Reflections: A Year of (insert word here)

Ah, yes. The close of a year. This is possibly my favorite time of year. It's a time that forces everyone to suddenly slow, reflect, think, ponder. And for someone who loves to do so, it is a welcome halt to the bustle of life.

My favorite way of reflecting is to look back... ponder the things that happened, the mistakes I made, the lessons I learned, the new things, the surprising things, the painful things, the beautiful things. I write them down so that I remember. But usually if they make the list, they're things I won't easily forget.

Only after I have looked back am I able to move forward, to think about the future: my hopes, dreams, goals, and possible resolutions.

Usually it's hard to sum up the year in one word, but this year it came easier. A year of wrestling. A year of inconsistency. Of fickleness. They aren't pretty words. They aren't what I wish. They aren't the words I had imagined as I stood in front of the TV watching the ball drop, breathing in the refreshment of 2011. But yet, they linger... and weigh me down. And then suddenly.... a new word. A new word replaces all the rest. PEACE. That is what this year has really been about. It has been about my constant search for peace. After all, the feeling of wrestling is a sense of restlessness... of war. turmoil. Peace is not turbulent. It is not inconsistent. It is steadfast. And until I learn to surrender to the Prince of Peace, this turbulence will continue. But slowly I am learning. And here, as the last days of December ebb away, peace comes. I never really summoned it. I had forgotten I had even lost it. But a reminder... and suddenly I realize that that is what I have been longing for... And though it would sneak its way in between rounds of the wrestling match, I would always forget. Or push it away... because I was so intent on winning. But I was wrestling One who is much stronger. Who I will never beat. And as long as I continue wrestling, I will be exhausted. Fickle. Inconsistent. Only when I surrender will I have peace.

The words I instinctively gave to this year melt away in light of the new word peace. Because thankfully, this year isn't about me. It isn't about my shortcomings... or my victories. It is about my great God who gracefully uses my weaknesses to turn them into strengths. His power is made perfect in weakness.

Usually I make lots of resolutions. Perhaps I don't call them that, because that may be too formal. Perhaps I call them "goals," "hopes," "aims" or whatever else. But usually they end in disappointment... As an idealist/perfectionist when I see my big dreams vanish before my eyes by the beginning of the third week in January (if I get that far), it becomes too painful to keep hoping, resolving, and being disappointed. I've come to terms with the fact that 2012 won't be a year without mistakes. Without huge failures. Without disappointments. It won't be the year where I kick all my bad habits. Memorize a ton of scripture. Become perfect. It sure would be nice... but let's be realistic. 2012 doesn't have any more magic in it than 2011 did.

I'm not saying I expect nothing from 2012. Absolutely not.

I hope to live this year deliberately. With meaning... living each day with purpose. I hope that this year I will grow. That I will become more loving. More willing to serve others. More humble. More like my Savior.

Peace

My family is small. But we are loud. When we talk on the phone, we yell as if our voices had to cross the ocean. When someone begins to talk, and we have something more pertinent to say, we talk louder and louder and LOUDER. Until we crescendo into shouting. We argue about the best food. We debate about what "blueberry" is in Hungarian.

My immediate family does not necessarily live life in such a high decibel. We might occasionally yell out of frustration. But me: I rarely do. In fact, the louder I talk, the less sense I make, so I have learned to shut up. Or at least mutter when I'm really mad.

This house is open. Every room opens to the next, and the rooms are big with high ceilings that carry sound quickly into all the rooms in the house. Even as I sit writing, I can hear the conversation clearly from across the house. Not even the bathroom is entirely private.

For an introvert who loves people, I enjoy the openness; the loudness is a nice change of pace. But there are days when I'm just ready to escape completely. In the summer I can run outside and sit on the porch steps. But now, in the bleakness of winter... I have no quiet place. Though I love people, I need quiet in order to process. In order to ponder, to resolve, to pray. And for someone who operates off of reflection (meaning reflection is a springboard for action), this can become a draining environment for me.

Yesterday, there was only a drop of extrovertedness left in me, and it threatened to drip and leave me dry and enraged at every little thing. My peace was robbed. My joy was gone.

And then. A timely sermon. Peace. What does it look like to have peace?

It doesn't mean the shouting around you stops. It doesn't mean the chaos slows. It doesn't mean that suddenly everyone has the same mindset.

It means that deep inside I don't feel the urge to snap at everyone. To throw oranges at people that frustrate me. It means I breathe.... inhale instead of exhale grumpy, evil words.

It means that I lay my burdens down, and rest. Without my mind racing. Without memories chasing each other through the darkened hallways of the past. Without dwelling on my failures.

And where did this peace come? In my new favorite spot: the storage room.
where the heat is turned off
where the extra cartons of juice are stacked waiting for free space in the fridge
where there are old purses and coats that no one uses
where my grandpa's handwriting covers boxes detailing the mysterious contents inside
where extra shoes are stored in a mirrored cabinet
where the shelves reach the ceiling, holding artifacts from various travels
where it smells of fur, leather, and wood.

Here my burdens slipped away, and peace flooded me.

