From the living word...

“We who have fled for refuge might have strong encouragement to hold fast to the hope set before us. We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters into the inner place behind the curtain, where Jesus has gone as a forerunner on our behalf, having become a high priest forever after the order of Melchizedek.”
-Hebrews 6:18b-20

Wow. That’s really good stuff, eh?

Bjerkaas Buffet

So, I went to Eric’s family’s thing in Ohio for Thanksgiving. (See previous post about being rejected by my own family.)

You can imagine, with my tendency to be a bit neurotic and socially awkward, that this did present itself as a bit of a reason to absolutely freak out.

(Eric pointed out that I say oxymoronic things like that—“a bit of a reason to absolutely freak out”—a lot. Huh. I’m just really funny like that, sort of. I guess.)

But I survived our Ohio adventure.

It actually was a really good time. I was surprised by how not uncomfortable I was, most of the time. Weird.

Meeting Eric’s brothers, sisters-in-law and parents was cool and all, but the best part was getting to know Eric better as I got to know them and watch them all interact.

You should know—all three Bjerkaas boys are sharp. They’ve got all these degrees and life experiences that far outnumber and outshine any of mine. I was the loser with just a bachelor’s. Not a masters. Or two masters. I felt rather boring and bland and basic, not to mention inarticulate. (Oh, and, don’t fret—the boys’ wives and parents were equally extraordinary… whimper.)

But, yeah, I got to learn more and more about how cool Eric is. Oh, yeah, which reminds me—not to brag or anything, but… I’ve got a pretty cool boyfriend.

Now you know.

And it’s hard to know, because he’s all humble and (in my conspiracy-theory-esque opinion) actually keeps his coolness secret. But secrets don’t last through a dozen or so hours in the car and five full-on days of togetherness. And they especially don’t last when family is around.

His mom was talking about all this hardcore stuff he did in the Army—stuff I’d never heard about before. (I do believe I have a regular John Wayne on my hands.) And his brothers would reminisce about visiting him when he was stationed in Germany, and about their gallivanting around Europe. And then Eric himself would do things like offhandedly mention his history of jumping out of planes.

And, even cooler, I began to see the unique strengths and… things… Eric brings to the family picture. (“Things” is my attempt to define some certain indefinable traits...)

And the biggest E-revealing moment?

When the brothers broke out this insanely nerdy Star Wars trivia game and Eric started to absolutely destroy them in it. I just sat there slack-jawed—stunned, really—as he pulled out all this ultra-geeky knowledge about movies I’ve never had the slightest bit of interest in. I’m talking obscure, obscure stuff. Wow. There just weren’t words to describe the shock/wonder that induced…

So, yeah, my boyfriend is a bit of a nerd. More than I even knew, apparently. But we both are nerds when it comes right down to it.

And, in some circles, that is also cool.

So… win, win.

And win, again—by having a really great Thanksgiving.

Thanks(giving) for the slight...

Did I tell you my parents didn’t invite me to Thanksgiving?

Yup, that happened.

A few weeks back, we were sitting in the kitchen with my brother Kev and sister-in-law Riss, and they established that Riss was hosting the big day at their house in Wisconsin, and my parents were invited. And the—my parents, brother and sisters, that is—went on to talk about details… and left me sitting there, befuddled.

I mean, hello? Not to take on a princess complex or anything, but—umm?—this is my first Thanksgiving back stateside and you’re not even going to acknowledge that I’m around? I wasn’t expecting fanfare or a throne or confetti, but at least an invite? Hilarious.

I intend to keep telling this story—with a growing theme of “poor me”—for years to come.

But, even though my parents ditched me, I knew Thanksgiving had to be better than last year’s. I made the mistake of opening up some of my posts from last year this time. Wow. What a different world. You can go back and read them yourself if you want, and remember with me what was going on in Lopitland then. But I can spare you the work by simply saying, compared to last year, the holidays have nowhere to go but up… ;)

 

Summon the Hedgehog....

(I actually wrote this little ditty a week or two ago, but then it got lost in the recesses of my computer... So you're getting it now... And, fyi, I'm still not really sure what this settling business should look like.)

If you know me (or, I guess, if you've been reading this blog long enough), you know I don't like to do things halfway.

In a leadership book I read, the author called it the "hedgehog approach" (or something very much like that). I like that word picture. It suits me. Basically, it's focusing on a certain thing and going after it with all your energy.

Right now, I'm hedgehogging on settling into La Salle-Peru.

My deal is, though, what does settling into a place look like? I've never really done it before. It was college—a new place each year and summer—then a quick stop in Decatur, then a whirlwind handful of months at home preparing to leave, then a mud/dung house (maybe the very definition of impermanent?) in Sudan. And then, bam, I'm here. And staying. (Yeah, still funny…)

So, what is settling in, exactly? I mean, outside of hanging picture frames. Or buying an area rug. Or stocking up on stuff in bulk.

'Cause that's all I can think of, and none of that is really an option. My mother sat looking at me mournfully the other day, when I dared to set up a little table for my computer in my nephew's room, which is what they call what is really my room—the nomenclature pointedly and purposefully unwelcoming. So picture frames are certainly out of the question.

I'm suddenly wide open to take responsibilities and make on-going commitments. To get involved. Yea even to get employed (Lord willing!). To belong—whether it is at a church or in a group of friends or at the Y or a Scrabble club.

And that's exciting. That's big. That's something to hedgehog toward.

