On the Wings of a Pig

Changing the world, from my couch

2012-01-28T21:57:00.001-08:00

Alright, I admit it-- I've never really been one to push the envelope too far. I can tell a few great stories about bullets whizzing over my head in Compton, or living in a mud hut in a refugee camp, and I totally pierced my nose & got a tattoo before... well, before a few other people did... but when it comes down to it, I'm not really much of a risk taker.

My brother-- my brother, on the other hand, was the kind of kid who blew up sticks of dynamite in his friend's toilets, raced cross country dressed as a Super Mario character, outran cops, fired semi-automatic assault rifles for fun (don't worry, it was at a paper target) .... I guess people are just wired differently.

The highlight of most days happens about a half hour after Nolan goes to bed, and I can sip a mug of hot tea while reading a book on the couch in complete silence. A deep sense of calm and inner feng shui settles over me when the dishes are washed, the house is clean, and I can sit & be still. I absolutely love-- love-- that I can wake up early every morning, eat breakfast, pray, do some Pilates & take a shower before my little guy wakes up.

It's not that I'm a super neat, clean, structured person-- I'm actually pretty disorganized & a bit haphazard-- it's just that I really like having control over my space, being able to dictate my schedule, have time to myself, and basically do the things I want to do.

Now, before you start hating my perfect life, let me just say that my pretty picture of Life-As-It-Should-Be and Reality are usually pretty different. I get sick a lot. I travel a lot. We work late nights several times a week, and I often sleep too late to make my ideal morning routine happen. But in my mind, I'm kind of entitled to my own space, my own time, my own schedule & routine & rest & even just a little bit of pampering. Who knows why I believe I should have all that-- maybe I should blame commercials on TV, telling me that I need that vacation, that perfect moment with my cup of coffee, or that chocolate indulgence.

I do know that when those things I'm entitled to-- my sleep, my "me time", my exercise, my quiet-- are taken away, I don't always respond well. I'm realizing that I hold an iron-tight grip on my comfort; that I form an imaginary barrier around my home, trying to ward off any new variables until I can sort out everything I've got in front of me here. Maybe the real issue is that I don't want anyone to see that I don't have it all together.

Like I said, I don't really like to take many risks. I would much rather try to straighten up my little messes around me, and then retreat to the comfort of my couch.

I was confronted with this inconsistency a few weeks back, after having a conversation with someone who has lived most of his life without the option of any of those comforts that I feel so entitled to. It's not that I didn't know that brokenness like that existed in the world, it was the fact that it was sitting across from me at my kitchen table, sharing about a life without family, Home, belonging & care. It's one thing to read about it, to see it in a movie, or even confront it on the street, but all those elements of pain that put a pit in my stomach were in my own comfortable home, telling their story.

I was a bit shaken.

A dull ache settled into my chest. I am too comfortable. I cling to my comfort much too tightly. I wondered about who lived behind the closed doors I could see outside my kitchen window, what they were going through. I thought about how I close my own doors-- both physically & emotionally-- during my "off hours", carefully planning my time with people that I enjoy, who think like me & (for the most part) look like me. I thought about how I live out the teachings of Jesus to a certain point, until it gets too uncomfortable... then I just read about the rest of it from the safety of my own home.

Thoughts like this are scary. They're scary for two reasons: 1) What if I know these things are true, and never act on them, and 2) What if I actually did the things I'm thinking about right now. I've done just enough with my life to know that living a life of risk, openness, and genuine love & care is so very costly & uncomfortable. It is the kind of thing that makes you give when you're empty & worn out, in the middle of the night, when all you need is sleep and time to yourself. That is a difficult thing to walk into. It's not romantic or thrilling; there's no rosy glow around those moments, and you always wish they would have come at a better time.

But, unfortunately, if I'm going to be honest with myself, I know that is what following Jesus looks like. I don't know how I've been able to convince myself otherwise, but I do know that there is a belief that is pretty deeply engrained that I can give my life to my Creator and still be entitled to comfort at least five days out of the week.

I know-- it sucks to think this way, doesn't it? It's so tempting to ask rhetorical questions about self sacrifice, wait for an answer in the silence, and then move on feeling pretty deep & philosophical. But I didn't want to do that.

So, what I'm working in now is a time of extended fasting & prayer. I'll share more about it later, but I can say for now that 2+ weeks into it, it hasn't been pretty. As it turns out, I am incredibly ungraceful in my attempts at openness, self-sacrifice and stepping outside of my comfort zone. But I'm not being too hard on myself.
"To the stars, on the wings of a pig", right?
I pray that this lumbering soul will begin to learn how to fly...

Advent Unraveled

2011-12-26T09:07:00.000-08:00

I’ve had dreams where I’ve found a loose string in a favorite sweater, and started pulling & pulling until the whole thing was gone-- like being eternally stuck in a Weezer song.

Well, sadly, that’s a little what Christmas felt like this year. All these high hopes of changing the way we celebrate as a little family, bringing meaning and reflection & worship to our traditions, and giving thoughtful, personal gifts. Epic Fail.

It turns out that when you have a toddler, two full-time jobs, no childcare, grad school, a new house in need of repairs & a ludicrous amount of travel in your Winter, giving thoughtful, elaborate & personal gifts is rather difficult. When you add a very sick mama, followed by a very sick, sleepless baby to the mix, it becomes almost impossible. Then add five out-of-town [dearly loved] family members, three houses to travel between (with all the sick-baby gear), and you’ve got some serious anxiety & exhaustion. Then, just for fun, you run out of the supplies needed to finish said thoughtful gift half-way through & travel all over Orange County to buy more (I’ll spare you the details), and last minute (on the 24th) your pup gets attacked & winds up in the pet hospital with some pretty serious injuries (don’t worry, he’s gonna be fine).

When you combine all those things (and maybe just a bit of left-over childhood guilt & people pleasing tendencies), you might just end up with a full-fledged anxiety attack in the middle of the night (wish I was kidding). You might end up sleep deprived & worn out, feeling like a martyr & whining at God, instead of celebrating Him. You might end up reflecting on your Advent readings on Christmas night wondering why our King’s new Kingdom doesn’t look a little more like he said it would.

So, if anyone out there had any silly thoughts that this Professional Christian had her stuff together, I’m sorry to burst your bubble. It turns out that it doesn’t take much-- not a natural disaster or a life-threatening illness, or a major catastrophe-- to make me completely unraveled. No matter how hard I tried to pull it together, I just ended up a big mess, sobbing in the bathroom in the middle of the night.

And I guess that’s the whole point, isn’t it? I’m a mess. You’re a mess. This whole world we live in can just go unraveled, and no matter how hard we try, we just can’t fix it. We need some serious help. We need to be rescued.

And, to be totally honest, when I’m coming unraveled, the last thing I want is religion, or advice, or wise, pithy truths. I just want someone to sit with me; to walk with me through the mess, and to understand (maybe even without words) what it feels like. I want someone who’s been there to just be next to me.

So, even though I don’t feel much like celebrating, I have a deep & quiet sense of comfort at this whole idea of Emmanuel, God with us. I know that there’s a whole lot more to Jesus coming to earth-- all the theological implications & all that-- but right now, it feels good to know that He didn’t just watch from far away as a few little things caused me to come unglued. He got his hands dirty, entered this big mess we made, and said “I know exactly how you feel”.
Even though I’m tired of cookies, prime rib, and all the festivities, Emmanuel is something I can celebrate today.

A Good Word

2011-12-23T08:47:00.000-08:00

"Don't hoard treasure down here where it gets eaten by moths and corroded by rust or—worse!—stolen by burglars. Stockpile treasure in heaven, where it's safe from moth and rust and burglars. It's obvious, isn't it? The place where your treasure is, is the place you will most want to be, and end up being.

Your eyes are windows into your body. If you open your eyes wide in wonder and belief, your body fills up with light. If you live squinty-eyed in greed and distrust, your body is a dank cellar. If you pull the blinds on your windows, what a dark life you will have!

You can't worship two gods at once. Loving one god, you'll end up hating the other. Adoration of one feeds contempt for the other. You can't worship God and Money both.

If you decide for God, living a life of God-worship, it follows that you don't fuss about what's on the table at mealtimes or whether the clothes in your closet are in fashion. There is far more to your life than the food you put in your stomach, more to your outer appearance than the clothes you hang on your body. Look at the birds, free and unfettered, not tied down to a job description, careless in the care of God. And you count far more to him than birds.

Has anyone by fussing in front of the mirror ever gotten taller by so much as an inch? All this time and money wasted on fashion—do you think it makes that much difference? Instead of looking at the fashions, walk out into the fields and look at the wildflowers. They never primp or shop, but have you ever seen color and design quite like it? The ten best-dressed men and women in the country look shabby alongside them.

If God gives such attention to the appearance of wildflowers—most of which are never even seen—don't you think he'll attend to you, take pride in you, do his best for you? What I'm trying to do here is to get you to relax, to not be so preoccupied with getting, so you can respond to God's giving. People who don't know God and the way he works fuss over these things, but you know both God and how he works. Steep your life in God-reality, God-initiative, God-provisions. Don't worry about missing out. You'll find all your everyday human concerns will be met.

Give your entire attention to what God is doing right now, and don't get worked up about what may or may not happen tomorrow. God will help you deal with whatever hard things come up when the time comes."

-Jesus [Matthew 6:19-34]

Advent: A Confession

2011-12-20T07:58:00.000-08:00

I've had some disturbing thoughts lately as I have reflected on Christmas. Deeply disturbing. Extremely uncomfortable. Sometimes I wish I could just turn off my brain.

My desire has been to extricate the stress, materialism, and gnawing hunger for the New & Shiny at Christmastime, and to replace it with the Hope, Peace, Joy and Love that comes from celebrating God's arrival. It turns out, though, that when you invite God to rummage around and clean out the dark places, He usually ends up finding more than you are comfortable with. Apparently, making your home in Jesus doesn't involve tidying & cleaning, but a complete overhaul.

About a week ago, I noticed that the contentment I felt with my life & my closet had been replaced by a rather long Christmas wishlist. It seems to happen every year: I start off thinking that I really don't need anything & isn't my life so full, and end up hungry for more, more, more, as I see lovely new things in store (or computer) windows.

And it happened again. When I pulled out my wishlist and tried to cross things off, and carve it down, it was really hard to let go.

Then this quiet thought floated to the top of my brain: I want others to think I am stylish, fashionable and cute. I want it so much that it has taken root deep down and controls the way I spend my money, my thoughts, my desires.

Now, I'm not making any blanket statements here about the evils of wanting a new sweater. I just realized that this seemingly simple, even benign desire has marbled it's way through the corners of my heart & mind, and the reason I know it because it is so very difficult to let go of.

Here's what I mean: There are millions of people in this world who are starving. I've read the statistics, I've taught seminars on poverty, and I've even lived in a refugee camp. I'm not trying to go all emotional, desperately-pulling-on-your-heartstrings or anything. It's just a simple truth. I have personally met people who have been kidnapped by rebel armies, whose children have been malnourished, and I have held a baby who just died of malaria. This isn't some infomercial out there, it is something I claim to care deeply about. So there's that.

Then, on the other hand, I have three black sweaters in my closet. But I don't have the right black sweater to wear with several of my shirts, and I really, really want a new black sweater. And a pair of skinny jeans that fit better than the other two pairs I own. And a few other sweaters, tanks & loungy pants that are on my list. Even though I already own more clothes than I know what to do with, they are old and make me feel frumpy, out-of-date & self-conscious. I feel uncomfortable all day long when I wear something like that. I look at other girls who are stylish & fit and compare myself. I try on seven different outfits in the morning & never quite feel satisfied. I worry about what others will think of me, and hear in my own mind the things that they must see in me. It's a pretty deep insecurity that I've carried around for a long time.

I could ask for clothes from my [extremely generous] parents for Christmas, or I could literally donate a cow to help feed those Ugandan girls I love. I could even ask for half the amount of stuff, and give the rest away. But every time I try to let go, there's just one more thing I need. I thought about fasting for a year from buying new clothes (not that we have that in our budget, but our families are always very giving for Christmas & birthdays) to help loosen the grip this stuff has on my heart. I'm honestly not sure if I could do it.

But really, what would happen? If I were to keep wearing those things that make me feel frumpy and old, would people love me less? Would friends stop spending time with me? Would my husband leave me for a trophy wife? Would my work with college students diminish? Would my personal worth or value as a human decrease? Would anyone even notice??? Wouldn't people rather spend time with someone who wasn't so concerned with their image & appearance, who was centered & free from insecurities, and focused on others rather than themselves?

What would it look like to let go-- to follow Jesus and walk forward into something that is [embarrassingly] difficult for me? I want to let go, and I don't. I want to move forward, and I don't. What would it look like to follow Jesus while holding on to something I knew he was asking me to release? Is that what I want?

Saving Christmas: Conspiracy

2011-12-17T21:31:00.000-08:00

Beautiful.
My sentiments exactly.

[AC] Promo 2011 from Advent Conspiracy on Vimeo.

Here's a link to their website

Saving Christmas

2011-12-16T08:54:00.000-08:00

"And that was the year that Buddy saved Christmas..."
There are some pretty fantastic movies out there (and, I admit, some pretty terrible ones-- exhibit A) about an unlikely hero who steps up to save Christmas from certain disaster.

Looking back over the last several years, I've had these high hopes & big aspirations for what Christmas could look like. If you think about it, it has the makings of a great story: there is something pure, wonderful and good that is at risk of being corrupted & overrun by stress, consumerism & greed. Our chance to celebrate the arrival of freedom, peace & hope stands against an army of gingerbread men, Holiday sales, and tense trips back & forth to relative's houses. Pretty high stakes there.

Every year, I come up with a plan for preserving the meaning behind Christmas and holding it in my heart-- and every year there comes a point when I realize that my plan isn't working so well. This year, the plan was to blog everyday during advent, to reflect on Scripture from the advent readings, to keep in mind the significance behind each of our activities, and to simply set aside time for what was important. And as I lay in bed with a nasty cold for weeks, I realized that my big plans to save Christmas were crumbling.

The sense of contentment with my stuff has been replaced by a haunting siren call for new shoes, sweaters & skinny jeans. The desire to donate Christmas money to our favorite non-profit has been replaced by a hunger for things shiny, new & fashionable. The desire to spend my after-baby hours blogging, reading & reflecting has been replaced by a need to address Christmas cards, bake cookies, answer emails, make gifts, and order stuff on Amazon.

I can feel the tension, the weight that pulls me away from what I had hoped for & intended, and I feel tired & lazy. So the question is: What will our hero choose? Will she be able to save Christmas? Or will she end up disappointed, stressed out & a little gluttonous (with a really cute pair of black ankle boots)?

Here, my friends, is the climax of our story. Let's see how it unfolds...

Advent Sunday: Joy

2011-12-11T22:01:00.000-08:00

The people walking in darkness
have seen a great light;
on those living in the land of deep darkness
a light has dawned.
You have enlarged the nation
and increased their joy;
they rejoice before you
as people rejoice at the harvest,
as warriors rejoice
when dividing the plunder.
For as in the day of Midian’s defeat,
you have shattered
the yoke that burdens them,
the bar across their shoulders,
the rod of their oppressor.
Every warrior’s boot used in battle
and every garment rolled in blood
will be destined for burning,
will be fuel for the fire.
For to us a child is born,
to us a son is given,
and the government will be on his shoulders.
And he will be called
Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
Of the greatness of his government and peace
there will be no end.
He will reign on David’s throne
and over his kingdom,
establishing and upholding it
with justice and righteousness
from that time on and forever.
The zeal of the LORD Almighty
will accomplish this.
-Isaiah 9

Advent: Peace on Earth

2011-12-06T21:54:00.000-08:00

Peace is kind of a funny word. Despite thousands of years of deep meaning and significance, when I hear the word "Peace" today, I think of Birkenstocks, long hair, VW buses, and the corner of Haight/Ashbury.

It's one of those words that is used at Christmastime a lot, on flowery cards, cute little knicknacks, and in carols. I'm not sure, though, that I've ever stopped to think about the relationship between Christmas and Peace.

To be honest, Christmas is one of the last peaceful times of the year. Most people are stressed out, overbooked, overfed, overspent, and at war with at least one family member as they rush from obligation to obligation. I am definitely no exception. Christmas has always been about cramming as many family members into a 24hr period as LA freeways would allow, and as much as I love it all, I generally end up in a ball on the floor crying at some point in the festivities.

One of my goals this year is to be more intentional about eliminating stress and adding Peace to Christmas. I am going against every fiber in my body and not hosting a Christmas party. Instead, the plan (we'll see how it goes) is to bake cookies for the neighbors, and go door to door meeting them. The idea behind that is I still get to do the baking & Christmas cheering that I love, without the pressure of having a clean house, cute dress, 12 hors d'oeuvres & desserts and zero meaningful conversations while playing hostess. Plus, we get to meet & love on our neighbors. We're also having more friends over for dinner/brunch in casual settings to spend a little more quality time.

We'll see if any of these plans accomplish my goals. Really, those are more structural tweaks than deep heart-level peace. My hope this week is to meditate more on how Jesus' birth invites peace into my real, everyday life. Because I can cut out & rearrange my Holiday plans as much as I want, but I'm not going to find what I'm looking for without that. And I guess that's the whole point.

Wish me luck (and Good Luck to you, too) ;)

Advent (kind of)

2011-12-05T17:02:00.000-08:00

Well, my plan to reflect on Advent each day has been foiled by a nasty cold.
But, it has given me the opportunity to watch Meet Me in St. Louis while lying on the couch, which just happens to have one of the greatest Christmas scenes/songs.
Skip to about 1:45 sec & enjoy :)
Have yourself a merry little Christmas.

Advent, Week 2: Peace

2011-12-04T21:35:00.000-08:00

This Sunday night, as we sit in front of the advent wreath-- now with two candles burning-- my head is fuzzy, my voice is gone, and I can't breathe out of my nose. And although I wanted to just go to bed, rather than try to be spiritual (and especially rather than trying to scrape together coherent thoughts into a blog post), it does feel good to have this small discipline.

This week's advent candle is Peace, and the verse we reflected on comes from Isaiah (written out below), and gives, like last week's verse, a beautiful imagery of the Kingdom that is both Here and Yet to Come. The picture is one of Peace, saying that when the Messiah comes, he will teach us to walk in his ways, and we will beat our swords into plowshares.

The first image that came to mind was of a piece of art called The Tree of Life (pictured above) I had read about in the British Museum: "During Mozambique's civil war (1976 to 1992) millions of guns and other weapons poured into the country and most of them remain hidden or buried in the bush. The project is an attempt to eliminate the threat presented by the hidden weapons. Mozambicans are encouraged to hand them over in exchange for items like ploughs, bicycles and sewing machines. In one case a whole village gave up its weapons in exchange for a tractor. Once the weapons are decommissioned, they are cut up and turned into sculptures by the artists in Maputo."

So, at Christmastime, we celebrate the coming of the Prince of Peace.

Isaiah 2:1-5

This is what Isaiah son of Amoz saw concerning Judah and Jerusalem:

In the last days

the mountain of the LORD’s temple will be established
as the highest of the mountains;
it will be exalted above the hills,
and all nations will stream to it.

Many peoples will come and say,

“Come, let us go up to the mountain of the LORD,
to the temple of the God of Jacob.
He will teach us his ways,
so that we may walk in his paths.”
The law will go out from Zion,
the word of the LORD from Jerusalem.
He will judge between the nations
and will settle disputes for many peoples.
They will beat their swords into plowshares
and their spears into pruning hooks.
Nation will not take up sword against nation,
nor will they train for war anymore.

Come, descendants of Jacob,
let us walk in the light of the LORD.

Advent: The Peacable Kingdom

2011-12-03T17:32:00.000-08:00

This is the final reading from the first week of advent. It's a poetic & mysterious picture of what our world will look one day when Emmanuel returns-- a metaphor for the future reality for us to put our hope in.

I was pretty excited to search around for artist's representations of this scene, but was disappointed to find that it really only captured one guy's imagination-- over, and over & over again. Instead, we get to use our own imaginations...

Isaiah 11:1-10

¹ A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse;

from his roots a Branch will bear fruit.
² The Spirit of the LORD will rest on him—
the Spirit of wisdom and of understanding,
the Spirit of counsel and of might,
the Spirit of the knowledge and fear of the LORD—
³ and he will delight in the fear of the LORD.

He will not judge by what he sees with his eyes,
or decide by what he hears with his ears;
⁴ but with righteousness he will judge the needy,
with justice he will give decisions for the poor of the earth.
He will strike the earth with the rod of his mouth;
with the breath of his lips he will slay the wicked.
⁵ Righteousness will be his belt
and faithfulness the sash around his waist.

⁶ The wolf will live with the lamb,
the leopard will lie down with the goat,
the calf and the lion and the yearling together;
and a little child will lead them.
⁷ The cow will feed with the bear,
their young will lie down together,
and the lion will eat straw like the ox.
⁸ The infant will play near the cobra’s den,
and the young child will put its hand into the viper’s nest.
⁹ They will neither harm nor destroy
on all my holy mountain,
for the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the LORD
as the waters cover the sea.

¹⁰ In that day the Root of Jesse will stand as a banner for the peoples; the nations will rally to him, and his resting place will be glorious.

