List

1. I finished reading The English Patient. Such lyrical, haunting prose. It spoke to something in me, but I can't put my finger on exactly what. Though I understood it, there was something about it that was just beyond my grasp.

2. I’ve begun to read Donald Miller’s Blue Like Jazz. “I used to not like God because God didn’t resolve. But that was before any of this happened.” It’s a man’s honest look at his Christian spiritual journey.

3. I finally, for the first time, watched Anne of Green Gables. Isn’t it like a Pentecostal female cult classic? The assistant pastor’s wife gasped when I confessed I had never seen any of them and she let me borrow the DVDs of the series. So far I’ve watched the first one and the sequel. Now I can sleep knowing that Anne and Gilbert finally got together.

4. Today my odometer read 123,456 miles. It was only going to stay that way for a mile more of driving, so I pulled over to the side of the road, dug out a disposable camera that I happened to have, and took two pictures of it. I just have this irresistible urge to memorialize unique moments, regardless of how small. There will only be one time in my car’s life that the odometer will read that unique series of numbers, and that moment has been immortalized in film.

5. I recently began a new personal journal. The cover of this one features one of Van Gogh’s sunflower paintings. This is the first journal since the last three that I’ve filled up that is not lavender. Sometimes you just have to get out of the routine.

Oh, Baby

Today I saw a baby being born. I won’t get too graphic, but I saw everything. I saw the little guy come out, I saw what came out after the little guy came out, I saw the cord being cut . . . I mean, I had front row seats to a live birth.

It was amazing on one hand, but a tad unsettling on the other. Maybe ‘unsettling’ isn’t the right word. ‘Raw’ maybe? I was just like, “Whoa. This is real life.” It was sobering, a lot to take in, but at the same time, miraculous and beautiful.

I’m going to be honest and say that the circumstances surrounding the birth were difficult. A young, unmarried girl with mental challenges. An uninvolved, non-existent father. The new grandma, a co-worker, and I became family.

Will this be me one day? Before the birth, one of Grandma’s co-workers dropped by to visit. She looked at my 5’6, 110-pound frame, my girlish denim skirt and flip-flops and said, “Could you even imagine Chantell having a baby? Her little self?”

I don’t think it’s really my size; I think, perhaps, especially when I’m out of my professional teacher wear, that I still give off somewhat of an adolescent air. Sometimes I look in the mirror and think, “I’m 24?” I suppose I'll be thankful when I'm older.

Anyway, I hope when that time comes that my mom will be there, comforting me, waiting on me, giving me all the little bits of motherly advice. (Perhaps my pops will be chilling in the waiting room). I hope that I will be supported and loved by an amazing man who will be by my side and who will be determined to help raise our child in a godly, loving home.

I hope that I will look into my child’s eyes and realize that I am holding a part of myself.

Back in the Atmosphere

Now that she's back in the atmosphere
With drops of Jupiter in her hair, hey, hey
She acts like summer and walks like rain
Reminds me that there's time to change, hey, hey
Since the return from her stay on the moon
She listens like spring and she talks like June, hey, hey

CHORUS 1
Tell me, did you sail across the sun?
Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded
And that heaven is overrated?
Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star?
One without a permanent scar
And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?

Now that she's back from that soul vacation
Tracing her way through the constellation, hey, hey
She checks out Mozart while she does tae-bo
Reminds me that there's time to grow, hey, hey
Now that she's back in the atmosphere
I'm afraid that she might think of me as plain ol jane
Told a story about a man who is too afraid to fly so he never did land

CHORUS 2
Tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet?
Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day
And head back to the Milky Way?
And tell me, did Venus blow your mind?
Was it everything you wanted to find?
And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?

BRIDGE
Can you imagine no love, pride, deep-fried chicken
Your best friend always sticking up for you even when I know you're wrong
Can you imagine no first dance, freeze dried romance five-hour phone conversation
The best soy latte that you ever had . . . and me
Tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet?
Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day
And head back toward the Milky Way?
(Repeat 1st chorus)

"Drops of Jupiter" by Train

I'm Baaack!
I know the above is a "secular" song, but I love it and it describes kind of how I feel right now (the only exception being that I'm 100% sure that heaven is not overrated!). I took a hiatus from "Where You Can Find Me" blogging on "A Month in My Life" on 90&9, and it was a blast. (One of my fellow classmates from UGST is the new blogger for June.) I'll be honest and say there were some flare-ups of controversy here and there, but in the end, it was all good. Sometimes a little controversy spices things up and brings things out into the open that we don't ordinarily want to deal with, but that we need to deal with.

I also returned from St. Louis from my stint at UGST doing the Paul class yesterday. Like the song says, it was a "soul vacation." I learned so much, and it was so refreshing to get away, get a change of scene, meet like-minded people, gain some direction, and make lasting connections. I have a feeling that St. Louis and/or UGST is in my future . . . I don't claim to know the mind of God by any means, but if it is in my future, I know that I have a network of support already established.

Now, once all the Jupiter drops fall out of my hair and once I can get over my brushes with shooting stars, perhaps I can settle down and get focused on the 20-pager about the historical Paul that is due mid-August. (sigh) Back to the real world.

Upcoming . . .
In a couple of weeks, I'll be headed away again, but this time to the cold, cold land of North Dakota. (I'm desperately hoping that summer time will make the weather at least bearable.) North Dakota as summer vacation? "You're crazed!" some might say. But to make a long story short, I have some fellow military brat friends up there whom I haven't seen in eons, and we're taking a trip with their youth group to close-by Minneapolis to do Mall of America and the like. Yay!

