Sometimes I feel pretty hypocritical writing things like what I'm going to write because I see what an incredible hypocrite I am. But sometimes, like now, I just have to write anyway:)
From Jeremiah: "So the word of the Lord has brought me insult and reproach all day long. But if I say, 'I will not mention Him or speak any more in His name', His word is in my heart like a fire, a fire shut up in my very bones. I am weary of holding it in; indeed, I cannot."
So it's the first week of Advent, of the four weeks of Advent, culminating in Christmas. I was reading this in a book, and it was so wonderful. Ever since I became a Christian, the Bible became living to me, and I long to delve deeper and deeper into it, to discover its layer upon layer upon layer of meaning, much like a Holy lasagna! There is so much in it that I wrestle with, so much that I frankly don't like, and even more that is completely incomprehensible to me. But nevertheless, it is truly living and active, and revelatory. As we prepare our hearts to celebrate Christ's birth, it would do me well to remember all of the miraculous events surrounding His life and death.
From "Fifth Seal" by Bodie and Brock Thoene:
The rushing wind stirred the wild oats. Oak leaves rattled as the sun sank low in the west and the twilight fell. And then, on the breeze, Yosef heard the voice:
' Yosef bar Jacob...Yosef, son of Jacob. Adonai has heard your question.'
"Which question? I've asked so many!"
'How is it that the Messiah is called Bar El Olam -- Son of the Eternal God -- yet will live on earth and be called Yeshua bar Yosef?' Before time existed, He existed. Listen to the Word of Adonai..."In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through Him all things were created; without Him nothing was created which had been created. In Him is the life, and that life is the light of men. The light will shine in the darkness, but the darkness will not understand it."
"You speak of Messiah. Of the baby Mary carries. Yeshua, who will be my son. Yeshua bar Yosef...Son of the mighty Elohim? Yeshua bar Yahweh? I still don't know how it can be or why."
'He is within the first word of Scripture. Think, Yosef, of the first word in Torah. Six Hebrew letters: bet....resh....alef....sheen....yod....tav....pronounced BeRESHiYT. What does it mean?'
"In the beginning."
'These six letters contain the clue to all creation. Read it in Hebrew. Only two letters at a time. Begin, "In the beginning".
"Bet Resh".
'Stop there. Now tell me what small Hebrew word is spelled by Bet Resh.'
"The first two Hebrew letters of "in the beginning" are Bet and Resh...the exact same spelling as the Hebrew word for Bar! Son! Bar! It indicates the 'heir apparent, a ruler coequal with his father'."
'Now, the next two letters, please.'
"Alef. Sheen. Of course! This spells the Hebrew word for 'foundation'! The next two letters Yod and Tav spell Yath! This mean 'who'!...Bet...Resh...Alef...the word is Bara. This means 'created'!"
'Now, breaking the Hebrew sentence into these smaller words, what eternal truth do the first nine letters of Genesis explain?'
"Bar...son...heir of the Father. Osh...from foundation. Yath...who. Bara....created."
'Go on. One with Elohim, He created...the heavens and the earth.' Yosef's visitor stood and bowed deeply as he finished his proclamation.'The Word of the Lord. This amplifies the truth of eternity. It does not contradict it. So, you see, within the Hebrew word IN THE BEGINNING is also the identity of the Creator. He is the Son. He is the Heir. He has existed from the Foundation. He is the Word. The Creator. The Son and Heir is one in being with Elohim. And there is much, much more. So very much more eternal truth woven into these nine letters...if only we had time.'
"Wait! Don't go! Don't leave me feeling so...small!"
'It is written. Soon! Soon! He is coming soon! You will behold him face-to-face. Immanu'el...God-with-us.'
On a typically cruddy and frustrating Monday, this was just what I needed to read to remind me that God's got it under control.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
My First Stint as an NP...Sorta
So, today was my first 'official' "clinical" as an NP...there are so many quotes there because I spent the day at a Health Fair, and did nothing beyond general nursing. But as it happened under the purview of my NP curriculum, I'm counting it. I wasn't so sure what to expect; we were at a very cool organization by Columbia's main campus, and were there all day to do general screening and whatnot for the employees, of which there were many.
I started out the morning at the Urology station, shadowing a dickens of a doctor, who told me, upon meeting him, that he was "One hundred and forty years old!" and proclaimed his profession to be "plumber", when asked if he was a doctor! He was an absolute hoot! Anyone who knows me knows my odd affinity for all people old, and I wanted to just put him in my pocket and take him home with me, he was so adorable! He was talking about his history, speaking in a mellow Irish brogue, reciting his tales of med school and training. He has been in the states for years, but grew up and received training in Dublin and London, and came here with his family many years ago.
His favorite thing to talk about was urology jokes. Definitely inapprops, and most likely offensive to at least half of the general populace, but coming from him, it just made one laugh. He really liked one about a Polish urologist: "You know how doctors do a rectal exam of your prostate with just one finger? Well, there was this Polish urologist. And another doctor was with him one day, and noticed that the Polish urologist was doing an exam with two fingers, instead of the customary one. So he asked him about it. The Polish doctor answered, 'I do it with two...one to do the exam, the other to give a second opinion!'" Laughing ensues:) Then he asked us if we had ever heard of the 'pasteurized' diet. No, we answered, you mean like milk and stuff? "Oh no", he says, and winks at me. "You just watch the food go past-your-eyes!!" Hahaha. So stinkin adorable, I almost couldn't take it. We talked about pelvic floor exercises and stress incontinence (peeing your pants when laughing/coughing/etc) and other such delightful subjects. I loved working with him!
Then it was time to rotate out. Giti and I went out to the registration table, the table that pretty much determined the flow of the whole room. It was our turn to direct things. And by direct, I mean, collate some papers and give them to people to sign. The funny thing was, by this time, I was getting low blood sugar cause I hadn't eaten in a few hours, and was starting to see everything as quite funny. Giti seemed to be similarly affected, so that didn't really bode well for the professionalism aspect that we are supposed to portray as NPs.
So we receive a quick tutorial from some fellow students, and sit down to see what we can do. Which turns out to be, not much. Anything beyond putting intake papers on a clipboard and telling people to bring back the pens seemed to be totally beyond us. If someone asked us a question about anything but that, we'd look at each other, and feel like saying, "Yeah. Between the two of us we have about five advanced degrees. But we're doing the papers. So we're gonna go ahead and direct you to that person over there who most likely knows as little as we do, but will make up an answer for you. Have a lovely day." No, we didn't say that, but we sure as hell felt like it. We'd send people to the blood pressure table, thinking, "Riiiiiiggghhhht. Why don't you just go over there to (whomever-insert classmate's name here), and she'll hook you up with a reeeeaal nice blood pressure. Yeah, I know a guy. You want a good pressure? Something to lower your rates for the insurance company? Yeah, just go see my friend over there. She'll take care of you good..." said in best imitation mob member voice.
We were laughing so hard that at one point I had tears rolling down my face and was gasping for air. And I was not unobtrusive at all, which made it worse. We got to the point of saying the same thing over and over, "Hi! Welcome. Just fill out all your information on the white part, sign here by the x, then (turning to next page), sign your name here and date. Then bring back the clipboard and pen, and we'll direct you where to go next!" and maybe it was the repetitiveness of it or something, but Giti was rolling through the schpeal and I lost it. I bent over and 'pretended' to be looking for some papers under the table but was really silently laughing so hard I almost peed my pants. And then I hear Giti losing it as she explains things to a client, which is NOT good, and when she is done, she gets up and excuses herself. She has to leave the room she is laughing so hard. We physically could not even look at each other without losing it.
I have this bad feeling that someday, I'll get attacked with the giggles at an inapprops time, which honestly, happens to me more than it should, and a patient will think I'm laughing at them. Like, someone comes in to see me, and I am reviewing the results of their bloodwork with them, and it turns out that they are positive for tumor markers and their MRI shows a mass and the biopsy came back positive, and I have to tell them they have cancer. And I look up at them, and start laughing. Deep, trembling belly laughs. Totally inappropriate laughing. And I can't stop. I just can't stop. I would probably be the person who laughs at a funeral, even though inside I might be devastated and weeping and missing the person so badly, outside, something would strike me as funny and I'd be off. I really need to work on this.
So when we came back from lunch, I was doing blood pressures, which morphed into health counseling, and I found myself spewing out info about cholesterol levels, BMI, blood pressure, etc. and I had no idea where it was coming from. Turns out I know a little more than I generally think I do. But I often feel like I know just a wee bit more than a patient, and think, "Wow, if you really knew that I am desperately searching my mind for this info, and I'm pretty sure I know it, but maybe I don't, I don't know..." but having to appear completely confident on the outside, it makes me think of what my friend Ash says about it. Seeing as we are all new nurses, she said that her first few months on the job felt like it was all smoke and mirrors...you say something to the patient which you are mostly sure about, but you have to convey it in an ultra-confident manner. Now, I don't want anyone to get the impression that we don't go ask someone if we don't know; we do, and I hope I do for the rest of my career. But it is just funny because you put on these professional white coats and have your stethoscope and people come up to you and ask you about cholesterol or something and you think,"Dang! Thank God I just reviewed that this morning, otherwise I'd really not know what to say!"
So, overall good day, fun stuff, and I am feeling very nurse practitioner-y tonight.
I started out the morning at the Urology station, shadowing a dickens of a doctor, who told me, upon meeting him, that he was "One hundred and forty years old!" and proclaimed his profession to be "plumber", when asked if he was a doctor! He was an absolute hoot! Anyone who knows me knows my odd affinity for all people old, and I wanted to just put him in my pocket and take him home with me, he was so adorable! He was talking about his history, speaking in a mellow Irish brogue, reciting his tales of med school and training. He has been in the states for years, but grew up and received training in Dublin and London, and came here with his family many years ago.
His favorite thing to talk about was urology jokes. Definitely inapprops, and most likely offensive to at least half of the general populace, but coming from him, it just made one laugh. He really liked one about a Polish urologist: "You know how doctors do a rectal exam of your prostate with just one finger? Well, there was this Polish urologist. And another doctor was with him one day, and noticed that the Polish urologist was doing an exam with two fingers, instead of the customary one. So he asked him about it. The Polish doctor answered, 'I do it with two...one to do the exam, the other to give a second opinion!'" Laughing ensues:) Then he asked us if we had ever heard of the 'pasteurized' diet. No, we answered, you mean like milk and stuff? "Oh no", he says, and winks at me. "You just watch the food go past-your-eyes!!" Hahaha. So stinkin adorable, I almost couldn't take it. We talked about pelvic floor exercises and stress incontinence (peeing your pants when laughing/coughing/etc) and other such delightful subjects. I loved working with him!
Then it was time to rotate out. Giti and I went out to the registration table, the table that pretty much determined the flow of the whole room. It was our turn to direct things. And by direct, I mean, collate some papers and give them to people to sign. The funny thing was, by this time, I was getting low blood sugar cause I hadn't eaten in a few hours, and was starting to see everything as quite funny. Giti seemed to be similarly affected, so that didn't really bode well for the professionalism aspect that we are supposed to portray as NPs.
So we receive a quick tutorial from some fellow students, and sit down to see what we can do. Which turns out to be, not much. Anything beyond putting intake papers on a clipboard and telling people to bring back the pens seemed to be totally beyond us. If someone asked us a question about anything but that, we'd look at each other, and feel like saying, "Yeah. Between the two of us we have about five advanced degrees. But we're doing the papers. So we're gonna go ahead and direct you to that person over there who most likely knows as little as we do, but will make up an answer for you. Have a lovely day." No, we didn't say that, but we sure as hell felt like it. We'd send people to the blood pressure table, thinking, "Riiiiiiggghhhht. Why don't you just go over there to (whomever-insert classmate's name here), and she'll hook you up with a reeeeaal nice blood pressure. Yeah, I know a guy. You want a good pressure? Something to lower your rates for the insurance company? Yeah, just go see my friend over there. She'll take care of you good..." said in best imitation mob member voice.
We were laughing so hard that at one point I had tears rolling down my face and was gasping for air. And I was not unobtrusive at all, which made it worse. We got to the point of saying the same thing over and over, "Hi! Welcome. Just fill out all your information on the white part, sign here by the x, then (turning to next page), sign your name here and date. Then bring back the clipboard and pen, and we'll direct you where to go next!" and maybe it was the repetitiveness of it or something, but Giti was rolling through the schpeal and I lost it. I bent over and 'pretended' to be looking for some papers under the table but was really silently laughing so hard I almost peed my pants. And then I hear Giti losing it as she explains things to a client, which is NOT good, and when she is done, she gets up and excuses herself. She has to leave the room she is laughing so hard. We physically could not even look at each other without losing it.
I have this bad feeling that someday, I'll get attacked with the giggles at an inapprops time, which honestly, happens to me more than it should, and a patient will think I'm laughing at them. Like, someone comes in to see me, and I am reviewing the results of their bloodwork with them, and it turns out that they are positive for tumor markers and their MRI shows a mass and the biopsy came back positive, and I have to tell them they have cancer. And I look up at them, and start laughing. Deep, trembling belly laughs. Totally inappropriate laughing. And I can't stop. I just can't stop. I would probably be the person who laughs at a funeral, even though inside I might be devastated and weeping and missing the person so badly, outside, something would strike me as funny and I'd be off. I really need to work on this.
So when we came back from lunch, I was doing blood pressures, which morphed into health counseling, and I found myself spewing out info about cholesterol levels, BMI, blood pressure, etc. and I had no idea where it was coming from. Turns out I know a little more than I generally think I do. But I often feel like I know just a wee bit more than a patient, and think, "Wow, if you really knew that I am desperately searching my mind for this info, and I'm pretty sure I know it, but maybe I don't, I don't know..." but having to appear completely confident on the outside, it makes me think of what my friend Ash says about it. Seeing as we are all new nurses, she said that her first few months on the job felt like it was all smoke and mirrors...you say something to the patient which you are mostly sure about, but you have to convey it in an ultra-confident manner. Now, I don't want anyone to get the impression that we don't go ask someone if we don't know; we do, and I hope I do for the rest of my career. But it is just funny because you put on these professional white coats and have your stethoscope and people come up to you and ask you about cholesterol or something and you think,"Dang! Thank God I just reviewed that this morning, otherwise I'd really not know what to say!"
So, overall good day, fun stuff, and I am feeling very nurse practitioner-y tonight.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Fallishness
I was talking to my mother this morning, receiving the requisite advice about life in general, walking through the streets of NYC, and just generally feeling very happy. I have to be honest, and I know my California friends will absolutely boo this thought, but I'm not so thrilled about the 73 weather...I think fall should feel and look like fall...although I'm sure after a few days of freezing-ness, I'll be complaining about that too!
But talking to my mom suddenly shifted me back many years, to the great Wisconsin falls, and split pea soup. I can close my eyes and picture exactly a scene that took place, and repeated itself, many many years ago. My mom always made delicious, thick, split pea soup which we garnished with yummy croutons, and I'd sit at the kitchen table, looking out our windows and seeing that characteristic fall sky, nearly-leafless trees waving gently in the late afternoon breeze. The soup would be bubbling on the stove, mom and I both starving, but waiting for dad to get home from work so we could dive in to the green goodness. I can still smell and taste it! I told my mom this, and she told me that she was washing dishes this morning and suddenly flashed back to when I was a little girl, probably no more than three or four, helping my dad with the dishes. There is a picture of me, standing on a chair next to the sink, a towel tied around my waist, and 'helping' dad wash and dry our supper dishes. I've always loved doing the dishes, except for a brief stint of hating them in high school, so I guess this love came early. As far as I remember, I think I used to ask to help do the dishes...weird kid that I was!
It feels nice to take a few minutes to sit down and write something; it feels like forever. My days have been absorbed with studying for the recent slew of tests, studying that I am fervently praying paid off. Grad school is tough, but I love what I'm learning, even if, as my friend Kathleen pointed out, it often feels disorganized at best, and we have to reconcile ourselves to the fact that we will mostly be teaching ourselves. But, for what its worth, I am so thankful to God for the opportunity. The sucky thing though is not keeping in better touch with friends that I have around the country...those of you I owe calls to, please know I love you and always will, and we'll talk soon!
My birthday this year was indescribably fabulous, and I wake up each day, astonished at the blessings that the Lord has seen fit to give me, from amazing, irreplaceable friends, to a cozy apartment, to enough (but just barely enough) money in the bank acct, to loving parents, to a great Kitty! Life is not always easy; ha, who am I kidding? It is never easy; but God has given all of us blessings, every day, and I pray that we are all able, no matter where we are or what circumstances we find ourselves in, be able to have the eyes to see them. "Every good and perfect gift comes from the Father above", and what an incredible Father He is.
But talking to my mom suddenly shifted me back many years, to the great Wisconsin falls, and split pea soup. I can close my eyes and picture exactly a scene that took place, and repeated itself, many many years ago. My mom always made delicious, thick, split pea soup which we garnished with yummy croutons, and I'd sit at the kitchen table, looking out our windows and seeing that characteristic fall sky, nearly-leafless trees waving gently in the late afternoon breeze. The soup would be bubbling on the stove, mom and I both starving, but waiting for dad to get home from work so we could dive in to the green goodness. I can still smell and taste it! I told my mom this, and she told me that she was washing dishes this morning and suddenly flashed back to when I was a little girl, probably no more than three or four, helping my dad with the dishes. There is a picture of me, standing on a chair next to the sink, a towel tied around my waist, and 'helping' dad wash and dry our supper dishes. I've always loved doing the dishes, except for a brief stint of hating them in high school, so I guess this love came early. As far as I remember, I think I used to ask to help do the dishes...weird kid that I was!
