Anyone who knows me even a little knows that I'm not one for gore. I will not watch violent movies. I don't do well with blood. Even hearing a painful situation described will make my stomach turn. So when my grandma (Nagyi) came huffing and puffing into the house announcing that she had fallen and broken her wrist (approximately two seconds after I posted the last entry), I was in for the night of my life. ha. Because I'm such a big exaggerator, I usually just assume that everyone else is exaggerating too. Mmm. Not quite.
We decided that we must go to the emergency room, since her wrist was swelling rapidly. It was 10:30 pm as we pulled into the parking lot of the emergency room. Viktor was already teasing me about the "bloody people" we'd be seeing. My mom recommended not looking around, since she didn't know what to expect.
As we walked in the sliding doors, a guy was standing, covered in paint, and holding his arm. I began getting a little jumpy. (I was already feeling nauseous from my grandma's description.) I was trying to hold it together though, because I knew that it was Nagyi that needed help, not me... and so I didn't need to be drawing any attention away from her. But I began to get really uncomfortable. We walked past everyone waiting on the benches in the doorway. Viktor narrated what he was seeing, trying to make it as disturbing as possible.... until he realized I wasn't kidding.
We sat down on a bench... and we began to play "I Spy," as if we were still the six year old children waiting for the doctor, legs dangling off the edge of the waiting chair. I began to settle down a little.. still not really looking around (which makes "I Spy" rather difficult to play). Ambulances kept arriving, and they would occasionally wheel someone by on a gurney. I kept my eyes glued to the very interesting, pale tiles on the ground... wanting to wedge myself into the puny crevices between the tiles. I happened to look up at just the wrong time.... an old woman was limping by, her leg in a wrap that the blood was starting to seep through. Yes. My mind immediately overexaggerated the quarter-sized blood splotch to an orange-sized blood splotch, and I became physically hysterical. I knew I had to hold it together. I kept rationalizing with myself, but I couldn't hold it in. I stared at the woman across from me as I tried to hold in my uncontrollable, panicky laughter. I saw her prosthetic legs. Then I realized it was as if I was laughing at her. I panicked more, and lost control of the tears that I had been holding in for what seemed like eternity. They brimmed over, and spilled down my cheeks. I laughed awkwardly through my ridiculous tears. Viktor kept staring at me in complete disbelief. I was beyond embarrassed.
It was at this point that we realized we had forgotten something at home, so it was to my great relief that my mom turned to me and told me we had to go home. I begged her to leave me there, but she told me I had to practice... at any point in life I could be in a far more threatening situation. I had to get a grip on my physical reaction to such things in order to function reasonably rather than in hysterics over nothing.
My mom is like me when it comes to blood, gore, and violence. We're both visual. And we both can't handle it. The difference? My mom has learned to control her physical reaction to it, in order to act in an appropriate way. As we drove up the hill and back down again to the hospital, she explained the need to have a "bank" of positive, powerful images that can overwhelm any horrible image -- to occupy the mind. So even if you're looking at something terrifying, you can overcome it and block it out with an image of something beautiful. You have to train your mind to delight in the beautiful, and to concentrate on these things in order be able to function even in the face of shock, blood, or anything else.
So with this in mind I lumbered back to face my fears that sat enthroned on the benches of the emergency room at János Korház. Nagyi was holding up super, and I felt incredibly selfish that I was the one demanding all the attention, when there was really no reason for me to be acting the way I was. I buried my nose in my pink, tiny-print bible and read psalm after psalm. I read about peace, about God's love reaching higher than the heavens, I read Psalm 23... and hardly noticed the guy on the gurney with the bloody head, the woman with the dog bite on her arm, the man with a broken leg, a bloody hand... Peace in the middle of such brokenness.
After some X-rays, a consensus that indeed her wrist was broken, and waiting for the doctor to put Nagyi in a cast, we were ready to go home. She is doing all right... in fact, it's making her slow down, and allows us to help her when otherwise we don't. We're learning her secret recipes, dusting and vacuuming (the Hungarian way!), and learning patience through it all....
Friday, May 27, 2011
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Refreshing Anonymity
I like small. I like small circles of friends that I can share close things with. I like small classes where more can be discussed in a shorter period. I like small date tables in alpha dining. I like small campuses where I recognize every face I see. I like small churches where I can worship with people I know and love. I like small towns where I know a trip to the grocery store will lead me to "bump into" at least two or three familiar faces...
