So, it's almost been a week since my last post, and I'm seriously trying to be more faithful to writing on this thing. It's been a long couple of weeks here in Laramie. As most of you know, I haven't always been, um, enthusiastic about living in Wyoming. I'm not so good at hiding that fact, especially as the winters drag on and the snow keeps falling. Thanks to Facebook, I now have a public outlet for my frustration. And everyone gets to read about how miserable I am. Which for my friends back east, is encouraging because (I think) they'd appreciate it if we moved back in that direction. But for my friends here, that has often served to make them feel bad, like I can't wait to get away from them or something. That has not been my intent. If it weren't for my friends here, I don't know what I'd have done the last 4 years! I have made some of my best friends ever since being in Laramie, and that has made even the winters endurable. But this winter is shaping up to be the longest one yet for reasons other than the weather.
It's funny, because earlier in the fall I was feeling really good about being here. Content, even. The weather does get nice, even if only for a couple of months, and it does lure you into forgetting about the harshness of winter when it arrives. We have been so happy with Julia's school, and thinking about leaving there has always been difficult. Once your kids are in school, when you find a good place it's tough to think about having to find a school that is well-suited to them as SRA is to our family. I have been really excited thinking about Kendall attending there next year. Like I mentioned before, we have an amazing community of friends through our church, and we've had such an fabulous time together this fall. Things just felt right, you know? I dared to entertain the thought that if we were to end up being here permanently, I would be ok with that.
And then...well, it's just kind of gone downhill from there. Due to some major upheaval at church, things there have been rendered very uncertain and unpleasant. We still have our core group of friends, but it's tough to say where we will all be once the New Year begins. I hate looking for a new church, and yet I feel like that is our only option at this point. It's hard to believe that we will all end up at the same place when all is said and done, and I just feel like the comfort of our church family has kind of been blown to bits by these changes. There have been frustrations with the school too--I am on the Board of Directors which has had its ups and downs, but this fall has turned into one episode after another of "As The School Turns". I've had enough of the drama. Without saying too much and violating confidentiality, I feel like I don't even know what to expect from SRA after this year plays out. It adds another element of uncertainty where only a few months ago I was feeling settled and secure.
Of course, we went to Baltimore over Thanksgiving and that didn't help. You know, you kind of forget how much you like a place when you've been away for a few months. I just love Maryland, I do. I love the east, I love the population, I love the trees and the traffic and the craziness of it. I am not a western girl, and I don't anticipate the grand conversion many people undergo who swear to never move back to the insanity of the east coast. Well, I miss that insanity. I went into the city during the break and gosh, it was even good to drive on the stupid Beltway again. You know, keep your reflexes sharp. I just like it there, I do, and being around our family and friends it just feels like home.
But of course, its not home, not right now, and its always good to get back to your actual home, with all your things, the place where you rest your head. Except when that place becomes relocated to the Arctic Circle, which is apparently what happened while we were gone over Thanksgiving. When we got home we were welcomed with a solid 2 weeks of sub-zero temperatures. It was miserable. This week it has actually "warmed up" to the 30's, and I'm sad to say it felt kind of balmy when it was a mere 32 degrees the other day. It is not even officially winter yet and the winter is making me nuts. It's an early start to what is sure to be a long, cold 5 months.
So we leave on Tuesday for Maryland-again-for Christmas. I'm sure I'll feel all the same ways I usually do--hate to leave, but want to be "home", wishing that "home" were there. And perhaps it will be, one of these days. I keep praying that God will just put us where he wants us to be. I know where I want us to be. It's hard for me to be content "whatever the circumstances." I try. And I will pray for God's help in that respect. Because I really don't want to always be wishing to be somewhere that I'm not.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
Seasons...Merry...Happy...Christmas? Hanukkah? Eid?
I'm a bit annoyed by all the emphasis Christians place on calling this time of year CHRISTMAS and insisting that everyone else in the world do so as well. I love Christmas, I celebrate Christmas, and specifically the CHRIST part of Christmas. I also enjoy all the other "secular" parts of Christmas, the tree, lights, presents, singing, cookies...even Santa doesn't bother me, it makes me happy. It makes a lot of people happy. Excellent--life is tough and short, there needs to be more happy things and happy times. This of course is not to say that there aren't some things skewed about the way Christmas is celebrated here in America, but generally I think the whole idea behind Christmas, even without Jesus, is a happy, warm, good thing. Families getting together, people being generous to one another. I know, I know, not all families are functional and people are just as greedy as they are generous. But seriously, if we just pitched everything because it wasn't perfect through and through, there wouldn't be much left to do in life.
But that's digressing from my original point. On the Christian radio station this morning, they made a big point of emphasizing Obama's "Season's Greetings" Presidential Christmas card. (They did also, very rapidly, note that Bush also did not mention Christmas specifically on his card last year. Of course he threw in a Bible verse, so that makes it all better, right?) It made me wonder why this is such a big deal. People are also known to go on and on about retailers not calling it a "Christmas" sale, but a "Holiday" sale, or putting "Christmas" on their signs and displays. As if that makes up for the things that are wrong with Christmas. As if Jesus really cares whether Old Navy wishes me a Happy Holiday or a Merry Christmas. The thing I keep getting back to in my head is that we are not a "Christian" nation. This is not a theocracy. People can celebrate the holidays without any emphasis on Jesus if they so choose. There are many people in this country who do not celebrate Christmas, so as the President of those people too, shouldn't he respect their position by taking a more neutral tone in wishing them well?
This begs the question of whether or not Christmas cards should be evangelism tools. If I am a Christian, does it follow then that I must send a Jesus-y Christmas card to all my family and friends, regardless of their faith views? I typically do send something that tries to put the focus on what I feel is the "true" meaning of Christmas. This year I did not, but it does say "Merry Christmas". My first choice of card was actually very non-Christmas focused, it had mugs of hot cocoa and said something about being toasty. I thought it was really cute but didn't like the placement of the photo on the card. Would sending that have been less spiritual? Should my Christmas card be a statement to all where my spiritual allegiance lies? Would sending a Christmas card to say, a Jewish friend be offensive to them? If they are truly our friend I don't suppose we'd really want to offend them. I know that the Gospel is offensive to some, and that shouldn't stop us from sharing it but are we really out to try and share Jesus with others by being offensive? Shouldn't my life in its entirety be a reflection of my faith, not just what kind of card I send at Christmas? I'm not claiming to know the answers to these questions, by the way, just throwing them out there.
