The sunlight is streaming in the coffee house window. A frosted glass of green tea gently mists and drips next to me. I snuggle back in a deep chair and organize my life.
Then this song comes on...
I'm milking these last days of freedom for all they're worth. On Tuesday my job will start, and this peaceful bliss will dissipate, only to return at rare intervals. But for now my nails are flawlessly manicured, my breathing is deep and healthy, and my stress level is at a restful zero. I'm trying to decide which yoga class I'll attend tomorrow.
My heart is happy.
And this green tea is yummy.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
There is so little I'm qualified to write on... Shall we whip out singleness again?
Hello, dear reader! Did you know that I'm single? Don't snigger behind your hand. I know that the "plight of singleness" is this blog's bread and butter, and although I try to stray to more edifying topics, the fact is: people (judging from the volume of comments) seem to like reading my "relationship posts" more than any other type of post.
I'm thinking of becoming the new Ann Landers.
Singleness has been the primary topic of the past three days. (Weddings, it turns out, will do that to you.) I and several of my grad school girl friends, drove to Indianapolis to ooh, ahh, and dance the night away at a dear friend's wedding. (And yes, my eyes held sparkly tears as I watched her walk towards her groom.) My new roomie moved in the night I got back, and (both of us being newly launched career girls) we discussed the pros and cons of our single condition. I'm also reading "This Momentary Marriage" with another friend, and we discussed it over curried chicken tonight at dinner. (My little house still smells of curry. Ick.)
All that to say, I think I've had the same conversation about six times in the past three days. I think if men knew how often we talked about them (both specifically and as a general whole), they would be... intimidated.
If, in Jane Austen's day, "it was a truth universally acknowledged that a single man, in possession of a large fortune must be in want of a wife," then today's universally acknowledged truth is that "a single girl, in possession of a fabulous career, must be in want of a husband."
The general consensus among my girlfriends? We all want to be married.
But after the first torrent of girlish frustration (smattered with jokes of looking for a man at a gun and knife show... which they whip out because they know the very thought gives me terrified goosebumps), something else (because my friends are delightful, vibrant ladies) always surfaces:
"Well, what am I going to do with the time I have now?"
Yes. We are single. But our very productive, thrifty souls shake their heads at a flagrant waste of these years. I am proud to know such friends. Ladies who ask, "What will I do with the freedom my singleness provides? Who can I serve? What should I be doing now, that in the future, a family will keep me from doing?"
We've discussed travels to orphans in Africa, philanthropic pursuits, hospitality, mentoring, and personal growth. I'm delighted to be surrounded by a myriad of women who desperately want to be wives and mothers, but who are aware of the delights, privileges, and unique responsibilities of singleness.
These are not days to be wasted, or time to be marked off as you scour the horizon for some distant (perhaps fictional) mate. These are delightful times filled with adventure and freedom that may never be found again.
Life does not start when you get married. Happiness is not automatic, troubles do not lessen, and character flaws do not evaporate. Marriage is not the magic pill to your dream life.
What are you doing now, with your singleness to guarantee that married or not, you are a better, more selfless individual when you stand before Christ? I ask myself this same question. Registering for a Kitchen Aide mixer will not make me complete. But pulling out my nifty hand-held mixer and whipping up a dinner for a new family or lonely college student- ah, that might actually produce eternal fruit.
As the adage goes: “Remember that a successful marriage depends on two things: (1) finding the right person and (2) being the right person."
You can't control one, but you can control the other.
Stop looking and start being.
I'm thinking of becoming the new Ann Landers.
Singleness has been the primary topic of the past three days. (Weddings, it turns out, will do that to you.) I and several of my grad school girl friends, drove to Indianapolis to ooh, ahh, and dance the night away at a dear friend's wedding. (And yes, my eyes held sparkly tears as I watched her walk towards her groom.) My new roomie moved in the night I got back, and (both of us being newly launched career girls) we discussed the pros and cons of our single condition. I'm also reading "This Momentary Marriage" with another friend, and we discussed it over curried chicken tonight at dinner. (My little house still smells of curry. Ick.)
All that to say, I think I've had the same conversation about six times in the past three days. I think if men knew how often we talked about them (both specifically and as a general whole), they would be... intimidated.
If, in Jane Austen's day, "it was a truth universally acknowledged that a single man, in possession of a large fortune must be in want of a wife," then today's universally acknowledged truth is that "a single girl, in possession of a fabulous career, must be in want of a husband."
The general consensus among my girlfriends? We all want to be married.
But after the first torrent of girlish frustration (smattered with jokes of looking for a man at a gun and knife show... which they whip out because they know the very thought gives me terrified goosebumps), something else (because my friends are delightful, vibrant ladies) always surfaces:
"Well, what am I going to do with the time I have now?"
Yes. We are single. But our very productive, thrifty souls shake their heads at a flagrant waste of these years. I am proud to know such friends. Ladies who ask, "What will I do with the freedom my singleness provides? Who can I serve? What should I be doing now, that in the future, a family will keep me from doing?"
We've discussed travels to orphans in Africa, philanthropic pursuits, hospitality, mentoring, and personal growth. I'm delighted to be surrounded by a myriad of women who desperately want to be wives and mothers, but who are aware of the delights, privileges, and unique responsibilities of singleness.
These are not days to be wasted, or time to be marked off as you scour the horizon for some distant (perhaps fictional) mate. These are delightful times filled with adventure and freedom that may never be found again.
Life does not start when you get married. Happiness is not automatic, troubles do not lessen, and character flaws do not evaporate. Marriage is not the magic pill to your dream life.
What are you doing now, with your singleness to guarantee that married or not, you are a better, more selfless individual when you stand before Christ? I ask myself this same question. Registering for a Kitchen Aide mixer will not make me complete. But pulling out my nifty hand-held mixer and whipping up a dinner for a new family or lonely college student- ah, that might actually produce eternal fruit.
As the adage goes: “Remember that a successful marriage depends on two things: (1) finding the right person and (2) being the right person."
You can't control one, but you can control the other.
Stop looking and start being.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Hermeneutics and Exegesis? I think so!
Last night I had the wonderful privilege of attending a Biblical Counseling Training class at Faith Baptist Church. I've been re-shaping my five year goals (since the way my life turned out makes it impossible to fulfill some of my previous goals!), and one of these goals is to get my certification in Biblical counseling. Last night, perched awkwardly on one of the most uncomfortable folding chairs known to man, I was struck by two things.
The first was the total humility of the man who was teaching. Dr. Bob Smith has taught counseling classes for years. He's an M.D. with an impressive track record, and a slew of accomplishments to back him up. He's started several counseling majors at universities, he's written multiple books, he's taught in the field longer than most people in the class have been alive (this includes my parents). But he never rested on these laurels. He was gracious, he was confident, but he deferred to the younger, seminary-taught man in regards to several key points, and was very willing to acknowledge that he didn't know the answer to a question that was asked. After six years, surrounded by "competent academics" who are afraid to say, "I don't know," last night was a refreshing breath of humility. Humility not being a strong suit in yours' truly, I was reminded of its importance and my need of it.
And then I was humbled by the teaching. Last night the topic was entitled, "What Makes Biblical Counseling Biblical?" The first point is what struck me... "When it recognizes the Bible as Foundational." In this point, Dr. Smith went through a diagram in which he showed that with out the canon, hermeneutics, exegesis, Biblical/Systematic Theology, one could not claim that your Practical Theology was really from the Word of God. I'll be honest. When I saw the topic for the class, I rolled my eyes a little bit. "Biblical" counseling has been the topic of so many dinnertime talks at the Blake household, that I thought I could probably give Dr. Smith's lecture.
But as he continued to expound, I saw that unless I had the nuts and bolts of the Bible (grammar, vocabulary, history, doctrine, etc.) I could not claim an accurate view of the practical theology that I dole out. I'm very much a where-the-rubber-meets-the-road type of Christian. Philosophical debates and abstract concepts have never appealed to me, and I love the branch of practical theology much more than Biblical theology (i.e. propositional statements, abstract doctrine). I glean much of my Biblical knowledge from people who study the Bible (and I don't think this is bad), but I do little to augment that study with my own digging into the Word. I don't dig. I read. And I'm going to change that...
Suffice to say that with so much to think about after just the first night, I can hardly wait for next week!
"For whatever was written in earlier times was written for our instruction, so that through perseverance and the encouragement of the Scriptures we might have hope." (Romans 15:4)
Monday, August 23, 2010
If you think we killed chivalry, for crying out loud, give it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation!
I have heard rumblings of discontent among males.
"If you want me to hold the door, don't give me a dirty look, like I don't think you can do it."
"She won't LET me pay for dinner. I was reaching for my wallet. I promise."
"She put her coat on before I could even find it to hold for her. It's not my fault."
Yes, gentlemen. I'll admit. We ladies can be a wee bit forceful at times. In fact, the rumor has been batted around that "chivalry is dead," and the rumble from the men I've talked to is that feminism* is what killed it.
Which is complete poppycock.
If all it took were some opinionated women to kill chivalry, then chivalry must have been a pretty weak specimen.
Yes, there will be ladies who sneer at your kindness and compassion. There will be those who look at your helping hand with disdain. And there will be those who will interpret every kind, thoughtful, chivalrous gesture as affront to their competence as a human being. And I know that can't be pleasant. But you must know that behind one of these commanding women, stand ten who love chivalry. We will light up when you open the car door, when you shovel our driveways, scrape our windshields, and walk us home in the dark. (And yes, with revolving doors, the man goes first.)
We're not namby-pamby, vanilla girls. In most cases we're competent, spicy ladies... who still love knights in shining armor.
All this to say:
Plan the date.
Pay for it.
Open the door.
Hold up the jacket.
Shake our fathers' hand firmly.
Chit-chat with our mamas.
Don't sit out front and honk when you're picking us up.
And please be patient with us if we seem initially unsure, or confused by your courtesies. They are often a rare commodity. But don't worry. Our surprise and confusion won't last for long... soon your chivalry will be the reason for a smile, and a sparkle of happiness.
If abrasive feminism "killed" chivalry, then let true masculinity give it a shock back to life.
*I am condoning "feminism" very narrowly in this post. I'm a "first wave" feminist. (i.e. I believe women should have the same rights as men when it comes to politics, landholding, and jobs.) There is, however, a branch of feminism whose flagrant delight in emasculating men is abhorrent. They are sexists. Period. But we'll save that rant for another post. I don't think this argument is dependent on the type of feminist any lady may happen to be, but I thought I should probably expound for clarity's sake.
**This post is not a reaction to a negative event, but rather a way (albeit a rather upside-down way) of appreciating the men in my life (aka, my father and brothers) who are remarkably skilled at recognizing the strengths of women, while simultaneously protecting them. Thank you, dear ones for your chivalry!)
"If you want me to hold the door, don't give me a dirty look, like I don't think you can do it."
"She won't LET me pay for dinner. I was reaching for my wallet. I promise."
"She put her coat on before I could even find it to hold for her. It's not my fault."
Yes, gentlemen. I'll admit. We ladies can be a wee bit forceful at times. In fact, the rumor has been batted around that "chivalry is dead," and the rumble from the men I've talked to is that feminism* is what killed it.
Which is complete poppycock.
If all it took were some opinionated women to kill chivalry, then chivalry must have been a pretty weak specimen.
Yes, there will be ladies who sneer at your kindness and compassion. There will be those who look at your helping hand with disdain. And there will be those who will interpret every kind, thoughtful, chivalrous gesture as affront to their competence as a human being. And I know that can't be pleasant. But you must know that behind one of these commanding women, stand ten who love chivalry. We will light up when you open the car door, when you shovel our driveways, scrape our windshields, and walk us home in the dark. (And yes, with revolving doors, the man goes first.)
We're not namby-pamby, vanilla girls. In most cases we're competent, spicy ladies... who still love knights in shining armor.
All this to say:
Plan the date.
Pay for it.
Open the door.
Hold up the jacket.
Shake our fathers' hand firmly.
Chit-chat with our mamas.
Don't sit out front and honk when you're picking us up.
And please be patient with us if we seem initially unsure, or confused by your courtesies. They are often a rare commodity. But don't worry. Our surprise and confusion won't last for long... soon your chivalry will be the reason for a smile, and a sparkle of happiness.
If abrasive feminism "killed" chivalry, then let true masculinity give it a shock back to life.
*I am condoning "feminism" very narrowly in this post. I'm a "first wave" feminist. (i.e. I believe women should have the same rights as men when it comes to politics, landholding, and jobs.) There is, however, a branch of feminism whose flagrant delight in emasculating men is abhorrent. They are sexists. Period. But we'll save that rant for another post. I don't think this argument is dependent on the type of feminist any lady may happen to be, but I thought I should probably expound for clarity's sake.
**This post is not a reaction to a negative event, but rather a way (albeit a rather upside-down way) of appreciating the men in my life (aka, my father and brothers) who are remarkably skilled at recognizing the strengths of women, while simultaneously protecting them. Thank you, dear ones for your chivalry!)
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Submission. Defined.
Good 'morrow, gentle ladies! This post is specifically for you. Or perhaps I should say this post is for me, and hashing it out for all to read is incredibly helpful. I'm not a natural "thinker" or philosopher. I've never been labeled the "contemplative type." But by talking, by writing, by being forced to place my convictions into coherent sentences, I am able to approach something akin to intelligent thought. I hope.
For the past year I've been digging through the role of women. What does the Bible say, what does our society say, what do Christian thinkers, my mentors, and my friends say? For, whether we like to admit it or not, our definition of womanhood will define our choices and shape our lives. Recently I've started examining the men's role, because that (obviously) also has a strong bearing on how we, as ladies, act, but I'll venture into that realm after it's simmered (i.e. been studied) more.
Today I'm venturing into the realm of "submission." Don't curl up your modern noses at the term which oozes with connotations of inferiority. I know. I've been there, sometimes I still visit there. In our culture, "submission" denotes a hanging head, down-cast eyes, murmurings of assent. It summons up beliefs that one may not, or cannot use one's brain, have an opinion, or pursue one's talents passionately. Some may picture a 1950s family. I did.
To argue such a view of submission, one would have to transfer those same beliefs, not only to women, but also to men, for we are all told to submit to one another "out of reverence to Christ." (Ephesians 5:21) Submission clearly means something else, for the Christian walk is not filled with sniveling, brainless followers.
At least we hope not.
I would purport the following definition of submission:
Submission is a willing support of anothers godly interests and choices in the place of your own, with a conscious effort to enhance their service and abilities through the vibrant and passionate use of your gifts.
