One of the things I get to do at my job is help men and women obtain vital documentation such as a birth certificate, social security card, state ID or license. I've practically become best buddies with the people at the MVA, and I've been known to call other states to try and get a birth certificate for someone who didn't know how to spell his mother's name.
Yesterday, I was helping Sally, a resident here, get her birth certificate. Sally (not her real name) is in her thirties and a mother of seven- yes, seven- children. She's hilariously funny, loves to cook and loves her children fiercly.
I picked up the phone and dialed the number to the Department of Health, as Sally sat in my office.
me: "Hi, my name is Liz and I work with incarcerated men and women. I'm working with one young lady to help her get her birth control."
CRAP! What did I just say?!!
"I mean birth CERTIFICATE, birth CERTIFICATE" I yelled into the phone, as the lady on the other end of the line died laughing.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Friday, September 23, 2011
We're just trying to be realistic
The other night- after a Sunday spent looking at houses- M and I put together a list of what we would want in a house. Of course I had to share.
Priorities:
3+ bedrooms (2+ upstairs)
2+ bathrooms (1+ upstairs)
full basement with separate entry for rentable apartment
has NOT been fully renovated or flipped
back yard (or yard generally) large enough for garden
good bones (not more than 100k in renovations needed)
brick or wood exterior (not asbestos or vinyl siding)
front or back porch (covered)
Pluses:
1+ Fireplace
detached garage/workshop
basement with bath & kitchen included already
detached single family home
original wood floors in good condition
second story porch
central air
large master bath
Jacuzzi out back
Wine cellar
Sauna
55 bedrooms
indoor water slide
horse
original maid and butler
dungeon
trap doors
library
money bin
treasure (preferably enough to cover the rest of the cost of the house)
chapel and chaplain
brewery
distillery
smokehouse
tobacco curing shack
teepee
Let's be honest here: the original maid and butler are non-negotiable, people. And I'm hoping that I'll finally, FINALLY, get to actually keep a horse at my house, like I used to beg my parents for.
Monday, August 22, 2011
I guess it made a lasting impression...
Five years ago, a group of friends from our church here in DC used to go down every Friday afternoon/evening to the sand volleyball courts by the Potomac River and play a few games of pick up. Having played volleyball very, very momentarily in high school, it was always a fun time to connect with friends, get a tiny bit of exercise and impress people with my amazing serve. Which I'm obviously very humble about.
One Friday that summer, we had just finished a set of games and decided that the logical step after completing said games was to go gorge ourselves on local Mexican food. A little place down on the Hill (where 99.9% of our friends lived back then) was chosen and we made the drive across the city, sweaty and sandy, but in a good mood and ready for even more of a good time.
Sitting down at a booth once we arrived, I looked up and realized that there were more friends there than I had expected. So of course I scooted (scootched?) down the bench, hoping to make room. And then I felt a very sharp, sharp pain and a little throbbing.
My foot was gushing blood, punctured by a broken beer bottle that was lodged under a table.
I don't remember exactly what happened next, but I know I didn't scream or cry. I think I motioned that my foot was gushing blood (in case people couldn't see it) and I tried to hop back to the bathroom of the restaurant. Did I mention that my foot was gushing blood? Spurting, really, is a better way to describe it. I'm pretty sure there was blood on the walls.
Finally making it back to the bathroom, I began to feel light-headed. Did I mention blood was shooting out of me? I sat down in the bathroom and was immediately swarmed by well-intentioned women who worked at the restaurant. Unable to understand what they were saying to me, all I could really understand was, "This will stop the bleeding" as they poured coffee grounds on my foot. Reader, I swear to you that I am not making this up. Thankfully, one of our friends finally had the bright idea that I needed to get to the emergency room, and so one of the guys carried me out to his car (this would have been somewhat romantic had I, 1) not been gushing blood and 2) been in a clear state of mind). Finally arriving up at the emergency room, the doctor took one look at me, told me the worst part was the coffee grounds that had been poured into the wound and then gave me three little stitches to sew me up (did I mention he had to first dig out the coffee grounds? Oh yes. That was not pleasant.)
Needless to say, the restaurant felt very, very bad. They covered the medical costs, but still felt remorse for the "emotional damage" that had been done. How to repair that? Why, free drinks every time I came in of course! And reader, I'll be honest. I took advantage of it (as did some of my friends). When a bill would come near, I would wince and say, "oh, my foot," always guaranteed that the bill would be taken care of.
(Ok, I didn't really do that. But I thought about it once or twice.)
This past weekend, over five years later, M and I were craving Mexican food and decided to stop by Las Plas for the first time since moving back. We shared a meal, I had sangria, he had a beer, and we were about to ask for our check when.....
Free drinks appeared. Not just one, but multiple. Like, flowing. And, sure enough, the waiter who had been there on Bloody Friday walked over to me to say hello. Did you catch that the cutting incident was OVER FIVE YEARS AGO? The waiter even asked me where I had been the last two years (I have good friends who didn't even realize we were gone!) He said, "I still remember you. It's good to have you back."
I guess it made a lasting impression.
One Friday that summer, we had just finished a set of games and decided that the logical step after completing said games was to go gorge ourselves on local Mexican food. A little place down on the Hill (where 99.9% of our friends lived back then) was chosen and we made the drive across the city, sweaty and sandy, but in a good mood and ready for even more of a good time.
Sitting down at a booth once we arrived, I looked up and realized that there were more friends there than I had expected. So of course I scooted (scootched?) down the bench, hoping to make room. And then I felt a very sharp, sharp pain and a little throbbing.
My foot was gushing blood, punctured by a broken beer bottle that was lodged under a table.
I don't remember exactly what happened next, but I know I didn't scream or cry. I think I motioned that my foot was gushing blood (in case people couldn't see it) and I tried to hop back to the bathroom of the restaurant. Did I mention that my foot was gushing blood? Spurting, really, is a better way to describe it. I'm pretty sure there was blood on the walls.