But it's also a bit overwhelming and I don't know what it should look like here.

And that might be reason enough to concede to something as simple as picture frames and area rugs and jumbo-sized boxes of… whatever.

Change of Plans. (?!?!)

I think I’ve talked with a lot of you in the past few days, but I figure it’s high time to drop a blog about my really recent and kind of giant change of plans.

So, last week—after a lot of counsel and prayer—I resigned from Jesus Film and Campus Crusade.

I know, you’re probably thinking, “What in the world, Andi?!?!”

Welp, here’s the dealio: I’m staying home to see about this boy.

Like I said, I met a wonderful fella here who loves the Lord. And who, apparently, doesn’t mind having me around. So I’m going to just go ahead and do that—be around.

And see what God has for me.

Or—well—us.

And, yeah, that might be a bit crazy.

But, surprisingly, you all have been less surprised than I expected. In fact, that a good number of you apparently saw this coming well before I did alarms me.

Am I so hardheaded?

To be sure, getting to this point, to make this call, did take a pretty impressive working by the Holy Spirit in my heart. And it didn’t come without a fair share of trashing and squirming about. But finally I was forced to rip my eyes off the Jesus Film and focus them instead on Jesus himself—exchange my plans for His.

And so I resigned.

I’m settling into La Salle-Peru, settling into this new path God has for me, settling into trusting the Lord to give me the grace to serve Him faithfully, even here.

Through this whole thing, I’ve fallen more in love with the fact that God is so good as to allow His people to learn more about His character at every turn in life.

I’ve learned that sometimes He will lead you so far enough down one path, just to show you it’s not the way He wants you to go. He’ll test your faithfulness and willingness in one direction, only to turn you around and bless your steps in another direction.

And, I’m just amazed that my God is so sovereign in men’s hearts as to be able to take the thing I wanted least—yea, even my worst fear: to be tripped up on the way to Jesus Film, to be “stuck” at home for any significant amount of time —and to change it into the thing I want most, the thing that’s best for me. And turn that same “unwanted” thing into an answer to focused, fervent prayer.

Honestly, how thrilling, how praiseworthy, how awesome is that? Gets me pretty excited about my God—my Abba, Father.

So, that’s it. That’s my news.

Sometime really soon I’ll get out my last prayer letter, to the same effect. (Probably this blog, nearly to the letter, to be honest.) And I’ll get you the details of my resignation (official sometime in December, as I understand it) and of what to do if you’re on my financial team and all that good stuff.

(Gunning) For the birds...

I came upon a whole rafter of wild turkeys out on 71 this morning.

It reminded me of when we’d chance upon a family of guinea foul on the road out of Sudan—when we hadn’t eaten meat in a long time—and everyone would hungrily (and sometimes loudly) cheer on Daniel as he pushed on the gas and tried to hit one just right, so we could have bird for dinner in Loki.

 

I felt a similar excitement rise in me today when I saw those fat turkeys. Especially with Thanksgiving so close at hand.

 

But I remembered in plenty of time that such behavior/thinking is not OK in the U.S. of A.

 

I’m so adjusted.

Subbing: my personal social experiment...

High school kids are so mysterious. Intriguing in a way.

They talk about the most bizarre things. Treat each other in the strangest ways. Esteem (and exalt, really) peculiar stuff. They'll strike up the strangest conversations with me--about anything, really. Especially about Africa--they ask great questions.

I'm kind of a people watcher, so you can imagine how much fun this whole thing is for me. I spend a lot of time trying to figure out what exactly is going through these kids' heads--why they say the things they say, why they feel so compelled to act the way they do. When students are particularly naughty or show such little respect for their fellow students or me as human beings, I spend a lot of time ruminating on what anger, missing thing, insecurity or uncertainty that's all rooted in.

And a lot of time wishing they knew Christ.

("Wishing" is a deliberate word choice. I'm still developing my discipline of turning that wishing into active, fervent prayer.)

But some of it is fun. I get to be a fly on the wall, especially in my old high school. I get to hear all about how it's pasta day, a reason for excitement at LP that--it seems--is older than the students are. (Pasta was "exciting" back in 1997, too.) I get/have to hear about so-and-so and so-and-so. I hear echos of my own classmates, as these current students complain about the same teachers we did.

And, interestingly and recently, I've got to hear from the girls about how attractive the LP faculty is. Oh yes. A group of girls walked into "my" Spanish class last week gushing about how hot Mr. B is.

I found it super difficult to keep a straight face and not gawk or burst out into laughter. The poor things didn't have a clue that their precious, hot Mr. B is my Eric. Haha. Oh wow. I did manage, however--in the conversation they started with me, in which they were urging me to check out for myself the famously attractive teachers of the math hallway--to ask if perhaps the likes of Mr. B and their other favorite faculty eye candy wasn't a touch too old for them. Doesn't matter, apparently. They're just that hot. Wow. (Said opinions, of course, further extinguish any concerns I might have had about ol' Mr. B being too old for me...)

So, wow, that's definitely my new favorite subbing story. And one I try to tell as much as possible in Eric's presence. Obviously.

:)

Back to the basics...

Yesterday, at OHS, I subbed for a chem teacher.

The students watched “Charlie Brown and the NASA Space Station.” A Snoopy movie.

This is advanced chem, might I add.

(To their credit, though, the kids were also working on some sort of molecular equations... but, still...)

