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.

The Fall

Finally, now that the Olympics are over and life is slower each night, I showed Liz The Fall, which is perhaps my favorite movie.  Hear me out.  I love Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter.  I love the popular, epic fantasy movies.  But The Fall...it is a movie that sings my soul.  It's almost embarrassing to show people the movie, and I won't unless I trust them.  It's as if I'm giving a piece of who I am to them, a deep part that I'm scared to show, scared because what if they don't like it?

And a lot of people don't like it.  It's a weird movie.  But I love it for its beauty, for the way it portrays the innocence and scariness of childhood, for the honest way it talks about depression, for the way it shows we save and hurt each other in countless ways throughout the day, for how it navigates reality through fiction.

I've seen this movie four times now, and every time I break down at the end.  Depression is overwhelming, and my favorite line is when Roy flounders in the water and sobs, "I can't get up!" and Governor Odious scoffs.  "For God's sake, it's only waist high!"

Yes, that.  That is depression.  It's drowning in waist-high water, convinced you cannot save yourself while everyone else looks on and says, "But that's not so bad."  I love that The Fall handles Roy's depression with shrewd honesty.  We're meant to sympathize with him, but we also hate him for his selfishness, for his single-minded goal.

I adore this movie.  It's gorgeous, and the actors are ridiculously good, and I love the imagery of strength in our teeth, and death bringing forth birds long stored in a mystic's belly.  I know it's weird.  But this story speaks exactly to who I am and how I interpret the world.  I love it.

I Might Be Obsessed

Technology is a wonderfully horrible thing.  For instance, I now watch The Ellen Degeneres Show on DVR every day, which is not enough for me.  So I inevitably spend another two hours watching clips of various celebrities or dance dares or Sophia Grace and Rosie on YouTube.  And then I put in an order for Ellen's latest book (Seriously...I'm Kidding) at the library, which came in today and I'm halfway through.

And still I want more.

One Weekend and I've Found My Home

Thursday:  Liz and Laura (I went to the Seryn concert with her in December) and I went to a Turkish party.  There's a community of about 20 Turkish women in Dallas who hang out regularly, and Liz and Laura have become their friends.  We went to one of the women's apartments, and had a super fantastically delicious meal, followed by chai in those hourglass Turkish tea glasses.  So good.  So Turkish.  We talked about faith, education, and homesickness.  I want to go back to Turkey.

Friday:  Liz and I went to a movie theater at 6:30, an hour before we wanted to see The Bourne Legacy.  It was sold out, so we bought tickets for the 10:30 showing.  When we returned at 9:30, we were sorted into different waiting lines, so I listened to a couple on surely their first date, talking over each other, the girl giggling awkwardly and the guy loudly insisting that How I Met Your Mother is the "best freaking show on TV, no question!"  Finally we watched the movie eating our traditional popcorn with M&Ms and Reese's Pieces.  After midnight, we pranced to her car, fawning over Jeremy Renner's odd attractiveness and waxing philosophical about an action movie.

Saturday:  We joined Liz's church at 8:00 for a service project at a nearby middle school.  We worked with some of her home group members, moving one teacher's furniture from a downstairs classroom to one upstairs.  I met some nice people, especially after lunch when there were just four of us who stuck it out to...sit in the room waiting for the teacher to return, only to leave an hour later because we couldn't think of anything else to do.

That night we dressed as flappers and went to Laura's (and two other people's) Great Gatsby themed birthday party.  I worried that Liz and I had overdressed until we walked up the stoop and saw three guys wearing suspenders and drawn-on mustaches.  Even their dog was wearing a bowtie.  It was maybe the best thing ever--jazz music played, a silent movie ran in the background, girls wielded fake cigarettes, Laura tried a New England accent, and even the mixed drinks were popular in the 1920s.  People mingled for the first couple hours, and I was struck that this was kind of my first adult party.  People were dressed up, drinking but not getting drunk, making contacts and sharing stories.  Then we played Fishbowl, and I completely fell in love with this group of people.

Sunday:  I went to church with Laura in the morning, and it might be early to make broad declarations of commitment, but I'm nothing if not passionate.  I love her church!  It's small, and there are people of all ages.  They sing hymns with a band, laypeople share personal stories during the service, and during Communion, they offer both wine and grape juice so no one is offended.  There was a guest preacher, but he was hilarious and completely devoted to Jesus.  The whole service was very much focused on, how can we as a church be better at loving God and loving people?  Which is kind of the point of church, imo.  After service, Laura introduced me to people, and others just came up to chat with us.  It was so familial-feeling, and I am totally pumped to go back in two weeks.

That night Liz and Jessica and I watched the Closing Ceremonies of the Olympics.  During the flashbacks to the greatest moments, we got stressed all over again, and fell around cheering for things we'd already seen.  When the actual ceremony again, Jessica said, "This is the weirdest thing I've ever seen," and I said, "I love it!" and Liz said, "You've been really invested in Great Britain this whole time," and I said, "I have mixed feelings about our independence."

Amy joined us when she got back to Austin, and we ended the night making fun of poor dumb Ryan Lochte.  When I went to bed, I realized, yup.  This is home.  And I love it.

