, books and movies that at one point in time, didn’t interest me. Some books I started and couldn’t get into. 10 pages in I knew it wasn’t working. I put it aside. But then a year later, I picked it up, started it, and interestingly, it sucked me in! I wanted to read it! And movies. You know those ones you saw once and thought it was so not what everyone hyped it up to be. But then you saw for a second time a couple months later and loved it. And maybe it was because the company in which you watched it was better. Or your mood was different. Something. And I was putting away some scarves last night. Many of them I didn’t wear for awhile, but now, for some reason, I’m wearing. I’m bringin’ ‘em back! Certain cds are the same way.
I love how different things speak to us, work for us, at different points in our life. My mind changes about them. Same thing happens for me in reading the Bible. Sometimes something I’ve read a trillion times falls on me like snowflakes. The snowflakes that because it’s so cold out, don’t go anywhere; they don’t melt. They just begin to cover you, softly, gently. Read another day, I wouldn’t have paused; the snowflakes would have immediately melted. But for some reason, that particular verse or chapter on that particular day is so unique and pretty. It hangs around long enough, like snowflakes, for me to see the twinkling white, crazy patterns.
Yesterday that verse was Psalm 46:10.
“Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.”
I’ve heard and read and even sung this verse many a time. But I think because stillness is not something I’ve participated in over the past month—at all!—it struck me like it has never struck me before. Like cold snowflakes, they're stickin' right now.
So, I guess I’m thankful that the candy keeps getting passed around. I may change my mind and take a piece every now and then. That peanut butter cup may be callin' my name next time.
Friday, October 17, 2008
You're 19
“Just say you’re 19.”
That’s what my 12-year-old cousin said last night as he was about to smuggle me into the local community center’s “teen center.” I was touched he actually thought I could pull that off, but as it turned out there wasn’t a bouncer. I was able to easily walk in, plop down on the leopard-print futon next to my cousin (and Godchild), grab a guitar and proceed to lose in Guitar Hero by no less than 70,000 points (which he found to be absolutely hysterical).
Then we hit up Old Country Buffet—OCB—my cousin’s favorite restaurant, which I had never been to. And if I have a choice, will never go to again.
It was fun to talk about how slushies coming out of your nose—because you were laughing too hard—would really hurt. And gross but hilarious to watch my cousin supposedly semi-swallow a noodle only to bring it back up. It didn’t dawn on me until this morning...I should have shared some stories of my own childhood. How his mom would sometimes get me laughing so hard, I’d wet my pants! How she and I would dance to Billy Ocean “HEY hey YOU you...get into my car!”
And a month or so ago, I hit up IKEA with my brother. We thought it’d be really funny to whip out my camera and take pictures of us role-playing in some of the perfectly decorated little showrooms. So we did. And yup. It was funny. And nope. I didn’t wet my pants. We were so not acting our age.
Age has been on my mind a lot lately though. I have felt older as opposed to younger, even though out with friends not too long ago, some boys asked if we had just graduated from high school. Um, yes, 10 years ago! And even though someone just recently guessed that I was 22. Nope. Try again.
I feel old because I’m celebrating friends’ 30th birthdays. And because I now have college reunions. Because some of my friends are on their second child. Because I work on a college campus teeming with 20 year olds. And because I realize that at my age, my parents were done having their children more than five years ago! I feel old because I have a mortgage and a 401k, and my brother’s graduating from college.
But my cousin reminded me last night that you don’t always have to act (or feel) your age. In fact, maybe you shouldn’t. “Just say you’re 19.” It’s fun.
That’s what my 12-year-old cousin said last night as he was about to smuggle me into the local community center’s “teen center.” I was touched he actually thought I could pull that off, but as it turned out there wasn’t a bouncer. I was able to easily walk in, plop down on the leopard-print futon next to my cousin (and Godchild), grab a guitar and proceed to lose in Guitar Hero by no less than 70,000 points (which he found to be absolutely hysterical).
Then we hit up Old Country Buffet—OCB—my cousin’s favorite restaurant, which I had never been to. And if I have a choice, will never go to again.
It was fun to talk about how slushies coming out of your nose—because you were laughing too hard—would really hurt. And gross but hilarious to watch my cousin supposedly semi-swallow a noodle only to bring it back up. It didn’t dawn on me until this morning...I should have shared some stories of my own childhood. How his mom would sometimes get me laughing so hard, I’d wet my pants! How she and I would dance to Billy Ocean “HEY hey YOU you...get into my car!”
And a month or so ago, I hit up IKEA with my brother. We thought it’d be really funny to whip out my camera and take pictures of us role-playing in some of the perfectly decorated little showrooms. So we did. And yup. It was funny. And nope. I didn’t wet my pants. We were so not acting our age.
Age has been on my mind a lot lately though. I have felt older as opposed to younger, even though out with friends not too long ago, some boys asked if we had just graduated from high school. Um, yes, 10 years ago! And even though someone just recently guessed that I was 22. Nope. Try again.
I feel old because I’m celebrating friends’ 30th birthdays. And because I now have college reunions. Because some of my friends are on their second child. Because I work on a college campus teeming with 20 year olds. And because I realize that at my age, my parents were done having their children more than five years ago! I feel old because I have a mortgage and a 401k, and my brother’s graduating from college.
But my cousin reminded me last night that you don’t always have to act (or feel) your age. In fact, maybe you shouldn’t. “Just say you’re 19.” It’s fun.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Swamp tromp
My dad and I attended a seminar on healthy marriages last week. I needed to go for school, and he was my date. The person presenting gave this metaphor: Dating and the actual act of getting married (the wedding) is like swimming in this beautiful, crystal-clear, cool pool. And then as soon as the wedding is done, someone comes and scoops you up out of that and places you in a scummy, warm, germ-, bug-, crud-infested pond where lots of things are lurking. The word “fester” comes to mind. And I hate that word.
Wow. So then if someone could tell me why I subject myself to horribly awkward dates? Do I really want to live in a festering pond the rest of my life?
But the festering is not reserved to marriages. For my class this week, I had to write an essay about a relationship—one that was broken or threatened and then through some form of reconciliation was brought back together. Or at the very least, the people involved came to terms with the situation and were able to move on. Immediately one particular relationship of mine came to mind. And I assure you, there was some nasty, mucky water there! And it still isn’t very clean. The things lurking include betrayal, lies, resentment, anger, hurt.
I spent about six years growing up in a town just outside of Memphis—5th through 10th grade. During a couple of those summers, I spent a week at church camp. The big activity of the week was the “Swamp Tromp,” which consisted of tromping through a muddy swamp in the backwoods of Tennessee. The idea—the madness to the method—was that we build trust amongst each other. The mud was thick and, at times, deep. You’d have to carefully watch the person in front of you to know where to go or not go. One step and the mud would be at your ankles. The next step, it’d be up to your belly button. Sometimes there’d be roots or branches to watch out for. You were in charge of letting the person behind you know what was going on before they took their next step. And there was a lot of hand-holding.
One year, however, there was no Swamp Tromp. The camp administrators realized that there were water moccasins (as in SNAKES, not shoes) in the mud or sometimes sitting off on the bank watching these skinny, twerpy teens meander through THEIR territory. And maybe they had always been there, but this particular year the snakes were exceptionally bad because the weather had been cooler, thus rendering the swamp cooler and snakes digging the coolness... The thought of it makes me shudder, but I was much luckier than the other kids because my dad was my youth pastor. So he was there. No one else had their dads! Not like he could have saved me, but still. (Somehow I don’t think anything about snakes was on the release form that parents signed. But my dad was participating in the madness so I guess it didn’t matter for me.)
Everyone was always so excited about that damn Swamp Tromp, and I secretly dreaded it. It was like the dark spot (literally) in the week of fun that was church camp. I didn’t want to do it, but I had to, and to save face, I acted just as excited as everyone else. You even had to bring special Swamp Tromp clothes because after you swamped they would never be worn again. And I’m kind of a clean person, so this was not fun to me. Purell was not going to help the situation. But I can clearly remember the feeling of relief when we got to the end of that swamp. I really wish I could have seen my face. We’d all go to the volleyball pits where there was a hose, and we’d play in the water and get all the nasty swamp guts off of us, or as much as we could anyways. It never truly went away. And I swear to you, we still smelled like swamp the next day. But it was a celebratory time. We had done it together. We had survived the Swamp Tromp. It was worth it! We didn’t get eaten alive by water moccasins. And now, on to the campfire with smores and funness!
Anyways, I think relationships sometimes are like swamp tromps. We want them and, to some extent, we’re excited about them, but then we are secretly afraid of them. Things lurking include insecurities, jealousy, fear. What if someone gets to know me, the real me, and doesn’t like me? What if I get hurt? What if I fail or they fail? What if I hurt them?
But there’s comfort in knowing that we’re all in this together. Paul says to the Ephesians, “Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.” (4:2). It cracks me up that he uses the word bearing—or something like it. Not “relishing,” but bearing. Not jump up and down and be excitedly happy all the time with each other, but endure. It’s not easy, and no one ever said it was, to be with one another. To walk through the swamp together. But there’s also great comfort in knowing that God is the hose continually washing us clean of the muck—the insecurities. The jealousies. The anger.
So, I know relationships are hard, but I do crave them. I do believe we were meant to be in them, to constantly be working on them, through them. Sometimes I don’t want to give in and open up. And yet, I desperately want others to give in and open up. We are meant to help lead each other through the swamp, murky as it may be. And I do pray that one day I’ll find someone to be my swamp partner (We can be Shrek ogres together).
Donkey: Pick me, pick me!
Wow. So then if someone could tell me why I subject myself to horribly awkward dates? Do I really want to live in a festering pond the rest of my life?
But the festering is not reserved to marriages. For my class this week, I had to write an essay about a relationship—one that was broken or threatened and then through some form of reconciliation was brought back together. Or at the very least, the people involved came to terms with the situation and were able to move on. Immediately one particular relationship of mine came to mind. And I assure you, there was some nasty, mucky water there! And it still isn’t very clean. The things lurking include betrayal, lies, resentment, anger, hurt.
I spent about six years growing up in a town just outside of Memphis—5th through 10th grade. During a couple of those summers, I spent a week at church camp. The big activity of the week was the “Swamp Tromp,” which consisted of tromping through a muddy swamp in the backwoods of Tennessee. The idea—the madness to the method—was that we build trust amongst each other. The mud was thick and, at times, deep. You’d have to carefully watch the person in front of you to know where to go or not go. One step and the mud would be at your ankles. The next step, it’d be up to your belly button. Sometimes there’d be roots or branches to watch out for. You were in charge of letting the person behind you know what was going on before they took their next step. And there was a lot of hand-holding.