But strangely enough, there comes a point where I feel like I'm bursting at the seams. I feel like a goldfish that's just been dumped into a tiny fish bowl from the giant tank at Meijer's... hitting the glass at every turn. Even though this is normal, it somehow still feels abruptly shocking. I feel like the world is so huge, and that I'm only exploring a small, tiny, miniscule corner of the earth... making little impacts, hardly affecting anyone. My insides scream for BIG.
I want big where I can wander for miles and see no one. I want big where even in a crowd no one is familiar. I want big languages, cultures, music, dance. I want noise and sirens and buses and subways. I want wilderness. The empty vastness of nature, that somehow is so full. I want the endless sky, the countless stars, the shimmering sea.
I'm getting my BIG right now. and it is so satisfying. Walking on the streets of the capital city of Hungary, boarding the subway, the bus, or the tram.... it's so satisfying to not be recognized. It's a breath of fresh air. Not because I'm doing anything wrong that I don't want to be caught in... but just to be free from all the stereotypes of who I am. To be free from everyone knowing who I am, the type of person I am, what I like, what my major is, who my friends are....
Even though I will most likely never see these people again, some faces stick in my mind. I remember their voices, their eyes, what they're wearing. years after I have seen them... withered faces lined with the dust of the street as they begged, laughed, talked. Not because it's anything especially crazy or worth noticing, but just because I love people-watching, and some people lay imprinted in my mind for some reason. I always wonder... do I leave any impression like so many people have for me? Do I imprint anyone's mind like that? I don't know why I would.... but in a way, I hope I do. I hope wherever I go I'm able to leave the world a little brighter... even if it is by just a small smile, a laugh, a friendly face when everyone else turns away...
Even though I know that in a few weeks this anonymity will drive me crazy, I'm glad to be where I am. It's refreshing.
But strangely enough, there comes a point where I feel like I'm bursting at the seams. I feel like a goldfish that's just been dumped into a tiny fish bowl from the giant tank at Meijer's... hitting the glass at every turn. Even though this is normal, it somehow still feels abruptly shocking. I feel like the world is so huge, and that I'm only exploring a small, tiny, miniscule corner of the earth... making little impacts, hardly affecting anyone. My insides scream for BIG.
I want big where I can wander for miles and see no one. I want big where even in a crowd no one is familiar. I want big languages, cultures, music, dance. I want noise and sirens and buses and subways. I want wilderness. The empty vastness of nature, that somehow is so full. I want the endless sky, the countless stars, the shimmering sea.
I'm getting my BIG right now. and it is so satisfying. Walking on the streets of the capital city of Hungary, boarding the subway, the bus, or the tram.... it's so satisfying to not be recognized. It's a breath of fresh air. Not because I'm doing anything wrong that I don't want to be caught in... but just to be free from all the stereotypes of who I am. To be free from everyone knowing who I am, the type of person I am, what I like, what my major is, who my friends are....
Even though I will most likely never see these people again, some faces stick in my mind. I remember their voices, their eyes, what they're wearing. years after I have seen them... withered faces lined with the dust of the street as they begged, laughed, talked. Not because it's anything especially crazy or worth noticing, but just because I love people-watching, and some people lay imprinted in my mind for some reason. I always wonder... do I leave any impression like so many people have for me? Do I imprint anyone's mind like that? I don't know why I would.... but in a way, I hope I do. I hope wherever I go I'm able to leave the world a little brighter... even if it is by just a small smile, a laugh, a friendly face when everyone else turns away...
Even though I know that in a few weeks this anonymity will drive me crazy, I'm glad to be where I am. It's refreshing.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Food for thought... oh yes. Pun intended.
I've always told people that I'm not a huge fan of food. Simply put, I don't live to eat.... I eat to live. I see eating as some sort of hassle, a necessary break when I'd rather not take one. Of course I do have favorite foods... spaghetti, gyros, all sorts of hard cheddar cheeses, baguette, pizza, ice cream...
