Hair Today . . .

Right this second, I'm not feeling as upset about the likely chemo aspect of this whole process as I was. Still, I was a little startled at the strength of my reaction to the news that I have baldness in my future.

The funny thing is that I've never been much a fan of my hair. It never does what I want it to, and it's only within the last four years that I've found a hairdresser who can really cut it to my taste (but he's expensive, so I only go, like, twice a year). It is a strange, indeterminate colour and it's frizzy but never actually curls, and in moments of frustration I've been heard to burst out, "All right! That's it! I'm shaving my head!"

It's just . . . I never really meant it.

If you know me at all, you'll know that I am neither the most liberal nor the most conservative student of the Bible, and I don't really think that a woman's hair length reflects her salvation status. But I do kind of think Paul was onto something when he said "a woman's hair is her glory." Long or short, dyed or naturally hued, When I joked around with some of the guys at Starbucks about being bald for Christmas, they were sympathetic and still laughed at my jokes, but when I told 409-Caitlin, she practically started crying for me. Heather-of-Six cried for me at the news, too.

I know it's only temporary. And when it comes back, they tell me, it will come back curly. And maybe blonde. I used to be blonde. And I always wanted curly hair.

(One time I prayed that God would make my hair curly, but seriously? This is a little extreme. On the other hand, I suppose it might indicate that God really does listen to our prayers, and sometimes His answers include a big ol' long wait . . . And then . . . a really weird answer. Is this doing "more than all we could ask or imagine"?)

But the thing is, this is my hair. Like it or not, it's what I've had since I've had any. I've grown into it, and it has (though not always as I wanted it to) expressed something about me. Even when I've hated it, it has in a way been something of my "pride and joy." And so sometimes, when I think about it, I can't help getting a little sad.

Pink

409-Caitlin and Ed! made pink ribbon pins with our store nickname ("One West") on them so the rest of our Starbucks colleagues could show their support. The powers that be will not let anyone wear them while working at Starbucks, but the fact that these two made such things was so sweet . . . I seem to be fresh out of tears for the last few days (I think I overused them last week), but if I had had any in stock, I'm sure I would have cried some when I found out what they had done. I really do feel like there's this "great cloud of witnesses" or something, caring for me more than I could have imagined or deserved . . .

Why. (?)

I have this very hazy memory from my distant childhood of this short-term playmate who used to ask "What for?" after everything. I don't remember if we lived in New Jersey or Massachusetts or even Honduras when I knew her. I don't remember her name. To me, her name was always "The What-For Girl."

Conversely, I have few memories of asking "why" very often myself. Until I turned about 22, that is. Ever since then, it seems like I've wanted to know the "why" of everything, which is unfortunate, because you just can't. Often, I am not very pleased with the fact that you can't, and I have been known to describe myself by saying, "I fight with God a lot."

It's never been a question of disbelieving in God. I can't do it. I tried once. Maybe if he'd stop making Himself known every time I'm "this close" to giving up I could do it, but He just keeps showing up and in the process I feel assured that 1) He is there, 2) He loves me, 3) I have no clue what He intends for me. The part I have a hard time with is the last part, and the trusting that His ideas for my life actually are better than mine. So . . . I hurtle "whys" across the universe and try futilely to wrestle with the God of it.

Until now.

I know. You don't believe me. Especially after yesterday's post. But the thing about my anger yesterday is that when it came down to it, I wasn't asking why in the great cosmic, universal sense, but more in a confined, causal sense. And when I really dissected my anger, I realised I wasn't truly angry at God. I almost felt like I was angry at the doctors and the writers who were telling me these things when I didn't truly have any (or much) control over the situation in the first place and I already know the world is broken.

A few weeks ago my car temporarily tanked, and I thought I was going to have to get a whole new one. I got really furious at God and wondered why He allows me to struggle so much. The next day I found out the car was okay (well, it was going to cost a lot less to make it okay, anyway), and the day after that I found out I had cancer, and although I cried at the news, I had no sense of fist-shaking at the heavens at all.

I still can't figure it out. I don't think I've instantaneously grown up within the course of that one day. I don't think I've even fully given up asking why or getting mad at God about things, because there have been a few more minor things in the midst of all this that I've taken Him to task for. But somehow I don't feel like I need to demand the reason for this one.

Maybe it's because I feel like there is a reason, even though I'm not clear what it is. It's not like I feel, exactly, that God Himself reached down and gave me cancer, just like I know He didn't reach down and kill His own Son Jesus. It feels more like, as with the crucifixion, God knew this was going to happen and already had something good and big up His sleeve to do with this.

Obviously I don't think it's going to be anything like "saving the world" or that. Only Jesus has that down. And I'm not even fully convinced that I will ever see the end result of what my having cancer will bring. I just have this weird sort of bedrock sense that, as Julian of Norwich said, "All will be well and all will be well and all manner of thing will be well."

I suppose that, since I'm such a "What-For" kind of girl these days, and since I've just asserted that I have no desire to rage the "whys" about this situation, tomorrow I will be vastly upset and start asking why all the time. It could happen. I'm just saying that so far? It hasn't. And that, my friends, might be a small miracle in itself.

Grrr . . .

Today I was angry.

I don't know how to explain the anger precisely. I didn't feel like I wished other people had my disease or anything, but I was reading about factors that indicate risk for breast cancer and I realised that I hardly have any of them. And the ones that I sort of have, I barely have. I found a string of thoughts running like this through my head:

What? I'm supposed to use even less plastic than I already do? I've already thrown out my Starbucks travel mugs and I don't microwave with plastic.

I drink less than one to two glasses of alcohol per day. Probably per week. What are you talking about?

I'm being penalised because I haven't had children and I haven't breast-fed? And the reason I haven't is because I'm not married and I'm trying to live life the way God wants me to?!

(Delete swear words).

I feel really strongly about that last standard. If I could rewind and do this life again, I suspect I would still live up to it. I really believe sex (and child-bearing) is a sacrosanct part of marriage and should only happen within marriage. But the fact is, "really believing" it doesn't decrease longing, and it seriously ticked me off today that by honouring it, I may have increased my chances for this disease.

The fact is, though, that I've never really wanted to have children. And in reality, of course, that one factor probably has very little to do with my getting cancer. I'm not being penalised. I know that. My diagnosis probably has more to do with my trying to protect the environment for a while by drinking out of my Starbucks travel mugs instead of disposing of paper cups all the time.

Thanks a lot.

Dark Humour

I'm discovering there's a fine line to be walked with the cancer jokes. There's this weird kind of responsibility that comes with being part of a minority group around a majority. For example, sometimes I send "Stuff Christians Like" links to certain friends who are not Christians. I might do it to show that I have a sense of humour about my subculture's foibles, or to try to explain a perspective on an issue I've been talking about with whomever I'm sending it to, but I find that there's often a kind of disconnect. The recipient isn't from that sub-culture, so they can't exactly know what it feels like to be in it. And they might not be sure they're allowed to laugh.

It's kind of like that with cancer, only maybe a little more selfish. There's a significant group of people out there who have or have had cancer, but most of the folk with whom I rub shoulders don't or haven't. And there's a need, when you have cancer (and when you're me and tend to look at things a little wryly in the first place) to find the humour in the situation or you just won't make it out at all. On the other hand, you can make people Extremely Uncomfortable by doing it. I regret to admit that for me at least, sometimes there's a certain appeal to that factor.

The other day a lady came into Starbucks and said, "Jenn! How are your book sales doing?" I haven't really heard anything about my book since the signing, and frankly, I've had other things on my mind so I haven't tried to hard to track down this information recently. There was a significant part of me who wanted to respond loudly over the tops of the espresso machines, so the entire store could hear, "Yeah--I'm not really sure. I just found out I have cancer, so book sales are kind of 'Enh--you know.' You know?"

Internally, I was cracking myself up imagining myself doing that and picturing the deer-in-the-headlights looks I would have elicited on the faces of all the customers. But (I fortunately realised), that would just be mean. So I said, "Actually, I don't really know. I've been a little busy and overwhelmed lately to pay attention." Which was true enough, although I didn't get as much entertainment value out of it.

