On Thursday night, just after midnight, I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling and asking God what I should be doing next with my life.  It’s not a new conversation but rather the frequent verse of a song He and I have been dancing silently to for months.  Ever since completing my seminary degree I’ve been asking “Now what?”

I know there is answer because two years ago I asked if I could drop out, and the answer was as close to audible as possible: “No!”  I didn’t get the why then but kept going to Greek and a year later to Hebrew.  I struggled so much with these two courses.  Yes, I ended each semester with an “A” grade on the report card, but I felt lost each and every time I opened the book or attempted to answer a question in class.  I hated that feeling so much and felt just enveloped by it.  In fall of 2011, I struggled with months of lasting depression that I could not identify or explain until I failed a Hebrew quiz in January.  Slipping out of the room to cry I finally understood.  There is only so long you can feel like an idiot, that you can run into the same wall over and over again before the tears come.  That realization was freeing because it gave me a choice: do I walk away from the course now (and possibly from the degree) or do I embrace five more months of feeling like an idiot for four hours every Monday?  I chose the latter, in part for that divine “No” a year before and in part because I knew I would hate myself much more in the long run for giving up.  I returned to class, put verb conjugations on my iPod for the gym, and kept stacks of vocabulary cards in the living room, bathroom, and my purse.  In August of 2011 I was done, but not quite sure why.

Skip ahead through months of asking, waiting, reading for pleasure, running, loss of family members, journeys to London and Chicago, more asking, and more waiting.  I’ve put my toes into new experiences with coaching, mentoring, and urban ministry.  I’ve signed up for my first marathon.  I’ve said yes to the social invitations I had to deny for so long.  But the overarching vision has been missing.

So on Thursday night I repeated the question again, and acknowledged that one benefit of the wait has been seeking God’s guidance more than normal.  I may be a girl with two religion degrees, but its amazing how little I interact with the Creator.  Just past midnight I felt like there was almost an answer for once, “Write.”  Now God has given me beyond a doubt answers three times in my life, and this one does not get to be added to the list, but at the same time I’m not sure the answer was just me.  For one thing, if I was answering my own question it would have been a lot more clear, like “Pursue a Business Degree through Warner”, “Move to London to be a tour guide at Westminster Abbey”, or “Stay exactly where you are because a change is coming in 6 months.”  I sure as heck would not have said “Write”.  Write what?  A thesis?  A dissertation?  A blog?  A letter?  A Match.com application? (please not that one).

So I’ve given God a three-month deadline for some clarity before I make some of my own changes.  In one of my Bible classes at Western Seminary I remember the professor describing how in the Psalms, which we sing so sweetly in church, David would sometimes bargain with God, promising to give Him all the glory if a desired outcome turned out (I method I’ve been attempting with a family dispute for over five years with no luck YET).  And a book I read by Jerry Sittser about unanswered prayer described the importance of honesty with God, since He knows what I’m thinking anyways.  So I’m thinking I need vision, and would prefer it to be eternal but will substitute a little earthly one until He speaks a little louder.  This is not a threat, ultimatum, or blackmail; just a first draft submission.  I know I may not like His response, but I am ready to accept it.

I have never been “in love” with another person.  I love my family, for all of their blessings and struggles, and I love my friends, who from time to time become my family.  I’ve had some high quality crushes in the past that ended with wimpers as the gentlemen involved, who I assume had no idea, moved on to relationships in the real world rather than my daydreams.  And I’ve loved students or children I’ve worked with, knowing these individuals are part of my life for a time and need to just be loved during that time and then released.  But in all of that time I’ve never experienced the emotions that inspire writers of sonnets, heroes in battle, or the ones who wait patiently at home for their hero to return.

