wishful thinkings

Things That Heal

2009-07-12T17:07:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up and my heart was so sad and tired. I did the things one does, sitting by an open window with an open book, drawing simple things with simple lines, but still I was restless. There was nothing left but to run and so I ran.

I ran on my bicycle, and because I have been around long enough, I knew that it is not enough to run. One must run to. And because I have been around just longer than enough, I knew to run to my garden.

Gardens are healing. I knelt in the earth and began pulling weeds, tending plants and drinking in the beauty of growing things. If there were no words, this is how bodies would pray.

There was one other gardener in the patch, an elderly Vietnamese man, working a few patches over. The silence between us was friendly but complete. Just then, I looked up and he was standing over me, holding a tremendous squash blossom. With a toothy grin, he wordlessly stooped over my sweet dumpling squash's tiny flowers, engulfing one of them in his own blossom. He straightened out, chuckling at this pantomime of floral cannibalism.

Then, he picked up my hoe and with perfect grace and assurance began to tend my plot. The weeds that I'd been toiling over bowed to his mastery. At first, I tried to work alongside him, awkwardly darting in to grab a rock or weed between his deft strokes. Finally, I surrendered to the grace of the moment, rocking back on my heels and watching the simple poetry of this, his second gift.

As I bicycled home, the whir of tires on pavement blended with thunder and the scent of water on dry grass. My knees pumped like a whale's heart: steadily, slowly, deeply, silent under an ocean of air. I biked past people I know by name. I said hello and the world felt smaller, safer.

At church, the pastor announced a box of free books in the hall. I left the service immediately, ostensibly to get a drink. Within moments, I hovered over an assortment of wise, dusty books. Even better, I met another woman who also found the call of free literature irresistible. What an amazing way to meet someone. Our laughter blended with gentle church sounds from the other room and we parted friends. New friends, but friends nonetheless.

There were three baptisms, and I saw gentle hands reach out in benediction. I saw families wrapping around each other and church wrapping around them, spheres of community. A family, some water and the life of God at the center.

At the end, people passed the peace of Christ. Again, gentle hands, gentle words, "The peace of Christ be with you." "And also with you."

In the afternoon, I went to the bead festival. I immersed myself in color and texture, in light shining through and off a thousand tiny surfaces. It was like walking through a hundred paintings. One moment, you'd stand back and drink in the brilliant dots of color: a Seurat. The next, you'd hover over an intricate, filigreed surface, alone with it's beauty while the crowds jostled by: an etching.

In the evening, there was a retirement celebration for my pastor and his wife. I got to speak gratitude to them, to look from the faces in the congregation to their faces, to translate from expressions into words how much we love and appreciate them. I got to listen to the kind words of others. I got to listen to the deep, rolling voice of a pastor from Associated Ministries as he sang out his blessing. Again, there were gentle hands as people gathered to pray. Again, the sound system didn't work quite right and we laughed at the comforting familiarity of this quirk. Everything might change, but sound systems are reliably unpredictable.

Then, stepping into the rain, listening to the silliness of a friend's voicemail.

All these things, these grace-filled moments, were things that heal. None of them healed me. It's a specific hurt, and only the hand of God heals those. Still, how beautiful to find this broken world so full of God's good heart that there he is, spilling out of every little crack.

As you walk through life, I hope you find his presence on every street. I hope you say hello. I hope you greet him by name. You will find, I think, the world a little smaller, a little safer. You will find, if not healing, at least the Healer. The peace of Christ be with you.

Reflection: Isaiah 53:3

2009-07-05T19:30:00.000-07:00

O Lord,
We hate to look our pain
square in the eye.
We turn away:
We'd rather die
than face our brokenness.
So when you took it on-
put on our worst-
our pettiness and hate-
O God-forgive!-
We looked away.

Naive enough to know better

2008-05-06T22:33:00.000-07:00

You don't have to read this, I just have to write it.

Today...
I began by driving to the wrong school. An occupational hazard of itinerant therapy. The only truly astounding thing about this event is that it happens so rarely.

Once appropriately sequestered at the correct location (middle school), I started seeing students. Here's where the day went weird.

Usually I think of myself as someone with a lot of room for a lot of different types of people. Maybe my soul's shrunk lately? In any case, today stretched me. The range of students I saw occurred on a continuum from a bright student with a disease that is slowly destroying his body to a student with a very healthy body who will always function at about 4-years old to a student with a bright mind and healthy body who is socially isolated and often offensive due to autism. And all the ones between.

This relational range was compounded by the worlds I moved in to, out of and through. The gang tagging that I passed on four separate occasions as I crossed between the middle school and high school, over a rusty, chain-linked bridge spanning the freeway. The drug bust and chair throwing while working in a classroom. The sweet innocence of a kitchen scavenger hunt. Then, later that afternoon in the same kitchen, a student gets arrested (a minute earlier everyone was eating Amish friendship bread together. What happened?!!) The hopelessness emanating from teachers as an administrator plugs a scholarship program for low income students who graduate with a 2.0 GPA. It's not the 2.0 they're worried about. It's the graduating. The after school conference that the parent never comes to, but we're still somehow there till 5.

Then I have this bizarre moment where I wonder if I'd be better equipped to work with these kids if I'd actually screwed around a bit. Done some drugs, done some drinking. I never did, and I have no idea what's going on in their lives. I don't understand the racial dynamics. I don't understand the undercurrents of the drug and gang culture. I've never worried about teen pregnancy or not being able to eat in the lunch room because my parents don't let me shower and...well, I do understand that middle school's a hard world. And high school's no cashmere afghan.

So I finally leave work, driving through the bizarre blend of rural and urban that trails out around the hem of Tacoma. I go to a library I've never visited and find a used bookstore on that same block. It's the kind I like--no windows, just wall after wall of books, tight corners, precarious shelves, and more bags of books, blocking aisles and providing all kinds of imaginative fodder for various disaster sequences (earthquake? crushed to death by musty mysteries. fire? all escape routes blocked by trash romances. bubonic plague? disease is carried by dust mites). After receiving an unexplained but substantial discount on my purchases, I leave refreshed.

Ooh! What's that across the street? A Mexican corner store? Yes, please!

So finally I'm on my way home, a few strangely-flavored lollipops richer, a few cents poorer.

I still need to clear my head, so I start walking, down toward the water. I make it halfway. Whoomp. Diverted again. This time, by a co-worker and her husband who I spot walking ahead of me. They invite me in for a drink and the next hour flies by in a blur of conversation that somehow manages to link online sped documentation programs, the implications of under-funding support for those with mental illness, racial violence on the west coast in the mid-sixties and the Puyallup land-development oligarchy.

