Ringing Out the Old Year

I rang in 2012 with Liz, running to the top of her apartment carpark to watch fireworks explode over the Dallas skyline.  A couple days later, as she drove me to the airport, I asked, "Would it be super weird for me to ask if I could move in with you this summer?"

In other words, 2012 was the year that I moved from Peoria to Dallas, quit my job as a children's librarian and started a Master's program in counseling, and swapped my parents for three housemates.  It's incredibly weird to think that within a year, I visited a place, applied to a school, moved across the country, and finished my first semester at a seminary.

I've made new friends.  I've joined a new church.  I've learned new things and had intense conversations about things like dispensationalism and premillenialism.

I love my new life in Dallas.  And I'm grateful that I've also maintained relationships in Peoria with friends who might as well be family.

A lot has changed in the last twelve months.  Like, a crazy lot.  So that's cool.

Conversations with Kids

Anju:  Weddings are always embarrassing.
Me:  Oh yeah?  Why?
Anju:  Because you have to kiss in front of a crowd of people!
Me:  What if I want to kiss in front of a crowd of people?
Anju:  Well.  You can do what you want, but it's still going to be embarrassing.

Unexpected Gift

When I arrived at church this morning, the woman at the door greeted me by name.  Freshly enthused, I pranced through the foyer until another woman touched my arm.

"Tricia, we know you're a student and maybe things are a little tight, so here.  We want to show you we care about you!  It's not much."

She handed me an envelope.  I hugged her, because what was this friendliness?  Then I found a seat and opened the envelope to see a check from the church for $100.  Yeah.

It was the absolute sweetest gesture.  I love my church.  That whole "pool your resources and give to those who need it" thing?  They do it!  I was just, ugh.  My sweet little TFC.  I love it.  I'm so glad Laura took me there so soon after I moved to Dallas.

Feminist Ears

There is a danger in being a feminist.  You learn to see sexism and misogyny so engrained in our culture and laced throughout conversations that--you see it everywhere.

In class on Tuesday, Dr. Bailey asked who you bring a gallon of cider for our last-class-party.  Michal Ann whipped her head to stare at me, and almost immediately her face fell into an embarrassed smile.

"I thought he said 'what gal wants to bring cider?'" she admitted, and we giggled into our hands.

"It's everywhere!" I whispered.

"I know, I hear it everywhere.  I'm so on edge."

Also, Michal Ann is leaving next semester.  I finally found a passionate Christian feminist (who loves Lord of the Rings and hates exercising!), and she is leaving.  I'm quite sad about this.

The Freedom of Doubt

"There are a lot of things I don't know.  I don't know where evil came from or why God allows so much suffering in the world.  I don't know if there is such a thing as a 'just war.'  I don't know how God will ultimately judge between good and evil.  I don't know which church tradition best represents truth.  I don't know the degree to which God is present in religious systems, or who goes to heaven and who goes to hell.  I don't know if hell is an eternal state or a temporary one or what it will be like.  I don't know why people are gay or if being gay is a sin.  I don't know which Bible stories ought to be treated as historically accurate, scientifically provable accounts of facts and which stories are meant to be metaphorical.  I don't know if it really matters so long as those stories transform my life.  I don't know how to reconcile God's sovereignty with man's free will.  I don't know what to do with those Bible verses that seem to condone genocide and the oppression of women.  I don't know why I have so many questions, while other Christians don't seem to have any.  I don't know which of these questions I will find answers to and which I will not.

...

Those who say that having a childlike faith means not asking questions haven't met too many children.  Anyone who has kids or loves kids or has spent five minutes with kids knows that kids ask a lot of questions.  Rarely are they satisfied with short answers, and rarely do they spend much time absorbing your response before moving on to the next 'why?' or 'how come?'

Psychologists say that the best way to handle children in this stage of development is not to answer their questions directly but instead to tell them stories.  As pediatrician Alan Greene explains, 'After conversing with thousands of children, I've decided that what they really mean is, "That's interesting to me.  Let's talk about that together.  Tell me more, please."'  Questions are a child's way of expressing love and trust.  They are a child's way of starting dialogue.  They are a child's way of saying, 'I want to have a conversation with you.'

...

If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that serious doubt--the kind that leads to despair--begins not when we start asking God questions but when, out of fear, we stop.  In our darkest hours of confusion and in our most glorious moments of clarity, we remain but curious and dependent little children, tugging frantically at God's outstretched hands and pleading with every question and every prayer and every tantrum we can muster, 'We want to have a conversation with you!'

God must really love us, because he always answers with such long stories."

--Rachel Held Evans in Evolving in Monkey Town

Hopeless Wanderer

I am a skeptic.  This worried me for a long time, because as much as I love God and study His word and try to live out His heart, I--doubt.  I have big doubts and little doubts.  Sometimes they pass me by, but some of them persist.

My favorite hymn is Come, Thou Fount because of this verse:

"O to grace how great a debtor daily I'm constrained to be!
Let thy goodness like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to thee
Prone to wander Lord I feel it, prone to leave the God I love
Here's my heart, O take and seal it, seal it for thy courts above"

I sing this verse with a scrunched up face, and sometimes when I'm alone I hold my hand to my chest, as if I could reach inside to clutch at my heart, forcing it to stay still.

It doesn't help to talk to people who have a (for all I can understand) supernatural gift of faith.  Liz is one of those people.  I'll flippantly mention something about, "I've always wondered about that" or "That just doesn't seem fair" or "I'm really struggling with this" and she looks at me with kindness and not a bit of understanding.  Liz isn't perfect, of course, but she doesn't struggle with doubts the way I do.  She isn't a skeptic.  So while I entrust her with my soul and get great pleasure and wisdom from being her friend, she doesn't really help in these situations.

Luckily, there are books.  Right now I'm reading Evolving in Monkey Town by Rachel Held Evans, and it is EXCELLENT.  You know, except for the part where she told my childhood of perfectionism, pietism, and generally goody two-shoes, only it was her childhood.  And she talked about knowing all the answers, and then suddenly, not.  She started wondering if there was more to Christianity than right thinking, and if apologetics and defensiveness and culture wars weren't missing the point.  She worried at the unfairness of oppressed men and women going to hell when they had been raised to believe in a false religion while she had been raised to believe in the right one.

I got a little spooked.  And a lot relieved.  She was telling my story, and she was okay.  Some of us are just naturally skeptics.  We doubt.  We can't take things easily by faith.  We wonder if there isn't something better, something missing.  But that doesn't make us wrong, and it doesn't make us not Christians, and it doesn't make God love us any less.

So when I drove to Target and Mumford and Sons' song Hopeless Wanderer came on, I sang loudly.

"I wrestled long with my youth
We tried so hard to live in the truth
But do not tell me all is fine
When I lose my head, I lose my spine
But hold me fast, Hold me fast
'Cause I'm a hopeless wanderer
And hold me fast, Hold me fast
'Cause I'm a hopeless wanderer"

This time as I sang, I didn't scrunch up my face or feel guilty or sing like I was begging God to forgive me.  This time I was smiling.  I was grinning like a madman, in fact.  I was confessing my ridiculous qualities to the God who made me with them.  I sang with the confidence that God used people with doubts, and that He would use me.  I sang knowing that He would hold me fast, and that I didn't need to worry about where my doubts would take me, because God is with me and He has heard everything a million times, and He loves me.

Lord of the Rings Memories

In honor of The Hobbit's release today at midnight, I thought I'd rave about my enduring relationship with Tolkien's creations.

I read The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings in middle school, but the epic awesomeness went over my head.  The first movie came out when I was in 8th grade, and my brother invited me to join him and his friends to see it opening night.  Partly because I liked the books, but mostly because I was in awe of hanging out with people four years older than myself, I went.

By the end of the movie, I had stars in my eyes.  Immediately I re-read the books and corrected my misconception of who Aragorn loved (to be fair, Eowyn appears WAY more often in the books than Arwen ever did).  I had a huge crush on Legolas, and I downloaded pictures of the entire Rings cast, printing them out and pasting them into a LotR scrapbook.  I bought the Ring, I made homemade t-shirts with my favorite quotes, and I made up a potential LotR wedding ceremony in which Gandalf presided and I wore a white dress like Galadriel's.

I saw each of the three movies four times in theaters.  By the time Return of the King came out, I was drowning in nerdiness.  On opening night (of course), I started crying when Merry and Pippin separated, and I pretty much didn't stop for the next three hours.  Well, that's not exactly true.  When all seemed lost in the Battle of Pelennor Fields, but then the Rohirrim appear over the hilltop with the sunrise, I was done.  My body shook with sobs, but I had no water left in my eye sockets with which to cry.

Upon leaving the theaters, I thought, "I could die happy."  That seems a bit extreme, and hey, I was an obsessive teenager, so of course it was.  But there's a big piece of truth to that sentiment.  I had just witnessed the most beautiful, truthful, loving story that somehow echoed everything my heart desired to be and pointed me toward a God who was maybe writing an epic story like LotR throughout history.

I went home, curled up in bed, and turned on "Into the West."  I found some more tears, and I cried happily to sleep, half expecting to never wake up.  It would have been a good way to go.

