Kindness Confetti

I kind of love that we live in a time of memes, cliches, bumper stickers and car stick figure families, and all that. The other day I was working with a student whose notebook cover read, "Spread kindness like confetti." Part of me is totally into sayings like that and finds myself reflecting on them quite often.

The other part of me is cynical and prefers only to deal with people, kindly or not, from a great distance. Jesus loves this part of me. He's super proud.

But then today. In the midst of all our adulting over the long weekend - what G now refers to as The Great House Unscrewing - G called me to the door (he was out working in the front yard) and said he had a gift for me. He was interrupting my 3 hour Netflix break and let's just say I stomped up the stairs with the teensiest bit of annoyance.

And.

It's not what you're thinking. No, G did not present me with flowers. He moved out of the front door way and there was my neighbor from a few houses down, with a vase full of beautiful roses from her yard. I was like, Um, Wut.

She said, "My mother loved roses and these were her favorite colors. I just wanted to give you some."

That was it. I was speechless and then I was just gushing. I thanked her profusely and promised to get our own yard in order soon so she wouldn't be staring at the mess that it is now - which was ironic because G was out there working on it for like, ever today. She just laughed and shook her head and went back to her house...

I mean. I can't even.

Cynicism? What cynicism? Made my day.

Conflicted

Without a doubt, the most troubling experience of the trip was the day we visited a Maasai village. I didn't really know anything about these tribes until our driver - who is part Maasai - told us about them and pointed them out as we drove around the country.

There are a bazillion different types of tribes that drive cattle across the land; they all speak different languages and may or may not be able to communicate with each other. Considering that they are literally in the middle of nowhere, with such few natural resources at their disposal, this boggles the mind.

On the day of our longest drive between parks, what's known as a transit day, Nas suggested that if we wanted to break up the drive, he could take us to tour a Maasai village. I jumped at the chance. He told us that this is a service many safari companies offer as a way to help these nomadic people. For a donation of $50, tourists could take a tour (led by a villager or guide who speaks English). The money helps the villagers pay for doctors or supplies or whatever.

I was all about it.

And then we got there.

It's hard to describe just how in-the-middle-of-nowhere these people live. Imagine driving through a white desert wasteland for about 3 hours without any towns, any stores, any other cars on the (dirt) road. There are no other people. There isn't even grass; honestly I have no idea what the cattle eat.

Our tour went like this.

When our jeep drove up, the men ran to greet us. It was so windy and dusty that as soon as we hopped out of the jeep, a couple of them took off their blankets and wrapped them around us, showing us how to shield our faces. Then they took us to the village where the men danced and sang for us.

The men were very much the focal point. The women, I noticed, huddled against the huts and kept the curious children out from under foot. While the men were putting on a show, the women seemed much more interested in chatting among themselves for a bit, chiming in with shouts and hums every now and then.

About one minute into the welcome song, things began to feel weird and just...wrong. Our guide was a young man, probably a few years out of college, who was Maasai and spoke broken English. About every three seconds, he would point to the camera around my neck and say, "You can take picture! They sing for you! You can take photo!" We kept explaining that no, no, it's OK, and we'll take a photo when we want to, but honestly I think he thought we didn't understand the process. I think he thought that we had paid them this money and now they were performing for us and we didn't have the good sense to take pictures of it all.

Which made the experience feel performative and manufactured, as if the white people came for a show and the savages were playing along.

The next thing they did was show us how they make fire. Considering the crazy wind (which really doesn't show well in the pictures) it was pretty darn amazing.

I wandered away to take a picture of this curious lil guy and our guide took me by the shoulders and led me back to the fire show, pointing explicitly at the men, as if I didn't realize I should be photographing them instead of the baby. He wasn't rude about it. Honestly, I think he was trying to be helpful in herding the white folks about.

Next, we took a tour of a house. I took this picture with G in the foreground for scale.