Wandering home past manicured lawns and tennis clubs, I get that strange feeling that sometimes overcomes me when I travel by air. You know, when you step off the plane on to land that's about 2000 miles from the last earth you touched?

I'm going to bed.

Leap Year!

2008-02-29T23:59:00.000-08:00

I wanted to take advantage of this once-every-four-years opportunity to write something on February 29th. My initial plan involved doing all my Special Education paperwork today, which would rather nicely extend our annual revisions and three-year evaluation time lines. No one else thought it would work. A dismaying lack of faith in bureaucracy, I thought.

So I cast about for some other poor subject, but really, I'm just excited about leap year. I think it's great that we have a whole calendar day that only happens once every four years. I mean, that's fantastic. February 29th. Now you see it. Now you don't. Again, I had a bit of trouble rallying the troops, but I'm convinced it's worth celebrating. Maybe because I'm such a strong endorser of anything that makes us step back with any day and say, "Wow. This day is completely unique. What a rare gift. What a once in a lifetime opportunity."

We spend so much of our energy being stressed and harried, but here, today, is the urgency I love, that which has its roots in gratitude and reverence. That this day comes once. This moment comes once. If life is hard, that moment is an invitation to hope and perseverance, and a promise that no matter where we are, time never leaves us there. If life is glorious, it is something bittersweet--another promise, another call to look forward, a chance for just a moment to breathe in light.

No doubt my evening reinforced all the above--friendship, gourmet mac'n'cheese, good wine, a fire, and "Dead Man Walking"--a death penalty movie, but still part of the theme. Life is all bound up in life, and time makes beggars of us all, but somehow the uniqueness of each day seems more closely related to eternity than anything, and God is life and our life is hid in him and eternity is hid in our hearts. A beautiful jumble.

Happy Leap Year.
Happy February 29th, 2008.
Happy March 1, 2008.
Happy Life.

The Body of Christ

2007-10-14T19:05:00.000-07:00

I have had a particularly bizarre weekend where worship is concerned. As a general rule, I love to worship with different parts of the body of Christ. I love to see God's work among different people and places because it reminds me how infinite God is in plans, purposes and power. It keeps me humble and seeking. When I take the bread at communion and remember that it represents the one body, I see believers in Honduras passing a fishbowl of wine carefully, two-handed, knuckles white from its nerve-wracking weight and precariousness; I see the al fresco gathering in Florence, Italy, under a bower of grape vines; I see an African-American congregation in Hilltop Tacoma and myself awkwardly holding a tambourine lent me by a child whose young life holds more rhythm than I will ever know. Echoes of Grace (and Hymns for the Little Flock) mingle with Mars Hill electric bass and the painfully toneless worship in a Mexican border town where the walls are a combination of barbwire and concrete. This is the body of Christ and I love it, but I definitely was stretched this weekend.

The Art of the Matter

2007-08-11T20:22:00.000-07:00

Never let it be said that the free spirit lives an unfettered life. Oh no. I myself believed that very lie this morning. How wrong I was.

In what I consider an endearing flight of fancy, my sister and I decided to paint in the garden. We gathered our materials, threw in a few pirouettes for good measure, set up easels in a whimsical, al fresco corner and set to it.

Well, let me tell you, it's harder than it looks.

I began exuberantly enough. I had a lovely image in mind--A fuschia sensuously stretched across a green expanse with Georgia O'Keefe-like grace, poetic and lazily bold. My thoughts danced between this internal canvas and a more concrete (though still delightfully simple) reality. "Oooh, Cerulean! I love Cerulean! But not as much as green! Phthalo Green...Wow! Look at all those consonants! Yippeee! (Yiphphthee?) Titanium White!! Whoa! Where can I put some Azo Yellow! Wait, that's not yellow! That's Cadmium Red! Ochre! Umber! Hooker's Green?!! Burnt Sienna, Raw Umber, Ultramarine! Alizarin Crimson! How do you pronounce THAT? Gazooks, this is almost as much fun as the Old Testament!"

So maybe I got a little carried away. Still, I thought, "Hey, it's art. Let the heart guide the hand."

Well, all I can say is, if that's what's in my heart I should be locked up.

I'm not sure just when my Phthalos started getting a little too cozy with my Alizarins, or when the line blurred between foliage and petal. It certainly didn't look this difficult at the Met. A dab here, a dab there. Bah!

Maybe it's like my sister said. We have too much experience looking at great art and too little creating it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to buy some crayons. More my level, you see. Red! Blue! Pink! Orange!

Whoosh!

2007-06-22T23:10:00.000-07:00

Is it the sound of another year speeding away? Kids racing down hallways and on to buses? Or the sound of them sheddng all the superimposed, grown-up, school rules? Perhaps it's the vacuum created by all the paperwork I turned in? Or maybe my entire being deflating? The future descending on irridescent wings? I don't know what it means, but it's definitely how I feel...Whoosh!

Another school year done, another last day of school. I realized, as we waved the kids home with cheers and both hands, how much I enjoy working a job that has a beginning and an end. I love the chance to step outside of my work, look back on the year and say, "I did that, and now it is done." Part of it is the satisfaction of completing a meaningful task. Part of it is that I delight in seasons. But part of it is also the joy of walking away, the freedom to set aside one part of my life and explore others.

It's so refreshing.

Whoosh!

What a satisfying day

2007-06-03T22:01:00.000-07:00

I cleaned my apartment.

I wore a skirt and flip flops.

I walked to church.

I learned something new about God.

I got a bouquet of garden roses.

I spent girly time with my sister.

I ate seafood on the beach.

I watched a spy movie.

I took a twilight stroll.

Smile Return Rate (SRR)

2007-05-03T22:00:00.000-07:00

Today I discovered something spectacular. I have an incredibly high smile return rate. This means that when I'm walking down the street and I make eye contact with people, most of them smile at me. Some even grin. We're talking a .9872 average here. I got really excited about this. I thought about trying to ebay this special power to the gamers, but rejected the notion because 1) you always lose when converting wonder into capital gain, 2) I'd have to release personal info to gamers and 3) I'd rather keep it for myself. Besides, the odds were good today: it was sunny. Perhaps it was a fluke? I need more data.

A Good Day--Background

2007-04-27T18:48:00.000-07:00

Today was a Good Day.

Really, it was a day that started about 2 weeks ago. It all began with a smile. It lit up the room, a jack-o-lantern response to my cajoling for a piece of english muffin pizza. I never got any pizza, but Mark did get me thinking.

