Post

Describe a time when you felt sorry for someone.

Sometimes I wish I could have seen somebody about four hours before I actually see them. It's like zooming out with a camera so you get a better perspective. What put that smile on your face? What wiped away the one you had earlier? What has heaped on your shoulders and pulled your head down?

When we were in Boston this summer, one of my favorite things to do was just watch people. I love doing that when I travel different places: it reminds me of how alike we are, regardless of where we're from. People everywhere are trying to better themselves, get through each day, raise their families, find love, discover something worth smiling at - these inate desires are universal. Unfortunately pain is universal as well. Every day people see death, lose friends, experience disappointment, hear bad news, give bad news. And to the strangers around them, it's just another day. Or so they think - no doubt those strangers are hiding something with a blank stare as well.

The "blank stare" is the hallmark of public transportation, and nowhere else is that more evident than in big cities. Traffic in Boston is hellacious, so smart people use buses or the subway, or just walk. By the end of our four days there, we were familiar with ("pros at" would be a generous overstatement) the subway, or the "T". On one of our last days, we were on a crowded bus on our way back to our hotel. Everyone on it was tired; the ride was silent as people leaned against windows with closed eyes or quietly watched the buildings crawl past. At one stop a woman got on and sat next to me, and I could tell she'd been crying. I wondered what had happened to her that day, what had crushed her blank face, caused her to crack the stoic front and let the hurt run down her cheeks. I had on my "I'm not in my small midwest town so I should keep to myself" face, and I thought I should just leave her alone. But after a little while I pulled out from my bag a left-over napkin from lunch and offered it to her. She smiled and declined, and soon she got off the bus.

I still have the napkin, taped in my journal as a reminder of the humanity that surrounds me. Everybody has a story; everyone has a hurt. It's good to remember that as I interact with people on a daily basis. Before you act, think about what that person experienced over the past four hours. Give everyone a little room to act in response to their situations. Be gentle; you don't know who may be near their breaking point. You may be the nudge that pushes them over or away from the edge.

Options

When I was eight, I had such a definite idea of how my life would play out. My uneventful childhood would cross into an uneventful adulthood. I wouldn't have to worry about money or watching my weight - somehow all of that would be magically taken care of without me worrying about them too much. I would live next door to my parents (apparently my neighbors were planning on moving out) and host family Thanksgiving at my house (my sister would take care of Christmas). When we were old enough (in ten years), my at-the-time boyfriend and I would get married, and I would be a pilot, like my dad. I was a church-going, sword-drill-winning Christian because everybody at my school was a church-going, sword-drill-winning Christian (they had a one-up on me, though, because they all went to AWANA and I didn't), and my faith would be that simple probably forever. I tolerated my younger siblings but was pretty sure we'd have nothing to do with each other when we grew up. (My sister once told me that I'd be the one in our family with the tattoos and face piercings. In our small world that was the epitome of rebellion, and after that I swore we'd never be friends again.) And with any luck, my hell of practicing piano for twenty minutes every day would soon be coming to a close: I had told my parents and teacher that I was finished, and finished I intended to be.

When you're eight, you don't realize how much of a life you have stretching before you. If you get your timing right and die on your eighty-fifth birthday, you watch over 31,000 days. And while I was busy sitting at my desk in third grade, writing out the names of my future kids, I had no idea that I'd seen less than three thousand of those days, several hundred of which I don't remember. Oh, sure, I understood the broad outline: school/college, married, kids, work, dead. But I had no idea what I'd see during - and even in between - those stages.

In several months I will be twenty-one, but sometimes I feel like that eight-year-old, planning my life. "After graduation, I'll get a job at the school where I do my student-teaching, and after I get some experience I'll go somewhere else and eventually wind up where my passion leads me." But I have to remember the expectations I had at eight and how differently my life has turned out. Frets about money and how the world perceives me are on my mind almost hourly. With their newly-remodeled kitchen, my neighbors probably aren't leaving any time soon; but that's alright with me, since I'm not planning on living in my home state forever anyway. I have felt something yanking on my heart (which I'm pretty sure is my Isa telling me where He wants me), and it's definitely not as a pilot. My relationship with church and "Christians" has not been the best, particularly in the last few years. With bad experience after bad experience with Pharisees masquerading as followers of Christ and churches that are based more on politics and finances than the Word of God, my view of much connected with ministry is backed by a little glare. I didn't foresee the situations when I'd sit in front of my mirror and say to my reflection, "What the hell are you doing?" I didn't imagine being more comfortable in a secular environment than I am at my religious university. When my dad said I'd be allowed to date at fourteen, I didn't think I'd be waiting until I was seventeen to actually start, and then reach a point after almost four years of not dating that it was fine, that I'm actually content to not have anybody, even though the books and movies say my "clock" is running out. (And I'm graduating two years from now and apparently college is one of the last prime places to meet a guy. So I've heard.) And I certainly didn't plan on my parents overriding my declaration to quit piano lessons; I eventually completed twelve years, and even three years after quitting, the first thing I do when I go home on breaks is play my piano for a solid hour - it's become so much a part of me, I can't imagine that I ever wanted to quit.