Advent: Hoping for Emmanuel

2011-12-01T07:35:00.000-08:00

"... and they shall name him Emmanuel, which means 'God with us'" (Matthew 1:23)

We have joy now over a promise that is still to come...

Oh come, Oh come, Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear

Rejoice, Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, Oh Israel!

Oh come, Thou rod of Jesse, free
Thine own from Satan's tyranny
From depths of hell Thy people save
And give them victory o'ver the grave

Rejoice, Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, Oh Israel!

Oh come, Thou Dayspring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here;
Drive away the shades of night
And pierce the clouds and bring us light!

Rejoice, Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, Oh Israel!

Oh come thou key of David come
And open wide our heavenly home;
Where all thy saints with thee shall dwell
Oh come oh come, Emmanuel!

Rejoice, Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, Oh Israel!
Rejoice, Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, Oh Israel!

Advent: Contentment vs. Hope

2011-11-30T21:28:00.000-08:00

Over the last several days, I've been slowly chewing on those two verses about the hope that Mary & Joseph had as they waited for this mysterious Messiah to be born. I've read those passages so many times throughout a life of growing up in the church that it feels as though the shine has started to rub off a bit. But for some reason, this week I continued to be struck by the way their Hope was placed in something beyond themselves, beyond their own comfort.

I tried to sit back and reflect on the things that I hope for. Over the last few years, they have been pretty basic: I really, really hope I can make it this next hour without wanting to puke; I really, really hope I have what it takes to survive labor; I really, really hope I can sleep for 3hrs straight... 5hrs straight... 8hrs straight; I really, really hope we can buy a house & move out of this tiny apartment; and I really, really hope I can go back to work and not feel so stuck at home. Seriously, I think that just about covers the scope of all my aspirations over the last 2yrs.

And now, as strange as it is to say, all those things have happened, and I'm kind of left with nothing to hope for. That's not to say that we aren't super busy, that our house isn't always a mess, that we don't desperately need more funding, or that I've got any part of my life together. But, really when I think about it, things are pretty well lined up for us. And since my hopes have been rather small lately-- and rather self-focused-- I have had the strange privilege of seeing them come to fruition, and am now sitting around & looking at what I have in front of me, without lifting my eyes to what is ahead.

Now, in one sense, that is a very good thing. Contentment with our lives, our current situation, our possessions is (I believe) a key to living life well. We shouldn't always be aching for the next thing, forgetting about what we already have.

But on the other hand, we should always be aching for what is ahead. I should be discontent with our world, injustice, pain, suffering, and my own brokenness. I should be constantly looking ahead with a Hope for what could be.

And there's the tension: Hope and Contentment. How do we center ourselves now, and ache for the good things we do not yet have?
Tomorrow's Advent verses point to those questions a bit.

Advent: Prison, Mozart, and Hope

2011-11-29T21:33:00.000-08:00

This week's Advent readings and candle are centered on Hope.
It's difficult to find a more beautiful representation of hope than in Shawshank Redemption.
Here are two clips that go back-to-back (sorry about the subtitles on the first one).
Enjoy

I can't embed the second clip. Here's the link to it.

Advent: Hope

2011-11-28T07:27:00.000-08:00

Last night, while munching on the bread that had just come out of the oven, and smelling the granola that had just gone in the oven, Chris & I read through some advent devotions. This first Advent Sunday we joined millions of other followers of Christ as we lit the candle of Hope, the first in the advent wreath.

I admit, I was kind of anticipating warm fuzzies as we contemplated our readings on Hope-- what with the insane baking smells wafting through the house, and the romantic glow of the newly decorated full-sized Christmas tree (not the tiny 2ft apartment tree we've had propped on a table for the last 6yrs!!!). But as we read through the verses marked out in our advent devotion, the warm fuzzies didn't come.

Two of the verses were accounts of Mary & Joseph being told that they were about to become the parents of a King who would reign forever and would take away the sins of his people. Big stuff. Lots to hope for.

But then, Mary has to travel 9mos pregnant by donkey, and just happens to go into labor at the worst possible time, when there is no where to go and one to help. I can remember the exhaustion after labor, the desperate need for help from family & friends, the fear & stress & sleeplessness. My biggest hope was to get through that phase of life. But, if we read ahead, we know that Mary & Joseph also faced the fear of a mass-murderer trying to kill their baby. They were forced into exile in Egypt, and sometime between Jesus' 13th birthday and his public ministry, it's believed that Joseph died.

All those hopes, all that anticipation of what it would mean to usher in the King & Savior of Israel, and I'm sure none of it turned out the way they thought it would. It would seem that their hopes were placed in something beyond their own comfort-- which is not often where I can find my own hopes lying.

It made me want to dig in a little deeper and ask myself where I truly place my hopes, and if maybe my hopes are a little too small.

Here are links to two of the Advent Readings on Hope. I would love to hear your thoughts, as well.
Matthew 1:18-24
Luke 1:26-38

Advent

2011-11-27T13:35:00.000-08:00

There's that certain feeling of regret that comes on Thanksgiving night, after you've stuffed yourself to the breaking point and wonder what on earth possessed you to take that second (third? fourth?) piece of pie. And the feeling is multiplied about ten times over come New Years when you've got a month of regrets haunting you.

It's not just the caloric regrets that make me squirm with discomfort after the Holidays are over, its a feeling of excess everywhere-- cramming too many activities into a schedule, too many miles driven over a weekend, too many new things sitting in my room, and too much money spent on gifts. I tend to get the same feeling after Christmas as I would if I had eaten a whole cake for dinner-- I am stuffed, but not with the right things; I'm full, but not quite the way I want to be. And it seems like, no matter how good my intentions are, each year, I get caught up in the whirlwind of activities, in the aching need for new things, in the stress & busyness that makes me full-to-breaking-point, but not satisfied.

I tend to leave Christmas with the feeling that I've missed God in it all somewhere. And just like there wasn't room for him at the inn, I always feel as though there somehow wasn't room anywhere in my schedule during Christmas for my Messiah.

So, one way that I am committing to make room this year is to keep an advent blog.
Advent is a time of expectant waiting, looking forward to the arrival of Christ the King. I am most familiar with it in the form of cardboard calendars with a piece of crappy chocolate hiding behind each number. But, growing up, I have also celebrated advent on the four Sundays before Christmas, lighting a candle on the advent wreath that symbolized a different aspect of our anticipation of Christ's coming.

My goal is to write each day a little snippet on that week's advent candle: Hope, Peace, Joy, and Love. I hope that it helps to draw my mind & heart closer to God this Christmas-- and that you might even get one or two gems from it too.
Here goes...

Thanksgiving, Pirates, and Black Friday

2011-11-24T08:23:00.000-08:00

Every year, around Thanksgiving, I start to salivate in eager anticipation. Although I do love the turkey, stuffing, pie, and even the cranberry sauce (not that jellied stuff shaped like a can, but the real live cranberry sauce that no one else seems to go for but everyone makes), it's not the food, or even the Holiday itself that gets my heart beating faster.

What makes a little smile break out on my face, even when I'm all alone, is the knowledge that the day after Thanksgiving marks the official start of Christmastime-- trees, lights, carols, ornaments, cookie baking & decorating & eating... glory.

The day after Thanksgiving (and sometimes even before) also marks the infamous Black Friday. It even sounds sinister, doesn't it? If the Dread Pirate Roberts hadn't already been sailing a ship called Revenge, I'm pretty sure it would have been named Black Friday. There's a certain ring to it.

Now, I have nothing against sales. I'm a big believer. And I'm not here to lecture anyone on that little old man who got trampled to death at the Walmart on Black Friday a few years back, or tell you that you're probably going to burn in hell if you wake up at 4am and stand in line for a new big screen TV. Nope, I'll leave all of that to your own conscience.

I was just thinking about how beautiful it is that we have a whole day set aside to be thankful-- and that it just happens to be the day before Black Friday. We have a day to reflect on all the things we have, to soak in the abundance of our gifts & comfort and to thank our Creator for them. We come together with our families & share the extravagance of the good things we have, and acknowledge our gratitude for it. What a healthy and beautiful tradition to observe in a culture where we so rarely think about all that we have.

And then, the very next day, while we are full to the brim with thankfulness & the awareness of all the good things in our lives, we can turn our thoughts towards Christmas and giving to others.

*Sigh* If only that were reality. Usually, mom stresses out in the kitchen, making this ridiculous meal for 20 other family members who are watching football in the other room. Then, everyone comes together, gorges themselves, falls asleep feeling sick, wakes up 2hrs later & has seconds. After that, we wake up at 4am, buy thousands of dollars worth of stuff, get lost in the stress, pressure & endless force of that Voice that tells us we need more. And then, sometime after Christmas, we wonder if there isn't a better way to do it.

And yet, here it is, all laid out for us. A whole day to be thankful, to reflect on what we have, not what the TV tells us we need. I wonder what would happen if we literally made a list of all the things we are thankful for-- the stuff we usually forget, like indoor plumbing, access to clean water, being able to eat food everyday, a safe place to sleep, the sound of silence, or the feel of a really hot shower.

I wonder if we were to enter Christmastime in that context, how our mindset would change, how our spending would change-- not just financial spending, but time & resources & thoughts & words.

Maybe Thanksgiving isn't just a blip on the Holiday radar, in between Halloween & Black Friday, but an actual stopping point to help us enter in. And I think, that if we enter with intentionality & thoughtfulness, we'll be headed in a good direction.

Eulogy: Gavin

2011-11-09T21:47:00.000-08:00

They say that you don't miss a good thing 'till it's gone, and it's oh-so-very true for me in this moment.

There was a "certain member" of our family who always smelled bad, always left a mess in his wake, snored, slobbered, woke me up, and required us to clean up his poop & cater to him several times a day, rain or shine. No, that "certain member" is not our little man, but our stinky, greasy, gassy mutt with a wet nose that always seemed to find the underside of your elbow when you were least expecting it. He was dumb as a rock, afraid of new people, embarrassingly racist, and sometimes very clingy... but now that he's gone, I have to say that I miss the big thug.

If you've never been introduced, Gavin is/was our pit bull pup that we rescued from a life of neglect & abuse, and despite his idiosyncrasies (and my complaints), he really was a fantastic dog. Although his IQ was a few notches below Forrest Gump's, he was very obedient, sweet, mellow, super fun at the beach & on hikes, and never dug in the trash or begged for food. And in those early Nolan days, when we would forget to take him out to pee or feed him, he never complained, but patiently waited for us to pull it together. Sometimes, when Chris would go mountain biking, Gavin would run alongside him during the ascent, and then take off & meet him at the bottom, by the car with a huge smile on his face.

The only bummer was that because of his background, he wasn't a good candidate for babies, and so after months of searching for a new family & home for Gavin, Chris' parents graciously adopted him as their own.

It's been quite a relief, honestly to not worry about Nolan chasing a skiddish pit bull into a corner, and (selfishly) it's been beautiful to see how clean the rug stays now that there's not 5lbs of white fur deposited on it every day. But that first night when he was gone-- which also happened to be the first night that Chris was gone from our new house-- it felt very lonely & vulnerable without that big pit-mutt around.

A jarring noise woke me out of a dead sleep in the middle of the night, and I realized that for some reason, Nolan's baby monitor upstairs in his room had suddenly stopped working & was making a startlingly loud static noise. As I crept upstairs to see what/who had mysteriously turned off the monitor, I saw that there was a light on that I was sure I had turned off. Then creepy piano music started playing in the background, and a man with a chainsaw came out of the shadows. Wait, that last part didn't actually happen, but I knew that it could have, and that there was no 70lb dog to save me.

In that moment, I missed Gavin very, very much.

And I continue to notice his absence when I wake up in the mornings, or go out to our empty backyard, or try to explain to our baby why he can't find the "dah".

Gavin, I would like to publicly apologize for my lack of appreciation, affection, & attention this last year-plus, and especially for the lack of long walks since we bought a house with a yard. You are an amazing dog, and you deserve better. I'm so happy that you have retired to a warm, sunny home with a pool & plenty of neighboring dogs to torment. May you live a long & happy life.

restore

2011-10-22T22:14:00.001-07:00

There's the feeling of anxiety that rises up inside every time I walk into our garage. I think maybe it's the fear of drowning... in all the boxes, precariously placed odds & ends stacked on themselves, random homeless objects that so desperately need a place to call their own. I get a similar feeling when I walk into a casino, with all that sensory overload; except instead of blinking lights & smoke to stress me out & make me want to run for the door, it's the panic of knowing that all the sensory overload is coming from my stuff-- that it belongs to me, or at least is under my umbrella of responsibility, and that no one else is going to make it better except for me & my hubby.

About every-other week, we make a valiant effort to tame the chaos, like taking a machete to the edge of a rain forest & trying to beat it back. Sometimes, there is a small sense of accomplishment, but after a few days, the futility of it all sweeps over me again as all the flat surfaces are consumed by papers, tools, clean & dirty clothes, and millions of work-related objects that crawl in during the night.

But the root of it is that all the chaos really is just a physical representation of how I'm feeling inside. It does feel like I'm drowning sometimes-- like I'm just barely keeping my head above water while I carry our work & ministry & family & all the regular everyday duties of life. I have spent so many weeks aching for the weekend, waiting to catch my breath, worn out & disconnected, and honestly a little whiny. The whiny, worn out ache sometimes compounds, as unexpected obstacles get in the way of the rest that we had been looking forward to.

What's strange, though, is how difficult it can be to take the moments of rest when they present themselves. It's tempting, when I feel like a limp rag after putting our toddler to bed, to flip open my computer and spend an hour online doing nothing of real significance; or to click on Hulu & catch up on a few TV shows. It is so much easier than thinking or conversing or engaging life-- nothing against all those activities, but sometimes at the end of the day, I've just had enough of all the relational stuff.

The thing is, though, I never really feel restored after shutting myself off like that. Yes, I've taken a break, and sometimes we just really need a break... but I know that it wasn't really what I needed.

Chris & I have been trying lately to set aside one day a week to just rest-- not to make plans with friends, or work on the house, or run errands, but to just spend time as a family & read books & take naps & go for walks (I know, we've invented something truly revolutionary-- don't tell anyone). I realize that this whole Sabbath concept has been around for a couple of years now, but to be honest, I don't know many people who actually observe it-- and I certainly never have made an intentional practice of it before. We haven't quite nailed it yet, either-- there are weeks where obligations creep in or activities get planned, and it seems like I can always tell, come Monday, when I haven't done a very good job of protecting my Sabbath.

Looking back over the last few months, it seems like a bit of the weight has been lifted from our shoulders. I don't carry that same semi-desperate feeling that used to always lie just under the surface, hoping for a free second to breathe. And in those moments when I get a little time to myself, it helps to ask, "Is this something that will actually restore me, or am I just looking for a fix?" Although I am rusty & clumsy at it after being out of practice, forcing myself to write is a step forward towards restoration.

We have also learned the beauty of asking for help, which has been a bit of a hard step for someone who prefers to be on the giving end of help. I suppose it comes from a fear of not earning my keep or being seen as needy or spoiled, but it can be tough to admit that I need help & to accept "charity". But as the drowning feeling increased, I threw out a need (for help with child care) and discovered dozens of people eager & willing to help. It has been amazing, beautiful and humbling to receive from so many generous friends, and to feel even more of that weight lifted off my shoulders.

So even though the garage is still a riot of boxes in various stages of un-packed-ness, and even though I noticed dark circles under my eyes the other day, I am confident that our tiny shuffling towards rest has actually brought about the restoration (even in tiny doses) we've been aching for. And I celebrate the little victories.

Harry's Story

2011-07-10T16:41:00.000-07:00

I don't particularly like Harry Potter-- no offense to all of you who dress up for the opening night movies & book releases, and all that. I don't really have anything against the kid, he just doesn't wow me like Lucy Pevensie or Bilbo Baggins.

And yet, I find myself, in every spare moment, slinking back to this tattered old copy of Harry Potter. I stay up reading when I'm sleepy, I have to suppress little urges throughout the day to find out what happens next, and notice these strange, anti-social tendencies as I retreat back to a quiet space with this book that I'm not that into.

Today I realized why. It has to do with Story-- not necessarily the story of Harry & wizards & all that, but the greater concept of Story. Don Miller defines Story as a character who wants something & is willing to overcome obstacles to get it. The good stories, he says, are the ones where the character wants something good & worthwhile, and where the obstacles & conflicts are so great that he becomes a better character as he works towards his goal.

What I realized today from Harry is that I am drawn back to him over & over because I am a little bit stuck in my own story right now-- and it's easier & far more comfortable to curl up & watch someone else's story than to work at writing your own.

The last several weeks haven't told the most exciting story for me. Chris is trying with all his might to finish up his Masters degree, and is taking an intensive course, while I hang out at the parent's house with our little guy. Seriously, there's not much to complain about: I have a big, clean house, hardly any responsibilities, and a pool. Compared to the frazzled, stressed out season we've had buying a house, moving & drowning in home repairs, this is paradise.

But strangely it seems more like Limbo than paradise, and I admit I'm going a little bit crazy here in babyland day after day. I think that somewhere along the way, I have lost track of the Story that I am trying to tell. I paused today to ask myself "What is it that I want?" It's a pretty boring story when there is no great desire driving the plot, and it's honestly a pretty boring existence, as peaceful & mellow as it's been, to sit around all day with nothing driving or motivating me.

So I ask myself again: What do I want? What story am I telling? It's harder to answer than I thought.

I guess what I want is to live a life that illuminates life for others-- one that both allows them to see that there can be fullness & beauty & purpose, and that also helps them discover what their particular role is in that greater purpose. I want to be a part of a family that gives others hope in the concept of family, marriage, relationships & belonging, and to have a home that invites others to be at home. For those who are unable to reach that fullness & beauty & purpose-- because of something holding them back-- I want to help them get out from under that weight. And I want to do it within the context and energy that is found in my Creator.

I can tell that I need practice putting those thoughts into words. They feel rusty & forced as they come out, like some dusty, forgotten tool in the back of the garage.

I'm not sure what it looks like right now to live out that Story in this particular context, sitting in our parent's house day after day and talking baby talk. But I know that, if nothing else, I need to remember the Story that I am telling-- or rather, that is being told through me.

So I suppose this is the part of the story where patience & depth are rooted in me, if I will allow them to be. It's the part of the story where my partner takes the lead & I step back to support him; the part of the story where I get to know my little man a little bit better; the part where I soak in the quiet & the rest and gear up for the next chapter. The part where I curl up with a book and take a deep breath.

Super Human

2011-05-08T21:40:00.000-07:00

When I got my nose pierced, I only knew one other person with a nose ring.
I got a tattoo on the small of my back before the whole "tramp stamp" thing was a thing.
I used to have pink hair and wear black nail polish.
I have lived in Compton, been in drive-by's, spent a summer in a mud hut in an African refugee camp, white water rafted down the Nile, and touched a lion in the wild.

I know, I'm fascinating.

But sometime last week, I realized that most of my life is spent in the kitchen, juggling a baby while washing dishes & making dinner. I wear the same clothes several days in a row because I share a bedroom with a baby, and it's easier to wear yesterday's clothes than sneak back into the room & pick out something in the dark.

A while ago, I was driving behind a mini-van in traffic with a bumper sticker that said "I used to be cool". I wanted to bump my fist on my chest in acknowledgement.

You know that scene that happens in every super hero movie? It's the one where the light bulb turns on, and the girl realizes that Peter Parker is Spiderman, or Clark Kent is Superman. Suddenly she understands that the ordinary, geeky guy she's always overlooked is actually amazing-- super, to be specific.

Well, sometime after 18ish hours of labor (I lost count), I left the hospital a sleep deprived, exhausted, hormonal mess, and the light bulb turned on: All these women around me, all these frumpy, baggy-eyed moms walking the streets were actually super heroes in disguise.

I had always known that being a mom involved sacrifice, that it is a life-long act of selflessness to become a mother, and that it's hard, hard work. But I never really understood. Something happened after I joined their ranks, and I was in awe. We are amazing. No really, we are. I constantly wanted to sing "I am Woman, Hear Me Roar" at the top of my lungs, and congratulate every female pushing a stroller.

After nine months of motherhood, some of the initial awe has worn off, as I'm sure it did for Superman, once he had been flying around for a while. But I'm glad that we have one day out of the year when children can make breakfast in bed, dads can make reservations, and moms can receive cards & flowers & chocolate as small tokens of the super-human acts they perform everyday.

And so, all you mothers out there, I salute you, and give a knowing little wink: While the rest of the world may think you're just some frumpy unkempt woman in a mini-van, I know that doing dishes while balancing a curious crawler is nothing less than heroic, and that no one will ever see the millions of things you do everyday for other people.

But I think the best part is that it really doesn't matter. It's okay that no one sees. It's okay that "cool" is gone forever. Honestly, it really doesn't matter. I don't say this in a mushy, martyr kind of way-- I really mean it when I say that it's completely worth it.

And in those moments where I'm sick & tired of standing in front of the kitchen sink, or I can tell by the look in someone's eye that I am just an out-of-touch mom, I can remember-- and honestly believe-- that it is all worth it. Although I can't put words to it, something shifts-- everything shifts, really-- and this un-glamorous, self-sacrificing life becomes an unfathomable privilege. Weird, I know, but true.
Happy Mother's Day.