Let's unpack it, shall we?
"Willing support" indicates that you are not being coerced into submission. Your strength is supporting. And this is supporting without begrudging. It is "willing." I would argue that this often requires more strength than leading. A lack of willing support doesn't necessarily stem from strength, but rather from pride and selfishness. (James 4:1,7)
"Anothers godly interests" highlights the fact that submission to human authority should never be placed above obedience to God. (Deuteronomy 11:1) Should your authority's desires and choices be contrary to the scripture, or cause you to sin, you are not obligated to submit. But I used the words "interests and choices" because I believe the vast majority of strife in marriages is not caused by clear, black and white issue, but rather by an unwillingness to do something you just don't like. And while (in theory) it would be nice to have a husband whose one goal was to make you happy, there will be times when a choice is just a preference- no morality attached. And ladies, he's allowed to pick something that doesn't make you jump up and down with glee. Once again, it's at these moments when strength is not in the ability to battle, but rather in the ability to graciously not get what you want. This requires humility, another frequently abused character quality of our times. (Philippians 2:1-11) It's easy to say, but doing this "in place of your own" preferences and desires is incredibly difficult. Of this I am quite convinced.
My favorite aspect of this definition, however, is the final phrase which says you should do all this "with a conscious effort to enhance their service and abilities through the vibrant and passionate use of your gifts." This is an aspect of submission that I think is frequently overlooked, but it's what we were designed for. We are designed to help. (Genesis 2:18-24) We, as women, are beautifully gifted in a multitude of areas. I look at the women around me and am astounded at the love, insight, wisdom, kindness, generosity, and compassion which I see (in addition to skills in management, finances, design, art, and intellect). Look at each of those character qualities. How powerful they could be in the life of a man, should they be used to aid and abet his ministry. Submission is not a squashing of your talents, but rather the constant, selfless exercise of these gifts to enhance and strengthen your leader. How Christlike is this focus! And how perfect for the design of women... Think of the women who have shaped Biblical history: Sarah, Deborah, Elizabeth, Dorcas, Ruth, Esther, etc. What variety! Rich, poor, young, old, single, married, different eras, all with a variety of situations and problems, and yet, each defined Biblical womanhood with their separate strengths and abilities. What a wonderful challenge to seek to use our gifts and abilities to enhance and serve others! And let's face it, we, as women, do very well with challenges, so it's nothing to balk at.
So, bring on the challenge of submission! Invite this unconventional use of your gifts, and revel in the delight of service.
That's submission. Defined.
*I recognize that this post leaves many questions unanswered, and perhaps many feathers ruffled: What about when you're single? What about women working? What happens when your submission is abused? etc., etc. Trust me. I understand the limitation of the post I just made. However, take it as it is: a definition, not an exposition. I will touch on additional aspect of femininity and masculinity in future posts. Rome was not built in a day, you know.
For the past year I've been digging through the role of women. What does the Bible say, what does our society say, what do Christian thinkers, my mentors, and my friends say? For, whether we like to admit it or not, our definition of womanhood will define our choices and shape our lives. Recently I've started examining the men's role, because that (obviously) also has a strong bearing on how we, as ladies, act, but I'll venture into that realm after it's simmered (i.e. been studied) more.
Today I'm venturing into the realm of "submission." Don't curl up your modern noses at the term which oozes with connotations of inferiority. I know. I've been there, sometimes I still visit there. In our culture, "submission" denotes a hanging head, down-cast eyes, murmurings of assent. It summons up beliefs that one may not, or cannot use one's brain, have an opinion, or pursue one's talents passionately. Some may picture a 1950s family. I did.
To argue such a view of submission, one would have to transfer those same beliefs, not only to women, but also to men, for we are all told to submit to one another "out of reverence to Christ." (Ephesians 5:21) Submission clearly means something else, for the Christian walk is not filled with sniveling, brainless followers.
At least we hope not.
I would purport the following definition of submission:
Submission is a willing support of anothers godly interests and choices in the place of your own, with a conscious effort to enhance their service and abilities through the vibrant and passionate use of your gifts.
Let's unpack it, shall we?
"Willing support" indicates that you are not being coerced into submission. Your strength is supporting. And this is supporting without begrudging. It is "willing." I would argue that this often requires more strength than leading. A lack of willing support doesn't necessarily stem from strength, but rather from pride and selfishness. (James 4:1,7)
"Anothers godly interests" highlights the fact that submission to human authority should never be placed above obedience to God. (Deuteronomy 11:1) Should your authority's desires and choices be contrary to the scripture, or cause you to sin, you are not obligated to submit. But I used the words "interests and choices" because I believe the vast majority of strife in marriages is not caused by clear, black and white issue, but rather by an unwillingness to do something you just don't like. And while (in theory) it would be nice to have a husband whose one goal was to make you happy, there will be times when a choice is just a preference- no morality attached. And ladies, he's allowed to pick something that doesn't make you jump up and down with glee. Once again, it's at these moments when strength is not in the ability to battle, but rather in the ability to graciously not get what you want. This requires humility, another frequently abused character quality of our times. (Philippians 2:1-11) It's easy to say, but doing this "in place of your own" preferences and desires is incredibly difficult. Of this I am quite convinced.
My favorite aspect of this definition, however, is the final phrase which says you should do all this "with a conscious effort to enhance their service and abilities through the vibrant and passionate use of your gifts." This is an aspect of submission that I think is frequently overlooked, but it's what we were designed for. We are designed to help. (Genesis 2:18-24) We, as women, are beautifully gifted in a multitude of areas. I look at the women around me and am astounded at the love, insight, wisdom, kindness, generosity, and compassion which I see (in addition to skills in management, finances, design, art, and intellect). Look at each of those character qualities. How powerful they could be in the life of a man, should they be used to aid and abet his ministry. Submission is not a squashing of your talents, but rather the constant, selfless exercise of these gifts to enhance and strengthen your leader. How Christlike is this focus! And how perfect for the design of women... Think of the women who have shaped Biblical history: Sarah, Deborah, Elizabeth, Dorcas, Ruth, Esther, etc. What variety! Rich, poor, young, old, single, married, different eras, all with a variety of situations and problems, and yet, each defined Biblical womanhood with their separate strengths and abilities. What a wonderful challenge to seek to use our gifts and abilities to enhance and serve others! And let's face it, we, as women, do very well with challenges, so it's nothing to balk at.
So, bring on the challenge of submission! Invite this unconventional use of your gifts, and revel in the delight of service.
That's submission. Defined.
*I recognize that this post leaves many questions unanswered, and perhaps many feathers ruffled: What about when you're single? What about women working? What happens when your submission is abused? etc., etc. Trust me. I understand the limitation of the post I just made. However, take it as it is: a definition, not an exposition. I will touch on additional aspect of femininity and masculinity in future posts. Rome was not built in a day, you know.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Dreams Come Alive
I love this place. The brushing wind, the puddles of sunshine appearing through white puffy clouds, the white stone beaches with clear, cold waves breaking. Mackinac Island. Our family has been coming here for ten years. The old, dilapidated house where our adventures began is now a bustling, renovated success. But we discovered it, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I look upon the other guests as intruders. This is our summer home.
People always ask why we keep coming back.
When I'm away from the Island, I can never remember. But on the ferry ride, as we are tousled and tossed by the Michigan wind, the water gets bluer, the island gets bigger, and I remember. This is where my dreams live.
There is a place where all my dreams seem possible. When I can open up my notebook and believe that I can make a living writing. Where I can read good literature and believe that I'll someday write good literature. Where I can sip coffee, laugh with my family, peddle down hills, feel the sun on my face, the wind whip my hair, and believe that my life will come together. It will all work out. That it's a good thing to be alive. To live and dream.
So, I spent a good part of today curled up, writing, reading. I played lacrosse with my brothers, drank coffee with my mom, and dipped my toes in the pool with Julie. Martha and I talked about traveling the world. Dubai sounds interesting and Brussels a possibility. Erika and I debate vocabulary, and my father alternately laughs and encourages my inept bike peddling up the Grand Hotel hill.
The horizon is hopeful. My mind is teaming with new dreams and the rebirth of old aspirations.
I love The Island...
People always ask why we keep coming back.
When I'm away from the Island, I can never remember. But on the ferry ride, as we are tousled and tossed by the Michigan wind, the water gets bluer, the island gets bigger, and I remember. This is where my dreams live.
There is a place where all my dreams seem possible. When I can open up my notebook and believe that I can make a living writing. Where I can read good literature and believe that I'll someday write good literature. Where I can sip coffee, laugh with my family, peddle down hills, feel the sun on my face, the wind whip my hair, and believe that my life will come together. It will all work out. That it's a good thing to be alive. To live and dream.
So, I spent a good part of today curled up, writing, reading. I played lacrosse with my brothers, drank coffee with my mom, and dipped my toes in the pool with Julie. Martha and I talked about traveling the world. Dubai sounds interesting and Brussels a possibility. Erika and I debate vocabulary, and my father alternately laughs and encourages my inept bike peddling up the Grand Hotel hill.
The horizon is hopeful. My mind is teaming with new dreams and the rebirth of old aspirations.
I love The Island...
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Lost in the Cornfields... Lonely for the City
I graduated.
I'm done.
And I don't have a job.
Granted, my job search suffered as my externship wrapped up. Working 10-12 hour days isn't exactly conducive to interviewing, but it still wasn't fun to tell everyone, "Nope! No idea what I'm doing!" when my compatriots had their lives perfectly mapped out.
This week I've interviewed for multiple jobs and applied for even more.
I'm not excited.
I was determine to leave this little town, the surrounding cornfields, and the complete lack of whole foods grocery stores. I am not a country girl. I'm scared of chickens, I love to wear heals, and I've always had a fascination with designer couture. I've applied for probably seventy-five jobs out of state in prominent cities. Haven't heard from a one of them. I applied for four jobs in state. Every single one has called me back, conducted interviews, and begun preliminary salary negotiations. Apparently I'm staying in the cornfields.
I don't want to do this. I never wanted to do this. My siblings are flying to the four corners of the globe, and I'm staying here. I've had nightmares of vacationing at age 32 with my mom, dad, and Julie-Bop. Just us. Everyone else out living their lives, and I'm just excited that Walmart is finally carrying organic milk.
What if I never click my heals along the New York sidewalk, apartment shop on the Magnificent Mile, or learn how to surf the sand-flecked waves of the Golden State? What if I stay in the cornfields forever?
A little, practical voice in the back of my head tells me that I can change jobs, I can move later, I can switch career paths. But right now the road stretches before me with no exciting bends.
One long, flat, Indiana road.
This gray-blue mood is probably the result of too many late nights, rejection letters, and the passing of my unconditional cheerleader (I love you, Grandma!). I understand that God will teach me many things. I love sunrises over those emerald fields. I delight in cuddles with Julie and coffee with my mom. I see the good things here... But right now I'm just a little lost, a little blue, and a little bruised and tender. My plan didn't pan out, and now I have to accept God's (much better) plan. That's a lot harder than it sounds...
Especially when I'm surrounded by cornfields.
I'm done.
And I don't have a job.
Granted, my job search suffered as my externship wrapped up. Working 10-12 hour days isn't exactly conducive to interviewing, but it still wasn't fun to tell everyone, "Nope! No idea what I'm doing!" when my compatriots had their lives perfectly mapped out.
This week I've interviewed for multiple jobs and applied for even more.
I'm not excited.
I was determine to leave this little town, the surrounding cornfields, and the complete lack of whole foods grocery stores. I am not a country girl. I'm scared of chickens, I love to wear heals, and I've always had a fascination with designer couture. I've applied for probably seventy-five jobs out of state in prominent cities. Haven't heard from a one of them. I applied for four jobs in state. Every single one has called me back, conducted interviews, and begun preliminary salary negotiations. Apparently I'm staying in the cornfields.
I don't want to do this. I never wanted to do this. My siblings are flying to the four corners of the globe, and I'm staying here. I've had nightmares of vacationing at age 32 with my mom, dad, and Julie-Bop. Just us. Everyone else out living their lives, and I'm just excited that Walmart is finally carrying organic milk.
What if I never click my heals along the New York sidewalk, apartment shop on the Magnificent Mile, or learn how to surf the sand-flecked waves of the Golden State? What if I stay in the cornfields forever?
A little, practical voice in the back of my head tells me that I can change jobs, I can move later, I can switch career paths. But right now the road stretches before me with no exciting bends.
One long, flat, Indiana road.
This gray-blue mood is probably the result of too many late nights, rejection letters, and the passing of my unconditional cheerleader (I love you, Grandma!). I understand that God will teach me many things. I love sunrises over those emerald fields. I delight in cuddles with Julie and coffee with my mom. I see the good things here... But right now I'm just a little lost, a little blue, and a little bruised and tender. My plan didn't pan out, and now I have to accept God's (much better) plan. That's a lot harder than it sounds...
Especially when I'm surrounded by cornfields.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Because of the memories... not "In Memory of"
On August 9th, 2010, my darling grandma went home.
From the first day I can remember, through the last day I knew her, my grandmother struggled to breathe, struggled to move, struggled to live. But she never struggled in loving her big, loud, "Americana" family. Never in her struggled did she forget Christmas presents for all, cheese balls and home-made noodles at each family get-together. She never let the struggle eclipse her kind words and gentle presence. She was always unconditionally proud of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
My grandmother doesn't fit in the "famous" people of our time. She lived quietly, she raised her four boys alone, she worked, she loved, she died. But the consistent grace and love which accompanied each of these actions is more amazing because of the lack of accolades. Glorifying God and loving others are her legacy.
I love you, Grandma. I can't wait to see you again.
From the first day I can remember, through the last day I knew her, my grandmother struggled to breathe, struggled to move, struggled to live. But she never struggled in loving her big, loud, "Americana" family. Never in her struggled did she forget Christmas presents for all, cheese balls and home-made noodles at each family get-together. She never let the struggle eclipse her kind words and gentle presence. She was always unconditionally proud of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
My grandmother doesn't fit in the "famous" people of our time. She lived quietly, she raised her four boys alone, she worked, she loved, she died. But the consistent grace and love which accompanied each of these actions is more amazing because of the lack of accolades. Glorifying God and loving others are her legacy.
I love you, Grandma. I can't wait to see you again.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
"Because I love you...
As an almost (29 days!) speech pathologist, I work with a lot of children whose issues extend beyond their ability to say "s." I never knew I would work on social skills, inter-personal communication, and basic courtesy as a speech pathologist, but it's probably one of my favorite parts of the job.
