For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face. Now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. (1 Corinthians 13:12)
I'm not that plugged into the blogosphere (it's hard enough to keep up with my own circle of friends!) but I just saw this article on CNN and found my way to the blog of Vancouver native Eva Markvoort who died last month at 25 after a lifelong battle with cystic fibrosis. It will totally have you bawling, but she's an amazing writer, and she is full of life and love, even as she looks death in the face. Here is a tiny taste...
making the effort this evening to sit up in a chair
good to change positions
stretch different muscles
sending air to different pockets
mum asked what i miss?
i miss walking in and out of buildings
the feeling of air pressure change when you enter or exit a building
i miss getting in and out of cars
how your view changes when you sit at a different height
change really
i miss change
now, it is all the same
seven weeks....
there are no transitions
i miss transitions
from one place to another
which is strange really
because now i hate change
i can't stand change and yet i miss the transitions
i hold onto who ever is near
since when am i clingy?
i grasp onto
annie in the morning
jackie and robin in the afternoon
dad in the evening
maman all the time
episodes of projectile vomiting
hours of gasping for breath
waves of nausea lulling out into
hours of sleepiness once the meds have hit
leaving me daydreaming about stepping out of this room
just getting up
free of tubes and plugs
and walking out the door
pushing open doorways
skipping down the street
breathing free
free
Last year, when I was applying for Americorps, they asked me to write about "Why I Serve," and I told them the story of a few of the people I had met during my year in Camden, NJ. A year later, I am confident that I would answer that question the same way. Why do I do what I do? Because of David, Shermere, Tim, Angel...now I can add Cynthia, Jerome, Sydney, Reggie...
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David is your average bum. He looks bedraggled, he's out of work, and he sometimes has to beg for food. One day we decided to invite him into our house for a chat. His story told of a cycle of hardship: he couldn’t pay some tickets he'd received for loitering, so he spent time in jail. While in jail, he lost his job. In general, he has trouble getting work because he has a disability. He gets welfare for his disability, but it stipulates that he cannot work for more than 2 hours a day. The welfare and a 2-hour-a-day job are not enough to support his wife and kids, so he actually has to pretend to be separated from his wife and live in a separate house so she can get single parent welfare, too. David forced me to ask myself to ask some hard questions, and I was faced with the words of Martin Luther King: “Give a man a fish and you’ll feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you’ll feed him for a lifetime. Eventually, though, you’ll want to start asking yourself who owns the pond.”
I had the pleasure of sponsoring Shermere, one of the fifth graders from my after school class, in Urban Promise's annual Martin Luther King, Jr. Speech Contest. Shermere tended to be one of my more difficult disciplinary cases. Helping her to write and rehearse her speech, which required quite a bit of one on one time, worked miracles on our relationship, though. Granted, it wasn’t always fun – getting her to put her thoughts on paper was often like pulling teeth. But she accepted my advice, respected my opinion, and trusted me enough to share with me something she was passionate about. In the end, I was incredibly impressed with her final speech. She talked about the courage of Harriet Tubman to fight for the freedom of others, and her delivery was spot on. She was an imposing presence behind that podium, and I wonder if someday she might not be speaking on behalf of justice in front of a far more influential crowd.
When Pastor Tim preaches, people listen. Because he's spent time both on the street and in the Ivory Tower, Pastor Tim can speak effectively to Ivy League academics and Hip Hop gangsters alike. His sermons are provocative: whether the issue is slavery, sacrifice, or environmental destruction, it is impossible to walk away without being challenged to the core. More importantly, however, his sermons take on life outside the sanctuary walls. When an outspoken community organizer disparaged him in the local paper, Pastor Tim met the man for lunch. Soon the two were partnering to start an alternative school for high school drop-outs, and I was invited to help as a tutor. A few months later, we all exchanged teary hugs when several of our drop-outs were accepted into college! Pastor Tim has shown me the beauty that comes from practicing what you preach.
