In My Mess

Each week St. Stephen puts out a newsletter called "The Voice." The Voice goes to each of the church members, though it is probably only read by a few dozen of them. Nonetheless, when I was asked if I wanted to write a weekly article I was tickled. It reminds me of getting stuck with "The Front Desk" when I was on staff with Northwestern College's newspaper, The Beacon. The following is my most recent installment. Before you mock me or judge the quality of my writing, consider my audience (the portion of an already small congregation that is dedicated enough to read an article written by a new youth leader that no one really knows).

This past week I painted my office, or rather my office was painted. I didn’t actually do any of the work necessary in order to turn the deathly pale yellow walls to a pleasant “Three Olive Martini Green” (yes, I did pick the color based on its name). That was someone else’s job.

Sunday after church one of the trustees asked me when a good time would be to have the job done. I smiled and said that any time would be fine, thinking that the transformation would be a quick and simple process; that I would leave the office one day and come back the next to find the renovation complete, everything just as I had left it aside from the newly painted walls. I imagined I would hardly know they were there.

I was wrong.

It started on Monday while I was working on the weekly youth update and doing some curriculum research. The designated painter came in to look things over. We discussed what was to be done with the massive set of bookshelves that covered most of the wall opposite my computer. One, it was decided would go into Pastor Joe’s office; the other I planned to keep. The painter looked over the shelves. Another helpful body entered the office and also began looking over the shelves, which they soon discovered were not only rather cumbersome, but were screwed into the wall and to one another. A third onlooker entered the office and gave an opinion on them as well.

I left.

The next day I returned, expecting to see green walls and maybe even some extra work space. Once again, I was wrong. The shelves had been shoved to the middle of the room; creating a tight-quartered environment that would unnerve a claustrophobic. DVDs were strewn about the floor. The Christmas lights I had painstakingly tacked around the perimeter of the door were piled in a heap on my desk. The laminator had crept precariously close to the “visitor chairs” that were now nearly flush with the desk. The walls were neither yellow nor green, but were just beginning to show signs of trim, as if grass had begun growing from both the floor and the ceiling.

I considered working in the library or the youth trailer for the day, but was too dependent on my desktop to leave. So, I plugged in my kettle, made a cup of tea, lit a candle, and set to work in the middle of my office, in the middle of my mess. 

Life is like that sometimes, isn’t it? Messy. Cluttered. Confused. The laundry is half-finished, the science fair project is due next week, and that chicken breast in the fridge is getting dangerously close to expiring because you still haven’t found the time to make a sit down meal this week (after all, last night was the middle school orchestra concert that your son failed to mention had been moved up an hour until 20 minutes prior).

Often when my life gets disheveled so do my priorities. I need only to sacrifice a little sleep, commit to a few too many social outings, skip a couple work outs or take an extra shift waiting tables in order for the metaphoric walls to start closing in. And when life gets cluttered, messy, confused, the last thing I want to do is make space. To sit. To be still. To wait on God. To not do the dishes, return the black flats, or check my facebook messages. 

I’ll do that after I’ve replied to these text messages, I reason. After I’ve taken a shower. After I’ve washed the pile of dishes in the sink, addressed my Christmas cards, folded my underwear and returned my library books. Essentially, after I’ve cleaned things up. But if I’m honest, my life will never be cleaned up. There will always be something to do, to clean, to fix, to sort. God wants me now, not after my taxes are finished or my digital photos have been sorted, ordered, and stored. He invites me to sit in the middle of my mess, to shove aside the obligations I’ve taken on and make a little space.

I imagine Jesus would be more than happy to squeeze through the half-open door of my office, side step the DVDs, swing his legs over the arm rest of my office chair, and have a heart-to-heart with me across the laminator. He may even unwrap a Hershey kiss and ask me what I dreamed about last night or when I was planning on going home for Christmas. Jesus knows how to make space. Even when the hungry, the poor, and the powerful were begging his presence he spent time in solitude. Jesus sat down in the middle of the mess of the world and he was still. In the stillness is where we find peace; peace that we can carry with us into the mess of life like a flashlight into one of those underground caves you learn about in third grade science class. It isn't easy. It is, in fact, ridiculously difficult to be intentionally still. But it is possible and it is worth the effort, the sacrifice necessary to make space.

As I sit in the middle of my office, typing this article, wondering at what point I'll actually feel "settled" I realize that it will have more to do with the state of my spirit than the positioning of the shelves or the presence of the laminator. And so I work, in the middle of my mess, to make space, and in doing so I learn.

 

May you have the patience to accept the slow process of transformation. May you have the strength to pursue the tasks at hand. And may you find peace as you make space for stillness in the middle of the mess.

I'm what?!?

(Monday, October 25 I was offered the position of youth director at St. Stephen Lutheran Church in Liberty, MO, a position that I had been pursuing and considering since early August. I spent five days agonizing over the decision, consulting friends, and coming to terms with my intense fear of commitment and permanency. Saturday, October 30 I accepted the position, with plans to begin at the start of the new year. Tuesday, November 2, I experienced an unexpected turn of events.)

Fired.

What?!? Me?!?

Never before has an f-word so unnaturally stumbled out of my mouth.

I've been...fired??

You might say that I lost my job. My assignment was terminated. It wasn't a good fit and the company is moving in a different direction. But no matter how you try to sugar-coat or rephrase it, one moment I was driving home from the Stilwell laboratory where I was securely employed as a document specialist and the next I was eating a strawberry-vanilla paleta in the passenger seat of a fellow ESL volunteer's Hyundai, realizing that I would in fact have time to finish the Oxford Murders before taking the movie back to Redbox the next day.

Allow me to offer a look into that fateful evening in Novermber. I had just finished my weekly session of speaking slowly and using small words (aka teaching ESL) when I noticed two missed calls from Matt, the Medix Staffing headhunter. I hadn't returned his call from the previous week (something about wanting to know how the job was going), and decided I might as well respond, seeing as the man does send me my paychecks.
"Medix, this is Matthew" he answered.
"Hi Matt, this is Amanda."
"Amanda. (full stop) How are you?"
"I'm just fine," I responded, wondering why we go through these civilities every time he answers the phone.
"Are you someplace you can talk?"
"Um, sure," I decided.
"I was wondering how things have been at Company X*, how do you feel about your position and experience there?" (In retrospect I'm not sure why he asked this. Maybe he hoped it would be a helpful lead in. As it turns out, it only made the follow up worse).
"Um, great. Everything is just fine. I like the people. I'm satisfied with my work. I think it's going well," I returned, unaware of how false my perceptions had been.
"Well, Company X called this evening and they would like today to be your last day there."
"What? Why?"
"They didn't really give me a clear answer. They think you may be overqualified for the position, that this just isn't a good fit for where they want to go in the future."
Not a good fit?  I thought to myself. I'm small and I'm flexible, what do they mean "not a good fit"? And how could they want to go elsewhere? Is the company looking to lower the quality and speed of its production? Come on, Matt. You can make up better lies than that. Am I not even worth a good lie?
"That really surprises me" I responded. "I seemed to think things were going fairly well."
"Yeah," Matt added, as if to agree with me, "When I talked to Tammi** (my manager) she said that everything was going great. I'm not sure what happened."

