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| Looks like September 2 or 3... probably 2. :(
I can't believe I only have one more week in Chicago...
On a happier note--I'm official adjunct faculty at Rider University! I'll be taking five classes at Princeton Seminary and teaching two at Rider. When can we hang out, Kristen? :) | | |
| I was recently reading one of those inane email forwards that I get thousands of but I hardly ever read. It was titled: "Kids in Church." What pastor hasn't made a shameless use of these lists to get a laugh out of an otherwise listless congregation? This usually irks me, not because I hate laughing in church, but because I feel like email forwards should stay, well, as email forwards, and usually be deleted immediately. But, as has been the pattern these past few months, the Lord still speaks to me through my arrogance. This story did give me a smile: "A young boy was asked to pray the Lord's prayer. He knelt down by his bed and said, with earnestness, 'Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trash baskets as we forgive those who put trash in our baskets. Amen." Real or apocryphal (and who believes email forwards anymore?) this story gave me pause. What an accurate and vivid portrayal of forgiveness is this prayer. Often when I am slighted, I feel like people are just throwing their trash (be it passive aggressiveness, bad driving skills, or just plain meanness) in my basket. I want to scream, "I haev ENOUGH trash in my basket, thank YOU!" But we are asked to forgive these callous slights, this continual tossing of trash, for that is how our baskets become clean once again. As we forgive their trash, the Lord forgives ours. And what disgusting trash it is... In other news: I've FINALLY figured out how to post pictures, though I have not yet figured out how to make them a decent size... 
Proof that I got married... 
One of my favorite wedding photos... Daryl, me, and the deer head. This was taken just before we left for the honeymoon! 
Maranatha Settlers... 
Family pho-to... including Jared, who's not yet in the family, but probably will be soon! :) 
Daryl and I on the swings... I'm getting used to being perpetually astounded by how much I have yet to learn... What's been on my mind this week: School is easy. In school there are answers. Papers get finished. Problems get solved. Worst case scenario, you fail a class. Nobody dies, nobody dislikes you, it's a small failing that can be covered over. If you get good grades, you succeed. If you study hard, you excel. Real life is not this way. Sometimes the right person for the job gets turned down. Often providence or bad luck hits at the worst possible time, and even though you've prepared, it doesn't matter. The job I'm working these days has been an incredible challenge--maybe the biggest I've faced. Oddly enough, it isn't at all challenging. Most days I'm bored silly. And yet, this is a tremendous challenge in itself. How do I maintain my Christianity in a place where I am no longer stimulated, encouraged, or challenged like I was during my years at Wheaton? How do I avoid becoming constantly snippy and out of sorts when I'm working in a position where I don't feel like I'm making a difference at all? And how do I keep getting up to go to work in the morning when even the money doesn't seem to be worth the hours of my life that I'm spending staring at a computer screen and answering the phone? How do I DO when I can't bring myself to CARE? I long for the days of school and teaching, for they have spoiled me very much--and indeed, I'll soon be a student again--but I know all the while that I'm only attending this step of my education in order to be more prepared for the "real" (i.e. messy, unpredictable, often nonsensical) world, where I'll again launch myself into the unknown. Does anyone else feel as though the world made much more sense when you were just working for A's? | | |
| The countdown is on: two months from today. Somewhere around September 8th, Daryl and I will be all packed, driving out to Princeton, New Jersey, to start a completely new chapter of life. All this moving talk is making me think about my time here in Wheaton. In many ways, it’s where I’ve grown into an adult. I attended college and graduate school here; I fell in love and dated the man I would marry here. Our first apartment is here. The church that will send us to seminary is here. Most of my dearest and oldest friends are here—not those who I spent my childhood with, but those who I asked some of my toughest questions with, whether those were questions of spirituality, practicality, femininity, politics, or love. And now, in less than two months, all of our belongings will be packed in a truck, and we’ll be heading out of town. It’s occurred to both Daryl and me that a few years down the line we won’t have many reasons to return to Chicago. The majority of our college friends here have no plans to stay in Chicago indefinitely. Many are bound for graduate school this year or next, others have already left for jobs on the east or west coasts. A few will stay, and we will return to visit them, but the home-ness of Wheaton and Chicago will fade, and its familiarity will be replaced with the familiarity of new places and a new home. I’m torn between a feeling of wanting to put down roots—perhaps marriage has done this to me—and wanting to have continual adventures, traveling from place to place to add to a list of experiences and communities that will enrich my life in deepening ways. I