The Dr. Seuss ABC book sits on my passenger seat bringing perspective.
You see, on Tuesday, my office was planning on having a baby shower for our colleague who was pregnant with her first child. We were all to bring wrapped baby books. I stopped at the store on Monday before class and picked out the Dr. Seuss ABC book with lots of colors. Upon leaving class I checked my voice messages to learn from another coworker that my pregnant colleague had been in a horrible car accident on her way back to the office from her ultrasound. She—only 24 years old—was at the hospital and not expected to make it. She and her baby passed away later that night.
The book I purchased never left the Target bag. And actually I’ve now been to Target twice since my coworker passed away, and I cannot bring myself to return it. So there it sits on my seat, reminding me that life is precious and quick and important. It is also unfair and painful and sad...the ABCs of life. Not the same ones Dr. Seuss rhymes about. But the facts, nonetheless.
I’m always amazed by people who immediately turn to God in prayer in situations like this. I cannot form the words. Instead, I stare, blank-faced, speechless in His presence. I know better than to ask why (there are no reasons). So, in need of comfort, as well as in anger and sadness, I stare at God not saying anything and know that in some way this alone is my prayer.
On Tuesday morning, I opened my Bible to a random Psalm, hoping David might have some words. I fell upon Psalm 63 and was brought to tears.
O God, you are my God,
Earnestly I seek you;
My soul thirsts for you,
My body longs for you,
in a dry and weary land where there is no water
I have seen you in the sanctuary
And beheld your power and your glory.
Because your love is better than life,
I will glorify your name.
(1-3)
His love is better than life...
It is one to die for.
It's also one to live for.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Chopsticks
In a recent email correspondence, I was telling a friend that I have a dead German boyfriend, and his name is Deitrich Bonhoeffer—that I’m reading him and Karl Barth for a class.
Her response...
I regret that I did not study enough Bonhoeffer in school. But I definitely fell in love with good ol' Karl. I think some of his writing keeps me a Christian when I become disillusioned or dismayed by the church. What do you think of Barth? Sometimes I find his writing so opaque that I have to read passages of it out loud, slowly and deliberately until that "ah ha" moment hits. To be perfectly honest, that ah ha moment sometimes takes three or four vocal readings. But you know, when you hit that breakthrough, it feels like Handel's Messiah ... HALLELUJAH!
To be honest, with Barth, I sometimes never hear Handel's Messiah!
Well, this is one of the reasons we're friends. Some people fall in love with sexy movie stars. Me and my friend? We like the studious theologians...preferably wearing glasses, probably sporting cardigans, usually at the pub—not to get plastered but to smoke pipes and talk philosophy over a few pints. And I guess they can be dead, too.
She's right. Barth is opaque. You know when you have more question marks than exclamation points in your annotations, you've got yourself an opaque one. And if you ever start thinking you're smart, just start reading Barth, and you’ll quickly discover you know nothing. Barth's not messin' around. Don't think for a second that you can casually skim through his Dogmatics—all bajillion trillion pages of it. Oh no.
From last night's homework, in honor of my friend, here's a little Barth on ethics:
"Before he [man, woman] was, before the world was, God drew him to Himself when he destined him to obedience to His command. But, strangely enough, it is just because of this that the impossible—sin—presses so insistently. For man is not content simply to be the answer to this question by the grace of God. He wants to be like God. He wants to know of himself (as God does) what is good and evil. He therefore wants to give this answer himself and of himself. So, then, as a result and in prolongation of the fall, we have ethics, or, rather, the multifarious ethical systems, the attempted human answers to the ethical question. But this question can be solved only as it was originally put—by the grace of God, by the fact that this allows man actually to be the answer."
What the heck, you ask, is he saying? It’s interesting. Ethics always sounds good. To pose the question, "is this ethical?" makes you sound like you’re very moral and very good. And I think what Barth is saying is...um, no. Try again. We only need ethics because of our sin in the first place. With ethics, we think we can somehow determine what's right and wrong, which means we think we can be God, who is the ultimate judge of right and wrong. This shouldn't really come as a surprise. We were told this would happen.
In Genesis 3:5, the serpent tells Eve that she will certainly not die if she eats the forbidden truth. Rather her "eyes will be opened," she will be "like God, knowing good and evil." Which is so not a good thing, evidenced by the world we live in.
It's a shame we need ethics at all! I'd rather not have to be ethical.
Barth goes on to say that Jesus doesn't give the answer, but "by God's grace, he is the answer to the ethical question put by God's grace."
I'm not sure I really hear Handel's Messiah. Maybe more like Chopsticks...but...babysteps.
Her response...
I regret that I did not study enough Bonhoeffer in school. But I definitely fell in love with good ol' Karl. I think some of his writing keeps me a Christian when I become disillusioned or dismayed by the church. What do you think of Barth? Sometimes I find his writing so opaque that I have to read passages of it out loud, slowly and deliberately until that "ah ha" moment hits. To be perfectly honest, that ah ha moment sometimes takes three or four vocal readings. But you know, when you hit that breakthrough, it feels like Handel's Messiah ... HALLELUJAH!
To be honest, with Barth, I sometimes never hear Handel's Messiah!
Well, this is one of the reasons we're friends. Some people fall in love with sexy movie stars. Me and my friend? We like the studious theologians...preferably wearing glasses, probably sporting cardigans, usually at the pub—not to get plastered but to smoke pipes and talk philosophy over a few pints. And I guess they can be dead, too.
She's right. Barth is opaque. You know when you have more question marks than exclamation points in your annotations, you've got yourself an opaque one. And if you ever start thinking you're smart, just start reading Barth, and you’ll quickly discover you know nothing. Barth's not messin' around. Don't think for a second that you can casually skim through his Dogmatics—all bajillion trillion pages of it. Oh no.
From last night's homework, in honor of my friend, here's a little Barth on ethics:
"Before he [man, woman] was, before the world was, God drew him to Himself when he destined him to obedience to His command. But, strangely enough, it is just because of this that the impossible—sin—presses so insistently. For man is not content simply to be the answer to this question by the grace of God. He wants to be like God. He wants to know of himself (as God does) what is good and evil. He therefore wants to give this answer himself and of himself. So, then, as a result and in prolongation of the fall, we have ethics, or, rather, the multifarious ethical systems, the attempted human answers to the ethical question. But this question can be solved only as it was originally put—by the grace of God, by the fact that this allows man actually to be the answer."
What the heck, you ask, is he saying? It’s interesting. Ethics always sounds good. To pose the question, "is this ethical?" makes you sound like you’re very moral and very good. And I think what Barth is saying is...um, no. Try again. We only need ethics because of our sin in the first place. With ethics, we think we can somehow determine what's right and wrong, which means we think we can be God, who is the ultimate judge of right and wrong. This shouldn't really come as a surprise. We were told this would happen.
In Genesis 3:5, the serpent tells Eve that she will certainly not die if she eats the forbidden truth. Rather her "eyes will be opened," she will be "like God, knowing good and evil." Which is so not a good thing, evidenced by the world we live in.
It's a shame we need ethics at all! I'd rather not have to be ethical.
Barth goes on to say that Jesus doesn't give the answer, but "by God's grace, he is the answer to the ethical question put by God's grace."
