Back home again, jiggety jig. Well, that is to say, back with family. We are currently residing in a rather new rental home that is gorgeous, but entirely not what we are used to here in the Great Plains. There is a dishwasher, for pete's sake!!! I actually had to ask my 6-year old sister how to run it when Mom and Dad were out having dinner. She didn't know either, so we spent about a minute looking at the machine full of dishes, and finally one of the two of us suggested putting the newly-discovered dishwasher solution in the designated compartment in the door. Miraculously I pushed the right buttons in the right sequence, and the thing produced automatically sterilized dishes in about an hour.
Now the thing about dishwashers is that they don't ever actually WASH the dishes, they simply squirt water and soap suds at the dishes and then rinse it. Therefore we have to make sure the dishes are mostly clean before we put them in, which in my mind is half the job so why not do the other half while we're at it? However since there are now 7 people living here, 'just doing the other half' would take the hour that the dishwasher covers. Okay then.
Anyhoo. Am done with Christmas shopping and did about two thirds of my wrapping last night with my sister. She brought down two mugs full of egg-nog topped with some gourmet cinnamon purchased at the World Market and a bowl full of peppermints and we listened to christmas music on the computer whilst sharing war stories of how this or that was purchased. half the fun of Christmas is not neccesarily the GIFT but the story that goes WITH the gift. We don't do huge gifts here, like i-pods or what have you, but a small collection of tiny gifts that we put lots of thought and hopefully less money into. It drags the time gathered around the Christmas tree out longer, more laughts, more time to eat whatever ambrosia my Mom has concocted for that year, more stories shared.
Looks like we'll get a white Christmas, which is awesome, and the temperatures have stayed above 0 for two days. Happiness!
It's wierd living in this new house (the farmhouse was almost 100 years old) with mocha-colored walls and new kitchen appliances. But its been fun, also helping mom pick out new furniture and hear amazing stories about how so many people around the country even have chipped in to bless the socks off my family.
Now I have to go finish reading a book for class (two more chapters left!!) write a report on it, figure out what reading reports I have left on it, and then that class will be DONE. Which will be 3 out of 4. Whahooo!!
~Princess Ouch~
Living day to day trying to keep Christ as the focus
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Plans... as it were
So I am making my way across the Upper South/General Midwest back home to the Great Plains. This might be the worst-planned trip I've done in a while. My communication - especially with those at home - has been random, spur-of-the-moment, sporadic, and sparingly done. I was going to stay with my friend Kristi but we had a mix-up as far as communication went and that ended up not working out, so I'm staying with Amy. Which is fine, fun, and not a problem in either camp, just not what was planned on. However the PLAN wasn't really well developed or communicated in the first place.
The good news is that Amy, Kristi, and I are all Missions Majors, single, and young, and therefore perfectly fine with hopping around, switching plans, revising things here and there and postponing things or adding things or what have you.
However, on my family's end that doesn't work so well. There are far more people involved, car situations to manage and figure out, work schedules and co-ops to work around, parents don't enjoy driving for hours and hours in the wintertime as my peers and I (who think we've accomplished something all grown up and independant when we semi-risk our lives pulling a stunt like hours and hours driving thru cornfields after missing the right exit on the interstate and not wanting to back-track so pull out the map and revise our plans so that we keep moving forward, albeit at a far slower pace than on the interstate) and have been under intense stress and bizzare living arrangements for a while which makes spur-of-the-moment plan changes or sketcy communication an unwelcome complication.
So then therefore, I once again must pull myself back out of the clouds and back into reality where people are considerate of one another and communicate, and don't do things madly dashing about without thinking things thoroughly through and planning logically.
I will say its a good conviction to have such wake-up calls to my absent-mindedness, but I'll also admit to the irritation I feel when people can't do things as haphazardly as I do. In my mind, it's not that big of a deal and merely something to work around: a puzzle to be conquered.
But that's the thing about considering others. My own mindset is not the only one to consider. One day I too will quite possibly be managing a large(r) number of people, be working with adverse circomstances and challenging scenarios.
It's always a huge debate within myself between what my friends at college call "The Gypsy in Rachel" - to simply drop all and travel wherever, whenever, contact people when I show up or when I get to where I'm going .... or afterwards - and the need to be considerate of others and keep them happy and considered and pleased with me. Where I'm at or where I'm going is what is in my mind - where I have been (if I'm focused on where I'm at) or where I am (if I'm focusing on where I'm going) for some reason doesn't register as important. This is useful in ministry in that it helps putting oneself whole-heartedly into whatever is being done immensily... but it's TERRIBLE if there's people in one's life - say a Mom - who care and are effected by decisions.
So... all that to say... apologies all around to those who weren't communicated with effectively this trip cross-country. Hopefully with the acquizition of a cell phone I'll be easier to get ahold of.
Oh... wow... I'll own a cell phone again....
Not sure whether to gasp in pleasure or groan in dread.
Off to do some reading before bed.
~Princess Ouch~
(literally in this case)
The good news is that Amy, Kristi, and I are all Missions Majors, single, and young, and therefore perfectly fine with hopping around, switching plans, revising things here and there and postponing things or adding things or what have you.
However, on my family's end that doesn't work so well. There are far more people involved, car situations to manage and figure out, work schedules and co-ops to work around, parents don't enjoy driving for hours and hours in the wintertime as my peers and I (who think we've accomplished something all grown up and independant when we semi-risk our lives pulling a stunt like hours and hours driving thru cornfields after missing the right exit on the interstate and not wanting to back-track so pull out the map and revise our plans so that we keep moving forward, albeit at a far slower pace than on the interstate) and have been under intense stress and bizzare living arrangements for a while which makes spur-of-the-moment plan changes or sketcy communication an unwelcome complication.
So then therefore, I once again must pull myself back out of the clouds and back into reality where people are considerate of one another and communicate, and don't do things madly dashing about without thinking things thoroughly through and planning logically.
I will say its a good conviction to have such wake-up calls to my absent-mindedness, but I'll also admit to the irritation I feel when people can't do things as haphazardly as I do. In my mind, it's not that big of a deal and merely something to work around: a puzzle to be conquered.
But that's the thing about considering others. My own mindset is not the only one to consider. One day I too will quite possibly be managing a large(r) number of people, be working with adverse circomstances and challenging scenarios.
It's always a huge debate within myself between what my friends at college call "The Gypsy in Rachel" - to simply drop all and travel wherever, whenever, contact people when I show up or when I get to where I'm going .... or afterwards - and the need to be considerate of others and keep them happy and considered and pleased with me. Where I'm at or where I'm going is what is in my mind - where I have been (if I'm focused on where I'm at) or where I am (if I'm focusing on where I'm going) for some reason doesn't register as important. This is useful in ministry in that it helps putting oneself whole-heartedly into whatever is being done immensily... but it's TERRIBLE if there's people in one's life - say a Mom - who care and are effected by decisions.
So... all that to say... apologies all around to those who weren't communicated with effectively this trip cross-country. Hopefully with the acquizition of a cell phone I'll be easier to get ahold of.
Oh... wow... I'll own a cell phone again....
Not sure whether to gasp in pleasure or groan in dread.
Off to do some reading before bed.
~Princess Ouch~
(literally in this case)
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Thanksgiving retrospect
I really ought to be writing a book report right now.
However, I've been responsible for the last hour addressing homework-related issues, and so I'm gonna sneak in a few moments of fluff before going back to attempting this whole 'responsible adult' growing-up nightmare that I keep trying to wake up from. :-)
Thanksgiving week was the week after Finals. I didn't have any tests, but I did have a group project the week before that I somehow got through even though I had given myself a minor concussion, and had a church-plant-proposal-presentation the next week as well as worked 20 hours at my job. And tried coordinating with my excellent professors of different classes how to manage finishing the homework that slipped in October and the beginning of November. Bleh.
So Thanksgiving week I was burned out. I worked on homework for my Great Books class, which I am officially DONE with (hallelujah!), planned Thanksgiving dinner with my 8-month-pregnant-friend Samantha, ate, felt guilty for not getting more homework done, tried to figure out which place to get the windshield of my car fixed (and did a lot more relying on Robbie than I needed to but he was able to get a great deal at a decent place after haggling for about a week, so in the end it was good, but it was interesting getting to that point. Mechanics and their ilk are scary. Having girls handle car problems is like sending your wife to Home Depo or some other work-tool-infested warehouse. Double the time, money, and energy is spent, usually the wrong thing is purchased, the salesman and the customer is frazzled and frustrated at the end of it, and the end result is a lecture on gender roles, the degradation of our society, something about day timers, and a second trip by the husband to get the right tool commences. All that to say, I'm glad Robbie was there to figure stuff out 'cause I didn't have a clue what I was doing. I don't know that he did either, but he looked a lot more confident and his voice is deeper than mine so carries more weight with the burly mechanics and glass-replacement dudes), and tried to get my room somewhat clean.
Thanksgiving day I went to Sam and Andrei's at 10. We ate breakfast and then started cooking at about 11. Our menu was:
Refrigerator Rolls
Corn Casserole
Green Bean Casserole
Mashed Potatoes
Canned yams with marshmallows and brown sugar
Stuffing
Chicken
Dutch Baby/German Apple Pancake for desert
We decided to cook a chicken instead of a Turkey because there were only going to be five of us, and we figured we wouldn't eat an entire turkey before it went bad. The birds at Wal-Mart were humongous.
So Sam started getting the ingredients for the stuffing together and I started on the refrigerator rolls. I had never made them without mom watching over my shoulder, and so over-heated the milk, the yeast didn't get creamy like the recipe said it would and then once everything was mixed I put the dough straight into the fridge instead of letting it rise first.
So Sam and I giggled about how we were bound to mess SOMETHING up on our first thanksgiving cooking away from Mom's (it was her first Thanksgiving as a married woman) and I put the cloth-covered bowl in the semi-warm, turned-off oven to let the dough rise and began making the green bean casserole.
A little bit later Sam opened the oven and was greeted by cheerily crackling flames.
Apparently I hadn't told her I put the dough in the oven, or she had forgotten, and I hadn't heard her when she said she was going to preheat the oven for the stuffing.
Woops.
So she reacted by shutting the oven door and calmly calling her Romanian husband, and I reacted by opening the door and trying to beat the flames to death with another dishtowel.
Andrei walked in, threw us both out of the kitchen, and began filling a pan full of water and dousing the flames, dough, and oven whilst asking what on earth we were thinking by putting cloth and a plastic bowl in an oven of all things. I meekly tried to explain that that's how you let dough rise, and received a lecture on how his mother is a chef and she puts her dough on top of the fridge to rise, not in an oven!!!
Mihai, Andrei's father, was visiting from Romania and chuckled heartily while helping Samantha open windows to let the smoke out.
"You are not the first to do such a thing, Rachel. Do not fear, for you will not be the last as well." he said reassuringly at my flaming-red cheeks.
So back Samantha and I went into the kitchen and Samantha wiped out the oven and the floor while I tried to salvage the dough.
We both laughed that most people were experiencing trauma with the Turkey, but we decided to be non-conformist and have flame-broiled rolls instead.
Robbie came over at 2:45 and found Andrei and Mihai carving little holders in some decorative miniature gourds and pumpkins to hold tea-candles so that Samantha could make a fall centerpiece. The men talked while Sam and I finished a few things and about 3:30 we took some pictures before digging into our feast.
After dinner and desert Andrei read some out of Deuteronomy and the New Testament, and then we prayed in a circle, thanking God for the blessings He had given us and praying for friends and family members who didn't know Him.
The guys then fell into talking about linguistic properties of Mandarin, Romanian geography and evangelistic opportunities at seminary and the general city-wide area while Samantha and I collapsed in the living room, hoping that the guys would notice our prostrate state and give us foot massages. They, being guys, God love 'em, were dense, and kept discussing theology. But they did migrate to the living room and sat with us during their discussion.
Robbie drove me home soon after that and we laughed and talked for a while and I tried to get him to see the profound benefit of listening to Gaelic music before I headed up to bed. I'm not sure he learned his lesson about the tunes very well, but that's okay. He still hasn't quite accepted the value of Veggie Tales yet either, but guys are sometimes slow learners. Can't move too quickly with these deep, profound life lessons. ;-)
Anyway it was a good thanksgiving. Now I am off to write a book report.
~Princess Ouch~
However, I've been responsible for the last hour addressing homework-related issues, and so I'm gonna sneak in a few moments of fluff before going back to attempting this whole 'responsible adult' growing-up nightmare that I keep trying to wake up from. :-)
Thanksgiving week was the week after Finals. I didn't have any tests, but I did have a group project the week before that I somehow got through even though I had given myself a minor concussion, and had a church-plant-proposal-presentation the next week as well as worked 20 hours at my job. And tried coordinating with my excellent professors of different classes how to manage finishing the homework that slipped in October and the beginning of November. Bleh.
So Thanksgiving week I was burned out. I worked on homework for my Great Books class, which I am officially DONE with (hallelujah!), planned Thanksgiving dinner with my 8-month-pregnant-friend Samantha, ate, felt guilty for not getting more homework done, tried to figure out which place to get the windshield of my car fixed (and did a lot more relying on Robbie than I needed to but he was able to get a great deal at a decent place after haggling for about a week, so in the end it was good, but it was interesting getting to that point. Mechanics and their ilk are scary. Having girls handle car problems is like sending your wife to Home Depo or some other work-tool-infested warehouse. Double the time, money, and energy is spent, usually the wrong thing is purchased, the salesman and the customer is frazzled and frustrated at the end of it, and the end result is a lecture on gender roles, the degradation of our society, something about day timers, and a second trip by the husband to get the right tool commences. All that to say, I'm glad Robbie was there to figure stuff out 'cause I didn't have a clue what I was doing. I don't know that he did either, but he looked a lot more confident and his voice is deeper than mine so carries more weight with the burly mechanics and glass-replacement dudes), and tried to get my room somewhat clean.
Thanksgiving day I went to Sam and Andrei's at 10. We ate breakfast and then started cooking at about 11. Our menu was:
Refrigerator Rolls
Corn Casserole
Green Bean Casserole
Mashed Potatoes
Canned yams with marshmallows and brown sugar
Stuffing
Chicken
Dutch Baby/German Apple Pancake for desert
We decided to cook a chicken instead of a Turkey because there were only going to be five of us, and we figured we wouldn't eat an entire turkey before it went bad. The birds at Wal-Mart were humongous.
So Sam started getting the ingredients for the stuffing together and I started on the refrigerator rolls. I had never made them without mom watching over my shoulder, and so over-heated the milk, the yeast didn't get creamy like the recipe said it would and then once everything was mixed I put the dough straight into the fridge instead of letting it rise first.
So Sam and I giggled about how we were bound to mess SOMETHING up on our first thanksgiving cooking away from Mom's (it was her first Thanksgiving as a married woman) and I put the cloth-covered bowl in the semi-warm, turned-off oven to let the dough rise and began making the green bean casserole.
A little bit later Sam opened the oven and was greeted by cheerily crackling flames.
Apparently I hadn't told her I put the dough in the oven, or she had forgotten, and I hadn't heard her when she said she was going to preheat the oven for the stuffing.
Woops.
So she reacted by shutting the oven door and calmly calling her Romanian husband, and I reacted by opening the door and trying to beat the flames to death with another dishtowel.