One year, however, there was no Swamp Tromp. The camp administrators realized that there were water moccasins (as in SNAKES, not shoes) in the mud or sometimes sitting off on the bank watching these skinny, twerpy teens meander through THEIR territory. And maybe they had always been there, but this particular year the snakes were exceptionally bad because the weather had been cooler, thus rendering the swamp cooler and snakes digging the coolness... The thought of it makes me shudder, but I was much luckier than the other kids because my dad was my youth pastor. So he was there. No one else had their dads! Not like he could have saved me, but still. (Somehow I don’t think anything about snakes was on the release form that parents signed. But my dad was participating in the madness so I guess it didn’t matter for me.)
Everyone was always so excited about that damn Swamp Tromp, and I secretly dreaded it. It was like the dark spot (literally) in the week of fun that was church camp. I didn’t want to do it, but I had to, and to save face, I acted just as excited as everyone else. You even had to bring special Swamp Tromp clothes because after you swamped they would never be worn again. And I’m kind of a clean person, so this was not fun to me. Purell was not going to help the situation. But I can clearly remember the feeling of relief when we got to the end of that swamp. I really wish I could have seen my face. We’d all go to the volleyball pits where there was a hose, and we’d play in the water and get all the nasty swamp guts off of us, or as much as we could anyways. It never truly went away. And I swear to you, we still smelled like swamp the next day. But it was a celebratory time. We had done it together. We had survived the Swamp Tromp. It was worth it! We didn’t get eaten alive by water moccasins. And now, on to the campfire with smores and funness!
Anyways, I think relationships sometimes are like swamp tromps. We want them and, to some extent, we’re excited about them, but then we are secretly afraid of them. Things lurking include insecurities, jealousy, fear. What if someone gets to know me, the real me, and doesn’t like me? What if I get hurt? What if I fail or they fail? What if I hurt them?
But there’s comfort in knowing that we’re all in this together. Paul says to the Ephesians, “Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.” (4:2). It cracks me up that he uses the word bearing—or something like it. Not “relishing,” but bearing. Not jump up and down and be excitedly happy all the time with each other, but endure. It’s not easy, and no one ever said it was, to be with one another. To walk through the swamp together. But there’s also great comfort in knowing that God is the hose continually washing us clean of the muck—the insecurities. The jealousies. The anger.
So, I know relationships are hard, but I do crave them. I do believe we were meant to be in them, to constantly be working on them, through them. Sometimes I don’t want to give in and open up. And yet, I desperately want others to give in and open up. We are meant to help lead each other through the swamp, murky as it may be. And I do pray that one day I’ll find someone to be my swamp partner (We can be Shrek ogres together).
Donkey: Pick me, pick me!
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Good night, moon
I can remember riding in the back seat of the car at night when I was little. My head would rest against the window and I’d look up at the moon. I pondered how it could so easily follow us. Where ever we went, it came along. My dad could turn, speed up, slow down, go back. It didn’t matter, it was always in the same spot in the window. How did it do that?! I wondered. It didn’t help that there was a little segment on Sesame Street in which the moon was a cookie. How exactly did that work? You could take a bite out of it! I didn’t understand. Ernie, Bert, help me out here. Clearly, I was thinking way too much even as a child.
I thought about this last night as I drove home from a late movie. A friend called to tell me to look at the moon. It was gorgeous, and if not full, close to it. But as he told me this, I couldn’t see the moon. I was driving, and I strained my neck in all directions trying to see it. I couldn’t! (eyes back on the road, Heather!)
I knew it was there though. It was like a spotlight. If I didn’t need to let other cars know that I was on the road, pretty sure I could have driven home without my headlights on. It was so bright.
As I crawled in bed, I decided to leave the blinds pulled up (window is second-story) because again, even though I couldn’t see the moon, it’s light was there. It was shining in the window, creating pretty patterns of light on my comforter through the branches of a tree. I obviously was awake for maybe a total of two minutes to enjoy this, but it felt good falling asleep knowing the moon’s light was on me.
I have a few friends who are my moons. Where ever I go, they come along. I can’t always see them directly, but their love and prayers are felt, and that feels good. One of my friends told me recently that she’s pretty sure God is probably getting really annoyed with her for continuing to pray about the same thing for me each night. And I got teary-eyed. She's always there in the same spot, following me. Some other dear friends of mine are currently in Iran, and they called from across the globe to tell me that they were thinking of me as I moved into my new home. They’re my moons. Their light feels good.
I was up early this morning, and guess what? The moon was still there.
I thought about this last night as I drove home from a late movie. A friend called to tell me to look at the moon. It was gorgeous, and if not full, close to it. But as he told me this, I couldn’t see the moon. I was driving, and I strained my neck in all directions trying to see it. I couldn’t! (eyes back on the road, Heather!)
I knew it was there though. It was like a spotlight. If I didn’t need to let other cars know that I was on the road, pretty sure I could have driven home without my headlights on. It was so bright.
As I crawled in bed, I decided to leave the blinds pulled up (window is second-story) because again, even though I couldn’t see the moon, it’s light was there. It was shining in the window, creating pretty patterns of light on my comforter through the branches of a tree. I obviously was awake for maybe a total of two minutes to enjoy this, but it felt good falling asleep knowing the moon’s light was on me.
I have a few friends who are my moons. Where ever I go, they come along. I can’t always see them directly, but their love and prayers are felt, and that feels good. One of my friends told me recently that she’s pretty sure God is probably getting really annoyed with her for continuing to pray about the same thing for me each night. And I got teary-eyed. She's always there in the same spot, following me. Some other dear friends of mine are currently in Iran, and they called from across the globe to tell me that they were thinking of me as I moved into my new home. They’re my moons. Their light feels good.
I was up early this morning, and guess what? The moon was still there.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Hello, Neighbor
Living alone, I don’t shut doors. I leave the bathroom door open, mainly because this allows me to continue hearing my music. But why shut it? Who’s going to come in? Well, yesterday I was about to head to my girlfriend’s spontaneous cocktail party and decided to quickly go to the bathroom before I hopped in the car. So I'm in the half bath right off my kitchen. My mind was racing with things I didn’t want to forget…birthday candles to put in the cupcakes my friend made for another friend’s birthday, plastic forks…and then…oh my. OH MY. There’s my neighbor! He had just gotten his mail and was strolling down the street past my place. All he needed to do was glance through my big kitchen window, and well, there I was. Going to the bathroom. I could have waved. He could have nodded. Hello, neighbor! Thankfully, I stretched just enough, reached the door and gave it a good swing; it caught just enough to stay shut.
This reminded me of the Timberwolves game last year. I went with some friends and in between quarters got up to the use the bathroom. Only if you’re at some really lame concert or sporting event where there aren’t many people do you get to select which of the 500 stalls you want. Normally you just go to the one most recently opened. No questions asked. I always wonder what would happen if, when one opened, I just didn’t go in. The person behind me would probably give me a nudge and say, "um, hello, that one’s open." I’d politely smile and "yes, I know. I want the next one." Anyways, so Timberwovles game. There were a lot of people. I didn’t have a choice. So, I’m in my designated stall, and I glance to the right and realize that, that’s funny. Where there normally is a little silver trash container and then toilet paper built in, there was nothing. For a split second I thought how weird that they’d put a square mirror right there in its place, because I could see my thigh and my...wait…that is SO not my thigh or my…OH MY GOSH! There’s a hole and there’s the woman in the next stall. Hello neighbor!
I looked around and with one hand was probably making the gesture as if in front of an audience…can you believe this? I mean really!? But there was no one there to participate. Well, no built-in thing to hold the toilet paper meant there was no toilet paper. So, for a split second I contemplated putting my hand through the little “window” and asking the woman next to me… "I see that you’re done, would you mind passing me some TP?” (Gray Poupon-style...pun intended) , but I couldn’t do it. I rummaged through my purse conveniently hanging from the hook on the inside of the door and grabbed a couple Kleenex. I kind of wanted to forewarn the next woman in line who was about to enter this stall, but at this point I was chuckling to myself and decided nope. Survival of the fittest in this here bathroom in the Target Center.
And the fittest:
Shut the door.
Are aware of surroundings.
Always carry Kleenex.
And carry little containers of Purell!
This reminded me of the Timberwolves game last year. I went with some friends and in between quarters got up to the use the bathroom. Only if you’re at some really lame concert or sporting event where there aren’t many people do you get to select which of the 500 stalls you want. Normally you just go to the one most recently opened. No questions asked. I always wonder what would happen if, when one opened, I just didn’t go in. The person behind me would probably give me a nudge and say, "um, hello, that one’s open." I’d politely smile and "yes, I know. I want the next one." Anyways, so Timberwovles game. There were a lot of people. I didn’t have a choice. So, I’m in my designated stall, and I glance to the right and realize that, that’s funny. Where there normally is a little silver trash container and then toilet paper built in, there was nothing. For a split second I thought how weird that they’d put a square mirror right there in its place, because I could see my thigh and my...wait…that is SO not my thigh or my…OH MY GOSH! There’s a hole and there’s the woman in the next stall. Hello neighbor!
I looked around and with one hand was probably making the gesture as if in front of an audience…can you believe this? I mean really!? But there was no one there to participate. Well, no built-in thing to hold the toilet paper meant there was no toilet paper. So, for a split second I contemplated putting my hand through the little “window” and asking the woman next to me… "I see that you’re done, would you mind passing me some TP?” (Gray Poupon-style...pun intended) , but I couldn’t do it. I rummaged through my purse conveniently hanging from the hook on the inside of the door and grabbed a couple Kleenex. I kind of wanted to forewarn the next woman in line who was about to enter this stall, but at this point I was chuckling to myself and decided nope. Survival of the fittest in this here bathroom in the Target Center.
And the fittest:
Shut the door.
Are aware of surroundings.
Always carry Kleenex.
And carry little containers of Purell!
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Bumps in the Night
When I turn off my lights—lately around midnight or a little after—I don’t know where I’m going. In my apartment in California, I knew how many steps it was from the bathroom to my bed when I’d get up in the middle of the night. I knew how far to the right I should go to not ram my thigh into the corner of the couch when I walked from the living room in the dark. I knew how far to outstretch my arm and grab the door handle early in the morning. The same thing at my parents’ house. I can’t tell you the actual number of steps down to the basement, but I do know when I’m done with them. It’s just ingrained. I know after dup dup dup dup dup dup..I’m done. I’m at the bottom. I never have to tentatively step around for the next step...is there another one? I just know.
In my new place, I fumble in the dark. I turned off the lights last night, and as I tried to make it to the steps, my knee went right into the end table, and I saw this morning I had a nice bruise to prove it. I climbed up the stairs tentatively unsure when I’d reach the top. I made my way to the bedroom and had to use my arms as feelers. Where was my bed? And then where was my pillow?
I hear people sometimes say, "Well, God told me..." or "God really directed me..." And I know what they’re saying, and I get it. And I’ve probably said those things or things similar before. But to be perfectly honest, it is rarely so cut and dry in my life. God does not give me a ring or shoot me an email and let me know what’s up, let me know where I should go in the dark. I can only take baby steps forward and kind of hope that I’m where I should be.
