A First Time for Everything...This Time, A Christmas Letter

There are many things I enjoy about Christmas at home—the familiar decorations, the traditional cookies, the secret code names on the gifts that taunt me from beneath the tree, the basket of Christmas letters that sits beside the fireplace. Each year the members of my family take turns digging through the basket, searching for photographs and looking for letters from people we know. I have dreamed of the day I would pick out red and green-trimmed stationary and share my own seasonal news. I’ve penned the Kuehn family Christmas/New Year’s letter eight of the past ten years. This year I am sending my own.

I wonder why it has taken me this long and why this is the year I decide to write. If I am honest—more honest than I believe one is supposed to be in a Christmas letter—I would say it is because my life has not seemed “letter worthy.” I am not yet a “real” adult, at least not the kind that sends letters. There is no new house, no fiancé, no babies on the way or big career moves to speak of.

I did manage to land a youth ministry position at a church in Liberty, MO. I was there for an entire 25 months (7 months more than the average youth worker) before I resigned. Youth ministry is just not what I was created to do. I am not really sure what I was created to do, but it must be something else.

My final Sunday at the church, I described to the senior high why I was leaving and where I was going. I explained that each of us has different talents, gifts, and opportunities. Sometimes, many times, we settle for what is known, comfortable or expected when we are capable of more. The doors are open, but we are afraid to walk through them. Other times, we long for escape the way I have longed to live overseas ever since I graduated. We push and we strive, but the doors do not open. And so we stay put. Because we must. We seek other opportunities to use our gifts and experiences, which is, of course, how I ended up living in a community house in Kansas City, KS, teaching ESL courses to Bhutanese refugees, and working at St. Stephen Lutheran Church.

It’s difficult to sit down with a group of high school students (most of them seniors and freshmen), encouraging them to try new things and pursue their dreams and desires, when you are not doing so yourself. I try to motivate my students to take risks, to move into spaces that may seem uncomfortable, and to chance leaving what they like in order to pursue what they love, what God has called them to. And those are the reasons I have chosen to leave a life that I like, so that I can pursue the life I was created to live.

Three and a half years ago (not long after I graduated from college with a B.A. in Writing and a fuzzy idea of the future), I set off for a four-month mission term in England. I returned from that experience with a newfound love for refugee and immigrant populations and a strong desire to get back overseas. I spent six unexpected months working my high school job at the HyVee bakery and living with my parents in Lincoln, NE. After that, I left for Kansas City, where I hoped to move in with a college friend. That didn’t work out, but Kansas City did, and I wouldn’t trade my time here for anything, not even the overseas teaching position I was offered two weeks after I committed to moving. I decided that Kansas City deserved a fair shot, but now I am ready to adventure again.

January 27^th my plane departs for Paris, France. I do not speak French, but I will be staying with a family that does and I’m hoping I will be a fast learner.  For three months I will focus on writing and will serve as an English tutor for Nina, a tri-lingual five-year-old. I will spend May in England, visiting friends and reconnecting with a country and community that is lodged deeply in my heart. My flight is scheduled to return in June, at which point I will walk through whichever door seems to be open. I may go to graduate school, provided I get accepted. I may move to California. I may move back to Kansas City. Or I may end up on the other side of the world.

I am open to the unknown future. I’ve learned it’s better that way. It isn’t easy, at least not for me, but I do believe it is better. God calls us to hold our lives loosely. In fact, He calls us not to hold to them at all, but to deny them, to willingly give them up—not because He wishes to take anything from us, but because He desires to give us more. As long as our hands are full, our fingers clenched tightly around people, positions, promises, and possessions, we are unable to receive what might otherwise be ours.

This holiday season, as you unwrap gifts and open boxes, think not only of the great gifts that God has given you in family, friends, and fortune, but of the gifts He may still be waiting to give. Are you willing to let go of what you have now in order to take hold of something else? Are you willing to sacrifice what you know—what you may even like—that you might pursue something you really love? It is my hope that you will, and that you will become more yourself in the process.

And with that challenging thought, I will bid you adieu. I would love to hear from you, and would be delighted if you chose to follow my upcoming journey.

