The Truth Behind My Name (Also: Planking)

I was sitting at my desk this morning wondering what I was going to blog about today, since it's Tuesday and I'm trying to make that a post day. I have a few posts "in the works", but they're either in-depth or extensive rants and aren't ready for sharing.

I don't believe in karma. I do, however, hold a great appreciation for coincidence and irony. A few minutes after pondering this blog dilemma, I received a voicemail from a customer. It started out, "I was talking to a young lady at your office yesterday," and ended with, "could you please have that young lady call me?" I called her back, and the first thing she said was, "You said Amber? I couldn't remember your name when I left the message, but it's such an unusual name I should have been able to."

Thus contradicting my life-long belief that "Amber" is a fairly ordinary name.

(Counts number of Ambers I know....)

Congratulations, Dad. Not only did you help in choosing nine names collectively for your kids, you managed to pick ones that were relatively unique! Who knew? I certainly didn't.

I suppose now is a good time to share with you the history of my name. Wesley's name story is Mom, Dad, and friends in a car shouting out boy names until they hit upon one they thought sounded nice. Mine? I have the honor of being named after a character in "The Running Man".

Y'know? The Arnold Schwarzenegger movie?

Imagine my delight when I learned that tidbit.

At that point I had never seen "The Running Man". A couple years later, I walked into the living room while Mom and Dad were in the middle of it.

All that hard work learning to appreciate and accept my name started to peel around the edges.

This is why:

Don't even get me started on the suits. Nah, what gets me is that my namesake (or am I her namesake???) spends a good portion of her screen time screaming.

I mean, I probably would spend most of my time screaming if I was in her shoes, but.... Just no. It doesn't help that she plays in a Schwarzenegger movie. (For those of you who can't sense sarcasm through the screen or who haven't already learned this of me: I don't like Arnold Schwarzenegger very much. The fact that I've had to spell his name three times already isn't helping.)

<end rant>

I actually had thought of another topic to amuse you with before the aforementioned phonecall, so since I have the time I'll move on to that!

In the wake of my first post of the year, I sat back and reevaluated several aspects of my life. The conclusion at which I arrived is no surprise: certain things need to change. And unlike some people who are rational and tackle on thing at a time, I've gone for the overhaul approach.

I have a working budget in place and am trying to remain aggressively dedicated to it because, if nothing else, I need a car. I'm already doing OK with my eating habits but they could stand to be adjusted. And I'm trying to stay fit.

Since I miss my 1/2 mile jog at work every day because of the snow, I was starting to get worried about what to do in place of that (not to say a 1/2 mile jog everyday is all I need to do to keep fit, but it's a start). Browsing facebook around the New Year, I came across a post for the 30-day Plank Challenge and thought, "That looks my speed. I do need to strengthen my core. Why not?"

I actually started it Sunday morning, and this is what I have learned so far:

1) My thighs are already killing me. Everything else feels fine so far, so either it's too early to for the rest of my body to get on board the "good kind of pain" train or I have my form all wrong. Possibly both.

2) Never judge a workout routine based on the pictures. I should know this by now. I really should.

3) Never do anything like yoga with my dog around. The moment I lie down on the floor she's in my face. Either she's worried about me; she sees a perfect opportunity to snuggle; or, in her twisted way, she thinks I am finally submitting my authority to her. In any case, I have to ban her from my room when I do my morning stretched.

4) "The secret to getting ahead is getting started." - Mark Twain

5) Half of my problem must surely be the face that I'm trying to plank on a laminate floor.

I've never been very fit. (I ceased being able to touch my toes when I was, like, ten.) The idea is exciting, but I tend to lose my drive pretty quickly. We have Wii Fit and for a while I was going pretty strong on that, at least with a bit of yoga. But have any of you ever had the Wii give that shocked little "Oh" when you wobble on the board? Yeah, I got sick of that. I was walking my dog pretty regularly, but then winter hit and I'm at work sunup to sundown. So planking it is, until I break something or find a better alternative.

I'll keep you posted.

Living vs. Existing

"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all." - Oscar Wilde

It's been over 6 months since my last post. While I thoroughly enjoyed the hiatus (including the one I took from Facebook), I've developed quite a list of topics I have wanted to blog about. Also, a few southern friends requested I restart the blog so they could keep up with the family. Mom covers the chicken topic enough now, so maybe the reading will be better than before.

For the last few months I've been wrestling with the feeling that I'm just spinning my wheels. I go to work, work 8-9 hours a day at a job I enjoy, come home and try to find something creative for supper, tap out a few words of one of my current stories, and go to bed to start all over again. On the weekends, I sleep in until 7:30, read a book, eat one meal, maybe go to town, and tap out a few more words.

Maybe it's just a phase. I don't really buy into the whole "young people finding themselves" mentality, but perhaps this is just one of those life transitions where I'm finding my rhythm. Maybe.

Something with which I have always struggled is being anxious. By now anyone who has read this blog knows this. I worry too much and over-think things and second-guess myself, and I know a lot of what I'm working through is managing that aspect of my brain.  But then I sit still and try to count all the things I accomplished in 2014. It doesn't really amount to much in 10 minutes' hard consideration. Drawing it out, my life is pretty colorless. Again, maybe it's just a stage. Maybe I'm in a quiet place where all I'm supposed to be doing is sitting still and learning, listening, developing. Maybe.

I found the above quote from Mr. Wilde quite a while ago and it often comes to mind when I hit one of these contemplative moods. Much as it scares me to admit, I'm not really living my life so much as muddling through it with as little effort or involvement as possible. I'm so caught up in the personal struggle to find my place, of learning the steps, that I've sunk deeply into myself and blocked pretty much everything else out. (I'll be the first to agree that my social interaction is at a level which is undoubtedly detrimental to my health.)

And then I pop out of that shell, take one look at the world, shiver, and withdraw again. Back to the anxiety.

I know I'm here for a purpose. In my family, in this city, as the particular job I hold, in the certain church where we've found a home. In this time, these circumstances.

Another quote which I hold close is from J. R. R. Tolkien and The Fellowship of the Ring. It's more like my life quote at the moment:

"I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo. 

"So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."

God picked me specifically for this location so I could do something for Him. More and more I'm coming to terms with the fact that it may not be very grandiose by the world's standards or even by Christendom's standards. But it's my role. I may be that supporting character who meets one of the key players ten years down the road and has traveled just the right path to know how to nudge them back onto theirs. When I look at it that way, I can't help but get a little giddy.