Finally making it back to the bathroom, I began to feel light-headed. Did I mention blood was shooting out of me? I sat down in the bathroom and was immediately swarmed by well-intentioned women who worked at the restaurant. Unable to understand what they were saying to me, all I could really understand was, "This will stop the bleeding" as they poured coffee grounds on my foot. Reader, I swear to you that I am not making this up. Thankfully, one of our friends finally had the bright idea that I needed to get to the emergency room, and so one of the guys carried me out to his car (this would have been somewhat romantic had I, 1) not been gushing blood and 2) been in a clear state of mind). Finally arriving up at the emergency room, the doctor took one look at me, told me the worst part was the coffee grounds that had been poured into the wound and then gave me three little stitches to sew me up (did I mention he had to first dig out the coffee grounds? Oh yes. That was not pleasant.)
Needless to say, the restaurant felt very, very bad. They covered the medical costs, but still felt remorse for the "emotional damage" that had been done. How to repair that? Why, free drinks every time I came in of course! And reader, I'll be honest. I took advantage of it (as did some of my friends). When a bill would come near, I would wince and say, "oh, my foot," always guaranteed that the bill would be taken care of.
(Ok, I didn't really do that. But I thought about it once or twice.)
This past weekend, over five years later, M and I were craving Mexican food and decided to stop by Las Plas for the first time since moving back. We shared a meal, I had sangria, he had a beer, and we were about to ask for our check when.....
Free drinks appeared. Not just one, but multiple. Like, flowing. And, sure enough, the waiter who had been there on Bloody Friday walked over to me to say hello. Did you catch that the cutting incident was OVER FIVE YEARS AGO? The waiter even asked me where I had been the last two years (I have good friends who didn't even realize we were gone!) He said, "I still remember you. It's good to have you back."
I guess it made a lasting impression.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Seven Words
I don't know why Mr. L is at the Pre-Release Center** and I may very well not want to know. A man in his mid-40s, Mr. L has spent most of his life in and out of prison, most of it being in.
Mr. L says "I can't read real good." What he means by that is that he can't read at all. Besides his name, there are very few things that he can spell correctly or even write; even though he graduated from high school (yes, you read that right) his basic language, writing and reading skills are lower than those of the 3rd and 4th graders I tutored in Chicago.
This is not ok.
And so one of the mentors that I work with, Miss J, tutors him for 3 or 4 hours a week. Persistent, hardworking and always affirming, Miss J takes hours out of her schedule (during the middle of the work day at that!) to come and spend with Mr. L, literally starting with the ABCs. Miss J constantly has to remind Mr. L that the levels stated on the books they're using (ages 5-6, grade K, 1 and 2) aren't what's important; what's important is that he's learning.
Last week, Mr. L had a test. Write down, in order, the days of the week. Miss J was certain he could do it, and told him that she knew he could. "You already know the last three letters of each and every one of them. All you have to remember is the others!" Miss J reminded Mr. L. But after just a few minutes, Mr. L shoved his paper across the table, filled with what could only be described as jibberish.
"Mr. L, you know this. You can do this. You know the answer!" Miss J reaffirmed as she pushed the paper back across the table to Mr. L.
And this time, after another 3 or 4 minutes, Mr. L slowly passed the paper across the table. "There, I'm done. I think I got it."
Glancing quickly across the words, Miss J knew that he had written each and every day- all seven- perfectly and in order. "You did it!" Miss J cried.
And what Mr. L said next is what brought me to tears as Miss J told me this story over lunch one day. "Never in my life have I spelled seven words correctly, all at one sitting. I didn't think I could do it."
Seven words. And a jolt of self-confidence so desperately needed.
_______________
**The Pre-Release Center is a county facility at which inmates may serve out the last 3-12 months of their sentence. Focused on rehabilitation, employment and support, the PRC provides the much-needed step between full incarceration and civil society. As the Welcome Home Program Coordinator, I get to match the residents of the PRC up with mentors from around the greater Washington area.
Mr. L says "I can't read real good." What he means by that is that he can't read at all. Besides his name, there are very few things that he can spell correctly or even write; even though he graduated from high school (yes, you read that right) his basic language, writing and reading skills are lower than those of the 3rd and 4th graders I tutored in Chicago.
This is not ok.
And so one of the mentors that I work with, Miss J, tutors him for 3 or 4 hours a week. Persistent, hardworking and always affirming, Miss J takes hours out of her schedule (during the middle of the work day at that!) to come and spend with Mr. L, literally starting with the ABCs. Miss J constantly has to remind Mr. L that the levels stated on the books they're using (ages 5-6, grade K, 1 and 2) aren't what's important; what's important is that he's learning.
Last week, Mr. L had a test. Write down, in order, the days of the week. Miss J was certain he could do it, and told him that she knew he could. "You already know the last three letters of each and every one of them. All you have to remember is the others!" Miss J reminded Mr. L. But after just a few minutes, Mr. L shoved his paper across the table, filled with what could only be described as jibberish.
"Mr. L, you know this. You can do this. You know the answer!" Miss J reaffirmed as she pushed the paper back across the table to Mr. L.
And this time, after another 3 or 4 minutes, Mr. L slowly passed the paper across the table. "There, I'm done. I think I got it."
Glancing quickly across the words, Miss J knew that he had written each and every day- all seven- perfectly and in order. "You did it!" Miss J cried.
And what Mr. L said next is what brought me to tears as Miss J told me this story over lunch one day. "Never in my life have I spelled seven words correctly, all at one sitting. I didn't think I could do it."
Seven words. And a jolt of self-confidence so desperately needed.
_______________
**The Pre-Release Center is a county facility at which inmates may serve out the last 3-12 months of their sentence. Focused on rehabilitation, employment and support, the PRC provides the much-needed step between full incarceration and civil society. As the Welcome Home Program Coordinator, I get to match the residents of the PRC up with mentors from around the greater Washington area.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
A new look
Having somewhat settled into life back in DC, the next obvious thing to do was to update the blog. But because I am:
1) technologically slow
2) somewhat lazy when regarding said technology
I...
3) decided to keep the blog address (hydeparkheroes.blogspot.com) as it is and just change the title and pictures. Nifty!