But that I simply got to show this movie—for four periods, with increasing enjoyment in each showing, to be sure—afforded me a lot of time to study.

I was able to work through the entire Affirmation of Faith from Desiring God, a quality ministry that’s blessed me with good spiritual eatin’ since I first became a Christian. I was going through the Affirmation of Faith—basically a boiled-down, straight-forward “Here’s what we believe” from DG—for a couple reasons, but really came away with a firmer hold on and deeper understanding of my own faith.

It’s really just a compilation of the basics, you see—and it was just so great to get back to the basics.

And get back to meditating on the basics.

Rejoicing in the basics.

Savoring the basics.

Good stuff, indeed.

Real Sex.

Subbing at the high school can be kind of boring--I've told you this. So I bring a book to read, for when I'm not grading Eric's papers.

Generally, I'm reading something obviously Christian, so I don't mind the kids getting a peek at the book's title. But things got a little crazy with this last book I'm reading--a book my friend read and loved and suggested.

It’s a book that's turning out to be a surprisingly honest, refreshingly different look at Christians and chastity--how we should talk about sex, how we should teach about chastity, and how we as a church body need to/can nurture singles in pursuing a chaste lifestyle. I’m actually quite impressed with the author—a Christian woman who wasn’t married at 21 and actually has a sexual history, who doesn’t gloss over the fact that sexual desire is real, who doesn’t simply spout clichés and who has so clearly poured over the Text and other teachings with a critical eye.

Anyway, it’s a good read. I think this would be a valuable teaching tool, were I ever to get back to campus ministry. But that’s not really the point.

The point is I was reading it at school, like I said. And that’s normally not a problem, like I said.

But the title of said book happens to be—in shiny red letters printed on the ultra-black spine of the book—“REAL SEX.”

No one has ever given a second glance at any book I’m reading. No one has ever cared. But all of a sudden--though I was careful not to flash the title and actually ended up covering it with electrical tape, just to avoid any confusion—everyone is curious to know what I’m reading.

Students casually ask me. Teachers, unprovoked, chum up to me in the hallway while I’m working lunch duty, tip their chin at my book and want to know.

I sputter a bit. Probably turn a light crimson. Make a super awkward face. Hem. Haw. Fidget. “Errr, it’s a Christian book.” About what? “Ummmm… Welp, it’s actually called ‘Real Sex: the naked truth about chastity.’ ”

Wow. Laying it all out there. Awkward moment.

So, long story short--now I’m the substitute teacher reading the sex book.

Excellent.

Just excellent.

still kmandie...

 

Together again.

 

Minnesot-ah.

So I took a spur-of-the-moment trip up to Minnesota last week, to see KP. She’s been uber-sick for what seems like forever, so I was hoping to bring some cheer. Instead, I brought my own bug and spent a day and a half of my two-day stay on cold medicine, loopy as anything. Figures. Haha.

Still, it was good to see my Kimmie. I really miss having her just a mud wall away, always there. Life’s so busy and wild these days, I worry my most important people will get lost in the shuffles—theirs and mine. It’s hard to even connect on the phone anymore. I’m working so hard to “be where I’m at,” but sometimes it seems you really do need to be in two places at once.

(Disclaimer: I know this isn’t an earth-shattering idea for any of you—it’s simply about life, as is most of what I write on here these days. But I’m just putting the pen to the paper—it’s what I do. And I guess you’re welcome to be a part of that…)

That’s why I got in the car and drove the seven hours to Cambridge, MN. I figured that’s about as far as we’d drive to get mediocre potatoes in Sudan… so no big deal.

And in an amazing twist, we actually got to reconnect with Pattie, as well. She’s from Texas, but was randomly about an hour away from KP. How sweet is that?

Imagine, Kim and I tearing out of the mall doors and into the parking lot to give Pattie Chapatti her welcoming hugs. We were tempted to actually tackle her, but thought better of it—what, with all the wet pavement and people watching and all.

All in all, it was a good, quick trip, despite being sick and all that driving. Staying out at KP’s farmhouse with her folks felt like coming home. Being with the roommates, understanding their struggles and being really understood, and swapping stories was—now that I think about it—just what I needed.

My teensy-weensy, blogworthy someone...

My mom’s been poking at me the last few days, questioning my transparency on the ol’ blog, because of one teensy-weensy thing I haven’t exactly mentioned yet.

And, yeah, I guess, to be honest, it’s not all that teensy or weensy.

He’s actually kind of a big deal.

Nearly a foot taller than I am, at least.

So, meet Eric.

I ran into him one day not so long ago in the halls of my old high school—he’s a teacher, not a student—and haven’t been able to shake him since. And I don’t mind. Not really at all.

There you have it—transparency. I hope you’re happy. I’m not one to admit easily to myself that I’m excited about a fella, let alone to the entire blogging community. So forgive my foot-dragging on the intro. (Mom.)

He’s a godly, godly man—you don’t find many/any of those in younger models around the Illinois Valley—and absolutely great to be around.

Not too shabby. Not too shabby, indeed.

You even get a picture. (I’m amazing even myself.) I like that one up there ‘cause my Dad’s in it—and, honestly, how weird is that? We definitely hang with the ‘rents a lot. So cool.

November Prayer Letter...

Actually, kind of a lame one. But I do what I can. Sigh.

More pumpkins....

Kira and Allison.

Kolton, as serious as ever.

My little pun'kins...