For Now
I'm going to knock some things off my never ending to-do list, and get real with researching for the Paul paper. My topic is the centrality of the Antioch experience to Paul's ministry. (Remember the "ghetto Paul" entry where he "withstood Peter to the face"?) Maybe I can sort of sneak Paul's ancient ghettofabulousness into the mix of the paper somewhere . . . if only I could find some Bible scholars' writings to back me up!

TTFN

Well, the time has come to say goodbye . . . temporarily. I've been installed as the new blogger for "A Month in My Life" at ninetyandnine.com. It's a blog that features a new person every month and for the month of May, I'm it. So, I'm taking a temporary "Where You Can Find Me" hiatus. Never fear, though, just click here to catch up on daily Chantellian musings. I'll be back. (Insert your own Arnold accent.)

Love, Chemically

There’s this song that’s been coming on Christian radio by a group called Hyperstatic Union called “Praying for Sunny Days.” It’s been going through my head all day, and it won’t get out. There’s a part during the chorus where the lead singer’s voice goes up in a really high, sweet sounding falsetto, and I just love it. There’s just something about hearing a sweet, warm, fluid falsetto that gives me a bit of an adrenaline rush. Some things cannot be explained. They just are.

I had a little break from the 6th graders yesterday—they had some activity or another—International Day, it was. So, since I’m what they call an “exploratory” teacher—those classes which go in 7 week rotations—I’m one of the guys they cut out when they have a special program or whatever. But, psshhh, I’m not complaining.

Well, anyway, during my break, I was reading the February edition of National Geographic and I was enthralled by the feature they had on the chemistry of love. Like, it explained the chemicals and processes that go on in our brains when we feel like we’re in love. It went on to say that studies were done and that the level of seretonin in the blood of someone “madly” in love (for this particular study, someone who had fallen in love within the past 6 months and obsessed about the love object for at least 4 hours a day) is not dissimilar the level of seretonin in the blood of someone who is suffering from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. So, love and mental illness could be difficult to tell apart.

But then it talked about how “studies around the world confirm that passion usually ends.” Our neurons become desensitized to the surges of dopamine that gives us that romantic high. And, as the article states, like cocaine users, we need more and more of the “drug” to produce the high. So it fizzles. That part kind of made me feel a twinge of sadness because it’s scientifically proven that the stars inevitably fade.

But then, there’s another hormone called oxytocin. “It’s a hormone that promotes a feeling of connection, bonding. It is released when we hug our long-term spouses, or our children. It is released when a mother nurses her infant.” So, after we’ve been burnt out on dopamine, if the relationship is to last, both partners have to sustain enough oxytocin levels to keep things going for the long haul.

I don’t know why this article fascinated me so much. I mean, as of late, I haven’t been blown away by any dopamine surges. But I guess it’s just like a scientific breakdown of one of my inner debates: What’s more important—the excitement of attraction (that will eventually fade), or the less exciting “good qualities” (that will need to be present to make things operate in the long run)? What’s more important—dopamine or oxytocin?

In the end, I know dopamine isn’t everything, but how can oxytocin even enter the equation if there’s never any dopamine to get things going in the first place? You knaamean?

Blogfast of Champions

I’m baaaack . . .

Blogfast?
‘Breakfast,’ the word from which ‘blogfast’ has been derived, is a compound word made up of ‘break’ and ‘fast.’ When we get up in the morning and eat a bowl of Wheaties, we are breaking our “fast” of not eating since dinner the previous night. Okay, what does this have to do with blogging? I went on a blogfast this past week. Actually, an Internet fast. (See what these modern times have brought us to?) I realized that I was spending too much time on the net—emailing, blogging, reading other blogs, and other stuff that was basically just wasting a bunch of time. And I felt a tad bit on the, uh, hypocritical side because I have this little conviction going on about not owning a TV and yet here I am being sucked into the net and, again, wasting time that could be spent doing much more productive and fruitful things. (Though, to my credit, I will admit I was not blowing nearly the amount of time I was pre-TV conviction.) I hadn’t been reading my Bible every day, but you can bet your bottom dollar that I checked my Gmail every day (more than once a day). The perfect opportunity to remedy this imbalance came last Sunday night when the pastor reminded us that we can fast things other than food and issued a challenge for us to fast something this week we really like and that perhaps we spend a lot of time doing, and the Internet was one of the things he mentioned. Gaaa! Conviction struck my heart. I resolved to fast the Internet. No blogging. No checking personal email. No Everyone’s Connected. No Facebook. No ninetyandnine. No anything Internet related until the following Sunday. Of course, the exception being for work-related tasks such as checking my Outlook mail at work and posting grades and assignments online. I had to show myself that it’s something I could do without, and I’m glad that I did. I refuse to let the Internet dominate my time. Let your moderation be known unto all men (Philipians 4:5).

Treading Softly over Spilled Beans
Once beans of any type, be they black beans, navy beans, pork n’ beans, whatever, have been spilled, there’s really no way to clean them up. Of course, you can try, but the beaniness is still going to be there, and there’s no way of getting around it. (sigh) Let’s just say a quite . . . unsuitable (if you knew the situation, believe me, you’d agree) spilling happened this week, and it’s gotten to me a little. How can someone just bare their entire heart and soul to you, beans spilling over in quite an untimely and confessional manner, and then afterward, after they’ve gotten it off their chest, regardless of your response, expect things to continue business as usual? Don’t you realize that I now know how you feel and I know that you know that the feeling is not mutual? It makes me feel weird, a little bad even. Don’t you think it might make me feel a wee bit uncomfortable talking to you for a while? Yes, you are a human being; we all have our weaknesses. But I’m human too. Ahem.

