Except, I'm a brunette. Doesn't seem to make any difference, though. I have been the self-proclaimed Black Sheep for years. And I only say "self-proclaimed" because no one else dares to admit it to my face. Yet actions speak louder than words, and sometimes this is screamed to me without anyone ever saying a word.
Believe it or don't, but ordinarily, I prefer to be in the background. There is satisfaction in believing that even without the recognition, I play a vital role in whatever may be taking place. I prefer to serve in the kitchen instead of as a speaker. Fewer people notice when you screw up out of sight, and sometimes screwing up is the only thing I do well. I suppose one could argue that I have chosen to be unnoticed. I'll accept that. However, there is a definite line between "unnoticed" and "overlooked".
When one is unnoticed, people are unaware of their presence. When one is overlooked, people are fully aware of their presence, yet choose not to acknowledge them. Therein lies the current situation in what feels like most aspects of my life. Thankfully, not within the walls of my home. Now if only I could figure out a way to stay there...
Where my extended family is concerned, the first dark blotch on my clean white wool was teenage pregnancy out of wedlock. That blotch got bigger when I married the guy who knocked me up. I believe in my heart of hearts that it fries certain individuals that my marriage has outlasted theirs and that I love and support my husband no matter their opinions of him or his passions in life. In spite of the fact that I had the most academic potential of the kids in my family, I did not pursue a college degree or some high-paid profession. And apparently, I should have made more of an effort to keep in touch with relatives that have never made an effort to keep in touch with me. It seems as if I have been one disappointment after another ~ and my hair seems to be turning a beautiful shade of carrot-top.
Even in my workplace I have this feeling lately. Because of a family shin-dig, I missed our office holiday party this year. Our boss had personalized t-shirts made for the staff with less-than-politically-correct statements fitting to the individual's personality. When co-workers where talking about what their shirts said, they asked me about mine. I'm not sure I want to know what mine would say, which is cool, since I haven't gotten one. Today I made mention to my boss that the noise level in the hall outside my treatment room was getting a little loud at times and asked if we could remind the staff to be mindful of when messages were in session. Later in the shift, 2 of my co-workers were opening mocking the situation right in front of me. Though I hope it was intended to be in jest, I was thoroughly unamused. There are times when I feel like I am not catty enough to work in an office staffed almost entirely with women. There is a reason I like being closed up in my bat-cave ~ the sun can't bleach my black wool in there.
Yeah, I know, I'm the only one rocking this pity-party. I guess I want to be shown that I am valued, not out of responsibility or obligation, but just because I am.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
When Life's Got Ya Down, Ya Know Whatcha Gotta Do?
Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, what do we do, we swim, swim, swim. ~ Dory, "Finding Nemo"
But what if you're already drowning? What do we do when we have swum, swum, swum ourselves so weary that we just can't swim any more?
People who have known us for a while are very aware of our God-awful luck and how it tends to keep us financially strapped. It seems every time we think we are getting our heads above water, something else is put on our shoulders to weigh us back down. For example...
In September, I discovered cold air blowing from the heater in the Nissan. It is not only difficult, but dangerous, to drive a vehicle when the windshield won't defrost. It finally would blow air warm enough to defrost once at highway speed, but even then the car never got warm. Since we had discovered earlier that she was loosing oil like a son of a gun, we took her to the shop to have both issued looked at. We were told that a gasket was weeping and the oil filter was loose ~ easy fixes ~ and the heater core was flushed. For almost $300 all was well.
Then the truck started making a knocking noise under the front end, but only when it turned. I figured it was a ball joint, but since it wasn't being driven much, and I had just paid for the Nissan, we waited just a little while to take it in. Then, 4 weeks after the first repair, the Nissan was out of oil and blowing cold air through the heat again. Since this is the car my kids are typically transported in, it is my priority when it comes to repairs. Unfortunately, with some investigation, the tech discovered the real problem can only be fixed by replacing/rebuilding the engine ~ for close to $3000. I could buy some time, though, if I was hyper-vigilant about keeping the oil level up.
We found all of this out on a Friday evening and, still being band season, couldn't pick up the car that night. So, I had arranged with the shop to pick up the Nissan the next day and leave the truck to fix the knocking. I only needed to drive the truck to work and then to the shop. Doing 70mph in the left lane on I-71, I heard a pop, felt the truck fall, and saw sparks from the corner of my eye. When I turned my head to fully see what was going on, I saw the truck's tire on the opposite side of the road, rolling along in the grass, finally stopping about a quarter of a mile away. The truck was towed to the shop, and I picked up the Nissan. $1100 later, Red had new ball joints on both sides and a new rotor, rim, and tire.
Did I mention that the Nissan started blowing cold air through the heater again? I've been limping it to the highway with minimal visibility for probably 4 weeks now since we are still trying to recoup from the last repair. I finally took it to the shop a few days ago to have the heater core flushed again, which they did at no charge as a courtesy, probably because they pity me. I've had the car back for 4 days, and now it won't start. It tries to turn over, but it just won't, even with a jump. Tim is probably going to shake his head when he sees the car waiting in the lot in the morning.
This is just a brief recap of our luck over the last 8 weeks. With almost $1500 in unexpected expenses in the last 2 months, everything we had set back to pay for Christmas is gone. My boys are at the ages where they aren't asking for many gifts, just the pricy ones, and there is nothing left to get them anything at all. I would be able to handle all of the stress of these situations much more gracefully if it weren't for the added weight of the heartbreak that I will be disappointing my boys this holiday season.
And it always happens this way. A few years ago we went through a period that makes the last 2 months look like recess during a long day at school. In a few short months, the bottom dropped out of our water heater, one of the cars gave up the ghost, our furnace started blowing cold air, and the employer who painted a fabulous picture that he was unable to deliver let me go when I called him out after 4 months of not making the money I told him during the interview that I needed to make. All of this between June and November of that year. I calculated that between repairs and loss of income, we lost around $8000 during those few months. Leanest Christmas EVER at our house.
It's been a slow road to recovery, but we're getting there. Unfortunately, every time we take 2 steps forward we seem to be shoved a mile back. And it's always right before Christmas. I really do believe in miracles. Is it wrong to pray that somehow God will see it fit to put just enough in the checking account to get the boys what they're asking for?
But what if you're already drowning? What do we do when we have swum, swum, swum ourselves so weary that we just can't swim any more?
People who have known us for a while are very aware of our God-awful luck and how it tends to keep us financially strapped. It seems every time we think we are getting our heads above water, something else is put on our shoulders to weigh us back down. For example...
In September, I discovered cold air blowing from the heater in the Nissan. It is not only difficult, but dangerous, to drive a vehicle when the windshield won't defrost. It finally would blow air warm enough to defrost once at highway speed, but even then the car never got warm. Since we had discovered earlier that she was loosing oil like a son of a gun, we took her to the shop to have both issued looked at. We were told that a gasket was weeping and the oil filter was loose ~ easy fixes ~ and the heater core was flushed. For almost $300 all was well.
Then the truck started making a knocking noise under the front end, but only when it turned. I figured it was a ball joint, but since it wasn't being driven much, and I had just paid for the Nissan, we waited just a little while to take it in. Then, 4 weeks after the first repair, the Nissan was out of oil and blowing cold air through the heat again. Since this is the car my kids are typically transported in, it is my priority when it comes to repairs. Unfortunately, with some investigation, the tech discovered the real problem can only be fixed by replacing/rebuilding the engine ~ for close to $3000. I could buy some time, though, if I was hyper-vigilant about keeping the oil level up.
We found all of this out on a Friday evening and, still being band season, couldn't pick up the car that night. So, I had arranged with the shop to pick up the Nissan the next day and leave the truck to fix the knocking. I only needed to drive the truck to work and then to the shop. Doing 70mph in the left lane on I-71, I heard a pop, felt the truck fall, and saw sparks from the corner of my eye. When I turned my head to fully see what was going on, I saw the truck's tire on the opposite side of the road, rolling along in the grass, finally stopping about a quarter of a mile away. The truck was towed to the shop, and I picked up the Nissan. $1100 later, Red had new ball joints on both sides and a new rotor, rim, and tire.
Did I mention that the Nissan started blowing cold air through the heater again? I've been limping it to the highway with minimal visibility for probably 4 weeks now since we are still trying to recoup from the last repair. I finally took it to the shop a few days ago to have the heater core flushed again, which they did at no charge as a courtesy, probably because they pity me. I've had the car back for 4 days, and now it won't start. It tries to turn over, but it just won't, even with a jump. Tim is probably going to shake his head when he sees the car waiting in the lot in the morning.
This is just a brief recap of our luck over the last 8 weeks. With almost $1500 in unexpected expenses in the last 2 months, everything we had set back to pay for Christmas is gone. My boys are at the ages where they aren't asking for many gifts, just the pricy ones, and there is nothing left to get them anything at all. I would be able to handle all of the stress of these situations much more gracefully if it weren't for the added weight of the heartbreak that I will be disappointing my boys this holiday season.
And it always happens this way. A few years ago we went through a period that makes the last 2 months look like recess during a long day at school. In a few short months, the bottom dropped out of our water heater, one of the cars gave up the ghost, our furnace started blowing cold air, and the employer who painted a fabulous picture that he was unable to deliver let me go when I called him out after 4 months of not making the money I told him during the interview that I needed to make. All of this between June and November of that year. I calculated that between repairs and loss of income, we lost around $8000 during those few months. Leanest Christmas EVER at our house.
It's been a slow road to recovery, but we're getting there. Unfortunately, every time we take 2 steps forward we seem to be shoved a mile back. And it's always right before Christmas. I really do believe in miracles. Is it wrong to pray that somehow God will see it fit to put just enough in the checking account to get the boys what they're asking for?
Saturday, October 27, 2012
A Crude Scientific Perspective of the Afterlife
Most peoples, no matter the formality, foundation, or details of their spiritual views, believe that the ancestors who have passed on before them watch over and guide them. Call them what you will ~ guardian angels, spirit guides, whatever ~ but the idea is the same. We find comfort in the belief that loved ones continue to smile on us from the beyond.
As a Christian, I believe in Heaven, which means that I must therefore believe in Hell. However, what I believe about Heaven and Hell might differ somewhat from other Christians. I don't know that I believe in a literal place with streets made of gold and the sea of precious stone where angels in white flowing robes fly around playing harps. Nor am I convinced of a literal place of eternal fire governed by a horned, spike-tailed, red body demon with a blazing pitchfork. Not to say that the Book of Revelations got it wrong, only that Revelations was a mortal's best attempt to give words to the indescribable magnificence of the immortal.
I interpret Heaven vs. Hell on a very simple level. Heaven is eternity in the blessed presence of my loving, forgiving Savior and God, while Hell is eternity away from Him ~ regardless of the scenery.
A friend and I were talking recently about loved ones passed on and how each of us find comfort in the thought that their spirits still move in our lives. Interestingly, this friend is not a believer, but she believes in guardian angels. She mentioned that she sort of grapples with the idea, though, because she has a hard time with the ideas of Heaven and Hell.
