hope for the flowers

wrestling with the truth

2011-12-31T22:28:00.007-06:00

I think I’m finding the truth, knowing the truth, and it scares the hell out of me. But I can’t stop searching for it. I’ve been on a journey toward it my whole life. I’ve been seeking it in my personal relationships, in my education and vocation, in my travels, in my faith.

I’ve stumbled upon moments of clarity and understanding. I’ve met people who have taught me something new about myself and humanity. I’ve studied, researched, read, worked, planned, and performed tasks that have both lightened and weighed on my heart and mind. I’ve experienced new places and cultures that have contributed to the base of my understanding of life. And I have been nurtured in belief and pestered with curiosity about the purpose of life.

All things point to this way. The Way. The Way of Jesus Christ.

I still don’t know if I believe that he was the Son of God or if he is divine. I don’t know that I believe that “no one gets to the Father except through him.” I’m pretty sure that other wisdom teachers were holy and in touch with the divine and that their paths toward peace have validity as well.

But I do know that my life has led to the understanding that no matter who Jesus was, he led a life of peace and love, and that his teachings are truthful. I’ve been reading that truth underscored constantly in Tolstoy’s work:

We methodically create conditions where bread and labor are stolen from work-worn masses. We live lavishly, as if there were no connection whatever between the dying washerwoman, the child-prostitute, women worn out by making cigarettes, or whatever, and all by the exhausting labor in the world that feeds our fat stomachs. We do not want to see the fact that if we stopped living such overindulgent, comfortable lives, there would not be so many people whose labor exhausts their strength to live.

The problem is the entire way of American/Western life has become “overindulgent, comfortable.” My way of life is overindulgent and comfortable. Even though I like to pride myself on living simply and living green, on being a professional volunteer, on using my purchase power to shop at local, organic, fair trade, or thrift stores; I like to think that my lifestyle is comparatively holier than my neighbor’s. But I am so far from living the gospel. My ease and convenience and comfort are higher priorities than addressing the injustice of the “dying washerwoman, the child-prostitute, the women worn out by making cigarettes.” I own Nike shoes. I consider it a normal necessity to have a laptop computer and to pay outrageous prices for wireless internet, to have a cell phone, to listen to my iPod, to purchase books, to go to the GAP and buy new $60 jeans because I “need” them, and to routinely spend my money dining out and traveling.

And how can I defy this? Why can’t I live according to truth when I know it? Why do I insist on ignoring what I know to be right? Why do I live a life of hypocrisy? Because the truth is impossibly hard.

Two years ago I became a vegetarian. I watched the film Food, Inc. and immediately stopped eating meat. The injustices revealed in the film provoked me enough to realize that I couldn’t go on living the way I lived and do it in good conscience. When I explained the source of my decision to my co-workers, one woman said she could never watch the documentary. She didn’t want to know the truth about the food she ate because she knew she’d be compelled to change her ways.

She didn’t want to know the truth because the truth is impossibly hard. If we acknowledge the truth, we might have to sacrifice our overindulgent, comfortable lives: the luxuries we have understood as essentials, the practices we consider customary, the systems we laud as necessary. All the while these luxuries, practices, and systems are oppressing our brothers and sisters both here in the United States and all across the world. People are oppressed simply because of our overindulgence and comfort.

How much worse am I that I know this truth and ignore it? That I’m not doing something far more radical to address the injustice I see?

The philosopher and author Peter Singer would suggest that if we were to see a child drowning in a pond, we would jump in to save it, even if we were wearing brand new $150 Nike running shoes. We want to do good. But we have a disconnect today between what we do and the consequences of what we do--the genius of modern capitalism and marketing. That $150 pair of Nike running shoes? Probably considered the best in market, essential if you’d like to commit to being a decent runner. The materials for them? Probably extracted from a developing nation with back-breaking labor that is barely compensated. The profits of those extracted resources? Probably lining the pockets of corrupt politicians and business owners. The assembly of those shoes? Probably stitched and glued by young women in Vietnam in conditions that American workers would strike against. The compensation of those girls? Probably far below a living wage. The marketing to sell it to the customer? Manipulative and costly. The store price of the shoe? FAR higher than the cost to produce it.

In all likelihood, that child is drowning in the pond because we purchased the pair of Nike shoes in the first place. “...in our current political and social system the responsibility for the crimes committed is so hidden away that people will commit the most atrocious acts without seeing their responsibility for them. [...] We have conveniently created a world in which we are bound together by the act of throwing the responsibility of our actions on to one another. No one is to blame, and death prevails.” -Tolstoy (The Kingdom of God Is within You)

“Why don’t we just do what Jesus told us to do? Why do so many of us admire Christ’s teaching, but fail to carry it out?”

I think what I’m truly trying to explore is how to seek justice, peace, love, and hope in a world MIRED with consumerism. Consumerism is the silent killer. I see it more and more. I don’t know how to escape it. I don’t know how to live radically enough. I don’t know how to live according to Jesus's Way. I want to be radically different. I want to live radically different. I want to live simply so others may simply live. But I feel weak.

It’s a new understanding of “the flesh is so weak.” I never knew I could be so weak--to KNOW the truth, truly truly truly know it deep down inside, and desire to ignore it. I wish ignorance upon myself all the time. It would be easier to remain deaf and dumb to Christ’s wishes and commands. I don’t want to care. I don’t want to know that I SHOULD give up wealth and fame and status. I don’t like knowing that “to live my life I have to lose it.” I don’t want to give up coffee shops and beauty products and GAP jeans and ethnic restaurants and books and travel and the prospect of owning my own home someday. I want to go on living the way I want to live.

But I’m burdened with knowledge. I’m going to struggle with this the rest of my years.

I also know that there are places seeking to reconcile life and our weakness with the path Jesus carved out so lovingly for us to live. I know there are places seeking to be peace and light. I want to be light. I want to live justly. I want to explore with others the meaning of community and to wrestle constantly with these impossible questions. I can live in a Catholic Worker community.

I want to know the truth. I want it to set me free. But I’m scared shitless of what I might have to abandon: relationships with friends and family, comfort, sleep, peace of mind. And how do we love others who don’t understand our truth? Is my truth THE truth? How can I lovingly and humbly live despite the thoughts I have about injustice and consumerism? How can I live without judging others, how can I talk to other people about the way I feel and the way I want to live? I don’t want to isolate others, to judge others, to assume I’m right.

“God, teach me how to exist, how to live, so that my life should not be so loathsome to me.” -Tolstoy

Revolution.

2011-12-31T11:56:00.007-06:00

Dorothy Day's reflections on Christmas, from catholicworker.org:

We have all probably noted those sudden moments of quiet--those strange and almost miraculous moments in the life of a big city when there is a cessation of traffic noises--just an instant when there is only the sound of footsteps which serves to emphasize a sudden peace. During those seconds it is possible to notice the sunlight, to notice our fellow humans, to take breath.

After hours of excitement and action and many human contacts, when even in one's sleep and at moments of waking there is a sense of the imminence of things to be done and of conflict ahead, it is good to seek those moments of perfect stillness and refreshment during early Mass.

Then indeed it seems that God touches the heart and the mind. There are moments of recollection, of realization when the path seems straighter, the course to be followed perfectly plain, though not easy. It is as though the great Physician to whom we go for healing had put straight that which was dislocated, and prescribed a course of action so definite that we breathe relief at having matters taken out of our hands.

Such a moment came this morning with the thought--the revolution we are engaged in is a lonely revolution, fought out in our own hearts, a struggle between Nature and Grace.

It is the most important work of all in which we are engaged.

If we concentrate our energies primarily on that; then we can trust those impulses of the Holy Spirit and follow them simply, without question. We can trust and believe that all things will work together for good to them that love God, and that He will guide and direct us in our work. We will accomplish just what he wishes us to accomplish and no more, regardless of our striving. Since we have good will, one need no longer worry as though the work depended just on ourselves.

War is Over (If You Want It)

2011-12-27T15:35:00.008-06:00

Every year at Christmas, I'm reminded of John Lennon and Yoko Ono's 1969 War is Over peace campaign. They bought billboards in 11 major world cities in their effort to "sell peace" while politicians and corporations sell war:

Today the song "Happy X-mas (War Is Over)" is a popular Christmas song, but I doubt many people know its origins in Lennon and Ono's peace campaign. Two years after their billboards were posted, they wrote the song, and today there's a video:

The thing that fascinates me most about the entire campaign is its request of each and every one of us. War is over if YOU want it. If we all stood up and said "war no more," there would be no more war. It sounds crazy. It sounds too simple and too idealistic and impossible. But it's so true. If we, the people, truly do believe that government is ours--that it derives its power from the people, by the people, for the people--then why allow governments to continue to brutally murder our families and people around the world? Why do we give up our power and believe that our voices, our actions, our beliefs don't matter? If we refused to participate, there could be no war.

And how can we refuse?

We can refuse through democracy. Call out elected representatives who support war or violence of any kind. Don't elect politicians who speak about war escalation. Unfortunately, even "peace" candidates can start conflicts and escalate wars and instigate violence. But you don't have to vote to speak against what our government is doing. Write handwritten letters to your senators and congresswomen/men and speak your mind. Let them know that their constituents want war to end.
We can refuse with our money. Don't buy products from companies that help manufacture the war machine (and a surprising number of them do).
We can refuse in numbers. Protest. Organize. Get together around a common issue and speak out. We're strong together.

Most importantly, how can we build peace?

Meet your neighbors. It hard to build a peaceful world if we're all strangers. Bake cookies for the person next door. Talk to the person working behind the counter at the grocery store. Organize a community meal. The more we share stories, the more we build relationships and community, the more vulnerable we become, the more peace there will be. That's the beautiful paradox of peace: the more vulnerable become, the stronger and safer we are.
Seek inner peace. It's hard to have peace with others if you're not at peace with yourself. What makes you angry? Name it. Address it peacefully. A wise man once said that "peace is every step."

Some sites to check out:

I truly believe that this earth contains everything we need for a more peaceful world--enough food, water, clothing, shelter, love, peace, joy--we just lack the moral courage and political will to redistribute, to give up luxury, to stand up against the system and act for peace.

War (and all social injustice) is over. If we want it.

Tolstoy's thoughts on OWS?

2011-12-19T15:14:00.003-06:00

Sometimes I believe in fated things. A series of events led me to Tolstoy's spiritual writings. Everything has a time and place. I have been searching and I found Tolstoy. Every line, every word resonates with something I've questioned in my own life, questioned in my own existence, questioned in the world. There's a poignancy that seems beyond mere coincidence.

From The Kindgom of God is within You:

Whoever you are reading these lines, think of your position and of your duties--not of your position as landowner, businessman, lawyer, politician, minister, soldier, which has been temporarily alloted you by society, and not of the imaginary duties laid on you by those positions, but of your real position in eternity as a creature who, at the will of Someone, has been called out of unconsciousness after an eternity of nonexistence to which you may return at any moment at his will.

Think of your real duties, the duties that follow from your real position as a being called into life and endowed with reason and love.

Are you doing what God has sent you into the world for, and to whom you will soon return? Are you doing what he wills? Are you doing his will, when as landowner or entrepreneur you rob the poor of the fruits of their toil, basing your life on this plunder of the workers, or when, as judge or governor, you sentence them to execution, or when as soldiers you prepare for war, killing, and plunder?

Even if you are told that all this is necessary for maintaining the existing order, and that greater disasters would ensue if the way things are were destroyed, isn't it obvious that all that is said by those who profit by such an arrangement, while those who suffer from it--and they are ten times as numerous [in 2011 99 times as numerous?]--think to the contrary? And at the bottom of your heart you know yourself that it is not true, that the existing order of things is not how things are supposed to be.

More importantly, even if such a life is necessary, why you believe it is your duty to maintain it at the cost of your best feelings? Who has made you the nurse in charge of this sick and moribund system? Not society nor the state nor anyone. No one asked you to undertake this. You who fill your position of landowner, businessman, politician, priest, or soldier know very well that you occupy that position not because you are so concerned about other people's happiness, but simply to satisfy your own interests, to satisfy your own security and well-being. If you did not desire that position, you would not be doing your utmost to retain it.

Try the experiment of ceasing to compromise your conscience in order to retain your position, and you will lose it at once. Think about it.

nomads

2011-07-19T14:51:00.002-05:00

it’s a strange time, your twenties. after spending formative, precious years developing incredible relationships with people and ideas, it happens. the post-college diaspora. all of your dear friends and your beautiful ideas scatter across the world, each person taking with them a piece of you.

and you are fragmented, drifting the planet. lost. but oh, so free.

Portland... where my writing career begins?

2011-07-13T18:13:00.003-05:00

I'm in Portland for a week, visiting Tess and Brent, a much-needed breather from the chaos that has been life in Milwaukee. The entire plane ride here I couldn't help but wonder if I had contracted melanoma from working the rooftop patio at Benelux due to the total exhaustion I couldn't seem to shake the past two days, not to mention the crazy thoughts consuming my head in my time off... crazy thoughts that led me to blowing $210 on the GRE that I didn't take on Monday morning. C'est la vie.

Anyway. Here I am in hipster's paradise (realizing just how hipster I've become) getting lost in Powell's Books, conversing with the locals, catching up on long-neglected correspondence, working my way through my summer reading list, and brushing up on my anarchist theories while I wait for my darling friends to get off work. I'm back at the place where my 2011 began and where I made the resolution to become a writer. So this might be it. I'm hoping for a few more entries posted to this here blog from this here World Cup Cafe.

Currently enjoying Sophie's World by Jostein Gaarder.

She would not be living on this planet for more than a few years. But if the history of mankind was her own history, in a way she was thousands of years old.

More to come this week. That's more of a promise to myself than to you, dear reader.

A "Great Story" from my first year of service

2011-06-19T18:14:00.001-05:00

As a corps member, we're required to write 4 "Great Stories" from our year of service. This one was posted on the Admission Possible website:

Coach Katy Resop recalls her favorite moment of the year

In October, Admission Possible took 30 students to Chicago State University. It was a great opportunity for students to visit a predominantly African-American campus in an urban setting outside Milwaukee. Students asked intelligent questions and enjoyed their interactions with faculty and staff members. But the best part didn't happen until we were on the bus on our way home.

I was already so proud of them after a successful visit when a heated discussion broke out on the charter bus on the way home. A senior boy was explaining to a junior girl, "I'm here on this campus visit on a day off from school, working hard to get to college, so I can make something of myself. I want to better myself and make something of my life instead of getting caught up in crime and drugs." One of my girls countered, "But we need to better ourselves so we can better our communities, not just leave them. I want to go to college and go back to my neighborhood to make it a better place." The drama was thick, voices were raised, and nervous laughter was interspersed throughout the intense sparring match. One girl was recording the conversation on her phone. The coaches at the front of the bus smiled proudly at one another as we listened to the unprompted conversation unfold behind us. The whole bus had tuned into the debate.

The discussion ended with both sides in agreement. They recognized that they had been arguing the same thing, just from different view points: they both wanted to get a college degree for reasons beyond their own self-interest. They wanted to change the future for their families, their communities and ultimately the world.

When I got off the bus at the end of our trip, I was bursting with respect and pride for our students. Not only are they overcoming very real challenges to their own personal success, but they are fully aware of the magnitude that their education has on the community at large, and they're bravely accepting that role. I feel honored to work with and know the next generation of change-makers.

The Abundant Life

2011-04-18T20:38:00.002-05:00

"Children look at things very directly and simply. I did not see anyone taking off his coat and giving it to the poor. I didn't see anyone having a banquet and calling in the lame, the halt and the blind. And those who were doing it, like the Salvation Army, did not appeal to me. I wanted, though I did not know it then, a synthesis. I wanted life and I wanted the abundant life. I wanted it for others too. I did not want just the few, the missionary-minded people like the Salvation Army, to be kind to the poor, as the poor. I wanted everyone to be kind. I wanted every home to be open to the lame, the halt and the blind, the way it had been after the San Francisco earthquake. Only then did people really live, really love their brothers. In such love was the abundant life and I did not have the slightest idea how to find it."
-Dorothy Day-

Dear Z

2011-04-05T06:30:00.005-05:00

Follow-up to last week's post: a letter that I wrote to my student. Here's hoping she reads it and that it convinces her that her future's worth showing up to the ACT this Saturday.

**********

Dear Z,

I'm very sorry about what happened between us last Tuesday. I think we misunderstood one another. I want you to know that I believe in you. I didn't mean to mean to make you feel like I didn't want you in session, and I'm very sorry if I did.

I care about you and your future. I'm so proud of how hard you've worked this year. You're brilliant and talented. You're an amazing person with so much potential. That's what I see in you; that's what Admission Possible sees in you. And that's why we accepted you into our program--because we know you're going to do amazing things in your future.

You've worked so hard this year, and your hard work has been paying off. Your ACT score has gone up! I have full confidence that with your determination, it will be even higher on Saturday.

I believe in you. Admission Possible believes in you. The teachers and staff believe in you. Now it's up to you to believe in yourself. You can do amazing things. I will support you along the way, but ultimately it's up to you to show up to the ACT on Saturday--NOT for me, but for yourself and your future.

I can't wait to see your scores after April 9. I can't wait to see you take one step closer to college. I hope to see you in session this week.

-Katy

**********

Update: not only is she coming, she thanked me for the note. :) I couldn't be happier.

But I will hold on hope.

2011-03-31T01:20:00.009-05:00

"hmm, what does that say?"
"Goal for Juniors, that's what it said!"

Yesterday, 11 days before the ACT, I had a major altercation with a student. After working all year to earn her trust, I lost it all in a matter of minutes.

Oddly enough, I feel encouraged. The past 3 weeks I've slipped into a miserable ACT-score depression (we're talking sprawling-on-kitchen-floor, slumping-in-chair, sleepless-night, permanent-frown depression), so you'd think that fracturing a hard-fought relationship with my most challenging student would shove me several inches past sanity. Yet it actually restored my hope and reminded me (at an unbelievably critical time) exactly why I'm doing this work.

A few months ago, I wrote the "great story" below for work about this very student. Reading it now during crunch time reminds me just how much I care about her and all 32 of my girls. That's the foundation of our work: doing whatever it takes to empower young people, to show them how capable, talented, and strong they are, that we love and support them and believe they can change the world.

We aren't giving up on the youth of Milwaukee. We'll never give up on the youth of Milwaukee.

I have a lot of relationship repair to do in the next 10 days to ensure this student takes the ACT on April 9. This week has been a truly epic culmination of so many wonderful and challenging experiences I've had this year. I've learned so much about hope and love, and I owe that to the compassionate staff at my school, my incredibly supportive co-workers, supervisors, and friends, and, most of all, my amazing students.

So here's a "great story" about one of them:
_____________________________________________________

Everytime I needed to talk to her, I had to give myself a pep talk. Logically I knew that I talk to 17-year-olds everyday with great success and no fear. But she was different.

From the moment we admitted her to our program in the fall, I knew she was tough. When I told her she had been accepted, she gave me only the slightest head movement to acknowledge she had heard me. When I found her in the lunchroom to coax her into coming to session, I received eye rolls and curt replies to my questions, if I was lucky. She barely acknowledged my existence and didn't come to session. I knew I was going to have to work hard to earn her trust. Slowly but surely I knew I'd have to chip away at the harsh front she had put up to distance herself from me and almost everyone else at my school.

Even though she never stayed after school, she had perfect attendance at weekend events, including practice ACTs, volunteer opportunities, and campus visits. I quickly learned that despite her poor GPA, she was a brilliant student. On a campus visit to Mount Mary, I saw her drill the tour guide with intelligent questions. I noticed she was incredibly driven to go to college. She just didn’t know how to get there.

I started paying attention to who she ate with in the lunchroom and encouraged her friends to bring her to session. In December, she started staying after school regularly, even if always strolling in 15 minutes after we began with headphones in ears and an apathetic stare firmly in place. That didn't phase me--I was ecstatic.

Right before winter break I had the opportunity to talk one-on-one with her in a check-in. Looking her in the eye, I told her I knew she had what it takes to get into college, and that together, with a lot of hard work, we'd get her there.

For the first time since I met her, I saw her smile.

She's become one of my regulars. I can always count on her to show up twice a week. She brings with her good questions and a determination that never ceases to impress me. Just a few weeks ago, she raised her hand in the middle of session and asked, "Do I get to keep these (Kaplan) books?" I assured her they were hers to keep forever and ever. "Good. I want to give them to my kids someday to help them get to college. Will the test change much?"

I was probably beaming uncontrollably when I replied, "That's awesome. But first, let's get you to college. Then we'll make sure your kids go too."

To which she responded in her curt manner, "Sounds good."

The 10 Most Segregated Urban Areas in the States

2011-03-29T18:38:00.000-05:00

Milwaukee is #1. Not our finest moment.

I've long held a theory that the South is more racially integrated/reconciled than the North, mostly because it was forced, with the whole world watching, to confront Jim Crow in the 60's. The North (particularly the Midwest, apparently, which includes 6 of these 10 urban areas) has for WAY too long self-righteously assumed moral superiority to our Southern neighbors.

In 1966, Martin Luther King and the Civil Rights Movement launched a northern campaign in Chicago. "Ralph Abernathy later wrote that they received a worse reception than they had in the South. Their marches were met by thrown bottles and screaming throngs, and they were truly afraid of starting a riot."^[82]

As a person passionate about racial justice, educational equity, a just economy, the Midwest, the state of Wisconsin, and the people of Milwaukee, I guess I can see little reason to move anytime soon. I might not know what to hope in right now, but I know we have to keep hoping.

Existential insomnia

2011-03-29T13:22:00.002-05:00

Milwaukee is the most segregated city in the country (maybe the world?). Scott Walker continues to give two shits about the most vulnerable in Wisconsin. Japan is on the verge of a nuclear meltdown.

And here I sit, sipping my luxurious cup of coffee, pondering the pleasant shadows the morning sunshine casts on the floor of Alterra, contemplating why I can't see more beauty, selfishly screaming for MORE, MORE, MORE from life...

...my heart doesn't skip a beat. 2008, 2009, 2010 versions of Katy would weep and weep and weep for Japan and Wisconsin and the state of the world. 2011 Katy just slinks into retail therapy, eating out, and caffeinated mornings. What's become of me? Am I adopting the worst of human habits, the apathy I've always despised? Am I just tired? Confused? Momentarily lost?

So what's a girl to do with her thoughts in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, two weeks before the ACT when everything feels impossibly hard?

You say you want a revolution...

2011-01-31T00:20:00.014-06:00

I've been pondering the popular uprisings in Tunisia and Egypt. I know, me and the rest of the media-frenzied world.

I used to endorse this sort of thing involuntarily. I think everyone (except for those being revolted against, of course) loves a good revolution. Revolutions are about community: the "will of the people" uniting against "the man." Revolutions are signs that the "little guy," when united with lots of other "little guys," has power and influence: the underdog fighting corruption, greed, and limitless power. Revolutions give us hope: we have the ability to change our world.

But...

political uprisings, while overthrowing one corrupt regime, often pave the way for another power-hungry and corrupt administration to take advantage of the chaos (and frequently, in our modern era, offer other nations' governments the chance to support a new leader of their liking)
political revolutions are seldom peaceful. Many people are injured or die for the cause... which is... ?

I guess this is where a budding Christian anarchist contemplates the meaning and method of the political revolution. To overthrow one system/government in exchange for... ?