I was rather taken aback, and more ashamed than angry, but my self-preservation kicked in pretty quickly. Whatever the reason, my job was finished, and no amount of explaining was going to get it back.
"So, they don't want me to come in tomorrow?" I posed, more concerned with the hours of work I would be losing than the loss of the position itself.
"No. Can you come drop off your key card and pick up your things and your final check from Medix on Friday?"
"Um...I think so," I stammered without really thinking. My thoughts were more focused on the three Tupperware containers still in the workroom fridge (all filled with food), the photos attached to my cubicle and how the hell I was going to return the lab jacket that I'd "borrowed" (and not used) for Halloween.
"You mean I can't come in and collect my things?" I inquired, with some urgency in my voice.
"No. Nick (another guy from Medix) is going to go in and meet with some people at Company X tomorrow to discuss the situation. We should be able to tell you more after that meeting. We'll have your things for you on Friday."
"Um. Ok."
How was I supposed to respond to that? No, Mr. Medix, that is unacceptable. I don't want you or your henchman's dirty fingers all over the Snapfish photos of my trip to England or touching my tea bags and fingering my Illuminating Leadership travel mug. I would like to collect my things myself. I think I may even have ended the conversation by saying "Thank you" or something else situationally ridiculous.

I out away my phone. I finished my paleta and my conversation with the ESL volunteer who was still sitting next to me in the car. Then I drove home and broke out some chocolate and the DVD that was due the next day. I got on facebook and, to add insult to injury, told my ex-boyfriend what had just happened. He probably didn't care.

Fired? I thought. Me? Fired? It just didn't make sense. I tried to come up with reasons why someone would possibly want to fire me. They had been interviewing to add a third person to our department. Maybe they found someone without a college degree, someone less qualified who didn't demand as much pay. Maybe they found someone more experienced, who could navigate in and out of Adobe Acrobat without wanting to swear at the monitor. Maybe someone overheard my interview with the pastor at St. Steven, or worse, the conversation in the company parking lot in which I divulged my plans to leave Company X to my friend in Wisconsin. Perhaps someone walked past my cubicle during my lunch break and disapproved of my watching How I Met Your Mother on the company computer, or maybe they happened across this blog and realized that I was less than enchanted with the idea of sacrificing droves of Beagle dogs for the betterment of pesticides. I tried to tell myself that the reason wasn't important, that I had secured another, better-paying and more meaningful job. But that did little to soothe my wounds.

I turned my attention to more important matters - namely my belongings and the Company X labcoat in the back seat of my car. What was I going to do about that? I decided to wait until 5 pm, when most of the employees left for the evening, to drive to Company X, use the key card that still gave me access through the property gates, and clean out my belongings (or at least the fridge) for myself. Matt and Nick (who called the next day to make sure I didn't do something crazy, like go to work) had made it clear that I was to pick up my belongings at Medix. I made my plans anyway. What were they going to do? Fire me?

At 6:00 pm I approached the gatehouse and swiped my card. My key card was still activated. The large striped bar lifted. I slipped through, drove to Building 3 and parked in a nearly empty lot. I got through the front doors, passed the deserted reception desk and made my way toward Document Management, my adrenaline rushing like an 7th grade boy about to ask an 8th grade girl to dance. Tupperware. I was here to get Tupperware (and possibly to salvage some of the job applications in the lower left hand drawer of my desk, but I didn't have much hope for those). I turned right.

"Um, excuse me," said a voice.
Shit.
"Can I help you?" he inquired with a tone that made the statement more of a demand than an offer of assistance.
"I just...came to get my things." I said with more confidence than I felt, wondering why the company president wasn't home playing with his German Shepherd or watching BBC.
"Oh. Amanda. I didn't recognize you."
Of course he didn't. The man failed to look me in the face save the day he interviewed me six weeks earlier. What was I to him, but a peon to throw back into the great big pool of unemployment?
"Is there anything we can do for you?"
Well, Mr. President, you could freaking give me my job back, or at least give me two weeks notice or perhaps a reason for the termination of a job for which I am more than qualified.
"No, I don't think so," I managed.
One of the tech guys was sent to "assist" me as I made my way back to my cubicle. (Just in case, you know, I had plans of wreaking havoc on the Document Management office). I opened the office door. Nick, it appeared, had gotten there before me. My space was desolate. The photos were gone, along with the teabags and Illuminating Leadership travel mug. The drawers were empty. The tech guy helped me pull a few "personal" files from the computer (most of which were recipes or resumes), and said he would meet me the front of the building. On the way back I stopped in the break room to retrieve my Tupperware containers and swiftly pulled the labcoat from my tote bag, leaving it on the floor in a heap.
The president collected my key card/ID badge and instructed the tech guy to escort me out of the building and off the property (which required the use of a key card/ID badge, which I no longer possessed). I exited the building, drove to the gate and said my goodbyes to the tech guy, who was sincerely sorry to see me go. He handed me his card and told me to call him if I ever needed anything. I gave him the note I'd meant to leave on Tammi's** desk, explaining that I don't know what happened, but that I had enjoyed working with her and wished her the best (whatever that means). We parted ways.

As I drove away from Company X I noticed a missed call on my cell phone. I called back. It was Nick from Medix. "We just received a call from Company X," he said. "They wanted to know why you came back this evening."
"I wanted to collect my things, and thought I would wait until everyone was gone to do so," I explained.
"I thought we made it clear that you would be picking your things up at Medix later this week and were not to return to Company X," he said.
"I had things in the fridge and the locker room," I reasoned. "I thought it would be easier to get them myself." I knew I had been defiant. Medix had made it quite clear that I was never to return to Company X, that I was not to set foot on the property, but, well, I didn't care (and I wanted my Tupperware).

The next day (which was Thursday, not Friday as we had previously agreed), I stopped by Medix and collected my tea bags, photos and travel mug. There was no further news on why I had been fired. I called two weeks later and received the same responses I had been given initially.

Medix sent me copies of my last two pay stubs and I never heard from them again. Until last week, when they came to Californos for their staff Christmas party. I didn't wait on their table, but I did work that night, and thoroughly enjoyed mocking them with the rest of my staff. I'm a little sorry I missed the opportunity to make my own adjustments to their entrees. But I suppose that getting fired once this year is quite enough.

*I doubt I really need to keep their name confidential, but it makes the whole thing sound just a little more intriguing and a little less embarrassing.
** I may have made that name up. It seemed like as good a name as any for a woman who runs the two- (now one-) person Document Management Department of a preclinical laboratory.

Happy New Year

When I accepted the position of youth director at St. Stephen Lutheran Church in Liberty, MO, I did so with the understanding that I would start sometime around January 1, 2011 - the beginning of the year. I was perfectly happy to finish out my last eight weeks at Company X, pulling out commas and inserting hyphens, making sure that "time point" was two words and "predose" was one. I had just reached a point where I felt "up to speed" with the work I was doing. After nearly a month of training I was able to accept amendments, review protocols and create report shells. It took no small amount of time to learn Adobe and figure out the differences between ACS and MLA. I was grateful for my supervisor's patience and felt I owed it to the company to stay there for a solid 6 weeks before announcing my intended departure. And then they fired me. Apparently I was not so valuable as I once thought.
So there I was at the beginning of November, unemployed (again). The good news - I had already secured another job. The bad news - it didn't start for eight weeks, which just so happened to be the eight weeks leading up to Christmas, which just so happens to be the season during which I typically spend a disproportionate amount of my small savings.
This left me with three options:
1) I could spend the next eight weeks in the same manner I spent the end of August - unemployed; cobbling together freelance work; relying on the benevolence of others; counting my pennies; sleeping on spare beds and couches; trusting that there would be provision (or at least attempting to do so);
2) I could spend the next eight weeks in the same manner I spent the month of September - desparately looking for a job; dropping applications at restaurants and bookstores and staffing agencies (and trying not to feel guilty knowing that I would quit less than two months in);
3) I could look for the "seasonal work" that just so happens to be available between November and January; the problem being that just such work would hinder my ability to spend any holiday time with the family members who would be speninding their "last Christmas" at my parents' house (and they really meant it this time).
I was distraught. I did not want to attempt option 1 again and I did not want to miss out on my brother's last Thanksgiving and Christmas in Lincoln, NE. I spent a grand total of 12 hours on option 3 (going so far as to apply with my third staffing agency) before I came to a rather obvious realization: I already had a job. I spent three months applying, interviewing for, and considering that job. It took five days of arduous, ardent prayer, meditation and resignation before I accepted what God seemed to be serving me on a silver platter. Why was I looking for something else?
So I did what I perhaps should have done immediately - asked if I could start early. I'd agonized over whether or not to accept this position, wondering if youth ministry was really a good idea. I'd faced my fear of commiting to a job and living in one place for more than 6 months. I confronted the fact that taking this position might be the only argument I could ever make for the divine intervention that I'd never really seen in my life. I'd made the difficutl decision, why not jump in?

