My Dating Reading Life

With the full onset of a Chicago winter my fair-weather biking has given way to bus riding. In the nearly hour-long commute to my office I’ve had abundant time for reading, a favorite pastime of mine. I am more caught up on my Time subscription, yes, but in recent weeks my focus has turned to my true literary love, the contemporary novel.

Last week I dove headfirst into Khaled Hosseini’s latest, And the Mountains Echoed. Having read his other bestselling, widely acclaimed novels (The Kite Runner, A Thousand Splendid Suns) I knew I was in for a compelling experience. Compelling, indeed. The interwoven plot lines combined with an engaging exploration of family relationships—biological and chosen, loving and harsh, present and absent—to pull me into the developmental trajectories of a rich cast of characters. Hosseini engages immigrant life, the ugly realities of war, and systems of oppression that extend across generations in this significant work of fiction.

After finishing the book on Friday night I felt aimless, not quite sure what to do next or how to spend my time. My other typical activities (ahem, TV watching) paled in comparison to the plot lines that occupied my brain. All day Saturday I felt lost, like some important piece of my world was missing. I woke up Sunday morning still thinking about the characters and the interwoven plot lines. Instead of getting ready for church I spent time diagramming the ways that each chapter connected with the next.

Sunday evening, still feeling lost, I tried to find another book to read to distract me, to fill the void that Hosseini’s novel left. I picked a short paperback called The Reluctant Fundamentalist. Thanks to a snowy two-hour commute home on Monday night I finished the novel in two days. It was a quick read, and the ending—oh the ending…

As I finished the last paragraph, though, I felt like I’d just ended a rebound relationship. I cared about the book and its characters, and I enjoyed my time with it. Yet, it was not true love, not like And the Mountains Echoed. It served a purpose for a time, but I won’t wake up thinking about it or carry it with me as I go about my day.

I’m not one of those people who believes in finding “the one” when it comes to romance. I’m not one of those people who believes in finding “the one” when it comes to books, either. However, And the Mountains Echoed was certainly “a one,” and I’m now on an active search for another “one,” another reading experience that pulls me in and holds me tight, that connects at some deep place inside of me.

As I continued to disentangle myself from my Hosseini-inspired daze I pulled another book off the shelf, this one Mindy Kaling’s comedic memoir-ish story. In my short time reading on the train, I realized this book was more like that guy I went on a blind date with once: nice enough, with a lot to offer someone...who is not me. 

Job 3: Holy Fallout

(written August 2013)

I am sitting in the Argo Tea on the first floor of the Willis Tower watching the Facebook likes and comments role in. I just posted a job update: “My long, disorienting, discouraging job search has turned into meaningful employment: Chicago/Milwaukee Regional Director for Lutheran Volunteer Corps, starting August 1. I couldn't be more excited!” The likes are up to 31 and counting, and it feels good. In these moments it is easy to forget the stress and strain of the last few months.

A few Tuesday mornings ago I waited for a call from Lutheran Volunteer Corps. At 8:30 am they were going to tell me whether I got the job or didn’t get the job, either sending me dancing through my apartment or collapsing onto my bed in tears. I woke up before six that day and did my best to pass the time: a morning run, a healthy breakfast, some piano playing. As my anxiety grew I grabbed the poetry book I’ve been reading: The Gift by Hafiz. Picking up where I’d left off I stumbled across a piece entitled “There Could Be Holy Fallout.”

Call it serendipity or divine intervention, it was a Word with a capital “W.” As the clock ticked closer to 8:30 and my nerves were stretched as thin as they could be I read:

Sit down, my dear,

Take a few deep breaths,

Think about a loyal friend.

Where is your music,

Your pet, a brush?

Surely one who has lasted as long as you

Knows some avenue or place inside

That can give a sweet respite.

If you cannot slay your panic,

Then say within

As convincingly as you can,

“It is all God’s will!”

The poem ends by claiming that “it looks like Holy fallout,” and now—knowing the outcome of that phone call—I couldn’t agree more. But if the outcome hadn’t been that, the poem still offers hope through its suggestion that the reader has all of the resources she needs. Surely one who has lasted as long as you knows some avenue or place inside that can give a sweet respite. Indeed. May all those who search know sweet respite and holy fallout.   

