HOME ON THIS RANCH

The Place. Of. Dwelling. and the Housing Crisis

2011-10-23T16:34:00.000-07:00

Many aren't aware of this, but Western NoDak is found to be in an interesting predicament these days. Fracing (a new oil well drilling technology) has brought a revolution and over 35,000 workers with it in less than a year. It's predicted that in the next two years another 200,000 (yes, two hundred thousand) will follow. And while the unemployment rate where I live is less than 2%, finding housing is a practical impossibility. After all, where do you stick 200,000 people in the Badlands?

Answer #1: Live in existing structures. Oil field workers are paying college tuition so they can sleep in the dorms. Of course they'll fail their "classes," but it's one of the cheaper housing options. You can also rent an apartment. Although that will cost you $1,500 to $2,000 for a one bedroom unit, if you can find one. Unfortunately, most waiting lists are literally years long. Or live in a hotel, although open rooms are rare. Or housing originally built for seniors or other low income individuals, but even that will cost a pretty penny.

Answer #2: Live in a Man Camp. A fellow not too far from here recently sold some land for Man Camp development. The price, $10,000 an acre for 40 acres. What will follow are several small structures designed to house multiple men during the hours they don't work. Camps can house anywhere from 200 to 1000+ men and can easily double or triple the population of the communities they are built in. However, several small towns are beginning to limit, and even ban, the development of these camps to minimize the "Boom Town"/"Ghost Town" effect that has been seen in previous oil revolutions.

Answer #3: Live in a mobile home park. Similar to Man Camps, these parks sprouting up also include more "family friendly" housing units. However at $1,500 a month after the required $10,000 down for an 8x24ft. camping trailer, they aren't any more affordable than renting an apartment. Although you'd be more likely to find space in one of these developments than anywhere else.

Answer #4: Live at home. At least that's what I'm currently doing, although for most moving from out of state, this isn't possible. As you can see, the first couple of answers aren't options for me. Although this hasn't been the most ideal option either. My folks' home is old which easily lends itself to both mold and dust. And they live in an H2S Hotspot, which has done wonders for my vision.

So. What is the right answer? Well, I'm a teacher, not an oil field worker. My salary is less than a quarter of most of their annual wages. And so unfortunately, I can't afford to spend $1,500 a month on rent. But, after three bouts of pneumonia last winter and a loss of about 40 feet in distance vision, living at home obviously isn't a good answer either.

And so after thoughtful deliberation, I decided to follow through with an age-old dream and pursue having a tiny house built to my precise specifications. After being plagued by the ill effects of allergies and environmental toxins, I knew it needed to be protected against mold and be otherwise hypoallergenic. I also knew that I needed to be able to LIVE in it. After all, the closest laundry mat is over 100 miles away, so a simple camping trailer wouldn't do. And I knew that it needed to last. If I live in my house for five years, I'll have broken even on what I would have spent in rent. Hopefully, I'll get to live in it for much longer.

And that's where Tiny Green Cabins comes in...

On the docket for this week:
My first ever round of Parent/Teacher Conferences...
North Dakota State Assessment Testing Window opens!
Buy a plane ticket to Portland for Christmas...
And moving to town??

Odd habits anyone?

2011-10-01T13:27:00.000-07:00

I've been back in ND for seven weeks now. And it might as well be the ends of the Earth. Due in part to limited internet and busy schedules, I haven't even maintained the level of contact with friends that I kept while in Uganda! And that really can be the end of the Earth as far as keeping in touch is concerned.

However, the stark contrast between seeing and hugging and talking to friends while in Portland and texting and letter writing while in ND, has brought about some odd habitis. I've recently noticed that when I miss a particular person or group of people, it is reflected in what I watch or eat or even listen to. For example, Pirates and air popped popcorn. Or potato chips, guacamole, and Friday Night Lights. Or The Wedding Planner and a good cup of coffee. Or The Three Amigos and a Mexican Coke. Or The Office and popcorn with M&Ms and root beer. Incidentially, I've also been listening to a lot of John Mayer lately. And some pretty good jazz.

Interesting, huh? Anyone else out there ever notice something similar?

In other news...I've named the house and established a [very] limited internet connection at the house. But more about that tomorrow.

2011-08-08T16:27:00.000-07:00

I am a real adult. At least I think I can say this.

I own a house. And some land. I've got a college degree. I'm starting my master's soon. I'm not in debt. Yet.

And now, I have a job. A real job. A real job of the real adult sort. You know, the kind that comes with health insurance and retirement. That helps pay for grad school and gives you sick days and personal days. I have a job like that.

And I'm pretty darn excited about it.

This fall, I'll be working for the Killdeer School District in Dunn County, ND as the K-12 Educational Interventionist.

And I am thrilled.

The Search for a Word

2011-07-17T11:29:00.000-07:00

A handful of years ago, a friend introduced me to these. Extensive searching and research then lead me here.

And soon, this will be mine.

But more about all of that later.

I've affectionately named my new home "The POD". The name seems fitting because at 8x22 it's smaller than the pod that was rented to move all of my possessions from Oregon to North Dakota. Besides, the word pod can mean a self-contained unit that has a specific function. And that seems like a definition fitting for a tiny house.

But in my quest to name my house, I've decided that each of the letters in the word POD should stand for a specific word. Something that describes the house. Or the idea of a home. I'm set on dwelling for the letter D. And I've considered primary for the letter P. But in all of my searching, I have yet to come up with a word I'm attached to for the letter O.

Once the house has a name, I'll start telling it's story. And so, my friends, I'm asking for your outstanding adjectives for the letters P and O.

Ready? Go.

So what. I called the EPA. Shoot me.

2011-06-03T15:18:00.000-07:00

Grassy Butte is in the middle of the Bakken Shale formation. Over the past few years, oil production in the West side of the state has increased. That means there are several new oil wells and a lot of oil traffic. Currently, there are three oil wells within about 3/4 miles of where I live. Incidentally, they are on the tops of hills and form a triangle around the house, located at the bottom of a valley.

At first, the oil wells might seem only to be a minor inconvenience. They obviously aren't very pleasant to look at. And they generally stink from sour gas. But just that shouldn't be the end of the world. Right? However, the gas that stinks happens to be Hydrogen Sulfide (H2S). A nasty gas that is heavier than air and that is known to cause irritation of the nose and throat, headaches, nausea, dizziness, hostility and impulsive behavior, and trouble breathing. Oh, and blurred or double vision. In high exposures, 100ppm or more, it can even cause death. Technically it's classified as a chemical asphyxiant, and its release into the environment is controlled by, you guessed it, the EPA.

Because of the serious side effects listed, most of which start at long term exposures of as little as 0.1ppm, the government has strict guidelines for how much gas can be released from an oil well. The gas is supposed to be flared, or burned off, at the site or pumped into a gas line to minimize the effects on the general public. In North Dakota this means that the ambient measurement for H2S at any given point shouldn't exceed 0.02ppm. We regularly get measurements of 2ppm in our front yard, at least a quarter mile from the closest well.

And so, after being sick for nearly six months and great debate around the kitchen table, I called the EPA. A few folks weren't thrilled, including one of the folks I live with. But within 24 hours, we had some kind folks from the government on our doorstep. Within a week, $25,000 of work was done on the oil well closest to the house. And by then, even Edgar was impressed with the response that I'd gotten. He's been complaining about the same particular oil well for over 20 years now! Surprisingly, the headquarters for this particular oil well hadn't been made aware of any problems with the flaring of the well, despite multiple calls and messages made by my mother over seven years. Apparently, unless you report the people, it doesn't seem to bother them that they're both breaking laws and endangering the folks who actually have to live in the area.

So, I called the EPA. Actually, I'm on a first name basis with the EPA oil well investigators, Mark and Todd. And the neighbors and/or oil well pumpers can shoot me for rocking their precariously balanced boat. I don't care. I'm ready to go back to life in single.

Life Without Limits by Nick Vujicic

2011-05-26T11:08:00.000-07:00

I recently received a copy of Life Without Limits by Nick Vujicic from Blogging for Books to review. I was incredibly excited to learn more about Mr. Vujicic after reading an article written about him in an issue of Logan Magazine, an inspirational magazine written for young people with disabilities. In his book, Nick talks about his childhood and later his search for purposeful work. He also describles his personal philosophy for living, that your attitude determines your altitude in life. And most interestingly to me, he discusses his personal highs and lows in life: times when he considered suicide and the life changing moment when he found work he truly enjoyed, as a motivational speaker. He also elaborates on his travels and experiences that he once believed to be impossible for someone like him, someone with neither arms nor legs. All in all, this book chronicles the "impossible" adventures of Nick.

I was excited to read this book. Until I started reading. I was expecting a well written and captivating story, however this book was written in more of a self-help and devotional style. And maybe it's the research and methods driven teacher in me that was looking for exact answers to what helped him overcome the difficulties he's faced in life, but I wasn't pleased with his free flowing narrative that constantly seemed to run down wild cow trails. If you'd like to offer help, I'd like a scripted model to replicate this happiness that you've found, despite your limitations. But I know well enough that what I wish for isn't practical. Or even possible. All in all, this book just wasn't what I had expected. It was inspirational and interesting, yes, but just not what I was looking for.

I should probably add now that this has recently become one of my mother's favorite books. She's recommended it to several family friends who have enjoyed it as well. So, maybe it really is just me.

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from Waterbrook Multnomah Publishers through the Blogging for Books program . I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255 <http://www.access.gpo.gov/nara/cfr/waisidx_03/16cfr255_03.html> : “Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising.”

The Sacred Meal by Nora Gallagher

2011-04-04T12:17:00.000-07:00

I've entered a new part of my life. One in which I am a book reviewer. I started out reviewing anything the school librarian would hand over for grade level and content appropriateness. Then in a conversation with a friend, I was introduced to BookSneeze. And while this is definitely not a career swap, it has drastically cut the amount of my income that goes to Amazon.

And so Thomas Nelson sent me the book The Sacred Meal by Nora Gallagher. The main premise of this book is communion. And while it is approached from an Episcopalian point of view, several of the thoughts of the author carry across several communities of faith. The author reviews several points including both the history of communion, the physical process of taking communion, and its application to Christians now.

This book is of great personal interest to me. To make my point, I've read it not once, but thrice. I left a church in Portland that took communion as a celebration every Sunday. In ND, we attend a church that takes communion twice a year. Several differing church backgrounds make the subject one that ought to be avoided at the dinner table. So, I really appreciated the author's ability to give me a perspective that is both outside of my personal background but that I can relate to as well. The author told captivating stories from her own life as well as from the New Testament. And she spoke of God's table. A concept I've spent hours dwelling on. She says of it this, "You are a guest at God's feast. You are an honored guest. You are a friend here. You are loved the way a friend is loved." And I believe that fully sums up everything else I might say about this topic. Which isn't to say that you won't be subject to further thoughts from me at a later date, but that's all I need to know today.

Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the publisher through the BookSneeze®.com <http://BookSneeze®.com> book review bloggers program. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255 <http://www.access.gpo.gov/nara/cfr/waisidx_03/16cfr255_03.html> : “Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising.”

2011-03-24T18:33:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure if you know this, but superglue really can be forever.

I've been teaching 6th grade for the last five weeks. And the group of students I've spent the past 25 days with is, well, an...interesting group of beings. There is one particular student to whom I refer fondly inside of my head as Bucky. This story is about him.

This morning during science, my class was building robots. And they were using superglue. Without any excitement, science came and went. And the superglue was disposed of.

At least the superglue was supposed to be disposed of.

Shortly after reading started this afternoon Bucky came up to me, held his right hand up, and said, "My fingers are stuck together."

I looked up, after all he's more than an entire head taller than I am, and replied, "What did you do?!" after observing his hand in a semi-permanent sign-language "o".

He looked away and quietly said, "I glued my fingers together."

I questioned, "With what?"

And he mumbled, "With superglue."

At which point I nearly burst into laughter. After all, he had more than been warned earlier by the science teacher not to touch that glue.

After I held my breath long enough to compose myself, I asked what he thought we should do about that. And he told me that his fingers were too glued together to pull apart. I explained that the only thing that could unstick his fingers was nail polish remover. He looked terrified at that thought.

Finally, I sent him to the office. After all, I didn't have nail polish remover. And I wasn't about to rip his fingers apart.

About 10 minutes later, Bucky came back to class holding his hand in a glass of cold water. Mind you, this is his writing hand, which means he won't be able to complete his assignment. Apparently, the janitor believed this might help to unstick his fingers. I told him that he better sit down and read. By this point, most everyone else had noticed that something had gone wrong. A few kids wandered over to Bucky's desk to look at his hand. Others called across the room.

And so I did a bold thing. I announced, "Bucky has glued his fingers together. You have 30 seconds to look or ask questions. Then you must go back to reading!"

Surprisingly, it worked. Bucky was content to momentarily be the center of attention. And everyone else got back to work.

After about 15 minutes of silence, interspersed with giggles, the principal managed to locate some nail polish remover and came to aid in the freeing of Bucky's fingers. I've never seen a child so relieved and horrified at once.

And in a moment, the entire spectacle had ended.

Granted, the situation hadn't ended for Bucky. Later, he got what for from the science teacher.

But at the end of the day, when I was walking down the line, he answered for what he had learned today, "Don't glue your fingers together with superglue. It lasts forever!"

You're sure right kid. If forever is an hour, it lasts that long.

Turning 24.

2011-02-24T21:07:00.000-08:00

My birthday was pretty uneventful compared to the previous two. It wasn't at all like spending 20 hours on airplanes to hug the Martins in Uganda. And it wasn't full of friends celebrating like the year before either. I made myself dinner and my own birthday cake. There wasn't any fancy wrapping paper or exciting new gift. But it was a spectacular day in an entirely different way.

My senior year of high school, I had a teacher who was incredibly disappointed to find he had missed the chance to tell me Happy Birthday. Which struck me as unusual. I told him it didn't matter, it was just like any other day. There were still classes to go to, papers to write, and a piano to practice. And he replied that it was a big deal. That birthdays are days to celebrate that someone was born and their importance and place in the world. Obviously, his interpretation of this event stuck with me.

As I was reading through countless birthday greetings on Facebook, I came back to this idea. And I celebrated with people across the globe for the relationships I've gotten to build in the last 24 years. It was remarkable to see the countless people I've encountered in innumerable ways reaching out and extending their best wishes.

People like my sisters, cousins, and friends from church who I've known since birth. Classmates from Elementary School. Friends from camp in Jr. High and High School. People I met in my years at Cascade. Friends I met at summer jobs. Family I've gotten to know from PUMP over the past seven years.

People who have influenced my life in huge ways over the years. My friend Anna who was an encouragement to me through Elementary School and Jr. High. Feydra, who I wrote to each week when she was away at Harding and who remembers when I was born. And who even though I was years younger, let me tag along with her at camp. Aimee Jo, Amanda, and Christense, who I remember from my first summers at PSP. And who have looked past my Jr. High years and have become friends. Emily, who was as faithful of a long distance friend as a person could have in High School. Adrienne, well, A was just always there. And I'm so thankful for that. And Erin. Whose emails have always been so full of hope and encouragement. And understanding. Who has always had a hug. And a smile.