I'm not sure I really hear Handel's Messiah. Maybe more like Chopsticks...but...babysteps.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Roger that
Last week, I sat on BJ’s bed staring at my laptop, writing a response piece for class. A typical night together looks like this: me doing homework, BJ making me dinner, bringing me water or sometimes a glass of wine, every now and then (so as not to distract me too much) making me laugh, bringing me a bowl of cookies'n'cream ice cream. You get the idea. I don’t deserve him.
On this particular night, I looked up to see what BJ was doing at his desk. He was opening up a new pack of batteries and then pulling out these two black bricks from an old-school, red cardboard box, circa 1980.
What, may I ask, are you doing? And what are those black things?
HJ!, he turns to me excitedly, eyes lit up. These are my old walkie talkies from when I was a kid. I found them at home over the weekend.
OK. Why do you have batteries though?
I’m going to put the batteries in and use the walkie talkies.
I didn’t know whether to laugh, go back to my homework as if that’s normal—a 29-year-old wanting to use walkie talkies when our cell phones are sitting idly nearby, or continue the question game. I chose the latter.
What are you going to do with these?
As he carefully put the batteries into the black, boxy walkie talkies seriously the size of bricks, and then pulled out the long silver antennae, he said, I’m going to put them in my car for emergencies. To be prepared.
(Duh, Heather. Obviously.)
He then hands one to me, presses the button on his own, and says, Heather, can you hear me?
Uh, yeah. You’re sitting two feet away!
No, c’mon. Try it. Use the walkie talkies.
I press the button on mine. I can hear you.
I can’t hear you. Press the button.
I press the button again. I am pressing the button!
Now I can hear you.
I press the button. Ok. Really? Are we really going to do this?
I can’t hear you. Press the button.
Using the walkie talkies, he informs me that he’s now going to head downstairs and outside to change my oil (I told you...I don’t deserve him) and that we need to stay in contact.
I press the button. OK.
I’m heading down the stairs.
I press the button. Roger that.
I’m heading outside.
We continued in this fashion until he had successfully changed my oil and returned to his bedroom. He was thrilled that his walkie talkies actually still worked and carefully put them back into the box to go out into his car. I was wondering if any of his neighbors were watching him talk into this thing. I was also wondering how I got so lucky...how I have someone who wants to be in constant contact with me, who wants to walk and talk with me through life.
Roger that.
On this particular night, I looked up to see what BJ was doing at his desk. He was opening up a new pack of batteries and then pulling out these two black bricks from an old-school, red cardboard box, circa 1980.
What, may I ask, are you doing? And what are those black things?
HJ!, he turns to me excitedly, eyes lit up. These are my old walkie talkies from when I was a kid. I found them at home over the weekend.
OK. Why do you have batteries though?
I’m going to put the batteries in and use the walkie talkies.
I didn’t know whether to laugh, go back to my homework as if that’s normal—a 29-year-old wanting to use walkie talkies when our cell phones are sitting idly nearby, or continue the question game. I chose the latter.
What are you going to do with these?
As he carefully put the batteries into the black, boxy walkie talkies seriously the size of bricks, and then pulled out the long silver antennae, he said, I’m going to put them in my car for emergencies. To be prepared.
(Duh, Heather. Obviously.)
He then hands one to me, presses the button on his own, and says, Heather, can you hear me?
Uh, yeah. You’re sitting two feet away!
No, c’mon. Try it. Use the walkie talkies.
I press the button on mine. I can hear you.
I can’t hear you. Press the button.
I press the button again. I am pressing the button!
Now I can hear you.
I press the button. Ok. Really? Are we really going to do this?
I can’t hear you. Press the button.
Using the walkie talkies, he informs me that he’s now going to head downstairs and outside to change my oil (I told you...I don’t deserve him) and that we need to stay in contact.
I press the button. OK.
I’m heading down the stairs.
I press the button. Roger that.
I’m heading outside.
We continued in this fashion until he had successfully changed my oil and returned to his bedroom. He was thrilled that his walkie talkies actually still worked and carefully put them back into the box to go out into his car. I was wondering if any of his neighbors were watching him talk into this thing. I was also wondering how I got so lucky...how I have someone who wants to be in constant contact with me, who wants to walk and talk with me through life.
Roger that.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
My mom, the baker
I make a dozen muffins on a bi- or tri-weekly basis. I freeze them in individual Ziploc bags, and then pull them out for my breakfasts in the morning. By the time I get to work, settle in, check my email, they’re ready to eat. Last week, I mentioned to mom that in between working late, the gym, and homework, I hoped to make more muffins because I was completely out. What was I supposed to eat for breakfast?!
I got home later that night and sitting on the bench in my entry way were muffins. Mom made them for me. To help me. To save me time.
Yesterday, on the verge of a tearful meltdown in part due to three looming school papers, a magazine deadline at work, and too many unknowns, a dessert was about to push me over the edge. I suddenly remembered that I was in charge of bringing a dessert tomorrow for a coworker who is recovering from surgery. And, I’m in class tonight until 10:30! And you must know that I will choose to lose sleep to bake something at home and actually have the meltdown, before I buy a pre-made dessert at the grocery store! Absurd, I know! But guess what? I blame this on mom. And so, I sent her a frantic email, knowing she'd understand. Help! Give me a simple easy recipe that I can make before work early tomorrow morning!
She came up with a better idea. She’s making the dessert for me, and I’m picking it up on my way home from class tonight.
And on Sunday, Mother’s Day, I made mom dinner, but I actually left with bread dough she made. Nourishment that I can bake later this week. As I headed home that night, I thought so typical! It’s Mother’s Day, and she’s giving me stuff!
I’m in class right now (on break, ok?). The woman next to me has five children, and she’s wearing a bright, yellow shirt that her kids made for her for Mother's Day. In puffy paint, they’ve made outlines of their hands and then written words that they use to describe their mom: breathtaking, respectful, friend, fun, loving.
If I made my mom a puffy paint T-shirt today, it’d say baker. Baker of love and help and encouragement. And, of course, muffins and desserts and bread.
Thank you, momma. I love you.
And you're breathtaking, too.
I got home later that night and sitting on the bench in my entry way were muffins. Mom made them for me. To help me. To save me time.
Yesterday, on the verge of a tearful meltdown in part due to three looming school papers, a magazine deadline at work, and too many unknowns, a dessert was about to push me over the edge. I suddenly remembered that I was in charge of bringing a dessert tomorrow for a coworker who is recovering from surgery. And, I’m in class tonight until 10:30! And you must know that I will choose to lose sleep to bake something at home and actually have the meltdown, before I buy a pre-made dessert at the grocery store! Absurd, I know! But guess what? I blame this on mom. And so, I sent her a frantic email, knowing she'd understand. Help! Give me a simple easy recipe that I can make before work early tomorrow morning!
She came up with a better idea. She’s making the dessert for me, and I’m picking it up on my way home from class tonight.
And on Sunday, Mother’s Day, I made mom dinner, but I actually left with bread dough she made. Nourishment that I can bake later this week. As I headed home that night, I thought so typical! It’s Mother’s Day, and she’s giving me stuff!
I’m in class right now (on break, ok?). The woman next to me has five children, and she’s wearing a bright, yellow shirt that her kids made for her for Mother's Day. In puffy paint, they’ve made outlines of their hands and then written words that they use to describe their mom: breathtaking, respectful, friend, fun, loving.