On the other hand, when Bentleman said, that same evening, "Hey! What's everyone going to be for Hallowe'en?" I couldn't resist saying, "The cadaver."

Well. My surgery is on Hallowe'en. If the idea on Hallowe'en is to dress up as something scary without actually being it, how much more Hallowe'en-y can you get?

"Um, Jenn?" said Bentleman (or maybe 409-Caitlin), "That's just gross."

Right. Right. But . . . see above. Also. Let's not forget my last name is "Grosser."

See? Food!

I have just received my first cancer meal.

Actually, that might not necessarily be true, because of all the concerned and caring emails that I got last week, only Cousin Elizabeth wrote hers like this:

I wish that I could cook you a meal. I mean, I know that you're not debilitated and are quite physically capable of cooking for yourself--hot meals are just my gut reaction to any crisis situation. At certain times, it's nice just to relax and eat what someone else made. Consider yourself the virtual recipient of the following: creamed chicken over rice, green beans, dinner rolls, brownies. Nice and starchy. Classic Southern comfort food. Maybe there should be some homemade mac and cheese on that list, too.

I loved this letter. Which is why I'm bragging on my cousin. But it was a little like watching a cooking programme where the food looks so delicious and you can't eat any of it.

Tonight though? Tonight 409-Caitlin and her brother Facebook-Brendan came back to Starbucks (even though her shift had ended three hours earlier) and brought me leftovers from their mini-family reunion. I like leftovers in any event, but these ones? Well, let me just tell you.

It's no wonder I think 409-Caitlin is awesome--her family apparently eats seafood when they reunite just like mine does. So she and her brother brought me clam chowder (real New England clam chowder--homemade--even though they're from New York?!) and a crab-cake and two lobster tails and a baked potato and two ears of corn and a slice of apple pie and a slice of pumpkin pie . . . oh yeahhhh . . .

I suspect it's because no one has scalpeled me open yet, but I think I might so far be enjoying this way more than I should be.

Well, today I was anyway. Maybe that's not such a bad thing, though.

Referral

Most of the blogs I read are written by people I know or have gotten to know . . . through their blogs. But every once in a while I find a blog where, whether I get any personal connexion or not, there's enough of an emotional connexion, or hilarious enough writing, that I just keep going back to read more.

Mary Beth over at BlondeChampagne is one of those, and for some reason (even though I haven't done anything recently like what she describes in the post I'm going to link you to--even though I probably should) this post of hers really resonated with me. So, instead of trying to write something comically profound myself, I'll let her do the talking today.

Carcinogens

Americano-Jimmy is not, of course, the only person to worry about getting cancer. Some people are more vocal about their worries, but there's always a barrage of warnings and rules and advice and things. Many people say, in a sort of resigned tone, "In the end, everyone's going to die of cancer," but I suspect most people think and hope they're going to be the lucky ones who escape unscathed . . . to die of something else.

Last night I got home from work kind of late and hadn't eaten yet. The Sixes had kindly made me a plate of food so all I had to do was microwave it and eat it. (One of these days I'm going to tell you just how great it has been having the Sixes here at this time.) I took a plate out of the recently-run dishwasher and placed it upside-down on top of the plate of food, because, as I said, "If I microwave with plastic over this, I might get cancer."

Heather-of-Six and I both laughed really hard when I said that. We've been making other "I/you might get cancer" jokes since then, although we both agree there's something a little morbid about it.

But here's what I'm discovering. Actually having cancer starts to alter how you think about it. I mean, my parents bought me a juicer so I can increase my intake of vitamins and minerals through fruits and vegetables. This juicer is Awesome. Heather-of-Six and I made some apple/carrot/celery juice this morning, and the juicer completely annihilated the vegetables in seconds, and the juice was delicious. I plan on using it a lot, both for health reasons and because it is So Cool.

On the other hand . . . I have cancer. There's no more of this pending, waiting, worrying, what-if-I-get-it, hoping-I-don't stuff. Too late! I already did! So--well--it feels like a lot of the pressure's off. I can drink the juice because I like it, and I can take supplements if I want because it would be nice not to go through this again and that might help. But there are no guarantees (I wasn't living that unhealthily before, and I rarely microwaved with plastic).

I kind of feel like I can relax now.

This is a Test, This is Only a Test

As are so many things these days . . .

Basically, facebook stopped importing my blog, and then I tried to re-import it, and now it's posting everything twice. Sheesh.

So I want to see what happens this time . . .

A Little Tip

This post is not about cancer.

Imagine that.

Here is something I was thinking about at Starbucks the other night:

If you go to a bar and buy a drink, it is etiquette to leave a dollar tip. If you go to a restaurant and buy a meal, it is etiquette to leave 15-20% tip. So why, I wanted to know, is it okay to simply leave the 6 cents you got as change when you tip at a coffee shop?

I don't actually have any answers to this question. I'm not clear how much to tip in a coffee shop, either, when I'm the customer (though I try to err on the generous side for obvious reasons). I'm not exactly ranting--although when people don't tip at all, I think that's just not fair.

I certainly don't think a coffee that cost $1.73 merits a $1 tip, although some rare people are kind enough to leave that. But we are providing a service, and in this case, it's even something people could make at home. Since they are disinclined to do this, and they're paying for this beverage in the first place, you would think they could throw in a little extra for the person who made the coffee so they didn't have to . . .

Well, at least--I would think . . .

And ALSO . . .

. . . is it really somehow cosmically necessary that every single sink in the house and the upstairs toilet be having plumbing problems right now?

Another Kind of TMI

Today Heather-of-Six and I talked to the Medical Oncologist, the Radiology Oncologist, and a Nurse Practitioner. (On Monday it was the Surgical Oncologist.) We liked all of them. Not so much everything they had to say, though.

Favourite Points:

1. Yesterday's MRI indicates that my lymph nodes seem to be clear. (We won't know that for sure until the actual surgery, though.)

2. There are all kinds of potential cosmetic alterations that I can have if I want, that even my less-than-satisfactory insurance will now pay for. Hah.


Unfavourite Points:

1. Yesterday's MRI indicates a surprise! Some sort of tiny, as yet undefined, nodule on my lung. Everyone is optimistic that this is scar tissue from some past infection, but since they found it, they have to check it out. Add a PET scan to my roster of tests, please . . . (Also note that everyone was previously optimistic that the nodule we all already knew about was benign.)

2. Apparently youth is not actually an asset in the whole cancer realm, for various reasons, one of which is that I might live long enough to get it again.

3. It is pretty well decided that I will have to have chemo. I find it somewhat troubling that the idea of losing my hair is more upsetting to me than the idea of, say, dying. Prepare for songs like "I'll Be Bald for Christmas" and other cheery anthems as the season approaches.

My brain doesn't really know what to do with all this data, and this evening, instead of exploding, I found myself both laughing and crying hysterically At The Same Time. It was like one of those days where the sun's out and it starts pouring. We had a day like that last Wednesday . . . when the only trouble I thought I was having was with my car.

MRI

Unfortunately, even after all the laughter the day before, yesterday was not so good.

I had a last-minute MRI scheduled (by which I mean, while I was talking to the surgeon on Monday, they scheduled my MRI for Tuesday), which meant I had to get out of my Starbucks shift for that day. Fortunately, I had already brought up my condition to the person who ended up covering my shift, so I didn't have to say, "By the way . . . " and all that.

It was a glorious fall day, and I thought how great it would be to go for a walk in Elm Park instead of hanging out in a tube, but it didn't occur to me until I ended up in a room that looked like something out of the original Star Wars that I maybe should have brought Heather-of-Six or someone along for moral support.

I knew she wouldn't have been able to come into the "docking bay" with me, but still, knowing she was there outside for me to immediately debrief to would have been strengthening, I think. When the technician not-very-skillfully jabbed a small catheter into my arm and left it there (this is the first time anyone's ever stuck something into my vein and not taken it back out again almost immediately), I realised I was "not in Kansas" anymore.

