10% To God

My first experience for tithing came from donating to missions. Or it could have come from my dad setting me up with a budget when I was six where 10% went To God, 20% to Entertainment, 30% to Long Term, and 40% to College. Or maybe it happened simultaneously.

Don't get too impressed. I must confess that my initial response in wanting to give to missions was primarily motivated by a desire to get my hands on my very own giving envelopes. As a lover of stationery and all things writing, these envelopes were enticing fruit: pre-printed categories, a line for totaling, a line for your name, an assigned number, and, best of all, dates. One for every Sunday of the year. My undeveloped brain thought these were the glory of the modern world, and I was so excited to give 5 cents every week simply to possess these delicacies.

It was not to be. I later learned that my weekly 5 cents was probably not even enough to cover the cost of printing, so the church unknowingly taught me a lesson in delayed gratification. However, I was not deterred in my disappointment. I decided to make my own envelopes.

Every weekend, I dutifully pulled a small envelope from our hall closet--the one that smelled of rancid Pledge and had a picture with a Bible quote covering a hole. I cut it in half (I was quite green then, apparently), stapling the gashed edge to prevent any money slippage. I neatly wrote my categories for offering and proudly wrote in my 5 cents for missions. I stuck the homemade offering envelope in the front flap of my Bible, probably checking it five times to make sure it didn't disappear. Placing it in the offering plate was certainly a highlight of my week.

Eventually, as a teenager, I did get my own set of giving envelopes. I still looked forward to getting a new set each year.

By teenage years, I had progressed from give 5 cents to 10, to 25 and beyond. And as the years have flown by, I have also progressed in my understanding of tithing and supporting missions as a move of obedience and relationship.

Even if it all started with a fetish for "cool" stationery.

Please Don't Send Me to Africa...

"Dear Heavenly Father,
Thank you for today. I pray that you'll be with our grandmas and grandpas, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends. Please be with the Hunts, the Conrads, Ruby Clark, and Thelma Wagner. Amen."

The staple of our childhood prayers, these lines were repeated every night--sometimes quickly so I could be the fastest one done, sometimes deliberately with meaningful additions, sometimes with my eyes peeking through my fingers to see if my dad was really keeping his eyes closed (he was). Though simple, I think my dad gave us an okay model: thanksgiving and prayer for others. And among those others, prayer for missionaries.

Perhaps the most indelible memories of Christian Tabernacle, my church when it was still downtown, stem from the mission conferences. I remember one year dressing up for a ladies' brunch of sorts, featuring several missionaries who were in town. Each of the tables held yellow center pieces, probably flowers. The most entertaining part? the men who sucked helium from balloons and sang a quartet, which may or may not have been the same group who sang a rousing rendition of "Please don't send me to Africa...," a satircal little ditty about being ready for anything and anywhere the Lord leads unless it's too far out of our comfort zone.

Later, I competed in poster contests held for kids so the sanctuary could be decorated with our interpretations of missions. Out came the dinner plate to trace a perfect circle to start my drawing of the globe. And, of course, there was the train that circled in and out around the baptistery, touting "Missions on the Go" or something similar as the slogan of that year's campaign. The missionaries would speak, and though I don't remember what they said specifically, I remember being enthralled by their stories of interactions with other cultures. I remember seeing their pictures printed on shiny cards, and I remember the requests for prayer and monetary support. And soon, those requests made their way into our little prayers for the missionaries--the Hunts, the Conrads, Ruby Clark, Thelma Wagner--representing to me the exotic call of the Lord in their lives.

Scattergories

The Clue: Street Names

The Letter: B


Bourbon Street, Broadway, Butler Ave., Bob-O-Link. Seems pretty straightforward, yes?

My students and I are currently in a game unit right now, working towards writing a review. Thus, we've enjoyed several rounds of Catch Phrase and Taboo, and on this day, Scattergories.

As we shared our answers for this particular list, students shared the usual. Until we got to the fifth pair of students.

"Street names. Street names?" he yelled out. "Yo, I thought you meant, like, street names. Like, you know, Big Crazy. Like, 'There goes Big Crazy over there!' or 'Hey, Big Crazy! How you doin' today?'"

The rest of the class and I laughed uproariously.

"Okay, I guess I can see how you got that answer..." I spit out between laughs.

"No way!" my other students cried. "That just ain't right!"

He didn't get the point, though he certainly provided us with one of the most memorable moments of the year.

The Art of Waking Up

I finally realized what the problem was last night. My four alarms--three on my phone and one across the room on my dresser--weren't varied enough. Somehow, my phone alarms had been reset to ring with the standard Verizon ring tone. Surely, I thought to myself, this is the reason I have gone from getting up at least forty-five minutes before leaving for work to getting up only twenty-five mintues prior to leaving for my work day. Tired of attempting to walk into work eight minutes after leaving when it takes nine to get there, plus five more to walk in the front door, my waking up routine has got to change.

My dilemma, though, is that there is something beautiful and tranquil about waking up to the sun streaming through the window. Call me a romantic , but this seems to me the perfect way to start a new day. Unfortunately, I only see this perfect slice of light maybe ten times a year--it's that morning glow as the sun first peeks over the horizon, illuminating the tree line on the other side of the railroad tracks running parallel to my house. On work days I theoretically wake up too early, in the darkness and shadows of pre-morning light, or on the weekends, too late, when the light grows harsher as the sun edges toward noon.

Since I cannot drink of this morning perfection on a daily basis, the next best thing, I've decided, is waking up in slow stages, moving from unconscious sleep to gradual awareness and a feeling of contentment. Achieving this state is a carefully constructed process:

• First, my early alarms must play harmonious notes, nothing loud and cacophonous, to avoid startling myself into hated awareness. These alarms ring every five minutes, which I dutifully turn off or ignore as I drift between the worlds of sleep and wakefulness, sometimess praying, more frequently dozing.
• Second, my alarm across the room blares--purposely so, to get me to rise from my slumber--which I then dutifully set for fifteen minutes later, feeling proud of myself for actually getting up. As I slide back under the covers for one more dose of warmth, I inevitably fall asleep again.
• Then, my fourth alarm goes off, this one still gentle yet more forceful than the first two phone alarms, to which I grab my phone and snuggle with it so as to be able to silent the alarm more quickly. At this point, consciousness is starting to set in: I should get up. Really, I should. I've got work to attend to, miles to go before I should sleep again...yet I have not quite achieved that moment of perfection where my brain feels ready to embrace the world and my body rested.
• Finally, after resetting my blaring alarm for the fifth time, I realize that an hour and fifteen minutes have passed. Happiness, peace, dreams of coffee and eggs and ham...

...until I realize I have twenty minutes to get ready.

I frantically shoot out of bed and head for the shower, racing to get clean and put make up on and at least run a brush through my hair. I grab breakfast en route to the car, and lunch, too, ready to peel out of the parking area. And I pull into work just in the nick of time, happy that I feel well even if I look and act a bit discombobulated.

But then I have days like today, where the pieces do not fall into place. The alarms rang harmoniously, I turned them off and on like a pro, I even got myself fully dressed, remembering to put on my makeup even, and I was feeling pretty good about this last-minute routine I've developed.

I slid behind the wheel of my car and pulled out. There was a catch, a rougher role to the motion that seemed a little odd. I jumped out to see what I surely was imagining, only to be confronted with the hard, cold reality that my new passenger tire was flat as a pancake. There would be no driving to work in the nick of time for me. Sigh. Practicing this routine had finally caught up with me.

Needless to say, I have learned again,the hard way, that I need to spend a little less time perfecting the art of waking up.