MANY HOURS . . .

I have given myself many unclaimed hours today. So here's something to fill a bit of time, thanks to Jade Park:

Look at the list of books below.
BOLD the ones you’ve read.
ITALICIZE the ones you want to read.
CROSS OUT the ones you won’t touch with a 10 foot pole.
PUT A CROSS (+) front of the ones on your book shelf.
ASTERISK (*) the ones you’ve never heard of.
Don't touch the books about which you feel indifferent.

1. The Da Vinci Code (Dan Brown): this book made me crazy. It was enjoyable, but it made me crazy.
2. + Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen): I read this every year, at least once a year. The BBC movie, I watch at least twice a year. Is this a problem?
3. + To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee): I think it would be fair to say that this book changed my life.
4. + Gone With The Wind (Margaret Mitchell): I'm a dork. I read the book once. Then I watched the movie once. Then I watched the movie with the book open in front of me to see how well the movie matched the book.
5. The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King (J.R.R. Tolkien): I have this thing about fantasy and sci-fi literature. I can't read it. I just can't. For all that my imagination runs wild with images and scenarios and colours and words, I can't drop into a fantasy literary world and enjoy it. I can, however, watch the movie. So that is what I did.
6. The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring (J.R.R. Tolkien): see #5.
7. The Lord of the Rings: Two Towers (J.R.R. Tolkien): see #5.
8. + Anne of Green Gables (L.M. Montgomery): for a short while, I thought I was Anne, and it confused me to look in the mirror and see no red hair or freckles.
9. Outlander (Diana Gabaldon)
10. A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry)
11. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (J.K. Rowling): sorry, I don't do Harry Potter.
12. Angels and Demons (Dan Brown): this book did not make me as crazy.
13. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (J.K. Rowling): see #11.
14. A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving): I went through a phase where I read every John Irving book I could get my hands on, in a row. That was a few years ago. I haven't been able to read Irving since.
15. + Memoirs of a Geisha (Arthur Golden): I thought the book itself was a smooth and fantastical read. But I always thought it a bit bizarre that a white guy wrote it. Know what I mean?
16. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (J.K. Rowling): see #11.
17. Fall on Your Knees (Ann-Marie MacDonald): I don't remember much about the actual book, but I remember not liking it very much, and feeling very disturbed that I had taken the time to read it.
18. The Stand (Stephen King): is this the one with the scary clown in it?
19. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (J.K. Rowling): see #11.
20. + Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte): I read this when I was too young to read it. I think it left scars that are still being picked over.
21. The Hobbit (J.R.R. Tolkien): see #5.
22. + The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger): I own it; I just haven't read it yet.
23. + Little Women (Louisa May Alcott): I read this when I was too old to read it and really fall into the story. But I still found it charming, and wished I had read it when I was younger.
24. The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold): good enough.
25. Life of Pi (Yann Martel)
26. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams)
27. + Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte)
28. + The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe (C. S. Lewis): this man is a genius. There's nothing he wrote that I won't read.
29. + East of Eden (John Steinbeck)
30. Tuesdays with Morrie (Mitch Albom): I have this thing ... I can't stand overwrought sap. And I can't bring myself to easily pick up a book that gazillions of Americans love to read. If it's too popular, I am repelled by it. That's why I still have yet to watch "Titanic."
31. Dune (Frank Herbert)
32. The Notebook (Nicholas Sparks): see #30.
33. Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand)
34. 1984 (George Orwell)
35. The Mists of Avalon (Marion Zimmer Bradley)
36. * The Pillars of the Earth (Ken Follett)
37. * The Power of One (Bryce Courtenay)
38. I Know This Much is True (Wally Lamb)
39. + The Red Tent (Anita Diamant): borrowed long ago, it's on my to-read pile.
40. The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho)
41. + The Clan of the Cave Bear (Jean M. Auel): seriously. There's just a lot of sex in Auel's books. It's like reading porn, because there really is no plot, other than to get to the next opportunity for sex. Bizarre. Is this story-telling?
42. The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
43. Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella): uh, just no.
44. The Five People You Meet In Heaven (Mitch Albom): see #30.
45. + Bible: what is there not to like? It's the story of my life.
46. + Anna Karenina (Leo Tolstoy)
47. The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas)
48. Angela’s Ashes (Frank McCourt): I have a friend who is seriously into all things Irish (although he is the furthest thing from). I myself am seriously into all things English. It makes for interesting faux-arguments.
49. + The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)
50. She’s Come Undone (Wally Lamb)
51. + The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver): currently reading ...
52. A Tale of Two Cities (Charles Dickens)
53. + Ender’s Game (Orson Scott Card): Juice gave this to me to read years ago. Oops.
54. Great Expectations (Charles Dickens)
55. The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald)
56. * The Stone Angel (Margaret Laurence)
57. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (J.K. Rowling): see #11.
58. + The Thorn Birds (Colleen McCullough): remember Richard Chamberlain in the miniseries? Is it bad that Richard Chamberlain in the miniseries is all I can recall about the BOOK?
59. The Handmaid’s Tale (Margaret Atwood)
60. The Time Traveller’s Wife (Audrew Niffenegger)
61. + Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky): oh yeah. I love me my dark Russian authors.
62. The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)
63. War and Peace (Leo Tolstoy)
64. Interview With The Vampire (Anne Rice): I read it because I wanted to get through the book before I got through the movie. Never went to see the movie; regret spending the time to read the book.
65. * Fifth Business (Robertson Davis)
66. + One Hundred Years Of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
67. The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants (Ann Brashares): also, just no.
68. Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)
69. + Les Miserables (Victor Hugo): read the book once, saw the musical eight times.
70. The Little Prince (Antoine de Saint-Exupery): is it strange that I read this in French?
71. Bridget Jones’ Diary (Helen Fielding): the film was enjoyable enough, but I don't feel the need to redo my Bridget Jones experience on paper. Once was good for me.
72. Love in the Time of Cholera (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
73. Shogun (James Clavell)
74. + The English Patient (Michael Ondaatje): I never thought I'd say this about a book, but ... the movie was better.
75. The Secret Garden (Frances Hodgson Burnett): sigh, sigh and sigh again. Even as a little girl, I sighed my way through this book.
76. * The Summer Tree (Guy Gavriel Kay)
77. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Betty Smith)
78. The World According To Garp (John Irving)
79. * The Diviners (Margaret Laurence)
80. Charlotte’s Web (E.B. White): I'm a leeeeetle annoyed that Julia Roberts plays Charlotte in the recently released movie. I simply love this book and love the story.
81. * Not Wanted On The Voyage (Timothy Findley)
82. Of Mice And Men (Steinbeck)
83. Rebecca (Daphne DuMaurier): why, exactly, did they make us read this in high school?
84. * Wizard’s First Rule (Terry Goodkind)
85. + Emma (Jane Austen)
86. Watership Down (Richard Adams): isn't this something about rabbits on a ship? Yeah, file this under "can't picture it, can't read it."
87. Brave New World (Aldous Huxley)
88. The Stone Diaries (Carol Shields)
89. * Blindness (Jose Saramago)
90. * Kane and Abel (Jeffrey Archer)
91. * In The Skin Of A Lion (Michael Ondaatje)
92. Lord of the Flies (William Golding)
93. The Good Earth (Pearl S. Buck)
94. The Secret Life of Bees (Sue Monk Kidd)
95. The Bourne Identity (Robert Ludlum): I forgot this was a book first. The movie was fantastic.
96. The Outsiders (S.E. Hinton)
97. White Oleander (Janet Fitch)
98. A Woman of Substance (Barbara Taylor Bradford): oh yeah, I remember my trashy novel days. Good times.
99. The Celestine Prophecy (James Redfield)
100. Ulysses (James Joyce)

