Coming Up Short

Of all the gin joints...

2011-12-12T11:02:00.003-06:00

"Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine." - Casablanca

Our first few weeks in Bangkok at The School were filled with frustrations and challenges. This is a campus riddled with inefficiencies that are truly maddening, and I liken it to Alice's rabbit hole, because they seem to go deeper and deeper the more you seek resolution. However, early on, we had a most unexpected turn of luck.

It was one of our first days of school, back in May.

Before coming to Bangkok, David and I had searched extensively online to see if there was any trace of a swing dance scene in the City of Angels. Unfortunately, there was none to be found. We resigned ourselves to a year without swing dancing and boarded the plane.

We arrived on a Sunday, May 1st, around 9AM. We reported to work for the first time at 8:30 the next day. We quickly began to take stock of the school and our situation.

On one of our first days on campus, David was in the computer lab, prepping for his classes. He glanced over at the next computer screen, where the teacher next to him was updating a Facebook page for "Bangkok Swing". Imagine his surprise!

It seems that, out of the hundreds of schools in Bangkok, we happened to work at the exact same school and campus as Ben Lepp, the guy responsible for getting the swing scene started in Bangkok. They had also just recently launched their website and Facebook page, and it turned out that we arrived just as the Bangkok swing scene was set to explode.

The weeks and months that have followed have contained weekly social dancing, lessons, and much joy, fellowship, and great friendships.

I can't describe the feeling I had then, and still have every time I think about that day. The best word for it would have to be "blessed". There are two communities in the world where I feel most at home, and they are among Christians and swing dancers. It was like getting a bear hug from Jesus to walk out of all that was familiar back home in Winnipeg and straight into the arms of the swing community in Bangkok, Thailand. Even more so as the resulting conversations with Ben revealed that he usually avoids letting his co-workers know about his hobbies outside of school hours. We could have very easily been working alongside Ben for months without ever knowing that he was the guy hosting weekly dance nights on the gorgeous dance floor in his amazing apartment, but for the providence of God in this most fortunate coincidence. It was one of those times when you could almost feel God smiling on you.

And so it began, making a home in Bangkok.

City of Angels

2011-12-09T10:37:00.001-06:00

I don't know why I haven't been blogging this year of my life in Thailand.

Especially since so many wonderful things have happened here.

Especially since this is a road I'll only pass by once.

Nevertheless, I'm here now, fingers on the keyboard.

Hello, old friend.

It's been 7 months and some since we came to Thailand. I say we because, for the first time in my wandering life, I didn't go alone. Despite the uncertainty and the "awkwardness" of old-fashioned relationships in a modern world, David and I got on a plane together. Craziness, I'm sure. But it's not the first crazy scheme I've had, and I certainly hope it won't be the last.

There have been so many challenges since landing in the City of Angels. More, it sometimes feels, than my fair share. But there have been some brilliant moments, too, and they are worth enshrining with words.

Stay tuned.

The Unbeautiful Letdown

2009-12-09T09:31:00.008-06:00

There are two adoptions ongoing with children here at Hogar Amiguitos. One of them is very close to my heart personally, as my dear friends Karel and Myra Norman from Seattle, now missionaries in Managua, are in the final (and I mean final) stages of their adoption of fifteen-year-old Nora, and interesting but joyful addition to their current family of two blonde little girls, aged 5 and 2. While the ink probably won't dry on those papers before I leave Nicaragua, I'm expecting to hear the exciting news in early January that all is said and done. Nora has told me that she's going to be calling me "aunt" once the adoption goes through, and we're right now packing up and getting ready to head to Managua on Friday to stay with the Normans, and there's a good chance that Nora won't ever have to leave them again... this week they're trying to get the two final steps finished with Mi Familia in order to have Nora live with them permanently during the last stages of the adoption process.

In the midst of the overwhelming joy of God's provision and goodness, another hoped-for family has crumbled before our eyes. It's been a six-year battle for Francys (16), Regina (12), and Ricardo (9) to be adopted by a then-childless American family (who I'll call the Greens), who fell in love with them years ago during a short-term missions trip to Hogar Amiguitos. As Joy put it, it was an adoption which never should have started. Francys's (and her siblings') mother lives right here in Jinotega, where she has custody of another one of their siblings, Francisco, who used to also be in our care. With two living parents, Francys' family is not "adoptable." Joy didn't work here when the adoption began, but according to her, no one should have ever told the Greens they could adopt these three.

I will tell this story mostly from Francys' perspective, as she is the one who has ridden this emotional roller coaster from beginning to end. When her adoption began at ten years old, the Greens hired a local lawyer for the Nicaraguan side of the paperwork, a close family friend of Francys', whom she viewed essentially as a father. For three years, he took the Greens' money and lied to them, always saying "one more paper, just this paper now," while never turning in a stitch of paperwork for their adoption. When the lie was discovered, Francys was devastated, on so many levels.

The Greens were at a crossroads, having poured out money and hopes for three years for nothing. They made the difficult decision to start the process over again with a different lawyer, and were met with the challenging truth that Francys' family were not eligible for adoption. Joy and the family's lawyer had to do a lot of work, tracking down Francys and family's birth parents, and having to persuade them to give up their children as abandoned so that they would be eligible for a better life and an America-sized opportunity. Eventually, this piece of the puzzle fell in to place. The Mi Familia employees on the case began to shed their skepticism and actually became enthusiastic about the case. The adoption was moving forward and all looked well, until too much time passed and Francys turned 16 years old.

Children in Nicaragua cannot be adopted over the age of 16. On Francys' sixteenth birthday, she recieved an e-mail from the Greens saying that they loved her very much, but now that she was 16 they wouldn't be able to adopt her. Francys received this devastating news and another broken heart.

This wasn't exactly the truth. Joy and the lawyers were working hard to have Mi Familia make an exception due to the extenuating circumstances that a) Francys' adoption was part of the adoption of a larger family unit, and b) the adoption process had been begun before (and well before, mind you) Francys turned 16.

Permission was given, and the adoption once again held promise. Momentum built as Mi Familia strove to help the Greens, and eventually everything was in order and on the verge of completion. For the past six months or so, everything has been finished here on the Nicaraguan end, with Mi Familia employees assuring Joy that once the Greens submit their paperwork from the States, they'll push the thing through.

The American paperwork never came. Joy returned from three months in the States and resumed her work and communications with the Greens, and told them that they were on the verge of losing the thing again, that the Nicaraguan paperwork would soon expire if they didn't submit their American paperwork and the $2000 adoption fee, and the Greens stated that their situation had changed, they're no longer employed, can't afford the fee, and that without employment, they won't get permission to adopt. They've changed their strategy. They've decided to sell everything, move to Nicaragua, and begin the adoption process again.

This new plan will take years, and guarantees that they will not be able to adopt Francys. While they may still have a window of opportunity to adopt Regina and Ricardo, this moment in time is their last and only chance for Francys. And while their new pipe dream is a remote possibility, it doesn't hold water and is predicated on a host of unlikely odds - selling their house on the current American housing market, moving to a country where they don't speak the language, finding employment in fields where they have no experience. Despite Joy's urging that they get it together and stick to the original (and so close to completion we can taste it) plan, they've determined that this new road is the best one, directly against the explicit counsel of all involved lawyers.

Last week, Francys sat down with Joy for a Skype conversation with the Greens, where she was devastated and blindsided by the final truth of the matter. The Greens won't be adopting her. Her home is, and will always be, Hogar Amiguitos. She walked out of the office, tear stained and bruised yet again, quietly resigned that "I'm finished. That's been enough." No bitterness or anger, but a desire to keep her heart out of the battlefield from now on.

This all breaks my heart because honestly, Francys is my hero. If you could have the pleasure of sitting with her on the porch of Hogar Amiguitos as I have and hear her life story, I am certain that admiration and awe for this young woman would well up in you as well. Her 16-year history is an epic story of beauty and pain, most of the beauty emanating from the power of Christ in her to bring forgiveness and understanding to the unforgivable and incomprehensible.

Recently Francys saw her mother at her other brother's sixth-grade promotion. Drunk and nervous, her mother was completely unprepared to play her role in her son's monumental day. Francys found herself once again donning the role of mother to her mother, as she was to her siblings as well for most of her childhood, combing her mother's hair, doing her makeup, making her presentable, with Joy giving Francys' mother the gift she'd brought for Francisco so that he would not experience the embarrassment of meeting his mother empty-handed during the gift-giving part of the ceremony. Joy described what it was like to see Francys act the mother, while her own mother said she was "too nervous," "couldn't do it, and why don't you just do it, Francys?" Francys firmly told her mother that she was here, and it was her job.

Francys told me that she overheard someone ask her mother if she and Francys were sisters, and that her mother responded, "No, she's just a friend."

She's been taking it for sixteen years, and you'd think she'd have seen it all by now, from a mother that taught her as a child how to mix liquors to make them even stronger, and how to do drugs, when she should have been teaching her how to read. But her mother's creative capacity for inflicting hurt and destruction on her children appears to have not yet reached its most profound low. Hearing her mother disown her publicly on what should have been an occasion for maternal pride was just such an experience.

What amazes me about Francys is her stability and security where she is, directly in the centre of the will of God. She clings to the love and protection that God has provided her at the hands of Joy and holds to its promise and protection in the face of every conceivable offense. She is filled with contentment and peace in the midst of enraging personal injustice. She martyrs herself daily for the siblings she protected and raised before coming to Hogar Amiguitos (she hasn't yet shared with them that the adoption won't be happening for her, as adoption still remains a possibility for them). And since she's come to Hogar Amiguitos, she's had to learn how to let them go, that her job is not to parent them but to be a child herself.

There's not much childlike about her. Even Joy says she often has to remind herself that Francys is only sixteen, on those occasions when Francys does something uncharacteristically age-appropriate. Truth and wisdom flow out of her mouth when she talks about her early misfortunes and her later experiences. Her heart is set after Christ's own heart, and it is her saving grace.

God's will for Francys is firmly set, and it is good, rich with blessing and promise. If you look with the right eyes, you will see it woven all through the tapestry of heartache and abandonment. God's will, it seems, does not include an American adoptive family. But it certainly does seem to include a firm, dedicated, unmarried American woman who raises Nicaraguan children to love and serve their God in the days of their youth.

Plus one!

2009-12-01T09:34:00.025-06:00

Last Friday, the family at Hogar Amiguitos recieved a new addition; a little boy who we're guessing is six, named Janiel (HaniEL). He showed up quite sick with bronchitis, smelling of urine, and not saying much. Mi Familia, the ministry of families in Nicaragua, is trying to find his family, but we have nothing to go on right now; we're not even sure if we got his name right.

This has been my first time here taking in a new child, and it's been interesting to watch his adjustment to life at Hogar Amiguitos. Joy provides a helpful commentary to the process, since having been here for four years now, she's seen this many times. You can imagine the struggles that arise in taking a child who is completely unused to chores, responsibilities, and consequences, much less schedules, bedtimes, two-hour study times and regular showers entering into this highly structured environment. Inevitably, there's resistance.

Janiel is definitely the youngest we have here (although Xochilt and Luz, at 7 and 8, are actually not that much older - I had previously said, I believe, that they're nine, but that's not the case). This, I think, has actually been an advantage for having him adjust to life here, as he looks to the other kids for an example and is also still young enough to be fairly easily molded - he hasn't had as much time to harden.

Janiel's first day at Hogar Amiguitos was quite the kick-off. He showed up in the middle of the afternoon with the staff of Mi Familia without any warning. We spent a fair amount of the afternoon hunting down supplies and clothes for him (all of the clothes our children receive are the pick of the litter in terms of donations - everything they wear they received new with tags on). He's a pretty tiny kid, only slightly bigger than Adán, so most of his pants he's wearing gangster style. Joy says he'll grow like a weed now that he's eating meat and vegetables every day. After he had been bathed and dressed he joined into the afternoon study time with a colouring book and some crayons (hey, who knew that the Spanish word for crayons is crayola?)

We had a group visiting us that evening - an American family visiting on vacation - and they spoiled the kids rotten. All of the girls 12 and up went with them on a shopping spree - I don't think they had any idea how much money $50 American each is here... $1000 Cordobas goes a long way. That evening we had a fiesta in honour of several occasions at once; the graduation of Angelica, welcoming Janiel to the home, and, since American Thanksgiving had just passed without fanfare, the beginning of the Christmas season. That night we had the most epic piñata ever! It was the largest piñata I've ever seen in my life, and it was stuffed to the hooves (it was a pony) with candy. The thing was large enough that Adán could have ridden it (and he did, actually, but not quite like you're thinking...)

However, the evening took a nasty turn at bedtime when Janiel, hyped up on candy, discovered that we were going to keep the candy in the office for the night, each bag carefully labelled according to each child. Things only got worse when it came time to give him the several prescription medicines the Mi Familia staff had brought with them for him. It took three people holding him, one holding his nose shut to force him to swallow, before we were able to get the much-needed medication into his system. The next morning, we started hiding it in his food.

Generally, according to Joy, new kids learn quickly here as the others take him or her under their wings and show them the ropes. So it has been with Janiel, for the most part. I've been actually quite surprised at how quickly he's adjusted to the rules and consequences here, especially when I recall the first few epic battles of will. But really, I think he's too young to really feel empowered to challenge the authorities. And, he's not a bad kid.

I held my breath for a few of the "firsts"; his first visit to the cancha (he ran outside and down the hill and had to be carried back in, after which he laid down on the floor by his chair and cried), his first few mornings of participating in our daily two-hour work-time (gardening, grass-cutting, raking, etc), and his first time having to drink his milk laced with Amoxicillin. But honestly, I haven't had to have the same fight with Janiel more than once so far. I'd say he's getting along quite well.

*****

On Sunday we decorated the Christmas tree! This is one story that can be better told with photos...

Xochilt assembling a Christmas drum ornament.

Jeyson preparing to hang the stockings.

Jonathan wraps the tree with coloured lights.

Janiel carefully hanging ornaments.

Joy and the children adding the final touches to the tree.

*****

In closing, I thought I'd share a few of my firsts that have occurred in the past few weeks:

- I have begun driving in Central America - a very different thing from driving back home.

- I've eaten raw sugarcane - like, one of the kids showed up with a hunk of sugarcane he'd just plucked from where it was growing nearby.

- I've learned to make tortillas! (Corn tortillas, that is.)

- I taught my first (wildly unsuccessful) swing dance lesson in Spanish.

- I read my first (and second) novel in Spanish.

- I've learned how to do a decent moonwalk (yes, we're talking Michael Jackson's moonwalk, and I said decent)

- I've taught the kids the valuable life skill of being able to say "Video Killed The Radio Star" in English.

- and, most recently, I planned and executed a completely superfluous virtual substitute holiday.

And you know, other than that, just hanging out with some pretty sweet kids.

twenty-four.

2009-11-24T20:16:00.005-06:00

Today didn't go anything like I expected... which, I guess I should have expected. Such is life.

Today I had opted to take my "free day" of the week, trading off of my usual Wednesdays, to perhaps go to the pool in Jinotega or do something fun and celebratory. However, both our Social Worker and our Psychologist (otherwise known as our entire daytime staff) were not here today. Additionally, Joy was in Jinotega for a conference on human trafficking all morning. So, the idea of the free day flew right out the window.

However, I had the best (and only adequate) pizza I've had since coming down to Central America today, made by the skilled hands of our cook, Doña Martita. The way it works is that on one's birthday, they may request their favorite meal, which will be served for lunch. I asked for pizza, fried plantains (HEAVEN!), and Coke. Because pizza needs Coke. Everyone knows this.

So, Martita is amazing, and my mouth's already watering, because tomorrow she's making lasagna in celebration of Irma's birthday. Irma's turning 17 tomorrow. Now that I come to think of it, I really have no idea how any of these people ever came to try lasagna, much less have it as their favorite meal! I guess the gringo influence here has been pretty strong over the years, though.

A few quick updates on what's new here:

-Joy has returned! Last Monday evening, Joy returned from a three-month absence from her home and ministry for the last four years. She had been spending the last several months back in the States with her family, as her mom was very sick, and recently passed away after a tough battle with cancer. Please keep her in your prayers as she's returning to a very demanding and isolating job with a lot on her mind and a lot of emotions to work through with the passing of her mother.

-School's out! As of last Friday, the kids have completed their scholastic year, and are now home for two months of vacation... yikes! The pace has shifted significantly and my nice, quiet afternoons while the kids were in school are no more.

-We gained one! Olvis (Olbeese), one of the teenage boys who lives at our other home has recently been transferred back here. He's been down at Los Cedros for the past year, but had not been adjusting well down there, and so the decision was recently made to bring him back here, where the staff know him and are better-equipped to help him with his emotional issues, which had begun to resurface more and more since his move to Los Cedros.

-We also lost one. But in this case, it's not a bad thing, it's a very good thing for her! Ana, the 10-year-old adopted daughter of one of Globe International's missionaries (the woman who started this home), has been living here with us at Hogar Amiguitos, under the care of Joy, who's like an aunt to her. Her learning disabilities had caused her to struggle significantly in the American school system, so her mother made the decision to send her back to Nicaragua to see how she fared in the Nicaraguan school system, and also to help her to improve her Spanish literacy (Orally, she's fully bilingual. Literarily, she struggles in two languages.) Now that the school year's over, she gets to go back to the States to spend the holidays with her family.

- I am already looking forward into the Christmas season (I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-NOG!'s Eve, anyone?) and the month of January, and chief on my list of concerns is whether or not I'll be able to find a consistent supply of plaintains back home in Winnipeg (think: larger, less sweet bananas). Fried plantains with cream is a dish that I fell in love with several years back in Guatemala, but now that they've been a steady part of my diet for the past two months, my feelings have only grown stronger and more sure. It's the real thing; I know it.

These are some of the most recent developments here at our home.

Today I turned twenty-four. My champagne birthday. And of course, under contract to the ministry here, I'm definitely not cracking any champagne in celebration of the occasion (which feels like a shame, in a way). It is, however, the perfect opportunity to share one of my favorite songs with my readership, written by Mr. Jon Foreman of Switchfoot in his twenty-fourth year under the sun. I first heard this song on my last three-month Central American foray, played by my friend Andrew Stock in a small room for a small group of Canadians in Guatemala, when I was 18 years old. I still love it to death.

It's called twenty-four. Please sit back, pour yourself a glass of champagne (or sparkling grape juice, according to your conscience), and enjoy.

Twenty four oceans, twenty four skies
Twenty four failures in twenty four tries
Twenty four finds me in twenty-fourth place,
with twenty four drop outs at the end of the day.
Life is not what I thought it was twenty four hours ago
Still I'm singing, "Spirit, take me up in arms with You."
And I'm not who I thought I was twenty four hours ago
Still I'm singing, "Spirit, take me up in arms with You."

There's twenty four reasons to admit that I'm wrong,
With all my excuses still twenty four strong.
You see I'm not copping out,
not copping out,
not copping out when You're raising the dead in me.
Oh, I am the second man - oh, I am the second man now.
Oh, I am the second man now.

And You're raising these twenty four voices with twenty four hearts.
All of my symphonies in twenty four parts.
But I want to be one today, centered and true.
I'm singing, "Spirit, take me up in arms with You" - You're raising the dead in me.

Oh, I am the second man - oh, I am the second man now.
Oh, I am the second man now, and You're raising the dead in me.

I want to see miracles; to see the world change.
I wrestled the angel for more than a name;
For more than a feeling; For more than a cause.
I'm singing, "Spirit take me up in arms with You" - And You're raising the dead in me.

Turn it up, close your eyes, and pray it.

Recoil.

2009-11-21T10:52:00.029-06:00

For if you forgive men when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive men their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.
- Matthew 6:14-15

"So watch yourselves. If your brother sins, rebuke him, and if he repents, forgive him. If he sins against you seven times in a day, and seven times comes back to you and says, 'I repent,' forgive him." The apostles said to the Lord, "Increase our faith!"
- Luke 17:3-5

Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, "Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me? Up to seven times?"
Jesus answered, "I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times."
-Matthew 18:21-22

The question at the heart of Peter's inquiry is really one of shrinking back. God has called us to extend grace as unconditionally as He does, to those as similarly unworthy of it as are we. Endlessly. Ceaselessly. Tirelessly. And without fail. And our question to God is, "When have we suffered enough?"

At the core of our dark hearts there exists a desire to self-justify; to master; to dominate. This is the chief of our sins against God. And while our redeemed self struggles to grant forgiveness, our unjustified nature forever tempts us with the sentiment that "you've taken enough."

We want so much to be let off the hook. To win for once; to be right for once. To have our pity party, blaming the other; to nobly tell our friends, "I put up with a lot, but this was the final straw," and receive forthwith their approval, sympathy, and corresponding pats on the back.

There is no room for this in Love. And lucky for us, because if anyone has the right to say "I've taken more than I deserve," it would be our Perfect and Crucified Lord. However, He tirelessly holds out the forgiveness of the cross, suffering the humiliation of our scorn, distain, and disregard, (and we His saints), all for the joy set before Him which He receives in those brief moments that we remember ourselves and our Father, our Lord, and our rightful source of Justice.

All of our flesh demands to be "let off the hook." We can't stand humiliation, embarassment, and to be subject to disrespect at the hands of a fellow human being. We're confident that we're better than that. Something deep inside of us insists we be treated better than that.

Yet there remains Christ's uncompromising call for complete, humiliating, tireless forgiveness. And we want so badly to be let off the hook of it, if only for a moment, and experience the soothing relief of vindication.

The hook is our life. It is our saving grace. Vindication exists only for the sad souls that haven't the strength to push on, fight through for their salvation. It is not, of course, a matter of earning it. It is a matter of holding it forth as the only truth of our lives, affirming our conviction of and commitment to the knowledge that "You, Lord, are better; are sweeter."

Piper says that all of Christian life is a fight to "become who you are." Those who have tasted grace know how hard it is to take hold of it, to make Christ's nature their own. Yet in Christ, we are now saints. We fight daily against our old selves; our small selves; our sad, bitter, pitiful selves. This is no longer who we are.

Fight to take hold of your true self in Christ. Don't shrink back; don't recoil from it into your smaller, uninspired, unredeemed self. Even Paul said that he had not yet attained it; "but I press on." May you too press on.

Allow God's conviction to break you. Agree with Him when He declares what is good and what is selfish. Let it break your heart when you see it in yourself. And let your agreement with Him turn you away from who you have been, to become who you are.

This day I call heaven and earth as witnesses against you that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life, so that you and your children may live and that you may love the Lord your God, listen to his voice, and hold fast to him.

For the Lord is your life.

- Deuteronomy 30:19-20a

Stepping Into My Classroom...

2009-11-12T22:22:00.008-06:00

It seems to me that the last several entries have been rather heavy, so this one ought to lighten things up, I hope!

I wanted to share with you some of the tools I've been creating to teach the children of Hogar Amiguitos English. So far we've learned the days of the week, the months of the year, the English Alphabet, and the 7 basic English subjects.

One of the things I've been emphasizing the most with the kids is proper English pronunciation. Oh, and spelling using the English Alphabet. I thought I'd share with you guys the tools I've been developing to help the kids learn proper English pronunciation.

I'm very careful in class to emphasize over and over again that the pronunciation hints I give the kids should NEVER be used as written English, as it looks basically like gibberish. However, when the kids read my gibberish in Spanish pronunciation, it comes out as close to perfect English as we can get it.

Here are some examples, copied from my blackboard:

Days of the Week
days= dias
week= semana

Español Ingles Pronunciacion
Lunes - Monday - Mandey
Martes - Tuesday - Tusdey
Miercoles - Wednesday - Wensdey
Jueves - Thursday - Thersdey (they have to work on the TH sound)
Viernes - Friday - Fraydey
Sabado - Saturday - Saderdey
Domingo - Sunday - Sandey

Here's the English Alphabet with Spanish Pronunciation. Please note that while the English alphabet has 26 letters, the Spanish alphabet has 27-29, as the letter "ñ" (pronounced "enyay") is its own letter and the letters ch together ("chay") and ll ("doblay-ELLay"; it makes a "y" sound, like in tortilla) are both their own letters, while they're not always counted in all renditions of the Spanish alphabet.

English Alphabet
alphabet=alfabeto

A- ei
B -bi
C- si
D- di
E- I
F- ef
G- yí
H- eitch
I -hay
J - yeí (siempre duro, fuerte, como Jeyson, nunca como José) (always hard, strong, like Jeyson, never like José)
K- que
L- Él
M- em
N- en
O- o
P- pi
Q - qiu
R- ar
S- es
T -ti
U- yiu (suave, no duro) (soft, not hard or it sounds like "jew")
V- vi
W- dábel-yiu (suave, no duro) (again, or it sounds like "double-Jew)
X- ex
Y- wai
Z- zi (como el ruido de una abeja) (like the sound a bee makes)

Right now, I'm teaching the kids the English subjects - for those a little lost, that's I, You, He, She, We, They, and It. The interesting thing though is that while every proper English sentence includes a subject, in Spanish they often omit the subject since their verbs are conjugated according to subject, so the latinos know what subject is being used by the verb form. Therefore, the actual subject is often omitted from the sentence.

For example, "Yo quiero ir al baño" (I want to go to the bathroom) could be just as easily said "Quiero ir al baño" (with the subject "yo" or "I" removed).

Anyways, here are the English subjects as I've been teaching them to my kids... just reverse them if you want to learn the Spanish subjects! I've formatted them in two different ways and the kids have copied both so they reference whichever is easiest for them.

English Subjects
subjects= subjetos

Singular		Plural
Spanish	English	Spanish	English
Yo	I	Nosotros	We
Tú(Vos)	You	Vosotros	You
Él	He	Ellos	They
Ella	She	Ellas	They
Usted	You	Ustedes	You
Cosas singulares	It	Cosas plurales	They

Here's the other format:

Español	Ingles	Pronunciacion
Yo	I	(hay)
Tú, Vos, Usted, Vosotros, Ustedes	You	(yiu- suave)
Él	He	(ji)
Ella	She	(shi)	(they have to work on the SH sound- otherwise it's "ch")
Nosotros	We	(wi)
Ellos, Ellas, cosas plurales	They	(they)	(working on the "th" sound)
Objetos- cosas sin género	It	(hit)	(really, no matter what I do this one comes out as "eet")

Oh, one other thing with the English subjects. For those of you who remember French class, you will remember that most latin-based languages refer to all objects by a gender, such as "le livre" (the book) and "la porte" (the door). Well, spanish is the same - "el libro" and "la puerta" - so I had to introduce the concept to the kids of a gender-neutral subject for these objects. I explained that only things with actual gender, such as humans and pets, are referred to as masculine or feminine. Currently we're working on memorizing the English subjects, and I'm drilling the kids on them.

