It has been hard for me to figure out what to write. Finding out I was having a baby busted the last calm nerve I had. I have been reading as much as I can about everything from pregnancy to labor and delivery to the UK healthcare system to hushing a colicky baby. At the same time I have been stressing over the short time we have until we need to leave for Edinburgh.
The main question I have received in the last month is "Do you have morning sickness?" I am not offended by this question even though I hear it about 5 times a day from co-workers and friends since it would be the only thing I would be able to think off to ask too. The fact is I have been blessed to avoid that, though I have been snacking to keep the squeamish stomach feeling down. The main thing I feel is tired. REALLY tired! Then I have also been swinging between depressed and panicked with glimpses of frustration mixed in.
I have found that the glorious image of pregnancy that I kept for four years as we waited for this miracle to happen was completely an illusion. Pregnancy clothes are expensive! I was told by a friend who had her baby in Scotland to buy some to bring with me because they were almost nonexistent in the UK. Well, shopping for them before you need them is really hard. How do I know how big I will get? Will I have a cute basketball tummy or will I need a tent? No matter what I picked out, I felt depressed afterwards because I really don't want to get fat! I understand gaining weight for the baby, but how easy is it to just let yourself go and gain fifty pounds by the second trimester? Everything I have been reading also says that I should not be gaining any weigh right now either (since I am still in the first trimester). Well, like it or not, I have and that makes me wonder if I have already "let myself go". I guess I will just have to be resigned to working hard on losing it all after the baby is born.
After that frustration, there were the issues of finding books that talked about stuff I wanted to learn about. What happened to all the natural birth, hypno birth and water birth books? And why does Walmart only carry one pregnancy magazine? Why do the books about breast feeding not cover all the problems that everyone I know experienced? I would also like to read about pregnancy symptoms other that morning sickness and gaining weight. Is it normal to drink water like a camel? What about about the tiredness I feel now, since the books only mention it at the end of the pregnancy? Where are the over-marketed gear reviews and registry musts? Even the internet seems sparse, but then again I probably should do more that a five second search at a time.
Talking about the internet, I found out that the theme I had always wanted for my baby, classic Winnie the Pooh, has been almost discontinued from some of the major stores. I mean you can find Disney Winnie the Pooh almost anywhere, but that is just loud. I like the old fashioned storybook images. I wouldn't even mind if they replaced "Classic Pooh" with the Velveteen Rabbit or Wind in the Willow, but instead you get Disney or plain patterns, maybe some jungle animals too.
I was mourning over the google searches that showed every store carrying only one or two items when I came across a nice surprise. It turns out E.H. Shepard, the original illustrator of the Winnie the Pooh books and the recognizable "Classic Pooh" images, was British. He lived in Victorian England and the British are still in love with his books. They have lots of classy Winnie the Pooh baby things in the style I love. This asset to our new home location propagated many other happy thoughts.
It really is a fantastic thing that I will have the baby in the UK. First of all, we will qualify for their healthcare which will be free. Secondly, I have heard good reports about the system from the midwives to the house visits after the baby is born. Then, I will also have my dream of being able to stay home with the baby if I do in fact work freelance like I was expecting to. Also, with the housing being so small, there won't be as much housework to do when I am tired and busy with the baby. We will be close enough to everything that I won't have to plan all day excursions into town, but timing quick trips, between feedings, hopefully, for whatever I need.
I have to say that this was still odd timing (can we say God has a sense of humor?). I was not expecting my dreams of traveling around the world to include a child, but I think this was kind of a divine leash on me so that I will not feel like I am doing all of this on my own. I have an over-developed sense of being in control at all times. I like planning and working hard and I am proud of my accomplishments. Sometimes this causes me to feel like I have caused the good things in my life because I have worked hard for it, but the truth is, none of us can cause anything really important to happen without God opening the way. With my tiredness and lack of control over my emotions, I have also lost the vise-like grip over our schedule and finances. I can't seem to stay on top of anything anymore and somehow everything is getting done.
I have to say that this experience, which still has hardly begun, is something I have never imagined would happen. If you tried to tell me a year ago that we would be moving to Scotland and having a baby and Kerry getting his doctorate, I would have suggest you just choose one to pray for and we would worry about the others later.
