I am WISB

I'm a list-maker. I make lists in Word documents on my computer, on post-it notes at work, in tiny notebooks I carry in my purse, in the memo pad application on my Blackberry... you get the point. I make lists because for some reason, creating them relieves my warped brain of having to contain everything that swirls around inside of it. As a result, I have small scraps of paper scattered around my apartment and mini digital agendas cluttering my desktop. Sometimes the lists actually help me accomplish things. Most of the time they just bring me a taste of the aforementioned relief.

I come by it honestly – my mom has been making lists for as long as I can remember – but I'm starting to realize that it's not a healthy habit. See, this *slightly* compulsive list-making tendency of mine has made its way into my emotional and spiritual worlds and that's actually not okay.

I remember as a kid dealing with this pattern of feeling convicted about something-or-other, being completely broken up about it, and responding with a grit-teethed (huh?) determination to change. Self-discipline. Get better.

So I made lists.

HAVE QUIET TIME

APOLOGIZE TO BROTHER

JOURNAL

HELP MOM WITH DISHES

READ BIBLE

BUY BEST FRIEND A PACK OF SHOCK TARTS*

Cute? Um no. Actually not. Actually, it makes me cringe to see how I responded – even as a kid – to the deep-down knowledge that I was operating from a place of weakness instead of a place of strength. Formulas. Plans. Decisions. Now I see that for what it is... LAW.

I'm stepping out from under the law and dipping my toe in the vast ocean of Grace that the whole Jesus-on-the-cross thing paved the way to. And it's fantastically freeing. But. I still want to make lists.

Last weekend, my friend Amy spoke some powerful words (you know, the kind that come from The God of the Universe) to me. They were about my true identity, about the version of me that is real because it is how God designed me. She encouraged me to rediscover this part of me, to abandon all the damage in that area and turn my back on all the ish it caused and instead, embrace those aspects of myself which I've shut down and pushed out.

Wow, right? Right! Except for that the crazy list-maker that lives inside my head immediately saw an opportunity to take over and before I knew it, I was responding to those Life Words with a bunch of "to dos".

DO THIS

TONE THIS DOWN

FIX THIS

STOP THAT ALTOGETHER for flip's sake, you stupid...

DO A BIT MORE OF THAT

And that.just.sucks. Because looking at that list puts a bunch of pressure on me, it makes me feel like I have a long hard road ahead of me, a lot of work to do to get myself where I should be. And there is no freedom in that.

Here's the thing. I already am Who I Should Be. That was confirmed as a part of the redemptive work of the cross. It was done, once and for all, by a God who doesn't leave any piece of his work unfinished for me to deal with. I may not be operating out of WISB (I love acronyms) and I may not have been for a long time… or ever. And there may be a lot of junk clouding WISB, and I may have to reclaim WISB (so glad I’m not typing this out each time). But I am WISB. I always have been. And that cannot be reversed, no matter how much damage I've experienced.

So I'm forging ahead with a new approach: Burn the lists (figuratively, of course) and adopt a new "plan" of action... JUST BE. From here on out I'm going to intentionally be WISB. Walk in it, speak from it, believe that my agreement with the truth of WISB will close the gap between who I've been being (huh?) and WISB.

(Okay I’m tired of saying “WISB” now. I think I’ve made my point. The End.)

*My childhood best friend, Emily, and I did in fact consume an alarming amount of these candies.

Staying put

I arrived home late Sunday night to an envelope hanging from the binder-clip-hanging-from-a-nail-hammered-into-my-door-frame contraption my apartment complex calls a mailbox. It had my apartment number scrawled across the front, and the logo of the apartment management company in the top left corner. My initial thoughts went something like, "I paid my rent, didn't I? I did! Do they evict people via envelopes? Dear God, I can't move back to Texas". Yeah, paranoid much, Lauren?! The envelope did not, in fact, contain an eviction notice, but rather an invitation to re-up my lease. Whew! I was relieved for two whole minutes. And then the panic set in.

As is standard in these situations, the cheapest (read: only affordable) option for re-upping requires that I sign yet another 12-month lease. And this realization is what brings me to my current panicked state. In this state, a year-long commitment might as well be a decade-long commitment, and my mind goes crazy with all the possibilities of all the things that might come up in such a vast period of time that might make me wish I wasn't tied down to this 700 square foot apartment in Lakewood, Colorado. I start to think thoughts about how I'm living in the suburbs of North America - Is this seriously where I want to be?! Am I okay being that person?! - thoughts about how I could be saving boatloads of money if I didn't insist on living alone in a place that offers luxuries like 24-hour maintenance and a fitness center and two (two!) hot tubs. And, inevitably, I started fantasizing about returning to South Africa or working on a cattle ranch or inhabiting one of the other countless worlds I'm convinced I'd rather be in. Thus, I spun... out... of... control...

And yet. I have school loans, and a car payment, and *ahem* other debt I'd rather not discuss. And a coffee habit and a thrift-store t-shirt fetish to fund. And 11.7 miles from aforementioned suburban apartment is a job that (almost) pays me enough to keep my head above water in the "finances" area. So there's that.