wonder which of the two is the more Christian. Christ had no home, no place to lay his head, yet we are commanded as believers to care for one another in community, and it seems difficult to do this when community is so transient. Though we will be in Princeton for at least three years, we may move on after that. If not right then, after a Ph.D. program we will move again. I long to stay somewhere, to know people and have them know me in a way that is impossible in only a year or two. I long to work through the irritations and frustrations that are inherent in any community, to be pushed to grow in ways I wouldn’t otherwise, to be pushed to love people I could otherwise forget if I knew I would be leaving in only months. Yet, there is joy in this preparation, too. We’re both getting ready to study something we love, a subject that gives us purpose and great joy. I can’t wait for the adventure of a new place, the excitement of meeting new people, some who are just like me, and some who are fascinatingly different. I’ve cried about various stages of leaving. About packing up from an apartment we love. About moving so far from home weekend trips aren’t possible anymore. About saying goodbye over and over again to those we love. About selling my car. Yet, as we take proactive steps to really say goodbye—lists of places to visit, people to see, friends to hug just a few more times—I feel as if we’re really saying goodbye, not just waiting for the goodbye to happen to us. And that helps—a little. Mostly what helps is to remember all of the time we spent in prayer and preparation before we made this final decision. As I look back I realize that even if we were led to somewhere much farther away than Princeton—if we were led to Aberdeen or even across the world to do missions work—we would go because the goal of our life and our marriage is to serve the Lord, to obey and love him, and to follow where he leads. And if he is leading us to Princeton—far from friends and family, but to a new community of intellectual and searching Christians, to a new church, and to a brief time on the east coast—then of course we will go, even if in our most honest moments we admit to being just a little bit scared, and more than a little bit sad. I’ve always had a hard time with change (just ask my parents, who once left me kicking and screaming as my surprise substitute kindergarten teacher peeled my fingers off the doorjamb), but I’m learning that without it, life doesn’t move forward, and I have a harder time growing up. So here we go. Onward and eastward. | | |
| Daryl and I came home two nights ago from work, around 5:30, to find fire trucks and police tape surrounding our apartment complex. We soon found out why—lightning had struck an apartment building, and it had started on fire. Though the fire had begun at 3:30, the building was still smoldering when we arrived. This building was separated from ours by another building, so our apartment (and, most importantly, our kitty) was fine. But some people lost absolutely everything. Luckily nobody was hurt… As of Monday night, Daryl and I are both under the care of the Session at the First Presbyterian Church of Glen Ellyn. It was odd to go straight from our smoldering apartment complex to church, but shouldn't that be exactly how life is? So often I'm tempted to make sure that I'm all polished and precise before I commune with other believers—especially when it's for an important meeting like this one—but we showed up shaken, with me still a little teary-eyed, and the Session was amazing. Pastor Jerry let us use his office for a few minutes until I regained some composure, they asked great questions during our interviews, and at the end, they voted to let us come on board with the church. We're now official inquirers. This is both a first step in pursuing ordination, and a commitment to intentionally discerning our calls within the body and under the care of our church. We've been out of town three of the last four weekends doing amazingly fun stuff. Weekend 1: The annual Memorial Day weekend campout at McLaine State Park, this time to celebrate Tonia's college graduation, up on Lake Superior. We met the Simeones, Karl Nikolai (our hockey coach from days gone by), some new and old friends of Tonia's, Jared, and the Gustafsons for a weekend of food, relaxation, and outdoorsy-ness. Or, better said, as outdoorsy as we could be when there were hot showers twenty feet away… Perhaps my hardcore camping days are all in the past… Now that Daryl and I both work full time, when we have a break, we mostly just want to sleep and rest, not haul a 40-lb pack up a mountain! Mom and Dad won the bocce tournament, Evan kept us company for the weekend, and it was a record 40 degrees until we packed up to leave on Monday, at which point it became 75 and sunny. Gotta love the UP. Weekend 2: Daryl's Aunt Jill and Uncle Jud threw us a West-coast wedding reception in San Diego. I want to MOVE to San Diego. J They took us to dinner, the entire family celebrated Daryl's Aunt Alex's birthday with a Saturday-night party, and then we had a brunch reception the following morning. It was fun to get to wear my wedding dress once again—especially for outside pictures (those didn't really happen in January in Wisconsin…). Jill and Jud made a fantastic brunch, and it was wonderful to get to know their kids (my new cousins!) Marie and Julie a little bit better. We walked on the beach, I got a sunburn, we watched pelicans and surfers, and we met up with California friends—Kent