It was good to hear from the people who have known me the longest that I am dear and I am loved. It was good to hear them call me friend.

Sometimes people get wrapped up in giving gifts. But sometimes I think we forget that words can be the best gift of all. This year, I know my friends' words were exactly what I've needed.

North Dakota Glossary of Terms

2011-02-23T07:54:00.000-08:00

It's been nearly five months and I've written on my blog twice. It hasn't been for lack of ideas though. But lately I've fallen so far behind that I'm clueless where to begin. So, I'll start from the beginning, doing what any good paper or science experiment does. Defining the terms.

The Butte: Officially known as Grassy Butte and the location of my mailing address in addition to a post office, small gas station, city hall, old museum, bar, playground, and Lutheran church. Even if you don't blink, you probably wouldn't notice it from the side of the highway.

G.G.: Great Grandma or Grumpy Grandma. Also known as my mother. Who I live with.

S.D.: Step Dad. Or usually just Edgar. Who also lives where I live.

Brittney: Edgar's grand daughter who lives with us along with her horse Bugs and her [missing] ferret Oakley.

Cows and Oil Wells: The smell of money. And the local industry. Edgar both ranches and keeps an eye on a few close oil wells.

Beicegel Creek: The road we live off of. Which can sometimes be called Route 50, just to the North of mile marker 113. It's pronounced like bicycle, except with a /g/ in place of the second /c/. Other notable road names include Scairt Woman, Charlie Bob Creek, Gumbo Loop, Museum, School, and Rodeo. Some are surprisingly original, others are shockingly obvious.

Highway 85: The North to South highway that Beicegel Creek is located off. It also happens to be the most dangerous highway in ND.

Highway 200: The East to West highway that intersects with Highway 85, approximately five miles to the South of Grassy Butte.

The Breaks: A stressful stretch of road along 85 where the highway winds down through some buttes and back up the other side of the river on the way to Watford.

Watford City: The town located about 45 miles to the North where I sometimes substitute.

Killdeer: The town located 40 miles to the East where I often substitute.

South Fairfield: The town approximately 25 miles South and the site of Prairie School, a K-8 school that is home to 24 students and 11 full time employees. Talk about "money is no issue" when it comes to education.

Williston and Dickinson: The cities located closest to Grassy Butte. They are located 90 miles to the North and 85 miles to the South, respectively.

Dinner: Lunch.

Supper: Dinner.

Dial-up Internet: The only internet available in our neck of the woods. Which is sadly too slow to load Google Chat or catch up on TV shows via Hulu.

Snow: The white stuff on the ground that's stuck around as solid ground cover for over four solid months now. Yes, I'm SO over it.

Cold: Below zero degrees. Before windchill. The point at which I must dawn a long wool coat or snow pants and parka before braving the outdoors.

Those things have honestly been about it for the last four months. No friends or exciting things to do. Just driving up and down the road and teaching. And sleeping. And occasionally working on a quilt or two. Maybe next time I'll stick with ideas. Perhaps they won't bore the two of you who read this quite as much as this has.

2011-02-09T18:51:00.000-08:00

The last three months, I've woken up every morning dreading one thing: the driveway.

More specifically, getting stuck in the driveway.

On the way to work.

And today, it happened. Although it's debatable as to if it was actually my error that caused the delay. [I was following someone who led me directly into a snowbank...] But still, I got stuck.

In previous lives, this would not have even been an issue. Because first, I wouldn't have been driving. I would have been walking or on a bus. And second, because any driveway that I lived off of was just blocks off the road. Here, we're talking in miles. Over a mile to the house and still a mile to the road. In a drift. When it's -24* outside. Before windchill.

This is the part of the story where I find myself thankful for my mother. Who wakes up early to not only start my car (when it's double digits below zero) but also to follow me out to the road. So, cough cough, if I were to ever get stuck, I wouldn't have to wait for someone to come pull me out.

So... Uneventfully, she flung a few piles of snow, attached a tow rope, and the car came sliding out. Within ten minutes, I was merrily, albeit still slightly shook up, on my way.

Now, I honestly wish it would have happened a lot sooner. The getting stuck part. I've spent three months horrified of this day. Most nights I have nightmares about it. And it wasn't nearly as bad as I've made it out to be. I was still on time to work. Nothing happened to me. And nothing happened to the car. It was just a bunch of cold snow. In a pile. Next to the road. That got me stuck.

Which is pretty darn harmless.

My chalked up prediction of death alongside of the driveway due to an unplowed road didn't happen.

I guess that's what brains do. Over think things to the point of being scared of snow in a pile on the side of the road.

Arctic Freeze Survival 101

2010-12-10T19:42:00.000-08:00

In light of recent piles of snow and dropping temperatures, two sentiments are often expressed by locals here in North Dakota. First, that winter is long and hard [and that you better be prepared]. And second, that the people who choose to live here are just like people who live elsewhere, they only know how to dress [warmer]. I find myself discovering new depths of truth to those statements everyday.

It's true, snow flies in October and often continues to fall through March and even into April in North Dakota. Which, when I really let myself think about it, correlates to the rainy season in Oregon. So I can't chide myself too harshly for this move; I haven't signed up for anything I wasn't already signed on for. I only traded wet toes, my most despised predicament, for cold toes, the second worst thing. Which is to say that I am moving up in the world.

Until I hear these words: [in a scratchy radio voice] wind chill.

In the last three weeks, the temperature hasn't made it above 17 degrees. Most days it's hardly made it above 0. And nope, that's not Celcius. Granted, I haven't ventured too far from home. But most days I don't have to. I wake up to find ice frozen on the inside of my bedroom windows more often than not. And on the days I have sought the solace of the great outdoors, cold has been an understatement. I cannot even begin to describe the depths of bone chilling cold the North wind can blow into a person's body.

Which brings me to sentiment number two. There are several miraculous articles of clothing that can, when pair with numerous other like items, allow a person to survive negative temperatures. Enter Muck Boots. The best early Christmas present I've ever received. They are rated to -40*F. A semi-regular occurrence around our place considering wind chill. Made out of rubber and neoprene, they are waterproof and mud-proof and cow-pie resistant and a number of other qualities I've never considered before when buying a pair of shoes. And they are warm. Maybe not the most practical item in Portland, but they are standard fare here in the Badlands. And my new best friend. I've also made a few other friends: wool socks, Polartec long johns, wool sweaters, an H2S monitor, and a wonderful heat vent.

Tonight I'm headed off to a dreamless bliss after an evening of reading with a blanket atop said wonderful heat vent. Tomorrow is Saturday. And I can sleep soundly knowing that we will surely be snowed in after an afternoon and evening of blizzard conditions that is suspected to continue through the night. Curled up in the warmest PJs I can find under a mountain of quilts. With boxes of fabric and books and a wonderful heat vent to greet me good morning.

This sure beats rain.

Intermission.

2010-10-19T20:00:00.000-07:00

The two of you who read this have probably noticed that I've spent the last couple of weeks blogging regularly. It's time for me to shamelessly admit that it didn't come of my own self-discipline. Particularly when tackling larger projects, I schedule my posts.

When I started this 30 day thing, I had half of the posts written and saved. I thought that surely I'd be able to finish the remaining prompts during the following few weeks. But you've probably guessed by now that that hasn't happened. Instead I'm moving.

A week or so ago, I was playing the Ukulele and singing to my biggest fan club when another teacher came to give me a short break. And so I declared to the babies that it would be time for an intermission. The point in time after they'd heard enough to be hooked and mad I was leaving but before they'd heard the very best.

And so that's what I'm proposing to you today. And intermission.

I'll be back soon. Give or take a few weeks. Hopefully from a settled state in North Dakota.

And Second Movement.

2010-10-18T22:00:00.000-07:00

I recently wrote about God's faithfulness in both the life-changing and mundane details of my existence. And how while God's faithfulness in those huge and overwhelming things reminds me of his strength and unending love, it's his faithfulness in the little details of life that clue me in to my own dearness.

And as I started dwelling on God's faithfulness in little things, I realized this:

A kind and generous PERSON takes out my trash for me.

A dear INDIVIDUAL is taking time out of a short trip home to visit me.

A gifted HUMAN [insert Kendall's definition: the best kind of adult] arranged a piece of music.

A sweet CHILD curled up next to me for a hug.

A quiet and patient BEING held me while I cried.

If I pay attention to those details, it's hard to ignore that God's faithfulness is often carried out by people. Which leads me to believe in an odd sort of cycle. I see God's faithfulness in my life. I am faithful to God. In my faithfulness, I do things for others. Those things point those people to the faithfulness of God. Which in turn leads to their faithfulness to God. And in their faithfulness, they do things for others. And on and on and on.

Or I'll admit that more days than not, it's the faithfulness of others to a faithful God that points me towards faithfulness.

But tonight I'm left wondering. What things am I doing that point others to the faithfulness of God?

I'm not sure.

An Interlude.

2010-10-16T08:00:00.000-07:00

Nearly two years ago, I took everything I knew about God's will and poured it out onto paper for Senior Philosophy. In the midst of unpacking, I found what I had written, and over the last month I've taken to reading this statement of belief with surprising regularity.

As I read, I find thoughts cultivated by relationships nurtured at PUMP and words seeped in a rich PMC culture. But the more I read about God's will for my life, the more I am convinced that the idea of God having a specific will doesn't matter.

Let me elaborate.

I woke up a few days ago to find that my trash had again been set on the sidewalk by someone's kind hands while I was sleeping. And as I got in my car to drive to work, I couldn't help but think, "I am thankful for God's faithfulness in the big things, but I sure do delight in his faithfulness in these little details."

And God has been faithful in some pretty big ways lately:

Only a week after having a severe allergic reaction, I inadvertently discovered that much of the general population doesn't know much about nuts. Let alone their relation to life threatening allergic reactions. The fact that I've even made it to 23 alive is surely a testament to God's faithfulness in the midst of other's ignorance and my own naivety.

A couple of weeks ago, I nearly lost my job. I was suspended from work for five days which incidentally allowed me to go to my Grandpa Uncle Pete's funeral and spend much needed time with my cousins in North Dakota, all while being paid for "working." And when I returned to work, I walked away without even being written up. God was faithful in preserving my employment and reputation within a large corporation.

And in my despair, God provided two handfuls of opportunities for me to pursue in North Dakota. Opportunities to teach in my own classroom and to seek the higher education I have dreamed of. Close to the family I have so desperately missed. And with the ability to travel and visit friends who I haven't seen in what feels like lifetimes. I've seen a glimpse of God's faithfulness in my future.

And I'm thankful for God's faithfulness in those things. I'm grateful that those things matter and that he's willing and able to sort out of all of those details when my mind can't find a way beyond the horrifyingly obvious. It's God's faithfulness in those big things that reminds me that he loves me.

But it's God's faithfulness in the little details of my life that I truly take delight in:

My friend Stephanie actually getting to visit Portland, just days before I move.

Putting someone in my life who concerns themselves with getting my trash can to the curb before I'm even awake.

Sunshine at the beach, on a day with 95% chance of precipitation. And a cloudy backdrop through which to photograph the sun.

A beautiful piece of music arranged by a friend to play on the piano.

It's God's faithfulness in those little details that convinces me that he's a fan of mine. It's his attention to details that others would quickly miss that lets me know that he cares. It's in those things that he cries out to me, "I really do like you. A lot."

I'm sure that God has a will. And I'm equally sure that more than half of the time, I don't have even the slightest clue what it is. But today I am convinced of God's faithfulness despite my own oblivious nature.

So I'll keep on singing, "This is my anthem. This is my song. The theme of the stories I've heard for so long. God has been faithful; he will be again. His loving compassion, it knows no end. All I have need of, his hand will provide. He's always been faithful, he's always been faithful, he's always been faithful to me." Or maybe I'll just let Sara Groves keep singing. I'm sure the neighbors would appreciate that.

2010-10-15T08:00:00.000-07:00

Day 15--The person I miss the most.

I'm a missing people kind of person. A few years ago, I had a conversation with a friend that I think helps explain this. She was talking to her daughter about "love languages." At that point, this was something I hadn't heard of. And to this day, it isn't something I've given more than a fleeting thought. But as we were talking, it came up that spending time with people is something that is really important to me. As much as I despise being in groups of people, I value face-to-face connection with the people who have played or do play important roles in my life. Not a lot of face-to-face time = lost sense of connection = me missing somebody. A lot.

So as much as I usually miss people, I'm currently preparing for what I know will be a mass onslaught of missing people even more. In fact, it seems that I'm already missing people in anticipation of the missing that I know is to come in the next few weeks. I haven't successfully discovered how to short-circuit my brain around the issue. So for the time being, I'm stocking up on face-to-face time and hugs with the hope that those reserves will safely see me through the following few weeks of transition.

I can't tell you who I do miss the most now or who I will miss the most in the weeks to come. Those names and faces change as quickly as raindrops fall. I only know that right now as I sit alone in my room, it feels like those skies are pouring down around me.

2010-10-14T08:00:00.000-07:00

Day 14--Someone I've drifted away from.

I've done a lot of drifting in the past five years. Perhaps that's because when you graduate from high school you naturally drift away from many of the friends you've spent your life growing up with and when you graduate from college you drift away from others under the influence of location and circumstances. And I will be the first to sadly confess that I haven't been faithful in keeping in touch with so many of my friends who have moved across the globe. But today I am reminded of what is now one of the most heartbreaking of separations.

When I was in 4rd grade, my mom drug me three hours away to a Women's Conference early one Saturday morning. There were only two other girls there: Anna and Shannon. Anna and I exchanged addresses and spent the following year trading lives in the form of sloppily handwritten letters. A year later, we met again at the same conference. Anna was wearing a ring that day. As we hugged goodbye, she pressed it into my hands and said that we would always be friends. We spent the following few years continuing to write back and forth. Email came and went. We still sent old fashioned letters. Junior high and high school came and we were able to meet up at youth rallies and camps. And as we spent more face-to-face time together, letters became fewer and further between. But we were still friends. Forever friends.

The summer of 2004, Anna and I found ourselves at a candle passing late one night at the camp I'd grown up at. In this ritual gathering, a senior took a candle from an old communion tray and passed it on to a junior who they hoped would share light and encouragement with younger campers in the following summers. We'd reached the end of the ceremony, and I was one of a few who had seemingly been overlooked. But as the last candle was lit, I heard someone start to speak of a forever friend. A friendship that had emerged on paper and had been sustained over nearly ten years. And I cried as I listened to the other side of this story. Anna's story.

That fall, Anna went to college. The following year, I left for Cascade. And we stopped writing.

It's true. Facebook allows us to know the details of lives previously shared on paper and face-to-face. She's married now. And living in Texas. But it isn't the same as writing. It isn't the same as sharing life.

