The External Processor

New Site

2006-11-05T13:41:00.000-01:00

I haven't disappeared, in case you were worried!!!!!

The reason I haven't posted in a while is that I have been working on a new website---it has a lot more freedom than my blog and all sorts of fun sections (music, art stuff, photos, blog, etc.). Come on over and see it! click on the link below, or if that doesn't work, copy this link and paste it into your browser

http://web.mac.com/kellyinmadrid

Bad Day

2006-10-24T12:28:00.000-01:00

Sunday was a bad day.

Bad day is an understatement for Sunday. Sunday was such a bad day that it is my new standard for bad days. Anytime from now on that I think I'm having a bad day, I'll ask myself this question:

"Are you having a threw up twice on the sidewalk outside the Amsterdam airport and then got on a plane for 2 hours of turbulence, only to come home and have your body continue to try as violently as possible to expel whatever neon green thing you ingested kind of day? No? Then it's not that bad."

New term for a bad day: stomach flu in the airport bad.

So next time you have a bad day, ask yourself, "Was it a stomach flu in the airport bad day?"

A Bit of Poetry

2006-10-08T16:15:00.000-01:00

The Exodus--(written during worship at Zolder 50 in Amsterdam)

I have been a slave.
To performance
To others
To food
To that never ending need for approval.
I have been a slave
But I am not a slave now.
Now, I look out at the desert
The forty years of wandering to cross
and slavery beckons
"Come, rest.
Come back, leave the desert
Your masters are waiting
Come, rest."
My mouth waters
My head turns back to what was
To the call to rest.
But that rest is death.

In my exodus, God
You are the sea that let me pass
You are the finish line out of slavery
and the beginning of the journey
Cloud and fire
Water upon water
Point of no return.
You are the point of no return
and you are the promised land.
You are present in my exodus.

You are the God who brought me
over and over
out of my egypt
from my masters
I will open my mouth wide
and wait for you to fill it.

You are the sea that let me pass
You are the point of no return
You are the end in sight
You are the beginning of the journey
You are master of my exodus.

I was a slave
But I am not a slave

four percent

2006-09-25T20:38:00.001-01:00

He's raising the rent 4%. Decent news, considering he could have raised it much more, but still a bummer that it's an extra 40 a month. Praise God that it's something we can afford!

Please Pray

2006-09-24T18:18:00.000-01:00

Just a quick post tonight.

I got an email today from my landlord saying we need to get together to discuss next year's contract (September is the last month on this year), so we're meeting for drinks on Tuesday night. Legally he has the right to raise the rent a certain percentage if he wants--most people raise it along with the cost of living each year. It's not a ton of money, but we can't really afford to raise the rent much more.

So pray that God will provide in one way or another, be that through no raise, small raise, or finances to handle the raise.

The Best Kiss

2006-09-23T18:08:00.000-01:00

I was kissed yesterday. It was a wonderful kiss, the kind you never forget. Other than family, I've been memorably kissed by very few people--a couple silly boys in high school, a peck on the cheek from a friend. Everyone I meet in Spain. Two kisses (one on each cheek) is how we greet, and since I've moved here, it has become as casual as a handshake.

But yesterday, this kiss moved me. I'm still thinking about it.

Her name is Consolación. I would not even venture to guess how old she is, but by her bent back and lined face, I know she's older than my 25 year old joven brain thinks I'll ever be. Consolación wears all black, from her dress to her headscarf, and she bends over double over her cane as she begs on the street. Victoria wrote about her today. Click on her name to go to a wonderful, beautiful description of this woman. I'm not even going to try to describe her after reading that.

But back to that kiss....actually, back to 45 minutes before the kiss.

I didn't feel like taking sandwiches out yesterday. We had done the shopping, made the tuna, put them together, wrapped them, and loaded up the backpacks, and I just didn't feel like going. I was tired. I was having people over for a dinner later that night and hadn't even gone to the frutería for the zucchini or the pollería for the chicken yet. I had things to do.

But these sandwiches are important to the people who get them, people who don't take their meals for granted and who don't have the luxury of going to the frutería for zucchini and the pollería for chicken to make dinner for 6. I know this, but I still didn't feel like going.

So as Amy, Victoria, and I prayed before going out, I reluctantly, silently, prayed in my heart: "God, help me to be where I am and not thinking about what comes next. Help me to give my time freely and joyfully."

We started to walk. One sandwich down, two, three, four. A couple familiar faces from the weeks before. A couple new names to try to commit to memory for the next Friday afternoon. And then there she was. Consolación. I hadn't really seen her face in the few weeks before, even when I bent down to help her put the sandwich and juice box into her pouch. Something in me lifted when I saw her hunched frame.

"Hola, Consolación," was all I said, starting to unzip my backpack to pull out the sandwich. Her head turned up and her hand reached out. Her whole face smiled as she pulled me toward her and kissed one cheek and then the other.

"Aquí vienes para traerme comida" she said. Then she kissed Victoria and Amy as well.

My head was swimming from the kiss still, from the touch of her old hand on the back of my head, the pull that was so strong, bringing my face down next to her face.

Her eyes shifted to the people across the street watching our exchange. She raised her voice a bit.
"Esos allí nos están mirando porque estamos besando. ¡MIRA, GILIPOLLAS!"
Translation: "Those people are looking at us because we're kissing. Look, ***holes!"

I held back my laugh as she patted my face before we walked on. "See you next Friday!"

I couldn't stop smiling.

The rest of the afternoon, that night during the dinner, and today, I keep thinking about that kiss, that pull, that face, her name. Consolación.

Those are the best kinds of kisses.

More thoughts on Home

2006-09-23T15:19:00.000-01:00

I was just going to title this post "Home," and then I realized that my last post was about home as well. For some reason, the theme of home is coming up. Odd.

Living cross culturally makes home a very fluid concept sometimes. I remember reading something when I first moved here about cultural adjustment. I don't remember the quote exactly, but it goes something like this :

First, you miss home. Then you feel like no place is home. Later, you realize that every place is home. Finally, you come to the realization that your home is not of this earth.

It's not an exact quote, but that's the general feeling of it. I read the quote over 2 years ago, in early 2004. It stuck with me then because I missed home and needed to be reassured that this would pass. It did pass.

It sticks with me now for different reasons.

The culture a person comes from shapes them--their worldview, their language, their mannerisms, the way they think and process information. But what happens when you experience more than one culture? What happens when you see your own from the outside?

Your opinions change and then change again. Your working definition of normal usually lasts about 3-6 months before it has to be redefined. "Where are you from?" becomes an increasingly difficult question to answer.

And once in a while there are these moments of clarity--sometimes wonderful, sometimes painful. Sometimes it comes through an article on the news, a movie, or a conversation. A sudden realization of something else that has changed. I am watching The Motorcycle Diaries with a couple friends right now, and am typing this quote from the movie as I watch because it sums it up better than I can.

"Yo ya no soy yo. Por lo menos no soy el mismo yo anterior"
Translation: I'm not me anymore, at least I'm not the same me I was.

This is where I am right now. But as I started to whine about it today, this is the conversation that happened in my heart.

I don't know where home is.
"Foxes have holes and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head."

I may never be understood again, in Spain or in the U.S.
He was despised and rejected.

I can't have a normal life anymore--not even sure what it is--not even sure I want it.
Who, being in very nature God,
did not consider equality with God something to be grasped,
but made himself nothing.

God, I long for the day that I can honestly know down to my very bones that my home is with You. When I no longer need to be justified, understood, right, accepted, or normal. When I can rejoice in seeing your reflection on the faces of everyone, and that reflection reminds me I am home. I know this in my head. Jesus, teach my heart.

"Yo ya no soy yo. Por lo menos no soy el mismo yo anterior."

A Piece of Home

2006-09-12T20:10:00.000-01:00

Harlan has come to Madrid.

Tonight I went out to dinner with six people from my hometown. One of them was my high school principal. Two were my high school librarians. We went to Casa Mingo for dinner and then to Café Jamaica for ice cream.

We talked about names and places I've known since I can remember, while eating pollo asado, tortilla, and queso manchego. Their accents, their manners, their way of talking to each other and to me, were so familiar to me. I didn't have to try hard to understand where they were coming from or translate whatever they said into American English in my mind.

In a word, it was .... nice.

A bit of home in my new home. Just what I needed.

The External Processor

2006-09-12T20:05:00.000-01:00

I've decided on the external processor. This is my place to think out loud.

To all of you who lost the election, please, no protests, no lawsuits. There will be no recount.

A New Name

2006-09-03T16:31:00.000-01:00

My blog needs a new name. "Kelly's Deep (or not so deep) Thoughts" is SO 2004! Troy gave me the idea that I should hold an election on my blog--and I think that's a fine idea! So I'll give you 3 options, and you can leave your vote in a comment. So here are the candidates, and their...um... speeches.

1) "The External Processor" ---- I am what you would call an external processor. That means that I think by communication--mostly through talking. So all you people who think I talk alot--I do! But really it's just because my brain works better when I can say things out loud and hear myself say them. This blog, then, can be considered ear charity. If I do my "thinking" (deep and not so deep things), then the people who want to read it can, and if they want me to shut up, they can just leave the blog! So, basically, this blog is my brain, splattered out on the screen for all to read.

2) "Brain Splatter" ---- see above entry: my brain splattered on the screen. For the more morbid readers :).

3) "Kelly--the One and Only" ---- this comes from my cousin Joe's blog. His name is Joseph Sleeper the Only. I want to be Kelly Wills the Only, but I'm not. There is a famous country singer who's wife's name is Kelly Wills. Even here in Spain there is Kelly Crull. But there is only one me.

4) "A Beautiful Mind" ---- I don't think this one needs an explanation.

Let the voting begin!

Tuning, Performing, Leading, Worshipping

2006-08-20T13:39:00.000-01:00

My friend Kelly Crull says that I'm a worship leader. He really is a worship leader, and a good one. I respect his opinion on most things. He even convinced me to buy a mac, for which I am extremely grateful.

But I usually disagree with Kelly when he says I'm a worship leader. I want to be one, I'm learning, I lead worship sometimes. I sing, play guitar, help lead art stuff, try to facilitate hands-on worship, etc. But I don't know if I would call myself a worship leader. To me, a worship leader does exactly what the name says--they lead people into worship. They walk a fine line between being in front (sometimes) to lead people but getting out of the way so people can really interact with God, not themselves. Kelly (Crull, not me) is really good at this. I want to be, but I'm not yet. I'm new at it. I guess I'll get better at it as time passes. But until then, I don't know why, but I have a hard time calling myself a worship leader.

Part of this probably comes from a very performance-oriented background. The good kid. The good student. The good singer. The piano major. The good Christian. To be totally honest, I'm used to being good at things, or at least being seen as being good at things. But since moving to Spain, I have had to do things that I'm not good at, that I'm just learning. Church planting is a learning-intensive field to say the least. You see a need, and sometimes you just have to step up and fill it even if you don't feel ready. Sometimes you can't wait until you're polished and perfected and in your nice evening gown after practicing 6 hours a day for months. Once you're outside of piano performance, the world just doesn't work that way. Life doesn't wait for you to get good at things.

And honestly, who is good at anything, really, when they're just 25? But that's a whole other post.

So anyway, I started leading worship singing before I was "ready." I still don't feel ready. I make tons of mistakes and have to work hard to learn new chords, and lets face it, my bar chords still suck. I can sing and play, but I have a really hard time talking and playing at the same time.

Of course, I know that worship is more than music, and leading worship goes much deeper than musical skill. But I think that this is just starting to sink in to me. So maybe it's good that I'm not "good" at it yet. Maybe it's helping me learn just to worship, imperfect as I am.

Yesterday is a good example. I was leading us in the singing part of our worship. I had new strings that weren't staying in tune well (my fault for waiting until the night before to put on new strings), so before the last set of songs, while a powerpoint to a Derek Webb song was playing, I quietly used my little tuner to get things back in order. One of the strings was flat. I turned the peg and tried again. Still flat--no change, actually. I turned some more. Still flat. That's when I realized I was turning the wrong peg. (rookie mistake, I know). I quickly fixed the tuning, but the powerpoint was about to end, and I was up next. There wasn't time to fix it well enough. When I started to play, my B-string sounded sharp.

So during the chorus of the first song, I strummed the first chord and we sang a cappella. And I tried to turn the peg (of the right string this time) to get it back in shape, singing the whole time. The next chord I strummed, it was flat. Oh crap. This went on for two entire songs. I never did get it back in tune. We ended up singing the last half of the last song a cappella--I gave up. I was super frustrated and sure I had ruined the worship experience for all the people in the room.

But when I looked around the room, not one eye was on me. Actually, very few eyes were open. Here I was, worried about how well I was playing in front of people, and there they were, singing their hearts out, oblivious to my tuning dilemma. They were worshipping.

I still stand by my statement that I am not yet a worship leader. But God is. Maybe none of us are worship leaders yet, even Kelly Crull. Maybe leading worship has much less to do with the leader and much more to do with worship. Maybe worship centered around Jesus isn't about me at all. These are all things that I know in my head, but I'm just starting to learn in my heart.

So I will keep learning from my mistakes. I will keep trying new things and pushing my own tight little boundaries of what is and is not worship. I will go for excellence, but first I will keep trying to get my little performance-bound self out of my own way so I can worship. I will look to Jesus, my own worship leader, to lead me as I lead others.

One day, I will be a worship leader.

One reason my roommate Amy is fantastic

2006-08-13T11:32:00.000-01:00

Two-thirty p.m. A conversation:

Kelly: (from favorite comfy chair, stretching sore muscles from gym/salsa) Alright. I'm making a move. My feet are on the floor. I'm going to brush my teeth and get dressed.

Amy: (from the couch, under a comfy blanket) You said yesterday your plan was to stay in your pajamas all day (pajamas prounounced wrong--like blueberry jam. Everybody knows it's a short a).

Kelly: I need to feel productive.

Amy: And this will make you productive?

Kelly: Yes.

Amy: I just don't want you to not meet the goal you set yesterday. You don't want to be thought of as a quitter.

Kelly: I have to blog this. (proceeds to type, computer on her lap, still in pajamas and unbrushed teeth.)

Modesty and the Spanish Gym

2006-08-10T10:01:00.000-01:00

Most Americans I know, at least in the area I'm from, have a deeply rooted sense of modesty when it comes to showers. After growing up in a house full of girls, enduring the locker room for high school gym class, four years of dorm life, and a steady stream of roommates, I have learned that there has always been an unspoken point when you know to look away if someone is changing, or to stay out of the bathroom, or to make sure your towel is long enough. If at all possible, avoid showering in public places. We go out of our way to keep from feeling awkward or making other people feel awkward.

I might even go a little farther in my skewed sense of propriety--I feel awkward writing this blog because afterwards people will know that I shower and change my clothes...I'm trying not to think about it and to just write.

I joined a Curvas (same as Curves in the U.S.) gym yesterday. Today was my second day. It's an awesome workout--the kind that leaves you feeling very sweaty and noodly for a while afterwards. When I came in yesterday, the girl at the desk (she looks about my age) showed me around the gym and where to change before I went and joined the workout. The changing room was a nice, big, open area, with heavily frosted glass shower doors on one side and towel hooks next to the doors. I noticed there were no changing stalls next to the showers.

When I finally got out to the machines, I joined a few other women, all in workout pants or capri's, and me in my blatantly above the knee shorts, and with an American football emblazened on them, to boot. No one seemed to notice or care, so I pretended to do the same and continued with the workout. By then end my hair was sopping wet, my face was about as red as my shorts, and I didn't smell pretty. The usual gym look. One of the girls working there talked to me a bit afterwards in the changing rooms as I filled my water bottle for the 3rd time in 5 minutes. "The showers are over there, and then after you're done we'll sign the contract if you want to sign up for the gym."

"Oh," I replied. "Actually, I live close by, only about a 20 minute walk, so I'll just shower at home."

Her eyes widened. "Are you sure? You're welcome to shower here, and you'll feel fresher and better for the walk home."

Suddenly I felt awkward. She hid it well, but I saw her eyes scan over me--the bandana covering the sweaty hair, the red face, the grungy shorts and t-shirt. Sneakers that didn't match. Seeing myself in her eyes, going out into the city, walking for 20 minutes sweaty and gross, I suddenly felt....well, immodest.

"Today I don't have my shower things," I replied after an awkward hesitation. "I'll bring it tomorrow."

And I did. This morning, along with my gym clothes and shoes, I shoved the biggest towel (covering as much surface area as possible), my shampoo, and my soap into the backpack.

After the workout, feeling all wobbly and noodly again, I headed for the shower. "Get over it," I said to myself, hopefully silently. "It's just a different sense of modesty. And it's an all women's gym, anyway."

Just before dashing into the shower quickly while no one else was in the room, I made a quick scan of the shoes in the room. Do Spanish women wear shower shoes? I saw none. The only pair of flip-flops I saw were the ones I wore into the place. I didn't want to seem like the snobby American who has to wear shower shoes because she thinks Spaniards are gross, so I gulped and once again told myself, "Get over it."

Quick shower?
check.

Quick towel snatch and slam the shower door back shut while I dry off in that tiny cubicle that was not made for drying?
check.

Towel covers more than most Spanish dresses?
check.

I stepped out onto the little drying mat area in front of the shower, right after the woman in the shower next to me. She turned, in her bright blue shower flip flops, and immediately stared at my feet, shocked.

I tried to recover quickly, looking over at the flip-flops that I had worn into the gym and said, "Oh, I got into the shower without my shoes!" And I chuckled at myself and shook my head, hoping to imply a good, strong, "Silly me."

The woman looked visibly relieved.

So now I know.

I wonder how immodest Spaniards think Americans are.

Back Home

2006-08-05T18:46:00.000-01:00

I'm back home from staff conference. It was amazing. I missed Troy and Heather (in the U.S. on furlough) like crazy, but this was the first year that I felt like I knew at least as many people as I didn't know.

I have been challenged, convicted, commissioned, brought to tears, brought to uncontrollable laughter at extremely inappropriate times (i.e. the big emotional communion time we always have at the end of the conference), and inspired, not to mention having a grand old time hanging out with a bunch of people who are crazy about Jesus and who are going through lots of the same stuff. We seem to understand each other innately.

Amy and I both feel like we'll be processing stuff from conference for a while--some basic but really important questions. Right now the major thing I'm coming away with is the need to really really pray. To walk in my neighborhood like I did when I was first getting to know it, and to pray and pray and pray.

A ver que pasa....

Pondering and Praying

2006-08-04T10:52:00.000-01:00

I'm posting because Victoria called my skype and told me to.

I'm still chewing on stuff from conference...probably will be for a while. Amy and I both feel like we'll need to sit down and talk about all this a bunch once we're home and our brains can slow down. Right now it's just leading me to pray alot.

Here's one thing: I really want us to be a church that operates out of a real, deep love for Madrid.

Here's some "fleshing out" of it. A prayer for Oasis Madrid:

Make us a church, Jesus.
Build your church.
Your dream.
Your mission.
A church that loves You
passionately, ridiculously, fearlessly

a church that loves Madrid
passionately, ridiculously, fearlessly
a church that loves Madrid's people

the raging, noisy, young wallking botellones
the ears above aching for quiet
the pushers, shovers, pickpockets
at the rastro
on the metro

the old ladies with fans
the moms pushing designer strollers
the moms carrying one, holding the hand of a string of 2 more

the tattoed, the pierced, the dyed
the stoned
the prostitutes and the men who pay
convinced they're worth only what they charge, no more
the rest of us who choose not to see

the homeless in tunnels, on benches, on curbs
on stoops, under cardboard, under the free metro newspaper

the too young girls with too short skirts
the boys and men who follow behind
enjoying the view

the students
the parents
the kids

the sleepy club-goers crawling home at 7 a.m.
the goth community
the gay community
the church community
catholic and protestant
the muslims
the gypsies

the ones who throw trash down
the ones who pick it up

the often dirty, always hilly, winding streets
the graffiti artists
panaderias and perfumerias
plazas upon plazas
sangria
tortilla
olives
all on a terraza at 2 a.m.

friends
families
cien pesetas

The Madrid I see, I love
You love more
passionately, ridiculously, fearlessly.

Make us a church
Make us love Madrid.

Musings from Staff Conference

2006-08-01T14:33:00.000-01:00

First of all, I'm cold. I'm wearing long trousers and a jacket, and still a little chilly. It is heavenly. Exactly the break from Madrid that I needed.

I'm really resonating with some of the stuff that we're talking about at the conference--the speakers, Al and Debrah Hirsch, are super cool people and just ooze a love for Jesus and for the people around them. I would love to sit down with them for some hours and pick their brains.

Here are some thoughts that have been going through my mind and some thoughts from the conference. A lot of stuff about God's mission, caring for the people around us, and reaching out to marginalized people. No conclusions here, just some things I'm chewing on:

1) For the past few months this thought has been resurfacing in my mind over and over: "The church does not exist for itself."
I have yet to flesh out all that this means.

2) A quote from Al: "It's not so much that the church has a mission, but that the mission has a church."

3) A paraphrase from his session this morning: ----churches focused on ministry/program don't get around to mission, even if they intend to. Their resources are focused on themselves. --------on the other hand, churches that are organized around mission get to mission and ministry, because ministry is the means by which you do mission.

Anyway, I've got a lot to mull over and put into words that I can figure out.

Agnus Dei

2006-07-23T23:07:00.000-01:00

Ok, so my sleep schedule's all out of whack, I've had way too much caffeine, and I'm waiting for Amy, who is stuck on a bus in a traffic jam, to get home. Hence the 2 am post.

As you remember from the last song I posted, I'm currently working on a project to write a worship mass--here's another installment.

The last movement of the ordinary of the mass is the Agnus Dei. The words are very simple in Latin:
Agnus Dei
Quitolis peccata mundi
Miserere nobis
Dona nobis pacem

In Englsih:
Lamb of God
who takes away the sin of the world
have mercy on us
give us peace.

Simple and wonderful. I started working on this song a few hours ago, right after reading more news on BBC about Israel and Lebanon. The world is sometimes a screwed up place. How fitting that the only words I could think of when I sat down to play were these.

Sorry about the ambient noise. Loud neighborhood. Both the voices are me, in case you didn't notice. Garage band rocks. I tried to keep it thematically similar to the last song I did, since that one was toward the beginning of the mass and this will be at the end. That way it fits together. Yeah, I'm a nerd.

I Live Here

2006-07-23T10:13:00.000-01:00

I was talking to my friend Janelle at community group a couple weeks ago, and she asked how long I've lived in Madrid, and when I told her 2 1/2 years, she laughed. "It's funny; I still think of you as one of the newbies."

"That's ok," I said, "most of the time, so do I."

It's really been over the past six months I've come to the realization that I live here. In Madrid. I know that this seems to be obvious, but to be honest the realization crept up on me, some pieces of it slowly, some with a vengeance. None of it with my express permission. I live here.

Maybe I should step back and explain:

University is a temporary thing. You see the end from the beginning. I worked at a credit center for six months. I knew it was a temp job when I started. My first six months here I was an intern with Mountainview International Church. A temporary thing. After that I planned to finish out my year here by taking classes at the Universidad Complutense Madrid. Another temporary thing. Six months became a year and a half, and then several months of temporary life in the U.S. raising support.

This really didn't bother me, especially in the beginning. I don't think I wanted permanence right out of college. Maybe I'm wrong, but I think lots of people graduate from university with a fear of permanence--a fear of waking up one day and it's 30 years later. So we compartmentalize our time into neat 6 month or one year chunks, moving from one transitory state to another.

But in the past 6 months, that fear has been replaced by something else. The desire to live somewhere, to call somewhere home. To "settle down." Spending years in one place, doing the same thing, isn't a scary thought to me anymore. It sounds refreshingly...normal. Sustainable. Grown-up.

Somehow I've come to feel that Madrid is my city. I know this city, and want to know it better. I love this city, and I want to serve it because I love it and want it to be better. I do what I consider "long term" things here now. I have worked up the nerve to go to Spanish doctors. I got new glasses here. I called the persiana guy when our blinds broke. I ventured into an underwear store to find a slip. I got my hair cut here and liked it. I'm developing some friendships that might take years to become close. Small things, but things I would have avoided if there was a chance I'd be moving on in 6 months. I find myself making plans to visit friends in Portugal summer of 2007. Thinking about where I'll live in Madrid when the 5 years on this apartment contract runs out. I'm thinking of where I want God to bring Oasis Madrid to in the next several years, and each time I think of it I see myself still in Madrid.

It's not as easy for me as before to think of my life in six month intervals. Six months is nothing--a sigh. When I'm 40, six months will be a blink. When I'm 50, less than that. Life is more than the sum of six month intervals.

It's not scary. It's not boring. To risk sounding trite, its....nice.

Permanence is a relative term in church planting. I don't know where God will take me. But I know that for now I live in Madrid. I really live here. And that's a good thing.

What a Day

2006-07-21T18:24:00.000-01:00

The day started out well. I woke up actually kind of cold, which is refreshing, had my coffee, started well. Later, I had a great lunch with my friend Elsebeth. She's a Danish woman in my community group, and she lives right around the corner from me.

Amy left for Castellon yesterday, so I'm in this big flat by myself. I love it. I was determined to come up with a plan to pamper myself tonight. Or if not to pamper, at least to enjoy myself.

At around 8 I had a concrete plan for the evening. I would take the metro to Troy and Heather's apartment, pick up some pictures and books and stuff I needed from there, and end up at home around 9:15. Perfect timing to run over to La Vita e Bella--a great little takeout Italian place around the corner. I would get myself some delicious pasta to take home and eat while reading. Since it's cool at night, I might stay up and work on our team's display for staff conference while comfortable.

