Right after graduating from college I jumped on a plane heading for China. There were two teams of fifteen of us from my church that were going to spend the next six weeks together. I knew one girl from my sorority and one guy from my high school. I knew neither of them well. I went because I knew if I didn’t I would probably never go on another mission trip. I had no idea what life after college held for me, but being a missionary was never one of my career options and I needed to put my two cents in before it was too late. Plus I was certainly going to meet my husband right away and start having babies and life was going to be too hectic to think about running off to other countries.
That six weeks was life changing for me in ways that I still have trouble articulating. I learned that I could be very happy even when I am very uncomfortable. For some reason, as Americans, we are so afraid to be uncomfortable. It is the one thing we are constantly guarding against. I was hot all the time and I had to sleep under a mosquito net and sit in a class for four hours straight every day and eat some things that I didn’t know were edible. But I didn’t die and I was very happy at times. I learned that being the first person to speak the name of Jesus to someone is just as profound as leading them to Christ. I learned that being friends with people from another culture is very difficult and it takes a lot of work, but is so worth it. I learned that people who live overseas…missionaries…are just normal people that live in another country. I learned that I was just a few decisions away from being one of those people.
When I got home I was pretty confused about what life had for me and why in the world I got a visa to go live in London. But I went. What else was I going to do? Once I settled in with my new roommates I found a church down the street that was a few hundred years old. It was beautiful. The church is mostly dead in England…that’s what they say…but at this church people weren’t afraid to sing like they are here. People sang their guts out…not in emo charismatic style…but in sophisticated “I have been trained in the art of singing” style. They also had assigned people to come and read the passage of scripture…like reading scripture is a special ceremony and not something you use to prove your point. They would slowly walk up to the pulpit and when there was an eerie silence they would begin with their rich British accent reading slowly allowing the audience to soak in each word. I liked to go when John Stott would preach. He is pretty old and he wore these giant glasses and he had good natured eyes like Gandolf or Santa. Sometimes he would lose a word and there would be a long silence while he searched for the right word. About the time my cheeks were getting pink he would pick up and move forward just as eloquently as before.
My roommate and I decided we wanted to get more involved in this church while we were there. We went to a newcomer’s class to learn more. They split us off into groups and in my group there was a young Chinese girl named Cathy. Cathy explained that she came to the class because a friend told her that she should go to church. She didn’t know anything about Christianity but thought she might want to be a Christian. Talking to her afterwards, I found out that she went to the same university in China that I visited a few months before. For those of you who aren't good with Geography...China is a very large country with many large cities and a population of over a billion people. Just by the way. The next day she called me to come over and make sushi with her. Over the course of the next month we hung out some and she agreed to go to a class at church for people with questions about Christianity. But only if I attend with her. After the first night they announced sign ups for their annual retreat. Cathy said she would go if I did. I got someone to cover my shift and we were off to the retreat that weekend. So there I was in a tiny car with one of the young pastors driving, Cathy next to me and a few other people heading to a castle where the retreat was to be held. The castle was unbelievably beautiful. It was close to Christmas and we were on a hillside overlooking a little village that could be minimized and placed on the mantle in my house on some cotton. I wish I remembered more about that weekend other than being really uncomfortable with a bunch of complete strangers but for some reason the one thing that sticks out in my mind was a fascinating tree in the yard. It was transported from Lebanon as a gift. I wish I had taken a picture of that tree.
I was amazed at Cathy, that God put her in my life. I was praying about whether to go back to China for a year or two. Meeting Cathy in London, when I was ready to let China go, somehow brought me back to the world where China was a possibility. It reminded me that I loved meeting Chinese girls…even when they decide they don’t want to believe in my God. It reminded me that God is working all over the world. People are never too far away to have their hearts joined together, if only for a time. He is working in people’s hearts, teaching them truths about him through other people and in spite of other people. I sat in the internet café near my flat in London and downloaded the application to work in China for a year, filled it out and turned it in. So it was settled. I was going to China via London.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
London II
It was during this time, through this six months in London, that I began slipping out of the fog of my identity crisis and started learning things about myself. I learned that I was passionate about some things…like music…I started going to see shows and I bought a guitar…and books…I spent entire days reading Jane Austin novels and Charles Dickens and Sherlock Holmes…anything British to enhance my cultural experience… tea, going to movies alone, journaling, great views. I learned there are things that I don’t enjoy…most museums, Guiness beer, Tube strikes, people who don’t tip and possibly worse… people who tip only a few cents (or pence), personal space infringement, people who smack.
I waited tables for the first time. I was never allowed to work while I was in school, so my only job experience thus far was summer camp counseling and life guarding. I had images of myself waiting tables, being busy and tired and funny and earning every penny I got. This was mostly my experience but in my vision I was never bad at it. Real life proved different. Being the only Tex-Mex restaurant in London, people loved to order Corona beer to get the authentic Mexican flavor of the place. While not a bad choice of beers, we always served it with a slice of lime stuffed in the top. When the lime is squeezed through the neck of the bottle it mixes with the flavor of the beer and creates a unique Mexican taste. That wasn’t my problem with Coronas. My problem was that the bottles were so tall and the limes were so heavy. I spilled these Coronas on so many people during my days of waiting tables that I would tear up when anyone ordered one. “Let me get this right, you want five..sniffle...Coronas?” Negro Modello is also a Mexican beer that we stuffed lime slices in, but they are pyramid shaped, as if the friendly bottler knew the bane of my waitressing existence.
It was also my first time to interact daily with pagans. And what I mean when I say pagans is people who live their lives with no regard to God. In the Bible Belt there were plenty of people who lived what we would call “lives of sin,” but they did it either in rebellion against a God they knew or apathy to Him. These people might never have had any sort of encounter with Christ. What surprised me most about these people is that I really liked them. My three favorite people I worked with were a girl named Bronwyn from South Africa, Grant from New Zealand, and Maggie from Devonshire. Bronwyn was a gorgeous blonde with a hoarse voice that would sweep into a room and kiss everyone dangerously close to their mouths. I had to pep talk myself into having the maturity to handle her kissing me and not running out the back door. She loved everyone and made you feel like you were one of her best friends while you were around her, then she would just jet and be off somewhere else. I wonder if she ever let anyone close to her. Grant and Maggie lived together. Grant was in his late 30’s and gay. His Kiwi accent was entrancing and once we became closer friends he too would greet me with a kiss. Sometimes right on the mouth. One night we were working very close to Christmas and we annoyed the rest of the staff by obnoxiously singing carols opera style. He was so snobby, but he liked me so it didn’t bother me. Maggie was an aspiring actress and she looked like Catherine Zeta Jones. She was in charge of training me at the beginning and did not seem in the least like she was a fan of the job. She made it clear that I was a pain in the neck and would never be able to handle the really busy tables. Not by anything she said, but by saying nothing at all, and giving me these cold expressions when she chose to admit that I existed.
Some days I would work for thirteen hours straight and forget to eat anything at all. Many nights we wouldn’t finish until 2am. Some of the staff would stick around and have a few drinks together. I didn’t. First of all, why would I want to stay at work when I am not being paid? Second, I was so used to being the one to set the example, abstaining was almost a habit for me. Do you want to stick around for a drink? Just say no…always. One night I was so tired I couldn’t even think about walking back to my flat so I agreed to one beer. At this point in my life I had only allowed myself to drink when someone who could hold me accountable was around. I had to cover all my bases…God forbid I actually do something wrong or make a mistake. I sat in a booth with Grant and Maggie while the two Irish bartenders served us Tecate and called me funny pet names like cupcake. We laughed and talked way too loud and Maggie’s stony exterior melted as she interacted with Grant and slowly warmed up to me. I began staying after work more often and grew to really adore these people.
This was a turning point for me. To have friends outside the Christian bubble I created for myself. I’ve had times where I’ve looked back on those nights drinking beer with those friends and wondered if I should have made a more concerted effort at introducing them to Christ. But that’s the thing…I had spent my entire life making everything a project and everyone an assignment. How do you love people when they are objects…or objectives? It always bothered me in Sunday school when they asked me to think of someone I knew who wasn’t a believer in Christ and I couldn’t think of one. Its like I’ve been on a quest to find people who are missing that element in their lives and make them better. And when they don’t care or don’t accept it I feel like I need to change my technique or I didn’t do a good enough job. What if it’s not my job? What if I’m missing out on loving people because I’m trying to fix them? Is there a chance that Christ is more present when I am being myself and loving deeply than when I am strategizing my next play to win over their soul? Just a thought for the void.
