tiny pangs

Someone commented to me recently that my walk in life is like their 18 year-old daughter's--not yet formed. This comment struck me because I consider myself much more mature than my 18 year-old self and my 18 year-old self was reasonably mature.

They were innocently reflecting on the fact that I have a wide range of things that I still consider to be viable career and life paths. That I am not committed to a certain set of lifestyling informing ideals. They commented that I wasn't married. I didn't have commitments. I was free as a freshman in college.

Perhaps the words were intended to be freeing, permission giving. Except that it made me feel lesser. Like judgement on my freedom to carve a new path in life was being passed. I'm too old to be so free. I'm to be established in a particular way by this stage in life.

Of course I know these things to be untrue, ludicrous. spoken by someone who, at my age had carved the path that they still walk upon.

But for some reason, it still hurt.

christian youth workers in secular spiritual development conversations?

Faith, spirituality, and religion are inextricably linked to one another. Each person, even within religious communities, shapes the unique way these things relate to one another. Areligious people also have the interworkings of the three within them, but spiritual development has been shut down in secular society in favor of measurable outcomes in different areas of development. Spirituality is ignored by and large as a valid part of a person’s development.

Discussing spiritual development with secular youth workers (think coaches, mentors, tutors, after-school program administrators) could open up avenues to talk about Christ and who he is, to show how grace informs our daily walk. Opening our doors to people who are exploring their spirituality could provide us opportunities to share the benefits of a relationship with Christ and his Church.

If the church refuses to engage in conversations outside of herself about spiritual development, we may be limiting ourselves from a great opportunity to share who Christ is. I’m not sure the effort is to intellectualize our understanding of spiritual development as it is to stimulate opportunities for young people to explore their spirituality/faith/religion with fear of not meeting the standardized requirements. For the Christian worker, discussing spirituality in the secular realm could be an opportunity to be active in showing grace.

Consider Paul’s interaction with the people of Athens in Acts 17:16-34. Paul readily and actively engaged in conversations with the Stoics, the Epicureans, the Jews and others. The spirit led him to teach Christ in that pagan place. He reasoned with them, he had conversations with them. I imagine he was respectful and listened carefully to them as well as he was taken to the Areopagus to teach there. Perhaps spiritual development can be a modern day Areopagus? Certainly there are pagan thoughts, ideas, and idols that are worshipped. But what better place to show what it means to follow Christ? To show the peculiarity of grace?

Of course, that assumes that we as Christians are living peculiarly.

I don’t want to seem as though I am sponsoring some sort of state-recognized spirituality here. I don’t think spirituality standards are any more helpful than judging the validity of youth ministry by the number of youth in bible study. I do, however, think that as Christian(s)(churchworkers), we have a responsibility to be the voice of the peculiarity of Christ in every Areopagus-like place presented to us. Is this conversation one of those places?

baking up is hard to do

I am terrible baker.

I forget ingredients. When I cook, I add them later or tell myself it still tastes okay. When I bake, these strategies lead to baking soda dusted piles of hard burnt lumpy muffins or runny sugar cookies.

I forget that I am baking. Cooking demands full attention on it and nothing else. Baking allows for me to step away, start reading a book and drinking some tea and then three hours later I remember that I turned off the alarm when things weren't looking finished yet in the now flaming oven.

I forget how many cups of flour I've added. Seriously. I can't count past three.

I seriously cried myself through every chemistry experiment in high school (no, I am not my pharmacist-father's daughter) even if only in my head. The chemical reactions required for baking anything not pre-boxed is over my skill level/emotional capability.

I don't have patience to let things rise like they need to... Instant gratification is my food-mantra.

I am not a baker. But these scones have convinced me that I should keep trying. If I can make them, you can make them.

fishbowl sympathies

I didn't see Obama make his now-famous slip on the Jay Leno show about his bowling score qualifying him for the Special Olympics (he missed the time that I barely bowled a 50). He made an off-color joke. We've all made them, not thinking, not sensitized. We've all been stupid with our words. (Should I ask you when the last time someone (yourself included) used the word "gay" in a derrogatory manner and no correction was given?)

Our words come back and bite us in the tuchas. Obama's tuchas bite came quickly. Within his time on air, he came back and made his apologies. Done and over except that Obama lives in the world's smallest human fishbowl and people like to wipe their finger smudges on his glass as much as possible.

I was aghast this weekend when I overheard several people disparaging him for making a mistake. "He should know better." "What a fool." "I can't believe he was so offensive." Sure, they can be offended by his words, but they have to accept his apology (why? because it was sincere. because we've all made a bad joke, even if only quietly in our head.) And accepting an apology means shutting up about it and letting more important things rise to the surface.

My sympathies lie with the public figure on this one because fishbowls can be suffocating. He certainly "chose the life," but that doesn't mean I can't be gracious in accepting his apologies when he makes an honest mistake.

tradition!