Grace, Peace, Joy, and Love be yours,

Amanda Kuehn

http://parisianamerican.blogspot.com/

Selling Myself

If I never write another statement of purpose (aka "personal statement" or "statement of intent") it will be too soon. Unfortunately, I still have three SoPs left, and that's assuming this is the only time I'll be applying to graduate school.

A statement of purpose is a 500-word summary of where you've been, where you are, how you got there, and where you're planning to go. It is also a summary of who you are, what you've achieved, why you matter, and how you plan to affect change in the world. I've had to sell myself before in job interviews and on cover letters and scholarship applications. I've never been very good at it. I attribute it to my Lutheran background. Something about confessing every Sunday that I am a poor miserable sinner who deserves only death and punishment makes me doubt that I really have the ability to change anything, much less the world. For years Luther has been telling me that there is no worthiness or merit in me and that any good that comes from me is a sheer miracle of God, a miracle for which I take no credit.

To counter my guilt and shame, I have been reading other people's SoPs, feeding my pride, and convincing myself that "Hey, I could do that." I don't know how "Christian" this is of me, but I've yet to see the fallout. In fact, I think God might be rather proud of me for claiming the gifts that I've  been developing and discovering since I was four years old. He may even be disappointed in me for not being more diligent in pursuing them.

Eight years ago I was a senior in high school. I was a good student, a fair speaker, a decent writer, and a "super Christian." I wasn't more holy, sanctified, or redeemed than anyone else. I wasn't particularly positive, kind, or happy, but I read Christian books, wore Christian shirts, listened to Christian music, and led Christian study groups. I chose a Christian college to which I received a Christian leadership scholarship. During a campus visit, I had met with one of the English faculty. He taught literature courses and we discussed Willa Cather and Nebraska authors and I was utterly enthralled with the thought of reading and studying books for the next four years. But I was a slow reader, with little knowledge of the literary canon. I feared falling behing my peers, and decided instead to enter the Christian education program and pursue a degree in counseling. I learned that counseling required seven years of grad school and switched to youth ministry. I wasn't particularly engaging. I didn't have a passion for kids or spiritual formation or recreational activities. I found it all interesting, but, well, I don't play dodgeball.

Meanwhile, I also entertained this idea of being a writer. I engrossed myself in books and words and  went to poetry readings and plays. I paired youth ministry with a writing major, reasoning that I could write Bible studies or work at Brio magazine (which was discontinued in 2009, but was similar to Susie). I was as if I had to "Christianize" my vocation, as if a sense of vocation (a summons or strong inclination to a particular state or course of action; especially : a divine call) wasn't enough. 

I was in the second half of my junior year before I realized what I had been doing, how I had been trying to prove myself and live up to my own ideas of what it meant to be called by God. Ironically, it was when I left the church that I began to discover my real interests and develop my natural gifts. 

By that time it was too late to switch majors and too soon for me to commit to a graduate program. I hadn't spent enough time pursuing my literary enthusiasm. I tried writing a statement of purpose--describing my writing background, my passions, my inspirations, my plans for the future--but I couldn't, because I didn't have any. I didn't know why I wanted to be a writer or what I wanted to do with a writing degree. I just knew that I wanted it. Essentially, I wanted to get a Master's in English because I'd spent most of my college career pursuing a Bachelor's in "Christianity."

But going to school because you "like to learn" doesn't really cut it with acceptance committees. So I graduated, and left college, and worked odd jobs and started blogging and writing and traveling and writing and then looking for any job that would give me experience as a writer. But the economy tanked and I moved to a new place and the only job I was really qualified for was in youth ministry. So I did that for two years. And here I am, trying to sell myself as a writer once again. But this time it feels different. I haven't read scads of books or acquired remarkable skills, but I have started to pay attention to myself, to the things that excite me and move me and affect me, the things that I've always loved, even when I didn't realize it.

I think of what God would say if he were to read through my statement of purpose, and for the most part I think he would smile (which is something I don't often say about God). I think God would be glad to see me finally doing the things that he made me to do, know that I've gotten the "parent-pleasing" out of my system. He might be disappointed by the little white lies I tell regarding the excellence of the university's faculty and my enthusiasm to work with professors whose bios I found online and whose works I've barely skimmed, but for the most part I think God would be okay.