You see, Mark has a disability that greatly inhibited his growth. His entire day is spent in a wheelchair. Due to his small stature, he cannot reach most things in his environment. He depends on support systems that are sometimes sadly lacking. He has the most beautiful smile, but his teeth are rotting. And half are missing. I don't think he ever brushes his teeth.

Oh, but the OT in me began getting very excited! Why, "self-care" is right in the job description. What a lucky lady I am. We are always seeing things we wish were different, but how often is it right in our job description to get involved?

But wait, it gets better. Mark is in a class that works on basic cooking. A simple equation formed in my head: cooking-->eating-->toothbrushing. Everybody learns, everybody saves face, no awkward conversations a la "your fly's unzipped" or "would you like a breath mint?" Why, it's a themed unit! My favorite!

The teacher, speech therapist and I all began plotting. A dental visit involving drills, drool and needles was redeemed by donated toothbrushes, paste and floss. Letters were sent to grocery stores for supplies. Administration coughed up the petty cash (or will, theoretically, once receipts are turned in). Posters were made. Boardmaker was used.

We were ready to go.
And today was the day.

A Good Day--the Experience

2007-04-27T18:14:00.000-07:00

Today was a Good Day.

Here is what happened.

The students filed in, or rather flooded, burst, or whatever word describes the entry of high schoolers into a room.

They sat down.

Mark was absent. No worries, though. That's why God created review lessons (we've all had them).

The students then proceeded to school us. For the entire 2 1/2 hours. Our prepared introduction? The one we thought would take 30-45 minutes? Oh, that? Yep, they answered the questions independently in about 15 minutes. I can't think of a nicer feeling than being proved wrong when one's expectations are too low. (Except, perhaps, being proved right when they are incredibly high.)

Here are some other highlights:

Gary, who always insults his own work and abilities: finishing everything beautifully (and first), using his own work as an example to teach the rest of the class, grinning and bowing to their applause, suddenly a leader.

Dylan, who sits apart from the group writing random letters: copying notes perfectly and participating in the discussion, though he has no words, and, when he came for his supplies, spontaneously presenting his own work to the group (re: Gary) with enthusiasm and pride, suddenly a participant.

Aaron, who dwells in the isolation of severe autism, scribbling til crayon shavings line the page: looking me in the eye, listening; joining the group activities; not falling apart, even though his assistant insisted "he's going to lose it, he's going to lose it" (wouldn't we all, with that chanted in our ear?); who chose string cheese, even though his assistant insisted he didn't like it (what's going on here?!!), and proceeding to independently open and consume the whole thing with zeal, suddenly a cheese-eater.

The list goes on. Over and over, these students revealed a capacity greater than we had expected, pride in their accomplishments, enthusiasm, the joy of learning.

You must realize that this is not my life. Most days I wonder if I make even a ripple of difference. Usually, I am humbled by my limitations. Today, I was humbled by children with so much life waiting to be revealed and by the joy of their success. I was humbled to be part of it. Days like today are a gift, an opportunity to expand vision and gather hope. The chance to connect through the veil of autism happens rarely and always feels like magic. Aaron and I may never see eye-to-eye again. Next time, he might lose it and throw string cheese across the room. But maybe he won't.

I can't wait to find out.

A Debt of Love

2007-04-24T18:02:00.000-07:00

Love makes me feel poor. Perhaps someday, love will feel completely full. All quenching and no thirst. All rich sufficiency, no ache. But I wonder.

I have been thinking about the verse in Romans, "Owe no one anything except a debt of love" (13:8). I listen to compassionate friends, to my own heart, and I hear that it is love that graciously reveals our poverty.

Here, perhaps, is how it works: Love inspires giving. "For God so loved the world, that he gave..." (John 3:16). And so we give. But it is not enough. We can never love enough. We are vessels, not oil. We run out of resources, but our heart still goes out. We check our pockets: empty. We scour the closet: crumbs. We run to the field: just skies and horizon.

Love teaches us to see the need of others, but there are needs we cannot fill. It teaches us to give, but is, in itself, only part of the gift. It teaches us gratitude for the love we've received, but cannot teach the expression of a full heart: there simply aren't words. We feel our poverty, and it breaks us.

And so we finally run to God.

Here, we again are debtors. Suddenly, there are resources not present before. Suddenly, our hearts expand. Suddenly, the Spirit moves. It is grace, and we are glorious debtors.

Let's live lives of tremendous poverty.

"Many waters cannot quench love,
neither can floods drown it.
If one offered for love all the wealth of his house,
it would be utterly scorned."
Song of Solomon 8:7

First Ice Cream Truck Sighting!

2007-04-23T23:33:00.000-07:00

Today I had my first ice cream truck siting of the season. It was almost perfect. Perfect, because the sun was shining, I was walking to the grocery store and the sound came slowly to my consciousness, filtering through the mundane traffic noise and crunching gravel. Almost, because I sadly did not partake in any ice cream.

I tried to. I really did. I was going to get some ice cream on principle. (The principles being 1) I really like ice cream; and 2) It's the least I can do, a token of gratitude that my job does not run to a sound track of "Do your ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro..." To loosely paraphrase JFK, our greatest gratitude belongs to those whose jobs we want the least. Though I can certainly think of worse lots. I just can't think of any reasonable way to endorse septic pumping, and I certainly don't want to be a shareholder.)

In any case, my 'determined trotting' skills were no match for his 'illegal right turn through a pawn shop parking lot' skills. I never caught him. Instead, I watched as he merged then disappeared into the afternoon traffic; sad, but with a quiet new resolve.

Spring is the hope of Summer: ice cream trucks, the sweet heralds.

The hostel experience: Sunday--Church

2007-04-15T17:29:00.000-07:00

Sunday began with the satisfying sensation of waking up in a new place. New slants of sunshine, new morning sounds, new.

We packed up quickly, grabbed some bread from the "free bread bin" (donated by an artisan bakery--who are these guys?!! Amazing).

And then we headed out.

Down the street, triathalon participants rounded the corner to cheering crowds. Like viewers of a seamless film, we stood in stillness, watching the celebration.

After winding through countless streets, back-tracking through the sacred stillness of neighborhood Sunday mornings, we arrived at Imago Dei. One of the group members had come across the church while reading Blue like Jazz. It's held at Franklin High School, one of those high schools built at the turn of the century that have become marvellous juxtapositions of old brick and new city. I felt at home.