Well, Kerry and Lara fans (yes, all five of you), the wait is over. While I have been remiss in my blogging commitment, the events of the last four weeks, I think, justify my brief break. I don't want to just fill up blogspace with meaningless literary wanderings. I have wanted, from the beginning, for this blog to tell a significant and meaningful story of God's provision, blessing, guidance, and just overall goodness. I think few things trump the events of the last four weeks in telling just that story.
On Saturday morning July 11th, Lara nudged me awake to show me a pregnancy test that had two lines instead of the usual one we had come to expect. It's difficult to express the blend of feelings of relief, elation, and terror that started to come over me in that instant. We have been off of any contraceptive since the summer of 2005 - more than four years of leaving children in the hands of God. That fact in itself explains the the relief and elation. But my terror was not, as you might expect, deriving from the supposed next question that enters a man's mind, namely "How are we going to pay for this?" I can honestly say that this question has not plagued me. If God can provide $13,000, and if God can give us this child, He can also provide the money to pay for it. No, my terror was more a concern for this child to make it past the first trimester and be born, for everything to be okay with it. That terror only grew until the moment we went for our first sonagram last Tuesday, July 28. Despite reason, I was fearful that the little bit of blood Lara had seen a few days before had been a miscarriage. I knew they were going to look in there and not be able to find a baby. I knew that it was going to be implanted in the filopian tubes or in the cervix. I knew something must be wrong.
But there it was, implanted exactly where it should have been, with a heartbeat at 111 beats per minute. It wasn't as old as we thought it was going to be (we were off by two weeks, thinking it would be eight weeks along instead of six), but it was perfectly
formed and perfectly functioning, apparently developing exactly as babies have since Eve first conceived Cain. Then, I began to really trust that God was not going to give me a stone when I had asked for bread. This is a consistent faith issue with me, somehow thinking that God is waiting to jinx me, just to show that He is sovereign and that I should be faithful no matter what. This is also why I truly wish that the insider Christian joke about not praying for patience (since that is the surest way to get the capricious God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob to jinx you with a test of your patience - ha ha isn't that funny) would just go away and never return from the abyss which spawned it. It's bad theology, and not helpful in the least.
So now we have a baby on the way, due March 23, 2010 (that's 3/23 - and all sorts of Bible verses come to mind). When most people hear about this, they're immediate reaction tends to be in the realm of cancelling Scotland plans because this complicates things too much. On the contrary, this is totally perfect. First of all, it is conspicuous that God waited until we were totally committed to going to Scotland to give us a child. I think that had we already had children, we might not have even considered doing what we are doing. But honestly, I think it will be easier for us to do this in Scotland than in our current situation. Lara was already planning to work freelance, meaning flexible (if busy) schedule, we are covered under the NHS healthcare of Scotland since I am a student, and the baby is due at a time when, perhaps, my schedule will be a little more flexible during those exhausting and stressful first few months.
I'm certain that the second part of everyone's gut reaction has to do with dollar (or should I say pound) signs. I will tell you that money has been on our minds, but God is handling it, and every time Lara or I try to take this problem on ourselves, it does not work out. A great example came about a couple of weeks ago. A car dealership in Henderson, TX (which, for my many out of state and international fans, is about a 45 minute drive southeast from Tyler) sent me an advertisement which guaranteed a prize of some sort if I just came by. The prize could have been a car, $2,500 in cash, or a couple of other things, including (most likely) a Walmart gift card worth up to $1,000. I thought to myself, "Well, it's on my day off, and what can it hurt?" So I went. It was raining when I arrived at the dealership, and business looked slow. A man greeted me and brought me inside where he began to give me the sales pitch for why they were doing the deal they were doing and so on. Then he asked me what sort of vehicle I might be interested in. Honestly, I said, my wife and I are selling everything we own and moving to Scotland, so I really am not interested in any vehicle, just the prize. He took it graciously and departed to get my prize. It was, not surprisingly, a Walmart gift card, but he did not know what the value was, I would have to call to get the balance. He did know that the value could be anywhere between $5 and $1000. So I got in the truck and got out my cell phone to call the number on the card. After entering a ridiculous amount of numbers the generic female voice told me that the balance on the card was ... $5. Not even enough to pay for the gas I would use as a result of this little excursion. I laughed and immediately called Lara to tell her. In the end, it was yet another gentle reminder that God was in control, not chance, not the economy, not me. And deep down in the very center of my being, I believe that. I have peace about this move to Scotland, and I have peace about this baby.