This kind of focus by American Evangelicals expands to things like public displays of Christmas trees, the 10 Commandments, prayer in schools, things like that. We like to make a big deal out of these issues, demanding our right to express our beliefs publicly. I think that's fine to an extent--I do think the random atheist that makes a huge issue out of "One nation under God" or the 10 Commandments in a courthouse really has too much time on their hands. If you don't agree, great, don't look at it. Don't pay any attention to it. If you're that offended they you're way too easily offended. But if we are so insistent on our faith being put on public display, then we should be equally supportive of say, Muslims posting the 5 Pillars at the mall, or a huge menorah being set up in the common square, right? I'm guessing not. Christians think they want some sort of theocracy in this country, but only if they are the ones making the rules. Last time I checked, we are not Iran, and I don't think we really want to be. Because Christians wouldn't appreciate it so much if Muslims or Jews or Hindus were the ones making the rules. Obviously, we think Christianity is the truth, or else we wouldn't be following it. But this is America, and we have freedom of religion. Which means that people are free to outright disagree with us and challenge us. We shouldn't have to respond so defensively if we truly believe our faith to be the one true faith.
Anyway, I guess my point is that at this time of year, we shouldn't be so focused on criticizing and pointing fingers and judging. Well, we shouldn't be focused on that at any time of the year, right? But Christmas, come on--let's just show people what grace and peace and love and joy really are about, instead of nit-picking about what kind of phrasing Obama uses on his Presidential Christmas card or whether WalMart wishes me a Happy Holiday or Merry Christmas. Because THAT'S not what Christmas is about either.
But that's digressing from my original point. On the Christian radio station this morning, they made a big point of emphasizing Obama's "Season's Greetings" Presidential Christmas card. (They did also, very rapidly, note that Bush also did not mention Christmas specifically on his card last year. Of course he threw in a Bible verse, so that makes it all better, right?) It made me wonder why this is such a big deal. People are also known to go on and on about retailers not calling it a "Christmas" sale, but a "Holiday" sale, or putting "Christmas" on their signs and displays. As if that makes up for the things that are wrong with Christmas. As if Jesus really cares whether Old Navy wishes me a Happy Holiday or a Merry Christmas. The thing I keep getting back to in my head is that we are not a "Christian" nation. This is not a theocracy. People can celebrate the holidays without any emphasis on Jesus if they so choose. There are many people in this country who do not celebrate Christmas, so as the President of those people too, shouldn't he respect their position by taking a more neutral tone in wishing them well?
This begs the question of whether or not Christmas cards should be evangelism tools. If I am a Christian, does it follow then that I must send a Jesus-y Christmas card to all my family and friends, regardless of their faith views? I typically do send something that tries to put the focus on what I feel is the "true" meaning of Christmas. This year I did not, but it does say "Merry Christmas". My first choice of card was actually very non-Christmas focused, it had mugs of hot cocoa and said something about being toasty. I thought it was really cute but didn't like the placement of the photo on the card. Would sending that have been less spiritual? Should my Christmas card be a statement to all where my spiritual allegiance lies? Would sending a Christmas card to say, a Jewish friend be offensive to them? If they are truly our friend I don't suppose we'd really want to offend them. I know that the Gospel is offensive to some, and that shouldn't stop us from sharing it but are we really out to try and share Jesus with others by being offensive? Shouldn't my life in its entirety be a reflection of my faith, not just what kind of card I send at Christmas? I'm not claiming to know the answers to these questions, by the way, just throwing them out there.
This kind of focus by American Evangelicals expands to things like public displays of Christmas trees, the 10 Commandments, prayer in schools, things like that. We like to make a big deal out of these issues, demanding our right to express our beliefs publicly. I think that's fine to an extent--I do think the random atheist that makes a huge issue out of "One nation under God" or the 10 Commandments in a courthouse really has too much time on their hands. If you don't agree, great, don't look at it. Don't pay any attention to it. If you're that offended they you're way too easily offended. But if we are so insistent on our faith being put on public display, then we should be equally supportive of say, Muslims posting the 5 Pillars at the mall, or a huge menorah being set up in the common square, right? I'm guessing not. Christians think they want some sort of theocracy in this country, but only if they are the ones making the rules. Last time I checked, we are not Iran, and I don't think we really want to be. Because Christians wouldn't appreciate it so much if Muslims or Jews or Hindus were the ones making the rules. Obviously, we think Christianity is the truth, or else we wouldn't be following it. But this is America, and we have freedom of religion. Which means that people are free to outright disagree with us and challenge us. We shouldn't have to respond so defensively if we truly believe our faith to be the one true faith.
Anyway, I guess my point is that at this time of year, we shouldn't be so focused on criticizing and pointing fingers and judging. Well, we shouldn't be focused on that at any time of the year, right? But Christmas, come on--let's just show people what grace and peace and love and joy really are about, instead of nit-picking about what kind of phrasing Obama uses on his Presidential Christmas card or whether WalMart wishes me a Happy Holiday or Merry Christmas. Because THAT'S not what Christmas is about either.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Trying to get back on track...
First of all, my apologies to anyone who tries to "regularly" follow my craziness on this blog. I know, I get all motivated for like a week and then forget to write anything for months. My problem is I usually have a lot to say, and it's hard for me to find the time (and sometimes motivation) to sit down and write for a long time. I'm not one of those bloggers who writes "blurbs" that aren't too long and involved. And I know I also tend to start "stories" that have multiple parts and yet somehow...never get finished! This is why I don't think I could ever write a book. Looking at a long story overwhelms me and that keeps me from actually finishing it. I try to break it into small pieces but it just gets away from me. I'm going to try and be more regular about writing on here, if for no one else's benefit but mine. I need somewhere to put all the crazy thoughts that run around my brain. I've been thinking of starting to journal again lately, but maybe this will work too. That's it, share my journal with the world! Ha! Welcome to the world of uncensored self-disclosure!
Speaking of journals, I used to journal like crazy. At one time I had a collection of probably 30-40 journals from high school through my early married years. I first started writing them for a school assignment, after a while they became a form of therapy. I also had the grand delusion that they might someday be a valuable historical tool, found by a future civilization and used to understand life in the late 20th/early 21st century. Then I actually sat down and read the crap I wrote! I was appalled at the ridiculous immaturity I found there, and the incredibly embarrassing things I chose to immortalize on paper. So I methodically began to destroy each and every one of those journals until nary a one remained. My friend Jen was shocked, but I wanted no one to ever read the stupidity that was contained in those colorful pages. I didn't want to re-live it myself! So gone they are, hopefully rotting somewhere in a North Carolina garbage dump. Wisdom from the 20th Century indeed!
I don't know if you've noticed, but I complain about the weather here in Wyoming. A lot. Many friends here have commented that I am very hard on this place where I live, and it makes them in turn feel bad because it's almost like I am dissing them. Well, friends, I have tried my very hardest to limit my Wyoming-disparaging comments. Truly. I was even feeling pretty good about living here, for the first time in 4 years. This fall I reached some sort of Zen-like state where I found myself thinking "You know, if I had to live here for the rest of my life, that would be ok." WELL. Then my church fell apart, but I was like, ok, I still have my friends, and Julia's school is awesome. Then I went to Maryland over Thanksgiving and went into Baltimore and saw some old friends and remembered how much I love it there. And THEN I came home to Antarctica. I'm sorry Wyoming friends, but the 3 months of summer does not make up for the just plain silliness of a week straight of below zero temperatures. And its not even WINTER yet! I have a good 6 months of cold, wind and snow to look forward to before "summer" arrives. And I'm sorry, 70 degrees is a lovely temperature, but it is not SUMMER. Summer is 80 degrees. It is sweaty. It is humid. It is "I'm so thankful for the air conditioner!" Not "oops, better throw on a sweater! It gets chilly here at night. IN JULY." Sorry. The cold is going to my brain. I'm ranting again.