The Maasai are nomadic: they follow their herds of cattle and when the cattle move on to more fertile pastures, so do they. The men collect supplies for the huts and bring them to the women who build them. They are made of sticks covered in a mud-like mixture of cow dung and water. Each hut has a kitchen (where we are sitting above) and right behind the camera is the bedroom: a mat of cow hide with a sheet up as a wall in the middle of it. One side is for the children and the other is for the parents. The huts make up the circular wall of the village.

Inside the circle of huts is the "market" where they keep their goods for sale (made by the women) and also their domesticated animals (goats and chickens) that are not herded about with the cattle. At this point in the tour, we were encouraged to shop. I was huddled in that blanket, walking around the big circle, and every time I would stop to look at or touch something, the guide would encourage me to buy it, cooing about how beautiful and lovely it was.

I picked a few things and then the haggling began. I don't like haggling and neither does G, so when the guide picked a number, I was like (shaking my head) "No." Then he would lower it and I was like, "No." That's how the introverts do it. When we settled on a price he would not let us proceed with the tour until we took an official picture of the purchase. I swear I think he thought this tour was a failure because we weren't snap snap snapping away the whole time.

As I took this I said, "Everyone say Maasai patriarchy!" G was not amused. But I was.

With that awkwardness out of the way, the last stop of the tour was the school house, which was located just outside the village.

As we walked toward it, we could hear the kids screaming in anticipation. When we walked in, they belted out some tune in Swahili. It was pure cacophony.

Then children took turns leading the class through a series of English exercises such as reciting the alphabet and counting to twenty. Despite the fact that these people are completely isolated from the world, they do go to school and they are bilingual; all school children learn both Swahili and English (but the tribes also speak their own languages, which differ quite a bit).

All of the children in this school house were the Chief's. The women in that first picture? They are all the wives of the chief. The men who danced for us are either grown sons or helpers who, at the end of the day, will go off on their own to other villages.

Out of all the chief's sons, one or perhaps two will go to high school and university, with the expectation that they will return to the village afterwards.

From start to finish, including my awkward shopping trip, the whole experience was maybe 45 minutes. But after the school tour I was basically high stepping it to the jeep.

As much as I am intrigued by these tribespeople, I couldn't wait to get out of there because my presence felt wrong and intrusive. In retrospect, I don't think it was. Nas explained to us that the Tanzanian government encourages tourists to visit these villages because of the money they bring in which helps the tribes purchase much-needed supplies from the government. On its own a tribe does not have any money. The only resources it has are from the land, and I gotta tell you, it looks like those are few and far between.

Our guide explained to us that the Maasai eat the cattle. They drink blood and milk from the cattle. There are no plants. No fruits or vegetables to pick. In the dry season (when we visited) there are hardly any creeks or rivers, and the water they do come across must be used for the cows. That's it. That's their diet.

At some point the next day on safari it hit me: The Maasai don't even have coffee, because they don't have access to water. 

I ask you.

The villagers did not seem out of sorts or uncomfortable or put upon at all by our presence. They performed, and that part was perfunctory and bizarre and odd to us - not so much to them - but then they went about their business. Other than the children, no one eyed us or seemed to think we were out of place at all. The children, though. Is this their lens into the outside world, these (mostly pale) strangers who wander into their village and then back out again? Does that become a part of their reality, the world coming to them instead of them going out in the world?

But then how much more out in the world can one get than living on the land as a nomad? Wandering from place to place forever, each day almost a mirror image of the one before.

I'm conflicted because I don't want to be someone who (literally) walks into someone else's community and treats them like a photographic subject. And yet, if I didn't have that exposure, I wouldn't know anything about them at all. And, furthermore, I wouldn't be able to share their experience with anyone else (I mean, did you know anything about them?). But, it's odd, this disparity in our realities. To me, the Maasai are like a part of my Tanzanian adventure. To them, I'm...what? A money-giver? A person who must be prodded to do my part in our unspoken contract and take pictures while they dance and sing?

