A little news to share, as I have an internship site secured for my counseling program. I will be on a small Christian college campus, in the student counseling center. I'm pretty excited! And nervous, but at this point, since I don't actually start until August/September, the excitement outweighs the nervousness. I am looking forward to experiencing a different college campus atmosphere than my alma mater and previous workplace, and just being a part of college life again.
David and I have also begun tentatively searching for a home to buy. I forgot what a tense process this can be (weighing priorities- his versus mine, balancing that against what we can afford; it's almost enough to make me forget the idea all together). But, it has been fun to look at some homes and start imagining what projects we can do, how I would repaint and decorate, etc. Half our stuff is still boxed up and in storage, since we had anticipated that we might not stay in our apartment for the duration of our time here. So it is a little strange to be "home", but with half as much stuff as we used to have out.
That's all for now...
Monday, March 26, 2007
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
the ragman: a reflection on Easter
The Ragman, by Walter Wangerin, Jr.
I saw a strange sight. I stumbled upon a story most strange, like nothing my life, my street sense, my sly tongue had ever prepared me for. Hush, child. Hush, now, and I will tell it to you.
Even before the dawn on Friday morning I noticed a young man, handsome and strong, walking the alleys of the City. He was pulling an old cart filled with clothes both bright and new, and he was calling in a clear tenor voice: “Rags!” Ah, the air was foul and the first light filthy to be crossed by such sweet music!
“Rags! New rags for old! I take your tired rags! Rags!”
“Now, this is a wonder, “ I thought to myself, for the man stood six-feet-four, and his arms were like tree limbs, hard and muscular, and his eyes flashed intelligence. Could he find no better job than this, to be a ragman in the inner city?
I followed him. My curiosity drove me. And I wasn’t disappointed.
Soon the Ragman saw a woman sitting on her back porch. She was sobbing into her handkerchief, sighing, and shedding a thousand tears. Her knees and elbows made a sad X. Her shoulders shook. Her heart was breaking.
The Ragman stopped his cart. Quietly he walked to the woman, stepping round tin cans, dead toys, and Pampers.
“Give me your rag,” he said so gently, “and I’ll give you another.”
He slipped the handkerchief from her eyes. She looked up, and he laid across her palm a linen cloth so clean and new that it shined. She blinked from the gift to the giver.
Then, as he began to pull his cart again, the Ragman did a strange thing: he put her stained, snotty handkerchief to his own face; and then he began to weep, to sob as grievously as she had done, his shoulders shaking. Yet she was left behind without a tear.
“This is a wonder,” I breathed to myself, and I followed the sobbing Ragman like a child who cannot turn away from a mystery.
“Rags! Rags! New rags for old!”
In a little while, when the sky showed gray behind the rooftops and I could see the shredded curtains hanging out black windows, the Ragman came across a girl whose head was wrapped in a bandage, whose eyes were empty. Blood soaked her bandage. A single line of blood ran down her cheek.
Now the tall Ragman looked upon this child with pity, and he drew a lovely yellow bonnet from his cart.
“Give me your rag,” he said, tracing his own line on her cheek, “and I’ll give you mine.”
The child could only gaze at him while he loosened her bandage, removed it, and tied it to his own head. The bonnet he set on hers. And I gasped at what I saw: for with the bandage went the wound! Against his brow it ran a darker, more substantial blood—his own!
“Rags! Rags! I take old rags!” cried the sobbing, bleeding, strong, intelligent Ragman.
The sun hurt the sky now, and my eyes; the Ragman seemed more and more in a hurry.
“Are you going to work?” he asked a man who leaned against a telephone pole. The man shook his head.
The Ragman inquired, “Do you have a job?”
“Are you crazy?” sneered the other. He pulled away from the pole, revealing the right sleeve of his jacket. It was flat, the cuff stuffed into the pocket; he had no arm.
“So,” said the Ragman. “Give me your jacket, and I’ll give you mine.”
Such quiet authority in his voice! The one-armed man took off his jacket. So did the Ragman—and I trembled at what I saw; for the Ragman’s arm stayed in his jacket, and when the other put it on, then he had two good arms, thick as tree limbs; but the Ragman had only one.
“Go to work,” he said.
After that he saw a drunk, lying unconscious beneath an army blanket, an old man, hunched, wizened, and sick. He took that blanket and wrapped it around himself, but for the drunk he left a new suit of clothes.
