Secret

For me, keeping a secret is exhausting. I love to talk things through, analyze, hear others' opinions, and share ideas. So keeping things in is difficult. Of course when it must be done, I do... but it's rather draining... especially when it is an exciting secret that I know will bring much joy to someone I love. Yet for months and months I've had to hold it in until it was for sure.

A huge part of my lack of blogging lately has been due to this Secret. The fear of letting it out before the right time was agonizing. I had to make sure not to give hints anywhere. Even though I was able to tell a few people, I was paranoid that it would get out, fly around, and get to the very person I was hiding it from.

This Secret is now finally ready to fly free... the time has come. It is right. And it was her Christmas gift.

Nagyi's. My grandma.

The Secret? I'm going to Hungary for the second half of my student teaching. Writing these words in such an affirmative way almost makes me want to go back, delete them, and delete this whole post... I've been hiding it for so long.

I started looking into this nearly a year ago. I was hoping to get an alternative placement for student teaching in Budapest, but there were many hoops to jump through.

This whole semester has been a long, drawn out, emotional up and down process that left me feeling very tossed about. I knew it was out of my hands, but that if the door opened I would definitely leap at the opportunity. The more I talked about Hungary, the more my heart grew in its desire to go there. And the more this desire grew, the more I felt like a misfit here... not because I'm so strange, or (not necessarily) because I'm unAmerican, but just because there's a whole different side of me that I'm not letting thrive.

I suppose such is the life of any Third Culture Kid (TCK)... anyone who grows up between two cultures where neither culture truly feels like "home." I don't expect Hungary to feel like home... especially since I'm only going for five weeks. But the fact that I have the opportunity to explore what life might be like there... and to stop repressing that side of me... I think it will be more than great. 

Even though I desperately wanted to tell Nagyi about every step of the process, I knew it would crush her if it didn't work out. So I kept it in, hiding it from her always, dodging the question when she began mournfully asking when she'll see me next.

I didn't find out until just a week or so before we left for Christmas break. By that point I had pretty much given up hope. I would pray feebly here and there... but most of my fervency was gone. I was worn out, settling in to the idea that I'll be here all year, and starting to list all the reasons why that will make me more content than leaving.

and then. WHAM.

An email from my adviser. An increased heart rate. A short gasp. Another read-through of the email. A squealed outburst. A shushing of my roommate (who happened to be asking me whether her outfit had too much blue in it). A shared excitement. A phone call home. A whirlwind morning.

My ticket is bought. My heart is excited... and I keep seeing my made-up faces of the 6th, 7th, and 9th graders I'll be teaching... so different from my original plans, but so much better, I think, than I could have ever thought.

This was Nagyi's Christmas present. Every Christmas we have what we call the "csúcs" gift (the highest of the high, the peak, the pinnacle, the max). It's the big one everyone's waiting for. Usually everyone has one. But since nobody knows what everyone got each other, nobody knows whose should go last. Luckily everyone who knew agreed with me that this truly was the highest of the high, the csúcs. 

For the past few years I have given Nagyi a scrapbook of the year... updating her on various events she was too far away to participate in. This year I didn't have time to make one, but I figured my gift would make up for it. I took an old scrapbook, made a new scrapbook page printing out my ticket itinerary. Then I attached it to some crafty teacher-ish scrapbook paper and stuck it a few pages in. When she opened it she of course thought she was getting the usual scrapbook and she was quite excited.  

When she got to the important page, she glanced at it, was confused, and flipped past it, announcing that she didn't understand, still cruising through the pictures in the scrapbook.  

We then had to tell her to go back... and to read what the page said very carefully...

Meanwhile, we waited for it to dawn on her. At first all she saw was "trip to Budapest" and thought I had printed out her tickets for her to go back home! I had to implore her to look at the dates and think about what they could mean. 

 

I finally had to tell her just enough, since I realized that this was so far outside of her expectations that she didn't even dare to think or hope that could be the case...

Through a few tears she explained her absolute shock ... but her joy... and as she continued to talk about the implications, her joy continued to spread to all of us.

What a beautiful Christmas!

When Class is Over...

Well.

This is it.

I just finished my last official class at Grace.

...
...
...

My 16+ years as a student are (almost) over. Which is odd. This is all I have known, it seems. The last time I didn't have to sit in class was perhaps when I was three.

And yet... I must love it or something, since I'm off to go be a teacher for the rest of life (hopefully).

I don't have profound thoughts at the moment. Simply gratitude.

An immense gratitude for the opportunity of learning I have been given. Going to college is not normal for 90% of the world. Neither is finishing high school, for that matter. And yet... I have been so blessed to spend years with my nose in books, learning, studying, reading, writing... I take it for granted. I complain about the assignments and the homework and sitting through class or even lectures. Projects of course are stressful (I'm still not entirely done with one of them), tests require obscene amounts of studying for a relatively small amount of time to prove what I know...

But gratitude. How many people have truly gotten to do what I have done?

I love that even after over sixteen years of school, I still love it. But that's because I have had amazing teachers, mentors, professors, educators, and parents (yes... my very first teachers) who have seen education as more than simply filling a bucket. They have ignited in me a flame for learning, for knowledge, for growth, for wrestling with new ideas.

I used to hate the critical thinking questions in my textbooks. Even in class discussion, I would cringe at questions that required more thought. It was so much easier to just give the simple answer and move on. But my teachers did not let me stop with my simple answer. They challenged my thinking. They pushed me further.

This semester... yes, this final semester... I am finally beginning to understand what a huge impact these people have made on me. I'm so grateful for the people who challenged me in every season of life. It may have been a simple "why" when I was ready to quit writing and turn in my paper. It might have been a "show me where you find that," or a "how do you know" or a "is it really that way." These questions were infuriating at first. But now they're invigorating.

I am so grateful for Grace. For the classes I've had to take, the issues I have been forced to grapple with, the days where I sat, head in my hands, moaning because the questions were too difficult and I no longer knew what I thought. For professors who smile at my answers... then smirk and ask me to consider from a different perspective. For bosses who have seen my strengths, but also my weaknesses and have intentionally found ways to help me develop those weaknesses into strengths.

I am just so thankful. Thankful to anyone that has walked with me, prodded me, pushed me, challenged me. And I'm thankful for those who will continue to do so as I begin to do the same for others.

The Illusion of Busy

Once again finals week hits... campus is filled with bleary-eyed students clutching coffee... or anything with some boost of caffeine.