I waited tables for the first time. I was never allowed to work while I was in school, so my only job experience thus far was summer camp counseling and life guarding. I had images of myself waiting tables, being busy and tired and funny and earning every penny I got. This was mostly my experience but in my vision I was never bad at it. Real life proved different. Being the only Tex-Mex restaurant in London, people loved to order Corona beer to get the authentic Mexican flavor of the place. While not a bad choice of beers, we always served it with a slice of lime stuffed in the top. When the lime is squeezed through the neck of the bottle it mixes with the flavor of the beer and creates a unique Mexican taste. That wasn’t my problem with Coronas. My problem was that the bottles were so tall and the limes were so heavy. I spilled these Coronas on so many people during my days of waiting tables that I would tear up when anyone ordered one. “Let me get this right, you want five..sniffle...Coronas?” Negro Modello is also a Mexican beer that we stuffed lime slices in, but they are pyramid shaped, as if the friendly bottler knew the bane of my waitressing existence.
It was also my first time to interact daily with pagans. And what I mean when I say pagans is people who live their lives with no regard to God. In the Bible Belt there were plenty of people who lived what we would call “lives of sin,” but they did it either in rebellion against a God they knew or apathy to Him. These people might never have had any sort of encounter with Christ. What surprised me most about these people is that I really liked them. My three favorite people I worked with were a girl named Bronwyn from South Africa, Grant from New Zealand, and Maggie from Devonshire. Bronwyn was a gorgeous blonde with a hoarse voice that would sweep into a room and kiss everyone dangerously close to their mouths. I had to pep talk myself into having the maturity to handle her kissing me and not running out the back door. She loved everyone and made you feel like you were one of her best friends while you were around her, then she would just jet and be off somewhere else. I wonder if she ever let anyone close to her. Grant and Maggie lived together. Grant was in his late 30’s and gay. His Kiwi accent was entrancing and once we became closer friends he too would greet me with a kiss. Sometimes right on the mouth. One night we were working very close to Christmas and we annoyed the rest of the staff by obnoxiously singing carols opera style. He was so snobby, but he liked me so it didn’t bother me. Maggie was an aspiring actress and she looked like Catherine Zeta Jones. She was in charge of training me at the beginning and did not seem in the least like she was a fan of the job. She made it clear that I was a pain in the neck and would never be able to handle the really busy tables. Not by anything she said, but by saying nothing at all, and giving me these cold expressions when she chose to admit that I existed.
Some days I would work for thirteen hours straight and forget to eat anything at all. Many nights we wouldn’t finish until 2am. Some of the staff would stick around and have a few drinks together. I didn’t. First of all, why would I want to stay at work when I am not being paid? Second, I was so used to being the one to set the example, abstaining was almost a habit for me. Do you want to stick around for a drink? Just say no…always. One night I was so tired I couldn’t even think about walking back to my flat so I agreed to one beer. At this point in my life I had only allowed myself to drink when someone who could hold me accountable was around. I had to cover all my bases…God forbid I actually do something wrong or make a mistake. I sat in a booth with Grant and Maggie while the two Irish bartenders served us Tecate and called me funny pet names like cupcake. We laughed and talked way too loud and Maggie’s stony exterior melted as she interacted with Grant and slowly warmed up to me. I began staying after work more often and grew to really adore these people.
This was a turning point for me. To have friends outside the Christian bubble I created for myself. I’ve had times where I’ve looked back on those nights drinking beer with those friends and wondered if I should have made a more concerted effort at introducing them to Christ. But that’s the thing…I had spent my entire life making everything a project and everyone an assignment. How do you love people when they are objects…or objectives? It always bothered me in Sunday school when they asked me to think of someone I knew who wasn’t a believer in Christ and I couldn’t think of one. Its like I’ve been on a quest to find people who are missing that element in their lives and make them better. And when they don’t care or don’t accept it I feel like I need to change my technique or I didn’t do a good enough job. What if it’s not my job? What if I’m missing out on loving people because I’m trying to fix them? Is there a chance that Christ is more present when I am being myself and loving deeply than when I am strategizing my next play to win over their soul? Just a thought for the void.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Trees
I love my house. I love where I live. I told someone the other day that my house is my favorite thing about life right now. I was immediately embarrassed at how materialistic that sounded. I hate when I make bold statements that aren’t true. It makes me feel like one of those people that you know you can never trust what they say. My house wouldn’t mean much to me without my roommates or the dinner parties or the movie nights or the rich conversations we have there.
But I do love my house. I never tire of running down the same streets and looking at the old houses with the giant old trees towering over them. I have secretly named some of the trees marking the path that I regularly run. Each tree has its own personality, jutting out here, winding there, knobs, dangling limbs, firm and strong at places, appearing to defy gravity in others. Leaves are falling now, marking the stage of life this year is in. The trees have seen so many more years than I have. All from the same spot, the same perspective. Like one of those videos where the camera is set in place for hours and hours. Played in super-fast forward you can see the gradual change of things as they happen. The things we are too limited in our humanity or impatient to watch. And the things that go by quickly are a blur. I think this is how trees see things. They could care less about the cars driving by, or the runners…they care about the things that are going to stick around. The flowers that bloom, the grass that fades and turns green again, the children who grow up and move on. I think trees love children, even when their rope swings dig into their branches. Maybe especially when they are injured by rope swings. They forever carry these injuries with them, proudly displaying them like a battle scar, holding memories that only they and the grown children know.
My house has been there for almost seventy years. When they built this neighborhood they really knew how to make houses. They are all small because people knew back then that we all need to be close and more space only makes us more lonely. They made each house different and unique because they know how bored we get with what we see. Some are made of stone and look like little cottages and some have siding with shutters on the windows and some are made of brick with roofs that peak like a gingerbread house. They have great yards, though few of them have swimming pools. Just lots of birds, beautiful gardens, hanging plants and squirrels. They are starting to tear down some of the homes in my neighborhood to build new houses. I don’t have a problem with the houses they are building, but nothing in me wants them in my neighborhood. These houses look like something you would find in any other neighborhood in the suburbs. They are monstrosities taking up what was a large backyard with lots of trees to add a few extra bedrooms and a kitchen with a wraparound counter. Like the rest of the city, uniqueness and quality are being swallowed up by big, pretentious and generic.
Another thing that makes me sad is a phenomenon that is so common where I live. People are re-doing their houses. That’s not what makes me sad. My house was redone beautifully. And with all the home makeover TV shows these days, who doesn’t want to make their life more full by refurbishing old furniture or changing the color of the dining room walls? What makes me sad is that almost every time I see a house improve drastically, a For Sale sign inevitably follows. They don’t fix it up to live in it, they fix it up to sell it. There are so many parallels to life that I could draw from this, but I will spare you. But it does make me think about the areas of my life that I do this. What mediocre and dilapidated things am I living with every day? What am I putting off for some future day that I could be doing now…living now to the full?
I want to be like those trees, taking in life, letting it become a part of me, showing the scars and loving the memories. Not big, pretentious and generic, but solid, knobby and unique. I want the passing things to be fleeting thoughts and to really care about the things that are going to be around for a while.
But I do love my house. I never tire of running down the same streets and looking at the old houses with the giant old trees towering over them. I have secretly named some of the trees marking the path that I regularly run. Each tree has its own personality, jutting out here, winding there, knobs, dangling limbs, firm and strong at places, appearing to defy gravity in others. Leaves are falling now, marking the stage of life this year is in. The trees have seen so many more years than I have. All from the same spot, the same perspective. Like one of those videos where the camera is set in place for hours and hours. Played in super-fast forward you can see the gradual change of things as they happen. The things we are too limited in our humanity or impatient to watch. And the things that go by quickly are a blur. I think this is how trees see things. They could care less about the cars driving by, or the runners…they care about the things that are going to stick around. The flowers that bloom, the grass that fades and turns green again, the children who grow up and move on. I think trees love children, even when their rope swings dig into their branches. Maybe especially when they are injured by rope swings. They forever carry these injuries with them, proudly displaying them like a battle scar, holding memories that only they and the grown children know.