I don't have clarity on this experience and I think that's OK. I think that's God working on me a bit.

But no coffee? I mean, come on.

No Longer Attached

For perspective, this is the spirit in which I'm writing this blog post.*

I had a tooth pulled yesterday. I can tell you in all honesty that it was my worst nightmare come true. Well, one of them. Had the surgery taken place on a crashing plane, that would have pretty much covered the gamut.

If you told me that you were having a tooth pulled, I wouldn't think anything of it. I would suggest a couple of days of oatmeal and codeine, and I would look for a hilarious card to send you to brighten your day.

When I was told that pulling a tooth was my best option, I cried for three hours. Like ugly cried. Like mascara lines down my face and some drool mixed in and slurring my words like a drunk person, cried. I cried in the dentist's office. I called G and bawled on my way to the pharmacy. I skulked around the King Soopers pharmacy like a deranged person, head down, sobbing into my jacket until they called my name. 

Everyone in my entire genetic background all the way back to Adam and Eve has horrific dental problems. So, in a sense, there was no escaping this. But boy did I try. Man I gave it my best shot. I would not say that I am obsessed with my teeth, but I would concede that I care a whole lot about keeping them and making sure they sort of look nice. I have had a lot of problems with them, and have spent more money on them than the rest of my entire body combined (if you don't count covering the grey - that is becoming economic priority #1 now), getting spacers, braces, wisdom teeth removed, retainers, permanent retainers, mouth guards, cleanings, special gum cleanings, root canals, crowns...Just about everything one can do to teeth, I have done. No reservations.

But it turns out there really are no guarantees. And it turns out that you can have very solid plans about how you want things to go, and in the end, you don't actually get a vote.

As a Christian, this should come as no surprise to me. This thing that I have decided to attach enormous value to, matters very little in the end. Turns out I don't need it. Turns out I'll be healthier and happier without it. Who knew?

All I'm sayin is thank God it was a molar. One of those way in the back. Or I would be singin' a different tune right now.

If you're queasy, skip this paragraph:
Long story short I was in a lot of pain and that's because an infection had formed at the root of one of my molars. The thing is, it formed in the root of a tooth that was already dead (root canal, years ago) and the infection was spreading to the bone and the sinus cavity. The dentist said she would refer me to a specialist who could try to save the tooth, but that now this area - for whatever reason - is prone to infections, and the only way to permanently cure it would be to remove the tooth, remove the infection, and eventually - like in 8 or 9 months!!!! - replace the tooth.

Long story short, when she removed the tooth yesterday, the infection had spread to the bone and they had to remove part of it, too. And then scrape part of the remaining bone.

Ok, no more gory deets:
Suffice it to say that, despite being numbed from shots and being extremely high on laughing gas, there was a moment during the surgery in which I was either on Jesus' lap or he was on mine. The details are fuzzy, but I screamed, hit someone, knocked my mask off, and I remember the doctor saying, "Yes, B---------, I know. I know."

It's not even 24 hours later and I feel about 1,200,456 times better than I have in a week. I thought that I would spend this weekend drugged out of my mind, swollen, and sort of psychically floating above it all, and then I would mourn my tooth next week, and then I would spend the rest of my life trying not to identify with some meth head from a West Virginia trailer park.

But no pain meds necessary! Don't get me wrong: antibiotics and ibuprofen are my absolute best friends right now and I love them more than anything else, G and Lucy included. But! The pain is gone! And now that it's gone, I can tell how much pain I've really been in, which was remarkable.

Lord help me if I ever have to pull any more teeth. But Lord forgive me for putting so much of my identity into a few small pieces of enamel.

Are champagne smoothies a thing??



*This is a first world problem. No one is battling a terminal illness or losing a child or living in a war zone. And yet in one little sense, the worst has happened.

What Really Matters?

I would like to make a few jokes about why I haven't blogged in a while. I would like to poke fun at my crazy schedule and my needy students and all the grading and rabbit chaos (of which there is plenty).