Knowing that taking a religious slant would not encourage her to really think about it ~ she does have some knowledge of the Christian faith ~ I was inspired to take a different path.
"Would you agree with the fundamental scientific fact that matter can be neither created nor destroyed?" "Yes." "Would you agree also to the fact that humans are energetic beings?" "Yes." "So, since energy cannot be created or destroyed, the energy within this mortal body was here before our physical bodies came to be, and will continue to be here when our bodies are not, yes?" This put a thinking expression on her face. I continued, "When you strip away the religion and mysticism and take it down to the bear bones, could it be that the spirits of our loved ones are simply the energy that was once contained within their mortal bodies?"
This was an idea my unbelieving friend could wrap her brain around ~ a less fantastical concept of the afterlife, but still not one that discounted the idea of Heaven. God used what science calls energy to create His universe, and continues to use energy to govern it. Maybe the physicality of His angels is too pure for our mortal minds to comprehend, so He sends them to us in a more subtle form ~ a feeling, an awareness that someone is with us, watching us, guiding us. Is it coincidence that Christians believe that God calls us home to Him to move us to a greater "work"? Maybe this movement of energy is God's way of allowing the heavenly beings to work within the parameters that govern our earthly existence. Who's to say? But does it get one thinking?
I have little doubt that every person who reads this blog will see it differently. The self-righteous zealot or ultra-conservative Christian will probably be indignant, maybe even angry, for how dare I , as a Christian, try to suggest anything that isn't verbatim from the Bible. Someone on the fence may start the wheels of their mind turning. But the true believer will read this and think, "That's an interesting take," and be otherwise unaffected, because he doesn't need a scientific understanding to have faith, nor will any scientific rebuttal shake it.
As a Christian, I believe in Heaven, which means that I must therefore believe in Hell. However, what I believe about Heaven and Hell might differ somewhat from other Christians. I don't know that I believe in a literal place with streets made of gold and the sea of precious stone where angels in white flowing robes fly around playing harps. Nor am I convinced of a literal place of eternal fire governed by a horned, spike-tailed, red body demon with a blazing pitchfork. Not to say that the Book of Revelations got it wrong, only that Revelations was a mortal's best attempt to give words to the indescribable magnificence of the immortal.
I interpret Heaven vs. Hell on a very simple level. Heaven is eternity in the blessed presence of my loving, forgiving Savior and God, while Hell is eternity away from Him ~ regardless of the scenery.
A friend and I were talking recently about loved ones passed on and how each of us find comfort in the thought that their spirits still move in our lives. Interestingly, this friend is not a believer, but she believes in guardian angels. She mentioned that she sort of grapples with the idea, though, because she has a hard time with the ideas of Heaven and Hell.
Knowing that taking a religious slant would not encourage her to really think about it ~ she does have some knowledge of the Christian faith ~ I was inspired to take a different path.
"Would you agree with the fundamental scientific fact that matter can be neither created nor destroyed?" "Yes." "Would you agree also to the fact that humans are energetic beings?" "Yes." "So, since energy cannot be created or destroyed, the energy within this mortal body was here before our physical bodies came to be, and will continue to be here when our bodies are not, yes?" This put a thinking expression on her face. I continued, "When you strip away the religion and mysticism and take it down to the bear bones, could it be that the spirits of our loved ones are simply the energy that was once contained within their mortal bodies?"
This was an idea my unbelieving friend could wrap her brain around ~ a less fantastical concept of the afterlife, but still not one that discounted the idea of Heaven. God used what science calls energy to create His universe, and continues to use energy to govern it. Maybe the physicality of His angels is too pure for our mortal minds to comprehend, so He sends them to us in a more subtle form ~ a feeling, an awareness that someone is with us, watching us, guiding us. Is it coincidence that Christians believe that God calls us home to Him to move us to a greater "work"? Maybe this movement of energy is God's way of allowing the heavenly beings to work within the parameters that govern our earthly existence. Who's to say? But does it get one thinking?
I have little doubt that every person who reads this blog will see it differently. The self-righteous zealot or ultra-conservative Christian will probably be indignant, maybe even angry, for how dare I , as a Christian, try to suggest anything that isn't verbatim from the Bible. Someone on the fence may start the wheels of their mind turning. But the true believer will read this and think, "That's an interesting take," and be otherwise unaffected, because he doesn't need a scientific understanding to have faith, nor will any scientific rebuttal shake it.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Kairos DCI 1 ~ Final Thoughts
I have so many thoughts about this latest Kairos experience, I'm not quite sure how to sort them. I was thrilled that Kairos was finally approved at DCI and that I was called to serve the maiden team. Knowing the enemy's usual approach in spiritual attack when I serve any ministry team, I armed and prepped myself as best I could in the weeks leading up to the event. Even then it seemed as if I was getting off easy. I should have been more on my guard to realize he was just waiting for me to let my defenses down during the weekend so he could pummel me.
And yet, for all the trials and tears, frustrations and really bad first impressions, 30 women at DCI felt the love of Christ as they never have before, leaving long coveted baggage at the foot of the cross, and walked back onto the compound renewed in spirit. Knowing this, I would go through every second of every heartache of that weekend again.
Crazy? Maybe not.
One of the blessings of serving behind the scenes is getting to know the Angels. More than one of these ladies are "lifers", already having served significant time. Many of them believe that, even within the system, theirs was a path of self-destruction. And several of them believe that Kairos saved their lives. That's why they come back to serve, to share the second chance they have been given through this ministry and the Kairos community on the compound. These are the hearts that draw me into Kairos. It's the healer in me that wants to be a part of mending their spirit, soothing the wounds of their past, and encouraging them to find wholeness in their future by seeking Him in their present. Is not the revitalization of one dead soul into an eternal relationship with Christ worth a few days of war with the devil?
I must admit, though, that I was grateful that this was not my FIRST Kairos experience. Had this been my first impression of what serving was like, chances are good that there would not have been a second.
The morning of our last day in the prison, I gave my Cookie Monster manual to the upcoming team leader and said, "I don't ever want to see that book again." To which she replied, "You won't. I think I'm gonna put you at a table next time." I was so fried that it wasn't until later in the day that it dawned on me what she had really said. Had I already agreed to be on the spring team? I didn't remember having that conversation. Another teammate said she thought the upcoming leader expects that I'll be on her team. Oh...so I was being informed, not asked? That's cool. Because even if she'd asked the answer would have been an unhesitating "yes".
And yet, for all the trials and tears, frustrations and really bad first impressions, 30 women at DCI felt the love of Christ as they never have before, leaving long coveted baggage at the foot of the cross, and walked back onto the compound renewed in spirit. Knowing this, I would go through every second of every heartache of that weekend again.
Crazy? Maybe not.
One of the blessings of serving behind the scenes is getting to know the Angels. More than one of these ladies are "lifers", already having served significant time. Many of them believe that, even within the system, theirs was a path of self-destruction. And several of them believe that Kairos saved their lives. That's why they come back to serve, to share the second chance they have been given through this ministry and the Kairos community on the compound. These are the hearts that draw me into Kairos. It's the healer in me that wants to be a part of mending their spirit, soothing the wounds of their past, and encouraging them to find wholeness in their future by seeking Him in their present. Is not the revitalization of one dead soul into an eternal relationship with Christ worth a few days of war with the devil?
I must admit, though, that I was grateful that this was not my FIRST Kairos experience. Had this been my first impression of what serving was like, chances are good that there would not have been a second.
The morning of our last day in the prison, I gave my Cookie Monster manual to the upcoming team leader and said, "I don't ever want to see that book again." To which she replied, "You won't. I think I'm gonna put you at a table next time." I was so fried that it wasn't until later in the day that it dawned on me what she had really said. Had I already agreed to be on the spring team? I didn't remember having that conversation. Another teammate said she thought the upcoming leader expects that I'll be on her team. Oh...so I was being informed, not asked? That's cool. Because even if she'd asked the answer would have been an unhesitating "yes".
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Kairos DCI 1 ~ The Cookie MONSTER
I have been struggling with whether or not to write this blog. For several reasons. Most of them having to do with the fact that this entry would essentially be a confession of sorts, a confrontation with an incredibly ugly side of my personality, and a testimony to just how broken God can make us.
One of Kairos Prison Ministry's overall struggles is number of available volunteers. The time commitment is considerable, and teams often have just enough hands to be a skeleton crew. This was the first team I served that had enough volunteers for me to have assistants. This was new for me, but I was excited! I had assistants!
It felt a little weird right out of the gate since both of my assistants were much older than me, making me feel quite unqualified to tell them what to do. One had a daughter about my age. The other had grandchildren about my age. And my little old lady was quite hard of hearing. I felt like I was always yelling at her, even though we were simply having a conversation.
Over the course of team formation, I came to suspect that my little old lady was wavering in mental stability. She didn't always seem to fully understand what was being said, or she would retell the same story a couple of times. Nothing major, as long as one has the patience to tolerate it. But this was overshadowed by her huge servant's heart. All she wanted to do was help.
The weekend started off well enough. The Cookie Team got everything counted that was brought in early, carpooled to the prison and got our service space set up in the facility. Then the quirks started to emerge.
Yes, I was serving in a lead position, and my little old lady was my "underling", so to speak, but I felt like I was taking care of a puppy. She seemed to be constantly near me, to the point of being underfoot. If I was out of her sight for more than a few minutes she would come looking for me. Maybe it was because I was one of the few people wearing a watch that she continually asked me what we were doing next. It felt like babysitting a toddler.
If you haven't noticed, I am a fiercely independent person. I am incredibly frustrated by circumstances that I cannot handle alone and mandate that I ask for help, making me feel weak and dependent. I also do not gracefully handle situations in which people are overly dependent on me. A friend of mine would say this is because I have no tolerance for weakness, in myself or in others. I would say it is because I prefer to be responsible for as few people other than myself as possible. When it's only you and you make a mistake, you are the only person taking the fall. Being responsible for others and making a mistake means you take everyone else down with you by default. So feeling like my little old lady was solely dependent on me for the duration of the weekend was more than a little uncomfortable. Unfortunately, after a while, that discomfort progressed into agitation.
Friday, when we realized our lack-of-cookie situation, my little old lady asked what we were going to do. "I don't know, I haven't had time to figure it out yet." "But we have to do something." "I can't do anything until I can get to the other building to talk to the team leader." "But what are we going to do?" "I don't know." What came across as her agitation fed my already irritated state of mind over the situation. And the exchange would have gone even further downhill if I hadn't told her that I was going to ask for suggestions from more experienced team members.
By the time we left the prison Friday, tears were streaming down my face. Feeling like an absolute failure in my cookie responsibilities and the source of much hoopla and drama, having multiple people telling me how to handle the situation, combined with the concerned badgering from my little old lady left me feeling shredded.