I have a little client right now who never likes to lose a game. In fact, part of therapy has now become helping him cope with losing. (Which entails me winning, which is okay with me...)
My third week of doing therapy, we played a game in which you could earn power to ruin your teammate's chances of winning. You would slam this little rubber fly down, and they would lose all their points. Well, the little guy I was working with won the chance to slam down the rubber fly.
But he wouldn't pick it up.
He started shaking his head, "No... no... no..."
"It's okay. You can do it. Take away my points! You'll win!"
"No... no... no..."
"Come on! Pick up the fly! Don't you want to take away my points and win?"
"No... because I love you!"
My heart melted into a puddle. This little man, who loves to win, didn't want to take away my points because he loved me. Completely, totally, irrevocably made my day. I'm still smiling, many days later.
(I eventually convinced him that slapping the fly would be a good idea, and he giggled while we slapped the fly together.)
I have a little client right now who never likes to lose a game. In fact, part of therapy has now become helping him cope with losing. (Which entails me winning, which is okay with me...)
My third week of doing therapy, we played a game in which you could earn power to ruin your teammate's chances of winning. You would slam this little rubber fly down, and they would lose all their points. Well, the little guy I was working with won the chance to slam down the rubber fly.
But he wouldn't pick it up.
He started shaking his head, "No... no... no..."
"It's okay. You can do it. Take away my points! You'll win!"
"No... no... no..."
"Come on! Pick up the fly! Don't you want to take away my points and win?"
"No... because I love you!"
My heart melted into a puddle. This little man, who loves to win, didn't want to take away my points because he loved me. Completely, totally, irrevocably made my day. I'm still smiling, many days later.
(I eventually convinced him that slapping the fly would be a good idea, and he giggled while we slapped the fly together.)
Monday, July 5, 2010
Song of the week!
I have a sneaking suspicion that the main reason I love this song is because of the brass section and the cat walk on top of the freezers... it's like a dream grocery shopping trip!
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Illusions and Pre-Mature Homesickness
My dear reader. I speak now, on this day, to the gross injustice of illusions-- illusions which cling to our past, and mist over the future with perverse unattainability.
Don't shrug your disinterested shoulders in mocking dismissal. You know what I mean. Do you remember being five, when the Chucky Cheese commercial flipped on, and children ran screaming by with fist-fulls of tickets, beaming parents, high-fiving? That's an illusion. No parent is happy to be at Chucky Cheese.
In jr. high when everyone else was struggling under illusions (or delusions) of an eighth grade boy who would actually ask you to dance, I was reading eighteenth century literature and struggling with the illusion of bumble bee-free luncheons on a limestone terrace. Both are illusions. Bumble bees love cucumber sandwiches, and eighth grade boys are still oblivious to eighth grade girls.
The first day of school, canoeing, coffee house dates, camping, and shopping trips in NYC... most illusions in life are glorious shells of the real thing. (Okay, the shopping in NYC was pretty spiffy...)
Now I'm in the midst of brand-new illusion bashing.
The single city girl.
Pretty. Confident. Dressed to the nines. She floats cooly along. Well-informed, engaged in her culture. Aloof from the hum-drum, ant-like existence of the working class. She somehow achieves her dreams without breaking an uncomfortable sweat. She's not scared. She's not brash. She gets things done. She loves life. She parties, she shops, she flies home on vacations to kiss babies and exclaim over new home improvements. She has a chic studio, and a roof top that's perfect for parties.
She's an illusion. Probably my next illusion to be shattered...
I'm about to be this girl.
And I'm not confident. I'm not dressed to the nines. I'm incapable of calmly and cooly floating through anything. I'm very ant-like, I will probably toil in a hum-drum way for the rest of my life. I'm terrified of making ends meet. I'm confident I will be anything but successful. I'm terribly scared. I don't have a wonderful job which will let me have a studio, parties, and a shopping habit. I don't have a job. Period. I love my family. I like mid-western happy provincialism, and moderate, shoulder-shrugging politics. I haven't even left yet, and I want to run home.
Life, devoid of the illusion, is scary...
Don't shrug your disinterested shoulders in mocking dismissal. You know what I mean. Do you remember being five, when the Chucky Cheese commercial flipped on, and children ran screaming by with fist-fulls of tickets, beaming parents, high-fiving? That's an illusion. No parent is happy to be at Chucky Cheese.
In jr. high when everyone else was struggling under illusions (or delusions) of an eighth grade boy who would actually ask you to dance, I was reading eighteenth century literature and struggling with the illusion of bumble bee-free luncheons on a limestone terrace. Both are illusions. Bumble bees love cucumber sandwiches, and eighth grade boys are still oblivious to eighth grade girls.
The first day of school, canoeing, coffee house dates, camping, and shopping trips in NYC... most illusions in life are glorious shells of the real thing. (Okay, the shopping in NYC was pretty spiffy...)
Now I'm in the midst of brand-new illusion bashing.
The single city girl.
Pretty. Confident. Dressed to the nines. She floats cooly along. Well-informed, engaged in her culture. Aloof from the hum-drum, ant-like existence of the working class. She somehow achieves her dreams without breaking an uncomfortable sweat. She's not scared. She's not brash. She gets things done. She loves life. She parties, she shops, she flies home on vacations to kiss babies and exclaim over new home improvements. She has a chic studio, and a roof top that's perfect for parties.
She's an illusion. Probably my next illusion to be shattered...
I'm about to be this girl.
And I'm not confident. I'm not dressed to the nines. I'm incapable of calmly and cooly floating through anything. I'm very ant-like, I will probably toil in a hum-drum way for the rest of my life. I'm terrified of making ends meet. I'm confident I will be anything but successful. I'm terribly scared. I don't have a wonderful job which will let me have a studio, parties, and a shopping habit. I don't have a job. Period. I love my family. I like mid-western happy provincialism, and moderate, shoulder-shrugging politics. I haven't even left yet, and I want to run home.
Life, devoid of the illusion, is scary...
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Today's Song
When I heard this on the radio, I didn't even know that the artist (Ryan Star) was using the song as a platform for the current economic climate (and the subsequent challenge in job hunting), but I fell in love with it any way. The one line I copied down was "She likes New York at night."
And it's true.
I do.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Scared of being Transplanted...
Over the past few months, I have made feeble stabs at job-hunting. I say "feeble" because of the small number of applications and my lackadaisical follow-up attempts. I've never seen anything that made me jump up and down, squealing, "Oooh! I want to be a speech pathologist THERE!" Of course, this could be due to a long-sneaking suspicion that I don't really want to be a speech pathologist, and as a result, my laziness kicks in, and I'd rather go to barbecues than Monster.com...
But I don't think that's the biggest issue.
The real problem is that I am FLIPPING OUT. I am terrified. I don't want to move. I don't want to sell my house. I don't want to explore a new city. I've always said that I wanted to do those things, and part of me still wants to, but not like this.
I never really dreamed that this day would happen alone. I knew it was a possibility, but in the thousands of happy scenarios I played out in my mind, I was rarely, if ever, going it alone. Family is my anchor and my safe spot, and I always assumed that if I couldn't take my family with me, I'd take someone who was my "new family." I wasn't going to do this alone.
But now I am.
And I know it will be wonderful (because my God is good), and I know I will learn, and stretch, and grow (because that's my God's all-encompassing plan), but right now I'd rather just sit in the sun, pool-side, and ignore the looming discomfort transplanting always brings.
So, I would covet your prayers as I wend my way through these last 30+ days of my graduate program. I'm bored. I'm terrified. But I'm almost done. And I'm not particularly excited about finding a job.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Quote of the Week:
"You are a dating retard."
(my exceptionally loving, usually tactfully understanding dad)
(my exceptionally loving, usually tactfully understanding dad)
Monday, June 21, 2010
Why I Want All Boys
Vacation Bible School is my favorite. Although I dislike Indiana's nasty humidity, and am not convinced that craft time is entertaining, I love children. This year I am a Kindergarten leader of the "lime green" group. We promise to be a very entertaining bunch, and I believe this is due to the fact that we are predominantly male. Tonight served to solidify my desire for all boys (should I ever be a "mommy").
At snack time one of these little boys (a future all-American linebacker, I'm guessing), wiggles around, looks up at me, and says,
"Miss Courtney! You're my girlfriend."
I eyed him skeptically. "No, Bryce, I'm not. You have to ask me, and I have to say, 'yes.'"
His brow furrowed at this unexpected complication. "Hmm... well, then. I guess I'll just have to marry you."
I shook my head soberly, "Well... I'm sorry Bryce. You're not done with school. When you're done with college, call me up."
"Yeah!" piped Bryce's neighbor, "My mom said that you shouldn't get married until you're done with college. That's when she got married. Before that, it's not a good idea. That's what my mom says."
Bryce nodded thoughtfully, "Yes, that's a good idea, but you see, I'm not going to college. I'm going to Batman school."
Both I and his neighbor produced exclamations of surprise and interest.
"Well, not really Batman school... Actually, I'm going to learn how to be a Goblin and chop people up with a helicopter." Concerned, I asked,
"Oh my! Bryce... does this mean you're going to be a bad man?"
"Oh yes. Yes, Miss Courtney. I will be a very bad man."
I shook my head sorrowfully, "Then I'm afraid I can't marry you, Bryce. I can't marry a bad man."
Bryce exhaled in frustration. He furrowed his brow, looked me up and down, and said, "Oh, fine. I'll be a good man for you, Miss Courtney."
"Thank you, Bryce."
"And now you will kiss me."
"Call me when you're 23, Bryce. Please finish your nachos."
At snack time one of these little boys (a future all-American linebacker, I'm guessing), wiggles around, looks up at me, and says,
"Miss Courtney! You're my girlfriend."
I eyed him skeptically. "No, Bryce, I'm not. You have to ask me, and I have to say, 'yes.'"
His brow furrowed at this unexpected complication. "Hmm... well, then. I guess I'll just have to marry you."
I shook my head soberly, "Well... I'm sorry Bryce. You're not done with school. When you're done with college, call me up."
"Yeah!" piped Bryce's neighbor, "My mom said that you shouldn't get married until you're done with college. That's when she got married. Before that, it's not a good idea. That's what my mom says."
Bryce nodded thoughtfully, "Yes, that's a good idea, but you see, I'm not going to college. I'm going to Batman school."
Both I and his neighbor produced exclamations of surprise and interest.
"Well, not really Batman school... Actually, I'm going to learn how to be a Goblin and chop people up with a helicopter." Concerned, I asked,
"Oh my! Bryce... does this mean you're going to be a bad man?"
"Oh yes. Yes, Miss Courtney. I will be a very bad man."
I shook my head sorrowfully, "Then I'm afraid I can't marry you, Bryce. I can't marry a bad man."
Bryce exhaled in frustration. He furrowed his brow, looked me up and down, and said, "Oh, fine. I'll be a good man for you, Miss Courtney."
"Thank you, Bryce."
"And now you will kiss me."
"Call me when you're 23, Bryce. Please finish your nachos."
Friday, June 18, 2010
My week at a glance
This had been my prior exposure to tracheostomies.
This is more like reality, well kind of. I actually couldn't find a good one of "reality"... This one needs "copious, creamy, pale yellow secretions" bubbling at the entrance, with the whole tube being buried in neck fat and flab as the patient gasps for breath, looking confused and fragile. I actually wish I could see a trach like this one below. My poor patients...
This is more like reality, well kind of. I actually couldn't find a good one of "reality"... This one needs "copious, creamy, pale yellow secretions" bubbling at the entrance, with the whole tube being buried in neck fat and flab as the patient gasps for breath, looking confused and fragile. I actually wish I could see a trach like this one below. My poor patients...
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Introduction to acute long-term care... and secretions.
When I started this major, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Last semester of my senior year of high school someone told me that I would be a good speech pathologist. I had no idea what a speech pathologist was. Minimal research showed me that they worked with special needs children and had great job placement. Practicality won out and I abandoned my dream of English education and politics to pursue a degree in a field that would justify my mutual fund being washed down the tube of education.
In my first college course I was told I needed a master’s degree. I was shocked. But I could handle it.
Next I learned that we worked with people who couldn’t swallow. “Dysphagia” requires an up-close and personal look at saliva (an irrational phobia of mine). I was disturbed, but I could handle it.
Neuroanatomy was an area I had never even dabbled in. But my major requires a cursory knowledge, and I picked up a minor in psychology through a variety of neural courses. I was surprised, but I could handle it.
Grad school application, anatomy/physiology, stressful labs, sheep brains, biology petrie dishes, the GRE, babies, geriatrics, cleft palates, acoustic analysis, and piles of paperwork. I was continually surprised. But I could handle it. In fact, I grew to enjoy the sciences, the neuroanatomy, the biology, reveling in the pursuit of “hard fact,” dicing up research articles, pointing out their inadequacies and constructing their practical purpose. I was, in short, a nerd. But I could handle it.
Nothing prepared me for today.
My supervisor, who is conducting me soothingly through the world of special needs toddlers and adorable babies, is on vacation. I don’t get a vacation. (Of course not. I’m the unpaid student. Why would I need a break?) So I have acquired a new supervisor for this week. This supervisor works on floors in long-term acute care. The patients on these floors are on trachs or vents, severely disabled, and definitely NOT pediatric.
I have never had to control my facial muscles to such a degree for so long. Do you know how many secretions can ooze from the human body? I thought I did. I didn’t! Things wheezed, goop bubbled, and I had to chart these things with words like “thick, yellow, viscous, and copious.” As I watched my supervisor work, all I could think was that I needed to shower, and could never work in this place.
Then came a tiny, frail little lady. Her pain had been uncontrolled and dose after dose of medications were not helping. I went to the bathroom, dampened a washcloth, and sat down beside her. As I gently wiped her face, her tired eyes, her wrinkled forehead, she sighed contentedly. Some of her tension dissolved. The woman was so incapacitated by the medications, that no therapy was even practical. But after those few minutes, I didn't have to control my gag quite so much.
Because hurting people are hurting people, no matter what kind of gunk they may be oozing.
In my first college course I was told I needed a master’s degree. I was shocked. But I could handle it.
Next I learned that we worked with people who couldn’t swallow. “Dysphagia” requires an up-close and personal look at saliva (an irrational phobia of mine). I was disturbed, but I could handle it.
Neuroanatomy was an area I had never even dabbled in. But my major requires a cursory knowledge, and I picked up a minor in psychology through a variety of neural courses. I was surprised, but I could handle it.