Every morning I wake up and look at the candle Anna lit so long ago. It reminds me that somewhere out there is someone who at some point thought I was worth investing in.

And I still wear her ring.

2010-10-13T08:00:00.000-07:00

Day 13--Something I'm looking forward to.

I have several friends and family members who have experienced life threatening illnesses in the past handful of years. And I'm counting the days until cures can be found for things like cancer and SMA and EE. But as I sit here covered in hives yet again, I have a selfish hope.

In the past few years, studies have been completed on what could be in the least a treatment for life threatening food allergies and at most a cure. Two studies in particular are coming close to FDA approval for treatment of peanut allergies. The first involves a series of shots; the second involves eating increasing amounts of peanut proteins.

And that possibility is incredibly exciting to me. I can't imagine what it would be like to go and order at a restaurant without being afraid that something might have accidentally been cross-contaminated with nuts or fish. I can't wait for the day when I don't worry about eating at family gatherings. Or when I don't have to be concerned about touching something that someone else might have touched. I can't imagine the day when I don't have to worry about people "buying into" the idea of life threatening allergies. I can't wait for the day when I'm not carrying around four EpiPens, three types of liquid antihistamines, and a set of inhalers. Just in case. Just in case I take a breath at the wrong time or touch the wrong surface.

The research that's been done hasn't cured people of allergies to peanuts; they've still had to avoid eating things made with nuts. But both treatments have successfully reduced the likelihood of a deadly reaction. People have been able to touch things covered in peanut dust without fearing a reaction. They have ceased to have an airborne allergy to peanuts. And they've even been able to successfully eat things that have been cross-contaminated with nuts. Things that would have previously caused deadly reactions have been safely treated with OTC antihistamines.

And those are the things I fear more than anything else. I can read labels and avoid foods. But I can't dictate what others eat or how they clean after they've eaten. I can't stand over them as they prepare food to make sure it's made safely. I can't exist on high doses of allergy meds just because I might touch the wrong thing.

And so even if treatment is still years away, I'm looking forward to it. I'm looking forward to having plain-old-run-of-the-mill allergies. Not allergies that could kill me if not aggressively treated immediately.

I'm looking forward to the day I get to exist. Not exist in fear. Not exist in the world of just-in-case. Just exist.

2010-10-12T08:00:00.000-07:00

Day 12--My dream vacation.

I am fortunate to have already taken my dream vacation. I got to go to Uganda and visit Andrew, Aimee Jo, Anaiah, and Evan Martin for three weeks in January.

And maybe getting stuck along side the road for hours while jet lagged, or being stuck beside a toilet sick, or tagging along with Aimee Jo isn't what anyone else would dream of.

But to me it was absolutely perfect. There was a nearly unlimited supply of the best Coke I've ever drank. I got to sit and read for hours on end. And play with and take pictures of two of the most beautiful children. In Africa.

And I can't wait to do it again.

2010-10-11T08:00:00.000-07:00

Day 11--A deceased person I wish I could talk to.

If we're friends and we've talked honestly at all in the last month, the answer to this prompt is most likely quite obvious.

Hands down, no looking back, I'd talk to my dad.

I've talked before about how there is this season of my life every year. I tend to call it October, but in reality it spans something more like September through January. It's the season when I miss my dad. So, I find it fitting that as I write this it really is October. Not only by date but also in that I find myself in the throes of missing the person who is conspicuously absent from my life.

But I'm not sure that there is much to say that I haven't already written here at some point before.

Today, I only know that time hasn't made anything better, only infinitely worse. Because the older I get, the more I realize what I've missed. And the more time that passes, the harder the reality that dead is forever hits. And the longer it's been, the less I can remember and the more I want to know.

And so I'm waiting. Maybe forever.

2010-10-10T08:00:00.000-07:00

Day 10--Someone I don't talk to as much as I'd like to.

Well. This isn't so much a someone as a group of someones. And it's not really that I wish I talked to them more because it's mostly that I wish I could hug them more often. Then after the hugging we could concern ourselves with the talking.

A few weeks ago, I was able to gather with my six cousins in ND. In our younger days, we made up the Magnificent Seven: Laura, Rachel, Lindsay, Me, Sarah, Nathaniel, and Brianna. That was B.C. (Before [Rachel married] Cody). Now there are eight. Plus Gwen, Laura's little girl. That means that for the time being, we are 8+1. But recent speculation proves that in the near future we could become something much closer to 14+who-knows-how-many.

And the few days I got to spend with them lived up to our old title. It was good to hug their necks and laugh and remember adventures from younger years. The last time I've been able to see all six of them at the same time was 12 years ago. It's incredible how much we've changed but how much we're still the same.

For now, I'm looking forward to the promise of this hope coming true. Living in ND means living closer to all of them in addition to being only a couple of hours away from our central meeting place: Grandma's. And that means hugging my cousins more than once every few years. And thinking about that makes me happy. Very. Happy.

2010-10-09T08:00:00.000-07:00

Day 9--Someone I wish I could meet.

Sara Groves.

I've written about Sara a lot in the past. And for good reason, her music has walked with me through plenty of rough patches in the last five years or so. Most recently I've found solace in the following words, "This is my anthem, this is my song, the theme of the stories I've heard for so long. God has been faithful, he will be again. His loving compassion, it knows no end. All I have need of, his hand will provide. He's always been faithful. He's always been faithful. He's always been faithful to me."

There are plenty of things I'd like to ask her. Because the words of her songs let me know that she's a lot like me. And I want to hear the stories behind the understanding words I often find singing me to sleep. I want to learn from her about loving people and being human. About being caught between what has been and what will be. And about the God she sings of.

Sometimes I imagine her sitting in my living room, playing my piano and singing the songs I love the most. Other times I imagine sipping coffee alongside of her while chatting. And sometimes I imagine what it would be like to hug the person who seems to have set my entire lifetime of experiences to music.

Maybe someday.

2010-10-08T08:00:00.000-07:00

Day 8--My favorite internet friend I've never met.

This is a simple prompt for me to answer. I've never become friends with someone on the internet who I didn't already know in real life. So the truth is, I've never had an internet friend I haven't met.

All of that is just a fancy way to say this: there isn't one.

2010-10-07T08:00:00.000-07:00

Day 7--My job.

At the time of this posting, I rock babies to sleep for a living. Well, I don't just do that. I feed them and play with them and [wince] change lots of stinky diapers too.

However, in two weeks I will be embarking on a new life adventure. I'm moving to North Dakota to pursue a permanent teaching job and a couple of Master's degrees. Until the fall, when those plans [hopefully] materialize, I intend to fill my days with long-term subbing.

I'm excited because this plan takes many of my dreams turned goals and turns them into realities. I'll be able to pursue a Master's degree in Autism Education from NDSU. I'll be able to get a Master's in Occupational Therapy from the University of Mary. I'll have opportunities to teach in one room school houses. And for the most part, I'll be able to live off grid in a tiny little cabin. And I'm looking forward to visiting friends across the globe in the off season.

And all of that leaves me thinking that maybe my job isn't really what I do to make a living, it's what I do when I'm living. It's doing the things I love the most. It's teaching and playing the piano. It's Africa and higher education. It's taking time to spend with my friend's kids. It's being domestic and simple.

My step-dad often says he's never worked a day in his life. That's what happens when you do the thing you love. You don't have to work; you just get to live. I like that idea.

2010-10-06T08:00:00.000-07:00

Day 6--Someone who inspires me.

There are plenty of people who have inspired me. Mostly teachers and wise counselors who have advised and guided me along my path to teaching. So choosing just one is no easy job.

However, for two years in high school, I had the good fortune of having Mr. Jeff Smith as my English teacher. Instead of writing of the countless ways he has inspired me to become the teacher I am today, I'll share the letter I wrote to him a few months ago. I only hope that someday I can be half the teacher he is today.

April 1, 2010

Dear Mr. Smith,

When we graduated from high school, you had us write a thank you note to someone who had helped us successfully reach that place in life, and as I graduate from college, I've thought of that assignment often. Almost five years later, I want to thank you because I wouldn't have been nearly as successful at my run in college if I hadn't known all the things you taught me in high school.

Thank you for teaching me how to effectively write papers. You taught me not only a way to organize and write about my ideas but also a way to collect and organize my research and citations. And thank you for teaching me how to be an effective editor not only of my own work but also the work of others. In particular, I must thank you for my knowledge of correct placement of commas among other punctuation marks. Although I might not have enjoyed the extensive practice required to master writing and editing skills in high school, I found myself whispering prayers of thanksgiving often while writing countless papers in college. At the most, I was taking 27 credits and wrote over 50 papers in one semester. Without an organized method for researching, writing, and editing, I never would have survived.

And while I thought of you often while writing my 72 page work sample during student teaching, it wasn't only because I was grateful for all of the things I had learned about writing and editing in your class. In the past months, I've come to appreciate more and more that you helped me grow as a student. I was able to just slide by in other classes, copying homework before class or looking over someone else's notes just moments before a test, but you challenged me to do better than that. I've come to realize recently how difficult it can be to challenge students who are already working at grade level. And I want to thank you for what I know was extra effort to keep me engaged as a student and growing not only as a reader and writer but also as a thinker.

I've also spent time thinking about how you made a room that was so safe and welcoming to come to. Safe before school... Safe at lunch.... Safe after school.... And safe enough to admit that I didn't know it all and needed help understanding an assignment. I've spent a lot of time struggling with how to create that place as a teacher of my own students. And consequently, I've spent a lot of time grateful that someone cared enough to create a place like that in my life. Thank you for affirming that I was good at something and was worthwhile as a person... Thank you for making me feel important and cared about regardless of my accomplishments... Thank you for allowing me to be a person as well as a student.

Thank you for being a teacher I could grow up wanting to be like. I appreciate the things you did to make high school not only more bearable but also worthwhile. Thank you for the example you provided me with that continues to influence me as I teach today.

Thank you.

2010-10-05T08:00:00.000-07:00

Day 5--My dreams.

Shortly after graduating from high school, I complied a list of dreams in book format. Five years later, it's amazing to reflect on those dreams and witness how many of them I've been able to accomplish in only a handful of years.

I wanted to be a teacher.

Nearly a year ago, I graduated from Cascade College with my degree in Early Childhood and Elementary Education. I am officially a teacher.

I wanted to teach in the inner city.

Last fall, I was able to student teach at Woodlawn Elementary, in NE Portland. I've taught in the inner city.

I wanted to teach Special Education.

A couple years ago, I was able to work in a inclusive preschool as an assistant to children with special needs. Soon, I'll be perusing a Master's degree in the field of Special Education. I've taught and will continue to teach students with special needs.

I wanted to go to Africa.

In January of 2010, I spent three weeks with Andrew, Aimee Jo, Anaiah, and Evan Martin in Fort Portland, Uganda. I've been to Africa.

I wanted to go into a profession where I could continually use music.

While student teaching, I was able to bring music into the classroom on a daily basis with my ukulele. Now, at the childcare center I work at, I bring music to infants. Soon, as a teacher, music will be a part of classroom life as well. I use music every day.

I wanted to adopt a child.

Well. It's still something I want to do. It's just going to take me a few more years.

I have a few new dreams as well. Dreams that might take two handfuls of years to accomplish.

I want to go to South Africa. And Uganda, again.

I want to get my Master's degree in Autism Education and a second Master's degree in Occupational Therapy. And I intend to pay cash for both.

I want to teach in a one room school house.

I want to teach in Africa.

I want to live in a tiny house, off the grid, with only the things I need to survive.

I want to build something. A school for students with Autism. Or an orphanage for children with special needs. Or a private one room school house of sorts that uses a classical curriculum. I'm not sure which. So maybe I'll have to build all three.

You might say that the things I plan to do in the next 10 years aren't truly dreams. They are goals. And in fact, you are correct. I fully intend to accomplish each one of those things, save building a school and adopting a child, in the next 10 years. I'm already in the process of achieving a handful of those goals. But before there were ever plans set in place to make these things a reality, they were only a fleeting thoughts and twinkles in a young one's eye. But who says you can't accomplish all the things you ever dreamed of as a child? It's what I plan on spending the rest of my life doing.

2010-10-04T08:00:00.000-07:00

Day 4--Your siblings.

I have four half sisters: Tina, Sue, Jody, and Mary. All four are significantly older than me and three have children who are older than me. In fact, my mother was pregnant at the same time as my three oldest sisters. Biologically, that's as close as I get to having siblings. Truthfully, it's like having four extra mothers.

I also have a step-sister and step-brother from my mother's semi-recent marriage to Edgar: Sharon and Shannon. Although without quite the age gap my sisters present, they are both a good deal older than I am, leaving me the youngest either way.

And so some of you might think I was raised a only child. Others say I was raised as a youngest. But I say that I'm the oldest.

For a good deal of my childhood, my nieces and nephew, Chelsea, Zach, and Savanna, lived with us. At 2, 4, and 6 years younger than me, I was most often the oldest in the house, not the only. And as proved in a recent visit with Zach, we truly do have a sibling type relationship, still pushing the others' buttons at 23 and 19.

But despite the sibling confusion that might have occurred at a young age, now I believe I walked away with the best of all worlds. I'm the creative, competitive, and self-centered [ugh] youngest. The mature and dependable only. The generous and peacemaking middle. And the over-achieving, highly organized, responsible oldest. And it's true, not all of those traits show up all of the time. But come to Christmas. Navigating a family of siblings, spouses, pseudo-siblings, nieces, nephews, and all the greats requires those traits and more!

2010-10-03T08:00:00.000-07:00

Day 3--Your parents.

Joe and Judy.

I was born as the 5th daughter of Judy and the only child of Joe. The youngest on the food chain of either family tree. And the child of folks who were already grandparents.

In some ways, I think I was lucky to have older parents. My dad was able to retire when I was 8 and stayed home with me until he died when I was 14. My mom worked off and on for the school after I'd started kindergarten. We got to travel a lot, and I grew up knowing countless Aunties, Uncles, and cousins from across the globe.

My dad was a do-it-himself-even-if-it-takes-forever kind of man. An electrician by trade, he remodeled the trailer we lived in for several years in addition to building a barn and a shop on our property SE of Spokane. I grew up knowing that there wasn't anything my dad couldn't fix, even if I might be waiting a year.

My mom is a do-it-now kind of lady. And so I grew up listening to her saying things like, "Why put off until tomorrow what you can do today," and "If you don't have time to do it right the first time, how will you ever have time to do it a second?"

Both were hard-headed-money-saving folks with a wicked stubborn streak, raised in the decade following the Great Depression and determined to make a good life for me.

My mom often jokes that she isn't quite sure how I turned out as good as I did. And I'm not sure either. It must have been my dad. :)

2010-10-02T08:00:00.000-07:00

Day 2--Your vices.

Vice: an immoral or evil habit or practice, or a fault, defect, or shortcoming.