It feels nice to take a few minutes to sit down and write something; it feels like forever. My days have been absorbed with studying for the recent slew of tests, studying that I am fervently praying paid off. Grad school is tough, but I love what I'm learning, even if, as my friend Kathleen pointed out, it often feels disorganized at best, and we have to reconcile ourselves to the fact that we will mostly be teaching ourselves. But, for what its worth, I am so thankful to God for the opportunity. The sucky thing though is not keeping in better touch with friends that I have around the country...those of you I owe calls to, please know I love you and always will, and we'll talk soon!
My birthday this year was indescribably fabulous, and I wake up each day, astonished at the blessings that the Lord has seen fit to give me, from amazing, irreplaceable friends, to a cozy apartment, to enough (but just barely enough) money in the bank acct, to loving parents, to a great Kitty! Life is not always easy; ha, who am I kidding? It is never easy; but God has given all of us blessings, every day, and I pray that we are all able, no matter where we are or what circumstances we find ourselves in, be able to have the eyes to see them. "Every good and perfect gift comes from the Father above", and what an incredible Father He is.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Observations on New York as Summer Draws to a Close
As I was walking down the street today, letting the early afternoon sunshine warm myself, I started thinking about stuff. Well, usually I am thinking about stuff; in fact, I can't get my head to shut up, which, when trying to sleep, is quite the pain. But I digress. I snapped out of my reverie in time to see an utterly and completely adorable old old Chinese man shuffling along in front of me. He was impossibly stooped, had a tuft of white hair crowning his head, and swung his arms in unison, propelling himself along. If I had timed him, I bet it would have taken him upwards of ten minutes to traverse the block, a distance that I could probably travel with many minutes to spare. But as I looked at him, and left my heart there at his feet, I thought about all of the other adorable old men and women I had seen on the streets this summer. Some were accompanied by aides, some were solitary. And as I look at these marvelous people, I try to imagine what they used to look like. Did that guy over there with the sloped shoulders used to stand tall and strong in his army uniform? Did that lady in front of me, no more than 4 feet tall, used to dress in her best and go out dancing on Saturday night? I think about the vast wealth of life experience and knowledge all of these pillars of society possess, locked away in their minds, and I hope against hope that someone, somewhere is writing it all down.
I pass a table selling, what I would charitably call, junk. "Buy this shit for a buck!" the signs should more accurately say; instead, what I read is: "Sea Creatures that expand in water-$1" or "Stickers! $0.50". I want to ask the guy sitting behind the table, "Um, excuse me, but does anyone really buy this crap?" and then I see it. The little capsules of stuff that looks like nothing, and when put into water expands into seahorses and dolphins and dragons, the stuff of imagination! And I remember how much I used to love playing with these things...my Mom would get them for me, and I can remember many a pleasant morning, watching them grow in water. It never got old. Well...maybe this table isn't all completely junk, after all:)
I keep walking, and a thought makes me laugh. Being a health professional now, I have lost all embarrassment about discussing bodily functions, so I say what I say next as candidly as possible. Coming from a family where gaseous emissions from the nether-regions of the body is practically an art form, I have noticed how New York absolutely lends itself to the ability to surreptitiously and anonymously release pent-up flatulence. One can be walking down the street, trying in vain to quench the desire to let it go, to cut the cheese, as it were, and realize, in a moment of clarity, "Wait! I can relieve myself! Right here! Right now! With the noise of the traffic and the ever-present potpourri of smells in the city, my little contribution will pass unnoticed! And, I'm walking so fast, no one can associate it with me anyway!" Not that I've ever thought this, of course. I'm just saying, one could:). Growing up with the male members of my family letting one go at shopping malls, grocery stores, and any number of inappropriate places, while walking briskly away from the point of impact with a smile on his face, leaving anyone unfortunate enough to be within a ten-mile radius the unpleasant surprise of a Weinkauf family gift. Yes, folks, we give only the best! This city disperses with those nagging thoughts of "What if that cute guy behind me smells it??" or "Gee, I hope no one hears me!" as one can walk merrily along, tooting like the trumpet in a brass band, and no one is the wiser.
Sitting at my computer, I notice how the sun hits the opposite wall differently than it did even a month ago, and I think about the inevitable transition of summer into fall, winter into spring. A cycle of life and death, a cycle of dormancy and sudden, startling birth, a cycle of joy in nature. This past week, the sky has been so blue as to almost sing with its blueness. I step outside, I take a deep breath, and I marvel at the beauty of the azure ceiling that covers us all, regardless of creed, nationality, or political ambition. I think about how the things that unify us are so much greater than all the little things that divide us, and how blessed we are to live in a country where these differences are able to be freely expressed. I might not agree with most of them, but I am so glad that people can say them without hesitation, because that means that I can voice my unpopular opinions as well.
I watch school children romping off to school, and I am suddenly taken back to my own grade-school days. I used to look with great anticipation to the beginning of a new school year. Nerd that I am, nothing thrilled me more than going school-supply shopping. The feel of a brand-new Crayola crayon, the bright colors of yet-to-be-used markers, the soft and slightly tangy sent of a freshly sharpened pencil, all made me want to dance with joy! Honestly, I just loved it. I loved a stack of looseleaf paper, eagerly anticipating all of the homework assignments and writing that those sheets would soon be filled with. I love learning new things, I love the challenge that comes with meeting an obstacle and trying to reason a way through it. Now, as I await the second semester of my graduate school experience next week, I can relive that glee that I felt when I was young. Maybe I'll go out and get a new pack of markers, just for old times' sake.
New York provides endless fodder for the imagination, and I am looking forward to a fall filled with new stories, new experiences, kicking through the leaves in Central Park, going for long walks along the Hudson, watching the changing trees, eating pumpkin pie, catching snowflakes on my tongue. Too many of us lose the wonder we felt as a child when experiencing these things. Now that I am fully adult and have to live in the 'real world', I have decided that this fall will be my fall of childlike-awe. I am going to not take the little joys for granted, but revel in each and ever sensory, intellectual, and personal experience. I can't wait!
I pass a table selling, what I would charitably call, junk. "Buy this shit for a buck!" the signs should more accurately say; instead, what I read is: "Sea Creatures that expand in water-$1" or "Stickers! $0.50". I want to ask the guy sitting behind the table, "Um, excuse me, but does anyone really buy this crap?" and then I see it. The little capsules of stuff that looks like nothing, and when put into water expands into seahorses and dolphins and dragons, the stuff of imagination! And I remember how much I used to love playing with these things...my Mom would get them for me, and I can remember many a pleasant morning, watching them grow in water. It never got old. Well...maybe this table isn't all completely junk, after all:)
I keep walking, and a thought makes me laugh. Being a health professional now, I have lost all embarrassment about discussing bodily functions, so I say what I say next as candidly as possible. Coming from a family where gaseous emissions from the nether-regions of the body is practically an art form, I have noticed how New York absolutely lends itself to the ability to surreptitiously and anonymously release pent-up flatulence. One can be walking down the street, trying in vain to quench the desire to let it go, to cut the cheese, as it were, and realize, in a moment of clarity, "Wait! I can relieve myself! Right here! Right now! With the noise of the traffic and the ever-present potpourri of smells in the city, my little contribution will pass unnoticed! And, I'm walking so fast, no one can associate it with me anyway!" Not that I've ever thought this, of course. I'm just saying, one could:). Growing up with the male members of my family letting one go at shopping malls, grocery stores, and any number of inappropriate places, while walking briskly away from the point of impact with a smile on his face, leaving anyone unfortunate enough to be within a ten-mile radius the unpleasant surprise of a Weinkauf family gift. Yes, folks, we give only the best! This city disperses with those nagging thoughts of "What if that cute guy behind me smells it??" or "Gee, I hope no one hears me!" as one can walk merrily along, tooting like the trumpet in a brass band, and no one is the wiser.
Sitting at my computer, I notice how the sun hits the opposite wall differently than it did even a month ago, and I think about the inevitable transition of summer into fall, winter into spring. A cycle of life and death, a cycle of dormancy and sudden, startling birth, a cycle of joy in nature. This past week, the sky has been so blue as to almost sing with its blueness. I step outside, I take a deep breath, and I marvel at the beauty of the azure ceiling that covers us all, regardless of creed, nationality, or political ambition. I think about how the things that unify us are so much greater than all the little things that divide us, and how blessed we are to live in a country where these differences are able to be freely expressed. I might not agree with most of them, but I am so glad that people can say them without hesitation, because that means that I can voice my unpopular opinions as well.
I watch school children romping off to school, and I am suddenly taken back to my own grade-school days. I used to look with great anticipation to the beginning of a new school year. Nerd that I am, nothing thrilled me more than going school-supply shopping. The feel of a brand-new Crayola crayon, the bright colors of yet-to-be-used markers, the soft and slightly tangy sent of a freshly sharpened pencil, all made me want to dance with joy! Honestly, I just loved it. I loved a stack of looseleaf paper, eagerly anticipating all of the homework assignments and writing that those sheets would soon be filled with. I love learning new things, I love the challenge that comes with meeting an obstacle and trying to reason a way through it. Now, as I await the second semester of my graduate school experience next week, I can relive that glee that I felt when I was young. Maybe I'll go out and get a new pack of markers, just for old times' sake.
New York provides endless fodder for the imagination, and I am looking forward to a fall filled with new stories, new experiences, kicking through the leaves in Central Park, going for long walks along the Hudson, watching the changing trees, eating pumpkin pie, catching snowflakes on my tongue. Too many of us lose the wonder we felt as a child when experiencing these things. Now that I am fully adult and have to live in the 'real world', I have decided that this fall will be my fall of childlike-awe. I am going to not take the little joys for granted, but revel in each and ever sensory, intellectual, and personal experience. I can't wait!
Sunday, August 9, 2009
God Vs. Science??
Loving both God and science, I've always been sad that there seems, amongst popular opinion at least, the idea that they oppose each other. God=faith, science=empirically proven facts. I've been of the opinion though that science reveals the glory of God, the creativity of His mind, and dovetails perfectly with what I read in the Bible. I look at the stars and I see that "The Heavens are telling the handiwork of the Lord". I look at the small veins in the leaves on the trees in Central Park and I see perfection of design, and marvel at photosynthesis, cellular growth, and the simplicity but breathtaking magnificence of the translation of sun and carbon dioxide into energy and oxygen. I watched a show about plate tectonics on National Geographic Channel and think of how perfectly God set things up to renew and regenerate. I study the human body, and see the overwhelming intricacies of what makes us who we are. I look around me, I close my eyes, and I feel the wind on my face. What is wind? What is flame? What are these things really??? So simple, such a part of everyday existence, but really, when I sit down and think about it, how incredibly mind-blowing these things are. I feel like a small child, tugging on her Dad's shirt, saying, "But WHY Dad? Why is this thing like this, and that thing like that? How does it work?? Why are things the way they are??" I read about the theory of evolution, about carbon dating and geological eras. I read about creationism and the belief that the earth is only 6000 years old (a belief I don't personally adhere to, but I can understand how creationists might have derived that figure from Genesis).
I feel like there is the prevailing sense of God against Science, or Science against God. They cannot coexist, they cannot both be true. But I just don't see it. I just don't see how faith and science aren't just two different sides of the same coin. To me, science reveals God. God's Word reveals scientific fact. I'm obviously very passionate about this, but I'll let the following say what it is my heart about it. A dear friend sent me this email, and as I read it, I found myself thinking, "Yes. Yes this is exactly it." Thanks, Ash, for sending me this:
God vs. Science
A long story, but a great conclusion.
A science professor begins his school year with a lecture to the students, 'Let me explain the problem science has with religion' The atheist professor of philosophy pauses before his class and then asks one of his new students to stand.
'You're a Christian, aren't you, son?'
'Yes sir,' the student says.
'So you believe in God?'
'Absolutely.'
'Is God good?'
'Sure! God's good.'
'Is God all-powerful? Can God do anything?'
'Yes.'
'Are you good or evil?'
'The Bible says I'm evil.'
The professor grins knowingly. 'Aha! The Bible!' He considers for a moment.
'Here's one for you. Let's say there's a sick person over here and you can cure him. You can do it. Would you help him? Would you try?'
'Yes sir, I would.'
'So you're good...!'
'I wouldn't say that.'
'But why not say that? You'd help a sick and maimed person if you could.... Most of us would if we could. But God doesn't.'
The student does not answer, so the professor continues. 'He doesn't, does he? My brother was a Christian who died of cancer, even though he prayed to Jesus to heal him. How is this Jesus good? Hmmm? Can you answer that one?'
The student remains silent.
'No, you can't, can you?' the professor says. He takes a sip of water from a glass on his desk to give the student time to relax.
'Let's start again, young fella. Is God good?'
'Er...yes,' the student says.
'Is Satan good?'
The student doesn't hesitate on this one. 'No.'
'Then where does Satan come from?'
The student falters. 'From God'
'That's right. God made Satan, didn't he? Tell me, son. Is there evil in this world?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Evil's everywhere, isn't it? And God did make everything, correct?'
'Yes.'
'So who created evil?' The professor continued, 'If God created everything, then God created evil, since evil exists, and according to the principle that our works define who we are, then God is evil.'
Again, the student has no answer. 'Is there sickness? Immorality? Hatred? Ugliness? All these terrible things, do they exist in this world?'
The student squirms on his feet. 'Yes'
'So who created them?'
The student does not answer again, so the professor repeats his question. 'Who created them?' There is still no answer. Suddenly the lecturer breaks away to pace in front of the classroom. The class is mesmerized. 'Tell me,' he continues onto another student. 'Do you believe in Jesus Christ, son?'
The student's voice betrays him and cracks. 'Yes, professor, I do.'
The old man stops pacing. 'Science says you have five senses you use to identify and observe the world around you. Have you ever seen Jesus?'
'No sir, I've never seen Him.'
'Then tell us if you've ever heard your Jesus?'
'No, sir, I have not.'
'Have you ever felt your Jesus, tasted your Jesus or smelt your Jesus? Have you ever had any sensory perception of Jesus Christ, or God for that matter?'
'No, sir, I'm afraid I haven't.'
'Yet you still believe in him?'
'Yes.'
'According to the rules of empirical, testable, demonstrable protocol, science says your God doesn't exist. What do you say to that, son?'
'Nothing,' the student replies, 'I only have my faith.'
'Yes, faith,' the professor repeats. 'And that is the problem science has with God. There is no evidence, only faith.'
The student stands quietly for a moment, before asking a question of his own. 'Professor, is there such thing as heat?'
'Yes,' the professor replies, 'There's heat.'
'And is there such a thing as cold?'
'Yes, son, there's cold too.'
'No sir, there isn't.'
The professor turns to face the student, obviously interested. The room suddenly becomes very quiet. The student begins to explain. 'You can have lots of heat, even more heat, super-heat, mega-heat, unlimited heat, white heat, a little heat or no heat, but we don't have anything called 'cold'. We can reach up to 458 degrees below zero, which is no heat, but we can't go any further after that. There is no such thing as cold; otherwise we would be able to go colder than the lowest -458 degrees..'
'Everybody or object is susceptible to study when it has or transmits energy, and heat is what makes a body or matter have or transmit energy. Absolute zero (-458 F) is the total absence of heat. You see, sir, cold is only a word we use to describe the absence of heat. We cannot measure cold; Heat we can measure in thermal units because heat is energy. Cold is not the opposite of heat, sir, just the absence of it.'
Silence across the room. A pen drops somewhere in the classroom, sounding like a hammer.
'What about darkness, professor. Is there such a thing as darkness?'
'Yes,' the professor replies without hesitation, 'What is night if it isn't darkness?'
'You're wrong again, sir. Darkness is not something; it is the absence of something.... You can have low light, normal light, bright light, flashing light, but if you have no light constantly you have nothing and it's called darkness, isn't it? That's the meaning we use to define the word.'
'In reality, darkness isn't. If it were, you would be able to make darkness darker, wouldn't you?'
The professor begins to smile at the student in front of him. This will be a good semester. 'So what point are you making, young man?'
'Yes, professor. My point is, your philosophical premise is flawed to start with, and so your conclusion must also be flawed.'
The professor's face cannot hide his surprise this time. 'Flawed? Can you explain how?'
'You are working on the premise of duality,' the student explains. 'You argue that there is life and then there's death; a good God and a bad God. You are viewing the concept of God as something finite, something we can measure. Sir, science can't even explain a thought.'
'It uses electricity and magnetism, but has never seen, much less fully understood either one. To view death as the opposite of life is to be ignorant of the fact that death cannot exist as a substantive thing. Death is not the opposite of life, just the absence of it.'
'Now tell me, professor, Do you teach your students that they evolved from a monkey?'
'If you are referring to the natural evolutionary process, young man, yes, of course I do.'
'Have you ever observed evolution with your own eyes, sir?'
The professor begins to shake his head, still smiling, as he realizes where the argument is going. A very good semester, indeed.
'Since no one has ever observed the process of evolution at work and cannot even prove that this process is an on-going endeavor, are you not teaching your opinion, sir? Are you now not a scientist, but a preacher?'
The class is in uproar. The student remains silent until the commotion has subsided.
'To continue the point you were making earlier to the other student, let me give you an example of what I mean.'
The student looks around the room. 'Is there anyone in the class who has ever seen the professor's brain?' The class breaks out into laughter.
'Is there anyone here who has ever heard the professor's brain, felt the professor's brain, touched or smelt the professor's brain? No one appears to have done so. So, according to the established rules of empirical, stable, demonstrable protocol, science says that you have no brain; with all due respect, sir.'
'So if science says you have no brain, how can we trust your lectures, sir?'
Now the room is silent. The professor just stares at the student, his face unreadable.
Finally, after what seems an eternity, the old man answers, 'I guess you'll have to take them on faith.'