If I made my mom a puffy paint T-shirt today, it’d say baker. Baker of love and help and encouragement. And, of course, muffins and desserts and bread.
Thank you, momma. I love you.
And you're breathtaking, too.
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
Waffles with Gordon
On Saturday morning I found myself talking about the weather over waffles with old people.
I was asked to speak to a group of retirees from the university I work with. They meet quarterly for strawberries, whipped cream, waffles, and sausage links. Seriously. That’s it. Don’t even think about switching it up with bacon. And it’s been like that for 50-some years. They used to meet in the president’s house, but when the number of retirees got to be too great, it moved on campus into the dining center. At each gathering, they hear from a current university employee—this time, me.
I am not one to talk in front of people. In fact, I strongly dislike it. I’ve gotten better as I’ve gotten older, but it’s not my favorite thing to do. Especially at 8:30 on a Saturday morning at work! But I kindly accepted the offer and prepared a 15-minute talk about my background, my role at the university, what’s ahead for the magazine I edit, etc. I arrived in time to eat breakfast with the crowd of 50 or so before taking the microphone.
As planned, I talked for about 15 minutes and then with a sigh of relief, took a few questions from the crowd. I survived, and I think it went well. Afterwards, I stayed to chat and mingle. I didn’t really need to move. People came to me to thank me and ask me more questions. I had to explain to someone that I am no longer “in a grade.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Gordon, a 90-year-old former dean who I’ve had phone conversations with before for various reasons, slowly making his way to me with his walker. When at last he reached me, I thanked the person I was talking to for the kind words and turned to him.
With one hand bracing himself on the walker, he took his other hand and squeezed my wrist. He leaned in very close and rather loudly said: “I couldn’t hear a word you said, but you were great!”
I was asked to speak to a group of retirees from the university I work with. They meet quarterly for strawberries, whipped cream, waffles, and sausage links. Seriously. That’s it. Don’t even think about switching it up with bacon. And it’s been like that for 50-some years. They used to meet in the president’s house, but when the number of retirees got to be too great, it moved on campus into the dining center. At each gathering, they hear from a current university employee—this time, me.
I am not one to talk in front of people. In fact, I strongly dislike it. I’ve gotten better as I’ve gotten older, but it’s not my favorite thing to do. Especially at 8:30 on a Saturday morning at work! But I kindly accepted the offer and prepared a 15-minute talk about my background, my role at the university, what’s ahead for the magazine I edit, etc. I arrived in time to eat breakfast with the crowd of 50 or so before taking the microphone.
As planned, I talked for about 15 minutes and then with a sigh of relief, took a few questions from the crowd. I survived, and I think it went well. Afterwards, I stayed to chat and mingle. I didn’t really need to move. People came to me to thank me and ask me more questions. I had to explain to someone that I am no longer “in a grade.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Gordon, a 90-year-old former dean who I’ve had phone conversations with before for various reasons, slowly making his way to me with his walker. When at last he reached me, I thanked the person I was talking to for the kind words and turned to him.
With one hand bracing himself on the walker, he took his other hand and squeezed my wrist. He leaned in very close and rather loudly said: “I couldn’t hear a word you said, but you were great!”
Monday, May 03, 2010
The meant of sacrament
Over the past week for class, I’ve spent some time reading about sacraments. They’re rites or oaths or activities that affirm your faith. The Roman Catholic Church decided a long time ago that they would have seven: marriage, confession, baptism, confirmation, ordination, last rites, and communion. Protestants decided they’d have two: baptism and communion.
It just so happened that my cousin, also my godson, was confirmed yesterday and participated in one of these sacraments—communion—for the first time. For Lutherans, confirmation means affirming what was said for you by others during your infant baptism.
Despite the debate over the number of sacraments as well as God’s activity in them (like, is it more about us coming before God or God coming down to us?), the author I’m reading says that they are ALL outward expressions of an internal faith.
And I got to thinking about how if that’s the case, then shouldn’t life be a sacrament? Why would we limit our outward expressions of faith to 10 minutes on a Sunday? Don’t get me wrong. I understand and respect the importance and significance of both baptism and communion. They are fundamental to the Christian faith, as shown throughout the New Testament. But, perhaps this particular author’s definition (maybe even our own) of them needs to be tweaked or clarified a bit more. I hope my life, my interactions with other people, my words, the decisions I make...I hope they are ALL sacraments! I hope they all externally reveal an element of my internal faith.
As I listened to the words associated with communion yesterday, I first recognized how odd or even creepy the “eucharist” can be. Partaking in Christ’s body and blood? Ok, that’s weird. It’s only normal to me because I’ve heard it almost every Sunday of my life, which--I did the math--is now nearly 1,500 times. But the phrase alone--drinking someone else's blood? (My eyebrows are up right now and my mouth is kind of crooked.) Also the author I’m reading uses the phrase “ingest.” As in we “ingest” the bread and wine. Weird! Can we just say “eat?”
But what’s most important is what’s behind all this wording. Christ’s body and blood refers to his death on the cross for us. His selfless love for us! I’ll ingest that and then hope to outwardly display it--continuously confirm it--throughout my life.
It just so happened that my cousin, also my godson, was confirmed yesterday and participated in one of these sacraments—communion—for the first time. For Lutherans, confirmation means affirming what was said for you by others during your infant baptism.
Despite the debate over the number of sacraments as well as God’s activity in them (like, is it more about us coming before God or God coming down to us?), the author I’m reading says that they are ALL outward expressions of an internal faith.
And I got to thinking about how if that’s the case, then shouldn’t life be a sacrament? Why would we limit our outward expressions of faith to 10 minutes on a Sunday? Don’t get me wrong. I understand and respect the importance and significance of both baptism and communion. They are fundamental to the Christian faith, as shown throughout the New Testament. But, perhaps this particular author’s definition (maybe even our own) of them needs to be tweaked or clarified a bit more. I hope my life, my interactions with other people, my words, the decisions I make...I hope they are ALL sacraments! I hope they all externally reveal an element of my internal faith.
As I listened to the words associated with communion yesterday, I first recognized how odd or even creepy the “eucharist” can be. Partaking in Christ’s body and blood? Ok, that’s weird. It’s only normal to me because I’ve heard it almost every Sunday of my life, which--I did the math--is now nearly 1,500 times. But the phrase alone--drinking someone else's blood? (My eyebrows are up right now and my mouth is kind of crooked.) Also the author I’m reading uses the phrase “ingest.” As in we “ingest” the bread and wine. Weird! Can we just say “eat?”
But what’s most important is what’s behind all this wording. Christ’s body and blood refers to his death on the cross for us. His selfless love for us! I’ll ingest that and then hope to outwardly display it--continuously confirm it--throughout my life.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Some underwear and an ipod
Matthew 19:21 has always left me feeling a little guilty.
Jesus says, “If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”
Well, I want to be perfect, but how does this look today? I mean, I need a car to get to work every day. And Jesus isn’t literally standing outside my front door waiting for me to shut my windows, lock the door, and follow Him, as He was for his disciples 2,000 years ago. I have these images of me standing forlornly at the end of my driveway holding a big stick with one of my beach towels tied at the end holding a few pairs of underwear and perhaps my ipod? Maybe? I’ve gotten rid of all my possessions, am looking up at the sky and wondering...ok, now what?