Grad school application, anatomy/physiology, stressful labs, sheep brains, biology petrie dishes, the GRE, babies, geriatrics, cleft palates, acoustic analysis, and piles of paperwork. I was continually surprised. But I could handle it. In fact, I grew to enjoy the sciences, the neuroanatomy, the biology, reveling in the pursuit of “hard fact,” dicing up research articles, pointing out their inadequacies and constructing their practical purpose. I was, in short, a nerd. But I could handle it.
Nothing prepared me for today.
My supervisor, who is conducting me soothingly through the world of special needs toddlers and adorable babies, is on vacation. I don’t get a vacation. (Of course not. I’m the unpaid student. Why would I need a break?) So I have acquired a new supervisor for this week. This supervisor works on floors in long-term acute care. The patients on these floors are on trachs or vents, severely disabled, and definitely NOT pediatric.
I have never had to control my facial muscles to such a degree for so long. Do you know how many secretions can ooze from the human body? I thought I did. I didn’t! Things wheezed, goop bubbled, and I had to chart these things with words like “thick, yellow, viscous, and copious.” As I watched my supervisor work, all I could think was that I needed to shower, and could never work in this place.
Then came a tiny, frail little lady. Her pain had been uncontrolled and dose after dose of medications were not helping. I went to the bathroom, dampened a washcloth, and sat down beside her. As I gently wiped her face, her tired eyes, her wrinkled forehead, she sighed contentedly. Some of her tension dissolved. The woman was so incapacitated by the medications, that no therapy was even practical. But after those few minutes, I didn't have to control my gag quite so much.
Because hurting people are hurting people, no matter what kind of gunk they may be oozing.
Monday, June 14, 2010
To Classic or Not Too Classic
Outside, the rain is barely loud enough to patter over the whirl of the washing machine. Having no money,working with spitting babies, and owning only two pairs of scrubs, results in frequent laundry whirling this summer. The humidity is smudging up against my window, a fan flips quietly above me, and at my left elbow is a pile of untouched fiction. Tonight was library night.
I'm not pleased to report that I'm a library snob. I have this sneaking suspicion that every librarian thinks exactly as I would, if I were a librarian:
"Really? Six romance novels? Someone hasn't had a date in months... Is his life really so starved for excitement that he only reads mysteries?... This person has checked out nothing but paperback, 100-pagers. Guess who doesn't have reading level above the fourth grade."
Yes, I know. I'm a horrible person. And there have been times when I've snuck a skimpy, 4th-grade level novel in between my Dickens and Chaucer, however, for the majority of my life, I've reveled in the "classics." I love their sentence structure, the vivid vocabulary and tangential descriptions which loop back around to relevance (Dickens doesn't always do this, consequently I do not always approve of Dickens). A little bit of my world shattered when I found that Sir Walter Scott described all his heroines the same way ("eyes like diamonds, teeth like pearls"), but for the most part, my allegiance has held steady to the ancients. In high school I had a tutor for English (something about two engineering parents being at a complete loss of what to do with me). She made me read some modern classics (i.e. "To Kill a Mockingbird," "Cry The Beloved Country," etc.), but every now and then she would put down a paper, look at me sternly and say, "Courtney. Did you read Jane Austen this weekend?" Apparently, when you read only eighteenth century literature, you begin to write like eighteenth century literature.
So reader, I have a confession. Lying here, in a tempting pile, are an assortment of books which probably can't even claim the term "emerging classics." The theme of this library trip was "books-which-aren't-happy-with-where-Jane-Austen-ended." I've turned up my literary nose at such items in the past, but always with a sneaking interest. I have now caved to this interest. What person, after falling completely in love with characters, doesn't grieve a little when the author writes "The End"? (The one exception to this would be the Elsie Dinsmore series which drags on for 60+ inane books, the only interesting characters being the "sinful" errant children. The readers of this series must cry "uncle!" long before the final book in order to preserve their sanity.)
I can hardly wait to curl up on my couch, licking a popsicle and reading without needing a thesaurus. I now bid you adieu, dear reader. I'm about to imbibe some fluffy, girly nonsense to the tune of rain drops and the washing machine.
I'm not pleased to report that I'm a library snob. I have this sneaking suspicion that every librarian thinks exactly as I would, if I were a librarian:
"Really? Six romance novels? Someone hasn't had a date in months... Is his life really so starved for excitement that he only reads mysteries?... This person has checked out nothing but paperback, 100-pagers. Guess who doesn't have reading level above the fourth grade."
Yes, I know. I'm a horrible person. And there have been times when I've snuck a skimpy, 4th-grade level novel in between my Dickens and Chaucer, however, for the majority of my life, I've reveled in the "classics." I love their sentence structure, the vivid vocabulary and tangential descriptions which loop back around to relevance (Dickens doesn't always do this, consequently I do not always approve of Dickens). A little bit of my world shattered when I found that Sir Walter Scott described all his heroines the same way ("eyes like diamonds, teeth like pearls"), but for the most part, my allegiance has held steady to the ancients. In high school I had a tutor for English (something about two engineering parents being at a complete loss of what to do with me). She made me read some modern classics (i.e. "To Kill a Mockingbird," "Cry The Beloved Country," etc.), but every now and then she would put down a paper, look at me sternly and say, "Courtney. Did you read Jane Austen this weekend?" Apparently, when you read only eighteenth century literature, you begin to write like eighteenth century literature.
So reader, I have a confession. Lying here, in a tempting pile, are an assortment of books which probably can't even claim the term "emerging classics." The theme of this library trip was "books-which-aren't-happy-with-where-Jane-Austen-ended." I've turned up my literary nose at such items in the past, but always with a sneaking interest. I have now caved to this interest. What person, after falling completely in love with characters, doesn't grieve a little when the author writes "The End"? (The one exception to this would be the Elsie Dinsmore series which drags on for 60+ inane books, the only interesting characters being the "sinful" errant children. The readers of this series must cry "uncle!" long before the final book in order to preserve their sanity.)
I can hardly wait to curl up on my couch, licking a popsicle and reading without needing a thesaurus. I now bid you adieu, dear reader. I'm about to imbibe some fluffy, girly nonsense to the tune of rain drops and the washing machine.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Dear (perhaps long-gone) readership,
I have neglected you shamefully over the past several months. My brand-new propensity to bottle up my thoughts, my stories, and my daily frustrations is a novel sensation for yours truly. Prior to this new habit, I had an age-old propensity of hurling massive portions of incoherent words at a blank screen, hoping that in the hodgepodge of attempted literature, a coherent thought might emerge.
In short, writing was my coping mechanism.
It's not any more.
I'm torn as to whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. It swivels towards "good" in that I no longer feel as though my emotions must first and foremost be expressed in writing, pushing many other literary attempts to the side as I batter my thoughts out. However, it's "bad" because I'm neglecting to write entirely, as life's noise no longer inspires word hemorrhage.
This past week I began my second clinical externship at an undisclosed-for-privacy-issues hospital. I am absolutely and completely in love with it. Which is good, because (as you know, dear reader) I haven't loved much in my major in the past two years. Blips of joy were occluded by nagging, criticisms, nit-picking, and a constant sensation of microscopic scrutiny when it came to all things clinical. Today, after two hours of therapy, my supervisor told me two things to do better. JUST TWO! Where there was previously an hour of correction and reproof-- JUST TWO! My last few weeks at my prior placement had a similar amount of correction (i.e. a miniscule amount).
I was SHOCKED.
And pleased.
Maybe I'm finally ready to be a speech-language pathologist?
I will work harder at my writing. Promise. I miss it dreadfully, and I would keep writing today, but... I've also shockingly abandoned vacuuming lately, and I can ignore the clutter no longer.
I have neglected you shamefully over the past several months. My brand-new propensity to bottle up my thoughts, my stories, and my daily frustrations is a novel sensation for yours truly. Prior to this new habit, I had an age-old propensity of hurling massive portions of incoherent words at a blank screen, hoping that in the hodgepodge of attempted literature, a coherent thought might emerge.
In short, writing was my coping mechanism.
It's not any more.
I'm torn as to whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. It swivels towards "good" in that I no longer feel as though my emotions must first and foremost be expressed in writing, pushing many other literary attempts to the side as I batter my thoughts out. However, it's "bad" because I'm neglecting to write entirely, as life's noise no longer inspires word hemorrhage.
This past week I began my second clinical externship at an undisclosed-for-privacy-issues hospital. I am absolutely and completely in love with it. Which is good, because (as you know, dear reader) I haven't loved much in my major in the past two years. Blips of joy were occluded by nagging, criticisms, nit-picking, and a constant sensation of microscopic scrutiny when it came to all things clinical. Today, after two hours of therapy, my supervisor told me two things to do better. JUST TWO! Where there was previously an hour of correction and reproof-- JUST TWO! My last few weeks at my prior placement had a similar amount of correction (i.e. a miniscule amount).
I was SHOCKED.
And pleased.
Maybe I'm finally ready to be a speech-language pathologist?
I will work harder at my writing. Promise. I miss it dreadfully, and I would keep writing today, but... I've also shockingly abandoned vacuuming lately, and I can ignore the clutter no longer.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Peace
I am a (fairly) bright, bubbly person. I lack the persistence and memory to brood. At our birthday dinners, Mom makes us each go around and say one thing that we appreciate about the birthday person. I remember one birthday in particular when everyone kept saying, "She's so cheerful!" "She's so sun-shiney!" "You're always so happy!" (I was slightly discouraged that that was the ONLY thing anyone seemed to appreciate, but that's a ridiculous response.)
In short, I'm happy. Almost always. I don't think it's a sign of merit, I just honestly don't have the energy or perspective to get angry or depressed.
Well, that was then.
This is now.
My first semester of graduate school I was a mess. Some blog postings reflect this. (For example: "I hate graduate school! I hate graduate school!") But even that was filtered. You couldn't see me lying on the floor, crying, screaming, hyperventilating in panicked frustration. I was MISERABLE. My circumstances, from that point on, never changed. But my attitude adjusted (thanks to some wise counsel and a loving God), and I was able to regain a certain level of sunny contentment.
Until recently.
My life is not what I planned. And snap baby-o, when I plan, I PLAN. I am about to graduate with a degree I never wanted (Masters of Science), a career I can't decide if I like, and a very vacant ring finger, that I was hoping a diamond would be inhabiting by now. I started college with a five year plan that had me married, in a career I loved, with a man I was willing to give it up for (when babies came).
There are no babies. Not even a pacifier on the horizon.
There is no man. Not even a chance of a man. No one. Nothing. Not even someone to develop an unhealthy crush on.
Instead, there's a six year education, a demanding profession (which I don't like 50% of the time), and a house all to myself.
Just me.
And I haven't been handling it very well. I don't like it when my plans don't pan out. I get upset. I never knew that before. Most of my plans have worked.
God has been gracious as I (for the first time in a while) have done battle with my thoughts, seeking to actively be aware that my God is both sovereign (He KNEW this would happen), and sufficient (I have Him. I don't need everything my plan promised.)
I can trust Him. He will work everything for His glory AND my good. There is never a separation of those two goals. His plans never "fall through."
And God has been good. I've fought more in the arena of my mind than ever before. I understand the term "spiritual warfare." And I now know that it can happen in quiet, unseen places. (Like my thought life.)
And God has given me victory. I believe truth. I'm not bubbly just yet, but I know God is good. And that is sufficient. I'm not giddy, but I know God is trustworthy. I'm not happy, but I'm at peace.
And hence I'm writing again! Perhaps some funny stories will over-flow to my readers soon!
Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows. (II Corinthians 1:3-5)
In short, I'm happy. Almost always. I don't think it's a sign of merit, I just honestly don't have the energy or perspective to get angry or depressed.
Well, that was then.
This is now.
My first semester of graduate school I was a mess. Some blog postings reflect this. (For example: "I hate graduate school! I hate graduate school!") But even that was filtered. You couldn't see me lying on the floor, crying, screaming, hyperventilating in panicked frustration. I was MISERABLE. My circumstances, from that point on, never changed. But my attitude adjusted (thanks to some wise counsel and a loving God), and I was able to regain a certain level of sunny contentment.
Until recently.
My life is not what I planned. And snap baby-o, when I plan, I PLAN. I am about to graduate with a degree I never wanted (Masters of Science), a career I can't decide if I like, and a very vacant ring finger, that I was hoping a diamond would be inhabiting by now. I started college with a five year plan that had me married, in a career I loved, with a man I was willing to give it up for (when babies came).
There are no babies. Not even a pacifier on the horizon.
There is no man. Not even a chance of a man. No one. Nothing. Not even someone to develop an unhealthy crush on.
Instead, there's a six year education, a demanding profession (which I don't like 50% of the time), and a house all to myself.
Just me.
And I haven't been handling it very well. I don't like it when my plans don't pan out. I get upset. I never knew that before. Most of my plans have worked.
God has been gracious as I (for the first time in a while) have done battle with my thoughts, seeking to actively be aware that my God is both sovereign (He KNEW this would happen), and sufficient (I have Him. I don't need everything my plan promised.)
I can trust Him. He will work everything for His glory AND my good. There is never a separation of those two goals. His plans never "fall through."
And God has been good. I've fought more in the arena of my mind than ever before. I understand the term "spiritual warfare." And I now know that it can happen in quiet, unseen places. (Like my thought life.)
And God has given me victory. I believe truth. I'm not bubbly just yet, but I know God is good. And that is sufficient. I'm not giddy, but I know God is trustworthy. I'm not happy, but I'm at peace.
And hence I'm writing again! Perhaps some funny stories will over-flow to my readers soon!
Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows. (II Corinthians 1:3-5)
Monday, May 10, 2010
ARRRRRRRRRRGH!!!!
COULD I BE MORE IRRITATED!?!
If I even knew what to rant about, I would... super, super angry, frustrated, annoyed.
I could just swear.
And take up boxing.
And then I would become violently profane.
It's probably a good thing my vocabulary is limited and my physical aggression is confined to yoga and plyometrics.
ARRRRGH!
If I even knew what to rant about, I would... super, super angry, frustrated, annoyed.
I could just swear.
And take up boxing.
And then I would become violently profane.
It's probably a good thing my vocabulary is limited and my physical aggression is confined to yoga and plyometrics.
ARRRRGH!
Saturday, May 1, 2010
MY GOD'S ENOUGH!
Surely God is good to Israel,
to those who are pure in heart.
But as for me, my feet had almost slipped;
I had nearly lost my foothold.
For I envied the arrogant
when I saw the prosperity of the wicked.
They have no struggles;
their bodies are healthy and strong.