Also, there's something small and still in me suggesting that maybe I need to stay put for a while. I moved from Texas when I was 17, went to South Africa-back-to-Texas-for-a-few-months-then-back-to-South-Africa-again, then after a few more very enlightening months in Texas (read: I decided once-and-for-all I would never ever live in Texas again), moved to New York City. Two apartments in midtown Manhattan, a summer in a basement in Queens, an apartment in Brooklyn, one in Jersey City, a summer back in Texas (oops), and then a year in the Bronx rounded out my college years. Then came the "crap-I-have-no-other-options" nine months in Texas (double oops) before I managed to get myself to Denver. Where I wanted to be. Where life got rich and sweet and yet! - 11 months later I'm balking at the idea of another year in this place. The first time since I graduated high school that I don't have to move after a year and I'm hesitating?!

The still small thing is forceful, suggesting that maybe I have a *slightly* unhealthy restlessness thing going on. Maybe I don't know what it looks like to find rhythm, pattern, ease, and contentment in staying put... in not moving. Maybe that scares the ish out of me. Maybe I'm afraid more than one year in the same place will cause me to forget what I ultimately want... that the images of the ideal will fade behind the fog of comfort and familiarity. And if they do, that I’ll doubt they were ever real in the first place.

Basically I'm a big ole' scaredy cat who needs to take a deep breath, grab a pen, and sign the damn lease...

*gulp* Okay, yes, but maybe not right now...

For Ginger

I wrote this several years ago for someone very important to me. I was watching her maneuver through a ridiculously hard time in her life and was so amazed by what I saw. She's an example for me - the kind I won't ever forget.

Watching her story play out over the months has changed me. When all pretension is stripped away by tragedy and paralyzing fear, the core of someone is exposed. What I've glimpsed of her core is what's changed me. Not because it dazzles, and not because it hasn't been shaken, but because it is what it is what it is. Her core permeates every word she speaks, every prayer that escapes her lips, every moment of her every day. That kind of honesty and integrity in the midst of terrifying circumstances continues to stun me.

It's changing her too, in subtle ways. We close the door now, to avoid exhausting interrogations and chit chat. I do my best to stay between her and whoever she doesn't have energy for; we sneak around campus, taking the long way in hopes that we won't run into anyone. And she blows kisses towards his empty office when we pass. I know she wants to see him sitting there.

Her role has changed: she fills in the blank spaces in his speech, she reminds him of the words, of the stories, of the names of those they share their life with. She's dropped everything to play this role. And as she picks pieces back up again, she does so slowly and selectively, and eases cautiously back into what she calls "normal life".

She lives on the edge of prayer, the slightest thing sending her plummeting into the ongoing conversation she's having with the Creator of the universe. The unabashed way she approaches Him inspires me. She's had countless moments of intense loss, when he didn't get the joke or couldn't share the memory. It is in these kinds of moments where we truly meet ourselves, and where we truly see God, not for what we've made Him to be, but for what He is. As I watch and listen to her, it occurs to me that I'm in the presence of a woman who's leaning into that God, the God who can't be touched by the best efforts of our wildest imagination. And I wonder what it will take to make me that kind of woman.

Old pain

I went on a hike yesterday. I was with friends, out in gorgeous weather, and greatly looking forward to it. About a quarter of the way up the trail I became aware of a dull pain in my bad right knee. At the halfway point I was in serious pain. And then I started thinking about how going downhill on a bad knee is more painful than going uphill, and how each uphill step I managed meant an even more painful downhill step on the way back. So I decided to stop. I let the group continue, and I found a place to sit and enjoy beautiful scenery while I waited for them to come back down the trail.

This isn’t abnormal – the knee has been injured since my sophomore year in high school and I’m used to it flaring up and messing with my plans for physical fun and glory. I came to terms with this a long time ago. It’s just the way it is, for me, with my bum knee. But yesterday, it pissed me off. A couple of minutes after my group left me alone, the tears came. At first I thought it was just the pain that was causing me to cry, but I don’t cry from pain often, and these tears felt different anyway – they were hot and they stung. And then I realized that I was angry… like… super angry.

I think I was okay with my knee ruining my activities before because of my mindset. I believed that, in every aspect of life, my old stuff – the pain and wounds and sin patterns and JUNK – was just a natural part of me I had to learn to accept and work with. It was just reality to me, and the best way to deal was just to come to terms with it, submit to it, and do the best I could despite it. But I no longer think that way. And as my world has been blown open by a revelation of grace, I have – apparently! – lost my tolerance for being limited by old pain.

Obviously, I didn’t sit on top of a massive boulder halfway up that trail crying for an hour because I couldn’t make it to the top. But my inability to complete the hike and see the view reminded me of all the other things I’ve been missing out on because of old injuries… Injuries to my heart and my soul that have yielded power over me for so long. The longer I sat there the more infuriated I became that my experience of the goodness of God has been so limited due to those old wounds. My former apathy has been replaced with a burning desire to eradicate all constraints on the freedom Christ died for me to have. I’ve realized it’s not the “norm” to operate with those limitations… and I’m no longer okay with submitting to that warped idea of reality. So I’m moving forward expecting the Spirit in me to overcome all the old junk that’s been limiting me so I can step into complete freedom, unlimited possibility, and overwhelming goodness.