I don't now remember how well I may have slept that night, but I did not wake up feeling rested. I felt bone-weary, naked, exposed, and at the same time wound so tight that I thought I might snap with the least provocation. Though I was relieved to see the boxes of cookies sitting by the door, I dared not let myself believe that all was well. Until those boxes made it successfully to the prison and the cookies were counted, I couldn't shake the feeling of dread.
Over the last couple of years, the prisons have asked Kairos to scale back the number of cookies given to the residents for health related reasons, and Kairos has willingly complied. Last year was the first weekend our team gave only one dozen instead of two. However, not all of the prisons in which Kairos serves have made this request. Knowing that our additional cookies were originally intended for a men's prison, it was possible that they were packaged in two dozens instead of one. My little old lady pointed this out on the drive to the prison.
"What if the cookies are bagged in 2 dozens?" "Then we break them out when we get there." "We don't have enough bags." "We'll make it work." "Maybe we should stop somewhere and buy some bags." "We're in downtown Dayton. We don't pass any place on the way to the prison, and I am not going to drive around a city I don't know looking for a place to buy bags." "But we need more bags. We pass a Dollar General. We could stop there." "It's 7:00 on Saturday morning. Dollar General isn't open yet." "Maybe we could find a Kroger or something." "Tell you what, if the Dollar General is open, we'll stop." (Of course, it was not.) "Maybe we can still find a Kroger or something." "How about we ask the wives (of the guys who brought the cookies) if they are packaged in one or two dozens? And we'll make it work."
Mercifully, the cookies were bagged in one dozens, my little old lady's mind was put at ease, and my blood pressure was able to drop back to normal. The rest of the day didn't exactly go off without a hitch, but the majority of the Cookie Team's responsibilities were completed, and I was able to decompress substantially. Thankfully, with our duties done, we were utilized by other service areas and my little old lady was distracted enough to not be concerned with my whereabouts and I was able to get a much needed break for everything that had been weighing on me ~ for a while.
At dinner that evening, I confessed to our team leader that my little old lady was a big factor in my melt down the day before. I told her that my little old lady is a sweet woman with a huge heart, but she is a little too intense for me at times. At which point, a confession was made to me. When the original team roster was posted, someone suggested that our team leader prayerfully reconsider allowing my little old lady to serve because her family had expressed concerns about her mental capacities. Our leader responded saying that the offer had already been made and accepted, and that it would not be right to deny her now. Our leader prayed long and hard over where to assign my little old lady to serve, and that is how she came to be my little old lady.
This information would have been very beneficial to have beforehand, I thought. I could have more mentally prepared myself for was I was dealing with, perhaps been a little more forgiving and less frustrated. But what was done was done, and we are all the wiser for it.
Sunday is always chaotic for the service teams on a Kairos weekend. We have to inventory everything (that isn't edible) that we brought in with us, get it packed and loaded onto the truck, and leave the facilities as we'd found them. I fully understand that weekend's Inside Food Coordinator in that we are both strong personalities that want to get the job done, and neither of us have problems with barking orders ~ although, I do have a hard time barking orders to people older or more experienced than myself. I was raised by my very Italian father to respect my elders. So knowing what I do about the Food Lady, I got out of the way until she told me to do something.
Once my little old lady saw that there was a job being done, she wanted to help. Bless her sweet heart. However, the weekend had been particularly stressful for the Food Lady (again, I can relate) and she was in high gear. To be completely honest, I was afraid that she might pop. The speed at which we were working was a little intense, and some of the tubs and supplies were heavy. So when my little old lady asked what she could carry I suggested that she take a break and sit this one out. But she continued to press, asking how she what she could carry. My father would back-hand me hard enough to knock me out of my chair if he'd heard me yell at my little old lady to go sit down and take a break. At that point, another team member said, "Oh, just let her carry something."
I didn't respond to this statement, believing that whatever came out of my mouth, no matter the intended tone, would not come out well. Nor did I have the time to stop in the middle of what we were doing to explain that I was not trying to be mean or demanding, though I know that's how it sounded, but that my concern was for my little old lady's safety. With her being a smaller person, and knowing the gear and frame of mind in which the Food Lady was working ~ her patience spent and agitation level seeming to be at a new high ~ I was worried that my little old lady was going to get run over, or that she might hurt herself lifting something heavy. I'd watched her nearly topple carrying something heavy earlier in the day and visions of her falling on the concrete floor were unnerving.
At last, the truck was loaded, our ares returned to their original set-up, and we moved on to the closing service. After tears and hugs and the residents were reassured that we would indeed see them again, our team parted ways and headed for home. I couldn't remember a more liberating moment than pulling out of the prison parking lot with only myself and my thoughts in the car. Yet, I still felt weighed down by the realization that the first impression I was leaving teammates and residents who'd never worked with me before was of one of my uglier sides, that I had not stood up at all let alone gracefully under pressure, and that I could quite possibly have hurt the feelings of a sweet, Christ-loving, severant-hearted old lady.
One of Kairos Prison Ministry's overall struggles is number of available volunteers. The time commitment is considerable, and teams often have just enough hands to be a skeleton crew. This was the first team I served that had enough volunteers for me to have assistants. This was new for me, but I was excited! I had assistants!
It felt a little weird right out of the gate since both of my assistants were much older than me, making me feel quite unqualified to tell them what to do. One had a daughter about my age. The other had grandchildren about my age. And my little old lady was quite hard of hearing. I felt like I was always yelling at her, even though we were simply having a conversation.
Over the course of team formation, I came to suspect that my little old lady was wavering in mental stability. She didn't always seem to fully understand what was being said, or she would retell the same story a couple of times. Nothing major, as long as one has the patience to tolerate it. But this was overshadowed by her huge servant's heart. All she wanted to do was help.
The weekend started off well enough. The Cookie Team got everything counted that was brought in early, carpooled to the prison and got our service space set up in the facility. Then the quirks started to emerge.
Yes, I was serving in a lead position, and my little old lady was my "underling", so to speak, but I felt like I was taking care of a puppy. She seemed to be constantly near me, to the point of being underfoot. If I was out of her sight for more than a few minutes she would come looking for me. Maybe it was because I was one of the few people wearing a watch that she continually asked me what we were doing next. It felt like babysitting a toddler.
If you haven't noticed, I am a fiercely independent person. I am incredibly frustrated by circumstances that I cannot handle alone and mandate that I ask for help, making me feel weak and dependent. I also do not gracefully handle situations in which people are overly dependent on me. A friend of mine would say this is because I have no tolerance for weakness, in myself or in others. I would say it is because I prefer to be responsible for as few people other than myself as possible. When it's only you and you make a mistake, you are the only person taking the fall. Being responsible for others and making a mistake means you take everyone else down with you by default. So feeling like my little old lady was solely dependent on me for the duration of the weekend was more than a little uncomfortable. Unfortunately, after a while, that discomfort progressed into agitation.
Friday, when we realized our lack-of-cookie situation, my little old lady asked what we were going to do. "I don't know, I haven't had time to figure it out yet." "But we have to do something." "I can't do anything until I can get to the other building to talk to the team leader." "But what are we going to do?" "I don't know." What came across as her agitation fed my already irritated state of mind over the situation. And the exchange would have gone even further downhill if I hadn't told her that I was going to ask for suggestions from more experienced team members.
By the time we left the prison Friday, tears were streaming down my face. Feeling like an absolute failure in my cookie responsibilities and the source of much hoopla and drama, having multiple people telling me how to handle the situation, combined with the concerned badgering from my little old lady left me feeling shredded.
I don't now remember how well I may have slept that night, but I did not wake up feeling rested. I felt bone-weary, naked, exposed, and at the same time wound so tight that I thought I might snap with the least provocation. Though I was relieved to see the boxes of cookies sitting by the door, I dared not let myself believe that all was well. Until those boxes made it successfully to the prison and the cookies were counted, I couldn't shake the feeling of dread.
Over the last couple of years, the prisons have asked Kairos to scale back the number of cookies given to the residents for health related reasons, and Kairos has willingly complied. Last year was the first weekend our team gave only one dozen instead of two. However, not all of the prisons in which Kairos serves have made this request. Knowing that our additional cookies were originally intended for a men's prison, it was possible that they were packaged in two dozens instead of one. My little old lady pointed this out on the drive to the prison.
"What if the cookies are bagged in 2 dozens?" "Then we break them out when we get there." "We don't have enough bags." "We'll make it work." "Maybe we should stop somewhere and buy some bags." "We're in downtown Dayton. We don't pass any place on the way to the prison, and I am not going to drive around a city I don't know looking for a place to buy bags." "But we need more bags. We pass a Dollar General. We could stop there." "It's 7:00 on Saturday morning. Dollar General isn't open yet." "Maybe we could find a Kroger or something." "Tell you what, if the Dollar General is open, we'll stop." (Of course, it was not.) "Maybe we can still find a Kroger or something." "How about we ask the wives (of the guys who brought the cookies) if they are packaged in one or two dozens? And we'll make it work."
Mercifully, the cookies were bagged in one dozens, my little old lady's mind was put at ease, and my blood pressure was able to drop back to normal. The rest of the day didn't exactly go off without a hitch, but the majority of the Cookie Team's responsibilities were completed, and I was able to decompress substantially. Thankfully, with our duties done, we were utilized by other service areas and my little old lady was distracted enough to not be concerned with my whereabouts and I was able to get a much needed break for everything that had been weighing on me ~ for a while.
At dinner that evening, I confessed to our team leader that my little old lady was a big factor in my melt down the day before. I told her that my little old lady is a sweet woman with a huge heart, but she is a little too intense for me at times. At which point, a confession was made to me. When the original team roster was posted, someone suggested that our team leader prayerfully reconsider allowing my little old lady to serve because her family had expressed concerns about her mental capacities. Our leader responded saying that the offer had already been made and accepted, and that it would not be right to deny her now. Our leader prayed long and hard over where to assign my little old lady to serve, and that is how she came to be my little old lady.
This information would have been very beneficial to have beforehand, I thought. I could have more mentally prepared myself for was I was dealing with, perhaps been a little more forgiving and less frustrated. But what was done was done, and we are all the wiser for it.
Sunday is always chaotic for the service teams on a Kairos weekend. We have to inventory everything (that isn't edible) that we brought in with us, get it packed and loaded onto the truck, and leave the facilities as we'd found them. I fully understand that weekend's Inside Food Coordinator in that we are both strong personalities that want to get the job done, and neither of us have problems with barking orders ~ although, I do have a hard time barking orders to people older or more experienced than myself. I was raised by my very Italian father to respect my elders. So knowing what I do about the Food Lady, I got out of the way until she told me to do something.