And when I lay face down onto the padded device which was to slide me into the giant magnetic test tube, I felt like I wanted to cry. The technician asked me what XM station I wanted to listen to during my ordeal, and 90's-to-now seemed good enough at the time, although in hindsight I'm pretty sure I'll ask for classical, because listening to people crooning or moaning about either fulfilled or unfulfilled love, while the sounds of a construction dig were going on all around me, somehow in association with a disease I didn't ask for that has to do with part of what makes me female and someone who might like to be a candidate for fulfilled love at some point in her existence was, shall we say, not altogether uplifting.

Afterwards I went to the mall to look for a dress for a wedding I'm going to on Friday. I have really been looking forward to going to this wedding because I really like the couple and they and their friends are so much fun I'm pretty sure the wedding will be, too. But I was also hungry, and the food court in that mall is really creepy, particularly when it's empty, which it mostly was. There's a carousel that plays carousel music which only doesn't sound nightmarish when it's outside and there are lots of people and real children enjoying it. There were also those weird little "bucking bronco"-type kiddie rides, complete with disembodied children's-laughter sound effects, which added to the whole "oh yeah, it's October, the month when we think about dead people" ambiance. Then there were little table tents on all the tables with pink ribbons on them because (as the ever-with-it-and-observant-Kristin (formerly posting on this blog as "cuppajojo") had already pointed out to me) it is Breast-Cancer-Awareness-Month as well as Pastor Appreciation Month.

Plus, somehow retail therapy didn't seem to cut it in the circumstances.

Plus I didn't find a dress.

TMI

There really isn't a good way to bring up this topic.

For example, I feel that my colleagues at Starbucks should probably know why my schedule is going to be even more erratic than normal and why I might be calling on them more often to cover shifts for me. But it's a little weird to just, out of the blue, say, "Hey--I can't work my shift tomorrow because I have a doctor's appointment--'cause I have cancer. Did I tell you I have cancer?"

Also, when customers come and order their drink and ask how I'm doing, sometimes I want to say, "Well, you know. I'm okay. I just found out I have cancer, but other than that I'm fine." Mostly that's just inappropriate. But there are some customers with whom I feel I have a long-standing enough relationship (even if I never see them on the other side of the counter), that I might want them to know. There just isn't a good way to introduce it.

I discovered this yesterday when Americano-Jimmy came and said, "So Jenn, how are you? What's new?"

Um . . .

The thing about Americano-Jimmy is that he is kind of a hypochondriac (worse than I am) and kind of a germophobe, and he has this long-standing semi-joke with a few of us: if he feels that there's any danger of our accidentally putting his hot espresso shots in the plastic iced cup before we put the ice in, he cries, "Wait! Put the ice in first! You're going to give me cancer!"

For some reason I hadn't fully thought through the fact that if I brought this up as a lead-in to telling him about my own condition, he'd feel bad instead of thinking it was funny.

Oops. Poor guy.

Manager-Hillarie says this is very literal and George Carlin of me. She also said it would be funny if we became known as the Too-Much-Information store and always just answered the "How are you?" question completely honestly. She and I probably spent at least 45 minutes last night coming up with various inappropriate answers to that question. We were very tired, so this wasn't too hard, and it also made us laugh until we were rolling on the floor and our smiles practically split our heads in half.

They say laughing is supposed to help . . .

Not Your Average (Open) Letter

Here is a letter I sent yesterday to a number of people who, graciously, pray for me:

I don't really know how to introduce this topic; there aren't many good lead-ins. So I'm just going to say that last Friday afternoon, a surgical oncologist phoned me to tell me that, to his surprise, results of some tests I had came back positive: I have breast cancer.

Today my friend Heather came with me to meet with him, and he laid things out very personably and plainly. I have neither the most serious nor the least serious type of this cancer (level 2 out of 3). It is invasive, not in situ, but I have some necessary proteins that make it not quite as scary as it could be. I will be having surgery and radiation therapy; we're waiting for some further results to come back before any decisions can be made about chemo.

I have this tendency to blow things out of proportion, so the fact that I still feel remarkably calm about all this is a little puzzling. I suspect a large part of it is the peace of Christ, although since I have a hard time availing myself of that most of the time, there may also be a part of this calm which is solely because this is, as yet, new, and the attention-seeking part of me perversely likes it, and the hypochondriacal part is happy to actually have been right for once. Yes. I am a complex and flawed person! ;-)

I think I'm most concerned about financial fall-out (I do have insurance, but I'm not sure how comprehensive the coverage is, and I will not be able to work for a few weeks, at jobs where time worked equals time paid), but of course the physical hazards are potentially high. More than anything, I would like prayer that my attitude through all this will reflect true trust in Jesus, and His love . . . and if some of my friends could somehow get to know Him through this--well, then I would feel it was worth it.

(That last bit sounds kind of ridiculously pious, doesn't it? I think I mean it, though.)

Thanks for your friendship and prayers. I couldn't get through this without you.

Jenn

This blog may well be able to be renamed "The Cancer Diaries" soon. I apologise for this. Seeing, however, as I have been feeling totally different about this on every given day, I may well not be capable of talking about much else for a while.

"(If You Don't Understand Grace, See Page 177)"

I am supposed to teach a confirmation class at my new church. This is a good opportunity to lay out some solid Christian teaching. If only 1) I were a decent teacher and 2) I knew what a confirmation class was really supposed to look like. This is not part of my church tradition.

Meanwhile, I've been given certain tools and helps, such as files from past confirmation classes, and a book from my new pastor. The book is pretty useful, though maybe a little simplistic. I was particularly struck by the simplistic bit when I read the quote that makes up the title for this post. (I'm not sure it was page 177, but you get the idea.)

I think when you grow up in the church and basically follow the rules, the concept of grace is particularly hard to grasp, both because the word gets thrown around a lot, and because you don't realise how much you need it and have been offered it. I still remember a particularly rocky time in London when it finally hit home to me both how powerful grace was to receive, and how difficult it was to give. I thought to myself, "How did I even think I was a Christian before?! I never understood this!"

And I'm not sure I understand it even now. Grace shows up in unexpected places, and is required in them, too. Sometimes I blink and miss it, and sometimes it stares me unblinking in the face so that I can't miss it but I almost want to run from it. It's so simple and so difficult, and right now I feel more in need of giving and receiving it than ever, and from many different angles.

What I do know is that, even when I'm afraid of it, I'm grateful for it. I don't understand how people make it through life without it. And I'm quite sure page 177 isn't ever going to sum it up.

You Like Me! You Really Like Me!

(Apologies--just a little bit--to Sally Field.)

Pastor-Marty, because he is kind and cool, nominated me for a couple of his 2nd issuance of "Bloggle Awards," and I actually won one. I, because I am glaringly self-promotional, am thus telling you. This is particularly an honour because not only is it coming from Pastor-Marty, but my name got stuck in there with kind-of-famous people like Winn Collier and Donald Miller and Jon Acuff. Yikes!

There's a part of me that still kind of wonders if this is some sort of error, but I once told someone to stop brushing off compliments because it devalues the opinion of the person who gave it. And I wouldn't want to be guilty of the same, now would I? So instead, I'm expressing the value of Pastor-Marty's opinion by telling you all about it. Yeah . . . that's it . . .

Goodbye Kitty

Friends-Down-the-Street have decided to adopt Sparks. This is nice, because it means she won't be too far away. But even though said friends live just down the street, I almost never see them, so I'm not overly hopeful I'll see much of her anymore either.

The Children-of-Six have really bonded with her, and, contrary though it sounds, that actually has more influenced my decision to give her up than anything else does. They have loved and wrestled and bullied most of the scratchiness out of her, so that this morning I could pick her up and carry her around the whole time I made coffee, and she fell asleep in my arms. It was very wonderful, and I thought, "I'm not sure I want to give this little one up after all."

But the reality is, it's the kids she's been bonding with, not me. I have been home this week a grand total of maybe seven waking hours (until today) and when I have been home and awake, the kids have been playing with her, so I've had scarcely any time with her at all. The longer they're here, the closer they'll bond, and the harder it will be when the Family-of-Six inevitably leaves. She'll miss them, and I hate to think what that means she'll do to, say, the furniture. So it seems kinder, in my mind, to give her to some people now who will love her and take good care of her and be home a little more than I ever am to spend time with her. I know cats are low-maintenance and everything, but this one seems to thrive on attention, and I am able to give her very little. So on Sunday, it seems, I will be saying goodbye.

