Too much to say
When I tried to blog about the England trip in October, there was too much to say, so I resorted to posting verbal snapshots. Now I'm home, and sometimes there's still too much to say. What is life like eight months after college, three months into my first real job, settling into home life and church life after being away? Here's my attempt to paint the picture....
8:45 a.m. Sip coffee, check e-mail. A column of boldface subject lines. Routine updates to the website. Steve fixed a typo. Good. The church plant down south begins public meetings next month. Cool. File that one; I’ll need it later. Photos from Ethiopia. This faraway church...riots in their city, but so much joy in their eyes, and their caregroup looks like mine. List of topics for the next newsletter. Mental note: need to find out who writes what. A list of colleges near our churches...no, we don’t have one yet. Website meeting on Wednesday. Calendar...ah yes. Wait—all day? Yes, an all-day meeting. Take a big notepad. Update from the pastor in New Orleans. God’s grace is amazing. Photos of members’ homes, wet insulation hanging from the ceiling, water-soaked furniture piled by the roadside, mold covering the walls. Some of these houses may never be rebuilt, but these people are talking about how good God is to them. I hope I can meet them someday.
* * *
The classical radio station is playing the King’s College Choir. It’s only 6:30 p.m., but it’s dark. A thousand headlights gleam in my rear-view mirror as we, the commuters, cross the bridge into Virginia. We reach the inevitable slowdown at Tysons and inch forward, four lanes across. Finally I reach my exit. There’s an art to crossing four lanes of traffic in a quarter mile. I’m slowly mastering it. The fewer eighteen-wheelers, the better. Now for home.
* * *
I am curled up in the chair that now lives in my room, wrapped in a crocheted blanket, my feet resting on a cardboard box for a footstool. A candle burns contentedly on the low bookshelf nearby. It is 11, and 6 a.m. will come too soon, but I miss poetry. There’s the good old English Anthology, and Yeats, and that fierce woman who fascinated him.... What could have made her peaceful with a mind / That nobleness made simple as a fire, / With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind / That is not natural in an age like this, / Being high and solitary and most stern? ...And I am thinking of a certain sunlit classroom, rustling pages, probing questions, and a well-loved professor sitting at the front, his chin resting in his hands.
* * *
The empty document stares blankly, cursor blinking. Lean back, run hands through hair. Organize your points, in your head at least. Go get a drink of water. Stare at the screen again. Why can I not think? Begin—no, backspace. Bad beginning. Try again. Pretend no one will ever read this. Name the file “For my eyes only.” Ah, that works. A news story grows slowly, paragraphs inching their way down the page. I can rename the file later.
* * *
We sisters are huddled on my bed because I’m the one with my own room, and we can put the laptop on top of a stack of cardboard boxes. They’ve been telling me about this chick flick for months. The volume is low so we don’t wake up little kids sleeping down the hall. We keep up a running commentary in low voices. “She’s kinda cute.” “Oh, he is such a dork.” “OK, that was a pretty good line.” “Lemme guess—here comes the kiss—what did I tell you.” “Aaww, that’s sweet!” “I would so not be falling for that.” “Oh wait—this is the funny part—why did you tell me?” “I’m thinking he’s kind of cute.”
* * *
My portable CD player is grumpy because of the cold, and maybe because it’s early morning. It has some time to warm up while I listen to the traffic report. Eventually, as I wind around the Beltway approaching the Potomac, it stutters to life and I can listen to the Psalms on CD. How quickly I forget—God is faithful, and I need him desperately. After five or ten psalms there’s a worship CD. Your mercy reigns... It rises with the sun.
8:45 a.m. Sip coffee, check e-mail. A column of boldface subject lines. Routine updates to the website. Steve fixed a typo. Good. The church plant down south begins public meetings next month. Cool. File that one; I’ll need it later. Photos from Ethiopia. This faraway church...riots in their city, but so much joy in their eyes, and their caregroup looks like mine. List of topics for the next newsletter. Mental note: need to find out who writes what. A list of colleges near our churches...no, we don’t have one yet. Website meeting on Wednesday. Calendar...ah yes. Wait—all day? Yes, an all-day meeting. Take a big notepad. Update from the pastor in New Orleans. God’s grace is amazing. Photos of members’ homes, wet insulation hanging from the ceiling, water-soaked furniture piled by the roadside, mold covering the walls. Some of these houses may never be rebuilt, but these people are talking about how good God is to them. I hope I can meet them someday.
* * *
The classical radio station is playing the King’s College Choir. It’s only 6:30 p.m., but it’s dark. A thousand headlights gleam in my rear-view mirror as we, the commuters, cross the bridge into Virginia. We reach the inevitable slowdown at Tysons and inch forward, four lanes across. Finally I reach my exit. There’s an art to crossing four lanes of traffic in a quarter mile. I’m slowly mastering it. The fewer eighteen-wheelers, the better. Now for home.
* * *
I am curled up in the chair that now lives in my room, wrapped in a crocheted blanket, my feet resting on a cardboard box for a footstool. A candle burns contentedly on the low bookshelf nearby. It is 11, and 6 a.m. will come too soon, but I miss poetry. There’s the good old English Anthology, and Yeats, and that fierce woman who fascinated him.... What could have made her peaceful with a mind / That nobleness made simple as a fire, / With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind / That is not natural in an age like this, / Being high and solitary and most stern? ...And I am thinking of a certain sunlit classroom, rustling pages, probing questions, and a well-loved professor sitting at the front, his chin resting in his hands.
* * *
The empty document stares blankly, cursor blinking. Lean back, run hands through hair. Organize your points, in your head at least. Go get a drink of water. Stare at the screen again. Why can I not think? Begin—no, backspace. Bad beginning. Try again. Pretend no one will ever read this. Name the file “For my eyes only.” Ah, that works. A news story grows slowly, paragraphs inching their way down the page. I can rename the file later.
* * *
We sisters are huddled on my bed because I’m the one with my own room, and we can put the laptop on top of a stack of cardboard boxes. They’ve been telling me about this chick flick for months. The volume is low so we don’t wake up little kids sleeping down the hall. We keep up a running commentary in low voices. “She’s kinda cute.” “Oh, he is such a dork.” “OK, that was a pretty good line.” “Lemme guess—here comes the kiss—what did I tell you.” “Aaww, that’s sweet!” “I would so not be falling for that.” “Oh wait—this is the funny part—why did you tell me?” “I’m thinking he’s kind of cute.”
* * *
My portable CD player is grumpy because of the cold, and maybe because it’s early morning. It has some time to warm up while I listen to the traffic report. Eventually, as I wind around the Beltway approaching the Potomac, it stutters to life and I can listen to the Psalms on CD. How quickly I forget—God is faithful, and I need him desperately. After five or ten psalms there’s a worship CD. Your mercy reigns... It rises with the sun.
1 Comments:
I sense nostalgia... A bit of sadness... A bit of searching... But peacefulness. :) I'm glad you made this post. It is encouraging to me.
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