Today or Tomorrow

          Today, I came to the end of another season of my life. High school - or as close as I ever got to high school. I wrote my last exam at the community college, spent my last half hour out in the sun in the middle of campus, and took my last regular bus ride - here, anyway. There will be plenty of exams in university, plenty of hours spent sitting in the sun, plenty of time spent on the public bus. Unless the system changes drastically in the next three months, which I don't expect it will.
          My strange high school/running start/grade status combined with my distance from the school has meant that I hold almost no loyalty to the school that I've now attended for 6 quarters. I'm normally pretty ready to be loyal, so it was strange not caring about sports or campus life at all. I certainly did not expect to miss it at all (okay, I still don't). But I walked out of building 7 today and headed for the grass and was hit with a feeling of nostalgia. As much as it has been merely a stepping stone to my next stage of life, I have lived here. I have many good memories and met people who have influenced my life significantly. It's because of Char and CeCe that I have developed a love for biology and am choosing to minor in it so as to provide some interest amidst my chemistry major. I met Blake in my first quarter and have attended school and walked through life with him since then; he is a part of many of my sunlit memories spent out on the grass. I made new friends: Sofia, Kellan, Chloe, Alyssa, Dung, and many others. I fought with microbiology, laughed over calculus, and debated which 8 out of 40 people should survive the alien invasion (thanks to MFC-J, an inspiring English teacher). I have learned and grown and laughed and fought and loved and lived in the last two years. I won't miss the bus smell, the noise of the commons, or inadequate "microbiology" lab, but I will miss the sunrises over the mountain, the study room in building 15, the web cafe, the random pieces of art, and our building 13.
          I know that countless memories are yet to be made. I have a host of new experiences waiting for me: big city, dorm life, AFROTC, lots of chemistry classes, some biology and art classes, new friends, new opportunities. Right now, I'm working through financial paperwork, placement tests, possible class schedules. I should hear back about my dorm and roommate assignment in a couple of months. The realization that I'll be moving out soon is always at the back of my mind. I'm ready for it. I know where God's leading me - for now.
          It's really easy to give an answer when people ask what I'm doing next year. "I'm going here to study chemistry and then into the Air Force." Those are my plans and I tell them so. But it's been on my mind that the Bible pretty specifically say NOT to do that.

"13 Come now, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to such and such a city, and spend a year there and engage in business and make a profit.” 14 Yet you do not know [b]what your life will be like tomorrow. You are just a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away. 15 Instead, you ought to say, “If the Lord wills, we will live and also do this or that.” " James 4:13-15, NASB

 I have plans and I have been seeking the Lord's guidance the whole way, and He has directed my steps. All the same, I am still a vapor, or a mist as the ESV says (it's mentally challenging to put a verse in a version other than I've memorized). I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I have plans, but God may yet direct my steps another direction. Wherever He leads me, I am excited to follow. And If the Lord wills, I will go here to study chemistry and then into the Air Force, and I will live and make memories along the way.

Anne & Joe

          These last few weeks, I have been interviewing residents at the retirement home where I work, seeking to know their stories. It has been a privilege to hear each story, and a few residents have given me written permission to share their stories with all of you. This is an exercise in writing for me - if you have any questions, comments, or critiques, please let me know!

            1930. Life was difficult in Brooklyn, New York in the depth of the depression, but his mother made ends meet. She worked hard to support her young son after his father left her for other women. They never experienced the hardest parts of the depression, certainly not to the extent that the folks in Oklahoma and other places did, but they knew hardship all the same.

            As Joe got older, opportunities opened up for him. He attended a military school in West Virginia for a few years in the late 30s-early 40s. Joe’s mother remarried, and she, Warren, and Joe moved to Montreal before Joe graduated high school. While they were living there, WWII broke out. Joe returned to the states, to Burlington, Vermont, to complete school before enlisting in the Army. He went through basic training in Florida in 1944 and then was shipped overseas where he served in Europe for 6 months, in the 10^th Armored Division right after the Battle of the Bulge. “Boy, was I lucky to miss that,” he says, looking back.