Well, I think I'll quit while I'm ahead. Maybe if I commit to only spending 10-15 minutes every few days to blogging here I'll be more faithful. I can certainly fill 10-15 minutes with plenty of inanity for you to digest. Peace out!
Speaking of journals, I used to journal like crazy. At one time I had a collection of probably 30-40 journals from high school through my early married years. I first started writing them for a school assignment, after a while they became a form of therapy. I also had the grand delusion that they might someday be a valuable historical tool, found by a future civilization and used to understand life in the late 20th/early 21st century. Then I actually sat down and read the crap I wrote! I was appalled at the ridiculous immaturity I found there, and the incredibly embarrassing things I chose to immortalize on paper. So I methodically began to destroy each and every one of those journals until nary a one remained. My friend Jen was shocked, but I wanted no one to ever read the stupidity that was contained in those colorful pages. I didn't want to re-live it myself! So gone they are, hopefully rotting somewhere in a North Carolina garbage dump. Wisdom from the 20th Century indeed!
I don't know if you've noticed, but I complain about the weather here in Wyoming. A lot. Many friends here have commented that I am very hard on this place where I live, and it makes them in turn feel bad because it's almost like I am dissing them. Well, friends, I have tried my very hardest to limit my Wyoming-disparaging comments. Truly. I was even feeling pretty good about living here, for the first time in 4 years. This fall I reached some sort of Zen-like state where I found myself thinking "You know, if I had to live here for the rest of my life, that would be ok." WELL. Then my church fell apart, but I was like, ok, I still have my friends, and Julia's school is awesome. Then I went to Maryland over Thanksgiving and went into Baltimore and saw some old friends and remembered how much I love it there. And THEN I came home to Antarctica. I'm sorry Wyoming friends, but the 3 months of summer does not make up for the just plain silliness of a week straight of below zero temperatures. And its not even WINTER yet! I have a good 6 months of cold, wind and snow to look forward to before "summer" arrives. And I'm sorry, 70 degrees is a lovely temperature, but it is not SUMMER. Summer is 80 degrees. It is sweaty. It is humid. It is "I'm so thankful for the air conditioner!" Not "oops, better throw on a sweater! It gets chilly here at night. IN JULY." Sorry. The cold is going to my brain. I'm ranting again.
Well, I think I'll quit while I'm ahead. Maybe if I commit to only spending 10-15 minutes every few days to blogging here I'll be more faithful. I can certainly fill 10-15 minutes with plenty of inanity for you to digest. Peace out!
Monday, September 28, 2009
The Saga Continues
Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away...
Well, I guess New Hampshire isn't THAT far away. Although on the recognizability scale its probably right up there with Wyoming.
So I'm 9. My life as I have always know it has begun to disintegrate, although I was blissfully unaware of this fact. Life for me at that time didn't change a whole lot, at least I was so wrapped up in being a kid I was oblivious. Sure, we started buying "generic" groceries all the time--remember when "generics" first came out? Not store brands or "off" brands, black-and-white UPC-symbol-only generics. Lots of canned food, mac and cheese, eggs, that sort of thing. Plenty of shopping at Bradlees (the New England equivalent of say, KMart), although that wouldn't bother me much until I was in middle school. But seriously, I had much more important things to worry about. What kind of Trapper Keeper would I choose for school? Where were my sister and the neighbors and I going to build our next fort? Would I ever be able to master the Nelson's pogo stick or stilts? (No and no!) I was good at school and had plenty of friends and there was always something fun to do. We didn't have to get rid of our pets or our car or our house (at this point) so it didn't seem like such a big deal.
Of course, that very fact would later prove to be a major problem. See, when you ignore financial reality for a long enough time it WILL come back to bite you in the butt, I promise you.
Dad took lots of random jobs as previously mentioned, so sometimes we didn't get to see him all that much. One thing mom was good at was making sure we got to spend time with him. One Halloween instead of going trick or treating we dressed up and went to the country club where he was bartending and hung out there, eating hot dogs, drinking sodas and playing PacMan. Of course, that was the Halloween of the Tylenol scare so she wasn't about to let us out to get candy anyway, but still...She would keep us out of school once in a while when he was home during the day so we could just hang out with him. She wouldn't even lie about it to the school, she'd just say "My kids need to spend time with their dad". It helped that we were good students of course. What I remember most about those days is going to the dump. Seriously, we didn't have trash pickup, so we loaded up his yellow/gold truck and headed to the dump, my sister, the dog and I bouncing around on the front seat. I loved going to the dump and seeing all the trash people got rid of. Washing machines, kids toys, sofas, whole cars...it was like junk paradise. I was fascinated. Plus I just liked hanging out with my dad. I also remember, so clearly, when he was working on the Seabrook Nuclear Power Plant. He'd usually get home right around the 11 o'clock news. We had a wood stove, and he'd lay out his wet jacket, gloves, boots, hat, all around the wood stove. Then he'd plunk down in our big armchair--godawful ugly it was to remember it, huge yellow roses all over it--and settle in to watch the news before heading to bed. I'd often wake up and come down and just climb in his lap and cuddle there with him, just the two of us, Penny the dog curled up alongside of us, while WBZ Channel 4 went on about whatever "important" things happened that day. I wonder if he remembers that at all.
I try to imagine what it must have been like for him, to have his livelihood stripped away by some politician in Washington trying to show his muscle in his first year of office. I don't know if anyone hates or has hated a person as much as he hated our President for taking this from him. Of course, God forbid he should express his feelings about this, no, a good man stuffs them all inside and just soldiers on, bearing those burdens alone. Ignore what isn't pretty, pretend it isn't there. Just keep plowing ahead in spite of all the blaring warning signs of impending disaster. If I don't think about it, it doesn't exsist, right?
Of course Mom had her own issues that suddenly seemed to bloom with the new financial stresses. Suddenly she had to find a job, which was successful off and on depending on the swing of her increasingly erratic moods. Remembering days when she would just lie in bed and cry for no apparent reason. As the cleanliness of our house eroded (except for my immaculate room of course) and weird behaviors started cropping up. Like not throwing anything away because it might be vital to our existence. McDonald's napkins, empty envelopes, months old store circulars...As her mental state deteriorated, so did everything else. Fights became more and more frequent, louder, more angry. Usually over money, or how strangely she was acting. My sister and I would just retreat to our rooms, and as the next few years went by, we would slowly start to realize that things were not all ok at 10 Beechwood Road. And here you find me, starting to make that vow, challenge myself to NOT be like her at any cost.
Well, I guess New Hampshire isn't THAT far away. Although on the recognizability scale its probably right up there with Wyoming.
