A List of Names

When my family and I go to the movies, we like to sit through the credits... all the way to the very end. We like to find funny names, and we always play "spot the Hungarian"... or at least the Hungarian name. It's weird to think that this list of names that most people don't stay to watch, is far more than a list of names. That each name is a person with a story. With a past. With hopes, goals. With emotions, tempers, joys. Each name is a person.

As someone who loves working with kids, I often get a class roster. At first, this list is merely something of amusement of what people name their kids these days. But once I have faces with these names -- little wriggling bodies, smiles missing two front teeth, sticky hands, and hugs -- what personality the names take on! These names are more than just names. They're precious children... kids who are eager to learn, kids who are eager to love, to trust.

The other day as I was reading through the book of Nehemiah, I came across a list of names. Normally I skip these. They're a long list of names that are completely unfamiliar, and obnoxious to pronounce: Shecaniah, Ginnethon, Meshullam, Abijah, Kallai.... you get the picture. But I began musing about the idea of names and how indeed each name, regardless of how difficult to pronounce, has a person behind it. Who really lived, loved, sacrificed, cried, laughed. For some reason, I decided to go through this list, picturing what perhaps Malluch was like, or Joiarib, or Sallu. And then I came to an interesting part.... "David the man of God." I realized that this was talking about King David.... the man who fought Goliath, won hundreds of battles, and reigned long and successfully in a powerful kingdom among riches untold. But that's not how he was described. His identity -- his legacy --  revolved around his identity as a man of God... even hundreds of years after his reign ended. Despite all he did as king: all the heavy decisions he had to make; all the battles he had to fight; all the people he had to please.... he was remembered for his loyalty to God.

Of course I want to make a difference on this earth for those who come after me. Of course I want to impact lives, be an excellent educator, and make the world a better place. But at the end of my life, above all else, I want to be remembered as someone who lived every day for her Savior, for her God. A true woman of God.

Building the Wall

Many of my friends and acquaintances are spending their summers in distant lands, working with people from different cultures, entirely different languages, and completely different religions. Uganda, India, Thailand, Central African Republic, Ireland, Armenia, Spain, France, Argentina.... the list goes on. Some are working with missionaries, some are studying abroad, and some are just plain living there.

Sometimes I want to be a part of this... sometimes I want the thrill of going to a country and spending time with the people, learning what it's like to do missions there... spreading Christ's love to people who have no idea who he was. Learning languages. Understanding cultures. But it is terrifying. There are risks. There are dangers.

I have had the incredible blessing of being able to grow up in a cross cultural home, learning two languages from birth, and traveling to see family on the other side of the world. The more cultures I experience, the more fascinated I am, the more I want to reach out and be a part of this.

This summer, however, I'm learning what it's like to be behind the scenes. And even if the thrill seems to be lacking, I'm learning what it's like to stand guard while others build the wall. It's no easy job what so many of my friends and classmates are doing.... they face discouragement, sickness, cruelty, and hardened people, pretty much daily. In Nehemiah, a story of perseverance, strength, and opposition is recounted as the Jews went back to their ruined capital city after it had been sacked by the Babylonians. Their purpose was to rebuild the city wall: to keep further intruders out and to keep themselves separate from all of the outside, destructive influences. While they were working to accomplish this task, however, opposition arose from people who didn't want them back in their old land. These people plotted to attack Nehemiah and his men as they were rebuilding the wall. However, Nehemiah got wind of this, and he stationed some people with weapons to guard those who were doing the actual building of the wall. If all the focus had been on the fighting, the opposition would have successfully kept the building of the wall from progressing. But, if Nehemiah and the men continued building the wall, ignoring the efforts of the opposition, chances are they would have been killed as they worked... and again the building would have been stopped.

So. How does a random story that took place thousands of years ago have anything to do with today? 

Well... I'm learning that in a way, in this season of life, I am positioned not as a builder, but as a warrior (which is a funny thought, considering I hate violence...) I am at my post... praying for those who are actually doing the work. Without them, the work would not be done. Without me, and all the other people praying... the work could not be done. It's a beautiful thing to see that I can play a part in this amazing work, even if I'm not overseas, learning languages, and exploring cultures. And my part is just as important as those who are...

Neh. 4:16 -- From that day on, half of my men did the work, while the other half of my men were equipped with spears, shields, bows and armor.

Picking up where we left off

Four years ago, this was all I knew. These were my very best friends. We did everything together. When one of us was absent from school for just one day, it seemed like the hours dragged on forever... there was an empty gap at our lockers, one person's voice missing from our chorus of laughter. At graduation as we stood hugging each other, we couldn't imagine making other friends, moving on, moving away from each other, going for a whole month without seeing each other. While we were excited for what was to come, we were quite sure we'd never really make new friends that could in any way replace these ones.

But we did part ways, and soon what seemed inseparable was now separated. Being seen without my best friend at my side was strange; being swarmed by a sea of new faces, all who were strangers was terrifying. But as the months at school wore on, the mandatory daily "life" updates dwindled as we started to make new friends, get wrapped up in new extracurriculars, and juggle new classes... lives completely separate, and only as close as we made them to be.

The first few "reunions" after long months apart were strange... only because college felt like a dream, and while these now "old" friends seemed to still fit, I didn't exactly know where to place them with regard to my new friends. Everything just seemed so jumbled and confused and overwhelming.