Perfect plan, right? Now, just to carry it out, step by step.

Step 1: metro. Line 4 is hot, but I have a fan and a book, and have mastered the art of fanning myself with one hand while holding the book with the other. I don't even have to stop the breeze to turn pages.

And that was the last step that went well.

I was about 50 metres from the Cady's apartment complex before I realized I had picked up the wrong set of keys--the ones NOT including their keys. This normally wouldn't be a problem, except the Cady's are in Colorado at the moment. I had no choice but to turn around and head back to the metro.

10 steps later I felt a big fat raindrop on my arm. I looked at the sky, puzzled at how it could be raining when there wasn't a cloud in sight. It took about 2 seconds for my brain to register and my eyes to turn to my arm, which was sporting a lovely spot of bird poop.

I am a statistical impossibility. Unless I'm mistaken, most people go their whole lives without being pooped on by birds. Am I wrong? Even if they do, it's maybe once or twice their whole lives, unless they work in a chicken farm or something. My count is now up to 3 in the last couple years, not to mention
the gross dead-pigeon incident that was somehow even more disturbing than bird poop. All have been in different places, at different times. There is no pattern.

I was so anxious to get it off my arm that I quickly swiped it against the nearest tree. It got the poop off alright, but I skinned my arm on the tree in the process, and still felt gross.

Another metro ride home, not as successful with the book and the fan because I was trying to hold my arm away from my body because of the bird poop germs.

Now on to the Italian place, where I ordered what looked like a lovely creamy pasta. The day was not wasted! I got home, sat down with my ice water, and put the first lovely bite in my mouth.

The sauce had gorgonzola in it. Think of a mix of bleu cheese with a taste that matches the smell of dirty feet. There are very few things in the world I hate more than gorgonzola cheese. I don't care if I just paid for this pasta, I will not eat this. I suppressed a gag as I carried it to the kitchen.

But here's the thing--I'm really cheap. Even if I can't eat it without gagging, I can't throw away a perfectly good (minus the horrible taste) pasta with cherry tomatoes and spinach that I paid for. I got the bright idea to rinse the pasta, spinach, and tomatoes. How hard could it be? Then I could put some olive oil or some pesto on it, and it would be edible again.

Gorgonzola cheese is not easy to wash off of pasta. It breaks up into minute, almost microscopic chunks of foulness that lodge themselves in the center of each penne noodle. But again, I am cheap. If I have to wash each noodle individually, I WILL SAVE THIS PASTA!

20 minutes later, the pasta is clean and pestoed, and I don't even want to look at it, much less eat it. Looks like a nectarine for supper for me!

This story has a happy ending. The nectarine was wonderful and hit the spot. Which just goes to show you that just because you do something stupid, get pooped on, skin your arm, and unwittingly shove dirty foot cheese in your mouth, the cloud has a silver nectarine. Or something like that.

OH MY GOSH!!!!

2006-07-11T21:12:00.000-01:00

This may be my big moment. This may be when everything changes. My life could take a new direction.

Switchfoot is having a cowbell contest.

Yes, a cowbell contest. You video yourself playing the cowbell, and if you win the contest they fly you to L.A. and you get TO PLAY THE COWBELL ON SWITCHFOOT'S NEXT ALBUM!!!!!!!!! I could pee my pants. Oh my gosh.

Click on the title and it will take you to the site.

Now I just have to work up the nerve to video myself playing the cowbell and risk it being posted on the Switchfoot website for all to laugh at. But come on! This is my dream!

Why I am not in Hollywood

2006-07-08T18:17:00.000-01:00

I was going to film my apartment and post it on my blog so that family and friends in the States can see where I live. While this video will serve that purpose, the main reason I post it now is this: pure comedic genius. I couldn't be more of a video nerd if I tried. It is quite possibly the most horrible cinematography of all time and definitely the worst narration.

But I know you will all get a kick out of it, so here it is, in its entirety. The flat is amazing, though, no?

Look closely and see if you can spot the bag of dirt, and some cleaning supplies left out where they shouldn't be.

Without further adieu....

Life after Sidney Bristow

2006-07-08T10:22:00.000-01:00

We've been watching DVD's of Alias that we borrowed from the Cady's. This is probably the first series that I've seen every episode from start to finish. There's nothing better to do on a day off than spend hours watching Sidney, Jack, and the gang kick criminal mastermind butt over and over.

Watching too much Alias does mess with my sense of reality. It makes me say things to Victoria like "I wonder if they could invent a kevlar skin cream--that way they would be protected all over and not have to wear that hot vest," or "Hey, if we got some really slick shoes, we could just slide/surf down the bannisters of the escalator--it would make things much faster." I disagree with other spy movies because I have a thorough knowledge of the inner workings of the CIA, through Alias. I think up elaborate schemes of escaping our apartment (in case of invasion) using the scaffolding in our courtyard, to go up to the roof and then rapel down the outside, slipping away in an incredibly cool wig (and while we're at it, Sidney's incredibly cool fitness) and with whatever incredibly gorgeous guy she's with. I am Sidney Bristow.

We finished seaon 5 on Thursday, which is the last season. Maybe it's a good thing for me, so my brain can get back to reality, but I'm sad to see it go. Things ended as I had hoped (I'm not giving anything away for those of you who are still waiting), but the sad part is that they ended.

Maybe I'll start borrowing DVD's of Lost.

In an Old Notebook

2006-07-05T14:45:00.000-01:00

Eventually I'll post about Prague. Until then, here's this to tide you over. I found this written in a notebook I've not used in about a year, and from what's written I think it was written at the leaders' retreat at Aguas Vivas camp in April of 2005. I love my bad poetry, so you all get to indulge me today.

To squint into the sun
until the jagged black outlines of the mountains come into focus
To turn my eyes
from the intense light, only to see it reflected, golden warm,
on a thick bed of pine needles
To hear nothing
but the conversation of birds
the buzzzing of flies
the laughter of children, somewhere out of sight
To make a bed in those pine needles, lean agains a tree
and listen...
to the wind
echoing from rock to rock
loud, then soft,
then loud again
To feel it move through my hair and my eyelashes,
over my face
Blending warm and sweet with the sun
and the fresh, earthy smell of the pine needles
To sing to God
and to hear HIM sing back
in color
in smell
in wind
in the conversation of birds
To pray
This is to pray.

some thoughts on Psalm 139

2006-06-12T20:09:00.000-01:00

I hope this makes sense. I tend to think about things by talking about them, and since there's no one home tonight, the blog will have to do! It will probably make alot more sense to you if you read Psalm 139. It would make the blog too long to put the whole thing in here :).

We're doing a study on ten important chapters in the Bible in our community group, and it's been really participative and good. I love hearing other people's insights on a passage of scripture that open it up in new ways to me. Phill is leading the discussion, and one of the things that he does that I really like is that he has us read the chapter out loud in several different translations so we can really let it sink in.

Tonight was Psalm 139. Most people I know think about the beautiful parts of this Psalm that are encouraging reminders of God's love and His hand in our creation. Here are some phrases from The Message:

"I look behind me and you're there,
then up ahead and you're there, too--
your reassuring presence, coming and going."

"you shaped me first inside, then out;
you formed me in my mother's womb.
I thank you, High God--you're breathtaking!
body and soul, I am marvelously made!"

"You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit,
how I was sculpted from nothing into something..."

Beautiful, no?

If only the Psalm ended there. We try to make it end there. We cut it off at verse 18, or at least we skim over verses 19-21 to get straight to the end, where David decides to play nice again.

Here are wierd verses: Psalm 139:19-22 from The Message (emphasis mine)

"And please, God, do away with wickedness for good!
And you murderers--out of here!--
all the men and women who belittle you, God,
infatuated with cheap god-imitations.
See how I HATE those who hate you, God,
See how I LOATHE all this godless arrogance.
I HATE IT WITH PURE UNADULTERATED HATRED.
Your enemies are my enemies.

Embroider THAT on a pillow and put some lace around it!

I have always tried hard to explain it away, that he actually hates the sin but not the person. That it's righteous anger because he hates those who hate God. It doesn't work. The Message actually softens it a little from some other translations. The hatred, directed toward people, is there, and you can't hide it.

One of the first lessons I remember learning is that you should never, ever, ever hate a person. I don't even remember where I learned it. It was the one phrase in my house that would get you in trouble quicker than any other.

How does this reconcile with what Jesus said? Love your enemies, love your enemies, love your enemies. Over and over, in word and action, this message screams off of the page of the Gospels. As Jesus died a cruel death, He asked His Father to forgive the people who hated him.

A few months ago I read a book by Phillip Yancey about the Old Testament, and his thoughts on the Psalms help alot. This is poetry here, not doctrine. The psalmist wasn't trying to write out lessons for behavior here--he was pouring out his heart. This is what he really felt, and after all, since God knows everything about him, why not get it out in the open? This is poetry, not law. This is prayer, conversation, not doctrine.

This is David's heart, open and bare.

I've always thought this strange "hate the wicked" passage was tacked onto the end for no apparent reason, but in this new "open and bare" light, maybe not. It changes the whole tone of the poem. Rather than being a lofty praise with some random hate thrown in, maybe everything written before is leading up to this raw and ugly point.

What if David isn't saying all this stuff (about how God searches him and knows him and he can't escape from him) for comfort? What if he's actually scared out of his wits?

"Such knowledge is too wonderful for me!"

I saw Psalm 139 in a different light tonight. To be honest, I got no comfort from it. Bonnie decided it should be titled "Prayers of a Troubled Man." I think that hits the mark. David had come to the point that he had to acknowledge that nothing could hide from God. He had tried and failed. And in the end, he opened his heart to God and laid out all the nasty, ugly, feelings inside of him, out in the open. Here it is, God. You see it anyway--you've seen it all along.

What if the whole Psalm, rather than being about comfort, is more about confession? It makes sense with the way David ends the poem/prayer:

" Investigate my life, O God,
find out everything about me;
Cross-examine and test me,
get a clear picture of what I'm about;
See for yourself whether I've done anything wrong--
then guide me on the road to eternal life."

This comes directly after the hate verses. No break, no smooth transition. Investigate me. If this is wrong, don't let me get away with it.

It starts and ends with God knowing everything. The good and the bad, the before and the after, the comfort and the hate.

This, intellectually, makes sense to me. I love poetry and I love trying to see it in as many lights as possible. I think the Psalms are a wonderful wonderful work of art.

Tonight it hit home on a deeper level. As we were reading, this verse stuck out to me:
"See how I HATE those who hate you, God,
See how I LOATHE all this godless arrogance.
I HATE IT WITH PURE UNADULTERATED HATRED"

My first thought? "Man! David can be pretty arrogant himself!"

And then I hit the search me verses. Do I have the guts to ask God to search me? Do I have the guts to acknowledge what God already sees? How arrogant am I?

It's easy to get into a pattern of finding people to blame for what's wrong: angry at some Christians for skewing the gospel and making the church into a political institution rather than a community, angry at others for picking and choosing which pet sins to make into huge issues while ignoring others, angry at still others for coming into the community with a "serve-me" attitude. Angry at the people who say that it's all about grace and then tell me what I have to do to make God love me. Angry at racism in the name of God, angry at pride in the name of God, angry oppression in the name of God, the list goes on and on. Someone needs to set these people straight!

I've been angry alot, evidently. I can hear my heart right along with David's, my second verse to Psalm 139.

See how righteous I am, God? See how I get it? See how I can't stand that kind of person? See how much freer I am than them? See how much better I follow you? See how I don't associate myself with that?

See me, see me, see me. Look at me.

Ugly on paper, right?

He sees me, alright. He's been looking.

It's a beautiful but INCREDIBLY scary thing to realize that God sees. Really sees. Beyond just what I show Him. Before I was born He knew. He sees.

Scary that He sees, and that He is God.

Beautiful that He sees, and he is God.

After all, he saw it before He created me and He went ahead and created me anyway.

Search me. Investigate me.

I felt a new kinship with David the perhaps manic depressive man after God's heart tonight. Tonight, I pray Psalm 139 to the God that sees me with new ears and new eyes, with old words in a new light.

And along with David, I pray,

"Investigate my life, O God,
find out everything about me;
Cross-examine and test me,
get a clear picture of what I'm about;
See for yourself whether I've done anything wrong--
then guide me on the road to everlasting life."

Amen.

Jet Lag

2006-06-12T08:36:00.000-01:00

It never gets any better. Every time I travel, I think "this time it won't be that bad....I'm used to it now."

There is no such thing as used to it. Your body is not forgiving when you shock it from one time zone to another, six hours ahead. Nothing but time makes you normal.

This time, I thought I had cured jet lag by working hard. I landed at the Madrid airport at 10 am, and rather than going home, I went straight to the Cady's apartment to help them move. First, because they needed the help, but in close second was the not so secret hope that I would manage to lift enough boxes and wear myself out enough to get over jet lag in one day.

Fat chance. Now I'm jet lagging and sore.

Enough whining. I'll post with something real to say when I feel human again.

Fun Pictures

2006-06-04T03:55:00.000-01:00

Stephanie's wedding was today, and it was beautiful. 6 hours of hanging white christmas lights yesterday paid off--the reception was gorgeous. I looked good in my bridesmaid dress if I do say so myself (and I do), I didn't fall in my heels, and the bride got married, so all in all the day was a success.

None of these pictures are from the wedding. Being the idiot that I am, my camera is still in Spain--so I'll have to wait until someone else sends me photos of the day.

Fortunately for all my faithful readers, my new macbook (yes, I have a new macbook--there will probably be a post about it to come soon. I love it.) has isight built in--a little webcam right above the screen. Kim (my sister) and I played around with all the effects we can use in the photo booth program. Here are some results for your viewing enjoyment.

Lots and lots of Kelly. You can't go wrong there!

And here is Kim with me--see the family resemblance?

And here are some of the reasons I love my sister--deep down, she's as silly as me!

Kim may never speak to me again.

No. In real life, she's helping me post.

In other news, I got my hair cut......

....Is it too short?

Here's the real haircut.

And this post, my friends, is how to waste a good 5 minutes of your life.

Another question thing

2006-05-27T17:35:00.000-01:00

I really have nothing interesting to say, but I think it's been long enough that I should post again. I'm going back to the U.S. for Steph Bennett's wedding in a couple days--hopefully I'll get some blog fodder out of a week back in the States.

Until then, there's really only one thing to write about when I can't think of something better....myself. Here is a questionnaire that was on Amy's blog. How well do you know me?

Four Jobs I have had in my life:
1) I taught piano in high school
2) I interned about 4,000 (or 3) semesters at the ETSU Campus House
3) Thankyouforcallinghomedepotcreditservicesmynameiskellyhowcanihelpyou?
4) Missionary/churchplanter/whatever the heck I am now

Four places I have lived:
1) Harlan, KY
2) Johnson City, TN
3) Estancia de Animas, Zacatecas, Mexico (does a summer count? I'm trying to get up to four)
4) Madrid, Spain

Four movies I could watch over and over again:
1) It's a Wonderful Life
2) Moulin Rouge
3) The Shawshank Redemption
4) Raising Arizona

Time for a short interjection here: I just watched What About Bob for the first time last week, and I can't believe I have lived so long without that movie. My lips go numb just thinking about it.

Four TV shows I love to watch:
1) Anything in English (yes, Amy, I stole your answer)
2) Alias (I secretly believe I am Sidney Bristow)
3) Trading Spaces
4) Everybody Loves Raymond

Four songs that will always be on my IPOD (right, like I'll ever be un-cheap enough to buy an ipod)
1) Grace by U2
2) The Fatal Wound or Daisy by Switchfoot
3) Til Kingdom Come by Coldplay (actually, first by Johnny Cash, but the Coldplay recording)
4) Anything Nickel Creek

Four Places I've been on Vacation:
1) Jacksonville, FL
2) Nerja, Spain
3) Lake Eerie
4) Chilton Cantelo, England

Four websites I visit daily:
1) about 10 blogs
2) http://www.relevantmagazine.com
3) recently www.mac.com (I've been reading up on how to navigate a mac since I'm getting one in a few days!!!!)
4) a couple news sites (cnn international and bbc world are my 2 favs)

Four of my favorite foods:
1) olive garden's garlic herb chicken with broccoli
2) the meal (roast beef, cornbread, potatoes, carrots, gravy, sweet tea)
3) anything featuring tomato and basil
4) anything chocolate

Four places I'd rather be right now:
1) Lying on the grass in the park (actually, I can't think of a good reason why I'm not there right now)
2) Smelling the clean clean air of the KY mountains after a storm.
3) Somewhere with my family--doesn't really matter where.
4) I really can't think of four. To be honest, I like it here and wouldn't rather be anywhere else. I just want the people I love to come to me :).

Four jobs I wish I could do:
1) Famous artist--crazy wild sculptor or something.
2) Be a mom.
3) Professional writer or musician--but the kind that doesn't have to work. Ok, strike that one.
4) Amazingly rich person that could feed all the hungry people, wise peacemaker so I could help end conflict, gutsy enough to stand up against injustice, and all around make the world better all over person. I think that position's filled, though.....

I hope this holds you over. One day I'll have something interesting to write.

Nothing of Import

2006-05-19T11:43:00.000-01:00

I have nothing important to say, but I haven't update in a while, so I decided to be good to my faithful readers (all 4 of you) and post, even if it's mindless drivel. So here's the current news in my life.

It's already hot here. It's been between 30-32 (around 90 F and up) and cloudy the past few days, which turns Madrid into an oven. The heat gets in and can't get out. If anyone sees me walking around and looking incredibly wobbly this July, it's because my insides will have melted by that point and I will only be held together by my skin. And I don't want to hear "at least it's dry heat." Right now it's not, but anyway, would you rather bake or boil? Either way, we're in for quite a summer, I think.

In other news, Victoria counted her change yesterday and found out she had 27 euros she didn't know about. That's alot! Today, as she was putting the coins into the little counter things the bank gives you, and I couldn't resist trying to count my change. I emptied all the drawers, every purse, every change receptacle (there are many). I had 18 euro in 10 and 5 cent pieces!!!!! That's so much! That's a trip to J and J's for some books to read on my flight to the States! (for those of you who don't know, I'm going to the U.S. for one week at the beginning of June for my friend Steph's wedding).

Finding out you have much more change than you thought is like getting free money!

Back to Victoria. She beat me by 9 euro, but who's counting? Anyway, here's her latest deep thought. "You know, Kelly, life is like a bowl of Ramen noodles. Add hot water, and everything gets mushy, and the peas reinflate." I'm not sure what it means, but I think she was serious when she said it. Man, I wish I was that deep! Anyone want to try to interpret that?

In other news, Amy and I are seriously contemplating murder on a dog. There's this dumb yappy thing that barks in some window facing the courtyard of our building all day and all night. Last night (or actually 3 am this morning), after yet another barking fit, I heard in a strange, raspy voice "Callate, Luli!" To get the voice right, imagine you're 80 years old, you've been smoking since 1 week before birth, and you evidently spent the first 70 years of your life yelling at a dog. This is the crazy dog lady. She takes her dog out to pee abou 40 times a day, and every time we can hear her on the steps..."Luuuuuuliiiiiiiii! Vamos Luuuuuliiiiii!"

The fact that we now know that the incessant barking belongs to Luli, and by default, the crazy dog lady, does put a hitch in our murder plot. You see, we like the crazy dog lady! She smiles and says hi to us as she stops on our floor to take a smoke break on the way up to her apartment (not kidding). Her dog, Luli, runs into our apartment if the door is open, and we chase him down and bring him back to her. She calls all of us "Joven." I think we make her day by petting her dog.

So we can't kill Luli.

Then again, if Luli keeps it up, he might be in danger yet.

An attempt at songwriting

2006-05-04T12:29:00.000-01:00

Many of you who have talked to me in the past year have heard me complain (most likely several times) about the fact that most of the writers of worship leaders are male. Being female, it's really annoying to have to transpose everything into a key that doesn't make me screechy. I have whined about this for a long time (sorry to all the recipients of this whine, I'll try not to repeat myself so many times).

But recently something has occurred to me. I am a female. I am a worship leader (well, a worship leader in the works, anyway). I have a decent theory and composition background.

I am not allowed to whine if I don't do anything about it. So I'm doing something about it.

Also, I think it's really cool for a church to have some music that is indigenous--rather than just singing what everyone else is singing all the time. There's definitely a place for songs that everybody knows, but at the same time, I think there's a place for a congregation to have some music that expresses what's going on in that community.

So I'm trying.

This song is called "Glory." It's based (loosely) on the liturgy of the second movement of the Ordinary of the Mass. The basic concept of the movement is "Gloria in excelsis Deo"--Glory to God in the highest--and then it goes on to list a bunch of reasons that we give God glory.

Anyway, I hope to actually write 5 songs that can be used together--kind of a worship mass--based on the concept of each movement. More on this to come.

For now, here's my first attempt.

A New Face

2006-04-27T15:26:00.000-01:00

I don't wear my glasses all the time. I wear contacts alot, at least half of the time. Recently, I've had to wear contacts constantly because the nosepiece fell off my glasses. They were only 5 years old! Things just don't last.

Neither do styles. My old glasses didn't suit my personality, I don't think, and they were gold, which I never wear, and they were big and round. If you have glasses, they are a part of the face that people see when they look at you. So, in a sense, new glasses means a new face.

So I broke down and got a new, funkier face. Here it is:

I call them my "Hollywood glasses." Still pretty conservative, I know, but a long way from the old ones!

These actually were my second favorite. My favorites were similar in shape, but a little more dramatic looking. But, you know what? I'm not into paying 100 euro more just so the side says Gucci and has a little diamond. So I settled for my second best.

It's probably best that I didn't get the Gucci glasses anyway. I would have been so incredibly attractive that guys would have hurt themselves when they threw themselves to the pavement at my feet. So really, I passed up the Guccis for humanitarian concerns.

With these toned down Hollywood glasses, the guys will only have to kneel.

Bring it on.

Seriously, what do you think?

The Local Starbucks

2006-04-27T11:44:00.000-01:00

I have kind of a love-hate relationship with Starbucks. I complain that their coffee is expensive and that they take over the market wherever they move in. I complain that you can't walk 10 minutes in the center of Madrid without running into another little piece of America with it's green awnings and its sugary drinks. I would hate to see any Spanish business lose out to their empire, especially when Spanish coffee is wonderful and cheap, and a staple of the way of life here. I guess I do not like the concept of Starbucks.

But still, I go.

In their favor, Starbucks has comfy chairs and lets you sit there as long as you want. For this, I love them--if not the whole chain, at least the one on Fuencarral at Bilbao, where I go every Wednesday night while a community group meets in my apartment. I have a favorite chair, in the corner by the window, and if I time my arrival just right (around 7:45 p.m.), it's almost always empty, waiting for me to curl up in its familiar arms with a book. In the past month, all in this same Starbucks, I have laughed out loud to no one in particular, cried and wiped the tears quickly so no one will see, and fallen asleep. Actually, I've fallen asleep a couple times. I'm comfortable there.

I knew I had become a regular at Starbucks yesterday. As I walked in, the girl behind the counter looks up and says "Oye, guapa! Hace tiempo que no te he visto! Que tal todo?" (Basically--hey, I've not seen you in a while! How's it going?) I smiled and chatted a few minutes before ordering.

It's a small thing, but stuff like this is huge to me. A Spanish girl, my age, completely unconnected to me except in the fact that I order coffee from her and chat with her some while she's cleaning on Wednesday nights, initiated friendly conversation with me. Not where are you from, are you studying here, or how long do you plan to stay in Spain? (the usual polite questions) Just a simple "Que tal todo?"

She remembered my name and wrote it on my cup without me telling her how to spell it.

I live here. This is my neighborhood.

Oddly enough, I had been considering going to Espresso Republic instead that night. It's right across the street, and the atmosphere is a little less laid back, but it's Spanish and doesn't feed the Starbucks empire. But I went to Starbucks because they know me, because they smile and say hi, not just politeness, but because they recognize me.

(cue the themesong from Cheers.....)

In a job and a country where I feel like what I need to learn is immeasurably vast in comparison with the bit that I've learned in these two years (y pico), where I seriously wonder if I'll ever really feel like I'll belong somewhere again, it's nice to be recognized. It's nice to hear a familiar voice say:

Oye, guapa! Hace tiempo que no te he visto! Que tal todo?

boo hoo

2006-04-13T11:42:00.000-01:00

If you got my newsletter this week, you know I'm supposed to be leaving for the Easter Retreat today. Well, it's starting today, alright, but not with me there.

I went to Segovia (an old city about an hour from Madrid) for the day yesterday with Amy, and had some pork thing for lunch. I started paying for that at about 3 this morning. Ugh. I hate food poisoning. My system is empty now (and then some), but I'm too weak and tired to make the train/car/bus trip up to the camp today. So I'm going in the morning. Boo hoo.

Things, I'm sure, will go off without a hitch without me there. Kind of a humbling experience to realize that, but I'm glad.

Hopefully the crackers and casera (like sprite) will stick with me and I'll be able to go in the morning!

Funny Things

2006-04-09T15:34:00.000-01:00

Funny things tend to happen around me. Actually, I'm not sure if that's true. Sometimes I really do think more funny things happen to me than most others. But other times I think I just notice more because my mind is eternally warped from watching too much Seinfeld and now feels the need to share the humor of every ridiculous little thing that most others would ignore. Actually, the exact quote from Seinfeld is "the excruciating minutiae of every single daily event." Can you name that episode?

So here is some excruciating minutiae from my life. I hope you enjoy.

A herd of segue's. Yep, a whole batch of 'em.