My nerdy English classes might end up taking a very different turn next week, as Joy will be returning on Sunday, and will likely want me to follow the curriculum they've used here previously, as opposed to the random stuff I'm making up. I've tried to figure out the curriculum, but apparently there's supposed to be a notebook accompanying it explaning what's been taught and where it was left off, and I haven't found that, nor have I been able to make heads or tails of the curriculum - I just see pages of pictures and colours. For this reason I've been subjecting the kids to my hard-core, grammar-style, nerd-city English class. However, I think we're all having fun with it, and I'm sure we'll all make it through next week's redirection just fine.

Anyways, thanks for stepping into my geeky teaching world for a few moments! And I am expecting you'll all have mastered the English alphabet by the time I get back...

Lately.

2009-11-09T22:05:00.006-06:00

It seems it all just keeps coming... If I let a day go by, a week's worth has happened.

On Sunday afternoon, a child showed up on our doorstep, accompanied by two Nicaraguan woman and an American missionary named Sue. His name is Estevan. He had been living here a few weeks before I arrived, but had tried to run away three or more times before being removed and relocated.

He had been back with his family. His family, Sue was connected to because she had found them living in the dump, had compassion on them, and done everything in her power to help this family who were falling through the gaps. She bought them a house. She had outfitted the house, bought them clothing, school supplies, school uniforms, and set the mother up with everything she needed to make and sell tortillas for a living.

They recently abandoned the house, leaving everything behind. No one knows where they are. Estevan has been living on the streets. Sue had found him, and he told her he wanted to come back here. She came with him to ask if we couldn't extend compassion on him as well and give him one more chance.

Unfortunately, we can't. It doesn't work like that. The ministry of families here in Nicaragua, Mi Familia, are the only ones who can place a child with us. They case-manage all of the children here in our home. They need to ask Mi Familia to take him in, and they may or may not decide to place him here with us. Joy also has a voice in the process, deciding whether or not she will take him back in here given his history of throwing away the opportunities we've given him.

However, there are no guarantees. The political situation here in Nicaragua is very unfortunate for Estevan right now. The government is in the midst of a huge push to take all children out of homes such as ours and place them with their families, whatever families they have, or in a Nicaraguan home. They want to be able to present themselves to the rest of the world as being a country without orphans, without orphanages. Think about it. We're Canada. We don't have orphans, do we? The United States? No orphans. Yes, we have foster care, and no, it's not perfect, but we don't have orphans.

We do, however, have a carefully managed, well-designed care-system for children. With several cracks for kids to fall through. We have a beaurocracy that helps, and hurts. It's no dream, but it is well thought-out at least, while far from flawless.

The first lady of Nicaragua has made it her personal mandate to close every orphanage in the country, desiring to change the face of child-care in Nicaragua. And she certainly will. She has demanded that the employees of Mi Familia stop receiving new children who come to them into the system into centres such as ours, and that they instead be placed with family. Meanwhile the other kids already in the system (such as the 17 we have here) should be replaced with family members as soon as can be arranged.

It is no small concern the alarming rate at which this is all taking place. The timeline is tight, and it doesn't seem humanly possible that this new system can be designed and executed with all of the necessary safeguards to keep kids from ending up back in the exact same situation that put them in the system in the first place. Thinking of our 17 kids here, very few of them have appropriate relatives that they can go to live with - if they did, they would be there, and not here. As centres are being shut down rapidly in Nicaragua, the question has to asked - where are the children going? If these hordes of suitable homes existed, they would already have been in use, as that's always been the primary wish of Mi Familia to my knowledge, to place children with family wherever possible.

All this adds up to very bad timing for Estevan. He already has a case file with Mi Familia, so they will certainly do something for him. But now is not the time for anyone to be placed in a centre (orphanage) such as ours. Recently, most or all of Mi Familia's employees were fired for failing to stop admitting new children into the Nicaraguan orphanages - the first lady is quite serious about meeting her goal. This organizational upheaval resulted in serious interruptions to the process here, as you can imagine, as well as completely halting all adoptions currently underway in the country until all the vacant positions could be re-hired. (We have two such adoption cases currently underway in our home, and both of them are time-sensitive).

In the meantime, the only thing for Estevan and his rescuers to do is talk to Mi Familia, and wait. They came back today, and we explained once again to them that there was nothing we could do for him until Mi Familia first, and Joy second, made their decisions, and they laid on a thick guilt-trip, assuring us that they know that he has changed, for real this time, that he only needs one more chance, deserves one more chance, before they, too, will be satisfied to leave him to the consequences of his choices and the hard luck of his life, and couldn't we please just take him in on a trial basis, for a week or so? Though we explained again and again that we a) couldn't take in anyone with Mi Familia sending them to us, and b) would not take in a new child without Joy's knowledge and consent, the guilt trip continued. They just hated to see him suffer for the faults of his parents. They had their own children too, and they are so proud of how they turned out, and they just know that this child's problems are partly given to him by his parents' poor choices. (Estevan has a low IQ and what might be the effects of fetal alcohol). And couldn't we just take him in, only on a trial basis? We're both going out of town and there's nowhere for him to go!

Of course, our answer remained the same.

While my first encounter with Estevan was taking place on Sunday, I was also meeting Adán's family for the first time. It was pure pleasure to meet Adán's mom, Ruth, and his two little sisters, Dominga and Daisy, and to know that they were on the brink of some incredible life-altering opportunities. Adán was very sweet with his mother, and his two sisters warmed up more and more to us during their visit, smiling widely by the time they left us. I was glad to have met them.

At the same time, Bobby, the twenty-something American guy who's been here for the last two months, was departing on Sunday. Due to bad communication, I hadn't been aware of his plans to leave on Sunday, taking Don Profilio, the bus-driver with him, and hadn't arranged for anyone else to work on Sunday, as Ana (whose turn it was to work Sunday) would technically be working but would be occupied with taking Adán's family to Managua, and the other missionaries of Children Of Destiny Nicaragua didn't want me to be here by myself with 17 kids. After some last-minute scrambling, Masiel agreed to come in on her only day off of the week, and Bobby was able to depart on Sunday, though not exactly as originally planned. And given the type of day Sunday turned out to be, it was a very good thing Masiel was here.

Meanwhile, Nora's been very, very ill. She spent most of the last two weeks home from school, and half of that in the hospital in Managua. Since coming back, she's been throwing up every day (since Saturday). Nora's one of the muchachas, a fifteen-year-old girl who is very closely connected to my good friends from Seattle, Karel and Myra, who live in Managua now and are very much hoping that her adoption will be finalized soon.

Nora's now on a broth-and-gatorade-only diet, as we're trying to get her to keep food down and replenish her body's water and electrolites. After throwing up in the morning, she has made it through the rest of the day so far without puking, so she tried eating some gallopinto (Nicaragua's classic dish of rice and beans), and we'll wait and see if she keeps it down. Poor, poor girl. She can't afford to get any more skinny.

Meanwhile, Jeyson (the thirteen-year-old boy here who, if he weren't black, could easily be mistaken for my cousin Connor by disposition - and those of you who know what that means should probably pray) had a fever over 40 degrees today, the shakes and the aches. By the afternoon (around the time of Estevan's second arrival) we were quite concerned and had decided to take him in to the hospital, no small feat with only two adults to share around and one school bus for transportation. Meanwhile Irma (16) HAD to have new school shoes, as hers were completely worn through, and it couldn't wait a day. Which may have been true, but wasn't what I wanted to deal with at that moment, so I may have been a little ungracious with Irma. Meanwhile, Jeyson had all the symptoms of Dengae fever, a mosquito-borne illness that is potentially deadly.

The afternoon was a gong show of Ana taking Jeyson to the hospital, Masiel and I taking Irma to buy new shoes, and Don Profilio, the bus-driver and care-taker, collecting the kids after school. Masiel was off work at this time, so I headed home with the kids, and kept calling back to Ana to find out how Jeyson was, and whether or not we would need to pull another person out of thin air to spend the night with him in the hospital, as Ana would be off work at 7PM, and has her own family at home.

They ran tests for H1N1, gave Jeyson some medicine for his fever, which made a huge difference, and sent him home with some medicine and an appointment for more tests in the morning.

Meanwhile, Xochilt had bites all over her body, and needed to be bathed in a special tea to stop the itching, Francis (16) needed to find a gift for her boyfriend for their one-year anniversary tomorrow, and I had been promising to teach José how to play his new card game, "There's A Moose In The House", ever since his birthday - so tonight was the night. There are a smattering of other children complaining of colds, runny noses, and sore throats as well, but all these are minor cases.

Meanwhile, I eventually got fed up over the levels of fighting and bickering taking place among thirteen kids with kites. Despite my pre-emptive attempts to LABEL EVERYTHING! and keep them all safely in the office to avoid destruction, not a day has gone by without hearing "he took this!," or "she stole mine!", or, "I traded my kite for a Jet Li movie and now I want it back!" So last night I had every person present to me their complete kite, with both the kite and the handle displaying their own name, as it had been given to them after being labeled. Anyone who couldn't immediately produce their own complete possession recieved a "check", which is our main disciplinary tool here... two checks in a day is an hour's time out at night in the cancha, and three checks in a day means an extra hour of chores on Saturday. We eventually got everyone's own possession back in his or her own hands, and I'm hoping that the fighting over the kites will die down now that the kids know I'm on it.

Today I rode home with Xochilt beside me on the bus, listening to a sweet little nine-year-old girl make up an endless sing-song of thoughts and lyrics, and if you were once a nine-year-old girl, you might remember having done the same (don't deny it). Megan was known for sitting on our fence at home and singing to the horses. I did my singing while cutting the grass on the riding lawn-mower, which somehow was my confidence-boosting equivalent of singing in the shower. It was a cute moment, and it brought me fond memories of what it's like to be a nine-year-old with a sing-song mind - a sweet moment in the midst of a hectic life.

Adán

2009-11-06T20:40:00.007-06:00

I've been meaning to write about the boys lately, but things have always come up. However, now seems like a very good time to tell you about Adán.

Adán is 9, but he looks about 4.

He was born with a deformed spine, and he's got almost a 90 degree crook in his spine, which visibly juts out of his back. Adán is a very active boy, running and playing long and hard with the rest of the boys, which is a delight to see, especially considering that when Adán arrived at Hogar Amiguitos he could barely walk as a result of being carried everywhere for most of his life.

If you were to meet Adán, you'd probably find him to be one of the cutest kids you've ever met. Anyone who'd disagree has never seen Adán smile - it's incredibly charming. His smile lights up his mischevious little eyes, and I think it just might be humanly impossible to resist smiling back.

His spine deformity has caused and will continue to cause problems for him as he grows and develops, and the staff of Hogar Amiguitos have been working to get Adán the corrective surgery that he needs to help him grow at this stage of life. This week we received word of the possibility of this being available for him in mid-November, so right now we're scrambling to find the money to afford this new cost. This would be the perfect time for Adán to undergo a surgery of this type (school lets out for the year in a few weeks, so he would have two months off to recuperate). However, with Joy away until about the same time, I'm not sure how the quest for financial support is proceeding. You can certainly keep this in your prayers over the next week- it would be so greatly appreciated.

Although Adán is here, he does have family living several hours away, with whom our organization has also been involved. Adán's picture isn't complete without knowing the rest of his family as well.

Adán's mother lives far up in the mountains, in a very small and poor village, with her two little girls (5 and 2), their father, and his parents. Adán has a grandfather who has been here to visit him. He is a very sweet, very tiny old man. From all that I've seen Adán's family is very very loving. However, their life has been almost impossibly hard.

Several years ago, Adán's mother was doing some washing in the river, when several large boulders fell around her, crushing her legs and trapping her there in the river. She lost both her legs (and, needless to say, a lot of blood) before she was found and rushed to Managua (a long and difficult journey under much better circumstances) for the medical treatment that saved her life. Meanwhile, her youngest child, only eight days old, died of starvation back home while Adán's mother Ruth was in Managua fighting for her life. It seems the father hadn't been able to afford milk to feed the child in her absence.

While the medical possibilities of this escape me, Ruth has had another child since losing her legs; her youngest is now about two and a half. The family is very, very poor. They have almost no food, and the two little girls are very malnourished- one is bloated, and the other's hair is falling out.Our social worker, Profe Ana, makes visits to them and has taken up vitamins and clothing for the kids, but vitamins do very little if the kids don't have any food to eat. We are well aware that if the family were to be left to continue like this, these two girls would certainly die of starvation. Fortunately, the ministry has been working with Mi Familia, Nicaragua's government child protection agency, to intercede for this family.

Profe Ana's been working for the past while to make arrangements for Adán's mother to recieve a set of prothstetic legs. This afternoon, Ana and another missionary friend made the long trek uphill to the village where Adan's family lives to bring Adán's mother down with the two girls, and take Adán's mother to Managua to be fitted for her prosthetics. She's going to need surgery on one of her stumps first. The process should take about three months, during which time the two little girls will be under our care at our other centre in Los Cedros (for children 6 and under), where they'll be well-fed and will hopefully regain their health and vitality. We are also hoping to get a chance to share the gospel with Ruth during her time in Managua, because as transformational as the medical assistance being made available to her family might be, external change can never do what internal rebirth can.

So at the same time as this opportunity for Adán's surgery has come up, so has this opportunity to help Adán's family. It is amazing to me that a week ago, neither of these things were more than hopes or wishes, and today, they're viable opportunities. It feels like God is opening all the doors to help this family, so we're praying that he will continue to show us our role in it, and help us to resolve the remaining obstacles, questions, and financial burdens in his time.

I'm very much hoping that Adán will recieve his surgery this November - it really seems like now would be the perfect time. But there are thousands of dollars standing in the way of making that a reality right now. And it's hard to accept sometimes that whether it's now or later, it's all in God's time and good judgement.

Please keep these things in your prayers, if you would, over the next few weeks. I will do my best to include updates on the progress of this family's situation.

In other news, the rain's falling and the roof's leaking. A missions team came and went. The kids have new kites, and I'm doing what I can to keep them from being lost or broken before they actually get a sunny day to use them. And, as an old country song says, time marches on.

Departure

2009-11-05T15:19:00.008-06:00

Well, we lost one.

As of yesterday, the ward population of Hogar Amiguitos has gone from 18 to 17. An 18-year-old girl named Neris (pronounced Nery, she's one of the muchachas, or teenage girls) decided that she was done with the place. Being that she's 18 years old and no longer a legal ward of the state, there was nothing we could do.

Neris is a tough girl with a very hard exterior. She's actually very pretty when she smiles, but she usually wears an uninviting scowl and speaks in an off-putting snarl - at least, that's how she is here. She has a boyfriend, with whom I assume she's much more amable.

Although Neris was no longer our responsibility as of the day of her 18th birthday this past May, the staff here at Hogar Amiguitos, and especially Joy, have been urging her to stay here, where she is well-fed, well cared-for, has a tutor to assist her with homework every day and is bussed to and from school each day, until her completion of grade six. High school educations are not the universal standard in Nicaragua that they are back home, but finishing primary school, or grade 6, is a significant milestone for those who reach it.

Neris was to graduate from grade 6 in about 15 days' time. It seems that she won't be, however, as she has informed her teachers that she refuses to write her final exams.

Neris has not kept it a secret that she has had no interest in life at Hogar Amiguitos, showing up late to study time, doing her weekly chores poorly and with obvious displeasure, and fighting with the younger kids where most of the teenagers are helping to care for them. What does interest Neris, apparently, is her boyfriend. She's expecting that they'll get married soon, although he's also in school, similarly quite far behind, and hasn't expressed anything similar to a proposal. She often leaves to visit her mother (who lives very near here), but we usually see her out walking with her boyfriend when she's supposedly with her mom.

It's been a difficult balance with Neris, because technically, as an adult, she legally has the right to choose what she wants to do or not do, but at the same time, if she's going to live here, she needs to live according to our rules. Last weekend, Neris wanted to spend the night at her mom's, but we have a rule that none of the kids are allowed to spend the night away from the orphanage, a rule for which we make no exceptions. This rule, by the way, was developed as a response to a situation that once occurred where one of the girls was nearly raped while staying over at a friend's house, if it sounds a bit extreme. When our final answer was no, Neris wasn't very happy. Three days later, she announced that she was leaving, going back to live with her mom. And with that, she packed and left.

So Neris is back living with her mom in Jinotega. I have no idea if she'll continue to attend school. I have no idea if she'll end up back here or not. There's always the chance that she will come back, that is if she doesn't end up pregnant first. I'll admit that I have very little experience with this type of teenage girl - she has no interest in any of the things we are offering her to better her life. I think she believes she'll find work harvesting coffee in the fields. She may and she may not, but she's closing a lot of doors right now in her choice to give up her education.

Since I came, the staff have made clear to me that with Neris, we're just trying to get her to hold on for a month more, to finish grade 6, and to not get pregant. Now, all of these things are no longer within our circle of influence. The only thing left that we can do for Neris now is to pray.

If you think of her, please pray for Neris. The choices she will make over the next few weeks will likely play a large part in determining the course of her adult life.

Day In The Life...

2009-10-23T22:47:00.009-05:00

There are at least a few moments every day where something occurs and I find myself thinking, "I MUST blog that," and spend the next few minutes thinking out the clever phrasing I'll certainly use to paint my word picture.

Of course, by the time night falls or I get a few uninterrupted minutes in front of the computer, far too many things have happened, far too much energy has been drained, and pretty sentences don't flow. The internet quality decreases as the rainfall increases here, and it's winter (aka rainy season), so the odds are against me.

All that being said, today was blog-worthy. And so now that all the kids are (hopefully) sleeping sound in their beds, I've stolen a moment to transcribe a few snippets of the endless adventures that make up a day in the life out here.

The Etiquette Of Dealing With Annoying Girls

Remember the 8-11 AM dread? This week has been quite the roller-coaster for our morning study and reinforcement time. After Sélfida was hospitalized, we scrambled and found a substitute tutor for Tuesday morning, and continued on with our week. I was certain there must be some sort of mistake when our social worker, Profe Ana, came to me on Wednesday afternoon to inform me that our tutor was in the hospital.... Yes, I know, that's why we hired the replacement. It turned out however, that our replacement had as well been hospitalized, and so the hunt for our third tutor of the week began.

This morning, with our third tutor secured and present, my attempt to launch the day's first English class session was quickly derailed when José, one of my tougher cases around here, lost his temper during study time and punched Ana in the face before storming off to his room.

I sat alone with one tough little boy for about 20 minutes, not saying much of anything. This was the amount of time it took him to get from his closed, defensive body position of curled up on a mattress facing the wall to a more acceptable and inviting position of sitting beside me. It was good to have the time to sort through my thoughts and reject my first five reactions. I find that when these kids act out (and I think it's kids in general), they sometimes do so many things wrong at once that it's dificult to figure out what you're really mad at, and moreso, what's actually worth addressing.

I've had time over the past few weeks to discover my discipline priorities around here... for example, I go light on those who violate the mandatory footwear rule, and I'm very very hard on lying. The consequences of lying, especially lying to try to get oneself out of trouble, are hard and swift. I'm also quickly becoming very tough on disrespect towards the other staff and adults here at the centre.

So today with José, I ignored the loss of temper, and the neglecting of homework, and the goofing around, and focused instead on his raising his fist to a girl.

These are tough kids from background. This is a country that doesn't protect or respect well women. And these boys are growing up believing that it's fair game to hit a woman if and when she makes you angry.

Hey, I know that we women can be infuriating at times. And I certainly know that Ana provoked José today, having stolen his backpack and notebook and given him some of her trademark attitude. However, I was thinking about who this kid is going to become, so I put aside all of those other issues, and talked with José about the way that God has created him, strong and forceful, and how God has given him this ability so that he can protect and honour women, and not to threaten them with this strength. José eventually softened when he realized I wasn't going to yell, I wasn't going to punish, I was simply going to talk and correct. And I got to see the soft little eleven-year-old boy inside that very tough shell, the kid whose life has made him hard as stone, but who shuts down at a show of force and who responds much better to a soft word and a long hug.

I feel more and more each day that parenting must be a very important ministry, a unique and transformational calling of God. It ought to be held with the utmost of reverence and respect. And I cannot understand the ludicracy of those who hold it lightly, or resent its demands on their personal freedoms.

La Pobresita Gatita (The Poor Little Kitty)

Besides coming with a 10-year-old, the house-sitting responsibilities include caring for Joy's cat Wendy and her 5 newborn kittens. Today Joel took Wendy to the vet to be spayed, in hopes that we won't have any more gatitos (kittens) running around over the next few months. As I will be in charge of Wendy's post-surgery care, Joel took me in to the vet to pick Wendy up so I could get the care instructions firsthand.

When we arrived Wendy looked simply terrible, and she had been throwing up. The vet tersely mentioned something to Joel about comida, so as we walked down to the bank to get cash to pay the vet bill I asked Joel what the lady had said. He said something about her being in a lot of pain, but I pressed him to clarify what the vet had said about comida (food).

Joel explained that the vet had said that we had fed Wendy way too much... and then reluctantly divulged the rest of the story.

The vet's instructions had been that Wendy was not to eat for a day before coming in so that she would have an empty stomach for the surgery. Joel was staying in the house while he was visiting from Los Cedros, so charge of the cats fell to him, and he faithfully closed Wendy into her cat-house last night so that he could feed the kittens. Departing from my usual method of filling up a food dish, Joel set out the ice-cream pail of cat food for the kittens to eat from, fully intending to bring it in after they'd had their fill... can you see where this is going?

With the other things going on in the evening, bringing in the cat food slipped Joel's mind. Sometime in the night a hungry Wendy clawed a hole through the metal screened-in windows in her cat-house and ate a very generous dinner or two. In the morning Joel found a nearly-empty ice cream bucket outside his door with a very content kitty curled up inside.

As Joel recounted this to me in the bank I laughed myself to tears out of the terrible, tragic humour of it, and also at the explanation he had given the vet upon bringing Wendy for her appointment: "I didn't feed her last night, but she got out, and... well, I don't know what she did after that." In light of this back-story and the vomit's completely solid, undigested cat-food consistency, the vet's delicate rebuke took on a whole new clarity.

When we returned to the vet's office the vet explained to Joel and I what medications needed to be given to Wendy, and when, and as Joel translated, he mistranslated .5 ccs of antibiotics as 5ccs, and every 12 hours as every 2. Joel discovered his mistake, I asked him again through my intense laughter whether or not he even liked Wendy! The vet, fortunately, was laughing as well, joking about how high Wendy would be off this misdose, but I couldn't help but think how lucky Wendy was that Joel would not be responsible for her post-surgery care.

It didn't take long for those feelings to be reversed when I realized that I was going to have to give a needle for the first time in my life, and continue giving them for the next 5 days... perhaps it might not be so bad to leave Wendy's care in Joel's hands? However, as Joel was heading back to Los Cedros that afternoon, there was no getting around it... I'm going to have to stab a cat.

Bubble-Gum Remedies

When the kids arrived home from school, I discovered that Luis's head was looking a bit... unusual. Closer inspection revealed a giant glob of bubble-gum firmly implanted in his hair. Some probing revealed that a bully in Luis's class at school had perpetrated the offense that afternoon at school, and shortly thereafter, I found myself testing out the old peanut-butter remedy I'd heard was rumored to work well for this sort of problem. For the record, it works like a charm. You've got to use it liberally, rub it in well, and give the oil a chance to break down the gum, but pretty soon it starts coming out in little strings. A fine-toothed comb is the other essential tool to complete this operation.

Bandana Bandits

Unfortunately, the bubble-gum incident wasn't the only case of bullying we experienced today.

Later that evening an indignant Ricardo came to me to complain that José had sold a bandana earlier this week at school to another kid in their class. Ricardo had given his bandana to José, but apparently not with the intent that José would then sell it to Naún, a kid in their class. While both children agreed that it had been given to José and was therefore his posession to do what he liked with (selling things aside- that's a whole other issue that we didn't get into at the time), I definitely understood Ricardo's feelings of being used - he had intended it to be for Ricardo, not for Naún.

José had apparently sold the bandana in exchange for a bracelet, which didn't seem like that great of a deal. I asked José if he had the bracelet and he said no. I asked him if he had wanted to trade the bandana for a bracelet, and he said no.

The picture became much clearer when José explained that Naún is a seventeen-year-old kid, apparently taller than I am, who is in the third grade along with these two boys. I certainly can understand a rather small eleven-year old's hesitancy to say no to this kid, who apparently always hits him, and would have hit him had he not "sold" the bandana. I asked the boys how we could best solve this problem with Naún, and they both wanted me to come to school and talk to them. That will likely be a task for Monday, although I will likely be taking Ana and Masiel, the two workers, along with for language back-up. Beyond that, once the situation had been explained the boys were left to resolve Ricardo's grievance, for which José asked forgiveness. These are the scenarios that play out over and over again, hour after hour, day after day, in the lives of the children of Hogar Amiguitos.

Tooth Tales

Today Ana finally lost a tooth she'd been working on wiggling for the past week, and it came at a good time as I had promised her a special treat (a little private party) once she'd lost it - her adult tooth was already coming in so getting the baby tooth out was urgent.

Fortunately Ana had kept herself out of trouble relatively well today, and had recieved no checks, so she was able to join me for a movie over at the house, complete with special food (a Friday night treat at the orphanage - it was a sort of rice pudding tonight), popcorn, and peanut M&Ms.

I know everyone laughed pretty hard at the career dive of Vin Diesel choosing to make a movie about a Navy-Seal-turned-babysitter, but for what it's worth, I actually enjoyed it. While it contained no laugh-out-loud moments, it was funny in its way. And of course, we ended our evening with the obligatory dance-party that must accompany all upbeat end-credit songs... or did you not know? It's mandatory. Except perhaps in theatres. And when not with small children or siblings. But otherwise, it's mandatory. Take notes.

Night-Nights and Gushing Head Wounds

While Ana and I were enjoying her reward for losing her tooth, the other kids were watching a movie over in the centre, except for those who hadn't been able to stay out of trouble this week, who were left to entertain themselves in other ways. Adán and Xochilt had been roller-skating in the cancha, and somehow Xochilt's skate had given Adán a nasty cut in the head that was bleeding quite profusely. By the time I arrived Samara, the night girl, had patched Adán up quite well and the bleeding had thankfully stopped. Samara assured me that the offending blow had in fact been quite light, and there was no concern of concussion.

As Ana and I were returning to the house to finish our movie, we found Xochilt seated outside on the front steps, feeling quite penitent and looking so very forlorn. We assured her that no one was angry or upset with her, and that it was well-understood that it had been an accident. Xochilt, however, had determined that she would sleep outside until Sunday as a means of punishing herself for Adán's unfortunate injury. I assured her that no one (including herself) would be punishing her for Adán's wound, and that she would certainly be spending the night safe and warm in her bed. A few hugs and cuddles were called for to drive the point home.

********

These incidents were only several of the many moments of my day. I find it to be a never-ending challenge to capture even a small part of what takes place here and how I spend my time, and sincerely I hope that you, my friends and family, appreciate that it's not lack of personal interest that has me diverting all your questions and inquiries to the very public forum of my blog; it's rather the knowledge of how little I can say, and how many I want to say it to. I hope you're enjoying reading these stories as much as I enjoy telling them, and that you know you're loved and missed and in my heart.