Now that I'm in Hungary with my Hungarian family, food is a priority. We go to bed talking about what we're going to eat tomorrow. We plan meals days in advance. On Sundays, the afternoon is taken up with meal preparation, eating and talking and eating and talking (about food), dessert, coffee, talking, fruit, dessert, talking, and clean-up. We go to the corner store daily to get fresh bread. When people drop by for a visit, we lay out every possible meat, fruit, or cheese that might strike their fancy. In fact, I'm pretty sure my Hungarian family's love language is "Food."
Coming from my typical view of food where on some days I would *gasp* skip lunch.... I sometimes get frustrated with the focus on food that I suddenly find myself having to adjust to.
But there's a puzzling thing that I've always wondered about...
Peppered throughout the Psalms, God is referred to as "my portion." I've always wondered what that means. I pictured God on some giant dinner plate... trying to make sense of him as "my portion." Somehow putting God in terms of pizza slices or something like that just seemed so off... and I knew that's not quite what the Psalms meant. But just because I knew what it did not mean still gave me little insight into what it did mean.
Well today as I was thinking about food... talking about food... eating food as usual, it dawned on me... (and I sure do like metaphors).
A portion of food is something we all need in order to survive. But even with a small portion, we will survive. We don't need a five course meal to stay alive... just a portion. Sometimes we get more, though. We do get those tasty five course meals sometimes... and those are a huge huge blessing. After a while though, we may begin to take them for granted, and when they're stripped away and we're reduced down to just our portion, we're grumpy. We think we're suffering. We think life is unfair. We think back to those other days when we had far more than a portion. But when we really think about it.... we still have a portion. We're still surviving. A portion is all we need. All else is just an added blessing. My prayer is that I may learn to be content in every circumstance, with my portion, God. If He chooses to give more, then gladly I will accept it. But if not, I will be content.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart
and my portion forever.
-Ps. 73:26
Now that I'm in Hungary with my Hungarian family, food is a priority. We go to bed talking about what we're going to eat tomorrow. We plan meals days in advance. On Sundays, the afternoon is taken up with meal preparation, eating and talking and eating and talking (about food), dessert, coffee, talking, fruit, dessert, talking, and clean-up. We go to the corner store daily to get fresh bread. When people drop by for a visit, we lay out every possible meat, fruit, or cheese that might strike their fancy. In fact, I'm pretty sure my Hungarian family's love language is "Food."
Coming from my typical view of food where on some days I would *gasp* skip lunch.... I sometimes get frustrated with the focus on food that I suddenly find myself having to adjust to.
But there's a puzzling thing that I've always wondered about...
Peppered throughout the Psalms, God is referred to as "my portion." I've always wondered what that means. I pictured God on some giant dinner plate... trying to make sense of him as "my portion." Somehow putting God in terms of pizza slices or something like that just seemed so off... and I knew that's not quite what the Psalms meant. But just because I knew what it did not mean still gave me little insight into what it did mean.
Well today as I was thinking about food... talking about food... eating food as usual, it dawned on me... (and I sure do like metaphors).
A portion of food is something we all need in order to survive. But even with a small portion, we will survive. We don't need a five course meal to stay alive... just a portion. Sometimes we get more, though. We do get those tasty five course meals sometimes... and those are a huge huge blessing. After a while though, we may begin to take them for granted, and when they're stripped away and we're reduced down to just our portion, we're grumpy. We think we're suffering. We think life is unfair. We think back to those other days when we had far more than a portion. But when we really think about it.... we still have a portion. We're still surviving. A portion is all we need. All else is just an added blessing. My prayer is that I may learn to be content in every circumstance, with my portion, God. If He chooses to give more, then gladly I will accept it. But if not, I will be content.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart
and my portion forever.
-Ps. 73:26
Monday, May 16, 2011
Of Yardsticks and Pencil Markings...
Every little child loves to see that they've grown. Despite how annoyed they seem when adults announce how much they've grown, there's an inner pride... as if they've done something to gain those few extra inches that suddenly mean the whole world to them. I remember bounding into the living room to shout the joyous news that I was a whole inch taller than I was last month. I remember holding the hymnal in church and looking down on my brother's head. Oh the joys! (Though those days are long over now...)
It's been years since I've stopped growing. I've been 5'4" since 8th grade... but I still have the same excitement about growth. I still want to know that I'm growing, changing, maturing into a better person. That my joy is growing. That my mind is stretching. That my love is growing. In fact, growth is one of the biggest motivators for me. I love to see people change and grow: physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually. It's a huge part of why I love teaching... growth is just so rewarding.