Once my little old lady saw that there was a job being done, she wanted to help. Bless her sweet heart. However, the weekend had been particularly stressful for the Food Lady (again, I can relate) and she was in high gear. To be completely honest, I was afraid that she might pop. The speed at which we were working was a little intense, and some of the tubs and supplies were heavy. So when my little old lady asked what she could carry I suggested that she take a break and sit this one out. But she continued to press, asking how she what she could carry. My father would back-hand me hard enough to knock me out of my chair if he'd heard me yell at my little old lady to go sit down and take a break. At that point, another team member said, "Oh, just let her carry something."
I didn't respond to this statement, believing that whatever came out of my mouth, no matter the intended tone, would not come out well. Nor did I have the time to stop in the middle of what we were doing to explain that I was not trying to be mean or demanding, though I know that's how it sounded, but that my concern was for my little old lady's safety. With her being a smaller person, and knowing the gear and frame of mind in which the Food Lady was working ~ her patience spent and agitation level seeming to be at a new high ~ I was worried that my little old lady was going to get run over, or that she might hurt herself lifting something heavy. I'd watched her nearly topple carrying something heavy earlier in the day and visions of her falling on the concrete floor were unnerving.
At last, the truck was loaded, our ares returned to their original set-up, and we moved on to the closing service. After tears and hugs and the residents were reassured that we would indeed see them again, our team parted ways and headed for home. I couldn't remember a more liberating moment than pulling out of the prison parking lot with only myself and my thoughts in the car. Yet, I still felt weighed down by the realization that the first impression I was leaving teammates and residents who'd never worked with me before was of one of my uglier sides, that I had not stood up at all let alone gracefully under pressure, and that I could quite possibly have hurt the feelings of a sweet, Christ-loving, severant-hearted old lady.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
A Walk in the Park
I don't have a lot, but I give what I've got. Money is usually tight, but we give when and what we can. I have the same number of hours in my day as everyone else (though I wish I could figure out how to extend that) so I gladly give the time I've got. My hair grows like a weed and is thick as a horse's tail (that's not bragging, it's truth) and I grow it long to give it for wigs. I have the same amount of blood coursing through my veins as the average healthy adult so, seeing as there always seems to be a shortage, I give a pint of B+ between tattoo parties. Unfortunately, that last one seems to be causing me some problems.
When I was a teenager suffering my first of many bouts of depression, it was suspected that I also had chronic fatigue syndrome. Because the fatigue improved as the depression did, I was told that it was circumstantial, but that I would probably likely deal with circumstantial cases of chronic fatigue all of my life. Thus seems to be the case. Severe suicidal PPD brought along its buddy chronic fatigue. Prolonged bronchitis decided that it alone wasn't enough to do me in, so fatigue settled in along with it. Burn out and fatigue to hand-in-hand anyway, but when it's the chronic variety one is truly worthless.
Over the last couple of years, the Red Cross has updated their pre-donation reading material to include a full-page disclaimer against donating if you are diagnosed with CFS (chronic fatigue syndrome). What the disclaimer does not state is whether this is due the possible side-effects to the donor or to the recipient. Since I don't have an "official" CFS diagnosis, I donate anyway as long as I feel healthy and well enough to do so ~ and my most recent ink has healed.
A few days ago, I gave blood for the first time in over a year ~ tattoos and lack of opportunity being the hold-up. When I donated last year, I was still in recovery mode from a separated shoulder, so I wasn't doing too much strenuous physical activity. I felt tired for a few days, but noting noteworthy. This year, I am training for a 10K, so running is a part of my weekly schedule. In times past, when I've donated and tried to run a day or 2 later things did not turn out well. I usually felt like I was going to pass-out very early into the run. Remembering this, I took a couple of days off from running after I gave blood. Apparently, 3 days was not enough.
My girly dr is almost on the opposite side of town from which I live, but since I only go once a year (ordinarily) I don't mind the commute. I frequently spend longer getting there than I do in the office. After the appointment, I had time to kill and went to a nearby park to run my planned 4 miles. I got through 1.5, panting and gasping most of the way. I tried to push myself through, determined to at least finish the loop I was on, but that was all the farther my body would go. Embarrassed by my lack of success, I power-walked the rest of the way to the parking lot, all the while thinking, "Obviously, my body needs every oxygen carrying red blood cell it has ever produced to keep me from getting winded."
I was bummed, to be sure, but not disappointed in myself. I am in my mid-30's, after all, and may very well need to be officially diagnosed with CFS. But I now know that I should probably allot 5-7 days to fully recoup after giving blood before I push my body the high aerobic levels.
It wasn't a total loss, though. Since the run was cut short, I still had time to kill before class, so I did yoga in the park. I must say, practicing yoga in athletic shoes on the uneven ground of a park in the wind is far more challenging than yoga on a mat or carpeting over a nice level floor in the living room, but also far more relaxing, centering, and serene. I got to meet a wonderful dog named Molly and her very social, and sweet, owners for a pleasant chat ~ an opportunity I would have missed had I been able to keep running. And I made it to school with time to check out the athletic center, which I anticipate the need to become acquainted with as the days get shorter and colder. I discovered that they have several treadmills and no time limits on use - BONUS!
When I was a teenager suffering my first of many bouts of depression, it was suspected that I also had chronic fatigue syndrome. Because the fatigue improved as the depression did, I was told that it was circumstantial, but that I would probably likely deal with circumstantial cases of chronic fatigue all of my life. Thus seems to be the case. Severe suicidal PPD brought along its buddy chronic fatigue. Prolonged bronchitis decided that it alone wasn't enough to do me in, so fatigue settled in along with it. Burn out and fatigue to hand-in-hand anyway, but when it's the chronic variety one is truly worthless.
Over the last couple of years, the Red Cross has updated their pre-donation reading material to include a full-page disclaimer against donating if you are diagnosed with CFS (chronic fatigue syndrome). What the disclaimer does not state is whether this is due the possible side-effects to the donor or to the recipient. Since I don't have an "official" CFS diagnosis, I donate anyway as long as I feel healthy and well enough to do so ~ and my most recent ink has healed.
A few days ago, I gave blood for the first time in over a year ~ tattoos and lack of opportunity being the hold-up. When I donated last year, I was still in recovery mode from a separated shoulder, so I wasn't doing too much strenuous physical activity. I felt tired for a few days, but noting noteworthy. This year, I am training for a 10K, so running is a part of my weekly schedule. In times past, when I've donated and tried to run a day or 2 later things did not turn out well. I usually felt like I was going to pass-out very early into the run. Remembering this, I took a couple of days off from running after I gave blood. Apparently, 3 days was not enough.
My girly dr is almost on the opposite side of town from which I live, but since I only go once a year (ordinarily) I don't mind the commute. I frequently spend longer getting there than I do in the office. After the appointment, I had time to kill and went to a nearby park to run my planned 4 miles. I got through 1.5, panting and gasping most of the way. I tried to push myself through, determined to at least finish the loop I was on, but that was all the farther my body would go. Embarrassed by my lack of success, I power-walked the rest of the way to the parking lot, all the while thinking, "Obviously, my body needs every oxygen carrying red blood cell it has ever produced to keep me from getting winded."
I was bummed, to be sure, but not disappointed in myself. I am in my mid-30's, after all, and may very well need to be officially diagnosed with CFS. But I now know that I should probably allot 5-7 days to fully recoup after giving blood before I push my body the high aerobic levels.
It wasn't a total loss, though. Since the run was cut short, I still had time to kill before class, so I did yoga in the park. I must say, practicing yoga in athletic shoes on the uneven ground of a park in the wind is far more challenging than yoga on a mat or carpeting over a nice level floor in the living room, but also far more relaxing, centering, and serene. I got to meet a wonderful dog named Molly and her very social, and sweet, owners for a pleasant chat ~ an opportunity I would have missed had I been able to keep running. And I made it to school with time to check out the athletic center, which I anticipate the need to become acquainted with as the days get shorter and colder. I discovered that they have several treadmills and no time limits on use - BONUS!
Friday, September 28, 2012
Kairos DCI 1 ~ The Cookie Trial
Eleven hundred dozen cookies. Half the number we have historically needed, and yet still enough to make be shun sugar until the holidays. This was one of those rare occasions when I did not so much mind my sinus problems because the smell of sugar would have been overwhelming.
By a cruel twist of fate, the last time I served as the Cookie Monster, I had a tummy bug the first 2 days of the weekend and was quite literally sick to my stomach from the smell of sugar. I curled up into a little ball with my head on the table and let my Angels take over. This time I may not have been sick to my stomach, but it could be argued that I was a little sick in the head.
Before team formation formally began, our fearless team leader contacted me to ask how many dozens I thought each team member should contribute. After computing the numbers I was given, I gave her my suggestion. When we officially began team formation, a much more experienced veteran Kairos volunteer suggested that the number I can come up with was too excessive and recommended a smaller requirement. OK, I thought, this isn't exactly her first rodeo and she knows what she's doing, so let's go with it.
I should have stuck to my guns. Even though I watched her work the numbers, they didn't seem to add up to me, but then, I've never been particularly stellar at math so I wasn't inclined to argue. I should have argued. When it came down to the day, and the final count was in, we were almost 100 dozen short of the number needed. Can you say double, triple, quadruple count? No matter who counted or how, the number was always short. And I had less than 24 hours to come up with, get approval for, and carry out a plan of action before we needed to hand out cookies to the community on the compound.
Did I mention that we discovered this little snag during lock-down and count, so I couldn't get to our team leader for almost an hour? By then, I had already talked with another teammate who had served in this capacity before and whom I thought might have some advice. We really only had 2 options: 1- break the dozens down and redistribute, or 2- there were a couple of women on the team whose husbands were on a men's team the following weekend. They were certain their husbands would be willing to contribute the cookies they had already collected as long as we could replace them once home. The accompanying glitch with this possibility was getting them to Dayton from Columbus and then into the prison since cookies were no longer on our gate pass.
When I finally got to talk with our team leader, she chose to go with option 1. Unfortunately, this did not sit well with others who then decided to set aside the simplest option and take the most complicated. I had so many people telling me how to handle this ordeal that I thought my head might explode if anyone else tried to force my brain to process any additional information.
By the time the team was preparing to leave the prison for the night, I was fried ~ and I couldn't contain the tears any longer. The dam broke, and that was all she wrote. I called Joshua after our debriefing and cried on his shoulder over the phone. Even at almost 10pm, his first response was, "What can I do to help you?" Of course, at that point, very little could be done. When I finally hung up, I took a Benedryl and 2 sleeping pills and prayed for rest.
Thus, it was decided to get the cookies from Columbus to Dayton, and the gate pass was taken care of. I felt more than a twinge of guilt knowing that these ladies couldn't contact their husbands until we were out of the prison, around 830pm, and then they would still have to round up the goods and deliver them. It was going on 1230 by the time they got to Dayton, and they still had to drive back home. God bless loving husbands.
There were other complications with the cookies that weekend, as well. Because we didn't have the freedom to move around on the compound, for the sake of ease, we needed to pre-count before we took the cookies to other locations. It didn't matter who counted how many times, the count seemed to be short every time. Yeah, not only was our overall count short, every immediate need count seemed to be short, too.