'Now, you accept that there is faith, and, in fact, faith exists with life,' the student continues. 'Now, sir, is there such a thing as evil?'
Now uncertain, the professor responds, 'Of course, there is. We see it every day. It is in the daily example of man's inhumanity to man. It is in the multitude of crime and violence everywhere in the world. These manifestations are nothing else but evil....'
To this the student replied, 'Evil does not exist sir, or at least it does not exist unto itself. Evil is simply the absence of God.. It is just like darkness and cold, a word that man has created to describe the absence of God. God did not create evil. Evil is the result of what happens when man does not have God's love present in his heart. It's like the cold that comes when there is no heat or the darkness that comes when there is no light.'
The professor sat down.
I feel like there is the prevailing sense of God against Science, or Science against God. They cannot coexist, they cannot both be true. But I just don't see it. I just don't see how faith and science aren't just two different sides of the same coin. To me, science reveals God. God's Word reveals scientific fact. I'm obviously very passionate about this, but I'll let the following say what it is my heart about it. A dear friend sent me this email, and as I read it, I found myself thinking, "Yes. Yes this is exactly it." Thanks, Ash, for sending me this:
God vs. Science
A long story, but a great conclusion.
A science professor begins his school year with a lecture to the students, 'Let me explain the problem science has with religion' The atheist professor of philosophy pauses before his class and then asks one of his new students to stand.
'You're a Christian, aren't you, son?'
'Yes sir,' the student says.
'So you believe in God?'
'Absolutely.'
'Is God good?'
'Sure! God's good.'
'Is God all-powerful? Can God do anything?'
'Yes.'
'Are you good or evil?'
'The Bible says I'm evil.'
The professor grins knowingly. 'Aha! The Bible!' He considers for a moment.
'Here's one for you. Let's say there's a sick person over here and you can cure him. You can do it. Would you help him? Would you try?'
'Yes sir, I would.'
'So you're good...!'
'I wouldn't say that.'
'But why not say that? You'd help a sick and maimed person if you could.... Most of us would if we could. But God doesn't.'
The student does not answer, so the professor continues. 'He doesn't, does he? My brother was a Christian who died of cancer, even though he prayed to Jesus to heal him. How is this Jesus good? Hmmm? Can you answer that one?'
The student remains silent.
'No, you can't, can you?' the professor says. He takes a sip of water from a glass on his desk to give the student time to relax.
'Let's start again, young fella. Is God good?'
'Er...yes,' the student says.
'Is Satan good?'
The student doesn't hesitate on this one. 'No.'
'Then where does Satan come from?'
The student falters. 'From God'
'That's right. God made Satan, didn't he? Tell me, son. Is there evil in this world?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Evil's everywhere, isn't it? And God did make everything, correct?'
'Yes.'
'So who created evil?' The professor continued, 'If God created everything, then God created evil, since evil exists, and according to the principle that our works define who we are, then God is evil.'
Again, the student has no answer. 'Is there sickness? Immorality? Hatred? Ugliness? All these terrible things, do they exist in this world?'
The student squirms on his feet. 'Yes'
'So who created them?'
The student does not answer again, so the professor repeats his question. 'Who created them?' There is still no answer. Suddenly the lecturer breaks away to pace in front of the classroom. The class is mesmerized. 'Tell me,' he continues onto another student. 'Do you believe in Jesus Christ, son?'
The student's voice betrays him and cracks. 'Yes, professor, I do.'
The old man stops pacing. 'Science says you have five senses you use to identify and observe the world around you. Have you ever seen Jesus?'
'No sir, I've never seen Him.'
'Then tell us if you've ever heard your Jesus?'
'No, sir, I have not.'
'Have you ever felt your Jesus, tasted your Jesus or smelt your Jesus? Have you ever had any sensory perception of Jesus Christ, or God for that matter?'
'No, sir, I'm afraid I haven't.'
'Yet you still believe in him?'
'Yes.'
'According to the rules of empirical, testable, demonstrable protocol, science says your God doesn't exist. What do you say to that, son?'
'Nothing,' the student replies, 'I only have my faith.'
'Yes, faith,' the professor repeats. 'And that is the problem science has with God. There is no evidence, only faith.'
The student stands quietly for a moment, before asking a question of his own. 'Professor, is there such thing as heat?'
'Yes,' the professor replies, 'There's heat.'
'And is there such a thing as cold?'
'Yes, son, there's cold too.'
'No sir, there isn't.'
The professor turns to face the student, obviously interested. The room suddenly becomes very quiet. The student begins to explain. 'You can have lots of heat, even more heat, super-heat, mega-heat, unlimited heat, white heat, a little heat or no heat, but we don't have anything called 'cold'. We can reach up to 458 degrees below zero, which is no heat, but we can't go any further after that. There is no such thing as cold; otherwise we would be able to go colder than the lowest -458 degrees..'
'Everybody or object is susceptible to study when it has or transmits energy, and heat is what makes a body or matter have or transmit energy. Absolute zero (-458 F) is the total absence of heat. You see, sir, cold is only a word we use to describe the absence of heat. We cannot measure cold; Heat we can measure in thermal units because heat is energy. Cold is not the opposite of heat, sir, just the absence of it.'
Silence across the room. A pen drops somewhere in the classroom, sounding like a hammer.
'What about darkness, professor. Is there such a thing as darkness?'
'Yes,' the professor replies without hesitation, 'What is night if it isn't darkness?'
'You're wrong again, sir. Darkness is not something; it is the absence of something.... You can have low light, normal light, bright light, flashing light, but if you have no light constantly you have nothing and it's called darkness, isn't it? That's the meaning we use to define the word.'
'In reality, darkness isn't. If it were, you would be able to make darkness darker, wouldn't you?'
The professor begins to smile at the student in front of him. This will be a good semester. 'So what point are you making, young man?'
'Yes, professor. My point is, your philosophical premise is flawed to start with, and so your conclusion must also be flawed.'
The professor's face cannot hide his surprise this time. 'Flawed? Can you explain how?'
'You are working on the premise of duality,' the student explains. 'You argue that there is life and then there's death; a good God and a bad God. You are viewing the concept of God as something finite, something we can measure. Sir, science can't even explain a thought.'
'It uses electricity and magnetism, but has never seen, much less fully understood either one. To view death as the opposite of life is to be ignorant of the fact that death cannot exist as a substantive thing. Death is not the opposite of life, just the absence of it.'
'Now tell me, professor, Do you teach your students that they evolved from a monkey?'
'If you are referring to the natural evolutionary process, young man, yes, of course I do.'
'Have you ever observed evolution with your own eyes, sir?'
The professor begins to shake his head, still smiling, as he realizes where the argument is going. A very good semester, indeed.
'Since no one has ever observed the process of evolution at work and cannot even prove that this process is an on-going endeavor, are you not teaching your opinion, sir? Are you now not a scientist, but a preacher?'
The class is in uproar. The student remains silent until the commotion has subsided.
'To continue the point you were making earlier to the other student, let me give you an example of what I mean.'
The student looks around the room. 'Is there anyone in the class who has ever seen the professor's brain?' The class breaks out into laughter.
'Is there anyone here who has ever heard the professor's brain, felt the professor's brain, touched or smelt the professor's brain? No one appears to have done so. So, according to the established rules of empirical, stable, demonstrable protocol, science says that you have no brain; with all due respect, sir.'
'So if science says you have no brain, how can we trust your lectures, sir?'
Now the room is silent. The professor just stares at the student, his face unreadable.
Finally, after what seems an eternity, the old man answers, 'I guess you'll have to take them on faith.'
'Now, you accept that there is faith, and, in fact, faith exists with life,' the student continues. 'Now, sir, is there such a thing as evil?'
Now uncertain, the professor responds, 'Of course, there is. We see it every day. It is in the daily example of man's inhumanity to man. It is in the multitude of crime and violence everywhere in the world. These manifestations are nothing else but evil....'
To this the student replied, 'Evil does not exist sir, or at least it does not exist unto itself. Evil is simply the absence of God.. It is just like darkness and cold, a word that man has created to describe the absence of God. God did not create evil. Evil is the result of what happens when man does not have God's love present in his heart. It's like the cold that comes when there is no heat or the darkness that comes when there is no light.'
The professor sat down.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
I Made It
I took a deep breath, the wind gently brushing by my face. The seagulls were on the Jackie O reserve, just floating lazily by. There was a sparrow taking a bath in a puddle left by the rain storm; he looked so happy to just be a sparrow and be taking a bath. As I stopped running to take this all in, I realized, for the first time in I don't know how long, that I was free. I didn't have to hurry home to study for a test or write a paper; I didn't have to have the constant stress of study study study on me. This is a path that I have chosen, and I wouldn't have done anything else. But this has been a very hard, yet very very good, last year and a half. I am a nurse now; I can hardly believe it. I just finished my first summer of NP classes and will graduate Feb. 2011. I am ready to have the time, emotionally, mentally, physically, to call back friends that I haven't talked to in ages. I am ready to take a book and spend an afternoon reading in the shade of a big oak tree in Central Park. I am ready to work on an oil painting, learn the cello again, go dancing, volunteer at my church, and just be. I am ready to not have a headache every day. I am ready to maybe let my shoulders unclench, even if it is just a little. In all of this, in everything that has happened, the last few months have been the hardest. I feel as though I have become the worst version of myself, and I don't like that. I don't like feeling like I want to yell at someone just because they are walking slowly in front of me. I hate the fact that when I get as stressed, emotionally and mentally, as I have been these past few months, my swearing quotient goes up. That is just silly, and it is not me. I am ready to not be so emotionally labile and get a grip for goodness sakes! I am ready to not cry about something as insignificant as spilling a glass of water. I mean, honestly! This month will probably go fast, as everything does, but I am praying that for me and my schoolmates, who desperately need this reprieve, that it stretches on interminably, to the point that we start wanting something to do again.
I am so ready to get back to being me, and not feeling like an alien walking around in my body. This has been a difficult summer, but when I think of all we've accomplished, I am in awe. God has been faithful, and has given me the grace and strength I've needed for each trial that has come my way, and I am so incredibly incredibly thankful. Now, it is time to relax. To regenerate. To remember who I am and what I stand for and to be built back up, from the inside out. It doesn't seem real yet; the prospect of some test hangs over my head and I have to keep reminding myself that I don't need to study today, or tomorrow, or the next day. I can step outside, take in the beauty of the sun and the clouds, and be in awe, yet again, of God's handiwork. I can just be. And for the time being, that sounds like bliss to me.
I am so ready to get back to being me, and not feeling like an alien walking around in my body. This has been a difficult summer, but when I think of all we've accomplished, I am in awe. God has been faithful, and has given me the grace and strength I've needed for each trial that has come my way, and I am so incredibly incredibly thankful. Now, it is time to relax. To regenerate. To remember who I am and what I stand for and to be built back up, from the inside out. It doesn't seem real yet; the prospect of some test hangs over my head and I have to keep reminding myself that I don't need to study today, or tomorrow, or the next day. I can step outside, take in the beauty of the sun and the clouds, and be in awe, yet again, of God's handiwork. I can just be. And for the time being, that sounds like bliss to me.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Hands
Got this from a friend:
"Hands" by Dr. Ray Pritchard
“Jesus called out with a loud voice, ‘Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.’ When he had said this, he breathed his last” (Luke 23:46).
Luke is the only writer to record the final words of the Son of God. Every word tells us something important:
Father—This was Jesus’ favorite title for God. It spoke of the intimate family relationship that had existed from all eternity. His first word from the cross had been, ”Father, forgive them.” His last word was, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.” But in between he had cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” He called him, “My God” and not “Father” because in that agonizing moment, the Father turned his back on the Son as Jesus bore the sin of the world. God forsaken by God! But no longer. Jesus dies with the knowledge that the price has been fully paid, the cup emptied, the burden borne, estrangement ended, the battle won, the struggle over. Whatever happened in those three mysterious hours of darkness is now in the past. Jesus yields his life to the One he called “Father.”
Into your hands—Oh, the touch of a father’s hands. What son does not long for his father to reach out and embrace him? There is something wonderful about this expression. It speaks of safety—"I am safe in my father’s hands”—and of greeting—"Welcome home, Son”—and of love—"Dad, it’s so good to see you again”—and of approval—"I’m so proud of you, Son.”
For 15 hours Jesus has been in the hands of wicked men. With their hands, they beat him. With their hands, they slapped him. With their hands, they abused him. With their hands, they crowned him with thorns. With their hands, they ripped out his beard. With their hands, they smashed him black and blue. With their hands, they whipped his back until it was torn to bits. All that is behind him now. Wicked hands have done all they can do. Jesus now returns to his Father’s hands.
I commit—The word means to deposit something valuable in a safe place. It’s what you do when you take your will and your most valuable possessions and put them in a safe-deposit box at the bank.
My spirit—By this phrase, Jesus meant his very life, his personal existence. Now that his physical life was over, Jesus commits himself into his Father’s hands for safe keeping. “Father, I can no longer care for myself. I place myself in your good hands for safe-keeping.”
Matthew 27:50 tells us that at the moment of his death, Jesus “dismissed his spirit.” That is, he voluntarily yielded it up to the Father. His life was not taken from him against his will; when the time came, he gave up his life voluntarily.
The death of Christ is not the final act of a tragedy but the victorious ending of a mighty battle.
On this Good Friday, an apt name for a day that began in the darkness of the night and ended with the Son of God giving up his life for sinners, let us give thanks for Jesus’ death. Not just that he died but for his death itself. And may these words translated by James Alexander in 1830 from an old Latin poem attributed to Bernard of Clairvaux serve as a fitting benediction:
What language shall I borrow to thank Thee, dearest friend,
For this Thy dying sorrow, Thy pity without end?
O make me Thine forever, and should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never outlive my love to Thee.
"Hands" by Dr. Ray Pritchard
“Jesus called out with a loud voice, ‘Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.’ When he had said this, he breathed his last” (Luke 23:46).
Luke is the only writer to record the final words of the Son of God. Every word tells us something important:
Father—This was Jesus’ favorite title for God. It spoke of the intimate family relationship that had existed from all eternity. His first word from the cross had been, ”Father, forgive them.” His last word was, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.” But in between he had cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” He called him, “My God” and not “Father” because in that agonizing moment, the Father turned his back on the Son as Jesus bore the sin of the world. God forsaken by God! But no longer. Jesus dies with the knowledge that the price has been fully paid, the cup emptied, the burden borne, estrangement ended, the battle won, the struggle over. Whatever happened in those three mysterious hours of darkness is now in the past. Jesus yields his life to the One he called “Father.”
Into your hands—Oh, the touch of a father’s hands. What son does not long for his father to reach out and embrace him? There is something wonderful about this expression. It speaks of safety—"I am safe in my father’s hands”—and of greeting—"Welcome home, Son”—and of love—"Dad, it’s so good to see you again”—and of approval—"I’m so proud of you, Son.”
For 15 hours Jesus has been in the hands of wicked men. With their hands, they beat him. With their hands, they slapped him. With their hands, they abused him. With their hands, they crowned him with thorns. With their hands, they ripped out his beard. With their hands, they smashed him black and blue. With their hands, they whipped his back until it was torn to bits. All that is behind him now. Wicked hands have done all they can do. Jesus now returns to his Father’s hands.
I commit—The word means to deposit something valuable in a safe place. It’s what you do when you take your will and your most valuable possessions and put them in a safe-deposit box at the bank.
My spirit—By this phrase, Jesus meant his very life, his personal existence. Now that his physical life was over, Jesus commits himself into his Father’s hands for safe keeping. “Father, I can no longer care for myself. I place myself in your good hands for safe-keeping.”
Matthew 27:50 tells us that at the moment of his death, Jesus “dismissed his spirit.” That is, he voluntarily yielded it up to the Father. His life was not taken from him against his will; when the time came, he gave up his life voluntarily.
The death of Christ is not the final act of a tragedy but the victorious ending of a mighty battle.
On this Good Friday, an apt name for a day that began in the darkness of the night and ended with the Son of God giving up his life for sinners, let us give thanks for Jesus’ death. Not just that he died but for his death itself. And may these words translated by James Alexander in 1830 from an old Latin poem attributed to Bernard of Clairvaux serve as a fitting benediction:
What language shall I borrow to thank Thee, dearest friend,
For this Thy dying sorrow, Thy pity without end?
O make me Thine forever, and should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never outlive my love to Thee.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Somebody Had a Case of the Mondays...
Monday. Again. Mondays are pretty nearly unbearable. Well, maybe I am exaggerating somewhat, but not much. We have class for 11 hours. Yes. You read me right. 11 hours. That is a long time to have information thrown at you. Well, by the end of the day, we are pretty much done for, and we still have four hours of pharmacology to look forward to. Pharmacology, the class that makes watching paint dry seem thrilling. The class that practically requires you to have a prescription to get an upper just to get through it. It isn’t our teachers’ faults, it’s the subject matter's fault. Really, I don’t know any way one could spice up what is really just a glorified version of reading of the boxes in your local drugstore medicine aisle. Okay, I’m exaggerating again, but honestly. This stuff is dry. Dry as a piece of toast dry. Dry as the dessert in a drought dry. Dry. So, of course, my girls and I do what we can to spice it up. For me, this state of mental fatigue is pretty much akin to how I’d be on one or two glasses of wine (for anyone who knows me well, they know that that makes for a pretty inebriated Stef). So, put that, along with a group of good girlfriends who make one another chuckle, add in a little inability-to-stop-laughing-itis, and you’ve got the ingredients for a pretty crazy time. Crazy in an understated way, mind you. The thing about all this that is really galling is that we need to know this info. These are drugs we will be prescribing for our patients in a few years, so it is imperative that we have this stuff straight. But it is just so HARD to sit through four hours with two ten minute breaks of monotonous drug talks that it makes you want to tear your hair out! Really, I’m surprised I haven’t been entirely reduced to a dazed, lazy-eyed, drooling mess by the end of class. These past two weeks have really been something else, too. Last week was the cardio drugs lecture, a lecture presented in powerpoint slides, three on an 8.5” x11”, double-sided, making a stack of papers that would make War and Peace blush with embarrassment, or whimper for mercy. Last week was mind-numbing enough, but this week…whoa. This week made last week seem like a night at the comedy club. This week was Osteoarthritis, Pain Management, Rheumatoid Arthritis, and GI stuff. Gig and I almost waved white flags for mercy, and we were only a quarter of the way through. But, like I said, the way I cope with and respond to stress is humor. Laughing. Making up songs and funny poems to get me through. That’s just how my mind works. Well, tonight, Gig and I came up with some doozies that had us laughing into our hands, turning red, and hoping the teach didn’t see us.
