The Line

Cool as Nails

2011-12-10T01:37:00.001-08:00

The cool thing about writing is that sometimes you write a piece worth reading, something people might want to read. Yeah, that's cool. But the scary part is that occasionally, people will read it. When I think about it, this whole blogging thing actually scares the crap out of me. "Right," you might think, "keeping a blog open to the public, and advertising it on Facebook. You're clearly terrified." I know, I know. Writing, putting it (and myself) up for public inspection, and then professing a fear of vulnerability seems a little like posting pictures of yourself on MyFace and then telling everyone how ugly you think they are. But it's different.

Walter Smith said "there's nothing to writing. All you have to do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." Bleeding out onto paper, that's exactly how it feels; and I haven't really gotten started (not recently, anyway... but I am poised and ready to start my Cosmo polemic... remember that?!). Ordinarily you would avoid doing something that makes you feel this nervous or insecure. I'm assuming it's like skydiving, spelunking, or a jalapeno eating contest; there has to be some sensation more powerful than fear or internal combustion that makes it worth it. Well, I'll let you know.

Love as Death

2011-12-09T15:00:00.001-08:00

So it's been a while since my last post. Over two years, in fact. This is pitiful and ironic, when I consider that I stopped writing at exactly the moment I should have begun to write more. Sometime in October of 2009, an acquaintance with absolutely zero knowledge of my interests or activities (at the time, I was writing a lot) approached me said something to the affect of "I could be wrong, but... I think God says He wants you to write." If that sounds weird to you... I understand. But read the biblical story of the annunciation. That is weird. And while I had every intention of writing more, somehow I immediately stopped doing it altogether. Maybe I was distracted, maybe I was discouraged, maybe a mandate from the Almighty was a little sobering; I don't think it really matters now. So I've got to begin somewhere, and it will feel awkward no matter what, so here goes.

I've gone far in the last year. Literally. I've driven across country and I've also acquired more frequent flier miles than ever before. I've dared, I've scared, I've regretted, I've rejoiced; I've prayed, cursed, loved, hated, begrudged, forgiven; I've applied for jobs, been rejected, been subsequently devastated, then been promoted; I've watched people married and buried. I've learned to laugh a lot more. I've failed to live up to my potential in some glaringly obvious ways. But I've also outgrown other confines I'd built for myself, bumping the ceilings of those limitations like Alice in Wonderland, shrinking to ten inches tall and then sprouting to nine feet in a matter of minutes.

I wish I could say that I am better now than I was then, and be sure of it. But I'm not sure of that at all. And since we're on the subject of (un)certainty... since when do we get to be sure of anything? Somehow this verse immediately springs to mind... not because I'm one who constantly has verses springing to mind (although I'd be better for it if I did), or because I read the Bible a lot (I don't read it often enough) ... but because this verse usually gives me trouble.

Hebrews 11:1 NOW FAITH is the assurance (the confirmation, the title deed) of the things [we] hope for, being the proof of things [we] do not see and the conviction of their reality [faith perceiving as real fact what is not revealed to the senses]. (Amplified Version)

and then I think of 1 Corinthians 13:13...

¹³And so faith, hope, love abide [faith--conviction and belief respecting man's relation to God and divine things; hope--joyful and confident expectation of eternal salvation; love--true affection for God and man, growing out of God's love for and in us], these three; but the greatest of these is love. (Amplified Version)

Now it's Christmas time. The season of hope, and of faith in the God who is Love; the season that reminds us to rejoice in being loved, and in being enabled to love in return. Here's to hope, and faith, and love: those mysterious intangibles, the abilities that prove elusive to even the most evolved and erudite among us (how's that for alliteration). I say 'abilities' because to hope, to believe, to love, all these are actions of mind, of heart, sometimes of body, actions that require us to mobilize. But it is a different mobilization. I've learned more personally this year that this mobilization feels like immobilization, like paralysis at first. But it isn't paralysis. It is surrender: surrender to the transformative power of the mercy and holiness of an wondrous God. Learning to love like this is really uncomfortable. It feels like a death; for at its most powerful, to love is (necessarily, implicitly) to deny myself.

Over the course of this year, I've become convinced that selfishness is the root of most evil. It may seem like an overstatement, but I think we'd be surprised at what we would find if we entered the minds of those who've hurt us the most. We would probably find overwhelming concern for their wants, their needs, their desires, consumed by thought of their own wounds and how to make those pains go away. Precious little planning devoted to ruining our lives or hurting us... because hurting others is just an incidental, inevitable outcome of selfishness. Selfishness is the ultimate evil, because selflessness is the ultimate love (John 15:13). I'll tell you what, I do not love my enemies. I have murderous tendencies, seriously. Some people say "I don't hate anyone, I just dislike them"; they're the people who couldn't hurt a fly. For what it's worth, I am not one of those people. And I could definitely put the hurt on a fly. Or a bad tipper. Or a mean-spirited, belligerent drunk. Or a power tripping cop. Or the cranky, mean old woman who tried to reprimand me for texting and driving even though I wasn't texting, I was changing the song on my iPod!!! Did I run her off the road? No. Did I want to? Absolutely. I convince myself that the few people I do hate are latent serial killers. It justifies my bloodlust. Anne Lamott says you can rest assured you've created God in your own image when it turns out He hates all the same people you do. I try to convince Him to hate them, or at least to allow them to be in some sort of at-fault car accident that their insurance doesn't cover. So far I can't convince Him to hate anyone. I always know that I'm wrong in my hate. I'll be very honest with you, though... knowing that God loves them should be a powerful motivator for me to learn to love them, but it isn't. It's just upsetting. See? Do you see the wickedness? I've got lots of it. But there is still a merciful blessing in this knowledge of my shortcomings, because knowing that I fail should always mean that I am more merciful to the failings of others. So here's to being merciful, and to not hating people. God's changing me, as much as I let Him.

But seriously, don't forget to tip your waitress.

Love's Labour's Lost to Lust

2009-11-18T17:39:00.000-08:00

I want to write a monthly post in the form of a polemic against Cosmo Magazine... This was inspired by a casual bored skimming of the magazine, the most intellectually and morally bankrupt, slime-depositing skim of my life. I'm pretty convinced that Cosmopolitan magazine is symbolic of so much that is wrong with our culture. Who knows if I'll be able to keep it up month after month, or if I'll even need to? I suspect I might find that they've a shallow bag of tricks and recycled material not worth responding to... nevertheless I'm curious to see what comes of it.

Curious? Let me know if this is something interesting to you, or pretty irrelevant?

Read the "How Cosmo Changed the World" blurb from their website:

Back in the 60's, young single women were enjoying a new level of freedom. For the first time, they were beginning to bust their butts in formerly male-dominated fields and explore premarital sex. But the phenomenon was still so new that no one was really talking about it.... Enter Helen Gurley Brown. In 1962, the just-married copywriter penned Sex and the Single Girl, a fictional book about a swinging singleton who was leading this new kind of life. Not only did the book tell women they didn't need a man to be happy, but it also encouraged them to enjoy sex with whomever they damn well pleased- without guilt.

Read the whole article on How Cosmo Destroyed the World here.
...This is just the tip of the smutberg.

Self Control, the Vegetable of the Spirit

2009-11-09T11:46:00.000-08:00

Ask any server, and they're guaranteed to come up with at least a couple of times when they wanted a free pass to kill a customer for being exceptionally rude and difficult. However, I've always taken pride in the fact that I have never once lost my cool with a patron. The ruder they become, the kinder I get. Sort of a "kill them with kindness" routine. Usually it works quite well. However, this particular customer made my blood boil. His manner was condescending, obstinate, and uncooperative. My usual M.O. of 'heaping hot coals' in retaliatory turn-the-other-cheekiness didn't quite slake my escalating bloodthirst; my saccharine smile belied my intense desire to spill scalding soup in his lap. Despite my indignance, I didn't betray a single emotion other than compliance in the spirit of customer-is-always-rightitude. On my drive home that night I marveled at my own patience in that encounter.