The main picture you see here at Capitol City was taken last night, as the last few guests of a small "welcome home" party grilled, talked and watched the sun set and the moon rise. It was pretty breathtaking, if I do say so myself.
And I have a feeling that our life here, especially in the next few years, is going to be breathtaking as well. From new jobs (me with inmates, M with economists), to a new apartment- and hopefully someday soon a new home of our own- to old and new friendships, the whirlwind has already begun. But in a city and among a population that likes to pride itself on how busy they are, what does it mean to live well here, to work for and create calm and peace in every day life, and to live intentionally in relationship, where most people have a deeper relationship with their blackberry or iPhone? I think we have a lot to learn.
And one last thing. You'll notice that the title of this blog is Capitol City (hence the picture), not Capital City. Though both could work in this particular context, because I'm always trying to make the world a better place, I leave you with a link concerning the difference between the word "Capitol" and "capital." It's really not that hard, people. Thanks, Grammarist.
It's good to be home.
1) technologically slow
2) somewhat lazy when regarding said technology
I...
3) decided to keep the blog address (hydeparkheroes.blogspot.com) as it is and just change the title and pictures. Nifty!
The main picture you see here at Capitol City was taken last night, as the last few guests of a small "welcome home" party grilled, talked and watched the sun set and the moon rise. It was pretty breathtaking, if I do say so myself.
And I have a feeling that our life here, especially in the next few years, is going to be breathtaking as well. From new jobs (me with inmates, M with economists), to a new apartment- and hopefully someday soon a new home of our own- to old and new friendships, the whirlwind has already begun. But in a city and among a population that likes to pride itself on how busy they are, what does it mean to live well here, to work for and create calm and peace in every day life, and to live intentionally in relationship, where most people have a deeper relationship with their blackberry or iPhone? I think we have a lot to learn.
And one last thing. You'll notice that the title of this blog is Capitol City (hence the picture), not Capital City. Though both could work in this particular context, because I'm always trying to make the world a better place, I leave you with a link concerning the difference between the word "Capitol" and "capital." It's really not that hard, people. Thanks, Grammarist.
It's good to be home.
Friday, July 1, 2011
All That's Left
All that's left now in our apartment is a blow up mattress, a couple pairs of shoes, some clothes and odds and ends that will make it in the car for our travel across country.
As much as we have been looking forward to this move, it's hard to believe it's actually here. Driving down Lakeshore one of the last times yesterday, I was struck by how much we don't deserve any of the amazing blessings that have been given to us, especially in these last few weeks. How many times did we doubt that something would work out? How many times did we (ok, maybe I) question if God really wanted us back in Washington, DC, as nothing seemed to be coming to fruition? How many times did I wonder if He would really provide for all of our needs?
And now we're here, on our last day in Chicago. While I've been preparing and hoping, I will still be sad to leave many things of this city behind. An amazing community group (and three of our favorite kids in the world), an incredible job and rent about half the price of what we'll pay in DC. Even the skyline, the lake, the views will be something I no doubt reminisce on, as I look out at the squatty (though beautiful) DC skyline.
There's still quite a lot to get done today. Bank run, cable box return, POD pick up, final car packing and clothes washing, plus my last day of work. But tonight we will make sure that we celebrate this city that has been home for the last 22 months, that has been a place of education for both M and me and- most importantly- a place of substantial, beautiful growth.
As much as we have been looking forward to this move, it's hard to believe it's actually here. Driving down Lakeshore one of the last times yesterday, I was struck by how much we don't deserve any of the amazing blessings that have been given to us, especially in these last few weeks. How many times did we doubt that something would work out? How many times did we (ok, maybe I) question if God really wanted us back in Washington, DC, as nothing seemed to be coming to fruition? How many times did I wonder if He would really provide for all of our needs?
And now we're here, on our last day in Chicago. While I've been preparing and hoping, I will still be sad to leave many things of this city behind. An amazing community group (and three of our favorite kids in the world), an incredible job and rent about half the price of what we'll pay in DC. Even the skyline, the lake, the views will be something I no doubt reminisce on, as I look out at the squatty (though beautiful) DC skyline.
There's still quite a lot to get done today. Bank run, cable box return, POD pick up, final car packing and clothes washing, plus my last day of work. But tonight we will make sure that we celebrate this city that has been home for the last 22 months, that has been a place of education for both M and me and- most importantly- a place of substantial, beautiful growth.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
And finally, it's official
Well, it's official. M and I are moving back to Washington, DC!
Today, M accepted a position doing his "dream job," and I accepted a position last Friday working for an organization I'm really excited about as well. It has been amazing to see these things come together in just a matter of weeks.
And the reality is that- while we've worked hard and done our "due diligence"- we also know that we have been blessed beyond measure in getting both of these positions. As I've said before, the health and wealth gospel that so dominates even mainstream American churches tends to make us think that if we love God then He's going to bless us with a job, a happy family and a white picket fence.
How wrong we are to believe that this is the case. God doesn't promise us material blessing. He promises us more of Himself.
It is with that perspective that we are, therefore, overwhelmed (in a very good way) by what we have before us. And we are so thankful that we have this opportunity. Next weekend, July 2nd, we'll trek halfway across America, back to our home of DC. Sure, we don't know yet exactly where we'll be living, but hey, that's minor, right? We'll finally be able to take a couple of days off and enjoy the Eastern Shore, and will end our "holiday week" with M's family in Alabama. And then, once again, the hard work of laboring with Him to see His kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven, will start again.
Now, what to do about the name of this blog...
Today, M accepted a position doing his "dream job," and I accepted a position last Friday working for an organization I'm really excited about as well. It has been amazing to see these things come together in just a matter of weeks.
And the reality is that- while we've worked hard and done our "due diligence"- we also know that we have been blessed beyond measure in getting both of these positions. As I've said before, the health and wealth gospel that so dominates even mainstream American churches tends to make us think that if we love God then He's going to bless us with a job, a happy family and a white picket fence.
How wrong we are to believe that this is the case. God doesn't promise us material blessing. He promises us more of Himself.