and Jonathan—to catch up a bit. I am so grateful for the time we had with Daryl's Dad's side of the family as well. They're wonderful, gracious, interesting people, and we live so far away it's difficult to get together. My parents flew out as well, to meet the family (that, and half an excuse for a vacation, and they're buying a plane ticket…). Del Mar is beautiful. I thought it looked a bit like Aspen, but on the beach and more laid back. The three days just flew by, and soon we found ourselves back in Chicago again… Weekend 3: Sleep. Do laundry. Do dishes. Sleep. Fold laundry. Put away dishes. Sleep. Also, continue editing my work project. Weekend 4: Back to Wisconsin to surprise Dad for Father's Day! Cait and Jared, Caroline, Daryl and I all drove home to surprise him. We arrived late Friday night. Mom and the Simeones had been stalling Dad so that we could all hide our cars and sneak into the house… Bob and Terry were trying so hard to help that they even ate ice cream at Dairy Queen (and for those of you who know the Simeones, that's probably a once-in-a-decade feat!). We all hid in the living room and waited for the headlights of Dad's car… we had decorated the room with balloons and posters, but the apex of the plan was the stereo… Caitie put in an old favorite song of Dad's (the World Wide Message Tribe's "Jumping in the House of God"… don't ask), turned it up extra loud, then paused it. Door opens Mom: Well, I should put these flowers in some water. Dad: Okay. Sounds of shuffling, coats coming off. Pause. JUMPING IN THE HOUSE OF GOD, JUMP UP, JUMP IN THE HOUSE, JUMPING IN THE HOUSE OF… Dad: (hands frozen to the kitchen counter, crouched in his football tackling stance, eyes sweeping side to side) Whaaaaa? Us: SURPRISE!!! He said that we almost gave him a heart attack for Father's Day, which would have been pretty bad. It was great to be up north—we made it on an 85-degree weekend, and spent all of Saturday in the boat and in the lake tubing, playing 500, and just floating around. I love Chicago, especially in the summer when there are so many festivals and activities outside at night, but nothing beats an afternoon in Yellow Birch Lake. Getting excited to leave for Princeton, though I'm still sad to leave all my friends and community behind here. During the drive to Wisconsin I looked at the road atlas to see what's in store for us. Looks like we're a short distance from Philadelphia, New York City, and Atlantic City, a four or five hour distance from Washington D.C. and some nice Appalachian Mountains, and (obviously) much closer to all of the East Coast than we ever have been. We're looking forward to a new adventure. | | |
| Being married is absolutely, completely wonderful.
I wake up next to my best friend, and every morning it's like, "You're still here? But...that's...just the best thing ever!" He cooks--not just how I cook (that which does not involve the microwave is pushing it), but really, truly, cook. We laugh so much. We do a lot of soul searching. We sit together in church. We problem solve. He kills bugs. I fold laundry. He takes care of kitty litter. I take care of kitty food. We're learning more and more how to allow our differences to compliment one another--an often fantastically difficult task. Being married makes me realize how often I took my own way of doing things as the "right" way, when it's only one of many "right" ones. He's organized. I'm spontaneous. He's analytical. I'm intuitive.
Lately, as I've been a bit under the weather, we watch movies and just sit together. Sometimes we fall asleep holding hands. This is one of my favorite things.
But another feeling that has crept in lately, that I didn't expect, is how utterly odd it is not to live with girls anymore. I've lived with girls for twenty-one years, since my younger sister Caitlyn was born. Caroline followed three years later. We played My Little Ponies and Barbies, we did hair and picked out prom dresses. We weren't the girliest of girls--after all, Cait and Caroline still play ice hockey on Bethel's college team--but we were definitely girls.
From then I went to college and through a slew of roommates--Juleen, Rebecca, Kelsey, Inga, Sarah, Kristin, Kelly, Hillary, Emily, Megan, Katie. Then the post-college crew--Stephanie, Sommer, Kristin (again!), Brandi, Brandi (yes, there were two wonderful, wonderful Christian girls named--seemingly--after alcoholic beverages), Becky... then Sarah and Kristin, my final two pre-marriage roommates. All of these girls had three important things in common (in addition, of course, to their own individual, fascinating qualities):
1. Shoes. LOTS of shoes. Many of which were in my size.
2. At least cursory knowledge of how to put on makeup.
3. Generosity in sharing clothing.
The other night Daryl and I were getting ready to go out, and I had a shoe crisis. I'm no fashion magnate; most days I'm fine wearing my Chacos and some old jeans. I feel most like myself in climbing pants and fleece. But I was trying to dress up. We were going out to a show downtown, and I wanted to look like a GIRL, a city-appropriate, young and trendy adjunct-professor, not just a girl. But alas, the shoe crisis.
Normally I would have wandered down the hall and rummaged through a friendly roommate's closet. With a quick, "Okay if I wear these?" I would have been on my way. And yet... Daryl wears a size 10 1/2 and has a distinct lack of strappy black sandals. Sigh.
I am no longer living with any girls. | | |
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