The Long Ride Home -or- A Series of Unfortunate Events Part 1

Last week I traveled home from a 10 day stay in Thailand.  The first part of the trip was for work, and then I stayed an extra four days for vacation.  There was lots of good, great, and awesome about the trip, but one thing that was less than fantastic was that I had jet lag the whole time.

I'm not new to jet lag, but this was pretty impressive.  By the time I was packing to come home, I was fairly well sleep-deficient.  This is important background information for the story.  Following are highlights (or lowlights, in some cases) of my journey home.  The whole ordeal took a mere 42 hours.  Sometimes the best you can say about a harrowing international trip is that it makes for a good story afterwards.  And so, for your reading enjoyment, The Long Ride Home.

Hour 1: Sentimental Farewell Supper
Chiang Mai, Thailand

If you're an unseasoned international traveler, you might imagine that a final meal in a new country is a golden opportunity to enjoy on last taste of the cuisine of said place.  You would, however, be wrong.  Your final meal is also your last chance to have real food (airplane food generally not meeting that standard) for, potentially, many hours.  You should, therefore, always try to find food that you know is safe, both in providing some semblance of nutrition (in my case, protein), and in being neutral enough to not cause any intestinal distress.  Intestinal distress + hours on a plane = disaster.

So, I opted for Burger King at the airport.  Joy, I thought of you and our travels through Bangkok and enjoyment of BK at the airport and snapped this picture:

Things to note about my BK experience:  the cashier asked if I wanted my Whopper Jr. beef or pork (way to be culturally sensitive, BK) and the condiment dispensers contained "American Ketchup" and "Chilli Sauce".

Hour 6: Leslie Fails Spectacularly at Cultural Sensitivity
Guangzhou, China

I had arrived safely at my first layover, in China.  As I arrived in the hall where my departure gate for leg 2 of the journey would begin, I realized that there were no food options in this basement-hall, and set about going back upstairs to forage for sustinance.  There were no stairs.  There was a down escalator, and a small elevator.  Awesome.  A pack of people stood in front of the elevator, most of them African.

[author's note: I like Africans.  With very few exceptions, I have had great experiences with Africans from various nations.  Before I tell this story, let's remember that I was really tired and about to get on a 15 hour flight.  Ready?]

I mentally braced myself.  There's a lot that's different between African and American cultures, not the least of which is our understanding of personal space.  I looked at the number of people waiting to get on the elevator and judged there to be at least 2 loads of people ahead of me.  I am fully confident that every African in the group saw it as one.

The elevator doors opened and a mad dash to cram into the tiny cubical began.  The people in my area didn't even move- so obvious was it that there were already too many people crowding forward.  The group shuffled and re-arranged themselves, trying to become smaller than they were.

The doors did not close.  They were over the weight limit.

We all waited.  The people nearest the opening tried to press further back into the elevator.

The doors did not close.  We all knew someone would have to get off, but of course no one wanted to volunteer.  I helpfully pointed out that the elevator would come back.  FINALLY, three Middle Eastern men extricated themselves from the group and popped out.

The doors closed.

Meanwhile, behind me, more Africans were pushing in, anxious to get in on the next round.  I closed my eyes as the press of anticipation and bodies behind me grew.

When the doors opened again, we surged forward.  I was toward the end of the group and as I got into the tiny metal box I turned abruptly to face the people pushing in behind me.  I threw my arms out wide, blocking the door and said in my best teacher voice,"Stop!  No more.  Please wait for the next elevator."

If I hadn't been so stressed, I'm sure the looks on the faces before me would have sent me into a fit of giggles.  Shock and confusion.  Utter disbelief.  After all, there were probably only 15 people in the elevator- CLEARLY there was space for, I don't know...10 more?

One woman recovered enough to ask accusingly, "So, you are the enforcer?!?" As I pushed the button on the elevator and the doors began to close, I looked at her shamelessly and with as much bravado as I could muster, lied through my teeth, "Yes."

The doors closed.