However, I did not die!  Which is good, because I got to live to see the Return of the King extended edition!  I watched them all through, and then instituted a very strict policy of only ever watching them all in their entirety within one week, and not more than once a year.

Years went by, and suddenly I was a senior in college with one of the best friends in the whole world.  For the end of my final semester in December, Stephanie and I watched all three extended editions in a row.  We started at noon and finished at 2:00 in the morning.  Friends came and went.  Josh and Seth joined us in The Two Towers and stayed to the end.  Erin and Tim came home engaged, and while I happily took pictures of them and squealed with joy, I kept thinking, "But Frodo is climbing the slopes of Mount Doom!  I have to get back!"

Mid-December has been Lord of the Rings-time for the last 11 years of my life.  I think it will forever be associated with the stories, and I'm incredibly okay with that.  Especially because in mid-December of 2012, I'm going to re-enter the visual world of Tolkien and watch The Hobbit!

Guilt Complex

Quick reminder that a month or so ago I had an epiphany that God might actually want me to work in a job that I enjoyed.  Everyone reacted to my epiphany with a wary look and a, "Well....yeah."

Everyone except one person.

Over Thanksgiving, I told my grandpa about my desire to work with married couples and single people, and how it was such a relief to know that I didn't have to work with the sexually abused, because that would kill my soul.  He responded with a thoughtful, "But I think serving God has to hurt."

I wanted to throw myself facefirst on the couch and wail, "But Grandpa!  I had an epiphany!"

Only later did it hit me, he is where I got and developed my martyr's complex.

I explained this whole story to Bridgett, my friend who is also studying counseling.  I told her that my grandpa and I are very shame and guilt-based, then told her how he has always felt guilty for being born into a Christian family in the affluent United States.  Somewhat piously, I then explained how I'd figured out that God gives some people blessings, a better head start on Christianity, as it were, so that those people will use their blessings earlier and more and etc.

Bridgett paused, then said, "Wow.  That is a lot of guilt."

Immediately I corrected her.  "No, no.  My grandpa feels guilty.  I escaped that by explaining it away.  Right?  Wasn't my explanation good?  HEY.  C'mon.  Validate me.  I'm not guilty; I don't feel guilt.  I've got everything figured out.  RIGHT?"

She didn't say anything, just quietly murmured and allowed me to rant.

A week later it hit me that she was 100% correct.

She is going to be a crazy good counselor.

Sickness

I used to hate when Roy would enter my room on days I stayed home from school sick.  He would cover his mouth and a dishrag and rasp a laughing, "How are you, sicko?"  He would poke at me and back out of the room.  I felt like a leper.

Today Liz came home from class, paused in the doorway to moan, "I'm sick," then lunged for my bed.  I yelped and snagged my pillow out from under her incoming head.  I felt bad, looking at her face crushed into my mattress, so I tossed a decorative pillow at her.  "OW," she said, because I'd hit her in the eye with one of the pillow corners.

Bedside manner is not one of my family's strong suits.

Christmas Songs are the Best Songs

The third song in today's service was "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day."  I spiritually rolled my eyes, because since when is that an awesome Christmas song?  Since always, apparently.

"And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;

"For hate is strong,

And mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;

The Wrong shall fail,

The Right prevail,

With peace on earth, good-will to men."

I adore stories in any media--books, TV, movies, songs.  I especially love when a story breaks you down, unveils your deepest fears and regrets, and shoves them in your face.  I love feeling awful, and legitimately thinking, "Ugh, that's TRUE.  Life sucks!"  But a good story doesn't end there, because Jesus doesn't end there.  He doesn't reveal our sin and sit back with his arms crossed, smirking, "Yeah, don't you feel bad for disobeying me?"

He saves us.  He brings us out of darkness into light.  He takes our fears and regrets and covers them in hope and grace.  Jesus is awesome.  And the songs about his entering into human history are especially saturated with hope and grace.  I LOVE THEM.  That's why "O Come O Come Emmanuel" is my all time favorite Christmas song.

"O come, O come, Emmanuel
And ransom captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear
Rejoice!  Rejoice!  Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Day-Spring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night
And death's dark shadows put to flight.
Rejoice!  Rejoice!  Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel."

Seminary Marriages

Dr. Kreider:  "Some of you are married, some are unmarried.  If you are unmarried, may I suggest that there are better places to find a spouse than here [in seminary]?  Especially if you are female.  If you're male and offended by that statement, maybe you're the exception.  But if you were offended, probably that means you're not."

I thought that was the best thing I'd ever heard.  So I wrote it down and told Liz about it later.  She get this distressed look on her face and said, "Why?"

"....Because.  What?  I don't understand your face."

"Why shouldn't you look for a spouse in seminary?"

"Oh.  Um.  Well, we're very prideful?  Seminary students."

"That's sad."

Liz checked out of the conversation then, which made me distressed, because she wasn't fully appreciating the brilliance of Dr. Kreider's comment.  And while it's totally true that seminary students have a higher-than-normal tendency to struggle with pride (I think it's almost built into the idea of graduate learning and the idea that somehow you can study to become qualified to serve God and lead others), there's another facet I think Dr. K was drawing on.  Maybe.  If not, it's something I have observed.

Men in seminary (women too, but men are more vocal about this) are desperate to get married.  Not all of them, but a lot of single guys in seminary are on the prowl.  Partly this is because it's hard to get jobs as a pastor if you are unmarried.  Partly because seminary students are often committed to celibacy before marriage, and 20-30 years of celibacy often leads to "burning with passion" as the apostle Paul so delicately put it.  Anyway, men are looking for a wife.

And that's just it.  They're looking for a "wife."  Generic, copywrited wife.  They aren't looking for a specific person, but an ideal.  Probably everyone does this to a certain extent while dating/pining.  But it's not healthy.  And women would be wise to run away from men who aren't aware of that tendency. 

So anyway.  It's nice to hear a professor say not to get married, when so many others say things like, "Marriage is so great!  I couldn't have gotten through seminary without my wife supporting me, proof reading my papers, making me dinner!  It was wonderful!"  And I just side-eye them and think, if I'd married them, my life in seminary would be a lot more difficult.  I need me a wife.

Or I'll just remain single.  That is my solid, supported plan until someone absolutely blows me away with awesomeness.

Which is fine, because that guy with the hot ankles moved seats, and now I can't see the area between his pants and his shoes.

Facebook Statuses I Abandoned

I was chopping broccoli and listening to "Christmas Unicorn" when Amy walked through the kitchen.  "I don't get the Christmas unicorn thing," she said.  "I'm trying."  I grimaced to suppress my instinct to shout, "IT'S A METAPHOR FOR CHRISTMAS CONSUMERISM AND ACCEPTING OUR FALLENNESS WHILE STILL EMBRACING THE CHRISTIAN STORY.  AND IT'S AWESOME."

Or if not that, I could have whispered, "I'm the Christmas unicorn."

**

Sufjan Sufjan Sufjan Sufjan Sufjan Sufjan Sufjan Sufjan Sufjan Sufjan Sufjan Sufjan

**

My thoughts for the last few days have been approximately 100% Sufjan Stevens, give or take nothing.

**

Sufjan, I really need you to stop making weird things attractive.



No, I'm just kidding.  Keep doing what you're doing.

Sufjan Stevens Taught Me About Heaven

Last night Liz and I went to a Sufjan Stevens Christmas Sing-A-Long concert, and it was the best thing in the history of best things.

Now, if you don't know Sufjan Stevens, you are either not as strange as I am, or you are missing out.  Here is my favorite of his songs for your education.  It is maybe the saddest (true) story to sing about, but if you listen through to the last couple lines, you will understand why I completely adore this man.

 

Does your heart hurt now?  You've been Sufjan'ed.

Anyway, so this concert was spectacular.  Sufjan came out wearing red ugg boots with silver trim, tinseled arm bands, pants with neon tape elongating his legs, a baseball cap under a santa hat, massive sunglasses, and a Christmas cape.  His female lead singer wore a tree.  A guitarist wore a Superman t-shirt over a chicken costume.   The pianist wore a neon pink wig with an angel outfit.  And the everything-else intrumentist wore a Santa outfit with a gnome mask.

The setup of the concert was a mix of his new Christmas album(s), some old songs, and sing-a-long classic Christmas songs determined by a massive spinning Wheel of Christmas.  Occasionally Sufjan would cross himself, or kneel, or point to the skies when singing about the promised baby King.  

Around that point I thought, "This is like heaven."  Not metaphorically.  I felt like I was genuinely glimpsing eternity.  A place where people can be who they are without judgment.  Where Jesus is worshiped with joy and excitement rather than the too-often "sacred" solemnness found in church services.  

With my new eyes, I noticed how Sufjan forgot the words to one of his most popular songs, but we cheered for him anyway because our love for him was not contingent upon his perfection.  I listened to the chorales by Bach that they interspersed throughout the concert.  I confessed my sins with a crowd of 400 people as we sang along to 'Chicago', "I've made a lot of mistakes."  Sufjan played Liz's favorite song from his new album.

