Still, Small Voice

Last night I stayed with my cousin at my aunt and uncle's house, who were both out of town. 16-year-old Maggie and I caught up on my aunt and uncle's bed; then she went off to start her homework at 10pm, and I snuggled under the covers for sleeping.

Normally, in my basement apartment, I don't get to hear the sound of rain on the roof. Last night however, that rhythmic hum was what put me to sleep. This morning, likewise, the pounding of the rain was what pulled me out of dreams (incidentally, a very nice one about a hunky South-American man named Eduardo), and into waking.

It is so hard to get up when it is still dark, and the covers are heavy and warm, and you can hear the sound of driving rain against the windows.

Later that morning I got back under the covers, propped up against pillows, with a mug of hot coffee to pray.

As I ran through thanks and requests, I thought of the time. Was I going to be late? How do I get to school from here? What do I still need to do? What about [this person]? What about [this person]? What about my future, God? How long, God?

And suddenly, there it was--

Some people call this a storm.
I say, I'm preparing good things.

I paused. But Lord, I thought... Is so MUCH rain necessary? It's supposed to rain all week.

Sometimes that's what it takes.

(And then, after feeling anxious--)

Just listen to the sound of the rain.

So I listened to that darkling music; that rhythmic drumming; the rush of the gusting wind; the taps of branches against the window.

I thought to myself: enjoy THIS moment for what it offers.

Rest in me.

There Were Ducks.

Lately, I've been trying to make a point to pray in the morning. When I was feeling super stressed out over how much I had to do a couple weeks ago, I remember somehow feeling like I got the message, "If you give me time, I'll give you time." I don't believe God works like a juke box-- "you do this, I'll do that"-- but I DO think that He has a cool way of helping us out when we say, "Ack, you do it!" rather than looking at our To-Do list and bursting into tears.

This morning I forgot though. I procrastinated and did other things.

I finally left for my study cafe, feeling guilty about my late start, but then remembered the not praying. "Whoops," I thought. Split-second debate: could I manage just throwing up the prayer on my drive to the cafe? The answer came immediately. (Nope.) I turned the wheel to head down to the park on the lake.

When walking to the dock, I saw black-berries and I ate some.

I chose a dock that was pierced four times by tall metal mooring pillars. I walked to the last pillar and leaned against it, looking out over gray lake, reflecting the dark sky. The mooring pillar rocked with the pull of the water underneath, and I booped and bopped along with it.

Started breathing.

A duck hopped up on the dock and wandered over to me. It pecked my red cowboy boot, which made me grin. Another one hopped up on the dock-- an ugly duck whose feathers had somehow turned a mottled white. I thought of people whose hair turns white because of a traumatic experience, and I wondered if the duck had been traumatized, and I thought, "That is a poor duck." Then one more hopped up: by far the prettiest, and she seemed rather satisfied with herself. They strutted around me, the ugly one quacking in conversational bursts. I looked at their lone purple feathers underneath the brown. Why is it ducks should have that one jewel-colored feather? It is such a surprise-feather. They stretched their wings and their feet and shook their heads, and looked like they were impromptu yoga-ing.

And I liked all that.

And I prayed, and it made my heart feel full, and it made things just right.

Now I am at my cafe-- still not working-- but I will. And the barista made a picture in my latte and the picture was a feather.

And my heart feels full, and things feel just right.

Breathing

Last year, when I was studying for some of the horrendous tests that you have to take to get into grad school, I stressed out to a boy.
"I don't know how I'm going to pass this."
"You'll pass it."
"But what if I don't??"
"You'll pass it."
"But what if I DON'T?"
"Do you believe God wants you to be a teacher?"
"Yes."
"Then don't worry about it. He'll make you a teacher."

I thought my would-be advisor was awfully patronizing at the time, but the more I think about those words, the more reassuring I find them to be.

