Just by switching the verb tense, a sweet sensory delight of a Christmas carol can be turned into a reflection of gossip. At best, it's a reflection of reputation. Separating out talking about someone as part of their reputation as opposed to gossip can be a little tricky and often needs clearly-defined morals and circumstances, both of which can be difficult to ascertain in and of themselves. Still, our reputations are important to us. What people think of us on and off the grapevine really matters. Their judgments of our actions can tip the balance over future opportunities and relationships. This is where real life gets a little hinky, because if you haven't figured out how true this little cliche is yet, you are about to: appearances can be deceiving.
***Reader warning--subject matter to follow may not be appropriate for all readers***
For instance, there was a night I went over to Bob's house to watch a movie. Bob and I have both agreed that we will not have sex until our wedding night, an expected but not-often followed idea in our society. We want to follow God's will for sexual relationships. My reputation is also included in this--many people know I am still a virgin, and I want to have that reputation intact on my wedding day. While we are physically affectionate, even to an extent in public, there are very clear lines drawn that the two of us do not cross.
So on this movie night, I plop down on his living room floor (more comfy than the two-seater couch by a long shot) and curl up under a blanket with a pillow to watch the film. He joins me, keeping some distance but still cuddling around my blanket cocoon. It's been a long week for both of us--his job is extremely physically taxing while my three jobs wear me out mentally and emotionally. We're well-fed, warm, and tired. Guess what happens? That's right--we fall asleep. I wake up disoriented, still wrapped securely in my blankets just a few inches away from Bob. I look at the clock. It's after midnight. As it takes about 45 minutes for me to get home, this is a VERY late date for me and we both have work in the morning. I stumble around, waking him with a quick kiss goodbye before grabbing my things and walking out into the brisk night air. As I slowly descend the porch steps, I see the neighbors across the street noticing my presence. My face burns with heat. I know what this must look like. A brief glimpse in the bathroom mirror had showed my rumpled clothes, smeared make-up, and destroyed hairdo. I look like the poster child for the Walk of Shame calendar.
Did Bob and I do anything wrong? In my mind, no. We didn't mean to fall asleep together. We definitely didn't fool around. My appearance, combined with the late hour, gave an impression that probably tarnished, if not ruined, my reputation with that neighbor (and whomever they tell). The question is, then, whose responsibility is it if others start hearing--and believing--that I'm not as chaste as I say I am?
Personally, I believe it's 50/50, even though in reality that's hardly the case. While I do have the responsibility to set an alarm on my phone, tend to my appearance before I leave Bob's house, and try to make sure we don't end up in situations (such as cuddling platonically on the floor) that could be potentially damaging to our reputations, I think the neighbors also have the responsibility to check out the situation before spreading the word. We have all lived through experiences where we made assumptions about people that ended up being dramatically--and sometimes painfully--wrong.
In our society, though, we do make assumptions about people every day--and those who see me from afar should get the same kind of image (though not as sharp--my closest friends will see pieces of my personality that strangers wouldn't) as those I am close to. My leaving Bob's house in such a disheveled state at a very late hour was the mistake. I need to be more responsible about leaving at an appropriate time, or picking different locations for our "together time," such as public places in town or watching movies at his mother's house. ((Granted, I know there are couples who do a lot in a parent's home, but I'm personally weirded out by even peck kisses in front of Bob's mom. I'm a little more affectionate in my parent's home, but still...there are extreme limits to what I will do in those places out of respect for my parents and my heebie-jeebies.))
After all, it's not just my reputation that's at stake here, but also my witness. That's really not something to mess around with.
Showing posts with label responsibilities. Show all posts
Showing posts with label responsibilities. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 30, 2018
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Priorities
I should be grading ceremonial speeches right now so I can hand them back to my students. I should be not eating Tollhouse milk chocolate chips out of a Jiff reduced fat peanut butter jar so I can fit into my wedding dress at my fitting Friday. I should be saving my money instead of investing in some special-request items my fiancee mentioned wanting. I should be...I should not be... Ugh. Conditional modals really stink.
For the greater part of the last nine months, my world has revolved around my jobs, family, and a blossoming relationship with the man of my dreams. I've been working long hours, losing and desperately seeking jobs, planning a wedding, helping my church,...and letting other things slide. While it's probably understandable, and even acceptable, to adjust priorities in the rush of life, I've felt like a piece of me has been missing for a long time--actually, make that a few pieces.
Last year I was on fire. On fire for God as I gained the courage to join a new church for the first time in five years. On fire for female bonding as I found a fantastic group of ladies in a Bible study who, time and time again, have loved on me, listened to me, encouraged me, prayed for me, and put up with my insanity. :) On fire for writing as I finished a novel, went to a national conference, and even had several publishers and an agent give me the nod to submit. It's this last one that's killing me--I let those opportunities slide.
Granted, there were valid reasons why I put off the novel submission. I had realized several stylistic and thematic holes that needed fixing. I knew, as an unpublished author, I needed a fantastic draft to really help me get into the publishing world. So I decided to take the 6-8 weeks offered and work on my book. Problem was, I was working three jobs (teaching 3 classes at one college, 2 at another, and also working part-time in financial aid) and dating a man who consumed nearly every thought I had. It became easier to fall under the stress of the workload and the bumps of a new relationship with every day...and my novel began gathering dust.
Then I decided to break myself out of my months-long dry spell and submit the novel's first few chapters to a national competition. I felt so confident as I sent off my newly-revised baby off to the judges--the style was new and fresh, every mistake had been corrected, and I had managed to weave in more details to really attract a reader. A month later I was emailed back and told, nicely, that the judges didn't really care for my work. Most of them missed the point of my unusual opener and misunderstood what I was trying to do. Some nitpicked (understandably) at details that, to them, were unrealistic when they were actually autobiographical and completely valid and true (I guess truth is too strange to be fiction some days). Feeling as though I had failed, I again shelved the book. I told people I would just work on a more "standard-format" novel in the meantime, that I hadn't given up. Truth is, I gave up a long time ago. When you're facing multiple jobs, financial stress, a looming wedding where I can't seem to make anyone happy, relationship maintenance, and the thousands of changes that occur when you promise to completely change your life...writing just seemed to be a waste of time.
I suppose what hurts the most is that while I miss writing and the passion I had for a creation that was mine and God's alone, I don't really want to do it anymore. Keeping up with blogs, the research...all those things I loved to do just pale in comparison to setting up house and trying to make my future marriage as strong as it can be. Maybe my priorities have shifted. Maybe my passion for writing was a misguided obsession. Maybe I should just not even mourn the loss of a not-really-there skill and just move on with my life. There are more important things than a woman sitting alone at a computer, trying to breathe life into a flat character. Like cleaning the mouse poop out of my kitchen drawers. Like encouraging my fiancee to be creative and explore his passions for the first time in his life. Like making sure I can help put bread on the table and heat in the house. Like finally putting myself in the precarious position as a witness for Christ and daring to reach others.
Right?
For the greater part of the last nine months, my world has revolved around my jobs, family, and a blossoming relationship with the man of my dreams. I've been working long hours, losing and desperately seeking jobs, planning a wedding, helping my church,...and letting other things slide. While it's probably understandable, and even acceptable, to adjust priorities in the rush of life, I've felt like a piece of me has been missing for a long time--actually, make that a few pieces.
Last year I was on fire. On fire for God as I gained the courage to join a new church for the first time in five years. On fire for female bonding as I found a fantastic group of ladies in a Bible study who, time and time again, have loved on me, listened to me, encouraged me, prayed for me, and put up with my insanity. :) On fire for writing as I finished a novel, went to a national conference, and even had several publishers and an agent give me the nod to submit. It's this last one that's killing me--I let those opportunities slide.
Granted, there were valid reasons why I put off the novel submission. I had realized several stylistic and thematic holes that needed fixing. I knew, as an unpublished author, I needed a fantastic draft to really help me get into the publishing world. So I decided to take the 6-8 weeks offered and work on my book. Problem was, I was working three jobs (teaching 3 classes at one college, 2 at another, and also working part-time in financial aid) and dating a man who consumed nearly every thought I had. It became easier to fall under the stress of the workload and the bumps of a new relationship with every day...and my novel began gathering dust.
Then I decided to break myself out of my months-long dry spell and submit the novel's first few chapters to a national competition. I felt so confident as I sent off my newly-revised baby off to the judges--the style was new and fresh, every mistake had been corrected, and I had managed to weave in more details to really attract a reader. A month later I was emailed back and told, nicely, that the judges didn't really care for my work. Most of them missed the point of my unusual opener and misunderstood what I was trying to do. Some nitpicked (understandably) at details that, to them, were unrealistic when they were actually autobiographical and completely valid and true (I guess truth is too strange to be fiction some days). Feeling as though I had failed, I again shelved the book. I told people I would just work on a more "standard-format" novel in the meantime, that I hadn't given up. Truth is, I gave up a long time ago. When you're facing multiple jobs, financial stress, a looming wedding where I can't seem to make anyone happy, relationship maintenance, and the thousands of changes that occur when you promise to completely change your life...writing just seemed to be a waste of time.