And now, I think, it's time for this chela to head to bed.

******Comments Tutorial*****

There are three ways to get to the comments page for my blog:

1) Click on the title of the blog entry at the top of the page. The entry will re-load with the comments section along the right-hand side.

2) Click on the comments number to the left of the blog title at the top of the page. The entry will re-load with the comments section along the right-hand side.

3) Click "Leave A Reply" at the bottom of the entry. This takes you immediately to Blogger's comment page.

4) Click on the pull-string at the top of the page. Select the entry you desire from the posted list. The selected entry will load with the comments section on the right-hand side.

By using this fourth option you begin to travel backwards through the archives. To re-access my most recent entries simply re-enter the full domain address. My most recent entry will then reload.

The 8-11 AM Circus

2009-10-21T15:03:00.012-05:00

The hours from 8 to 11 AM hold the potential to be either the three best or worst hours of any given weekday for me, and I suspect the same holds true for 13 of Hogar Amiguito's young residents. The variable? English class.

8-11 AM Monday through Friday is the designated time for the students to study, do their homework, and practice the academic skills they're learning at school. We have a tutor on staff who comes for these three hours a day to work with the kids. When I first arrived, I quickly discovered that this was my least favorite time of day here at Hogar Amiguitos. The teenage girls are at school, and the 13 younger kids are all cooped up in one room with little adult supervision, lots of distractions, and no desire whatsoever to study or do homework. To borrow my older sister's favorite expression, GONG SHOW.

It didn't take long for me to recognize that this part of the day was always utter chaos (or at least, it is so in Joy's absence). Over the past few weeks, the tutor has been in and out due to some medical problems, so my daily 8 o'clock dose of dread kicks into overdrive on the days I discover that Profe Sélfida won't be coming... for example, this past Monday. After being the only one here working with the kids all day Sunday as well as all night and the following morning (it was everyone's day off, including the night girl), I can't accurately sum up the emotion I felt at 8:30 that morning when Sélfida still had not arrived. In her stead came a young woman with a doctor's note explaining that Sélfida had been admitted to the hospital due to some ongoing leg troubles and wouldn't be coming in at all this week.

Study time on Monday was once again the classroom equivalent of pulling teeth.

My dissapointment over Sélfida's absence had less to do with being one person short than it did with the fact that being the only adult present means I can't execute the plan that I've developed to combat my 8-11 AM dread: English Class.

While the children of Hogar Amiguitos (and perhaps, children everywhere) have little interest in completing their homework or bettering their skills in long division, they do however have a very strong interest in learning how to speak English. With the amount of English groups that come through Hogar Amiguitos on a yearly basis, and the amount of doors that open to a young Nicaraguan who can speak English, they certainly have more than enough reasons to desire to acquire the language. So shortly after my arrival, having been asked by Joy to resume teaching their English classes, I developed a scheme to kill two birds with the only stone I had... my mother tongue.

My English class works as a reward system. I start off my classes at 8AM, after the kids are settled in to study time, with the older kids, since they are more reliable and responsible and can be trusted to finish their homework in the remaining time after my half-hour class. After their class is complete, I return to the study room and ask the tutor which children are ready for English class. The only kids who can come to my class are those who have already completed all their homework. When they return from my class they are to continue doing "reinforcement" work such as practicing printing, math, or other skills.

The beauty of the system is that the children have a fresh opportunity to be in the next group, and therefore fresh motivation, every half hour for the duration of the study time. Those who finish their work only in the last half hour forfeit their opportunity to recieve English class that day. Those who finish even a half hour early are rewarded by having the opportunity to join my class. As well, Profe Sélfida's authority in the classroom is reinforced every time I return to the room, as the only way a child can enter my class is if Profe Sélfida has personally reviewed his or her completed homework and granted the child permission to go.

I'm loving having the chance to practice my classroom management techniques, and while my kids' behaviour is far from perfect, I've been very pleased with the relationship in our class so far. From the beginning I've been very strict about the type of behaviour that is appropriate in my classroom, and I have had no problem asking a child to leave the room and return to study time if he or she isn't showing the willingness, focus, or desire needed to participate. I consider myself very lucky that the class and subject holds enough appeal that even those who were kicked out the day before will repeatedly ask me if there will be class tomorrow. I'm seeing a lot of the disrespectful, inattentive, and undesirable behaviours die off in my class, as I'm trying very hard not to reward them or allow them in my classroom. Certainly my classroom management skills are far from perfect, but I'm relishing the opportunity to work them out nonetheless. (Insert more nerdy education talk here....)

The subject, as well, is offering no end of challenges to me, as I get to not only reflect back on grammar, reading, spelling, and pronunciation rules that challenged this Canadian second-grader but have long-since faded into the landscape of subconscious competencies (change the 'y' to an 'i', and add 'es'), but also all the differences between Spanish and English, both subtle and less so, that I've uncovered over the last ten years as I've acquired my present knowledge of the language. In Spanish, the pronunciation of several consonants is negotiable (such as j, g, and x for example), the pronunciation of vowels never varies. In English, the opposite is true. With the exception of combinations like ch, th, ph, and sh, our consonants rarely change (though our enunciation is usually poor) but our vowels change constantly.

A long and a short sound for each vowel.

The e on the end of almost every word? Silent.

Combinations like au (pause), ai (faith), ou (south), oa (goat), oo (tooth), ea (treat), ie (wierd), and so on and so forth.

A, E, I, O, U, and sometimes Y?

I'm finding all sorts of interesting differences between the two, but these only serve to make English pronunciation much more difficult. And did you know that while Spanish, like French, conjugates the verb differently for each possible subject (yo voy; tú vas; él/ella/usted va; nostros vamos; vosotros vais; ellos/ellas/ustedes van), we conjugate almost all subjects the same (I go, you go, we go, they go) with the exception of he and she (he/she goes). All this to say, learning a second language is challenging, and teaching one is as well. But at the same time, sweet, sweet, grammar-nerdy fun.

Going back to Monday, my biggest dissapointment on hearing of Sélfida's misfortune was tied up in the fact that I wouldn't get to give my English classes to the kids this week, and the knowledge that they would certainly revert back to being unmotivated little hellions for during study time without it. We slogged through an exasperating couple hours on Monday morning, and happily, were able to hire a substitute to come in for the rest of the week.

On Tuesday morning the children and I happily resumed our morning classroom routine.

On Wednesday morning, I decided that I didn't really need a full free day and instead traded around my free time (I'm supposed to have one "free day" a week) to take several afternoons off while the kids are in school and give one more morning English class a week, modifying the routine to its present Monday-Friday state. I also offered to teach Anielka in the evenings, since the breakfast dishes always eat up her morning study time and she is one of the more eager students here.

Tomorrow, I plan to continue working with my little Spanish choir, who are currently attempting to nail down the pronunciation of the English alphabet (I'm making them spell with English letters... a whole other story there) in order to be able to sing the "ABC's" without mumbling through everything past D and re-inventing the whole "LMNOP" stretch to sound like some version of "menomenopee" (and hey, don't laugh, you did that one too.)

******Comments Tutorial*****

There are two ways to get to the comments page for my blog:

1) When you arrive at my mainpage, my most recent blog entry displays on the frontpage. At the top, from left to right, you will see the title, then the date, and then a small number (usually reading either 0, 1, or 2.) This is the number of comments that have been left for that particular entry so far. The number will turn yellow when you hover over it, revealing that it is a link. If you click the link, it will reload that entry with the comments page. At this point you can leave your own comment on the entry as well as read the comments that others have left.

2) By clicking on the "pull" string from any page on my blog, you will access a drop-down menu that will provide you with links to previous and archived entries. If you are wanting to comment on the current entry, one click on the title will load that entry again with the comments page. This method is handy if you are wishing to comment on back-entries as well. Please note, however, that each entry's drop-down menu will only display the entries previous to it. To access the most recent entries again, you may need to return to my mainpage by re-entering the full domain address.

Mi Vida Loca

2009-10-13T14:11:00.007-05:00

Hey guys!

Lots of people have been sending me e-mails asking for more details about my day-to-day life here, and so I figured I should share some of my more regular experiences with you all. So here are some thoughts on differents aspects of my crazy life:

On The Menu:
I eat some combination of rice and beans about 14 times a week. Sometimes it's rice and eggs for breakfast, and sometimes it's beans and eggs. But more often it's rice and beans. Actually, Nicaraguans are very proud of their famous national dish, called gallopinto (guy-o peento; it means "painted rooster"), which is actually rice and beans, but totally different, because in gallopinto, the rice and beans are mixed together.

Upon surveying this week's menu for example, rice is listed 15 times, while beans are listed at a rare low of 9... but time will tell.

On My Daily Routine:
Morning comes at about 5:30, as I'm currently trying to transition my schedule over to better suit the kid's days. Currently I'm house-sitting/surrogate-parenting for the missionary who is away, so I have an 10-year-old living with me in the missionary's house about 30 feet from the orphanage. I'm trying to use that first half hour to start waking up and getting ready, so I can wake Ana up at 6 and we can both go over to join the children at 6:30 for devotions.

After devotions comes breakfast and at 8AM the kids begin their homework and study time. A retired teacher named Profe Selfida comes to tutor the kids, and I am taking the kids out in groups of 3-5 at a time for English classes, provided they've finished their homework. This added motivation is helping the kids to settle down a bit better during their 2-3 hour study time... the opportunity to learn English is a very strong motivator for these kids; it's one of the things they value most. A more detailed post about my English class adventures is forthcoming, so keep posted.

After study time, the kids change into their school uniforms and bring their backpacks over to be checked. We make sure they have their notebooks, a pencil, and nothing suspicious in there, and each child recieves a candy and, if he could recite the daily memory verse at morning devotions, a pack of cookies as well.

The kids eat lunch, get patted down to make sure they're not carrying anything extra with them to school (like iPods, for example), and then load onto the bus to head to school. In Central America, kids usually only go to school for half-days.

In the afternoon, my schedule varies depending on the day. On Monday, I go in on the bus to go grocery shopping for he week with Profe Ana, one of the staff here. Wednesdays are my free days, which I hope to begin spending in Jinotega, perhaps going for a swim at the pool there; that is, if the Nicaraguan men employed there aren't always as creepy as they were last time. Otherwise, my afternoon is open to some flexibility, sometimes including a nap, sometimes a book, and sometimes some e-mailing, facebook-stalking, or, like today, blogging.

The kids get home from school at 5, and it's mayhem, and energy, and getting dark out. At 6 we eat supper, and in the evening the kids have 15 minutes of Nintendo each (or, rather, those who've stayed out of trouble do). Other kids have an hour-long time-out in the gym-type area called the cancha. Sometimes 10-year-old Luis and I take turns throwing a volleyball in the air and seeing how many times we can clap our hands (audibly, that's the rule) before catching it again... my record, by the way, is 7.

At 7:30, I plan to start heading back over to the house to help Ana get ready for bed. Bedtime is at 8, which means that the kids should be in bed by 8:30, but since we have a girl who comes here every night to put the kids to bed and get them up in the morning, and since I find that the kids goof around and procrastinate more at bedtime when they have me there to entertain, I'm going to leave the bedtime routine in Samara's capable hands. Also, now that I'm house/Ana-sitting, if I were to stay over here until the kids were in bed, Ana wouldn't be in bed until 9, and I would never sleep.

My new bedtime is going to be 9:30 - that is, if I can ever get my nighthawk body to fall asleep at such an unthinkable hour! Hopefully a couple days of no naps and crazy kids will exhaust me to the point where this will work out.

The finer schedule details here are in part because of my recent move from the orphanage over to the house, and partly because I've recently been annointed the Gringa-In-Charge, which has required me to devise an in-depth coping mechanism (as outlined in part above).

On Being Esther:
The home was recently visited by Doña Sandra, the American woman who both began the ministry of Children of Destiny Nicaragua, and adopted her Nicaraguan-born daughter, Ana, when Ana 7 months old. She was here for just over 24 hours; her week involved such events as flying to Nicaragua and back, and getting married three days later back in her hometown. She's a busy woman and currently the sole fundraiser for Children of Destiny Nicaragua.

Sandy's visit here was whirlwind, and she came in part to officially install me as the home's temporary Gringa-In-Charge, or, as she preferred to call me, Esther, as in "for such a time as this"... She was pleased with my enthusiasm, encouraged by my experience as a program director, and confident in my capabilities (or at least that's what she told me). She gave the kids a few harsh warnings to behave, and we had a staff meeting with the core four caregivers here, and when she departed, I found myself on my own, without instruction or guidance, and in charge. (To clarify, before her visit I had merely been on my own without instruction or guidance. No one had been in charge.)

Sandy firmly believed that my moving into Joy's house would be a blessing and an added comfort, while I was quite comfortable in my unadorned but conveniently, centrally located room in the orphanage. Also, while having Ana as my roommate in the orphanage had been managable, it had not been without its moments, and I knew that the demands on me would only increase if we were to be cloistered together in the house, where there is one key, and she has come to expect countless additional liberties that she isn't privy to while living in the home. I had come into my meeting with Sandra planning to flatly refuse her offer/request that I move over to stay in the house with Ana, but when she explained that Joy was concerned about her house sitting empty and being broken in to, I caved and decided to re-adjust my boundaries in order to care for Joy's home in her absence. (If you're wondering who Joy is, I'm getting there.)

I had recieved about an hour's instruction in managing our finances, and I'm finding it quite challenging stretching our shoestring budget across the month; when I took over, with three weeks left to the month, there was only about 1/4 of the budget left... apparently that's normal after paying the hydro, etc. To my eyes there was barely enough money for two weeks of groceries, and that's without any other expenses, which of course, there have been.

Please consider these points to be my prayer requests; I know that this is in God's hands, but I definitely need him to be the God-In-Charge here, 'cause this gringa definitely can't do it alone.

On Joy:
Joy is the missionary who runs Hogar Amiguitos. For about the last two and a half months, Joy has been home in the States with her family, as her mom is essentially on her deathbed, with very little time left after being overtaken by cancer.

Joy is also Ana's surrogate mother here in Nicaragua, as Ana's adoptive mother lives and works in the States and Ana is currently enrolled in the Nicaraguan school system, after having trouble adjusting and fitting in to the American system (Ana is a Nicaraguan-American dual citizen and fully bilingual). Joy is something like an Aunt to Ana, and had agreed to take Ana into her care for the year for Sandy to let Ana give the Nicaraguan school system another try when Joy's mother's health crisis suddenly arose, ironically landing Ana back in the orphanage, in a manner of speaking.

While I have never met Joy, I have spoken to her several times by phone and Skype, and everyone speaks very highly of her work here, her ability to manage this place on an impossible budget (perhaps she's part Mennonite?), and her natural giftedness in relating to, working with, and showing love to the children who call this place home. I find that I have some rather large shoes to fill.

On Exhaustion:
Sunday, about three days after being "appointed", I began to feel the familiar feelings of drowning in stress that had essentially been my daily experience while program directing at Dauphin Bible Camp. When I finally sat down to eat, about two hours late, I realized that I was too exhausted to even eat, and scraped off most of my plate into the slop bucket (those who have worked alongside me at Dauphin Bible Camp have seen this play out day after day after day, coupled with a more-lenient-than-usual personal hygiene regimen that I will to this day defend as "not gross"). I realized at that moment that I needed to take some drastic measures if I wanted to be able to thrive here for the next few months, and possibly even in order to survive. With no one to throw the responsibility back to, and with nothing to do but buck up, I started working on my new routine, to incorporate the added responsibilities of house- and Ana-sitting, running the finances, while still trying to offer nurture and love to 18 other parentless children. Thus the development of my new weekly routine began.

On Being Organized And Disciplined:

... let's just say I'm new at it.

Time will tell.

On Parenting 19 kids:
Wow, am I unqualified! However, God's been gracious, in the midst of many immense challenges (like iPod-boy, for one). I am learning a lot, and every week as my relationship with the children grows and our mutual trust deepens, it gets a bit easier. Please pray that God will give me a supernatural ability to understand the needs of these children, because they're definitely in real need of a lot of the right kinds of love, compassion, and discipline.

On Being A Classroom Nazi:
I LOVE it. Much more to come on that!

On Friends Back Home:
I love you, I miss you, and hearing from you lights up my life.

And finally, what you've all been waiting for.... the Comments Tutorial!

******Comments Tutorial*****

There are two ways to get to the comments page for my blog:

1) When you arrive at my mainpage, my most recent blog entry displays on the frontpage. At the top, from left to right, you will see the title, then the date, and then a small number (usually reading either 0, 1, or 2.) This is the number of comments that have been left for that particular entry so far. The number will turn yellow when you hover over it, revealing that it is a link. If you click the link, it will reload that entry with the comments page. At this point you can leave your own comment on the entry as well as read the comments that others have left.

2) By clicking on the "pull" string from any page on my blog, you will access a drop-down menu that will provide you with links to previous and archived entries. If you are wanting to comment on the current entry, one click on the title will load that entry again with the comments page. This method is handy if you are wishing to comment on back-entries as well. Please note, however, that each entry's drop-down menu will only display the entries previous to it. To access the most recent entries again, you may need to return to my mainpage by re-entering the full domain address.

Small Change Pt. 2

2009-10-09T19:54:00.013-05:00

Hey reader! If you have not read the events in my previous post entitled "Small Change," stop cheating and start reading! Click here to go to part 1.

For those returning, I left off at about last Sunday afternoon, shortly after I had discovered that one of our little residents had jacked and sold my iPod. I spent the majority of the afternoon talking with my offender, who was crying pretty hard at the beginning of our chat. I asked him if he often steals, and if he had stolen before, and he said that yes, he does and yes, he had. We got out my notebook and I asked him to write down the things he had stolen. He confessed to having taken several toys to school and throwing them away or destroying them. We talked for a long time about his need to change his heart, his need to repent, and his need to make right his offenses in order to be free from them. He needed to actively change his identity. After the end of the conversation I went to relay the contents to Ana, the site's social worker, who quickly informed me of other theft offenses that the boy had not disclosed in our chat.

Re-enter office; interrogation phase 2.

I challenged the kid for lying to me, by telling me that he had only stolen two items before, and omitting a vast number of bigger items, one of which being one of the workers' cell phones, which had been discovered in his pocket one morning in the pre-school pat-down. Then the real disclosure began. He confessed to a long list of offenses, some which he had already been caught and punished for, and others that he had gotten away with. From his list which included money, notebooks, pencils, pants, and candy, we were left with about 20 items that he had never repaid or made right. I told him that his consequence would be to make these things right, and that it would be important that he make as many of these right as he possibly could.

I knew I would need time to decide the finer details of his punishment and I wanted to bounce my ideas off the other staff here, so for Sunday night and Monday morning our thief was confined to his room except for mealtime and study time.

Also, there was the slightest glimmer of hope still hanging on the horizon that my iPod might yet be recovered. One of the staff from our other home in Los Cedros was visiting the orphanage with his wife, and he was the missing ingredient that would certainly be required if we wanted any chance of getting it back: an intimidating Nicaraguan man who is well acquainted with how to get things done "Nica-style".

Now, when I say an intimidating Nicaraguan man, I should really clarify that Joel (ho-EL) is very kind and pretty hilarious. However, one man is worth about a million women around here when it comes to disciplining children, and that intimidation factor and the ability to make a kid stop sassing and start crying was definitely going to come in handy. Joel was optimistic about the possibility that he might be able to get the child customer and his family to return the iPod using a little Nicaraguan muscle power, which he considered may or may not involve greasing a cop to put some legal pressure on the family for a cost of about 100 cords, or the equivalent of 5 bucks. This all, of course, in the very unlikely case that the iPod had not immediately been resold by its new owner for a more appropriate sum.

Sadly, the "rent-a-cop" route proved a road left untravelled, but on Monday morning Joel showed up at the school with the kids and had our little thief point out which classmate had been his customer. The kid said he still had the iPod at home, and so Joel and him walked to his home (with the permission of the school's administrator). Upon their arrival the mom said, "You here for the iPod?" (not in the helpful, honest way you might be thinking, but moreso in the "you think you're getting that back?" kind of way... to which Joel replied that she could go to jail or something similar that apparently worked).

When Joel and the kid returned to the school, my iPod had been reclaimed, and only by the incredible grace of God. In a later phone conversation with one of the missionaries, she told me that expensive things often get stolen and sold here, and nothing has ever come back, so this is a fortunate first for me.

As a side note, one of the possible reasons that my iPod may not have changed hands over the course of the weekends involves an occurance that no one has yet been able to explain. At the school, the kids were saying that the kid who bought my iPod hadn't been able to get into it to use it because it was locked or protected by some sort of password. Of course, since I've never had any sort of password on my iPod before, I assumed the kids were just not bright enough to figure out how to turn off the "lock" feature that keeps an iPod from turning on and running out the battery. However, when my iPod was returned to me, sure enough, the only thing that will now come up on the screen is a picture of a combination lock which requires a four-digit numerical password. Having never known about or used this iPod feature before in my life, I therefore currently have a $300 electronic paperweight that even I cannot use or have access to, until either the point several months down the road when I resync it with my home computer or that magical day when I discover the magic number somewhere between 0000 and 9999. Lovely.

Anyways, having recuperated my (merely decorative) iPod, my thoughts returned to deciding on an appropriate punishment.

This kid is one tough cookie. While he has apologized for the theft, he plays the adults here like a fiddle, which is easy to do when you care far less for them than they do for you. Between his crying, confessing, and apologizing, he has clearly shown that neither his heart nor his nature have changed, having on one occasion declared brazenly that it was "worth it", and on another occasion, that he will most likely steal again. In reality, all he cares about is avoiding harsh consequences however he can, and my heart keeps breaking daily as I become dissilusioned and re-educated by these children.

For some of these kids, here are the facts:
Some of these kids grew up on the streets, and stealing is what they know and how they live.
Some of these kids live here and do just enough to stay and not be kicked out, but never give their heart or open themselves up at all.
Some of these kids have no real ability to bond or connect emotionally as a result of the traumas and experiences of their early lives.
Some of these kids will be well-fed children, and grow up to be strong, healthy criminals when they leave this place, but for the saving grace of God.

This is a harsh but very vital reality here. Their possible fates, in some cases, are far less likely to doctor, policeman, or business owner than they are to be swindler, thief, or manipulator. And every day we can only hope and pray that God may use us to intervene in their hearts and lives, and that God may bless us to teach them well.

My little thief's consequences will involve working long, hard days on Saturday, for about 8 hours, for a period of time representative of the cost of the items that he has stolen. I say "representative" because for him to literally pay the costs of about $360 worth of items off would take him years, regardless of what virtual rate of pay he were assigned. I am requiring him to physically correct whatever of his offenses he possibly can, and so, as he works and accumulates equity against these debts, it is my hope that the orphanage will serve him by giving him or helping him purchase the items that he will need to repay to the people he took them from.

I want his punishment to be as real and as visceral as possible, but over the past few weeks I have gotten a glimpse of how deep his deception runs and how hard his heart has become. Truthfully, we will seek to serve him through good punishments and real consequences, but only God can redeem his life.

No one ever wants to believe such harsh and terrible things about a child, so please know that it isn't easy for me to say or believe these things. I would much rather believe that it was an honest mistake, a foolish choice; that he's a fine boy, with a bright future. But we will serve him well if we will address with honesty and bravery the nature of his heart and his sin.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Yesterday my friend Adam departed from the orphanage to return to the States after three months here, caring for and loving the children of Hogar Amiguitos. He went to all the boys' rooms at bedtime to give each one of them one last hug. My resident thief, after recieving his hug, looked Adam straight in the eye and in perfect English told him, "I want money."

Adam told me later that evening that his response flew out of his mouth before he could stop it; his limited Spanish cut right to the heart of the issue as he told the kid "Tu tienes un corazon negro;" "you have a black heart."

Adam felt bad that these would be his last words to the child; felt he had been too harsh; didn't know why he had chosen the words he did; but I honestly feel that his choice of words were perfectly selected by God Himself. There are far worse things that Adam could have said, in my opinion, to a shamelessly selfish boy, than the devastating truth.

If you have a few moments, and your faith moves you, would you please take a few moments to pray for the heart of my little 11-year-old thief? He is, as are we all, in desperate need of Christ's saving love.

Small Change

2009-10-05T22:17:00.006-05:00

The long and winding tale I am about to recount began with a friendship. Simple, pure, life-giving friendship. A tale of two friends, a terribly unfortunate misunderstanding, and the many tumultous moments that followed.

My friend's name is Adam. One of two American boys currently residing here, Adam is the 22-year-old nephew of the ministry's founder, and for the last two months he's been here getting to know the children of Hogar Amiguitos.

Adam and I became fast friends when I arrived. His fun-loving, easy-going, light-hearted Texan conversation style meshes well with my question-asking, hypothesis raising, joke-cracking, button-pushing ways. One of our first conversations led to me recommending he check out Driscoll's sermon series on the Song of Songs, which I had just recently watched on my iPod. He was interested, so on Thursday night I brought out my iPod for him to borrow so that he might watch them at his own convenience.

Fast-forward to Sunday afternoon, when Adam and I had caught a taxi into Jinotega and were wandering the streets, talking idly about our lives and religion, and in the course of conversation Driscoll came up again. I asked if he'd had the chance yet to watch any of the sermons on my iPod and I heard a response that froze me on the spot: "What do you mean? You never gave it to me."

It seemed that on Thursday night I, not wanting to shove my prostheletizing iPod down his throat, had somehow not made it clear to him that I was giving it to him to take it back to his room that night, and so both he and I had for three days assumed that the iPod was safely in the possession of the other. This assumption was, of course, aided by the fact that the iPod was not in the room the next day, and had not been seen lying around by us or anyone else since then.

Upon our return to the home, the rest of the story quickly unravelled itself:

One of the 11-year old boys had discovered the iPod in the salon on Friday morning, snuck it with him to school (despite our daily backpack checks and pat-downs), and had sold it to a 9-year-old boy in his class. Stories varied amongst the children about how much he had recieved for the item (which is a 30GB video iPod, originally costing about $300 and costing about the same to replace), but when it all boiled down, he had originally asked for 115 cordobas (which about $5.50 Canadian) but had recieved in the end 5 cordobas, or the equivalent of 25¢.

There are a lot of words that probably come to mind now, but I'm sure "smart kid" isn't one of them. More dissapointing to me than the fact that my iPod was long gone was that these kids don't even have the slightest knowledge of the cost (or the value) of the items that they so easily take and destroy or resell for less than a chocolate bar costs.

The emotions going through me could be discribed as nothing more than incredible sadness and grief, feelings which had nothing to do with a piece of electronics slightly bigger than a deck of cards. I felt sad and grieved for this boy and his actions, for how he so could quickly and so easily commit an act of such gravity, which could never so easily be undone. I also knew that he, as well of many other children here, know nothing else but to steal; and if caught, then to lie; and if punished, then to fight. And moreover, he, as the other children here, have no idea of the value of a dollar, which is in and of itself a very very sad thing.