My self adulation continued until I noticed that my heart was pounding and my fury was coming back... I felt anything but patient and peaceful. And then I wondered: does it count as patience if I have a myriad of angry and borderline murderous thoughts toward this person? Does it count as patience if I'm really only restraining myself? Is acting patient when I'm not feeling patient the same as tithing when I don't want to... begrudgingly obeying in those moments when I can think of a thousand things I would rather be doing with the money? Oh yeah, I'm a joyful giver... most of the time. And until now, I'd thought I was becoming quite a patient individual, a marvelous demonstration of that fruit of the Spirit... then it hit me. I wasn't being patient. I was having Self Control, which is like the younger, less experienced, more volatile sibling of Patience. If I had been patient, my indignation wouldn't have flared up in the first place. I certainly don't disparage self control because I believe that one of the hardest things to master is yourself... but at the same time, I think self-control is like anger management. It doesn't get rid of the problem, it just shows you how to live with your impulses. Patience, it seems, is more of a transformational fruit. It is a testament to the work of the Spirit throughout your innermost being. If I'd been patient... maybe I wouldn't have been angered by this customer at all. Self control is dandy, like anger management. But I think anger elimination is more favorable. Rather than putting a lid on the boiling pot, I'd rather just extinguish that flame of indignation and stung pride. The Lord isn't slow to show his anger. He is slow to anger in the first place. I want that trait!

And I want to call self-control the vegetable of the spirit. I know it's probably wrong on all counts, literarily and spiritually and theologically... but it just isn't quite as sweet as the other fruits. Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness... oh, and self-control, for all those times when you can't quite get a grip on the other eight fruits. Here, have a carrot.

Entitlement vs. Expectancy

2009-09-23T00:38:00.000-07:00

In my job hunting, I've use all those tools like CareerBuilder, JobMonkey, NES Staffing... and sometimes I find legitimate leads. But all the more I'm noticing that there's an uncomfortable level of truth to the adage, "It's not what you know, it's who you know." I've already whined about the job market in my previous post, so I will try not to be repetitive. Sure, I work as many hours as I can get at my job, but it isn't one of those jobs that I can respect myself for as a college graduate. I am grateful for a job at all, but the hours are so few and the sense of purpose, virtually non-existent. Old customers come in and recognize me, we chat, and very quickly the conversation inevitably turns to this one question: "Why are you still here?"

I ask myself that question everyday. Every. Day. Not just at work, but in general. I came home for a job opportunity that fell through, so now I'm back in my hometown, struggling to reconnect with my old life when old friends are pretty much scattered to the four winds, going their various directions. I miss my college town in Southern California, a place that quickly became my home. I miss the beach, the friends that I have there, and the church that I loved so much. I hoped that those feelings would fade when I returned home, especially since I came back here out of a sincere sense of obedience. I set aside what I then thought to be immature and more immediate desires (friends, fun, community) and did what I thought God was leading me to do, and what I thought any responsible adult should do: go where the job is. Because job=future. Right?

But the job isn't here. Hiring freezes and budget cuts made sure of it. And this place isn't home anymore; my family is here, but I feel like I'm trying to crawl back inside a cocoon that stopped fitting a long time ago. So I just look stupid. Perhaps the trouble is that I made up my mind that it wouldn't be home, and it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. But now I'm floundering, wondering what God is up to. I try to formulate future plans, but in the meantime I just need a good real job. Yet that means some sort of anchoring to a place that I didn't want to be at in the first place. And I guess I've always assumed that God prefers us to work; it seems part of the natural order. So then I figure, God wants me to have a job, right? But does He want me to have a job here?

I wonder what response the Lord would have from me and people in similar circumstances; are we supposed to react to this situation (unemployment, discouraging job market) with optimism? Believing that the opportunity is there, and we have only to find it? Are we supposed to accept our current circumstance as God's will, or are we supposed to simply try harder? As Christians, we are supposed to be expectant of great things. Bill Johnson said "It is unnatural for a Christian not to have an appetite for the impossible."That rings true to me. The God of the universe loves us and adores us! He is earnestly invested in bringing about good from all circumstances! Jesus is alive and the Spirit is moving! Why shouldn't we expect every good and perfect gift? Why shouldn't we approach the throne expectantly? Aren't we supposed to expect His best?
Expectancy:

Well good grief, what does that actually mean, practically speaking? What does the "best" look like? The more I think about it, the more I find difficulty in drawing the line between expectancy (knowing that God has good things for His children, and will provide for me) and entitlement (feeling like He owes me something because He loves me and has every resource at His disposal). I don't know where I end and He begins. How much of my future is in my hands? How much of it is up to me? My grandmother once said "It's easier for God to steer a moving ship than for Him to blow it out of the harbor." Obviously she couldn't have been giving me this advice, because I totally have a grip on this concept.... except for those times when I don't have a grip, and I get paralyzed by uncertainty. Naturally, then, my thought is to make like a ship and get moving until I sense a shift in the wind, some kind of divine intervention. But then I wonder... is this the best direction? Is this what I should be doing? In my quest for God's will, I become paralyzed in my own indecision, frozen in my own mind. I don't want to be angry at God for not showing up where I thought He'd be (entitlement) but I don't want to just stop expecting Him to show up, merely to prevent disappointment.

Entitlement:

Maybe His version of moving in my life doesn't match mine. That idea doesn't thrill me. It's like sitting at a bus stop, waiting for ten hours for the stupid bus to get there and take you to your aunts house in Duluth. You sit there, sweating, putting up with a bunch of bad weather and getting hit on by homeless people and truant high schoolers. Only the bus never comes, because what you thought was a bus stop was really just a park bench. Drat. Then you come to find out that your aunt wasn't in Duluth at all, because you'd gotten your dates confused. She was out of town, so you wouldn't have had any place to stay anyway. Oh, and her house got broken into while she was gone, and you narrowly avoided being smothered by a burglar. So in retrospect, you start thinking that maybe your ten hour bench warming sesh was a blessing in disguise. But was that really necessary? Couldn't that suffering be made simpler?! That isn't my idea of a good time.

That was a really mind numbing analogy. The point is, maybe God moves in mysterious ways (read: He is God of wonders, we are dust):

Isaiah 55:8-9
For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lorrd. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.

Now that, I believe. It's a relief to surrender to that sort of providence. The interim period, between vision and fruition... it still sucks. I sometimes get overwhelmed too easily, forgetting what I believe in (God is good, God is love, every good and perfect gift comes from Him) and why (because it's true... and its been demonstrated over and over! I'm just dense!). In spite of my frailty, I don't want to exchange expectancy for bitterness or cynicism, because the more I think about it, the more expectancy and faith look remarkably alike. Well, how do I feed childlike faith? For starters, believing that God is bigger than me. And if Abraham's faith was credited to him as righteousness... if God decided to use the quality of faith as a measurement of right standing with Him, pre-Covenant, then obviously faith is a big deal in His eyes! As an RA, my floor theme was Faith; for part of the deco, I mounted a mustard seed up on the wall for display in all the quads (Matthew 17:20). It gives me hope... I mean, have you seen a mustard seed? They're impossibly small. I love that Jesus chose that rather than, say, a double coconut seed the size of my head. He understood exactly how discouraged and faithless we can be, and wanted to make sure we knew that there was no need for superstar Christianity. It's like lowering the bar in midget pole vaulting: just when you thought the bare minimum couldn't get anymore... minimal... there Jesus goes, building a handicap access ramp and giving us boosts.

Nuns, Guppies, and the American McDream

2009-09-20T03:28:00.000-07:00

So there are no misunderstandings later on, I just need to be straight forward about something: I'm not 100% in love with the economy right now. We are on the fritz. I'm serious. I want to kick the economy in the shins. I want to insult the economy's mother. I want to have a party and not invite the economy. If Kanye wants to interrupt the economy's acceptance speech for Suckfest of the Century, I'm okay with that. *steps off soap box*

I don't know about you, but I was pretty miffed when the market began to plummet at an accelerated pace last fall; not particularly anxious or fearful, but definitely annoyed. You were probably right there with me as we watched Wall Street nosedive like a drunken bungee jumper on spring break; we covered one eye and looked down the ravine with the other, muttering with bated breath, "Is it supposed to take this long? I can't see him. Did he fasten the little hooky belay thing?...no, Ponzi fastened it for him. Is he gonna come back up eventually? Has he hit the bottom yet?.... How long is this supposed to take, guys? .... Guys?" But honestly... who needs drunken demonstrations of awful when you have the likes of AIG, Bernie Madoff and the Fed teaching How to Destroy Everything You Touch 101. We all paid over $700 billion for this lesson so we'd better pay attention.