I suppose what hurts the most is that while I miss writing and the passion I had for a creation that was mine and God's alone, I don't really want to do it anymore. Keeping up with blogs, the research...all those things I loved to do just pale in comparison to setting up house and trying to make my future marriage as strong as it can be. Maybe my priorities have shifted. Maybe my passion for writing was a misguided obsession. Maybe I should just not even mourn the loss of a not-really-there skill and just move on with my life. There are more important things than a woman sitting alone at a computer, trying to breathe life into a flat character. Like cleaning the mouse poop out of my kitchen drawers. Like encouraging my fiancee to be creative and explore his passions for the first time in his life. Like making sure I can help put bread on the table and heat in the house. Like finally putting myself in the precarious position as a witness for Christ and daring to reach others.
Right?
Monday, November 15, 2010
Bittersweet Blessings
I'm addicted to Facebook...to a point, anyway. A certain somebody in my life can distract me well from my online pursuits. Ah, well, enough mushy stuff--back to the point. I love Facebook, being able to see pictures of my friends and family, keeping up with status updates, and even being reminded when I've forgotten someone's birthday.
I also like creative endeavors on Facebook. I've been known to upload pics and narrate them, leave quirky statuses, and play around with my quotes page. I posted a few statuses (stati?) that reveal two warring issues in my life--and no, I'm not talking about the plethora revealing that I'm having a hard time healing from my oral surgery (more about that drama later).
"I still don't know if I have a job come spring. May find out in a few weeks...or later. This is what I get for praying for patience."
"I wish I could whittle down responsibilities so I could just spend some quality time with the keyboard. I miss writing. I miss editing. I miss creating something that can really touch others."
Now, smart reader, you may already be seeing what the future foretells for this blog entry. I got my answer as far as a job situation: instead of the full-time with benefits job I was praying for, I received a part-time job at the maximum contract hours possible. I am thrilled to have a job and am very pleased with what I received--don't get me wrong. I do wish I could have picked up just one more class and therefore would be living at a much-higher salary and have health insurance. The thing is...look at the other status update. My heart has been longing to write.
I've rejoined the masses at NaNoWriMo again, but I have no delusions that I will ever reach anything close to 50,000 words this month (I have about 3,000 currently). There is just way too much going on in my life for such a project. Come spring, however, with working just one part-time job that only requires me to come into work 2-3 days a week, I'll have plenty of time to write. I'll also have days off to work on some home renovations, strengthening my relationship with my new love, and helping my family. God gave me my desires. I shouldn't be sad that I didn't get everything that I wanted.
I've had a lot of people tell me that things are really looking great for me and that I'm "living the high life." I would look around at my still part-time employment, lack of benefits, solid hit to my budget, and frustrations over stress and health and wonder what on earth they saw. Taking a step back, and having someone actually list things off for me, showed me that I should be counting my blessings. I:
*have a job. Not to be taken for granted in this economy.
*have a job that actually lets me be what I trained to be--a teacher (instead of other master's-level students who are now working at Wal-Mart as cashiers).
*have fairly good health, upgraded once my mouth heals.
*have the ability to pay for most of my doctor's visits, and am on 0% interest plans for the others.
*have a great church family and biological family who love me.
*have lots of extra things not many people can afford, like an iPod and a good cell phone plan with free texting.
*have a car that doesn't break down too often and is usually fixable for under $500.
*have a man who is sweeping me off my feet and loves me even when I'm unlovable.
*have, most of all, a wonderful relationship with Christ. Eternal salvation makes all this other drama and glitter fade to nothing.
So, I'll stop being a little glum and disappointed. I will be smiling and bubbly about the great things in life instead of all the stressors. I will thank God for giving me time to slow down and use the talents He has given me. I will also appreciate 1/2 of the grading, since I never seem to get any of that done anyway. :)
I also like creative endeavors on Facebook. I've been known to upload pics and narrate them, leave quirky statuses, and play around with my quotes page. I posted a few statuses (stati?) that reveal two warring issues in my life--and no, I'm not talking about the plethora revealing that I'm having a hard time healing from my oral surgery (more about that drama later).
"I still don't know if I have a job come spring. May find out in a few weeks...or later. This is what I get for praying for patience."
"I wish I could whittle down responsibilities so I could just spend some quality time with the keyboard. I miss writing. I miss editing. I miss creating something that can really touch others."
Now, smart reader, you may already be seeing what the future foretells for this blog entry. I got my answer as far as a job situation: instead of the full-time with benefits job I was praying for, I received a part-time job at the maximum contract hours possible. I am thrilled to have a job and am very pleased with what I received--don't get me wrong. I do wish I could have picked up just one more class and therefore would be living at a much-higher salary and have health insurance. The thing is...look at the other status update. My heart has been longing to write.
I've rejoined the masses at NaNoWriMo again, but I have no delusions that I will ever reach anything close to 50,000 words this month (I have about 3,000 currently). There is just way too much going on in my life for such a project. Come spring, however, with working just one part-time job that only requires me to come into work 2-3 days a week, I'll have plenty of time to write. I'll also have days off to work on some home renovations, strengthening my relationship with my new love, and helping my family. God gave me my desires. I shouldn't be sad that I didn't get everything that I wanted.
I've had a lot of people tell me that things are really looking great for me and that I'm "living the high life." I would look around at my still part-time employment, lack of benefits, solid hit to my budget, and frustrations over stress and health and wonder what on earth they saw. Taking a step back, and having someone actually list things off for me, showed me that I should be counting my blessings. I:
*have a job. Not to be taken for granted in this economy.
*have a job that actually lets me be what I trained to be--a teacher (instead of other master's-level students who are now working at Wal-Mart as cashiers).
*have fairly good health, upgraded once my mouth heals.
*have the ability to pay for most of my doctor's visits, and am on 0% interest plans for the others.
*have a great church family and biological family who love me.
*have lots of extra things not many people can afford, like an iPod and a good cell phone plan with free texting.
*have a car that doesn't break down too often and is usually fixable for under $500.
*have a man who is sweeping me off my feet and loves me even when I'm unlovable.
*have, most of all, a wonderful relationship with Christ. Eternal salvation makes all this other drama and glitter fade to nothing.
So, I'll stop being a little glum and disappointed. I will be smiling and bubbly about the great things in life instead of all the stressors. I will thank God for giving me time to slow down and use the talents He has given me. I will also appreciate 1/2 of the grading, since I never seem to get any of that done anyway. :)
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
This Chocolate Bar is not a Lifesaving Device
My security has been threatened recently from many fronts. My job situation in the spring is up in the air with no safety nets surviving the storm of economics and my insane schedule. My health has thrown me a few curve balls that I'm somewhat managing. "Bob" is probably getting annoyed with my emotional swings, although he's being quite the trooper about it. I was shown some very powerful examples of how I may not be the personality type I thought I was--which may not mean anything to most people, but when it places me in a category that I don't find flattering in people, it was rather shattering. Add in the usual stress of two jobs, big projects lying uncompleted, and a cat who apparently feels a little abandoned himself, and I'm reeling.
Losing my good grip on my identity was probably the hardest blow. It's helping to illuminate some issues I've been having with adjusting to being with Bob, so that does have a solid benefit. My independent and co-dependent issues have been clashing hard. I work very well on my own--the flexibility of having little "overhead direction" allows my creative side the room it needs to roam about and still get things done, even if they are done differently than other people would do them. Being part of a couple, adjusting to nearly constant compromise, collaboration, and teamwork, has been very challenging. I love having someone to share things with, who can and will help, but it's hard dealing with not having as much "creative license" as I'm used to. It's hard to figure out when I need to push for more equality and when I need to just pick up the slack (because it's usually me who perceives there is slack, anyway, whether there is or not). It goes back to the issue of before--having needs and wants, not sharing them, and then getting upset/angry/worried/scared when they're not met.
When I'm feeling insecure, though, what do I do? Lately, eat chocolate, cry on people, and contemplate ways I can escape from everything and be safe (albeit alone and lonely). After a little while, I get distracted, the feelings fade, and I'm back to pushing through the week, encounter high stress...and then the cycle starts all over again.
What I'm doing is literally insane. I'm doing the same thing, treading water, and expecting it to eventually solve the problem (considering the currents I'm caught in, that's not going to happen). I'm subjecting the people around me to torrents of emotion that probably make less sense than a week of severe PMS (and no, I'm not hormonal that I know of). This is not a recipe for anything more than mere survival and testing the perseverence of the people around me.
My big problem is that I am avoiding the giant lifesaver in front of me, one I've known about this whole time, that has been willing and able to carry me through the seas and onto dry land again. Why I've avoided it, I'm not exactly sure. Maybe because it's not as tangible as the sea I know so well. Maybe because I'm stubbornly believing I can get through this through dry humor and patience; I don't want to admit I need more help after everything I've already taken. Maybe because I'm afraid of what it'll cost to take the way out. I may be forced to change, to give up some things I want so badly to stay in my life.