2010

I pretty much hated 2009. It was messy and disappointing and painful and ugly and I have no fond feelings towards it. In fact, at midnight on New Year's Eve, when everyone was toasting and kissing, I was thinking to myself "good riddance, you bastard of a year!". I am not sad to see 2009 go.

In the past I've scoffed at the idea of New Year's resolutions. I'm a skeptic, a cynic, a Negative Nancy, a Debbie Downer - so I tend to roll my eyes at anything which reeks of idealistic commitment. But this year, I'm swallowing all of that. Because I need 2010 to be different, and I'm pretty sure the only way to ensure that is to make different decisions, have a different attitude, and live my life differently. So I too have made idealistic commitments to change my lifestyle.

1. As cliché as it is, I'm going to start eating better. Months of unemployment got me into the habit of eating whatever was cheap and available and I lost all sense of intentionality in this area. And since being at my parents', I've had access to an ever-abundant supply of all things unhealthy.
2. Also cliché is my commitment to exercise. I'm usually sporadic in this area, and my work-outs tend to be a spontaneous expression of emotion as opposed to something I've consistently built into my life. I got a hold of a 5k training plan - a slow and gradual plan, but it's very doable, and it'll give me a definitive goal to strive for. I've had a reoccurring dream since I was a kid where I'm running. Not running from something - it's not a nightmare - but just running for very long periods of time and in the dream I always feel incredible. Like I'm flying. Now it's pretty much guaranteed that my running will not feel anything like that. But for the sake of the dream, I have to try.
3. I refuse to say I'm quitting smoking, but I am going to cut back. Way back. I'd like to make it a special treat I allow myself as opposed to a daily habit. Hopefully the race training will motivate me in this direction... I'm pretty sure my lungs will hate me once I start trying to run.
4. It's ridiculous that I have to do this, but I'm determining to spend more intentional time doing the things I love: music and writing. Even though doing these things is life-giving to me, I can slip into lazy mode and just let my creativity wither. But I'm infinitely happier when I'm singing and playing and writing, so I'm making it a renewed priority to pour myself into these things.

So that's my list. It's idealistic; it's painfully cliché; I'll probably look back on this entry at the end of February and let out a long, cynical sounding laugh. But there it is. I'm going to give it my damndest because I am not willing to repeat 2009. It's gone, it can kiss my ass.

Number One?

Despite my inherent hesitation towards Dallas and most things Texas, a September issue of Forbes declares it to be the best place to be right now:

Top 10 Cities to Earn a Living
1. Dallas
2. Houston
3. Minneapolis
4. Austin
5. Washington, D.C.
6. St. Louis
7. Seattle
8. Atlanta
9. Kansas City, MO
10. Denver

Source: Forbes, Francesca Levy (09/03/2009)

http://www.forbes.com/2009/09/03/careers-job-growth-lifestyle-real-estate-earn-a-living.html

I'm relieved to see Denver made the list... barely... but there's no humidity OR bugs there, so I think that should bump it up at least past Atlanta.

One of those weekends...

So I graduated.

It’s really such an insane time. The week leading up to it is completely consumed with final exams and papers. I practically lived in the library, didn’t sleep, barely ate, and my existence was entirely academic. And then – boom! – I sent in my last exam and it was all over in an instant. Freedom! But there’s no chance for recovery, because I had to get a dress and a haircut for graduation, clean the house, and buy groceries to prepare for the family coming into town. Then I find myself at this dinner with all these giddy graduates, so relieved and awed to be done. And then drinks – drinks galore! – to celebrate, because what we did is sort of amazing after all.

Then it’s a day of leading parents and grandparents around the city and introducing them to my friends. And the next thing I knew I was marching around in polyester listening to everyone tell me how damn proud of me they were. It’s absurd, really.

After all the hoopla, I drove to Wolfeboro, New Hampshire to spend a few days with my family. It was gorgeous and restful and I slept in, ate incredible home-cooked meals, and read on the sunny back deck. Glory.

Now I’m back in the city, trying to find a job and convince myself that I’m not crazy for sticking around. I did have one of those weekends which makes me feel as though all is well in my world. Thursday night it was wine, cigarettes, and the season finale of Grey’s in Bushwick. Friday I sipped a smoothie while people watching in the park, and then had Pinkberry on Spring Street. Saturday we walked through Hell’s Kitchen for the International Food Festival: took a potty break in Port Authority, and picked up gyros on 9th Avenue. Then brought in the evening sitting on cool rocks in Central Park, sipping frappuccinos, smoking, and taking photos. After that I had (really good!) BBQ at Justin Timberlake’s restaurant on the Upper East Side. Then yesterday, it was back to work but the most gorgeous weather in the world made my lunch break in the park a joy. I was devouring my delicious apple, surrounded by all the other people with ID badges hanging from their belts, thinking “I do like my life here”.

Here’s to hoping that sentiment lasts.

Things seen and a good Monday

Things Seen in NYC: Edition 2
A man walking along East on Central Park South wearing a pair of glasses made of cardboard. They looked as though they could have been a result of an arts and crafts session at summer camp. The man was dressed professionally, with no other visible oddities aside from the gray cardboard glasses perched upon his nose.

