Pinch Me

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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.