lost bag
I went down to my storage space--I can not find my trusty blue-green Samsonite bag. I received it as a high school graduation present from my dad. I tried to remember--did I let my sister or my roommate borrow it? I went through all of the dusty boxes in storage. I recall it being in my old storage space in Chicago, but I have not seen it in a while. Then I went back upstairs. I looked in all the closets, under my bed... still, it's no where to be found. It's a grave injustice, because there is no latch, so I can not lock my storage space. I have a lock, that's not the problem! I told the landlord about the "no latch" in November. Here it is the end of December, it's still not fixed.
None of my things were ever locked in the basement. Easily, someone could have snagged it. I remember all of the places my trusty bag and I went--to Europe, and to all of the cross country meets in college. I remember I took it to nationals with me freshman year. I loved all of it's seperate compartments! That I could put my running shoes in a seperate compartment and then zip them up, and I could put cosmetics in another compartment, and clothes in another compartment, not just like a duffle bag where everything's scrunched together. More importantly, tomorrow is a holiday and I'm working. How am I suppossed to go to California in two days sans proper luggage?
Honestly, it's not just the usefulness, it's the sentimental value. I didn't know how much I loved it until it was gone.
for the record
for the record I was thinking, what it would take for me to become married, I mean, what type of person it would take. I'm convinced of a couple things, and they are both lines from songs, or from poems I read after college.
The first is, "You'll know me by tired eyes." Actually, the way it is in the song--the way they sing it is--"You'll kn0 -ow me by ty--erd eyes." This is what I mean to say, that I just don't sit around doing silly, foolish things (um, I mean
mostly I don't just sit around and do foolish things). I want to change the world, so I'm not just pine-ing away, singing "Someday my prince will come for me."
Someday my prince will come for me, but that prince will be Jesus.
Jacob's brothers
was reading Anj's blog,
www.bestandworst.typepad.com She has commmented on Thomas Moore's (author of "Utopia," and also was beheaded for opposing King Henry VIII) final prayer composed, "A Godly Meditation."
http://1stholistic.com/Spl_prayers/prayer_godly-meditation-thomas-more.htmA couple days ago, kept thinking about these last lines,
"To consider my worst enemies my best friends,
For Joseph's brothers could never have done him as much good with their love and favor as they did with their malice and hatred. "
that maybe my enemies have done me
more good (more good than they did not really intend) that I should be thankful for.
Romans 12:6
God has given each of us the ability to do certain things well. So, if God has given you the ability to prophesy, speak out when you have faith that God is speaking through you.
article I liked on Soma Review
I read an article I like on SomaReview. Here it is below. It is by Astrid Storm and is entitled "The Stepford Priests." I guess I can relate to it, going from Wheaton College to a church in Evanston.
Also, I liked what she wrote about seeing the gospel through the lenses of the two-thirds world.
We owe it to the 20th-century liberation theologians for showing us how much the communities we live and work in shape our view of the Gospels. Three years into my ministry as a priest, when I accepted a position in a town much like Stepford—that creepy, fictional idyll set in affluent Connecticut—I, too, found myself thinking about the Gospel stories in new and different ways. I began to wonder, for instance, whether Jesus’ boat was an 80-foot schooner or a 70-foot yacht. And what about the quality of the wine at the wedding feast at Cana? Did it measure up to Dom Perignon, or did the guests have to make do with a Korbel?
Similarly, the thought crossed my mind that Jesus might not have liked Martha, Lazarus’ busybody homemaker sister, because he knew how woefully inept she would seem compared with her future namesake, Martha Stewart. As my manicurist rubbed Yves Saint Laurent oil on my hands one afternoon (compliments of a parishioner), it struck me that I’d never considered what kind of oil that woman rubbed on Jesus’ feet. And did Jesus feel the same rush when he stood atop Mount Tabor that I did skiing down a double black diamond on my parishioner’s dime?