My house has been there for almost seventy years. When they built this neighborhood they really knew how to make houses. They are all small because people knew back then that we all need to be close and more space only makes us more lonely. They made each house different and unique because they know how bored we get with what we see. Some are made of stone and look like little cottages and some have siding with shutters on the windows and some are made of brick with roofs that peak like a gingerbread house. They have great yards, though few of them have swimming pools. Just lots of birds, beautiful gardens, hanging plants and squirrels. They are starting to tear down some of the homes in my neighborhood to build new houses. I don’t have a problem with the houses they are building, but nothing in me wants them in my neighborhood. These houses look like something you would find in any other neighborhood in the suburbs. They are monstrosities taking up what was a large backyard with lots of trees to add a few extra bedrooms and a kitchen with a wraparound counter. Like the rest of the city, uniqueness and quality are being swallowed up by big, pretentious and generic.
Another thing that makes me sad is a phenomenon that is so common where I live. People are re-doing their houses. That’s not what makes me sad. My house was redone beautifully. And with all the home makeover TV shows these days, who doesn’t want to make their life more full by refurbishing old furniture or changing the color of the dining room walls? What makes me sad is that almost every time I see a house improve drastically, a For Sale sign inevitably follows. They don’t fix it up to live in it, they fix it up to sell it. There are so many parallels to life that I could draw from this, but I will spare you. But it does make me think about the areas of my life that I do this. What mediocre and dilapidated things am I living with every day? What am I putting off for some future day that I could be doing now…living now to the full?
I want to be like those trees, taking in life, letting it become a part of me, showing the scars and loving the memories. Not big, pretentious and generic, but solid, knobby and unique. I want the passing things to be fleeting thoughts and to really care about the things that are going to be around for a while.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Thanksgiving
Went to the ranch for Thanksgiving. Its not the same ranch we grew up going to. Its across the highway from that one, much smaller but still very much adored by our family. The Frio River runs through it. It was really full this time, due to the floods during the spring and summer. The water is almost fluorescent blue, flowing over the road that crosses it. Legend has it that this crossover was the same one used by Santa Anna when he took the Alamo. Right there on our land. I heard that for the first time this Thanksgiving.
I spent two days there and got to see my entire family. I got into my car to head home and immediately started crying. What is it about being with family that makes me feel more alone than anywhere else in the world? My immediate family of six…my parents and four kids…has blown up to sixteen now that everyone has families of their own. I have seven nieces and nephews ranging from six months to 14 years old. I love getting to hold babies and having all the kids running around.
I was looking forward to seeing everyone so much before I left. I am completely baffled that I was so disengaged while I was there…avoiding conversations, engrossing myself in a puzzle as if it were the boyfriend I never get to bring to family gatherings, always so sleepy. When I get with family I feel like every bit of energy is sucked out of me taking my entire personality with it. Then I leave wondering why I feel like no one really knows me.
I used to blame it on the tryptophan in the turkey, but recently found out that I would have to eat an entire turkey in one sitting to have the sleepiness attributed to it. So I think I will have to admit that there is some stress, however unconscious it might be, that is related to being with family. They say stress manifests itself in different ways. Some people get panic attacks or high blood pressure. It seems I tend more toward narcolepsy and binge eating. Like when I used to get overwhelmingly sleepy during finals at school or when it was time to sit down and do a research paper. All of a sudden that leftover piece of cake in the fridge is calling my name and I’m pretty sure if I just go to sleep now and get up early the next day I will have much better clarity of mind to write an entire ten-page paper.
I am so happy to be where I am in life. I think I can truly say that. I like being on this side of my identity crisis. I feel much more secure in who I am and the flexibility that comes along with that. I know that my personality is not set in stone, will continue to change over time and in fact changes daily depending on my work schedule or the weather or any other number of variables. I am finally comfortable with it, like a worn out sweatshirt or running shoes. The people who know me best find me predictable at times, which makes me feel sane and irritated at the same time. The people who know me best like me for me, I can finally accept that. They know how corny I can be, that when I say certain things I really mean something else, that when I’m really sweet its usually because I’m angry and when I’m sarcastic, I’m having the most fun. The people who know me best are not my family.
I think there’s something about being the youngest that makes that pretty hard. I grew up as a spectator. My siblings are some of the most amazing people I know and I got to grow up watching them become the unique people they are. The four of us are so different. We aren’t just in different places, we are the four directions on a compass rose with arrows that point to the never-ending expanse that separates us. I went to countless basketball, baseball and football games, studying them and keenly aware of everything. I didn't study them like I studied for my finance tests. More like the way we study a hobby...or the way American culture studies movie stars. I watched in awe as they prepared for their proms, walked across the stage during graduation, got married, had children. I soaked it all up and it was part of my identity. Since I was young, I have had this way of losing myself around my family. I remember being asked a question once at a family function and before I could answer I had to remind myself that I existed and was actually present in the room.
My family loves me. I have never doubted that. But sometimes I wonder if they love some version of me that doesn’t really exist. Often they ask me questions and don’t stick around for the answer. I don’t blame them. I mostly feel that their lives are so much more interesting or pressing than mine, how could they be expected to stick around? I think my singleness and my lifestyle are an enigma to them. They don’t understand it, and so they aren’t comfortable with it. I can’t possibly find the words to explain to them what life is like for me. I can’t open for them the amazing personalities of the people I do life with or give them glimpses into the dinner parties we have, laughing around a table. I visit their lives, they don’t visit mine. That would just be silly.
Birth order is an interesting study. I don’t think older siblings are as wrapped up in each other as the younger ones. I left the ranch while they were all still there. They’re parents now and so they are distracted. I got fleeting goodbyes as they ran after kids or fed babies. I felt so alone when I got in my car and headed down the road. The first two of the six hour drive were a pity party. The closer I got to home, the more normal I felt. I talked to a few friends on the way and realized that my life is very full. In fact, I love my life and I am blessed. I just can’t take it with me on holidays.
I spent two days there and got to see my entire family. I got into my car to head home and immediately started crying. What is it about being with family that makes me feel more alone than anywhere else in the world? My immediate family of six…my parents and four kids…has blown up to sixteen now that everyone has families of their own. I have seven nieces and nephews ranging from six months to 14 years old. I love getting to hold babies and having all the kids running around.
I was looking forward to seeing everyone so much before I left. I am completely baffled that I was so disengaged while I was there…avoiding conversations, engrossing myself in a puzzle as if it were the boyfriend I never get to bring to family gatherings, always so sleepy. When I get with family I feel like every bit of energy is sucked out of me taking my entire personality with it. Then I leave wondering why I feel like no one really knows me.
I used to blame it on the tryptophan in the turkey, but recently found out that I would have to eat an entire turkey in one sitting to have the sleepiness attributed to it. So I think I will have to admit that there is some stress, however unconscious it might be, that is related to being with family. They say stress manifests itself in different ways. Some people get panic attacks or high blood pressure. It seems I tend more toward narcolepsy and binge eating. Like when I used to get overwhelmingly sleepy during finals at school or when it was time to sit down and do a research paper. All of a sudden that leftover piece of cake in the fridge is calling my name and I’m pretty sure if I just go to sleep now and get up early the next day I will have much better clarity of mind to write an entire ten-page paper.
I am so happy to be where I am in life. I think I can truly say that. I like being on this side of my identity crisis. I feel much more secure in who I am and the flexibility that comes along with that. I know that my personality is not set in stone, will continue to change over time and in fact changes daily depending on my work schedule or the weather or any other number of variables. I am finally comfortable with it, like a worn out sweatshirt or running shoes. The people who know me best find me predictable at times, which makes me feel sane and irritated at the same time. The people who know me best like me for me, I can finally accept that. They know how corny I can be, that when I say certain things I really mean something else, that when I’m really sweet its usually because I’m angry and when I’m sarcastic, I’m having the most fun. The people who know me best are not my family.