So I'm 9. My life as I have always know it has begun to disintegrate, although I was blissfully unaware of this fact. Life for me at that time didn't change a whole lot, at least I was so wrapped up in being a kid I was oblivious. Sure, we started buying "generic" groceries all the time--remember when "generics" first came out? Not store brands or "off" brands, black-and-white UPC-symbol-only generics. Lots of canned food, mac and cheese, eggs, that sort of thing. Plenty of shopping at Bradlees (the New England equivalent of say, KMart), although that wouldn't bother me much until I was in middle school. But seriously, I had much more important things to worry about. What kind of Trapper Keeper would I choose for school? Where were my sister and the neighbors and I going to build our next fort? Would I ever be able to master the Nelson's pogo stick or stilts? (No and no!) I was good at school and had plenty of friends and there was always something fun to do. We didn't have to get rid of our pets or our car or our house (at this point) so it didn't seem like such a big deal.
Of course, that very fact would later prove to be a major problem. See, when you ignore financial reality for a long enough time it WILL come back to bite you in the butt, I promise you.
Dad took lots of random jobs as previously mentioned, so sometimes we didn't get to see him all that much. One thing mom was good at was making sure we got to spend time with him. One Halloween instead of going trick or treating we dressed up and went to the country club where he was bartending and hung out there, eating hot dogs, drinking sodas and playing PacMan. Of course, that was the Halloween of the Tylenol scare so she wasn't about to let us out to get candy anyway, but still...She would keep us out of school once in a while when he was home during the day so we could just hang out with him. She wouldn't even lie about it to the school, she'd just say "My kids need to spend time with their dad". It helped that we were good students of course. What I remember most about those days is going to the dump. Seriously, we didn't have trash pickup, so we loaded up his yellow/gold truck and headed to the dump, my sister, the dog and I bouncing around on the front seat. I loved going to the dump and seeing all the trash people got rid of. Washing machines, kids toys, sofas, whole cars...it was like junk paradise. I was fascinated. Plus I just liked hanging out with my dad. I also remember, so clearly, when he was working on the Seabrook Nuclear Power Plant. He'd usually get home right around the 11 o'clock news. We had a wood stove, and he'd lay out his wet jacket, gloves, boots, hat, all around the wood stove. Then he'd plunk down in our big armchair--godawful ugly it was to remember it, huge yellow roses all over it--and settle in to watch the news before heading to bed. I'd often wake up and come down and just climb in his lap and cuddle there with him, just the two of us, Penny the dog curled up alongside of us, while WBZ Channel 4 went on about whatever "important" things happened that day. I wonder if he remembers that at all.
I try to imagine what it must have been like for him, to have his livelihood stripped away by some politician in Washington trying to show his muscle in his first year of office. I don't know if anyone hates or has hated a person as much as he hated our President for taking this from him. Of course, God forbid he should express his feelings about this, no, a good man stuffs them all inside and just soldiers on, bearing those burdens alone. Ignore what isn't pretty, pretend it isn't there. Just keep plowing ahead in spite of all the blaring warning signs of impending disaster. If I don't think about it, it doesn't exsist, right?
Of course Mom had her own issues that suddenly seemed to bloom with the new financial stresses. Suddenly she had to find a job, which was successful off and on depending on the swing of her increasingly erratic moods. Remembering days when she would just lie in bed and cry for no apparent reason. As the cleanliness of our house eroded (except for my immaculate room of course) and weird behaviors started cropping up. Like not throwing anything away because it might be vital to our existence. McDonald's napkins, empty envelopes, months old store circulars...As her mental state deteriorated, so did everything else. Fights became more and more frequent, louder, more angry. Usually over money, or how strangely she was acting. My sister and I would just retreat to our rooms, and as the next few years went by, we would slowly start to realize that things were not all ok at 10 Beechwood Road. And here you find me, starting to make that vow, challenge myself to NOT be like her at any cost.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
More, more, always more to tell...
This is part 2 of an undetermined number of parts.
It’s funny, telling your “life story”. Most of us probably think our lives are pretty unremarkable. Why would anyone want to know the ins and outs of our lives? It seems so insignificant, trivial. It’s why we say “Fine!” when people ask us how we are, when we are not fine, not even close. Why would anyone else care about the things I have gone through? You can’t really judge the significance (or lack thereof) of your life for yourself though, you’re too close. Someone with a really amazing life probably doesn’t stop much and say “Wow! I have a really fantastic life!” It’s just their life, they’re used to it the way it is. And you always hear stories about abused kids who would rather stay with their parents than be in foster care. It’s not so bad, really, it’s just the way life is. When people say “wow, that must have been really hard” about something in my life, my initial reaction is, something along the lines of “Hmmm…I guess it was!” I didn’t have any choice about the way things happened, I just was along for the ride. But I know that telling your story is important—people can learn things from you, and everyone’s going to get something different from the story you tell. Even if it’s only “So that’s why my best friend is so insane.” And you figure out things about your own self along the way, understanding more about who you are, where you’ve been and maybe even where you may end up.
I can’t remember life without my sister at all. There are pictures of me kissing her the day they brought her home from the hospital, but in spite of my incredibly good memory, I don’t remember anything before that time. She has always been there. We were best friends and mortal enemies. I always had someone to play with and to kick really hard. Looking back I can’t believe how much we physically fought one another. How did we get away with that? Why didn’t they stop us? I wonder too, if we fought more during the “after” period, as we watched the fighting escalate in front of our eyes. Did we fight before then? That I don’t really remember. We laughed together and screamed at each other…even into adulthood. I remember one appalling event, riding in the backseat of her ridiculous white egg of a car and the two of us getting into a slapping girl fight. We were both in our 20’s and my mother was sitting incredulously in the front seat as her two grown daughters went at it. We could not be more different. I look at her and I wonder how she is even my friend because aside from being related we would probably not give each other the time of day if we passed on the street. I can’t imagine life without her. She is the only one who had a front row seat to the events that shaped who I am, and yet those same events shaped us completely differently. Her story would have the same characters but be unrecognizable next to mine.
There was a time when they were happy, I know it. I was there, I saw it. Even if there were seething things underneath that I couldn’t see, whispered stories and misunderstandings, there were happy times. I wonder if he even remembers those anymore. Long drives up in the mountains to see the fall foliage. The Deerfield Fair in the fall, and apple picking. Spending the day at the pond. Christmases, the feeling of which I am constantly trying to recreate but always fail miserably. I can hear them reassuring us that just because they argued sometimes didn’t mean they didn’t love each other. I guess that was before the hole punched in the door and the ashtray flung across the house. She wasn’t always scatterbrained and ridiculous, using one excuse after another about how that’s just the way she is. That is not how I remember her, them. Sure, sometimes he drank too much and we had to be dragged out of bed to go pick him up at the Holiday Inn bar after softball games. Yes, there were times when we couldn’t follow through on pre-made plans because she just couldn’t get it together. But those times were rare, at least until everything changed.