Cynthia has had the cards stacked against her since she was a little girl. Both of her parents were alcoholics, and she was essentially left to parent herself. As a child, she had trouble fitting in, and she was sometimes destructive for no reason. She began drinking at age 10 and using drugs at 16. When she was 12 years old, Cynthia became pregnant by rape. She had to raise a child while still a child herself. Not surprisingly, these pressures drove her further into addiction and violence. Before long, she had six children and found herself in jail, unfit to care for any of her kids. Thus the cycle of poverty bulldozed ahead. On the day she was released from prison, Cynthia was told she was HIV positive. Devastated, desperate, and tired, she checked into rehabilitative housing. She laid her dignity aside and asked for help. That tiny act of courage was Cynthia's saving grace, and now she is almost two years clean, has an undetectable viral load, and is on her way to earning her GED. Anyone privileged enough to look into Cynthia's kind eyes and be greeted by her soft-spoken "hello" today would never guess that underneath them was a shocking resilience, a woman broken and rebuilt, and a share of burdens and blessings well beyond her years.
This is a letter I wrote to President Obama on February 18, 2010:
Dear Mr. President,
First of all, I want to thank you for making the cause of Health Care Reform a national priority from the moment you took office. I am confident that your dedication and perseverance toward this end will soon be rewarded. There are plenty of stories I could tell about my own struggles with our current health care system, but they all pale in comparison to the story of my college roommate, Kitty. I hope you will take a moment to hear Kitty’s story, because, well, you of all people might have the audacity to hope.
Kitty and I know each other from Middlebury College in Vermont, where I studied Religion and she studied French and Spanish, and we both graduated in 2005. Middlebury is a fantastic but expensive liberal arts school, and both of us were only able to attend thanks to hefty financial aid packages. After moving back home to San Antonio for a year to work and raise some money, Kitty was accepted into the University of Geneva’s graduate program in Translation. She moved to Switzerland in hope of earning a degree that would equip her with the tools to work in the field of international diplomacy.
Three years into her graduate program, as she finished up her thesis while working a job at the International Organization for Standardization, Kitty wrote me an email with the subject line, “When Life Throws You Curve Balls.” The curve ball was this: after doing some heavy lifting one day while moving into a new apartment, Kitty noticed a lump in her abdomen and went to see a doctor. The doctor found a tumor in her kidney that was ten centimeters in diameter, and the tumor was cancerous. At age 25 (30 years younger than the average), Kitty was diagnosed with stage four kidney cancer that had already spread to her lungs and her brain.
Since she learned of her diagnosis last July, Kitty has undergone kidney surgery, emergency brain surgery, chemo treatment, and radiation. She has received top notch health care with one kink: she's stuck in Switzerland. Because of her pre-existing condition, Kitty would not be insurable by any private company in the U.S. In her home state of Texas, she is not eligible for Medicaid without applying first for Social Security Disability, but the state's denial rate for disability is 61% and the average processing time is 544 days – longer than most people with Kitty's type and stage of cancer live. With no insurance options available, she would have to walk into a hospital and hope the taxpayers would absorb the burden, or lie at home without access to medication or care.
Kitty, for the moment, is unwilling to take that risk. As a result, her mother has been forced to resign from her job and move to Geneva to care for her daughter. Imagine caring for your terminally ill daughter in a country where you have no car, no job, no friends and family, and don't speak the language. While some of her friends have scraped together enough money to make the trek to see her, Kitty's own father and ailing grandmother have not been able to make the journey. Whether they will be able to do so before the cancer claims her life is yet to be seen.
I am not normally a pessimistic person, but I have been forced to face the facts about Kitty's illness. Less than 5% of people with her type and stage of cancer live for five years; most survive only a year. She is nearing the point where the only kind of treatment left to pursue is palliative care: keeping her out of pain and helping her to die with dignity. But even that costs money, and Kitty is being shut out of her home country by her inability to pay. The U.S. is exercising its own form of rationed care, while the Swiss healthcare system – which strikes a public-private balance and has compulsory coverage – has welcomed this foreign citizen with open arms.
Mr. President, I'm not sure if there is anything you can do to help Kitty and her family. It would honor her struggle, though, if you continued to fight relentlessly for the establishment of a healthcare system that makes “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” a realistic possibility for United States citizens. I'm not asking for free, but I'm asking for fair. Let us work to redeem a country which has become like the words of Isaiah 59, where “justice is far from us” and “truth has stumbled in the streets.” Please join me in this mission. I love my friend dearly, and I want to bring her home.
Every weekday morning, between 8:15 and 8:25, I step out of my apartment into the blue-walled, blue-carpeted hallway and press the “down” button on the elevator.Sometimes as I wait, I check my reflection in the glass of some stale modern art on the wall just to see exactly how corpse-like I look this morning.On the ground floor, I greet the doorman and the maintenance woman as I tiptoe across the freshly-mopped lobby.Then I thrust my entire body weight against the door in an attempt to plow into the wind vortex that is South Wells Street in winter.Commence the walk.