They are free from the burdens common to man;
they are not plagued by human ills.
They scoff, and speak with malice;
in their arrogance they threaten oppression.
Surely in vain have I kept my heart pure;
in vain have I washed my hands in innocence.
When I tried to understand all this,
it was oppressive to me
till I entered the sanctuary of God;
When my heart was grieved
and my spirit embittered,
I was senseless and ignorant;
I was a brute beast before you.
Yet I am always with you;
you hold me by my right hand.
You guide me with your counsel,
and afterward you will take me into glory.
Whom have I in heaven but you?
And earth has nothing I desire besides you.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart
and my portion forever.
But as for me, it is good to be near God.
I have made the Sovereign LORD my refuge;
I will tell of all your deeds.
(excerpts of Psalm 73)
to those who are pure in heart.
But as for me, my feet had almost slipped;
I had nearly lost my foothold.
For I envied the arrogant
when I saw the prosperity of the wicked.
They have no struggles;
their bodies are healthy and strong.
They are free from the burdens common to man;
they are not plagued by human ills.
They scoff, and speak with malice;
in their arrogance they threaten oppression.
Surely in vain have I kept my heart pure;
in vain have I washed my hands in innocence.
When I tried to understand all this,
it was oppressive to me
till I entered the sanctuary of God;
When my heart was grieved
and my spirit embittered,
I was senseless and ignorant;
I was a brute beast before you.
Yet I am always with you;
you hold me by my right hand.
You guide me with your counsel,
and afterward you will take me into glory.
Whom have I in heaven but you?
And earth has nothing I desire besides you.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart
and my portion forever.
But as for me, it is good to be near God.
I have made the Sovereign LORD my refuge;
I will tell of all your deeds.
(excerpts of Psalm 73)
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Today life is much better. I'm sure that has nothing to do with attitude, the grace of God, and re-alignment of priortities.
It was probably the crazy yodeling I did in the car on the way to work...
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
I'm tired of it.
Tired of it all.
Arrgh!
I'm tired of always being wrong, always being corrected, being corrected when I'm NOT wrong, being told to write more, being told to write less, being told that I'm good at something, and then being smacked with "you're not REALLY good at it." Being told to be confident to call it, and then being told that I can't call THAT. Being told I have a good eye but my ear isn't so great, being told I have a great ear but my eye isn't so great.
SICK OF IT!
It's as though extern rotations are specifically designed to shake whatever confidence you might have, or might be developing, and move it around.
"You're good. You're not. Well, you're good at that, but not this. Nevermind, you're not good at that. Do it this way. No, do it that way. Didn't I TELL YOU to do it this way?"
ARRRRGH!
Part of it is just my pride rearing its ugly head in anger and wounded pain.
The other part, I am sure, even in my rage, is valid frustration. Don't expect me to know things you never taught. Don't expect me to do things that you never do. Don't expect me to know what that word means, how to measure that, or how to deal with them.
STOP.
I'm a STUDENT. First, I'm doing a GOOD job, I'm working my a** off (yes, mom, I said that), and I'm doing it CORRECTLY. I'm not killing anyone. I'm not even HARMING anyone or causing them pain.
Tomorrow, maybe even tonight, this rant will be funny, irrational, and incorrect. But for right now it's very, very real.
I am blessed. I love my placement. I love my experiences. I really, truly do. I'm just a little tired of being the "girl who doesn't know what she's doing" and the student who can be whipped around on a whim.
Just tired.
And a little frustrated.
And ready for the summer vacation I will never have.
Tired of it all.
Arrgh!
I'm tired of always being wrong, always being corrected, being corrected when I'm NOT wrong, being told to write more, being told to write less, being told that I'm good at something, and then being smacked with "you're not REALLY good at it." Being told to be confident to call it, and then being told that I can't call THAT. Being told I have a good eye but my ear isn't so great, being told I have a great ear but my eye isn't so great.
SICK OF IT!
It's as though extern rotations are specifically designed to shake whatever confidence you might have, or might be developing, and move it around.
"You're good. You're not. Well, you're good at that, but not this. Nevermind, you're not good at that. Do it this way. No, do it that way. Didn't I TELL YOU to do it this way?"
ARRRRGH!
Part of it is just my pride rearing its ugly head in anger and wounded pain.
The other part, I am sure, even in my rage, is valid frustration. Don't expect me to know things you never taught. Don't expect me to do things that you never do. Don't expect me to know what that word means, how to measure that, or how to deal with them.
STOP.
I'm a STUDENT. First, I'm doing a GOOD job, I'm working my a** off (yes, mom, I said that), and I'm doing it CORRECTLY. I'm not killing anyone. I'm not even HARMING anyone or causing them pain.
Tomorrow, maybe even tonight, this rant will be funny, irrational, and incorrect. But for right now it's very, very real.
I am blessed. I love my placement. I love my experiences. I really, truly do. I'm just a little tired of being the "girl who doesn't know what she's doing" and the student who can be whipped around on a whim.
Just tired.
And a little frustrated.
And ready for the summer vacation I will never have.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
It's 8:51 on a Saturday night, and I'm home, freshly returned from yet another wedding. I think I average about 10 weddings a year (over the past 4 years), and I could probably marry someone, verbatim, from Pastor Aucoin's script. (But I'm very happy for the new Mr. & Mrs.! I love seeing new families start...)
I'm already in my p.j. pants, and I'm debating the value of a fruit smoothie over frozen pizza.
My life is very tame, very quiet, very void of excitement, and limited in personal interactions. I am so delighted with everything that God has been teaching me-- the quiet filing He's done on my imperfect character over these past few months. I see a (slightly) more gracious, peaceful, dependent person emerge from His tutelage.
But I'm lonely.
I can see everything God is doing. I turn to Him faster, I delight in His care, and right now I'm grieving over my discontent. How cruel, to say to a God who has lavished abundant love, grace, and joy on my life: "You're not enough." My heart rends at the lack of love I'm showing to my Father, and I pray, over, and over: "Please... I want you to be enough. Satisfy me with you. Be the only delight of my heart."
And yet my flesh fights back, and godly desires constantly war with deceitful selfishness. I know that my desire to be a wife and mother is a good thing. These are roles God designed specifically for women. He wants me to desire them. He created me to desire them.
But I am never to prize these roles more than bringing glory to my Savior. Should my lack of fulfillment in these areas of my life lead me to bitterness, anger, self-pity, and ungratefulness, then I know my desires are no longer God given: they are now mangled atrocities my sinful flesh has twisted and warped.
So, I'm lonely. And constantly battling my desires.
I want to be married. And I want God to be enough.
I don't want to be lonely. And I want to be okay with being alone.
I want to cultivate admiration and skills for the roles of wife and mother. And I want to be satisfied and joyful, should they never come about.
Such a delicate tight-rope!
I delight greatly in the LORD;
my soul rejoices in my God.
For he has clothed me with garments of salvation
and arrayed me in a robe of righteousness,
as a bridegroom adorns his head like a priest,
and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels.
For as the soil makes the sprout come up
and a garden causes seeds to grow,
so the Sovereign LORD will make righteousness and praise
spring up before all nations.
(Isaiah 69:10,11)
I'm already in my p.j. pants, and I'm debating the value of a fruit smoothie over frozen pizza.
My life is very tame, very quiet, very void of excitement, and limited in personal interactions. I am so delighted with everything that God has been teaching me-- the quiet filing He's done on my imperfect character over these past few months. I see a (slightly) more gracious, peaceful, dependent person emerge from His tutelage.
But I'm lonely.
I can see everything God is doing. I turn to Him faster, I delight in His care, and right now I'm grieving over my discontent. How cruel, to say to a God who has lavished abundant love, grace, and joy on my life: "You're not enough." My heart rends at the lack of love I'm showing to my Father, and I pray, over, and over: "Please... I want you to be enough. Satisfy me with you. Be the only delight of my heart."
And yet my flesh fights back, and godly desires constantly war with deceitful selfishness. I know that my desire to be a wife and mother is a good thing. These are roles God designed specifically for women. He wants me to desire them. He created me to desire them.
But I am never to prize these roles more than bringing glory to my Savior. Should my lack of fulfillment in these areas of my life lead me to bitterness, anger, self-pity, and ungratefulness, then I know my desires are no longer God given: they are now mangled atrocities my sinful flesh has twisted and warped.
So, I'm lonely. And constantly battling my desires.
I want to be married. And I want God to be enough.
I don't want to be lonely. And I want to be okay with being alone.
I want to cultivate admiration and skills for the roles of wife and mother. And I want to be satisfied and joyful, should they never come about.
Such a delicate tight-rope!
I delight greatly in the LORD;
my soul rejoices in my God.
For he has clothed me with garments of salvation
and arrayed me in a robe of righteousness,
as a bridegroom adorns his head like a priest,
and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels.
For as the soil makes the sprout come up
and a garden causes seeds to grow,
so the Sovereign LORD will make righteousness and praise
spring up before all nations.
(Isaiah 69:10,11)
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Quote of the Day:
"You know what... I'm just going to have to start double-stacking my awards."
(My brother on his organizational "quandry." Life is just hard for some people.)
(My brother on his organizational "quandry." Life is just hard for some people.)
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Wordless Learning... (or an empty brain)
Hello, all... such a long sabbatical from my blog has not happened in many moons. In fact, initially 2010 was looking to be my most prolific year yet.
However, that is not to be. Over the past several months I have been sick almost constantly, and have been battling complete incompetence throughout my clinical externship. The combined effect of this duo has been a constant sense of inadequacy, stomach cramps, and anemia.
But God is gracious, is He not? And despite my barely cognizant existence, I have been learning, and growing, and delighting in Him more and more each day. In ways that I would never have been wise enough to discover without external prompting, my God has become a focal part of my life, the delight of my existence, in ways that I never imagined.
What a great God.
All that to say:
I've been learning massive quantities, and occasionally, through my brain would flash a thought: "I need to write about this!" But the anemia, and the pills drained all my big words and energy, and instead I'd just curl up on my couch, under 12 blankets, and doze.
As I'm emerging from my cocoon of maladies, I can hardly wait to recount the numerous hilarious, delightful, painfully-taught lessons that I've learned.
But my written ramblings will have to wait.
I haven't done laundry in a month, and the gush of energy, propelling my thoughts and words is as of yet, still hampered by horse pills and sleepiness.
But someday... someday soon... I'll be writing massive quantities yet again.
(Seriously, if you haven't seen the movie, "Becoming Jane" you need to. LOVE it.)
However, that is not to be. Over the past several months I have been sick almost constantly, and have been battling complete incompetence throughout my clinical externship. The combined effect of this duo has been a constant sense of inadequacy, stomach cramps, and anemia.
But God is gracious, is He not? And despite my barely cognizant existence, I have been learning, and growing, and delighting in Him more and more each day. In ways that I would never have been wise enough to discover without external prompting, my God has become a focal part of my life, the delight of my existence, in ways that I never imagined.
What a great God.
All that to say:
I've been learning massive quantities, and occasionally, through my brain would flash a thought: "I need to write about this!" But the anemia, and the pills drained all my big words and energy, and instead I'd just curl up on my couch, under 12 blankets, and doze.
As I'm emerging from my cocoon of maladies, I can hardly wait to recount the numerous hilarious, delightful, painfully-taught lessons that I've learned.
But my written ramblings will have to wait.
I haven't done laundry in a month, and the gush of energy, propelling my thoughts and words is as of yet, still hampered by horse pills and sleepiness.
But someday... someday soon... I'll be writing massive quantities yet again.
(Seriously, if you haven't seen the movie, "Becoming Jane" you need to. LOVE it.)
Monday, March 29, 2010
"That's just what every man wants... to start his dinner with half a grapefruit."
The benefit of being ill and couch-ridden in your parents' cable-deprived house, is that you only have access to channels that you ordinarily would not deign to watch. While some may view this deprivation as a fate worse than ulcerative colitis, it is, in fact, a valuable opportunity to examine prior generations. I have learned many valuable lessons over the past three days, and I feel compelled to share them with you.
From "I Dream of Jeannie" I learned...
It is perfectly acceptable to paint your living room wall sherbet orange.
Even if you give him ulcers, he'll still want to keep you-- in a pink, bejewelled bottle, maybe, but he'll keep you nonetheless.
And the way to a man's heart is by serving him half a grapefruit for dinner.
From "Beverly Hillbillies" I learned...
If you're over the age of fourteen, you're "past your prime," and it's time to employ a little love-voodoo.
Rope belts are totally in vogue.
And from "Bewitched" I learned...
One should interview live-in maids, and ones named "Agatha" (or "Amelia" or something...) are the ones that are most likely to be trusted.
Also, your mother-in-law will always sabotage your hollandaise sauce. Even if you have magical powers.
What can I say? Maybe I should stay home more often...
From "I Dream of Jeannie" I learned...
It is perfectly acceptable to paint your living room wall sherbet orange.
Even if you give him ulcers, he'll still want to keep you-- in a pink, bejewelled bottle, maybe, but he'll keep you nonetheless.
And the way to a man's heart is by serving him half a grapefruit for dinner.
From "Beverly Hillbillies" I learned...
If you're over the age of fourteen, you're "past your prime," and it's time to employ a little love-voodoo.
Rope belts are totally in vogue.
And from "Bewitched" I learned...
One should interview live-in maids, and ones named "Agatha" (or "Amelia" or something...) are the ones that are most likely to be trusted.
Also, your mother-in-law will always sabotage your hollandaise sauce. Even if you have magical powers.
What can I say? Maybe I should stay home more often...
Friday, March 26, 2010
Blessings of a day on the couch
Today, curled up under multiple blankets...
Paula Dean(my Food Network icon) just made deviled eggs with goat cheese. It looked amazing, and I promptly boiled some eggs, despite my very obvious lack of goat cheese.
The sun was streaming through the windows, and the clean blue sky reflecting in my living room windows, and I curled up a little closer under my blankets and hummed a happy Easter song to myself.
My dad left me a funny message on my voicemail, and in the background I could hear Julie giggling.
Nothing can rival the comfiness of my brother's old, faded, soft sweatshirt.
As I curl up, napping amid comfy, down pillows, I reveled in my blessings.
Collecting blessings is my Easter hunt, and searching for tidbits of happiness is far more rewarding than any chocolate bunny and jelly beans.
Paula Dean(my Food Network icon) just made deviled eggs with goat cheese. It looked amazing, and I promptly boiled some eggs, despite my very obvious lack of goat cheese.
