*Names have been changed to protect those I care about*
I saw Kenny through the window. He was asking for money for bus fare or food. Probably whatever he thought would resonate more with the passerby. I was sitting in the restaurant so I offered to buy him a burger. I was happy to accept it. The manager less so. “We don’t like to ‘feed the birds.’” he said. “It keeps them coming back. There are plenty of other outlets for that stuff.” I apologized to him, and said I would consider that in the future.
The thing is, I live downtown. I see these guys every day. I see the same ones with the same stories. Even after I had bought Kenny food he was asking for money for food. They want to change but most of them don’t want to have to do anything to change. After I had ordered him food, Kenny went to wait outside and I came back to my computer. I had essays to proofread for the underprivileged kids I worked with. I couldn’t sit there. I went outside to talk to Kenny.
We talked about his shelter, how both his parents were deceased. How he had a sister Rhonda, and a brother Maurice. How Rhonda was trying to fix her own life and how she’d tell him that people work hard for their money and don’t want to just be handing it out. Kenny told me his parents were deceased, he told me he grew up in the projects. He told me he wants to be happy and stable. He’s 49 and he wants to be financially stable. Just like everyone else. I asked him if he liked the shelter. Of course he said no, but for a reason I didn’t expect. “I don’t fit in there.” “You gotta fit in there, most guys don’t wanna spend the night cause they gotta fit in there.” In a place designed to give these men a second chance, Kenny didn’t feel like he fit, which to me immediately translated to, he didn’t feel loved. Something was off here.
The other thing that was off, Kenny had to take a bus to the shelter. He had walked downtown this morning but his feet hurt and he wanted bus fare. Why wasn’t there a shelter downtown? In Syracuse, the Mission is right around the corner from Armory square, and the Ox isn’t far from there. We were failing these men. We weren’t giving them easy access to the help they needed. And we were kicking them out and arresting them when they asked for money. We didn’t need to give them money, we didn’t know them. “You don’t need to know me.” Kenny said.
The thing is, I didn’t buy Kenny lunch just because I felt bad or wanted to say I did something nice for someone. I felt somewhere within me that I was supposed to buy him lunch. Tuppens a bag. It was the same when I came back to my computer and realized I was supposed to talk to Kenny. He was kind. He sat on the trashcan and I stood two feet away. He tried to hug me goodbye but I shook his hand. He asked where I stay at, I told him I was sorry but I wasn’t going to tell him that. I probably should have just said Syracuse. I’m sure Kenny is relatively harmless. But he has lived on the street for years. He’s learned the right lies to tell. And his mixed up brain that repeats the same sentences over and over, has not been challenged in years.
“I’m an addict. I’m not going to lie to you. I’m an honest person. I know you a warm hearted person cause you bought me lunch.” But the Downtown Alliance crew that has to kick him from his spot are assholes. Kenny doesn’t have a job, he starts in to blame the government and the democrats and republicans, and opinions, (which are also like assholes, everyone has one), he starts to blame society. “Kenny,” I say “You’re talking about society. I asked about you.” “Oh me, well I’ve been incarcerated for a few years, it’s hard to get a job when you’ve been incarcerated.” Kenny is full of excuses. But I wouldn’t want to spend a day in is red and rainbow slip-on shoes. “It’s hard out here, it is, but I’m a God-fearing man.”
We talked about a lot of other things. Sports teams, and how everyone is more “friendly” on St. Patrick’s Day. He told me his mother had class, and his grandmother had class. His parents were deceased. He was an orphan. He went to church every Sunday. Every Sunday. Every Sunday. Even I don’t go to church every Sunday. I gave him his food and I shook his hand and as I turned to go back inside he asked me for something. He asked me to keep him in my prayers. With that, every lie he’d told or excuse he made seemed to drift away. It didn’t matter. Of course I would pray for him.
As I wrote this, I started to think about Tamara. I started to think how easy it would be for her to end up in Kenny’s position. How she had been homeless as a child, chased away, even by family. I started to think how going to college was the only thing that could save her. And how much her father and stepmother wanted that for her. Wanted the best for her. Truly loved her. And I thought, all I can do is buy Kenny lunch. I can give Tamara a different life.
Tamara is the mentee I work with at Minds Matter. She wants to go to college and become a behavioral analyst for the FBI.
Her parents are trying to go back to school and make ends meet for her and her two brothers on an income that is a quarter of what I make. I think how hard a time I have. That I probably should save more; that I buy things I don’t need. That I live too comfortably. I read her mother’s paragraph on why they are applying for need-based aid from Ithaca. Shania is not her real mother. But you wouldn’t know that from reading this. She loves that girl and wants her to succeed. She wants a better life for her. So do I. I don’t want her to end up like Kenny. And I want more for him too. I want him to find a place he is happy. I want him to be honest and stable.