I wish I could hand you this morning, all the sunlight filtering through old windows, dusting wooden seats with that peculiar glow of well-worn wood, time and life; the banners marking 10 year anniversaries; the soft murmur of community re-uniting.

I laughed aloud (discretely, of course) during announcements. They have devised a brilliant strategy. The first announcer had a thick Scottish brogue; the second, Irish. Absolutely brilliant. Everyone listened.

But what really caught my ear was the sermon. I listened like my soul was speaking. (Maybe listening is how your soul speaks? I'm going to think about that.) In any case, it wasn't a new message. Really, very few things are new. But I listened from a place of resurrection--not new material: new life. New understanding. So a message about transformation resonated.

Communion was beautiful. Long tables along the front and side held bread and wine. People lined the aisles. But what I loved was the community. Couples kneeling at the same spot, prayerful as they shared something sacred and fragile, like love itself. Families stronger as they served Christ's reminders to each other. Nothing sentimental. Nothing canned. Just holy.

We serve a beautiful God, and he gives us good gifts.

A hostel experience: Saturday

2007-04-14T22:32:00.000-07:00

This weekend I took my core group to Portland for a hostel experience. I'm rather pleased with the amount of adventure crammed into two short days. Some featured attractions from Saturday:

Saturday Market, including a visit with Martin from Kenya (where three of the girls are going this summer). We learned that he lost his trust in America when someone stole his bike. And that if he ever caught us stealing, we'd probably pee our pants. Also, that he stopped taking people to airports because Americans always cry, because tears are reserved for death and catastrophe in his culture.

Voodoo Doughnuts, where you can purchase an absurd range of creatively named and composed doughnuts. Mmmm. Grape Ape, complete with purple...ummm, something (maybe kool-aid? pixi stix?). Vaguely disquieting, but tasty (the whole experience).

A police stand-off: eerily similar to being in Seattle during the sniper shooting. Complete with taizing; reports of open gun fire; and obnoxious, narrating spectators; but somehow we couldn't leave. The criminals, commanded at multiple gun-points to leave the vehicle one-by-one with arms up and shirts off, were surprisingly dumpy and middle-aged. Perhaps I have been watching too many action sitcoms?

Powells. (there are no words.)

Green Papaya, where we ate amazing, spicy mango salad, which I attempted ineffectively to balance with approximately 5.7 liters of water.

American Apparel, where I tried on these but not these. (Work out shorts?!! Work out what? Your repressed desire to be Paris street mime? Your fear of being killed after dark by low-flying, small aircraft? Whether or not skin needs ventilation? Any other ideas?)

Powells. Again. Because they have a public restroom and I had consumed 5.7 liters of water.

Pizza Schmizza. We volunteered to pick up their left-over pizza, which the hostel gets. Amazing. And they had collections of: paper mache skulls; old keyboards; fun fair rocket cars (full-size); a bat mobile; action figures mounted to the wall with cartoon captions; antique shoe molds. I like collections...and free pizza.

We went to bed content, if somewhat gastrically disturbed.

2007-04-11T21:00:00.000-07:00

I got to go to my very first wrecking yard today. It was great. And huge.

I drove way out to Roy (right in the heart of America's #1 county for meth labs!). The attendant told me I didn't have to go back with him to find the part. Silly man. So we waded together through a maze of hundreds and hundreds of cars. Some were mere skeletons of transportation. Others looked considerably better than what I currently drive. But I didn't tell my car that.

It was the attendant's first day on the job, and we were in a land that required an experienced guide. I had the feeling people have entered there never to emerge. I began looking around for Elvis, or at the very least Tupac. At about this time, a cowboy-moustached, mullet-headed sherpa appeared to show the way. It's probably for the best because I was about to bust out my Elvis-Tupac-Amelia Earhart bird call, and I'm not sure the world's ready for it.

We wove through chaotic rows, and then I stood there contentedly, soaking in the atmosphere, enjoying the sound of tools, and only briefly contemplating the possiblity of being mugged-and-stuffed-into-some-old-Corolla-trunk. A shiny "new" tail light and slightly scratched hubcap effectively diverted me from this more sinister turn of thoughts. We were off again, returning victorious hunters.

It's good I left when I did, too. Slowly, the sum total of all the metallic carnage began tallying into the human implications. The realist in me began seeing cars from which no one walked away. With deep gratitude and a free hubcap, I drove away, thinking gently about traveling mercies.

Running in circles

2007-04-09T22:07:00.000-07:00

Treadmills are not diagnostic. True, exercise is a great way to burn some steam and get free showers (well, free minus a gym membership). But there's only so much you can learn there.

For instance, I learned that up to 8.5 mph I motivate myself by pretending to be an action heroine or secret agent on one of the many television series that remind us that at any point life might drop us on a surreal tropical island or don a wig to invade some obscure, exotic location. (I like to feel prepared.) I learned that over 8.5 mph is less about the fantasy of survival and more about the real thing. If the world moved that fast, I wouldn't last very long. Like less than a minute.

I learned that if I need to hang on to the little pulse monitor I should probably slow down. It just looks silly. My brother learned that when I run, I look like a duck (I think he's confusing me with my sister). But I've never figured out if I'm running from or to. You probably need a real trail for that.

A topography of faith

2007-04-08T21:31:00.000-07:00

Quietly, in the back of my mind, I have been mapping out little pieces of my faith. It feels like a small country. (Or, more amazingly, like a kingdom, since a King has chosen to dwell here. Humbling.) There is much to be said for the wildernesses and green pastures, the borderlands and shorelines, but lately I've been thinking about the gathering places.

There are three main places where I worship: Meeting, Trinity Presbyterian and Mars Hill. These places are cities in my soul. If you walk their streets and know their people, you will have glimpsed my faith. Somewhere between the ancient hymns, gritty worship, urban heart, head coverings, the old stones, cinderblocks and industrial warehouses, you will find communities who have taught me that the church is a people, chosen by God and precious, diverse and beautiful, built on Christ. While visiting, you might pass, resting at the crossroads, a very dusty, well-traveled soul, whose home is not here.

Greet her. Like you, she is a stranger in a strange land.

"They confessed that they were strangers and foreigners on the earth, for people who speak in this way make it clear that they are seeking a homeland....They desire a better country, that is a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God; indeed, he has prepared a city for them." Hebrews 11:13-16

"Our citizenship is in heaven, and it is from there that we are expecing a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ." Philippians 3:20

I am afraid...*

2007-04-01T08:52:00.000-07:00

1. of making some mistake or decision through ignorance, greed or self-will that will lock me into a life of mediocrity.

