Smitten

My church just started a blog, so I wrote a little something about how I came to be there, and how I decided to stay. Here it is!

In the fall of 2007 I studied abroad in Argentina and had my first small church experience. I was the first to arrive for worship on my first day–evidently getting there early for a seat isn’t a big priority for small congregations–and at the end of the service I found myself surrounded by a group of friendly faces greeting me, the obvious newcomer. Within minutes they’d extended a warm invitation to an all-church potluck in someone’s home the following Friday evening to celebrate National Friendship Day.

I fell instantly in love.

I came back to Seattle just before Thanksgiving that year and was in town for several weeks before heading back to school for spring semester. I’d grown up at University Presbyterian Church and had heard that Pastors James B. and Renée Notkin had recently been called to launch Union Church. Not only was I now attracted to (ahem, enamored with) the idea of worshiping as a part of a small congregation, I was really excited about fourth Sundays. A church with a built-in service component? Sign me up!

For two years I attended Union whenever I was in town, and in 2009 the congregation prayed over me as I left to spend a year volunteering overseas in Indonesia. I came back to Seattle full-time in August 2010 I’ve finally gotten to attend my home church on a regular basis since then.

Over the past four and a half years, I’ve dabbled in a few fourth Sunday groups. I’ve pitched in around the 415 building, served brunches at Kerner Scott House, and done lunch prep at Seattle Cancer Care Alliance. Each of those service projects have provided ample opportunity to grow with other members of my church family. I’ve enjoyed the freedom to dabble in different projects and also to take a Sunday off for a sabbath of traveling, bike-riding, or park-sitting as the Spirit moves me.

I love that my church is so passionate about serving our community that we’re willing to set aside what Christian tradition tells us church “should be” and simply do what Jesus would probably do on a typical day: lend a hand in a thinly veiled attempt to spend time with someone he likes.

I always tell people fourth Sundays drew me to Union but second Sundays keep me coming back. Grappling with scripture has been key to my own faith formation and spiritual growth, and unfortunately, for much of my life it’s been too much of a solitary endeavor.

There’s something holy about a worship service that exudes tradition as it follows a certain structure that I was raised with. Yet there’s something altogether freeing about being asked to sit in a circle with people I’ve known anywhere from five minutes to twenty years and share how our life experiences inform the way we read and live scripture.

It’s incredibly affirming to share myself with my church family and have them hold my experiences with me and to be able to do the same for them. On the second Sunday of this month I a woman in my circle concluded our conversation by saying, “this is Gospel.”

We can read scripture again and again, but where it really comes to life is in our own lives. There’s something uniquely holy about intentionally offering our lives to each other as a form of worship. Sometimes I wish we would do that more often and then I realize–it’s really up to each of us to do this every day and in every place, isn’t it?

Read more stories from Union Church (other people’s, not mine–please, that would be excessive) at unionchurchstories.wordpress.com.

Sunday in Suburbia

This week marked the inaugural meeting of the Sunday Wear-Yoga-Pants-to-a-Chain-Restaurant Lunch Club, or SWYPCRLC. Four of us convened at the Lynnwood Olive Garden and discovered that it’s true what they say: the diet coke really is excellent. They also have more plastic grapes incorporated into their décor than I’d previously thought possible. Chanda pretty much summed it up when she described it as “way more Vegas than the one back home.”

The whole affair was devised by Erin, who comes from a remote corner of the world where Olive Gardens are an unheard-of treat. After reading a rave review of “the largest and most beautiful restaurant now operating in Grand Forks,” she proposed a lunch party of bottomless salad and bread sticks. And what a party it was!

Chase, our server and new best friend, was a little overwhelmed by us at times. He may have mistaken Chanda’s enthusiasm for inebriation and we may never know his true feelings about the current controversy surrounding contraception, but nevertheless, there was a profound connection. A real turning point in our relationship was when he apologized for offering parmesan cheese during what he perceived as “an intense moment” at the table. We knew he was hooked the moment he walked away from the table laughing so hard he was on the verge of crying. I think a part of him just wanted us to leave.