I know that most uprisings are a response to injustice. While I absolutely do not negate a need for justice, I do question the methods and structures by which we seek justice.

And I do recognize the cushy position I'm in, sitting on my comfy couch in these "revolutionized" United States, in addition to the part this nation (and my comfy-couch lifestyle) has played in serving up injustice all over the world.

I don't know... I don't have many answers, just many questions.

So tonight I pray for peace and justice for people everywhere, but most especially for the people of Tunisia and Egypt. I ask for forgiveness for the role I play in perpetuating injustice, and for strength and courage for myself and all of God's people to do something both peacefully and productively about it.

I guess I do want a revolution of sorts.

Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

2011-01-17T20:15:00.000-06:00

"We have deluded ourselves into believing the myth that capitalism grew and prospered out of the Protestant ethic of hard work and sacrifices. Capitalism was built on the exploitation of black slaves and continues to thrive on the exploitation of the poor, both black and white, both here and abroad."

Lost and Found?

2010-11-17T08:33:00.010-06:00

Last night one of my students was missing.

Long story short: it was an emotional and stressful evening filled with frenzied phone calls and texts that thankfully resulted in a final call from my student at 10 pm saying she had been at the library, that she was safe and so sorry she had so many people worried.

Milwaukee County
red = Latino/a majority; blue = Black majority
green = White majority

One of the things I did while I anxiously awaited that phone call was to look up all of my students' addresses. I had done this once before but at the beginning of the school year when I knew next to nothing about Milwaukee's geography and demography.

So I Google-mapped my house and directions to each and every one of my students' houses, just to get my barrings. Like clockwork: all of my black students live north/northwest. All of my Latina students live south.

Segregation in 2010. It was disheartening to say the least. And unsurprising. Milwaukee is, after all, the nation's most segregated city. I already knew it.

Last night reality struck me, both in the very real threat that my student could have been kidnapped or hurt or killed or... (fill in the thousands of other scenarios I dreamed up in my head)... and the plotting of my students' homes on the Milwaukee map. It occurred to me, maybe not for the first time but in a more pressing way, that the girls I have the privilege of working with live some of the lives I had previously only read about or studied in college classrooms.

They're real, these "issues." But they're not "issues" at all. They're people with names, faces, addresses, and hopes and dreams.

Back to school today (with a bit more urgency) to work with 32 incredible girls so dedicated to achieving their aspirations.

New Directions

2010-10-03T20:42:00.003-05:00

...and I don't mean the McKinley High Glee Club.

I'm continuing this blog as a place for my developing thoughts on Christian anarchism. I'm developing a separate Milwaukee blog to be unveiled by the end of this month at the very latest.

As a kickoff for the "new direction" of this Hopeful Blossoming blog, an article I wrote for the UK Christian anarchist newsletter, A Pinch of Salt:

I spent the summer as an intern on the Catholic Worker Farm in Hertfordshire. As an American living in England, I learned many things, notably some colloquialisms that shouldn’t be said in an English pub, but I also discovered Christian anarchism and my complex relationship to “the state.”

The farm hosted a Christian Anarchist Conference in July during which every American thing about me felt challenged. As I began “de-mythologizing the state” with the rest of the attendees, I felt myself enter into a ideological crisis from which my return seemed doubtful. I recalled the countless ways I had been indoctrinated by my nation--from my beloved Saturday morning cartoons with catchy American history lessons (simply search “School House Rock - Fireworks” on YouTube and you’ll see what I mean), to Washington, D.C. and its venerable temples for past presidents, to the exhilaration I felt the night Obama was elected president. The more we deconstructed, the more the world felt like a lie.

But I was a budding Christian anarchist before I even stepped foot on the farm. I just didn’t know it.

When I lived in Chicago I often angrily stewed about the fact that the city neglected my neighborhood because it didn’t contain the demographic or the touristy attractions of the north side. When I walked down my boulevard and spied trash accumulating against trees and in gutters, I silently cursed the Chicago Department of Streets and Sanitation.

Until one spring day while walking down Armitage Avenue, cursing the city of Chicago’s neglect, it dawned on me. Why am I depending on the city to clean up my neighborhood? My neighborhood. What kind of effort would it really take for me to get up some Saturday morning to stuff a plastic bag with the abandoned rubbish? I had given up my power and responsibility for my neighborhood to a corrupt city government.

The saddest thing is, I never acted on my thoughts. I’ve always been one for over-thinking to the point of inaction, but on the Farm with my anarchist friends, I learned to act.

At the end of the conference and all of our discussions about anarchism, we decided to put our thoughts into action at Northwood Military Base, the UK's headquarters for conducting the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. We prayed outside of the grid iron gates for all involved in the conflict, for the conflict to end, and for the forgiveness of our complicit involvement in the violence. While we prayed, the police arrived. They were a stark contrast to our peacemaking--the arrival of 4 officers, completely clad in their black, bulletproof vests and gun belts.

Banksy

I remember feeling shock and disillusionment in the wake of some new understandings about the world. Never before had I been the target of police concern. And for what? Were we such a cause of fear, asking for an end to senseless acts of violence? In those moments, my thoughts on Christian anarchism became more solidified. I witnessed the state defending the war machine, “keeping the peace” in a way that seemed contrary to the friendly images of police I was embedded with at a young age.

I left the farm in August and moved to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, to help low-income teenagers go to college. I left England with a lot of panic--panic that I couldn’t explain my thoughts to my friends and family (still a struggle), panic that I couldn’t translate my experience to my new life in Milwaukee. And panic that I as soon as I landed in the U.S. I would lose the insights I had gained across the pond.

But I didn’t. In fact, since being back in the States, I’ve gone from meekly stating, “I think I might be a Christian anarchist,” to just yesterday boldly proclaiming to my unsuspecting roommates, “I’m a Christian anarchist!!!” prompted, in large, by the petty dramas of “Election 2010.” I will not allow a politician or government to rob me of my power and responsibility to pick up the damn trash when it needs picking up. Or to peacefully protest an unjust war. Or, in my new city, to address the 2010 census results that Milwaukee is now America’s 4th poorest city.

I hang my clothes to dry and eat porridge every morning for breakfast. I’m working with this city’s neglected youth. I’m planning to grow my own food in a spring garden. I volunteer at the Milwaukee Catholic Worker. I’m becoming a woman of action thanks to my friends on the farm. And as the result of my encounter with Christian anarchism, I am utterly turned off by the laughable soap opera of partisan American politics, so much so that I’ve decided upon the unthinkable, the un-American, the undemocratic: I’ve made the conscious political decision NOT to vote in the upcoming fall election.

Yes, Christian anarchism ruined my life. No longer am I allowed to pass the buck to someone else to pick up trash or care for the poor, and to find it justifiable to complain when they don’t. With my fellow Christians, I’m responsible for the Gospels, for building the kingdom of God here on earth. I’m taking action as a newfound Christian anarchist.

Transitioning

2010-08-31T18:40:00.000-05:00

Pardon the wait while I transition from life on a farm in England to working as an AmeriCorps member in Milwaukee. We just had internet installed at our new place today. My plan is to continue the blog, changing gears from focusing on Christian Anarchism to educational inequality. I also plan to write a reflection on the entire summer... really soon.

Stay tuned!

Recording History

2010-08-06T18:45:00.022-05:00

Maja and I "took a history" today. At the farm we interview each of the ladies and write down their stories so we know their pasts to better help and understand them in the context of our community. I've been living with these ladies for 2 months, piecing together tidbits here and there. But today, hearing a complete narrative in one sitting, I cried for the first time this summer.

It's a strange thing, listening for four hours to the details of what sounds like a movie script that's actually reality for the woman sitting across from you. It's difficult to even swallow that these things happen in the world, but I suppose they have to get those film plots from somewhere--they sadly don't materialize out of nothing.

Listening to this woman in the library on this very cold, very English summer day, I tried imagining what it could possibly be like to walk in her shoes. Impossible as it was, I still caught glimpses of myself as the young woman in the fabric of her story, and I felt fear, loneliness, and exhaustion... tiny moments of empathy and desperation. And when she cried, I cried too. I couldn't help but wonder if I was receiving something from her pain, and I resented the thought. Even now, writing this post, I feel as though I could be exploiting her suffering. I'm wrestling with that thought.

I think we all breathed small, inaudible sighs of relief when we were through taking her history. But it's not over for her... she's with us now, but when she leaves the library, her story follows her. On this chilly night, I desperately pray that she and the other 387,500 destitute asylum seekers in the UK find some semblance of peace--in a soft bed, a warm meal, a kind stranger (see Matthew 25), and most especially in their worried minds.

I've heard Scott mention that in this work he and Maria have prayed for God to stretch the tent pegs of their hearts to make more room to love these women and the other 387,493 impoverished refugees in this country. I think I better understand that prayer after today.

Gardening with James Taylor

2010-08-03T14:15:00.006-05:00

Maja and I are holding down the fort at the farm for 10 days while Scott and Maria are on holiday in France. With the help of three of the ladies, we spent today getting the polytunnel under control, pruning and staking tomato plants and listening to Maja's iPod on shuffle.

Polytunnel, June 11.

Polytunnel, August 3. It's a jungle in there!

It's moments like picking tomato knuckles on a cloudy English day while listening to James Taylor that I find existential clarity and purpose. Maybe I'm finding God... in simple tasks and otherwise ordinary moments, when everything seems illuminated with brilliance, and time floats in a peaceful suspense. Pulling nettles behind the fruit cage. Picking weeds in the runner bean beds. Gathering stones in the grove. Strolling along the south bank of the Thames on a cool summer evening. Getting lost with Scott in the London burbs. Dancing with the ladies in the sitting room. Cuddling with Hamza and watching a film. Riding the train to Brighton.

I take a mental snapshot of the moment, and it's preserved in the flood waters of past existential experiences that abide in me, sustain me, give me life.

Dorothy Day believed people are happier when they are good. And that it's easier to be good when living in community.

I'm incredibly happy. I love this community.

The Christian Anarchist Conference on Youtube

2010-07-27T10:50:00.005-05:00

Ciaron O'Reilly, longtime Catholic Worker, on Christian Anarchism (a fantastic introduction for those of you wondering "Why Christianity and Anarchism?")

A silly little diddy:

More at www.youtube.com/beyondtolstoy

Keeping Vigil

2010-07-22T15:00:00.010-05:00

Our action at Northwood Military Headquarters from the Christian Anarchist Conference on Sunday.

To vigil means to "keep awake during time usually spent asleep, especially to keep watch or to pray."

Northwood Military Headquarters is where the UK conducts its involvement in the War in Afghanistan, and it's located about a kilometer from the tube station where we stand every Thursday afternoon handing out flyers and holding placards.

"Remember the innocents. Stop the war!"

"Trust in God, not in weapons."

"War is Terror is War."

We peacefully engage with the public, not shouting or preaching or heckling, but just believing that Christians have a responsibility to "stay awake" to injustice, as tempting as it is to remain asleep and disengaged from the violence of _____ [war, racism, patriarchy, etc, etc]. We become complicit when we remain silent. Vigiling is just a small effort to stand up to the industrial-military complex, not allowing it to control our lives unchallenged. It's one small step to accepting responsibility for our world and finding hope, calling for the end to war and not excusing ourselves as helpless pawns in an unchangeable system.

We get many different responses to what we do. Sometimes we get waves and honks from cars, thumbs up from people passing by on the bus, "keep up the good work" from old ladies passing by, "I'm proud of you" from old men with canes.

It's certainly not all positive, either. A few weeks ago a man walked by and huffily shouted, "If it weren't for war we'd all be speaking bloody German!" A car filled with military personnel on their way to the base once stopped to tell us that without them, we wouldn't be free to stand on the corner. I once heard someone mumble something about Chamberlain and Hitler. Others shake their heads, some deliberately walk on the other side of the street, half avoid eye contact, others power walk around us, and Scott says he's even been spit on.

Today I was calmly holding the "Remember the innocents, stop the war!" sign when an older gentleman stopped directly in front of me, towering a foot taller, and said, "If it weren't for the Second World War, you wouldn't be here right now."

To which I said something like, "I believe there's another way."

He started to walk off but turned around briefly just to note sternly and slowly, waving his finger at me, "Sometimes you have to stand up and be counted."

Had he stuck around for a second longer, I think I would've replied, "I am."

******

In my time here I have tried to imagine what it must have been like to live so close to London in the 1940s when German planes liberally bombed the city. People lived in a state of incredible fear. It's impossible for me to understand what the British experienced. I mean no disrespect to that generation.

But I do believe there's another way. A way that doesn't escalate into violence and war, pitting neighbor against neighbor, demonizing "the other." A way that doesn't blur the distinction between wrong and right, destroying life and our humanity. We are taught that there is no other way, that violence is sometimes the only answer. But God has a different vision.

...they shall beat their swords into ploughshares,
and their spears into pruning hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war any more.
Micah 4:3

Christian Anarchism

2010-07-20T09:15:00.007-05:00

Three weeks absence from the blog. Three weeks left on the farm. I'm overwhelmed with experiences, and I'm going to attempt to blog more frequently and in smaller bursts of story. Here we go.

Twenty-seven people gathered together at the Catholic Worker Farm this past weekend for the 4th annual UK Christian Anarchist Conference. I think I am a Christian Anarchist. I think I always have been moving toward it, I just didn't know what "it" was, or how it was lived out, or anything really about it... but it makes a whole lot of sense. I don't really know exactly how to describe what it means yet, suffice to say that it isn't a political system or prescription for the world, nor is it too different from the tenets of socialism (same ends, different means). Sitting in the same room with so many lovely people who came from all across the UK to converse together, to eat together, to protest together, and to love each other, I felt a communion. We deconstructed our relationship with "the state," examining how we have been emotionally impacted by nation building and nation-state identity. I realized that I was in complete agreement with what most people were saying. That governments cause more harm than good, that the very existence of the nation-state is a form of violence (borders & boundaries, objectifying "the other," making it easier to hate them), that no matter how good a politician wants to be [if they even want to be in the first place] they will always be co-opted (how many times have you seen politician after politician of either party framed years later for not living up to his/her promises?). I just wasn't willing to admit that I might be an anarchist too, mostly because of the negative associations that come with the label. (For more information on Christian Anarchy, check out Jesus Radicals. I haven't read everything on the site and wouldn't feel comfortable endorsing all it says, but it's a start for those unfamiliar).

At the end of the conference we decided to do an action at Northwood Military Base, the UK's headquarters for conducting the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. We marched single file, holding signs of peace, to the base. As soon as we arrived beneath the sign, we began a liturgy of peace while the security guards closed and locked the grid iron gates to the base. We prayed for all involved in the conflict, for the conflict to end, and for the forgiveness of our complicit involvement in the violence. We then read the names of both British soldiers and the Afghan people who have died in the war. After each name we said presente, meaning present--signifying that the dead are with us. As we began implementing ashes on each other, a sign that we are repentant for this societal sin, the police arrived. It was a stark contrast to our peacemaking--the arrival of 4 officers, completely clad in their black, bulletproof vests and with guns. I nearly wanted to cry just thinking that it had come to this--that we, who came peacefully to protest the killing of innocent lives (both British and Afghan), were being treated as though we were criminal. The contrast was overwhelming. Maria talked to them as we sang a hymn of peace. When we finished the liturgy with the "Our Father," one of the officers thanked us for leaving. Maria replied, "We aren't leaving because of you. We're merely finished."

We walked back to the cars. When we got to where they were parked, a police officer was leaving, having taken all of the license plate numbers. They waited until we had left. In those moments, my thoughts on anarchy became more solidified. Seeing the police act in a way that seemed contrary to "keeping the peace" was in stark contrast to "Officer Smiley" and the friendly images of police I was indoctrinated with at a young age. And the reality is that in many places in the world, the police are worse than what we experienced. Our greatest fears are reality for so many in Iraq and Afghanistan.

A Little 7th Grade Social Studies Refresher Course

2010-06-26T14:09:00.005-05:00

In the United States we like to use "the UK," "Great Britain," and "England" interchangeably, as if they were all the same place, but they certainly aren't. Despite knowing this when I came here, everything becomes much clearer living with the people and culture. The three different names and geographies have a complicated history; I'm learning more every day. In the meantime, just a friendly reminder from 7th grade social studies class:

England is a country in the southern half of the island of Great Britain. The name 'England' is a derivative of Angleland, meaning land of the Angles, a Germanic tribe that settled in the region in the 5th or 6th century, but English ancestors primarily include prehistoric people from the Iberian peninsula, as well as Celtic, Germanic, and Norse peoples [probably others as well]. Modern humans have lived in the region for 35,000 years. The country of England is only about the size of the state of Illinois--still a strange concept to wrap my head around--with a population of 51 million. I'm staying in the village of West Hyde in the county Hertfordshire, just 45 minutes northwest of London.

Map of England.

Flag of England (hence the colors of the English football team).

Great Britain, the 9th largest island in the world, contains the countries of Scotland, Wales, and England. The name comes from the Britons, a Celtic group of people who occupied the southern half of the island. Great Britain's population is 59.6 million of which 51 million are English (therefore the term "British" often becomes synonymous for "English"). The Kingdom of Great Britain formed in 1707 from the political union of the kingdoms of England and Scotland, although the crowns of Scotland and England were unified in 1603 when King James ruled both countries (as the VI of Scotland/I of England. Side note: Shakespeare wrote Macbeth during the reign of King James, said to be a nod at the Scottish king).

Map of the Island of Great Britain.

Flag of Scotland.

Flag of Wales.

Northern Ireland, Scotland, Wales, and England make up the United Kingdom (UK) of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, which officially formed in 1922 when the modern nation of Ireland broke free from British rule (from 1800-1922 all of Ireland was part of the UK). While it might be tempting to think of these four parts of the UK as states, Northern Ireland, England, Scotland, and Wales are actually different countries, each with their own culture, history, and [with the exception of England] devolved governments. The UK is a constitutional monarchy, meaning yes, it still has a queen, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. (By the way, she also is the Queen of Canada, Australia, Papua New Guinea, New Zealand, and Jamaica, all of which make up the Commonwealth). The Houses of Parliament in London govern international and English domestic affairs, as well as elect a Prime Minister (currently David Cameron) to serve with effective power (the queen acts as a ceremonial head of state).

Map of the United Kingdom.

Flag of Northern Ireland.

Flag of St. Patrick (St. Patrick's Cross), patron saint of Ireland.

The making of the Union Jack, modern flag of the United Kingdom.

I'm learning so much just being immersed in another culture (and thanks to Wikipedia). It's fantastic seeing the world from a new perspective---geographically, politically, and culturally. I've always wanted to experience life outside the US, and now I've got a feeling that this is only the beginning...

Cheers!

USA vs. England

2010-06-18T08:59:00.013-05:00

Saturday night Maja and I went to the pub just down the street, The Oaks, to watch the USA vs. England World Cup match. I knew it was a bit risky walking into an English pub full of football fans. It's kinda of like walking into a Chicago bar decked out in Packers gear, except you can always choose not to wear your Packers jersey. It isn't as easy to hide an American accent.

I secretly hoped that I'd get teased a bit, though. I figured my accent could help me meet the locals and get a flavor for English culture. I was right. People here love to chat about [make fun of] American culture.

First of all, to the English (and most of the world) the World Cup is like the Superbowl... except way more intense. The British pretty much invented the modern game of "soccer" (I scored brownie points for always referring to it as football), and they're pretty proud of it too. Everywhere here in the UK for the past few weeks, people have had their cars, homes, and bodies decked out with the English flag.

So at the pub before the game started, a group of rowdy people about my age kept bumping into our table, spilling our Amstel Bier everywhere. I went to the bar to ask if they had any napkins, when a nearby "gentleman" heard me and shouted, "Not for any bloody American! And we call them serviettes here!" I was outed a little sooner than I had expected... not gonna lie. Now the whole place knew their pub had been infiltrated by a Yankee. Ten minutes later when England scored a goal, said "gentleman" stood up amidst the cheering and drew everyone's attention to me as he once again jeered, pointed, and huffawed in my general direction.

At the half the bar served up some free food, so Maja and I made our way through the crowd to sneak some. I asked about vegetarian options and was quickly directed to cheese and onion sandwiches by a surprisingly kind young man my age. He struck up a conversation with me by naturally asking where I'm from. His name was Rich, and he was visiting family in West Hyde, but lives in York (up north). We had a very pleasant exchange, then went back to our respective corners of the bar to witness the last 48 minutes or so of the match. I once again drew contemptuous looks when England's keeper Robert Green failed to block USA's only goal.

Despite the draw, Rich and his family joined Maja and I, and we had a few laughs about Americans and the English (Rich's uncle Keith: "Why are you being so polite? That's my job. I'm the Englishman!"). The rowdy crowd of twenty-somethings behind us quickly joined in the fun while I attempted to defend my nation from lighthearted ridicule. Several of the guys affectionately called me "Yank," the ladies quizzed me about pop culture, Martin demonstrated his best drunken Elvis impression, and I showed the whole table how to pound it (explode it, make it rain, LIGHTNING!) and polka dance.

In the midst of all the fun, I also encountered a nastier side of English culture. Everyone was very interested in what I was doing in the UK. I explained that I was volunteering on the farm just down the street, organic gardening and living with asylum-seekers. One immediate reaction was "F--- asylum-seekers. They should go back to their own damn countries!" Throughout the night several people had hinted at the fact that England had too many Pakistani and Pol immigrants; I didn't expect such a violent reaction toward refugees.

But I had been warned. The British have always been proud of their heritage and culture, but in recent years a stronger brand of nationalism has been on the rise (see British National Party). [Special note: I in no way intend to imply in this post that the majority of the British are racist or nationalist. By all means, no. But just as all Americans are affected by racism and injustice, so are the British]. One could liken some of the behavior to racism and anti-immigration sentiments in the United States, but I hate to even make the analogy because the histories are so vastly different. Racism and nationalism are never acceptable, England's brand of it might be understandable (not acceptable, but slightly understandable) than US sentiment. I mean, 99% of Americans are immigrants, having come from somewhere else at some point in the past 250-300 years. But the English [and Irish and Scots and Welsh] have lived on this land for thousands of years. It has been their home for generations.

I'll admit that here in England I am very aware of my "mutt" heritage, and at times I've felt a strange [ridiculous] sense of shame for not having a pure ethnic pedigree, deeper roots or an ancestry to trace back generation after generation. It's a very odd feeling--a personal and cultural encounter that I never expected to experience here in England. It's not like the British people I've met have impressed this upon me; it's living in a nation whose history stems back thousands of years. Even so, however, modern day Brits are a mix of dozens of cultures [including Germanic, Celtic, and Iberian groups--and Romans] that immigrated to the island over several millenia--so really, how "pure bred" can we get?

Still, it's difficult for Americans to fully grasp the meaning of all this history. We are so ignorant of our own, let alone the world's. And America is such an anomaly, a change from the typical human story that has unfolded for millions of years--an experiment of sorts--for good or for bad. That break with the standard human story has both positive and negative effects. Being here has made me more aware of the deviation and the uniqueness of America's "melting pot" existence. Its not necessarily bad, not necessarily good. I'm still working my mind through it.