My stats:
* Read: 39
* Own: 23
* Want to read: 10
* Indifferent: 28
* Wouldn't touch: 10
* Never heard of: 10

JUST ENOUGH FOR TODAY . . .

Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anyhthing. If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him. But when he asks, he must believe and not doubt, because he who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind. That man should not think he will receive anything from the Lord; he is a double-minded man, unstable in all he does.

The brother in humble circumstances ought to take pride in his high position. But the one who is rich should take pride in his low position, because he will pass away like a wild flower. For the sun rises with scorching heat and withers the plant; its blossom falls and its beauty is destroyed. In the same way, the rich man will fade away even while he goes about his business.

Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love Him.

When tempted, no one should say, "God is tempting me." For God cannot be tempted by evil, nor does He tempt anyone; but each one is tempted when, by his own evil desire, he is dragged away and enticed. Then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death.

Don't be deceived, my dear brothers. Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. He chose to give us birth through the word of truth, that we might be a kind of firstfruits of all He created.

My dear brothers, take note of this: everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, for man's anger does not bring about the righteous life that God desires. Therefore, get rid of all moral filth and the evil that is so prevalent and humbly accept the word planted in you, which can save you.

Do not merely listen to the word, and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says. Anyone who listens to the word but does not do what it says is like a man who looks at his face in a mirror and, after looking at himself, goes away and immediately forgets what he looks like. But the man who looks intently into the perfect law that gives freedom, and continues to do this, not forgetting what he has heard, but doing it -- he will be blessed in what he does.

If anyone considers himself religious and yet does not keep a tight rein on his tongue, he deceives himself and his religion is worthless. Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in
their distress and to keep onself from being polluted by the world.

- James 1:2-27

TAKING THINGS FOR GRANTED . . .

Like heat. My house didn't have heat for several hours today. It wouldn't be such a big deal except that it was 20-degrees outside today (in the sun), and I tend to feel like I'm freezing if the temperature falls anywhere below 72-degrees anyway. I had the fleeting thought that if the situation did not get fixed (by the guy we are all supposed to call in situations like these), I would, no matter how many layers I donned, freeze to death in my sleep tonight. No one would know for days, and then thank goodness for the cold because at least my body would be slow to decompose and would not stink. Alright, it was more than a fleeting thought, and I thought, in conjunction with that longer-than-fleeting thought, that I did not really want to die, and that I would probably come out of this with just a bad cold. But still. I'm glad I have heat now. I don't like not having heat. Heat is good. Everyone should have heat. And come to think of it, I'm sad that not everyone does.