As for my iPod, while it is no small thing, to me it is only a thing. It is a tool that I use for things like Driscoll Group, and while useful, my day-to-day life doesn't depend upon it. Truthfully, I would never have brought it with me to Nicaragua had I not been reconciled to the possibility of losing, breaking, or having it stolen here. To me, its value was that it held about 40 Mars Hill sermons, which allowed me to bring with me a lot more food for thought than I would have been able to carry in paperback form.

I had been told by the staff that I would be given the task of naming his concequences, and I had four main criteria for myself:
1) I wanted his punishment to involve some form of restitution (making it right),
2) I didn't want it to resemble the seemingly purposeless punishment of long-term solitary confinement in one's rooms that the boys often recieve for their most serious offenses.
3) I didn't want it to be more difficult than necessary.
4) I didn't want it to be considered "soft".

Honestly, what I want for this boy is a change of heart, which nothing external can impose. But I'm hoping and praying that God will reform his heart, and that my chosen punishment may be a part of a valuable and life-changing lesson for him. Optomistic, I know.

But what I truly want for this boy is for him to have seen his last day as a thief.

*There is, however a conclusion to this tale, which I will post whenever I can... it shall be entitled Small Change Pt 2.

******Comments Tutorial*****

Hogar Amiguitos

2009-10-03T11:55:00.006-05:00

Alright, as much fun as it is to talk about Steve, I imagine my Canadian friends and family would appreciate hearing something about what I've been doing here for the last week, apart from harassing Steve electronically. The time has come to introduce you to the children of Hogar Amiguitos.

Those who recieved my support letter should now be thinking, "Huh? I thought the place was called Casa Amistad!" Well, my astute friends, that would be wrong, and for two reasons:

1) I made a typo in my support letter, and wrote "Casa" Amistad, instead of "Hogar" Amistad. Casa means house, hogar means home, so it was an honest and more or less insignificant mistake.

2) The Children of Destiny Nicaragua website calls this home "Hogar Amistad", which means "home of friendship", while the actual name for the centre is "Hogar Amiguitos*", which means "home of little friends." Again, an almost irrelevant difference in the English.

However, as a result of these two factors, it turns out that no part of the name I was using for the orphanage in my support letters was right. Spanish - 1. Kelly - 0.

Alright, digressions aside, there are 19 children who call this place home, ranging in ages from 9-18. The kids at the orphanage kind divide naturally into several different groups, those being:
- the little girls (one 7-year-old, and one 8-year-old)
- the boys (ranging in ages from 9-13, but generally operating as one unit)
- Adan (our youngest boy, having just turned 9 last Sunday, Adan falls into his own category for reasons to be explained later)
- the big girls (sharing a room with the little girls, they are 11 and 12)
- las muchachas ("the teenage girls" - as well as having a different scholastic schedule,
they have different privileges and responsities from the younger kids); and
- Ana. (Ana also falls into her own category for reasons to be explained later).

Today I'll tell you a bit about our two little nine-year old girls:

Luz and Xochilt are adorable, mischevious, intelligent little partners in crime.

Luz (which literally means "light", and is pronounced "luce"), is eight, and is often called Luzita ("lucita"), which simply means, "little Luz."

Xochilt (age seven) probably has the coolest name ever (sorry, Steve), which is pronounced "SO-cheal".

The first thing I wanted to do when I got here was curl up on a couch with these little cuties and read a storybook with them... which led me to the immediate realization that there are no couches here at Hogar Amiguitos. I know that couches are simply not a Nicaraguan custom, but to me it seems so wrong for 19 kids to have no place to be cuddled and read to, to sit comfortably, and that they watch their movies every Friday night seated on those white plastic garden chairs that are a low-budget standard in every Canadian backyard or porch. For some reason, my paradigm for loving parenting and a welcoming home is inextricably linked to owning a soft, inviting, and comfortable couch couch. Anyone else feel that way?

Have you ever seen those fiesty, tough, cute kids? I mean, not the shy ones, who are sweet in their own way, but those sweet little faces that just break your heart with the firmness of their jaw and the adorable inadequacy in their tightly clenched fist? That's Luz and Xochilt.

I admire and respect Luz and Xochilt. In school, they work hard, and at home, they play hard and laugh hard. They've each been through their own hard histories, but there is a light and a strength in their eyes that deserves major kudos.

Because to me, far more important than what life gives you is what you choose to do with the life you've been given.

* "ito/ita" is a part added into many nouns in the spanish as a term of endearment or affection... it turns a word like amigo (friend) into amiguito (little friend); chela (blondie) into chelita (little blondie), gringa (white girl) into gringita (little white girl). The affectionate nickname recently given to me by Xochilt is gringita bonita, or pretty little white girl. Most of the time I hate being called gringita down here (for example, by forty-year-old men in the streets), but when it's coming from Xochilt, I suddenly find I like the sound of that.

******Comments Tutorial*****

It seems that several people have had a hard time discovering how to leave comments on my blog, so I plan on including this quick tutorial in my posts over the next few weeks.

There are two ways to get to the comments page for my blog:

1) When you arrive at my mainpage, my most recent blog entry displays on the frontpage. At the top, from left to right, you will see the title, then the date, and then a small number (usually reading either 0, 1, or 2.) This is the number of comments that have been left for that particular entry so far. The number will turn yellow when you hover over it, revealing that it is a link. If you click the link, it will reload that entry with the comments page. At this point you can leave your own comment on the entry as well as read the comments that others have left.

2) By clicking on the "pull" string from any page on my blog, you will access a drop-down menu that will provide you with links to previous and archived entries. If you are wanting to comment on the current entry, one click on the title will load that entry again with the comments page. This method is handy if you are wishing to comment on back-entries as well. Please note, however, that each entry's drop-down menu will only display the entries previous to it. To access the most recent entries again, you may need to return to my mainpage by re-entering the full domain address.

The Wonderfulness of Steve!

2009-09-30T13:12:00.005-05:00

Okay, I know you're all here to read about the 20 wonderful kids that are filling up my days and draining my patience daily here in Nica, but instead, I've decided it's time to introduce you all to the wonderfulness of Steve!

Steve is 26 years old. He lives in Winnipeg, Manitoba, where he is currently pursuing a higher education at Red River in the area of computer networking.

Steve is tall. Steve lives with David EisBrenner. Steve often requests that I mention him on my blog. And today, Steve is getting his request (and then some).

Steve's family owns a cozy cabin in Ontario, and Steve visits there often throughout the summer months. Steve has interesting taste in music. Steve has a car. And yes, ladies, Steve is single!

Sometimes Steve and I make sushi. Sometimes with David, and sometimes without. Sometimes we make more sushi than we can eat. Sometimes we go for walks through the Corydon neighbourhood and talk about our lives and respective futures.

Steve is a very tall man. He is taller than most people I know. He is also pretty funny and will do almost anything for a friend. I'm one of his friends, but not "first-tier", which makes me feel a little ripped off sometimes. But I guess I have not yet paid my dues. (Or bought my way up with a blog entry, hint hint?)

Steve enjoys House and House spoilers. Steve doesn't exactly enjoy Survivor but Steve, like most people I know, can be won over through appropriate levels of peer pressure. Sadly, though, I have not yet found appropriate level of peer pressure that will someday turn Steve into a swing dancer.... perhaps I should try my patented Bryan Neufeld approach?

Steve's birthday is exactly one month after mine. Well, but three years earlier. I found this out by Facebook-stalking him just now. Steve is on Facebook. Steve and I have validated our relationship through the sacred bond of Facebook-friends status.

Steve makes amazing pies, of which I have heard legends. Steve takes a pretty mean photograph. If you ever want to spit something out of your mouth and have that moment captured forever, Steve's your man.

These things provide just a small taste of the wonderfulness of Steve. Here in my comments section, I invite you to provide additional insights to the measure of his wonderfulness. Or, if you have not yet had the pleasure of meeting Steve, you may lament this fact in my comments section. Or, additionally, if you are a young, available woman, you may also request Steve's phone number* here in my comments section!

*(All applicants for dating Steve must submit to an intensive screening process).

Last Snapshots of Matagalpa

2009-09-24T18:14:00.004-05:00

Extraño... that was the word of the day yesterday in Spanish class as I tried to explain to Lussi, my teacher, how wierd it feels to be here in Matagalpa for two weeks of Spanish lessons with no friends; no family; no comfort of the known; no sweet, sweet, English in my ears; and no great task, opportunity, or work waiting to fill my time outside of classes. Strange.

Of course I haven´t been doing nothing here. I have found much to occupy my time over the last week and a half. For example, I´ve read two and a half books. I´ve watched two Driscoll sermon series. I´ve enjoyed some amazing spanish kids´ television shows. I´ve wandered the streets exploring to the point of stressing my knee, gotten lost once, e-mailed some friends and family and compared the internet speed quality in nearly every internet cafe around. (Heck, it´s super cheap. Usually my usage needs for the day max out at an hour and a half, for a cost of just under a dollar.) Oh yeah, and I´ve studied some spanish, too.

But there comes a point where your brain gets overtaxed by the conjugating of the past perfect and the imperfect, and the gerundio, too. Yesterday in class I thought my brain would explode when Lussi revealed to me that the entire population of Nicaragua doesn´t use the regular "tú" form as all of Spanish-dom uses it, but instead has their own slang word for the singular "you" subject, known as "vos", and is not to be confused with the spanish plural "you" subject, "vosotros," which the Nicaraguans don´t use.

The thing with the whole "vos" form, is that it subtly changes the conjugations regularly used for basically every verb in the Spanish language, somewhat following the "tú" rules but changing the emphasis from the second-last to the last syllable. Now folks, I know what you´re thinking. You´re thinking, "so then they use an accent to emphasize the last syllable, as is generally the rule in all of wide, wide, Spanish-dom?"

There, my quick-thinking, surprisingly language-perceptive friend, you would be wrong. Nope, you´re just supposed to know. Hello, it´s SLANG. Let´s not make this too easy for those extranjeros!

I spent the rest of the day trying to wrap my mind around the usage of "vos", and shaming Lussi for all the guilt I could extract for not telling me about the whole "vos" thing earlier.

After classes like that, my brain just needs a nap.

The other thing that I´ve been doing here in Matagalpa to fill my time is seeing various points of interest in the Matagalpa area, which is a part of the package offered to Spanish students of Matagalpa Tours. There´s kind of an interesting dynamic to going out on regularly scheduled one-on-one outings with a 24-year-old latino guy, though. Not that Hector is at all unprofessional, it´s just that his job at present is to take this chela out to places like the local chocolate factory, and of course, he pays.

My new latin-american television guilty pleasure is the amazing Mexican tourism show, GEM: Gringo En Mexico, a show hosted by an American guy with an interesting grasp on the Spanish language... he knows all the words, but not how to speak it. There´s nothing more for me to say about than that to me, it is pee-your-pants hilarious, and to refer you to this youtube clip for reference.

Okay... maybe I´ll add just this one thing. The episode I saw the other day included him creeping out an indigenous family far up in the mountains of Mexico, trying to interview them on-camera and shake their hands, as the children ran away timidly to hide, and the mother turned her face away. Eventually a Mexican man came along and explained to him that these indigenous people:

a) don´t speak spanish, and
b) are very unused to seeing strangers (probably much less so white people), and thus are very distrusting of outsiders.

Way to do your homework, GEM.

Today was the parade for the Virgin Mercedes, and the third holiday we´ve had since I came to Matagalpa. For some reason, each town chooses their own Virgin to honour in the Catholic Cathedral... to me it comes off like the "patron saint" or the "local god" of the town... it´s a very strange Catholicism you find in Central America, a fine blend of paganism and Catholic tradition.

Tomorrow I have eight hours of spanish classes, and if my brain makes it through intact, by tomorrow night I´ll be at the orphanage in Jinotega, meeting the kids I´ll be caring for for the next three months.

Home, Sweet, Sweet Home

2009-09-20T12:36:00.006-05:00

Yesterday I hit home in Nicaragua. Sweet, sweet home.

I had heard word that there was a play being performed this Saturday night, at a place very close to my home, by a theatre group from Managua that was commended to me as the best theatre group in Central America. So of course I went.

It wasn´t just a play. It was theatre. A beautiful play, with a beautiful, important message, with incredible movement work, about the issue of domestic violence in Nicaragua, complete with a talk-back by the cast after the show. I was so in my element. It was entitled "Sopa de Muñecas," or "Doll Soup," loosely translated.

I loved every moment of the piece, understood in a way that gave major props to the actors, as well as to the power of art to cross the barriers of language and experience. I looked at the actors like they were my long lost cousins; these were my people.

Even now, as the magic of last night is fading, I´m frustrated with myself for not having the words to properly express that feeling of glow in one´s heart, knowing that they are known, that they are home, that they are with people that they understand perfectly, that they respect deeply, that they relate to fundamentally.

I sat there for the duration just soaking up the magic that the cast laid out before my eyes, laughing at the funny bits, grieving at the tragedy, and loving the feeling of understanding and being communicated with. In the talkback, one of the cast members talked about how the purpose of theatre is not to give solutions to issues like domestic violence or inter-family violence, but to be a mirror for society, to bring forward the issues, to spark thought and conversation that might move people towards drawing their own conclusions and solutions. For those of you who understand or subscribe to the Lucy Maud Montgomery concept of kindred spirits, these people were mine.

A spanish student from Austria that I had met earlier in the day had planned on possibly meeting me there, but in the end she went to a rock concert that a member of her host family had an extra ticket to, and I sat there alone, conspicuously blond as usual, and conspicuously solo as well. So began an exchange with a guy named Norlan sitting about a row back that at first felt a little something like this*, but took a definite turn for the better when Norlan´s friends Juan and Jimmy showed up. I felt a little less like prey at that point, and my discovery that Juan and Jimmy were both actors whose group had recently disbanded and theatre enthusiasts in heart changed everything. I found it very endearing as Juan tried with a fine mix of social reservedness and uninhibited passion for his art to explain that he and Norlan were poets, and that he very much wanted to share with me the verses contained in the leather-bound notebook that he carried with him.

As someone who lives off of deep connections, good conversations, and common ground with the people around me, I´d been feeling a little bit dry and deserted since arriving in Matagalpa. Kindred spirits for me are the heart of life. And I found Juan to be a kindred spirit. (Norlan was kind of still a bit of a player... I found out later that one of the first things he had said to me was a lie. He told me he was 22 when I said I was 23, but he´s actually 26. He defended himself profusely by saying he didn´t want to come across as old. I laughed pretty hard when Juan unintentionally outed him.)

Realizing that these two guys were harmless, and better yet, that they were people with whom I could relate, I took the liberty of hanging out with them for awhile after the play, explaining that I was craving one of my Canadian customs of seeing theatre with friends and then going out after to discuss it. In the end, it didn´t turn out to be all that I was hoping. Both Norlan and Juan mumbled so much and spoke spanish so informally that I could barely understand them most of the time, and Juan was so obviously smitten by my gringa-ness that he couldn´t and wouldn´t talk at first, trying to get Norlan to re-explain everything (still in spanish, of course) when I couldn´t understand him instead of just repeating himself more slowly, and then eventually wouldn´t stop talking at all and would go on for 10 or 15 minutes at a time about his ideas, his thoughts, and his dreams about life, the world, art and theatre. It was the language barrier that destroyed us, because the conversation held loads of possibility and interest, but was irretrievably lost in translation.

It is nevertheless still a very good thing to sit for a couple hours in the middle of a central park in a latin-american country in another part of the world with some generally good guys - poets, dreamers, actors, etc - and to be completely, hopelessly unable to understand the words being rapidly flung at you by way of conversation, and at some point realize that Juan was just quoting Constantin Stanislavski, is now giving you his thoughts on Grotowski and the Poor Theatre, and recommending you read ¨Manual Minimo del Actor¨(in English The Tricks of the Trade) by Dario Fo, an Italian contemporary working in the field of commedia dell`arte. That´s the sort of conversation in which it´s a beautiful thing to find yourself lost.

Anyways, now having felt very blessed by the much-craved taste of home and familiarity, I´m able to enjoy a laid-back, spanish-school free Sunday morning. I´ll be going to Catholic Mass this afternoon with the family I´m staying with, doing a bit more reading, sending a few e-mails, maybe watching me some Driscoll, and waiting in eager expectation to meet the kids at Hogar Amistad in Jinotega in a week.

*if you missed that link, go back and click on the link attached to the word ¨this,¨ and by all means, enjoy watching one of my favorite comedic sketches ever....

Snapshots

2009-09-17T19:58:00.006-05:00

I´m doing these snapshots the John Mayer way*, for those wondering why I haven´t posted any pictures in this post.

Today I learned a new word: chela. It means blondie. Add that to my vocabulary list of the things men are calling out at me as I walk through the streets. The most memorable of the day was ¨chelita linda¨, a phrase I was very happy to at least be able to understand. Additionally, I was inexpressably comforted by the knowledge that this phrase sounds equally as creepy when translated into English as it does in Spanish when called out by some gruff, 50-something latino walking by you on a sparsely-peopled street: pretty little blondie.

Sometimes the latinos suck you in, though. If they can blurt out enough English words convincingly enough, you hestitate just long enough that they´ve found an in. Like one guy I met who used to live in California, and wanted to know if I had a boyfriend, because I am so pretty.

In those circumstances, I often lie. However, it´s difficult (and usually a bad idea) to lie to someone you have any sort of a relationship with, and so today became the day for personal conversations. Like with Hector, my tour guide today through the streets of Matagalpa, who also wanted to know my relational status. Reluctantly, I divulged the information. However, a great conversation ensued, the kind I always enjoy having, and the kind I´d hoped to be able to find my way into despite the language barrier here in Nicaragua.

I told Hector I prefer walking with him as opposed to walking alone because walking alone, I am just another gringa. He understood.

It´s nice to be understood.

Today in Spanish class I asked my teacher (also 23) if one of the other teachers there was her boyfriend. She said no, and wanted to know why I thought that. Those of you who know me well can appreciate how difficult it can be to relay to anyone why I think the way I think in English, much less in Spanish. However, it was fun to try, although I might have stirred up some drama there, as she´s now giving their relationship more thought.

Today I was introduced to Matagalpa´s Catholic cathedral, central park, main street, and the market here. I´m very happy that I can now walk down more than one street and still know where I´m going.

Apparently the color of my shirt and the color of my eyes are a good combination. (The color of my shirt is aquamarine.)

I´m starting to think in Spanish again. That´s comforting. I´m starting to be able to guess the answers on ¨Ruleta de la Suerte¨, Spain´s edition of Wheel of Fortune.

I´m actually really enjoying the melodrama of the spanish soaps here. I find them honest in their indulgence. They know exactly what they are for; they are television´s equivalent of the Harlequin romance; and they make no bones about it. Soaps in America (from my limited knowledge) get tangled up in all sorts of crazy crimes, murders, and impregnations. I´m sure Central American soaps have their share of these, but so far it´s just been glorious hook-up after glorious hook-up. Actually, they´re probably about the same, but it´s less burdensome to be able to ignore all of the finer details that come with actually understanding the dialogue.

And now I´m going to find my way back up the hill to my house, watch some Driscoll on the iPod I strategically loaded up with unwatched sermons, do my homework so Lussi doesn´t kill me tomorrow, and go to bed, since it´s already been dark for about two hours here.

Listening to: City and Colour - Hello, I´m in Delaware

*3x5 talks about leaving one´s camera behind in order to see the world with both eyes open, and taking the opportunity to tell others about these excursions through the act of losing one´s way with words - a well-known experience to me at the moment.

Pick-ups, Goof-ups, and Hold-ups.

2009-09-16T12:50:00.009-05:00

This Monday night I was strolling down the steep streets of Matagalpa, Nicaragua, to get my first view of the town that would be my home for the next two weeks while I study up on my spanish language skills. Suddenly the cell phone in my purse starts tolling the hour of 5:20, a fitting addition to the disorderly events of that day, and my Nicaraguan experience thus far.

My last entry ended with me stranded in the Managua airport with no sign of my Seattleite friends Karel and Myra anywhere. I took my time through the airport, exchanged my American cash for some Nicaraguan Cordovas (at a rate of 1:20, I was pretty loaded afterwards), and made my way through a pretty lax security gate, to find myself with no remaining menial tasks to distract me from the absence of my friends. Oh, great. Stranded on the other side of the world. Even worse, I could hear all of my parents´ paranoid concerns echoing in my head... ¨Oh, shut UP!,¨ I was thinking.

My feelings of abandonment lasted only about an hour before I saw the face of one of my favorite gringos, Karel, coming through the airport´s sliding doors. I hopped in his vehicle with my luggage and was greeted by his two adorable daughters, the oldest of which, Addy (5) was dressed as a princess. Both were very excited to see me, although I´m not sure whether or not Rylee (3) would have legitimately remembered me, but they were sweet and welcoming, and as usual, pretty darn cute.

Back at the Normans, Addy and I decided to take a nap, but what was probably a light one-hour nap for Addy was a full-on, four-hour, dead-to-the-world crash for me. (Apparently they tried to wake me to see if I wanted to go swimming... I was not responsive.)

That evening we had a barbeque with the Normans´neighbours in their apartment complex, primarily American missionaries involved with various projects in Managua. The Normans had made arrangements for two friends of theirs to drive me up to Matagalpa at 6 in the morning, where I would be enrolled in Spanish school for the next two weeks and living in a Nicaraguan home.

After Karel and Myra went to bed, I realized my alarm clock had no batteries in it, so I set the clock on my Nicaraguan cell phone for 5:20 AM. Pleased at my ingenuity, and praying I would wake up, I went to bed.

At 9 AM the next morning, I woke up. In Managua. At Karel and Myra´s place. Hmmmm..... oops? I had definitely missed my ride. Apparently, a week of late-nights, packing, saying goodbye, road-trips, concerts, and 2AM Denny´s visits can really tire a girl out.

We decided that I would go to Matagalpa by bus, a plan that quickly fell apart when we realized that no busses would be running due to the fact that Nicaragua´s Independence day was the next day, September 15. Next we attempted to contact a taxi to take me to Matagalpa, but Karel and Myra were unable to locate the numbers of any trusted taxi drivers. Finally, one of Karel´s neighbors contacted a driver who often drove for them when they had American missions groups coming down to help out. Guillermo came around one in the afternoon and we had a great visit while he drove me up to Matagalpa. I learned a lot about the political situation in Nicaragua and the Sandinistas, and tried to explain the political climate in Canada as best I could.

We found my school, Escuela de Español Matagalpa, and there was not a soul to be seen. All was locked up for the holiday, and we were about an hour and a half late for my 2 o´clock lesson. After a bit of searching, we came across a woman from the school, and she helped us find our way to the house where I would be staying. After some dinner, I decided to set out down the street and try to orientate myself in the town of Matagalpa.

This is the point where my cell phone went off, letting me know that somehow I had set my phone for 5:20 PM, and not AM as I had originally thought.

Here´s the view of Matagalpa from the end of my street:

I returned to my home, unlocked the door to my room to which I had been kindly given a key, checked my stuff, and discovered I was missing $60 American, a fair chunk of the cost of my tuition, which I hadn´t been able to pay up front since the school was closed. It´s never wise to keep such large amounts of money in one´s possession when being billeted out in Central America, but I had thought it might be less wise to carry it on me in the streets. I guess you live and learn, though. So now, $60 short, and conspicuously blond amongst a sea of latinos, I find myself with two weeks of spanish studies ahead of me and a cheap and accessible internet cafe just down the street.

Listening to: Regina Spektor - The Call

Concerts, Airports, And Abandonment...

2009-09-14T19:57:00.008-05:00

¡Hola amigos!

Getting out of the country for a few months seemed like more than enough reason to resurrect my poor neglected blog here, so I hope there are still one or two of you out there who get this in a feed or stumble by this page occasionally or click their desktop bookmark daily in fond remembrance... or perhaps have come across my blog by a less pathetic means; that´s fine too!

Here are a few snippets of my adventures thus far.

My American-side travels included as a highlight the Regina Spektor concert at the State Theatre in Minneapolis - a beautiful venue for a brilliant songwriter with the voice of an an angel. For those who haven´t yet heard her new single, ¨Laughing With,¨ remedy that immediately. I will say, however, that her live rendition far surpassed the record.

Fast forward to my eight-hour layover in Chicago... bored, I approached a harmless-looking fellow who seemed also to be in no rush to catch his flight, and asked if he would mind some company and conversation. Turns out my airport intuition is strong, as the guy, Alex, was a French-Canadian from Quebec whose Spanish was better than his English, en route to Mexico with a similarly lengthy layover, departing only an hour before me. Oh, did I mention a French Canadian actor, who had learned spanish the summer previously for a role in a play translated from its original French, and who was heading to Mexico to reprise his role in the play for a theatre festival? Yeah, that´s right kids, it pays to talk to strangers. The highlight of my night was reading through his script with him in Spanish, although I´m still waiting until the exciting conclusion arrives in my inbox, as his flight boarded somewhere in the middle of act 1. But we passed a good five hours, I believe, in our spanish-english conversation (no, I didn´t shame myself by digging out my high school French), and while waiting for my flight after Alex´s departure, I felt very glad that I had decided to introduce myself to that random guy in the airport food court.

About 5 hours later, I arrived in the airport in Managua, Nicaragua, where I was to be met by my dear friends Karel and Myra. But alas, not a familiar face was to be seen...

...

(to be continued....

ahh, the suspense.)

Love Alone

2007-12-29T22:40:00.000-06:00

I absolutely adore this Caedmon's Call song... I first fell in love with it when my dear friend, my roommate Heidi's brother was in a crazy intense and life-threatening bike accident a few years ago. By God's grace alone he overcame so many negative prognoses and is now, incredibly, studying to be a prosthetic-orthotic technician at George Brown College in Toronto.

It was early in November of 2004 when we got the news. What I remember most about the weeks following is being overwhelmed by my grief, my concern, my fears, and my worry. Being so far from Eric while his life hung in the balance had me feeling all kinds of uselessness. My roommate at the time, Sarah (also a friend of Eric's) and I got quite resourceful in our letter and e-mail writing during Eric's long hospital stay, even making audio tapes of us reading children's books and playing songs on the guitar to brighten his long, pain-filled days. Eventually, in early January, we finally bucked up and flew out to see him (which was, incidentally, when I first met Heidi).

This Caedmon's Call song "Love Alone" had never really held any intense meaning for me, but during this season of my life it became full of implications and significance. I held it close to me as a small representative of the many thoughts I was struggling through. But in that time, my biggest cry to God was this: "Why does it hurt SO much to care for others? Why must it hurt so bad?"

There are so many things that those around us can do to break our hearts, and if we chose to love, then we must know that we may someday feel the full strain of loss, or regret; disappointment, or grief. It will not always be their fault; Eric certainly didn't mean to cause anyone pain when his motorcycle was hit by an inattentive driver in 2004; our pain was borne from our love of him. I think it is a righteous, holy grief, the kind that splits your heart when you long for those you love and care about to know and love Jesus, but they don't, and they won't; when you see your best friend's family fall to pieces when you're 9; when someone you love (or someone someone you love loves) takes their own life. When you don't know how to "fix" it, but you want to so bad. And your heart instinctively cries out for someone, anyone, but still always, somehow, that same Someone: "Give me Your hand to hold because I can't stand to love alone."