For those of you from the class of 2009... we've been let loose into a job market where we are competing with people twice our age, with twice our experience, for bottom rung entry-level positions typically reserved for inexperienced recent college grads. We're like guppies from a fish tank replete with the plastic trees and the treasure chests and the other fishes from Planet Pets, getting dumped into the Amazon River where there are no little plastic scuba divers or treasure chests... only other, bigger, more experienced, slightly strung out fishes that eat everything... food, boats, trash, you. People with Ph.D's are applying for MI's, for Pete's sake. I applied for an administrative assistant position- along with 800 other applicants. I also applied for a waitressing job at a restaurant that received 50 applications on one day for a single job opening that wasn't even advertised. A friend of mine who just finished his first year of law school last May was explaining the process of applying for internships; they made him jump through flaming hoops (literally... I know, freaky) and wanted everything but his spleen and firstborn. All this to be considered for an unpaid position. As he put it, "I've never had to work so hard to convince someone to let me work for them for free!"

I had a conversation with someone recently about the nature of work, and how discouraging it can be... for many, it seems that no matter how lifeless and pointless our work might seem, it is necessary for survival. We slave away at seemingly menial tasks... filing paperwork, cleaning pools, parking cars, piloting commercial flights, de-paper jamming printers, drawing up contracts and lesson plans, selling, selling, selling... trying to convince everyone that they need what we've got. And if they don't need it... well, they should want it, and they shouldn't be happy until they have it. I quipped that in this light... the light that exposes us chasing after the carrot, baby-stepping to 5 o'clock so that we can go and do the things that we really enjoy but can't get paid to do... in this light, work is almost evil; a curse, the opposite of joy and prosperity and freedom, the abundant life's wicked stepmother. I was being facetious of course, but then I realized... it's kind of true. You know the curse I'm talking about: “Cursed is the ground because of you; In toil you shall eat of it all the days of your life. Both thorns and thistles it shall grow for you; And you shall eat the plants of the field."(Genesis 3:17-18) Certainly it's a bit metaphoric because few of us are working in an agricultural setting anymore (and don't you think that's a shame?), but you get the point. "Life and work are going to be a lot tougher. You'll work longer hours and get fewer returns. Your boss will hound you, you'll kill yourself trying to get that holiday bonus, and your kids will constantly complain that all their friends have Guitar Hero and they don't... and you're ruining their life-uh!" I think that's the Message version.

Before I continue, I should clarify that this is not an indictment of our economic system, because despite current circumstances, the free market economy is the best system ever developed. Unlike Marxism, which is a joke, and mercantilism (think 18th century England and modern China... weighed, measured, and found wanting), capitalism works. Societies thrive because of it. In the best of circumstances - i.e., free of protectionism, interventionism, and alltheotherisms - it benefits all parties involved. But it capitalizes on our wanting more; it is contingent upon our restlessness, our dissatisfaction, our malcontentment. Money isn't the problem... if it were, redistribution would be sufficient. No- LOVE of money is the problem (duh, right?). But contrary to what utopian philosophizers and the communist manifesto would have us believe, no amount of government programs/programming can weed out the greed, because government can't better people. In dealing with the major root issues that actually plague us, people ultimately have only one hope- Jesus. But lets not make that into an argument for theocracy, because that's certainly not what I'm saying. And I'm also not saying that we're on a one way train to Doomsville; after all, necessity is the mother of invention. We are in need, and it is an exciting time to see what entrepreneurial methods of thriving people will come up with as a response to this adversity. But our current situation certainly makes you stop and think.

For my part, I do find that consumerism runs contrary to my intrinsic desire to live simply. Not that I want to be poor. Who wants to be poor? Nuns maybe. If I were to embrace a minimalist mentality, I might say something like "All you need is love"... or "All you need is good food, good music, and good company." I think there are many who feel the same way; certainly many from my generation. I recently had a discussion with a friend at a wedding about this very topic. About priorities and aspirations and the sorts of things that we might find fulfilling. And nothing that we came up with seems to fit the mold of anything that we've seen in contemporary society. We both had the sense that there is something more. Perhaps something previously dismissed as peripheral. I have many older friends and acquaintances who've lived long enough in the American McDream, and are no longer enticed by the house and 2 car garage, regardless of how low mortgage rates are. Now, this American Dream started out nobly enough... everyone with enough to support his family and live comfortably in freedom. That's honest! That's good! God bless those aspirations, for those who desire it.

But I don't quite want that. At least I don't think I do. I want to be unfettered; Suburbia scares me. Of course I'm young and unattached, so I don't have a family to think about; an older, married, mommy version of me might say "All you need is good food, good music, and good company.... and a house and a large savings account, just in case." All of it is intended to create a feeling of security... but security is a notion of human invention, anyway. It isn't found in nature! Of course there is wisdom in financial scrupulousness. But manmade security is a mirage. As the chimp from Babe, Pig in the City would put it: "Its illusory. It's ill, and its for losers." And on the topic of security, other hefty questions come into play. Am I so intently stalking security because I simply don't trust the Lord's provision? When does this fall into the realm of leaning on our my understanding? Someone once told me, "Fear is the antithesis of faith." Well, God went out of His way to say "fear not" 365 times in the Word. How can I help but see this financial meltdown as an opportunity!? An opportunity to approach the throne with more boldness? An opportunity for the Lord to do something big! If God is who I believe Him to be, there is a goldmine of untapped, unfamiliar providence awaiting me on the horizon. It might not be what I am expecting or looking for, (green papery stuff) but He hasn't forgotten me. Any of us. Blessed assurance.

note: I really wanted a compelling image to be placed here... something that would convey fearlessness and faith and stuff. But when I googled "fearless," I was inundated with images of Taylor Swifts cover from her latest album... So for the record I just want to say that I think Beyonce's album cover was the best album cover, and it really deserved to be featured.

A Contemporary Psalm

2009-09-16T14:38:00.000-07:00

This is one of my favorite worship songs (so much so that I used it in my audition for the Vanguard music department) because of its honesty about our own frailty, and how our weakness is still what makes us compatible with Jesus; nothing i can say will improve upon it, so just give it a listen :)

In The Silence - Jason Upton

Tired of telling you you have me

When I know you really don't
Tired of telling you, "I'll follow"
When I know I really won't

Cause I'd rather stand here, speechless
With no great words to say
If my silence is more truthful
Then my ears can hear how to walk in Your ways

(Chorus)
In the silence
You are speaking
In the quiet
I can feel the fire
And it's burning
Burning deeply
Burning all it is that you desire
To be silent
In me

Oh Jesus, can you hear me?
My soul is screaming out
And my broken will cries "Teach me
what You kingdom's all about!"
Unite my heart to fear You
To fear Your holy ways
And create a life of worship
In the spirit and truth of your loving ways

Chorus

I found my dream job... kinda

2009-09-14T00:45:00.000-07:00

I was in Borders a few weeks ago with my friend Alex, sitting in the cafe and reading on a Friday evening. There were lots of people around, even though the store was about to close. As we were heading for the door I noticed a little girl, who couldn't have been more than four, wandering around the cafe area. She was walking in little circles, biting her finger. I thought she looked a little out of place because aside from Alex and myself, there were no other white folks in sight, and none of the people there were watching her. Instinctively I stopped. She continued to trot around on her chubby little legs, looking more and more anxious; Alex and I looked at each other and I whispered, "Is she lost?" At that very moment, the little girl stopped dead in her tracks. Her legs bent at the knees, slightly inward, as though she were about to collapse; her hands dropped to her sides, her shoulders slumped, and although her back was to me, I heard her cry. It was heartbreaking.