***

Like airplanes. Over 100 folks were stuck on a JetBlue airplane, sitting out on the tarmac, for 8 hours yesterday afternoon during the Nor'easter that blew through the East Coast (spitting out ice in a stupid wanna-be imitation of what should have been wet, glorious, fluffy snow, like the snow of yore). Life stank for those passengers, sitting out there with overflowing toilets and a depleted inventory of snacks and beverages. I think if I had been there, I, too, would have been the utmost picture of misery. But I wasn't, and so I'm going to pontificate. When an aircraft pulls away from the gate and out onto the tarmac -- or sometimes, even when it's still AT the gate -- it is no longer free to pull back INTO a gate to let passengers out. Airplane traffic at major airports is so congested that when one plane pulls away from a gate, another one slides in almost immediately. On days like yesterday, with inclement weather grounding planes all over the East Coast, NO gates are free to release passengers. Ground crews are likewise overwhelmed. If they're not trying to de-ice planes as quickly as possible in the hopes of getting it off the ground, they are trying their darndest to clear the runways and gate approaches so that landing planes have a safe place to touch down. And if the weather just gets too bad, it's just not SAFE to have ground crews out on the blacktop, so they send everyone indoors or home. Everyone, from the pilots to the folks in the control tower (who you know were going insane yesterday) to the ground crew to all the ancillary third-party service providers, has rules to follow, and in this day and age, if those rules aren't followed to a T, bad things happen. You can't just bring a plane to a gate and let hundreds of people loose in an airport. You certainly can't pull a ladder up to the plane and let hundreds of people loose on the slippery tarmac. You can't even pull the service carts over to restock water and pretzels. There are rules, and the rules are there for everyone's safety. Yes, I can imagine it sucks big eggs to be stuck on an airplane for 8 hours (a plane that isn't flying to a destination, that is). But whining about it is useless. We are lucky to be in an age where we can travel anywhere we want, anytime we want, and sure it frustrates our immediate-gratification-wanting, entitled American selves when that doesn't happen. But the bottom line is, sometimes Mother Nature and the rules rule.

***

Like trust. It's a romantic notion to want to trust people, and to have them trust you. It's nice. It would work out great in a perfect world. I like it, no, I LOVE it, when my friends trust me and I can keep their trust. I love it, too, when I can trust them and can know exactly their care for me and how much they want the best for me. I DON'T like it, though, when my trust is sought and sought and sought, and then when I finally decide to give it, I feel sort of ... dirty afterward. Like the other person got what they wanted, and I just have "SUCKER" written across my forehead. Trust is sort of like your virginity - once you give it away, you can't ever get it back. You just sort of stew over the fact that you gave it away when you weren't ready to. So hold onto it. Trust is precious. And sadly, not everyone deserves yours or mine.

***

Like closeness. I had it, and I don't have it, and I haven't heard from it all week. I should've cherished it and been more careful with it while it was here with me. Let that be a lesson to you all.

REALLY . . .

Which Grey's Anatomy Character Are You?
Isobel You've got everything - work ethic, determination, skill and looks. But you'll never admit it! You have a lot going for you, and it's all the talent you have that makes you capable of being so good. But in light of all your ability you still lack self confidence. Don't worry so much about proving yourself, you have everything it takes and all you need to do is believe in yourself to accomplish your dreams.
Take The Quiz Now!	Quizzes by myYearbook.com

LUCKY . . .

Seven of my friends will be having babies this year. SEVEN. Is it possible to be so thrilled, and also so not thrilled? That is to say, thrilled for them, but not thrilled for me. I sure do wonder when it will be my turn.

THIS IS ALL YOU GET, PART ONE . . .

Too heavy. Everything is too heavy. I am too heavy for you, perhaps? Sorry about that. Here's some lightness, courtesy of Jade Park ...

A- Available? In a sense.
B- Best Friend? They know who they are.
C- Cake or Pie? Occasionally, with strong black coffee, please.
D- Drink of Choice? Room-temperature water.
E- Essential Item? Bob, my Bible, my journal and lip balm.
F- Favorite Color? Brown to wear; red to look at.
G- Gummi Bears or Worms? Neither, because gummi = gag.
H- Hometown? New York.
I- Indulgence? Salty potato chips and Apple products.
J- January or February? February.
K- Kids and names? Not yet, but I'm ready.
L- Life is incomplete without? Jesus.
M- Marriage Date? Soon, I hope.
N- Number of Siblings? One.
O- Oranges or apples? Oranges.
P- Phobias/Fears? Clowns, deep water and going through the car wash.
Q- Favorite Quote? "Be strong and take heart, all you who hope in the Lord." (Ps. 31:24)
R- Reason to Smile? Being loved.
S- Season? Autumn.
T- Tag three people! Eh, they'll tag themselves if they want.
U- Unknown Fact About Me? If you don't know it, there's a reason.
V- Vegetable you hate? Cauliflower.
W- Worst habit? Picking my lower lip, and rushing to judgment.
X- X-Rays you’ve had? Teeth.
Y- Your favorite food? Omma's kimchi-jigae.
Z- Zodiac? Scorpio.

ALL I'M ASKING FOR IS A LITTLE . . .

Relief.

Mercy.

Hope.

Sleep.

Food.

C'mon, God. Throw me a bone.

***

I don't only ask these things of others, not all the time, anyway. I also ask them of myself. I am learning more and more of who I am. I am mean. I am merciless. I always want to be right. In wanting to always be right, I want others to always say that they're wrong. Even when they're not. I'm incapable of saying "I'm sorry." I'm immature and stubborn. I am manipulative. I don't deserve kindness or compassion, but ask for it all the time. I am hard-hearted and hard-shelled. I then wonder why people can't see the softness in me, if there even is any softness. I want it all. I rarely give anything. I'm controlling. I'm suspicious. I'm angry. I'm jealous. I think that everyone else sucks. But the reality is ...

I suck.

Never has the cross of Christ seemed further away.

WATCH OUT FOR THE PO-PO . . .

A police officer followed me home today.