I entered my new office in the middle of November, but didn't really begin working until the following week. It seemed a sort of struggle to start something at this point in the season. It's busy and booked up and far too difficult to butt into. How was I to begin new at the end of the month, the end of the semester, the end of the calendar?
A few days in I started thumbing through the lectionary and looking at the sermon series. I discovered that I wasn't actually make a beginning during an end afterall. According to the liturgical calendar the end of the year has already passed. Sunday, November 28th was the first day of Advent, the first day of a new year in the church. I find the coincidence of this entirely appropriate. If I'd waited until January I would have missed it. I would have missed the beginning.
It's an overstated phrase in the church to say that we get so caught up in the busyness of the season that we leave Christ out of Christmas. It has become cliche to remind congregations to "make room for Jesus." But there are reasons that phrases are overstated and concepts become cliche - because more often than not they're true. During the season of Advent we're asked to drop what we're doing and wait. To start something new at this point in the season. It's busy and booked up and it seems far too difficult to allow something else to butt in, but that's what we're meant to do. Not to fill every free spot in the week with a Holiday party, seasonal mingling or Christmas shopping excursion; but to empty it. To make space so that something new can happen. So that something (even someone) new can come. It is impossible to experience fulfilment when there is no void, no space of waiting, no season of anticipation.
As I start a new job, a new season of my life, a new season in the church, (and a new season of being without facebook), I invite you to start something new as well, to start anticipating what is to come.

I like that answer

This past summer I spent 5 days at Youthfront West, where I "served" as a volunteer cabin leader for a group of 20 or so middle school girls. Following one of our small group cabin discussions, the girls were given the freedom to ask questions about anything they desired.

June 15, 2010

A sweet-tempered, round-faced eight-grader approaches me with an earnest inquiry. "How do we know that Lutherans are right?" she asks, waiting to receive an answer she can make sense of. "I ask a lot of people that questioon and they give me a lot of different answers, even when I ask my dad." Based on this answer I guess that her father-figure is the final authority in her 13-year-old life. "He gives me different answers," she continues as we walk up the stairs inside the cabin. "They're kind of the same, but they're different."

When we reach level ground I turn to her, wondering what words of Lutheran wisdom will pour forth from my post-modern mouth, and whether or not I'll be reprimanded for giving a teenager my honest opinion. "Well," I start, "a lot of Christians, particularly Lutherans, follow the practices of their particular churches because those are the churches they grew up in; that's what their parents taught them and what their grandparents believe. Some people question those beliefs, but others just remain in their 'home churches' because they are comfortable there. It's what they've been taught is true, and it makes sense to them to continue believing it's true, and that's okay. That's one way that we come to believe things."

Her eyes are still fixed on me and she nods slightly, as if to indicate that she understands. So I continue, "I grew up in the LCMS [Lutheran Church Missouri Synod], but after high school I attended a lot of other churches and found that what is more important to me than the denomination of the church are the actions of the church. 'Do the people live in community? How do they follow Jesus? Do they feed the hungry and clothe the poor and care for their community?'" As I articulate these thoughts I realize I'm expressing them for my sake as much as hers. "Those are the things I think about when choosing a church."

"Yeah," she responds, brushing aside my subtle pleas for social justice and corporate life, "but there are all of these churches, and they all have different beliefs." I can tell her mind is spinning as she tries to articulate what she's struggling to grasp, "but I guess, what I want to know is who's right?"

"Oh," I reply. "None of them." My response is so simple, so matter-of-fact that I think it catches her by surprise. "They're all wrong." The girls' eyes grow wide, as if my response has totally rocked her adolescent world. "We're humans," I continue. "We make our own interpretations and we make mistakes. We can know about God and do our best to understand what we the Bible that we've compiled says and means, but until the restoration, until Jesus makes new our imperfect understanding we'll never have it all figured out."

She gives me a soft smile. "Thanks," she says, sincerely and with a look of relieved gratitude. "I like that answer. That makes sense."

I like the answer too. And I like that I really meant what I said. I wonder if I was right to attempt to convey something I didn't start to grasp until I was a full decade older than this dark-haired student, but I'm not too worried. I wish someone had told me as much when I was in eighth grade.

Reverse Commute

Every morning of the month of October (M-F, with the exception of the week I spent in Tempe, Arizona), I woke up between 6:15 and 6:30, intended to leave the house between 7:00 and 7:10, and got out the door somewhere around 7:35. I zipped (or crawled, depending on the traffic lights) out of my neighborhood; got onto I-70, Hwy 69, (NOT 69 Highway, as the natives call it) and I-35; and made a 30-mile straight-shot to 179th and Metcalf.

And every morning (unless it was exceptionally cloudy) I watched the sunrise.
In my rearview mirror.

This was really quite a feat and not at all safe. Even as I drove I realized it was quite possible that one of those mornings I'd steer too far to the left and into the oncoming city-bound traffic, but I just couldn't help myself. I love watching the sun rise. When the sun was rising and there weren't cars in the lane next to me I would sneak glances out the back windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the yellows, oranges, pinks and blues that played across the horizon behind me.

Every afternoon during the month of October (M-F, with the exception of the week I spent in Tempe, Arizona) I intended to leave my office between 4:15 and 4:30 pm. Usually I was out the door by 5:00 pm. Sometimes I went straight home, but many days I stayed to run the country roads before heading home around 5:45 or 6:00, just in time to watch the sunset.
In my rearview mirror.

Once again, this was really quite a feat and not at all safe. Even as I drove I realized it was quite possible that one of those evenings I would steer too far to the left and into the oncoming suburb-bound traffic, but I just can't help myself. The one thing I love better than watching the sun rise is watching the sun set. When the sun was setting and there weren't cars in the lane next to me (and sometimes even when there are) I would sneak glances out the back windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the gold, copper, pale yellow, and vibrant pink that played across the horizon behind me as they reached out to the darkening indigo sky above.

At first I took delight in playing this game; peaking out the windows and catching 3-second glimpses of the evolving atmosphere, but then I started to find it quite frustrating. I became so preoccupied with staring at the scenes behind me and longing for that which I was leaving, that I didn't really pay much attention to where I was going. Sometimes I missed my exits. Sometimes I drifted into the other lane without realizing it. Sometimes I let my fuel gauge get ridiculously low before I noticed I needed more gas.

I often struggle to fully enjoy and experience life as it is happening. Years of my childhood, the semester I spent in Oxford, portions of my life in Derby, weeks and months of the four years I spent at Northwestern College - all periods of my life that I didn't really appreciate until months or years after they ended. By the time I began to understand all that I'd had, it was too late. The hours I spent writing to college friends, looking at photos and recounting what had been could not take me back to that point in time; could not make things be the way they once were.