 

He ended the song by saying, "Remember kids!  The love of money is the root of all evil!"  That mini-sermon was more effective than many I've listened to.  We sang 'O Holy Night' then followed up with 'Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.'  I glanced around in shock as nearly the whole audience sang along from memory.  Sufjan's lyrics are undeniably Jesus-loving, but he's weird enough that I assumed most of his fans weren't Christians.  Maybe they are.  Maybe I was in a room with 400 of the weirdest Christians in Dallas.  I liked it.

The concert ended with my favorite song from his new album, 'I'm a Christmas Unicorn.'  He pulled on a bike helmet with a horn and an angel wing attached, then donned a feathery, ballooned vest/cape.  He climbed on the piano, confetti rained down, and we all sang comfort to each other, "I'm a Christmas unicorn.  Find the Christmas unicorn.  You're a Christmas unicorn, too.  It's all right!  I love you."

 

After over two hours of celebrating Christmas, Liz and I left the theater and I thought, "I want church to be more like that.  I can't wait to go to heaven and experience something similar."  What it was I was feeling, I think, was grace and freedom.

Grace in The Lord of The Rings

For the past several years in general, and the past few months in particular, I have tried to live a grace-filled life.  This is wonderful but difficult.  As a woman in my small group said, she loved living with loads of rules.  She always knew whether or not she was pleasing God and man, and there were very concrete ways she could control her standing with both.  Living in grace wipes all that away.

You might not think that has anything to do with Lord of the Rings, but that's because you don't think about it as much as I do.

My favorite character is, hands down, Frodo.  So much so that when people claim Aragorn or Gandalf or Sam as the "true hero," I get downright maternal.  Frodo is the hero, don't touch my baby!  And while I understand that other people find different narratives appealing, I love Frodo because his story is all about grace.

In a world of heroic men and elves, where wizards control destinies and armies of orcs massacre cities, there are simple, short hobbits.  Frodo is just a normal guy with no extraordinary skills.  Yet he is given the burdensome blessing of saving the world.  That alone is grace.  But the reason I really love him is one I've heard used against him.

In the end, Frodo fails.  He carries the Ring to Mount Doom, and just when he could destroy it, he puts it on his finger instead.  By the grace of Iluvatar, Gollum bites off his finger and takes the Ring into the lava.  The goal is accomplished, but not by Frodo's will.

AND YET.  Frodo is heralded as a hero.  He is exalted and praised and given the huge gift of sailing with the elves to the Grey Havens.  He failed, but he is a hero.  THAT is grace.

Because let's be honest.  I'm not a hero.  I have middling writing skills, and I can occasionally make people laugh or give a good peace of advice.  But I'm a hobbit.  I like food and lazy days.  The times when God gifts me with responsibilities or works in my heart toward transformation, SO OFTEN I fail.  I ignore Him, or work half-heartedly, or flee in the opposite direction.  Sometimes I get all the way to the end, only to say, "LOOK AT ME!  I'M SO GREAT!" sliding the Ring of Power and Pride onto my finger.

And yet.  My God is a God of grace.  Despite my failings, he sees me as a warrior princess, someone clean and holy and His.  He loves me.  THAT is grace.

There and Back Again

I've just spent a week in Peoria, and while I'm glad to be back in Dallas (especially because Liz bedecked our halls with Christmas cheer while I was gone), I miss the comfort of Peoria.

It's so nice to have ready-made dinner plans, friends to cuddle with, old jokes, deep understandings, familiar roads, cozy cats, and all day every day devoted to renewing relationships.

There is no doubt in my mind that God has given me so many great gifts in Dallas, and I am grateful.  But tonight I am homesick for my hometown.

Adoption Lessons While Nannying

Anju:  I'm unhappy.
Me:  Oh yeah?
Anju:  Mom is gone.
Me:  Yeah, that sucks.
Anju:  And next week you will be too.
Me:  *STARS IN EYES YOU LOVE ME*

I've been nannying for about two months now, and the kids and I are tight.  It's an ideal situation--I would be way more on board with parenthood if I got paid to do it.  Also if I could guaranteed skip the first five years of a kid's life.  So, uh, obviously nannying is perfect for me.

What's been super cool is how this has solidified my desire to adopt.  Or at least confirmed that it would totally not be a problem for me.  I had two worries/concerns before.

1)  Is it possible to truly love a kid who is not biologically yours.

Yup.  I love these sassy munchkins, and when I see something that reminds me of them during the day, I file it away to share later.  I love cuddling with them, and I get proud of their accomplishments, and I've only known them for two months.  So.  It's not hard for me to love people.

2)  Would it be uncomfortable or awkward being a parent of kids of another ethnicity?

Yergh, I hate the racist overtones inherent in my concern, but there it is.  And, nope.  It's not weird at all.  I love being associated with Anju and Ketan (most of the time).  I love saying things like "you can have a snack when we get home" or putting Anju's hair in a ponytail or snagging Ketan's shirt as he dashes away.  I have never once felt like people looked at us strangely.  Maybe it's Dallas.  Maybe it's obvious I'm a nanny.  But it doesn't really matter.

I finally don't care what the public masses think!  About one thing!  Woo!

Roommate Conversations

Me:  The kids were asking me about my crush...

Jess:  Oh yeah?

Me:  Mm hm.  I didn't want to tell them about my past, so I talked about Louis Tomlinson.

Jess:  Who?

Me:  Louis.  From...One Direction.

Jess:  *looks up from her phone to stare at me*  He is a child.

Me:  He's twenty!

Jess:  How old are you?

Me:  Twenty-four.  That's pretty good for me!  So.

Jess:  There's no one else you have a crush on?

Liz:  She likes that guy with the ankles!

Me:  Yeah, I do!

Jess:  *shakes her head and goes back to her phone*


Sometimes I think my life is a game of, "how much can I tell someone about myself before they stop being my friend?"  This game is very entertaining.

A Defense of My Past

I feel like lately I've been saying things that come out sounding like, "Life is so much better here!  I'm learning so many things and rebelling against my upbringing lol so great!"

Hear me when I say:  I would not trade growing up in Woodland for anything.

Somehow I grew up thinking that Christians were against Democrats, alcohol, feminists, gays, dancing.  I also grew up thinking that Christians were kind, generous, committed to helping needy people around the world, and committed to fellowship and celebrating joy in life.

Even the things Christians were against, I can think of people within Woodland who either supported those things, or opened my baby fundamentalist eyes to something new.  For instance, while Woodland does not support women in leading roles of the church, I loved summer mission trips where women were encouraged to do the heavy labor and do construction alongside men.

What I mean is, I'm confused how I used to be so fundamentalist.  I think mostly I learned through snide comments and facial expressions and jokes.  That's what taught me who I was supposed to approve of and disapprove of.

Even that, I dunno.  All I can say is I used to be against Democrats, alcohol, feminists, gays, and dancing.  Now I'm okay with them all.  The people and the institutions that formed my opinions are sometimes the same as the ones that changed my opinions.  Sometimes they are different.

Maybe none of this makes a whole lot of sense.  I just don't want to offend anyone from my past because I get excited about new ideas.  I love Woodland, and that church will always be my home and my family.  95% of who I am is still bound up in lessons I learned there.  It's just that 5% of me has changed.

This is the Story You Will Wrestle With Forever

I talked to Roy the other night about how I feel lost between two seemingly conflicting world views.  I'm too liberal for conservatives and too conservative for liberals.  On the one hand, I believe in gender equality, I'm not sure homosexuality is a sin*, and I lean Democratic politically.  On the other hand, I believe in the inerrancy of Scripture and I believe the purpose of my life specifically and history in general is to bring glory to the triune God.

So.  How do those fit together?  Lately I'm thinking they just might.  I believe God brought me to a school where the fundamentalist ideas I grew up with are not nearly so strict, and into a church that is gracious and grace-seeking, and into a home with a roommate who is also passionately interested in the same topics.  Do I still stand on the far end of the spectrum with these people?  Often, yes. 

It can be very distressing, feeling alone, wondering if I'm a hypocrite or a liar or a martyr.

Then I read Still: Notes on a Mid-Faith Crisis by Lauren Winner.  In an essay about confirmation, Lauren talks with her priest.  I think the conversation applies just as well to conversion as to confirmation.

"What you promise when you are confirmed {converted}...is not that you will believe this forever.  What you promise when you are confirmed {converted} is that this is the story you will wrestle with forever."

And that's it.  I am bound to Jesus.  I owe Him my life, and I can't imagine being without His Spirit.  I might not always like what He tells me to do or where to go.  I might not agree with His followers.  I might be embarrassed to be associated with His followers.  I might never find the answers I seek about all the grey issues of life, but I will wrestle with God forever.  I'm not giving up on Him, because He will never give up on me, no matter my doubts or unpopular opinions.


*I know that's a loaded statement that I just casually stuck into a list.  I've written a blog about that specifically; I'm just debating whether or not to post it.  I don't fancy being burned at the stake.

Martyr's Complex

As part of personality and upbringing, I have a tendency to think, "I don't want to do this!  *sigh*  That must mean God wants me to do it."  I am a martyr (but not really, because martyrs die for Jesus, and I'm just sulking).

I talked with Liz about this when we first moved in together, and she's been helping me find joy in God, and trusting Him to love me.  I love when I tell someone a problem of mine, and they actually remember it.  Months after our discussion, I was telling her and Jessica about this student who I know is also from Illinois.  We're not at all friends.  But I wondered if I should invite him to carpool home for Thanksgiving.