I have said to much; I should let these words speak for themselves. Read whatever you will; I know that every time I come to them, in every new empty-hearted scenario, they meet me there with something new. Even now they wrap around my particular grief and raise me up to grasp a hem, hovering just above me, but is it low enough? And I am glad that I have reached for it after all.

Love Alone

No one would love me
If they knew all the things I hide
My words fall to the floor
As tears drip through the telephone line

And the hands I’ve seen raised to the sky
Were not waving but drowning all this time
And I try to build the ark that they will need
To float to you upon the crystal sea

Give me Your hand to hold
'Cause I can't stand to love alone
And love alone is not enough to hold us up
We've got to touch Your robe
So swing Your robe down low
Swing Your robe down low

The prince of despair's been beaten
But the loser still fights
Death's on a long leash
Stealing my friends to the night

And everyone cries for the innocent
But You say to love the guilty too
And I'm surrounded by suffering and sickness
So I'm working tearing back the roof

Give me Your hand to hold
'Cause I can't stand to love alone
And love alone is not enough to hold us up
We've got to touch Your robe
So swing Your robe down low
Swing Your robe down low

And the pain of the world is a burden
And it's my cross to bear
And I stumble under all the weight
I know you're Simon standing there
And I know you're standing there

Give me your hand to hold
'Cause I can't stand to love alone
And love alone is not enough to hold us up
We've got to touch Your robe
So swing Your robe down low
Swing Your robe down low

*The part of the song that I have italicized is the part where Jesus echoes are cries and He, in His own human experience, cries with us. I just didn't want you to miss it.

One Art

2007-11-16T13:07:00.000-06:00

by Elizabeth Bishop


The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.



Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.



Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.



I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.



I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.





--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident

the art of losing's not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop writes like a dream- I adore this poem! Eventually this blog will host all things Kelly-penned again, but for the moment, let's just enjoy the sentiments of such skilled wordsmiths as Bishop, shall we?

Spanish Poetry - ¡que bonita!

2007-11-11T13:56:00.001-06:00

La Guitarra

Empieza el llanto
de la guitarra.
Se rompen las copas
de la madrugada.
Empieza el llanto
de la guitarra.
Es inútil
callarla.
Es imposible
callarla.
Llora monótona
como llora el agua,
como llora el viento
sobre la nevada.
Es imposible
callarla.
Llora por cosas
lejanas.
Arena del Sur caliente
que pide camelias blancas.
Llora flecha sin blanco,
la tarde sin mañana,
y el primer pájaro muerto
sobre la rama.
¡Oh guitarra!
Corazón malherido
por cinco espadas.

by Federico Garcia Lorca
1898-1936

In English:

The Guitar

The weeping of the guitar
begins.
The goblets of dawn
are smashed.
The weeping of the guitar
begins.
Useless
to silence it.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps monotonously
as water weeps,
as the wind weeps
over snowfields.
Impossible
to silence it.
It weeps for distant
things.
Hot southern sands
yearning for white camellias.
Weeps arrow without target,
evening without morning,
and the first dead bird
on the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart mortally wounded
by five swords.

Correspondence from Camp....

2007-05-28T21:59:00.000-05:00

Hmmm... well, it seems we can't outrun ourselves. I'm going to give it a shot later this evening, but given my current location, and the content of this post, it seems that I am stuck with me.

It's been an interesting turn of events that has led me to this post tonight. And, like all epic stories, this tale began... on Facebook.

Several weeks ago, shortly after relocating to the grounds of Dauphin Bible Camp, I received a message from a guy who was, as far as I can tell, a camp counsellor at DBC during my first summer there, a full 14 years ago. Let's see, divide my life by 3, and it was at the end of the first chunk, almost exactly. (Useless fact. But hey, sorta puts life into perspective, don't it?)

This guy wanted to know if I was THE Kelly Cochrane, the infamous poet who had apparently charmed him with her 7-year-old rhyming ways back in the day. Apparently some kid had submitted some pretty wacky poems to the camp newspaper in 1993. I said... "hmmm, from that description, I can't tell you, but it sure sounds like me!" (No, I'm not being vain, but I WAS one of those nerdy kids who took Journalism religiously at camp and would likely have done something like that). But, just to confirm (a.k.a. amuse myself), I asked the guy to send me these poems to refresh my memory.

Now, I re-read the poems and they did start to come back to me, but just to be clear here, I'm still not entirely certain if I wrote these poems or just submitted them to the paper, neglecting to name an author other than myself. So whether you are currently reliving with me "My First Publication" or "My First Plagiarism" is still unclear... but hey, either way, to do so at 7 is pretty prestigious!

The Monster
There used to be a monster,
His name was Dippy Doo,
He wasn't very friendly,
For his age was 62,
There were a lot of people,
in my crowded house,
but when he wasn't around,
it was as quiet as a mouse.

The Poem
I awoke one night,
when my brother had a fight.
I awoke one night,
when my sister had a blister.
I awoke one night,
when my dog had caught a frog.
I awoke one night,
when my cat killed a rat.
I awoke one night,
when Ted turned red.
I awoke one night,
when Scott got caught.
I awoke one night,
don't you see
something really scared me.

by Kelly Cochrane
Age 7 (going on 8)

(If it makes you feel any better, I'm pretty sure I wrote these.)

As I told the counsellor in our e-mail exchange, the thing I remember most vividly is putting "7 going on 8" in the paper... now, I wasn't one of those kids who was always trying to act or sound older, but my concerns here were quite legitimate (I thought)... the youngest age you could come to camp back then was 8 (now we have Young Camper's week), but since I was always a year younger than everyone else in my grade, when everyone else was 8, I was still 7. So my mom called the camp and asked if I could come at 7 (they'd let Becca do the same 2 years earlier)... they let me come, but I was still quite concerned that everyone would find out I was 7 and immediately band together in unity, crying "You don't belong here- you're SEVEN!!!" and chasing me from the camp like a good old-fashioned exorcism - hence the apologetic "(going on 8)" tagged on to the end of every "Kelly" credit in the paper.

Ahhh, yes, there was more. The determined little under-age writer that I was, I actually somehow qualified for a personal interview- me and Fred Penner (who was apparently camp speaker or something that week... who knows?) Yup, I was in the big leagues.

Does anyone else get positively mortified when seeing pictures or hearing stories of themselves in younger years? I mean, supposedly it was cute at the time, but reading about it feels a bit like staring at a train wreck- a train wreck named ME.

Anyways, I'm just going to bite the bullet and hope you'll allow all the grace due to someone who wrote this only a third of the way into the life she now leads...

Interview

NAME: KELLY COCHRANE

Q: How old are you?

A: Seven going on eight.

Q: Why did you come to camp?

A: Because her best friend didn't want to be a Christian, so I came to be one.

Q: What's God doing in your life:

A: Making a difference. Making me a better person.

Q: What is your favorite food?

A: Maccaroni!

Q: Favorite Bible character?

A: Jesus

Q: What are your future plans?

A: To become a dancer.

Q: What is your favorite verse?

A: Ephesians something. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

Q: What is your favorite saying?

A: Oh nuts!

Well folks, I think we have plenty of fodder for commentary, to say the least. Always eager to amuse you, I remain faithfully yours,

~Kelly Ann Cochrane, age 21 (going on 22!)

Oh Camp. Back, Back At Camp.

2007-05-16T22:32:00.000-05:00

Hmmm... Camp. I'm very surprised to be here right now. It is, as some cheesy movie (the name of which currently eludes me) phrased it, "surreal but nice."

I remember, back when I was young, and 16, and idealistic, making a pledge to myself, after having spent a full 8 years here as a camper, proudly carrying on the Cochrane tradition, and upon becoming a camp counselor for the first time, that I would not be one of those people who comes to camp for one summer and then "moves on". I pledged, then and there, to work at camp for at least 2 summers.

When grade 12 started, I got my first real, good paying, not for my mom's catering company job. I was a Sandwich Artist. I was a great Sandwich Artist. I could write customer's names on their subs. In Mayo. Or Mustard. Upside down. (For better customer-name viewing). The applause was deafening. (My friends thought it was cute).

After graduation, I continued my work-more-than-humanly-possible approach to the tuition payment plan, and such as been the state of my summers ever since, with just the tiniest niggling and nagging of that one little "woulda-coulda-shoulda" in the back of my mind.

Which brings us to the present.

In the midst of the zillions of possibilities and scenarios that swirled about me as I tried to nail down the substance of my summer months, somehow camp grabbed a hold of me once again (thanks in no small part to the aggressive recruitment techniques of the dear Carma and Richard Bankert, terror tactics which I have now come to embrace unquestioningly, since my official christening as "one of them").

Here I am, taking the biggest dive of my life (debatably), joining the Dauphin Bible Camp Crew this summer as Program Director, no less. This means that when people have questions, they ask ME. ME! And then I make up an answer, and deliver it as confidently as possible. Me, the girl who worked here one summer five years ago. Yup, she's the new go-to.

After a few days of blissful ignorance to the "weight of my duties", and then a few days of pretending to have a clue, I think I finally got up to speed about a week and a half into my new employment arrangement, which started the first of May. Now, at 2 and a half weeks into it, I'm getting very excited for both the challenge and the opportunity that faces me.

Great things about being at DBC:
1) I'm fulfilling that old personal goal/resolution of mine to be here for 2 years (at least).
2) Front row seats to the first days, weeks, and months of DBC's official coolest child ever, Carma and Richard (director)'s new baby, Brooklynn Dawn.
3) Back at camp, aka back to my roots. It's weird, even though I've only worked here for one summer (besides that one week they roped me in last year for Special Needs Camp), I've spent SO much of my childhood out here, and it is (fortunately) all coming back to me, the intricacies of the schedules, the Wide Games, etc. I mean, programming for crafts for a whole week before realizing that we cut the crafts skill 2 years ago? I call that nostalgia.
4) Living in the past. Sure, my friends spent a good portion of the last half-decade up here, while I made my fortunes (BAH!) out there in the wild, wild... Parkland. But now that I am here, how dare they not return to counsel another year? Basically, my recruitment list consists of several fantastic people who are at this point so deep in student loan debt that they'd laugh at me to my face if the crushing weight of it all weren't so stifling. So....

New list. The "staff needed" list. If you fit any of these things (and more!) please direct your fascination and enthusiasm towards our website, www.dauphinbiblecamp.com , where you can access online applications for virtually anything imaginable! (Well, mostly just these things listed below). We are currently still looking for:
-Assistant Program Director (male). Or, as I like to say, the person who will fetch my slippers and get my coffee. Gee, I wonder why no one has yet applied?
-Head Wrangler. Must have serious skills in the area of horsing around. If you are good with horses but not THAT good, we also need just regular wranglers.
-Head Lifeguard. NLS required. We have a beautiful salt-water pool (trust me, it's sweet) just waiting for kids to lounge, splash, and have a riot in it, and if you enjoy blowing whistles and can swim like a fish (or a duck, or a bear- they're good too), please apply!
-Camp Nurse. Or, the politically correct version, Health Officer. Actually, Health Officer is far more accurate because you don't need to be an RN to be one. If you think you've got what it takes, check it out at www.dauphinbiblecamp.com.
- CLT Program Instructor. Basically, you need camp background experience, the benefits of age and wisdom, and a heart for camp, for the Lord, and for teaching.
-Senior Cabin Leaders (male and female). Over 18, must have camp counseling experience, or some pretty sweet character references.
There is also a need for kitchen staff, male junior cabin leaders, work crew- you name it, if you're willing to give it, we need it.

Alright. The Kelly Recruits Readers Worldwide! segment is now officially over. Relax. You made it. And just in time to hear my thoughts on the glorious thing we know as Dauphin Bible Camp:

It's beautiful. It's serene. I'm so isolated I think I may go nuts. But as spring hits, the creek thaws, and the squirrels and bears wander like they own the place, there is a second life renewing and regaining force here. Something Else is stirring. Someone Else is moving.

5 people inhabit this camp in the month of May. One of us is no older than May itself. But in the midst all this deafening stillness, God is doing something out here, among the empty cabins that wait in eager expectation. And I think I'm right where I want to be.

How To "Get The Girl" - Or Get Expelled Trying

2007-04-14T01:00:00.000-05:00

This week, I got hit on.

Hold on, hear me out- this IS blog-worthy - wait and see.

This week, I got hit on, WHILE WRITING a final exam.

Before your imagination runs TOO wild, let me clarify several things:
1) I did NOT get hit on by a prof,
2) I did NOT get carried away by the sheer novelty of it all and start making out with some guy mid-paragraph, and
3) It is NOT AT ALL likely that any type of short-term, long-term, or any-term relationship will develop as a result of this quite unconventional "proposition"... (sorry folks, it's not THAT type of blog-worthy!)

Now, for what DID happen...

So, apparently, there's this guy.

This guy I've talked to like maybe 3 times this semester. Seems like a nice guy, and I know once we had a really good "get to know ya" conversation that might have lasted all of a minute and a half. Seriously, he seems like a great guy.

You know, the typical "not on my radar" type of guy, so pretty much the exact type of guy who usually asks me out.

Oh, you mean the kinda cute guy who sits on the other side of the room whom I sometimes smile at ever-so-charmingly?

Nope, not him.

Anyways, moving on, the date-ability or non-date-ability of the guy is not really the point.

So, on Tuesday, I file into my classroom, looking ridiculously grubby and unwashed with my 2-day old hairdo and my naked face (could have used a little doctoring that day, mostly due to my state of grubby unwashedness), holding about 18-million nearly-out-of-ink pens, wearing my comfy jeans and my oh-so-classy "I Love Nerds" T-shirt. However, somehow, despite the fact that I'm currently in the running for "Most Likely To Be Expelled For Sheer Ickiness", said T-shirt manages to evoke a compliment from my secret admirer (hereafter referred to only as "Gutsy"¹, or "Gutsy needs glasses"²).

Other behaviors that I don't consider odd at the time but which make far more sense later include Gutsy (name changed to protect the innocent) eagerly encouraging me to sit in the desk next to him, which was weird, especially when it becomes apparent that my friend Andrew has already claimed said desk, upon which I slip easily into the desk behind Andrew's and jolt to attention as the exam is distributed.

Exam instructions are given, exam is undertaken, and all seem to be rolling along in a jolly manner until somewhere around the 2-hour point, when Gutsy completes his exam (keeners like me will be writing for another hour yet). Somewhere in my peripheral vision Gutsy, who is sitting 1 row over, 1 up, front and center to the prof, finishes his exam and hands it in; for some reason he bumbles about for awhile before slipping a note onto my desk on his way out the door.

I am jolted out of my intensely focused exam-writing state (I was in the zone, man!) by the flutter of paper hitting my desk. I look around in shock, first surveying the note's author, who simply smiles at me and walks out the door. My eyes immediately jump with panic to my prof, who is perched not 10 feet away and staring back in my direction, fully aware of my latest interchange. Thoughts race as I contemplate the consequences of being caught receiving a note during a university-level final exam. None of the scenarios running through my head sound very appealing. I search my prof's face, and read only the slightest knowing hint of a smile; apparently she shares my sneaking predilection that the note is of a more personal nature. I exhale. The panic begins to drain from my face as I finally turn my eyes and thoughts back to my exam.

I am taking no chances. I leave the note untouched and visible on my desktop until the exam's completion, despite the raised eyebrows and annoyingly knowing looks of my neighboring classmates. I hope and pray that my prof does not reconsider her benevolent oversight, and continue plugging away at my final.

Finally I make it through the exam, and after the usual goading of the prof that "time is up... last sentences please!" I finally complete the exam, gather my materials, and slip my mischief-causing love note into my pocket, blushing at my prof's irritatingly knowing smile, and slip out the door.

In the safety and seclusion of the hallway I examine the note further to behold the contact info of Gutsy himself (ladies, let me know if you're at all intrigued... I can pass it on!) I ditch out on the after-class pub rendezvous that Gutsy made a special point to emphasize to the class before his dramatic exit, and head home, with my head only slightly too big to fit through a single-frame doorway.

I guess that's what one can expect when writing final exams for the theatre department....
Drama, drama, drama.

¹ I mean, the guy asked me out during a FINAL EXAM, what would you call him? [back]
² Well, he did tell me I looked good that day; or he liked my shirt, or something like that; whatever- the kid needs glasses. [back]

Thoughts On An Early Morning

2007-03-28T09:19:00.000-05:00

It feels like a school at this hour of the day- not the place I go to meet my social quota, run into people in the hallway, and wile away the hours between classes. At 8:30 AM, the place feels like an institute of higher learning.

People walk around in that early morning brain-fog; their eyes have a slightly Asian look; you know, morning eyes. Eyes that don't want to be open quite yet. The halls are quiet, and conversations seem more somber, perhaps because I'm not having any. The 8:30 crowd is not my crowd; if my people are here, I have NO idea where to find them.

This morning is full of down-time. Psych study at 8:30, 10:30, and some elusive online study to do, once I track down the url. Why am I here again? Oh well, I suppose here's just as good a place as any to waste away the morning. I could study. In a place like this, an atmosphere like this one, I almost could. But, let's be real. It's 8:30. I'd likely fall asleep.

The 8 AM bus ride is full of pleasant surprises- the smiling (not yet awake) face of Jonny, the sound of someone calling my name from behind me- a friend from home, and a chance for a quick catch-up conversation. REAL people ride the bus at 8 AM. The mid-afternoon buses are reserved for the slackers and the unemployed, the senior citizen population, and those whose booze cruise from the night before is either just ending, winding up again, or is still in full swing. But not so at 8. At 8 AM, it's all business. Just being there, on the bus, at such an hour makes me feel more productive. Already I pat myself on the back for making it out of bed, out the door.

It's now 9:30. Having completed task A of my ABC's I now have no idea what I do with myself. Thoughts cross my mind on the escalator. At 9:30 AM, I imagine these thoughts to be profound, and I seek out a place from which to share them with the world. It turns out, they are not, but that will not likely be realized until at least noon, when I am awake enough to return to myself. At 9:30 AM, the witty, quippy me is still in bed. Somber, retrospective, strangely awake me is currently presiding.

I have classes today at 2:30 PM, and a lunch date at noon. The day is so empty it echoes. What does one DO on a 9:30 campus, on an 8:30 day? Is there life after bed and breakfast? I'm holding out for the sweet familiarity that will surely hit me around 11AM, aka a reasonable hour to be out of bed and in action. But for the moment, there is nothing to do but to be. here.

And try to make it count for something.

12 Crazy Ways To Get To My Page... (and then some)

2007-03-18T23:44:00.000-05:00

Recently I caved to the peer pressure and installed a SiteMeter on my blog, so's I can finally know for certain the true width and girth of my vast readership... or lack thereof. Besides the fact that my most dedicated reader is... me, there are a few rather fascinating (read: creepy?) things that I have recently learned.

Oh, the beauty of the GoogleSearch. It's just so handy, especially for suckering random, unsuspecting web surfers into checking out my page to read my opinions on dozens of useless or arbitrary topics! Here is a sampling of the many fantastic ways that people have recently discovered themselves to be Coming Up Short:

Google Search #1: "what God sais about unwilling to forgive" - I come up as the first 2 hits on Google; however, fix the typo, and I don't come up (on the main page) at all.

Google Search #2: "mennonite roommate" - Interestingly enough, I come up first on this one (although the context on-page is Nazi/Mennonite roommate, which you'd think would scare some people off!)

Google Search #3: plug "jill-of-all-trades + meaning" into your Google search-bar; I come up sixth.

Google Search #4: This one's funny. Someone from Las Vegas, Nevada, found my page by searching "dave eisbrenner" (4th hit) - pretty sure they didn't find what they were looking for. Oh well, they found ME!

Google Search #5: Someone in Guelph, Ontario, found my page by searching "darren janzen" (4th hit).... funny thing is, it's quite likely that the Darren I referred to was the Darren that they seek (sought?) as he's an Outtatown buddy from London, ON.

Google Search #6: This one's a personal fave; someone found my Nelsongate post by searching "this is were i say i've had enough and no one should feel the way i feel now dashboard"; I come up as the number 1 hit. However, in this case, I like to think that my page may possibly have offered what the searcher was looking for, as the page references the name of song and artist.... perhaps I aided some poor google-searcher along the way!

Google Search #7: "Blayne Greiner- youth unlimited" - I'm the fifth hit. Love ya, Blayne! (Youth Unlimited is the organization that hosted me in Seattle last year for my internship; I only have wonderful things to say about the organization, and Blayne.)

Google Search #8: Oh heck yes, this one's random; someone found me by searching ""Living hope Christian Fellowship" bothell, WA" - this is the church I lived and breathed at last year in Seattle; I love this church and these people with all my heart- I miss you, Focus Youth!

Google Search #9: "through his wounds we are healed lyrics" I come up sixth, after several far-more-useful-looking links; however, someone picked me!, and so now I have this useless fact for you.

Google Search #10: A kid from Regina found me by searching "russell quiz meet" and someone from Winkler found me searching "quiz meet russell" - cute. Heads up- I've been going chronologically from most recent, so that means that all of the top 10 here (and probably the next 2 as well) and have all hit me since I last posted, so within the space of a week. Makes me wonder what fodder for useless posts I will have when NEXT Sunday comes?

Google Search #11: This one was interesting. Someone found me by searching "restoring my life"; I come up 7th. Hmmm.... makes you wonder if maybe people are using the wrong "search engine"? There are some things that can't be found using Google.

Google Search #12: Head to Google; type in "roommate thermostat" - I'm your 9th hit (nearly off the main-page, which is a shame, for I have SO much to say on the topic!)

Other random google searches that will get you to me:
"who's the idiot now"- Yup, me. Still. Ironic, I think. Should I ever regret so dubbing myself, this will be my number 2 reason.

"shirts that say i love nerds with super man in the heart" - Hey, and if you GO there, you get to see a hot picture of me modeling the shirt! But no hints on where to buy one, if that's what you're looking for. Sorry, kid. Them's the breaks.

So, now that my stats are going to be screwed up for a long time thanks to me showing you 12+ great ways to get to someplace you already are, I think I can safely head to bed.

**A note about these stats: these pages were accessed and documented here on March 19th, 2007 at 12-12:30 AM; the state of the google-search is subject to change at any time. Get 'em while they're hot! Also, these hits occurred over a one-week period from March 11th to March 18th and were documented by SiteMeter. While many of the people did not stay to enjoy the madness that is Coming Up Short, they did click the link through to my page, which is why I know about the search in the first place. Coming Up Short's SiteMeter stats are private and can only be accessed by me, but I think we all know I'm not making this junk up. I'm also not spending hours in front of my google search page trying to find obscure ways to my own page, although it's a pastime I may soon take up! In conclusion, enjoy.

On Matters of Membership, Part 1

2007-03-10T14:30:00.000-06:00

I'm going to open this post with an apology:
Sometimes, when I blog, I get scattered. I delve deep, and open so many threads that it will be pages and hours later before the thing is resolved. So I save a draft, which is the worst possible thing to do at that moment. I am a person of momentary perspective; if I leave it alone for a few hours I will come back to it with a plethora of new angles and thoughts-on-the-matter, and will have abandoned the former(s) with shallow disinterest. As a result, posts that are the product of multiple writing sessions are often hopelessly scattered, with thoughts running off to thousands of inaccessable corners, threads that will likely never be recovered or laid to rest respectably.

This, I admit, is one such post. And I'm far too lazy to attempt to right all the injustices I've done to it... I'm already turning it into a saga series, since I'm sure you didn't link here to read my first novel in one painful sitting. In this post, you're going to get a lot of background info, and very little of imminence. In Part 2, I plan on coming back to the current events that sparked this whole rant in the first place. If you see any glaring inconsistencies, let me know, and I'll muster up an edit, but otherwise, sit tight... and hang on for the exciting conclusion. Thanks for bearing with me!
~Kelly

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Lord works in mysterious ways... so I've always been told. Either that or He really enjoys plot twists.

My life of late has become great fodder for this debate, as several conversations and random events have led me to the brink of something I never thought I'd ever be considering - church membership.

The story behind my membership misgivings is a long one; is, in fact, a legacy passed down to me by my parents. My dear parents, whom I love, who have convictions of their own, have shaped my life and my opinions by the way that they've acted out of these convictions; it's a story I barely remember but that has been retold to me enough times that I now regurgitate it myself as proof.

When I was in grade 3, my family moved. No, no, none of that "say goodbye to your friends" crap... we moved about 4 miles up the road, and officially into the hamlet of Silverton, which is so small that it's usually not even worth mentioning, for those of you who have at some point recieved the short answer to the question, "where are you from?".... "Russell."

Silverton is, however, of note in this story, as it was the location of the small United Church that my parents and I attended, along with our grandparents, aunt, uncles, and cousins, and maybe 2 dozen (if we're being generous) others from the area who have known my dad and the Cochrane clan since the beginning of time. When we moved 4 miles up the road (or down the road, as it was 4 miles south and I'm sure one of my stickler sisters will correct me on that if I don't clarify - nerdy farm kids...), we suddenly found ourselves within walking distance of the Silverton United Church, as well as our entire extended family, the Silverton Hall, and several other things that sound cooler than they really are.

Then, I remember that, for some inexplicable reason, we stopped attending Silverton United Church, and soon found ourselves attending Russell Alliance Church, a change which I at first resisted for childish, grade-3-like reasons. I remember accusing, whining at my mom that "why are we switching churches now, when we can finally walk to the United Church?" I think I whole-heartedly believed that proximity was equivalent to God-ordained destiny, or something ridiculous like that. I was an idealistic child.

(The move to Russell Alliance Church, ironically, may very well have been God-ordained destiny, as it would become the church where my spiritual life and faith would flourish, where I would make some of the best and closest friends of my school years and, dare I say, my life.)

The reasons for our United Church exodus were always a blank in my mind, filled in by others, usually my older sister. She's told me the story many times of the strong, conviction-filled sermon that Sarah Bezan's father preached, and how the Kaminskis, the Bezans, and we Cochranes all left the United Church at the same time in search of a new home (I think this all happened in the Russell branch of the United Church...) The issues? The United Church had started to falter out in terms of conviction and sticking to their guns and were making all sorts of convenient and wishy-washy concessions, such as approving and ordaining women and eventually even homosexual pastors.

(Hey ladies: no burn on you intended. I am a woman who loves my fellow womankind and ministry both. It is difficult, however, to make a solid case theologically for ordaining women as pastors, as many of us have discovered as we've perused our Bibles in bewilderment. Many churches share this bewilderment, and have come to a variety of conclusions about the matter. However, the type of church that can convince itself that there is no controversy or objection to be found in making a case for women pastors often becomes the type of church that will find it easy to make the Bible say whatever it wishes to read, as the United Church so aptly demonstrates.)