Getting Snatched Up
My mostly middle-aged, mostly female co-workers are starting to get to me too just a tad—with this whole “have you met the new band director yet” business and such like. I guess they just can’t help themselves seeing a fresh little young’un like me existing completely unattached. “I can’t believe no one’s come by and just snatched you up yet.” I get an image of myself walking peacefully along at the park or something, and then this huge hand swoops down out of nowhere and jerks me up off the ground by the collar, snapping my head back and leaving my little arms and legs flailing. “What happened to Chantell?” “Oh, she finally got snatched up.” I’m starting to wonder, am I snatchable? At the rate I’m going, I might have to be carefully coaxed. Like a trapped kitten being persuaded to come down from a tree.

Take That, You Standardized Test Villains!
I broke down and took the GRE last Saturday. It’s one of the hurdles you have to jump before applying to grad school. It was the computer-based version, so you get your scores on the verbal and quantitative parts as soon as you finish. (There’s a little writing part and they send the results later.) I was freaking out about the quantitative, because I’m so not a math and reasoning person. I was so much more confident about the verbal—reading comp, analogies and sentence completion are my strengths, I thought. Language Arts major, hello? But whaddya know, the scores flash up on the screen and I did 20 pts better on the quantitative than I did on the verbal. How’d I manage that one? The verdict: Verbal—660, Quantitative—680. Score!

UGST
I’m working overtime to finish the readings and papers for the Paul class this summer. I cannot believe it’s like a month away. I must do it. I refuse to be unprepared.

By the way . . .
Next month there will be a little surprise. Your friendly neighborhood blogger will be introduced into another realm of the blogosphere. Stay tuned!

Alive

Every day is a new day
I’m thankful for every breath I take
I won’t take it for granted (I won’t take it for granted)
So I learn from my mistakes
It’s beyond my control
Sometimes it’s best to let go
Whatever happens in this lifetime
So I trust in love (so I trust in love)
You have given me peace of mind

I, I feel so alive
For the very first time
I can’t deny You (I feel so alive)
I, I feel so alive
For the very first time (for the very first time)
And I think I can fly

That’s the first verse and chorus of a song called “Alive” that was really popular a few years ago by a crossover “rap core” group called POD. The music’s a little edgy, but the lyrics are pretty inspiring, and kind of give voice to how I’ve been feeling lately.

For the first time in a while, I’ve gone without falling back on my characteristic “moodiness.” I feel like I’ve progressed, like I’ve gotten over a little hump that I’ve been trying to get over for a while. I’ve realized that, for the first time in a while, I actually feel good about myself and that God is leading me toward an “expected end” (Jeremiah 29:11).

I just finished reading a book that I mentioned previously entitled Revelations of a Single Woman: Loving the Life I Didn’t Expect by Connally Gilliam. The book itself, indeed, was something I didn’t expect. It wasn’t a much-despised-in-my-eyes-waiting-on-a-man book. Neither was it a keep-a-stiff-upper-lip-and-get-on-with-your-life-without-a-man-all-you-need-is-Jesus book. It was an honest, insightful, almost memoir, of a single, Christian lady navigating through life. It was the Aristotelian Golden Mean between the two extremes I mentioned above. It spoke to something I was having a bit of an inner struggle with (see post entitled “Uh-oh”).

I feel like I’m on the brink of making some big decisions. It’s probably come to the forefront in light of the fact that I’m taking the Graduate Record Exam (GRE) tomorrow—a must before entering graduate school. A part of me was tempted to . . . well, the only way to explain it is to say to sit on my talents. To resist going for the gold for fear that I might miss out. To wonder if I’d get so caught up in “doing” that potential whatevers would get left in the dust, and that once I’d reached the pinnacle, there I’d remain—accomplished, successful, victorious, and alone. But something in this book spoke to me. The author speaks of her experience in this same struggle:

“So what does a woman do when her British boss and her aunt Bonnie from Texas, whom she barely ever sees, can smell her issues a mile away? when she realizes that, like the servant who hid his talent in the ground for fear that the master was a tyrant, she too has buried her talents for fear that God is perhaps a little twisted? when she faces her suspicion that God is someone who might give her gifts in communication, spiritual leadership, and vision that, if she were to use them fully, would sabotage the very desires of her heart for marriage and possibly a family? [ . . .]

Sitting behind my computer in my windowless office, staring at unfiled papers and a keyboard with dust in its crevices, I repented. God, I’ve buried the talents you’ve given me because I’ve feared how my life might go if I use them. I’ve been wrong. Please forgive me. Then—hoping no one would barge into my office while tears dribbled onto my keyboard, I laid that big pile of strengths and weaknesses, dreams and fears, down before him. Okay, God, my talents—and my desires—are yours. You gave them to me; now I’m giving them back to you, for you to do with them what you’d like. No more ineffective strategic hoarding and stingy distribution for my own purposes. [ . . . ]

Perhaps, though, whether we’re talent smushers or talent celebrators or somewhere in between, finding the answer to the question, How much of myself—my time, my energy, my abilities, my heart—do I give to a career? begins at the same place for all of us: acknowledging that we can’t control an unpredictable work or relational future. We can only face what’s real in the present, offer our talents back to the Talent Giver, and move forward with the best wisdom we have.”