I guess sometimes I think God feels more like the railing up the steps or maybe even the end table that my knee hit. What’s ahead of me is super dark and fuzzy and unknown. And despite prayer and sometimes serious pleading, no light shines before me. Instead, I just bump around like a fumbling idiot and God gently—and sometimes not so gently—pokes me, guides me from the side. Like the bumpers at the bowling alley.
Some of the big decisions I’ve made in my life have not been because I knew exactly what I wanted. Rather they were made knowing things that I didn’t want. Again, to use the bowling alley analogy, I’d hit the bumper and realize, not such a good idea. Get your butt back over.
I heard someone recite the Psalm 119:105 the other day. "Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light for my path." And I thought, not really. I mean yes, but I think sometimes the lamp or the light is really the railing or the coffee table.
In my new place, I fumble in the dark. I turned off the lights last night, and as I tried to make it to the steps, my knee went right into the end table, and I saw this morning I had a nice bruise to prove it. I climbed up the stairs tentatively unsure when I’d reach the top. I made my way to the bedroom and had to use my arms as feelers. Where was my bed? And then where was my pillow?
I hear people sometimes say, "Well, God told me..." or "God really directed me..." And I know what they’re saying, and I get it. And I’ve probably said those things or things similar before. But to be perfectly honest, it is rarely so cut and dry in my life. God does not give me a ring or shoot me an email and let me know what’s up, let me know where I should go in the dark. I can only take baby steps forward and kind of hope that I’m where I should be.
I guess sometimes I think God feels more like the railing up the steps or maybe even the end table that my knee hit. What’s ahead of me is super dark and fuzzy and unknown. And despite prayer and sometimes serious pleading, no light shines before me. Instead, I just bump around like a fumbling idiot and God gently—and sometimes not so gently—pokes me, guides me from the side. Like the bumpers at the bowling alley.
Some of the big decisions I’ve made in my life have not been because I knew exactly what I wanted. Rather they were made knowing things that I didn’t want. Again, to use the bowling alley analogy, I’d hit the bumper and realize, not such a good idea. Get your butt back over.
I heard someone recite the Psalm 119:105 the other day. "Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light for my path." And I thought, not really. I mean yes, but I think sometimes the lamp or the light is really the railing or the coffee table.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Love or something
Dad was bent over, pencil in mouth, measuring tape in hand. He was calculating the length of trim needed to finish off one of my cupboards in my new kitchen. I patted him on the back and said, “you’re the best, papa,” as I headed off to church Sunday night.
The thing is, he should have been home taking a nap and watching football because for the previous three days and four nights he had done nothing but help me. I closed on my townhome last week, and while I was at work (on deadline and unable to take time off), dad was in my new place, having taken vacation days, painting my kitchen and bathroom. I didn’t even go and buy the paint. All I had to do was pick out the swatch. He also rented a carpet cleaner to clean all my carpets. He was there Wednesday night, Thursday day, Thursday night, Friday day, Friday night, trying to prepare the place for moving in on Saturday. Then Saturday day and night, he along with the rest of my family helped me move in and unpack. So Sunday definitely should have been kept holy. He should have just watched Favre like I know he really wanted to, but instead he called to say he was coming back over to do more projects.
Then Monday, on his regular day off, guess what? He was back at my place, painting a door, and hanging things I had asked him to hang (I made him a list and had pre-marked the wall.) And I assure you, he is not done. He’s got more projects. Some of which he’s good at and likes to do, but others, well, I just need ‘em done, and he’s my dad, and he’s going to do them for me because he's so great.
I cannot thank my dad enough. I cannot repay him. I mean, I’ll write the check out to him and compensate him for the paint and the other gajillion things he bought, but that really is not repaying him. To be shown such giving love, to be served so consistently and expected to give nothing in return is hard to accept. It’s hard, I think, because I know I don’t deserve it. And it’s hard too because I can’t give it all back. At least not right now. I was sharing this phenomenon with a friend at work. She is a mom of children about my age, and she smiled and said, “they” (my parents, because really mom is included in this, just in different ways)…anyways, she said, “they must really love you or something.” I smiled back. She said that’s what parents do.
It’s a lot like my relationship with God. I mean, what I can give him, is just pitiful. And yet he just gives and gives and loves and loves. He fixes me up, paints me all clean, hooks up my wires when they get crossed, tightens my lightbulbs. I often have this weird mix of feelings as I consider God...superbly inadequate, but so thankful. helpless and humbled, but determined to say thank you as many times as possible, even if they're weak thank yous.
Anyways, Dad went home yesterday but then he came back over later last night to hook up my wireless internet. When he left, I thanked him (lamely) and he smiled and said he’d be back.
He must love me or something. I love him too.
The thing is, he should have been home taking a nap and watching football because for the previous three days and four nights he had done nothing but help me. I closed on my townhome last week, and while I was at work (on deadline and unable to take time off), dad was in my new place, having taken vacation days, painting my kitchen and bathroom. I didn’t even go and buy the paint. All I had to do was pick out the swatch. He also rented a carpet cleaner to clean all my carpets. He was there Wednesday night, Thursday day, Thursday night, Friday day, Friday night, trying to prepare the place for moving in on Saturday. Then Saturday day and night, he along with the rest of my family helped me move in and unpack. So Sunday definitely should have been kept holy. He should have just watched Favre like I know he really wanted to, but instead he called to say he was coming back over to do more projects.
Then Monday, on his regular day off, guess what? He was back at my place, painting a door, and hanging things I had asked him to hang (I made him a list and had pre-marked the wall.) And I assure you, he is not done. He’s got more projects. Some of which he’s good at and likes to do, but others, well, I just need ‘em done, and he’s my dad, and he’s going to do them for me because he's so great.
I cannot thank my dad enough. I cannot repay him. I mean, I’ll write the check out to him and compensate him for the paint and the other gajillion things he bought, but that really is not repaying him. To be shown such giving love, to be served so consistently and expected to give nothing in return is hard to accept. It’s hard, I think, because I know I don’t deserve it. And it’s hard too because I can’t give it all back. At least not right now. I was sharing this phenomenon with a friend at work. She is a mom of children about my age, and she smiled and said, “they” (my parents, because really mom is included in this, just in different ways)…anyways, she said, “they must really love you or something.” I smiled back. She said that’s what parents do.
It’s a lot like my relationship with God. I mean, what I can give him, is just pitiful. And yet he just gives and gives and loves and loves. He fixes me up, paints me all clean, hooks up my wires when they get crossed, tightens my lightbulbs. I often have this weird mix of feelings as I consider God...superbly inadequate, but so thankful. helpless and humbled, but determined to say thank you as many times as possible, even if they're weak thank yous.
Anyways, Dad went home yesterday but then he came back over later last night to hook up my wireless internet. When he left, I thanked him (lamely) and he smiled and said he’d be back.
He must love me or something. I love him too.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Neither tongue nor dung
Ok.
It’s official. I am tired. I am really tired. And you wanna know how I know? I’m reading about tung oil online because I can’t focus one minute longer here at work. It’s been an incredibly, insanely busy week, and it ain’t over.
But the tung oil. So a few weeks ago I bought an antique steamer chest on Craigslist for $20. I emailed the guy to see if it was available. He responded that yes it was, and that although he lives about 45 minutes out of the cities, he’d be in town the next day for an eye appt, so we could meet somewhere. We, of course, agreed to meet in the Target parking lot. For those of you who know me, I have this thing about meeting strange guys for the first time in Target parking lots. Well, I made sure my friend could come with me. So on that morning, I picked her up and we drove to Target. It was POURING. As we sat in the parking lot listening to the rain pounding on my windshield, I asked her if she realized that it was 10am on a Thursday and we were sitting in my car in a Target parking lot waiting for some strange man, whose last name was Lime, to bring his steamer chest. Did she find this odd? Yes. Yes she did. But we’ve been in other odd situations together too, so it’s becoming less odd I think. Anyways, long story short, I got drenched, made a new friend with a last name of Lime and got me my steamer chest.
I wanted to refinish and use as a coffee table, so I researched. I found out that after sanding the chest down, taking the rust off the metal, cleaning the inside, and making sure all glue and canvas was off (read: after LOTS and LOTS of work), you finish it with tung oil. Tung oil. More specifically tung oil with mineral spirits. So that’s what I’ve been doing over the past week (And my mom. In fact, she was out in the garage a few nights ago in her pjs putting another layer of tung oil on my chest. Thank you, mom.)
But what the heck is tung oil? Well, let me tell you. It comes from neither tongue nor dung but the tung tree, of course. This kind of tree has a nut and it’s the oil that’s made when you press the seed of the nut. It’s considered a drying oil, which means it makes whatever you’re trying to finish tough and water-resistant. It’s also sometimes called China wood oil, because I guess the Chinese have been using it for thousands of years. But, I’m sad to say, if you are allergic to nuts, you may have a problem coming over to hang out with me and sitting down to eat your dinner on my new coffee table to watch a movie.
Where are these tung trees? Like could I plant a tung tree? It’s native to China, Burma and Vietnam, but was brought over to the United States specifically for tung oil purposes after WWI and has been found to grow best in the Gulf states between Texas and Florida. The tung tree’s fruit is hard and woody and pear-shaped. And guess what? It’s ripe in the fall! Right now.
And I’m ripe for a nap.
It’s official. I am tired. I am really tired. And you wanna know how I know? I’m reading about tung oil online because I can’t focus one minute longer here at work. It’s been an incredibly, insanely busy week, and it ain’t over.
But the tung oil. So a few weeks ago I bought an antique steamer chest on Craigslist for $20. I emailed the guy to see if it was available. He responded that yes it was, and that although he lives about 45 minutes out of the cities, he’d be in town the next day for an eye appt, so we could meet somewhere. We, of course, agreed to meet in the Target parking lot. For those of you who know me, I have this thing about meeting strange guys for the first time in Target parking lots. Well, I made sure my friend could come with me. So on that morning, I picked her up and we drove to Target. It was POURING. As we sat in the parking lot listening to the rain pounding on my windshield, I asked her if she realized that it was 10am on a Thursday and we were sitting in my car in a Target parking lot waiting for some strange man, whose last name was Lime, to bring his steamer chest. Did she find this odd? Yes. Yes she did. But we’ve been in other odd situations together too, so it’s becoming less odd I think. Anyways, long story short, I got drenched, made a new friend with a last name of Lime and got me my steamer chest.
I wanted to refinish and use as a coffee table, so I researched. I found out that after sanding the chest down, taking the rust off the metal, cleaning the inside, and making sure all glue and canvas was off (read: after LOTS and LOTS of work), you finish it with tung oil. Tung oil. More specifically tung oil with mineral spirits. So that’s what I’ve been doing over the past week (And my mom. In fact, she was out in the garage a few nights ago in her pjs putting another layer of tung oil on my chest. Thank you, mom.)
But what the heck is tung oil? Well, let me tell you. It comes from neither tongue nor dung but the tung tree, of course. This kind of tree has a nut and it’s the oil that’s made when you press the seed of the nut. It’s considered a drying oil, which means it makes whatever you’re trying to finish tough and water-resistant. It’s also sometimes called China wood oil, because I guess the Chinese have been using it for thousands of years. But, I’m sad to say, if you are allergic to nuts, you may have a problem coming over to hang out with me and sitting down to eat your dinner on my new coffee table to watch a movie.