I walked over to her, crouching down and reaching out to touch her little shoulder. As she turned to me, I asked her "Honey, are you lost?" I had barely gotten the words out when she leaned into me, collapsing into my arms as I reached out to scoop her up. She hid her face in my shoulder and sobbed "I don't know where she is... she said good-bye to meee..." and started to cry again. As I tried to soothe her, I asked her for her name. She hiccuped, "My name is Kira.... I don't know where my mommy is!" She clutched me tightly like a little monkey, wrapping her legs around my waist as if for dear life. Having worked at Borders before, I knew that they had a strict no-touch policy with lost children. I hated it because kids got lost in our megastore all the time, and I felt so cold and distant by refusing to hold them. I totally understand the policy, but it was awful anyway. I can only imagine how alone this little one could have felt had she been discovered by an employee, who then would have to coax her to the customer service desk when the poor thing was too frightened to move. I carried her down the aisles, thinking about what she was saying- her mother had said "good-bye" to her? Did I have an abandoned child on my hands? As I considered this, I panned the store for an appropriately panicked-looking parent and sure enough, a woman came running to me with that mixture of fear and anger on her face... the expression of a parent who is so relieved you're not dead that they're now ready to kill you for making them worry. Kira went right to her, crying "You said good-bye to me, mommy!" and the mother, thanking me and taking her little girl, said "No, you wandered away from me when I told you to be still." I'll be honest- I wanted to smack the woman for letting it happen, taking into account the size of the store (huge), the amount of time that had passed (enough to regret), and the little girls insistence that her mother had told her good-bye (wtf), but I simply smiled, said "You're welcome" and left.

As I recounted this story later on, I explained how relieved I was, in that moment of picking her up, to know that this little girl, while lost, would at least be safe with me. The relief in her eyes and her little body as she fell into my arms was so precious; I told my mom, "I just wish I could find lost children all the time..." She looked at me and said with a little twinkle in her eye, "Now there's a career for you."

How amazing would that be? To find and comfort lost and frightened children, and bring them safely home? (I know, I know, it's been done. But don't act like Denzel's "Man on Fire" is more interesting than me. Psh) As I've mentioned before, seeing the films Changeling and Gone Baby Gone affected me pretty heavily because they opened my eyes to horrors that, for some reason, I didn't believe possible. I've always thought myself a realist, but apparently I was still too optimistic about humanity to believe that anyone could actually harm a child on purpose (Out of sheer wickedness, like the child rapist and murderer from Changeling... which is a true story, by the way).

I still go back to that sentence that I spoke so unwittingly: "I wish I could find lost children all the time." Can I have that job? Like a nonprofit bounty-hunter, but way, way different. It's like Derek Zoolander seeing his reflection in a spoon... suddenly everything becomes really clear and you think, "Wow, I'm (insert talent, obsession, or the one thing that you have going for you... ridiculously good-looking), maybe I should do that for a career!" Maybe not, but I just watched Zoolander so it's still right there at the front of my mind. Work with me.

...eugoogalizer.

Maternity Ward: Welcome to the World, Baby Girl

2009-09-13T03:55:00.000-07:00

"I'd love to have children. It's what completes you." -Paris Hilton

You know those girls who talk about babies all the time? The ones for whom marriage is merely a means to a very particular end... children? Well, they freak me out. Seriously. I don't know if I can explain it exactly, it just seems so backward. They seem to gain their identity from their ovaries. They are ones who flip out when their children leave the home because for all the doting and care and attention they poured out on their children, it was somehow about them... the need to be needed. Think of Ray Romano's mom in Everybody Loves Raymond. C.S. Lewis says, "Controlling women are the sort of women who 'live for others.' You can tell the 'others' by their hunted expression." Preach it. We've all been around a person like this; the woman who toils away in the kitchen on Thanksgiving Day and then blows a gasket because you didn't eat enough of the green bean casserole or cranberry sauce... never mind that you're allergic to cranberries. Or there's the woman who volunteers all the freaking time at church for various activities and makes you feel like dirt because you just don't have the time to make a brisket, much less coordinate the potluck. I get the sneaking suspicion that these women are modeling themselves after the Proverbs 31 woman. And can I be honest with you? Uncomfortably honest? I can't stand the Proverbs 31 woman. Sure, I love the idea of her... she's all handy and self-reliant, what with makin' all her own clothes and food and being a shrewd business woman. But come on. She doesn't sleep. Her children will arise and call her blessed because she's been baking bread since the crack of dawn. Sorry, I don't like bread that much. "She gets up while it is still early"... "her lamp doesn't go out at night." Glorified workaholic, is what that is. And, as Stasi Eldredge pointed out in her book Captivating -which I loved- she probably doesn't have time for sex, either. (*Gasp* "But Christian women aren't supposed to think about sex! They're not supposed to want to have sex!" Thats a whole 'nother blog entry right there, folks.) And if she's doing all of this out of anything but real, selfless love for her family and for her God, it's going to show.

Now you're probably wondering if I'm some sort of Ebenezer Scrooge... I must hate kids and want to devote all my time to a selfish hedonistic lifestyle, right?

Wrong. I adore kids. And its a risky thing for a 24 year old Christian single girl to talk about, because you automatically seem to get filed into a certain category... there's either "solid Christian girl with lots of marriage potential" if you get gaga over babies, or "nominal Christian girl with some serious worldy hangups and priority issues" if you aren't sure you want them just yet, if at all.

I'm neither one of those girls. I grew up with two younger brothers... and I was the go-to babysitter. So I didn't exactly leap at the nanny jobs that my friends had in high school and college. People assume that if your primary income isn't from babysitting, well then you must not really like children. But that isn't it either. Here's the deal: I happen to have an incredible mother (don't we all... but seriously she's phenomenal... you should meet her) who poured her life out to give her children all the spiritual, intellectual, and emotional sustenance she could possibly muster. Now, because I had an incredible model for what a mother can be, I frankly don't want to give anything less. I've been brought up to believe that children deserve all the love and nurturing they can possibly get from their parents, who are ideally (albeit feebly) supposed to be modeling the selfless love of God. Children are such incredibly beautiful little beings. Magical, in a way. They're fragile and at the same time, steady... simultaneously cantankerous and reverent to hilarious degrees, full of wonder and potential and covered with the fingerprints of our Abba Father. And I can't imagine not wanting to protect them and foster them and love them to life.

But wait... law school has been my goal since third grade. While my childhood friends were planning their weddings, I was planning my presidency. My grandfather recently asked me if I plan to get married and have children at some point. I told him I was certainly open to the idea... to which he responded "Well then what are you going to college for?"

I suppose it shouldn't really be a difficult question to answer... these days, all mothers work. That seems like the obvious answer. But my mom didn't, and for that reason, I don't have a paradigm for that sort of lifestyle. I will always feel that staying home with them is the best alternative, at least until they're old enough to start elementary school. I can't imagine farming my kids out to daycare and letting the world get its greasy fingers all over them, when I know the sort of attention I received, and how I benefitted from it in those formative years. Believe me, I understand that not all families have the luxury of stay-at-home moms, and not all moms want to stay at home... although more often than not, I find new mothers willing to give up their job security for extended maternity leave. I'm guessing something instinctual kicks in. But often, necessity trumps desire and instinct. Financially struggling households are commonplace, as are single parents households (and my hat is off to them). But - and forgive me if this is too bold - it doesn't seem to be the ideal scenario, and I think they would tell you so.

I don't know why all of this is coming to mind recently. If I do indeed have a biological clock, it's definitely not ticking. I don't look at beautiful babies and think "I want one!" I think "Let me hold him! ... and then give him back." My best friend has a beautiful son that I adore (and don't see often enough, for the record... Courtney...) And I am excited to meet my children one day, if I have them. But I don't feel any urgency, whatsoever. It's a terribly complex question for women these days, women who feel as though their primary calling isn't solely motherhood. I don't understand the antiquated mentality that governed society for centuries... the notion that you have little girls and keep them only to be future breeders. The real focus was on growing the boys into confident, viable men. The girls were acceptable so long as they were reproductively mature. In Western society, it seems really passe to have this mentality. Paul addresses this matter in Galatians 3:28, saying we are neither male nor female... so we're people first, male/female second, right? (On a hefty side note- how much of our historical global trauma could've been avoided if we'd diligently applied that scripture to our lives?) Now, I hesitate to say this because I'm reluctant to be labeled a fembot, and I know that there are plenty of people who'd rather just not think about it, so they disavow anyone that does think about it. I'm not a second-wave feminist who applies Title 9 to life in general... my unquestioning allegiance to the feminist movement stopped around the first wave. But for as long as I can remember (no exaggeration) I've imagined myself having a fantastically purposeful and challenging job, borne of my love for God and my love for mankind, championing the defenseless and fighting injustice, giving a voice to the voiceless and rest for the weary. I feel a calling to live out Micah 6:8- not a calling to keep myself in a Mercedes-Benz and the ever-perfect mani/pedi. But what if this calling interferes with my idea of perfect motherhood?

