tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-133814272024-03-18T20:08:48.023-07:00words on the side"But no writing that was worth doing was ever done the first time nor in one day or one year, sometimes, oftentimes, not in one decade."
-- William FaulknerChristinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.comBlogger246125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-24274180726556799372010-08-20T14:31:00.001-07:002010-08-20T14:35:11.593-07:00New HomeHello Friends and Followers,<div><br /></div><div>I'd like to invite you to come follow my blog at it's new home: www.christintaylor.com/blog.</div><div><br /></div><div>Moving this blog to my website is my attempt to consolidate all my writing in one place and to add as much momentum behind my writing career as possible. ;-)</div><div><br /></div><div>I am SO unbelievably grateful for the time you give me by reading my blog and following it. I do not take for granted that anyone will want to read my stuff, so it's a thrill to see the little ticker on my blog followers go up and up and up. Thank you. Thank you. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is a real gift to have you reading my writing.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, I look forward to seeing you over at Words on the Side, on my website.</div><div><br /></div><div>Best,</div><div>Christin </div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-33114036857083308672010-08-11T14:09:00.000-07:002010-08-12T08:54:20.781-07:00Miracles<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlEINKfC8sfjQuXF-bnBJGMfrlS6D_NI1nFq3LYdkCnOA0tehBulBPdr8zSwTEVgaFsJE3CiEzZeXms8dcdeEDjIS-x1nQU9UUqCMcM5pUj9Qz2MXWcFP9zPtOSL0xBzjC2j3TiQ/s1600/IMG_0082.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlEINKfC8sfjQuXF-bnBJGMfrlS6D_NI1nFq3LYdkCnOA0tehBulBPdr8zSwTEVgaFsJE3CiEzZeXms8dcdeEDjIS-x1nQU9UUqCMcM5pUj9Qz2MXWcFP9zPtOSL0xBzjC2j3TiQ/s320/IMG_0082.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504398604597641730" /></a><br /><div>In her book<i> Traveling Mercies</i>, Anne Lamott writes about witnessing a miracle at church. It's a beautiful story, one I wish I could quote for you. But right now, the book is stuffed away somewhere in an unpacked box in the back of Noelle's closet. </div><div><br /></div><div>And so I'll have to conjure it from memory.</div><div><br /></div><div>Lamott writes about a particular Sunday morning, when during a worship song she witnesses a lady lift up a fellow congregant, a man with AIDS, and weeps with him as the congregation sings.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's a miraculous moment, because until that point the woman has been uncomfortable around the man with AIDS, a bit distrustful. But on that morning, during that worship song, she reaches out and touches him. She helps him stand to his feet and the two of them cry.</div><div><br /></div><div>If I remember it correctly, I believe she even mentions that their tears and snot mingle together as they lean into each other's faces. It is a symbolic moment: two lives touching one another, holding each other's beauty and brokenness, where there had been alienation and distrust before. This is the miracle.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have been thinking about this story all week, because I witnessed a miracle this past Sunday too. </div><div><br /></div><div>I think it is perhaps the first miracle I have ever seen in church, and I do not say this lightly because I have seen bodies kneeling at the altar in prayer but those miracles did not knock me off my feet and send me into my seat weeping the way this miracle did. </div><div><br /></div><div>To begin with, church started out a bit difficult for both Dwayne and I. We have grown up our whole lives visiting new churches and neither one of us necessarily thrills at the thought of being the new kid in church. It's such an odd community to visit after all, with all it's intuitive interactions and insulations. And yet, it is the body of Christ. </div><div><br /></div><div>As we walked up to the church we noticed that no one was coming or going.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Are you sure we have the right time?" Dwayne asked as we mounted the steps. It was a tidy and inviting building with large golden beams of wood and tall windows.</div><div><br /></div><div>We pushed through the doors and found the building full of people. They stood around in clusters chatting. No one leaving or going into the sanctuary. This was clearly a body which knew and loved one another; however, they seemed oblivious to the newcomers.</div><div><br /></div><div>I walked up to the desk with the big "Information" sign above it and waited. I had my first line rehearsed and glossy, "Hi, this is our first time visiting. Can you tell me where the nursery is?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Usually, this first liner wins me a warm smile and easy conversation. "Oh! Welcome! Where are you from? Let me take you down myself." Or something along those lines.</div><div><br /></div><div>But at this information desk, I waited and waited. The volunteer was engaged in a conversation with a friend and though he saw I was there, he did not move to help me.</div><div><br /></div><div>"It says, 'Treasureland' over there," Dwayne whispered over my shoulder. I looked up and saw an arrow clearly pointing the way to the kid's ministry and so without receiving help, I scooped Noelle up and took her down to the nursery myself.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Why is it so hard for people to understand? It's not that difficult to be nice to a new person." Dwayne shook his head as we found our seats in the sanctuary. I knew what he meant. Both of us were feeling a bit irritated, a bit indignant over it all.</div><div><br /></div><div>The pinnacle of my frustration came when we entered the sanctuary doors and the greeter, who saw me out of the corner of her eye, neglected to turn away from her own conversation and hand me a bulletin. She would have let me pass by without a single acknowledgement had I not marched directly up to her and asked, "May I have a bulletin, please?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I swear I have never had to ask a greeter for a bulletin before. That's their job -- to stand at the doors and greet you and push a bulletin into your hand whether you like it or not, whether trees are dying or not, just so you can have a moment of human contact at some point between the church entrance and the sanctuary seats.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh sure!" she said with a smile and handed it to me.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Come on, Christin, straighten up!</i> I coached myself as I walked down the aisle to an empty seat. <i>No one will want to be your friend if you're acting irritated</i>. So I eased into my seat and tried to imagine myself as sunshine, bright, radiant, warming.</div><div><br /></div><div>As the service wound on, I found myself opening slowly and almost unwillingly to the worship and the message. Neither were flashy, but bother were substantive, heartfelt, sincere. They were not mainstream. They did not try to be. They were authentic. </div><div><br /></div><div>At the end of the service, the worship pastor took the platform. "If you can stand," he said, "Please stand with us and sing." </div><div><br /></div><div>So we did, and the words on the screen were:</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Great is they faithfulness, Oh God my Father</i></div><div><i>There is no shadow of turning with Thee</i></div><div><i>Thou changest not thy compassions they fail not</i></div><div><i>Great is they faithfulness Lord unto me.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>During this song a middle aged couple a few seats ahead of us suddenly walked out of their row. They turned at the front, and made their way to a man sitting, hunched over and alone. He was directly in the front and middle.</div><div><br /></div><div>As soon as I laid eyes on him, I could see that he had cerebral palsy. His wide shoulders twisted over on themselves, and his head, covered with silver hair, bobbed about a foot above his knees. He could not sit up right, let alone stand, but he was in church, on the very front row.</div><div><br /></div><div>The couple parted on either side of him. The woman leaned over with smile and whispered something in his ear. A nod wobbled from his neck and shoulders, and with that she and her husband each grabbed his biceps. They slung his arms around their shoulders and with one heave, stood up, stretching his curled posture straight. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then, the husband did something incredibly awkward and gracious: he pulled up the man's pants because they were falling down due to his twisted posture.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was an embarrassingly disjointed moment, but it was also amazingly honest. The man's pants were falling down. He could not help it, so his <i>brother</i> lent him dignity and held his pants for him. They stood like that for the rest of the song, their arms wrapped around each other, the husband holding the man's pants, the wife holding the man's waist. </div><div><br /></div><div>I felt the tears bubble up hot from the cracks of my soul, and I tried for a time to stop them. But then I heard Dwayne sniffle beside me, and then someone else behind us let out a gentle sob. Suddenly, at the surface were so many emotions, so many fears and longings and blessings, so many tired nights and hopeful days.</div><div><br /></div><div>While the man with cerebral palsy stood to worship, I slumped back in my seat and wept. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wept until the end of service. I was crying still when the woman in front of us turned around and shook my hand and introduced herself as Bev and said, "We would love to have you visit our small group!" My eyes were still wet when the worship pastor and his wife invited us with open arms to their house for dinner that night. And I was still dabbing my eyes as we walked quietly back to our car. </div><div><br /></div><div>Dwayne and I were both thinking of the three bodies in the front row, but neither of us wanted to speak. Finally, Dwayne broke in.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I couldn't stop crying over that couple helping that man stand up," he said. "Now, that was church."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes," I said, "Don't talk about it. It will make me cry again." </div><div><br /></div><div>And I thought about the start of the morning and the condition of the human soul, the unwillingness we all carry to reach out and touch another person's life. The fear we have of each other's embarrassments and shames. The self-imposed alienation that keeps us bound up and alone more often then we'd like to admit.</div><div><br /></div><div>I thought again of the husband's strong hand hoisting up the man with cerebral palsy's pants. It was an awkward gesture of grace and it gave us all dignity. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>That,</i> <i>was more than church</i>, I thought. <i>That was a miracle</i>.</div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-29697083890513275742010-08-05T14:30:00.000-07:002010-08-05T15:26:07.947-07:00Simplicity<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Ij_C1vvBplfKp4B_qKB5wmlS_B9EM1Lr3Oi7KSWHawcDmo1Ks_p8MQA3KxBRiMW4S1X8_L6x6k_0WDadNKS3I17ftbiJa5zudbHhGSreC2hb4ssYHytfewY7q0z0mxdM66VpCg/s1600/IMG_0037.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Ij_C1vvBplfKp4B_qKB5wmlS_B9EM1Lr3Oi7KSWHawcDmo1Ks_p8MQA3KxBRiMW4S1X8_L6x6k_0WDadNKS3I17ftbiJa5zudbHhGSreC2hb4ssYHytfewY7q0z0mxdM66VpCg/s320/IMG_0037.