2. of spiders.

3. of having more dreams than courage.

4. of falling off treadmills because I get distracted and stop running but the track doesn't forget to move because it is a machine.

5. to miss God's will.

6. to do God's will.

7. that my life will be prematurely shortened by the strange food combinations I consume.

8. that my neighbors, upon overhearing the custom ballads with which I serenade my cat, will alert the media and I will be forced into a life of unsolicited fame.

9. of my cat.

10. for the children of parents who use drugs.

11. that this world really is run by money and power.

12. of being too difficult to love.

13. that children will forget how to play. (especially outside)

14. that I will forget how to play.

15. of cheerleaders.

16. for women who live without the protection of rights and freedom.

17. that my heart will become hard, bitter or apathetic.

18. of snorting milk up my nose, and it hurting and then choking and everyone asking if I'm alright, but not being able to answer and everyone looking at me.

*in no particular order

"There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear" 1 John 4:18

When did grass stop being greener...

2007-03-29T22:10:00.000-07:00

than cement?

Imagine a little group of about 14 pre-schoolers, just your typical pint-size people. It's a sunny spring day in Washington, even a bit warm, so the class heads outside for story time on the lawn. Only, these little people live in a town that doesn't have a single park. Most of them live in apartment buildings where anything containing chlorophyll is strictly decorative (read: not for children). And, oh, by the way, they might never have been outside city limits.

So, this little group troops outside. The teacher, para, and this random other lady all plunk down on the ground. The kids keep standing there. They are invited to sit. They keep standing there. This green stuff, this strange, soft-prickly stuff is all over the place. I mean, it's completely out of control! Where are the coagulated rocks? The cement? Shoot, they'd have settled for gravel. But this green stuff? It might be wet! It might tickle. It might, well, who knows what it might do? They keep standing there.

Finally, the teacher yields. She decides to stop this meaningless torture, to not force this unnatural anguish. A compromise is reached. One by one, the students spread their jackets on the grass and, barrier safely in place, timidly sit down.

I'm glad I work in Parkland. Irony's my favorite kind of humor. Yep.

Sisterly Duty

2006-02-05T21:52:00.000-08:00

Ever vigilant, I checked my sister's post. Just as I suspected, she last confirmed her continued earthly presence over a month ago. For those who fear for her life, or are wildly spreading rumors about secret government missions, or some other reason that would cause her to disappear so completely, allow me to assure you that she is indeed still alive. You're on your own for the government agency stuff, though. Last time I went that route it took three ninjas, a secret identity and several months abroad to shake the consequences.

Pretty Impressive!

2006-01-18T21:31:00.000-08:00

Among the many paradoxes of work, one repeats itself over and over. To me, it is a deep irony that borders on gross injustice. It is this: we don't want obese kids, yet we don't let kids run in the halls. Granted, we don't want bleeding, unconscious or otherwise incapacitated kids, either, but in Washington, where it rains, it seems like such a practical solution to limited outdoor play.

Still, I try to be a good authority figure. I tell kids to quit running. I turn around to watch them, so that when they break into a run once past me, I can tell them to quit running again. And again. In dire situations, I whip out the, "Come back here and walk with me."

This week, though, the kids won. I was walking down the hall, when I come across two first graders. Hope is lying on her stomach smack dab in the center of the hall, with her head back touching both feet. Because I am a grown-up, and therefore stupid, she explains the situation to me, "I'm touching my head with my feet."

I fight off my initial wave of awe and say, "I see that. Get to class." Or something equally adult and inane.

Jared, not to be out done, immediately slides into full side splits. By now, I'm mesmerized. Two stupid human tricks at once. I can't move. I can't think. All I can say is, "Wow, actually, that's pretty impressive."

The creaking sound of social mores giving way snaps me back to reality. Order must be upheld. As though from very far away, I hear myself, "Okay, get up and get to class."

But I can't bring myself to turn around and watch. And sure enough, behind me I hear one child say to the other,

"Stop running!"

"I'm not running. I'm walking with a purpose."

"No you're not. You're walking with your bottom."

"No, I'm walking on my bottom."

Sweet victory.

Tag!

2006-01-03T20:57:00.000-08:00

Wow! I really am a slacker. November 13th? That's ridiculous.

Of course, considering the...let's see, car + airport + flight + car...9 hours of travel time yesterday, the post midnight bedtime, and the 9 1/2 hour workday (during which, miraculously, no small children were harmed), the past two months of angst and hilarity are probably no closer to publication now than before.

Still, chastisement for delayed posting from the hand of Caleb? Uff.

Does this ever happen to you?

2005-11-13T21:49:00.000-08:00

You're at Target, or whatever your store-du-jour is. Then, by the big CLEARANCE sign, you see them. The poor little things. Homeless, uncared for, almost discarded. Are they really 75% off? My, what a bargain! Oh, and look, they haven't been watered. Poor little things! Well, yesssss, they ARE missing some leaves. And they really shouldn't be quite that yellow. And wherever will you put them? But, look, they're so neglected. Poor little things...

And suddenly you find yourself with, oh, maybe 10 new houseplants.

No? That never happens to you? Yeah, uhh, me neither.

My co-workers think I'm hot

2005-11-06T21:34:00.000-08:00

That's right, folks. While I may spend hours at a time puzzling over the mystery that is singlehood, I never waste a minute wondering how middle-aged women feel about me. No, not one minute.

Because I know.

I know because, in the middle of serious work meetings, as we deal with the complexities of educating children with severe disablities, one co-worker will turn to the other and say, "You know, there's this nice young man at my church. I don't know why he's not married..." and then they will all look at me expectantly.

Or I will go to the district administrative office, with the understood purpose of turning in paperwork, only to be informed that the new psychologist is cute, and they'll call the next time he's in.

Or I find myself sipping wine and watching NASCAR (?!!) on some random Friday night (okay, last Friday night), because a dinner party has been thrown for the express purpose of introducing me to "such a nice young man who works for my husband."

Don't get me wrong--I'm certainly not complaining. I mean, it's a good sign, right? Right?

Besides, it's developed a sort of aplomb that serves me well in other settings. . Take for instance my flight home from Texas. I sat next to this lovely, older couple. We conversed about Tacoma, faith, family, all sorts of things. As we leave, a friend of theirs from the next row asked the lady if she'd been interviewing a future daughter-in-law. She smiled a bit sheepishly and admitted the thought had crossed her mind. But do I blush? Do I stammer and flee? No, not this veteran. I just smile and say, "Don't worry. My co-workers do it all the time."