The sun was streaming through the windows, and the clean blue sky reflecting in my living room windows, and I curled up a little closer under my blankets and hummed a happy Easter song to myself.
My dad left me a funny message on my voicemail, and in the background I could hear Julie giggling.
Nothing can rival the comfiness of my brother's old, faded, soft sweatshirt.
As I curl up, napping amid comfy, down pillows, I reveled in my blessings.
Collecting blessings is my Easter hunt, and searching for tidbits of happiness is far more rewarding than any chocolate bunny and jelly beans.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Introvert at lunch time
When everyone else crowds into the breakroom, ready to munch their hard boiled eggs and moist sandwiches, while discussing the drama of their morning...
I just want to go outside and soak up the sun. Alone. In the silence.
I feel constantly overwhelmed these days, and alone time... silence... peace... They serve to rejuvenate me in a way that hilarious patient stories fail to do.
Perhaps someday, when I'm less stressed and... new, I'll hard boil some eggs and chuckle over the little old lady who thought an allergy test was like surgery, but for right now:
Just give me the sun and a breeze... peace...
I just want to go outside and soak up the sun. Alone. In the silence.
I feel constantly overwhelmed these days, and alone time... silence... peace... They serve to rejuvenate me in a way that hilarious patient stories fail to do.
Perhaps someday, when I'm less stressed and... new, I'll hard boil some eggs and chuckle over the little old lady who thought an allergy test was like surgery, but for right now:
Just give me the sun and a breeze... peace...
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Good doesn't always equal "good"
Today was the crappiest of all crappy days.
And I'm not even supposed to say the word "crappy." I view it as crass and jr. high-ish. Especially when it slips out in front of patients who are triple my age.
But it really was crappy. I cried almost the entire way home, which can't be good because:
a) bawling while driving 77 mph on the highway is hardly safe, and
b) It's a pretty long drive, and that much crying is sure to dehydrate my already feeble mucous membranes.
I just kept saying, over and over and over, "I will never stop doing good to them..." (Jeremiah 32:38-41 is this week's memory verse). But it took 55 miles of highway before I began to breathe normally again.
Today I...
recorded all of one patient's information into another patient's chart and had to spend half of my lunch break correcting my error.
I successfully gagged a patient while conducting an exam of their larynx. I went into this woman's mouth FIFTEEN TIMES and was unable to obtain a clear picture of her vocal cords. FIFTEEN TIMES. And it wasn't my first strobe. Oh, no. I had practiced. Rigorously. And I still failed.
I sat. On edge. Grinding my teeth through a two-hour patient session in which I couldn't help thinking, "Could these people get more abrasive, stupid, and illogical?" You have barely completed high school, and you're sitting in my office chair and telling me that doctors-- DOCTORS: aka "forever students"-- are stupid? Why are you incapable of giving me an accurate, organized medical history? Just answer my questions. Can you do that? Apparently not. And no, the drug DOESN'T just do what the ad on TV says it does. It helps with additional problems. You are not a freakin' pharmacist, stop medicating yourself. And for crying out loud, please stop railing everyone as a complete idiot when you can't even correctly pronounce your own diagnosis. And God help me, if you start developing some sort of superiority complex because, "No one can figure out what's wrong with me... Aren't I special?" I will hurt you.
My day in conclusion: blinded by a light, horizontal in a dentist's chair, I had to defend my "no dental insurance" policy to a man who clearly wanted to rip my gums to shreds at the happy tune of $1714.
I'm sick. Tired. Incompetent. Poor. The proud possessor of two "inoperable wisdom teeth." And I'm anemic. (Which is why I'm sipping orange juice. Supposedly it will speed the absorption of my multiple iron pills.)
This week I've been seeking to revel in God's grace. Sobbing my way down I-65, I repeated my "verse of the week" over and over...
"They will be my people, and I will be their God. I will give them singleness of heart and action, so that they will always fear me for their own good and the good of their children after them. I will make an everlasting covenant with them: I will never stop doing good to them, and I will inspire them to fear me, so that they will never turn away from me. I will rejoice in doing them good and will assuredly plant them in this land with all my heart and soul." (Jeremiah 32:38-41)
God's definition of "good" and my definition of "good" are radically different.
My definition of good is flawless performance, beautifully executed exams, healthy teeth, and orange juice for pleasure, rather than medical necessity.
But God's definition of good is so much deeper. Richer. More complex.
In Jeremiah 32, prior to my "special" verses, the outlook is anything but pleasant. The people are depraved. Sacrificing their sons and daughters in violent rituals. Saturated evil. God has sent plague, sword, and famine while handing them over to their enemies. "They turned their backs to me and not their faces." Despite the face that the Lord had "performed miraculous signs and wonders in Egypt and [had] continued them to this day," the children of Israel had "done nothing but evil in my sight from their youth." They are obliterated by their enemies. Handed over for 70 years of torturous exile.
And yet God said, "I will never stop doing good to them." During those 70 years, God's goodness did not stop. Esther saved her people. The Jews integrated into the society. Developed homes. Freedom to worship. Eventually (after the promised 70 years) they received royal blessing and funds to rebuild their kingdom. Nehemiah and Daniel are stunning examples of the fact that God's punishment served to turn the people back to Him. God's definition of "good" is not what will make us happy, but rather what will make us holy.
If my debilitating health, impossible patients, repeated failures, and cantankerous teeth cause me to become more like Christ, to cling closer to my God, to remain broken and dependent on Him, then God has "never stop doing good" to me!
"But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me." (II Cor. 12:9)
And I'm not even supposed to say the word "crappy." I view it as crass and jr. high-ish. Especially when it slips out in front of patients who are triple my age.
But it really was crappy. I cried almost the entire way home, which can't be good because:
a) bawling while driving 77 mph on the highway is hardly safe, and
b) It's a pretty long drive, and that much crying is sure to dehydrate my already feeble mucous membranes.
I just kept saying, over and over and over, "I will never stop doing good to them..." (Jeremiah 32:38-41 is this week's memory verse). But it took 55 miles of highway before I began to breathe normally again.
Today I...
recorded all of one patient's information into another patient's chart and had to spend half of my lunch break correcting my error.
I successfully gagged a patient while conducting an exam of their larynx. I went into this woman's mouth FIFTEEN TIMES and was unable to obtain a clear picture of her vocal cords. FIFTEEN TIMES. And it wasn't my first strobe. Oh, no. I had practiced. Rigorously. And I still failed.
I sat. On edge. Grinding my teeth through a two-hour patient session in which I couldn't help thinking, "Could these people get more abrasive, stupid, and illogical?" You have barely completed high school, and you're sitting in my office chair and telling me that doctors-- DOCTORS: aka "forever students"-- are stupid? Why are you incapable of giving me an accurate, organized medical history? Just answer my questions. Can you do that? Apparently not. And no, the drug DOESN'T just do what the ad on TV says it does. It helps with additional problems. You are not a freakin' pharmacist, stop medicating yourself. And for crying out loud, please stop railing everyone as a complete idiot when you can't even correctly pronounce your own diagnosis. And God help me, if you start developing some sort of superiority complex because, "No one can figure out what's wrong with me... Aren't I special?" I will hurt you.
My day in conclusion: blinded by a light, horizontal in a dentist's chair, I had to defend my "no dental insurance" policy to a man who clearly wanted to rip my gums to shreds at the happy tune of $1714.
I'm sick. Tired. Incompetent. Poor. The proud possessor of two "inoperable wisdom teeth." And I'm anemic. (Which is why I'm sipping orange juice. Supposedly it will speed the absorption of my multiple iron pills.)
This week I've been seeking to revel in God's grace. Sobbing my way down I-65, I repeated my "verse of the week" over and over...
"They will be my people, and I will be their God. I will give them singleness of heart and action, so that they will always fear me for their own good and the good of their children after them. I will make an everlasting covenant with them: I will never stop doing good to them, and I will inspire them to fear me, so that they will never turn away from me. I will rejoice in doing them good and will assuredly plant them in this land with all my heart and soul." (Jeremiah 32:38-41)
God's definition of "good" and my definition of "good" are radically different.
My definition of good is flawless performance, beautifully executed exams, healthy teeth, and orange juice for pleasure, rather than medical necessity.
But God's definition of good is so much deeper. Richer. More complex.
In Jeremiah 32, prior to my "special" verses, the outlook is anything but pleasant. The people are depraved. Sacrificing their sons and daughters in violent rituals. Saturated evil. God has sent plague, sword, and famine while handing them over to their enemies. "They turned their backs to me and not their faces." Despite the face that the Lord had "performed miraculous signs and wonders in Egypt and [had] continued them to this day," the children of Israel had "done nothing but evil in my sight from their youth." They are obliterated by their enemies. Handed over for 70 years of torturous exile.
And yet God said, "I will never stop doing good to them." During those 70 years, God's goodness did not stop. Esther saved her people. The Jews integrated into the society. Developed homes. Freedom to worship. Eventually (after the promised 70 years) they received royal blessing and funds to rebuild their kingdom. Nehemiah and Daniel are stunning examples of the fact that God's punishment served to turn the people back to Him. God's definition of "good" is not what will make us happy, but rather what will make us holy.
If my debilitating health, impossible patients, repeated failures, and cantankerous teeth cause me to become more like Christ, to cling closer to my God, to remain broken and dependent on Him, then God has "never stop doing good" to me!
"But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me." (II Cor. 12:9)
Saturday, March 20, 2010
A guest blogspot for my little bro...
**The following was written for my little bro's "Man Blog" per his request. The blog is witty observations and advice, and I was delighted to appear as a guest columnist. Check the blog out for yourself at: http://thingsifoundinjasonstathamsgarbage.blogspot.com/**
**********************
From The Enemy Camp
Words of pseudo-wisdom from a lady on the other side
Dear Sirs, Noble Gentlemen, and Knights in Shining Armor,
It is my pleasure to address you on this exceptional day. Disclaimer: although I am addressing you from the “enemy camp” and can, after many years of experience (i.e. late-night ice cream talks) provide an accurate view of the female mind, I cannot claim insight to every female mind. Such ability would require divine intervention.
So… the question hovering before all your eyes is: “Why?”
“Why on earth does she like that shlub?” “Why do they care about mascara?” “Why doesn’t she realize that I like her?” “Why is door-holding such a big deal?” “Why is chocolate like a drug?”
Yes. We women come with quite a few question marks—some perplexing, some obvious, some as of yet hidden and unknown to man. Let’s address the first one, shall we? What are we looking for when it comes to men? What do we want? To touch the tip of that iceberg today, I will address several misconceptions. Possible further conversations are at the mercy of these fine gentlemen.
Women want a man who is tall,
False. Tallness is completely arbitrary. If you are a midget—rally. Women don’t care if you’ve touched six feet, or gone toe-to-toe with Shaq. We care whether or not we can wear our favorite shoes when we are with you, and not look like the gorilla Homo-sapien of the duo.
dark,
False. Darkness is unnecessary. If you are a purebred albino, you still have a chance at truelove. (Maybe with a sunscreen rep, but still… you have a chance). The average woman cares more for your eye/hair combo than your swarthy appearance. Should you be freckle-y and redheaded, but have shockingly green eyes—bemoan not your freckles. They only serve to make us love your eyes more.
and handsome.
This one is true. Every woman wants a handsome man. But don’t bury your pug nose into your misshapen hands and moan. Women are not like men in their definition of “handsome.” You can be a complete dog (true!), but still have a drop-dead gorgeous woman claim you as a “hottie.”
Let me explain. The details of your appearance are not the determiners of our attraction. This explains the couples you see in every town, city, state, and nation. Next time you sip a cup o’ joe in your favorite java spot, take a look at the couples around you. How many are equal in attractiveness? How many adoring women are hanging on the arms of men, far inferior in appearance? Lots, right? How many Pierce Brosnan men are sweet-talking completely dog-faced women? Not so many.
It’s because the first thing we, as women, are attracted to is your general demeanor. Should you be intelligent—cite your most interesting facts. Witty—break out your banter. Quiet—listen intensely. Focus on her. Not yourself. Never forget that your service and thoughtfulness will serve you far better than six feet of solid manhood, dark swarthy skin, and ruggedly proportioned features. Remember her favorite latte (skim milk, no foam, extra hot, added shot, caramel macchiato) and you have an in. Listen to yet another “horrible hair cut” story, and you’re golden. Maximize your character’s best assets. And you will find a lady who finds you very handsome… despite your midget height and albino complexion.
Best of luck from the enemy camp,
Lady C.
**********************
From The Enemy Camp
Words of pseudo-wisdom from a lady on the other side
Dear Sirs, Noble Gentlemen, and Knights in Shining Armor,
It is my pleasure to address you on this exceptional day. Disclaimer: although I am addressing you from the “enemy camp” and can, after many years of experience (i.e. late-night ice cream talks) provide an accurate view of the female mind, I cannot claim insight to every female mind. Such ability would require divine intervention.
So… the question hovering before all your eyes is: “Why?”
“Why on earth does she like that shlub?” “Why do they care about mascara?” “Why doesn’t she realize that I like her?” “Why is door-holding such a big deal?” “Why is chocolate like a drug?”
Yes. We women come with quite a few question marks—some perplexing, some obvious, some as of yet hidden and unknown to man. Let’s address the first one, shall we? What are we looking for when it comes to men? What do we want? To touch the tip of that iceberg today, I will address several misconceptions. Possible further conversations are at the mercy of these fine gentlemen.
Women want a man who is tall,
False. Tallness is completely arbitrary. If you are a midget—rally. Women don’t care if you’ve touched six feet, or gone toe-to-toe with Shaq. We care whether or not we can wear our favorite shoes when we are with you, and not look like the gorilla Homo-sapien of the duo.
dark,
False. Darkness is unnecessary. If you are a purebred albino, you still have a chance at truelove. (Maybe with a sunscreen rep, but still… you have a chance). The average woman cares more for your eye/hair combo than your swarthy appearance. Should you be freckle-y and redheaded, but have shockingly green eyes—bemoan not your freckles. They only serve to make us love your eyes more.
and handsome.
This one is true. Every woman wants a handsome man. But don’t bury your pug nose into your misshapen hands and moan. Women are not like men in their definition of “handsome.” You can be a complete dog (true!), but still have a drop-dead gorgeous woman claim you as a “hottie.”
Let me explain. The details of your appearance are not the determiners of our attraction. This explains the couples you see in every town, city, state, and nation. Next time you sip a cup o’ joe in your favorite java spot, take a look at the couples around you. How many are equal in attractiveness? How many adoring women are hanging on the arms of men, far inferior in appearance? Lots, right? How many Pierce Brosnan men are sweet-talking completely dog-faced women? Not so many.