I think there’s something about being the youngest that makes that pretty hard. I grew up as a spectator. My siblings are some of the most amazing people I know and I got to grow up watching them become the unique people they are. The four of us are so different. We aren’t just in different places, we are the four directions on a compass rose with arrows that point to the never-ending expanse that separates us. I went to countless basketball, baseball and football games, studying them and keenly aware of everything. I didn't study them like I studied for my finance tests. More like the way we study a hobby...or the way American culture studies movie stars. I watched in awe as they prepared for their proms, walked across the stage during graduation, got married, had children. I soaked it all up and it was part of my identity. Since I was young, I have had this way of losing myself around my family. I remember being asked a question once at a family function and before I could answer I had to remind myself that I existed and was actually present in the room.
My family loves me. I have never doubted that. But sometimes I wonder if they love some version of me that doesn’t really exist. Often they ask me questions and don’t stick around for the answer. I don’t blame them. I mostly feel that their lives are so much more interesting or pressing than mine, how could they be expected to stick around? I think my singleness and my lifestyle are an enigma to them. They don’t understand it, and so they aren’t comfortable with it. I can’t possibly find the words to explain to them what life is like for me. I can’t open for them the amazing personalities of the people I do life with or give them glimpses into the dinner parties we have, laughing around a table. I visit their lives, they don’t visit mine. That would just be silly.
Birth order is an interesting study. I don’t think older siblings are as wrapped up in each other as the younger ones. I left the ranch while they were all still there. They’re parents now and so they are distracted. I got fleeting goodbyes as they ran after kids or fed babies. I felt so alone when I got in my car and headed down the road. The first two of the six hour drive were a pity party. The closer I got to home, the more normal I felt. I talked to a few friends on the way and realized that my life is very full. In fact, I love my life and I am blessed. I just can’t take it with me on holidays.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Papa
Papa was one of the most impressive people I have ever known or will ever know. He was tall. When he wasn’t wearing a suit, he would wear his starched shirts snuggly tucked into his starched slacks, his v-neck undershirt barely visible. He always smelled of aftershave and he always, always wore boots and a cowboy hat. He was a South Texas rancher. He was a South Texas banker. This was not a 50/50 identity, it was 100/100. There was no part of him that wasn’t a rancher and there was no part of him that wasn’t a banker.
He had jowls. I don’t think I ever notice jowls, but that’s the first thing I remember when I think of his face. His jowls shook when he hocked lugis. He could hock a lugi like no one I’ve ever met. He always had gum. He had a million numbers stored in his head in file cabinets with a sharp-minded personal assistant that could retrieve them at any moment. He slurred his words in a distinctive lisp that he had since he was a child. I’ve always wondered if he was made fun of for it when he was young. I can’t imagine anyone making fun of my grandfather. He made a lisp seem distinguished and almost elegant.
He had a pet leopard, was best friends with a former governor of Texas and once played tennis with Bill Cosby. He called his wife Babe until his dying day, kept a sawed off shot gun hidden under his desk at work and went to Wimbledon and the U.S. Open every year he was able to. He grew up with red hair but it was grey by the time I knew him, his hands were strong and elegant…so appropriate for a rancher/banker. My oldest brother has the same hands. He went to his ranch after work everyday…to feed the leopard and check on all the exotic animals. Driving around the ranch around sunset feels like the movie The Lion King has come to life. One time a Saudi Arabian prince came to hunt on his ranch.
He grew up a poor farm boy, the fourth of five kids. He learned how to work hard. It became so much a part of him that it was a chronic addiction and he required it of all who were around him. He went to the war, returned to his hometown, married his high school sweetheart and made his living from the ground up. He lived to provide for those he cared about. His hard work gave countless people opportunities they otherwise would never have had.
He had jowls. I don’t think I ever notice jowls, but that’s the first thing I remember when I think of his face. His jowls shook when he hocked lugis. He could hock a lugi like no one I’ve ever met. He always had gum. He had a million numbers stored in his head in file cabinets with a sharp-minded personal assistant that could retrieve them at any moment. He slurred his words in a distinctive lisp that he had since he was a child. I’ve always wondered if he was made fun of for it when he was young. I can’t imagine anyone making fun of my grandfather. He made a lisp seem distinguished and almost elegant.
He had a pet leopard, was best friends with a former governor of Texas and once played tennis with Bill Cosby. He called his wife Babe until his dying day, kept a sawed off shot gun hidden under his desk at work and went to Wimbledon and the U.S. Open every year he was able to. He grew up with red hair but it was grey by the time I knew him, his hands were strong and elegant…so appropriate for a rancher/banker. My oldest brother has the same hands. He went to his ranch after work everyday…to feed the leopard and check on all the exotic animals. Driving around the ranch around sunset feels like the movie The Lion King has come to life. One time a Saudi Arabian prince came to hunt on his ranch.
He grew up a poor farm boy, the fourth of five kids. He learned how to work hard. It became so much a part of him that it was a chronic addiction and he required it of all who were around him. He went to the war, returned to his hometown, married his high school sweetheart and made his living from the ground up. He lived to provide for those he cared about. His hard work gave countless people opportunities they otherwise would never have had.
Monday, November 5, 2007
People
I love it that I’m working with people so much now. My job at Starbucks is constant interaction. Its stretching at times…like when I get in the mood where I am focused on what I am doing and don’t want to be disturbed, or when I am frustrated and don’t want to smile at a customer. There are people who are looking for problems and use unsuspecting baristas as their guinea pigs. I think these people work in buildings all day and are looking for drama anywhere they can find it. People make me madder than anything. I never got that frustrated in my cubicle at the bank.
I turned to my manager Brandy today, as I watched Elizabeth (grande hazelnut no foam latte) leave the store and get into a bright yellow mini cooper, that I wish I knew everyone’s story. She is a beautiful middle-aged woman with grey hair and a soft voice. I love it that she drives a canary yellow mini cooper. I wish I knew what she does everyday after she walks out with her drink. What is her job? Is she married? Does she have grown children? Grandkids? Is she from here? What twists and turns has her life taken to get her here?
A little later a blonde woman is getting out of her SUV and my fellow barista Josh comments that this woman was a former neighbor of his. He said she has a young son, an artificial leg and used to walk around her house naked without regard for open windows. Sure enough she grabbed her son from the back and limped to the door.
On my second break today I was looking forward to the ten minutes I had to sit outside and read this new book I am enjoying immensely. A little black man with a baseball hat that I recognize as a regular customer (short coffee, marble pound cake) is sitting at the next table and begins to ask me questions. There is a battle that goes on in me when this happens. I feel my natural inclination to answer quickly, make it obvious that I want my time, but be friendly enough so as not to appear snobby. There is another part of me that knows that other people is where the life is. If I don’t allow others into my life, how can I complain about loneliness?
I choose to engage in conversation with Cheeshah (no idea how to spell his name.) Cheeshah is from Ethiopia and has lived here for four years. I recognize his English abilities are far superior to four years in America. He said he learned English in Ethiopia and that anyone with a high school or college degree there learns it. He had studied Political Science and Economics and spent fifteen years being a television journalist. This was before he spent five years in Kenya as a refugee.
Now he lives here with his family and cannot find a job. Before he was a television news reporter he worked as an operator of television equipment. He says that there are no jobs available like that here. He seems restless to find something to do, some way to prove he is educated and worthy of contributing to something.
I ask if he has refugee friends that were placed here too. He then explains that his best friend was the one who was killed down the street last week. I had not heard of it. I looked it up and his name was Abate Z. Hailu, he owned a Fina down the street and was shot during a robbery. Cheeshah said he was very educated and wealthy. “He was my best friend,” he kept saying.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I listened to this little man talk. I wondered what in the world he has seen in his life. How a man like his friend can escape war in Ethiopia only to get gunned down in America. I wondered how hard his parents worked and how much they sacrificed to make sure that Cheeshah was educated in their poor country, for him to end up bursting with talent in a place where people like him are so easily overlooked. I tried to imagine him reporting news in Ethiopia, walking down the street in his suit, microphone in hand as the camera followed him, viewers hanging on every word as he articulately gave the latest on some of the gravest situations our modern world has ever seen.
When my break timer went off, he was talking about a book he has started about political science. I was hoping he was going to say it was his own biography. He asked if I would mind editing his rough draft, to make it sound more American. I would be honored.