But while I'm not concerned about how to pay for it, there is something that concerns me, and that is the lack of overwhelming emotion I've had. I was expecting that once Lara was pregnant, I would instantly feel deep and inexpressible joy which showed itself in laughter and tears. I expected to feel superlative wonder at God's creative handiwork in the conception of a child. I expected to be obsessed morning and evening with thoughts of the baby. Instead, aside from a few moments where I nearly teared up, most of what I've felt at a very deep level is numbness, and there have been days where I hardly thought about the baby at all. This bothers me. I feel like it reflects on my preparedness to be a dad. It's just so hard to feel those extreme emotions right now with everything else that is going on. From the move to Scotland to Lara's mother to my grandfather to other family drama to the Lifeway store I work at preparing to move (which, by the way, provides probably 75% of my day-to-day stress), I don't really feel like I have anything left to give. But if I can't give that sort of emotional attention to my baby, what kind of dad am I? These are likely irrational thoughts, questions that will be resolved in time. I just feel less and less capable of doing something so incredibly important as parenting a child the more I become acquainted with my own shortcomings. But God has expressed a great deal of faith in us by entrusting this baby to our care. I know that He is faithful to bring that which He begins unto full maturity, and that includes both my baby and me.
I
love to organize, sort, and clean ...to an extent. A truly organized person probably would not have to do as much cleaning and sorting as I do, since I really only do in-depth cleaning when I get a prolonged amount of time off of work and plan on being home. I would say this happens about twice a year.
Now, in-depth cleaning is not just wiping the counters, vacuuming, and those daily chores. I am talking about pulling everything out of hiding and being up to your elbows in stuff that you haven't seen since the last time you did this activity. Now I don't really like that part as much as I like the results.
Even with my habit of sorting, you really don't truly know what you have until you are moving. Earlier, I wrote a blog about how we were selling tons of stuff at a garage sale. This did leave us with minimums. Kerry's new question has become, "Lara, have you seen..." and my response has been, "we sold it." But now I am boxing up what we have left to store or take with us. We have decided a second garage sale is not worth the time or money since we have no big items to sell. I am continuing with my pages of pictures that we pass around to friends who are interested in buying, but that is all.
So now we get to the core stuff, the things that define us and make us feel at home. For Kerry and me, the majority (90%) of this is books. We have 65 paper boxes (12x18x10) of books. The rest of our boxes are personal items (pictures, awards, wedding memorabilia, etc.). We relented on our "sell everything" mantra to store these things.
Then there came the other stuff: the stuff that you use, you don't think about, and toss it into a couple of boxes at the last minute when you move and never ever sort. This can be clothes, toiletries, knick-knacks, good watches with dead batteries, etc. It isn't like I never go through clothes, but there are certain items, such as the t-shirt from my youth group or the sweat shirt from my childhood that I never ever ask why did I keep it? This time I was ruthless. If I wasn't going to taking it in our limited luggage all the way to Scotland, it was going to Goodwill. It was so difficult of a task that I had to repeat the process until my wardrobe could perhaps fit in two large duffel bags. You may wonder why I don't just store the cloths I don't take. Well, I don't want three years worth of bugs, mold, mildew, change of fashion, or change of my weight to make these clothes that I will have paid monthly to store become obsolete. Better to be done with it and buy what I need when I need it.
In the end of all of this packing, sorting, and purging (all three are still going on), I have discovered the joys of simplicity. I didn't realize how much of my clothes I did not really like but felt compelled to wear it because either I spent money on it, someone gave it to me, or I have a fond memory of it from long ago. Before the purge, I often struggled with wearing things out of fashion, the wrong size, or just awkward. Now, I only have my favorite things (mostly winter things since I don't care for most summer fashions), and I feel like I went and bought all new clothes. Everything are my favorite pieces, so I no longer pair a favorite piece with an ugly piece. In fact, everything matches better, too. The new limited choices are advantageous in that I don't have to spend so much time in the morning trying to figure out what matches only to wear something dissatisfying in the end. I have to say that immediately after the first round of purges, I was dressing really great for work for a short while, but decided to tone it down so people didn't think I had wasted all the money they had given me (through buying more stuff). That might have been silly of me, but I don't want to seem wasteful since people would assume something without talking to me. I wonder if they would even believe me when I tell them that the black suit had been in my closet for over two years, and the scarf was my grandmother's, and the brooch had been buried under some funky beads in my jewelry box since I was in middle school. On the weekends, though, I dress how I like and feel fabulous!