"Ooo, you like him," Jess said.

"No.  Really, no.  He said something to offend me.  I don't remember what it is anymore, but I definitely don't like him.  Still, shouldn't I invite him?  Isn't that the right thing to do?"

"You're a martyr.  Stop it.  You don't have to invite him if you don't want to.  He hasn't even asked you to.  You're making a big deal about nothing," Liz said from her perch on the stairs.

I blinked at her.  "You're right."  And like that, the guilt I carry around about not being miserable enough went away.

That story is a prelude to what I really want to talk about, which is my career.  Ever since I came to DTS, I've been saying I want to work with women in or leaving sex slavery, or maybe working with refugees, or generally helping people who are in horrible situations.  This is noble!  These are excellent jobs that should be pursued and supported!

But there's a problem.  I cannot stomach horrible situations.  There's a reason I'm so invested in fantasy.  I need to learn my moral lessons on faraway planets or with elves.  If you start showing me movies or telling me stories about real racism or historical abuse, I will mentally throw up, and then stress about it and carry the weight of the world in my soul for years to come.

I thought that maybe this was my cross to bear.  And I worked myself into this idea that by doing so, I would be holier, more glorifying to God.  And maybe that is true.

But last week, Dr. Barnes talked to us about marriage counseling, and the joy of sex, about how to prevent and decrease poorly managed marital conflict.  AND I LOVED IT.  I wanted to take all four of the marriage courses offered as electives.  I immediately thought of ways I could share this knowledge at church and pass on truth to people who were hurting.  I pictured my bookcase at home, which has one book about sex trafficking and at least ten about gender and sexuality. 

Then Dr. Barnes talked about four views of marriage, Traditional (husband gets two votes, wife gets one), Traditional Servant-Leader (husband gets two votes, but tries to keep his wife's wishes in mind), Mutuality with Persuasion (each spouse gets one vote, but persuasion and manipulation are used to get your way, and Mutuality (each spouse gets one vote).

Dr. Barnes said he believes in Mutuality, and gave a bunch of Biblical support for it.  I sat up straighter in my seat, suddenly confident that I could study marriage at DTS and not constantly feel like, "I'm either a lousy Christian or a hypocrite."

I wanted to study marriage roles.  I want to study singleness and sexuality.  And I want to take that knowledge and give it to others, to equip people to live healthy lives that honor God and show love to each other.

My soul sings when I think about these topics.  My soul dies when I think about consistently hearing stories of rape and abuse.  So I asked Liz, "Is it okay to pursue something I like?"  She just kind of smiled at my stupidity, and reminded me that God gives us passions for a reason, that not everyone is called to fulfill every need.

So who knows where God will lead me through my time at DTS?  Who knows how my passion for gender and sexuality will fit with my passion for missions?  All I know is that God loves me, has planted interests and desires in my heart, and that I'm definitely taking those sexuality elective courses.

Election Night

Two of my roommates are Republicans, and two of us are Democrats.  We all sat and watched the election together, and no one was mean or obnoxiously overjoyed.  We discussed what was happening, cracked jokes about the people at the convention parties, and shared our days.

It was civil, and it was wonderful.

We aren't perfect, though.  We ended the night reading ridiculously overdramatic Facebook posts and dying of laughter, because the alternative was dying of sadness.

Nope, that's too discouraging.  My point it, I like living in a bi-partisan house that's governed by a spirit of respect and grace.

Grace

This morning in class my professor told us that speaking in tongues and healing were no longer spiritual gifts, which is the line I was fed growing up, so I didn't think much of it.  Then a girl sitting in front of me asked about this woman Heidi Baker, a missionary in Mozambique who heals tons of people and is telling thousands about Jesus.  The professor hadn't heard of her, so he kind of wrote it off and kept talking.  Michal Ann pulled up an article about Heidi and we read it on her laptop.

My professor then continued to say that there were many things mentioned in the Bible that we no longer practice...killing women, speaking in tongues, sacrificing animals, head coverings, etc.  Michal Ann leaned over and whispered, "But women still can't lead in church?"  I snorted, like the rebellious jerk that I can be, but then I had an epiphany.  It was one of those moments that straddles "duh" and "holy crap!"

The Bible's instructions, and learning to live a Christ-honoring life, is mysterious.  There are so many interpretations of so many rules, often debated by two people who equally love the Trinity and are seeking to glorify God.  So obviously things aren't cut and dry.  I knew that.

I just sometimes forget that I cling to my own list of rights and wrongs.  You must respect women!  You must empathize with the oppressed!  You must find beauty in story!  All good things (obviously I think so, or I wouldn't profess them), but do I need to shout about it so much?  I barely even know what dispensationalism is or exactly how pre-millenialism differs from amillenialism, but I've got an opinion about which one is right.

Maybe I should stop.  Or slow down.  Maybe I should seek to serve God, and respect that others are doing the same, even if we come to different conclusions.  That doesn't mean the end of conversations or debates.  But it does mean the end of shouting, of holding my opinions so tightly that the grace of God can't work in me or in my conversation.

And that's what I decided.  I don't want to be an opinionated person.  I want to be a gracious person.

What a long road that will be.

Let's Catch Up

1)  My anxiety about church has mostly disappeared, because, drumroll....I joined Trinity!  Becoming a member at TFC pretty much means completing 6 classes, signing a piece of paper, and standing at the front of the sanctuary to shake everyone's hand after the service.  Nothing technically changes, but I feel so much more peaceful.  No more thinking, "These people might be my new family, how do I feel about that!?"  Now I know, "These people are my family, no matter how I feel."  Comforting.

2)  It also helped that I spent the Bible study hour talking to Michelle, a new friend who had spent the previous three weeks travelling to Turkey, Morocco, and France on a mission planning assignment.  And that on Sunday evening I went to my first Connection Group at a new couple's house, and I had the loveliest time laughing and eating and discussing the morning's sermon.  It lasted three hours, and I still wasn't ready to leave.  That never happens to me with new groups of people!

3)  My mother is not allowed to die before me, because as soon as she flew to Senegal, I thought of twenty things I immediately needed to text her about.

4)  Michelle invited me to Christar's Thanksgiving lunch for all their missionaries currently on stateside assignment.  I talked with a couple who are working in Turkey about their vision for bringing counselors to work with Iranian refugees.  It was, um, quite exciting.  If I can be British about it.

5)  No one warned me about the Freshman 15 of graduate school.  I don't weigh myself, but my pants are getting tighter, so I'm sure there's some weight gain happening.  Thankfully my feminist friend Michal Ann told me about this hilariously cheeky and true book, French Women Don't Get Fat, which is all about loving food and appreciating it, not shoveling it into your mouth while you mindlessly watch TV.  Point taken, book.  Already today I...ate cereal out of a smaller bowl.  Oui oui!

6)  Last night I took a bath at 6:30, then sat in my room until it was acceptable to go to sleep.  I held out until 9:00, then pulled my covers over my head.  I don't even know what was going on with me.

7)  No, but I do.  School is stressful, but not really the schoolwork.  I'm on top of that.  It's all this learning and self-reflection, putting my life together in Dallas and setting new habits, relying on new people and forcing myself to be disciplined, glancing into my yawning future with excitement and trepidation before reminding myself to live in the present.  It's a lot, is what I'm saying.  I still love my classes (well, minus one), but I hate going to them (well, minus one).  I'm just tired of doing stuff.

8)  Which is why it's so exciting that this is my LAST WEEK.  What? you might say.  And true, it's not my last week at seminary or even my last week of the semester.  But after this week is Reading Week, which is basically Pre-Thanksgiving Week.  I cannot wait to do nothing for two whole weeks.

9)  I rode a horse with my IL->TX friend Bridgett.  The ranch was an hour and a half outside Dallas, and.  I just can't.  We drove on two-lane highways!  There were men wearing cutoffs!  I saw actual trees with yellow and red leaves!  I won't lie, I got very nostalgic for the countryside.  I thought of Lindsay, who loved big cities, but now loves living in the middle of nowhere.  I even thought, maybe this is for me, the smell of hay and animals, the slow pace, the dirt, the friendliness.  There is a part of me that definitely loves the country life.  But when I drove back to my house and saw the Dallas skyline stretching into the sky in front of me, I thought, there's a part of me that loves this too.

Romans 6

In two of my classes, we've been focusing on Romans 6.  In one, we are meant to memorize verses 1-14 before the end of the semester.  At first, I thought this was a chore.  Then we spent an entire class period delving into what it means, and my mind was blown!  Our assignment was to re-write Romans 6:1-14 in words of our own, and since that is a quicker way to share my thoughts, here, look!  A wild seminary assignment appears!

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“In light of what I've just said, what is the appropriate response? Should we go on living as though we are under the rule of sin as if that would increase the grace of God? Of course not! We were completely changed—we are no longer under the power of sin. How could we act as though we are still the same, still helplessly under the domination of sin? Isn't it obvious that when we identified ourselves with Christ Jesus, we identified ourselves with him entirely, including his death to the power of sin? If that is the case, and it is, we were changed with him by identifying our life with his. As a result, we have been born into a new kind of life, just as Christ was resurrected from death into life by the glorious power of the Father.