When we got to talking about arthritis, there was a lot of discussion on how it affected “weight-bearing joints”. Meaning, knees and such. Well, my mind was already so far gone that the only thing in my head was a picture of marijuana, a “joint”, with some barbells on it. A weight-bearing joint. I was picturing this marijuana going to the gym, working out, strutting around, showing the ladies its sleek new physique. I was clearly losing it. Then we talk about headaches. Our teach asks us what some abortive therapies for headaches are? Well, since I was working on a pretty good one right about then, the options of 1)leave class, 2)craniotomy and/or thoracotomy, and 3)sharp stick in the eye, seemed like pretty good ideas. Moving on to gastrointestinal issues, fondly known as GI stuff. I sat there thinking, “Wouldn’t it be funny if instead of GI Joe there was a whole series dedicated to the heroics of our gastrointestinal tracts? Like, a picture of an intestine wearing army fatigues, absorbing fluid and nutrients and just generally being a good guy. GI Smooth M (as in smooth muscle)!” Okay. Yes. I am such a nerd. Gig and I started writing songs, set to old tunes:
Based on “Shoop” by SaltnPepa
Here I go here I go here I go again Girls what’s my weakness? Dyspepsia! Okay then.
And more from “Shoop”:
On your mark get set go, let me go, let me shoop, to the next pill in the proton pump suit.
From “What a Man”, I can’t remember who sang this, maybe SaltnPepa again?:
What a duodenum what a duodenum what a mighty mighty duodenum…I wanna take a minute to and give much respect to to the bowel that made a difference in my digestion…
Based on Warren G’s “REGULATORS”:
Proton Pump regulators!!!! Mauna. It was a smooth pink esophagus, an acid-filled belly, Warren G was in the antrum, trying to consume, some acid for his G’s, so I could get some relief, Rollin’ in the juices, just chillin’ all alone…Just hit the PPI on the parietal cells on a mission tryna stop Mr. Acid G, seeing a stomach full of acid ain’t no need to squeak all you docs know what’s up with PPI
Stupid. I know. Our teacher had the tendency to keep saying “caveat” when she was talking about the exceptions to something with the drugs. I began to notice the people around me giggling whenever she said this, and thought that perhaps they were envisioning making a drinking game out of it. She must have said ‘caveat’ fifty times.
Anyway, thank the good Lord that Monday is done. Phew. Now just have to memorize all this business for the test next week…oh yeah. And for the rest of my life.
When we got to talking about arthritis, there was a lot of discussion on how it affected “weight-bearing joints”. Meaning, knees and such. Well, my mind was already so far gone that the only thing in my head was a picture of marijuana, a “joint”, with some barbells on it. A weight-bearing joint. I was picturing this marijuana going to the gym, working out, strutting around, showing the ladies its sleek new physique. I was clearly losing it. Then we talk about headaches. Our teach asks us what some abortive therapies for headaches are? Well, since I was working on a pretty good one right about then, the options of 1)leave class, 2)craniotomy and/or thoracotomy, and 3)sharp stick in the eye, seemed like pretty good ideas. Moving on to gastrointestinal issues, fondly known as GI stuff. I sat there thinking, “Wouldn’t it be funny if instead of GI Joe there was a whole series dedicated to the heroics of our gastrointestinal tracts? Like, a picture of an intestine wearing army fatigues, absorbing fluid and nutrients and just generally being a good guy. GI Smooth M (as in smooth muscle)!” Okay. Yes. I am such a nerd. Gig and I started writing songs, set to old tunes:
Based on “Shoop” by SaltnPepa
Here I go here I go here I go again Girls what’s my weakness? Dyspepsia! Okay then.
And more from “Shoop”:
On your mark get set go, let me go, let me shoop, to the next pill in the proton pump suit.
From “What a Man”, I can’t remember who sang this, maybe SaltnPepa again?:
What a duodenum what a duodenum what a mighty mighty duodenum…I wanna take a minute to and give much respect to to the bowel that made a difference in my digestion…
Based on Warren G’s “REGULATORS”:
Proton Pump regulators!!!! Mauna. It was a smooth pink esophagus, an acid-filled belly, Warren G was in the antrum, trying to consume, some acid for his G’s, so I could get some relief, Rollin’ in the juices, just chillin’ all alone…Just hit the PPI on the parietal cells on a mission tryna stop Mr. Acid G, seeing a stomach full of acid ain’t no need to squeak all you docs know what’s up with PPI
Stupid. I know. Our teacher had the tendency to keep saying “caveat” when she was talking about the exceptions to something with the drugs. I began to notice the people around me giggling whenever she said this, and thought that perhaps they were envisioning making a drinking game out of it. She must have said ‘caveat’ fifty times.
Anyway, thank the good Lord that Monday is done. Phew. Now just have to memorize all this business for the test next week…oh yeah. And for the rest of my life.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Observations While Studying
My life has funneled down into a vortex of studying, going to class, and sleeping. It will be over soon (the over-abundant studying) but one thing I'll say for it: we've met some really strange/interesting people while doing so. The past few days we've been camped out at Barnes and Nobles; here's a snapshot of some of the strange people who have walked up to us or just started talking to us.
The Un-Encouraging Nurse from Sloane-Kettering
We were sitting at our two tables, quizzing each other aloud with NCLEX questions, and a late-thirties pregnant lady comes and sits at the table next to us. I didn't really take notice of her, except saw that she was super skinny and was reading a book on how to be naturally thin. The thought flashed through my mind, "Maybe she's anorexic" but then noticed the baby bump. Anyway, so we kept quizzing and I saw her keep shooting glances our way, and finally she interrupted and asked us what we were studying for. We told her, and she proceeded to tell us that she was a nurse at Sloane and she had been interviewing a lot of new nurses for positions, but they just weren't hiring. We told her that we were in the NP program at Columbia, and she told us she had graduated from NYU and then talked at us for literally a good twenty minutes straight about how we "must, absolutely must" get bedside nursing jobs before becoming NPs because they wouldn't even look at NPs who didn't have that requisite experience, etc. etc. She told us that no one was hiring and it was very hard right now (duh, we know) and then continued to elaborate upon her doom and gloom theme. G was getting seriously pissed, and we listened politely to her but tried to wrap it up as soon as was politely possible. It was seriously discouraging, and she assumed a lot of things about us and our experience level thus far, telling us that clinical time wasn't enough, we needed hospital time. I am choosing to believe that she extended her unsolicited advice out of the goodness of her heart, but if I was being completely objective, her tone and mannerisms seemed to have an undertone of an attitude I have noticed a lot out here. When we tell nurses that we are going to be NPs and have done the accelerated nursing program, there is usually an "oh" followed by a "well, you need experience otherwise you are going to suck and don't know anything" in not so many words, but implied. It seems that nurses who have been nurses for awhile rather resent us for what we are doing. Understandable, I guess. Unfortunate, but understandable. I have gotten to the point where if I am talking to a nurse, I don't even tell her I am going to be an NP. I don't want to deal with the attitude.
The Retired Plastic Surgeon Who Told Us What We Knew
We were reviewing the endocrine portion of the questions and had gotten to something called Hemoglobin A1C which you take in diabetics to tell how well, long term, they have been controlling their blood sugar. This is a point that had been driven home to us all year, and we were just discussing it, when this short, cute, old man came up to us and said, with no preamble, "A1C is by far the best indicator of blood sugar control..." and then went off about it for a few minutes. They say your true character comes out when you are stressed or tired, and as I was both, I'm not sure I like what my internal reaction to him tells about me. I was irritated. I was like,inside, "Look. WE KNOW. We have been studying forever and are going crazy and we don't need to waste time humoring someone who wants to tell us all about something that we know better than our own names. Please, for the love, just leave us alone!" But I got over it, and realized I was being a huge meany, and prayed for a better attitude. We chatted with a bit and he told us what he did, and then told us that we were entering a noble profession and that we were very needed. He turned out to be very sweet and encouraging, and was a nice change from the Sloane dispenser of Doom the day before.
The Old Lady Who Quizzed Us
Later on that same day, we were still quizzing, and I noticed, behind Allie, a strange-looking old lady who was practically hanging over her shoulder, listening to her asking us questions. It wasn't subtle and it wasn't an isolated event; she practically had her ear next to Allie's mouth, and was looking at me, and then was rocking back and forth and looking at Gig. It was very bizarre. She was listening to us for a long time, but I studiously avoided making eye-contact. It was getting really out of control, and suddenly, she pipes up from behind Allie, just butting into conversation, "You are a nurse at a nursing home. One of your elderly clients comes up to you and says, "My testicles, my testicles, I lost my testicles! I had them this morning, put them down next to the sink, and lost them! Where are my testicles?" What was he really talking about having lost?" We were all much taken aback, needless to say, but answered, "Um, his spectacles?" "Yes!" she says, and we ask her if she is a nurse (like we couldn't tell) and she said she used to be. She had the look of being a long-term psych nurse. I'm sorry to stereotype so shamelessly, but you really can tell the nurses who have worked in a psych unit for their career. On a side note, I don't think my friend Liz will be like that, though. She's a peach! Anyway, she continued to listen to us, almost on Allie's back, until we ran out of steam. Gig murmurs under her breath a sentiment I'm pretty sure we all shared, "I'm SO OVER people right now!" Amen, sister.
The Artist Who Tooted His Own Horn
I was at Starbs yesterday, trying futilely to connect to the internet, and asked the man next to me, who had tried already to strike up a convo with me, if he was connected. He was, and then proceeded to ask me what I did...he guessed writer. I said, no, nursing, and he told me about his recent foot surgery and gall bladder removal and how he wasn't listening to the doctor and resting. We talked shop for a bit, then he told me all about a van he's painting for MTV with his art. He turns around and shows me the back of his sweatshirt "See? This is my stuff!" It looked like graffiti art. Cool, but not really my thing. He then tells me all about how famous he is and how his art is in all the major museums in the world, etc. etc. He seemed quite proud of his accomplishments. I listened, but I thought that there was a fifty/fifty chance he was completely full of crap. We talked, or rather, he told me of his accomplishments, for at least a half-hour and then I started pack up, while still listening to him. I had to get work done, and it sure as heck wasn't going to happen here,apparently. At one point, he told me how there were demons in this world (which I agree with) and how he got in a fight with a possessed guy and beat the crap out of him (this he tells me with a puffed out chest). Cute. Anyway, I too have had my fill of people for awhile. I pray that God would make me internally kinder to those people out there who I just don't understand, but for now, I think I'm content to stay in my cozy apartment and lose myself in an Agatha Christie.
There certainly are many many interesting characters in this world, and I usually greatly enjoy meeting them, but I am too burned out right now to even make the effort.
And as I write this, a lady with unfortunate bright blue eyeshadow, which matches her J Crew shirt, walks in and sits by me. Oh no. Please, Lord, no.
The Un-Encouraging Nurse from Sloane-Kettering
We were sitting at our two tables, quizzing each other aloud with NCLEX questions, and a late-thirties pregnant lady comes and sits at the table next to us. I didn't really take notice of her, except saw that she was super skinny and was reading a book on how to be naturally thin. The thought flashed through my mind, "Maybe she's anorexic" but then noticed the baby bump. Anyway, so we kept quizzing and I saw her keep shooting glances our way, and finally she interrupted and asked us what we were studying for. We told her, and she proceeded to tell us that she was a nurse at Sloane and she had been interviewing a lot of new nurses for positions, but they just weren't hiring. We told her that we were in the NP program at Columbia, and she told us she had graduated from NYU and then talked at us for literally a good twenty minutes straight about how we "must, absolutely must" get bedside nursing jobs before becoming NPs because they wouldn't even look at NPs who didn't have that requisite experience, etc. etc. She told us that no one was hiring and it was very hard right now (duh, we know) and then continued to elaborate upon her doom and gloom theme. G was getting seriously pissed, and we listened politely to her but tried to wrap it up as soon as was politely possible. It was seriously discouraging, and she assumed a lot of things about us and our experience level thus far, telling us that clinical time wasn't enough, we needed hospital time. I am choosing to believe that she extended her unsolicited advice out of the goodness of her heart, but if I was being completely objective, her tone and mannerisms seemed to have an undertone of an attitude I have noticed a lot out here. When we tell nurses that we are going to be NPs and have done the accelerated nursing program, there is usually an "oh" followed by a "well, you need experience otherwise you are going to suck and don't know anything" in not so many words, but implied. It seems that nurses who have been nurses for awhile rather resent us for what we are doing. Understandable, I guess. Unfortunate, but understandable. I have gotten to the point where if I am talking to a nurse, I don't even tell her I am going to be an NP. I don't want to deal with the attitude.
The Retired Plastic Surgeon Who Told Us What We Knew
We were reviewing the endocrine portion of the questions and had gotten to something called Hemoglobin A1C which you take in diabetics to tell how well, long term, they have been controlling their blood sugar. This is a point that had been driven home to us all year, and we were just discussing it, when this short, cute, old man came up to us and said, with no preamble, "A1C is by far the best indicator of blood sugar control..." and then went off about it for a few minutes. They say your true character comes out when you are stressed or tired, and as I was both, I'm not sure I like what my internal reaction to him tells about me. I was irritated. I was like,inside, "Look. WE KNOW. We have been studying forever and are going crazy and we don't need to waste time humoring someone who wants to tell us all about something that we know better than our own names. Please, for the love, just leave us alone!" But I got over it, and realized I was being a huge meany, and prayed for a better attitude. We chatted with a bit and he told us what he did, and then told us that we were entering a noble profession and that we were very needed. He turned out to be very sweet and encouraging, and was a nice change from the Sloane dispenser of Doom the day before.
The Old Lady Who Quizzed Us
Later on that same day, we were still quizzing, and I noticed, behind Allie, a strange-looking old lady who was practically hanging over her shoulder, listening to her asking us questions. It wasn't subtle and it wasn't an isolated event; she practically had her ear next to Allie's mouth, and was looking at me, and then was rocking back and forth and looking at Gig. It was very bizarre. She was listening to us for a long time, but I studiously avoided making eye-contact. It was getting really out of control, and suddenly, she pipes up from behind Allie, just butting into conversation, "You are a nurse at a nursing home. One of your elderly clients comes up to you and says, "My testicles, my testicles, I lost my testicles! I had them this morning, put them down next to the sink, and lost them! Where are my testicles?" What was he really talking about having lost?" We were all much taken aback, needless to say, but answered, "Um, his spectacles?" "Yes!" she says, and we ask her if she is a nurse (like we couldn't tell) and she said she used to be. She had the look of being a long-term psych nurse. I'm sorry to stereotype so shamelessly, but you really can tell the nurses who have worked in a psych unit for their career. On a side note, I don't think my friend Liz will be like that, though. She's a peach! Anyway, she continued to listen to us, almost on Allie's back, until we ran out of steam. Gig murmurs under her breath a sentiment I'm pretty sure we all shared, "I'm SO OVER people right now!" Amen, sister.
The Artist Who Tooted His Own Horn
I was at Starbs yesterday, trying futilely to connect to the internet, and asked the man next to me, who had tried already to strike up a convo with me, if he was connected. He was, and then proceeded to ask me what I did...he guessed writer. I said, no, nursing, and he told me about his recent foot surgery and gall bladder removal and how he wasn't listening to the doctor and resting. We talked shop for a bit, then he told me all about a van he's painting for MTV with his art. He turns around and shows me the back of his sweatshirt "See? This is my stuff!" It looked like graffiti art. Cool, but not really my thing. He then tells me all about how famous he is and how his art is in all the major museums in the world, etc. etc. He seemed quite proud of his accomplishments. I listened, but I thought that there was a fifty/fifty chance he was completely full of crap. We talked, or rather, he told me of his accomplishments, for at least a half-hour and then I started pack up, while still listening to him. I had to get work done, and it sure as heck wasn't going to happen here,apparently. At one point, he told me how there were demons in this world (which I agree with) and how he got in a fight with a possessed guy and beat the crap out of him (this he tells me with a puffed out chest). Cute. Anyway, I too have had my fill of people for awhile. I pray that God would make me internally kinder to those people out there who I just don't understand, but for now, I think I'm content to stay in my cozy apartment and lose myself in an Agatha Christie.
There certainly are many many interesting characters in this world, and I usually greatly enjoy meeting them, but I am too burned out right now to even make the effort.
And as I write this, a lady with unfortunate bright blue eyeshadow, which matches her J Crew shirt, walks in and sits by me. Oh no. Please, Lord, no.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Passover
“Now on the first day of Unleavened Bread the disciples came to Jesus, saying, ‘Where will you have us prepare for you to eat the Passover?’ He said, ‘Go into the city to a certain man and say to him, “The Teacher says, My time is at hand. I will keep the Passover at your house with my disciples.”’And the disciples did as Jesus had directed them, and they prepared the Passover.” –Matt. 26:17-19
I got to experience my first Seder last night, at the home of the aunt and uncle of a dear friend, and it was truly amazing. I’ve always wanted to celebrate with a real Jewish family; see the traditions and rituals that Jesus most likely would have partaken of. As a Christian, these next few days are very solemn and heavy for me, and cause me to do a lot introspection and thanksgiving to Christ for what He did. I want to know all aspects of God’s character, and He was a Jew. Anyway, it was such a privilege for me to be invited to partake in the Seder. Allie’s family is so wonderful, and prepared quite the feast for us.