Everyone's in a hurry, rushing through the misty wind, looking down, avoiding puddles, pulling coats a little tighter around themselves. The lingering, talking, laughing is slowing and everyone is simply focusing on the task at hand: get done and go home.

And I begin to realize my problem...

I make every week into finals week. For me, everything is a stress-escalating, no-time-for-anything, moaning-and-groaning-about-everything-I-have-to-do crisis like most people's finals week.

My default setting is stress. As bad as this is, I often find my worth or importance in the things I accomplish. So if I'm always stressing and everything is a crisis, then I begin to think that the thing I'm doing is somehow really important... even if it is a pointless task. Slowly, I let the tiniest things become the most important... inhibiting my relationships with people.

As the semester draws to a close and two of my closest friends are graduating and getting married, I'm beginning to look up and realize that some of the things I've been stressing about are not worth the time. Ending well and enjoying these relationships for as long as they are close are what truly matter right now. Of course school is important. But sometimes... relationships matter MORE.
I've been learning this since freshman year. And still I'm a ball of stress... grimacing when people "intrude" on my "get things done" time, because "I'm so busy."

The worst part is that as my mind spins with my typical load of stress, when I sit down to work on my to-do list... all I can think about is how MUCH I have to do. Not just homework. Life. The terrifying question: What are you doing after college? How are you going to pay for that? Where are you living next year? student teaching. change. friends getting married. graduation. a seemingly infinite amount to process. And so then I dink around. Five minutes. 10 minutes. an hour. three. And then I don't even know where the day went. But I'm still sitting at my computer, staring at a menacing, blinking cursor below "Lesson Plan Day #1." I know it will get done. I just simply can't bring my mind to focus on the task at hand. But I continue to tell people I'm busy.

Those who know me best begin to pick up on this "illusion of busy" that I paint for myself. I remember several conversations that went something like... you know what, I think you enjoy being stressed. Even if you didn't have a care in the world you'd find something to stress about. I laughed when it was originally said. But I hear it echo once more in my ears, and I begin to realize that it's true.

Allowing myself to be stressed is giving in to the lie that says that my worth comes from being busy. That my worth comes from what I get done. So the more I make it known that I'm busy, the more I declare my worth... right?

That's why I love grace. Because grace doesn't care what you do. In fact, grace declares that you can't do anything... but extends love and acceptance anyway... regardless of what you do.

When I continue to keep a cluttered mind with stress gnawing on every corner of my soul, I'm not living a grace-filled life. I cannot extend grace to others. I cannot bring rest to others. In fact, I am rejecting grace... rejecting freedom... and once again crawling into the cage of legalism, stress, and bondage.

The thing about creating an illusion of busy for myself is that ... it's just that...  an illusion. false. And when I finally come to terms with the fact that I'm really not as busy as I make myself out to be, I also have to come to terms with the fact that I'm not worth anything because of what I do. No matter how hard I work and how hard I try, I cannot improve my worth. Or devalue it. Because my worth isn't based on what I do. It's based on Whose I am.

I'm thankful for those precious, grace-filled people who continue to stand at my side and offer me truth (even when it hurts), despite knowing that my working, achieving, stress-filled tendencies still haven't kicked the bucket.

Middle School

Middle school. Junior high.

Awkwardness. Changing friends. Changing everything. Braces. Smells. School dances. Drama. Lockers. Notes. Texting. Crisis.

These years are some of the toughest for most people. Everyone has an awkward story to tell... a story of feeling left out, stupid, or ugly.

My middle school years were not as traumatizing as they were for most people. I had a solid group of friends, supportive parents, and a strong support system. Middle school was uncomfortable, yes, but horrific, no.


I vividly remember 6th grade. I remember the crisis of a no-name paper, of misbehaving for a substitute, and the chaos of 6th grade camp. I remember learning about Charlemagne, dangling modifiers, and how to fiddle. 

6th grade doesn't seem so long ago... and I will be teaching it starting in January. I don't feel like I have any additional knowledge to give these kids. I see so much of myself in them: the uncertainty, the questioning, the possibilities, but also the frustration and the boredom of day after day of meaningless school not tied to real life.

I have always thought of myself as a 2nd grade teacher. I love the age where students can think for themselves, wipe their own noses, and put on their own snow pants, while still being quick to trust and give their love.

The past few weeks, however, I have been spending some time in the middle school classroom. After spending weeks in 6th grade, 7th grade seems so much less intimidating than I once thought it to be. In fact, I love it.

When I originally added my middle school endorsement to my major I was doing it primarily for selfish reasons. I thought it would look good and give me valuable experience. However, in the process of fulfilling the requirements, I have completely fallen in love with teaching middle schoolers.

Most people shudder at the thought; I used to. But more and more I'm realizing, they are amazing people. Not the people they will become... but who they are right now. I love that they are still kids, but they're beginning to discover who they are. They love humor and they make me laugh every day. Their compassion, goals, and excitement motivate me as I get to engage with them throughout my lessons.

They don't give their trust so easily; they don't respect automatically.

But if their trust is won, if their respect is won... they will listen. They will love.

Today my teacher's heart soared when I heard 7th graders deep in discussion about similes, arguing about metaphors, and making up their own to talk about their experiences.

Learning to Treasure

Those moments when your heart becomes too full for words. When all you can do is sit still and treasure. Because squealing, laughing, crying, and hugging aren't enough.

My last month has been full of moments like these. It is in the moments of pure treasuring that I find it impossible to write. Impossible to express anything of what I'm feeling. I always wondered what Luke meant when he said "but Mary treasured all these things in her heart" (Lk. 2:51). I can't pretend to understand what it meant to experience what she did. But I am beginning to understand what it means to treasure things in my heart.

It's being overwhelmed by grace from my parents who have showered me with blessings even though I've struggled to express true thanks. Neverending support, laughter, open arms. And a car of my own.

It's the quiet mornings in my light blue-gray car... praying for my students as I make my way to school each week.

It's the excitement of sixth graders when they see me walk in the room... asking when I'll be there to teach them for longer than one lesson.

It's the moments of surprise. When I realize that I love something I didn't know I could ever love. Like middle school.

It's the excited phone call of my best friend shouting to tell me she got the job she thought she had no chance to get... the job she wants to do for years to come.

It's the moment of running down the hall to be reunited with her after six months apart... of living in totally different worlds.