One of the things I missed the most about not being around for the last two years was carving pumpkins with Lara and the kiddos. It’s a tradition that goes way back, and one I’ve always enjoyed. So, here we go. Pumpkin carving pictures.

Lara and I, clearly having a good time gutting our pumpkins.

Kyla and "her" Tommy.

Kaden. Future lady-killer. I was just looking back at the first pictures we took carving pumpkins, way back in... 2003? He looks so teensy then! Now he's all grown up and adorable. Sigh.

On Wisconsin...

(As in, “On (the subject matter of) Wisconsin.” Not as in, “On, (to victory) Wisconsin.” Because that’d be just disgusting.)

I thought I’d pluck a few pictures from my desktop and plaster ‘em up here for ya. None of these is anywhere near as great as an Ellen picture, but I suppose they do give a glimpse into my life at the moment. Which I guess is the point of this here blog. I guess.

So, here ya go. Pictures from the Illinois-Wisconsin game I went to with Kev, Riss and their friend, Rob. Here we're just... eating. But you should know those bleachers were freezing.

Alabaster jar...

Golly, I’ve been learning a lot lately.

Just so much.

And it’s not all that pretty.

God and I went on a little date last week. A morning in the Starved Rock lodge with our favorite Book and a cozy sweatshirt.

That’s sort of where the cozy stopped, though—at the sweatshirt.

I got into the Word and I got into journaling, talking with the Lord. And things got rocky.

Rock in a good way—if I can say that—because the Holy Spirit started poking at me some, showing me some sin in my life—thing I’m holding on to, really.

I have a death grip on some things, to be honest. The white-knuckled variety.

Whoops.

So God led me to the Scripture about the woman at Bethany who anointed Jesus’ feet with expensive ointment and wiped his feet with her hair. She broke this alabaster jar—filled with something so precious—at this feet. And it was worth it. She understood that nothing in that jar could be so precious as worshipping and honoring the Savior by giving it all over to him.

So I took an inventory of all that I’m holding on to in my own jar, all that I’m not trusting God with. And, at the risk of toppling the (undue) missionary pedestal, I’ll say it wasn’t a short list. It was shamefully long. And I took that jar and stared at it. Gave it and its “precious” contents a good, long look.  

Then I looked at my Savior.

And I’m not sure if you’ve ever done that before—looked intently at all the worldly, temporary things you hold dear, then gazed into the eyes, the character of the One who died for you, so you could have everything, for eternity—but it’s just not a good idea if you’re wanting to hold on to that jar.

It is a great idea, however, if you want to smash that thing for his glory, or pour it out all over his feet. And so that’s what I’m working on doing.

 

Today I missed Lopit. A lot.

I dug out the blanket I had in Sudan, curled up on the couch with my picture of Ellen and gave the blanket a good, deep breath in, just to see if I could still smell our little mountainside.

This, of course, makes very little sense. Because, let’s be honest, the smell of Lopit wasn’t a good one. Really, nothing about Sudan smelled particularly good.

But, either way, I looked at that picture, snuggled in and took a beautiful, beautiful nap.

Missing a place can just be exhausting.

Let us behold... and, beholding, become like Christ.

I’ve read Seeing and Savoring Jesus Christ, a Piper book, two or three times through. And I keep rereading certain sections lately, as I keep losing my place in the book. The problem is, I have a picture of Ellen as a bookmark. Sometimes I just pull it out and stare dreamily at it and forget to keep my thumb in the page. So, what I’m saying is—I’ve read this book (or sections of it) lots of times.

It challenges me, though, each time. That probably has a lot to do with the fact that it’s saturated with Scripture and all about God’s glory in the character and person of Jesus Christ. And I love God’s glory.

Recently, though, I’m specifically challenged to glorify God in my joy. My view of joy—though I feel like this is a mountain I’ve been around a lot of times, a well-trod lesson topic, especially in Sudan—has been stretched, yet again.

Jesus has gladness above his companions.

Moreover, He’s indestructibly happy.

Moreover-over (not even a word), He’s got the infinite, holy, indomitable mirth of his Father.

And, I was reminded, that’s available to me.

Because I’m in Christ, He gives me not just my own joy increased to its final limit, leaving me short of his.  No, no. That’s not quite sweet enough.

“My capacities for joy are very confined. So Christ not only offers himself as the divine object of my joy [(that is, that I may find all my joy in him)], but pours his capacity for joy into me, so that I can enjoy him with the very joy of God.”

Now, honestly, how amazing is that? The very joy of God. Imagine!

(“Imagine!” is often what I say when I simply can’t imagine.)

And it’s not gloomy joy. “Salvation is not mainly the forgiveness of sins, but mainly the fellowship of Jesus (1 Cor 1:9). If this fellowship is not all-satisfying, there is no great salvation. If Christ is gloomy, or even calmly stoical, eternity will be a long, long sigh.”

But, perhaps more important for me, it’s not glib joy. This hit me. If it’s not glorious to be gloomy, neither is it glorious to be glib. I often forget that. A plastered-on smile isn’t glorifying to God. Shallow joy, fake joy—not glorifying to God.

I actually wonder if being real in my joylessness is better—more honest, at least. Raw. And if I dare to try to be joyless—if I neglect my great salvation in such a way—then perhaps I’ll realize how impossible joylessness really is, in Christ.

In the face of the gladness—the infinite, holy indomitable mirth—the indestructible joy of my Savior and my King, my Abba Father and my Helper… how dare I be glib.