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502050795465469058" /></a><br />Okay, I have to make a list of the things we are doing without since moving to Washington. We didn't move here with the intention of simplifying - it just sort of <i>happened</i>. And we're not necessarily trying to be non-mainstream, it's just sort of working out that way.<div><br /></div><div>Here's what we don't have anymore a: TV, Microwave, Dishwasher, garbage disposal, and 2nd car.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ok, so you're probably thinking, "So what? No big deal" but let me just unpack this list with you a bit.</div><div><br /></div><div>1) TV - first of all, TV's take up so much room!!</div><div><br /></div><div>There is so much sitting space in our new living room now that we're not trying to fit in a TV. I like how the area is no longer oriented around an entertainment center. It's oriented around company, hanging out, talking. It's no longer oriented around being entertained, but rather having <i>interchanges</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>Also on the TV topic, I actually haven't watched TV since my stint at the Monastery a few months ago.</div><div><br /></div><div>Something happened to me that weekend and I haven't recovered, but this is an insanely good thing!! The first night in the monastery, I remember going to bed at a decent hour because there was no internet to surf, or TV to watch. I was tired anyway, worn out after two years of helping my husband get through grad school.</div><div><br /></div><div>But when I laid down, I couldn't sleep. My mind kept racing. Images from TV shows and movies kept popping into my head. I kept tossing and turning, jerking out of sleep with these faces and camera angles, and zooming. And I remember thinking very clearly - watching TV isn't entertainment, it isn't "vegging", it's filling my head full of junk that I have to detox from in order to relax.</div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't leave the monastery thinking I was going to quit watching TV. I just stopped. I have had zero desire to watch TV since that weekend. And so, it wasn't a hard thing for me to leave behind the TV when we moved, in fact, it has been <i>freeing</i> to leave it behind!</div><div><br /></div><div>2) Microwave - Okay, <i>this</i> is a hard one.</div><div><br /></div><div>My in-laws have lived without a microwave for many years because they believe that it is detrimental to their health. And I know the debate about the safety of microwaves has been raging for years. Even still, I have been heavily dependent on my microwaves over the years.</div><div><br /></div><div>I mean, it's just so easy for leftovers, and for Noelle's lunches, because YES! I will confess, we have surrendered to the chicken nugget and peas that constitute an easy lunch.</div><div><br /></div><div>In fact, we didn't mean to go without a microwave. We believed we would have a microwave provided for us in the apartment here at Western. We have an oven and a fridgerator, but no microwave.</div><div><br /></div><div>And you know what I've discovered in the last seven days since we've been here? I haven't needed the microwave ONCE!! I can hardly believe it! I've been able to reheat everything in the oven, or just make it from scratch. I'm starting to wonder why I ever used a microwave to begin with?</div><div><br /></div><div>How is it that we come to be so dependent on things we don't really need?</div><div><br /></div><div>3) Dishwasher - I haven't had one for the duration of our marriage, but I was hoping perhaps we'd get one with this apartment. But there again, I haven't felt it's need since being here.</div><div><br /></div><div>4) Garbage Disposal - Now, Dwayne will tell you that I have loved my garbage disposals in the past, a bit too much. I loved clearing off leftovers, putting them down the drain, and grinding them away. Bye-bye food, hello clean counters and refrigerator.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, like the microwave, I've been a bit worried about going without a disposal. This has been a bit harder to adjust to because I have grown accustomed to left overs and wasting food, to cooking more food than my family can consume in a week and then just flushing it down my sink when it goes bad.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ideally, we would compost, and this is something we are considering. The trick is figuring out where and how we would do this on a college campus. Not sure it's doable. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the meantime, living without a garbage disposal is making me rethink the portions that I'm cooking, and the portions that I'm putting on our plates. It's making me think about reducing food down to zero. Not because we're throwing away the scraps, but because we are consuming all of it.</div><div><br /></div><div>5) 2nd Car - Letting go of our second car has been the best part of our move here to Bellingham simply because of what it represents for our personal lives.</div><div><br /></div><div>We are able to do this because Dwayne's job is (I am not kidding you, folks!!) right down the hall from our apartment. You step outside our door, walk past the main entry with it's winding wood steps on the right, and the student lounge with it's many windows on the left, and then you are there - at Dwayne's office. </div><div><br /></div><div>His supervisors' offices are right below our apartment. So he only has to go outside and around the corner to get to "headquarters".</div><div><br /></div><div>Noelle's preschool is less than 2 miles away, so we could walk there if we wanted. And as far as my travel needs? My work will mostly be on the internet for the next several months as I lead my on-line writing workshops, and work on my book.</div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps of all the simplification this one has been the most healing to my soul. I will admit that the expanse of LA was starting to wear me thin. The long stretches of freeway, the traffic, the disjointed way our lives crossed each other, Dwayne going to school, me commuting at times 2 hours to work, Noelle going to the babysitter's.</div><div><br /></div><div>All these things have been brought together in the most healing of ways here in Bellingham simply because of proximity. </div><div><br /></div><div>We are still far from family. And now far from all our dear friends in Los Angeles, but each morning I find myself waking up to a quiet relief - like I don't have to work so hard anymore to keep everything together.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I think perhaps this is the beauty of simplicity? The paring away of that which we don't need, but have built our lives on, so that we can live within the reach of our own souls.</div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-73419618940821039272010-08-02T13:26:00.000-07:002010-08-02T16:25:14.748-07:00WormsHere was my to-do list when I woke up this morning. It was a short list, but a big one.<div><br /></div><div>1) Get Noelle de-wormed. She has come down with worms for the second time this summer! So in the midst of this big move, the poor thing has had upset stomach, diarrhea and a very sore behind. I blame the dogs she was snuggling right before we left Indiana.</div><div><br /></div><div>So first thing this morning, I took her to Rite-Aid and bought her that chalky, minty medicine that kills pinworms.</div><div><br /></div><div>Second on my list was:</div><div><br /></div><div>2) Find a preschool for Noelle. She is so ready. There is no doubt in my mind that it is absolutely the right move for her. I'm not sure how many days or hours a week I will choose to have her in preschool, but I can see in so many ways that my little girl is ready for the new challenges and opportunities preschool will bring her.<div><br /></div><div>Western Washington University provides a Child Development Center to it's employees and students, but it's very hard to get into. The wait lists are up to a year long. So I went to the CDC today with low expectations. I was hoping at least to get a referral to other preschools in the area.</div><div><br /></div><div>One of Dwayne's supervisors very kindly offered to take me to the Daycare so that I could meet the director and talk with her personally. This was a wonderful connection. And so around lunch time we met Dwayne's supervisor, picked up her daughter from dance class and then went over to the CDC.</div><div><br /></div><div>As soon as we walked through the doors Noelle was off like a flash. She ran into the classroom and began playing with the toys, perfectly at home in this new environment. I observed with pride how independent my little girl is. "She's ready," I thought to myself as I turned to shake the Director's hand.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I think they're about to take a nap," the Director said craning her neck around to see Noelle. "Your daughter..." she waited for me to catch the hint.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Certainly!" I piped up and rushed in to pull Noelle out of the way.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Director escorted us back to her office, and of course Noelle was squirmy. She was anxious to get back to the classroom.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Mommy, I was making you a sandwich!" she announced and fidgeted around the seat uncontrollably, lifting her legs and feet up underneath her, then twisting around to grab everything on the coffee table. She found a red foam apple.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes, you can play with that," the Director said walking into her office with a pleasant smile.</div><div><br /></div><div>I turned in my seat to face her as she sat down behind her desk.</div><div><br /></div><div>"So, you're interested in our school?" she asked pulling a yellow sheet of paper out of her desk.</div><div><br /></div><div>I heard a long low squelch beside me, and turned to see Noelle trying to EAT the foam apple.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Noelle, don't eat that!" I retorted and pulled the apple out of her hand.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh yes, you don't want to eat that!" the Director said in that same pleasant and unflappable tone. "Lot's of little hands have been all over it."</div><div><br /></div><div>She went on to kindly explain to me that the preschool has a very long wait list, but if I filled out this yellow paper, they would give me a call perhaps in the Spring if there was an opening next Fall.</div><div><br /></div><div>"We really can't guarantee what our availabilities are going to be," she finished. </div><div><br /></div><div>I heard a crack beside me and turned to see Noelle bending over a mirror. She had found it behind the chair, pulled it out and dropped it on the ground.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh!" the Director jumped up and picked up the mirror quickly. "You don't want to play with that!"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Noelle," I hissed as the Director stepped out to put the mirror away. "Sit down on your bottom!" The director walked back in and Noelle begrudgingly shuffled up onto the chair and slumped down into it's corner. She sat with a look of flat irritation. It was past lunch time now, going on nap time.</div><div><br /></div><div>I handed her a cookie. She crossed her brows and slapped it away from me. I felt a small flag of panic unfurl deep in my gut. What do I do with this two year old???!! She was completely misbehaving and I had no recourse. I needed to finish this meeting but where could she go? What could I do? There was no one to watch Noelle for me, and I had no idea how to threaten or distract her into good behavior. I was feeling lost in more ways than one.</div><div><br /></div><div>I straightened up and turned toward the Director, who tried to look like she had not seen my daughter defy me. "I'd let her go in the age-appropriate room, but their about to take a nap," she explained meekly.