Logically, then, if we identify ourselves with one part of Christ's life, namely, his reversal of the power of sin, then we will identify ourselves with the whole of Christ's life, which includes his resurrection. We know that the power of Christ's death changed us totally, shifting the power over us from sin to God. We are no longer the same, living under the power and domination of sin. We are no longer powerless against sin!

Once we have been freed from the power of sin by identifying with Christ's death, we are free to identify with his resurrection life as well. If Christ broke the power of sin by dying and living again, the game is over. Sin has no chance of exerting any power over him. Through his victory defeating the power of sin, the rest of us no longer have to fear it either, because sin has no chance of overpowering us. 

So what do we do now? We ought to remind ourselves daily that sin has no power over us any longer because of Christ Jesus. So don't give in to temptations and live as though nothing has changed. Your life and your body is no longer made to serve sin and wickedness; you are made to serve God, to live righteously. In this way, you demonstrate the power of Christ in conquering the power of sin. So don't worry. Sin has no power over you. You are ruled by grace.”

Hello, Fellow Feminist

I made a new friend.  Actually, we were already friends, because we've sat next to each other during Bible Study pretty much the whole semester, and once we went to chapel together and discovered a mutual love for Lord of the Rings.

But.  This week she mentioned Rachel Held Evans, whose book A Year of Biblical Womanhood comes out in a couple days.  I am so excited about this.  For a year, Rachel lives out biblical mandates directed at women in their most literal sense.  She covers her head.  She calls her husband master.  It will be awesome, and I can't wait to hear what conclusions she drew from it.

I was about to gush to my classmate, but we locked eyes.  I hedged, "I tend to kind of sometimes classify myself as a Christian feminist, but--"  My new best friend cut me off.  "Oh, I'm definitely a feminist."

My eyes sparkled as I gazed at her adoringly.  "You are?  I've never met another one in person before!"  Yes, I actually said that.  She proved her awesomeness by laughing.  "Yeah, I worried I would be burned at the stake here.  But so far....it's not too bad."  We both shrugged off the lingering stench of misogyny, because really, DTS is trying.

And then we made a lunch date to discuss what it's like being a Christian feminist.  Because that is a lonely label, blogosphere.  I know many online Christian feminists.  I know many Christians in real life who hold feminist beliefs, but none who happily claim the label "feminist."  So to meet one?  You best believe I'm jumping on that friendship train.

Now I have to figure out which books I want to lend her!  (I'm thinking Are Women Human? by Dorothy Sayers and Angry Conversations with God by Susan E. Isaacs.)

Women and Theology

I meant to write a post about Dr. Kreider's view of women a long time ago, but got sidetracked by not blogging very often.  Today he reminded me why I love him so.  He was talking about revelation, and how a doctoral theology student of his worked with him on developing a better classification than "general" and "special."  He raved about this student's genius, then said, "The dissertation was brilliant.  Carissa--"  He paused.  He looked over the room, waiting for our faces to confess that we had assumed he was talking about a male student.  Then he continued, using "her" and "she" pronouns liberally.

The man never misses an opportunity to point out the contribution and work of women in the world.

The first day of class, he asked, "When the Bible refers to "man" in a general way, does it mean men only, or men and women?"  We all acknowledged that it meant men and women.  Dr. Kreider then went on to say, "So if that's what it means, why not use language that reflects its meaning?  That's why the NET Bible (which was translated by mostly DTS professors) uses gender inclusive language."

Doesn't sound all that crazy, except that I remember my mom telling me not to read the NLT gift Bible someone gave me, precisely because it said "men and women" instead of "mankind."  Granted, I don't think she'd hold that opinion any more, but that kind of ignorant prejudice (because I don't think she was willfully prejudiced) is not uncommon or unrecent.

Dr. Kreider didn't stop there, though.  "So when I say the Bible was written by men, do I mean men only, or men and women?"  We all acknowledged that this time he meant men only.  "Really?" he asked.  We stared at him.  "Alright, so probably the actual authors were all male.  But who knew the stories of Ruth and Esther?  Who told Luke about Mary's conversation with the angel?  Is it too extreme to suggest that God worked through those women in the same way He inspired the men who wrote books of the Bible?"

At that, I sat up straight.  I tried to convey with my expression that Dr. Kreider had won my loyalty, that I was now ready to leap on a grenade for him.  I tried to telepathize, "I think it's perfectly lovely how you talk about women."

One class period, he flat out told us, "I'm a complementarian," he said.  "I believe women can have babies and men can preach at church."  I frowned.  Men get the powerful position, and women get the painful one?  But he continued, "I think that's what the Bible teaches.  But should women speak in church?  Of course!  The Bible assumes that they will be be speaking and prophesying in the church.  They just have to cover their heads, whatever that means.  Paul met a man with four prophetess daughters, which means they literally spoke for God.  To a man.  And nowhere does the Bible condemn them.  And let's be honest.  I go to a Baptist church, and I support the International Mission Board.  They say that women shouldn't preach.  But if they made every missionary woman stop preaching and leading churches, the entire board would collapse.  So...think about that."

That man.  I don't understand him.  I don't fully know what he believes.  But I LOVE that he is showing two sides to this complex issue.  I love that he regularly speaks of women with affection and admiration and respect.  I love that he makes me feel as if I belong in his class, belong in a seminary, belong in a school that only allowed my sex to study here thirty years ago.

I think it's perfectly lovely how he talks about women.

INFJ

We talked about personality types today in class, and I remembered that I am an INFJ (rarest of them all, baby!  Only 1%).  Turns out INFJs are particularly suited for religious work, psychology, counseling, and child care.  That is...my life.

Also, while Dr. Barnes was discussing different personality types and why knowing people's personalities is valuable, my thoughts were rambling something like this.  "I bet work teams would all want an INFJ to be with them.  We are so valuable!  Everyone wants to be an INFJ, and to marry an INFJ, because we are the best."

Literally right then, Dr. Barnes said, "There is no 'best' personality type.  Each has it's own strengths and weaknesses."

I laughed out loud.  Which was kind of embarrassing, but it was only a little laugh.  My pride, y'all.  It's ridiculous.

Crushes on Boy Bands

Anju and Ketan have become quite obsessed with asking whether or not I have a crush.  I told them I don't, that I just moved here, and hadn't found anyone yet.  (Lie!  I have a lovely crush on a guy who sits two rows ahead of me across the aisle in my Bible Study class--he's a snazzy dresser, has a Jeremy Renner face, and wears the best short khakis that cause me to stare at his ankles for an hour and a half each day.  No, I've never talked to him, and no, I don't know his name.  I call him "Sergei.")

When I asked the kids if they had crushes, they gigglingly fessed up.  Aside from their classmates about whom I couldn't care less, they have a healthy mix of celebrity crushes.  Anju wants to marry Justin Bieber, and Ketan likes Selena Gomez.  I jumped on that train, and gushed about how cute Louis Tomlinson is.  (Google him.  You're welcome.)

Anju was silent for a moment.  "But you're too old for him."  OH NO YOU DIDN'T.  Ahem.  What I said was, "I'm like, four years older than him.  That's totally fine."  And then Ketan backed me up.  "Mom is five years older than dad.  You can like Louis Barden."

"Thank you.  Who in the world is Louis BARDEN?  I like Louis Tomlinson, thank you very much."

Now they frequently ask me about my crush on Louis, and I say, "He's still cute.  How's YOUR crush?" and they fall apart from the embarrassment.  So glad I am now old enough to confidently proclaim my love for a boy pop star.  Yikes, I mean, mostly.  That does sound pathetic, doesn't it?

The World is Getting Worse?

I get kind of tired of hearing things like, "America is becoming a secular nation" or "The whole world is falling apart" or whatever.  For one, this seems like a very depressing outlook on life.  I believe there is both bad (sin) and good (redemption) in life, and I'd think most everyone would prefer to focus on the good than the bad.  Apparently not.

But also, I don't actually believe that things are getting worse?  I could never quite formulate why I thought that until I read an essay by C.S. Lewis in God in the Dock (which, sidenote, refers to a court room dock, like God is on trial--there's no maritime connections, as I previously assumed).  Lewis talks about the worries of his day, that England was becoming less Christian.  But he gave a very specific reason why that was false.  When chapel attendance suddenly dropped at Oxford, it wasn't because people started hating Christianity.  It was because chapel stopped being mandatory.

Maybe that's what's happening.  The Christian culture at large is declining in power (and thank goodness!), but I would wager that the number of committed followers of Jesus is roughly the same as it's always been.

If someone wants to bemoan the fact that a "Christian" layering of ideals is absent from our nation, then okay.  That might be true, and if that's where someone's hope is found, then people have cause to worry.  But my hope is found in Jesus Christ, the redeemer of children, women, and men, who is not bound by nations or policies or the internet.  His Spirit is going to keep working in every country and tribe and tongue, and I'm very excited to live right here, right now, and see it happening.

Lawn Therapy

I have regressed to a lonely panic on Sunday mornings.  After hours of confused contemplation, I realized that I'm having commitment issues.  I've now finished the new members class, and all that's left is to sign a paper and....jump full in.  As much as I truly adore Trinity, it's a little terrifying.