(I Can't Think of Anymore Titles With Cat Puns Except "Cat-astrophe," But I Have A Feeling I'll Need to Save That One)

Aside from irrational fears about what it means to be a single, female cat-owner, things just really aren't going that well.

Maybe it's because Spark Plug doesn't like her name (even though we call her "Sparks" or "Sparkle" instead). Whatever the reason, though, she and I don't seem to be getting along very well. Sunday was nice--but that was it. Since then we've just been driving each other nuts.

I don't think this speaks very well for me, somehow. On the other hand, it's one thing for me to alter my life and habits for the presence of other human beings. I have a much harder time doing it for animals, I'm afraid. I just don't think I'm that good with them . . . and I'm not entirely sure I care, except in the sense that I feel as if I should.

So, if you know of anyone who would like a very cute little kitten with a ton of personality which would probably blossom around someone who isn't me, let me know. We'll just pack her right into the engine and drive her on over . . .

Cat-alyst

Family-of-Six is away for the weekend again. I suspect they will be triple-checking their engine before they return.

Meanwhile, I am sort of reluctantly bonding with the kitten. Last night didn't go so well. Today went a lot better--to the point that I had a meltdown about it, alone (except for the cat), in the kitchen. I kind of don't want it to go well, because apart from the fact that my brother and his family will be here over Christmas and apparently he is violently allergic to cats, I have this superstitious but deep-seated fear that having a cat will be the death knell to all my marital hopes and aspirations. I fear that I am just a couple of months away from becoming The Cat Lady.

The fact that I just forked over a large sum of money (nevertheless at a seemingly divinely orchestrated discount price) for a twin mattress set was already giving me ominous intimations of such things, but if I end up getting a cat without even trying, it really feels to me like someone is saying, "Since you are going to be alone for the rest of your life, here is a companion. You're already well on the way to eccentric."

On the other hand, if someone steps forward and says they are just dying to have a cat and they would love to take this kitten off my hands, then I will feel like I am just a way-station for living beings; I provide friendship or housing for people--and now, apparently, animals--for as long as they need it, and then they move on to whatever they're really supposed to be doing with their lives.

Sometimes my reasoning gets a little fuzzy. But that might be the presence of kitten-fur all of a sudden.

The Milk Guy (to whom I did not relate any of this angst) says I should lighten up and watch the Simpsons. Which is on in two minutes. So for once I'm going to take his advice, and do it.

Cat

I have been gearing up for a post in which I said something like, "Sorry guys. I seem to be incapable of blogging. This is the end (of the blog). Good bye."

This might have something to do with the fact that I have two part-time jobs, one which is so new I don't know anything even though some people expect me to, and one which is so old I am close to being able to say I hate it; I have a family of six living with me in my (parents') house; I just had a very well-turned-out booksigning; I am going in for surgery in a week and a half; and I'm still trying to maintain a good but challenging friendship with the Milk Guy.

Most of these things are stressors of my own choosing, but not all of them, and in any case, I'm quite sure I would not have chosen the timing. (I would have spaced them out considerably.) The combined effect is a sort of verbal constipation, which I realise is a repulsive analogy, but it really is kind of how my brain feels right now.

And then the cat showed up.

I should probably explain why there's a Family-of-Six living in my house first, but I'm not going to. Suffice it to say that this Family went away last weekend and returned on Wednesday night. When I left for work the following morning, I heard an inexplicable, high-pitched mewing near the garage--but I couldn't see anything, so I got in my car and left for work.

When I returned home, a long stressful shift and a professional massage later, Heather-of-Six said, "I have to show you something."In the downstairs bathroom, asleep in a box, was an eight-week-old kitten. Said Kitten-of-Seven (evidently) had climbed into the engine of their car while they had been visiting its owners, ridden back in the engine from New Hampshire for two hours, and been discovered freaking out in my driveway by the children in the middle of the afternoon.

I have never had a cat. My mother and grandmother both really dislike cats, and I have little time or patience to want to train one. I don't want cat-hair all over my things, and I don't want it scratching the furniture and draperies, and I don't know that I can afford to keep one. So we are trying to see if anyone down here will take it. But I have this feeling no one will. I kind of think I'm supposed to have it. If this is the case, it will no doubt be a blessing and I will be oh so happy she's here. But in the meantime: Sigh.

Did I mention change stresses me out?

She is really beautiful, though . . .

Photo by jennw2ns: Surprise 2008.

Salt

What can you tell me about salt? No, seriously--I'm asking. I'm trying to understand something.

Jesus calls His followers the "salt of the earth." Back in January or February (hint: this is one of those topics I've been mulling over since then which I have been to lazy to blog about), the small group I belonged to started going through the Sermon on the Mount. (We finished it about a month ago, if that tells you anything.)

Now, I've been going to church since before I was born, and I've heard this sermon sermonised in all sorts of ways, and I still remember the first time I heard anyone (it was my dad) point out that salt not only flavours things, but acts as a preservative. The idea was that we were to go to a world that was decaying and step in with flavour and life. Or something along those lines. I found it pretty inspiring at the time. Evidently I still kind of do, because I still long for my life to have that kind of an impact, but the whole preservative thing doesn't exactly surprise me anymore.

So I was surprised when Pete, who was leading the discussion on this passage, brought up something called the "covenant of salt." It's an Old Testament thing, and I don't really understand it very well, because I don't remember ever having heard about it or noticed it before, but apparently sacrifices to God had to be presented with salt--otherwise they wouldn't be accepted.

I would just like to say--I always knew people who like salty better than sweet were right.

No--actually, I would like to say: why?

And then I would like to ask, as we asked in our small group, what implications and significance does that Old Testament salt-fixation have on the understanding of this passage? If we're the salt of the earth, and salt was necessary for presenting an offering to God, then are we, by our interactions with the rest of the world, tacitly presenting them to God all the time? What does that mean? And is there some kind of--maybe not full, but partial--"acceptance" of the people that Christians are around when Christians present them to God? Maybe that's totally heretical, but I can't help wondering. Some kind of probation or something?

I sort of feel like it's another way of saying (also drawing on the sacrificial system) that we are a "kingdom of priests." I know Jesus is the One True Mediator, but I get the feeling that, by virtue of Him, our job is basically to mediate between the rest of the world and God all the time. Not saving everybody else--only Jesus can do that--but sort of representing our fellow human beings who haven't trusted Jesus yet, to God--bringing them into His presence for "His consideration."

I know, I know. That makes it sound like God doesn't see the sparrow that falls or the non-Christian who doesn't know any Christians, and I don't think that's right either. But I do think there has to be something significant about this detail. It feels heady and daunting and surprising to me. As if nothing on earth could be more vital than for every single one of us to get out of our saltshaker. As if everything I think and say and do had better be one big prayer.

Now Where Was I?

In North Orange, Massachusetts, if you really want to know.

Camp Selah (pronounced by these particular parishioners "SEE-lah") is a tiny little camp on the shores of a manmade lake at the foot of Mount Tully, and I spent the better part of two weeks there. The church I've moved to runs a two-week day camp there, but there are cabins and a main lodge and a bath-house, so most of the staff (and some staff-related kids) stayed overnight.

I'm not going to lie. I missed my new bed.
But . . . I'm really excited about working for the church. On Wednesday of the second week, about seven different incidents occurred all at once, and I had the combined dreaded yet strangely affirming experience of trying (alongside the young woman who's managed the camp the last few years) to enact a little discipline, and nip a few situations in the bud. They weren't very welcome situations, but I was encouraged to know I wasn't necessarily just going to cave in over everything. On the other hand, I had numerous moments of thinking, "What in the world am I doing? I don't know these people. They don't know me." It felt decidedly like culture shock and, also like culture shock, I suspect I'm going to feel like that on and off for a while as I learn the ropes.