It's in the colorful playfulness of cupcakes for a bridal shower... for the first of my friends.

It's raking leaves, pumpkin spice lattes, going on long autumn walks through sunlit paths, and line dancing in a circular barn... laughing, always laughing.

It's the celebration of the end of a grueling eight weeks of classes, and realizing that we made it through. That the projects that kept us up at night are now over, graded, and rewarded.

It's the light at the end of the tunnel of years upon years of education... and realizing that I may not know nearly close to everything, but I know more than when I started. 

It's the wisdom of roommates who encourage, pray, and serve with willing hearts. Preparing for our last Homecoming... trying on dresses, scarves, and collapsing in laughter.

It's the freedom of driving down an open stretch of road at night... hitting the green lights every time... and realizing the grace. the joy. the freedom. of a new relationship founded on friendship. on laughter. on the Lord.

It's the joy of cultures bonded together because of a desire to understand and learn from each other.

It's in a Saturday completely devoid of homework and full of rest, friendship, delicious smells, powerful art, and favorite foods.

It's a dazzling sunset, the echo of ducks quacking on the canal, sandals in November, and a swan flapping its wings against the purple/orange/pink/blue/red sky.

It's in realizing how much we've grown, how much we've changed, and yet how faithful our God is.

It's relishing grace. Relishing the beauty of each day. Awaiting each day eagerly as a gift and celebrating whatever today holds... despite the uncertainty. Knowing that my God gives good gifts. So even though the gift is uncertain, it is still good.

Dancing

I've always been uncomfortable dancing.

Perhaps it started in my ballet class when I was four... they told me to walk like a dancer... toe, then heel... toe, then heel. I tried hard but failed over and over. Finally I gave up all together and decided to parade around the room like an elephant.
I still remember the smell of the ballet room, doing stretches and counting to twenty in German while my legs burned in the splits. They told me to cup my hands as if I was holding a small gerbil. I was convinced I was getting one that day... and I was shattered when I realized we were just pretending.

Middle school dances. Well.... the definition of awkward. I think I might have gone to one... then avoided them at all costs.

High school dances were a little better... but everyone dancing and grinding and moving around me just made me uncomfortable. I ended up looking like an awkward "walking stick bug," on the sidewalk... trying to blend in but hopelessly sticking out (no pun intended...)

I began to see dancing as only for extroverts, and admired people from a distance who could move and not look awkward. The more convinced I became of my awkwardness, the more I retreated into gentle foot-tapping instead of releasing joy in movement.

I've discovered that for me dancing comes only when I am completely overwhelmed with life. Either with joy, with stress, with appreciation for the people around me. I will not dance around strangers. But if I am with friends, my inhibitions are released. The box I have sealed myself in bursts... and I fly out in a flurry of movement, joy, excitement, and laughter.

Over the course of this afternoon I have probably spent an hour and a half dancing... with dance parties throughout the day: every hour on the hour.

I love sharing moments, sharing music, sharing moves with people I love... laying aside unit plans, article reviews, papers, finals, and my to-do lists and just letting myself go.

This might become a tradition.

Remembering Thankfulness

These weeks are hard. I am sapped of strength... physically (lack of sleep will do that to you), emotionally, and spiritually. I find myself going through the motions, living minute to minute, forgetting what I need for the next hour. The only thing I am aware of is the next thing... Thinking about a few days down the road, or even a week from now is exhausting.

There's something about lack of sleep, menacing projects, and the "dripping faucet" daily assignments that manage to slowly suck the joy of life out of me. I suppose this always happens toward the end of the session, but this time around it's been worse than ever.

I must confess: my attitude has been far from good. I have been more ashamed about my attitude in the past few weeks than I have been in the past year. I know better, and yet I still take every chance I get to grumble and gripe.

I wake up every morning telling myself today will be better. And then I get overwhelmed and resort right back to my complaining self. It's easy to complain when there are 30 other people seemingly walking the exact same steps as me... same classes, same responsibilities. Complaining and ranting has become common ground.

I think back to last semester and how convicted I was about my attitude of complaining. I remember keeping a list of thanks... jotting down little things throughout the day that made me smile or laugh: the seagull that randomly stopped to pick at something in the road during early morning rush hour, a kindergartener asking if I am 100, and a clean kitchen.

As this session has progressed, I have laid aside my list of thanks. Literally. The little, bright orange spiral notebook of thanks got buried under my piles of teacher texts, notebooks, and classroom handouts. Prayer was a hurried gasp before the next stressful moment. Good conversations were always about the classroom. Chapel got cut to once a week.

Thirsty.

I decided I can't go on like this... without joy life is impossible. I pulled out the little, bright orange spiral notebook and began to write. I began to pray. I began to look for answers.

This past week has been one of the most refreshing. I am overwhelmed by the goodness around me, overwhelmed by grace. Overwhelmed by the depth of human friendship and understanding.

As I have started to work on my attitude, remembering to be thankful for even the little things has broadened my perspective. It has filled me with compassion. It has given me fresh energy even when the homework heaps.

So. If you catch me complaining. Stop me. Let our common ground be thankfulness.

Memento of my past

I'm in a weird phase of life. I realize that all my recent blog posts have to do with this... but it's probably just because I can't stop processing it.

The past month and a half I have inhaled methods and assignments, and have exhaled lesson plans, sixth grade, and teacher texts. I use words like "schema" and "comprehension" and "contextual factors" in almost every conversation. When I close my eyes I think about Wednesdays in the classroom, the mountain of lesson plans, unit plans, and reflections waiting for me to complete. My artistic side is solely expressed in how creative I make my lesson plans (and sixth grade math lessons can only go so far...)

Since Grace has switched to 8 week sessions of three classes, I end up deeply immersed in a few subjects till they pepper every conversation and regulate my whole thought process. Last session it was all about prayer and creative writing. Last semester it was all about Ukraine and politics. And the sessions before that... middle school and more lesson planning. But I'm realizing that this session will carry over through the rest of my life. Because this is all about being a teacher. Which is, after all, what my life is supposedly going to be.

However... I miss the creative side of life. In high school I considered myself to be a musician. I considered myself to be artsy. I spent time with artsy people, and I loved it. But as college has progressed and I have gotten busier, I have slowly eliminated many of those parts of me. This year I quit playing in the orchestra. It was too much of a time commitment, and I didn't have time to practice. It's the first time since 5th grade that I don't see my violin at least once a week. Sure, it's tucked away under my desk, but it's strapped in, covered with cloth, and zipped away.  I no longer have a piano to play when I get stressed... and time for writing has dwindled.