It's not about finding a springboard to move one from a quiet town to a big adventure. It's about making the most out of whatever circumstances in which one finds oneself. We can't all be world explorers or geniuses or composers. Those people need the clerks and babysitters and nurses. They need the girl behind the phone whose name they can't remember who relieves one small distraction on their plate by informing them that the timeframe they need will work just fine, and who bids them good day with a smile in her voice and doesn't correct them when they get her name wrong again while saying good-bye. (It's not that I'm bitter, but "Amber" is not an unusual name. I can't count the times I've been Amanda, Amy, Andrea, Samantha, or Heather. At this point I just smile and choke down a laugh.)

It is about making what I have been given count in more ways than monetary. It's about loving sleep a little less and hanging out with a lonely friend instead, or meeting for a Bible study. We're here to interact. We're meant to touch, to see, to hear, to speak to, to sing, to guide, to hold. Not to just revel in a sunset, but to glory in Who painted it. Not just to catch our breath after wrestling with a kid, but stopping to read a Bible story and talk about it before helping them crawl into bed. Not just giving candy to an orphan, but the truth as well.

We may not live expansive, bold lives, but we are meant to live on purpose. Wherever we find ourselves, we are meant to make the most out of it for the glory of God.

I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service. - Romans 12:1

It's reasonable, after all God has done for us, for us to surrender our lives to Him. 

So this post isn't all I had hoped for it to be. They never are. But I think I've said what I set out to. And here are some other quotes and verses which contributed to the concept:

"The fear of death follows the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time." - Mark Twain 

"Just breathing isn't living!" - Eleanor H. Porter, Pollyanna  

"It is never too late to be what you might have been." - George Eliot 

"Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, it empties today of its strength." - Corrie ten Boom, Clippings From My Notebook 

"You're not here on accident; you shouldn't live on accident." - Hugh Taylor

Culture Shock

One of the things you hear a lot about concerning international travel (and, it seems to me, especially travel related to missions) is culture shock. 

culture shock: noun

a state of bewilderment and distress experienced by an individual who is suddenly exposed to a new, strange, or foreign social and cultural environment

I'm sure we all pretty much know what "culture shock" means, but I like how this definition is worded.*   :) 

I can't say I really experienced culture shock, at least going into Peru; I'm not even sure I truly had jet lag. I'd heard enough stories to be at least a little prepared for the culture of Peru, particularly the driving.

Some of us gringos (and I mean that in the nicest sense) were freaked out by how Peruvians drive. I actually found it enjoyable. To Americans it might look dangerous, but it's anything but reckless.

Picture this: a loaded bus roaring down a dusty mountain road at 70 kilometers/hour**, weaving in and out of traffic, passing slower buses and "motor-taxis" (which are basically a covered backseat attached to a motorcycle) and slowing only for speed bumps (which are so common they become unremarkable to most people). The horn and the outside arm of the passenger riding shotgun are the most frequent traffic signals. Superior size earns right-of-way, and if there's a space just wide enough for the vehicle to park in, it'll get through without slowing.

I know some people in the group where grinding their teeth and holding the back of the seat in front of them with white knuckles, but I loved it. As Dad described it, it was like a dance. Everyone worked together and it all flowed effortlessly. Horns are a method of communication there, almost a language of their own.  The appearance of reckless and angry drivers was scarce, and I think I saw a grand total of one accident in all the 10 days we were there, and we did a lot of driving, mostly around Lima. Bus rides were a daily routine for us. Only once did I actually get a little nervous, and that was when another bus appeared to almost T-bone us as they pulled forward to pick up more passengers.

That was only one taste of Peruvian culture. Another is the dog population. They're everywhere, and come in every size and color possible. They're as common as deer in Michigan (actually, more so, I think). Eventually a person could tune them out, too. During the parade on Saturday a dog made himself comfortable in the exact center of the road, and the parade marched around him. For a while we had a running tally of how many cats we saw, and it stayed around 3 until we came to one market (ironically there was a gypsy art show and market there). The only other animal I noticed were birds; mostly pigeons.

Peru struck me as a very colorful place. Peruvians enjoy bright colors and get away with painting their houses all manner of shades that would be hideous here in the states. There, it's almost beautiful. There are also a number of bright flowering plants wherever they can be made to grow. The people dress the same way, with the same bright and perky flair. As I think I mentioned before, they do dress well no matter how poor they might be. 

Take away the houses and the people, though, and you're left with a barren, boring landscape. That can have it's own kind of rugged beauty if you're viewing it from the right angle, but it also gets kind of bland sometimes. I'd like to see the other climates of Peru one day. My opinion of it is a big limited, I have to admit.

There was also was danger factor whispering at the back of our minds. Keep your purses close, hold your cameras, don't walk alone, stay with people who know the area. It's the same way in big cities here at home; I think we just hide it better.

The biggest culture shock, as I knew it would be, is the poverty. It might not come out in people's faces, but you see it in the living conditions. We're spoiled and think we can't live without this or that, but they know just what they need to survive, and it's considerably less than our commodities. It seemed like they were people more prone to being happy and content, and perhaps it's because they don't demand as much as we do to define their happiness.

People, especially people like me, tend to romanticize missions a lot. It's all thrilling adventures and bright new worlds and interesting people in our heads. But working alongside missionaries, even for those brief 10 days, was a reality shock. A friend who went pointed out how we're reminded of the human element: they still have to work and cook and go to school and pay the bills. That nitty-gritty, ordinary routine makes up the bulk of what they do every day. It might be another world, and though they're working to do what God called them to do, they also have to survive.

Sometimes it takes culture shock to clear our heads so we can see that. They're doing exactly what we ought to be doing: not just surviving, but working for God. We all have the same mission; we don't have to get a visa and travel to a foreign place to be useful. It only feels more important over there because it's new and exciting and challenging and feels like hard work because we're out of place and have to adjust; but eventually that wears off, and we're stuck calculating how much rice we need to feed the orphans or how much more support we need to finish building the church.