It’s hard to forget guys like Kenny. I still remember Ace and the Urban Cowboy and Jesus and Rodney. I remember walking into the Ox and thinking. This. Is where. They live. I remember driving through the projects with my dad as he showed me the houses Syracuse Model Homes was working to develop and being so proud of him. I remember feeling like a week wasn’t enough. That I should be doing more. And now that I live downtown I feel it even more. I don’t know what that is. But it starts with buying Kenny a burger and fries and talking to him, and praying for him. Because even if society sees him as the least of these, I don’t.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Fall in Cleveland
It's September 15th and a drastic drop in temperature has brought fall upon us in Cleveland. Not the wood stove burning, I can see the leaves turning kind of fall, but a brisk walk to work in the rain kind of fall. I'm starting to notice why people complain so much about the weather, especially downtown. You don't really get to reap the benefits. I miss the crisp central new york autumns, and runs where I could go almost two miles breathing in the deep comforting aroma of wood stoves. I miss apple picking and the hearths in homes I know.
Of course there are things I appreciate about this city too. For a city, most of the time, the air is clean and refreshing. The restaurant below my apartment has a wood-burning stove and once and a while I get to smell home. Every so often though on a run, I'll get a whiff of the distinct odor of despair. It smells like piss and death, not exactly something you want to drink deeply of as you approach the two mile point. It's like this little reminder as you're chugging along, thinking you could really start to like it here, that it's Cleveland. Your family is hours away, your friends are spread out across the country and despite the fact that you've been here eight months, you still feel like you don't belong.
The thing about all this is, it creates a city wrapped in contradiction. And while it's certainly no walden pond, it does supply it's own depths of creative inspiration. The people are a study in and of themselves. If you weren't raised here, you probably moved here for a job, but it surprises me just how quickly they not only adapt to but adopt the city they live in.
It's not what I ever thought I'd be doing, writing search engine optimization by day and blogging or journaling at night to get my creative fix. At the same time, it's better than what I expected at this time last year. When you go from no job, to writing for a living, you don't exactly have room to complain. And to be honest, for the experience I had coming out of college, I'm lucky to have gone a total of zero days on the unemployment line.
9/15/11
Of course there are things I appreciate about this city too. For a city, most of the time, the air is clean and refreshing. The restaurant below my apartment has a wood-burning stove and once and a while I get to smell home. Every so often though on a run, I'll get a whiff of the distinct odor of despair. It smells like piss and death, not exactly something you want to drink deeply of as you approach the two mile point. It's like this little reminder as you're chugging along, thinking you could really start to like it here, that it's Cleveland. Your family is hours away, your friends are spread out across the country and despite the fact that you've been here eight months, you still feel like you don't belong.
The thing about all this is, it creates a city wrapped in contradiction. And while it's certainly no walden pond, it does supply it's own depths of creative inspiration. The people are a study in and of themselves. If you weren't raised here, you probably moved here for a job, but it surprises me just how quickly they not only adapt to but adopt the city they live in.
It's not what I ever thought I'd be doing, writing search engine optimization by day and blogging or journaling at night to get my creative fix. At the same time, it's better than what I expected at this time last year. When you go from no job, to writing for a living, you don't exactly have room to complain. And to be honest, for the experience I had coming out of college, I'm lucky to have gone a total of zero days on the unemployment line.
9/15/11
Just tell me who I should be
Did you ever have an album speak to your heart where you're at? I mean Joshua Radin has a tendency to put my feelings into words so perfectly it makes me angry I didn't think of that analogy. Jars of Clay & Derek Webb remind me that Christ loves me even though I'm a flawed human being. And Fleet Foxes album, Helplessness Blues, beautifully sums up my apprehensions about growing up. About creating something good and beautiful before I'm old. My anxiety about growing up revolves around two key areas of my life: My art and my family.
I worry that I'm not talented enough to do what I want. That I have all these thoughts in my head but an inability to express them as I want to. That I'm 23 and Keats is dead and I haven't written anything I'm proud to show my parents, let alone the general public. I struggle with a common theme for the Christian writer, being real and truthful and hopeful all at once. Percy did it,O'Connor did it, but I'm certainly not Percy or O'Connor. I can't seem to reach those depths and I'm not sure what I need to do. Maybe I need a sponsor, someone who pays my rent and simultaneously acts as a muse, or at the very least lets me live vicariously through their experiences. There's a line in helplessness blues where he says "If I had an orchard I'd work till I'm sore. And you would wait tables and soon run the store" and I think how that life would agree with me. And then I think that I don't have the guts to do that...and no one to tend the orchard with me...which brings me to my next point, family.
In Montezuma, he writes "and now I am older than my mother and father when they had their daughter. Now what does that say about me?...oh how could I dream of such a selfless and true love? could I wash my hands of just looking out for me? -all of this with a wistful, lyrical sway
I'm not older than my parents when they had me, so it's not relatable verbatim. But it's the principle of the thing, the idea of caring for someone more than yourself and the question, if I've been so self-focused for so long, how do I move beyond that?
and how do meld my desire for art (living as a starving artist to focus on my craft) with my desire to have a family (to be a wife and a mother and care for them more than myself...and to work at a job I like but maybe don't love, to provide)
I worry about turning into Adrienne Rich or Virginia Woolf...unable to reconcile my craft and my family and then I think-that won't happen to you, you aren't that talented. If you were, you'd have stuck yourself out there by now. You wouldn't have the double major, wouldn't have alienated a part of yourself, wouldn't have skipped out on the honors thesis and grad school to get a job you like that pays well. You would have dived headfirst, regardless that the pool is four feet deep, and sucked the marrow out of life only to spit it back out in the form of your art. You would have been dedicated, and even if you didn't figure it out right away, you would have spent hours after work writing and scribbling and making an effort to create something of worth, of magnitude.