I don't see why our team leader didn't fire me. I was obviously woefully screwing up this job, could never seem to get a grip on it this time around. A plethora of factors contributed to my seeming lack of competence, not the least of which being exhaustion, but I have to believe a big part of our struggle ~ in my area of service and all of the others ~ was due largely to Satan being pissed that God's work was happening at DCI. Nothing like serving as the hands and feet of Christ to invite some serious attack from the evil one.
Attack he did. I am embarrassed to confess that I didn't handle the situation very gracefully ~ but then, that has never been my forte. I came through this trial beaten and broken, humbled as only God can encourage, yet knowing that He had it in His hands all along. In short, Satan threw me a few curve balls, and I struck-out. Thankfully, I have a merciful umpire calling the plays.
By a cruel twist of fate, the last time I served as the Cookie Monster, I had a tummy bug the first 2 days of the weekend and was quite literally sick to my stomach from the smell of sugar. I curled up into a little ball with my head on the table and let my Angels take over. This time I may not have been sick to my stomach, but it could be argued that I was a little sick in the head.
Before team formation formally began, our fearless team leader contacted me to ask how many dozens I thought each team member should contribute. After computing the numbers I was given, I gave her my suggestion. When we officially began team formation, a much more experienced veteran Kairos volunteer suggested that the number I can come up with was too excessive and recommended a smaller requirement. OK, I thought, this isn't exactly her first rodeo and she knows what she's doing, so let's go with it.
I should have stuck to my guns. Even though I watched her work the numbers, they didn't seem to add up to me, but then, I've never been particularly stellar at math so I wasn't inclined to argue. I should have argued. When it came down to the day, and the final count was in, we were almost 100 dozen short of the number needed. Can you say double, triple, quadruple count? No matter who counted or how, the number was always short. And I had less than 24 hours to come up with, get approval for, and carry out a plan of action before we needed to hand out cookies to the community on the compound.
Did I mention that we discovered this little snag during lock-down and count, so I couldn't get to our team leader for almost an hour? By then, I had already talked with another teammate who had served in this capacity before and whom I thought might have some advice. We really only had 2 options: 1- break the dozens down and redistribute, or 2- there were a couple of women on the team whose husbands were on a men's team the following weekend. They were certain their husbands would be willing to contribute the cookies they had already collected as long as we could replace them once home. The accompanying glitch with this possibility was getting them to Dayton from Columbus and then into the prison since cookies were no longer on our gate pass.
When I finally got to talk with our team leader, she chose to go with option 1. Unfortunately, this did not sit well with others who then decided to set aside the simplest option and take the most complicated. I had so many people telling me how to handle this ordeal that I thought my head might explode if anyone else tried to force my brain to process any additional information.
By the time the team was preparing to leave the prison for the night, I was fried ~ and I couldn't contain the tears any longer. The dam broke, and that was all she wrote. I called Joshua after our debriefing and cried on his shoulder over the phone. Even at almost 10pm, his first response was, "What can I do to help you?" Of course, at that point, very little could be done. When I finally hung up, I took a Benedryl and 2 sleeping pills and prayed for rest.
Thus, it was decided to get the cookies from Columbus to Dayton, and the gate pass was taken care of. I felt more than a twinge of guilt knowing that these ladies couldn't contact their husbands until we were out of the prison, around 830pm, and then they would still have to round up the goods and deliver them. It was going on 1230 by the time they got to Dayton, and they still had to drive back home. God bless loving husbands.
There were other complications with the cookies that weekend, as well. Because we didn't have the freedom to move around on the compound, for the sake of ease, we needed to pre-count before we took the cookies to other locations. It didn't matter who counted how many times, the count seemed to be short every time. Yeah, not only was our overall count short, every immediate need count seemed to be short, too.
I don't see why our team leader didn't fire me. I was obviously woefully screwing up this job, could never seem to get a grip on it this time around. A plethora of factors contributed to my seeming lack of competence, not the least of which being exhaustion, but I have to believe a big part of our struggle ~ in my area of service and all of the others ~ was due largely to Satan being pissed that God's work was happening at DCI. Nothing like serving as the hands and feet of Christ to invite some serious attack from the evil one.
Attack he did. I am embarrassed to confess that I didn't handle the situation very gracefully ~ but then, that has never been my forte. I came through this trial beaten and broken, humbled as only God can encourage, yet knowing that He had it in His hands all along. In short, Satan threw me a few curve balls, and I struck-out. Thankfully, I have a merciful umpire calling the plays.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Kairos DCI 1 ~ The Virgin Team
I love being in prison. Of course, I go with the understanding that I will be walking out the door and returning to my family at the end of the day.
Kairos Prison Ministry captivated my attention several years ago when I first heard about it during my own Walk to Emmaus. God laid this ministry on my heart then and fuels the passion I have for it now. Historically, I have served Kairos at a women's pre-release facility in Columbus. However, the state saw it fit to shuffle the deck, and our ladies were relocated ~ some of them back to Marysville, most of them to Dayton. Unfortunately, Kairos was not at that time approved to work within Dayton Correctional.
I was not intimately knowledgable about the proceedings of cutting through the necessary red tape in order for Kairos to get into DCI, but I do know that it took the better part of a year. A year of not being able to serve the ministry or see our ladies was heartbreaking. Elated was I to be asked to serve on the very first Kairos DCI team!
Yet, I must confess, the wind was taken out of my sails just a smidgen when I was asked to serve for the second time in a row a position in which I had asked God to mercifully never place me. He has such a sense of humor. For the second team in a row, I had the honor of serving as the Cookie Monster, a.k.a. Cookie Coordinator. But hey, I thought, if this is where God wants me to serve, this is where I will serve.
Cookies are an important part of the Kairos experience ~ a never ending supply of cookies serves as a visual reminder of Christ's never ending love. Not only is there a bottomless plate of cookies sitting on the tables where these ladies spend most of their day, but participants are given cookies at the end of each of the 4 days to take back to the compound to share, and the community on the compound receives cookies as well. So cookies are everywhere, and if you are the Cookie Monster, by the time the weekend reaches its close, you never want to see another cookie again as long as you live.
When the numbers were worked, our team needed to collect 1100 DOZEN chocolate chip cookies. This is HALF of what we ordinarily need. Until recently, Kairos handed out 2 dozen cookies to each participant each day and to every resident on the compound once. Now, at the request of the prison, we only hand out 1. And I and my Cookie Team were responsible for counting every one of those cookies.
I have served Kairos twice before, and all 3 weekends I have served in a leadership position. When I tell veteran Kairos volunteers that my first weekend ever I served as Inside Food Coordinator they are usually surprised that I have opted to return. They are even more surprised when they hear that I had no team assistants. I had 2 resident Angles, inmates who have already been through Kairos and return to help facilitate, but no teammates assigned to help me because our team was so small. The last time I served as Cookie Coordinator was the same scenario ~ 2 Angles, no teammate assistants. And we made it work. This team I actually had assistants!! And I confessed to them at the get-go that I was not used to this and was unsure how to function with this much help, so they would probably have to remind me now and then that I needed to let them serve, too.
As the weekend drew closer, Satan reared his ugly, horned head, and team members across the board ran into snags and obstacles. We knew we were onto something to get him so riled. We met with the first of many collective obstacles the day we were scheduled to have our security training inside the prison and meet with our Angles. The Chaplain had called off unexpectedly, and our visit was cancelled at the last minute. We prayed right there in the prison parking lot for the Chaplain and his circumstances, and that Kairos would still be allowed to continue the following weekend without all of our team being security trained.
We serve an awesome God. We were given the green-light, and 4 days later I was headed back to Dayton, cookies loaded in the trunk, for Kairos DCI 1.
Kairos Prison Ministry captivated my attention several years ago when I first heard about it during my own Walk to Emmaus. God laid this ministry on my heart then and fuels the passion I have for it now. Historically, I have served Kairos at a women's pre-release facility in Columbus. However, the state saw it fit to shuffle the deck, and our ladies were relocated ~ some of them back to Marysville, most of them to Dayton. Unfortunately, Kairos was not at that time approved to work within Dayton Correctional.
I was not intimately knowledgable about the proceedings of cutting through the necessary red tape in order for Kairos to get into DCI, but I do know that it took the better part of a year. A year of not being able to serve the ministry or see our ladies was heartbreaking. Elated was I to be asked to serve on the very first Kairos DCI team!
Yet, I must confess, the wind was taken out of my sails just a smidgen when I was asked to serve for the second time in a row a position in which I had asked God to mercifully never place me. He has such a sense of humor. For the second team in a row, I had the honor of serving as the Cookie Monster, a.k.a. Cookie Coordinator. But hey, I thought, if this is where God wants me to serve, this is where I will serve.
Cookies are an important part of the Kairos experience ~ a never ending supply of cookies serves as a visual reminder of Christ's never ending love. Not only is there a bottomless plate of cookies sitting on the tables where these ladies spend most of their day, but participants are given cookies at the end of each of the 4 days to take back to the compound to share, and the community on the compound receives cookies as well. So cookies are everywhere, and if you are the Cookie Monster, by the time the weekend reaches its close, you never want to see another cookie again as long as you live.
When the numbers were worked, our team needed to collect 1100 DOZEN chocolate chip cookies. This is HALF of what we ordinarily need. Until recently, Kairos handed out 2 dozen cookies to each participant each day and to every resident on the compound once. Now, at the request of the prison, we only hand out 1. And I and my Cookie Team were responsible for counting every one of those cookies.
I have served Kairos twice before, and all 3 weekends I have served in a leadership position. When I tell veteran Kairos volunteers that my first weekend ever I served as Inside Food Coordinator they are usually surprised that I have opted to return. They are even more surprised when they hear that I had no team assistants. I had 2 resident Angles, inmates who have already been through Kairos and return to help facilitate, but no teammates assigned to help me because our team was so small. The last time I served as Cookie Coordinator was the same scenario ~ 2 Angles, no teammate assistants. And we made it work. This team I actually had assistants!! And I confessed to them at the get-go that I was not used to this and was unsure how to function with this much help, so they would probably have to remind me now and then that I needed to let them serve, too.
As the weekend drew closer, Satan reared his ugly, horned head, and team members across the board ran into snags and obstacles. We knew we were onto something to get him so riled. We met with the first of many collective obstacles the day we were scheduled to have our security training inside the prison and meet with our Angles. The Chaplain had called off unexpectedly, and our visit was cancelled at the last minute. We prayed right there in the prison parking lot for the Chaplain and his circumstances, and that Kairos would still be allowed to continue the following weekend without all of our team being security trained.