The real culture shock is coming home. We Americans can rush around just as well as a Peruvian bus driver, but we do it without making eye contact; with angry hands laying on loud horns; with no thought for anyone but ourselves, because our silly little business is all that matters. The daily grind of the American dream tends to drown out the true reality of what actually matters. It's a wake up call going to another culture and seeing it clearly, without the veil of gadgets and work schedules and extra-cirricular activities; if we aren't careful, all of that will lull us back into a spiritual coma when we get back to our safe, comfortable lives.

Missions trips tend to leave people experiencing one of those thrilling, empowering "spiritual highs", but those don't last forever. What happens when the dust clears and we have to get back to our lives? Does it become a "cool trip" and a few stories to tell, or do we make sure we're impacted in a way that changes our direction instead of glancing off our private bubble of comfort and apathy?

I experienced Peru in a wonderful way, and from an average human standpoint, it was a neat, enlightening experience. But I also experienced something deeper that stirred me like a wake-up call. My eye did indeed affect my heart, but I have to make a conscious effort if I want that affect to change me.

* Here's another fun one: depaysement: when someone is taken out of their own familiar world into a new one.

** I'm still not clear on how fast that is, but it sounds fast. We may have actually gone faster on the mountain roads where there was little to no traffic.

The Language Barrier

When we were passing out tracts one day near the Presidential Palace, one of our group members handed a tract to a police woman. I wasn't nearby, but as he told the story, the police woman asked him a question in Spanish, and he told her, "No habla Espanol." She asked (I'm assuming in English, though it might have been through one of our translators) why on earth we were there passing out tracts without being able to speak the language.

An excellent question.

The moment I stepped off the plane in Lima, I asked myself the same question: why, oh why, hadn't I studied Spanish a little more? And I kept asking myself that question the whole trip.

I also witnessed how true it is that immersion is the best way to learn a language. The longer we were in Peru, the more I remembered from my two years of Spanish class and the more I was able to pick up. When we didn't have a translator to accompany us, I ended up helping Mom and Dad as much as I could with understanding what prices the vendors were giving. I'm pretty good as catching words and sorting them in my brain. Most words I filed away under "to look up".

I had the presence of mind to bring my Spanish/English dictionary with me, and that was a huge help (until one of the boys at the home stole it and wouldn't give it back, claiming it was his). 

Still, I only knew enough to squeak by, and barely that. I couldn't even have a conversation with the kids, much less the adults. If I wanted to say anything, it had to be through a translator.

Two days in a row we went to a nearby school. The first day, in the morning, we met with and talked to elementary and middle school kids, and the second, in the afternoon, with high school students. The first day, I had the opportunity to give a short testimony. I was super nervous and wasn't sure what to say, but I'd watched some others in our group (we'd split into three groups to save time) and knew I had to have a turn. Take note of the word "opportunity". I had to remind myself that it was a great opportunity, not a burden or something to avoid.

The nice thing about having to talk through a translator is the knowledge that said translator will sort out your rambling and make sense of it. That was my only consolation.

After our three groups had cycled through all the classrooms, we met outside on the court/assembly area/entrance place and got to spend some time with the kids. Mostly, they wanted our autographs.

I wasn't expecting that.

If you didn't have a pen, they'd steal one from a friend. Their workbooks provided the paper. You just had to scribble your name and the next one would be there in a second. Some of the kids were so excited, they didn't really pay attention to who was signing their books. Near the end, I was mostly pointing to my name and then pointing to myself. "That's me, there."

Halfway through, I decided I needed to leave some sort of note alongside my name. I knew the phrase "Jesus loves you" = "Jesucristo te ama". After some trial and error (mostly my English-speaking brain wanting to spell out "Jesus" and "Christ" as I know them) I got it down. I hope the kids saw it and took it to heart.

The next day, we gathered all the kids for one large assembly. It was the end of the school day and they were getting ready to go on break for their Independence Day, so this saved time. Some of the guys (including our youth pastor's son) gave testimonies, and then our youth pastor presented the gospel. The kids listened really well, and you could see on some of their faces that they were taking it to heart.

Afterward, we were approached by a number of kids who wanted to practice their English. Mostly they said  "thank you" when we gave them candy and tracts and waited anxiously for our "you're welcome". A couple girls came up to me and Mom and asked my name, and then hers. I introduced her as "mi madre", and they excitedly corrected, "your mother!"

In some ways, however, language wasn't a barrier. Some of my friends and I have this habit of turning any road trip over half-an-hour into a sing-along. Said friends, including my sister Heather, were present on the trip, and we quickly reverted to our old habit. 

This led to our being invited to sing a special (or three) at one of the churches we visited on Sunday. First we sang a version of "At Calvary" set to a different tune, but then we picked a couple familiar hymns. When the congregation started humming along, I was content. They might not know the words in English, but they knew the tune, and so knew what the song was about. That was a connection we shared, though we couldn't speak to each other. In that moment, there was no language barrier.

At the church right by the children's home (because we also went to another one) there is a drum player. He's a really cool guy in general, but then he's musically talented. I heard him humming along while we had a sing-along session on the bus, and made an effort to pick hymns.

The children's home houses a few interns, and on a couple different outings they came along with us. One day, one of the interns sat with the church drummer and chatted a while. They spoke in Spanish (he's still learning English), and from what I could gather by the tone of the conversation, he was helping her with her grammar and pronunciation. (And I don't think it counts as eavesdropping when you can barely understand the language.) I had a moment of revelation when he said a word and it automatically clicked in my brain. That was a wonderful moment.

As some of you may have seen on facebook, we also visited what is known as a holding tank. For those of you who don't know, a holding tank is kind of like a half-way house between the streets and a proper children's home. It's one step in a long process of finding safety and security in a home, and many kids don't get beyond this step.

The one we visited was for girls. Heartbreaking as it is, it's generally accepted that they come from backgrounds of abuse and human trafficking. What's amazing is that, though they're obviously hurting and some clearly have trust issues, they're still so sweet and open and aching for love and acceptance. They touched me deeply, because theirs are the stories that so greatly lack of hope. They might never get placed into a children's home; many of them are too old, or nearly so. They don't know what's in store for them.

There's a lady, Ms. Peggy, who works at the children's home. After one of our girls said hello and met each of the girls there (9 of them), Ms. Peggy shared her story and the gospel. The girls, especially one, were so attentive and so eager.