The evening started with the Kiddush: “Blessed are You, L-rd, our G-d, King of the universe, who creates the fruit of the vine. Blessed are You, G-d, our G-d, King of the universe, who has chosen us from among all people, and raised us above all tongues, and made us holy through His commandments. And You, G-d, our G-d, have given us in love.”
This is said in Hebrew, though, and when I closed my eyes, I could hear the voices of God’s people since the beginning reciting these holy words. I got goosebumps. As we went through the Haggadah, the book of Passover, we remembered the plagues that God sent on the Egyptians when Pharoah would not let the Israelites go. We dipped our pinky fingers into the wine after saying each plague, and placed one drop on our plates, for a total of ten. This was in commemoration of the tears shed by all, even the innocent Egyptians who suffered the plagues as well.
When Allie’s uncle lifted the unleavened bread and broke it, and lifted the cup of wine and blessed it, I almost started crying. This is something that we have done every Sunday since I can remember, at church. For us it is called Communion, and is in remembrance of the Last Supper, which Jesus ate with His disciples before He was betrayed in the Garden of Gethsemane. When I saw this, and that this was something Jews have been doing since the first Passover, I realized anew how intricately my faith is woven with that of the Jews. Of course, I’ve always known Jesus was a Jew, that goes without saying. But to see the beautiful ceremony of remembrance and thanks to God that Jesus partook of, in living color, here in front of me, well, it absolutely overwhelmed my heart with joy and solemnity. I can’t really put it into words, but I’ll try. It was like I was transported back in time, briefly, and saw with my own eyes the bread and the wine that Jesus broke for His friends. They thought they were going to just a normal Seder, but He knew it was so much more than that. In church last week, the pastor said that at the Last Supper, there was no lamb on the table, as is tradition, because the Lamb, the Passover Lamb, the sacrifice, the blood that would cover the lintels of the doors of His people and save them from death, was AT the table. Jesus is called the Lamb of God, and this took on a whole new significance for me last night.
I felt like I was a part of something so much bigger than me, and all of the thoughts and stirrings of my heart stilled, and I was there, worshipping the Creator of the universe, blessed be He. I wish I could adequately put into words exactly what it was like for me, but I don’t think I can. To say it was moving or powerful wouldn’t be going nearly far enough.
At one point, we remembered Allie’s grandmother Mira, who lost her entire family in the Holocaust, and survived concentration camps herself. She met the infamous Dr. Mengele, and as we read a remembrance her husband had written for the family years ago, I was tingling all over. Things that had only just been periphery to me were crashing down upon me with weighty significance. Allie is one of my dearest friends; I love her so much. And as I heard the story of her grandmother, the agonies she suffered, how she overcame them and still praised God, I praised God along with them that I was able to be apart of this beautiful remembrance. Allie told me later that her grandmother was saved twice, both times by a Christian. Wow.
Today, tomorrow, and Sunday might possibly be my three favorite days of the year. What Jesus did on the cross for us is the most glorious and most horrific thing done in the history of life. Glorious, because He did what no one else could do; He reconciled us to God. Horrific, because of the agonies and disgraces, the sheer horror of what He suffered. I have watched “Passion of the Christ” exactly once. I couldn’t watch what was being done to Him, Him Who is my heart of hearts, more than that. It absolutely slays me, and I have to spend many hours in prayer and solitude afterward, just to regain some emotional stability. But these next few days carry an incredible, momentous weight for me, and I can’t wait to celebrate the Resurrection with friends on Sunday.
Going to Passover last night with such a wonderful, loving family was such a great gift to me. I woke up this morning with my heart just singing to God, and remembering again how incredibly blessed I am.
On a side note: yesterday was also something called “The Commencement of the 206th Solar Revolution”. From what a friend told me: “The sun has a cycle in which every twenty-eight years it returns back to the position in which it was originally suspended on the first Tuesday night of Creation. Celebrating this phenomenon, Jews throughout the world arise the next morning (Wednesday) and gather together. Seeing the sun, they recite the beracha “Oseh ma’asek beresheet”. Apparently the sun has only been in this position, on Ereb Pesah (first night of Passover) only three times in history. Once, before the first Passover, when the Jews left Egypt. The second time, when Esther saved the Jews from the evil Haman. And third, yesterday.
The prayer they pray in the morning of this event is called “The Blessing of the Sun”:
Blessed are You, Adonai,
Our God,
King of the Universe
Who performs the work of Creation.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Dropping Eaves at Starbs
One of my favorite things to do in New York is eavesdrop. It is probably rude and I should maybe try to make myself stop doing it, but I really love it. I should qualify this statement; I do not eavesdrop on people that I know; that would be straight-up rude. But the distance provided by not knowing someone makes it more like watching a movie than intruding. I think I do it so much because it is like reading a book, except I get it in real-time, verbal form. So here I am, working on my book, at my favorite Starbs in the city (on 67th and Columbus) and thinking of the already interesting interactions I’ve heard/seen this week at Starbucks, on subways, walking down the street, waiting in line, and just generally everywhere in this amazing city. It’s around two in the afternoon, and I came down here today because it is the last day of spring break, and I am procrastinating. Or maybe just soaking up every bit of free time I have until integration starts next week. I’ll go with that excuse. Yes, I’m just maximizing my time. Anyway, I get on the train, listening to my iPod shuffle, and reading a book. The 1 is typically crowded; it is a Saturday afternoon, which generally lends itself to predictable standing-room-only rides. A couple next to me has come on and I soon realize that they are in the middle of an argument. They are being pretty vocal about it, I think because they think that I am both otherwise occupied with the book, and can’t hear them with the iPod. Well, the snatches that I’m able to catch are intriguing and I want to hear more. I sneakily shut off my music but leave my earbuds in, just to sink to new levels of deviousness. This woman was very put together, very nice looking. I didn’t get a look at the man, who was standing right behind me, but he sounded educated. She was saying to him, “You have to be harder on her. You can’t let her get away with it. She’s doing really terribly in school, and I want her to graduate normally, not get a GED.” He replies, sounding very defensive and upset, “Look, I don’t know what you want me to do. I talk to her about it. She’s my daughter. I’m not going to beat her. I refuse to!” My eyebrows raised at that one, I thought imperceptibly, but the woman quickly switches into Spanglish, perhaps because she noticed my feigned reading. Shoot. I really have to learn Spanish this summer. I think the gist was that they were divorced (?), the daughter was failing out of school, and the Dad was not being hard enough on her, according to the Mom. They got off at the next stop, still with the woman snipping at the man, so I’m not sure what the full deal was.
An adorable, stooped, balding octogenarian comes up to me. “May I sit here, miss?” “Why yes, of course!” I say, thrilled. Nothing makes my day more than an adorable old guy. We chat for a bit, and then I lapse into reading my book, him his paper. A little while later, a tall man wearing a navy coat with red and gold epaulets and tassels comes in and says to my tablemate, “Sir, your car is ready.” I look up at him, and shock must have been on my face, because he chuckles a cute old-man chuckle. I say, like the awestruck Midwesterner that I am, “You have a driver?” He says, “I was delivering rugs today. I sell Turkish rugs and was delivering to a man down the block.” Gosh, he’s still delivering rugs at his age? He can barely stand up straight! Wow, good for him!
As I look out the window, daydreaming, I see across the street from me a tall man in a red baseball cap hugging and kissing a beautiful petite Asian woman, who looks to be about my age. There is a limousine driver respectfully waiting for them to say their goodbyes, his back turned to them, and facing me at the Starbucks. She is smiling and laughing, her hands clutched around his neck as he playfully leans down to nuzzle her on the cheek. They kiss, tenderly, and then she gets in the car, reluctantly. He stays there, planted on the corner, as the driver loads her luggage and walks to the driver-side door. They are mouthing words to each other through the car window as the car eases from the curb, and he walks alongside it, while she is inside, waving at him. He watches the car pull away, with an indiscernible expression on his face. I can’t quite interpret it. It looks kind of like, “Shoot. Well, what do I do now? She’s cute but she’s gone.” He walks slowly, hands in his pockets, back to an apartment building and goes through the front door, presumably back to his now-empty apartment. I wonder what their story is? I sit here, making up scenarios. I will never know.
Down the counter a little from me is a German man with a rattail, talking with very thick accented English to someone on the phone. He was sitting next to me for awhile, but I kept glancing at him, because from the corner of my eye, it looked like he was reading what I was typing on my computer, and it was making me really uncomfortable. I wanted to type, in the middle of a sentence, “I see you reading this, dude. Bug off. This is personal stuff.” The irony of my being spied on while I write about eavesdropping hits me and I laugh to myself. Well played, God. Well played.
Some tweens come in. I’m getting pretty bad at judging ages of youngsters now (did I just say ‘youngsters’? Oh goodness gracious me. Geez Louise Mr. Pumpernickel Redbuttons) since the girls all look like they could be anywhere from 13-23. The girls are all very well makeuped; much overdone in my opinion. Did I look like that at 15? Grown women wearing makeup is unremarkable, but when I see teenage girls doing it, they just seem kind of silly. But, I’m sure I was silly, too. I remember what it was like, wanting to be older, wanting to look like a grown-up and be taken seriously as a grown-up. I remember what a big day it was for me the first time someone working behind the counter called me “Ma’am”, instead of my usual “Miss” or nothing at all. I’m a “Ma’am” now? Really? Wow, I must look old! I think I was 17 at the time. Funny how as we grow up, we start wanting to look younger. I kind of want to take those girls aside, and say, “Hey. Enjoy your youth, and don’t try to grow up too quickly. It’ll come soon enough, believe me. Then you’ll have bills to pay and broken hearts to nurse and apartments to find and sometimes it just makes you wish you could be five again, when the most challenging decision of the day was whether you’d have PB&J for lunch, or turkey.” And they’ll look at me and one another, raise their perfectly plucked eyebrows, and say, “Who’s this old lady giving us advice?” And I’ll say, “Someone who’s been where you are, and is where you’ll be.” And I’d get a bunch of “whatevers” and “as if”s or whatever it is kids these days are saying. Oh man, I just used the expression ‘kids these days.’ What am I, like 105? Sheesh.
The boys they are with look like they just stepped off of “Project Runway”. Slicked back hair with bizarre sideways coiffed bangs, tight jeans and striped shirts with studs, jackets with buckles. Wow. If guys dressed like that when I was a teenager, they’d have been shot. It was all about the Abercrombie and Fitch back then. Preppie to the max. I think there might have been an unofficial contest about who could be the preppiest in school. By choice, the only thing even close to Abercrombie and Fitch that I owned was a shirt I got at the State Fair that said, “Abercowpie and Bitch” or something like that. Just thumbing my nose as the estab in whatever rebellious teenage way I could! Again, the irony hits me that here I am, on a Saturday afternoon with frizzy hair and minimal makeup, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans with sneakers, and I have the gall to critique others on their fashion sense. Teenage boys, no less, who are, I guess like all of us, trying to figure who the heck they are and where the heck they fit in. I’m mean, and I really shouldn’t talk, especially in a current get-up like mine.
I can’t seem to turn around with seeing Israeli guys hitting on blond girls. I take that back. Very tall, shaved headed Israeli guys hitting on blond girls, mostly wearing black jackets. One might say to me, “Stef! You are racist! How do you know those guys are Israeli? They could be anything.” I know for two reasons: 1) I’ve had my fair share of attention from shaved-head tall Israelis and 2) I can hear them speak and they sound like every other Israeli I know. Don’t get me wrong, I only mention the Israeli part because it ties in with this theory I am developing about how I’ve seen certain kinds of men attracted over and over to certain kinds of women. That is pretty general and vague, but I’m afraid that going into examples would really make me out to sound like an arrogant white chick, so I’ll refrain. I know we all have our types; personally, I have a tendency to be inexplicably drawn to tall brown haired guys or redheads. So, I am really no one to talk. But I bring this up because as I was walking to Starbs today, I saw yet again another tall Israeli guy talking and smiling with that specific “I’m interested” head tilt to a petite blond wearing a black jacket. I realize they could have been friends already, they could have just run into each other after a long absence, I don’t know. But just reading body language, he was hitting on her, in his tracksuit, and she was loving it. I mean, seriously, who wouldn’t? He was pretty cute! It was funny though, that here I was thinking about it, and then I see it before my eyes.
The table I am sitting at is by the door, and not only do I get the draft every time someone comes in (small price to pay for privilege of getting a table at a Starbucks on a Saturday in NYC), but I am taking an inordinate amount of enjoyment from watching people consistently push on the locked door, thinking they can get in or out through it. I’d say ninety-nine point nine percent of people either coming or going have originally pushed or pulled on said locked door, found it not budging, looked up in confusion and/or anger at the doorjamb, and then went out the other door. Some look embarrassed, some frustrated, some just plain “Oh well” about it. I decided that I am going to surreptitiously count how many times in a half-hour this happens.
From 3:13pm to 3:43pm, out of thirty people who entered and exited the coffee shop through this set of doors, 22 initially tried the wrong door and made faces, and 8 got it right the first time. That means that 73% of people who enter/exit Starbucks and use that door get it wrong the first time. 27% get it right the first time. I’d have to take a larger sample size to really get a good grasp on the stats surrounding the misuse of this door, but it continues to be pretty funny sitting here, watching everyone do it the wrong way. I can laugh without feeling too bad because I have done it myself many times. And a lady just walked out the door with toilet paper stuck to her shoe and I didn’t have time to tell her about it. And I think Kaptain Kangaroo just walked in. Ordered a doppio, said hello to his friend, Mr. something, and left.
I went up to the bar to get some food, I was ravenous. A guy up there said, “Are you getting all of your work done?” I laughed and said I was, and then ordered my bacon and gouda sandwich and a water. The sandwich is bery bery good-a. Ha. He asked me, “Do you want a refill on your iced tea?” How did he know I have an iced tea? But yeah, sure! “But how much is it?” I ask. “Is it free?” “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give it to you for fifty cents.” Seriously? A $3.47 drink for fifty cents?? You got it, man. “Gosh, thanks!” I say, and then proceed to tell him about the fun I am having watching people trying unsuccessfully to get out of the locked door. I am even nerdy enough to tell him the percentages I figure out. I am sooo cool. He laughs, and hands me his business card. Apparently, besides being a barista,he is a life coach. Interesting.
So I’m still sitting at the table, it’s 5:30pm and this little baby in a stroller comes in, pushed by his dad. The dad gets a drink, and then pulls the baby stroller over to the wall by me. I look up and smile at the kiddo, and he smiles back, a big, toothy grin. The dad looks to see who he is looking at, and sees me smiling at his son. The baby and I smile and wave at each other, and the dad wheels his son over to me. “Hello, sir!” I say to the baby. “What is your name?” The dad, of course, answers that his name is Andrew and it’s his birthday in a week. Andrew claps his hands in glee, and I clap too. “Happy birthday, sweetie!” He smiles and tries to take my computer cord, then lift my purse (even I can barely do that), and finally wants to make off with my drink. The dad moves his son out the reach of these items and then we smile and clap hands some more. They say goodbye and leave, Andrew smiling at me all the while. What a great day. Cute old guys, adorable almost-one-year-old babies, and making progress on my book.
What an entertaining afternoon at Starbucks this has been!
An adorable, stooped, balding octogenarian comes up to me. “May I sit here, miss?” “Why yes, of course!” I say, thrilled. Nothing makes my day more than an adorable old guy. We chat for a bit, and then I lapse into reading my book, him his paper. A little while later, a tall man wearing a navy coat with red and gold epaulets and tassels comes in and says to my tablemate, “Sir, your car is ready.” I look up at him, and shock must have been on my face, because he chuckles a cute old-man chuckle. I say, like the awestruck Midwesterner that I am, “You have a driver?” He says, “I was delivering rugs today. I sell Turkish rugs and was delivering to a man down the block.” Gosh, he’s still delivering rugs at his age? He can barely stand up straight! Wow, good for him!
As I look out the window, daydreaming, I see across the street from me a tall man in a red baseball cap hugging and kissing a beautiful petite Asian woman, who looks to be about my age. There is a limousine driver respectfully waiting for them to say their goodbyes, his back turned to them, and facing me at the Starbucks. She is smiling and laughing, her hands clutched around his neck as he playfully leans down to nuzzle her on the cheek. They kiss, tenderly, and then she gets in the car, reluctantly. He stays there, planted on the corner, as the driver loads her luggage and walks to the driver-side door. They are mouthing words to each other through the car window as the car eases from the curb, and he walks alongside it, while she is inside, waving at him. He watches the car pull away, with an indiscernible expression on his face. I can’t quite interpret it. It looks kind of like, “Shoot. Well, what do I do now? She’s cute but she’s gone.” He walks slowly, hands in his pockets, back to an apartment building and goes through the front door, presumably back to his now-empty apartment. I wonder what their story is? I sit here, making up scenarios. I will never know.
Down the counter a little from me is a German man with a rattail, talking with very thick accented English to someone on the phone. He was sitting next to me for awhile, but I kept glancing at him, because from the corner of my eye, it looked like he was reading what I was typing on my computer, and it was making me really uncomfortable. I wanted to type, in the middle of a sentence, “I see you reading this, dude. Bug off. This is personal stuff.” The irony of my being spied on while I write about eavesdropping hits me and I laugh to myself. Well played, God. Well played.
