It's real

http://www.oxfordsp.com/aboutus_history.html

It's official: my sister and I are flying here in October, and visiting a friend here for a week, and probably staying "in college" here. I just bought tickets, which means it's really happening.

(This post is personal therapy: an effort to convince myself that the adventure is real. I think I'll go look at my electronic ticket again.)

A Pause

Several things have reached their close this week:

Busman’s Honeymoon: I finally finished it. It is lovely. All through the series I delighted in Sayers’ cleverness. But at the same time I wondered: does she merely hint at serious things, or can she write them? She can. The best praise I can think of is that having read the poignant final scene of Busman’s Honeymoon, I have no more desperate wish for one more Sayers book. It was ended well, and I was satisfied. (And, by the way, it’s deviously delightful to read a gentle British love story in a hot, crowded American metro. One can abstract from one’s surroundings beautifully.)

My second temping assignment: two days of proofreading an economic report on an African country. Thanks to two econ classes I took before going to PHC, I could actually follow some of it. African economic development is certainly more interesting than biochemistry, in my opinion. Having now read about 150 pages of statistics and theories about unemployment, AIDS, death rates, inflation, and exchange rate crises, I am more motivated to pray. They need the gospel in that country, and they need the mercy of God in the form of teachers, medical care, and good government. Next week: back to the scientific association.

Job hunting: I am pausing here too, if only mentally. I went into editing somewhat by default because I didn’t plan on teaching right away. But now that I’m into it, I’m wondering whether sitting quietly and looking at documents for eight hours at a stretch is really my cup of tea. I heartily enjoy a snowy and bustling morning at PHC when 20 people have called my room by 8 a.m. to ask if dress code is relaxed! But one usually can’t maintain that kind of rush forever. So I pause, to pray and try to discern whether I should continue in the editing line, or if God has something else in my future. And while I pause, I keep writing cover letters and sending resumes. Two more went out today, in fancy white envelopes.

And finally, the work week itself draws to a close. Tomorrow, coffee and lunch with friends and, if I can swing it, more unpacking. I’m still trying to “move in” to my home. College boxes are unpacked, but now I’m unpacking boxes of relics from my high school days and trying to clear my desk of papers. One thing that will stay on my desk, though, is a graduation gift from a dear friend. It is a framed section of the graduation program, and it reads:

Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter:
Fear God, and keep his commandments:
For this is the whole duty of man.
- Ecclesiastes 12:13

Another bulletin from the job-hunting world

I was just scanning Washington Post classifieds and came across this:

Writer/Editor. Experience: Position requires 57 years of writing and editing experience in a publishing environment

Oh, the perils of a lost hyphen.

Temping

Today was my second day at a scientific association downtown. Eight hours a day of proofreading scientific journal articles, checking for correct spelling, italics, consistent abbreviations, commas, consistent dates, consistent footnotes. I check long words with a quick mental slice into syllables--poly-pep-tide--and move to the next. We spell e-mail with a hyphen, end footnotes with periods, and and print "Fig. 1" in boldface. The people are friendly, chatting occasionally and bringing in fresh blueberries in the morning. But for the most part the office is quiet enough for me to hear police sirens on the street, ten floors down. On the wall next to my desk, an unknown kindred spirit here before me has taped a piece of paper no larger than a postage stamp. It reads, "Consistency is the last resort of the unimaginative. Oscar Wilde."

Gainful employment

Tomorrow I start my first temping assignment: a three-day stint proofreading for the magazine of a scientific association. Apparently it's in a spiffy building a few blocks from the White House. Hurray!

And today I sent out my first resume-and-cover-letter combo. Scary. (I don't even want to think about how many times I proofread those things!) It's a good thing that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor the job to the polished-and-prepared. I keep reminding myself of the melodramatic "statement of personal purpose" that I once whipped up for a study abroad application. I had no time to do it well, but unexpectedly found myself accepted to all the schools I applied for. God will certainly provide, which is a welcome thought.

Soon I hope to post about a book I've been reading on the theology of work, which I found at my church bookstore on Sunday. It's very interesting stuff. Perhaps I can draft blog posts while riding the Metro.

Where is thy sting?

God's grace is awe-inspiring. At the funeral today, in a front row facing the casket, stood Leeann's college-age daughter. Her hands were lifted in praise.