After this discovery of freedom with clothes, I did the same with jewelry (though I will give those to family, or store them, or something) and watches. I emptied out my jewelry box and quickly realized that I often wore the same earrings because it was so much trouble to go through all the junk in my jewelry box, which contained priceless treasures like a pin that says "Birthday Girl", or random beads, or a fighter pilot pin that I loved when I was eight. In the midst of all of this, I discovered that I have nice necklaces twisted together in a knot and a mass of earrings that may or may not have a match. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the box of baggies. Then I divided it all into "sets" of jewelry that I would wear. I placed a pearl necklace, bracelet, and earrings in one baggy, then a set of black beads and earrings in another. I continued this with only the "sets" that were fashionable and something I would like to wear. I finished with ten sets and tossed everything, except what needed to be thrown away or stored somewhere else, back into the jewelry box for family members to sort through. These ten baggies have enhanced my wardrobe incredibly. You may own far more or far less jewelry than I do, but this is a recommendation I have for everyone. When I put on an outfit now, I look in the mirror and decide that silver is what matches. Then I grab the silver baggy and everything is in there that I would want to wear without digging, sorting, or trying to match earrings. It is one set all picked out the way I like it. Three of the ten baggies are bead jewelry I just made. The problem with the bead jewelry is that it would get twisted around stuff very easily, but when I would leave it on the table so it wouldn't get twisted with the other necklaces, the cats would play with them and knock them to the ground, earrings and all (do you notice a consistent earrings problem?). This baggy idea has cured all these problems.
Now with my stuff sorted, I even took the time to repair things. The ink on Kerry's trench coat came off beautifully with nail polish remover. We got the batteries replaced in our favorite watches, and trimmed some loose threads off of a few garments. Now I feel pretty and can tell time. What a novelty!
Tuesday, I had my first experience talking to real live Scottish people on the phone. That is, I have spoken with Scottish people in person, but these were Scottish people in Scotland. Does that actually make any difference? I don't know, but it seemed significant at the time.
I have assumed primary responsibility for the finding and procuring of housing in Edinburgh. I felt this was fair since I enjoy doing this and since Lara is doing everything else. You know, 50-50. I have discovered one thing about Scottish people: they do not easily return emails. Perhaps this is an example of sowing and reaping, as my friend JDD will likely comment below. Nevertheless, I am not made of money that I can buy phone cards every few minutes in order to make international phone calls. I also discovered that there is a particular type of phone number in the UK that is like an 800 number in the US, but actually charges me more than the standard call amount. This, I thought, was somewhat backward. I thought the idea of a business toll-free number was to encourage customers to call you, but instead, these phone numbers appear to charge me, the caller, more in order to pay for the business's internet and phone charges. Obviously, these people have not fully grasped the glories of capitalism.
But as I was saying, I have been attempting to make contact with Scottish property management companies via email in order to secure a place for Lara and me to live. However, until very recently, the longest email response I have received after I would send a query about properties was, “Sorry, this property has been let.” That was it. No alternate suggestions, no further commentary or questions. Come on, people, take some initiative! I am wanting to spend some money here! But I have grace on the proto-capitalists with a poor work ethic and send them another email declaring that I am not specifically attached to the particular property in question and would very much appreciate any assistance they might give me in securing a property with certain characteristics and am very open to whatever suggestions they may have and kind regards, yours truly, with all due respect, hugs and kisses, and so on and so forth. Thereafter there comes no reply. Period. This pattern has taken place at least half a dozen times.