Who wouldn't want to be me?

2005-10-27T20:19:00.000-07:00

The other night I went to this big, fancy, intellectual lecture at UPS. I mean, it was BIG. Friends from the area will appreciate that people came TO Tacoma FROM Seattle to attend (actually, I couldn't verify that, but from the number of suits and ties present, I feel confident hazarding the guess).

The speaker was Nina Totenberg, a nationally and internationally acclaimed investigative reporter for NPR. She's on the frontlines of Washington DC politics. As I mentioned, people actually drove some distance to listen to her speak about the Supreme Court, even payed good money for tickets.

I went with a girl from my core group. Even with tickets, we had to show up a good thirty minutes early, and that was cutting it close. Not to worry, though. Ady's friends had come even earlier to save us good seats. Weaving through the suits, ties and aged ones, Ady and I looked for the promised seats. By chance, I glanced up on stage, where four rows of chairs had been arranged to either side of the podium. There, right in the very front, are two very empty chairs.

With a sinking fear in my gut, I tug at Ady's elbow. "Those wouldn't be your friends, would they?"

And, of course, they were.

But wait, it gets better.

I'd had 30 minutes between work and the lecture. The next day I left for Texas. There was laundry to do and dinner to eat. So, tearing off my work clothes, I'd thrown on a shirt that I knew I wouldn't want for Texas--indeed, a shirt that I usually reserve for very private circles.

It was my bright green, sparkly, somewhat too tight "I *heart* Nerds" shirt.

Perfectly fine for the dim anonymity of a crowded auditorium. Somewhat less ideal for front row seats directly beside the podium on a brightly lit stage and fully visible in every photograph taken for the newspaper.

A nice juxtaposition for her black suit dress and pearls, don't you think?

How are your visualization skills?

2005-10-18T21:19:00.000-07:00

So much for pictures on my blog. I'll try again, but failure is so uninspiring at times. BUT--if I had been able to post pictures, here's a sampling of what you would have seen:

A perfect Fall day ferry ride, glowing view of Mt. Raineer, and hundreds of apples at a country cider press.

My car covered in an inch of hail during a freak storm, complete with thunder, lightening and some (mild) flash flooding.

Some ground turkey that turned purple when I added red wine while making spagetti sauce, accented with yellow and red peppers.

Kindergarteners at a pumpkin patch and random farm animals on the field trip I helped chaperone.

What you wouldn't have seen, but what has still filled my days, thoughts and prayers, are:

The girls in the core group I've begun leading through a Christian fellowship at UPS.

The kids at work.

The biscotti I made that melted into one massive cookie.

The biscotti I made that did just as it was suppose to do.

The walk I took along the waterfront in Tacoma.

The pitiful expression on my face as I tried to upload pictures for my blog.

A nice thought...

2005-10-03T22:19:00.000-07:00

Let it be known that I have very good intentions about back-logging the worthwhile bits of life that have kept me from being a faithful and current web-logger. The worthless stuff, or at least what boils down to whining, I have good intentions of leaving mostly unsaid. I also have good intentions about figuring out this whole "picture" dealy-o so I can be cool like everybody else. Again, nice thought...

AAARRR!

2005-09-19T20:23:00.000-07:00

Ahoy!

Ye should be knowin' that September 19th is Talk like a Pirate Day. Some land lubbers weren't believin' me, but I've t'proof that the likes o' Caleb could not deny--I found 'er on thurrr interrrnet (I'm an amateurrr pirate, so me lingo limits itself to an emphasis on rrr's--I mean, ARR!'s). Ye can even get yer own pirate name (that thar title should be a link). Mine were "Otto the Peevish". Me pirate nature were: "Even though there's no legal rank on a pirate ship, everyone recognizes you're the one in charge. Even though you're not always the traditional swaggering gallant, your steadiness and planning make you a fine, reliable pirate. Arr!" I'm not shur whar a "fine, reliable pirate" fits in the pirate scheme o'things, nor whar they got "steadiness and planning" out o' me answers. Aye, starboard now! Avast!

The Grandmothers of Christmas

2005-09-18T21:31:00.000-07:00

This morning I went to Trinity Presbyterian for church. I don't think I've been there since July. When I go, I usually walk. I love that tangible connection between home and worship.

Today, I had company--Alena, my housemate, and Polly and Charles, friends. I savor the quiet community of walking to and from church, the simplicity and fellowship. Even if all the chat is chatter, creating that space on either side slows life down a bit and makes room for a smidge more reflection and reverence. Sometimes I walk alone. Also good.

The talk was on Jesus' grandmothers (the ones listed in Matthew: Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, Bathsheba). The broad theme was what God has to say about family. The speaker described the stories surrounding these women and their nations--the shame and scandal. And Jesus chose these stories to shape his lineage.

I love being reminded of how God transforms shame, how he redeems our stories. I love knowing that, in a world of broken homes and histories, God simply says, through Jesus, "I know." I love the example of transparency and courage: God bought a home with skeletons in the closet. And, as only he can do, he resurrected them. I love that when the sinless Savior died, his blood carried away geneaologies of sin.

One of my favorite names for God is Immanuel.

Stories like those of Jesus' grandmothers are why.

I'm so glad I have legs

2005-09-18T00:00:00.000-07:00

Seriously. I'm just sitting here with this incredible sense of wellbeing and contentment. Because I have legs. Doug and I went on a great hike today. It would have been very difficult without legs.

Oh, The Things You Can Fry

2005-09-15T21:29:00.000-07:00

Yes, it is truly amazing the sheer number of fryable things out there. Indeed, I plan in the near future to compose a short ode dedicated to this theme. My muse will be the Puyallup Fair*. My afternoon trip there will be my research.

The Puyallup Fair is Western Washington's largest fair. It has all the things a fair should--4H cats languishing (or at least hiding in litter boxes) in diorama displays, chickens with inexplicable feather growths, people pretending to be cowboys (you know, the ones who call into country stations from Bellevue with a deep southern twang that's as real as their September tans), Royal Canadian Mounted Police prancing about on Canadian horses to peppy Canadian music, rabbits contemplating heart attacks because they don't even have a litterbox to hide in, tremendous pumpkins, arbitrarily judged floral displays, enough moving, blinking, "musical" rides to send me into a blithering state of sensory overload and, above all, fried foods.

