On my way home tonight, I stopped off at the post office to mail a letter. I was prepared, knowing where my letter was going, knowing the location of the post office, and the proper etiquette once there. This is the grace of doing something for the second time: the quiet confidence that previous experience provides. I walked into the post office only to find a very long line and only one open desk. Sigh. I found myself in line and began to wait. I waited. And I waited some more.
Lines are long here. They were in Portugal as well. But, the wait is inconsequential. No one was frustrated in the line at the post office. No tapping of the toe nor sighing. Only the calm of patience. I’m beginning to wonder what our rush in the United States is all about.
Most errands, and life as a whole, are done on foot. My senora has this fancy looking cart that holds an impressive amount. While I briefly had an “urban dweller” experience, and a cart to prove it, it was a phase for me. Here, it is a way of life. My senora has been loading up her cart, running her errands to the nearby stores for over a quarter of a century. It invariably takes longer than expected. Running into someone you know or pausing to look in at a store’s window display are apart of the journey. Nothing can be done quickly. Never can one say, “I’ll just be a minute.” No, everything takes longer than expected.
And how freeing it is! One is never hurried or frazzled in that “I’m going to kill anyone who gets in front of me” way. Yes, of course people find themselves crunched for time or running behind, but they take it in stride. The world will still be rotating if they arrive a bit late.
Really, though, it isn’t as if people are habitually late. They leave early. They build some grace time into their commute. And so, with a few extra minutes, they experience a time to stop and take in their surroundings, gather their thoughts (or actually think some thoughts!), or simply rest.
In those extra moments of waiting, one notices. At the post office, the woman in front of me clutched the package she was to send with excitement. The husband behind me was a bit perturbed at his wife. The woman at the counter smiled and looked me in the eye, despite the solid 15-minute line waiting.
It was civil (Dare I say pleasant?) to wait in that line. Not a chore or a bore, and no frustration to be seen.
I noticed an American news headline today. A mother of two will be imprisoned for throwing a glass of ice at another car in a fit of road rage. Contrasted with my everyday encounters of waiting, I’m wondering if impatience breeds impatience. And, if it does, how does one combat against the status quo short temper and embrace a bit more grace and patience? Is all our anger and exertion worth the perceived time we recoup?
As I walked out of the post office, I noticed a man and a woman outside of their parked car. Blocked in by a double parking job, the man shrugged his shoulders at the woman, and they leaned against the car door. Nothing they could do but wait.
I smiled incredulously at their patience as I walked past them.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Wet
It rained yesterday. Again. After moving to the midatlantic states, and after many years of cold, frozen, snowy winters, I’m learning what winter looks like everywhere else: wetness. Lots and lots of wetness. I’m sure it is different in Florida, Texas, Arizona, or someplace else for sweet fruit grows on trees, but I haven’t tried those places yet. So, I’ve learned to always carry my umbrella with me.
The rain was insulating, holding in a bone-deep cold. As I walked back home after a full day of class, I navigated the small lakes that were forming on the sidewalk, due to a lacking drainage system. Here we are, the few of us that are out, getting our beautiful European leather shoes soaked, huddling under umbrellas that only protect the upper half of our bodies, walking in pants wet up to the knee, hoping that our destination will appear quickly. The sounds of the city have been muffled. It is like a trumpet with the mute in: the noises are isolated and their ring is cut short. The crazy drivers in this city suddenly became concerned and concentrated, intensely focusing on the road ahead of them. For a few hours, the rhythm of life in this city slows and disappears behind closed doors.
It took me three days and three showers to figure out how the hot water in the house works. The first day, one of our coldest days here, I barely put my body under the frigid stream of water coming from the showerhead. The next day, I was prepared for the battle. I braved the cold: the need for to be clean can drive a person to withstand the most extreme of temperature. Then, the third day. I decided that running the water for awhile might make a difference. It did. Glorious hot water fell from that showerhead.
There are two 3-liter bottles of water sitting on the dining table. They have been there since we arrived. We fill them up from the sink, and they serve as water pitchers at all our meals. Sometimes, in a fit of American anxiousness, I wonder how the plastic of those bottles is holding up. Have I consumed all of the cancerous particles yet? Will those plastic bottles, probably bought from the Rastafarian looking man at the tobacco stand on the corner, still be on the table when I leave Spain?