I watched a Nooma video this past summer that addressed the tendency to spend so much of life longing for the glory days (wishing things could be as they were back then, back when we were younger, happier, more centered, more free, more whatever) that they fail to see what is happening now. The concept was convicting (for lack of a less evangelical word). Similar to the way I'd been trying to watch the sun rise and set in my rearview mirror, I'd been caught up in memories of experiences and relationships in Oxford, Orange City, and England. And in the same way that the sun had been keeping me from watching the roads, my longing for what used to be was keeping me from experiencing the present.

October 30th I committed to taking a new position in Liberty, MO. November 2nd I made my last commute to and from Stilwell, KS. I no longer see the sun rise and set in my rearview mirror (due in part to my new location and in part to the time change). Coincidentally, I've stopped making efforts with unreciprocated past relationships. I've taken down old photos and redirected my bills to Kansas City, KS instead of Lincoln, NE. In days to come I mean to watch the sun rise, to meet it straight on even if it blinds me, and to be grateful for the time, place, and situation in which I find myself.

Lutheran Musings

As a result of circumstances beyond my control and far beyond my understanding, I have recently taken a position as the pioneer youth director at St. Stephen Lutheran Church in Liberty, Missouri. Following completion of my integrated field experience at Northwestern College I didn't really think I'd ever "do youth ministry," at least not professionally (i.e., for pay); but as the fates, luck or God would have it, here I am, overseeing the Christian education of 120 students K-12, and at an LCMS church of all places.

I grew up in the Lutheran Church Missouri Synod. I went to an LCMS preschool, kindergarten, elementary school, jr. high and high school. My paternal grandparents were LCMS - hard core (if I'm allowed to posthumously describe them as such). My Dad is LCMS - not so hard core, but definitely to the core. My brother went to an LCMS college in NE and is currently at an LCMS seminary in MO studying to be an LCMS pastor. He married a girl who attended the same LCMS college in NE and is the daughter of an LCMS pastor. When they met, she was considering being a medical missionary or a deaconess (LCMS, of course). Her sister, another graduate of the LCMS college in NE, is an LCMS missionary/teacher and her brother is at the LCMS college in NE preparing to attend the LCMS seminary where my brother is currently. My own sister is also attending the same LCMS college in NE, studying to be a Spanish/ESL teacher (with a Lutheran Teaching Degree). She is dating a guy from the LCMS college in NE who is also studying to be a secondary teacher with a Lutheran Teaching Degree. His father is a pastor at the LCMS church in Lincoln, NE where I once worked.

Then there's me. I tried to "break the mold" by attending non-denominational youth groups in high school (yes, I know, I am such a rebel) and going to a small, Christian liberal arts college that was affiliated with the Reformed church (which I had never heard of during my 18 years in the LCMS). When I went to Oxford I attended Anglican churches, sang my first Hail Mary and even went to a few catholic masses (and I liked it). My last semester of college I attended an episcopal church that was led by a woman (gasp) as I was preparing to volunteer with an international community church in England. I've rarely gotten away from the church, even when I've wanted to. It has been a means of travel, a means of community, a means of employment. Of all the subjects I studied in college (and there were many), youth ministry is actually (surprisingly) the only one that I've found a means of using.

So here I am, sitting at a desk inside an office located in the middle of an LCMS church in Liberty, MO. I'll be "inducted" this coming Sunday (I considered choosing Ave Maria as part of the service, but it wasn't in the Lutheran Hymnal). I'm not quite sure what I'm getting myself into, but that's never stopped me before. Lutheran or not, here I go.

The Irony of It

Anyone who has ever attended Northwestern College (at least in the past 10 years) is familiar with the term "vocare." As burgeoning little freshmen, we were told that God does indeed have a plan for our lives and that during the next four years we, through our liberal arts education, ICLA classes and required chapel activities would begin to discover what that plan was. Vocare, we were told, was not simply a career choice, but the place where our deep passions met the world's deep need. It was a way of life, a calling, a holistic approach to serving God and serving people (and, of course, loving both). We sat in chapels and listened to seniors speak about finding their vocares, about life-changing missions trips, study abroad experiences, and divine direction. We were excited, brimming with naiveté and hope.
And then we, or at least I, reached senior year. And when I did, I still had not found my vocare. There was no divine direction, no evident application for all I had learned in the classroom. I was a writing major with psychology and youth ministry minors and no idea of how I would use any of that after graduation. I had no deep passion. The world's deep needs were too numerous and insurmountable for me to meet. The millions of dollars that Eli Lilly and his foundation provided for NW's Vocare program were wasted on students like me.
Students like me graduate, have a few "life experiences" (I spent 4 months doing mission work/volunteering in England), and then sit at our computers and wonder what to do next. Students like me take jobs in bakeries and restaurants and meat markets. We go into retail and hate it, but we don't really know what else to do, and unfortunately "seeking your vocare" is not a paying occupation. It's sad really, that such an investment (over $2 million) would not have a return.
I want to have a conversation with Mr. Lilly; to apologize to him. I want to say "I'm sorry Eli, but your hard-earned millions have not moved me toward finding God's call on or in my life." I would knock at the door of his palatial home, walk into his sitting room (a room the exists exclusively for sitting), sit down on his overstuffed suede couch, take the cup of tea offered by his adoring wife and have a heart-to-heart over some chocolate chip cookies. "I'm ashamed to admit this," I would confess, "but I have a four-year degree in rhetorical studies and I spend my days reading through lab documents, reformatting amendments to protocols, inserting commas, deleting hyphens and ensuring that "postdose" is one word and "time point" is two.
And then I would take a look around Eli's house. I would see the desk erroneously placed in the room exclusively reserved for sitting, and on that desk I would notice a pen labeled Lilly. I would see notepads for Gemzar, Prozac and Cymbalta. And then I would see a mailing from a company called Chorus and I would start to connect the dots. Because Chorus is the company for whom I just finished reformatting a protocol so that they could begin to test CXV-2333D on the rats that were ordered from Charles Rivers Labs. You see, Eli Lilly is not only concerned with the vocations and futures of young liberal arts students, but also with the toxicity of the compound CXV-2333D and its effects on the reproductive capabilities of the Sprague Dawley rat. The fact is, if it weren't for the reports that were published stating the results of the tests that were run on the rats whose lives furthered the production and success of pharmaceuticals, the students at Northwestern College would not receive $2 million to further their quest for God's call on their lives.
I would turn to Eli, ready to bemoan my empty employment at the preclinical laboratory, but would shut my mouth before the words could escape my lips. We would instead, exchange a knowing look, and I would understand that in Mr. Lilly's eyes, this is my vocare. This is what I do to meet the world's great need.
Eli and I would finish our cookies and possibly sip on another cup of tea. I would thank him for his time as I rose from the couch. And as I moved toward the door he would head to the desk and pick up one of those pens that read "Lilly." He would hand it to me, thinking himself clever for understanding that I am a writer and as such would appreciate the gift of a pen. I would thank him with feigned gratefulness, walk down the drive and get into my '93 Pontiac Grand Am. I would drive back to Kansas City and my job at the testing facility, and as I did I would wonder if the freshmen at Northwestern still came to chapel with hope in their eyes.