When we came to the Alliance Church, we began to flourish, each in our own right, as followers of Christ. We were raised in Awana, which is where I first learned to absorb and regurgitate Scripture at an alarmingly adaptive rate (let's just say we weren't the type of family who learned our verses as a family, at home, over the week. We were the kids who showed up at Awana 10 minutes late, fresh from the Angusville Skating Rink and our figure-skating lessons, with toque-hair, no uniforms, no books, and no progress made in whatever "homework" our leaders may have, in vain, assigned us. Yeah, sorry, we were those kids. Explains a lot, doesn't it?)

In junior high, I joined a new program Russell Alliance was piloting, called Bible Quizzing, which turned out to be one of the best choices I've made so far in life. Besides the wealth of Scripture I now know by heart, word-for-word, and the rich biblical context my quizzing experience of 6 years gave me, quizzing truly allowed me to come alive in my faith. I think it's probably the first community where I ever was given permission to be a full participant in the body of Christ, and not "just a kid". For those of you who have never experienced the context of a CMD Quiz Meet, imagine driving hours to a city center in Saskatchewan to find yourself engulfed for a full, intensive weekend with a church body made up entirely of students, hundreds of them, who wield the Word as a weapon, who are full of that youthful passion and newness of faith that older Christians envy and long for, who come together, despite many differences, to compete and sharpen one another. "As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another." (Proverbs 27:17) This is the essence of Bible Quizzing.

In high school I was a faithful attendee of our youth group, and served on the youth executive. I sang with the youth worship team, I participated in the school's lunchtime prayer meeting, and our family was very much a part of the life of the Russell Alliance. Yet my parents were unwilling to give their names, their word, in membership. They told me that they did not want to give themselves in membership only revoke it again later, should necessity command it. They fully hoped and expected that Russell Alliance would acknowledge them for who they truly were and all that they gave, and for the most part, it was so. My dad camps out almost weekly in the sound booth, running the boards and such, and my mother's extensive cooking and catering knowledge has pulled off countless critical church functions, including, this very weekend, Russell's home quiz meet at which approximately 450 quizzers, coaches, and officials are attempting eat the good people of Russell out of house and home.

My parents are fantastic people. They love Jesus. They are on a journey. And they are growing. Their attitudes, however, towards church membership served to leave me with an inherited chip on my shoulder, and the sense that perhaps my church could not, should not, be pledged my allegiance, perhaps my church could not, would not, always and forever hold up the gospel, the unadulterated truth, and as such perhaps should not, could not be counted on.

It is a truth, which I have lately come to realize, that the church and I are inextricable. Attempts on my behalf to deny, to subvert that truth, become small rebellions within my soul, and wage war on my relationship with Christ, who loved the mess we call the Church, stood up for it the schoolyard, took a bullet (and a flogging, and a cross, and the excruciating weight of Eternity) for it, loved it so unreservedly, with all its warts, so much that He has married it, for all of eternity, in attempts to make an honest woman of it.

No. My church and the Church are not the same; one is part of the other. My arm and my body are not the same; one is part of the other. But, as Paul writes, if my quizzer's memory serves:

Now the body is not made up of one part but of many. If the foot should say, "Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body," it would not for that reason cease to be part of the body. And if the ear should say, "Because I am not an eye, I do not belong to the body," it would not for that reason cease to be part of the body. If the whole body were an eye, where would the sense of hearing be? If the whole body were an ear, where would the sense of smell be? But in fact God has arranged the parts in the body, every one of them, just as he wanted them to be. If they were all one part, where would the body be? As it is, there are many parts, but one body. - 1 Corinthians 12:14-20

If I say, "I am doubtful and mistrustful of the church," I do not for that reason cease to be a member (I am speaking as a Christian here.) We are members. We are members of Christ! When we shun and hold at an arms length the congregations in which we find ourselves, we do the body a disservice. We tell our own mouth, our voice that we do not need it, and the hand we find extended that we'd rather not. And it is such vain resistance; we're kicking our own can in the end.

This is not a command to church membership; church membership is a convention. It is little more than an admission of the incredibly obvious; that we as Christians and church-goers, are members of the body of Christ. This is, however, a wake-up call to the painfully obvious, for those of us who have not thrown our ears away.

Of Psalms and Singers

2007-02-21T15:42:00.001-06:00

Alright. So I've been reading poetry lately, upon the prescription of my English prof. Of course, however unfortunately for someone like me, reading poetry inevitably turns into writing poetry and descending into a mushy pile of romantic, whimsical sappiness. It's a tragedy, really. But it's true.

So I've decided that if I must go, you all must go there with me! Don't worry guys, it's doubtful that I'll subject you to any of my own poetic endeavors; that might be just a bit too painful for all of us involved, and just when I've gotten my readership to an all-time high, hovering somewhere above 2...

Self-deprecation aside, I was struck again today by the profound loveliness of these lyrics to a song entitled Healed by Nichole Nordeman. If you've ever heard it, it's truly poetry set to song.

We stutter and we stammer till You say us
A symphony of chaos till You play us
Phrases on the pages of unknown
Till You read us into poetry and prose

We are kept, and we are captive till You free us
Vaguely unimagined till You dream us
Aimlessly unguided till You lead us home

By Your voice, we speak; by Your strength, no longer weak.
By Your wounds we are healed
(Tell me, what kind of Love is this?)
By Your wounds we are healed

Passed over and passed by until You claim us
Orphaned and abandoned till You name us
Hidden; undisclosed till You expose our hearts

By Your death we live; It is by Your gift that we might give.
By Your wounds we are healed
(Tell me, what kind of Love is this?)
By Your wounds we are healed

What kind of Love would take your shame and spill His blood for you -
And save us by His wounds?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Obviously, much of the striking beauty of this song is lost without its elegant piano strains, Nordeman's lilting, nimble voice, sometimes forceful and breath-taking, sometimes trembling with an ever-controlled frailty. However, to my mind the song still speaks, even while silent, a living epitaph to the Source of all life, and gives tribute to our Creator and Sustainer, our Beginning and End.

Take a few moments, if you will, to curl up with your Bible somewhere (perhaps with a little Nichole Nordeman playing in the background, if you should be so fortunate?) and read through this passage by David, in which he spends page after page, and line after line, exalting and acknowledging the sovereignty, the goodness, the graciousness, and the rightness of the Lord our God. Psalm 119 is inspired, and carries on at length. Read whatever the Lord reveals to you, and meditate on it in prayer. You will not emerge empty-handed.

Dead air.... ummm... dead air.

2007-02-15T15:38:00.000-06:00

Hmmm.... thank you all for still being here.

So last night was an epic adventure in the life of Kelly, as I did my first ever stint on CKUW, the University of Winnipeg's radio station. David EisBrenner, a well-known staple on the Wednesday AM edition of The Beat, a news program, was doing his bit for FUNdrive 2007 by covering the Milk Hours (basically CKUW's ploy to get real people to ask you for money all night long instead of playing randomized music). David enlisted the efforts of quite possibly two of his wackiest friends, Jeremy Yuen and myself. David's sister and Jeremy's girlfriend (yes, it's one person) joined us in the studio, the lovely Charisse EisBrenner.

Charisse is the smart one... she came in with no clear intention of speaking on-air. I however, had no idea how the night would go down, other than that there were three mics and one of them was sure to be in front of my face; It may as well not have been.

Alright, so the pen is clearly my most comfortable medium; but I thought I knew my way around the spoken word! And I maintain that I really do, but let's face it, I caught a case of mic-phobia; and besides that, let's be real - when you're in the studio with such legendary radio greats as David "Beat-Down" EisBrenner, it's hard to keep your cool.

Whatever... radio has not beat me yet. I will conquer! I will stare down that unfeeling, unmoving microphone and I will come out the victor!

Anyways... the CKUW FUNdrive is very nearly but not quite over... so call in and pledge now!
FUNdrive continues until Friday afternoon; the goal this year is $38,000 toward the operating costs of running such a great, home-grown and locally-focused station, and as of 6AM this morning CKUW was sitting just over $6,000 away from achieving that goal.... so dig down deep and see if you can find it in your heart or wallet to make a contribution to keeping Winnipeg radio alive and original. I've put my two cents in; now it's your turn!

Nelsongate

2007-02-05T23:24:00.000-06:00

Alright... has anyone ever had the sensation, where they're hearing a song, some music which is presumably "new", and they KNOW they've heard it before?

I get that a lot.

Most often, it's the sensation that some song, supposedly "new", MUST have been out since 2002 at least, since I know I've heard it a few years ago. It's just this general unimpressed-ness with the song, and the insistence that it is truly nothing new. I've never been able to get to the bottom of that feeling, but my assumption is usually (to calm the cognitive dissonance) that perhaps the song IS older, but is just now being radio-released.

However, this is something altogether different.

This **new** sensation first occurred to me at some point last year, when I bought The Afters' album, I Wish We All Could Win and could have SWORN that the opening riff and lines were a loose rip-off of a song that I at first couldn't place, but eventually attributed to a semi-obscure Sixpence None The Richer song entitled "Brighten My Heart", which appeared on the collective worship project Exodus. However, after finally dragging this information out of the dustiest corners of my brain (it haunted me for weeks!), I discovered that the similarities were only tonal, thematic, and mostly, imagined. So my great song rip-off conspiracy theory died that day.

Today, however,I felt that prickling "I've heard this before" feeling creep up the back of my brain once more... and this time, my instincts were not wrong! Taking a listen of Hawk Nelson's album, Letters to the President (which, in my opinion, is a shamefully copped-out album title for a Canadian band just breaking on the American music scene), the song "Take Me" struck me, and the second line in particular stuck out like a sore thumb.

"Can you hear me, does anyone around me
Feel the way that I feel now?"

I was ON to something here! A little brain-searching, and I had the line tagged to the Dashboard Confessional song "Saints and Sailors", which opens with these lines:

"This is where I say I've had enough,
and no one should ever feel the way that I feel now"

I know, I know what you're thinking - that 7 words does not a conspiracy make. However, you'd have to be familiar with Dashboard's song to appreciate the feeling that rushes through you when you hear Hawk Nelson sing the line, 2nd line into the song in both cases, following the exact same melody and rhythm, even including suspending and delaying the delivery on the word "feel", that Dashboard made trademark (in my humble opinion) 4 years earlier. (Dashboard's The Places You Have Come To Fear The Most was released in 2001, while Hawk Nelson's Letters came out in 2005.)

So, what constitutes a rip off? Is this excusable? "Take Me" is a decent song, for what it's worth. Strong melody, although whether or not their style is a Relient K rip-off is an entirely different conversation; meanwhile, Dashboard's "Saints and Sailors" is classic for Carrabba fans. Or, alternately, is taking a line from someone's song, note for note, an appropriate and catchy "inter-musical reference"? Supposing the Hawk Nelson boys groove, as I do, to the sounds of Dashboard, is this nothing more than a musical "tip of the hat"?

I, for one, am not convinced. It's a pretty gutsy and presumptuous move for rookies like Hawk Nelson to make; besides the fact that they look about 14 years old, it makes them seem like they can't even write their own shaz. However, I'm interested to see where others weigh in on it... should I give Hawk Nelson the benefit of the doubt here?

Their musical careers have thus far produced nothing even faintly approaching blistering genius; however, there's time for that... geesh, let them get through puberty first! (tee hee... actually, they're probably my age.) And their album, while nowhere near worth the street cred of Relient K, is not half bad.

What's your take on the incident I've creatively dubbed "Nelsongate"? Leaving the legal implications aside, unless you have more information than I do, which is certainly not difficult given that I have taken about 5 minutes to investigate this before shooting off this post, how do YOU feel about Nelsongate? Does it anger you? Offend you? Confuse you? Perhaps make you bored or drowsy? Whatever your opinion, I'd love to hear it... give the tracks a listen if it's humanly possibly for you... just to get the gist of the rip-offage.

Your faithful reporter for all things useless,
~Kelly

That "je ne sais quoi"...

2007-01-20T18:12:00.000-06:00

A wife of noble character who can find?