Now, I'm not talking about just any fried foods--though, of course, those were there too. I'm talking about "see-it-to-believe-it" fried foods. My co-worker, her husband and I were on a mission. We searched, we asked, we scoured. Following rumors, hearsay and the smell of hot canola, we eventually found ourselves winding around the outskirts of the fairgrounds. There, in the twilight, we saw it, glowing like a shrine to all that is excessive and glutinous in America. Now, maybe it was wrong to support such a thing. I'll let you judge. Nevertheless, as we slowly walked home, exchanging fried twinkies, snickers and oreos**, a little bit of that Fair Glow followed us, and I could feel the end consonants dropping off words like years off my life.

Y'all come back now, y'hear, and don' be keepin' all those twinkies fer yerself...

*I will personally award a candybar to the non-Washingtonian who can phonetically describe the pronunciation of "Puyallup". Frying is optional, cheating is not.

**Not as amazing as fried pickles, granted, but still pretty stellar. Shout out to Bef for alerting me to this new pickle phenomenon. Gross, but I'd probably try it.

Fall's First Fire

2005-09-10T16:58:00.000-07:00

Today I waded through early morning rain, swaggering slightly to accomodate the copper bin slung over one hip. Then, standing on tiptoe to gather logs from the top, loving the sense of plenty that is a well-stocked woodshed, loving the smell of damp earth and mixed wood (cedar, pine, fir). Staggering inside again. Carefully arranging each log in its place, laying the first flames, polishing the stove's glass panes (yes, in that order--no, not standard operating procedure). Curling up with a book and a cuppa'.

It's not tea in the garden, but Fall certainly has its charms.

Marimba debut

2005-09-09T21:36:00.000-07:00

There's nothing quite like elementary school. Even when you're a grown up. Where else could I have played a soprano marimba before an adoring audience some 500 souls strong? Where else would the performance be delayed so that the audience and performers could just stand there and wave to each other? Where else would my musical capacity receive such heartfelt and generous applause?

So there I was, first assembly of the year, up on stage with some other daring (read: willing-to-come-early-and-leave-late-in-order-to-learn-to-play-marimbas-in-a-few-short-days) staff folks. Every neuron in my brain firing AC, GC, GB, EC, repeat (not technically stunning, but the music teacher told me the part still mattered). The alto and bass marimbas adding their deep resonance. Mmmm. Glorious.

Of Marimbas, Poetry and World Domination

2005-09-09T16:33:00.000-07:00

The thing with playing in the marimba band was that it spiraled me into one of my "why can't I be a swank superstar" pity fests*. Driving home, my inner dialogue ranted against the injustices of societal norms of attraction. Norms of appearance, yes, but also of ability. (This conversation primarily occurred because my marimba skills are mediocre at best. To circumvent despair, I'd been listing things I actually CAN do. This worked until I realized that my skills aren't exactly magazine features: "How to be more poetic," "Doodling your way into a man's heart," "The allure of risk taking"--mainstream just doesn't touch this stuff.)

BUT WAIT, what's this on the radio? NPR had begun describing a world leader who captivated followers with the poetry and prose of his language. Yes, there he was, a man who used poetry to enthrall the hearts and minds of his generation. He hadn't needed musicality, looks, athleticism. Indeed, lacking all three, he remains one of the most sought after people of our time. His name? Osama Bin Laden.

Sigh.

*yes, I realize that pity fests are irrational, selfish and ungrateful. I felt bad about all of those failures, too. Sigh x 3.

Good news gone bad

2005-09-08T21:24:00.000-07:00

So, with my feeler still comatose, my thinker has had free reign to further dissect the implications of telephone con artists. I wonder what role they've played in changing our generation's approach to faith in general and the gospel in particular. Think about it--any time someone offers us something REALLY good (or even just passably mediocre), how often is our first thought, "What's the catch?" Whenever the world offers something too good to be true, it usually isn't (good, true or both).

Hear me on this one? That tension of feeling like our two choices are gullibility or cynicism?

And into this tension God offers the best deal ever--eternal life, divine resources, love, wholeness, healing, forgiveness, hope, purpose. All by grace. All free.

I wonder how many people turn away because it's simply "too good to be true."

And we'd rather be hard than foolish, empty than fooled.

So Jesus said, "Be wise as serpents, innocent as doves."
(Feel free to judge contextual legitimacy or lack thereof by going to Matthew 10:16)

Too tasty to not document

2005-09-07T21:05:00.000-07:00

This was dinner tonight:

Wedges of crimson heirloom tomato, thick slices of crusty baguette, slivers of Serrano Spanish ham, just picked basil and fresh mozarella cheese, drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, sprinkled with freshly ground pepper and french sea salt, consumed with a glass of Pinot Grigio, and eaten without silverware.

So I'm an optimist

2005-09-07T20:31:00.000-07:00

You know how you can walk up to some people (and I think we all know which people) and they will, without provocation, begin throwing letters at you, letters that define who you are and what you do? For example, ENTJ or ISFP. Well, the two times I've actually taken this test (granted, a while ago) I came out evenly split between T (Thinker) and F (Feeler). I'll admit that part of me savors this evidence of internal complexity. Sadly, the larger truth is that this complexity confuses me, or at least results in wasted time.

Here's an example from tonight:

Every once in a while, I get this urge to hear out telemarketers. I mean, I really want to believe that they have something worthwhile to say (feeler). They're people too, afterall (feeler). And they've got to make a living (feeler). So they call me up, and I listen to their offer. But then the thinker kicks in. Why do they want my bank routing information? Why did the man's employee ID number change within the space of 3 minutes? Why do all these people with exotic accents have names like James Butterworth and Marshall Hunt? (Feeler kicks back with an "It's that wicked imperialism").

Given the increasing doubts, I attempt a polite escape. But I'm compromised by my dual nature. It's sapping me of much needed external assertiveness.

Paralyzed by this internal dialogue, I keep listening. Marshall Hunt throws in something for the thinker--"hard facts" if you will--phone numbers, addresses, location numbers.

But by now, the feeler's not really buying it. They're using way too many big words. The verbal manipulation's a bit too obvious. Besides, I'm vaguely uncomfortable with their pronunciation of legit-eh-mate; some awkward cross between Indian salesman and Australian come on.

Time passes. I've already told them (several minutes ago, in fact) that I won't be giving out any bank information. They're beginning to believe it for themselves.

We say a terse goodbye.

My feeler feels guilty for wasting their time. My thinker thinks "What about OUR time?!!" My feeler says, "Well, at least I believe in the good in people." My thinker says, "Well, at least I'm a realist" and beats up my feeler.

It's exhausting, really.