</div><div><br /></div><div>I nodded my head and took the yellow sheet from her. "Well, I was hoping you might be able to refer me to other preschools?"</div><div><br /></div><div>The director smiled that same implacable smile and said, "We're not supposed to refer people to preschools, but here you can call the Opportunity Council..." and she stopped mid-sentence to write down the phone number.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then Noelle spoke:</div><div><br /></div><div>"I have worms." It was clear as the sunny days we've had here in Bellingham this weekend.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Director choked on a laugh and then looked up at me. A deep blush crept up from my neck and I felt the heat of it to the top of my head.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I have worms. I have worms. I have worms." It was almost deliberate and calculated. Noelle sat slumped into the corner of her chair watching the Director quietly, measuring the reactions around her.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well that's not what you're mommy wants you to tell me!" The Director laughed again and then turned to me. "Yeah, there's no chance of you getting into the school this year. And a slim chance you'll get in next year, but just give us the sheet and we'll call you."</div><div><br /></div><div>We shook hands and I scooped my daughter out of the office.</div><div><br /></div><div>Outside she screeched at the top of her lungs when I told her it was time to go home. "But I want to stay at preschool!" she sobbed and her whole body stiffened like a board so that I could hardly pick her up.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Please honey," was all I could whisper as I followed Dwayne's supervisor back to the car and lumped her into the car seat.</div><div><br /></div><div>Back at the apartment, I quietly prepared quesadillas for a late lunch. My own inner antagonist taunted me. "She's not ready for preschool. She's a savage! She's hardly civilized enough to be with other kids. What have you done wrong? Where have you failed her?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Noelle carried her blue princess dress up to me and pushed it into my thigh. "Mommy, I want to wear this."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Okay" I reached down and helped her put it on. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm going to go lay on my belly, okay mommy?" I have been coaching her to do this when her stomach hurts. She walked down the hallway and disappeared into our bedroom. </div><div><br /></div><div>I cut the avocados, and carefully spooned them out onto her plate. Things were quiet down the hall. Usually when Noelle is quiet, it means she's concentrating very hard on something she knows she should not be doing. Like rummaging through my purse, or pulling all the clothes out of the dresser drawer, or yanking on the blinds.</div><div><br /></div><div>Though I was enjoying the peace and quiet, I knew I needed to check on her, so I walked back to our bedroom and pushed on the door.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is what I found.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDE8e0UkinUgRZlxt38oFBSL34_HrOO5H9l7g9cg7DZ9mAjlFuDBaVG2eCj_XN9DFLnt9DczmiPX3Jy_7aDjPRs1ASIJkRoaAPNklUogk4kAKZhexyADmOsOqsZrlItmmtd1egSw/s1600/sleeping+noelle.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDE8e0UkinUgRZlxt38oFBSL34_HrOO5H9l7g9cg7DZ9mAjlFuDBaVG2eCj_XN9DFLnt9DczmiPX3Jy_7aDjPRs1ASIJkRoaAPNklUogk4kAKZhexyADmOsOqsZrlItmmtd1egSw/s320/sleeping+noelle.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500955865274594514" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-19395483864321956682010-07-23T11:41:00.001-07:002010-07-23T11:52:43.793-07:00Throw MountainsI'm excited to have been invited to post a guest blog over at <a href="http://www.throwmountains.com">Throw Mountains</a> today. Renee Johnson and Sarah Cunningham have a cool ministry running over there for 20/30 somethings. <div><br /></div><div>Renee invited me to write a bit about the metaphorical shipwreck many young adults hit after graduation, which is the topic of my first book.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you have a chance, stop on over there, read the blog, comment, but also check out all that Throw Mountains has to offer!<br /><div><br /></div><div>www.throwmountains.com</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-9977984569051192542010-07-17T10:45:00.000-07:002010-07-17T11:48:15.454-07:00Facing the Child<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSrerDWX1dJzXmJZkGo8iAHsUiOFuPrs_ayg_aGXl0_TKFmRPYG_9QmCjtI91KL_FLl4F3Z24hcI4lb8m7DezQkH3ZKiahy8Aawfrm9coP21Cft271sZL1fK2SdVKIHBinb-O3A/s1600/IMG_7762.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSrerDWX1dJzXmJZkGo8iAHsUiOFuPrs_ayg_aGXl0_TKFmRPYG_9QmCjtI91KL_FLl4F3Z24hcI4lb8m7DezQkH3ZKiahy8Aawfrm9coP21Cft271sZL1fK2SdVKIHBinb-O3A/s320/IMG_7762.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494944828774157618" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><u><br /></u></span></div><br />Noelle is exactly 2 years and 9 months old today, and I feel like I'm seeing the persona of a little girl emerge from the curtain and sheets of her toddler body. <div><br /></div><div>Her protruding belly is disappearing. Her pudgy legs are getting longer, more gangly. Her face and mouth are turning into the silhouette of a girl and young woman I am going to get to know over the next several years.</div><div><br /></div><div>This morning, she popped into our bed all bright and ready to chat. </div><div><br /></div><div>"You guys went on a date last night?" she asked holding her luvie under one arm and crawling up the bedspread.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yep!" Dwayne said hoisting her up. "What did you do last night?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Noelle sat up on her knees, her little feet splayed out beside her bum. "Well," she held out her hands and counted on her fingers. "I played and I -" pause, a twinkle in her eye "I pooped!" Then she slapped her forehead, laughed and flopped back onto the bed with us.</div><div><br /></div><div>We were a crumple of sheets and bedspread and laughter.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have had a revelation about my daughter in these last two days. Primarily about her personality. Well, that's not exactly it. I've had a revelation about my expectations of her personality.</div><div><br /></div><div>Since being on this month long galavant across the country I have been forced to see her in a new light. Before this trip, I have been excited to fling open the doors and share my little girl with our family, to let them see the joy, the cuteness, the sweetness.</div><div><br /></div><div>But then of course, we have been traveling, out of our natural setting, out of her normal rhythm, and she has been tossed around on the steady current of strange hotels, strange faces, strange schedules. In short, she's been sick and out of sorts. And on top of all of this, she has been, of course, a normal two year old. Primarily - obstinate and tactless.</div><div><br /></div><div>For example, two nights ago, we had a friend over for dinner. During most of the dinner, my daughter was being a complete pill. I couldn't get her to sit down in her seat next to our guest. She was fussing and fighting, kicking and whining, and when she did sit down she was throwing her water around and making a mess.</div><div><br /></div><div>After a couple trips to the bathroom for some correction, she settled down finally and pecked at her food. Later on, she was sitting in my lap and I decided to point at our guest and ask, "Noelle, who's that?"</div><div><br /></div><div>She got that twinkle in her eye and said, "That's poop."</div><div><br /></div><div>I was mortified. No idea what to do. I made her apologize and she did. Then I apologized again later to our guest. But I was fighting with myself the whole evening. </div><div><br /></div><div>What was I doing that was allowing my daughter to be so rude? Hadn't she just been cringing and squirming the other day when NaNa was trying to give her a kiss? Hadn't she run away from BopBop yelling, "NOOOO" when he tried to say "hi"? </div><div><br /></div><div>If you know me at all, you'll know that this sort of behavior would horrify me. And so I have set my mind to correct it. Dwayne and I have been admonishing Noelle to speak respectfully and kindly to NaNa and BopBop because they love us so much. And to talk nicely to people.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, back to the evening when Noelle called our guest "poop." After she had gone to bed that night, Mom, Dad, Dwayne and I all sat together in the living room. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I don't think Noelle liked our guest much," my Dad said. I looked up to find him smiling. He was amused. Not defeated, like me. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh because she called our guest poop?" I asked shaking my head.</div><div><br /></div><div>"No, before that. I don't think she wanted to sit next to her at the table." And I could see in my father's eyes that he thought Noelle was onto something. When he looked at Noelle he didn't see a misbehaving little girl. He saw an intuitive child with the inability to manage her reactions.</div><div><br /></div><div>And suddenly the light broke.</div><div><br /></div><div>I do not want my daughter to be rude or a brat, but I also do not want to neuter her personality. </div><div><br /></div><div>These are the new thoughts that have been swirling around my head and heart these last two days as I've been watching my little girl bounce around the house turning summersaults or sticking her feet outside in the pond:</div><div><br /></div><div>- It's okay, if she doesn't like some one. We all have our aversions and attractions to people.</div><div>- But I want her to be gracious and kind. </div><div>- I don't want to make her feel like there's something wrong with her own tastes and sensibilities.</div><div>- But I want her to be well adjusted, to be able to move smoothly with society.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ultimately, I am thinking about the line between training and guiding these little beings God has placed in our care, but then also giving them the space to be who they are?</div><div><br /></div><div>The truth is, my child is much stronger than I have been willing to see. And I am recognizing that perhaps her personality is not going to be exactly what I would have chosen. Perhaps she'll be a bit more opinionated then I would have initially been comfortable with. </div><div><br /></div><div>But when it comes down to it, I wouldn't trade that for anything in the world. I want her to be her. I want her to have all the fire and spice that is in her little being, because it is after all so much more interesting than being a "perfect little angel."</div><div><br /></div><div>Last night, while we were on our date, Dad says that Noelle climbed up in his office chair, put on his glasses and sat at the computer. "I'm Bop Bop!" she retorted.</div><div><br /></div><div>This morning, as I was walking across the grass to the back house, watching Dwayne and Noelle on the porch by the pond. Noelle stood with her hand on Dwayne's leg and shouted out over the yard, "Mommy!"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes?!" I said.</div><div><br /></div><div>She raised her little chin up in the air and crooned for the whole 3 acres to hear, "I love my Daddy!"</div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-58898982964841985942010-07-08T11:16:00.000-07:002010-07-08T11:56:38.050-07:00Home<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYxgHRAPGiRTvtKCeWBV9O1NwvbPqfHnM2yVS0jFSPkApvCzzF3z3jbeCrmeSfI30O0pDlIqT-wF-C08dz_yQZqZITrwBnMtQ0_kw985AVrwhhOR0jtnQNj3wxXooVFl7WtohaRA/s1600/IMG_7819.