Something as simple as water suddenly takes on new meaning as I live in a new world and begin to think in new ways. While Spain is far from a third world country, where clean water is often scarce, there is attentiveness to water here. People think twice about letting the water run. They are more careful in not wasting it. I see more signs that alert people to the fact that clean, fresh water is a commodity. Water is again an element with force. Water is not a convenience that one may squander, but force of nature. It pushes people inside on a rainy day. It quenches thirst on a hot day in the middle of the plaza. Seeing water as something that is not simply as bothersome weather or an unending resource reminds me of my place in the world. It is a healthy and refreshing to view see myself as a part of the world: that the world is not our own, but rather, we have a place in it.
The rain was insulating, holding in a bone-deep cold. As I walked back home after a full day of class, I navigated the small lakes that were forming on the sidewalk, due to a lacking drainage system. Here we are, the few of us that are out, getting our beautiful European leather shoes soaked, huddling under umbrellas that only protect the upper half of our bodies, walking in pants wet up to the knee, hoping that our destination will appear quickly. The sounds of the city have been muffled. It is like a trumpet with the mute in: the noises are isolated and their ring is cut short. The crazy drivers in this city suddenly became concerned and concentrated, intensely focusing on the road ahead of them. For a few hours, the rhythm of life in this city slows and disappears behind closed doors.
It took me three days and three showers to figure out how the hot water in the house works. The first day, one of our coldest days here, I barely put my body under the frigid stream of water coming from the showerhead. The next day, I was prepared for the battle. I braved the cold: the need for to be clean can drive a person to withstand the most extreme of temperature. Then, the third day. I decided that running the water for awhile might make a difference. It did. Glorious hot water fell from that showerhead.
There are two 3-liter bottles of water sitting on the dining table. They have been there since we arrived. We fill them up from the sink, and they serve as water pitchers at all our meals. Sometimes, in a fit of American anxiousness, I wonder how the plastic of those bottles is holding up. Have I consumed all of the cancerous particles yet? Will those plastic bottles, probably bought from the Rastafarian looking man at the tobacco stand on the corner, still be on the table when I leave Spain?
Something as simple as water suddenly takes on new meaning as I live in a new world and begin to think in new ways. While Spain is far from a third world country, where clean water is often scarce, there is attentiveness to water here. People think twice about letting the water run. They are more careful in not wasting it. I see more signs that alert people to the fact that clean, fresh water is a commodity. Water is again an element with force. Water is not a convenience that one may squander, but force of nature. It pushes people inside on a rainy day. It quenches thirst on a hot day in the middle of the plaza. Seeing water as something that is not simply as bothersome weather or an unending resource reminds me of my place in the world. It is a healthy and refreshing to view see myself as a part of the world: that the world is not our own, but rather, we have a place in it.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
Lisboa
I’m young and I’m in Europe: two good reasons for someone to take an overnight bus to and from Lisbon, Portugal. Heading out with my roommate and a girl with whom I graduated from high school, we rode a bus through Thursday night to arrive in Lisbon at 5am. An hour behind Spain, we found ourselves sitting in front of the closed Metro station, eating our packed lunch. The ride and the wait were well worth it because we greeted Lisbon by sunrise. As morning dawned on the Portuguese city, monuments, palaces, castles, and the ocean sparkled in the light. The city lay crisp and cool, uninterrupted and still. We navigated our way to an open cafeteria for strong coffee and croissants. Europe is about eating, it really is. After our second breakfast, we found a small place to stay centrally located, dropped off our bags, and began our tour of this sweet city.
I don’t think I would ever travel to Portugal as a destination from the states, but it was a surprisingly lovely trip. We successfully navigated Metro, bus, train, and trolley. We traveled on Friday northwest of Lisbon to Sintra, a small town tucked into the hills. Sintra is the location of several National Palaces. We journeyed even further into the hills to see the Pena National Palace. What a gem! Intricate design and color surprised up. Ferdinand von Coburg Gotha, married to Queen Maria II (for all of you Portuguese royalty buffs) ordered this palace to be built in the 19th century. This romantic edifice blends artistic styles from Antiquity to the Renaissance, the art of the East, Arab-style domes, minarets and manuelino motifs. The palace was the refuge of the last king of Portugal went he went into exile before the country became a republic. The Palace enchanted us. The inside was ornately decorated, and an interesting look into 19th century opulence and royal life.