The people are really lovely. They're warm and welcoming . . . and a little bit wrung out. The church hasn't had the easiest time in the last few years. That in itself is intimidating. On Sunday I wondered aloud if someone might be able to help me move a couch to my new office (I have an office?!), and they showed up that afternoon and moved it for me. Everyone is so accommodating and eager to please that it makes me feel like I have a lot of expectations to live up to. What if I don't please? What if I let them down?

But it isn't really about me, is it? I have a feeling I'm going to get reminded of that a lot over the next few months, in kind ways and difficult ones, whether I want to or not. For now, I might as well try not to take myself too seriously.

I don't think these guys would let me, anyway.
Photos:
"Selah," "Muffin-bed," and "Wacky-Wednesday Kids" by jennw2ns 2008.
"Jennwith2ManyBells" might have been by Deb Parks. Or Jean Lunt. I can't really remember.

Reprising the Good of the City

Last summer I wanted to get out of here.

On the other hand, I couldn't forget the fact that one of the reasons I had moved back in the first place was a sort of grudging affection for my city, and a sort of idea that maybe God wanted me to be there. Maybe, I thought, Starbucks was the only reason, and maybe that reason was winding down and I could escape. But . . . maybe not.

In case not, I decided I was going to start church-hopping--not because I'm unhappy with my home church (quite the contrary), but because I was curious to see what God was doing in and around the city. The church-hopping thing didn't go so well, because I actually do like my home church, and because I have a really hard time visiting other congregations. And even if I had been more disciplined about it (which just sounds ludicrous--who ever heard of church-hopping as a discipline?), I'm sure I would have missed out on some places. I probably would have missed out on the church down the street from my Starbucks--even though it is just down the street.

But my pastor's wife knew about it. Furthermore, she knew that they were looking for someone to work part-time to fill a need with their youth. It was only part-time, and when she told me about it, I was still faint-heartedly hoping one of the other full-time (and maybe further-away) jobs for which I had applied would come through. But by the time I got back from my vacation in Ireland and England, it was clear they wouldn't, and meanwhile, I kept thinking about this church and their no-longer-existent youth group.

So I applied. As it turns out, the position title is "Director of Christian Education," and the position itself is about as defined as the interim pastor and I decide to make it. Given the number of things he enthusiastically feels I can and should be involved with, I'm not sure how realistic it is for this to be part-time. But for now it will have to be, because Starbucks is still the way I'm going to get my health benefits.

Anyway, on Wednesday, the pastor offered me the job, and I accepted it. I'm a little nervous. I've visited the church a few times now and have enjoyed the people I've met there, but it's certainly a different type of church than any of the many I've been involved with before (no--it's not a cult, if that's what you're thinking!), and I'll have to move out of my safe home-church community to involve myself in this one. I have very little idea what it means to direct Christian education, and I don't feel I have the charismatic personality usually associated with youth leaders.

But I'm excited, too. Here's a way to seek the good of the city which I never would have thought of myself. And I'm looking forward to getting my creative juices flowing again, planning events and service projects and decorating my office (I'm going to have an office?!) and hanging out with kids. It doesn't seem like an End, necessarily. But it does seem like The Next Thing.

Tomorrow I leave for two weeks of work at a camp owned and run by the church (but outside of the city). I'll get to know some of the adults I've already met, a little better, and I'll get to know the kids for the first time. I'm excited about that, too. It means I won't be around for a while, though. But I suppose that's okay. I haven't been around much all summer, have I?

Journeying

My second Blog-day is coming up this month, and I just googled my blog; one of the listings that came up is my first-ever post, in which I discuss why I started a blog and in which I mention talking to my friend, Author-Sarah (aka Sarah Arthur, interestingly), "who is a published author, unlike me." (Incidentally, I feel I should "shout out" to the great people who commented on that first post, proving that they were with me at the outset, and all of whom still are. Yay, you!)

Hey! I thought. I'm a published author now, too! I'm not sure exactly how instrumental this blog has ended up being in that process, but I do feel better connected and like I have another community and outlet and forum of accountability, not to mention a whole lot of other people's stories to share in. I like this journeying together, and I like the idea that, even though it's taken a few years, we've all learned things and experienced things and even maybe moved a little bit in our journeys. Things have happened. A lot of times, from the close-up view, it seems like things don't.

Here's something else that's "happened" since my first Blog-day, last summer. Starting Labor Day weekend (ironically), I have a new job.

Oh no. I'm not leaving Starbucks. Seriously? I don't think anyone really leaves Starbucks. I've been at my store longer than any one person has, but in the last year, at least four people who once quit and left have all come back. And anyway, this new job is only part-time. But you know, I've been wrestling with and praying about and mulling over my calling (again) for the better part of a year. This new job looks like it might just be the next thing. I'm really kind of excited. I'll have to tell you about it . . .

What? Now? No--of course not! But probably tomorrow.

Photo by jennw2ns: Thames facing East, without a tripod

Me-Ville

I was going to introduce this post with a funny little story about me as a kid conflating words in songs and thinking they said something else . . . and then I realised that the post would end up being about me, instead of about the book my friend the Zimmerman recently had published. Which would be ironic, since the book is called Deliver Us from Me-ville.

Me-ville, where everything is all about me. That would be in my head. And, respectively, in most other people's heads, too.

This is a tricky topic to tackle. How do you write about self-absorption without being self-absorbed, and yet also without sounding as if you think you're preaching to a whole bunch of people who you think are self-absorbed, while you yourself are exempt?

I'm not sure how the Zimmerman did it, but he definitely did it. It doubtless helps that he has a knack for self-deprecation, although even that can become an outlet for selfishness if overdone. He did not overdo it. He's just self-aware enough to know that he can be as guilty of self-absorption as the rest of us. He admits it, but doesn't get mired in a self-gratifying public guilt-fest.

As a reader, reading it was a different but similar kind of challenge: if I happened upon a part to which my gut responded, "Hey--he's talking to me!" I then had to pull back with a, "Hey--wait a minute . . . " How can I not resonate with talk of self-centeredness? But . . . it did seem a little suspect.

I'm glad he wrote the book. I'm glad I read it. I don't want to tell you you're selfish or anything, but you might want to pick up a copy and read it, too.

While you're waiting for your order to come in, you could play along with this little game which the Zimmerman devised recently in a brief email exchange we had about the prophets of the Old Testament:

"Which prophet's trials and tribulations would you be least unwilling to endure?"

He says this would be a good icebreaker for Bible nerds. I agree. But even if you weren't the kids whose hands they tied down in youth group so that you wouldn't answer all the trivia questions, I think you can play along . . .

Vignettes

Yesterday, I bought a mattress set. The one that it is replacing, I think I got when I was 14 or something. Yes, I still have a twin bed. It is true that I have spent large swathes of time since acquiring said bed, not using it (having lived in many other places). However, this does not take away from the fact that it is over 20 years old, and I have been sleeping on it regularly for the last five years. It also does not take away from the fact that I have been unable to sleep comfortably on it for some time.

I do not like spending money on myself, particularly in amounts over three digits. This purchase would have been over four digits if it hadn't been for the kindness of the salesman and the powers that be in the bedding universe. As it was, I can now say I have officially spent my allotment of the money the government sent us this spring. The bed is now twice as tall as it used to be. It comes just below my waist, and looks something like a loaf of bread, or a muffin. I think I will no longer be able to loll over the side and pick books up off the floor without some danger of falling on my head. But it's sooo nice and soft . . .

*****

My parents have returned to Ireland. Actually, they're probably boarding their plane right now. Some time after they get back, they are going to attend a birthday party for a friend of theirs. It is a Medieval party, and requires "fancy dress" (which means "costumes," for our American readers). My mother tells me that some of the children who will be attending this party intend to dress as rats . . . because of the bubonic plague. I think it's wonderful. Not the plague, of course, but the inventiveness.

*****

In the next town stands a gas station called "Global Village Fuel." It sounds simultaneously ominous, obvious and light-heartedly realistic, and I chuckle every time I drive past it. I don't believe I have ever fueled up there, however.