I have been “in love” with places though.  I’ve come to find sacred spaces in my life that I go through an emotional release just by being in.  One of these places is the front of a sanctuary, any sanctuary.  Being in the same physical space where thousands of sermons have been given, hundreds of weddings performed, and hundreds of last goodbyes spoken at funerals almost brings me to tears.  You are standing on holy ground.  When I’ve had internships at churches in the past, I loved sneaking into the sanctuary on a weekday afternoon, and just walking up the aisle to those front stairs.  I would not speak until reaching the stairs, and even then every uttered syllable had to be worth breaking the quiet.  I would only stay a few minutes in that space, for fear that my wandering thoughts would spoil the room, but the rest of the day shifted just by those few moments of complete worship.

This week I had to say goodbye to a beloved place in my life.  For over two years I’ve been working with a group of students at Warner Pacific’s Wilsonville Campus.  We only had two groups at that location during this short time, and unfortunately found that there was not enough interest to financial support it long-term.  I was scared at first to be the counselor for this location after learning of the struggles of another campus location and wondering what this whole new area would bring.  Would I be good enough for them?  What I discovered about these students was that they were sacrificing more than what I was experiencing with our other students because many of them had waited months for this campus to begin, and some were driving 30 minutes or more to get there from Salem or other southern locations.  The experience was not perfect, we all were human after all, but it was a true delight.

While I am missing that campus and those students, I’m missing just as much and perhaps even more the drive from Portland to Wilsonville.  It was a 40 minute commute no matter the time of day.  I would head down I-205 to I-5 then take the exit by the Sonic sign and enjoy a quick trip through town to the high school.  The beautiful paradox of the drive came during the last few miles of I-205.  The road at this point was just two lanes, with the other two on the other side of a mound.  On either side of these last miles were miles and miles of trees.  Even though there were typically cars around me, I would feel transported to some wilderness space, feeling free from the burdens behind me and capable of just driving off into the woods for an adventure (if not for the guard rails beside me).  Three minutes from this quiet bliss, via one overpass, I would be on a four lane highway: I-5.  Suddenly life had caught up in the form of a passing semi and the world was rushing back in.  Geographically it was like skipping from Alaska to California.  There were flat spaces all around, if you could see them beyond the cars and buildings.  A few times I laughed out loud at the complete change in just a few minutes time.  A few minutes later I would reach my exit and be within a long walk’s distance to the destination.

I loved that commuting paradox and would say thank you to its designer.  You created art in the midst of a 40 minute drive.

I know exactly what I’m supposed to write about in this post but I don’t want to.  I know that I’m supposed to write about my father today with such clarity that there might as well be a syllabus sitting in front of me an a proctor wandering the room to ensure that I stay on topic.  But there isn’t really a syllabus or a proctor and I don’t want to write about him.  Instead I am sitting in the Tabor Space Coffee Shop, resting in quiet anonymity after coffee with friends.  There are about a dozen people here, plus a few little ones playing, crying, scrambling, waving, and wondering about the bright screen on a few tables around the room.  There is noise and activity, but none of these lovely individuals know me or the assignment that is before me.  They might think I’m Facebooking, perhaps grading a paper, or maybe writing that illusive great American novel that I have heard so much about (once upon a time I thought there really was a book called “The Great American Novel” and tried to find it in the library, but no luck).  They don’t know that I’m writing and writing without saying anything other than no, nyet, uh-uh, and other just as helpful rejection statements.  Perhaps I should ask one of these toddlers for some tantrum lessons because my own process seems doomed to failure.

Why do I have this assumed assignment about my father?  Because over the past few weeks I’ve had conversations with students, co-workers, and friends that included this bizarre hole in my life.  Just last night I had to dance around the topic twice as I attempted to explain with a smile on my face while I spent about 30 minutes weeping under a cross last fall rather than participating in a labyrinth with the rest of my department.   The whole story is just too grey to understand.  There is no black and white which is what verbal conversation demands.  But print, especially the semi- anonymous nature of electronic print embraces the grey, perhaps even demands it as Pinterest fills in the 1,000s of words we can’t seem to find in our native tongues.

The black and white is easy: my father’s name is Bruce, he and my mother met at a costume party in college, my parents were married seven years, he remarried after their divorce, he had two more children, and he is living in Texas.