Today was a good day for a few simple reasons. First of all, it warmed up for a bit. Only the tourists were wearing hats and gloves today. The rest of us gladly shed our layers, unbuttoned our coats (I think it hit 50°F!), and enjoyed the sunshine and warmth while it lasted. Which wasn't long. (A rainy/snowy mix is expected tomorrow.) Secondly, I noticed during my lengthy walk to work from the train station this morning that the shoes I bought at Christmas are finally broken in. What a relief. And if you think I'm being dramatic, I dare you to commute to school and work for just one day in new shoes and then see what you have to say. Thirdly, I worked out a tense situation with a friend. Life is always better when you're breathing easier in your close friendships. And last, but definitely not least... I got free lunch at work. Well, to be more specific, I got free fried chicken wings and spare ribs. Leftovers from a catered meeting in the board room. My poor, college-student's heart soars at the mention of the words "free lunch".

That is all.

A servant of all

Last week New York hosted the coldest weather I’ve ever experienced. This is my fourth winter here, and while I actually prefer Northeastern winters to Texas winters, the temperatures last Thursday and Friday were anything but pleasant. I’ve been dubbed a freak for my sincere feeling that cold weather is invigorating. Perhaps it was growing up amidst fickle Texas weather that inclines me towards a good hard winter, but in any case I usually enjoy it. But not last week. Last Friday morning I checked weather.com before leaving my house, as usual, and was met by the sobering news that the wind chill was -5°F. -5°?!? I didn’t even know what that felt like. Well… now I do. No amount of layers guards against a wind chill of -5°F. The ten minute walk from the train to work that morning rendered my face and legs numb. Every time I stepped outside my muscles tensed up and ached, and my entire body felt like a perpetual brain freeze. But it’s given me a new perspective… the forecast for tomorrow (high of 36°F) thrills me... I won’t even need a hat and gloves!

Last Thursday I was in the Lower Lobby of the Empire State Building waiting for a friend to get out of a meeting so we could grab coffee. Suddenly a crowd of people formed in front of the television in the lobby, and when I went to join them I heard a woman who had just come from the observation deck saying that she’d just seen a plane land in the Hudson River. For the next 45 minutes, the crowd grew as we watched the event unfold:

It’s been dubbed “The Miracle on the Hudson”, because all 155 people aboard the plane survived. But a swim in that wicked cold river is not what those people expected when they woke up that morning.

I also came across this video last week:




I watched fellow Texan (yes, I did just admit it) Jason Castro on the last season of American Idol, and was drawn to his pretty blue eyes and crooked smile more than to his performances. But this video made me like him more; and appreciate his ability and willingness to articulate his faith so effectively. When asked about his life goals, Jason said he wants to be a servant of all. Oh that this would be the answer launching from my tongue whenever I'm faced with that all-too-frequent question!

The long weekend was a pleasure. I took it easy: spent some time organizing and sorting, reading, watching movies, and playing guitar. The spontaneous worship session on my sofa with my roommates and soup night at the Walkers were highlights. Now I'm back into the swing of routine, with classes and work and commuting and homework filling up my hours. It's a nice place to be, for right now... a cozy comfort zone.

A question: since when is "hot" spelled with two t's? I observe with chagrin that Facebook is mutilating our written language skills.

I read and I watched

Today marks the end of my last Christmas break. As sad as that is, I can at least boast a wonderful month free of classes and homework, full of naps and friends and pleasurable activities. I spent some of my break with my family in Texas. Imagine hanging out with these people all day every day:

I also got to spend time with long-lost cousins and old friends:

I spent a good portion of my break reading and watching movies. I read three books (don’t worry, there are no spoilers!):

1. The Color of Water by James McBride - This is a great memoir about racial identity. The author is mixed race: his father was a black man and his mother a Jewish woman. He was raised in New York City in the 60’s, and was constantly faced with struggled concerning his race and identity. When he became a journalist as an adult, he convinced his mother to finally tell her story, and this book is a blend of his telling of his own childhood with his telling of her story.

2. Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates - This book was published in 1961, but this year’s release of the movie starring Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio has made it popular again. It’s a powerful, challenging story written in a compelling style. I did see the movie, but I’m glad I read the book first, because it develops the characters much more completely. I discuss this at length below.

3. The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch - This book had been recommended to me by a few different people, so I stole my dad’s copy and read it. It’s short and concise, full of practical advice and sound encouragement from a dying man. The book is based on Dr. Pausch’s final lecture, which he was asked to give after receiving a terminal diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. The title of his lecture was “Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams”, which he gave primarily to leave behind a legacy for his three small children. I enjoyed his personality, which came through the writing, but the content of the book lacked depth and failed to challenge me.

Thanks to cheap movie theaters in Texas and my Netflix account, I also managed to view quite a few movies. In the theater I saw (no spoilers!):

1. Quantum of Solace – Enjoyed it even though I hadn’t seen its prequel, Casino Royale. Daniel Craig isn’t my favorite Bond actor, but I suppose Pierce Brosnan’s time is past, and no one will ever top Sean Connery.

2. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button – Good story, and though the film was a bit slow and drawn out, it held my attention until some kid pulled the fire alarm in the theater and we all had to evacuate. Cate Blanchett delivers a brilliant performance as usual, and the premise of the life of Button – that he ages backwards – is a fascinating idea to lose yourself in for three hours.

3. Valkyrie – Since I love history, especially the WWII era, I’ve long been interested in seeing this film. I was most impressed by the pacing of the movie – it wasn’t too slow, though the majority of the film is about a very small period of time. It was well acted, and the intensity of the conspiracy translated well on the big screen.

4. Changeling – This movie turned out to be very different than what I expected it to be. From the previews I expected a sentimental tragic story led by Angelina Jolie. In fact, the story has many more layers than that of a terrified, panicked mother fighting to find her son. I was pleasantly surprised by the elements of conspiracy and murder hidden within this story, and found it an extremely compelling movie. The best part? It’s a true story! (I’m a sucker for that.)

5. Slumdog Millionaire – This film swept the Golden Globes last night – winning Best Original Score, Best Screenplay, Best Director, and Best Picture-Drama – which is no surprise. It’s a unique and stirring story, the cinematography is amazing, and before the final credits had run I vowed to purchase the soundtrack. My one complaint about the movie is its all-too-familiar focus on young love. The inspiration of the story shouldn’t be about teenagers in love, but about the possibility – however far-fetched – of an underprivileged boy from terrible circumstances getting a break and a chance at a better life. I felt that the movie failed to place the emphasis on this point that it deserves.

6. Revolutionary Road – Now to launch into this story. (WARNING: Below are details about the movie/book which may ruin it for you if you haven’t seen/read it and plan to. In addition, if you haven’t seen the movie or read the book you might not understand much of what I say below.) I decided to read this book upon hearing the general premise of the story. I was interested to see the approach Yates took in examining the trend of conformity to suburban life which emerged in America in the 1950’s. I was deeply affected by the book, because I identified with the characters and the story gave life to some questions and fears I have about my own life.

After I finished the book, I went to see the movie with Erica. Seeing the story on screen invoked an even more emotional response from me, and Erica shared this feeling. However, we had very different views of the story; and everyone I’ve spoken to since has had lots of different things to say as well. The first questions I asked Erica was, “Who do you hate more, Frank or April?” She said she didn’t hate Frank at all, and sort of hated April. To her, April’s self-inflicted abortion at the end was an act of selfishness and revenge, a way to have her way at last despite Frank’s wishes. But to me, April was a desperate woman willing to do anything to hold onto the future she felt slipping through her fingers. The book offered more insight into April’s process of making the decision to give herself the abortion. It detailed her realization that she didn’t really hate Frank, but that she had made a mistake in trying to make him into someone he wasn’t. The whole idea of running away to Paris was hers, and she’d tried to manipulate him into sharing her enthusiasm. But the fact was that Frank was content where he was, working his dull job and living his lackluster life. Sure, he was a sell out. But April realized that as his honest choice, and her mistake as expecting more from him. This inspires fear in me: that we can so easily change into people we don’t even like, that no matter how special we’re told we are, or how unique we think we are, it’s so much easier to give up the fight to live the life you want when you’re young and have your whole future ahead of you. Frank and April saw themselves as superior, soaring above conformity. And yet, when it came down to it, Frank chose a job with a bigger paycheck and a nice house in the suburbs. One of my favorite pieces of dialogue is from a fight the Wheelers have. It occurs when April first begins to realize Frank’s true preference to stay in Connecticut instead of making the move to Paris:

APRIL: You don't want to go, do you?

FRANK: Come on, April. Of course I do.

APRIL: You don't! Because you've never tried at anything. And if you don't try at anything you can't fail!

FRANK: What the hell do you mean I don't try? I support you, don't I? I pay for this house. I work ten hours a day at a job I can't stand.

APRIL: You don't have to!

FRANK: Bullshit! I'm not happy about it. But I have the backbone not to run away from my responsibilities!

APRIL: It takes backbone to lead the life you want, Frank.

I think that’s the truth of it: that it’s often more difficult, and takes more courage and fight, to live the life you want. Sometimes settling into living responsibly is a necessary and wise decision, but sometimes it’s taking the easy way out. April says something else pretty profound about truth:

APRIL: You know what's so good about the truth? Everyone knows what it is, however long they've lived without it. No one forgets the truth, Frank, they just get better at lying.

Right now, I’m still trying to figure out what the truth concerning my future is. And I feel pressure to sort it out before I turn into Frank or April Wheeler – either numbed into conformity or stuck married to someone who has been. Classes begin tomorrow, and I’ve been working full-time since I got back into town last week. I have rediscovered how much I loathe the 9-5 work day; no matter how nasty or cold it is outside I simply have to get out of the office building for lunch. Just to be outside, to have my feet hit pavement and to brush shoulders with the rest of the world. As I’ve worked my way through school hopping from cubicle to cubicle, I’ve been content with my part-time jobs, because they’re a means to an end… that ever-illustrious degree. The five hour shifts feel okay, but 9-5 feels like slipping into settling for the rest of my life.

Today, my black pants were a lint magnet and my socks sagged into my shoes. Bunchy.