I realize that I appear to have rejected most of who I have been for the majority of my life. In the day to day running around, I don't realize it's even happened. But sometimes I pause to ponder... and realize that I have become someone entirely different, and that I have left behind so much of my artsy side.

I am most hit with it when I take time to be around artists. When I stop to marvel at art or pottery from a true artist. When I listen to beautiful music. When I glance in the direction of my violin. When I see an overwhelming sunset. Sadness washes over me, and I mourn the loss of that artistic side.

This seems like a weird segue into explaining why I got a cartilage piercing... but. I did. And I think it has a lot to do with this more artistic side of me.

Some people see it as a rebellious streak. Perhaps it is the "good girl," "rule follower" in me taking the opportunity to rebel. But I don't think so. A cartilage piercing to me has always been a symbol of creativity... and a reminder of the people I loved to spend time with as they made beautiful things in art, in music... subtle but different.

It's something I have always wanted, but especially now since I so miss the artistic side of me... the part of me I have always loved, but have always been shy about.

I figured I might as well do it now...

A little uncertain but excited

A little bit of culture shock... Grace College to this :)

Matching piercings!

Incompetence

I'm exhausted. In every sense of the word.

There's something about trying to play the part of a student and a teacher that just wipes me out (I wonder what it could be...). Every day feels like a marathon, fighting to push through to the end, fighting to do good work. In the past this usually works for me. I'm known to be a good student...

But what happens when I simply can't give 100% to everything? When things start tumbling out of my grasp because I simply can't keep up the balancing act? Five hours of sleep, rushing around finishing (and forgetting) homework assignments that really matter, working, heading up a campus organization that is exploding in interest and involvement... all while trying to learn what it means to be a teacher to a class of sixth grade students... it's absolutely overwhelming. Sometimes I long for the carefree days of sixth grade when a "hard" night of homework was a math worksheet and a reading assignment.

My views about education are being flipped upside down, the things I thought I knew are all unknowns. I feel like after three years of hard work and education about how to educate I know so much... yet know so little. Terror grips me at the responsibility of being in charge of students' education. People tell me I'll be a great teacher. But how do they know? I'm seeing so much more of what that means. My respect for great teachers is growing by the day, and my understanding of mediocre teachers is swelling. Teaching is hard. It is not something you do simply because you can't do anything else.

Even though I've been a good student, I'm realizing that being a good teacher is not a given. In fact, I am doubting my ability in everything. I am at a point of complete humility... pushed to my breaking point. But I have decided this is what I'm doing. There's no going back.

It's not just because I've spent three years of college studying to become a teacher. It's because I have fallen in love with teaching. With the kids. With the lives I have the opportunity to shape. I love helping others learn, to see passions develop, and to keep the fire of education alive.

In the rush of each day... in the exhaustion of each moment it's easy to forget the big picture. It's so easy to lose sight of the higher goal. It's easy to get buried in the details.

I am incompetent... but I am working hard... I still face failure, the need for reflection, and grace every day.

That's why each night I climb into bed whispering "Your grace is sufficient for me. Your power is made perfect in weakness..." and I wake up every morning murmuring "Your grace is enough for today."

Answers

Even though I took the most advanced math classes I could when I was in high school, I did not understand math. I didn't understand where equations came from; I didn't understand why I did what I did. All I knew was to take the rule, apply it, and get an answer. When I reached any sort of problem that was to have a real-world solution, I was stuck. I preferred answers that stayed theoretical without much application to real life.

A big reason I enjoyed math class was because of the people. I loved listening to the witty quibblers who would pun back and forth while solving complex calculus problems, and typing all sorts of genius nonsense into their TI-89 graphing calculators. I loved the class frustration at a problem, and feeling the pulse of the class quicken as we got one step closer to solving the problem. I loved the moment of eureka in a loud, exuberant voice, or a quiet, confident nod. I loved the friendships -- the understandings -- forged when someone who understood explained to those who didn't.

Perhaps my favorite thing about all my math classes were that there were answers in the back of the book. There were answers. They were accessible. Problems were solvable. When confronted with a problem that seemed to have sheer impossibility as an answer, it was a matter of flips and we were there, staring the beautiful solution in the face. Perhaps working backwards from there would make it easier and I could understand the steps...

The ridiculous thing is... that's not math. That's not true problem-solving. The thing I loved most about math was something that was artificial. I had trained myself to believe there was one way of doing things, and that the answer was always readily accessible. I dreaded those flips to the back of the book that would reveal a very unhelpful answer: "answers will vary" and left it at that. But the truth is... that's real life.

There's no "life answer book" that is readily accessible, a few flips and we're there. Consult it for a few moments, or perhaps stop and stare long and hard, work backwards, or even see the steps of solution. There are many ways to find the solution, and perhaps "answers will vary," but that's what makes it interesting.

I realized that when I didn't have the answers at the flip of my fingertips, I worked much longer, much harder on a problem. I tried every avenue... I worked every possible answer. But as soon as I knew there was an answer available, I gave up much too quickly. As soon as I realized the problem would take some thought, I would try one method, realize I didn't know what I was doing, and immediately flip two hundred pages forward, eyes scanning the page hungrily for the problem number.

I also discovered that it was the problems that didn't have answers -- the problems I worked the hardest on -- that I ended up finding the most joy in the solution. Since I had worked so hard to find the solution, I valued the solution so much more, I celebrated much longer, and I gained new confidence to tackle the next problem.

Sometimes I really wish I could flip forward a few years, see the answers to my questions, and even see how I got where I will be. But from these few short lessons from math, I have discovered that perhaps it is better to continue to strive for a solution without being spoon-fed. Perhaps it is better to just wait and see, to work, to use trial and error when everything else fails, and to continue asking for others' advice and input. And maybe one day I will arrive at the solution. And I will celebrate and boldly approach the next difficulty with confidence and endurance.

Apartment Life

Apparently I'm a grown-up now. Well... almost.

I wear my teacher badge, dress "professionally," and go to school. I live in an apartment where I make my own food... that's mostly edible. I find cleaning and organizing enjoyable. I do grocery shopping once a week or so, always looking for the lowest bargains. I do laundry... and other people's laundry. I meet new people like it's my job....