See that's the thing, Hemingway, Sayers, Fitzgerald, Ginsberg, they all worked at jobs they liked, but didn't love. But they wrote furiously off the clock (and sometimes on) and eventually they quit and adjusted their focus. I wonder if I'll ever be able to do that. Don't get me wrong, I write more than this blog. And right now, I should be working but I'm blowing it off in the hopes that something good comes out of this.
And the thing is, part of what holds me back is my desire for family, for the family I have to be proud of me and not feel like they have to support me-because they would, without too many complaints too- and for the family I might someday have to be supported and have a mother with a reliable schedule and food on the table.
I'm sure this is a re-occurring theme on this blog, but it's a constant struggle between head and heart, And often enough my head wins out, which in turn reinforces the idea that my heart doesn't care as much as it should, or just isn't good enough and I'm afraid there's too much of a disconnect between what I want to do and what I can do.
I want to create writing that is beautiful and poignant and true. - I can't seem to write a story without a damned happy ending
I want to write something that will lead people to a better understanding of God, our world and each other. To take them through hell & the fire of purgatory into paradise. - I write plays that apparently would be best served in a "church setting."
I want a true character, I want to write someone who is related to, hated, loved or hell, even misunderstood - sometimes those are the best. -My life experience creates a wall and I can't take them past it and remain believable. Maybe this is a cop-out. Maybe I could do it. But every time I try, I fall flat. I don't stop trying, but I don't feel great about it either.
Maybe it's all a phase. I'm only 23 and Keats isn't exactly a fair standard. Maybe five years from now I'll look back on this and laugh, and wish I didn't have the experiences I had, but smile to think I thought I wouldn't have them. Maybe I'll be able to create a character who loves and has their heart broken. Or a story with a happy ending that's still true. They do exist, they're just harder to write. Maybe I'll fall in love with this city and stay here, or finally escape to Boston or Philly or someplace out west.
Maybe I'll find the encouragement I need and Maybe I'll let my heart win for once.
I worry that I'm not talented enough to do what I want. That I have all these thoughts in my head but an inability to express them as I want to. That I'm 23 and Keats is dead and I haven't written anything I'm proud to show my parents, let alone the general public. I struggle with a common theme for the Christian writer, being real and truthful and hopeful all at once. Percy did it,O'Connor did it, but I'm certainly not Percy or O'Connor. I can't seem to reach those depths and I'm not sure what I need to do. Maybe I need a sponsor, someone who pays my rent and simultaneously acts as a muse, or at the very least lets me live vicariously through their experiences. There's a line in helplessness blues where he says "If I had an orchard I'd work till I'm sore. And you would wait tables and soon run the store" and I think how that life would agree with me. And then I think that I don't have the guts to do that...and no one to tend the orchard with me...which brings me to my next point, family.
In Montezuma, he writes "and now I am older than my mother and father when they had their daughter. Now what does that say about me?...oh how could I dream of such a selfless and true love? could I wash my hands of just looking out for me? -all of this with a wistful, lyrical sway
I'm not older than my parents when they had me, so it's not relatable verbatim. But it's the principle of the thing, the idea of caring for someone more than yourself and the question, if I've been so self-focused for so long, how do I move beyond that?
and how do meld my desire for art (living as a starving artist to focus on my craft) with my desire to have a family (to be a wife and a mother and care for them more than myself...and to work at a job I like but maybe don't love, to provide)
I worry about turning into Adrienne Rich or Virginia Woolf...unable to reconcile my craft and my family and then I think-that won't happen to you, you aren't that talented. If you were, you'd have stuck yourself out there by now. You wouldn't have the double major, wouldn't have alienated a part of yourself, wouldn't have skipped out on the honors thesis and grad school to get a job you like that pays well. You would have dived headfirst, regardless that the pool is four feet deep, and sucked the marrow out of life only to spit it back out in the form of your art. You would have been dedicated, and even if you didn't figure it out right away, you would have spent hours after work writing and scribbling and making an effort to create something of worth, of magnitude.
See that's the thing, Hemingway, Sayers, Fitzgerald, Ginsberg, they all worked at jobs they liked, but didn't love. But they wrote furiously off the clock (and sometimes on) and eventually they quit and adjusted their focus. I wonder if I'll ever be able to do that. Don't get me wrong, I write more than this blog. And right now, I should be working but I'm blowing it off in the hopes that something good comes out of this.
And the thing is, part of what holds me back is my desire for family, for the family I have to be proud of me and not feel like they have to support me-because they would, without too many complaints too- and for the family I might someday have to be supported and have a mother with a reliable schedule and food on the table.