The Jeronimos Monastery looms large in Belem, a short trip east of the center of Lisbon, on the river. Like much of Europe, the interaction of the old and new always arrests me. You turn a corner, and suddenly, the Monastery faces you fully. Begun in 1501, the cathedral and the cloister feature a late-Gothic, early Renaissance design. While I have seen more monasteries, cathedrals, and palaces in the past month than in life in total, I’m still overwhelmed by the greatness. It is odd, though, to watch myself get used to the beauty and the greatness as it becomes apart of daily life. Oh, that it would always be powerful! We stopped at Pasteis de Belem for one of the best pastries I’ve ever eaten. Of the 100 employees of the pasteleria, only three know the recipe, and have signed agreements to never share the secret. Made since 1837, these pastries are the crowning jewel in a city famous for their pastries.
Our second day was overcast, and the sky spit at us much of the afternoon. The Torre de Belem and the Monument to the Discoveries sit on the Tagus River. Portugal’s history is consumed with discovery. The Discoveries monument is beautiful, but begs questions concerning whether discovery is something only to celebrate. I believe that discovery and pushing the limits of what we know is a human instinct. But, as a student of history, it is equally important to consider the ramifications of actions. Pushing the main discoverer on the monument are knights, royals, and men of the church. And this is a major part of considering the history of discovery: the church. The more I study, the more I realize that little of the subject of history can be separated from the history of the church. Understanding its role, and its thought process are helpful in deciphering the story we find ourselves in today as a church.
The Torre de Belem is the defensive complex constructed to protect the city. Erected between 1514 and 1520, this tower truly is a fortress. You’ll notice in the pictures that I just had to touch the ocean water. And in true Sarah fashion, ended up sliding in.
Our last stop was the site of the 1998 World Expo. Lisbon only made me love Spain and its culture more. I think Portugal is like the little brother of Spain. Much like Eastern Europe is only now coming into its own, Portugal, having been under a dictator for so long, is just beginning to explore democracy and questions of their identity. The World Expo site was a great testament to the desire of Portugal to move forward and take responsibility for its own growth. At the Expo site was a large, new mall. It was odd to see American and Spanish stores in a Portuguese mall in which you could smoke. The mall stood as a testament to Portugal’s strivings to make up for lost time.
Suddenly, we were climbing back onto the overnight bus. We were only in Lisbon for two days, but it had seemed like an eternity. All in all, time has been playing tricks on me. Full days and new experiences seem to be claiming time faster than ever before, but the days are still rich. And the discoveries, although they include both good and bad, are revealing much to me about this world and who I am in it.
I don’t think I would ever travel to Portugal as a destination from the states, but it was a surprisingly lovely trip. We successfully navigated Metro, bus, train, and trolley. We traveled on Friday northwest of Lisbon to Sintra, a small town tucked into the hills. Sintra is the location of several National Palaces. We journeyed even further into the hills to see the Pena National Palace. What a gem! Intricate design and color surprised up. Ferdinand von Coburg Gotha, married to Queen Maria II (for all of you Portuguese royalty buffs) ordered this palace to be built in the 19th century. This romantic edifice blends artistic styles from Antiquity to the Renaissance, the art of the East, Arab-style domes, minarets and manuelino motifs. The palace was the refuge of the last king of Portugal went he went into exile before the country became a republic. The Palace enchanted us. The inside was ornately decorated, and an interesting look into 19th century opulence and royal life.
The Jeronimos Monastery looms large in Belem, a short trip east of the center of Lisbon, on the river. Like much of Europe, the interaction of the old and new always arrests me. You turn a corner, and suddenly, the Monastery faces you fully. Begun in 1501, the cathedral and the cloister feature a late-Gothic, early Renaissance design. While I have seen more monasteries, cathedrals, and palaces in the past month than in life in total, I’m still overwhelmed by the greatness. It is odd, though, to watch myself get used to the beauty and the greatness as it becomes apart of daily life. Oh, that it would always be powerful! We stopped at Pasteis de Belem for one of the best pastries I’ve ever eaten. Of the 100 employees of the pasteleria, only three know the recipe, and have signed agreements to never share the secret. Made since 1837, these pastries are the crowning jewel in a city famous for their pastries.
Our second day was overcast, and the sky spit at us much of the afternoon. The Torre de Belem and the Monument to the Discoveries sit on the Tagus River. Portugal’s history is consumed with discovery. The Discoveries monument is beautiful, but begs questions concerning whether discovery is something only to celebrate. I believe that discovery and pushing the limits of what we know is a human instinct. But, as a student of history, it is equally important to consider the ramifications of actions. Pushing the main discoverer on the monument are knights, royals, and men of the church. And this is a major part of considering the history of discovery: the church. The more I study, the more I realize that little of the subject of history can be separated from the history of the church. Understanding its role, and its thought process are helpful in deciphering the story we find ourselves in today as a church.