I still have classes, I still don't have a car, I still miss my parents, and I still don't like folding socks.

I'm in the awkward in-between where I'm more than halfway to adult. To be more exact: a year away from it... if going by college graduation. My face looks young; people assume I'm still in high school. They ask me when I graduate (and they're not talking about college graduation). I grit my teeth and pretend that it's a compliment. Maybe one day when I'm forty it will be...

I live with three amazing roommates. We get along splendidly, even though we come from very different backgrounds. We haven't even known each other for that long. That's why our lives must operate by grace. Always grace. Our days are up and down, but it's in the extension of grace that we truly live well. Willing to understand, willing to do someone else's chores, always saying thank you, and always always communicating. It's been great so far, but I know hard times may come. Still, I embrace this year, excited to see what the last fourth of my time at Grace holds for me!

Three years ago I embarked on this journey at Grace College. I arrived feeling shy and very overwhelmed, certain I would never make friends. I was also convinced I knew most things in the world... that I was a capable, confident, smart person who was ready to take on the world. During my years here at Grace, I have been humbled. I have realized how little I truly know. I have found great joy in learning, in taking the initiative for my own learning. I have learned to be healthier, to have a more balanced life and schedule, and how to make lasting friendships. But most of all I have grown so much spiritually, continually desiring to grow more and to continue on the course I have started on. As campus is flooding with freshman, I am so excited for all of the transformations that will occur in their lives in the coming years. Energizing.

Rules.

This summer I spent time volunteering at Safety Town where kids going into kindergarten get to learn all about how to be safe. I was the traffic light operator in our model village where preschool kids zipped by each other on tricycles, practicing obeying stop signs, red lights, and arrows. At first I was just in charge of switching the light from red to green at appropriate times. By the end of the week I was primarily watching for impending collisions, pointing at the arrow markings, caring for boo-boos, strapping on bike helmets, and telling one imaginative boy that he was not allowed to be an ambulance, ignoring all traffic signals.

I learned a lot about myself during this week. I realized how much of a rule follower I am. I panic when rules aren't obeyed, which is why this job quickly felt far more chaotic and stressful than it should have. I realized that I love order, and I expect other people to do what is right. I like controlling situations and having things going according to my plans.

Rules are in place to be followed in order to keep people safe. But when they begin to dominate my life as I worry about whether I'm doing everything I'm supposed to, something's off. That's not the point of rules. Rules are meant to provide guidelines in order to allow a fuller life. So many people see rules as a negative thing.

And then there are people like me... who adore them.

I also realized how much rules dominate my life. I live by them. In a sense I have lived for them. I often get so bogged down in the details of following rules that I lose the intent behind them. I worry and overanalyze... and sometimes it takes the joy out of living life to the fullest.

I have always wanted to be seen by other people as the "good girl." But the more I try to prove to the world how "perfect" I am, the more I prove a different thing: how flawed I am. It hurts to fall on my face consistently, especially when I'm trying to live a life of goodness.

As I ponder this deeper, I realize that the more I try to do the right thing, the more I fail. And the more I fail, the more I see my need for grace. The more I fall short, the more I learn to cherish grace. As long as I think I'm doing all right, I have no need for mercy. No room for grace. It is when I am humbled, brought low, and overflowing with failure that grace envelops me.

I would much rather be a failure embraced by grace than a perfect, put-together, self-deceiving... fool.

Ready. Set. GO!

My days are speeding forward... I have no way to slow them down. I'm overwhelmed with responsibilities hitting me all at once. Piles of packing left undone, overwhelmed by decisions... great and small. What to take, what to leave, what to buy, what to keep.

People are on my mind a lot... people of the future, people of the present, people of the past. Those I will soon see in just a few short days, excitement brimming, thrilled to live again with my dear roommate, and beautiful friends. Excited to reunite, to listen, to talk, to share life. Nervous about meeting my class of sixth graders, fear of inadequacy or failure nipping at my heels... every excited thought followed by a nagging one. Thrilled to be part of a community of people walking with me through life again... brimming at the possibilities, the opportunity to pour in, to love, to grow. Expectantly waiting to meet the new Korean students... and all other new students, freshmen, and transfers. Fears that my introverted self will be overwhelmed at the sheer magnitude of change.
Missing my brother by just one day escalates my feelings of not being ready... of wishing for maybe just one more week here... one more week of wrapping up relationships, moving on, saying good-byes. I rejoice in the relationship I have built with my parents and celebrate the victories we've shared together, the good jokes, and the things we've accomplished together this summer.
I also realize that Grace will be different... that many people who have been the face of Grace to me will no longer be there because they have graduated. I'm the senior now... and that means I become the face of Grace to others... a humbling thought.

I'm beginning to live my life in the adult world... a foot still in college, and a foot in the real world. I don't feel ready. But I take heart knowing that the One who knows all things has gone before me. So... senior year... student teaching... life: Ready. Set. GO!

Part of the Plunge

Friendship in unexpected places is one of the most beautiful things in this life.

Coming home after a long year at school is always a scary adjustment. I feel like in some ways I lose a huge support system of friends, professors, bosses, and mentors who have spent months and months pouring into me. In college, change happens fast. I feel like growth is explosive... happening quickly, painfully, and exponentially. Coming home slows everything down. I must adjust to a new support system, the new pace, and the slower growth. I must realize that most people at home don't know who I'm becoming... or how I've been changing.

In the past, I felt like it was too long of a story. Too long to bother sharing where I am, where I've been, where I'm going. Home was merely temporary. A gap between another year of school, chaos, friends, busyness, and growth. Home was simply a place to nap, catch up, and get ready to dive in again.

But this summer has been different.  I decided to see Home as part of the dive. A place of further plunging. A place where I need to let others in, to allow others to begin seeing me as an adult and not a child. To take initiative. To dive deep. To be present.

Part of that is making new friends. And not just friends my age.

I am especially enjoying friendships that span generations... friendships filled with smile wrinkles, misunderstandings due to diminishing hearing, and requests for glasses when we play Scrabble. Gray-haired souls who understand so much, see so much, yet still struggle with the hard things in life and wrestle with some of the same questions that tear at my brain too.

I love impromptu meals, where pizza and a messy house are totally acceptable. Where I don't have to look my best, and where laughing abounds. Where we talk about the silly stuff, the hard stuff, and all the stuff in between.