            Soon after he finished his service in the military, Joe’s mother died. He returned for her funeral and then sought an education. Although he had been considering becoming a doctor or dentist, he instead began college in Vermont, studying agriculture and economics, and ended up in the insurance business, a job that took him around the country. He met a girl and got married, had two boys and one girl. 25 years later, he and his wife divorced, and he subsequently began night school at Fort Steilacoom Community College. It was at night school that he met Anne.

            1936. She was grateful for the bed and food the nuns offered her. Goodness knows she was better off here in the convent than she had been at her aunt’s house where she was just another mouth to feed.  She remembers with a grimace the clothing lines and the fact that they could never afford new shoes, although the soles were loose on her old ones, and all that just a year ago. At the age of 12, one year prior, she had run away to her 6^th grade teacher at the Chicago, Illinois convent, where she would be taken care of for the remainder of the depression era. Although her cousins, who also attended school at the convent, told her that her aunt wanted her to return, her aunt held no legal authority over her, so she remained at the convent.

            Anne’s parents had immigrated to the US from Croatia in the early-mid 1900s, just before the depression struck. When Anne was 6, her mother passed away. Although she was young, Anne holds on to memories of her loving mother, especially her beautiful blue dress with the gold fleur-de-lis design, which she wore to church ever morning. Her father, unable to care for her, gave Anne to his sister in Chicago, Illinois. Anne attended school at the local convent, where she lived in her later schooling years. When she started high school, she decided she wanted to become a nun and was sent to the motherhouse in Colorado for two years. During her sophomore year, she changed her mind and came back to Chicago. In high school, she met her future husband. She wasn’t everything he hoped she would be, so she changed for him and compromised herself, something she regrets to this day.  He didn’t believe in the education of women, so she finished high school and stopped attending school. She had dreamed of a man of high ideals, with a love of his faith, and a positive outlook, but settled for what she had instead. Anne helped put him through med school and moved to Tacoma for his internship. During their marriage, he had affairs, and, after 8 children, they were divorced.

            After the divorce, she went back to school at Fort Steilacoom Community College to pursue her dream of becoming educated and here she met Joe.

      It was in a Human Potential Class that Anne and Joe met. This was a class that impacted both of them deeply, focusing on Personal Responsibility and Emotional Development, a phrase they both still remember 40 years later. Outside of Human Potential, however, it was their shared loved for the Lord that brought and kept them together. The Lord has never abandoned them, and, in Anne’s words, the last 39 years have been a fairytale. They traveled together, to Europe twice and to other places. Anne went to Europe twice more on her own, to discover her family’s roots in Croatia. She was searching for herself and she found it in the town where she was immediately recognized as her mother’s daughter. Walking along a street in Kaštela, a woman called out “You’re Maria’s daughter!” and Anne knew she had found something special. Her self-esteem had been knocked down to zero after her divorce, and between Human Potential, Joe, Kaštela, and the Lord’s grace, she began to be built back up. Joe and Anne continued their education, Anne continuing on to Evergreen Community College. Anne focused on the three children she still had at home, co-owned a bookstore, and then got into real estate. Joe can be described as a poet, painter, and romantic.

      Now, they sit across from me, both in their rocking chairs, both smiling brightly. For the last several months, they have never failed to inform me that they are praying for me. They ask after my schooling and my plans for the future, and I am honored that they have taken such an interest in me.

      Joe’s words to me: “You’re doing okay. You have your life figured out and the smarts to pursue it. Not many have that.”

      Anne’s words to me: “Don’t ever compromise yourself; remain true to you. Retain your individuality.”

Paula

          These last few weeks, I have been interviewing residents at the retirement home where I work, seeking to know their stories. It has been a privilege to hear each story, and a few residents have given me written permission to share their stories with all of you. This is an exercise in writing for me - if you have any questions or comments, please let me know!

           1927. In Illinois, a half mile from Wisconsin, a soon to be mother lay in a farmhouse, too stubborn to go to the nearby hospital. The birth was long and hard, and once Paula was born, there would be no more children. Her husband put his foot down; his wife would not risk that again. That farm was Paula’s grandparents’ farm, a place she fondly remembers visiting every summer, spending 3 months in the backcountry of Illinois each year until she reached age of 10. 