She goes on to mention in the subsequent chapter how those who are the most satisfied in their work are those who “are using their strengths for something or someone greater than themselves.” Something clicked in my mind. The assurance that I’m where I need to be flooded over me. Teaching, the profession in which I’m engaged now, is something that is deeper to me than a job. It’s a calling. Investing in young minds is something greater than me. The potential my current students have is more than I am. And participating in increasing that potential satisfies me. God has given me the ability to speak another language fluently. I feel that I’m giving back to Him what He's given to me through translating during church services, teaching a Bible study in Spanish, and by teaching a free beginning Spanish class sponsored by the church.

In the end, I know that God has also given me the ability and the opportunity to progress using the talents He’s given me, and right now, the choice of whether I’m going to celebrate them or sit on them has to do with furthering my education. I cannot be afraid of the unknown and the unpredictable. I cannot be afraid of taking what I consider risky steps if those steps are ordered by God.

Odds n' Ends

We all know the devestating feeling of unrequited love--you're really feelin' someone, but they just ain't feelin' you. They want to be "just friends." Oh, and then to have to see them with someone else. Ouch. Well, this devotion on ninetyandnine makes a parallel between that feeling, and how Jesus might feel when we relegate Him to "just friends" status. Check it out here.

And now, for some hearty laughs. I got this forward and nearly busted a gut:

You a Ghetto Christian If . . .
1. You lie on an application to get a job and then get up and testify that "God made a way out of no way"
2. You get mad at a visitor and call them out for sitting in your seat.
3. You tell the preacher to baptize you from the neck down because you just got your hair did!
4. You take 2 hours to get ready for church, get there late, and leave early!!!
5. You open your Bible & cough from the dust that flies out.
6. Your wedding song is 'Secret Lovers'.
7. You do not lift your hand during worship because your acrylic nail is broken.
8. The only time you like to sing in the choir is when they let you sing "your" song.
9. You do not tithe because you say, "the preacher might be crooked and stealing the Lord's money, so I don't want to give it to him."
10. After you've done wrong and someone has rebuked you, you don't repent but you say, "Well the Lord knows my heart."
11. If you have ever said, "show me in the Bible where it says, thou shall not smoke."
12. Your favorite part of the service is the benediction.
13. You buy "hot" merchandise and testify the Lord blessed me with a TV, jewelry, clothes, etc.
14. You overheard someone say, "We got fed today at service" and you asked if they served chicken.
15. You finish smoking on the outside of the church and then try to lead a song, get choked up, holding your throat and say to the congregation, "The devil don't want me to sing this song!"

Catharsis

ca•thar•sis n. 1. a purging 2. a relieving of the emotions

It is said that a true tragedy, as in a Shakespearean tragedy, should not inspire sadness, but rather a feeling of awe, of wonder, of catharsis. Awe at how far the tragic hero fell, wonder at his potential, his greatness, in spite of the fall, and catharsis because the fall, though tragic, allows us a vicarious release because we recognize the human elements of the tragic hero in ourselves and are reminded that if such a great one could fall as a result of human frailty, so much more easily could we.

I had one of the most cathartic experiences in my life tonight. (It had nothing to do with the likes of Hamlet or Othello, just so you know.) Okay . . . I’m not going to do that “hypothetical” thing again, I’ll just be straightforwardly vague.

There was a situation that occurred which caused me to harbor resentment against another. No matter how hard I tried to force myself to get over it, or to convince myself that I was over it, it always popped back up—the discomfort in their presence, forced smiles, silent avoidance, and the mental monologue that began “How could this person behave the way they did then, and expect everything to be fine now?” I was hoping the pop-ups would become less frequent and eventually go away. But they never did. After all this time, still . . . POP! I’d try to placate myself with “Well, it’s not like I’m bitter,” and then . . . POP! Yet again.

I’m so not a confrontational person, that was part of the difficulty, and the other was pride. Something we all need a little less of. But tonight, God had my number. As soon as the pastor opened up his mouth, I knew. All of the scriptures he talked about had to do with how people with servant attitudes humbled themselves, and a common ritual to demonstrate that in the Biblical times was that of foot washing. Abraham was hospitable to and washed the feet of the three strangers that came to visit him. The unnamed harlot in John washed the feet of Jesus with her tears and dried them with her hair. I knew. Tonight was the night the air would be cleared once and for all or the resentment would turn into bitterness. It was up to me. We had a time of pseudo-foot washing during service tonight. We simply got tissues and wiped the feet of our brothers and sisters in the Lord to symbolically demonstrate humbling ourselves one to another.

I was so overwhelmed. I was seized with the knowing of what I had to do. I was compelled to make my way to the person who I harbored resentment against, and to humble myself to them. My humanness did not want to. And the situation was such that I had to sort of go out of my way to do it. (Another person began symbolically washing my feet, and the person I harbored resentment against was symbolically washing the feet of another.) But God wouldn’t leave me alone. Eventually, I sobbingly stumbled over to where the person was sitting, and swallowed my pride as I began to wipe their feet with a tissue.

It happened. A purging. A release. Catharsis. We both knew why, and we both cried a cleansing cry together. Though it was still unspoken at that point, it was enough. I was finally able to give it all to God.

After service, we were finally able to talk about it. Finally acknowledged, finally out in the open, finally explanations, finally apologies offered and accepted. It was a good, honest talk. Not like the forced smiles of before.

My heart is able to breathe and beat a little easier now. The seeds of resentment that the devil tried to nourish into roots of bitterness have been done away with, and it’s all because of a great and awesome God.