I have been stressing out ALL DAY LONG about getting a job for next year. I know of at least three districts in Seattle that are in hiring freezes-- in fact, I don't know if I know of a district that is NOT in a hiring freeze. MY school is being shut down, so all of the teachers are scrambling like rats on a sinking ship. Everyone's losing their jobs. Everyone's panicked. Everyone is freaked out.

I woke up feeling terrible, so I called in sick and just worked on my resume all day long. I've been to two resume workshops in the last couple weeks. Each one has said things like, "You need to do THIS, but you CANNOT do this, and you should definitely feature this, but by no means do THIS!" And so I've been working on my resume, but each little thing feels like a wire connected to a bomb-- it's taken on THAT much dire significance. Finally I called SPU and asked someone at the career center to take a look at what I had. They sent it back-- the version that I'd been working on all day-- with tons of suggestions for how to improve it.

Then I called my mom and cried.

Anxiety is not a new experience. Starting last year, on the morning that I took the GRE, anxiety has batted me around every once in a while like a cat toying with a mouse. Earlier this year, at one of my counseling appointments, I talked about how frustrating it was to feel so imprisoned by WORRY. We discussed a couple sides of it, and finally we just prayed and decided to see if God had anything to say.

I got a picture in my head, of me, barefoot, in a field that was dotted with wildflowers and bordered by some trees in the distance. There was a breeze, but it was warm. My hair was down, and I had on a linen dress with a skirt that was full enough to catch the wind and move around my legs. There was a full length mirror in front of me, situated in the long grass-- one of those old fashioned oval ones, that stands up on big wooden legs. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Wind-blown. Barefoot. Open. Light.

I heard: "THIS is you. You're meant for freedom."

Big deep breath in. But then came a flood of questions and doubts and worries, and "What if's???" and I asked the speaker in my dream, "But whatif, whatif, whatif??"

And I heard: "None of those matter in deciding where you go next. I am the one who chooses where you go next. And I have a good next step for you."

Then, something in that girl in the field rose up and floated like a kite over the trees, bobbing and dancing in the wind.

I heard, "THIS is you. You're meant for freedom. That's the sort of spirit I've given you."

... So now, after a day of stressing out, and feeling panicked, and feeling insecure, and feeling unsure, and feeling terrified by this economy, I come back to the simplicity of that question:

"Do you believe God wants you to be a teacher?"
"Yes."
"Then don't worry about it. He'll make you a teacher."

Resting in that this evening.

The Disentangling

Taught all day today and feel a bit knackered. I'm supposed to be responding to my grad school classmates in an online discussion right now, but I need to hit the refresh button on my brain first.

Therefore:

Blogging.

(When I first wrote 'blogging,' I wrote 'boggling' which would not be an inaccurate description of current self.)

Last week, I snapped at this boy named Dylan. Dylan is one of a few students that I think of as "peeing puppy dogs." They're totally adorable, but totally frustrating-- never getting their work in, making low efforts when they do, and plus, they lie all the time or tell stories to get out of stuff. Think of a little brown-eyed pup grinning up at you with this disarming expression... while pissing all over your new carpet.
"Dylan, what is this?"
"My in-class essay."
"Yeah... but... you wrote a paragraph."
(Shrugs and grins.)
"And you brought it in 10 minutes early. You could have spent 10 more minutes on this. You know that we're looking for like five paragraphs, right?"
"I guess." (Grins.)
"Dylan, this is lame."
(Laughs sheepishly and shrugs.)
"You can do so much better than this. This is seriously lame."
"Sorry..." (Grin.)
I heaved an angry sigh, and threw down his paper on the table. "Go sit down."
And he shuffled off to his desk.

I immediately felt guilty. Why didn't I leave it on an inspirational note? Is he really going to try harder if I just tell him he's lame?