Last Sunday was one of those beautiful Spring days that's so gorgeous you don't have the option of staying inside. One nice thing about having our Oasis Madrid services on Saturday night is that, come a Sunday like this one, you actually have the day to spend outside if you want! After getting home late-ish and sleeping until almost noon, I decided to take a blanket and a book out to Templo de Debod and spend the day relaxing in the sun. And so began the next 5 hours. Amy joined me a couple hours later.

At about hour four, I heard a strange swooshy-buzzy sound to my left. At first I thought I was dreaming (I might have dozed off at a point or two in the afternoon), but the sound persisted, accompanied by some unmistakably British accents. I turned my head and there they were, in all their glory. Six or seven middle aged and up British tourists, each mounted on their own segue, rolling along at no more than 3 miles per hour behind their fearless leader.

If you're confused as to what a segue is, here's a picture I found on flickr:

4888_roller boy
Originally uploaded by thomask.

Now imagine six of them, all inhabited by grey-haired Brits in the middle of Madrid.

Come on, guys, Madrid is a compact city. Do you really need to tour it in segue's? Are there enough even sidewalks for those things to even be useful? Do you really have nothing better to do with your time and money than roll around the park with your bum bag (or fanny pack, if you're American. But a Brit would never call it that!) and visor? And the most important question: can I have one?

The breakup

Sometimes, when I hear people speaking English on the train or the metro, I talk to them and ask where they're from. It's something to do when you're bored. But other times people are having a conversation that is obviously not meant for you, and then it gets awkward. What do you do? You're trapped in the car with them--you can't NOT hear. If you say something, then they know you speak English, and then they think you were eavesdropping, and then everyone feels awkward. At those times, I find it best to keep my mouth shut--it doesn't relieve my awkwardness, but at least they don't know that they've publicized more than they should have.
This is a good time to add a side note: DON'T HAVE PRIVATE CONVERSATIONS ON THE METRO, IN ANY LANGUAGE! Someone else will always understand you.

I was on a cercanias train (the above ground public transportation) from Las Rozas to Madrid yesterday, and I witnessed a scene that was at times painful and at times hilarious. Since I have no idea who the two people involved were and everything turned out ok in the end, I don't feel bad writing about them here. After all, they were the ones to do all this in public.

At the first stop after I got on the train, a crowd of people came on, including a sullen teenage girl with too much makeup and a boy who looked old enough to have known that the waist of his jeans were actually at his knees. Guys, do you really think that's attractive? Anyway, she sat down next to me, and as the train was crowded, he had no choice but to stand in front of her.

It took 5 seconds for me to realize they were speaking English. I was bored, so I turned and started to strike up a conversation. Then I heard the words "I want to die." Uh-oh. Better stay out of this one. "Shut up!" said the guy. (I'm totally cleaning up the language here, believe me).

"Get off at the next stop. It's over!"

"Just get away from me!"

Insert more colorful language....

After this, the girl proceeded to give the guy a 5 minute quiz about her life. "What do you know about me? Nothing!" He failed the test miserably. Then again, she fired the questions so fast, he didn't have time to answer, and he mumbled so much she wouldn't have understood if he did.

"You're such a child! Get off at the next stop! I want to die!"

That line repeated at every stop, with some really creative language, I must say. It's amazing how people can make some words into a verb, a noun, and an adjective, all in the same sentence.

About 10 minutes later there came a 30 second pause. I was about to think that maybe he had gotten off at the next stop like she commanded, but then I heard a telltale lip-smacking sound.

You have got to be kidding me. I turned around to see if my ears deceived me. Nope. He was in her lap, and they were wasting no time in making up. Let's just say that they were no more private about their mutual affection than they had been a minute before about their mutual loathing.

I caught the eye of a guy across from me. He had understood it all. He was surpressing a laugh. We both kind of smirked and looked away from each other quickly, embarrassed to be unwilling parts of the scene.

Smack, slurp, smack. They made the most of the next 3 minutes until their stop, which was also my stop. I hurried to the front of the crowd to get away from them. As I passed, I heard the "I want to die" girl make one more brilliant statement to the mumbly boy.

"Don't ever change."

What?

So here I leave you with my two pieces of minutiae. It's a bizarro world, huh?
(extra points to any who can name all the Seinfeld references in this post.)

Mama, God, and Jane Austen

2006-03-26T19:13:00.000-01:00

Is it cheeky to apologize on a blog? If so, then I apologize for that too. Oops! did it again!

But seriously, I would like to apologize to everyone for my attitude the past, well, couple weeks, or months, or maybe longer. I'm sorry for being self-centered and for whining too much. Roommates, I'm sorry for being a slob. Team and community group, I'm sorry for whining about the same cold that the rest of Madrid has had as well as me. Family, I'm sorry for not calling as much as I had been.

The past few days, I feel like I've turned a corner, started to climb out of a slump, woken up, or whatever you want to call it. I was talking to Heather today, and I dubbed it "attitude adjustment," which I think is pretty accurate.

When I was a kid and got in a funk, my mom used to tell me to "put my nose on straight." To be honest, I never understood what that meant. I don't think she was too philosophical about it, but blogs are the home of wanna be philosophers, so here I go: when my nose is not on straight, everything is slightly skewed. Picasso comes to mind--things are grotesque and out of proportion. Now that's cool in art, but in my emotions and mind it has caused things to get messy. A nasty cold that lingers on and on becomes the end of the world, and everyone hears about it over and over. Needing a few hours of alone time becomes a need to be sullen and withdraw, and politeness and hospitality fall short in the name of self-preservation. Being busy becomes an obsession swinging between work and rest, and neither are really acheived. Things become skewed; everything becomes out of proportion.

So, Mama, my nose is straightening.

The past week, I've started doing the daily office and readings from Celtic Daily Prayer, and following their scripture readings for each day. It's really meditative and very Christ focused, rather than me focused. This is a nice change from the past year or so, which is measured out in short intervals between temper tantrums with God. I've learned alot this year, but I've fought every lesson tooth and nail--when I look at what's written in my journal, it makes me think of Harry Potter in Dumbledore's office after a disaster, smashing stuff and yelling, while Dumbledore sits quietly and lets him finish. I think God has been sitting quietly and letting me finish, letting me get it all out.

One thing I love about Celtic Daily Prayer is that the passages are really short, and there's no rush--there's time to really meditate on the scripture and let it sink in. Earlier this week, I read part of Psalm 31, and the phrase "my times are in your hands" has stuck out to me all week. All of this stuff I whine about is in God's hands. What if I really took that seriously and let it sink in? How much would that change my attitude?

So God, I think I'm done. The tantrum's over. I'm ready to listen. My times are in Your hands.

I've been on a Jane Austen kick lately. I just finished reading Sense and Sensibility, and I love Elinor's politeness to everyone. She doesn't inflict her suffering on anyone. She's nice even to her enemies, and the people who are spiteful to her. She has every reason to whine and just doesn't.

So, Jane Austen, thanks for the example. I'll try.

I cleaned my desk.
I cleaned my room.
I made my bed.
I hung my pictures.
I finished unpacking those 2 boxes that have been staring at me since november.
I cleaned the toilet.
I worshipped.
I opened windows.
I feel better.

This week, this day, I will think about someone other than myself. I will practice hospitality without resentment. I will work when I should work, and really rest when it's time. I will be thankful for the million things I have to be thankful for.

I will put my nose on straight.

La Vida Multicultural

2006-03-21T16:02:00.000-01:00

I am from the mountains of Harlan, KY.

I grew up, for the most part, surrounded by one language, one race, one religion. The biggest "cultural" behavior differences existed between the city school kids and the county school kids. The city school kids stopped wearing bangs before we did in the early 90's and were, in general, more snobby than we were (of course, my opinion may be a bit biased). We were mostly all white, mostly all protestant, mostly all with the same accent. Once in a while you would meet someone who was a Tennessee fan instead of a Kentucky fan.

This was normal life.

I love where I grew up, and I'm thankful for such a wonderful home. I love going back to the mountains. I wouldn't trade my hometown for anything.

But it's definitely different than life here. I live in Madrid, Spain.

To say that my life here is the opposite in many ways is not an exaggeration. Rather than simply describe life here, I'll give you an example.

Last night, our community group decided to do something that would bring us out into the community, and that would give us an opportunity to invite friends who might not be comfortable with a Bible study in someone's apartment. So we went to Cafe Manuela, a local cafe with great coffee and board games. We were sixteen people in all, crammed around a table that might have been intended to fit ten. The people immediately around me were from Australia, Holland, Germany, Nigeria, Peru, the U.S., and Morrocco (I hope I didn't leave anyone out!), and we decided to play a game of rummicub, because it's all numbers and doesn't have any questions that would give one language an advantage. I struggled through trying to explain rules in English and Spanish without mixing the two and failed more than a few times--I'm horrible at speaking two languages in the same conversation. The game went on with the main conversation in English and Spanish, with some side conversation in Dutch and German. A guy in the group from Nigeria was sitting next to me, and as I played, he taught me to count to ten in Ibo, one of the languages from Nigeria. That makes nine languages in my useless collection. I can count to ten all over the world, but nothing more!

It's on nights like this where the question "Where are you from?" often is answered with the question "Do you want the long version or the short version?"

This is normal now. This is life.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have always grown up in more than one culture. Would the homogenous region I'm from be as much of a shock as the diversity of Madrid was at first to me? A couple of weeks ago Kelly and April Crull and I were hanging out at the Cady's house. In the course of a conversation, Kelly said to 9 year old Meaghan Cady, "You're so sentimental."

She thought about the word for a minute and then asked, "What's that word in English?" I couldn't help but laugh. When I was a kid, it never would have occurred to me that a word I didn't understand was another language, and that was her first reaction! But I guess for the daughter of an American father and a Canadian (by way of Ecuador) mom who lives in Spain, why else wouldn't you understand a word? (Amy, who is 26, asked the same question today when I used the word "imbibing" in a sentence)

I no longer live in one culture. This is normal now.

I am from the mountains of Harlan, KY. I spent 3/4 of my life there. That is my culture. But now this is my culture too--the mix, the differences, the learning, the language, the diversity.

It's a strange place to be, this mix. There is a tension in me between a strong love for where I'm from and a strong love for where I am right now, and in the middle of that tension is where I live. This is what it is to be an "international," an "expat," an "extranjero," or whatever you want to call it. We live in that tension. We bring our homes with us and make new homes here. We struggle through new languages and new customs and try to reconcile them with what we've always known. We change our definitions of normal and we adapt and we grow to love where we are.

Will I always live in this place, this tension? Will "where are you from?" ever be a simple question again? Do I even want it to be? Will I ever have a permanent definition of a "normal life?" Do I want one?

I don't know.

if you're ever bored

2006-03-14T15:59:00.000-01:00

Here's a fun game to play if you're ever bored. Type the answer to these categories into google images and pick one picture out of the first page each word brings up. Here's mine!

First name: Kelly. (As in Grace Kelly--see, I am graceful!)

Middle name: Renee (this is Renee Fleming--awesome opera star)

Last name: Wills (also, evidently, the nickname of Prince William)

Age on my next birthday: 25 (and i'm smart, so i picked Einstein)

City I grew up in: Harlan (if you can call it a city--i have no idea where this is, but it said it was harlan, ky)

Favorie color: Red (this is Harmony in Red by Matisse)

Place I'd like to live: Madrid (I know, I'm unimaginative)

Place I live now: Madrid

Habit I have: Chewing pens

Favorite food: chocolate

Favorite Animal: giraffe
You can't read it, but the caption says this: "Those aren't spots. Those are hickeys! Just who have you been necking with?"

Religion: I love Jesus

Dream job: foot model (not really, but I didn't want to look like I was copying Heather in everything, so I had to say something other than church planter)

Grandmother's name: Amy Wills (but this isn't her. This is Miss Central Pennsylvania or something)

Favorite smell: rain on the beach
(I don't know why this picture came up, but I couldn't help but post it!)

To Katie and Sam on your birthday

2006-03-13T22:37:00.001-01:00

You can't read yet, Katie Rue and Sweet Sam. You're only one. You're still very small compared to how big you'll be in a year, or 5 years, or 20. But you're very big to me right now.

From the moment you were born--even before that, when your Mama was pregnant--you were miracles. You weren't expected to come at all--we hardly even dared to hope for you! But there you were, two of you. Katie, even before you were born you would stick out your leg and make a knot on your Mama's tummy. Sam, I wouldn't be surprised if you sucked your thumb before you were born.

And we didn't expect you so soon. You came early--Katie, you were impatient and just couldn't wait to get into the world. On the night you were born we were scared for your safety--you were so small. We prayed that God would protect your 13 inch, 2 pounds and a few ounce bodies. People all over the world--people that you'll never meet and even people that I'll never meet--prayed for you, Katie and Sam. We worried and watched and waited, and all that time God had you right in the middle of His hand. We know that now. But you had us worried!

We all fell in love with you the first time we saw you. I had to look at pictures for the first two months, and then when I finally held you, oh how I cried. I never knew two tiny things could hold such big spots in my heart.

And now, a year later, here you are:

Sam, with that sleepy smile and that thumb that just can't stay away from your mouth. And Katie, standing up, taking steps, being a miracle just by being alive, much less standing and laughing and playing and fighting with your brother over a toy.

You're a year bigger. We've watched you grow and learn, and we've grown and learned about you and about God through you. He's still got you in that same place, right in the middle of His hand. You'll get bigger each year. Each year I'll be amazed at how big you are and how small you were, and how God knew that you belonged to this family long before we had even thought it possible.

And each year you get bigger, as we wait and watch and worry, because that's what grownups do, you'll still be in the same place--right in the middle of God's hand.

Happy first birthday. I love you.

Love,
Aunt Kelly

Oasis Talk--Right Brain

2006-03-05T21:15:00.000-01:00

This was the talk that I gave last night at our Oasis Madrid service. After the talk, we had a bout 30 minutes of really fun worship time, where we did all sorts of new and interesting things to experience God in different ways (worship stations, Art table, stones of remembrance, some writing on mirrors, etc.)---Can I just say that I LOVE my church? It was so awesome to see everyone really engaging and praising God in creative ways. Anyway, here's the talk.....

For the past several months at our Oasis Services, we have been doing a series of talks called “body parts,” centering on this theme verse in Romans 6: “…offer the parts of your body to him as instruments of righteousness.” So each service we’ve looked at different parts of the body—heart, sex parts, hands, feet, arms, and last time we started on a 2-part set about the brain. Now the reason we split the brain up into two services is that the brain does so much, and does so many different things, that we couldn’t really fit it into one talk.

So last time, Troy spoke about “Left Brain.” He described the left brain as the more logical, intellectual, rational side of the brain, and the right brain as the more emotional, creative (his exact words were artsy fartsy), irrational side. My first instinct was to be offended at this, but then, no, when you think about it, it’s not offensive. Troy’s comments aside, we can all see who is and isn’t speaking when it’s time to talk about being in your RIGHT mind! As much as I joke about it, though, I really appreciate being part of a church that recognizes creativity and emotion as valid—that recognizes that people are different and think differently, and that we can interact with God in different ways. That not only can we think about God intellectually, but we can and should interact with Him creatively and emotionally as well.

I hope that what I just said was not a revelation to you, actually. I hope that you already knew that, and what I have to say tonight is just a reminder. I hope that if you’ve been around here for a while that you’ve experienced that truth as part of our community.

But just in case you need to hear it again, let me say it again: not only can we think about God intellectually, but we can and should interact with Him creatively and emotionally as well.

Often in the church, I think we see creativity as something extra. We can use it to make things look pretty or to make a sermon more interesting, but often we don’t really see it as an important part of our relationship with God. The easiest thing to do is to relegate creativity to a few people who are really into that stuff, and then they can share it with the rest. But I think that lets all of us off the hook, actually. I think that even if some of us are more logical, intellectual, rational people, we all have a creative, emotional side, and we all can use that part of ourselves to experience God in new ways.

Creativity is not an extra thing to add on if we have time. Creativity is built into us from the very beginning. In the story of creation in the book of Genesis, it says that God made humans in His image, in other words—he made us to look like Him, to reflect Him. The New Living Translation translates it as “God patterned them after himself…” The interesting thing is, at this point in the story all we have seen about God is that He is a creator. He is so infinitely creative that the Bible starts with that…..”In the beginning, God created…” and then goes on to name all of the wonderful things God made. Have you ever stopped to think about all the colors, all the animals, all the plants that are in the world? Have you ever thought about the amount of creativity it would require to come up with oceans and volcanoes and giraffes? The Psalmist, in Ps. 104, says this about creation: “What a wildly wonderful world, GOD! You made it all, with Wisdom at your side, made earth overflow with your wonderful creations.” And His creativity didn’t stop at the beginning. In the Old Testament, stories are told over and over of God’s creativity--of inventive and unorthodox plans that God comes up with to get his people, Israel, out of one scrape after another—for example: splitting a sea in half so they can walk through, feeding them by raining down food from heaven, defeating a city by having the army yell at walls, sending prophet after prophet to remind them through drama, speech, and poetry.

In the Gospels, God continues to show the creative extremes He will go to, all to reach and rescue His people, by becoming human—one of His own creation. The mystery of God was suddenly a person—someone we could see, hear, and touch. All-powerful God, becoming a weak human, so that He can rescue humans, so that in the end He’s glorified and worshipped even more. Jesus’ humanity was definitely an innovative approach to reconcile us to God! And then in the book of Acts, at the very beginning of the church, the Holy Spirit makes a dramatic entrance with fire and all sorts of languages, visions and dreams. Then God chooses to use Paul, a person who was determined to personally do his best to obliterate followers of Jesus from his culture, to be a missionary—traveling far and wide to spread the very thing he had tried to stop. The book of Revelation, the end of the story, is full of images so wildly different from anything we can imagine that after 2000 years we’re still trying to figure out what on earth it means!

Throughout the Bible, God shows us over and over that He is beyond our logic. He says this plainly through the prophet Isaiah when he says "My thoughts are completely different from yours," says the LORD. "And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine.” (Is. 58:8) THIS is the God that made us in His image, the creator. When He patterned us after himself, part of that pattern is very, very creative.

We can say the same thing about our emotions—we are emotional beings because God is emotional. In the Old Testament, He shows every emotion from fierce anger to grief to delight to intense love. He compares Israel to his bride to show his depth of love. In the book of Hosea, he has the prophet demonstrate a love so crazy that he marries a prostitute, and over and over he goes back to buy her back when she runs away, because of His love. In Jesus’ life, we see him angry at the Pharisees and sometimes at his own disciples, we see him have compassion on the sick and the hungry, we see him grieve over Jerusalem, and we see Him cry and ask His father to please take away the responsibility of having to go through a horrible, public death. On the cross, he quotes the emotional psalms when he says—“my God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” God has emotions.

It would be enough to say that creativity and emotion are part of who we are because they are characteristics of God. But if you need more incentive, here it is! Creativity and emotion are part of our legacy as the people of God. Throughout history, God’s people have gone beyond the structured, normal formats of interacting with Him. After crossing the Red Sea and escaping Egypt, Moses and Miriam both sang, and the women danced and played their instruments in celebration. When they were building the tabernacle and the worship articles to go in it, God singled out two workers as being filled with His Spirit and set apart to do His work—because they were artists. In 1st Samuel, it says that when the Ark of the Covenant was brought back to the tabernacle, David danced, the priests sang, and the people shouted with joy. When King Jehosaphat cleaned out the idols and worship of other Gods from the nation, he and all the people bowed down in worship and then shouted their loyalty to God. After God’s people had been exiled and came back to rebuild the temple, the air was filled with the blend of some weeping for what was lost and some shouting for what was rebuilt. And the stories go on and on.

And then there are the psalms. The psalms are full of songs and poetry that express the full range of emotions to God in artistic form. Every emotion is brought to God with nothing held back. Take Psalm 22 and 23, for example. Psalm 23 is famous because it overflows with beautiful praise, peace, and assurance of God’s favor—

“the LORD is my shepherd; I have everything I need….”

“…even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil…”

“surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life…”

But the one right before it starts with this verse, equally familiar because Jesus used these same words when He was on the cross:

“my God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Why do you remain so distant?
Why do you ignore my cries for help?”

This is one of the most famous contrasts in the Psalms, but the book is full of them. Emotions vary from one extreme to the other, and, whether negative or positive, they are real and often raw. They often ask questions that we are afraid to voice out loud. They often express desires that are far from Godly—kind of like an emotional vomit (wipe them out, dash them against the rocks, pay them back, humiliate them…), or comments that seem kind of sarcastic and impolite to the creator of the universe, like this one from Psalm 30: “What will you gain if I die?....can my dust praise you from the grave?....”. Some are songs of praise for deliverance and are bursting with joy. The one thing that ties the emotional spectrum of the Psalms together is this: they are all brought straight to God. Here’s what I’m feeling, God. It may not be right, but this is what I’ve got, and I’m bringing it to you. These are the songs of the emotional, creative people of God.

I could keep talking about the early church, the music and art and architecture throughout the centuries that has pointed to God over and over and over, about poets and mystics who expressed their heart despite persecution even within the church, about new movements of prayer, mission, and creativity that are resurging around the world today, but since I only have 30 minutes to talk, I hope you get the idea. God’s people have a long history of being a creative, emotional people.

On one hand, while I was researching in the Old Testament and the Psalms, I was amazed and slightly overwhelmed at the sheer volume of creativity and emotion that comes screaming off the page when you’re looking for it. On the other hand, I became more and more restless and frustrated with myself the more I read. And to be honest, slightly envious of these people. What did they have that I don’t have? Why do I look I look at the ancient Hebrews--a people who lived before Bible colleges, before the printing press and widespread literacy gave everyone the ability to search the scriptures themselves, especially before the coming of Jesus, the Messiah, and His amazing gospel that the Kingdom of God is available here and now, before His death and resurrection that brought forgiveness so that we can follow Him, before so many things that we take for granted---why do I look at the way they experienced God and feel like there’s an intensity and an abandon there that I’m missing out on? Why does it feel like we’re somehow way behind in our pursuit of God? Shouldn’t I have more to celebrate, not less?

Phillip Yancey articulated the same amazement and frustration when writing about the Psalms in his book The Bible Jesus Read. He says,

I sense in them an urgency, a desire and hunger for God that makes my own look anemic by contrast. The psalmists panted for God with their tongues hanging out, as an exhausted deer pants for water. They lay awake at night dreaming of “the fair beauty of the Lord.” They would rather spend one day in God’s presence than a thousand years elsewhere.
It was the advanced school of faith these poets were enrolled in, and often I feel more like a kindergartner.

When I began to research for this talk, I already believed that this was important, but now, after looking at just how creative God is, and just how creative His people are, I’m more convinced than ever. This is not an extra. This is important. As humans made in the image of God, we have creativity and emotions. And as God’s people creativity and emotion are built into us through our history—they are part of who we are. Because creativity and emotions are a part of who we are, then they are included when we offer ourselves to God as instruments of righteousness. In reality, not only is God OK with creativity and with emotions, He means for us to use them for Him!

So what keeps us from bringing our creativity and our emotions to God? What’s stopping us from experiencing God with all of ourselves?

Sometimes I think it’s laziness—the usual habits and formats with God may not be the only way God has created us to interact with Him, but often it’s easier to keep with a habit than to think of how to do something differently. Maybe it’s laziness because I know that God wants more than my intellect, but being creative and expressing emotions is a lot of work. And maybe it’s laziness because I know that in a community setting, if we all start being real then ugliness might come out, and there will be a mess to clean up. And if we all start being creative, there will probably be some messes to clean up there too.

If it’s laziness, then here’s my challenge: do it anyway. Yes, it’s new and different and might require effort, but it’s worth it. Yes, it gets messy in a community—all you have to do is read the story of God’s people throughout time or the Psalms that I just mentioned to see that, but it’s worth the mess.

Or maybe it’s fear. Maybe I’m afraid that I’ll try to be creative and it won’t be any good. Maybe I’m afraid I’ll fall flat on my face if I try to dance, or that my painting will look more like scribbles, or that my poetry will, well……suck. Maybe I’m afraid that if I express my emotions to God, what I really feel, whether it’s through words or movement or tears or visual arts, He’ll be surprised at what raw emotions, many of them ugly, I hold inside of me. Maybe He’ll be disgusted that I can’t get a hold of myself and I cry too much or that I might act immature and shout and dance my happiness instead of a quiet “thank you.”

If it’s fear that stops us, then I’ll say this—that’s what grace is for. Troy loves to say that grace means that there’s nothing we can do to make God love us any more or any less. So what if we screw up? So what if we fall when we dance, or if our poetry sucks? So what if we look like idiots when we cry? There is nothing we can do to make Him love us any more or any less. Some or all of these things are going to happen, and God already knows it. When we were created with creativity and emotions, God knew from the beginning that we wouldn’t always get it right, and He still loves us. We might be afraid, but He’s not. We can dance and dream and paint and write and cry to God.

I’m so thankful for that. I’m so glad that I can be myself with God. Literally for years, I tried experiencing God only through a very structured means, with long prayer lists divided by each day of the week, memorization charts, Bible reading charts, fasting charts, and journal space with bullet points for each thing I learned from scripture each day. And after a while, about 10 months after I moved to Spain, I finally acknowledged that I thought maybe I just couldn’t cut it as a Christian. I was thirsty to really experience God, and it just wasn’t happening. Thank God for a church that loved me as I was and encouraged my creativity at that time. Thank God for friends that I could talk to, and great books, and time to think and sort out what was the problem. And I began realizing something I thought I had known all along—God made me. He meant to make me, He knew how I would turn out, and He did it on purpose. He meant for me to be who I am. I remember how liberating it was for me to come to know—not just know the fact in my head, but really know, that I can be creative in my pursuit of God. That I can draw or sing a prayer, that I can spend time enjoying His creation--that I can bring my wildly varying emotions to Him in a way that really expresses what I feel.