And that alone… Well, it makes me just plain joyful.

 

leave it to beaver...

I woke up late for the Illini game on Saturday.

Before I knew it, Dad had highlighted directions in my hands.

And Mom went all June Cleaver on me, sending me off with piping hot, hot chocolate and cautions to be careful.

I guess living with my parents isn’t so bad after all.

(Though, now that I think about it, they could have just been anxious to get me out of the house…)

I shouldn’t say nice things about living at home, lest my parents get wind that I’m getting comfy. They’ll start charging me rent.

But I’m surprising myself a bit, in how my feelings toward the ol’ Illinois Valley have changed.

When I graduated from LP, I was out of the door (literally) the next day to Iowa, to work until I started school (again, literally the next day) at U of I. II was ready to be gone.

But now I feel drawn to be part of the community. I’m subbing while I’m getting a good support base, and I’ve found I enjoy being at the old stomping grounds of LP. I enjoy getting to see the same students again and again. I even took my niece and nephew to an LP volleyball game the other day. I love my church here, obviously, and would love to give as much as I get, to serve as much as I’m served.

And I, of course, mean no offense against the fine folks here—it’s just that I was always the one who was ready to get away. I think that’s simply in some of us.

But now it’s different. Since I’ve been home, it’s been sneaking up on me, this reluctant fondness for life here.

Maybe it’s the sense of community that I miss from Sudan. The sense of having a part and playing it—however unique and awkward my part was in Lopit. And with such a greater level of “belonging” possible in my home culture, it’s all the more desirable.

Maybe it’s just a dreamy, rose-colored thing that’s a part of coming home. I really came to miss the Midwest when I was out there. I came to appreciate it. Small town life, right? I mean, wow. So perhaps it’ll just be a matter of time before that wears off and I’m ready to skedaddle again, to leave home, to uproot, to life the missionary life.

Because home isn’t really something most missionaries get.

It’s not in the job description. One of the reasons I picked JESUS Film was because I thought it was OK not to have a real home, that I was “tough enough” to grab hold of my singleness and my no roots and just bounce in and out of Orlando, to strange countries. I know I have to be a self-feeder, independent, flexible. And I was ready to hit that full speed.

So it scares me that I’m liking the comfort, the sameness. I never wanted to be comfortable—comfortable is bad, right? I’ve gotta keep moving, keep pressing. But I feel a little lulled to sleep and charmed to comfort by the idea of something so nice—so constant, so steady, something I can snuggle into.

Or, better, something so nice, so constant, so steady and I can snuggle into… and even find God in?

All that to say… all that to ask, rather… pray for me, that I’d wake back up, pick up the pace and charge on.

Or, at the very least, submit to whatever God has for me.

Here and there.

I woke up a bit wily this morning.

So, yikes. Watch out.

I think it was the combo of a really good weekend, too many episodes of the Office, a touch of cynicism about the curve balls God is pitching me, and the very real idea that if I don’t step it up this week, I’m in very big trouble.

All of that translates into… wily.

(And scratching out this blog on scrap paper while I’m subbing at Ottawa High. Blah.)

Ok, so. Good weekend. I went to the Illini game in Wisconsin with my brother, sister-in-law and brother’s college drinking buddy.

My experience from the game tells me that Wisconsin fans are not the Big Ten’s finest. Eww.

It also threw into question my perspective of my sister-and-law (a Wisconsinite).

She used to be uber cool, but then she rocked up in an entirely Badger outfit. An outfit that she’d bought the night before, specifically for the game. And apparently also for the specific purpose of throwing me into moral throes—do I loathe her for her choice of loyalties or respect her because she has any loyalties at all?

Actually, said Illini game even got me thinking about spiritual things. Namely, is it OK to pray for a specific outcome in a sporting event? I often come to this crossroads unwittingly. I’m sitting there—in this case freezing my tush off—a little stressed, and I naturally start to call on God. I mean, who else would I call on? But then I get a bit into my prayer and realize that I’m praying for a sporting event and fall into a stupor about the validity of that.

It’s hard to imagine the Kingdom purposes in winning a game. But then again I’m sure there could be some. And if I’m praying for God to be glorified in an Illini victory, then isn’t that OK? In such cases, the tumblings of my mind often continue for some time before I realize I  should be paying more attention to the game. And the cycle starts again.

Gosh, life is so complicated.

In other news, Dad turned 50 yesterday. Which basically means he’s ancient. However, there were some personal benefits of Daddy’s going geriatric—namely, free food and lots of cake at his surprise party. So, all in all… I’m happy for the guy.

Maybe I'm illiterate...

I misspelled a word on the prayer flyer I just started handing out.

 

I’m telling you this, just so you know I know you know.

 

And because it’s about the biggest slap in the face for a woman who is supposed to be some sort of editor.

 

And I’ve got about 1,000 copies of that baby to unload—which I will do with a certain amount of shame.

 

And, to make it all the more humbling, it’s quite ironic that I picked this particular word to misspell.

 

So, now you know… I know you know.

just thank you...

I’m working on saying thank you.

And by that I mean, saying simply thank you. Just thank you.

Like when, in what seems like your (ya’ll’s, general “you”s) communal effort/conspiracy to fatten me up, you buy me a nice dinner.

Or when you compliment my writing.

Or say going to Sudan was great and God really used me there.

All these things, I’m ready to argue with right away. Put up a fight against them. Squirm.

