Lessons from Johanna

Last week I spent three days in St. Louis visiting my brother, his wife, and their nine-month-old daughter, Johanna.

I do not consider myself to be a “kid person.” I don’t dream of someday living in a little house filled with baby bottles, rocking horses, and copies of Goodnight Moon. I don’t ooh and ahh and coo over infants or make a fuss over the cute little socks or precious tiny dresses when I walk past the baby section of Target. Truth be told, when a baby enters the room I’m more likely to become uncomfortable than to reach for it with eager arms.

I think I lack maternal instincts.

I was a little worried about this when I first visited my niece a month or so after she was born. I feared that my unease around her (and babies in general) would offend my brother’s wife or hinder a future relationship with Johanna Ruth Kuehn; the realtionship that might exist after she had developed the capability for rational thought (thereby making her “safe” for me to interact with). Fortunately my mom and sister were visiting as well, and between the two of them there is enough motherly affection to satisfy a nursery full of children.

The “grandmother factor” was present on Thanksgiving and Christmas as well, meaning I could continue to admire my niece from a distance. There was a safe place to pass her off or return her when she started crying, drooling, or otherwise fussing. This past week, however, Aunt Amanda was on her own with little Jo Ru.

Similar to our first encounter, my niece and I spent a good portion of time staring at each other, wondering who (and perhaps even what) was starting back. I was surprised by her helplessness - her inability to wipe her nose, transport herself, or procure her own food. I was surprised by her ignorance - her inability to understand where we were going or why she needed to be strapped into her stroller. And I was surprised by her defiance – her refusal to behave during church, finish her breakfast or go down for a nap. But most of all, I was surprised by my affection for this squawking, chirping, cooing, crying little creature.

I do not love Johanna because she is gentle or beautiful or kind. I do not love her because of what she provides for me or the way that she impacts my life. I love her simply because she exists, and because – to some extent - she is mine. I reflect on this and realize that this is love the way that God loves us, the way that he loves me. He is not surprised by my helplessness, my ignorance, or my defiance. He has likely become accustomed to such things from me. And despite them all he is overcome with affection for me – the grumbling, complaining, rejoicing, confusing creature that I am. He does not love me because of what I can do for him, which is really nothing at all. He loves me simply because I exist, because I am his.

Even at nine months old, I suppose my niece has something to teach me. 

Artificial Update

So I realized today that I haven't properly blogged for a good many months. Sad (at least for me), but true. Though I doubt there are really any readers of this blog at this point, it's good exercise for me as an "aspiring author" to have a place I feel I ought to be writing. Also, when we write (or even when we retell stories over and over again) it cements memories that would otherwise vanish with the passing of time.

The following was not written for this blog. It was written for "The Voice," our church newsletter. The next few blog posts are articles I wrote for The Voice. No one really reads the church newsletter, which leads me to think I ought to try something a bit racy next week. For now, there's this:

Friday, March 25, I stuffed my backpack with books, snacks, medical forms and a sweatshirt; grabbed my water bottle, and boarded a First Student school bus. Waiting for me were over three dozen middle school students, hyped-up with energy (and caffeine) and ready for the three-hour trip to Roach, MO.

“This is great. You’re excited. You’re going to have an excellent weekend. No one will get hurt. No one will hate you. The kids will have fun. You will bring them home safely.” I repeatedly chanted these phrases to myself loudly enough to drown out the songs from Messiah’s spring musical, but quietly enough to avoid drawing too much attention. Either the mantra sank in pretty deeply or God chose to surprise me (I think the latter). The weekend really was quite excellent. None of the 20 kids that came along from St. Stephen expressed deep feelings of resentment toward me and all of them came back safe and healthy, albeit a little sleep-deprived. I daresay they may even have learned something in the 48 hours we spent together. I know I did.