Over time I've had to work through the fact that I play two entirely different roles in my two groups of friends. At school it seems like I'm somehow the loud one, or the one always talking, or the one whose room always has people in it. At home, I'm far more introverted, and far more reserved. I'm the one who is the perpetual laugher but rarely the story-teller... the one who watches the hustle and bustle around her, quietly amused, but rarely is the one creating it. Somehow, though, I feel at home in both positions, I just have to get used to being in a different place. And that's always a challenge.

The balance is still difficult, and sometimes it is a shock to have to entirely switch roles. But once I've finally adjusted, I suddenly find that even though we've been apart, even though we've taken different paths, even though we've grown up a lot, even though we go months without seeing each other... we can still pick up where we left off. We can still talk for hours about everything random... laugh about "awkward" situations, and have mature conversations. There's still the one that belts songs on top of her lungs, gives high fives and is incredibly generous. There's still the one that can't make me stop laughing. There's still the one who tells the best stories. There's still the short cute one that makes the party happen. There's still the one you can take ridiculous pictures with, talk for hours with, and just simply feel at home with.

Yes, we've grown up. Yes, we've begun to experience things without being glued to each other. We do have our times for hellos and our times for good-byes. But this time, the hellos are all the more joyous, and the good-byes are all the less life-shattering.

Reflections from Florence

People fascinate me. Cultures fascinate me. Standing on these ancient streets... entering places of worship from hundreds of years ago... art depicting so many differing views of beauty.... the old mixes with the new. The modern coexists with the ancient. Sandals and Smart cars on the cobblestoned streets. Tiny shoppes, and the big, flashy, stores. The Italian men standing on the street talking loudly, gesticulating wildly. Biking to work... suit, briefcase, umbrella.

The excitement in the air as a whole line of people speaking all different languages stand in line for an hour to see Michelangelo's David. Their presence is evident: the wall is covered in dirt where tired tourists lean up against it for shade or cover from the beating sun, the torrential rain. Scribbles: "M go Blue" "Texas. REPRESENT." "Jesus was here" "I love David" "Espana!" motivational quotes, and various names joined together with hearts and dates. Most of these people scribbling seem to have little or no appreciation for art at all, except maybe the fellow that drew a pretty decent sketch of a person's face in black sharpie. But still they are here, in line, to see what is heralded as the greatest masterpiece of perhaps the greatest artist.
The wall is caked in layers of paint, hoping to cover up the sign of these exuberant tourists, eager to leave their mark. The hundreds of tourists that had babbled excitedly, boredly, and loudly outside are now gathered in the central location of the museum to stare at the masterpiece, staring in hushed silence... in reverent whispers as they circle around the magnificent David. They whisper and point. His gaze, unmoving, bold, confident, strong. His sheer size holds people quiet. All people from every part of the globe are struck by him. Even if their interests do not involve art gallery hopping, they are still drawn to him. They recognize the beauty, the power, the masculinity, and the perfection in his form. The coldness of the marble, the detail of the sculpture. The time, work, and exhaustion of a real man that really worked on this real masterpiece.

Then I wonder: did Michelangelo know what he was creating? Would he ever have guessed that his work would be trumpeted as possibly one of the most beautiful and perfected works of all time? Was he aware of his own genius? How would he have reacted to all of this attention? Would he have puffed out his chest, or would he have humbly accepted the praise?


I love art because it gives me a window into a time period, of people that otherwise I'd never get to understand. I always wonder what future generations will think of us and our time period... who will be the geniuses that emerge among us? What will be the new "modern" that mixes with our "ancient"? It's a humbling thought to ponder.

Headless Chicken

I often put myself in a box of things that I am capable of doing. I am not one to push boundaries, bend rules, and step outside of my comfort zone. I hate failing, and if I see that failure might just be on the horizon, I run.

Decapitating and gutting a chicken is something that even yesterday I would have declared myself incapable of doing. Alas, I have done it.

Before Nagyi, the fantastic cook in our house, broke her wrist, Viktor and my mom went to the market to buy a chicken. They decided on a nice juicy one... head intact. Feet and claws attached. "Edible" guts inside. However, Nagyi broke her wrist, and is now incapable of using a knife to cut anything, let alone the head of a chicken off its neck.

The bird sat in the freezer for over a week, when we finally decided that it should probably be cooked. I took it out of the freezer, though little did I know that the next morning I would be the one chopping, clipping, and gutting it. When I lifted its body from the freezer, I was already grossed out. I was quite content to believe that my mom or someone less squeamish than I would be the one to deal with such a task. I set it on a platter to thaw.

This morning after breakfast, and still in my pajamas, the bloody wrestling match commenced. My mom volunteered to take pictures. (Ah, so many times have I volunteered to be the photographer in similar situations...) Viktor volunteered to take a shower. And I was left with the one-handed Nagyi. And the bird.

After chopping off the feet, clipping the wings, slicing off the head, the neck, and yanking out the guts...

After lots of faces, one scream and scurry away from the cutting board, three hand-washings, and thirty pictures, the deed was done. The chicken was prepared. It was placed in the pan. It was broiled. It was eaten. It was tasty.

I have faced another fear. I have challenged my family nickname of "the pea princess" (from that good old fairy tale...) I have beaten the chicken!