During our last membership class, I sat beside Laura, internally screaming from a then unknown feeling, and I glanced longingly at her out of the corner of my eye.  "I just want to ask her to hug me," I thought.  Laura has a very loving maternal type vibe.  Then I caught myself.  "I'm in class.  With people.  I can't be a child here."

Luckily, I could be a child elsewhere.  Laura and I chatted as we walked outside, then paused on the sidewalk before separating to our cars.  "That's a nice bit of grass," she said.  "It looks perfect for laying on."  We stared each other down.  "Okay!" I exclaimed, and we fell on our stomachs and sprawled on the green carpet.

It was the best therapy.  Something about the silliness of lying on lawn while my future church family walked behind us, and the nature smells and feels and calmness, and just talking with a friend with grass prickling my cheek.  It was glorious, and I felt instantly better.

Maybe I should install a 6x6 square of yard into my future counseling office.

Operation Christmas Child

Nanny Mother told me that their family is Catholic, and occasionally spiritual.  She also told me to raise her kids however I'd want to raise my kids, and to please turn them into good, people-loving Christians.  I don't know quite how to deal with that, but it's fun to interact with the kids and to live intimately with a family outside the DTS norm.

For instance.  At dinnertime, I always ask the kids who wants to pray.  They fight about it, and Ketan inevitably starts snapping his fingers in the sign of the cross and chanting, "Father, Son, Holy Ghost--He's the one we love the most!"  At that point, Anju shrieks, "That was my prayer!  I was going to pray that!"  I assure her that God won't mind if she says the same thing, so she does.  The kids have taught me the sign of the cross, which I do before saying my own short prayer about how much I like them even when they are obnoxious.

Today at chapel someone talked about Operation Christmas Child, and boxes were available for the taking on our way out.  I had a brilliant idea!  I could fill up two boxes, one for an Anju-aged girl and another for a Ketan-aged boy.  I found some pictures of me giving boxes to kids in Senegal, and took it all to their house after school.

Nanny Mother and kids LOVED it.  Immediately Ketan slid his iTouch into the box, saying he wanted to give it to the kids in Africa.  I had to tell him his $150 toy wouldn't do much good in a place without electricity.  Undaunted, he vowed to convert all his points into allowance and use all that money to buy something for a box.  Anju agreed.  Then she disappeared, and a few minutes later came out with a hand-drawn card that she put in the box.  Ketan made origami.  Anju pulled books from her shelves that she wanted to put in, but balked at giving up her favorite, even when I told her we would probably try to buy new things anyway.

I showed them an OCC video on my phone, and hours later, Ketan sneakily slid into the computer chair.  I was about to chastise him (no technology except for Fridays), but he googled OCC and pulled up a five minute video, which both he and Anju watched rapturously.  Nanny Father came home, and the kids regaled him with their plans.

It was.  Adorable.  I can kind of see the appeal of kids, I guess?  Passing down your beliefs to younger people, hoping they will continue to love the destitute of the world after you've died.  Squinch them.

First Counseled Experience

Jess is learning a new therapy called EMDR, and she had to try it out on three people.  One night she knocked on my bedroom door at 10 p.m. and asked if I was available.

Casual acquaintances might not know this about me, but I've been dying to go to counseling for a long while.  One of the highlights of studying counseling is that in my second year I undergo free (HAHA by which I mean $1,000 per class) therapy sessions.  So naturally, when Jess asked, I leaped down the stairs and took the second of our fancy chairs.

She explained what we were going to do, just an introductory session, just kind of walking the surface of some problem I wanted to discuss.  What did I want to talk about, she asked?

And y'all.  I got so nervous.  I shifted in my seat.  I felt unbearably underdressed in my pajamas.  Why wasn't I wearing proper clothes?  Why couldn't I stop touching my mouth?

So I picked something easy--my perfectionist tendencies.  We talked for maybe fifteen minutes, but really only I talked.  Turns out counselors mostly say things like, "Alright.  What else?  That's good.  Keep going."  I wanted to say, "FIX ME," but you're supposed to learn to fix yourself.


We finished and then chatted about our lives, but all I could think about were the insecurities and the am-I-weird-for-feeling-this and the failings.  I wanted to blurt them out, but I couldn't tell her unless she asked me to, and why was I wearing pajamas?


Anyway, I'm still looking forward to proper consistent counseling sessions.  But I realize now that it's uh, not going to be easy.  Baring your soul rarely is.

Practice Makes Perfect

Nannying is the best practice for future counseling if, like me, you are fairly sure you're going to spend a practicum doing play therapy (which is therapy centered around, well, playing, focused on 3-10 year olds).  I'm not going to lie, I'm kind of a prodigy.  For instance, I've totally nailed the whole "give choices" thing.

I'm pretty adept at saying, "Do you want to eat a peach or an apple?" and "You can do either piano or Kumon--go!"  I've even upgraded to the more difficult choice-consequence alliance, "You either choose to wear your helmet, or you choose to stand beside me and watch your brother ride his bike."

And then, sadly, there are days when my normal human growth class comes a day too late.  Take yesterday, for instance, when the aforementioned bike outing took place.  Anju had already been fussy earlier in the day, and then there was a whole debacle with her helmet being itchy.  Finally we got to the road, and within two minutes she decided she wanted her bike instead of her scooter.  I said no, and she burst into angry tears.

Eventually Ketan confronted me.  "Why can't she get her bike?"  To be fair, it was like, fifty yards away.  It was not outside the realm of possibility.  But I burst out, "Because I don't deal well with crying!  Crying is not the way to get what you want!"

Immediately I had that oh-crap sinking feeling.  I didn't back down, because I also know the importance of consistency.  But I knew that an ugly part of myself was rearing its head.  I don't believe in emotion.  My family is Stoic Haven.  We don't fight, we don't yell, we don't get overly excited.  We're very modern, very British, very repressed.

Then today in class we talked about how important it is to let kids feel and process their emotions.  You don't have to accept bad behavior, but emotions shouldn't be shut down.  So.  Oops.  Next emotional breakdown, I'll be ready.

Oh the Shame

The past week and a half I've been robotically running into my culture shock wall, or maybe more accurately in this context, my "You mean this is real life and not a temporary displacement?" wall.  Nothing's bad.  I still love my roommates, my school, my job, and my church.  But I am TIRED.

I'm tired of reading seminary books all the time, half understanding the words floating through my brain.  I'm tired of thinking through the future, of what classes to take and when, and whether or not to plan for my licensure in Texas or Illinois or nowhere.  I'm tired of feeling like the new girl in social situations.  I'm tired of managing my money and waiting two weeks until I have enough saved up to buy stupid expensive Clinique face wash.

And then this weekend I got a cold.  Which is, whatever, unsurprising.  Stress and all.

Today I went to Dr. Kreider's class at 7:45 a.m. because I will not miss his class unless I am dead.  After that I thought, "I've got my chapel hours a little ahead of schedule.  I could go home for two hours before my next class.  But if I go home...there's a good chance I'll stay there."  My sneaky manipulative brain answered itself, smarmily assuring itself that "Of course I'll come back.  It's no big deal!  Just go home and rest."

So I drove home, knowing there was an 80% chance I wouldn't return.  Just in case, I refilled my water bottle and set out my books and purse for a run out the door.  Then I lay down on the couch and napped.  When my alarm went off at 12:10, I spent all of ten seconds deciding to dismiss it, and then I slept for another two hours.

THERE IT IS.  I skipped my first seminary class!  Agh, the shame!  I'm a skipping skipper who skips, and that will never change, and I spent my own money to pay for that class, and I just let it go to waste!

And now, it's like a death knoll, or something.  I don't really know what that means.  But I've skipped once.  The perfect record is tarnished.  WHO KNOWS WHAT WILL HAPPEN NOW?  But really, hopefully, it's just because of my cold.  And my life crisis.  That's all.

Nanny McGarrah

It's been a week since I started my nannying job, and I'd say my love for it is approximately 200% greater than my job at Logos.  For one thing, it's awesomely disorienting.  I've got a permanent car seat behind me when I drive, which is weird.  Mrs. Nannied told me I could stow it away during my hot weekend dates, and I smiled politely.

Anju and Ketan are pretty awesome, though.  They're in grade school, so I can tell them to do something like shower and not have to help them.  They tried to push their luck early in the week ("Mom lets us eat candy whenever we want!"  "No, seriously, we're allowed to use the Internet anytime.")  But I didn't fall for that, even when they teared up and said I was mean.  "Yeah, I am mean.  So stop crying."

I'm going to be such an awesome mom.

Around Tuesday, Mrs. Nannied asked me to make up a point system.  That seemed like ridiculous Pinterest-level involvement, and I sulked until I asked Ketan and Anju if they wanted to be nicknamed Hogwarts houses.  Now I can say, "Your bed was made.  One point to Gryffindor!  Don't talk back to me.  Five points from Slytherin."

Mostly the two are really awesome.  Kids are hilarious in this unassuming way where adults are usually self-conscious.  Anju was doing her homework while Ketan was in piano lessons, and she couldn't get her worksheet to lay flat.  "Would you please move your whole self?" she asked.  I burst out laughing, "My whole self?  You want me to move my whole self and just fall on the floor over here?"  She grinned up at me and nodded.  "No, I'm not moving my whole self.  You move your whole self."