It is with that perspective that we are, therefore, overwhelmed (in a very good way) by what we have before us. And we are so thankful that we have this opportunity. Next weekend, July 2nd, we'll trek halfway across America, back to our home of DC. Sure, we don't know yet exactly where we'll be living, but hey, that's minor, right? We'll finally be able to take a couple of days off and enjoy the Eastern Shore, and will end our "holiday week" with M's family in Alabama. And then, once again, the hard work of laboring with Him to see His kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven, will start again.
Now, what to do about the name of this blog...
Monday, May 23, 2011
My Proudest Moment
On Friday, the Breakthrough Youth and Family Services had its 10th annual Youth Awards Night. Dinner under a tent, a robotics demonstration, artwork, dance and drums, the night was absolutely awesome for the 450 or so friends, family, youth, volunteers and donors who showed up. As a tutor myself on Thursday afternoons, I was excited to celebrate the hard work of our kids.
And yet the thing that struck me the most about the night wasn't the awards or the cute dance or the great bucket drummers. It was this video, "My Proudest Moment" (which I actually didn't get to see until today). Watching it reminds me of the wonderful work that Breakthrough is doing. That God is doing through Breakthrough.
My proudest moment? Being even just a tiny, itsy-bitsy little part of the work that God is doing in this community and in these kids' lives.
And yet the thing that struck me the most about the night wasn't the awards or the cute dance or the great bucket drummers. It was this video, "My Proudest Moment" (which I actually didn't get to see until today). Watching it reminds me of the wonderful work that Breakthrough is doing. That God is doing through Breakthrough.
My proudest moment? Being even just a tiny, itsy-bitsy little part of the work that God is doing in this community and in these kids' lives.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
A HPH take on the Royal Wedding
Did you hear? Prince William married his long-time girlfriend, Catherine Elizabeth Middleton!!! I know, I was completely shocked when I heard it, too; I mean there had been NOTHING on the news for weeks, no months, about the blessed event. And in true British royal style, a small, intimate affair was completely pulled off without even a hint to the mass media. Yet again, the royal family has succeeded in keeping their laundry (dirty or otherwise) out of the public eye.
Right.
So what did we here at Hyde Park Heroes think of the wedding? I'm so glad you asked! Because I am a true connoisseur (yes, that's spelled right) of all things royal as of, well, yesterday, I thought I would fill you in on my thoughts on the matter.
1. It's a ghost!
When Kate first stepped out of her hotel into her sweet ride, I thought "Oh, she's borrowing Grace Kelly's dress! What a symbolic gesture to the hundreds of thousands of Americans who care more about this wedding than the Brits do! And what a great way to save cash in troubled times!" Upon closer examination, of course, I realized that while the dress did look strikingly similar to the former Queen of Monaco's 1950s look, Kate's dress was beautiful in and of itself. I really do mean that. And of course showed a lot more skin. Which is always appropriate for a wedding, right? I mean have you ever seen "Say Yes to the Dress"? Especially that see-through "looks like lingerie dress" that all the Jersey girls love? Classy. We've come a long way in 50 years...
2. Can't see the forest for the trees
While I like to think that the trees that were brought into Westminster Abbey made the whole affair look a little more, well, "British country shabby chic" I would have been SO PISSED if I was one of the guests who had flown in from Lesotho or Israel or the Jersey Shore or wherever and was stuck looking at a stupid British tree. Wow, it's a oakus maximus. How thoroughly boring.
3. Not his best side
I get that dear William isn't supposed to watch his bride walk up the aisle (which, good Lord, took long enough! Get there already!) Unfortunately, it also gave us a 3 1/2 minute view of his bald spot. Poor guy; each day he looks more like his fuddy duddy father (are you allowed to say that about the future King? Of course! That's why we fought the revolution!) Someone get this man some Rogaine!
4. See no evil, hear no evil...
I literally laughed out loud when I saw this picture.
Not because kiss one and two were both slightly awkward, but because of the priceless face (and hand placement) of the little girl on the left. Poor thing, it was so loud! And besides, she's only like what, four? Enough with all the pomp and circumstance already. Someone get that girl a lollipop.
5. I think someone wore this to prom
I'm sure Pippa is a nice, sweet, ladylike young woman, even if her name is horrible. But I'm also pretty sure that I saw this very same dress at our high school prom in 2000. Is she going retro?
______________________________
Ok, ok, I've been a little harsh (and I haven't even mentioned the ridiculous fascinators worn by some members of the royal family). But when we spend so much time thinking and talking about one royal wedding, we're inviting in a few snarky comments. That said, it truly was a beautiful day and, hopefully, a sign of good to come for the royal family. More importantly, I think it would do us good to remember the words of the Anglican priest who gave the homily:
Every wedding is a royal wedding with the bride and groom as king and queen of creation, making a new life together so that life can flow through them into the future.
Every wedding is about more than who wore what, what the flowers looked like or the hats that someone wore. Every wedding reminds us of our place in creation. Every wedding reminds us of the gift of oneness. And ultimately, every wedding reminds us that we are the bride of Christ.
Now to pick out my tiara...
Right.
So what did we here at Hyde Park Heroes think of the wedding? I'm so glad you asked! Because I am a true connoisseur (yes, that's spelled right) of all things royal as of, well, yesterday, I thought I would fill you in on my thoughts on the matter.
1. It's a ghost!
When Kate first stepped out of her hotel into her sweet ride, I thought "Oh, she's borrowing Grace Kelly's dress! What a symbolic gesture to the hundreds of thousands of Americans who care more about this wedding than the Brits do! And what a great way to save cash in troubled times!" Upon closer examination, of course, I realized that while the dress did look strikingly similar to the former Queen of Monaco's 1950s look, Kate's dress was beautiful in and of itself. I really do mean that. And of course showed a lot more skin. Which is always appropriate for a wedding, right? I mean have you ever seen "Say Yes to the Dress"? Especially that see-through "looks like lingerie dress" that all the Jersey girls love? Classy. We've come a long way in 50 years...
