Words of the Week

it
is
my
you
like

On some days, we think of sentences using our words of the week.
First graders are AWESOME at this.
Ambitiously, many succeed at using two or more per sentence.

I love you, oh my lollipop.

You are beautiful.
Thank you, E!
No, I meant--
Who else has a sentence?

I like... it is windy.

Can it be like my you is?
What?
All five!

On some days, my job is like love.

Picture:

They say Love is just a word

Football

As teachers officially settle into the new school year and as New Yorkers and Americans commemorate the day that marks a decade of remembrance and respect, sports fans around the nation login to their Fantasy accounts and ring in the new season of football.

As I thought about the upcoming week being the first full week back in school, I reflected on my new-school-year resolutions and goals. As I watched a bit of the 9/11 memorial program this morning, I reflected on the time that has passed and the sentiments of those who have lost loved ones. As I sat in church today, I reflected on the need for prayer and love in my life, in this world, and prayed for an end to destruction and hate. And as I turned on the TV to watch the Giants lose their first game, I reflected on all the things I have learned about football from my man. Then I heaved a great sigh for the hard times endured and the hard times to come... Welcome, football. NFL, so glad you're not dead. Fantasy Football, you are the woman with which my man openly cheats on me and I will always hate you.

What I Have Learned About Football

There are only two ways to survive football season: make peace and take your time. Firstly, you have to make peace with the fact that he loves football more than you right now. No, he can't do it all. He cannot give you everything whilst giving his football team everything and his fantasy team everything. He just can't. You know it. I know it. Accept it. He cannot multi-task and when it's football season, in his heart of hearts he doesn't even want to. Secondly, it helps to see those Sunday nights as time to be completely free. In a way, the NFL is giving us the gift of time. You can be free in this time. Get busy with a new hobby. Get busy with an old hobby. Watch a movie. Watch Top Chef. Eat, drink, be merry, be free.

Now you might be thinking "That's not true. Football season isn't Survivor. I don't know of this dread you imply. He loves it, I'm cool with it and there is no conflict here." That may be true of you and yours and if it is, then I am sincerely happy for you and completely envious. My football opinions are outcomes of the combination of who he is and who I am. Perhaps your he is like my he. And perhaps you are like me. But it is my sincere hope that you and he are not.

Your he is like my he if...
He is a football fanatic.
He is in at least 1 Fantasy League.
He owns at least 1 football jersey.
He checks ESPN.com and Fantasy Football each at least 10 times a day.
He talks about football at least 20 times a day.
He retells the same stories regarding NFL games, ESPN commentary, and his Fantasy league so often that you wish you could be as stupid as Mike 'The Situation' to knock yourself the eff out.

You are like me if...
You used to mildly enjoy football.
You know what Fantasy Football is because he won't stop talking about it.
You own 1 football jersey, maybe. He bought it for you.
You take interest in it because he does.
You see your act of taking interest as one of love and support of your man.
You, when being absolutely honest with yourself, feel threatened by football and saddened by your loss of his attention during football season. His attention was once only split 3 ways (his life, your life, sports) but is now split at least 50 ways (his team, his Fantasy team, 31 other NFL teams, the 12+ competing Fantasy teams, Sports Center discussions, Fantasy Football discussions, Phainom's Phantasy Phootball Phun, his life, other sports... and maybe you).

Grrr...

In all seriousness, I have learned that football is about much more than winning games and scoring touchdowns thanks to my man, the NY Giants and Coach Taylor. Obviously, as Dan's teams strive to lose all their games, the NY Giants are too busy getting injured to do their job and FNL is no longer on the air, indeed football is grounded in something bigger than the games and players themselves. Football seems to be about seeing something through to the end despite hardship (opposing team), criticism (commentators, fans) and injury (your own gun).

It seems to be about Heart.

And Heart is something women know all about. During football season, women are not excluded from this call to have heart. We have to see this season through to the end just as much as players and fans do. Yes, the screaming will hurt. Yes, you will suffer the losses your man suffers. And yes, just like when he screams at the players to do something and they don't... he won't either. But we have hearts that can rise above such challenges. We have hearts made of perseverance, loyalty and love. And in the world of football, those things work together as harmoniously as do the perfect coach, the perfect offense and the perfect defense.

They work to yield victory.