So, yeah, I guess there is more life in people than in burying my head in some book.
I turned to my manager Brandy today, as I watched Elizabeth (grande hazelnut no foam latte) leave the store and get into a bright yellow mini cooper, that I wish I knew everyone’s story. She is a beautiful middle-aged woman with grey hair and a soft voice. I love it that she drives a canary yellow mini cooper. I wish I knew what she does everyday after she walks out with her drink. What is her job? Is she married? Does she have grown children? Grandkids? Is she from here? What twists and turns has her life taken to get her here?
A little later a blonde woman is getting out of her SUV and my fellow barista Josh comments that this woman was a former neighbor of his. He said she has a young son, an artificial leg and used to walk around her house naked without regard for open windows. Sure enough she grabbed her son from the back and limped to the door.
On my second break today I was looking forward to the ten minutes I had to sit outside and read this new book I am enjoying immensely. A little black man with a baseball hat that I recognize as a regular customer (short coffee, marble pound cake) is sitting at the next table and begins to ask me questions. There is a battle that goes on in me when this happens. I feel my natural inclination to answer quickly, make it obvious that I want my time, but be friendly enough so as not to appear snobby. There is another part of me that knows that other people is where the life is. If I don’t allow others into my life, how can I complain about loneliness?
I choose to engage in conversation with Cheeshah (no idea how to spell his name.) Cheeshah is from Ethiopia and has lived here for four years. I recognize his English abilities are far superior to four years in America. He said he learned English in Ethiopia and that anyone with a high school or college degree there learns it. He had studied Political Science and Economics and spent fifteen years being a television journalist. This was before he spent five years in Kenya as a refugee.
Now he lives here with his family and cannot find a job. Before he was a television news reporter he worked as an operator of television equipment. He says that there are no jobs available like that here. He seems restless to find something to do, some way to prove he is educated and worthy of contributing to something.
I ask if he has refugee friends that were placed here too. He then explains that his best friend was the one who was killed down the street last week. I had not heard of it. I looked it up and his name was Abate Z. Hailu, he owned a Fina down the street and was shot during a robbery. Cheeshah said he was very educated and wealthy. “He was my best friend,” he kept saying.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I listened to this little man talk. I wondered what in the world he has seen in his life. How a man like his friend can escape war in Ethiopia only to get gunned down in America. I wondered how hard his parents worked and how much they sacrificed to make sure that Cheeshah was educated in their poor country, for him to end up bursting with talent in a place where people like him are so easily overlooked. I tried to imagine him reporting news in Ethiopia, walking down the street in his suit, microphone in hand as the camera followed him, viewers hanging on every word as he articulately gave the latest on some of the gravest situations our modern world has ever seen.
When my break timer went off, he was talking about a book he has started about political science. I was hoping he was going to say it was his own biography. He asked if I would mind editing his rough draft, to make it sound more American. I would be honored.
So, yeah, I guess there is more life in people than in burying my head in some book.
Friday, October 26, 2007
London I
What does a person do when they graduate with no plans, no husband, no sense of identity and a finance degree? They move to a foreign country… alone. I found myself walking along the streets of London, alone and swept up in the crowd. Hating myself for buying a round trip ticket that would not be headed home for six months. I had no job, no place to live, no friends but I felt this unwavering sense that the Spirit of God was with me, in me… and excited. I was horrified and lonely and scared but the Spirit was full of anticipation and I could feel it. It was the fellowship of the Spirit. I had to be that alone to experience it.
I literally wandered the streets for two weeks. I was living in a hostel, filling out applications to wait tables and looking for an affordable place to live…umm, in London. I walked around in a daze most days. I lost a lot of weight because I couldn’t get comfortable eating alone in restaurants and I didn’t know how else to get food. I just walked and walked and consistently found myself in internet cafes. I would write out my misery to my friends. “Me again…I haven’t heard myself speak in two days. Wondering if its going to come out in a British accent.”
I stopped one day in a coffee shop, and not knowing what else to do, I started to journal. This entry read like a prayer. I basically wrote out my wish list to God. I want to move out of the dirty hostel and live in a place where I can unpack my bags and don’t have to padlock them when I leave. I want some friends…actual people that I can talk to and maybe eat with. I would like a job so that I can make back some of this money that I’ve been spending. Ummm…anything else?...no, that about covers it. I looked at my list and I thought about how helpless I felt, then that newly realized friend, the overly excitable Spirit in me, asked me a few things.
“What do you expect from this time?”
“Um, I don’t know, something different I guess.” I answered.
“Do you believe that God is in control here?”
“Sure.”
“You want to have some fun?”
“Always.”
“What if you let go of the list?”
I had never felt so helpless in my life, so I figured, what could I lose? I ended my prayer by saying. “You know God, this list is what I want and feel like I need for survival. But let’s forget that…I want what you want. Do whatever you have in mind and I’m along for the ride.”
This prayer initiated a sequence of events that I could never have guessed. That very night I sat down for dinner in the home of one of my high school teachers…my mom’s friend who had moved to London a few years back. She lived on Abbey Road in an apartment that felt like an American home as soon as you stepped in the door. She had a knack for dinner parties and laid out a spread complete with hors d’oeuvres, grilled fish and warm rolls. She and her husband patiently listened to me ramble on and on, letting out all the words I had pent up in me for so long.
I told them of my adventures at the hostel and finding a place to live. That morning I had visited a potential living arrangement. It was a good part of town, not too dangerous. I would be living with an elderly woman who used Jesus Christ as her favorite expression of angst. She smoked and we would be sharing a bathroom. She hoped that I wouldn’t be cooking much because she didn’t want to share her kitchen. I guess it could be worse. It was the only affordable place I could find in the safe parts of town. My mother’s friend wouldn’t hear of it. She invited me to stay with them until I found a place of my own. The next day I checked out of the hostel and stayed in a warm bed in a home.
The Texas Embassy Cantina finally gave me an interview. Their manager had been in America for the last few weeks and he was the only person who could hire anyone. Upon his return, I sat down with him, answered his questions and started training a few days later. I was finally going to fulfill one of my dreams…to be a waitress.
The office where I got my visa was out of the way of everything in London. From almost anywhere you had to take two different trains on the tube then walk five blocks turn the corner onto a small narrow street, walk under scaffolding and enter a discreet black door. Inside, you would find many young people from all over the world busily trying to find a job and a place to live. There were postings all over the walls and people scrambling, using computers and printing out resumes (CV’s as they call them in Britain). I started going up there with no excuse other than a little social interaction. I had looked at all their postings for places to live and wasn’t comfortable with any of them. Is it so strange that I don’t want to live with guys I don’t know? Does that make me square?
I sat across the table from a girl that I later found out was from Texas. She was busy looking for a job and a place to live. She came with a few friends from college. What a novel concept...bring friends with you…stupid. We exchanged numbers, but since she already had friends in London I did not expect her to call me.
Later that night in my cozy home on Abbey Road I got a call from my new friend. She and her two friends would like to know if I wanted to live with them because having four people would lower their rent. Umm…I think that would work for me too. We found a tiny apartment on the third floor of an ancient building. (pictured above) Below us there was a hip hop record store called Major Flava. It was on the corner of Oxford St. and Tottenham Court Rd., within walking distance from my new job.
That is how I found myself where I was for the next six months only days after I prayed that prayer. Lets check the list again and see what God had compared to what I had…
1. I want to move out of the hostel…
God gave me a warm home that night, and an affordable and safe place to live in the next few days.
2. I want some friends…
God gave me three friends and roommates, all from Texas, all Christian.
3. I want a job..
God gave me the one job I really wanted. I was going to be a waitress at the only Tex-Mex Restaurant in London…right in Trafalgar Square.