Case in point

But I haven't blogged lately because I've been down, just kind of "bleh" and sad. While I keep this blog positive and lighthearted - while I never "fake my feelings" on here - I do tend to drop off the map when I'm overwhelmed, either by events or by feelings. I much prefer events to feelings. In case anyone (JESUS??) is taking notes. LOL.

In light of the election results, I definitely - definitely - did not plan to blog today. But look at me, sitting here drinking (an alcoholic) coffee, blogging.

I would not have been pleased with the election results either way. And I didn't exercise my incredibly privileged right to vote in the world's leading democratic nation. So, honesty up front and all that. I hope that our next president isn't a racist, sexist, narcissistic, money-grubbing a-hole. Many criticisms could be made of the other side, too. Many people hoped (myself included here as well) that our next president wouldn't be a corrupt, socialist, narcissistic, money-grubbing a-hole.

But.

A-peep's son calls Captain America "my merica." That's what I've started calling my country. Regardless of what I think of it, it's MY MERICA. And, yes, I know that this is Darth Vader and not Captain America. I write this out because, I swear, G would accuse me of not knowing the difference. Captain America has way more...muscles...than Darth Vader. If you know what I mean.

In addition to the election chaos, I'm lost in a world of my own feelings.

I handed out some anonymous surveys in class today and there were a couple of snarky comments. There always are. There were also lots of neutral comments and a few that were just stellar, just feel-good-all-day kind of remarkable. There always are.

But I'm so bleh.

The reason I'm blogging today is that whenever I'm tempted to ask, why does it matter anyway?, that is a signal that I need to process and reflect. Maybe you do, too.

So, in light of being an American, and in light of being a dedicated teacher, here's what really matters to me:

--I'm in the top, what is it?, 5% of the world's population that can read, write, and sustain my own way of life. I'm incredibly lucky to be a 21st century American.

--I was born with a right to vote and no one could have stopped me. I didn't vote. But I could have.

--As Nat King Cole says, Jesus is the true king anyways. And always.

But even beyond those big ticket items, it matters - whatever it is - because life goes on.

In all respects, November 9th is just like any other day. So was November 8th and so will be November 10th.

--Despite negative student comments, it has mattered that I have helped some people. Helped them become better writers or better students. Helped them prevent anxiety attacks and have room to grieve dead relatives and lost jobs and domestic abuse and drug problems. It matters that I have been nice and merciful and compassionate. That has made a difference. It has made the biggest difference ever, truly, when people have been nice and merciful and compassionate to me.

--The example that I set, for the people in my life, for the people I interact with, matters. Because God put them in my path. I'm not ultimately responsible for anything but myself. And how I treat myself (and others) matters.

 --A defeatist attitude steals joy and Satan loves that. If it didn't matter, we wouldn't be here to begin with.

--We won't be here long. Take that literally or metaphorically.

This isn't a gripe sesh or bait for compliments or even a venting sesh. This is simply a reminder for myself. And for you.

What matters to you? Like, really. I would love to hear from you.

Downward Mobility

Here's another good read if you're in the mood to reflect upon how you're living life in light of God and His mercy and grace and all that:

Interrupted: When Jesus Wrecks Your Comfortable Christianity by Jen Hatmaker

Earlier this summer, I highly recommended her book, 7, about reducing excess and consumerism. In the introduction to this book, Hatmaker says that if you want to read one book of hers, only one, then read Interrupted. It's the story of how God interrupted her life and sparked a decision for downward - rather than upward - mobility.

In her humorous and self-deprecating way, she gives the reader a peek at her spiritual "aha" moment (not just one moment, of course, but a series of them over the course of several months) concerning life in a 1st world country. Most of us are born into the concept of upward mobility and naturally subscribe to it and forget that (or never even know that) one sixth of the world isn't even on the ladder of mobility at all. They are down on the ground, underneath said ladder, with no resources, starving to death at a rate of one person every 10 seconds or so. She became convicted about how the ways in which she was wasting her own resources was contributing to the degradation of others.