I couldn't believe that had worked.  A couple of voices (I think the Middle Eastern guys) from behind thanked me.  The rest of the group rode upward in stunned silence.  As we dispersed into the main airport, I heard uproarious laughter from some of the other riders.  They must have been African, and I was happy that they were laughing instead of angry.

I have a master's degree in intercultural studies.  I knew that what I did was TOTALLY outside the realm of acceptable.  I just couldn't seem to muster up the gumption to care in that moment.  I just couldn't.

Hours 22-26: Trapped on the Tarmac
Boston, MA

The 15 hour flight from China to New York's JFK Airport was nearly finished.  I had survived, more or less in tact, thanks in no small part to the GLORIOUS blessing of having an empty seat next to me.  This was literally a gracious answer to prayer.

As we began our decent along the east coast, I noticed that, according to the little map on my personal monitor, we seemed to be taking a rather indirect path to New York.  A few minutes later a very hard-to-understand flight attendant announced that, due to "very terrible weather at the New York", we would be going to Boston, instead.

I gathered enough emotional energy to be unenthusiastic about this new turn of events.  I mentally tried to calculate how long it would take to re-book an entire 777 full of people who were in the wrong city.  I breathed the sigh of the defeated.  I had a 4 hour layover at JFK, but if we all had to be re-booked, there was no way I would make my connecting flight.  And to make it even more awesome, my final flight (4 of 4) was on a separate ticket, with a different airline.  That means that if I miss that flight, I will have to pay for a new ticket and my luggage situation will be nightmare-ish, since it was originally tagged all the way through to Fort Wayne.

I held onto the hope that they would send us back to NYC in time.  Four hours is a long time, after all.

After four incredibly frustrating hours with basically no information on what was going on, we finally did take off again, heading to JFK.  We touched down exactly five minutes before my connecting flight to Chicago was scheduled to leave.  We weren't even in the airport before I had missed my connection.

Awesome.

You know, just telling this story makes me feel tired.  I'm going to have make this a two-parter.  We still have three airports, 16 hours of awesome, a very disappointing experience with pizza, and luggage drama to cover.  I think we all need a break.

To be continued...

White Gloves and Black Walnuts

One of the reasons that fall is my favorite season is that it's the best time to enjoy nature (in my opinion).  The temperatures are neither too hot nor too cold.  The critters are still around.  The trees are at their most magnificent and I love how the bright rainbow of spring and summer colors narrow themselves down to a smaller but equally vibrant palette of reds, oranges, yellows, and browns.

Oh, and the bugs aren't as bad.

I don't like bugs.

Anyway, I love to be out and about in the fall and I'm thankful to be in a city with fantastic walking trails that almost...ALMOST...allow me to trick myself into thinking I'm in the country.  

I've been taking full advantage of those trails this fall, and find myself snapping pictures almost every time.  I just can't help it.  It's so beautiful.  Here, see for yourself.

I like that nature helps to draw my focus to God.  Both the vastness of the ocean and the seeming insignificance of the life of an ant help me to remember that, in fact, life isn't all about me.  This is a perspective that I need lots of help keeping in focus.

Nature also makes me think of my cute funny mom.  For any new (or forgetful) readers, my amazing mom battled cancer for 10 years before graduating to heaven in 2004.  I was 24.

I inherited my appreciation of nature from Mom.

Actually, a more accurate statement is that I'm kindof a washed-out imitation of her love of nature.  I like nature as long as I don't get any on me.  Mom was the real deal.

I remember walking with her in the woods, and looking as she pointed out whole worlds we kids were tromping past, completely unaware.  How this moss can tell you what direction you're going.  How that plant is edible but never, never try to eat a plant you don't know because it could poison you.  How to figure out what animals have been around by their tracks.  How to be still long enough to begin to hear the sounds of the forest.

She pointed out mushrooms and cocoons and special flowers and caterpillars and robins and spiders and a whole host of other things that we seemingly ceased instantly to be blind to.

It's a little like magic to be staring at the same 1 foot square bit of forest floor for a full minute, seeing nothing special, and then suddenly, right before your eyes, a morel mushroom appears.  Seriously.  It's not that you didn't see it and then you did.  It wasn't THERE and then it WAS.  Mom could work that sort of sylvan magic.