Let us enjoy this football season and experience victory.

Movie Review: Contagion

Intriguing enough to linger in my mind for a few days. Not frightening enough to make me stop touching my face, subway poles or anything real. Perhaps my second favorite movie stuffed with famous people. Also, I will continue to eat Chinese food. MSG is just too delicious.
Yea, I said it.

Contagion.

Post-movie conversation that I overheard between Boy 1 and Boy 2.

B1: Everyone who spoke in that movie was famous.
B2: Like everyone.
B1: The only people that spoke that weren't famous were the Asians.
B2: Seriously. I didn't recognize any of the Asians.
B1: But how many Asian actors would you really recognize?
B2: I can only name two Asian actors: Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee.
B1: Bruce Lee isn't an actor. Idiot.

Me: The one Asian I did recognize was the Chinese guy from Dark Knight.My sister: What Chinese guy from Dark Knight?

Score: I love Marion Cotillard.

Hello! Love you!

Faithful Instincts

When the wine ran out, the mother of Jesus said to him,
“They have no wine.”
John 2:3

When the wine runs out, what do we do? Panic? Problem-solve? Pray?

My emotional default for life's wine shortages is to act in a state of worry. Panic. Plan. Get it done. Early March, layoff threats were published in the New York Times and shared around our school. Two hours later I submitted an application to graduate school. In November, people were over and drinks were running low. I asked close to 10 people to run out for more. And some time last summer, the electricity went out and I found myself without candles, flashlights or the brain function to breathe. I packed a small bag, left the apartment and jammed the airwaves with texts, calls and voice messages of panic to three close friends... In the end, everything was fine. The layoffs didn't happen, there was plenty for everyone to drink and I crashed at a friend's house.

On a good day, I amuse myself and refer to all of it as Being Prepared. But I know the truth and the truth is that I spend a lot of energy actively fighting against all my natural instincts to worry in order to stay cool and be flexible. Because when I don't it isn't good for anyone. It is a legitimate threat. Like the Phoenix in Jean Grey. That is right. My worries are an immense cosmic power.

Or they are like the Fruit Loops in this photo.

A worrieruption.

Perhaps it is a side effect of teacheritis, a self-diagnosed but likely widely shared disease among educators who make the plan, love the plan and live the plan... and know how difficult it is when things don't go according to the plan. Perhaps it is part of the nature of being a first child, seeking perfection and wanting to please those around me. In any case, there is something deeply wrong with the worry in me. Generally speaking, to be wrong is to be out of line with what is right or good. As human nature is naturally out of line with what is right or good it makes sense to me, then, that my natural reaction to worry is likewise a wrong, not good one. In First Grade when we discover that something is wrong, we explain why it is wrong and figure out what is right. I have worried enough about worrying and the explanation as to what is deeply wrong seems perfectly plain: I struggle with deep idols of control and acceptance.

Wrongness identified. Rightness, then?

This I believe: The first step to finding what is right
is finding hope in what is right.

I have found my hope. Jesus changing water to wine is my hope. More specifically, the mother of Jesus preceding the miracle gives me hope. One day, instead of having worry I will have faith. Mary was a woman of tremendous faith. Her simple reaction to the wine shortage at the wedding in Cana gives me hope against worries to come. Without hesitation, she immediately goes to Jesus. "They have no wine." With missions, school and life coming up, Mary is an inspiration to keep at heart and an example to follow. The depths of her faith as well as the strength of its foundation are things that I can only aspire to have when the unexpected inevitably occurs. Like a tree with deep roots that survives a violent storm, when my faith is rooted in Him I know I can weather it all. Like Mary, I hope to be a woman who is strong in her faith, knows who her Savior is and knows exactly what to do when the wine runs out.




Pictures:
Cereal explosion

This I Believe: Pride Steers Passion

Today I played my first 9-hole golf game ever. It was absolutely amazing. Spectacular, spectacular, practically perfect, absolutely amazing. Enjoyable, motivating and surprisingly soul-filling. The whole time I kept wondering how did this happen?