But growth is a process. I think back to those days as a small child. When I was in the middle of a growth spurt, I never really realized how much I was growing and changing. Day to day it all seemed mundane. I looked the same. But one day... I looked at some old pictures and realized how much taller I had gotten. How much older I now looked. Similarly, I have discovered that when I'm in the middle of a season of life, I don't realize how I'm growing. I want to grow. So I strive. And when I don't see immediate results, I assume I'm doing something wrong. I assume I'm stuck in a rut. We smile when adorable kids "try" to grow. They swallow their veggies, then scrunch up their faces to give them that coveted half inch when it's time to get measured. They stretch, they tiptoe, they strive. They may be doing all the right things, but it doesn't make them magically grow overnight. Growing is a process. They have grown. And so have I.
Some days though, growth is painful. Toes pinch. Joints ache. Stomachs grumble for more food... even after the 3rd helping. I always acknowledged the pain... maybe whined about it a little... but rarely saw it as a sign of growth. But this kind of growth has pretty much defined this year for me... Lots of struggles, battles, frustration, pain. I thought they were random. But now I know. I have grown. In the midst of all the chaos I am a little tougher, stronger, taller.... wiser.
It's been years since I've stopped growing. I've been 5'4" since 8th grade... but I still have the same excitement about growth. I still want to know that I'm growing, changing, maturing into a better person. That my joy is growing. That my mind is stretching. That my love is growing. In fact, growth is one of the biggest motivators for me. I love to see people change and grow: physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually. It's a huge part of why I love teaching... growth is just so rewarding.
But growth is a process. I think back to those days as a small child. When I was in the middle of a growth spurt, I never really realized how much I was growing and changing. Day to day it all seemed mundane. I looked the same. But one day... I looked at some old pictures and realized how much taller I had gotten. How much older I now looked. Similarly, I have discovered that when I'm in the middle of a season of life, I don't realize how I'm growing. I want to grow. So I strive. And when I don't see immediate results, I assume I'm doing something wrong. I assume I'm stuck in a rut. We smile when adorable kids "try" to grow. They swallow their veggies, then scrunch up their faces to give them that coveted half inch when it's time to get measured. They stretch, they tiptoe, they strive. They may be doing all the right things, but it doesn't make them magically grow overnight. Growing is a process. They have grown. And so have I.
Some days though, growth is painful. Toes pinch. Joints ache. Stomachs grumble for more food... even after the 3rd helping. I always acknowledged the pain... maybe whined about it a little... but rarely saw it as a sign of growth. But this kind of growth has pretty much defined this year for me... Lots of struggles, battles, frustration, pain. I thought they were random. But now I know. I have grown. In the midst of all the chaos I am a little tougher, stronger, taller.... wiser.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Love is...
It's interesting how perspectives change. When I was little, my mom could do no wrong. She was perfect and beautiful and had the most gorgeous singing voice. She played with me, read to me, took me where I wanted to go, and loved me. But then there were always those confusing times where I did something bad and she spanked me. Though I knew she loved me, I didn't understand why love suddenly stung so bad. I didn't know why love suddenly tasted like foamy soap in my mouth. I didn't know why love was Waldorf salad on my plate for hours on end...
As I got older, I appreciated my mom, but too often I saw her as someone or something to fight. An added boundary or rule I didn't want. Another limit, another "no." Another "pick up your room" or "go to bed." Sometimes I was sure she just didn't understand me. That no matter how much I tried to explain as tears streamed down my face, she was just being mean.
But Love is tough. Love loves enough to correct. Enough to point out the flaws. Enough to protect.
Love is a "no" when everyone else says "yes."
Love is two hour phone conversations of "principles" and laughter.
Love is a package of my favorite granola bars on finals week.
Love is a gentle touch, a kind word, a close hug.
Love is my mother on her knees before my Maker crying out to Him for me.
Love is 17 years of verses and prayers scrawled in a Bible
My mother has shown me what Love really is. I am so blessed to have such a beautiful, godly woman as the one who raised me.