Some tweens come in. I’m getting pretty bad at judging ages of youngsters now (did I just say ‘youngsters’? Oh goodness gracious me. Geez Louise Mr. Pumpernickel Redbuttons) since the girls all look like they could be anywhere from 13-23. The girls are all very well makeuped; much overdone in my opinion. Did I look like that at 15? Grown women wearing makeup is unremarkable, but when I see teenage girls doing it, they just seem kind of silly. But, I’m sure I was silly, too. I remember what it was like, wanting to be older, wanting to look like a grown-up and be taken seriously as a grown-up. I remember what a big day it was for me the first time someone working behind the counter called me “Ma’am”, instead of my usual “Miss” or nothing at all. I’m a “Ma’am” now? Really? Wow, I must look old! I think I was 17 at the time. Funny how as we grow up, we start wanting to look younger. I kind of want to take those girls aside, and say, “Hey. Enjoy your youth, and don’t try to grow up too quickly. It’ll come soon enough, believe me. Then you’ll have bills to pay and broken hearts to nurse and apartments to find and sometimes it just makes you wish you could be five again, when the most challenging decision of the day was whether you’d have PB&J for lunch, or turkey.” And they’ll look at me and one another, raise their perfectly plucked eyebrows, and say, “Who’s this old lady giving us advice?” And I’ll say, “Someone who’s been where you are, and is where you’ll be.” And I’d get a bunch of “whatevers” and “as if”s or whatever it is kids these days are saying. Oh man, I just used the expression ‘kids these days.’ What am I, like 105? Sheesh.
The boys they are with look like they just stepped off of “Project Runway”. Slicked back hair with bizarre sideways coiffed bangs, tight jeans and striped shirts with studs, jackets with buckles. Wow. If guys dressed like that when I was a teenager, they’d have been shot. It was all about the Abercrombie and Fitch back then. Preppie to the max. I think there might have been an unofficial contest about who could be the preppiest in school. By choice, the only thing even close to Abercrombie and Fitch that I owned was a shirt I got at the State Fair that said, “Abercowpie and Bitch” or something like that. Just thumbing my nose as the estab in whatever rebellious teenage way I could! Again, the irony hits me that here I am, on a Saturday afternoon with frizzy hair and minimal makeup, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans with sneakers, and I have the gall to critique others on their fashion sense. Teenage boys, no less, who are, I guess like all of us, trying to figure who the heck they are and where the heck they fit in. I’m mean, and I really shouldn’t talk, especially in a current get-up like mine.
I can’t seem to turn around with seeing Israeli guys hitting on blond girls. I take that back. Very tall, shaved headed Israeli guys hitting on blond girls, mostly wearing black jackets. One might say to me, “Stef! You are racist! How do you know those guys are Israeli? They could be anything.” I know for two reasons: 1) I’ve had my fair share of attention from shaved-head tall Israelis and 2) I can hear them speak and they sound like every other Israeli I know. Don’t get me wrong, I only mention the Israeli part because it ties in with this theory I am developing about how I’ve seen certain kinds of men attracted over and over to certain kinds of women. That is pretty general and vague, but I’m afraid that going into examples would really make me out to sound like an arrogant white chick, so I’ll refrain. I know we all have our types; personally, I have a tendency to be inexplicably drawn to tall brown haired guys or redheads. So, I am really no one to talk. But I bring this up because as I was walking to Starbs today, I saw yet again another tall Israeli guy talking and smiling with that specific “I’m interested” head tilt to a petite blond wearing a black jacket. I realize they could have been friends already, they could have just run into each other after a long absence, I don’t know. But just reading body language, he was hitting on her, in his tracksuit, and she was loving it. I mean, seriously, who wouldn’t? He was pretty cute! It was funny though, that here I was thinking about it, and then I see it before my eyes.
The table I am sitting at is by the door, and not only do I get the draft every time someone comes in (small price to pay for privilege of getting a table at a Starbucks on a Saturday in NYC), but I am taking an inordinate amount of enjoyment from watching people consistently push on the locked door, thinking they can get in or out through it. I’d say ninety-nine point nine percent of people either coming or going have originally pushed or pulled on said locked door, found it not budging, looked up in confusion and/or anger at the doorjamb, and then went out the other door. Some look embarrassed, some frustrated, some just plain “Oh well” about it. I decided that I am going to surreptitiously count how many times in a half-hour this happens.
From 3:13pm to 3:43pm, out of thirty people who entered and exited the coffee shop through this set of doors, 22 initially tried the wrong door and made faces, and 8 got it right the first time. That means that 73% of people who enter/exit Starbucks and use that door get it wrong the first time. 27% get it right the first time. I’d have to take a larger sample size to really get a good grasp on the stats surrounding the misuse of this door, but it continues to be pretty funny sitting here, watching everyone do it the wrong way. I can laugh without feeling too bad because I have done it myself many times. And a lady just walked out the door with toilet paper stuck to her shoe and I didn’t have time to tell her about it. And I think Kaptain Kangaroo just walked in. Ordered a doppio, said hello to his friend, Mr. something, and left.
I went up to the bar to get some food, I was ravenous. A guy up there said, “Are you getting all of your work done?” I laughed and said I was, and then ordered my bacon and gouda sandwich and a water. The sandwich is bery bery good-a. Ha. He asked me, “Do you want a refill on your iced tea?” How did he know I have an iced tea? But yeah, sure! “But how much is it?” I ask. “Is it free?” “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give it to you for fifty cents.” Seriously? A $3.47 drink for fifty cents?? You got it, man. “Gosh, thanks!” I say, and then proceed to tell him about the fun I am having watching people trying unsuccessfully to get out of the locked door. I am even nerdy enough to tell him the percentages I figure out. I am sooo cool. He laughs, and hands me his business card. Apparently, besides being a barista,he is a life coach. Interesting.
So I’m still sitting at the table, it’s 5:30pm and this little baby in a stroller comes in, pushed by his dad. The dad gets a drink, and then pulls the baby stroller over to the wall by me. I look up and smile at the kiddo, and he smiles back, a big, toothy grin. The dad looks to see who he is looking at, and sees me smiling at his son. The baby and I smile and wave at each other, and the dad wheels his son over to me. “Hello, sir!” I say to the baby. “What is your name?” The dad, of course, answers that his name is Andrew and it’s his birthday in a week. Andrew claps his hands in glee, and I clap too. “Happy birthday, sweetie!” He smiles and tries to take my computer cord, then lift my purse (even I can barely do that), and finally wants to make off with my drink. The dad moves his son out the reach of these items and then we smile and clap hands some more. They say goodbye and leave, Andrew smiling at me all the while. What a great day. Cute old guys, adorable almost-one-year-old babies, and making progress on my book.
What an entertaining afternoon at Starbucks this has been!
Monday, March 9, 2009
The Measure of A Man
I was on the 1 tonight, minding my own business, reading a book, excited to be able to climb into my big, comfy bed very soon. We come to a stop, the doors open with their familiar "ding-dong" and I am suddenly bowled over by an all-encompassing malodorous nostril assault. A hunched over, barely moving homeless man climbs aboard, and his presence has the effect of clearing out the train. People start covering their noses, walking away from him, going through the doors to the next train car, seemingly doing anything to get away from the smell. He was wearing probably every article of clothing that he owned; his jeans were caked with dirt, his shoes were full of holes and ratty. He had on four coats, a few button down shirts, and a hat. He stood for awhile, and then sat. The people next to him said, "Damn!" and practically ran away. Not that I blamed them. It was overpowering, that smell. I was sitting right across from him, but I could not move. I was physically unable. My eyes were tearing, but initially, it was from the smell. Then I looked at him sitting there, alone, his presence repelling everyone around him, and my heart couldn't take it. When was the last time he had been hugged? When was the last time anyone had looked in his eyes to say that they loved him, or that he did a good job, or that he was a treasured friend? When was the last time he had enjoyed the comfort of cozy bed, as I was about to? I sat there, just looking at him, almost weeping. I have no idea why he affected me so very strongly; I am ashamed to admit it, but I have felt recently almost inured to the homeless, I have seen so many on a daily basis. But I felt like God pointed this one out to me, and said to my heart, "Look at this man. I know his name, and I love him." And my heart filled with grief for what he must have experienced thus far, whether or not the consequences of his choices or simply what life had done to him. 116th stop came, and the doors opened. The man creakily got to his feet, moving as fast as he could toward the doors. His fast was very slow, and he almost didn't make it off of the train. The doors closed, and he was gone. But his scent lingered. What must it be like to know that wherever you go, people go in the opposite direction? How that must pierce his heart. I wanted to go up to him, wrap my arms around him, and say, "Sir, here is a clean pair of clothes, soap, a shower, an apartment, a job, mental health services, money for food, a transportation pass, and a girlfriend. Go, and be well." But I just sat there.
I wanted to do something, and felt paralyzed with indecision. What could I do? Should I have hugged him? I don't know. Should I have at least gone over and talked to him, to see how he was doing today? Probably. All I know is that there are millions like him in this city, and I so wish that something could be done to help. A lot of people say, "Oh, they've chosen it." I'm sure in some cases, that's true. And a lot of homeless deal with some pretty serious mental health issues, as well. But there has to be something that can be done to better the lives of these people. There just has to.
I was angry at myself for letting him get off without even reaching out to him; I still feel I should have done something. All I can do now is pray, which is probably the best thing anyway. God sees exactly where he is right now, and can speak to his heart words of comfort and strength, and hopefully, someday, this man will get the help he needs to make some steps forward.
I wanted to do something, and felt paralyzed with indecision. What could I do? Should I have hugged him? I don't know. Should I have at least gone over and talked to him, to see how he was doing today? Probably. All I know is that there are millions like him in this city, and I so wish that something could be done to help. A lot of people say, "Oh, they've chosen it." I'm sure in some cases, that's true. And a lot of homeless deal with some pretty serious mental health issues, as well. But there has to be something that can be done to better the lives of these people. There just has to.
I was angry at myself for letting him get off without even reaching out to him; I still feel I should have done something. All I can do now is pray, which is probably the best thing anyway. God sees exactly where he is right now, and can speak to his heart words of comfort and strength, and hopefully, someday, this man will get the help he needs to make some steps forward.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Flights of Fancy
I spent the weekend at home, affording me lots of time for introspection. Getting out of Milwaukee was interesting; we were delayed for an hour due to weather issues, but at least we weren’t canceled. Once we got in the air, we went through the clouds that had been delivering the rain/snow mix and broke into a clearing just above. It was breathtaking. To my right was the rainbow-like sunset, ribbons of color painting the sky with their deep crimson-azure-ochre stain. To my left was the moon, shining in all its brilliance, with the stars just beginning to pop out behind it. Below me was a carpet of ripply clouds. It was truly beautiful, and somewhat worth the long delay just so I could be a part of the transition from day to night. As my mind went over the events of this weekend, I thought back to a few summers ago, when I was home for a week, just killing time until I went back to Minneapolis and started a new job. I was suddenly transported to my grassy perch on our lawn, and remembered, in startlingly vivid detail, something I had thought of then…
My favorite flower is the tulip. I have always loved it for its simplicity and quiet gracefulness; it is just there, brilliant in color, blooming silently, not showy like the peony or fresh and perky like the daisy, but quiet, refined, beautiful simply because it is being exactly what it was meant to be: a tulip. I was outside in my mother’s beautiful garden, just letting my soul be fed by the majesty of the flowers blooming around me. The lilac tree was gently sending forth an intoxicating fragrance, a perfect backdrop for a perfect day. As I sat on the sun-warmed grass, breathing deeply of the lilac-lawn potpourri, I gazed at the tulips before me. There were deep red flowers with black and yellow stripes outlining the stamens; there were soft, pink blooms, waving gently in the afternoon breeze. There were regal purple tulips; deep magenta flowers with ruffled edges, hybrids and new shoots and greenery all around. I was enrapt. One of my favorite things to do is to sit and contemplate things that have always been there, but are the simplest, and therefore usually the most overlooked, things. Like clouds. I will lie on my back for hours, watching the clouds drift lazily overhead, wondering about how they are formed, how long they will last, where they will go. I think about how wonderful it would be to able to float on the clouds, and ride them wherever they went. Who would I see when I was up there? Could I bounce from cloud to cloud, or would I just stay on one and ride it until I could ride it no more?
Or trees. Often, when I am walking through the woods, I will stop to examine the leaves on a nearby tree. The veins that trace their paths on the backs of each are so perfect in their symmetry. If I listen closely enough, I can almost hear the liquid flowing down through the veins, gathering sunlight, and transforming the light into energy for itself. It is a beautiful symphony of nature, and if I am quiet and still enough, I can be a part of it, for just a moment. I hear the birds calling to one another; I see the verdant moss growing up the side of the tree, taking its nourishment from its bark, and giving its protection in return. I marvel at the symbiotic relationship that nature has, and praise God for His handiwork.
All of these things are in my mind as I idly dance my fingertips across the grass. It has just been cut, and its heady aroma mixes with the lilac in a pleasing way. My attention focuses on the tulips, and as I think about their genesis, I realize what a perfect allegory they are.
Tulips have to be planted in the fall, when everything is getting cold; the days getting shorter and the nights, longer. One cannot plant tulips too early, when the summer is waning, or too late, when snow is flying, or they will not bloom in the spring. Plant them too deeply, they will not get the proper amount of nutrients; too shallow and the squirrels will eat them. Although tulips are beautiful in their simplicity, they need to be taken care of, initially. Compost should be put around them to add nutrients to the soil; watch them to make sure that outdoor critters haven’t dug them up. And then the waiting, which for me was always the hardest part. I would want to plant tulips with my mom in the fall and then have them bloom right away. But I’d have to wait until spring. Snow would come and cover the ground above the tulip bulbs in inches of soft white insulation. The ground would freeze, and all would seem dead. If one didn’t know better, one might think that the tulips could never survive such harsh Wisconsin winters. Months and months of below-freezing temperatures; months and months of being buried in snow. What can live in such conditions? Finally, painstakingly, February comes. And then March, and with it, warmer temperatures and late snows that no longer last all the day. April brings the proverbial showers, washing away the stale winter and ushering in spring, a time of rebirth. We celebrate Easter in spring, and how appropriate that we do. Just as spring brings the little green shoots that push bravely out of the soil into the world and are born anew, so too did Christ experience rebirth when He rose from the cross. Spring is a time of rejoicing; we made it through the winter, hurrah! And then, softly, when it has been warm enough and wet enough for the right amount of days, you wake up one morning to find a little green growth over where your tulip bulb was. It is tiny, and fragile, and a late frost will kill it. But each day, it grows a little more, and then a little more, and then more still. One day, it is tall and strong, with a closed bud crowing its stalk. The sun comes out and the tulip slowly but deliberately turns its face towards the sun’s warmth, and suddenly, thoughtfully, it begins to open. It revels in its beauty, but not cockily or with pride, but with dignity, as though telling the world, “I am beautiful and I know it, but I was created to bring beauty to the people of the earth, that they may find joy when looking at me and enjoying my presence.” It offers itself as a gift, and expects nothing in return.
So too are human lives like tulips. Many people find themselves planted deeply in situations that seem out of their control; situations that feel like the death of an ideal and the lengthening of nights. They go through times when their hearts seem dead, as though in the chill of winter, buried under many feet of snow. They lie dormant, thinking their life is a waste. Then, as out of nowhere, spring comes. Their problems dissolve, or become more manageable. They begin to see the beauty and blessing of their situations, whatever they may be. They look back over what they’ve been through and see, with sudden recognition, that being planted deep with no escape meant a sharpening of character. The dead of winter was an incubation period where their souls and minds expanded to see the bigger picture. The snow, which once seemed so deep and insurmountable, melted to become streams of living water in their situations. And spring, the time of new life, was a birth of a wiser and more humble person. Just as the tulip overcomes many obstacles to bloom victoriously in spring, reaching, reaching ever higher for the sun, so too can people who come through their personal tragedies be stronger and better for them. How paradoxical that that which brings us so much grief and pain can also bring such strength and hope, but thankfully, it is true. The story of the tulip is the story of anyone who has ever been through something hard and seemingly endless, and has emerged, facing the sun, being warmed by its life-giving rays…
As the plane raced through the sky, I thought of the blessing of family and friends, and the beauty of nature. I had forgotten about these previous ruminations, but for some reason, they came back to me tonight. I am most blessed, and am thankful to God for His gentle reminders of this, every moment.
My favorite flower is the tulip. I have always loved it for its simplicity and quiet gracefulness; it is just there, brilliant in color, blooming silently, not showy like the peony or fresh and perky like the daisy, but quiet, refined, beautiful simply because it is being exactly what it was meant to be: a tulip. I was outside in my mother’s beautiful garden, just letting my soul be fed by the majesty of the flowers blooming around me. The lilac tree was gently sending forth an intoxicating fragrance, a perfect backdrop for a perfect day. As I sat on the sun-warmed grass, breathing deeply of the lilac-lawn potpourri, I gazed at the tulips before me. There were deep red flowers with black and yellow stripes outlining the stamens; there were soft, pink blooms, waving gently in the afternoon breeze. There were regal purple tulips; deep magenta flowers with ruffled edges, hybrids and new shoots and greenery all around. I was enrapt. One of my favorite things to do is to sit and contemplate things that have always been there, but are the simplest, and therefore usually the most overlooked, things. Like clouds. I will lie on my back for hours, watching the clouds drift lazily overhead, wondering about how they are formed, how long they will last, where they will go. I think about how wonderful it would be to able to float on the clouds, and ride them wherever they went. Who would I see when I was up there? Could I bounce from cloud to cloud, or would I just stay on one and ride it until I could ride it no more?