Finally, I broke down and decided to call someone. This is a bit tricky, because I cannot do this in the evening, since that is the middle of the night in Edinburgh. I must call in the morning. So Tuesday morning, I targeted two specific companies that had promising properties. My first task was to figure out how to make the call. I found the phone numbers, which were 11 digit phone numbers made up of a group of four, a group of three, and a final group of four. The first group of four, I discovered, was called a city code, much like our area code, but it is not always the same length, and it is not always attached to a city, either. The last seven digits, like our last seven digits, are the prefix and number, though I don't think the prefixes are assigned to specific carriers, as in the United States, since I think the phone lines are government operated (I'm not sure about this; someone may feel free to correct me). But these seven digits are not always seven digits. That depends on what city you're calling. Sometimes it's eight. With my phone card, I had to dial the 800 number of the card, hit 1 or English, enter a 10 digit pin, hit *5, dial 011 for international, 44 (for UK), then, according to the phone card, the city code and local number. The city code, however, turned out not to be exactly the same as the city code I had learned about. It was a version truncated by one digit. That did not make sense to me. Perhaps it will in heaven. I'll ask Jesus about it.
Finally, I sorted it all out and “ring ring.” This was also new, since the “ring ring” was a short grouping of two polite “rings”, as opposed to the more grandiose and significant “rings” one hears when dialing American phones. When the woman answered, her greeting was so quickly spoken and quiet that I simply had to assume she said something like “Thank you for calling so and so, how can I help you?” She could have said, “Cursed are you above all callers for interrupting my tea time,” and I would not have been able to tell. I haltingly identified myself and my purpose for calling, suddenly aware of how completely American I sounded. All of a sudden, every single phrase coming from my lips sounded idiomatic. I found myself thinking, “What sort of second person plural pronoun do I use?” It's easy in the US. Even if someone is not from the south, you know they understand “Y'all.” She was gracious and polite, but no she did not have any properties at the moment that were suitable. I must say this about the Scottish: so far, when I can get them to communicate with me they are extremely polite. They might secretly hate my guts, but it certainly does not come across over the phone or email.
I had no problems with her accent, though I have to say I was not expecting to. I usually am pretty good at understanding accents foreign to my own. Being emboldened by this successful phone call, I called the second, expecting the same ease of communication. The man's greeting was most likely in English, I think.
Once again I identified myself and my situation. We managed to exchange a few sentences, though I was growing worried because this man's accent was the strongest I had ever encountered personally. Finally, he spurted out a long sentence so fast and so thick with his Gaelic ancestry that I was immediately lost. Then the sentence ended abruptly with an upturned tone of voice indicating he sought a response. Unfortunately, the two words I had recognized were not enough to help me establish the syntax of the whole sentence and I, humiliatingly, was forced to say (likely not for the last time), “I'm sorry, could you repeat that?” I, who have prided myself on a good ear and above average linguistic skills was struck down in my second ever phone conversation.
What he had said was that I should talk to his associate in Edinburgh (this company handles properties in many cities) because his associate has actually been to these properties and could tell me more. Unfortunately, this last phone call had depleted my phone card because it was one of those backwards toll-free numbers I mentioned before. So I asked him for his associate's email address. I haven't gotten a response, yet.
I have always loved plaid. Perhaps it had to do with the detailed pattern that engaged my creative design oriented mind. I even felt tempted to buy various items in plaid to get into the Scottish spirit, from a lovely umbrella to a pair of daring slacks. This idea has been postponed until we actually arrive in Scotland.
The idea of seeing hundreds of variations to this iconic material in its traditional form of the tartan is very exciting. I don't know how a man in a plaid skirt can be the root of so much confidence and national pride, but somehow the kilt does carry an ancient sexiness that is rare in the states. With all that said, there is still something mysterious about the tartan and the plaid material that makes them unique. Can anyone wear any color they want or are they like gang colors where you can get jumped for wearing the wrong color in the wrong neighborhood?
In my primary research I discovered that certain colors and patterns were named after certain clans of even specific areas, such as the beautiful plaid named after the MacDonald clan from Glencoe (same as the clan massacred in the 17th century, which may be explained in another blog post). Further research showed that the 19th century, it turns out, was when the family named plaids started and these names may have nothing to do with the historic costume that became illegal to wear during the time after "Bonnie Prince Charlie" fought for Scotland's independence. This disappointment spurred more research.
In the vast history of the tartan, the plaid was used, but randomly just as each person thought looked nice or were specialized by certain makers in specific areas. In the 1700's, Scottish romantics started to celebrate their heritage by making the tartan fashionable 
again. The plaid manufacturers were eager to comply by creating unique patterns for each family. After a while clan chieftains were asked to provide the Highland Society of London a sample of their pattern to record for posterity. Many of them didn't have one, but decided on one at that time.