In his book, Discipleship, Dietrich Bonhoeffer—my fake boyfriend who my real boyfriend is getting jealous of—has some insight.
“My faith, however, is not tied to poverty or wealth or some such thing...The main concern is not whether or not I have any worldly goods, but that I should possess goods as if I don’t possess them, and inwardly I should be free of them. I should not set my heart on my possessions. Thus, Jesus says, 'sell your possessions!' But what he intends is that it is not important if you actually do this literally, outwardly. You are free to keep possessions, but have them as if you did not have them. Do not set your heart on your possessions.”
I was recently talking to my grandmother. My grandpa was in the military as they were raising a family. So she had to move with him and their three boys more times than she can count. I told her I couldn’t imagine having to pack up and leave so many times. Having to say goodbye to houses you loved, or neighborhoods, or schools. She said that she learned quickly that it was not anything external that was important—the house, the furniture, boxes of stuff, etc. Rather, it was what was inside the house that mattered: as long as her boys were happy. As long as there was love.
I think the same is true with God. Carry that ipod in your beach towel—it matters not, if loving Him is most important, if obedience in following Him is priority.
Jesus says, “If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”
Well, I want to be perfect, but how does this look today? I mean, I need a car to get to work every day. And Jesus isn’t literally standing outside my front door waiting for me to shut my windows, lock the door, and follow Him, as He was for his disciples 2,000 years ago. I have these images of me standing forlornly at the end of my driveway holding a big stick with one of my beach towels tied at the end holding a few pairs of underwear and perhaps my ipod? Maybe? I’ve gotten rid of all my possessions, am looking up at the sky and wondering...ok, now what?
In his book, Discipleship, Dietrich Bonhoeffer—my fake boyfriend who my real boyfriend is getting jealous of—has some insight.
“My faith, however, is not tied to poverty or wealth or some such thing...The main concern is not whether or not I have any worldly goods, but that I should possess goods as if I don’t possess them, and inwardly I should be free of them. I should not set my heart on my possessions. Thus, Jesus says, 'sell your possessions!' But what he intends is that it is not important if you actually do this literally, outwardly. You are free to keep possessions, but have them as if you did not have them. Do not set your heart on your possessions.”
I was recently talking to my grandmother. My grandpa was in the military as they were raising a family. So she had to move with him and their three boys more times than she can count. I told her I couldn’t imagine having to pack up and leave so many times. Having to say goodbye to houses you loved, or neighborhoods, or schools. She said that she learned quickly that it was not anything external that was important—the house, the furniture, boxes of stuff, etc. Rather, it was what was inside the house that mattered: as long as her boys were happy. As long as there was love.
I think the same is true with God. Carry that ipod in your beach towel—it matters not, if loving Him is most important, if obedience in following Him is priority.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Enter the exit
What do you do when you’re walking out of Target, about to go through the second automatic exit door (not the double, sliding kind, but the single open/shut kind) and there’s someone on the other side of that door, waiting to come in. You know if you keep going, that person is going to get hit by the automatic door as it opens, and yet the person is not moving to make way? But you need to get out.
Well, I don’t really know what you’re supposed to do, but I’ll tell you what the other person does. They stare at you like you’re a moron. Like…hello?! Hit me!
As if it’s perfectly normal and even expected that one would not only try to enter through the door clearly labeled exit, but actually stand in front of that door which will hit them smack in the face. Like if you don’t hurry up and walk out the door, they’re going to get really mad.
Ok. Fine. She wants to get hit? Fine. I’ll exit. Thankfully the door was slow enough that she was able to take a few steps back before getting hit.
As I walked through the exit and passed her entering, she stared me down, disgusted.
I looked over my shoulder as I got in my car, worried that maybe she had followed me out. Silly me though. That would have required her to go OUT the exit door.
Well, I don’t really know what you’re supposed to do, but I’ll tell you what the other person does. They stare at you like you’re a moron. Like…hello?! Hit me!
As if it’s perfectly normal and even expected that one would not only try to enter through the door clearly labeled exit, but actually stand in front of that door which will hit them smack in the face. Like if you don’t hurry up and walk out the door, they’re going to get really mad.
Ok. Fine. She wants to get hit? Fine. I’ll exit. Thankfully the door was slow enough that she was able to take a few steps back before getting hit.
As I walked through the exit and passed her entering, she stared me down, disgusted.
I looked over my shoulder as I got in my car, worried that maybe she had followed me out. Silly me though. That would have required her to go OUT the exit door.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Last Saturday night…
Did you know that last Saturday was Record Store Day? It was. And did you know that BJ plays in a bluegrass band called Fort Road 5? He does.
To celebrate the day, Fort Road 5 was invited to play at Hymie’s Vintage Records in Minneapolis.
BJ sang, the late-afternoon sun shone through the basement windows, good friends and family laughed, the smell of vinyl records lingered, a dog named Irene padded around...and I smiled, grateful.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Take me outside to the ballgame
Here in Minnesota, we are obsessed with our new Twins baseball stadium. And for good reason. We get to watch baseball outside...the way you're supposed to. The one-million-square-foot stadium is big, new, and pretty. I imagine it having that new-car smell. It seats 40,000 fans in chairs that are supposedly wider and have more legroom than your average stadium seats.
Right now, we cannot get enough of the "firsts" associated with our new stadium.
First exhibition game in new outdoor stadium!
First real game in new stadium!
First win in new stadium!
First strike out!
First homerun!
First Tuesday game!
First Wednesday game!
First weekend game!
Come May, I’m guessing we’ll be hyping the first game played in the month of May. Woohoo!
We’re even proud of the first bad things.
First rain in the new stadium!
First loss!
First loss on a Tuesday!
First loss on Wednesday!
First loss of the second game in a series in the new stadium!
First loss of the third game in a series!
First injury!
I think we secretly like our new stadium because it makes us feel like we have good weather and we can try to convince non-Minnesotans of this (that we are not cuh-razy for living here). Winter? Oh, it’s not that bad. Need proof? Well, we have an OUTDOOR baseball field! Actually what this means is that we live in the tundra and are subsequently very tough--we will still be outdoor baseball fans in April even if it is snowing because, for us, as long as it’s above freezing at that point...we’re good!
Well, tonight I’m going to the first night game in the new outdoor stadium. And I'm happy to report that it's not snowing.
Right now, we cannot get enough of the "firsts" associated with our new stadium.
First exhibition game in new outdoor stadium!
First real game in new stadium!
First win in new stadium!
First strike out!
First homerun!
First Tuesday game!
First Wednesday game!
First weekend game!
Come May, I’m guessing we’ll be hyping the first game played in the month of May. Woohoo!
We’re even proud of the first bad things.
First rain in the new stadium!
First loss!
First loss on a Tuesday!
First loss on Wednesday!
First loss of the second game in a series in the new stadium!
First loss of the third game in a series!
First injury!
I think we secretly like our new stadium because it makes us feel like we have good weather and we can try to convince non-Minnesotans of this (that we are not cuh-razy for living here). Winter? Oh, it’s not that bad. Need proof? Well, we have an OUTDOOR baseball field! Actually what this means is that we live in the tundra and are subsequently very tough--we will still be outdoor baseball fans in April even if it is snowing because, for us, as long as it’s above freezing at that point...we’re good!