It is difficult to get someone else to believe in you when you don't really believe in yourself. And it is difficult to believe in yourself when you are constantly being told that you don't measure up. The words I need to hear are not "You need Jesus," but "You are enough. You are gifted and talented and you are free to pursue those desires. You and your talents can meet the world's needs in a way no one else can." It's a bit lofty, I know, but it's a truth I need to claim if I am ever to write with conviction. What good is a statement of purpose if you don't believe it yourself?

Thank you and Goodbye

"You have a restless spirit" he typed.

(I have this addiction to gmail chat that I don't like to admit, but that is true nonetheless)

"Well, I suppose so..." I responded, "BUT..."

There's always a "but" when it comes to claiming my personal propensities, especially the ones that are so subjective. I guess I wasn't really claiming my restless spirit so much as I was defending it, as if I know there is something wrong with being restless, as if I want to be more settled and stable, but I just can't help myself and my perpetual need for change.

"I'd like to think of it more as wanderlust," I continued. "BUT...I suppose you're right."

I am restless. My spirit doesn't just occasionally stir, it shifts uncomfortably and continually, like a thirteen-year-old boy in the middle of an 8th hour English class. Mondays are the worst. I haven't gone to work on a Monday morning since September, maybe August. It's supposed to be my sabbath--the day I don't drive to Liberty or answer my work e-mails or worry about finding chaperones for the next middle school retreat--but it often ends up feeling quite the opposite. Last Monday was fairly productive--I worked on a writing sample and did my dishes and went to the gym and made phone calls. I did some reading. Today I slept in until 8:45, made breakfast, answered some e-mails, and realized yet again how fitful I become without a schedule.

Then I thought about the "Thank you and Goodbye" reception that was held for me at St. Stephen yesterday. It strikes me as somewhat absurd that you wouldn't thank someone for their work until they are about to leave. A "thank you" reception would have been really helpful about 12 months into my job, when I started each morning re-thinking whether or not I should have taken it. "Thank you" would have been a great thing to say when I was in the throws of organizing a service event, planning a confirmation service, or finishing a weekend with a dozen middle school girls. But waiting until I leave to tell that my work is appreciated is almost cruel. I'm sure it was meant to give me a case of the "warm fuzzies," but instead it made me feel empty and hollow. If I had known that I was appreciated, that people noticed and even liked what I was doing, maybe I wouldn't have been so restless, so ready to move on.

Leaving a job, I have decided, is a lot like breaking up with someone. I've never really been on this side of that equation before (i.e., the "dumper"), but I imagine I would probably have similar second thoughts and misgivings about leaving another entity to whom I had previously committed myself. Maybe that's part of the reason I haven't ever ended a relationship. Because I just don't end things. I fight the end, sometimes fiercely. I didn't end my relationship with high school, college, or any of the half a dozen internships that I've had. They were only temporary in the first place.

The only time I've ever really left a place was when I moved from Lincoln, Nebraska, to Kansas City. My waitressing gig at Tandoor wasn't bringing in much money, so that was a pretty painless and mutual decision. But I nearly cried when I left the HyVee bakery. When my manager asked if I wanted to stay in the system I replied, "Well, you never know." They were happy to see me move onto bigger things, but I was still sad to go.

This is the first time a job has ever pursued me. We sort of pursued each other really. It didn't seem like a perfect fit, at least not from my perspective, but they seemed so very eager to make it work. So I thought I'd have a go and see what happened. It was blissful for a while. I was surrounded by preschool students singing Christmas songs and coloring gingerbread men. I got paid to go camping and canoeing and to talk to high school students about the importance of prayer and the beauty of community. It was good stuff. But then, about a year in, I wasn't really sure about it anymore. I wasn't sure if this could be a more permanent thing, if I could see myself as a youth director for the rest of my life. I wasn't being affirmed in my work and didn't feel able to freely use my gifts. It wasn't what I expected from a youth position and it didn't satisfy me the way I thought a career should. I was young. I had other ideas. I had the freedom to pursue them. So I decided I would. I put in my two years and I began dreaming of other things.