2. Can't see the forest for the trees
While I like to think that the trees that were brought into Westminster Abbey made the whole affair look a little more, well, "British country shabby chic" I would have been SO PISSED if I was one of the guests who had flown in from Lesotho or Israel or the Jersey Shore or wherever and was stuck looking at a stupid British tree. Wow, it's a oakus maximus. How thoroughly boring.
3. Not his best side
I get that dear William isn't supposed to watch his bride walk up the aisle (which, good Lord, took long enough! Get there already!) Unfortunately, it also gave us a 3 1/2 minute view of his bald spot. Poor guy; each day he looks more like his fuddy duddy father (are you allowed to say that about the future King? Of course! That's why we fought the revolution!) Someone get this man some Rogaine!
4. See no evil, hear no evil...
I literally laughed out loud when I saw this picture.
Not because kiss one and two were both slightly awkward, but because of the priceless face (and hand placement) of the little girl on the left. Poor thing, it was so loud! And besides, she's only like what, four? Enough with all the pomp and circumstance already. Someone get that girl a lollipop.
5. I think someone wore this to prom
______________________________
Ok, ok, I've been a little harsh (and I haven't even mentioned the ridiculous fascinators worn by some members of the royal family). But when we spend so much time thinking and talking about one royal wedding, we're inviting in a few snarky comments. That said, it truly was a beautiful day and, hopefully, a sign of good to come for the royal family. More importantly, I think it would do us good to remember the words of the Anglican priest who gave the homily:
Every wedding is a royal wedding with the bride and groom as king and queen of creation, making a new life together so that life can flow through them into the future.
Every wedding is about more than who wore what, what the flowers looked like or the hats that someone wore. Every wedding reminds us of our place in creation. Every wedding reminds us of the gift of oneness. And ultimately, every wedding reminds us that we are the bride of Christ.
Now to pick out my tiara...
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
If You had been here...
As of late, I've been struggling with a few specific issues where reality has not lined up with my expectations. Frustrated, tired and ready to just give up, my mentor encouraged me to turn again to the story of the death of Lazarus.
In case you don't remember the story (found in John 11), Lazarus- the brother of Mary and Martha- was ill. The sisters, knowing the healing power of Christ, sent for Jesus. But instead of immediately coming to their aid, Jesus takes his sweet time, eventually showing up after Lazarus is dead.
Mary and Martha are pissed (that's the Liz translation.) First Martha confronts Jesus: ""Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. 22But even now I know that whatever you ask from God, God will give you." Then, a little later, it's Mary's turn: "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died."
The Gospel tells us that Jesus was deeply moved by Mary's weeping (apparently Martha's matter-of-factness was less moving), and upon seeing the dead Lazarus, Jesus himself weeps. Eventually, we see that Jesus wakes Lazarus from his slumber, and lots of people believe. Yay!
But the part that really hit me this time isn't the healing; there is something about the words of both Martha and Mary that sum up almost exactly how I feel about some of the things I'm struggling through right now: "if YOU had been here, my brother would not have died." It's the feeling of, "Come on God, you're the ONE PERSON who can do something about this!" "If you really loved me, this wouldn't have happened/been happening."
But what does Christ do? Wave his magic wand? (Well, eventually, yes. But that's not the point.) He, first and foremost, meets each woman where she is- validating their frustrations and standing with them in their struggles.
I think sometimes when I struggle with things that I know God could do something about, I miss the part in the middle where Christ enters in with our sufferings. That he literally wants to mourn with us. I'm so quick to have him "work His magic" that I forget that a big part of real relationship is allowing Him into these horribly intimate moments of despair and hurt.
And then I see His words at both the beginning and end of the passage: "Lazarus is dead, and for your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe. But let us go to him" and Then Jesus looked up and said, “Father, I thank you that you have heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I said this for the benefit of the people standing here, that they may believe that you sent me.”
I have to believe that the experience of frustration has some sort of purpose in producing belief. I don't really understand it completely, but I can't deny that it's very clearly there. There is something to be said about believing we will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living and, ultimately, as Jesus himself says in this passage, rest in the promise of life eternal: “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die."
I've been reminded and encouraged that Christ wants to enter in with us in our times of pain. Not just so He can "make it better" but because this is what real relationship looks like. And at the same time, I'm encouraged that He does sometimes do things to help our unbelief, to encourage us to trust and believe more deeply in Him, His providence and His grace, ultimately pointing to the greatest thing He ever did, laying down his life for us.
In case you don't remember the story (found in John 11), Lazarus- the brother of Mary and Martha- was ill. The sisters, knowing the healing power of Christ, sent for Jesus. But instead of immediately coming to their aid, Jesus takes his sweet time, eventually showing up after Lazarus is dead.
Mary and Martha are pissed (that's the Liz translation.) First Martha confronts Jesus: ""Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. 22But even now I know that whatever you ask from God, God will give you." Then, a little later, it's Mary's turn: "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died."
The Gospel tells us that Jesus was deeply moved by Mary's weeping (apparently Martha's matter-of-factness was less moving), and upon seeing the dead Lazarus, Jesus himself weeps. Eventually, we see that Jesus wakes Lazarus from his slumber, and lots of people believe. Yay!
But the part that really hit me this time isn't the healing; there is something about the words of both Martha and Mary that sum up almost exactly how I feel about some of the things I'm struggling through right now: "if YOU had been here, my brother would not have died." It's the feeling of, "Come on God, you're the ONE PERSON who can do something about this!" "If you really loved me, this wouldn't have happened/been happening."
But what does Christ do? Wave his magic wand? (Well, eventually, yes. But that's not the point.) He, first and foremost, meets each woman where she is- validating their frustrations and standing with them in their struggles.
I think sometimes when I struggle with things that I know God could do something about, I miss the part in the middle where Christ enters in with our sufferings. That he literally wants to mourn with us. I'm so quick to have him "work His magic" that I forget that a big part of real relationship is allowing Him into these horribly intimate moments of despair and hurt.
And then I see His words at both the beginning and end of the passage: "Lazarus is dead, and for your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe. But let us go to him" and Then Jesus looked up and said, “Father, I thank you that you have heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I said this for the benefit of the people standing here, that they may believe that you sent me.”