Where are these tung trees? Like could I plant a tung tree? It’s native to China, Burma and Vietnam, but was brought over to the United States specifically for tung oil purposes after WWI and has been found to grow best in the Gulf states between Texas and Florida. The tung tree’s fruit is hard and woody and pear-shaped. And guess what? It’s ripe in the fall! Right now.
And I’m ripe for a nap.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Dwell
You know how when you hear about a book, a song, a place, that you’ve never heard about before. And then after hearing about it for the first time, you suddenly hear about it everywhere. Everyone’s talking about it, and you wonder why the heck you hadn’t heard of it before!
The word “dwell” will not leave me alone. And obviously I’ve heard this word before, but just never really thought about it. In Barnes and Noble a few weeks ago, I was looking at magazines. Feeling the ones with the really nice thick pages--so nice. And then flipping through the eye-catching ones. I picked up Dwell. Not only is the magazine stunning but so are the dwellings pictured inside. I mean, it makes you feel bad that you don’t have enough money to outfit your house with all this fancy furniture and decorating, but still.
Then a friend gave me music from Brooke Fraser, and I’m stuck on the last song. The chorus includes the line “Till I only Dwell in Thee.” It’s been my mantra the past few weeks, really only because I can’t get the melody out of my head. But it’s about beseeching God to please come after us until we only dwell in him because we’re so prone to wander about aimlessly.
“If to distant lands I scatter
If I sail to farthest seas
Would you find and firm and gather
‘Til I only dwell in Thee
If I flee from greenest pastures
Would you leave to look for me
Forfeit glory to come after
‘Til I only dwell in Thee”
Yesterday morning, I put my pen the paper, gaining a 30-year-mortgage on a townhome. The woman walking me through the bajillion papers I had to sign was quickly explaining what all the fine print meant. To be honest, I just kept nodding, not really paying attention because I was too busy looking at the seller across the table and imagining her in MY house (even though she’s lived there for 10 years, and me a total of 0 days). But at some point the woman helping me used the word “dwelling,” and I jumped to attention. There is it again! Dwelling. I’m going to have a dwelling?!I was signing for a dwelling!
And, lastly, this morning, I quickly read more of Ephesians while I waited for my straightener to heat up. And guess what? Here’s what Paul said, “I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may DWELL in your hearts through faith.” (3:16-17)
Part of me was like "ok, enough with the dwell." But the learner in me got the best of me. I just looked "dwell" up in the dictionary. It means to take up permanent residence, to reside.
And I was struck by all the things around us here on earth that seek our dwelling. In sucking up our time, our money and our thoughts, things like jobs, material possessions and even family and friends become our dwellings. We act as though they’re permanent, and we decide to take up residence there. Like Fraser’s song we situate ourselves in farthest seas. We set up shop in the wrong places. And I’m telling you, my new home is pretty great. I cannot wait to get a cool welcome mat in front of the red front door and get all my books out of their boxes, but I do not want to dwell there.
I want to dwell in Christ, and I love that if we decide to dwell in Christ, he’ll totally dwell in us in return. Paul says through our faith, he’ll dwell in our hearts. He’ll reside permamently. He won’t leave.
So, where you dwelling today?
The word “dwell” will not leave me alone. And obviously I’ve heard this word before, but just never really thought about it. In Barnes and Noble a few weeks ago, I was looking at magazines. Feeling the ones with the really nice thick pages--so nice. And then flipping through the eye-catching ones. I picked up Dwell. Not only is the magazine stunning but so are the dwellings pictured inside. I mean, it makes you feel bad that you don’t have enough money to outfit your house with all this fancy furniture and decorating, but still.
Then a friend gave me music from Brooke Fraser, and I’m stuck on the last song. The chorus includes the line “Till I only Dwell in Thee.” It’s been my mantra the past few weeks, really only because I can’t get the melody out of my head. But it’s about beseeching God to please come after us until we only dwell in him because we’re so prone to wander about aimlessly.
“If to distant lands I scatter
If I sail to farthest seas
Would you find and firm and gather
‘Til I only dwell in Thee
If I flee from greenest pastures
Would you leave to look for me
Forfeit glory to come after
‘Til I only dwell in Thee”
Yesterday morning, I put my pen the paper, gaining a 30-year-mortgage on a townhome. The woman walking me through the bajillion papers I had to sign was quickly explaining what all the fine print meant. To be honest, I just kept nodding, not really paying attention because I was too busy looking at the seller across the table and imagining her in MY house (even though she’s lived there for 10 years, and me a total of 0 days). But at some point the woman helping me used the word “dwelling,” and I jumped to attention. There is it again! Dwelling. I’m going to have a dwelling?!I was signing for a dwelling!
And, lastly, this morning, I quickly read more of Ephesians while I waited for my straightener to heat up. And guess what? Here’s what Paul said, “I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may DWELL in your hearts through faith.” (3:16-17)
Part of me was like "ok, enough with the dwell." But the learner in me got the best of me. I just looked "dwell" up in the dictionary. It means to take up permanent residence, to reside.
And I was struck by all the things around us here on earth that seek our dwelling. In sucking up our time, our money and our thoughts, things like jobs, material possessions and even family and friends become our dwellings. We act as though they’re permanent, and we decide to take up residence there. Like Fraser’s song we situate ourselves in farthest seas. We set up shop in the wrong places. And I’m telling you, my new home is pretty great. I cannot wait to get a cool welcome mat in front of the red front door and get all my books out of their boxes, but I do not want to dwell there.
I want to dwell in Christ, and I love that if we decide to dwell in Christ, he’ll totally dwell in us in return. Paul says through our faith, he’ll dwell in our hearts. He’ll reside permamently. He won’t leave.
So, where you dwelling today?
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Staccato highlighting
I’ve been reading for school for the past two hours, and I’m having a hard time focusing. Not because there are 15 other things I need to get done today. Not because I’m dozing off. No. I’m having a hard time focusing because they former owner of the book was troubled.
I purchased the book used online through Amazon, risking the inevitable dog-ear, some highlighting and the occasional annotating. But I’m OK with that if it saves me money. This particular book is no different. It has all of these things, except, when it comes to highlighting, it is unique. So unique. Instead of highlighting by the line, this person highlighted by the word. As in:
Such HIGHLIGHT sacralization HIGHLGIHT of HIGHLIGHT cultural HIGHLIGHT identity HIGHLIGHT is HIGHLIGHT invaluable HIGHLIGHT for HIGHLIGHT the HIGHLIGHT parties HIGHLIGHT in HIGHLIGHT conflict HIGHLIGHT because HIGHLIGHT it HIGHLIGHT can HIGHLIGHT transmute HIGHLIGHT what HIGHLIGHT is HIGHLIGHT in HIGHLIGHT fact HIGHLIGHT a HIGHLIGHT murder HIGHLIGHT into HIGHLIGHT an HIGHLIGHT act HIGHLIGHT of HIGHLIGHT piety HIGHLIGHT.
This absolutely cannot save time. Lift highlighter, lower highlighter. Lift. Lower. Lift. Lower. Lift. Lower. Rather than dowwwwnnnnnn lift dowwwwwwwnnnnnnnn lift.
Nevertheless, if you don’t care about wasting the time and still choose to highlight by the word, why oh why highlight “of” and “a” and “an” and “of” again?
The words started turning into notes for me. I kept thinking of my piano teacher tap tap tapping her fingers on the piano next to me as I learned to play a piece “staccato.” The notes were to be short, detached, quick. Rapid-fire.
I know the author of this book didn’t write his words to be detached, and yet the former owner of the book transformed them into a staccato piece of music. INTO. AN. ACT. OF. PIETY. And notice how staccato is rarely quiet? Rapid-fire is not quiet. So the former owner now has the author yelling at me!
The sentence "Such sacralization of cultural identity is invaluable for the parties in conflict because it can transmute what is in fact a murder into an act of piety." does not need any further complications. It requires all of my focus to decipher on its own. So, you former owner you, I wonder if you knew this and just thought you’d be funny and staccato highlight throughout? Did you want people to not know what they were reading because they were too uncomfortable with the author yelling at them? Or did you want the reader to wonder what the heck was wrong with you instead of paying attention? Whatever you were thinking, not cool.
I purchased the book used online through Amazon, risking the inevitable dog-ear, some highlighting and the occasional annotating. But I’m OK with that if it saves me money. This particular book is no different. It has all of these things, except, when it comes to highlighting, it is unique. So unique. Instead of highlighting by the line, this person highlighted by the word. As in:
Such HIGHLIGHT sacralization HIGHLGIHT of HIGHLIGHT cultural HIGHLIGHT identity HIGHLIGHT is HIGHLIGHT invaluable HIGHLIGHT for HIGHLIGHT the HIGHLIGHT parties HIGHLIGHT in HIGHLIGHT conflict HIGHLIGHT because HIGHLIGHT it HIGHLIGHT can HIGHLIGHT transmute HIGHLIGHT what HIGHLIGHT is HIGHLIGHT in HIGHLIGHT fact HIGHLIGHT a HIGHLIGHT murder HIGHLIGHT into HIGHLIGHT an HIGHLIGHT act HIGHLIGHT of HIGHLIGHT piety HIGHLIGHT.
This absolutely cannot save time. Lift highlighter, lower highlighter. Lift. Lower. Lift. Lower. Lift. Lower. Rather than dowwwwnnnnnn lift dowwwwwwwnnnnnnnn lift.
Nevertheless, if you don’t care about wasting the time and still choose to highlight by the word, why oh why highlight “of” and “a” and “an” and “of” again?
The words started turning into notes for me. I kept thinking of my piano teacher tap tap tapping her fingers on the piano next to me as I learned to play a piece “staccato.” The notes were to be short, detached, quick. Rapid-fire.
I know the author of this book didn’t write his words to be detached, and yet the former owner of the book transformed them into a staccato piece of music. INTO. AN. ACT. OF. PIETY. And notice how staccato is rarely quiet? Rapid-fire is not quiet. So the former owner now has the author yelling at me!
The sentence "Such sacralization of cultural identity is invaluable for the parties in conflict because it can transmute what is in fact a murder into an act of piety." does not need any further complications. It requires all of my focus to decipher on its own. So, you former owner you, I wonder if you knew this and just thought you’d be funny and staccato highlight throughout? Did you want people to not know what they were reading because they were too uncomfortable with the author yelling at them? Or did you want the reader to wonder what the heck was wrong with you instead of paying attention? Whatever you were thinking, not cool.
Friday, September 26, 2008
In the clear
A couple weekends ago I went camping with two wonderful friends. Have you ever noticed that everything is sharper--clearer--while camping?
The stars, you can actually see them.
Loons singing; crickets chirping; the snap, crackle, pop of the campfire. I can hear them because my cell phone isn’t vibrating, and my music isn’t blaring.