Nails

Doing Christmas the Hungarian way is different.... we don't put up our Christmas tree on Thanksgiving. Or the day after. Or even early December. We put it up today. We don't go cut it out.... we wander around the city looking for the best looking tree that's already been cut out. We don't really do too much shopping. Christmas isn't as much about gifts as it is about about food....

But still, the true meaning of Christmas threatens to be overshadowed by the hustle and bustle, the cooking, the baking, the going to the market, the dragging of the turkey and the fish home for Christmas dinner...

Today we decorated the tree. These lights are smaller, flashier, more tedious than the ones at home. The tree stand is more wobbly. The boxes of ornaments we pulled out are from Christmases I never participated in... ornaments that have little meaning to me, besides being red, or silver, or gold. However, we still hung the szalon cukor, our festively-wrapped, Hungarian, jelly-filled chocolates. As we tied knots in the strings and stuck candy after candy into the loops, memories came flooding back. Christmas is such a reflective time of year. And for someone who enjoys the reflecting, it's a very welcome time...

Normally, after all the lights are strung around the tree, the first ornaments to go on it are three rusty nails. We make sure to hide them deep within the tree, close to the trunk. They are invisible to the casual bystander, but easily found by those who know to look for them. They hang mysteriously in the shadows, away from the glowing lights reflecting off of the colorful ornaments. They are each about 8 inches long, sharp to the touch. Ominous. It certainly seems to be a strange way to begin decorating our Christmas tree. What could these oppressing, deadly nails have to do with the delicate, festive look we set out to create?

I am certainly one to savor metaphors, and this one has become especially meaningful to me: we hang these rusty, long nails to symbolize the true meaning behind the birth of Jesus. To the casual bystander, it is just a celebration of gaudy snowmen, Santa, presents, and maybe even a baby in a manger. But to those who truly understand the reason that He came... it is so much more. For the joy behind Christmas lies in the joy of knowing that He came to die. In my place. For my sins. So that I can live. Without the looming nails, Christmas would be meaningless. Sometimes it's good to stop and think that without those nails... and that tree.... there would be no reason to celebrate. While it's a weighty thought for a festive season, it's one that is worth considering.

We didn't bring the nails with us this year... but as we hung three glassy heart ornaments, we thought about the immense love God had for us... in sending His Son as a baby... to die... so that we can live.

Secret Language

Zorley was the name of my first "secret language." My best friend and I made it up when we were in 7th grade. It came in handy, considering it had all the needed code names for the people we talked about most, as well as the phrases we needed. But soon after we typed up over 10 pages of "common phrases," we were tired of it and it soon faded from our vocabulary. Nevertheless, it gave us a thrill... to talk and be understood only by each other.

My family also has a "secret language," though our secret language depends on the circumstances of where we are. We speak Hungarian. It's rather obscure in the U.S... there have only been a few (very awkward) occasions where someone has actually understood. When you have a secret language, you let your guard down. You say everything that comes to mind. You happily pour out your frustrations at the person that cut you off in the grocery store with their shopping cart, or the slow lady in front of you that can't go up the stairs but at a snail's pace. You might comment on a strange outfit. You might have a much better people-watching experience (seeing as you can shout about an interesting situation, rather than whisper). You might get disciplined by your mother in public..... without anyone being the wiser.

The most unsettling feeling, however, is the switch when your secret language is no longer secret. In fact, there's a whole bus full of people speaking your secret language. And reverting to English won't work either, because most understand that too. There are other bilingual people in the world! Technically, it would be fine... except for the fact that by now you have forgotten what it's like to not have a secret language. So you continue to say whatever comes to mind.... which often is not ok. And so you find yourself suddenly embarrassed when the woman on the bus in front of you turns around to see who has spoken.

I suppose it's also good.... it helps me guard my tongue in every language. But such a lesson is usually learned the hard way...

Finals' Week

This week marks the end of the semester. We go home this week! While there is so much to look forward to in going home, most of us know that if we begin to look forward too much to what is to come, we will lose all focus and motivation for the here and now. Ah, the ambivalence of finals' week.

Most people hate finals' week. Extroverts retreat to the library. Junk food supplies run low. Facebook has way more visitors than usual. Everyone is inventing new ways to procrastinate. Late nights, bleary eyes... clutching coffee to make sure the blood keeps flowing through our veins.

I, however, am a nerd. And in a strange way I enjoy finals' week. I like the library. I like synthesizing everything I've learned in a class and applying it in a practical way. I love being an elementary education major during finals' week... I get to make useful projects instead of cramming for exams and memorizing lists and definitions. I get to make lesson plans and activities. I get to waive finals if I do well enough on my projects. In some ways an exam would just be easier. It doesn't consume as much of my time. But in the end, the projects stick with me far better than any multiple choice answer.

Everything is funnier during finals' week. An adventure off campus during finals' week is bound to end in more giggles and memories than any other time of year. Hot chocolate tastes infinitely better than usual. Conversations with friends go deeper. Movies are so much more entertaining. Pandora is my constant companion. Things I haven't thought about doing in years suddenly make my to-do list.