Andrei walked in, threw us both out of the kitchen, and began filling a pan full of water and dousing the flames, dough, and oven whilst asking what on earth we were thinking by putting cloth and a plastic bowl in an oven of all things. I meekly tried to explain that that's how you let dough rise, and received a lecture on how his mother is a chef and she puts her dough on top of the fridge to rise, not in an oven!!!
Mihai, Andrei's father, was visiting from Romania and chuckled heartily while helping Samantha open windows to let the smoke out.
"You are not the first to do such a thing, Rachel. Do not fear, for you will not be the last as well." he said reassuringly at my flaming-red cheeks.
So back Samantha and I went into the kitchen and Samantha wiped out the oven and the floor while I tried to salvage the dough.
We both laughed that most people were experiencing trauma with the Turkey, but we decided to be non-conformist and have flame-broiled rolls instead.
Robbie came over at 2:45 and found Andrei and Mihai carving little holders in some decorative miniature gourds and pumpkins to hold tea-candles so that Samantha could make a fall centerpiece. The men talked while Sam and I finished a few things and about 3:30 we took some pictures before digging into our feast.
After dinner and desert Andrei read some out of Deuteronomy and the New Testament, and then we prayed in a circle, thanking God for the blessings He had given us and praying for friends and family members who didn't know Him.
The guys then fell into talking about linguistic properties of Mandarin, Romanian geography and evangelistic opportunities at seminary and the general city-wide area while Samantha and I collapsed in the living room, hoping that the guys would notice our prostrate state and give us foot massages. They, being guys, God love 'em, were dense, and kept discussing theology. But they did migrate to the living room and sat with us during their discussion.
Robbie drove me home soon after that and we laughed and talked for a while and I tried to get him to see the profound benefit of listening to Gaelic music before I headed up to bed. I'm not sure he learned his lesson about the tunes very well, but that's okay. He still hasn't quite accepted the value of Veggie Tales yet either, but guys are sometimes slow learners. Can't move too quickly with these deep, profound life lessons. ;-)
Anyway it was a good thanksgiving. Now I am off to write a book report.
~Princess Ouch~
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Short story
This is for my Great Books "Final Exam". Basically we had to do a creative composition of any kind - it could be multi-media, poetry, music, artwork, or creative writing. I chose the last one. It had to involve themes from all our reading this last semester, so I thought I would take the concept of all the AUTHORS from the last semester and weave in some themes that have plagued me - I mean blessed me and followed me around - as a homeschooled child and daughter of a therapist and psychologist, as well as noticing different approaches and attitudes towards education here at college, in Romania, amongst Romanians, Hungarians, Gypsies, etc. Its fiction, obviously, but I just thought I'd clarify as I had one friend start reading it and he thought it was an autobiographical piece. No no, much as I'd LOVE to say Shakespeare went to our homeschool group, alas, such priveledge was not ours.
So this is the second draft. I still need to go over it before I turn it in to my professor. Hope you enjoy.
~Princess Ouch~
I had prepared for this day. Studied hard. Worked for it and gone through all possible scenarios – good and bad – in my head and decided upon appropriate courses of action and response for each scene. However, nothing could have thoroughly readied me for my first day as an English teacher in the new High School. The principle was impressed with my references and experiences as a Student Teacher in College, and so thought she would try me out the first few weeks as a tutor for a special after school program he had created for English students struggling with the regular courses the school had to offer. Unfortunately that month had been particularly busy for the principle, so he had not really had time to prepare me for what I was to expect.
“ They are good children. They are just having trouble fitting into the normal classes. I am sure that in a smaller class, with more personal attention from a talented teacher such as yourself, they will excel.”
The compliment was flattering, but I was still nervous as I prepared myself the morning of the first class of the semester and went over what my goals were for the students. I wanted them to be well rounded in literature and writing skills, and able to intelligently discuss literature by the end of my time with them. Of course I would not have enough time with each of them or probably interest from them to go as deep into the coursework as I wanted to. High School students could be difficult to teach. They were used to being rebellious towards adults or misunderstood by them, clinging to their peer groups for affirmation and socialization. However, I knew if I was patient enough, used enough skill and affirmation, I could break through to my students and build edifying relationships with them. Teenagers just need to discover that sleeping part of themselves that truly does love to learn and really does want to excel, and then teaching is far more easier and truly enjoyable.
I found myself waiting in the empty, cheery classroom at quarter to nine o’clock, hands folded on the desk, waiting for my students to troop in as a disgruntled and resentful crowd. I was in for a shocking surprise.
The first young man was dressed head to toe in black and carried some odd shaped ball under one arm, along with some rolls of paper. The other arm somehow held both a handful of feathers and a bottle filled with black liquid. His scraggly dark hair framed his pale face and luminous dark eyes dramatically and was gathered at the nape of his neck in a short ponytail.
“He must be trying to go gothic.” I thought to myself and smiled hospitably at him. I received the most profound, deep stare I have seen on a student’s face before. He then went to his desk and placed his items on the surface carefully before sitting down. Next, he pulled a stopper out of the bottle, smoothed out one of his rolls of paper, and began scribbling on them with what I saw to be instead of random feathers were really quill pens. To my horror I saw that the ball he occasionally glanced at was not really a ball but instead was a skull!! I swallowed and debated whether I should ask him to tell me about it before he removed it from the premises or simply ignore it. One had to choose one’s battles carefully with teenagers, and sometimes quirky things such as this could be delicate issues that made or broke relationships with the students. As I was thinking all this, the second student walked in, and once again I had to do a double-take.
He was wearing a white toga lined with purple strips on the hems. His large nose and curly dark hair gave his regal posture a more striking effect, and I almost felt that I should address him by some title. But that of course was ridiculous, and I managed a welcoming smile before he swept past me and sat down at a desk not too far from my gothic, skull bearing friend. The second young man pulled out a waxy looking slate and stylus from somewhere amongst the folds of his toga and quietly began pressing letters and words into it.
Not too long after this a happy young man with long, red gold curls, green eyes and freckled cheeks bounced into the room. I was relieved until he opened his mouth.
“Good rest ye, mistress tutor!” he cried, giving me a sweeping bow. Stunned, I stood in response and tried opening my mouth to speak but nothing came out. His dramatic entrance after the two silent, strangely dressed students made me feel a need to answer with some sort of formal speech, however nothing was coming to mind. This was terrible! I was never struck speechless, especially by simply expressive students! And I was noticing with consternation that this boy was also dressed strangely as well, in some sort of doublet and hose combination, with long boots. And he was talking again.
“Think ye to catch yonder buzzing fly with thy clap-a-trap dangling all about? Forsooth, ‘tis an unfortunate occupation with which ye engage thyself.”
“Th-thank you. . .” I spluttered, trying to make sense of what he said, as he spoke with a somewhat Welsh accent.
“Just take a seat over there.” I gestured towards the two other boys who were now staring at me. The black-clad youth sighed and murmured something about escaping an ever-present, overbearing scholastic coil. I swallowed and sat down. The jolly welsh boy had pulled out some charcoal sticks from a pouch on his belt and some scraps of paper. With these he was scribbling furiously while occasionally glancing at me as though sketching me with words. The politician was murmuring something under his breath as though from memory while looking at his waxy slate and what he had written there. The gothic young man was staring at his nasty skull while tickling his nose with the edge of his feather quill pen.
“What next?” I wondered. There came a ‘tap tapping’ noise from down the hall, and I realized someone was walking with cane. The poor boy who came in next was the bearer of said cane, as he was blind and using it to help him ‘see’. He was obviously from a very poor home as his clothes were baggy, shapeless, and dusty. He looked in my general direction with cloudy eyes and gave a deep nod of respect before tapping his way to a desk. He sat there quietly, head cocked slightly, listening to the sounds of his classmates writing utensils with a faint smile dancing on his lips.
I heard a noise at the door again and was almost blinded when I turned my head by the brilliant display of colors that decked a young African’s apparel. This young man also carried himself like a statesman, and again I felt myself beginning to splutter as I stood up. But before I could choke out anything like a formal greeting he held up a hand as if he were a lord pardoning a bashful servant and said,
“Trouble yourself not, dear lady, on my account. This wretched sinner has too many evils burdening the conscience to add yet another. I pray our sweet Lord forgive me for distressing your gentle spirit. Though why He in His sovereign grace should so tenderly forgive a disgusting worm such as myself is beyond my comprehension.”
He walked in a manner that was so thoughtful it almost seemed sad. But I was so taken aback by his speech I could only collapse in my chair and brace myself for the last two students to arrive.
They walked in together, a boy and girl. Thank heavens, the girl I saw was not dressed in any outlandish costume, but was a normal, sullen, neon-colored make up, tight-fitting jeaned, over-facial jewelry-pierced, regular teenage girl student. The kind I was prepared to teach. The type I was used to and prepared to teach. I almost wanted to run and embrace her, to shower her with thanks for saving me from these other strange boys who had leapt out of history books and invaded my classroom! But I knew she would resent that show of emotion and it would start our relationship off in the wrong direction. These other students I could not figure out to save my life, but this girl I knew exactly how to handle! But then I noticed the boy who was jabbering at the girl and again was assaulted with something completely out of the ordinary.
He was giving the girl an earful, and in a decidedly German accent. His rusty colored hair fell about his large forehead and was swept aside his eyebrows to reveal flashing blue eyes that revealed a strong will and impassioned spirit. Upon seeing me he cried,
“Mein Frau! Help this wayward maid understand her error. Such a pretty face to conceal so stupid theology is beyond my skill. She complains that as she did not choose to join this class, she vill not participate. Yet therein lies her dilemma. Not only does this contradict Scripture, which states we must do all as unto our Lord, but this is not for her to choose! Either her parents or God decide. Especially as a lady she must realize her will is in bondage to those determining forces to which a submissive and gentle spirit will bring joy. “
The girl rolled here eyes and snapped the gum she had been chewing before drawling,
“Dude, I don’t know what yer tryin’ to say. All I got was that yer just a teachers pet waiting to happen, and should leave me the heck alone.”
With that, she flounced off to a desk in a rather lonely part of the room and sat down. The German boy gaped at her for a second before muttering in German and finding a seat.
Teacher’s pet indeed! I certainly had my hands full with this bunch. Where did they all come from, and why were they dressed in such odd costumes? I had signed up for problem students, typical rebellious high schoolers like the sullen girl in the corner. Not theologians and philosophers who carried around skulls and parchments!
Well, at any rate they were all here. I stood up and cleared my throat. Goodness, the inspired speech I had been preparing all week seemed ill-fit to the six sets of eyes that looked towards me expectantly.
“Well students. I suppose we are all here. Welcome to English class. think of it more as a literature and creative writing course. A place where you can learn how to express yourselves in a way the world will listen to and understand.”
The girl snapped her gum and rolled her eyes. The black-clad boy tapped the skull with one of his feathers. I had a sinking feeling that this was going badly. I was sounding too staccato. . . too nervous.
“The principal has asked me to take you aside and help you with an area you all appear to be struggling with. I do not see this as any kind of critique against you as people, but rather as an opportunity for you to learn more about yourselves and each other in a unique setting. Now,” I said sitting, “I’d like each of you to tell me your names and a little about yourselves, and perhaps explain these interesting outfits you wore to class today.”
Usually when I ask students to stand up and talk about themselves, they will hesitate for the first several times until trust is built. Instead they will slouch in their seat and look down, like the girl was doing. Instead the boys all gave each other sidelong glances as though they had possibly discussed who was going to speak first and were reminding themselves as to what order they would present. The blind boy then stood up.
“Oh my dear lady, you ask me about my name, my homeland, my family, these unwashed rags that adorn my frail body. So must I go, being needy; that is the way a vagabond must live. The gods in their splendor play with us mortals – we are their toys. And so, sweet lady, you see before you a simple poet, struck blind by a god from mouth Olympus.
My father forgot to sacrifice to Father Zeus and Mother Hera with thanksgiving for my safe delivery. Ah foolishness! My father should have enjoyed long life with his wife and wealth and many more sons to bring him joy. Alas, the gods are quick to turn favor to wrath if they feel gratitude and sacrifice is not adequately given. I was struck with a wasting fever that robbed me of my sight as a babe. It passed to my mother and sent her to Lady Persephone’s care in Lord Hades dark kingdom. What fortune my father did not spend in seeking a cure for his dear wife and child he used to send me to a wise old crafty tutor for my education. The man was skilled in education yet wiley, and charged my poor grieving father more than he ought. When at last my sire joined my mother after a hunting accident a quarrel between my uncles arose and to save myself from their treacherous plans to steal my inheritance, I ran away. Now I wander this world as you see me, using what little knowledge I possess to sing poems and weave stories for the amusement of others, until the day the gods decide to send me to join my parents. Now I beseech you, lady, be good to me and give me the skills to be a poet that credits my poor father and sweet mother’s memory. My name is Homer, and I greet you humbly.”
With a slight bow, he sat down. I felt my throat tighten at his tragic tale, but before I could react or say anything, the African boy leapt to his feet.
“What! Friend, burden not my ears with such abominable heresy such as this! Gods you say? What, can it be you are truly ignorant of our dear gracious heavenly Father who has taken us, still putrefying in our own filth, and made us His children? Oh crooked paths! Woe to you, audacious soul, which hopes, by forsaking Christ, to gain some better thing! In Christ alone will you find rest, not these foul myths of gods in Olympus! Do you feel the grief flowing from the Father’s heart at such idolatry?
Dear lady teacher, I pray you forgive such sentimental outburst, but I trust you, as I, are burdened for this poor youth’s soul! Are we to spit in Providence’s face by rejecting this opportunity to save a soul from damnation and the flames of hell? I think not! I am Augustine. May God keep me faithful to Him.”
The young man sat down to my relief and I tried to collect my wits as the Roman boy stood up. I felt a little breathless after that sermon and was still trying to determine if he had cussed in class... oh dear what was I to do. It was against school policy for a student to swear in a classroom, should I move towards disciplinary action against him? But now the toga-wearer was speaking.
“Often it happens that supreme power is given to good men so that the exuberance of wickedness may be checked. Others receive a mixture of good and bad fortune according to their quality of mind. Providence stings some people to avoid giving them happiness for too long, and others she allows to be vexed by hard fortune to strengthen their virtues of mind by the use and exercise of patience.
Friends, it seems to me that to judge wickedness in the other is less than beneficial – to ourselves or to one another. Rather, we must focus instead upon the sanctification of our own souls. Can we truly judge the heart and mind of another?
Madam, I humbly introduce myself. Ancius Boethius is how I am called, and if I may in any way be of service to you as you sagely guide us with your wisdom, then do not, I pray, hesitate to enlist my aid.”
I tried to mumble something intelligent but the words just would not come. Homer? Boethius? This could not be true! I wasn’t qualified to teach great minds like these. What was the principle thinking? But yet another student was standing up. It was the welsh student.
“God save ya! And I pray to all that harken to this little tale o’ mine, that if anythin’ in it that pleases him, they should thereof thank our Lord Jesus, of whom proceedeth all wit and all goodness. And if there be anything that displeases him, I pray him also that they blame it to the default of my unknowing, and not to my will. For I would have said it better quite gladly had I known.
Jeffry Chaucer is my name. God save ya, and on my soul may Jesus Christ have mercy, an’ His dear mother as well, Amen.