So all this is to say that it matters very little what pattern you pick if you wear the plaid for fashion or taste. In our research, we found that Texas and other states have tartans as well. So perhaps we will make Texas our clan. Then again, I may just collect any pattern I like. Does a Gregory blanket match a Campbell rug or should I have a set of MacCleod curtains with MacDonald cushions?
I am just now come back from visiting Lara's parents in Garland. As many of you probably know, Lara's mother had a cancerous tumor removed from her brain several weeks ago. She has since been in rehab and gathering her strength for the coming radiation and chemo treatments which began today.
This weekend was a pleasure. We left on Saturday night after I got off work and spent the evening talking. Sunday morning we got up early to attend the 8:00 AM retro-licious southern gospel "classic" service at Garland First Assembly at Firewheel (long name, great church). Afterwards we attended a Sunday School class whose focus recently has been a weekly dissection of Jesus' "I am" statements, this week's being "I am the bread of life." I actually felt engaged by the class, which, I am sad to say, happens rarely anymore in church. I realize that it must be at least partly my attitude that is the problem, but I also think that the Bible is just too rarely taught in church. The class began with the testimony of a man in whom I sensed a depth of spirituality that I desire for myself. His speech, while mild, was resplendant with a simple and balanced profundity deriving not from extensive education (though he did go to college) but from an actual and dynamic relationship with God.
The second part of the class was the lesson which had as its launching point John 6:25ff. The passage captured me with Jesus' response to the crowds seeking him: "Truly I say to you, you do not seek me because you saw signs, but because you ate from the loaves and were filled." What is interesting about this statement is that what Jesus says they both do and do not seek Jesus for comes down to the miracle of his feeding the 5,000. They are not seeking him because of what this miracle says about reality but because the miracle fed them. In other words, he is making an observation about their perception of reality and what they deem important as a focus of attention. They are not philosophical people, they are concerned with what they perceive to be the essentials of life. But Jesus doesn't leave them there. After making this observation he utilizes their attention to physical things to teach them about spiritual things, thus teaching that what they perceive to be the essentials are actually secondary. I don't know if I am communicating this well, but Jesus did not talk down to "simple" agrarian people as we often do in the American church. I have heard numerous ministers give their reasoning for not teaching the Bible in their pulpits, and it always boils down to a lack of faith in the real power of God's word and low expectations of either their congregation's ability to understand or their own ability to teach. Our focus on "felt needs" as a determiner of subject matter in the American church is but one of many things threatening to render it unsalty. But I digress.
We ate lunch at Fuddruckers, which I am convinced is one of the most dangerous words in the English language for those trying to have a pure speech but who are prone to metathesized consonants. I had the "Dogzilla." Nuff said.
Lara's parents both took a nap in the afternoon, leaving Lara and her grandmother to sit and chat and me to study Hebrew. Then in the evening we played Carcassonne. Today Lara's parents left early to take her mother to rehab and treatment, so Lara and I spent the morning and lunchtime with her grandmother.
Overall, this weekend was a real treat. Whereas I had thought that I might come back exhausted (as I often do when visiting Lara's family - they have a lot of energy and are constantly on the go), instead I feel energized. I am hopeful that Lara's mother with respond well to the treatment she is currently undergoing. Without going into too much detail, she is participating in a clinical study in which she is the first to have a certain additional treatment in this particular frequency and intensity. I ask everyone to remember to pray that Lara's mother does not suffer from side effects (like nausea, etc.) in a way that renders the treatment unfeasible for her.
The sudden lack of unusual things happening toward the end of May sort of took my breath away. I was struggling to find something to write about when everything was normal, but then I realized that many of the four of you who read this blog may not really know what "normal" means for me. This "normal" is likely to change radically in September, so I have decided to prepare you for what this change will mean.
To begin with, "normal" does not mean "consistent" or "regular." A term was invented during World War II by low ranking members of the military: SNAFU, which means "Situation Normal - All @$#%* Up." I don't actually know how to pronounce that fourth word, but it's supposed to be something really bad ("atdahlerpowndpursentahsturesk" was my best guess). I would say that this aptly describes, and has long described, what "normal" life means for most of us. We struggle toward some semblance of predictability when life arguably has never been predictable for anyone.