I love being the youngest of a group, with no peers around. No one to fall back on. But simply to live and love and laugh with people who are generations apart. And to realize that the people I always thought of as my parents' friends are suddenly now my own. For the respect they give me, for the fact that they listen, and are willing to treat me like an adult.

I also love not being in high school anymore. I love being in a place where social divisions and cliques no longer matter. I'm peeling off my high school label, learning to just be with people regardless of how different we are, our athletic capabilities, or our nerdiness. To simply love people and make efforts to connect without the prejudice or the assumption that we have nothing in common.

I love that as I head into my last year of college, I'm beginning to see myself more as an adult than as a child. That I'm realizing that I am my own person. While I am still reeling from these realizations, I am so blessed to have friends who stand alongside of me... both here and at school. To steady me when things get serious, to love me when I feel alone, and to lift me up daily in prayer.

Allegories and Metaphors

I love allegories and metaphors. I love the power of word pictures that go so far beyond the physical descriptions of emotions, of thoughts, of everything tangible.

Tonight I was doing some writing... just reflecting. I don't usually share my "fake" writing on here since this is mostly for my musings on real life. By "fake" writing I mean my make-believe, feeling creative and inspired writing... the writing inspired by real life but not necessarily me.

However. Today I will. Don't read into it too much... just some musings through a little more abstract lens.

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Hard work, beautiful lessons

Less than a month till I head back to Grace. I don't feel ready. This summer has flown, and I have enjoyed the freedom of each day being different... routines no longer exist. Each day is filled with new surprises, new interactions, fun phone calls/skypes, more novel ways of spending time with my parents, and learning the benefit of being thrifty. I am feeling stretched in ways that are long overdue... and I am rejoicing in growth. Always.

One of my seven odd jobs this summer includes working as "in home help" for an older couple I know from church. When I was first asked to do the job, I was feeling very apprehensive. Cooking, cleaning, and household-y type things are not "up my alley" shall we say...

But in going with my goal this summer, I chose to say yes. I trusted that if they thought I was capable of these tasks, then surely I could handle what they asked. I prefaced my "yes" with a disclaimer that I am not the most capable house help they could hire. They graciously listened, then said they wanted me anyway. Humbling.

Five hours a week I find myself at this loving couple's disposal. My hours are theirs and I do what they ask willingly and quickly to the best of my ability. I must trust that the tasks they give to me are tasks that I am actually capable of doing... frequently I am "first-timing" different tasks, like canning applesauce or taking care of a particular part of the garden, or doing laundry their way.

When I sheepishly admit to never having done a certain task, they never even roll their eyes. They patiently show me... just enough for me to understand. Then I do what they have showed me, and they celebrate my progress. Sometimes I wonder who really is getting help here...

I love when we wrestle through a task together... sploshing applesauce over the stove, tending spiny rosebushes, or hanging shirts up to dry. Each day is different. But all I am required to do is show up and do my work well.

During a particularly difficult or frustrating task, I will often chant to myself, "Excellence. Excellence in all things. Excellence." I revel in doing a task to the best of my ability. To leave the house knowing that I have worked my hardest.

The past few times I have been overwhelmed with how much this couple has represented Christ to me. Not just in our beautiful, joyful conversations, but in the way they mirror Him to me. All He asks is obedience. Excellence in the work I do. Trust that He knows best... and all I need to do is follow joyfully.

There is joy in hard work. There is joy in obedience.

Laughing at the days to come

The moments that paralyze me in laughter are simply the best. A chorus of laughter... each with different voices that blends into itself... to produce more laughter. The moments when laughter itself leads to more laughter. The silent shaking, the loud guffaw, the chortle, the giggle, the snort, the squeak, the neigh. Laughing is my favorite. Laughing with others is even better.

For years now, I have tried to find humor in everything. Even when things around me hurt, when I hurt, and when this world seems nothing more than a decaying, dying place... I laugh. Sometimes it is bitter, derisive laughter. But usually the irony gets to me... and when there is nothing else left to do... I find the humor. I laugh. And it feels better.

Perhaps it started the day I fell through the chair at the doctor's office... pain mixed with the hilarity of skinned legs high in the air when the doctor walked in. Or maybe slowly watching someone who I loved waste away.... daily mourning was just too exhausting. It was easier to laugh. To celebrate each day we had.

I realize this behavior of mine may come off as offensive. People see laughter, associate it with happiness, then become frustrated with my insensitivity. But frankly, laughter for me is a coping mechanism. It's what I do when I'm thrilled, excited, sad, nervous, lonely, elated, or even heartbroken. For me, the most serious conversations must be peppered with humor, otherwise I am guaranteed to break down and cry... The salt of tears mixed with a quiet laugh are not uncommon.

I am learning joy... not just the appearance of joy. But true joy that starts somewhere deep in my gut and bubbles through me. It starts with putting my Lord first. Others second. Myself last. And even though difficulties come, the laughter is genuine... not forced... less of a coping mechanism. Tears may stream, but joy still warms within.

So many unknowns have been plaguing my mind... and I tend to get caught up in it all. I want to plan everything. I want to know what this next year looks like; I want to have my future all sorted out. These thoughts often sap my joy from within. I forget laughter. These problems seem too big. The unknowns loom too dark.

And then I read "She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come." (Prov 31:25)

I ponder that. Long and hard. How can I possibly laugh at the days to come? 

If I learn to celebrate the here and now. If I learn to trust the One who sees it all. Then I can celebrate the future because I know it is in good hands.

Laugh with me! 

Patriotism

What are you doing for the 4th of July?

This question danced around me most of the week. My first thought was... the usual. Then I realized that I didn't know what that meant.

For most of my life, we have spent the 4th of July in Hungary visiting family. The day passed like any other day, except for the fireworks in the evening that were set off from the American embassy. If we climbed up the winding staircase and peered out the bathroom window we could just see the colorful explosion above the city. We would ooh and aah, have a late night snack, and then go to bed.

Growing up as a "Third Culture Kid" is ... interesting, to say the least. I am both Hungarian and American. I see things differently from most Americans. And most Hungarians. I struggle with the phrase "I'm proud to be American." Because being proud is usually caused by something you have done to earn something. But I have done nothing. I wasn't even born in this country... It has simply been a gift. Don't get me wrong... I am incredibly grateful for the service and the sacrifice of those who fought for the freedoms we have today. I will always honor them... I do not take their sacrifice lightly.