This is an issue that’s really close to my heart, and that I can feel myself becoming more and more passionate about it as time goes on. I know we should be creative. I want to be a part of a community that creates and interacts with God in different ways together, and I really feel like helping this to happen is one of the reasons that I’m here in Madrid. So I want to share a bit of “my dream” with you. My dream is for us to really be creative. For us to be real about our emotions and bring them to God. In my mind I want to see dancers dancing their prayers to God, walls covered and notebooks filled with poetry and prose and painting, sculptors and actors making physical representations of their worship, people going outdoors and celebrating beauty in God’s creation. I want people to be drawn to Oasis Madrid because of an intense reality with each other and with God. I want to see the strategic thinkers and the planners and the “new idea” people working together and using the abilities God has given them to make a difference in the community around us. I want to see creative expressions grow up from within the church here in Madrid.

I guess to sum it all up, I want us to know—to really know, that we can be who we are in our interaction with God. I want us to be who we were made to be. He made us. He meant to. It wasn’t an accident. He gave us our intellect and our logic, AND He gave us our creativity and our emotions. We are people made in the image of a creative God, we are part of a history of people who are creative, and we bring our creativity and our emotions to God as instruments of righteousness.

baby pics

2006-02-25T17:32:00.000-01:00

kim and the babies
Originally uploaded by kelly in madrid.

in the playpen
Originally uploaded by kelly in madrid.

Here are some more cute pics that I just had to share! (That and the fact that I just started using flickr and found a cool tool that lets me blog pictures really easily) Here they are!

katie on the couch
Originally uploaded by kelly in madrid.

look how cute!
Originally uploaded by kelly in madrid.

sam and his spoon
Originally uploaded by kelly in madrid.

Picture of the Day

2006-02-19T17:26:00.000-01:00

A picture says a thousand words, or so they say. Unfortunately, they don't have mouths and we can't hear them if they're really talking, so I'll have to translate what I think this picture is saying:

That's not a hamburger inside of the toaster. That's a poptart. A chocolatey, gooey, unhealthy, completely American poptart. It was Amy's birthday poptart, to be exact. She turned 26 yesterday, and one of our friends (an English friend, at that!) gave her something that would remind her of home for a gift.

So after having one of those glorious Sunday afternoons where you stay in your pajamas, watch a movie, and at some point realize maybe you should eat today, Amy chose to break out the poptarts. In the name of conservation (we tend to "hoard" our stashes of American stuff), she put one of the two-pack in the toaster and went in the bedroom for 2 minutes at most. I, having my own glorious Sunday afternoon playing sudoku on the computer in the office/studio, was completely oblivious to kitchen activities.

Suddenly, I hear "Ohmygoshthere'safire!!!!!!" from the other end of the apartment. I filled in 2 more spaces on the sudoku puzzle before it registered and I ran into the kitchen. Sure enough, 6 inch high flames were leaping from the toaster.

Now our toaster was sitting on a wooden shelf--not a solid one, but the kind with slats at the bottom so it's all really open. In hindsight, this might not have been the best place to put the toaster, especially considering that wood is, well, flammable, and that the shelf above housed plastic bottles of olive and sunflower seed oil, which are also flammable. The bottoms were melted from the bottles, and oil dripped everwhere.

The first thing I did, believe it or not, was to remove the Aunt Jemima maple syrup (imported from the U.S.) from the shelf before the bottom melted out of it, too. Forget safety or dealing with the flames. No one messes with Jamima. Then I checked to see if the toaster had been unplugged (it had--good job Amy), and proceeded to throw an entire pot of water in the general direction of the toaster. I didn't know if this was a good idea or not, but in the moment you don't have time to check online and see what to do about a toaster fire. It worked, anyway. The fire disappeared with a hiss and a nasty smell. (As did all hopes, if Amy had any, of salvaging the pop tart).

We then spent the next hour or so mopping the floor, wiping down the shelf, and washing oil off of every exposed surface in the kitchen. I still feel oily. I bet my keys are going to be oily from typing.

We still don't know exactly what caused the fire. Here are the 3 options I'm working with:

1) Toaster Malfunction: Amy and I would like to think that we had nothing to do with causing the fire. Considering that we bought the toaster from a store called Super Hogar (superhome), which sells everything from toasters to baskets to generic barbies to purple porcelain Buddhas and lots of Jackie Chan posters, this could very well be accurate. Also, Victoria said it had been burning her toast lately for no reason.

2) Poptart Malfunction: The poptart is longer than the width of most pieces of bread here (which are ridiculously small) so maybe it freaked the toaster out and caused it to explode. Or, maybe it decided to throw it's own little "poptart tantrum" and catch itself on fire. Not likely, since poptarts don't have emotions, but hey, you really never know, do you?

3) Cultural conflict: This is the first American product that we have tried to put in the toaster, and frankly, they just didn't get along. Instead of talking out their cultural difference (again, things with no mouth have a hard time talking), they decided to fight to the death. And they both died. They were buried together in a nearby garbage can.

Anyway, all jokes aside, I'm really thankful that the wood didn't catch fire, that the oil didn't catch fire, and that the fire didn't spread near the propane tanks that are hooked up to our water heater. Thank God for that!

Now we're all hungry, and we sure as heck don't want to cook tonight.

A Mad Scientist in the Basement

2006-02-15T09:13:00.000-01:00

Last night, a group of girls came out to the Cady's house for pizza, brownies, and a romantic comedy. As usual on Valentine's day throughout the world, estrogen levels were through the roof as we ate and giggled.

Since we were here so late, Amy and I decided to stay the night rather than take the bus home, and this morning we've been working here at their house since they have wireless. The change of scenery is nice. Heather Cady, Amy, Lexi the dog, and I are sitting on the couches in the living room with laptops in tow---all females, yet again. Troy has escaped downstairs to the basement, where he's working on his sermon.

Now, it's not unusual for Troy to be working on his sermon in the basement. What is unusual is the constant stream of laughter winding up the stairs. It fluctuates from little giggles to semi-maniacal laughter, but doesn't really stop for more than 30 seconds. I'm starting to think that maybe by "sermon" he means "science experiments." I have this picture in my head of this tall, skinny, crazy haired guy (like Doc in Back to the Future) leaning over a steaming beaker of something that will take over the world. HahaHAhahahaha.

I guess I'll find out what was so funny on Saturday.

Troy, if you read this downstairs, and you really are doing science experiments and calling it a sermon, don't drop the beaker, ok?

El poeta

2006-01-28T12:58:00.000-01:00

There are some stories that I wish I could tell all of you in Spanish and magically make everyone understand it anyway. Some things that happen here would just make a better story in Spanish, I think.

I met a poet today.

Today I really wanted to spend some time getting to know my neighborhood better. I needed an air duster for my computer, and there's a Corte Ingles (the big department store in Madrid--there are tons) that I've never been to at Quevedo (10 minutes away), so I decided to kill two birds with one stone and walk in that direction.

Today is one of those deceptive sunny winter days in Madrid. Looking outside I saw the bright, so-deep-it-looks-fake blue of the sky and the yellow-white sun and I just knew that the temperature on weather.com had to have been wrong this morning. But because this is my third winter here, I don the hat and mittens anyway, just in case. When you walk everywhere, you learn to go ahead and carry everything you might need.

And I did need the hat and mittens. El sol de invierno no calienta--The winter sun doesn't heat up. After ten or twelve minutes in the brisk, clear air, my face buried in the scarf, the wind seeping through my jeans and freezing my thighs (I have leg warmers on my calves, so they feel good), I found the Quevedo Corte Ingles. It took me all of two minutes to find out that this is by far the worst one in Madrid, and they have nothing I need. So, after my first and last failed trip there, it was on to the Corte Ingles that I knew, in my old neighborhood, Arguelles. Another 15-20 minute walk in the cold, and then, AHHHHH, familiarity.

Even though it was very cold (my thighs are still thawing out) it was refreshing to be outside and to walk for an hour or so, and on the way back home I decided to weave through the streets down to my flat and try to learn their names. My goal is to know all the street names and their relation to each other within a 10 block radius by the end of February.

This wandering led me to the Plaza Dos de Mayo, a neat little plaza in the middle of my neighborhood, about 2 blocks from my flat. I noticed the tents and tables as I was approaching and then remembered the sign I had seen in Cafe la Manuela about the arts fair held in the plaza every Saturday morning. The market was disappointing to say the least--about ten tables of old records, old books, cheap jewelry, and used cd's were scattered about the plaza. At one table there was a glass case with antique spoons and matchboxes, and beside it lay some old books, mostly collections of stories and poems, and a few books that looked like they had all come from the same cathedral. While I was looking at a very old copy of the Misa Cotidiana (Ordinary Mass), turning it over in my hands and inspecting the intricate clasp on the binding, I heard a voice behind me.

"Te gusta la poesia, no?" (You like poetry, don't you?)

I nodded without speaking. I wasn't really in the mood to strike up a conversation with one of the vendors. But he continued, "I saw you looking at some of the poetry books, and I have some that are mine if you're interested."

At this point I figured I had to be polite, and I turned to look at the man. He stood about 2 inches shorter than I, had long, scraggly hair under a knit cap, and a thick, mostly grey beard. When he smiled, I saw that some teeth were missing. At this point, my first thought (I'm not proud of it, but it's the truth), was that this was some homeless guy who had wondered in and now was wanting to sell me a poem for a euro or so. Ok, fine. I'm game. Again, I wasn't really in the mood (as if my moods are the center of the universe), but it felt too late to turn back without being rude. I asked as politely as possible, "What do you have?"

As he turned and began digging through his bag on wheels (a.k.a. granny cart), he explained, "The records are mine. I sell them too. But you're interested in poetry." He pulled out a thin book, around 80 pages, with interesting artwork on the front. I opened it so I could feign interest for a few seconds. As I skimmed the table of contents, he spoke again, "They're mine."

"Vale" (OK), I replied, wondering why he felt the need to reiterate that the book was his. I wasn't planning to steal it. It must have been obvious that I didn't understand what he meant, because he took the book out of my hands, turned it over, and pointed to the picture of the poet on the back. And there I saw the same grin, the same scraggly hair, the same thick beard. He was the poet. El poeta.

I stood there and read the first poem and felt him watch my face as I read it, and then the next, and the next. I couldn't put it down. It was wonderful poetry--some of it was a bit difficult to understand as a non-native speaker, but I got most of it through context and I loved the flow and the sound of it. The artwork on each page went perfectly with the poem. As I thought of him watching me read his work right in front of him, I remembered how vulnerable I used to feel after each piano recital, trying to guage whether the compliments people gave were real or just polite.

I had only brought enough money with me for the air duster, so I had to hand the book back and explain that I couldn't buy it today, quickly following that statement by asking if he was going to be in the plaza next Saturday. "Si," he replied, from eleven to six. "Where are you from?"

"Kentucky. De los Montes Apalaches." I explained.

"A-pall-a-chian Moun-tains," he sounded out slowly, in English. He never stopped smiling. I smiled and nodded. I waved and said goodbye as I turned to walk the rest of the way home.

Next week, I think I'll go buy the book.

The second of 2 unrelated posts

2006-01-26T14:03:00.000-01:00

Creative title, eh?

I started sculpture lessons in a ceramics studio today. Maria Angeles, the teacher, is amazing, and I think I'm going to learn alot. I spent 3 hours (all in spanish!) sculpting and talking with the people there this morning, and I'm going to start going every thursday. It's fantastically all in Spanish, completely non-work related, and I'm still smiling about it 3 hours later. I'm really excited.

One day I'm going to work up the nerve to try out the wheel and do some pottery. I can't wait.

The first of 2 unrelated posts

2006-01-26T13:41:00.000-01:00

I just got back from a worship conference (actually a worship arts gathering, but I didn't want to have to explain) in Geneva, and it was really awesome. I participated in the music track, and I got to play guitar with a bunch of guys who are much better and more experienced than me and could teach me alot. Blue and I had a great time.

The only thing I hate about going to conferences and stuff is having to pack for them. I hate packing with a burning, fiery passion. No matter how long I have to prepare and how long of a trip I'm packing for, I always wait until the last possible minute--then I suddenly throw everything around my room in a panic, reach out and grab what's still in the air, and throw whatever I catch into the suitcase. Ok, not exactly, but to look at my room after I pack and what's usually in the luggage, you'd think so. Maybe I'll try it next time.

Anyway, this time was no different. I've known for a couple months that I was going to Geneva for this, but I still ended up packing the morning that I was to leave. I decided that this time I was going to be realistic and not overpack--only the amount of jeans and shirts that I would actually wear, and then a hat and mittens because it's cold. I was proud of myself that everythign fit easily in and my bags were under the easyjet weight limit, including my guitar.

It was only the next morning in Geneva, while picking out what to wear, that I noticed an important component missing. As in pants (trousers for you brits...I'm not that gross!)--not one single pair. I was there for 5 days, and only had the jeans that I wore.

No one noticed (or at least no one commented to me that they noticed), and I didn't tell anyone of my oversight, so this is my confession: I wore only one pair of jeans for the entire conference. If that offends you, I only have one phrase for you:

BON SOIR!

Words from 2005

2006-01-03T16:23:00.000-01:00

This list of words was posted on CNN.com one day--the top 10 words looked up in the year 2005 on the Merriam-Webster website:

1. Integrity -- Firm adherence to a code, especially moral or artistic values; incorruptibility.

2. Refugee -- One that flees; especially a person who flees to a foreign country or power to escape danger or persecution.

3. Contempt -- Willful disobedience to or open disrespect of a court, judge or legislative body.

4. Filibuster -- The use of extreme dilatory tactics in an attempt to delay or prevent action, especially in a legislative assembly.

5. Insipid -- Lacking in qualities that interest, stimulate or challenge; dull, flat.

6. Tsunami -- A great sea wave produced especially by submarine earth movement or volcanic eruption.

7. Pandemic -- Occurring over a wide geographic area and affecting an exceptionally high proportion of the population.

8. Conclave -- A private meeting or secret assembly, especially a meeting of Roman Catholic cardinals secluded continuously while choosing a pope.

9. Levee -- An embankment for preventing flooding; a continuous dike or ridge (as of earth) for confining the irrigation areas of land to be flooded.

10: Inept -- Generally incompetent; bungling.

I dare you to comment on my blog--in 3 sentences or less, use all these words. Here's my try:

The conclave of emergency helpers wouldn't have lasted as long as it had if Bob hadn't insisted on trying to filibuster for seven hours by droning on with fact after fact about the risk of a bird flu pandemic in the tsunami stricken zone. Once the decision was reached, we were able to begin relocating the refugees to the other side of the levee, but they were cold and hungry, and the integrity of the entire group had been compromised. They had already discovered that the insipid little man was inept, and were all looking at us with contempt.

This, my friends, is why I'm a church planter and not a writer. I dare you to try and do better.

New Years Part Deux

2006-01-01T08:26:00.000-01:00

We walked home from the party sometime around 2:30 last night, and Madrid was hopping. The party just starts later here.

The tradition in Spain is that you eat dinner with your family late, eat your grapes at midnight (another Spanish tradition), and then go out with your friends (hence the dead city at seven p.m.). We had our own grapes at our party, and this is how the tradition goes. You take 12 grapes in your hand, and when the clock strikes 12, you eat one grape for each bell. Supposedly, they are all supposed to be swallowed by the time the 12th bell finishes.

We couldn't hear the bells, so we substituted with one of the girls banging pan lids together. Unfortunately, in all the excitement, she started to speed up around the 6th time, and between that and bringing myself to swallow grape seeds, I didn't have them swallowed in time. It was a fun night and neat to learn new traditions.

April and Kelly left this morning, and the apartment is really quiet at the moment. I think I'll ring in the new year with a nap this afternoon.

Not a creature was stirring....

2005-12-31T18:02:00.000-01:00

Not even a cafe.

April and Kelly Crull have been staying with me in my apartment for the last week, and it has been so much fun. Kelly, unfortunately, has had to work a bit from his computer (luckily I have wireless) to finish a project that he's working on for another church that's part of Christian Associates. After hours and hours of web design stuff that I don't understand, he finished today, two days ahead of his deadline.

So we decided that before going to a New Year's party tonight, we would go out for something to drink to celebrate. Plus, April wanted a coffee.

I'm not really exaggerating to say that in my neighborhood, probably one out of every 5 doorways on the street leads to a place that serves food, drinks, coffee, etc. People come to my neighborhood to go out. It was 7 o'clock, and living a 10 or 12 minute walk from the absolute center of town, I expected my street to be hopping when I walked outside.

But this was not the case. Instead, we walked outside to an eerie quiet. Windows were dark and doors were locked. We decided to walk to a nearby plaza that has cute pubs and coffee shops for our little celebration. Again, no luck. A couple of groups of kids were clumped together. A couple old men walked their dogs. I might have imagined a tumbleweed blowing across the bricks of the plaza.

On up the street, a few blocks later, we finally found an open pub and went inside, only for April to find that they didn't have any coffee left. Nevermind the fact that a man sitting at the bar was sipping his own coffee and the espresso machine was visible behind the counter. Evidently he had decided he had made his last for the night. Since Kelly and I had already ordered, we finished up there and about 20 minutes later went on to find another place so April could get her coffee.

By this time we had circled around to Bilbao (the next metro stop up on the light blue line), so we crossed over to Cafe Comercial, a very well known cafe in Madrid. From the windows, the crowd at the bar looked promising. But as we tried to pass through the door that separated the bar from the tables, the bartender stopped us dead in our tracks. "Esta cerrado." (It's closed). One of the better known cafes in Madrid had closed down 90 percent of its space.

If you are in the States and reading this, you're probably scratching your head right now and thinking "What's so wierd about that?" But this is Madrid at seven p.m. This is WHEN people go out for coffee! Supper isn't until eight at the earliest! And besides, Madrid is the loudest city in Europe, and my neighborhood is one of the loudest in Madrid! And IT'S STINKING NEW YEAR'S EVE! Where is everybody?

We left bewildered and walked back home through dark streets past locked doors. The only things open were alimentaciones (like a convenience store) as far as we could see. At least this was in our favor, since we still needed to buy drinks to take to the party. In the distance, we saw lights reflecting against the clouds above Sol (the center), and it comforted me to know that at least someone else was alive.

I've heard that in Spain the party doesn't really start until after midnight, but I had no idea that that meant the town was required to hibernate until then!

I'm leaving in half an hour to go to a party (an early one), so I'll post again tonight or tomorrow on Madrid after midnight.

El Fontanero

2005-12-21T10:00:00.000-01:00

I'm learning all sorts of new words today.

Tuberia=pipes
Fontanero=plumber
And many expletives that i'm not going to repeat or translate.

There's a plumber in my bathroom who thinks it's the funniest thing in the world that chicken and kitchen sound so similar in English. He is currently ripping my toilet from the floor so he can get a better look at the pipes to see how much damage he needs to do to my apartment to fix the blockage in the pipes. He's also smoking a cigarette and dropping the ashes in my toilet. That's the least of the things I'll have to clean up tonight.

All this is to say I've learned a deep, important cultural lesson today.

From behind, plumbers look the same all over the world.

It's a small world after all.

from the kitchen of a genius

2005-12-19T17:01:00.000-01:00

I like to consider myself a good cook. In the past couple years, I've learned how to have everything ready at the same time, how to make sauces out of all kinds of ingredients, and how to improvise when you find out 6 more people are coming to community group than you had planned on feeding.

Since Spain doesn't offer many pre-packaged meals, and fresh stuff is the cheapest, I've learned to cook from scratch, and except for a few incredibly bad dinners, I do ok. I don't always (or ever) stick to the rules of the recipe, but all kitchen artists are allowed a little "creative license," right? Anyway, whether it's true or not, I like to think of myself as a better cook than most, or at least some, American girls my age.

Today I ventured into baking. I'm making brownies for my community group's Christmas party tonight. Now I've made brownies before in the States, and it only takes a few minutes to put everything together. Granted, everything's already in a box and only requires eggs, but still, how hard can it be? I am a genius in the kitchen.

Come to find out, baking has some pretty hard and fast rules that you can't break. Here are a few that I learned tonight.

1) Yes, you actually are required to measure things.

2) Every house should have a spatula. If not, you will have chocolate up to your
elbows.

3) No one's going to help you figure out how exactly to put HALF an egg in the bowl,
or what to do with the other half. You're a grownup now--figure it out yourself!

4) Spanish brown sugar is not the same consistency of American brown sugar. The
jury's still out as to whether this will affect the outcome of the brownie.

5) You have kitchen appliances for a reason. You won't get any bonus points for mixing things by hand when you could have used the mixer. And again, you will have chocolate up to your elbows, as well as a sore arm.

6) Buy twice as much chocolate as the recipe calls for. I'll explain later.

7) If you try to melt chocolate in the microwave, you should probably check on it once in a while. If it's smoking when it comes out, you might have overdone it a bit. If it has black, charcoal like lumps in it, you've definitely overdone it.

8) Chocolate is one of the best smells in the world, so it would stand to reason that burnt chocolate is a slightly singed version of one of the best smells in the world. That is a lie. It smells like burnt hope or a crushed dream. Or an unemptied garbage can.

9) Go light every candle and all the incense in the apartment immediately after burning chocolate, so that your guests don't walk in and say "Who burned brownies?"

10) Now take out the second half of the chocolate you bought. (I told you I would explain) and try melting it on the stove. Don't burn it--you only bought enough to mess up once.

11) You should have read all the directions before going to the store, not just the list of ingredients. They assume you'll have something to grease the pan with.

12) They also assume that you know to preheat the oven before you mix stuff together so that you don't have to wait another 10 minutes for it to heat up, stupid.

13) Flour goes everywhere, even if you're careful. You'll be finding flour for the next 3 days. And if it sticks to the chocolate that is up to your elbows, you may never be clean again.

14) Leave time for a shower before your guests arrive. You'll need it.

15) Baking is harder than cooking.

So the final version of the batter is in the oven, and if nothing else, the batter tasted good. I still have my doubts as to whether or not it will turn into brownies.

I think I'll stick to the stovetop from now on.

tired ramblings and thoughts about a sabbath

2005-12-18T22:11:00.000-01:00

I should be in bed right now--I'm ridiculously tired and there's no reason for me to be awake, much less blogging. Oh well. Beware that this blog may ramble a bit.

Today we had the Christmas brunch with Mountainview out in the suburbs--I sang along with the jazz band during the cafe part and led worship during the service with a few carols. Nothing big, but enough to wear a person out. There's something about leading worship which makes you about 400 times more tired than just being in the worship band. I enjoyed it, though. Christmas carols are more interesting to sing and more difficult, so even though I found out that this makes them harder to lead, I love singing challenging stuff.

Things are slowing down here for the next couple weeks, and I'm ready for it. I've been back almost a month, and I feel like I haven't quite "landed" all the way yet. December is a crazy month, following several crazy months of furlough beforehand! I'm not whining, I promise. I'm soooo glad to be back. I just need to go to bed.

My refrigerator is empty because I haven't had time to go to the grocery store, my computer desk still isn't put together, I still have 2 boxes of office stuff that I evidently "needed" enough to move here from the last place, but I don't even know what's in there. My floors are about 2 weeks past being in desperate need of a good mopping, and don't even get me started on laundry! After the Christmas party in my apartment tomorrow night, it's time to get started on this stuff.

Half of me is excited to have the down time to check all these things off of my list. Ok, not half. More like a fifth. The other 80% knows that what I really want to do is spend at least 2 days fatting around in my pajamas, staring at the wall--kind of my own little "busyness detox" program. Then I'll knock all the other stuff out in one day, and then I'll go hang out with the Cady's and the Crulls for Christmas (too many C's--I feel like the oddball).

One thing I really want to do in the next couple weeks is to stop doing what I just did in the last paragraph--plan, plan, plan. I don't want to worry about being productive or professional. I want to rest.

And refocus.

I was on the bus tonight, and had a good amount of time to sit and think, and the thought just kept popping into my head that I'm sometimes so desperate to be productive. For what? For God? I tell myself so, but in the end I think it's often just because I want to feel productive. I want to look at what I've done in a week and say "Wow! Look how much I've worked this week! Look at how many people I've met with and how many projects I've started/finished/worked on! Look how spotless my living room is and how great a hostess for community group I am! Watch me serve!" Who, honestly, am I trying to impress? Nobody's looking but me. Any of you who have ever lived with me or been in my house know I'm pretty crap at keeping clean house anyway.

Maybe (ok, definitely) God knew what He was doing when He created a Sabbath for rest. The more I look at the pattern of productivity obsession that I tend to fall into, the more I realize that God doesn't just want me to rest because He knows I'm tired. He wants me to rest because He knows I'm proud. He knows that I need a physical reminder that the world keeps turning even when I'm not productive. I'm not the center of the universe after all. He is big enough to work even when my boxes are unpacked and floors are dirty and laundry is a mess and projects are half finished or not even started. I'm thinking God created Sabbath because He wants something deeper from me than my productivity, and even though I know it, I need to be reminded again and again.

So I think I'll take those 2 days in my pajamas staring at the wall, and see what happens after that. I may take a 3rd day.

For now, I'm going to bed.