Could I still make it through the next two months without the lifesaver? It's possible, but given where I'm at, I'm not sure I can last that long. I'm almost positive my friends and family won't last that long. It's time for me to swallow my pride (that I can survive anything), take a chance on the safest bet around, and let God save me again. He made me. He gets it. He doesn't mind my insanity. He'll listen and give me peace again.
So, okay, God. Stick on the water wings. I'll wear them with pride. My Daddy bought them for me. :)
Losing my good grip on my identity was probably the hardest blow. It's helping to illuminate some issues I've been having with adjusting to being with Bob, so that does have a solid benefit. My independent and co-dependent issues have been clashing hard. I work very well on my own--the flexibility of having little "overhead direction" allows my creative side the room it needs to roam about and still get things done, even if they are done differently than other people would do them. Being part of a couple, adjusting to nearly constant compromise, collaboration, and teamwork, has been very challenging. I love having someone to share things with, who can and will help, but it's hard dealing with not having as much "creative license" as I'm used to. It's hard to figure out when I need to push for more equality and when I need to just pick up the slack (because it's usually me who perceives there is slack, anyway, whether there is or not). It goes back to the issue of before--having needs and wants, not sharing them, and then getting upset/angry/worried/scared when they're not met.
When I'm feeling insecure, though, what do I do? Lately, eat chocolate, cry on people, and contemplate ways I can escape from everything and be safe (albeit alone and lonely). After a little while, I get distracted, the feelings fade, and I'm back to pushing through the week, encounter high stress...and then the cycle starts all over again.
What I'm doing is literally insane. I'm doing the same thing, treading water, and expecting it to eventually solve the problem (considering the currents I'm caught in, that's not going to happen). I'm subjecting the people around me to torrents of emotion that probably make less sense than a week of severe PMS (and no, I'm not hormonal that I know of). This is not a recipe for anything more than mere survival and testing the perseverence of the people around me.
My big problem is that I am avoiding the giant lifesaver in front of me, one I've known about this whole time, that has been willing and able to carry me through the seas and onto dry land again. Why I've avoided it, I'm not exactly sure. Maybe because it's not as tangible as the sea I know so well. Maybe because I'm stubbornly believing I can get through this through dry humor and patience; I don't want to admit I need more help after everything I've already taken. Maybe because I'm afraid of what it'll cost to take the way out. I may be forced to change, to give up some things I want so badly to stay in my life.
Could I still make it through the next two months without the lifesaver? It's possible, but given where I'm at, I'm not sure I can last that long. I'm almost positive my friends and family won't last that long. It's time for me to swallow my pride (that I can survive anything), take a chance on the safest bet around, and let God save me again. He made me. He gets it. He doesn't mind my insanity. He'll listen and give me peace again.
So, okay, God. Stick on the water wings. I'll wear them with pride. My Daddy bought them for me. :)
Monday, October 25, 2010
Risky Behavior
Getting a tattoo from a "beginner." Texting while driving, irregardless of age (in Missouri, it's only illegal if you are under 21). Bungee jumping with your dentures in. We could make a list stretch on for miles over risky things we do, but probably one of the riskiest ones would be far down on the list despite it being one that we humans do every day. Talking to other people.
Sure, there are obvious ways our words can get us in trouble. Telling a cop he should spend less time chasing our car and instead chase donuts. Sassing back to a teacher when she asks that we stop pulling our classmate's hair. Using certain derogatory words around people of other ethnic/racial groups. From the time we were children (and for some of us late-bloomers, teenagers), we have learned that you just don't say certain things. For the most part, this is good--respect is such a rare commodity these days (and yes, I'm starting to sound like my grandparents already and I'm still in my twenties). In some cases, though, not saying something is more harmful than we could ever imagine.
Although I have gotten better at constructively criticizing those around me when I need to, I recently discovered that this is a skill that still needs work. Case and point? My very serious romantic relationship with a guy I'll name "Bob." I haven't been that honest with him lately, mostly because I'm still figuring out when I need to say something and when I need to keep quiet. To be safe, I've been keeping quiet a lot...and that led to a repressive emotional blowout full of sobbing and a chucked Kleenex box (to my credit, I was alone in the room at the time and I just threw it at the tabletop). It was a lot of little things, really, things that didn't really bother me that much. Added all together, they created feelings of resentment, disappointment, pain, and fear. I knew I was feeling insecure, and was able to share that with Bob, but I didn't understand why, especially when I had conquered most of my past ghosts.
The big answer I finally figured out with the help of two wise married women? I wasn't getting some of my needs met, mostly because I hadn't told him about them. I could figure out his needs really easily without being asked (hot meals, clean[ish] house, cuddle time on the couch, a listening ear, etc.) and even then I would keep asking and discover more things I could do to make him feel secure and loved. My needs weren't so simple to tease out, and even when he did ask, I wasn't good at revealing them. Part of it was due to fear that I would be selfish to ask for things/actions/services in return, that he wouldn't be able to or want to provide those things, or that I would be too much of a "bother" or considered a "high-maintenance woman." Another part of my silence was due to literally not knowing how to word the requests. I know, I'm a writer, an English professor, and I can't figure out how to use words effectively. Insert *facepalm* here.
By trying to avoid hurting his feelings and protecting myself from possible rejection, I turned myself into ticking time bomb of emotions. I kept up this facade of "I'm okay, I can take care of myself, no need to worry about me, just let me serve you and I'll be fine..." for the most part, but found myself eventually crying nearly every time I was with him. Insecurity bombarded me with thoughts of how he didn't really care, he was going to get tired of me and my drama, he wouldn't be able to deal with my requests, or (really ugly moment here) he was just going to use me and throw me away like others have done in the past. Yes, projecting past experiences onto Bob didn't help, but one of the core reasons was that I felt neglected and negated in some respects. Whose fault was that? Mine.
I needed to stop feeling guilty asking for things, especially the small things. No matter how tired, grumpy, irritated, or sick he is, Bob loves me and wants to take care of me. He needs to take care of my needs, to provide for me just as I need to be needed by him. I'm not his slave and I need to stop acting like it--especially as he NEVER asked me to be that!
Bob's reaction to this situation? Well, it was best summed up during a conversation where I tentatively (read: tiny little-girl voice) said, "So it's ok if I ask for that?"
"Well, of course! What, is this that new-age women's lib crap where you have no needs and are all self-sufficient?"
A little crass, but the point is valid. We, as women AND men, are NOT self-sufficient. Whether we realize it or not, we desperately need God and, second to Him, each other. If not, why were those the two commandments Jesus gave us? We are to love God and love one another. That means both give and take.
Sure, there are obvious ways our words can get us in trouble. Telling a cop he should spend less time chasing our car and instead chase donuts. Sassing back to a teacher when she asks that we stop pulling our classmate's hair. Using certain derogatory words around people of other ethnic/racial groups. From the time we were children (and for some of us late-bloomers, teenagers), we have learned that you just don't say certain things. For the most part, this is good--respect is such a rare commodity these days (and yes, I'm starting to sound like my grandparents already and I'm still in my twenties). In some cases, though, not saying something is more harmful than we could ever imagine.
Although I have gotten better at constructively criticizing those around me when I need to, I recently discovered that this is a skill that still needs work. Case and point? My very serious romantic relationship with a guy I'll name "Bob." I haven't been that honest with him lately, mostly because I'm still figuring out when I need to say something and when I need to keep quiet. To be safe, I've been keeping quiet a lot...and that led to a repressive emotional blowout full of sobbing and a chucked Kleenex box (to my credit, I was alone in the room at the time and I just threw it at the tabletop). It was a lot of little things, really, things that didn't really bother me that much. Added all together, they created feelings of resentment, disappointment, pain, and fear. I knew I was feeling insecure, and was able to share that with Bob, but I didn't understand why, especially when I had conquered most of my past ghosts.
The big answer I finally figured out with the help of two wise married women? I wasn't getting some of my needs met, mostly because I hadn't told him about them. I could figure out his needs really easily without being asked (hot meals, clean[ish] house, cuddle time on the couch, a listening ear, etc.) and even then I would keep asking and discover more things I could do to make him feel secure and loved. My needs weren't so simple to tease out, and even when he did ask, I wasn't good at revealing them. Part of it was due to fear that I would be selfish to ask for things/actions/services in return, that he wouldn't be able to or want to provide those things, or that I would be too much of a "bother" or considered a "high-maintenance woman." Another part of my silence was due to literally not knowing how to word the requests. I know, I'm a writer, an English professor, and I can't figure out how to use words effectively. Insert *facepalm* here.
By trying to avoid hurting his feelings and protecting myself from possible rejection, I turned myself into ticking time bomb of emotions. I kept up this facade of "I'm okay, I can take care of myself, no need to worry about me, just let me serve you and I'll be fine..." for the most part, but found myself eventually crying nearly every time I was with him. Insecurity bombarded me with thoughts of how he didn't really care, he was going to get tired of me and my drama, he wouldn't be able to deal with my requests, or (really ugly moment here) he was just going to use me and throw me away like others have done in the past. Yes, projecting past experiences onto Bob didn't help, but one of the core reasons was that I felt neglected and negated in some respects. Whose fault was that? Mine.