Inbox of interest

I am continually amused at some of the things that pass through my inbox and cross my computer screen on a daily basis. Maybe it's because I'm new, or perhaps because I don't think scientifically or haven't spent the past 5-20 years of my life immersed in lab tests and results or blood-bourne pathogen training.
Whatever the reason, I do not cease to smirk at the following:

I've read a lot of protocols and reports. Tox (i.e., toxicity) studies exist to gauge toxicity of a substance. In order to do so, study directors must examine the organs of the animals, which consequently requires that the animal die. I'm used to reading about necropsies, and yet I can't really get past the line "At each necropsy, gross observations will be made..." It isn't that the necropsy bothers me, but rather that I find the term "gross observations" so terribly appropriate. Clearly I was not cut out to be a scientist.

The other day I received this in my inbox:

Hello everyone:

The radioactive waste pickup has been pushed back to Wednesday, 13th October. Please transfer all radioactive wastes (lab waste, carcasses and radioassay vials etc) to the waste collection area (Room 222) as soon as possible. If you have any question, please let me know. Thanks

I was sure to have all carcasses out of my office and in Room 222 in time for collection.

Life passes before my eyes...and my computer screen

It's strange to me how quickly I become desensitized to something like death. When I first started working as a copyeditor for a laboratory, it bothered me to know that countless (or rather carefully counted and calculated) animal lives were being sacrificed on a daily basis. Reading through documents that read "Examined parameters will include clinical observations, mortality and moribundity checks, body weights (for dose volume determinations), and twice daily colonic body temperature measurements (a.m and p.m)," wasn't so bad. It was the "On Day 2, five animals from each dose group will be sacrificed," and "On Day 10, the remaining five animals from each dose group will be sacrificed," that got to me. Sacrificed. Day after day after day.
And then it was my second week of work, and then my third, and at that point it didn't really bother me any more. "Dogs will be euthanized." "Animals will be sacrificed." "Rats will be terminated." That's just the way it is. The portion of the report labeled "Animal Disposition," does not refer to the personality of one's pet, but rather the disposal of the aforementioned study animals. Sad. But true.
The other day I started wondering if this is the same process that occurred during the holocaust. I don't mean to equate the value of a human life with that of a lab rat, but the desensitization to death, the way that what was once disturbing has become routine, the tattoos and cage numbers, it all seems a bit creepy. But maybe my perspective is being influenced by my reading of the graphic novel Maus in high school; a piece of literature in which the Jews in concentration camps really are depicted as animals of the rodent variety.
Day after day the tests continue. The reports come in flash up on my computer screen. I read them. I edit them. And off they go, evidence of tests that have been run, and animals that have been sacrificed. I keep telling myself this is contributing to science, that it's allowing for less harmful pesticides and safer drugs that may save lives. But once in a while I think I'd rather be ignorant of what it takes for a substance to be FDA approved.

Going Parking

During both of the four-month stints that I spent in England I acquired a number of habits - drinking tea, using the phrase, "Cheers", spelling color with a "u" and recognize with an "s," letting my voice rise when asking a quetion, and taking long walks in the park (usually on the left side of the footpath). Ever since England I can't seem to get enough green space (slightly ironic seeing as the US is so much larger and younger than the UK and as such ought to have more available green space). In the past few weeks I've been on a quest to discover the parks of Kansas City.

After spending most of the day in front of a computer, I find my eyes and spirit are hungry to see something natural. During my lunch breaks I drive to the Overland Park Arboretum and fill up on peculiar flowers, tri-toned leaves, a strange assortment of "outdoor art pieces," winding paths and man-made water features. It's a visual snack that ties me over until after work, when I "go parking".

My first stop was Roanoke Park, which is just off the interstate that takes me to and from my job everyday. I was hoping the open green space would be good for walking, thinking and exploring. Turns out that most of the park has been dedicated to frisbee golf. I was not deterred. Despite the fact that I had no disks to speak of and was still sporting a trench coat and heels, I trapsed across the course, hoping I wouldn't be hit by the post-college crowd. Aside from disk golf and a baseball field, the only other feature of the park was a playground, complete with slides, swings, a merry-go-round and large plastic climbing features. I sat down in a swing and decided to read for a while. As I did a little girl with short blonde hair came up beside me. She looked me over, sat down in the swing next to me, left my world and returned to her own. A handful of children ran up to the play area and began climbing the large plastic features. I watched them for a while and tried to remember what it was like to play with such single-mindedness.

The next day I pulled off at Rosedale Park, which is more of a hill than a park itself, but green and covered with trees, so still acceptable. I followed the road round and up the hill of Rosedale, passed the Rosedale Elementary School, and found myself at the Rosedale Memorial Arch. That's where I met Jim. He was wearing an old pair of jeans, a faded blue button-up and a baseball cap. His face and hands were tanned and wrinkled, evidence of years and experiences past. I had been taking notice of the 34-foot arch, dedicated to the Rosedale residents who served in the first world war, when I turned around and Jim caught my eye. He wasn't looking at the arch, but was faced toward the city. "Real nice, isn't it?" he offered. Then, with a wave of his hand, "Come over here." I approached the picnic bench on which he was perched and joined him in standing and considering the trees and taking in the skyline. "Not many people come here," he remarked, "but it's a real nice spot. Far enough away from the noise, but you still see the city itself. I know it's not much compared to them big cities, but it's a city in the Midwest and that's something special." Jim went on to explain that he'd been coming to Rosedale for years. "I got a relative's name's up there on the memorial. I like to come out and pay my respects. And it's such a peaceful place." He was right about that. Removed from the city, uphill a fair distance from the busier streets, Rosedale is something even I might call special. "I get off work and I just like to come here." Jim told me a bit about moving around the states, traveling to places where he could get blue-collar work. He had returned to Kansas City to settle for a while, and today was just another day. "It's even prettier in the fall when them's leaves get to changing," he said as we looked out at from the table. "I'm sure it is," I replied, wondering if I'd see Jim again later in the season. "It was a pleasure to meet you, " I said. "My name's Amanda." I shook his hand, hopped off the picnic table and headed back toward my car.

The following week I continued to seek out parks - Loose being one of my favorites with its elaborate rose garden and duck-peppered pond. On my first visit there I came across three different photographers and their respective subjects. The first was pretty evidently doing an engagement shoot. The couple posed for a shot on the bridge over the pond, they unnaturally sat down in a patch of tall grass, and as they gaze into each other's eyes I wanted to roll mine. I'm sure there were the classic hand-holding shots, and several attempts to capture the perfect kiss. If I weren't so jaded I probably would have found it sweet. The second photographer was shooting a girl who looked to be about 16 and was dreadfully underdressed for the fall weather. I'm surprised she could sit in her skin-tight black micro mini skirt. But sit she did, on the high-backed oak chair with plush teal cushion that was pulled from the back of dark SUV. And if that the chair in the park and the girl in the cap sleeves didn't seem out-of-place or just a little ridiculous, add to it a small brown purse dog, strategically placed on the teenager's lap. I'm ashamed to admit I followed them for 8 minutes, before rewrapping my scarf and returning to my car.

On the weekends I like to run along the rivers (both Kansas and Missouri), or as close to them as I can get. While I was training for my half marathon I found the smaller of the two riverside parks presented on Google. I was following the path that I thought would take me to the larger park when I ended up at the Isle of Capris, a casino located along the Missouri River. I'd never been to a casino before and was a bit hesitant to enter in my racerback and shorts, but I was rather loss and after 6 miles of running I really needed to use the bathroom. I walked in, crossed the plush carpets and was overwhelmed by the flashing lights and perpetual movement. I took in my surroundings, located the bathrooms and then found a security guard and asked for directions. That part of the quest didn't prove very successful. I exited the building and after another mile or so of misguided jogging, returned to the route I'd taken to get there.