Yes, as in HOME, as in INTO MY DRIVEWAY, as in WATCHED ME PARK MY CAR IN MY PARKING SPACE, as in STOPPED HIS PATROL CAR PERPENDICULAR TO MINE SO THAT I WOULD NOT FLEE, as in FLASHING LIGHTS ALL OVER MY BAD SELF, as in HALF MY NEIGHBOURS JUST HAPPENED TO BE IN THE PARKING LOT AT THE TIME, as in THEY ALL HAD TO STOP WHAT THEY WERE DOING TO SEE WHAT WAS GOING DOWN IN OUR SLEEPY LITTLE PARKING LOT WITH THE TINY LITTLE ASIAN GIRL.

There are four inane corollaries to the fact that a police officer followed me home today:

1. Apparently, two of my three brake lights are out, and "THAT, ma'am, is an equipment violation."

2. Apparently, having a police car follow me home and sit in my driveway with all its lights on thrills me just a little bit and makes me feel just a wee bit like a bad-ass.

3. Apparently, I am pretty and I can bring my "pretty self" to the station tomorrow after I get the bulbs replaced so that they can void my ticket.

4. Apparently, being called "pretty," even by the po-po, is just what was needed to put a small smile on my face after a completely smile-less week. And make me blush. I'm a sucker for a man in uniform packing heat.

***

NEW FRONTIERS . . .

In every industry -- law, medicine, science, education, etc. -- pre-existing boundaries are expansing (or in some cases, disappearing completely). We are constantly pushing into new frontiers. I was reminded of this while reading about a judgment in a local wrongful birth suit.

Yes, I said "wrongful birth." As in "this birth was wrong." As in "this birth never should have happened and I'm mad that it did, and so I'm suing you because this baby never should have been born but for your mistake, and now I want money for my pain and suffering resulting from the birth that happened wrongfully."

Eh, I don't want to get into it all -- abortion, partial-abortion, genetic testing, things that happen in test-tubes, medical selection, ethics, religion, what's right for the parents, what's right for the child, what's right for society. I could go on and on about it all, taking all sides at once, and still coming out with no resolution.

But I have to say ... it's got to suck to be the kid growing up knowing that your parents didn't want you, wouldn't have had you but for a medical mistake, and that they sued for the pain, suffering and emotional distress that resulted from having you when they didn't want you in the first place.

All of a sudden, my life's pain is INVISIBLE.

AWFUL REALIZATIONS . . .

That certain people might actually be better off without me in their lives.

That life goes on without me.

That heck, people probably don't even notice my absence.

That people do indeed lack compassion, sensitivity, insight.

That what's broken might not be fixed.

That some hopes are not worth holding onto, and some visions are just hopes.

That it all could have turned out differently and it's my fault that it didn't.

That there isn't really all that much to look ahead to.

SNIPPETS . . .

I really enjoy "Grey's Anatomy." "Dude, she's Callie O'Malley" just got written down in my journal, because that's simply freakin' genius.

Global warming be darned, it's finally snowing here and it's beautiful.

All of a sudden, dairy has become my most hated enemy. One scoop of ice cream and I'm a pained, bloated, gaseous, burping, nauseated mass of quivering misery. Good thing I just discovered soy milk, and that I don't hate it.

I went to CVS today to pick up 581 photographs, contained in three bundles. The vapid and insolent teenage boy behind the counter gave me two bundles. I asked him if he was sure that was it. He said yes. I asked him to check again. He said he was pretty sure that was it. I asked him to please check again. He said no, that was it. I was running late so I left angry. I'm still fuming. I hate teenagers.

"Dreamgirls" is a dream, it really is. We loved it. It's perfect entertainment, pure and simple, and there are a few scenes that will take your breath away. I'm surprised I didn't pass out from holding my breath, actually. One scene made me sob like a baby. Jennifer Hudson and Eddie Murphy -- it's not just hype, folks.

Babies are being conceived and popping out everywhere. When do I get to have one?

I gave him a plant last year. He loves it and takes beautiful care of it, he says, because it reminds him of me. I saw it tonight, and it sure is luscious. He should come over here and take care of my plants.

I really miss Kremenchuk. What exactly is stopping me from moving abroad to live there?

I am looking at twenty-nine books on my to-read pile. I finally started three of them. Always multi-tasking.

Really busy weekend, or really empty weekend -- I still can't decide.

AFRAID TO SLEEP . . .

There are things that happen in my sleep that I don't fully understand and never have. I am receiving pretty solid guidance and assurance about what exactly is happening and why, and why I should consider it a gift for which to be thankful ... but it is taking me a while to come to peaceful terms with this "gift." (It's like tonight's episode of "Grey's Anatomy": not everything that is apparently a gift feels like a gift.)

But lately, every time I close my eyes, whether to nap or sleep or doze or even to rest my eyes, I see the same person, the same people behind my eyelids. Nothing's happening with or to them, there's no action in what I see; I just see them. And I don't know what to do. Should I help them? Should I talk to them? Should I reach out to them somehow? What am I supposed to do about them, for them, to them, with them? And why them? I hardly even know them!

It's such a curious thing. It makes me wake myself up in the middle of the night, and lately, I just don't want to even go to sleep, for fear ... well, fear isn't the right word either. I just don't want to sleep because I just don't know.

Anyhow.

This afternoon, I had a conversation with a Randy Random and it made me think so fondly of these folks:

THE SAME BREATH . . .