I wonder if God even intended for our lives to be predictable and perfectly ordered. A life without change sounds boring. This, incidentally, was an attitude that kept me from being able to look forward to the afterlife when I was a child, because the way it was typically described was as an eternal worship service. I know the praise and worship leaders among you might find this offensive, or even heretical, but that doesn't really sound appealing to me. And my undergraduate degree is in music composition, so I am somewhat favorably disposed toward music, but the eternal mosh pit seems terribly impersonal and static.
Back to the subject at hand. What pattern can be discerned in my life at present typically looks something like this:
- Monday - Work 8:45 to 5:15, pick up Lara, wash clothes, eat dinner at Subway, group dance lesson.
- Tuesday - DAY OFF!!! but there are usually things that have to be done, including mowing the lawn, taking care of any car maintenance, playing video games ... you know, necessary stuff.
- Wednesday - Back to work, sometimes have a private dance lesson.
- Thursday - Work, sometimes watch a Netflix DVD at home.
- Friday - Work, get jealous of Lara for being happy that it's Friday
- Saturday - Work, last minute preparation for Sunday School lesson the next day, sometimes we have a dance to go to.
- Sunday - Church, which includes teaching a Bible study during the Sunday School hour, teach Hebrew biweekly in the afternoon, chill out at home with Lara for whatever time is left.
To flesh out this skeleton, you must know that our daily commute is 45 minutes one direction. Also, though this has not been consistent by any means, we semi-regularly attend a Bible study with some friends of ours (shout out to Mark and Sheila) one night a week, which is now Tuesday. Also, it seems that every other weekend has some new event or challenge not listed above because there is no discernible order to them.
During May, this outline got all messed up. Because of the intense amount of stress and extra work involved in trying to sort through our belongings and sell them, we dropped the Bible study and group dance lessons. Each evening became much less predictable, and often what we intended to do was trumped by the needs of the immediate. I had not realized how much I drew upon those "extracurricular" activities to anchor me emotionally and give my present situation a sense of direction.
Dancing especially has been vital to my feeling that my life is not absolutely depressing. It has given me an artistic, physical, and competitive outlet and has introduced me to a number of new friends. It has also taught Lara and me a great deal about each other and our dynamic as a couple. Learning to be a strong communicator through subtle pressures in my arms and torso has been one of hardest and most rewarding things I've ever done. Sure, sometimes I have to resort to the drill sergeant style of ballroom dance leading with some dance partners ("LEFT ... RIGHT ... SIDE TOGETHER ... LEFT ... RIGHT ... SIDE TOGETHER ... ABOUT FACE ... PRESENT ARMS"), but this is getting more and more rare.
Things are not completely as they were before May, though. The closer we get to September, the more inadequate I feel, academically speaking. I have embarked on a comprehensive review of Hebrew and German, which will be followed by Aramaic, Ugaritic, Akkadian, Egyptian, and Greek, and I am reading everything I can that includes the "Old Testament Theology" in the title. I sometimes feel amazed that the University of Edinburgh accepted me, but accept me they did - I just got the visa letter this week.
One aspect of my life which has been fairly regular is Logos, my Sunday morning Bible study class. Having finished a study of Revelation a few weeks ago, we have begun to study Genesis, and I am spending a great deal of time reading commentaries and translating the pertinent portions. Just recently I was reading chapter three in Hebrew while on a break at Lifeway when I realized, ironically, that I was eating an apple. Suddenly it struck me that if Adam and Eve had been meat-eaters instead of vegetarians we might still be in Eden. I'm sure many of you have heard the first few chapters of Genesis used to support a vegetarian diet, particularly by Christian dietitians trying to sell their books and proprietary vitamin supplements (which become all the more necessary since their diets have eliminated some nutrients most abundantly found in meat). What I think is funny is that if Adam and Eve and eaten only meat, we wouldn't even be in this mess. We might all be fat, have high blood pressure, and smell bad, but there wouldn't be war. Instead, they eat fruit and look what happens. The love of fruit, then, is the root (or shall we more appropriately say seed) of all kinds of sins. I made this observation to a coworker who was in the break room with me. "But I like fruit," she responded.
Yes. Don't we all.