I'm sure this is a re-occurring theme on this blog, but it's a constant struggle between head and heart, And often enough my head wins out, which in turn reinforces the idea that my heart doesn't care as much as it should, or just isn't good enough and I'm afraid there's too much of a disconnect between what I want to do and what I can do.
I want to create writing that is beautiful and poignant and true. - I can't seem to write a story without a damned happy ending
I want to write something that will lead people to a better understanding of God, our world and each other. To take them through hell & the fire of purgatory into paradise. - I write plays that apparently would be best served in a "church setting."
I want a true character, I want to write someone who is related to, hated, loved or hell, even misunderstood - sometimes those are the best. -My life experience creates a wall and I can't take them past it and remain believable. Maybe this is a cop-out. Maybe I could do it. But every time I try, I fall flat. I don't stop trying, but I don't feel great about it either.
Maybe it's all a phase. I'm only 23 and Keats isn't exactly a fair standard. Maybe five years from now I'll look back on this and laugh, and wish I didn't have the experiences I had, but smile to think I thought I wouldn't have them. Maybe I'll be able to create a character who loves and has their heart broken. Or a story with a happy ending that's still true. They do exist, they're just harder to write. Maybe I'll fall in love with this city and stay here, or finally escape to Boston or Philly or someplace out west.
Maybe I'll find the encouragement I need and Maybe I'll let my heart win for once.
Dead Air
Apologies for anyone who tries to follow me. I tend to enjoy writing in my moleskin more, especially after typing all day for work. I also forgot my password, which is connected to my old email, which I don't have access to anymore. Crises averted. Fear not I will try to write more :)
I'm currently sitting at my "kitchen" table, a glass of smoking loon cabernet sauvignon to my right and an open window to my left issuing in the scents and sounds of Cleveland. My apartment is finally clean - with the exception of a very cluttered desk that I will eventually take care of, someday. Dad was here last night and so I made a real breakfast this morning, grilled muffins and all. It's amazing how the little things can make us happy. We only really got to spend two hours together, but I'm so blessed to be in a city he visits often for work.
I just got very excited at a post having 166 page views, till I realized it was probably just because I quoted Epicurus - ah well. So it goes. (secretly hoping for Vonnegut searchers to be sucked here - google wouldn't like that)
I'm just home from work and sitting down to more work. At least I love my clients (most of them). Currently writing for my favorite - a post about pairing wine to your meals in the woods. What does this do to me? I crave escape. Dad came back from hours of meetings yesterday and after a hug hello he exhumes (exhaustedly), squeezing my shoulder, "Go to the woods, Megan!" If only.
I was home two weeks ago for columbus day. I walked out on the pier alone in crisp fall air and felt this incredible burden lifted. A sense of elation and peace washed over me and I knew this was what my soul had been craving for months.
I like to think I enjoy city living. Walking to everything, craft beers, foody restaurants, indie concernts, and being two blocks from NBA basketball and off-Broadway theater, there are some incredible benefits to downtown living. But fresh air and trees aren't among them. On top of that, the Chinese food isn't all that great. Writing for one of my favorite brands that celebrates the outdoors makes for a rough night of "what ifs" sometimes. What if I locked myself away in a cabin and just wrote a damn novel? What if I'm not supposed to be here? What if I moved home to spend more time with family? What if I moved south like my brother? What if I'm no good at anything else? What if I'm not even good at this? What if they don't like me? What if I just said "screw it" and went fishing? As you can see, it spirals. There's something about the drudgery of city living that leaves us unfulfilled, craving adventure, desireing to suck the marrow out of life.
The closest I get to nature are the flies that somehow always manage to find my 6x24 slot of open window. I'd like to say I killed ten thousand with one blow but they aren't as lethargic as I'd like...nasty little buggers...
Anywho, that's just a smattering of life and feelings at the moment. I really have to get back to work now - but I hope this is enough to hold ya'll for a while!
Monday, September 12, 2011
On being grown up
First off, I don't like it. I suppose I haven't much choice though. No one ever asks you if you're ready to grow up, they just hand you a diploma, tell you to get a job and there you are. Ready, supposedly, and for all intents and purposes, a grown-up.
It's quite ridiculous really, that at twenty-three you'd expect me to know what the hell to do with my life. I haven't got a clue. I call my parents at least 5 times a week. I can't even order cable without their input. I crave validation in the same manner I did at age four, and I'm constantly reminded that by my age, Keats was dead and a masterful poet. Don't even get me started on my inequalities when it comes to Dylan Thomas. How he ever developed such a masterful understanding of the english language is beyond me. My personal opinion, I could write a plot like Bill Shakespeare, no problem, but to write a poem like Thomas? It's enough to make you quit.
I write all day, only to come home to no desire whatsoever to write anything. And if I do write, well it's no good. It sits in the journal and I read it six months later and hate it. Generally speaking. You'd think grown-ups would have more inspiration. We don't. If anything our inspiration is drained by the drum of a 9-5. Even if it is the 9-5 you've been telling yourself for the last five years that you want. Or a means to it.