While I don’t believe that God’s will always gets us all we want and more… God’s will sometimes has nothing to do with what we want. I do think that He delighted that I listened to His Spirit and that in this case it was His joy to be my provider when I had no one to take care of me. If its not too irreverent…I feel like he was a dog that knew just what he wanted to do, was even salivating over it, and as soon as I threw the stick of my own control, he set off with his mission. He could have done it either way, but He really wanted me to trust Him with it. I jumped out of a plane and instead of making sure I was paying attention to altitude and pulling the cord at just the right time, I just strapped myself in tandem with the Lord and enjoyed the ride. And this was only the beginning.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Flower Girl
I believe I was six years old when the thought came to me… “I have never been a flower girl.” The idea of a flower girl was so deliciously sweet and wonderful I had to find a way to do it. I wasn’t getting any younger. I thought of everyone I knew who was of marrying age. My aunt Jana… she’s nearly thirty! The next time I saw my aunt I casually asked her about her plans for marriage. You know, her time table. No reason, just wondering. “Honey, I don’t know if I’m ever getting married.” Blast that selfish woman! Doesn’t she know she’s my only hope of being a flower girl?
The image in my mind was a beautiful young girl…me of course…in a little white dress gently skipping through a crowd of people. She reaches in her basket to reveal it is full of flower petals. She lightly tosses them to either side of her, sprinkling the aisle with a pretty array of soft petals, giving the bride a beautiful path to walk down. The flower girl is a symbol of youth and beauty, purity and freedom. She captures people with her lovely radiance and her seemingly endless basket of beauty sprinkling the room and preparing it for the woman, the beloved. Like a fairy with her fairy dust. Oh that flower girls could have little wings and flitter about the entire room!
About a year later, I got my chance. Jana said yes to her boyfriend’s proposal. It was my golden opportunity. I was given a dress that was almost identical to the bride’s. Almost entirely lace with a big bow in the back. It was perfect. Everything was going as planned. Until the wedding day. We had rehearsed, but when the doors flung open and the music began, every head turned to look at me. I put my head down, walked step by step, trying to remember the pace that we practiced. I reached in my basket and dropped a few petals to my side before taking my place on the stage. Afterwards, everyone said I did a great job and that I looked beautiful. I knew somewhere inside that I wasn’t living up to my potential. It didn’t look anything like my vision.
I still relate to that little girl. Some weddings I have attended, the flower girls play the role to a tee. Completely unaware of themselves they twirl about, caught up in the beauty that is around them and in them. They capture the hearts of the audience, but, really, that was never their intent. They are simply enjoying being beauty. Granted, this usually happens with much younger girls, maybe four or five. Unfortunate. But I can see it in some women. You know the type. She wears her hair or clothes in ways that the rest of us can’t get away with. She has a scent that might be perfume or its possible that she emits a floral scent from her pores. She is not afraid to laugh loudly in public or cry…her makeup will not run. She is the first person you think of when someone talks about beauty. I think that every woman deep down wants to be her, its just part of being female. I am not that woman, but not for the reason's you might think.
I was running this morning and I came up behind an elderly woman. She was so enchanted with the hillside to our left that she was walking with her head completely turned to the side. Coming from behind her I noticed that her legs were so marked with age spots it was almost repulsive. How could she wear such short shorts? When I passed her she smiled at me with the most charming, youthful grin and said hello so warmly, I knew she was one of them. So unaware of herself that she exuded a beauty beyond the physical.
I am so constantly aware of myself. I am one of those that can’t pass a mirror or window without looking into it. Its not vanity, its that I’m checking my nose or my blemish or that piece of hair I couldn’t get to settle that morning. Maybe it is vanity come to think of it. I was praying this morning that the Lord would guard me from the darkness of fear, doubt and shame and replace it with love, kindness and generosity. Interesting that the first three are self-consuming and the last three are self-denying. Its so counter-intuitive that pouring out would actually fill us up.
That’s the power that the woman of beauty holds…its not that she was apportioned more beauty than the rest of us. Its her inability to see herself. Jane Austin would say she is unaffected. Most women, like myself, are not this way. We are absolutely affected. Starting at an impossibly young age we take hold of the idea that to be beautiful is to be lovable. We grasp and cling to anything that will make us more beautiful not realizing that the grasping and clinging are the ugliness. We apply and cover up and pierce and wax and clip and curl and straighten and nair and suck and boost all to get that natural look.
I’m starting to feel like I’m writing something I’ve read a million other places. I don’t have a problem with trying to look beautiful. That’s not my soapbox. My problem is with myself for holding back out of fear, doubt or shame and not taking the road of beauty…the road of life…not taking a chance. I don’t want to be the flower girl I was at seven. I want to take the vision of the woman I could be and live it…not with my head down…not half heartedly dropping petals. This life is my golden opportunity. In every situation I want to ask…where is the life?...where is the beauty?... and abide there. I will never be that woman of beauty; I think I try too hard. But I can dare to love, I can offer kindness and I can show generosity and there is so much beauty in that.
The image in my mind was a beautiful young girl…me of course…in a little white dress gently skipping through a crowd of people. She reaches in her basket to reveal it is full of flower petals. She lightly tosses them to either side of her, sprinkling the aisle with a pretty array of soft petals, giving the bride a beautiful path to walk down. The flower girl is a symbol of youth and beauty, purity and freedom. She captures people with her lovely radiance and her seemingly endless basket of beauty sprinkling the room and preparing it for the woman, the beloved. Like a fairy with her fairy dust. Oh that flower girls could have little wings and flitter about the entire room!
About a year later, I got my chance. Jana said yes to her boyfriend’s proposal. It was my golden opportunity. I was given a dress that was almost identical to the bride’s. Almost entirely lace with a big bow in the back. It was perfect. Everything was going as planned. Until the wedding day. We had rehearsed, but when the doors flung open and the music began, every head turned to look at me. I put my head down, walked step by step, trying to remember the pace that we practiced. I reached in my basket and dropped a few petals to my side before taking my place on the stage. Afterwards, everyone said I did a great job and that I looked beautiful. I knew somewhere inside that I wasn’t living up to my potential. It didn’t look anything like my vision.
I still relate to that little girl. Some weddings I have attended, the flower girls play the role to a tee. Completely unaware of themselves they twirl about, caught up in the beauty that is around them and in them. They capture the hearts of the audience, but, really, that was never their intent. They are simply enjoying being beauty. Granted, this usually happens with much younger girls, maybe four or five. Unfortunate. But I can see it in some women. You know the type. She wears her hair or clothes in ways that the rest of us can’t get away with. She has a scent that might be perfume or its possible that she emits a floral scent from her pores. She is not afraid to laugh loudly in public or cry…her makeup will not run. She is the first person you think of when someone talks about beauty. I think that every woman deep down wants to be her, its just part of being female. I am not that woman, but not for the reason's you might think.
I was running this morning and I came up behind an elderly woman. She was so enchanted with the hillside to our left that she was walking with her head completely turned to the side. Coming from behind her I noticed that her legs were so marked with age spots it was almost repulsive. How could she wear such short shorts? When I passed her she smiled at me with the most charming, youthful grin and said hello so warmly, I knew she was one of them. So unaware of herself that she exuded a beauty beyond the physical.
I am so constantly aware of myself. I am one of those that can’t pass a mirror or window without looking into it. Its not vanity, its that I’m checking my nose or my blemish or that piece of hair I couldn’t get to settle that morning. Maybe it is vanity come to think of it. I was praying this morning that the Lord would guard me from the darkness of fear, doubt and shame and replace it with love, kindness and generosity. Interesting that the first three are self-consuming and the last three are self-denying. Its so counter-intuitive that pouring out would actually fill us up.
That’s the power that the woman of beauty holds…its not that she was apportioned more beauty than the rest of us. Its her inability to see herself. Jane Austin would say she is unaffected. Most women, like myself, are not this way. We are absolutely affected. Starting at an impossibly young age we take hold of the idea that to be beautiful is to be lovable. We grasp and cling to anything that will make us more beautiful not realizing that the grasping and clinging are the ugliness. We apply and cover up and pierce and wax and clip and curl and straighten and nair and suck and boost all to get that natural look.