One of the curiousities of the young adult years is the lack of consistency of support network. We are transient finicky creatures that change our likes, dislikes, and locations as much as we skip songs on our ipod.

On of the curiousities of my life is that despite this innate quality of transition, my friendfam has an addiction to tradition. Enough of us have lived in close proximity to one another for enough time that we have developed traditions that make life more bearable, more exciting, and filled with photo albums.

We have the standard holiday parties with the standard fanfare, but we've created a few of our own side traditions, too. One of these traditions is something explicitly named: The Godfather Marathon. A few years ago, Nate and I realized our mutual affection for the movies and need to proselytize our friends with its goodness. So he found a spaghetti sauce based on a scene in Part One, we found a large screen tv, and hunkered down for a full afternoon and evening of mobstah lovin' and italian meals that will sustain you into the next millenium.

Nate has since moved on to new places but the marathon continues. Every year Godfather virgins fall into our traps. We teach them about the intricacies of the plot and talk throughout the movie, but only when it is appropriate. It is one of my favorite traditions with friends.

Now on to the store to buy meatball materials!!

in the shadow of your wings

ch ch ch changes

Last week I moved my RSS feeds to Google Reader. I still don't know why. I only know why I hadn't used a feed reader before... I canNOT stand unread items. I feel guilty every time I press the "mark all as read" button. But I know that I will never, EVA read posts titled:

Open Data: Rare Trove of Army Medical Photos Heads to Flickr

Seriously. I gots stuff to do. Like create my own trove of useless paraphernalia from 2009.

The one good thing about using Google Reader is that I can share some of my favorite articles with you without actually subjecting you to inane commentary. Score one for the reader! See the little left column for "articles to read."

p[er...]spectives

I read somewhere that the cost of the bailout plan per American is relatively close to the amount that I own on my federal taxes. An amount that is doable but still stinks. I will not be nearing the amazon music page for a few weeks. (SOB.)

Speaking of all of these "too-big-to-fail" financial monsters: when did too-big-to-fail stop meaning illegal monopoly and start meaning free handouts?

And why is no one talking about it?

--

I have done a marvelous job of being a whiner lately. I finally got a grip when my sister told me that my pain was valid but that I had to get over it because it wasn't that big of a deal.

Oh yeah. I forgot about the people who lost their jobs and had mother's get diagnosed with cancer in the same week. Friends of mine.

Sometimes kicks in the pants feel good.

--

The worst part of waiting for news is when you know that-which-you-await could arrive at any minute.

When I was in high school and the teacher would be handing back math tests (which was my iffy subject in school. That, and P.E.) I wouldn't be nervous until she would step closer to my desk indicating the arrival of my test in the coming moments. Its good that I don't have a heart condition other than NEUROTIC NERVOUSNESS AND ANXIETY ABOUT SELF-PERFORMANCE.

I have more psycho-somatic symptoms surrounding anxiety than I would admit to anyone other than the internet.

--

I have a group of friends that aren't much on the Jesus-following thing. I recently met someone in that group of people whose eyes lit up when I told her I worked at a church. She loves Jesus, too.

It's been a long time since that has happened. It was just what I needed.

when it drizzles you get wet

It was drizzly afternoon. The sun was shining. The sky was so blue, my eyes dimmed. But circumstances, results, realities still sank into the dry hard earth. Like a slow drizzle, dampening the concrete, dewing the grass.

A furrowed brow, a confused heart, an impatient, invalidated spirit. The sun was shining, but the atmosphere was overcast and seeping out what it could not hold back.

--

It was a slow morning. Realities hardened, encrusted, accepted. Confusion still lingers like dampness under the bushes. Present, but unseen.

--

Today, I am reminded that I don't belong here. I'm not from here. No one seems to understand that. But then, neither do I.

everything must change or it won't and things will just be the same

Things haven't changed enough in my life for me to think that things can really change that quickly. Or things have changed so quickly in my life that I don't think change really affects who I am. I'm not sure which it is. But in either scenario, change has filled my mind of late.

Changing economic landscape.
Changing congregational governance.
Changing weather (wait. WOOL COATS?!!? Are BACK!??! Gr.).
Changing culture in which we serve.
Change we can believe in?

My brain is so changed out, I think its gotten smaller in some sort of asinine protectionistic strategy. Kind of like the Dow.

I don't actually mind change all that much. I think changing up the closet organization keeps things fresh and interesting. I think changing hairstyles confuses small children in a kind of hilarious way. More seriously, I think changing our systems keeps our norms from settling into dangerous, comfortable, laconic territory.

I don't know if everything must change or will change or can change. But when things feel unstable and all change-y, I remember that there's nothing new under the sun. Whatever change comes, it will shy in comparison to the real change brought through having something (Someone) true to believe in. That's what keeps me going.

bello monte

like spain

I like yogurt. I like the way it tastes. I like the way a container slips into my lunch bag easily without hassle, thought, or mess.