The Torre de Belem is the defensive complex constructed to protect the city. Erected between 1514 and 1520, this tower truly is a fortress. You’ll notice in the pictures that I just had to touch the ocean water. And in true Sarah fashion, ended up sliding in.
Our last stop was the site of the 1998 World Expo. Lisbon only made me love Spain and its culture more. I think Portugal is like the little brother of Spain. Much like Eastern Europe is only now coming into its own, Portugal, having been under a dictator for so long, is just beginning to explore democracy and questions of their identity. The World Expo site was a great testament to the desire of Portugal to move forward and take responsibility for its own growth. At the Expo site was a large, new mall. It was odd to see American and Spanish stores in a Portuguese mall in which you could smoke. The mall stood as a testament to Portugal’s strivings to make up for lost time.
Suddenly, we were climbing back onto the overnight bus. We were only in Lisbon for two days, but it had seemed like an eternity. All in all, time has been playing tricks on me. Full days and new experiences seem to be claiming time faster than ever before, but the days are still rich. And the discoveries, although they include both good and bad, are revealing much to me about this world and who I am in it.
Focus
I’ve just completed my first week of classes. I had fresh notebooks and pens, and that back-to-school skip in my step. I’m studying at the University here in Sevilla, and I’m learning quickly the flow of university life in Spain. The cavernous buildings of the University are old (what isn’t here?!) and of marble. Everyone attends class in their coats- even the professors! I’m sure we will appreciate the coolness of the marble as the temperatures rise, but until then, students flock to the library- the only room in the school with heat. Instead of being huddled over laptop computers with earphones in, Spanish students have books open and notes out. There is no checking out of books, so one tends to pass most of the afternoon and the evening poring over texts. Additionally, most classes do not require you to buy books. All classes provide a recommended bibliography, and they usually photocopy a packet of reading or direct you to the library to access the books.
A “C” is a normal grade here; achieving anything higher takes substantial self-determination and work beyond that which is expected. How different this is than education in the states where most students feel average works entitles them to an “A”! Our classes last two hours, but end up passing fairly quickly. I think this is due to the fact that to understand and follow the class I have to listen so intently. To be honest, it is exhausting! Each professor speaks differently, having different rates, rhythms, and accents in their speech patterns. After six hours of instruction, my head spins. The good news is that I am following quite well. Yes, it takes effort, but I’m understanding! Considering there is little to no homework, and only final papers and tests, there is little opportunity to demonstrate your comprehension of the subject. We gather as English speaking students after class to compare notes and make sure we all came out with the same understanding.
The most difficult class I’m taking focuses on the Arabic influence on Spanish literature. First, this professor has such a thick accent and speaks so quickly that one can’t let their focus drift for a second. The rate at which he speaks only increases as the minutes pass. Finally, half-way through the class, when I just don’t think I can follow any longer, he stops, stands, and exits the classroom. He returns within four minutes, only to begin lecturing again. Yet, his rate has slowed. It hit me the during that first class- a smoke break is what this guy needed. And so, we take smoke breaks instead of bathroom breaks. I, personally, wonder if a few more smoke breaks per class for this professor might benefit us all! He also speaks one third of the time in Arabic, writing beautiful looking words on the board, which proves to be difficult, but so very interesting. Above all, I’m realizing there is no separation of the Islamic faith from the history of this part of the world- even the Christian history. To not understand it is akin to not understanding the religious issues in 17th century Europe that so greatly affected the formation of the United States. So, I’ll persevere for understanding.
I have class both morning and evening. Most classes take a break in the afternoon for individuals to return home, eat, and rest. Very little is open between 2 and 4:30pm, forcing even the most industrious to stop. I come home to a wonderful Senora and home-cooked food, and enjoy the opportunity to pause in the middle of the day. This afternoon siesta forces things much later into the evening. We don’t eat dinner in our house until 9:30 or 10pm, and stores are open until 9pm. This helps to explain the later morning start that is difficult to adjust to for this morning person.
The adventures of life and school in a foreign country and a foreign language continue to show me more of what this foreign confidence looks like. But for now, my brain is tired. No more thinking for today.
A “C” is a normal grade here; achieving anything higher takes substantial self-determination and work beyond that which is expected. How different this is than education in the states where most students feel average works entitles them to an “A”! Our classes last two hours, but end up passing fairly quickly. I think this is due to the fact that to understand and follow the class I have to listen so intently. To be honest, it is exhausting! Each professor speaks differently, having different rates, rhythms, and accents in their speech patterns. After six hours of instruction, my head spins. The good news is that I am following quite well. Yes, it takes effort, but I’m understanding! Considering there is little to no homework, and only final papers and tests, there is little opportunity to demonstrate your comprehension of the subject. We gather as English speaking students after class to compare notes and make sure we all came out with the same understanding.
