Car Wash

After our little come-to-Jesus meeting on Tuesday, I was suddenly feeling qualms about our class service/learning project: a car wash to raise money for a local women's recovery center. 

That day, my students were discouraged, and even though we had been planning the car wash for over a month--talking about materials, making posters, and assigning tasks--they still were not convinced it was actually going to happen.

This negativity prompted an impromptu field trip.  They needed to visualize what we were doing, I decided.  Off we traipsed to the front of the school where we'd wash cars and share space with the plant sale; then on to the roadside, where we would hold signs; finally, back to the garden to appreciate the hard work of the volunteers who were working in tandem with us.

Thursday, the attitudes were markedly better. Excitement buzzed in the air.  Some students brought in soap, buckets, and sponges; others finished the signs and eagerly volunteered to sit in the cafeteria to advertise.

Today, as I scrubbed and hosed down cars with my students, I was so proud of them.  We had a steady stream of cars for two hours, and my class and other senior volunteers worked diligently to wash, rinse, and dry the vehicles.  I am so pleased with those who chose to follow through.  Granted, we had a few no-shows that I'll have to address this week, but those who were there really made it work.  Several people who stopped by were impressed that these seniors of 2010 were giving up their time for a selfless reason: "Usually car washes are for the baseball team or some other school group," commented one man.  "But it's really cool that you all are donating everything to the Hope Center."

I can't wait to hear my students' reflections in class and in their blogs this week!

Unmentionables

The bride, a good friend from work, sat up front on a yellow streamer-decorated chair.  She sat opening gifts, commenting on how much she loved them and how excited she was to receive them.  And then came the one.  You know, the one that is meant to make the bride blush. 

Out of the simple white gift bag with a few ones sticking out teasingly over the edge, my friend pulled a thong.  Then came the leopard print lingerie, matching top and bottom.  All had several ones and fives pinned to them.  We chuckled and joked and measured the degree of redness in her cheeks.

Meanwhile, a little three-year-old boy ran in and out of the room, chasing his friend.  He firmly clutched the rubber band of a giant balloon, one that had been decorated with a smiling face, square ears, and a mustache that gave the boy unending amusement.

As my friend pulled out this bridal shower present, the boy stopped in his tracks.  His eyes grew large, and his lips opened into a wide smile.  He looked at the adults in the room with a look of mischief, glancing back and forth between the gift and the adults.  We women seemed to draw in a collective sigh, not sure how this delicate situation could be explained.

"What do you see, honey?" queried his mother.  The room grew silent, ready to pop under the pressure.

The boy hardly missed a beat.  With one more glance toward the bride, he gave his excited answer:

"Money!  Did you see the money, mommy?"

Laughter.  Love wise mommies and innocent children.

Support Update

I just met with Kerry, the missions pastor at First Alliance, this afternoon, and found out that the Lord has provided $770 thus far!  Thank you so much for your faithfulness!  Many people have also committed to praying for me and encouraging me, and I am extremely grateful for your commitment.  I am so blessed to have friends and family who love and support me.

I am still hoping to leave in the middle of June, but I have yet to purchase tickets.  My roommate and I are officially out of our rented place on Monday, June 14.  I hope to be on my way by the middle/end of that week.  Thanks for your prayers regarding timing!

This weekend I look forward to another stick-shift driving lesson with my friend.  Hopefully I will soon catch the gist of transferring from the clutch to the gas in a smooth motion so I don't stall out as frequently!  Pam has highly recommended that I purchase my own vehicle for my time in Guatemala, and since most of them are stick-shift, I am receiving lessons to that end.  Steve told me there were some relatively cheap new cars--one for $5,000--that I plan to look into purchasing for my time there.

Happy Mother's Day

What a lucky girl I am to have such a wonderful mother!  We're two peas in a pod in so many ways.  Love you, Mom!  Since the fam was in town, I was able to be with them for Mother's Day lunch at Saul Good.  Great meal, great restaurant, better company.