We serve an awesome God. We were given the green-light, and 4 days later I was headed back to Dayton, cookies loaded in the trunk, for Kairos DCI 1.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Sugar, Sugar
Have you ever known someone so brilliant that they had absolutely NO common sense? Or maybe the reverse ~ someone who is not particularly book smart but seems to have an uncanny underlying logical, if insanely so, train of thought? My parents are the perfect picture of both of these scenarios. My mother has a genius IQ and a Master's Degree in Nursing, yet often leaves me bewildered by bizarre everyday common-sensical decisions. My father has nothing more than a high school diploma, that I am told my mother was instrumental in helping him achieve, and has one of the wildest yet most logical thought patterns I have ever been privileged to learn from. I am hoping that I have managed to inherit something of the middle ground, but some days I wonder.
I once took one of those online IQ quizzes just for the fun of it. I don't remember exactly what the number was, but I do remember that it was about 10 away from genius. "Wow," I thought, "I'm either a stupid smart person, or a smart stupid person." Some days I wonder.
Like today, for example.
Last night, I had fitful sleep, and though I can't say I had nightmares, my dreams were anxiety provoking and certainly not restful. Some days, the only constant in our office is change, and today was one of those days. My lunch was shifted to accommodate a patient, which is nothing I get upset about, but it does tend to mess with my snack schedule. Needless to say, I was a little off all day.
According to my running schedule, I was supposed to run 2.5 miles of hill intervals today. I got about 15 minutes into a run that usually takes about 26-28, and I was having a hard time keeping a pace that let me catch my breath. I chalked it up to running in the woods with humidity. At the 19 minute mark, I crashed. I absolutely could not continue running. What was up?! I had run this path before - many times - and though it was challenging when my energy level was lacking, this was something different. I walked for 2 minutes to catch my breath and tried the run again. Two more minutes later, I crashed again. Frustrated, I slowly began to realize what I was experiencing - severe low blood sugar. It finally dawned on my that it had been over 6 hours since I'd last eaten, and my blood sugar had bottomed out.
Determined to finish with some degree of strength, I power walked the last mile(ish) and was satisfied that I had finished without strolling. However, by the time I reached the car my vision was blurring, and I was worried I might not be fit to drive. Thankfully, my head cleared and I hit the road home.
I needed to stop at the store on the way home and, though I knew waiting to eat was going to make the trip interesting, I decided to stop anyway. I walked from one end of the store to the other 3 times because my head was so foggy that I kept forgetting what I was there for. By the time I pulled into my driveway I had a solid headache.
Oddly, even eating dinner didn't help much to recoup my sugar level. I still felt very loopy. It took an additional snack, along with a Bailey's and chi, to get me to a point where I began to feel human again. I concluded that the combination of lack of rest, fatigue from an odd work day, and a severe lack of blood sugar, contributed to my shredded evening.
Now, here's where I feel like a really stupid smart person. I have dealt with low blood sugar for 16 years, since I was pregnant with my first-born. One would think that by know I would be in a solid pattern of when to eat. Obviously, such is not the case. It took a crash to remember to eat ~ how pathetic is that?! To look at me, one would not assume that I am a person who forgets to eat. Unfortunately, I only forget to eat when it is most inconvenient. And the worst part about all of this is that I know better. Not feeling like a smart stupid person this evening.
Here's hoping for a better night's rest and better memory for tomorrow. Maybe I can be a smart stupid person again.
I once took one of those online IQ quizzes just for the fun of it. I don't remember exactly what the number was, but I do remember that it was about 10 away from genius. "Wow," I thought, "I'm either a stupid smart person, or a smart stupid person." Some days I wonder.
Like today, for example.
Last night, I had fitful sleep, and though I can't say I had nightmares, my dreams were anxiety provoking and certainly not restful. Some days, the only constant in our office is change, and today was one of those days. My lunch was shifted to accommodate a patient, which is nothing I get upset about, but it does tend to mess with my snack schedule. Needless to say, I was a little off all day.
According to my running schedule, I was supposed to run 2.5 miles of hill intervals today. I got about 15 minutes into a run that usually takes about 26-28, and I was having a hard time keeping a pace that let me catch my breath. I chalked it up to running in the woods with humidity. At the 19 minute mark, I crashed. I absolutely could not continue running. What was up?! I had run this path before - many times - and though it was challenging when my energy level was lacking, this was something different. I walked for 2 minutes to catch my breath and tried the run again. Two more minutes later, I crashed again. Frustrated, I slowly began to realize what I was experiencing - severe low blood sugar. It finally dawned on my that it had been over 6 hours since I'd last eaten, and my blood sugar had bottomed out.
Determined to finish with some degree of strength, I power walked the last mile(ish) and was satisfied that I had finished without strolling. However, by the time I reached the car my vision was blurring, and I was worried I might not be fit to drive. Thankfully, my head cleared and I hit the road home.
I needed to stop at the store on the way home and, though I knew waiting to eat was going to make the trip interesting, I decided to stop anyway. I walked from one end of the store to the other 3 times because my head was so foggy that I kept forgetting what I was there for. By the time I pulled into my driveway I had a solid headache.
Oddly, even eating dinner didn't help much to recoup my sugar level. I still felt very loopy. It took an additional snack, along with a Bailey's and chi, to get me to a point where I began to feel human again. I concluded that the combination of lack of rest, fatigue from an odd work day, and a severe lack of blood sugar, contributed to my shredded evening.
Now, here's where I feel like a really stupid smart person. I have dealt with low blood sugar for 16 years, since I was pregnant with my first-born. One would think that by know I would be in a solid pattern of when to eat. Obviously, such is not the case. It took a crash to remember to eat ~ how pathetic is that?! To look at me, one would not assume that I am a person who forgets to eat. Unfortunately, I only forget to eat when it is most inconvenient. And the worst part about all of this is that I know better. Not feeling like a smart stupid person this evening.
Here's hoping for a better night's rest and better memory for tomorrow. Maybe I can be a smart stupid person again.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Essay 3
This is still the rough draft and I could probably use a stronger conclusion, so again, comments and constructive criticism are welcome.
“What a day! I’m headed down to the Man Cave to pwn some
newbs.” This is an all too common phrase
at our house. The “Man Cave” is our
lower-level recreation room and is announced by a sign at the bottom of the
stairs that reads: Hibernating in Man
Cave. Do Not Disturb. “Pwning newbs” is what I call geek-speak for
beating new players. My son is a
gamer. As are the vast majority of his
friends. And most of our adult friends. I seem to be the lone misfit because I myself
am not a gamer.
If
you are not a gamer, I can almost read your mind as an outsider looking into
the life of a player. As an outsider,
you might be hovering just outside the door with a preconceived notion of who
awaits you on the other side. You may
think it is probably some fat, slovenly, out of work middle-aged guy who hasn’t
bathed in days because he has been glued to the computer. Litter probably covers the floor except for a
swath that serves as an unobstructed path to the kitchen and bathroom. You might
expect this guy to look strung-out, hooked on the drug that is online
gaming. The keyboard will show excessive
wear on certain keys, the ones most used in the game, and the computer chair
will more than likely suffer from a permanent indentation that perfectly
matches the gamer’s hind-side. Such is
often the visual non-gamers have of gamers.
As a non-gamer watching my son grow up as an avid online
role-playing gamer, this was sadly the vision I once had of his future. My greatest fear was that he would lose
himself in the virtual world to the point that he would not be able to function
in the real world. Among people who do
not play, this is a common concern. And
in fairness, there are instances when such is the case. My husband at one time had so fully immersed
himself into the imaginary role-playing world of EverQuest that he would grab some snacks, take up residence in his
computer chair, and forget that any other world even existed. While I was out of town one weekend, my
husband came home from work with a pizza and case of Mt Dew, and settled in for
a gaming marathon that lasted right up to the minute I walked back in the door
– two days later. If memory serves, he
was still in his work clothes. This is
the same man who would not turn away from the game long enough to read a
bedtime story to his 5-year-old son and neglected his marital relationship to
the point of threats of divorce.
Thankfully, my husband did finally come to his senses and put away his
obsession with the fantasy role-playing game.
Though, most online role-playing gamers are not such
extremists. Yes, a typical gaming
session can last a few hours and even turn into an all-nighter. Yes, the visual of snack wrappers and soda
cans scattered at the feet of a gamer hunched in a computer chair is often
close to the truth. But it is not
usually obsession that draws most gamers to the digital world. It is something much more basic. It is a sense of belonging, a sense of
connection, a sense of having a common ground with others, a sense of
community.
Our oldest son, Ty, has always been a socially awkward
child with only a handful of real friends.
I was never a fan of videogames, and therefore kept a tight rein on how
much he was allowed to play. As he
watched his dad play EverQuest (EQ) and
World of Warcraft (WoW), his interest
shifted from first-person games to massively multiplayer online role-playing
games (MMORPG). Mother was not
pleased. I had already seen how these
games are capable of sucking a person in, and I was not ready to give up my
first-born. But Ty let me know that
online gaming was a social outlet, and that he was much more comfortable
socially in the virtual world than in the real (Boyer).
He seemed to have more friendships online than off. He would joke and laugh with his online
buddies, and he seemed genuinely happy with the arrangement. He had found the sense of belonging that
eluded him on this side of the keyboard.
“Ultima” creator Richard Garriot was first exposed to the
original pen-and-paper “Dungeons & Dragons” role-playing game in 1977 and experienced
a social connection that he strived to recreate in the digital world (King and Borland). Since their humble beginnings, role-playing
games have advanced by leaps and bounds into rich virtual communities. In his book “Synthetic Worlds”, Edward
Castronova describes how the real world is very accurately represented in the
digital realm, from choosing a trade to bartering for goods, from forming
friendships to developing leadership hierarchies within working alliances (Castronova). In MMORPGs like EQ and WoW, when a “newb”
creates a character, in addition to determining race and gender, the player
must also choose a trade, or career path, if you will. Players then utilize this trade to earn money
to buy needed gear and gain skill.
Eventually, they “level up”, get promoted, so to speak. As they take on bigger challenges, players
are often required to pull together to accomplish a common goal and mutually
benefit. This sounds akin to a power
hungry CEO climbing his way to the top of the corporate ladder.
Despite
being a fantasy world, the settings in MMORPGs also often parallel real world scenes. In EQ and WoW, the playing grounds alternate
between natural setting and towns or villages, much like I would imagine
medieval Europe. Traveling between
destinations, characters encounter one another, just as people’s paths cross as
we commute. The scenery flows and
changes as characters move about and change direction. Characters can even hitch rides, albeit on
mythical beings that look like ostriches or flying dragons, much as their real-life
player counterparts might ride a horse or fly in a plane. It seems ironic to me that what some people
use as a mindless diversion from their daily grind so closely resembles it.
However,
not all gamers play solely as a means of decompression or escape. A major draw to MMORPGs is the fact that
players from everywhere in the world are connected to one another via the
gaming platform. For Brian, playing Diablo is a mindless decompression, but
also a way to stay connected to friends as life moves them on (Reinicke). Annika was drawn to City of Heroes because of the comic book content, but then she “got
hooked because of the social interaction” (Gibson). In his study “The Gaming Culture Revolution”,
Lo Min Ming claims, “The heart of gaming is in the community that is formed
with gamers worldwide. We no longer just
play games for the fun and excitement, but also to satisfy our social needs” (Ming). I think Ty as a socially awkward kid and
Brian as a single guy living alone could testify to this statement. It is in within these massively multiplayer
games that they have found community.