((One note: while Hatmaker draws attention to global poverty, she mostly focuses on local poverty, on how she and her husband were convicted to become useful and practical to the homeless population of Austin, Texas. The ultimate product that came as a result of God's interruption in their lives was a new church they created (Austin New Church) that exists to help the downtrodden and is purposefully structured to reach out and bless the unblessed, rather than to direct all of its resources to blessing the blessed.))

I don't recommend this book because I think it will create an "aha" moment for you. I recommend it because it encourages reflection and we are open to that, and God may work in unexpected ways to show us how else we can live in a way that will help others. The literal poor or the metaphorical poor. We are all poor, after all, in our own ways.

It's refreshing to read a critique of the prosperity gospel; it's worth remembering that God's blessings don't always match up with American-style prosperity. But, as someone who thinks that money isn't bad - that we can do a lot of good things with it - I appreciate that Hatmaker frames her story as just that, hers. She raises points that are worth consideration, and she ties those points closely to scripture (New and Old Testament) but she leaves room for God to work within His readers in His own way. She recognizes that we live in a time - and a country - that provides a myriad of opportunities to help others. She simply points out that we should be thinking about how to help others rather than how to help ourselves.

Thoughts?

Mutiny Against Excess

As much as I would love to take credit for the title, it comes from this book:

7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess by Jen Hatmaker

I took the picture in an attempt at irony - the book crammed in between two enormous suitcases and backpacks while we waited at the Tokyo-Narita airport. But the picture is bad so all nuance is lost.

I've been out of the contemporary Christian world for a few years now. I haven't been actively involved in church or Bible studies, and therefore I've pretty much lost touch with the latest and greatest (or at least the most publicized) of those doing God's work. So, I'm trying to work my way back in. God - and (some of) His people - have been painfully absent in my life and that has been repeatedly brought to my attention over the last few months.

Hatmaker and her husband started Austin New Church, and she has published several books. This is the only one I've read, though when I finished it, I ordered three more. How's that for consumerism? Hardy har har. Everyone knows that there cannot be an excess of books; that is impossible.

In the face of gnawing conviction (is there any other kind? :) Hatmaker decided, somewhat randomly, she admits, on the number 7. She decided to spend seven months giving up seven things in a sort of extended fast. Her intent was, in the spirit of Biblical fasting, to empty herself in order to make more room for God. In this case, the emptying was on multiple levels: she wanted room within her own soul for the Holy Spirit to work, but she also wanted to make tangible room, in her house, in her life, in her habits, in her community, and in her world, so that God could use that space for others.

For four weeks at a time, she adjusted her relationship with:
*food
*waste
*clothes
*spending
*possessions
*media
*stress

As a goal-oriented person, I appreciated this book so much. Hatmaker's attitude is not judgmental: she recounts what she tried, in her own life, based upon her own reasons, life and family situation, experiences, etc. She did not imply that everyone else must do exactly what she did; but she stressed the importance of (godly) self-evaluation and awareness. Her points are backed with scripture, and she is frank about wanting to live not just a godly life, but a good one. Like, a normal one. She didn't renounce all materials, give her house away, and run to the nunnery. But she did take a long and hard look at her materialism and how her lifestyle may (or may not) have affected the welfare or well-being of others.

She was pleasantly surprised in many ways, and I found the book thought-provoking and timely in my own life. One of my goals for the summer is to drastically (<-- I use that word purposefully) reduce our clutter and the amount of things we have in the house. Not only do I want to be more organized, but I want to be more sparse. The things left when the dust settles in August will be the things that add to our life or that help us add to the lives of others. All the extra, all the stuff that has just sat there since we moved in a few years ago, will be gone. And it will not be replaced.