Justice

2011-05-02T21:46:00.000-07:00

There's quite a stir in the cyber-world today. It's definitely a day for the history books, an event that I imagine will have a lasting impact on our world: the death of Osama bin Laden.

What is interesting to me-- what I've been chewing on all day-- is how to respond as a follower of Jesus.

I believe in justice. A fire lights up inside of me when I hear about abuse, oppression, slavery.

I can remember when I was a Junior in college, I spent a summer working at an after school tutoring program for inner city kids. A beautiful 8yr old boy named Danny became my little buddy one week & we were inseparable. One day, he pulled me aside into an empty room & lifted his shirt, revealing bruises & scars covering his chest & stomach. He quietly confessed that his father abused him, and told me stories that turned my stomach & brought me to tears. That afternoon, his father picked him up from the church, and it was all I could do to keep myself from going after that man with a club, cussing him out, slashing his tires & smashing his windshield. I'm not proud to say it, but I hated that man.

I also believe in grace & mercy. Like any of us, I want mercy for myself-- to get out of the speeding ticket I deserve, to be forgiven for running late or making a hurtful comment, or on a great, grand scale, to go to heaven even though I am selfish & lazy. But I also recognize grace as being something sacred & holy-- something with the power to disarm, to turn things on their heads.

I remember being in Uganda and seeing the unspeakable things that Joseph Kony and the LRA had done to the people there. One of my friends prayed that Kony would have a change of heart, that he would come to follow Jesus, and change his ways. Something inside of me balked. I confess that in that moment, I would rather have seen him die than to have to accept him as a brother.

And that brings me to today. How do we respond to the death of a wicked man? Should we rejoice that he cannot bring further violence, injustice, pain & suffering to the world? What does it look like to love your enemy and hate injustice? Should we mourn the fact that he never found God, forgiveness, healing? Are there circumstances, like in the case of Dietrich Bonhoeffer joining in an assassination plot against Hitler, where we are called to kill our enemy? Is it wrong to want justice for people like him, but grace & mercy for ourselves?

So many people have been quoting (and mis-quoting) Martin Luther King today-- a man who gave a dignified strength to Grace & Mercy. When I read his speeches, I see Jesus in him in a way that I don't see in myself. And even though I can't pretend to carry this kind of grace inside of me, it gives food for thought today...

The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral,
begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy.
Instead of diminishing evil, it multiplies it.
Through violence you may murder the liar,
but you cannot murder the lie, nor establish the truth.
Through violence you may murder the hater,
but you do not murder hate.
In fact, violence merely increases hate.
So it goes.
Returning violence for violence multiplies violence,
adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars.
Darkness cannot drive out darkness:
only light can do that.
Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.

p.s. Great thoughts on this topic from Brian McLaren

Lenton Lessons: Presence

2011-04-26T08:45:00.000-07:00

I am pretty good at multi-tasking. I used to knit during meetings at conferences (until it became the cool thing to do, then I had to stop), I can walk & chew gum, and even (don't judge me) talk on the phone & drive at the same time. Several times a week, I help lead staff meetings or coach a staff member while watching a curious, crawling baby. I know, you're impressed.

The last several weeks have felt so jam-packed that doing twelve things at once was the only way to keep my head above water. I felt a little like a Warner Brothers cartoon, moving in fast-motion as I ran from the kitchen doing dishes to catch my little guy as he fell, all the while talking on the phone & typing on the computer... or maybe like the goddess Durga, with six arms, who is said to be an indestructible Mother who can redeem us in moments of utmost distress. Too bad I'm not Hindu.

I do have little built-in moments of rest several times during my day, though, when I am forced to sit down & be still while nursing Nolan. You would think that being handed quiet, reflective time on a platter would be a welcomed gift, but I admit that most of those times, I am trying to answer emails one-handed, scrolling through Facebook, or watching the latest episode of Glee in increments over a few days.

I decided that during Lent, I would take those times to sit and be still, to be present with my little man and focus on him, rather than trying to find an escape from stress in mindless television or squeezing in a few more tasks while he ate. It was much harder than it seemed, and I realized how much I seek distractions through sources that just aren't life-giving.

Slowly, though, I began to enjoy the silence, to settle into the moments of stillness, and to be grateful for them. I began using that time to think through my day-- and the minutes of "doing nothing" actually helped me to be more thoughtful & productive throughout the rest of the day. I realized that I have a very limited amount of time where I could simply sit with my son on my lap in quiet stillness, and that there would actually come a time where I missed the intimacy & connection with him.

Last night, as Chris was on campus working late, I was at home in our disaster of an apartment, feeling overwhelmed by the mess, the lack of time to get our lives in order, and the lack of sleep from a teething baby. I was racing around, trying to tidy up, while dragging Nolan out of every dark corner of our home that he could find with electrical cords, outlets, glass bottles & expensive electronics. Every time I went into the kitchen to try to tackle the mountain of dishes, he followed me in there, getting himself into trouble (and the dog bowl), until I finally realized that what he needed was simply for his mom to sit and spend time with him.

I remembered some of the lessons I had learned over Lent of simply being present and putting off the important things for the Most Important thing. Turning on the radio, I sat on the floor & played with my little guy, watching him learn, seeing his eyebrows raise as his index finger moved up and down a fuzzy book. Occasionally, he would reach out his hand and touch my leg next to him, just to make sure I was still there.

At first, I kept my eyes on the clock: two more hours until I can put him to bed and finish the dishes & clean up. But, for a brief space, something changed. Have you ever been struck by a certain moment-- the kind that would be in a flash-back sequence of a movie; the kind that you knew you would want to re-live someday; the kind that was worth bottling up & keeping? No photograph or video could quite capture it, but for some reason, something about it is just is mysteriously sacred.

A song came on the radio, and it was as though God cleared my vision & focused my mind for a moment. I picked up my little guy and danced around the living room with him singing at the top of my lungs, throwing him in the air, holding him upside down by his legs, listening to him squeal & giggle. I was exhausted, and had a million other things that I wanted to be doing, but I felt that if I let that moment slide by, I would be missing something almost Holy. The sweetness of it stayed with me all evening-- and even into a long night of teething tears & sleeplessness.

I hope it will stay with me through rough patches of adolescence and other hairy times of motherhood. If it took forty days of Lent to prepare myself to simply be present in that one moment, it was definitely worth it.

I hope I can have the sensitivity to recognize more of those moments as they come.

Better Than All Those Others

2011-04-11T21:36:00.000-07:00

Despite the steady buzz of conversation in the room, my group sat in an awkward silence, looking at the floor. I wondered what I was doing there, then I wondered if the other women in the group were wondering the same thing.

It was one of those Meet & Greet things for new moms to help form playgroups & life-long friendships & arranged marriages & that sort of thing. There were probably about one hundred women in the room, but it seemed like the only ones who weren't talking were surrounding me. We had just heard the ground rules: pick a time & place to meet, exchange info, become best friends, etc. But my group wasn't doing any of that. I tried asking questions, suggesting times & places, but they all seemed really reluctant to commit to anything. Finally, one of them said she had to go, and within a matter of moments, I was sitting alone in a crowded room. No times, no places, no life-long friendships... just me, Nolan, and a piece of paper with pointers on how to get your group started.

Now, even the most secure & confident person is going to start wondering "What did I say?" in a moment like that. I realized that shortly before the mass exodus, I had sheepishly confessed (after being asked) that my little guy sleeps for twelve hours most nights. Coincidence? Okay, I'm sure that wasn't actually it, but I did notice how strange it is that when mothers get together, they compare their babies: how much do they weigh, how long to they sleep, will they take a bottle, are they crawling, walking, teething, and on & on. Why this is interesting, I really don't know, but I confess that I do it too.

And of course, every mom feels a little twinge of pride if their wee one seems brighter than the average rug rat-- or stronger, or more agile, or whatever the case may me. But why is that, I wonder? What advantage does one human have over another because they can walk, talk, read or ride a bike sooner than the rest? Will it make them happier? Will they live a more meaningful life?

Because really, in the end, I think that's what most mothers want for their babies. The hope is that this little bundle that you are investing so much in will one day live a rich life of meaning, have deep relationships, and great joy.

Which makes me wonder: What does that even look like? How many people do I know that are living that way? Am I living that way?

All of those hopes, dreams & aspirations that were placed on me as a baby-- how am I living them out? And how will my little man ever know what it looks like to live a life of meaning & depth if he doesn't get to see it modeled to him?

Now, I promise, I did not ask these questions at my Meet & Greet time tonight (that would give an easy answer to the "What did I say?" question), but stuck with the polite small talk. I do wonder, though, what it is we all want for our children-- and for ourselves.

Maybe that can be the topic of conversation at our next Mom's time... which is yet to be scheduled ;)

A Glutton for Punishment

2011-03-14T22:14:00.000-07:00

I went a whole summer once eating only rice & beans. No joke.

Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration, but not much. Breakfast was a roll, [warm, fly-covered] pineapple, and insanely sweet tea, while lunch & dinner were almost always rice & beans, some form of greasy cabbage, and an occasional vegetable on the side. The beans always seemed to have rocks in them, so that if you forgot to chew slowly, you would chip a tooth. I'm not complaining, though. I was pretty spoiled, in that I had peanut butter granola bars stashed away in my bag, along with Tang, and a weekly chocolate bar or soda when I went to town.

We were living in a refugee camp in Uganda, and when I say that I was spoiled, I mean it. Although our home was a mud hut, sans electricity or running water... and although we had termite, ant, maggot & cow infestations in our huts, we were living better than 95% of the rest of the village. We had a door that locked. We had cement floors, hammocks with mosquito nets, malaria medicine, bottled water, shoes, several changes of clothes, laundry detergent... I could go on & on.

I remember at one point during our time in Uganda, taking a student to the medical clinic to treat dysentery. Knowing we would be there all day, and having run out of books to read, I grabbed a Martha Stewart magazine from my carry-on bag, and spent the day flipping through the pages of extravagant cakes, meals, crafts & what-not. It was surreal, ear-marking recipes, and knowing that the people around me in the clinic didn't have enough to eat, let alone an oven to bake a bee hive-shaped cake.

The reason I bring this up is because of Lent. The other night (after having eating a huge meal), Chris & I were driving home from campus, and he mumbled that he was the tiniest bit hungry. I agreed that I felt the smallest twinge of hunger, and we began thinking about what we would eat when we got home.

I started thinking about how often I turn to food when I don't need it-- for comfort, out of boredom, because of a random craving, or habit, or distraction from things I don't want to do. I remember reading in The Screwtape Letters about gluttony-- how it's one of those "out-dated" sins that we never really think about anymore. We think of some anonymous slob, too over-weight to walk, stuffing his face with greasy food, when really gluttony is defined as "a misplaced desire for food, or its withholding from the needy."

Now let me tell you something: I love food. I mean, I love it. I read magazines about it. I flip through cook books, plan means, fantasize about hosting parties, think of ways to reinvent old recipes. I get short of breath at Farmer's Markets, think of neighborhoods & geography in terms of restaurants, and plan entire days, weekends & vacations around food. While some people paint, sculpt, or sketch, I create in the kitchen. In fact, a Guatemalan woman is happiest when she is feeding someone... and this is one of those areas where I inherited some strong blood.

Although cooking & eating gives me so much joy, I have started to wonder if I am placing too much importance on it. And so, like everyone else, I am giving up sweets for Lent... but that's really just a small part. The idea behind Lent is to examine the broken parts of us that are in need of healing-- to feel that brokenness & need as we ache for Easter.

I don't know why Gluttony has become a laughable sin-- something that we brush aside as small or insignificant. In Ezekiel, it says that Sodom's sin (as in Sodom & Gomorrah... as in fire falling from the sky) was being "overfed & unconcerned" and not "caring for the poor & needy". I don't mean to get all fire & brimstone over a Bon Appetite magazine or anything, but simply to spend some time examining my own heart & actions and redirecting some of my energy.

So here's my Lenten action point: As I mentioned, no Sweets. My life is sweet enough-- and not in a Precious Moments saccharine kind if way, but in a way that I take for granted and want to intentionally remember. I am setting aside my cookbooks & foodie magazines and sticking to simple meals-- making a point to cook what's there, rather than rushing out to the store with every craving or inspiration. I also want to be intentional about giving more to the hungry-- not just money, but time, resources, and actual physical food to actual physically hungry people. There's a little more detail to all of it, but those are the basics.

I look forward to seeing what grows inside, as I make room for change. More Lenten thoughts & action points to come...

Annual Gripe: Daylight Spending

2011-03-13T08:59:00.000-07:00

Blah. This is an official gripe. Consider yourself warned.

Daylight Savings is a conspiracy. I'm not sure what they're getting at yet, but I know they're after something. I wish I could protest, like Arizona, and simply refuse to change my clock-- just show up an hour late for everything & start a revolution (hey, that's not a bad idea, considering I'm usually at least 10 minutes late for everything! I could call it a Daylight Savings tax, or something).

Why do they call it "Savings" anyways? It's like those obnoxious car salesmen on the radio: SUNDAY, SUNDAY SUNDAY! HUGE SAVINGS YOU CAN'T AFFORD TO MISS!! Usually, it saves me a whole lot more money when I just don't go down to their used car lot & partake in their savings. I'm pretty sure I'm not saving any daylight (unless there's some offshore account in Switzerland that has all my daylight saved up for me, and I don't know about it).

Waking up on Sunday morning was brutal, but it wasn't as bad as waking up this morning. Because the sun didn't set until like 9:30 last night (it's possible that I am exaggerating), we didn't eat dinner until at least 11pm (again, this map may not be to scale), and finally made it to bed at 3am (well, maybe it was midnight). When the alarm went off at 6:30 this morning, it felt (and looked) like the middle of the night.

I feel so cheated. I mean, it's nice that we have all those "extra" lovely hours of afternoon/evening light, but when the sun doesn't actually rise until 7:28am (that is not an exaggeration; I looked it up), I really don't feel like I am gaining anything.

I'm actually thinking of heading up a campaign in San Francisco to ban Daylight Savings. Living in a city that has been trying to legalize Marijuana & prostitution, and put a $1,000 fine on circumcising babies, I think I have a pretty good chance of getting it on the ballot. And once the rest of the state sees how happy we all are without all this switching backing & forth , they'll join in... followed by the rest of the country. All will be right on the world.

Christine for President!

(Original Post: 3/10/08)

The Un-Holidays

2011-03-09T21:40:00.000-08:00

Sitting on my dinner table are the remnants of last night's Mardi Gras party: a beautiful feathered mask, a tie with sequins hot-glue-gunned all over it, a tiny T-shirt with "Tues" written in glittery writing (yes, I dressed up my chubby little guy as Fat Tuesday).

Now, I admit that, despite my Catholic-Guatemalan roots, I have never really celebrated Mardi Gras, Ash Wednesday, or Lent-- and had never even thought about the connection between them until today.

From my not-so-extensive research (thank you, Google & Wikipedia), I learned that Mardi Gras is the last celebration before the season of Lent, which is the 40 days leading to Easter. Ash Wednesday kicks off this less-than-exciting Holiday Season by wearing ashes on our foreheads to remind us that we will all return to dust. During Lent, the tradition is to give something up (like eating chocolate or kicking puppies) to remind us of the sacrifice that Jesus made for us on the cross.

I think we can see why everyone's favorite Holiday is Christmas, and not Ash Wednesday. Honestly, it's kind of somber, dark & morbid-- and not in a fun Tim Burton kind of way. It had always seemed strange to me to draw a connection between refraining from sweets and martyrdom. I don't say that in a judgmental sort of way, but simply that I personally could never produce much more out of these kinds of activities than an over-spiritualized weight loss plan.

But for some reason, this year I felt a little tugging at my heart to practice Lent, and I decided to listen. My automatic response was to give up sweets, because, well that's what you're supposed to do. But as I started thinking through the heart behind Lent, I thought it might be better to examine the areas of brokenness in my life first, and then come up with an action point, rather than the other way around.

I sat down with my journal & pen early this morning before my little guy woke up, and made an inventory of my innards, and as I processed, I began to see a theme: I want to be well thought of; I want to be liked; I want to be seen as "put together"; I want people to approve of me.

As I made my internal examination, my eyes wandered over to my Mardi Gras attire sitting on the table, and recognized that glittered, feathery mask as more than a costume. Our celebration last night was, in a way, a chance to acknowledge the image we try to portray of ourselves before stripping off the masks and replacing them with the ashes that are underneath. For forty days, we intentionally make choices & sacrifices to remind ourselves of those ashes-- and of the masks-- and our need for healing from our brokenness.

I'm still working out exactly what my Lenten practices will be, but I look forward to the process, and the fact that all over the world, I am joining with others as they do the same during this Un-Holiday Season.

Should

2011-03-05T08:47:00.000-08:00

Alright, I confess: I've never run a mile in my entire life. Ever.

In Jr. High & High School when we had to do our weekly Mile Run, I calculated just how much I could walk in order to get a passing grade, and just how low of a running grade could still score me an A in PE. Needless to say, I'm not much of an athlete.

My exercise routine is a feeble rotation of yoga, kick boxing & Pilates videos that I sneak in during nap time (Nolan's, not mine), and although I am aware of all the health benefits of exercise, I also confess that I don't do it for health. To be quite honest, I force myself to endure the peppy blond kick boxing instructor in my TV so I can fit into my jeans, so I don't hate myself when I look into the mirror, and (to a lesser degree) because it gives me more energy throughout the day. However, if I was one of those naturally twiggy folks who could look good in skinny jeans, eat brownies all day & never touch a yoga mat, I would throw health benefits out the window.

I think that, in some ways, I am prone to approach my spirituality in a similar light. I have this vague sense that I "should" be praying, reading Scripture, going to church, etc... and for the most part, I do regularly. If I were to move past the "should" part of religion, and really stop & examine Why I do those things, I think I would find a hazy sort of desire to "be a better person", to "be more like Jesus"... to be spiritually "healthy", in a way.

Just as I know that I will never, realistically, have a six-pack or look like a model, I think the idea that I will never really be "holy" tapers my motivation a bit. Here's what I mean: when I eat fairly healthy, and exercise a few times a week, I fit into my clothes & am satisfied with the fact that I'm not an Iron Man (Woman). And if I pray & meditate & read somewhat consistently, I can keep myself from selling drugs to children, committing road rage or completely flying off the handle... I can be a pretty nice, spiritual, loving person.

But last month, I was talking to a Christian woman a few years farther down the road than me, and she was telling me about how her daughter "came out" to her. She shared about her reaction-- one of love, understanding, patience & support.

I thought to myself, there are moments in our lives where our character really has to shine through-- that her reaction to her daughter in the moment of "coming out" could impact their relationship for the rest of their lives. As a new mother, it made me ache to be the kind of person who would respond well to Nolan's up's and down's-- to support him through tough situations & have the strength of character to jump into action for one of those surprise moments.

Just a few days later, someone I really care for took a risk and "came out" to me, as well... and as she shared, I remembered thinking of my friend and the importance of a loving, accepting, open response that would let her know she was in a safe place.

It made me realize that I don't practice spirituality for my own sake-- for this vague sense of health or being a "good person"-- but so that in those moments, I can have the ability to love, honor & speak to others as Jesus would. Those moments can have a profound impact on the way that the people around us view life, themselves & God.

And that is a lot more motivating to me than this idea that I "should" be flossing, eating green vegetables, exercising... and reading the Bible. Which is good, because I also confess that I rarely ever floss.

Premeditated

2011-02-12T09:00:00.001-08:00

A friend recently told me that expectations are just premeditated disappointments.

I've come to believe that every new parent should have that proverb tattooed to their arm. That's not to say that parenthood is a premeditated disappointment (however much I might have thought that in the first several weeks), but simply that expectations should be held low & loose, and the art of adaptability should be mastered.

Looking back, I realize that last night was one of those times I should have had my aforementioned tattoo, but (silly me), I never learn.

Some exceedingly sweet friends offered to babysit for free so that Chris & I could enjoy an early Valentine's date together. When a special offer for half-off of dinner at a fancy downtown restaurant came up, we beamed & thought "perfect!"

Tired & cranky from a long day of staff meetings, low blood sugar & a nasty cold, I whipped up some peanut butter fudge cookie sandwiches for our generous babysitters while Chris frantically cleaned up our wreck of an apartment ('cause, really, that's the least you can do). I might have burned a hole in the ozone layer & started a small fire in the microwave trying to soften the peanut butter, but we'll skip over that small detail.

Pulling my skinny jeans out of the dirty clothes (you couldn't really smell the spit up anymore), and throwing on some heels & eye liner, I jumped in the car with my hot date, and hand in hand, we zoomed out to beautiful Yerba Buena Gardens on a lovely, warm February night.

"The waiting list has exceeded our hours of operation" was the thoughtfully diplomatic way that our restaurant host told us we might want to find somewhere else to eat. Skilled at the art of adaptation, we walked over to the movie theater next door, where we didn't recognize a single movie title. After wandering aimlessly downtown for a while, my feet reminded me (not so subtly) that I was wearing heels & that my steps were numbered.

To make a long story a little less long, we ended up taking three buses, walking barefoot through downtown with practically-bleeding feet, and scarfing down a burger & salad before limping home to lick our wounds. As we were going to bed, Chris broke out into a fever, finally giving into the family cold.