Suddenly, a whole world of Scriptural interpretation opened before me, and questions I’d never thought to ask raced through my mind: Were needles much bigger back then? Or camels much smaller? Is it possible that when Jesus said, “sell what you own and follow me,” he was really suggesting that the rich man should go into sales to inherit eternal life? And, far from the horrid affront to Jesus’ message that I had assumed it to be, was Laurie Beth Jones’ 90’s classic,
Jesus CEO: Using Ancient Wisdom for Visionary Leadership, actually the best thing in Scriptural commentary since the dawn of Biblical criticism? Ah yes, the Gospel began to look much different inside the pearly gates of Stepford.
And so did material things. Surrounded by so many stiff Chanel tweeds and fussy Marc Jacobs prints, I realized that the sensible Ann Taylor wools I once eyed might, in Stepford, look too young at best, cheap at worst. I nearly convinced myself that my ministry was suffering because I didn’t have a $500 handbag like all the other women. After one Sunday service, I found myself wishing Louis Vuitton would consider designing a line of ready-to-wear clerical outfits. My standard-issue white robe made me look frumpy, and my collar had left me with an uneven tan.
My job description looked different, too. An average week included at least one tail party disguised as a pastoral visit. And I didn’t need a club membership as long as I kept getting asked to give blessings before events. I christened new boats at the yacht club, and I anointed geldings at the Stepford Horse & Hunt. I talked about the desert fathers at a well-lubricated garden party, and I discussed how the church could distinguish itself from the country club—at, of all places, the country club. All the while, I assured myself that the effectiveness of my ministry depended on my being able to meet my parishioners where they were. The problem was, I lost my own place doing so.
It was a strange coincidence that Frank Oz’s rendition of
The Stepford Wives released shortly after I left my job. Safely nestled in an extra-large bucket seat in my Midwestern hometown theater, I relived some of my own experiences back in Stepford. I may not be half as attractive or urbane as Nicole Kidman, but I did have some surreal moments that weren’t unlike hers. During a church board meeting, for instance, I marveled that I was the only , and the only woman not wearing pink or lime green, in the entire room. A few days later, I spied an old picture of a co-worker, a real pillar of the church, and discovered that her hair had once been—gasp— brown!
But as disturbing as the transformation of my appearance and tastes was the Stepfordization of my role as a priest. When I spoke to the parish children, I made the mistake of addressing them in the same voice I use in conversation with s—in other words, normal, and not forcedly high-pitched and bubbly. One church leader found this unacceptable, and repeatedly criticized me for not displaying enough “passion” for our youth. This was ludicrous, because I absolutely love children—which is probably why I refuse to speak to them as if I’m a perky and they’re stuffed animals.
Then there was the business about the teenagers’ dress code, which forbade, among other things, spaghetti-strap dresses. I thought this was excessively strict, and I suggested to the parents that we might consider dropping that rule, for the kids’ sake. “No,” came the firm response, followed by an admonition that I wasn’t being “culturally sensitive”—to the values of Stepford parents.
But my favorite reproach was when I was told that I didn’t “look happy enough at the altar.” “Can’t you smile more up there?” the lay leader added. He and the other church leaders, especially the highly successful professionals, knew from personal experience how important a degree of freedom and autonomy is to a person’s job satisfaction. That’s why I astonished that they were so seldom willing to extend any to me.
Underprepared to negotiate the trials and temptations of Stepford, I did what any priest new to such a bizarre world might do: I sought the advice of other clergy who’d somehow learned to survive in similar communities.
This yielded some of my eeriest encounters of all. “Distance yourself, but stay connected,” I was counseled by finely tailored colleagues who were well-versed in the Dictionary of Priestly B.S. “You must not be too self-differentiated.” One church lay leader advised I take some time off and go on Prozac. At first, I was stunned by such a suggestion. But the longer I stayed in Stepford, oddly, the more it seemed to make sense.