I’ve taken part in my fair share of retreats, camps and weekends away in the past ten years: volleyball camps, dance camp, Christian teen retreats, National Youth Gathering, campus ministries retreats, church camp, and long road trips with good friends. There are reasons we leave. Reasons we need to “get away” physically in order to “get away” spiritually. And there are reasons we do this together, as a community. Something about three-hour bus trips, fast food frenzies, team building exercises and shared sleeping arrangements is bonding. In a single weekend we are often able to meet, know, and connect with one another and with our heavenly Father more deeply and memorably than we do over nine months of weekly Sunday school classes. That is not to negate Sunday school or the benefit of regular rhythms, patterns and practices - all of which I believe to be vital – only to say that retreats also have their place and purpose.

This past weekend 20 middle school students, four adult chaperones and I joined over 600 other middle school student from over 40 different LCMS churches in learning more about what it means to pray. Together we pondered what it means that a holy God has invited us to call him Abba (“Daddy”), together we trekked through the wind and snow to get to the chicken tenders in cafeteria (well, some of us may have driven), together we worshipped with Parrallax View, and together we debriefed in our cabins, put on our pajamas and didn’t go to sleep as soon as we should have.

I can’t tell you the impact that three days away had on any of the individuals that went to Windermere, but I can tell you that it had an impact, that those three days someone seemed to be a week in length, that they allowed for the fostering of conversation and forming of relationships. And I can tell you that when we cut ties to our work, our electronic devices, our do-lists and our agendas, it allows us to make receptive space in our hearts. It is when we are away, when we are in need, when we are without our entertainments, comforts, familiarities and friends that God can most effectively work.

You may not be able to sacrifice three days, and you probably do not need to go to Camp Windermere, but I challenge you to “get away,” to go someplace where you will be in need, and out of your need to learn what it means for your Abba to fill you, to meet with you as he met with Moses on the mountain and in the desert. Leave what you know, that you might discover what you do not.

Foreigner

This week I will go about traveling in a foreign place - a place where I do not understand the cultural norms, speak the native language, know how to ask for help, or have any friends or connections. I don’t have an agenda. I don’t have a tour guide. I’m uncertain of where I will stay and have given little thought to just how I will spend my time. I am excited by this prospect and all of the potential adventures that will unfold before me. I look forward to meeting new people, developing great stories, exploring new places, and gaining all sorts of new insights and perspectives.

But I am also terrified.

I’m afraid of not knowing how to ask for directions, of getting lost and being taken advantage of. I’m afraid of standing out and being awkward; of lacking the communication skills necessary for purchasing food, finding a bed for the night, and procuring a train ticket. Perhaps most of all, I’m afraid of being left to solve all of these problems by myself, with only my smartphone and phrase book to guide me.

I acknowledge my fears and I’m reminded of my ESL students, Bhutanese refugees who have been uprooted from their homeland, relocated to refugee camps, and transported half-way across the world to Kansas City, Kansas. They too find themselves both excited and terrified. They too look forward to meeting new people, exploring new places, and gaining opportunities. They too are afraid of getting lost and being taken advantage of. They stand out. They are awkward. They lack the communication skills necessary to purchase food and find housing. They don’t know how to use what disjointed public transportation there is, and they are unable to drive their own cars. But unlike me, the Bhutanese did not choose to leave their homes and come to the United States. And unlike the Bhutanese, I get to return to my familiar bed, reliable job, community of friends, and native land when two weeks is up.

I think of the commands that God gives to the Hebrews in the Old Testament, “Do not oppress a foreigner; you yourselves know how it feels to be foreigners, because you were foreigners in Egypt.” (Exodus 23:9). In the times that I have traveled and moved and relocated I have quickly and acutely been reminded of what it is like to be the foreigner - to be unfamiliar and uncertain; to not know people or places or have “inside” guidance. And in the times that I have stayed and settled, I have easily fallen into community and familiarity. How quickly we forget what it is like to be in need when we find ourselves having plenty. How soon we forget what it is like to be new once we have comfortably settled in a loving community.

Though this may seem most evident where ethnic or cultural barrier are present, it’s true everyday in our church family as well. We forget what it is like to be outside of the church. There are some of us who do not even know such an existence. We don’t remember the awkward feeling of keeping to yourself at the beginning of the service while everyone else is passing the peace and greeting their neighbors. We forget what it is like to gawk during communion or nearly drop the offering plate as it passes down the aisle. We don’t recall the day when we were uncertain of where to send our children for Sunday school or whether or not the donuts cost money.