Case in point: I know other professional women, women who've gone before me and attested to the fact that once they had a baby, they suddenly wanted nothing more than to quit their job and take care of it. Well, that seems natural and healthy and... holy. I truly believe that children, for those that have them, are to be their parents' primary ministry. It makes sense, right? We first learn of God as Father, so obviously the parental role (one of the most natural in the world) is divinely inspired. And I believe that parenthood is one of the most powerful ways to learn about the character of God. Here is the heart of it: I don't want my children to be casualties of my noble career pursuing justice and healing for other people. Chuck Colson pointed out in his book How Now Shall We Live? that fatherlessness seems to be at the heart of most major social problems. And spiritually, that makes perfect sense, what with our projecting our earthly father's issues onto our Heavenly Father and acting out accordingly. So it would seem that so many social ills are the result of parents who ultimately failed to make their children their priority, their first ministry. I've seen this happen so often with pastors kids... it's tragic. And I couldn't live with myself. I feel that you can do both... that is, have a rewarding personal career and be a devoted parent... and I was stoked to read an article in Surf magazine several years ago about Shayne and Shannon McIntyre, the surfer couple that had a baby and never missed a beat, simply including him in the ride, taking him with them everywhere. Now thats my kind of gig. Read more about the McIntyres, and Shannon in particular, here.

Who knows why these questions are suddenly filling my head? I'm single, recently graduated, and virtually free to do as I please. Settling down isn't exactly on the top of my list, and I don't foresee children in my near future. I want adventure, I want to see the world, I want the Lord to incline my heart, and to take me where He goes. So now here I am, trying to navigate the path of a young, anxious, hopeful, discouraged, excited, frightened, confident, confused 24 year old without a road map, save for the Holy Spirit- who, frankly, doesn't audible as often as I'd like. As Fannie Flagg put it... Welcome to the world, baby girl.

The Urban Wild West: From Fences to Saint Francis and back.

2009-09-10T22:24:00.000-07:00

As my experience downtown continues, I find myself asking a lot more questions about the Lord, about people, about obedience and faith and what they look like when they're walked out. I was hoping to have more answers than questions, but no such luck... yet.

The questions that keep cropping up in my mind are always triggered by the inner city squalor that we deal with: prostitution, drug addiction, unemployment, homelessness, alcoholism, domestic violence... its like a microcosmic example of all the darkness and despair to which a human being is capable of giving himself. These problems are exactly what the Department has been trying to alleviate... but it's not something that a government can do. (The notion of the perfectability of the human race is a dangerous one that I reject as idealistic utopianism... and we can probably get into that later.) The best they can do is recognize a legitimate need and attempt to coordinate a sincere and concentrated solution. As a Christian, I serve a God whose very Existence and Presence restores and redeems and renews, whose mercy is the hope of the drug addict, the prostitute, the pimp, the gang members, the fatherless... how would the Lord have us engage in the dangerous world around us? Are we to put ourselves out there, trusting that He will protect us? Do we lead in the vanguard, knowing we have physical and spiritual adversaries that cannot be shut out forever? Do we face the danger that must be made to back down as we stand on the righteousness of our mighty God? Do we tear down our fences as an act of fearlessness, a refusal to be cowed by gangsters? When do we reach out to the aggressor with his knife to our throats, as David Wilkerson did when held up at knife point by Nicky Cruz? (he said, "You can cut me into a thousand pieces, and every piece will love you just the same"... Wow. I know myself, and I'm not quite there yet....) How do we speak to their broken humanity, offering love in the face of brutality, calling their souls out of darkness? When do we flee? When do we draw the line?

Mercy seasoned with justice seems to be the answer... but it's a frightening one. Evil exists, and sometimes humans give themselves over to it. How do we respond to blatant evil? Child molesters, pimps, rapists? Even then, those are just the ones whose hopelessness and depravity has gone public. How about those who keep their despair to themselves? Who self-medicate and merely survive every day? Living as shadows? These are the ones whose actions make community revitalization both necessary and incredibly difficult. I believe no one is too far gone to be reached by the mercy of Christ... to me, mercy is absolutely one of God's most beautiful and enthralling and glorious attributes. I'm captivated by this element of God's character. I can't adequately express how I love what it does to, and for, the human soul. It's restorative. It breathes life to dry bones. It is Christ! But after watching the films Changeling and Gone Baby Gone... which horrified me, and made me want to adopt every child in the foster care system as well as personally take out every child molester, Boondock Saints style... I can honestly say that my mercy has a very finite ending point. I simply don't have it in me to extend mercy to those who prey on the innocent and defenseless. And that is why God is God, and I am not.

Two passages come to mind as I wrestle with these questions. We all know Ephesians 6:12 "For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms." I try to remember this in times of anger, when I find myself furious with another human... which happens more frequently than I'd like to admit. Then there's the Prayer of St. Francis that I would do well to whisper (when I would like nothing more than to shout my vile frustrations):

"Lord, make me an instrument of your peace

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life."

What sort of boldness would we be walking in if we, as Christians, embraced this tender merciful righteousness? If we acted as true salt and light, how would the world heal? If we faced down evil, standing in the righteousness of the power of the Most High God rather than our own self righteousness, how fearfully would it retreat? What if we stopped living on the defensive, vaulted the fences, and started pressing forward into the Kingdom of God?

The Urban Wild West: Great Whites and Fences and Gangsters, Oh My!

2009-09-10T21:54:00.001-07:00

Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:`	5
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,	10
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;

And on a day we meet to walk the line

And set the wall between us once again.

We keep the wall between us as we go

To each the boulders that have fallen to each.

And some are loaves and some so nearly balls

We have to use a spell to make them balance:

"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"

We wear our fingers rough with handling them.

Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,

One on a side. It comes to little more:

He is all pine and I am apple-orchard.

My apple trees will never get across

And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.

He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."

Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder

If I could put a notion in his head:

"Why do they make good neighbors?..."

"The Mending Wall" - Robert Frost

Most joking aside, I've actually quite enjoyed the last few weeks. The department is in transition, having been newly created in January; naturally there are lots of kinks to iron out. I am making friends, networking, and getting a great glimpse into the world of urban planning and neighborhood revitalization. There's much to learn, and as I round a corner I didn't know existed, I find more and more that I didn't know that I didn't know. It's dwarfing. I've spent hours researching everything from broadband grant initiatives to municipal codes for real property ordinances to fence height regulations to back alley dumping and graffiti "abatement." (I like that word. It sounds so much more professional than "stop it.")

The director of the department, Greg, is one of those dynamic people that you can't help but like, even when you disagree about everything. He's outgoing, funny, and an absolute genius. All in a very understated way, which is, I think, one of the most admirable of human qualities. We went to lunch the other day (He pays this unpaid intern with mexican food, which is glorious); over a bowl of throat-excoriating caldo, we discussed the recent municipal code violation citations that had been issued within a particular downtown neighborhood. The issue is this:

Chain link fences aren't supposed to exceed 3 feet tall. The purpose in regulating fences is actually to discourage fences in general. But everyone in the neighborhood has a fence. So what? The problem with the prevalence of fences is this: there are so many subconscious, subtle messages that a fence may send to the community. Think about it... are there fences in your neighborhood? Why or why not? Do fences enhance the aesthetics of a community? Even the most ornate and majestic wrought iron fences communicate a clear message: keep out. In the case of the neighborhoods in question, there are fences beautiful and ugly, solid and dilapidated, but they are all fences. These people erect them to keep their families in, and their surroundings out. This poses a problem for neighborhood revitalization; if we want to bring people into the area to live and raise their families, we want the streets to send a message that says "Come on in. Relax. No one is going to carjack you." Fences don't exactly put off the "relax, stay a while" vibe. But for some neighborhoods, it's not so simplistic.