            Soon after Paula was born, her parents moved off the farm and into the nearby town, Freeport. Her dad worked for Montgomery Wards, a department store, as a salesman, and that move was the first of many. His job required him to move every two years, and up until high school she never spent more than 3 years in one place. She began school in the 1^st grade, walking to school by herself down a busy road every day. That same year, Paula’s muscular dystrophy showed up, but in 1933, no one could diagnose it. She remembers clearly that it was her muscular dystrophy that caused her to hate her first grade teacher. When the kids started to get antsy, the teacher would get them down on the ground and have them waddle around the classroom. Try as she might, and try as the teacher might to teach her, Paula simply could not waddle, and so she hated her teacher.

            After 1^st grade, she moved to Chicago Heights for a couple years, and then moved again, switching schools each time. She recalls, laughing, the time her PE class was taught to line dance and the boys knocked her down fighting for her hand. It was hard to move schools so often. Frequently, she was either behind or ahead the class she entered, having to either study hard to catch up or stuck being bored in class. Imagine having to teach yourself how to subtract because the rest of the class has already been taught!

            Through all her family’s moves, her music was the one thing that remained with her. Early in elementary school, she was handed a violin, and she took to it “as a duck takes to water,” in her own words. Not 6 months after she began playing, the local high school orchestra teacher invited her to play with them at the upcoming world fair. She went and played her three songs at the Chicago World Fair: Century of Progress (1933-1934) but at the age of 7 she wasn’t impressed by the grand setting. Once her songs were finished, Paula looked at the conductor as if to say, “Can I go now?” and stepped right off that stage, to both laughter and applause. From 3^rd grade to 6^th grade, her family was in Kenosha, Illinois, the longest she ever spent in one town, and she played 1^st violin in a string quartet. From there they moved to Jainesville for her 7^th and 8^th grade years, and music remained a constant.

            When she was in 8^th grade, Paula’s parents decided they wanted stop moving and find a store of their own. The family settled in Port Washington, Wisconsin. Finally, Paula spent not just two years in one place but also all of high school with the same people, as well as part of 8^th grade. Her high school was too small to have an orchestra, so she learned to play the oboe and joined band. She actually joined in 8^th grade, before she became a high school student, because the band so needed an oboe player. She didn’t abandon her violin, however, and participated in contests often. She had a different boyfriend every year – one year was enough with each guy – and so was able to go to all four proms. She graduated from high school placed at #2 in her grade, just missing #1 by the smallest amount (“But it doesn’t matter,” she says).

After high school, Paula began her studies at Oberlin College and Conservatory of Music in Ohio, a college her parents picked for her with the influence of her violin teacher. College was a very different experience. At home, Paula had never done more on her own than travel to her violin lessons in Milwaukee. At the age of 19, though, off she went by herself to college; her parents never even saw the campus. She boarded a train and began her next phase of life. She was in her sophomore year when she met Jerry, her future husband. He had been an oboe player in the Navy band in Hawaii and was a year older than her, although a year behind in school. The summer between sophomore and junior year of college, he came home with her to meet her parents, and Paula and Jerry were married that September. After one more semester at Oberlin, both decided to quit school. He got a job at a hardware store, she at a dime store. They rented a small bedroom and sitting room for a while, but soon they went home to her parents, who hired him. A year later, Sue was born, the first of two daughters. 15 years passed by gently and then another 8 after they moved down to Chilton, Wisconsin to own their own hardware store.

By this time Sue and Polly, her daughters, were grown and out of the house. After 25 years working in a hardware store, Jerry thought he wanted to be a preacher/missionary, but that fell through. Paula and Jerry moved to Humansville, Missouri for 4 years, and, while there, Jerry became interested in some less-than-Christian things. He had always wanted to make a lot of money, and things got worse between the two of them. After 30 years, he divorced her. That was June. Paula, in her own words, was a basket case after the divorce. But, looking back, she credits the Lord. She had been a Christian before then, going to church, teaching Sunday school, but she was only halfway there. It wasn’t until she hit rock bottom in the middle of the divorce, however, that she looked up and surrendered. She was born again into new life with Jesus. She praises Him, too, for saving her from the difficult man that Jerry became in the years following. He turned mean towards his family, hard to cope with, but she missed all of that.