This walnut tree stand sentinel at the entry to my favorite stretch of trail.  I took these pictures of this walnut tree both because it was showing off with the vivid blue and white of the sky behind it, and because unhusked walnuts always make me think of my mom, and more specifically, of a story she used to tell from her childhood.

Little Susan and the Walnuts

When Mom was little, preschool and kindergarten weren't really a thing.  Most kids, my mother included, started right into first grade.  Mom was the youngest, so on the morning that Grandma Nell was to take her to her first grade interview, they were the only two at home.  Grandpa Roy was at work, and Janet and David were both at school.

Mom, who was from the first, and to her mother's chagrin, a tomboy, was less than enthusiastic about the special outfit she was dressed in.   (This picture isn't from the day of our story, but it will give you an idea.  That's my mom on the right, with her grandma.  Check out that poofy dress, baby!)

In addition to the Sunday dress and dress shoes, Mom was wearing special white gloves for the occassion.

"You may go outside while I get ready, Susan, but don't get your dress dirty," Grandma Nell warned my mom.  Obedient Susan trotted outside, happy to be released into the great outdoors.

After she finished getting ready, Grandma Nell called mom back into the house so they could leave for the interview at the school.  Mom came back in, pleased with herself for having found some way to entertain herself while still being obedient to her mother's admonition to not dirty her dress.  She had decided to collect all the walnuts that had fallen from the tree in the yard.

The dress was clean.  Unfortunately for Grandma Nell, walnuts contain a natural dye.  Little Susan's beautiful white gloves where now permanently stained black.  I can only imagine that this was not the first time Grandma Nell dealt with similar minor crises surrounding her youngest daughter.  In any case, the fine people at the school agreed to allow mom to come to school in spite of her lack of white gloves, and everyone lived to tell the tale.

The End.

May you too find time and space to enjoy God's creation this fall.

Why I Stopped Reading My Bible

When you teach writing, you teach your students to start with a good hook.  Something interesting, surprising, or shocking to get your reader's attention.

Something like....

Why I Stopped Reading My Bible.

See?  It worked.  You're reading.

Anyway, that title wasn't JUST for shock value.  It's really true.  I'm going to attempt to the brief version of this story.  But we know how I am.  So no promises.

Ten or so month ago, I was at a low point spiritually.  I could probably say, my record low.  My walk with God had become mired in unmet expectations, which led to anger, then bitterness and resentment.  It was delightful.

Needless to say, my devotional life was not stellar.  poor.  non-existent.  I'd forced myself to go through the motions (read some scripture; pray; fall asleep; try to pray some more; give up and set alarm to sleep until time to leave for work) for a long time.  Eventually even the faking it stopped.  I just snoozed my alarm a few extra times.

My counselor asked me about it.  I told her God had stopped showing up, and so eventually, so did I.  She suggested that I try again.  I wasn't interested.  (in defense of my wonderful counselor, this version of our interaction leaves out lots of stuff)

I was in dialogue with a friend during this time.  She has a solid walk with God.  I respect her opinion in Jesus-stuff.  She suggested that I do something else.  Not read my Bible.  Seek God out in other ways.

I was a little scandalized.  Which is ironic, since I wasn't reading my Bible anyway.

My friend had some solid reasoning.  For the majority of Christian history, most Believers never saw God's written word.  Even today, heaps of Believers don't have access to scripture, or ability to read it.

Conclusion: reading the Bible can't be the only way God communicates with his people.

Let's all pause here to relive a couple of events from Sunday School Past:

Teacher: Children, how do we speak to God?
Kids; We pray to him!
Teacher:  Right!  And how does God speak to us?
Kids: We read the Bible!

Is this true?  Yes.

Is it incomplete?  Also yes.

How many ways are there for God to speak to us?

Well now, I don't know.  How many spiritual disciplines are there?  How many mountain ranges are there?  How many spring flowers?  Breath-taking sunrises?  Selfless acts of love?  Children laughing belly-laughs around the world in this very moment?