I'll share more of their story later. What of it relates to this post is one of the girls. She was born in Korea but her family moved to Peru. How she ended up in that building, she never said. What she did tell us was that she knew three languages: Korean, Japanese, and Spanish. She spent a few minutes with Bro. Mike, teaching him how to say certain things in Korean and Japanese. She was such a fun person to watch and to listen to. Then she asked Bro. Mike how many languages he knew. His answer?

1) Spanish, 2) English, and 3) Southern English

I don't think she understood the joke, but we did.

Somebody asked how Bro. Mike and his family still had such strong Southern accents. Someone else laughed. "Because that's the only English they hear."

Again with the whole living immersed in a language: our youth pastor is from the South, and his accent used to be a lot more defined. Now, however, he's spent time among us Yankees. Bro. Mike and his family and Ms. Peggy all have Southern accents, and they remain pronounced. I think I was even picking up on a little by the time we left.

When we reentered the States in Miami, we all struggled readjusting to an English environment. When the employees at customs were native Spanish speakers, we instinctively wanted to respond in kind. To every "thank you", we muttered "de nada"; to every nice thing, "gracias". When we bumped someone or needed to get by: "permiso, por favor". And then we had to remember that the prices were in American dollars, not Peruvian soles.

Communication - or lack thereof, rather - was probably the biggest problem of our group as a whole. When I go back, I fully intend to go armed with a better grasp of Spanish. And I do intend on going back! (Also, it's common courtesy, to me, to know at least a little of the language of the country you're visiting, because you're the visitor.)

I love languages. There's something so fascinating about studying the structure, vocabulary, and roots of a language; of seeing how it relates to other languages and how it differs; and, especially in regards to English, how it develops. And I've discovered that the more you learn about another language, the better you can understand your own. My geek fantasy is being the lead linguist on the Starship Enterprise. Yes, I seriously just admitted that.

Another fantasy I developed while in Peru is to become a translator. Seeing how myself and my friends struggled to be understood and how the translators sometimes struggled to help everyone, it would certainly help. Of course, first I have to actually learn Spanish.

There's the end of the story, but I'm going to try something knew here. There's this thing called "participation". I know normal bloggers like it when their readership participates in their blog, so I thought I'd try, just to switch things up and because I feel kind of self-centered making everyone read these long, boring things and then leaving like you don't matter (and also starting far too many sentences with "I", but I'm working on that).

So here we go!

To my fellow "Trippers" (including those who went in previous years), how well did you cope with the language barrier?

Do anyone else have a silly fantasy related to Star Trek? Which office or job would you most like to have on a Star Ship? Or am I just weird? (Because that's completely likely.)

In the Wake of VBS

So that plan didn't exactly work. To be fair, it's been a long week; and, for me, the week can't even begin to be wrapped up until today is over and done and I'm curled up in bed with my breathing and heart rate back to normal.

VBS was phenomenal! Even though myself and my amazing assistant teacher were tucked up in a hot corner room where half the time the food workers forgot about us and the other half of the time they were avoiding us for the sake of their well-being, I enjoyed my job. (Plus, I got to play dress-up as a cowgirl all week. No complaints there!) I've had plenty of practice teaching memory verses thanks to Mom and Dad, and despite the fact that the kids were far more interested in their food than in me, I think we accomplished something. And I had enough wonderful, angelic, attentive kids to almost outweigh the not-to-good ones. Almost.

I'm not sure if the fact that every night but one we had to call in the reserves for crowd control is a testament to my poor ability to handle children, or testament to poor judgement with placing kids on teams. I was ashamed.

There were deadly dog-piles and the handing out of "men" and children whose vocabularies were temporarily reduced to "no" and "why", but we survived with our sanity only slightly damaged and some fun memories. And I reminded myself that it doesn't matter if it feels stupid; sometimes I need to play along and laugh at myself, because the kids will love it.

Yellow Team won the overall points for the week. And that's historic at our church. Yellow has had a losing streak for longer than my family has been attending, I think. Some years they may have won third instead of fourth; once I think they got second. But I've never seen them whip everyone else like they did this year. Even though my own Green Team fell in third, I was happy. Even better was the amount we raised in the penny offering for some beloved missionaries of ours. I think we're finally getting the hang of the penny offering.

One of the youth workers, who's more like the "All Youth Activities Director, Supervisor, and Supreme Overseer" at church, is not only brilliant, but I think a little crafty. Our verse for last night was Colossians 3:23: "And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men." I explained to my kids what "heartily" meant: quickly, happily, and with excitement, the way your parents want you to do your chores. I also reminded them that the verse is saying it doesn't matter if man praises you; man's opinion doesn't matter. All that matters is doing right because it has to be done.

When the Supreme Overseer pointed to a vacuum parked in the middle of the sanctuary and said, "That's yours", that verse rang in my head, and then this sneaking suspicion developed: I bet she picked that specific verse for tonight as a reminder to the workers who get stuck cleaning in the aftermath. Halfway down one row of pews and three banged knuckles later (have you any idea how difficult it is to vacuum between church pews?) I was convinced. Smooth.

I like getting recognized for my work. Who doesn't? And I try to make sure I recognize others for their hard work and when they are honestly putting in an effort. Which is why I incorrectly used the box of candy given to me for prizes in class. The candy was intended for kids who could say all four of their verses. When the head Cowboy for the week came in and suggested a quiet seat prize, I jumped on it. I can do bribes, too. In my last class, I extended it, and all eight of the kids left with candy in their hands (except one who, for reasons I still can't quite figure out, gave his piece to another boy because "I know you worked really hard on your verses"). I had four problem kids in that class, and the last night they all worked harder than I could have hoped, and most said at least one verse. Victory!

Anyway. People did tell me "thank you, Miss Amber" (what is with this "Miss" stuff? Boggles my brain, I tell you) and I sang back over the whine of the vacuum "You're welcome!" But I kept telling myself that, though the praise felt good, I would have put in the same effort if everyone else had all gone off to bed or (because few people my age make a habit of going to bed by 10) out for ice cream. Right? Of course right.

In short (because I have to get going for the longest day thus far in my career), I learned a lot this week. And I'm convinced I'll need every lesson down the road, from child care to knowing the right balance of discipline and bribery to doing what needs to be done simply because it needs to be done and there's a vacuum standing in front of me, even though some silly person will probably come along in 10 minutes leaving behind a trail of dust and garbage. But it's okay.

If I'm still alive and sane, I shall see you...probably next week. Tomorrow is going to be a long one, too.