In September, on her 51^st birthday, at a meeting of Parents without Partners, Paula met George. He was a good man, a good person. The two of them spent the next 29 years traveling the country in an RV. They traveled up through New England, went through Canada, went to Big Ben country in Texas. She liked most of where they went, could see herself settling in any of the places they visited, but didn’t have one specific favorite place. In the years where they were settled, she became a teacher of music teachers. Education had always been her dream, and so she followed it. She oversaw the music programs in 11 schools in Risain, Missouri for 3 or 4 years and also taught 6^th and 7^th grade music until she was 65. By the end of those years, they had moved to Salem, Oregon to be closer to family. When George died in 2006, Paula then followed her family up to Washington, which is where I have had the privilege of meeting her.

Her advice to me: Trust in the Lord. If He brings these things to you, they’re from Him, and He has good purpose.

(Temporarily) Satiated Wanderlust

     Just over a month ago, I was itching to go, to travel, to explore. I've had that desire fulfilled now and I'm at least temporarily satisfied to remain at home. In the last month, I've spent time in Canada, South Africa, and Zambia, as well as the US (of course) and stopovers in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, and Rome, Italy. I don't know if stopovers count, especially when they occur from 3am-4am, as the Rome stopover did, but I was still in those countries for a short time.
     I drove into Canada (7 hours of travel), camped in very wet conditions, explored Vancouver, drove home (3 hours of travel), drove to La Conner (2 hours of travel), experienced the Tulip Festival with my wonderful mother, drove home (2 hours of travel), flew to South Africa (28 hours of travel), spent a fantastic week with friends, flew to Zambia (6 hours of travel), spent a weekend with my other family, the Taylors (http://robandjennifer.wordpress.com/ go follow them!), and flew home (36 hours of travel). That last part of was especially taxing. I had an amazing time... but, yea, I'm liking my bed, my mom's food, and a more relaxed schedule. I didn't ever think I'd call calculus relaxed.
     Until I moved to South Africa, I was never a wanderer. Short trips, sure, that's fine. But I intended to grow up and live right where I'd always lived, maybe even in the same house. Now...the whole world is open to me. I've spent time in different lifestyles, and the term culture shock isn't foreign. It would be hard to live elsewhere, but I could do it. I might even want to... More than anything, though, I want to live where God puts me. The opportunities He's given me at such a young age have broadened my horizons and made me consider differed places. What is He preparing me for, I wonder? I can't wait to find out.
     While these last few weeks haven't resulted in culture shock since they were short term, they have been full of experiences. International travel on my own, especially, was new. I had to navigate airports, luggage, visas, customs, and vaccinations (or lack thereof), all on my own. There were times when I was nervous, but now I've done it, I can do it again. I hope to, in the future.
     Each trip has been different and each has been good.

It was good to make new friends while camping in thunderstorms, good to explore the gorgeous forest around Golden Ears provincial park, good to laugh at crazy circumstances.

It was good to spend time with my mom, good to have my camera out and take as many pictures of tulips as I wanted, good to have a schedule that allowed me to wander La Conner, read by lamplight on the porch with the stars above me, and sing hymns in the morning.

It was good to be surprised by special girls with a special birthday dinner, good to have a busy schedule of seeing everyone, mini golfing, watching movies, playing board games, eating good food, good to work on relationships that I want to keep for years to come.

It was good to be part of the Taylor family, good to spend a little time in a second world country, good to talk to Mr Taylor, Mrs Taylor, and Matt.

It was good. And now it's good to be home with those I love.