Or trees. Often, when I am walking through the woods, I will stop to examine the leaves on a nearby tree. The veins that trace their paths on the backs of each are so perfect in their symmetry. If I listen closely enough, I can almost hear the liquid flowing down through the veins, gathering sunlight, and transforming the light into energy for itself. It is a beautiful symphony of nature, and if I am quiet and still enough, I can be a part of it, for just a moment. I hear the birds calling to one another; I see the verdant moss growing up the side of the tree, taking its nourishment from its bark, and giving its protection in return. I marvel at the symbiotic relationship that nature has, and praise God for His handiwork.
All of these things are in my mind as I idly dance my fingertips across the grass. It has just been cut, and its heady aroma mixes with the lilac in a pleasing way. My attention focuses on the tulips, and as I think about their genesis, I realize what a perfect allegory they are.
Tulips have to be planted in the fall, when everything is getting cold; the days getting shorter and the nights, longer. One cannot plant tulips too early, when the summer is waning, or too late, when snow is flying, or they will not bloom in the spring. Plant them too deeply, they will not get the proper amount of nutrients; too shallow and the squirrels will eat them. Although tulips are beautiful in their simplicity, they need to be taken care of, initially. Compost should be put around them to add nutrients to the soil; watch them to make sure that outdoor critters haven’t dug them up. And then the waiting, which for me was always the hardest part. I would want to plant tulips with my mom in the fall and then have them bloom right away. But I’d have to wait until spring. Snow would come and cover the ground above the tulip bulbs in inches of soft white insulation. The ground would freeze, and all would seem dead. If one didn’t know better, one might think that the tulips could never survive such harsh Wisconsin winters. Months and months of below-freezing temperatures; months and months of being buried in snow. What can live in such conditions? Finally, painstakingly, February comes. And then March, and with it, warmer temperatures and late snows that no longer last all the day. April brings the proverbial showers, washing away the stale winter and ushering in spring, a time of rebirth. We celebrate Easter in spring, and how appropriate that we do. Just as spring brings the little green shoots that push bravely out of the soil into the world and are born anew, so too did Christ experience rebirth when He rose from the cross. Spring is a time of rejoicing; we made it through the winter, hurrah! And then, softly, when it has been warm enough and wet enough for the right amount of days, you wake up one morning to find a little green growth over where your tulip bulb was. It is tiny, and fragile, and a late frost will kill it. But each day, it grows a little more, and then a little more, and then more still. One day, it is tall and strong, with a closed bud crowing its stalk. The sun comes out and the tulip slowly but deliberately turns its face towards the sun’s warmth, and suddenly, thoughtfully, it begins to open. It revels in its beauty, but not cockily or with pride, but with dignity, as though telling the world, “I am beautiful and I know it, but I was created to bring beauty to the people of the earth, that they may find joy when looking at me and enjoying my presence.” It offers itself as a gift, and expects nothing in return.
So too are human lives like tulips. Many people find themselves planted deeply in situations that seem out of their control; situations that feel like the death of an ideal and the lengthening of nights. They go through times when their hearts seem dead, as though in the chill of winter, buried under many feet of snow. They lie dormant, thinking their life is a waste. Then, as out of nowhere, spring comes. Their problems dissolve, or become more manageable. They begin to see the beauty and blessing of their situations, whatever they may be. They look back over what they’ve been through and see, with sudden recognition, that being planted deep with no escape meant a sharpening of character. The dead of winter was an incubation period where their souls and minds expanded to see the bigger picture. The snow, which once seemed so deep and insurmountable, melted to become streams of living water in their situations. And spring, the time of new life, was a birth of a wiser and more humble person. Just as the tulip overcomes many obstacles to bloom victoriously in spring, reaching, reaching ever higher for the sun, so too can people who come through their personal tragedies be stronger and better for them. How paradoxical that that which brings us so much grief and pain can also bring such strength and hope, but thankfully, it is true. The story of the tulip is the story of anyone who has ever been through something hard and seemingly endless, and has emerged, facing the sun, being warmed by its life-giving rays…
As the plane raced through the sky, I thought of the blessing of family and friends, and the beauty of nature. I had forgotten about these previous ruminations, but for some reason, they came back to me tonight. I am most blessed, and am thankful to God for His gentle reminders of this, every moment.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Burnout
I'm frustrated and tired. Today was hard. We have a test on cardiology, genitourinary/gastrointestinal, and diabetes in two days, and I can’t seem to motivate myself to study. It’s not like I know the material backwards and forwards; there is every reason why I need to study. And yet, nothing really seems compelling enough for me.
At clinical today, I was caring for an adorable little three-yr-old with Hodgkin’s lymphoma. She had the biggest brown eyes, fringed with long eyelashes, eyes that told a story. What a spirit she had as well! Giving out fives wherever she went, she loved my stethoscope, and took it off of my neck to clean it and play with it. I had to listen to her lung sounds, and she was most cooperative, turning her back to greet me. Afterward, I told her she could listen to my heart, and she put on my stethoscope, putting the bell to my chest, and looking up at me and smiling. “Do you hear my heart?” I smiled at her. “Yeth”, she whispered/lisped back. “Am I alive?” “Yeth!” This little girl had been through so much, her family through so much, and yet she was still smiling and playing. I wish I could be like that, smiling and playing even when life is difficult.
Our preceptors today asked if we realized that we are going to be nurses in less than two months. That is a serious responsibility, and we need to know our stuff if we are not going to kill someone. One of them talked at us for a long time, telling us that we didn’t want to look like idiots if a doctor asked us for something and we didn’t know what it was. She said that she knows that they are pushing us hard, but we need to be ready. We don’t want to go home some night, unable to live with ourselves because of what happened at the hospital that day.
It was sobering, and a little over the top. We are all already so ready for a break. Fatigue comes in many forms, and we are quickly becoming familiar with all of them. We signed up for this, this is what we want to do, but sometimes the pressure gets to be too much. When I physically cannot make myself study for a test that I know I need to study for, I know something is wrong. I came home from clinical today and crawled right into bed, falling asleep and sleeping for two hours. I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about integration starting in two weeks. I am terrified; most likely I will have to work nights, and I already know that my body, mind, and spirit really suck at handling night shift work. It is only for two months, but I am just flat-out scared.
I am sick of feeling like I am in the way at the hospital. I am there to learn, and I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes, especially the nurses who are already so busy. We are told to get in there and do stuff, but then told that we can’t or shouldn’t do stuff. It is difficult to convince myself to take vitals on a patient that has already had vitals taken two times that morning, simply because I have to report back that I did them. I feel caught in this netherworld of nursing; on the one hand, I want to get in there, learn all I can, and do the best I can for the patient. On the other, I see the look of frustration on the faces of the nurses when I ask yet another question or someone bumps into me when they are rushing around, desperate to get things done. And I don’t fault them for it; I always hated having a shadow at my old job; it made my day twice as long because I had to stop and explain everything. The nurses just straight up don’t have time for that, so often, I won’t even meet the nurse taking care of my patient until the morning is halfway over. I’m just sick of feeling unknowledgable, like my hands are tied. I go in, introduce myself to a family, and they ask me something about the patient, what were her lab results? Why is she going to the OR yet again? I can’t log myself into the system, and everyone is too busy for me to ask, so I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to read her charts yet. I want to be able to give this grandma an answer, tears are welling in her eyes as she strokes her granddaughter’s hand. “She just bin through so durn much. And thez doctors, they jes using her as a guinea pig. I know it. Thez jes stickin her and stickin her cuz they want to use her.” What this woman must have gone through thus far to make her feel this way. But I have nothing to say, other than that I will get her nurse for her and have her come and fill her in on the plan for the day. All I can offer her is a cup of water, but she turns it down. What good am I to her? Her granddaughter is lying in bed, sedated from pain meds, missing her senior year of high school because of her leukemia, and I offer her water. I can’t give her the information she needs, and I see the helplessness in her eyes. It strikes at my heart, but there is nothing I can do.
Maybe today was just a rough day, maybe I am just burned out, I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t lose focus, I need to stay focused. I went to Starbucks when it opened this morning, getting a large cup of coffee and just sitting there, letting the steam warm my face. I have never felt like this before; like a sled dog, getting ready to run the Iditarod, but constantly being held back. I am straining at the harness, anxious to start the race. And yet, paradoxically, I am tired and overwhelmed. I still haven’t found out my integration placement, and I am anxious to get planning for that. So many little things to do and get ready for and I can’t seem to muster the strength to do any of it.
At clinical today, I was caring for an adorable little three-yr-old with Hodgkin’s lymphoma. She had the biggest brown eyes, fringed with long eyelashes, eyes that told a story. What a spirit she had as well! Giving out fives wherever she went, she loved my stethoscope, and took it off of my neck to clean it and play with it. I had to listen to her lung sounds, and she was most cooperative, turning her back to greet me. Afterward, I told her she could listen to my heart, and she put on my stethoscope, putting the bell to my chest, and looking up at me and smiling. “Do you hear my heart?” I smiled at her. “Yeth”, she whispered/lisped back. “Am I alive?” “Yeth!” This little girl had been through so much, her family through so much, and yet she was still smiling and playing. I wish I could be like that, smiling and playing even when life is difficult.
Our preceptors today asked if we realized that we are going to be nurses in less than two months. That is a serious responsibility, and we need to know our stuff if we are not going to kill someone. One of them talked at us for a long time, telling us that we didn’t want to look like idiots if a doctor asked us for something and we didn’t know what it was. She said that she knows that they are pushing us hard, but we need to be ready. We don’t want to go home some night, unable to live with ourselves because of what happened at the hospital that day.
It was sobering, and a little over the top. We are all already so ready for a break. Fatigue comes in many forms, and we are quickly becoming familiar with all of them. We signed up for this, this is what we want to do, but sometimes the pressure gets to be too much. When I physically cannot make myself study for a test that I know I need to study for, I know something is wrong. I came home from clinical today and crawled right into bed, falling asleep and sleeping for two hours. I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about integration starting in two weeks. I am terrified; most likely I will have to work nights, and I already know that my body, mind, and spirit really suck at handling night shift work. It is only for two months, but I am just flat-out scared.
I am sick of feeling like I am in the way at the hospital. I am there to learn, and I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes, especially the nurses who are already so busy. We are told to get in there and do stuff, but then told that we can’t or shouldn’t do stuff. It is difficult to convince myself to take vitals on a patient that has already had vitals taken two times that morning, simply because I have to report back that I did them. I feel caught in this netherworld of nursing; on the one hand, I want to get in there, learn all I can, and do the best I can for the patient. On the other, I see the look of frustration on the faces of the nurses when I ask yet another question or someone bumps into me when they are rushing around, desperate to get things done. And I don’t fault them for it; I always hated having a shadow at my old job; it made my day twice as long because I had to stop and explain everything. The nurses just straight up don’t have time for that, so often, I won’t even meet the nurse taking care of my patient until the morning is halfway over. I’m just sick of feeling unknowledgable, like my hands are tied. I go in, introduce myself to a family, and they ask me something about the patient, what were her lab results? Why is she going to the OR yet again? I can’t log myself into the system, and everyone is too busy for me to ask, so I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to read her charts yet. I want to be able to give this grandma an answer, tears are welling in her eyes as she strokes her granddaughter’s hand. “She just bin through so durn much. And thez doctors, they jes using her as a guinea pig. I know it. Thez jes stickin her and stickin her cuz they want to use her.” What this woman must have gone through thus far to make her feel this way. But I have nothing to say, other than that I will get her nurse for her and have her come and fill her in on the plan for the day. All I can offer her is a cup of water, but she turns it down. What good am I to her? Her granddaughter is lying in bed, sedated from pain meds, missing her senior year of high school because of her leukemia, and I offer her water. I can’t give her the information she needs, and I see the helplessness in her eyes. It strikes at my heart, but there is nothing I can do.
Maybe today was just a rough day, maybe I am just burned out, I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t lose focus, I need to stay focused. I went to Starbucks when it opened this morning, getting a large cup of coffee and just sitting there, letting the steam warm my face. I have never felt like this before; like a sled dog, getting ready to run the Iditarod, but constantly being held back. I am straining at the harness, anxious to start the race. And yet, paradoxically, I am tired and overwhelmed. I still haven’t found out my integration placement, and I am anxious to get planning for that. So many little things to do and get ready for and I can’t seem to muster the strength to do any of it.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Bikram Yuck-a?
I was really excited to try bikram yoga. Our friend John from Bible study had told us about it, and a sweet one-week deal this studio was running, so Kathleen and I, always up for an adventure, went for it. Ashley was full of misgivings..."I've done this before and it is so hot you want to die and it reeks!" "oh, Ash, it can't be that bad!" we naively responded.
We find the studio and walk up the stairs...and are nearly knocked over backwards by the incredible odor. There is no other way to describe it, other than that it smells like what dirty jockstraps and nasty socks would smell like if they were in a tight space together. I exaggerate not. It was exactly that bad. Our eyes meet in semi-desperation. "Okay. We can do this. We can do this. It can't be that bad in the studio."
Wrong. It was worse. We tried breathing through our mouths. Nope. The odor was so strong you could almost taste it. Now, I've smelled some funky stuff in my day, but nothing, nothing like this. And we'd be here for the next hour and a half---straight. Yikes.
As we were waiting for class to begin, we decided to entertain ourselves and stave off asphyxiation by smell of nasty socks so thick they were almost coalescing out of thin air. We briefly thought of recommending car air fresheners to hang around the room. Then genius struck us. I said to Kathleen, "What if, instead of making car air fresheners, we made car air deadeners? Like, air freshener shaped things that just smell horrific!" And we were off and running. I think we were supposed to be all Zen-like or something; I mean, there were skinny people around us standing on their heads and whatnot, but we were laughing so hard we were crying. Or maybe it was the sweat induced from the 130 degree room we were in. Whatever the case, we came up with a few scents that would be killer, perhaps literally:
1. Bikram Yoga
2. C. difficile
3. Rotten eggs
4. The 1 stop at 168th
5. The elevator to the 1 stop at 168th
6. Poop
7. Sour milk
8. Garbage cans in NYC in the summer
9.Dirty jockstraps
10. Men's locker rooms
11. Vomit
12. Bile
13. Toilets that haven't been flushed in a week
Here is a possible scenario in which using these car air deadeners would be ideal:
Mother says to daughter, "Honey, Mrs. Smith said that her son Buddy wants to go out on a date with you. I know that you don't like him very much, but Mrs. Smith is a close friend, so I want you to go."
Daughter: "Are you kidding me? Fine!"
Daughter goes off to room, upset. Then she realizes that she has a stash of well-wrapped (to keep the stench in) air deadeners in her closet for just such an occasion.
Flash forward to weekend. Because Buddy doesn't have a car, Daughter goes to pick him up. Before leaving, she hangs deadener #4 from rearview mirror, gags, and goes to pick up Buddy.
Buddy opens the door, and before getting in says: "Hi Daughter! Oh, I've wanted to date you forever. I'm so glad that you are going out with me!" As he slides into the car, the overwhelming odor hits him and he's gone.
"YEs!" says Daughter.
Just a hypothetical sitch. Anyway, yoga turned out to be great; I have never felt so awful during something and so great afterwards. I'm definitely going back; just need to jam wads of cotton up my nose first.
We find the studio and walk up the stairs...and are nearly knocked over backwards by the incredible odor. There is no other way to describe it, other than that it smells like what dirty jockstraps and nasty socks would smell like if they were in a tight space together. I exaggerate not. It was exactly that bad. Our eyes meet in semi-desperation. "Okay. We can do this. We can do this. It can't be that bad in the studio."
Wrong. It was worse. We tried breathing through our mouths. Nope. The odor was so strong you could almost taste it. Now, I've smelled some funky stuff in my day, but nothing, nothing like this. And we'd be here for the next hour and a half---straight. Yikes.
As we were waiting for class to begin, we decided to entertain ourselves and stave off asphyxiation by smell of nasty socks so thick they were almost coalescing out of thin air. We briefly thought of recommending car air fresheners to hang around the room. Then genius struck us. I said to Kathleen, "What if, instead of making car air fresheners, we made car air deadeners? Like, air freshener shaped things that just smell horrific!" And we were off and running. I think we were supposed to be all Zen-like or something; I mean, there were skinny people around us standing on their heads and whatnot, but we were laughing so hard we were crying. Or maybe it was the sweat induced from the 130 degree room we were in. Whatever the case, we came up with a few scents that would be killer, perhaps literally:
1. Bikram Yoga
2. C. difficile
3. Rotten eggs
4. The 1 stop at 168th
5. The elevator to the 1 stop at 168th
6. Poop
7. Sour milk
8. Garbage cans in NYC in the summer
9.Dirty jockstraps
10. Men's locker rooms
11. Vomit
12. Bile
13. Toilets that haven't been flushed in a week
Here is a possible scenario in which using these car air deadeners would be ideal:
Mother says to daughter, "Honey, Mrs. Smith said that her son Buddy wants to go out on a date with you. I know that you don't like him very much, but Mrs. Smith is a close friend, so I want you to go."
Daughter: "Are you kidding me? Fine!"
Daughter goes off to room, upset. Then she realizes that she has a stash of well-wrapped (to keep the stench in) air deadeners in her closet for just such an occasion.
Flash forward to weekend. Because Buddy doesn't have a car, Daughter goes to pick him up. Before leaving, she hangs deadener #4 from rearview mirror, gags, and goes to pick up Buddy.
Buddy opens the door, and before getting in says: "Hi Daughter! Oh, I've wanted to date you forever. I'm so glad that you are going out with me!" As he slides into the car, the overwhelming odor hits him and he's gone.
"YEs!" says Daughter.