It was 1981, the summer I turned 9 and was going into 4th grade. I really had no awareness of what was going on because my grandparents had been living with us that summer and I was basking in the glow of constant adult attention. It was probably the only summer that I didn’t worry about thunderstorms because there were always enough adults around to make me feel safe. I was more worried about the end of the summer, when Nana and Pepere would be leaving not just our house but the state too, and moving to Florida. My mom may have had a contentious relationship with them, but I thought they were wonderful. All her rants about my Nana just went over my head, because, well, she wasn’t my mother. The call came early in the morning in early August, and in spite of everyone’s reassurances that things would be fine, things would never be fine again. There were meetings, countless damn union rallies where the speakers would shout about SCABS! and I would cry and we would have to leave. Christmas parties, picnics—we were always around the stupid union people. It was like a family watching their house burn down and yet trying to comfort one another that it would all be all right. My dad (and mom sometimes) spending the day picketing, on the news. Sitting down telling me that police may come to the house and arrest him because, well, he’d done something illegal. When I heard that I planned an elaborate booby trap for the porch so that they could not come get him, could not take him from me. If they managed to get past the booby trap then I would just race down to the police station on my Big Wheel and demand they release him to me. I swear I thought this would work.
The weeks and months went by and it was clear that he wasn’t getting his job back, but he wasn’t one to sit around feeling sorry for himself, no sir. So the long litany of jobs began that would one day end up right back where he started, only in another country. Gas station attendant. Bartender. Golf club repairman. Construction worker. Nuclear power plant builder. Laundromat equipment salesman. He never went without work but he never made enough money to make it all go back to the way it was either. And no one really wanted to admit that it wasn’t going to go back to the way it was. So, we shopped at Bradlees a lot more, and we ate the black and white UPC generic canned food a lot more, and didn’t take as many trips or bought as many things. But we didn’t pay the bills either and that sure came back to bite us in the butt you can bet. She took some jobs too, at a preschool, Burger King, but the darkness that had flitted around the edges of her for a long time (according to her) started to advance and suddenly I had a mother who suddenly was not acting much like my mother at all, and a father who was working tirelessly for ends that would never be able to meet.
It’s funny, telling your “life story”. Most of us probably think our lives are pretty unremarkable. Why would anyone want to know the ins and outs of our lives? It seems so insignificant, trivial. It’s why we say “Fine!” when people ask us how we are, when we are not fine, not even close. Why would anyone else care about the things I have gone through? You can’t really judge the significance (or lack thereof) of your life for yourself though, you’re too close. Someone with a really amazing life probably doesn’t stop much and say “Wow! I have a really fantastic life!” It’s just their life, they’re used to it the way it is. And you always hear stories about abused kids who would rather stay with their parents than be in foster care. It’s not so bad, really, it’s just the way life is. When people say “wow, that must have been really hard” about something in my life, my initial reaction is, something along the lines of “Hmmm…I guess it was!” I didn’t have any choice about the way things happened, I just was along for the ride. But I know that telling your story is important—people can learn things from you, and everyone’s going to get something different from the story you tell. Even if it’s only “So that’s why my best friend is so insane.” And you figure out things about your own self along the way, understanding more about who you are, where you’ve been and maybe even where you may end up.
I can’t remember life without my sister at all. There are pictures of me kissing her the day they brought her home from the hospital, but in spite of my incredibly good memory, I don’t remember anything before that time. She has always been there. We were best friends and mortal enemies. I always had someone to play with and to kick really hard. Looking back I can’t believe how much we physically fought one another. How did we get away with that? Why didn’t they stop us? I wonder too, if we fought more during the “after” period, as we watched the fighting escalate in front of our eyes. Did we fight before then? That I don’t really remember. We laughed together and screamed at each other…even into adulthood. I remember one appalling event, riding in the backseat of her ridiculous white egg of a car and the two of us getting into a slapping girl fight. We were both in our 20’s and my mother was sitting incredulously in the front seat as her two grown daughters went at it. We could not be more different. I look at her and I wonder how she is even my friend because aside from being related we would probably not give each other the time of day if we passed on the street. I can’t imagine life without her. She is the only one who had a front row seat to the events that shaped who I am, and yet those same events shaped us completely differently. Her story would have the same characters but be unrecognizable next to mine.
There was a time when they were happy, I know it. I was there, I saw it. Even if there were seething things underneath that I couldn’t see, whispered stories and misunderstandings, there were happy times. I wonder if he even remembers those anymore. Long drives up in the mountains to see the fall foliage. The Deerfield Fair in the fall, and apple picking. Spending the day at the pond. Christmases, the feeling of which I am constantly trying to recreate but always fail miserably. I can hear them reassuring us that just because they argued sometimes didn’t mean they didn’t love each other. I guess that was before the hole punched in the door and the ashtray flung across the house. She wasn’t always scatterbrained and ridiculous, using one excuse after another about how that’s just the way she is. That is not how I remember her, them. Sure, sometimes he drank too much and we had to be dragged out of bed to go pick him up at the Holiday Inn bar after softball games. Yes, there were times when we couldn’t follow through on pre-made plans because she just couldn’t get it together. But those times were rare, at least until everything changed.
It was 1981, the summer I turned 9 and was going into 4th grade. I really had no awareness of what was going on because my grandparents had been living with us that summer and I was basking in the glow of constant adult attention. It was probably the only summer that I didn’t worry about thunderstorms because there were always enough adults around to make me feel safe. I was more worried about the end of the summer, when Nana and Pepere would be leaving not just our house but the state too, and moving to Florida. My mom may have had a contentious relationship with them, but I thought they were wonderful. All her rants about my Nana just went over my head, because, well, she wasn’t my mother. The call came early in the morning in early August, and in spite of everyone’s reassurances that things would be fine, things would never be fine again. There were meetings, countless damn union rallies where the speakers would shout about SCABS! and I would cry and we would have to leave. Christmas parties, picnics—we were always around the stupid union people. It was like a family watching their house burn down and yet trying to comfort one another that it would all be all right. My dad (and mom sometimes) spending the day picketing, on the news. Sitting down telling me that police may come to the house and arrest him because, well, he’d done something illegal. When I heard that I planned an elaborate booby trap for the porch so that they could not come get him, could not take him from me. If they managed to get past the booby trap then I would just race down to the police station on my Big Wheel and demand they release him to me. I swear I thought this would work.
The weeks and months went by and it was clear that he wasn’t getting his job back, but he wasn’t one to sit around feeling sorry for himself, no sir. So the long litany of jobs began that would one day end up right back where he started, only in another country. Gas station attendant. Bartender. Golf club repairman. Construction worker. Nuclear power plant builder. Laundromat equipment salesman. He never went without work but he never made enough money to make it all go back to the way it was either. And no one really wanted to admit that it wasn’t going to go back to the way it was. So, we shopped at Bradlees a lot more, and we ate the black and white UPC generic canned food a lot more, and didn’t take as many trips or bought as many things. But we didn’t pay the bills either and that sure came back to bite us in the butt you can bet. She took some jobs too, at a preschool, Burger King, but the darkness that had flitted around the edges of her for a long time (according to her) started to advance and suddenly I had a mother who suddenly was not acting much like my mother at all, and a father who was working tirelessly for ends that would never be able to meet.
