"Take Me As I Am" - Nichole Nordeman

I spend a lot of time thinking about the person I want to be. I definitely aspire to be like June Cleaver. She's such a boss. It's like magic, how she makes three square meals a day and keeps her house pristine, all while making time to visit the neighbors and humor her adorable sons. She's hilarious, never a hair out of place. She's pretty much perfect, and while she feeds Betty Friedan's point about the feminine mystique, she's the archetypal housewife figure who manages to tour the facility, pick up slack, and look like a total babe when she goes driving with her husband after dinnertime. Like I said, such a boss.

And then there's Agent 99. Not only is she a glamorous agent of justice with snazzy outfits, but she always comes through in the clutch when Max's made a mess of things. She has an unobtrusive way of asserting her perspective and always has the best ideas. Her deadpan wit and patient countenance make her the unsung hero of the show, the perfect supporting character. And if anyone can rock a short skirt with a long jacket, it's Agent 99. If I could be a seemly mix of June Cleaver and Agent 99 when I grew up, I would be unstoppable.

But I guess there's a bit of absurdity in patterning myself after fictional characters from old-timey television shows.

So I got an email today from the regional coordinator for The Veritas Forum. (As Harvard law student fluent in a bunch of languages and living in Boston, he's basically got the life I wish I had.) He was wondering if I was up for directing URI's Veritas Forum this year. Sarah lol'd when I asked her about it. "Aren't you barely getting done what you already have on your plate? And what was the state of your mental health last Veritas? I'd think about this one for a bit if I were you!" And let's be serious, who are we kidding, I'm terrible for the job. I am woefully inadequate at event planning and administration and getting stuff done. Still, I'm filled with a keenness to take on the job, because if anything's important to me, it's this outreach. The idealist in me says, "Yes! Absolutely! His truth must be proclaimed at my school!", while the realist in me says, "If you want this thing done halfway right you'll keep it far away from me."

Oh, for a heart that does not ache, for a backbone that won't break

I am often overwhelmed by the feeling that my apathy is bigger than my ambition. I want to be so much, and do so much, and I'm filled with so much vision sometimes that my heart feels like it's swelling against my ribcage. But when it comes to turn my passion into practice, I trip every single time. Too easily defeated, I see my shortcomings in retina display. I always bite off more than I can chew, take on tasks that I am not equipped to see through to the end. I am not dependable. I will choke in the eleventh hour. I am too brittle to lean on. It is one of my greatest heartaches that I am not enough, that I am too limited, to do and be all the things my inspired and idealistic mind would believe are within my grasp.

And the list gets longer between who I wish I was and was no longer

But the gap grows wider between who I am and all I aspire to be

I wondered once about how much agency I have in my own self-creation, and I have yet to find an answer. But I think I can be sure that I will never be June Cleaver. I will never be good at sports, or good at math. I will never be quiet and demure and not socially awkward. I am not the girl in that Cake song. God has not seen it fit to give me certain things, and how dare the pot criticize the creation of the Potter. When I feel that He has made me as weak as they come, I comfort myself in the promise that God chooses the weak things of this world to shame the strong. And when I feel utterly useless, I am all the more confident that He will answer my prayer, "Use me."

I never could be good enough to measure up, but You want to take me as I come. You're the only one that can take me as I am.

Pensamentos Mistos

I got in the car to drive to work earlier this morning and wondered to myself if I still remembered how to drive. While this skill is still in question, I can at least be assured that my ability to dwell on half-conceived thoughts while driving is still very much intact.

A) Though I encounter very little danger here in the suburbs, I've had my share of sketchy encounters in alleyways and middle-of-nowheres. Still, the first time I felt fear for my safety was last summer, in Dearborn, while being immersed in a culture of misogynic domination. I didn't have to worry about that during our European adventures, as I was practically always flanked by someone, but the frequent reminders of my feminine frailty turned a notch in my mind today as I walked down Daboll Street alone in the dark. It's an odd feeling to be accosted by fear where you previously never felt it before.