I've heard my entire life that life is short, but in the past week I've heard that it's long - very, very long. And I forget that when I look at where I am: within two years of jumping off one ledge onto another, very different one. All I can see right now is the gap that I'm about to leap; I can't see the plateau that I'm jumping to, with its new hills and crags and valleys to explore. (And now I'm sounding like a bad graduation speech.) I forget that I have so much life to live. In the grand scheme of things, I'm young and inexperienced and clumsy and a royal mess. How in the world can I, at twenty years old, expect to have things figured out and organized and under control? That's like handing a toddler a jacked-up car motor and saying, "Fix this, will you?" That's dumb.

Anyway. Exam week is coming up, which won't be half as bad as the week before exam week. Papers, books, analyses, quizzes....heaven preserve us.

Style

Do you ever wonder if you've being heard? Your words are tossed into a void, maybe never to be acknowledged. As a writer I'm supposed to expect rejection - it comes with the territory. I don't mind my voice getting lost in the shuffle, it's not a totally-unknown possibility. That sounds really whiny, but that's just how it is. Sometimes the answer is "no." Get over it.

So when I get a written response from one of my major influences....O_o

After almost three months, I got a response from Terry Jones, one of the surviving members of Monty Python. If you know anything about me, you'll recall that I'm a Python NUT. And I am sitting six inches away from a note from Terry Jones. Hand-written. Personal. International stamp.

This is a big deal.

I wrote to him when I decided to write my literary analysis criticism on "Life of Brian." And I was pretty sure my letter had gotten lost in the heaps of mail that he no doubt receives. I've written to celebrities before - almost seven years and no response from Geoffrey Rush. (Kevin McNally did write back. And I got a mass-produced autographed picture with a note "from the office of Keira Knightley." But that's another story.) Every now and then I wondered about it, but I wasn't too bent out of shape over it. So to receive something back from him...I nearly passed out when I pulled the letter from my mailbox.

I quote:

 

Thanks so much for your wonderful letter. It's good to know that something we've done is still having some effect! I hope you continue to be independent and thoughtful!

 

Looking at it five hours later still makes me light-headed.

 

It's a vicious cycle, really. He knows his work is still appreciated by a generation whose parents were children when Python was first popular, and I know my letter wasn't totally ignored. And how fitting to get it today, after I've finished the second draft of my "Life of Brian" paper? Python has been such a crazy influence in my life over the past year, and to get that well-wish from one of my idols (meant in an iconic and not religious way - I know actual idols are bad)....my life has been made.

 

Now back to the reality that my paper is due in a week (among so frickin' many other things) and is still only in the drafting stage. Actually I'm really proud of the work I've done in only about three weeks. My goal was to find a middle ground between the Pythons and religion, and I think I've done a fairly decent job. But lest we bask too long in that knowledge, just remind yourself: it ain't done yet.

 

Tonight Mr. Jones' letter lies as a bookmark in my journal, like a little whisper reminding me that it's good to think outside the box (or, in my case, the Bubble).

 

~

 

Your words are worth-while. Write on.

-Arbor Brannagh

Seventy

Fall break. Tomorrow. One crazy night left, and then four glorious days of nothing. We're about halfway through the semester now; next week the countdown to Thanksgiving begins, then it's only a few more weeks until Christmas and winter break...Where is this year going???

Do you believe in coincidences? I do, in a sense; but I believe that coincidences are God's way of working behind-the-scenes. I think He uses these in a teaching way, just as He uses our screw-ups. Like freshman year, when my grades bombed and I blew a scholarship. That's how I ended up working at the store. And for the last two years I've been digging myself out of a hole that I created for myself, both financially and grades-wise. I'm .05 points away from getting the scholarship back, and the way this semester's going, that should be no problem. But if I hadn't lost it, I probably wouldn't have gotten the job at the store, met the incredible people that I work with and love like my family, and learned about fixing my own problems.

But the problem remains: I am now the proud owner of student loans that I earned myself. At the beginning of this school year, I decided to get a job. But when I looked around campus, there weren't many to be found. One door closed, this one never opened; and two months into the semester, I still had no job. I thought about selling some of my writing for money, but I don't feel confident enough about any of it to actually send to publishers. And there also remains the problem of having no money, which is usually needed when you submit works to publishers. I prayed a lot back in August that God would provide some kind of job opportunity. But so far...nothing.