“The alien living with you must be treated as one of your native-born. Love him as yourself…I am the LORD your God. (Leviticus 19:34). Love them as yourself. Look out for them as you would your own children. Visitors, foreigners, exchange students, refugees, the homeless, the needy - God calls us to love them. We are to treat them as our own, as members of our tribe, our people, our church. When is the last time that you left your comfort zone in order to accommodate for the needs of someone else? When is the last time you asked a stranger to join you for dinner or stopped to help someone who needed guidance or direction? It can be uncomfortable, inconvenient, even risky. But that’s grace.

Over the course of the next ten days I do not doubt that I will see the grace of God manifest in the hands, feet, hearts and faces of his people. I long to open myself to such opportunities, to admit my ignorance and accept the assistance I won’t be able to do without. I will welcome unexpected friendships and lavish gratitude on those who offer their hospitality. “The LORD protects the foreigners among us. He cares for the orphans and widows…” (Psalm 146:9) May you come alongside someone who is hurting, searching, seeking this week. May you be to them the grace of Jesus. And may you learn the blessing of addressing and attending to the foreigner.

A Spectrum of Saints

The third Thursday of every month a group of roughly three dozen senior citizens gets together to share a meal. We clear a space on the right side of the sanctuary and set up tables to accommodate the crowd. The white-haired women decorate the tables with sparkling garland, seasonal candies, and cellophane centerpieces. The buffet table is laden with fried chicken, hot dishes and a wide array of jello salads and desserts, most of which incorporate whipped cream, marshmallow fluff, or both. They call themselves the Silver Saints, and each month they gather to share food and discuss their families, musings, and memories. Their meals usually have a theme and often times they bring in a guest speaker (who usually has nothing to do with the theme of the meal). This past month they celebrated St. Patrick's Day and heard from a local fire fighter, who taught them about fire prevention.

Meanwhile, just down the hall is a group of roughly three dozen 3-4 year-olds who get together to share snacks, learn their numbers and letters, and create a wide array of crafts. We call them the Small Saints. They meet at various times during the week, some in the morning and some in the afternoon. Their monthly activities, snacks, and crafts usually have a theme, and often times they bring in a guest speaker (who usually has nothing to do with the monthly theme). This past month they celebrated Dr. Seuss by making green eggs and ham, pasting candles onto a paper birthday cakes and creating "cat-in-the-hat" snacks (a marshmallow stuck to a vanilla wafer and striped with strips of fruit roll up – it was delicious). They also participated in St. Patrick’s Day with a leprechaun search and the cutting of shamrocks. Their most recent visitor was a mail carrier who taught them about the way that the mail gets to your house.

I am continually amused by the similarities between these two polarized portions of the congregation. They both refer to me as “Miss Amanda.” Both move slowly and require special attention in the hallways. Both like to sport brightly colored clothing that reflects a newfound “sense of self” (and of style). Both enjoy naptime. Both take pleasure in simple things. Both offer uncalculated physical affection. And both offer me a perspective on life that I would otherwise miss completely.

Sometimes the two groups interact, and at such times I am content to sit, to watch and to wonder at what they all must be thinking. The Small Saints sang Christmas carols for the Silver Saints prior to their December luncheon, an event I made sure to mark on my calendar. It was short, simple, and imperfect – 30-odd preschoolers on the carpeted steps of the sanctuary, eyes everywhere but on their teachers – but something about it was also beautiful. The Silver Saints watched with hope and contentment. During lunch they discussed their children and grandchildren, whether or not they would travel over the holidays, and who would be fortunate enough to receive visitors and do the holiday baking.

All of this, I confess, struck me. As a 20-something single person still unsure of what I want to do with my life, I spend most of my time thinking about myself, and if not of myself then of other people my age. I give little thought to preschoolers and even less to senior citizens. I don’t consider that my actions, my decisions, my life might actually have an effect on theirs. When I go home for holidays I still think about me – How much work do I want to miss? When do I want to get back to my friends? Who can I visit while staying with my parents? I am quick to forget that a relational job requires considering both sides of the relationship.