The Windy City

I've been ready to write this post since last Friday, considering it was about last Thursday. However, life has been busy (we're all gearing up for summer 'round here) and then I was sick, so.... Here it is at last.

My grandma is up (or over?) for a visit. She came by train on Thursday. The nearest place we could pick her up was Chicago. The girls had their final day of classes, but Mom didn't want to go alone, so I said I'd go. After all, I've never been to Chicago.

Good thing I'm a morning person.

Mom had warned me the night before that she wanted to be out of the house by 7:30. I like to have about an hour in the morning to run the morning routine before I leave, so I set my alarm for 6:30. Naturally, my phone decided it didn't care about the alarm. I jerked awake just before 7:00 and truly hit the ground running.

I skidded to a stop when I came upon Mom still in her robe and making breakfast. She'd abandoned her ambitious plan of leaving so early. Fine by me.

I think we left around 8:00. I had a book, my notebooks, and a bracelet I've been braiding since last summer. I always bring lots to do on road trips, though I rarely pull any of my stuff out. (And it had hit me only the night before that'd we'd be driving the equivalent of a usual road trip.)

Mom needed to run by the ATM before we headed out, but the one in town was out. Mom said we'd find one on the route, and off we headed.

We had our old GPS set and ready to go. Perhaps we should have considered a back-up plan, but of course we didn't. About 2 hours into the drive Mom pulled off the highway and set the GPS to find a bank. Turns out the bank in the GSP's system no longer existed, and I'm sorely lacking in navigational abilities. We ended up getting lost in tulip country before Mom got us sorted out.

After that, we grabbed a drive-through breakfast at Starbucks (the only thing on their menu I care for are the muffins) and made a couple pit stops.Then it was smoggy skies all the way to Chicago.
I know understand why J. R. R. Tolkien named his dragon Smaug (and the following links have no relation whatsoever to Chicago).
Whenever we travel back west, we always see who can spot the capital building first. This wouldn't work too well for Chicago, even if your landmark of choice is the Sears Tower. Not that Mom and I could have spotted that anyway....
We hit the traffic and had to fight our way across five lanes to get to our exit, after sorting out the detour because our original exit was closed. And dear old Gladys the GPS wasn't helping. She kept shutting off. When we finally did get into the city, we circled around trying to find Union Station and then the parking garage. Then we had to find a parking spot in the garage and wonder about what we were supposed to do with our ticket.
We were a few hours early and spent that time, after finding the gate Grandma was coming in on, wandering the streets and gaping like true tourists (though penniless tourists.) Pretty soon my pocket notebook was out and I was scribbling and walking at the same time. (Which makes my writing more difficult to read than normal, but still.) In the few square blocks we wandered (didn't want to be too adventurous and run out of time) we could almost always hear a street musician playing his saxophone. He had a diverse, if kind of limited, repertoire, including "If You're Happy and You Know It", "Baby Mine", and "These Are a Few of My Favorite Things". I marveled over the old, distinguished architecture mixed with the sleek and modern. Mom  tried to come up with an onomatopoeia for the sound of cars going over a lift bridge (or whatever that's called). The din of the city - car horns, murmured conversation around street cafes, the PA system from Union Station - mingled with the less-than-clear air gave me a bit of a headache. Or perhaps it was my habitual self-dehydration?
At one point early in our amble, some sort of white blobs hit us. Mom cried rain and I cried bird poop, and we duck-n-covered. I examined the moisture on the ground and couldn't quite identify it. Mom looked up. "Oh. Window washers." We'd been so lost in our site-seeing that we hadn't even noticed we'd walked right beneath a lift crawling up the side of a glass building. Someone somewhere had to have been chuckling at us.
We mmmmed over the variety of restaurants, though we ended up stopping as good ol' Mickey D's for lunch. Then we settled on a stone wall to munch, within sight of the saxophone player. It started spitting rain, and he started up "Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head".
After that we wandered a little more. I wanted to see "the Big Bean", but it was too far away for us to safely walk, enjoy ourselves, and come back in time. Instead we explored a few more blocks. I wondered vaguely about the location of the Sears' Tower, but we couldn't spot it.
Mom stopped to get a picture of a big metal globe in front of one building. I noticed a man dressed up in a fancy suit with a hat kind of like a chauffer's standing outside the building talking to people. As Mom and I continued past him, he asked us something about a Skydeck. Not sure what he was talking about, Mom shook her head and we continued on. As we passed the main door of the building, I noted the name "Willis" over it. (Anyone who has been to Chicago or knows anything at all about Chicago is probably rolling their eyes. We don't make good tourists.)
Soon after that, we headed back to Union Station, where we got a snack as Cinnabon. (I know. We went to Chicago and all we ate was McDonald's and Cinnabon.) Then, thinking we didn't have long to wait, we wandered down to the gate where Grandma was coming in.
Turns out we had to wait for nearly an hour more. We found an underground path to the parking garage, which meant no crowds to deal with and a more direct route. Then we waited. In that time, we saw a number of curious (and in one case suspicious in a stalker-way) characters coming and going. That was almost enough amusement for me, after I toned out the automatic voices declaring "Gate 12", "Gate 14", "Gate 16", and so on, non-stop.
Grandma's train finally arrived, and soon we hugged her hello and got her bags. Then Mom had to deal with an impatient lady as she tried once again to learn what she was supposed to do with her parking ticket. Then we headed off. We made a stop at an automated machine to pay for the ticket and then loaded up. (And I noted that the government vehicle we'd parked next to was still there.) Turns out we could have paid for our ticket at the exit. Ah, well. We tried.
As we were leaving, I commented that we had never seen the Sears Tower. Not even sure what it looked like, I googled it on my phone. Oh.
"Mom. It was the one with that big globe outside that you took pictures of." Yeah. The one with the Skydeck. Turns out it was no longer called the "Sears Tower", but the "Willis Tower".
To be fair, it didn't look that big standing at the base of it. I turned in my seat and squinted at the Chicago skyline. Yup. That big brown one there, so obviously taller than all the rest. We were right there and didn't even notice.
The ride home was pretty uneventful. Supper at Panera Bread (I've never been) and then quiet conversation for most of the drive. I fell asleep at one point, jerking awake when Mom slammed on the breaks as a deer crossed the road. We got home late, and I was forced to sort out my sleeping arrangements. Mom and Dad get my room because Grandma has theirs. I was going to bunk with one of the girls, but neither really wanted me to (mostly on account of my dog), and me not liking the idea of having to sneak around in the morning because they sleep later than me. I spent that night on the couch, and now I'm in the office, my mattress atop the uncomfortable hide-a-bed. It works. I guess.
So that was our trip to Chicago. I reaffirmed my dislike for big cities. Also, after Nashville and now Chicago, I've discovered that big cities never look or feel as big standing on their streets as they're made out to be. But it was an experience. Now I can say I've been there.
For Doris Day fans, this is the song stuck in my head all that day: Windy City.

