devastated

I should be studying for one of two tests on Wednesday, writing a lab report due in tomorrow, or any number of things expected of a diligent college student with a week full of deadlines. Instead, I'm glued to the news, paralyzed with horror at the scenes unfolding in Japan. I specifically feel helpless - helpless and frustrated that the biggest worries in my life right now are my two tests on Wednesday. Why does that matter right now? Why do I have to be here, do this?

I was distressed and disdainful of my own privilege yesterday as I stepped casually into a grocery store after church to pick up food. Not only did I feel incapable of currently providing any sort of tangible, practical help in the face of such overwhelming need, but the juxtaposition of how easily and comfortably I was able to care for myself beyond what I needed and the total devastation on the other side of the world seemed almost obscene.

Thankfully, I serve a God who can intervene in miraculous and practical ways in the face of tragedy. Maybe all I can currently do is to support the Japanese here in whatever way that I can - whether that is prayer or financial support. Somehow, not being in the middle of things, beside people causes me to feel agitated (which could also be indicative of a depreciation of the power of prayer on my part). It's difficult to know, as a Christian, just how to respond to something like this. What do we do? Sometimes human effort seems so inadequate and I am ineffably grateful in this situation for my God who can intervene in unimaginable ways. Where else would we turn? What else to do than toll the bell ropes of heaven and not let go?

At this moment however, my feelings toward the disaster in Japan seem as incomprehensible and mangled as the wreckage itself. For now, Psalm 17:6-8 - "I call on you, my God, for you will answer me; turn your ear to me and hear my prayer. Show me the wonders of your great love, you who save by your right hand those who take refuge in you from their foes. Keep me as the apple of your eye; hide me in the shadow of your wings." This for Japan.

hibernation

It's not that I don't have anything to write about.

(because, oh, I do)

It's just that I have decided that there are some things that I would rather people figure out on their own.

i can't help it

There are very few things in life that make me laugh harder than this book. I think that half of it is the illustrations-- I just start laughing looking at them. It is very hard not to love idiotic, impertinent little Nutkin.

please don't touch. thank you.

I don't know whether or not it's possible for short-term exposure to a culture to start altering your personality, but I think it might have happened to me.


Those of you who are even remotely acquainted with me realize that I am NOT a touchy-feely person. You could probably call me a kleptomaniac, or maybe even organized before you could call me a hands-on person. Because I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, touchy-feely. Or should I say, was not?


All the social graces in my family were bestowed upon my mother-- she is a brilliant hostess, can make conversation with anyone, and has this talent for making people feel generally welcome. And that is where the social graces in my family end. I have been described as 'endearingly awkward'. Endearing? Maybe. Awkward? Ding-ding-ding. Spot on. To throw me in amongst a room of strange people always makes me feel like a dog that a bunch of guys threw in a pool to bet on whether it would sink or swim. That's just conversing with others. If you were to actually touch me...good heavens.

So, back to Africa. You would just be having a conversation and realize, "Okay, you are definitely going to stand here and hold my hand THE ENTIRE TIME we talk." or you are going to stand with your arm around my shoulders, or through my arm. You are going to drag me off by the hand somewhere. Or, hey, guess what, apparently everyone here wants to hug everyone else. Why must you people constantly touch me?

Yeah. And so then, all of the sudden, I was the one standing with my arms linked with other people, or dragging people off by the hand, or hugging people. Where on earth did all that come from? It was like, out of the blue, I couldn't not touch people. Someone commented, "Was that Ashlyn in that picture, lying on the floor with her arm around some lady's head while smiling?" Um. Yeah, apparently it was.

Temporary, or permanent change? I have no earthly idea, but as intrigued as I am, it freaks me out.

Aside from that, everything was incredible-- God really showed up and did a lot of things in and through the team. He opened some opportunities and closed others, but then, any mission trip is like that. He also painted an incredible picture of the global Church-- our family half a world apart. The whole thing takes my breath away.

things i will (and will not) do when i am an old lady*

(that's assuming I make it that far)

1. I will not have that haircut. You know the one. The one that is pretty much a status symbol with septuagenarian women across the country. It is puffy and wispy and reminds one of a spun gray confection perched atop the head (gross, someone have a go at a better description, please.) I don't care if I have to have a buzz cut, but I refuse it.

2. If a child asks me to play with her, I will not continue to stare mournfully out the window and reply, "As soon as this cloud passes over the house." without ever turning to make eye contact.

3. If I there are ever any children in my house for any reason, I will be absolutely sure to set up the tallest ladder I can find. Underneath that ladder, I will set up a very large and wonderfully springy mattress. Do you have any idea how great it is to jump off a ladder and land on a nice mattress? You could probably do it for hours.