The grey is just grey: I don’t know my father’s middle name or how old he is, my parents met through a blind date where he was dressed as a pimp and my future mother a prostitute, my parents divorced because my father wanted to marry the woman he was having an affair with, my siblings are sweet and interesting individuals who know our father much better than I and bear much brighter scars (and whom I do not know as well as I would like because of time and distance), and my father may be dying in Texas.

See why I don’t want to write about him?  This man is part of my DNA and part of my story, more by his absence than by his presence.  He is the very identity of “What if…”  Each time my mind and heart wander to him they return quickly, unsure how much to feel, how much to trust, how much to hope for.  I hate the scars he has left on the rest of my family.  I hate that he does not care about me; a fact proven by almost a year of silence after emails last spring.  And I hate that I’m not going to get to understand why.

But…

I love the rest of this family (which means yes, there are crazy people but they’re mine).  I love that there have been other men in my life to show that this is not what a man, father, and person is supposed to be like.  And I love that these scars do not define my entire person.  And if I’m being honest, I love that if he reached out to me right now I would not turn him away, no matter the pain such an invitation guarantees.

So there is pain, confusion, love, acceptance, and always hope hiding at Tabor Space this afternoon.

For over two years now I’ve been having a fight with the 6th grade version of myself.  Her name is Megan.  She has a little toddler brother at home, volunteered to play tuba in band without knowing what a tuba is, and is running on the final fumes of her elementary school popularity.  See her mom was a kindergarten teacher where she and all of her friends went, and everyone liked the mom so they liked the kid.  But by middle school, that connection didn’t matter any more.  What did matter was that Megan was a nerd, and an overweight nerd at that.  She was a bit of a daydreamer as well which didn’t help in connecting with middle school drama drama drama.

Upon graduating high school, I spent a summer working at camp and called myself Meg for the first time.  I liked the potential of the name; for some reason it just fit better even through nothing changed from the day before when Megan was packing up.  But as years have gone by, Meg has become more independent, prouder of her nerdiness and daydreaming, and no longer living under the legacy of her mother or grandfather (who has a powerful one as well).

So why am I fighting with this memory of Megan so often now, over a decade later?  Because Megan doesn’t understand my life.  She expected to be a marine mammalologist after college, to be married, and to be living in Alaska.  And she never expected me to pay $40 to get up at 6:45am on a Sunday to run for 6.2 miles.  Every time my alarm clock goes off earlier than it has to, so I get in a short run before work, Megan gives me an eye roll or very mature “Whatever!” and wishes I was getting up to watch Saved by the Bell instead.

This morning, during the Bridge to Brew 10K, I found myself silent for once against my inner pre-teen.  I recognized how completely crazy this notion of paying to run was.  Heck, I didn’t even stick around for the two free beers and clam chowder.  I haven’t quite figured out how to tell her that this summer we’ll have to begin training for a marathon in October (that just might give Megan her first panic attack).

For the rest of Megan’s expectations, I would love to swim with dolphins one day, I still hope for romance and marriage, and a trip to Alaska sounds great though my dream home would be overlooking the river Thames in London.  I can’t win my arguments with Megan because we just don’t see eye to eye anymore.  There is no way I can convince her that her gym teachers were right about exercise being fun sometimes, and that soda is not actually good for you.  And there is no way she can convince me that neon stretch pants, sneaking half a pizza, or candy poker games during recess are good things.

Sorry Sweetie, gonna play the grown up card and say we’re doing what I want to do, because I said so.

While I was growing up, my mother was a kindergarten teacher.  For five years I went to school with her in the morning, playing in her classroom before school with the farm, sifting through the rice box, or getting the dolls all dressed up for the day.  On special mornings we would pick up a bagel at Burger King on the way in and I would watch Inspector Gadget while she prepared for the day.  Later on the mornings would be time for last-minute homework or preparing for a spelling test.