Merry Christmas, Kelly Wills

2005-12-11T15:31:00.000-01:00

I bought a Christmas tree yesterday--the first big one I've ever bought. It's 180 cm tall, which is 5.85 feet, for those of us to whom centimeters means nothing at all (I had to look it up--I didn't know either). Not the tallest in the world, but the biggest I could find. It will do. I'm ridiculously excited about it. I can't wait to take it home and fix it up with all the trimmings.....

oops.

I don't have any trimmings. Not one light, not one garland. No ribbons or tree skirt. No star. I can't even find my Bing Crosby Merry Christmas CD. I have one little gold ornament with black bears on it--it says Harlan County, KY, I think. It's my first ornament. I plan to go to a cien pesetas store or to the market in the Plaza Mayor to get decorations, but the thought of it still makes me a little sad. No matter how much I spend on decorations (which won't be much), It can never compare to the tree in my parents' house. It's the most beautiful tree in the world.

Our family has been considering getting a new tree for at least the past decade. The box it was stored in has long ago disintegrated, so now it's just wrapped up in a sheet (often fastened with panty hose tied around it) for most of the year, hanging from bungee cords in the garage. I've always thought it kind of looked like a body hanging up there, but there's my overactive imagination for you. And too much CSI.

But when we put the tree together, it's magical. Shaping it is always a painstaking job, pulling out each individual twig from each branch, making sure that each bough curves like a real tree (rather than sticking straight out in fake tree fashion), enough to look realistic but not so much at the bottom that the tree will be too skinny at the top. And of course, it only can be shaped while listening to Bing Crosby. Next come the lights. Inevitably, at least one string is missing a bulb that has to be sought out, and at least 3 or 4 have been put away improperly and we wonder who on earth went up into the attic and messed up the strings of lights that were in perfectly good shape last MARCH when we put the tree away (another blog subject there, eh?).

The white lights are wrapped around the middle of the tree--as far inside as they will go, followed by strings of colored lights on the middle and outside. This makes the tree look infinitely deep, as if it were its own Narnia-like forest where you could walk in and never come out the other side. Next come the garlands (silver, gold, sometimes red). At this point it's getting late, so we leave the ornaments for the next day, turning out the lights and enjoying our half-done, but still beautiful, work of art.

The next day, with Bing back on (maybe interspersed with Amy Grant's christmas album and Handel's Messiah, but Bing is the standard), we start the ornaments. Here's where the real magic starts. It is scientifically impossible for all those ornaments to fit on that tree. First there are the clear glass balls that go deep into the tree to reflect all the colored lights. After that, we have the colored glass balls--boxes upon boxes upon boxes. The tree is full. But we're just getting started. Now it's time for the fun stuff.

My parents have been married over 30 years, and haven't thrown away an ornament. There are the ones from their first years of mairrage, a few from their childhoods, and my sisters' and my baby ornaments. They're both teachers, so each year the collection is added to by students who either have conscientious parents or who are making a last ditch effort at upping their B+ to an A-. There is the white paper dove that Mrs. Martin gave me in the first grade. There is Kim's popsicle stick sled, painted red. There is the aluminum foil angel that Country Mother (my great-grandmother) made. There is the wooden nativity, the clothespin reindeer and the cuckoo clock. There is the dancing soldier, the red ice cream cone looking thing, and the countless pictures of us as kids. I had really big teeth in the second grade, and wore a purple dress. There is the Star Trek ship where you press a button and Mr. Spock says "Starship to Enterprise...Starship to Enterprise. Spock here. Happy Holidays. Live long, and prosper." There is a tiny bird's nest that rests on top of a branch, and a cat that has "Fluffy" written in marker on the back of it--my grandmother got it for our cat. (Only she called him Fluffy. To the rest of us, he was Fat Boy) Sometimes, to finish it off, we would buy a box of candy canes and hang them from any branches left unadorned. All of these ornaments had their own hierarchy of importance. Kim and I, for years, had staked out which ones were ours to hang, and hanging someone else's ornament was right up there with blasphemy in our family. There are some things you just don't do.

I remember finally being old enough to hang things near the top of the tree when I used the cricket (wooden stool) that Uncle Poppy made, and then finally feeling like a full fledged adult when I didn't even need that help anymore. I was 14. I had arrived.

The house was always quiet the night after the tree was decorated. Usually there would be a Christmas movie on TV or something, and we would turn the lights down in the rest of the house and congregate in the living room around the tree. We never made a plan to do this--I think we all just decided together to take that time and admire our handiwork. There is our family--me, my sisters, my parents, grandparents, great grandparents, and now neices and nephews, all represented in one way or another on our tree. The more you look, the more stories you remember. Sure, the tree is a bit busier than ones you would see in "Good Housekeeping," but it's the most beautiful tree in the world. Ever since I was little, I remember being so proud when a visitor would come into the house and start the ooh's and ahh's, touching ornaments and asking the stories behind them.

This will be my first Christmas away from home.

So even though I'm excited about my new tree, having my own tree makes me a little sad. It's like an admittance that I'm an adult, that I have to make my own tree now and start collecting my own ornaments to put on the tree (although, Mama, if you want to send me some of ours, I'll be more than happy to take them off your hands.) I'm only 24. I don't have years of stories to tell for different ornaments. At best I can make the tree beautiful, but it still won't be our tree in Kentucky.

But I do have one ornament with a story. I have my Harlan County black bears ornament that my mom gave me before I came back to Spain. My first real ornament for my first real tree! It's just a little ornament, but it means alot to me, and will have a prominent place on my tree.

I would like to have seen my parents' tree in its first year. Were the ornaments sparse? Was my mom sad that there weren't many stories on it yet? What a difference a couple decades makes.

I hope that in 30 years I will have a tree that's just maybe a little too old, with too many ornaments, so that my tree is full almost to the point of bursting with things from my parents and grandparents, and my own family. I hope that my kids will get excited about paper doves and popsicle stick sleds and clotheshanger reindeer. And then I can point to the Harlan County ornament and say "This was my first ornament."

"And this one next to it? I got that at a market in the Plaza Mayor in Madrid, Spain..."

I guess I'll just have to wait and see.

Touching the Untouchable

2005-12-07T15:19:00.000-01:00

This is the talk I gave at Oasis last Saturday, part of a series we're doing on parts of the body. For the full effect, go find a copy of "The Fatal Wound" by Switchfoot.

When we were talking about the “body parts” series and Troy asked me if I would do the teaching on hands, I started reading through the gospels to look at what Jesus did with His hands, and what I found was pretty amazing. Jesus used his hands a lot—sometimes in ordinary ways and sometimes in very extraordinary—even miraculous—ways. One thing that stuck out to me over and over is that whenever the Bible mentions that Jesus touches someone, something amazing happens.

But out of all the stories of things Jesus did that we see in the Bible, the one that stuck out to me the most was the story of Jesus healing the leper. There are a couple of different instances of Jesus healing someone with leprosy, and this is the first of those—you can find it in Matthew 8, Mark 1, and Luke 5. This is definitely one of those instances of Jesus touching someone and amazing things happening, and for those of us who have grown up in church, we’ve heard the story before and it will sound familiar to us. I’m going to read the story as it’s written in the book of Luke, and as I read it I want you to visualize the scene—close your eyes if it helps.

Luke 5:12-13
12While Jesus was in one of the towns, a man came along who was covered with leprosy. When he saw Jesus, he fell with his face to the ground and begged him, "Lord, if you are willing, you can make me clean."
13Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man. "I am willing," he said. "Be clean!" And immediately the leprosy left him.

Ok, now that I’ve read the story, I want to expand a little bit on this so we can see more clearly what’s going on.

First, to understand the story, we need to know what a leper is. More commonly known as Hansens’ Disease, leprosy is a condition that damages and deadens nerve endings, but it’s most commonly characterized by its outwardly visible effects: skin lesions. In the Bible, conditions that were visible through knots, scabs, white places, and other nastiness in the skin are referred to as leprosy. So whatever it was that this guy had, it was painful and disfiguring, and generally not a fun disease to have.

Leprosy was a contagious disease and declared unclean by law, meaning that anyone who was “clean” could not touch them. And in that culture, clean and unclean was a big deal. Staying clean and avoiding the unclean was a priority. So even though quarantine is a good idea to stop the spread of a disease, you can see that this would have repercussions in how these people were viewed. There was a strong social stigma attached to it. Lepers didn’t even live inside the city—they lived in a camp on the outskirts of town, only in contact with other lepers. They were completely disassociated from society--non persons. And touching them would immediately put the toucher in the same boat. To touch something unclean causes you to become unclean by law. To keep from making others unclean and from spreading the disease, the unclean person was required to let others know he was unclean so they wouldn’t accidentally come too close and be contaminated. So on top of the pain of the disease itself, the sick person was forced to make himself more miserable by driving away anyone who came close. Imagine the pain of not only being sick, but also being completely isolated.

Maybe originally maybe he thought that whatever was wrong would clear up, but it just got worse and worse—so bad, actually, that Luke points out that he was “covered” with leprosy. By this point, there was no hope of the disease just going away. And even if there were a cure, what doctor would risk his life and his social standing to touch him?

It doesn’t say where this man has heard of Jesus from, but obviously he has some knowledge of what Jesus has done and the authority he seems to have over sickness and even demons. If this man had read the prophets, maybe he even had an idea or a just a hope that this could be the Messiah that was promised. He knew enough about what this man had said and done, and that he had the power to heal. So why not ask? But even with the courage to ask, a little bit of doubt was still there. We see that in the way that he brings his request to Jesus. “If you are willing, you can make me clean.” Notice he didn’t say heal my disease or relieve my pain—he said make me clean. Put me back in society. Let me be alive with the world around me again. But first, “if you are willing.” Jesus had the power, but if he was so holy and had so much authority, would he care about a leper? Would he come close enough to heal him, or maybe he could do it from a distance.

I don’t think that in his wildest imagination the leper expected what happened next. Jesus did not act afraid, appalled, or repulsed. He didn’t immediately judge the leper for approaching him instead of backing away and saying “unclean!” He didn’t give any platitudes from a distance—no “I’m so sorry’s or anything like that.” Instead, before saying anything, he reached out his hand and touched the leper. What on earth was he thinking? Jesus didn’t have leprosy. He wasn’t unclean, but he had just done something that no one—NO ONE—would do if they were in their right mind. He reached out and touched a leper. Then he said, “I am willing” and healed him.

The more I read this, the more I just can’t get over it. Jesus touched a leper.

You know, Jesus could have healed the leper with His words—there are other instances in the Bible where Jesus speaks and the person is healed, even from a long distance away. But he made a point of touching the leper. He didn’t touch him after healing him or even while he was healing him, but before. While the leper was still unclean, Jesus intentionally, physically touched a leper.

Imagine this man’s surprise, after what he had been through. Every sore told another story of a frightened child running to the other side of the street, every ache a reminder of the one word that had come out of his mouth over and over….”unclean.”

But Jesus touched the untouchable, and something amazing happened.

Before the physical signs of the disease were healed, Jesus’ touch had already begun to heal deeper wounds that no doctor could attend to.The touch healed isolation and said “you are not alone.” To every sore that Jesus’ hand came in contact with, his touch said “I am not afraid of you. You are my creation.” To the word unclean Jesus’ touch said —“you’re clean to me now, you are valid, you are worth healing, you are worth touching. You are not forgotten, not alone. You are not abandoned, and you are not worthless.”

Jesus touched the untouchable, and something amazing happened.

Now, I want to split this up and look at two perspectives—Jesus’ and the leper’s. Both did amazing things—Jesus touched the untouchable, and the leper had the guts to ask him. Where do we find ourselves in this story?

First, look at what Jesus did. He touched the untouchable. I don’t know about you, but when I think of the word untouchable, I think of a political or religious caste system or something like that. Of course it’s in some other culture, and of course there wouldn’t be any untouchables in my life, would there? As long as a person doesn’t smell bad, act rude, look dirty, look creepy, place themselves more than arms distance out of my way, make me cry, make me mad, think I’m immature, always want to argue, have a cold, or have come in contact with anything contagious, sure, I’ll touch anyone. See how progressive I am? Anyway, we can always carry hand sanitizer, right?

Wow.

How many times have I walked under the tunnel between Parque del Oeste and Plaza de España and picked up my pace past the row of mattresses? How much contact did I avoid with my last downstairs neighbor because I was sure she’d yell at me for some new offense? How many days go by at a time that I only associate with the people I like? How many difficult conversations have I avoided with the people I love because I’m afraid it will cause a fight?

But when I look at Jesus’ perspective in the story, He breaks all these boundaries down. When he touches a leper, he not only defies custom, but in my mind, defies common sense! He could have caught something! At the very least he would have to go through the hassle of going to the priest to be cleansed and pronounced clean, not to mention the argument that this action could spark with the religious leadership. He could have been compassionate from the other side of the street and yelled out “I am willing,” and then healed him. There was no physical reason to touch him. After all, couldn’t he have just dropped money in his cup without making eye contact or touching him? Jesus’ action doesn’t leave room for me to avoid people for all the reasons I make up.

Are you uncomfortable yet? I am. When I look at my life, I don’t see this behavior. I see a sqeaky clean, sanitized life. I see comfort and very little risk. I see common sense in who I touch and who I associate with, and I don’t see much room for anything or anyone untouchable.

But I don’t want this to be a guilt fest, and I don’t think that’s what God intends either. That’s not what He did in this story. Jesus didn’t turn around from the leper and go find some Pharisees to yell at for not touching him. He did it himself. Instead of being guilty, maybe this is an opportunity to imagine what could happen if we did it ourselves. Imagine what would happen if we stopped and talked to a beggar on the street, put our hand on their shoulder, told them to have a nice day? What would happen if we gave a hug to a person who is hurting, even when we don’t know what to say? What if we took the time to tear down a relational wall that we’ve built up between ourselves and a person we’re in regular contact with? What if each of us decided that this week we are going to touch one person who we usually would consider untouchable? We’re not shaking up the world here, but there are about, what? 50 people in this room? Then, if nothing else, we have affected 50 people. Whether it makes a big difference or a small difference, we have told 50 people that they matter enough for us to touch them.

I’m blown away by what Jesus did in this story. Jesus touched the untouchable, and amazing things happened.

Or maybe now we need to step back and look at it from the leper’s perspective. So here is a leper approaching Jesus—something that probably took every bit of courage in him to do. Maybe he had nothing to lose—maybe he was desperate. But whatever the motivation, it still would have to be hard to get up the guts to ask. After telling the world he was unclean for so long, the word begins to take on meaning beyond skin condition. Unclean, don’t come near, contagious, bad news, bad things will happen if you come near me. I am untouchable, unworthy of touch. I must deserve to be alone. From a distance, people pity, but from close up they are only afraid, so why would Jesus be any different?

His touch to the leper said “I don’t care if you come to me clean or not. I’ll make you clean, but I’m not afraid of dirt. I’m not afraid of disease or sin or bad relationships or isolation.”

Jesus touched the untouchable, and amazing things happened.

And amazing things are still happening….

He didn’t doubt Jesus’ power to heal—just his willingness. Do we do that? What part of our own life is untouchable? What hurt is too deep, too isolated? What sin is too horrible? What relationship is too far beyond repair? What personality trait is too reprehensible? What things are just too personal?

Just like how Jesus’ encounter with the leper leaves us no room for the untouchables around us, it also leaves us no room to keep “untouchables” within ourselves.

I just listed off a pretty long list of people I don’t want to touch, and to be honest, I’m ashamed that it’s so long. I don’t like that about myself, and I would rather not tell a roomful of people, much less admit it to God. But as uncomfortable as it makes me too look at myself and realize how afraid I am to touch the untouchable, I see the leper and realize I can approach Jesus with that too. He’s not afraid of it—he’s not appalled at my lack of compassion or afraid of my immaturity.

I’m amazed. I’m blown away. And most of all I’m thankful. I’m thankful that in reality, I am not untouchable, that there is no hurt too deep or too isolated. I’m thankful that there is no sin too horrible and no relationship beyond repair, that I am not too reprehensible or appalling to Jesus and that nothing is too personal.

So in the end, the story—the leper’s story and our story—comes back full circle, to Jesus. When I tried to put myself in Jesus’ place in the story, willingly touching the untouchable, I found myself hopelessly lacking, so proud and so afraid and so concerned with myself and my health and my cleanliness that I can’t do anything for the leper. So I become the leper, sick and sore and scraping up every ounce of courage I have to say to Jesus, “if you are willing, you can make me clean.”

And the story goes back to Jesus. He touches the untouchable, and amazing things happen.

Arrrrrggggghhhhh!

2005-11-12T20:36:00.000-01:00

I have recently noticed that my blogs have been meaningless of late. Sure, babies are cute and questionnaires are fun, but I feel the need to write something that touches the very heart of mankind. Something that is relevant to our time. Something that can bring a wistful smile to the pioneers and adventurers, cause the weak to tremble, perplex bright students, and alter the very course of history.

That something--or more correctly, someone--is the pirate.

On 5 November, 2005, pirates attempted an attack on a 440 foot cruise liner off the coast of Somalia, and now the ensuing search for the "mother ship" has begun. The goal is to find these harbingers of maritime terror, bring them to justice, and ensure that the waters of this planet are crime-free.

But do we really want to be rid of pirates?

What if the pirates promised not to be mean, gave up their guns, and just sailed around the world acting piratey and educating parrots. I'm sure that if we all worked together we could support them financially. Cost of living for a pirate can't be much. If they used sailboats, that would solve the fuel problem, and if we all chipped in a few coins I'm sure that would cover food, ale, eye patches, and some improved prosthetics for the legs. I bet they'd be alot less scary if the "pegleg" squeaked instead of thumped, and if the eye patch was made of hot pink satin. Also, they could learn to play harmonica or violin, or to play canasta, to while away the hours formerly devoted to pillaging.

I'm just trying to find a solution here that can keep the pirates around. Do we really want their extinction? Am I really the only one that read the news about pirates this month and had a tiny twinge of excitement upon seeing proof that they do still exist?

No, pirates should not be mean. I do NOT condone pirate attacks on innocent people. At the same time, no one condones shark attacks either, but you don't see us rushing to wipe them off the map. Oh no! They're ENDANGERED! (Ok, personally, sharks could go extinct and I wouldn't care. But still, some people would.)

Think of a world without pirates. How many schools would be without mascots? (I myself am an alumnus of the ETSU Buccaneers. Once a pirate, always a pirate). How many halloween costumes would be meaningless? How many jokes would lose their humor (I have a good one....ask me sometime)? How many theme park rides would cease to bring squeals of delight to generation after generation? Where would we hear fantastic terms like "swab the poop deck" if not for pirates?

I have thought long and hard about my world without pirates, and I can tell you, it is NOT pretty.

So here's my solution, for civilians and pirates:

Civilians: mind your own business. Don't go messing with the pirate population and throwing off the whole balance of nature. They're more scared of you than you are of them. Ok, they're not, but they probably don't care about you one way or another. You're just jealous that your boat wasn't attacked, so you don't have a cool story on CNN. Get over it and don't take it out on the pirates.

Pirates: Don't shoot people. Don't throw knives. Keep the "aarrrrrggggghhhh" to a minimum in mixed company. Be nice to cruise liners. Instead of attacking them for their gold coins and jewels, just pull up next to their boat and act like you're going to attack--shake your fist and grin with your rotten little teeth at them--for good measure one of you can swing from a rope attached to the mast. And then, just at the last minute, throw back your hands and yell "JUST KIDDING!"

Civilians: When the pirates do this, it's your turn to laugh. Then you can invite them on the boat for dinner and all watch a movie or something together. Give them a good solid pat on the back on their way back to their boat and say "Keep on keepin' on, pirate." If they refuse to leave your ship, I think you're entitled to throw fruit, but not bananas. You could put out their good eyes with the pointy ends of those things!

It's a simple plan, really. I know that it will take some adjustment on both sides, but in the end I think we all get what we want.

For peace, for love, for pirates, give it a chance.

I know, I'm gushing

2005-11-08T13:49:00.000-01:00

I can't help it...they're too cute! Here are 10 pictures of Katie and Sam.

Adam, Kim, Katie, and Sam

the twinkies

Kim and I are under the blankets trying to hold them still.

Sam

Katie Ru

sleepy sam

Sam didn't last long in the photo shoot

Katie in her normal state--with something in her mouth.

sleepy kate

And there goes Katie

warning: this blog is completely useless

2005-10-08T19:13:00.000-01:00

I am a posting machine. I am a blogging wonder. 2 posts in 2 days.

I decided not to write about my back. Not that it didn't happen--it's just not very interesting. It hurt and I couldn't move, and now it still hurts a little bit but I can move. Oh, and when I nod my head, I can feel a muscle pulling in my....um..."extreme lower back." Funny, but not enough for an entire blog.

Instead, I'm going to copy my roommate Victoria, who wrote 20 random facts about herself that no one really knew. Sure, it's a little egocentric, but hey--you wouldn't be here unless you wanted to read something. Here goes:

1) Every time I'm in the ocean, I'm constantly scanning the surface for fins, even when I look like I'm relaxed.

2) One of my favorite smells in the world is dead leaves in Autumn (unless they're wet)

3) My least favorite smell is purple. It is the nastiest smell ever.

4) I found out a few months ago that I have spelled the word wierd wrong for my entire life. I just did it again. I have decided that is how I spell wierd and I refuse to change it.

5) Once, I forgot I was in public and burped out loud on the escalator in the Metro in Madrid.

6) I think licorice is the nastiest creation ever. Oddly enough, it doesn't smell purple.

7) My pinkie toes kind of stick up--so when I walk on the beach, my footprints only have 4 toes.

8) I laugh at my own jokes even when no one is around.

9) When I was 16, I hit the fencepost at my house and didn't tell anyone because I had just rearended a truck a week earlier, and I was afraid they would think I was a bad driver. Looking back, I think I might actually have been a bad driver. The fencepost was at a 45 degree angle to the ground.

10) Today I tried on some of those wierd mid-calf skort pants things, and I liked them.

11) I have a long list of people I can't sit next to in church because they make me laugh. For the past few weeks, a new person has been added each week. Maybe I'm the problem.

12) I would rather read than watch TV. But somehow, I end up watching TV anyway.

13) When I was a kid and I would play computer games, I would imagine myself in a huge international tournament, with announcers on TV commenting on how awesome my strategy is. I sometimes still do that when I play Text Twist. But only when I'm really sleepy.

14) I played basketball in 6th and 7th grade. I got a total of about 10 minutes of playing time in 2 years.

15) Of all the things from college that I miss, I miss ultimate frisbee the most.

16) My mom and I compete to see who knows the most words. If we're only counting English, I think she wins, but I would never admit it except on a blog.

17) I enjoy stream of consciousness writing just for the heck of it. I also enjoy stream of consciousness thinking and talking, which might or might not drive others crazy. If you've made it this far in the blog, you are not one of those people.

18) I can type somewhere between 60 and 75 words a minute if I'm not capitalizing or punctuating, which makes it an absolutely useless skill.

19) Once, in 7th grade, I passed out from sucking the helium out of too many baloons at a football game.

20) Once I cried while watching Michelle Kwan skate, because it was just so beautiful. And then I got really embarrassed and was glad no one was around.

Don't worry, you'll probably hear all these stories again--I tend to be a "story repeater." Just tell me you've heard it so I don't have to say it again, and we'll move on.

"The Vision" by Pete Greig

2005-10-07T17:44:00.000-01:00

Eventually, I will post something--I know I've been a slacker. Someday soon, I'll tell the story about how my back just decided to stop working on Tuesday and how I've been whining to myself, saying things like "I'm not old enough to throw my back out!"

But all this is for another day.

For today, I've had this poem in my head that I love (if you can call it a poem--prophecy maybe?) by Pete Greig, that he wrote when someone asked him what was the vision of 24-7. (Basically, it's a movement of 24-7 prayer, but you need to check this out. For more info about them, click the title of the blog--it links to the 24-7 website). While he was in a prayer room, this is the answer that ended up on paper....I love it. It gets me all excited, for Europe, for my generation, for God. I want to be one of these people in this poem.

Anyway, I don't want to ruin it with my thoughts, so here it is:

So this guy comes up to me and says, "What's the vision? What's the big idea?" I open my mouth and words come out like this...

The vision?
The vision is JESUS:
obsessively, dangerously, undeniably Jesus.

The vision is an army of young people.
You see bones?
I see an army.

And they are FREE from materialism -
they laugh at 9-5 little prisons.
They could eat caviar on Monday and crusts on Tuesday. They wouldn't even notice.
They know the meaning of the Matrix,
the way the West was won.

They are mobile like the wind,
they belong to the nations,
they need no passport.
People write their addresses in pencil and wonder at their strange existence.
They are free,
yet they are slaves
of the hurting and dirty and dying.

What is the vision? The vision is holiness that hurts the eyes.
It makes children laugh and adults angry.
It gave up the game of minimum integrity long ago to reach for the stars.
It scorns the good and strains for the best.
It is dangerously pure.

Light flickers
from every secret motive,
every private conversation.
It loves people away from their suicide leaps,
their Satan games.

This is an army
that will lay down its life for the cause.
A million times a day
its soldiers choose to loose that they might one day win the great "Well done" of faithful sons and daughters.

Such heroes are as radical on Monday morning as Sunday night.

They don't need fame from names.
Instead they grin quietly upwards
and hear the crowds chanting again and again:
"COME ON!"

And this is the sound of the underground,
the whisper of history in the making,
foundations shaking,
revolutionaries dreaming once again.
Mystery is scheming in whispers,
conspiracy is breathing...
This is the sound of the underground

And the army is discipl(in)ed -
young people who beat their bodies into submission.
Every soldier would take a bullet for his comrade at arms.
The tattoo on their back boasts
"For me to live is Christ and to die is gain."