Now I been told that I be long winded and with a terrible grammatical tendency. So my dear teacher, have a ware! For my mouth oft runs away with me. But therein lies the rub, all men loves to hear themselves talk.”
“See here!” The German boy leapt to his feet and interrupted Jeffry’s speech which appeared to just be beginning.
“My dear fool, what preposterous notions you speak. Evoking the Virgin Mary to have mercy on your soul and aid in a classroom setting! Have you read the Holy Scriptures? Do you see scriptural or doctrinal evidence or indications to defend your misguided viewpoint and worldview? I think not! The Holy Catholic Church must be reformed, I tell you ! Such sin and faulty doctrine is useless for the edification of the Saints!
Martin Luther, mein Frau. I pray you will not allow heresy such as this to spread much further than it has already today.”
“Now lets have no more name calling.” I pleaded. I nodded towards the girl sitting sullenly in her corner.
“What about you, honey? Could you tell us a little about yourself?” I tried to smile at her with encouragement, but I’m afraid it was more of a plea for mercy. Save me from these over opinionated, eloquent yet confusing boys! The girl slowly uncurled from her sitting slouch to a bad postured standing position and picked at the wood on her desk while she spoke quietly.
“Um. . . nothin’ special about me I guess. I’m just Jeannie Watkins, and I’m in eighth grade. I hate writing, but I gotta take this class to graduate. Um. . . so. . . yeah.”
She collapsed back into her chair and hunched her shoulders. Her hair fell into her face and she cautiously peeked out from under the veil it made to see what her classmates’ reactions were. Embarrassed by their stares, she bent her head so that no one could see her.
“That is all?” Homer asked finally, and somewhat incredulously. “You say nothing, maid, of your family, your home country, your past, your future, the mark the gods have made on your life. Were you born yesterday? Your voice is fair like that of a beautiful damsel, but your speech is that of an unconfident babe unused to the speech of men.”
The girl shrugged and mumbled an indifferent ‘whatever’. Boethius frowned and blinked rapidly before he too commented,
“Dear girl, I am troubled. For you may not care for yourself of your future or past, but do you not wish for others to benefit from your wisdom and experience? In my mind, Philosophy and wisdom comes in the form of a comely lady such as yourself. Surely if you have been created so physically beautiful, your mind is even more so. Will you not speak more to us of your thoughts and opinions? We have shared with you, now it is your turn to allow us the benefit of the music of your voice.”
She shrugged again and continued to say nothing, but I saw that underneath the hair where she was hiding her face, a faint smile twitched on her lips and she had a thoughtful expression on her face.
“It is good she sits silently. Perhaps the weight of her sins burdens her so, and she is praying in repentance. It may be that in her humility she cannot speak to us yet, as she is seeking sanctification firstly, and praying for our edification rather than offering wisdom herself.” Augustine offered hopefully. Luther shook his head.
“Nay, only if the Good Lord has put this desire in her, for only evil desires could come from herself. Perhaps we should be the ones interceding on her behalf.” The girl stirred at that, and tossed her head back with eyes flashing.
“Whadaya mean, punk? You think I’m some kind of rat, is that it? You wanna take this outside dude?” Luther colored and quickly apologized.
“Lady, I meant no offense to your honor. I humbly beseech your forgiveness, as I deem you a maiden of honor. I should in no way wish you evoke your wrath or that of your guardian and defender’s. Please accept my apology.”
Oh heavens! I thought. This was entirely way out of control. The boy clad in black had stood and the German boy quieted, but looked to the girl who nodded curtly in acknowledgment of his apology.
“My good lords and fair ladies, I give thee good morning. I am William Shakespeare, and I do entreat you to bend your ears to my words and hearken, as they may help this strange confusion we have found ourselves in. Dear lady teacher, I pray thee be not disturbed by my colleagues strange speech, be not perturbed by our seeming strange reasoning with one another. We are not bickering madmen, but rather philosophers, poets, artisans, and scholars. We seek the edification of ourselves and those around us. Our speech seems strange to you, little maid. Ah yes, I have seen your looks of confusion cast our way. You wish to understand yet are unable. Madam, you wish for peace and such we can give you we shall. However, this maid and her peers must realize that they too must cast off their desire for conformity and comfort and pursue their edification, such as I and my colleagues do. Discomfort and discipline will be required from them, yet in the end they shall rejoice. The benefits of a disciplined mind, an eloquent tongue, a quick wit, is worth all the pain they will get in their endeavors to better themselves. You, dear teacher, must realize that you cannot lower thy standards for the comfort of your students but must raise them. Spur your pupils on to attempt to attain perfection! See all that the are capable of. This I deem you already know, yet I encourage you to not forget these sentiments you already possess, as I fear this age we have stumbled upon is quick to forget such ancient morals and principles. Now I give thee good day, madam, and humbly seek forgiveness for any distress we may have given thee in our appearance here.”
Shakespeare bowed and gathered his things and walked out the door. The other students began gathering their things and I realized that our allotted time together had ended. My first day had ended! I hadn’t even begun anything I had so carefully planned. . . oh dear what to do, what to do. . . they couldn’t leave yet. . .
I woke up moaning “What to do! What to do!” and sat bolt upright. I was breathing heavily. I looked at the clock, and the green light blared the time: 3:30 AM. I had been dreaming!! It was all a dream! Shakespeare and Homer and Boethius didn’t really invade my classroom!! I really was going to have normal, sullen students after all. In a way I was relieved. And yet I found myself strangely disappointed. Oh dear, perhaps I was far more worried about my first day teaching than I had admitted to myself. I flopped back down onto my pillow and tried to get back to sleep. Was that a dream or a nightmare I had just experienced, trying to manage all those brilliant minds in one classroom! Was the girl also a brilliant mind? Perhaps not the same kind of brilliance as Homer or Chaucer. . . did such brilliance still exist? I could only wait until the morning to find out if I could coax my students to try and be the next Shakespeare. Oh the joys of teaching.
Copyright 2009 Rachel Nehring. All rights reserved.
So this is the second draft. I still need to go over it before I turn it in to my professor. Hope you enjoy.
~Princess Ouch~
I had prepared for this day. Studied hard. Worked for it and gone through all possible scenarios – good and bad – in my head and decided upon appropriate courses of action and response for each scene. However, nothing could have thoroughly readied me for my first day as an English teacher in the new High School. The principle was impressed with my references and experiences as a Student Teacher in College, and so thought she would try me out the first few weeks as a tutor for a special after school program he had created for English students struggling with the regular courses the school had to offer. Unfortunately that month had been particularly busy for the principle, so he had not really had time to prepare me for what I was to expect.
“ They are good children. They are just having trouble fitting into the normal classes. I am sure that in a smaller class, with more personal attention from a talented teacher such as yourself, they will excel.”
The compliment was flattering, but I was still nervous as I prepared myself the morning of the first class of the semester and went over what my goals were for the students. I wanted them to be well rounded in literature and writing skills, and able to intelligently discuss literature by the end of my time with them. Of course I would not have enough time with each of them or probably interest from them to go as deep into the coursework as I wanted to. High School students could be difficult to teach. They were used to being rebellious towards adults or misunderstood by them, clinging to their peer groups for affirmation and socialization. However, I knew if I was patient enough, used enough skill and affirmation, I could break through to my students and build edifying relationships with them. Teenagers just need to discover that sleeping part of themselves that truly does love to learn and really does want to excel, and then teaching is far more easier and truly enjoyable.
I found myself waiting in the empty, cheery classroom at quarter to nine o’clock, hands folded on the desk, waiting for my students to troop in as a disgruntled and resentful crowd. I was in for a shocking surprise.
The first young man was dressed head to toe in black and carried some odd shaped ball under one arm, along with some rolls of paper. The other arm somehow held both a handful of feathers and a bottle filled with black liquid. His scraggly dark hair framed his pale face and luminous dark eyes dramatically and was gathered at the nape of his neck in a short ponytail.
“He must be trying to go gothic.” I thought to myself and smiled hospitably at him. I received the most profound, deep stare I have seen on a student’s face before. He then went to his desk and placed his items on the surface carefully before sitting down. Next, he pulled a stopper out of the bottle, smoothed out one of his rolls of paper, and began scribbling on them with what I saw to be instead of random feathers were really quill pens. To my horror I saw that the ball he occasionally glanced at was not really a ball but instead was a skull!! I swallowed and debated whether I should ask him to tell me about it before he removed it from the premises or simply ignore it. One had to choose one’s battles carefully with teenagers, and sometimes quirky things such as this could be delicate issues that made or broke relationships with the students. As I was thinking all this, the second student walked in, and once again I had to do a double-take.
He was wearing a white toga lined with purple strips on the hems. His large nose and curly dark hair gave his regal posture a more striking effect, and I almost felt that I should address him by some title. But that of course was ridiculous, and I managed a welcoming smile before he swept past me and sat down at a desk not too far from my gothic, skull bearing friend. The second young man pulled out a waxy looking slate and stylus from somewhere amongst the folds of his toga and quietly began pressing letters and words into it.
Not too long after this a happy young man with long, red gold curls, green eyes and freckled cheeks bounced into the room. I was relieved until he opened his mouth.
“Good rest ye, mistress tutor!” he cried, giving me a sweeping bow. Stunned, I stood in response and tried opening my mouth to speak but nothing came out. His dramatic entrance after the two silent, strangely dressed students made me feel a need to answer with some sort of formal speech, however nothing was coming to mind. This was terrible! I was never struck speechless, especially by simply expressive students! And I was noticing with consternation that this boy was also dressed strangely as well, in some sort of doublet and hose combination, with long boots. And he was talking again.
“Think ye to catch yonder buzzing fly with thy clap-a-trap dangling all about? Forsooth, ‘tis an unfortunate occupation with which ye engage thyself.”
“Th-thank you. . .” I spluttered, trying to make sense of what he said, as he spoke with a somewhat Welsh accent.
“Just take a seat over there.” I gestured towards the two other boys who were now staring at me. The black-clad youth sighed and murmured something about escaping an ever-present, overbearing scholastic coil. I swallowed and sat down. The jolly welsh boy had pulled out some charcoal sticks from a pouch on his belt and some scraps of paper. With these he was scribbling furiously while occasionally glancing at me as though sketching me with words. The politician was murmuring something under his breath as though from memory while looking at his waxy slate and what he had written there. The gothic young man was staring at his nasty skull while tickling his nose with the edge of his feather quill pen.
“What next?” I wondered. There came a ‘tap tapping’ noise from down the hall, and I realized someone was walking with cane. The poor boy who came in next was the bearer of said cane, as he was blind and using it to help him ‘see’. He was obviously from a very poor home as his clothes were baggy, shapeless, and dusty. He looked in my general direction with cloudy eyes and gave a deep nod of respect before tapping his way to a desk. He sat there quietly, head cocked slightly, listening to the sounds of his classmates writing utensils with a faint smile dancing on his lips.
I heard a noise at the door again and was almost blinded when I turned my head by the brilliant display of colors that decked a young African’s apparel. This young man also carried himself like a statesman, and again I felt myself beginning to splutter as I stood up. But before I could choke out anything like a formal greeting he held up a hand as if he were a lord pardoning a bashful servant and said,
“Trouble yourself not, dear lady, on my account. This wretched sinner has too many evils burdening the conscience to add yet another. I pray our sweet Lord forgive me for distressing your gentle spirit. Though why He in His sovereign grace should so tenderly forgive a disgusting worm such as myself is beyond my comprehension.”
He walked in a manner that was so thoughtful it almost seemed sad. But I was so taken aback by his speech I could only collapse in my chair and brace myself for the last two students to arrive.
They walked in together, a boy and girl. Thank heavens, the girl I saw was not dressed in any outlandish costume, but was a normal, sullen, neon-colored make up, tight-fitting jeaned, over-facial jewelry-pierced, regular teenage girl student. The kind I was prepared to teach. The type I was used to and prepared to teach. I almost wanted to run and embrace her, to shower her with thanks for saving me from these other strange boys who had leapt out of history books and invaded my classroom! But I knew she would resent that show of emotion and it would start our relationship off in the wrong direction. These other students I could not figure out to save my life, but this girl I knew exactly how to handle! But then I noticed the boy who was jabbering at the girl and again was assaulted with something completely out of the ordinary.
He was giving the girl an earful, and in a decidedly German accent. His rusty colored hair fell about his large forehead and was swept aside his eyebrows to reveal flashing blue eyes that revealed a strong will and impassioned spirit. Upon seeing me he cried,
“Mein Frau! Help this wayward maid understand her error. Such a pretty face to conceal so stupid theology is beyond my skill. She complains that as she did not choose to join this class, she vill not participate. Yet therein lies her dilemma. Not only does this contradict Scripture, which states we must do all as unto our Lord, but this is not for her to choose! Either her parents or God decide. Especially as a lady she must realize her will is in bondage to those determining forces to which a submissive and gentle spirit will bring joy. “
The girl rolled here eyes and snapped the gum she had been chewing before drawling,
“Dude, I don’t know what yer tryin’ to say. All I got was that yer just a teachers pet waiting to happen, and should leave me the heck alone.”
With that, she flounced off to a desk in a rather lonely part of the room and sat down. The German boy gaped at her for a second before muttering in German and finding a seat.
Teacher’s pet indeed! I certainly had my hands full with this bunch. Where did they all come from, and why were they dressed in such odd costumes? I had signed up for problem students, typical rebellious high schoolers like the sullen girl in the corner. Not theologians and philosophers who carried around skulls and parchments!
Well, at any rate they were all here. I stood up and cleared my throat. Goodness, the inspired speech I had been preparing all week seemed ill-fit to the six sets of eyes that looked towards me expectantly.
“Well students. I suppose we are all here. Welcome to English class. think of it more as a literature and creative writing course. A place where you can learn how to express yourselves in a way the world will listen to and understand.”
The girl snapped her gum and rolled her eyes. The black-clad boy tapped the skull with one of his feathers. I had a sinking feeling that this was going badly. I was sounding too staccato. . . too nervous.
“The principal has asked me to take you aside and help you with an area you all appear to be struggling with. I do not see this as any kind of critique against you as people, but rather as an opportunity for you to learn more about yourselves and each other in a unique setting. Now,” I said sitting, “I’d like each of you to tell me your names and a little about yourselves, and perhaps explain these interesting outfits you wore to class today.”
Usually when I ask students to stand up and talk about themselves, they will hesitate for the first several times until trust is built. Instead they will slouch in their seat and look down, like the girl was doing. Instead the boys all gave each other sidelong glances as though they had possibly discussed who was going to speak first and were reminding themselves as to what order they would present. The blind boy then stood up.
“Oh my dear lady, you ask me about my name, my homeland, my family, these unwashed rags that adorn my frail body. So must I go, being needy; that is the way a vagabond must live. The gods in their splendor play with us mortals – we are their toys. And so, sweet lady, you see before you a simple poet, struck blind by a god from mouth Olympus.