This convicts my soul

2005-09-03T21:37:00.000-07:00

It's the last meeting in a long day of meetings at Hick's Lake. The gospel is washing over me like rain and I'm lulled by it's ancient familiarity, good news as old as the loving heart of God. But then something breaks through. The speaker speaks about Hurricane Katrina. This is current. I have current opinions about this. There is nothing lulling about my opinions. How come all those rich people didn't make room in their cars for people without cars? Why aren't there any means of bilingual emergency broadcasting in a city with such a large hispanic population? Why didn't people leave? Why couldn't people leave? How can race, class, politics, money be so powerful that they make themselves heard above something so terribly primal as a hurricane? Sitting in my orange plastic chair, I remember the radio clip that makes me cry, "I don't know where my sons are. I just wish they'd contact me." I think about my mom.

And then I think about the gospel. I think about how rich I am, loaded down with good news and safe ground. I think about my free access to the Bible and to fellowship which fuels my Christian walk. I think about eternal souls and coming judgement and wonder if I really let myself believe in death and hell. There's a lot of room in my car, and more often than not, I barely brake for pedestrians...

Daring deeds during dawn desk dumping

2005-09-02T21:25:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there were three housemates with a large, ugly, decrepit desk cluttering up their living room. The youngest housemate said, "Let's put it in the basement." The middle housemate said, "Let's take it to the dump." The oldest housemate said, "Let's get up really early, wear all black, draw fake moustaches on our faces with eyeliner and sneak it on to a fraternity's lawn." (Okay, the oldest housemate's getting a little too much credit. It was the middle housemate who knew that the Greek system has free dumping--she's in a sorority--but the disguises were all me...err, ahem, the oldest housemate's.) Sadly, the oldest housemate has a tender conscience, and much of the drama was lost because the desk was deposited by the dumpster rather than in some other, more prime, location.

Can I say it again? Mmm! It's GOOD to be back!

2005-08-30T20:21:00.000-07:00

No, seriously. Today was round two of the staff convocation meetings (I had this little ditty running through my head: "Second verse, same as the first, little bit longer, and now my butt hurts.").

The agenda began with Superintendent's Day, in which all FPSD employees gather together in this huge mega-church for the staff equivalent of a pep rally. I spent the first half hour a: feeling like I should be wearing a headcovering and b: indignantly thinking, "What kind of impressionable saps do they think we are? Feeding us all this sentimental rhetoric about changing the future and touching lives, love, inspiration, hope, blah, blah, blah."

But then I thought, "Hey! I actually like this stuff." I mean, really, how great is it that I get to work in a field that still aspires to service, integrity, community? The words love, hope, service and gratitude all featured largely in the various talks. I really knew I was a goner when the keynote speaker played a Mr. Rogers' videoclip and I teared up. (We're talking serious tear-duct action. I was honestly afraid that the psych's I was sitting with would notice. Who knows what they'd do with that kind of intel...)

But wait. There's more...

At a back-to-school BBQ I manned the free and reduced lunches and voter registration table. Here is the absolute best thing ever: an unprecedented number of families came for whom Spanish was their only language. Since I didn't have a classroom, I was free to run around, offering weak interpretations and warm introductions, muddling through bus routes and teacher assignments, and offering living proof that, however shy they might be of their English skills, they couldn't possibly sound more ridiculous than my Spanish.

I really felt God's faithfulness--even in the details. I had an outfit on this morning, and at the last minute changed (believe it or not, I almost never do that). So, there I was tonight, wearing an outfit purchased in Central America, speaking broken Spanish, and, hopefully, touching lives and living all that sentimental rhetoric that us impressionable saps love.

Mmm! It's GOOD to be back.

2005-08-29T21:56:00.000-07:00

The First Day Back...

...Involved a lot of sitting. The most exciting (read: terrifying) thing I learned was that at my new school there is a new teacher with a new student with a new IEP due next week. For those not immersed in the world of SpEd, consider this context: with kids we know, a month is usually a good amount of prep time for an IEP. Kids don't even get back to their pre-summer status for about 6 weeks. Some people have a gift for hitting the ground running. My penchant seems to be hitting the ground flailing.

(Actually, that's just a dramatic bit of whining. I can't complain. The OT who worked with this kid last year offered to help/take care of it. This is great, because she wants to add a new evaluation to the list. Mmm! It's GOOD to be back!)

When I went grocery shopping, the subject of the-first-day-back came up with the checker. The conversation went like this:
Him: Did you have a good day?
Me: Yes. I work for the schools and it was my first day back.
Him: You look like you had a good day.
Me: It's great to see people again.
Him: I bet.
Me: The kids start Thursday.
Him: (looks at me and laughs)
Him: (shakes his head and keeps laughing at me)

I wasn't trying to be funny. Many of you are probably thinking, 'Don't worry. You weren't'. Nonetheless, this story illustrates nicely the perfect freedom that perfect strangers feel to laugh at me. That's a good thing, right?

2005-08-28T21:19:00.000-07:00

And so it ends...

Today I kissed a golden summer goodbye. One last breakfast with the five of us. One more pot of tea. Meeting at Newcastle. Bethany heading back to Wally world, myself heading back to Tacoma (which, even if it's the best place on earth, lacks a few key family elements). Dad and I finished our summer project--a humunguous bookcase. I took a final summer afternoon nap. (Let the post-summer afternoon napping begin!) Mom and I said goodbye a gajillion times. (Yes, she lives 40 minutes away, and yes, I'll be seeing everybody next weekend. But, hey, this is my sappy moment. Just let me have it.) I went to a send-off for a good friend of mine and her husband. And, poetically, perfectly, it rained.

2005-08-26T11:27:00.000-07:00

And so it begins...

I decided to commemorate turning old by starting a blog. The way I know I turned old is because my life flashed before my eyes and it looked like a first grade pie chart...shoot! quarter of a century!

Speaking of quarters, the one comforting association with turning 25 is the quarter collection of my youth. Unfortunately, my youth was so long ago that quarter collections weren't even interesting. They all look the same. But I had lots of them. Still do. (No, seriously, lots...like 50 dollars). Someone should probably talk to my parents.

The most depressing association is, in my optimistic youth, I decided that if I was single at 25 I'd go pseudo-bridal shopping. You know, buy a sparkly CZ ring, cut some pictures out of the Eddie Bauer catalog, try on pretty dresses, sample catering options. At the time it seemed like a good idea. I think it's the female equivalent to test-driving Porsches, but I can't help wondering if, despite the cake samples, there's more dignity in cars...

Maybe I'll just organize my quarters.