Trying To Tell My Story
Funny you should've commented just a couple days ago Sandra. Here you go.
This is just the beginning. More to follow.
I can remember that day. Very clearly, in my mind it stands out. It was the day I decided to stop crying, to never cry about anything, ever. It was summer, we were riding our bikes in the driveway. Mine was pink with a huge banana seat. It was a cheap used bike we’d had to buy somewhere because suddenly we were poor (how had that happened?) and couldn’t afford new bikes. I was probably 9, and was making a sharp turn at the top of the driveway, by the porch steps, near where the backyard tilted down at a sharp angle. I skidded on the dirt—probably on purpose, because we were always trying to do daring things on our bikes like ride them off ramps and “jump” them. The back wheels slid out from underneath me and I landed on my knee on the sharp gravel. I can see myself, standing there. Small rocks embedded in my knee, the blood already starting to drip down. “Don’t do it. Don’t” in my head over and over and I didn’t. I didn’t cry. I stared and stared at my wound, waiting for the tears to come, forcing them to STOP. As I held it in I felt a new power, a sense that it all didn’t have to come apart, that I was not going to be like her. I would not be like her.
My resolve to quit crying lasted a long time. Later my mother would tell me she was worried about me, how nothing ever seemed to bother me, how I would shrug everything off. But like any resolution there’s no real way to hold on to it forever. I blame Jesus for making me cry again. Once I became a real live born-again Christian, it seemed like all I did was cry. Over the stupidest things too. And then there I am sitting in a doctor’s office in Knoxville, Tennessee, and this doctor is talking but the words coming out of her mouth aren’t really making any sense to me. “What the hell are you talking about”, I want to say to her, as she’s writing me a prescription. “I just came in for a physical”. But nothing comes out of my mouth, no sound at all, just a nod of my head as I read the doctors orders for 20 mg of Prozac. I want to throw it back at her, tear it to pieces and scream at her “NO! This is not for me! You have the wrong person! I am NOT HER.” But I keep it and thank God the tears don’t come until I get in the car (because if they hadn’t then she’d have had the satisfaction of knowing she was right all along) and they come because it is true, it is true, it is true. No matter how hard I tried I was like her. I had failed.
There are a lot of things I remember about my childhood. A lot of memories of “before” that make “after” all the more confusing. I remember thinking my mom was the best cook, how she would make me these great cakes in the shapes of different things for my birthdays. There was this page in the Betty Crocker cookbook she had with all these different cakes—one of them was this kitty cat cake, which she had made me for my 2nd birthday. I would stare and stare at those cakes, thinking they were the most wonderful things I had ever seen. I loved my mother’s jewelry box. My sister and I would pore over its contents, like we’d stumbled upon buried treasure. My favorites were the cameos she had, one of them had even belonged to her grandmother (which seemed like an ancient relic in my mind) and they were so beautiful, like pearls from a time I would never experience. She had this red dress with white polka dots which I thought was so beautiful and fancy. I would watch her as she would get ready to go out on a date with my dad…they went on dates, they loved each other, they laughed and joked together. I would always ask her what she had to eat and she would always say “a Strawberry Daquiri and French Onion Soup”, which I thought had to be the most glamorous, grown up foods around. They went to see "An Officer And A Gentleman". When I am grown, I thought, I will drink nothing but strawberry daquiris and eat French onion soup and go to romantic movies with my husband.
She is the oldest of 4, the one that perhaps suffered the most at the hands of parents raising children in the mid-20th century. Sometimes I have to wonder what the heck happened during those years, you read so many horror stories of growing up in the 50’s, how repressed and held back and abused everyone was. Did World War II cause people to forget how to care for children? I don’t ever remember Laura Ingalls feeling abused by her parents, and she had to milk cows and churn butter at age 7 for heaven’s sake! It’s ironic how everyone pictures the 50’s as this idyllic place, June Cleaver and all, and yet it is apparently a decade full of tortured souls, parents and children alike, and the scars they would inflict on one another would continue to fester as the century wound down. Then the 60’s and 70’s, the sexual revolution and women’s lib movements…so much tumult and confusion. I suppose its no surprise that things ended up the way they did. Keep it all neat and clean on the surface, ignore the mess brewing just below.
I heard stories of how when she met my dad at a hockey game, he spilled his beer on her. Or did he throw up? No, I think it was beer. She had slept and procrastinated her way through college and barely passed. She was teaching middle school and some of her colleagues set her up with him. He was an air-traffic controller, a job which still seems very exciting to me. I wonder if she felt the same way. He was dashing and charming, a façade he would continue to excel at presenting to the rest of the world in spite of the truth. Were they sleeping together before they got married? I don’t even know, probably. Their families were Catholic, mom’s very much so, I imagine the subject was never even broached. Funny how Catholics get so worked up about this sin and that one, and yet the thought of actually not sinning never seemed to cross anyone’s mind. Just say your Hail Mary’s, you’ll be fine. She had dated some real losers in the past—I remember her stories of the one who used to smack her on the ass and say “Crisco! Fat in a can!” or the one who was trying to write a book called 101 Ways To Kill a Cat. My dad must have seemed like Prince Charming after those two. So she married him, even though I think he had to ask her a few times before she actually said yes.
Then came me, and 2 years later, my sister. I would always pine for a baby brother. Or an older brother, I would’ve been happy with either one. She had a miscarriage sometime before I was born (so yes, they must have been sleeping together already…time reveals all) and I always wondered about the baby who had never been. It never actually crossed my mind that if that baby had been born, I never would have been. We moved from our small house to a bigger one in the next town over, the house that would become the tomb of my parent’s marriage, and in spite of its attempts to keep us all together, would eventually spit us all out as if to say “I’ve tried, I’m done with you. Fend for yourselves.”
My dad was always larger than life to me, just like most dads are I guess. I loved to watch him shave. I thought he had the coolest job in the world and I was so proud when he came to talk to my 3rd grade class about it, and my Brownie troop went on a field trip to the control center. I loved nothing more than to sit in one of those big rolling chairs in front of the radar screens and push the buttons and think about all the planes going by and how my dad took care of them. When he was not home all manner of bad things happened, namely thunderstorms and power outages and the dog peeing all over the house. He grilled my favorite steaks and barbecued chicken. He terrified me by standing on the porch during bad storms. He played softball and hockey and went hunting, which I forgave in spite of my undying love of Bambi, because he was my dad and that made it ok. It took a long time for him to shrink down and become just like every other man in the world, and it was rather shocking to me when he did even though the signs had been there all along.
This is just the beginning. More to follow.