Today someone I work with told me how much he hated hemingway...as a man, not a writer. Well who did love him as a man? Except his wives, and maybe secretly gertrude. The man was a bastard. but he's a loveable bastard. And you know, for all that he was, I don't think you could say he wasn't an honest human being. And sometimes, just for that, I love him as a man. Even though I never knew him, (and how can you hate or love someone you never knew- old hem would be pissed at that, we throw those words around too much) I still have an admiration for him as both man and a writer. Because to some extent, you cannot seperate the two.
It's like when you're listening to Harry Morgan think about killing Eddie. (to have and have not) And you hate him for it, but you identify with him, and you respect him for being honest about it. old hem doesn't bullshit. It's a quality I wish I had.
As a grown up, I realize just how much I aim to please other people. I never used to be like that. When you're a kid, everything is simple, black and white. You know who you are and you're proud of yourself. A kind of humble pride that only kids can have. When you grow up, the lines blur, you're not so sure of yourself, and even when you are sure, you keep your mouth shut. Sometimes I wish I had the guts to be my eight year old self.
Or the talent to turn a one liner into a story.
Sometimes I wish I'd experienced more, or loved more, or done anything to get me where I need to be, and sometimes I call that out as bullshit. I should be able to write with what I have. But sometimes I can't or I don't want to, or I don't feel like a grown up. So I gotta write what I feel, what I know. What's it's like to be uncertain and trapped within the world's expectations. Be a real, honest human being and hope that someone out there gets something from it. Live and drink deep and take in all that I can.
Maybe I'll be hated when I'm dead, but at least I'll have lived.
It's quite ridiculous really, that at twenty-three you'd expect me to know what the hell to do with my life. I haven't got a clue. I call my parents at least 5 times a week. I can't even order cable without their input. I crave validation in the same manner I did at age four, and I'm constantly reminded that by my age, Keats was dead and a masterful poet. Don't even get me started on my inequalities when it comes to Dylan Thomas. How he ever developed such a masterful understanding of the english language is beyond me. My personal opinion, I could write a plot like Bill Shakespeare, no problem, but to write a poem like Thomas? It's enough to make you quit.
I write all day, only to come home to no desire whatsoever to write anything. And if I do write, well it's no good. It sits in the journal and I read it six months later and hate it. Generally speaking. You'd think grown-ups would have more inspiration. We don't. If anything our inspiration is drained by the drum of a 9-5. Even if it is the 9-5 you've been telling yourself for the last five years that you want. Or a means to it.
Today someone I work with told me how much he hated hemingway...as a man, not a writer. Well who did love him as a man? Except his wives, and maybe secretly gertrude. The man was a bastard. but he's a loveable bastard. And you know, for all that he was, I don't think you could say he wasn't an honest human being. And sometimes, just for that, I love him as a man. Even though I never knew him, (and how can you hate or love someone you never knew- old hem would be pissed at that, we throw those words around too much) I still have an admiration for him as both man and a writer. Because to some extent, you cannot seperate the two.
It's like when you're listening to Harry Morgan think about killing Eddie. (to have and have not) And you hate him for it, but you identify with him, and you respect him for being honest about it. old hem doesn't bullshit. It's a quality I wish I had.
As a grown up, I realize just how much I aim to please other people. I never used to be like that. When you're a kid, everything is simple, black and white. You know who you are and you're proud of yourself. A kind of humble pride that only kids can have. When you grow up, the lines blur, you're not so sure of yourself, and even when you are sure, you keep your mouth shut. Sometimes I wish I had the guts to be my eight year old self.
Or the talent to turn a one liner into a story.
Sometimes I wish I'd experienced more, or loved more, or done anything to get me where I need to be, and sometimes I call that out as bullshit. I should be able to write with what I have. But sometimes I can't or I don't want to, or I don't feel like a grown up. So I gotta write what I feel, what I know. What's it's like to be uncertain and trapped within the world's expectations. Be a real, honest human being and hope that someone out there gets something from it. Live and drink deep and take in all that I can.
Maybe I'll be hated when I'm dead, but at least I'll have lived.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
A good church.
I recently moved to Cleveland, and for a girl whose known very little other than Syracuse,NY and Grove City, PA, it's been an interesting transition to say the least. I don't mind living alone, though I do bake more and I am slowly learning to master the omelet, but living in a big city can get you down. And Cleveland is just the right size to be a total downer. See, there's not so much going on like NY, LA, Boston or Chi-town that a single girl could distract herself with. And there's not as much hiking, skiing or green grass around to satisfy the hipster country girl in my soul. (Cleveland doesn't have parks downtown like other cities, at least not ones with grass...that I've found yet) And so one gets lonely here, in fact, I think Cleveland has a better chance of crushing your soul than any other city. It doesn't swallow you whole like NY or LA, it chews you up and spits you out.