Until Saturday.

I got an email from a lady on campus asking if I wanted to help out with mailers, stuffing envelopes, etc. I replied that I'd be interested in it and the pay they were offering. I went in yesterday to do my time, and she said that the email was intended for another girl on campus who happens to have my same name. (I've gotten several emails meant for her, and no doubt she's gotten some that were supposed to come to me.) BUT THE LADY PUT ME ON THE PAYROLL ANYWAY!!!!!!!!!! I was sitting sealing envelopes when I thought, This is an answer to my prayer from two months ago!! I still can't believe it! I'd totally forgotten about it, and here I am with a job!!

MY GOD IS SO GOOD!!!!! HE IS FAITHFUL TO HIS CHILDREN AND PROVIDES FOR THEM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sting

I'm typing this entry on my mom's iPad...the next one I write will definitely be on my laptop.

Recently I came across a quote by C.S. Lewis that says, 'Has this world been so kind to you that you should leave with regret? There are better things ahead than any we leave behind.' And in the week (or so) ahead, this will be much on my mind.

For those of you who are friends of mine (I'm pretty sure if you're reading this blog, you're a friend - I don't think many other people read it) you'll know that my family has been watching the decline of a very close friend for a few weeks now. My adopted grandfather, now 86 years old, has been diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis. For those not familiar with medical terms, your lungs need to expand when you breathe, and the walls of his lungs are hardening, which makes it difficult for him to breathe. It's only a matter of time before he suffocates. I have visited him every weekend for several weeks now and make it a point to call him when I can't make it home from school. They say he's doing better, but they said the same thing about my uncle the day before he died. To put it bluntly, I wake up every day expecting the phone call that he's gone.

Does this make me a pessimist? Not in the least. I am a realist, and I know the danger of getting my hopes up in an inevitably-hopeless situation. I think this gives me a clear vision when I look at him - I don't see the possibility of healing, but I don't necessarily see only the grief that will come with losing him. I see a very tired man who has lived a rich, full life. He's been married to the woman he loves for over sixty years. Though his own two children passed away about twenty years ago, he has been blessed with so many others who call him uncle, father figure, and friend. Since three of my grandparents are dead and we don't see our own grandfather often, Mr. Everett has become the only real grandfather figure who has been constantly around for my siblings and me. I remember waking up to the doorbell and, running to the door, finding no one there but a box of donuts, where he'd dropped them off and run back to his car before we could catch him. He's been there on birthdays and  holidays, and at Christmas my siblings and I would go to his house and sing carols with him and his wife. His carpentry - wooden pumpkins, painted snowmen with acorn eyes, a birdhouse with a bent license plate for a roof - still sit around our house.

When he was about my age, he went to the Pacific to serve his country n World War II. Though he still wears his veteran's hat, he has never said much about what happened there. Sometimes when we would visit them, I would watch him and think, 'What have you seen? What happened that is still so painful that you won't bring back the ghosts of sixty years ago?' Once I asked him if I could interview him for a school project, but he said he'd rather not talk about it. When I was little I always thought how cool it'd be to be the one he'd open up to and reveal his secrets to. But now that I'm older, I realize that he'll go to his grave with his secrets. And why shouldn't he? What good would it do to drag up all those memories again? Some things are best left alone.

When my mom and I were talking about him over lunch yesterday, I couldn't help but cry as I thought about losing this man I've know since my first year of life. But when I went to see him last night, he was joking and laughing, like he always used to. I will miss him terribly - how can you know someone for twenty years and not feel a void when you lose them? But how selfish it would be of me to ask him to stay. He told my mom the other day that he's just tired. I can see that when I look at him. But behind those tired eyes, underneath his ragged breathing and thin skin, I see no fear. When I look at him, I see a man who has had enough. He's not giving up - he just knows when it's time. He's ready to look his God in the face, to see his children, to breathe easy again, to erase the scars on his memory.

When I get to his place, I pray that I may have the same peace.

Prayers would still be appreciated for everyone involved. The next few weeks will be tough.

Vanilla

What does it mean to be strong? Not in the "I can hoist a car on my shoulders" strong - I mean the "I feel like sobbing into a pillow but I'll put on my happy face" strong. Maybe it's like holding in a sneeze until after the chapel speaker's finished praying - you deal with stress but you wait until nobody sees it, and they'll think you're so capable and you have it all together. Maybe it's like holding in a sneeze until it goes away altogether.