Sometimes my lack of patriotism offends... but I definitely don't mean it to. There are times I love being American, there are times when it's rough. But that goes for any nationality.

I am learning the beauty of being a Third Culture Kid... learning to see everything from multiple perspectives. Even though I've lived in the U.S. for the past fifteen years of my life, I still don't feel completely American. I always feel just slightly odd.... slightly different... slightly European. But in Europe I don't fit either. My perspectives are different from most people, too... since I don't find myself gravitating toward one country or another. I feel like a misfit at times... especially on days like today.

I rejoice with those who rejoice. I will always celebrate with those around me. But I don't know how much it affects me personally.

But I do always relish celebrating historical moments. The 4th of July for me is a celebration of a historical moment. So I will celebrate in the way I know how:

Close enough to see the imperfections

The other day at Bed Bath & Beyond, after having wandered through the aisles of picture frames, kitchenware, and fabrics, I arrived in front of the mirrors. Normally I am indifferent to mirrors. I glance, then turn away. But then there are the "blemish mirrors" as I call them.

The sole purpose of a blemish mirror is to reveal imperfections in order to fix them. I typically avoid these mirrors because they make me want to walk around with a paper bag on my head... It doesn't matter if I'm having a "good looks day" or a bad one, the mirror is brutal. It shows every pore in a magnified fashion. It shows dark circles under the eyes, stray hairs, and yellow teeth. Ultimately, it magnifies flaws.

But sometimes a blemish mirror like this is necessary. It catches small problems that very soon could turn into much larger ones ... that could be seen from a great distance away. Though it hurts, it's sometimes helpful and good to peer at myself through the blemish mirror.

I am also learning that even though it's humiliating, sometimes it's helpful to allow someone close enough to see the imperfections. Someone who loves me despite my flaws, but someone who really needs to be let closer to see what's truly going on.

A blemish mirror does not collect information on your blemishes and store it in order to show it to other people. No.  A blemish mirror reveals blemishes in order to help fix them.
A "blemish friend" sees all the ugliness and loves anyway. A blemish friend doesn't save juicy details to regurgitate later. A blemish friend simply allows the reflection to last long enough to fix.

I'm thankful for the ones who are close enough to see my imperfections, but who love me enough not to run.

More than beer and football

As I was at the grocery store this week, I decided to peruse some of the Father's Day cards on the racks.

After about the fifteenth one, I was frustrated. Not just at the fact that I hadn't found one, but the fact that these cards spoke volumes of how we view our fathers, and who they are.

These cards were cynical, crude, or sarcastic. Almost all of them mentioned TV, beer, or in some way celebrated the absence of male leadership. What?

As I turned my back on the card aisle, I reflected on how blessed I am to not be able to identify my father with those cards.

My dad works hard. Harder than most people I know. He supports his family. He doesn't shirk responsibilities. But he knows to leave work at work. He knows that home is for family.

My dad encourages my brother and I in our endeavors. Even though he was an athlete, he attended all of our music concerts, and never once tried to derail us from that path. He has listened to "Tell Me Ma" over a hundred times, yet still he taps his foot and whistles quietly.
When I started swimming -- his sport, his stroke -- he cheered me on, gave me tips, and loved me even when I came in last. He also understood and supported me when it was too much and I quit. I never felt his displeasure when I chose other activities.

My dad is dedicated to his family. I will never forget the outings with Daddy when we were little. He never tried to pawn us off on babysitters. He took us to the park, the zoo, nature trails, his laboratory, and museums. He was constantly educating us by choosing to spend time with us. Even now, he is willing to take a day off from work to pick me up from school, to spend Saturdays at our events, and just be present.

My dad knows how to make me feel loved. My dad has affirmed me with gentleness, kindness, and respect from birth. I have never doubted his love. I have never felt the need to earn his love.

My dad loves his family more than himself. He respects his wife. He respects our faith. Even though he doesn't walk the same path with us, he continues to attend church with us faithfully. Out of respect to us. Out of dedication to us. Out of love for our family, and for our unity.

The best way to love your children is to love their mother. My dad gets this. He does it well. I feel secure in my parents' love for each other. I have never doubted their faithfulness to each other, their commitment to their marriage regardless of the circumstances.

I am blessed to have a dad who's a true father. Who is present. Respectful. Devoted. Who loves well.

Does he like Michigan football? You bet. Is he more than that? You bet.

  

Getting Dirty

I'm not usually someone who enjoys gardening. I don't like bending over delicate plants, poking at them, watering them or getting dirty while excavating holes to plant new plants. Even if I work hard at taking care of them, they still will eventually die out... either in the heat of the sun, or the cold of early frost.

Recently, I was helping my mom plant some flowers and shrubs, and realized an interesting tendency: the idea of gardening is not attractive to me because it implies getting dirty. It implies work. It implies heat, sweat, and dirt under my fingernails. But, if I set my mind to it, I relish the dirt as a sign of my hard work. I love sloshing around in the mud puddles from the hose as we try to tear up the particularly unruly weeds... I love seeing my hands caked in dirt, and the satisfaction of a woody weed finally releasing its persistent hold on the earth. I love pulling up the tiny, irritating clovers that threaten to take over the yard if not dealt with immediately. And I love "tucking in" a new plant with reassuring heaps of good soil, support, and plenty of water.

The same day, after scrubbing my hands and watching swirls of dirt join the suds in the sink, I began to prepare some hamburgers. Normally, the idea of getting my hands sticky and dirty with juicy, raw beef is not ideal. But now I enjoyed it immensely. The cold meat inched up my hand, wrist-deep, as I mixed the ingredients.

Here's the thing: If I'm going to get dirty, I'm going to get dirty. I'm not going to avoid dirt, or try to stay clean. When it's time to work, I'm going to give it everything I have. What's the point of trying to stay clean while I'm gardening? It's useless. It will only lead to half-hearted efforts, frustration at any specks of dirt that dare cling to my feet or hands, and anger at anyone who dares ask me to help.

If I expect to get dirty, I won't mind the dirt. In fact, I will embrace it.

I guess that's the motto of my summer ... Get Dirty. I want to throw myself 100% into everything I do. No half-hearted efforts. I want to BE PRESENT. To live 100% where I am, instead of wishing I was elsewhere. I want to expect to be dirty... to get involved, to be available, to say YES. It's only when I'm dirty that things truly get done well...