I'm also looking forward to filling the gaps with the spirit, and with enhanced relationships, and - let's be honest - with souvenirs from future trips. :) :) I highly recommend this book; it's thought-provoking on many levels. I'll definitely re-read it.

Hiroshima

I've been thinking about Hiroshima - the bomb part - for a while and, truthfully, there's no good time to write about something this heavy. And yet, truthfully, this topic is important on many levels and demands reflection.

So, what better time to reflect than the day after I got in a huff about a casual encounter with a cashier at Ross? (#firstworldproblems, #getsomeperspective, #privilege)

As I mentioned in my blog post while we were there, the town is lovely. It is beautiful and upbeat and lively and fun.

This building is called the "A-Dome." Located just a few meters from the hypocenter of the bomb, it miraculously survived the blast.

On the morning of August 6, 1945, an atomic bomb was dropped on the city of Hiroshima by the Enola Gay. (The Enola Gay, in spite of its legacy, is a surprisingly small aircraft. It's housed in the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum in Dulles, Virginia.) The city was just waking up and getting moving. About 600 school children were working on clearing houses in order to create more effective fire lanes.

It is said that America dropped the bomb(s) to swiftly and efficiently end the war. It is said that the bombs were retaliation for Pearl Harbor. It is said that the Japanese were never going to surrender. It is said that the sudden loss of life prevented the further loss of life had the war continued to drag out.

The fire blast following the mushroom cloud obliterated just about everything in a 2-mile radius. Which is why the remaining building - and a handful of trees! - are so miraculous. They are clearly marked. They are set apart within the city.

One of the trees that survived the atomic bomb.

A memorial which contains two flames: one from the Hiroshima fire and one from Nagasaki.

The pilot of the Enola Gay missed his mark by a hundred meters or so. He was aiming for a T intersection of a bridge. The water under that bridge, a small river which runs through the city, was high that day. It is said that the people on fire rushed into its waters, turning it into a mass grave.

After the blast, people stumbled through the rubble, skin melting off their faces and fingertips. Shredded clothing still remains, on display in the Peace Museum, along with hair, tattered school books, and the rusty shell of a baby's tricycle. There is an entire entrance to a building on display, stone steps, where there is a shadow embedded. The person who had been sitting there simply evaporated, but the split second of the blast preserved the person's shadow in the rock.

Hiroshima was not a military target in the sense that America was aiming to kill soldiers only. While there was a major military command center in the city, this was also, undeniably, a strategic decision to kill a city of noncombatants.  

In the museum are petition books in many languages, for people to sign as a plea to destroy all nuclear weapons.

The memorial. See the A-Dome in the center?

We were in Hiroshima at the same time as the G7 summit. The only thing anyone was talking about was President Obama's anticipated visit to lay a wreath at the memorial. Welcome signs were all over. The American flag hung alongside the Japanese flag on many buildings around the hypocenter area.

Reporters of all kinds, along with police, pretty much took over the city. There were some protests, but they were small and relatively quiet. We saw many people with shirts that said, "APOLOGIZE to the Koreans killed by the A-bomb." (Many Koreans were in Hiroshima at that time, serving as laborers for Japan.)

It is said that America should apologize.

"In the same year that Japan's parliament was debating a resolution to apologize for its role in WWII, George H.W. Bush refused the suggestion that he should apologize for atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. He called the idea of apologizing for the bombs 'rank revisionism'. " **

We were on another island while President Obama and Prime Minister Abe laid the wreaths down at the Memorial and gave speeches. I'm curious to know what Obama said and if there was an apology or a hint of one. I keep thinking I should look it up on the internet. And I keep procrastinating because this is such a depressing topic.

To what extent is the current generation a spokesperson for the past? What role, really, does apology play? And yet, reflection is so important. Can't we express how sorry we are, presently, as we stand in a place of such tragedy?

This is the view of the Peace Museum from the Memorial. Look at the line of people at the bottom left.