Our only regret from our time with Chase—aside from its brevity—was that Chanda never got to tell him her joke about the problem with the current Republican candidates. (It’s that their ideas aren’t very good.) Fortunately she did get to try it out on the rest of us and it went over really well, so you may hear it casually come up in conversation with her from time to time.

Lunch club is about making time for what’s most important—testing out new jokes is crucial, as is kicking around ideas for new business ventures, marveling at Geena Davis’ height, and discussing the main character of The Hunger Games and what our age group’s obsession with this series means for the future of our society.

By far the most confusing part of lunch was when a server other than our own paused at our table to say, “See what we mean when we say, ‘when you’re here, you’re family?’ People are just takin’ bites right off your plate.’” I didn’t know how to respond, aside from inching my plate a little closer to myself. You, my dear reader, have about as much context this quote as I do. I can’t help you figure it out.

What did we learn from our visit to the suburbs? I’ll tell you.

• It’s far away (not quite as far as Grand Forks, but almost).
• If you’re looking for a fun lunch date, any one of us would be a great choice—including Chase.
• Good posture is overrated, as evidenced by armrests that are precisely one inch too short for a normal-sized adult.
• Don’t trouble yourself with the parmesan-encrusted steak. It’s really not as good as it looks in the picture.

The Unshakable World Traveler

I’ve never considered myself less car-dependent than I have in the past year—living as I am in the city, within walking distance of my office and being an avid (er, fair-weather) road biker—I like to think of myself as rather self-sufficient. So when in January I got the idea that I should forego my car altogether in favor of a sexy little scooter, I really didn’t see how it would impact my life in any negative way at all.

Sure, it rains in Seattle a full twelve months of the year and my parents, grandparents, and Donald Dog are a 45-minute scooter ride away. And sure, I should probably have put my tax return into my retirement fund. One could even argue that I should have left my savings right where it was, all safe and warm in the bank.

But, look at her—she’s so cute!

Her name is Ruby.

And look! Donald is so cute, too. (Although, granted, that’s basically irrelevant to this story.)

It was a lifestyle change I was willing to take on, clouded as I was by my love for Ruby and the chance to be, well, awesome.

It only took a month for disaster to strike. Let’s begin with last Monday. While attending a superb lecture on gender issues downtown, I lost my Orca card. When I got off the bus in the U District, I had no way to pay my fare, as I’d lost the card along the way. Thank you, Lord for gracious bus drivers. I reported my card lost and received a replacement in the mail on Thursday.

On Friday, I planned a trip to Bellevue for the following day. Since Ruby can’t go on freeways, I could a) drive her around the end of Lake Washington and arrive at my destination in approximately 47 minutes. Option b) I could take two buses and be there in an hour. With this unspeakable weather we’ve been having, I planned a bus route there.

Saturday morning I boarded the bus and tapped my new Orca card. INSUFFICIENT FUNDS, the card reader said. Drat. Evidently, my balance had not been transferred as I’d been led to believe it would. Fortunately, unlike on Monday, I had cash reserves with me in the form of precisely nine one-dollar bills. Less fortunately, I didn’t think to bring quarters. I paid three dollars for my $2.25 fare and took a seat.

Once we got downtown, my next problem became evident as my connecting bus to Bellevue pulled away in front of my bus as we arrived at the stop. After exhausting all my options, poring over a map with a friendly security guard, I perched on a bench with my book and waited thirty minutes for the next number 550 to come by.

I hopped on and away we went over the bridge. As I prepared to disembark at my stop, I showed my transfer slip to the bus driver, who was noticeably unkind. “Those are only for Metro buses.” Well isn’t that just the epitome of unfair. I owed $2.50, and being as I was without any quarters, I handed him another three of my nine dollars, stalked off the bus, and immediately started sniffling as I trudged the half mile to my destination.

It was absolutely pouring rain. I mean, buckets. I wanted to call my mom and dad. On the upside, my purpose in risking my life, health, and happiness to be in Bellevue was to attend a retreat. Also in attendance would be at least three people I could ask for a ride home, and so instead of giving up completely, I forged ahead, livid as all get-out about how difficult my life is.