Uh-oh . . .

That what my heart says when my brain is thinking about making a paradigm shift. Out loud, I say "Oh, great. So, where does this put me now?" (sigh.)

I can't seem to escape it. Ever since I graduated from college I moved from "young adult" to "single" status. Now this whole "single" thing keeps popping out from behind corners trying to blindside me. Okay, it's not like that for real. lol. But understand--after reading these articles, my brain starting doing that thing, and now "uh-oh" is echoing around in my chest cavity. Wait until you have a little bit of time so you can sit down and read these. They're from a Christian webzine called Boundless that I assume is targeted toward the twentysomething crowd (akin to ninetyandnine).

"The Cost of Delaying Marriage"

"Defending 'The Cost of Delaying Marriage'"

"Rethinking the Gift of Singleness"

Ay, caramba, does this mean that . . . am I like . . . is my thinking like . . . is our popular Christian culture's thinking like . . . you see what I mean? 'Cuz first I thought that the seemingly prevalent A/P thinking was warped, a la "get married when you're 12." (and, for the record, I still do.) But now I'm afraid that the new and improved "singleness as gift" might be off. What's a girl to do?

The New Band Director

Everyone’s been abuzz about the new band director at school. Everyone’s been coming up to me, telling me how I “have to meet him.”

“Have you met the new band director yet? Well, you really need to.”

“Oh, he’s so nice . . . he’s adorable.”

“Oh, you’d just love him.”

I’m like, why do I have to meet the new band director? Teachers (all female, of course) have been literally stopping me in the hallway and peeping into my room during my breaks to tell me about the new band director.

Okay, I’m a young single girl, and I guess my older co-workers have this motherly instinct to try to set me up. I suppose this elusive new band director (I still haven’t met him. Right now, he’s like the ghost of Hamlet’s father—rarely seen, but driving all the action of the play) and I have a few things in common. Both young, both fresh out of college, and both . . .

“He's very highly qualified. Great guy. He’s African-American, and . . .”

Ding ding ding ding ding! I knew it. I knew it.

As soon as someone mentioned him to me, deep down inside, I just knew that was the reason I had to meet him. He’s a young black guy. I’m a young black girl. With so much in common, something’s bound to happen, right? Clunk. That was the sound of me stepping up onto my hollow, wooden soapbox.

This is not the first time I’ve been “destined” to be with someone in the eyes of others because of a simple, if not superficial, commonality. This little phenomenon has proven itself to be especially true among my dear brothers and sisters in the Lord. Black guy with the Holy Ghost = Chantell’s soul mate. Forget about the fact that we have little in common outside of our race. Forget about the fact that he's 15 years older than I am. Forget about the fact that I’m just plain not attracted to him. (And if there are local folks reading this, please believe me when I say that I promise I am not referring to anyone in particular—it’s a combination of instances.)

Okay, let me backtrack. I know that people who try to match me up with another single of the opposite sex have good intentions. I know they mean well, really. Perhaps the new band director is a great guy who I'd "just love." And perhaps my soul mate (even though I don’t really buy the whole soul mate idea, but that’s for another day) will be whatever guy people have in mind for me by default—I wouldn’t care, then, because I’d be crazy about him and whatever people thought (on that wise) would be of no import to me. But on the other hand, the seeming idea that two people of similar genetic make-up are somehow automatically compatible is ludicrous. Imagine this: “Hey, I really think you ought to talk to that guy. You both have clefts in your chins!” or “Ooh, girl, you see that guy giving you the eye? I heard he’s got a birthmark on his upper arm too—you should really get to know him” or “Looks like the new guy has curly red hair just like you do—you guys are perfect for one another!” Come on.

My examples are a bit silly, I know, but you get my point. I wish more people realized the superficiality of how we group ourselves together—and how we set ourselves apart.

Mid-Twenties

Thursday, I officially entered the world of the mid-twenties. Technically. I mean, usually 20-23 is considered “early twenties,” 24-26 is “mid” and then 27-29 is “late,” right? Or maybe I can sort of hang on to early twenties just for this year. I’m not yet on the other side of 25, which is the true midpoint, I guess.

It was fun. I taught my Spanish class, and afterward my family and a few friends accompanied me to my favorite Mexican restaurant. My parents got me a digital camera, which is something I wanted for a while, and my brother got me a couple of t-shirts from one of my favorite movies, Napoleon Dynamite. One said “Pedro’s Got Your Back” underneath an outline of Pedro’s cousins in their ghetto ride. The other one said “I Voted for Pedro” underneath a dopey looking picture of President Bush. I had a really good laugh. And those of you who have heard my laugh know what that means . . .

Speaking of good laughs, earlier that day I was listening to my students’ final project presentations. They have to choose a Spanish-speaking country, create a travel brochure (with specific info included that I’ve outlined for them) and then give a presentation about it—I try to let them have fun with it, give them a chance to bring food, etc., so it’s something the kids look forward to. One particular student, an 8th grader, chose the Spanish-speaking country in Africa, Equatorial Guinea. (I didn’t even know there was a Spanish-speaking country in Africa until pretty recently.) Anyway, some of their main foods, she explained, are plantains and dried fish. “And speaking of dried fish, well, I brought something.” All the kids were expecting this, I suppose. It must have been the talk of the day. “Well, see, my pet fish died a few days ago. His name was Rainbow.” Apparently, instead of disposing of him, she set him outside to dry. I refused to believe she had actually done this until she produced him out of the plastic cup she had for the class to see. There he was, dried, perfectly preserved, and eyeless. (Yeah, she had even gone as far as to remove the deceased fishie’s eyes.) The whole class erupted. I know I’m supposed to be the teacher and in control and everything, but that was too much—I lost it. For several minutes straight we just all had a belly-shaking, tear-jerking laugh. I mean, that’s dedication. To dry out your dead former pet, take out his eyes, and bring him to school in a cup, all for a Spanish presentation. Wow. She also brought banana nut bread to share (they eat bananas and nuts in Equatorial Guinea as a main food source also), and before she could lift the little covering she had over the plate of banana nut bread, kids in the class yelled, “Wash your hands!” Dried fish germs. Yeah.