Well, tonight I’m going to the first night game in the new outdoor stadium. And I'm happy to report that it's not snowing.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Smirking silence
The thing that will ultimately push me over the edge for getting a new car is not the fact that I’m going through a quart of oil every week and a half or so. Nor is it that the muffler falls off. It’s not that there is a horrible chugging, which, in addition to giving me and passengers whiplash, scares the drivers around me. It’s also not that sometimes I can’t open my front door. And it’s not that I just spent the past five days driving dad’s car because he was out of town and preferred I drive a reliable vehicle while he’s far away.
Oh no.
It’s actually that now I can’t listen to music. My car has lost control of its volume. Try as it might to hold it in, it simply can’t help itself. It must decrease the volume to ZERO as quickly as possible all the time. And I swear it laughs as it does this.
I turn the volume up to 21 and then watch it decrease to 0 within seconds. Silence.
Try again. Turn the volume up. 21 20 19 18 17 16 15...All the way back down to 0.
Oh, you like that song? Sorry.
Oh, you actually wanted to hear the weather for the day? Well, look online.
Oh, you don’t need to know about traffic.
No matter what I do--press really hard, use two fingers, say nice things to the button--I watch the volume numbers quickly decrease. 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10... in a matter of seconds, it’s silence.
Try again. Back up to 21. Nope. All the way back down it goes with a smirk.
So, I drove to work this morning in silence and decided that was it. The final straw. My car has gone too far. I don’t care that it’s addicted to very expensive oil. And the chugging? It’s ok. I get cramps too. I understand. But making me drive in silence? I think not. Not gonna happen.
Oh no.
It’s actually that now I can’t listen to music. My car has lost control of its volume. Try as it might to hold it in, it simply can’t help itself. It must decrease the volume to ZERO as quickly as possible all the time. And I swear it laughs as it does this.
I turn the volume up to 21 and then watch it decrease to 0 within seconds. Silence.
Try again. Turn the volume up. 21 20 19 18 17 16 15...All the way back down to 0.
Oh, you like that song? Sorry.
Oh, you actually wanted to hear the weather for the day? Well, look online.
Oh, you don’t need to know about traffic.
No matter what I do--press really hard, use two fingers, say nice things to the button--I watch the volume numbers quickly decrease. 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10... in a matter of seconds, it’s silence.
Try again. Back up to 21. Nope. All the way back down it goes with a smirk.
So, I drove to work this morning in silence and decided that was it. The final straw. My car has gone too far. I don’t care that it’s addicted to very expensive oil. And the chugging? It’s ok. I get cramps too. I understand. But making me drive in silence? I think not. Not gonna happen.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Religion or grace
For one of my classes, I’m studying theologians Karl Barth and Deitrich Bonhoeffer. Both challenge human assumptions made about God.
Last night I read an address that Bonhoeffer gave in 1928 in Barcelona. I underlined and starred the following passage. I don’t have time to dissect it at the moment, but it’s certainly food for thought on this pretty spring Tuesday in Minneapolis:
“What are we to think of other religions? Are they as nothing compared to Christianity? We answer that the Christian religion as religion is not of God. It is rather another example of a human way to God, like the Buddhist and others, too, though of course, these are of a different nature. Christ is not the bringer of a new religion, but rather the one who brings God. Therefore, as an impossible way from the human to God, the Christian religion stands with other religions. Christians can never pride themselves on their Christianity, for it remains human, all too human. They live, however, by the grace of God, which comes to people and comes to every person who opens his or her heart to it and learns to understand it in a the cross of Christ. And, therefore, the gift of Christ is not the Christian religion, but the grace and love of God which culminate in the cross.” -DB
Hm. Do we live by our religion or by God’s grace and love? What do others say we live by?
Last night I read an address that Bonhoeffer gave in 1928 in Barcelona. I underlined and starred the following passage. I don’t have time to dissect it at the moment, but it’s certainly food for thought on this pretty spring Tuesday in Minneapolis:
“What are we to think of other religions? Are they as nothing compared to Christianity? We answer that the Christian religion as religion is not of God. It is rather another example of a human way to God, like the Buddhist and others, too, though of course, these are of a different nature. Christ is not the bringer of a new religion, but rather the one who brings God. Therefore, as an impossible way from the human to God, the Christian religion stands with other religions. Christians can never pride themselves on their Christianity, for it remains human, all too human. They live, however, by the grace of God, which comes to people and comes to every person who opens his or her heart to it and learns to understand it in a the cross of Christ. And, therefore, the gift of Christ is not the Christian religion, but the grace and love of God which culminate in the cross.” -DB
Hm. Do we live by our religion or by God’s grace and love? What do others say we live by?
Friday, April 09, 2010
Egregious expectations
I am sick of hearing about Tiger Woods. I’m tired of seeing his name and face. And when your mom knows about the latest info regarding Tiger’s sexual escapades...it’s gone too far! In a recent conversation with my parents, they shocked me by knowing the most up-to-date news about Sandra Bullock's marital woes as well as all the gossip surrounding Tiger Woods.
Duh, Heather! This stuff is all over the news! They said.
Oh, sorry. Some of us have our noses in theology books. (that nose is very high in the air as I say this!)
Anyways. The Masters. Tiger Woods. The other day Billy Payne, the chairman of Augusta National Golf Club where the Masters are, had a few choice words about Tiger: "It is not simply the degree of his conduct that is so egregious here; it is the fact that he disappointed all of us, and more importantly our kids and our grandkids. Our hero did not live up to the expectations of the role model we saw for our children."
Seriously? Our hero? Live up to our expectations?
The thing is, Tiger never raised his hand and said, yes, I will be Billy Payne’s grandchild’s role model. Had he I think I would take Payne’s point a little more seriously. The fact is Payne made him that. We’ve made Tiger that. And, I would argue that maybe that’s the problem!
Now, Tiger did raise his hand and tell his wife that he would be her husband. So, she has some serious leeway on her expectations. But me? Not so much.
I don’t agree with or condone any of Tiger’s recent "egregious" actions. But he’s human and always has been. We’re the ones who have chosen to view Tiger and a bajillion other celebrities/athletes as not-normal, above average. We've put them on pedestals, and then we’re shocked when they fail like the normal human beings that they are.
We may do well to check the placement of our expectations?
ps. I promise to make my next post happy, less ranting. :)
Duh, Heather! This stuff is all over the news! They said.
Oh, sorry. Some of us have our noses in theology books. (that nose is very high in the air as I say this!)
Anyways. The Masters. Tiger Woods. The other day Billy Payne, the chairman of Augusta National Golf Club where the Masters are, had a few choice words about Tiger: "It is not simply the degree of his conduct that is so egregious here; it is the fact that he disappointed all of us, and more importantly our kids and our grandkids. Our hero did not live up to the expectations of the role model we saw for our children."
Seriously? Our hero? Live up to our expectations?
The thing is, Tiger never raised his hand and said, yes, I will be Billy Payne’s grandchild’s role model. Had he I think I would take Payne’s point a little more seriously. The fact is Payne made him that. We’ve made Tiger that. And, I would argue that maybe that’s the problem!
Now, Tiger did raise his hand and tell his wife that he would be her husband. So, she has some serious leeway on her expectations. But me? Not so much.