She is worth far more than rubies...
~~~~~~~~~~~

The material for this post was sparked by a conversation I had with a friend of mine the other day while enjoying the wonder that is Winnipeg Transit. Speaking of his girlfriend, my friend made a very specific observation of character, saying that she is not a person with any darkness in her. There is no dark streak or evil streak in her spirit.

This struck me as a very unusual, specific, and premeditated compliment. I told my friend as much, and he responded by saying, "I've always paid attention to the kinds of character traits that can't be gained but can be lost."

Innocence. Simplicity. Purity of heart. What is it? Have I lost it? Or do I have it still? Is it worth all the work? And do these amazing, solid guys really exist out there- the ones your Sunday School teachers tell you about, the ones who value it, who know it when they see it? The ones whose taste in women extends beyond style and beauty into character and spirit? (Well, obviously there are, as I just spoke the aforementioned scenario confirmed, but are there any who are single? Call me!)

Just kidding. However, I'm sure I've eliminated all possibilities of any flattering February phone calls, as I've just let you all in on the shallow and petty illogic that goes on inside my mind- entertaining, for the briefest, tiniest moments, the idea that spiritual maturity could be just one great quality to list on my "hubby-hunting" resume. Oh, sin. We're dumb that way.

Alright. Back to the point. The REAL point.

The crappy feeling of waking up to find that my values and standards have become far more transitory than I'd wanted to believe, and holding one's ground in this world is no simple task. Wherever I go in life, it seems each new social group I meet aims to set a new "standard" for what is right; what is acceptable, what is cool, and more importantly, what is unacceptable, what is uncool. And slowly, but surely, I can bend myself slightly to become someone slightly different, still me, but this time a little harder, a little wittier or coarser, a little less vulnerable.

Why do we try so hard to harden ourselves? Why do we see jaded, street-wise pessimism as desirable? You know why? Because we've stuck our necks out and been "soft" before, and it didn't go well.

However, the Path that we are on demands something entirely different of us. Openness, softness, and vulnerability. If you can't handle it, run while you still can. I know people who are running hard and fast right now because standing still would "feel so stupid". And that's their prerogative- It's their life. But it may be the death of them.

Are there still those out there who care about what is Godly? Are we those people? Are we living like that? Or have I, have you, have we slipped into the most convenient compromise we can lay our hands on, sometimes slowly, sometimes easily, but always under the delusion that it will be "worth it".

Hmmm... I'm sounding preachy. I don't mean to. Obviously, the only reason I'm writing about this is because it's been on my own heart and mind. I've changed so much since high school, the days of Russell and my home church. Some changes, I think, have been good. But have others hindered more than they've helped? In my attempts to learn and to grow, have I become more worldly, more compromised, and more jaded? Has all this change really brought me no closer to my heart's Desire?

Yes, there is more to life than Sunday School answers. Questions and doubts, challenges and ideas are good, everyone tells us, but what people forget to mention is that what lies on the other side of them is of utmost importance- the answers that you find. The conclusions that you reach. In all our searching out of answers, meaning, and "ourselves", it all ultimately boils down to what we find. Who we find, and to Whom we run to to seek solace when we find that we have still found nothing at all.

We're kidding ourselves sometimes. We seek such grand ideas, such lofty lifestyles, when in reality, there is nothing more profound than this- to know Him and to be known by Him. To lay aside foolish postulating and to instead search within ourselves not for answers, but for faith. To search the heart of Someone Else and sink in deep into His words, His mandates, and His views, and not our own for once. It could not be more "worth it".

Once we get over ourselves we realize that there is nothing better. There has never been.

The fear of the LORD is the beginning of knowledge;
Fools despise wisdom and instruction.

**NOTE: This post was edited several hours after its original posting, due to the fact that I realized that it was disorganized, misleading, and nonsensical. Yes, yes, I'll proofread next time. My apologies to anyone who caught the first draft.

The Twilight Zone

2007-01-15T13:10:00.000-06:00

The strangest things keep happening to me in the wee hours of my Saturday nights. Or maybe it's a Stir after-effect; the two events don't seem related, but I must admit, there is a correlation between attending Stir and later being whisked into some alternate universe (for clarification, I am not talking about drug use).

My last post referenced my spur-of-the-moment abduction to the fair province of Ontario, a caper which began when I arrived home at 3AM and had me on a plane 9 hrs later. This time, however, the events began to unfold at about 1:30 and ran through pretty well all the useable hours of Sunday as well.

On this occasion, I had apparently begun to gain confidence in my cooking skills after not poisoning anyone at my uncle's place. So I thought, what could be better than inviting my dear, happily coupled friends Jonny and Chantal over for some supper, a movie, and a visit before hitting up Stir at Riverwood? And so that's just what we did. That evening, after arriving home from a great evening of fun and fellowship, or kith and cup, as Stir was entitled, I do what I often do when I shouldn't and signed onto MSN. I was soon greeted by a barrage of guilt-tripping and (what I thought were idle) threats by one of those EisBrenner folks- you know, the funny-looking one? Blonde, needs a haircut? Apparently David and his side-kick Jeremy were quite offended that I had left them out of the evening's festivities (despite having plans and maybe even lives of their own) and decided that they would no longer suffer the insult!

Alright, assigning blame where blame is due, I may have baited them. However, I was quite surprised at 2AM to hear the sound of cans or snow-chunks hitting my windows (apparently the dumpster outside my window is good for more than just aesthetics) and to open my blinds to the giddy faces of the dangerous duo themselves, David and Jeremy.

They had come to inflict on me what I call punishment and they call "Constructive Redemptive Measures", and some would call torture... namely, to sit me through several episodes of the strangest cartoon ever created, Harvey Birdman: Attorney at Law. Between Birdman and the joy that is watching my closed-circuit security network (don't judge me- it's funner than it sounds! Though no less creepy...) many hours passed. And many more. Eventually David crashed. Stupidly, Jeremy and I did not, but rather stayed awake, riveted to the sight of my front door.

At some point morning officially came, and then what was there to do but to make breakfast? And then, really, it's quite difficult to make church when you're in such a sleep-deprived state. So that plan went out the window. Time marched on, and with the help of coffee I became rejuvenated enough to not kick those crazy boys out until they'd had some supper, which made them happy 'cause they got the leftovers from the affair that started this all. And then finally, we realized we had things to do and places to be (well, not me, because I was already at home and it was Sunday evening already). And so, 20 hours later, the boys headed their separate ways, and there was peace. There was quiet. There was exhaustion. And then Kelly crashed.

Whatever imagined offense I committed, I'm nearly positive I've paid my dues. And, as usual, I've contrived a short list of "life lessons" that we can all glean from yet another Kelly spectacle, in an attempt to make my messy and unconventional life have meaning.

Things we can all learn from this:

1. Don't enter into playful banter with people on MSN unless you know them very, very well and can predict their actions and responses reasonably and consistently. If not, they may show up at your door at unthinkable hours and you will spend the next 20 hours getting to know them very, very well.

2. Even if you think that your actions in life are perfectly justified and can be well-understood by any reasonable other, just remember: not all others are reasonable. Take precautions accordingly.

3. If you're going to have unexpected visitors at 2AM, you're DEFINITELY going to need a closed-circuit security camera!

4. If weird things like this ever happen to you- call me. I will be of absolutely no use in terms of prevention techniques, or strategies for stray boy removal, but I will definitely be able to commiserate! Plus, I am never one to judge.

Well, it was, as some lame movie says, "surreal but nice" to have Jeremy and David over for such a long time. Actually, they're pretty fun guys, once you get past their inexplicable love for Birdman (and each other)- hanging with them was quite the experience. And now, ideally, they'll be off my back for some time now, until they perceive some other offense that I'm sure I'll commit against them in the near future. But hey- don't worry about me. I've got a closed-circuit security channel and I know how to use it!

Mommy Boot Camp

2006-12-13T09:17:00.000-06:00

"So this is a story all about how my life got twist-turned upside down..." - The Fresh Prince, Sir William Smith

(just kidding about the Sir part)

Hello all....

So I have been receiving some interesting e-mails over the last few days, ranging from those referencing the fact that I have stopped answering the phone, to those accusing me of blowing off my previously arranged social outings. People, people- hold up! There's a perfectly good explanation for all this!

I've been abducted.

Well, that might sound like a bit of a stretch, but it sure felt like it. It happened like so:

After the STIR potluck on Saturday I ended up hanging out with a friend, which resulted in me arriving home at the wee little hour of three AM. On my way to my bed for some much-needed ZZZ's, I happened to glance over at my answering machine, which was displaying an ominously blinking "4". Hmmmm..... FOUR whole messages? That's so unusual! We're usually so unloved! And FOUR whole messages that Heidi missed and didn't happen to check? My curiosity was piqued, and I unknowingly unleashed the chain of events that would lead to my abduction.

3 messages from my mom, and 1 from my uncle later, and I was waking my mother up at the unholy hour of 3AM (which she NEVER lets me do!) to discuss the mayhem in which I was about to find myself. As it had happened, my aunt who lives in Ontario had needed to go and be with her father, who was quite sick and for whom this week might be the last. This left my uncle with 3 kids and a full-time job. Which just isn't gonna work. Oh yeah, and he leaves for a business trip on Saturday... in Germany.

He was ready and more than eager to have me on the next plane out to Ontario, which was leaving in less than 9 hours, to be an impromptu mom/nanny for the week. Problem: I have no licence. I was stupid enough to let mine lapse and, apparently, you can't fix that at 5AM on a Sunday morning. "Not a deal-breaker," my uncle insisted, "besides, you won't have a vehicle anyways." Alright. So, 6 hours later, instead of being en-route to Riverwood's second service, I was en route to the Winnipeg airport, on 3 hours of sleep and jacked up on coffee.

[Note: I think I've been borrowing a page from Julienne's book, as I had been idly wondering what I should do with my week; with exams over, I had no excuse to stick around in Winnipeg (other than my thrilling social life), and yet I had this nagging concern that going home so early in December might be a recipe for disaster, as at this stage in my quirky life I think I might be easier to love from a distance. Without the mess and disaster that constantly surrounds me. My mother thinks otherwise, but give her 2 weeks with me, and we'll see who's sick of who.

ANYWAYS, apparently idle wondering sounds dangerously like prayer (especially aloud), and so God solved my "what to do this week" problem in His most unconventional manner yet.]

My life for the past three days has pretty much been the equivalent of Mommy Boot Camp. Rigorous. And challenging. With early mornings. I mean early mornings. As in between 6-6:30 (at this point, if you know me very well at all, you're not even reading because you're too busy rolling around with laughter at me and screaming "THERE IS JUSTICE IN THE UNIVERSE!" if you happen to have it out for me for something).

And cooking. I've been cooking. Oh, the things I've cooked. So far it's been pot roast and meatloaf. Both of them turned out pretty well to my wonder and amazement! Although that doesn't mean the kids will eat them...

Speaking of kids... who are they?

Well, first up, we have Ben, the eldest at 7-going-on-8-this-month. He's in grade 2. Ben is a strong-willed child, who is, for all intents and purposes, a vegetarian, as his circle of liked and edible foods continues to dwindle on a weekly basis (though, apparently he eats chicken nuggets). Solution? Milk with egg-yolks sneakily mixed in, seeds, nuts, and toast... lots of toast.

Then we have the twins, William and Leah, who are 4, in junior kindergarten, and, let's be honest.... adorable.

William has pretty much the biggest and cutest eyes I've ever seen, and he can work it. He's pretty much the only person who actually EATS all of the fantastic meals I've been whipping up, and still goes for seconds. He's also the one who unknowingly has me in stitches with some of the stuff that comes out of his mouth.

As heard Monday morning over breakfast dishes: "I always have my cereal. Even on Chinese New Years." (you're going to need to imagine that said in the most solemn and informative manner, and with all those R's sounding like W's. Yeah, NOW you get it. Awwww!)

And on Tuesday afternoon while I was mixing up some meatloaf.

Me- "I bet your mom makes a pretty mean meatloaf."

William- "Yeah... without looking on the computer!"

(Alright, so it's a sign of my generation that I google recipes... sue me!)

And then there's the dear and darling Leah, the other half of the dangerous duo. She... reminds me a lot of me. Or how I imagine, and all reports confirm, I was as a kid. She's always got her nose in a book, although she can't read. But that doesn't stop her from reproducing the general gist of the pages, with some colorful variations and an adorably business-like tone. She tends to eat fairly well, although on Tuesday I made the oh-so-fatal error of putting her meatloaf too close to her rice, not knowing that "separation is key". This resulted in my meatloaf getting the cold shoulder from 2 out of 3 cousins, although Ben wasn't even really a contender. Whatever, I thought it was hella tight. 1

Anyways, all three of them are pretty darn good kids, and if there's anyone you should be concerned about, it's me. Although, yesterday was the big day... Kelly on her own from morning till night. No dad to help with bedtime and reading and brushing teeth and tucking in. It was all me. (Dad, or Uncle David rather, had to work late.)

Surprisingly enough, the day went off without a hitch. No big fights over homework; no big fights at all, actually! Supper was, in my opinion, an unparalleled success, as everyone ate more than milk and there were no glaring errors in my food preparation or plating choices, which is borderline miraculous, as trying to navigate the food preferences of my cousins is, as my uncle describes it, a minefield.

Having, in my humble opinion, passed this ever-essential life-skills test, I can only reflect on the day's work, and echo my mother's wise words that children are, indeed, the best birth control. That's right folks, you read it here first: I don't plan on spawning any young Kellylings in the immediate-to-near future. But it's good to know that when they say "little anklebiters" they aren't being literal- I don't think.

The moral of this story is: kids are wonderful, entertaining, and a blessing. But do not awaken love until it so desires. Or you'll have them running around sooner than you know what to do with them. Which is fine for a week, but let's not go biting off more than we can chew just yet.

Everything in time. For me, my week in mommying will soon be coming to a close, and I look forward to returning to the university student lifestyle I know and love, which consists of sleeping through every morning religiously, microwaved food, being too poor to eat meat, and my pesky roommate (who's the closest thing to a child I have!)

It's now time to go pick up William and Leah from school, so that's all for me. In conclusion, keep your pants on, folks! 2

~Kelly in Ontario

1 Teen Girl Squad reference. If you haven't seen it, you haven't lived.

2 Unless, of course, you are happily married, and it's that extra-special time in your life. In that case, feel free to go nuts with the babymaking!

Restoring My Faith in This Good City

2006-12-05T01:12:00.000-06:00

There are points, I presume for every commuter, when public transit just gets old.

Those points might occur more frequently in a city whose flatness, windiness and all-round coldness is world-renowned.

I reached one such point today.

I should explain:
The onset of winter always makes me somewhat bitter. I can recall with twisted humor my delighted reaction several weeks ago when we recieved our first grand and glorious snowfall; I couldn't wait to get out and frolic in that refreshing blanket of white! And frolic I did! (Subtly, though, on my way to class). But my true colors showed when I left the school that evening, in the darkness of a wintery 7:30, and waited a full hour to catch a bus home, as the roads were a zoo and apparently even the all-powerful Winnipeg Transit can't hack it in a pseudo-blizzard.

I've never claimed to love the winter. I've always maintained that the only thing it's good for is snowboarding. And EVEN snowboarding may not have what it takes to justify four months of this beastliness. Uugh. After a year of escapism in Seattle, this just bites.

Tonight I spent 20 minutes standing on the street corner outside my house waiting for a long-overdue bus. My toes had frozen to the point of painfulness, and my kneecaps had long since ceased shivering and now were unresponsive. I had that inner ache going where you're carrying a bookbag and trying to somehow conserve internal heat, and you tense up a particular set of muscles to the point of irritation.

After 20 minutes of staring oh-so-bleakly up darkened streets, peering into indiscriminate headlights looking for a glimmer of hope, finally a bus arrived. Actually, two buses simultaneously arrived. One was, I presume, the one I'd been waiting for for twenty frostbite-inducing minutes, while the other one was happily on schedule. I picked the latter out of bitterness to the former (and also because it would take me about a block closer to my final destination). A swell of injustice rose in me as I sat down on the bus, realizing that it would take far longer than the 3 minutes of relative warmth I would be recieving from this bus ride to thaw out my toes. I settled for waving and banging my feet around in an attempt to restore vitality or at least basic responsiveness. The trip culmintaned in a straight-legged run (due in part to the unresponsiveness of my kneecaps and in part to the stiffness of my jeans), and a good 5-minute curl-up-in-a-blanket-on-the-couch-and-whine-fest, before assuming the duties of the evening.

Later, after a study pow-wow at my friends' place, I set out to make the return trip. The ever-so-gentlemanly Chris Stein walked me to the bus stop, where I peered around, surveying my options and the likelihood of a bus coming in the near future at 1AM on Pembina. After bidding Chris goodbye, I decided to just walk, gauging that perhaps my legs might freeze slightly less while walking than they previously had while waiting inanimately for a bus.

So walk I did; and it wasn't that bad! It seemed to have warmed up some since my previous trip, and either way, my motivation and longing for home and warmth kept me going.

As I came off the other side of the Bishop-Grandin overpass and neared my apartment, I heard a car slow beside me, and some male voice addressing me. "Oh goody," I thought, "just what a girl needs a block from her house at 1AM on the streets of Winnipeg in the dead of winter.... creepers!" So I tried to ignore this voice, but it re-addressed me and in the end I decided that I would simply have to look over, as the "creeper" was not discouraged.

To my great relief, coasting beside me was not the drunken, lame loser "cruising" in his Chevette that I'd expected, but rather two gentlemen from the Winnipeg police force (on-duty), whose idea of a good Monday night shift is offering chilly young women on foot a ride! I smiled and responded that I was very nearly home, and for the first time that night, I felt warm on the streets of Winnipeg.

I have a feeling that my on-again, off-again love affair with public transit will experience many more ups and downs before this winter is through, but we'll make it out alright. Someone as richly blessed as I am in so many small and large ways can't hold out against my affection forever, and it seems that just when I am tempted to give in and grow cold, get jaded or give up, along comes a little nudge in the right direction, something or someone that brings me just that much closer to being back to my more open-hearted and optimistic self.

Brrrrrrrrrr.......

The Heinous Roomate

2006-11-22T11:58:00.000-06:00

Those of you with keen memories will recall my brief mention of the new roomie situation I am in this year. I promised to return to the topic, and return, I have. I will now share with you a tale that will chill you to the bone, that will make your hair stand on end, and your blood run cold...

Just kidding! In all truthfulness, the story of how Heidi became my roommate can only be described as a miracle.

About the time I was preparing to come home from Seattle, I had applied to the U of Winnipeg, had lined up several summer jobs for when I returned home, and, in typical Kelly fashion, I was already turning my concerns and attention several months down the road to my planned move to Winnipeg, and, of course, the details surrounding it.

Where to live? Who to live with? Well, I knew what I wanted. An apartment. A roommate (female. Christian.) Independence. The ability to have friends over, come home late, and cook or not cook as I feel so inclined.

My lovely ex-roommate Sarah (my little Sarita!) had, of course, made new living arrangements when I left for Seattle. So she was out... I kept going down the list. It turns out, I have a million girlfriends in Winnipeg, and they're all pretty well settled here; no one was looking for a new roomie!

Fast forward several months... It's late July. I've been accepted into the Faculty of Education, I'm feeling peace and confidence about my future (a first for me), and I'm just a few short weeks of moving... where? Oh crap! Still no roommate! Still no apartment! Cue the panic!

In a last-ditch effort to pull my life together, I embark on a long-shot... à la random friend from Ontario, the amazing Eric Dick! Literally hours before beginning my arduous, many-legged journey back across the continent, through Seattle, to Managua, Nicaragua with my dear American friends from Focus Youth, I happened upon Eric on MSN, and asked him, could he please ask his sister Heidi (whom at this point I'd met twice; once in Ontario, and once in Seattle!) if any of the girls from her site (Outtatown) might be looking for a female, Christian roommate in Winnipeg for the fall. Eric kindly informed me that Heidi herself had already made arrangements, and that frankly, asking her friends was a pretty big long-shot (thanks, Captain Obvious!) but said that he would of course ask for me... discouraged, and with panic rising, I signed off, finished packing, drove off to Winnipeg, embarked a plane to Calgary, to Abbotsford, met my dear Minta for some dinner and a ride back to Sno-ho, where I hung at the Jensens’ for several hours, saw Benny briefly, got a ride to Bothell, met the crew at the church, loaded into a van, and got on my third flight of the day, the 10hr one to from Seattle to Nicaragua. FUN TIMES!

The trip was great, the youth were AWESOME, so good to see... man, I miss those crazies.... and about mid-way through the trip I got a chance to check my e-mail... YAY!

Imagine my surprise when I open my inbox to see an e-mail from none other than Eric "Hot Stuff" Dick (yeah... made that nickname part up just now) entitled "apartement" (don't ask me why "Hot Stuff" can't spell)!

Basically, the long and short of it was that somehow, over the course of the some-odd days since I'd chatted with Eric last, Heidi's airtight plans for a roommate had fallen through, and she was frantically looking for a replacement since she had already put a security deposit down on an apartment on Pembina Hwy close to the UofM (where she was planning on going).

Over the next several days, some rudimentary "get-to-know-ya" e-mails were sent back and forth, along with the obligatory apartment details; rent costs, location, etc; and to sum it all up, by the time my similarly-fragmented return trip from Managua had deposited me back in Winnipeg, I had appointment set up with Pembina Place apartments and Heidi's boyfriend Ben to check out the place and put my signature on a lease.

Oh, how I LOVE those moments! You know the ones... the ones where you have been waiting in limbo, in the midst of an overwhelming conundrum, in need of something that you have no earthly way of attaining, looking for a solution that is completely beyond your means and out of your hands... those moments where you have for once given things completely over to God... and have the incredible blessing of receiving the most perfect, unique, personalized gift straight from His hands! How blessed am I that that is exactly how it's happened with both my roommates thus far?

September rolls around and to Winnipeg I come... get my Mac (yay!), get moved in, get settled, and get acquainted with my roomie....

(insert creepy mood music here)

I guess the one thing you should consider, when moving in with Eric Dick's sister, is that she's Eric Dick's sister. And the apple apparently doesn't fall from the... other apple. Sooooooo... If Eric happens to enjoy bullying you as a pastime.... guess what Heidi might enjoy as well? If Eric happens to enjoy throwing things at you... what do you think living with his sister might be like? And if Eric has spent the vast majority of his life thus far inflicting light-hearted torment on those closest to him.... where might Heidi have learned it all?

I've been keeping a mental tally of all the cruel and hostile things Heidi has done to me lately, just so's I can keep a constant gauge on the abuse, which to date includes:
-heat deprivation: hydro costs a ton at our place, so my Nazi/Mennonite roommate (wow- bet those 3 words have never been linked quite like that before!) has decided that we just won't use any heat till either our possessions gather frost or our refrigerator unit is deemed superfluous.
-the afore-mentioned chucking things at me: usually soft things, but she does have a pair of skates so I'm concerned.
-calling me names: not them nice, fluffy pet names, either.... mean ones!

Those of you who are concerned for my welfare, don't worry; Child and Family Services has been notified, and they've informed me that they couldn't care less....

And in truth, Heidi's and my differences are, in truth, really just nuances.
She bullies, and I rant.
She studies, and I... don't.
She bakes constantly, and I talk about cooking. (It's a beautiful concept, isn't it?)
She sleeps all night, and I sleep all morning.
She owns a Dell (shudder!), I own a Mac.
She goes to UofM, I go to UWinnipeg.
She's got a boyfriend with a car, and I'm married to public transit.
She works out at the gym, and I... swing dance!
She plays hockey and soccer, and I play acoustic guitar (poorly).
She loves America's Next Top Model, and I'm ALL about Survivor.

Heidi and I thrive on, I think, on the principle that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.
We're both benefiting from each other's unique and peculiar characteristics. I've started watching America's Next Top Model (okay, so I used to be a closet fan), and Heidi's getting quite into this season of Survivor (sniff... I'm so proud)! She lets me eat her baking, and if I ever actually start cooking, she'll be the first to taste it (actually, let's not lie, she'll probably be the second). And she's even very generously offered to lend me Ben in certain contexts to fend off creepy guys... don't think she actually ran that one by Ben first, but her heart's in the right place, nonetheless. Ben's given me rides before (THANKS BEN!), and I've tried to help Heidi become less hopeless with Winnipeg's Bus System.

Now let's be serious; some things will likely never change. It's unlikely she'll ever stop her Eric-like teasing, and I'll probably remain unable to refrain from ranting about tech support, boy troubles, commercials that I object to "on principle", and pretty much everything that crosses my stream of consciousness. She's not taking up swing dance anytime soon, and it would take an act of God to make me see exercise as even remotely worth the effort. I think UofM is the devil, and Heidi thinks my Mac is "just being difficult!"

So here's the breakdown; Heidi and I are very good for each other.

Plus, she's a fun time. She puts up with me when I barge into her room every 10 minutes with a new thought to share, my messy ways and the 1-week intervals between my dish-washing binges. She indulges my whims, including hosting a birthday party with an unusual premise and a quite random and extensive guest list. She wakes me up in the mornings on those occasions where it's absolutely necessary that I awaken on time. And in return, she gets free access to all the random shows I've dowloaded onto my Mac, use of the printer, and... yup, that's pretty much all I've got to offer.

Life with Heidi so far has been much more colorful than I could have possibly imagined, and for a girl whom I'd talked to only twice and exchanged about a half-dozen e-mails with prior to September, she's been pretty dang incredible!

HOWEVER-

Heidi, I'm turning 21 today. I'm entering into a new phase of my life, and it's about time I started putting my foot down. We've discussed this before, but I think it's important to let you know, Heidi, that as of today, there's a NEW sheriff in town.... me! That's right, Heidi, starting NOW, I'm gonna be the one ruling the roost! It may take you some time, but soon, you'll be singing the praises of this new system! That's right! I'm reclaiming authority over the thermostat! We're going to live in toasty, roasty happiness from this day forth!

Folks, wish me luck. This could get messy. (And expensive).

P.S. 15 Kelly-points if you can find and identify the little "bonus" in this post.

Nerdy by Association?

2006-11-10T12:14:00.000-06:00

The last 24 hours have been quite unsettling for me, as I have come dangerously close to being branded a nerd, geek, or some other derivative thereof, on two separate occasions. And not necessesarily in a negative context, either! The first was implied, and the second, was rather heartfelt. But be that as it may, I'm now having somewhat of an identity crisis.

Nerd. Oh, how loosely I've thrown that term around in days of old. I remember in high school, where studying for one test for even half an hour would result in me announcing with equal parts pride and shame, "I feel like a total nerd!" to which David (Fenton) would enthusiastically respond, "me too... I even studied!" ...We were so naive.

These days I attend the University of Winnipeg, where I take great joy in schooling the heck out of some of the first years whom I attend classes with. I don't think my effort-to-output ratio has really stepped it up much since high school; I was a slacker then, and I'm a slacker now. Of course, there are others who school me with their work ethic and sheer nerdlike research methods. Am I becoming one of them? And if so, is there any hope?

Dictionary.com defines a nerd as:
1. a stupid, irritating, ineffectual, or unattractive person.
2. an intelligent but single-minded person obsessed with a nonsocial hobby or pursuit: a computer nerd.

Now, for all my life I've rested easy with the assumption that this term could not practically, literally, operatively apply to me. Even if I were to skate the edges occasionally, there is no way that I could ever really, truly be a nerd. However, the events of the last few days have made me question my own judgement.

Yesterday, I was hanging out with a delightful new friend in the InterFaith room, and MySpace led to YouTube, where I introduced said friend to the numa numa video parodies, which, I must say, I was shocked that he had never been exposed to before, given his penchant for watching silly videos of that variety on YouTube.

After which he explained to me about a board game called "Diplomacy," which is sort of a mix of Risk, Settlers of Catan, Poleconomy(?), Survivor(?!), and civilized negotiations. In this game you consult and negotiate with other players about strategies, alliances, etc, before taking your turn. Then everyone submits and executes their moves at the same time! You can either hold true to your promises and negotiations, or you can take advatage of the trust and priveledged information to work your own dastardly schemes. The game appealed to me for its political and, let's be frank, Survivor-like factors, so I expressed interest in playing sometime, with the stipulation that there would be other girls playing, as it always sucks to be outnumbered.

To which my "friend" insinuated that I am a nerd.

Alright, alright, what he really said was that when you're getting into a game that nerdy, females are few and far between. (Or something to that effect).

Which I took personally, until he pointed out that I happened to be wearing my "I HEART Nerds" t-shirt that day. To which I had no defensible argument left. (P.S.- It's a SUPERMAN shirt... Clark Kent is in the HEART. So what I'm really saying is I love nerds- with super powers!)

So what do I do? Admit defeat? Am I a nerd? Or just nerdy by association?

To make matters worse...

Yesterday, on the bus ride home, I was chatting with another wonderful new friend I've made, and at some point he began explaining to me his recent trip to The Source (which I shall forever call Radioshack), to pick up this converter that translates coaxial input into RCA output, to which I butt in, "Oh, an RF Modulator?" Said friend was incredibly impressed (but confused) that I knew what he was talking about, so I told him I used to work at Radioshack. This sort of shock and awe look flooded his face as he said something about how unusual it is to find a girl who knows what she's talking about in regards to tech stuff.

I groaned. Inwardly, and outwardly. I told him I was a little sensitive to "nerd" association that day, and despite his obvious complimentary intent, I wasn't feeling any better about it.

So I've been thinking on it. And I think the matter is out of my hands. Does interest and rudimentary knowledge substantiate nerdiness? Have I crossed over to the dark side? And is there light at the end of this dark season of the soul? (Yes, I know I'm mixing metaphors.) This is a question better left in the hands of my (three) readers. Please, be honest, be brutally honest. I can take it! It's better to know now and face the truth than to live a lie! So please, leave your comments, your opinions, and your pronouncements here.

With hope,
~Kelly

Rookie Mistake

2006-11-08T21:51:00.001-06:00

There are a number of factors that have contributed to me sitting down and writing this blog, and I wish to recount several of them.

The first and primary one is the hilariously satisfying story my sister Becca shared with me while she, Megan, and I were talking obnoxiously loudly on Winnipeg Transit accompanied by, of all things, a wheelchair, recently.

The second has been Becca's recent cries of "foul" that Megan got her own blog and a timely birthday call (as opposed to a 30 seconds long, 4 day late, truncated call which, apparently, doesn't cut it!) Now ask me this: Do I play favorites with my siblings? Do I love one more than the other? Why, of course not, silly! So as a good sister, Becca, this one's for you.

Most of you have read my rantings from awhile back over the less-than-satisfying title my article on homosexuality recieved in the Living Hope Church Newsletter; if anyone knows the story it's Becca. Besides the fact that I think she's the only one who reads this thing religiously, (possibly the only one who reads it at all), I distinctly recall commiserating with her about it over the phone at the time.

So who's to blame when she herself makes that very same rookie mistake? Not I, I have washed my hands of it! My conscience is in the clear, which leaves my less-than-sympathetic side to laugh (mwahaha!) at the incredible irony of it all.

Here's how it went down:

Rebecca, my overworked, underpaid, poorer-yet-richer-than-me sister, who recently graduated from the University of Regina with her Social Work degree, has this year done the unthinkable; MOVED HOME! I, having just recently escaped such a situation, find this in and of itself humorous; that is, until I compare our bank accounts. Then I am silenced.

So living at home now affords Rebecca the opportunity to get ridiculously rich (just kidding, climb out of debt at a ridiculously fast rate?) since she pays no rent and has THREE jobs! To make matters worse, they're three jobs that I am somewhat threatened by (we're all about sister envy in our family... and, apparently, airing dirty laundry).

For one, she's doing some special needs home care for a family in Russell, which is actually cool with me because she's incredibly great with people, but somewhat annoying as it's my old job and besides the fact that she's probably better at it than me (isn't she always?), she's making money while I am... not.

Her second job is really the more irritating one, as she is substitute teaching at Major Pratt, while both Megan and I toil away at our B.Ed's. I mean, where's the delayed gratification they're dangling above my head if any random hack or sibling can just walk in and command a classroom? Once again, I'm sure she's incredibly good at that too, but I had somewhere in my mind counted on at the very least having teaching as the one thing my older sister wouldn't be able to "been there, done that" me over in the future while she offers me those ever-so-irritating words of wisdom (read: beating me over the head with the obvious).

Her third job is as some sort of computer education co-ordinator for the community. That one makes the least sense to me at all, but I tend to underestimate Becca's tech skills so I really have no idea what's going on there. And it is this third job which has offered me such great personal entertainment in recent weeks, or specifically, an incident that occurred around it.

As the Community Access Co-ordinator or whatever the heck she is, Becca facilitates basic computing courses. But these courses are no good if the fair citizens of Russell are unaware of their goings-on. So, Becca did what any good Russellite would do- turned to mainstream media! Becca wrote an article for the Russell Banner outlining her job, her program, and her classes, and both cleverly snuck around the unappealing prospect of paying for advertising and gave Terrie Welwood the unexpected treat of having to write one less than her usual frenzied weekly quota of news articles for the Banner (those things don't write themselves, you know)!

However, upon completing her opus, my dear sister was struck with the ever-difficult question of a headline. And for reasons both unknown and inexcusable to me, she decided, "What the heck! Let Terrie come up with a title!" and naively submitted her unnamed masterpiece.

I tell you, I don't think I've EVER laughed so hard on Public Transit as I did that day... especially when Becca sheepishly recounted the line that had swept across the Russell Banner:

"Meet Rebecca Cochrane!"

Alright folks, just in case you're not getting it, this is funny for MANY reasons!

"You mean, besides the fact that this obnoxious title has NOTHING to do with the content of her article?"

Yes, yes I do.

For one, in Russell, everyone knows everyone, and even more so if you're Rebecca, whose location can be verified by all within a 5-mile radius when she laughs, and who is adored by every mother, child, and responsible adult.

However, people lose track, so it's nice to have a bold proclamation in the town paper to remind everyone, "She's Back!! (again?) She's still a Cochrane! (single?!) And she's still doing her part for the community, like always! (awww, shucks!)"

There's nothing like the fanfare that goes with being 23, single, with a Bachelor's degree, and moving back to Russell (it's not the end of the world, but you can see it from there!) to live with your parents.

Which is FAR from the whole picture, and SO far from the heart of it, but, at least for me, that's the mental picture that the tactless line evokes: crazy overcompensation. And that's the trick with headlines- they speak SO loudly. I've never truly appreciated the value that they hold, but since apparently my words have not been heeded by the 4 people that consider this page read-worthy (thanks, mom and dad!) I will say it again:

IF YOU DON'T TITLE YOUR OWN ARTICLES, YOU ARE NOT GOING TO LIKE WHAT YOU FIND IN PRINT! (And you're going to have to listen to me glibly say "I told you so!")