Just a hypothetical sitch. Anyway, yoga turned out to be great; I have never felt so awful during something and so great afterwards. I'm definitely going back; just need to jam wads of cotton up my nose first.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Stuff White People Like
At first blush, this might seem racist or irreverent, but it is actually tongue-in-cheek funny...I'm pretty sure they have a 'stuff black people like' and 'stuff asian people like' blog too...
http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/
yup, here it is:
http://blog.stuffblackpeoplelove.com/
http://www.asian-central.com/stuffasianpeoplelike/
The really funny thing is that it's true. Well, the white people blog is. I haven't checked out the other two yet. But pretty funny how true it is.
http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/
yup, here it is:
http://blog.stuffblackpeoplelove.com/
http://www.asian-central.com/stuffasianpeoplelike/
The really funny thing is that it's true. Well, the white people blog is. I haven't checked out the other two yet. But pretty funny how true it is.
I Just Don't Know
It's almost March, and I am so ready for spring. I never thought that I suffered from seasonal affective disorder, but now I am starting to wonder. I was always the girl who relished a gray, rainy day; what could be more perfect than curling up with a good book (usually Pride and Prejudice or Jane Eyre--perfect rainy-day books) and a cup of fragrant tea and a snuggly blanket while listening to the rain beat comfortingly against the window pane? Now, though, it seems like after months of cold and dreariness, peppered only infrequently with sunshine, I am ready to chuck it all and move to an island somewhere. Sipping mojitos on the beach, windsurfing, maybe even throwing in a good old-fashioned swim with the dolphins, sounds like bliss to me at this point.
These past few weeks have been pretty rough. I had to say goodbye (in some respects) to someone that I still care very deeply for, and it wasn't the easiest thing in the world to do. The right thing, but by no accounts easy. Even still, I get teary-eyed thinking about it. But time heals, and although it's only been two weeks, this is week is better than last, and I'm confident that next will be even better than this. The dreary weather certainly doesn't help, though. How easy it is to pull my comforter over my head and say, "Nope. I don't feel like dealing with the world today. I'm staying right here." Easy, but not practical, nor really, even possible. I have responsibilities, I have school to go to, I have things to do and plans to keep. But sometimes, "Oh, that I were a bird, that I could fly far far away from here." I don't know who said that, but man, do I resonate with that.
I have been blessed with so much, it would be impossible to list it all; most importantly, though, is what Christ did on the cross, and throughout His whole life, and even still, for me. That is my anchor, that is my peace. When the waves of tyranny reek havoc in my heart, He is the One Who says, "Peace, be still." The Bible says that God collects our tears in a bottle. He must have a whole universe full of tears for all of the people across time and all of the tears that they've shed for the small to big heartaches in their lives.
I wonder what He does with them all? And why is He keeping them? Maybe He said it to show us that even one heart's sorrow doesn't go unnoticed. Just as He knows every hair on our heads, every breath we take, every thought in our minds, and every intention of the heart, He cares so intimately for us that He collects each droplet that drips from our cheeks. Oh, to feel that love, for one instant. I did, a few years ago, well, maybe more like seven, now. I was reading John 17, where it says that God loves us as He loves Christ. It broke over me in waves how much He loves me. I still remember it vividly; I remember exactly where I was sitting in my apartment, exactly what the lighting in the room was like, and a prayer that I had prayed earlier. I had said, "God, I need to know that You are real. I need to know that You love me like this Book says You do. I'm having a really tough time believing it. Please, please, help me." I was going through some pretty rough stuff in my life at this point, and so that God answered this prayer was HUGE for me. I was on the couch, reading that passage, and all of a sudden it hit me like Mike Tyson going for the KO; I am loved by the Creator of all things. How is this possible, when He sees all of me, all of the bad intentions mixed with the good, all of the misdeeds, everything that is foul about me, along with everything that is fair? How can He love such a mixed bag of tricks as I? And it was like He whispered, no joke, "I love you for you. I love you as I love My only Son. And He loves you so much that He died to reconcile us, and to give you life." It makes me so mad and really, grieves my heart tremendously when I see the way that God and His word is treated by the world; and I don't excuse myself from this, either. Keller today talked about Romans 2 and how we can go a few ways. 1)narcissism: I'm okay, you're okay, we're all just fine. No problems anywhere. Relativism. Whatever works for you, great. Whatever works for me, great. 2)moralism: I'm okay, you're dead wrong. The type of thinking that led to concentration camps and genocide. 3)masochism: I suck, you're okay. Devaluing ourselves when God has said that we are all precious and priceless. The fourth option is what it should be: I'm not okay, you're not okay, but Christ has come to make it okay, in our souls, now, and eventually, when He comes again, for eternity. We love to interpret the Ten Commandments as "Do this, don't do this. Toe the line or go to hell." But in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus shows that it isn't what we do or don't do; it's the heart attitude. "You have heard it said, 'Do not murder'. But I tell you, that whenever any one of you says 'Raca' in his heart(raca meant 'worthless') you have committed murder already." As per usual for Jesus, He took popular opinion, popular interpretation, and put it on its head. Murder is the tree that grows from a seed of hatred, pride, jealousy, any other heart cancer. So really, it isn't the behavior that needs be dealt with, initially. It is the heart. And that's even harder. But that's what He did.
I majorly digressed; this started out about my self-diagnosed seasonal affective disorder and turned into a sermon recap. But anyway, maybe it is all related. I am a woman, perhaps that makes me always dealing with and living out of things of the heart; but it seems to me, that that is where life is. The Bible says, "Guard your heart, for out of it comes the well-spring of life." For the longest time, I interpreted that to mean, 'don't get too close to anyone (especially men). Don't love too fully or too openly because you'll be way hurt and your well-spring, your energy to live and love and do, will be broken.' Now I see it differently. I see it as an imploring by God to love. I will love, even if it hurts, even if it is not ever returned. I will love by doing what is best for the other person, even if it will cost me something. I will stay open to love, not shutting down for fear of pain, but opening up to share what I've been given, to accept and move through pain if it comes, and to grow from it as I move through it. A friend said to me last week, "You know, Stef, I'm so sorry for your pain right now. But I know, with all my heart, that it will serve to make you a more tender and stronger and a better person than you are right now." May that be true, O Lord, and may it be for Your glory. May I guard my heart in such a way that I am never afraid to love, but only afraid of what it means to not love. May I guard my heart in such a way as to be able to give freely of it to those around me and pour out the blessings I have been abundantly given onto others. May my heart be a blessing, even if that means pain for me sometimes. Jesus was the ultimate best at everything; He guarded His heart like a pro. And yet He suffered the ultimate at the hands of those He loved with a love eternal. It is inexplicable, yet true. May He teach me how to love people like that, in that way.
These past few weeks have been pretty rough. I had to say goodbye (in some respects) to someone that I still care very deeply for, and it wasn't the easiest thing in the world to do. The right thing, but by no accounts easy. Even still, I get teary-eyed thinking about it. But time heals, and although it's only been two weeks, this is week is better than last, and I'm confident that next will be even better than this. The dreary weather certainly doesn't help, though. How easy it is to pull my comforter over my head and say, "Nope. I don't feel like dealing with the world today. I'm staying right here." Easy, but not practical, nor really, even possible. I have responsibilities, I have school to go to, I have things to do and plans to keep. But sometimes, "Oh, that I were a bird, that I could fly far far away from here." I don't know who said that, but man, do I resonate with that.
I have been blessed with so much, it would be impossible to list it all; most importantly, though, is what Christ did on the cross, and throughout His whole life, and even still, for me. That is my anchor, that is my peace. When the waves of tyranny reek havoc in my heart, He is the One Who says, "Peace, be still." The Bible says that God collects our tears in a bottle. He must have a whole universe full of tears for all of the people across time and all of the tears that they've shed for the small to big heartaches in their lives.
I wonder what He does with them all? And why is He keeping them? Maybe He said it to show us that even one heart's sorrow doesn't go unnoticed. Just as He knows every hair on our heads, every breath we take, every thought in our minds, and every intention of the heart, He cares so intimately for us that He collects each droplet that drips from our cheeks. Oh, to feel that love, for one instant. I did, a few years ago, well, maybe more like seven, now. I was reading John 17, where it says that God loves us as He loves Christ. It broke over me in waves how much He loves me. I still remember it vividly; I remember exactly where I was sitting in my apartment, exactly what the lighting in the room was like, and a prayer that I had prayed earlier. I had said, "God, I need to know that You are real. I need to know that You love me like this Book says You do. I'm having a really tough time believing it. Please, please, help me." I was going through some pretty rough stuff in my life at this point, and so that God answered this prayer was HUGE for me. I was on the couch, reading that passage, and all of a sudden it hit me like Mike Tyson going for the KO; I am loved by the Creator of all things. How is this possible, when He sees all of me, all of the bad intentions mixed with the good, all of the misdeeds, everything that is foul about me, along with everything that is fair? How can He love such a mixed bag of tricks as I? And it was like He whispered, no joke, "I love you for you. I love you as I love My only Son. And He loves you so much that He died to reconcile us, and to give you life." It makes me so mad and really, grieves my heart tremendously when I see the way that God and His word is treated by the world; and I don't excuse myself from this, either. Keller today talked about Romans 2 and how we can go a few ways. 1)narcissism: I'm okay, you're okay, we're all just fine. No problems anywhere. Relativism. Whatever works for you, great. Whatever works for me, great. 2)moralism: I'm okay, you're dead wrong. The type of thinking that led to concentration camps and genocide. 3)masochism: I suck, you're okay. Devaluing ourselves when God has said that we are all precious and priceless. The fourth option is what it should be: I'm not okay, you're not okay, but Christ has come to make it okay, in our souls, now, and eventually, when He comes again, for eternity. We love to interpret the Ten Commandments as "Do this, don't do this. Toe the line or go to hell." But in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus shows that it isn't what we do or don't do; it's the heart attitude. "You have heard it said, 'Do not murder'. But I tell you, that whenever any one of you says 'Raca' in his heart(raca meant 'worthless') you have committed murder already." As per usual for Jesus, He took popular opinion, popular interpretation, and put it on its head. Murder is the tree that grows from a seed of hatred, pride, jealousy, any other heart cancer. So really, it isn't the behavior that needs be dealt with, initially. It is the heart. And that's even harder. But that's what He did.
I majorly digressed; this started out about my self-diagnosed seasonal affective disorder and turned into a sermon recap. But anyway, maybe it is all related. I am a woman, perhaps that makes me always dealing with and living out of things of the heart; but it seems to me, that that is where life is. The Bible says, "Guard your heart, for out of it comes the well-spring of life." For the longest time, I interpreted that to mean, 'don't get too close to anyone (especially men). Don't love too fully or too openly because you'll be way hurt and your well-spring, your energy to live and love and do, will be broken.' Now I see it differently. I see it as an imploring by God to love. I will love, even if it hurts, even if it is not ever returned. I will love by doing what is best for the other person, even if it will cost me something. I will stay open to love, not shutting down for fear of pain, but opening up to share what I've been given, to accept and move through pain if it comes, and to grow from it as I move through it. A friend said to me last week, "You know, Stef, I'm so sorry for your pain right now. But I know, with all my heart, that it will serve to make you a more tender and stronger and a better person than you are right now." May that be true, O Lord, and may it be for Your glory. May I guard my heart in such a way that I am never afraid to love, but only afraid of what it means to not love. May I guard my heart in such a way as to be able to give freely of it to those around me and pour out the blessings I have been abundantly given onto others. May my heart be a blessing, even if that means pain for me sometimes. Jesus was the ultimate best at everything; He guarded His heart like a pro. And yet He suffered the ultimate at the hands of those He loved with a love eternal. It is inexplicable, yet true. May He teach me how to love people like that, in that way.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Little Heroes
He toddled toward me on somewhat unsteady legs, his daddy walking by his side with the IV pole. He had a little mask with teddy bears on it, and was carrying a book that looked a little above his reading level—it had a picture of Chevy Chase and a dog on it. I could tell, in spite of the mask, that he had Downs Syndrome, but I wasn’t sure what he was in the hospital for. As he approached, I crouched down to greet him, and his little legs carried him quickly to my side. “Hi buddy! What’ve you got there?” His eyes smiled a hello, and he said something in baby talk as he held out the book to me. “Hmm…Chevy Chase! He’s a pretty funny guy. Do you like this book?” He babbled something else, clearly wanting to have a conversation, but not yet able to form words. He couldn’t have been older than two, and my arms ached to sweep him up in a big bear hug. As we ‘talked’, his dad was standing there, smiling and laughing at his son’s attempt at grown-up talk. As per usual for these little explorers, something else quickly caught his attention, and he was off. His dad said to him, “Did you say good-bye?” and the little man turned around and opened and closed his hand a few times in a little-kid wave. I waved good-bye and watched this brave little guy amble around the corner, onto new adventures.
It is the first week of my pediatric rotation, and I am in love. It is SO GREAT to be back with the younguns. After two and a half years of working at Children’s in St.Paul, it felt like coming home to be back with the children. I am continuously in awe of these little heroes. Rach and I cared for a little girl who has acute lymphocytic leukemia, a very common childhood disease. Common but awful. But I have never seen such a brighter ray of sunshine than this eleven-year-old. She was losing hair, and had been in the hospital for months, and now was anemic as well. And when we talked to her, one would think that she was at the mall or on the beach. Such a cheerful disposition and positive attitude. She was explaining acupuncture to me; she got it to help with her appetite. I’ve never had it, and asked her what it felt like, and she put one finger on her forearm and tapped it a few times. “Go like this,” she said. “It feels just like this. It doesn’t hurt at all!” As I tapped my arm in imitation, she smiled her appreciation and approval.
The little boy next to her was in getting radiation and chemotherapy for a medullary tumor. He was eight. And unbelievably adorable. When the NP was speaking to his parents about his current treatment, Rach and I were playing ‘catch’ with him. He would take his super-hero action figure and shoot a little rocket thing from it, and we’d try to catch it. Rachel was much better than me; I was pretty pathetic at it. But he was having a good time and laughing, and actually speaking a bit. With his cancer, post-op mutism is apparently pretty common, so to hear him speak was a pretty big deal. His folks were funny, earlier teasing him, “Gosh, kiddo, don’t talk so much! We can’t hear the doctors!” He hadn’t said anything at all at this point, but appreciated their humor and smiled at them.
There are so many cases like this, and the most amazing thing is the atmosphere here. One would think that this would be the most depressing place in the world, and I’m sure for the families, it probably is. But you wouldn’t know it to look at the kids. They are sick and missing school and a normal childhood. And they are all smiles and hugs and sunshine and kisses. Truly little heroes.
I am so looking forward to going back on Wednesday. I can’t wait to see them all and love on them and, I know, learn so very much from them. How much they have to teach us all about facing the obstacles in life with bravery and strength. And when they don’t feel strong, they reach down deep and discover a strength that maybe they didn’t even know was there. I love their humor, their indomitable spirits, their unbelievable fortitude. I am in awe.
As I walk through the unit, taking in the bright colors and stories written on the walls, looking in the rooms at a dozen different dramas being silently played out in the hearts and souls of the patients and their families, I wonder what the future holds for these tiny warriors. I pray for the families and their dear children, my soul aching for them and their agony over what they must suffer. To be a nurse here is more than just dispensing meds and bandaging physical wounds; it is a ministry, a service. It is an awesome privilege to be here.
It is the first week of my pediatric rotation, and I am in love. It is SO GREAT to be back with the younguns. After two and a half years of working at Children’s in St.Paul, it felt like coming home to be back with the children. I am continuously in awe of these little heroes. Rach and I cared for a little girl who has acute lymphocytic leukemia, a very common childhood disease. Common but awful. But I have never seen such a brighter ray of sunshine than this eleven-year-old. She was losing hair, and had been in the hospital for months, and now was anemic as well. And when we talked to her, one would think that she was at the mall or on the beach. Such a cheerful disposition and positive attitude. She was explaining acupuncture to me; she got it to help with her appetite. I’ve never had it, and asked her what it felt like, and she put one finger on her forearm and tapped it a few times. “Go like this,” she said. “It feels just like this. It doesn’t hurt at all!” As I tapped my arm in imitation, she smiled her appreciation and approval.
The little boy next to her was in getting radiation and chemotherapy for a medullary tumor. He was eight. And unbelievably adorable. When the NP was speaking to his parents about his current treatment, Rach and I were playing ‘catch’ with him. He would take his super-hero action figure and shoot a little rocket thing from it, and we’d try to catch it. Rachel was much better than me; I was pretty pathetic at it. But he was having a good time and laughing, and actually speaking a bit. With his cancer, post-op mutism is apparently pretty common, so to hear him speak was a pretty big deal. His folks were funny, earlier teasing him, “Gosh, kiddo, don’t talk so much! We can’t hear the doctors!” He hadn’t said anything at all at this point, but appreciated their humor and smiled at them.
There are so many cases like this, and the most amazing thing is the atmosphere here. One would think that this would be the most depressing place in the world, and I’m sure for the families, it probably is. But you wouldn’t know it to look at the kids. They are sick and missing school and a normal childhood. And they are all smiles and hugs and sunshine and kisses. Truly little heroes.
I am so looking forward to going back on Wednesday. I can’t wait to see them all and love on them and, I know, learn so very much from them. How much they have to teach us all about facing the obstacles in life with bravery and strength. And when they don’t feel strong, they reach down deep and discover a strength that maybe they didn’t even know was there. I love their humor, their indomitable spirits, their unbelievable fortitude. I am in awe.
As I walk through the unit, taking in the bright colors and stories written on the walls, looking in the rooms at a dozen different dramas being silently played out in the hearts and souls of the patients and their families, I wonder what the future holds for these tiny warriors. I pray for the families and their dear children, my soul aching for them and their agony over what they must suffer. To be a nurse here is more than just dispensing meds and bandaging physical wounds; it is a ministry, a service. It is an awesome privilege to be here.
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