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYxgHRAPGiRTvtKCeWBV9O1NwvbPqfHnM2yVS0jFSPkApvCzzF3z3jbeCrmeSfI30O0pDlIqT-wF-C08dz_yQZqZITrwBnMtQ0_kw985AVrwhhOR0jtnQNj3wxXooVFl7WtohaRA/s320/IMG_7819.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491608140556758146" /></a><br />Being in my mother's home is about as close as it gets to heaven for me. Yesterday, Noelle told me that "NaNa's house is like a palace." Which is to say she feels the same way I do. :-)<div><br /></div><div>After flying two short hours from Florida, then driving an hour up from Indianapolis, our family arrived at my parents' home in Alexandria, Indiana yesterday afternoon. Yes, if you've been tracking the Facebook status updates, that means that we have been in five states, and eight different beds in a little over a week. But the travels have finally slowed, at least for the next few weeks.</div><div><br /></div><div>All our belongings are safely stored in Bellingham, WA. We reconnected with family in Orlando Florida, for the family reunion. And now, we will stay in Alexandria with my parents for the next three weeks before returning to our new home in Bellingham at the end of the month.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's hard to describe just how delicious this homecoming has been. It's as if my soul has been slurping up some sort of nutrition it's badly needed for a long while. I have loved living in Los Angeles the last seven years, but have missed the presence of my parents and my sister. I can't tell you how many times during these last two years while Dwayne was in grad school and I was the primary bread winner that I wished I had my mother's help. So in addition to finally being able to be physically close to mom and dad, being in their home also feels like a place to gather and recoup before the transition to our new lives in Bellingham. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have missed these last few years, the quiet sanctuary of my parents' home. The truth is, even growing up, our house was a quiet house. It has always been so. My parents are quiet, reflective people, and I took the peacefulness that trails them like a fragrance for granted as a child and teenager.</div><div><br /></div><div>I just believed everybody's family was this way. </div><div><br /></div><div>At this age and stage of my life, I see the markings and traits that characterize my parents and the life they've built together. And I see it as an entity which has certainly shaped me but exists outside of my own being as a person. In other words, the home I am building with Dwayne and Noelle is different, certainly influenced by, but different than my parents.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I think this is why, when I stepped into the cool, quiet space of my mother's home yesterday, the ceiling fans turning lazily above, the lines of each room so clean, and simple, I felt that insane, yet quiet joy of permission bubbling up: permission to be, permission to let go, permission to relax, permission to not be responsible, permission to help, permission to embrace, permission to replenish, permission to go, permission to stay, permission to play, permission to cook, permission to nest, permission to let someone else watch my daughter for a while. :-)</div><div><br /></div><div>My parent's house is beautiful and they have arrived at a season of their lives when they can afford a beautiful house, but even before this sanctuary on the skirt of Alexandria, when we lived in a small, one-story house in North Marion, and when we lived in rented homes on the mission field with borrowed hand-me-downs, my parents' homes have always been a safe place for me.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I believe this was because their sanctuary had very little to do with the buildings and structures we've lived in. It's mostly had to do with them, their own beings.</div><div><br /></div><div>I remember once, while we were living in England, I was about eleven or twelve-years-old, and my mother sent Annie and I off to a Christian girl's camp out in the English country side somewhere. It was in a beautiful old stone mansion with large ivy covered sides, and rolling views from the windows.</div><div><br /></div><div>When the week was over, mom and dad drove through the gate and up the gravel driveway to pick us up. Dad helped us get our suitcases in the car, and Annie and I lept into the back seat.</div><div><br /></div><div>As we pulled off, and sunk down into each other's presence, I looked out the window at the passing fields, and low stone-walls, and sighed. "It's so good to be home!" </div><div><br /></div><div>Dad laughed and glanced at me in the rear view mirror, "But we're not home, we're in the car."<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-56969518424690012022010-06-19T14:06:00.000-07:002010-06-19T14:42:32.042-07:00Meal Planning on the Cusp of Goodbye<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwacdaI4nf3TutuRCsxWF6vO3dUVSv8XPyZ4WYXzgc9BCuqJzZvzywnYkhoiQlfGkZ-8It5kMhLkUFv2jZq8nm5WBtrml_VJd5BF6hpcYweFMwBmUSDdvuDKqx5vgWtFptQzjeXQ/s1600/food-safety.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwacdaI4nf3TutuRCsxWF6vO3dUVSv8XPyZ4WYXzgc9BCuqJzZvzywnYkhoiQlfGkZ-8It5kMhLkUFv2jZq8nm5WBtrml_VJd5BF6hpcYweFMwBmUSDdvuDKqx5vgWtFptQzjeXQ/s320/food-safety.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484599477671592770" /></a><br />Right now I am procrastinating meal planning this week. We are exactly one week away from packing up the trailer and hitting the road North, and so how do you plan for meals exactly, when you know that in just a few days you will be packing up your kitchen utensils and will be emptying out the cupboards of food?<div><br /></div><div>It feels like a jumbo rubix cube the size of my kitchen. If I move this, will it snap into place over here? If I pack this will I need it later to cook? If I don't buy anymore deli meat, will we run out and be scrounging around for lunches before we leave? It's a matter of not wanting to waste, but also not wanting to be left hungry and spending all our money to eat out.</div><div><br /></div><div>And really the psychological puzzle of planning our meals this week is just the face of the much deeper emotional puzzle that lies underneath. We have been scheduling dinners with friends in order to 1) not have to cook this last week but also and more significantly to 2) say "goodbye." </div><div><br /></div><div>And here are the flips and turns of my heart when I think about this next week: "If I say goodbye to them on Tuesday, will I wish I could say "goodbye" again on Saturday as we're pulling out of the parking lot? Will a dinner together be enough to bring closure or will I in a month be wishing I would have said "goodbye" in more significant ways? Is a cup of coffee here and a fruit salad there enough to wind up all the memories we've accumulated these last seven years? Is it enough to release this geography which has become our home?</div><div><br /></div><div>A week ago Friday night, Dwayne and I spent the evening in Silver Lake with some friends. We met at Mae Ploy, one of the first Thai restaurants we visited in LA. The memory goes something like this: it was our second visit to Mosaic, and at the end of service a couple in front of us turned around to shake our hands. She was petite with tight jeans and long, silky black hair, he was talk and muscle-bound training to be a fire fighter.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Do you want to go to dinner with us?" she asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>Dwayne and I looked at each other stunned. Never before had we had perfect strangers invite us to dinner. "Sure," we said.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Okay we'll take you to this great Thai place," she said and we followed them out of the dark corridors of the Los Angeles Entertainment Center and onto the lights of downtown. </div><div><br /></div><div>We sat in Mae Ploy last week, seven years after our first visit, with new friends, and remembered the warmth and energy of our first encounter with LA.</div><div><br /></div><div>We have lived so much of our lives in the small corners of LA over delicious meals. What about the first time we ever ate fish tacos at Wahoo's standing on Manhattan Beach Blvd, feeling the pulse of waves and people washing around us? Or our favorite nook at Par's restaurant, where one night after a particularly gravely argument Dwayne and I sat side by side and shared the best Lamb Shank I have ever tasted? </div><div><br /></div><div>Or then there was the first time I ever tasted Caprese salad in the breezy back yard of a friend in Redondo Beach. I kept eating and eating and eating those delicious white puffs of mozerella with little tomato orbs drizzled in balsamic vinaigrette. The tangy, salty flavors jumbled down with the laughter and chatter of an evening surround by our Southbay small group. </div><div><br /></div><div>What special memories. It seems hardly possible we are leaving them now.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-39573646227311490362010-06-05T13:46:00.000-07:002010-06-06T09:01:43.480-07:00My Weekend at a Monastery: An Open Journal<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSoBKuZKWSRD_Hk0ZkUEMR0peVYVCJUGPhLp6IWqjER-cFyT9TJvD2i448_T3hgqdthy3g6l0wbAU42AoM-XjIioNteTwf0RfIeU0Y5jCxNbK5e2ZvZydRGAwADNLp_0Idn9rQHA/s1600/Church.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSoBKuZKWSRD_Hk0ZkUEMR0peVYVCJUGPhLp6IWqjER-cFyT9TJvD2i448_T3hgqdthy3g6l0wbAU42AoM-XjIioNteTwf0RfIeU0Y5jCxNbK5e2ZvZydRGAwADNLp_0Idn9rQHA/s320/Church.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479397504859538706" /></a><br />Three weeks ago, I had the amazing opportunity to spend the weekend at Prince of Peace Abbey on retreat. Dwayne booked the weekend for me as a Mother's Day gift/ "thank you"-for-supporting-our-family-for-the-last-two-years-while-I've-been-in-graduate-school gift.<div><br /></div><div>Really, I couldn't imagine a better present for me. It was an introvert's oasis. </div><div><br /></div><div>I texted Dwayne on the first night there. "Checked in, went to Vespers, heard the monk's chant, ate dinner at 6 in the silent dining room, then walked the Way of the Cross Prayer Walk. Wish you were here."</div><div><br /></div><div>My very extroverted husband wrote back, "Sounds awful!" I knew we were both cracking up in our respective parts of Southern California. He was up in La Verne watching Noelle for the weekend, and I was perched on the top of a hill in Oceanside, the blue roof of the monastery stretching away to the right, and the ocean disappearing over the horizon to the left.</div><div><br /></div><div>But really, Dwayne's text captured the truth of the weekend more than he realized. The root word of "awful" is after all, "awe" a term we use all the time when we talk about things that are inspiring or sacred. And that was exactly how I was feeling about my first time ever at a monastery.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here are my journal entries from he weekend: </div><div><br /></div><div>5/21/10</div><div><br /></div><div>I am here now. I got my key. My room is tiled floor with cinder block walls, but it is clean and smells welcoming. I am comfortable. One of the monk's knocked on my door this afternoon and showed me how to "turn on" the floors. It's supposed to be cold tomorrow and the floors heat up. Lovely.</div><div><br /></div><div>What I am looking forward to most this weekend is writing and writing to my heart's content. But I am also looking forward to letting myself just be with God. I hope the two can coexist.</div><div><br /></div><div>I feel anxious at the thought of unwinding, of going through the weekend and not getting anything done, of the thought of taking the time to sink down.