B) Walking through the twilight on the Lisbon waterfront on Sunday night was the most divine feeling, I felt assured that heaven would be the same climate. But today I found myself striding through the sunny Kingston breeze, and breathed deeply and thought not just about His Kingdom come but also His kingdom coming. The warm welcome back at work and the eager testimonies of the youth group kids onsite and the bliss of being loved by my cherished family were apt reminders that my eagerness for Home should not detract from my gratitude for my Sojourn.

C) Coming home has been like sticking my head in a cold shower of news, and I keep trying to rinse the travel fatigue out of my hair without getting brain freeze. I am alternatively cheered and grieved, emboldened and overwhelmed. I feel such a shift in my heart, like it was a jar full of marbles, and when it cracked the marbles were given room to roll around when I walk. I don't want to forget what I learned, or perhaps more appropriately, I want to synthesize what I've experienced in order to learn from it. Like any introvert, I bask in the clarity of hindsight. There is so much to do, people to get back to, things to pray about! And there is the pondering in my heart, to see the movements of God.

Been home for about twenty-four hours now. I'm not sure if I want this odd weightlessness feeling to fade away.

Spain v. Portugal, 2:45pm ET tomorrow. Viva Portugal!

PORTUGAL

It's odd, to be awash on another continent with people you love, seeing sites that are older than you can even really imagine, laughing in the midst of people who are very similar but places that speak of a difference to marvel at. It's very odd. Each new day is an exercise in suspending disbelief.

Your brain gets so fatigued, listening hard for words you recognize, willing yourself to understand, and nothing. Even when you latch onto a word here or there, by the time it's been processed a million more words have flown by. So you spend a lot of time smiling.

And trusting that He is making me better, that each day is another exercise in grace. That I will have more mindfulness and love and empathy to show for the day's successes and trials. Towards the people for whom I have such affection, both those among me and these strangers, to be ever growing and ever grateful.

Casting a line

When internet is unexpectedly available for the first time in ten days, you don't know what to do with yourself.

People problems

One of my coworkers is back from his tour as a Marine in Afghanistan. It's pretty exciting to having him back, especially now that we're on our small group of summer staff and spend most of our time selling computers, as opposed to fixing them. When the phones aren't ringing we have a fair amount of downtime, which is occasionally spent standing around chit-chatting, as opposed to being productive.  And so I am explaining why I didn't make it out to the store's most recent bowling night: "I know you guys think I'm a loser, but I usually have plans Friday nights."

The Marine chimes in from over at the desk, "Hey! I don't think that, don't lump me in with these [other people]." And then the purchasing manager pauses. "Just so you know, I hold you in high regard."

This surprises me, because this is the guy who sat radiating discomfort as I shared the gospel with him. This is the guy who has a Darwin fish on the back of his car and who is anxious to change the subject whenever religion comes up. Even though we get along great, I had assumed our differences were a wee bit insurmountable. Still, before I can even process the compliment, the Marine pipes up with an effective piece of interpersonal communication, "So do I, but when you don't do stuff with us, it makes me feel like you don't like us."

And this hits my ears with a crack, like a ball colliding with a baseball bat, distilling each moment I've ever felt like an outsider at my job, every time I've wondered why I am not quite as present at work like I think I ought to be. Here it is, why they don't confide in me, why they're super polite around me and why they coddle me. Every party and bowling night and Dunkin run and pool day that I've blown off stands in evidence of my guilt. I don't do stuff with these people. I act like I don't like them.

But, I do like these people.

How do I show it to them?

On the one hand, I don't think I've done wrong by not putting myself in situations where people are getting high and sloppy drunk. I don't feel any shame in passing on las pachangas where it's hard to guarantee any quality interactions anyway. On the other hand, when they invite me time after time after time to this or that and I never make an appearance, what does that say? That I don't like them. That I'm not interested in hanging out with that. That I don't care.

And that's not what I want my actions to be saying.

The trouble is that fatal flaw of mine. I have this problem not just at work, but with most of my human interactions. The inward focus. The self-absorption. The indulgent insecurity. My standoffishness is with me like my shadow is. It takes effort, so much effort to reach outside myself, that in my laziness I resort to passive interaction. I react instead of initiate. I make them cookies once a week and hope that's enough. I don't know how to get close to people, especially people who I see as so different from me.