The Eyeball in the Cupboard (or: I Really Do Love My Family)

Here I am, late again. Good intentions don't mean much, apparently. And I'm up to a week (couting the post I wrote the day before I decided to start this).
There's something about Sunday mornings at my house which I really love. (That is, after we quit paper routes.) I can't say exactly what it is that makes me smile. Ask a friend who's spent Saturday night about watching my family go through the Sunday morning routine. Running dogs in and out and telling them to hurry up and eat, now adding fowl to the list of animals to care for, siblings getting up hours earlier than they would the rest of the week to take showers they didn't want to take the night before, Mom hunting for a lost article of clothing or piece of jewelry or shoe, all to the soundtrack of blow driers and running feet. Always fun.
There are certain things that happen in this house which are seen as perfectly normal but, in any other house, would be a complete oddity. Like the eyeball in the bathroom cabinet.
Yes.
I went to get my toothbrush out of the cabinet this morning and started at the glass eye staring back at me. In another second I was back to squirting toothpaste onto the brush and absently wondering if Wes's allergies were acting up. Mom made a passing comment about it later, but that was all the attention anyone paid it.
Needless to say, our family has its own quirks. We get so used to them that we never think twice, while everyone else is staring at us in confusion. And, in my opinion, jealousy. Wes's fake eye is one of the quirks. We've all grown up with that one around us. We're conditioned to it, in a way. People  will come to me months after we've met and make some remark like, "You didn't tell me your brother had a fake eye," as if it should have been near the top of the list of things to know. I'll shrug. "Yeah, he's had that since he was 1." To them it's special; strange and unusual, sometimes gross, and somehow great for conversation. To me it's the source of a few good stories and the knowledge that, because my brother has a blindspot, it's easier to steal his fries when his head is turned. He and his one-handed buddy at church crack all kinds of jokes. Everyone else stands back in a mixture of confusion, horror, and embarassment, wondering if it's really appropriate, as if those poor boys shouldn't be laughing at their own expense. I roll my eyes.
It's just another little quirk that makes my family all that more endearing to me, like Mom's pouty face when she's not feeling well and wants me to grab her a glass of milk, or my youngest sister when she paces through the house with a smudge of charcoal on her nose and that creative gleam in her eye, or my other sister's reckless abandon when she belts out a song that's intentionally off-key. Like the looks passed when Dad is enjoying too much his day off or my brother pulls another "your mom" pun; the way Mom and I can have a complete conversation without either ever completing a thought; my youngest sister's ability to stare down anyone, friend or stranger, and make them twitch.
Yes, I truly do believe people are jealous when they see us tramping down the store aisles, one of us girls on Dad's arm and another bouncing around while trading jokes with Mom: that boisterous family clearly just from church service calling back and forth about how much milk we consume and if we'd prefer chocolate or vanilla ice cream and making some comment about our chickens. We're genuine, that's for sure. We don't put on a show when we go into public; we're the same people as we are at home. Sometimes it seems the world can't handle that much awesomeness. It's okay; be a little jealous. My mom was always the coolest person to have on youth activities, and inevitably my brother's eye would come out for the sake of the new kids. Only the bravest dare to spend a night at our house, where we have impromptu karaoke in the kitchen and odds are good you'll find an eyeball in the bathroom cabinet.

Duck, Duck.... (plus: A Cute Moment at Work)

Add ducks to the list of critters currently in our care. We're turning into a farm. All we need now is a cow or two, maybe a pony.... Just no pigs.

The ducks were Heather's idea. She and Mom went to get more chicks yesterday and came home with 10 assorted chicks and 2 Pekin ducklings.

And I thought the chicks were loud. We're finally getting the ducklings used to our hands, but only because we continued draping them in the box and wiggling our fingers and talking to the ducklings all day yesterday. Whenever we'd pick up one, it and the one left behind would both scream, so it was doubly loud.

Of all people, Wes suggested a name for one of the ducklings: Aflac. We're all in agreement. Heather wants to name the other Jemima, but we don't know if they're male or female.

We got 6 more Buffs (and Mom thinks most of our first ones were Buffs as well), 2 White Leghorns, and four Americaunas, the latter of which are beautiful as chicks but apparently turn out pretty ordinary/kind of ugly as adults. The new Buffs (which all look pretty much the same) are a straight run. If they're roosters, they won't be lasting long, so I'm having to refrain from throwing out more names.

However, one of the Americaunas has black around her eyes coming back to her cheeks. Mom said it looks like eyeliner, so she is Sabrina. I had said the chick with the red stripes from the first half-dozen was named by Allenna, but it was actually the other Banty. She is Arexi. Mom thinks the striped one might be our only non-Buff from that bunch. I think it could be a Rhode Island Red, and suggested Cheryl (Miss Congeniality, anyone?).

Rocky is gone as of this morning. Even among the new ones he was the runt, and with so many running around he had it rough. Although yesterday he laid down for one of his frequent naps (I was beginning to think he was narcoleptic) and one of the Whites cuddled up with her head on his back. 'Twas adorable. (Oh. And I want to name the Whites Galadriel and Glinda. Even though we can't tell them apart.)

But enough about baby fowl. I know I said I wasn't going to write about work, but something happened yesterday that I wanted to share.

I was scrubbing counters when a little boy, maybe 6 or 7, walked in. I waited a second to see if a parent was following, but he was on his own, so I went up to the register with a grin. He had a $20 wadded up in his fist and a handwritten list from his mom. He quietly gave me his order.

Then he asked if it was "Happy Tuesday". My co-worker, who'd wandered up with me, suggested he might mean "Text Tuesday". The poor kid wasn't sure and looked uncomfortable. My co-worker asked if his mom had a text. He didn't know. I wasn't sure what to say when another customer, who was sitting down eating, said, "Here," and slid his phone across the table to offer his own text message.