And now I had to run to keep up with the Ragman. Though he was weeping uncontrollably, and bleeding freely at his forehead, pulling his cart with one arm, stumbling for drunkenness, falling again and again, exhausted, old, old and sick, yet he went very fast. On spider’s legs, he skittered through the alleys of the City, this mile and the next, until he’d come to its limits, and then he rushed beyond.
I wept to see the change in this man. I hurt to see his sorrow. And yet I needed to see where he was going in such a haste, perhaps to know what drove him so.
The little old Ragman—he came to a landfill. He came to a garbage dump. And then I wanted to help him in what he did, but I hung back, hiding. He climbed a hill. With tormented labor he cleared a little space on that hill. Then he sighed. He lay down. He pillowed his head on a handkerchief and jacket. He covered his bones with an army blanket. And he died.
Oh, how I cried to witness that death! I slumped in a junked car and wailed and mourned as one who has no hope—because I had come to love the Ragman. Every other face had faded in the wonder of this man, and I cherished him; but he died. I cried myself to sleep.
I did not know—how could I know?—that I slept through Friday night and Saturday and its night, too.
But then, on Sunday morning, I was wakened by a violence. Light—slammed against my sour face, and I blinked, and I looked, and I saw the last and the first wonder of all. There was the Ragman, folding the blanket most carefully, a scar on his forehead, but alive! And, besides that, healthy! There was no sign of sorrow nor of age, and all the rags that he had gathered shined for cleanliness.
Well, then I lowered my head and, trembling for all I had seen. I myself walked up to the Ragman. I told him my name with shame, for I was a sorry figure next to him. Then I took off all my clothes in that place, and I said to him with dear yearning in my voice: “Dress me.”
He dressed me. My Lord, he put new rags on me, and I am a wonder beside him. The Ragman, the Ragman, the Christ!
Isaiah 53:4-5, "Surely he took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows, yet we consider him stricken by God, smitten by him, and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed."
I saw a strange sight. I stumbled upon a story most strange, like nothing my life, my street sense, my sly tongue had ever prepared me for. Hush, child. Hush, now, and I will tell it to you.
Even before the dawn on Friday morning I noticed a young man, handsome and strong, walking the alleys of the City. He was pulling an old cart filled with clothes both bright and new, and he was calling in a clear tenor voice: “Rags!” Ah, the air was foul and the first light filthy to be crossed by such sweet music!
“Rags! New rags for old! I take your tired rags! Rags!”
“Now, this is a wonder, “ I thought to myself, for the man stood six-feet-four, and his arms were like tree limbs, hard and muscular, and his eyes flashed intelligence. Could he find no better job than this, to be a ragman in the inner city?
I followed him. My curiosity drove me. And I wasn’t disappointed.
Soon the Ragman saw a woman sitting on her back porch. She was sobbing into her handkerchief, sighing, and shedding a thousand tears. Her knees and elbows made a sad X. Her shoulders shook. Her heart was breaking.
The Ragman stopped his cart. Quietly he walked to the woman, stepping round tin cans, dead toys, and Pampers.
“Give me your rag,” he said so gently, “and I’ll give you another.”
He slipped the handkerchief from her eyes. She looked up, and he laid across her palm a linen cloth so clean and new that it shined. She blinked from the gift to the giver.
Then, as he began to pull his cart again, the Ragman did a strange thing: he put her stained, snotty handkerchief to his own face; and then he began to weep, to sob as grievously as she had done, his shoulders shaking. Yet she was left behind without a tear.
“This is a wonder,” I breathed to myself, and I followed the sobbing Ragman like a child who cannot turn away from a mystery.
“Rags! Rags! New rags for old!”
In a little while, when the sky showed gray behind the rooftops and I could see the shredded curtains hanging out black windows, the Ragman came across a girl whose head was wrapped in a bandage, whose eyes were empty. Blood soaked her bandage. A single line of blood ran down her cheek.
Now the tall Ragman looked upon this child with pity, and he drew a lovely yellow bonnet from his cart.
“Give me your rag,” he said, tracing his own line on her cheek, “and I’ll give you mine.”
The child could only gaze at him while he loosened her bandage, removed it, and tied it to his own head. The bonnet he set on hers. And I gasped at what I saw: for with the bandage went the wound! Against his brow it ran a darker, more substantial blood—his own!
“Rags! Rags! I take old rags!” cried the sobbing, bleeding, strong, intelligent Ragman.
The sun hurt the sky now, and my eyes; the Ragman seemed more and more in a hurry.
“Are you going to work?” he asked a man who leaned against a telephone pole. The man shook his head.
The Ragman inquired, “Do you have a job?”