As I got older, I appreciated my mom, but too often I saw her as someone or something to fight. An added boundary or rule I didn't want. Another limit, another "no." Another "pick up your room" or "go to bed." Sometimes I was sure she just didn't understand me. That no matter how much I tried to explain as tears streamed down my face, she was just being mean.
But Love is tough. Love loves enough to correct. Enough to point out the flaws. Enough to protect.
Love is a "no" when everyone else says "yes."
Love is two hour phone conversations of "principles" and laughter.
Love is a package of my favorite granola bars on finals week.
Love is a gentle touch, a kind word, a close hug.
Love is my mother on her knees before my Maker crying out to Him for me.
Love is 17 years of verses and prayers scrawled in a Bible
My mother has shown me what Love really is. I am so blessed to have such a beautiful, godly woman as the one who raised me.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Anniversaries
I am someone who loves to look back on the past. I have kept a journal since fifth grade, and I love looking back on various parts of my life. I like to see where I've been, what I've felt, and how God has been faithful. Without processing the past, I feel like I can't move forward. I can't grow without first dealing with the beginnings... whether they are fun and wonderful, or painful and horrible.
The past few days have marked two very key anniversaries in my life. Today, May 2, marks the anniversary of the death of one of my classmates and friends, Cooper Young, and his younger sister, Makenzie Young. 11 years ago today, chaos struck my elementary school as we wrestled with the shock of death... as much as our 3rd grade minds could understand. It was my first experience where I saw how messed up this world is... how shatteringly painful... how it can wrench the heart in two. It's interesting: even though this occurred 11 years ago, it's still so fresh. Even though I've been through the cycles of grieving, it still somehow surfaces. And with each anniversary, I still find myself in the mind of my third grade self... wondering about death. Wondering what it's like to die. Wondering about Heaven. Wondering about Hell. Terrified of what happened, reliving how surreal it seemed... Some years when May 2 rolls around, I stop and think for maybe five minutes... remember a Cooper grin and move on. And other years, like this year, I find myself stuck in the past for the whole day. I find myself unable to turn off that part of my mind. I find myself in piles of homework, textbooks, and finals... yet still completely incapable of focusing. So I've given up for the night, and I've decided to just let my heart go where it will tonight... instead of forcing it into the world of elementary education and history. Ironically, I am dealing with both... though not in the way that my professors might prefer.
The second anniversary I celebrated on April 30... marking my twelfth year of walking with the Lord... in being in a personal relationship with Him. When I think of all He has taken me through... I am blown away by His faithfulness. When others face tragedy, they are shackled down in fear. And even though fear is a real emotion, I have a Savior that overcame death. I have nothing to fear. One day He will make a new Heaven, and a new Earth. And there will be no more crying. No more death. No more pain. No more fear.
The past few days have marked two very key anniversaries in my life. Today, May 2, marks the anniversary of the death of one of my classmates and friends, Cooper Young, and his younger sister, Makenzie Young. 11 years ago today, chaos struck my elementary school as we wrestled with the shock of death... as much as our 3rd grade minds could understand. It was my first experience where I saw how messed up this world is... how shatteringly painful... how it can wrench the heart in two. It's interesting: even though this occurred 11 years ago, it's still so fresh. Even though I've been through the cycles of grieving, it still somehow surfaces. And with each anniversary, I still find myself in the mind of my third grade self... wondering about death. Wondering what it's like to die. Wondering about Heaven. Wondering about Hell. Terrified of what happened, reliving how surreal it seemed... Some years when May 2 rolls around, I stop and think for maybe five minutes... remember a Cooper grin and move on. And other years, like this year, I find myself stuck in the past for the whole day. I find myself unable to turn off that part of my mind. I find myself in piles of homework, textbooks, and finals... yet still completely incapable of focusing. So I've given up for the night, and I've decided to just let my heart go where it will tonight... instead of forcing it into the world of elementary education and history. Ironically, I am dealing with both... though not in the way that my professors might prefer.
The second anniversary I celebrated on April 30... marking my twelfth year of walking with the Lord... in being in a personal relationship with Him. When I think of all He has taken me through... I am blown away by His faithfulness. When others face tragedy, they are shackled down in fear. And even though fear is a real emotion, I have a Savior that overcame death. I have nothing to fear. One day He will make a new Heaven, and a new Earth. And there will be no more crying. No more death. No more pain. No more fear.
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