I suppose it isn't unlike my current relationship with David. He was the first person to really pursue me, and I suppose I pursued back as well. It didn't seem like a perfect fit, at least not from my perspective, but he seemed so very eager for things to work. So I thought I would have a go and see what would happen. It was blissful at first. We began dating in December, surrounded by Christmas lights and holiday parties, and those sort of "early relationship" conversations. There was someone else paying for me to go to movies and taste delicious things and cook amazing food and meet his wonderful friends. It was good stuff. But then, about a year in, I wasn't really sure about it anymore. I wasn't sure if this could become a more permanent thing, if I could see myself with David for the rest of my life. We talked about it and got passed it and then he moved to California. Eight months later I began applying for graduate schools, mostly in the Bay Area. Up until November I was pretty sure about moving to California next summer. But then I was encouraged to apply elsewhere. I developed other ideas. I have the freedom to pursue them. But I am at a complete loss as to whether or not I should.

I wonder if some relationships (certainly not all of them, but some) would benefit from a "Thank You and Goodbye" ritual, only without the goodbye part. In fact, long before the goodbye happened. If we spent more time appreciating each other and affirming the roles that we play in one another's lives (romantic or otherwise) maybe there wouldn't be as much dissatisfaction and doubt and questioning. Maybe it would hamper some of that longing for something better, the restlessness that I so often seem to experience.

It's unfortunate that the catalyst for gratitude is so often the real or perceived risk of loss. When someone threatens to leave we suddenly realize how valuable they were or are or could be if only they weren't going away. But by that point it is often too late to say "thank you" without also saying "goodbye." And "goodbye" just seems like such a terribly cold thing to follow a heartfelt word of appreciation.

I'm not sure that appreciation would do anything to tame the restlessness of my spirit, but perhaps I would feel a bit more at home, a bit more welcome to rest in its acceptance.

Waiting for Christmas

Christmas seems to creep into grocery stores, shopping malls, TV commercials, and radio stations earlier each year. As soon as Halloween is over (and sometimes even before), the aisles are full of red and green lights, discounted electronics, seasonal treats, and “bargain” prices. Despite this, I refuse to shop for gifts, put up a tree, or listen to holiday music before Thanksgiving. It’s always been that way—dinner before dessert, Thanksgiving before Christmas.

This year I spent Thanksgiving in Las Vegas, where my sister and I celebrated together, along with our respective boyfriends. The four of us spent all morning slicing and chopping and sautéing and baking, and then sat down to a meal of turkey, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and pumpkin pie. (There was also baked brie with caramelized onions, marinated olives and sundry other delicious things thanks to so much culinary talent in such a small space). We lit a pumpkin-scented candle and went around the table sharing what we were particularly thankful for in the past year. Our meal was long and meaningful, with an honest dose of struggle shared along with joy. It was Thanksgiving as Thanksgiving ought to be.

And then—at the stroke of midnight—it wasn’t.

The pumpkin candle burned out and mistletoe was put in its place. Christmas music filled the room as we unpacked ornaments, snowflakes, a nativity set, and a tree. The next morning we flipped through ads, drank mint mocha coffee, discussed our wish lists, and talked about when we would be heading home for Christmas, when we would see each other again.

Initially it was all very exciting. I love Christmas. I always have. But somewhere between the shopping, the decorating, the dining, and the details the excitement turned to exhaustion. By the time I flew home Monday morning I was stressing out about what to buy for my niece, wondering when I would have time to put up my own Christmas decorations, and fearing that all the Black Friday and Cyber Monday deals had passed me by before I even knew I wanted them.

I thought back to the Advent services I attended growing up, many of which urged us to let go of the busyness of Christmas preparation in order to hold to a heart that awaited the coming Messiah. I had never understood how Christmas could be stressful. Now I do.

I did some thinking on the plane ride home—about Christmas and Advent and what it really means to celebrate a season. To celebrate is “to show happiness at an occurrence, mark an occasion, or perform a prescribed religious ceremony.” Certainly all of this happens in the weeks leading up to Christmas – we show happiness, play special music, and carry out annual rituals and traditions. Perhaps isn’t a question of if we’re celebrating so much as it is what we’re celebrating.