In my mind, I reviewed all the things that had gone wrong in the past week. My memory of each one was bigger and worse in my mind than it had been in reality and I was fuming as I walked in the door of the retreat center. I was fifteen minutes late so I poured myself a big cup of coffee and settled into a seat in the back.

That’s exactly where I was when, two minutes later, my stomach sank with a horrifying realization.

Earlier in the week my dad had loaned me his car. I used it for a day to take care of my grandparents, and then parked it on my street where he could come get it later. And as I sat in that seat, soaking wet and at my wit’s end, I realized: it was still parked on the street outside my front door.

Oh yes, on the day when my hour-and-a-half bus adventure could not have gone less as planned, I could have just driven myself there in precisely 25 minutes.

Initially, I was furious with and embarrassed for myself. That lasted about 90 seconds, until I really had to admit that, truly, this is probably the funniest thing that has ever happened to me.

With only three dollars to my name and finding myself a six-dollar horror show away from home, I was thankful for a friend who was happy to give me a ride at the end of the day.

You know how the saying goes—there’s nothing like taking a bus to the Eastside to learn some valuable life lessons! From now on, I’ll be sure to grab a handful of quarters on my way out the door. I’ll also be sure to take a glance around to see if I’m forgetting about any vehicles I might have access to.

Author’s note: somewhere in the midst of this, I actually thought to myself, “I wish I had more to write about, but living in the US is just so uninteresting.” Shoot me.

When Social Functions and Popular Neighborhood Hangouts Fail

My recent foray into the world of online dating was both brief and excellent. It all started back in September, when, in an attempt to make my life more interesting and, as my friend Mike put it, “find a nice guy and have a life experience,” I created a profile on okcupid.com.

There are essentially three reasons I love online dating:

• You pretty much know what the other person is looking for. Unlike meeting someone at a social function or a popular neighborhood hangout, you know if the person prefers your own gender, is single, is ready to mingle, etc.—or not.
• I meet people at neither social functions nor popular neighborhood hangouts, but I met tons of people online—and they were all single, straight men. It was actually really bizarre; I’d never seen so many in one place before!
• It’s hysterical. Let’s just say, there are a lot of really interesting characters out there.

I answered a few essay questions about myself, such as six things I can’t live without—comfy socks, kayaking, and a pile of pillows all made the list—and something interesting about myself—that the only ankle I’ve ever broken was not my own. And somehow, the messages started arriving in my inbox. Some just said, “hey.”

Others said a little too much:

I would be glad to show you my travel pictures and see yours. And, perhaps we can check off one of the continents together from our list.. hehe.

Others were surprisingly flattering:

Look, i’ve seen your profile, and it seems like i want to get to know you, I mean, your really pretty, you have a great personality, and i cant help but to like that. So, i was thinking, would you want to talk with me ?

And still others just seemed to get me:

I’d love to hear your thoughts about social issues over a meal. Specifically, I’ve been pondering over this article and what it means for the future of our society.

It was a terrific experience, and once I got over the fear of meeting a potential serial killer for coffee, it was nothing but smooth sailing. After four dates with four different guys, I’m now four hundred times more comfortable on a first date, and I realize that I am, in fact, incredibly datable, which was news to me. In fact, I recently tried to donate dating lessons to a silent auction benefitting youth ministry. (My offer was, inexplicably, declined.)

In the end I realized what it was that was ultimately dissatisfying about online (and regular) dating: it’s a lot like a thrift store. There’s a plethora of options­—each one full of possibility—but it’s hard to find just the right fit.

It was, shall we say, stressful. There was a lot of reading through profiles of guys of widely varying interest, putting time and effort into writing just the right thing so that I would come across as just the right amount of charming and witty, friendly, but not desperate, and a good representation of myself, but without revealing how both uptight and insecure I really am. It was a time-consuming endeavor.