Quotes, Cliches, and Profound Short Sentences

     I really like all of the above. I have a Pinterest board entitled "Truth & Beauty & Hilarity" full of stuff that makes me nod, smile, or laugh (respectively, or all at once) and a large portion of it has pictures such as the following:

     These are intermixed with pieces of art, some memes, things that bring back memories, stunning photographs of spectacular moments or places of beauty...

     In fact, if you look at that Pinterest board, you can get a pretty good idea of what makes me happy, brings me hope, inspires me. Take that in combination with this blog, my pictures, my journal, etc, and I'm collecting/creating a wealth of information that describes who I am. History tangent: one of the biggest challenges in history is that commoners left little to no evidence of what their daily life looked like. Not so today, with education and access to the Internet and so forth. It will be interesting studying this time period, the Age of Information, in the future: will there be too many sources?  How will they sort through them all?
     Anyway, that said (I'd been reflecting on that wealth-of-information tangent for a while, but didn't really have enough of a reflection to put it in a full post) and back to my original topic: I like collecting adages. They speak to me, and I can easily memorize them and pull them up when I need a reminder.  Bible verses are part of my collection, of course, but quotes from famous people and thoughts from the anonymous internet user are included as well.  So are cliches - I truly believe "There's no time like the present. You can't please everyone. Love is blind. Good things come to those who wait," - Grandma Joy. I've been collecting adages as long as I remember: Mom's been quoting Einstein's "Don't let school get in the way of your education" since I was small, I take note of clever or profound things my teachers say, such as "When tempted to fight fire with fire, remember the fire department usually uses water," and I write down passages from books that I think are especially meaningful. I come up with my own adages (which I guess are essentially short reflections), too:

"Enjoy today. Remember the big picture. Live for God."

"There will always be those who are better than me, but that does not stop me from being my best."

"Laugh at the stupid stuff."

"Take life one day at a time."

"Lie in the sun, delight in silence, be lazy sometimes, sing loud with the windows down."

"Accept the simple, the imperfect, the abnormal, the normal."

"Find a balance between you, God, and other people. What others say about you is worth listening to, but it does not define you. Your identity is in God, in who He has made you and is making you."

"Be slow to negativity and judgementalism; trust, seek understanding, and love at all times."

"If there isn't a word for what you're trying to say, make one up."

     All of these are pieces of advice that I'm constantly trying to live by. I don't always manage, of course; in fact, I often fail. But then I pick myself back up and try again tomorrow. Life and happiness and obedience to God is a journey of forming habits and laughing at yourself and constantly thanking God for His mercy and grace and forgiveness. One moment/day/year at a time.

     

Beauty in the Midst of Chaos

     My life is insane right now. This weekend I literally did nothing but work and study microbiology, except for going to church on Sunday morning; does that even count as a weekend? I work 10 hours a week, attend school for 4 hours a day, do homework for 5 hours a day, have a 45 minute commute, and I do actually like to see family and friends every once in a while. I try to get 7 hours of sleep, but that doesn't always happen. Lab today, work tomorrow, doctors appointment on Thursday, calculus exam on Friday... I don't mind work. I like being busy! But at times it can get a little overwhelming. That's when I'm thankful for beautiful days like yesterday... let my share my journal entry with you:

     Today was beautiful. As we drove out of tbe fog over the bridge, it gradually melted into visibility. The sunrise was pale against a clear blue sky, just wisps of color in the clouds. We could see all the way to the mountain, where the clouds were turning gold at 7:40. The trees were a dark green and a flock of birds flew silhouetted against the clear morning. There was no wind and the fog coated the miles of trees and land between us and the mountain. Soon, it rolled in off the water and blanketed school. The sun rose, a pale white circle through the clouds. When they burned off, a brilliant, clean blue sky was left for the rest of the day.
   