I needed to stop feeling guilty asking for things, especially the small things. No matter how tired, grumpy, irritated, or sick he is, Bob loves me and wants to take care of me. He needs to take care of my needs, to provide for me just as I need to be needed by him. I'm not his slave and I need to stop acting like it--especially as he NEVER asked me to be that!
Bob's reaction to this situation? Well, it was best summed up during a conversation where I tentatively (read: tiny little-girl voice) said, "So it's ok if I ask for that?"
"Well, of course! What, is this that new-age women's lib crap where you have no needs and are all self-sufficient?"
A little crass, but the point is valid. We, as women AND men, are NOT self-sufficient. Whether we realize it or not, we desperately need God and, second to Him, each other. If not, why were those the two commandments Jesus gave us? We are to love God and love one another. That means both give and take.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Honesty Part II: Masking the Appearance of Trouble
While in worship at the ACFW conference, I heard slight whispers in the crowd.
"Look at her--she's really into it!"
"I think she's one of those pentacostals or something."
"The song must really be speaking to her."
I know these ladies never meant for me to hear them. After all, by all appearances, I was completely wrapped up in the moments of worship. My hands were raised, albeit only at the elbow--I usually extend them higher during powerful songs, my face was uplifted, my body swayed side-to-side and trembled slightly, and tears rolled down my cheeks before splashing onto my blouse. As a singer on my Baptist church's worship team, I do often do all of the above (tears are pretty unusual, though) when the moment is strong and I'm enveloped in the world of praising and praying to my God. I stop caring that my Pentacostal roots are showing and that I'm probably moving too much for the comfort of my congregation. I just do as I'm led to do.
My appearance of being lost in a moment with God during the conference wasn't reflecting the truth. I wasn't that into the song--it was one that, while it was nice, wasn't truly affecting me. One hand braced around my middle, the other raised from the elbow, I was beseeching God for something other than worship. I was desperately seeking help. I was in serious, extreme pain.
Living with fibromyalgia is a challenge beyond any other--random flares of pain, some of them intense enough to make me stop breathing or double over into a ball, happen without warning. I already knew my disease was going to be an issue due to the long hours in a car to travel to Indianapolis, sleeping in a new bed, not getting much sleep due to activities, and a lot of sitting throughout the day. The intense flare in the middle of worship, however, caught me off-guard. It was the strongest one I had had in over a year. The tears and shaking proved it.
Since it's incurable, I've accepted my fibromyalgia as my thorn in my side (a la apostle Paul). Since preventative medications don't work on my system, and I avoid pills as much as possible due to the risks of addiction and damaging internal organs, I'm left with pushing through the pain with the determination of a soon-to-be mother. It also means that I try to mask my pain as much as possible. There's not much anyone can do besides maybe put pressure on a trigger point or massage a cramped muscle into submission. There are very few people I know who would be willing to do this even if I had the gall to ask--and there are very few public situations where this wouldn't attract unwanted attention. Letting others know when I'm hurting gives me a label of "weak" or "delicate"...not the labels I want if I want to be able to serve in the ways I was made to do. No one asks a weak woman to babysit their children. No one asks a fragile person to cook a three-course Mexican dinner for a Bible study. No one allows her to play softball or help move furniture or carry in instruments or renovate a nursery. I can do these things, even if occasionally I pay for it with a flare or two. My life is a chance game, but I refuse to play it safe and let my malfunctioning nervous system win. So I hide the truth from even the people I love and who love me.
This is where the bigger problem comes in. While flares rarely reach a 13-14 on the 10-point scale (ACFW conference was a 14), I do have 9s or 10s occasionally. I had one during a church service while sitting next to my boyfriend. I hid it for the ten minutes it lasted, gritting my teeth, regulating my breathing, clenching my fists, and praying hard. After the service, my boyfriend mentioned that he was really touched by how emotionally moved I was during the prayer--he had felt me shaking. Exhausted, I told him nonchalantly what really happened. The next day, he called to say that I am to notify him in some way any time I have a flare around him--using code words, whispering in his ear, something. The request confused me. "Most of the time there's nothing you can do, and knowing I'm in pain will only hurt you as well, so why do you want to know?" His answer came with a strong "duh" tone. "Uh, so I can be concerned?"
Knowing someone you love is hurting and being powerless to do anything about it is one of the most hopeless and devastating situations to be in, at least in my opinion. Being honest about how my body's torturing me makes me less of a friend/partner and more of a burden. If there is something he can do, I can understand telling him, but all the time? Does he even understand how often I go through these flares and pains? Isn't it enough that my fibromyalgia makes my life difficult--does it have to affect him and other people as well? I'm not opposed to letting people know I have the disease necessarily, but exposing the realities as they occur...that's terrifying.
I'm still struggling with my strong sense of independence on this one. I really don't know if I'll be able to go through with whispering his selected code word into his ear the next time my back spasms. I really don't know if I'll be able to reveal to others when I'm not shaking due to the movements of God or low blood sugar (a nice excuse, really, because you usually get chocolate out of the deal) but rather due to muscles tightening past normal limits. I really don't know if I'll be able to show the fear and anxiety in my eyes instead of closing them when I realize I'm not able to breathe for a few seconds. The answer to where boundary lines belong with this disease is out there, somewhere. I hope I find it soon. Before the next flare around my boyfriend, anyway.
"Look at her--she's really into it!"
"I think she's one of those pentacostals or something."
"The song must really be speaking to her."
I know these ladies never meant for me to hear them. After all, by all appearances, I was completely wrapped up in the moments of worship. My hands were raised, albeit only at the elbow--I usually extend them higher during powerful songs, my face was uplifted, my body swayed side-to-side and trembled slightly, and tears rolled down my cheeks before splashing onto my blouse. As a singer on my Baptist church's worship team, I do often do all of the above (tears are pretty unusual, though) when the moment is strong and I'm enveloped in the world of praising and praying to my God. I stop caring that my Pentacostal roots are showing and that I'm probably moving too much for the comfort of my congregation. I just do as I'm led to do.
My appearance of being lost in a moment with God during the conference wasn't reflecting the truth. I wasn't that into the song--it was one that, while it was nice, wasn't truly affecting me. One hand braced around my middle, the other raised from the elbow, I was beseeching God for something other than worship. I was desperately seeking help. I was in serious, extreme pain.
Is she praying...or struggling with a migraine? How can you tell?
Living with fibromyalgia is a challenge beyond any other--random flares of pain, some of them intense enough to make me stop breathing or double over into a ball, happen without warning. I already knew my disease was going to be an issue due to the long hours in a car to travel to Indianapolis, sleeping in a new bed, not getting much sleep due to activities, and a lot of sitting throughout the day. The intense flare in the middle of worship, however, caught me off-guard. It was the strongest one I had had in over a year. The tears and shaking proved it.
Since it's incurable, I've accepted my fibromyalgia as my thorn in my side (a la apostle Paul). Since preventative medications don't work on my system, and I avoid pills as much as possible due to the risks of addiction and damaging internal organs, I'm left with pushing through the pain with the determination of a soon-to-be mother. It also means that I try to mask my pain as much as possible. There's not much anyone can do besides maybe put pressure on a trigger point or massage a cramped muscle into submission. There are very few people I know who would be willing to do this even if I had the gall to ask--and there are very few public situations where this wouldn't attract unwanted attention. Letting others know when I'm hurting gives me a label of "weak" or "delicate"...not the labels I want if I want to be able to serve in the ways I was made to do. No one asks a weak woman to babysit their children. No one asks a fragile person to cook a three-course Mexican dinner for a Bible study. No one allows her to play softball or help move furniture or carry in instruments or renovate a nursery. I can do these things, even if occasionally I pay for it with a flare or two. My life is a chance game, but I refuse to play it safe and let my malfunctioning nervous system win. So I hide the truth from even the people I love and who love me.
This is where the bigger problem comes in. While flares rarely reach a 13-14 on the 10-point scale (ACFW conference was a 14), I do have 9s or 10s occasionally. I had one during a church service while sitting next to my boyfriend. I hid it for the ten minutes it lasted, gritting my teeth, regulating my breathing, clenching my fists, and praying hard. After the service, my boyfriend mentioned that he was really touched by how emotionally moved I was during the prayer--he had felt me shaking. Exhausted, I told him nonchalantly what really happened. The next day, he called to say that I am to notify him in some way any time I have a flare around him--using code words, whispering in his ear, something. The request confused me. "Most of the time there's nothing you can do, and knowing I'm in pain will only hurt you as well, so why do you want to know?" His answer came with a strong "duh" tone. "Uh, so I can be concerned?"
Knowing someone you love is hurting and being powerless to do anything about it is one of the most hopeless and devastating situations to be in, at least in my opinion. Being honest about how my body's torturing me makes me less of a friend/partner and more of a burden. If there is something he can do, I can understand telling him, but all the time? Does he even understand how often I go through these flares and pains? Isn't it enough that my fibromyalgia makes my life difficult--does it have to affect him and other people as well? I'm not opposed to letting people know I have the disease necessarily, but exposing the realities as they occur...that's terrifying.