Fickle weather

This week has been slightly bizarre. Freshly recovered from my incapacitating sickness, I ventured to church on Sunday morning and then spent the remainder of the day in the school library, whittling down my finals. Monday it was 60°, which was about a 30° leap from the previous days, and disturbed my soul greatly. I went with a couple of friends to ice skate at Bryant Park, but it was so warm that the majority of the ice was covered in a couple of inches of water. Not okay. So ice skating didn’t last long, and I went home to finish writing my final paper. Tuesday was the day I achieved (temporary) freedom, and it was also the day of the first snowfall of the season. When I came up from the subway station on my way to school I was met by the fattest, laziest snowflakes I’ve ever seen. They were floppy and beautiful and vanished into themselves as soon as they hit the sidewalk. For the length of my short walk they continued to attach themselves to my hat and coat. It continued to snow – albeit not nearly as beautifully – for the rest of the night. While I shopped for Christmas gifts it snowed and as I ate dinner with Erica it snowed and while I celebrated my (temporary) freedom with friends it snowed. My affinity for snow is no secret… it does good things for my soul.

In a matter of hours I’ll be on a plane on my way to Texas. I’m most excited about the change of pace, hanging out with my brothers, and driving down the highway with country radio blaring. Additional pleasures during my two weeks in Texas include nighttime dates with old friends; a couple of days at the ranch with the extended family; my mom’s home cooking; sleeping in a bigger bed; my parents’ house covered with lights and garland and nativity scenes; DVRing late-night movies to watch the next day; cheap cigarettes, and loads of time to read for pleasure. I plan to devour at least half a dozen books before classes resume in January.

Flummoxed and balmy

When I stepped outside this morning, I was pleasantly surprised by the warmer temperature. When I got off the train at 57th Street, a digital sign informed me that the current temperature was 42°. Balmy. As I walked past the holiday market at Columbus Circle, all the booths were being opened and the merchandise was being arranged and displayed, preparing for another day of business. As a result of my unwarranted holiday cheer, this holiday market is a great joy to me, particularly as I pass it each evening on my way home. The red and white striped tents, the smell of apple cider and cookies, and the buzz of excitement are all rather magical. As I read back over this paragraph I am compelled to repeat… damn holiday cheer.

I’m finished with classes, and my remaining final exams and papers are spread out over the next week so I am breathing easier. That is, until it hits me that I have only five more months until I am spat out into the adult world. After years spent longing for this supposed freedom, I find myself sufficiently paralyzed with fear, doubt, and a general sense of confusion. It’s not that I expected to have a detailed snapshot of my future, complete with an instructional booklet and driving directions. But I do think I expected to know the scenery, even if it was blurry. I’d like to know, at this point, whether I’m heading into the ocean or the forest or the concrete jungle. Apparently that is too much to ask.

I’ve never thought of myself as idealistic, naïve, or even youthfully optimistic. I tend more towards skepticism and a generally pessimistic outlook on life. But my jaded view – which typically protects against these moments of severe devastation – has failed me on this account. Because I really did think that after all I’ve learned about myself, all I’ve experienced, the way I’ve grown, that I’d come out of it with an idea at least about what I wanted. Instead I’m flummoxed, my head swiveling back and forth between two paths. On one hand I’m telling myself to shove down all the desire for something true and fulfilling for the sake of getting out of debt. On the other hand, a part of me is yearning to run like hell from the structured, settled down version of life to immerse myself in yet another bubble world.

If it’s possible to feel trapped by too much opportunity, that’s where I am.

Things seen and a big nose

I’ve decided to begin a series within my blog called “Things Seen in NYC”. For those of you who are already familiar with the oddities of the city, I hope this will serve as a catalyst for more sharing of these bizarre and yet all too predictable instances. For those of you who are Texans, Southerners (I make a distinction because apparently Texans don’t like to be identified as Southerners), and non-Americans, I hope these stories manage to educate, shock, and amaze you. My readers who are New Yorkers will, I believe, find this highlighting of the most bizarre of our city more reason to be further endeared to it. I expect you will read my observations, shake your heads, roll your eyes, and secretly find yourselves a bit happier that you dwell in this city. My readers who live their lives elsewhere will most likely find this same highlighting reason to be grateful that they live in the suburbs, or in quaint and charming towns that have character without the dangerous and wacky elements of New York City. Without further ado…

Things Seen in NYC: Edition 1
Every morning I have a small discussion with myself as the local 6 train pulls into the 125th Street station. I have the option to remain on the 6 – where I have a guaranteed seat – as it rolls through each of the dozen stops to 33rd Street. Or, if I’m short on time, I may cross the platform at 125th to catch the express train, where I will be forced to stand crushed between an old woman smelling of mothballs and an MTA employee coming off the night shift whose orange uniform vest is covered in whatever rank substance lines the walls of the subway tunnels. However, if I take the express I do have to get off at Grand Central, and wait for the local to pick me up and take me one stop further. So, as the 6 rolls up to the platform at 125th, I quickly collect information – the time, the room in the local vs. the room in the express car, etc. – and make my decision. Today I switched to the express, mostly because it was there when the 6 arrived and because I thought I had a good chance of getting a seat. Which I did. Right across from a person who caught my attention initially because I couldn’t decide whether it was a man or a woman. The face and hair hinted towards the female option, but the long torso, large hands and broad shoulders made me doubt. Throughout the ride I continued a close inspection of this person, trying to make my final decision. During one of my examinations, I noticed the cover of the book the gender-undefined person was reading. The paperback cover was brightly colored and caught my eye, though I couldn’t quite make it out. A few minutes later the person shifted, and the front cover of the book was clearly displayed. BIKER Chick was the title – scrawled in bright red font above a picture of a girl in lingerie straddling a large red and chrome motorcycle – presented by Urban Books. Needless to say this didn’t offer any clarity to my dilemma, and by the time we got to 33rd Street I still didn’t have the gender of the person figured out, and was forced to just accept the mystery as one of those things you see in New York.