I’m starting to feel like I’m writing something I’ve read a million other places. I don’t have a problem with trying to look beautiful. That’s not my soapbox. My problem is with myself for holding back out of fear, doubt or shame and not taking the road of beauty…the road of life…not taking a chance. I don’t want to be the flower girl I was at seven. I want to take the vision of the woman I could be and live it…not with my head down…not half heartedly dropping petals. This life is my golden opportunity. In every situation I want to ask…where is the life?...where is the beauty?... and abide there. I will never be that woman of beauty; I think I try too hard. But I can dare to love, I can offer kindness and I can show generosity and there is so much beauty in that.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Jump
So I’m at the bank. I was going to give it six months, then nine months, then a year sounded good. Something was bound to come up…it always had. My first plan of marital bliss and babies wasn’t happening for me. Funny how we think we can plan those things when we are eighteen. It was becoming obvious at twenty-six that I was going to need a new plan… one that I had more control over. Control is a funny thing…when we think we have it, we realize we don’t at all and when we try to give it up we find ourselves taking it back before it even leaves our hands.
Growing up I spent countless hours jumping on the trampoline. It was solace to me. I would jump and jump and try with everything to jump straight into the sky and never come back down. I would jump until I had no breath to breathe then lay there looking at the sky, heaving and daydreaming. One day I would have a house where all the floors were made of trampoline. Of course it would have to have high ceilings and the floors would have to be dug out at least four feet below. I had thought of everything.
I learned many tricks as I prepared for the first Olympic gold medal in trampoline for the most back flips in a row. My record still stands at 32. But my favorite thing to do on the trampoline was to jump as high as I could in the air and lay out horizontally spreading my limbs as far as they would go out to the side, stretched to all four corners of the earth and wait for the impact of the canvas. As I allowed my body to receive the canvas it in turn threw me back into the air and on to my feet. I would do this over and over trying to embrace that sinking feeling.
This is what I felt as I continually tried to give my career to God during this time. I was ready to “let go and let God.” “God, you are so much more capable to make this decision than I am, I trust you to bring something perfect along and I give up complete control.” I kept getting confused when I found myself back on my feet again. Without the effort it took to jump there was no way to figure out what it feels like to fall.
I felt as if I was supposed to make the decision of what I will do with the rest of my life. I knew I could plan for the next year or the next six months even, but I wanted to ensure that I would never be in this position again. I’ve never been the type to know exactly what I wanted to do with my life, or even what I was really good at. I’ve been careful all along to make decisions that would provide me with more choices. Go to college so that I will have more career choices, go into business because there are so many different opportunities, finance has so many options for women and more varied career alternatives. That’s what someone with no plans or dreams other than getting married and having babies does. It was more of a waiting game than a path to something.
During college I also had the unfortunate timing of going through the phase of life where I have no idea who I am. I guess its all part of “coming of age,” but for me it was a true identity crisis. How do you make the decision that will forever be the answer to the question “What is your degree in?” when you are going through a phase like that? I had no defining sense of self; my choices were based solely off of what others were doing around me. I tried to convince myself that I liked my sorority and the date parties that came along with it. But I think they only fed the insecurities.
I made the friends of my life while I was in college. I am continually baffled that they saw anything beyond the false façade I was throwing out for everyone. I wasn’t purposefully trying to be fake, I just didn’t know what else to do. I prayed often that God would allow me to be myself, or even reveal to me who that is. It’s almost impossible to find any value in yourself when you don’t even know who that person is. I felt like a shell and I was ashamed.
But that was college. Sitting there at the bank four and a half years after college, I was well aware of who I was. I was so keenly aware of who I was that going to work everyday sometimes hurt. I would put on my suit and heels, dressing the part, but feeling more like I was dressing for Halloween. I worked hard, so hard that you might get the impression that I cared about my work. I would try to do as much work as I could possibly fit into my eight-hour day, knowing that every spare minute felt like an eternity. I guess a few people there got the idea that I was ambitious about my future at the bank. They started changing my title so that I would feel more important. Like Dwight… “Assistant to the Regional Manager to Assistant Regional Manager” I’m pretty sure I got the same promotion twice and they forgot they already gave it to me.
Eventually everything came to a head. I’m patiently waiting on God’s perfect timing (i.e. Crystal Ball) to reveal to me my future. More accurately stated, I am not doing anything toward changing my future because I’m preoccupied with daily life. Meanwhile, I start spending hours in the office of my boss’s boss’s boss. We keep having these discussions about my future at the bank…where do I see myself? He gives me some amazing options there, that timing and circumstance just randomly opened up. I start wondering about timing and circumstance. Day after day he calls me into his office and continues to question me and finally after a month or two of blowing smoke up his ars, I decide to be honest. “I could give this a shot, but you probably want someone in that position who is going to care more, who wants the job and sees a future in it.” I tell him I would love more than two weeks to figure out what’s next. He agrees to two more months.
Walking away from the bank at the end of May, I still had no job. I had a few irons in the fire and some hope for the future. This hope, though not as steady as a paycheck, provided me with so much more security. Ahh... hope. That old familiar friend. I floated from there…falling, falling, falling…embracing the sinking feeling. I anticipate landing on something that will not hurt or crush me. An impact that will accept me, the real me, and envelop me and throw me back onto my feet. But first I had to jump.
Growing up I spent countless hours jumping on the trampoline. It was solace to me. I would jump and jump and try with everything to jump straight into the sky and never come back down. I would jump until I had no breath to breathe then lay there looking at the sky, heaving and daydreaming. One day I would have a house where all the floors were made of trampoline. Of course it would have to have high ceilings and the floors would have to be dug out at least four feet below. I had thought of everything.
I learned many tricks as I prepared for the first Olympic gold medal in trampoline for the most back flips in a row. My record still stands at 32. But my favorite thing to do on the trampoline was to jump as high as I could in the air and lay out horizontally spreading my limbs as far as they would go out to the side, stretched to all four corners of the earth and wait for the impact of the canvas. As I allowed my body to receive the canvas it in turn threw me back into the air and on to my feet. I would do this over and over trying to embrace that sinking feeling.
This is what I felt as I continually tried to give my career to God during this time. I was ready to “let go and let God.” “God, you are so much more capable to make this decision than I am, I trust you to bring something perfect along and I give up complete control.” I kept getting confused when I found myself back on my feet again. Without the effort it took to jump there was no way to figure out what it feels like to fall.
I felt as if I was supposed to make the decision of what I will do with the rest of my life. I knew I could plan for the next year or the next six months even, but I wanted to ensure that I would never be in this position again. I’ve never been the type to know exactly what I wanted to do with my life, or even what I was really good at. I’ve been careful all along to make decisions that would provide me with more choices. Go to college so that I will have more career choices, go into business because there are so many different opportunities, finance has so many options for women and more varied career alternatives. That’s what someone with no plans or dreams other than getting married and having babies does. It was more of a waiting game than a path to something.
During college I also had the unfortunate timing of going through the phase of life where I have no idea who I am. I guess its all part of “coming of age,” but for me it was a true identity crisis. How do you make the decision that will forever be the answer to the question “What is your degree in?” when you are going through a phase like that? I had no defining sense of self; my choices were based solely off of what others were doing around me. I tried to convince myself that I liked my sorority and the date parties that came along with it. But I think they only fed the insecurities.
I made the friends of my life while I was in college. I am continually baffled that they saw anything beyond the false façade I was throwing out for everyone. I wasn’t purposefully trying to be fake, I just didn’t know what else to do. I prayed often that God would allow me to be myself, or even reveal to me who that is. It’s almost impossible to find any value in yourself when you don’t even know who that person is. I felt like a shell and I was ashamed.
But that was college. Sitting there at the bank four and a half years after college, I was well aware of who I was. I was so keenly aware of who I was that going to work everyday sometimes hurt. I would put on my suit and heels, dressing the part, but feeling more like I was dressing for Halloween. I worked hard, so hard that you might get the impression that I cared about my work. I would try to do as much work as I could possibly fit into my eight-hour day, knowing that every spare minute felt like an eternity. I guess a few people there got the idea that I was ambitious about my future at the bank. They started changing my title so that I would feel more important. Like Dwight… “Assistant to the Regional Manager to Assistant Regional Manager” I’m pretty sure I got the same promotion twice and they forgot they already gave it to me.