I'm still struggling with my strong sense of independence on this one. I really don't know if I'll be able to go through with whispering his selected code word into his ear the next time my back spasms. I really don't know if I'll be able to reveal to others when I'm not shaking due to the movements of God or low blood sugar (a nice excuse, really, because you usually get chocolate out of the deal) but rather due to muscles tightening past normal limits. I really don't know if I'll be able to show the fear and anxiety in my eyes instead of closing them when I realize I'm not able to breathe for a few seconds. The answer to where boundary lines belong with this disease is out there, somewhere. I hope I find it soon. Before the next flare around my boyfriend, anyway.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Little Moments
The clock in the living room ticks and tocks at a slight echo to the one in the kitchen, creating a surround-sound atmosphere of time passing me by. Every second comes, goes, and is never to return. When thinking of time in this slightly off-tempo beat of seconds, it's almost frightening. I'm aging in this chair, my clean skin from my recent shower already compiling oils, my hair acquiring a minute sheen that will end up turning my bouncy curls into somewhat-stringy locks by the end of the night. My watch battery will have lost some of its juice, my stomach will be empty and hungry yet again, and I will have failed to complete everything on my to-do list.
Right now, though, instead of forcing myself out the door to face a hugely-full day of teaching three classes, office hours, and preparing to hand over my third part-time job to a new person, I'm sitting in the most comfortable seat in my house. A cat is curled up alongside my hip and the top of my left leg, snoring softly as he warms my jean-clad thigh. Little One tends to annoy me more often than not. He'll beg to be let out, then run away and hide several times before you can either catch him and throw him out or he decides he's finally ready. He'll steal my food and watch me like a hawk while I'm eating, taking any opportunity presented to swipe some cheese or lick my yogurt. He insists on accompanying me to the bathroom because, after all, I'm just "sitting there" and have plenty of time to pet him. (I'm learning to try to head him off with a well-angled foot and shut the door firmly behind me.) Right now, though, he's being precious. A lap cat to the core, he is taking the chill from the air and telling me he trusts me, wants me, and thinks I'm the most comfortable spot in the house. Considering where all he sleeps, that's a rather nice compliment.
I should be putting on some eyeliner, grabbing something for breakfast, checking my three school e-mail accounts, and heading out the door to start my day. The quiet, punctuated only by half-purred snores and time ticking away, is intoxicating. Comforting. The kind of morning moment I want so much more than the drama that comes with my three jobs. I'm taking the time to write a little, pray, and consider just how much chocolate I will buy today so I can make it through the next week. It's a nice little moment that will end in just a few seconds. I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts.
Right now, though, instead of forcing myself out the door to face a hugely-full day of teaching three classes, office hours, and preparing to hand over my third part-time job to a new person, I'm sitting in the most comfortable seat in my house. A cat is curled up alongside my hip and the top of my left leg, snoring softly as he warms my jean-clad thigh. Little One tends to annoy me more often than not. He'll beg to be let out, then run away and hide several times before you can either catch him and throw him out or he decides he's finally ready. He'll steal my food and watch me like a hawk while I'm eating, taking any opportunity presented to swipe some cheese or lick my yogurt. He insists on accompanying me to the bathroom because, after all, I'm just "sitting there" and have plenty of time to pet him. (I'm learning to try to head him off with a well-angled foot and shut the door firmly behind me.) Right now, though, he's being precious. A lap cat to the core, he is taking the chill from the air and telling me he trusts me, wants me, and thinks I'm the most comfortable spot in the house. Considering where all he sleeps, that's a rather nice compliment.
I should be putting on some eyeliner, grabbing something for breakfast, checking my three school e-mail accounts, and heading out the door to start my day. The quiet, punctuated only by half-purred snores and time ticking away, is intoxicating. Comforting. The kind of morning moment I want so much more than the drama that comes with my three jobs. I'm taking the time to write a little, pray, and consider just how much chocolate I will buy today so I can make it through the next week. It's a nice little moment that will end in just a few seconds. I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Distractions...
Just as prevalent as air molecules, just as dangerous as a drunk driver going 80 on a gravel road, just as persistent as a two-year-old fixated on a Dora doll...
Distractions. They're everywhere. It can be something we see, feel, smell, or think about. An odd sound, an old memory, a tickle at the nape of our neck. Some of it is due to our survival instincts, our need to be aware of our surroundings to be protected against danger (which is why I scream bloody murder when I finally feel the light tapping of spider legs against my leg--a deaf spider can't bite you because he's too busy howling in pain over his burst eardrums). Some of it is just environmental or the curse of a racing mind (my thoughts could beat Usain Bolt--love that last name--in a foot race any day). Some of it, though, is purposeful.
"I need a distraction." I've said this many times lately, a remark reflecting on my extremely busy and hectic life. I've spent hours chasing after distractions, letting my to-do list ferment in my purse as I instead watch a cute kid's movie, hang out with friends and family, and let this deliciously handsome man intent on courting me have the pleasure of my company for several hours. The people around me ask if I'm busy, and of course I am. I have lots of lesson plans to make and keep up with. I have a website that is a full month behind schedule for release. I have a novel to do a few last-minute touch-ups on. I have gradebooks to set up, attendance records to update, and mounds of paperwork to complete, file, and organize. What I need is to sit my butt down and get to work. What I want is to go dancing with my sweetheart, bake cookies until 2am, watch some TV (because I hardly ever get to during the school year), and snuggle with my cat. And sleep. Miss that terribly.
Someone fairly wise for his very young age told me once that I do way too much and need to take more time out each day for "fun" things--activities to rejuvenate my spirit and brighten my mood. Otherwise I'd end up bitter. Not good. The hazard is to create a good balance--I need to get my tasks done, but also live joyfully each day. I need to focus...instead of surfing about on Facebook for a few hours. I need to just get through that to-do list...instead of playing Freecell for thirty minutes while listening to an audiobook. I need to be grading...instead of watching YouTube videos (or uploading my own).
This week, my challenge is to make that to-do list and get through the whole thing by Friday so I can enjoy my last weekend before the conference. Praying for strength and concentration...now.
Distractions. They're everywhere. It can be something we see, feel, smell, or think about. An odd sound, an old memory, a tickle at the nape of our neck. Some of it is due to our survival instincts, our need to be aware of our surroundings to be protected against danger (which is why I scream bloody murder when I finally feel the light tapping of spider legs against my leg--a deaf spider can't bite you because he's too busy howling in pain over his burst eardrums). Some of it is just environmental or the curse of a racing mind (my thoughts could beat Usain Bolt--love that last name--in a foot race any day). Some of it, though, is purposeful.
"I need a distraction." I've said this many times lately, a remark reflecting on my extremely busy and hectic life. I've spent hours chasing after distractions, letting my to-do list ferment in my purse as I instead watch a cute kid's movie, hang out with friends and family, and let this deliciously handsome man intent on courting me have the pleasure of my company for several hours. The people around me ask if I'm busy, and of course I am. I have lots of lesson plans to make and keep up with. I have a website that is a full month behind schedule for release. I have a novel to do a few last-minute touch-ups on. I have gradebooks to set up, attendance records to update, and mounds of paperwork to complete, file, and organize. What I need is to sit my butt down and get to work. What I want is to go dancing with my sweetheart, bake cookies until 2am, watch some TV (because I hardly ever get to during the school year), and snuggle with my cat. And sleep. Miss that terribly.
Someone fairly wise for his very young age told me once that I do way too much and need to take more time out each day for "fun" things--activities to rejuvenate my spirit and brighten my mood. Otherwise I'd end up bitter. Not good. The hazard is to create a good balance--I need to get my tasks done, but also live joyfully each day. I need to focus...instead of surfing about on Facebook for a few hours. I need to just get through that to-do list...instead of playing Freecell for thirty minutes while listening to an audiobook. I need to be grading...instead of watching YouTube videos (or uploading my own).
This week, my challenge is to make that to-do list and get through the whole thing by Friday so I can enjoy my last weekend before the conference. Praying for strength and concentration...now.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Timing
I had come in to the college an hour before I had to teach. After weaving my way through the empty student computer lab, I walked the couple yards to the employee work room where I usually held my office hours. I left the door open in my haste to get to work--I hadn't refreshed my memory on the story I had assigned in my American Literature course, and while I could have bumbled my way through well enough, I wanted to be well-prepared. Forty minutes passed and I was only 3/4 done with the in-depth analysis. A loud conversation drifted in through the room and my eyes stilled on the page. The students' voices were instantly familiar. One was quite loud, a girl lamenting to a guy about the email she had received a few days earlier.
"...and then she replies and says, 'Well, there are a few techniques I can show you, but it would be better if we could go over it in person.' Like that was going to help me, and now I'm completely lost and have no clue what to do."