But now I’m working on simply saying thank you.

So if I seem like I’m in pain or exceedingly uncomfortable, you know why.

I’m just working on my just saying thank you.

Life Application.

When you’re a single, Christian, 25-year-old woman whose closest peers are mostly married and/or pregnant, you—whether you admit it or not—often wonder why it is you’re still single. What’s wrong with you or (if you want to put a spiritual spin on it) what God still needs to teach you before you get married.

So, since I meet all the qualifications of the aforementioned person—very single, Christian, 25-year-old woman whose closest peers are mostly married and/or pregnant—and since I’m in the “admit it” party, I’ll tell you, I think I realized something the other day that could be one of those big lessons God wants to teach me pre-marriage.

I think maybe one of the reasons God has not yet chosen to marry me off is that I’m far too selfish, especially with my time.

In short, I give the people who mean the most to me, leftover me. They get me at the end of my day. They get me rushing through. Yawning. Changing and dashing out. When I’ve already hit my limit with social time. They really get the leftovers, but they’re the ones who mean the most. I’ll block out time to spend with other people, or for appointments, and these important ones will get lost in the rush. My parents. My few good friends. The kids. They really get the shaft.

And here I am, telling people one of the things I learned in Sudan was that relationships take work, that you have to make sacrifices for them. But I haven’t applied that to life back home quiet yet, it seems.

And so I’m being selfish, not sacrificing enough and sometimes I’m even being selfish by trying to be something to everyone.

And you can’t do that with a husband. Or a family. You can’t shaft your spouse and, oh gracious, my heart hurts when I think about doing that with the kids. (It was hard enough when I realized I was doing it to my little friends.)

So, I guess this must be a current lesson I need to learn (… again). I’d like to say “the” lesson I need to learn, but I have a feeling God still has a lot of work to do on me.

Yellow submarine...

So I sub now. Yeah, I’m a substitute teacher. I mold young minds.

They call me Miss C-----. Awkward.

Ever go into the teachers’ lounge at your old high school? Yeah, that’s weird, too> or try seeing your teachers have real conversations and even call each other by their first names. Or, worse, hearing bubbly grade school teachers curse (gasp!). It’s like another dimension.

But, don’t get me wrong, subbing isn’t half bad. It’s flexible hours with decent pay. It covers my gas money from support appointment to support appointment, church to church. And I get to see how classrooms work and I get the challenge of teaching—a stretching experience for me. I like to learn new things.

The only downside is high school, where most of my job is just glorified babysitting—and boring. The last few days, I’ve lowered myself to honest-to-goodness begging the real teachers for busy work.

Aaaah, yes. Molding young minds… through busy work.

I guess the other bonus to young grades is that I’m less likely to be mistaken for a student. Student teacher, yes. Student, no. (Though the lady who gave me the kids menu would gauge me at about 5^th grade or less, I suppose. So I guess I’m not safe anywhere.)

I was mistaken for a student at the high school yesterday during lunch. Twice. First by a lunch lady who was actually quite snotty until she found out I was an adult. And second by a “fellow” student who was informing me that the only Coke machine available was in the teachers’ lounge and “we”—in this context, he and I, fellow students at large—couldn’t use it.

Everyone keeps telling me how great that is, how when I’m 40, 50, 70, I’ll just love it.

But, malarkey. Right now I really don’t love it.

But, yes, definitely enjoying the subbing otherwise. Very different than Lopit.

 

 

Falling to reality...

It’s fall.

I’ve driven to Ottawa two times already this week, which puts me going straight through Starved Rock, which is a place that just screams fall. This is my first autumn in three years, since 2005. So I get a little… well, something… at the turn of the season.

So, for a few days, I was just enthralled with it being fall.

I came out to my car to see wet leaves plopped all over it. And I actually was just really happy about it.

I smelled fall. And breathed in all I could.

And I even broke out an old jacket since it’s been a lot cooler.

But another piece of reality hit last night, about the time I walked out of dinner at some friends’ house and I was freezing. Absolutely freezing. It was like 50 degrees.

I turned on my car’s heat, and then I realized—fall is almost certainly followed by winter.

And winter, as best as I can remember (which I can remember pretty well, as much as I’d like to forget), is cold. Like snow cold. Ice cold. See-your-breath cold.

Whimper.

Naturally I was devastated.

But then I remembered—with glee—that also associated with fall/winter are mittens and scarves (my favorites!) and the holidays.

And by the time I’d got myself a McFlurry—you know, to help me recover (and prepare for hibernation)—and was eating it in the blasting heat of my car, all was well again.

 

A peculiar fancy...

I guess sometimes I like to fancy myself and my life a little peculiar.

 

Or maybe simply “awkward” is a better word.

 

Kim says claims I have “coincident misfortune syndrome” (from that old classic Pure Luck, for those keeping score at home).

 

My friend Christine told me this weekend that I’ve always been a bit neurotic.

 

Both Kim and Christine are luckily they’re such good friends, lest I’d probably never speak to them again.

 

But, it’s true. I’m a little strange.

 

Take Friday, for example. I was running around, trying to get things in order for heading down to Champaign for the weekend and creating and checking off to-do lists on any spare scrap of paper available. Those who have lived with me know this particular demeanor of mine to be “go mode,” which actually often even makes other folks a bit jumpy and nervous, a bit stressed.