Now, had this been a first date, it would have been a disaster. However, the great thing is that we got to go to bed early, sleep in late (yes, it's 10 am and my baby is still asleep. Feel free to be jealous), wake up terribly in love (and achy, sniffly & blistered), and have homemade granola for breakfast.

And really, the whole point of my story is homemade granola. It's easy, it's versatile, and it's always there for you, in a big tub on the counter. You've already got all the ingredients you need to make a basic version right now, and if you want to throw on some skinny jeans & heels, you can run out to the store & grab a few more items to make your granola a bit sexier. Unlike a fancy dinner downtown, this is the long-term relationship you wake up next to.

Homemade Granola
1/4 cup brown sugar
1/3 cup vegetable oil
¾ c maple syrup
1 t vanilla
2 T flaxseed (optional, sexed-up version)

4 cups Old Fashion Oatmeal
1 cup almonds (or any other nut)
½ cup pepitas (or any other nut)
½ cup powdered nonfat milk (optional, sexed-up version)
½ cup whole wheat flour (or regular white flour)
1/2 cup shredded coconut (optional, sexed-up version)
a dash or two of salt
a few dashes of your favorite seasoning (cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, etc)
1 cup raisins (or any other dried fruit)

Heat in small saucepan (or even microwave): sugar, oil, syrup until sugar dissolves. Cool & add vanilla & flaxseed.

Mix remaining ingredients in large bowl and add wet to dry. Bake on greased cookie sheets well spread out (you may need two sheets). Bake 20 minutes at 300; stir well & reverse sheets. Bake another 15-20 minutes. Add 1 cup dried fruit if you like.

The granola will still be a little soft when you pull it out of the oven, and will crisp up nicely as it cools. Have fun playing around with the recipe-- it's terribly forgiving-- and try not to eat it all in one sitting ;)

Deconstructing Christmas

2011-01-02T11:12:00.000-08:00

I am what you might call a Holiday Whore (Wholiday Whore? Holiday Hore?).

As the end of September starts rolling around, my fingers get itchy for pumpkin carving... and pumpkin lattes, pumpkin pie, decorating with pumpkins, visiting pumpkin patches, etc. And while Thanksgiving is wonderful and has it's special place in my heart, the second the dishes are cleared from turkey dinner, I'm ready to rush out and buy a (2ft tall) Christmas tree, and crank up the carols. The baking, the shopping, the wrapping, the family chaos-- all of it-- warms my heart and puts a smile on my chocolate smeared face.

And yet, it seems that sometime around Christmas morning, that chocolaty smile turns tear-stained as I crash & burn into a pile of presents and family obligations.

I am beginning to realize that not everyone does Christmas the way that our family does Christmas. To many of my friends, Christmas looks like lounging around in sweats after the orgy of presents, and having Grandma over for honey baked ham later that night. For me, Christmas has always meant running relays across Southern California: cookie decorating contests, a giant party with 100 of my closest Guatemalan relatives, church at 10pm, presents with the in-laws, breakfast with Dad, dinner with Mom, and all the while a house full of out-of-state relatives strewn on every piece of furniture.

Now, let me re-iterate: I am CRAZY about Christmas. I love decorating cookies. I love buying presents. I love Christmas breakfast... and Christmas dinner... and Christmas Eve dinner... and Christmas Eve breakfast... but I also can't deny that somewhere in the mess of all that Christmas revelry, I have a complete melt down. And poor Chris usually ends up sitting on the floor next to me, trying to help pull it together so I can make it to the next family celebration (and the next, and the next).

But this year, as I was nursing Nolan to sleep in a forced moment of quiet reflection, I started to wonder how much of Christmas was simply celebrating Christmas, and how much was celebrating the coming of my Messiah. What is the relationship between a gingerbread man, or a Christmas tree, or the sweater I bought for my Mom and Jesus' birth? I don't mean that in a critical or judgmental way-- I really wanted to know.

When I got married, I questioned every tradition. What is the meaning behind a veil, or throwing the bouquet, or a wedding cake (wait, scratch that last one. You never need a reason for cake)? The traditions I liked, I kept-- and those that didn't seem to mean much to me, I tossed out.

Now, I realize that with Christmas, no man is an island. If I were to decide to boycott Christmas in order to practice spirituality, it would affect the rest of my family's Christmas celebrations, since each of them involve spending time together as a family. I don't want to be the pious humbug praying in the other room while everyone else decorates cookies or opens presents. And I also don't want to tell my extended family (most of whom are not "religious") that they have to change their traditions.

So what's a girl to do? Stay in San Francisco to celebrate my own way? Not when we have a conference in San Diego every year right after Christmas. Or is there some way to still be a part of the festivities, but scale back a bit?

The great thing about traditions is not necessarily the tradition itself, but the why behind it. I have started wondering if I asked myself "Why?" with every Christmas tradition, perhaps it would help me sort through the ones that were worth keeping, and the ones that simply brought clutter.

I would love, as well, to make my own family traditions of talking through why we are celebrating the way we do: "We are getting a Christmas tree right now because..." (I actually had to look that one up! It's a pretty great tradition that I've never really thought about!), or "We are opening presents right now because...", or "I am eating my weight in cookies right now because..."

I had thought that reclaiming Christmas might take a total overhaul, or that I might have to fast from Christmas for a few years just to purge all the excess from my system and start from scratch. But as I think through it, I wonder if Christmas just needs a little deconstructing-- examining each of the individual building blocks to decide what fits & what is just adding weight (literally & figuratively).

I realize this sounds like a simple Jesus is the Reason for the Season pin, or any number of Made for TV Holiday Specials where everyone discovers "the real meaning of Christmas". I also realize that by mid-January, no one wants to hear another speech on what Christmas is all about. But I have noticed that all the commercials about New Year's resolutions & hitting the gym come from a bloated feeling of regret that we feel not only in the fit of our jeans, but somewhere in our souls.

So maybe I'll leave a little post-it note with my Christmas decorations to remind myself next year that it's time to deconstruct the Holidays.

Unexpecting: The Eve of Battle

2010-07-28T18:26:00.000-07:00

I've never been very good with pain. Not that I've had to deal with a whole lot of it in my lifetime-- I've never really broken a bone, had major surgery, stitches, or lost any extremities.

I do have a memory of soaking in the bath tub for hours, anticipating the pain of pulling off what must have been 30 band aids lining my little 6yr old leg. Our first grade class had been out in the school yard playing kick ball, and one of the monstrous, mature 2nd graders tripped me into the gravel, scraping up my legs into what my little mind believed was a deforming injury. The school nurse picked gravel out of my gaping wound with her 6inch long pink finger nails, and fixed me up with every band aid in the box.

After a shameful amount of time, my parents finally convinced me that I had to remove those band aids-- even if it pulled off some of my leg hairs & hurt worse than the original injury. I sat in that tub soaking, with tears in my eyes, sick with fear over the impending pain. From what I hear, I was still crying "Don't do it, I'm not ready!" long after the band aids had been removed.

Like I said, I'm not so good with pain-- or the anticipation of it.

Throughout my pregnancy, I've wondered what it would be like to sit & wait for labor to come on, knowing that at any moment, I will experience the worse pain of my entire life. I envisioned those band aids waiting to be ripped off. Even more than that, though, the image that came to my mind was from Lord of the Rings. There's a scene when all the men are preparing for an epic battle (one of many), knowing that their odds are hopeless, that they are outnumbered, and that most of them will die. They sharpen their swords, put on their armor, and wait all night for the orcs to come.

I wondered if the coming of my due date would feel like that. I wondered if I could start the epidural a few days before I go into labor, just to make sure. I wondered how someone like me could actually make it through an ordeal like child birth. From what I hear, it kind of hurts.

Surprisingly, though, as I sit here on my due date, I feel no fear. I don't know what has gotten into me, but I am actually hoping for contractions to start (I know, I know-- once they do, I will change my mind... but there's no turning back then). I'm not under any delusion that it will be easy, quick, or painless. I'm pretty sure it will be the hardest thing I've ever done. I suppose the same hormones that have made me cranky, nauseated, irrational, sleepless, etc. are also injecting in me some insane courage, strength or carelessness that my cautious self has never known.

This afternoon, once we realized that we were not making a trip to the hospital, Chris & I took the pup down to the beach, where it was strangely warm, sunny & beautiful. We walked for miles, watching the dog ooze joy while splashing in the waves, and took a deep breath. After a while, we sat in the heated sand and prayed together-- prayed for our delivery, for our little boy, for God to be a part of all of this. As we prayed, two dolphins jumped out of the water, higher than I've ever seen in the wild. It was so beautiful, it was almost cliche. I felt full, content, refreshed-- anything but the fear & anticipation I thought I would have.

I can't explain the sudden calm & confidence as I stare down something as intense as child birth, but I'll take it, nonetheless.

Unexpecting: First Sight

2010-07-22T21:16:00.000-07:00

I can remember the first time I laid eyes on Chris. I saw him from across the crowded ball room-- sparks flew, heart beats quickened, and thought to myself, "I've got to meet Ryan's friend."

Sadly, within about 30 seconds, I decided that he was a twelve year old, trapped in a college student's body, and was embarrassed that I had even been attracted to him. Oh, and the crowded ball room was also an ugly conference room in an outdated hotel, filled with loud, hyperactive college students. Not quite your Cinderella moment. It wasn't until two years later that I lay awake in my bed, realizing that I was in love with Chris Kernaghan, and it would be another three years after that until I actually married him.

Sometimes Love at First Sight takes a long time to develop.

Now, I'm told that I am about to experience a love like I have never known before. They say that all the pain, exhaustion, and trauma of labor (yikes!) simply evaporates the moment that little bundle of joy hits your arms. It's difficult to imagine.

When I first saw those two pink little lines on the home pregnancy test, I didn't feel much-- except for maybe a slight "Oh God, what did I just get myself into?". I assumed that in nine months of pregnancy, I would develop a love, excitement & bond with the little critter growing inside of me. But, although there have been moments of connection & tenderness, for the most part, I would still say that it all feels pretty surreal.

The thought that in a few days time, I will experience an insane "First Sight" kind of love seems hard to fathom. It took me years to fall in love with Chris, and I'm told that, within a blink of an eye, my entire life & identity with change-- that somewhere inside of me is a capacity to love something like I've never loved anything before. Where is that, I wonder? Where does it come from, and how does something so intense spring up in an instance?

As my discomfort increases and I tick off the days until my due date (which I'm told is only a time line for disappointment, when you crawl your way right past it), I have to remind myself that I'm not waiting to be un-pregnant-- I'm actually going to have a child. It still makes my head spin.

I tried so hard to keep my feet on the ground when, after my years of waiting, I finally snagged that guy I saw from across the crowded "ballroom". Sadly, I have to admit that I was a ridiculous mess. I was smitten, twitterpated. It was disgusting. It was wonderful. And so I apologize in advance for the obsessive Romeo & Juliet fog that I am about to enter. From what I hear, that's just the way is goes with Love at First Sight.

Mallow Nirvana

2010-06-30T20:54:00.000-07:00

Some of the greatest merits of making homemade cookies are as follows: eating the cookie dough out of the bowl, the smell & anticipation while the cookies are baking, and that first bite of an [almost too hot to handle] mushy, gooey cookie straight out of the oven. Plus, everything just tastes better when you've made it yourself.

Now, I have to say that I'm pretty passionate about my chocolate chip cookies-- they're tough to beat. That's not to say that I'm not willing to branch out and take some risks in the cookie making department (I know, I live life on the edge). However, sometimes I surprise even myself.

My new favorite-- you might even call it a bit of an obsession, as I have made them twice in the last few days, and am contemplating making them again-- is a cookie that: 1) You can't eat the dough, 2) You can't smell baking in the oven, 3) You can't eat hot, and 4) Doesn't even involve butter. I know, you're less than intrigued, aren't you??

These mysterious new gems that have found a soft spot in my heart are meringues called Nighty Night Cookies-- something that my mom used to make, and for some strange reason, I used to turn my nose up at.

You preheat the oven, whip up the batter just before bed, throw them in & turn off the heat. When you wake up in the morning, it's tough not to eat a dozen cookies for breakfast. They are like marshmallows that have died & gone to heaven-- glorified & perfected little soft, crumbly vanilla pillows, flecked with chocolate & nuts (if you want-- and trust me, you do). They are light, amazingly delicious, simple and addictive. In fact, I think I'm going to stop writing about them, and go eat one-- there's only 4 left, and I don't want to give Chris the satisfaction.

Oh, and here's the recipe:
-2 egg whites
-a pinch of salt or cream or tartar
-2/3 cup sugar (I like to use just a little less)
-1tsp vanilla
-2/3 cup chocolate chips
-2/3 cup chopped nuts (walnuts, pecans)

Preheat oven to 400. Spray/grease a baking sheet (2 if you want to double the recipe-- which you do). Beat egg whites on low in a clean mixing bowl until foamy. Add a pinch of salt/cream of tartar. Beat on medium until soft peaks form. Keep beating, adding sugar, one Tbs at a time (about 20 seconds in between each addition), until stiff & glossy. Add vanilla & beat about 20 more seconds. Gently fold in chocolate chips & nuts. Drop batter in Tbs sized mounds on baking sheets (with about 1 inch in between). Throw them in the oven & turn off the heat, leaving the cookies overnight, or for at least 6hrs. Don't peak or open that oven door!!
Enjoy!

Unexpecting

2010-06-29T21:33:00.000-07:00

I admit that I wandered into pregnancy rather blind. While it's true that I have had plenty of friends & loved ones close by who have experienced this maternal bliss themselves, I supposed I simply wasn't paying attention to what they really went through. Either that, or there are certain unspoken aspects to pregnancy that people just don't talk about.

I'm actually going with Door #2 on this one.

Maybe I didn't ask, but at the same time, no one told me about some of the crazy idiosyncrasies of being pregnant.

And so, I am here to bring them to light. I'm not really sure why. Does anyone really want to know all the ridiculous things they will experience when they are pregnant? Doubtful. But there are definitely some things that would have been helpful to know ahead of time, without reading the entire fear-inducing "What to Expect When You're Expecting" from cover to cover.

So, rather than what TO expect, I thought I would share just a bit about what I didn't expect in little installments throughout the summer.

Here's the first-- enjoy...

Unexpecting: Feathers

2010-06-29T21:03:00.000-07:00

Although each of these symptoms were somewhat familiar with me beforehand, it's the combination that has got me wondering.

First of all, I have started waddling. Now, I have seen enough pregnant women to know that The Waddle was inevitable. Earlier in my pregnancy, I realized that The Waddle came partly from the inability to keep a pair of pants around my waist (the reason being that I no longer have a waist). I discovered that if I walked with a bit of a swagger, my pants wouldn't slide off quite as easily. Now, it's the stiffness in my back & thighs that has me looking like John Wayne, fresh off the saddle.

Second, I have duck feet. It was about a month ago that I went with my mom for a pedicure, and noticed that my outstretched extremities would be classified more as cankles than ankles, and that my feet were much, much puffier than normal. The problem has gotten worse since then, and recently, it seems that no matter what I do, I look like Fred Flinstone. When you put together the fat feet and the waddle, that's when things start to get interesting.

Third, I am nesting. I've heard this term before, and assumed it meant that women just get a little more homey-- organizing & decorating, and the like. But it's more than that. In the last few days, I've baked pies, made cookies (twice... each), tackled homemade ice cream, organized a closet, made dinner for two other families (who recently had babies), and have tried countless new recipes. Messes are starting to make me crazy. I want to preen-- um, I mean clean-- everything. Nesting...

Fourth, ever since our trip down to Southern California, where we stayed at the in-laws, I have been dreaming about floating in their pool. It was glorious. I felt weightless. I could lay on my stomach. I could swim around and actually exercise without the nagging reminder that I am twenty pounds heavier than normal. Now, when I lay awake at night, I fantasize about floating. I close my eyes, feel the sun on my back, and remember that weightlessness.

Now, put all of those observations together: waddling, paddle feet, nesting, and floating-- and I'm starting to wonder. Come to think of it, I would love to migrate somewhere a little warmer, as well. I suppose if I start sprouting feathers, I should call my doctor.

Windmills and Giants

2010-06-23T21:22:00.000-07:00

Fight or Flight. There is a philosophy that an animal, when faced with a potentially dangerous situation, will either turn and fight, or turn and run. I actually tend to fall under a third category that some might call the "Deer in Headlights" syndrome... or possibly the "Pull the covers over my head" response.

There have literally been times when I have been woken up in the middle of the night by gunshots or fights, and have laid paralyzed in bed, not willing to move, believing that if I just stay right there under the covers, everything will be okay. It doesn't work in horror movies, so I don't know why I would try it out in real life, but it seems that that is my natural response.

While gunshots in the middle of the night are startling and scary, I have to admit that there are few things in the world that scare me more than Failure. I suppose we could spend some time psycho-analyzing me, sticking on labels like post-it notes saying "Fear of Abandonment" and other official sounding terms, but we can save that for another night.

When faced with a Fear-- especially a potential failure, or when a past failure has been exposed to harsh sunlight-- I tend to freeze up. I want to crawl in bed, pull the covers over my head, and pretend it doesn't exist. I notice that tendency especially when it comes to finances, and as I mentioned in my last post (about a hundred years ago-- my apologies) avoidance always seems like the best policy... which is exactly how I ended up in the mess I'm in.

As I mentioned before, the issue of my credit score came up in buying a house. Now, a Fighter would attack that credit score with everything he had, and change his situation. A... Flighter(?) would run away from the whole situation and claim that he didn't want the house in the first place. But me, I just stare at that number, and it feels like a failure the size of a house is staring back at me. I squirm under the discomfort of that gaze, but am stuck with my feet cemented to the ground.

An image came to mind as I looked at that credit score, with eyes the size of saucers. I thought of Don Quixote charging full-force into a windmill, believing all the while that it was a giant. And I wondered if maybe, just maybe, all the mountains of failure that I had always been afraid to face might actually turn out to be mole hills. I thought of other times that I had the courage-- or confidence, or rashness-- to take a swing at those giants, and how usually they really were nothing but windmills.

In this particular story, I sat down with the lender, talked through each of the failures, written out in black & white, and found a way to contest them. The final score is still yet to be seen, but there was something so very satisfying in taking a swing at that giant, only to find that it didn't fight back. In fact, the whole process was a lot easier than I thought it would be-- it was just that initial step, and bringing my fears & failures into the light that was the scariest.

It feels good. And in the end, whether my fears were founded or not, Don Quixote makes a much better story than some little girl hiding under the covers.

Ghosts of Payments Past

2010-05-10T13:32:00.000-07:00

There's this pit in my stomach that has nothing to do with pregnancy nausea. It feels a little like remorse, and a little like shame, and a lot like kicking myself. I'll tell you why:

You see, there's this Dream House-- a house that, for months, I've been decorating in my mind during sleepless nights; a house that has taken up much conversation between Chris, myself, and some good friends.

It's a 3-story Victorian house, in our neighborhood of which we hope to one day be the proud co-owners. There are a lot of details and small miracles that go into the story of how we came to even dream that we-- the tight-budgeted, always-broke, non-profit workers-- could one day own this house, but I'll save that for another time.

The story I'm thinking of today goes back to about 5 years ago, when I walked into a U-Haul rental office, couldn't find my ATM card, and rented a truck on an old credit card that I hadn't used for ages. Fast forward 4 years to a collections agency sending me an $800 collection for this silly little rental bill, that somehow never found it's way to our new mailing address. Yuck.

Weeks of terrible phone calls, confusing numbers, and even tears resulted in paying the stupid bill, with a serious ding to my not-exactly-flawless credit score. And that insignificant little number-- that tiny little forgotten detail-- is what is haunting me this afternoon, causing the pit in my stomach & the lump in my throat.

Chris just got home from a meeting with a lender, working out the details of buying our dream house. And, as fate would have it, the one thing holding us back-- 22 little things, to be specific-- is my credit score. Vomit.

No, it's not the end of the world, and no, it doesn't necessarily mean that we can't get the house, but it most likely means (best case scenario) that we will have to wait another month before we can find out. And waiting another month translates to moving in right smack on my due-date. It also means starting off the school year, and welcoming a team of new staff and interns into the busiest season of the work year while moving, painting, cleaning, remodeling, and adjusting to life as new parents (i.e. sleep deprived zombies). If that's not enough to put a pit in your stomach, I don't know what is.

Not only that, but it pokes at a soft, squishy part of me that I would rather keep hidden. It's the part of me that Chris saved when he married me & took on the financial responsibilities of our lives. Quite the knight in shining armor, when you consider all the forgotten bills, the late payments, and the financial chaos I so often found myself in during my college years. There is something about financial shame that is so... well, shameful. And now, all those skeletons in my closet are dancing around out in the open, affecting not only myself & my wonderful husband, but also our dear friends that we are trying to buy a home with.

I might have spent part of the afternoon in the bathroom crying. It's possible that I made a giant bowl of chocolate pudding, and ate said pudding straight out of the bowl with a serving spoon. I can neither confirm nor deny this story, and feel that I have already done enough confessing for one day.

At the moment, I am working hard to remember Grace-- not the person, but the concept. I am trying to remember that if God wants to provide us with our dream house, He's not going to allow 22 little points on a credit score to keep that from happening. I am trying to remember that my worth & identity is not wrapped up in a number. I am trying not to eat the rest of that chocolate pudding...