I've also taken to running along the country roads after work. It's the best way to make the most of the limited daylight. At first I was reluctant to drive 30 miles to and from work each day (putting over 300 miles on my car each week), but after running alongside horses and ponds, large sprawling houses and miles of open space, I'm quite happy to have some time out in the country. It's not the fields of Iowa, but it's close enough to feel like home.

I'm not sure what I'll do when winter comes and the weather keeps me from long hours outside. Perhaps I'll invest in warmer running gear. Or I may just find a coffee shop with a good view and large windows.

Another way to pepper my resume

I like animals.

I'm no dog lover who sports a golden retriever t-shirt, takes my purse poodle to work, or has an "I love shelties" coffee mug; and I don't have plans to acquire a large (as in more than 2) cat population when I'm middle-aged and still living by myself, but in general I'd say I appreciate the furry friends that most people call pets. If it smells alright and isn't too high-strung, I'll pet it on the head. I may even become affectionate. But if it smells funky, makes too much noise, gets hair all over my furniture or slobber all over my face, I'd rather not get too close. (I tend to feel the same way about men.)

Acknowledging my lack of animal affection, I told the nice man from Medix staffing agency that no, I am not an animal rights activist and as such I did not feel I would have a problem working for a non-clinical laboratory (aka. animal testing facility). I tend to think I have a relatively "thick skin" where things like lab testing and animal science are concerned. I enjoyed high school biology. I did all of the labs and dissections and was more or less amazed during our cytology unit. (Now, I did almost pass out that time I shadowed a nurse, but I attribute that to the combined smells of left over scrambled eggs, dirty dressings and rotting tissue - not my squeamish nature.) I even intended to take A&P while I was in college. So, when I was asked if I would be comfortable working at a facility where animal testing is conducted I didn't really think much of it. I was more concerned with the fact that the job would require commuting 30 miles (each way) and being chained to a desk 8 hours a day, five days a week.

During my second interview I met with the document management manager and two of the principle investigators/scientists, one of whom grilled me on my realtionship with animals. I think a crazed PETA member slipped their way into lab employment at some point, making the company suspicious of anyone without a substantial scientific background. I assured the man of science that, no, I am not a member of PETA. I do not attach human attributes to most animals, and though my family does indeed own a dog, I realize that Cody is no more human than the crickets I've been smashing in my basement. (I say these things, and assure myself that they are logically true, but my less empirical self feels otherwise.)

My third interview was actually on site, where I met with the president of the company (he's British - I confess this swayed my feelings about the job, significantly) and a few of the head scientists (they're not British, but one of them is Indian, which is acceptable). I represented myself rather well, assured them that I had no affiliations with animal protection agencies, attempted to convey a sincere interest in pharmacokinetics, and was offered the job four hours after I left. I'd like to say it was my impressive resume (which is smattered with "odd jobs" and "life experiences") and my winning personality that earned me position, but I'm pretty sure it was their desperate need for a copyeditor. I, with my four-year degree in Writing and Rhetorical studies (thank you NW for creating a major that I have to explain to everyone), am far more than qualified.

Monday (the 27th) was my first day on the job. I got a parking permit, a nifty little retractable name badge, and my very own cubicle. I haven't done a lot of "decorating," but I did throw up some photos within the first week. They remind me of the outside world (there isn't a window in our office), the exciting places I've been (to which I'd like to return), and the people I care about (and intend to speak with during my lunch break).

As I walked by Cube Row (the hallway in which all the lab techs are stationed...when they aren't in the lab, that is), I peaked over the green barriers, and noticed something rather strange. Alongside the family photos and nature calendars were posters showing the anatomy of the Beagle dog. I shrugged it off and introduced myself to the coffee station. During my grand tour of the facility, though, a disturbing wave washed over me as I passed large photos of disections, canisters of biohazardous material, and display board featuring the gross (you've got that right) necropsy of a Wistar rat. Maybe I should just keep to my cube.

But staying in my own little corner did little to keep me in blissful ignorance. It's my job to read and edit lab protocols and reports. I can't not know what's going on behind closed doors.

The rat studies didn't really phase me. Though the 44 pregnant females were going to be euthanized at the end of the study, it's all in the name of better pharmaceuticals and less hazardous chemical compounds being released into the world. I could even deal with the NHP (non-human primate) studies; many of which are done in order to track how long a compound stays in the body. It's the Beagle studies that really got to me.

All of the dogs used in our studies are Beagles (which also happens to be the nickname I have for my little sister) and have been selected as a breed that is docile in temperament and manageable in size. A number of our studies are done on "naieve" Beagles, which means that the animals haven't taken part in previous studies or life experiences. The animals are raised to be lab animals and don't know any other existence. A number of them (usually the ones that are going to be around for a while) come "debarked." I didn't know it was possible to debark a dog the way you declaw a cat and I was rather alarmed at the thought (even after the new vet assured me that the animals were fine). Some of them are tripped out "telemetered" Beagles, that have been surgically enhanced and are capable of automatically transmitting data. Having a telemetered dog is preferable to using jackets or tail cuffs, which "may cause distress to the animal" (but apparently surgery and large doses of toxic chemicals do not). On the upside, telemetered dogs are expensive, which means they usually get to stick around longer (for multiple studies) before being euthanized.

After my first week of work I called my mom and asked if I could talk to our dog. Suffice it to say, I do what I can to avoid the animal rooms.

Take a walk with me

Welcome to Kansas City, Kansas, home to many an immigrant, refugee and social service worker. Also, home to taquerias, paleterias, osunas, barbecue restaurants, bars, liquor stores (it's illegal to sell wine/liquor in KS grocery stores) and a Mexican Sun Fresh. The only thing it really lacks is a WalMart and a decent coffee shop. Also, a Target, or any place to purchase shoes. The character makes up for it.

Delicious, or "deliciosa" rather. My sister and I bought bread here . It was wonderful.
The pastries are lovely. I imagine they taste good too. 

No, it is not written in English on the other side.

This is the paleteria (which is an ice cream store, and so much more).
In two weeks I went here 3 times. The tequila nieva is to die for.

Cheapest gas in my neighborhood.

Typical little home, likely inhabited by an immigrant family
(I say this based on the people I saw and food I smelled as I walked by)

I don't know what Zumba is in English, much less in Spanish.

This building (and the one below) are perhaps my favorite in terms of external decor.

The quincinera dresses are the best items in the shop (see photo below).

A block of houses, typical to the area.

St. Peter's steeple. A sign that I am almost home!
(Always welcome, but especially after a long run)

St. Peter's. It's right across the street from my house. I love it.
The bells chime when school starts and when it's time for mass or prayer.
I might attend mass one of these days. It's been a long time.

This building is right across the street. I'm sure it used to be some kind of general store before it was turned
into apartments. Earlier in the year it suffered a fire and was condemned. I was snooping around the other day and
discovered that the deck and upper level are still accessible. Walking through a gutted out fire-damaged building was eery. I have an inclination to sit on the roof someday and drink wine or hot tea with a couple of friends. 

This sign (and the former gas station to the left of it) are just across the street from St. Peter's.
The place seems rather nostalgic and drips of the 1960s. I love it.

The Street Where I Live Part II: Technologically Inept

Sometimes I am over-ambitious and try using links and photos and awesome things in my blog posts. It is a mistake. I spent an hour on the one previous to this (perhaps because I was also trying to watch a movie and eat lunch, but still). I will try to keep this simple: Photos and captions. Full stop.