I can remember that day. Very clearly, in my mind it stands out. It was the day I decided to stop crying, to never cry about anything, ever. It was summer, we were riding our bikes in the driveway. Mine was pink with a huge banana seat. It was a cheap used bike we’d had to buy somewhere because suddenly we were poor (how had that happened?) and couldn’t afford new bikes. I was probably 9, and was making a sharp turn at the top of the driveway, by the porch steps, near where the backyard tilted down at a sharp angle. I skidded on the dirt—probably on purpose, because we were always trying to do daring things on our bikes like ride them off ramps and “jump” them. The back wheels slid out from underneath me and I landed on my knee on the sharp gravel. I can see myself, standing there. Small rocks embedded in my knee, the blood already starting to drip down. “Don’t do it. Don’t” in my head over and over and I didn’t. I didn’t cry. I stared and stared at my wound, waiting for the tears to come, forcing them to STOP. As I held it in I felt a new power, a sense that it all didn’t have to come apart, that I was not going to be like her. I would not be like her.
My resolve to quit crying lasted a long time. Later my mother would tell me she was worried about me, how nothing ever seemed to bother me, how I would shrug everything off. But like any resolution there’s no real way to hold on to it forever. I blame Jesus for making me cry again. Once I became a real live born-again Christian, it seemed like all I did was cry. Over the stupidest things too. And then there I am sitting in a doctor’s office in Knoxville, Tennessee, and this doctor is talking but the words coming out of her mouth aren’t really making any sense to me. “What the hell are you talking about”, I want to say to her, as she’s writing me a prescription. “I just came in for a physical”. But nothing comes out of my mouth, no sound at all, just a nod of my head as I read the doctors orders for 20 mg of Prozac. I want to throw it back at her, tear it to pieces and scream at her “NO! This is not for me! You have the wrong person! I am NOT HER.” But I keep it and thank God the tears don’t come until I get in the car (because if they hadn’t then she’d have had the satisfaction of knowing she was right all along) and they come because it is true, it is true, it is true. No matter how hard I tried I was like her. I had failed.
There are a lot of things I remember about my childhood. A lot of memories of “before” that make “after” all the more confusing. I remember thinking my mom was the best cook, how she would make me these great cakes in the shapes of different things for my birthdays. There was this page in the Betty Crocker cookbook she had with all these different cakes—one of them was this kitty cat cake, which she had made me for my 2nd birthday. I would stare and stare at those cakes, thinking they were the most wonderful things I had ever seen. I loved my mother’s jewelry box. My sister and I would pore over its contents, like we’d stumbled upon buried treasure. My favorites were the cameos she had, one of them had even belonged to her grandmother (which seemed like an ancient relic in my mind) and they were so beautiful, like pearls from a time I would never experience. She had this red dress with white polka dots which I thought was so beautiful and fancy. I would watch her as she would get ready to go out on a date with my dad…they went on dates, they loved each other, they laughed and joked together. I would always ask her what she had to eat and she would always say “a Strawberry Daquiri and French Onion Soup”, which I thought had to be the most glamorous, grown up foods around. They went to see "An Officer And A Gentleman". When I am grown, I thought, I will drink nothing but strawberry daquiris and eat French onion soup and go to romantic movies with my husband.
She is the oldest of 4, the one that perhaps suffered the most at the hands of parents raising children in the mid-20th century. Sometimes I have to wonder what the heck happened during those years, you read so many horror stories of growing up in the 50’s, how repressed and held back and abused everyone was. Did World War II cause people to forget how to care for children? I don’t ever remember Laura Ingalls feeling abused by her parents, and she had to milk cows and churn butter at age 7 for heaven’s sake! It’s ironic how everyone pictures the 50’s as this idyllic place, June Cleaver and all, and yet it is apparently a decade full of tortured souls, parents and children alike, and the scars they would inflict on one another would continue to fester as the century wound down. Then the 60’s and 70’s, the sexual revolution and women’s lib movements…so much tumult and confusion. I suppose its no surprise that things ended up the way they did. Keep it all neat and clean on the surface, ignore the mess brewing just below.
I heard stories of how when she met my dad at a hockey game, he spilled his beer on her. Or did he throw up? No, I think it was beer. She had slept and procrastinated her way through college and barely passed. She was teaching middle school and some of her colleagues set her up with him. He was an air-traffic controller, a job which still seems very exciting to me. I wonder if she felt the same way. He was dashing and charming, a façade he would continue to excel at presenting to the rest of the world in spite of the truth. Were they sleeping together before they got married? I don’t even know, probably. Their families were Catholic, mom’s very much so, I imagine the subject was never even broached. Funny how Catholics get so worked up about this sin and that one, and yet the thought of actually not sinning never seemed to cross anyone’s mind. Just say your Hail Mary’s, you’ll be fine. She had dated some real losers in the past—I remember her stories of the one who used to smack her on the ass and say “Crisco! Fat in a can!” or the one who was trying to write a book called 101 Ways To Kill a Cat. My dad must have seemed like Prince Charming after those two. So she married him, even though I think he had to ask her a few times before she actually said yes.
Then came me, and 2 years later, my sister. I would always pine for a baby brother. Or an older brother, I would’ve been happy with either one. She had a miscarriage sometime before I was born (so yes, they must have been sleeping together already…time reveals all) and I always wondered about the baby who had never been. It never actually crossed my mind that if that baby had been born, I never would have been. We moved from our small house to a bigger one in the next town over, the house that would become the tomb of my parent’s marriage, and in spite of its attempts to keep us all together, would eventually spit us all out as if to say “I’ve tried, I’m done with you. Fend for yourselves.”
My dad was always larger than life to me, just like most dads are I guess. I loved to watch him shave. I thought he had the coolest job in the world and I was so proud when he came to talk to my 3rd grade class about it, and my Brownie troop went on a field trip to the control center. I loved nothing more than to sit in one of those big rolling chairs in front of the radar screens and push the buttons and think about all the planes going by and how my dad took care of them. When he was not home all manner of bad things happened, namely thunderstorms and power outages and the dog peeing all over the house. He grilled my favorite steaks and barbecued chicken. He terrified me by standing on the porch during bad storms. He played softball and hockey and went hunting, which I forgave in spite of my undying love of Bambi, because he was my dad and that made it ok. It took a long time for him to shrink down and become just like every other man in the world, and it was rather shocking to me when he did even though the signs had been there all along.
Monday, April 13, 2009
The Darkest Hour is Just Before Dawn...