Stuck

2010-05-08T08:09:00.000-07:00

There comes a moment in everyone's life where you cease to be cool. Wait, I think I need to qualify that-- obviously there are some people who were never cool to start off with, and there are some (like James Dean) who die young and are immortalized as cool. Then there's the once in a lifetime types (like Clint Eastwood) who manage to hang on with a death grip to their coolness, even in old age. But for the rest of us, there is this invisible barrier, this tiny thread we cross over one day, somewhere around middle age, where "cool" is no longer an option.

I remember being in high school, pondering an elderly woman. She was stuck, in her fashion, somewhere between the 60's and the 80's, with polyester pants, the standard old woman helmeted & permed haircut, and those cushy nurse-looking "comfort shoes". As I took her in, I wondered, At what point do you just stop? When does fashion & pop culture and relevancy sort of float out the window, and you just don't care?

Of course, in high school things like fashion, pop-culture, and relevancy matter very, very much. Everyone knows that Beyonce makes the world go round, and that skinny jeans & Tom's define your worth & identity. But when is that magic day when you realize that you just don't care anymore-- when you get old?

My theory is that most people pick a date and stick with it. For most, that date coincides with the year printed on their high school diploma. Or maybe college. There's this moment where keeping up becomes all too tedious, and those flannels & jeans in the back of your closet just seem so comfy-- and, well, they were cool once, right?

Chris & I recently had a revelation that pointed to the fact that, if we hadn't crossed that line yet, it was coming soon. Although I have never really been "into" music-- I don't have an ipod, and have probably owned less than 50 CD's in my lifetime-- he was pretty up on the music scene ever since 5th grade. But the frightening revelation was that, in the past 10 or so years, most of our new music wasn't actually "new", but just recent albums from the same old bands we'd been listening to since our teen years. Then I noticed that our car radio was either set to the news, classic rock, or the "new" 90's rock "flashback" station that Chris recently discovered. Uh-oh. Que the funeral music.

I've also noticed that lately, my cute, punk-rock hubby has taken to wearing running shoes with his 501's & baggy flannel-- and has been accused by several of our students of being "90's grunge". Oh man, it's begun.

One of the really great things about crossing over that line, though, is the simple fact that you really don't care. As a teenager, the idea of not worrying what other people thought of you was almost inconceivable, and with that reality came a constant self-consciousness, a slight discomfort in your own skin.

A student was teasing me the other day about trying to pass me off as 19yrs old, to fit into the dorms. But as I thought about it, I realized that I would much rather be 31, having no idea what was playing on the radio, yet at home with myself. I think I like Me better at 31 than I did at 19. Besides, there are few things more tragic than someone who's past their prime, trying to keep up with the young whipper snappers. ;)

Surreal Saturday

2010-03-30T21:15:00.000-07:00

[I apologize, but Blogger is being screwy with pictures. Here's one to whet your appetite-- you'll have to use your imagination for the rest! And, yes, that man is wearing a tweed crab on his back!]

It's been a long run, to say the least. I realize that I haven't exactly "arrived" anywhere (still pregnant, still busy, etc), but I feel like I'm getting a bit of a half time, or a 7th inning stretch, or whatever the sports analogy might be. And let me tell you, it feels great.

Ever since November, I've gotten the one-two punch of pregnancy illness and excessive traveling. There were literally some months where we never bothered to put the suitcases away, and it seemed like if I wasn't on a plane or in a car, I was plastered to the couch moaning about nausea.

But I'm not here to tell you about being pregnant. I'm tired of that topic. I want to share about my weekend-- that glorious weekend that was a big, deep breath. The weekend that marked the (momentary) end of huge responsibilities, and the beginning of Spring Break-- which technically doesn't mean vacation, but at least it means getting our ducks in somewhat of a row again.

Chris & I were faced with an entire Saturday with absolutely nothing to do. It sounded glorious-- the sky's the limit!-- but somehow the thought of all that open space scared us a little, like a big black hole that might suck us in. After a huge crepe breakfast in our PJ's, we looked at each other and asked, "Now what?"

With just a little internet research, we discovered "what": The Old Fashioned Tweed Ride in Berkeley. What better way to spend a sunny spring Saturday than dressed up like a turn-of-the century British golfer, riding our bikes around one of the kookiest towns in America with a band of complete strangers??

[If at this point in the story, you are wondering WHY would a group of people dress up in tweed & ride their bikes around together, let me spoil it by telling you that there is no reason. Some things you just don't question] ;)

After discovering that impromptu costumes are trickier than they seem when you're 5 months pregnant (and also discovering that Chris was actually meant to be a Newsie-- he looked perfect!), we lugged our bikes onto BART, crossed the Bay, and bumped into about 80 other cyclists who looked even more-- in fact much more-- ridiculous than we did. We were dull & clean cut compared to this crowd.

As we joined the bike procession, we took over the streets at a leisurely pace, and soaked in the perfect sunny day. At one point, as we were entering a park that sits on right top of the Bay, overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge & the City, we came upon big rolling green, windswept hills and dozens & dozens of kites flying overhead. Just at that moment, one of my fellow Tweeders passed me, pulling behind him a wagon with an accordion player in tow, serenading us. For a moment, I felt like I was in the movie Amelie... and a little bit like I was on drugs (but in a pleasant sort of way).

We ended our ride at the pinnacle of the park, right on the water, where the accordion player was joined by the rest of his band. I took in the scene around me: an eclectic group of steam punk musicians played everything from a xylophone (with spoons), a ukulele, a plastic keyboard with a mouth piece, and sang into a "microphone" made of a bull horn taped to a mic stand. All the while, a band of gypsies (really, I don't know how else to describe them) danced in little circles around & around a picnic table-- one wearing a top hat, antique aviator goggles & a (real) giant flared mustache, his dancing partner in a leather corset & knee-high lace-up boots. Let me tell you, it was surreal.

I'm sure that part of the experience was the feeling of release, knowing that we had made it through the busiest, hardest stretch of our year. But it was also rather magical about being a part of something so very "other". It was lovely.

We discovered that there is another Tweed Ride scheduled for San Francisco in April, and I can assure you that we will be there. Until then, I'm on the search for tweed maternity pants and a bubble pipe.

Hostel and Hospitality

2010-03-22T08:00:00.000-07:00

The truth of the matter is that we happen to live in one of the most fantastic cities in the world. I'm just saying. The up-side is a list so long, I won't even start counting (I really do love where I live). The down-side, however, is that the rest of the world tends to agree.

We also happen to work for an organization that is incredibly well connected-- where you can meet a stranger from the other side of the world, and chances are, you know some of the same people. It happens all the time, and it's really fun.

Well, when you put those two wonderful ingredients into a recipe together, what often happens is that we get requests from people we've never met, asking if their student, their brother, or they themselves can come and stay with us as they visit one of the most fantastic cities in the world.

It's a dilemma.

I'm not saying that it happens every week, but I do have the sneaking suspicion that if we were the loving, open, generous people we should be, our air mattress might never get deflated, and our living room/dining room/office/family room/foyer would be converted into a guest bedroom. Or a Bed & Breakfast, minus the payment.

I realize that I sound like a horrible person. At this particular moment (after sending an email off to a friend of a friend in Germany whose student is visiting San Francisco), I feel rather guilty. My assumption is that these lovely people who send these requests would offer up their homes if asked. I imagine that they already have a menagerie of international students & friends crashing at their house even as they write their email to San Francisco.

I also have this deep belief that one of the keys to life is being generous with what I have been given-- being open with my life, my home, my possessions & my time. I have a romantic image in my mind of becoming the type of little old woman who opens her arms to the people around her, and spends her days making cookies for the neighborhood children. People say that I am a gifted hostess-- sometimes they even throw in the term "Spiritual Gift", which makes the guilt all the greater each time I send off an email politely saying "No".

But the truth of the matter is that we are busy. Our jobs require a ton of emotional & relational energy, and oftentimes, when we get home at the end of the day, we really need some time & space to ourselves. Our little one bedroom apartment sometimes feels cramped with just the two of us (and the giant pit bull) in it, and living in a loud urban environment transforms the relative quiet of our home into a sanctuary.

Within the next year or so, we are hoping to move into a bigger home. We have big dreams of even having a guest bedroom (imagine!). But the question popped into my mind, that if and when we do have this dream bedroom, what will we do with the requests from friends of friends of friends who are stopping by our city for a week and need a place to stay? If we were given a gift as big as a guest bedroom, can we in good conscience politely suggest a local hostel?

When I ran these plaguing questions by Chris this morning, he decreed that it was too early to be thinking about something that distressing. I suppose we'll have to cross that bridge when we come to it. I do, however, want to grow in generosity & openness, and to be gracious even with the little space that we have.

Maybe next time... ;)

Timshell: Thou Mayest

2010-03-20T11:44:00.000-07:00

There is the kind of person who, when they walk into a room, a certain energy or presence seems to follow. There are people who just seem set apart-- a little different from the rest of us, and although we are taught to believe that we are all special, there's something about those people who are somehow more special.

One of my favorite literary characters is Samuel Hamilton, from the book East of Eden by John Steinbeck. Now, if you haven't read the book, I forgive you-- but only if you run out immediately and read it. Go ahead, I'll wait. [And, No, watching the movie does not count. It's terrible.] ;)

As I was saying, Samuel Hamilton is the kind of person with which you just want to sit down and share a meal. He's the kind of person who would make me a better person, just by spending time with him. In the book, Samuel talks a bit about greatness-- how he could have become a great man, but was afraid; how he watches his own son struggle with greatness, and how it pains him.

The thing about greatness-- about those people who seem set apart, who were meant to change the world-- is that it comes at a cost. There is a comfort, a sense of belonging when we are average, when we don't set our sights too high. The heroes of this world are lonely; they struggle and strain and sacrifice. And although we all love a great hero movie-- and although we'd all like to think, at one time or another, that we could be that hero-- very few of us are actually willing to step out from the crowd.

All these thoughts came to me a little while ago in a rather round about way. Although it doesn't happen as often as I like, I try to pray for the little peanut growing inside of me. I confess that most of my prayers are motivated by the fear of loss-- illness, deformity, still birth, and all the horrible, worrisome thoughts that will inevitably plague my mind from now into the rest of motherhood.

Usually, once I've finished praying for the basics-- healthy kid, two arms & legs, and all that-- my mind wanders into the more abstract. What will he be like? Can I pray for his personality, his soul?

I found myself wanting to pray for his happiness-- that he would live a life of contentment and security. Who wouldn't want that for their child? But what about greatness? What about the kind of man who would actually change the world around him, who would be willing to sacrifice for others? I confess that, as much as I would want someone like that in this world, it is a difficult thing to pray that for your own child.

It made me wonder about the things that I really value. To a certain extent, I want to be that kind of person-- the kind who choses that which is difficult, and who is willing to sacrifice because there is the higher value. I want the students that we work with to posess those characteristics as well, and I want to be a part of something that is worth the sacrifice (as I believe I am).

But for some reason, this new entity has sprung up inside me that is afraid to pray that for my own child, and I wonder why. What do I really value? How much am I willing to give?

In East of Eden, Samuel Hamilton unwittingly reveals to his friends the meaning behind life. It comes in a Hebrew word, Timshell, which means "Thou Mayest". As he and the characters in the book wrestle with this idea of greatness, they discover in an old Bible story this word Timshell-- the ability to choose between greatness & mediocrity, the earth & the stars. Most of us live in limbo between the two, paralized with the fear of the decision, as Samuel was. We are never really fully alive while we hover in indecision, but I can feel the fear and hesitation inside of me each time the choice is given.

I still haven't quite had the courage to pray that my little 10 oz. baby would one day choose the greater. It's a big hurdle to cross, mentally. But I suppose that each time the decision is laid before me, it gets me a step closer. Greatness may not be in the cards, but there's always potential. As Steinbeck says, "To the stars, on the wings of a pig."

Timshell.

Poverty Mentality

2010-02-07T08:48:00.000-08:00

I realize that this is not a foodie blog (despite how much I love to read them), but with a new-found ability to eat (hooray for the second trimester!), I find myself thinking about food... a lot. Actually, to be totally honest, I have been thinking about food more than a healthy, normal person ever since getting pregnant-- especially during those long, sleepless nights after not being able to eat all day.

I lie awake and plan dinner menus, think of restaurants I want to spend fortunes on, and come up with elaborate party themes (and of course, the food I would serve at them). It's kind of sick, like food pornography playing in my mind.

Sometime around last week, I realized that I was able to eat little bits of food that I hadn't been able to before (which had been a list about a mile long, consisting of about everything that wasn't a cracker), and my little mind went crazy. Oh, the joy of cooking, and even better, the joy of eating. A combination of refraining from food for so long, and my hyper-sensitive pregnant nose seemed to make everything I ate taste like the nectar of the gods. So, of course, I have this poverty mentality ingrained in me now, and every time food is within reach, I try to eat everything I can-- until Chris notices & scolds me for making myself sick.

And of course, after feeling like a hermit from being confined to the couch for so long, my very first instinct is to throw a party. My first desperate clutch landed on Super Bowl Sunday. Nachos, homemade pizza (Chris makes a mean pizza), little brownies shaped like footballs... just thinking about it made me salivate. The problem is that we don't have a TV (that is, we don't have a TV that actually shows TV), and no one we knew was having a Super Bowl party.

Well, not to worry. The plan is to scurry out after church today and buy a set of rabbit ears. If it works, well then, we're watching the Super Bowl [commercials], and having ourselves a party. If not-- no problem, I am determined to make (and thoroughly enjoy-- and probably get sick from) a huge platter of nachos, brownies shaped like footballs, and homemade pizza.

You're welcome to join us, and cheer for the...um... Saints. Or the... Colts(?). Or the nachos, as I will be doing.

Best Ever Nachos:
-1 16oz. can Ducal re-fried black beans*
-1 bag Casa Sanchez thick & crispy tortilla chips**
-1 carton Casa Sanchez salsa verde**
--1/4lb. cotija cheese, shredded or crumbled*
-1 tomato, diced
-1-2 avocados
-1-2 limes
-teaspoon ground oregano (approx)
-teaspoon salt (approx)
-small bunch cilantro, chopped & 2 green onions, white parts diced (optional)
-sour cream (optional)

Instructions:
-Pre-heat oven to 200
-Spread 1/2 of chips on a large, oven-proof platter
-Dollop 1/2 of black beans & cheese over chips
-Cover with remaining chips, black beans & cheese
-Place platter in oven for about 10-15 min, or until cheese is melted & chips have browned slightly
-Slice avocado, scoop out flesh into a bowl, and mash with a fork. Add lime juice, salt & oregano to taste. If desired, add chopped cilantro & green onions
-Remove platter from oven, & top with guacamole, sour cream, diced tomatoes & salsa.
-If you prefer a meatier version, grab a rotisserie chicken, chop up some of the meat & fry it in lime juice. Add to top of nachos at end.

*available at Latin markets
**sold in San Francisco at grocery stores, Latin markets, and at their restaurant on 24th & York
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Kitchen Window

2010-02-02T09:29:00.000-08:00

So far, it's been one of those mornings where walls seem to bump into me, objects seems to fall out of my hand, gravity seems a little stronger, and things that I dig through cabinets to find were sitting on the counter staring at me. Nothing tragic-- just one of those mornings.

Somehow I managed to work about a 14hr day yesterday, and decided to treat myself to the morning off. As I shuffled around the kitchen in my slippers, I fumbled through the process of making bran muffins, and watched the world pass by outside the window.

Living on the ground floor of a corner apartment means that there's a lot going on right outside the kitchen window. I've woken up to a homeless man bathing outside the window, seen drug deals against the window, heard all kinds of interesting & colorful conversations through the window, and waved at neighbors with purple rubber-gloved hands while doing dishes & looking out the window. But of all the sights & sounds that window provides, my three favorites are Bob, The Cuban Basset Hound, and The Cheerleader.

Bob lives on the far end of our block, and if I had to make a guess, I would say he is an Italian American in his mid-seventies who grew up in Jersey. Or maybe Brooklyn. On sunny days, he opens his garage door and sits in a lawn chair, watching the neighborhood change around him. Rumor has it, he built his house house back when our rough Latino neighborhood was made up of Italian & Irish families. I honestly wouldn't be too surprised to see him in his lawn chair with a rifle spread across his lap, muttering racial slurs, like Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino.

The Cuban Basset Hound, as we call him, doesn't actually have much to do with my story, but I just have to mention him because of the intrigue he brings from the kitchen window. "He" is actually an old wrinkly man with almost chocolate brown skin and white wavy hair, along with his wrinkly, saggy waddling basset hound that shuffle at a snail's pace up & down our block. Together, they look like they look like one entity, dragging their feet towards death's door-- that is until another dog walks by, and the comatose basset hound lunges for a kill, and the grumpy old Cuban breaks into a huge smile and laughs. Quite the transformation.

And last, but certainly not least is the Cheerleader. Every morning for several years, like clockwork, we heard the Cheerleader's singsong voice float through our window without actually seeing his identity. The morning routine is as follows: a middle-aged Asian woman half-jogs, half-walks in tiny little bouncy steps around & around our block, and is always inevitably intercepted right at our corner by The Cheerleader.

"Here she comes! Here she comes! Here she comes!" chirps The Cheerleader in a little song, shrilly squeaking out the "Here" part of the sentence in the same way every day. "You're looking good, you're looking good, you're looking good" rolls up & down like the chorus, followed by a big Mwaaaaaw of a kiss. Usually I hear through the window enthusiastic compliments & small talk, as the woman politely responds in a light Chinese accent, but obviously wants to continue her "jog". It's an adorable little interaction.

Well, the big plot twist, surprise ending to my little neighborhood tale came about a year ago, when the Cheerleader & The Jogger happen to collide a few steps earlier than normal, giving me the opportunity to finally see his face... and it was none other than Bob, the crotchety looking Clint Eastwood of our block. I almost fell over.

I have to say that listening to The Cheerleader/Bob has been one of the best parts of my morning, and as silly & repetitive as he sounds, I sometimes wish that he would follow me around the kitchen, cheering me on, and telling me how great I look at 7am. I think we could all use someone like that, every now & then.

Sadly, it has been months since I've heard Bob's sing-song voice floating through our window, and was reminded of the fact this morning as I stumbled around the kitchen and saw him slowly walk around the corner. My guess is that his jogging friend moved away-- as I'm sure most of his friends have done over the years-- and that he has no one to cheer on as they fight their way through the morning. He looks a little less bright as a result, and I miss his encouragement, even if it wasn't intended for me.

I remember one morning Bob deeply apologizing to The Jogger for missing her the previous day. He explained that his son had called & wouldn't get off the phone in time for Bob to come to the corner. I don't know that she minded-- she might have been grateful for the uninterrupted lap around the block. But I do know that Bob needed someone to cheer on.

And I suppose we all do-- we need to clap & cheer for & compliment others just as much as we need a standing ovation every now & then. I think it sort of keeps us alive. It almost makes me want to take up jogging, just to give Bob someone to cheer for again.

Dear John Letter

2010-01-12T17:57:00.000-08:00

We've all seen them: those turbulent on-again, off-again relationships, full of drama and passion and pain. It's the kind of relationship that outsiders shake their heads at and wonder "Why can't they just end it? They'd be so much happier." But from the inside, it's not so easy.

I discovered this recently, and for the last several months have been trying to extricate myself from a passionate love affair with food-- not completely, of course, and not forever. I've been writing a "Dear John" letter in my mind for a while now, that I seem to be unable to deliver. It goes something like this:

Dear Food: cheese, delicious desserts, all things fried, yummy & flavorful, spicy, rich, sweet and aromatic,

I need a break-- just some time apart. It's not you, it's me. I've tried to make it work, and I just can't right now. Please understand, and please don't whisper my name from the fridge anymore. I'm leaving now, and hopefully I'll see you again in August.
Deepest love, Christine

Unfortunately, this alien being living inside-- this little parasite intent on stealing my energy & health, and sometimes even my sane & rational thoughts & emotions-- is a jealous soul. Or maybe just a sensitive one. I try not to blame him/her, try to look forward to a day when all the nausea and issues will subside... try not to cry every time I see a block of cheese.

For now, I am settling into a bland marriage of energy bars, crackers, fruit, dry cereal, and other safe and wise choices. Occasionally, a pickle will saunter into my life and cause my heart to quicken, but only when security is lax.

This pregnancy thing is not for the weak of heart, however weak my stomach might be right now. But I keep pressing on, looking forward to Thursday, when we will get to hear the heartbeat for the first time. I imagine all will be forgiven then.

Little Peanut

2009-12-23T14:04:00.001-08:00

[I apologize for my loooong absence. Explanation to follow...]

I woke up last night at 3am and lay in bed for at least a half an hour, resisting the urge to reach over & grab the crackers waiting for me on the night stand. When I finally succumbed, the noise of my crunching was similar to setting off land mines in a quiet library. Luckily, Chris didn't move.

At 4am, I caved, realizing that the crackers weren't going to cut it, and wandered into the kitchen to drink a fruit smoothie. It was like I was some giant marionette, and the "person" pulling the strings-- deciding when I sleep, when I eat, what I eat (& how much & how often), and when I want to throw it back up-- is a tiny little thing the size of a peanut.