 

But then I’m also just socially awkward. Or do dumb things. Both happened when I was over at Stratford Park this weekend. First, I was in Go Mode because the delicious Lopit cuisine I’d made Saturday night (you know, in an attempt to save time and avoid Go Mode) turned into some strange solid creature in the fridge by Sunday morning. So I was trying to whip up a pot of goo in the church kitchen during the first service, during which time a splat of said goo boil-boil-toil-and-troubled right out of my makeshift caldron and onto my neck—of all places. So you can imagine me, bag of flour in one hand, spoon in the other, trying not to howl in agony as this thick boiling-hot paste sears my neck. And, ya know, I’ve got no hands to wipe the thing off with, so I’m just flailing a bit trying to put something down, and therein, sending a decent amount of flour out of the bag and all over the kitchen. Add to that, the goo leaves an ugly mark on my neck that looks suspiciously like a hickie. And I speak in about… 20 minutes. Absolutely golden.

 

I think I survived the presentation well enough—I don’t have high expectations for myself and have relatively low standards in these sorts of things—but then I had a little encore of the Lopit food fest with the kiddos in junior church. During which time I (not thinking) grab a wee chair, turn it around backwards and straddle it, as I’m trying to tell a story to the kids. Well, next thing I know all the precious little girls in their cute little church dresses are spinning their chairs around and following my very-not-ladylike example. And the teacher chimes in about how they’ve been trying so hard lately to be more ladylike. And of course the damage is already done and I can’t reverse the trend, no matter how proper I try to be for the rest of my visit. SPBC parents, please forgive me.

 

You see? I’m just really awkward. I can’t tell you how many times my old roommates laughed at me this past weekend, either. I could go on forever. I’m just a social mess.

 

Sigh. So. Anyway. I suppose I oughta fancy my life and myself as peculiar as I’d like, as I’m almost certainly not overestimating. But I sure hope I—at some point in my life—grow out of this.

  

Fullness.

I was driving home tonight after a long weekend in Champaign—a late Friday night, Homecoming and Babe Barn (senior roommate) reunion ‘til late, late Saturday and a full-on day of being at Stratford Park and catching up with people—and I was musing a bit to myself about how great of a weekend I’d had.

 

It was exhausting, yeah. And a bit stressful. But still—really, really good.

 

Seven of our ten roommates were there to trounce around campus and invade our old (now-crumbling and beer-drenched) house. This was the first BB reunion I could make after all this time, so it was extra sweet. And we’ve got our first Barn Baby on the way! Wee!

 

I got to see a really good old friend, randomly.

 

Speaking at SPBC was encouraging and revitalizing. (Can you say that about something other than hair products? “Revitalizing”?) And, in general, just such a good, good time.

It seems like maybe God is thinking about bringing some new folks on to my financial partner team. And people are just so darn supportive, I can’t get over it. They really care. No, really. I can’t get over it.

 

I got to spend a short but quality time with the kiddos, over a game of Wii bowling. (Kyla beat me handily. She’s four. As in, I’m 21 years her senior. And have actually bowled in real life. Sigh.)

 

Kim and Pattie both wore down the battery on my cell phone this weekend—each, in their own ways, easing the ache of my recent wave of culture shock and missing Lopit.

 

So there I was, further wearing out my stretch of I-39, and thinking about all this. And I was trying to put it to words in my head and in my conversation with God. Sort of grinning a bit and feeling alive.

 

Finally I thought—oh! This is it! This is fullness of life! How absolutely neat!

 

And, yeah, like I said—it was exhausting and stressful and overwhelming at times. And, sure, this is just a teensy glimpse of all that we can have in Christ.

 

But, I dunno, still a really nice moment for me there, on I-39, enjoying the many blessings of a weekend in Chambana, in Christ.

 

 

 

Orange makes me go blue...

As I was driving home tonight, I stopped my mind from running long enough to realize the world had taken on that beautiful warm, orange-yellow glow that I love so much—that I loved so much in Sudan, especially.

That glow just makes me want to take pictures.

Or, in this case, it made me want to close my eyes.

Strange reaction to beauty, I realize. And not altogether wise when you’re behind the wheel, either.

But that’s what I find myself doing more and more lately, just stopping and closing my eyes. I try to put myself back in Lopit, just like I did that first night I came home—trying to see the landscape stretch out from the foot of the mountain, trying to hear the kids yammering in Lopit, even trying to smell the smoke or that sharp, gag-inducing yeasty smell when they were making beer. I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to get so busy that all those memories, that love toward my neighbors and the kids, spill out as my head is overflowing with to-do lists and jostled around by my McDonalds pace.

This is how it comes—like deep waves of emotion and thought that hit hard but make a speedy retreat back to somewhere just below my conscience. I can’t tell if that’s an unhealthy defense mechanism—how I’m dealing with mourning the end of that part of my life—or if it’s God giving me a peace in the leaving by sparing me moment-by-moment heartache. But, then again, perhaps moment-by-moment heartache is something that could only happen in a vacuum. Or in a Hallmark movie.

(Yeah, I guess in my spare time I like to psycho-analyze myself unnecessarily…)

Either way, the orange tinge over Oglesby this evening hit like a breaker. The other day it was the memory of Laundina calling me by my English name, Andi (“the name my mother calls me,” as we explained it), and how special that was in my ears, since most everyone only knew me as “Ifeja” or some strange, botched pronunciation of “Andrea” (still always followed by “Ifeja”). That wave cracked me straight in the chest and made me miss her terribly.