As it was four days ago, I absolutely detested golf. A plethera of baggage, detail and rules. My top three nemeses. My loathing, Everest and dejection, respectively. I loathe carrying around heavy things. The golf bag seemed so bulky and heavy and yuck. With very little strength in my body, I might as well have been required to pick up the golf cart and carry it around the course. On to my Everest: conquering detail. Truly, truly I say to you... I could care less. Yes, there are times when I absolutely pour myself into the details of a project but it is always to a certain point and over the years I have noticed that I reach this point much sooner than my peers. If it were a finish line, I would win every time. Be it a cooking, cleaning or work project I am famous for 'It'll be fine', which means I have nothing left. Brain capacity to hold or create information is now 0% and descending into frustration and depression. The time it takes to reach this point will vary depending on the project, people affected by my work and how many people will judge me in the end. (It's true. I care.) But in the end, I always cross that finish line. Everyone has an end. For me it is when Coach Detail pushes Perfection to take the field. Mostly, she is not feeling well and It'll be fine subs in to throw the entire game. Lastly, those stinkin' rules. It dejects me to have to follow so many rules. Watch your form, watch your ball, pitch it, chip it, putt it, drive it, birdie, bunker, handicap, par this, par that... Par you. Oh and BONUS: you are responsible for everything. No team, no collaboration, no one. Yup, you. The Golf Idiot. The overall feeling was horrid. You are terrible at math and you cannot play golf? Give me your Korean; you don't deserve it.

So how did this happen? How did I go from loathing to loving so quickly? Just gave it a try? Maybe. Infatuation with something new? Doubt it. Power of pride? YES. In other words, I was actually good! Cue bewildered expression. Well, I was not terrible. Better yet, I was not an idiot. Must say it feels great every time I discover this. Not being an idiot, having a couple of good shots (Gootshyat! as Papa Park says) and feeling able to wrap my head around Everything Golf has given power to my pride. This must be good pride, if there is such a thing. On the course, chips are not food, pitches are not beer breaks and Golf is not a monster trying to bring me down. Let us take a happy sprinkle break.

Bring it, Pops.

I believe some passions are awake at the moment we enter this world. Things you know about yourself, things you know you love, these are the passions in our DNA. We cannot deny them and they are evident in our livelihood. Or at the very least our browser history. Other passions, I believe, have to be awakened. Once awakened these new passions also become part of our livelihood. Pride may be the one to awaken, as in my case with golf. I can imagine other introductions from friends, family or YouTube stir up our enthusiasm. However it comes to be, I believe these secondary passions are driven by pride and continue on as long our pride in them continues to prosper. Or self-destruct. I have watched Devil's Advocate enough times to know that pride is never a good thing in the end, however well-intentioned its birth. Still, I believe there is a layer of pride beneath the passions we take on. To the good, this layer is a cushion, softening the blows to our ego and the mockery our self-confidence often endures when we grow to love something. To the evil, this layer is flamable poison seeking to annihilate inspiration, hope and all in its path, the destructive spark igniting both at the first sign of adversity and at the peak of Mt. Ego.

Pride steers passion. To heights or depths indeterminable.



That said, I believe only the Cross has the power to wield our pride, good and not good. When I can turn everything I have in my heart towards the ground, surrendering everything grand, anything I love and whatever I enjoy at His feet, that layer beneath it all will have no say in my life because my passions will not define me and my pride will not renew me. Pride may steer passion, yes, but His will steers my life. Knowing this, I can play, lose and still enjoy my sprinkled ice cream. He is spectacular, perfect and amazing.



Pictures:
Golf Thursdays
Darth Sprinkles

Dirty dishes and Harry Potter

This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for the dirty dishes in my sink.

I am thankful to be free of the quarrels and silent grudges that grow between roommates from the simple chore of washing and clearing the dishes. Living alone I am forced to wash all my own dishes. They are my dishes after all and who else would be expected to wash it? I admit that even when others offer (a boyfriend, perhaps) I appear to surrender the task that I actually find therapeutic only to rewash them once said person has left the apartment. Someday, I will bravely venture into the unknown depths of my obsessive-compulsive psyche and reflect deeply on all my findings. Today, however, is about the things I am thankful for.

Lately more than ever it feels like I wash a ridiculous number of flatware and cutlery considering it is all for one person. Perhaps I am eating more frequently than I used to, or perhaps I am delaying the washing more than I used to. Whatever the reason is I was so annoyed by this feeling that I complained more than once to my tea-time friends about it. This is my life, isn’t it? Unending dishwashing?