Yep, you guessed it: I'm pregnant. Two months pregnant, to be exact. In fact, I just read that this week, our little peanut is developing eyelids, arms & legs (even elbows), the tip of it's nose, and (drum roll please), no longer has a tail. Excuse me? A tail? It's better to find out some things after the fact. I feel uncomfortable thinking that the little guy getting me up in the middle of the night to drink smoothies has a tail.

The story goes that earlier this summer, Chris & I were praying about going back to Uganda. Our original plan was to start a family after 5yrs of marriage, but going to Africa would mean postponing those plans for another year. At the time, neither of us really had any desire for children. Not that we have anything against kids, as an age bracket, we just aren't the type who coo over our friends' babies (cute as they are), or could even imagine having one in our lives. We were just so happy with life at that moment, exactly the way it was. We simply prayed that when the time was right, God would give us the desire for children. I was kind of afraid that that day might never come.

But then, sometime this Fall, I looked at Chris and thought about how much I loved him, and how amazing it would be to carry a part of him with me... and even one day look into someone else's eyes and see him. I'm not usually the gooey, romantic type, and the feeling was so out of the blue, I was pretty sure it didn't come from me.

We had one month to decide about Uganda, so we said "Sure, why the heck not?", and I looked into Natural Family Planning. As it turns out, those Catholics are very effective at fertility, and the very first month-- in fact, the day we had to give our decision about Africa, we found out that we were pregnant.

Now, I know that we are supposed to feel euphoria-- that joy & anticipation should be oozing out of every pore... but that didn't really happen. That's not to say that we were disappointed, either-- it was more like "Oh, wow! I wasn't really expecting that." Plus, it's really difficult to mentally translate two little pink lines on a pregnancy test into complete life-change and a small human. Even when the doctors & my own body confirmed it, it was really difficult to be ecstatic about having the stomach flu for 12 weeks.

To be honest, I'm not very good at discomfort. Yes, I willingly chose to live in a mud hut for an entire summer, but besides that little blip on the radar, I'm a bit of a wuss. I hate being sick, and tend to get a little whiny about the whole affair. After feeling miserable for about 2 weeks, and realizing that I only had another 10 to go (hopefully), was pretty disheartening. Plus, we wanted to tell our parents in person, so I felt like I had this dirty little secret we were keeping from everyone relating to my "illness".

I felt guilty about not being happier. I mean, some people would kill to be able to get pregnant (and my heart really does go out to them), and here I was getting pregnant on the first try. I tried pepping myself up by thinking of everything I was thankful for, and even reminding myself that I would probably have been sick in Uganda this summer, too-- only without a bed or running water.

But last night, as I lay awake, feeling a will other than my own forcing me out of bed, and whispering "smoooooothie", I couldn't help but smile. It was the first time I had ever really realized that there is someone else in there-- not just some little parasite stealing my energy & health, but something all it's own that I am holding.

I am still not at a place where I can imagine a tiny human-- our tiny human-- existing in this world and in our lives. But I do think that God is slowly starting to change my heart, bit by bit, and I still have plenty of time for a crazy, irrational worry-wart, mama-bear kind of love to blossom out of the little smile that came in the middle of the night.

A Life Without Cheese

2009-11-04T20:51:00.000-08:00

There will probably be some serious intervention happening after I post this blog. I will probably get phone calls asking if I'm okay, if I hit my head, if maybe it's time for me to move out of this Hippie Town. It's like I don't even know who I am anymore-- like aliens abducted me, brainwashed me & inserted cantaloupe-seed-like pods into my skin (I actually sat next to a man on a plane once who experienced that-- but that's anther story).

Even as I write this, I fear for my own sanity, but here goes: I've gone vegan... and I love it.

Now, before you call the authorities, let me tell you that's it's just a temporary thing-- at least, it began that way... and knowing me, I probably will cave sooner rather than later.

It started off innocently enough: wanting to grow spiritually. Sounds noble, right?

I have always been terrible at fasting. First of all, food is a spiritual experience to me-- I am insanely passionate about it. I read cookbooks for fun on Saturday mornings, and baking sends thrills up my spine. Second of all, when I go even a few hours without eating, I will practically deny my faith and kill family members to get a hold of an energy bar. My blood sugar drops, my emotions go crazy, and I become Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde. Fasting does nothing to bring me closer to God. I barely even believe in God when I fast. Gandhi would be most disappointed.

So when I had this epiphany about wanting to grow spiritually, I decided to try a different approach to fasting-- one more like the Jewish prophet Daniel, who ate only vegetables. That way I could still focus my mind & spirit, sacrifice something physical for the sake of something spiritual, and not even have to kill anyone around me. Brilliant.

The "Daniel Fast", as it is called, is essentially just being vegan-- something that people do all the time... and something that I have always scoffed at with a mixture of pity and judgment. A life without meat, I could handle. A life without cheese just isn't worth living. And when you cut out butter, eggs & chocolate, it sounds like my own personal hell.

But strangely, when Chris & I decided to embark on our Daniel Fast for 3-4 weeks, I was excited. Despite my love for chocolate, butter, cheese, and all things French, I also love vegetables... and fruit. I thought it would be nice to eat healthy for a few weeks-- to cleanse my body of all the rich food I eat, to fit into my jeans a little better, and especially (hopefully) to grow spiritually. The first night was hard. I looked in the fridge and wracked my brain for something to eat that didn't involve animal products. The next day, Chris & I took a trip to Trader Joe's, and the local market for produce. It's possible that we spend $160 in groceries that day. Don't tell anyone.

Filled with guilt, we stuffed our kitchen full of tofu, nuts, soy milk, soy yogurt, Cliff Bars, whole wheat pasta, and every kind of veggie known to man. We promised ourselves we wouldn't go shopping again for another month. And then I started cooking. And ladies & gentlemen, let me tell you: if this career as a Professional Christian doesn't work out, I'm becoming a hippie. I make a mighty fine vegan chef, if I do say so myself. Not only that, but I feel great.

Some magic switch flipped inside my brain, and I love being vegan. I don't even want sweets anymore. I do crave yogurt, and a little Parmesan cheese... and maybe some chicken broth-- but really, other than that, I could do this forever!

I know: you don't understand. I know: you think I've lost my mind. You probably even pity me a little but. You're probably concocting evil schemes to convert me back-- thinking through all the reasons why it's healthier to eat meat & all that. And don't worry-- I'm sure I'll cave in. But for now, allow me to live in my happy little hippie world, where vegetables are delicious, "milk" comes from a box, jeans fit great, and spirituality shoots up like soybeans.

Indecision

2009-10-26T20:57:00.000-07:00

I can be terribly indecisive. Giant menus put me into a cold sweat, and that's after the trauma of choosing a restaurant, deciding whether to drive, bike or walk, and what to wear. There are four big yellow squares on the bedroom wall where I once tried out some paint swatches, became paralyzed at the thought of choosing one color for the entire room, and then left a three year (and counting) monument to my indecision.

Tonight I have a decision weighing down that is slightly more significant than choosing colors or ordering dinner. Tomorrow is the deadline to decide if I would like to repeat the toughest, most stretching & challenging (& possibly awful) experience of my life. Or another way of saying it could be that tomorrow I decide whether I get to live out a life dream & return to something I am deeply passionate about. It's funny how those things go together, isn't it?

There is something about the red dirt of Africa that just gets under your skin-- under your nails, in every little nook & cranny. You love it, you hate it; you can't wait to leave, you need to go back. It's beautiful & painful, makes you want to laugh & cry, scream & bury your head in the sand.

Should we go back? The question has been haunting us for months now, and tonight it seems to echo, demanding an answer. The reasons to go are compelling, heart wrenching, exciting, and all seem to line up. The reasons to stay are sensible, grounded, comforting and desirable.

When we set off a year ago to lead a group of squirrely college students into a refugee camp 30mi South of the Sudanese border, we were sure. We knew that God wanted us there, that we were following Him, and that whatever happened, we were doing the right thing. We said that we would never want to do something like that without the same assurance.

And here we stand, at the crossroads, waiting for the writing in the sky.

As I lay on the grass in the park today, praying for guidance, the wind blew the clouds into big arrow shapes-- pointing away from the City, and roughly in the direction of Uganda. So, I suppose that if we were looking for writing in the sky, that would be our answer... but somehow I don't feel entirely comfortable basing my decision on cloud shapes.

The question is: What do we do when the reasons are equally compelling both directions? We've prayed, we've fasted, we've sought direction, wisdom & guidance. We've searched our hearts & desires (which seem to flip flop about 3 times a day). Little coincidences pop up that seem like signs, situations seem to line up, but they are never definitive.

The feeling is not unlike standing at the counter of a restaurant, skimming the menu as the line piles up behind you. You know you have to make a decision, but nothing pops up. At that moment, I usually blurt out the first salad that my eyes lay hold of. As the line piles up, though, I feel strangely at peace. I've done all I can do, and although the decision is weighty, knowing that God brought us through the hardest experience of my life once before helps give me peace as I face it again.

The Swing of Things

2009-10-18T20:17:00.000-07:00

I confess, I was actually a little bit jealous of all those people who had the flu this week. That's not to say that I actually wanted to feel miserable, but the weather was stormy and cold, and it was all I could do to keep myself from crawling back into bed... or laying on the couch with a box of kleenex, a pot of tea, and all three extended Lord of the Rings DVDs. Of course, as luck would have it, I did end up coming down with a cold on Friday (The nerve! Those germs could at least have had the decency to show up on a Wednesday), but had to push through and forgoe the cloudy day with Frodo.

It's not that anything was tragically wrong, or even overwhelmingly stressful, it was simply that initial push to get back into the swing of things. After traveling for two weeks, I felt a little bit like those cartoons with an Inbox piled to the ceiling, threatening an avalanche. And for some reason, it was just one of those weeks where life has lost it's sparkle and work felt lackluster. I would wake up in the morning, take an Airborne to fight off the cold that I wish I had, look at my To Do list and groan.

When you push-start a car, it's always those first few steps that are the hardest, working up momentum and getting things rolling. Not only has my week felt that way with work, but my thoughts seem to be congested in my mind, as well. For what feels like ages, I've been chewing on ideas & words, and have had so much to say that it all seems to get clogged on the keyboard. I've tried writing them down several times, only to get stuck and give up. So this is my first stab-- getting the ball rolling so that the keyboard doesn't get jammed.

Yesterday helped. Yesterday, I felt the clouds lift (quite literally) as we took the pup for a hike up in Mill Valley-- which is just as good as watching all three Lord of the Rings, because Mill Valley could double as a set for the movies. The base of the trail is dark and wet and mossy, and we followed a tiny stream back a bit into the forest. As we worked our way up, the sun peaked through, the leaves were changing colors, and Gavin dove headlong into bushes chasing after lizards (I swear, he's going to lose an eye one day).

Chris & I talked about the heaviness that seemed to be on both of us this week, and something about being out in the sunlight and breathing in the eucalyptus made everything seem a little more doable.

Even today, when the clouds rolled back in and my cold threatened to weigh me down, the air of that hike stayed on me. I had to fight for it-- work hard to keep the momentum going. I might have overdone it, too, because after riding our bikes to church , I thought I was going to pass out. But after spending the day making a giant pot of homemade chili (seriously, we're going to be eating this chili for weeks), and watching the dog swim in a pond at the park, I feel like I just might be able to face the coming week without pretending to call in sick.

That's not to say that I'm actually looking forward to Monday morning, but at least I've got the ball rolling.

Pinch Me

2009-09-14T09:37:00.000-07:00

Some people dream of winning the Lotto, or owning an exotic sports car... but me, I dream of ovens. Strange, I know, but for years now, I have harbored a [not-so-secret] fantasy of owning a big, clunky Cadillac of a vintage oven-- the kind with the built-in salt and pepper shakers, the fold down counter top that covers the burners, and storage space on the sides. They make me swoon, they make me drool, they make me squeal & talk in a high pitched voice-- the way I do when I see puppies walking down the street. It's obnoxious.

Well, friends, dreams really do come true, because (with the help of some friends and a very strong, very generous husband), I am now the proud owner of a 1943 Tappan oven. All it cost me was the price of a U-Haul, a dolly, a Saturday afternoon, and some baked goods (to bribe friends with). Let me tell you, it nearly cost some lives (or at least some backs), trying to get that beast down three flights of windy, marble stairs, but in the end, we got the oven & two tired men back in one piece.

Actually, to be totally honest, I am the proud owner of a 1943 Tappan china cabinet, since our tiny little apartment has an electric stove (ick), and we can't actually use my dream oven until the glorious day when we have a house. So for now, the oven has replaced our kitchen table, and will store our dishes, pots & pans until we can put it to a more practical use.

That's not to say that I don't wake up giddy every morning, and walk into the kitchen just to make sure it's still there. Let me tell you, it's adorable. Even better, it's oh so very functional-- with two side cabinets for storage, drawers (one that holds built-in salt & pepper shakers!), a tiny pull-switch light on the back splash, a scrolling chart of times & temperatures for baking (it is currently set to "Fruit Cake: 2 1/2 to 4hrs, 250 degrees"), and little burner covers that convert the stove top to a counter top.

While I can't actually bake a fruit cake in it quite yet, I can at least hold all my fruit cake making utensils in it. I can also die happy now...

Not Eighteen

2009-09-07T22:09:00.000-07:00

Beets have never been something that intrigued me. They always looked mushy & canned-- suspiciously like that jellied cranberry "sauce" Chris likes at Thanksgiving with the concentric aluminum circles still imprinted on it's giggly flesh. Beets are the kind of thing that old people eat, along with prune juice and mueslix.

At a cooking class I attended earlier this summer, I politely decided to give beets a try. I figured we went through all the trouble of learning how to make them, I might as well. However, the whole Beet part of the meal was overshadowed by the Israeli couscous, with which I became obsessed, and I soon forgot all about beets. But tonight, for some reason, they popped back into my little brain, and I couldn't get them out, so I gave 'em another go... and let me tell you, they are really sensational little veggies-- subtly sweet, beautifully purple. I can say now that I am a big fan.

Along with my random beet craving this week, I've also had a strange urge to try eggs Benedict. Things like this happen pretty often in our home, and Chris is sweet enough to indulge me. I remember tasting hollandaise sauce as a little girl and being completely disgusted by it, but I recently looked into the recipe, and thought to myself, "What's not to like?" I am a little less convinced about the poached egg, but something tells me that my feelings might have changed on that too. And that little something has more to do with the renegade gray hairs that pop up every now and then, or the dark circles I've been noticing under my eyes than finding the perfect recipe.

My mom used to always make us soft boiled eggs mixed with buttery little cubes of toast for breakfast. It wasn't really my fave. She confessed that she used to complain about her mother making her the very same breakfast every day of her childhood. It seems, though, that somewhere in the conversion from a little kid into the mother I knew her to be, she had begun enjoying soft boiled eggs (unless, of course, she enjoyed torturing us kids, like some sort of Freshman hazing process). I remember she used to tell me that I might even end up liking vegetables one day, "when I got older". Well getting older, to me, didn't seem like a very sane or reasonable thing to do, if it meant I would lose my mind and end up willingly eating spinach.

But now, here I am, staining my fingers purple over some roasted beets, making myself soft boiled eggs for breakfast, and even flirting with the idea of trying my hand at hollandaise sauce-- for poached eggs. What has become of me?

It wasn't that long ago that students I met on campus would ask me what my major was-- in fact, that happened frequently even last year. The first week of school this Fall, I met some darling little Freshmen who had just come to San Francisco from my own home town. When they asked where I went to high school & when I graduated, I laughed as I gave my answer. "Oh," they replied, "I was just thinking that my mom's friend went to that high school & I was wondering if you would have known her." Your mom?? Ouch.

It's funny spending my days with 18 year olds-- it's not the typical "work crowd" for most 30-somethings. Recently, I have been realizing how much older I feel around them-- even how tired I am coming home some days. Crossing a generational gap is more work than it seems.

But the funny thing is that I don't really mind. It doesn't bother me that I'm not 18 any more-- in fact, I like myself and my life a whole lot better now than when I was 18. It feels good to be comfortable in my own skin, to not always be so concerned with what other people think of me, to know myself, and to know that I don't know everything.

Personally, I think our culture is way too obsessed with youth. Is growing older really such a tragedy? I think of other cultures where age is prized, and associated with wisdom, depth & experience. Here, we pay thousands of dollars to perpetually look 25. But I suppose in the end, I would rather have a few wrinkles paired with contentment & self awareness. That's not to say that I am looking forward to gravity taking over, and watching my face & body sag-- but if it means that I get to enjoy things like roasted beets & eggs benedict, I guess that's not so bad afterall.

Perfect Success

2009-09-01T21:31:00.000-07:00

You've thought about it before-- admit it. You've had secret day dreams about walking down the red carpet, giving an acceptance speech dressed in fancy clothes, thanking everyone that "got you there". Or, if not the red carpet, than maybe a victory lap around the stadium, or crossing the finish line, or scoring the winning point/goal/touchdown.

Deep down inside, we all want a little success, a little glory, a little acknowledgment-- maybe not in front of TV cameras, but even some small compliment or way of being set apart as special. I mean, it's nice to be thought of as special.

When I'm in San Francisco, I don't really stand out in a crowd. There's always someone edgier, funkier, more fashionable, & hip than me. But plunk me down in the middle of a conference with my big, conservative Christian organization, and my black nail polish & funky hair make me seem oh-so sophisticated and urban. Somehow, people always remember my hubby's lip ring & tattoos, and our "forward-thinking, innovative" approach to ministry with college students in SF.

And let me tell you, it sounds pretty good on paper, or in a presentation. I almost start to believe that I'm somebody who knows something-- who maybe got something figured out, or is onto something new & good. But, lest I start to think too highly of myself, reality always has a way of setting in.

Yesterday was our first weekly meeting of the year with our students. Driving home last night, I had the strange (but all-too familiar) feeling of mild embarrassment, confusion & defeat. Cool, Edgy, and Innovative weren't exactly the words running through my mind. Instead, I was asking myself, Are we going anywhere with this? Do we just keep taking one step forward & one step back? And will all those new students ever come back?

It's not that last night was a total failure... it just didn't quite work. After our training this summer, I had such high hopes of creating something beautiful & wonderful here in San Francisco. And I realized, after we didn't get off to a glorious start yesterday, that there was even a little part of me that was hoping to validate myself through that marvelous success-- that maybe I could get all the accolades that other directors got, or at least have something to show for myself at those conferences besides black nail polish & a husband with a lip ring (as cute as he is).

I had a little conversation with God about it this morning. Is something wrong with me? Am I not spiritual enough? Do I not have what it takes as a leader? Am I messing this up? Are we just going to keep spinning our wheels here, making progress only to have everything fall apart or change every single Semester? Will I ever feel like I know what I'm doing?

I actually felt a little bit of envy for those people who get to show up to a desk job in a cubicle everyday and do a menial, tedious job. At least they know what they're doing, what's expected of them-- they have a routine & a rhythm to life. It's a pretty rare day when I don't feel stupid, stretched, unsure, or unprepared. It's not that I don't work hard, or that I'm unqualified (I think); it's just that there is no manual for a job or a life like ours, and that there doesn't seem to be any rhythm to this ministry.

I had a visual image of my college days, when I decided to brave the Gospel Choir. I'm not really sure how I got in, but once I was there, it was wonderful, humiliating, fun, and so very challenging all at the same time. The very hardest part for me was singing harmony while swaying back & forth, clapping on beat, and incorporating hand motions & dance steps to everything. It was then that I realized how White I really am.

I feel a little like the white girl in the Gospel choir right now. I'm sure that there's some sort of rhythm here, some sort of purpose-- and it can be really fun, interesting & exciting finding it out, but it can also be humiliating and awkward. I know there is a part of me that needs to be trying new things, to be innovating, and stretching myself. But the flip side of that is constant discomfort, familiarity with failure, and a lot of trial & error.

As much as I don't need or want to fit in with the "Christian crowd", there is still a part of me that really wants to be accepted & acknowledged by them. Ironically, this morning I needed to process my thoughts, and having run out of room in my organic, recycled cotton journal, I pulled out the Christiany gift-journal I had received at our conference this summer.

I wrote & reflected on the fact that if we had experienced wild & smashing successes already, I might just start to believe I was something pretty amazing. But this way, I can learn humility through our mistakes, and remember who really brought about beauty, life & restoration that is to come. I can live in hope for the future goodness, knowing that this time of... um, less-than-wild-success... will only make the goodness to come that much better.

I was about the close my little journal when I noticed that there were personalized Bible verses written on the bottom of each page. Not my usual style, but I read it anyways, and as I did, I laughed & cried at the same time: "My grace is sufficient for you, Christine, for my strength is made perfect in weakness." No joke-- it even had my name in there!

Those words used to sound inspiring & comforting to me. But when you're actually in that place of weakness, most of us would rather hear God say things like "You can do it! You're the perfect person for this job! It's almost over-- and after all this, I'll bless you with a brand new car, and a big house with a picket fence." When God tells you that He's not going to take you out of your situation or even make you spectacular in it-- but instead keep you weak-- it's a little less exciting.

Strangely, though, despite my embarrassment, my weakness, my constant feeling of being unprepared or insufficient, I'm okay-- a little overwhelmed at the moment, but okay. I'm still where I'm supposed to be, and I believe I still am the person I'm supposed to be. The rest will work itself out.