Job 2: Not This Time, Maybe Next Time

Though I’m posting this blog entry after having been hired, I wrote this post during the summer of 2013 during a discouraging time in my job search.

The two-year-old that I babysit for is a complete delight, and every now and then she teaches me something important. One day during lunch I was working really hard to get her to eat her tortellini. She didn’t want it and wasn’t about to be fooled by my coaxing. Instead she put on a serious face and told me, “not this time, maybe next time.” The only thing I could do was laugh and laugh.

When her mom got home I relayed the story and found out that this was a phrase from the family’s potty training book. The book tells stories of successes and close calls in a toddler’s efforts to learn to use the toilet. Its healthy, shame-free approach asserts that it’s okay to miss an opportunity to use the potty. If you don’t make it this time, you can do it next time.

~

I had a job interview recently for a fantastic position recruiting and coordinating volunteers and serving in administrative and supervisory roles in a refugee resettlement program. My experience working in resettlement and my degrees and my skills and my interests and my commitments and my passion for multicultural settings made me a great fit. I used my connections – someone knew someone at the organization and put in a recommendation – to make sure that my application materials were noticed. The interview went fine, and I had a great connection with the interviewer who was impressed with my experience and knowledge.

After I didn’t hear anything for a week, my hopes started to sink. After a week and a half I began mentally and emotionally disentangling myself from the role. I quit planning a new schedule and quit brainstorming program development ideas. After two weeks, I received my rejection letter and it was over.

Another difficult job search experience to add to the rest, and this one hit particularly hard because it seemed so promising. One morning as I was feeling discouraged and trying to recognize and honor the disappointment of another crushed hope, this phrase popped into my head: not this time, maybe next time. A helpful lesson from a two-year-old turned into a helpful mantra as the search continues.  

Job 1: The Search

Though I’m posting this blog entry after having been hired, I wrote this post during the spring of 2013 in the midst of my job search questions and frustrations.

I have seldom been as disoriented as during my extended job search. I’ve done all those things that one is supposed to do: I tailor each cover letter and resume to reflect skills and experience relevant to the opening. I network by phone and in person, meeting people who may be able to offer advice or connect me to organizations and managers who could hire me. I look broadly and apply widely, keeping an open mind and trying to be flexible.

Still, nothing. So discouragement creeps in. Then hopelessness. I can’t catch that vision that I used to have, that passion to work with people for social change. Instead I ask,

Was it worth it to go to graduate school? Why did I choose seminary? Was Chicago the wrong decision?

I think of all the things I should have done. I should have gone into a STEM field where there is a shortage of women instead of into helping professions where the market is saturated. I should have chosen my internships more strategically, picking opportunities that could lead to employment rather than opportunities that fit my interests. I should have done a part-time program so I could work full-time while I studied. I should have… I should have… I should have…

I struggle to fight off the negative self-talk as internal voices say that I am not good enough, I am not kind enough, I am not smart enough. If I were, I would get an interview. If I were, someone would hire me.

And so, the search continues.

Notice

I was cleaning out some cupboards a few weeks ago, and I came across a little notebook from the summer of 2005. I lived in Atlanta for a few months, working for a service-learning program and experiencing city life for the first time. One of the pages of this notebook offered the beginnings of a top ten list that I never finished: Things That Wouldn’t Happen In Newton, Kansas. One item: being late to work because the street is closed for a Braves game and you have to take a detour. Another: getting hit on by the man bagging groceries at the local store.

I spent a lot of time that summer in awe of the urban setting – people everywhere, public transit, diversity of many kinds, an abundance of restaurant options. The parking lot of the church where I was staying filled up for a couple of days with trailers and equipment used for a big screen movie that was filming nearby. I learned why side-view mirrors are important while driving a mini-van in multiple lanes of traffic. I had to think about things like locking the door and traveling in groups and paying attention to smog alerts.

Now I live in Chicago and many of those things that were shocking, awe-inspiring, or exciting have become commonplace. When I go back to Newton and my mom runs into several people she knows at the grocery store, I am surprised. When I think about how my road bike would never work on the gravel, how quiet it is without the constant noise of city traffic and sirens, and how soil contamination is not a concern when planting a garden…these are the things that are shocking, awe-inspiring, and exciting to me now.