*****

Yesterday, I tried silkworm pupae. Eating them, I mean. They had been marinated in soy sauce, which is, therefore, pretty much what they tasted like. The texture was brittle and slightly internally fuzzy, in a preserved-with-soy-sauce kind of way. I don't know that I'd go out of my way to buy the things, but if I'm ever in similar positions to the ones I was in the three times I had to eat chicken livers, I know I can at least get them down.

Apparently, My Niece Is a Girl After My Own Heart

When I was two, my parents made an audio cassette of me opening presents. (This was because we didn't have anything more technologically advanced, and we were living in Honduras at the time, and they wanted my grandparents to be able to "hear" our Christmas.) Fortunately I was a highly verbal two-year-old.

After some paper-crinkling and discussion of what I was opening, my mother said, "Jennie, would you like to open some more presents, or read some of your new books?"

Without a moment's hesitation I said, "Read books."

There you have it, folks. It looks like Hannah is heading in the same direction . . .

It's That Time of Year Again

Actually, I guess I get older every day. But this is when everyone's all, "Hey--you're older!" And in case anyone didn't know enough to say it, I like to post it on my blog so they can: it's my birthday tomorrow.

We've already celebrated it. My parents are doing their Annual Summer Tour thing, where they come home and make sure their mothers are okay, and I'm okay, and this year they got to see their new little granddaughter, too. Then they came here, and on Sunday evening we had a nice dinner and I got my presents. In my family, we tell each other what we want for our birthdays and Christmas, because even though we know each other pretty well and surprises are awesome, it's also awesome not to feel like someone you love spent money for you on something you don't. Plus, none of us like to spend money on ourselves too much, so this is one way of saying, "If I were going to splurge on myself, I would get this, but since I'm not, you can get it for me!"

This year I was both pleased and surprised: I got what I asked for, and I got everything I asked for. (Also, the Milk Guy didn't get the wish list but managed to come up with some great presents all on his own.)

It isn't always thus, but this year, everything I asked for was books.

I feel like I should mention them, because they're all books I heard about from you, Dear Readers. One is LL Barkat's Stone Crossings, one is Tim Keller's The Reason for God, and one is NT Wright's Surprised by Hope. I didn't have to ask for Dave Zimmerman's Deliver Us From Me-Ville, because I already have it. But this new influx of reading gave me the impetus to finish that one (and a couple of others), so expect to hear more about it here soon.

Blatant Self-Promotion

Stephanie, who goes to my church, has written an article about me/my book for a nearby publication. You can download the current issue here. The article about me is on pages 16 and 18.

Two corrections, though: The publishers who liked the story but didn't feel it fit their niche did not point me to CFP--my aunt did that. (They did try to point me in a helpful direction, but I didn't fit that publisher's niche either, it didn't seem to me.) And secondly, CFP is in Scotland, not Ireland. Given that I was just in Ireland, though, with my parents, I guess this is an easy mistake to make . . . !

Sneaking Up

The Milk Guy has morning glories. Well, they don't yet have their glory (i.e. flowers), even in the mornings, but the plants are growing in profusion, with the promise of more beauty even than heart-shaped leaves, to come.

There's a fence for the tendrils to wind up, and some of them are doing so, but others are growing back along the ground. The Milk Guy was contemplating training them up the fence, too, but they're too far entrenched along the stonework or whatever it is down there, so he said, "I guess there'll be some 'creeping glories,' too, then."

"That sounds funny," I chuckled. "'Creeping glory.'"

"It would make a great name for a band," he said. I'm sure it would. The band we saw recently was called "Raging Grace." I'm not positive it occurred to him right then how similar in genre the names are. Regardless, I just think it's an unmitigatedly great phrase, whether it's referring to a band or not.

It seems like it should be mitigated. Creep, creeping, creepy--none of these have very nice connotations. They make me think of certain customers we have . . . There's a sinister undertone to any word with "creep" at its root. But I think it's apt anyway. I think sometimes the onset of glory feels sinister, even if it's--well, glorious, in the end. Ultimately, we probably have to die first, which doesn't have really fantastic connotations either. And even the hints and whispers of glory we receive here are often hard-won and feel a little bit like dying.

Also, they're usually just hints and whispers. "Creeping glory" reminds me that sometimes the glory of God doesn't burst upon us like a thunderclap, but sneaks up and surprises us. It makes me think of the parables Jesus told about the coming of the Kingdom--it's like a mustard seed, which surprises us with the large shrub that's inside it; or like a tiny bit of yeast, which surprises us by rising a whole batch of bread dough; or like a treasure, hidden in the ground.

I Can't Think of Any Clever Titles Playing on the Word "Meme"

The Zimmerman seems to think I need to lighten up around here. I have been suspecting that I do, even before he suggested it. So I am going to play along with this meme he tagged me for. Then I am going to tell you something else about the Zimmerman.

Here are the rules for the meme:

1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
4. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.


Here are the seven things about me. (Do not get on my case if I repeat myself from previous similar memes. I am also not sure how random or weird they are. I am probably not that interesting.)

1. I once started a collection of Dr. Seuss books. After collecting seven (only a few of which were my favourite classics), I quit, but not before getting a first-edition copy of Horton Hatches the Egg.
2. I have only taken one art class in my life, which is why I have no technique, but I still like to try to draw and paint things on occasion.
3. I have an uncle who is on tour with Emmylou Harris and was recently seen on David Letterman.
4. My favourite colour changes every so often, but I am still stuck on green these days.
5. Growing up, my brother and I had a cocker spaniel named Chocolate Chip (aka Chippy), who was adorable, very stupid, and did not live a long and healthy life (but we loved him for as long as we had him).
6. I am six feet tall.
7. Today I talked to the local librarian about buying a copy of my book for the children's section of the library and she said she would. Yay.

Here are the people I am tagging for this meme:

1. The Greek Geek
2. The Llama Mama
3. The Burnside Writers
4. The Jeff Campbell
5. The Pastor Marty
6. The Rhonda
7. And The Dave (or The Elizabeth) Madeira

And here are some more words about the Zimmerman:

1. He has written a second book. (I have a signed copy of his first one, and a copy of his second.)
2. It's really good.
3. He wants me to review it here, which I will be delighted to do, once I have finished reading it. (Sometimes my reading projects take some time because I get sucked into all the fresh writing in my Google Reader subscriptions instead . . . ) But stay tuned for more about his book.

The Hitch

I may not actually think I'm better than someone who doesn't know Jesus. Or at least, I may be realising that sometimes I do think that, by accident, and I may be starting to get a clue that it isn't true.

But here's the hitch. After the startlingly offensive tirade on Friday night, the non-Christian present said (even though we both agreed that the tirade was offensive and the tirade-giver was in error to have behaved that way), "The thing is, I just don't get what the deal is with Christians feeling like they have to tell people what to believe."

I tried to explain (again) why I am intent on sharing my faith. I love Jesus. He told us "make disciples" for Him. I want to obey Him. Also, I have experienced Him in my life and I know that He is the one who walks through the tough times with me and who will get me to God in the end, in spite of all my mess-ups. The more I care about someone, the more I want them to experience this life, too.

"Okay," said the one objecting. "That makes sense if you're talking to someone who doesn't have any system going that works for them, and they're actually looking for something. But what about people who are all set? People who have something that works for them? I feel like you're telling me I'm wrong."

I didn't know what to say. I tried to say something about how it's just that it's not about a system, and that really, all the "systems" are wrong, including Christianity if it's just a system and not a Person, and without that Person, nothing really works in the end. But he wasn't convinced, and I have to confess that even to me it sounds like I'm telling him he's wrong. And actually, I guess I kind of am. This makes me feel like not-a-nice-person, and I think it makes him feel like I actually do think I'm better than he is.

I don't think I'm better (in some ways, he exhibits Christlikeness more effectively than I do--although he said it's silly to make those comparisons, and I guess he's--hey! he's right!). I don't even feel like I'm "right" in this area--just chosen and grateful and blessed. But I can't escape the idea that at least, playing some kind of semantical game, I think he is "not right" about his system. And I don't know what to do with that.

Better Than You?

The church I go to here has a chapter of Celebrate Recovery, a 12-step ministry developed out of Saddleback Church. I think I may have mentioned not preferring programmes--quite possibly because I am not very organised myself, so organised things make me feel skittish and boxed in, even if that's not truly what's happening.