I'm diving in!

When people cut me off...

I'm in the crowded capital of the United States. My sandaled feet are covered in the dirt of the city.... and I'm tired. With every step, pain shoots up my leg, starting in my heel, and spreading across the soles of my feet like an angry fire. We are all tired after hours and hours of walking. It begins to rain.... heavy, thick drops that leave their stains on our thin, summery shirts.

He steps in front of me. I have to slow down, move around him, and change my pace. I'm irritable to begin with, but now I let him have it. He's been cutting me off intentionally... I'm sure. He keeps doing it, enjoying my reaction... I'm sure. He snaps back "don't flatter yourself."

At the time I thought it was a ridiculous statement. How could I possibly think that someone cutting me off or stepping in front of me was flattery!

And then I began to think... indeed in some ways, it is. It implies that I think that everyone knows where I am and where I'm going... and that if they do cut me off it was intentional and premeditated in order to disrupt me and my path.

As much as I love people-watching, I hate being in a crowd. People continually step in front of me, push me from behind, or don't even realize I'm there. Most people talk about road rage. Since I don't spend too much time driving a car, my rage is more like "walk rage." It's the quick burst of anger at people who suddenly stop in the middle of the hallway, blocking my path. It's the increased blood pressure and fury at people who zigzag in front of me and cut me off.

But ultimately, it's pride.

It's the idea that where I'm going and what I'm doing is far more important than anybody else. It's the idea that everyone around me should see me, recognize me, and stay clear. It's the idea that my agenda matters more.

And in being so enraged at people who cut me off, I fail to notice who I'm cutting off. When I'm the offender I dismiss it as nothing... I know my reasons... they should understand. But then I'm just as arrogant as when I rage at those who cut me off.

Practical pride.

Evening Bike Ride

I lift my bike from the hooks in the garage. It's been stored there since last summer. I ponder change as I wrestle it down, potentially dropping it on my head. Adrenaline pumps as I catch it, flip it right side up, and prop up the kickstand. I squeeze the deflated tires, grab the cob-webbed pump and begin pumping them with air.

Today I pedal hard. I want the wind to whip at me. I want it to rain. But He doesn't let it. The breeze dries the beads of sweat as they form. I am refreshed. The evening sun softens my path, peeking through the tunnel of green I'm racing under. I ride stubbornly over uneven sidewalks, wanting them to jostle me. He doesn't let them. To the fragrance of evening flowers, dew, and cracking twigs we begin talking.
Serious talk.

And when I get frustrated, He quiets me with His love. How can I be angry when I drink of His goodness every moment?

(a butterfly flutters gently out of the way of my spinning tires)

I trust Him because I know Him.

Moments and Goodbyes

I've always dreaded goodbyes. The moment you stand enveloped in a hug, breathing in the essence of a person, wishing you could take them with you forever and always. Rocking back and forth, hoping to hold on, just another moment. Knowing the moment you let go means the moment you have to part ways.

It's worse when "see you later" is not a reality. More like "see you never." But we don't dare say those words. A dear friend goes back to Korea after a year of study here, another one heading to the Philippines, friends graduate and move across the country in pursuit of new jobs, marriage. And everything changes. Nothing will be like it used to be. It's part of growing up. And it hurts.

I have been learning this semester that everything is a gift. everything.

So. Goodbyes are a gift. Because I have people to say goodbye to. Because I have people that have loved me, served me, poured into me, taught me, worked with me, led with me... I am blessed. I cry because I am so thankful that these people have been in my life. I cry because I am overwhelmed with the impact they have had. I cry because I am overwhelmed with grace... forever being given what I don't deserve.

I rejoice in the gift of Goodbyes. There is a time for everything. And now is a time of Goodbyes. I will rejoice. My eyes may shine with tears, my heart may empty, I may turn my face to hide my drenched cheeks. But I will rejoice.

My roommate and I got to meet Laura Bush!

 

 

 

 

 

Ice skating

A winter weekend at home

Friends from Korea

Thea from the Philippines (center)

Hall leadership team. Gaggle.

"Terrific Trio"

My RA and future roommate

Future apartment!

Epic Alpha Hall slip n slide

Leadership: Alpha 2 West

We started out hardly knowing each other. We were given a hall of 33 girls and told to lead them well. Sure we received training, but most learning usually happens on the job.

Some of us were very similar... we bonded right away. Some of us were very different... we struggled. Not because we didn't like each other, but mainly because we didn't understand each other. Some of us started as rivals... comparing ourselves to each other and wishing we were more like the other person. It threatened our unity as a team. But we fought hard to stay together. We dealt with it and became friends. Good, solid, amazing friends.

We have learned the amazing value of being unified as we lead.... and that unity has led to hall unity. It has been humbling to know that the way I behave will directly affect those I lead. I have seen it in my failure as well as my success. I have found immense joy in knowing that our leadership team has represented unity, love, prayer, and support to the women that we lead.

Trying to lead a hall when we hardly know each other is an amusing business... hall leadership meetings (Gaggle as we called it) were sometimes awkward... until we became friends. When we try to pinpoint when that was, we are quite unable. It just happened. Experiencing frustration and disappointment, as well as joy and excitement together will lead people to become friends.

Often it was in the moments of our weakness that our dependence on the Lord and our dependence on one another came out the most. We learned the power of prayer. We became a praying leadership team.

And that changed everything. 

Gray Hair

I found a gray hair. On my own head. I thought it was the lighting. I thought it was my sleepy eyes.

I carefully parted the suspicious hair from the rest and examined it. I then plucked the obstinate strand and held it under my scrutiny. Gray. Through and through.

Panic. I flung it down. Rebellious, it drifted slowly to the bathroom floor. I scowled, and began searching for more... they hid... sneaking among their obedient brothers.

I snatched at my full head of hair, thinking about the implications. I forget that I won't be young forever. I forget that I will age. I forget that this is the best it's ever going to be... and that charm and beauty are fleeting. Of course I know people age. But I forget it will happen to me.

So I begin to wrestle (am wrestling). I'm not going to be here forever. My time is limited. Who am I? How will I use this breath of life I have been given?

I desire to be someone characterized by inner beauty. That even when I'm as wrinkled as a withered prune, when my head is full of gray hairs... my character, wisdom, and joy shine through...

Charm is deceptive and beauty is fleeting, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.

                                                                                      -Prov. 31:30