Food. It tastes better because you’re slowly cooking it over an open fire rather than zapping it in the microwave. The corn on the cob I had seriously gave the state fair’s corn a run for its money. And Smores? I’m not even a “sweets” person, and yet I couldn’t get enough! I think I had three? And French-pressed coffee is pretty much heaven when enjoyed on a brisk morning, sitting in a camping chair reading.
And friends. You really hear them. Through the smoky glow of the fire, you hear and feel their frustrations; you listen to their hopes and aspirations; and you’re reminded why you are friends with them. Because they are really stinkin’ great.
While camping, everything feels sharp and clear, but back to the “real world,” there’s Facebook, cell phones, traffic, honking horns, schedules, deadlines. There’s just stuff, and it gets in the way. It’s hard to get clarity.
But, this morning, I hopped on 94 to head to work, and I gasped. There in front of me, just above the line of the freeway and the tops of buildings was the sun. It was the full-circle sun you can look at because it hasn’t risen enough yet. It was this brilliant, deep orange circle contrasted by this crazy dark turquoise sky, still trying to wake up. It was sharp! So sharp. I wanted to text my closest friends to say LOOK AT THE SUN RIGHT NOW! Which, actually, if I got that text from someone, I’d probably wonder about them, but… (especially if they were in a different time zone!)
As the sun continued rising and losing its edges--turning into a big blob of dayness as I got closer to work--I realized I had just seen some clearness. Some clarity in the “real world.” And no, I didn’t crawl out of a Coleman tent this morning, but I did walk out of a house with a roof. And I did have three voice messages on my cell this morning from dear friends thinking of me (I crashed early last night). And I did have some piping-hot coffee in my hand. And it was Friday.
Sometimes I may have to listen a little harder or wait a little longer or watch a little more closely, but it’s so there. The clearness.
The stars, you can actually see them.
Loons singing; crickets chirping; the snap, crackle, pop of the campfire. I can hear them because my cell phone isn’t vibrating, and my music isn’t blaring.
Food. It tastes better because you’re slowly cooking it over an open fire rather than zapping it in the microwave. The corn on the cob I had seriously gave the state fair’s corn a run for its money. And Smores? I’m not even a “sweets” person, and yet I couldn’t get enough! I think I had three? And French-pressed coffee is pretty much heaven when enjoyed on a brisk morning, sitting in a camping chair reading.
And friends. You really hear them. Through the smoky glow of the fire, you hear and feel their frustrations; you listen to their hopes and aspirations; and you’re reminded why you are friends with them. Because they are really stinkin’ great.
While camping, everything feels sharp and clear, but back to the “real world,” there’s Facebook, cell phones, traffic, honking horns, schedules, deadlines. There’s just stuff, and it gets in the way. It’s hard to get clarity.
But, this morning, I hopped on 94 to head to work, and I gasped. There in front of me, just above the line of the freeway and the tops of buildings was the sun. It was the full-circle sun you can look at because it hasn’t risen enough yet. It was this brilliant, deep orange circle contrasted by this crazy dark turquoise sky, still trying to wake up. It was sharp! So sharp. I wanted to text my closest friends to say LOOK AT THE SUN RIGHT NOW! Which, actually, if I got that text from someone, I’d probably wonder about them, but… (especially if they were in a different time zone!)
As the sun continued rising and losing its edges--turning into a big blob of dayness as I got closer to work--I realized I had just seen some clearness. Some clarity in the “real world.” And no, I didn’t crawl out of a Coleman tent this morning, but I did walk out of a house with a roof. And I did have three voice messages on my cell this morning from dear friends thinking of me (I crashed early last night). And I did have some piping-hot coffee in my hand. And it was Friday.
Sometimes I may have to listen a little harder or wait a little longer or watch a little more closely, but it’s so there. The clearness.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
The guy who doesn't measure
I just got an update in the mail on my 401K, basically telling me how much I’m worth (how much money my brother will get if I die right now).
I spent nearly 30 minutes on the phone yesterday with someone, measuring out how much my new home and all my possessions are worth in order set up a new insurance policy.
I measured out 2.5 scoops of coffee and filled my pot to the 8 line in order to drink sweet, caffeinated nectar the second I hopped out of the shower this morning.
Last night, I set my alarm measuring out how much time I’d need to get ready, based on time of first meeting, planned hairstyle, etc.
I’ve been measuring furniture to make sure it fits in the back of the car and then its proposed destination in my new place. Inches matter.
We measure. We measure everything from ingredients in recipes and money in our accounts to ourselves compared to others. We think things like “We just don’t measure up” or maybe even say things like “They don’t measure up.” A couple days ago I was reading Ephesians, and I was reminded that we cannot measure God because he’s crazy reckless like that. He doesn’t use a coffee scoop or calculator, and he certainly doesn’t have judging eyes. So we may as well put away all of our measuring tools and gadgets.
“Now to him who is able to do IMMEASURABLY more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.”
Ephesians 3: 20-21
What a relief! And really, what girl doesn’t want the mysterious guy who throws caution to the wind? The guy who doesn't measure...
I spent nearly 30 minutes on the phone yesterday with someone, measuring out how much my new home and all my possessions are worth in order set up a new insurance policy.
I measured out 2.5 scoops of coffee and filled my pot to the 8 line in order to drink sweet, caffeinated nectar the second I hopped out of the shower this morning.
Last night, I set my alarm measuring out how much time I’d need to get ready, based on time of first meeting, planned hairstyle, etc.
I’ve been measuring furniture to make sure it fits in the back of the car and then its proposed destination in my new place. Inches matter.
We measure. We measure everything from ingredients in recipes and money in our accounts to ourselves compared to others. We think things like “We just don’t measure up” or maybe even say things like “They don’t measure up.” A couple days ago I was reading Ephesians, and I was reminded that we cannot measure God because he’s crazy reckless like that. He doesn’t use a coffee scoop or calculator, and he certainly doesn’t have judging eyes. So we may as well put away all of our measuring tools and gadgets.
“Now to him who is able to do IMMEASURABLY more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.”
Ephesians 3: 20-21
What a relief! And really, what girl doesn’t want the mysterious guy who throws caution to the wind? The guy who doesn't measure...
Monday, September 22, 2008
Paper or plastic
On the way to meet friends in Uptown over the weekend, I saw the best billboard. It’s for the YMCA and it says “It’s OK if your gym bag is from the grocery store.”
A couple things passed through my mind after reading this. First, it’s infinitely better than the billboard for cottage cheese that I see on my way to work that says “the little curd that could.” Honestly. Who thought that was a great idea? And second, a gym where it’s OK if I walk in with my tennies in a red and white plastic Target bag is a gym I’d actually go to. Which says a lot, as I’ve only been a member at a gym once in my life for about a year. And, in fact, it was at a YWCA. But for some reason, the billboard warmed my heart. It’s just endearing. And then suddenly bag...grocery bags...made me think of something else.
I always went to the same beach in Cali with my friends. I’d park in the same general vicinity. Walk down the same trillion steps to the water and make my way to the same area in the sand. In the summer, this was done at least once a week, more if I was lucky. And every time, EVERY time, I saw the same homeless woman, who I came to think of as the “bag lady.”
She had long gray hair and skin sun-wizened and leathered. She always wore a faded blue ball cap, but the clasp in back was broken so it never fit quite right. The rest of her outfit was what you’d expect a homeless person to be wearing. Dirty, holey, dusty. But distinguishing her from the many other homeless people in So-Cal were her bags. On each of her arms she carried two grocery bags filled with other grocery bags. So that’s four grocery bags with what had to be hundreds of other grocery bags inside. Then she also had a filled grocery bag somehow attached to each of her hips...I think tied to her belt loops. She always walked slowly, seemingly without purpose. Her face was expressionless. I saw her every time I went to the beach. Sometimes she was walking alongside the train tracks on the other side of 101 from where I was parking. Other times she was walking along the beach behind where I was sitting. Sometimes I’d see her from afar. Sometimes she’d pass me. And I remember asking my friends if they saw her all the time because I certainly did. No, they didn’t! How could that be, I wondered, that I always see her and no one else does? Weird.
A couple weekends ago, I was back in So-Cal visiting my friends and was able to hit up that same beach like good ole’ times. And I thought about the bag lady as we packed up after a day in the sun and headed to our car. I, for once, hadn’t seen her, and I wondered where she was. Perhaps after a year she had finally moved on. And then, as we got to the top of the trillion steps, there she was! Coming out from behind the public restrooms with all her bags. That’s her! There she is, I told my friend. See?! Every time! A year later and I’m still seeing her!
I often contemplated doing something for her. Should I bring her food? Give her some money? Or we always brought coolers of food, I could just give her our leftovers. I could save bags if she collected them and got money for them? I don’t know. But you know what? I never did anything. I saw her every week, and I never did anything. And if I’m really honest it’s because I thought I was too busy, too important. Maybe there was some fear mixed in with that thinking. I stereotyped and assumed being homeless, she’d waste the money I potentially gave her on drugs. And maybe I even thought she should try to get a job instead of walking around with thousands of plastic bags.
So, I thought of her and the billboard’s words: “It’s OK if your gym bag is from the grocery store.” I want others to be OK with my grocery bags but I wasn’t OK with the bag lady’s bags.
We’ve all got bags. They look very different, and may not be as obvious as the bag lady’s bags, but we carry them around--drag them around--much like she does. They’re deep wounds inflicted by others’ actions and words. They’re disabilities. They’re financial troubles. They’re insecurities. They're addictions. Whatever, but we’ve got ‘em, and we want others to love us in spite of them, and maybe even because of them.
I got to thinking about how God is the perfect gym! With Him, your bag can be from Cub or Rainbow or Byerly’s. And for Cali peeps, Von’s, Ralph’s or Albertson’s. (Paper or plastic too) Or it can be Eddie Bauer, Lowe Alpine or Nike. It doesn’t matter. For Him I don’t have to put on any airs. And no one should have to put on any airs (or take them off for that matter) for me to accept them, to show compassion on them. He loves that bag lady with all her grocery bags. And so should I.
I nearly missed my exit off of 94 thinking about gym bags, but I was struck by the meaning behind the billboard. Pretty sure I took the phrase in a direction the peeps from YMCA weren’t really after, but nevertheless...God accepts any gym bag, loves all. It’s one of the reasons I follow Him! It’s why I walk into His gym every week. But in turn, I, too, am to love all, including the bag lady.
A couple things passed through my mind after reading this. First, it’s infinitely better than the billboard for cottage cheese that I see on my way to work that says “the little curd that could.” Honestly. Who thought that was a great idea? And second, a gym where it’s OK if I walk in with my tennies in a red and white plastic Target bag is a gym I’d actually go to. Which says a lot, as I’ve only been a member at a gym once in my life for about a year. And, in fact, it was at a YWCA. But for some reason, the billboard warmed my heart. It’s just endearing. And then suddenly bag...grocery bags...made me think of something else.