That said, it's not all bad, I like my job, I can see both buildings from my apartment, we apparently have a great art museum, theater district, and fresh market which old man winter has deterred me from exploring, and the rock n roll hall of fame and cavs are here too. But if you don't know anyone it's difficult to venture out and enjoy these things.
I miss my friends and I miss my family, and I am having a harder time meeting people than ever before. Mainly I think b/c there's some social stigma about really being friends with the people you work with (you never have this in high school and college) and no one bothers to really help you meet people (sure you have orientation and you're introduced around the office, have happy hours, but lets be honest, this is all done in an effort to get you to cooperate with your peers for the benefit of the company. Just get to know each other enough, but you're not going to find your bf or bff at work) If you have any sort of faith, finding friends can be even harder. Trying to find someone who would rather go to the movies than get wasted on a Saturday night is surprisingly hard to do these days, especially with the "young professionals": we have a lot of money and no one but ourselves to spend it on.
When talking to my friends about this dilemma, especially when I was back at my Alma Mater last weekend, the question inevitability arises: "Have you found a good church yet?" sometimes said in curiosity, but more often than not, as if the affirmative answer holds the key to all my troubles. Oh you haven't met anyone, well have you found a good church? oh you need something to do on weekends, have you found a good church, oh I'm sorry you miss your friends here but have you found a good church?
What these people fail to realize is that I had a good church, a great one, I still do. The problem is I am estranged from it. No I'm not talking about a building or a denomination. I'm talking about the relationships I had while at grove city. Ones I still am trying to maintain through letters, emails and phone calls, but its not the same. I imagine this is how the early church felt with their leaders and friends spread out around the globe. Paul did not cease to encourage his brothers and sisters when he was far from them, and he often longed to be with them. But his place was elsewhere and he needed to be focused there. Lucky for him, he usually had at least one guy with him.
I moved out here alone, and while I must be forward looking, it's hard not to compare the churches I go to, to the one I had. To yearn for the people who already know me intimately. To not have to start over.
It also makes me wonder, what to you makes a good church? What do they mean have I found a good church? Actually I got this great little place where we're having grape kool aid on Sunday? nope. how do we measure a church? is it what's "right for us", are the teachings scriptural? Let me tell you, if they aren't, it is a bad church, get out, get out now. But I wouldn't be going to a church where the teachings aren't biblical, and my friends know that so what do they mean? When catching up with a classmate who was also there last weekend, he asked me that question, and I said, well, I've found a church, (it's not hard to do, look in the yellow pages, talk to anyone you know, go online and search for your cities churches, read an online statement of faith etc) but I'm not sure I wanna plug in yet, it's a little 'seeker friendly' which is great, especially downtown, but I think I want to be around a body that's more mature in their faith (see Hebrews 5:11-14 if you disagree with me). But I'm making sure I'm going to church every Sunday, somewhere, so that I can at least try to meet new people.
But what I also said to this classmate was that I haven't found anything like Grace (a church I went to while at school) and his response was "well it's not about Grace, it's about God" which took me back, and I thought, wow, way to call me out, you're right. It's not...except that it is... the thing I love about Grace is the people, the genuine love they have for each other, worshiping with others who I know would hold me accountable, who truly desire to know how I'm doing, what I'm struggling with and how they can help me. That we break bread together and recite the liturgy (which as an intellectual I love, but as a generally emotional worshiper, am surprised that I would like a church with a liturgical base) and pray with each other, striving to grow more in our Lord. I miss that. and I haven't found that in a church yet...and here's why...I haven't connected with the people in a church yet. Finding a good church is really really hard. It's not something you can do in a month and a half (how long I've been here)because it's not just about the doctrine or the worship or the preaching, those, in some form are in every church. What makes it a good church is how the people interact, how they love each other. And that is something that takes time to experience. With Grace it was easy. I already knew all the people from college, and so to go there and say it was a good church was easy for me. Pastor Ethan's teaching was strong and biblical, I enjoyed the liturgy, and thanks to my brothers and sisters, left feeling uplifted and full of the joy of the Lord (manifested by their love for me).
Now I feel like I'm going to church to go. Because I should, when I could talk to God just as easily at home. I could call up a spiritual mentor and seek their wisdom as easily as I could that of some pastor. This is why it's not easy to find a good church. Because as the pastor at the church I've been attending said this morning. It should not be about the building. The church is not the building. It's the body, and we are called to come together and support each other, which is why I wish when someone asked me in response to my sadness and loneliness, "have you found a good church yet" they would instead say, I'm sorry sister, what can I do, how can I help. Could I call you more, do you like letters, what if I took time to visit, or I have a friend out there I could introduce you to. Why do we think that because we no longer worship together because of distance we must be separated? That it's someone else's job to shepherd that person? It's not.
A good church is a wonderful thing. Don't let it become an excuse for you not intentionally pursuing a relationship with someone. Don't make it the be all end all. Because here's the rub...it's not about a church, it's about God. But when I moved away to Cleveland I didn't move away from God. I moved away from my church. From my friends and believers who strengthened me. I have God, He is always with me. What I need is for his children to come alongside me, and me alongside them. that's the thing...if it's not about *insert churches name* then it's not about finding "a good church" Overall it's about communion with our Lord alongside our brothers and sisters. and in a mediocre church I can do that, but when it comes to needing someone to be with me and pray and just spend time with me, I need a good church. I don't care if some of that church is spread out (technology eliminates that excuse) and I do need a good church here, but it may not come for a while.