This is the view from the Peace Museum, looking back toward the Memorial. See the enormous line of people?

When we got back to the city that night, after the speeches, we headed over to the Peace Park. People were lined up for blocks and blocks, waiting their turn to see the wreaths placed by world leaders at the Memorial. Waiting for a chance not to see the leaders themselves, but the tangible offerings they left behind in honor of all the innocent people killed. We sat and watched for a long time and I thought to myself, have I ever waited that long for anything?

Our guide that day was from Hiroshima, born and raised. Her parents had migrated from China before she was born, which was over 40 years ago. We tentatively approached the issue of the bomb with her by admitting how pleasantly surprised we were by the city vibe, considering that everything there only existed since approximately the 1950's. She nodded and smiled. We said we didn't know what we had expected, but that the city far surpassed it, that the people were so nice and the feeling was simply "life as usual." She nodded and smiled. If she had anything of import to add, she purposefully kept it from us. But I'd like to think that she simply agreed with us. After all, we had spent the entire day together, talking about Hawaii and the U.S. and the Japanese herds of deer and a variety of shrines and temples. She didn't seem to be one to resist conversation.

But who knows.

**This is an excerpt from an essay titled, "All Apologies" by Eula Biss. It is part of her greater work of essays, Notes from No Man's Land. I highly recommend it. (It's not about nuclear warfare!) :)

Be Nice

While we were in Japan, we experienced a "first" that we never expected: cab drivers thanked us as we got into the car. As in, "Konichiwa! Arigato!" or if they spoke English, something like, "Thank you for my cab today! Thank you!" G and I looked at each other and shook our heads in amazement.

As we nodded and bowed our way around, we noticed that everyone was this nice, this courteous. But in particular, maybe because taxi drivers are not known (broad and sweeping generalization coming!) in America for their people skills or professionalism or even for basic competence, we noticed how much "better" they are in Japan.

Due to my consumerism greed interest in travel, we took two big suitcases. Because souvenirs. The cab drivers would rush out of the car, and around it, and have the suitcases wrangled into it before we could even settle ourselves into the back. And still they were nice and courteous. Even if only one suitcase would fit into the trunk and the other one had to go in the front seat and the driver had to sporadically reach out to keep it from falling over on him. While he was, you know, driving through downtown Tokyo.

I would think to myself: I'm going to be a nicer person. When we get back, I'm going to be more patient. For real, for real, Jesus, I'm going to work on this.

One of the times we had mercy on G and grabbed dinner at McDonald's, he came to the table with our tray, shaking his head. He told me about the girl behind the counter who helped him. She was Indian, maybe a student? In the midst of work chaos, she spoke to her coworkers in Japanese and swiftly, efficiently switched to English when it was his turn to order. It's a safe bet that both of those languages are foreign to her. Which means that she speaks at least three. And she works at McDonald's.

I thought to myself: Is there ever a case like that in America? Apples to apples - working at McDonald's? Maybe a person speaks one language at home and adds in English at work, but say a Japanese person came in to order. It's safe to say that person would not roll out with Konichiwa and then subsequently carry on a polite and efficient conversation. We don't even do that in English. We don't even do that in whatever other native languages are involved. We are a lot of things in America, but nice is not one of them. (See? Broad and sweeping generalization.)

Today I ran to Ross to grab a couple of essentials. (Summer = yard work and way more exercising = my wardrobe for the next 10 weeks consists of 2 shirts, 2 shorts, and 2 sports bras = I need to build more into the rotation = but I don't want to spend major money = a trip to Ross.) Because I'm a Type A jet lagged early bird, I was there about 30 minutes after they opened and there was only one other customer I could see.

So, it's not like they were busy. They weren't rushing around or anything.

When I checked out, the lady didn't make eye contact with me or speak to me. She stopped mid scan to eavesdrop on a conversation her manager was having behind her on the phone. I just stood there. Because I'm going to be more patient. When she turned back around and resumed scanning, I thought I saw one of those anti-theft devices on a shirt, and I asked her about it. She didn't even respond to me. She just looked at me and rang up the total. So much for patience. I rolled my eyes and paid.