This was the point of contention that Greg and I reached: He argues that the residents should be required to bring their fences down to regulation size because the presence of high fences sends a message of insecurity to prospective buyers, driving down property values and discouraging young professionals from relocating. This contributes to a desolate vibe and a generally ominous, off-putting community demeanor. His argument struck me as eerily similar to a scene from the movie Jaws:

If you recall, the town of Amity's 4th of July celebration is just around the corner when an awful, grisly shark attack occurs off the coastline. Because Amity's summer tourism generates so much vital revenue, the mayor decides that he can't afford to close the beaches because of one shark attack, no matter how deadly. In order to coax the public to enter into the festivities (and the water), he convinces some of the locals to set an example by going swimming, knowing that the town risks losing a substantial amount of money if the tourists don't have a greater sense of well-being. By pressuring the hesitant and nervous locals (who know better) into sacrificing their better judgment for the sake of economic profit, he endangers lives.

In this neighborhood analogy, the shark is replaced by the prevalence of gangs. There are single houses inhabited by gang members who terrorize entire neighborhoods of law abiding citizens, citizens who are too afraid of retaliation to do anything about the bullies. I asked Greg what he suggests these people do? He answered by giving an analogy. He asked what sort of characteristics set apart the settlers of the 'wild west,' making them capable of pioneering when others failed. I replied that they were hardy and ready to fight, not easily intimidated, and determined to survive. I asked him if he would have the residents sit out on their porches at night with shotguns (I personally like that approach)? Thats the Davy Crockett thing to do. Well, he was surprisingly open to the idea. But we don't live in the Wild West. There aren't supposed to be marauders roaming around terrorizing the womenfolk and shooting up the saloons. We live in cities with police forces that are supposed to deal with the bad guys so we don't have to do it.

And so my issue is this: Why is it that the City whose police force fails to adequately protect them from aggressors, is the same City that penalizes them for fencing them out?

In this specific instance, the city appears to be fining residents and forcing them to lower their fences because it is simpler, and more financially lucrative, than eliminating the need for fences in the first place (i.e., cracking down on crime) which is also the city's job. In this case, I say they owe it to the residents to make the neighborhoods safe before they penalize them for protecting themselves.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not the fencey type. I don't like the idea of merely keeping corruption at bay. I loved the movie "Gran Torino" (am I the only one who thought it was pretty hilarious except for the ending?). It illustrates the problem perfectly; sometimes corruption comes right into your yard and picks a fight, demanding to be addressed. Without getting into the conversation about just war, pacifism, and hawkishness (another topic for another time), when do you say enough is enough? A defensive battle is, tactically speaking, often easier to fight, but is it always the most conclusive? When do you tear down your fence and take on the encroaching neighborhood bully, reclaiming your territory? How does a Christian approach it, when faced with obvious evil and injustice? I don't know the best way to handle it... but I do know that the worst thing we can do in the face of injustice and evil is to look the other way out of indifference or fear.

Adventures in Internment, Part II: The Commandments of the Public Sector

2009-09-10T12:40:00.001-07:00

I've been interning in my current position for going on two months now, and hope to continue until the end of the year. I also interned for a summer in the District Attorney's office just down the street, and while I am no authority on municipality, I'm getting better at recognizing patterns when I see them, and I've been able to discern a few ostensible Commandments for Government Employees. I feel it is my duty to say that naturally, there are exceptions. I have been privileged to meet and work with many brilliant and exceptional individuals who love their jobs and devote their entire lives to fleshing out their vision. I stand behind that statement 100%. My observations are in no way limited to the department I'm in, but rather seem to reflect the nature of government in general. However, none of you would be surprised by commandments 1-3.:

1) Thou Shalt Not Work Past 5 p.m.
Now this is not universally true. There are a few individuals who take their work home with them, who slave away on weekends and holidays, and I commend them. But as a stereotype that often proves to be the rule, this will remain set in stone.

2) Thou Shalt Attend Endless Meetings to Discuss Plans of Action, Instead of Actual Acting

Let me be honest here. I've been privy to countless meetings... one that was begun with the statement "Does anyone actually know what this meeting is about?" For the most part it seems like a lot of process, and not a lot of outcome. As a devoted capitalist, I feel somewhat indignant when I see people sitting for two hours on the tax payers dollar, relaying their weeks work and activities to the rest of the office, whose tasks are not significantly impacted or improved by such information. I have seen very little in meetings that could not simply be communicated via office-wide email.

3) Thou Shalt Spend the Entire Budget of Tax Revenues on Employee Salaries, So They Can Spend Their Days Trying To Come Up With Funding From Elsewhere

Now seriously. They constantly complain that they have no money. I feel that this can be remedied by firing a few people. I understand that their output isn't quantified in the same was as a business (because they don't function like a business) so turning a profit isn't their goal. But they are still spending money, and when their empty pockets adversely affects their clout, when they spend all their paid time trying to dig up grants... isn't that symptomatic of sloppy fiscal policy? I would like to be wrong on this point because I don't particularly like the whistle blowing thing, but come on.

4) Thou Shalt Not Blog.

Now this 4th Commandment is somewhat discouraging. I've been told by a reputable source that there was a "come to Jesus meeting" where a particular higher-up forbad all city employees from blogging. Something about public relations policy, inappropriate disclosure, and too much truthiness.

Good thing I'm not an employee. And that whole first amendment thing... well...

Adventures in Internment, Part I

2009-07-22T13:31:00.000-07:00

• Intern: noun /intern/ (also interne) chiefly N. Amer. 1 a recent medical graduate receiving supervised training in a hospital and acting as an assistant physician or surgeon. 2 a student or trainee who does a job to gain work experience or for a qualification.
-verb 1 /intern/ confine as a prisoner. 2 /intern/ chiefly N. Amer. serve as an intern.

I've been interning at City Hall for about two weeks now. I go from roughly 9 in the morning til 5 in the afternoon, 5 days a week, and dig around for projects to assist, research to conduct, and ways to humiliate myself in front of large groups. The latter doesn't require much digging on my part, because I've been honing and perfecting the skill since I learned to speak. I'm really quite good at it... just give me a room full of people and I'll take it from there. Now I am familiar with the notion that we are our own worst enemies and critics, everyone else is too worried about what others think of them to think about you, blah blah blah. So it is possible that I am kicking myself for things that are for the most part completely innocuous. But it is also possible that I am an idiot with a proclivity for self-destruction, most often in the form of smart-alecky remarks and over share.

Let me start at the beginning. I was recommended for this internship by a reputable politician. She did the work of getting me in the door, so interview wasn't necessary. However, my first meeting with the office staff was spur of the moment and, surprisingly, a little nerve wracking. I was led to the conference room to meet the respective directors of the department, and the people were quite sociable and seemed welcoming. As one of the managers began to describe outreach projects within the Spanish speaking community, she explained that she had minimal Spanish speaking skills. Suddenly, I remember that I do have them! And I forgot to put them on my resume! Somehow, it seems like the perfect moment to offer, "I used to be kinda proficient in Spanish. I served as a translator on a couple of church trips..." While they were all for the most part jocular and receptive to this comment, the little voice in the back of my mind was not so pleased:

Mary: "Well, really? That's wonderful. Very useful!"

Candace: "Yeah, I'm better at understanding it if its spoken to me. I'm not good at actually speaking it..."

Greg: "I only know swear words. How do you say 'knee' in spanish?"

Me: (audibly) "I think its.... rodilla?"
(internal monologue) "STUPID STUPID STUPID STUPID STUPID."