Well. I have lots of those. But lest I bear all on this blog, I'll stick to generally bad habits for now.

My mother would say that it's an evil habit that I use horse ointment on the cracks in my hands.

My bank account would tell me that buying books is a bad habit of mine.

My ears might say it's listening to music too loudly and my piano might say it's beating the keys with too much passion.

My camera would tell you my vice it taking too many photographs. So would the small children in my life.

My computer could say it's watching movies in the middle of the night.

But me? As harmless as it might seem, I think I'll have to go with... Well, I'm not sure. That would require being decisive. So maybe that's my vice, defaulting to the decisions of others when I'm not sure what to do.

2010-10-01T09:00:00.000-07:00

So, my friend Stephanie has been doing this 30 Day Challenge thing. It's where you reply to a prompt each day for 30 days. Simple enough, right? And I've decided to try it.

Here goes.

Day 1--Your best friend.

I ought to begin this by stepping on my miniature internet soap box for a moment. I believe that the term "best friend" is some sort of politically incorrect term. At least in my own personal dictionary. Since when should I pick which of my friends is "favorite"? And how would I define that? The one who I spend the most time with? The one who knows the most about me? The one I have the most fun with? Instead, I will introduce the term I have chosen to endear this person with. My forever friend. Because, she's known me forever. Okay, not forever. But close enough.

Enter Launi.

We met on the first day of kindergarten. In fact, it was on that day that we became "best friends," a status we maintained through that year and the following two. Then, we simply became friends. In those early years, a lot of time was spent at her house. Time outside on the swing, exploring the old barns, attempting to make flour out of the wheat, rescuing kittens. Time inside creating things, baking things, and writing and whispering about all sorts of new ideas. In fact, I had my first sleepover at her house. We slept in a play tent set up on top of her bed.

Later in high school, we reconnected through a girl's Bible study. We were assigned to be prayer partners and began writing back and forth to each other on a daily basis. We played clarinet in band together. Did homework together. Talked about boys and someday getting married and the hideous dresses we could make each other wear in our weddings. We shared a lot of life in those days.

When we went to colleges on the opposite ends of the United States, that sharing had to turn high-tech. We went online with our prayer requests and daily events. And read through a lot of the Bible that way too, reading and then sharing our thoughts back and forth. And now there is Skype. The best of both worlds as I've found residence in Portland, and she's in Texas. Talking and laughing about the worlds of education that we find ourselves in and the other events of our lives. There isn't anything like face-to-face connection with a dear friend, even if it is via computer screen.

Those are the good memories. But there are a lot of other memories too. I remember when her parents got divorced. When her Grandpa became ill. When my dad died. And my mom got remarried. The times we've both struggled to find God in our lives.

And it's in those memories that I take comfort. Because she's been my friend through the best and through the worst. She's been there forever. In every important detail. For as long as I can remember. I think that's why I call her my forever friend.

2010-08-11T19:09:00.000-07:00

I'm assuming that if you're reading this, you probably already know that I've moved. It seems that the people who take the time to follow me here are the people who already know the details of my life.

At any rate, moving came with being in possession of every last thing I've owned in the past 23 years. Plus a great deal of things that belonged to my mother and father as well as grandparents, aunts, and uncles. At any rate, I've acquired more "stuff" that I ever could have hoped for.

And while in the process of slowly unpacking all of that stuff, I came across a box of things from my Dad. Pictures of him growing up. His senior photo and high school diploma. Pictures from when he was in the Navy. A few letters.

And then I found a treasure: a letter I'd written to my Grandma Bolt circa 4 years old.

Dear Grandma

Thank you for the letter. I love you Grandma. Hope you have a good time at Uncle Fred's. Hope you are back soon! (You know why I want her back soon? Then I can go visit her!) I am in the summer reading program at the library. I got to stamp 20 times because Dad and Mom read me 20 books. I bought Dad a big rain gauge for Father's Day -- For at the Property. We'll probably be moved by the time you get here, but we'll still love you. We'll love you forever!

Love, Jessica

I have to laugh at this small token, particularly my cheesy 4 year old smile on the included photograph. At the time, the rain gauge was taller than me. And contrary to the concept of time in my 4 year old head, we didn't move out to the property for nearly five more years. A place that my Grandma was only able to visit once or twice.

But that small moment in time and that 4 year old frame of mind is documented in a letter to my Grandma. Handwritten by my mother and sloppily signed in pencil by me. Writing letters, really writing -- not just emailing, has become a lost art. The time taken to draft and compose something written out by pen seems monotonous compared to the typing and backspacing of a quick email. But there's something about a letter in the mail that captures a snapshot in time. A moment in someone's mind.

And that makes me miss writing and receiving letters. Wanting to know and caring enough to spend that much time investing in relationship. Believing that a moment in time is important enough to "take a picture" with words on paper.

Yes. I miss that.

2010-08-05T21:36:00.000-07:00

I've had a difficult time sleeping lately. And during the sleepless nights, I've been flooded with memories of countless other sleepless nights.

Playing cards in the middle of the night at the hospital.

Rubbing a hairless head.

Watching movies and eating ice cream at 2am.

Hooking and unhooking IV fluids.

Retrieving numerous warmed blankets.

Pacing the rooftop garden.

Trying to count the stars.

I don't miss being in Seattle. I don't miss the stress of waking up every two hours to administer medications or spending countless nights on a hospital cot. I don't miss the sterile smell of our apartment or the constant beeping of machines.

But I do miss being needed. I miss doing something that I knew no one else could do.

And I miss sleeping.

A Leaf from Matthew.

2010-06-06T13:04:00.000-07:00

"Let me tell you why you are here. You're here to be salt-seasoning that brings out the God-flavors of this earth. If you lose your saltiness, how will people taste godliness? You've lost your usefulness and will end up in the garbage."

"Here's another way to put it: You're here to be light, bringing out the God-colors in the world. God is not a secret to be kept. We're going public with this, as public as a city on a hill. If I make you light-bearers, you don't think I'm going to hide you under a bucket, do you? I'm putting you on a light stand. Now that I've put you there on a hilltop, on a light stand--shine! Keep open house, be generous with your lives. By opening up to others, you'll prompt people to open up with God, this generous Father in heaven."

Matthew 5:13-16

I finished student teaching, and I thought I knew a lot about this verse. After all, I'd spent 16 weeks trying my hardest to believe and speak only the best of the students I was teaching. I'd avoided conversations in the teacher's lounge and in hallways. I'd spoken pleasantly with parents. I had encouraged my students constantly. I made my best efforts to put the specific needs of my students ahead of the requirements of my classes or the State of Oregon and the Department of Education. I thought I knew what it looked like to be a light somewhere. I felt exposed, but useful. I was making a positive impact on someone's life.

And then I went to Uganda. And I spent three weeks with people who gave up a lot to be living light on the other side of the world. They've given up more than the convenience of Taco Bell or the comfort of soft mattresses. They've given up reliable transportation, and constant electricity. And even more incomprehensible is that they've given up things like the steady stream of communication we're used to here. They've given up spending holidays with family and celebrating milestones with the people they love the most. Truthfully, the things they've sacrificed to live as light on the other side of the world can't be contained to a paragraph. They've given up all of that to be honest and trustworthy examples in a place filled with corruption. They've given it up to show the goodness of one God to a people who believe in many gods. They live as light. And I thought that if I'd seen light like that, then I must know what it means to live as a light.

And then I came home. And about two hours after walking off the plane, someone flipped the light switch to off. I wasn't prepared for how indescribably alone I felt when I got back. I wasn't expecting to feel forgotten and friendless. The happiness I'd just felt was washed away in a sudden storm. And so I spent awhile walking around in the darkest nights, crying out for somebody to turn the lights back on. But instead of finding light, I found that no one was even listening. After awhile, it seems my eyes got used to the dark, and the faintest of lights started to shine between old cracks. An encouraging email from a high school teacher. A hug from a childhood friend. Coffee with the single friend I made at the job I spent last summer hating. Light started coming from unexpected places. A good book. A minute to play a piano. A smile from the person making my coffee. A card from my mother. The bus driver. Glasses. It was coming from all the spaces I didn't know created light when it wasn't coming from the place I expected it most. And it hurt.

And I realized that the "city on a hill" part of that verse really is important. I can turn on my flashlight in my room, and it does a decent job letting me read well into the night. But if I turned on 10 flashlights, it would light up the entire space. If I had 50 or 100 lights, I could take them outside and light up the street or neighborhood. Even dim lights are brighter when close together. In finding light in unexpected places I found the truth in living as light together, in sharing open homes and being generous with our lives. Not just to light up our community and take God's goodness to the world, but to light up the dark times in each others lives.

Untied Shoelaces.

2010-05-20T18:00:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning with an unlikely song stuck in my head. I say unlikely because it's a song I haven't heard sung out loud in over ten years. And one that I only heard a handful of times spread over a week.

But still I heard it. "Untied shoelaces, untied shoelaces. It sounds funny and lame, but it's really our name. Untied shoelaces." And despite numerous attempts to find another song to occupy my mind with, it's managed to be the only chorus I've heard in 12 hours. It's true, I've listened to John Mayer, I've sang Miss Mary Mack, and I've spent an hour hearing Nora Jones on repeat. But the mind is a complex wonder; it can sing songs of its own choosing. And something about shoes not being tied struck its fancy today.

And maybe it's the wondering and remembering that came with the song that my mind was after. Thinking about the people who wrote that song: my family group at summer camp over 10 years ago. Remembering the things they taught me about life. About loyalty. And perseverance. About what it means to be a kind and understanding and generous person.

And so while as unlikely as it is that they will ever read this, about as unlikely as the song that popped into my head, I want to say thanks. Thank you Boone and Feydra and Erich. Thanks for spending so much of my life knowing me. I am grateful that the people I looked up to as a child continue to be people who I can look up to today. Thanks.

2010-05-13T22:29:00.000-07:00

I find being sick to be an interesting thing. I only think of this now because I am apparently quite sick.

I've felt particularly sick at three points in the past year. Once shortly before the school year began, once while in Uganda, and now. The first was a 24 hour flu of sorts and a rather traumatic experience. The second, some odd mix of cold and flu and jet lag that was manifest in horrible body aches. And what can I say of now? Although I feel much better than either of those bouts of illness, I am apparently much sicker. And that is an odd thing to me. Or maybe it's the marvel we call modern medicine that is odd to me. That with the right combination of antibiotics, steroids, and cough and allergy medicines, even though I have pneumonia I feel remarkably better than when I've had a simple cold or the flu. And that leaves me wondering, if they can make serious illness feel this good, then why do we still get those horrible minor annoyances of sickness they call the common cold or 24 hour flu?

Although it also makes it much more difficult to find rest. I feel better now than I've felt in the past 48 hours (thank you, prednisone) and far better than when I've been sick before. In both of the previous sicknesses, I've been unable to drag myself from the mattress or chair; presently I'm wide awake past the hour of 10pm for the first time in weeks. But I'm still required to rest.

And this presents a unique challenge for the next 72 hours. How many movies will I be able to watch before disintegrating into mindless oblivion? All while managing to ignore the ever pressing to do list? Your guess is better than mine.

Rocks.

2010-03-31T07:00:00.000-07:00

There is a place at the camp where I worked last summer that has become more meaningful to me the longer I have been gone. It is a pile of rocks. Accompanying this pile is a verse.

"So Jacob took a stone and set it up as a pillar. He said to his relatives, 'Gather some stones.' So they took stones and piled them in a heap, and they ate there by the heap... Laban said, 'This heap is a witness between you and me today.' That is why it was called Galeed. It was also called Mizpah, because he said, 'May the LORD keep watch between you and me, when we are away from each other.'"

- Genesis 31:45-46 & 48-49 -

In Uganda, I also encountered a pile of stones. Well, not quite stones. Volcanic rock that was being used to build a guard house out at Camp Saaka. But the heap there outside of Fort Portal struck me in the same way the previous place struck me while I was at camp over the summer.

Those rocks become a place of remembering. Remembering that however far apart I might be from the people I love, they are watched over. And that while I was an ocean away from the people who love me, I was watched out for as well. And also remembering that when I left those people I was with, people who I also love, that they would be watched over still, just as they always have.

Familiar Words.

2010-03-29T06:37:00.000-07:00

The first time I saw the group Acappella sing, I was 5. They were singing in Spokane at the old Lewis and Clark High School auditorium. My dad had bought me a maple bar. It was ralphed before the intermission. I got to skip school the following day.

At any rate, we bought the tape Set Me Free that night. I have fond memories of listening to it as a child. As I've grown up though, the times I've listened to the music of my childhood have become fewer and further between. In fact, the last time I recall listening to that tape was in the days and weeks after my dad died.

But when I got into the Land Cruiser, late on the 8th of January, I was wrapped in a blanket of old, familiar harmonies. Continually while in Uganda I was struck by these words:

Lead me to rest, sweet Lord, lead me to rest. From my journey here, lead me to rest. The relief I've found from the burdens that weighed me down. Lead me to rest, lead me to rest.

They were words that sang me to sleep as a child. Words that had held me in the days after my dad died. And words I rested in across the world.

And today, I am struck that the words that sang me to sleep in kindergarten bring only more comfort as the years go by.

Jubilee!

2010-03-28T07:00:00.000-07:00

Some of you, at least those who've been around the area the last few years, might recall the "Year of Jubilee" at Cascade. You know, the year in which every guest speaker in chapel included at least one reference, however awkward, redundant, or corny, to Isaiah 61:1 or Luke 4:18. The year in which administrators readily agreed, "This is the year of Jubilee!"

In case you weren't around, here was the lowlight:

Eye patches/hats/dark sunglasses had become constant presence in my life.

Which honestly has nothing to do with being jubilant. To put it lightly, I was miffed at my inability to see whatever whenever I wanted to.

At any rate, back to the great Jubilee and Isaiah and Jesus in the temple in Luke 4. This verse that was quoted and misquoted frequently during countless chapels is as follows,

The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed.

Ha. Do you see that? It talks about giving sight to the blind. And suddenly, that verse became my verse, despite the fact that you could probably go back to the Greek text and point out that they aren't in fact referring to the visually impaired. But from then on, more often than not during chapel that verse would be read and I could be found making some off hand comment to Elice or whoever else might be near enough to be within earshot. Something about Jesus fixing my eyes. Preferably soon. Preferably, that very minute. Apparently, I'm not a very patient waiter.

But the "Year of Jubilee" came and ended. It turned into a year marked by "Running the Race" which faded into the year "Finish Strong." And I still couldn't see.

About now is probably the time to admit that I'm not the most openly faithful minded person. At one point, I told my mother to stop praying for my eyes to get fixed. Actually, I'm sure she would say that I've said that more than once. Although she could probably also attest that yelled angrily is a more accurate description of my verbal abilities in those moments. But despite my "acceptance" of an inability to see perfectly, when Sunday mornings rolled around and I found myself staring at the screen where song words should appear, it's guaranteed I was thinking, "Dear Jesus, please just let me see those words."