My father forgot to sacrifice to Father Zeus and Mother Hera with thanksgiving for my safe delivery. Ah foolishness! My father should have enjoyed long life with his wife and wealth and many more sons to bring him joy. Alas, the gods are quick to turn favor to wrath if they feel gratitude and sacrifice is not adequately given. I was struck with a wasting fever that robbed me of my sight as a babe. It passed to my mother and sent her to Lady Persephone’s care in Lord Hades dark kingdom. What fortune my father did not spend in seeking a cure for his dear wife and child he used to send me to a wise old crafty tutor for my education. The man was skilled in education yet wiley, and charged my poor grieving father more than he ought. When at last my sire joined my mother after a hunting accident a quarrel between my uncles arose and to save myself from their treacherous plans to steal my inheritance, I ran away. Now I wander this world as you see me, using what little knowledge I possess to sing poems and weave stories for the amusement of others, until the day the gods decide to send me to join my parents. Now I beseech you, lady, be good to me and give me the skills to be a poet that credits my poor father and sweet mother’s memory. My name is Homer, and I greet you humbly.”
With a slight bow, he sat down. I felt my throat tighten at his tragic tale, but before I could react or say anything, the African boy leapt to his feet.
“What! Friend, burden not my ears with such abominable heresy such as this! Gods you say? What, can it be you are truly ignorant of our dear gracious heavenly Father who has taken us, still putrefying in our own filth, and made us His children? Oh crooked paths! Woe to you, audacious soul, which hopes, by forsaking Christ, to gain some better thing! In Christ alone will you find rest, not these foul myths of gods in Olympus! Do you feel the grief flowing from the Father’s heart at such idolatry?
Dear lady teacher, I pray you forgive such sentimental outburst, but I trust you, as I, are burdened for this poor youth’s soul! Are we to spit in Providence’s face by rejecting this opportunity to save a soul from damnation and the flames of hell? I think not! I am Augustine. May God keep me faithful to Him.”
The young man sat down to my relief and I tried to collect my wits as the Roman boy stood up. I felt a little breathless after that sermon and was still trying to determine if he had cussed in class... oh dear what was I to do. It was against school policy for a student to swear in a classroom, should I move towards disciplinary action against him? But now the toga-wearer was speaking.
“Often it happens that supreme power is given to good men so that the exuberance of wickedness may be checked. Others receive a mixture of good and bad fortune according to their quality of mind. Providence stings some people to avoid giving them happiness for too long, and others she allows to be vexed by hard fortune to strengthen their virtues of mind by the use and exercise of patience.
Friends, it seems to me that to judge wickedness in the other is less than beneficial – to ourselves or to one another. Rather, we must focus instead upon the sanctification of our own souls. Can we truly judge the heart and mind of another?
Madam, I humbly introduce myself. Ancius Boethius is how I am called, and if I may in any way be of service to you as you sagely guide us with your wisdom, then do not, I pray, hesitate to enlist my aid.”
I tried to mumble something intelligent but the words just would not come. Homer? Boethius? This could not be true! I wasn’t qualified to teach great minds like these. What was the principle thinking? But yet another student was standing up. It was the welsh student.
“God save ya! And I pray to all that harken to this little tale o’ mine, that if anythin’ in it that pleases him, they should thereof thank our Lord Jesus, of whom proceedeth all wit and all goodness. And if there be anything that displeases him, I pray him also that they blame it to the default of my unknowing, and not to my will. For I would have said it better quite gladly had I known.
Jeffry Chaucer is my name. God save ya, and on my soul may Jesus Christ have mercy, an’ His dear mother as well, Amen.
Now I been told that I be long winded and with a terrible grammatical tendency. So my dear teacher, have a ware! For my mouth oft runs away with me. But therein lies the rub, all men loves to hear themselves talk.”
“See here!” The German boy leapt to his feet and interrupted Jeffry’s speech which appeared to just be beginning.
“My dear fool, what preposterous notions you speak. Evoking the Virgin Mary to have mercy on your soul and aid in a classroom setting! Have you read the Holy Scriptures? Do you see scriptural or doctrinal evidence or indications to defend your misguided viewpoint and worldview? I think not! The Holy Catholic Church must be reformed, I tell you ! Such sin and faulty doctrine is useless for the edification of the Saints!
Martin Luther, mein Frau. I pray you will not allow heresy such as this to spread much further than it has already today.”
“Now lets have no more name calling.” I pleaded. I nodded towards the girl sitting sullenly in her corner.
“What about you, honey? Could you tell us a little about yourself?” I tried to smile at her with encouragement, but I’m afraid it was more of a plea for mercy. Save me from these over opinionated, eloquent yet confusing boys! The girl slowly uncurled from her sitting slouch to a bad postured standing position and picked at the wood on her desk while she spoke quietly.
“Um. . . nothin’ special about me I guess. I’m just Jeannie Watkins, and I’m in eighth grade. I hate writing, but I gotta take this class to graduate. Um. . . so. . . yeah.”
She collapsed back into her chair and hunched her shoulders. Her hair fell into her face and she cautiously peeked out from under the veil it made to see what her classmates’ reactions were. Embarrassed by their stares, she bent her head so that no one could see her.
“That is all?” Homer asked finally, and somewhat incredulously. “You say nothing, maid, of your family, your home country, your past, your future, the mark the gods have made on your life. Were you born yesterday? Your voice is fair like that of a beautiful damsel, but your speech is that of an unconfident babe unused to the speech of men.”
The girl shrugged and mumbled an indifferent ‘whatever’. Boethius frowned and blinked rapidly before he too commented,
“Dear girl, I am troubled. For you may not care for yourself of your future or past, but do you not wish for others to benefit from your wisdom and experience? In my mind, Philosophy and wisdom comes in the form of a comely lady such as yourself. Surely if you have been created so physically beautiful, your mind is even more so. Will you not speak more to us of your thoughts and opinions? We have shared with you, now it is your turn to allow us the benefit of the music of your voice.”
She shrugged again and continued to say nothing, but I saw that underneath the hair where she was hiding her face, a faint smile twitched on her lips and she had a thoughtful expression on her face.
“It is good she sits silently. Perhaps the weight of her sins burdens her so, and she is praying in repentance. It may be that in her humility she cannot speak to us yet, as she is seeking sanctification firstly, and praying for our edification rather than offering wisdom herself.” Augustine offered hopefully. Luther shook his head.
“Nay, only if the Good Lord has put this desire in her, for only evil desires could come from herself. Perhaps we should be the ones interceding on her behalf.” The girl stirred at that, and tossed her head back with eyes flashing.
“Whadaya mean, punk? You think I’m some kind of rat, is that it? You wanna take this outside dude?” Luther colored and quickly apologized.
“Lady, I meant no offense to your honor. I humbly beseech your forgiveness, as I deem you a maiden of honor. I should in no way wish you evoke your wrath or that of your guardian and defender’s. Please accept my apology.”
Oh heavens! I thought. This was entirely way out of control. The boy clad in black had stood and the German boy quieted, but looked to the girl who nodded curtly in acknowledgment of his apology.
“My good lords and fair ladies, I give thee good morning. I am William Shakespeare, and I do entreat you to bend your ears to my words and hearken, as they may help this strange confusion we have found ourselves in. Dear lady teacher, I pray thee be not disturbed by my colleagues strange speech, be not perturbed by our seeming strange reasoning with one another. We are not bickering madmen, but rather philosophers, poets, artisans, and scholars. We seek the edification of ourselves and those around us. Our speech seems strange to you, little maid. Ah yes, I have seen your looks of confusion cast our way. You wish to understand yet are unable. Madam, you wish for peace and such we can give you we shall. However, this maid and her peers must realize that they too must cast off their desire for conformity and comfort and pursue their edification, such as I and my colleagues do. Discomfort and discipline will be required from them, yet in the end they shall rejoice. The benefits of a disciplined mind, an eloquent tongue, a quick wit, is worth all the pain they will get in their endeavors to better themselves. You, dear teacher, must realize that you cannot lower thy standards for the comfort of your students but must raise them. Spur your pupils on to attempt to attain perfection! See all that the are capable of. This I deem you already know, yet I encourage you to not forget these sentiments you already possess, as I fear this age we have stumbled upon is quick to forget such ancient morals and principles. Now I give thee good day, madam, and humbly seek forgiveness for any distress we may have given thee in our appearance here.”
Shakespeare bowed and gathered his things and walked out the door. The other students began gathering their things and I realized that our allotted time together had ended. My first day had ended! I hadn’t even begun anything I had so carefully planned. . . oh dear what to do, what to do. . . they couldn’t leave yet. . .
I woke up moaning “What to do! What to do!” and sat bolt upright. I was breathing heavily. I looked at the clock, and the green light blared the time: 3:30 AM. I had been dreaming!! It was all a dream! Shakespeare and Homer and Boethius didn’t really invade my classroom!! I really was going to have normal, sullen students after all. In a way I was relieved. And yet I found myself strangely disappointed. Oh dear, perhaps I was far more worried about my first day teaching than I had admitted to myself. I flopped back down onto my pillow and tried to get back to sleep. Was that a dream or a nightmare I had just experienced, trying to manage all those brilliant minds in one classroom! Was the girl also a brilliant mind? Perhaps not the same kind of brilliance as Homer or Chaucer. . . did such brilliance still exist? I could only wait until the morning to find out if I could coax my students to try and be the next Shakespeare. Oh the joys of teaching.
Copyright 2009 Rachel Nehring. All rights reserved.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
update yet again
Technically the semester is over for all the undergrad students. The graduate students - including my dear Roberto - have this week off for Thanksgiving and then finals are next week. Most undergrad's are rejoicing in the completion of the end of the semester. I am smiling, and trying to work up the discipline to finish up the half-semester's worth of homework I fell behind on.
I am truly pitiful in this regard right now. I simply
don't
want
to
do
it.
I want to go play in the leaves, cook delicious, unhealthy food with my friend Samantha, go for walks or sit on a bench with Robbie, play with my new hair-style my Ukrainian friend Olya gave me (Thanks Olya!!), goof off on the computer, listen to the Seminary guys debate minute details they have to think about for THEIR homework while I semi-blissfully blow off mine.
I also need to start thinking about going home for Christmas, transportation there and back, moving off campus next semester, fixing my van's windshield and registering it, packing up my room.
But its been a gorgeous Indian summer. Some girls have left for the holidays but lots of my good friends are still in the girls dorms and full of laughter and funny stories that I missed out on while all the chaos was raging around me earlier this semester.
There's blog posts from my mom to catch up on, new videos from the ministries I worked with in Romania to watch, international students with intriguing languages to try to learn, new holiday recipies to try.
But this paper needs to be written, the car NEEDS to be registered, that book needs to be read and reported on.
Blast.
And so I do the responsible thing. Flee to the Library where I can LOOK like I'm being mature and adult-ish and doing homework, but in reality am zooming around cyberspace, doing zilch.
So please pray that I will DESIRE to get stuff done in a timely manner, that I won't be overwhelmed by all the tiny details of responsibilities that must be done in the next few weeks.
See that's the thing. Its only two more weeks before all the deadlines hit, and then once thats done it's all over with. I just need to hold out for TWO MORE stinkin' weeks, then I'm FINISHED.
But I want the two weeks to be NOW. Shoot. C'mon Rachel, put your nose back to the grindstone for just a TEENSY bit more, then you can relax.
I'm also going through the realization that when I go home, there won't be an 8 foot Christmas tree waiting for me and an old farm house full of twinkle lights and holiday secrets hidden away in random corners of the house. There won't be an obnoxiously small, outdated Kitchen with half-working appliances somehow choking out festive, frothy drinks and delicious, unhealthy treats for us to munch on after getting in from the wind-swept, frozen 10 acres and chores.
If there is a house, it will be a rental house. The furniture won't be dilapidated yet full of fun memories of tickling siblings or naps after mission trips or fun movie-watching/quoting/commenting/anaylizing/diagnosing sessions. It will be new and might even match, and therefore not really mine.
Its hitting me that at some point I'll have to see the burned-out house, and that I'll probably cry, and thats not something I really want to do. I don't want to be emotional or sad or weak. It's Christmas, for freakin' crying out loud. I want to be the happy, bubbly Mary Poppins for my siblings who swoops in all cheery and sunshiny, with fun stories about college and girls dorms for my mom and sister and theological questions for my dad and fun stories about what the guys said and about what a particular guy said and getting Dad's all-wise, always knowing, usually humerous take on it.
And there will be a good deal of that, but it will also be a lot of processing, grieving, seeing the anxt and worry and grief my family is going through. Seeing the new lines of stress and worry on my parent's face and the new gray hairs in my dad's beard. Trying to be an encouragement for my sisters but not having the answers they want or need. Trying to hold up my brothers but not knowing how to really soothe where its hurting.
These thoughts pop in between the thoughts about where to take the car to get fixed, how to pay for this bill or that bill or thinking that bill was paid but it wasn't really, and that paper needs written and it'll be easy but I just don't want to do it.
And so I've successfully killed another 1/2 hour of time, not really getting anything productive done however getting some processing and venting done. Booh.
So now I really am off to write that paper.
~Princess Ouch~
I am truly pitiful in this regard right now. I simply
don't
want
to
do
it.
I want to go play in the leaves, cook delicious, unhealthy food with my friend Samantha, go for walks or sit on a bench with Robbie, play with my new hair-style my Ukrainian friend Olya gave me (Thanks Olya!!), goof off on the computer, listen to the Seminary guys debate minute details they have to think about for THEIR homework while I semi-blissfully blow off mine.
I also need to start thinking about going home for Christmas, transportation there and back, moving off campus next semester, fixing my van's windshield and registering it, packing up my room.
But its been a gorgeous Indian summer. Some girls have left for the holidays but lots of my good friends are still in the girls dorms and full of laughter and funny stories that I missed out on while all the chaos was raging around me earlier this semester.
There's blog posts from my mom to catch up on, new videos from the ministries I worked with in Romania to watch, international students with intriguing languages to try to learn, new holiday recipies to try.
But this paper needs to be written, the car NEEDS to be registered, that book needs to be read and reported on.
Blast.
And so I do the responsible thing. Flee to the Library where I can LOOK like I'm being mature and adult-ish and doing homework, but in reality am zooming around cyberspace, doing zilch.
So please pray that I will DESIRE to get stuff done in a timely manner, that I won't be overwhelmed by all the tiny details of responsibilities that must be done in the next few weeks.
See that's the thing. Its only two more weeks before all the deadlines hit, and then once thats done it's all over with. I just need to hold out for TWO MORE stinkin' weeks, then I'm FINISHED.
But I want the two weeks to be NOW. Shoot. C'mon Rachel, put your nose back to the grindstone for just a TEENSY bit more, then you can relax.
I'm also going through the realization that when I go home, there won't be an 8 foot Christmas tree waiting for me and an old farm house full of twinkle lights and holiday secrets hidden away in random corners of the house. There won't be an obnoxiously small, outdated Kitchen with half-working appliances somehow choking out festive, frothy drinks and delicious, unhealthy treats for us to munch on after getting in from the wind-swept, frozen 10 acres and chores.
If there is a house, it will be a rental house. The furniture won't be dilapidated yet full of fun memories of tickling siblings or naps after mission trips or fun movie-watching/quoting/commenting/anaylizing/diagnosing sessions. It will be new and might even match, and therefore not really mine.