My suspicions increased when I realized that none of these clergy was willing—or able—to reveal exactly how they’d achieved Self-Differentiation Enlightenment in Stepford. Was no one else brave (or stupid) enough to discuss his or her struggles with this issue openly? Did they fear that addressing them would risk offending big pledgers (another taboo topic among Stepford clergy)? I began to wonder whether the other priests really had mastered the paradoxical art of distancing oneself while staying connected, or whether—like the women in Ira Levin’s novel—they’d undergone some kind of dark and mysterious conversion.
Eventually I found the honesty I was seeking in fictional characters. Like Anthony Trollope’s
Archdeacon Grantly, whose elegantly appointed breakfast parlor was decked with expensive wares selected precisely because they looked austere. Or Samuel Butler’s
Rev. Dr. Skinner, a double-speaking epicurean for whom “bread and butter” really meant oyster patties and apple tart, and “water” referred to hot gin. These fictional clergy, with their all-too real hypocrisies laid bare, became more alive to me, and gave me more solace, than many of the living clergy I encountered.
Trollope and Butler understood how difficult it could be for priests to exist among the wealthy and remain true to themselves and their calling–so hard, in fact, that many of their imagined priests failed miserably at it. These authors also knew how easy it is to hide one’s inability to give up a lavish lifestyle behind the appearance of simplicity, and the tactics their characters used to accomplish this weren’t too unlike the pop-psychology jargon that my colleagues used to mask their lack of self-differentiation.
But then, to my surprise, honesty really did come by way of real, flesh and people. They just didn’t stand in a pulpit or behind an altar; they sat in the pews right in front of me each Sunday. Some were simply thoughtful parishioners who reminded me how unfair some of my assumptions about them had been. Others were people who excelled professionally but struggled with their success.
Several church members confided that they weren’t always comfortable with their social standing, and that they even resented the fineries they often felt enslaved them. I was deeply moved by the men who gave so much time and money (more money than I’d make in a lifetime) to those less fortunate, and by the women who fought hard to build brilliant careers in male-dominated industries. And I was touched by those who shared that they felt trapped by obligations they’d made at an earlier phase in life and were now just trying to make the best of it.
Most helpfully, a few offered chilling accounts of how hard it was to be in, but not of, that world. One woman told me that she moved to Stepford thinking she could resist its trappings and values, confident that the town wouldn’t swallow her up as it had everyone else. But years later, she said, she came to the shocking realization that, somewhere along the line, without her even noticing it, she’d become the person she vowed she’d never be. While I hardly felt deserving of these parishioners’ trust, their candor taught me more about the struggles of living and working in wealthy communities than the church leaders, some of my clergy colleagues, and even Anthony Trollope, ever could.
Liberation theologian Gustavo Gutierrez once said that we of the first world should learn to see the Gospel through the lens of what he called the two-thirds world—those who are far poorer and more numerous than us. During my brief time in Stepford, I viewed the Gospel through the lens of the upper one percent of the one-third world. I wore this lens like a contact, and if I’d stayed there much longer it may well have seared onto my retina, for I was well on my way to becoming a Stepford priest. But thankfully, the very denizens of Stepford forced me to see an expansive, less confining, and much more appealing world. And it was a world that I could even yet be part of—if I just left Stepford in time.
Astrid Storm is a writer and Episcopal priest living (frugally) in New York City.
I would like to be more assertive for Christmas
I'm doing my own sort of case study on what it is to be a Godly woman (and what it's not). Although I really think that a Godly woman would not use vulgarity, and I try my best--despite working with so many swearers at the hospital, I honestly can not think of the Christian word of some of the things that I mean! In my defense, they are not such bad swear words...
Okay, this is what I have been thinking about, and I'm gonna ask some Godly women their opinion of this, too. I used to think being Godly, for women, was being a sort of plastic saint: a very complient, non-assertive, boring person. If I could take a magic wand and transform myself though, I would want to turn myself into a
hardass, which is the only word I can think of that means what I'm trying to say.