     This afternoon, I got ready for my run and realised I was excited to get out and move after a weekend of work. I decided to go farther than normal and head out to the bridge that leads to the island. I'm so glad I did. It was about an hour before sunset and the tide was out. The water was calm and still, reflecting the clear blue sky with the wispy clouds just beginning to golden. The cumulus clouds piled up on the horizon.  The dark trees were reflected in the water and the whole scene was caught in the haze of sunlight. A bird was catching a fish in the tidal pools. A man walked alone on the flats. Dead Man's Island was dark against the bright ocean. Behind me, the colorful houses and boats and trees of the suburbs shimmered in the water. As the cars (including a police car) drove around me, I hung off the side of the bridge there, soaking in the warm sun, absorbing the beauty, and grinning at the world.

Water. Trees. Fog. Light. Sun

Colors.

     I didn't get pictures of any of this. It was a day for enjoying and absorbing and waving at people and smiling. Beauty in the midst of chaos.

11 Let the heavens be glad, and let the earth rejoice;

    let the sea roar, and all that fills it;

12     let the field exult, and everything in it!

Then shall all the trees of the forest sing for joy

The Average American

According to the New Strategist, the Average American...

• makes $735/week
• has a landline telephone
• says he/she is in very good or excellent health
• is overweight
• believes the effects of global warming have already begun or soon will 
• is currently married
• lives in one of the top 50 metropolitan areas
• lives in a house built before 1975
• watches 2 hours and 49 minutes of television a day
• drinks alcohol regularly
• pays his/her credit card bill in full each month
• has been to college, but does not have a college degree
• believes in God without a doubt 
• favors the death penalty
• believes in evolution
• wants the government to spend more on education, health care, and the environment
• does not know which political party controls the House of Representatives

• The Average American Household contains 2.6 people, owns 2.28 vehicles, 1.6 dogs, 2.1 cats, and 2.3 birds, and is $75,600 in debt (including the mortgage).
• The Average American Man, between the ages of 30-39, has black hair and a BMI of 29 at 5'9".
• The Average American Woman, between the ages of 30 and 39, has brown hair and a BMI of 26.4 at 5'4".

     Right. Enough statistics.  You don't even have to read all of those to see where I might be going with this post. I fit... let me count... 3.5 of those. That's 17.5% if you want another statistic. No, I didn't just choose statistics that don't match me. I guess I'm not an Average American. In fact, I don't think I know a single Average American. That's interesting, given those facts are based on us.  Where are all the Average Americans described above? I daresay nowhere.

     Each person is an individual.  Each person has passions and hobbies, history and personality.  That is something that no statistic can capture.  Yes, 52% of the population might enjoy scrapbooking (I'm making that up), and that means the enjoyment of scrapbooking is a trait of the Average American, but even that number means very little. One person's scrapbook looks completely different from another person's because each scrapbook reflects the individual who spent time creating it. 

     The Average American is a bunch of numbers that eliminate our uniqueness. Whatever it is that makes me, me, can't be captured in the Average American because it's me, and I'm not Average.  I'm more than Average.  Yet... we still seem to be chasing after this American Dream of keeping up with the Average American (commonly named Jones).  We want to fit in, to be like everyone else. Everyone else, in my opinion, is boring, impossible, and even contradictory. 

     God created each and every one of us. We simply have to look around at creation to see that He has an abundance of creativity, and He applied that creativity to us as well. Psalm 139:13-14 is an oft-quoted passage, but it comes from one of my favorite Psalms and is beautiful each and every time it is used: 

For You formed my inward parts; 

You knitted me together in my mother's womb.

I praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

Wonderful are Your works;

my soul knows it very well. 

     You are not average. You are uniquely, wonderfully you, and you are loved by the One who created you as an individual. 

     Now, I do want to note that I wrote this Average American post from an American point of view mostly because it was easiest to find American statistics. The same message applies, though, to South Africans to Germans to Venezuelans to Malaysians and to any person anywhere.

References:

https://www.avma.org/KB/Resources/Statistics/Pages/Market-research-statistics-US-pet-ownership.aspx

http://press.experian.com/United-States/Press-Release/new-study-shows-multiple-cars-are-king-in-american-households.aspx

http://www.census.gov/prod/2013pubs/p20-570.pdf

http://www.newstrategist.com/store/index.cfm/feature/57_15/50-facts-about-the-average-american.cfm

No, I'm not going to write them up in MLA format.