The snippet confirmed exactly who the girl was--a student in my morning class...and she was talking about me. She had missed the previous class, and while she had claimed in the email to have been ill, I was told by one of her friends that she hadn't finished her paper and had elected not to come to class because of it (I still give the student the benefit of the doubt, but the other story rang true with the girl's personality). Had she come, she would have realized that all of her classmates were struggling and I spent the entire class period helping them revise and strengthen their papers--using techniques that worked much better for an in-person demonstration. To be honest, I could have described the methods to the girl in the e-mail, but I wanted to work with her one-on-one and encouraged her in the e-mail to make an appointment when she could for us to go over the material. She hadn't.
Leaving my prep work behind, I walked to the doorway, leaned against the doorjamb, and looked at the young woman. "Well, if you want, I can help you right now." Both the girl and the male classmate looked up with the expected expression.
The smile on my face had some underlying cheekiness to it, although I schooled my features to be as professional as possible. I had busted them, vividly proving the old addage that people should be careful what they say--someone could be listening. Since I knew I had done nothing wrong or inappropriate, I was more than willing to tease the young students. After all, I could have responded very negatively, and there was certainly some tension in the room. The male student transitioned from shock into amusement after ascertaining that I was not upset. The young woman remained angry and frustrated.
She began ranting, still loud and angry, about how she didn't "get any of this stuff" and she was only in the class for financial aid purposes. She wanted to drop the class and it was "too hard to understand the reading." She burst into tears. I sat down next to her, my mood instantly changing. The subtext was screaming into my mind as though her thoughts came equipped with a megaphone. I'm stupid. I can't understand this. I never will. No one will help me. I'm beyond help. I feel trapped.
The other students in the room silently turned back to their computers or left the room, letting her have the modicum of privacy available in the public lab. I knew asking her to come to the office wasn't a move that she would respond well to, so I let her express her fears and frustration through the tears and occasional rants against the class. As she spoke, my mind flitted to a memory of a twenty-year-old woman who had stood before an older male professor. Her tears blocked all but the fuzziest appearance of the man as she admitted her inability to understand the grammatical structures he had talked about for a week. She felt stupid, alone, and trapped. Especially stupid. Although flabbergasted at the emotional response, the professor kindly gave up part of his lunch hour and stood in the empty classroom, demonstrating point-by-point the essence of a copula and antecedents, eventually stumbling across different ways of explanation so the young woman could finally grasp onto the definitions. I've never forgotten those concepts since that day.
All but ignoring the other students in the room, I sat by her side and waited until the emotional malestrom ebbed. I handed her a tissue, then reassured her that literary criticism was often hard to understand but she could do it. We discovered that a great deal of her problem was reading comprehension and worked together to decipher a 19th century essay. The time ticked past the point that I was to begin class, but I ignored the clock. At the moment, I had more important things to do.
As a professor, it was my responsibility to start class on time--I had policies on tardiness for my students. If this had been just a week later, my boss would have been also in attendance for my semester evaluations. I was supposed to do something, and I chose not to. I knew that the ten or fifteen minutes it would take to finish encouraging this young woman back onto a positive track would not be the end of the world for the rest of my students. The young man she had spoken to would surely explain the situation, so no one would leave. They were all adults and perfectly capable of starting the discussion without me--or at least entertaining themselves (they chose the latter. Big surprise.). There was no way I would leave until I knew she was able to work on the paper on her own again--even if it meant she would miss the first half of class in order to have that precious time to do so.
Hours later, I started thinking about Jesus' parable about the lost sheep.
Jesus said (in Luke 15:3-7, if you want to look it up) that he would leave the 99 to find the one lost lamb. I remember thinking when I first heard this story that it didn't quite make sense. Shouldn't he be worried about the big flock, too? Who's going to watch over them while Jesus goes looking for the single lost lamb? Is one lamb really worth the danger he could be putting the others in?
The point of the story isn't about the 99, though. They're fine, they're safe, and they can take care of themselves for the time being (note that He said He left them to look for the other lamb, not for infinity--this isn't abandonment but a shift in priorities; also, since God is omnipresent, He never *really* leaves...but that's a blog for another day.). Jesus is saying that He will pursue those who are lost and alone, afraid and frustrated. For a moment, in a very small way, I ministered to that student in a way that God ministered to me. By taking the time to really care, listen, and invest in her progress, I showed that she was important to me and I was willing to put the others, who were prepared, on hold in order to catch her up.
I'm not saying that "the greater good" isn't a good policy or that I should always pause my teaching for a single straggler (that is also what one-on-one conferences are for). I can't realistically afford to do this every single class period. I can, however, give her enough hope and faith in herself and in my attention to her that she can succeed even in an American Literature course. Maybe this will transfer to the rest of her college classes and, perhaps, to her life in general. Only God knows how far the ripples of this moment will reach in the pond of her life and in the lives of my other students. My prayer is that it will spread good to all involved...and lend a little sanity to an insane world.
"...and then she replies and says, 'Well, there are a few techniques I can show you, but it would be better if we could go over it in person.' Like that was going to help me, and now I'm completely lost and have no clue what to do."
The snippet confirmed exactly who the girl was--a student in my morning class...and she was talking about me. She had missed the previous class, and while she had claimed in the email to have been ill, I was told by one of her friends that she hadn't finished her paper and had elected not to come to class because of it (I still give the student the benefit of the doubt, but the other story rang true with the girl's personality). Had she come, she would have realized that all of her classmates were struggling and I spent the entire class period helping them revise and strengthen their papers--using techniques that worked much better for an in-person demonstration. To be honest, I could have described the methods to the girl in the e-mail, but I wanted to work with her one-on-one and encouraged her in the e-mail to make an appointment when she could for us to go over the material. She hadn't.
Leaving my prep work behind, I walked to the doorway, leaned against the doorjamb, and looked at the young woman. "Well, if you want, I can help you right now." Both the girl and the male classmate looked up with the expected expression.
Even plastic and acrylic can cry out, "Uh-oh."
The smile on my face had some underlying cheekiness to it, although I schooled my features to be as professional as possible. I had busted them, vividly proving the old addage that people should be careful what they say--someone could be listening. Since I knew I had done nothing wrong or inappropriate, I was more than willing to tease the young students. After all, I could have responded very negatively, and there was certainly some tension in the room. The male student transitioned from shock into amusement after ascertaining that I was not upset. The young woman remained angry and frustrated.
Heloise's Hint: back away slowly and offer chocolate/coffee/vice of choice.
She began ranting, still loud and angry, about how she didn't "get any of this stuff" and she was only in the class for financial aid purposes. She wanted to drop the class and it was "too hard to understand the reading." She burst into tears. I sat down next to her, my mood instantly changing. The subtext was screaming into my mind as though her thoughts came equipped with a megaphone. I'm stupid. I can't understand this. I never will. No one will help me. I'm beyond help. I feel trapped.
The other students in the room silently turned back to their computers or left the room, letting her have the modicum of privacy available in the public lab. I knew asking her to come to the office wasn't a move that she would respond well to, so I let her express her fears and frustration through the tears and occasional rants against the class. As she spoke, my mind flitted to a memory of a twenty-year-old woman who had stood before an older male professor. Her tears blocked all but the fuzziest appearance of the man as she admitted her inability to understand the grammatical structures he had talked about for a week. She felt stupid, alone, and trapped. Especially stupid. Although flabbergasted at the emotional response, the professor kindly gave up part of his lunch hour and stood in the empty classroom, demonstrating point-by-point the essence of a copula and antecedents, eventually stumbling across different ways of explanation so the young woman could finally grasp onto the definitions. I've never forgotten those concepts since that day.
All but ignoring the other students in the room, I sat by her side and waited until the emotional malestrom ebbed. I handed her a tissue, then reassured her that literary criticism was often hard to understand but she could do it. We discovered that a great deal of her problem was reading comprehension and worked together to decipher a 19th century essay. The time ticked past the point that I was to begin class, but I ignored the clock. At the moment, I had more important things to do.
When it comes to priorities, sometimes we just gotta smash the critters.
As a professor, it was my responsibility to start class on time--I had policies on tardiness for my students. If this had been just a week later, my boss would have been also in attendance for my semester evaluations. I was supposed to do something, and I chose not to. I knew that the ten or fifteen minutes it would take to finish encouraging this young woman back onto a positive track would not be the end of the world for the rest of my students. The young man she had spoken to would surely explain the situation, so no one would leave. They were all adults and perfectly capable of starting the discussion without me--or at least entertaining themselves (they chose the latter. Big surprise.). There was no way I would leave until I knew she was able to work on the paper on her own again--even if it meant she would miss the first half of class in order to have that precious time to do so.
Hours later, I started thinking about Jesus' parable about the lost sheep.
In this depiction, the sheep's black. Think about that (and not so much that Jesus oddly resembles Tom Cruise here).
Jesus said (in Luke 15:3-7, if you want to look it up) that he would leave the 99 to find the one lost lamb. I remember thinking when I first heard this story that it didn't quite make sense. Shouldn't he be worried about the big flock, too? Who's going to watch over them while Jesus goes looking for the single lost lamb? Is one lamb really worth the danger he could be putting the others in?