I've been called that twice in the last week; so apparently if you keep a cool head in a non-stressful situation, or you're willing to tell a friend that you can't talk anymore, that makes you a strong person.

The funny thing is, I've never considered myself "strong" in that sense. (Or the "I can hoist a car" sense, for that matter.) When I went to visit my brother in the hospital when he had his tonsils taken out, I saw his IV and had to lie down before I passed out. When things go slightly un-according to plan, I panic and wonder how it'll get fixed. Or better yet, I mope around, bemoaning the misery that has befallen me. We'll just toss that out there: I'm a worrier, a fretter, a hand-wringer. I have just developed this trait in the last few years, about the time I started college. Am I getting all the right requirements for my major? Am I even in the right major? Well, this is what I feel called to do, but was it God calling me or just some whim? I picked to be a teacher, so I'd better get used to eating ramen noodles out of old Tupperware and wearing out shoes until the soles fall off. What about that crack in my tooth, is my nerve exposed, am I going to die? All I see on Facebook anymore is people getting married - am I left out? Will I ever get married and have kids? But shouldn't I wait for that until I've lived life a little on my own? Why am I worrying about that when I have three papers and a test due this week? The list drags on.

I believe God speaks through coincidence and repetition. (My high school AP English teacher always said, "Repetition is the key to understanding.") I believe that all of us need to hear something six or twelve times before it really sinks in and we start believing what we hear. And this week, on three different occasions since Thursday, I have had this passage shoved in my face:

Can all your worries add a single moment to your life? And if worry can't accomplish a little thing like [getting you food or clothes], what's the use of worrying over bigger things?...Why do you have so little faith?...your Father already knows your needs. Seek the Kingdom of God above all else, and He will give you what you need.

 

When my pastor said he felt led to talk about this today, I rolled my eyes like, "Alright, God, I understsand You're trying to teach me something here."

 

In the past few weeks, I've been getting such a crash-course in not worrying. Like when I found out another considerable sum of money had been tacked on to my college debt, which will translate into student loans. Or when my adopted grandpa was diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis - I went to visit him for maybe the last time today. Or when I haven't been able to find a job on campus. Or when I worry about my future as a teacher or, more recently, whether I will find a boyfriend or wind up old and alone. (I'm a girl, it's in my DNA to freak out about such things.) Today in church my pastor directed us to Matthew 6, that section in the Sermon on the Mount where Christ talks about possessions and worrying. And at some past point I had written in big pink letters next to the above section, "RELAX, AND KNOW THAT I AM GOD."

 

I don't have all the answers. I don't know how much longer my grandpa will live. I don't know where money will come to pay off my student loans. And who knows - I may be single forever. But it's not important that I know all of those things. Because I know for damn sure I don't have to worry about them. I'm learning to be content with the life I'm living right now. I am Bethanie, single, at this specific weight, in X-amount of debt, with a living grandpa for today. Today I thank my God for having everything under control. And I'll work with what I have for today to give glory to the God who has all my problems, issues, struggles, trials, and insecurities in His hand.

 

Maybe that's why I'm dubbed "strong." Maybe it's because I know Who holds my yesterdays, todays, and tomorrows, and everything that happens during those days, and I don't let those hiccups get to me. Instead of looking at everything I'm dealing with, I look up to my Father who says, "Chill out, my child. I got this."

 

Be encouraged today, my friends. You are loved by the Father today.

Wonky

Isn't doing the right thing supposed to feel a little better than this? Usually it means jumping up and down screaming, "OH MY GOSH, THIS IS SO LIBERATING!!!!!" I've triumphed over sin, kicked the devil in the face and said, "Yeah, that's not gonna be the way things go anymore!" This is a happy occasion!

But I just want to lay face-down on my bed and not think about it. God nudges me on the shoulder and I brush Him away like, "Yeah, yeah, I know it was for the best. That doesn't mean it's any less frustrating."

I wonder if Paul ever had those moments after being tossed in prison. Again. I wonder if he looked over at Silas in the jail in Philippi and said, "You know, this schtick's getting really old."

I Peter (supposedly the book on suffering) says that suffering for what is right is actually a good thing. My situation is certainly far from "suffering" - there was no physical pain involved, no abuse for my faith, nothing like that. But the wound is there because I did the right thing, because I said "this is wrong" and changed it. I wonder if it's actually a wound in my heart. Right now my heart's saying, "You did the right thing;" it's my head that's scoffing at me, "Well, that was stupid, what'd you do that for?"

One thing's certain: I feel like a weight has been lifted off of me. My brain is still working out the logistics, but there's a small voice somewhere inside me that's comforting me, "Well done, my child. You have made what is right more important than what you want."

And I suppose that's comforting....sort of. It'll take a while to process this one....