I want to give a shout out and a thank you to all of those friends who remembered me on my birthday. You guys sure made me feel special. ¡Muchas gracias!

Addendum

I've never blogged more than one entry in a day, but I just have to share this, and it seemed wrong to try to add it on the end of what I previously posted. Though the previous entry was posted just a few minutes ago, it was actually typed earlier in the evening. Now, I'm just getting back from church. This was given to me by a brother who's been attending church (as well as my Spanish classes) consistently for a while now. He signed it with a pseudonym (I'm not exactly sure why . . . I guess I'll ask him later) so I can share it with you in its entirety without compromising anyone's identity or whatever. It was very sweet and encouraging. See for yourself:

Christ knows all about your struggles.
He will never leave you or forsake you.
A is for the amazing smile that you have.
No weapon that is formed against you shall prosper.
The Lord is your shepherd, so you will not want.
Every one of your enemies will be made your footstool.
Lean not to your own understanding.
Love the Lord with all of your heart.

Note: I just typed this so that I could encourage you. I can discern in my spirit that Satan is trying to make you feel that you are less than what you are. But God wants you to know that he loves you, and that he always will.

Today, I Was Back on Top

Yesterday was the first day of my still relatively new career that I have ever taken an official sick day. I mean, I’ve gone to school feeling a bit under the weather before—I like to think of myself as a tough cookie—I can usually weather it out. But yesterday morning was like “waa-waa-waaaaah” (you know that sound where someone gets something wrong on an old game show or like if something bad happens on some cartoon or on Sesame Street?). Sore throat, congestion, and it felt like the right side of my face was swollen or puffy or something. It wasn’t happening.

I called in and soon dragged myself out of bed so that I could run by the school real quick to drop off copies of a test my students were to take. As soon as I got home, I collapsed into the bed and didn’t get up again until something after 10 a.m., and to the doctor I went.

Thank goodness it wasn’t strep or anything. The doctor advised me to accept a shot of cortisone to relieve the puffiness in my face. The catch? The shot would be administered in the derrière. I was down, I mean, whatever. It was supposed to make me feel better, right? The cortisone shot did work quickly, as doc said, but then I spent the rest of the day with a slight dull ache in the hiney. (sigh) Ya win some, ya lose some.

I didn’t even think of the possible scandalousness of the shot situation until after I told my dad, “Yeah, I got prescribed some antibiotics, I had a get a shot in the (you know what),” and my dad was like, “It wasn’t a cute hottie that gave you the shot, was it?” “Dad!” I exclaimed prudishly, “C’mon, it was a lady.” The thought that it could have been a hot male nurse administering the shot had never crossed my mind until my overprotective dad said something. (The following said with a trembling Southern drawl:) The good Lord knew I couldn’t have handled it if it were. He never gives us more than we can bear. Oh, praise Him.

Anyway, today, I felt 100% better. I was ready. I bounded out of bed early. I got my little lesson together for my elementary babies. I had those old quizzes graded and ready to be passed back for my middle schoolers and got the stuff together to grade their final projects. I put grades in the system and updated them on our little online thing. I responded to emails, I was knocking stuff out left and right. Today, I was back on top.

::sighs deeply::

Like I said last post, not much of a break. But it’s been a fruitful one, I guess. I got 2 out of my 5 response papers done, and I’m well into the reading for response paper #3. That’s pretty good, I guess. I went ahead and sent them in, and my future professor wrote back and said they looked good. Awwrright! (And for those of you who know of my obsession with professorial praise, you know how big of a deal that is. lol.)

I went on a little detour last post and went on and on about how rewarding my job is and stuff, but I must issue a caveat: Teaching is not for those who hate grading papers—especially quizzes that most of your students did atrociously on. Here I am, at the end of Spring Break with quizzes that remain ungraded. Well, I started grading them . . . I think I even got through a class, but I was just bleeding red ink, and I lost hope. ::sighs deeply:: I’m just going to do this: If a student receives a worse quiz grade than the first one he/she took, I’ll throw it out. If it’s better than the first, then I’ll count it. So, it’s a win-win situation . . . sort of. The kids are excited about Spanish, and I’m thrilled that they have so much enthusiasm about it, but there’s a difference between having enthusiasm about learning something and actually retaining the info. Yep.

