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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!