And then the guys would write back, and they’d be charming and witty and smart, and I would be back at square one, having to craft just the right response. Now that I think about it, it was actually (probably) a lot like real live dating, but sped up. Instead of meeting someone and desperately wanting to impress them every year or so, it was suddenly happening four or five times a week. It’s a lot of nervous awkwardness for this girl. And all this is on top of all the other things I have going on that make me awkward and nervous on a daily basis.

Although this particular dating tactic didn’t lead to anything for me, it was a hugely positive experience. I’ve certainly noticed some small but significant changes in myself since embarking on this big adventure. And it may just be my cheery disposition, or that I’m wearing my signature comfy socks and drinking a warm beverage, but I’m feeling pretty optimistic at the moment.

Cities.and.Airports.2011

Happy New Year! As usual, it’s been quite the year, although slightly less travel than in the past couple. Let’s take a look-see, shall we?

Cities/places I stayed in 2011:

Edmonds*
Seattle*
Wenatchee
Spokane*
Portland*
Sitka, AK
Kirkland
Tucson*
Nogales, Sonora, Mexico
Vader
Battle Ground
Gresham, OR
Sun River
Cape Alava
Camano Island
Fort Collins*
Denver
Daroga State Park

Airports:

Sea-Tac*
Spokane
Portland
Sitka
Juneau
Tucson
Denver

*Places I stayed on nonconsecutive nights or airports visited nonconsecutively.

Merry, Merry Christmas!

Several weeks ago, my roommates and I set out to get a Christmas tree. After a week of failed scheduling attempts (we’re so very busy and important) two of us went to a little tree farm in Wedgwood. (Who knew there was a tree farm in Wedgwood?!) Well, it turns out, it’s more of a tree lot, but it’s charming nonetheless.

The next step was easy: we took our beautiful little tree home (it conveniently fits in the trunk) and set it up. We’d hoped to decorate it all together, but again, the scheduling proved a bit difficult. A few ornaments made their way onto the tree over the following week or so, and then the tree went on a little field trip.

After starring as the decoration in some Santa photos, the tree came home, and finally I put some lights on it. The next day, several ornaments had been added. Finally, about five days later, just in time for us all to leave for Christmas, I added several ornaments of my own.

It only took two weeks and three people, but the final product isn’t too shabby. No, not too shabby at all.

A Series of Firsts: Now That’s What I Call Will Power

This post is part of a new series called “A Series of Firsts,” which chronicles my endeavors to make myself and my life more interesting.

One evening, not so long ago, I sat next to a friend at baby shower. She declined a delectable lavender shortbread cookie, saying, “Oh, I don’t eat gluten anymore.”

Naturally, my immediate response was to eat three cookies. One for me, one for her, and one to calm my nerves in the wake of this shocking confession. I was shaken. “Why, Sarah?” I asked her. “Why?”

Just days later I was at Julia’s house, taking up space in the kitchen while she baked cookies with her daughter. It struck me that these were no ordinary cookies. They were gluten-free, just like Sarah. Julia explained that she was gluten-free and loving it. I was experiencing a tumultuous paradigm shift.

For years I’d encountered people who were gluten-free due to food sensitivities and I pitied them from the innermost depths of my heart. I racked my brain trying to think of what these people must eat. (Lettuce? Carrot sticks? Water?) I was overcome with horrific visions of a life without meaning.

But what Julia and Sarah said resonated with me. They said they used to be tired. I thought, I’m tired. They said it was all worth it. I thought, Maybe…but, no. But…maybe? Maybe I could love it, too… They said they had no regrets. I thought, I want to have no regrets. Suddenly it was so clear! I would become gluten-free, too.

The decision was made and I was determined to love it. And so I embarked on an epic journey:

Day 1. I marveled at how easy and carefree I felt for all of ten minutes as I ate yogurt for breakfast. Lunch at a sandwich shop proved slightly more difficult. Chili seemed like a safe choice. All the same, I considered asking if there was gluten in it. But wait, I thought. Is chili naturally gluten-free? If so, I didn’t want to look a fool. A teeny bit of gluten wouldn’t hurt anything, right? Probably better to save face. I decided not to ask, and ate the chili.