#introvertproblems

I hate that these words from a coworker that struck me over the head won't magically change the way I act. It's not going to instantly melt my icy exterior and make me a bubbly and affirming coworker. I hate that sanctification take more than just conviction and revelation. But I have to believe that there is grace for this. That I can prioritize making it to bowling night. That I can be involved in their lives. We don't have to be BFFs. But I need to keep finding ways to show them that I care. And maybe they'll see Jesus in m.

T-minus twenty days

My heart goes in my throat every time I think about it. The closer it gets the less real it seems, and the more daydreamy I get. Four weeks on a new continent with some of my dearest friends. Portugal, Spain, Belgium, Germany, Luxembourg, France. É muito para desejar. It is too much to wish for.

I feel the tiniest bit like Daisy Miller, some young air-headed girl who is intent on exploring Europe to round out her education. On one level it seems selfish and indulgent, and I always answer any inquiries as to the trip's purpose with a sheepish, "Oh, just vacation." Oh, but what a blessing! What a mind-blowing, heart-swelling, joy-giving blessing! To see the things God has made and the people He loves, to grasp hold of a perspective that transcends my little Rhode Island suburban world into a vision for all the people. A "vacation," yes, but oh that it would be missional.

I am worried about certain things. Like spending twelve hours in a fuselage hurtling through the air 30000 feet above the ocean. The longest I've ever been on a plane before was five hours from PA to San Francisco, and believe you me, that was a rough flight. The most recent plane trip I took was only two and a half hours from Florida to Rhode Island, but because of horrific turbulence I spent most of the flight taking deep breaths and counting to sixty. It's not that I don't like flying, it's that I don't know how to cope with new (and potentially anxiety-inducing) experiences. So that should be fun.

It makes me shy to admit, but I've also never been away from my family for a whole month before. The two weeks I spent in New Hampshire one summer when I was fifteen were lonely, and even when I lived away from home in Wakefield, I still got to see my family on weekends. No one knows better than my family that I'm not easy to get along with, that I'm whiny and contentious and moody. I wince in anticipation of the failures I'm sure to fall towards, shortcomings in loving others and honoring God. I can't help but expect that I'll stumble in the newness and foreignness of it all. And it's a challenge in the next twenty days to dwell on the power of Christ in me, rather than the tendencies of my shriveled little heart. 

I am obsessed as well with how best to document this month of adventure. As I will be cut off from my traditional modes of Twitter, Facebook, and blogging, I've turned instead to the trusty journal, which has guided me through many of my Significant Life Experiences. But then, I want something super portable. And it would be nice to have something scrapbooky and self-contained, something I could dig out my curio cabinet saying, "Ah, yes, here it is, my Europe 2012 memory book." Currently I've opted for a little khaki softcover Moleskine booklet, but I wonder if it's a bit too flimsy, and maybe even too small for a month's worth of reflections. 

And so these various worries are causing varying levels of angst in me. Still, through it all God's hand has been over this trip. From arranging accommodations to providing someone to stay with the Rocks' vovó. Giving me the money to afford this and school. To know that He cares for these things! That He showers blessings with true abundance! I am positively brimming with gratitude, for the Rocks and for this expedition!

A Gawker's Reflection

So I'm listening to a Paul Washer lecture. (If you're curious, this is it.) Perhaps it was a mistake, because it's finals week and I probably should be writing my paper on second wave feministic rhetorical theory. (Believe me, the irony is not lost on me!) Right now he's saying that girls who can't boil water aren't qualified to disciple people. So, I mean, you know. But while there's some crazy stuff in here, there's also some excellent biblical advice at times, too. 

I'm partly listening with a critical and argumentative ear. I partly want to affirm my perception of how twisted some of this doctrine is. I'm partly listening for sensationalist reasons. (Which, admittedly, is not super edifying in itself.) But part of why I'm listening is curiosity, too. I want to hear the other side. I want to see how I stack up. I don't want to be a kid anymore, I want to made this rending transition into adulthood, and if he has some valid things to say about that, I want to listen. 

So would Paul Washer approve of me? Probably not . . . I don't share some of his doctrine, I'm not a whiz seamstress, I'm a student at a public university, I'm en route to a sixty hours per week career, I wear jeans and have a rebellious spirit. But on the other hand, I can cook and clean. I guess I can kind of run a household. I'm pretty good at bargain shopping. Can I mold my life around my husband? I suppose I have to. I love Jesus. That has to count for something. 