Maybe one of the reasons that we find it so difficult to quiet our hearts during Advent is that we’re already in the throws of celebrating Christmas. The season of Christmas doesn’t actually begin until December 25^th. That’s the start of the season, not the end of it. The 20-odd days of Advent that lead up to Christmas aren’t set aside so that we can cram in as many seasonal parties and activities as possible, but so that we can prepare ourselves for the celebration that is yet to come. Much as Lent is a season during which we recognize our sinfulness and need for salvation, Advent too is a time of recognition, a time during which we recognize our desperate need for Immanuel – God with us – to actually be with us.

It is a season to excitedly anticipate, but it is also a time to quietly contemplate, to recognize our emptiness and to patiently wait to celebrate its completion. We humans aren’t very good at waiting. We don’t like the discomfort of unsatisfied desires – a condition that has given rise to countless new inventions that promise to “save you time” and “get you there faster.” In an instant-gratification society where you can get a meal in minutes and receive a text in mere seconds, the thought of waiting four weeks for Christmas seems interminable. But it is the act of waiting that makes the gratification rewarding. That is, if we’re waiting for the right thing.

In all of our getting ready for Christmas it can be challenging (and uncomfortable) to make space for Advent, to painstakingly carve out some quiet space, sit in it, and wait. But Advent ought to be celebrated as its own distinct season. We might do that by following a daily reading or pulling tabs off a chocolate-filled calendar; by turning off the radio and listening to the still space while driving to work in the morning; by going to a church, sitting in the pew, and reflecting on how we need God – not to help us with our Christmas shopping or to add more hours to our days – but to fill our hearts and redeem our lives. We can wait for the coming of Christ, long for the wholeness we need, and on Christmas we can better celebrate the satisfaction of that desire.

Today, I Write

Just because I am currently applying for an MFA does not mean that this blog is going to become a blog about writing. Nor is it going to become a blog about not writing, though that is more probable based on my slow progress in the application process so far. I blame some of this on the fact that my readers have not returned the writing sample that I sent them to look over, but perhaps that draft was just so terribly boring that they couldn't bring themselves to finish it, on account of falling asleep each time they pulled it out for a perusal. Or perhaps it was just so horrendously flawed that they have not yet finished all of the revision suggestions that it requires.

Today (and by today I mean tonight) I am writing a statement of purpose/vision statement/personal statement/purpose statement. In other words, a 1-2 page summary of who I am, why I write, what makes me unique, my particular talents, my goals, dreams, ambitions, and why in the world anyone ought to let me into their intimate, selective, prestigious writing program. You know, the normal stuff. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to sit on the other side of the table; to sift through carefully crafted summaries of young writers' developments, dreams, and aspirations the way that I currently glance through the 2.5 credit card offers that I receive on a daily basis. Perhaps this is the reason I procrastinate, because I somehow believe that the less time I spend on this statement, the less it will hurt if it is rejected.

I have been told that they things a writer does while she procrastinates writing are the very things she ought to be writing about. In which case I ought to conjure a witty narrative of the difference between the delicate cycle and the casual cycle on my laundry machine and whether or not my super-synthetic hot pants get upset when the realize they are in the same cycle as my Northwestern Lacrosse t-shirt. Or maybe I could write an ode to my dishwasher, the machine that washes, but never dries the slew of tupperware contained inside. I ought to have scads of essays on baking cookies, folding underwear, and checking facebook, which takes up such a large part of my free time I am ashamed to admit it.

Why is it that I cannot focus on this thing that I love? This thing that I say I wish to pursue and on which I am willing to spend thousands of dollars and hours of arduous unpaid labor? I will invest years of my life that I will never get back, and yet I will not forego an episode of Glee in order to read an article on how to "set apart" my application. I tell myself that when the time is right I will do it. I will write. But that day has not come and time is moving on. So today (which is actually tonight) I will write. Imperfectly. Haphazardly. Distractedly. But I will write. And tomorrow I will wake up, procrastinate, complain, blog, and then I will do it again.