On one hand, I want to use these reflections to draw big conclusions about human malleability and the de-sensitizing effects of exposure to new things. On the other hand, I am reminded of the importance of taking notice. I can see the Willis (formerly Sears) Tower from the living room window that I am looking out as I write. A Mexican man pushing an ice cream cart just walked by on the sidewalk outside. If I open the windows, I will hear the Ashland bus announcing its stop half a block down. Commonplace. Special. Some of both. 

Soundtrack for a Season

The 2012-2013 academic year, my last in a long graduate program, has been full of ups and downs. Along the way I’ve been accompanied by a couple of important albums. Great for provoking deep reflection, offering comfort when things look bleak, and providing a burst of adrenaline while trying out the running shoes after a sedentary Chicago winter, Taylor Swift’s Red and fun.’s Some Nights have been my favorites. Here’s why:

The capstone class at my seminary, a constructive theology project, started off in a bad way. After struggling to decide on a context for my paper, I thought I’d found the perfect angle. My professor, however, was not as enthusiastic as I and offered a strong critique of my first draft. Just as I thought I’d gotten going, I had to start over. Thankfully, shortly thereafter I discovered that fun. sings more than the few songs I’d heard on the radio. It turns out that their lyrics include carry on, it gets better, it’s all alright, and put one foot in front of the other one. I carried on and  it did get better, especially when—months later—I passed my constructive theology oral examination with honors.

I turn 30 in August, and this milestone birthday has sparked a fair amount of reflection about aging and life choices (more on that in a future blog post, perhaps?). Thankfully, both of my favorite albums offer some inspiration on this front, some invitations to think about age as a state of mind: toni-i-ight, we are young, so let’s set the world on fire. We can burn brighter than the sun. And I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling 22… Everything will be alright if we just keep dancing like we’re 22.

In March the concert choir from my alma mater, Bethel College in Kansas, came through Chicago on their annual tour. Their performance had many highlights, but my favorite was a particular song performed by a women’s group called Woven. The group sang a mash-up that included fun.’s “Some Nights.” I loved the song already, but to see those talented and powerful young women perform the upbeat piece was inspiring. More than that, the whole night was inspiring as I remembered how important and formative my time as a Bethel student and as a member of the concert choir was.

My job search has also been a significant part of my year, and it has been a disappointing process. A few months ago I interviewed for a challenging, exciting, and well-paid position doing community mental health outreach. Through the hiring process, I walked a delicate line between beginning to imagining myself in the role and trying not to count on being hired in case things didn’t work out. I was one of two finalists for the position, but I wasn’t selected. I’ve been spending the last eight months thinking all love ever does is break and burn and end could apply to job seekers as well as to angsty adolescent love. More cover letters to customize. More organizations to research. More interviews to prepare for. The title of Taylor Swift’s “Begin Again” was a refrain that captured that feeling.

School is over. The job search continues. And I'm still loving these albums.

New Baby, Dead Children

Friday, March 22, I spent my day as usual, completing some homework for my online class, browsing the internet for job leads, and taking a lunch break in front of one of those ridiculous t.v. shows I’ve gotten hooked on.

The day held more excitement than a typical Friday, however, because I was also awaiting word of the birth of my younger sister’s child. She had been induced the night before, and I expected the phone to ring any minute with the news. Mid-afternoon my mom called to say that things hadn’t gone as planned and my sister would be having a c-section—the new baby’s birth was imminent.

I still hadn’t heard anything by the time I needed to leave home and head to a vigil and march remembering the hundreds of children lost to violence in the city of Chicago. Eight hundred and six children killed since 2008, which was, as the slogan for the event proclaimed, “more than we can bear.”

While riding the train to the vigil, my phone rang at last. It was my brother-in-law calling with what I could only assume was some joyful news. Lincoln Jesse had been born at 4:11 pm, and all was well with baby, mom, and oh-so-excited dad.

The disparate nature of these two events—a joyful birth and the remembrance of those children whose lives had been cut short—was not lost on me. Also in the news in Chicago around that time was the death of a six-month-old baby killed by gun violence. The birth of a new child is a cause for celebration, but we must not forget that the sad loss of little ones demands recognition too.

Of course I hope that Lincoln lives a full and healthy and happy life. With a well-resourced and loving family, he is already on his way. More than this, though, I hope that every child lives a full and healthy and happy life, with an abundance of resources and an abundance of love.