In middle school I was dropped off at my school before my mom headed into work, then I walked to her building (7 blocks from mine; this was when I learned to read while walking) after school.  By this point I wasn’t playing with the sheep that looked like dogs any more, but I still was part of that world by creating example art projects or putting up bulletin boards.  I remember one coloring project where I was a bit bored, so instead of coloring in the two kids on the sheet completely, I just outlined them with the colors I choose.  It was funny to see that most of the kids had copied my work, even though it looks a bit odd and they had never even met me.  I had such authority in these little one’s eyes.

In high school I had stopped attending my own church services and instead helped out with the kindergarteners one summer before giving up on church completely for a little while.  I volunteered at camp a few times and even worked there for two summers.  In college I had two children’s ministry internships and volunteered at a Four Square church during two school years before trying out youth ministry for a while.

After I graduated from college, I didn’t know what the right next steps were for me.  I had planned on using my Religion major to work in children’s ministry but found that role was more about acquiring volunteers than about being with the kids.  And youth ministry was fun, but I was not the stereotypical youth leader and didn’t want to be.  Churches wanted married men for that role who had a lot of extroverted energy and some athletic skills to connect with the kids; I was just too much of a bookworm and schedule-girl to fit that role.  So to buy myself a bit of time I applied for about 40 jobs and found myself working with the YMCA in an after-school program for a year.  Much like children’s ministry, the position turned out to be more about budgets and curriculum than just being with the kids so I knew this was not my long-term destiny.

There is more to this story, like with any story, but the point is that I am good with kids.  I have experience working with them since I was one and I find it fun.  I know about twistable crayons, graveyard sodas, and snipe hunting, as well as who Phineas, Fred, Carly, Artemis Fowl, and Dora are.  At a party, I will often choose to play with the toddlers rather than the grown ups because I understand their world a bit better (I’m working on this wallflower tendency).

So you may be wondering the point of this story, especially if you’re looking back to the title of this post.  Kids and education are my comfort zone.  Last night, standing on the corner of SE 82nd and Powell was not.  Last night, talking with strangers and sharing hot dogs, was miles away from my warm and safe comfort zone.  But it was where I needed to be.  I’ve done the comfort zone, and get to go back to visit every time I babysit Natalie or Josiah and Abraham, but it’s not where I’m supposed to be limited to.  A friend asked me earlier this week (in her wonderful and annoyingly penetrating way) what are some of my goals and challenges moving forward in my career.  The thought that sprung to mind first was about authority; discerning what authority I have in my role and in my person and wisely determining how to use that authority.  After a day or two of mulling, I realized that my goal is to be bigger than one role, than one sphere, than one zone no matter right or comfortable that zone might be.  So in a few weeks I’ll be back out on 82nd and Powell, helping with Second Stories again and hopefully shivering a bit less in the cold.  I want to venture outside of my comfort zone more often because it is there, in the new world that we get to experience the surprises that make life so amazing and worth it. 

Portland was out of the Yakima comfort zone, and now its home.  Running was outside of the couch potato comfort zone, and now its my primary hobby (I’m even volunteering as a coach with elementary girls this spring).  And right now I’m out of my comfort zone with a Lent commitment to caffeine only one day a week, and I’ve learned I really can survive without it.  So here I am, far from zone and sometimes exactly where I belong.

Almost every morning this week I set my alarm early, in hopes of getting up for a short jog before work.  My wide awake brain at 11pm or midnight knows it will be tough to get up on time, but it tells my alarm clock that it will be worth it to get some fresh air before 9 hours in an office building and that I won’t regret the choice by the time I get out on the sidewalk.  And almost every morning this week I managed to hit snooze too many times to make it out in time.  Why those extra 9 minutes (times 3) are so tempting to my groggy morning brain I’m not sure.  The silver lining was that I made it to work on time or early each day I failed to hit the sidewalks, but still that failure to make it up and out as hoped was this annoying thorn to the week.