Perhaps it's procrastination. But perhaps it's just the fact that during finals, I get my joy in life back.

How ironic.

But I begin to realize the little joys of every day, of every week that make life that much more worth it. The joy of finishing a small task and checking it off my to-do list. The joy of procrastinating with a friend. The joy of finishing a huge project that has consumed my last two weeks, and that winds itself through my dreams. The joy of taking time to journal and process.

During the craziest time of the semester, I suddenly find myself at peace... filled with joy.

A Heart Like a Child

I love kids. That's probably a good thing, considering I want to be a teacher for the rest of my life. But seriously: I love kids.

Yes, they're sticky, overwhelming, exhausting, and needy. But they are also so trusting, so loving, so eager, so gentle, and so innocent. They're simple. They find joy in a tootsie roll, a slide, a happy meal, or a story with silly pictures. They don't stress. They just simply are. They live life moment by moment, enjoying the moments instead of worrying about the next one.

Being around them is refreshing. They make life worth it... because of their simple love of living.

It's often from their simple questions, or simple passion, or simple answers that we learn the most. They don't know how to philosophize. They don't know how to metaphoricalize (yes. that's a made up word). They don't know how to hide things and plaster on a fake facade to make people think they're ok. They're just blunt and honest.

Sometimes a child's honesty hurts. Like when they tell you that the lesson you spent so long planning was boring. Like when they tell you that they don't like reading. Like when they tell you that your hair looks funny or your breath smells bad. And sometimes, it hurts because they teach us things that we still don't get. Like the simple idea of "trust and obey."

When you tell most kids to do something, they'll do it simply because you're the boss. Sometimes they might ask why, but they don't usually sit around questioning and philosophizing about why you just asked them to read the next paragraph or put their toys away... they don't make t-charts of pros and cons about eating their peas. They might resist a little, but in the end (usually without too much of a hassle) they'll do it.

I love observing first grade classrooms. I come in, walk around the room, work with a few kids, and by the end of the day I have a stack of hearts drawn on construction paper expressing their love for me. Some may say it's naive. Perhaps. But it is also beautiful. Trust.

So. I'm trying to learn from these precious children. I'm tired of overthinking things. I'm tired of rationalizing and wrestling. What if I just simply trusted? Simply loved because He loved me first? Simply obeyed because I trust Him more. Because He's the boss and loves me and sees what I don't yet see. Oh the freedom that would bring! How I long for the heart of a child. The simplicity to trust. The simplicity to obey.

St. Nickolas Day

To most Americans, December 6th is just a regular ole day.

Not to me. December 6th is St. Nickolas Day. We clean our shoes (preferably boots). We put them in the window, leave out some cookies and milk for Santa, and go to bed with excitement. In the morning our shoes (and windowsills) are filled/covered with chocolate, peanuts, tangerines, other yummy treats, and small gifts.... and if you're bad....virgács: the "spanking stick."

As a child I remember thoroughly cleaning my shoes hoping Santa wouldn't find the smudge of dirt on the bottom that wouldn't come off even with soapy water and a scrub brush. I remember hoping that I wouldn't be the one to get the big virgács. I remember the magic of pulling back the curtains to reveal snow-covered Christmas lights that glistened, our awed reflections blocking the view, and our shoes dangerously perched on the edge of the windowsill threatening to topple off and spill their precious loot.

The first December 6^th away from home was rather strange. While we had another with the family, it wasn’t the same. Last year, however, it dawned on me that I could make this a tradition with my roommate. We both agreed to clean our shoes and be Santa for each other. However. It was late. We were both tired. It seemed like a hassle. So we went to bed.

The next morning, I was shocked to find that Bekah had done her research, and had recreated my precious St. Nickolas Day on my windowsill. I was blessed beyond belief.

This year, however, I wanted her to experience the magic. 

 So we cleaned our shoes (boots)!

 

 

And we waited.

And Santa didn't disappoint.

 

 

I'm blessed to have a friend and roommate who loves every part of me: including the part that thinks putting peanuts and chocolate in someone's shoes is a magical experience.

The First Snowfall

There is something absolutely magical about the first snowfall. The cold wet rain lazily turns to heavy, dreamy drops of fluttering snow. Slowly the dirt, grime, and bore of the dull November world is covered in a new layer of beauty. Pure white. Sometimes some scraggly branches still try to make an appearance and poke their heads out from under the soft white, as if in final protest. But finally the last flake falls, and the cruel branch is covered. The world is white.

Purity. Hope. Beauty. Joy. Renewal.

Standing under the snow as it comes down thickly... the silence of the gray flakes against the still grayer sky. Hearing each new, individual flake nestle among its antecedents. The distant scraping of snow shovels. Slush splashing. Branches bending, creaking under the weight of the snow. My hair sparkles as heavy drops form on the tips of my eye lashes. Mittens, boots, my purple coat.

Traipsing back inside, dripping as the last tenacious snowflakes vanish into the deep purple of my coat and leave miniscule wet dots behind as memories... rosy cheeks, cold nose, bright smile.