Sacrifice fuels the fire
of victory in their upward eyes.
Winners.
Martyrs.
Who can stop them? Can hormones hold them back? Can failure succeed? Can fear scare them or death kill them?

And the generation prays
like a dying man with groans beyond talking,
with warrior cries, sulphuric tears and great barrow loads of laughter!

Waiting.
Watching:
24 - 7 - 365.

Whatever it takes they will give:
Breaking the rules,
shaking mediocrity from its cosy little hide,
laying down their rights and their precious little wrongs,
laughing at labels,
fasting essentials.
The advertisers cannot mold them.
Hollywood cannot hold them.
Peer-pressure is powerless
to shake their resolve
at late night parties
before the cockerel cries.

They are incredibly cool,
dangerously attractive inside.
On the outside? They hardly care!
They wear clothes like costumes: to communicate and celebrate,
but never to hide.

Would they surrender their image or their popularity? They would lay down their very lives, swap seats with the man on death row, guilty as hell:
a throne for an electric chair.

With blood and sweat and many tears,
with sleepless nights and fruitless days,
they pray as if it all depends on God
and live as if it all depends on them.

Their DNA chooses JESUS.
(He breathes out, they breathe in.)
Their subconscious sings.
They had a blood transfusion with Jesus.

Their words make demons scream in shopping centres.
Don't you hear them coming?

Herald the weirdos!
Summon the losers and the freaks.
Here come the frightened and forgotten
with fire in their eyes!
They walk tall and trees applaud,
skyscrapers bow,
mountains are dwarfed
by these children of another dimension.

Their prayers summon the Hound of Heaven and invoke the ancient dream of Eden.

And this vision will be.
It will come to pass;
it will come easily;
it will come soon.

How do I know?
Because this is the longing of creation itself,
the groaning of the Spirit,
the very dream of God.

My tomorrow is His today.
My distant hope is His 3-D.
And my feeble,
whispered,
faithless prayer
invokes a thunderous,
resounding,
bone-shaking
great "Amen!"
from countless angels,
from hero's of the faith,
from Christ himself.

And He is the original dreamer,
the ultimate winner.
Guaranteed.

Allison

2005-09-18T04:00:00.000-01:00

It is 2:59 a.m. The full moon is shining silvery-blue into my window, which is probably why I can't go back to sleep, but I hate to waste such beautiful light on closed shades. So here I am--I've been awake for an hour, and it doesn't feel like I'll be sleeping anytime soon.

I am a firm believer that trying to go to back to sleep is a surefire way to stay awake, so I try to let my mind wander and not stress out about the fact that I have to get up in 6 hours (now 5 hours)--sometimes I enjoy the half asleep/half awake day (or night) dreams that are completely disconnected but somehow run seamlessly together.

Is that Molly's (the dog) paws I hear clicking in the hallway? Kind of a cool rhythm, actually--next time I go to Morocco, I need to get Kim one of those drums--I wonder how Ana Michelsen's doing?--Is it cold in England right now?--should I wear the denim or the khaki skirt to church tomorrow?--it's too warm for boots and the denim would look better with my sandals--what did I wear last week when I visited my parents' church?--

You get the idea. This went on for about 20 minutes or so, and then, for some reason in the stream of thought running through my head, I thought of Allison. Wonderful, sweet, Allison. I thank God that she is in the world.

Allison and I are about 2 months apart in age--I was born in June, she in August. My grandparents went to the same church as her family when I was a baby, so I saw her at least the third Friday of every month, at fellowship supper. She and I went to kindergarten together--her mom was my teacher. In my seventh grade year, my parents joined the membership at Loyall Methodist Church, so I saw Allison really regularly after that, until I moved away.

Growing up, I remember that in Christmas plays, Allison was usually Mary--a part that was perfect for her because it didn't require alot of memorized lines or movements, but it did require a certain sweet, pure spirit that Allison didn't have to practice to get right. In Easter plays, she always would lift her hands up dramatically when we got to the chorus of "Up from the Grave He Arose." She didn't always remember the tune, but Allison sang with all her heart, and looking back, I think she was the best part of the show. We should have all raised our hands with her.

Allison hasn't really "grown up" in the sense that we usually think of it. She is older, obviously, but because of damage from a brain tumor when she was very young, she is still in many ways a small child. She lives at home with her parents and goes to school with her mom, helping a different teacher out each year. She has a hard time seeing, and understands most things on a pretty basic level.

I love Allison. She is wonderful--not just in a sappy Hallmark made for TV movie kind of way--she is really wonderful. When I think of all the people I actually know who are truly great people , she has to be on the list. Here are some of the things that I love about Allison:

She loves Jesus. I really can't explain it better than that. You can see it on her face. You can hear it in her voice. In 24 years, I have never had a conversation with her that He hasn't been brought up, and she is always the first to mention Him. At the sound of His name, her eyes twinkle, I kid you not.

She cries for people. Sick people, hurting people, people who don't know Jesus, people who are lonely or sad. She doesn't just feel sorry for them and worry about what we as the church should do or get angry about the need for social justice. She cries for them without being told she should.

She prays. Allison prays alot, and when she says she'll pray for you, you know you're in good hands.

She tells me I'm beautiful. Everyone in my parents' church has known me since I was born. Most of them have known my DAD since he was born! So when I go home, I hear a lot of the compliments that people who have known you your whole life give. They are sincere, I'm sure, but too often I don't really listen to them. But when Allison tells me I'm beautiful (which is every time she sees me), for that moment in time I am beautiful. Inevitably, as I talk to her my smile widens and I sit up straighter. I feel beautiful. I really believe her.

She asks to sit next to me in church. In a church where families have had their own pews for generations, Allison sits where she chooses. I love it when she sits next to me.

But my favorite, absolutely irreplaceable thing that Allison does: She holds my hand. When she sits next to me in church, she reaches over and grabs my hand, pulls it into her lap, and holds it--sometimes with both of her hands. And she really holds it--not just a nice gesture, but like she really means it.

The first time Allison held my hand was over 2 years ago, when I was raising support to come to Spain for the first time. I was a recent college grad who, while on the outside was confident and ready to conquer the world, on the inside was scared of what the future held and what on earth I was doing in my life.

I'm a social person, but I like my personal space as well--I couldn't remember holding anyone's hand in a long time. So when that Sunday morning Allison grabbed my hand and pulled it close to her, my first instinct was to pull away, but for some reason I didn't, or maybe I couldn't. I sat there uncomfortable for a few minutes, and then the tears started silently rolling down my cheeks. I was so scared. I wasn't ready to grow up. I wanted to forget responsibilities, go back home, and curl up in my bed for the next 10 years. And the tears fell.

And Allison held my hand. Strong, secure Allison. It would be alright. God had me in His hand, and I could trust Him.

I don't remember what the sermon was that week, but I remember that Allison held my hand.

Since then, whenever I see Allison, I secretly hope that she'll ask to sit next to me, and that she'll reach out and grab my hand. And she always does. Last week again I was sitting at Loyall Methodist Church, and Allison sat next to me, and held my hand. And again I fought tears as I struggled with insecurity and fear. But she held my hand and didn't say a word. I can study a thousand different books on who God is and why I can trust Him, but when Allison holds my hand, I trust Him.

I thank God for Allison. She ministers in a way that all the training in the world could never teach. I don't know why she popped into my head tonight, but I wanted to stop and say thanks to God for giving Allison to the world.

And thank you, Allison, for holding my hand.

My Apartment

2005-09-06T16:56:00.000-01:00

Ok, so I forgot to take pictures of the kitchen (which is awesome), but here are some pics of my new digs. I love it!

Before I show pictures, here's the story: Victoria and I started praying about an apartment, and we kind of just laid it out on the table. It went something like "Ok, God, you know that we need an apartment, that we need enough space to host community groups, a kitchen we can cook for groups in, and we'd love to have an art studio. Kelly has to leave soon, so we need to find it quickly. And we can't afford an aval." (It's like a 6 month to 1 year deposit that most apartments require). Not that we were making demands of God, but we really did need to find a place, and we believed that He wanted us to have a place that we could use for ministry.

WE FOUND THE APARTMENT IN 4 DAYS!!! It is bigger than what we need, has an art studio and a big living room, the rent is exactly what we wanted to pay, and there was no aval. God definitely has provided MORE than what we asked for! Anyway, here's our new flat.

Calle Espiritu Santo
My street: it means "Holy Spirit Street"

the ceiling of our entryway

victoria in our living room--notice how small she looks lin the huge room!

our bathroom--great acoustics in here--i've never had a bathroom so big that it echoes.

those little dots on the sides of the tub? they're jets!
a jacuzzi isn't one of the things we prayed for, but we're not complaining!

our studio has shelves built into the wall--perfect!

cool wall in living room

another cool wall--looking from the studio into the living room-we still need to get chairs for the table.

I wish I had pictures of the kitchen--coming soon. The bedrooms are just normal bedrooms, so I didn't want to bore you.

So this is where I live!!! Awesome, huh?

I ALMOST HAD A MULLET!

2005-08-20T14:14:00.000-01:00

Yesterday, I came the closest to a having a mullet that I have ever been, and hopefully the closest that I will ever be. You fly too close to the sun, you get burned.

Many of you have heard me talk about how I'm afraid to get my hair cut in Spain. There are too many mullets, and I just don't trust the hairdresser to do what I ask, or my own Spanish to ask the right thing. But I live here in Madrid, so I need to get over that. I like my hair better short. Quit being a baby, Kelly.

So yesterday I took the plunge. I was feeling pretty good about myself, all proud because Victoria and I found a SWEET APARTMENT that we can actually afford--and it's ours! (I'll tell this story later). Anyway, I was so excited that I decided to celebrate with a haircut. There was a trendy looking little place near where Victoria had to go talk to some people from her school, so I took a gulp and took a breath, and went ahead and signed the scroll. (name that movie!)

I should have been warned by my hairdresser's own 'do. He was balding in the back, but that didn't stop him from having a reverse mohawk--the middle very short and the sides about an inch long--and dyed blonde. Only the sides. He also was wearing man capri's. Another sign that I should not have trusted him with scissors.

I showed him a picture of what I wanted--sort of a Meg Ryan casual flippy thing, and he said, "We can do this, but we can adjust it a little bit for your hair type." Ok. Sounds like this guy knows what he's doing.

After this came 45 of the most excruciating minutes of my life. I sat helplessly in the chair as he used texturizing scissors to cut 1 1/2--2 inch long pieces on the top/back of my head. But only the back. And only the top of the back. There was still a long fringe (like right above the shoulders) at the bottom, and random long pieces all over the back. In the front, there was one like 1/4 inch wide section of hair that became sideswept bangs. That was probably the most acceptable part of my haircut. Then the sides were long, and not layered. Like below my chin, not a single layer.

Once the scissors were put away and I had started breathing (I'm too much of a wimp to say something to him), he then proceeded to add products. And more products. And more. I left looking like a Spanish rock star. My head had corners. The short pieces were spiked, and the long part, because of all the products, hung straight and strong, kind of like dark, shiny hay.

It was a little better after I washed it. A little, as in no longer spiked, and no more hay. Other than that, still bad. The sides--well, imagine a basset hound's ears. That's what it looked like hanging down on the sides of my head. I could push it behind my ears and it wasn't so bad, but then my head had corners again.

I'm really sorry now that I didn't take a picture of it yesterday. I could have looked back on it with fondness. Or something. Today Victoria and I took Heather's scissors and comb and played beauty salon in the downstairs bathroom. It actually looks pretty good now--almost how it looked when I first came to Spain, but a bit shorter. From now on, Victoria is my hairdresser.

So I came close to a mullet. If I had to title the species of 'do that sprang from my scalp, I would have to say that it was a "Half Mullet with Dog Ears." Put that one down in your books, hairstyle magazine.

Moral of the story: when it comes to hairdressers, trust your instincts.

Dolly Parton's guitar case (sort of)

2005-07-30T19:56:00.000-01:00

So yet again, I have a story of something that could only happen to me. My annoyance is starting to wear off, and I'm realizing the humor of it. But oh, what a day.

Or should I say what a couple of days? It all started last week when I stopped by Cate's music to pick up my flight case for Blue (my guitar). I know, I know, I shouldn't have waited until the last minute to get it, but there were so many online that I thought it would just be a matter of going into the store and laying down some cash to get a flight case. Not so lucky, I'm afraid. "No worries," said the guy behind the counter. "Gator Cases ships out of Chattanooga, so it will be here in 1 or 2 days." I breathed a sigh of relief and went on my way.

Well, one or two days somehow turned into 5, and on Friday afternoon the case finally came in. Things were going well. But then when I went to pick up the case, it was the wrong one. It was just a regular flimsy case and not the flight case I needed. Two days away from leaving for Madrid, I had no way to get Blue on the plane without it landing in Spain in 10,000 pieces. It might have been ok, but "might" is a pretty big chance to take with a guitar you love. Of course, the more I thought about it, the flimsier my case started looking to me (not that it had far to go), until I was almost in a blind panic about protecting Blue.

I began calling around that afternoon, starting with every music store in Johnson City, then Kingsport, then Bristol. No such luck. I tried every music store in (1 hour away)Knoxville (there are about 20). Not one had a flight case in stock. Asheville and Boone, North Carolina, the same. I was close to (or maybe past) tears by 5:00, and still no luck. Blue was doomed to either stay here or fly home in a pillowcase. And then I remembered hearing about a little place in Weber City, a 3 stoplight town about 30 minutes from my sister's house. It's called "Lazy Time Pickin' Parlor." Supposedly, it's one of the best bluegrass shops nearby. And believe me, there are tons.

So, with nothing to lose, I picked up the phone. The voice on the other line was....well, it was what you'd expect from the owner of the Lazy Time Pickin' Parlor. I started on my little script, which was memorized by then, asking if they carried flight cases for acoustic guitars. Three separate times the man had to say "Honey, speak up. I can't hear you for nothin'." The third time I shouted back "FLIGHT CASES FOR GUITARS." His reply was not what I was expecting.

"Naw, honey. We ain't got any white cases. They's all dark."

I kid you not.

"NO!" I responded. "FLIGHT! LIKE ON A PLANE!"

"Oh, you mean one a them padded cases? Yeah, we got them."

They were closed for the night, so this morning my dad and I set off for the Pickin' Parlor. We found it with little trouble, and as we got out it felt like we were walking into the set of Deliverance (cue banjos). About 10 or 15 old men (and one woman with a baby) were sitting outside of the shop talking, instrument cases under a few of their seats. The stared unabashedly in silence as a young female with a guitar (me) strode toward them. When I reached the porch, one of them broke into a grin.

"Well, boys, we have us a mandolin and a banjo, now it looks like we got us a guitar player!" (Guitar is pronounced with the emphasis on the first syllable---GITTar)

I made it through and into the store, and the man I had talked to the night before proceeded to show me the two padded gig bags that he had in the back room. That was it. Oh well, no case. But it was worth the trip.

Back on the road, back to the computer to look up guitar case dealers, back on the phone. By this point I was looking in a 100 mile radius of where I'm staying, and still no luck. Almost at the point of desperation, I called some little shop (I've already forgotten the name) on the other side of Asheville, North Carolina--an hour and a half away.

Larry answered the phone, and no, he didn't carry those in the store. "But wait," he said. "I have an Anvil guitar case sitting at home. I don't know if it'll work, but it looks like a dang coffin. I used it back in the 80's when I toured with Dolly Parton, but I don't tour any more. I might be convinced to sell it."

Toured with Dolly Parton? Was this guy serious? But at this point, I was desperate. Feeling like I was running out of choices, I said I would go meet him and see if my guitar fit in the case. Two hours later, there I was in the Food Lion parking lot outside of Asheville, buying a case that really did look like a "dang coffin" from the back of this guy's wife's car.

It's not exactly what I was planning to have. It's a little too---professional? It's huge and square, and incredibly padded--my guitar will travel more comfortably than I will. The outside is pretty beat up, and covered with bumper stickers from Dolly Parton's glory days--all singing the praises of bluegrass music and Martin guitars (which I don't have). Two of the stickers had to go because of offensive content, but I think I'll leave the others. I'll have to get a gig bag or something to carry the thing around in Madrid; there's no way this thing is going on the metro. But if nothing else, it will get to Spain. With a case that has toured with Dolly Parton.

This story is going to get lots of mileage. Pictures soon.

If God is a color....

2005-07-29T00:44:00.000-01:00

So evidently I'm making up for my lack of posting this summer in these few days.....I wrote this last fall, and found it as I was cleaning out my documents on my computer. Here's the story: the leaders' community at Mountainview was doing an all-day workshop on prayer (which was fantastic, by the way). At one point in the day, we looked at magnifying God. The literal definition of magnifying something means to make it bigger than it actually is. Well, that's impossible to do with God, but we can try to grasp some of that in our descriptions of Him. We spent some time writing, really trying to magnify God. It's a great thing to do with a group during worship time--when you all read yours, it's amazing to see how God shows Himself to so many people in different ways. Anyway, here's what I wrote. I like it, so I'm posting it:

Imagine the deepest blue you've ever seen in your life. Imagine that 2:00 a.m., dotted with stars,almost black, almost purple, but still blue color. But then imagine that even though the blue is that deep, it is bright, so bright that you can't look at it, like the sun--but infinitely brighter.

Imagine this deep bright blue and splash it with reds and greens and yellow--one of those colors--that one color, actually, which you can't describe except by looking at it--the source of color that pours over and spills out into all the colors of the world, making a million sunsets, no two alike. If I could say that God is a color, that's what color He would be. We see hints of it in the different depth levels of the ocean, the sun's rise and fall, trees in autumn, a billion stars. These are just tiny drops from the source of all color--glimpses of who and how beautiful HE is.

oh my goodness

2005-07-29T00:37:00.000-01:00

So if the masseuse had been male, I would have proposed. It was that fantastic. She got out knots that have been there since before I started college. Oh my goodnes, I feel so good right now. Just thought I'd rub it in.

!!!!!!!!!!

2005-07-28T12:54:00.000-01:00

ok, so I just want to post and gloat a bit. My sister just gave me my birthday present today (only a month late--usually better than I do for her birthday)---an appointment for a 35 minute deep tissue massage at an awesome spa in Johnson City. I go at 6:15 tonight. That gives me just enough time to shower, shave, and paint my toenails beforehand. Let the pampering begin!!!!!

The Doctor Visit

2005-07-22T23:38:00.000-01:00

I was talking to Heather just this morning, and I told her that spending so much time with my sister and her 4 month old preemie twins, Katie and Sam, has made me feel all girly. It's like suddenly there's this biological clock ticking, loud and clear. "Don't worry," I told her. "It will pass quickly." It did.

This afternoon we took the now chubby twins (they weighed in at 9lbs. 13oz. and 9lbs. 10oz.) to see their pediatrician, Dr. Farmer. First of all, there is the hour long ordeal of feeding them, changing them, getting them in their seats, getting them with all of the paraphanalia into the car, remembering we forgot the insurance card, and finally pulling out of the garage, babies content for the moment. The fun started as we turned into the parking lot of the medical center. From the seat behind us, Kim and I heard the dreaded gurgle and splash from the driver's side. We didn't have to see it to know what had happened. Sam had struck again.

You see, Sam doesn't do the cute little baby "spit up" thing. This is pure, unadulterated puke. I think the scientific term is "projectile vomit." Granted, there are no chunks, so it's not as gross, but it's not exactly pleasant. Sure enough, when we stopped the car and opened the door, Sam had not only soaked through his socks, his shorts, his onsie, the outside of his diaper, and the lining of his carseat--he had also covered the seat of the Trailblazer (brand spanking new--all clean and new car smelling--perfect for target practice).

So on we go into the building, Sam content to sit in his own vomit until we get inside so we can change him, and Katie letting us know in no uncertain terms that she didn't appreciate being woken up from her nap. I don't understand how something so small can make so much noise. It defies some scientific law, I'm sure. It's like she has this little internal loudspeaker or something.

So with the loudspeaker blaring, we manage to get the babies naked, weighed, and measured, while nurses who have known them since they were 2 pounders oohed and ahhed at all their newly acquired chins.

Then the first needle came out. They needed to test their crit (I don't know what crit is or what it stands for, so I smiled dumbly when they talked about it), which involves poking a hole in the baby's heel and drawing blood. At the first prick of the needle, tears started to well up, but I held them back. I was going to be a big girl at this visit. Oddly enough, the presence of the blood didn't bother me, even with all my personal blood area issues. Maybe that's because it went straight into the tube and didn't touch anyone. But when Katie's little lip started to quiver and her body tensed with the buildup to the scream, it was all I could do to keep from hitting that mean old nurse. Stupid needle.

The visit went well (other than our own personal little Loudspeaker, which blared sporadically throughout the event)--the babies are catching up to the growth curve and are doing well developmentally, and Dr. Farmer was impressed with Kim that both babies are sleeping through the night. I started to let out a sigh, thinking the worst was over, and beaming at how well the babies did--better than most other babies, I'm sure.

But the 4 month appointment comes with 4 month shots. Immunizations. Two shots--one in each leg. One nurse per needle. As I watched them walk into the room I could see the needle growing in their hands, and for a moment I contemplated making myself a human shield to protect Sam, who was on the table. But alas, that would put Katie (who was in my arms) in their path, so I sat by and watched. Kim had the hard job--she had to hold each baby still for the shot, and I held the other.

I think the tears were already to my chin before the needle even touched Sam's leg. He let out a squeal, followed by a scream, which lasted in his facial expression long after he had run out of air. When he had actually turned blue from lack of oxygen, he took in a quick gasp and started the process all over. I'm tearing up just thinking about it.

Kim, who lived through the nightmare of almost 2 months in the NICU, handled the shots like a pro. Knowing I couldn't go through with holding a baby down so needles could be put in them, she handed Sam (who had now gone back to his normal color, but was still screaming) to me and took charge of the loudspeaker, who didn't fare any better. Katie's screams are shorter than Sams, but loud and intense.

I wiped my tears as quickly as possible while the nurses' backs were turned (who's the baby in the room, after all?), and we got them dressed and ready to go, now sleepy from the shots and from the baby Tylenol. Sam was now on outfit number two. For the next 20 minutes.

For some reason, we thought it would be a good idea to stop at a store to look for an anniversary present for Adam (Kim's husband). Actually, the store is fun. With one baby, people will look and smile as they walk by, but with two in a stroller, everyone has a comment. You want attention? Push a twin stroller. Granted, it's like trying to drive a bus, but the whole world thinks the babies are cute. If you're pushing the stroller, you are cute by association.

But alas, another mishap before we even get to the stroller. Another gurgle and splash from the same seat--Sam is swimming in his carseat once again. What parts of the seat were not soaked before are now dripping. He's out of clothes, but luckily Katie's spare outfit doesn't contain any pink, so we're saved. Again, the diaper is soaked from the outside, but at it's removal we're in for a nasty surprise. In size, liquid-ness, and smell, that was the worst diaper I have ever seen. Actually, it's a new form of matter that we like to call "the atomic diaper." By the way, as we're changing him, he thinks this is funny by now.

Finally in the stroller, the attention began. Some ladies in a van pulled up next to me as I walked them down the sidewalk and said "I bet you don't get any sleep." I turned to them and smiled and said, "They're my niece and nephew. I sleep just fine!" And for now, that situation is OK with me.

We are now home, and the Loudspeaker and Sir Pukesalot are asleep (for the moment). They don't feel well because of the shots, and I almost cried with them again as we sat in the nursery to feed them and get them ready to sleep.

Maybe when I'm 30 I'll be ready to do this full time. That gives me six years to prepare. Ok, maybe when I'm 35. For now, the biological clock is on snooze.

Everything you really didn't need to know about me

2005-07-09T17:03:00.000-01:00

So I'm on vacation and want to blog, but my brain won't work----so I'll just do a questionnaire. Y'all wanted to know more about me anyway!