A "Real" Writer

Two months ago I announced to my senior pastor (who also happens to be my boss), that I would be leaving my job at the end of the calendar year. A month later I informed the director of the Board of Youth (who happens to be my boss as well), and two weeks ago it was announced to the rest of the congregation. I had been wrestling with the decision for over a year. It seemed that the longer I stayed at St. Stephen the more attached I got to the security and comfort of having a decent job with a flexible schedule, health benefits, and a retirement plan. Youth directors make no large sum of money, but I brought in enough to cover my rent and groceries, to pay off my student loans and make progress toward owning my car. I was getting to know the people in the congregation and to form relationships with the youth, and all of that is fine and good, especially if you enjoy eating cookies, drinking Starbucks, and coming into work at 11:00 am. But when your major job tasks seem more like a nightmare than an adventure and the highlight of your week is the article you write for the church newsletter, it may be time to change professions.So after three years of post-graduate wandering, I've finally decided to apply to grad school, and now that I've made that known, there's no backing out. It's like signing up for a marathon. I can start training on my own with the best of intentions, and if it my knees and I decide we really don't have the time for this, I can always back out and justify that decision to myself. But once other people find out that I've paid $50 to put my body through hell I really have to show up and run those 26.4 miles, or at least give it my best shot.The past few weeks I've been reading through MFA (Master of Fine Arts) websites, stalking various writing instructors, and attempting to come up with the necessary application materials (a statement of purpose (SOP), letters of rec, and the all-important writing sample). When I read through the accomplishments, honors, and awards of program directors and participants it makes me want to lower my ears, turn my head, and walk away with my tail between my legs. And the application questions serve only to remind me of my insufficiencies: Who are the major literary influences in your life and work? In which journals and magazines have you been published? What honors, grants, or award have you received?You know, if I was a published, networked, successful writer I wouldn't be applying to MFA programs. Who are my literary influences? Oh you, know C. S. Lewis, Jane Austen, Lauren Winner and whoever else I've come across in the past few years. Pretty much everyone inspires me, or else no ond does I think a truer statement would be that everyone I read intimidates me. What am I reading? Well, I'm currently in the middle of a Christian book on vocation and am still stuck somewhere in the third chapter of Dorian Gray. Seeing as I've never read a book by Oscar Wilde I thought it was high time. It's just too bad that book is in California right now. The last book that I finished? What was the last book I finished? The Hunger Games? Now that's just sad. What honors or awards have I received? I think I was the most improved player on my middle school volleyball team, and I had a poem included in the Anthology of Poetry by Young Americans when I was in sixth grade.The honest truth makes me wonder if I'm actually a "real" writer or if I've just been posing as one ever since I graduated from college. I don't have a novel that I've been working on for the past three years or a laundry list of short stories that I'm submitting to Ploughshares, The Atlantic, or The Paris Review. I didn't even know what those were before I started this application process. I'm not a published professional and I haven't appeared in any articles on up and coming writers. Isn't there a school out there looking for someone like me? A hard-working twenty-something who loves words, lives for experiences, and writes to inspire, amuse, and delight? Doesn't anyone want to take a chance on someone who doesn't have loads of experience sending query letters and consorting with publishers?I've read articles and interviews from published authors who didn't begin writing until late in life and who now give readings and appear at book signings. I am inspired by their success and encouraged to pursue my own dreams and ambitions, but in the back of my mind I wonder if they would have gotten into any of the MFA programs I'm applying for. I'm certainly beginning to wonder if I will.Jane Anne Staw (an instructor at one of the programs I'm considering) has penned, “If you sit down each day and write, no matter how little, you are a real writer.” Those words not only incline me to move her program to the top of my grad school list, but also reassure me of my value and the value of my work, regardless of our publication status. I may not be seasoned or popular, but I am still a writer, and I will continue to be one even if I don't qualify for one of the eight spots open for Creative Non-Fiction. Come tomorrow I may feel differently, but for today it is enough.  