I have to believe that the experience of frustration has some sort of purpose in producing belief. I don't really understand it completely, but I can't deny that it's very clearly there. There is something to be said about believing we will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living and, ultimately, as Jesus himself says in this passage, rest in the promise of life eternal: “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die."
I've been reminded and encouraged that Christ wants to enter in with us in our times of pain. Not just so He can "make it better" but because this is what real relationship looks like. And at the same time, I'm encouraged that He does sometimes do things to help our unbelief, to encourage us to trust and believe more deeply in Him, His providence and His grace, ultimately pointing to the greatest thing He ever did, laying down his life for us.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
A Big Week
M was recently selected as a Presidential Management Fellow, and this week is the three day job fair (hard to explain exactly how this works, but it's not just a normal job fair- people are actually interviewing you and hiring you, if not on the spot, then within a week or two.) And since it overlaps nicely with Easter- when our favorite church has our favorite service (and it also happens to be M's birthday), I get to come along, too!
It's a big week. The reality that we will be moving back to DC once M graduates is finally really sinking in...and I honestly can't hide my excitement.At the same time, there are a lot of unknowns- what exactly will M be doing? What will I be doing, besides basking in the glow of being back in DC? Where will we live? How muggy and hot will it be this summer in DC? You know, life-changing questions.
So if you're the praying type, we would definitely appreciate your prayers. Not just for a safe trip, but for a successful trip. That those positions M is most interested in would also be the most interested in him. And that, ultimately, he would be able to use the skills and abilities he's been given to make our country a better place. (Cue cheesy, patriotic music. And a few waving flags.)
Monday, March 28, 2011
Holding Our Arms
March has been quite a hard month. While there was a wonderful week of vacation with my family in California and a couple of days of fun for me with friends in DC, the reality of the end of M's time here at the University of Chicago is sneaking up rather quickly.
Most of our days have been spent applying to jobs, networking as much as possible and lamenting the current federal budget problems and general economic climate. Now is not the easiest time to be looking for a job, to say the least.
And so we have prayed. And cried, and prayed and cried. We are asking God to continue His faithfulness to us, and to remind us of His goodness. And yet even in this, we must know that His goodness does not mean that M will get a job that he loves or that he'll get a job at all. Of course that is what we hope for, but God's goodness to us does not always manifest itself in the way that we would like it. I know too many people who love the Lord with all their heart and yet have no job, no home or no family. God's goodness is that we are allowed to be worshipers of Him, to know Him more and to be in His presence, not that we have a nice job and a big family.
Last week, I hit a wall. Exhausted, overwhelmed and feeling discouraged, I asked friends to pray for me, even as I felt that I could no longer pray for myself. And in that time, God reminded me of this passage:
Whenever Moses held up his hand, Israel prevailed; and whenever he lowered his hand, Amalek prevailed. But Moses' hand grew weary; so they took a stone and put it under him, and he sat on it. Aaron and Hur held up his hands, one on one side, and the other on the other side; so his hands were steady until the sun set. And Joshua defeated Amalek and his people with the sword. (Exodus 17:11-13)
I am so thankful to those who have been holding up our arms, even as we are exhausted and feel like we can't do this anymore. I'm so thankful for a stone to sit on and the arms that have taken the weight off my arms. And I am so thankful that as the sun sets, we are assured victory, even as we do not know exactly what that victory will look like.
Most of our days have been spent applying to jobs, networking as much as possible and lamenting the current federal budget problems and general economic climate. Now is not the easiest time to be looking for a job, to say the least.
And so we have prayed. And cried, and prayed and cried. We are asking God to continue His faithfulness to us, and to remind us of His goodness. And yet even in this, we must know that His goodness does not mean that M will get a job that he loves or that he'll get a job at all. Of course that is what we hope for, but God's goodness to us does not always manifest itself in the way that we would like it. I know too many people who love the Lord with all their heart and yet have no job, no home or no family. God's goodness is that we are allowed to be worshipers of Him, to know Him more and to be in His presence, not that we have a nice job and a big family.
Last week, I hit a wall. Exhausted, overwhelmed and feeling discouraged, I asked friends to pray for me, even as I felt that I could no longer pray for myself. And in that time, God reminded me of this passage:
Whenever Moses held up his hand, Israel prevailed; and whenever he lowered his hand, Amalek prevailed. But Moses' hand grew weary; so they took a stone and put it under him, and he sat on it. Aaron and Hur held up his hands, one on one side, and the other on the other side; so his hands were steady until the sun set. And Joshua defeated Amalek and his people with the sword. (Exodus 17:11-13)
I am so thankful to those who have been holding up our arms, even as we are exhausted and feel like we can't do this anymore. I'm so thankful for a stone to sit on and the arms that have taken the weight off my arms. And I am so thankful that as the sun sets, we are assured victory, even as we do not know exactly what that victory will look like.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
History
M and I have recently gotten in to learning more about our families and their history. As a student of history, what others before us have experienced has always been fascinating to me; sometimes when I think about what my grandparents or great-grandparents saw in their life, I'm blown away by how privileged we are to live the life that we live.
In this case, I'm particularly thankful I wasn't around in the time of M's great uncle.
Robert Laird, Jr. was 24 when he was (according to the Pensacola Journal) murdered by a mad Italian barber (who may or may not have been in the mafia.) According to reports, Robert had accused said Italian barber of shaving him out of a dirty cup. Holding a grudge, a week later, the barber murdered him.
Oh, but it gets more bizarre.
Arrested a few weeks after the murder, the Italian barber set himself on fire, placing a burning blanket over his head and burning himself from the waist up. He did not actually succeed in ending his life, however, and suffered on another three months before succumbing to complications from his wounds.
Ah, family history.
In this case, I'm particularly thankful I wasn't around in the time of M's great uncle.
Robert Laird, Jr. was 24 when he was (according to the Pensacola Journal) murdered by a mad Italian barber (who may or may not have been in the mafia.) According to reports, Robert had accused said Italian barber of shaving him out of a dirty cup. Holding a grudge, a week later, the barber murdered him.
Oh, but it gets more bizarre.