Am I prepared to manage a family? The big thing he keeps harping on is this idea that singleness is meant for preparation to train up children and raise a family. This is so foreign to me! I'm not one of these girls who always pined for a family and a billion kids. It's a monstrous responsibility, too much to plan and hope for so casually. To assume that a family is what God has in store for me. "When I have kids of my own--" is a stupid phrase. But Paul Washer says that only a handful of people in the whole world are called to singleness, so I guess he's working off the assumption that the odds of a family are in my favor. 

When I think about my future, I don't model it around a specific picture of 2.7 kids and a white picket fence. (Though, maybe I should?) But my sister is not like me, she just wants to have a family. She is incredibly skilled with kids, and an all-around resourceful, loving person, and she just wants to be done with school and move on with her life. She looks at her future differently than I look at mine, with a family as a given. She has a calling I have yet to tap into. And when questioned about the concrete, about a potential fellow and possible steps into this calling, she replied, "Yeah, he's great, but I'm looking for someone more grounded in Christ." And I thought (on his behalf), "Ouch."

But this is Paul Washer kind of comes through for her, for me. That if you want to be in a relationship, if you want to get married, if you want to live your life alongside someone else, you must know Scripture. You have to be grounded in understanding of who God is and what it means to follow Him. You have to be sold out for Him. He has to be the center, the most important thing, and one has no business seeking another person if they are not first seeking Him. And this is something my mom has always told us, to love Jesus more than anyone else. To marry someone who loves Jesus more than you. And I don't agree with more than half of the things he's said so far, but that? I can get behind that.

Of course, now in the lecture Paul Washer is saying that guys who don't know how to use jumper cables shouldn't consider starting a relationship. Because apparently car battery maintenance is an essential component of manhood. But, you know. To the pure, all things are pure. Take the good, leave the bad.

Striving

This has been my best semester so far. I have dialed back on my commitments, I am setting realistic expectations, I am getting stuff done. I am in only wonderful classes with only wonderful professors who seem to like me and want me to succeed. Do you know what it's like to have professors who are rooting for you? It's wonderful. Finally, I am comfortable where I am. 

This semester has also been one of turning a corner. I have two semesters left after this. Only two, and then I'm thrown into the harsh, cruel world of unemployment and incompetence. And am I prepared to compete in the job market? Oh the hours I've spent agonizing over my resume! The interesting opportunities I've neglected for lack of time. The perfect experiences I've passed up for rote commitments. I'm not ready. It's all coming at me too fast. 

And as I critically survey what I've done with my time in school aside from coursework, I see that it hasn't been much of anything. That I have engaged in little of much significance, that I've mostly been puttering around, trying to keep my grades up. Trying to make just enough money to keep myself out of debt. I have been too unconcerned with whatever's supposed to come after this. Intent on survival I have considered the college afterlife very little. 

I feel I could topple over from the mysterious vagueness of the question, "What on earth is going to happen to me?" 

I spent last night watching inspirational videos with various incriminating titles such as "What I'd Tell a Pre-Law School Me," and a more blunt one, "Don't Go to Law School." The promise of competition gags me: the hustling to get in, the thrust to survive the first year, the striving to attain judicial clerkships or a spot on the law review, and the cutthroat battle for job placement once degrees have been finally earned. An empathetic weariness settles deep in my bones when I think about it. 

I don't want striving. I don't want to be stretched out and spread too thin, pushing and pulling to make the edges of my life overlap. I don't want to be manically searching for the next opportunity to boost myself up a rung. I don't want to be competing, pit against myself and others. I am weak, brittle. I crack and then fold under pressure. I know that I am not made of the mettle of exceeding expectations. All I can ask for, all I really want is to be comfortable. 

And that is horrifying and frightening. 

Where is the girl who loathed the white picket fence and the nine-to-five and the safe, secure routine of things? Did she crumble with my self-efficacy? Did her passions fade, or did they morph to the point of unintelligibility? When will it be time for me to pour out instead of soak up? When will I finally be grown up? To write off my transitional angst is to stake my claim with comfort, that this (too) will pass.