I mean by "hardass" someone who doesn't take other people's crap. Here is an analogy that Sean used to explain; it's like everyone has a yard and sometimes other people's garbage comes across your yard because your fence isn't good enough. Problem being, you have your own "garbage" to take care of. So, if you want to be happy, since you already have your own garbage, you have to make sure other people don't throw their crap in your yard.
Jesus was that way. Remember the scene in the Temple? Overthrowing tables?
I have a few examples to go by. For example, one of the residents in the ER, Rachel, totally that way. She has just a look about her. Also, I know a few other people who are Christians...
I think there's sort of a continuem. On one extreme there is the bitch (see, another swear word), in the middle is a woman who is a hardass, and on the other side is a push-over. A woman who is a bitch is someone who manipulates, with anger, to get her own way: she throws her garbage on everyone else's yard because that's what she feels like doing--sin feels really good. On the other extreme is the push-over who accepts all the garbage people throw at her (probably because the bitch manipulated her into thinking it was her garbage, when really it wasn't--it was the bitch's garbage) and is left to deal with her own garbage, in addition to the other people's. She's overwhelmed and she doesn't have the energy or resources to clean up her own crap, because she's been decieved into thinking the bitch's neurosis were her problem.
Formerly a push-over, but now I want to be a hardass. The next time a person (man or woman) throws their crap in my yard, I'm going to let them know, that it's not really my crap, it's theirs. I think it will make me a much better medical doctor, and Christian person, a better member of the community. It is really the Christian thing to do. I'm not helping anyone by permitting the bitch personality (male or female) to give me their sins.
and you think my dreams are weird?
While reading about Lauren F. Winner, a 26-year-old woman, formerly Jewish but converted to Christianity, (she wrote a memoir "Girl meets God") I stumbled upon a dream that convinced her of the reality of Christianity. Read below.
"In the dream, my friend Michelle and I and a group of women I didn't know were kidnapped by a band of mermaids.... After a year underwater, a group of men came on a rescue mission. Most were graying, paunchy, fifty-something men, Monday-night football-watching types. But one was this beautiful, thirtyish, dark Daniel-Day-Lewis-like man. And I knew that he had come to rescue me....
I knew, as soon as I woke up, that the dream had come from God and it was about the reality of Jesus. The truth of Him... That He was God."
and people think my dreams are weird. Steve Nicholson said that often Muslim people are converted to Christianity b/c of dreams. Addendum: Muslims AND Jewish American 20-somethings.
conversations with grandma
was just talking to my grandma over the phone. I wanted to call to confirm my plans of coming up to their house in Wisconisn on the 24th. Anyway, my grandma has altzeimer's. During the conversation though, she was saying these things like, "you are such a special young lady. I don't know how you find the time to do all of the things you do, and do them all so well!" etc. It was so nice to be affirmed--I was practically getting choked up. (that's the way my grandma always was a very upbeat person. and prophetic too. I want to be my grandma). I tried to say, "grandma, you worked very hard in your life, too; you raised three kids."
Then my grandma starts to mention some things, "and you sent us all those lovely things in the mail a while back, the fruit and candy..." I said, "No, that was Jeanne." (my sister. she always sents relatives things from Harry & David for Christmas. fruit, candy, cookies, etc. ) My grandma said, "Wait, who am I talking to?"
I guess she thought I was my sister! Our voices all sound the same. So, now I don't know if I actually am a "very special young lady!"
small church
Well, I have the church directory for this year. I would have been
the only Peterson in the book. Wow, I have never been the only Peterson. At Wheaton College, tons of Petersons. At the Evanston Vineyard, more than one Peterson.