"Looks like someone's got your back," my co-worker told the boy with a smile.

I told the boy his total, forgetting to say "dollars" and "cents" after the numbers. He looked all confused and nervous, repeated the total questioningly with "dollars" and "cents", and then mumbled that he didn't have 80 cents. My co-worker stepped up, pointing out that he had a $20, which meant he'd get change back.

Once the transaction was complete, I thanked her profusely. I'd been at a loss, feeling kind of stupid because I wasn't sure how to go about the whole thing, but it was cute. When I brought the bag with the smoothies out to the boy, I cautioned him that it was kind of heavy and offered to carry it out to his car, but he told me he could do it, and off he went.

In other news, the weather still doesn't really feel like spring. At least, not all the time. Yesterday we had hail mixed with freezing rain. Today we have sunshine. I know, this way we don't get lots of mud while everything melts all at once, but I'm so ready for spring.

On Sunday, my old Sunday School teacher asked Dad how we liked living in the country. He said he and Mom are enjoying it and he grew up in the country working on farms, kind of mumbled through how my siblings feel, then looked at me and said, "And this one loves it." I get a garden plot bigger than our old backyard, and that's only on one side of the house. What's not to like?

Retreat! I have tea!

I sat down to blog this morning and, for some reason thinking next week was Easter Sunday, that's what I started talking about.

I almost finished the post before I realized my mistake. So that will be posted next Wednesday. Then I had to figure out what on earth I'd write about instead, and I remembered I never talked about the retreat!

Short story: it was fantastic. Great teaching (hard to call it "preaching" when it's 30 people crammed into the lounge section of a hotel suite), good fellowship, lots of fun and craziness, and even a mini birthday party in my room the first night.

The entire time, Jessi and I were marvelling over how we survived an entire week like that during youth conference. Because I felt dead by noon on Saturday.

We went to the mall, where there's a Teavana store, but I only bought a tea canister for some tea I already have at home. (My friends know me very well, because tea is also one of the gifts I got.) The only other thing I got was a scarf to match a bubble gum pink skirt I picked out when Wes, a friend and I went to our mall before leaving for the retreat.

We played laser tag Saturday night. 3 rounds, and I think they were each 15 minutes long. The group was split into two teams and it was a free-for-all getting the colored vests. Jessi, myself, and our roommate managed to grab green, which was the team with all the hardcore gamers like my brother. We won all three rounds.

No thanks to me. My maximum accuracy was 29.7% and my highest rank out of 27 people was 11. I mostly helped guard the base and provide a human shield of sorts so Jessi wouldn't keep getting hit and deactivated. One game, she got second. Yes, I'll take my credit.

By the end, my thighs were killing me from crouching on an angle and leaning around corners like a wannabe commando. And who knew leaning in and out could be so intense and sweaty? I was getting pretty good by the end of it. Definitely something I can enjoy. So long as my team has people on it who know what they're doing to make sure we win.

I learned afterward that black tea to me is like someone on crack. Who knew?

Here's what happened.

The first night we went to a restaurant. Their main thing is BBQ, but I got a salad and soup combo. And sweet iced tea.

I haven't had black tea in a while. I prefer green or herbal. However, I was kind of craving it. I ended up downing three full glasses (and they didn't go overboard on the ice like some places).

By the time we got back to the bus to go to the hotel, my head was buzzing and I felt dizzy. I wasn't sure why; I figured it was fatigue or something.

Then, of course, we had a service in the hotel suite. Still thinking the light-headedness was me being tired (I'm usually settling into bed by 10), I just wanted to go to sleep.

Then we had the mini party. That was fun. Next time, I need to insist my friends not get me something that I actually really want. Maybe it'll avoid homeschool awkward me from cropping up. I mean, come on, I'm 19. It wasn't that bad.

Around that time, I realized what was wrong with me. (The dizziness, I mean.)

"Jessi, I had sweet black tea."

"So?"

"So...that stuff has caffine in it." (Like it's a drug or something.)

(Starting to laught.) "Yeah?"

"And I haven't had black tea in forever. I haven't really even had soda in, like, two years."

I told Wes later when I wandered down two floors to say good night. (Unlike youth conference, our whole group was neither all on the same floor or on two adjacent floors dividing boys and girls. I felt so grown-up and lost.) He just gave me his, "Really? You're kidding me," look.

The next morning, I wanted to try out my new tea. I decided to skip the black tea flavor and go with a pomegrante one instead.

That's about all I have to say without rambling, and it's almost time for church, so I'll leave you with this: have you ever noticed that the clouds look darker when you're standing under the sun?

No, I don't know what that's supposed to mean. Just one of my poetic observations.

What's in a Name?

Recently - I don't remember why - Jessi was talking about googling herself and people she knows, and telling me about the funny (or weird) results. I think I've tried it once or twice for myself. Out of curiosity, I googled myself yesterday. Just my first and last name.

I didn't find myself until the second page.

I did find a photographer, a couple restaurant employees, an ancestry.com page to a lady b. 1908 d. 2000, and a character for a Percy Jackson fanfiction. I enjoyed that last one.

Strange how googling myself and finding many people with the same name who are not me can make me feel so insignificant. I guess that's what middle names are for. Although one search result informed me there were only five people in the U.S. with my name. I find that hard to believe.

We were watching a TV show on Netflix the other night - one of those apocalyptic/world collapses kind of shows everyone seems so interested in - and one of the characters mentioned how she couldn't remember her dead husband's face.

Dad jumped in with a comment about how that has a scientific explination: We have a hard time remembering what the people we know most and love look like because there are so many images of them in our brains that they all jumble together, whereas we recognize people we've only seen a few times because there are only those couple images to link to them.

And here I was worrying that it was just my weak memory that made me incapable of recalling the features of a friend's or relative's face.

I did get to pondering something like this a while ago, while I was feeling especially poetic. It seems to me that for the people we love, it's less what they look like and more who they are that comes to mind when we think of them. Less physical features and more of their...essence, if you will (though I don't mean to sound creepy). I've often heard pastors talk about our bodies as just being the shell for who we actually are. When I think of my family, I think of what they mean to me, what I know and love about them, not the color of their eyes or how tall they are.