This may not be the most glamorous life, but it's Home, and it's right. I probably won't ever be famous or popular, but me being me-- in all my strengths & weaknesses-- is somehow just right. You might even call it perfect.

An Unconventional Praise

2009-08-29T17:47:00.000-07:00

For the most part, I would say that I've got my priorities straight. I love my family, my husband, God, my country-- you know, all the important things. I'm not money or power-driven, and I don't feel like I am overly materialistic. However, there is one area of my life (well, at least one area of my life), one silly little frivolous area that adds nothing to the greater good of the world, and yet brings me infinite joy. And that, my friends, is food.

Now, I'm not talking about any kind of food, or food in bulk, or even one specific type of food. I just mean, beautiful, quality, delicious food. I hate fast food & mass-produced food, and feel that donuts are a waste-- but put me in front of a perfect tomato, or a bite of expensive dark chocolate, and I am in heaven. It's quite a thing to behold.

I had a spiritual moment today at the Farmer's Market.

There was a vendor with rows and rows of green, yellow, red, and even blue-black bell peppers, and lined up together, they looked like artwork. I thought to myself that God could have made eating similar to breathing-- simply a way to bring nutrients in & out of our bodies, but without much sensation to the experience. I thought of cattle, deer, or elephants that eat grass their entire lives, without ever knowing the difference. But, no-- for us, He made it an experience, and utter delight, a thing of beauty.

It occurred to me that God created food not only to taste delicious (in an infinite possibility of combinations), but also to look beautiful, as those bell peppers did. And as I stood in the heat of an unusually warm San Francisco morning, feeling the sun on my face and the sweat on my back, I looked around at the throngs of people at the Ferry Building, sampling fruit, picking out flowers, sipping juice, I felt joy-- praise, even.

I know, I'm insane. Well, actually, it doesn't take much to have a spiritual experience at the Ferry Building-- it's practically the Mecca of all good food. But as someone who studied art, I know that good art should be a spiritual experience-- and, when you think about it, food is the best kind of art because you can experience it with each of your senses, literally internalize it, and even re-create it.

I know that there is pain, suffering, war & injustice in the world-- I have seen a lot of it first hand. And I know that I sound a little crazy (No I'm not drunk, and No, I haven't seen Julie & Julia yet), but I really do believe that the beauty, variety, and goodness of food points to a creative, good, and generous God.

And if you had tried the heirloom tomato with rosemary sea salt that I sampled this morning, you would be full of praise, and sounding a little bit insane, too.

A Little Help for Gavin

2009-08-28T11:51:00.000-07:00

I don't dress up my dog. I don't carry him around in little designer bags (even if I wanted to, my shoulder die-- he weighs 60lbs). I don't have pictures of him in my wallet. I don't even feed him leftovers from dinner. But I do love the little booger, and it's hard to imagine not having a dog in our daily routine.

Right now, there is a terrified, shivering pit bull in a cage at the pet hospital. He hurt his leg almost 2 weeks ago, and we thought it was nothing... but then he kept re-injuring it, and we finally decided to bite the bullet and pay for a trip to the vet.

To make a long story short, something is wrong with his knee-- it could be a bad sprain, but the vet seemed to be leaning towards a torn ligament (much like a human tearing their ACL). He's going to be sedated & have x-rays taken this afternoon, and then we get the news: whether or not he needs surgery.

The X-rays alone will cost about $400. The surgery could be anywhere from $1500 to $3000. Needless to say, that's a pretty huge financial investment for us. If he ends up needing the surgery & doesn't get it, he will eventually go lame.

As "missionaries", our salary comes from the donations of families, individuals and churches. I don't know how I would feel about spending $3,000 of people's tithes on a dog's surgery. But then, do we just let our little pup suffer & go lame? It's a tough question to face.

So, as silly as this sounds, would you pray for our mutt, Gavin? Would you pray that he doesn't need the surgery, and that we don't have to make a difficult decision like that? I'm convinced that God cares for all his creation, including a socially awkward, dumb-as-a-rock, sweet little rescue pup.

I know this isn't my normal blog style-- sorry about that. Just wanted to ask for a little help ;)

Update: The vet called back to say that she couldn't find a tear in his ligament, and that (for now) she didn't think he needed surgery. Hooray!

Strangely enough, when compared with a $3,000 vet bill, the $500 everything ended up costing didn't hurt quite as much. I guess poor Gavin won't be able to eat for the rest of the year, though. Actually, he is restricted to short, 10 minute walks, with no playing, wrestling, swimming or running for the next 2 weeks. As great of news as not having surgery was, I know this is going to be a long 2 weeks for all of us. Still, we are SO very grateful.

New Year's Resolutions

2009-08-18T21:38:00.000-07:00

I have talents. I do. Everyone does, really-- some are brilliant at math, some are musical or athletic or artistic.

I have always felt like my giftings were less tangible than most peoples'-- things like being a good listener or asking great questions (not the kind of things that get you college scholarships). I have always been a dismal failure at sports-- in fact, I am fairly certain that I have never, in my life, run an entire mile (and probably won't, unless chased by some hyper-determined killer). My math skills are down right humiliating, and even the thought of spending money in another country, calculating an exchange rate in my head (all that multiplying & dividing and subtracting! Kill me now.) puts me into a cold sweat. I persevered years of orchestra classes only to be hidden at the back of the viola section, and although I appreciate art, I've never really been able to create it on my own.

Now, I am content with the fact that I will never be a winning track athlete, or a rock star (or even a karaoke participant), but there is one area of weakness-- something that has plagued me my entire life-- that I have high hopes of changing. If you are related to me in any way, you should sit down before reading on... My goal, my bright & shining star out on the horizon, is Time Management.

Tardiness is a chronic illness in my life. That feeling of anxiety, guilt, shame & frustration while rushing off to some appointment 15 minutes late is an old friend of mine. My poor husband is well versed in the routine of pulling the car out of the garage and patiently waiting in the driveway while I frantically throw together everything I need for the day. He's even been known to make my lunch for me, on a particularly bad morning. And, I confess that I don't know how our church service begins, because in our 4+ years of living in San Francisco, I'm pretty sure we've never made it on time. Whew, it feels good to get that off my chest.

One reason I believe that Change is possible is that, because of some strange alignment of the stars, I spent an entire summer arriving early. Gasp. I honestly don't know what happened, but during our 4 weeks of training in Colorado this summer, Chris & I woke up every morning, hopped on our bikes (okay, some mornings I made us drive), rode to campus, and arrived a full 10-15 minutes early for class-- saving a table for our friends, preparing tea/coffee, and getting out our notes. There was no incentive-- no roll being called, or public humiliation for tardiness, but for some reason, it happened once and so I know it can happen again.

The key, I believe, to recreating that miracle (permanently) is to set up a morning routine. I know, it sounds simple, but it's so much more complicated that it seems. If I could, I would wake up early every morning, take the dog for a walk, work out, make & eat breakfast, read & pray, shower, make my lunch, and be ready to go by 9am. I think I would have to wake up at 4 to make that happen. The other problem is that Chris & I share the tiniest of space in our apartment, and it always seems like I want to do kick boxing at the exact same time (and place) that he wants to pray & quietly reflect. On top of that, the parks near our house are literally locked before 8am, meaning that my dog-walking time is limited.

Since coming back from my miraculously time-efficient summer, I've tried a few methods of starting my mornings, all to no avail. But I am determined. I have never been big on New Year's Resolutions-- they always seemed so arbitrary. But I have tasted the sweetness of a life well-organized (granted, I had no dog, apartment, responsibilities, or the clutter of everyday life to bog me down, but that's beside the point), and I am convinced of its reality. As we start off a new school year (our lives revolve around the Semester schedule), I have high hopes for a fresh start.

Tonight, Chris & I sat down and made a little refrigerator chart of our weekly activities & goals. We have post-it notes with priorities like Date Nights, Having Dinner with Friends, Praying Together, etc. written on each post-it, and we plug in our priorities according to our weekly schedule. We even came up with incentives, giving ourselves little perks as we achieve our goals.

Our hope is as we organize our evenings, prioritize rest, order and connection over vegging in front of the TV or leaving the dirty dishes until morning, other things (like morning routines) can fall into place a little easier. Of course, we actually have to stick to our little plan to make all of this the smashing success that I am anticipating.

But maybe a smashing success is too much to ask for. I would settle for getting out the door on time, with clothes that fit, a non-neurotic dog, a soul that's centered, and cell phone in hand. Wish me luck-- I'll need it.; because even though timeliness may not be one of my talents, it's something I can at least practice. Hopefully it won't be as painful as practicing the viola.

No Place Like...

2009-08-12T21:27:00.000-07:00

After 11 weeks, 7 States, 5 beds, and approximately 60hrs of road tripping, I am Home Sweet Home. Chris & I estimated that we spend about 4 months out of every year traveling. Sometimes it feels like weeks before I've caught up to myself in all the travels-- like I don't quite know who I am anymore.

Not that I'm complaining (okay, sometimes I complain). I enjoy the fact that my job takes me to Africa, London, the Rockies, Florida, and of course, back to my family in Southern California (I try not to think about the fact that I have to pay for all those travels). It even works out pretty nicely that during the cold, foggy summer months of San Francisco, we can rent out our apartment to a friend and bask in the sun all summer (well, this summer, I was mostly in an air conditioned class room with no windows, but it was sunny & warm on our bike rides to the classroom).

One benefit of traveling so much is that it transforms my tiny, cramped, loud apartment into a palace-- a haven. Coming home to this Rubik's Cube of a home, where everything fits just so, is the most wonderful, comforting feeling in the world. Sleeping in my own bed is a slice of heaven, putting groceries into our refrigerator is bliss, even cleaning feels good (for the first few days). The feeling of padding around the house in your PJ's, with only the dog & hubby to see you (and the homeless guy looking through the window)-- the feeling of having your own space-- is a luxury beyond compare.

It's always an interesting to notice the things that I miss about home. Last summer, I missed my bed terribly (as I was sleeping in a hammock). This summer, it was food, diversity & culture that I was hungry for-- and (oddly enough) dogs. I bordered on scary stalker lady every time I saw a dog. Very strange.

Most evenings throughout the year, Chris & I come home tired & hungry, and all we want to do is shovel food into our faces and plop on the couch... but this little 60lb mutt always foils our plans. He needs to go out, and almost every evening I groan & try to think of some way to get out of our daily walk to the park.

Strangely enough, though, it was those walks that I missed the most this summer, while Gavin spent his time guarding the in-law's house, and we were away in Colorado. I realized just how much those walks nourished me-- helped me to unwind after a tiring day, gave space in our marriage to talk & reflect, created opportunities to be outside, and to gain the comic relief and plain old fun of watching dogs happily wrestling each other.

After about a week of breaking our evening routine (for lack of a dog), I noticed how cranky & unsettled I was. I felt antsy and tired all at the same time-- restless & sluggish. I can't remember what prompted me to go for a walk, but I do remember the revelation it was to just be outside, releasing my mind to wander wherever it pleased. Sometimes Chris came, and sometimes I was alone. Sometimes we even traded our walk for an evening bike ride, watching the sun set over the mountains, and coming back after dark. I was always covered in mosquito bites, but somehow felt a little more alive, better connected to myself.

We've been home for 3 nights now, and have taken Gavin to the dog park each evening. Ironically, after having happily patrolled the suburban backyard all summer with his playmate, Champ, he's terrified of the variety of the dog park. He always takes a while to readjust to city life, and seems to jump & start at everything. For myself, though, it feels so good to be home-- connected to myself through the familiarity of my own home, my own things, and that dreaded (but therapeutic) daily walk to the park.

Rodeo

2009-07-22T21:08:00.000-07:00

One of the drawbacks of living in the best city in the nation (no, I'm not biased) is that the entire country comes to your doorstep to vacation. This spring, as I walked home from the store, a tour bus shaped like a boat drove down our street honking duck callers, as the numbed tourists stared at me like I was in a fish bowl.

As hard as it can be to watch people turn their brains off and go into vacation mode (especially when they're driving in the bike lane), I admit that it is entertaining to play "Guess the Home-State". Occasionally, Chris & I enjoy going to a tourist trap like Fisherman's Warf and people watch, imagining where each family has come from. The tourists stand out like soar thumbs.

Lest I sound judgmental, I'll humble myself to share that I had the privilege of being on the flip side of that experience when a group of Californians left our conference for the day, and took a quick day trip up to Wyoming to attend the Cheyenne Rodeo.

Now, to my recollection, I had never been to a rodeo before (although my mom claims she took me as a kid), and I really wasn't sure of what to expect.

As about 20 of us filed up the bleacher seats, we were met with strange stares, and a stage whisper of "They ain't fru-um Wyoming" (yes, "From" was two syllables ). Most of the girls in our group were wearing sun dresses & flip-flops (although one wisely paired her cowgirl boots with her dress), and the guys wore surf T-shirts and baggy shorts. The rest of the entire audience had on tight jeans, long sleeved work shirts, cowboy hats and boots. We looked absolutely ridiculous.

Every time someone from our group got up, it seemed like the attention went from the rodeo to "the city folk". We passed messages back and forth, sounding absurd to the locals: "Okay, so I heard they're supposed to stay on the bull for 8 seconds", "Apparently, they tie a rope around the horse's privates to make him buck", "Does anyone know the point of this event?", and so on.

At one point in the rodeo, a horse went completely insane, diving over the stage with the announcer, landing (with rider in-tow) on it's head. Then, it got up and charged full speed into the rail, ramming it with it's head before passing out. Another horse sprang out of the gates, landed stiff as a board, then teetered over onto its rider like a tree, never moving again (it was hauled off in a horse ambulance, which we joked was sponsored by Purina). The spectacular finale was a rider that was pitched off his horse, but whose arm got stuck on the harness. He flailed around for an eternity, and literally had his chaps and jacket stripped off of him as he was tossed like a rag doll. I have never seen anything like it.

The rodeo reminded me of stories of the Coliseum under Caesar, and part of me expected lions and gladiators to come out after the bull riders. It felt a little morbid and wrong, watching people & animals get hurt like that... and yet it was thoroughly entertaining-- one of the best days I've had in a long time.

And I have to say, it was awesome being a tourist-- a completely ridiculous outsider who didn't get it and never would. Some of the highlights we heard at the rodeo:

(insert thick accent here)

"That horse was chargin' like my wife at WalMart"
"He was hotter than a two dollar gun"
"He fell apart like a $19 suit"
(my personal favorite) Tom Morrow... the name of one of the rodeo contestants (for real).

Whether it's Africa, London, Tijuana or Wyoming, it is such a wonderful experience to be immersed in (and stand out in) another culture. It was the best $9 I've spent in a long time (plus the $7 lemonade I bought in a commemorative Cheyenne Rodeo cup).

Aplogies

2009-07-22T19:08:00.001-07:00

Rumor has it that, in my attempt to be challenging & thought provoking (because I personally felt challenged & thoughtful), my last post came across to some as offensive. I apologize-- that was not my intent at all.

I was not taking a stance or stating my opinion on the movie Milk, on Harvey Milk as an individual, on Prop 8, on Christianity, or on Gay Rights. I was simply challenged to love people that are different from myself, and it seems that in my attempt, it made people feel un-loved.

I would love to dialogue with anyone about these thoughts, and value your opinions & feedback.

We're All Bastards

2009-07-18T12:01:00.000-07:00

I watched the movie Milk last night and it set off a chain of thoughts and emotions running through me.

It reminded me of a story I read about a Baptist minister and civil rights activist in the 1960's named Will Campbell:

On one of the Freedom Rides, Campbell was challenged by newspaper editor P.D. East to sum up the Christian faith in 10 words or less.

Campbell replied, "We're all bastards, but God loves us anyway."

Not long after, a good friend and fellow activist, Thomas Coleman, was shot & killed by a police officer named Jonathan Daniel. After the shooting, Campbell was devastated, but P.D. East wouldn't leave him alone, challenging him on his definition of Christianity. He demanded Campbell to answer whether both Thomas Coleman and Jonathan Daniel-- the victim and the murderer-- were bastards. Campbell feebly replied that they were.

"Which of those two bastards did God love the best?" asked P.D. East

This question changed the course of Campbell's life, when he realized that God loved the bigoted, wrong-doing Ku Klux Klan members just as much as He loved the victims of the bigotry. He left the civil rights movement, and began ministering to white supremacists, sharing God's love & hope to the very people he had been fighting against.

As I lay in bed last night, with scenes from the Gay Rights Movement still flashing through my mind, the story of Will Campbell returned to my memory. After watching Milk, I felt saddened, offended, heart-broken, inspired and confused. What stood out more than anything to me was the hurtful, defensive words coming from Christian's mouths, as they crusaded for morality.

This past year was an echo of the culture clash that happened during the movement of the 1970's in San Francisco, and I had an interesting vantage point from where I stood.

I grew up in a Christian home, in conservative Orange County, and yet I live in one of the most liberal post-Christian cities in the nation. I work for a conservative Evangelical Christian organization, yet the people I work with are much more passionate about justice and human rights than moral purity. During the elections, I walked on campus at SFSU and saw endless amounts of posters and campaigns calling out for people to "Vote No on Prop 8"; when I returned home, my inbox was filled with emails from Christians telling me God's will for the elections. It was interesting, standing with one foot in each world, listening to each group talk about the other.

After watching Milk last night, images replayed themselves like home movies. I thought of Christians picketing the funerals of gay men who had died of AIDS; of half-naked men on Easter posing for the Hunky Jesus contest; of the angry emails demanding that Christians stand up with God against "the gays", and angry gay men pouring hot coffee on Christian students; of teary-eyed gay students crumbling as I apologized for the church rejecting them, and wide-eyed youth group kids learning about sexual purity. I thought of Jesus speaking with compassion on prostitutes, and side-stepping political issues to get at the heart of the matter.

And I think Will Campbell was right: the real heart of the matter is that we're all bastards, but God loves us anyway.

I closed my eyes and saw a group of people on either side of me. On my left were the drag queens, celebrating the Hunky Jesus contest on Easter. On my right were the Christian activists demanding morality, without love. Tears came to my eyes as I saw myself taking a hand from both sides, feeling their skin against mine. We're all bastards, but God loves us anyway.

I've never been one to be deeply involved in politics. I admit that a lot of it is simply over my head, and much too time-consuming to keep up with. But the anger & polarization are what really turn me off. The thought of reaching across both lines-- to the Christian world I am a part of, and to the gay community that I live in sounds dangerous, frightening... and beautiful.

After P.D. East heard Will Campbell's answer to his question, he responded, "You've got to be the biggest bastard of us all... because damned if you haven't made me a Christian, and I'm not sure I can stand it."

Campbell used to say, "I'm pro-Klansman because I'm pro-human being". He explained that being pro-Klansman is not the same as being pro-Klan, and being capable of making that distinction might be the only hope for civil discourse. So my goal is to be able to say that I am both pro-Gay, and pro-Fundamentalist. Taking sides is one thing, standing in the middle is another, but reaching across the line is something completely different.

Reconciliation-- both to God and to man-- was the purpose of Will Campbell's life & ministry, and I hope that someday, someone could say the same of me.

Culture Shock

2009-07-05T13:00:00.000-07:00

Walking down the aisles of the grocery store, I felt a little bit like I was in the Twilight Zone. Every time I turned a corner, a smiling, friendly employee popped their head out, like a Jack in the Box asking, "How are you today? Are you finding everything alright?"

I began to wonder why everyone I passed looked me in the eye, or why total strangers talked to me as though I knew them. After less than an hour of being in public in the Mid-West, I started feeling uncomfortable "Why does everyone keep smiling at me? Why are you looking at me? Why are you so interested in how I'm doing today?" My thoughts raced as I gave threatening looks and fingered the mace in my purse.

I've always thought of Californians as being sunny, happy people-- tan & athletic, smiling as they drove with the top down on their convertible. I was wrong. We are all horrible, closed off, private people-- comparatively.

Apparently living in the city has done something to me. I have realized that I never look people in the eye when I pass them on the street. Something about living in a crowded city makes you covet the little space you have-- even mental space. When someone looks you in the eye, they are entering your world, your thoughts, even.

But Colorado is a place of open fields, impossibly huge mountains, and a sky that it somehow bigger & bluer than anything I have seen. With all that space comes a generosity that I'm not used to. People have room to look one another in the eye, to greet each other. They have the space in their lives to drive 30 miles per hour down the main city streets-- something that drives me absolutely insane. My ankle cramps up holding the gas pedal down at a steady 30mph, rather than breaking & gunning it, swerving around the slalom of San Francisco streets.

There is space for things like dish washers, spare bedrooms, basements & garages, and even *extra* cars (imagine!). There's space to live life at a slower pace-- even to talk a little slower.

As strange as it has been for me-- and even though I have almost thrown things with the sheer frustration of the pace of life (especially traffic)-- I have to admit that it has been therapeutic to slow down a bit. Having a regular rhythm to life (leave the house by 8 every morning, sit in the same classroom for 5-7 hrs, workout, eat dinner, do homework, go to bed...) has been hard to get used to. The variety of our jobs & our lives in San Francisco is wonderful, always keeping us on our toes. But I have to say that I haven't really missed it.

It's been great to be surrounded by friends, to not carry the stress of leadership, to simply show up and be taught. Don't get me wrong: it's been mentally & emotionally exhausting-- but in a completely different way than we're used to, and it's kind of nice.