Having crossed two normal streets and one eight-lane highway, I take the shortcut through the courtyard of the Chicago Stock Exchange.Depending how early I’ve left that morning, the courtyard is either packed with colorfully-vested traders double-fisting their coffee and cigarettes, or it is completely deserted because the morning bell has already sounded.I trot past the newspaper man, imagining how cold and claustrophobic he must be, wondering how early he gets up for this gig, and how long he’s been doing it.Before long, I climb the stairs to the el train – always every other step – flash my CTA card at the turnstile, and step onto the platform.It’s now between 8:23 and 8:37.
The single greatest thing about taking public transportation to work every day is the people-watching.In a city this large, you are bound to see some pretty unique and eclectic things – like two elderly men kissing on the lips, a young man headed to work in a fedora and a waistcoat, or a woman who lives on the train and freely undresses in front of anyone dense enough to trespass on her “personal space.”These cases interest me less, however, than the people I see almost daily – the people who take the northbound Purple Line from LaSalle and VanBuren weekdays around 8:30 AM.These people, though I know none of their names and haven’t spoken more than three words to any of them ever, are my community.
Our cohort is small, since it’s against the grain to travel outbound from the Loop at rush hour.We’ve never had to share a seat on the train, and most of the time we don’t even get onto the same car.Nevertheless, we know each other well.There is Miss Mullet-hawk, whose dyed platinum hair is cut in a mullet, with the short part teased into a mohawk and the long part trailing straight down her back.She is always in a hurry.There is Nancy Nose, who is a young, well-dressed businesswoman with a unique combination of features.Her skin indicates African heritage, but her schnozz is long and pointy like mine (a burden we share).I muse about the various possible scenarios by which our ancestors happened to mate.
There are others, but perhaps most fascinating to me is Elf Boy.We are not talking one of Santa’s elves here, or Keebler’s elves, either.Think Lord of the Rings - specifically, Orlando Bloom’s rendition of Legolas.Tall, wispy, long blonde hair, and other-worldly brilliant blue eyes.Every day I see this kid (he’s probably around my age), and every day I find it near-impossible to avoid staring.To mix literary references, he seems like a refugee from Middle Earth, struggling in vain to blend in to the Muggle world.His misfit image is compounded by the wardrobe: every morning he’s got his 12-foot beanpole legs clad in a pair of tapered jeans from the 1980’s.I tried to justify them for awhile as the skinny Euro cut, or maybe just too small, but this is not the case; they’re unquestionably tapered.I am in love with a Nerd-Elf.
And no, I’m not actually in love with him.We’ve never spoken.I’m not even sure he speaks English (and I definitely don’t speak Elvish).But I like to imagine that we’re friends.If the Purple Line ever burst into flames, or veered off the tracks, I’m sure Elf Boy and I would band together to save our fellow passengers.We would toss each other knowing glances as he carried Miss Mullet-hawk to safety and I calmly reassured Nancy Nose that we were all gonna be okay.Afterwards, we would go out for coffee, dab our wounds with damp towels, and laugh about all those days of silent camaraderie.But until that day comes, we are forced to keep up the ruse.He’ll keep wearing his headphones, pretending to be interested in his iPhone instead of counting the Orcs he’s killed in battle, and I’ll keep burying my nose in a book, looking like a half-asleep corpse when inside I’m ablaze with curiosity.
Fullerton, Diversey, Wellington.Transfer to Brown Line trains at Wellington.Disembark.Doors are closing.8:52 AM.Time for work.
I got this from the library not realizing that it was non-fiction and a sort of autobiographical collage (kind of like a blog before they existed). So it wasn't a tight, neat, clever story like Cat's Cradle, but I couldn't help totally loving this guy's writing, and much of his perspective on the world.
Some theological highlights:
-"I don't think anybody ever dreaded hell as much as most of us dread the contempt of our fellowmen. Under our new and heartfelt moral code, we might be able to horrify would-be evildoers with just that: the contempt of their fellowmen. For that contempt to be effective, though, we would need cohesive communities, which are about as common as bald eagles these days."
-"The nuclear family doesn't provide nearly enough companionship."
-"Be warned: if you allow yourself to see dignity in someone, you have doomed yourself to wanting to understand and help whoever it is."