But back to my story (you know, the brief one?)

Around this same time, another friend invited me to work through a resource called Spiritual Disciplines Handbook by Adele Ahlberg Calhoun.  [author's note:  WONDERFUL resource.  I highly recommend it]  I started working on the disciple of silence.

If you know me, you're probably gasping.  Or laughing.  You're marveling at my courageous choice.  Silence isn't a natural gifting of mine.

It was hard.  IS hard.  Turns out I'm impressively bad at sitting silently, staying awake, and focusing on God, all at the same time.  It's harder than it sounds.  But I liked the simplicity and I kept trying.

It was through silence that God and I began communicating again after months of nothing.  Ironic, yes?

But here's the simple truth: I was finally listening.

Not waiting for an answer.

Open to anything He wanted to say.

Not reading familiar words without comprehension.  Not repeating a stale list of requests.

Just listening.

Just sitting in silence.  Trying and failing and trying again to clear my thoughts of anything but God.

For awhile nothing happened.  Except falling asleep.  But slowly I got better at staying awake and holding my focus.

And He showed up.  He came with a message.  The message isn't important for you.  It was for me.  What I want you to know is that there WAS a message.

I was...well...shocked.  Just like the prayer team doing battle for Peter's release from prison, I was shocked to receive what I had asked for.

The voice was not audible to my ear.  It was audible to my heart.  In a way that I've only heard God speak to me twice before in my 24 years of seeking to follow Christ.  Twice.

A few weeks later, another message.  Just as clear.

Suddenly, time with God wasn't such a chore.  And one day I thought, "I WANT to read my Bible."

I WANT to.  I WANT to sit and wait for God.  I WANT to spend time in His word.

Just last month, a third message.

Are you hearing me when I say to you that God has given me clear messages five times in the past 24 years, and three of those five times have happened since I started practicing the discipline of silence, in SPITE of the fact that I had been a really bad place with God?  Because this is huge.  HUGE!

Now, let's just say this.  I'm not promising you anything here.  Not that you need to buy that book and do what I did and then God will speak into your silence.  I am not a prophet, and God is not a genie, to perform for us if we do the right combination of things.  I'm just telling you what I'm learning.

I'm learning that time with God doesn't necessarily need to involve a Bible.  Or prayer.  Or a devotional book.  God uses those tools, but He's pretty creative and flexible.  They're not the only tools in his toolbox.

I'm learning that God may not be so hard to hear as I've always thought.  Maybe it's just that I haven't really been listening.  Not long enough.  Not deep enough.  Maybe, just maybe, He is more excited to speak than I am to hear.  If I can just sit in the silence long enough.

How to Weed Wack Your Yard

This past weekend I moved into a house.  I'm renting, and have the (ahem) privilege of now being in charge of nearly an acre of yard.  Some unknown, gracious neighbor has cut the grass twice now, between the time when the owner moved out and I moved in.  However, said awesome neighbor did not do any trim work, so that was looking pretty sketchy.

Last weekend my wonderful, generous, amazing father and step mom came to help me with a day and a half of cleaning and painting in the new place.  Man, did we have fun!  Well, ok, "fun" might be a bit of a stretch, but it was good bonding time.  And we were super-productive.  They're awesome like that.  That was Thursday evening and all day Friday.

The next day (Saturday morning) I went back to trim by hand.  I mean, it looked really bad.  I took my gardening gloves, my scissors, and one of my two gardening tools- a small pair of clippers.

If you've ever tried to trim an acre of yard with scissors, you're probably snickering right now.  Fair enough.  Two hours, a giant blister on my right middle finger, and a wet, nasty mess later, the front part of the yard looked a bit less hillbilly.  And I was determined to find a better solution.

As it turns out, my sister and brother-in-law had recently left a used weed wacker behind when they moved to Seattle, and my brother, Josh,  had been using it.  After seeing my pitifulness, he gave it to me as a house warming gift.  :)

So this morning, day 3 in my new house and Memorial Day, I decided to gather my courage and give it a try.