I don’t agree with or condone any of Tiger’s recent "egregious" actions. But he’s human and always has been. We’re the ones who have chosen to view Tiger and a bajillion other celebrities/athletes as not-normal, above average. We've put them on pedestals, and then we’re shocked when they fail like the normal human beings that they are.
We may do well to check the placement of our expectations?
ps. I promise to make my next post happy, less ranting. :)
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
Oh sweet givens
If.
I’m so sick of this tiny little two-letter word, that I could use a four-letter word right now. I mean, for how weighty “if” is, you’d think it’d be 22 letters.
On the condition that
In case of...
Supposing that...
If this, then that...
If that, then this...
Everything hinges upon something else. Using the word "if" means you don’t know something. You’re lacking confirmation on something. And let me tell you, for a girl who plans and confirms, plans and confirms, plans and confirms, IF is nervewracking. Please, someone, "roger that" for me!
Chances are you have "ifs" in your life: health, job, finances, relationships. But those "ifs," wherever they may be, I think, can be good and healthy because they cause you to contemplate or hold on to those things that are not iffy. The things that you know for sure. The givens—oh sweet givens. And I think maybe those are the things we should be focusing on all along! Like those people who place no conditions on their love for you. Those friends who are your best friends no matter time or distance. Like God’s forgiveness, which doesn’t suppose anything. And His grace, which hinges on nothing but our acceptance. Not our plans or paychecks or report cards.
You know how wonderful the givens are. How great it is when someone says "I'll be there no matter what." or "I love you no matter what." Do we return the favor? Where do I place "ifs"--the very things I hate!? Do I give friends "ifs" sometimes? Do I give God "ifs"? If he does this for me, then I'll be happy? Or if he doesn't answer this prayer...I'm not going to believe...
I love givens, and I want to be a better given.
I’m so sick of this tiny little two-letter word, that I could use a four-letter word right now. I mean, for how weighty “if” is, you’d think it’d be 22 letters.
On the condition that
In case of...
Supposing that...
If this, then that...
If that, then this...
Everything hinges upon something else. Using the word "if" means you don’t know something. You’re lacking confirmation on something. And let me tell you, for a girl who plans and confirms, plans and confirms, plans and confirms, IF is nervewracking. Please, someone, "roger that" for me!
Chances are you have "ifs" in your life: health, job, finances, relationships. But those "ifs," wherever they may be, I think, can be good and healthy because they cause you to contemplate or hold on to those things that are not iffy. The things that you know for sure. The givens—oh sweet givens. And I think maybe those are the things we should be focusing on all along! Like those people who place no conditions on their love for you. Those friends who are your best friends no matter time or distance. Like God’s forgiveness, which doesn’t suppose anything. And His grace, which hinges on nothing but our acceptance. Not our plans or paychecks or report cards.
You know how wonderful the givens are. How great it is when someone says "I'll be there no matter what." or "I love you no matter what." Do we return the favor? Where do I place "ifs"--the very things I hate!? Do I give friends "ifs" sometimes? Do I give God "ifs"? If he does this for me, then I'll be happy? Or if he doesn't answer this prayer...I'm not going to believe...
I love givens, and I want to be a better given.
Saturday, April 03, 2010
If momma ain't happy...
Yesterday I sat at the hair salon, eavesdropping on the conversations around me. The woman cutting hair at the station next to me was talking to her client about her two young children. “And my husband knows that being a mother is not my top priority in life,” she explained. “I need to be happy first, and if I’m happy, then my kids will be happy.” She then went on to talk about a trip she had taken to L.A. without her kids or husband.
What?! That is precisely what’s wrong in our society, I thought to myself. We only care about ourselves. Me Me Me.
Shouldn't it be the around way around? Serve others. Take care of others. Put others before yourself. And chances are you will be happy because the relationships you build—and your children—will be healthy and strong and meaningful.
I wanted to asked her if she really believed that later in life her adult children would say, "Yeah, mom was great. She always put herself before us. We really appreciated that."
Tomorrow's Easter, and I look forward to celebrating the fact that our heavenly father put us first, giving up his son to die for us.
What?! That is precisely what’s wrong in our society, I thought to myself. We only care about ourselves. Me Me Me.
Shouldn't it be the around way around? Serve others. Take care of others. Put others before yourself. And chances are you will be happy because the relationships you build—and your children—will be healthy and strong and meaningful.
I wanted to asked her if she really believed that later in life her adult children would say, "Yeah, mom was great. She always put herself before us. We really appreciated that."
Tomorrow's Easter, and I look forward to celebrating the fact that our heavenly father put us first, giving up his son to die for us.
Thursday, April 01, 2010
Good night, traffic
When I was little, I sometimes got to sleep on a cot in my grandma and grandpa’s bedroom. Their bedroom windows were always cracked (even when it was COLD!), and you could hear the constant whir of speeding cars and semis from the freeway just beyond the hill.
My grandpa would tuck me in by making a fort around my face. He’d take the blanket and smoosh it and fold it in just such a way that it covered my head but still left a little hole or opening somewhere for me to breathe. Then he’d shut the light off, and I’d feel safe and sound—face covered—listening to the traffic, knowing grandma and grandpa would be right next to me throughout the night.
Depending on which direction the wind blows, I can sometimes hear traffic from my own bedroom window now. Last night I could. As I crawled into bed and made my own fort around my head, I smiled—thankful for the warmer weather allowing for open windows and the sound of whirring traffic...and for a grandpa who made forts.
My grandpa would tuck me in by making a fort around my face. He’d take the blanket and smoosh it and fold it in just such a way that it covered my head but still left a little hole or opening somewhere for me to breathe. Then he’d shut the light off, and I’d feel safe and sound—face covered—listening to the traffic, knowing grandma and grandpa would be right next to me throughout the night.
Depending on which direction the wind blows, I can sometimes hear traffic from my own bedroom window now. Last night I could. As I crawled into bed and made my own fort around my head, I smiled—thankful for the warmer weather allowing for open windows and the sound of whirring traffic...and for a grandpa who made forts.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
C'mon, make fun of me
I make a lot of fun of the people who work out at the gym alongside me. Running on the treadmill affords a great opportunity to listen to the guy who grunts when he lifts weights, read people’s silly T-shirts, watch the girl in the purple spandex try to show off for muscleman. And then, of course, there are the people who leave the ridiculous requests and complaints on the bulletin board above the water fountain.
But, I have to tell you: on Monday I practically begged my fellow gym-ers to make fun of me.
As per usual, I was in a hurry as I got ready at home. I pulled on my tight black cropped pants, threw on a sports bra, grabbed a t-shirt, and because it was so nice out—no snow!!—I just wore my running shoes instead of bringing an extra pair.
To the gym I go. On the treadmill I hop. My keys go on the ground next to me, water bottle in holder, and ipod in ears. I am good to go. Bring on the people watching. As I started running, I felt something between my legs. I inconspicuously bent forward a bit and pretended like I had to scratch the inside of my leg. To my horror, there was a large, soft lump on the inside of my thigh. What you ask was this lump? Oh, my black underwear from the day before which blended in with my black pants and which I failed to notice as I got ready.
Crap! What to do? Did the five people behind me on stairmasters see this? Had they spotted the lump? Had they spotted my mortified face? Were they wondering why I had one large thigh?