The point of the story isn't about the 99, though. They're fine, they're safe, and they can take care of themselves for the time being (note that He said He left them to look for the other lamb, not for infinity--this isn't abandonment but a shift in priorities; also, since God is omnipresent, He never *really* leaves...but that's a blog for another day.). Jesus is saying that He will pursue those who are lost and alone, afraid and frustrated. For a moment, in a very small way, I ministered to that student in a way that God ministered to me. By taking the time to really care, listen, and invest in her progress, I showed that she was important to me and I was willing to put the others, who were prepared, on hold in order to catch her up.
I'm not saying that "the greater good" isn't a good policy or that I should always pause my teaching for a single straggler (that is also what one-on-one conferences are for). I can't realistically afford to do this every single class period. I can, however, give her enough hope and faith in herself and in my attention to her that she can succeed even in an American Literature course. Maybe this will transfer to the rest of her college classes and, perhaps, to her life in general. Only God knows how far the ripples of this moment will reach in the pond of her life and in the lives of my other students. My prayer is that it will spread good to all involved...and lend a little sanity to an insane world.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Further Adventures at Wal-Mart...as it's the most populated area in town...
Every year my father inflates a 8-foot swimming pool, parks it in the backyard, and then overchlorinates it to the point where only he is brave enough to sit in the water that decimates bug life faster than a Tim-Taylor-superpowered-bugzapper (since I used to invest so much in dying/highlighting my hair, I wasn't insane enough to ruin my hairdresser's expensive work for just five minutes of buoyancy). Every year he keeps "forgetting" to take it down...until really late in the season where the water's starting to freeze on top. Between the chemicals and the ice, let's just say that these pools didn't last more than a couple years around our house. Last year's entry into the wild world of Sackville looked to have survived the winter...until Dad started to fill it and found a huge, gaping hole in the bottom. He then decided, due to financial issues, to 86 his swimming plans this year. I, being the good daughter with a savings account (love you, Sis!), decided to spoil him for Father's Day and buy him a replacement pool. Besides, I'm giving up coloring my hair and figure the bleach will just help me return to my natural color faster. :)
So I trek into Wal-Mart, select the new pool, hoist it through the checkout, and cart it to my car. It's when I'm attempting to put this very ungainly, very heavy box into my backseat that I find major conflict. This box is heavier than I remember it being. It's also getting consistently caught on the edge of the cart, which is continuously wheeling away from my car thanks to a sloped parking lot. Two tries only succeed in making my lower back ache, my shoulder pop, and nearly landing me in a heap on the ground as I attempt to control too many moving objects at once. It is at the moment that I'm glaring at this now obnoxious present when I hear laughter. It's not very loud, not overwhelming, but just the soft chuckles of someone observing what must look like the equivalent of an uncoordinated penguin troop performing Swan Lake.
Parked in the row behind me is a big red SUV...with a hefty-looking 40+ year-old man in the driver's seat. Now, normally I'd just ignore him, or at the most, smile embarrassedly while trying for a third time to wrangle the plastic pool of doom. This time, however, I've had a great time at music practice. I've eaten a fair amount of sugar. I'm high on life. I open my mouth.
"Well, if you're going to get such a kick out of this free show, the least you could do is come over here and help me!" My teasing remark, sassy and full of enough sweetness to counteract the sarcasm, works like a charm. The gentleman exits his vehicle, showing off his lovely work-roughed jeans and faded t-shirt, and saunters over to my car. He puts one strong hand on the edge of the cart and anchors it against the wheel well. "Ok, then, I'll hold 'er steady while you haul it in there."
Time out.
I'm sorry, but did my audience, obviously much bigger and stronger and very MALE, just take the easy job in this ordeal? I mean, I know our current world culture has more of a humorous attitude towards chivalry.
I know that even simple chivalric manners, like opening car doors, seems to be a thing of the past (although I was delighted to find that there are guys out there still insisting on this little treat...and they're forgiving when our decades-old habit of having to open our own car doors kicks in before they can circle the car).
Despite this, the current situation was obviously one in which the correct thing was not being done. Yes, I am technically strong enough to haul the box in my backseat (I've carried much heavier things before with few problems) and the problem is more of one of logistics and not strength. Still, if guys in China are completely comfortable--and often insist upon--carrying their girl's purse...
...then the chivalry isn't about doing what we can't do. I can open my own door. It's just nice to have someone to help me, to take care of me, to show me a little extra respect and help when it's appropriate (grabbing a girl's puse without permission is known as mugging--not the thing to do).
So my response to Mr. Helpful? Playful banter, of course, full of smiles and sassy expressions. :)
Mr. Helpful: Ok, then, I'll hold 'er steady while you haul it in there.
Me: Um, no, I will hold 'er steady and you will haul the pool in there.
Mr. Helpful: (chuckles) But you're a strong young'un!
Me: But you're the guy LAUGHING AT ME.
((Still chuckling, Mr. Helpful easily hoists the pool into my backseat and gently closes the door. Mrs. Helpful just happens to approach at this moment, her shopping cart overflowing with bagged purchases.))
Mrs. Helpful: I thought you were going to stay in the car...?
Mr. Helpful: She made me come help her load her car after she caught me laughing at her.
Mrs. Helpful: (big smile at me) Well, then, you can get your butt over here and load up our car.
Mr. Helpful: I knew I shouldn't have laughed...
So, lessons for today:
1. Park in the flat section of the lot.
2. Teasing others can earn you extra (home)work.
3. A little Southern accent and a big smile still charms the opposite sex.
Fun for every family unafraid of sanitizing their genes...and the resulting cancer outbreaks
So I trek into Wal-Mart, select the new pool, hoist it through the checkout, and cart it to my car. It's when I'm attempting to put this very ungainly, very heavy box into my backseat that I find major conflict. This box is heavier than I remember it being. It's also getting consistently caught on the edge of the cart, which is continuously wheeling away from my car thanks to a sloped parking lot. Two tries only succeed in making my lower back ache, my shoulder pop, and nearly landing me in a heap on the ground as I attempt to control too many moving objects at once. It is at the moment that I'm glaring at this now obnoxious present when I hear laughter. It's not very loud, not overwhelming, but just the soft chuckles of someone observing what must look like the equivalent of an uncoordinated penguin troop performing Swan Lake.
It's only cute if you're three years old and still look good in a leotard.
Parked in the row behind me is a big red SUV...with a hefty-looking 40+ year-old man in the driver's seat. Now, normally I'd just ignore him, or at the most, smile embarrassedly while trying for a third time to wrangle the plastic pool of doom. This time, however, I've had a great time at music practice. I've eaten a fair amount of sugar. I'm high on life. I open my mouth.
"Well, if you're going to get such a kick out of this free show, the least you could do is come over here and help me!" My teasing remark, sassy and full of enough sweetness to counteract the sarcasm, works like a charm. The gentleman exits his vehicle, showing off his lovely work-roughed jeans and faded t-shirt, and saunters over to my car. He puts one strong hand on the edge of the cart and anchors it against the wheel well. "Ok, then, I'll hold 'er steady while you haul it in there."
Time out.
I'm sorry, but did my audience, obviously much bigger and stronger and very MALE, just take the easy job in this ordeal? I mean, I know our current world culture has more of a humorous attitude towards chivalry.
See? Soldiers know how to treat a lady (at least I'm assuming that's a lady).
I know that even simple chivalric manners, like opening car doors, seems to be a thing of the past (although I was delighted to find that there are guys out there still insisting on this little treat...and they're forgiving when our decades-old habit of having to open our own car doors kicks in before they can circle the car).
The manners and his suit have become "old-fashioned," but her hairstyle has come back into fashion at least three times.
Despite this, the current situation was obviously one in which the correct thing was not being done. Yes, I am technically strong enough to haul the box in my backseat (I've carried much heavier things before with few problems) and the problem is more of one of logistics and not strength. Still, if guys in China are completely comfortable--and often insist upon--carrying their girl's purse...
My purse, coincidentally, is about 2/3 the weight of the pool most days... (My school packback has reached 100 pounds before...and you wonder why I go monthly to a chiropractor).
...then the chivalry isn't about doing what we can't do. I can open my own door. It's just nice to have someone to help me, to take care of me, to show me a little extra respect and help when it's appropriate (grabbing a girl's puse without permission is known as mugging--not the thing to do).
So my response to Mr. Helpful? Playful banter, of course, full of smiles and sassy expressions. :)
Mr. Helpful: Ok, then, I'll hold 'er steady while you haul it in there.
Me: Um, no, I will hold 'er steady and you will haul the pool in there.
Mr. Helpful: (chuckles) But you're a strong young'un!
Me: But you're the guy LAUGHING AT ME.
((Still chuckling, Mr. Helpful easily hoists the pool into my backseat and gently closes the door. Mrs. Helpful just happens to approach at this moment, her shopping cart overflowing with bagged purchases.))
Mrs. Helpful: I thought you were going to stay in the car...?
Mr. Helpful: She made me come help her load her car after she caught me laughing at her.
Mrs. Helpful: (big smile at me) Well, then, you can get your butt over here and load up our car.
Mr. Helpful: I knew I shouldn't have laughed...