It's remarkable that when you're nose to nose with someone, that person is the only thing that fills up your world; when you open your eyes, that person is the only thing you see, the only reality that exists. And it's just as remarkable that when that person leaves, your scope opens up to all the varieties of other realities, but still, the world seems too empty. Not entirely a bad sensation ... just strange.

***

ECHOING . . .

"Choose humility and selflessness."

"I'm so glad to be here with you."

"Thank you."

STILL DREAMIN' . . .

Marcel (from this season's "Top Chef"), B, Chandra Wilson (from "Grey's Anatomy") and I were the finalists of a culinary competition. In the middle of war-torn modern-day Moscow, we were given oasis in a posh hotel and ordered to work together to rustle up a three-course birthday dinner for a Muscovite big-wig and a large group of her hotsy-totsy friends. The four of us gathered in the lobby of the posh hotel, and I put forth what I thought was a very mature, very innovative, and very interesting menu. Stuffed appetizers using a very delicate pastry shell that would be hand-made, a succulent protein dish accompanied by fresh vegetables unseen in Moscow at this time of year, an unusual dessert mixing sweet and spicy. I spoke in a friendly voice, making eye contact with everyone on the team, and ended my suggestions with the question, "what do you guys think?" really meaning that I cared what the team thought. Chandra was on my side but she is quiet in character and so did not speak up. B was silent, and I boiled inside, seeing this as a complete lack of the support that he had promised to me. Marcel cocked his head, the cocky bastard, and proceeded to denigrate my suggestions and instead proposed finger sandwiches (amateur!), chicken wings ("because these Russians love anything American!") and a tossed salad ("to have something green on the table"). Because nobody protested and I did not want to fight, Marcel's menu passed the team's muster. I fumed. Such a childish, amateur menu would surely take us out of the rest of the competition.

We left the hotel lobby to go shopping at Whole Foods Market. Two had opened mere storefronts apart from each other on the same street in Moscow, and our hotel's door happened to stand right in the middle, equidistant from each Whole Foods Market. I stepped to my left, thinking the one I had chosen to go to was a tad bit closer. In any event, the check-out lanes were better arranged and the produce was fresher there. But the three other members of the team walked to their right and we all took a few steps before realizing that we weren't a complete group. I had no choice but to go along with the majority, and again I fumed that B, my best friend, seemed not to know my mind and reasons, and seemed voiceless to stand up for me. As we walked along the sidewalk in tense friendliness toward the Whole Foods Market, my handler -- for I was a spy, you see -- brushed by me and passed me a note containing my next instructions. I felt so stressed out. Not only did I have a three-course meal to cook with a bunch of amateur knuckleheads in just an hour and a half, but now I had to complete a spy mission that could have international repercussions. A woman's work ...

The cooking competition had finished, and sure enough, we lost. Our entire team was eliminated from future rounds and we were all sent home. I read the note that had been passed to me by my handler. It instructed me to keep an eye on B and make sure that he did not follow me or interfere with my departure from Moscow that evening. This frightened me -- I had trusted B implicitly and confided in him so many things. And I was supposed to return with him to the home we shared! I struggled, "was B working for the enemy, and would I have to take him out or get killed myself?" I fretted as I got into my SUV and drove down an empty and rainy Moscow main drag. I headed towards the highway and tried to concentrate on the task at hand as I peered through the rainy windshield to read the road signs; I had to make sure I was going in the right direction, and I had to get home before B did. All of a sudden, a toll plaza came upon me, and it hit me that I did not know whether I had my EZ-Pass tag with me. The toll plaza was coming up fast, for I had been driving very speedily and did not want to brake too hard on the slick asphalt. I headed toward a cash-only booth even though I knew I no longer had any Russian rubles in my wallet and would be unable to pay the toll in cash. At the last minute, my right-hand -- rummaging about in the center console of my car -- made contact with the EZ-Pass tag, and I swerved violently to get into the EZ-Pass lane to my right. I barely missed the concrete barrier separating the toll lanes and manged to slow down just enough to have the scanner accurately read my EZ-Pass tag.

I thought I had gotten off scot-free when I saw the spinning lights of a Moscow police car aimed at me, directing me to pull over. I thanked God that I knew enough Russian to butter up the police and rolled my window down, ready for the brow-beating I'd get about my violent and unsafe driving. Instead, the officer strode up to my window, stuck his head in and whispered, "B is not your enemy. Go to him now, he is waiting for you to take you away. You must trust him and take this to him. When you go with him, you will be safe, and your work here will be finished. Don't worry, Marcel is finished." Then he handed me an envelope, straightened up and strode back to his police vehicle. I felt such relief that B was not a traitor after all and that I could go home to him in peace. I tucked the envelope away in my shoulder bag and put my car in gear. I had been pulled over in a rest area, so I had to maneuver around a couple of very small cars -- ah, these Europeans -- before I could get back on the highway. It was nighttime but the rain had stopped; the roads were still wet, but I did not pick up too much speed. I just coasted along on the highway, glad to put the cooking competition and my spywork behind me.

IF I DO SAY SO MYSELF . . .

I am seriously good at completing the last-minute task.

***

WHAT ROBERT SAID . . .

I'm still fighting for my joy.

Some things that are helping me:


We had to wait for three hours in Kiev's Borispol Airport because of a communication mix-up. I count those as some of the most surreal hours of my life.


I sometimes enjoy graffiti (looking at it, not creating it).
But I always enjoy misspelled graffiti.


This is just happiness.


This is just silliness.


Fresh air, a brisk walk and good conversation every day.
My endorphins were popping like mad.