I don't know why I find this so comforting. Maybe it's the knowledge that, though I'm bound to forget the face, I won't forget the person.

At one point that was going to tie in a little better with the name thing. Something along the lines of "it's not the name, but the person", and how a name is just what someone is called by. (And that, in turn, was going to link to my dog.) Maybe I'll give it a try.

First off, my dog. Don't y'all love hearing about her? In those brief moments when I find the will to train her, I realize that one key component to her training is the fact that she doesn't answer to her name. In the training guides I found through google, they tell you to say your dog's name, and every time she (most dog training manuals always refer to the dog in question as "she") responds, "click and treat". Dogs don't answer to their name because it's their name, but because it's the word they know to  mean we want them. If that makes any sense.

In a lot of the fantasy books I read, especially Tolkien's, the characters have multiple names. They have their given name, and then sort-of-nicknames based on their characteristics, or terms of endearment, like the Elvish word for "laughter". Names are used to identify, but often the name used identifies with the true person, and it's not the name they were born with.

It's a concept I can't quite put into words, and I almost feel funny trying. I don't want to sound bizzare or anything. This isn't supposed to be deep and un-Biblically spiritual, just a thought.

That whole thing about our body just being a shell makes me think of Jesus. He was God incarnate, God in a body prepared for Him. Even His name wasn't unique. It had significance, of course, and then He was also called "Emmanuel, which being interpreted is, God with us". All this junk about how Jesus looked makes me roll my eyes. (Especially when He's depicted as Caucasian. It's not racist to be firm in the fact that Jesus was a Jew.)

Do you understand what I'm trying to say? Because I'm having a really hard time trying to explain, and it's frustrating.

Names do have significance. They can define you, especially last names. People associate names with things. A child with a good, upright family will have more expectations put on them to be like the others who carried that last name. Names can connect people. But names and faces aren't all we are. They aren't the impression we'll leave on people. It'll be the attitude, the spirit of joy or of depression, the laughter or the temper, the hope or the sorrow, friendliness or pride, love or hate. They might never remember our name - they might not even know it at all - but there's a chance that, even for a couple hours, they'll remember who we were because of how we lived in front of them.

To the Paper Carriers

Note: this post was written on Thursday. However, since I'd already posted on Thursday and I did want to write this post, I scheduled it to be published on Friday. Also, it makes me look like I'm doing a little more work keeping up with my blog because you read each post on a different day. Haha!

Since most of you already know I got a job (scratch "unemployed" off the "unemployed single living at home" title!) I'll skip that part except to say "Yay!".

I'd like to dedicate this post to newspaper carriers worldwide. Most people seem to think their newspaper magically appears at their doorstep, or that it's delivered by a flying monkey trained to cater especially to their detailed, specific needs. In reality, they're just one more person on the route. It's commonly believed that the people with "normal" jobs are the ones who need people skills: the office workers and restaurant employees and secretaries. While that's certainly true, the people who really need people skills are the paper carriers. Let's face it: every paper customer has certain expectations as far as the delivery of the daily news goes. On the porch, in the paper slot by the mailbox, on the hooks under the mailbox; or down the alley, up the stairs, through two doors, down the hall, and double-bagged hanging on the doorknob. If the paper is missing, we take the blame. If the paper is wet, we hear about it. Heaven forbid we forget to bag and band it and stick it in the tube under the mailbox instead of the special newspaper tube next to it.

If you want an example of a truly "underdemeciated" person, look at the paper carrier. It's not just a boy on a bike who knows everyone on his route and who only gets smiles and tips. It's a person in a car with their hazards on and people behind them not understanding what that means so nearly rear-ending them when their daughter's arm is sticking out the window making a shot into a tube two feet away set too far back from the curb so they have to slam on the gas and yell for their daughter to pull in her arm before it gets broken off. /end rant/ Okay, that was a bit extreme of a scenario, but it's happened.

We spend hours a day in a car, so bored of banding and bagging and chucking papers and going through the routine and singing along with the radio that we make up names for customers. Yeah. At least, I do. No, I'm not sharing.

And that's not really what I had in mind for this post. Of course not. Is it ever?

My point had to do with the people skills part. Mom just picked up a new route that's all downtown offices, banks, and businesses. And a church. We've got it down to about 45 minutes for the whole thing. Yeah. There are maybe that many papers. I was musing today about the strange relationship paper carriers have with other people. On this new route, the people who get the paper are the ones used to running the interaction, but to me they're the customers. And because we're supposed to be magical flying monkeys, people treat us differently. We aren't expecting their services, so we don't get treated like a valuable customer. We just kind of go along with a smile and a nod, in and out, speed walking and sweaty, and people barely give us a second glance. We get black finger prints all over their doors and railings, but no one seems to notice. They see us for two seconds, and we're gone, and they're just another person on the route. You see people in a different light. I've come to appreciate mail carriers a little more, too.

But mostly, I've decided that I really hate cubicles.

Truly. I may enjoy writing, which involves sitting in front of a computer at a desk filled with pens and notebooks, but it's not the same thing.

There's one new building in particular. It has lots of windows, and a lot of them get sunlight a good portion of the day. However, the windows stay closed and the curtains drawn. The place stinks.

Honestly, I think something died in the ventilation system and the poor cubicle dwellers are so miserable that they don't even noticed. But I certainly do. It's practice for holding my breath going into that place. And the people are nice enough. They just work in a stinky building, sun-deprived and not remembering the taste of clean fresh air brought in on a summer breeze. They don't even have any too-powerful air fresheners installed like the Catholic church, where you walk in and get hit with a wave of fragrance so powerful it takes your breath away.

Basically, delivering news papers is a job that lets you get a feel for other peoples' lives. You can make up stories about the people you meet based on what you come to see and learn about them. You bemoan the obvious lack of driving education, particularly concerning the use of hazards. You get to know your city streets very well, more so than people who have lived in that city their entire lives. You see things other people completely ignore, simply because those things are obstructing the driveway or just got knocked over with a wayward paper. And it's all great writing material.

I had a thought today: does the White House get a newspaper? Like, delivered by an average person with other papers on their route? Or would it be the only paper on their route? Do they tip well at Christmas? Or is the paper specially delivered? Makes you think, doesn't it?

Okay. I'm done being weird.

(Oh! Tonight is a Blue Moon. Just thought you'd like to know.)