The most difficult class I’m taking focuses on the Arabic influence on Spanish literature. First, this professor has such a thick accent and speaks so quickly that one can’t let their focus drift for a second. The rate at which he speaks only increases as the minutes pass. Finally, half-way through the class, when I just don’t think I can follow any longer, he stops, stands, and exits the classroom. He returns within four minutes, only to begin lecturing again. Yet, his rate has slowed. It hit me the during that first class- a smoke break is what this guy needed. And so, we take smoke breaks instead of bathroom breaks. I, personally, wonder if a few more smoke breaks per class for this professor might benefit us all! He also speaks one third of the time in Arabic, writing beautiful looking words on the board, which proves to be difficult, but so very interesting. Above all, I’m realizing there is no separation of the Islamic faith from the history of this part of the world- even the Christian history. To not understand it is akin to not understanding the religious issues in 17th century Europe that so greatly affected the formation of the United States. So, I’ll persevere for understanding.
I have class both morning and evening. Most classes take a break in the afternoon for individuals to return home, eat, and rest. Very little is open between 2 and 4:30pm, forcing even the most industrious to stop. I come home to a wonderful Senora and home-cooked food, and enjoy the opportunity to pause in the middle of the day. This afternoon siesta forces things much later into the evening. We don’t eat dinner in our house until 9:30 or 10pm, and stores are open until 9pm. This helps to explain the later morning start that is difficult to adjust to for this morning person.
The adventures of life and school in a foreign country and a foreign language continue to show me more of what this foreign confidence looks like. But for now, my brain is tired. No more thinking for today.
Touring Andalusia
I read in a guidebook about Spain that Madrid, Barcelona, and Sevilla are the three sister cities of Spain- each with their own unique identity. If I recall correctly, Sevilla is the youngest sister, the baby of the bunch, and, thus, the city greatly cherished. While Sevilla isn’t the perfect sister, she most assuredly has life, history, and charm of which to boast. When I signed up for this adventure, I did not fully realize the significance Sevilla plays in the life of Spain, and the life of its history. Next to the University where I have class, The Royal Alcazar boasts intricate Moorish architecture and design. This 12th century Moorish palace is the oldest palace-fortress still used by European royalty. The gardens are lush and expansive. Full of orange trees, I cannot wait for Spring (which is arriving soon!) to breathe its life into these gardens. The Catedral is the landmark I walk toward each day. Its tower, the Giralda Tower, rises strong and steady above the city. St. Peter’s in Rome and St. Paul’s in London are the only two cathedrals larger than Sevilla’s. Considered the largest Gothic building in the world, it is built on the site of a large Almohad mosque. The tomb of Christopher Columbus (well, at least one of them) is here. The Tower is unique in that it is the only part of the mosque to survive since the 12th century. The minaret was transformed into a bell-tower in the 16th century. The strike of the hour can be heard throughout the center of the city. Check out the pictures at http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, Espana, Part 4. The pictures at the end of the section are of our Journey to Granada and the Alhambra, quite easily the most amazing structure in Spain. We stopped along the way to hike at Torcal. These rocks were underwater until the land mass, Pangea, broke into separate continents, forcing these rocks up. Years of wind and water have given them their unique look. Of course, my camera died, so I don’t yet have any pictures of the Alhambra. The “Red Palace” was the palace of the Moorish kings in Granada, meaning Pomegranate. It began as a fortress in 890, was enlarged in 1250, and was occupied through 1492. Built on an impressive hill, the Alhambra is exquisite. The design intricacies incorporating elements of the Moslem faith and life tell the larger story of a people who lived and ruled southern Spain from 711 to 1492. At the Capilla Real, the Royal Chapel, an ostensibly Gothic structure next to the Spanish Renaissance cathedral, is the resting spot of the Reyes Catolicos: King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. The gardens and palaces are expansive; one could wander for days. One of the best parts of our trip to Granada was a flamenco show in the caves across from the Alhambra. One of my classes is a studying of the art and history of Flamenco, its music, dance, and song. I’ll keep you updated on what I learn. The show was spectacular: a rich demonstration of culture and history.