After class I tried again.
"Dylan. I don't want to just leave this by telling you you're lame. I think what you DID on that test is lame, because I know you can do better than that. Viola and I can't help you get better if you don't try. It's like basketball practice. If you show up and just sit on the bench, we're never going to be able to give you helpful pointers to improve your game. You HAVE to try. I really believe you can do better than this, and we can HELP you be a better writer if you GIVE that to us. Okay?"
He grinned shyly. "Okay." Then he paused. "Um... Greta? Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure," I said, smiling. Finally. He gets it. This is one of those great moments.
But he burst my bubble. "How are your FEET so small?" he said, wrinkling his nose, and grinning.

ARGH. Today he wasn't even trying to be cute: he was just contrary and apathetic and rude. I thought to myself, "You're not even the peeing puppy today. You're diarrhea puppy." So I put him outside. When I went out in the hall to talk to him later on, he told me that there was, "a lot of drama going on, and he was just sick of it." I told him that I understood drama could make things frustrating, and that I would try to go easy on him-- but that he needed to meet me halfway. Who even knows if he was telling the truth. I know he doesn't have it easy. But does he have it as hard as he'd like me to think?

When I drove home today, I felt tired. It had just been a long day. I still feel tired.

Two songs came on the radio. First, "Washed by the Water," by Needtobreathe. Second, "Revelation," by Third Day. Both songs that had gone on my "New 2" playlist, which had been created during a very stressful time of life.

I remembered a picture I'd gotten in my head once, during that time. In my head, I pictured myself on a dark beach, sitting on packed sand with my knees clutched to my chest. On the shoreline in front of me, I saw endless piles of garbage. The sky over the ocean was dark grey and stormy-- but beneath that sky, there hovered a large, bluish spirit. She guided the waves in and out, to the rhythm of my breathing. In, and they washed up over the garbage, stopping just short of my toes. Out, and they took some of the garbage with them-- pulling cans and old plastic wrappers away to hide forever in the ocean's secret deep. She continued to guide the waves: in, and out. In and out. And piece by piece, the shoreline began to clear.

Then I pictured someone close to me-- someone that I've been worried about. It was Christmas morning in this picture, but this person wasn't celebrating. She was wrapped in string-- tangled up in so many strings, and each one was a spot of pitch from her past experiences, her burdened living that wouldn't let her go. One was her relationship with her dad-- and there were memory strings and conversation strings and disappointment strings knotted with just that one. One was her negative body image, and knotted there were magazine strings, and media strings, and comment strings, and mirror strings, and cruel self-thought strings. There were strings of financial stress, and strings of worldly expectations, and strings of an unknown fearsome future-- there were so MANY. So many: so so many. And she was so tangled.

But God was in the room-- it was Jesus this morning, but He wasn't His Christmas-baby self. He was a grown up, wearing khaki pants, and a brown sweater vest with a brown tie, and he had his sleeves rolled up. I don't know about His face, but it was a soft expression. And when He focused on the strings, they began to snap-- one, by one, by one. And she slowly gained movement. The strings began to untangle, and she became more and more free.

And then the picture went back to the beach. But this time, the sky was clear and blue. There was no storm; only a soft breeze. I was on my feet, in a white dress, and my head was up, and my shoulders were back. The beach was clear: it was only soft bleached sand for as far as I could see. I began walking along the beach, feeling that breeze whisper around my neck and through my hair, and I felt such a deep peace, and such a pure joy, and such a real freedom. And though I didn't see Him yet, I knew that God was walking towards me.

And I thought, "In the end-- it's just Him. We begin as free souls-- and we end as free souls. We become so burdened in the meantime. But He frees us from the garbage-- He frees us from the tangling. In the end it's all clear-- it's just that long, white beach."

Since then, when feeling overwhelmed or stressed, I picture those waves coming in over that litter-ridden shore, and pulling it out, bit by bit. And I breathe to the rhythm of the waves in my mind. Today, when driving home, I pictured Dylan. And I pictured him all tangled up. And I thought, "They ARE all tangled up-- every one of them. They're so burdened and tangled and confined." I thought of Isaac, and Andre, and K, and all the kids I've mentioned over the last six months, and all the tough things I've discovered that they face every day.