I always went to the same beach in Cali with my friends. I’d park in the same general vicinity. Walk down the same trillion steps to the water and make my way to the same area in the sand. In the summer, this was done at least once a week, more if I was lucky. And every time, EVERY time, I saw the same homeless woman, who I came to think of as the “bag lady.”
She had long gray hair and skin sun-wizened and leathered. She always wore a faded blue ball cap, but the clasp in back was broken so it never fit quite right. The rest of her outfit was what you’d expect a homeless person to be wearing. Dirty, holey, dusty. But distinguishing her from the many other homeless people in So-Cal were her bags. On each of her arms she carried two grocery bags filled with other grocery bags. So that’s four grocery bags with what had to be hundreds of other grocery bags inside. Then she also had a filled grocery bag somehow attached to each of her hips...I think tied to her belt loops. She always walked slowly, seemingly without purpose. Her face was expressionless. I saw her every time I went to the beach. Sometimes she was walking alongside the train tracks on the other side of 101 from where I was parking. Other times she was walking along the beach behind where I was sitting. Sometimes I’d see her from afar. Sometimes she’d pass me. And I remember asking my friends if they saw her all the time because I certainly did. No, they didn’t! How could that be, I wondered, that I always see her and no one else does? Weird.
A couple weekends ago, I was back in So-Cal visiting my friends and was able to hit up that same beach like good ole’ times. And I thought about the bag lady as we packed up after a day in the sun and headed to our car. I, for once, hadn’t seen her, and I wondered where she was. Perhaps after a year she had finally moved on. And then, as we got to the top of the trillion steps, there she was! Coming out from behind the public restrooms with all her bags. That’s her! There she is, I told my friend. See?! Every time! A year later and I’m still seeing her!
I often contemplated doing something for her. Should I bring her food? Give her some money? Or we always brought coolers of food, I could just give her our leftovers. I could save bags if she collected them and got money for them? I don’t know. But you know what? I never did anything. I saw her every week, and I never did anything. And if I’m really honest it’s because I thought I was too busy, too important. Maybe there was some fear mixed in with that thinking. I stereotyped and assumed being homeless, she’d waste the money I potentially gave her on drugs. And maybe I even thought she should try to get a job instead of walking around with thousands of plastic bags.
So, I thought of her and the billboard’s words: “It’s OK if your gym bag is from the grocery store.” I want others to be OK with my grocery bags but I wasn’t OK with the bag lady’s bags.
We’ve all got bags. They look very different, and may not be as obvious as the bag lady’s bags, but we carry them around--drag them around--much like she does. They’re deep wounds inflicted by others’ actions and words. They’re disabilities. They’re financial troubles. They’re insecurities. They're addictions. Whatever, but we’ve got ‘em, and we want others to love us in spite of them, and maybe even because of them.
I got to thinking about how God is the perfect gym! With Him, your bag can be from Cub or Rainbow or Byerly’s. And for Cali peeps, Von’s, Ralph’s or Albertson’s. (Paper or plastic too) Or it can be Eddie Bauer, Lowe Alpine or Nike. It doesn’t matter. For Him I don’t have to put on any airs. And no one should have to put on any airs (or take them off for that matter) for me to accept them, to show compassion on them. He loves that bag lady with all her grocery bags. And so should I.
I nearly missed my exit off of 94 thinking about gym bags, but I was struck by the meaning behind the billboard. Pretty sure I took the phrase in a direction the peeps from YMCA weren’t really after, but nevertheless...God accepts any gym bag, loves all. It’s one of the reasons I follow Him! It’s why I walk into His gym every week. But in turn, I, too, am to love all, including the bag lady.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Booked solid
I packed six boxes last night. On the top of each of them, in thick Black sharpie, I wrote BOOKS. I then turned and looked at my bookshelf and across my room. I hadn’t even made a dent in my books. When I moved from California, I knew most of my stuff would go into storage for an indeterminate amount of time, so I needed to be selective with the items I would take with me to mom and dad’s. In all honesty, I really wasn’t that particular about what I’d be bringing with me—save my books. They would not leave my side, much to the chagrin of the movers. (Couldn’t I pick something light?)
I’m currently reading Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader by Anne Fadiman. I love it simply because it makes me feel better about myself. I am not alone in spending too much time contemplating book organization. Do you go alphabetical? (And if so, by what?) Chronological by era? Color scheme? And as I put book after book into box last night, I wondered if Fadiman had any insight on how to pack books. What's the best way? This is important! But as I dusted the horizontal ledges of a bookshelf someone made for me (also something that would not be rendered to the storage unit), I asked myself why? Why books? What’s the big deal?
Well, for me, books tell so much more than one story. There is the one, of course, told on the pages, but there’s also the one about me. Each book takes me back to an exact place, time, emotion, revealing a part of my life, a part of me.
I was in 8th grade, still living in Memphis, when I read Cold, Sassy Tree (Olive Ann Burns) and Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte), books that made me realize I may be different. I liked words. Like, really liked them. Not everyone did. (How could anyone ONLY read Cliff's Notes?!) And then the books from my college trauma literature course, including Tim O’Brien’s In the Lake of the Woods. Oh how I love that creepy book (that I proved by writing an obscenely long paper on it). In that course, I think I came to realize the power that words hold, and don’t hold. How they can heal, and not heal. And it's also about the time I began getting the question "What are you going to do with an English major?"
I was reading Anna Karenina (Leo Tolstoy) when my then-boyfriend and another couple vacationed to Lake Michigan. Sweating in a tank top and my underwear laying on an awful white, woolly couch in our second-floor apartment on Cleveland in the dead of summer wondering if I could somehow get any closer to the window fan, I read Richard Russo’s Empire Falls as slowly as possible because it just was so good. I didn’t want it to end. I think there may have been a few gin and tonics sipped too. And C.S. Lewis, who I read and scrutinized during a period in my life when I wasn’t sure there was a God and even if there was, I wasn’t sure I wanted Him in my life.
And book clubs! Seriously. In My Blood (John Sedgwick)? I can’t believe we had to read that. Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld. (Oh, R.O., this will forever crack me up!) Many of my books from my Cali book club hold sand between their pages from the glorious afternoons spent reading on the beach.
In Ex Libris, Fadiman talks about the “You are There” reading. Reading books in the places that they were written. This I did in Israel with Walking the Bible (Bruce Feiler). I was there. Feiler was there. Jesus was there. I recommend “You are There” reading!
My books also tell you who my friends are. A dear friend appropriately gave me David Sedaris’ Naked. Without this friend’s steadfast humor and smiles in my life, I assure you I would have many a frown-filled day. Most recently Cold Tangerines by Shauna Niequist from a friend whose quiet, easy understanding incites a peace in me that is hard to come by in this world, much like the words of that book did.
Point to a book of mine, and I’ll tell you the story within it and a story about it. And maybe that’s it...that’s why I carry them with me everywhere. They bring my friends who can’t come with me. And times that I didn’t want to end, but had to end. And emotions that I’d like to bottle up. Others I never want to feel again, but were life-changing and maturing nevertheless.
I’m looking forward to unpacking them in my new place. And even if everything else is still in boxes, once my books are out, I’m home.
I’m currently reading Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader by Anne Fadiman. I love it simply because it makes me feel better about myself. I am not alone in spending too much time contemplating book organization. Do you go alphabetical? (And if so, by what?) Chronological by era? Color scheme? And as I put book after book into box last night, I wondered if Fadiman had any insight on how to pack books. What's the best way? This is important! But as I dusted the horizontal ledges of a bookshelf someone made for me (also something that would not be rendered to the storage unit), I asked myself why? Why books? What’s the big deal?
Well, for me, books tell so much more than one story. There is the one, of course, told on the pages, but there’s also the one about me. Each book takes me back to an exact place, time, emotion, revealing a part of my life, a part of me.
I was in 8th grade, still living in Memphis, when I read Cold, Sassy Tree (Olive Ann Burns) and Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte), books that made me realize I may be different. I liked words. Like, really liked them. Not everyone did. (How could anyone ONLY read Cliff's Notes?!) And then the books from my college trauma literature course, including Tim O’Brien’s In the Lake of the Woods. Oh how I love that creepy book (that I proved by writing an obscenely long paper on it). In that course, I think I came to realize the power that words hold, and don’t hold. How they can heal, and not heal. And it's also about the time I began getting the question "What are you going to do with an English major?"
I was reading Anna Karenina (Leo Tolstoy) when my then-boyfriend and another couple vacationed to Lake Michigan. Sweating in a tank top and my underwear laying on an awful white, woolly couch in our second-floor apartment on Cleveland in the dead of summer wondering if I could somehow get any closer to the window fan, I read Richard Russo’s Empire Falls as slowly as possible because it just was so good. I didn’t want it to end. I think there may have been a few gin and tonics sipped too. And C.S. Lewis, who I read and scrutinized during a period in my life when I wasn’t sure there was a God and even if there was, I wasn’t sure I wanted Him in my life.
And book clubs! Seriously. In My Blood (John Sedgwick)? I can’t believe we had to read that. Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld. (Oh, R.O., this will forever crack me up!) Many of my books from my Cali book club hold sand between their pages from the glorious afternoons spent reading on the beach.
In Ex Libris, Fadiman talks about the “You are There” reading. Reading books in the places that they were written. This I did in Israel with Walking the Bible (Bruce Feiler). I was there. Feiler was there. Jesus was there. I recommend “You are There” reading!
My books also tell you who my friends are. A dear friend appropriately gave me David Sedaris’ Naked. Without this friend’s steadfast humor and smiles in my life, I assure you I would have many a frown-filled day. Most recently Cold Tangerines by Shauna Niequist from a friend whose quiet, easy understanding incites a peace in me that is hard to come by in this world, much like the words of that book did.
Point to a book of mine, and I’ll tell you the story within it and a story about it. And maybe that’s it...that’s why I carry them with me everywhere. They bring my friends who can’t come with me. And times that I didn’t want to end, but had to end. And emotions that I’d like to bottle up. Others I never want to feel again, but were life-changing and maturing nevertheless.
I’m looking forward to unpacking them in my new place. And even if everything else is still in boxes, once my books are out, I’m home.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
This never happens
“This never happens.”
Oh, but I think it does.
Isn’t it funny how when you’re around... things that “never” happen, happen. Like, take babies, for instance. The one time you go out with friends and their child is cranky (kicking and screaming bloody murder), they look at you with bewildered eyes and say it’s strange, because this never happens. Mmm, sure.
Someone’s late to a meeting and as they rush in they say there was traffic and there’s never traffic on that particular road. Mmm, sure.
Well, I pulled a “this never happens” yesterday.
After being out of town for five days, I returned home to a short stack of mail, one being my credit card bill. Now, let me pause here and tell you--admit to you--some things about myself. I have never been late on a bill. Never. I have an Excel spreadsheet that actually charts all my bills, when I pay them, how much they are. I still balance my checkbook by hand. In addition, I periodically check online to make sure the computer’s record of my account is right (notice I said the computer, not me, because I know I’m right :) ). When it comes to credit cards, I was taught that you must always pay off your credit card at the end of the month. If you know you’re not going to be able to do that, then don’t use it. So, I have always paid it off at the end of the month. And this was recently proven when I went to get pre-approval for a house and the lender told me I had some of the best credit he had ever seen. I only tell you this to exemplify how what I’m about to tell you never happens.