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think its funny to be anxious of these things. An indicator of the key to which my life has been tightened recently. As the Cantor chanted tonight in Vespers, "O God come to my assistance." And everyone said in reply, "Lord make haste to help me."</div><div><br /></div><div>5/22/10</div><div><br /></div><div>Didn't sleep very well first night at the Abbey. I had lots of dreams. Kept waking up expecting to hear the bell for Vigils at 5:30am. It's a comfortable bed and a comfortable room, so that's not why I couldn't sleep. I couldn't sleep because of a restless mind. It was like my brain was on hyper drive. </div><div><br /></div><div>Jackie's words (My Spiritual Director), keep coming back to me: "it will take a while to unwind."</div><div><br /></div><div>There is no TV, no internet here and it's freeing. I have plenty to do just with the writing and the prayers. I'll go to Holy Mass at 11am. Last night, as I was unwinding, TV shows kept popping into my head. It feels like junk to me now, not entertainment, like things to pull out of my mind so that I can relax. I feel lighter here. It feels like my soul is drinking up water. Getting refilled. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm starting to rethink the way we do things at home. I don't want Noelle's head to be full of junk. I want her to know homeostasis, ground zero, the quiet place.</div><div><br /></div><div>5/23/10</div><div><br /></div><div>Just got back from Holy Mass. Incredibly intimate. I was the only one there who did not know when to bow, stand, cross herself. In some ways I felt I was intruding on a deeply personal experience for all there. The Priest (Friar? Not sure what he's called) spoke and I was struck by how his messaged centered on Jesus, alone. So many sermons in the Evangelical churches I've visited focus on Christian living. There is a difference between those two sermons: Christ vs Christian living.</div><div><br /></div><div>This message today lasted about 10 minutes and soothed my soul. It focussed my eyes back to Jesus the Risen Lord. There was much talk about peace. At the end we turned to one another and said, "Peace be with you." People kissed each other and shook hands. I needed that. Need personal peace right now. Beautiful.</div><div><br /></div><div>I did not take communion as I already knew, thanks to Kristen Sipper (a friend from work who is a devout Catholic), they will not serve anyone who doesn't believe in transubstantiation. Kristen likes to joke that she's a vegetarian, except on Sunday when she eats Christ's flesh. </div><div><br /></div><div>It occurred to me as I was watching them prepare the wine and bread that every day these monks, and believers sitting in the pews, witness a miracle. A true blood and body, tangible miracle and everyday they ingest that miracle. </div><div><br /></div><div>What an amazing way to stay physically connected to your faith, to carry it not just in your mind and heart but in your body as well.</div><div><br /></div><div>***</div><div><br /></div><div>Time spent writing over the weekend:</div><div><br /></div><div>Friday:</div><div><br /></div><div>5pm: Vespers</div><div>6pm Dinner</div><div>6:30 - 7:00 Way of the Cross Prayer Walk</div><div>7:30 - 10:00 Wrote</div><div>10:00 Bed</div><div><br /></div><div>Saturday:</div><div>7 am Wake-up and shower</div><div>7:30 Breakfast</div><div>8 - 10:45 Wrote</div><div>11 Holy Mass</div><div>12 Lunch</div><div>12:30 Texted Dwayne</div><div>1 - 2:30 Took a Nap</div><div>2:30 - 5 Wrote</div><div>5 Vespers</div><div>6 Dinner</div><div>6:30 - 7 Way of the Cross Prayer Walk</div><div>7:30 - 10 Wrote</div><div>10:30 - 1 am Read (_The Possibility of Everything_ by Hope Edelman)</div><div><br /></div><div>Total Hours spent writing: 10!!</div><div><br /></div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-72399838384697375342010-05-15T09:38:00.000-07:002010-05-15T10:09:35.264-07:00The Pink Chair<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJaGzV3yU6HwPFYWg0hE5Gav4Wu0zZhzl8FBIf-TF7XUQvUCF1A04dG3D8zBuQ6pIvRpy5rq21Fdy9Ter-u1ogAUs9PMdBENIcoEsf6dYg6gHiQT9dZNopieMQ8Ff9LI8EYdY4vw/s1600/IMG_7606.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJaGzV3yU6HwPFYWg0hE5Gav4Wu0zZhzl8FBIf-TF7XUQvUCF1A04dG3D8zBuQ6pIvRpy5rq21Fdy9Ter-u1ogAUs9PMdBENIcoEsf6dYg6gHiQT9dZNopieMQ8Ff9LI8EYdY4vw/s320/IMG_7606.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471543981650723442" /></a><br />Last night, I sat in the small pink velure chair, cupping Noelle's tiny shoulders with my arm. We sat together reading her favorite books, just as we have done nearly every night for the last two and a half years. These days, we mostly read the books on the couch in the living room before bed, but every now and then we return to the pink chair. This chair has been a part of Noelle's routine since that first burning night home from the hospital.<div><br /></div><div>Memories are etched in my mind with exhaustion and that strange physical bond that happens between mother and baby, of sitting in the pink chair nursing Noelle eight times a day. I quickly discovered in the early hours of the morning, around 1 or 2, that the pink chair was the perfect height for my weary head. While Noelle was busy drinking somewhere between sleep and consciousness, I would drop my head back on to the padded top of the chair and fall asleep.</div><div><br /></div><div>I lived in that chair for the first month of Noelle's life. I have shared this image often with friends when we talk about learning how to breastfeed and the all-consuming nature of that task: it is the image of me sitting in the back room in that pink chair, naked from the waist up, my arms out ready to receive what ever offering was handed to me next, a hungry baby, or a plate of food.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now the pink chair sits quietly in the corner of Noelle's room. Gone are the days of nursing. Gone are the afternoons spent rocking in the chair just before naptime. Gone are the evenings, sitting with her on my lap singing songs before bed. Now we have graduated to the couch for our prayers and bedtime stories, but as I said before, sometimes, we return to the chair, like an old familiar family member. </div><div><br /></div><div>Noelle is old enough now that she does not want to sit on my lap. She wants to sit beside me in the pink chair, and it's arms are not quite wide enough for both of us, so usually I tuck Noelle into the corner of the chair first, and then I wedge my hips in sideways, hook my arm around her shoulders and hold the book in front of us like a ring of love. </div><div><br /></div><div>Last night, as we sat together in the chair before bed, it hit me like a pile of bedtime books - this chair is the ONE thing I want to take with us to Washington. Everything else we are getting rid of, because the job provides furnished housing. I have been pacing through our apartment, a knot in my stomach gathering as I assess the importance of each item. Do we want this? or this? </div><div><br /></div><div>"It's just stuff," Dwayne tells me rightfully, but in the face of leaving behind my friends, my family, my job, suddenly my "stuff" has gathered a whole lot more significance. Letting it go is the last tether holding me here, to all the memories and connections we have built over the last seven years.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Of all the stuff, you want to keep the pink chair?" Dwayne asks me increduously. "It's like used four times over."</div><div><br /></div><div>And this is the truth. Of all the things in our home it is the least valuable, and that is precisely why I am so attached to it. "Where did it come from?" Dwayne asks.</div><div><br /></div><div>"APU!" And I am surprised at how quickly the tears appear. "Annie found it in the dumpster." And that's another reason why I'm attached to that small little piece of furniture with it's cheap pink upholstery, and two cigarette burns like dimples on the arm rest -- my sister used to own this chair. My sister, who is now thousands of miles away in New Zealand, and to whom I can only talk but once a week for an hour if we catch each other at the right window.</div><div><br /></div><div>The chair is a physical reminder of her presence in my home everyday, when I can not reach her anymore. And then there are on top of that all the memories of Noelle's birth, and those difficult first days of learning to be a mother.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I don't see how we can take it," Dwayne says standing at the sink doing dishes with me. And I nod my head in recognition. The trailer we will bring to haul our stuff won't be big enough to fit the chair. Grief washes over my body.</div><div><br /></div><div>There was a stretch of time, I remember, when Noelle would nurse before bed. I would gather her up on the boppy, let her drink and fall asleep, while I sat snuggled into the broken-in comfort of the pink chair, reading a book by lamplight. It was a moment for Noelle, and a moment for me. A moment to sink into the foreignness of new motherhood in the comfort of an old chair, imbued as it was with years of memories and personal connections.</div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-71387541604747681012010-05-02T21:18:00.000-07:002010-05-02T21:46:40.882-07:00A Snippet<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBogNE0izbfNjh1GaFNQt41GzHU4-XxruLHDKC7D6iW_S65hOHR98S8fQ-WDHjYC1e3pFmjjZzbFVamendjx2DX3JeeYcvrpPPM2dWJWtnWEATn0-cy5TIOHoYliQIlr11tr1Umw/s1600/IMG_7475.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBogNE0izbfNjh1GaFNQt41GzHU4-XxruLHDKC7D6iW_S65hOHR98S8fQ-WDHjYC1e3pFmjjZzbFVamendjx2DX3JeeYcvrpPPM2dWJWtnWEATn0-cy5TIOHoYliQIlr11tr1Umw/s320/IMG_7475.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5466899819175796530" /></a><br />Well, I have been writing these last few weeks, but not much on the blog. Mostly, when I get a chance to write, I am working on the manuscript and so at the moment feel a little dry with the blog. <div><br /></div><div>And so, as a way of keeping the juices flowing, I'd like to share with you just a few paragraphs of what I wrote today on the manuscript. I've got 13 chapters done so far, but am going through and doing a second draft of the chapters that exist in order to adjust the arc and pacing of the book to complete the last three chapters.</div><div><br /></div><div>The book deals with the metaphorical shipwreck that happens for so many young adults once they leave college. See my website: www.christintaylor.com, for a quick overview of the book's theme and my first chapter.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is the beginning of chapter 6, which is all about the genesis of my relationship with Dwayne. Because my metaphorical shipwreck effected my sense of identity, my spirituality, my vision of career, and my marriage, Chapter 6 establishes my relationship with Dwayne so that the readers will understand later on in the book the implications of my metaphorical shipwreck as it pertained to my marriage.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wrote this from a writing Prompt in Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paola's book <i>Tell It Slant</i>. They ask you to write about a family member, envisioning their life before you met them.</div><div><br /></div><div>Enjoy! And remember it's a rough draft! :-)</div><div><br /></div><div>**</div><div><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">I have, in my mind, this enduring image of Dwayne as a little boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I see him swinging from vines, in bare feet, little face red with the Haitian heat, sweat beads glistening his freckles.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’m not sure how this image can be true, although I formed it somewhere along the line, perhaps during the tales he regaled me with when we were dating.