Living with so many incredible women from Eastern Europe, Africa and the Middle East--women who have history and roots in other countries but are now are uprooted from their past, their present, and the futures they had envisioned in their homeland... all because of war and conflict and violence (much of which has been fostered or instigated by the US, the UK, and other Western powers)--also makes me more aware of my own family's past, present, and future hopes. We are a people on the move, shaped by our environment, shaping our environment, and encountering one another in new ways. I pray for peace in those encounters.

I pray for all of us people of privilege and power, particularly my friends from the pub and especially myself, that our hearts and minds might be opened and that we might learn our neighbors' stories, understand how our own histories have oppressed others, and work toward a more just future with all of our brothers and sisters in mind.

I am grateful for this place, this farm where people of multiple cultures and backgrounds can live together peacefully. My mind and heart are full. God is working here, and I am blessed to be physically, intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually fed by this incredible experience and this fantastic community.

And hell, I'm grateful for an English pub in West Hyde, UK, and for meeting some locals who shared their culture, their sport, and their beer with a Yank. Go team USA!

"And if the sun turns red, kiss someone then tell me slowly... how was life?"

2010-06-06T14:14:00.011-05:00

It already feels impossible to explain--to myself, let alone to others--what I'm thinking, feeling, and experiencing on this journey. It's only been 5 days and yet already feels like an eternity of new encounters and perspectives. I'm keeping a personal journal to internally process; I am going to continue blogging, but bear with me as I try to sort it all out.

I think I'll pass on trying to recap the entire week and focus instead on the weekend. We have off every Saturday starting at 1pm until Monday morning prayer. Mirjam and I went to London. In addition to the Catholic Worker Farm, there's a Catholic Worker House in London that is a house of hospitality for asylum seekers, but men-only. The two communities work closely together on resistance and vigiling and make up the wider Catholic Worker Movement in the UK. Conor, one of the full-time volunteers in London, invited Mirjam and I to attend a "squat," basically an empty house that anarchists have taken over and converted into a community center/hang out that hosts house parties, community gardening, dialogues, and various other community classes... all things counter-cultural. "Anarchist" probably sounds a lot scarier to Americans than I think it really is. I'd sum it up by saying it's basically a very embracing and trusting attitude toward life and other people.

So Mirjam and I took the "tube" (train/subway) to the Dorothy Day Catholic Worker House in Hackney, a borough in Greater London (unfortunately the Wiki article begins with Hackney's crime rates--what most people always first associate with poorer neighborhoods, unjustly, in my opinion). We met up with Conor at the house, and I got a taste for another Catholic Worker community and met many of the men who live and volunteer there. The more I experience Catholic Worker life, the more I embrace the ethos of the whole movement. It was beautiful to meet the people of the house and to learn more about the culture of London, the British policy toward asylum, and to experience a diverse neighborhood in another country.

From the house we went to get some of the best falafel I've ever had in my life. Maybe better than Sultan's Market in Chicago...? We walked along the canal to get to the squat, talking and philosophizing. The squat was in an enormous building or house, not sure which, but it was gigantic. There was cheap beer, a "free shop" (take whatever you like, leave what you don't), art and murals and expressive quotes, live music and a DJ, a giant tire swing inside the building, etc.... it was such a loving and creative environment filled with maybe a 150-200 or more people young and old (but mostly young). We danced the night away.

The whole evening Conor, Mirjam, and I had a lively conversation about political theory (one of my favorite subjects, no doubt), mostly about democracy and anarchism. I think I've concluded that I'm in a "deconstruction" period with my faith, my politics, and generally my worldview; we spent our walk back from the squat debating/discussing/questioning each other to further swim in the thick of it. I have very few fully-formed ideas about the world right now; maybe when things start to "reconstruct" (if they ever do!), I'll write a post about that too. I believe my time here in community on the farm will be tremendously helpful in the "reconstruction" process. Needless to say, this Christian anarchism idea is intriguing. Hopefully someday I'll be able to more fully explain it.

The three of us got back to the London Catholic Worker House at 3am, drank some tea (I love British tea!), talked some more, and then slept. Mirjam and I slept in a hide-a-bed in the downstairs of the house, and it's nice to know there's potentially a place to crash on future London visits.

We got up at 7 for breakfast at the house and then set out to take 3 buses and the tube to get to Rickmansworth (it's more sporadic service on the weekends). I had my first double-decker bus ride (and then proceeded to have 4 more as we got a little turned around throughout the morning). Mirjam wanted to get back to Rickmansworth to go to her church for the last time before she leaves for a week-long retreat in Wales and then Sweden. She leaves on Tuesday, and I really don't want her to go.

I think I might continue attending the church Mirjam took me to today. It might sound completely crazy because it's the local Baptist church, Mill End, but I think I could learn a lot from a theology so different from my own. I also kinda like the idea of being Lutheran, working at the Catholic Worker Farm, and attending a Baptist church while I'm here. It's also the nearest church to the farm, (other than the Anglican church down the road, but it apparently has a very small congregation and not too many young people), so I can walk to the Baptist church every Sunday. While the theology bears very little resemblance to the farm's or my own, as Mirjam said, "I went once and I got stuck because the people are so nice." And they were!

After service we were invited by Ken and Brenda to have a traditional English Sunday roast at their home. It was delicious, and they were even kind enough to accommodate my vegetarian needs. The meal included duck and other roasted meats (plus my veggie option), four types of potatoes, green beans, broccoli and cauliflower, carrots, gravy, rhubarb crumble, and a bajillion flavors of ice cream for dessert. Our dinner party included several others from the church and a German missionary who is visiting the congregation because they sponsor her work in Malaysia. It was a fantastic meal and the conversation revolved around cultural comparisons--another one of my absolute favorite subjects! At one point we were all gathered around an atlas, orienting one another to our different geographies, and I made a mental snapshot of the moment because it felt so profoundly beautiful. Ah, my sentimentality has returned!

Now we're back on the farm relaxing after a busy two-day adventure. Tomorrow the new intern Maja comes, and I'm excited to meet her, but also incredibly sad that Mirjam will be leaving soon. I'm thoroughly enjoying my time here, and I can't believe it'll be a week on Tuesday. Peace and love to you all stateside!

Picture Perfect

2010-06-04T17:32:00.008-05:00

I'm working on getting more photos of the house and the gardens where I'm working. Here are a few from a lovely walk I took with Mirjam and two of the ladies around the lake. I'll write more specifically about the garden later.

Part of the land/house is an actual farm. We use the cow's manure in our garden. They moo incessantly.

Mirjam.

The farmhouse.

Very green!

Another shot of the house. It's enormous!

An Introduction to the Catholic Worker Farm

2010-06-02T18:30:00.008-05:00

After a 16-hour journey, I arrived at London Heathrow yesterday around noon (BST - British Summer Time; 6AM CST), greeted by English rain. I've been really jet-lagged, but I'm managing. Yesterday I was running on adrenaline from finally arriving, but this morning I accidentally slept until noon. I missed morning prayer and our morning meeting; Scott had told me it would be okay if I slept in, but I was determined to wake up this morning. Scott knew better! I'm certain I'll do better tomorrow morning.

Speaking of Scott--I'll explain a bit how this place works. I'm staying with a family--Scott and Maria and two of their four children (boys, ages 12 and 15). They have two older children closer to my age, but they don't live with their parents anymore. Scott is actually from Chicago and still has an American accent, and Maria is originally from Australia, although both of them have been living in England for a long time--20 plus years. In addition to Scott, Maria, and boys, I live with Mirjam (Miriam) from Sweden. She's my age and has been here for a year, but she is leaving in a week.. Another intern from Sweden--Maya--will be coming for the summer too, but not until Mirjam leaves. I'm trying to learn everything I can from Mirjam while she's still here! Mirjam and I have our own rooms in the upstairs of the house, where Scott and Maria and the boys stay too.

Downstairs is the kitchen, living room, and the ladies' rooms. Seven women who are seeking asylum in the UK also live here. They're from from all over Africa and the Middle East. The interns teach citizenship classes, including English, to the women every Wednesday night to help them adjust to life in Great Britain. I'll start teaching classes with Maya when she arrives. In exchange for their room and board, the women take turns cooking dinner for the house (M-F) and keep a cleaning schedule for the downstairs too. So far two delicious dinners with African flavor and not, as I had been warned, bland English meals!

We also share the house with Bertie, the blind guard dog. He's a Shar Pei, extremely stocky and chubby, and he's already stolen my heart. When I first arrived, he barked his head off, and then proceeded to walk straight into me because he couldn't see where he was going. Occasionally he runs into furniture. I tried to get a picture of him today (for Chloe!), but it was difficult to snag something good. He's a tough cookie.

The house is a huge and very old farmhouse that was built in the 14th, 16th, and 17th centuries. My large room is part of the oldest part of the house, although the only thing that gives away its age is the completely slanted floor. It's charming. I've had the opportunity to start making it a bit of my own. I wish I would've brought a few things more with me to decorate.

Perhaps I can pick up a thing or two here and there in the nearest town, Rickmansworth. The downtown is cute with many shops, including a second-hand store run by Oxfam, one of my favorite international development and relief organizations (based in London). Scott and I made a stop on our way home from the airport yesterday at a second-hand store that reminded me very much of St. Vinny's in Oshkosh. I had trouble understanding the women who worked there--such heavy, thick accents! Hopefully I'll get used to it after a while. I'M the one with the accent!

We're very close to London--only 45 minutes northwest. The greater London area is surrounded by a massive beltline highway called the M25. It takes 3 hours to drive around the entire metro area. The Catholic Worker Farm falls inside the beltline, so we're in London (not London proper, but the metro area), near Watford.

Last night, Mirjam and I spent some time with one of the women from Eritrea, trying to help her with her English. It was pretty ridiculous, actually, because we read her language out loud to her, and she tried to translate our butchered attempts into the equivalent English words and phrases. I sounded extremely silly with my American accent. After our "English lesson," Mirjam took me for a late night walk. It was so beautiful. The countryside here is gorgeous. We're on a lake, and it's a highly wooded area. It's calm and cool and peaceful. There are numerous houses and pubs nearby too; it's a village feel, and I love it.

When I finally rolled out of bed today, I showered, made breakfast, and got to work in the garden. Mirjam and I watered the seedlings in the greenhouse, pulled slugs from the lettuce, repotted some thyme and chocolate mint, planted some climbing beans, and planted a whole bed of tomatoes. It was a beautiful day--70 degrees and sunny, and I learned a lot from working alongside Mirjam.

Typically each day on the farm will begin with morning prayer at 8, then breakfast and our morning meeting to discuss what we'll do for the day. 10-5 (with a break at noon for lunch) is working time, which most often means working in the garden, but might mean various other things. For instance, Scott, Maria, and Mirjam spent Monday in London demonstrating peacefully at the Israeli embassy in response to the floatilla shootings. We have dinner at 6, and then free time until evening activities--Tuesdays round table/Bible studies, Wednesdays citizenship classes, Thursdays peace vigils, and Fridays movie night. On Saturdays we clean the house and have a house meeting. Sunday we have off.

I'm still adjusting to the schedule and to life with my new roommates in a new country, but I am enjoying myself. I know this will be a humbling experience. I have so much to learn about gardening, voluntary poverty, community, and faith; I'm seeking peace in not having control or power, and instead living in love and mindfulness. Day 1--complete. Thank you, all, for your thoughts, prayers, and encouragement! I'm so blessed to be loved and supported by so many magnificent people. Stay tuned.

Saying Goodbye

2010-05-26T15:01:00.010-05:00

The whole world feels like a foreign place during major life changes. It's a mental state, a series of transformations, I suppose, and everything familiar starts evolving into something new. I'm trying to maintain emotional stability and healthy perspective. There must be something consistent to hold onto, but right now it's difficult to find. I keep meditating on the thought that I'm still Katy no matter where I live and what I do. I'm still Katy. And I have received so much love from so many people. I'll hold onto that.

Yesterday was my last day at the ELCA. I didn't cry in the office, but I can't help it now. It's been a crazy and strange journey; my time spent at churchwide represents so many discoveries about myself, my faith, and human relationship. I have met so many incredible people who have profoundly impacted me. I've lived through many difficulties and joys in the past two years, and they're concluding in this moment. I'm leaving... this is getting very real, very fast.

Card-making marathon. Extremely therapeutic.

I'll miss some of the work I did, but mostly I'll miss the people I have had the pleasure of working with. I started crying just thinking that I won't be around when Nassi has her baby this summer, when Kristen gets married in the fall, when Rich becomes a grandpa again. No more lunches in the conference room with Sue. No more daily chats with Pam from over my cube wall. No more VE gatherings around the file cabinets. I won't hear Z passing by my cube saying "Katybug!" I'll miss parking by Gina's desk and sharing a word or two. I'll miss Julia's sharp, witty remarks and her constant teasing. And I'll definitely miss the many, many people I've met from around the nation. You are all with me as I go.

There are places I'll remember all my life,
Though some have changed--
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone, and some remain.
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall.
Some are dead and some are living.
In my life, I've loved them all.

I have been blessed. Thank you for being a part of the journey. As Pam reminds me, "It's not goodbye... it's see ya later!"

O Brave New World!

2010-05-14T12:27:00.011-05:00

I'm spending 11 weeks this summer in England at the Catholic Worker Farm, 45 minutes northwest of London. I'm seeking hope, community, and a new way to live: committing to prayer, personalism, the green revolution, non-violence, the works of mercy, manual labor, and voluntary poverty. I'm simultaneously thrilled and scared out of my wits.

About a year ago I wrote:

I'm painting myself in paradigms and paradoxes. It's unclear whether I'm a city girl or a country bumpkin. I bask in the cultural glow of the city lights while I crave the open fields and piney woods of the north. I could be an All-American girl or a globe trotter. I care about these streets but I long to escape on another shore. I'm a bookworm but I want adventure and application. I want to increase and apply knowledge but also curse it for eliminating my peace of mind. I fight to be an independent woman with a career and a purpose while I daydream romantic fancies every moment.

I'm feeling the same tensions as I prepare for another summer. But after two laborious and fruitful years spent transforming Chicago into my community, I have new courage to enter into the unknown and to rest comfortably in the midst of all the paradox. I travel forth feeling at home in my own skin, calm and at peace that my experiences in the future will allow me to discover even more about my soul.

This is a discovery of self and universe. All such journeys have every right to be simultaneously thrilling and terrifying. I'm counting on both.

It's taking tremendous resolve to stay so emotionally balanced. It's difficult to imagine that in 3 weeks I'll be living in England and in 3 months I'll be in Milwaukee. So I'm attaching myself to "to do" lists, good people and good wine, and burying my head in books of fiction.

O brave new world!

I plan to record my experiences and discoveries in this ol' rag-tag blog throughout the summer. So come back if you can for sometimes practical, sometimes existential, sometimes witty bits from my life in England. I'll carry you with me. And all my lovin' I will send to you.

"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you've imagined."
-Henry David Thoreau

A Path to Her Likeness

2009-10-03T16:42:00.008-05:00

I walk a seemingly treacherous walk, at least one that could be in a different time on a different night with a different attitude. I keep convincing myself that it's nothing, nothing's wrong. The sky isn't dripping and the wind isn't biting. But it is, and my shoes soak up water as a constant reminder. So I pound through the rain on the northside of Chicago, too far from home for my immediate comfort.

Minutes before I had been on the phone with a total stranger. A stranger who has tried to steal a few kisses. I know very little about him. I don't know what he means, what it means. I'm thinking about the call as I keep avoiding puddles, hunching over in the wind and the rain, half wishing for an umbrella, half grateful I can embrace the skies.

I'm not unhappy. This is the romantic evening of a Gothic novel. On these nights nothing's unimaginable. I feel the possibility of my life changing in the present, unfolding into the future, becoming the past. I think about the chance of an adventure as I make my way to the bus stop. There's something supernatural stocked in the atmosphere of a bus or train, especially in the city night, especially in the rain. It's the journey, the convergence of so many people with so many stories: the pregnant possibility of public transportation. When I'm on the bus... there I sit, there I rest with so many others in transit... everything in transit. So on my way to the bus stop, I convince myself that the rain is beautiful. Rain, rain, rain, rain. Beautiful rain.

My mind is buzzing, buzzing, buzzing... almost numb from the possibility of my creative writing class. I'm also buzzing, buzzing, buzzing with excitement as I dream of the possibility of new friendships, new relationships--finally forming a community in the city with people I didn't know before Monday night. And I can't stop feeling out, humming out, murmuring fragments of Regina's "Man Of a Thousand Faces."

The man of a thousand faces...
...And smiles at the moon like he knows her...
...To a place of no religion...
...Good is better than perfect...

I'm standing at the corner of Damen and Lincoln and Irving Park and Starbucks taunts me. I peer in to see the store is closed, just minutes after 9, but all I want is a pumpkin spice latte to warm my chilled toes. I'm struggling with the ethics of Starbucks, fighting "the man" in a losing battle. It doesn't matter. The reality is no pumpkin spice latte after 9.

I join two fellow CTA travelers beneath a tree. The difference between them and me is an umbrella; they've each got one and I don't. I stupidly attempt to shield myself from the rain beneath the tree as the wind shakes more dew upon me than necessary. Really, tree? I continue thinking about relationship, random intersections with random people. I'm also painfully aware that I haven't eaten since noon, and I won't be in my kitchen until the bus arrives near my door around 10PM. So I keep a hungry soul focused on the future, on accomplishing tasks, like actually reading the assigned reading for next week's writing class because I'm hungry for more and I need to take advantage of that while I'm still impassioned with the memory and feeling of class. As a procrastinator, I depend on exhausting my feelings and impulses. That's how things get done.

And the bus must be chugging slowly slowly slowly because it's past its prime functioning hours. But it arrives. I probably look like a wet umbrella-less idiot, standing there beneath the tree. My co-travelers must be judging me. I would, even if the situation is comical.

I climb safely onto the bus, wet and wet and wet. I move to the back, hoping it brings more shelter than the front, even if merely intellectual sanctuary where I can delve into these stories I'm reading for class. They keep raising questions in my mind--can I really be a writer? But I wanna be a writer. I want to be writer. I want to be a writer.--So I keep at it, keep reading. I let my mind fly into millions of pieces, arriving in millions of places. Not really. It's resting on my anxieties and fears and inadequacies. I thought they were tabled but they're resurfacing.

I pull the plug on my inner monologue by pulling the chord at Armitage. I notice one co-traveler, the one with the yellow umbrella, also stand to dismount the bus. She's not much older than me, maybe a year, maybe... I'm jealous of her umbrella. We cautiously step back into the chilly, damp Chicago night.

We cross Damen. I know where I'm going, but I have second thoughts, so I pause at the Armitage bus stop, suddenly uncertain of myself and my bearings, slightly afraid that the bus is no longer running. And Yellow Umbrella, who appears at first to be crossing the street once more, falls back and stands immediately to my left.

"At least there's an awning here!" She surprises me.

"Yeah... oh... thank you! I really appreciate it." She hovers her small yellow umbrella over the both of us.

I ask for her opinion on the bus' schedule. She [obviously] thinks it's still running. She's waiting. Her boyfriend works at Coast. I find myself full of apprehension with all the usual "what is this girl thinking about me?" dialogue running through my head, but I also feel so confident conversing with another total stranger this week. So many new acquaintances in one week! People aren't scary! They might even like me! My face must be friendly.

The bus comes quickly, more quickly than I imagined or maybe I am just lost in conversation. We both get on, and as it turns out, she lives a block away from us. I can't believe it. This whole big city, two bus stops, two girls, total strangers who live just a block away. We start talking religion (damn my job) but it's okay. I mean, really okay. She doesn't mind. Are the stars aligning? Am I finding ways to be comfortable in this city, in this skin? Or is it just this rainy night?

The warmth of the bus certainly helps cultivate conversation. But I know our meeting won't last long because my stop isn't too far. I want to be home, I want to eat, I want to write. I want to get everything down before it leaves me, leaves me, leaves me. And I really want to talk to Ben. But I also want to keep talking to the girl with the yellow umbrella about Catholicism, her market research job downtown, the rooms in other countries she peers into daily, her boyfriend's job at Coast, and the rolling hills of Kansas. One more stop... I'm nervous about pulling the chord because I'm so worried about talking to her, but it's her stop too. So she pulls the plug, not on our conversation... she seems like she enjoys it. She pulls the chord. And we both get off.

The moment. Is she just a nice stranger who happened to be on my cold, rainy, windy, dark and dreary October journey? Will we become neighbors or remain strangers? I'm hanging, hanging, hanging... waiting for a sign, wondering if I should interject.

"My name is Frances, by the way. It was really nice talking to you." Pleasant!

"My name is Katy. Yeah, it was nice talking to you too." Mind races! "Listen, would you mind if we exchanged numbers? I'd just really like to talk to you some more. Would that be all right?"

I'm well aware that we're both paused in the painful rain. She's probably dying to get away. No, no... maybe she's glad I asked? I don't know. After punching numbers into cell phones, huddling on the street at the intersection of possibility, at the intersection of what could be another route in my life... we part ways.

I knew this would happen. I just knew it.

My soaked feet carry me a few more steps to my apartment. I check the mail, anxiously, anxiously, anxiously as thousands of details flood my mind. My fingers start twitching, my feet start tingling, and my head throbs with thoughts.

Steps. Steps. Steps. Open the door with the keys. Flip on the switch and dump my things prematurely in the hallway because I'm desperately seeking a laptop. I glimpse its glow on the porch where it's perched under the glare of many casements letting in the cold and damp night. And I write down the details, smiling at the moon like I know her, wondering if I'm really a writer or if any of this is worth reading or even committing to ink. Good is better than perfect.

Death and All of His Friends

2009-10-01T14:49:00.027-05:00

It's a bit of a mystery to me why autumn brings beginnings. I mean, I get it. Some season had to be summer’s successor. Summer is scripted with serendipity, humanity’s excuse to be childish and free. I guess fall is the end of summer and the leaves are ch-ch-changing… but still, the metaphor is broken. Fall is "back to school, back to business" but simultaneously the season we use to prime our deaths in the "autumn of our lives." Okay, so maybe I just negated my point.

But September comes just at the moment I've exhausted my impulsive desires. September is a savior. And fall in the Midwest is stunning. I’m not the only one to notice the irony of the temperament of the Temperate:

Leaves become most beautiful when they’re about to die…
when they’re about to fall from trees,
when they’re about to dry up.

Chew on that a while. Regina has such a way with words.

On a recent road trip through the wooded Wisconsin, my father—an insightful machinist whose wisdom is common and profound—and I recalled the misfortune of recent months. A year ago my grandmother’s lung cancer marked only the beginning of the most tumultuous and tragic year of my family’s career. On this particular drive we were swimming in existentialism, returning from Dad’s sister’s final resting place at our family cabin. I was learning that I never really knew my dad, not really, until his sister died.

“Your mom and I... we never really knew tragedy until this year. We had it easy. We had so many really good years. You and your sister, you’ve been given a gift: experiencing tragedy at a young age. It will shape your lives. You’ll be stronger for it, learn from it.”

The Resop clan is unemotional in a word. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen my dad cry and four of them were in the past year. Watching your uncles, your grandmother, and all your cousins come to tears while they spread your aunt’s ashes in the big woods of Wisconsin changes all your impressions about your family.

Losing someone is never easy; yet again, we’re all going to die.