On a different note... one of my favorite little boys in the whole world recently did a photo shoot for an advertisement for Vicks (as in, the common cold medicine). Last night I saw him for the first time in a couple of months, and as we were catching up, I asked him about it:

"So was it fun when the man was taking pictures of you at the playground?" (Yes, I realized as it came out my mouth how creepy this could have sounded, but my 4-year-old friend did not catch it.)

"Uh-huh."

"Yeah? I saw the one of you on the slide. Very cool."

"Yeah, I had my rockstar hair."

"You sure did. You did a great job, posing for pictures for the stuffy nose medicine."

He looked at me incredulously, his brow furrowed and his expression communicating a sense of intense disgust at my ignorance. "It wasn't for medicine, Wauren, it was for a big nose."

And I had no reply. Because to him, clearly and with good reason, the picture was indeed for a big nose...

Recipes

In response to the intense demand, here is the baked ziti recipe. It's ridiculously simple, so I don't understand how it's so good. But it is. Amazing. So, as you make it for your husbands and children think of me.

And mom's hot chocolate mix recipe:
32 oz. Nestles chocolate mix
11 oz. coffee mate
1 box (16 oz) powdered sugar
8 quart box powdered milk

That hot chocolate is a comfort to me on most nights these days. Erica will vouch for both of these recipes. Enjoy!

In honor of...

As usual, my family had to do without me for Thanksgiving dinner. What they missed the most, I'm sure, is my possesiveness over the coveted squash casserole. Every year I fight over the largest helping with my Uncle Wes, and try to position the dish close to my seat at the table for optimum scooping opportunities. In any case, this is how my family chose to honor me and mark my absence on Thanksgiving:

For the record, I detest that photo. Which is probably why they chose to use it. Tonight I'm making three cheese baked ziti, using a recipe my brothers tried out this summer. If I can't make it as well as they did I'll be humiliated. Of course I'll be making it on significantly less sleep, therefore with less brainpower. Eight hours of sleep in 48 hours is not a good ratio.

I'll leave you with this, today's comic from my favorite webcomic ever: www.marriedtothesea.com. I particularly appreciate this one.

Death and the holidays

It’s 4:14, and I’m literally watching the clock. My stomach feels like it’s eating itself, and a wonderful toasted turkey and cheese sandwich awaits me at home, so I’m eager for the clock to say 5:00. Why does the last hour always seem to be the longest? Ben’s birthday party kept me out super late last night, so I slept through my morning class today and as a result, didn’t eat breakfast until late. The crevices of my fingernails are still orange from the mango I had at 11:30am but it didn’t tide me over long enough. I digress…

The last couple of weeks I’ve been buried in death certificates (pun completely intended) at work. Going through never-ending stacks of them has led me to start paying closer attention. For instance, I know that the prettiest ones come from Gillespie County in Texas. And of course I always check out the cause of death. But since I work in estate planning my particular stack of death certificates is lacking severely in the salacious causes, tending to lean more towards the “natural” causes. So scandalous they are not, but intimidating they are: “end stage chronic obstructive pulmonary disease”; “acute respiratory distress syndrome”; and “metastatic cholongiocarcinoma”. Geez. They really ought not to let people with a history of depression spend 8 hours a day sifting through piles of these things.

Four more classes, two more write-ups, two presentations, a quiz and a final paper to go. And then finals. Next semester’s lighter load is greatly anticipated.

As previously discussed, I am experiencing an uncharacteristic enjoyment of holiday cheer this year. Going to Rosie Thomas’ show last night – where she played songs from her new Christmas album, which I love – didn’t help at all. There are other changes as well. This winter, knitting has been replaced with calligraphy as my hobby of choice. My roommates and I are also committed to decorating our house, which is a first for me. But not everything is different: Mom’s homemade hot chocolate is still my #1 beverage of choice for the season, and there’s still nothing better than curling up under my micro fleece blankets in sweatpants and watching Love Actually to get into the Christmas spirit.

The circle

As I write this, I hear sounds of my friends upstairs. They are laughing and swearing and eating and drinking, and it is a comfort to me to hear the sounds of their life - of our life - drifting down the stairs. They all got on trains and buses today, and walked up Alexander Avenue and through our door bearing pies and wine and hearts full of thanks. And we did the traditional "go around the circle and share one thing you're thankful for" thing, and had a chance to remember that our lives are infused with blessings. We did some damage to a 23 lb turkey, complimented one another's cooking, spiked the eggnog and broke off into small conversations in the presence of one another. We are doing our best to be family to each other, in the absence of our actual families we are making room for God to form family among us. This is a good thing.