REALITY BLURRED . . .

I had a full day of meetings with my students and their parents, one set after another. My role as truth-teller isn't easy. I have to sit each student down and basically tell them all the things that are wrong with them, in front of their parents who may or may not take deep umbrage at my honest words. This afternoon, I was meeting with a rebellious queen-bee middle school girl and her combative mother. I sat with the two of them in a claustrophobic meeting room and lit into the girl with "You are a bitch and you think you're popular now, but if you don't change, you're going to end up with no real friends" and "You can be a queen bee here in middle school, but in the real world, they don't put up with awful human beings like you." Then I turned to the mother with "If you don't control your daughter, you are going to regret giving birth to her in the first place" and "Stop being such a wimp and start being a parent, damn it!" I left the meeting with the mother's protests ringing in my ears to submit my report to the school principal. As I left the principal's office, I heard the girl and her mother enter behind me and start screaming at the principal to have me fired for rudeness. "I'm just being honest," I thought to myself as I exited the school building.

When I stepped outside, my prim suit was gone and I wore a tie-dyed t-shirt and plaid shorts. I started skipping down the sidewalk in a lightly-falling rain, and as the rain fell harder and harder, I raised my hands up to the sky and started laughing in freedom, so glad to be out of that school building filled with wretched little adolescent brats. And in a blink of an eye, the winds picked up and the rain was so heavy on my head and in my eyes and nose that I could barely take a breath. I could not keep my eyes open against the lashing rain, and I struggled to find my car and open the door to get inside. I was sopping wet as I lurched into my SUV, but before I could lock the door behind me, a student tried to open the door and get inside too, away from the driving hurricane-force wind and rain, but I pushed him away with both hands and slammed the door shut. Wiping my plastered hair out of my face, I started the engine and tried to drive out of the school parking lot, but pavement construction had closed various lanes and exit routes, so I wound around and around in the parking lot looking for the correct way out.

And as I tried to wend my way through the confusion of orange construction cones and re-drawn lane markings, I developed a violent craving for coffee-flavored soft-serve ice cream from Cold Stone Creamery. And not just the ice cream, but I wanted it in a bowl mixed with fresh strawberries and hot chocolate syrup. But I knew that would be too sweet, so I decided that I would order a child-size bowl instead of the regular small bowl which really isn't all that small and is actually sort of obscenely large. I tried to figure out how to work in a stop to Cold Stone Creamery, because I also had to head to Borders for the rest of the afternoon to work on an essay I'm writing for my church newsletter, so I thought that perhaps I could buy the ice cream first, then speed the ten minutes north to the bookstore and the folks at Borders would not complain about me bringing in outside food.

And then I woke from my two-hour nap.

STARRY NIGHT . . .

It's crisp and cold tonight. Wouldn't want to be out there too long ... except to gaze longer at the perfect night sky. There are fewer and fewer these days who would appreciate this night's heavens with me. I hope one of them is safe and sound, and resting a much-needed rest.

***

WHAT GIRLFRIENDS ARE FOR . . .

Girlfriends are for lots of things. But girlfriends are especially for being really good at sympathizing completely with you about an ache; threatening to beat up the one who caused the ache; reiterating that no matter what, they are on your side first before being on anyone else's side; rolling their eyes at appropriate moments when you're telling your story; nodding vigorously when you need them to affirm a course of action; and finally, knocking some good old sense into you after all the griping is finished.

***

GERIATRIC COMMUNITY . . .

We have become a community that finds delicious joy in:

- drinking coffee or tea
- talking about aches, pains and sales at the grocery store
- playing intense rounds of Scrabble
- playing noisy rounds of mah-jong
- making dinner for each other because ordering in is just too expensive

We would be utterly happy and content in a nursing home.

***

UNKNOWN LONGING . . .

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

Human Bob put it this way: if you stretch the analogy, our life these days is sort of like "The Manchurian Candidate," where brainwashed former soldiers start having flashbacks and similar dreams and can't identify the source at first. He and I (and probably others) are feeling an unknown longing, a strong feeling that is difficult to describe, for Kremenchuk and the friends we left there. It's not a feeling that can be easily chalked up to good memories of good times, and then shelved. Mabel asked me today who received the most from our trip, and I couldn't give her one name because I could see ways in which each person received the maximum that they could have from the pool of the grace of God. And as I catalogued my observances and intuitions, I realized that I had received the understanding of how important my new friends are to me, and how I might have to obey God's call to go and be with them someday, here on earth. Massive. What a fulfillment of longing that would be.

We had a huge round of introductions the evening of our first full day with NHC, Wednesday, January 3rd. Then we herded ourselves over into the main hall of the Palace of Culture (essentially the local community center) to take this group photograph. It is as if my family tree exploded.

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

It's snowing outside right now. Watching the flakes drop down through the grey, seeing people rush by in bundled up huddles, together with reading an email from dear Luda (one of our interpreters who quickly became a beloved sister and friend) makes me really, really ... miss Kremenchuk.

I'm starting to parse through my days there. It will be a long and laborious process, and some important words of encouragement given last night give me the joy needed to wade through it.

RESTING IN PEACE . . .

When the one doing the resting is a Christian, the peace part comes naturally -- we shouldn't worry or fret over that, or even wish it for him. It's a given. It's the ones left behind who need the wish, to rest in peace, to hope for peaceful rest.

Our extended family has sent two home over the last week. They started their most peaceful rest the minute they took their last breaths; it is our restlessness that begins now. Ironic, really.