Which brings this post to today, the one day I made it up an out in time to jog to Target and back before heading to Starbucks for grading and some work email.  Yes, the snooze button was still hit but happily not as much and the window was still open for a 20 minute jog before starting the day.  I put on a few layers, and a bandana with cute flowers on it.  As I walked through the parking lot to my traditional starting place, my eyes appreciated the mostly clear skies with hints of blue and purple among the clouds.  Over the freeway I spotted a rainbow and stood wonderstruck in the lot as I realized I could see an entire arch faintly shining against a blue backdrop.  My camera attempted to capture the sight, but I know those shots will not do justice to the wonder of that moment; this is why I need to get up in the morning: to see what wonders God has in store.  I headed north along the sidewalk for my short loop to Target and back, one I’ve done many times before and know lasts about 6 songs on the iPod.  A few raindrops began to come down half-way to my destination, but they were just the runaways from a single cloud and not worthy of real notice or redirection.  It was as I turned at the Target driveway that the other clouds joined in and brought drops cascading down my back and into puddles before me all the way home.  My apartment felt nice and toasty to a semi-drowned rat after I came across my front doorway again.

I sat for a few minutes on the couch, catching my breath and ditching my bandana.  Unlike the rhyme about entering as a lion and ending like a lamb, I had started under a blue sky and rainbow, then ended with the rain pouring down.  But if that rain had been there as I walked across the parking lot, would I have gone?  No.  I would have headed back to shower, back to a magazine, or back to bed (probably back to bed).  Sometimes the journey needs to start easy, to start beautiful so that when you are in the midst of the struggles, the downpour, you have that hopeful beauty to hold onto and too much work put in to back out now.  I read a sign a week ago that sums it up well: “When you feel like giving up, remember why you held on so long.”

When the snow starts to fall in Portland, a very rare event, I have the experience of living Romans 7 between my head and my heart.  My head looks at the weather predictions, sees the cars driving past, knows the youth of my car, and estimates the simple journey to my destination.  My heart just beats louder and louder as I flash back to three Christmases ago as I drove for 7 hours in the snow attempting to get home and arriving only at The Dalles.  My feet, a Switzerland in the midst of the rising battle, are stuck, already in their laced up tennis shoes and assuming that we are all heading out to church and then soccer this afternoon.  But since no body part can dominate the rest (a bit of 1 Corinthian experience), I remain standing at the window, staring at the lovely snowflakes fall down and wishing some part of me would win already.

Finally the snow lets up, the blue skies part and I’m freed to drive to church and listen to a sermon on vocation.  Pastor Rick spoke about that calling we all hear for our lives that can get drowned out by pursuit of the American Dream, the corporate ladder, and that picture perfect retirement destination.  Ironically I am reading a book on this same topic right as well as teaching on spirituality in the midst of the everyday, so his words resonate with other thoughts I’ve been having and a drive to not only seek out a larger life for myself but also for my students.  At no point in the sermon, or in my reflections, does the focus shift to abandoning all to run away to France.  Instead it is about seeing the ministry and worship within the everyday, to seeing the brothers and sisters who are waiting in the next office or car lane over in need of a bit of mercy or joy.  I work on my scarf and smile silently as God brings together a few more threads in my wondering heart.  And I am grateful for those blue skies that allowed me to come today.

With no one to visit with after church I bundle up to head for soccer but meet the view through the windows first.  Snowflakes are again cascading down; beautiful and terrifying.  My mind again goes to my phone, my heart again beats louder, and my feet still remain for 10 minutes, not knowing which way to turn.  This time the skies do not let up in time; I make a break for home and warmth and the promise I won’t be stuck 72+ blocks from home.  I wish I was stronger than this memory, that by willpower I could change the direction my feet are now headed, but this is who I am for right now: she who fears driving in snow.

In 5 minutes I will have missed all of soccer for this week, a fact I truly regret.  So instead I am focusing on the mercy this experience shows as well: there will be another small group gathering for soccer next week and I can enter those doors without penance or fear.  I am welcome there, just as I was welcome in the church this morning to learn about calling, and I am welcomed home by candles, blankets, chai, and a bit of Once Upon a Time.

It looks like I was given two sermons today.