Allow me to interject here about the emotional strain that has come along with yard work for me.  There are undoubtedly HUNDREDS of things at which I am totally and completely inept.  Milking a cow?  No idea.  Car maintenance (beyond oil changes, tire changes, and giving someone a jump)?  Clueless.  I'm also pretty bad at making fried chicken, which is disappointing to me.  But generally, the things I suck at are things I can avoid without much trouble.

Then I started renting a house with a giant yard.

Yes, I grew up on a farm with a giant yard, but I wasn't the one who kept it looking nice.  I've mowed once or twice, but generally that wasn't one of my chores.  I'd never even HELD a weed wacker before last week.

Anywho, this morning seemed the perfect time to put on my Big Girl Panties and git er done.  No time like the present to try out something intimidating and potentially beyond your abilities.

I tried to bolster my courage by reminding myself that 13 year old boys regularly do yard work.  Surely I can keep up with a 13 year old boy, right?

I put on my work clothes and my oldest sneakers.  I got out my shades (thank you, cousin Muir, for this stellar suggestion).  I grabbed the WW and headed to the back yard.  I figured it'd be easier on my ego to figure it out where no one could see me.

When he was here helping me move, Josh had gone over (very quickly) how to start the machine.  There were a lot of steps and I'm not an auditory learner.  Seeing helps me, not hearing.  I nodded a lot and tried to appear competent.

Now as I looked at the WW, I was greatly relieved to see that the 10 steps are on a little sticker on the side of the engine.  (TEN STEPS!?!?!  just to START the thing!)  Then I noticed that there was no gas in it.

In hindsight, I realized that when Josh had said, "You're welcome for the gas I gave you" he was being sarcastic.  The tank was completely empty.

I left the WW in the grass, grabbed my wallet and keys, and headed to the car.  20 minutes and $20 later, I was back with a shiny new gas can and gas, which, given the price, SHOULD by all rights self-fill with gasoline.  After a bit more experience feeling dumb while trying to use the fancy new spout thingy that's supposed to keep the gas from evaporating, I got the tank filled and got it started.

You know.  Ten steps.

Now her comes the part of a WW that saved my life.  It has a strap.  The strap goes around one shoulder and your neck and carries most of the weight of the machine.  SO SMART!  Kudos to whomever figured out that little stroke of genius.

Did you know that the little plastic strings that do the cutting on a WW disappear as you work?  Yep.  They just disintegrate, right before your eyes.  Did you also know that to pull out more plastic string, you just tap the head on the ground while holding down on the throttle?  Well, I didn't know that until today.  Thanks, Dad.  It's pretty nifty, that.

So around the yard I went, wacking merrily away at my unruly weeds.  After gaining a little courage, I headed to the front yard.  Here are some other discoveries I made this morning:

-If you try to move too fast, you can actually stop the spinning by getting caught in the overgrown weeds.  That's probably not manufacturer-recommended.

-Height is important in this job.  Too high, you just blow the weeds around.  Too low, and you end up skinning a patch of grass down to dirt.  Oops.

-With a bit of encouragement, a WW will happily strip off tree bark and house paint.  Also not recommended.

-WW are apparently designed with people with strong arms in mind.  If like me, your upper arm strength leaves a bit to be desired, do not plan to do anything requiring good small motor skills immediately after WWing.  Watercolor painting is probably out for a couple hours.

-When you're planning your day, be sure to calculate time to shower after your WWing is done.  And you should cover your hair.  Do you know how much fun it is to get grass out of your hair?  Each.  Blade.  Individually.

And so.  I wacked until I ran out of plastic string.  My brother assures me that doesn't run out too much.  I guess I was just lucky to get to experience it in my first go.

Now, an hour and a half after the string ran out, I'm sitting contentedly on my couch in my new living room- clean, and with an arm recovered enough to type again.

That wasn't so bad.  My yard looks MUCHO much nicer than it did.  And now if someone asks if I know how to use a WW I can say yes with confidence.

If they ask if I WANT to use a WW, though, my answer might be a little different.