So heed my words of wisdom... too many people (with the last name "Cochrane") have paid for this knowledge with their dignity.

P.S. Happy Belated Birthday Becca?

Baby Steps

2006-11-02T23:31:00.000-06:00

Those who know me personally know the somewhat volatile relationship I have at times with my little sister; it's the type that can be most accurately described as love/hate. (I should specify that the love vein runs deep and constant, while that pesky hate is really more of an easy irritability that often rears its' ugly head.)

Is anyone with me on how frustrating this sister thing is? (Or sibling relations in general, for the testosterone-endowed among us.) I can fully accept that I'm a basket case in almost all aspects of human life, but there's nowhere I feel my relational inadequacies as acutely as when confronted with a head-to-head with my baby sister. What IS IT that makes it so impossible to find common ground with someone with whom I share my genes, my values, my world-view, my last name, and my past?

We're so different; we're SO alike. Stubborn, independent, fierce, opinionated, loyal, defensive, drop-dead gorgeous (!), and proud.

I'm two years minus 3 weeks older than Megan, and to talk to her you'd never know it. My older sister, she admires; my older sister, she respects. Me, she usurps. It feels like she's made it a goal in life to overtake me! I think the root of my frustrations as an older sister (it's my only chance, you know) is that she's constantly depriving me of my primary right as her elder: adoration.

Did she adore me when we were younger? Hmm... it's really hard to recall; she was too busy chasing me around the kitchen-living room-dining room loop in our house with large blunt objects to really come out and say so; maybe it was there, deep down.

What about in our teenage years? Well, by then I was too busy making a part-time job out of humiliating her with my lightning-fast wit, so once again, opportunity lost.

I do have these small victories, though. However much she hates the thought of it, I do hold some sway in her life. So to console myself I have formed a small mental tally over the years of things that she does that I "did first"; things, of course, I converted her to.

From the bands I told her for years that she would love, to the snowboarding (a work in progress), I like to THINK I am responsible in some small way for her finer moments, her wiser choices. She maintains that it's incredibly frustrating how I take credit for all her ideas and decisions (when they're good), but I KNOW, deep down, that some small credit is due me for the path she's carving in life.

An occasion for such celebration came lately, when I opened my e-mail to read an out-burst of rationale of a type I'd never quite encountered in a Megan e-mail before; she was telling all her friends to see the light in regards to those pesky and poorly executed threat-like chain mails that are endlessly circulating, pretending to be from the creators of Hotmail or whoever; and demanding that you harass 18 or more friends by proliferating some useless junk mail just to keep your free but crappy e-mail account. Megan's response? Well, it was short, but it was sweet, and my heart just swelled with pride as I read it.

Time stood still. The whole earth seemed to pause and hold its breath in expectation. And finally, finally, my little sister stopped fighting her destiny, and took her first baby steps in becoming more like me.

It's all in the ranting.

People, this is proof positive! I mean, I knew she must at least have learned some things in life from me, and THIS is one of them! I mean, ranting is my LIFE! I can't go more than 18 hours without spilling my guts in the most burdensome fashion on those poor unfortunates standing nearby! If you're on my phone list, in the Inter-faith room, or in my e-mail address book, look out! I just may puke up all of my frustrations of the moment on you in one swift blow! (Yes, I KNOW it's excessive, and Yes, I'm SORRY. If you've ever been a victim of ME, I'm seeking professional help. It's why I've become a blogger. To rant into earless cyberspace.)

But back to Megan, whatever the foundational causes of your sudden outburst of conviction and opinion, I've never been so proud!

Okay, alright. All wild and unintelligable ranting aside, as much as I like to joke (much to Megan's chagrin) that all her finest and wisest moments are mere emulations of me, her secret hero, the reality is (as I can no longer deny it) that Megan Lee Cochrane is really coming into her own. Have you MET her lately? I mean, she's always looked like my older, hotter sister (much to MY chagrin), but watching her navigate friendships, school, life, being half-handicapped, and deeply religious- lately, I'm seeing something I've never seen in her before. My baby sister's becoming her own woman! (Insert cheesy sob here.)

Okay, stop your cheesy sobbing. I'm being serious.

It is, right now, the eve of Megan's 19th birthday. Yes folks, as of a half-hour from now, she's legal in Saskatchewan! But we all know what this is really about: For the next 3 weeks her 19 will look pretty formidable up next to my 20, and you can bet she's gonna be doing her darndest to close the gap. So Megs, go for it! Giver' hoss! For the next 3 weeks, you can be my slightly younger, slightly hotter, better-than-ever little sis. And I'm going to treat you with the dignity you deserve! I'm going to brag about you, tell all my friends, and even hook you up for a couple blind dates! (Oh, the generosity of me...) But after that, I'm resuming my rightful role:

That annoying thing that popped out 2 years minus 3 weeks ahead of you in life.

Happy Birthday, Megan. You're Awesome. You're 19. And you still dance circles around me any day.

The Forbidden Fruit... Tastes a heck of a lot like Apple!

2006-09-04T00:52:00.000-05:00

Alright folks; meet my baby! Yes, this gorgeous iMac is now my very own... a joy that is undermined by the intense poverty its’ purchase has caused! Nevertheless, it is with great joy that I introduce to you my pride and joy, the long-awaited, incomparable iMac!

Okay, so anyone who reads this thing (if anyone DOES read this thing) knows that my “blogging” to this point has been somewhat.. less than consistent. I know, I know, I’ve been a slacker, and there’s no excuse for it. But, to make it up to all you folks, I do vow that with the help my new baby here, I will (hopefully) never again leave you all in the lurch like this.

In other news, the purchase of my mac has raised some serious questions, and even a little guilt in my mind, over indulgence, and having what the have-nots have not. Sure, owning a masterful prototype of Macintosh computing excellence such as this one has been a dream of mine for, I would wager, close to a decade (which is a lot when you’re 20!), but now that I have it, and more importantly, have paid its lofty price tag, somehow I feel like I shouldn’t have.

Does anyone else out there get buyer’s anxiety, or rather, buyer’s remorse? Cause it’s driving me NUTS! And to set the record straight, this is not a case of regret. No, my beautiful BabyMac is just as amazing as I’d always dreamed he would be, and I can’t wait to finally figure out how to USE the thing! But my great purchase is, I think, overshadowed by the alternate reality that I am, for the first time in my 4 years out, taking the death-plunge into the world of student loans.

Ahh... the fate I swore I’d never succumb to. Yet here I am, and to make matters worse, between my heavy workload (second-year Education studies meets catching up on 8 credit-hours), and several important-to-me activities I am choosing to undertake (such as being involved with youth ministry, planning a snow-boarding retreat, learning how to skate and play hockey, and, in short, having friends) I’m not yet confident I’ll be able to juggle a part-time job. (My rocky days at Radioshack haunt me still...)

So let’s recap on the latest in Kelly’s life.
-Just come off two summer jobs
-Spent the weekend moving into an apartment with a girl she barely knows
-Getting chucked full-swing into education
-Relegated once again to bus transportation
-And poor.

Ahhh, but isn’t life good?

For those of you whose curiosity has been piqued by the mention of my yet unidentified roommate (yeah, I think I’ll leave you hanging), that, my friends, is a story for another day.

So keep tuning in as the ever-evolving adventures of Kelly’s life become somewhat better-documented.

Who's the Idiot Now?

2006-03-03T00:26:00.001-06:00

So who's the idiot now?

Yup, me. Again.

My last post invited you all to catch up on my latest writing endeavours, as I shared an article I wrote for my church on homosexuality. Unfortunately, at the time it went to print, I was still at a loss for words when it came to the all-important title. I was drawing a great blank, and, unwilling to submit any of the crap that was floating through my exhausted stream of consciousness, I submitted the article and left its christening at the mercy of our church secretary.

Which was the idiotic act in question. And in retrospect, one deserving of what happened next.

My wonderful, skilled, well-meaning co-worker, Mary, titled the article for me, printed the hundred-plus copies of the newsletter, prepared them for mailing, and took her family for a fabulous getaway down to Disneyland for a week. I, the incompetent hack, spent most of my week sleeping off a cold and forgot/neglected to mail these newsletters in a timely fashion, proving to all within the zip code how unreliable free labor is and how truly irreplaceable our dear Mary is.

Our senior pastor's wife, with whom I stay, commented to me this afternoon how much she enjoys my writings, and I surmised correctly that the newsletter must have arrived in the mail sometime today. So it was with anticipation that I sat down this evening to catch up on church news and, of course, to admire my work in print.

(Oh look- an announcement for a special drama presentation coming up this... oh wait, LAST Sunday... ooops. Perhaps that might have been more useful in last week's mail!)

Anyways, there it was, page 2. This wordsmith's latest opus, succinctly entitled...

"Love the Sinner, Hate the Sin"

uugh.

Well, if I had had any delusions of grandeur or innovative thought, I think that title pretty much killed them all. Ladies and gentlemen, I think I've just been shot in the foot.

Readers, if you are currently trying in vain to understand what it is about this seemingly common evangelistic phrase that is evoking such a violent uproar in my spirit, I will begin by saying that that phrase eludes to a current of theology and popular Christian thought that I definitely don't subscribe to and in truth find very dangerous and offensive. Reverend Ken Collins wrote a piece that I think provides a great foundation for understanding my objections to the phrase on his website, which I've linked to above... however, back to my rant.

Mary, if you're reading this, I love you to death and value you immensely. And you should be thanked for teaching me a valuable lesson. Whether or not I ever take up my pen professionally is still a query better directed towards the heavens; however, if I do, I will never again depreciate the value of a carefully-crafted title. After seeing in print the cadaver of my once-editorial, I can now profess the incalculable merit of a well-selected headline.

Alright. It's almost midnight, the shock is waning, and there's only so much a girl can lament such an ultimately fickle loss. So I am very nearly finished here. However-

I'd like to close with a moment of silence (hats off, please), as we conclude this sad eulogy. I'm very hopeful that you can, indeed feel my pain, for I myself am still a bit mournful at the loss; 1,032 words' worth of solid thought and careful commentary, so deftly nullified by 6 short, sloppy, and indiscriminate ones : one noun, its derivative, two antonyms, and two of the single most common word in the english language.

Setting the Record "Straight"

2006-02-26T18:37:00.000-06:00

Greetings.

Today, for your reading pleasure, I would like to reprint an article which I wrote for the latest issue of our church newsletter. This newsletter is sent out to our many church members and supporters across America, and each month we include a youth news article, which Pastor Karel often gives me the pleasure of authoring.
This past month, Focus Youth has been looking at sexuality in two parts, firstly discussing sexual morality, and then hosting an informative talk about homosexuality and God's view of these two topics. This latter issue is one that is of very deep importance and relevance for me, as many of my closest friends will know. Feel free to comment and respond to this my point of view.

~Kelly

This February at Focus Youth, guest speaker Blayne Greiner, director of Youth Unlimited, is speaking with our youth about homosexuality and how the Bible views it. 1 Corinthians 6: 9-10 reads, in part “…Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral … nor homosexual offenders nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards … will inherit the kingdom of God,” giving us clear insight to God’s truth about sexuality. However, while this might seem like a cut-and-dried point, for many kids today, it doesn’t seem so black and white. The ever-present political debate over it, and certainly the mainstreaming of homosexuality in the media, has led to a cultural acceptance of homosexuality as a legitimate lifestyle choice. And for those youth who don’t embrace that mindset, the pressure to normalize the gay lifestyle is ever-present.

These factors are definitely present in my life in a very personal way, as I have several close friends who struggle with their sexual identities, and the challenge for me has become, “how do I present my deeply held beliefs while expressing my deeply embedded love for these people?”

It’s one thing to be there for a non-Christian who struggles with his or her sexuality. It seems easy in those cases to chalk any confusion and experimentation up to the person’s need for Jesus. But what do you do when a self-proclaimed Christian won’t let go of his homosexuality? What do you do with those who have restructured their Christian world-view to include it?

This matter is one that I am currently weighing and, to be honest, am not completely sure how to respond to. I mean, I know what I have already been doing, which is to be a good friend, to give honest counsel and tell the truth, and to pray, but also to lean on the promise that God knows my friend’s heart, and that my friend is in relationship with God, as am I, and that God will be the one to cut to the heart of my friend’s misconceptions. But in the meantime, how would God have me respond?

It’s true- sometimes I feel very ill-equipped to counsel my friend. He’s struggling in his walk right now, and I truly believe that it has everything to do with the fact that he won’t surrender his sexuality, and be obedient to God, but while I try and get this across to him when we talk, ultimately, I am taking things really slow with him. I don’t come down hard, I don’t preach against him. Do I challenge him about it? Yes, and often. But as far as conviction of sin is concerned, I’m leaving room for that moment to be between him and Jesus. I think this may well be the biggest ultimatum of my friend’s life, and honestly, I am very afraid for the choice he may make- that’s why I’m praying constantly and treading lightly as I await a transformation of my friend’s heart.

I know that Jesus is up to the challenge- do you remember the guy that Jesus told to sell everything and follow Him? He went away sad, because he had great wealth, and was not willing to give it up. It just may happen that my friend may end up turning away, discouraged, because he was unwilling to give up his homosexuality, his “gay pride”, for the kingdom of God. That will be a very sad day for me. I know it will break Jesus’ heart also. But somehow Jesus does it anyways, cuts straight to the heart of the issue, the stronghold of sin, with truth that is sharper than a double-edged sword. So I’m wrapping my friend in prayer, praying that God will do just that in his life. But this time I’m praying desperately that the outcome will be different.

It occurs to me that my concerns are very different from those that many Christians face in regards to homosexuality. Many times, the church’s response to homosexuality can be very impersonal, judgmental, and even threatening. Often we lash out against the gay and lesbian community with a harsh reprimand and a complete unwillingness to engage them as people, and as searchers. Our response does not focus on their need for redemption, but only on the ugliness of their sin. And so often they are not finding Jesus.

Maybe we could negotiate a trade-off. I will try with all my heart to muster up the strength to be more like Jesus, who will go straight to the heart of what is keeping His children from Him, and will ask them to surrender it, fully aware that His heart is about to break as they turn away. He can do no less- He loves us too much for that. Meanwhile, I am not Jesus, and cannot pull this off the way He does, but if He asks me to speak hard truths, I want to be obedient and do so.

And for Christians with the tendency to come down harshly and with judgment, we should be very hesitant to do anything in God’s name if it does not come from a love for the people God created. 1 Corinthians 13 emphasizes that all that we may do, if it is without love, is absolutely worthless, devoid of value, giving no gain, leading to nothing. But more than that, I think history and common sense shows that when the church acts outside of love, things get serious. Great tragedies have occurred under the banner of our Faith, and we must make every effort to never let these things happen again.

I think it is very good that I fear so deeply my friend’s rejection of Jesus. You can’t fake that kind of brotherly love. It’s what Jesus is striving to teach us, “Love the Lord your God fiercely and with everything within you, and love your neighbor even more than you care about yourself”. And so I encourage you, also, to be hesitant to call attention to the sins that separate others from God, until you have your own heart invested in their eternity even a fraction of as much as you can bet that God’s heart is.

Doing a Bang-Up Job Of It

2006-01-30T18:07:00.000-06:00

For those of you who aren't up to date on my current situation, I am currently living just outside the city of Seattle, Washington, where I am a volunteer youth intern at a church called Living Hope Free Methodist. The experience so far has been very beneficial and I've been overwhelmed by the goodness and grace of God and many of His people, who have blessed me in so many ways since I've arrived.

So when Pastor Jim and his wife, Kathy, with whom I live, free of charge, asked me to drive them to the airport Friday morning, I was glad to do it. The fact that I needed to get up early, difficult as THAT would be, was no real problem. And knowing that I would have to miss my guitar lessons on Tuesday evening in order to pick them up when they returned was mostly just water under the bridge. I was actually very thankful to be able to do something to serve them as they serve me by making me feel so welcome in their home.

Crashing their car on the freeway wasn't exactly what I had in mind.

Let me explain. I was driving home after dropping Jim and Kathy off, paying attention, staying awake, watching the road, not speeding, and all that good stuff, when the car in front of me put the brakes on. I tried to brake accordingly but somehow my efforts were lost in translation- their brakes are much less sensitive than the ones in my car. The few seconds it took me to adjust for that difference resulted in me rear-ending the aforementioned car.

The next few minutes involved pulling over and just sitting in my car in shock, trying to grasp the fact that I'd just been in an accident in Pastor's car, asking "WHY ON EARTH didn't I stop faster?", and searching frantically for Pastor Jim's insurance information.

Finally the driver of the other car came back, (probably annoyed that I hadn't had the courtesy to come up to her car instead), and we began to exchange information. We took stock of the damage, which appeared to be minimal, all things considered... I'm hoping that it extends no further than the bumper of both cars, but only time will tell.

Eventually a police officer arrived and wrote me up a ticket (gee, thanks!), basically said something to the effect of- you caused an accident, so you owe us money. Which is fair, but I'm sure I'll be owing enough people money in the near future as a consequence, without the aid of this ticket.

I drove home and got on with the fun part- calling Pastor Jim to break the news. They were in the air at the time, so I enjoyed several hours of suspenseful stomach-gnawing while waiting for them to respond to my voice-mail messages.

When they returned my call, they were gracious, as always, which always makes me feel much worse. Occurences like these make me fear and yet somehow long for someone to just angrily ream me out, tear me apart, like I know I deserve. Hearing Kathy tell me that she's glad I'm alright, and that's the important thing, and that cars can be fixed, does nothing to ease my feelings of guilt. It's times like these where my love-hate relationship with grace comes out- It's a wonderful concept, but it doesn't seem to be appropriate for people like me.

So it's times like these where my faith looks its grimmest. Somehow, I believe I am capable of accepting God's grace- it's been drilled into me from my earliest days of church-going, and I've come to expect no less from God, because I accept that He's perfect, and forgiving, and that He's going to stay that way. So I blame Him for letting me remain so imperfect, after all these years. I would much rather be flawless, perfect in all things, whether they involve actual sin, or just life and poor judgment.

And in the meantime, while I am shamelessly attacking God for my humanity, I'm making a hypocrite of myself by shunning the grace of others. I can accept it from God, I think because I've just given up on trying to convince Him of giving up on me. But no way will I accept it from His people. It doesn't matter that I can extend it to others and expect them to accept it. I am completely unwilling to accept forgiveness and grace when it is offered to me.

This is where God finds me frustrating, I think.

And I think he's trying to tell me that if I won't accept the grace of others, but chose to wallow in my own feelings of failure or disappointment, then I can't really have accepted or responded to His grace. Because it's supposed to transform us. And because it's supposed to override the judgement of others.

Think about it. If I believe that God forgives me, but I refuse to be forgiven by others, or even to forgive myself, I'm selling God's opinion of me a bit short- more than that, I'm disrespecting his Lordship in the worst way.

If His opinion comes in third on my list of people to believe, if His judgement of me is a "nice thought, but a bit impractical", then I am not truly His child.

So walk with me in this thought. I am trying to learn to forgive myself. God knows, and Jim and Kathy know, as well as I do that there was no ill-intent or offensive way in me on Friday morning when I was driving their car home. We also all know that God was there, and because of His blessing and favour in my life I was not harmed but instead I am fine, and so is the driver of the other car, and the damage appears to be minimal. And on top of all that I have spoken to God, Jim and Kathy, and the police, and no one is burdening me with any great blame other than myself.

If I don't forgive myself, I run the risk of blowing off God and rejecting His grace- and that's the last thing I want to do. 'Cause between He and I, so far he's the only one on my side. Without Him, I would have no hope for myself. And I sure know I don't want to live that way. This way is hard enough.

So I am endeavoring to change the way I look at my flaws and mistakes, and even my sins, because I am harder on myself than God is. Here is a nice bit of biblical poetry about God for us to dwell on...
" For as high as the heavens are above the earth,
so great is his love for those who fear him;
As far as the east is from the west,
so far has he removed our transgressions from us.
As a father has compassion on his children,
so the LORD has compassion on those who fear him;" Psalm 103:11-13

And though I am that way, as often as I can be, with others, I am not that way towards myself. And God is tired of it. So he says to me,

"I, even I, am he who blots out your transgressions, for my own sake, and remembers your sins no more.
Review the past for me, let us argue the matter together;
state the case for your innocence." Isaiah 43:25-26

And I get the feeling that, for MY own sake, he wants this finished. He said it was finished, 2000 years ago, yet I am haggling over my sins. For His sake, He's put them behind Him, put them far from Him, at the bottom of the ocean floor, because He knows exactly how painful they are to us- He's felt each one of them. And because they are dealt with, we must leave them behind and journey onward.

He knows I'm hung up over it, it's only been a few days, and the dust hasn't even settled it. So even though it's painful to both of us, he is willing to rehash it with me, if I must. He says, "Go for it! State your case, let us argue the past. But it doesn't change the outcome, and there can be no more favourable verdict than the forgiveness you've already received. There are better things waiting for you once you move on from here. I'll stay here till you're ready, but know that everything better will come when you journey a little further, a little closer to Me."

And, Lord knows, I'm trying to do just that. And I hope to have your prayers supporting me.

So you can pray for me, that when I am guilty, that I would accept my guilt. That when I am innocent, I would stand on God's side and defend my innocence, instead of selling out on myself (I really am my own worst enemy. Or rather, the sin that lives within me). And that when I am forgiven, I would accept God's pronouncement on the matter as final, as I would a judge or jury, and would get the guts and strength to truly live as one forgiven.

Kelly Fails Humility 101: The Birthday Edition

2005-11-28T01:38:00.000-06:00

So I have been fighting heartily for a month against the sacrilege that America has commited against me, trying in vain to stop this insubordinate holiday known as "American Thanksgiving" from overshadowing a much more important event... namely, my 20th birthday.

It's ridiculous really.

But for the past month or so, every time any well-meaning American in the state of Washington (or, to be sure, any unfortunate Canadians I may or may not know) has mentioned their upcoming national holiday, the conversation has inevitably be rerouted to include my own personal take on the meaning of November 24th. Which was probably, a little obnoxious of me...

But, you know how it is. We as people, tend to be VERY self-concerned. And for me, being miles and miles away from home and all the people that I could count on to actually care about the fact that I have now been wandering aimlessly for TWO WHOLE DECADES, I, like most other self-involved humanoids out there, felt the instincts of self-preservation sneak up on me as my big day ran the risk of being overshadowed by a turkey.

I eventually got sick of it, or at least had the social graces to sense that if not yet then pretty soon everyone else would become so, and decided to "be a martyr" and let it go. I mean, I know I'm special. I know God loves me, and I know other people do too. And I can't wrangle them into caring about my birthday, and I was going to wind up looking like a fool doing so. So I gave up on it.

By then it was much too late.

My darling friends henceforth known as "the interns" spoiled me rotten, lavished me with attention and thoughtfulness, as did many other important people in my life, for the entire week leading up to my birthday, and in the end, self-promotion got trumped by sheer thankfulness.

Here's how it looked.

Saturday, November 19th- Ben Jensen (wonderful guy, and fellow intern, from Snohomish, WA) took me out to see Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire for my birthday. It was great- we were a little close to the screen, though- and then afterwards we went over to his house where **surprise!** all the interns were waiting in the basement to throw me a birthday party! The interns had even picked up on the name of my favorite board game, Balderdash, which they then gave me for my birthday, and we then played, with great times resulting.

Monday, November 21st- At our intern meeting, the entire group blesses me immensely with words of encouragement and affirmation. More kind things were said than are even true about me, and I was so encouraged and felt so loved and blessed.

Wednesday, November 23rd- Doorbell rings. My darling best friend Sarah has sent me flowers all the way from Winnipeg, MB!

Right about at this point I surrendered. I mean, honestly, how can someone this blatantly and richly blessed continue her well-intended vendetta against a holiday of thankfulness? So there and then I told Jesus that I didn't need or want anything else for my birthday, I just wanted it to be over, and that I was very excited to spend a whole day feeling thankful, as I had been feeling so all week already.

So I opened all my cards that night and resolutely told my (host) family that my birthday was OVER.

Thursday, November 24th- American Thanksgiving. I celebrated with my (host) family, had a great day of card-playing and pie-eating, and finally acted at least a little bit more selfless and mature.

At the end of the day we met the Outtatown South Africa people. I accidentally let it slip out that I had turned 20 that day (I was provoked! Blayne told everyone we were all only 18-19) and before I could stop myself the entire Site was singing me Happy Birthday. So I almost made it the whole day... oh well.

Don't get me wrong here... this is NOT a complaint. I was and I am completely grateful, and I truly feel just cherished beyond what I deserved, expected, or even imagine. But I am painfully aware of the fact that I have a long way to go to be like Jesus. I mean, I've been going about this all wrong.

Here, this is what I'm getting at:

When [Jesus] noticed how the guests picked the places of honor at the table, he told them this parable: "When someone invites you to a wedding feast, do not take the place of honor, for a person more distinguished than you may have been invited. If so, the host who invited both of you will come and say to you, 'Give this man your seat.' Then, humiliated, you will have to take the least important place. But when you are invited, take the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he will say to you, 'Friend, move up to a better place.' Then you will be honored in the presence of all your fellow guests. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted." Luke 14:7-11

This is exactly what I did not do.

The moral of the story is that I am EXTREMELY blessed, and so VERY thankful, and that if I would just shut my mouth for once, I would maybe learn to handle both people's praise AND people's disregard with grace and dignity.

I Know What You Learned Last Summer

2005-11-17T12:48:00.000-06:00

While I was writing my re-cap of the past year and some, I started to write a more up-close reflection on my summer working with people with things like autism, down's syndrome, FAS, etc. Then I realized that people would be tired of reading a that point, so I took it all out of the recap and am recycling it into this post. One way or another, people, you're GOING to hear it!

Alright. So what did I learn? Well, I was stretched. I wanted to do this because I wasn't comfortable being uncomfortable around people with disabilities. I wanted to do this because I wanted to be challenged to love more, more deeply, more widely, more comfortably, and more unconditionally. And every client I worked with demanded something different, some different form of love. Love is patience. Love always protects the other. Love is persistent, persevering, refuses to quit on someone. Love shows kindness when kindness is the farthest thing from us. If you knew the clients I met this summer, you would understand. These people will teach you love, and they will challenge you in it. And they are blessings from God in your life, if you will embrace them.

I learned about people. I was blessed to work with some great people, Twila Ross- she is a true diamond in the rough, for real; and also Vanessa Jeske, whose blog contains some very honest and beautiful reflections on her experiences this summer working with special needs adults, check it out at: www.lostcanadianinamerica.blogspot.com/2005/08/smile.html - I strongly encourage you to read it- it is very thought-provoking and true.
At the same time, though, Vanessa, Twila, and I spent the summer watching in horror and disbelief as every member of the staff jostled for position, for favor, for self-gain. I am completely unable to understand how anyone can work at a job like that and still think that it's all about THEM. It doesn't make any sense to me.

I am humbled by these clients, and rightly so. People love to lord it over others, to make themselves look good by being "sensitive" to special needs people. But honestly, this summer, I did not work for the government of MB, I worked for these people. I served them. And rightly so. Jesus NEVER tells us to serve ourselves. He never says "Go, make money. Go gain. Take for yourselves." He never gives us the impression that we deserve any of the good that we recieve. In truth, we deserve much less, much worse. We are no better than anyone else.

What Jesus would say, and Paul did say was this: Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves.
A far cry from my experience among the staff this summer. And clearly the most excellent way.

So we consider others better than ourselves. And we serve the poor, and the needy. And we do it in a way that reflects a belief that we are not reaching down to them, that we have no right to do so. But that we are reaching out, simply because we have been reached down to by Grace Himself. And this is the essence of our lives in Christ.

Oops... Did I Forget to Blog?

2005-11-02T12:01:00.000-06:00

Alright, so "Little Miss Blogger" didn't really materialize... I started this blog after Outtatown, which is now a year and a half ago, and I then moved to Winnipeg, where I had crappy internet access, homework (yuck!), and not a lot of drive to blog. Sorry!

Alright... so highlights from the past 15+ months!

Summer- work with special needs kids or kids with learning disabilities... love it....

September- move to Winnipeg with the crazy and awesome Sarah Froese, a fellow Site 2 girl... hilarity ensues... most of it involves me getting things thrown at me... and folk guitar.

October- Kelly gets employed. First day at Radioshack goes down in "Worst Day Ever History"... long story short... Kelly falls of bike, scrapes open leg, hobbles in late, bleeding. There are tears. Not exactly employee of the month material.

November- Sarah and I finally get around to having our housewarming party! It is the party to end all parties. Good friend Trent Snyder even comes in from Russell/Foxwarren for the occasion! Keith Tang was there.... were you?

December- Christmas season is hectic. I work like a madwoman at Radioshack. I make it home briefly for Christmas... a couple days home, and then I'm back to the madness. Gotta pay the rent! Outtatowners have a New Years' Party in the city... Derek, Trevor, Lauren, Emily.. who else... well, those guys for sure all flew in from out of province just becuase they love us! My good friend Eric Dick gets himself into a life-threatening bike accident out in Niagara, ON, and we all pray our hearts out.

January- God is good! And Eric Dick is a miracle. He defeats odds in favor of paralysis, brain damage, blindness, and especially death, and blows us all away with his recovery...

"Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?"

Sarah and I can't take it anymore. We fly out to Ontario to visit Eric, encourage him, and for some good times. Highlights... taking Eric sledding, despite our best efforts to deter him, and Sarah mistaking Eric's raised arm for an invitation to throw an orange at him... which he is at this point unable to see well enough to catch, and it smacks him in the hand. Hilarity ensues.

February-My most awkward Valentine's Day EVER! I host Dan and Teagin's Valentine's Day date at my apartment... it wasn't that bad, it was pretty cute actually... but you probably have to be in a couple to appreciate cheesy, over-the-top gestures of love. Which, I was not. So, I did not. Oh and somewhere in here that "Marchin" guy started asking me out, which Sarah was nice enough to turn into a public spectacle for all our friends... love you too, Sarah!

March- We get some snowboarding done! I bring people out to Russell to board and highlights include free lift tickets and winning a giant, wall-mountable Kokanee beer bottle in a karaoke contest (kudos go out to Jeannette and Johanna). It now graces the sacred walls of the CMU women's rez.

April- hmmm... I know SOMETHING happened in April... what happened?

May- packed up, had our FAMOUS "House-cooling Party," featuring dj.exe, also known as my dear friend Skyler Jones. This party was frequented by such well-knowns as Keith Tang (he's my groupie), some very gifted RadioShack sales associates, my homegirl Sarah Bezan, many many SODers, Russellites, Dancin' Dee, and more. After that, we almost considered not leaving!

But, leave we did. Next day, I flew to Ontario, where I met up with my DARLING sister Rebecca for a week-long road-trip home. Highlights include such people as Darren Janzen, Krista Bender, Mark and Johanna (sorry, no last names for you!), another visit with Eric, whose improvement is AMAZING!, my adorable twin cousins (and Ben too), and my childhood best friend forever Tatiana Kaminski, out in Illinois. The Kaminskis were very sweet to let us stay with them in Iowa- we had a blast! Fun was had, and we even visited the stray grandmother out in Carman, MB!

June- monotony sets in. I am home for the summer. Summer 2005 goes a little something like this: I work 2 jobs- good ones though, I was blessed, squirrel away money for next year, work some more, then take on running the church's VBS with my lovely partner-in-crime Vanessa Jeske (you rock, girl!), since of course 2 jobs is not enough. But I was blessed richly by it.

This was my second summer working with kids with special needs, or developmental delays. I love it SO much. These kids are awesome and have SO much potential. They are beautiful children and they brighten my life.

This summer I took on for the first time working with special needs adults in an assisted living environment. These people live independent, adult lives, made possible by 24/7 staff. This allows their families to breathe and to live again, this allows them to grow and to adjust. It is not always a perfect scenerio, but I love the concept. But more about that later.

Then I packed myself up (again), and headed out cross-country to the west coast, and not just the west coast, but the land of the red, white and blue! That's right, I am now in Washington. I live and breathe in the communities and suburbs surrounding Seattle (which is a sweet city), and I am a youth ministry intern through Youth Unlimited. I work at Living Hope Christian Fellowship in Bothell, and spend time with kids, and it is awesome. And I am blessed.

You will hear much more on this later. But for now, be ye updated.

What It Means To Be "Coming Up Short"...

2004-07-25T02:08:00.000-05:00

Well, here goes.

Hello out there to all who may read this page. This is my first experiment in the "thinking out loud", diary-style narrative, and I'm not quite sure what I'll be getting here. So, all you rookie readers out there, hang in there with me... we'll see what kind of fruits may come out of my labors.

So, first things first....
What exactly does it mean to be "coming up short"? For myself, I find that frequently, in life, in relationships, at work, and especially when it comes to God, I ride through temporary lows, highs, and in-the-middles, and just when life is getting good, or I feel like I've got it figured out (even in the slightest), then comes the drop. The screw-up. The let-down. Where I realize that I am, indeed, human, so far from perfect and so susceptible to mistakes. It seems that in life, with friends, and with God, I am forever "coming up short."

Which is just fine with me- I'm coming to terms with it. Because it puts the pressure, and the spotlight, back on God, where it should have been all along. And He does not cave to peer pressure, poor judgement, or lack of wisdom as I do; he is infallible. And I don't know what I'd do without him for a Go-To Guy whenever I'm in need.

So, here's what I figure.
I'm alright with being an occasional screw-up. My life, on occasion, gets a bit colorful that way. I'm always "learning the hard way," the humiliating way. And it's worth every painful moment of it because God teaches me so much that way. I mean, I have to believe him when he tells me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness"- it's the only way my blundering existence has a purpose.

So, in this space, each week, each day, or whenever the keyboard, the internet, and the thoughts are all flowing my direction, I will pour out, bit by bit, what God has been showing me through my latest misadventures. This may include stories, thoughts, song or book quotes, or scripture.

One thing I hope to give is honesty- I'm not really about the false front, or trying to be cool, or painting life anything other than TrueTone. I hope this can be a forum for thought, intellectual and spritual, and that you would be challenged, and stretched, to see the world a little bit differently each day.

Anyways, here goes nothing...