Its hitting me that at some point I'll have to see the burned-out house, and that I'll probably cry, and thats not something I really want to do. I don't want to be emotional or sad or weak. It's Christmas, for freakin' crying out loud. I want to be the happy, bubbly Mary Poppins for my siblings who swoops in all cheery and sunshiny, with fun stories about college and girls dorms for my mom and sister and theological questions for my dad and fun stories about what the guys said and about what a particular guy said and getting Dad's all-wise, always knowing, usually humerous take on it.
And there will be a good deal of that, but it will also be a lot of processing, grieving, seeing the anxt and worry and grief my family is going through. Seeing the new lines of stress and worry on my parent's face and the new gray hairs in my dad's beard. Trying to be an encouragement for my sisters but not having the answers they want or need. Trying to hold up my brothers but not knowing how to really soothe where its hurting.
These thoughts pop in between the thoughts about where to take the car to get fixed, how to pay for this bill or that bill or thinking that bill was paid but it wasn't really, and that paper needs written and it'll be easy but I just don't want to do it.
And so I've successfully killed another 1/2 hour of time, not really getting anything productive done however getting some processing and venting done. Booh.
So now I really am off to write that paper.
~Princess Ouch~
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Fall
Thought I would post some pictures from when Svitlana, Sam, Robbie and I took pictures in the park a few weeks ago when the leaves were all turning colors and gorgeous. :-) Hope you enjoy.
(above) Svitlana and me enjoying leaves
Sam and Svitlana (above)
(above) Svitlana and me playing in the leaves
Friday, November 13, 2009
Full month
So... October was a very odd mixture of amazingness and absolute horribleness.
~I came down with Swine Flu (yes, the real swine flu that everyone's freaked out about. However I just thought it was a horrible cold)
~Robbie chivilrously and gallantly took care of me while I was sick
~Went back to work as soon as I felt able. Mistake. I overdid it.
~That Friday Robbie talked to my Dad and on Saturday said he'd like to court me. I said I'd like to be courted by him.
~That next thursday my home in South Dakota caught on fire and was severely damaged. Thank God my family is fine
~That Saturday, due to stress and over doing it, I started passing out at work.
~Robbie took me to the Dr. who thought I had a blot clot, so we went to the Emergancy Room for 9 1/2 hours and after they did a cardiac MRI (heart scan) they announced nothing was wrong and at 2 am let me leave.
~That Monday my aunt Susan passed away.
~Thursday went to the Viewing in Ohio and met up with my family who drove out from South Dakota
~ Saturday evening Robbie suprised me and my family by driving up to Ohio. He stayed in a hotel that night and spent Sunday with us. :-D
~I drove back to school in the van someone gave my parents which they in turn gave to me
~My family went back home and my Dad was diagnosed with walking Pneumonia and my mom has had some health challenges as well. No word yet on what is to happen to the house: Either rebuilt or demolished.
~Sunday went shopping with my friend Svitlana and gave myself a minor concussion by hitting my head on my new car door. Didn't know I had hurt my head so bad, so Svitlana and I continued to make dinner for 30 people in a group that meets every Sunday. Was fun, but I was exhausted by the end of it.
So.
Now you know why I haven't written for so long.
Been a teensy bit busy. :-)
Well, having given you an overview, I think I will go do some reading then go to bed, as I work a double shift tomorrow. *sigh* Saturdays are simply not what the rest of the college world cracks them up to be. ;-)
~Princess Ouch~
p.s. the story behind the last two photo's is that I was wearing that scarf that Robbie is wearing in the photo's. Svitlana and Sam were taking pictures with us, and Svitlana is from ukraine. So she and I were playing with tying the scarf on our heads like married Eastern European ladies or Gypsy ladies. So then I wondered if Robbie would look like a Pirate if I put it on him. He did, and I decided to see how I'd look if I wore his had. So... this is him looking like Will Turner or Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean. ;-)
~ This really cool guy named Robbie Hopkins started praying about courting me
~I came down with Swine Flu (yes, the real swine flu that everyone's freaked out about. However I just thought it was a horrible cold)
~Robbie chivilrously and gallantly took care of me while I was sick
~Went back to work as soon as I felt able. Mistake. I overdid it.
~That Friday Robbie talked to my Dad and on Saturday said he'd like to court me. I said I'd like to be courted by him.
~That next thursday my home in South Dakota caught on fire and was severely damaged. Thank God my family is fine
~That Saturday, due to stress and over doing it, I started passing out at work.
~Robbie took me to the Dr. who thought I had a blot clot, so we went to the Emergancy Room for 9 1/2 hours and after they did a cardiac MRI (heart scan) they announced nothing was wrong and at 2 am let me leave.
~That Monday my aunt Susan passed away.
~Thursday went to the Viewing in Ohio and met up with my family who drove out from South Dakota
~ Saturday evening Robbie suprised me and my family by driving up to Ohio. He stayed in a hotel that night and spent Sunday with us. :-D
~I drove back to school in the van someone gave my parents which they in turn gave to me
~My family went back home and my Dad was diagnosed with walking Pneumonia and my mom has had some health challenges as well. No word yet on what is to happen to the house: Either rebuilt or demolished.
~Sunday went shopping with my friend Svitlana and gave myself a minor concussion by hitting my head on my new car door. Didn't know I had hurt my head so bad, so Svitlana and I continued to make dinner for 30 people in a group that meets every Sunday. Was fun, but I was exhausted by the end of it.
(Sam, Svitlana, Robbie and me in the park the day after I was in the Emergancy Room)
So.
Now you know why I haven't written for so long.
Been a teensy bit busy. :-)
Well, having given you an overview, I think I will go do some reading then go to bed, as I work a double shift tomorrow. *sigh* Saturdays are simply not what the rest of the college world cracks them up to be. ;-)
~Princess Ouch~
p.s. the story behind the last two photo's is that I was wearing that scarf that Robbie is wearing in the photo's. Svitlana and Sam were taking pictures with us, and Svitlana is from ukraine. So she and I were playing with tying the scarf on our heads like married Eastern European ladies or Gypsy ladies. So then I wondered if Robbie would look like a Pirate if I put it on him. He did, and I decided to see how I'd look if I wore his had. So... this is him looking like Will Turner or Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean. ;-)
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Fall and update
So... about that whole... I'm Madmoiselle Lame as far as updating the blog... yeah.
Things have been busy. The latest news is that I have a half-peck of apples sitting on my counter waiting to be turned into pie. The plans are to go to Mrs. Sava's house - who is expecting and may have me be her Doula (excitement!!!) and who is married to my Romanian older-brother here on campus, (no biological relation, merely a mutual adoption by all parties concerned) and fill her in on all the juicy updates of my life, and then also figure out how to save enough apples to also cook at Mrs. Attebury's house, and get updated about her cat and talk about the worship team and have some sort of debate about life in Eastern Europe versus Western Europe (I talk about East she talks about West)
Also trying to figure out all the end of the year homework. Only 3 more weeks of classes then mid-terms. yikes. This semester whizzed by!! I'm actually a little relieved to be done with this semester. Its been fun, but three 400 level classes and then the 250 level class have stretched me. No exams, only huge reports and presentations and projects. I enjoy all of that stuff, just been challenging finding time to get all of that done WELL and work 20 hours a week and not be a complete anti-social recluse. (honestly I couldn't be a recluse if I tried, so it's more finding time to sleep and eat because those are usually the first things to go if it's a choice of them and socializing. Hehe...)
Also talking about what to do for Thanksgiving. I have a couple friends who just got married this year and live far away from home and so won't be going back for Thanksgiving. The ladies will all be 'cooking their first turkey" so we might get together and chill on Turkey Day. The other option is to go up to Ohio with extended family like I did last year. I had fun last year, but I also really enjoy my friends here. Choices choices. So still deciding on that front.
Must dash off to class. Hopefully more updates soon accompanied with pictures, but we'll see how it goes.
~Princess Ouch~
Things have been busy. The latest news is that I have a half-peck of apples sitting on my counter waiting to be turned into pie. The plans are to go to Mrs. Sava's house - who is expecting and may have me be her Doula (excitement!!!) and who is married to my Romanian older-brother here on campus, (no biological relation, merely a mutual adoption by all parties concerned) and fill her in on all the juicy updates of my life, and then also figure out how to save enough apples to also cook at Mrs. Attebury's house, and get updated about her cat and talk about the worship team and have some sort of debate about life in Eastern Europe versus Western Europe (I talk about East she talks about West)
Also trying to figure out all the end of the year homework. Only 3 more weeks of classes then mid-terms. yikes. This semester whizzed by!! I'm actually a little relieved to be done with this semester. Its been fun, but three 400 level classes and then the 250 level class have stretched me. No exams, only huge reports and presentations and projects. I enjoy all of that stuff, just been challenging finding time to get all of that done WELL and work 20 hours a week and not be a complete anti-social recluse. (honestly I couldn't be a recluse if I tried, so it's more finding time to sleep and eat because those are usually the first things to go if it's a choice of them and socializing. Hehe...)
Also talking about what to do for Thanksgiving. I have a couple friends who just got married this year and live far away from home and so won't be going back for Thanksgiving. The ladies will all be 'cooking their first turkey" so we might get together and chill on Turkey Day. The other option is to go up to Ohio with extended family like I did last year. I had fun last year, but I also really enjoy my friends here. Choices choices. So still deciding on that front.
Must dash off to class. Hopefully more updates soon accompanied with pictures, but we'll see how it goes.
~Princess Ouch~
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Homework cop-out
This last week was Fall Break, and I was very busy doing absolutely NOTHING. Well that's not true. I got half way through the first chapter of Martin Luther's "Bondage of the Will" and I am supposed to read to Chapter 4 by Tuesday. (I actually forgot about it until last night. Hehe. Woops) and some reading done that is due on Monday, so that's good. However, most of my week was spent getting to know new friends, playing Ultimate Frisbee (and winning), going Contra-dancing (and loving it), trying meatloaf for the first time (yes, the first time in my entire life to have meatloaf. It was actually fairly good), trying not to get this dratted cold that I now have and getting updated in oodles of 'girltalk.'
All that to say, I SHOULD have plenty to write about, however I am not entirely sure how much to broadcast all over the internet on this blog. Therefore, I shall simply put an article from my dearly beloved "Anthropological insights for missionaries" book, which is being used for another class of mine this year. (apparently this college thinks Paul Hiebert had something edifying to say to the Missiological world. Who'd a thunk. Just kidding. The funny thing is that he was my Dad's professor a long long time ago in a Galaxy far far away...) I readily admit this is a blogging cop-out. I'm not always thrilled when my friend's post articles on their blogs when I'm looking for a friendly update on their life. However, my brain is frazzled from four hours of work and this ding-dang cold, and I'll write a profound little blurb-summery at the end of the article. Enjoy or else. (warning to any home-school mothers who may be reading the blog: there is some brief mention of pagan rites and cannabalism. Nothing graphic, just enough to cause little ears to ask questions.)
Kalonda of Kangate
Paul B. Long
The African sun poured upon us as we climbed the mountain path to the village among the trees. The people of Kangate, in the wild Babindi section of the central Congo, had seldom seen a white man. Excited cries greeted me and my three Congolese friends as we entered the dusty country to answer a strange request from an old chieftain among these isolated people.
Several days previously a runner had appeared at our mission station. "Teller of the Word," the runner had said, "Chief Kalonda wants to talk with you."
"What does this old rascal want to see me about?" I wondered, and the question remained in my mind as we drove with difficulty through the mountainous country over dangerous roads. Now at last we would know.
In the shade of the chieftain's hut, surrounded by the smaller huts of several wives, a very aged, emaciated man sat, wraped in an old blanket. THis broken, sick, old chieftain, enthroned on a cross-legged stool bedecked with leopard skin, lifted a feeble hand and greeted us with the customary salutations of the land. "Muouo wenu - life to you."
"Wuoyo webe," we replied, "life to you."
I remembered the tales I had heard of this once-powerful chieftan. Twenty years ago Kalonda was feared and respected for a hundred miles or more around his realm. As a ruler, bold and savage, he freely excercised he power of life and death over his subjects, and death or slavery over his captives. His renown as a chieftain was surpassed only by his great power as a medicine man. Leaders came from distant villages to buy his charms and cures.
One day the chief of a neighboring realm, Kasenda of the Balubal people, arrived in the village of Kangate. The visiting chieftan was worried and needed help.
"I have killed the money messenger of the Mission and taken the money he was carrying to their preachers and teachers," he recounted. "now the dead man has come to life and returned to the white men to tell what I have done. Ive me medicine to make me invisible when the soldiers come!"
"Return to your country," replied Kalonda. "Get twelve she goats, six young, strong women, ten spears and ten knives, then come back to buy my medicine. This is my price for medicine powerful enough to make you invisible."
Complaining of the high cost of this protection, Chief Kasenda returned to Balubal to round up goats, women and weapons.
Chief Kalonda proceeded in the meantime to compound his promised medicine. Sending out his bodyguard, he directed the capture of a young woman from a neighboring tribe. She was brought before the cheif. With elaborate ritual the chief's warriors cut off the captive's head, which was needed for Kalonda's "invisible charm" Cannibal ritual was involved in the proceedings. ON the appointed day, the medicine was presented, the goats and women and wapons were exchanged, and the deal closed to the satisfaction of both leaders.
When the soldiers arrived several weeks later to capture the ruler of the Balubal, Kasenda quietly entered his hut, picked up the head that would make him invisible, and stepped out into his courtyard to laugh at the baggled troops who would not be able to see him. To his suprise, anger, and consequent regret, they surrounded him, bound him securely, and marched him off to the white man's jail. Still holding his high-priced medicine, Kasenda became enraged with his former friend, Kalonda, whose charm had failed. He cursed Kalonda and gave his name as the murdere of the woman whose head he held in his hands. Kalonda, too, was arrested.
Fifteen seasons ran their courses thereafter, and the peoples of the Babinda and Balubal had all but forgotten their former chieftans. Condemned at first to die in jail, both of them were saved when their executions were three times postponed; finally the sentances were changed to fifteen years in prison at hard labor. To the chieftans, this judment was as harsh as death.
Now, released after fifteen years of captivity, old Kalonda had at last come home to die. I looked across the council ring at this old man, remembering what I knew of those years of the past. After the customary silence of respect, I began the conversation:
"Nfumu, Chieftan, your runner says you want to talk with me. I have come. What do you want?"
Kalonda's reply startled me. "Tell me about the white man's God."
"The God I follow is not a white man's God. He is the Father of the New Tribe, HIs people. Jesus Christ is the great Chieftan of the New Tribe, and He accepts anyone who will follow Him. My friends here are also members of the New Tribe. They will tell you about it." And I turned to my Congolese colleagues who really understood the battle old Kalonda was facing. One of my companions was an old witch doctor turned Christian and now an effective pastor among his people. I accompanied with deep concern the battle taking place between the powers that are real and the liberation which is possible.
Copper charm bracelets adorned the once-strong spear arm of the old chief.
"You still trust in your medicine," observed Pastor Mutombo. "Why do you ask about another God?"
With great reluctance, the old man slipped the bracelets from his arm, dropped them in the dust, and said, "Now tell me, 'Teller of the Word,' about your powerful God."
With those copper bands lying at our feet, I began to realize something of the price he was having to pay for what he asked. He had just renounced his potency, and I heard him mutter, "I used to have eight good, strong wives, and all but three old ones ran away while I was in jail. All I have left are old women who are too weak to work."