Arrested a few weeks after the murder, the Italian barber set himself on fire, placing a burning blanket over his head and burning himself from the waist up. He did not actually succeed in ending his life, however, and suffered on another three months before succumbing to complications from his wounds.
Ah, family history.
Monday, February 21, 2011
The Coming Spring
And yet there is reason to hope. New grass, a day of sunshine, temperatures that reach into the 50s. Just little tastes of what is to come, a glimpse into the land of the living, a promise that the dead of winter is not a year-round reality.
We've had little glimpses of our own "spring" in the last few weeks. A good meeting here, a positive conversation there, reconnection with old friends and the excitement of travel and relaxation soon. All little encouragements of what is hopefully to come.
And so we will continue to watch and pray, looking for more positive signs of the coming spring. And at the same time, I will continue to pray that I will treasure the winter for what it is good for- contemplation, reconnection, quiet. Even in the dreariness of winter there is still purpose. I don't want to miss what is here, now, because I can only think of what is to come.
There is purpose, even in winter.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
The best brussels sprouts you will ever eat
Quite a statement, right? But friends, believe me, these are some dang good brussels sprouts. (And who knew it was "brussels" and not "brussel"?)
I was first turned on to brussels sprouts from a friend who told me about the amazing sprouts she had at another friend's house. Then last night, I consulted Mark Bitman's How to Cook Everything Vegetarian- a gift from another friend (did you know M was a vegetarian until he suddenly started eating meat on our honeymoon? True story) added some bacon and came up with this.
1 lb brussels sprouts, trimmed and cut in half.
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 slice uncooked thick-cut bacon (you can add more), diced
olive oil
salt and pepper to taste
1. Coat a large oven-safe skillet with olive oil. Heat oil on the stove top on medium to medium-high heat.
2. When oil is heated, add brussels sprouts, cut side down. Sprinkle with garlic, bacon, salt and pepper.
3. DO NOT TOUCH THE SPROUTS. If you're anything like me, this will be extremely hard. But just let them be! It's better for them, and for you. Trust me. If you have to do something, you can shake the pan a little.
4. After approximately ten minutes, remove sprouts from stove top, stirring. Do you see their golden beauty? Yep, that's because you left them alone.
5. Place skillet in 450 degree oven for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.
6. Enjoy the best brussels sprouts you will ever eat.
I was first turned on to brussels sprouts from a friend who told me about the amazing sprouts she had at another friend's house. Then last night, I consulted Mark Bitman's How to Cook Everything Vegetarian- a gift from another friend (did you know M was a vegetarian until he suddenly started eating meat on our honeymoon? True story) added some bacon and came up with this.
1 lb brussels sprouts, trimmed and cut in half.
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 slice uncooked thick-cut bacon (you can add more), diced
olive oil
salt and pepper to taste
1. Coat a large oven-safe skillet with olive oil. Heat oil on the stove top on medium to medium-high heat.
2. When oil is heated, add brussels sprouts, cut side down. Sprinkle with garlic, bacon, salt and pepper.
3. DO NOT TOUCH THE SPROUTS. If you're anything like me, this will be extremely hard. But just let them be! It's better for them, and for you. Trust me. If you have to do something, you can shake the pan a little.
4. After approximately ten minutes, remove sprouts from stove top, stirring. Do you see their golden beauty? Yep, that's because you left them alone.
5. Place skillet in 450 degree oven for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.
6. Enjoy the best brussels sprouts you will ever eat.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
The Intruder
"What is HE doing here?"
I looked up from my fried chicken and noticed a man who had stepped just inside the doors of the fellowship hall. He cautiously moved forward, as if even he was unsure of what he was doing.
"What could that black man possibly want?"
His pants were worn, his boots had some paint on them and he wore a Gators sweatshirt. He seemed slightly uncomfortable, but almost as if he was looking for someone.
I looked away. I figured he probably had a meeting with someone, and whoever had said those comments just must not have known he was here for an appointment. Right?
Until five minutes later, when he was still standing there, and the whispering (in groups at this point) had gotten louder. Looking back over at him, there was something in his face that struck me deep inside. As the groups of whispering grew ever louder, something inside me snapped. And I walked over to him.
"The Gators weren't so hot this year were they?"
A smile spread across his face. He replied, "I know, they sure were missing Tebow."
"I would too if I were them!" I laughed. And his smile grew.
But then, one of the whisperers walked up to us. "What do you want?" she said, a fierce look on her face as she approached him. Immediately his face changed.
"Is the pastor here?"
"No."
"Well are there some members from the church that I could talk to?"
"I'm a member of the church. You can come in the kitchen and talk with some of us."
And with a solemn look, he followed the woman into the kitchen.
_______________________________________________
I don't actually know what happened to the man. I don't know if he was looking to talk to someone, or was asking for money or food or a ride somewhere. But whatever it was, he was bold enough to walk into a church- a church, imagine that!- and look for help. And I know he was turned away.
When he walked through those doors, he wasn't greeted with the arms of Jesus. He wasn't even greeted with a smile. He was greeted as an intruder, an outsider not just of the literal church and its members but an outsider in respects to race and, judging solely on his clothing, probably economic class. The man's situation- that he would walk into a church he doesn't know and ask for help- hit me deeply.
But even more heartbreaking was the church's response. I don't think the church necessarily should have given him money, if that was even what he was asking for (though I do believe that we should most often err on the side of grace). But the man wasn't even treated as a man, but more like an annoying fly that needed to be swatted away. He was interrupting our meal, afterall. His humanity forgotten, there was no reason to talk with him, to welcome him in or to show him even one bit of dignity.
And I wept.
Forgive us, Lord, we pray.
I looked up from my fried chicken and noticed a man who had stepped just inside the doors of the fellowship hall. He cautiously moved forward, as if even he was unsure of what he was doing.
"What could that black man possibly want?"
His pants were worn, his boots had some paint on them and he wore a Gators sweatshirt. He seemed slightly uncomfortable, but almost as if he was looking for someone.
I looked away. I figured he probably had a meeting with someone, and whoever had said those comments just must not have known he was here for an appointment. Right?