Monday, February 5, 2007
Morning Run
The alarm sounds at 7:15am. The city is still shrouded in the dark of night and all is the quiet. The cool air of the night as settled in and surrounded bodies buried in beds. I turn of the alarm, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness of this pre-dawn hour. Then it is on with the running clothes, tiptoeing out of the fifth floor apartment. Did I mention it was dark? The marble floors are like drums, echoing wildly in the silent stillness. It is down five flights of stair, lit by a switch for only thirty seconds. This mad dash to beat the timer catapults me to the eerie lobby, out the front door, and then out the gate. The quiet street is still asleep; the homes in their silence collectively breathe in and out. As I hit the start button on my watch, I pass the school door, still locked and silent. Coldplay is humming in my ears, and the few people out are still caught in the half-haze of this pre-dawn hour. My arms find the rhythm of my feet as I dart across the street. It is past the peluqueria (salon) with the broken front glass and poster for the movie Holiday with Jude Law and Cameron Diaz, and to the corner of the stadium. It is as if I’m crossing a minefield as I try to avoid the massive amounts of broken glass. The futbol game from last night is still seen in the shards. Sevilla played Betis, their cross-town rivals, in, what I would later find out, was a 0-0 game. (Imagine the Mets playing the Yankees and multiply that frenzy by some. This is Europe and futbol, afterall.) I run around the stadium, working my way to the third side, and the main intersection. The traffic begins to pick-up, and I pass the man who is handing out the morning paper on the corner. I turn the volume on my ipod up to drown out the sound of busses, cars, motorcycles, and Vespas. I’ve suddenly hit an awake part of the city. I’m on the sidewalk, passing the storefront windows with “Rebajas” pasted on them. Good shopping and huge discounts. At one point, I have to do a quick stop and turn around to get another look at a great pair of shoes, but for the most part I’m focused ahead of me. It seems as if the entire city is under construction. Watching my foot placement, I’m jumping over piles of dirt and loose stone, darting through narrow passages, and trying to avoid causing an accident. I pass those on the way to work, briefcase in hand. It is a cool morning, and scarves are tightly wrapped around necks. I get second looks from most as I’m the only runner out, and probably one of the few women they’ve seen running, especially outside. I pass the panaderia on the corner across from the bridge. The windows are steamy from the freshly baked bread and pastries. As I run past the open door, I enveloped in the warm smell of hot bread and the sounds of soft morning chatter. Pushing on, I’m to the center of the city and the University. The avenues give way to small streets of cobblestone. These calles are barely wide enough to fit a passing car, and when one does occasionally pass through, I leach to the wall as the side mirror barely misses my back. Up to the Cathedral and around the magnificent Giralda tower, I piecing my way back toward the apartment. Running through community gardens, the noise of the water fountains is a respite from the blare of horns and exhaust of cars. I’m passing the now lit store-front windows near the house as workers are opening their doors, setting up outdoor seating, and posting the daily specials. As I round the corner to the apartment, it is up a slight hill- the only one I can find in this flat town. The group of students gathered in front of the school has grown, and I’m headed right for them as I stop my watch, grab the key, and enter the apartment from the street. My breathing is heavy and my clothing damp from thick, humid air. The mausoleum feeling of the first floor still persists, but the sky is brightening. The sun won’t officially rise for another 15 minutes, well into the 8 o’clock hour. With it, the noise of the day persists more loudly. The bell for the school rings as the students scream as school starts. The day is beginning and I’m on my way.
Thursday, February 1, 2007
When Death Comes
When Death Comes
Mary Oliver
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps his purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle pox;
When death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering;
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom, talking the world in my arms.
When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
If I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened or full of argument.
I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.
For Grace Johnson, who was released into the ultimate grace on January 30, 2007.
Mary Oliver
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps his purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle pox;
When death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering;
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was a bridegroom, talking the world in my arms.
When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
If I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened or full of argument.
I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.
For Grace Johnson, who was released into the ultimate grace on January 30, 2007.
Believing Acts
When I first made the big leap from home to the great wide world of college, I found myself in a place where, as my dear friend Gay says, “Christianity is viewed with deep suspicion.” And she is right- it was and it is at that college. I found myself in the throes of an adventure I didn’t fully understood before I embarked. I went a week without meeting another Christian, and for someone who had lived and breathed the church, this was monumental. I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. While this is a typical college adjustment feeling, I remember with great acuity the smallness I felt. It was if the world I knew had suddenly drained down the sewer, and I was left looking through bars to a black world that could not be recovered. It was that great test of the world beyond the nest, beyond the comfort and security of things known and things understood.