1. How old were you when you had your first kiss?
One month before I turned 15. Too young. The kid looked like Flounder from the Little
Mermaid.
2. What do you think is your best feature?
My smile. And my eyebrows, when they're waxed. I like my feet, too...even though they're
big.
3. What is your favorite breed of dog?
Golden Retriever
4. If you could attend only one Olympic event, which would it be?
Gymnastics or Ice Skating
5. If you could invite any movie star to your home for dinner, who would it be?
Johnny Depp (minus the Willy Wonka creepiness)--and while we're in a fantasy world, this dinner would be after coming home from a family vacation with our four beautiful children.
6. If you were a car what kind would you be?
A volvo. Boxy but cool.
7. What is your favourite number?
Eleventy billion.
8. Which Disney character are you most like?
Dumbo. I can fly.
9. If a movie was made about you, who would play you?
Back in my fantasy world, I would be played by Sandra Bullock.
10. Have you ever been out of the country and, if yes, where? (list all places)
Yes. Assuming "the country" means the USA, here goes: Mexico, Italy, Spain, England,
Holland, Germany, Austria, Morocco.
11. How many times have you flown in an airplane in the last twelve (12) months?
7 or 8. Too many.
12. If you were in a car sinking in a lake, what would you do first?
Unbuckle my seatbelt.
13. If you where stuck at one age for the rest of your life, what age would you want it to be?
I like 24.
14. What is the weirdest thing that has ever happened to you?
That's a wierd question. I don't think I can answer it. I think the problem is that everything is wierd to me. Maybe I'm the wierd thing that happens to other people.....I was pooped on the head by a pigeon once--does that count?
15. What is the “coolest” (or most unique) thing you have ever done?
Again, hard question. Struggling with the thought that maybe I'm not cool OR unique since I can't answer this one. Hmmmm....I did an hour long piano recital from memory once, back in the day. I guess that's unique.
16. What is the scariest thing that has ever happened to you?
My plane flew through a lightning bolt on the way back from Italy when I was 19. I almost peed my pants. The scary part was that I had so little bladder control.
17. Have you ever gone skinny-dipping?
My answer used to be "yes" on this one, but I had so many questions that I decided to go with "no comment." :)
18. What is your favorite restaurant to eat at?
In the U.S.--Cootie Brown's or Johnny Carino's. In Spain--probably Casa Mingo
19. What is your favorite alcoholic drink?
Sangria
20. What is your biggest pet peeve?
People who try to manipulate others through guilt.
21. What is the weirdest thing you have ever eaten?
Oreja. Yup, deep fried ears. It's as gross as it sounds.
22. If you could only listen to one song for the rest of your life, what song would you want it to be?
If you know me, you'll know that this is an impossible question since I change favorite songs every day. Probably something by U2 (Maybe "Grace") or Switchfoot if you asked me this week, which you did.
23. If you had to change your name, what would you change it to?
Kelly Guils.
24. What is the best book you have ever read?
Fiction? "Til We have Faces" by C.S. Lewis is good, as well as "Life of Pi"
I also love "Noises and Mr. Flibbertyjib"
All books? well, the Bible's pretty stinking awesome. Don't think I can beat that.
25. What is the first thing you notice about the opposite sex?
Honestly? The jawline. Then height.
Dishonestly? Probably some sentimental words here about his personality, his spiritual leadership, etc. That stuff's REALLY important, but it's not the first thing I notice!
26. What is the one thing you want to do before you die?
Travel around all the world!
27. What is the most outrageous thing you would love to do?
Go skydiving. But I would probably chicken out at the last minute. Maybe pierce my nose??
28. What is your favorite board game?
Trivial Pursuit
29. If you could have any job, what would it be?
I like the one I have, although I think being married to a billionaire could be fun.
30. What, in your opinion, is the worst way to die?
Being burned alive.
31. If a genie granted you three wishes, what would you wish for?
Chocolate, that all my friends would love Jesus, and that I would somehow get all of Van Gogh's talent without his craziness.
31. If you could go anywhere in the world where would you go?
I want to see the jungle. Any jungle will do. The amazon would be cool if it weren't for all those snakes.
32. What is one thing you could not go more than a week without?
Ummm...chocolate?
33. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would you change?
I would love to be more athletic (and by default that would make me thin and muscular, which I'm not), and less prone to let my emotions control me.
34. In the last three years, what is one thing you would have done differently?
I would have quit piano earlier so I could study more stuff. I also probably would have bought a mac instead of the pc I've got now.

Wow, I'm more shallow than I thought! Oh well. Hope you had fun. Let me know what you think!

a cool kid

2005-07-08T17:30:00.000-01:00

I met one of the coolest kids ever this week. I've been "the missionary" at a camp I used to work at last week, which means I have a little class with the kids in the morning and then can fat around at the pool all afternoon. Kind of a nice break, actually!

Anyway, some of the kids get to know you really quickly, and some kind of hang around the fringes. That's why it wasn't until Thursday night that I had a conversation with Cody. Cody is 17 or 18, with a long blonde ponytail and lean frame that doesn't quite mesh with his thick southern accent. He's painfully shy, and it takes him a while to look you in the eye, even longer to start talking. But some stories are worth waiting for.

Cody has started a skateboard ministry in the small town of Hazard, KY. He and a few friends started skating before church, more than anything because there's nothing to do in a small town. Before long new people started showing up, and after a few months there are 15-20 skaters. Three people made commitments to follow Jesus and have become actively involved in the church. Many of the skaters leave before church, but Cody, with a shy smile, says, "We don't want to make them come to church or anything. They can come skate, and we figure God can use that."

The youth ministry at Cody's church is starting to grow and come alive, and they're starting to have an impact in the town. City officials told Cody that they have no problem with his group skating on the grounds of the new courthouse, right in the center of town.

Cody tells me all this matter-of-factly, and as if he were listing off what he had for breakfast. Of course he skates. He's always skated. You can love God and skate at the same time, right? The cool thing about him is that he doesn't get caught up in strategy or anything. He hasn't set out to plant a ministry or have a huge community impact. He ust figures people need something to do.

At some point the conversation shifted to Cody's background. His parents split up when he was young, and so began the long cycle of bouncing from state to state, from one relative to another, never really knowing where to call home. Always the kid who was bullied in school, he dropped out halfway through his sophomore year at age 15. After studying carpentry for a while, Cody got his GED (high school equivalency) this year, and has started mending the relationship with his estranged father. He's thinking about college soon, but right now he wants to stay home and skate.

Cody's history was told as matter of factly as his skating stories. He says "It's kinda good--I mean, now I can relate to people who've had a hard time." Simple as that. With quiet assurance, God is using Cody in ways more powerful than I think he realizes.

I wish Cody had been the missionary speaker for the week. I think I could have learned a lot.

The Death of a Sandal

2005-06-17T18:57:00.000-01:00

In case you haven't noticed, I tend to become emotionally attached to things. I know, a little worrisome, but if you knew the price/condition of most of the things I love, you would feel a little better.

I name the things I love. I keep them for a long time. I smile fondly when I remember them. I wrote recently about Blue, my guitar. Well, she's not my first or my only love.

My first car was Ethel. She was a maroon '90 Pontiac Grand Am, and I drove her from age 16-21. My Senior year of college, it became very evident that Ethel wouldn't be with us much longer, so I sent her off to better hands that could make her passage to death a little easier. She threw a rod on the bypass in Harlan, KY, and my dad traded her for the price of getting her towed off of the road and a free ride home. Rest in peace, Ethel.

Ethel was replaced by her older sister, Mavis, an '88 Chevy Cavalier. Enough said. I hated Mavis. After that was the Toyota, who was a boy, and his name was "The Toyota." He was ok--the only car I ever drove that actually could accelerate uphill, if it wasn't too steep.

But above all these loves stands my birkenstocks. Two straps in the front, and a back strap to keep them from sliding around. They got me through a couple years of college, mission trips, and a year and a half in Spain. They became an attachment to my feet the minute I felt I could avoid frostbite in the spring, and only left me in the fall when my toes turned blue.

The cork on my birkenstocks started crumbling late last summer. No big deal. The tread is wearing thin, making them hazardous to wear in the rain. This May, I noticed that the back of the sole had fallen off, leaving the woven cloth under the instep (formerly brown, now black) exposed.

Two days ago, I was walking around in my sandals, and I started to hear this strange flapping noise. On my right sandal, the sole and the instep had separated all the way back to the arch. Prognosis: not good. I took them to the birkenstock store to see if they could be repaired, and was met with a look from the cashier that said "what on earth are doing bringing your shoes in here? Get them away before they contaminate the other shoes!"

The diagnosis wasn't any more pleasant than her look. The straps were the only thing salvageable, and even they needed cleaning. It would cost more to fix the sandals than I had originally paid for them (granted, they have raised their prices in the last four years). It was painful, but I had to make the decision to let them go.

I got some new sandals (couldn't afford new birkenstocks, but the new shoes are red and funky) that I like very much, and I'm trusting that over the years that like will grow to love. But I'm still mourning for my birkenstocks.

I couldn't bear to throw them away, but I know that if I take them back to Madrid, I will face ridicule and waste precious suitcase space. Good thing I was with Brianna. The birkenstocks are resting peacefully in her closet, and once I'm gone, she can do what she wants with them, as long as she doesn't tell me about it. I think they have found a good resting place to live out their golden years (or days).

So with new sandals on my feet and a tear in my eye, I would like to say goodbye once and for all to my dear friends the birkenstocks. You will be sorely missed by all....or, me, anyway.

The Babies!!!!! (and Blue)

2005-05-26T01:07:00.000-01:00

So here (finally) are some pictures! I have more where these came from, but I'm trying hard to hold back and not be one of those gushy annoying aunts that can't quit showing pictures. I'll probably give up on that tomorrow and post a bunch more! I missed their first 2 months, so I have to make up for lost time, right?

Here are Katie and Sam!

And here I am holding them both at the same time---a feat in and of itself. You have to hold one of them kind of like a football while you pick the other one up--with your one free arm. My sister makes it look easy, but it's not! I was proud of myself today--I managed to put them both BACK in the bed without waking either of them up. Some accomplishments are too big for words.

And this is not a baby. It's a guitar. Her name is Blue, and she's all mine. And yes, she's a girl. Of course. Not as cuddly as the other two, but she also doesn't poop in diapers, so she has that to her advantage.

It's a girl!!!!

Oasis talk

2005-05-17T17:04:00.000-01:00

So I spoke at the May Oasis service, so I thought you guys would like to hear (read) what I said. Jeremy the cactus makes yet another appearance. I just can't get over it.

I'd like to introduce you to a friend of mine. This is my cactus, Jeremy. Isn't it cute? Last year, my friends Matt and Em gave it to me for my birthday (by the way, it was their idea to name it Jeremy, but i thought it fit, so I kept it). I have to admit, I've been really proud of how well I've taken care of this cactus—I usually forget plants about 2 weeks after I get them. But look at Jeremy! He's still going strong, and the flowers haven't faded a bit! To be honest, I usually don't like cactus—they hurt when you touch them. But the flowers made up for that because they're pretty.

Ok, now I'm going to show you a close up picture of Jeremy.

Look closely—-see that globby stuff between the cactus and the flower? That's glue. A month ago, Victoria picked up Jeremy and said “Kelly, why did you glue flowers to your cactus?” Now, if any of you know Victoria, you know that this is something she would just say, meaning, “wow, Kelly! The flowers on your cactus look so good they could be fake!” But that's not what she meant. After I had been lovingly caring for Jeremy for an entire year, Victoria sees in a glance what I hadn't noticed. The flowers are fake. They're glued on.

The reason I was so upset about the cactus is that it doesn't follow the order of things. Flowers are produced when a plant is cared for, watered, gets sun and nutrients from the air and soil, and then as a product of being nourished on the inside, the flower grows on the outside. With Jeremy, as soon as I found out that the flowers didn't come from that process, I realized that I didn't even know if Jeremy was a real cactus! If you see here, I cut the top of of this part of it just to make sure there was life on the inside! It's real, but it's just a plain old cactus. Maybe it's just my imagination, but it hurts worse to touch it now than it did when I thought the flowers were real.

Now, you may be saying to yourself about now....”What on earth does Jeremy the cactus have to do with peace?” But actually, I think it has a lot to do with it. You see, I think we often want to see peace like Jeremy's flowers—we want outward expressions of peace—absence of conflict between people groups, treaties, ceasefires, families getting along, good relationships with neighbors, emotional stability, less stress, calm and quiet. We want peace to be evident all around us. I don't think there are many people who honestly believe that peace is a BAD idea.

But like the flowers on the cactus—even when things look peaceful on the outside, even though we all really want peace, when you go deeper than the surface, it's not always the case. We as humans don't have a very good track record when it comes to peace. The fact of the matter is that there has not been a period of time in history since the garden of eden that total peace has actually happened. There has never been a time free of war, of violence, of fighting, of pain. We, as members of the human race, even though we really do want peace, have killed, we have fought, we have oppressed other people, we have been jealous, and we have held grudges. We have abused others and withheld respect. We have devalued others based on their place of birth. We have laughed at someone else’s misfortune, and we have been hurt and secretly vowed revenge. we have made and broken countless treaties. We have used and distorted the words of others to justify our own cause. We have all hurt, and we have all been hurt. It's like we've got this thick skin on that makes us hurt others and ourselves. We find ourselves caught up in an endless cycle taking hits and swinging back, between cultures, with the people around us, and with our very own bodies, minds, and emotions. we NEED peace!

When we look at the problem of the human race as a whole, it starts to be evident that we need more than wanting peace. It hasn't worked. We don't have enough paper in all the world to make treaties to stop all the fighting—after hundreds or thousands of years of conflict, a peace of paper is a really thin and fragile peace. In our own lives, we experience real hurt and real pain. There are wounds too big for bandages and stresses to strong for yoga or jogging. Underneath all our nice ideas about peace, we're often like the cactus—it still hurts to touch. There has to be something deeper.

But in the middle of this crazy world (which was just as crazy in the time this letter was written) this is what Paul had to say to the Colossians about peace:

“Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace.”

I think in this statement Paul recognizes a simple but vital concept when it comes to peace. I think the order of things in this verse matters. First he says “Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts,” then he goes on to say “since as members of one body you were called to peace.” Paul definitely doesn't let us off the hook about peace. Not only does he say it's a good idea—he says that as followers of Jesus we are CALLED to peace. It's a real responsibility. But it starts with the heart. REAL PEACE WORKS FROM THE INSIDE OUT. Just like Jeremy the cactus, you have to look at the inside to see if it's real.

That is the one concept I want to leave you with. REAL PEACE WORKS FROM THE INSIDE OUT. One word that Paul uses here really emphasizes that inside-out point-- since. Paul doesn't say to let the peace of Christ rule, then as members of one body work for peace. He says let the peace of Christ rule since as members of one body you were called to peace. I think the word since here is important. Basically, Paul is saying that the way we get to outward peace is to get inward peace with Christ. Cause and effect. Peace on the inside causes peace on the outside.

This is a huge topic—you could do a whole sermon series out of this thing! So I'm really going to simplify a bit here and just focus in my talk on the first half of this—the inside part, and then later on we're going to have some stories from other people that illustrate how this peace from the inside works its way out to make “real flowers,” in other words, to affect the outside.

“Let the Peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace”

I figured out the main point of what I was going to say easily enough, and the cactus illustration made for a great intro, but after that I had a really hard time figuring out what to say about this verse. I really wanted to take it and look at it in depth and give some practical pointers on how to have peace in your life—on how to make it work from the inside out. But this wasn't as easy as I thought it would be.

We talk about peace a lot. We say things like, “I just want some peace and quiet,” or we have catchy slogans like “give peace a chance.” Every contestant in every beauty pageant wants world peace. We hear people making a decision say things like “I just don't have peace about it.” We throw the word peace around as if it were an easy concept to grasp.

Except we all know that it isn't that easy. We're all broken. We all have wounds. We all have needs and rights. Wars, wounds, and scars run deep—how can we have peace when it still hurts? Is Paul crazy? No, I think that Paul is well aware of the existence of real pain and real conflict when he said this to the Colossians.

That's precisely why it's important to notice what he does and doesn't say in this verse. He doesn't say “be at peace” or “try to be peaceful.” He doesn't even leave his statement at “let peace rule in your hearts.” --he says the peace of CHRIST. That makes all the difference.

When we look at the life of Jesus (if you want a more detailed account, you can look at the Gospels), it doesn't look peaceful at all. His entire life on earth was under foreign occupation of His home country. His mother became pregnant before she was married—an unacceptable crime in Jewish culture at that time. As a baby, he fled with his family to Egypt to keep from being slaughtered by a jealous king. He openly contradicted the religious leaders of his time, sometimes speaking pretty harshly. He wept for Jerusalem. He openly grieved about the fact that He would have to die, and He was violently beaten and killed.

I don't know about you, but when I think of peace, I wouldn't include any of these things in my list of what a peaceful life includes! But it was precisely this life and violent death that bring us the peace of Christ. The peace of Christ doesn't just ignore or try to skirt around the existence of pain and conflict—it works through it! Earlier in Colossians, Paul says that the blood of Christ actually brought about peace with God!
“For God was pleased to have all His fullness dwell in Him, and through Him to reconcile to Himself all things, whether things on earth or things in heaven, by making PEACE through His blood, shed on the cross.” Col. 1:20

What I see in this verse is that the peace of Christ is different from any other peace because it is rooted in grace. It comes from a loving God that knows full well the extent of hurt and pain and violence, and chooses to come down and make peace right in the middle of it, even though those things are real, and ugly—because of grace. This is the peace that Paul is talking about when He tells us to let the peace of Christ rule in our hearts. Not a calm quiet, not a treaty, not a compromise—peace with God. So much more than what we can do or even imagine ourselves. Real peace, the peace of Christ—this peace that Paul says to let rule in our hearts, is dripping with GRACE.

Think about it—real peace can work from the inside out because of grace.

My current favorite song is “Grace” by U2, and the final lines of the song say “what once was hurt, what once was friction, what left a mark no longer stings, because Grace makes beauty out of ugly things.” I think that describes the peace of Christ so well. The peace of Christ. Peace that goes straight through prejudice, hurt feelings, religious differences, physical danger, grief, and even violence and death to bring about reconciliation with the creator of the universe. This is real peace. The peace of Christ, dripping with grace, that makes beauty out of ugly things.

Imagine the repercussions of this in our lives—this could be, and I believe it is, revolutionary! I can think of a couple immediate effects in my life, for example. I tend to overwork and worry about how I'm performing in front of other people. When I acknowledge that I have been reconciled to God through Christ, and if I have that relationship with the creator of the universe, my performance in front of others suddenly pales in comparison to what I already have. There's some emotional stability and removal of stress, from peace with God. I get annoyed when people are rude on the metro. But when my heart acknowledges that Jesus has died to forgive so much more than rudeness in my life, being polite to rude people pales in comparison to what Jesus has already done. I have peace with God, and that affects peace with those around me. Real peace works from the inside out.

These are small issues, and I think we all have bigger issues than rudeness or worry about performance. I think it's a pretty normal reaction to look at all this about peace and think “Yeah, it's a nice idea, but I'm carrying so much junk that gets in the way. How do I let the peace of Christ even get to my heart through all of it?” Sure, real peace works from the inside out, but doesn't it have to get in there in the first place?

There is a danger of being trite about this, saying “just have the peace of Christ,” especially for someone like me who has led a life pretty much void of major conflict or pain. But some things are big, and it won't work just to change a perspective and expect a quick fix. A quick fix would be just like Jeremy's flowers—they may look nice, but they're just stuck on the outside. The cactus still hurts.

It's all well and good to say that the peace of Christ works through all the junk and ugliness, but how? I don't think natural explanation is enough here. I think if natural explanation was enough, then none of us would need to hear about peace because we would have figured it all out already. I don't know how to explain how the grace covered peace of Christ works, so I'm going to borrow from a story....

In C.S. Lewis' book The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, there's this kid Eustace who is a real pain. Kind of like a Jeremy the cactus, coming into contact with him usually hurts. He doesn't have any real friends and always thinks everyone is out to get him. He is a miserable kid who tries to cover up his misery by complaining all the time and only thinking about himself. He has a knack for making everyone around him miserable. Through magic (since they're in a magical world) all his greed and selfishness, his hurt at not having friends, and his general rotten attitude that was such a part of his personality showed up very externally when Eustace became a dragon. He finally had become on the outside what he had been all along on the inside. Only then did he realize that he didn't want to be a dragon anymore...he wanted to be a real boy with real friends. In one way of looking at it, Eustace really wanted peace--he wanted to stop being miserable and stop making others miserable. In the scene I'm about to read, he meets a lion named Aslan (the creator of this magical world). Here's Eustace's side of the story:

“....I suddenly thought that dragons are snaky sort of things and snakes can cast their skins.....So I started scratching myself and my scales began coming off all over the place. And then I scratched a little deeper and, instead of just scales coming off here and there, my whole skin started peeling off beautifully....In a minute or two I just stepped out of it....It was a most lovely feeling....But just as I was going to put my foot into the water I looked down and saw that it was all hard and rough and wrinkled and scaly just as it had been before. Oh, that's all right, said I, it only means I had another smaller suit on underneath the first one, and I'll have to get out of it too. So I scratched and tore again and this under skin peeled off beautifully and out I stepped and left it lying beside the other one and went down to the well for my bathe.

“Well, exactly the same thing happened again. And I thought to myself, oh dear, how ever many skins have I got to take off?....Then the Lion said... “you will have to let me undress you. I was afraid of his claws, I can tell you, but I was pretty nearly desperate now. So I just lay flat down on my back to let him do it.

“The very first tear he made was so deep that I thought it had gone right into my heart. And when he began pulling the skin off, it hurt worse than anything I've ever felt. The only thing that made me able to bear it was just the pleasure of feeling the stuff peel off.

“...and there it was lying on the grass: only ever so much thicker, and darker, and more knobbly looking than the others had been. And there was I as smooth and soft as a peeled switch...”

I would love to keep reading, but you get the idea. I think we're often like Eustace when it comes to peace. I think we all have hurts and pain and selfishness and real issues that no matter how hard we try, we can't work through. It's like we've got this thick skin that causes us to hurt ourselves and others, and no matter how hard we work at it, it just won't go away. Real peace, the peace of Christ, works from the inside out—but letting the peace of Christ in is sometimes hard. Sometimes like Eustace we have a pretty thick skin that He has to get through to be able to start the work.

Just like Aslan to Eustace in the story, I think the peace of Christ can cut through all the nasty, knotty stuff we're carrying—what if just like Aslan, God is saying: “You have to let me do it. It's going to hurt, but I'll peel that stuff away and get rid of it for good.” Think again about the life of Jesus. The grace of Jesus Christ has worked through ugliness before. It has worked through pain before. It has worked through violence before. It has worked through insults and slander before. It has worked through death before. And it has brought about peace with God. It has taken very ugly things and made something beautiful.

Imagine that. It's easy to just think, oh that would be nice, but really imagine what would happen if we really believed this and let it happen. If we stopped worrying that we're not peaceful and trying to think peaceful thoughts and failing over and over. If we just quit the facade, pulled off the glue, threw out the fake flowers, and asked Christ for peace. Imagine what could happen if we really did let the peace of Christ rule in our hearts. Just imagine—real peace, from the inside, out. The peace of Christ offers an opportunity to be real, to be ourselves, to have Him remove all the junk that causes pain to ourselves and others. And He's simply saying “let me do it.” And like Eustace, we just have to be willing to let Him do it.

So we have these 2 characters: Jeremy, who has pretty flowers, but they're fake, and it hurts to touch him, and Eustace, who has this gross, thick ugly skin out where everyone can see, but he comes out real and smooth in the end.

I don't want to be like Jeremy the cactus. I don't want to spend my whole life working and working to feel peaceful, or to live peacefully, and never see a real change. I don't want the things I do to just be glued on the outside of me--I want to be real. I want real peace inside my heart. I want to be like Eustace. It may hurt more to get rid of this thick skin, but it's real.

REAL PEACE WORKS FROM THE INSIDE OUT.

It sounds elementary. It sounds too good to be true. It sounds too simple. I still want to complicate this, to add points and how to's and give you a list of practical steps to peace. But maybe it really is that simple. Maybe it's there for the asking. So I guess if I were to offer some practical steps to peace, I'll take you as far as step one, the tip of the iceberg—ask.

In a little while, we're going to have a couple stories of how the peace of Christ has played itself out in real life—from the inward change I've talked about to an outward expression. But before that, I'm going to finish the time of talking about the inside in the same way that I started, just reading this verse through a few times, but this time, as you repeat it silently, we can make it a prayer by changing the word “your” to “our.” It starts with the asking.

“Let the peace of Christ rule in our hearts, since as members of one body we were called to peace.”

“Let the peace of Christ rule in our hearts, since as members of one body we were called to peace.”

“Let the peace of Christ rule in our hearts, since as members of one body we were called to peace.”

The Magic Touch

2005-04-11T22:20:00.000-01:00

ok--first of all, i meant to add this entry last thursday, but i evidently broke blogger. add that to the list.....

What is it about not having a computer that makes me want to blog? Heather, I don't know how you survived 3 whole months without the internet. I almost didn't survive 4 days without my computer. I think that may make me a nerd. Oh well, no surprise there. I think it may have something to do with the fact that my computer is also my stereo, my dvd player, and my phone as well. Hmmmm.....how predictable of me--even my computer multitasks!!!!

Anyway, now is the time to make a list of all the things I broke between Friday and Tuesday.
1) The flower off of my cactus--maybe I was venting some rage at the fakeness of it.
2) The top of my cactus--this one was definitely intentional. I did it with scissors. It's real, by the way, but I think I killed part of it when I cut it open.
3) The bag that held my kebab. The sauce dissolved the bag and it fell through the bottom. Just in time for Troy, Heather, and the family to pull up in the car in front of St. Louis University and wonder at the grieved expression on my face. Once they got out of the car and saw the meaty mess, they were no longer wondering. They had moved on to trying to hold in laughter at least until they could tell that I wasn't too upset and I wouldn't be mad at them for laughing. They put forth a pretty good effort. I would have laughed much sooner if it had been one of them.
4) My kebab. When I showed it who was boss by picking the dirt off and eating it anyway. I was really hungry, and it had a paper wrapper that was fairly intact. It was quite a bit granier than usual, though.
5) My computer. I don't know what I did. It just decided it hated me Saturday night, and thus began the long saga of trying everything we knew, making a boot disk, figuring out that didn't work, buying an adaptor, copying lots of files, and restoring the system....because of the genius of a few friends, my files were saved and the lappy is functional again. I owe you guys a billion euros, or dollars, depending on your current residence. And one day you might just get one of those billion. Or a pastry.
6) The clasp to my coffee jar--only slightly less traumatizing than the computer.
7) My shoe. I was walking to the Crulls' flat to drop off my computer into Kelly's more capable hands (even if he is a mac freak), and by the time I got there I had developed a large hole in my shoe, where I had just sowed it back together 3 days earlier. Stupid cheap thread.
8) The lid to the Crulls' superglue bottle. --when I decided to try to be miss fix-it and get a little more wear out of the shoes.
9) The skin on my finger, when I superglued it to the inside of my shoe.
10) My shoe again, when the hole redeveloped at 11 that night. I think I've gotten my 1 euro's worth out of them.