My eyes followed his glance toward three old women crouched close to a nearby hut. Theywere agitatedly mubling to each other and evidently unhappy with the events taking place.
"Your medicine couldn't hold your women while you were gone?" the pastor questioned; and he answered with a grunt.
"Now," the pastor continued, "the war medicine on your belt shows where you look for power."
After a long, thoughtful pause, the old warrior cut the small skin bag from his belt and dropped it in the dust.
"Now the 'counter-hex' packet at your neck." The old man put a trembling hand to the thong around his neck. This little charm held his protection against all his enemies and made their magic of no power. Silently we waited until, at length, he broke the thong and let his 'security' fall at our feet. Grunts of respect for his courage echoed around the ring of watching tribesmen.
"Your Buanga bua Bunfumu," the pastor reminded, "your medicine of chieftainship."
Wearily Kalonda arose, entered his hut and returned with a large antelope horn filled with assurance of his power over his people. (I have never been sure just what makes up such powers, but I have been told that horns hold bits of hair, the eye of a frog, the tooth of a lion, and the claw of a bird.) Lightning medicine followed, and a host of other protective charms which give forest people some respite from their constant fear of living.
"This is all the protection I have" Kalonda said. But the pastor was evidently waiting for another, more costly surrendur. "Now get your 'life charm,' Kalonda, and I will tell you about the God of the New Tribe."
The old man tremble, broke out in perspiration shook his head and wrapped his tattered blanket across his bony chest. The three old wives had remonstrated with his renunciation of his medicines, and, with this last demand, they commenced the death wail, and started tossing dust in the air over their heads. At this acknowledgement of his impending death, Kalonda roused from his fearful relfections, re-entered his hut, and returned with a little packet of skins. With all the dignity of a great leader, he silenced the wailing wives and surveyed his council ring.
"Teller of the Word," he said, holding out his little packet in his bony hands, "you have asked for the life of Kalonda! THis medicine has protected my life from all my enemies for many years. Many still live who hate me and have curses on my life. When I throw down this medicine all their curses will fall on me, my spirits will withdraw their protection, and I will die. But Kalonda is not afraid to die."
As the packet dropped in the dust, the old chieftain straightened to his full height, lifted his old eyes to the distant hills, and waited for death. We sat in silence as the seconds grew into minutes and tension mounted in the ring of onlookers who waited for their cheif to die.
After a long while, the old chief looked at us, and his lips parted in a relieved grin. "I'm still alive! Kalonda has not been struck dead!"
It took a long time to answer questions from old Kalonda and his people. Questions about the GOd, he said, he had always feared but never known. As the afternoon shadows lengthened, the old chieftain arose with dignity before his people. In a quiet, confident voice he announced,
"Kalonda has a new cheiftain. I follow 'Yesu Kilisto' and He will help me across the river, lead me through the dark forest, and take me to His village where I can sit with His people. I belong to the New Tribe. Kalonda wants all his people to follow Nfumu Yesu, (Chieftain Jesus), and go with HIm to the Village of God.
Not many days after my visit to the Kangate, a messenger arrived with the brief report,
"Kalonda has gone on his journey to meet his new Chief."
I find it interesting that the pastor made the old cheif renounce all his old ways before even beginning to start telling him the good news. What a contrast to a society that is so "seeker friendly' and so afraid to 'offend' anyone or 'scare them away from the Gospel'
If we used the approach the pastor did with the old witch-doctor chieftain, maybe we'd see more authentic disciples and a change in our deteriorating society than we are currently. Just a thought.
~Princess Ouch~
All that to say, I SHOULD have plenty to write about, however I am not entirely sure how much to broadcast all over the internet on this blog. Therefore, I shall simply put an article from my dearly beloved "Anthropological insights for missionaries" book, which is being used for another class of mine this year. (apparently this college thinks Paul Hiebert had something edifying to say to the Missiological world. Who'd a thunk. Just kidding. The funny thing is that he was my Dad's professor a long long time ago in a Galaxy far far away...) I readily admit this is a blogging cop-out. I'm not always thrilled when my friend's post articles on their blogs when I'm looking for a friendly update on their life. However, my brain is frazzled from four hours of work and this ding-dang cold, and I'll write a profound little blurb-summery at the end of the article. Enjoy or else. (warning to any home-school mothers who may be reading the blog: there is some brief mention of pagan rites and cannabalism. Nothing graphic, just enough to cause little ears to ask questions.)
Kalonda of Kangate
Paul B. Long
The African sun poured upon us as we climbed the mountain path to the village among the trees. The people of Kangate, in the wild Babindi section of the central Congo, had seldom seen a white man. Excited cries greeted me and my three Congolese friends as we entered the dusty country to answer a strange request from an old chieftain among these isolated people.
Several days previously a runner had appeared at our mission station. "Teller of the Word," the runner had said, "Chief Kalonda wants to talk with you."
"What does this old rascal want to see me about?" I wondered, and the question remained in my mind as we drove with difficulty through the mountainous country over dangerous roads. Now at last we would know.
In the shade of the chieftain's hut, surrounded by the smaller huts of several wives, a very aged, emaciated man sat, wraped in an old blanket. THis broken, sick, old chieftain, enthroned on a cross-legged stool bedecked with leopard skin, lifted a feeble hand and greeted us with the customary salutations of the land. "Muouo wenu - life to you."
"Wuoyo webe," we replied, "life to you."
I remembered the tales I had heard of this once-powerful chieftan. Twenty years ago Kalonda was feared and respected for a hundred miles or more around his realm. As a ruler, bold and savage, he freely excercised he power of life and death over his subjects, and death or slavery over his captives. His renown as a chieftain was surpassed only by his great power as a medicine man. Leaders came from distant villages to buy his charms and cures.
One day the chief of a neighboring realm, Kasenda of the Balubal people, arrived in the village of Kangate. The visiting chieftan was worried and needed help.
"I have killed the money messenger of the Mission and taken the money he was carrying to their preachers and teachers," he recounted. "now the dead man has come to life and returned to the white men to tell what I have done. Ive me medicine to make me invisible when the soldiers come!"
"Return to your country," replied Kalonda. "Get twelve she goats, six young, strong women, ten spears and ten knives, then come back to buy my medicine. This is my price for medicine powerful enough to make you invisible."
Complaining of the high cost of this protection, Chief Kasenda returned to Balubal to round up goats, women and weapons.
Chief Kalonda proceeded in the meantime to compound his promised medicine. Sending out his bodyguard, he directed the capture of a young woman from a neighboring tribe. She was brought before the cheif. With elaborate ritual the chief's warriors cut off the captive's head, which was needed for Kalonda's "invisible charm" Cannibal ritual was involved in the proceedings. ON the appointed day, the medicine was presented, the goats and women and wapons were exchanged, and the deal closed to the satisfaction of both leaders.
When the soldiers arrived several weeks later to capture the ruler of the Balubal, Kasenda quietly entered his hut, picked up the head that would make him invisible, and stepped out into his courtyard to laugh at the baggled troops who would not be able to see him. To his suprise, anger, and consequent regret, they surrounded him, bound him securely, and marched him off to the white man's jail. Still holding his high-priced medicine, Kasenda became enraged with his former friend, Kalonda, whose charm had failed. He cursed Kalonda and gave his name as the murdere of the woman whose head he held in his hands. Kalonda, too, was arrested.
Fifteen seasons ran their courses thereafter, and the peoples of the Babinda and Balubal had all but forgotten their former chieftans. Condemned at first to die in jail, both of them were saved when their executions were three times postponed; finally the sentances were changed to fifteen years in prison at hard labor. To the chieftans, this judment was as harsh as death.
Now, released after fifteen years of captivity, old Kalonda had at last come home to die. I looked across the council ring at this old man, remembering what I knew of those years of the past. After the customary silence of respect, I began the conversation:
"Nfumu, Chieftan, your runner says you want to talk with me. I have come. What do you want?"
Kalonda's reply startled me. "Tell me about the white man's God."
"The God I follow is not a white man's God. He is the Father of the New Tribe, HIs people. Jesus Christ is the great Chieftan of the New Tribe, and He accepts anyone who will follow Him. My friends here are also members of the New Tribe. They will tell you about it." And I turned to my Congolese colleagues who really understood the battle old Kalonda was facing. One of my companions was an old witch doctor turned Christian and now an effective pastor among his people. I accompanied with deep concern the battle taking place between the powers that are real and the liberation which is possible.
Copper charm bracelets adorned the once-strong spear arm of the old chief.
"You still trust in your medicine," observed Pastor Mutombo. "Why do you ask about another God?"
With great reluctance, the old man slipped the bracelets from his arm, dropped them in the dust, and said, "Now tell me, 'Teller of the Word,' about your powerful God."
With those copper bands lying at our feet, I began to realize something of the price he was having to pay for what he asked. He had just renounced his potency, and I heard him mutter, "I used to have eight good, strong wives, and all but three old ones ran away while I was in jail. All I have left are old women who are too weak to work."
My eyes followed his glance toward three old women crouched close to a nearby hut. Theywere agitatedly mubling to each other and evidently unhappy with the events taking place.
"Your medicine couldn't hold your women while you were gone?" the pastor questioned; and he answered with a grunt.
"Now," the pastor continued, "the war medicine on your belt shows where you look for power."
After a long, thoughtful pause, the old warrior cut the small skin bag from his belt and dropped it in the dust.
"Now the 'counter-hex' packet at your neck." The old man put a trembling hand to the thong around his neck. This little charm held his protection against all his enemies and made their magic of no power. Silently we waited until, at length, he broke the thong and let his 'security' fall at our feet. Grunts of respect for his courage echoed around the ring of watching tribesmen.
"Your Buanga bua Bunfumu," the pastor reminded, "your medicine of chieftainship."
Wearily Kalonda arose, entered his hut and returned with a large antelope horn filled with assurance of his power over his people. (I have never been sure just what makes up such powers, but I have been told that horns hold bits of hair, the eye of a frog, the tooth of a lion, and the claw of a bird.) Lightning medicine followed, and a host of other protective charms which give forest people some respite from their constant fear of living.
"This is all the protection I have" Kalonda said. But the pastor was evidently waiting for another, more costly surrendur. "Now get your 'life charm,' Kalonda, and I will tell you about the God of the New Tribe."
The old man tremble, broke out in perspiration shook his head and wrapped his tattered blanket across his bony chest. The three old wives had remonstrated with his renunciation of his medicines, and, with this last demand, they commenced the death wail, and started tossing dust in the air over their heads. At this acknowledgement of his impending death, Kalonda roused from his fearful relfections, re-entered his hut, and returned with a little packet of skins. With all the dignity of a great leader, he silenced the wailing wives and surveyed his council ring.
"Teller of the Word," he said, holding out his little packet in his bony hands, "you have asked for the life of Kalonda! THis medicine has protected my life from all my enemies for many years. Many still live who hate me and have curses on my life. When I throw down this medicine all their curses will fall on me, my spirits will withdraw their protection, and I will die. But Kalonda is not afraid to die."
As the packet dropped in the dust, the old chieftain straightened to his full height, lifted his old eyes to the distant hills, and waited for death. We sat in silence as the seconds grew into minutes and tension mounted in the ring of onlookers who waited for their cheif to die.
After a long while, the old chief looked at us, and his lips parted in a relieved grin. "I'm still alive! Kalonda has not been struck dead!"
It took a long time to answer questions from old Kalonda and his people. Questions about the GOd, he said, he had always feared but never known. As the afternoon shadows lengthened, the old chieftain arose with dignity before his people. In a quiet, confident voice he announced,
"Kalonda has a new cheiftain. I follow 'Yesu Kilisto' and He will help me across the river, lead me through the dark forest, and take me to His village where I can sit with His people. I belong to the New Tribe. Kalonda wants all his people to follow Nfumu Yesu, (Chieftain Jesus), and go with HIm to the Village of God.
Not many days after my visit to the Kangate, a messenger arrived with the brief report,
"Kalonda has gone on his journey to meet his new Chief."
I find it interesting that the pastor made the old cheif renounce all his old ways before even beginning to start telling him the good news. What a contrast to a society that is so "seeker friendly' and so afraid to 'offend' anyone or 'scare them away from the Gospel'
If we used the approach the pastor did with the old witch-doctor chieftain, maybe we'd see more authentic disciples and a change in our deteriorating society than we are currently. Just a thought.
~Princess Ouch~
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Randomness
Last week was midterms. I actually have NO exams this semester, which is beyond amazing in my opinion (and totally unfair in the opinion of most of my friends in college - especially the Apologetics majors who are slaving over philosophical facts and viewpoints, killing themselves with lack of sleep trying to prepare for their exams). The reason being is that my missions professor hates tests as much as students do, and so only gives out killer papers. However, writing is one of my forte's. On the flip side, I had a research paper on India that ended up being over 25 pages to turn in on Monday, and THAT did almost turn my hair gray. It wasn't the writing part, it was trying to find all the flippin' information. India has so many people groups and demographics, the officials in India who are THERE don't even know where to get all the information.
So all that to say, this is a rather lame-o post, however it will have to suffice in assuring my devoted readers that I am in fact still alive and thriving. Next week is fall break. No I am not doing anything particularly fun or adventurous besides work and trying to get some projects that are due at the end of the semester done, however after how busy things have been, I really don't mind it. Some fellow missions girls have plotted to get together on Thursday, and some other girls - also in the missions department - are plotting something for another day.
So between that and the fact that I still haven't watched "Schindler's list" or "Les Misrables" with anyone fun this fall, I should be set as far as fun-ness goes. Yes, I'm easily entertained, but I'm gonna rate that as a good thing :-)
Cheers,
~Princess Ouch~
So all that to say, this is a rather lame-o post, however it will have to suffice in assuring my devoted readers that I am in fact still alive and thriving. Next week is fall break. No I am not doing anything particularly fun or adventurous besides work and trying to get some projects that are due at the end of the semester done, however after how busy things have been, I really don't mind it. Some fellow missions girls have plotted to get together on Thursday, and some other girls - also in the missions department - are plotting something for another day.
So between that and the fact that I still haven't watched "Schindler's list" or "Les Misrables" with anyone fun this fall, I should be set as far as fun-ness goes. Yes, I'm easily entertained, but I'm gonna rate that as a good thing :-)
Cheers,
~Princess Ouch~
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Dorm date and a fun day
Now, don't freak out. Yes, the title does say "date" but before you get all excited, it was merely a hang-out time with my good friend Allison.
On our hall, our R.A. will pair us up every week and then whoever is coupled off goes on a "dorm date" so that we get to know the girls on our hall better. It's a fun way as I don't know a lot of the girls very well this year, and our schedule's have been so insane that I just haven't had time to get to spend a lot of time with them.
Allison and I bonded last Christmas break over J-terms and Star Gate Atlantis, but we decided to go someplace fun just to get out of the normal groove of eating at the cafeteria together or procrastinating on book reviews and papers by watching SGA on Hulu. She had the brilliant suggestion of going to Bass-pro shop in Indiana.
Bass Pro Shop, for those of you who don't know, is that store you dreamed of as a little kid in which everything morally desirable is available to do or buy in one store. It has every piece of outdoor equipment you'd ever think of owning (including 'original-smell' fish bait. You can smell it without turning down that isle) downstairs, and upstairs it has food, clothes - outdoorsy camo and that western-style fashionable stuff that I love - as well as jewelry, books, and a lazer-shooting range in which once the targets are successfully hit (no easy task) the stuffed animals or objects you are shooting at will move or sing some silly song or something of that nature.