So, I open my credit card bill and there is one new charge. LATE FEE: $29. I flipped. What!? That’s all it says. No explanation. I call the 1.800 line and listen to music for 4 minutes and 32 second. And then Holly answers and asks how she can help me. I say she can help by explaining the $29. What’s it for? She tells me it's because I never paid my bill from last month and thus, have a $29 LATE fee.
I wish I could have heard myself. I’m sure I sounded hilarious. I ridiculously told Holly, “this never happens!” And it doesn’t! And as I told her this, I began making a mental note of all the places I needed to go to confirm that I was not mistaken. But, strangely enough, my hand-balanced checkbook did not show a payment. That wasn’t proof enough though. I went online to see if I had forgotten to document it, but it had already been cashed by the bank. Nope. Not there either. I went home and rummaged through my credit card file (you had to know I have a filing system!). I file all my statements and last month’s statement is just not there. Nothing. I have June, July, September. NO AUGUST.
I didn’t pay my credit card bill last month. I really don’t know how this happened because I can’t imagine I received it in the mail and just didn’t pay it. (So, maybe I can blame the mailman.) But nevertheless, it was not paid. I immediately went back online last night and paid it...I mean because even though now it’s not due for like two weeks, hours matter. I’m sure said Credit Card Company is going to cut me some slack when they see that I paid at 8:05pm versus 7:38am the next morning.
Anyways. It was a little mini-lesson in understanding and giving others the benefit of the doubt. I know Holly’s eyes were rolling when I said “this never happens.” And they probably would have rolled harder if I shared with her what I just shared with you regarding my financial upkeep. But I promise not to roll my eyes next time you tell me "this never happens!"
Oh, but I think it does.
Isn’t it funny how when you’re around... things that “never” happen, happen. Like, take babies, for instance. The one time you go out with friends and their child is cranky (kicking and screaming bloody murder), they look at you with bewildered eyes and say it’s strange, because this never happens. Mmm, sure.
Someone’s late to a meeting and as they rush in they say there was traffic and there’s never traffic on that particular road. Mmm, sure.
Well, I pulled a “this never happens” yesterday.
After being out of town for five days, I returned home to a short stack of mail, one being my credit card bill. Now, let me pause here and tell you--admit to you--some things about myself. I have never been late on a bill. Never. I have an Excel spreadsheet that actually charts all my bills, when I pay them, how much they are. I still balance my checkbook by hand. In addition, I periodically check online to make sure the computer’s record of my account is right (notice I said the computer, not me, because I know I’m right :) ). When it comes to credit cards, I was taught that you must always pay off your credit card at the end of the month. If you know you’re not going to be able to do that, then don’t use it. So, I have always paid it off at the end of the month. And this was recently proven when I went to get pre-approval for a house and the lender told me I had some of the best credit he had ever seen. I only tell you this to exemplify how what I’m about to tell you never happens.
So, I open my credit card bill and there is one new charge. LATE FEE: $29. I flipped. What!? That’s all it says. No explanation. I call the 1.800 line and listen to music for 4 minutes and 32 second. And then Holly answers and asks how she can help me. I say she can help by explaining the $29. What’s it for? She tells me it's because I never paid my bill from last month and thus, have a $29 LATE fee.
I wish I could have heard myself. I’m sure I sounded hilarious. I ridiculously told Holly, “this never happens!” And it doesn’t! And as I told her this, I began making a mental note of all the places I needed to go to confirm that I was not mistaken. But, strangely enough, my hand-balanced checkbook did not show a payment. That wasn’t proof enough though. I went online to see if I had forgotten to document it, but it had already been cashed by the bank. Nope. Not there either. I went home and rummaged through my credit card file (you had to know I have a filing system!). I file all my statements and last month’s statement is just not there. Nothing. I have June, July, September. NO AUGUST.
I didn’t pay my credit card bill last month. I really don’t know how this happened because I can’t imagine I received it in the mail and just didn’t pay it. (So, maybe I can blame the mailman.) But nevertheless, it was not paid. I immediately went back online last night and paid it...I mean because even though now it’s not due for like two weeks, hours matter. I’m sure said Credit Card Company is going to cut me some slack when they see that I paid at 8:05pm versus 7:38am the next morning.
Anyways. It was a little mini-lesson in understanding and giving others the benefit of the doubt. I know Holly’s eyes were rolling when I said “this never happens.” And they probably would have rolled harder if I shared with her what I just shared with you regarding my financial upkeep. But I promise not to roll my eyes next time you tell me "this never happens!"
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
The Gift of Seats
Really? Could it be? It looked as though the last two passengers just boarded the plane, passed my row and plopped down in their assigned seats. This meant I had row 14 to myself. At least seats 14A, 14B and 14C. I was strategically sitting in the aisle seat for easy access to the bathroom, but now it didn’t matter. I unbuckled my seatbelt and shifted over to the window seat, moving my purse and book. I needed to take full advantage of this! A whole three seats to myself. It was an unexpected gift, really. This just does not happen often. So I pushed up the arm rest next to me and pulled my legs up to sit Indian-style, something so not possible if there were a person—big or small—next to me. Then after we had reached our cruising altitude and the beverage cart had gone by and therefore lights were shut out, I decided it was time to sleep, and I was going to use these free seats. So, seatbelt still on—because they hadn’t turned the seatbelt light off—I awkwardly laid down across the three seats, pushing the second arm rest up too. For the record, I pulled my hood up before laying down. Otherwise my head would have been on the seat. Gross.
I shifted. Ouch. Seatbelt from 14B in my back. Shifted again. Dangit. Other seatbelt from 14C now in my shoulder. Ok. Shifted again. But then after a few minutes, my hip was hurting because the edges of the seats, where they come together, actually raises a little and is firmer, and that area was digging into my hip. Ugh. Ok. Shift again. I had to loosen my own seatbelt so I could move around a little easier. And then my shirt needed to be pulled down because it was starting to ride up with all my shifting. At this point I’m muttering to myself about how stinkin’ cold it is and I should have opted for socks and tennies instead of flip flops because my toes were freezing. Ahh...ok. I’m finally situated. As I calculated in my head how many more minutes we had to go before landing and how many hours—given the time differences—it had been since I had last eaten (these are the things I think about)... I drifted off into a snooze... And then BAM! Owie owie owie! The second arm rest that I had pushed back, had come flying back down to hit the lower left part of my head. (I swear the man behind had to have done it, otherwise why would it randomly fall?) So there I was lying across the three chairs on my side with the arm rest now resting on my head. Wow. Three seats to myself. What a gift! And I just HAD to use it.
This is so me. I will go to great lengths to use up or make the most of certain things. For example, if I have a coupon, it doesn’t matter if I don’t really need anything from that particular place, I feel this need to go use the coupon simply because I have it! So, the coupon is meant to save you money, but I’ll actually go spend money I didn’t need to spend because I have a coupon. So it doesn’t save me anything. It only takes away! One of my friends and I joke about how ridiculous we are when unexpectedly we have a free evening because plans fell through. We suddenly begin stressing out because that free time needs to be well-spent. We need to make the most of it! We’d probably be better if original plans had stayed in place because then we wouldn’t be stressing. And if I have three seats in an airplane to myself, I’m going to use them, dangit! Even if leaning up against the window, using my sweatshirt as a pillow may be 100 times more comfortable. And even if it means getting hit in the head with an arm rest.
I wish I had this problem with life, in general, sometimes. Why don’t I make the most of moments, events, relationships? Why don’t I stretch myself across entire days? Because they are all gifts. Undeserved gifts that I take so for granted. In fact, sometimes I wish them away. I wish certain days would hurry up and be over. I wish some conversations, some chores or responsibilities weren’t necessary. I think if I thought of everything as an undeserved, unexpected gift from God—which I believe truly is the case, even if sometimes an arm rest hits me in the head—I’d make so much more of the moment. Maybe I need to start thinking of days as three empty seats on the airplane...
“Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.” James 1:17
I shifted. Ouch. Seatbelt from 14B in my back. Shifted again. Dangit. Other seatbelt from 14C now in my shoulder. Ok. Shifted again. But then after a few minutes, my hip was hurting because the edges of the seats, where they come together, actually raises a little and is firmer, and that area was digging into my hip. Ugh. Ok. Shift again. I had to loosen my own seatbelt so I could move around a little easier. And then my shirt needed to be pulled down because it was starting to ride up with all my shifting. At this point I’m muttering to myself about how stinkin’ cold it is and I should have opted for socks and tennies instead of flip flops because my toes were freezing. Ahh...ok. I’m finally situated. As I calculated in my head how many more minutes we had to go before landing and how many hours—given the time differences—it had been since I had last eaten (these are the things I think about)... I drifted off into a snooze... And then BAM! Owie owie owie! The second arm rest that I had pushed back, had come flying back down to hit the lower left part of my head. (I swear the man behind had to have done it, otherwise why would it randomly fall?) So there I was lying across the three chairs on my side with the arm rest now resting on my head. Wow. Three seats to myself. What a gift! And I just HAD to use it.
This is so me. I will go to great lengths to use up or make the most of certain things. For example, if I have a coupon, it doesn’t matter if I don’t really need anything from that particular place, I feel this need to go use the coupon simply because I have it! So, the coupon is meant to save you money, but I’ll actually go spend money I didn’t need to spend because I have a coupon. So it doesn’t save me anything. It only takes away! One of my friends and I joke about how ridiculous we are when unexpectedly we have a free evening because plans fell through. We suddenly begin stressing out because that free time needs to be well-spent. We need to make the most of it! We’d probably be better if original plans had stayed in place because then we wouldn’t be stressing. And if I have three seats in an airplane to myself, I’m going to use them, dangit! Even if leaning up against the window, using my sweatshirt as a pillow may be 100 times more comfortable. And even if it means getting hit in the head with an arm rest.
I wish I had this problem with life, in general, sometimes. Why don’t I make the most of moments, events, relationships? Why don’t I stretch myself across entire days? Because they are all gifts. Undeserved gifts that I take so for granted. In fact, sometimes I wish them away. I wish certain days would hurry up and be over. I wish some conversations, some chores or responsibilities weren’t necessary. I think if I thought of everything as an undeserved, unexpected gift from God—which I believe truly is the case, even if sometimes an arm rest hits me in the head—I’d make so much more of the moment. Maybe I need to start thinking of days as three empty seats on the airplane...
“Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.” James 1:17
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Hearken, ladies!
So, my “Well-played” list posted back in July was somewhat popular. It gave guys a few tips on how to play well with girls. Since then, I’ve been collecting tidbits of information from my single guy friends and family. Girls: here’s a helpful list for us!