4. I will not judge the location of everything by the nearest K&W Cafeteria, Cracker Barrel, Shoney's, or roadside motel.

5. I probably will drive a Cadillac or an Oldsmobile. I'm sorry. I know that I've disappointed you sorely, but let's face it-- they are pretty much classy. Maybe I'll get an obscene bumper sticker for the back to redeem myself for this.

6. I am not going to be one of those old women who looks like she is 33 because that freaks me out in a very large way. Seriously, kudos for staying healthy and all that, but there is such a thing as aging gracefully. I mean, it really reminds me of Dorian Gray. Weird.

7. I will not allow any plaques, tapestries, paintings, or inspirational posters with angels, cherubs, small rabbits in gardening togs, or small children skipping in a circle holding hands into my house. I would sooner procure a poster that says 'Mary-- Mother of Mexico' with said revered virgin superimposed over the Mexican flag and hang it in the entryway.

*a list gleaned from resolve, experience, and a tiny bit of revulsion.

a necessity

It perched on top of the cabinet that housed our TV and gazed down on the rest of the room. If you had looked at it long enough, it might have begun to seem smug and slightly imperious, like a judge swathed in his somber black robes, surveying his court. It was smug because it knew that I wanted it dearly.

Whether or not you believe that boxes can possess things such attributes is entirely up to you, but I'm telling you that this box did.

The box seemed to have been engineered with the sole purpose of tempting me-- the chipped paint, the smooth curve of the lid, and the ancient-looking hinges-- they all held some undefinable allure. I coveted that box. I knew that coveting was a sin, thanks to various Sunday School teachers and Bible Time every morning in Mrs. Matthews' second grade class, but such a box was so wonderful that God himself probably couldn't help yearning for it. And if God coveted it then surely he wouldn't condemn me for a bit of wanton sin...

It had the most wonderful things inside of it: a ticket stub, various dingy old coins, several pocket knives, various shiny pins shaped like planes and crosses, a pendant commemorating the 75th anniversary of Coca-Cola, and a picture of my cousin Reginald looking for all the world like the sort of kid who got beat up every day during lunch period for his money. It was in short, the best thing ever.

The concept of a box of treasures is pretty much integral to a childhood. Basically, the whole idea here is that it is useless to try and raise a child without one. Absolutely useless. Don't even try it.

envy

So, you are walking through a parking lot. Any parking lot. Walking past row upon row of immaculately parked cars and then you see THAT car. You know, the car that is parked inches away from the car on the left side, so close that the driver had to clamber over the console and exit the right side door to take advantage of the the abundance of unoccupied space on that side. The rear of the vehicle juts awkwardly out into the lane and is an impediment and a general nuisance to oncoming traffic, and a source of scorn to pedestrians.

That would be my car. Mmmhmm.

Everyone tells me that parking is an acquired skill. Liars. Every last one of them. It never really occurred to me that nobody else seems to have this problem until I was talking to one of my friends who got her license like maybe a month ago. "Yeah," Allie said, "my parking isn't even awkward anymore." I think my jaw almost hit my chest. And Allie drives a truck that is bigger than mine, so don't try and tell me that she drives a car so it's easier for her, or some junk like that. You either can park a car, or you can't. It's a skill you're born with. There's probably a gene for it.

Basically, I have 'parking envy'...I watch people whip into parking spaces perfectly straight-- a wonderful blend of precision and speed, and I sigh. Why can't I just park? They can just do it...it is like a light, fresh spring breeze. My parking? Well, it's more like someone trying to dock a ship.

Yesterday, I went to the grocery store, or maybe it was at church or something, but where it was was totally irrelevant because I had to park. Grant was with me and I parked, and turned off the truck. "Oh my gosh." Grant said. "What?" I really did want to know what had caused my brother to say that in such a tone of quiet awe. "You just parked and didn't have to back out of the space." It was a profound moment. We both sat and absorbed it for about three seconds and then we went and bought a bunch of milk (okay, so that was the grocery store.) The whole point of that is that decent parking jobs are few enough for me to be seriously notable to my normally sarcastic brother. That's not good.

Now what's really fun is my bi-monthly sojourn to pick up horse feed. That's where I have to back into a parking space to have feed loaded. I always manage to back up to a pole so that they can't open the back of my truck. And it's always the same person who loads the feed, so I'm like, "Wait, I'm really sorry, I can fix that. Really." I'm fairly sure he hates me and that I ruin his week. But that's his problem because I was born like this. Sad, but true.

If you are like me, I'm really sorry. It's hard to come to terms with. But you can do it. The first step is admitting you have a problem. We might even be able to start a support group.

*this post is dedicated to pull-through parking spaces.