Dream a Little Dream

As a youth ministry coordinator (this is my new title), I often end up leading some level of Bible class on Sunday morning. Last Sunday it was senior high. At the start of class we had a "guest adult" come in and tell the kids a bit about her background, family, interests, etc. It's a part of an initiative that the Board of Youth is taking to foster more interaction between the adults and students in the congregation. So far it's gone pretty well, but that's beside the point. At the end of her introduction, Stacey asked each of the students to answer the question, "What dream(s) do you have?" For one it was going to college and majoring in something business-related. Another just wanted to finish high school. A third hoped to find a way to travel for a large part of her life. 

When the girl to my left finished sharing her dream I allowed for a brief pause before the question came to me. Just as I was about to answer, Stacey moved onto the student on my right, "And what about you, Addy? What kind of dream do you have?" she asked. 
I was surprised and a little disheartened that I had been passed over. "What about me?" I said with mock indignation. "Don't I get to have a dream?" Stacey quickly apologized. "Oh, I didn't mean to skip you. I just thought, well, that you're an adult."

"Well, sometimes I think so too," I retorted, "but does that mean I don't get to have a dream?"

I went on to briefly share that I thought someday I would like to publish a book, that being a published writer was something I had dreamed of since I was maybe ten years old. 

When I was in college (and even when I was in high school) I was simultaneously inspired and frustrated by the number of times I was asked, "So, what do you want to do after you graduate?" Or worse "What do you want to do with your life?" I should have taken it as an opportunity to dream, but usually I ended up stressed out over the fact that I didn't really have a satisfactory answer and therefore could not meet the inquirer's expectation, and I hate when I can't meet expectations. 

I finished undergrad in May of 2009 and didn't really stop hearing that question until I moved to Kansas City and started working at St. Stephen 18 months later. An interesting thing happens once you settle into life in "the real world." People stop asking you what you want to do or who you want to be. Sometimes because they don't care, but often because they assume that you're already doing it. If I were to take a poll, I would wager that 75% of the members at St. Stephen believe that I like being a youth director, that I've always wanted to be a youth director, and that I will continue to be a youth director for many years to come. About 20% of the members still don't know who I am, and then another 5% know the truth. That I actually fell into this job by happen chance. That I've been trying to get myself overseas since January of 2010, and I don't really know what my future holds.

Why is it that once we leave high school or college and settle into a job or career that so many of us we stop encouraging one another to dream? Isn't that rather detrimental to the creativity, happiness, and vitality of our society? Sometimes our dreams change - perhaps we exchange the dream of being a wildlife photographer in order to birth children or invest ourselves in a non-profit or a small business. But other times we just give up. 

Maybe dreaming is too hard, or maybe it's too risky. Dreaming requires hope and hope is a fragile thing. Fragile things break, and we fear that we will break along with them. What if...? we ask. What if the dream doesn't happen? What if it fails? What if I put my heart and soul and spirit into something that never comes to fruition? What if, indeed.

Later that day I returned to Stacey's question and reflected on my answer. If I really wanted to publish a book why wasn't I doing anything about it? What did I expect? That the editor of a well-known literary magazine would check out one of my better blogposts and send me an e-mail begging for a submission? Did I think that one day I would just decide to stop spending my free time playing Words With Friends and checking Facebook in order to put ideas down on paper? Was this really something that I dreamed? Or was it an easy out? A dream so far off and distant that it didn't actually require my present hope?

I decided that some of my inaction had been out of ignorance, some of it out of apathy, and the rest of it out of fear. Fear that pursuing a writing career would mean facing very real and possible failure. Then I thought about the students that I work with. The ones who dream of being nurse anesthetists and travel writers and professional baseball players and Kindergarten teachers. How could I encourage them to pursue their dreams, when I've spent the past two years denying my own?

I decided that maybe it was time to make some changes. To pursue something that I was afraid might never come to fruition. To hope for something so big that it could fail, and it probably will the first and second and third time that I try. But if I never try, how will I know?

It is good to have dreams, but it isn't enough just to have them if they don't make a difference, if you never make any action toward realizing them. So today, I am taking small steps, beginning with the completion of this blogpost, which I started 3 weeks ago. As soon as I hit the "Publish" button I will go back to a piece of writing that I've been putting off for most of the day. It isn't very ambitious, but we all need to start somewhere.