I don't know why this moment makes me cringe so much. Maybe it's because self promotion of ANY kind is something I eschew as a rule. I just find it uncomfortable and distasteful, something to be expected from cocky guys with fragile egos. Maybe its because I felt the comment wasn't timely. Who knows. At the last staff meeting, the interns were asked to give a status report on our most recent projects. My assignment was to identify inefficiencies and repetitiveness within the department website and form an alternative template. The director, who has a spectacularly dry and sarcastic sense of humor (which makes it almost impossible for me to behave myself in his presence), asked me, in an almost mock-didactic tone: "Now, why is it important that we update the website?" Now, any sane, normal person would have simply stuck with a straight forward answer. I, however, decided to jump right into my personal quagmire by saying a little sarcastically: "Ha ha... well have you seen the company website?" When a series of frat-boy-like "ooohhh"s resounded, I realized my remark was seen as a "burn." As I waited for the floor to open up and swallow me whole, I was forced to sit there in my invisible shame spiral and try to ameliorate the situation by backpeddling. I felt like I was in an episode of The Office, complete with awkward silence and no musical relief to abate it. All I know is that whenever I think on these moments, I catch myself grimacing visibly and wishing that I could go back and swallow my tongue... and my whole face while I am at it.

I sit and wonder why it is that I feel such boldness with such embarrassment following so closely; I've come up with a couple probable guesses. Yes, they are also designed to make me feel better, if possible. First, while in college, I worked as a resident assistant. The RA's on my staff were the troublemakers, the black sheep of the Res Life family. And when we were in our building staff meetings, I somehow earned the rep for being the irreverent one, the one who made jokes that get you expelled, the one who will say what everyone else is thinking, the one who couldn't sit through a meeting without cracking a joke. It was great fun for a college environment and a job that paid dirt.

Fast forward to the present. Unlike most of the other interns, I am no longer a student. I don't function as a "student intern." There are people on staff in this office that are younger than I am, for Pete's sake. I am inexperienced in this particular work environment, but I don't feel completely inept. Confidence in my own intelligence makes me inclined to believe that I might have valuable insight. And so I perhaps mistakenly bring that sense of confidence to situations in this office where it is unnecessary and perhaps unwelcome... and with good reason: I am, after all, only an intern. I'm also well aware that as a professional resource, I am unseasoned and untapped. I don't know what I'm capable of in the business world. I'm not completely acquainted with my strengths and weaknesses. Certainly I know my skill set in the world of academic group projects and less professional work environments, but frankly, I'm somewhat of a mystery to myself. "But.. but.. but..." I sputter that I am a college graduate with two bachelors degrees! I can do this! I am just as capable as the next young aspiring working girl, right?

This sort of angst ridden duality of self-assuredness and self-doubt is pretty commonplace in the world in general, the workplace specifically, and in my psyche it is the ruling paradigm. It follows that someone with my level of word remorse should never speak. But somehow, for some inexplicable, unnecessary reason, I overcome. With vigor. As I sit quietly in staff meetings, I begin to horrify myself imagining all the awful things I could say or do to make myself look as idiotic as possible; sometimes I just sit and stew in memories of old faux pas and make myself squirm. Histrionic mental acrobatics, is what that is.
I know that all of these psychotic internal monologues and ramblings are the product of plain old insecurity. As I complained to my mom about my malady, she attempted to console me with the "I'm sure it's not as bad as all that" spiel, reminding me of something that Katherine Hepburn once said:

"Never complain, and never explain."

There could be such freedom in that! Could you imagine living with the confidence that freed you from the drive to explain yourself to everyone? Perhaps no one else has the need to be understood, but I certainly do. I want everyone to like me. I want everyone to understand me. And while they're at it, I want everyone to want to be my friend, dammit. I used to look down on people who weren't bothered by the opinions of others. I thought they were being dishonest with themselves... superficial. To be honest, I still think they're a little deluded; you know the types. They're the ones who don't mind making an enemy or two. They're the ones that shrug off the indifference of others and don't let it hinder them. The guys who get the brush off from girls and assume she must be crazy or a lesbian. Every woman from the movie He's Just Not That Into You. I believe it is a defense mechanism, a means to prevent them from feeling rejection. But really... how is my approach more productive? Paralyzing self doubt is my answer to their overblown sense of self. I feel ridicule when it often isn't being doled out. I assume that every rejection is an indictment, and every disagreement is indicative of something truly wrong with me. If someone doesn't like me, I figure that's always my fault, not theirs. And while this is good for maintaining humility, there has to be a line between humble acceptance of criticism and psychotic belief that everyone secretly disapproves of you. What would happen if I became comfortable in my own skin? Would I perhaps stop digging my own grave with my tongue, at least long enough to simply rest in my blessed assurance and stop trying to prove something?
I'm reminded of the song "Let That Be Enough" by Switchfoot (listen to it here)

I wish I had what I needed
To be on my own
'Cause I feel so defeated
And I'm feeling alone

And it all seems so helpless
And I have no plans
I'm a plane in the sunset
With nowhere to land

And all I see, it could never make me happy,
And all my sand castles spend their time collapsing
Let me know that You hear me
Let me know Your touch
Let me know that You love me
Let that be enough

It's my birthday tomorrow
No one here could now
I was born this Thursday
22 years ago

And I feel stuck
Watching history repeating
Yeah, who am I?
Just a kid who knows he's needy

Let me know that You hear me
Let me know Your touch
Let me know that You love me
And let that be enough

So here I am, 24 years old, a college graduate, and absolutely sure of only two things: there is a God, and He loves me. That is the Good News. It should be sufficient. So self, let that be enough.

I Brake for Baby Seals: On choosing your battles, and other life lessons.

2008-06-17T00:03:00.000-07:00

There's this awful Geico commercial that shows squirrels as they take turns sprinting into the path of an approaching car, competing to see which one can cause the most accidents. The little miscreants give each other high fives whenever they send a motorist spinning off the road. I think that actually happens. I mean, seriously- have you ever seen an animal, from a distance, wavering on the side of the road, pacing, faltering, calculating, waiting for the right time to cross? And have you also noticed that the moment of their bravery is often followed immediately by their moment of reckoning? What exactly is happening here? Is this a depth perception issue? Is it untreated animal depression? A possum at the end of its rope? What aspect of a raccoon's meandering gait makes him think that crossing a street is ever a good idea?!

When I was growing up, my parents would tell me about the horrific car accidents that people got into when they swerved to avoid hitting some animal in the road. Did your parents do this? My mom would bemoan the ridiculousness of the crazies who gave into temporary insanity and lost control of their vehicles, veering into another lane in order to avoid hitting a comparatively insignificant fuzzy thingie. I have to say I agree; the exchange of human for animal is quite a short-change.

Now before you all PETA on me, let me say that I love animals as much as the next person. I heart kittens and stuff. Sarah McLachlan's blatantly manipulative ad for the SPCA tugs at my heartstrings and I cry when I watch Old Yeller.

But I also love my own life, thank you very much. And my mom has promised me that if I ever swerve to miss a animal darting out into the road, she will kill me.

So here's whats running through my mind this past weekend as I'm driving along a dimly lit country road in my newly acquired little 87 Toyota Corolla; I hunker down at the steering wheel as my eyes dart to the right and left, assessing possible animal movements. And all the while, I'm preparing myself for the fact that I will not stop in the event of an unexpected animal crossing. Its like a recording I play in my head as I go: Thou shalt not stop, thou shalt not stop.... There are enough cars driving in either direction on this two lane road that swerving or braking suddenly would jeopardize the lives of fellow drivers. Its kind of a sad and scary thing, practicing an unwavering, rather militant trajectory and hoping against hope that Peter Rabbit doesn't run out of Lithium and decide to throw himself under my tires.

Its important that we know how we will react if this ever happens, because... it happens. I nearly swerved across the off-ramp on my way to church last weekend in an attempt to avoid hitting what appeared to be an unusually large kangaroo rat, or a very small possum, twiddling his little thumbs on the shoulder, carelessly skirting the line between life and death. Neither of these creatures would be pet of the month; their presence prompts a call to the exterminator. But the swerve instinct is inborn, I tell you. Next to me was a minivan carrying a family of non-possums, innocently going about their business, blissfully unaware of the sudden dilemma I had faced in the neighboring lane.

Its difficult to drive through rural countryside and know that your disciplined callousness toward squirrels and possums is really for the best. Breaking for ROUS's is a bad habit.