Every blessing You pour out
I’ll turn back to praise
And when the darkness closes in, Lord
Still I will say
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name

Death be not proud

My church is praying for the family of Leeann, who died of cancer this morning, leaving her husband and two children. We are also praying for Mark, who had liver transplant surgery two weeks ago and is in the intensive care unit in critical condition.

About twenty-five people met tonight in Mark’s home and, with his wife and children, worshiped God and prayed. Oh, the privilege to sing and weep with the people of God. “And so,” Paul says, “we do not lose heart.”

Death be not proud, though some have calléd thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so,
For those whom thou thinkst thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and souls’ delivery.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

John Donne

Gratefulness

While reading the BBC's account of the London bombings, I ran across a feature on Rachel, a woman from north London who was quite close to one of the Underground bombs but survived. She is publishing her memories of the bombing and her account of the daily effort to return to everyday life.

What particularly caught my attention was a single line, written the day after the bombings: "I'm going to sit in the garden today and look at the flowers and the sun and appreciate everything."

It's been a while since I did that. Why? Does it take a close brush with death to remind me to thank the Author of every good thing?

Bless the Lord, O my soul,
And forget not all his benefits.

To begin with, as my mom reminded me yesterday, "You're not going to hell."

Snapshots from this week

Three days with my beloved little church, away at a retreat on a college campus

Gambling that there would be air conditioning at said college campus, and losing (a bad bet to lose)

Attending a baptism in the river with my little church, punctuated by local boaters backing their boats into the river as the crowd parted. Rejoicing as about ten people (including a married couple) proclaimed how Christ had saved them

Praying with tears for a dear friend of mine who underwent a life-threatening operation, and thanking God that as I write he is still alive

Failing two out of three editing tests

Three job interviews and a temping position

Dinner at a French restaurant with my poetry mentor and her husband, who are beyond kind, and a waiter who called me madame

Going with my mom to visit my grandmother—three generations of women enjoying a Sunday afternoon chat

Reading in my mother’s beautiful garden

Coffee with a dear girl friend

Finishing Gaudy Night, and looking forward all the more to visiting Oxford this fall

More vacation stories

You can find more fun moments from our family vacation at my sister's blog (the June 26 entry). She has a way of capturing verbal snapshots that outdoes my descriptions.

And, for your entertainment, the saga of the Amazing Atlanta Airport Steeplechase for Passengers:

We are flying blithely over the south on our way from Salt Lake City to Atlanta when we hear an apparently harmless message from the pilot: "Ladies and gentlemen, due to thunderstorms in the Atlanta area we have been asked to enter a temporary holding pattern although we are approximately 560 miles from the airport. Our arrival should still be in time for those of you who need to meet connecting flights." I haven't looked at my ticket recently, so I think nothing of it as we cut a wide aerial circle somewhere over Tennessee.

As we approach Atlanta, I (the inexperienced flyer) finally look at my ticket and realize The Problem: without delays, I have 45 minutes from landing to next take-off. And this airport has four terminals. And breathe a sigh of relief: my next flight departs only one gate over from my landing gate.

I take refuge in this happy thought as my connection time shrinks... 30 minutes... 20 minutes. At long last we touch down, and those of us in the plane's back rows (is that where they send people who buy from Priceline?) watch a hundred or so passengers slowly file off in front of us. About 6 of us look at each other, compare notes, and the realization dawns: we have to make the same flight. In 20 minutes or less. We Are a Team. (Cue Nike ad music here.)

We hit the terminal only to realize The New Problem: our departing flight has been moved—two terminals away. The race is on. Sprinting up the terminal, racing down the escalator, swiftly calculating where the shortest lines to the shuttle are, jumping on. By this time the Navy captain next to me is making snide remarks about Delta refreshments and the little old guy at the end of the shuttle is comparing us to reality show contestants. Shuttle door opens. We race around the corner to the up-escalator and stop in horror. The escalator has stopped. 80 steps reach quietly up into the distance. Take deep breath, hit the stairs, 30-pound bag on back. Reach the top, calf muscles quivering. Navy captain takes his wife’s bag and she rushes ahead, calling back to us, “I’ll tell them to wait for you!” Come around another corner looking for gate B04 and realize that gates count, not up like any sensible person would devise, but down, starting at 18. B04 is hardly visible. Race down long hallway, bag bouncing. Finally reach the gate. Nice man scans my ticket and says, “You made it!” I nearly collapse over his console, gasping out the words: “The escalator … was broken…”

The next morning I slept till about noon in my little beach bedroom. (Hey, it was 9 a.m. California time, so I figure it was fair.)