Until five minutes later, when he was still standing there, and the whispering (in groups at this point) had gotten louder. Looking back over at him, there was something in his face that struck me deep inside. As the groups of whispering grew ever louder, something inside me snapped. And I walked over to him.
"The Gators weren't so hot this year were they?"
A smile spread across his face. He replied, "I know, they sure were missing Tebow."
"I would too if I were them!" I laughed. And his smile grew.
But then, one of the whisperers walked up to us. "What do you want?" she said, a fierce look on her face as she approached him. Immediately his face changed.
"Is the pastor here?"
"No."
"Well are there some members from the church that I could talk to?"
"I'm a member of the church. You can come in the kitchen and talk with some of us."
And with a solemn look, he followed the woman into the kitchen.
_______________________________________________
I don't actually know what happened to the man. I don't know if he was looking to talk to someone, or was asking for money or food or a ride somewhere. But whatever it was, he was bold enough to walk into a church- a church, imagine that!- and look for help. And I know he was turned away.
When he walked through those doors, he wasn't greeted with the arms of Jesus. He wasn't even greeted with a smile. He was greeted as an intruder, an outsider not just of the literal church and its members but an outsider in respects to race and, judging solely on his clothing, probably economic class. The man's situation- that he would walk into a church he doesn't know and ask for help- hit me deeply.
But even more heartbreaking was the church's response. I don't think the church necessarily should have given him money, if that was even what he was asking for (though I do believe that we should most often err on the side of grace). But the man wasn't even treated as a man, but more like an annoying fly that needed to be swatted away. He was interrupting our meal, afterall. His humanity forgotten, there was no reason to talk with him, to welcome him in or to show him even one bit of dignity.
And I wept.
Forgive us, Lord, we pray.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
An unexpected trip to Florida
Tomorrow morning- 6am to be exact- we head out to Pensacola to celebrate the life and mourn the passing of M's grandfather.
Pop has struggled with Alzheimer's for a while now; I remember meeting him just once a couple of years ago when he was still cognizant and living at home. But M and family have shared quite a few stories with me, making his passing just a little bit more bittersweet.
And with his passing, I've been thinking a lot about his generation- The Greatest Generation- and all that they experienced. Pop himself fought (and lost an arm) serving in Europe in World War Two. He raised and loved four children and 4 grandchildren and worked hard all of his life. And from what I gather, he was pretty darn funny, too. The Greatest Generation strikes me as a generation who understood sacrifice, knew the realities of and importance of family and knew how to kick back and relax with a good beer. They didn't need the internet, they didn't even need cell phones. And while I know it's always popular to look back with a nostalgic glance that often doesn't see clearly, I can't help but think theirs was- and is- a generation to be respected and emulated.
Pop has struggled with Alzheimer's for a while now; I remember meeting him just once a couple of years ago when he was still cognizant and living at home. But M and family have shared quite a few stories with me, making his passing just a little bit more bittersweet.
And with his passing, I've been thinking a lot about his generation- The Greatest Generation- and all that they experienced. Pop himself fought (and lost an arm) serving in Europe in World War Two. He raised and loved four children and 4 grandchildren and worked hard all of his life. And from what I gather, he was pretty darn funny, too. The Greatest Generation strikes me as a generation who understood sacrifice, knew the realities of and importance of family and knew how to kick back and relax with a good beer. They didn't need the internet, they didn't even need cell phones. And while I know it's always popular to look back with a nostalgic glance that often doesn't see clearly, I can't help but think theirs was- and is- a generation to be respected and emulated.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
2011: The Year of the Spreadsheet
I have a weird love for Excel spreadsheets.
Chalk it up to my three years in monitoring and evaluation (also known as that time in my life when I was surrounded by people much, much smarter than me). Or maybe it's the simplicity they afford, with all the magic formulas out of view. Or maybe it's all the colors you can use to color code things. Pink for economic analysis! Green for financial! If/then statements! Pivot tables!
Even now, as a Volunteer Coordinator, my love for spreadsheets is pretty evident. Good Lord, if you had seen my Christmas Store matrix. 4 tabs of spreadsheets, y'all! What can I say, I love them.
But I have to be honest. Beyond listing out info on schools M was going to apply for (two years ago now), I've never really used spreadsheets in my personal life. They've always been relegated to that area also occupied by suits, 7am alarms and sack lunches.
Until now.
Just yesterday, I realized that spreadsheets are a great way to create a family budget. And they're great for calculating a "desired salary" for the job M will hopefully be getting in the next few months. (Sidenote: his desired salary is that amount at which we can live in a small apartment and pay bills.) And they're also great for planning meals, creating an easy shopping list (and remembering if you had stuffed peppers three days ago) and tracking what you're actually eating. Yippee! My love can now come home!
So hear ye, hear ye! I now pronounce 2011 the year of the spreadsheet!
I'll be sending you a template with all the appropriate formulas later.
Chalk it up to my three years in monitoring and evaluation (also known as that time in my life when I was surrounded by people much, much smarter than me). Or maybe it's the simplicity they afford, with all the magic formulas out of view. Or maybe it's all the colors you can use to color code things. Pink for economic analysis! Green for financial! If/then statements! Pivot tables!
Even now, as a Volunteer Coordinator, my love for spreadsheets is pretty evident. Good Lord, if you had seen my Christmas Store matrix. 4 tabs of spreadsheets, y'all! What can I say, I love them.
But I have to be honest. Beyond listing out info on schools M was going to apply for (two years ago now), I've never really used spreadsheets in my personal life. They've always been relegated to that area also occupied by suits, 7am alarms and sack lunches.
Until now.
Just yesterday, I realized that spreadsheets are a great way to create a family budget. And they're great for calculating a "desired salary" for the job M will hopefully be getting in the next few months. (Sidenote: his desired salary is that amount at which we can live in a small apartment and pay bills.) And they're also great for planning meals, creating an easy shopping list (and remembering if you had stuffed peppers three days ago) and tracking what you're actually eating. Yippee! My love can now come home!
So hear ye, hear ye! I now pronounce 2011 the year of the spreadsheet!
I'll be sending you a template with all the appropriate formulas later.
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