Semi-Sweet Week

Love chocolate.  Dark chocolate has grown on me of late; milk chocolate is a classic favorite; semi-sweet chips, good for baking.  Also good for describing this week.

For the first time in four years, banquet was exactly as a I dreamed it to be.  Students and parents actually came, for one, and they seemed excited to be there.  It was a sweet time of recognition of students, group hugs, and memories.  A perfect way to end my four years of sponsorship.

Today was the bittersweet portion.  I turned in my resignation.  You would have thought the world was coming to an end.  But no, I just had to type three simple paragraphs and walk it to the office.  Never thought it would be so hard.  It's been awhile since I've felt that alone.  Slowly, slowly, I'm snipping the tethered lines of my life here, readying myself to float away to the next stage.  Sometimes, though, the lines seem to be alive, tendrils of me that bleed when cut.

One thing I'm hanging on to--for one more month, anyway--is dance.  Love to dance.  Rumba, salsa, and waltz are my favorites.  Those are pretty sweet, too. 

Still, I will praise God in semi-sweet weeks.

Roman Omens

It's that time of the year, when the blocks, stones, and worse-than-senseless things rise up to hail Caesar in spite of a manipulative Cassius and a Brutus (wrought from that which he was disposed) plotting to reverse their falling-sickness by removing the unshakeable North Star.

Yes, it's Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. Act 1, scene 3, to be exact. The Bruce Almighty clip scene (Cassius renders in nearly perfect Shakespearean, "Smite me you mighty smiter!" baring the chest and everything). The men walking around on fire, lion in the street, owl in the market place scene. Perfect time to make text to world connections. What are your personal superstitions?

My favorite student response in this conversation? Amidst the black cats, the broken mirrors, and the foreboding ladders, the classic step on a crack, break your mother's back came up. My student, and I quote in close approximation, piped up in agitation:

"Yeah, that one don't work. I've stepped on a million cracks and that woman is still up and walking around!"

Signed, Sealed, and Soon Delivered

It's official, people! The support letters are in the mail and will soon arrive at your door. Guatemala or bust! PTL!

On another note, I had stick-shift driving lesson #3 yesterday, courtesy of one of my Tuesday night dinner buddies. Unfortunately, the lesson only lasted 15 minutes with me behind the wheel. No, I did not run over any old ladies. And no, I did not crash into any garage doors (or trashcans or parked cars). The brakes went out on me. Completely out. I was pressing the clutch and the brake peddle to the floorboard, fully extending my short little legs as far as they could stretch, but to no avail. Fortunately, at my panicked cries of "I don't think the brakes are working! The brakes aren't working! The brakes aren't working!" my instructor yanked the emergency brake. The good news was that I never made it over 20 MPH, so we stopped with plenty of room around us on the slightly inclined parking lot.

One thing was made clear in my short lesson time...I'm going to be in a pickle if I ever have to change gears while accelerating up a hill.

Dreaming Big

Recently I cleaned out some of the stuff in my bedroom at my parents' house. I realized that my aspirations of becoming an artist/illustrator were misguided when I rediscovered my childhood sketchbook. Nearly every picture I drew made my subject look like a freak. I pitched it--no use in giving the younger generation nightmares. I reminisced about high school, realizing there were some good times, as I found pictures of friends, notes, and papers. I even found some writing from middle school. I may have been a terrible artist, but I was a darn good speller back in the day. I unearthed my journals as well, and I flipped through the one prior to my junior year of high school: mission trip to Estonia. That experience was certainly one of the best experiences of my life, and certainly pivotal in a number of ways (future post material, I'm sure).

And then I came across my scholarship folder. The manila folder had twenty or so scholarships listed on the cover, each one neatly printed out with a single line drawn through it to show I had turned it in and a check mark to show I had double checked everything prior to sending.

Oddly enough, this folder is enough to remind me of another key aha! moment in my current journey towards Guatemala. One scholarship I applied for was the Sam Walton scholarship, awarded through Walmart and Sam's Club. Focused on community service and a lifetime of service, I applied for it, given my pursuit of education and desire to help others. I soon learned that I qualified for the interview process.

The fluorescent lights flickered occasionally, the buzz of the electrical current providing a steady hum for background noise. My interviewers wore jeans and Polos and were seated at a folding table. The rickety metal chair was my best invitation to a warm welcome. Needless to say, the dingy warehouse room didn't quite meet my expectations for an interview, even if it was at Walmart.

In spite of the environment, the interview started strongly. I smiled, I laughed at the right times, I tried to convey my passion for my dreams. And surprisingly, that's when the rubber met the road.

"So what do you see yourself doing with your life?" Interviewer 1 asked.

I launched into my desire to teach, my desire to travel, my desire to learn another language fluently, and how I could envision all of those interests coming together in an overseas teaching position.

Interviewer 2 leaned forward. "What's wrong with teaching here in America?" she queried.

I fidgeted in my seat. What was wrong with it? Nothing at all. I just loved to be overseas and working with international people...

"But there are plenty of people here that you could help. Why do you have to go overseas to help them?" Interviewer 1 interrupted. Faces were not smiling now.

I was at a loss for words. Suddenly, I knew the interview had turned. I would not be getting the scholarship. They didn't understand. And I was ashamed of my dream.

I was embarrassed the next few times I entered that Walmart, seeing myself as a failure. Caught in my ego-centric adolescent world, I avoided making eye contact with the employees, sure they somehow knew I had lost.