I had had a crazy morning, so didn't eat breakfast, so by the time we pulled up at 1 I was starving. It was so bad that when we walked by the huge fish tank by the waterfall, the enormous catfish that were the size of my torso swimming around made me salivate. Allison laughed at me when I told her this and we ran upstairs to find that the restaurant with fish tanks by all the tables was closed for remodeling. So we dashed over to Chick-fil-e (after this crazy miniature poodle scared the living daylights out of me as we walked by the pick-up-truck it was apparently guarding. What buff hunter in his right mind would own a miniature poodle, I don't know)
So we ate and then went back.
When one enters into Bass-pro shop, one must go through these very heavy, forest-green double doors that have antlers for the handles. I ran ahead of Allison and tried opening both of them at once. Ha. She laughed at me while I heaved my full body-weight against these dratted things and asked me what I was doing.
"Well, I was going for the 'Aragorn-two-towers' entrance. I just couldn't resist." :-)
(you know the part where Aragorn returns from the dead and makes that dramatic entrance into Theoden's hall? I still say the books are better for the whole LOTR experience, btw)
We decided to just walk around for a while before heading towards the shooting range. We stumbled across the kids-clothes section and spent the next fifteen minutes cooing and giggling over the newborn section of camouflage booties and camo-onesies with lace randomly stuck on it.
"We're such nerds." I finally giggled, holding up some cute item of child's apparel. "We come all the way to another state to go to a macho-hunting place to drool over kids clothes."
Allison laughed and agreed. The funny part was that we not only drooled over the kids clothes in camo, but would throw random theological and heretical statements about the equipment we passed by. It was great.
So then I found this absolutely amazing quilt that had suede, chenille, and very soft cotton all containing a down-batting for the interior. It cost an arm and a leg so I guess I'll have to wait until I'm rich and famous to buy that, right along with the amazing bedroom set I discovered that looked like it was made from trees with the bark still on it.
We headed over to the womens clothes and jewelry section and spent a while there before we stumbled across the tent section. We found this HUGE tent that was possibly the size of Allison's dorm room before we saw the cot.
The cot was black, and had a tent over it. I said it was cool.
"Yeah, if you feel like crawling in and zipping yourself into a coffin for the night." Allison commented. I will never look at that cot-tent in the same way again. I very well may never be able to sleep in one, either. ;-)
So after drooling over the kayak section as well, we headed downstairs to where the fudge was. We were originally thinking just one piece each... but... there was a sale... and....
someone want to help me eat fudge? :-D
We thought we were leaving but then we found an entire OTHER section of food so thought we'd stroll through and discovered how many different names out-doors-ey kind of guys can find for hot and barbecue sauce. Not all of them are appropriate.
I found this really cool "Celtic Jigs" CD but Allison reminded me that we already spent $6.50 each on fudge and really didn't need to be buying music. I still say that I was merely investing in study aides with the fudge and music put I put the CD down with a sigh. Oh well. My Gaelic roots will just have to content themselves with listening to what I already have.
So we walked back outside and got into the car and sliced off a sliver of fudge before driving out of the parking lot. Then I started to slip into sugar-coma while Allison started to get rather perky :-)
When we got to our dorms, we each pulled out our ID's. Its a new policy, last semester we could waltz in and out whenever we wanted but now they are enforcing the flashing of identification before they allow girls to go upstairs. Its good 'cause we've had stuff stolen this semester, but it can get obnoxious.
"Oh that's right I forgot we had to identify ourselves before we entered the sacred ground of Boyce Harem." I muttered as I pulled my card out. Allison didn't hear me but lowered her head as what I said registered.
"That is wrong for SO many different reasons!" she chuckled. I thought I might have offended her but as we got to our floor after waving at the security guard she murmured,
"Well we WERE born and raised for such a time as this..." Quote from Esther. I love Allison. :-)
So we've decided that we really ought not to have forgotten the camera, and may, for you dear reader's sake, have to return to Bass-pro shop soon to take pictures so you can witness the joy of the experience for yourself.
We've also decided it would be a great place to have a REAL date, but Bass-pro needs to install a rock-climbing wall first. Preferably on the man-made waterfall. :-)
Off to do homework. Blah.
~Princess Ouch~
On our hall, our R.A. will pair us up every week and then whoever is coupled off goes on a "dorm date" so that we get to know the girls on our hall better. It's a fun way as I don't know a lot of the girls very well this year, and our schedule's have been so insane that I just haven't had time to get to spend a lot of time with them.
Allison and I bonded last Christmas break over J-terms and Star Gate Atlantis, but we decided to go someplace fun just to get out of the normal groove of eating at the cafeteria together or procrastinating on book reviews and papers by watching SGA on Hulu. She had the brilliant suggestion of going to Bass-pro shop in Indiana.
Bass Pro Shop, for those of you who don't know, is that store you dreamed of as a little kid in which everything morally desirable is available to do or buy in one store. It has every piece of outdoor equipment you'd ever think of owning (including 'original-smell' fish bait. You can smell it without turning down that isle) downstairs, and upstairs it has food, clothes - outdoorsy camo and that western-style fashionable stuff that I love - as well as jewelry, books, and a lazer-shooting range in which once the targets are successfully hit (no easy task) the stuffed animals or objects you are shooting at will move or sing some silly song or something of that nature.
I had had a crazy morning, so didn't eat breakfast, so by the time we pulled up at 1 I was starving. It was so bad that when we walked by the huge fish tank by the waterfall, the enormous catfish that were the size of my torso swimming around made me salivate. Allison laughed at me when I told her this and we ran upstairs to find that the restaurant with fish tanks by all the tables was closed for remodeling. So we dashed over to Chick-fil-e (after this crazy miniature poodle scared the living daylights out of me as we walked by the pick-up-truck it was apparently guarding. What buff hunter in his right mind would own a miniature poodle, I don't know)
So we ate and then went back.
When one enters into Bass-pro shop, one must go through these very heavy, forest-green double doors that have antlers for the handles. I ran ahead of Allison and tried opening both of them at once. Ha. She laughed at me while I heaved my full body-weight against these dratted things and asked me what I was doing.
"Well, I was going for the 'Aragorn-two-towers' entrance. I just couldn't resist." :-)
(you know the part where Aragorn returns from the dead and makes that dramatic entrance into Theoden's hall? I still say the books are better for the whole LOTR experience, btw)
We decided to just walk around for a while before heading towards the shooting range. We stumbled across the kids-clothes section and spent the next fifteen minutes cooing and giggling over the newborn section of camouflage booties and camo-onesies with lace randomly stuck on it.
"We're such nerds." I finally giggled, holding up some cute item of child's apparel. "We come all the way to another state to go to a macho-hunting place to drool over kids clothes."
Allison laughed and agreed. The funny part was that we not only drooled over the kids clothes in camo, but would throw random theological and heretical statements about the equipment we passed by. It was great.
So then I found this absolutely amazing quilt that had suede, chenille, and very soft cotton all containing a down-batting for the interior. It cost an arm and a leg so I guess I'll have to wait until I'm rich and famous to buy that, right along with the amazing bedroom set I discovered that looked like it was made from trees with the bark still on it.
We headed over to the womens clothes and jewelry section and spent a while there before we stumbled across the tent section. We found this HUGE tent that was possibly the size of Allison's dorm room before we saw the cot.
The cot was black, and had a tent over it. I said it was cool.
"Yeah, if you feel like crawling in and zipping yourself into a coffin for the night." Allison commented. I will never look at that cot-tent in the same way again. I very well may never be able to sleep in one, either. ;-)
So after drooling over the kayak section as well, we headed downstairs to where the fudge was. We were originally thinking just one piece each... but... there was a sale... and....
someone want to help me eat fudge? :-D
We thought we were leaving but then we found an entire OTHER section of food so thought we'd stroll through and discovered how many different names out-doors-ey kind of guys can find for hot and barbecue sauce. Not all of them are appropriate.
I found this really cool "Celtic Jigs" CD but Allison reminded me that we already spent $6.50 each on fudge and really didn't need to be buying music. I still say that I was merely investing in study aides with the fudge and music put I put the CD down with a sigh. Oh well. My Gaelic roots will just have to content themselves with listening to what I already have.
So we walked back outside and got into the car and sliced off a sliver of fudge before driving out of the parking lot. Then I started to slip into sugar-coma while Allison started to get rather perky :-)
When we got to our dorms, we each pulled out our ID's. Its a new policy, last semester we could waltz in and out whenever we wanted but now they are enforcing the flashing of identification before they allow girls to go upstairs. Its good 'cause we've had stuff stolen this semester, but it can get obnoxious.
"Oh that's right I forgot we had to identify ourselves before we entered the sacred ground of Boyce Harem." I muttered as I pulled my card out. Allison didn't hear me but lowered her head as what I said registered.
"That is wrong for SO many different reasons!" she chuckled. I thought I might have offended her but as we got to our floor after waving at the security guard she murmured,
"Well we WERE born and raised for such a time as this..." Quote from Esther. I love Allison. :-)
So we've decided that we really ought not to have forgotten the camera, and may, for you dear reader's sake, have to return to Bass-pro shop soon to take pictures so you can witness the joy of the experience for yourself.
We've also decided it would be a great place to have a REAL date, but Bass-pro needs to install a rock-climbing wall first. Preferably on the man-made waterfall. :-)
Off to do homework. Blah.
~Princess Ouch~
Friday, September 18, 2009
The Imam's wife
Today I went to the Bosnian Mosque with a group from school. My one friend who works with Middle-Eastern Muslims says that the hoodie and jeans I was wearing would be fine, but Hollie -who went with us to this Mosque- said a long skirt and nice, long sleeved shirt would be better. SO I opted for the second choice and was GLAD I did!!! We also wore headscarves. Hollie had one from Iran that David her husband bought her when he was there, and I wore one of my Gypsy scarves. I felt very ethnic as we walked up to the church where we were meeting our guide in my flowing black skirt, nice shirt and headscarf. I really really wanted some bangly earings so that i would feel more Gypsy-ish, but wanted to see how jewlery was seen before I tried that.
Hollie and I were directed towards the front door where we slipped off our shoes and went to sit down. The Mosque was a small house that had been converted, and the front living room with a small fireplace was the women's section of the worship center.
Four women, a little three year old and a baby were already there, and in the next ten minutes four other women came in.
The three year old and I had fun making faces at each other, until the little girl realized her mother was at the bowing and kneeling part of the worship time. At that point the little girl ran up beside her mother and dove into the prayer rug they had spread for her and proceeded to try and murmer the prayers in Arabic.
The women were all dressed in colorful robes and headscarves that were not tied the ways Hollie and I had tied ours. She and I stayed back against the wall and didn't go up onto the prayer rugs they had spread for us during the prayer time. It was considerate, and I didn't even realize that they had done it until they were all up at the front of the room. But neither Hollie nor I felt the need to participate in prayers to Allah.
The did a message in what I believe was first Arabic, then translated into Bosnian, and then English. It was rather sureal.
It ended what seemed to me rather abruptly, and one woman began hugging the others and kissing them on both cheeks. Hollie and I smiled and the ladies smiled shyly back, but no one approached us. One woman gave us a huge smile each time she looked in our direction, but soon pulled a black veil over her face until only the slits of her eyes were showing and quickly slipped out the door.
The woman who began the hugging finally came up to Hollie and I and hugged us, kissing us on both cheeks, wishing us "Salaam Allekium" (I don't know how you spell it, sorry) and I murmured "salaam" in return. I know there is another traditional saying, but the meaning is "Peace of Allah" and "Allah's peace upon you", whereas "Salaam" is merely "peace." I'm fine with wishing someone peace, in fact that's what I"m committed to as a Christian, but the peace that comes from God, not Allah.
The woman was the Imam's wife. She asked where we were from and why we were there. I told her I had never been to a Mosque before, and was curious about what was there and who was there. She asked if we were American, if we were Christian, and what kind of Christian. I said yes, yes, and Baptist. She asked if I had alwas been Baptist. I answered no... only a year. (hehehe... how do you explain "non-denominational" to a Bosnian Muslim?) SO she asked if I understood my religion. I said yes.
"Are you SURE?"
"Yes."
"Are you SURE you are sure?" she insisted.
"Well obviously God is too big to fit inside my small head, but yes, I understand my religion. I am in school to learn more, and of course we are always learning."
"Hmm... you have to go?"
Hollie and I shook our heads no.
"Come and sit down. My English not so good, I study for six months now, though I have been in America fo six years. COme sit. Now. This is the problem with Christians: you do not understand who Jesus is. Muslims do not agree that he is GOd. He cannot be the son of God. God has no son, no wife, no beginning, no end. Jesus cannot be God."
She went on for a good ten minutes expounding on that fact. Hollie tried to interject that Jesus said in the Bible who He was, but the Imam's wife interupted.
"No, you see. The Bible, it is corrupted. Shatan has corrupted it." And went on to expound on that point for a good full five minutes.
"May I explain to you how we see Jesus?" I asked when I could get a word in edgewise. She nodded.
"God, who you call Allah, made the whole world. Yes? And so God made man, because He wanted man to be in fellowship with Him. He wanted to be friends with man. But Shatan came and said to Adam and Eve, the first man and woman, "you can be like God. Take this fruit from the tree God forbade you to eat from, and you will be like Him." Adam and Eve disobeyed God and took this fruit. But Shatan lied to them, this did not make them like God, it caused them to sin and they understood sin. And God cannot look on sin, because He is righteous. He is a righteous God who cannot sin and cannot look upon sin. So He said to Adam and Eve, 'Go out from the garden!'
Shatan said, "Aha! God cannot look upon sin, look, the man has sinned. Now he is mine!" But God said, "NO! I created them! I love them! They must still be mine!" So He sent the prophets, Abraham, Isaiah, and others, to tell mankind how to live righteously, so that they could have communion with God. But man said to the prophets, "Who are you to tell us this? You are man like us! You know nothing!" They didn't realize that God sent them. So they rejected the prophets.
God decided that He would go Himself to tell mankind how to live. He wanted us to understand so we could have communion with Him. But man cannot look upon GOd directly, because He is so wonderful and glorious. His majesty is too much for us to see; we will die if we look on Him. So He came in the form of a man. He had to come as a man so that mankind could see Him and have relationship with Him. And the man who was God was named Jesus."
She nodded and was listening intently, agreeing with all that I said, UNTIL I said "That man was named Jesus."
"NO! This cannot be. Jesus was a PROPHET! A good prophet. We love the prophet Isa. Isa is what we call Jesus. But a prophet! He and Mohammed were very close..."
And she continued for a long time after that about different stories from the Quaran about Jesus and Mary, and how it is written that Jesus said specifically that He never claimed to be God. I wanted to get into Pharisaical lies etc. but could barely get a word in edgewise.
"You see, man corrupts all good things, and man has corrupted the Bible. For example, you celebrate Christmas in December. But Jesus was very clearly born in springtime. Quaran says that Mary ate a date after Gabriel spoke to her. A fresh date. How can you eat a fresh date in winter?"