Turning Around

I just reread Angry Conversations with God by Susan E. Isaacs.  It is one of my always favorite books because Isaacs hilariously and meaningfully captures both the messiness and the beauty of Christianity.  I needed that reminder.  I feel like her sometimes, too rebellious for church, too tame for the world.  I'm so displeased with how the church at large interacts with the secular world.  I'm confused about God and his role in creating goodness and watching evil seep its way in.

Isaacs told me that was okay.  She reminded me that "I can run toward you or away from you, but I cannot make you disappear.  You're written on the palm of my hand too."  She told me that God grieves with me, that sometimes the mediocre help we get in life is all God can give us because its all his people are allowing him to give.

I finally had a good talk with God.  I told him how much I missed Peoria and the comfort I had there.  And I knew he was sad too.  He didn't regret bringing me to Dallas, and I know that I will come to love this place and feel purpose here too.  But God isn't a dictator.  He knows I need to grieve, and what's more, he sat beside me and grieved with me.  I love that so much.  I love my God who feels with me, who wants so much for me, but will let me be sad for the things that are gone.

I'm grateful to live with Jess.  I don't have many people in my life who want to see both the messiness and beauty of Christianity.  It's easier to stick to one or the other.  But Jess is a lot like me--raging against the failures of the church, willing to honestly discuss doubts and confusions, and to honor those non-churchy feelings.  But she is also totally in love with Jesus.  She knows the gospel, the sweet offer for every broken and battered person to come find rest, and she triumphs that message when it seems like a lot of the church is preaching something else.

So thanks Susan E. Isaacs and Jess.  You've reminded me that God is good.

Olympics

In 2004, I was in Athens during the Olympics, which you'd think would make me an expert, but that's not true.  It was amazing to cross paths with the torch three times and to watch an archery event in person, but there wasn't a way to keep up with all the events all the time.  We were busy.  In 2008, I lived with Jennie and Dusty, and I mostly let them be in charge of the TV.

In 2012, well, I'm obsessed.  Ever since the Opening Ceremonies on Friday, Liz and Jess and I have an agreement--we wait until everyone is home, or at least until 8:30, and then we use our handy dandy DVR to start from the beginning of primetime coverage and watch all four hours.  Every night.

Amy said Liz and I should be synchronized cheerers, and if that were an event, we would take home the gold, no problem.  When a gymnast falls off the pommel horse or someone's face falls when their score comes up, we both groan and tear up (though Liz is definitely the lead crier...she tears up at least ten times a night).  When someone ends their routine or pulls off their swimming goggles with a grin and pumps the air, or when an athlete and their coach share a boulder-meets-mountain hug, we grinningly coo and flap our hands at each other.

I'm the obnoxious viewer who, despite a complete lack of sports knowledge, suddenly becomes an expert after watching an event for five minutes.  "Ooo, that was a slow kick off the wall, he's really going to have to speed it up to catch Agnel (stupid Agnel)."  "15.221?  Are you kidding me!?  He deserved a 14.879 at the MOST."

Liz is the Michael Phelps fan, and swimming enthusiast by default.  She's also, as stated before, the emotional center of our Olympics viewing club.  When she gets particularly excited, she leaps from the couch to try out her own gymnastics skills in the living room, and when she goes to the kitchen for a snack, she usually leaps through the doorway, then clutches her hip but sticks the landing.

Jess is the commentator.  When Phelps says something stupid like "I'm the first Michael Phelps" she goes off on a tirade about how prideful he is.  When he hugs his teammates or graciously accepts defeat, she congratulates whoever told him he needed to tone the arrogance down.  All the while, Liz flutters and defends him, and I look on in amusement.  Jess is also the commentator because she is best at paying attention.  Halfway through a swim race, I'll ask, "Wait, which lane is Missy in?" and she'll know.  Or on round 4 of synchronized diving, Liz will say, "Who's ahead, Mexico or Great Britain?" and Jess will know.

Amy watches sometimes, though usually just to comment on which guys are cute (they are nearly all cute, they're Olympians) or how it's weird for people to kiss.  She isn't much interested in sports, she says.  Which, um.  Neither am I.  I didn't understand why I am so invested in the Olympics until Jess said, "It's not the sports.  It's the athletes."

And it is.  Squinch little Missy Franklin.  And the whole socially awkward adorable women's gymnastics team.  And Danell, the comeback kid.  And that gorgeous GB diver who is only just now legal.  I love watching people's dreams come true, or bouncing back from disappointment, or graciously accepting defeat.  This is the drama of life, played out every night on NBC.  I love it.

An Unintentional Nap

I read a book while eating lunch, but I finished eating before I got to the end of a chapter.  I carried my book into the living room and settled onto the couch with it.  I noticed I was nearing the 100th page thought that would make a nice goal before getting out of the house.  The air conditioning kicked on.  Ignored the cool breeze until I noticed a blanket thrust on top of the couch.  I pulled it over my legs.

I was on page 92 when I thought it might be nice to read from a lying down position.  My head hit the pillow and I thought, "Ah, that's nice.  Crap.  Danger ahead!"  I read with eyes wide, furiously denying my upper body the comfort of my blanket.  It didn't last.  I lied, "This doesn't mean anything," and pulled the fleece comfortably under my chin.  Page 98.

I set my book aside, promising myself I would only close my eyes for ten minutes or maybe less.  Two hours later, I woke up and finished the last two pages.