-"It seems to me that the most universal revolutionary wish now or ever is a wish for heaven, a wish by a human being to be honored by angels for something other than beauty or usefulness."
For someone who calls himself at various times an atheist, a Unitarian,a skeptical Free Thinker, and a Christ-loving agnostic, Vonnegut is pretty spot-on with much that I love in Christianity. He named his book "Palm Sunday" and finished it with a sermon. He quotes Bertrand Russell and Jesus in the same breath. And it's a really, really refreshing breath that I find myself never able to get enough of.
I'm home alone for the weekend, so it's Risky Business time! I haven't hired any prostitutes or danced around in my underwear (I live in a glass house!), but I have indulged myself Devon-style with:
Apple Cider - I'm working on my third gallon in as many weeks. Hot, cold, sometimes with a dash of caramel sauce. Has single-handedly put an end to my coffee addiction.
NPR - It's pledge drive week, and I still listened for like four hours straight.
Dancing in the kitchen, singing in the shower - One of the only drawbacks of living in community is the lack of opportunity to dance in the kitchen and sing in the shower audience-free. When I spot a chance to do either one, I seize it.
Baking - I'm kind of disturbed by my own increasingly-visible domestic streak. This one hasn't manifest itself yet this weekend; I'm biding my time before busting out an apple pie.
Shopping - Despite regularly touting my disgust with consumerism, I think a small part of me still inherited the joy-of-shopping gene. It only works when I buy stuff because I CAN and not because I need to, and when it's really CHEAP. Yesterday I got a bike lock on sale and four articles of clothing for $30. It felt good.
Convenient Store Cappuccino - I don't like it because it's all that good, or remotely resembles coffee, but because it's comfortable. In Camden, we girls used to trudge over to 7-11 whenever we were feeling down and drug up on French Vanilla. Still makes me smile.
Puzzles & Games - I've wasted a lot of my life on Scrabulous, Farkle, Word Twist, Scramble, Sudoku, and crosswords. And I probably won't stop anytime soon.
Chick Flicks - Most of the time I'm not wallowing in loneliness - I just genuinely like them. The vast majority are horribly written and completely unrealistic, but I guess I like the assurance of a happy ending. Usually after a weekend-full, I'm done for a few months, though.
Christmas Music - Perhaps the guiltiest pleasure of all: I busted out the Christmas music today! Granted, it was in the 30's when I woke up, so it definitely feels cold enough. I'll try to take a break for a few weeks, but honestly nothing beats the blues (or just makes me feel at home) like a good dose of "Silent Night" or "O Come all ye Faithful." **sigh**
My rating: 4 of 5 stars All the concepts are good. I think I'm with him on about 95% of his theology. But sometimes this book was a little tedious to read. The first chapter of disclaimers is annoying - most people know they can put down a book if they don't like it. I forced myself to persevere till the end, though, and I have several really profound points tagged...
-(Quoting a mentor) "In a pluralistic world, a religion is valued on the benefits it brings to its nonadherents." (111)
-"When Scripture talks about itself, it doesn't use the language we often use in our explanations of its value...authority, inerrancy, infallibility, revelation, objective, absolute, literal...hardly anyone notices the irony of resorting to the authority of extrabiblical words and concepts to justify one's belief in the Bible's ultimate authority...I've never heard of a church that asked people to affirm a doctrinal statement like 'The purpose of Scripture is to equip God's people for good works' (from 2 Timothy)." (164)
-"The Bible is a story, and just because it recounts (by standards of accuracy acceptable to its original audience) what happened, that doesn't mean it tells what should always happen or even what should have happened." (167)
-"As so many species slide closer to extinction, the rare species known variously as 'Christianus environmentalis' or 'Disciplos verde' is making a comeback." (233) HA! I heart puns.
-"For pop-Evangelical eschatology to proliferate...prophetic visions of reconciliation and shalom within history...had to be pushed beyond history, either into a spiritualized heaven or a millennial middle ground...they also had to marginalize Jesus with all his talk of the kingdom of God coming on earth, being among us now, and being accessible today." (238)
-(quoting Chesterton) "Any man who preaches real love is bound to beget hate...real love has always ended in bloodshed." (143)
-"So here's the tension (referencing a Chesterton quote): we must always be discontented with our portraits of orthodoxy, but we must never, in frustration, throw the Subject of our portrait out the window." (297) This meets me right where I am...thanks Brian!