You could say that somewhere in the back of my brain, I was hopelessly hopeful. Because despite a mounting pile of evidence and experience stating otherwise, I remained confident that if I asked one more time, those words could appear. They didn't.

Student teaching came and went. Eyesight, or lack thereof, thankfully never became an issue. Christmas came and went. Then Africa came.

And I left seeing.

Seeing didn't come in a moment filled with sight, like the blind man who gets spit rubbed in his eyes. In fact, I hardly noticed it was there until I looked up the 3rd Sunday morning to unrecognizable words on the screen. I was used to the unrecognizable. Just not so much the words.

Thankfully, I can say that since then, save the incredibly tired/frustrated/angry moment, I haven't seen two of anything. Life in double is the exception, not the norm. And legally, I can see well enough to drive: 20/60 compared to something between 20/200 and 20/400. It hasn't been an entirely delightful experience, the re-seeing part. After all, it's like a good friend said, "I can imagine that the world is a scary place when you haven't seen it in awhile." But it's becoming enjoyable again. At least there isn't anything much better than seeing a child's face light up in a smile.

So, I guess maybe it's like they say: Seeing is believing. But then again, maybe not. After all, the people who believe in me were still there, even when I couldn't see them.

Education.

2010-03-27T21:00:00.000-07:00

While in Uganda, there was plenty of time spent talking about education. Education in the United States of America. Education in Uganda. Public schools. Private schools. Boarding schools. Home schools. College and higher education. Special education. Educational philosophy. Classroom and behavior management. Violence in schools. Yes, I believe we talked about it all. But the most interesting of conversations had to do with school supply lists.

This fall, I had the opportunity to draft a school supply list for the kindergartners entering the class I was student teaching in. The list included things like crayons and markers. Pencils. Kleenex. Instant hand sanitizer. Things we normally either associate with "education" or "health."

And then I learned about a few items included on Ugandan school supply lists: razors and wooden paddles. Both shocking and both enlightening. The razors are used as pencil sharpeners, a gesture of the blatant disregard for the safety of children in Uganda. The wooden paddles are used for beating students. Something equally disheartening.

In the schools I've worked in here, a student bringing either of those things would easily be suspended for bringing a weapon into the building. There, those items were required. The differences of philosophies on both education of students and the importance of children between there and here are as vast as differences in the stars in the sky or the noises at night were.

They have been among the most difficult things to reconcile since returning as well.

2010-03-26T16:17:00.000-07:00

While I was in Uganda, I met a young lady. Her name is Honest. And if I'm truthful, we didn't just meet; I've known her for quite awhile. We write letters back and forth.

And in the letters we write, there is never a lack for things to speak about. In immaculate English, she writes about her classes, her friends, and her family. I respond with news about the things I am teaching and pictures of friends and family.

The day I met Honest could be called the pinnacle of my trip to Uganda. It was the day before I flew back to the States. We'd celebrated Evan's birthday, celebrated Sunday, driven to and around the Queen Victoria Game Park, driven to Kampala, and spent the evening telling stories with friends of Andrew and Aimee Jo. I'd made arrangements while still Stateside to meet up with Honest and the Compassion International worker at the United States Embassy in Kampala. Unfortunately, I hadn't written down the phone number for the Compassion International Office in Uganda and the representative in the US had passed along Andrew and Aimee's incorrect phone numbers to the workers in Kampala.

And so Andrew and Evan and I stood in a parking lot for close to two hours before I met Honest. It was two hours of endless anticipation. But when I saw her, it was entirely worth it.

I'm still not sure how to describe it. We'd built this entire relationship through written communication. We'd never spoken before. I'd only seen a few photos of her and she'd only seen a few photos of me. And then suddenly she was there. She was there to hug and hold hands with. She was there to talk to. She was there to experience new things with.

The entire experience proved to me this: It is possible to love someone more than you can imagine without ever having met them.

Begging.

2010-03-25T09:21:00.000-07:00

I encountered an interesting scene on the last day I was in Uganda. We were in Kampala, and I had spent some time searching for crafts to bring back home at a market. However, when we went to leave, Andrew was less than delighted to see that the Land Cruiser had yet another flat tire. And so Aimee Jo, the kids, and I sat in a coffee shop for a bit while Andrew changed the tire.

While we were sitting there, a lady walked in with a little girl tagging behind. A picture that might not have been that different than Anaiah following me. Except that the lady was clearly a tourist and the child was clearly a beggar. The lady picked the girl up at the counter pointing to all of the pastries in the window and when the child couldn't decide, ordered her an enormous piece of chocolate cake. Something I wouldn't even choose to afford. The two then went over and sat at a table with a group of tourists. At this point, Andrew walked in and overheared the lady talking about the little girl she had found on the street. The tire had been fixed, and so we headed out to the car.

But this scene lead to an interesting conversation. In Kampala, there were beggars everywhere. When we would be stopped at an intersection [if you really do care to call it that], children would line the sides of the car asking for money. Some saying they needed money for food, others for school fees, others for medical care. When fruit trees are lining the path, the government is now providing free school tuition, and free medical clinics are offered.

And so we thought aloud for a time about what happens when from a young age, a child is taught through experience that they need to work for nothing. That if they simply ask, whatever they want will be given.

What's going to happen when that little girl decides she wants chocolate cake again, something I would have hardly dared to afford? She's going to stand outside the door to that shop and beg for it. Because working, it might take a week for her to make enough to afford it.

Which then comes back to living within a means. Here, you work and get a paycheck and use that money to pay bills and eat and whatever else. There, you barter or trade for money or food or services. And you use that to live off of. But both places, people struggle to live within their income. Here people use credit cards to afford things they can't really afford. There, people learn to beg. Or use other corrupt means to get what they want. But either place, it's not right.

I never thought I'd think so much about a piece of chocolate cake.

Homelessness.

2010-03-24T21:07:00.000-07:00

I live in Portland, a city with one of the highest populations of homeless peoples in America. I've grown accustom to people on street corners and aid programs that reach out to those with no place to live. And in this bitter climate and in an economy where money is required for food, homeless shelters and other programs have become necessary. Without these efforts, and often in spite of them, there are homeless folks who die every year in Portland.

But homelessness is different in Uganda. The climate is temperate. Even sleeping outside on the coldest of nights, I wouldn't be in danger of freezing to death. And food is plentiful. Perhaps not the best of food. But fruits are readily available for picking along the sides of the road. Truthfully, a person wouldn't be in danger of starving to death either, if they were willing to eat anything. And because of the way family works, it is rare that someone would truly be left without a place to sleep. There is always the family property to return to.

In fact, in the whole of Fort Portal, there was only one homeless man.

And so I had to spend time reconciling my beliefs. I was surrounded by poor people, but few who were in danger because of a lack of place to sleep or lack of food. While it seemed that everyone was in danger due to unclean water and diseases like Malaria and AIDS.

I think too often in the past, I have thought about the things that I believe are necessary to survive. I believe that I need a place to sleep. I believe that I need food to eat. And those things are true, although not necessarily to the standard I have held in my beliefs. But contrary to my previous beliefs, those aren't the things that endanger lives of my friends in Uganda. Bigger things do.

Questions.

2010-03-23T21:09:00.000-07:00

I believe people are good. That they have the best of intentions. That they tell the truth.

But those beliefs were challenged while I was in Uganda.

They were challenged as I heard about people taking advantage of others because they are white. They were challenged as I heard stories about people who pretend to care for orphans and widows and instead use money raised for their own benefit. They were challenged as I heard about pastors who are in the profitable business of church.

Never in my life have I seen so much need. But never in my life have I seen such poor use of resources, even among nonprofit groups.

I've thought about what to make of this for two months, and I'm still left no where.

Missonary Care.

2010-03-22T14:36:00.000-07:00

I've written a lot about places I went and things I saw while in Uganda in addition to some stark contrasts I found between there and here. And there's good reason for that. Those tangible things are much easier to talk about than many of the things I learned while visiting Andrew and Aimee Jo. And for the most part, they are things that are easily contained with a few words or pictures.

But I didn't just see things while I was in Uganda. I learned things too. And some of those things I feel compelled to share with you.

When we talk about sending off missionaries, two things typically come to mind: prayers and finances. And those things are important. Missionaries are solely supported by our generous gifts. And after three weeks, I can first hand express my thanks to all those who were praying for my safety. Missionaries depend on us for both of those things.

But I am convinced there is more we can do. More we should do to support and encourage our friends on the other side of the world.

I regularly scan the mail for letters from friends and family here in the States. Familiar writing on a page or a small surprise tucked between a few pages is a blessing to me. But my excitement over those things pales in comparison to a letter received from friends when you live oversees. I have never seen someone so excited by a bar of chocolate or bag of brownie mix as were the Martins and Cashes. Nor have I seen someone check the mail with the frequency our friends in Africa do, patiently waiting for an expected letter or package.

Facebook and e-mail allow for such rapid communication, even with sporadic internet connections. And it's true, our short messages of encouragement mean a lot to our friends who are living in other countries.

But we have other opportunities to bless our friends as well. For $0.98 you can send a letter. I can tell you the the look on their face when they open the post office box and find it there is more than worth the dollar required for it to be sent. Or you can mail a small package. Small flat rate boxes at the post office run about $14 to send. Coffee and Taco Bell sauce are among other commodities we take for granted here that are priceless in Uganda and South Africa.

In the last six weeks, I've spent a lot of time thinking about how I can be intentional in encouraging the people in my life who have given up so much to share Jesus with people all over the world.

I'd like to encourage you to think about what you might be able to do as well.

2010-03-21T20:57:00.000-07:00

It's interesting meeting a person you've only ever written. Particularly when it's someone across the world. Who doesn't actually speak English.

But I did.

And it was worth it.

I can't wait to hug her again.

Potholes.

2010-03-20T19:39:00.000-07:00

A few mornings ago, on my commute to work, a man on the bus got angry about the potholes on the road and pulled out his cellphone, declaring to the entire bus that he was proceeding to call the pothole hot-line and report the atrocious state of the roads.

Two things about this struck me as hilarious: 1. I didn't even realize we'd gone over a pothole. 2. We actually spend money for there to be a POTHOLE HOT-LINE?! People sit there all day and answer the phone to complaints about holes in the road?! What a job. Or not.

I encountered real potholes in Uganda. Holes that were over a foot deep. That jarred your neck and made you sore the following day. It left me wanting to tell the guy on the bus to get over himself. The road system in the United States is incredible. It's organized. Speed bumps aren't in the middle of the highways for no particular reason. For the most part people travel at a reasonable speed. The roads are smooth enough that you can sleep in the car here.

Yes, it's amazing.

2010-03-19T19:31:00.000-07:00

I've gotten to spend a lot of time hanging out with two year olds this week. And you can have fun hanging out with kids all you want, but it never compares to playing with the ones you love. And so this week, I've missed this one.

I miss reading and building block towers. And listening to her sweet voice talk about the Midi-Cats. Like Kitty Cats, except Midi as in MIDI cable. And listening to her tell me repeatedly to eat more or drink milk. I miss hearing her ask if I would come play rocks. Or if she could help me. Or write in my journal with me.

Yes, I miss that.

Danger, anyone?

2010-03-18T20:35:00.000-07:00

Magic.

2010-03-17T20:03:00.000-07:00

Along the entire road to Fort Portal, you could see men digging this incredibly narrow ditch. For a Fiber Optics cable. The cable that will magically deliver internet to the whole of Uganda. Well, [more] affordable internet at least. And while it might take upwards of 10 years to actually complete, the way things happen around there, it might mean managing to get an email sent the first time it's written. Instead of the 10th. I think I know some people who would like that.

Crazy Taxi Drivers.

2010-03-16T19:56:00.000-07:00

If patience pays, then why do you feel the need to endanger every living being within sight by your reckless driving?!

Honestly, the horrible driving on the part of others was probably the most frightening part of the entire trip. I have absolutely no way to reconcile it against my beliefs. However, I have yet to blink twice at dangerous driving here in Oregon. The worst here seems to be better than the best there...

Ketchup and Coke.

2010-03-15T19:00:00.000-07:00

There are two foods that I am particularly fond of. Ketchup and Coke. Naturally, you might not classify those as foods but as condiment and drink. However, I argue otherwise. While in Uganda, I was truly grateful that both were bountiful, albeit in old fashioned glass bottles. I can also say that both tasted better, perhaps as a result of the sugar cane used to process them instead of high fructose corn syrup. At any rate, I am grateful for the continued presence of both Coke and Ketchup during my ventures in Uganda. The combination makes unfamiliar foods bearable. Well, maybe not the combination, I've never mixed the two. But the Ketchup to dip things in and Coke to wash them down with... Something for which my undeveloped palate was very grateful.

I used to think I understood what dirty was...

2010-03-14T19:00:00.000-07:00

Apparently I didn't.

In Uganda, bathing was required. Daily. Otherwise the dirt just wouldn't come off.

The Elder Tree.

2010-03-13T19:00:00.000-08:00

There is a tree in Uganda, The Elder Tree, where Elders used to sit and meet. And a place, it follows, where the young could sit and learn.

I like this idea. If only because I am drawn to this idea of learning from someone who is older and wiser than I am. And that leaves me wondering, what was it like to sit at the feet of Jesus. What was it like to hear his stories firsthand?

The Backyard.

2010-03-12T19:00:00.000-08:00

The Martin's backyard offers the best of any I've been privileged to wander. Paths to meander through and stairs to wander down. Flowers to photograph. Children to play with. It was a place I was blessed to spend much time talking and laughing as well as reading and reflecting.

The Church.

2010-03-11T19:00:00.000-08:00

This is the Fort Portal Church of Christ. It is yet another familiar place. It was exciting to worship here, under this tent that I've heard so much about.

Camp Saaka

2010-03-10T19:00:00.000-08:00

After the airstrip and the plane, this is the next semi-tangible connection I've had to mission work in Fort Portal. Many a story was relayed during my years at FaithQuest about FaithQuest Uganda, a camp for Ugandan youth that takes place here yearly. I have friends who have been privileged to go and help with this great ministry. As I walked around, stories I've heard about this place flooded me. Simple stories about tents and showers. Others about a snake rising up out of the water behind a speaker and still others of demon possession. Camp Saaka was another place that struck me as oddly familiar. It was a blessing to see the place I have heard so much about.

The Airstrip.

2010-03-09T18:42:00.000-08:00

In the last 9 years, I've heard a lot about this place. I've helped raise money to fix the plane that is housed here. I've heard stories about the windsock being raised. I've become invested, even from across the world. In fact, this place and the stories about this plane were my first tangible connection to the Cash family in Fort Portal, Uganda. I can't describe how it felt to set foot in a place that it seemed I already knew so well. Seeing this place was like much of the rest of my trip, oddly familiar despite never having been there before.

*Yes, this is the airstrip. It is neither paved nor flat.

Sheep or Goats?