Day 4. I was having a blast! This was practically the easiest thing I’d ever done! I ate quinoa like fiend and was starving by 4 pm. In the evening I made soup. I poured it right out of the carton and added my own chicken, rice, and basil. I briefly entertained the idea of opening my very own gluten-free restaurant. Or starring in my own cooking show called “Life After Gluten!!”

Day 6. I ignored all social obligations over the weekend in favor of making vegetable soup from scratch and grilling eggplant on my roommate’s George Foreman grill. I had the soup for dinner and was immediately hungry again, but none of that mattered as I reveled in my domesticity.

Day 10. Overcome by frequent bouts of hunger, I’d lost all creativity. All I could think about was how great it would be to just swim around in a giant bowl of pasta. If God intended for us to live like this he would never have invented bagels. This wasn’t at all the life of bliss I’d been promised!

Day 12. My joyful, gluten-free world full of rice, vegetables, and limitless possibilities had disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived, never to return. I was beside myself with hunger and couldn’t think of a thing to eat. Finally, weak and exhausted, I crawled to the kitchen and opened the freezer door. I pulled out a mini ice cream sandwich, and I slowly savored it bite by bite. And then I had another one.

Thus began and ended my great gluten-free adventure of 2011.

A Series of Firsts: Dead Seal Pose

This post is part of a new series called “A Series of Firsts,” which chronicles my endeavors to make myself and my life more interesting.

After months of apprehension coupled with curiosity, I decided to take the plunge and try hot yoga.

Class was Saturday evening, and ever prepared for catastrophe, I began hydrating on Sunday. As it got closer to the day, I avoided coffee and alcohol, focusing instead on water, juice, tea, and more water.

Saturday afternoon rolled around and I packed up my bag with the biggest towel known to humankind, a couple of bottles of water, and a yoga mat. Ryan arrived and we walked to Yoga to the People, a lovely little establishment here in the neighborhood with prices that can only be described as irresistible.

The instructor was an endearingly energetic woman who assured me that I could (and should) take as many breaks as needed throughout the class. I had hoped I would last longer than the twenty-minute warm-up before needing to lie down and get my bearings, but suddenly I realized her voice was sounding farther and farther (and still farther) away. I laid down on my mat before I fell down. Crisis averted!

The real treat of the evening was when we positioned ourselves into what I like to call the dead seal pose. Lying on my stomach with my arms tucked alongside my body, I gazed into my eyes in the mirror ahead of me. I couldn’t help but notice that the only thing that differentiated me from a big, blubbery seal was a pair of navy-blue running shorts, soaked through with sweat.

What did I learn from this experience? It really is as intense (and intensely sweaty) as people say it is. And totally worth it.

I’ve Clearly Missed My Calling

I don’t often talk about my uncanny ability to predict the future, but I have a great example to share from a recent experience.

A couple of weeks ago I was at a Mariners’ game with my dad. We had a really fun time eating garlic fries, hoping (some of us more than others) that a fly ball would come hurtling dangerously through the air directly at us, looking for the brick in the walkway listing my siblings’ and my names. All the while my dad sprinkled bits of baseball trivia and insights into our conversation. I learned, for example, that we have an outfielder whose name is Wells, as does our opposing team, the Angels.*

When our catcher, Miguel Olivo, was at bat, my dad told me that he wouldn’t attempt to steal second base, because, “catchers are slow.” Naturally, I disagreed. I said that it would be especially crafty of him to steal, just for that reason. He should take advantage of the element of surprise. Dad’s response was, “Yep, everyone would be surprised, including Olivo.”

The next thing we knew, Olivo successfully stole second base.

So I turned to my dad and said, “Just to clarify, I’m the only person, anywhere, who isn’t surprised, yes?” Yes.

 

*My adopted team. More formally: the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim. Their stadium is right down the street from my college campus, which was not, in fact, in Los Angeles. Just saying.