But the test of faith felt more than simply part of the normal college experience. The barren land of faith and spirituality in a place so rich in knowledge and experience, rigor and pursuit was a foreign contradiction for me. I sought desperately to reconcile the two, and a few years later, I still find my mind turning those questions on snowy days that bring me back to cold winter days. Can worlds collide, yet survive? Is it an all or nothing? Can hope always be found?
While my heart learnings and soul understandings have been full and healing, and my answers are surprisingly, positive (that will have to be a blog for another day). A remember a distinct moment at an campus gathering a few weeks into school where Christian students emerged from our separate worlds and joined one another in a small room on campus. It was a band of sisters. Tears of joy and pain, relief and suffering flowed as hugs were exchanged and shoulders were leaned upon; we had found one another. It was this brilliant moment of feeling together, a confirmation that what we were about as individuals was greater than something just of individuals- it was community.
What evolved during my time in a snowy little town showed me the glory of Acts 2. If you’ve never read it, you should. Right after the Gospels in the Bible is the book of Acts, or the record of the first happenings of the band of believers after Christ died, rose, and ascended into heaven. Get this:
They devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. 43 Everyone was filled with awe, and many wonders and miraculous signs were done by the apostles. 44 All the believers were together and had everything in common. 45 Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as he had need. 46 Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, 47 praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.
So here are these people, both men and women, gathered together because they believed something with their whole hearts, and then they decided it was better to do it together than apart. And so they did. They did all of life together, the exciting and the mundane, the fun and the difficult. And it was good.
Suddenly, I was seeing Acts 2 alive in my life with new eyes. The band of believers to which I belonged fed hungry college kids on Friday nights, sang Christmas carols around a Christmas tree during Advent, picked apples together, cooked Thanksgiving dinner a week early just for fun, celebrated birthdays, served high school kids, studied the Bible, watched movies, hung out, worked out, cried, prayed, and laughed a whole lot. Yes, and it was good. It was the body of Christ as it is meant to be: broken and poured out in abundance.
And that brings me to Sevilla on January 28, 2007. (Yes, I know I am long-winded and ramble too much, but what you’ll read next is amazing!)
It is my first Sunday in Spain. The neighborhood is beginning to look familiar, and I can locate from my little casa to the panaderia (for fresh daily bread) to the meat market (where the prices are great) to the cafeteria where they sell drinking chocolate, which really is closer to hot pudding it is so rich and smooth. You’ll notice everything revolves around food. Yep, you’re right, and, plus, I’m in Spain, the Mecca of comida rica!
The one place I hadn’t been able to locate with a church. While there are numerous Catholic churches- and even cathedrals- that I pass each day, I was having difficulty finding a place that might suit me better. I resigned to the fact that some church might be more restoring than no church, and opted for the Catholic mass down the street.
My roommate, who wasn’t raised in a Christian home, agreed to go on this adventure with me. Besides, she remembered exactly where the church was better than I did. So, we embarked. Thirty minutes passed by of walking on quiet neighborhood streets- no church. This wasn’t the first time we found ourselves lost, so we just sighed, and focused on getting back to a street we did recognize.
And then we heard it.
The singing of voices. Loud noises of voice and laughter coming from behind a small door on a quiet residential street. We stopped at the door. It was undeniable a church, although there was no sign on the door nor indication of what type of church it was. After a moment of deliberation (What if EVERYONE notices us when we walk in?), my hand flew to the door knob and we slipped into the back of full house. We were at least thirty minutes late to the service, but it proceeded for another two hours. Full of singing, praise, an exciting sermon, and contemplative communion, I found myself, yet again, joined to community. I continually find these places of joy and peace. This community, like others I have experienced, embraced each other and embraced life. I am thousands of miles away from home, and Christ, once again, is reminding me that He is, has been, and will be. His body is alive and active within this world. Here, in Sevilla, Spain, on a road I barely remember how to find, gathers a community that sees the importance of doing life together. Here is a community that sings, prays, and worships like thousands of other communities across the world. They have found one another in this place where they are a minority. They have found life in Christ, and in pursuing this life, life with one another. Once again, it was a reminder that the body of Christ is sacred. It appears in odd places and spaces with different looks and manners. But in the end, those glad hearts experienced a greater abundance and a fuller understanding of the wholeness that comes in being united with Christ and his Church. If the Church is Christ’s bride, I can only imagine the tender love He held in His eyes for it in those moments. In the vulnerable way that a gathering of His people does, the Church radiated and shone in truth and beauty.
I think I’ll head back next weekend.