Eventually everything came to a head. I’m patiently waiting on God’s perfect timing (i.e. Crystal Ball) to reveal to me my future. More accurately stated, I am not doing anything toward changing my future because I’m preoccupied with daily life. Meanwhile, I start spending hours in the office of my boss’s boss’s boss. We keep having these discussions about my future at the bank…where do I see myself? He gives me some amazing options there, that timing and circumstance just randomly opened up. I start wondering about timing and circumstance. Day after day he calls me into his office and continues to question me and finally after a month or two of blowing smoke up his ars, I decide to be honest. “I could give this a shot, but you probably want someone in that position who is going to care more, who wants the job and sees a future in it.” I tell him I would love more than two weeks to figure out what’s next. He agrees to two more months.
Walking away from the bank at the end of May, I still had no job. I had a few irons in the fire and some hope for the future. This hope, though not as steady as a paycheck, provided me with so much more security. Ahh... hope. That old familiar friend. I floated from there…falling, falling, falling…embracing the sinking feeling. I anticipate landing on something that will not hurt or crush me. An impact that will accept me, the real me, and envelop me and throw me back onto my feet. But first I had to jump.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Suckers
The word sucker keeps popping into my mind lately. Its a label that kids put on people to imply that person has fallen for something that is less than something else they could have had. And the worst part of being a sucker is that its usually said behind your back…you don’t even realize you could have more. One of my worst fears is to find out at the end of my life that I spent most of it being a sucker…taken in by my culture, my surroundings…completely oblivious to true reality.
I open at Starbucks most days, which requires me to leave my house at 4:45 in the morning. I’m usually grabbing my green apron and my keys as I race out the door, hopefully remembering a banana or granola bar because my first ten-minute break won’t be for a few hours. That’s usually when I stop to realize that I did in fact wake up that morning and make decisions to get where I am at the moment.
The other day I was racing to work…not obeying the speed limit because after all I was the lone car on the desolate street. I come across a red light at which I obediently screech to a stop. My subconscious is annoyed, realizing the ridiculousness of stopping at an empty intersection, but there is a distinction in my mind between breaking traffic laws by speeding and breaking traffic laws by intentionally running a light. About that moment two tow trucks approach from the opposite direction. One makes a command decision to disregard the red light altogether. It speeds through the intersection as the other one slowly comes to a halt. There is a moment where the stopped tow truck and I seem to have a brief meeting of souls. Like when you accidentally make eye contact with someone from across the room and you both grin before looking away. “Hi, I see that you exist and I choose not to ignore it like most people. I’m of the friendly type and I see you are too.” In this case we are both the law-abiding type. We stare at each other for a brief moment. Then, in the same moment we are both hit with it…”We’re the suckers!” We simultaneously run the last few seconds of red light.
I decided to quit my job at the bank. I was only a measly credit analyst. Though you have to have a finance degree for that position, it is usually held by newly graduated students and they pay you as such. I was above it…I had graduated three years before I got the job. I had real world experience…three whole years of it. Most of my real world experience told me I would never like working at a bank. I took the job with my eyes wide open to this fact. Almost taking it as proof to myself, or my parents, or to society as a whole that it would never work out…me and corporate america. “See, I tried it! Now leave me alone…societal pressures.”
I worked there for a year and a half…no… a year and nine months. I felt trapped…by the windowless grey walls and the grey fabric of my cubicle. I felt taunted by the eagle in the picture framed above my desk that read “soar to new heights.” Next to my cubicle there were floor to ceiling file racks that we locked every night and unlocked every morning. They rolled on wheels through a groove in the floor and had a large spinning handle to separate them. Sometimes I felt like I was standing in between the walls of files and someone was slowly spinning the handle. It was probably Barbara, the eighty-year-old woman who decided my first day that she didn’t like me. As the walls came closing in around me I kept frantically looking for some way to escape, then wondering if I could find something to jam in the wheel to slow it down, then wondering if it was even worth it and I should just let it envelop me.
I quit four months ago and I am currently a Barista. I make lattes and sweep floors and exchange people’s money for sustenance. I am always moving, its fast paced and I love it. I love making the drinks and talking to the people. There is so much more life there than in my old cubicle. There are a few things, though, at Starbucks that make me feel like an underling working in the food service industry. My all black all leather shoes, the ten minute timer that we have to take on our breaks because we are not responsible enough to time them exactly and taking out the trash. The dumpster is around the side of the building and we have to roll the big black trash can behind us as we carry as much as we can in the other hand. It usually takes at least two trips to get all the stacked up bags out on a trash run. It is a humbling experience for me.
The other day there was a group of young business people standing on the sidewalk as I lugged the garbage along behind me heading for the dumpster. I had to ask them to move out of the way in order to pass. I glanced up and saw pity in the eyes of the good looking young man that just ordered a grande vanilla latte from me ten minutes before. For a brief moment I began to feel pitiful. But a few minutes later, as I walked back past them empty handed watching them try to impress each other and say just the right things to the right people, I said in a barely audible voice that sounded like Nelson from the Simpsons…”Suckers!”
I open at Starbucks most days, which requires me to leave my house at 4:45 in the morning. I’m usually grabbing my green apron and my keys as I race out the door, hopefully remembering a banana or granola bar because my first ten-minute break won’t be for a few hours. That’s usually when I stop to realize that I did in fact wake up that morning and make decisions to get where I am at the moment.
The other day I was racing to work…not obeying the speed limit because after all I was the lone car on the desolate street. I come across a red light at which I obediently screech to a stop. My subconscious is annoyed, realizing the ridiculousness of stopping at an empty intersection, but there is a distinction in my mind between breaking traffic laws by speeding and breaking traffic laws by intentionally running a light. About that moment two tow trucks approach from the opposite direction. One makes a command decision to disregard the red light altogether. It speeds through the intersection as the other one slowly comes to a halt. There is a moment where the stopped tow truck and I seem to have a brief meeting of souls. Like when you accidentally make eye contact with someone from across the room and you both grin before looking away. “Hi, I see that you exist and I choose not to ignore it like most people. I’m of the friendly type and I see you are too.” In this case we are both the law-abiding type. We stare at each other for a brief moment. Then, in the same moment we are both hit with it…”We’re the suckers!” We simultaneously run the last few seconds of red light.
I decided to quit my job at the bank. I was only a measly credit analyst. Though you have to have a finance degree for that position, it is usually held by newly graduated students and they pay you as such. I was above it…I had graduated three years before I got the job. I had real world experience…three whole years of it. Most of my real world experience told me I would never like working at a bank. I took the job with my eyes wide open to this fact. Almost taking it as proof to myself, or my parents, or to society as a whole that it would never work out…me and corporate america. “See, I tried it! Now leave me alone…societal pressures.”
I worked there for a year and a half…no… a year and nine months. I felt trapped…by the windowless grey walls and the grey fabric of my cubicle. I felt taunted by the eagle in the picture framed above my desk that read “soar to new heights.” Next to my cubicle there were floor to ceiling file racks that we locked every night and unlocked every morning. They rolled on wheels through a groove in the floor and had a large spinning handle to separate them. Sometimes I felt like I was standing in between the walls of files and someone was slowly spinning the handle. It was probably Barbara, the eighty-year-old woman who decided my first day that she didn’t like me. As the walls came closing in around me I kept frantically looking for some way to escape, then wondering if I could find something to jam in the wheel to slow it down, then wondering if it was even worth it and I should just let it envelop me.
I quit four months ago and I am currently a Barista. I make lattes and sweep floors and exchange people’s money for sustenance. I am always moving, its fast paced and I love it. I love making the drinks and talking to the people. There is so much more life there than in my old cubicle. There are a few things, though, at Starbucks that make me feel like an underling working in the food service industry. My all black all leather shoes, the ten minute timer that we have to take on our breaks because we are not responsible enough to time them exactly and taking out the trash. The dumpster is around the side of the building and we have to roll the big black trash can behind us as we carry as much as we can in the other hand. It usually takes at least two trips to get all the stacked up bags out on a trash run. It is a humbling experience for me.
The other day there was a group of young business people standing on the sidewalk as I lugged the garbage along behind me heading for the dumpster. I had to ask them to move out of the way in order to pass. I glanced up and saw pity in the eyes of the good looking young man that just ordered a grande vanilla latte from me ten minutes before. For a brief moment I began to feel pitiful. But a few minutes later, as I walked back past them empty handed watching them try to impress each other and say just the right things to the right people, I said in a barely audible voice that sounded like Nelson from the Simpsons…”Suckers!”
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