I recall an NPR program from a year or two ago featuring prominent Civil War historian and Harvard President Drew Gilpin Faust. She argued that the war and its alarming death toll intrinsically impacted the human condition:

“For those Americans who lived in and through the Civil War, the texture of the experience ... was the presence of death. At war's end this shared suffering would override persisting differences about the meanings of race, citizenship, and nationhood to establish sacrifice and its memorialization as the ground on which North and South would ultimately reunite.”

She argued that perhaps the people of that era had a much healthier acceptance of death, prizing the short time we do have on this earth, living each day like it could be their last. What a beautiful, if not cliche, thought.

I’d like to think that the overwhelming presence of death in my life this past year has led me to a path of acceptance and resurrection—resurrecting my own vitality, my own vocation. I feel alive, and I love feeling that way. Relationships are more precious, the present is a present, and the seasons of my year and my life are valuable tools for instigating and measuring personal growth. And I'm living not only for myself, but for the memory of the people who have gone before me. Because "Those you've known and lost still walk behind you." But this isn't about the dead. It's about the living--the living memory, the living love, the living relationship that will always stay with me, beyond the grave.

No, I don’t wanna battle from beginning to end.
I don’t wanna cycle or recycle revenge.
I don’t wanna follow Death and all of His friends.

Instead, I’ll embrace Him. Because maybe mortality is the secret ingredient to a happy life. And life becomes most beautiful when it's about to die.

August (or "23" or "Raja ya dunia Kupendana" or "Gonna Dance" or "So Long Sweet Summer") - Sufjan-style

2009-08-31T15:27:00.027-05:00

Into the great wide open, under them skies so blue. A rebel without a clue...

I think I'm going through a spiritual revolution of sorts, and I hesitate to call it that because labeling a moment "historic" in my own life kind of negates this new-found epiphany and belief. But I'm a history major, so I guess it's inevitable.

First of all, I'm sick and tired of projected progression and expectations. Society implies a laundry list of "class" and "worth" markers that seem required in order to have "value" in this world: two parents, home ownership, living in a certain neighborhood, eating certain foods, wearing certain clothes, a college degree, a "professional" career, going to grad school, etc, etc. There's an order to life, according to so many societal implications. Success and appearance are of the utmost value. The future will be better, brighter; YOU will be better, brighter...

But what if the Spirit of Life is really all about purely appreciating who you are, where you are, who you're with? What if we truly have created/duplicated a system of purity vs. impurity --just like the 1st Century Jewish elite (the system Christ attempted to subvert with his subversive wisdom) -- that we impose to underwrite the inherent dignity of people who are classified as "impure?" (See Borg's Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time)

And of course I'm NOT suggesting that people who are struggling in poverty and war and injustice remain in those situations. On the contrary--we must fight injustice with compassion, challenge the status quo and create a better world TOGETHER and for ALL. But a better world doesn't mean more wealth. It doesn't mean more CEOs or more possessions. A better world means food. Enough shelter. Clean water. No war. More love.

This all seems so overwhelming, of course, but my new prescription is to address it by just being myself. Using my God-given talents and gifts, my vocation. Tapping into my joys and ideas, doing what I love and not what I despise or what a world tells me I must do. It's listening both internally and externally to my deepest desires and to the call that comes from a community and from God.

Hmm, Frederick Buechner anyone? "The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet."

So right now that means learning and exploring--trying all things new. Reading. Writing. Going to the theatre. Dancing. Appreciating the simplest, every day actions and encounters. It's not wishing my life away. It's savoring the moment. Enjoying one day at a time. Finding worth and value in who I am and finding that same worth and value in the people around me each and every day... and showing them how much I love them.

It's making justice and love and compassion a way of life--like the "Jesus movement." While also appreciating the ordinary pleasures, gifts from God (Ecclesiastes). Honoring God by appreciating my life and honoring God by loving the people God created.

Life's about creative moments. Places we love. People who inspire. It's full of challenge, despair, and sorrow, but I've been through all of that, but I'm standing here today with the joy of the Lord.

I'm learning to "dance" on my own (Viola Vaughn). I'm learning to love myself and my body, to be fully present in my own life and my friends'/family's/strangers' lives. This life is short. Sweet. Beautiful.

I know everything I've written is so cliche but truthful. Maybe I finally feel it--for the first time. This is a deeper understanding than I've ever had before. I just pray I can keep perspective.

And fight so that all people can know this peace, can love without blame or shame. So all people can dance and sing, read and write. I think those pleasures are at the root of the meaning of life and Jesus' message.

Amazing, still it seems.

I'll be 23.

I won't always love what I'll never have.

I won't always live in my regrets.

It's true. Wow, look at where I am and how far I've come. I've been trying to grasp for so long how much I've grown and transformed, and it's kind of unbelievable. I can't even begin to describe what 22 was like. Tough. Beautiful. Remarkable. Challenging. Gracious.

The summer is wrapping up and the fall is approaching, which has me thrilled and nervous. It's been a wonderful summer full of new understandings and crazy plot twists. But fall is somehow simultaneously nostalgic and fresh. It has a rhythm right around the moment we become weary of the spontaneity of summer breezes. I think we need the seasons to guide our humanity and to aid our emotions and natural life processes. So the fall begins with its promise and stability. I need a little of both to complement this wonderful, carefree summer.

Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time

2009-08-31T15:13:00.014-05:00

I found myself profoundly challenged throughout the book, but in remarkable and good ways. I previously believed myself to be a "liberal Christian," Lutheran in my understanding of Jesus Christ, but Borg provided new insights that might have challenged my beliefs, but ultimately strengthened my faith and ideas about Christ. After completing the last chapter, I was slightly upset, only because I felt cheated of this understanding my whole life. Why aren't Christians focused on teaching more about Jesus' challenge of conventional wisdom? Why aren't we preaching the "macro-stories" of scripture and interpreting Jesus through them?

I'm in the process of re-reading the Gospels through the lens of Borg's interpretation of Christ, and I've developed an insatiable curiosity for more news about the pre-Easter and post-Easter Jesus. I guess this might mean seminary... but don't applaud just yet. It might not be what you think. It might not be what I think. Who knows.

Borg has complicated my life, but I thank him for it.

What truly matters

2009-08-15T10:58:00.007-05:00

This week has been the most incredible exercise in patience. Diligence. Discipline. While at the same time I'm free for perhaps the first time in my life.

I said no. And I might have to say no again--to things I've always thought that I cared about. To things that the world certainly seems to care a lot about. But I'm listening to another voice--the one that stirs me inside and reminds me that this is my life, afterall, and the more I accept who I am for who I am, the happier I'll be. And not just happiness is at stake: my ability to serve and care for others in the way I truly want to care.

I was taking a community organizing class, which I enjoyed on a certain level. I truly appreciated the knowledge and thought-provoking discussions about the "world as it is" and the "world as it should be." I enjoyed thinking about taking action and making a difference in the world. But I also noticed how contrived each lesson was each week. I was acting for the sake of acting--not for some deep cause or belief. I didn't have a conviction. I had a method to act with no reason to act.

So I've spent this week considering what I truly want to do with my life. What do I care about? What brings me the greatest joy? Where is God calling me? How can I continue to listen to the feeling within that I've been ignoring for so long?

There are so many things that I've always wanted to do--but for whom? My parents? My friends? For the recognition? What about for me?

Appalachia and Ecclesiastes

2009-06-04T21:58:00.027-05:00

This flatlander is back in the mountains, this time in Appalachia. It's gorgeous. Maybe I'm a mountain girl. Let's throw in one more vocational scrambler.

I wrote this on the very short plane ride here:

I have a nausea and my head is floating while my body is suspended in this seat on this plane. My skin is swimming in a pressurized cabin, and my brain is pulsing -- while my memory tricks me into nostalgic longing.

I'm lying on the bed in Spruce, a cool breeze waving the old green curtains, weaving between old wooden bunks that interrupt its flow with the ghosts of campers past. My soft sheets wrap me up as I lie in bed on the perfect Saturday afternoon.... And I'm in heaven.

Will nothing ever live up to that "summer beneath the trees?" No attempt to forget ever seems to succeed, and now I feel my nerve endings splitting from the pain and acknowledgment that everything could be so much better.

The weight of this society doesn't sit well on my shoulders. "People living in competition. All I want is to have my peace of mind." I don't know if I'm cut out for the rat race. I don't even know if I can go back to grad school or continue working in this non-profit world. It's all so contrived and too fast-paced with little room for life's pleasures and meaning (whatever that might be?!?). Why am I seeking to improve society if I do so only so that the next generation can run the same frivolous race?

VANITY OF VANITIES, says the teacher, VANITY OF VANITIES! All is vanity.

I need to start taking note of when I feel joy and when it seems genuine. What is sustainable? What's just a profile, and what's really me? My God, my God! What is the "good life?" What do I want to be remembered for? I'm tired of competing and arguing and struggling.

Which begs the question: is ignorance really bliss?

Why did I get a college degree? Why did I take this job? Why do I live in the city? Who am I trying to impress? Am I serving others or myself... and to what end? Do I want to impress my parents? Do I want to wow my supervisors? Or rank on some world scale with my impressive credentials or accumulation of STUFF?

And I applied my mind to know wisdom and to know madness and folly. I perceived that this also is but a chasing after wind. For in much wisdom is much vexation, and those who increase knowledge increase sorrow.

What am I called to do?
Where am I called to be?
Who am I supposed to be?

And where does privilege fit into this small vocational question? Why on earth do I deserve any of this? Any why do others NOT? Because where you live shouldn't determine whether or not you live. So how do I love others and hate the system we all live in?

I'm sick of being so connected, so overtaxed and overtired and unfulfilled. I don't know what I believe about life or this world or even God for that matter. I don't know what drives me and why.

I especially don't know what to think about relationship. I used to think life was all about relationship, but the brokenness of multiple relationships has left a damaging scar... one that will take a while to heal.

But my head is spinning, my heart is reeling, and my thoughts turn to that summer beneath the trees...

...like always.

Sunsets and Boulevards

2009-05-29T18:58:00.005-05:00

The windows in our sunroom remind me of freshman religious fervor and Campus Crusade (Fling wide, you heavenly gates! Prepare the way of the risen Lord!). Fling wide, you sunroom windows! Prepare the way for an enlightening summer day!

Mmm, the sunlight is dripping all over the place. I love dusk and summer. And Dashboard. Public confession. Fine.

If You Ain't Got Love

2009-05-25T00:47:00.016-05:00

Tess and I watched Meet Joe Black tonight on the futon in our charming sunroom, the dusk of day aging our souls.

I want you to get swept away.
I want you to levitate.
I want you to sing with rapture and dance like a dervish...
be deliriously happy.
At least yourself open to be...
Love is passion, obsession, someone you can't live without.
I say fall head over heels.
Find someone you can love like crazy
and who will love you the same way back.
How do you find him?
Well, you forget your head and you listen to your heart.
Cause the truth is, there's no sense in living your life without this.
To make the journey and not fall deeply in love--
Well, you haven't lived a life at all.
But you have to try.
Because if you haven't tried, you haven't lived.

I'm done with bitterness and lackluster living. I'm going to breathe more deeply, write more often, sing more joyfully, dance more spiritually, laugh more passionately, and love more confidently.

Raise your glass and say a toast. It's over. Cheers to that. It's a mad world, but I'm content with running circles, and peace is on the horizon.

What do you got if you ain't got love?

Summer in the City

2009-05-23T10:41:00.015-05:00

I've sure enjoyed the rain, but I'm looking forward to the sun.

A bright spot of adventure seems to loom on the horizon. The city grows more and more into a home as Tess and I continue settling into our apartment in the hippest spot of Chicago (I'm not biased...). Each day as I walk the boulevard, I'm in a little bit of awe. There can be life after camp. Green life, even.

The summer brings with it nostalgic bits and pieces of memory lane and quite a few tears of loss and grief for another season of life in the cube, but I'll survive and more than likely even thrive. I feel energized and rejuvenated after 3 days with international counselors. I'm not going to lie, I'm on a rock star high. There's nothing quite like shepherding 27 young internationals around the Windy Windy City. No sarcasm.

This city ain't half bad. There's joy on the streets and peace with the people. Every little thing's gonna be a'right.

Together we are free! (and can end a war)

2009-05-01T22:15:00.013-05:00

You may or may not have heard about the media-based humanitarian aid organization Invisible Children. In 2005 a band of roadies came to UW-Madison and screened the first original documentary. My roommate Annie and I attended, and I was moved. Now full circle--my darling Tess worked for IC last year as a roadie. And what a blessing that she led me to this moment.

Three young filmmakers from California traveled to Sudan to find a story. Instead they found the Invisible Children: kids in Northern Uganda being abducted to be soldiers in Joseph Kony's rebellion, the longest running war in Africa (23 years).

They turned this story into a movement. For 6 years they've mobilized millions who believe that "where you live shouldn't determine whether you live." What started as an "invisible" issue has now transformed into a global initiative. And today, we were on Oprah.

Invisible Children has this knack for creativity, and maybe it's because it was founded by artists. But the boldness and imagination and spirit of the cause and the people has both uplifted and exhausted me. If we can accomplish so much--where is the love and energy of the thousands of others who could more? Where is the creativity of other organizations? Why are we burdened with bureaucracy and the red tape and organizational policies of old white men?

But I'm hanging onto the strand of hope that passionate, compassionate people gathered as one can change history, because I saw that happen today. Young, old; male, female, transgendered; white, non-white, privileged, unprivileged; educated, "uneducated"; gay, straight. It's Obama all over again. Together we are free.

In the name of love.
What more in the name of love?

Ideology and the Culture of Service

2009-04-04T10:06:00.012-05:00

I recently posted the passing of the Edward M. Kennedy Serve America Act on facebook. (Click here for a bill summary).

My reaction to the bill? Joy. It's about time that the non-profit sector was publicly supported, and it's about time that AmeriCorps got the recognition it deserves. And bottom line: we need a new definition of service and patriotism: aka I don't need to tote a gun to prove my love for country. And for that matter, this isn't even about "love for country." It's about love for humanity.

But despite my enthusiasm (and it's a GREAT enthusiasm... I could go on forever), my posting on facebook received quite a bit of negative feedback:

"That is horrible news... charity just became a federal program. You're an intelligent person. I'm surprised that you support a layer of government bureaucracy between those who give and those who need. It's just going to take money away from people who need it in order to pay the salaries of the bureaucracy that decides where the money should go."
"Oh miss Katy you silly girl... Don't you know what happens when the government takes our money against our will and gives it to charity? We don't have any money to give to the charities we want to donate to. And since our tax dollars are federal funds...religious based charities get left out. Wait. Isn't that who employs you?"

My first guttoral reaction was that this was party bickering: liberals vs. conservatives, big government vs. small government, Obama fans vs. non-Obama fans, the faithful vs. the unfaithful (wait, that's ironic...). But I've realized that this is an ideological dispute--possibly the result of different academic pursuits and cultural backgrounds--which provides for a different understanding of service and citizenship. And I guess my understanding of both of those terms in the context of history is why I'm liberal.

Wouldn't it be nice if we could all support ourselves and provide for our families? We all want healthy and full lives for ourselves and our loved ones. I don't think conservatives and liberals disagree too much on that point (or at least I don't). I endorse the Bill of Rights and the rights of the individual. I rejoice in the freedom of choice and mobility that our country celebrates. I cherish the rich political history and ideology that founded this great nation.

But I also recognize the EXTREME injustice that thrives in this country from a pattern of horrible practice toward the "non-white," poor immigrant, and otherwise "other." For centuries (CENTURIES), governments and people in power have structured and managed a system that has created endemic poverty and then excluded the most vulnerable from decision-making and policy enacting that would serve their best interests. The "entitled" have continuously upheld their entitlement and kept "low" the lowly. Humanity loves putting a price tag on a human soul, and then uplifting the most "valuable."

Enter America into the great political scene of the 18th century. The Revolution was a response to the hierarchical, immobile class structures of Europe. The minutemen fought for freedom from oppressive, tyrannical governments, kings that had long lined their pockets with gold and power while the vast majority of their subjects suffered from the cost of expensive fancies and whimsical political motives. The promise of America was the promise of freedom, the celebration of the spirit of the common people.

Yet at the same time that our founding fathers and mothers worked for freedom, they developed prejudices and power struggles that only led to greater injustice in what was already deemed a "classless society." The "self-made man" ideology that predicated this country in the spirit of Benjamin Franklin left Americans with the permanent notion that anyone can do anything in this great land of freedom and mobility. Regardless of class, color, or credit, you can be who you want to be.

But the reality is otherwise. Injustice thrives. Class and color do matter. But Americans' disinterest in collective history allows for a denial of this dark, deep reality.

Therefore the traditional charity model is a feel-good response that is only necessitated by a long history of injustice. I work for a living, I choose to donate my money to the charities that I think are the best. But what does this mean for the people who aren't served by my whims and fancies? Who don't receive money because I don't believe their cause is as valuable as my cause? That's not a healthy, just, or sustainable model for charity.

So maybe that's why I'm an emerging socialist.

My <3 belongs in Logan Square.

2009-03-27T19:37:00.015-05:00

I'm back... with more meaningful (and less pitiful) things to say: a love confession for the place I call home... Logan Square.

I'm certain there's no other place in Chicago I'd rather live: diverse (probably one of the most diverse places in this sadly segregated city), eclectic, and still (mostly) un-gentrified, it's everything that an urban neighborhood should be. With places like New Wave, the Whirlaway Lounge, Logan Theatre, the Puerto Rican grocery store and bakery just around the corner, the GAP Outlet, numerous beautiful boulevards, a growing art/music scene, the Logan Square Public Library, a summer Farmer's Market, the East Village Youth Program (and a million other fabulous restaurants and shops I have yet to explore)... who could ask for anything more?

Okay, so maybe it's a little pathetic that I'm professing my love for a city neighborhood, but I'm finding joy in this setting, and that's important. Wandering the streets of the Square, I find plenty of opportunities to smile and numerous ways to engage my soul in my setting. I've got more and more reasons to love Chicago every day, and most of them lie right here in the Northwest. *sigh, swoon, smile* I'm taking root, maybe enough to make me want to stay a few more years...??? U of Chicago grad school? Maybe?

Moral of the story: I <3 Logan Square. Damn, I think the Logan Square Chamber owes me something for this glowing review. (And I owe mad props to Lisa Anne Miller for suggesting that I move to Logan Square in the first place!).

What Sarah Said

2009-02-28T09:50:00.010-06:00

"Love is watching someone die."
-Death Cab for Cutie-

Dreams are strange things. I never really believed in a dream's ability to tell us things, at least not predict things. I always knew that my dreams spoke to me in unique ways--that my subconscious was trying to communicate with me in ways I couldn't fully comprehend--but supernatural dreams? I couldn't swallow it.

In my dream, Grandma was dying, and I held her hand as she breathed her last on a bed in her living room. Grandpa was there, even though he had been continually denied a furlough from prison. I woke up Thursday morning with tears in my eyes. I said out loud, still half asleep: "No one should deteriorate that quickly. No one would should have to suffer that much."

And I'm thinking about what Sarah said: "Love is watching someone die." So who's gonna watch you die?

I knew I needed to go home, but it felt impossible. Tess was moving in this weekend, and Annie and Nick and Cesar and Drew were coming for the first time to Chicago since I had moved here. So I felt stuck.

But Chloe called me. We both knew that we needed to go home. So we did. We met up in Milwaukee, Sarah picked us up, and we sped toward Oshkosh. We held Grandma's hand on her last night in this world. And Grandpa was there. He had gotten a furlough. Everyone was there. And we prayed the Lord's Prayer and the 23rd Psalm as we watched our beautiful Wife, Mother, Sister, Grandmother, and Friend die.

She passed away this morning. On Mom's birthday. God, rest her soul.

Storytelling

2009-02-09T19:08:00.028-06:00

Note: I'm an amateur theologian, and I honestly have no idea how theologically-sound anything I write may or may not be. I also write what I know, meaning a limited understanding of Chicago, race, and myself. Just a fun little note before this anecdote.

I wake up this morning feeling cloudy and gray. I find a financial mini-crisis when I check my bank account, lament the fact that my cupboards are nearly bare, and feel the typical lonely sting of an empty apartment on a Monday morning. I'm drenched in self-pity and ladened with a heavy heart.

After putting out a few fires, I get on my way. I start engrossing myself in my reading on the long journey to Hyde Park: John Howard Griffin's Black Like Me, the autobiographical story of a white Southerner in the late 50s who dyes his skin black to experience life in the Deep South. It's my second read, but it's leaving the same bitter taste in my mouth and ache in my heart as it did when I was 14, if not more. I highly recommend it. It's a crucial window into a dark past. And that's necessary to understand a portion of the present.

At Clark and Lake, I navigate the winding escalators to transfer from the Blue Line to the Green Line. "Everybody knows" that the Green Line is a journey to a different city [in one of the most segregated places in the country]... to the South Side. I can't count the numerous warnings I've heard [masked in casual conversation from white, well-intentioned peers, of course] to avoid the South Side at all costs. It's only my second week going to class, so it's only my second time on the Green Line, but nonetheless it's a re-awakening.

As I wait on the platform, a black man glances at the book I've slid under my arm as I attempt to readjust my things. "Black Like Me?" he questions in a curious and slightly accusing manner. I can only imagine his thoughts: What's a white girl doing reading a book like that?

I jump at the opportunity. "Yeah, have you ever read it? It's the story of a white man who dyes his skin to experience life in the Deep South in 1959 as a black man. This is his story."

In his face and tone, I see his curiosity increase and his accusations slide. "It ain't easy, girl, let me tell you! It ain't easy!" The woman next to him nods and hums her agreement.

The train to Ashland/63rd approaches, and we all board. The man shoots a glance my way and shouts with a tone of delightful surprise, "Oh, you're getting on too!?" It probably did seem strange since not too many white people get on the Green Line heading south. As we enter the car, he points to an empty seat near his, encouraging me and the woman to sit near him. I take a seat, and I'm energized by his enthusiasm for a chat.

He very passionately tells me that he's originally from Mississippi, moved here when he was 17. The woman slips in that she's from Alabama. My already peaked interest doubles at the opportunity before me to learn from these elders. The man starts telling us about a slave cemetery in Waveland, MS, that he's visited several times. The man's incredibly animated, smiling with a broken smile and waving his hands and arms rapidly to express the emotional intensity he has invested in communicating his story. He describes a haunting scene: chains, shackels, and all the horrific remants of humans suffering at the hands of other humans. "It would BLOW YOUR MIND, girl! Blow your mind! Blow most white people's minds." The woman adds that it would probably shock most black people too. The story captivates the whole car. Another elderly black gentleman nearby listens intently to the man's monologue, and before he gets off, he asks about the cemetery's location.

Before long we're inevitably talking about Martin Luther King because no discussion about race is quite complete without his mention. It turns out that the man was a Freedom Fighter and was jailed for three days for participating in a demonstration in his hometown when he was just a teenager. He preaches to me the importance of non-violence, and describes that whites threw rotten eggs at him and his friends as they marched, and the police beat them when the public was out of sight. But they never retaliated. They stuck to Dr. King's non-violent philosophy.

Eventually we reach 51st, and both of my companions leave the train in a flurry, waving and trying last minute attempts to underline the seriousness of our subject, but all the while smiling and assuring me with "God bless yous." I smile and shout after them, "Thanks! You too!" in the most pathetic and over-eager voice. But I'm truly grateful. Despite not having finished the last 20 pages of Black Like Me as planned, I knew that what transpired was real and weighty beyond words on a page.