As I walked away and she turned back to her boss's conversation, she mumbled, "...nice day" and I didn't respond because I was almost to the door. Truthfully, I wouldn't have responded anyway.

My plan was to write a post about the differences in Japan (a collectivist culture that values harmony within society) and America (an individualist culture that values efficient conversation/work over societal harmony). I was going to use my irritating Ross experience as an example of America's failing civility, our lack of basic communication skills and niceties. While on the one hand, those can be superficial, on the other they go a long way towards creating a, well, harmonious and civilized society. They contribute to a world in which it is pleasant to live and work and shop. Unlike the Ross, Nice Day lady.

But, something has been bugging me and here's the heart of it: Two days after returning home I've lost all patience. Just like that. Why didn't I smile and say, "You too!" Heck, why didn't I tell her to have a nice day first? How is society going to get any better if I see these problems and just succumb to them (and then judge them and criticize them on the internet) instead of combating them?

Why wasn't I nice?

So, I'm right back where I started, reminding myself that Ghandi once said, "Be the change you want to see in the world."

I'm going to be a nicer person. I'm going to be more patient. For real, Jesus, I'm going to work on this.

Good Gifts

Thanks to our Heavenly Father, from whom all blessings flow. He is truly the giver of good gifts. And even bad gifts that are designed to turn out for good. Thanks to the Son for being our ultimate gift.

Happy Easter!!

I hope you're enjoying your God-given gifts as much as I'm enjoying mine!

A Really Good Saturday

So, considering that all of my classes are over and I've been harping about this for a while, I'm still waiting on the actual holiday break to occur.  The K-8 school work has been in full swing, and my tutoring sessions have actually increased over the past couple of weeks, so that break?  It ain't here yet.

Plus, I have been majorly procrastinating a huge final paper that's due next week.

But let's talk about Christmas instead!

Yesterday was the annual cookie exchange at my place, and it was a huge success!  I'm breaking out the fat pants as we speak.  Actually, let's be honest, it'll be a miracle if I get out of my pj's today.

First things first, though.  Check out the Hopi/Pueblo-inspired coffee mug that I got in Mesa Verde.  I have a habit of collecting coffee mugs from our trips.  Love. It.

In between rounds of cookie baking, I prepped all of my client Christmas cards.  This week I'll get to the friends and family ones.

These sugar cookies are what I like to call High Maintenance.  But they're so, so worth it.  The icing is home made, too! (#overachiever)

Three designs: circles, Christmas trees, and gingerbread men.

I also made deluxe chocolate chip cookies.  Man, these turned out really well.  You can't go wrong with a classic, I think.

We had a great turnout (introverts prefer the small groups) and enjoyed a roasted corn crab dip and some of Nat King Cole's home made chex mix with some wine and festive conversation.

Cookies included:
* Nat King Cole's pecan shortbread delights (which bring out my hoarder tendencies because I want to eat them for breakfast until about February)
* Smores cookies that I practically pop two at a time
* Cranberry/Oat/White Chocolate cookies so that we can pretend we're being healthy
* Iced pumpkin cookies so we can enjoy fall a bit longer
* Peanut butter/chocolate/oat bars that will bring on a heavenly chorus

But the fun didn't end there!  Afterwards, G and I joined Nat King Cole and Chef Campo at a fundraiser dinner for a Christian indoor skate park/youth outreach ministry call Skatuary.  They sponsored a table and we got to meet some of their church peeps, and learn more about shreddin' some narly stuff for the Lord.  "Board for the Lord."  I don't know, I think I'm too old to fully understand all the lingo.

Then!  We went over to their house to chill for a while, eat some cookies (I mean, let's be honest), and love on their animals.  It was a perfect day.

And look what's for breakfast!