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">I don’t know how this image can be true because I also lived in Haiti as a little girl, and I remember no vines, or jungles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Only dry, dessert heat, brown grass, a single mango tree bent at the knees, arcing over our lawn in a pant, as if the heat was too much even for it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I remember running around bare-foot though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This much I am sure of, in my mind’s eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I am sure that Dwayne is barefoot because I remember running barefoot in Haiti with a little friend, who was also barefoot and I remember him stepping on a slab of wood with two nails piercing through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And I remember holding his foot between my knees and pulling on the piece of wood with all my might until it released his pink flesh.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">And so in my mind’s eye, Dwayne is swinging from tree branches on vines, barefoot with another little barefoot boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes">I ask Dwayne over and over again, “Is this true?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Were there vines?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And his answer is always the same.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“No.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was a rope.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Oh, so were there lots of ropes, hanging from the trees that you would swing from?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“No, just one rope, from one tree.”</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Though I know this image of Dwayne swinging from vines, barefoot through the jungle isn't true, it remains engraved on my mind, because something about it captures the essence of my husband: who he was before I met him, and who he is now, embodied though he is in the frame of a man, and no longer barefoot.</p> <!--EndFragment--> </div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-66816114090386910362010-04-18T10:31:00.000-07:002010-04-18T10:49:43.181-07:00The Wait is Over - The Journey has Just Begun<div><div>After 2 years of knowing a change was coming, 10 months of actively praying about the change, 6 months of applying for jobs, and 2 months of interviewing, the Taylors finally know where they're moving: Bellingham, Washington.</div><div><br /></div><div>This past week, Western Washington University offered Dwayne a Resident Director position beginning August 2nd and Dwayne accepted it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bellingham is located 20 miles South of the Canadian boarder, right on Bellingham Bay.</div></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3qwVLkwEVgpJFQpIipESFfk2Tf7KFNZ1AktVyeMoFmv6HdUJcCr8Iy1ZoYc1jf-s0wyITqy2LFn4Agij18_xkVmb9kIN6kbqryBv_mN3iwlH_srbkm9nxu1Cx07ZSrHwsK7DKGw/s1600/bellingham-bay.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 202px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3qwVLkwEVgpJFQpIipESFfk2Tf7KFNZ1AktVyeMoFmv6HdUJcCr8Iy1ZoYc1jf-s0wyITqy2LFn4Agij18_xkVmb9kIN6kbqryBv_mN3iwlH_srbkm9nxu1Cx07ZSrHwsK7DKGw/s320/bellingham-bay.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461534045212417746" /></a>Dwayne took a few pictures while he was up there for the on campus interview.<br /><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhah3aBVuhou6TlWAo7gy12uolIpGQU6NFoD2Kgfm3y3cplycZj4m8MzKdsFfGFMxsbI1unJ6NpxDbZrVqXltVbld-JX2_sRgyc2jJU81Rr41oInnqW6LeUXGd1-6_DlNTNqOPBuw/s1600/Bellingham+%234.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhah3aBVuhou6TlWAo7gy12uolIpGQU6NFoD2Kgfm3y3cplycZj4m8MzKdsFfGFMxsbI1unJ6NpxDbZrVqXltVbld-JX2_sRgyc2jJU81Rr41oInnqW6LeUXGd1-6_DlNTNqOPBuw/s320/Bellingham+%234.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461533273636844930" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhBP-xFdh3Vh-Xvm0u3BGPj-Je47BHOp653ZoROEjnqSLP-aem8t5SAyBQmVAO_oC6zmRVAdRNL_zFTUO0zufHbveJYkli9PM5dmJwSgDF8oBVmmB2HFftII1F5Ac92tbF-D8Dpg/s1600/Bellingham+%233.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhBP-xFdh3Vh-Xvm0u3BGPj-Je47BHOp653ZoROEjnqSLP-aem8t5SAyBQmVAO_oC6zmRVAdRNL_zFTUO0zufHbveJYkli9PM5dmJwSgDF8oBVmmB2HFftII1F5Ac92tbF-D8Dpg/s320/Bellingham+%233.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461533170075207890" /></a>No, that is not a UFO in the upper right hand corner. :-) It's the light shining off the glass of the dining hall.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbGHO8wU-ZEieWmz71qeVi4T8frAWGXYLd3NR8HoA1hq7SSD1WrxkOitjiz_WNDx-EO3C4abt-Ao8jbd_nqt0AEb_-VN2g2tTVgVtn25pRW7kJsFJiuFhbFBF3QD5yZedkq54MNQ/s1600/Bellingham+%232.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbGHO8wU-ZEieWmz71qeVi4T8frAWGXYLd3NR8HoA1hq7SSD1WrxkOitjiz_WNDx-EO3C4abt-Ao8jbd_nqt0AEb_-VN2g2tTVgVtn25pRW7kJsFJiuFhbFBF3QD5yZedkq54MNQ/s320/Bellingham+%232.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461532751270285362" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZGB7ineAx0K2ABQDQyvjQORdp1up_EJkk8A6P0CXyQYrw4tytdROTRZJb4s6zw75CdtJHMr3_5txwYVhaSitur981uJua1lKJkJrGqzwmfSBBXQHPC75hkuW7t8PXWGlcQ4O4JQ/s1600/Bellingham+%231.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZGB7ineAx0K2ABQDQyvjQORdp1up_EJkk8A6P0CXyQYrw4tytdROTRZJb4s6zw75CdtJHMr3_5txwYVhaSitur981uJua1lKJkJrGqzwmfSBBXQHPC75hkuW7t8PXWGlcQ4O4JQ/s320/Bellingham+%231.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461532621962689330" /></a>So this is our soon-to-be home. Now it's time to prepare for the transition both physically and emotionally!<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-63314896873352027492010-04-06T22:53:00.000-07:002010-04-07T15:14:05.178-07:00A Beautiful Mess<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3L5mHXS3G-a11DQ3EZIDUqatLuiNGJgykxEckW6k2BC5QSjrxbYj7TBx7M6xPa8RP2zYXcyU5mY7IUWcRpclD7nlHjdAM0asLTkUg4kLsOMulpqTTyXzfZVipHUx946v6b9055A/s1600/ABM.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 203px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3L5mHXS3G-a11DQ3EZIDUqatLuiNGJgykxEckW6k2BC5QSjrxbYj7TBx7M6xPa8RP2zYXcyU5mY7IUWcRpclD7nlHjdAM0asLTkUg4kLsOMulpqTTyXzfZVipHUx946v6b9055A/s320/ABM.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457521828068969410" /></a><br />This past Fall I had the good fortune to meet and befriend Kristin Ritzau, the author of _A Beautiful Mess_, forthcoming this summer from Conversant Media Group. <div><br /></div><div>Kristin has the uncommon ability to inspire the best in those around her, and to then motivate those of us lucky enough to know her to go achieve that best. Her first book is an embodiment of the work she does with women to overcome perfectionism through the principles of Spiritual Direction.</div><div><br /></div><div>She has basically taken this practice, Spiritual Direction, (something that is only open to those who happen to live close to Universities or churches who offer it) and made it accessible for readers in their own living room.</div><div><br /></div><div>My latest article at Ungrind called, Recollection, is a reflection on the contemplative prayer called, The Prayer of Recollection. I was introduced to this prayer by my spiritual director and those who have read the article and taken a moment to write me, have expressed just how nourished they were by that prayer.</div><div><br /></div><div>Well I'm here to tell you that my article is just a drop in the bucket! It is just a tiny taste of the depths and riches that exist in the practice of Spiritual Direction, and Kristin's book is a 200 page tour-de-force of this practice made available for you!</div><div><br /></div><div>Her latest blog at Conversant opens the topic of Contemplative Prayer and explores the ways in which this sort of prayer experience cultivates intimacy.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you liked my article and want to learn more about contemplative prayer, check out her website <a href="http://abeautifulmess.org/index.php/self-care-101-the-intimacy-of-contemplative-prayer/">here</a>.</div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-47928899951855527682010-04-04T18:15:00.000-07:002010-04-04T18:27:00.450-07:00Recollection<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAVa0wgno8CQHckzUYCf3alu546kcctEADtGjU_4Y0GB0TZYx3GNQAhROUNAGjoxDlEAxPHK91qrI0Hgxby0BU9ezuPvpPR8MxLvZYWpEW8Zkz-vnXSpUmrGhSYt6_HvjQClFKCA/s1600/recollection.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAVa0wgno8CQHckzUYCf3alu546kcctEADtGjU_4Y0GB0TZYx3GNQAhROUNAGjoxDlEAxPHK91qrI0Hgxby0BU9ezuPvpPR8MxLvZYWpEW8Zkz-vnXSpUmrGhSYt6_HvjQClFKCA/s320/recollection.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456458784154668546" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>"<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 19px; font-family:'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, sans-serif;font-size:small;">As a working mom it's easy to forget that my body cannot be broken like fishes and loaves and multiplied to infinitum. It's easy to forget that my broken body, unlike the Lord's, does not, in fact, give life to those around me."</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, sans-serif;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px;font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, sans-serif;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px;font-size:small;">To read the rest of my latest article on Ungrind, go<a href="http://www.ungrind.org/2010/04/recollection.html"> here</a>.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, sans-serif;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px;font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, sans-serif;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px;font-size:small;">Thanks for taking a look!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, sans-serif;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px;font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, sans-serif;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px;font-size:small;">Happy Easter!</span></span></div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-90592500508621884752010-04-02T15:58:00.000-07:002010-04-02T16:18:32.528-07:00Up-gatheredI feel all ramped up. <div><br /></div><div>Something is going to happen but I don't know what. I'm waiting for something to break - but there's nothing immediate on the horizon. Perhaps it's just all the excitement of these last few weeks. So many things coming together, moving forward, sweeping me up like Wordsworth's howling winds in, "The World is Too Much With Us, Late and Soon."<div><br /></div><div>"The winds that will be howling at all hours/ and are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers."</div><div><br /></div><div>I feel up-gathered, like many petals spinning toward the eye of heaven.</div><div><br /></div><div>Next week Dwayne has his on-campus interview out of state. Who knows what will happen. We could know in two weeks where we're moving. Or we could be waiting for another handful of months.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was realizing just yesterday, that my incessant need to know seems to have subsided. Somewhere between writing about it to you all, and praying about it, and thinking about it - I made peace with the uncertainty of our future. </div><div><br /></div><div>I stopped trying to visualize just where we will be and realized that I could bend, and flex.</div><div><br /></div><div>At some point I realize that this spiral toward the sky is going to break, and my many members will float back down to the earth, but that's in the future, that's a moment in time I can not hold. So be it. Right now, I'm following the ride. </div></div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-8455042701998846822010-03-24T20:49:00.000-07:002010-03-24T20:56:15.718-07:00The Blank Page Writing Workshops<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv6WdMUMcWmDWV3ovJ0MVmSmr-f7Wh-MEKKVqw03c4nnpeksXUKZ0A99bjtbMqwmNoIKWpvyTGukqHqDeX5wr6euUTMnJ1fHouMSDGOgCIikrVZo3VatDlFOpTwtHGVFeHRZTxLg/s1600/The+Blank+Page.