It's around midnight on our first night in Kitgum. Nancy is still up, but about to go to bed. I've been asleep for about an hour and a half. Suddenly, everything goes dark as the power goes out. We were told to expect this--electrical service in Kitgum (and probably all over Africa) is sketchy at best. Many places of business(including our hotel) have generators, but they do not run them at night because, well, its a waste (take that Americans!) to run the electricity all night while everyone's asleep (!). I do not enjoy or appreciate total darkness. I wake up immediately and am smothered by the complete and utter BLACK that surrounds us. There is no ambient light coming from ANYWHERE, as the entire city is without power. Not only is it totally dark, it is dead quiet. Again, something I do not cope well with. Thankfully, I have brought a small, battery operated fan which serves as my "white noise" and my flashlight (plenty of extra batteries too). But these are small consolations--not only is it dark and silent, but remember, I am in the middle of Africa, thousands of miles away from family and familiarity. I was just getting sort of comfortable with that second part, and now this. Nancy doesn't seem to notice at all and falls right asleep. I spend the next several hours fitfully drifting in and out of sleep, clutching my flashlight and trying not to let my mind wander to all sorts of unpleasantness. I pray and pray and am afraid and afraid...Somewhere around 4 am another fun thing happens, a thunderstorm starts to roll in. Great. Probably 3 of my biggest fears-darkness, silence, and thunderstorms, all bundled together. I wouldn't be comfortable even in my own bed, and well, obviously I'm not there! Suffice it to say I do not get much sleep.
Around 5:30 it starts getting gray outside our window. I can't stand lying there awake any more so I creep out of the room and down the hall a bit to explore. I go to the end of the hall and kneel on the chair there and look out the window. (after moving the GIANT box of condoms. Part of Uganda's HIV/AIDS prevention requires all hotels to have copious amounts of prophylactics available. The box has a cuddly black couple on it, I wish I could remember the name of the brand!) I'm looking out on a gray morning, the clouds from the thunderstorm are starting to clear, you can tell eventually the sun will come out, but it is still very overcast. There are houses beyond the compound wall, no one anywhere seems to be stirring. Somewhere you hear a rooster crowing, but that's it. I feel like the only conscious person in this whole city. On the windowsill are 3 small mushrooms growing up from a crack, their stems are so weak and skinny that they are lying on their side. For some reason this image sticks with me very clearly, of these 3 anemic mushrooms. I am wondering just what in the world I am doing in this place.
Nancy gets up and hops in the shower first. She lets me use her phone to call Bill--it's $4.99 a minute, which is outrageous, but I am desperate to talk to him. I keep it short--I think I only talk to him for 3 minutes, all of which is spent with me crying "I want to come home!!!" and him patiently reassuring me (how many times something like this has happened in our marriage is not even funny!). I tell him about my long night, and he keeps telling me how much he and the kids love me and that everything's going to be fine. As I'm sitting there on the bed, I'm noticing a pool of soapy water that is emerging from the bathroom and slowly making its way across the bedroom. I hop up and quickly start to pick up everything off the floor and get it to higher ground. Apparently the shallow "tub" area was clogged and would not drain, so basically our bathroom flooded. I decide to skip a shower for that morning, and Nancy and I lay down our towels to try and sop up the worst of it, but it's not entirely helpful. We go down to the front desk to tell Pamela what's happened and she is appalled that we have put our towels down on the floor--that seems to be her main concern. She also seems totally exasperated at these 2 stupid American girls, like we can't figure out how to work a shower and its our fault. We're trying to be nice, really!
Breakfast time, which consists of bread, jam, bananas and passion fruit juice. I'm not so much hungry, but I need to eat to take my malaria pill. The jam comes in cans--it's "red plum" jam which kind of looks/tastes like raspberry jam without the seeds. It's actually quite good and I'll eat a couple slices of white bread with butter and jam for breakfast all week. One day we even had a toaster! But it only worked for like 3 or 4 cycles then went kaput. This morning we are going to be attending church services at the 4 "mother" churches we'll be working with all week long. Somehow last night Chad got me to agree to share my testimony at the church we'll be going to. This is not something I would do even at home, but strangely enough I'm not entirely nervous about it. I think I just feel so out of sorts that this is just one more uncomfortable thing in a whole litany of uncomfortable things so I don't even notice anymore. More waiting and sitting, God, if we could just get going and do something maybe I wouldn't feel so awful! But when you're sitting around for like 2 hours its hard not to just be thinking about everything you're missing. Finally its time to board the busses and head to church--the sun has come out and it is a beautiful day...amazing how the terrors of night pass when the light comes...
Around 5:30 it starts getting gray outside our window. I can't stand lying there awake any more so I creep out of the room and down the hall a bit to explore. I go to the end of the hall and kneel on the chair there and look out the window. (after moving the GIANT box of condoms. Part of Uganda's HIV/AIDS prevention requires all hotels to have copious amounts of prophylactics available. The box has a cuddly black couple on it, I wish I could remember the name of the brand!) I'm looking out on a gray morning, the clouds from the thunderstorm are starting to clear, you can tell eventually the sun will come out, but it is still very overcast. There are houses beyond the compound wall, no one anywhere seems to be stirring. Somewhere you hear a rooster crowing, but that's it. I feel like the only conscious person in this whole city. On the windowsill are 3 small mushrooms growing up from a crack, their stems are so weak and skinny that they are lying on their side. For some reason this image sticks with me very clearly, of these 3 anemic mushrooms. I am wondering just what in the world I am doing in this place.
Nancy gets up and hops in the shower first. She lets me use her phone to call Bill--it's $4.99 a minute, which is outrageous, but I am desperate to talk to him. I keep it short--I think I only talk to him for 3 minutes, all of which is spent with me crying "I want to come home!!!" and him patiently reassuring me (how many times something like this has happened in our marriage is not even funny!). I tell him about my long night, and he keeps telling me how much he and the kids love me and that everything's going to be fine. As I'm sitting there on the bed, I'm noticing a pool of soapy water that is emerging from the bathroom and slowly making its way across the bedroom. I hop up and quickly start to pick up everything off the floor and get it to higher ground. Apparently the shallow "tub" area was clogged and would not drain, so basically our bathroom flooded. I decide to skip a shower for that morning, and Nancy and I lay down our towels to try and sop up the worst of it, but it's not entirely helpful. We go down to the front desk to tell Pamela what's happened and she is appalled that we have put our towels down on the floor--that seems to be her main concern. She also seems totally exasperated at these 2 stupid American girls, like we can't figure out how to work a shower and its our fault. We're trying to be nice, really!
Breakfast time, which consists of bread, jam, bananas and passion fruit juice. I'm not so much hungry, but I need to eat to take my malaria pill. The jam comes in cans--it's "red plum" jam which kind of looks/tastes like raspberry jam without the seeds. It's actually quite good and I'll eat a couple slices of white bread with butter and jam for breakfast all week. One day we even had a toaster! But it only worked for like 3 or 4 cycles then went kaput. This morning we are going to be attending church services at the 4 "mother" churches we'll be working with all week long. Somehow last night Chad got me to agree to share my testimony at the church we'll be going to. This is not something I would do even at home, but strangely enough I'm not entirely nervous about it. I think I just feel so out of sorts that this is just one more uncomfortable thing in a whole litany of uncomfortable things so I don't even notice anymore. More waiting and sitting, God, if we could just get going and do something maybe I wouldn't feel so awful! But when you're sitting around for like 2 hours its hard not to just be thinking about everything you're missing. Finally its time to board the busses and head to church--the sun has come out and it is a beautiful day...amazing how the terrors of night pass when the light comes...
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