And then of course there’s Ellen. The little monster might as well be a surfer on those waves, she so frequently brings them.

Foofie-sliding...

(That's South African for, "zip-lining.")

Yeah, we zip. In ultra-cool gear.


The view.


Self-portraits were a must...

Especially after Mom complained about us taking too many "weird face" pictures of ourselves. Which of course is why we took this "weird face" picture of ourselves. That's KP on the left, then my sister-in-law, Riss.

The fam, plus KP. Looking pretty decent for being right off the plane.


Beautiful!

We’re pretty much just Hawaiian beauties, right?

(Right.)

The fam...

My Daddy and I at the luau.

Mom and I, on the ship.

We have proof...

Like I said, certified hula dancers.

Yuppies...

Kim and I tried to be as prim and proper as possible, for my brother’s sake. I think he was often embarrassed, even more than my father was embarrassed, by our lack of polish, sophistication and class. I liked to call him a yuppie. We really did try, though.

But, I mean, obviously, the first thing two adult women from the bush do when they get to their very own fancy-schmancy hotel room on Waikiki beach is jump on the bed.

Right?

Hangin' Loose...

So, I just got back from a ridiculously nice vacation in Hawaii, compliments of my Dad.

A Hawaiian cruise, so far as I can gather, is the exact opposite of mud hut living in Sudan.

Well, except maybe for…

 

No, there truly are no exceptions.

Eating endlessly aboard a 13+ story floating hotel/small country is in no way similar to living among an animistic, relatively isolated bush community in Southern Sudan.

This was somewhat of a (dream) family vacation, with only a few cast adjustments. Take away my little brother, his wife and the (otherwise very spoiled*) grandkids. (*This is so you aren’t tempted to feel bad for their exclusion, which they themselves chose.) Add in good ol’ Kimmie, my roommate from Sudan (and possibly, new family favorite).

I think we’d all agree, it made for a grand time. We went snorkeling in the clear-blue waters of the Pacific. Biking down a volcano in Maui. Got sunburned kayaking off Kona. Cliff-jumped and slid down waterfall slides in Hilo Bay. Took in the silence and saw the “black tears” (drops of oil still surfacing from the wreckage) at Pearl Harbor. Fought the waves and hit the sand in Waikiki. Caught a luau and became certified (no, for seriously) hula dancers in Honolulu.

And, in general, had a really, really wonderful time.

I got to see my brother and his wife for the first time in two and a half years and was happily reunited with KP after our (relatively short but emotionally taxing) two-month separation. Traveling with the Clinard Clan is always an experience—but one Kimmie seems to have come through just fine. We were pampered and spoiled rotten—I’m glad I had her to enjoy it with.

(This wasn’t a missionary’s vacation, to be sure. It was really neat to acknowledge it as just another way God provides in pretty neat ways. I mean, imagine! What a dream!)

As dissimilar as Lopit and Hawaii are, I couldn’t help but thinking about the former while enjoying the latter. I try to keep my “In Africa…” comments to a bare minimum here in the States, and often fumble awkwardly when acquaintances want to small-talk about what I do for a living, for fear of being That Girl who (as KP and I call it) drops the A(frica)-bomb whenever possible.

But with Kim I was free to wonder aloud about what the Lopit would think of the cruise ship. Or just how Ellen and Grasshopper would react to being put in our kayak, surrounded by more water than they could ever imagine. (The conclusion was: absolutely and completely terrified.) And it was nice to use the inside jokes. The “remember when…”s. And to speak or exclaim in Lopit to someone other than my dog or horse.

The mountains that rose high and green against the blue sky made me wish I was “home” a bit, back on our familiar mountainside with our familiar friends.

Luckily, however, I had a handful of all-you-can-eat ship restaurants and Kim’s hilarious antics to distract me out of my nostalgia…

A lot to say.

You know, I’ve had quite a lot of things to say for quite a while now, and I just haven’t got to it.

 

And, so… here goes.

 

I’m starting to feel alive again.

 

Those first few weeks back were really rough. I was worn out and having a hard time getting excited in the fog of exhaustion. I was scheduled to chat with my church about my time in Sudan, and I was honestly a bit wary about it. I felt a little drained from answering the same questions over and over again and was worried I’d be giving pat answers and not really conveying how my time really was and how truly thankful I was for them partnering with me.

 

So, that’s how I went into my presentation. Not exactly on my game.

 

But instead of drawing more energy from me, being there with my church put a new fire in me. They were just so interested, so passionate. (And they hung with me even though I’m a bit of a bumbling fool.)

 

Our team was warned a lot before we left—as part of our re-entry prep—that we needed to have realistic expectations for our homecoming. More bluntly, that we should be prepared for no one to care. For no one to even ask about our two years in Sudan or about the plight of the people there. Even for people to avoid us.

 

But, I dunno… That’s definitely not been my experience. The basement of the church was full that night. People’ve been asking about my kids by name. They’ve been apologizing for asking too many questions. And I’m afraid I’m bordering on offending folks by not getting together with them yet to tell them about things.

 

I guess I’m just spoiled rotten. But thankful.

 

And, like I said, feeling alive again. I left that night with tired feet but an excited, energetic heart. I couldn’t wait to learn all about JESUS Film so I could get them in on that, too.

 

It’s safe to say it was a huge turning point for me. I’m back on the go. Thanks for running with me. :)