Of
course, no community would be complete without its own lingo. Even an outsider will easily pick up “1337
speak” pretty quickly. “1337” is “leet”,
short for “elite”. It is all
“geek-speak” to me as a non-gamer. I did
have to ask for interpretation a time or two, but the explanations make sense
in the gaming realm. “Newb, noob, and
n00b” all refer to a new, inexperienced player, or someone who is playing like
one. “Lewt” is reward for victory, gear
or valuables taken from fallen opponents.
To “rez” or “respawn” is to have a character’s life restored. Killing the same monster repeatedly to
continually gain the same lewt is known as “farming”, and repeatedly killing
another character simply because you can is called “ganking”. A “guild” is a group of allied players who
regularly work together to complete a common goal. Guild members benefit from having a pool of
players to draw from when larger numbers are needed for a task, but also from a
sort of social ranking. I like to think
of guilds as high school cliques, a smaller grouping of similar people banned
together for the benefit of social status and survival in the larger
community. It all comes back to
community.
Community. Merriam-Webster defines community as “an
interacting population of various kinds of individuals … in a common location”
(Merriam-Webster). As unlikely as the
location may seem, millions of various individual gamers interact via the World
Wide Web. Ask the average person what
they first think of when they hear the word “community”, and they may say their
church or neighborhood, maybe a school yard, or even their office. Ask a gamer what first comes to mind when
hearing the word “community” and he would probably say his guild or his raiding
group. It is the same rule, simply on a
different playing field.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Chicken, Anyone?
This will come as news to no one who actually knows me, but I have a very spiteful nature. I blame it on a combination of Irish-Italian heritage and being a middle child. The Irish are known for their tempers, the Italian for holding grudges and getting even, and middle children for being screwed up after years of being overlooked. Sound like anyone you know?
This spiteful nature influences my behavior is ways that I have no desire to correct. Case in point, it is spite that keeps me from ever wanting to touch the book "50 Shade of Gray". I am sick to death of hearing about it and seeing it everywhere I turn. Spite is what keeps me from ever wanting to see "The Avengers" because the hype surrounding its release was stupid crazy. I point the finger at spite again for having not talked to my dad in 2 years. (See older blog for that explanation.)
My latest spiteful stance is on this Chick-fil-A hoopla. And it has nothing to do with the fact that they have come out very vocally opposing same-sex marriage. Though, I will go on record to say that in this nation, where we have made it such a point to drawn a hard line in the separation of church and state, the majority of our population no longer sees marriage as a covenant before God, but as a legally binding contract. Thus, same-sex unions should not be a matter for the church to decide. Why should the church decide who gets to benefit from legal unions? For decades, the American people have been shoving God and His law out of our government and its law, but all of a sudden it's OK to wield the Bible on this one lone issue? I don't think so, folks. Getting off the soap box now and back to the spite.
Admittedly, Chick-fil-A has never been a fast-food joint that is on my radar. I've known that it is a Christian-run organization, and that aspect did always hold a little appeal for me. I've just never been all that impressed by their product. And they're not exactly on every corner like some other places. Now, with this latest political-announcement-turned-biggest-advertisement-ever, they are on EVERYONE'S radar. And I am sick to death of hearing about it. Fine, you publicly announce that you oppose same-sex marriage. Can we move on now? Of course, a major role in the dragging out of this hoopla is being played by those advocates FOR same-sex unions. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if I'd heard that a Christian couple decided to hold their ceremony inside a Chick-fil-A to show their support while at the same time a homosexual couple had their ceremony in the parking lot to show their protest. I can't turn around without hearing something about Chick-fil-A.
So, not ever really eating there before, I don't have any more of a desire to eat there now. But it has nothing to do with my religious or political opinions. Some of it has to do with my particular tastes for food. But now, it has so much more to do with spite.
This spiteful nature influences my behavior is ways that I have no desire to correct. Case in point, it is spite that keeps me from ever wanting to touch the book "50 Shade of Gray". I am sick to death of hearing about it and seeing it everywhere I turn. Spite is what keeps me from ever wanting to see "The Avengers" because the hype surrounding its release was stupid crazy. I point the finger at spite again for having not talked to my dad in 2 years. (See older blog for that explanation.)
My latest spiteful stance is on this Chick-fil-A hoopla. And it has nothing to do with the fact that they have come out very vocally opposing same-sex marriage. Though, I will go on record to say that in this nation, where we have made it such a point to drawn a hard line in the separation of church and state, the majority of our population no longer sees marriage as a covenant before God, but as a legally binding contract. Thus, same-sex unions should not be a matter for the church to decide. Why should the church decide who gets to benefit from legal unions? For decades, the American people have been shoving God and His law out of our government and its law, but all of a sudden it's OK to wield the Bible on this one lone issue? I don't think so, folks. Getting off the soap box now and back to the spite.
Admittedly, Chick-fil-A has never been a fast-food joint that is on my radar. I've known that it is a Christian-run organization, and that aspect did always hold a little appeal for me. I've just never been all that impressed by their product. And they're not exactly on every corner like some other places. Now, with this latest political-announcement-turned-biggest-advertisement-ever, they are on EVERYONE'S radar. And I am sick to death of hearing about it. Fine, you publicly announce that you oppose same-sex marriage. Can we move on now? Of course, a major role in the dragging out of this hoopla is being played by those advocates FOR same-sex unions. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if I'd heard that a Christian couple decided to hold their ceremony inside a Chick-fil-A to show their support while at the same time a homosexual couple had their ceremony in the parking lot to show their protest. I can't turn around without hearing something about Chick-fil-A.
So, not ever really eating there before, I don't have any more of a desire to eat there now. But it has nothing to do with my religious or political opinions. Some of it has to do with my particular tastes for food. But now, it has so much more to do with spite.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Comp111 Essay 2
This is my school project for anyone interested in reading it. Constructive criticism is always welcome.
A group of teens sits
around a large table with books, manuals, papers and dice strewn before them. Maybe
a few pizza boxes and drink cans add to the clutter. One of the teens acts as a
mediator, reading from a manual and giving directions and choices to the rest
of the group. Another teen replies and rolls a many-sided die. Eruptions of
hoots and hollers follow. Scribbling on
the paper and rearrangement of figurines ensue in a flurry of activity. From
such humble beginnings, a universe would be created.
In 1974, the pen-and-paper (PnP) roll-playing game
Dungeons & Dragons (D&D) was created as a means for people to interact
in fantasy settings that could not be found in the real world (Hope). Thirty years ago, role-playing
games were played live and in-person with a defined group of fellow gamers. Each
participant took on a specific type of character and role, rolled dice to
determine strengths and casualty, and utilized a bound hard-copy manual to
guide play. The character creation was just as important and almost as much fun
as playing the game itself, and therefore took time and consideration. One
player was designated the Dungeon Master (DM) and ultimately guided the course
of the game. The other players pulled together to work for the common good
while at the same time strived to enhance their own individual characters. A
roll of the die determined the chance outcome of the current encounter. The
plot consisted of traps, twists, turns, battles, magic, monsters, dungeons,
treasure and all things fantastical.
Fast-forward 20 years. By the mid-1990’s, role-playing
games had transitioned from old-fashioned PnP into the digital era as
videogames. The landscape of the virtual world provided the fantasy setting
gamers once only imagined, and the flesh-and-blood DM had been replaced by a computer
controlled guide created by the games designers. Rolls of the dice were
replaced by clicks of the mouse, but the outcomes were still up to chance. Though
not a role-playing game, the release of the wildly popular Doom in 1992 sparked the flame of networked multiplayer game play
on college campuses and other entities where networked systems already existed (King and Borland). Removal of
internet restrictions in 1995 brought multiplayer games online and allowed gamers
from the world over to come together and join in common play (Gupta). What was once a relatively small
gathering of buddies spending an afternoon huddled around a table had morphed
into millions of players spending countless hours huddled around their
keyboards at the larger “table” of the world wide web.
With another 20-year leap, online gaming has become an all-in-one
form of entertainment, overshadowing music, movies, and TV shows. Major
advancements in graphics, especially 3-D, the ability to create individualized
characters, and the continual one-ups-manship of developers in plot development
have solidly gripped the gaming world. Videogame launches now bring in higher
first-day revenue than the latest and greatest movies. While it is viewed as
more of pastime in the states, online gaming has become a professional sport in
Korea (Ming). Developers have successfully married the multiplayer functionality
of the original Doom and the
individualized choose-your-own -adventure aspect of PnP D&D, and massively
multiplayer online role-playing games (MMORPG) have caught on like wildfire.
The spark lit on college campuses and corporate networks has been fanned into a
flame that has engulfed the gaming community at large.
Interestingly, what began as a mostly select grouping of
like-minded young adult players has become a true melting pot of diversity. Students
from grade school to grad school, dropouts, the unemployed, high powered CEOs, at-home
parents, scholars, pastors, doctors, and lawyers have all been known to play. This
leveling of the playing field is satirically portrayed in the web-series The Guild, which follows the real-life interactions
of an online group of players via “the game”. The Guild mocks the stereotypes that surround obsessive online
gamers using characters across all spectrums of life. The main character around
which the series revolves is a young woman who uses her web-cam to narrate the
happenings of her real life and that of her gaming group. Secondary characters
include an older, unemployed recluse of a man who lives mostly in this virtual
world, a stifled at-home mom who uses gaming as her escape from real life, a
college-aged techno-dependent girl who is never seen without some electronic
devise at her fingertips, a jobless young man who has a history of falling for
his online relationships, and an ego-driven teenage boy. This motley crew shows
that the gaming world bears no prejudices, the online world is truly “come as
you are”, and both have powerful attracting qualities.
What draws so many different types of people to this
common realm? What is it about the online gaming world that has caused it to
explode into the mega-money-making business it has become? Why do videogame
sales now outrank those of movies, books, and other playthings? Why have we
become so fascinated by this world that a web-series has been created around
it? How has it come to be that many people feel more comfortable in the virtual
world than in the real one?
The resounding answer to all of these questions is
“community”. In one way or another, gamers who play MMORPGs do so for the sense
of community. Many of today’s most avid role-playing gamers found that first
taste of community in the old days of pen-and-paper D&D, including Richard
Garriot, a heavyweight in the earliest days of videogame programming. Garriot was introduced to the highly
interactive role-playing game in1977 while attending a computer camp at
Oklahoma University. From that point on, Garriot strived to recreate that sense
of community in the computer world (King and Borland). Many others
are drawn to online games as a means of staying connected to friends as life
moves them on (Reinicke). The younger
generation of gamers find the virtual world a much more desirable and
comfortable social hangout than the real world (Boyer).