Larger, cuter animals are a different story. You know the ones... deer, cows, dogs, cats, owls... (Cats aren't really larger than possums, but how many people keep domesticated possums and tie little bells around their necks and give them scratching posts in their living rooms? Ask Jeff Foxworthy and Roseanne Barr for exact numbers.) You wouldn't want to hit a deer, either. At least, not with your car. If you want to hit them with other things, thats your business... But its Bambi; and depending on what car you drive, you never know who will come out on top in this sort of encounter. My car would put up a mighty fight but she'd probably be put out of commission. As for owls; well, those winged creatures.... they definitely choose you. It's a special moment. Our windshield, for example, experienced the impact of an owl the size of a tricycle.

To swerve or not to swerve; that is the question. But it is not nobler to die so that Reepicheep and Alvin can live. These are the things they don't tell you in school. Secretly, they hope that you will brake/swerve. If you don't, possums and kangaroo rats might become endangered, and then we wont be able to drill for oil in our attics, basements, and other traditional rodent habitats, until all the rodent life is re-located to ANWR. If you die or get maimed in the process of swerving to save, at least you had good intentions. Which is a sweet sentiment, really. And so is socialism.

So don't jump on the bandwagon of "I Brake for Baby Seals." As Jimmy Neutron's father said: "Well, Jimmy, if all your friends were made of cliffs, would you jump off them? I don't think you would."

Blog Schmog

2008-06-15T02:38:00.000-07:00

So... I'm a bookworm. I buy books compulsively, the way some women buy shoes and handbags. It's ridiculous, really, because if you look at the floor of my room, it's covered in books. Piles and piles, arranged by subject matter or author (I have a heap of Shakespeare about 2 feet high, as well as several stacks of books about early American history that are bleeding into the section set aside for Irish poets and authors); I sometimes arrange them autobiographically, which means there is a box in the corner of my bedroom filled with books that I read from third to sixth grade, like The Moffatts, Anne of Green Gables, The Borrowers, A Cricket in Time Square, Nancy Drew, A Secret Garden, Caddie Woodlawn.... you get the idea. I have outgrown several bookshelves already; I need a whole wall. My room has become a library with a bed in it.

I learned to read when I was five. At nine, I read Roald Dahl's Matilda and felt like I'd been called on the carpet. She was practically born with a book in her hand. Sure, she wasn't real.... but the girl read everything. I felt so belittled.

As a kid, I loved to read so much that I spent every moment of every car trip with a book in my hands. For road trips/family vacations, I'd pack three or four books, in the off chance that.... maybe I'd get an irregular amount of reading done by the light of my special booklight, which I kept for such purposes, or if that died out, then by the car's dim ceiling bulb (unlikely, but always worth a shot); or maybe I'd develop a proclivity for speed reading; in any case, I'd have a backup available if L. M. Montgomery or Beverly Cleary failed to deliver readable material (which never happened, of course). Whenever I went with my mom to run errands, I had a book in hand. I suffered for this later, as a newly licensed 17 year old, when I got lost on my way home from the DMV in the Tower District... because I had a very foggy idea of where home was. I'm serious. I'd been so distracted reading in the passengers seat for the greater part of my adolescence that by the time I was unleashed onto the road, I was well read and about as navigationally astute as a carrot.

I wish I was exaggerating. Case in point: there's nothing quite like that moment when you realize you need to ask your eight year old cousin for directions to his house (where you've been asked to drop him off) and you find that not only is he perfectly acquainted with his north/south/east/westerly coordinates, but that he could probably name every major intersection within a two mile radius of his house. While slurping his Gogurt and playing his Gameboy. Of course, I would try to play it off... "Chase, which way does your mom usually take to get home?"

I attribute this malady (at least in part) to an congenital deficiency. I'm sure my mom didn't consume enough zinc or phosphorus or cadmium or something. Maybe nickel? Meh... one of the minerals. Whatever the cause, my dad recognized the limits of my directional capacity and started initiating compass quizzes at random.

"Hilary, what direction are we driving right now?"

"Uhhh... north?"

"No. Try again."

"East?"

"Good. Okay if I turned right at this street, what direction would we be heading?"

"North?"

*sigh* ".... no."

"Southeast?"

"Just... stop."

Its a lot more stressful than it sounds, I swear. Sometimes I buckled under pressure:

"Hilary, what direction are we facing?"

"West. I'm sure."

"Really?"

Acid reflux begins to rise...

"No. How about North?"

"Never mind. Okay this is an easy one. What direction does our house face?"

...cricket, cricket...

"Are you serious? Hilary, think about it. Engage your brain. (He loved to say that almost as much as I hated it.) Which way is THAT way?" (pointing vigorously)

The sky is falling. I fold like a lawn chair. "Southwest? Straight!!! Cat. ELEVEN?!! Who cares?! Mmmm mmmm care. North?! What is North?! Every time we play this game, it gives me hives."

"Engage your brain."

"YOU engage... my... your... brain...mmmmpphhheffalump."

My navigational prowess has improved significantly since then.

I now know that my house faces South, my car is parked facing East, and that the 168 runs any direction it wants to; and, thanks to Edith Hamilton and the Chili Peppers, I know that Zephyrs were the West winds, and that the Northern Lights, the Aurora Borealis, gets its name from the Greek god Boreas, the god of the North Wind. So if I get blown off the road during a windstorm (likely, for those of you who've seen my munchkin of a car or ever experienced the nightmare of the Santa Ana winds), I'll know who to blame. Cheers to random pointless trivia.

Summarily: Aside from my congenital aluminum (Eddie Izzard would say "al-u-MIN-ium") deficiency, I blame my old perpetually disoriented state on my maxed out library card.

However, book reading wasn't the sole ambition of my childhood; book writing seemed quite rewarding, too. But for some reason, I just didn't tackle this with the same zeal. I made a few concentrated attempts at authoring books; and not just any books, mind you. No, these were chapter books. Oh yes. Unfortunately, I was thwarted by my all-or-nothing tendencies. I would write the first five chapters and realize I didn't have enough ideas to supply a series-level plot development with compelling heart-rending pathos... not enough to suit my adolescent inclinations, as modeled by the likes of L.M. Montgomery, Mary Norton, and Eleanor Estes. My parents, who read my stuff and liked what they saw, encouraged me to keep at it. My dad's solution to my perpetual writers block was simple: keep a journal. He said that I would only grow better at writing by.... well, writing. The man speaks the truth. But... journaling? I thought this was stupid and powder-puffy.

Negatory. I was stupid.

Case in point: that Harriet the Spy, man. E.L. Konigsburg's little nuisance was pretty much the Lara Croft of enterprising young authors. Sure, like Matilda, she was fictional. But she was the queen of getting-better-at-writing-by-writing! She wrote about everything she saw and elaborated on every speculation she conjured up in her incredibly irreverent imagination (how's that for alliteration! I am quite pleased with myself). I wished I could be like that; but I was paralyzed by this stultifying certainty that I hadn't anything important enough to write about.

So why am I keeping a blog? I don't know. I might be tempted to look back on this decision as one divinely inspired, or born of boredom, or kindled by a desire to try my hand at good old fashioned free-lance muckraking. My problem is this: I love to write. I don't necessarily like others to read what I write... but at the same time, I think that at some point I might inadvertently write something worth reading. This is what a psych major might label as histrionic schizophrenia.

Oh well. E.L. Dogterow said "Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia." William Wordsworth (who drives me up the wall) said, "Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart." I don't particularly like this because if it's true, then I might find out that the my heart has nothing to exhale but tired, dusty metaphors and sarcastic, sometimes cynical observations about trivial issues.

I hope not.

I am caught between (1) the desire to write for myself, and myself only, and (2) the awareness that, ultimately, no good can come from this shrinking violet act. I hope that my thoughts will-- in the sorting and processing and sifting and rifting and bleeding and dying and reviving-- become more clear, more practiced, more flavorful, more bold. So bear with me. Or don't.... Either way, enough apologizing and qualifying: I'm here. And they say that life is 90% about showing up; so I'm guaranteed at least an A- in blogging... histrionic schizophrenia notwithstanding. Which is all that matters.