My awesome parents

Siblings!  So glad Tina and Davey were in town

Backseat beauties (always a hoot to ride with three full-sized adults in the back seat)

Birthday

Okay, so my birthday can get better. :)  Thanks so much to my roommate and best friend for throwing me a surprise party with friends and family--many of the people I hold so near and dear to my heart were in one room tonight!  What a blessing.  Plus, my parents bought me a camera since my old one died last fall...which means I have pics to upload!

Great friends (and some yummy pies to boot!)

My dear mentor

My brother--great support

Me & the Tuesday Night Dinner Boys

The Sassy Sisterhood (Minus a couple of members--love you gals!)

Las Tres Amigas--My lovely friends and me (see my red shoes?)

I am so blessed.  Looking forward to spending Mother's Day with my mom.  More pics tomorrow with the fam, I hope!

Today's Thoughts

It's my birthday!  My family is coming down! It's sunny outside!  Can a girl ask for more?

Thought of the week, via our dear friend C.S. Lewis and his book The Weight of Glory in A Year with C.S. Lewis: "No man who values originality will ever be original.  But try to tell the truth as you see it, try to do any bit of work as well as it can be done for the work's sake, and what men call originality will come unsought."  Hmmm.  Time to be intentionally me, I suppose.

La Senda update:  Found out that the well is broken at La Senda and has been for a couple of days.  Stinky bodies and no flushing toilets--pray that it gets fixed soon so home life and school life can be restored to normal!

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.

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.

I Needed a Drink, I Thought

As I drove by the Big Blue Martini (or whatever that ritzy corner bar with the glass windows is called), I truly felt like I could sympathize with those who go there or places like it night after night. I mean, I just had a really long day at work where I fought this day-long internal battle: me versus my lack of motivation and desire to complete the mile-long list of tasks to get caught up (thanks, snow days...er, my laziness over snow days!). On top of that, I got my dance lesson times confused (more on dance later), shooting down the only thing I had looked forward to all day long. Which meant, I decided, as tears streamed down my face at my sad lot, only one thing: it was time to get a drink.

With my Grasshopper Mocha in hand, replete with a thick layer of whipped cream on top, I settled into the brown leather couch. Three men sat in the opposite corner contemplating a chess board, one totally engrossed and two counting down till show time; another sat sighing and looking distraught over the first few chapters of Khaled Husseini's A Thousand Splendid Suns; two women conferred about the web page in front of them. Open mic night was in full gear in the room behind me, and I had three inches of papers to attempt to wade through. The room shifted, and nearly all estrogen left; more testosterone filtered in. I felt momentarily nervous until I consoled myself with the fact that nobody was paying attention. The room shifted again, and as lyrics rang out about the religious nutcases responsible for all hatred and Jesus sending people to Hell, two girls sparked a conversation with the guy next to me and proceeded to talk about the Holy Spirit showing up and reviving their church. Finally, the room shifted again and canned music resumed, the coffee shop crowd bursting out into a momentary sing along to a Sarah McLaughlin-sounding song.

And, believe it or not, I was feeling better. Nearly all of that 3" stack of papers was graded, the mocha was long gone, and I was no longer feeling like I hated the world for silly reasons. I'm thankful for being refreshed and refocused by life.

Standard Driving Lesson #2

After two minutes in the driver's seat, I had to ask my sister Christina how to turn off the seat warmer. We were still in the cul-de-sac on my street, and the only points of instruction she had given me thus far were to iterate the importance of stepping on the clutch to shift from gear to gear. I sat there practicing shifting--without actually going anywhere--just to get the feel of the gears. And I was already starting to sweat.