So next time someone comes to you with troubles, especially if it's someone distanced from you, don't ask them if they've "found a good church" be that good church for them. Encourage them to worship with believers where they are, but don't think just because you are separated from them by distance you are no longer your brothers keeper. Be a good church.
That said, it's not all bad, I like my job, I can see both buildings from my apartment, we apparently have a great art museum, theater district, and fresh market which old man winter has deterred me from exploring, and the rock n roll hall of fame and cavs are here too. But if you don't know anyone it's difficult to venture out and enjoy these things.
I miss my friends and I miss my family, and I am having a harder time meeting people than ever before. Mainly I think b/c there's some social stigma about really being friends with the people you work with (you never have this in high school and college) and no one bothers to really help you meet people (sure you have orientation and you're introduced around the office, have happy hours, but lets be honest, this is all done in an effort to get you to cooperate with your peers for the benefit of the company. Just get to know each other enough, but you're not going to find your bf or bff at work) If you have any sort of faith, finding friends can be even harder. Trying to find someone who would rather go to the movies than get wasted on a Saturday night is surprisingly hard to do these days, especially with the "young professionals": we have a lot of money and no one but ourselves to spend it on.
When talking to my friends about this dilemma, especially when I was back at my Alma Mater last weekend, the question inevitability arises: "Have you found a good church yet?" sometimes said in curiosity, but more often than not, as if the affirmative answer holds the key to all my troubles. Oh you haven't met anyone, well have you found a good church? oh you need something to do on weekends, have you found a good church, oh I'm sorry you miss your friends here but have you found a good church?
What these people fail to realize is that I had a good church, a great one, I still do. The problem is I am estranged from it. No I'm not talking about a building or a denomination. I'm talking about the relationships I had while at grove city. Ones I still am trying to maintain through letters, emails and phone calls, but its not the same. I imagine this is how the early church felt with their leaders and friends spread out around the globe. Paul did not cease to encourage his brothers and sisters when he was far from them, and he often longed to be with them. But his place was elsewhere and he needed to be focused there. Lucky for him, he usually had at least one guy with him.
I moved out here alone, and while I must be forward looking, it's hard not to compare the churches I go to, to the one I had. To yearn for the people who already know me intimately. To not have to start over.
It also makes me wonder, what to you makes a good church? What do they mean have I found a good church? Actually I got this great little place where we're having grape kool aid on Sunday? nope. how do we measure a church? is it what's "right for us", are the teachings scriptural? Let me tell you, if they aren't, it is a bad church, get out, get out now. But I wouldn't be going to a church where the teachings aren't biblical, and my friends know that so what do they mean? When catching up with a classmate who was also there last weekend, he asked me that question, and I said, well, I've found a church, (it's not hard to do, look in the yellow pages, talk to anyone you know, go online and search for your cities churches, read an online statement of faith etc) but I'm not sure I wanna plug in yet, it's a little 'seeker friendly' which is great, especially downtown, but I think I want to be around a body that's more mature in their faith (see Hebrews 5:11-14 if you disagree with me). But I'm making sure I'm going to church every Sunday, somewhere, so that I can at least try to meet new people.
But what I also said to this classmate was that I haven't found anything like Grace (a church I went to while at school) and his response was "well it's not about Grace, it's about God" which took me back, and I thought, wow, way to call me out, you're right. It's not...except that it is... the thing I love about Grace is the people, the genuine love they have for each other, worshiping with others who I know would hold me accountable, who truly desire to know how I'm doing, what I'm struggling with and how they can help me. That we break bread together and recite the liturgy (which as an intellectual I love, but as a generally emotional worshiper, am surprised that I would like a church with a liturgical base) and pray with each other, striving to grow more in our Lord. I miss that. and I haven't found that in a church yet...and here's why...I haven't connected with the people in a church yet. Finding a good church is really really hard. It's not something you can do in a month and a half (how long I've been here)because it's not just about the doctrine or the worship or the preaching, those, in some form are in every church. What makes it a good church is how the people interact, how they love each other. And that is something that takes time to experience. With Grace it was easy. I already knew all the people from college, and so to go there and say it was a good church was easy for me. Pastor Ethan's teaching was strong and biblical, I enjoyed the liturgy, and thanks to my brothers and sisters, left feeling uplifted and full of the joy of the Lord (manifested by their love for me).
Now I feel like I'm going to church to go. Because I should, when I could talk to God just as easily at home. I could call up a spiritual mentor and seek their wisdom as easily as I could that of some pastor. This is why it's not easy to find a good church. Because as the pastor at the church I've been attending said this morning. It should not be about the building. The church is not the building. It's the body, and we are called to come together and support each other, which is why I wish when someone asked me in response to my sadness and loneliness, "have you found a good church yet" they would instead say, I'm sorry sister, what can I do, how can I help. Could I call you more, do you like letters, what if I took time to visit, or I have a friend out there I could introduce you to. Why do we think that because we no longer worship together because of distance we must be separated? That it's someone else's job to shepherd that person? It's not.