I hope that's it. I can't think of anything else. After writing it out, I'm kind of afraid to touch anything ever again! That should make for an interesting life.......

I am an April Fool

2005-04-01T13:55:00.000-01:00

So today, I believed an April fools' day joke for a whole 5 minutes. I was convinced a friend of mine had set fire to her kitchen, and was having my own little moral dilemma of whether or not we could move her party to my apartment tonight. So as I am sitting here feeling all sorry for her and trying to figure out if I can have things clean enough for a party by eight, she and a couple other friends are laughing their heads off! You got me, Marianna.

This was the first joke. The second one is the one that makes me feel slightly more stupid.

My friend Matt #1 gave me a cactus with cute pink flowers on it for my birthday last June. We named it Jeremy. He said he gave me the cactus because he was pretty sure that was the only thing I could keep alive--I wasn't offended because he was right! I have kept the cactus alive all year...watering it every once in a while. It never gets any bigger, but it doesn't look brown and the flowers are still there and still hot pink. It's a resilient little plant.

Somehow I have a violet that has looked like it's about to die but has hung on the edge since last Easter. I'm pretty good at keeping bamboo alive, but that's just because you don't have to do anything. Even though it's just a cactus, I have to say I have been pretty proud of myself that Jeremy the cactus has looked so good all year. Until today.

Today, Victoria and Kris were commenting on the pink flowers on my cactus and how weird they were. Victoria said "Kelly, why do you have fake flowers on your cactus?"

I thought she was joking because, well, she's just like that. It's something she would say.

"No, really, Kelly. These are fake. They are held on by glue. Look!"

And so they are. Just to be sure, I pulled one of them off. No stem, no real connection. It looks like they used rubber cement. Now I'm wondering about the whole cactus. It hasn't gotten any bigger in a year--is the whole thing fake? The dirt is real. How do you test the authenticity of a cactus without cutting it in half and killing it?

I am an April fool.

ahhhhhhhh, spring

2005-03-10T17:25:00.000-01:00

I have no reason to write other than that I feel so dang good right now, I just have to tell someone about it. This is one of the better days off that I've had in a while. In the words of the great Victoria Stembokas, I am all kinds of content right now.

Until this week, I have been cold for 2 months. I mean, I have been alternating days between my fleece socks and my sweater socks, and only wearing shoes that fit over socks that thick, which means that for two months I have worn no shoes other than my adidas that should have been thrown away 6 years ago or my hot pink mesh sneakers. I have not worn less than 2 shirts at a time for 2 months. For 2 months, I have stooped to being one of those girls that always has to use a hairdryer because it has been too cold for wet hair. I could go on, but you get the idea. For 2 months, my life has revolved around being warm.

Ok, maybe it hasn't been 2 months of that. Maybe it was more like 4 or 5 weeks, but it has been really cold and I'm a whiner when it comes to that. The coldest winter Madrid has seen in 20 years.

But today my windows are open. Today, I spent about 15 minutes lying on a rock in the sun between a fountain, an egyptian temple, and a great view of the palace, with the sun beating down on my face, toasting my jeans and making my hair feel hot to the touch (it's not hot enough to hate having dark hair yet--it's still fun that the sun heats it up like a microwave or somthing). I ate it up. It was effortless comfort. I couldn't look to my right because the sun was too bright, but to my left I could see Madrid's beautiful sky--a shade of blue that you don't believe until you see it in person. If you're from Kentucky, imagine the color of the sky at 5:30 p.m. on a sunny August afternoon--it's that shade of blue, all the time. It's majestic. I'm pretty sure I could live in that spot.

I then proceeded to my second favorite acitivity (besides sunning myself on a rock like a seal)---tossing the frisbee. Kelly Crull and I tossed it back and forth for who knows how long (an hour maybe) and chatted about whatever came to our minds. I was pretty rusty after not having touched a frisbee in about 5 or 6 months, but all in all I didn't embarrass myself too badly. I'll have to rebuild that calloused place in between the pointer and middle finger from frisbee tossing, though. I have a blister.

I then walked home, somehow weaving around enough that I managed to turn a 20 minute walk into a 45 minute stroll, complete with a stop at Mercadona to pick up strawberries and bananas. The strawberries are finally in season--the kind that are so sweet and so good that when you take the first bite you can't help but make a noise. The bananas are always good here because they come from the Canary Islands. Mmmmmm.... If your mouth isn't watering yet, imagine chopping up the strawberries and bananas, throwing them in orange juice, and blending up a smoothie masterpiece.

I took off my shoes, rolled up my jeans, painted my toenails, and took in the open windowed, blue skied, smoothie perfection world that I live in today. I am all kinds of content right now.

ENMOCHILADA

2005-02-03T21:45:00.000-01:00

Ok, time for a quick Spanish lesson. Mochila=backpack.

Now for a quick spanish words made up by Kelly's crazy friends lesson:
mochilar=(v.) to hit someone with a backpack. (ex.--Hombre, que no me mochiles!=Hey dude! Don't hit me with your backpack!)
enmochilada=the trapped state of being pinned to a bus door because half of your backpack is on the inside and half is on the outside.

Yeah, that's right. I have experienced the horror of being enmochilada. Bigtime. I've gotten used to public transportation and have become much more aggresive about pushing my way onto a crowded bus or metro just like everyone else. Well, last Tuesday was no different. My friend Marianna and I were leaving class from the Geografia e Historia building, and as usual, there were more people waiting for the bus than would actually fit. Marianna made it, and I didn't want to wait for the next bus or ride all the way home by myself, so I followed. I was the last person on the bus, and luckily, i made it through the doors. As I started to move forward to wade through the sea of people so I could stamp my bus ticket, something stopped me from moving. It was then that I realized that my backpack had not been as lucky as I had. I couldn't turn around because I was stuck to a door, but out of the corner of my eye I could see my green jansport--on the outside of the glass doors. I tried to tell the bus driver that I was stuck and could he please open the door, but he either didn't hear or didn't care. The door didn't budge, and the backpack wouldn't pull through.

enmochilada

I tried to wriggle out of my backpack, but it was pulled tight by the door and I was weak from laughing, so I was stuck. Marianna, who was unhindered and could look outside, kept me posted on the pointing and facial expressions of the people walking and driving by. Evidently I entertained many people that day. Did I mention there was heavy traffic? It took over five minutes to get to the next stop, where the driver finally opened the door and I was able to move in, backpack intact, and stamp my ticket.

So now you have a first hand explanation of enmochilada. If you ever hear the word used in conversation, first of all, realize that they're speaking fake Spanish. Second of all, pat yourself on the back, because you know what they're talking about.

Hombre, que no me mochiles!

Waxing Philosophical on this one

2005-02-03T08:15:00.000-01:00

Ok, this one’s all philosophical and not really funny, so feel free to skip it if you were looking for a funny story. I promise, it won’t hurt my feelings. I’ll post a funny one tomorrow………

A friend in Colorado and I were talking on AIM tonight, and as usual, we ended up talking/halfway debating about spiritual things. I love these conversations. We’re both Christians, and we both get pretty passionate about what we talk about. Tonight, for some reason (I forget how we got started on this) we were talking about the passage in John (Ch. 11) when Lazarus died, and Jesus went to his grave and cried before raising him from the dead. If He knew that He was going to raise him from the dead, why did He cry? Was He crying for the unbelief of the family, or was He grieving the loss of His friend? Probably both. As I found out tonight, you can make a pretty convincing argument for both (props, Ryan). As we were talking, I started wondering why I was getting so worked up about what I was saying. Why is it so important to me that Jesus experienced real human grief over the loss of a friend at this moment? Why am I suddenly so concerned with Christ’s emotions at different moments in His life, and how that’s related to His redemptive power in the right now. I think a lot of it has to do with the context I’m in—the culture and religious background I live in.

In my Spanish Art History class, now that we’re into the middle ages and beyond, Jesus is pictured in almost every painting and carved into every church door facing we see. Depending on the period, He can look very different. In early gothic, for some reason, they made Him cross-eyed. Later, His eyes were fixed, but his beard had this weird chunk cut out of the middle. Often, He is pictured as a child sitting on Mary’s lap, blessing some king or other, or holding the world in His hand like a marble. (I’m going to do great on my final with all this technical terminology) The one thing that never EVER changes is the golden halo thing around His head—it kind of looks like a plate—and the peaceful, kind of sorrowful look on His face. Always the same. He never looks….normal. The only time He looks even remotely realistic is when He is on the cross, bleeding and suffering. In my lit class, the professor talks about how theater was banned because it was “sinful,” and in history, we learn about how the nobility came from the “old Christians,” ones who hadn’t converted recently and had pure (no Jewish or Muslim) blood. They were set apart and therefore they were not associated with the working class. People paid ridiculous sums of money or hurt themselves physically to earn forgiveness for sins. Several prominent writers, some of whom have now been sainted because of their passionate love for Jesus and work for His people, were imprisoned for heresy, etc. The idea of Jesus had become so cold, so distant, so separate from real human life that many of the leaders in the church distanced themselves from the normal world as well, and the people went on with life—God is way too holy for real people to have anything to do with Him.

21st century Spain is a very religious country—they have more festivals and saints days than I would have ever thought possible. But life in Moncloa—the party neighborhood—goes on as if the present is all that matters. Jesus came to earth, but His whole life here was a fairy tale. God is all the way up in Heaven, separated from normal people, so let’s do whatever we can to enjoy the next five minutes. What, you say Jesus is coming? I don’t see Him here now. What difference does it make? God doesn’t have anything to do with my little human life.

It’s dry. It’s cold. And it’s contagious. It’s so easy to get caught up in the present. “God, where are you?” “God, why is there so much pain?” “Why don’t I see any results from ministry?” “Why is this so hard?” It’s easy to be consumed by the 24 hours that I’m living in, or the hour, or the 10 minutes. I’m not so different from the Moncloa party crowd. But then I start condemning myself for being so present-minded, and suddenly I become the 16th century church, telling myself I’m sinful because of the way I feel, and how dare I question a holy God?

I think this is why the verse “Jesus wept” is so important to me. He cried! He mourned after a friend who died. He had real, harsh, human grief. He knew that He was about to raise Lazarus from the dead, but He cried anyway because it hurt to see His friend in a grave. The King of the universe cried! Even when He knew it was going to all work out ok, He cried, unashamedly, in public! I love that. I can relate to that. That’s human—it’s not a lack of faith, it’s emotion in response to pain.

For some reason—I’m still working out why—this verse just seems to sum up what I crave, and what I love so much about Jesus. He is real. He is in the present. He’s not someone that I can’t come to with my little daily issues and my big daily griefs.

I don’t know why, but this conversation—this verse—sparked something that I’ve been learning, and that I’ve been trying to articulate. I’m still looking into why “Jesus wept” points to Jesus being not only Almighty God, but also Lord of the right now, of my normal life. For some reason, it’s just important to me that He is, and that I can rest in that. Hopefully I’ll be able to flesh it out and articulate it properly one day. Probably when I’m 80. That seems to be when people get smart.

Ok, tomorrow, a funny story. I promise.

siesta

2005-01-16T05:01:00.000-01:00

Check out this article--it's all about a wonderful thing called the siesta.

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/01/12/international/europe/12letter.html?ex=1263272400&en=c7825e37cf5bf00f&ei=5088&partner=rssnyt

I can't figure out how to make a link, but you can copy and paste and get there.

The article questions why in the world Spain started having a siesta in the first place. Live in Madrid in July and August, mister. When it's so hot you can't move anyway, you might as well sleep. Maybe they just got tired of being miserable and thought they'd sleep through it. It worked for me last summer!

By the way, it's great to be back in Madrid.

Home For Christmas--First Impressions

2004-12-17T17:44:00.000-01:00

First of all, it's not even 11am yet and I've been awake for three hours--without an alarm. For the next few days, until my body adjusts to this time zone, I'm experiencing the wondrous phenomenon commonly known as "morning person-ness." If I felt like this all mornings, I wouldn't whine so much about my 9 am classes (or the 10 am ones, for that matter).

Last night, after an 8 hour flight from Madrid, a short layover in Philadelphia, and another short flight, I reached my marathon (3 hours) layover in Charlotte, NC. It was 7pm eastern time, but my body was pretty sure it was 1 am, and I was starving, so I immediately set out for some good southern food and beverage. Little did I know I would spend 45 minutes walking past restaurants, completely in awe of the variety of fast foods, the southern American accents all around me, and the flood of signs and advertisements, all in English. For a while, I felt disoriented, like I was a little out of place. The wonder soon faded to extreme hunger and exhaustion, however, and I managed to get through a line and collapse at a table with my Carolina Pit BBQ sandwich (slaw on the side) and sweet tea. And I had only said "Gracias" to one person behind the counter.

Ahhh--sweet nectar of life! Sweet tea in the south comes in three sizes: large, huge, and gluttony. I went straight for the G-sized tea and dove in as if it were an oasis in a carbonated, sugarless desert. My lips puckered with the oversweetness of the first sip, but as it hit my throat and the taste began to settle I sighed and smiled--pure gold. If there were an ocean of sweet tea, I'd be the first to swim in it. If I were stranded on a desert island but had a lifetime supply of sweet tea, I wouldn't complain. I love sweet tea more than chocolate--that's how much I love it.

Of course, seeing my family is wonderful, too. My mom and I both cried a little at the airport (she and I are cut from the same emotional cloth--no surprise there!), and it's been great just to hang out with them last night and this morning. Now I'm off to do a little shopping, and probably dive into some more sweet tea. I'm an addict, and I don't care.

2004-12-02T12:29:00.000-01:00

the best spanglish ever

The Grossest thing Ever

2004-11-26T23:29:00.000-01:00

Just in case you wondered, I love Madrid. I love living here, and there are tons of good things about the city. Unfortunately, those things don't make interesting stories. The story I am about to tell you is not for the faint of heart or for the weak of stomach. This is the literal DIRT of everyday life in the city.

There are tons of alimentaciones in my neighborhood--little stores with everything a gas station market in the States would sell, except the store fits it all into a room 1/10 the size of a gas station market, and there are usually some gummies of questionable freshness that can be dipped out of plastic bins. I pass 2 or 3 alimentaciones in my walk from the Moncloa metro station to my apartment.

It happened a few months ago, in the hottest part of the summer, when everyone feels gross anway. One day, as I was walking home from the metro, I saw a man in front of the alimentacion furiously trying to shove something into a garbage can on the sidewalk. Whatever the package was, it was bigger than the hole, and it looked like a wrestling match, and the package was winning. As I neared, slowing down to watch such an unusual show of activity in the 40+ (100+F) weather, the whole scene came into focus. The "package" was actually one of the largest pigeons I have ever seen in my life, limp and lifeless, held by the foot. With each bang against the small opening, feathers flew and it became disfigured a bit more.

Believe me, I am no pigeon sympathizer. Since one decided that my head was a public toilet in March, I daily fight the urge to kick them as I walk down the street. Still, witnessing it's plight for a proper burial evoked more emotion than I expected. No wait, that was my gag reflex.

By this time, the man had both hands on the body of the pigeon, pushing with all his might until, POP, it finally passed through the hole and came to rest. Finally, the scene was over. I could go home in peace. Nothing grosser could happen. The pigeon was beyond reach.

It was at that moment that I watched the impromptu pigeon coroner announce that he had finished his work....by brushing his hands against each other, sighing, and going back inside and BEHIND THE COUNTER OF THE ALIMENTACION WHERE HE WAS WORKING!!!! No instant hand sanitizer, not even a paper towel.

Needless to say, I buy my gummies elsewhere.

the roaring 80's

2004-11-19T22:31:00.000-01:00

My neighborhood is right next to one of the biggest universities in the world--it's full of students. Besides meaning that it is the clubbing destination for the under 20 crowd, it also means that it is a great place to come for cool shoe stores, seemingly hundreds of cute little accesory stores, and the latest fashions.

Mullets abound here. Business in the front, fiesta in the back. We're not talking about 40 year old rednecks with a beer gut, a dirty white tank top, and a gold chain, either. We're talking about guys and girls, my age, coming out of the expensive hairdressers looking like a million euros--or something like that. Famous singers have mullets. Some of my classmates have mullets. It's still gross. You can dress it up, give it money, put it on an attractive face, and it's still a mullet. You can put it in dreadlocks. It's still a mullet. You can dye it blue and/or red. It won't become something else. A mullet is a mullet is a mullet. A mullet by any other name will still look as nasty. I will let my hair grow to my ankles before I get a mullet.

I'm not as opposed to man-capri's as to mullets. On American men, yes, they look stupid. But I've actually seen some European men pull it off, and it doesn't look half bad. It probably has something to do with the fact that most of the men who wear them have legs that are thinner than most pencils.

Which brings me to female legwear--fishnet pantyhose and leg warmers. I think I want some! Does that mean it's time for me to go back to the States? I was looking for gloves yesterday on the way to meet some friends, and I was drawn to some cute black leg-sweater things in a window. Next thing I knew, I was picturing how cute they would look with one of my skirts and my black sweater. With my huge white hoops. I need a wide headband to finish off the ensemble. Good thing the legwarmers were ridiculously expensive. I almost got sucked in! And I can't believe I'm saying this, but I've seen fishnets being tastefully worn too--usually combined with a cute skirt and legwarmers. I think I need to have my temperature taken--this is not right!

There was a good reason for the 80's to be over, and I don't think anyone was too upset when that fashion era ended (although we got some great monster ballads out of the deal). We need to stand strong against the mulleted, pointy toed, leg warmered, hot pink and lime green wave of evil that is sweeping Europe and is already in the cities in the US. We need to stand together in our boot-cut glory and shout a resounding NO!

I will never get a mullet.

Caedmon's call goes U2

2004-11-15T22:49:00.000-01:00

Just in case you don't read the rest of this because it's too political or whatever for you, I'll go ahead and start by saying BUY THE NEW CAEDMON'S CALL CD!!!!!!!!!!!! I just bought it from itunes, and it's amazing. That said, I can now tell you why.

I have had several conversations with friends in the past about frustrations with Christian bands/singers. The complaints have a pretty wide range--everything from not liking Michael W. Smith's voice (my own personal complaint) and the fact that he sticks out his chin when he hits high notes to theological disagreements with their messages. One recurring theme, however, has been a general disappointment in what the ones who "make it big" do with their fame--for the most part, nothing. With the money that they are making and the influence that they have within the Christian community and sometimes in our society in general, couldn't they be doing more around the world?

I think U2 is a good example of what a bunch of regular guys in a band can actually do. I love reading about Bono, the lead singer, and all the cool stuff he does. I'm not saying his Christian example has always been perfect (whose has?) but man, he is passionate about using the stuff God has given him to be the body of Christ in the world, especially concerning the AIDS epidemic that is tearing Africa apart. He has used his fame and money to do everything from taking personal trips to Africa with different aid organizations to successfully lobbying for the US government to give $5 billion in relief, and he has been persistent in asking Western governments to cancel debt in these countries so they can start to stand on their own feet. Funny how they are the first example that comes to my mind on what a Christian band should do, and they have never been a "Christian" band in the marketing sense.

All this being said, when I read a review of the new Caedmon's Call CD in Relevant Magazine, I was pleasantly surprised to see that their newest effort is artistically and socially being compared to the significance U2's "The Joshua Tree." After looking at their own story on their website (http://www.caedmonscall.com/ns/about.htm) and buying and listening to their CD, I'm even more impressed. Artistically, it is a huge step up from their last album, with lots of international influence from recent travels to India, Ecuador, and Brazil. It's a lot of fun to listen to! Also, the band has become involved with a great organization called the Dalit Freedom Network. The Dalit are one of the untouchable castes in India, consisting of about 250 million people, who basically have no rights whatsoever. (The website explains it better than I do!) Besides raising awareness with some tough lyrics, they are raising money through sales and concerts to benefit organizations they support (including DFN), and they are also planning specifically to build two Dalit schools so the children from that caste can have a chance at education like kids from higher castes.

In other words, Caedmon's Call has gone U2--praise God! If you were thinking about buying the CD, please do! It's worth it to listen to, and it goes to people who are actually DOING SOMETHING!

Christmas Break to do list

2004-11-12T06:00:00.000-01:00

Considering the content of the blog I just finished writing (all about realizing I'm getting adjusted), this one is going to sound totally contradictory. Sorry! Trust me, it's entirely possible to feel at home in one place and miss a thousand things from another all at the same time.

Anyone who has talked to me in the past month has heard (probably multiple times) that I'm very excited to go back to the states for Christmas. It's starting to look like I'll be busy while I'm there, though....here is a list of things that HAVE TO GET DONE while I'm in the states:

1)Hug my mom and probably make a fool of myself in the airport. Kiss, hug, cuddle, etc. the whole family until they make me stop.

2)Immediately grab the 32 oz. sweet tea out of my sister's hand and start guzzling--at 75 cents,
I can afford to guzzle!

3)Stand in Wal-Mart and hug the first (and 2nd and 3rd and 4th) person who says "Can I help you?" or "Have a nice day!"

4)Relish in the fact that as I stand there and make an idiot of myself, people will walk around me (not into me), guaranteeing us both our 3 feet of personal space.

5)Drive a car.

6)Go out and not come home smelling like an ashtray.

7)Breathe in deeply, and NOT smell body odor, smoke, or exhaust (I'll have to remember not to try this in Don's Super Saver--I'm pretty sure they don't meet the body odor requirement)

8)Make a phone call to someone who lives down the street--and not have to sell a kidney to pay for it

9)Go to a bank at 3 pm and thank them for being open after 2.

10)Eat dinner before 10pm.

11)Go entire days without seeing anyone making out in public.

12)Walk down a street and not see dog poo on a sidewalk.

13)Go to the post office, rather than the tobacco store, to be able to buy a stamp.

14)Have a milkshake which actually consists of more than milk that has been shaken up.

15)Go weeks without anyone asking me who I voted for or if I have contemplated suicide over the results of the election.

16)Look at a digital clock and see 8:30 instead of 20:30.

And last, but definitely not least, I will:

17) SPEAK ONLY ONE LANGUAGE!

Wow, I need to get off of the computer and start preparing. This is going to be a busy trip.

Adjustment

2004-11-12T05:34:00.000-01:00

Evidently I have been feeling adjusted to Madrid for a while now. I was talking to a friend who is fairly new here the other day, and I made the offhand comment that one good thing about the cold weather is that there is much less body odor on the metro. Her laugh confused me at first, and then I realized she thought I had made a joke. Maybe she hasn't ridden the metro in July or August.

Thursdays are my day off, so today, my friend Brianna and I walked around Madrid with her mom and grandmother who are visiting from the states. Starting at the big statue of a bear in Sol, we walked to the Plaza Mayor, where Brianna and I both commented that we loved the accordion music there. When we thought about why, we realized it was because it made us feel like we're in a square full of people and outdoor cafe's, where all the buildings are a few hundred years old and time seems to stand still. Then we realized maybe it wasn't just the accordions that made us feel that way--maybe it was that we were standing in the middle of a square full of people and outdoor cafe's, where all the buildings are a few hundred years old and time seems to stand still! Then, we went on down Calle Mayor until we reached the Catedral de la Almudena and the Palacio Real. While they looked inside the cathedral, I waited outside in the courtyard between the cathedral and the palace. I was still working on my chupa chup (the best lollipops in the world) and I didn't want to be irreverent (or get dirty looks) by taking candy inside.

The weather today was cold and windy, and as I waited for them to come back out, oohing and aahing, I looked for the sunniest spot I could find on the square and thought about what a nice day it was. Sound carries so well in that square, bouncing off the two huge and beautiful buildings, and I could hear the saxophone player as if he were right next to me, even though he was probably a couple hundred meters away, on the other side of the street from the square. I thought he was pretty good and I would make sure to give him some change, and then realized I had spent all my money on my chupa chup, and now I didn't even have that left. I tried to figure out what language the tourists behind me were speaking, and eventually narrowed it down to Russian--not because I know one word of Russian, but because it sounded kind of like the accents of the Russians in Air Force One. (I, evidently, have become a master linguist.) I looked over the hills and commented to myself (I hope not out loud) that it was a nice clear day--I couldn't see a brown line between the city and the sky.

It amazes me that I can remember my thoughts from today, a normal day, and I can't think of one that would have come into my mind a year ago. But somehow they all pass through my brain without any event or celebration--it's just normal life.

The human brain amazes me. As much as you can have culture shock, homesickness, complaining, and cravings for foods and facial products you can't get here, you still adjust. I found out pretty quickly that I can't force myself to adjust--that I can't make myself feel at home here before I'm ready to feel at home here. And then one day, standing in between a cathedral and a palace, listening to a street musician, trying to decipher a foreign language, commenting on pollution, and all the time sucking on a chupa chup, I realize that it has happened. My life is normal here. I didn't tell myself to think normal thoughts or to have normal days, it just happened.

Some days I still wake up and it takes me a few minutes to remember I'm in Spain. But then I get up, make my coffee, shower, and go on with life. It doesn't stop or wait for me to orient myself. And somehow, little by little, I adjust--I guess adjusting is just another normal part of life.

As for the metro in July and August--there are some things which I believe have no chance of adjustment. And anyway, do I really want to get used to body odor on public transportation?????

Happy Now?

2004-10-18T16:40:00.000-01:00

So I've finally done it. Here it is....my blog. We will have a short pause for applause and shouts of celebration. Feel free to dance.

I was going to type a long entry tonight, but now my pinkie finger is throbbing. Today I discovered that cutting chorizo with shaky hands can be a little dangerous. I also learned that my finger is about the same consistency as chorizo, so you don't immediately notice when you've passed from one to the other. Anyone know how to tell if you need stitches?