And Ketan loves Harry Potter.  We found out we've both been to Harry Potter World, and I started to tell him how excited I was to buy a freaking chocolate frog, but then he pulled out a legit Slytherin robe and Sirius's wand, and a specially made wand just for Ketan.  I've never been so jealous of a 4th grader in my whole life.  But it's okay, because the two nights I've put them to bed involved an epic wand duel, once when I hid in a doorway so that when Ketan jumped out I wasn't there.  "Expelliarmus!" I shouted and leaped out at him.  He fell on the floor, laughing in terror.

It's pretty great, is what I'm saying. 

Can't

I've spent the last five months falling in love with counseling, figuring out areas I might want to pursue, talking with students at various points along discovering where God is calling them to serve.  Today four women came to talk to my class about their experiences with abortion and the post-abortive ministry they participated in.  It was absolutely wonderful, and I left the class full of emotion.

But like, weird emotion.  I didn't know what exactly I was feeling, but I knew it was big.  I flickered through some thoughts, and eventually "I can't do this," passed through my mind.  Immediately I burst into ugly sobs.  Because I'm studying, you know, brain processing and stuff, I intuited that perhaps I had struck something important.

Because that's the thing.  I can't do it.  Who am I to enter into intimate relationships with strangers, to walk beside people through their darkest moments and deepest fears, to offer help and love, to facilitate change?  I CAN'T DO THAT.  I'm not overly compassionate.  My middle class white girl problems don't hold a candle to the struggles so many people endure.  I cannot understand what everyone has gone through, I cannot find the words to bring someone into peace and transformation.  I can't do it.

Even as I was crying in the car, fully aware of my limitations, I was so happy.  I knew this was good.  A couple weeks ago this guy encouraged us in chapel.  "Ask God for a dream that is too big for you," he said.  "Because then when you accomplish it, there will be no doubt in your mind or in the world's eyes that it was God who acted, and not you."

So there it is.  I know I can't be a counselor.  The idea of being some kind of authority figure to the hurting men and women of the world makes me want to throw up.  I don't know what people go through, but God does.  I don't know how to love people, but Jesus does.  I don't know how to transform people, but the Holy Spirit does.

I can't do this.  But God can, and He will enable me.  And that's pretty awesome.

Update

It's been a while, partly because life suddenly became crazy busy, and partly because, I dunno.  I don't like updating about my personal life.  Then everyone knows without having to talk to me, and I want people to talk to me.  So.  But anyway, I felt like I ought to give an update anyway, to clear out my mind at least.

School:  My feelings for grad school can mostly be summed up like this.  I FREAKING LOVE IT.  I mean, I knew that I liked listening to wise and experienced teachers, absorbing their knowledge and reshaping or strengthening my worldview, but holy cow.  I like, really love it.  All of my professors are hugely smart, of course, but they are also humble and caring and devoted to Christ in a way that is obvious in how they treat their subject and their students.  I love them all, but especially Dr. Kreider, my professor of theology.  For 2 1/2 hours, I stare at him and think, "Get your brain into my brain, now!"

However, grad school is also a lot of work.  Professors assign like, four chapters out of a textbook at a time, and maybe some articles, and oh yeah, watch this video, and have this entire book done in a couple weeks.  I love to read, but it is still overwhelming.  Especially when some of the books are dry as a 2,000 year old bone.  But whatever.  Dr. Kreider encouraged us by telling us mostly we just needed to run our eyeballs over the stuff, to get used to reading the terms and thinking in seminary language, and that by our second year we'll actually start understanding what we're reading.  I just want to huggle him, but he doesn't seem like a huggly person.

Work:  Welp, I'm actually quitting my job at Logos!  I feel a bit like a quitter, which, I guess I am.  But I feel like I ought NOT to quit, since I've only worked there for three weeks.  But I'm doing it.  Mostly because working 20ish hours a week does not pay my bills, and I can't really work any more without dying a stressful death.  But also because I learned two very important lessons.

1)  I always thought I wanted to work in a small book store.  Nope.  I might want to RUN one, but working retail is incredibly boring.  I hate boring.  When customers are there, excellent!  I love chatting and helping them find things.  But most of the day I have to wander the store, making miniscule adjustments to displays to make sure everything looks orderly.  Or I stand behind the cash register and stare into space for 8 minutes, waiting for something to happen.  I can't stand it.

2)  I met a boy who is everything I ever wanted in a boy.  *cough* He's exactly like me. *cough*  And you know what?  I can't stand him either.  Turns out I'd much rather argue than be right.  So that's good--I now have to completely re-evaluate what I want in a guy.

Church:  I found a church that I dearly love (after three weeks), and I kind of accidentally joined a six-week class to become a member.  I love their approach to church, to transformation personally and communally.  I love the people I've met, their friendliness and hospitality (two people have asked me out to lunch already!).  I dunno if I'll become a member after these classes, but also, why not?  I'm 98% sure I want to commit to staying with them for the next three years.

Oh, and I joined a women's Bible study on Wednesday nights.  The women at Trinity are lovely.  I went in kind of prideful, because I'm a hugely brilliant seminary student now, and they are all laypeople.  Then at the first discussion I answered a question and the leader said, "And that leads to...?"  I stared at her blankly.  So I'm not brilliant or anything.  Good to have humility forced on me.  Anyway, I really like them.

Home:  I jumped from doing nothing to being involved in three very big time-suckers.  That unfortunately means I rarely see my housemates.  Liz and I are still deliberate about hanging out, but my free time never seems to coincide with Jess or Amy.  Also they have been gone nearly every weekend, which is good for my schoolwork, but a little sad.  Still, it's fall, and everything is crazy for everyone, so I think/hope life will calm down eventually.

Not for Amy, though.  She's been having tests, and yesterday she found out she has cancer.  She's going to have to do chemo and radiation and everything, and we talked about it a little.  She's the housemate I feel the least close to, and I felt very under-qualified to support her during this huge life obstacle.  But while we were talking, she said she knew God had given her us as her roommates during this time for a reason, and I remembered that her last roommate was a psycho.  So at least I will not be that.  Prayers for her healing would be appreciated, and I'd also love some prayers for me, to know how best to love on her without overwhelming her or constantly reminding her of her problems.

So, Dallas.  It's really kicked up a notch.

Much Better

For every moment that stressed me out yesterday, today had one that was totally awesome.  Jessica had forewarned me that Dr. Kreider, professor of Intro to Theology, was super amazing.  She was right.  I am already committed to taking as many of his classes as possible throughout the next three years.  I mean, the guy made a nearly three hour long class continually interesting, and I didn't once get tired even though class started at 7:45 a.m.  How is that even possible?

Well, probably because Dr. K is authentic, passionate, dryly hilarious, and intimidatingly intelligent.  He made us listen to two songs in their entirety, just to prove that popular culture is willing to engage in discussions about theology, and also because he just loves music.  He has a tendency to say things that rock my world, and I'll probably devote upcoming blog posts to those ideas specifically.

After class I went to chapel, and a former president spoke.  He is quite old now, and he had to use three reading aids to see his notes.  He spoke very slowly, and his hands shook.  His mind is sharp, and he quietly and slowly told us about aging and Ecclesiastes, how people tell Christians how to die but not how to live those last few years of diminishing capabilities.  He made me love DTS, for a group of people who did not know him as president but who gave him a standing ovation, for a chaplain who chose the man's favorite hymn to both open and close the service, and for the patience and attention offered this wonderful man who might have been written off in another setting.

It's quite nice to have a built in lunch hour, and today was especially wonderful.  It was nice enough that I could sit outside in the shade without being hot.  I talked to Roy for a while, and then Laura happened by, so we ate and talked together.

Then I had my first counseling class!  I loved my theology class, but yesterday during Bible study I thought, "Three years of this?  Really?"  I love studying the Bible, but the potential to become a sheep, bleating out seminary vocabulary and stuck in high concepts for years at a time (though, admittedly, the professors don't want us students to be that way, either), anyway, it was all a little daunting.  And then I remembered:  I'm here to study counseling!  That was a relief.

I liked the class, thankfully.  It's a basic course on how psychology and theology interact.  Already I am confident I'm in the right place (for me, definitely), because Dr. Barnes discussed at length how we cannot address someone's problems without first considering their physical, medical, social, psychological, and spiritual concerns as well.  It is tempting, he said, if you are an expert in a field, to treat everyone as if they needed help only in your area.  That is when Christian counselors treat depression as the result of unresolved sin when actually it is a hormone deficiency or medicine side effect, etc.

I love learning.  I am still getting used to the work load, and setting aside hours each night to read.  But I love learning.  So it's worth it.

I'm More Tightly Wound Than I Realized

I spent most of my first day in seminary running around as if my head had been cut off.  I arrived on campus twenty-five minutes before my first class began, because I was ridiculously nervous about being late.  I had texted a girl I met at orientation, and we were going to try to meet up and go to our shared class together.  Ten minutes before class began, she appeared, claimed to be desperately hungry, and asked if I wanted to go to McDonald's with her, which was "just up the road."