The train leaves me on the edge of Englewood and Hyde Park, at 55th and King. I wish I could accurately paint a picture of Englewood (Chicago's neighborhood with the highest murder rate), but I know that I shouldn't attempt too much description of a place I know little about. All I have are my senses. I can observe on the Green Line ride from the Loop to Garfield a transformation from the downtown of business execs and tourism into scenes you scarcely can believe are governed by the same Richard M. Daley, mayor. The elevated tracks reveal increasingly decrepit buildings, numerous empty lots, and sloppier and sloppier streets. No amount of convincing can cause me to believe that what I see isn't the devolution of institutional racism: the slow emergence out of legalized evil but into economic and educational injustice: the segregation of the dollar.

When I enter Englewood, I'm continually conscious of my whiteness in a sort of healthy self-awareness. I'm in what feels like a different world, and I stick out because my privilege precedes me. I think about simple body language: I try to intentionally board the bus last, because I'm conscious of the long-lasting legacies from Montgomery boycotts; I choose the empty seat next to the young black man instead of the one next to the elderly white woman; I smile, but not too much because I don't want to give the impression that I find everything around me a light-hearted spectacle. I check myself at every moment. I can feel the suffocation of every CTA customer as we struggle with stereotypes and stigmas that have been painted by our parents and their parents and their parents, passed down to us through generations and biased history books. It's overwhelming.

********************

I leave class today, and I bounce down the sunny steps of LSTC with a spring in my step and a renewed vigor for freedom fighting after listening to Dr. Pero encourage us to be living theologians. As I near the street, I'm stopped by the stare and smile of a stranger. A black man about my dad's age pauses me with his gaze, and I stop to acknowledge the random meeting. He shows me a few cards: Veteran's benefits and his Illinois ID. He's a recent hire, the only black laborer at a nearby construction company, and through a stutter, he desperately explains to me his need for a 7-day bus pass so he can get back and forth to work... and pick up his paycheck.

"They don't like black people there, miss, but I can't lose this job. I just can't. I just need to find a way to get there. I need a bus pass. I promise I don't drink, miss, and I don't do d-d-dr-dr-..."
"Drugs?"
"Right. I don't do dr-drugs."

I honestly don't have the money... or at least have so little that it seems impossible to spare the $23 he needs for the pass. Remember the morning's financial crisis? But he insists, asking me to find it in my heart, that God bless me, and he gives me his ID to prove his earnestness and trustworthiness. I can keep it until we reach the store so I know he means well. All he wants is a bus pass, not even the money, just the pass, if I'd be so kind.

"The Lord provides, the Lord will bless you. Please."

His words strike at the Gospel in my heart. "'Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? [Or stranded and bought you a bus pass?]..." I remember the fish and the loaves. I smell the lilies of the field and hear the chirping of the sparrow. And I hear Pastor Clint: "I have to warn you. If you eat this bread and drink this wine, you walk out those doors as Christ's church called to preach the Gospel." I knew that God provides and equips.

With what could only be Christ-inspired reassurance, Vernon Love and I set off for the nearest CVS to purchase a 7-day pass.

And after the purchase, after the exchange, he and I walk back to 55th, and I indulge a bit more about who I am. Afterall, he shared so deep a part of his soul. I don't think I can possibly understand just how humbling it must be to ask for help like Vernon did. But he did it, and I openly admire his courage for that. I tell him how frustrated I get that things are so unfair, that our system is set up to segregate, separate, and increase the already large gaps between humanity. "What can I do? I feel so guilty to have been so blessed. And what can I do?" Then he provides for me in a simple, but extremely significant way: "You just gotta keep on doing what you're doing. Keep up that schooling. Love other people. And stay close to the Lord."

I reach the bus stop just in time for the bus back to the Green Line. Before I get on, Vernon turns to me and reminds me one more time that God loves me... and gives me a friendly, loving, incredibly significant hug.

I tell this story not for recognition or a pat on the back. I didn't do anything noteworthy or significant. But my brother did. This is Vernon's story, not mine. He renewed my need of humility and deepened my source of joy. I ride off toward Englewood with a tiny smile into a fading afternoon of sunshine that no stigma can contain. It isn't perfect, nothing is... but I can go to bed tonight thankful for a full heart. And I can wake up tomorrow under clouds and gray with new commitment to serve the Lord and my neighbor, now with the stories of my brothers and sisters on the South Side written in my soul.

"Our time is in bad need of a theology that bridges the gaps. We need a theology of reconciliation: reconciling the concept of God with the experience of humanity, and reconciling people with one another."
-Dr. Pero-

At last!

2009-01-21T12:54:00.012-06:00

What an amazing time to be alive!

NATIONAL DAY OF RENEWAL AND RECONCILIATION, 2009
- - - - - - -
BY THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

A PROCLAMATION

As I take the sacred oath of the highest office in the land, I am humbled by the responsibility placed upon my shoulders, renewed by the courage and decency of the American people, and fortified by my faith in an awesome God.

We are in the midst of a season of trial. Our Nation is being tested, and our people know great uncertainty. Yet the story of America is one of renewal in the face of adversity, reconciliation in a time of discord, and we know that there is a purpose for everything under heaven.

On this Inauguration Day, we are reminded that we are heirs to over two centuries of American democracy, and that this legacy is not simply a birthright -- it is a glorious burden. Now it falls to us to come together as a people to carry it forward once more.

So in the words of President Abraham Lincoln, let us remember that: "The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature."

NOW, THEREFORE, I, BARACK OBAMA, President of the United States of America, by the authority vested in me by the Constitution and laws of the United States, do hereby proclaim January 20, 2009, a National Day of Renewal and Reconciliation, and call upon all of our citizens to serve one another and the common purpose of remaking this Nation for our new century.

IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I have hereunto set my hand this twentieth day of January, in the year of our Lord two thousand nine, and of the Independence of the United States of America the two hundred and thirty-third.

2009

2009-01-04T17:25:00.003-06:00

I find myself alone in a hotel room in the middle of classy city lights.

2008-12-26T21:44:00.002-06:00

Backbeat,
the word is on the street
that the fire
in your heart is out.

Grace on the Bus

2008-12-10T21:53:00.009-06:00

I just found this piece, dated from July:

The smell is embedded in my skin. It won’t go away. And neither will the memory.

They told me that Chicago couldn’t host a tornado because the city structure pauses the storm before any damage can be done. But as I sat in an amazing poetry class on the North Side, the tornado sirens went off.

An hour later, I was faced with the daunting task of riding two buses for 45 minutes back to Logan Square in the worst storm I had ever seen. With incessant lightning, I stood precariously under a large brick building, too afraid to be anywhere near a metal or telephone pole. When the 80 finally made its way down Irving Park, I was absolutely delighted to get out of the immediately danger of a lightning strike.

As we cautiously drove down the road, avoiding the ponds forming along the gutter, I observed the saturated crowd. We all smelled like dogs.

About 5 stops from where I first boarded, an androgynous man/woman walked onto the bus wearing an enormous amount of clothes, seeming so heavy, heavy like the weight of the world and its impression on their soul... and the stench was nearly unbearable. People stared. The sopping wet Cubs fans made faces and cold remarks to match the rainy night. The middle-aged couple across from me made a face of disgust. The man stood and angrily stormed to the back of the bus. I heard his wife says, “Bill, come on.” He just stared at her. Moments later, she made the meanest, snottiest face I’d ever seen, pulled her parka up over her nose, and joined her husband in the back of the bus—the last place they ever expected to sit that night after an unexpected end to the Cubs game.

I watched as the man-woman ambled onto the bus, looking like a nun, wearing an army hat, and smelling worse than anything I had ever smelled. He-she carried a bag onto the bus and headed back to the entrance to pay, or so I thought. But instead, he-she climbed off the bus again to grab yet another bag. And then another. And then another. And finally a cart filled with bags. We were stopped for 5 minutes, just waiting for him to load his life onto the bus. His entire life, saving it from the storm.

People were now shamelessly and outwardly expressing their disgust, loudly proclaiming how badly it smelled, thinking that if they all shared their grief outloud, the burden of the smell would be less burdensome. But how cruel.

I was on the phone with Angel, thanking God that she was still calling me, thanking God that I had a distraction from the scent, and breathing through my mouth as I chatted. I made a moral decision that I was proud of, patting myself on the back, as I decided to stay put, despite the fact that she was only a few feet away. I felt a gag reflex. I thought I might vomit into my phone, but I stayed put. I felt so righteous and so angry at everyone else’s cruel response to a human being.

But despite such “upstanding” morality, everyone’s lips were curling up on the bus whether consciously or unconsciously, wondering when the smell would go away, wondering when he might get off the bus, hoping it was soon, and feeling trapped on a 5 foot by 20 foot rectangle through the streets of Chicago—even me.

Just a few blocks down, the man-woman reached for the cord, signaling the bus driver to stop. I heard muttered sighs of relief as people prepared to breathe effortlessly again. As the bus pulled to a slow, deliberate stop, he-she started grabbing bags.

As the doors opened into the downpour, a man just a few seats away from me (another strong stomach brave enough to remain in the front of the bus) stood up. I guessed that this was his stop too, but as he hunched over and picked up some of the bags, I sat stunned. He followed her off the bus and into the storm, gently placing her bags onto the sidewalk just outside the bus. They both re-boarded and lifted the last of the bags from the shelter of the CTA and into the wet night.

No one exchanged any words. And as the man with a strong stomach and heart of gold came back onto the bus with a sad expression, sinking back into his seat, I swear that everyone on that bus felt the burn of shame. Most especially me. I knew that we had entertained an angel. But only one of us had the grace to show a little love.

Soapbox and Soap Opera

2008-11-26T11:05:00.015-06:00

Well, it's been quite a while since I've written anything, and that's for several reasons:

1) Far too much has been happening in the political/social world, and I haven't known where to start!
2) Far too much has been happening in my personal/work life, and I haven't had the energy to gather my thoughts!

But here's my attempt at some sort of cohesion:

Barack Obama. Enough has been said about his historic election, so I have nothing new to contribute to the dialogue. Just a few emphases and notes:

I pray for America's patience as the man inherits a mess. He's not a miracle worker. He's a president.
I remind people that YES, WE DID elect Barack Obama, but YES, WE CAN heal this nation. WE. Together. All of us. Our work is not done.
The ignorance, violence, and threats of our nation's hate mongers and white supremacists frighten and disgust me. I pray for the strength to love our enemies. Enough said.
My co-workers call me Obama's "daughter" because apparently I'm THAT enthused.
Yes, I was at Grant Park. And it was incredible.

Prop 8. Please see Keith Olbermann's Special Comment. My sentiments EXACTLY.

Martin Luther King, Jr. I've been reading his sermons in the published work "Strength to Love." I believe every American should read them.

Thanksgiving. I've been thinking about the holiday a lot more than I usually do, probably because of recent family events (instead of on a soapbox, I've been in a soap opera), and despite Turkey Day's nasty and deceitful origins, I really appreciate that our nation celebrates gratefulness. The concept is actually pretty profound.

That's all I've got for now. I'll be back on my soapbox before long... look for a more emotional post about family after the holiday. And in the meantime, I'm thankful that I have readers! Happy Thanksgiving to you!

"Who are you voting for?"

2008-10-19T17:23:00.014-05:00

"Matter of Time"
Postsecret, 10/18/08

As I waited for the 82 bus this afternoon at Belmont and Kimball, a homeless man approached me on a bike. He was an older black man with a speech impediment, a kind smile, and a tired face. He asked me to watch his bike while he stepped into MicDuck's (the local hot dog stand by the bus stop) for a bite to eat. After struggling at first to understand what he said, I, of course, obliged him.

When he came back out of the restaurant, he thanked me and asked me how much he owed me for watching his bike. When I understood what he said, I was taken aback at such an offer. Naturally, I kindly told him nothing, nothing at all. I was happy to watch his bike for him. I gave him a smile. I love meeting the people of my neighborhood. I love the people of this city.

Then he asked me how old I was. Or at least I thought that's what he asked me. So when I said, "22," he asked me again...

"Who are you voting for?"

I grabbed for my purse to show him my support, but realized that my Barack Obama button had fallen off that weekend back in Oshkosh.

"Obama," I replied proudly and confidently. "I already voted, actually. Absentee." The people in the Humboldt Park/Logan Square neighborhood love Obama. One more reason that I love my neighborhood.

"Oh no, oh no!" I look at him, puzzled. "Somebody's gonna kill 'im."

I just keep looking at him intently, probably a bit of fear and shock in the lines of my face. I just keep listening.

"Somebody's gonna kill 'im, and there's gonna be riots. There's gonna be a war. There's gonna be a war."

Finding my words: "You think so?"

"Yes, yes, yes... if it's a black man that shoots him, that's ok, that's ok. But if a white man shoots him... get your gun. Get a gun to protect yourself. You gotta have a gun. You got a gun?"

"No, no, I don't."

"You gotta have a gun. There's gonna be a war. There's gonna be a war. You remember when Dr. King was shot? He was shot, and there were riots. Obama's gonna get shot, and there's gonna be a war all across the country."

I see the bus approaching the stop, and feebly smile at the man as he walks away. "Have a good afternoon!" I call after him.

"You too, you too," he shouts back in his broken speech.

I boarded the bus, unsettled to say the least...
because I've shared this man's nightmare since February.

We need to pray for Obama.

Tell me what democracy looks like!

2008-10-13T20:58:00.018-05:00

I'll never forget that mantra and the unstoppable, embarrassing tears that flowed down my cheeks as I responded with thousands of others: "This is what democracy looks like!"

Spring 2006. The "Day Without Latinos." State Street. Madison, WI. I'll never forget marching with my fellow students, with a rainbow of people, with community leaders, and with my best friend. We marched for equality. We marched for liberty. We marched in solidarity. I learned more about civil rights in one day than I had ever learned from my textbooks.

That is what people have fought and died for. This must have been the adrenaline rush that thousands felt as they marched toward Lincoln. This must have been the demanding and respectful silence and power that people felt as Dr. King took their breath away. This the American Dream living, breathing, and expressing itself on the streets--the government of the people, by the people, and for the people.

This is what democracy looks like.
___________________________________________________

I spent last weekend in Detroit visiting Chris. He knows me all too well; so after we hit up Hitsville, USA (a.k.a. the Motown Museum -- worth EVERY PENNY and another great platform for learning about civil rights), we headed to the Henry Ford Museum. I never knew that such a museum existed, let alone that it contains Lincoln's chair from Ford's Theatre, the Kennedy limo from Dallas, a whole collection of American movie costumes (including Darth Vader), and a copy of the Declaration of Independence (one of only 30 surviving). I was shocked that the Smithsonian didn't own all this stuff.

But by far the coolest thing at the museum is Rosa Parks' bus. Yup, THE bus. As I boarded the retro, brightly-colored, leather-upholestered metrotransit, I listened to Rosa tell her story on the bus' radio speakers, and I sat down in the historic place where a kind, gentle woman practiced non-violence and made history.

As I sat on that infamous seat, I felt a wave of nostalgia (that doesn't even belong to me) flood me with goosebumps. I got misty-eyed and felt that same wave of emotion that I did when I stormed the Wisconsin capitol with Cesar. This is what democracy looks like!
___________________________________________________

Today and tomorrow we have anti-Racism training at the ELCA. Racism is always one of those challenging topics... especially for a room filled with white, Scandinavian Lutherans who have a relatively homogeneous worldview. But thanks to the church's policies about hire and 10% diversity, we had a wider spectrum of voices in the room. After some careful reflection and slow-but-steady easing into the conversation about race... our facilitators asked:

"Are things BETTER or WORSE for people of color today than they were in the 1960s?"

That question silenced all of us.

As we made a list of "better" and "worse" and watched the "worse" list get progressively longer than the "better," we all knew that the battle for equality and civil rights didn't end in 1968. The fight for justice wasn't wrapped up in just one man and wasn't buried with him. Seeking love for all mankind transcends generations. Forty years later, the work isn't complete. We're just getting started.

The thing is, we all want pragmatic, practical implementations and applications from our "racial justice training." We want solutions and we want them NOW. But racism is deeply rooted in the fabric of our national being. We can't eliminate it without a lot of pain and hurt and suffering. It's systemic. It's structural. It's institutional. It's in things we don't even realize it has permeated.

I challenge us to make a list of what's better and what's worse for civil rights in this country since 1968. And I challenge our driven, success-oriented culture to just sit with the issues and stew with them... I give us all permission to feel angry and hurt and pissed as hell. I license that one of the solutions to this sickness is education. And that is the start. Because we've all been lied to. We haven't truly experience what democracy looks like.

But I also challenge us to take action in ways that aren't owned by the 1960s. When MLK, Jr. died, the marches didn't have to end. When Bobby was shot, the gunman didn't murder our hope. We have our voice, we have our feet, and we have our vote. We can act--in ways that the greats of the Civil Rights agenda couldn't--and we MUST act... because everything this society stands for will falter if we don't.

I think Bob Marley says it best:
"Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery/None but ourselves can free our mind."

So won't you help you sing these songs of freedom?

Tell me what democracy looks like!

(Note: I could write volumes more. Please keep that in mind. This is what happens when you've got too much passion and not enough outlet).

Discipleship

2008-10-07T13:54:00.010-05:00

What does following Christ mean? What does total obedience to Jesus look like? What does it mean to be a disciple in the post-modern world? In today's Christian culture, I can't help but wonder if "discipleship" has come to represent what we DON'T do instead of what we DO... and of course, as Lutherans, we shy away from emphasizing works. But reading Dietrich Bonhoeffer's chapter on "Costly Grace" struck a new chord in me: "The only man who has the right to say that he is justified by grace alone is the man who has left all to follow Christ."

Dang, Dietrich. That's a tough pill to swallow. And there's no Mary Poppins with a spoonful of sugar to follow it. People have died as the result of this costly grace... this discipleship and total obedience. Bonhoeffer's one of them. "Grace is costly because it compels a man to submit to the yoke of Christ and follow him; it is grace because Jesus says: 'My yoke is easy and my burden is light'," he writes. (Matthew 11:28-30)

It all made more sense and seemed more consistent as I read Baptized We Live: Lutheranism as a Way of Life by Daniel Erlander today on the train: "The Lutheran understanding of Baptism is RADICAL: i.e., Baptism claims a person for a life of TOTAL OBEDIENCE TO JESUS CHRIST." (side note: I didn't add the caps lock emphasis. That was Erlander's doing!)

Whoa, did you catch the TOTAL OBEDIENCE part? Have you read the Gospel lately? Did you notice just how radical Christ is? Have you noticed just how "crazy" Jesus acted for the times? How countercultural his message was? And we're talking since he was 12... hanging around the temple and teaching the priestly leaders, turning water into wine, fasting and praying in the wilderness for 40 days and 40 nights, dining with prostitutes and tax collectors, touching the untouchables, preaching to crowds and crowds of people, feeding the 5,000, plucking grain on the sabbath, cleansing lepers, calming storms, walking on water, telling a rich young man to sell all of his possessions, talking with a Samaritan woman at the well, challenging the Pharisees...

Place all of those things in today's cultural context, and just imagine what it might look like to take Christ's yoke upon us. Imagine what discipleship could be.

I think I heard about discipleship growing up, just without the term "disciple": "Follow Jesus," "Walk with God," etc, etc, were all ways we talked about it in Sunday School and confirmation. But we mostly stuck to the "faith alone" doctrine without much mention of works. I'm not trying to rewrite Lutheran theology, because I certainly still believe we are "saved by grace," I just believe that our Christianity doesn't end there. In fact, it's not very compelling to be a Christian if it means we aren't also "transformed to reach out" (check out Romans 12). As my friend Munye recently said to me so eloquently (and hopefully I don't butcher the paraphrase): "Good works are not be the cause of salvation, but they are the response to it."

I guess I'd just like to hear the Gospels taught and interpreted as teachings and callings to discipleship at the same time that we find in them God's boundless love and free gift of grace. Faith and works... held together in that ever-Lutheran paradoxical understanding of the Spirit of God!

Jesus, give us the strength to take up your cross and to follow you! Help us all to be your modern-day disciples as we live into our vocations!

The Importance of Rhetoric

2008-10-05T11:10:00.011-05:00

In the current political atmosphere, we hear a lot about rhetoric and its worth (or worthlessness). Many criticize politicians for their fancy speeches and seemingly empty promises. I'm going to go ahead and say that rhetoric isn't just empty words. Rhetoric isn't merely false promises. Rhetoric creates a climate and a public consciousness that has the ability to paralyze or inspire.

Obviously, many of you know my political allegiance and who I'll be voting for this November, but my point goes beyond the 2008 Obama v. McCain battle. I'm trying to directly address the fear-mongering of our two-party political system (committed by both sides) and the environment we've been living in since 9/11 (and at numerous other points in American and world history).

Political speech is single-handedly one of the most important factors influencing American group opinion; whether Americans respond with fear, hope, or apathy... what our leaders proclaim on media channels affects every single one of us.

Some of us may not follow politics. Some of us might eat, live, and breathe politics. Regardless, we can't escape from rhetoric and political climate. For instance, everyone has some response to the $700 billion bailout--whether it's fear for the economy, disgust for irresponsible corporations, frustration with our hasty politicians, worry about our assets, relief for the passing of the bailout package, or apathy and cynicism for all of Wall Street and the stock market (and any other number of responses). Similarly, all of us also have various degrees of opinions about the Iraq War and America's response to Terrorism.

These viewpoints derive from several places. Of course, most of us have been raised in the American ideologue, believing in the Declaration of Independence and Bill of Rights; we grew up hearing Lee Greenwood's "Proud to be an American." Our religious, socioeconomic, educational, racial/ethnic lenses script our responses to current debates and issues influencing the fabric of our nation. But we cannot nor should we EVER forget the importance of our leaders' rhetoric in these decisions and processes.

For instance, in the months post-9/11, the language we heard from our leaders--Democrats and Republicans alike--was a language of fear. We were afraid for our liberty. We were afraid to fly. We were afraid of our neighbors who looked different from us. This fear mongering rushed in action--rash action enacted through the P.A.T.R.I.O.T. Act and war in Iraq. We saw the word TERRORISM everywhere we turned. Our leaders created "Security Threat Levels," and we added an office--the Department of Homeland Security--to our cabinet.

Now, I'm not saying that we had nothing to fear in those dark moments surrounding the devastation of 9/11. I'm not accusing our leaders of total ineptitude. Action was certainly required. And some of their actions were suitable. But I am saying that the fear-mongering has continued as a political tool to capture votes and keep Americans cowering, begging for protection, and giving power to leaders who capitalize on sometimes unfounded fears to gain political office and money.

Why the tirade? I just want to defend the rhetoric of hope. Yes, I'm an Obama-ite, but this goes beyond my support of Obama. It goes beyond politics. I want to speak to the human soul.

When citizens hear messages of hope, they feel empowered to fight injustice and live their daily lives with courage and strength. When people find hope, they find meaning in the world. When people feel hope and believe in hope, they act collectively, they organize, and they are bonded together in solidarity for causes greater than themselves.

Martin Luther said, "Everything that is done is the world is done by hope." I believe it. There's something about hope that gives us a superhuman strength of mind and body. There's something about hope that sustains us even through the toughest days and darkest nights.