2010-03-08T21:11:00.000-08:00

Bible Class.

2010-03-07T12:50:00.000-08:00

This morning I helped teach the preschool Bible class at PUMP. I sat in a recently reorganized and freshly cleaned room, complete with a kid friendly carpet, child sized chairs, and tubs full of toys that are developmentally appropriate for 2 to 5 year olds.

While in Uganda, I also got to help out with Bible class. Well, if you want to consider telling stories with Isaac and Silas for hours or snapping a few pictures as help. It was an entirely different scene.

Over 50 children crowded around 2 small tables and a handful of chairs. Others sat around the edge of room, using benches as tables. There were 2 year olds as well as 12 year olds. A single picture and a story told aloud. A coloring page, although few crayons to share. Save a few barred windows, the walls were bare. In the back of the room sat a metal crate used for baptisms.

From my description, you might find it shocking to believe that this is one of the nicest spaces built for children in the Fort Portal area. And while it might not surprise you that this was built before many other things, like a church building or bathrooms, it surprises many Ugandans.

As a teacher I'm not sure what strikes me more. The fact that I believe I "need" so many "things" to be an effective teacher of children or that there, children have nothing and yet they still learn. I've been taught that the answer surely lies between two extremes. But after encountering both, I'm only left further from knowing.

Books Read.

2010-03-06T07:00:00.000-08:00

I had the chance to devour several books while in Uganda, mainly fiction. My mind was grateful for this un-educational exercise. I took recommendations from several friends who are skilled readers. And I enjoyed every page.

Intervention--Terri Blackstock
The Daily Five--Gail Boushey and Joan Moser
Seven Habits of Highly Effective People--Stephen R. Covey
The Tiger Rising--Kate DiCamillo
The Tale of Despereaux--Kate DiCamillo
The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane--Kate DiCamillo
The Magician's Elephant--Kate DiCamillo
Mad Church Disease--Anne Jackson
A Circle of Quiet--Madeleine L'engle
Abba's Child--Brennan Manning
Searching for God Knows What--Donald Miller
Keeping Faith--Jodi Picoult
Picture Perfect--Jodi Picoult
Plain Truth--Jodi Picoult
An Unlikely Disciple: A Sinner's Semester at America's Holiest University--Kevin Roose
Amish Peace--Suzanne Woods Fisher

Taking pictures in Africa.

2010-03-05T01:00:00.000-08:00

When I got back from Uganda, people wanted to see pictures. When they asked, I wanted to reply, "And I wanted to take pictures in Uganda."

I take lots of pictures here in America. Lots as in I've snapped 500 pictures in under an hour on more than one occasion. [Those of you who grew up with film can tell I've grown up in a digital age].

Africa was different. I found it nearly impossible to take pictures while I was there. When I did manage to take my camera out, my snap happy fingers were paralyzed.

Here, everything is ordinary. It's easy to take pictures of ordinary things. There isn't a worry about trivializing it or forcing it into a frame. There, every thing was new. And when everything is so new and so different, it's difficult to find where to start. I felt as if I couldn't capture everything I was seeing than I shouldn't even try. On more than one occasion, Andrew and I shared that sentiment.

And so when you see the pictures I took in Uganda, you won't see anything that is extraordinary, like others who have gone and taken pictures. Taking pictures was my afterthought; I was too busy seeing things in real life.

Maybe next time.

Rocks.

2010-03-04T01:00:00.000-08:00

I played rocks. Once. Anaiah played rocks everyday. Every. Day.

I still have rocks in my [unpacked] trunk from rock games played at the game park.

Small children have this amazing ability to entertain themselves when given the opportunity. Particularly when left without the lights, noises, and screens that seem to be so popular.

It's something I recall my father referring to as fun. Good old fun.

It's the kind of fun I had in Africa.

Price Check Please.

2010-03-03T01:00:00.000-08:00

One (1) package microwave popcorn: 5500 UGS, $2.73
One (1) plain boxed cake mix: 7000 UGS, $3.65
One (1) small box Cheerios: 20000 UGS, $9.91
One (1) small can of strawberry jam: 2500 UGS, $1.24
One (1) package of 20 saltine-like crackers: 5000 UGS, $2.47

A pineapple: Give or take 500 UGS, or approximately $0.24
A heap of tomatoes: Give or take 1000 UGS, or approximately $0.48

I was shocked by the prices of items in Uganda. The things I find expensive in America, like fresh fruits and vegetables, were only pennies in Uganda. The food I buy because it is "cheap" here, was unaffordable there.

24 days.

2010-03-02T01:00:00.000-08:00

January 7, 2010 10:43am: Boarded plane #1 to Amsterdam, no movies.

January 8, 2010 11:12pm: Arrived in Entebbe, Uganda.

January 9, 2010: Flat tire #1 on the road to Kampala.

January 10, 2010: American Recreation Association in Kampala.

January 11, 2010: Flat tire #2 on the road to Fort Portal.

January 12, 2010: Unpacked a trunk full of surprises.

January 13, 2010: Bananagrams with Aimee Jo and Destiny.

January 14, 2010: Played rocks with Anaiah.

January 15, 2010: School with Silas and Aimee Jo.

January 16, 2010: Church property, Airstrip, and Camp Saaka.

January 17, 2010: Listened to Isaac and Silas tell stories.

January 18, 2010: Sick day.

January 19, 2010: Another sick day.

January 20, 2010: Market Experience, Bible Study, and Tea at Derrick's home.

January 21, 2010: Still sick.

January 22, 2010: Getting ready for the big day.

January 23, 2010: Evan turns 1!

January 24, 2010: Luke 7:22.

January 25, 2010: Stood on the Equator.

January 26, 2010: Tree climbing lions.

January 27, 2010: Stood on the Equator again.

January 28, 2010: A day with Honest, the girl I sponsor through Compassion International.

January 29, 2010: Flat tire #3 while in Kampala. Goodbyes and back on the plane.

January 30, 2010: Touch down in Portland, customs, and lots of hugs to the Grauls.

Happy Birthday.

2010-03-01T13:00:00.000-08:00

You can write this down as history: On my 23rd birthday, the 8th of January in 2010, I arrived in Uganda. It smelled like home when I walked off the plane and felt like home when I hugged Andrew and Aimee Jo. There has never been a better day.

101 things in 1001 days.

2010-03-01T07:00:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, a friend recommended Donald Miller's newest book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. Don writes the book on the premise that life is a story. And that because it is, you can pick an end and tell the story of arriving there. At least that's what I've gathered so far.

Then I was handed another book, The Happiness Project. And likewise, this book is based on the idea that we can be intentional in the things we do in life. We can choose the person we want to be and then find the means to arrive there. We can pick something, try it, and if it doesn't work, try something else. Hmmm...Reminds me of ants and leaves, PUMP folks.

And if twice isn't enough, the third time ought to be. I enjoyed a good conversation with another friend a week or so ago about something she's doing, 101 things in 1001 days. In fact, a quick Google search reveals that a lot of people are doing it. Some picking things they've always wanted to do, some picking habits they want to change. Still others using it as a method to halt procrastination.

And that caught my attention. What if I were to think about who I want to be: the kind of friend I want to be, the kind of Auntie I want to be, the kind of professional I want to be, the kind of student and scholar I want to be. And what if I thought about the story I want my life to tell. At least the next three years of my life. If I did that, then I could pick 101 things that would intentionally bring me closer to the person I want to be.

1001 days seems manageable. It's not saying that I'm going to change immediately or that I'm committed to one specific thing for 365 days. It's saying that in the course of nearly three years, I'm going to attempt to complete a set of tasks. I'm going to try* 101 different things. Many of which I've broken down into months, weeks, or days. Others that I've committed to doing once a week or month throughout the duration of this venture. All that have to do with being intentional about the person I want to become. Granted, I hope that some things that start out being short term ideas will become things I treasure and continue to do regularly. While I hope that some of the other things I've chosen to do long term will bless others as I am sure they will bless me.

*I am publicly entering a season of experimenting in my life. I rest assured that I will fail multiple times during the next 1000 days. However, I know that my failures will bring about a more focused image of the person I want to become. In the coming months, please remember that this is a time to try, not a time to achieve perfection.

For the not-faint-of-heart who choose to keep reading, you'll see that some of these require the participation of other peoples. If you'd like to be on the receiving end of any of those offers (e.g. free babysitting), leave a comment or send me an email.

Start Date: March 1, 2010
Finish Date: December 25, 2012

Short Term (things that are one shot items or should take less than a month to complete once started, hopefully):
1. Get a job I like.
2. Move in with my piano.
3. Spend a week with my cousin Diana on three separate occasions.
4. Donate my hair to Locks of Love.
5. Get rid of 1/2 the things I own.
6. Visit my friend Launi in Texas.
7. Go to Disneyland.
8. Meet Sara Groves.
9. Make 2 intentional phone calls each week for a month.
10. Visit my friend Dorena in South Dakota.
11. Blog every day for a month about Uganda.
12. Make homemade gifts for family and friends one Christmas.
13. Donate money to a charity instead of giving gifts on a different Christmas.
14. Talk about my Leaf of Matthew.
15. Buy a digital piano.
16. Play 52 card pickup.
17. Finish unpacking my room.
18. Drive somewhere.
19. Dwell in the Word every day for a month.
20. Go to the beach.
21. Go puddle jumping.
22. Walk 2 miles everyday for 4 weeks.
23. Finish writing a series of blog posts on education.
24. Be CPR/First Aid certified.
25. Get a local phone number.
26. Get and wear glasses.
27. Go to the dentist.
28. Journal every day for 4 weeks.
29. Rearrange my room.
30. Go ice skating.
31. Get a sub # for Portland Public School District.
32. Organize my computer files.
33. Organize my books.
34. Go to Africa for a month.
35. Choose and be accepted to a Master's program.
36. Take Vitamin D everyday for 4 weeks.
37. Send birthday cards to my siblings (and possibly others).
38. Make cookies for Elice.
39. Delete unneeded emails.
40. Build a snowman.
41. Get a Ronnie hug.
42. Drink no Coke for 1 month.
43. Start a Quote Journal.
44. Be accountable to a friend.
45. Finish composing a piano quartet.
46. Return phone calls daily for 1 month.
47. Make my bed every morning for 4 weeks.
48. Visit my friend Erin in Kentucky.
49. Own a gliding rocker.
50. Go to Medora. Buy a new sweatshirt and enjoy the outdoor musical.
51. Invest in a good set of short sleeved shirts.
52. Go to Jimmy Mak's with friends.
53. Go to Jim and Patty's with a friend.
54. Get a printer.

Long Term (things that I'm guessing will take more than a month to complete):
55. Read through the Bible.
56. Play the piano everyday for 100 days.
57. Play the ukulele everyday for 100 days.
58. Read and put into practice the book Getting Things Done.
59. Play through Tchaikovsky's 12 Months.
60. Write 100 letters to friends.
61. Practice sensory awareness for 100 days.
62. Write 30 blog posts about things/people I'm thankful for.
63. Make 2 quilts, one to keep and one to give away with fabric from Uganda.
64. Read 10 different kid's chapter books with kids I love.
65. Memorize 10 separate passages of scripture.
66. Have 30 intentional conversations.
67. Be part of a Bible study.
68. Try ordering something new 10 times.
69. Intentionally take pictures of friends/family 15 times.
70. Get a budget and figure out how to use it.
71. Invite friends over for dinner 1o times.
72. Swim 3 days a week for 12 weeks.
73. Research and write some sort of guiding personal document.
74. Watch 60 new movies.
75. Write 100 Thank You notes.
76. Come closer to mastering the art of being still.
77. Buy the Sara Groves Songbook; learn to play the songs.
78. Take 3 continuing education courses. Topic: Special Education.
79. Write through the books Five and Did I Ever Tell You?
80. Read My Utmost for His Highest daily for 1 year.
81. Keep a grateful notebook for 100 days.

Endurance (things I plan to do regularly over the next 2.75 years):
82. Write to Honest, the child I sponsor through Compassion International, once a month.
83. Mail a friend who lives internationally a small package each month.
84. Give regularly and generously to my church and to the Martin family in Uganda.
85. Write to my friend Amanda twice a month.
86. Read 1 non-fiction book a month.
87. Read 1 fiction book a month.
88. Post a picture on my blog every week.
89. Add 1 children's read aloud to my collection each month.
90. Babysit (for free) for 1 family, 1 evening, once a month.
91. Use a planner/checklist daily.

Personal (the goals for which you only see numbers and status :)...
92. In progress.
93. Pending.
94. Pending.
95. Pending.
96. Pending.
97. Pending.
98. In progress.
99. Pending.
100. Pending.
101. In progress.

2010-02-12T18:01:00.000-08:00

I don't feel ready to dive into the mile long list of blog posts waiting to be written about student teaching, my beliefs about education, and most recently, Uganda. But for now, here's something I feel decently qualified to talk about.

I've been an Aunt for my entire life. And an Auntie (read: Great Aunt) for the past 8 years.

When I was little, I had the best Auntie. She'd let me come over to her house on Saturdays. We'd make pancakes. I'd help her clean. I'd play the piano for her. She'd let me crawl up on her lap, and she'd read countless stories to me. We'd go to the park and play. We'd take walks around the neighborhood. We'd go out for ice cream. She let me sit next to her during church and wander through her old, worn Bible. She came to all of my school performances, no matter the significance and no matter how horrible the sound. And she came to countless piano recitals and competitions. She was thoughtful about what it meant to be ever present in my life.

Getting to be an Auntie, the kind of Auntie I had growing up, is something I've looked forward to for a long time. I've looked forward to getting to be around for all of the every day little things in life. Incidentally, just about the time I got around to having great nieces and nephews, I relocated to Portland. And so as kids have headed to preschool, kindergarten and beyond, I haven't gotten to go to school events. I haven't gotten to hang out on weekends. Sure, there are phone calls filled with singing and stories and the occasional drawing sent snail mail. There are CDs of me reading books and playing goodnight songs on the piano. There are sleepovers on rare nights when I'm in Spokane. But I don't get to be a part of the every day events of growing up. And I've missed that.

But today, I got to just be around. Not for my own nieces and nephews, but for somebody else's. And it was cool to get to go sit in the background of a puppet show and snap pictures of somebody I love. I liked getting to be a part of the everyday part of growing up. It's a rare occasion these days.

And yes, this is not a perfect picture. I am well aware of that. I like it anyways.

2010-02-07T14:17:00.000-08:00

Going some place like Africa leaves you with too much to say and not enough space to say it in. Indefinitely.

Because it's been a week and I can't come up with anything more clever than this to write here.

So, for the few of you who read this and might actually be interested, try to catch me in real time. Not here. Because if you're waiting to read something here, sorry friends but your coffee's going to get cold.

First Impressions Upon Reentry...

2010-01-30T16:11:00.000-08:00

I took my water bottle with me to brush my teeth, only to realize that the water here is okay to drink.

Wait. Did I just say that I can drink this water? That's weird.