Watching the families grieve, mourn, then celebrate the lives of their beloveds creates in me new hopes. Hope that one awful (but ironically peaceful) day, I too, will be able to accurately portray the beauty and faith and wonder that was my father, my mother. Hope that I will know the love of family and friends as deeply, as evidenced by those standing five rows deep at the back of the hall. Hope that I, too, will be able to confidently profess that God is sovereign and that He is good and that He is with me always. Hope that when it's time for me to go home, I, too, will leave a legacy of faith that gives hope to those I leave restless.

***

RESTLESSNESS, PART I . . .

I have had difficulty adjusting to being back in the States. I knew to expect some of it -- there is a "high" after short-term mission trips that is similar to the high that one experiences during weekend retreats, or weeklong conferences, or even a really fantastic Sunday service. I knew to ward off the high for its falseness, and to embrace it for what is true within it.

So no, I don't think it's the high, and thus the ensuing low. I miss Kremenchuk. I miss the people at New Hope Church. I miss the muddy streets and the crowded buses and the mystery of how cars move about on unmarked lanes without crashing into each other. I miss the written Cyrillic alphabet and the lilt of spoken Russian. I miss the way people embrace each other and sit close to each other without awareness of anything other than being close to a loved one. I miss the feeling of being completely enclosed in love. I miss the smells, the tastes, oh, the tastes!, the sights, the sounds. I miss ... gasp, I even miss the feeling of having to muster up the courage to pee (or poo) in the Eastern-style toilets (a/k/a, ceramic holes in the ground over which one must squat). I miss knowing that I had to rely on no one but God Himself, and I miss having that reliance be rewarded.

I am aimless here. I feel like I have no purpose here. It's not even like our team did so much over there; no, we just pitched in and helped out where we could, and darn it if we didn't have a complete and utter blast in the process. I guess ... I guess I just saw a glimpse of heaven, and I really, really liked it.

It's hard to talk of these things. It has been hard for me to talk about those ten days in Kremenchuk at all. People ask, and I'm sure they ask because they honestly want to know. But they don't have the attention span or the patience to hear all that would pour forth from me, and I don't think I have the stamina for that either. So I catch myself between a hard place and another hard place. And I beg God to not let the memories in my mind fade, for I cling to them for meaning and purpose and guidance. Come to think of it, my difficulty lies not just in my missing Kremenchuk so much, but feeling like if I talk about my days there, that will mean that I'm really not there anymore, that the experience really is over, and that I can only speak of it in the past tense. My word, that breaks my heart and makes my stomach sink.

I think that perhaps my folly lies in wanting to tell everything at once. Or worse, to go chronologically, as if that would make more sense to my own ears and the ears of those willing to listen. No, I think I'll just ... tell stories. I'm not particularly good at telling stories; I'm better at punctuating others' tales with short witticisms (I try) of my own. Sprinkles of freshly ground black pepper on verbal pasta, let's say. But I'll try to tell stories, as they come, as they reformulate in my memory. There are such good stories, I dare say they'll tell themselves.

My only request ... please listen, read, receive with grace. Those ten days in Ukraine meant -- mean -- so much to me. Their blood is my blood and their lives are my life. Telling stories from those ten days is like taking pages from my own autobiography. I tell them with great faith in the listener.

***

RESTLESSNESS, PART II . . .

Part of the restlessness is tied to things that were here before I left and still show themselves upon my return. I replay two particular days in Ukraine over and over again in my head ... and wish so hard, pray so hard, beg so hard that they would somehow be repeated here in New York.

It was just like old times, but better, because something about being there just added extra spice, that some kind of specialness, as if Disney sparkles exploded everywhere, dotting every chuckle, glancing off every wink, floating off the end of every sentence, sparking off of every touch. Walking on ice turned into running firmly with glee, and it was free and easy, eventually.

Not so here. Ukraine was real, but unfortunately, so is New York. Boy, do I ever wish I was back there right now, and boy, do I ever wish I could have a second chance.

***

AND MINUTIAE . . .

I developed my first wart while I was in Kremenchuk. A teeny-tiny thing, the size of two pin-pricks, perhaps, on the right side of my right middle finger. I do love showing it off, if only because I get to jauntily waggle my middle finger at people. I'm not even entirely certain that it's a wart; I don't think that I have had one before, so I have no frame of reference. But it looks like what I think a wart would look like, and the idea of having a wart sort of cracks me up, makes me giggle, makes me want to waggle my middle finger at people to show it off. It's gotten hard and is beginning to fall off; even now, it's just hanging on by a thread of dry skin. Strange, but I think I'll miss it when it's gone.

(I'M A NERD) . . .

(Psst. The iPhone is amazing.)

HOME . . .

The concept of home is suddenly fluid to me. It used to mean my parents' house: the place where I go to let everything hang out, walk around in my shabbiest clothes, stuff my face, sleep in, pee with the door open. Then I got my own home, and now I find myself doing those things in TWO places. Then all these other types of homes started cropping up all about me. Homes shaped like churches, people's living rooms, the embraces of my closest friends, the email exchanges lasting throughout the night, in the arms of special people, and long car rides.

I have just returned home from another home. Kremenchuk, Ukraine, dropped smack in the middle of the country on the banks of the Dnieper River. Not much to speak of it. It's a small industrial city. Poor. Dirty. Politically disillusioned. Heavily Orthodox with no clear vision of who Christ is. Mostly highly educated but rife with corruption and an inability to get ahead on one's own brains and merits. But to me, it was gorgeous and it felt like home, and more than once, the thought occurred to me that I could set up a house there. Alright, so it would be more like a tiny, cramped apartment with no working elevator, but homes have been built of much less.