But the test of faith felt more than simply part of the normal college experience. The barren land of faith and spirituality in a place so rich in knowledge and experience, rigor and pursuit was a foreign contradiction for me. I sought desperately to reconcile the two, and a few years later, I still find my mind turning those questions on snowy days that bring me back to cold winter days. Can worlds collide, yet survive? Is it an all or nothing? Can hope always be found?
While my heart learnings and soul understandings have been full and healing, and my answers are surprisingly, positive (that will have to be a blog for another day). A remember a distinct moment at an campus gathering a few weeks into school where Christian students emerged from our separate worlds and joined one another in a small room on campus. It was a band of sisters. Tears of joy and pain, relief and suffering flowed as hugs were exchanged and shoulders were leaned upon; we had found one another. It was this brilliant moment of feeling together, a confirmation that what we were about as individuals was greater than something just of individuals- it was community.
What evolved during my time in a snowy little town showed me the glory of Acts 2. If you’ve never read it, you should. Right after the Gospels in the Bible is the book of Acts, or the record of the first happenings of the band of believers after Christ died, rose, and ascended into heaven. Get this:
They devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. 43 Everyone was filled with awe, and many wonders and miraculous signs were done by the apostles. 44 All the believers were together and had everything in common. 45 Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as he had need. 46 Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, 47 praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.
So here are these people, both men and women, gathered together because they believed something with their whole hearts, and then they decided it was better to do it together than apart. And so they did. They did all of life together, the exciting and the mundane, the fun and the difficult. And it was good.
Suddenly, I was seeing Acts 2 alive in my life with new eyes. The band of believers to which I belonged fed hungry college kids on Friday nights, sang Christmas carols around a Christmas tree during Advent, picked apples together, cooked Thanksgiving dinner a week early just for fun, celebrated birthdays, served high school kids, studied the Bible, watched movies, hung out, worked out, cried, prayed, and laughed a whole lot. Yes, and it was good. It was the body of Christ as it is meant to be: broken and poured out in abundance.
And that brings me to Sevilla on January 28, 2007. (Yes, I know I am long-winded and ramble too much, but what you’ll read next is amazing!)
It is my first Sunday in Spain. The neighborhood is beginning to look familiar, and I can locate from my little casa to the panaderia (for fresh daily bread) to the meat market (where the prices are great) to the cafeteria where they sell drinking chocolate, which really is closer to hot pudding it is so rich and smooth. You’ll notice everything revolves around food. Yep, you’re right, and, plus, I’m in Spain, the Mecca of comida rica!
The one place I hadn’t been able to locate with a church. While there are numerous Catholic churches- and even cathedrals- that I pass each day, I was having difficulty finding a place that might suit me better. I resigned to the fact that some church might be more restoring than no church, and opted for the Catholic mass down the street.
My roommate, who wasn’t raised in a Christian home, agreed to go on this adventure with me. Besides, she remembered exactly where the church was better than I did. So, we embarked. Thirty minutes passed by of walking on quiet neighborhood streets- no church. This wasn’t the first time we found ourselves lost, so we just sighed, and focused on getting back to a street we did recognize.
And then we heard it.
The singing of voices. Loud noises of voice and laughter coming from behind a small door on a quiet residential street. We stopped at the door. It was undeniable a church, although there was no sign on the door nor indication of what type of church it was. After a moment of deliberation (What if EVERYONE notices us when we walk in?), my hand flew to the door knob and we slipped into the back of full house. We were at least thirty minutes late to the service, but it proceeded for another two hours. Full of singing, praise, an exciting sermon, and contemplative communion, I found myself, yet again, joined to community. I continually find these places of joy and peace. This community, like others I have experienced, embraced each other and embraced life. I am thousands of miles away from home, and Christ, once again, is reminding me that He is, has been, and will be. His body is alive and active within this world. Here, in Sevilla, Spain, on a road I barely remember how to find, gathers a community that sees the importance of doing life together. Here is a community that sings, prays, and worships like thousands of other communities across the world. They have found one another in this place where they are a minority. They have found life in Christ, and in pursuing this life, life with one another. Once again, it was a reminder that the body of Christ is sacred. It appears in odd places and spaces with different looks and manners. But in the end, those glad hearts experienced a greater abundance and a fuller understanding of the wholeness that comes in being united with Christ and his Church. If the Church is Christ’s bride, I can only imagine the tender love He held in His eyes for it in those moments. In the vulnerable way that a gathering of His people does, the Church radiated and shone in truth and beauty.
I think I’ll head back next weekend.
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