In Romans 5:4, the Apostle Paul says, "Therefore, since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have obtained access to this grace in which we stand; and we boast in our hope of sharing the glory of God. And not only that, but we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us."

I guess I'm just saying that I'm all right with leaders who speak messages of hope. I don't think their words are superfluous and flowery or feathery. I believe there's power in the rhetoric of hope. I want a leader who has not only the ability to act, but the ability to inspire action in all of us. I encourage us all to vote accordingly--for the person who inspires you to have hope in the future, and inspires you to act for humanity.

I conclude with a quote my friend Abi posted:
"If we keep our focus on what the media tells us is happening we become afraid and wonder when will be the collapse of the world and it paralysis us. But if we keep our attention on what God is doing, we can live with hope and be energized to be a part of constructing peace and justice a new world here and now!" -Jim Fitz, Christian Peacemaker Teams

Thoughts? Arguments welcome as well. :)

MDG (not MGD) Prayer

2008-09-25T11:47:00.007-05:00

Most loving God,

as your desire for mercy for the poor is unrelenting,
may we be unrelenting in our pursuit of mercy for all;
as your compassion for the suffering of the poor knows no limit,
may our hearts overflow with compassion for all;
as you long for justice for the poor,
may we strive for justice for all.
Open our eyes to the structures of oppression from which we benefit,
and give us courage to accept our responsibility,
wisdom to chart a sound course amid complexity,
and perseverance to continue our work until it is finished.
Breathe your life-giving Spirit afresh into your Church
to free us from apathy and indifference;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.

Flood

2008-09-14T02:43:00.008-05:00

Rain, rain on my face.
It hasn't stopped raining for days.
My world is a flood.
Slowly I become one with the mud.

If I can't swim after 40 days
And my mind is crushed by the crashing waves.
Lift me up so high that I cannot fall.
Lift me, oh.

Lift me up--
When I'm drowning.
Lift me up--
I'm weak and I'm dying.
Lift me up--
I need You to hold me.
Lift me up--
To keep me from drowning again.

Heal yourself

2008-08-21T22:30:00.014-05:00

An excerpt from a certain book I like (Learning to Love You More). I find it perturbing and comforting at the same time, and "applicable as necessary to my situation":

"This guideline is framed on a relationship of three years or so, and after living together, but it can be applied as necessary to other situations.

Remember: When you break up with someone, it is as if someone, actually the person closest to you, has died. You no longer and will no longer know them like you once did. You will feel like you will never go on, especially if you had a spiritual connection with this person. This is normal.

It will hurt. If you've never had anyone close to you die, this is what it feels like. What follows is grief.

The night it happens you will feel an unbelievable shot of pain, and you may feel nauseous. You may feel like you're dying. The best thing to do is find a close/best friend immediately. If your best friend is your girlfriend (or boy)--you may feel the need to be with them because you feel they are the only one who understands. If the breakup is mutual, this is okay. But you need to be around people who comfort you. It is not uncommon to seek help from the person you caused you the pain. They cannot be the one to get you through this.

There are many ways to let go. If you have a hard time letting go, make steps and stick to them. If you slept in the same bed, sleep in separate beds. Give yourself a week or so and no longer to do this! Then separate rooms, people's houses. If at all possible, move out within one month. Only then can you start to grow apart from this person.

Coping Strategies:
Be around other people any time you can--it will be easier to eat, speak, and be okay again.

Go out. Even if it's a coffee shop for four hours. Go out, out, out.

When you feel the anticipation of the future, and say, "What will I do without her?" stop thinking about it. Look to the now. You aren't in any danger. You may be in pain, but that is part of growing. This is what will make you strong. Accept the pain. Embrace yourself even in the darkness and find your peace.

Go back to comforts. Music. Friends. Anything that is YOU and has nothing to do with the other person.

Remember--you CAN do this. You've been through pain before, and you are NOT alone. Many, many, many people have lived through circumstances like this. Most of them have thought they couldn't.

And know, this happened for a reason."

En route

2008-08-16T16:08:00.013-05:00

I wrote the following stream of consciousness on the bus ride from Madison to Chicago today:

I have the absolute greatest friends in the history of friendship. I'll never let them go.

And I LOVE Wisconsin. Everything about it. Everything.

Life is so full of creative opportunities. I hope I'm always creative--that I always try to incorporate new and fresh things into my life--always experimenting with some new thought or playing with an idea, trying new activities and loving in new ways. There's so much to seize and, more importantly, to give back. I think about what Sadi and I are doing, reading together, and I wish that action could spring up in other forms with other people--and it can.

I love the way Donald Miller writes about loving people on two levels--with your words and with your heart. I hope that my heart converses love, patience, and understanding. I pray that I can be God's instrument of love.

And oh, there's something just so poetically soft in the grassy green cornfields and rolling hills here. Wisconsin wears a halo.
------//-------
So here I am on the Van Galder bus back to Chi, and I'm just dying to learn more about the guy sitting next to me. Is he flying somewhere out of O'Hare on business? Is he going home? He seems so good-natured and kind, and I really want to engage with him, but now he's napping after eating all of his health food, and so it just would seem awkward. And I'm thinking about Donald Miller's hippies in the woods... everyone's a book.
------//------
I love the thought of Ben making the decision to call me. I can just see him consciously making the move toward his pocket, pulling out the brick, and finding my name, then pressing send with every hope of hearing my voice. That's a beautiful image.
------//------
Wow, the more I think about tithing, the more I think that it's the most beautiful gift. It's so graceful. I love thinking of everything I have being God's gift to me. I love the thought of giving it all back. My money is not mine. In everything I do--I want to shine. And that includes how I spend my money. I want to shine for Jesus as much as possible.

That also includes loving Paul.

And Ben. God, please give me grace to receive Ben with total love and reconciliation, with no hope or agenda--simply love. Please, God. Let my heart and my embrace be all the words I need to speak to him. And it all be okay. Let it be with me, oh let it be. Let it be with me, oh let it be your word.

Also, give me patience as I encounter the international counselors today. Grant me understanding and wisdom as I face the challenges of communication and privacy that I'll most likely face. Make me a listener more than a talker, and give me peace as I covet their camp experiences. And help me be a good roommate.

Help me examine more ways to live as a good steward of your creation, living frugally, as everyone in the world examines how we've harmed our home. Please let me understand how to tread as lightly as I can. Give me the energy to soak up your wisdom and to live intentionally and fruitfully.

I'm on the verge, I'm on the verge, God. Push me over the edge.

And please help me become invested in the Lutheran Volunteer Corps. Give me courage to become involved without jealousy, but just a giving heart. Allow me to give my time to a wonderful organization.

Just please use me, God. Please wring me out and allow your love to drip from me wherever I go. Don't let me be a hoard. Drench the world with your love and energy and promise.

You're the most beautiful thing--but you're not a thing. You're hope and inspiration and peace and challenge and diligence, obsession and gratitude, beauty and fulfillment, you're love. You're everything that sculpts us into caring, loving people--the sunshine and the rain. Praise you for that!

"They were books themselves, all of them were books, and what was so wonderful is that to them, I was a book too." -Donald Miller, Blue Like Jazz

That's one of the most beautiful thoughts I have ever considered. I hope that I always see people as beautiful books.

"My friend Julie from Seattle told me that the main prayer she prays for her husband is that he will be able to receive love. And this is the prayer I pray for all my friends because it is the key to happiness. God's love will never change us if we don't accept it." -Donald Miller, Blue Like Jazz

Something I've been needing to hear. Something that I need to do.
------//------
A stealth bomber just flew overhead. It reminded me of Daddy and I--going out to Oshkosh Truck on the southside just to see it when it came to EAA. I was six. And now it randomly flew mysteriously over my head, a dark bird with a dark purpose on a bright day.
------//------
I love Paul Simon. "Under African Skies" is my favorite. I'm thinking about writing him a letter to express my gratitude for his poetry. But then again, Ladysmith Black Mambazo already wrote him a tribute song, and my letter really couldn't do him justice. What a beautiful image-Paul Simon visiting South Africa with humility and with friendship and true equality in his hands. He loved them, and they loved him. And Graceland is so happy. No, joyful. I can't wait to return to South Africa, and I will pray God grants me the same endurance and humility that he gave Paul Simon.
-----//------
I think I'm going to buy Blue Like Jazz for Erin, highlighting the sections about people singing songs and being books, reminding her that she's a sweet song and deeply interesting book. Mmm.

I also want to start really investing my time in listening to albums, holistically appreciating what someone composed. Because each album is a collective symphony. I'll go to Reckless Records and see if I can't find a record player and wonderful records.
------//------
The old gentleman in front of me silently, methodically pointed out the stealth bomber in the sky, saying nothing--and with no specific purpose except maybe to hope that someone else noticed what he noticed, validating its existence. I was happy to see him do this, because it meant that it was there, and to reassure him that he wasn't imagining things, I let out a gentle sigh of wonder and acknowledgment. Without a word, we endorsed each other.

And the man across from me is listening to music and reading intently. For the past five pages or so, he held his right hand steadily over his heart, grabbing his chest in excitement and thrill and passion. I want to know what those five pages contain--and what's in his heart that's so moved.

Man, I love public transportation--the motion-filled life slipping past me on the windows and the scene I'm experiencing--the film splice of all of our lives transitioning together as we gather on this moving wagon--total strangers encountering each other passive aggressively, for just a few hours. I love it. Nothing could be better at this very moment. I enjoy my trips as much as I enjoy my destinations.

And someday, someday soon... I will have the courage and the gumption to encounter these people, engage with "Stealth Bomber Identifier" and "Emotionally Invested Reader" and even "Business Man Whole Foods Napper Heading to O'Hare." But even if we never exchange words, these people have conversed with my soul--even if just for today. Even if they will never know. Thank God for these encounters. All for $27.
------//------
I just thought about Steinbeck's opening in East of Eden, how he says the book is a box filled with everything he has in it... and he's giving that to someone, dedicating it so someone he loves. All of these crazy thoughts--I've thought of them as a box of things for Chloe. Someday we'll truly be sisters.

Now I'm at O'Hare, and I've watched a few people embrace as they're reunited, and I truly started to cry--love actually is all around. Such a gorgeous movie with so much truth. What I love the most about it is that Daddy loved it too.

The O'Hare trainstop is eerily lighted and cryptic. I love it. I love airports. I love O'Hare.

I saw a little Annie walking through the halls. She was gorgeous. I miss my Annie.

How will I ever stop writing? It's my song--how can I keep from singing?
------//------
As I took the walking "escalator" through a hallway lined with flags naming all of Chicago's "sister cities," my love for airports and O'Hare was interrupted by the story and picture of the Serbian refugee family... the ones who fled their wartorn nation to New Orleans... and then fled their flooded flat to be O'Hare's neighbors. And now their home is being destroyed for O'Hare expansion. I imagined their homeland's flag hanging in the bright, open, spacious hall--and I scoffed at the irony. Airport expansion. Sister cities. "Bringing the world to Chicago. Bringing Chicago to the world." Destroying families' homes.
------//-------
And then he calls. In the perfect end to this story, I'm filled with butterflies and anxiety as I wait to get off the train, filled with the hopeful possibility of spilling my box of things into his ear after keeping them locked up for so long.

Poetry

2008-08-04T23:57:00.011-05:00

Craig said I probably needed my poetry class tonight. I really did. I woke up in a terrible storm, spent the day in a terrible storm, and ended the night in a terrible storm, but what changed was my attitude or at least my perception of the storm. I'm so glad I went to my poetry class tonight. I'm so grateful for the gift of words.

"Naked in Bathroom" - Pierre Bonnard

Why do you crouch
in the dark crevices of a
bright room,
hiding your beautiful breasts
and crisp youth as if you were
crippled in a coma
of broody hues?

Don't flee from your bath, dragging
your immaculate melon feet
across a frayed carpet, ducking
and diving out of your bare skin,
grabbing the covers of a well-kept bed
to turnover the shy sheets for
your shy head.

Even your faceless feline ignores the
grace in your step.
You've hidden so well between
the shower door and the crimson covers
and emerged from so cleansing a
ritual to merely drip across a tiled,
coconut floor, and to soak yourself
into the blood-stained shades of shame
encompassed in that delicate bed.
Hidden in the deepest
shadows in the deepest corners
are your deepest secrets.

You'll only straighten
when you're dead--
lifeless after you lay there,
remembering the bright side of
the room
and the brightside of the moon
the night you still felt
beautiful
naked in the bed.

Love

2008-07-27T22:00:00.008-05:00

I think love is the only reason to be alive. Maybe that sounds depressing to some (and perhaps blasphemous to others, but read on, please), like there should be more to life than what's invested in just another man or woman, but truly, I believe in the Moulin Rouge mantra: "the greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return."

I thought of that all day as I shared the most beautiful day (the most beautiful weekend) with people I love. There's nothing more satisfying than being surrounded by people who care about you and what you stand for, and loving them the same way back: unconditionally.

I'm re-reading Donald Miller's Blue Like Jazz, and in his chapter on Belief, he says, "Love is both something that happens to you and something you decide upon."

What a beautiful thought.

Miller writes these words as a response to his fear about divorce (just lines before he depicts a dialogue with his friend's mom, who says that "when a relationship is right, it is no more possible to wake up and want out of the marriage than it is to wake up and stop believing in God"). And as comforting as they're meant to sound, my fears haven't subsided. The fear lurks that despite choosing and being chosen, the relationship might not be right, that person might choose to stop choosing you...

...and what then? I guess I'm finding out.

I guess that's why God's love is supreme. He won't ever stop choosing us. And that's where I'm finding peace.

Confession

2008-07-18T11:45:00.011-05:00

The confession is usually my favorite part of a Lutheran service. Pastor Bill from Bethel says that we confess before worship. We admit our humanity and our sinfulness and then amidst that brokenness, we still give all praise to our Lord, the most High, with the knowledge that he loves us despite our faults and wrongs.

This confession comes from Wicker Park Lutheran Church's worship, Sunday, July 13, 2008:

God of compassion,
we confess that we have failed to bear witness
that you desire to draw all people to yourself.
In our hearts we have thought ill of those
who differ from us,
and our love of others has not been genuine.
We have been caught up in the cares of the world.
We have neglected oppotunities
to welcome the stranger,
to feed the hungry,
and to mend broken relationships.
Forgive our sins, merciful God,
that our hearts may burn with love for you
and for those in need,
and that our lives may witness
to your never-failing love for your creation.
Amen.

The confession sends us forth from worship with the example of our compassionate God, calling us forth into the world to show the same compassion.

Conversations

2008-07-16T14:30:00.014-05:00

As I rode the train this morning to work, I paused for a moment from reading my book as a warm thought swept through my mind in the Chicago morning sunshine. I have started to view this place as a community. I have started to appreciate the vastness of its people. This isn't a city with skyscrapers and "slums." This is a network of amazing, thriving people. This city has faces. Those faces have names. Those names are called to vocation in this world.

I think there's an amazing capacity for community on the trains and buses that speed on the city streets. As probably the most eclectic and diverse collection of people in the city, there is some serious ministry to be done... so many small things: saying hello to the driver; opening seats to pregnant women, the elderly, and young children; being polite and thinking of others comfort before our own; being the last to board the bus/train; and even just engaging in small talk (which may turn into "big" talk) with our neighbors. I've been profoundly impacted by this ministry.

I'm deeply encouraged by the book I'm reading now: "Turning to One Another" (see "Currently Reading" in the right side bar). Author Meg Wheatley tunes the mind toward the simple, fundamental, natural human interaction: conversation. Listening. Caring.

Today at lunch, Erin (an intern with VE) and I went to a brown bag lunch hosted by ELCA Global Mission. We heard from two Kenyans about the numerous, heavy troubles their people face with the ever-present effects of globalization and in the aftermath of the civil war post-elections in 2007. It was a simple conversation, an act of listening intently to our guests George and Christine, who moved our hearts and minds to think about the deeply-rooted causes of injustice and to pray for the amazing work they are accomplishing for the people of Kenya and for the glory of God.

Wheatley says, "It's not differences that divide us. It's our judgments about each other that do." I'm struck by the truth and raw simplicity in that statement. How much more we could achieve if we would all just pause, listen, and deeply meditate on the cares of ourselves and our neighbors!? The act of learning is really just listening and engaging in conversation. And it's an act of acknowledging the humanity in us all--we all desire to love and be loved. And as Wheatley says, "We promise each ourselves everything except each other." How beautiful would it be to give the gift of ourselves to one another?

I feel faith calling us into conversation daily. Isn't that what prayer is, afterall? If "conversation is the natural way we humans think together," (Wheatley) then isn't it the natural way we think with God? I'm finding more and more courage to pray (because I do think it takes great courage!). And I believe that as creation made in God's image, we must converse with our friends and, more importantly, our "enemies" (Matthew 5:43-48) to truly understand our Father--as an act of faith and prayer.

I'm really just blown away. I'm so blessed. God is calling me... I can hear Him. I can feel the presence of God in my workplace, in my co-workers, in my friends, in the energy of our Kenyan brothers and sisters, and surrounding me on the buses and trains of Chicagoland. I am not alone. He's calling all of us. Again, Wheatley calls us to ponder, "Relationships are all there is. Everything in the universe only exists because it is in relationship to everything else. Nothing exists in isolation. We have to stop pretending we are individuals who can go it alone."

I think Mother Teresa was correct to say "We can do no great things; only small things with great love." We must trust God to work through us, and to serve the ones we are constantly surrounded by... recognizing the humanity and the image of God in our neighbors--both near and far, friends or enemies. We can engage one another as an act of faith by simple starting the conversation.

Memoirs

2008-07-14T14:59:00.007-05:00

I've had more than one person recently recommend that I write a memoir. I'm not sure why... but I've always wanted to be a writer and would love the opportunity to write a book.

I think it would be a pointless endeavor unless it had some real meat and substance to it--it can't be a self-aggrandizing project that merely exists for my own ego. It must have life lessons or applications or something... it has to be centered humbly around a theme or some mysterious life question. I'd have to ponder all of the things I've ever done and all the people I've known. There's just so much. And I'm only 21. But I'd love to be a storyteller.

I think life is marvelous. The liveliness I encounter everyday.... what a fabulous time to be alive!

We are tomorrow.

2008-07-10T00:46:00.008-05:00

Quite a few very interesting and exciting things happened today. I'll start with the most significant, just in case you, the non-existent reader, get bored and never read the final sentences of this post.

I've developed this "habit" of making friends via public transportation. I know it's really quite counter-cultural, against the norms one might say, to divulge in serious conversation with your neighbors on buses, planes, trains, etc. But I tend to disagree. And the funny thing is, rarely do I ever choose the people I befriend. They choose me.

Some examples of this strange and unexpected calling/habit:
1) Angie. The kindly, lonely old woman I met at the Appleton Greyhound station who just so happened to be stopping at my exact stop in Chicago. We rode together the entire time. I have her phone number and she has mine. I wrote her a letter and she wrote back. She lets me call her Grandma Angie. She's a devoted Catholic who works for Lutheran Social Services' adoption agency in Chicagoland.

2) Shaun. While waiting for the Van Galder at the Amtrak station downtown, Shaun and I both avidly helped another hapless passenger find his way to the MegaBus. In the process, I found out that Shaun is the daddy of a 4-year old son named Jacksen, and he is from Jefferson, WI (the irony). We quickly bonded, discussing Ben, Jacksen, school, life, and most of all faith. We're now facebook friends.

3) Darryl. I was reading my beloved book at the bus stop today until the bus arrived. As I was boarding the bus, a man asked me what I was reading. "I saw you. You're captivated! What's that you're reading that's got you so intrigued?" I told him about the book and its message and author. "Praise God!" was the response. He's the minister at a non-denominational church on the west side (I would never have guessed it based on his appearance. Serves me right for worldly judgments). He began discussing with me all the books he's read and the books I had read and was reading. I gave him a list and he gave me mine. Then we progressed on to poverty, race... everything! He told me about his involvement with the Navigators and how he runs a community center house that ministers to the poor and homeless. He also showed me his bullet wounds--battle scars from life on the streets. We exchanged email addresses, and I sent him my paper about Milwaukee and a list of books to read. I missed my bus stop on purpose to keep talking to him, and I discovered more of my neighborhood by continuing on the 82.

God has sent me community where I least expected it. What a blessing!

The other great things include the random and completely PAID fixing of my guitar (that I dropped off last summer... it's now waiting for me to pick up in Madison) and another visitor this weekend... Rachel! In addition to a free lunch with Craig's family. What a joyous day!

Less is more.

2008-07-07T22:57:00.006-05:00

I can't get enough of this book. But more importantly, I can't get enough of the gospel.

Some pretty amazing things are going on all around us, if we only looked.

I had been feeling pretty depressed about moving to Chicago. I was lost and confused, in a total state of despair at the loss of community and fellowship, love and comfort. But Chicago is finding its way into my heart. Most especially, the community, the people are calling. I really just want to dive into the love that I know this community has to offer. I want to be faithful, not successful; I want to love.

I took the 73 bus across town to the Barnes and Noble (I had two gift cards!) and purchased another copy of Blue Like Jazz, but I also found Gary Wills' What Jesus Meant and Dietrich Bonhoeffer's The Cost of Discipleship. I'm addicted. And I'm also addicted to the CTA. It may sound strange, but I LOVE taking the bus and the 'L' around the city. I love it.

Really, I think you just have to read Shane's book. So please do. But intentional community is something that the church is lacking. And I desperately hope that changes.

The emerald city.

2008-06-24T22:00:00.013-05:00

As I grip my skirt, conscious of the windy Cumberland train stop, I debate my next course of action. The female speaker voice announces in her lazy tone, "Attention customers, an in-bound train toward the loop will be arriving shortly." The Forest Park blue line stops and I walk on to a crowded train, given just minutes to decide where to sit. I plop next to an African-American woman who kindly offers me more comfort. I notice something is stuck to my dress... and she offers me a wipe. "You never know what might get stuck to you on the train!" I laugh and agree, but gently decline her offer.

As I pull out Emma and begin to read, I'm too distracted to concentrate on the most recent occurrences between Miss Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax, so instead I find myself once again struggling to make a decision. As I near the Belmont stop, I know that I simply must go on and complete the dreaded commute all the way downtown. I return to reading Emma with a sound and resolute mind. I know I can exit at Grand and Milwaukee, and hopefully catch the 65 before it stops running for the early evening. I really have no idea where I'm going from there, and my feet are certainly not tireless as I struggle to keep my dress in control, once again, in the wind tunnels of the windy city.

At the train stop, I manage to find my way out of the dark, dismal, and dripping Grand station that really doesn't impress me as too "grand." In fact, I encounter a further, disgusting, interesting drip... as I follow my fellow CTA riders out of the submerged tunnel and up the stairs to the sunny road, I glance in the direction of the light--only to see an appalling sight. An overweight woman wearing a skirt sits perched on the top step, fully exposed, and... taking a leak. I hear the string of commuters behind me awkwardly gawk or silently shudder. And even after I've grabbed a RedEye, I can't help but shudder at a sight I never wished to see.

I hop on the 65 toward Navy Pier and get off on Illinois. I back track to Michigan and make a guess which direction I might find the Apple Store. I try my best to look the part of a Chicagoan, and I must be doing a pretty good job, because a woman asks me if there are many homeless beggars on the street. I have to concede that there are, asking her where she's from. "New Jersey. There aren't any where I'm from." I somehow doubt the truth in that statement. I must have chosen the correct way down Michigan, as I start passing all of the big ritzy box stores of national brands: Crate and Barrel, Saks on Fifth Avenue, Macy's, Tiffany's, Gap, etc.