My personal entrance to the house (from the outside)

My personal entrance (and only window) to the house (from the inside)

The bathroom (which didn't make the first blog post)

My car and its parking space out front (the driveway is cray steep and treacherous)

The street where I live

My across-the-street neighbors (I do not know them)

The meat market (the back of which touches our backyard - fresh beef anyone?)

Though I do live on 14th Street (and all mail sent to me is addressed that way), when you see this sign you take a left in order to get to my house. Why? I'm not sure. I think the street is only called "Wilson" for about two blocks.

Some street corners in KCK (and other parts of Kansas City) are labeled with lovely letters that match the decor of the Plaza, which most clearly evidences the Spanish architecture that can be found in the area. KC is a sister city to Seville (or Sevilla) in Spain. Grandview is one of three names given to the street on which I live.

The Street Where I Live

The musical theme returns (for those of you who didn't grow up with Turner Classic Movies, today's title comes from the musical My Fair Lady, which is based on Pygmalion, starred Julie Andrews on stage, Audrey Hepburn on screen and Rex Harrison on both).

When things didn't work out with my intended roommate, I was at quite a loss for a place to live. My internship at Bethany Lutheran Church was complete, and consequently, so was my period of free lodging in Overland Park. I had no job, no place of residence, and no real plan for how I would solve either dilemma. Enter Adam White and the 14th Street Castle. Adam is a member at Jacob's Well (the church I've been attending since June, and the only thing that has remained stable in the time that I've been in KC), and owner of a house in Kansas City, Kansas. When he heard that I had no place to live, he offered the unfinished basement of his 95-year-old home. It isn't ideal, but is a space to store my things, and for the time being I find it inhabitable (the crickets and centipedes seem to agree).

My first week or so in the Castle (the name that has been given to the house where I live) was bearable. I was still looking for a job, and until I found one it made no sense to pay more to rent elsewhere. As the weeks passed I started to become attached to the house and its residents (the human ones that is).

Two weeks in, I made my first attempt at a "deep clean," which notably marks the point at which my dwelling place becomes more than a stopping point. I had a few break downs when the plaster began crumbling off the walls, dirt fell from the ceiling, and I first noticed the 3 cm of dust that coat all of the pipes running along the ceiling. I did my best to Soft Scrub and Lysol the bathroom and bar area. I made do with the "closet" that resembles a garden shed. I sprayed for bugs, removed cobwebs and shop-vac-ed to the best of my abilities.

This is my feather duster. I went to three different dollar stores before I found what I was looking for. This duster has seen more cobwebs than I can count on my hands and feet. It's a trouper, and as such hangs proudly in my closet.

This first bottle of bug spray was used up within the first month. 

I have killed at least four crickets, and for perhaps the first time

 have truly delighted in my victory and kill.

In the back of my closet I found a box of toilet brushes. Where they came from and why there are there I have no idea.

Three weeks after the move (the day of my 24th birthday) was the arrival of my first house guest (my little sister). That day I took some photos of my living space, noting that it had become more than a place to store my stuff.

The bed came from my one of my college friend's houses. There is an extraordinary amount of furniture that floats around her house. The sheets are from my parents. They hide the rather large and unsightly boiler, at least from some angles.

My favorite piece of furniture is the gas stove that is no longer allowed to function as a gas stove (due to the fact that my living space has terrible ventilation and already breaks fire code as it is). Instead the stove has become a makeshift vanity for me.

My mom taught me to use the oven for storage space.
I've learned this can be dangerous when it still works.

Even after procuring a job on the other side of town (30 miles from the Castle and about 5 from my previous place of residence), I prefer to keep living near the heart of the city. How long it will last I don't know. For the time being I call it home.

This is my kitchen area. Not bad, especially from a distance.

To the back is the bar and bathroom, back right is the closet. The steps lead up to my private stairs and door. The piece of couch belongs to Adam. I don't actually own any furniture.

My living space. The shelving unit belongs to my housemate Erin.

Entrance to the closet. Scary place. A little stuffy too.

My closet. It's odd and dirty, but massive.

I'm not racist...really

September 22, 2010

Before moving in June, I had specific schematic ideas associated with the concept "Kansas City." As a child whose family vacationed there at least 6 times in an 8-year time frame, I equated "Kansas City" with Worlds of Fun, Royals games, Stephensen's Apple Farm, and Cool Crest putt-putt golf course.

A little further down the road--but not too far--"Kansas City" brought to mind jazz bars, the Country Club Plaza, street musicians, Gates barbecue, and black people. Lots of black people. It isn't that I had a particular prejudice, I just didn't see much ethnic diversity in my K-12 education in Nebraska's Lutheran schools or my college years in the northwest corner of Iowa. And yet, in the four months that I've been in Kansas City, not once have I blogged about this anticipated cross-cultural experience. 

Granted, I've blogged less than 10 times since moving, but that isn't the reason for the apparent lack of color. It's more due to the fact that I spent my first three months in Overland Park, surrounded by Johnson County children, Johnson County business men, and the unmistakable Johnson County moms (the ones that hire people to texture the walls of their three-story homes, go for mid-morning runs in their $300 trainers (shoes), sip on glasses of wine after their kids are in bed, and eat expensive salads when they "do lunch" with the other members of the PTO). 

But now I have moved to Kansas City, Kansas (KCK) - an area that is the epitome of diversity. My house is located in a predominantly Latino  neighborhood. The closest eateries are taquerias, paleterias, and mercados. Two blocks from my house is "yuppy street", the block where the wealthy cattle owners built there houses a hundred years back, and on which the Irish families still live. A few blocks south is one pocket of the Bhutanese refugee community (most of whom are Nepali by descent and were living in refugee camps on the Nepal/Bhutan border up until a year ago). Every now and then you might see an Asian family, but not too often.

Yesterday, (which was a beautiful day to be unemployed), I went for a bike ride and ventured farther north and east than I had previously been when running around my new part of Kansas. (I was outside the borders of my designated "safe zone," but seeing as I was on a bike and it was only 5 pm, I didn't think it was all that risky.) I wasn't too far beyond my boundries before I discovered the local "hood".

I was pedaling my way along a residential street when I heard the low steady bass that underlies all generic rap music. I looked for a low-riding vehicle with the windows rolled down, but as I got closer to the source I realized it wasn't coming from any tripped out car stereo. In front of a small gray split-level on the right-hand side of the street a couple of plastic tables supported two massive stereo speakers and an amateur DJ's laptop. A handful of dark-skinned "young people" (I'm bad at guessing ages) were outside talking, laughing and swaying to the strong, rhythmic beats of the music. A truck zoomed by, and then - as if it were an afterthought - flipped a U-turn and pulled along the curb. Seven people piled out, joining the others in what looked to be an impromptu dance party.

As I made my way up the street (which also happened to be uphill) I received a number of evaluative and somewhat critical looks. I've rarely been the minority and so very conscious of the fact. No one gave me any trouble (they had better things to do I'm sure). They just stared as the little white girl pedaled her magenta Magna toward Central Avenue.

Further down the road I passed an older dark-skinned man. He was sitting outside a small white house that showed similar age and wear; evidence of the many years it has seen. "Hey!" he called out abruptly. "Where'd you get that bike?" The demand in his voice caught me off guard. As he rose to his feet and moved toward the street I picked up pace and turned my eyes back to the road ahead of me.

Eventually, I reached Big Eleven Lake - a small pond located just across from Gates Barbecue that has evidently been claimed as part of the "black neighborhood." (It sits right on the intersection of 11th and State Avenue - both of which have become signivicant border streets). Attracted as I am to bodies of water and clumps of green space and trees, I ran around Big Eleven as soon as I found it on my KC map.