Many people prefer variations on strawberry flavored yogurt, but not me. I like citrus-y and tropical yogurt. Lemon. Lime. Orange. Coconut. Pineapple. Mango.

But my favorite yogurt is whipped lemon yogurt. It tastes like Spain. Four ounces of it and I am transported to the all-white kitchen, the warming blending appliance that still mystifies me, my Spanish mom scurrying around making sure everything is in "su sitio." And the most delicious lemon mousse.

Whipped lemon yogurt is a poor substitute for her Spanish lemon mousse but its the closest I've been to Spain in a long time.

For now, it will do.

thoughts on a door

Patience isn't something easily possessed.

It slips underneath the doorway, like warmth on a cold day. Drafting out, disappearing.

Though impatient might not describe me, neither does patient. I'd like to know now, rather than tomorrow, next Tuesday, or beyond. I'm waiting. Angst dripping slowly.

--

I have the door frame. I have even have the door.

I'm just waiting for the hinges.

Hinges make the door.

The door I want to walk through.

hi.

For a few months, I have been worried that something really major unidentifiably scary was going on underneath the outer layers of my brain matter. I kind of wondered when everything was going to crack-up like a little egg and ooze out all over the place. Even talking about it right now, I am not entirely convinced it still won't. But acknowledgment of the problem is the second step to recovery. No, not the first. You have to have a problem first. Duh.

The problem was that I hated reading and writing. Weird, right? This is a girl who was dubbed upon birth by a very in-tune with the universe kind of aunt as a writer. No joke. This is a girl who has created her micro-niche comfort zone on the web as a reader of all things, commenter of all things, expounder on whatever her fancy strikes. But my fancy struck nothing. I liked looking at pretty pictures and posting pretty pictures, but dagnabbit I did NOT want to talkaboutitthinkaboutreadaboutit.

I was worried because people kept approaching me with side projects that interested me about as much as rolling my eyeballs in a pile of cat dander. I was worried because I had thought that I wanted to read and write for a living if I could find someone crazy enough to pay me enough to survive on words. My overly-self-conscious-self-examination mechanisms went into overdrive. My inner personal counselor told me to shut it and do something that I liked doing and that if words came back they would. If they didn't, I could take up miming as a profession instead. No biggie.

Somewhere in the midst of the wordie crisis, I was also having this conversation with God that went something like this: "Hi. Yah. No. Tell those people to lay off. Uh. Later. Oh and I love ya, but I think we need to reevaluate this arrangement. It's about as comfortable as couch without cushions."

I don't freak out when I have crises of faith or spiritual practice. In fact, I might be overly patient with their recovery. Probably because I spent way too many adolescent nights in foreign countries crying myself to sleep asking God if he even existed. Things pass. I just plod along waiting for it. No use getting worked up about it much. (Funny because I was all up in knots about words, but not talking to God was totally nothing. Yeesh. Not so funny, actually.)

Nothing has really changed. I woke up from a nap this weekend, and something outside of me said, "Hi." I'm not going to get all mumbogumbo mystical on you. We'll save that for the day when all of our morals collapse in a field of poppy. (So to state that directly and clearly: it's not going to happen.) Nevertheless, the word "hi" in its pretentionless greeting glory reminded me that I haven't been abandoned and the things that make me-me are still here.

Phew.

I'm not promising 3298 updates a day. That's what twitter is for. But the reading is back and the words are swirling around again. It's like running into an old friend you haven't seen in ages and remembering you still have so much in common.

waves of regret and waves of joy

Where I grew up the ocean waves were too far away to see and the corn fields waved gently, smoothly, like gold. I didn't think about the fields of waving grain much until I moved into an urban area and never saw them anymore. Sometimes, on my way home from work when the sky is blue and the clouds are yellowed from the sunshine, I detour myself through a pocket of farms to see the corn.

It reminds me of what I've come from. The night we dangled our feet off the overpass and watched the trucks plow by underneath. The barn at her house that scared the bejeebers out of me but never ceases to be the barn I see in fiction's stories and tales. The music that we blared as we ripped out of the gravel parking lots on our way to make a series of bad decisions of varying degrees.

Waves come and go. Life is filled with the waves that make us hold onto our seat and pray the boat ride will end quickly. Its filled with the kinds of waves that make us want to go back and do it again like a child who just discovered body surfing. Try as we might, capturing the wave in film, in our memories, in words falls short of possibility.

Sometimes the waves die down and we are left standing there. Wondering. What do I do when I am not watching, surfing, surviving the waves?

I wonder.

trailing

a view from the window

Caracas.

steals

U2 is releasing a new album this year and I am not the only one that is excited.

Amazon is, too. All U2 albums are on sale for $5.99.

If your jealous of my 611 track collection, now is a good time to try and catch up.