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv6WdMUMcWmDWV3ovJ0MVmSmr-f7Wh-MEKKVqw03c4nnpeksXUKZ0A99bjtbMqwmNoIKWpvyTGukqHqDeX5wr6euUTMnJ1fHouMSDGOgCIikrVZo3VatDlFOpTwtHGVFeHRZTxLg/s320/The+Blank+Page.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452415068301394274" /></a><br />I am so excited to launch my online writing workshops called, The Blank Page Writing Workshops! <div><br /></div><div>Go to <a href="http://www.christintaylor.com">www.christintaylor.com</a> to check them out!</div><div><br /></div><div>It has been a couple months now of dreaming and arranging, and designing and brainstorming and finally the initial blocks are falling into place.<div><br /></div><div>Our first workshop is beginning this weekend, the second is slated to start May 8th. Doing this sort of thing is a dream come true for me. I never would have imagined in college that it would have been possible to be a mom, teach and pursue writing in this way. I love being a part of the writing process so much, whether it is my own or other peoples!</div><div><br /></div><div>If you enjoy writing or know anyone else who loves writing please pass my link along to them!</div></div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-63174508153204450372010-03-17T13:26:00.001-07:002010-03-17T14:31:35.263-07:00Like a Big Rock in a Stream<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEMMQFKFedsRFIhicwTzjMAsaCSwdTp8Bkwn7KLDqmVyk46dSug4Tkv4uGxx3Y7GhIIdWBsGU_WDCa0sSmomyOps11TmLNJ1OVSBSWCCqP4UzOJ_Zm33axAFHF3ZuNBeiBwhRdA/s1600-h/IMG_7237.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEMMQFKFedsRFIhicwTzjMAsaCSwdTp8Bkwn7KLDqmVyk46dSug4Tkv4uGxx3Y7GhIIdWBsGU_WDCa0sSmomyOps11TmLNJ1OVSBSWCCqP4UzOJ_Zm33axAFHF3ZuNBeiBwhRdA/s320/IMG_7237.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449718423999569682" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#551A8B;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span></div><br />The other night, I sat in our living room and listened to the families on the other side of the wall coming to fetch their students home for Spring Break. The language I heard the families speaking out in the foyer and on the sidewalk was nearly exclusively Spanish, and I've just come to take this for granted.<div><br /></div><div>I hear Spanish all the time, not just in our hallways between students, but out in town, in the super market, at the library, out at the park. Spanish is a gentle thriving current that pulses through every part of Los Angeles, diving and resurfacing in public places. </div><div><br /></div><div>When we first moved to LA, I loved hearing different languages spoken at nearly every corner. Just the other day at the park a man barked out a middle eastern dialect to his kids as they chased after a frisbee. Every Monday I sit in the house of my Albanian friend and listen to her croon pet names to her husband and children in the oldest language in the world.</div><div><br /></div><div>The sound of a different language permeating every crevice of my life here in LA was an exciting reminder that I lived in a vibrant city full of diversity. But over the past seven years, I've just sort of gotten, well -- used to it. My brain stopped registering all the different pronunciations and accents. The languages have become an inconsequential part of my days.<br /><div><br /></div><div>Except for this particular night, when the families were coming and going, the hinges of the large glass doors banging shut. For some reason, I came up out of my book like a diver coming up for oxegyn and stopped and listened again with new ears to the rattle and beat of that familiar language.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Isn't it amazing?" I asked Dwayne.</div><div><br /></div><div>"What?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Hearing another language right outside our door?"</div><div><br /></div><div>He didn't respond. He has grown accustomed to it to.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I mean, shouldn't I speak this language too?" I said putting my book down. "It's right outside my door!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Dwayne and I shop at the local markets in Azusa and so often I feel like a great big rock lodged in the middle of the creek. All around me the workers and shoppers are speaking Spanish, but I wont because I'm too embarrassed. I mean sure they accommodate me, but still I get irritated with myself. I don't like making everyone meet me on my terms. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sure the water will bend and move around the boulder, but don't I have some sort of obligation to listen and understand it's liquid voice?</div><div><br /></div><div>Today Noelle and I went to the park. We put our stuff down on a picnic bench next to a stroller. I saw an <i>abuela</i> standing on the side of the park watching her <i>nieto</i>. She glanced over at us and I knew we were sharing the bench. After a little while she came over, sat down beside me, and with the comfort and ease of a friend said, </div><div><br /></div><div>"Cuantos anos tiene su hija?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I turned toward her and decided it was time to pull up my heavy stoney butt and dive into the current, no matter how much I might splutter and sink."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Dos anos," I said. Then added, "Dos y medios anos."</div><div><br /></div><div>She looked up at me. I recognized a hint of gratitude in her smile, and the current between us pattered on.</div></div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-61875222388404984082010-03-05T21:17:00.000-08:002010-03-06T11:05:12.639-08:00Getting ChangedHallelujah! Praise the Lord! The Calvary has come. My mom and dad hit LA yesterday and my life has been pure bliss since! There is nothing like two adoring grandparents to relieve a mom who is husband-less for a week.<div><br /></div><div>Today I got to spend some extra time grading. For reasons that are inexplicable to me - truly I don't know why I do these things to myself - I arranged the syllabi for both my classes so that three major assignments came in this weekend. So I am swamped. Or I should say, I WAS swamped, until my mom and dad took Noelle for six hours today and let me tuck myself into one of the study cubicles in the Library across the street.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hacked my way through half of the grading and am feeling exaltant this evening. Relieved.</div><div><br /></div><div>To celebrate the arrival of Grandma, all the ladies (Noelle, Mom and I) decided to go shopping before dinner. We scooted into one of my favorite stores and for the second time today I tucked myself away in a little cubicle but this time to try on clothes. What fun.</div><div><br /></div><div>We let Noelle run around the clean, well-lit, and empty dressing room while I got changed. After watching me try on a few pieces of clothing Noelle ducked her head under the door of my changing stall and said, "I gone change too momma."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Okay sweetie," I cooed, thinking to myself, <i>How cute! What a doll I have. She wants to pretend to do what I'm doing</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>I heard the door of the stall next door shut, then open a minute later. </div><div><br /></div><div>Noelle's sweet little face appeared under my door again.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Momma, I all change!"</div><div><br /></div><div>I looked down and found her naked as the day she was born.</div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-37672078198533886522010-03-03T07:42:00.000-08:002010-03-03T07:55:04.168-08:00Butterflies In My Stomach!Well, it's big times in the Taylor household this week. At 3:30 this morning Dwayne snuck out of the room and flipped on the hall light in order to get ready to go to the airport. At 3:47 he came back and gave me a kiss whispering, "I'll call you when I get there."<div><br /></div><div>At 6:30 I got a text saying, "I'm on the plane and ready to go."</div><div><br /></div><div>In approximately five or six hours he'll land at Chicago's O'Hare airport with ten of his classmates from the CCSD program at APU. They're all off to NASPA, the national Student Development conference where schools from across the country, and SD professionals from equal distances come together to find each other.</div><div><br /></div><div>These last three weeks have been a whirlwind of exciting news. After casting out 16 resumes Dwayne waited to see which schools would bite, and ask to interview him at NASPA. He left this morning with ten interviews lined up for this week, two initial phone interviews already done. Both successful.</div><div><br /></div><div>It feels like we've been on the up tic of a roller coaster. The anticipation has been building with each new confirmation that schools from Seattle to Boston are interested in Dwayne's resume.</div><div><br /></div><div>We spent the weekend bouncing from men's department to men's department trying find the right combinations of ties and shirts, and sweater vests. He'll spend this week courting, and wooing from conference rooms to elevators.</div><div><br /></div><div>And when it's all said and done, we will wait to see which schools are left, which offers stand, and from there, the on-site interviews begin...</div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-25589193782752120052010-02-16T20:29:00.001-08:002010-02-16T21:08:37.215-08:00Noelle-a-raptor<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju9TEsBwN97MHKz7wxVmDOwENzolBvwu9V6oxmOlMTZ2uqtK1eAYkzyvVuXbybfPwZZrHgVcG63OardR2bMRr6IAiCAQ9kJDl8r9rAOlv3Ah0-P2faHPHVNMAvtnNjX0FkMYP0Rw/s1600-h/noelle-a-raptor.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 117px; height: 126px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju9TEsBwN97MHKz7wxVmDOwENzolBvwu9V6oxmOlMTZ2uqtK1eAYkzyvVuXbybfPwZZrHgVcG63OardR2bMRr6IAiCAQ9kJDl8r9rAOlv3Ah0-P2faHPHVNMAvtnNjX0FkMYP0Rw/s320/noelle-a-raptor.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439069398651946962" /></a><br />There are two doors by which to get out of our apartment. One door is in our living room and leads into the foyer of the Resident's Hall, and the other door is in our kitchen and leads out to the front lawn.<div><br /></div><div>Unfortunately, the handle on the door leading outside is perfectly suited for toddler hands. It's just the right height, and it also happens not to be a knob, but an actual handle, a nice skinny slip of silver easy for little hands to grasp.</div><div><br /></div><div>"That handle worries me," mom told me after visiting us in the dorm for the first time. "I'm scared Noelle will get out and get lost."</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, it was a legitimate concern. Noelle <i>has</i> managed to open the kitchen door and toddle out to the front sidewalk. We're trying to train her to wait for us at doors, but also as an extra safety measure, we started flipping the dead bolt - just in case.</div><div><br /></div><div>The problem with industrial doors and handles, though, is that they're all too easy. The dead bolt swivels smoothly on it's little axis. I knew it was simply a matter of time before Noelle got tall enough to reach that too.</div><div><br /></div><div>Which she did -- this weekend.</div><div><br /></div><div>On Sunday before church, I heard Dwayne chasing after Noelle out the door.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Did you lock the door?" I asked him as he was bringing her back in.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes, but watch this." He locked the door and set Noelle down on the floor.