And me feet are clean! Even thought I've been walking around without socks or shoes.

Because socks are so itchy. And shoes so confining. Except it's FREEZING outside. Which I guess means no sandals.

But even barefoot, the carpet really is soft. Like walking on marshmallows.

And I have my own room. And a soft, soft bed. With warm fuzzy blankets. And all of my stuff. So so much stuff.

It really is incredible.

Uganda

2010-01-15T00:20:00.000-08:00

I've been here for about a week now. My brain is still a little fuzzy when it comes to thinking, but here are a few things I've enjoyed so far.

Sunshine.

Warmth.

Not wearing socks.

Yummy deserts.

Two flat tires.

Two sweet children.

Bananagrams.

A horribly loud birthday card.

Mary Poppins.

Lots of reading.

Taking pictures.

So far, my time here has been wonderful.

2010-01-06T10:16:00.000-08:00

This sufficiently sums up the last few days.

2009-12-31T12:02:00.001-08:00

I've done this for the last few years, and thought that despite the reckless abandon of several other traditions this year, I ought to stick some sort of year-in-review post up here for the adoring family who I'm sure will never read it anyways.

At this time last year, I was looking with disdain upon my last semester at Cascade College. I was enrolled in 28 credits. It was my last effort ditch to graduate without having to transfer and start an education program all over again as Cascade was closing it's doors for higher education at the end of Spring semester 2009.

I finished and had only student teaching left to complete when I walked across the stage on May 2nd. Countless friends were at my graduation. My mom and all four of my sisters were able to come, along with several nieces and nephews. My Uncle Clarence and my cousin Drew came as well.

Over the summer, I worked for Camp Arnold in Eatonville, WA. Limited cell phone use and internet made it a long nine weeks to be away from home. During the middle of camp, over the 4th of July weekend, I was able to go see my dad's surviving siblings at a Bolt Family Reunion. Camp ended with an outbreak of the Norovirus and the sending home of all campers and most staff. The 24 hours between the first sick camper and arriving back in Portland still seem like days in my memory.

I came back to Portland to be greeted by friends at a 10 year PSP reunion. It was so good to see friends from PUMP from years past. I spent the following week catching up with friends and moving into a new house with my friends Adam and Sarah Wolfgang and their four kids.

Only a few weeks later, I began student teaching in a kindergarten class at Woodlawn Elementary. I thoroughly enjoyed my time there. I loved the kids in my class. And it was so wonderful to see the sweet faces of friends each day in the hallway.

And that brings me to now. I just recently received my diploma in the mail and am eagerly awaiting the arrival of my teaching license! I'm currently tying up some loose ends and then traveling to Uganda for 3.5 weeks to visit friends and missionaries Andrew and Aimee Jo Martin.

This new year holds lots of promise. A break from school and work, a first in the last five years. A job, something I've been looking forward to with great anticipation. Time spent with both friends and family.

From here, life only gets better.

2009-12-30T10:38:00.000-08:00

I've had every intention of writing here more often now that my days are less hectic. However, lack of school has not meant a lack of busyness.

Currently, I'm counting down 8 more days before heading over to Fort Portal, Uganda to spend some time with Andrew and Aimee Jo Martin and their children Anaiah and Evan. It seems that most big things are in order. I've got a valid passport, all my immunizations, and travel health insurance. But for the first time in ages, I'm writing comprehensive lists. It feels like there are countless tiny threads to weave together before leaving.

The next few days are for packing and a quick trip to Sunnyside, WA to be with my cousins for my Uncle Clarence's funeral on Monday.

While my intention is to finish up a few (old) posts, I know that is highly unlikely. And so here's to a new year! I hope yours has as much to look forward to as mine!

2009-12-13T18:40:00.001-08:00

It's over folks. I'm a college graduate.

Thanks for your faithfulness in seeing me through the last four and a half years, friends.

An interesting breakfast.

2009-11-28T13:16:00.000-08:00

Last weekend, when I was at the Graul's house, Isaiah made this delicacy for breakfast.

Here is the recipe:

Lots of cut up hot dogs.
Some of the tiny pepperonis.
Some shredded cheese.
Fry the hot dogs and pepperonis together. When almost fried, add cheese. Cook until it looks like the following picture.
Although it's got enough grease to kill, it was surprisingly good!

2009-11-22T16:39:00.000-08:00

Every once in a while, I give somebody else a chance to take the pictures. Michal took this one this afternoon.

I love these kids.

2009-11-19T18:07:00.000-08:00

2009-11-15T20:31:00.000-08:00

There is a story in a book that has become more and more dear as the years have gone by. When I was in Jr. High my friend Conor's mom co-authored a book that tells the stories of women from the Jewish, Christian, and Muslim faith traditions. Some of the stories are crafted from mere verses mentioning a nameless woman. Nonetheless, they are beautifully woven.

While I was taking care of Mary, Mrs. Sayres mailed me both this book, Daughters of the Desert, as well as her newest book. The pages have been turned over and over since then.

My favorite of those included in this collection is a story about the woman found in Matthew 15:21-28. She is nameless. She is pushed aside. But she is relentless. In seeking healing for her child, she will stop at nothing, and with no one. Busy with the Israelites, Jesus says, "It is not right to take the children's food and toss it to the dogs." And she replies, "But Lord, even the dogs can eat the crumbs that fall from their master's table."

I'm more like this woman than not. I'm not an Israelite. I'm not the intended of this Good News. But still, I find myself hearing it. I find myself drawn to it.

And that leaves me wondering, because wondering is what you do a lot of in kindergarten. I wonder what it means to trust someone so much that my life is turned completely upside down. Because in an instant, that woman's trust in someone she'd never met before entirely changed her world.

2009-11-01T14:04:00.000-08:00

In the last four Sundays, I've been at PUMP twice and elsewhere twice. And not being home on Sunday mornings leaves a lot to desire. In four years, I've grown accustom to the way things happen at PUMP and seemingly cast aside the practices that were familiar years ago.

And after a few minutes, the little things start to add up. Like clapping and stomping. The voices of children. The hugs of friends. The Good News of Jesus that is shared.

But one thing gets to me every time I'm gone. Communion. And it's not necessarily what you might think. I've witnessed communion in several places. The Lutheran church some of my friends and family in South Dakota attend shares in closed communion. Only members in good standing of that church are allowed to participate. I always find it odd to be there communion Sunday. The Church of Christ I grew up at shares communion with all who have been baptized. I have memories of the glares that ensued after small children reached for the crackers or juice while there. At PUMP, we celebrate communion as a family. All here are welcome. I like that. But regardless of how I feel at 22, I've grown to appreciate the practices of the churches I grew up in.

But what really gets to me are the people who walk down the isles to pass the trays. Instead of passing Jesus between good friends, someone is there to link us together. Instead of celebrating intimately as a family, people reach for Jesus alone. I've grown used to Jesus being shared between close friends on Sunday morning. I can't imagine celebrating alone.

And I understand the logistics of being a "big church." But when I go to those churches and look around, I don't see a family celebrating together. Often in my childhood, they appeared to be mourning: sad and alone. And I don't understand that.

Sundays are about Good News. About a friend who always hopes for us. About somebody who just likes us. And that seems like news that's too good not to share.

2009-10-26T18:21:00.000-07:00

In Anne Lamott's book, Traveling Mercies, there is a chapter entitled Dad. I come back to the words she has written often this time of year, "It's so different having a living father who loves you, even someone complex and imperfect. After your father dies, defeat becomes pretty defeating. When he's still alive, there are setbacks and heartbreak, but you're still the apple of someone's eye." I think I've come to realize that more than ever this year. I've graduated. I've moved away from home. Soon I'll be a grown-up in the truest sense of the word, someone with a job and a place of her own. But still, the thing I want more than anything else is my Dad. No matter what others have to say, their words pale when I consider the possibility of his.

Pages later Anne says, "And right then, as brightly as electricity lights up the night sky, I understood that the man I was calling for could never ever come back. Because I understood that the man I was calling for was dead." She goes on to describe the terrible accompanying feelings, the countless tears and how she wished to call out to anyone who could hear that her father had just died. And then to her dismay, she realizes her father had died 20 years earlier, and she says, "For twenty years I have ached to go back home, when there was nobody there to whom I could return." And in that moment, twenty years of longing ends, "I handed over my hope and belief that I did not have to have a dead father."

Eight years has nothing on twenty, but it's still more than a third of my life. Every once in a while, I come to the shocking realization that if I go home, my dad won't be sitting outside the house waiting for me. And in those moments, indescribable pain washes over me and I come to understand what Anne means when she says it feels as if her father had just died, 20 years later. And then I do what she did. But you'll have to read the book if you want to know what that is.

2009-10-24T21:54:00.000-07:00

I'm looking at tickets to see The Lion King over Thanksgiving break.

You might recall, when I saw The Lion King previously, it was an emotionally loaded experience. I found a friend in the character of Simba that I have yet to find elsewhere. And right now, an understanding friend is a welcome thought.

Three scenes still flood my mind.

The first is when Simba and his father are out in the grasslands looking up at the stars. Mufasa sings to a young Simba of his ancestors, "They live in you, they live in me. They're watching over, everything we see. In every creature, in every star. In your reflection, they live in you."

Then moments later, in the midst of grief and anguish, Simba sings to his dead father, "Home is an empty dream, lost to the night. Father, I feel so alone. You promised you'd be there, whenever I needed you. Whenever I call your name, you're not anywhere. I'm trying to hold on, just waiting to hear your voice. One word, just a word will do, to end this nightmare. When will the dawning break? Oh endless night." And I realize, it is good to know that I'm not the only one who considers home to be an empty dream. I'm glad to know I'm not the only one waiting to hear just one word. It is good to know I'm not the only one who feels unexplainably alone. Or the sting of betrayal. Or who's waiting for the nightmare to end. Someone else has felt what I do. Albeit an imaginary lion.

Later, as Simba contemplates confronting Scar, Rafiki sings to Simba the words his father had left with him years earlier, "Hear these words and have faith: He lives in you, he lives in me. He watches over, everything we see. Into the water. Into the truth. In your reflection, he lives in you." And Simba is reminded that his father is with him always.

And then I am reminded that just as the morning has come to Simba, it too will come to me.

2009-10-22T19:11:00.001-07:00

I'm spending some time looking forward...

...To Sara Groves releasing a new album.

...To being able to see again.

...To spending time with the Martins in Uganda in January.

It's making the next few days bearable.

2009-10-21T20:57:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, I wrote about a little boy.

Today is is 2nd birthday.

Two years ago, I waited at the hospital while he was born.

Later, I got to ring the bells to announce his birth.

Bub, I love you. I pray that you grow up with Jesus for your friend. He's the best one you could ever have.

And just in case you ever wonder, it will be okay.

2009-10-16T21:20:00.000-07:00

I've got to admit, there's nothing like talking to my baby girl on the phone to make a bad day bearable. And when I say 'my baby girl,' I really do mean mine. She refuses to take off the shirt I bought her; it says 'All I want for Christmas is my Auntie.' And she only falls asleep to me playing the piano.

And when it feels like I can't get anything right about being an Auntie, those things say that somewhere along the line, I got it right for her. Lots of kisses. Even more hugs. Sweet whispers across the miles at bedtime. Piano lullabies and books read on CD. I did something right.

Tonight I've got a nephew and a niece sitting in jail. And my boy Shad was taken by CPS. And as an Aunt, I'm not sure what to think about that. A life in foster care isn't what I want for my boy. But then again, neither is a life influenced by the bad choices of his parents.

I'm not sure where the sweet boy is tonight. But I know he's safe. I know somebody is taking care of him. And I'm not sure if that should leave me relieved or worried. Right now I'm just mad.

I don't know what it means to be an Aunt in all of this, let alone an Auntie.

2009-09-19T11:46:00.000-07:00

I'm making final revisions to a document I wrote last spring before turning it in on Sunday. It includes several reflections of my teaching. After the last few weeks, these particular thoughts ring especially true.

At the conclusion of this unit, I feel like what I wanted to teach was accomplished, however painstaking it might have been to get to this point. On my post test, all students capitalized the first letter of every sentence, put punctuation at the end of each sentence, and included a topic sentence and concluding sentence at the beginning and end of their paragraphs. That’s in addition to each student scoring 100% on the knowledge portion of the test. The goals I had set for my students were reached however difficult the journey to get there might have been.

I am still left with several of the same questions though. How is a teacher to recreate the dedication to learning that was required in a set of 10 lessons in each lesson that she teaches? Is it justified to change multiple lessons for the benefit of a few students? Or do you teach to the majority of the class at the cost of a few students? How many times does information bear repeating? And in how many different ways?

And I’m not satisfied with the answers I have. I know that the costs that were required for me to enable this success through the course of 10 lessons are too high to invest in each lesson I teach. The hours I poured into teaching these lessons for the success of every student are not realistic in terms of teaching more than one lesson a day. With seven hours in a school day, there are not enough hours in a day to prepare so extensively for each of multiple lessons.

And while I know that it is beneficial and sometimes required to teach lessons that target a handful of students, it is not realistic to do on a regular basis. While it is a possibility in small groups, it can’t possibly be realistic to slow the pace of an entire class to teach a few with state testing and benchmarks looming over my head.

And even though I know that it’s acceptable to teach and coach the same information over and over and over again. It still doesn’t feel okay. It leaves me feeling as if I can’t manage to communicate my point well enough the first time for others to understand it. And however many times I tell myself that mistakes are acceptable, that they are a sign of learning, I still feel that concepts should understood the first time around. Something that is obviously intellectually incorrect on several counts. But I’m still not sure how to make that change of heart.

2009-09-04T11:42:00.000-07:00

My entire remembering life, I've been buried knee deep in music. I started playing the piano young, and began playing competitively in 4th grade. During the school year I played Baroque and Classical and later Romantic. In the summers, I played jazz. I played piano year round. I played clarinet in a marching band. And I played fiddle each week during the school year. I was heavily invested in music. It was as essential to me as air is to others.

But that doesn't mean that I loved it. Growing up, music was about perfection. About playing notes on a piece of paper exactly as the composer intended for them to be played. And when you play any sort of music that most would consider classical, that is in fact the whole aim. You play to preform. And a performance must be perfect. And that kind of perfection does lead to certain death. In the least, it kills any joy once associated with its subject. Even in playing jazz, I was driven to perfection. Except that's not what jazz is about. When I listened to music, I listened to criticize. It's what I've been trained to do. To hear errors. To notice imperfections.

I don't enjoy music. It is true, I need it. I can't survive without it. But it is rare that I ever truly like it. I play piano for Elice, more to see her enjoyment than for mine. I play as a means of self expression, but while I play, a constant stream for remarks float through my mind. And I listen to music constantly; when I can't hear it, it runs through my mind. Music is hardwired into my brain. It runs wild in my blood. I need it whether I want it or not.