I found it. The Apple Store. But I'm an hour early (go figure). I rebuke myself for not stopping home first, but I know that I would have never made it. Instead, I take a bit longer walk toward the John Hopkins building, and I sit down at a picnic table at the foot of a fountain. The nearby Jamba Juice makes me miss a few certain people, and I start remembering... remembering that Chicago belongs to us and it always will. And I can't wait till he returns to be with me.

I glance up at the Hancock building and what do I see? The Westin Hotel peeks around the corner of tall, pyramid-shaped black beauty, and I delight at the inspirational sight of the beautiful Fourth Presbyterian Church. I also find the way to the Museum of Contemporary Art, which apparently has free admission on Tuesdays. I long to go, but as I glance at my watch, I know I must turn back around.I enter the Apple Store, uncomfortable that the staircase to the helpdesk is clear glass and I'm wearing a skirt. But I make it somehow, and awkwardly amble around the store while I wait for my appointment. I finally get my chance, and though I hand the computer to the "genius" with certainty that two discs are lodged in my laptop, I receive my computer 45 minutes later with the definitive assurance that there are absolutely no discs in my computer whatsoever. I know I must be crazy.

I further my crazy spell by wandering around Michigan once more, looking for the 66, only discover my pleasure that the 66 runs 24/7, a new and more pleasant route to get back and forth to home on those late nights. The bus ride back to the Chicago/Milwaukee blue line includes the most obnoxious and annoying high schoolers, as well as just an interesting cross-section of people. 15 minutes later, I'm back on the blue line, feeling like my trip downtown may not have been for naught.

At the Kimball/Belmont stop, I notice that I'm certainly the only white person heading south, but I'm okay with that. I know that I'll need cash tomorrow for all of my mail deliveries, so I poke my head into the local Chicago-style hotdog shop for the ATM. The smell alone overpowers me, and the prices are right. I love Chicago-style hotdogs, and I haven't eaten in 9 hours. The fries are amazing.
I return outside to no bus, of course, as everyone has already been waiting 20+ minutes. And of course, 4 buses heading north pass by in the meantime. Just my luck with buses. And then of course, 2 82 Kimball/Homans appear in a row. I wait for the second, savoring my food just moments longer, and hoping for a better chance at a crowd-free seat. I'm right. I follow the CTA employees who also waited for the second 82, and the women greet their co-worker in recognition and cordial and enthusiastic engagement. As their conversation entertains the entire bus, we roll along and I congratulate myself on choosing the correct bus to board. We stop at Diversey/Milwaukee, and two drunk and belligerent riders attempt to ride the bus, but our perhaps more belligerent bus driver kicks them off again. Everyone emerges in laughter, perhaps at the comedic situation or perhaps in approval of the decision.

And then the woman launches into her CTA story, describing to her fellow compatriots with CTA that she prefers the 82 more than any other route. She starts talking about learning Spanish from the Puerto Ricans, and how she learned the difference between Mexicans and Puerto Ricans. She flat out says: "All races ride the 82. All races: Puerto Ricans, Mexicans, blacks, whites, Asians, Indians, Jews. I love my riders! I love 'em all." And I can't help but smile wide... and remember that this is why I moved to this neighborhood, I moved to Logan Square and not to Lakeview or Michigan or any of those places because I also would rather ride the 82 than the 49. I really appreciated my bus ride home.

I climb the 4 flights to my apartment, and I realize that this place can be called home. Not only can it be called home, it WILL be called home soon enough.

But I still want him to be with me.

The Gospel

2008-06-23T15:59:00.010-05:00

"The church endorses the Bible only for the sake of the gospel, and the gospel only for the sake of the reconciliation of the world by God in the death of Jesus Christ..." -Wolfhart Pannenberg-

I have been reading up on the Book of Faith initiative of the ELCA (of course, now it's a part of my job to read such things...) and I found the above quote in "Opening the Book of Faith." It resonated so much--one of those moments when I witnessed something I had always known... just put in words. It's some interesting food for thought.

Who'll stop the rain?

2008-05-12T23:25:00.005-05:00

I've decided to revert this blog once again to its original purpose: a real political, social commentary.

Last Thursday was my last Vietnam Class. My professor cried. The memory of Craig Werner and Doug Bradley hugging during CCR's "Who'll Stop the Rain?" will be forever etched in my memory. And everything I learned in ILS 275 "Vietnam: Music, Mayhem, and the Media" will never leave me.

In fact, I've already become a more responsible and knowledgeable citizen, i.e. I know more about the Iraq War and how to help stop it than I would have ever known previously. Here are just a few recent findings and things of note:

From NPR:
When Nate Rawlings returned in 2006 from a 12-month tour in Iraq, he thought his time there was done. The 26-year-old Princeton University alum planned to apply for a graduate film program and develop a career as a director or writer. But, like many of his fellow soldiers, he has been "stop-lossed," caught up in the Pentagon policy of extending tours of duty to bolster troop levels. So Rawlings was obligated to return to Iraq even though he had completed his contractual terms of service. Read more.

The Bush Administration stopped counting Iraqi civilian deaths in 2005. Its last estimate was around 30,000 deaths, although the Pentagon advised NPR to contact the Iraq Health Ministry for the most accurate count.

The World Health Organization and Iraq Health Ministry surveyed 10,000 homes in 1000 neighborhoods by the end of June 2006 to estimate violence and death as a result of the conflict. They reported over 150,000 deaths.

A Johns Hopkins survey, considered controversial due to its high estimates, believes 650,000 Iraqis have died since 2003 due to the war.

Who do you believe?

On May 15, nine Iraq veterans will testify before Congress about the nature of the Iraq War, including endemic racism amongst high ranking military officials, the inaccuracy of the media's portrayal about the war, the use of drop weapons, the killing of innocent civilians, and the psychological damage of the 2007 "troop surge," as well as various other topics. My guess is it will more than likely NOT be broadcast, but hopefully some random station will carry these soldiers. If not, Iraq Veterans Against the War (IVAW) will post the video. Click here for more info.

Won't you help to sing these songs of freedom?

2008-05-09T12:26:00.005-05:00

I will not join the ranks of the placid, desensitized, morally bankrupt capitalists.

I will care. I will feel. I will fight for my convictions.

We gotta have peace.

2008-05-01T15:47:00.011-05:00

Today was filled with many thoughts and distinctions. The way I want to live and the way I don't want to live. I was reflecting upon my old livejournal, reflecting upon old thoughts and feeling and segments that have carried over from last semester. Last semester was incredibly hard. Life seemed plagued by a dead weight of inactivity despite a world spinning madly out of control all around me, around every corner.

I find myself seeking ways to change and to learn from these previous experiences. One positive thought emerging from the twisted knots of pain and guilt is certainly that I have re-established my love of learning. I like school. A lot. And I'm fairly positive that I'll be heading on to graduate school.

Another positive development would certainly be my newfound and replenished friendships. I came back to the LCC and found Mariel. I love her. I also have reconnected with the amazing people around me. I'm finding comfort in the few minutes I have left in this lifetime with the people who have mattered so much to me.

Ben. I feel so connected to him these days. I'm confident in our relationship and comforted by his endless forgiveness and love. I know I would have survived without him by my side... but it would have been a much uglier picture. With him, my scars have already begun to heal... and not just heal, but become positive reminders of what I am capable of. He gives me passion and drive. He gives me hope.

I also have found ways to be more connected to God and his world. I find more beauty in everyday occurrences, and I find God in all things--secular and spiritual. I listen to more music, read more books, appreciate more thoughts, venture outside more often, and have generally found peace.

I think all of the above are factors to my current joy. I am peaceful and happy. I am overjoyed to be me.

And as a result, I have come up with new and thrilling ways that I want to live. Ways that I want to contribute this summer and forever on into the future. I have found ways to become a better person, more ways to please God, more ways to accomplish the calling I feel God pulling me toward... I'm getting excited about this next move to Chicago. But I'm not just excited about the move and I'm not just looking forward without thinking backward or living in the current. I'm also content with where I'm at RIGHT NOW--which means happy to finish out these next two weeks of classes, happy to take on the challenge of finals week and the big HURRAH that is graduation. I'm happy to dive into a new community. I'm happy to become more organic and more spiritual.

On a related/unrelated note: a few aspirations I was thinking of today. I prematurely called it "Ways to Give Back," but that's not just a working title. I'll think of something better in the near future.

1) buy local
2) plant a tree once a year
3) buy "clean" energy
4) always vote (educatedly)
5) read a book a week
6) go to grad school
7) get a library card in Chicago and use it all the time
8) buy all of my clothes at thrift shops
9) purchase fair trade
10) use public transportation exclusively (as much as possible)
11) really get into the local music scene
12) ride my bike wherever I can
13) run a half marathon
14) get a membership at the YMCA
15) take night classes
16) take a community writing/poetry class
17) attend theatrical productions as much as possible

Shine... the weather's fine.

2008-04-24T06:16:00.003-05:00

Don't ya know it's gonna be all right?
All right.
All right.

I am the book and you are the binding.

2008-04-22T23:42:00.006-05:00

I felt myself slipping into insanity for an instant, but that instant contained a lifetime of sorrow. So I grasped onto everything I knew I loved--books, music, art, people, Ben (most especially Ben)--my soul snatched at the feelings these things gave me. My mind raced to remember emotions. My body clutched Ben tightly in my arms, begging him not to leave me in this sorry mental state, pleading for him to rescue me from the white-knuckle grip the craziness held over me...

My soul filled with demons, screaming and tormenting me continually. I was falling, falling, falling deeper into an irreversible path of lunacy. I had no control over the next phase of my life--and I knew I'd end up isolated and alone, dying a terrible death of the soul. Heartbroken. Dead from apathy.

A snap... back to reality by the traffic in my right ear. The memory that even this memory will fade, quicker than I would like it to. The pain embedded in that instant of insanity, that perpetual fear--that pain will elude my history. I will forget that this ever happened. I will wake up tomorrow confused and reminded that I have once again failed to document anything substantial. I am an organism just taking up space. No string of events, no network of people, no significance in the web of time. I just breathe.

Won't you help to sing these songs of freedom?

2008-04-22T00:09:00.006-05:00

Songs of the Psalms. Three days. Three Psalms.

PSALM 71
I'm going to try reading and reflecting each morning. We'll see how that goes. Continuing my reading of the beautifully poetic psalms, Psalm 71: Prayer for Lifelong Protection and Help.

I've never really appreciated these Psalms that seek God's destruction of enemies or ask for his protection. I guess I always found them selfish and violent and malignant. Why would someone pray so fervently for the destruction of others? What is God's response to that prayer?

But then I realized the Psalmist's humanity and honesty. How powerful of a witness to human fallibility! The Psalmist (David?) is acknowledging his weakness. He admits to needing God not only in his darkest hour but all of his life.

And really, he never specifies who his enemies are, but leaves that judgment to God. Surely these enemies could be even spiritual, emotional, or mental afflictions. His enemies could be plaguing him in more ways than the traditional battle. And he leaves the "destruction" work to God--so any violence that might happen would be not of his own fallible human mind and tendencies, but of God's infallible and omnipresent, omnipotent mind--a mind of compassion.

I can picture David crying out of desperation, feeling overwhelmed by the futility of his life, feeling sorrowful and lacking joy, feeling abused by the wiles of this world. But he calls God his "hope and trust since my youth," and he puts stock in that promise--what he has known all of his life to be true. GOD WILL DELIVER HIM. Because God is the source of righteousness and judgment. He will protect from everything we need protection. And in Him we should hope and trust that He indeed has marvelous plans for us and for this world. If we are open to that protection, to trusting that God will deliver us from times of trial and the "enemies" that knock our tired souls around everyday... if we can just remember that our God is an awesome God and that we are humble servants--there's joy and freedom in that. That gives me hope and feeling for today. That might be just what I needed, unpacked in a little Psalm that I would never before have valued.

PSALM 72
The ironic thing is I was hoping to read Psalm 72 last Wednesday but never got to it. But that day Brent mentioned it in his sermon. Crazy how things like that work, ya know?

But I did just read it, and he was right. It's marvelous. Here's a man, a powerful king, a glorious king--Solomon--asking for God's help to make him just and righteous. He over and over again makes clear the king's duty to uphold fairness and most importantly to care for the weak and oppressed.

I know this will be a stereotypical statement, but I can't help but wonder what George W. Bush thinks when he reads that passage. Seriously--I'm curious. I don't intend to slam the guy, but just to question his Biblical application.

I'm marveled in this passage by Solomon's bold and humble requests. He wants to be a fair and just ruler of God's people. He cares about his people. This psalm seems so revealing since most likely Solomon prayed it privately, simply between him and his Maker. Who knows--maybe it's mere political propaganda, but I'd rather hope not. Instead, I hope beyond all hopes that Solomon here is exemplifying what all rulers should envision for their people.

Even Solomon's pleas for other nations' surrender to him doesn't appear to be for the greedy seize of control but instead so he can exert his influence--positive influence--over even more peoples. And in the end, he attributes everything to God. He knows that ultimately all power lies in Jehovah's hands. He's the giver of all things.

I hope that Psalm 72 CAN be a model for leaders everywhere--leaders of various organizations too. But I also hope it can be my mantra. Why not apply it to my own life? Lord, please help me help the poor and oppressed--help me no matter what I do.

Here I am, Lord, here I am
Here I stand, Lord, here I stand
Let it be with me, oh, let it be
Let it be with me, oh, let it be
Your word

I wanna sing like Mary
I wanna pray like Paul
I wanna serve like Martha,
see Him through it all
I wanna preach like Peter
I wanna hear that call
I wanna rise like Lazarus,
stand up straight and tall...

PSALM 73
WOW. My first impression was awe. This psalm is clearly written in a different style by a different author. But it's incredibly relevant and poignant for our times. Go figure, right?

"Truly God is good to the upright,
to those who are pure in heart.
But as for me, my feet had almost stumbled;
my steps had nearly slipped.
For I was envious of the arrogant,
I saw the prosperity of the wicked." (1-3)

It goes on to describe how "wonderful" these people's worldly lives appear--how much we all admire pride and riches and status. But the psalmist once again finds God and worth in His promises. He "perceives their end" in "God's sanctuary." He knows that wealth and riches and arrogance are vanishing commodities.

The author appeals to God--NEEDS God--to remind him that honor lies with God's hand and God's love in our hearts, not with material wealth. He comes to decide and know:

"But for me, it is good to be near God;
I have made the Lord God my refuge,
to tell of all your works." (28)

God is good. More than "good enough." God is better than all of the worldliest riches and fame and glory. He is the only peace, the only refuge. He is king of my soul.

I hope I always remember this humble, insightful prayer of meaning. The speaker even acknowledges that keeping pure of the loves of this world is a "wearisome task." How easy to submit to the world's elite and powerful? I think of Hollywood, music stars, consumer goods, corporate America, politicians--how easily do we turn to all of those things in almost a worshipful way!? How easy to submit in this world that bombards me with messages day after day, hour after hour--that I must buy more to be well-liked, loved, popular, beautiful, successful, etc.? And yet this psalmist found the answers in God's sanctuary, in His peace, in His word, in His revelation. God's love for us frees us from these worldly desires, from this worldly cycle. And it's difficult to release the greedy grip we have on our possessions, on our ideals, on our consumerism... it's difficult to release ourselves from the doctrine we've saturated ourselves with these past centuries.

But God is there--to tell us he loves us poor or rich. He loves a humble, gentle spirit. And He will cause the mighty to fall. He is judge. Our job is to trust in Him and His meaning, his righteousness and love.

Why not try and make yourself?

2008-04-15T17:58:00.008-05:00

I feel so incredibly joyful with the exception of my money struggles. I cannot so much as even swallow until I have the money orders in the mail for my apartment in Chicago. It'll take a miracle, a prayer.

My money frustrations succumb to my inability to express myself. I have never before had a big problem explaining how I feel--my thoughts love to bloom in a nice, neat row in the flower bed of my mind--but lately they've been springing up wherever they please. There's beauty in spontaneity. I guess I'm too much of a neat freak. And I hate being out of control. So flowers in my head--please get a clue.

As I shut the refrigerator the other day I noticed the photo booth snapshot of Mary and I in eighth grade. "Forever Friends" on the frame. As I shut the door, it fell off onto the floor. As a drama queen and overly insightful humanities major, I noted the symbolism, and I chuckled softly to myself. Forever. What a long time. What an unlikely story. Perhaps I am a little bitter about the current situation... but not any more than just to wish I didn't have to live with her for another month. I might also be mourning what seems like the very last connection I had to Oshkosh. That could be a good or bad thing. We'll see what the future holds.

In other news, I was incredibly (!) happy yesterday. It was such a gorgeous day, and I spent it reconnecting with the place and people that matter most to me here in Madison. Frisbee, chitchats, cookies, absolutely no studying, walks home, and lovely thoughts... the perfect evening.

I think my happiness certainly stemmed from the fact that I started the day with the Word. I had an interesting encounter with a Psalm that on any other occasion I would have most likely skipped over without any new insights. But yesterday was different. Not only was I encouraged by Psalm 71's content, I was encouraged that God opened my proud heart to learn something new. So I decided to continue the trend. And my adorable boyfriend decided to join in too. Love that kid.

Speaking of the adorable one... he's also so very wise. I'm trying hard to recite the Litany of Humility (as noted from Reinke's blog... a year ago...) everyday. I'm trying hard to be more humble. I know the prayer for humility seems counterintuitive, hypocritical... maybe even selfish? The whole idea is paradoxical. But then again... what isn't? Especially those things pertaining to faith. But anyway, my ever-wise and wonderful man reminded me to "speak once and listen twice." This is why I'm in love. He keeps me in check.

It was also an interesting academic day. My Vietnam TA led an open-ended discussion section that included so many various things--from music to movies to, and I quote... "whatever." My professor handed out free Iraq War protest CDs to the class, and I took one because I'm never one to turn down a free tune. Unfortunately I have yet to give it a play, but that will come. In time. When I'm not busy. Busy procrastinating.

Hey... remember that time?

2008-04-15T00:13:00.008-05:00

This is how it works:
you're young until you're not.
You love until you don't.
You try until you can't.
You laugh until you cry.
You cry until you laugh.
And everyone must breathe until their dying breath.

No, this is how it works:
You peer inside yourself.
You take the things you like
and try to love the things you took.
And then you take the love you made
and stick it into some,
someone else's heart,
pumping someone else's blood.
And walking arm in arm, you hope it don't get harmed.
But even if it does you'll just do it all again.
And on the radio, you'll hear November Rain.
That solo's awful long, but it's a good refrain.

Every word I write frustrates me beyond all belief. I've lost touch with words, meaning, friends, feelings, faith, and memory.

I formerly felt festered with life. I can't help but be nostalgic about at least that. Some things don't deserve my nostalgia. And some do. I can repeat "Never Going Back Again" as much as I'd like, but I can't stop going back Time After Time (Cyndi).

My first boyfriend. Josh. It's a Mellencamp song. Holding hands at the football game. Reading his ridiculous letters of admiration. Crying when we broke up after a month. And then dating his two best friends over the next 36. Waiting for the bus after school in the awkward adolescence of the commons with Jacque and Mikey and Matt. Adolescent taunts, adolescent teases, adolescent love. Meeting Laura and becoming besties with nothing in common but gym class. Inaugural movie nights. Dying for summer. The first kiss in the car. At the carp ponds. Mikey. Michael. My first love. Bible study and thrift shoppes and New Moon steamers. Bowling and betting and gambling on dates. Works bombs and Lifest and rides home with Slick and Jesse. Camp and Sawdust Days and Soccer Saturday.

I'm becoming the boring, predictable, meaningless lump that I've always feared I'd become. But more alarming--I'm losing my memory. I have no memory.

I have always looked fondly on the past and struggled to appreciate the present. My tragic flaw (along with a slew of others). But I'm losing the capability to compartmentalize even the most memorable scenes. And I'm frightened out of my mind.

In the past four years I can remember a few brilliant moments of clarity. But in the past four months? The past year? And it's not that nothing memorable has taken place. Quite the contrary. I fell in love. And I decided upon the next big move. And my family nearly fell apart. But I regained it all again.

I've wondered for a while now why life has been just a "quick succession of busy nothings." I thought that's all that life was. But I realize now that something is wrong. My regrets and fears and joys are all mixed up in the log of this life. I can't account for any emotions or "wowing" moments. Is life no longer made up of those startling, vivid glimpses of time? Where is the poetry?

I think this is the part when I burst into sad song and, consequently, tears. When I write these words, I sing this song. It is my anthem that echoes in my every pulse and pumps through my blood and triggers my nerve endings:

There are places I'll remember all my life,
though some have changed.
Some forever, not for better.
Some have gone and some remain.
All these places have their moments
with lovers and friends I still can recall.
Some are dead and some are living.
In my life, I've loved them all.

But of all these friends and lovers
there is no one compares with you.
And these memories lose their meaning
when I think of love as something new.
Though I know I'll never lose affection
for people and things that went before.
I know I'll often stop and think about them.
In my life, I've loved you more.

Can I handle the seasons of my life?

2008-04-14T13:41:00.004-05:00

Spring. It's finally spring. A local apartment building janitor delightfully reminded me of that today while sweeping the sidewalk... ridding the sidewalk of the last remnants of cold weather and winter.

It's spring.

I feel like spring. Rejuvenated, refreshed, re-energized.

I kind of wish that Easter could have been today, or that today's weather could have fallen on Easter. Christ's resurrection feels so much more real; He feels alive when the weather feels alive. Although I know it's not about the feeling. Just sometimes we need the reminder, just like I needed that janitor to remind me that today is a new today. Today marks a new season. A new chapter.

Despite the usual, I'm beginning the typical "graduation" analysis. What have I done, where am I going, who really matters in my life? etc. I've done some thinking about lost loved ones, gained loved ones, and what/who matter. It's a process, a journey, a discovery. It's bittersweet. It's typical of the graduate.

I'm gonna show you love in every language.

2008-04-13T19:57:00.007-05:00

You know it's spring in Madison when the university turns the fountain on in Library Mall. And you know it's springtime when you can walk home in daylight at 7PM.

I had a pretty productive weekend. Mom and I went down to Chicago, and despite a few debacles, I found an apartment. And we spent some wonderful time with Lisa Anne Miller. We ate at a place called Earwax. Surprisingly scrumptious.

I came back to Jefferson for a lovely evening with Ben. He made me an amazing dinner of chicken cordon bleu, and we had a few drinks and watched a movie. It was low-key, but incredible. I'm so in love. Things couldn't be better.

I came back to Madison today to figure out apartment stuff, and I secured the apartment with the landlord, so that was a relief. I also went to the LCC and we had an amazing dinner with the Board of Directors.

Walking home, things just felt like spring. I'm getting pretty excited for a few things:
1) Bright auras and positive aromas.
2) The Beatles service at the LCC.
3) Spring banquet.
4) A Streetcar Named Desire.
5) Miles. (pronounced Meal-ace)
6) Graduation.
7) Getting the hell out of dodge. (And by "dodge," I don't mean Madison).
8) SUMMER!
9) Chicago and my new digs.
10) My job. I think.
11) Traveling this summer (i.e. Washington, DC, and Salt Lake City!)
12) Writing letters to my babe.
13) Visiting camp.
14) Getting visitors.
15) Growing closer to God with a new plan, a new life, a new vision...