</div><div><br /></div><div>She turned around and on tip toes reached up. Dwayne and I watched in horror as her little cupped hand stretched up, swatted at the dead bolt and flipped it.</div><div><br /></div><div>"It's like that scene from Jurassic Park," I said "Where the little terror-raptor learns how to open the door with its claw."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah," said Dwayne, "And nothing is ever the same again."</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>*For the sake of my husband - I know that there is no such thing as a "terror-raptor." It's a pun: a little dinosaur that causes terror. ;-)</div><div><br /></div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-8380850278507828012010-01-25T22:35:00.000-08:002010-01-25T22:49:47.703-08:00Gorgeous Vistas<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu86pnAOis9XN6yNJdLBEFnfoPJdLPaAf1AF3s50xIU4MU-glTmUXHOZJeHgiaYBkBt9LjJ28rT7H1H-k7jpzWlvXuu3UIzJ2nsvrveIYpYbj_LDiDVru8Kof5mizc3t8RRRPmxw/s1600-h/4093+4x6.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu86pnAOis9XN6yNJdLBEFnfoPJdLPaAf1AF3s50xIU4MU-glTmUXHOZJeHgiaYBkBt9LjJ28rT7H1H-k7jpzWlvXuu3UIzJ2nsvrveIYpYbj_LDiDVru8Kof5mizc3t8RRRPmxw/s320/4093+4x6.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430936796969634354" /></a><br />Tonight, I held Noelle in my arms and sang her a new song before bed.<div><br /></div><div>"Good night sweetheart, well, it's time to go - bah bum, bah bum"</div><div><br /></div><div>She looked up at me, her big eyes reflecting back the small light in the hall. And she grinned with curious delight.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Good night sweetheart, well, it's time to go - bah bum, bah bum"</div><div><br /></div><div>Her little voice echoed mine, off key but delicious, "bu-bah, bah-bu, bah."</div><div><br /></div><div>I couldn't stop. I didn't want it to stop. We just went over and over and over it again, just so I could hear that beautiful little voice meeting mine in the dark and I thought of a sermon I heard a long time ago - a pastor said that we think God has created such beautiful vistas in nature for our pleasure, but there is a universe of planets and views that we will never see. He enjoys gorgeous vistas that we will never know exist. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes, I feel that about Noelle. All the tiny moments in our day when she looks at me just right, or laughs in a certain way, or tells me particular story. All of these moments feel like gorgeous vistas, beautiful formations in the landscape of our day that only I will ever get to see. It feels like a wildly glorious gift from a Creator who watches with me, and I feel blessed. I feel so increadibly blessed!</div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-26335215840259310262010-01-23T16:13:00.001-08:002010-01-24T22:30:02.980-08:00The "I Wants"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvMpRSGcycbSSXlxHXhCj1d-acprd9QQ2xDTI3v4BDyjsm5yw9rMA-Y9fVMpxUuzcAq3129NDeeC08Pm1bDuo7ZZRKJIFnONCb-2VqjLhKmk4YmK5Yeq-iER7OCQn0cqRc9d4vQ/s1600-h/hiking+3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUvMpRSGcycbSSXlxHXhCj1d-acprd9QQ2xDTI3v4BDyjsm5yw9rMA-Y9fVMpxUuzcAq3129NDeeC08Pm1bDuo7ZZRKJIFnONCb-2VqjLhKmk4YmK5Yeq-iER7OCQn0cqRc9d4vQ/s320/hiking+3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430560401676546594" /></a><br /><div><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Oo - mommy! I found the mountain!" Noelle says reaching with her whole body towards the car window. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I know what's coming next because we have this conversation every time we drive East on Route 66.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I want to hike up mountain."</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I nod my head, and then the "I wants" spill forth triggered by that first utterance like a brook over little white pebble teeth.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I want BopBop to hike up mountain. I want BopBop and NaNa to come in a plane. I want to see the nay nays. I want BopBop and NaNa to see nay nays. I want to ride the trolley. I want to listen to the yay-yay song. I want a pop. I want a snack." </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Really the progression of her sentences makes no sense at all. She is just skipping from one desire to the next as quickly as they come to her.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It's hilarious. But always at first there is this knee jerk compulsion in me to give her what she wants, to rush to her each whim. Except of course, I am driving, buckled into my seat behind a wheel. There's no possible way I can appease her wants.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And so I'm let off the hook.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I sit in the front seat and listen as her "I wants" dissolve into whines, and fusses.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I realize that my daughter doesn't actually want any of those things. I realize that she's just bored and also excited to try new words. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I also realize that it is my job as her mom to make sure she doesn't always get what she wants because in denying her I am teaching her that she can live free of her every whim. And what an oppressive existence it would be to live at the every command of our desires, right?</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Just as I am coaching myself through this line of reasoning, sitting in the car watching the foothills slip by, and listening to Noelle whine, the sound of her voice morphs into the sound of my own thoughts.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I can hear my own whispered prayers in her little mouth.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Dwayne and I are on the cusp of a change. We know in May that everything is going to transition for us. He graduates, and we have to move out of the dorm by June. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The tricky thing is that we don't actually know where we're going. This all depends on where Dwayne gets a job. Now, he's been looking at schools and submitting his resume and lining up interviews and literally these job opportunities are all across the nation.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In the face of so much of uncertainty, I've found myself grasping as superficial realities to try and navigate the change. These have been my spoken and unspoken prayers:</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">“Please, I want to live in a city. I want to live somewhere beautiful. I want to live somewhere I can still teach. I want to live somewhere with a good school system for Noelle. I want to live somewhere with a church that values the arts and isn’t exclusive. I want to live somewhere close to family. I want to live somewhere close to friends.” </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Not surprisingly, I’ve been a spirit cycling around with as much calm as a tornado, whipping from one want to another. Nothing, not one of my carefully articulated desires has given me peace. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I’m scared to death of moving to a new city in a new part of the world and finding that there is nothing for me, finding that I am alone, unknown, and useless. All the relationships we have built here, all the work I’ve done, all the connections I’ve made, all the progress I’m mounting in my career swept away. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I mean, there’s no real way to prepare for that, right? And the irony is that while my “I wants” feel like a way to assert control in the midst of this chaos, they in fact are just depleting my soul. They are tossing me about on their tempestuous shoulders because they are not real, they are simply preferences painted across a future without clues or hints or signs about what is to come. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=" ;font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Really what’s left for me to do? but sit in the car, strapped in, watching the foothills slip by, and let all my fusing and whining boil over the surface and then evaporate leaving behind a residue that looks something like surrender.</span></span><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment--> </div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-14825135553586076892010-01-19T13:56:00.000-08:002010-01-19T13:59:36.927-08:00Haitian Threads<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-B8beDq8UFS7dUBkFKU-XA3-wKyASyOS-yTEll5jgSwuGy2fhmdSRp1Fn4V7HeOgvunWSepd5WtAiBaf6cFwNC17nv5j5Mg-jycqNMdT2i7Bay00NkhguDNsqAG_v1FDUrWYN7g/s1600-h/IMG_6640.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-B8beDq8UFS7dUBkFKU-XA3-wKyASyOS-yTEll5jgSwuGy2fhmdSRp1Fn4V7HeOgvunWSepd5WtAiBaf6cFwNC17nv5j5Mg-jycqNMdT2i7Bay00NkhguDNsqAG_v1FDUrWYN7g/s320/IMG_6640.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428573906671494706" /></a><br />Dwayne and I wrote our first blog post together this week and it has been published over at <a href="http://www.freshbrew.org/">Fresh Brew</a>!<div><br /></div><div>Go on over and have a look and if you are so moved, leave a comment.</div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-4283348310818846692010-01-04T09:01:00.001-08:002010-01-04T09:18:23.931-08:00SpeakaphobiaSometimes, I accidentally say the most absurd and inappropriate thing at the worst time. It's an embarrassing compulsion but one I've tried to get ahold of. It's as if my mouth grows a brain of it's own and starts operating autonomously from the rest of my body.<div><br /></div><div>But last night it struck again, wild and out of nowhere, and left everyone in the room laughing hysterically, including myself. But I also felt terribly embarrassed.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is how it went: We were spending the evening with new friends, an artist and a musician who work at a local church. They have a daughter a couple years older than Noelle and then a newborn baby.</div><div><br /></div><div>We've met them through mutual friends and spent time together briefly in groups with others, but this wast the first time we've spent time with them alone, just getting to know each other.</div><div><br /></div><div>They started the evening announcing the good news that they had just accepted a new position at a large church here in the San Gabriel valley. The position is full-time and will allow them to write music and be more creative.</div><div><br /></div><div>We were all talking excitedly about this new opportunity when we stumbled across the topic of how strange working at a church is. How churches are not quite a business, but somehow need to be run like a business.</div><div><br /></div><div>Everyone was agreeing and adding quickly to each other's comments, and a phrase began forming in the back of my mind....that churches are a unique organism. </div><div><br /></div><div>Excitedly I lifted my hand in the air to emphasize my point, but somewhere between my head and my mouth the words got garbled and this is what came out, loudly, and right in the middle of conversation, me sitting perched on the edge of my seat:</div><div><br /></div><div>"Churches are like an ORGASM!"</div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13381427.post-90343146786020254512010-01-03T08:38:00.000-08:002010-01-03T08:40:47.801-08:00What to do About Sex at Evangelical UniversitiesDo Evangelical Universities have a moral responsibility to provide safe-sex programs even if their policy is abstinence? I tackle this question over at <a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/chrstin_taylor/2010/01/01/what_to_do_about_sex_at_an_evangelical_college">Open Salon</a> this week. <div><br /></div><div>Thanks for reading!</div>Christinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03929226208854474967noreply@blogger.com0