But I have a lot of "room" for Celebrate Recovery, partly because I went through one of their step-studies one year and somehow (though I still can't explain how, exactly), God used it to break some patterns and stuff that needed to be broken in my life. And partly because the people in my church who are regular participants in the programme are some of the most genuine and grace-filled people I know.

One of the things I particularly appreciate about the programme and my friends in it is the acknowledgment that no one is better than anyone else--that we've all messed up pretty royally, and that we don't have any greater merit than someone else who may not know Jesus and who is maybe tangled up in the same sins we are working to get rid of. I've been thinking about this a lot lately, and about how somehow I, and I think Christians in general, accidentally slide into thinking that I (or we) are better than people who don't know Jesus yet--even though it was miraculous grace that saved us, and not anything we did.

Last night a few of us went to hear a local Christian band play. They were actually really musically excellent, and the band members seemed genuinely humble and had a straightforward but appealing way of presenting their own faith in the Gospel. Unfortunately, their host's approach was not nearly as winsome--and, I don't think, as theologically accurate either. At the end of the gig, after the band had set up a good atmosphere for considering the claims of Christ, the host got up and began to rant. In his rant, which went on for a good fifteen minutes, I think, he bashed Muslims (of whom there were none present) and non-Christians in general (of whom there was at least one present). We sat cringing for most of the diatribe, until the guy said, "If you don't accept Jesus, you're stupid!" (Yes. Complete with exclamation mark.) It was at that point that I stood up and walked out of there.

The resulting impression was pretty terrible, although I don't think any of us blamed the band. I left imagining a little more clearly maybe, some of what people who are not Christians must go through when they're around Christians. There's absolutely a call to share Jesus with people--but when I feel like someone's putting themselves above me, I don't necessarily think of Jesus, and I don't know how I expect someone who hasn't gotten to know Him yet will get any kind of accurate impression of Him if they feel like I think I somehow have more merit as a person than they do.

I Can't Explain It

When I was little--like, in kindergarten--sometimes my mom would ask me what we did in school that day. Being fundamentally lazy, I never really wanted to go into it--not to mention that I don't think I was really sure what I was supposed to tell her about. After some prodding I'd sometimes start to describe something, and then get bored or frustrated or whatever, and say, "Oh, I can't explain it." My brother had his own version of this excuse, which was, "I'm too tired to." (When he was even littler, he used to say, "But I don't want to," which was more honest, but amounted to the same thing. It always ran together and sounded like, "BuhdaidohWAnoo.")

Sometimes I think this is why I don't blog. I have these thoughts. Or someone else has them and they strike me as interesting. Then I think about sharing them here, and it seems too complicated or too confusing or like too much work and I think something along the lines of, "Oh, I can't explain it." After which, I have a backlog of ideas which I wish I had written about after all. Sigh.

I say this because there are one or two things I was thinking about back in January or something, which fall into the above category. It's a warning, maybe, that I might just drag them out into the light of day after all. I could do it right now. BuhdaidohWAnoo.

They Have Arrived!

A funny thing happened on the way back from London . . .

My publishers sent me six free copies of my book, to me care of the friends I was staying with in the UK. I can have more copies at a discount, but these six were already designated in my head: one for my parents, one for my brother and his family, one for each of my grandmothers, one for the Milk Guy and one for me.

But then there was a little mailing mix-up and so my parents actually got a couple of free copies, too (by the grace of the publishers), so I could give their copy to my London hosts. But then one of my friends asked if she could buy one off of me. And then another friend, to whom I was showing a copy, thought I was giving it to her. And then I needed another gift for someone else . . .

By the time I got on the plane to return to the US, the only copy I had was the one for the Milk Guy. Which I gave to him when he picked me up from the airport, and then that was it. It didn't matter how much church and Starbucks friends clamoured--I could not show them my book, because I didn't have it. But it was okay, because even though my book isn't quite out in the States, I had ordered some at my discount, and they would surely be arriving soon.

"Soon" would be the wrong word to describe how they actually arrived. But they did arrive interestingly. This evening when I returned home from an afternoon out, I noticed two rather conspicuous mailbags on the front step. There was one box of books in each bag, and each bag was tied up with all sorts of tags and markings. Inside the boxes was a whole lot of shredded paper and . . . my books!

Messiah Complex

The other confusing thing about a "missional" bent is that it really does look like arrogance at some point. I already blogged a little about how I don't think it ultimately is arrogance to say, effectively, "I have Good News for you that you can't live without" (well, it might be arrogant to say it that way), although I definitely see how it can look like it is.

If there is a God, and He's the God portrayed in the Bible, particularly through Jesus, then the Good News surrounding that comes from Him, not from any of His so-called representatives, and so there's not a lot to do with arrogance there.

It's the so-called representatives part that seems a little off. I mean, I can say that I used to pray for movie-stars after movies when I was a kid, so in some sense I'm "wired" to pray for and care about whether or not people have a relationship with God through Jesus. And it's sort of hypocritical to say I care about something if I'm not going to try to do something about it, I suppose. But at some point I have to wrestle with the question about why I think I'm the one God wants to use to help other people get to that point. Particularly when I haven't seen Him actually do it very often, to my knowledge.

It might be a better question than "Where or to whom am I called?" More like "Am I called?" Who do I think I am? Seriously. I have lots of questions in my faith, and not a lot of answers, and the answers I feel like I have don't translate very well into dialogue with people who are disinclined to agree with me on this to begin with. Besides, my attitude is very often not "the same as that of Christ Jesus," and so I'm not sure how excellent my witness-by-example really is.

I would like to assert here in all honesty that this question did not arise from an outside source; I've been mulling it over a little (and avoiding it a lot) for quite some time now. What kind of messed up Messiah complex did it take to make me think I myself had something to offer the people of East London--or does it take to make me think that somehow the Milk Guy or the people of my city in general need me in their lives to show them that Jesus loves them?

I really do think sometimes this ends up being more about me than about Him--or even about the other people I care about.

On the other hand, one time, within my first few months in London, I messed up. (I don't mean I only messed up once in London. I wish! I'm just talking about this one time.) I honestly don't even remember all the specifics, but I know that I ended up looking somewhat hypocritical and I was keenly aware of how that was, in that moment, going to make all my nice words about Jesus up to that point, sound. I walked home that night feeling all self-flagellating and I remember articulating in my head the words, "I don't deserve to be a missionary!"

And suddenly it was like my brain stopped and Someone else thought into it, "Bingo!" Or "You sure don't!" Or, "Well, duh!" Or, "Seriously? Is that why you thought you were here?" Something like one or a whole bunch of those. And then the thought went on to assure me that, regardless of my inherent merit or ability to do the job, He was the one who had brought me there, and I just needed to keep going.

Even saying that sounds a little arrogant. It's a weird position, this one that Jesus puts us in. As soon as I'm humble enough to go there, I notice . . . and then I'm not humble anymore.

So strange.

Can I get, um, a witness?

Weird Trends

Since everybody's talking about The Economy, I feel that I should get on the bandwagon (though I don't like bandwagons) and tell you how The Economy is affecting my Starbucks.

Actually, I don't know. I'm only kidding. This is a barista's-eye perspective. All I can do is tell you about The Line these days.

Last week was hot--like the time I went to India--at least, as far as I remember. Only it didn't last as long. I don't think I have ever brewed as much iced coffee consistently in my entire life. The ice machine could scarcely keep up with the need for ice. There were lots of Frappuccinos . . . but not as many as there were iced coffees. Which makes me think that either people are a lot more refined in their tastes than I thought, or they are going crazy for an iced drink to make them feel better, but they can't quite find it in their wallets to fork out for a whole Frappuccino.

Apart from the hour-long iced-coffee-extravaganza each of the hot days, no one came in at all. It could have been that everyone was at the beach or something . . . but most schools didn't get out here until this week, so I find it a little unlikely.

