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.
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