The part I was most worried about was being surrounded by the army of conservative Christians, in khaki pants and polo shirts. And, for the first week or so, it was a little hard. But as I have gotten to know people on a deeper level & have seen their hearts, I can feel myself softening towards those backward country bumpkins (that was meant to be funny, by the way). I even noticed the other day that I had been singing Christian praise songs to myself. Weird [Promise me that if I get a mini-van or a Know Jesus, Know Peace; No Jesus, No Peace bumper sticker, you will intervene.]

As strange as it sounds, I really am having a great time. I might even say that I am sincerely enjoying myself in the Mid-West. I still don't know what to do when people look me in the eye-- I usually looks away awkwardly, pretending to see something interesting in the other direction-- but after a few more weeks, I might even be smiling that the Safeway employees. I have heard that generosity is contagious.

Fitting In

2009-06-23T19:57:00.000-07:00

I woke up yesterday morning in a cold sweat, trying to convince myself that the world I had just been living in was only a dream. I had been in high school again, back in my old room at my Dad's house, desperately trying to remember the last time I had attended the math class whose final was happening that day. When did it meet? Did I own the book? Could I possibly cram enough to pass? I wracked my brain to remember my class schedule, and frantically tried to get ready for school that day. Then the alarm went off, and I woke up, dazed & confused.

Most of us know that feeling-- waking up from a dream of public nudity, a forgotten locker combination, showing up for work unprepared, or being chased by an unstoppable foe. I'm not much for elaborate dream interpretations, but it seemed pretty clear to me, as I woke up on my first day of "classes" that my dream came from some underlying stress & insecurities.

This summer, I am calling Fort Collins, Colorado, my Home and six weeks of training & conferences my Job. While I readily admit that I am looking forward to some [much-needed] leadership training, blue skies & sunshine, and not being in charge of anyone or anything, I do have a confession: I am afraid.

I show up to most of our ministry's conferences dragging my feet, making a half-hearted attempt at a good attitude, with the mild anxiety that comes from not fitting in. I usually spend the first day at a conference feeling closed off & cranky, the second talking to God & asking if something's wrong with me, and the third having a heart-to-heart with Chris wondering what in the world we're still doing here. Somewhere along the road, I remember that I love my job & my students, that every family is dysfunctional, and that there's really no place else I'd rather be.

No matter how many times I go through that cycle, I always have this low-grade panic in the pit of my stomach that someone is going to find out that I am not spiritual enough, that I don't do things by the book... and that I have a hard time understanding half of what's in "The Book" (especially all those models & acronyms-- I'm practically illiterate when it comes to all the insider lingo. It's like listening to people talk about Lost).

So when my alarm went off the morning of our first training class, I lay in bed confused about my dream, wondering where I was, and realized that the fear of failing a math class was really just the fear of the "kids" at school not liking me. Thankfully, no one beat me up & stole my lunch money. Even better, I learned that several other people felt insecure, out of place, and a little nervous about the summer. It's nice not to be alone.

It's true that seven hour long meetings are exhausting, that my brain feels like mush at the end of this first week, and that I have an incredible doodle collection on my notebook. But right now, as I sit on the porch, watching an amazing thunderstorm pass through the Colorado sky, I feel privileged. Maybe it's just because I made it to Friday afternoon and can sleep in tomorrow. But more than that, I'm actually looking forward to the Fall, being back on campus, starting a new year with those troubled, dysfunctional students that have wormed their way into the tender places of my heart. Lord love 'em.

Last night I had another vivid, incredibly real dream-- but this time, instead of feeling panic & confusion, I was left (and still carry) with a feeling that can only be described as the warm fuzzies. I was walking through the gates of Child Voice, our home in Uganda last summer, wondering how I got there. The women & children gathered to welcome us, singing their song of greeting, and a friend came out, giving me a huge hug that I can still feel against my chest. It felt like home, and I felt like I belonged there.

And maybe, just maybe I can even start to feel at home here, too.

Broken

2009-06-12T11:38:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, I laid on the bed, staring out the window at the clouds taking shape & forming overhead. Although we have been looking forward to warm, sunny Southern California weather, since we left San Francisco, it's been nothing but gray, gloomy drizzle... with the exception of the day that I found myself watching the clouds.

It was stormy and the air seemed full, with giant thunderclouds moving across an impossibly blue sky (impossible, at least for LA-- the one great thing about the rain is that it scrapes away the layers of smog). I laid there and talked to God, thinking Big thoughts and asking Big questions as I watched him push the clouds across my panoramic view out the window.

Everything inside felt heavy, with the weight of the questions I was asking and the little drama that was unfolding. It was one of those times when we look into someone's life, at all the pain & brokenness, and wonder why it has to be that way.

The Question is, I think, the biggest mystery that we wrestle with, and sometimes I feel my chest filling with something that I cannot put words to, but in the simplest form is just sadness.

I don't mean that in a melodramatic, "get me a straight jacket & some meds" kind of way. But I think it's healthy & appropriate sometimes to grieve for the pain & brokenness around us, and even to ask God why things are the way they are.

There is someone that we care for whose life and mind are slipping, and we are in a position to help them. But these situations can be tricky & delicate, and my words and actions have been coming out cautiously-- cringing as I lay each one down, hoping that it won't topple everything over.

It has been a strange process, stretched out over the last several weeks, hanging heavily in the background, and stepping forward at unexpected moments. There is a sense of expectancy-- like tensing up before an accident, but in slow motion.

As I lay on the bed, watching the sky, I opened up all those feelings-- the questions of what to do & when to do it, and most of all Why?. The clouds rolled & took shape, sometimes swallowing up the blue patches, sometimes meeting and forming with others. I remembered Job's question of God: Why? Why did you let this happen? I thought of the other people I knew who had lived through similar situations, and thought about the millions of others that I didn't know. Mental illness is one of those things that is so difficult to understand & explain-- something that happens without anyone to blame or any explanation of Why.

The feelings and questions I had been wanting to avoid & numb were exposed, and none of my questions were answered. But as the clouds drifted & changed, I felt a sense of purpose behind it-- something bigger than myself that I couldn't understand. Instead of answers, I simply felt a Presence that didn't take away my feelings, but shared them with me.

Mixed in with (or maybe I should say underneath) all the anxiety, the fear, the unknown is that calm Presence. I suppose in the religious world, it would be called faith, but I don't want to put a name to it, especially because Faith almost sounds like something I made myself, and this is something I can't claim.

There is a small ache inside, knowing that this is Reality-- that most of the world lives with some sort of wound like this, that there are no guarantees. At the same time, though, I have had moments over these last few weeks where I have felt swells of gratitude, of joy-- where I catch myself smiling over some small thing. It's hard to know how to hold these issues in balance: the reality of our brokenness and the goodness that's around us; how to mourn and celebrate at the same time.

I think, though, that as I stay in tune with these feelings and allow myself to ask these questions, that balance seems to work itself out naturally. It's when I close them up inside and try to hide from it all that I start to tip one way or the other. And as I expose those tender places, that Presence, which is such a mystery, makes me feel at home with myself, with my situation, with reality, and the Questions don't seem quite as big.

Spinach

2009-05-27T22:03:00.000-07:00

I led a deprived childhood-- a tortured existence, if you will. Being cursed with an active mind, a talkative mouth, and a small appetite, I was always the last one at the dinner table... the martyr left alone to stare down the lonely vegetables, like some shoot-out scene in an old Western. Tumble weeds blew through the dining room, silence hung thick in the air, and still that slimy cooked spinach stared back at me with a look that could put a lump in my throat.

I don't know why I didn't just shovel those vegetables down first, or why I didn't disguise them in my mouth along with a bite of meat. I distinctly remember the gagging sensation that came from chugging down spinach with a glassful of milk. It was always long after everyone had left the table, and the memory of the rest of the meal had long since faded from my palette.

I've always been a hopeless procrastinator-- waiting to write papers until the last minute, saving the unsavory To Do's on my list until last, and cramming everything in at the end with a quick "Please, God, let that work". I know that turning a blind eye to the things I don't want to do does not simply make them disappear, but I admit that my first tendency is to stick my head in the sand and pretend everything's fine.

Not to push the metaphor too far, but I have definitely had a lot on my plate this year... and now that the school year is over, and things are winding down, all that is left on that big empty plate, staring back at me like a lump of spinach, is a fate worse than vegetables... Fund Raising.

Let me interject here that I LOVE my job. There really is nothing in the world that I would rather be doing than what I am allowed to do right now. However, there is one part of it that feels a little bit like being stuck at the table at the end of the meal, and that is raising my own funds. Ah, the joys of working for a non-profit.

Really, fund raising isn't that bad. For the most part, it is one of those faith-building, stretching, maturing experiences that I am grateful for, in hindsight. I don't think that I would have the same level of appreciation and gratitude if I simply received a paycheck from a company every month. In a lot of ways, fund raising is similar to the discipline of eating your veggies-- something that seems unattractive at the time, but builds you up over the long haul.

Today, I could feel the siren call of avoidance... and I could tell that Chris felt it too. We would each drift off into our own little distractions, waiting for the other to pull us back into reality and talk about the phone calls that needed to be made, the appointments that needed to be set up, and the money that needed to be raised. It's a humbling, uncomfortable process, and one that's difficult to dive into.

Finally, we took the dog to the park, and huddled together on a bench, hunched against the cold, San Francisco summer wind. After spending some time praying and bolstering each other up, preparing for the task at hand, we came home and gave it a first stab.

Alright, I admit it: we did all the easy things on our Fund Raising To Do list first-- but at least there is a list, and several items were crossed off today. I chose to rejoice in the little accomplishments. And the best part is that the ball is... ever so slowly... in motion.

Ironically, now that I am a "grown-up", and can choose ice cream or veggies for dinner, I [almost always] choose the vegetables. I love them, and I feel so much better when I eat healthy. I don't know if I will ever have those feelings towards fund raising (if I do, please check my temperature), but I'm at least taking steps towards health.

Natural Disaster

2009-05-23T12:16:00.000-07:00

I believe, from many life experiences, that God created Woman with a special kind of strength to withstand tragedies, disasters and hardships. From the pain of death to the pain of childbirth, we are resilient little creatures-- Steel Magnolias, if you will.

However, there is one disaster that few women can bear with dignity and grace, and that is the trauma of a bad haircut. And sadly, my friends, that is my cross to bear. One moment, I was engrossed in a fascinating conversation about Thailand (the stylist had lived there for 2yrs), the next thing I knew, I was BALD.

Just before entering into said conversation about Thailand, we had talked about leaving my hair a little longer for summer. "Definitely!" she replied to my desire to be able to pull my hair back during the warm summer months. Then, suddenly, it was all gone. I had become Mary Lou Retton. Forget pulling my hair back-- it was time for solitary confinement.

I was so shocked, I didn't know what to say. What can you say? She was holding scissors-- it's not like she can put it back at that point. The only thing in her power was to take more off... and there wasn't much left to take. "Wow! It's so short!" I said through a tight smile, thanking her and slinking shame-faced out of the salon.

Chris greeted me with the proper husbandly response: You look fine; I love you no matter how you look; it'll grow back; you're always beautiful. I am ashamed to say it, but I couldn't sleep that night. I lie there, feeling my exposed scalp on the pillow, wishing I was pregnant, because I had read somewhere that hair stays in the growth cycle during pregnancy. Growth-- yes, that's what's important here.

Thankfully, the sun also rises, and haircuts are never quite as bad the second day. It's true that my bangs are little more than peach fuzz, and I might be mistaken for Chris in the back... but at least my friends have been able to keep a straight face while talking to me. I even got a compliment from a tattooed, pierced-up punk rock couple who yelled across the crowded waiting area at a pizza parlor that they loved my hair. Funny.

What really surprised me, though (besides the mirror) was the fact that something like a haircut could upset me so much. I would like to think that I am enough of an adult, and secure enough in my identity to keep my cool through a few rough weeks/months of a funky Do.

To be honest, though, insecurities often buzz around my mind-- negative thoughts, like a big, ugly housefly that you can't shoo outside and can't quite ignore. When I am plagued with "The Gollum Voices", I try to ask myself, "Would people really love me more if I weighed 10lbs less, if I didn't look a little old & tired today, if my abs were toned or my hair looked better?"

I know the answer to that question. I know that my Creator, my husband, my friends & family love me as I am. I know that people might notice my imperfections-- they might even judge me for them-- but it doesn't change my worth or value. I know all these things in my mind, but so often, my heart and my head lie miles apart.

In the end, the problem isn't really a bad haircut-- even though I do look a little like a hasidic Jew (minus the beard)-- I know that it will grow back and that it's really not that bad. The problem is something a little deeper, and will never be fixed by losing weight, looking beautiful, or having the perfect exterior.

It is something I am straining to grow in-- to believe about myself and the world around me: the quiet confidence that comes from a place of love & acceptance and feels at home in my own skin. It is a simple, beautiful thing, but it isn't easy. So I keep moving forward in awkward jerks & starts, wanting to grow, but unsure of my progress.

The first step might be to stop complaining about my haircut. Like I said: simple, but not easy.

Peals Before Swine

2009-05-18T09:55:00.000-07:00

I admit it: I talk to my dog. I know that he doesn't understand me, beyond the simple Sit, Stay, NO!, come here, and Good Boy-- but I talk to him, none the less. I try to explain to him that I am terribly sorry that he can't go for a walk yet, or that he doesn't have to hide under the table when we come home, or why he doesn't have to be afraid of the fireworks outside.

He looks at me with understanding eyes, as though his thoughts were bursting out in attempt to communicate back-- but no matter how much his expression might reveal understanding, I know that all he hears is "Blah, blah, blah Gavin, blah, blah, blah, park."

I spent much of my weekend feeling a little bit like our clumsy, dumb oaf of a mutt, as I tried to blend into the background, smile and nod with understanding, and swirl my wine glass without spilling. That's not at all to say that I did not enjoy our jaw-dropping weekend in Napa Valley (and Hidden Valley, and Pope Valley)... it's just that I knew how very undeserving & out of place I really was. The expression "Casting pearls before swine" came into my mind often.

Confession: I am almost completely ignorant about wine. I know that I like some of it, that I don't like others, and that Two Buck Chuck is something to laugh about with an air of disdain & superiority (and then quietly slip into your Trader Joe's cart and say it's for cooking). I am a bit like a dog trying to understand their owner when I'm around the wine savvy, hearing words that I know but don't quite comprehend, and trying with all my might to grasp meaning.

Since moving to San Francisco, I discovered that it is very uncouth to lack understanding of wine-- and as one who subscribes to Bon Appetite, Cook's Magazine & Martha Stewart Living, and is fairly passionate about food, I find this embarrassing & unacceptable. Ah, the life I lead.

Since my step-sister married a wine maker and moved to wine country, I have brushed against the upper echelons of the wine world-- and this weekend, sat down to dine with them. The only word I can think to describe my current state is Satiated. My mind is full (swirling with details about wine making & tasting), my heart is full ( from all the beautiful scenery & experiences), and my belly is... stuffed (I don't think I will ever be hungry again).

I have been searching for ways to describe the weekend Chris & I spent with my parents at my step sister's home. I am tempted to tell every interesting story, to paint every beautiful detail, and to draw you into every lovely experience... but I know that it would be a bit like Gavin's attempts to communicate his thoughts to me through his little doggie eyes.

Saturday afternoon, we found ourselves pulling up to the gate at Palmaz Vineyards-- a small, family run winery where we had reservations for a private tour of their $100 million, 15 story-deep wine caves. After parking, and stepping out into to 100 degree heat, we were casually introduced to Florencia Palmaz, a friend of my step sister & her husband from their boccie ball team-- the founder's daughter, and the most interesting, lovely, gracious billionaire I have ever met.

She showed us around the Willy Wonka-esque cave, deep underground, through a maze of wine barrels, giant shiny rotating vats of wine making equipment, and information that made my head spin. It wasn't until later, after touring other wineries, caves, and vineyards that I understood how truly special and extravagant this winery was.

We sat down to a gorgeous view in her office, as she passed around wine bottles and dropped juicy tidbits of family history (their immigration from Argentina, battles between feisty, spunky parents, etc) and threw out phrases like "Since you're in the industry, I'll tell you that...". Much to my horror, I had accidentally chosen the spot next to her at the elegantly set table, complete with at least six different wine glasses & gourmet hors d'oeuvres, and tried to curb my blank stares, fumbling swirls of wine, and complete ignorance of how spectacularly perfect each sip of wine was.

After our intimate tasting, she pulled out a set of keys, and walked over to what looked like a maintenance door saying, "This is not a part of the winery, but is my father's personal collection". My mouth fell open when we walked into a car museum, complete with the car the entire family had raced (including the little Hot Tamale of a mom who popped her head into Florencia's office earlier to ask if we had seen the two guests she had lost in the wine caves), and the first Porsche to win Le Mans (which Steve McQueen made a movie about).

Despite my ignorance of both wine and race cars, I knew enough to know that what I was experiencing was truly special.

The rest of the weekend was a caloric blur of incredible food, tasting & touring with personal friends/wine makers, driving through beautiful scenery, and playing with the dogs at Hidden Valley Lake. Our last vineyard stop was up in the mountains, off the beaten path, overlooking a breathtaking view, and talking with the winemaker's wife about the wild boars, bears, porcupines, & coyotes that roamed around the property-- outside the tent that their family was temporarily living in while they finished construction. Quite the opposite picture of our first winery, but equally interesting, delightful and enjoyable.

As I sit here Monday morning, I don't know that I will ever want to eat again-- and definitely have had my fill of wine for a while. There was a moment inside one of the beautiful wine caves when I just couldn't taste another sip or take in another fact. It reminded me of our safari a few years ago: While sitting in front of a pride of lions on a huge rock pile, Chris' mom quietly asked, "Do we have to look at anymore lions?" As amazing as it was, after seeing 30 lions, and sitting in a hot, dusty car for 5 days, she was done with "amazing".

And that is where I am right now, in my messy apartment-- full of good food and contentment, smiling at my two beautiful bottles of Palmaz (graciously purchased by my parents) and happy to be home. Our pup, Gavin, has not yet emerged from the bedroom, and I am sure that his heart & mind are equally full of wonderful memories of the wine country that he got to romp around in. Too bad neither of us can quite communicate our experiences.

Fantasies

2009-05-05T21:34:00.000-07:00

I have always had a fairly vivid imagination. Growing up, Anne Shirley (as in the resident of Green Gables) was a close personal friend, Bilbo Baggins was someone I prayed for during bedtime stories, and the classical music played by my parents in the car was the sound track for many adventures of Greek mythology.

Throughout my life, my mind & my imagination has been a wonderful place to live, to retreat to when times are rough, or simply to pad my existence just a bit-- the equivalent of a soft, warm blanket.

And I have a confession: there are many a night when one could find me lying in bed, concocting elaborate fantasies in my mind. Although I did (regrettably) just see Wolverine the other night, my fantasies are not about Hugh Jackman. They are not about running away with another man, and are not (well, are rarely) about my acceptance speech at the Academy Awards.

During those long weeks in Uganda, as I lie for too many hours to count in my hammock (sick with some sort of exotic ailment), staring at the grass thatched roof above me, I planned out in great detail my 30th birthday party. I thought through about twenty different menus, dreamed up various floral centerpieces, envisioned my tanned, bony, malnourished self looking like a model in a lovely sun dress, and anticipated the fun all my friends & family would have at the party of my dreams.

I wish I could say that I only indulged myself in such a shallow, unconventional fantasy to pass the time or to help fill my belly with something other than rice & beans (which, ironically, we served at my real-life 30th Birthday party when we got home, after eating it for a month straight). The truth is that most of the time, when my mind wanders off into fantasy land, I am dreaming up the perfect meal, the perfect dinner party, or the perfect BBQ in the park. I supposed that dreaming about comfort food is less caloric than eating it.

Lately, both Chris & myself have been living in a future fantasy called Colorado. Considering the amount of times the word Colorado has escaped our lips over the last few months, one would think that we didn't live in on of the top tourist destinations in the nation, or that there was something truly spectacular awaiting us in Fort Collins this summer.

In all actuality, what awaits us in Fort Collins, CO is the glorious, seductive, beautiful opportunity to not be in charge of anything or anyone. We actually get to spend a summer of simply showing up, listening, taking notes, and learning. No contingency plans, no staff meetings to lead, no crisis to fix-- just a lot of BBQ's and dinners to plan. Lovely.

At first, we were heartbroken to learn that our [mandatory] summer assignment would be taking training classes for new directors, rather than leading another ragtag group of college students back to our favorite refugee camp in Africa. But now-- now I know that God is wiser than I am with my future, that Fort Collins is the place for us... and that I will be throwing a spectacular 31st birthday party (possibly with a Mediterranean menu??) in a darling sun dress, with my favorite friends in Fort Collins Colorado. And I have been dreaming about it for weeks.

It's hard to believe that this school year has already come & gone-- that we survived our first year of directing this messy, experimental ministry without anyone dying or firing us. Honestly, despite the fact that I am slowly running out of steam as we enter our last week on campus, this year has been... a privilege. As we wrap up, I look forward to spending time processing all that I have learned & experienced through this whirlwind. And of course, thinking through the dessert menu at my birthday party.