I did something I thought I’d never do today. I was enticed into Lifeway Christian Stores to buy the accompaniment track to this beautiful song called “Held.” (Not saying I’m going to sing it at church, but I sort of want to. Gotta practice it first, though.) But then, I found myself wandering over to the “Single Living” section. I usually avoid that section of the Christian bookstores like the plague. All of the titles ooze desperation and/or announce “I’m officially entering into old maidhood”: What to Do While You’re Waiting for Mr. Right. Living Whole Without a Better Half. If Men Are Like Buses, How Can I Catch One? ( I almost embarrassed myself laughing out loud at that one.) And they’re usually geared towards women. There was only one I saw geared for guys, and it was titled something like How to be God’s Gift to Women. Ugh. So anyway, I never wanted to be that single girl who had a collection of “waiting for a man” books. But then I gave in. ::sighs deeply:: Well, I won’t say it’s a “waiting for a man” book. It piqued my interest, which is very, very, hard for a book of its genre to do. It’s called Revelations of a Single Woman: Loving the Life I Didn’t Expect. Hmmm . . . I picked it up and started reading. The author cites a Newsweek article on the first page, which talks about “a generation of women who, now living between college and marriage, have been raised to believe that the world could be theirs. And now, out in that world, these women are ‘unsteadily navigating a barrage of choices our mothers never had the chance to make.’” That is so me. I was sold. So, maybe my faith in the Christian “Single Living” genre will be revived. We’ll see.

Well, back to procrastinating on grading these blasted quizzes (meant to be said with an angered British accent). ::sighs deeply::

Not Much of a Break

This upcoming week is designated as Spring Break. Ordinarily, I’d veg out and sleep in and just have a glorious week of do-nothing bliss. (Quite unlike my rather well to do students who are going to Cancun and Disneyworld and stuff). But oh, no. Not this time, baby. What am I going to be doing? Grading papers that I’ve put off grading for the longest and spending every possible shred of time reading and writing response papers for this Paul class coming up at UGST this summer. If I don’t do it now, over Spring Break, it’ll never get done. And I just have to . . . I just can’t let May 29th roll up on me being unprepared. I won’t have it. Yes, I do claim the title of Queen of Procrastination—I serve my loyal subjects like no other queen would, but then my anal retentive side kicks in and gets the ball rolling. And once anal retentiveness (AR) kicks into gear, it’s over. See, AR don’t care. AR don’t play. He busts up in the place and forces the Queen to abdicate, or else. If I procrastinate the night before, AR makes sure I’m up early enough (even if it’s 3:30 a.m.) to get it done (and done right) the following day. If I’ve been procrastinating for several months to get some books read, say, AR will make sure I get it done in a week. Hence, the title of this post.

In other news, I just realized that my brother is cool. Well, I have two of them; the one I’m referring to is the 21-year-old who moved out not too long ago. When I moved back home, and he was still living at home, he simply got on my nerves (Lord knows I probably got on his). He was like the bane of my existence. He’s this 6-foot hulk who was always in the way and could be downright rude with characteristic brotherly nastiness. He always seemed to barrel his way into everything, would leave the bathroom an intolerable wreck, and would sit at the table and slurp his cereal. Grrrrr. But once he left, the dynamics changed. I began to miss my little hulk. Whenever I see him at church or when he stops by the house every once in a while I always give him a big hug and we actually talk and laugh and have meaningful conversations. In fact, I’m going over to his place tonight to chill and eat pizza and watch a movie. Who would ‘a thunk it?

And last little random side note: If you need a self-esteem booster, become a middle or elementary school teacher. Though I get germs and sicknesses from my little dear ones, I also get lots of love. I get hugs and compliments every day, even from the big kids. That is not to say that teaching doesn’t get tiring and that the kids are all perfect angels. Absolutely not. Oh . . . I have my days. But teaching has a way of making you put your best foot forward, even when you don’t feel up to par, and making you put a smile on your face for the sake of the kids, even when you don’t feel like it. And soon, you realize that you really are happy, because you are doing what you love. (sigh) I hope my optimism about my profession doesn’t wax cynical with the passage of time.

Well, anyway, if there’s a blog drought for a little bit, you’ll know that it’s not my will, but AR’s be done. Like I said, he’s no joke.

80 Percent Off

Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity (Ecclesiastes 1:2).

It was insane. The Parisian at Montgomery Mall is going out of business, and everything, I repeat, everything, is 80% off.

I mean, that is like glorious paradise to people who like to shop for clothes . . . like me. I mean, I felt like a kid walking into a candy store and the owner saying, “Okay, everything is a penny.” Or like going into Red Lobster and the manager saying, “Okay, you can choose 5 entrees for a buck.” Or like, going to a travel agency and the lady saying, “Alright, you can have 10 round trips to Spain for $2.50.”

See, and I had just told God I was going to stop. I used my $10 off and 30% off coupons as an excuse to shop at New York & CO last weekend. And then, for being a “valued customer” I got a 20%-off-of-your-favorite-item coupon in the Lerner catalog, and they had this smashing denim dress . . . come on, I had to use the 20% off before it expired!

But then I had to get real and tell myself to stop using “I have to use this coupon before it expires” as an excuse to buy stuff I don’t really need. Isn’t the purpose of my living at home for now to save money?

But to top it off, Parisian had to go out of business. And you (well, those of you who are well-versed in the shopping realms) know that Parisian stuff ain’t cheap. But 80% off basically turned it into the Salvation Army. At my mom’s simple suggestion to “just go out and see what they have,” I caved in and tagged along.

As I was gleefully hunting through racks of skirts and jackets and what not, I felt a stab of Solomonic conviction in my heart. “All is vanity” kept going through my mind. Then, the little wannabe activist in me rose up and started berating me for falling into our country’s classic vices of giving into excess and materialism. “You capitalist pig!” the inner wannabe activist shouted. While I snickered a little at the accusations of my inner activist, I did feel Solomon’s world-weariness. Why am I getting all this stuff just because it’s there to be gotten? All is vanity. I put a few things back on the rack. (Okay, I didn’t put it all back. I’m not up for sainthood any time soon.)