But last night I enjoyed music. For the first time in years, music was truly enjoyable to me. Those who made it were happy. Perfection did not drive them. And it is true, they made good music. Good in the truest sense of the word. And for a few hours, I was soaked in pure happiness. I smiled as I listened. And it wasn't the usual obligatory smile.

The few of you who read this have already been. I know that. But if you're reading this and don't have the slightest clue what I'm speaking of pick a Thursday and go. It's beautiful even to the untrained ear.

2009-09-03T18:24:00.000-07:00

The last couple of days, I've said more than once, "I don't want to be a teacher anymore." And maybe that is how I have felt. But that is clearly not the thing I have ultimately wanted.

Yesterday, I found out from a peer that there was a stack of forms that I needed to have completed and turned in to PPS before this week. I hadn't been made previously aware of this. And so this morning, I took time to go down to the main Public Portland School District office. I got there and stood in line for 45 minutes. Only to be told I had completed the wrong forms. I went upstairs and got the correct ones. The kindest lady helped me complete them. And I returned to the infinite line again. After waiting for more than 45 minutes, I handed my papers to the officer. She turned to the computer screen and informed me that I'm not in the listed as a student teacher for PPS this fall. In fact, I'm not in the computer at all. I did convince her of my status, and she agreed to process the forms. However, she told me that the entire process (meaning background check, of which I have had FIVE in the last two years, including one for TSPC and the Woodlawn School) normally takes about a week. A week wouldn't sound so bad if Friday and Monday weren't holidays, making next week really next Friday, if we're going to be technical. And then came the bad news, I wouldn't be allowed in a classroom (or school for that matter) until the paperwork had been cleared. Doing so would be "forfeiting my privilege to student teach at Portland Public."

Now, there is a subject we ought to revisit right about now. I go to a school that doesn't exist. Not student teaching, or not passing student teaching, THIS SEMESTER means no diploma. No diploma means no teaching license. That means starting an Education program all over. Or not being a teacher at all. I have to student teach.

Here's another problem. There are 15 weeks from now until Christmas in the Portland Public calendar. I have to teach for 15 consecutive weeks to complete student teaching. I HAVE to be at school next week. No school next week means no diploma. I think you get the picture.

After leaving the building in tears, I was rather profane in the expression of my disbelief and anger. And this is when I realized, "I want to be a teacher." If I didn't want to be a teacher, I wouldn't be completely distraught at the thought of being banned from a classroom for a week. Somewhere in me, I still want to be a teacher.

I got back to school. Explained the situation to my teacher. And walked down to Mr. Speed's office. After a nearly tearful explanation of what had happened, including the horrifying thought of not being allowed to teach next week, he said, "Let me make a call."

Fifteen minutes later, a background check had been completed. I had been entered into the computer system and other paperwork had been recorded and filed. What I had spent over two hours trying to accomplish and what would have taken until Friday to complete was finished in a matter of minutes.

I don't usually hold out a lot of hope in humankind. They tend to lie, betray you, and disappear at the most inconvenient of times. They leave you with empty promises and cold words. People hurt. But today, someone did everything they could do to ensure that I could be at school on Tuesday. Someone dropped all that was important to help me. Someone not only took time to listen, but to understand. And then what had been taken was given back.

I'm not sure yet, but after today, I'm thinking that some of them aren't really all that bad.

And I want to be a teacher. More than anything else. Well, more than most anything else. After all, I can't wait for December...

2009-08-30T19:18:00.000-07:00

I've been told friends that people photograph what they feel. I've never believed them. But yesterday, as I walked through Cascade one final time. And as I said good bye to a few dear friends. And as I mentally began to prepare for a new school year, hundreds of miles from my "school" and my friends. I took pictures of what I felt. Not intentionally. But when you start sorting through 500 some odd pictures, themes begin to emerge. Things spinning, often looking out of control. Serious and sad faces. The backs of people; people walking away. Empty spaces. Shadows. Confusion. Uncertainty. All in photographs of happy children playing at a park. Apparently it's true; you photograph your feelings. Because in the pictures I took yesterday, its as if my feelings stain the prints. Here's a favorite for you; one that aptly describes this coming week.

Cascade Byes.

2009-08-29T21:50:00.001-07:00

Favorite people in favorite places.

2009-08-27T15:32:00.000-07:00

Last week I mentioned that October come early. Only to be met with puzzled faces. But it's true, October has come, and it's not even September.

For the past 8 years, October has become less like a month and more like a season. It starts with knowing that something is wrong. And then come the constant tears. And then I realize that I really just want my Dad. A feeling that just goes on and on. Through October, and Thanksgiving, his birthday, Christmas, New Years, my birthday. And then slowly fades away, just as it came into being.

And I never knew that I could miss someone this much. Or that I could want something so bad. A dad. My dad.

But as much as I want his eyes looking into mine and my arms wrapped up in his, this is as close as I can get.

2009-08-25T09:59:00.000-07:00

I spent the weekend in Spokane with family. The highlight was definitely these sweet faces. I'm not sure what I would have done without their hugs. Ari just turned 2 and Shad will be 2 in a few weeks; they happen to be best of friends. I think I'm in love.

2009-08-18T16:50:00.001-07:00

Last week I ordered a Kindle. Today I've spent the better part of the day waiting in anticipation for the UPS man to drop it off. Few things have ever held the appeal of this to me; in fact, I can think of only two purchases that have changed my life more: my camera and a program called Kurzweil 3000.

For me, the ultimate selling point was this:

Kindle DX has six adjustable font sizes to suit your reading preference. You can increase the text size of your favorite book or periodical with the push of a button. If your eyes tire, simply increase the font size and continue reading comfortably. Now every book in your library can be large print.

Few things say "normal eyesight" like being able to pick up a book and read it. More than anything else, this is what I have missed in the last three years. Sure, I've adjusted. I have a program on my computer that reads scanned text to me. I buy books in large print. I'm in the process of mastering Braille. And while these things are answers, they don't hold the promise of the Kindle. The first of those options is all consuming. It takes hours to scan a book into the computer program. And then I'm not even reading, I'm being read to. The second and third leave one with an incredibly limited selection of materials. That might not be a concern for most, but I found as a young child an innate ability to devour text, often reading more than five books simultaneously. Besides, it's impossible to transport, let alone afford, any number of large print or Braille books. A large print Bible is bigger than my laptop. A short Braille children's book even larger than that.

But regardless of that, here's what excites me most. The books required for my classes this fall are available to download to the Kindle. For the first time in three years, reading for classes will completely be in my hands. No more computerized voices. No more searching for people willing to read text for classes they aren't taking. When I want. Where I want. Reading will be mine again.

2009-08-09T14:46:00.000-07:00

My cousin's own a small business for which I have had the pleasure of doing some photography. They grow and harvest hops to sell to micro brewers in addition to having apple and cherry orchards. I was fortunate to spend a good deal of my childhood here, and upon each return I am greeted not only by familiar faces but also familiar smells. But for now, here is a picture that aptly describes the best part of this place. I hope you enjoy it.

2009-08-08T14:50:00.001-07:00

It's true. Pictures are probably long overdue. I didn't take any pictures at camp this summer, and since arriving home, my camera battery died a painful death. Well, at least it was quite painful for me. Under usual circumstances, I would have just ordered a new one online, however my wallet was stolen and I haven't had access to my bank account.

I was able to spend the 4th of July with my dad's five surviving siblings and some close cousin's. I didn't take many pictures (only 200 and something), but here are a few favorites (some more or less for sentimental value rather than quality).

My dad's living siblings (from oldest to youngest, left to right): Harold, Paul, Clarence, Mary, and Fred. My Uncle Fred looks nearly the same as I remember my father.

My Uncle Fred's granddaughter, Olivia. Drew and I have taken to calling her Liver.

My Uncle Harold and Uncle Clarence.

Fireworks. Have I mentioned that our family is a lot of pyromaniacs?

Well, we are. I'm sorry if that worries you.

2009-08-04T09:58:00.000-07:00

Look...It's only been a month since I've posted here! I have several posts written out in a notebook: books I've read, places I've dwelt, things I've learned. However, today I'm just saying "Hi, I'm back, world."

The last week feels like a month. It's hard to believe that less that a week ago, camp closed due to a Norovirus outbreak. I am incredibly grateful that despite staying with and taking care of sick campers, I remained healthy.

I got home late last Thursday night and moved in with a couple of good friends. Saturday and Sunday I was able to spend time with several other friends at PSP's 10th reunion. Hugs and laughter have definitely been plentiful.

As most of you know (at least I think most of you know), I broke my foot about four weeks ago. The break in my ankle is just about completely healed, although the other breaks will take a few more months to heal.

I'm spending the upcoming weeks here in Portland catching up with friends and settling in before I begin student teaching.

Don't worry...You'll hear lots more very soon!

2009-07-04T20:16:00.000-07:00

This is actually Jessica...Posting from a non-white listed computer. What a novel thought.

I'm at my cousin's house with all of my dad's surviving siblings. And from the looks of things so far, somewhere there must be a law requiring a proficiency in pyromanicy to be part of this crew. At least a few of us have enjoyed lighting things on fire and blowing things up for the better part of the afternoon. And we haven't even gotten to the fireworks yet.

Somewhere it must also be required that you be of less social nature. At least Drew, Liver (Guess how many words it takes to get to this from Olivia), Davey, and I wound up hiding away in the basement playing the Wii while the droves of people dominated the upstairs. It was worth it...A reasonable temperature (it's still 97 outside at 8:30 at night), good (and known company), and something mindless to do. Conversations between us often went something like this, "I don't think I've seen them since I was 11." Followed by, "What was I, three?" And then, "I wasn't even alive yet." I've met people I've never known existed. Or at least that I didn't know still existed.

Anyways, camp is good. It's busy. Definitely more than a 9 to 5 job...More like 7 to 11 (and that's am to pm). Last week was rough for all of us. It was definitely a difficult group of campers. Several were sent home and even more had to be closely watched. I met many children whose stories simply broke my heart.

Church continues to be...Well, not home to say the least. People up here don't know how to clap, let alone stomp, and have never heard the word harmony.

I'm off to smores and ice cream. And then to light more things on fire. What a blessed day.

The ZONE

2009-06-25T08:44:00.001-07:00

Here's my funny story for the week. I basically serve as "camp librarian." That means I'm around to teach some elective classes that are reading/writing/public speaking based as well as holding a story time and having the area open during free times and preparing activities for cabins during cabin time. I also serve as a resource for counselors. Part of my job is having a "word of the day" in which kids can earn a bead (think ticket PUMP friends) for using correctly in a sentence and holding reading competitions between cabins and units. Also, kids can come in and read to earn an ivory ZONE bead for "The Bead Club."

Today, a kid came into The ZONE and "read" to earn his bead. I require that kids: 1. Actually read for 15 minutes. 2. Read an age/grade/reading level appropriate book. And 3. Show me what they've read before getting their bead (these pages are also counted towards pages read for cabin competitions). When he came and showed me what he'd read, it was a picture book. A picture book in the truest sense of the word. There were no words, save the title and author. And so I reserved the right not to give him a bead. He got quite mad and stormed out yelling, "Frick, frick, frick!"

You might think that was heartless of me. And maybe I would have shown a bit more mercy. Maybe. If he would have been 7 instead of 12. We'll see if he comes back and tries again tomorrow.

From camp...

2009-06-23T13:32:00.001-07:00

Here at camp, we go to chapel every day. Kind of like some place else that seems to linger in the past. Except that here, chapel is at 8am instead of 11. It's still a bit early for me. However, that's besides the point.

I've been getting homesick, like this continual aching inside of me, and so I've taken up dwelling, especially during chapel when I just want to be with my family. This morning, I got stuck on the first sentence. And every time I tried to move on, I just couldn't.

"Since God has so generously let us in on what he is doing, we're not about to throw up our hands and walk off the job just because we run into occasional hard times."

Hmm...I've thought a lot about just quitting in the last few days. Saying, "I've had enough," and then packing my bags and heading home. I've been exhausted by training. I'm tired of constantly being with other people, particularly those I don't know well. I've been in a mess of hard times and I'm ready to throw up my hands and walk away. But that's not what this verse says. It was like a stop sign of a reminder, only moments after I had once again contemplated calling Elice to come and get me.

Once I collected those thoughts, I continued to read, past where we usually stop, and found this. A continuation of where my mind first paused.

"We're not sure what to do, but we know that God knows what to do."

And then...

"So we're not giving up. How could we! Even though on the outside it often looks like things are falling apart of us, on the inside, where God is making new life, not a day goes by without his unfolding grace."

Right. Even when my plan is to walk away, God knows better. When I'm exhausted, God knows better. When I feel like the world is falling apart, God still knows better. He knows that his grace is enough.

2009-06-02T13:36:00.000-07:00

I believe that most of you who read this already know I'll be working as a literacy program director for a summer camp from the beginning of June through the end of July. I think I'm excited for this. At least I'm excited to be able to work with kids outside of their usual environments. I know that for me, many of my best childhood summer memories are those of camp.

However, being at camp for about nine weeks will impact my lines of communication. First, I will not have access to cell phone or email on days that I am working. So, if you email me Monday, there's a good chance that I won't see your email or be emailing you back until late Friday or Saturday. Even though email might be slow, I would still love it if you would continue to write to me. I already know how much I am going to miss the near constant stream of digital chatter between friends. I would love to hear about and see pictures of your summers! If I need to be contacted sooner than email will allow, please get ahold of Leah Crumrine, she has information to contact me if necessary and will be able to do so.

Also, I will not be able to post to blogger or access my blog or any other social networking type sites while I am at camp. Leah has graciously offered to type my hand written notes as snail mailed to her and post them on my blog while I am gone. And thus, for the next nine weeks or so, this will be analog blogging. If you'd like to join me as I venture through this world of slow paced communication, let me know and I can get you my address. I'm sure letters would brighten the days I'm away from home!

2009-05-19T20:12:00.000-07:00

It's true. I've been non-existent these last few weeks. I thought I was busy taking 23 credits, but it's nothing like managing a class of 28 third graders who only have time to think about an approaching summer vacation. Don't get me wrong, I've enjoyed being in the classroom every day for the last two and a half weeks. I have loved getting to know the kids. We've had a blast learning songs together. They are patient with me as I become a better ukulele player. We've loved learning about butterflies together. Our caterpillars started forming chrysalis's today. The kids can't wait to see their once fuzzy caterpillars emerge as butterflies in a few weeks. But teaching all day every day leaves me exhausted. Most often, I come home and start to reflect on the day only to fall asleep on my bed. A few hours later I might wake up and eat a bowl of cereal while considering the next day only to fall asleep again. But the alarm never fails to go off at 5:15 so that I can be out at the bus by 6:00am. I have found that I enjoy being a morning person. It's wonderful to hear the birds and see the sun rise. However, I have missed my friends the last few weeks. Between teaching and sleeping, I haven't seen or talked to anyone it seems. While I have enjoyed this experience, I am ready for some time to sleep and time with friends. Soon...Very soon hopefully...