Today I am thankful for the unexpected... for the hope that something I can't predict will occur and shake my world. I am thankful that my God is a God who interjects himself into the course of my life in ways I never saw coming, and changes my attitude towards what's in front of me. I am thankful that my finite perspective is not reality, and that I am not in control. I am thankful that my God knows what I need when I don't, and provides it for me in ways I wouldn't even have asked for.

I now look forward to a long weekend of leftovers and spontaneous outings and naps and reading and flannel sheets.

Holiday smear

Everyone I know is currently blogging. Which should excite me, but it's actually pressuring me to post.

I just finished "Life Together" by Bonhoeffer. Some of it was definitely skimmed through, but other parts were deeply challenging. One of the things that hit me the hardest was the truth that community is a human reality, not an ideal. Anytime we put our own desires on a community we're looking at it all wrong. Because community doesn't exists to meet the needs of its members, but it is essential to living the Christian life. We tend to talk about it as this external entity that we'd like to create around us somehow, someday. But the reality is that the community of brothers and sisters is simply the way God created us to live, and it can't be formed out of our own desire, it should be built out of obedience and thankfulness to our God who knows what we need so much better than we do.

Later in the book Bonhoeffer speaks about ministry, about how the key elements of our ministry to one another are holding our tongue, humility, meekness, listening, helpfulness, and service. I must say I was quite convicted. I try so often to be a superstar at ministering, but my idea about what that looks like is really skewed. And in the last chapter Bonhoeffer talks about confession, and about how we share in the cross of Christ through confession. Confession is an act of humility, of admitting who we are as sinners, of standing in that shame before another Christian. But what did Christ do on the cross but take on all of that, for the entire human race, and bear it? Being honest in front of my brothers and sisters is an opportunity to share in the sufferings of Christ. Food for thought...

In other news, I'm drowning in case studies... 7 this week, each with a thought paper and 2 with a presentation. Ridiculous. I'm also strangely overcome by holiday cheer. Usually I'm the Scrooge character, bitching about decorations and Christmas music taking over the city before Thanksgiving. But this year I've found myself pausing to gaze at the holiday window displays, the lit up snowflakes in the Time Warner Center, and browsing iTunes for bearable Christmas music. What's happening to me?!

Today I busted out the Cuddl Duds, and friends arrived at our door singing carols (albeit mockingly), and I'm not even mad about the late night of wrestling with case studies ahead of me. Damn holiday cheer.

Good things

Recent good things in my world:

• I spent the afternoon floating on my back in the pool, feeling the sun beat down on my skin. My arms were outstretched, my palms faced the sky, and the water laced between my fingers as their tips broke the surface of the pool. Afterwards I smelt of chlorine and my cheeks were pink.
• I had a dream about my aunt Donna, who died three years ago. She was somehow back from whatever existence she knows now, and I was riding in a car with her throughout the dream, asking her very Lauren-like questions such as “do you know you’re dead?” and “does it feel different to be here this time?”. What happened in the dream isn’t as important as the fact that even now the feeling of being in the car with her lingers, and when I woke up I felt like she’d just dropped by for coffee.
• My brother came home early last night, and snuck in my bedroom as I was sprawled on my bed watching a movie on my laptop. He flopped down on top of me (which initially scared the shit out of me), and then stayed for a while before tussling my hair and leaving.

Angry messy grief

I don’t do funerals. I don’t grieve ceremoniously or corporately. When I grieve, it’s messy, and there’s no make-up involved, but there usually are a lot of cigarettes. So this weekend I’ll be going to a wedding, not a funeral. Not because I’m running away, but because I’m facing what must be faced in my own way… with my iPod turned up as I chase five hundred miles of highway in the opposite direction of the funeral. And this weekend I will laugh and I will shed tears and I might not be sure why, or which is which at any given moment. But that is my mourning.

My uncle’s words, written mere hours after losing his wife:

“Where do I stand now? I am DEFIANT! I hate cancer and all other sickness now more than ever. I expect divine justice to give me back seven-fold or more in healings what I have lost tonight. I am even more determined that what I saw tonight, droplets of blood spraying from Vicki’s nose and mouth as she breathed her last breath, was not God’s will – it’s what Jesus died for in our place. I will not make peace with the enemy of eternal life (sin) or with the enemy of physical life (sickness) and call it God’s will. I will call it mystery – the secret things of God that I do not understand (Deut.29:29), but I will not accept it as some heavenly ‘status quo’."

Until I read these words I had nowhere to place the anger I feel in response to this – yet another – monstrous hit to my family. I tried to place it on God, but I couldn’t, because I couldn’t escape my belief that he is good. And so I carried it until the truth of these words pierced me. Now I see clearly that I am angry towards an enemy which is constantly present yet already defeated. I am angry at this disjointed world, operating contradictorily from the way it was meant to. I am angry because I’m stuck in a temporary existence and it hurts, and I long for the eternal fulfillment my aunt stepped into last night.