In the end, I got two skirts, a jacket, a suit, and one of those flower pins for less than $40. I didn’t go overboard, just got a few nice things for ridiculously reduced prices. I would have made Solomon proud. Maybe. Or maybe he would have seen me all dolled up in my new cute 80% off clothes and would have wanted to add me to his harem of concubines. Ya just never know.

Gospel Music and Me

I’ve never been a big fan of gospel music. The only time I ever used to listen to it at all was on Sunday mornings while getting ready for church, compliments of my mom. Now, when I say gospel music, I’m talking about the down-home, black folk, foot-stompin’, hittin’ a tambourine so hard and long that you rub your palms raw, Jesus-screamin’ kind of gospel. There’s only so long the ending of a song can be, you know what I’m saying?

But what kind of noise usually blasts itself from the speakers of my CD player? Christian rock, usually. Audio Adrenaline, Newsboys, Jars of Clay, tobyMac, Switchfoot—those kinds of folks. Why wailing electric guitars and driving drum beats seem to get me going more than more . . . soulful sounds is beyond me. I’ve stopped trying to figure out why my tastes are the way they are. To be honest, I used to be ashamed of it, and I always despised being criticized for not being “down.” But I guess I’ve finally realized that stereotypes rarely apply to real people living real lives in the real world, and that what I’m “supposed” to listen to is whatever suits my fancy. As I step down from my soapbox . . .

But I guess what has inspired me to write this is that I’m gaining this new appreciation for gospel music. It has slowly inched its way into my car radio listening time. Especially in the mornings, when I’m heading to work, it puts me in a positive frame of mind. I’m gonna start this day off right. It gives me this warm, nostalgic feeling, like the smell of blueberry muffins baking in the oven that makes me feel that everything is right with the world. One morning, this song “I’m Blessed” came on. I’m blessed/ Truly blessed/ I got my health/ and I got my strength/ Thank God I’m blessed . . . gospel music is starting to make light bulbs come on in my head. Like, simple revelations that somehow penetrate to the core. I mean, all of a sudden: What, for the love of God, do you have to complain about? You lack nothing. Didn’t you go to bed last night with a roof over your head? Do you ever go hungry? Don’t you have a great job and a loving family? Be thankful! Thank you, gospel music. I think I’m finally starting to see you for who you really are. I need your simple reminders and your nudging wake-up calls.

A Feeling I Can't Put My Finger On, Hypothetically

The way I'm feeling right now is sort of weird. Not uncommon for me, I guess. I'm not devestated, no. Quite far from that. I can't exactly say that I'm jealous . . . I mean, what for? Hmmmm . . . it's like a mixture of longing and contentment. Maybe I can explain by constructing a hypothetical situation:

Let's say a hypothetical girl and a hypothetical guy fell for each other. The hypothetical guy loved the hypothetical girl almost unconditionally, but the hypothetical girl always seemed a little unsure. In the end, the hypothetical girl broke up with the hypothetical guy. It hypothetically devestated them both, but they have hypothetically remained friends. Let's say that one day, the hypothetical girl puts two and two together and realizes that the hypothetical guy is most likely talking to another hypothetical girl now. Let's say that one day the hypothetical guy and the original hypothetical girl are hypothetically small talking and the hypothetical girl casually asks if the hypothetical guy is "talking to anyone." The hypothetical girl's hypothetical suspicions are hypothetically confirmed. How is the hypothetical girl, hypothetically, to feel?

Well, hypothetically, I'd say on one hand, she is happy for the hypothetical guy. She truly and hypothetically wishes that things work out. She, after all, is the one who hypothetically decided that the hypothetical guy wasn't it. She hypothetically remembers wanting him to hypothetically find someone else who wouldn't be so fickle and unsure as she hypothetically was and that would hypothetically want him wholeheartedly, without reservation. Because that is what he hypothetically deserved. But on the other hand, I'd say the hypothetical girl feels this hypothetical longing. She still feels hypothetically drawn to him in a way, and hypothetically remembers when they were together. Perhaps it's because the hypothetical guy was the closest she's ever hypothetically had to the real deal, and the real deal is something she hypothetically longs for. And she sees that the hypothetical guy has hypothetically moved on, and she's left wondering if she has.

So, if, shall we say, the hypothetical girl were me, the way she would hypothetically feel would describe this weird feeling I have right now.

Spanish and Sudoku

Tonight was the debut of the first ever Spanish class sponsored by my church and taught by yours truly! I had almost 20 people show. The lesson tonight was on the sounds of the Spanish language. We had a ball rolling our 'r's and what not. Afterward, people told me that they enjoyed it; I enjoyed teaching it. So, I will have to say that it was a success. This will be a weekly deal, so maybe even more will come as the class progresses. Who knows what God is going to do? I just have a good feeling about it.

On a completely different note, I'm being sucked into the lure of Sudoku. See, I'm not usually one to follow the current crazes. I never read The DaVinci Code because it was like this craze and everyone was reading it. I'll probably read it sometime soon, now that the buzz has pretty much died down now. I just hate doing what everyone else is doing at the time. I never got into those cut-off jackets either. See, I don't even know what they're called. You know, those jackets (usually denim) that are like all the rage that have half of the back cut off? Never got into that. So, imagine my surprise when Sudoku made its entrance in my life. I just decided to try it, just once wouldn't hurt, right? But, oh, I'm starting to get hooked. The rules are so simple, but the logic it takes to solve them is almost . . . intoxicating. Ooh.