“Are you crazy?” sneered the other. He pulled away from the pole, revealing the right sleeve of his jacket. It was flat, the cuff stuffed into the pocket; he had no arm.
“So,” said the Ragman. “Give me your jacket, and I’ll give you mine.”
Such quiet authority in his voice! The one-armed man took off his jacket. So did the Ragman—and I trembled at what I saw; for the Ragman’s arm stayed in his jacket, and when the other put it on, then he had two good arms, thick as tree limbs; but the Ragman had only one.
“Go to work,” he said.
After that he saw a drunk, lying unconscious beneath an army blanket, an old man, hunched, wizened, and sick. He took that blanket and wrapped it around himself, but for the drunk he left a new suit of clothes.
And now I had to run to keep up with the Ragman. Though he was weeping uncontrollably, and bleeding freely at his forehead, pulling his cart with one arm, stumbling for drunkenness, falling again and again, exhausted, old, old and sick, yet he went very fast. On spider’s legs, he skittered through the alleys of the City, this mile and the next, until he’d come to its limits, and then he rushed beyond.
I wept to see the change in this man. I hurt to see his sorrow. And yet I needed to see where he was going in such a haste, perhaps to know what drove him so.
The little old Ragman—he came to a landfill. He came to a garbage dump. And then I wanted to help him in what he did, but I hung back, hiding. He climbed a hill. With tormented labor he cleared a little space on that hill. Then he sighed. He lay down. He pillowed his head on a handkerchief and jacket. He covered his bones with an army blanket. And he died.
Oh, how I cried to witness that death! I slumped in a junked car and wailed and mourned as one who has no hope—because I had come to love the Ragman. Every other face had faded in the wonder of this man, and I cherished him; but he died. I cried myself to sleep.
I did not know—how could I know?—that I slept through Friday night and Saturday and its night, too.
But then, on Sunday morning, I was wakened by a violence. Light—slammed against my sour face, and I blinked, and I looked, and I saw the last and the first wonder of all. There was the Ragman, folding the blanket most carefully, a scar on his forehead, but alive! And, besides that, healthy! There was no sign of sorrow nor of age, and all the rags that he had gathered shined for cleanliness.
Well, then I lowered my head and, trembling for all I had seen. I myself walked up to the Ragman. I told him my name with shame, for I was a sorry figure next to him. Then I took off all my clothes in that place, and I said to him with dear yearning in my voice: “Dress me.”
He dressed me. My Lord, he put new rags on me, and I am a wonder beside him. The Ragman, the Ragman, the Christ!
Isaiah 53:4-5, "Surely he took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows, yet we consider him stricken by God, smitten by him, and afflicted. But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed."
some thought provoking quotes
I don't consider myself to be someone who has experienced a lot of suffering in my lifetime, so I'm not sure that I have the right to speak about the good that can come from suffering. But, we got into a discussion of pain and sorrow in my Old Testament class, and my prof presented some thought-provoking quotes. He was going quickly, so I didn't catch references. But, hey, this is my blog; it doesn't have to conform to MLA format!
"If you call God good without suffering, then your announcement of His glory is without power."
"We fear somber; we seem to hold sorrow in low-esteem...failing to see that doubt and despair are the dark soil that is necessary to sow confidence and joy."
And, a lighter one- though no less true or intriguing:
"Real doubts are like spoiled children- if you ignore them, they'll hit you."
Hmmm...
"If you call God good without suffering, then your announcement of His glory is without power."
"We fear somber; we seem to hold sorrow in low-esteem...failing to see that doubt and despair are the dark soil that is necessary to sow confidence and joy."
And, a lighter one- though no less true or intriguing:
"Real doubts are like spoiled children- if you ignore them, they'll hit you."
Hmmm...
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
sunshine and some random trivia
I went for a long walk this morning, just around the streets in our neighborhood. The sun felt so good! I can hardly believe how it affects my mood; I have more energy, I feel less stressed and more light-hearted. I wonder what it would be like to live in a place like California? I like the rain sometimes, when I can curl up inside with a blanket and some hot tea. But after a few days I start to crave the warmth and light of the sun. I learned last year that you actually soak up vitamin D from being in the sunshine. And, ironically, the ideal hours of the day to get that vitamin D are between 11 and 2 (I think), which are also the exact hours that they tell you to stay out of the sun because it's rays are most harmful then. Huh.
I also recently learned that there was a study done which reported that only 7% of communication was attributed to the actual words spoken. 93% of communication was attributed to other elements, such as tone of voice, facial cues, and other non-verbal behaviors. Surprising? We spend so much time thinking of what to say, and it's such a small part of what we end up communicating to people.