It wasn't.  As she drove us to her fast food breakfast, I checked my phone clock every five seconds, sadly counting down to the beginning of the class I was not attending.  When I am frustrated, I become stupidly polite, so when she offered to move my seat back so as my knees weren't on top of her dashboard I assured her, "Oh, it's alright!  This is so comfortable!"  When 9:10 passed and we hadn't even gotten to McDonald's, she suddenly became despondent and apologetic.  "I'm so sorry, Tricia.  I shouldn't have dragged you into my craziness.  I'm so sorry!"

It was weird.  She ended up dropping me by the building, where another girl was hustling through the hallways.  We determined we were headed in the same direction, and she burst out, "Oh, good!  I prayed that God would send someone to walk in with me late!"  I'm not used to these seminary outbursts of "praise the Lord!" and attributing every little detail of life to God's sovereignty.  Those people are either acutely aware of God's interactions with us, or they are simply ridiculous.

Anyway, I was fifteen minutes late to my first postgraduate class, which was taught by my seminary PRESIDENT.  Oops.

That wasn't even the most stressful part of my day, but it's midnight, so I'll be brief.  Another acquaintance told me I definitely had to be in a two-year weekly DTS small group, which I knew nothing about and was way late to sign up for.  She told me I had to hurry to the advising office and figure it out, but we were in chapel (which ran late), and I had only thirty minutes to get to my job while inhaling lunch as I drove.  No time for advising.

I fretted like, A LOT A LOT, because I'm already over-committed to two weekly Bible studies, and seminary unexpectedly kicked my butt (or rather, my brain, which is not used to prolific vocabulary and hours-long chapter readings).  Eventually I asked my boss if I could call advising, and I spilled my guts to them.  "Oh, people in the counseling track don't have to do that."  Ugh.  I mean, I was glad.  But way to worry for nothing.

After my anxiety-ridden day, I just wanted ice cream.  I remembered going to a Braum's near my house, but long story short, I got lost, and it took forty minutes for me to get ice cream from somewhere else that wasn't nearly what I wanted.  Then I went home and spent four hours doing schoolwork.

My brain is mad at me.  "Last week all we did was lie around reading and watching TV!" it complains.  "What are you doing to me!?"

I don't know, brain.  I'm so sorry.

A Busy Week

It was hard to go home to Peoria.  I fell in love with my cuddly cat all over again, I met little Ruthie May Wineinger, I celebrated her existence at Lindsay's baby shower, I reconnected with Laura, I watched Hunger Games extras with my mom, and I watched an awful movie with my church family and won a box of Dots.

It was lovely, is what I'm saying, and I worried about returning to Dallas.  I thought maybe homesickness would burrow into me again, and I would have to relive the pain of separation.

That almost happened, but this past week has been so busy, I really had no time for extra emotion.  I settled back into my new home on Tuesday, and while I read by the window, Logos Book Store called and asked me in for an interview.  I dressed up on Wednesday, answered questions, asked questions, and after half an hour, I was offered the job.

On Thursday, I went to DTS for the first official time.  I met a couple potential friends, but more happily, I realized that I'm really very good at meeting people and schmoozing.  With thoughts of school filling my head, I went to Logos on Friday, and had to cram another new facet of my life into my over-crowded brain.

That wasn't enough, obviously, and I went back to work for on Saturday.  It's a lovely store, and already I am sorely tempted by the overflowing bookshelves and, of all things, their greeting cards.  My coworkers are friendly, and on both days someone showed up with fancy cookies for everyone to enjoy.  Obviously, this is my kind of workplace.

Today I went to Trinity Fellowship on my own, since Laura is at her hometown one last time before DTS begins.  I loved the service again, how it combines the friendliness and laid back atmosphere of the Baptist tradition with the rich and purposeful liturgy of history.  We recite the Nicene creed every week, and today we recited the Prayer of Confession after spending a couple minutes in personal prayer.

We take Communion every week, with wine passed alongside grape juice.  I really like having wine, for the earthy, Jewish feeling of symbolism and history.  It makes me think of the Seder meal, how each course represents some aspect of fleeing from Egypt, how bread is not just bread, but is a reminder that God could call you to leave everything at any minute.  When I drink wine at Communion, I think that Jesus drank wine those 2,000 years ago, that he held a glass filled with the same stuff.  More than that though, I like how wine bites at me as I swallow it, how my mouth stings for long minutes after.  It helps me understand, more than grape juice, the pain of Jesus offering his blood to save me.  It's not easy and sugary to drink wine.  It hurts a little, and it stays with me.  I like taking Communion every week.  I don't feel anything, necessarily.  I don't feel super-spiritual or unusually connected to God.  But it feels important.  I think the Lord's Supper is a sustaining spiritual practice, and I have never given it the proper weight and significance before.

After service, I signed up for a women's Bible study on Wednesday nights.  When I moved to Jackson, it took me two years to get involved at Northbrook, so this time I am determined to jump into things immediately.  I'm a little nervous, because I've also agreed to be in a Bible study on Thursday nights at our house, and also, you know, I'm going to seminary.

At least I can no longer complain that I was being poured out more than I was being filled.  At Woodland I taught so many different classes and studies that the (admittedly wonderful) Sunday morning services were not enough to fill what I had given out.  I have a feeling that over these next few months I will become so spiritually full that I will beg and plead for a junior high Sunday School class or women's Bible study, so that I can overflow into someone else's life with all the things I'm learning about God and His will in the world.

Tomorrow I go work a full day, and then Tuesday my classes begin.  I cannot even believe that one week ago I was in Peoria.  It seems months ago.  I guess that means I've settled into Dallas pretty well.

DTS Orientation

I went to orientation today, and seminary is basically like Union.  Lots of kind people, and staff who pray for you and are intentionally committed to help you discover how you can serve God.  The dress code is a bit more severe, although HOLLA, as of yesterday, jeans were approved!  Oh, happy day.

It's simultaneously wonderful and strange to be back in such an intensely Christ-centered environment.  Speakers talk about Victoria Secret's catalogs as pornography, we burst into hymns in the middle of sessions, and people bring up "God's will" during simple conversations.  There's also a decidedly "Christian" brand of humor--during our MMPI test, someone sneezed.  Several people said, "Bless you" until one man said authoritatively, "GOD bless you."  Everyone cracked up, because ho ho ho, it was funny.  I mean, it was.  But it struck me that we were an unusual group of people.

What I like about DTS, though, is how they hold their school and their students to a high standard.  They talked about the no drinking rule and the strict dress code.  They happily admitted that the Bible does not dictate specific outfits nor outlaw alcohol.  But they want their school to be better than just "okay" and they go out of the way to make it so.  Since I just read about a guy imitating George Washington's high standards of living for a month, I found the idea far more romantic than annoying as I did in the past.

One quick thing about the MMPI.  I went through, thinking, "I sometimes hear voices when no one is speaking.  Heh heh, nope.  The comics are the only part of the newspaper that I enjoy.  Yup!  I sometimes tease animals.  FALSE.  What kind of monster teases animals!?"  I wanted to scrawl intensely on the answer sheet, making sure they knew that I very much disliked anyone teasing animals of any kind.  Then I thought, hm.  Maybe these are the extreme reactions they are screening against.  But, animals.  They are so cute.

Anyway, I love DTS.  I think it will be grand.

Flying

I've flown a lot lately, five times in the last year.  Since all my flights have layovers, and are roundtrip, that's twenty individual flights in the thirteen months.  All of which has made me draw some conclusions about flying, namely, that it's weird.

There are very few occasions when you are asked to wait, then sit extremely close to a stranger, then wait, then hurtle through the air with little to no leg room or personal space, then wait some more.  Sometimes you talk to your seatmate, and then it's awkward to break off the conversation, because it's not like you can walk away.  Most of the time you don't talk, though.  Someone wears earphones or has their attention fixed on a magazine.  People fall asleep, and heads loll, and everyone tries to get as comfortable as possible in 1x2 feet of space, next to snoring or fidgeting neighbors.

Flying is always strange, but I think the worst flight I've had was when I was placed in an exit row.  I chose the seat, actually, the day before when I printed my boarding pass.  I wanted the extra space, but from now on, I'll never choose the exit row again.

For one thing, it's intimidating.  I've never been in a plane crash, and I know they are very uncommon.  But sitting there, knowing it is my job to successfully save people's lives, well.  It is too much pressure for my over-active imagination.

That's not the worst part though.  In an exit row, you have to be ready to jump to attention at a moment's notice for the first and last forty minutes of the flight.  So while everyone else is settling in with entertainment, I could do nothing.  We couldn't raise or individual screens to watch movies.  That's fair; they're cumbersome, and if something went wrong, they went get in the way.  But I also couldn't read my book!  I guess because, as the cabin goes up in flames and people flock to the exit door, I might hold up a hand and say, "Juuuust a second, I'm nearly to the end....of the chapter....there.  Alright, let's get this open."  And okay, depending on what I'm reading, that might happen.  But the real kicker?  As the fans circulate air and keep the temperature quite chilly, we couldn't even lay blankets over our laps.  I'm sorry, but I'm quite capable of pulling fabric to one side and standing up.  Pretty quickly, even.

Ugh.  So no extra leg room for me.  It's not worth it.  Flying is weird enough without all the extra rules.