Quarterly Book Review 1.3.2

My fabulous first guest blogger, Amy Goodloe, really out did herself, reviewing six books for this quarter! Here is part two of two:

Life
Keith Richards
I didn’t know much about Keith Richards or the Rolling Stones before reading this book, they were before my time. Starting the book not knowing what to expect (except a lot of drugs) I was surprised by Keith’s honesty. He presented this book as a matter-of-fact chronicle of his time leading up to, and as, a Rolling Stone. The tone of the autobiography was conversational, complete with tangents, and other people to fill in the holes where he didn’t quite remember. While Keith’s reputation seems to be that of a coked-out rock star, this book sheds light on a very different Keith Richards. Keith’s need for more: more knowledge, more experience, more influences was obvious. He was always looking to better himself as a musician in general. He was never satisfied with what he had; he felt the need to grow constantly.

This book is a conversation. It is Keith giving you a glimpse into his world. The most shocking thing to me was not the drugs or the behavior; it was the acceptance of those as mundane. Keith led a very uneventful life until his world was turned upside down in a matter of weeks. The Rolling Stones took off FAST and haven’t slowed down yet.

For me this book works, just like it seems Keith’s life works for him. Keith has made me a fan, made me understand the choices he made in life. While I will never make the same decisions, Keith explained (not the right word, but I couldn’t find the right one: explained, defended, reflected on…somewhere in between those) how they made sense in the environment in which he lives.

On Mexican Time: A New Life In San Miguel
Tony Cohan
Tony Cohan does a wonderful job verbalizing the transformation one goes through when embracing Mexican culture. I love this book because I lived in Mexico as well and I felt as if Tony and I were sharing a secret, and understanding of the secret culture just south of our border. He understands the subtleties of colors, smells, flavor, sabor. Living in Mexico is a much larger undertaking than many would understand. The idea of Mexico in the United States is a place you go to party, but don’t drink the water. A place riddled with drugs and traffickers and the home of all the illegal aliens that we fear so much.

This is the story of Tony and his wife’s journey to accept Mexico and be accepted by Mexico as they move their lives across the border. This is a great story about people who feel empty in the constant battle of living in the United States and discover the more calm and serene culture on a trip to Mexico. When they leave after a three-week vacation nothing is the same for them anymore and they decide to move their lives to Mexico (they are artists who have the ability to work from home and travel for exhibits, publishers, galleries, etc). This is not a day-to-day account of what life is like in Mexico for Americans, but rather it is a journey of understanding. Understanding Mexico and how it has come to be, understanding themselves and the people they are and how that differs from who they wanted/expected to be and finally understanding all the relationships swirling around their uprooted lives.

Bravo to Tony Cohan for bringing me back to Mexico for a couple of days. Thank you, I have missed it.

Stiff: The Curious Life of Human Cadavers
Mary Roach
I absolutely loved this book. I listened to Stiff on a trip to Portland that averaged 12 miles per hour on the freeway. Even though I was wildly late for the rehearsal dinner I was trying to get to, I was wildly entertained by Mary Roach’s investigation into the varied use of human cadavers. While this book should never be read over a meal, it is fascinating and addicting.

Roach’s writing style was one of my favorite parts of this book. She doesn’t talk at you or tell you what she learned. But rather she takes you on her journey into to deepest, darkest corners of cadaver-hood. The best part is her expert use of puns; she manages to keep the humor and light-hearted interest that sets the tone for the book.

This book is about curiosity not morbidity. Roach approaches the cadavers not as people, but as useful tools misunderstood by society. She is willing to track down any story, lead, use or study that will paint a more complete idea of the uses for human cadavers. She was the best guide for such a strange adventure. Still, she has (and communicates well) a reverence for these bodies. In introducing the topic she carefully explains her investigation into the world beyond the living. Her investigation is never disrespectful and often highlights the unsung contributions that cadavers have made to our everyday lives. They are tools, but they are given in the highest regard, often as a final gift.

If you are open to learning about a fascinating facet of science that is swept under the rug, let Mary Roach guide you through her exploration of the uses for our bodies after our souls have gone.