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".
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
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.
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