I really appreciated, though, that this smaller church had their Christmas service on a Sunday morning. That way, I don't have to go back on Christmas Eve for a special service, will be with my grandparents in Wisconsin anyway. Like, I feel that I have celebrated, now I can focus on other things--my gosh, I have so many people to visit!
community
well, I think that I have commented on this subject before. I currently live on the North Shore of Chicago though I do not want my life to be about aquiring things. I was thinking though, how much an obsession with the material life depletes the quality of community one experiences (does that make sense?). how important community is--for all aspects of health, well-being, happiness. (do not be the stranger!) to know and be known is so important physically, mentally, spiritually.
well, I think that people who have an obsession with materialism, even slighly, how much it depletes from being close to other people, which is really better. I'm thinking about one person in particular. Materialism (any idol instead of God, obviously) is just deception. A person is confused into thinking that some material things, more things than they already have, will bring happiness, when really it is better relationships that will bring this happiness. better closeness into community.
addendum
about running with the resident, Amy. I was thinking today that, honestly, some of the residents I work with are among the brightest and best in the country. just that Amy, the ER resident, would ask me to hang out with her surprises me a bit, because she is a
very intelligent person. and she has awesome people skills in addition to her knowledge.
I'm just floored because it's like she can relate to me, and it makes me think that perhaps I am that talented too. Rock on.
Tech presents
I'm so excited because yesterday when I was at the grocery store I found some presents that I can give the other techs from the ER. I found some decorative little packets of gourmet coffee--Papa Nicholas, and it is in flavors, St. Nick's Cinnamon Swirl, Frosty's French Vanilla, etc.
I'm just excited to give something to the people I work with. The season of giving. I was thinking of giving each of them cards, religious of course, with little candy, but I think these presents are better. they already know I am religious.
70 hours/week
I counted my hours working in 7 days--it is 70 between my two jobs. Tomorrow is the final of this 7o hours in a row (without a day off), unfortunately it is a 12 hour shift. In the Emergency Room. On a Monday.
This is not good. Already my arms are sore from working so much. Today I think I really hit the wall. I showed up for work--but I didn't want to work! I mean, I was there physically, but my heart was not in it. I was not into caring for sick people.
When I get really exhausted (or if I'm stressed) I start to twirl my hair with my fingers and I don't even notice that I'm doing it. Well, after about 5 of my 8 hour shift, I started to twirl my hair. One of the paramedic noticed this. He said, "You know what they say about women who twirl their hair like that?" Well, I didn't really want to know because I knew the type of person he was and I knew where the conversation was going. But he told one of the other techs and she told me, "He says that women who twirl their hair are deprived."
My first thought was, "I
am deprived!" being a single Christian woman and all. My second though was, "I'm not -deprived, I'm sleep-deprived." A 70-hour week will do that to you.
annual women's Christmas breakfast
Yesterday, I attended the OPV's annual women's christmas breakfast. I was praying that I would be able to make more contacts in the church, as I just recently (in Septmember) started attending there. Actually, I did...
it's funny what ministers to me. because one of the things was probably not the most "ministry point." It was the elementary school age children dressed up in angel costumes. They were intent, because we moved to another table, to give us just the right ornament for our place setting. Once we saw the "Joy" ornament with the little white bird in the center, everybody at our table wanted that ornament, as opposed to the snowman. One handed me a "Joy" ornament, but it didn't have the little white bird. I wouldn't have noticed, but she said that she would go and get me one that had the little bird. The little ones
cared that my
toy was perfect. A few minutes later, one of them came back with the perfect joy ornament.
I put it in my car, since my car is the same colors inside, it matches nicely. I'm definetly not putting a tree up in my one-bedroom apartment.
Also, each "guest" (I technically came to the breakfast as Jana's guest) received a letter with a prophecy in it. It was psalm 23, and the verses highlighted in for me were 6a
Surely goodness and love will follow me all of the days of my lifeIt was funny, because when I read that, it did strike me as prophecy. What I told Jana today, it's like, working at "my issues." Specifically, right now, I'm doubting that God would give me someone who's actually
good to marry, like I'm worried I'm going to get stuck with some cruddy guy.
The problem is, they all seem cruddy. Can I have a guy who's minimally cruddy? probably that means
spinster.