Overall, life is pretty good. I'm trying to stay patient, but that's been tough. A few four-letter words flew out of my mouth today, and I've already rolled my eyes several times. I need to breathe in and remember that there are only 33 more days.

On the flip side, that's only 33 more days of spending time with the people I love here in Madison. I really will miss many folks, and I'm beginning to feel like I haven't spent enough time with the people that have really mattered in my time here. I can only hope that I will be granted at least a little time to make ends meet. And if not, then I pray God grants me acceptance for the things I cannot change.

PS. Back to the Beatles for a sec: this may qualify me for my third understatement of the year award nomination but... the Beatles? They're amazing!

Raindrops keep fallin' on my head.

2008-04-10T21:21:00.004-05:00

Mike Fank's dad died today of leukemia/non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. The news went along with the weather. I heard it this afternoon in the midst of the coldest, wettest, heaviest day I've ever seen. And then the news... the saddest news. Mike's only a sophomore. His dad was only 55.

Just two hours later, my exasperating manager (the least likely of people) began singing "raindrops keep fallin' on my head...," and I couldn't help but think of the irony. That was Grandpa's favorite song. That was the song I listened to endlessly as tears streamed down my face when I was a sophomore. He was the first person I knew to die, and I couldn't handle the finality of lifelessness. I guess I still can't. I just now realized how I usually bank on hope... generally speaking I am a hopeful person. But death... you never get that person back. It's over. Their life is over. Mike can never have his dad back. And the finality of that extinguishes my little flame of hope.

On another note, I recommend everyone read Hannah Arendt's The Human Condition. Yes, even I have yet to read it (I'm supposed to be at 200 pages by Tuesday) but what I know of her thought thus far is incredible.

That's about all I've got.

I don't care what they say, love, you're a work of art.

2008-04-08T19:52:00.008-05:00

I decided that I have an anger problem. I have recently accrued a short temper and quick rage that manifests itself every now and then in inappropriate gestures or four-letter words. I'm working on it.

I also realized today in my political theory class (second favorite class, second only to Vietnam) that I've been living my life out as a "quick succession of busy nothings," so no wonder I have no larger vision or joy. My new goal is to journal every day. I used to be so good at it! Most likely I won't be confessing to Blogger, but I figure if I remember the details of the day whatever way I can, I will quilt together little joys. That should help.

Today I thoroughly enjoyed my Vietnam class. I'm really enjoying reading The Sorrow of War despite its absolutely sorrowful subject. Strangely I'm also really in love with Atonement (of course), another depressingly beautiful war story. I guess it's my current genre. I watched Atonement again today, despite really wishing that I could watch it once more with Ben. That just wasn't going to happen any time soon. So I watched it again. And I cried. And I wished Ben could have been there watching it too. *sigh* Big sap. That's me.

I had a great moment today at "Countdown to Commencement." I feel so confident graduating. I'm so ready. And I'm really satisfied. I mean, I definitely am still scared to move to Chicago. Life's gonna be tough for a few months. But I officially joined the Wisconsin Alumni Association, officially contacted the WAA in Chicago, and officially bought everything I need. Wow. It's coming. In just a little over a month. Word.

I think I'll get back to reading on this rainy evening.

Atonement.

2008-04-08T01:37:00.005-05:00

I just watched Atonement with Annie and Nick, of course while I was supposed to be writing a take-home exam, of course when I was supposed to be reading The Sorrow of War, and of course now I'm writing this entry when I'm still supposed to be doing those things. I couldn't help but write even the slightest bit about it because I truly loved it despite only seeing the last 1.5 hours. I'll most likely watch it again tomorrow night after class.

Motivation is a difficult thing these days since I have a job, and I'm a senior, and I feel like I could've been done with school at the end of last semester. Well, I COULD have been done with school last semester, but I made the silly decision to keep at it. I guess it really is a good thing that I'm still at it, but anyway. I'm scared out of my mind that Chicago is coming too fast. I'm afraid to grow up, I'm afraid to be on my own, and I'm afraid that I will lose all the things dearest to me. I'm afraid of losing my passions and desires and loves.

I'm also afraid that I'll fail my Vietnam class, so enough said. I must get back to typing some ridiculous "supposin'."

On a brief side note, I'm really sick of drama. I mean, of course drama makes life interesting, but I could really lose some of mine. Is there anyone in need of drama? I'm giving mine away for free. It's been over a month since Mary has talked to me with no signs of a hopeful future. I'm cutting my losses. What else can I do? I'm also giving up on other scenarios improving... so I'm just going to rejoice in the beautiful ones. I'm also attempting to overcome my grief over camp this summer. Hmm... brief side note not so brief.

You give me feelings that I adore.

2008-04-03T14:22:00.004-05:00

You know, relationships are difficult. They take a lot of work. But getting love and giving love are the two greatest verbs God made us capable of practicing.

Chicago. In fashion.

2008-04-02T15:33:00.008-05:00

Moving to Chicago... gonna eat me a lot of peaches.

I officially accepted a position with the ELCA churchwide offices in Chicago as the Program Assistant of Youth and Young Adult Ministry. I start June 2. I'll be working with Outdoor Ministry (camps), Youth Ministry, Campus Ministry (LCM), Lutheran Student Movement (LSM), and Young Adult Ministry nation-wide. Pretty sweet deal. But I need to find a place to live, become an Illinois citizen (*groan*), find a car, and... *graduate!*... in two months.

Breathe. I'm a little overwhelmed, not-to-mention that April is the most stressful month of the academic calendar. I will survive, however. Especially because I've reached my fill on school... I'm checked out.

Anyway, a few interesting news items for the day from Sojourners:

Immigration. "In an aggressive move to finish 370 miles of barriers on the U.S. border with Mexico by the end of the year, the Department of Homeland Security announced that it will waive federal and state environmental laws to meet that goal."

Turner & churches partner against malaria. "Ted Turner, who once called Christianity a "religion for losers," launched a $200 million partnership with Lutherans and Methodists to fight malaria in Africa."

Being poor was never better.

2008-03-28T14:18:00.006-05:00

From The Washington Times:

On Iraq, Miss Rice said she knew that rebuilding the country after the 2003 U.S.-led invasion would be tough, but she "didn't think it would be this tough."

"What we didn't know was how truly broken the society was," she said.

Although Saddam Hussein's regime was mostly to blame for that, she said that U.N. sanctions contributed as well, because as a result of them, "agriculture is virtually dead in Iraq."

"As necessary as they might have been to try to put pressure on the regime, they also did a lot of damage," Miss Rice said of the sanctions.

*******
After reading that, I can't help but wonder how often and how much the government spins things. Who does she think she's kidding? She puts the blame on every single factor other than U.S. invasion... "truly broken society," "Saddam Hussein's regime," "U.N. sanctions." SERIOUSLY?!? I don't hear an ounce of U.S. responsibility in that statement. And ya know what, perhaps I am an ignorant American and I don't know all of the details, but you can't tell me that we don't have any hand in Iraq's "broken society."

Anyway, I hadn't planned on writing about Iraq at all, but I'm fuming a bit.

So on to other matters: South Africa. After a week+ of being home, I'm still digesting and reflecting up on my experience. Of course, everyone asks me, "How was your trip?" as if I could answer that in one sentence. Of course, everyone is trying to be nice, but how does one go about distinguishing which folks want a one-word answer and which want a full-length feature? I've been opting with words like "phenomenal," "incredible," "unbelievable," and "warm."

I don't think a single post can cover everything from the trip either, but I'm going to attempt a few interesting details. One thing is for certain: I can't wait to go back and I WILL go back. I hope to return in two years. Ben will be graduated, whatever contract I'm a part of will expire, and the World Cup will be going strong.

I'm pretty sure I like many things about South Africa better than I like America. I'm not talking politics. And I'm not making a hateful statement. I don't hate the U.S., but I also wish many complex things could change. I appreciate the freedom of being an individual and choosing my lifestyle here, but I also despise the lack of choice that truly exists. The more I reflect upon our society, the more I notice that certain "markers" are required to be successful: good job, nice house, operating car, nice clothes, and the right attitude. Post-graduation is all about finding a professional job with a corporate flair so that you'll set yourself up for stability and success post-college. If you can't present the right "package," good luck succeeding. What does success entail? Not just money but life in the U.S. The thing about money these days is that not only is it essential for life's essentials like food and shelter, but you need money to make money to have these essentials. Our culture has "evolved" into a society where you need things you don't really need in order to get the things you really need. Phew.

Anyway, I think things are different in Africa. People live with less and are happier about it. Yes, there is immense poverty in many places... poverty worse than in the U.S. But in South Africa, people can still function by drawing their own water, growing their own food, etc... that isn't really possible in America. Maybe it's apples and oranges. I'm not in ANY way trying to downplay the poverty of Africa... just making some observations.

I was also very impressed by how prominent discussion of race is in South Africa. Instead of pretending like racism doesn't exist (*cough cough* the U.S.)... they talk about it. They talk about it and make sure everyone knows it's a problem. That's the only way it can ever be solved. Genius.

Just a few quick observations. P.S. The title of this post is not meant as an offensive remark, but is a lyric from Jack's Mannequin's "Holiday from Real." I do tend to think that "being poor" isn't the terrible thing everyone makes it out to be. I think it helped me build strong character. As much as I'd like job security and stability, I'd also like to live simply and meaningfully. I think growing up working-class did that for me. Now how do you suppose you duplicate that experience for your own children after already climbing the economic ladder? I don't think you can.

And if you were a kiss, I know I'd be a hug.

2008-03-25T20:52:00.006-05:00

So I'm pretty obsessed with the Juno soundtrack, and I can't stop listening to it. Big fan.

Anyway, I figured it was about time that I expressed some of the thoughts I've been bottling up inside of me. Or rather, I've been communicating but only verbally, and it would be very beneficial for me to jot my thoughts down.

First and foremost, I'm incredibly frustrated with my living situation. MJ still isn't talking to me, and I feel her rubbing salt in that wound continuously, especially with Stephanie here these past few days. For instance, just now... instead of asking me to my face whether or not I'd like to head to the Old Fashioned with them, she looked at Steph and said, "She can come too." Right in front of me.

I've made up my mind that the next time I'm alone around her, I'm going to bring up how ridiculous this situation is. I'm trying very hard to keep calm and not get angry, but the longer this goes on, the harder it is for me to remain objectively kind or indifferent. I won't back down. I know I did the right thing. I have nothing to apologize for. All in all, I think I'm really done with this. I'll never wish MJ any harm, but I really can't keep this friendship up. There have been other times when I didn't think it would last either, and I think it's a situation where I just have to cut my losses. It sounds harsh, but how harsh in comparison to being called a "selfish bitch" after all that I've done for her?

That's part of it. I'm frustrated now because Krissy can't work at camp, and that's unfair. There are so many instances of boys working at camp and missing 50% or more of staff training, and erika says she has to make 75-80% of it? Seriously, just one more reason camp frustrates me. It shouldn't be that way. *sigh*

I'm also currently frustrated by the obvious opinion of my parents. They totally believe that I should take the ELCA job based on salary and insurance. I understand what they're saying. But just imagine if that position had never been an option. What if the LVC was always the only thing I wanted to do? And what does my mom say? "Weigh your options, Katy. Make sure you think about everything. And remember that you can volunteer no matter what job you take."

Thanks, Mom. I know what you really want me to do. Ugh.

South Africa post to come.

I'm in love with how you feel.

2008-03-23T18:57:00.008-05:00

I'm back from South Africa, and all I want to do is go back. I met some amazing people, and I miss them very much.

My experience taught me that I would love to do mission work for the rest of my life. So the plan? Well, I'm still working on the plan, but it includes heading back to South Africa in 2009 or 2010. I've also been thinking more and more about diaconal ministry. Maybe I could make a career of service?

Anyway, I've developed some interesting new perspectives on race, culture, and international relations. Perhaps I will depart with some of this knowledge at a later date, but for now... I have a political theory exam to prepare for. Not that I really can care about school at all right now.

Oh, and Andrew Gregory Frazier just called me. Crazy. I haven't talked to that kid since... October? It was fabulous.

Sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same.

2008-03-04T11:40:00.003-06:00

All at once...

I lose my friend.

I grow closer to my boyfriend.

I leave for Africa.

I'm tired... heavy with a sense of resentment.

2008-02-29T15:59:00.004-06:00

I realized today that I keep running from things. I'm running from my responsibilities. I can't keep up because I have too many of them.

So I run. I run from one responsibility only to face it later when I've fallen behind. And there's no way to catch up. And I feel like I can't be redeemed. And I feel like such a failure because I keep running from accountability. I hate not being accountable or reliable or honest.

I need to simplify, but what happens when you've complicated things so much that to simplify you must, in fact, complicate the situation? Is it okay to run?

And what is a justification? Is being overwhelmed and tired a reason to rest and sleep in? Are relationships considered legitimate reasons to miss work or take off? Have we lost all value in friendship and people? Aren't people really the only reason we do anything? That only reason we have commitment? The only reason we work? The reason we live?

Do I get a chance to heal and recover from my mistakes? Or am I asking for too much and too many chances?

I'm guilty of so many things. Maybe this world (and myself) just has its priorities mixed up.

I have no idea.

And I love her so. I wouldn't trade her for gold.

2008-02-28T13:00:00.006-06:00

We are asked to live in two different worlds at the same time.

WORLD
money
scarcity
status
appearances

BODY OF CHRIST
grace
abundance
equality
meanings

Woke up today to everything gray...

2008-02-27T09:26:00.004-06:00

And what you wish for won't come true.

I'm glad I've got Guster, Dylan, Simon, and yes, even Carrabba, for days like today.

Things are just getting so hard. Too hard. Something's gotta give.

Maybe I'm destined to always find an emo spot. Maybe I'm destined to overload every few years or so. Maybe I'm the greatest at losing everything that ever mattered... pushing everything that's good away from me.

I'm so afraid of losing him.

God I wait, but God I can't wait...

2008-02-11T14:00:00.009-06:00

Life has definitely been FULL lately.

Full of decisions and homework and work. Full of family and friends and faith. Full of sorrow and joy, anger and gladness, doubt and reassurance.

This week nearly all of the applications for my future are due. I've applied for a Chicago-based ELCA position as the Program Assistant of Youth and Young Adult Ministries, and now I'm working on completing my LVC and Teach for America applications. The future looks bright, but it also looks foggy. I'm not really sure where to go, what to do, or who to turn to for help deciding either of those things... and the pressure is on. I hate making decisions. I should just remember that I've survived all of my decisions thus far, and that God has a plan and purpose for me no matter where I go. Ha. Yeah, that's the hardest part to remember.

I'm healing relationships. It feels really good to heal relationships. My mom and I are on better terms than ever before, my roommates are once again my best friends, and my LCC brethren are wonderful. I'm very much looking forward to more healing this weekend at my favorite spot on earth--good ol' Pine Lake Camp. It should be a blast.

I'm tired and sometimes still cynical and broken, but wiser (haha, catch the Straylight reference?). I'm gaining more and more joy and love each day, and I'm trying to rebuild my confidence and trust in my God.

"I believe. Help my unbelief!"

********************************
God, I wait, but God I can't wait
for your holiness to hover over me.
My soul, it groans within me
Waiting for your hand to move.
********************************

Despite all of the joy lately, I feel sick to my stomach when I think about the following things:
a) My 3-year-old cousin Elrik's situation.
b) The possibility that Barack Obama might not win the Democratic nomination.
c) The typhoid pills I've taken for eight days (literal stomach sickness).
d) How much I always have to do in such little time.

Oops, didn't meant to end on a sour note. But really, that's life. Maybe I'll feel like getting into more details later, but I once again have broken my promise by posting personal things. *slaps forehead*

Let it be with me.

2008-02-06T23:36:00.002-06:00

Ash Wednesday. My favorite church holiday. I like being reminded of my mortality. And I like renewing my dedication to the spirit of Christ.

The Confession of Sins tonight:

Let us confess our sin in the presence of God and of one another.

Most holy and merciful God,
we confess to you and to one another,
and before the whole company of heaven,
that we have sinned by our fault,
by our own fault,
by our own most grievous fault,
in thought, word, and deed,
by what we have done and by what we have left undone.

We have not loved you with our whole heart, and mind, and strength. We have not loved our neighbors as ourselves. We have not forgiven others as we have been forgiven.
Have mercy on us, O God.

We have shut our ears to your call to serve as Christ served us. We have not been true to the mind of Christ. We have grieved your Holy Spirit.
Have mercy on us, O God.

Our negligence in prayer and worship, and our failure to share the faith that is in us, we confess to you.
Have mercy on us, O God.

Our neglect of human need and suffering, and our indifference to injustice and cruelty, we confess to you.
Have mercy on us, O God.

Our false judgments, our uncharitable thoughts toward our neighbors, and our prejudice and contempt toward those who differ from us, we confess to you.
Have mercy on us, O God.

Our waste and pollution of your creation, and our lack of concern for those who come after us, we confess to you.
Have mercy on us, O God.

Restore us, O God, and let your anger depart from us.
Hear us, O God, for your mercy is great.

Everything spoke right to my core. That's what I love about faith. That's what I love about being Lutheran. That's what I love about God and His grace.

A change IS gonna do me good.

2008-02-04T13:49:00.002-06:00

So I managed to get out of the apartment, and even despite trudging through the awful weather on my way to the office, getting out of the apartment was the greatest thing for me. I need to remember this in the future--when I feel like not getting out of bed, when I feel depressed and good-for-nothing... maybe going to work is just the sort of kick in the pants my emotions need. I have purpose when I'm here. I have access to people who support me and I give support back. And I have the world at my fingertips.

And instead of always putting off my homework, I'm going to start just doing it the second I realize I need to. It also has a tendency to make me feel worthwhile again. Like I'm contributing to society.

On another note, I started thinking more and more about faith--about my own personal faith, and I realize that it's THE piece of the puzzle I've been grasping at lately. I've felt something missing... something lacking. My faith never went away, but it has definitely faded. Going to Good Shepherd yesterday was a wonderful wake up call... even if the sermon (which was good) didn't particularly jolt me, just the feeling of community at church certainly did.

I feel more and more that I should make it a priority to attend Good Shepherd and Bethel. Maybe I'll just stop going to the LCC altogether. That might also take care of a number of my problems.

Ah, but this blog is discussing too many emo issues now for its own good. So I better come up with an applicable life lesson for all of you (non-existent) readers out there: Matthew 11:28-30

Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.

I'm working on my gentle and humble-hearted game face. God, grant me your peace and your patience. God, most of all, grant me your grace.

No war. We want peace.

2008-01-11T11:17:00.001-06:00

No one would be foolish enough to choose war over peace. In peace songs bury their fathers. But in war fathers bury their sons.
-Croesus of Lydia-

650,000 Iraqis. 4000 Americans. 654,000 PEOPLE. Dead.

Like a rolling stone.

2008-01-09T23:43:00.002-06:00

I did surprisingly little today for having taken the day off work at the Morgridge Center. Instead of planning for my future and finishing my important applications, I continued learning to play Bob Dylan on my [Ben's] guitar and then proceeded to investigate everything I could find about the man on YouTube/Wikipedia.

I was infatuated within just 3 hours. The man is a mystery: one of the most significant figures in all of U.S. history... culturally, politically, etc. But he won't admit or confess to a damn thing. I watched interviews during which he contradicted himself multiple times over. But I learned that no matter what, he didn't disappoint. In fact, quite the opposite. His unusual banter, despite not ever making "sense," made LOTS of sense. Maybe his way of life just follows a vastly different pattern from the norm everyone else expects. I realize that as I write anything about him, he would disagree spot on. He always disagrees. And 5 seconds later he agrees. The dictionary definition of an enigma. I don't know that I idealize him. I just admire him. He may dispel any claims to be the "voice of a generation," but I'd argue he's really the voice of all generations. Who else lives up to his rock legend status besides maybe the Beatles or Elvis?

Yeah. I'm impressed. Dylan probably wouldn't want me to be impressed, but too bad, Bob. And I also don't want to be one of those ignorant and mindless fans who likes Dylan just for the image of liking Dylan. No, I truly like him. Not just his music... but him.

But I'll tell you what I don't like, while we're on the subject of "American classics." I was NOT impressed by Rebel Without a Cause. James Dean... total hottie, of course, but the film was just a piss poor segment of the Hollywood film industry in the 50s. I've seen MUCH better from even earlier periods; films that captivated some spirit of the American people or of human nature in general, something that transcends all generations. There were subtle hints at such an effort made in Rebel, I guess, but they were weak. Too many cultural allusions to the times. And poor dialogue. Man, back then all they had to ride on was good dialogue. I guess Rebel had Dean's good looks to piggyback off of. Oh well. I can tally another American classic on my list.

Yeah, other than divulging in pop cultural history, I haven't done much. At least not important things like LVC applications. I have worked... oh man, have I worked. Something tells me that everything I do at the Essen Haus will humble me. That's all right. I've needed a good humbling for quite some time now. At least I'm not shy. The people I work with... they're good eggs. And I'm determined to learn Spanish [at least tidbits] so I can chat with our dishwasher Lucio.

I intended application time and I got a blog entry. Sucks. Adios, hermanos y hermanas!

The Trib and the Onion

2008-01-07T10:57:00.003-06:00

I've been allowing myself more journalism time lately, and my newspaper of choice is the Chicago Tribune. I'm not sure why... maybe it's those "good, hearty Midwestern moral values" that appeal to me (as Pa Resop would say), but either way, I find many interesting things at the Trib, most especially about Obama's campaign since he is afterall their Senator.

It turns out a 1980s Republican presidential candidate has endorsed Obama. I'm fascinated. Jon B. Anderson is even saying this is an unprecedented time in American history.

I feel like I can finally endorse someone, and I believe that candidate has to be Obama. I don't want to be trendy, as the Onion might suggest my Obama endorsement could be. Instead I've done my research, I've let the media do its work, and I've sorted through all of the political rhetoric in my head. I can't help but endorse Obama. I'm not gonna lie... I like the guy.

Anyway, I really don't want this to be another blog rant about why Obama is the best presidential candidate. I'm sure there are plenty of other posts available that do that for me.

But now you know who I support.

Just Gimme Some Truth

2008-01-05T14:21:00.007-06:00

It's been a while since I've had a public blog, so I thought it was about time that I started a new one, especially since the real adventures of my life are about to begin. I graduate in just 5 months and life is bound to take some interesting turns.

I don't think this journal will be so petty as to portray the portrait of a wannabe emo kid, but instead I'll hopefully dispense whatever meaningful social/political/environmental thoughts might run through my head... ya know, a genuine blog. Perhaps I'll dive into other meaningful topics too, things I can't possibly foresee at this moment in time. I'm not entirely sure. I'll make no promises. Things could get ugly. It could just end up being a pathetic display of meaninglessness, but I'm gonna try to keep it real and fresh.

I think I just really miss writing. Correction: I miss writing for an audience. Who knows what kind of audience I'll actually obtain, but the point is that I want people to know about this blog. I never thought I'd appreciate publicity again, but I figured that since I've started wishing I could be a journalist, this might be the closest thing. We'll see where the journalism aspirations end up. And we'll soon discover this blog's future.