So, lessons for today:
1. Park in the flat section of the lot.
2. Teasing others can earn you extra (home)work.
3. A little Southern accent and a big smile still charms the opposite sex.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
A Christian Walk(through)
While I've never been very "into" video games, computer games have been a part of my life for over a decade. Things have changed a lot since the simplistic MS-DOS adventures--now there are complicated adventure, arcade, and strategy games to tickle my fancy. While most of the time I enjoy bumbling my way around these virtual worlds, figuring out puzzles and discovering the elusive paths to rewards, there are many times when I lose patience or am just a little too eager to reach the end of the game and find out "the ending." It's similar to my impulse I try to control when reading suspense novels--I want to flip to the back and find out whodunit. (Now, when I exercise enough restraint to keep plowing through the book instead, I often end up skimming the reading and staying up all hours of the night until I'm done. Not exactly a better option, although it depends on how you look at it.)
Enter the wonderful invention of walkthroughs. These are postings, sometimes with uber-helpful illustrations (screen captures) that describe, step by step, how to progress through the game. If I can't figure out just the right combination to the secret safe, the answer is just a google away. Annoyed that this "boss" won't keel over so I can rescue the cute, imprisoned kitty? A walkthrough will give me suggestions that usually work perfectly. My anxieties are over, and I can progress confidently, knowing that any future sticking points can be easily solved once again. If only real life could be this simple.
In real life, I'm often worried, confused, frustrated, and even scared. I've been constantly asking God for signs in many respects of my life. My job situation is a little shaky, thanks to the economy; I want a steady, full-time job with benefits. I don't like the insecurity that comes with working two part-time jobs that aren't permanent but rather contract-renewable. I don't like the insecurity of being in a "dating" relationship. I don't like the insecurity of being around people who don't know the meaning of "constructive criticism." I'm scared and frightened and want to flip forward in the book of my life to reassure myself that things are all going to work out. I want to know if it's worth the pain and drama of a long-distance relationship or if my current boyfriend and I are only destined to be friends. I want to know when I'm going to get that job, and if there are avenues I need to start pursuing now (like my PhD) in order to find that job. I beg God almost daily for signs, for revelations. I want concrete, undeniable (or at least certifiable) messages. Billboards would be nice. I want to google my life, find the walkthrough, and examine how to best get through this tricky maze. Then I get frustrated because nothing's popping up, which makes me more scared...and it turns into a vicious cycle.
Like most times in a game (this one being Life, and not the Hasbro version) when I can't see the way out, I realize I've been looking in the wrong place the whole time. God has given me a walkthrough, but I've been ignoring it in favor of things that I think I must do or will help me escape from the painful reality. It's the obvious answer: the Bible.
Now, I'm not saying that all the answers are explicitly in there. Nowhere does it say, "Tamara, you will be married in three years, have five children (keep the youngest away from bees--trust me on that one), be a published author after your 29th rejection, and will be a New York Times Bestselling Author on your third book." It does say a few things about my namesakes, but those two stories are...for another day. :) What the Bible does provide is exactly what I've been asking for: Revelations. Although I am an English professor and enjoy playing around with symbolism occasionally, this book is not what even I, the girl who reads the Oxford English Grammar for fun, would call a satisfying and understandable read. I get all caught up in the minutia of horns and seals and colorful horses that I forget the big picture. It's a walkthrough, and the ultimate ending is there for me to know in black-and-white: God wins. Satan loses. Enter peaceful eternity.
My "minutia" seems enormous to me, but in the scope of eternity, whether or not I get a full-time job or end up marrying my boyfriend is practially insignificant. My jobs, as my pastor says, are primarily to love God, love people, and enlarge Heaven (by leading others to Christ). If I take my focus off my problems and worries and instead focus it on God, I can find that peace and reassurance that I've been searching for. In the end, God wins. In the end, it is HIS will. In the end, He is in control. I just need to focus on what is right in front of me and let God take care of the rest. He's got it. I need to trust Him.
Enter the wonderful invention of walkthroughs. These are postings, sometimes with uber-helpful illustrations (screen captures) that describe, step by step, how to progress through the game. If I can't figure out just the right combination to the secret safe, the answer is just a google away. Annoyed that this "boss" won't keel over so I can rescue the cute, imprisoned kitty? A walkthrough will give me suggestions that usually work perfectly. My anxieties are over, and I can progress confidently, knowing that any future sticking points can be easily solved once again. If only real life could be this simple.
In real life, I'm often worried, confused, frustrated, and even scared. I've been constantly asking God for signs in many respects of my life. My job situation is a little shaky, thanks to the economy; I want a steady, full-time job with benefits. I don't like the insecurity that comes with working two part-time jobs that aren't permanent but rather contract-renewable. I don't like the insecurity of being in a "dating" relationship. I don't like the insecurity of being around people who don't know the meaning of "constructive criticism." I'm scared and frightened and want to flip forward in the book of my life to reassure myself that things are all going to work out. I want to know if it's worth the pain and drama of a long-distance relationship or if my current boyfriend and I are only destined to be friends. I want to know when I'm going to get that job, and if there are avenues I need to start pursuing now (like my PhD) in order to find that job. I beg God almost daily for signs, for revelations. I want concrete, undeniable (or at least certifiable) messages. Billboards would be nice. I want to google my life, find the walkthrough, and examine how to best get through this tricky maze. Then I get frustrated because nothing's popping up, which makes me more scared...and it turns into a vicious cycle.
Like most times in a game (this one being Life, and not the Hasbro version) when I can't see the way out, I realize I've been looking in the wrong place the whole time. God has given me a walkthrough, but I've been ignoring it in favor of things that I think I must do or will help me escape from the painful reality. It's the obvious answer: the Bible.
Now, I'm not saying that all the answers are explicitly in there. Nowhere does it say, "Tamara, you will be married in three years, have five children (keep the youngest away from bees--trust me on that one), be a published author after your 29th rejection, and will be a New York Times Bestselling Author on your third book." It does say a few things about my namesakes, but those two stories are...for another day. :) What the Bible does provide is exactly what I've been asking for: Revelations. Although I am an English professor and enjoy playing around with symbolism occasionally, this book is not what even I, the girl who reads the Oxford English Grammar for fun, would call a satisfying and understandable read. I get all caught up in the minutia of horns and seals and colorful horses that I forget the big picture. It's a walkthrough, and the ultimate ending is there for me to know in black-and-white: God wins. Satan loses. Enter peaceful eternity.
My "minutia" seems enormous to me, but in the scope of eternity, whether or not I get a full-time job or end up marrying my boyfriend is practially insignificant. My jobs, as my pastor says, are primarily to love God, love people, and enlarge Heaven (by leading others to Christ). If I take my focus off my problems and worries and instead focus it on God, I can find that peace and reassurance that I've been searching for. In the end, God wins. In the end, it is HIS will. In the end, He is in control. I just need to focus on what is right in front of me and let God take care of the rest. He's got it. I need to trust Him.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Being Useful
After several days of silence, it's fitting that this entry should be about doing something--especially as I haven't done much of anything lately. Oh, I have excuses. After hosting a conference all weekend, working extra shifts at work Monday and Tuesday, and my thesis defense last week, it's perfectly "acceptable" that I haven't been that productive lately.
Um, sorry, but it's not.
I have a bit of a lazy streak which interacts with my perfectionist tendencies in an odd way--I'll go through a flurry of activity, then spend days (or even weeks) being downright vegetative. Maybe I'll spend a few hours playing a computer game or watching classic TV shows on my computer. Maybe I'll read or stare at my pile of laundry, wishing it to magically do itself. The past few days, not much has been accomplished. I could have, should have done a lot of things. But, again, I have excuses. I'm tired. I'm needing "a break." I'm stressed out. I'm recuperating.
God's not happy with this, however. He gave me so many abilities, so many gifts, and even one day without doing something is a waste of time. Granted, He doesn't expect me to be a 24/7 whirling dervish; He doesn't expect me to be a couch potato, either.
This entry is a reminder to all of us: stop making excuses. We're lazy, we know it, and we need help to change. Today is not over yet. Make it worth something. Check something off the list besides "take a break." Challenge yourself to make today a day that you won't regret.
Um, sorry, but it's not.
I have a bit of a lazy streak which interacts with my perfectionist tendencies in an odd way--I'll go through a flurry of activity, then spend days (or even weeks) being downright vegetative. Maybe I'll spend a few hours playing a computer game or watching classic TV shows on my computer. Maybe I'll read or stare at my pile of laundry, wishing it to magically do itself. The past few days, not much has been accomplished. I could have, should have done a lot of things. But, again, I have excuses. I'm tired. I'm needing "a break." I'm stressed out. I'm recuperating.
God's not happy with this, however. He gave me so many abilities, so many gifts, and even one day without doing something is a waste of time. Granted, He doesn't expect me to be a 24/7 whirling dervish; He doesn't expect me to be a couch potato, either.
This entry is a reminder to all of us: stop making excuses. We're lazy, we know it, and we need help to change. Today is not over yet. Make it worth something. Check something off the list besides "take a break." Challenge yourself to make today a day that you won't regret.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)