This week, on the other hand? Yesterday, it was as if everybody had just found an extra $20 in their jeans pocket that morning, and all decided that the most fulfilling way they could spend it was to visit Starbucks--all at the same time--and buy three drinks a piece. Today was much of the same, but they were obviously all spending the change of the day before, because we didn't sell a whole lot of lattes, but we went through more hot brewed coffee than I've ever seen.

I'm sure none of this actually interests you, but when you spend six hours of your eight-hour shift "spoodling" coffee, you'd feel the need to comment, too. (I might be exaggerating a little bit about that hourly ratio, but not too much.)

Also, this just in: although most Starbucks stores are still only brewing a "bold" option until noon, our store--yes, ours--is now being permitted, yea verily commanded, to brew it until 5 p.m., along with the usual Pike Place Roast. People will love us even more now . . .

Sometimes I Should Just Take a Deep Breath . . .

. . . and not post anything. The post called "So . . ." was a bad idea, and although you have all now read it, I am deleting it, although please don't delete your prayers.

Here

is something I keep forgetting to post:

This crazy-cute photo of my glam niece.Not to mention some other cuteness.

This Time It's Personal

I grew up reading missionary biographies (as well as a lot of other things, but they're not immediately relevant here). These people were amazing followers of Christ who gave up things that were really hard to give up, so that they could tell a bunch of people they had never met before that Jesus loves them. I found these stories daunting and inspiring, and knew I wanted to "be a missionary when I grew up." So I did, for a while, although I never felt like I was quite giving up as much as I should have been.

For example, in the 1800's, this dude Henry Martyn broke up with his fiancee so he could go to Asia Minor and translate the Bible and make the Gospel known. He did, and people who would otherwise not have heard about the truth of Jesus, actually did, even though Martyn himself ended up dying very young. I think I always thought eventually I'd go overseas and get martyred or something dramatic, too.

If God actually called me to be a missionary, shouldn't I be doing something like that? So what am I doing at Starbucks? Particularly when, in the course of the last year and a half, I've hardly had the opportunity to share the Gospel with anyone?

Then I got to know the Milk Guy.

Someone said to me recently, "If you were once a missionary, I would find it very unlikely that you would date a non-Christian." I considered this, and thought that actually, in some ways it might make perfect sense, because a missionary (or an evangelist, or anyone like that) ideally already loves the people who haven't met Jesus yet--that's why they tell them about Him. If there's already that initial caring present, and then some sort of "chemistry" is added to the mix, there's nothing very surprising . . .

I suppose some would say that, whether surprising or not, my actually deciding to consider a non-Christian "romantically" is out-and-out disobedience to the Gospel. I guess I think it's a little more open to debate, but I certainly don't want to be disobedient. Which is why my brain is getting all mixed up about this "just one person" concept. I know that we are called to put Jesus above all other loves. I truly want to do this. But if I have a missionary call, does it mean I should start investigating international options again, and clear myself out of here? Or would that, in this case, be like running away, and am I being called to reach out with Jesus' love to this "just one person" who happens to be in the place Jesus most recently brought me?

Either way requires a sort of sacrifice, and I don't know for sure which is the one Jesus is requiring of me. I don't know what the end result will be. According to the law of averages, I'd be better off going and doing "official" missions again, because I'd have a broader base of people to share Jesus with than "just one person." Also, shouldn't I be going someplace where people have less access to the Gospel? On the other hand, as I said to Jeff in the comments previously, I'm not sure God's all that concerned with the law of averages, even though He created it. And who am I to say who God should send to, say, the Turks, and who He should send to the Milk Guy.

Meanwhile, oddly enough, since I've been seeing the Milk Guy, suddenly I'm having all these other Jesus-conversations, too--at Starbucks, where I hadn't had one in ages.

Photo by jennw2ns: Sheep by water, Dingle, Ireland. 2008.

Procrastination Tips

I am not domestically-inclined. One might even call me domestically-challenged. However, I have discovered a fail-safe way for me to get stuff done around the house. I simply have to have an even higher-priority project hanging over my head.

My next community profile article (on Kennebunkport, story out in August) is due on Wednesday. I have today set aside as the day to write it, because . . . it's my day off, and the next couple of days are busy.

But first, you know, it's weeding season again. I mean . . . there are weeds everywhere, and once again my parents are returning soon, and things should probably look a little better around here than they do. (Besides which, it is gorgeous outside.) And then, you know, I have to do laundry. I even hung it on the line today, which, admittedly takes a little longer, but I'm trying to conserve. And I ate lunch. And I really should probably vacuum, now that I've found some vacuum bags that fit the appliance . . . And then, of course, I'm back to blogging, so I should probably check in today.

Article? What article?

Just One Person

I've been thinking about the aforementioned Christian cliche, about "just one person" becoming a Jesus-follower, and whether that really makes it all worth it.

I think I've already mentioned that when I was very little I wanted to be a missionary. Because I went to Christian schools my whole life, there was a dearth of obvious heathen to evangelise early on. I'm not sure, but I suppose that's one reason I used to write down the names of the actors and actresses in the credits of movies and pray for their salvation. (Not regularly. My intentions were always much loftier than my actual practice, but I really did do this. Another reason might have been to justify praying for the one or two actors per film on whom I had crushes.)

I tell you this, not to highlight what a freakish adolescent I was (though it does that, I realise), but to reinforce the idea that this sense of wanting other people to get to know Jesus has been with me pretty much since I found out that not everybody did. It's been a long time since I've had a really specific sense of calling, but I do feel like getting to love Jesus and trying to share His love with others so that maybe they'll learn to love Him, too, is at the core of who I am and what I've been called to do.

So here's what I'm mulling over right now. Is the "one person" assertion really true? Do I really not mind if I spend my whole life praying and crying over people and only one of them acknowledges Jesus as the Son of God who has everything to do with his or her life? I think I might mind. I think I might feel like a failure. I don't really think I'm the only one who, under similar circumstances, might feel that way, either.

But how does God feel about it? I live in the United States, and everybody knows that here, we succeed-by-numbers. And let's face it. Nobody says that "one person" thing about witnessing to just one person. As far as I can see, we only say it when we're putting on some big event (or, if we're kind of skittish about talking to crowds, we've been trying to tell a whole lot of people about Jesus over a period of time) and we're trying to make excuses for ourselves, or even God, about why we had such a measly response. There's got to be a pretty big pool to draw from, and then, if only one person becomes a Christian after all that, well, it wasn't our fault, and God knows what He's doing, so clearly that one person was worth it. (But seriously? we think, it would be nice if the financial and/or emotional outlay wasn't so extensive, because worth it? Just barely.)

Is that how God sees it? The "right" answer is, "No, of course not," but you have to wonder. If God doesn't actually want any to be apart from Him, how can "just one person's" salvation really be acceptable?

On the other hand, if there's a heavenly party over "one sinner who repents"--well, that must mean something. I believe God wants all people to relate to Him in love. But I also believe He wants individuals to relate to Him--not just "all people." We're each "just one person," in the end. Just one person getting to know Jesus, and just one person trying to introduce Him to other people.

So here's what else I've been wondering about this: Does the Great Commission ever work backwards? Instead of spreading out to the ends of the earth, what if it narrows to a point? Say you know you've been called to share Jesus' love with the world. And you start out far from home as a missionary to a ton of people from all the ends of the earth. And then you return to your home country, though not a part you've really known before. And then you return to your home state. Is it possible for it to work like this? Is it okay? Is it worth it, when the pool of potential "converts" gets smaller and smaller? Is there even a chance that you might, sometime, be called primarily to share Jesus' love specifically and intentionally with "just one person"?

By Way of Explanation

Or excuse.

In case you are pining for lack of words from this particular url, let me apologise. There are things to say. Or at least to think. Things are "going on"--let's put it that way. But everything's kind of up in the air and strange, and while I have thoughts in my head, so far it has seemed fitting for them to stay there for a while, instead of broadcasting them across the WorldWideWeb.

I haven't had much room in my brain for broadcast-able thoughts lately. One of these days, I think things will come to light. In the meantime, I have a sidebar of very excellent friends and bloggers you can read to occupy your time, if you're feeling deprived. Just make sure you come back when I start saying stuff again, okay?