At least you can see the TV from the sink.

True. Fine.

As I contemplate the clichéd metaphoric possibilities of dishwashing – daily cleansing of my spirit, clearing out the mess in my life, the repenting and forgiveness of sins – I cannot stop thinking about Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. The one printed seven years ago.

Harry Potter was so bitter and angry in the first few chapters of that book. Why wouldn’t he be? Neglected for a whole summer, suffering in the Dursley house on Privet Drive, attacked by dementors, kept in the dark by his closest friends, You-Know-Who always out to get him… I totally get it. But why so emotional? Why all the tempter tantrums? Done yet, Potter? I found myself being upset with him and stopped reading the books cold turkey. I could not deal with reading about moody teenagers having just come out of such an age myself when it was printed. So I did what I would have done if I were Harry in his situation. I shut the book and moved on to something else. (Hello, Aragorn.)

Seven years later I am at Kips Bay on Thanksgiving morning watching the seventh Harry Potter installment and feeling like I missed out on a lot. Thinking about the last time I was reading a Harry Potter book, I remembered the frustration. And I remembered the fear. Fear of negative emotion. The inclination to shut, close, and run is my way of surviving. I survive by avoiding. I choose flight, because nothing is worth the fight. I close up before someone closes me out. I shut down and walk away before I am walked away from. It is a pretty cold way to live but a girl living alone has to protect herself… or so I thought until recently. Being in a serious relationship has taught me that sometimes it is worth the fight because the championship belts are engraved with love and understanding. And, everyone gets a belt. The increasingly frequent tea-times with friends have helped me overcome my insecurity of being loved, as faith has guided us to accept each other for all the good and bad things we carry with us. And the sense that I abandoned Harry during a crucial time in his life and therefore missed out on his life’s subplots, subtexts and truths all because I did not want to face it with him weighed very heavily on my heart that morning.

So, in an attempt to finish all my unwashed dishes and face the reality of Harry’s emotions which mirror the emotions I have allowed myself to feel and reveal to others in the last couple of years, I am going to read through Harry’s fifth, sixth and seventh years at Hogwarts. Go Harry. Boo He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Bonus: I know the correct pronunciation of Hermione.

Happy Thanksgiving, Potter!

First Grade Missions

In first grade, we learn about communities. Who are the members of a community? What do communities need? What are the resources in a community? These kinds of conversations do not come easily to first graders, as their worlds have thus far been ‘All About Me’. Where is my desk? Look at my story! I like mine the best. At the end of the year, after various discussions, community-building activities and occasional law enforcement—If you can’t be nice, then you can’t stay— the student is prepared to enter into any community and be ‘good’. Be respectful. Be kind. Be good. That is the dream, anyway.

Watching our team in Mexico reminded me of first grade. Speed-walking football, slam-dunk contests, and trampoline procrastination were pure childlike fun and silliness. There were also times of complaining. Our AC-challenged van provoked the whining child in each of us as we fanned and slept our way through each hot drive. And while it was pointed out more than once that we did not have to pile ourselves into the van ten minutes before the driver was ready, this was advice our first grade ears were not ready to heed. But like any school year and like any trip, the heart of it was found in the times of learning. The incredible testimony of Pastor Paulino at Casa Bethesda was a lesson about surviving on faith and faith alone. His words spoke to each of us, moving our souls to tears as he shared his brokenness with our team. There was such strength in his honesty about his unwilling heart, his broken obedience, and how the orphanage came to be and survives with so little support. How appropriate it was that we heard this testimony on the last day, as the tenderness of his heart imprinted onto ours as we prepared to return home. Back to reality. On to second grade.

What is the dream of missions? To help people? To worship God? To share his Word? After six mission trips my list of possible answers only grows. I can only say with confidence that it has been two months since our trip and I still dream about Mexico. I still marvel at how we did crafts with close to 100 children. I still laugh when I think about how one team member sat in wonder during every time of praise as our team flipped to the songs, not realizing the praise songs were in alphabetical order. And my eyes still well up when I remember how Jesus stood beside the broken man and carried him through each day of his life. My heart is still tender from the sights and sounds of this trip. When I wake each morning to go back to first grade my nerves are calmed and my heart gains strength when I think of the man whose life lesson is perhaps now my life lesson: Faith alone.

That is the dream, anyway.