Stuck in the middle of preschool and post-retirement, I find I have a lot to learn.

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

I'm currently working as the youth director and programmer of a mid-sized LCMS church in Liberty, Missouri and living in a 95-year-old house in Kansas City, Kansas. On Tuesday nights I teach ESL to a group of Bhutanese refugees, many of whom have only been in the US for a matter of months. Most weeks I pick up a shift as a server at Californos, a restaurant and reception venue in Westport. My social life involves hanging out with a motley crew of friends whose common bond is Jacob's Well, an emerging church in midtown Kansas City. Once in a while I still do some freelance copy editing for a National Science Foundation evaluator. Aside from periodically stalking people on facebook and attempting to start or finish a few books, that is my life.

And it's not a bad life. What little consistency there is between three relatively unstructured jobs, is good for me. Aside from moving to an upstairs bedroom in February, I've been living in the same place for over six months for the first time since high school. I've gotten used to Kansas City. I can navigate the streets and entertain my friends and family when they come to visit. I daresay I've become comfortable.

At least up until a month ago when an e-mail from Vimperk reminded me of what I wanted to do (or at least what I said I was going to do) when I graduated from college. A "writing and rhetoric" graduate who just couldn't pick a grad school program, I decided to earn a TEFL certificate and teach English as a foreign language for a few years before pursuing a Master's or PhD. I did get the certificate. I did spend 4 months working with immigrants and refugees in England. I did send resumes to numerous schools in Spain, Italy, and the Czech Republic. And then I went back to Nebraska to visit my family for Christmas and never left.

My strongest lead was from a gymnasium/grammar school in Vimperk, a Czech town surrounded by Sumava National Park. There was the potential of starting in February of 2010, which was dashed when one of their current instructors decided to stay an additional semester. I didn't hear from Vimperk again until early in May, less than two weeks after I'd committed to my summer internship in Overland Park. The school needed to know by June 1 (five days before my move date) whether or not I'd like to come in August and begin teaching in Czech on September 1, 2010. I was uncertain of what would happen over the summer. What if I became part of a community? What if I began developing close relationships? What if I found another job? I'd already discussed moving in with my best friend in the fall and spending the next year "experiencing life" in KC. I passed on the offer.

Three months later I was not attached. I did not have close friends. I did not love Kansas City. I had not found a job. And my "future roommate" had decided to live with her parents for the next year. I would have happily left the country to teach in Czech September 1. I contacted them to see how many native teachers they had lined up for the fall. Unfortunately, they didn't need me. At least not that year.

February 8, I received an e-mail informing me that my golden opportunity to teach overseas had come. I could begin paperwork as soon as March to start teaching September 1, 2011. After spending a summer as a superfluous intern in Johnson County and a couple of months copy-editing lab documents in Stillwell, I was further convinced that I wanted to teach English, as far away from white-collar America as possible. Yet, I was torn by the offer I would have jumped at in August. The difference being what had transpired in those few months between summer and winter. I moved into a house. I started a job, two jobs actually. I began developing close relationships with my housemates, co-workers, and friends. I started falling in love with Kansas City. Essentially, I became attached. It was something I hadn't planned on - Kansas City as a whole was something I hadn't planned on - when I graduated from college.

Though the "logical" next step in meeting my life goals appeared to be teaching in Vimperk, I chose to remain in Kansas City for another year. A piece of me wonders how long that "year" will end up being. My greatest fear in saying "no" for now, is that I am also saying "no" for later, that I'll never make it overseas, that my plans won't be realized, my goals won't be met. It's the same piece of me that used to fear falling in love with someone who wanted to be a farmer and then spending the rest of my life in small-town Nebraska; the piece of me that wants to follow a plan, even though diverging from that plan is most often how the richest parts of life happen. I don't think I'll actually stay in Kansas City for the rest of my life. My friends will grow and change and get married and take other jobs and move away. The youth program will develop as much as it can under my influence, and the church will be ready for someone with other gifts and qualifications. I'll itch to be back in school or back overseas or both. But for now, I'm content to stay. Perhaps this time next year my answer will change.

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.