1. Do not order the most expensive item on the menu, knowing he’s going to pay. Like the $42 halibut.
2. Don’t hug the dude’s roommate (from behind as he sits in front of his computer) the first or even the second time you meet him.
3. Girls say “I have a crush.” Guys say “I’m into her.”
4. Do not bore your new crush with the “mundane details of your day.” He will be bored and want to run far away from you. (Ok, but this goes both ways. Like, I don’t care about the bolt size or particular kind of wood or the price of different sheets of metal for your current project on the first date.)
5. Do not text him and then when he picks up the phone and calls you two seconds later, NOT answer because you’re nervous.
6. You may have researched the restaurant that he’s taking you to the night before and even picked out what you’re going to eat, but you still have to pick up your menu and pretend like you didn’t do this.
7. If a guy randomly pops back into your life via email, phone call or text, after weeks or months of no communication, it simply means he’s forgotten that he doesn’t like you. So, don’t be fooled.
8. Do not be afraid to lean in for the first kiss. Supposedly guys have been taught to be gentleman, and therefore do not want to offend you. (or they’re chicken)
9. Legs are the new chest. (I’m just sharing what I heard!)
10. After having not seen or even communicated with a guy for two years, don’t tell him you’re thinking of moving to be closer to him.
11. Whether or not he allows you to pay (this doesn’t apply to first dates), offering is always nice.
12. Guys like to be reassured.
13. Don’t profess your not-gone-yet love for your X TO your X while your new beau is nearby.
14. Don’t let your mom buy him birthday or Christmas gifts after mere months of dating.
15. Be careful not to take too many pics too soon.
16. "Been busy" is never a real reason. If a guy is "into you," he makes time. He'll call late at night or text or...something. Anything. But busy-ness does not stand in their way, so says them.
1. Do not order the most expensive item on the menu, knowing he’s going to pay. Like the $42 halibut.
2. Don’t hug the dude’s roommate (from behind as he sits in front of his computer) the first or even the second time you meet him.
3. Girls say “I have a crush.” Guys say “I’m into her.”
4. Do not bore your new crush with the “mundane details of your day.” He will be bored and want to run far away from you. (Ok, but this goes both ways. Like, I don’t care about the bolt size or particular kind of wood or the price of different sheets of metal for your current project on the first date.)
5. Do not text him and then when he picks up the phone and calls you two seconds later, NOT answer because you’re nervous.
6. You may have researched the restaurant that he’s taking you to the night before and even picked out what you’re going to eat, but you still have to pick up your menu and pretend like you didn’t do this.
7. If a guy randomly pops back into your life via email, phone call or text, after weeks or months of no communication, it simply means he’s forgotten that he doesn’t like you. So, don’t be fooled.
8. Do not be afraid to lean in for the first kiss. Supposedly guys have been taught to be gentleman, and therefore do not want to offend you. (or they’re chicken)
9. Legs are the new chest. (I’m just sharing what I heard!)
10. After having not seen or even communicated with a guy for two years, don’t tell him you’re thinking of moving to be closer to him.
11. Whether or not he allows you to pay (this doesn’t apply to first dates), offering is always nice.
12. Guys like to be reassured.
13. Don’t profess your not-gone-yet love for your X TO your X while your new beau is nearby.
14. Don’t let your mom buy him birthday or Christmas gifts after mere months of dating.
15. Be careful not to take too many pics too soon.
16. "Been busy" is never a real reason. If a guy is "into you," he makes time. He'll call late at night or text or...something. Anything. But busy-ness does not stand in their way, so says them.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Who needs a carrier anyways?
My parents give me a hard time for never taking the easy route. Sometimes I knowingly choose what’s hardest. Sometimes I think the hardness chooses me, but they’re right. I’m often trouble. While camping this past weekend, I repeatedly picked the toughest way to carry wood.
Strategically staying at campsite #2, my friends and I were yards from the wood shed where we could take a “rack” for $3—on an honor system. I kept wondering how many logs exactly make a rack, given that the shed had no racks or organization at all. It was just really a big mess of wood—and some of it wet, which I thought warranted a discount of some sort. But anyways, I’d load up my arms, usually with four, maybe five, logs. This would get awkward by the fourth or fifth one as I tried to hold the other three or four with one arm, while the other arm lifted the last one on top. Then, when I got the right amount, usually a little more than the right amount because I’d be cursing by the time I got back to our site about to drop them all on my feet, I’d roll them all back against my chest, and voila ... back to our camp site with a rack, half a rack, one-fourth of a rack ... I’m not sure. And usually I had a nice scratch or two on my forearm and lots of wood chips/pieces/dirt on my shirt and sleeves.
Well, one of my friends is an Eagle Scout. So, when I say “we went camping,” really I should say “my friend took us camping.” But he has this handy-dandy wood carrier. It’s a rectangular piece of sturdy canvas with two leather handles on the ends. You can lay this thing down, load up your wood and then carry it easily and cleanly. When I’d jump up to grab us more wood, he’d ask if I wanted his carrier. Nope. No thanks. My arms are just fine. “I’m cool,” I’d tell him. Who needs a carrier anyways? So, off I’d go, sometimes with my other friend who also passed on the carrier. We’d return arms sore. Well, one time I finally acquiesced and took the carrier. I was pleased because, just as I suspected, it was more of a hassle then it was worth. I thought it only made the process more awkward. I proudly told my Eagle Scout friend that this little eagle-ette did not need a carrier. He just shook his head.
So, next time we needed wood, he went and got it. He took his carrier, and when he got back to our fire, I saw how a person is really supposed to use the carrier. Of course, I had been using it the wrong way. Watching him, it made so much sense. Why wouldn’t you carry it like my Eagle Scout friend was?
On our second morning, I woke up before my friends, and I was cold. So, I took the carrier (looking to make sure no one saw me taking it) to the wood shed and filled ‘er up so I could start a fire. I carried it the right way and because of this, I actually carried more wood on that trip than any of the other wood trips I had taken. And I didn’t get any scratches on my arm, and my pjs didn’t get dirty either. I literally smiled as I walked back to camp thinking about how ridiculous I am (and also really pleased that my Eagle Scout friend was still sleeping ... I didn’t want him to know his carrier was kind of cool!). I repeatedly choose the hard route in life, when it’s so not necessary. I’m always telling God, nope, I’m cool. I got it all under control. That is until logs go everywhere and the fire goes out. He offers comfort, hope, forgiveness, and I so often fail to accept these things. He’s the wood carrier! Accepting Him doesn’t mean that there isn’t going to be wood to carry in life, or that you’re not going to have to build any muscles, but dang, it means it’s a whole lot easier and cleaner and better!
Camp site #2 was also strategically close to the bathrooms ... er ... holes in the ground. So, it was midnight, and I grabbed the flashlight to go traipsing through the dark woods to use the bathroom. My girlfriend asked me if I wanted her to come with me. No. I can go to the bathroom alone. I didn’t want to make her come to the smelly holes either. She was nice and warm by the fire. I’m a big girl, I thought. I'm fine. So, off I go with my big-girlness and my flashlight. But when I got to the outhouse I couldn’t make myself go in. I stood there staring at the door thinking there was no way I could open it. And even if I did open it, was I really going to stay in there alone long enough to use the bathroom? I think not. It was way too creepy. (All I could think about was the little ladykiller from “The Shack”) So, I trudged back to camp and sheepishly smiled at my friend. Um, well, yeah, can you come with me? She did. Happily.
Strategically staying at campsite #2, my friends and I were yards from the wood shed where we could take a “rack” for $3—on an honor system. I kept wondering how many logs exactly make a rack, given that the shed had no racks or organization at all. It was just really a big mess of wood—and some of it wet, which I thought warranted a discount of some sort. But anyways, I’d load up my arms, usually with four, maybe five, logs. This would get awkward by the fourth or fifth one as I tried to hold the other three or four with one arm, while the other arm lifted the last one on top. Then, when I got the right amount, usually a little more than the right amount because I’d be cursing by the time I got back to our site about to drop them all on my feet, I’d roll them all back against my chest, and voila ... back to our camp site with a rack, half a rack, one-fourth of a rack ... I’m not sure. And usually I had a nice scratch or two on my forearm and lots of wood chips/pieces/dirt on my shirt and sleeves.
Well, one of my friends is an Eagle Scout. So, when I say “we went camping,” really I should say “my friend took us camping.” But he has this handy-dandy wood carrier. It’s a rectangular piece of sturdy canvas with two leather handles on the ends. You can lay this thing down, load up your wood and then carry it easily and cleanly. When I’d jump up to grab us more wood, he’d ask if I wanted his carrier. Nope. No thanks. My arms are just fine. “I’m cool,” I’d tell him. Who needs a carrier anyways? So, off I’d go, sometimes with my other friend who also passed on the carrier. We’d return arms sore. Well, one time I finally acquiesced and took the carrier. I was pleased because, just as I suspected, it was more of a hassle then it was worth. I thought it only made the process more awkward. I proudly told my Eagle Scout friend that this little eagle-ette did not need a carrier. He just shook his head.
So, next time we needed wood, he went and got it. He took his carrier, and when he got back to our fire, I saw how a person is really supposed to use the carrier. Of course, I had been using it the wrong way. Watching him, it made so much sense. Why wouldn’t you carry it like my Eagle Scout friend was?
On our second morning, I woke up before my friends, and I was cold. So, I took the carrier (looking to make sure no one saw me taking it) to the wood shed and filled ‘er up so I could start a fire. I carried it the right way and because of this, I actually carried more wood on that trip than any of the other wood trips I had taken. And I didn’t get any scratches on my arm, and my pjs didn’t get dirty either. I literally smiled as I walked back to camp thinking about how ridiculous I am (and also really pleased that my Eagle Scout friend was still sleeping ... I didn’t want him to know his carrier was kind of cool!). I repeatedly choose the hard route in life, when it’s so not necessary. I’m always telling God, nope, I’m cool. I got it all under control. That is until logs go everywhere and the fire goes out. He offers comfort, hope, forgiveness, and I so often fail to accept these things. He’s the wood carrier! Accepting Him doesn’t mean that there isn’t going to be wood to carry in life, or that you’re not going to have to build any muscles, but dang, it means it’s a whole lot easier and cleaner and better!
Camp site #2 was also strategically close to the bathrooms ... er ... holes in the ground. So, it was midnight, and I grabbed the flashlight to go traipsing through the dark woods to use the bathroom. My girlfriend asked me if I wanted her to come with me. No. I can go to the bathroom alone. I didn’t want to make her come to the smelly holes either. She was nice and warm by the fire. I’m a big girl, I thought. I'm fine. So, off I go with my big-girlness and my flashlight. But when I got to the outhouse I couldn’t make myself go in. I stood there staring at the door thinking there was no way I could open it. And even if I did open it, was I really going to stay in there alone long enough to use the bathroom? I think not. It was way too creepy. (All I could think about was the little ladykiller from “The Shack”) So, I trudged back to camp and sheepishly smiled at my friend. Um, well, yeah, can you come with me? She did. Happily.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)