What was my plan? I could pause the treadmill, get off, and go to the bathroom to dig my underwear out from my pants, but then what would I do with them? Put them down on the floor next to my keys? Hook onto my water bottle? Carry? The only possibility was stuffing them into my sports bra, but when you’re not that big on top, that’d probably be noticeable too! (I have a friend who can actually throw her cell phone in her sports bra during runs, and her phone won’t move. Oh the luxury!) I was cursing the nice weather. Had it been cold or nasty out I would have worn a coat in which I could have hidden underwear!
As these options ran through my head, my lump slowly worked its way to the back of my thigh. Trying to stretch my T-shirt down, down, down over my lump also crossed my mind. Maybe people feel sorry for me, I thought. I have an ugly growth on my leg. Or maybe people didn’t notice. Maybe they were too intent on the cable show above them about some girl who didn’t know she was pregnant until she was in labor.
Anyways, I didn’t get off the treadmill. I thought that may actually draw more attention to the situation. Instead I pretended as though I didn’t have an extra pair of underwear in my pants, and I vowed to never make fun of my fellow gymers again.
But, I have to tell you: on Monday I practically begged my fellow gym-ers to make fun of me.
As per usual, I was in a hurry as I got ready at home. I pulled on my tight black cropped pants, threw on a sports bra, grabbed a t-shirt, and because it was so nice out—no snow!!—I just wore my running shoes instead of bringing an extra pair.
To the gym I go. On the treadmill I hop. My keys go on the ground next to me, water bottle in holder, and ipod in ears. I am good to go. Bring on the people watching. As I started running, I felt something between my legs. I inconspicuously bent forward a bit and pretended like I had to scratch the inside of my leg. To my horror, there was a large, soft lump on the inside of my thigh. What you ask was this lump? Oh, my black underwear from the day before which blended in with my black pants and which I failed to notice as I got ready.
Crap! What to do? Did the five people behind me on stairmasters see this? Had they spotted the lump? Had they spotted my mortified face? Were they wondering why I had one large thigh?
What was my plan? I could pause the treadmill, get off, and go to the bathroom to dig my underwear out from my pants, but then what would I do with them? Put them down on the floor next to my keys? Hook onto my water bottle? Carry? The only possibility was stuffing them into my sports bra, but when you’re not that big on top, that’d probably be noticeable too! (I have a friend who can actually throw her cell phone in her sports bra during runs, and her phone won’t move. Oh the luxury!) I was cursing the nice weather. Had it been cold or nasty out I would have worn a coat in which I could have hidden underwear!
As these options ran through my head, my lump slowly worked its way to the back of my thigh. Trying to stretch my T-shirt down, down, down over my lump also crossed my mind. Maybe people feel sorry for me, I thought. I have an ugly growth on my leg. Or maybe people didn’t notice. Maybe they were too intent on the cable show above them about some girl who didn’t know she was pregnant until she was in labor.
Anyways, I didn’t get off the treadmill. I thought that may actually draw more attention to the situation. Instead I pretended as though I didn’t have an extra pair of underwear in my pants, and I vowed to never make fun of my fellow gymers again.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Shut up, Helga!
BJ and I took a road trip this past week, driving some 1,800 miles across seven or eight states to visit our grandparents in Indiana and Arkansas.
For Christmas BJ received Garmin—a GPS who he (fluent in German) quickly programmed to “Helga,” a woman who speaks automated German. He clipped Helga to the inside of the windshield as we pulled out of the driveway. “Biegen sie links in. .3 kilometers.” (Oh good. Just in case we didn’t know how to pull out of the neighborhood.)
Additionally, I borrowed dad’s hefty atlas, which is painfully large, but so fun because you can—when things get really boring—follow town by town, often ripping on names like Effingham, Mo., and Peculiar, Mo. (Missouri has the worst town names ever. Iowa may be a close second.)
But just in case these wouldn’t suffice, BJ also printed out Google maps, including both the directions and the maps for each leg of our trip. We were more than prepared. “We couldn’t get lost even if we tried,” BJ said. “True that!” I piped in, proud of our preparedness!
Well, that was until we entered Illinois when suddenly Helga was telling us to go one way (she practically yells us!), our Google maps suggested another way, and dad’s atlas showed another way that I thought would probably make more sense. In a matter of seconds we had to make a decision. Who was going to trump whom? Which way? Which way? The exit is about to pass!
BJ: Heath, which way?!
HJ: I don’t know. Who do you want? Helga or Google?
(and Helga yelling RECHTS RECHTS RECHTS was not helping)
Our preparedness was suddenly useless. Having not made a decision at the beginning who or what would be our default, we became decision-less and paralyzed at very critical junctures!
I quickly became annoyed with Helga, too, who only yelled at us louder when we’d take the Google route. And when she led us astray twice—taking us to nonexistent coffee shops—I had had enough.
But anyways, isn’t that how it always goes? You think you got your ducks lined up. You’ve got life figured out, and you are prepared! You know exactly where you’re going. And then suddenly there’s road construction and a missed sign and your “preparedness” becomes laughable. Which way are you going to go?! You can’t really rely on your own sorely lacking knowledge.
There’s great comfort in deciding to let God trump all my silly plans and maps and directions and societal pressures. Admittedly sometimes I wonder, really? You want me to go that way? And I also still tend to panic at critical junctures, but I shouldn't. He’ll always get me to my destination. And he won’t even arrogantly flaunt his know-how in German!
Direct me in the path of your commands, for there I find delight.
Psalm 119:35
For Christmas BJ received Garmin—a GPS who he (fluent in German) quickly programmed to “Helga,” a woman who speaks automated German. He clipped Helga to the inside of the windshield as we pulled out of the driveway. “Biegen sie links in. .3 kilometers.” (Oh good. Just in case we didn’t know how to pull out of the neighborhood.)
Additionally, I borrowed dad’s hefty atlas, which is painfully large, but so fun because you can—when things get really boring—follow town by town, often ripping on names like Effingham, Mo., and Peculiar, Mo. (Missouri has the worst town names ever. Iowa may be a close second.)
But just in case these wouldn’t suffice, BJ also printed out Google maps, including both the directions and the maps for each leg of our trip. We were more than prepared. “We couldn’t get lost even if we tried,” BJ said. “True that!” I piped in, proud of our preparedness!
Well, that was until we entered Illinois when suddenly Helga was telling us to go one way (she practically yells us!), our Google maps suggested another way, and dad’s atlas showed another way that I thought would probably make more sense. In a matter of seconds we had to make a decision. Who was going to trump whom? Which way? Which way? The exit is about to pass!
BJ: Heath, which way?!
HJ: I don’t know. Who do you want? Helga or Google?
(and Helga yelling RECHTS RECHTS RECHTS was not helping)
Our preparedness was suddenly useless. Having not made a decision at the beginning who or what would be our default, we became decision-less and paralyzed at very critical junctures!
I quickly became annoyed with Helga, too, who only yelled at us louder when we’d take the Google route. And when she led us astray twice—taking us to nonexistent coffee shops—I had had enough.
But anyways, isn’t that how it always goes? You think you got your ducks lined up. You’ve got life figured out, and you are prepared! You know exactly where you’re going. And then suddenly there’s road construction and a missed sign and your “preparedness” becomes laughable. Which way are you going to go?! You can’t really rely on your own sorely lacking knowledge.