You have to understand. I may have been sitting on a rarely-driven-down side street, but I had an entire audience in my mother's living room. I found out later that my brother-in-law was betting I'd stall out on the first attempt to drive forward, while my mother was betting I'd do one better: take the car for a vertical leap in the air. Given the free entertainment I innocently provided my mother and my brother during my Standard Driving Lesson #1 eight years ago when we were test-driving a manual Contour, I have not, until recently, been motivated to attempt the task again. That time, after each stall, after each jerky movement (of which there were many of both), the backseat erupted into fits of laughter that made it twice as hard to concentrate. Finally, my ever-patient Dad, who had been attempting to instruct me from the passenger seat, offered to take over. This sad story has become part of family lore.

However, with new motivation to learn this skill, I have decided to attempt once again to learn how to drive a manual car. I have already sent proposals to my local friends whom I think would be at least mildly amused and amenable to teaching me this valuable skill. Unfortunately, these particular friends have not yet officially responded; fortunately, my unassuming life group buddies have offered to teach me. And my sweet sister who was not present during Lesson #1 agreed to give it a go today.

So, Standard Driving Lesson #2 transpired at approximatley 3:15-3:45 P.M. I am glad to report that with the patient tutelage of my older sister, and without the nonsupportive backseat drivers more interested in a show than my success, I didn't stall the vehicle once. I jumped a little bit--not too often--and ended up having to roll down the windows as I stuck out my tongue in nervous concentration, but we made it home in one piece. Next time, perhaps I will work up to traveling more than 1/4 mile on a semi-busy roadway and getting to Gear 4.

The Shack Stores More than a Good Story

Finished reading The Shack by William P. Young last night at midnight. Though I'd heard concerns that the book contained such things as God as a woman and terrible tragedy, I found it to be an easy read that challenges the mind. In essence, the story is a religious philosophy loosely veiled through the story of Mack, the middle-aged, hardened protagonist: tragedy strikes (an emotional though not graphic section), Mack hates God, Mack goes on trip to meet God. Through this basic plot structure, the author tackled three key ideas: the Trinity, why bad things happen to good people, and organized religion. Following in the vein of Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller (an influence noted even by the author), the ideas work to break lifelong churchgoers out of their preconvceived notions about God.



Young's representation of the Trinity as an African American woman, a Middle Eastern carpenter, and an Asian woman serve to break people away from the preconceived notions of God. As the character Mack claims, perhaps God doesn't look like Gandalf, white flowing beard and aged, after all. And why not represent the Trinity in this way? If God chooses to manifest himself, doesn't it make sense that God may do so however he deems appropriate since both male and female are made in his image and his children are of all tribes and nations? But Young doesn't throw in this characterization just for kicks--it serves a specific purpose in the development of Mack's thinking (and potentially ours right along with him).



Even the discussion of suffering proves insightful, if hard to swallow. God gave man freedom. If man is truly free to make his own choices, then man is also free to suffer the consequences of those choices. Unfortunately, those choices often affect others, hence suffering multiplies. Ironically, while God does not will suffering, he is able to use it for good. Though touched on several times in the novel, I, at times, like Mack, have a hard time wrapping my head around it.



And, similar to (though a little softer than) Miller's book, organized religion takes a beating in favor of relationship. This, however, seems to serve as a strong reminder of Christianity's core values rather than a ridicule of the religion as a whole.



So, is it worth the read? Certainly. I think the ideas can even be vital in evalutaing individual and community faith. Can something like this really happen? Well, it is said, with God, all things are possible. Perhaps it is time for us to reconsider the possibility of divine intervention in daily life.

Work Efficiency? It's overrated.

Went back to work on Friday. If you were to measure my efficiency on a scale from 1 to 10, I would probably get a 2. Maybe a 3. And only because I attended the two meetings I was supposed to attend. The rest of the day I spent gabbing and then staring at my room arrangement trying to figure out the best way to accommodate my largest class (at 33, an outlier this year, thankfully).

My most productive activity at work for the weekend? Uploading my Guatemalan photos to my work computer so I can have them as my screen saver. I'm feeling a little heartsick for Guatemala at the moment.