For all the things that I forget -- appointments, people's names, the fact that the friend standing in front of me with the bulging belly is pregnant -- I did not forget a sizeable fraction of my Russian. There's nothing like whipping out a language that has lain dormant in the back of my skull for the last 14 years. But there it came, more and more each day, until I found myself on the last day, in the hotel in Kiev, actually translating for our translator. Stick a fork in me, my work here is done!

I, and the rest of our team, felt adopted, and it was the warmest, cuddliest feeling of all. But then beyond that, I feel like I found a long-lost sibling. Meeting the New Hope Church (tell me you love God's sense of humour and that you too can imagine Him clapping His hands in thunderous glee at having New Hope meet New Hope) was like a large, long-overdue family reunion. If it weren't for the physical presence of our interpreters, smoothly interjecting here and there, I wonder if at some point, we might have thought that we were all actually speaking the same language after all. I saw in each face of the New Hope members mirrored faces of our New Hope members. And when I was invited to come back and live with some of the older women whose own daughters had long since left home, the idea wasn't so impossible to me. People go and live with their relatives all the time, don't they?

When families reunite, when long-lost siblings come back into the fold, it can happen that resentments, bitternesses, conflicts arise. "Where were you when this happened?" "Why didn't you try to find us?" "You are too different from us to be a real part of our family now." But no, not with New Hope and New Hope. Instead, I heard and saw echoes of "I'm so glad we finally found each other." "I'm so happy to have a second home here with you." "I can't wait until you come and visit my home." "When will we see each other again?" "How can I know more about your life and who you are, and how can I possibly love you more than I do now?" "How did I ever live without you?" No sibling rivalry, no jealousy, no competition. Just gladness for a separated family brought together in one place.

That's just scratching the surface. Even for one as wordy as myself ... words utterly fail me. I can't make my mind move slowly enough to conjure up the correct words, the accurate emotions, the clearest pictures. I can't type fast enough, I can't speak fast enough. My heart is too full, I wonder if I can tell even one story without weeping for pure joy, such joy as I have not experienced in what seems like months.

So there is so much more to say, but for now, I'll end with this: there is something remarkable about seeing how big the world actually is. It takes a long time to get to Kremenchuk, Ukraine, and it takes a long time to get back. The world is bigger than just the United States, and I dare say, as much as I love this country and would defend it to the death, the rest of the world has some phenomenal things and people of its own. Would that we would absorb as much as we would impose. But there's another side to that coin: it's also remarkable how small the world is. When I looked out the airplane window upon our descent into Kiev's airport, and I stretched my eyeballs out over what I could see of the rest of the country, it was amazing to me to think that God created and loves not just my town, in my state, in my country, on my continent. He also created and loves Kiev, in Ukraine, in the former Soviet Union, in Europe, across the pond from my wee little home. God is that big; we are that small. And yet, He would make us great alongside Him, He loves us that much. To then arrive at New Hope Church and hear their praise team -- a bit of a mirror of our own worship team, I dare say, and I CAN'T WAIT UNTIL THE TWAIN SHALL MEET! -- singing familiar songs in Russian ... how can I tell you how full my heart was? How can I tell you how stirring it is to not understand a single word that is being sung, but at the same time to understand EVERY word that is being sung? How can I tell you how beautiful the Russian language is when it is being spoken in faithful prayer and lifted up in joyous song? How can I tell you how humbling it is to hear a song we sing at least once a month being sung in Russian and recognizing that it means just as much to them as it does to us, that we don't have a monopoly on praise songs and how to sing them "correctly?" This is not a lecture about the cross-cultural experience and the awareness that English is not the master language. No, this is bigger than that. This is an acknowledgement that God knows all languages and He accepts our praises in whatever words we would lift them up to Him, that He is great and we are small, but that when we arrive in Heaven, we can speak whatever language we want and we'll be able to understand each other and sing together, and we will be in glory too.

***

FRENZY . . .

There are many kinds of frenzy. There's the frenzy I was in prior to leaving for Kremenchuk, having to make sure everything for the team and our travels and our upcoming week was in place, and then having to turn attention to myself to make sure I had held my mail, unplugged my appliances, packed enough underwear. There's the frenzy of keeping together at the airport, not losing someone at customs, waiting for those who got held up at passport control, and getting us all to the destination in one mostly-sane piece. This frenzy is joy, for what is coming, for what has been kept safe, and in anticipation of greatness.

Then there's another kind of frenzy. There's the frenzy of making phone calls to pass along bad news, that three of our own are suffering great losses, and that we have to rally around them. There's the frenzy of making sure the families are ok, that they are eating and sleeping and functioning properly. There's the frenzy of offering help, assistance, money, food, friendship, sympathy. There's the frenzy of keeping your energy up so that you have enough not just for yourself to live a day, but to give some away to the ones who are being drained of their own. In this frenzy, it's hard to find the joy and to look forward, not that anyone would demand such things.

We each day expend both kinds of frenzy. And in moments like this, we gladly expend as much as we can of the latter frenzy for beloved Kenny, Mabel and Kwonno. And I'm reminded of some wise words that were spoken to me this past week: fight for your joy. It's there for the getting, and grief and pain may cover it for a time, but the joy that is worth fighting for always, always surfaces.

Father, receive them with love and gladness,
because two more of your beloved sons are home.