Maybe my mission as a teacher is simply to help them with the disentangling. I know I can't articulate that in words like Jesus, or God-- at least not in public schools-- but I can articulate it through kindness, and encouragement, and belief, and respect-- even in ceaseless beleaguering. I can articulate it with words like Hope, and Freedom, and Peace, and Future. I can try to show them love that looks like a cleansing wave, or a snapped string, or a long white beach.

Down Deep

A disclaimer: to those of you who have become accustomed to Lavied’unefille providing breezy, chipper tales of far off yonders… Beware the blog below. It is not that. Promise: a return to the humorous after this one, as there are more traveling tales to tell, and some quite entertaining. But not tonight.


Last year, when I was studying for the exam that would supposedly prove my mettle as a potential English teacher, I pillaged online Sparks Notes for summaries of classic novels that I had yet to read. The title of one such novel was, “Things Fall Apart.” I don’t remember anything else about the novel except that it had something to do with Africa. The title, however, has remained in my memory.

Things fall apart. The phrase came to mind aplenty while traveling: We’re lost; we don’t know where we’re staying; we don’t know how to get there; we can’t find gelato. Things fall apart.

The phrase has come to mind, in greater fist-clenching resonance, since being home.

I think of Einstein’s theory of thermodynamics—isn’t that the one? Where he claims that everything progresses toward chaos? Not toward greater order and harmony—but rather toward discord. Toward pieces. I think of the Garden wilting into Desert, our once pristine ozone becoming cluttered and choked. I think of glittering empty space filling with debris, I think of a Pangea being ripped and torn into seven lonely parts. I think of Native American chiefs becoming casino owners, I think of faith disappointed and questioned, I think of glaciers breaking, of stars dying, of leaves separating from their maternal branches and falling to frosted ground.

Things fall apart.

I think of this. I think of the crushing situation that Heidi and I’ve returned to which I’ve yet to specify on this public blog. Is that irksome? It must be; I apologize for the cryptic scenery. But: I don’t want to specify it yet on this public blog. It looks like a severed smoking tree, split down the middle, lightening still buzzing on the ground. That’s about what we’re dealing with. Except with people.

Is this growing up? The dealing with the falling apart of things, important things, is this maturity? Today I pictured myself as a well, being carved with great cuts deeper into the earth--- more room for depth of sorrows, and simultaneous heights of joy. As a child, maybe I just had room for trinkets. Now, I’m afraid there’s room for dying stars to find a grave in, and it seems so devastatingly adult to consider what souls must expand for. It makes me feel alone.

---------

There’s a Psalm that’s been going through my head as I’ve been wading through this; it’s one that Annie happened to offer up independently to me too, for comfort. The first time I ever read Psalm 46, I pictured some apocalyptic movie with a young preacher dude as a hero. I pictured him rising up above the rubble, gripping the hands of those less steady even as the winds roared around him and fiery wreckage fell from the sky. This is the battle cry he yells in the midst of it all:

God is our refuge—an ever-present help in times of trouble! Therefore we will NOT fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea—though its waters roar and foam, and the mountains quake with their surging…! Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall—He lifts His voice—the earth MELTS…! Be still—be still— and KNOW that He is God!

I love that the “Be still” command comes within chaos. As these things are crumbling, as my soul’s well must deepen to accommodate further grief and surprise, I am told to rest, to be still, to trust, and to wait. My foremost prayer through all of this has been, simply “Oomph.” The image in my head is just the lifting up of a BIG big weight, and asking that it be taken from me. Be still. As things fall apart, be still, and be rescued.

Deep calls to deep 

In the roar of your waterfalls; 

all your waves and breakers 

have swept over me.
By day the LORD directs his love, 

at night his song is with me— 

a prayer to the God of my life.
Why are you downcast, O my soul? 

Why so disturbed within me? 

Put your hope in God, 

for I will yet praise him, 

Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him.
My Savior and my God.

Things fall apart.

I hope to be rescued.