It’s because the first thing we, as women, are attracted to is your general demeanor. Should you be intelligent—cite your most interesting facts. Witty—break out your banter. Quiet—listen intensely. Focus on her. Not yourself. Never forget that your service and thoughtfulness will serve you far better than six feet of solid manhood, dark swarthy skin, and ruggedly proportioned features. Remember her favorite latte (skim milk, no foam, extra hot, added shot, caramel macchiato) and you have an in. Listen to yet another “horrible hair cut” story, and you’re golden. Maximize your character’s best assets. And you will find a lady who finds you very handsome… despite your midget height and albino complexion.
Best of luck from the enemy camp,
Lady C.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Sometimes I feel as though my life has been paused.
I'm going no where.
But it seems so fast.
Sorry for the lack of posting. As soon as I figure out my life, I'll be back in the swing of literary endeavors. Thanks for your patience!
But it seems so fast.
Sorry for the lack of posting. As soon as I figure out my life, I'll be back in the swing of literary endeavors. Thanks for your patience!
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
I just had an amazing evening, a fabulous talk with God, and then I make the mistake of opening my e-mail inbox.
Arrgh!
I am so frustrated that all my holiness flies right out the window when confronted with (what I perceive to be) rude, petty behavior.
Changing this simmering anger to a gracious, loving firmness is not something I want to tackle at 11:24 p.m.
Arrgh!
I am so frustrated that all my holiness flies right out the window when confronted with (what I perceive to be) rude, petty behavior.
Changing this simmering anger to a gracious, loving firmness is not something I want to tackle at 11:24 p.m.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Tonight, instead of pouring over voice notes, starching my beautiful GAP shirt, and obsessing about shoe choices for my first day of my internship:
I drank chocolate soy milk and watched "The Little Mermaid."
Longer, more in-depth posts to follow my drug-induced haze. Tomorrow's going to be crazy!
Longer, more in-depth posts to follow my drug-induced haze. Tomorrow's going to be crazy!
Friday, March 5, 2010
No one had better tape-record my Tylenol P.M. ramblings...
Last night I was convinced that I was getting married in a drainage ditch.
I got trapped in a MacDonald's play-scape. It was slowly filling up with water.
I wandered up and down Target aisles for hours.
I was turning into a giant tortoise.
I was in Hawaii. A tsunami came. But somehow lava saved me.
Fact and fiction meld into one cohesive mess when I'm drugged...
I got trapped in a MacDonald's play-scape. It was slowly filling up with water.
I wandered up and down Target aisles for hours.
I was turning into a giant tortoise.
I was in Hawaii. A tsunami came. But somehow lava saved me.
Fact and fiction meld into one cohesive mess when I'm drugged...
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Where I'm Supposed To Be...
I'm not supposed to be here.
I'm supposed to be cruising down 5th Avenue, avoiding the allure of Saks. I'm supposed to have basked in the musical, theatrical grandeur of "The Lion King" with my little brother beside me. I was supposed to be exploring Central Park, meeting all his amazing friends, and wearing my golden heels out, trekking from one end of Manhattan to the other.
Instead I'm here.
Curled up on a couch, sipping tea, sucking on sherbet, anything to soothe my persistently painful throat. I'm curled up under massive amounts of blankets, alternately shivering and then shaking them off. I can barely read. My grasp of words has flown. I'm sick. Very sick. More sick than I've been in years.
The only thing I can assume is that this is where I'm supposed to be.
And I have no idea why.
I'm supposed to be cruising down 5th Avenue, avoiding the allure of Saks. I'm supposed to have basked in the musical, theatrical grandeur of "The Lion King" with my little brother beside me. I was supposed to be exploring Central Park, meeting all his amazing friends, and wearing my golden heels out, trekking from one end of Manhattan to the other.
Instead I'm here.
Curled up on a couch, sipping tea, sucking on sherbet, anything to soothe my persistently painful throat. I'm curled up under massive amounts of blankets, alternately shivering and then shaking them off. I can barely read. My grasp of words has flown. I'm sick. Very sick. More sick than I've been in years.
The only thing I can assume is that this is where I'm supposed to be.
And I have no idea why.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Regardless of what anyone tells you, being "hit on" by a (very attractive) stranger, who runs after you, despite the bevy of protective girl friends around you, is amazing.
Even if he was smoking and I'll probably see him in ten years when his larynx is removed due to cancer and he needs speech therapy...
Even if he was smoking and I'll probably see him in ten years when his larynx is removed due to cancer and he needs speech therapy...
Thursday, February 25, 2010
In Lieu of Originality... Here's Some Crazy
Hello, readers! (Don't you hate it when I address you as that? I always hated it when writers did that... it bespoke unwarranted familiarity. Now I do it to you. Proof that our greatest pet peeves are often exhibited most prominently in our own persons.)
Relationships have been the discussion of several of my blogging peers. As you know, I'm no stranger to an occasional relationship rant, and I feel that I must fall into line behind several of my more intellectual colleagues and try flex my relationship writing skills once again.
The primary topic of recent posts has been desirable traits for a future mate. Insights and comprehensive lists have been proposed, and I have been impressed by their breadth and intelligence. I cannot hope to achieve the wit and knowledge that my peers display, but I have a few notes of my own to add:
Nine Things Necessary In a Spouse (of mine): (numbering does not denote importance, merely organization.)
1. He has to eat the crusts on his bread. Flagrant waste of such nutrients is not to be tolerated. Besides, it's yummy.
2. I would prefer a man who knows the difference between the oil and the windshield washer fluid openings under the hood of my car. Mixing up the two is not pretty.
3. If his eyebrows are large enough to have their own personalities, he must not be adverse to waxing, plucking, and/or restraining them in any way necessary.
4. No squashing of my competitive nature is to be tolerated. I become animated (some say, "violent") when playing Monopoly. If you don't like having board games tossed at your head, please look elsewhere.
5. Good penmanship is appreciated.
6. He should not be easily shocked at the multiple fluctuation in moods and opinions that occur, often over the space of a mere 24 hours. (i.e. Some days I will want 12 children, the next day I will be convinced that children are of the devil and any number of them is completely out of the question.)
7. Must be willing to give an intelligent opinion on scented candles. I find it virtually impossible to pick out a new candle on my own. And I can tell when you're patronizing me and not really paying attention. Unacceptable.
8. He will probably have no bathroom cabinet space. I experiment with too many hair products. I hope he is okay with this.
9. Must be okay with the fact that many things, like the length of this list, will be determined, not on the basis of thought, or even random chance, but rather on the basis of whether or not they are divisible by three. (i.e. the volume on my car radio, the length of time I microwave my tea, the number of miles I run on a treadmill, how many pancakes can go onto the griddle at the same time... etc., etc.)
There.
I feel as though I've tossed my teaspoon of thought into the great, big cauldron of simmering spouse advice. (Ah... gotta love a metaphor...)
Here's my point: I'm completely and insanely crazy. The nine above? They're only a snippet of my craziness. Only love that's aspiring to be like Christ's sacrificial love, will ever be able to hug me and say, "Honey, you're a nut case. And I love you."
Relationships have been the discussion of several of my blogging peers. As you know, I'm no stranger to an occasional relationship rant, and I feel that I must fall into line behind several of my more intellectual colleagues and try flex my relationship writing skills once again.
The primary topic of recent posts has been desirable traits for a future mate. Insights and comprehensive lists have been proposed, and I have been impressed by their breadth and intelligence. I cannot hope to achieve the wit and knowledge that my peers display, but I have a few notes of my own to add:
Nine Things Necessary In a Spouse (of mine): (numbering does not denote importance, merely organization.)
1. He has to eat the crusts on his bread. Flagrant waste of such nutrients is not to be tolerated. Besides, it's yummy.
2. I would prefer a man who knows the difference between the oil and the windshield washer fluid openings under the hood of my car. Mixing up the two is not pretty.
3. If his eyebrows are large enough to have their own personalities, he must not be adverse to waxing, plucking, and/or restraining them in any way necessary.
4. No squashing of my competitive nature is to be tolerated. I become animated (some say, "violent") when playing Monopoly. If you don't like having board games tossed at your head, please look elsewhere.
5. Good penmanship is appreciated.
6. He should not be easily shocked at the multiple fluctuation in moods and opinions that occur, often over the space of a mere 24 hours. (i.e. Some days I will want 12 children, the next day I will be convinced that children are of the devil and any number of them is completely out of the question.)
7. Must be willing to give an intelligent opinion on scented candles. I find it virtually impossible to pick out a new candle on my own. And I can tell when you're patronizing me and not really paying attention. Unacceptable.
8. He will probably have no bathroom cabinet space. I experiment with too many hair products. I hope he is okay with this.
9. Must be okay with the fact that many things, like the length of this list, will be determined, not on the basis of thought, or even random chance, but rather on the basis of whether or not they are divisible by three. (i.e. the volume on my car radio, the length of time I microwave my tea, the number of miles I run on a treadmill, how many pancakes can go onto the griddle at the same time... etc., etc.)
There.
I feel as though I've tossed my teaspoon of thought into the great, big cauldron of simmering spouse advice. (Ah... gotta love a metaphor...)
Here's my point: I'm completely and insanely crazy. The nine above? They're only a snippet of my craziness. Only love that's aspiring to be like Christ's sacrificial love, will ever be able to hug me and say, "Honey, you're a nut case. And I love you."
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Singles "Non-Wedding" Registry
I think people labor under the delusion that if you smile at them, make a wise decision, and actively pursue other areas of your life, then you must (of course) be doing "all right."
That's a crappy assumption.
Here's my deal, I'll shoot it to you straight.
I am a twenty-four year old, finishing a higher degree that 6 years ago I had no intention of ever earning. I'm looking for jobs I never wanted to hold, and I have a mortgage, a will, and a college-sized debt in my name. I have cultivated an aggressive, go-getter work ethic, because it's safe, and a sure-fire winner. I've learned about inter-office politics, and insurance billing codes. I own a power suit and have stilettos that could shatter any glass ceiling.
But that's not what I wanted.
I wanted a family, a husband, little squealing children. Mock the white picket fence all you want, it's my heaven. Ridicule SUVs, I've had mine picked out since age 21 (Cadillac Escalade, black. Thank you very much!). I was sitting in my first freshman class when I realized that I would rather be a soccer mom than a scientist, and I'd rather have finger paintings than research articles on my desk.
But I was also sitting in my first freshman class, when I realized that that might not happen. Part of my stomach curdled when I heard girls talking about men as though they were the ultimate ticket to happiness. I watched wonderful ladies marry sub-par men, simply so they could wave a diamond under the nose of their lab partner. And I decided that I would never be that. I would never be the girl who believed that her ultimate satisfaction lay in a man and a rock.
So I got my degree. And I really do love what I do, I love it passionately. I love it enough not to want to marry Joe Shmoe of the homeless shelter or Larry the Loser of Welfare. That being said, all I've still wanted to do was to get married, be a mom, and a wife, and pack excellent, balanced lunches for my husband and children (carrot stick, anyone?).
And I thought I was almost there.
I really, truly did.
I was dating an amazing guy. Truly amazing. He made me laugh, bought sweater vests on command, and could make grilled cheese and chocolate cake. I was finishing up classes, I was tying up lose ends, and I was debating registering for the red or black KitchenAid mixer. I had spent months studying the appropriate role of women, and countless hours realigning my views (cynical, stomach curdling me had taken over for a while and drowned out the picket fence), when it all fell through.
My plan. The future. It all went up in the air, and landed in one big fat mess.
Oh, it needed to happen. It wasn't a bad thing. In fact, it was a very good thing. I know it was a good thing because it happened, and nothing happens that isn't for my good and for God's glory. But all my dreams of my SUV, picket fence, and KitchenAid mixer disappeared.
Sitting on a couch, munching chocolate, and not watching a movie, several "career" friends and I were talking about our "freak-out year." The "freak-out year" would be the year in which, if not married, we just might have a royal break-down, and sprinkle salty tears over a yummy cake.
Their "freak-out year" is one year away from my current age. Snap.
My freak-out year is still hovering out, closer to thirty (it's moved steadily, with each year), but today, I found myself saying, "Well, you know, I could take that job, at least until I get married, you know, around 29... or 30...." And then I made myself stop.
I don't want to every cry over a yummy chocolate birthday cake, and I don't know that I will ever get married. So I'm going to stop. As of right now, I have no "freak-out" year. I've banned it. I refuse to think that "I'm not really living until I've gotten my mixer and SUV." Gosh, dang it, if it comes down to that, I'll buy them myself.
So yes, I smile. I made a wise decision. I changed my plans. And some nights that just sucks. So, no, tonight I'm not "doing all right." Everything isn't peachy. Every thing's a little crappy.
But tomorrow I'll break out my stilettos and eBay-hunt for a kitchen mixer, so I'm sure I'll be just fine...
That's a crappy assumption.
Here's my deal, I'll shoot it to you straight.
I am a twenty-four year old, finishing a higher degree that 6 years ago I had no intention of ever earning. I'm looking for jobs I never wanted to hold, and I have a mortgage, a will, and a college-sized debt in my name. I have cultivated an aggressive, go-getter work ethic, because it's safe, and a sure-fire winner. I've learned about inter-office politics, and insurance billing codes. I own a power suit and have stilettos that could shatter any glass ceiling.
But that's not what I wanted.
I wanted a family, a husband, little squealing children. Mock the white picket fence all you want, it's my heaven. Ridicule SUVs, I've had mine picked out since age 21 (Cadillac Escalade, black. Thank you very much!). I was sitting in my first freshman class when I realized that I would rather be a soccer mom than a scientist, and I'd rather have finger paintings than research articles on my desk.
But I was also sitting in my first freshman class, when I realized that that might not happen. Part of my stomach curdled when I heard girls talking about men as though they were the ultimate ticket to happiness. I watched wonderful ladies marry sub-par men, simply so they could wave a diamond under the nose of their lab partner. And I decided that I would never be that. I would never be the girl who believed that her ultimate satisfaction lay in a man and a rock.
So I got my degree. And I really do love what I do, I love it passionately. I love it enough not to want to marry Joe Shmoe of the homeless shelter or Larry the Loser of Welfare. That being said, all I've still wanted to do was to get married, be a mom, and a wife, and pack excellent, balanced lunches for my husband and children (carrot stick, anyone?).
And I thought I was almost there.
I really, truly did.