Now, I realize the value of that experience. People may not understand why I desire to go overseas. But I don't have to convince them that I am doing right, worry about this dream being misguided (like my goal of being an illustrator was). I know that this is where I am called to go, at least for a time. And that is good enough for me.

Catching Wind

As I settled in against the rock face, I felt ecstatic about finally finding the perfect spot. Below me, the interstate curved through the trees, the cars swiftly moving along it, looking like an electric car set from childhood. The sun streamed through the tree above me. Thousands of little lady bugs crawled on the rocks, steadily marching toward their destination or sitting placidly in the shade. Suddenly, I was startled by a loud crack from above, like the snap of a belt or the catch of a flag caught in a gust. I instinctively ducked and my heart nearly leaped out of my chest as a shadow passed over me. I glanced up and noticed a hawk float on the breeze above me, fly in an arc and then settle back on the pinnacle. Without hesitation he darted off the edge of the rock again and caught the breeze, the snap of the wind catching his wings and holding him aloft. He splayed his feathers and pumped his wings periodically as he scoured the land below.


Recently, my friend and her husband adopted a son from eastern Europe. When she first told our little group of friends, her first words were, "You all are going to think I'm crazy." She was so excited about her idea to adopt that she could hardly see straight. Her husband was coming around, and her kids were excited about the idea, too. The major hang up? she had to fly to go pick him up. Nothing scared her as much as the idea of being on a plane for seven hours to get her child.


The months ticked by, and they worked to fill out the tedious paperwork and undergo a series of home visits. Then they had to fill out the paperwork again. At each step in the process, her major fear still remained: the flight. We joked about it with her and told her to take some good drugs to knock her out.


When the announcement came that it was time, she and her husband packed up and made their last arrangements for the home front. Then, she got on that plane and flew. The whole seven hours. She didn't parachute out or anything--she arrived. They stayed in a little apartment in a country where they didn't know the language. They couldn't drink the water, not even that in brewed coffee. She couldn't wear her favorite bright green coat, either. And after a series of what one could call lucky breaks or divine intervention (she leans toward the latter), they had their new son with them in record time. She made the flight home without a hitch, too--I know, because I had the privilege of meeting them at the airport. She was alert and in one piece, holding the hand of her new son who stood shyly beside her.


My friend has inspired me. She had an idea, a hope, a calling, and went for it--obeyed it--with all her heart. She certainly had her fears and her obstacles, but that did not deter her. Now she says it's like her son has always been with them. Don't get me wrong--they're still working through adjustments and figuring out the new normal for daily life. But like that bird, she took a soaring leap off that cliff and caught the Wind. And It carried her.


Just imagine how much easier it must be to catch the wind after we've experienced it once...

A Million Miles in a Thousand Years: Donald Miller's latest book

Fifteen hundred miles in six days. That's what's ready to roll over on my odometer. I needed to get out, go to the mountains and the beach. I didn't completely understand why; I just knew I needed to refocus and be part of a new setting.

Having heard Donald Miller speak at a local mega church a few weeks ago, I picked up his latest book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, before leaving town. He was inspirational when I heard him speak; finishing his book nearly made me giddy with excitement about life's next step. Though his intention doesn't seem to be purely motivational, his honesty about his own journey to improve his life story fosters a deep desire to follow in his footsteps. And unexpectedly, he helped me understand why I had to get away.

As an English teacher, I am not shocked by Miller's definition of a good story as a character who wants something and must overcome conflict to get it. Many times I have stressed that same concept to my students: a story does not exist without conflict. If you're writing, you have to let your characters get hurt.

What shocked me were the nearly perfect parallels to life that Miller draws between our lives and story. This is where the revelation came. How do we expect to get to the end of life and tell a good story if all we do is try to live comfortably? (I woke up. I ate breakfast on my way to work because I was running late. I worked. I got home late. I watched TV. I maybe phoned a friend, if I felt like it.) How boring!

Through his life experiences--namely, the making of his life into a movie (along with his thoughts, his encounters with friends and strangers, and his adventures)--he explores the concept of story and how each key component relates to our own lives. Conflict, character, setting--all of it matters. All of it serves to make life meaningful.

In essence, Donald Miller has written a treatise on the meaning of life without the high-and -mighty philosophizing or a trumpet title touting a discovery of the key to life. Instead, he creates this understanding through a vulnerability in his writing that opens a window into his corner of the world. He lets us peer into his thought processes as he realizes what it takes to live a good story and then begins to toddle towards living it. How we interact with others, what motivates us, how we acknowledge God, what we make of little and big moments--all come into play as he (and we) builds up his life's leg muscles and starts to walk confidently.

Much of what he said hit home. But what unlocked my need to get away was his discussion of scene. A good movie, his movie making friends told him, must have a good scene. It must be memorable. It doesn't just happen at the usual places. It has to be unique. Stand out.

At this crucial time of refocusing in my life, I too needed a scene that would reflect this search, this processing. Without knowing what it was, I was driven to find those scenes. Fortunately, I found them. The hawks swooping down from the pinnacle of the mountain, the wind making music on their wings. A thousand little lady bugs crawling over the rock face. A road winding through blooming trees of varying hues. The moon illuminating a path across the ocean. The sun creeping up over the horizon, rising boldly to take his place as master of the day. The pelicans flying in tight formation over the surf.

Knowing what motivated me to travel makes me think. Perhaps this desire to live a good story is innate. Maybe we don't have to identify all parts of the story, though knowing can help us be intentional. Perhaps we just need to choose to live it, risks and all.