Gertrude Stein once said, “America is my country and Paris is my hometown.”  I’m not sure when she said this or why, but I know that in many ways I echo this feeling but for me, London is my hometown.  There is something about that city that I have loved for most of my life, even before I visited there the first time three years ago.  Maybe it’s the cathedrals with windows that point to the heavens and tourists who have no understanding of the sacred stones they are walking on.  Or perhaps it is the story of a city that refuses to give in, even when German warplanes bombard her rooftops with fire night after night.  Or maybe it’s the possibility of a street like Portobello Road (I sometimes day-dream of dancing there with Angela Lansbury and David Tomlinson).  I’m not sure what it is about that city, but even as I prepare to travel there in a few days, I know six days will not be enough to quench this thirst.

Realizing my time will be short, I’ve decided to focus on just a few experiences rather than trying to squish in the insane amount I attempted with my mother a few years ago.

• Portobello Road – We visited last time on a weekday and were a bit saddened by the last of life.  I did pick up my two favorite souvenirs there: a compass and a small plaque “In 1832 on this spot nothing happened.”  This time I’ll venture back on a Saturday when the booths are out and hopefully the tourists too.
• Royal Parks Half Marathon – This is one of my better and more foolish ideas since I’ll be running / walking this journey about 24 hours after landing in the city.  I wish I was prepared enough to run the entire thing but for this round I will have to obey my legs when they demand a break.
• St. Paul’s Cathedral – Three years ago I traveled to this church by myself while my mother returned to Westminster Abbey for their gift shop (yes, I’ll definitely be returning to the abbey as well).  I made it, slowly, up the 257 steps to the Whispering Gallery of the Dome, then back down, even more slowly.  I was disappointed by the experience but couldn’t figure out why for a long while.  Now I can finally admit that I was angry at myself for being in such horrible shape that I couldn’t make it up the 528 steps to the top.  I want to make it all the way to the top, even if I am huffing, puffing, and looking like an American tourist.  I want to look out over that golden dome and onto the city from one of the best views around (a view that volunteer firefighters fought for during World War II).  I’m going to make it this time.
• Westminster Abbey – More than going back, I just want to be there longer, hiding in a corner somewhere, reading through Psalms and wondering at how God allowed man to create this amazing work.
• Speaker’s Corner – Where else can you hear about men who want to save the world next to others predicting its end due to an alien invasion.  It’s no more insane than the 2012 Presidential Debates in mid-2011.
• Wandering – There are plenty of other maybes and possibles that I have notes in my bag for, but mostly I just want to wander up and down the Thames, sometimes in my running shoes, and pretend for a few minutes that it truly is my hometown.

I’m not sure who I want to be when I grow up, let alone what I want to do.  But what I do know is that for now I want to explore who I can be in this time and in this place.  One of the doors I might want some day is to continue with my formal education, either through courses at a community college, another master’s degree, or perhaps that doctorate gauntlet.  To try and keep the doors open, while also enjoying my current space, I decided to create a type of syllabus on reading for pleasure.

The people in the real world (sorry Facebook, you’re not a real boy yet) that I’ve shared this idea with have definitely given me a smile and laugh that I believe God created just in my honor.  It’s a lovely mixture of you’re nuts / that’s cute / there might be some logic there.  So feel free to LOL at this schedule, then take what nuggets of potential you’d like.

Basically I’m rotating between four different types of books:

• Christian – history, cultural studies, philosophy, etc
• Running – may expand to exercise in general later
• Dante – because my thesis project involved too much skimming and not enough depth
• Other – including fiction or just books that don’t fit into the other categories

This nice circle of reading (or perhaps chain of reading…HIMYM anyone?) gives me balance and works well with my internal ADHD and OCD forces that hate boredom and enjoy structure as long as its self-imposed.  I’ve just finished my first cycle and am loving it so far.  I’m also starting to go for walks before work in the morning which means I’m getting to read twice a day and multi-task with the physical and mental fitness areas.

So there you go, Meg’s RD 101: “Reading for Pleasure in the August 2011 season”