There’s great comfort in deciding to let God trump all my silly plans and maps and directions and societal pressures. Admittedly sometimes I wonder, really? You want me to go that way? And I also still tend to panic at critical junctures, but I shouldn't. He’ll always get me to my destination. And he won’t even arrogantly flaunt his know-how in German!
Direct me in the path of your commands, for there I find delight.
Psalm 119:35
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Genius
A white screen blinked an outline of a file folder and a question mark at me.
I had flipped my mac on an hour before class last night to finish up homework. It did that introductory sound...auuummmm...and then tried and tried and tried to do something. I could hear it working, like a train going up a hill, “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...” and then...the blinking file folder.
I wanted to talk back to it. Yes. Yes, I know. That’s my question to YOU! Where exactly is my folder of homework. You tell me. And come to think of it, please also tell me where my photos and my journal and my finances and internet “favorites” are too!
I suddenly felt naked and deprived and, quite honestly, helpless. There was simply nothing I could do, except restart a few times, only to have the same thing happen; take a few deeeep breaths; and turn to my work computer to redo the homework I needed for class. All the while, I tried to hold my panic at bay. My baby...my lifeline to the world! I wanted to stroke her and tell her to breath deeply...it’ll be OK! What am I going to do? Panic Panic Panic.
Well, I’ll tell you what I did. I immediately made a reservation at the closest Genius Bar: Apple’s help desk in the mall’s Apple retail store. A genius bar is a genius idea, really. I mean, geniuses are people with extraordinarily high intelligence ratings; they have a natural capacity for certain abilities. And they are all at a bar ready to help ME and my computer!
So, I promptly plopped my not-so-genius bottom down at the bar today at 12:20 over my lunch hour. I handed over my baby to bartender David in a bright blue shirt. Help her...fix her...do something, I pleaded with David. Make the folder go away, please! I can’t take it anymore. I don’t know what to do!
A song from Sunday school went through my head: “Cast your burdens...unto Jesus...for he caaaaaaares for you.” It’s from 1 Peter 5:6. Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.
I casted some serious concerns over to Genius David, and we were about to see how much he cared for me.
David told me he’d be right back. He was going to go in back and see if he could resuscitate my baby. I waited at the bar, and with that song in my head, I started thinking about other things in my life right now in which I feel somewhat helpless and deprived. Things that I just want to cast across the bar. I’m getting frustrated with them because I keep restarting and rebooting and it’s not working. I’m getting question marks! Blinking question marks. And panic can set in if I don’t make a reservation with God to hand over my burdens.
What a relief when I realize that I can throw my biggest problems and concerns at him and say HELP...and know that he has my best interests at heart. God is a genius willing to take our work problems, our fears, our worries about the futures, our financial woes on himself!
David didn’t have the greatest news today. My baby will be breathing again very soon, but not without losing a lot of precious info. It’s not the exact response I wanted, but I am incredibly grateful for the genius bar and felt so much better the second I handed my burden over to them.
It’s genius.
I had flipped my mac on an hour before class last night to finish up homework. It did that introductory sound...auuummmm...and then tried and tried and tried to do something. I could hear it working, like a train going up a hill, “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...” and then...the blinking file folder.
I wanted to talk back to it. Yes. Yes, I know. That’s my question to YOU! Where exactly is my folder of homework. You tell me. And come to think of it, please also tell me where my photos and my journal and my finances and internet “favorites” are too!
I suddenly felt naked and deprived and, quite honestly, helpless. There was simply nothing I could do, except restart a few times, only to have the same thing happen; take a few deeeep breaths; and turn to my work computer to redo the homework I needed for class. All the while, I tried to hold my panic at bay. My baby...my lifeline to the world! I wanted to stroke her and tell her to breath deeply...it’ll be OK! What am I going to do? Panic Panic Panic.
Well, I’ll tell you what I did. I immediately made a reservation at the closest Genius Bar: Apple’s help desk in the mall’s Apple retail store. A genius bar is a genius idea, really. I mean, geniuses are people with extraordinarily high intelligence ratings; they have a natural capacity for certain abilities. And they are all at a bar ready to help ME and my computer!
So, I promptly plopped my not-so-genius bottom down at the bar today at 12:20 over my lunch hour. I handed over my baby to bartender David in a bright blue shirt. Help her...fix her...do something, I pleaded with David. Make the folder go away, please! I can’t take it anymore. I don’t know what to do!
A song from Sunday school went through my head: “Cast your burdens...unto Jesus...for he caaaaaaares for you.” It’s from 1 Peter 5:6. Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.
I casted some serious concerns over to Genius David, and we were about to see how much he cared for me.
David told me he’d be right back. He was going to go in back and see if he could resuscitate my baby. I waited at the bar, and with that song in my head, I started thinking about other things in my life right now in which I feel somewhat helpless and deprived. Things that I just want to cast across the bar. I’m getting frustrated with them because I keep restarting and rebooting and it’s not working. I’m getting question marks! Blinking question marks. And panic can set in if I don’t make a reservation with God to hand over my burdens.
What a relief when I realize that I can throw my biggest problems and concerns at him and say HELP...and know that he has my best interests at heart. God is a genius willing to take our work problems, our fears, our worries about the futures, our financial woes on himself!
David didn’t have the greatest news today. My baby will be breathing again very soon, but not without losing a lot of precious info. It’s not the exact response I wanted, but I am incredibly grateful for the genius bar and felt so much better the second I handed my burden over to them.
It’s genius.
Friday, March 05, 2010
Three dates a day
Yesterday I chatted with a 91-year-old gentleman.
His wife is in a nearby nursing home. I found out that every day—like clockwork—he drives to the nursing home at 11am to take his bride out to lunch. Then he goes to work (yes, he still works). At 4:30pm he heads back to the nursing home to have dinner with her. He goes home and finally returns to the nursing home at 8pm to be with her as she goes to bed. She knows exactly when he will arrive and leave, and he will not disappoint.
It is a gift to be able to do this—he told me—to drive to the nursing home three times a day. It’s a treat because he feels like he gets to go on three dates every single day. He said he is lucky and blessed.
I was speechless.
Such perspective. Instead of being sad that his wife is in a nursing home, instead of begrudging the fact that he "has to" drive to the nursing home three times daily...he is happy.
And such love. Such loyalty. It takes my breath away.
So does the love of a certain someone, whom I would be lucky to visit three times a day many years from now.
His wife is in a nearby nursing home. I found out that every day—like clockwork—he drives to the nursing home at 11am to take his bride out to lunch. Then he goes to work (yes, he still works). At 4:30pm he heads back to the nursing home to have dinner with her. He goes home and finally returns to the nursing home at 8pm to be with her as she goes to bed. She knows exactly when he will arrive and leave, and he will not disappoint.
It is a gift to be able to do this—he told me—to drive to the nursing home three times a day. It’s a treat because he feels like he gets to go on three dates every single day. He said he is lucky and blessed.
I was speechless.
Such perspective. Instead of being sad that his wife is in a nursing home, instead of begrudging the fact that he "has to" drive to the nursing home three times daily...he is happy.
And such love. Such loyalty. It takes my breath away.
So does the love of a certain someone, whom I would be lucky to visit three times a day many years from now.
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