A good church is a wonderful thing. Don't let it become an excuse for you not intentionally pursuing a relationship with someone. Don't make it the be all end all. Because here's the rub...it's not about a church, it's about God. But when I moved away to Cleveland I didn't move away from God. I moved away from my church. From my friends and believers who strengthened me. I have God, He is always with me. What I need is for his children to come alongside me, and me alongside them. that's the thing...if it's not about *insert churches name* then it's not about finding "a good church" Overall it's about communion with our Lord alongside our brothers and sisters. and in a mediocre church I can do that, but when it comes to needing someone to be with me and pray and just spend time with me, I need a good church. I don't care if some of that church is spread out (technology eliminates that excuse) and I do need a good church here, but it may not come for a while.
So next time someone comes to you with troubles, especially if it's someone distanced from you, don't ask them if they've "found a good church" be that good church for them. Encourage them to worship with believers where they are, but don't think just because you are separated from them by distance you are no longer your brothers keeper. Be a good church.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
For Souvenir & Other Women.
When I picked up her picture I couldn't put it back down. I tried to, I tried to make excuses in my head, I don't have the money, I don't have a job, how could I take repsonsibility of a child? I had friends who had sponsored, my friend Mel said she never had to worry about making her payments, God always provided. It hit me then that I was just a vessel, and so I went back to the table. I scanned the faces looking for, I don't know, what do people look at when they scan those? The cutest kid? The kid in the worst country? My eyes fell on Souvenir and I couldn't look away. I knew she was the one. I picked her up, still hestitant if I could commit to taking care of her, even from miles and miles away. I just felt convicted to make her life better. I had just read Devil on the Cross by Ngugi the year before for literary criticism, I think it's technically out of print, but if you can find it, read it. And I felt convicted about the very real hardships women in other countries are still facing.
Today is international women's day,a "global day celebrating the economic, political and social achievements of women past, present and future." Today I'm thinking and praying about little Souvenir, that she would be protected from rape and other male abuse, that she would find drinking water, and food for her family, that she would be kept free from the burden that is HIV, that she could go to school and learn, and love learning as much as I do. That she would grow up to be a strong vibrant woman, the head of her household.
For me, today is not so much about equality, in the workplace, or in my relationships, it's not about, women losing their jobs because they got pregnant, or getting paid less than men. Though I think these things are unfair, what I'm focused on is making sure girls like Souvenir get to grow up in a world that respects them. That she would not be seen as weak or easily manipulated because she is a woman. No matter what your views on today are (and I've heard plenty of ridiculous ones this morning) remember that there are little girls out there who should know that they are beautiful and loved. They should know that they are precious and do not deserve to be abused or in pain. They should know that they can do anything, even if it is "just" staying home and managing their family, because that is not an easy task.
nor is it always enough for us. Some of us are strong intellectual women who crave a family, but also desire to be something, to bring something else of worth into the world, as a woman and a writer I struggle with this tension but I also revel in it. That I was created to be whatever I want to be, and my parents loved me enough and supported me enough to let me be whatever I want to be. I pray that Souvenir feels the same thing.
I hope you understand today that it's not about equality in everything, it is, for me, equality in the important things. Her safety, her understanding, her value of herself as a person and not a lesser creature. I hope you will understand, and maybe even help.
Today is international women's day,a "global day celebrating the economic, political and social achievements of women past, present and future." Today I'm thinking and praying about little Souvenir, that she would be protected from rape and other male abuse, that she would find drinking water, and food for her family, that she would be kept free from the burden that is HIV, that she could go to school and learn, and love learning as much as I do. That she would grow up to be a strong vibrant woman, the head of her household.
For me, today is not so much about equality, in the workplace, or in my relationships, it's not about, women losing their jobs because they got pregnant, or getting paid less than men. Though I think these things are unfair, what I'm focused on is making sure girls like Souvenir get to grow up in a world that respects them. That she would not be seen as weak or easily manipulated because she is a woman. No matter what your views on today are (and I've heard plenty of ridiculous ones this morning) remember that there are little girls out there who should know that they are beautiful and loved. They should know that they are precious and do not deserve to be abused or in pain. They should know that they can do anything, even if it is "just" staying home and managing their family, because that is not an easy task.
nor is it always enough for us. Some of us are strong intellectual women who crave a family, but also desire to be something, to bring something else of worth into the world, as a woman and a writer I struggle with this tension but I also revel in it. That I was created to be whatever I want to be, and my parents loved me enough and supported me enough to let me be whatever I want to be. I pray that Souvenir feels the same thing.
I hope you understand today that it's not about equality in everything, it is, for me, equality in the important things. Her safety, her understanding, her value of herself as a person and not a lesser creature. I hope you will understand, and maybe even help.
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