Community. We are all searching for the sense of
connectedness to people like ourselves, those who have a common interest. As
unlikely as this common ground may seem, the virtual world of online gaming has
a definite community. And with community comes culture. The culture of the
online gaming world is diverse in form, yet common in theme – people brought
together for the social interaction of playing together. This sounds much like
a small child’s real-world playground. Come on, let’s go play.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Just Call Me Bessie
Bull in a China shop. That pretty much sums me up. I am not know for subtlety or gentleness, but I am know for the occasional rampage.
I seem to be a destroyer of things ~ most notably vehicles. I am vehicle hospice. Cars come to me to die. In the last 3 years I have blown engines in 2 vans an wrecked and SUV. I dropped my truck off at the mechanic once to have the oil changed and when I walked in he said, "Oh. I didn't know you were here yet. I didn't hear a tow truck." True story. Thanks Tim. Another time I picked the truck up after a major repair and ran into the mechanics wife, whom I've known longer than the mechanic. As we chatted, she said her first thought upon hearing that my vehicle had arrived was, "Woohoo!! We're headed to Hawaii!" She was joking, but only just barely. True story. Thanks Laurie.
A lesser admirable notoriety is my seemingly wanton destruction of relationships and other people's self esteem. I have a habit of biting my tongue only until it bleeds, and once I start to choke, I spew blood everywhere. Here's a perfect example. Several years ago, when Josh was a youth pastor, an event was planned that needed to be drastically cut back in the 11th hour due to lack of adult volunteers. He received a message at literally the last minute from a just-graduated-high-school leader that she was "disappointed" that the event was cut back and therefor would not be joining us at all, meaning that her younger brother, one of the youth kids, would also be missing out.
I really should mention that this person had unintentionally rubbed me the wrong way for quite some time before this. Many, many, many times I have needed to remind myself that she was very young, and in many ways an incredibly naive and sheltered child. Even still, her views of reality seemed to be to take on an almost fictional utopian extreme. Having been raised in a city with huge Mafia influence, growing up with alcoholics, and having a history of molestation, my view of reality might also be somewhat tainted, but in the opposite direction. Thus, I don't usually have tons of patience for people who have no real clue.
At any rate, I told this person what I wanted to tell them. And probably not in the most Christian manner. The result of this little spat was that the entire family walked away from the church we attended at the time. A while later, while involved in an email "discussion" with the church's pastor, in which I was letting him know what I thought about a few things, he reminded me that I am not the kindest person with my words. True. I am aware of this, and working toward improving. But I have never been a fan of sugar-coating ~ giving or receiving. I told this pastor that I believed one of my strengths was having the courage to say what other people won't, though, I certainly needed to fine tune the delivery. And there went another bridge smoldering to the bottom of the ravine.
Most recently, I have been unfriended on FB because of a comment. The unfriending doesn't bother me. People disappear from my friends list all the time without me having any idea why, but hey, it's FB ~ big deal. The reason for the unfriending is irritating, but hey, it's FB ~ big deal. This person caused our family quite a bit of chaos and inconvenience earlier this year, and we did everything we could to help him put life back together. A few months later, he was back on his destructive path, and posting things here and there that alluded to the activities. So I called him out on it. And he unfriended me. He told my husband that he did it because of the comment I'd left. I then asked if he'd unfriended the other chic who also made a comment to the same end. Of course, he hadn't. So once again, I have verbally slapped around yet another unsuspecting and tortured soul, apparently, according to some, only to entertain myself.
I don't say all of this to imply that I am proud of this behavior. It's more of a confession than boast. James 3:10 says, "Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this should not be." James must have looked 2000 years into the future, seen how I behave and thought, "Oh no. We need to nip this one in the bud." I seem to embody this verse. Unfortunately, I am more known for the cursing than the praise, the rampage through the China shop than window shopping.
I seem to be a destroyer of things ~ most notably vehicles. I am vehicle hospice. Cars come to me to die. In the last 3 years I have blown engines in 2 vans an wrecked and SUV. I dropped my truck off at the mechanic once to have the oil changed and when I walked in he said, "Oh. I didn't know you were here yet. I didn't hear a tow truck." True story. Thanks Tim. Another time I picked the truck up after a major repair and ran into the mechanics wife, whom I've known longer than the mechanic. As we chatted, she said her first thought upon hearing that my vehicle had arrived was, "Woohoo!! We're headed to Hawaii!" She was joking, but only just barely. True story. Thanks Laurie.
A lesser admirable notoriety is my seemingly wanton destruction of relationships and other people's self esteem. I have a habit of biting my tongue only until it bleeds, and once I start to choke, I spew blood everywhere. Here's a perfect example. Several years ago, when Josh was a youth pastor, an event was planned that needed to be drastically cut back in the 11th hour due to lack of adult volunteers. He received a message at literally the last minute from a just-graduated-high-school leader that she was "disappointed" that the event was cut back and therefor would not be joining us at all, meaning that her younger brother, one of the youth kids, would also be missing out.
I really should mention that this person had unintentionally rubbed me the wrong way for quite some time before this. Many, many, many times I have needed to remind myself that she was very young, and in many ways an incredibly naive and sheltered child. Even still, her views of reality seemed to be to take on an almost fictional utopian extreme. Having been raised in a city with huge Mafia influence, growing up with alcoholics, and having a history of molestation, my view of reality might also be somewhat tainted, but in the opposite direction. Thus, I don't usually have tons of patience for people who have no real clue.
At any rate, I told this person what I wanted to tell them. And probably not in the most Christian manner. The result of this little spat was that the entire family walked away from the church we attended at the time. A while later, while involved in an email "discussion" with the church's pastor, in which I was letting him know what I thought about a few things, he reminded me that I am not the kindest person with my words. True. I am aware of this, and working toward improving. But I have never been a fan of sugar-coating ~ giving or receiving. I told this pastor that I believed one of my strengths was having the courage to say what other people won't, though, I certainly needed to fine tune the delivery. And there went another bridge smoldering to the bottom of the ravine.
Most recently, I have been unfriended on FB because of a comment. The unfriending doesn't bother me. People disappear from my friends list all the time without me having any idea why, but hey, it's FB ~ big deal. The reason for the unfriending is irritating, but hey, it's FB ~ big deal. This person caused our family quite a bit of chaos and inconvenience earlier this year, and we did everything we could to help him put life back together. A few months later, he was back on his destructive path, and posting things here and there that alluded to the activities. So I called him out on it. And he unfriended me. He told my husband that he did it because of the comment I'd left. I then asked if he'd unfriended the other chic who also made a comment to the same end. Of course, he hadn't. So once again, I have verbally slapped around yet another unsuspecting and tortured soul, apparently, according to some, only to entertain myself.
I don't say all of this to imply that I am proud of this behavior. It's more of a confession than boast. James 3:10 says, "Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this should not be." James must have looked 2000 years into the future, seen how I behave and thought, "Oh no. We need to nip this one in the bud." I seem to embody this verse. Unfortunately, I am more known for the cursing than the praise, the rampage through the China shop than window shopping.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
He Did It Again
I'm training for a 10k. Actually, I'm training for a 1/4 marathon, which is .5 miles longer than a 10k, but I digress. I'm training for a 10k. And with power outages, a dead treadmill, and 100+ temps, training has been interesting to say the least.
I have been running outside recently ~ mostly due to necessity. But also because I love it. Some views simply cannot be witnessed from the platform of a treadmill ~ the beauty of a sunrise or set, the carnage of a vicious storm, or turkeys on the trail. Though I prefer the solitude of running alone, it is impossible to avoid others on a public trail. This has more to do with being self-conscious than being anti-social. I'm chubby, only moderately speedy, and graceless as a runner ~ don't really want to force that visual on the rest of the world. Yet, every now and then, I am reminded that people who do take note of me often do it for good reason.
Westerville Athletic Complex has a fairly flat 1.3(ish) mile loop that encircles several soccer playing fields. Every field was in use, mostly by women's teams. As they were finishing up, the men were arriving. Other runners, walkers, and parents pushing strollers or pulling wagons were out enjoying the evening. As I ran in one direction around the loop, there were a couple of older African gentlemen walking the opposite direction. We met on several occasions on our jaunts around the loop.
My running schedule has me at 4(ish) miles right now, so my goal was 3 laps plus an extra leg to make up the difference. Coming to the end of lap 2, my hip was catching and my knee was pulsing (forgot to tape them today.) Half of the loop was in full-sun on this 88F evening and the half in the shade greeted me with opposing wind. Commence, once again, with the mental pep-talk. Pushing through, I began the third and final lap. It was here, about a third of the way into the third loop, that I met these gentlemen once again. As I approached, they clapped and cheered me on, as if I were running a true race. I jokingly, though appreciatively, bowed (very quickly as I continued to jog by) and said, "Thank you, thank you."
Once again, God showed up. Had I talked myself out of completing my plan I would not have met these men one last time, and I would have missed the cheer from complete strangers. That cheer is what kept me going, pushing myself to the last marker, where, ironically, the gentlemen had also reached their destination as coaches of one of the men's soccer teams. God is so good!
I have been running outside recently ~ mostly due to necessity. But also because I love it. Some views simply cannot be witnessed from the platform of a treadmill ~ the beauty of a sunrise or set, the carnage of a vicious storm, or turkeys on the trail. Though I prefer the solitude of running alone, it is impossible to avoid others on a public trail. This has more to do with being self-conscious than being anti-social. I'm chubby, only moderately speedy, and graceless as a runner ~ don't really want to force that visual on the rest of the world. Yet, every now and then, I am reminded that people who do take note of me often do it for good reason.
Westerville Athletic Complex has a fairly flat 1.3(ish) mile loop that encircles several soccer playing fields. Every field was in use, mostly by women's teams. As they were finishing up, the men were arriving. Other runners, walkers, and parents pushing strollers or pulling wagons were out enjoying the evening. As I ran in one direction around the loop, there were a couple of older African gentlemen walking the opposite direction. We met on several occasions on our jaunts around the loop.
My running schedule has me at 4(ish) miles right now, so my goal was 3 laps plus an extra leg to make up the difference. Coming to the end of lap 2, my hip was catching and my knee was pulsing (forgot to tape them today.) Half of the loop was in full-sun on this 88F evening and the half in the shade greeted me with opposing wind. Commence, once again, with the mental pep-talk. Pushing through, I began the third and final lap. It was here, about a third of the way into the third loop, that I met these gentlemen once again. As I approached, they clapped and cheered me on, as if I were running a true race. I jokingly, though appreciatively, bowed (very quickly as I continued to jog by) and said, "Thank you, thank you."
Once again, God showed up. Had I talked myself out of completing my plan I would not have met these men one last time, and I would have missed the cheer from complete strangers. That cheer is what kept me going, pushing myself to the last marker, where, ironically, the gentlemen had also reached their destination as coaches of one of the men's soccer teams. God is so good!
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