Related to communication, I've been challenged lately to spend more time just listening, without searching for a response while the other person is talking, or letting my mind wander, but just listening and taking in the story. In our culture, we really spend very little time listening to one another. But who doesn't crave that time with a good friend over a steamy latte, where you can just pour out all that is on your heart? What a privilege to be the person who just gets to sit and listen to her. I read recently (and I am sorry, I can't find the actual quote), that you should listen with the ears of God so that you can speak the words of God. Seems like a pretty decent principle. I just finished reading Job for my Old Testament class, and his friends sure had a lot to say... and very little wisdom to guide them.
A final note: "Let love and faithfulness never leave you; bind them around your neck, write them on the tablet of your heart" (Proverbs 3:3).
I also recently learned that there was a study done which reported that only 7% of communication was attributed to the actual words spoken. 93% of communication was attributed to other elements, such as tone of voice, facial cues, and other non-verbal behaviors. Surprising? We spend so much time thinking of what to say, and it's such a small part of what we end up communicating to people.
Related to communication, I've been challenged lately to spend more time just listening, without searching for a response while the other person is talking, or letting my mind wander, but just listening and taking in the story. In our culture, we really spend very little time listening to one another. But who doesn't crave that time with a good friend over a steamy latte, where you can just pour out all that is on your heart? What a privilege to be the person who just gets to sit and listen to her. I read recently (and I am sorry, I can't find the actual quote), that you should listen with the ears of God so that you can speak the words of God. Seems like a pretty decent principle. I just finished reading Job for my Old Testament class, and his friends sure had a lot to say... and very little wisdom to guide them.
A final note: "Let love and faithfulness never leave you; bind them around your neck, write them on the tablet of your heart" (Proverbs 3:3).
Friday, March 2, 2007
march 2nd and counting
It's March 2nd today (a dreary, rainy March 2nd here in Vancouver, by the way), and my 27th birthday is 12 days away. I've long teased my husband for being sensitive about getting older, and have never really understood the trauma of a birthday. After all, each year adds more experiences and memories to your repertoire of life. I've always felt it is important to be grateful for each day that passes, and even to be thankful for the challenges you face. Our struggles, as much as our joys, make us who we are. Contentment in all circumstances, right? So another birthday should be just another chance to celebrate what has happened in the last year that has brought you to where you are today. Right? (By the way, did you know that people who tend to have a positive outlook on life- regardless of whether their circumstances are easy or difficult- tend to be happier people than those who take a negative outlook?)
But this year... I have much to celebrate from the past year. I have learned much, grown much (I hope), and truly have experienced some wonderful turns of events. I am HAPPY. I have nothing major to regret from the last year, nothing huge to wish for. I really am BLESSED. But 27? Somehow that just feels weird to say. I don't feel 27. Every year up to this point, I think I have felt that I've grown into my age- or my idea of what that age means. But 27? That doesn't necessarily sound old, but it sounds ADULT. And I don't feel like an adult. Okay, sometimes I do. For example, we just bought a new bed (the one we had been sleeping on was over 10 years old, and it was a double), and we decided to spring for the king sized mattress. It's huge! It's like swimming in the cozy warmth of soft sheets and down comforters. And for some reason, owning a king sized bed makes me feel like an adult. It conjures up images of David and I dozing on Saturday mornings, while our kids climb under the covers with us and beg for pancakes. But isn't it funny that something like this makes me feel like an adult? Other than the king sized mattress, I'm just a girl trying to figure out what I want to do when I grow up.
But this year... I have much to celebrate from the past year. I have learned much, grown much (I hope), and truly have experienced some wonderful turns of events. I am HAPPY. I have nothing major to regret from the last year, nothing huge to wish for. I really am BLESSED. But 27? Somehow that just feels weird to say. I don't feel 27. Every year up to this point, I think I have felt that I've grown into my age- or my idea of what that age means. But 27? That doesn't necessarily sound old, but it sounds ADULT. And I don't feel like an adult. Okay, sometimes I do. For example, we just bought a new bed (the one we had been sleeping on was over 10 years old, and it was a double), and we decided to spring for the king sized mattress. It's huge! It's like swimming in the cozy warmth of soft sheets and down comforters. And for some reason, owning a king sized bed makes me feel like an adult. It conjures up images of David and I dozing on Saturday mornings, while our kids climb under the covers with us and beg for pancakes. But isn't it funny that something like this makes me feel like an adult? Other than the king sized mattress, I'm just a girl trying to figure out what I want to do when I grow up.
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