I was dating an amazing guy. Truly amazing. He made me laugh, bought sweater vests on command, and could make grilled cheese and chocolate cake. I was finishing up classes, I was tying up lose ends, and I was debating registering for the red or black KitchenAid mixer. I had spent months studying the appropriate role of women, and countless hours realigning my views (cynical, stomach curdling me had taken over for a while and drowned out the picket fence), when it all fell through.
My plan. The future. It all went up in the air, and landed in one big fat mess.
Oh, it needed to happen. It wasn't a bad thing. In fact, it was a very good thing. I know it was a good thing because it happened, and nothing happens that isn't for my good and for God's glory. But all my dreams of my SUV, picket fence, and KitchenAid mixer disappeared.
Sitting on a couch, munching chocolate, and not watching a movie, several "career" friends and I were talking about our "freak-out year." The "freak-out year" would be the year in which, if not married, we just might have a royal break-down, and sprinkle salty tears over a yummy cake.
Their "freak-out year" is one year away from my current age. Snap.
My freak-out year is still hovering out, closer to thirty (it's moved steadily, with each year), but today, I found myself saying, "Well, you know, I could take that job, at least until I get married, you know, around 29... or 30...." And then I made myself stop.
I don't want to every cry over a yummy chocolate birthday cake, and I don't know that I will ever get married. So I'm going to stop. As of right now, I have no "freak-out" year. I've banned it. I refuse to think that "I'm not really living until I've gotten my mixer and SUV." Gosh, dang it, if it comes down to that, I'll buy them myself.
So yes, I smile. I made a wise decision. I changed my plans. And some nights that just sucks. So, no, tonight I'm not "doing all right." Everything isn't peachy. Every thing's a little crappy.
But tomorrow I'll break out my stilettos and eBay-hunt for a kitchen mixer, so I'm sure I'll be just fine...
Monday, February 22, 2010
This is my day: at 2:32 p.m.
I just spent an hour and a half on the phone.
I made approximately 40 calls.
I talked to maybe 6 people. I left at least 10 messages.
It's official:
Job hunting is of the devil.
I made approximately 40 calls.
I talked to maybe 6 people. I left at least 10 messages.
It's official:
Job hunting is of the devil.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Juggling... Exhausted
Lately, I have felt an overwhelming sense of panic. It's not overwhelming because of its intensity, but rather because of its low-grade consistency.
I feel as though I'm juggling 107 different balls, different areas of my life, different to-do lists. Despite my efforts to tick things off, one by one, I never seem to get ahead. On top of it all, my nasty health problems have chosen (probably in part because of the stress) the flare up right now, causing my energy to tank and migraines to increase.
I'm in my final stages of grad classes, and although the work has settled into a type of normalcy, it hasn't settled into a normalcy that's easy or relaxing.
I'm working (or trying to, between crazy clinic hours) part time, and my boss and co-workers are amazing. However, I spend all my time at work cold calling people all over the United States shmoozing for information they don't want to give out. (And some people are grumpy. The further north you go, the worse it is. Customer service in Minnesota is atrocious compared to Florida's. I blame the lack of sun...) So it's not a restful job (but whose job is?).
I'm trying to sell my condo, and prepping for selling while working part time and going to school full time, is a major pain. I'll clean and purge as much as I can on the weekends, but two weeks have gone by and I still haven't scrubbed my carpets and re-arranged the linen closet, and I'm creeping dangerously close to my deadline (i.e. "Have condo listed on market by end of February.")
I'm looking for jobs in Manhattan, and let's just say, if people in Minnesota are grumpy, at least they have room to exhale and relieve their stress. Those New Yorkers are horrible at stress management. Consequently, cold calling them to set up interviews and observations is enough to make anyone go crazy.
Then there are sundry other little things: exercise more, eat right, direct children's play, teach choir, babysit, etc., etc. Things I LOVE, yet seem to increase my stress load.
All of this would be manageable were it not for one thing: my health.
I'm twenty-four years old, and I am tired, light-headed, anemic, and in pain on a consistent basis. I feel like I'm eighty (actually, I hope eighty feels better than this...). Last night, as I crawled into bed, exhausted at eight p.m. (after a 45 minute nap earlier in the day), I wanted to pound my pillow in frustration. I can go weeks, months without any fatigue, and then wham! It hits me like a freight train. Suddenly I'm barely able to move, I have a constant low-grade head ache, my brain ceases to function, I black out whenever I stand up. I love to go, go, go. I'm very goal driven, to-do list oriented, and when I can barely make a to-do list, I become so frustrated.
I measure my life by things accomplished. A successful week is when every list is finished. And I can't do that right now. I'm trying to look at the bright side: that God doesn't measure success in to-do lists. That because of where I am now, I can sympathize with persons with chronic health problems, something I was never able to do before. That because of what I'm feeling I appreciate healthy days so much more than I ever have. That I have a gracious, loving support system which constantly tries to help me.
But sometimes all I can think is:
"I am twenty-four years old. This should not be happening to me. Why is this happening? Why?"
My days have passed, my plans are shattered,
and so are the desires of my heart. (Job 17:11)
My lists are not everything.
There is no wisdom, no insight, no plan
that can succeed against the LORD.
The horse is made ready for the day of battle,
but victory rests with the LORD. (Proverbs 21:30,31)
I do not control my future.
Many are the plans in a man's heart,
but it is the LORD's purpose that prevails. (Proverbs 19:21)
A lack of strength is not a lack of purpose.
And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work. (II Corinthians 9:8)
Through God, because of God, today is possible.
Praise be to the Lord, to God our Savior,
who daily bears our burdens.
Selah
(Ps. 68:19)
I feel as though I'm juggling 107 different balls, different areas of my life, different to-do lists. Despite my efforts to tick things off, one by one, I never seem to get ahead. On top of it all, my nasty health problems have chosen (probably in part because of the stress) the flare up right now, causing my energy to tank and migraines to increase.
I'm in my final stages of grad classes, and although the work has settled into a type of normalcy, it hasn't settled into a normalcy that's easy or relaxing.
I'm working (or trying to, between crazy clinic hours) part time, and my boss and co-workers are amazing. However, I spend all my time at work cold calling people all over the United States shmoozing for information they don't want to give out. (And some people are grumpy. The further north you go, the worse it is. Customer service in Minnesota is atrocious compared to Florida's. I blame the lack of sun...) So it's not a restful job (but whose job is?).
I'm trying to sell my condo, and prepping for selling while working part time and going to school full time, is a major pain. I'll clean and purge as much as I can on the weekends, but two weeks have gone by and I still haven't scrubbed my carpets and re-arranged the linen closet, and I'm creeping dangerously close to my deadline (i.e. "Have condo listed on market by end of February.")
I'm looking for jobs in Manhattan, and let's just say, if people in Minnesota are grumpy, at least they have room to exhale and relieve their stress. Those New Yorkers are horrible at stress management. Consequently, cold calling them to set up interviews and observations is enough to make anyone go crazy.
Then there are sundry other little things: exercise more, eat right, direct children's play, teach choir, babysit, etc., etc. Things I LOVE, yet seem to increase my stress load.
All of this would be manageable were it not for one thing: my health.
I'm twenty-four years old, and I am tired, light-headed, anemic, and in pain on a consistent basis. I feel like I'm eighty (actually, I hope eighty feels better than this...). Last night, as I crawled into bed, exhausted at eight p.m. (after a 45 minute nap earlier in the day), I wanted to pound my pillow in frustration. I can go weeks, months without any fatigue, and then wham! It hits me like a freight train. Suddenly I'm barely able to move, I have a constant low-grade head ache, my brain ceases to function, I black out whenever I stand up. I love to go, go, go. I'm very goal driven, to-do list oriented, and when I can barely make a to-do list, I become so frustrated.
I measure my life by things accomplished. A successful week is when every list is finished. And I can't do that right now. I'm trying to look at the bright side: that God doesn't measure success in to-do lists. That because of where I am now, I can sympathize with persons with chronic health problems, something I was never able to do before. That because of what I'm feeling I appreciate healthy days so much more than I ever have. That I have a gracious, loving support system which constantly tries to help me.
But sometimes all I can think is:
"I am twenty-four years old. This should not be happening to me. Why is this happening? Why?"
My days have passed, my plans are shattered,
and so are the desires of my heart. (Job 17:11)
My lists are not everything.
There is no wisdom, no insight, no plan
that can succeed against the LORD.
The horse is made ready for the day of battle,
but victory rests with the LORD. (Proverbs 21:30,31)
I do not control my future.
Many are the plans in a man's heart,
but it is the LORD's purpose that prevails. (Proverbs 19:21)
A lack of strength is not a lack of purpose.
And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work. (II Corinthians 9:8)
Through God, because of God, today is possible.
Praise be to the Lord, to God our Savior,
who daily bears our burdens.
Selah
(Ps. 68:19)
Monday, February 15, 2010
Pick up the phone. No excuses. Listen! You can do this! NO ONE ever got their dream job by sitting on their bum. Work hard. Achieve the goal. DO IT.
*Today's (and the next 172 days') personal mantra.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
To Valentine or Not To Valentine
Happy weekend, dear reader.
As you may, or may not have noticed from the proliferation of pink, red, and white cardboard hearts which seem to pop-up in the oddest places (i.e. Taco Bell drive thrus and bank teller windows), this is the weekend of that fateful day of St. Valentine.
I remember when one of my dear friends snorted and stated an aversion to "single awareness day." I chuckled along with her, glad to have some sort of phrase to put with my distinct out-of-place feeling I get every time I try to do anything (alone) on Valentines Day.
That being said, I've had a Valentine before. In my 24 years, I've had one February 14th that wasn't spent in contemplation of my singleness. (Technically two, but Prince Charming the First didn't "believe" in Valentines Day. Huh.) But that one year was really lovely (and chocolatey), and as I fell asleep on my boyfriend's shoulder watching "Mary Poppins" (yes, "Mary Poppins"), I realized why people celebrate this holiday.
It's delightful to feel wanted, and cherished, and special, and (in serious cases) loved. Why would you not want to exploit a day which promises all that and more? Women don't want Valentines Day because of the chocolate (which is heavenly) and the expensive dinners (after months of fast food), and the diamonds (who doesn't love sparkles?). Women, on Valentines Day, want to feel special and cherished and loved, and showing that is harder than spending money and making plans. How does one make arrangements to show love? How do you find something that makes a person feel like a prize?
You can't, really. So you buy chocolates (because of the chemicals which induce feelings of satisfaction and love), you buy sparkles (because spending money, lots of money, surely means that you care), and Valentines Day becomes a time of panic as you try to express something at the level you feel. ("I cherish you like a cherish my new wax job on my car." or "I want you like I want to watch the Superbowl for the rest of my life." "I love you, so will you promise to love me forever, too?")
The angst from Valentines Day isn't created by the cheesy, shiny hearts in Walmart (although the things are cringe-inducing), but rather by the necessity of vulnerability. "How much do I show I care? How much do I care? What if it's too much, too fast? Does she think I'm making up for something? Is he okay with me liking him this much?"
For me, a single with commitment problems, I prefer to not look at people who, like myself, haven't said "I do" just yet. Such individuals tend to be splashing and paddling inefficiently in the shallow end of affection. I like, instead, to look at people who have plunged into the depths of love, and find years later-- the vulnerability, the love, and the commitment are still there. They still want each other, they have seen the dirty, nasties in each others' lives, and yet still cherish one another. There may be no chocolates, it might be a year to pinch pennies rather than flaunt diamonds, but there's a constancy and commitment that has been worn every day of the year, not just on Valentines Day. Those ordinary days are the true Valentines days. So don't smirk in disdain, you singles (happily or unhappily single, it matters not to me). Buy yourself a box of chocolates and smile at the little old couple holding hands.
Constant commitment and sacrifice is true love, as God meant it to be portrayed.
Happy Valentine's Day.
As you may, or may not have noticed from the proliferation of pink, red, and white cardboard hearts which seem to pop-up in the oddest places (i.e. Taco Bell drive thrus and bank teller windows), this is the weekend of that fateful day of St. Valentine.
I remember when one of my dear friends snorted and stated an aversion to "single awareness day." I chuckled along with her, glad to have some sort of phrase to put with my distinct out-of-place feeling I get every time I try to do anything (alone) on Valentines Day.
That being said, I've had a Valentine before. In my 24 years, I've had one February 14th that wasn't spent in contemplation of my singleness. (Technically two, but Prince Charming the First didn't "believe" in Valentines Day. Huh.) But that one year was really lovely (and chocolatey), and as I fell asleep on my boyfriend's shoulder watching "Mary Poppins" (yes, "Mary Poppins"), I realized why people celebrate this holiday.
It's delightful to feel wanted, and cherished, and special, and (in serious cases) loved. Why would you not want to exploit a day which promises all that and more? Women don't want Valentines Day because of the chocolate (which is heavenly) and the expensive dinners (after months of fast food), and the diamonds (who doesn't love sparkles?). Women, on Valentines Day, want to feel special and cherished and loved, and showing that is harder than spending money and making plans. How does one make arrangements to show love? How do you find something that makes a person feel like a prize?
You can't, really. So you buy chocolates (because of the chemicals which induce feelings of satisfaction and love), you buy sparkles (because spending money, lots of money, surely means that you care), and Valentines Day becomes a time of panic as you try to express something at the level you feel. ("I cherish you like a cherish my new wax job on my car." or "I want you like I want to watch the Superbowl for the rest of my life." "I love you, so will you promise to love me forever, too?")
The angst from Valentines Day isn't created by the cheesy, shiny hearts in Walmart (although the things are cringe-inducing), but rather by the necessity of vulnerability. "How much do I show I care? How much do I care? What if it's too much, too fast? Does she think I'm making up for something? Is he okay with me liking him this much?"
For me, a single with commitment problems, I prefer to not look at people who, like myself, haven't said "I do" just yet. Such individuals tend to be splashing and paddling inefficiently in the shallow end of affection. I like, instead, to look at people who have plunged into the depths of love, and find years later-- the vulnerability, the love, and the commitment are still there. They still want each other, they have seen the dirty, nasties in each others' lives, and yet still cherish one another. There may be no chocolates, it might be a year to pinch pennies rather than flaunt diamonds, but there's a constancy and commitment that has been worn every day of the year, not just on Valentines Day. Those ordinary days are the true Valentines days. So don't smirk in disdain, you singles (happily or unhappily single, it matters not to me). Buy yourself a box of chocolates and smile at the little old couple holding hands.
Constant commitment and sacrifice is true love, as God meant it to be portrayed.
Happy Valentine's Day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)