Usually when I'm running I don't attract much attention. My last run around the pond, however, had led to unprecedented runner-observer interaction. "Hey girl" a park-dweller called out. (I think I'd seen him the last time I was running that route, which was only a few days earlier.) "Can you dance?" It seemed a strange question at the time, even for a pick-up line. It was only later that I realized the shorts I'd been wearing had the word "Dance" plastered across the back. "Uh, yeah," I'd called back, as I continued my route.

As I pedalled up to Big Eleven, I noticed my "friend" at his usually picnic table. "It's about time you got a bike" he said. I laughed - at myself, at my situation, at how easily I am amused. I headed home, passing a small Hispanic girl and her Chihuahua on the way. Welcome to KCK.

Puzzled

If my life were a jigsaw puzzle (and that's often the way it feels) I think it would be the kind that you buy at a thrift store. Not the elaborate puzzles that are three-dimensional, the simple puzzles with the large wooden pieces, or the impossible puzzles that are all one color, but the kind that are actually a combination of several puzzles that were each missing pieces in the first place. 

It's all like some terrible joke that you'd play on a fifth-grader, giving them a project that can't really finish (if you're the kind of person who would do such a thing). You watch as they pull the pieces out, grouping the ones that look similar, piecing together small little patches that they assume will eventually join into one great picture. Part-way through the process they become frustrated. There aren't enough edge pieces. The bunch of pink flowers doesn't really look like it's going to join up with the magic eightball or the rainbow encircled dolphin. There are a number of pieces that just sit there on their own - neon green or faded puce. Where do those go? The answer: right where they are. They don't go anywhere. There is no picture, kid. You've just spent the past several hours, days, weeks, months, years trying to make sense of incoherent, but not totally unrelated puzzle pieces of life. 

What does one do with a box of useless pieces that don't fit together? What do I do with all of the unrelated interests, experiences, encounters and questions that have filled the past 24 years of my life? I can't come up with the real-life equivalent of a decoupage picture frame.

Deja Derby

I know, I know, the title of this blog is...lacking, but so is the time it would take for me to come up with something better. I'm open to suggestions.

Ever since moving to Kansas City, Kansas (a specific part of Kansas City, usually referred to as KCK), I can't help but be reminded of the four months I spent in Derby last fall. Some of the reasons for my reminiscence are general, circumstantial, and a little vague: I'm on my own. It's fall. I'm not sure what I'm doing here. I don't know what I'll do when I leave. I'm in a new place (even a new part of that new place). I'm unemployed. I'm continually meeting new people and making a few friends. I'm discovering a city, usually by myself. I'm constantly telling myself that I ought to be in school right now. I'm looking for a job, but don't really know how to do that. And so on and so forth.

Other reasons are more specific and have me wondering if something here is related, if there's actually a significant meaning and purpose for my life (which I doubt more with each passing day but desperately search for nonetheless), or if I'm just trying to make sense of my haphazard existence and missing England in the process.

The biggest thing that constantly takes my thoughts to Derby is my recent experience with Mission Adelante. Mission Adelante is a Christian-run organization that seeks to love and serve the immigrant and refugee community. The organization is about 5 years old and was built around principals of relational and practical ministry, as well as biblical mandates concerning the treatment of aliens and foreigners. Similar to many of the Core Team at International Community Church (ICC) in Derby, the staff of Mission Adelante seek to live in and among the immigrant refugee community. They have moved their families into the neighborhood for the purpose of building relationships, sharing meals, having conversations and living alongside Latino immigrants and Bhutanese refugees. These are the same reasons that the Martin family (with whom I lived when I was in Derby) chose to live on the outskirts of Normanton, the refugee/immigrant neighborhood in Derby.

KCK reminds me so much of Normanton. The local food shops, places of worship, foreign words, diverse groups of people. The people groups are quite different (I've yet to cross paths with a Pakistani mother), but the experience of finding the foreign among the familiar is quite the same. Instead of mango lassis, I indulge in Hispanic paletas and nieva at the paleteria. Instead of the Kurdish cafe, I walk past taquerias. Instead of Arabic, I see signs in Spanish. There's a similar feeling of have a cross-cultural experience while in your "native" environment.

I am once again living in a house occupied by an ever-changing group of individuals. Instead of the attic I am living in the basement/cellar, where I have my own tiny bathroom and small kitchen area. Whereas my room on Swinburne was bright (there probably still aren't shades on the window), finished off (quite nicely), and sometimes a bit cold (oh British heating), my "room" in KCK is relatively dark, dirty and a bit stuffy. I tell myself daily (or at least each time I kill another insect, see another cobweb, or notice the dirt caked on the pipes above my bed) that thousands of people (most of the world, in fact) live in worse conditions. I don't want to forfeit my location, and at the moment I don't really have another option.

In place of Mina (not that anyone could replace her), the Iranian refugee who lived in the house on Swinburne Street, I am housemates with Guadalupe, a Mexican immigrant who has been in the States for the past six years. Her English is bit more advanced than Mina's (and my Spanish is significantly better than my Farsi), but our conversation on the steps the other day reminded me so much of chats with Mina. "Together is better," I found myself saying, which any ICC-er would recognize as a Mina phrase.

While learning where to go to buy groceries and other such things (trial and error being my preferred method of learning) I came upon Aldi. Apparently the chain, which started in Iowa, is somehow based out of Germany, which explains why the stores are so remarkably similar to Lidl, a German-based chain of stores in the UK (among other places), and the place I did my shopping in Derby.

Similar to ICC, Mission Adelante offers ESL classes to community members. I decided to volunteer with the Nepali/Bhutanese refugees (more on their story later) on Tuesday nights. Latino programs take place on Thursday nights. Being in an ESL setting again is great. The first week was unstructured and experimental and everything was up in the air and it was all just so very much like being at the Persian Cultural Association or co-teaching Kurdish women with Rosanna in Derby.

Saturday I attended a Bhutanese event celebrating Teej, a Hindu festival that honors women. I think the actual calendar date of the celebration (which is, of course, based on the Hindu calendar in the first place) was last week, but as the women fast during the seven days of the festival, they post-poned community involvement until there could be food - a very wise decision in my opinion. There were delicious traditional Nepali dishes, kheer, cucumber salads, rice, curried dishes, cake, odd shaped fried substances. There were men and women in traditional dress, brightly colored saris, garlands and jewelry. There was music and dancing, poem recitations and singing. Most of the afternoon I had no idea what was being said because everyone was speaking Nepali. I had forgotten what that is like. The contrast of the dingy walls, florescent lights and linoleum floor of the Catholic Charities fellowship hall with the bright pinks, vibrant oranges, and sparkling greens of the clothing reminded me of the Congolese women's event I attended last November.

I spoke with one of the volunteers about her relationships with the Bhutanese, about being in their homes, interacting with their children, sharing meals and becoming a part of their world. She shared her experiences, relating that after one visit to a Nepali/Bhutanese home you are guest, after three you are a friend, and after four you become family. My heart ached for those relationships and for the immigrants and refugees I left in England. The next day I received an e-mail from Shamim, my Derby neighbor to whom I'd been giving English lessons. In the letter she called me sister, thanked me for not forgetting her family and hoped for my return to England. So did I. As I think on that relationship I am torn between a deep longing to return to Derby and a contrasting hope that I might become a part of the refugee community here in KCK.

I don't know what will come of my ESL experience and connection to Mission Adelante. The only jobs I have found thus far will require a long commute from KCK, and may interfere with my ability to be available. None of them are all that appealing, but as I'm continually changing my mind about what I would like to do anyway, that shouldn't be surprising.