I explained why CHristians celebrate Christmas in winter, and emphasized that this was not something that was in the Bible, just a tradition.
'You see? Pagan influences corrupt."
"Yes, I agree. So Mohammed had a Christian wife and a Jewish wife. Since pagans corrupt, did not these pagan wives corrupt Mohammed? He had three wives not Islamic, no?"
"No! He had NINE wives. BUt princesses, so that their people would come to know Islam."
"They were pagan."
"But you see, man is a step ahead of woman. So man always leads."
"Yes, the man is the head, but isn't the woman the neck, turning the head whichever way she wants?" (I love 'My big fat Greek wedding.' Who knew it would help in theological debates).
All three of us laughed at that point.
"No! Man is a step ahead of woman."
"But if Mohammed had nine wives, that would be more women than man, so wouldn't that put the pagan wives at least a FEW steps ahead of the man?"
She didn't get that reasoning, and went on to talk about the fallibility of the Bible, and more Islamic stories about Shatan and Gabriel fighting over the Quaran.
David poked his head in and said we had to go, and the Imam's wife followed us out encouraging us to get a copy of the Quaran and start researching on the internet about Islam.
As I put on my shoes, she said,
"Pray to God to open your eyes to truth."
"I will pray to God to open my eyes to Truth. I pray also that He opens your eyes to Truth."
She smiled a, "I've got it covered, honey, thanks." look on her face.
"You DO realize," the missionary stated when Hollie and I retold this story, "that you just took on the most devout Muslim in the entire area."
"All I wanted was for us to plant ONE seed of doubt in her mind, so that her eyes could be opened to Truth." Hollie replied.
"Obviously we won't make a change today, we just met her. But its a start."
Hopefully, anyway. We are going to try and go back in two weeks. The Imam's wife has always wanted to be an Imam's wife, she waited until she found an Imam - who was 20 years older than her - to get married. "Islam is all that I am, all that I love." She told us.
Funny thing, I had been feeling nausious the entire day, and as soon as we started the conversation with the Imam's wife it went away and has stayed away all day. No, it was not nervousness. I'm pretty sure it was Spiritual Warfare. Another funny thing was that once the Imam's wife found out Hollie was married, she targeted me for most of the conversation and sort of blew off Hollie. HOllie attributed it to the fact that since she was married, she would follow whatever her husband believed, and so would be 'unconvertable' until he was converted.
Anywayz. So that was my first exposure and experience with Muslims and Bosnians.
Wow.
Now, the hysterical part of this is that when I was in Jr. High, I told God that He could call me to be whatever He wanted, but if He called me to be a Missionary, I would have to tell Him no, so just don't bother. My reasoning was that we got "Voice of the Martyrs' when I was younger and I was convinced that all missionaries were persecuted brutally and most were martyred. So when God called me to be a Missionary, or I at least responded to that call, I told Him, "Fine, but please please please don't call me to work with Muslims or Communists."
I thought Bosnians were Eastern Orthodox when I started researching them. Nope. The Bosniak Bosnians are all Muslim. At least in this area. I've been to an EX-communist country four times, but I'm curious to see if I go into a communist country one of these days. God DOES have a sense of humor, and He likes to remind us -or at least me, I don't know about you- that HE is the one who calls the shots. :-)
Anyhoo. IN other news, the head chef in the cafeteria started a food-fight with me when I started to sing, "Oh Suzanna" - which he hates, and I do just to irritate him. :-) I do not like working for other people, I would far rather have my own business and call the shots myself. But if I HAVE to work for someone, I'm glad its here, with fun people who love Jesus and are committed to keeping the workplace fun. God has blessed me a lot, with an amazing family, good friends, an awesome school, amazing opportunities to serve and witness for Him. Most importantly, He gave me a rich relationship with Him, which has permeated into every area of my life. Halelujah.
~Princess Ouch~
Hollie and I were directed towards the front door where we slipped off our shoes and went to sit down. The Mosque was a small house that had been converted, and the front living room with a small fireplace was the women's section of the worship center.
Four women, a little three year old and a baby were already there, and in the next ten minutes four other women came in.
The three year old and I had fun making faces at each other, until the little girl realized her mother was at the bowing and kneeling part of the worship time. At that point the little girl ran up beside her mother and dove into the prayer rug they had spread for her and proceeded to try and murmer the prayers in Arabic.
The women were all dressed in colorful robes and headscarves that were not tied the ways Hollie and I had tied ours. She and I stayed back against the wall and didn't go up onto the prayer rugs they had spread for us during the prayer time. It was considerate, and I didn't even realize that they had done it until they were all up at the front of the room. But neither Hollie nor I felt the need to participate in prayers to Allah.
The did a message in what I believe was first Arabic, then translated into Bosnian, and then English. It was rather sureal.
It ended what seemed to me rather abruptly, and one woman began hugging the others and kissing them on both cheeks. Hollie and I smiled and the ladies smiled shyly back, but no one approached us. One woman gave us a huge smile each time she looked in our direction, but soon pulled a black veil over her face until only the slits of her eyes were showing and quickly slipped out the door.
The woman who began the hugging finally came up to Hollie and I and hugged us, kissing us on both cheeks, wishing us "Salaam Allekium" (I don't know how you spell it, sorry) and I murmured "salaam" in return. I know there is another traditional saying, but the meaning is "Peace of Allah" and "Allah's peace upon you", whereas "Salaam" is merely "peace." I'm fine with wishing someone peace, in fact that's what I"m committed to as a Christian, but the peace that comes from God, not Allah.
The woman was the Imam's wife. She asked where we were from and why we were there. I told her I had never been to a Mosque before, and was curious about what was there and who was there. She asked if we were American, if we were Christian, and what kind of Christian. I said yes, yes, and Baptist. She asked if I had alwas been Baptist. I answered no... only a year. (hehehe... how do you explain "non-denominational" to a Bosnian Muslim?) SO she asked if I understood my religion. I said yes.
"Are you SURE?"
"Yes."
"Are you SURE you are sure?" she insisted.
"Well obviously God is too big to fit inside my small head, but yes, I understand my religion. I am in school to learn more, and of course we are always learning."
"Hmm... you have to go?"
Hollie and I shook our heads no.
"Come and sit down. My English not so good, I study for six months now, though I have been in America fo six years. COme sit. Now. This is the problem with Christians: you do not understand who Jesus is. Muslims do not agree that he is GOd. He cannot be the son of God. God has no son, no wife, no beginning, no end. Jesus cannot be God."
She went on for a good ten minutes expounding on that fact. Hollie tried to interject that Jesus said in the Bible who He was, but the Imam's wife interupted.
"No, you see. The Bible, it is corrupted. Shatan has corrupted it." And went on to expound on that point for a good full five minutes.
"May I explain to you how we see Jesus?" I asked when I could get a word in edgewise. She nodded.
"God, who you call Allah, made the whole world. Yes? And so God made man, because He wanted man to be in fellowship with Him. He wanted to be friends with man. But Shatan came and said to Adam and Eve, the first man and woman, "you can be like God. Take this fruit from the tree God forbade you to eat from, and you will be like Him." Adam and Eve disobeyed God and took this fruit. But Shatan lied to them, this did not make them like God, it caused them to sin and they understood sin. And God cannot look on sin, because He is righteous. He is a righteous God who cannot sin and cannot look upon sin. So He said to Adam and Eve, 'Go out from the garden!'
Shatan said, "Aha! God cannot look upon sin, look, the man has sinned. Now he is mine!" But God said, "NO! I created them! I love them! They must still be mine!" So He sent the prophets, Abraham, Isaiah, and others, to tell mankind how to live righteously, so that they could have communion with God. But man said to the prophets, "Who are you to tell us this? You are man like us! You know nothing!" They didn't realize that God sent them. So they rejected the prophets.
God decided that He would go Himself to tell mankind how to live. He wanted us to understand so we could have communion with Him. But man cannot look upon GOd directly, because He is so wonderful and glorious. His majesty is too much for us to see; we will die if we look on Him. So He came in the form of a man. He had to come as a man so that mankind could see Him and have relationship with Him. And the man who was God was named Jesus."
She nodded and was listening intently, agreeing with all that I said, UNTIL I said "That man was named Jesus."
"NO! This cannot be. Jesus was a PROPHET! A good prophet. We love the prophet Isa. Isa is what we call Jesus. But a prophet! He and Mohammed were very close..."
And she continued for a long time after that about different stories from the Quaran about Jesus and Mary, and how it is written that Jesus said specifically that He never claimed to be God. I wanted to get into Pharisaical lies etc. but could barely get a word in edgewise.
"You see, man corrupts all good things, and man has corrupted the Bible. For example, you celebrate Christmas in December. But Jesus was very clearly born in springtime. Quaran says that Mary ate a date after Gabriel spoke to her. A fresh date. How can you eat a fresh date in winter?"
I explained why CHristians celebrate Christmas in winter, and emphasized that this was not something that was in the Bible, just a tradition.
'You see? Pagan influences corrupt."
"Yes, I agree. So Mohammed had a Christian wife and a Jewish wife. Since pagans corrupt, did not these pagan wives corrupt Mohammed? He had three wives not Islamic, no?"
"No! He had NINE wives. BUt princesses, so that their people would come to know Islam."
"They were pagan."
"But you see, man is a step ahead of woman. So man always leads."
"Yes, the man is the head, but isn't the woman the neck, turning the head whichever way she wants?" (I love 'My big fat Greek wedding.' Who knew it would help in theological debates).
All three of us laughed at that point.
"No! Man is a step ahead of woman."
"But if Mohammed had nine wives, that would be more women than man, so wouldn't that put the pagan wives at least a FEW steps ahead of the man?"
She didn't get that reasoning, and went on to talk about the fallibility of the Bible, and more Islamic stories about Shatan and Gabriel fighting over the Quaran.
David poked his head in and said we had to go, and the Imam's wife followed us out encouraging us to get a copy of the Quaran and start researching on the internet about Islam.
As I put on my shoes, she said,
"Pray to God to open your eyes to truth."
"I will pray to God to open my eyes to Truth. I pray also that He opens your eyes to Truth."
She smiled a, "I've got it covered, honey, thanks." look on her face.
"You DO realize," the missionary stated when Hollie and I retold this story, "that you just took on the most devout Muslim in the entire area."
"All I wanted was for us to plant ONE seed of doubt in her mind, so that her eyes could be opened to Truth." Hollie replied.
"Obviously we won't make a change today, we just met her. But its a start."
Hopefully, anyway. We are going to try and go back in two weeks. The Imam's wife has always wanted to be an Imam's wife, she waited until she found an Imam - who was 20 years older than her - to get married. "Islam is all that I am, all that I love." She told us.
Funny thing, I had been feeling nausious the entire day, and as soon as we started the conversation with the Imam's wife it went away and has stayed away all day. No, it was not nervousness. I'm pretty sure it was Spiritual Warfare. Another funny thing was that once the Imam's wife found out Hollie was married, she targeted me for most of the conversation and sort of blew off Hollie. HOllie attributed it to the fact that since she was married, she would follow whatever her husband believed, and so would be 'unconvertable' until he was converted.
Anywayz. So that was my first exposure and experience with Muslims and Bosnians.
Wow.
Now, the hysterical part of this is that when I was in Jr. High, I told God that He could call me to be whatever He wanted, but if He called me to be a Missionary, I would have to tell Him no, so just don't bother. My reasoning was that we got "Voice of the Martyrs' when I was younger and I was convinced that all missionaries were persecuted brutally and most were martyred. So when God called me to be a Missionary, or I at least responded to that call, I told Him, "Fine, but please please please don't call me to work with Muslims or Communists."
I thought Bosnians were Eastern Orthodox when I started researching them. Nope. The Bosniak Bosnians are all Muslim. At least in this area. I've been to an EX-communist country four times, but I'm curious to see if I go into a communist country one of these days. God DOES have a sense of humor, and He likes to remind us -or at least me, I don't know about you- that HE is the one who calls the shots. :-)
Anyhoo. IN other news, the head chef in the cafeteria started a food-fight with me when I started to sing, "Oh Suzanna" - which he hates, and I do just to irritate him. :-) I do not like working for other people, I would far rather have my own business and call the shots myself. But if I HAVE to work for someone, I'm glad its here, with fun people who love Jesus and are committed to keeping the workplace fun. God has blessed me a lot, with an amazing family, good friends, an awesome school, amazing opportunities to serve and witness for Him. Most importantly, He gave me a rich relationship with Him, which has permeated into every area of my life. Halelujah.
~Princess Ouch~
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Poetical moment
So far for my Great Books class, we've read The Odessy, Augustine's "Confessions" and Boethius' "The Consolation of Philosophy". One of our assignments was to write out an experience or memory in a poetical style that was similar to that found in the Odessy. I wrote out an experience from this summer and have been meaning to post it here. Hope you enjoy. :-)
As an unbroken colt bucks and bounces
vainly attempting to rid itself of its' master
who gentles it into submission,
so did the old Dacia car buck and bounce
as we crawled up the dusty Carpathian roads.
Sweet grass danced across the hills
and jagged mountainous ridges
as gentle Ewes grazed with their lambs
their bear-like shepherd dogs
faithfully watching.
These sights I drank in with pleasure
as my dear companions escorted me
further away from the world familiar
and into the hidden, sunlit valleys.
As the seagull, wild and free, cries out as he flies
so too did the voices of the village greet us
before its' sights and smells.
Olive-skinned children, turned black by sun and wind,
ran to greet us as they laughed their salutations.
My own voice joined them, my tongue clumsy
as I made the unfamiliar words of their world
shape themselves and fly from my lips.
I let my strange white hands
be touched and stroked, as laughing
the children tried to explain my sky blue eyes.
Their flashing raven hair bobbed
as they danced for me.
Husky voices raised in jeers and compliments.
I smiled and thanked my God,
as once again He had brought me here.
And I was proven faithful in my promise
to return to these my Gypsy friends.
As an unbroken colt bucks and bounces
vainly attempting to rid itself of its' master
who gentles it into submission,
so did the old Dacia car buck and bounce
as we crawled up the dusty Carpathian roads.
Sweet grass danced across the hills
and jagged mountainous ridges
as gentle Ewes grazed with their lambs
their bear-like shepherd dogs
faithfully watching.
These sights I drank in with pleasure
as my dear companions escorted me
further away from the world familiar
and into the hidden, sunlit valleys.
As the seagull, wild and free, cries out as he flies
so too did the voices of the village greet us
before its' sights and smells.
Olive-skinned children, turned black by sun and wind,
ran to greet us as they laughed their salutations.
My own voice joined them, my tongue clumsy
as I made the unfamiliar words of their world
shape themselves and fly from my lips.
I let my strange white hands
be touched and stroked, as laughing
the children tried to explain my sky blue eyes.
Their flashing raven hair bobbed
as they danced for me.
Husky voices raised in jeers and compliments.
I smiled and thanked my God,
as once again He had brought me here.
And I was proven faithful in my promise
to return to these my Gypsy friends.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Seminarians and defining Church
Well, I have lamed out this last month - again - at updating my poor neglected blog. My apologies. However, I will again throw out the excuse that I'm working now about 19 to 20 hours a week and taking 12 credits - three of which are 400 level classes - and we're getting down to business in our Church planting praxis as well. I can't give much details on the church plant as we're trying to get into a rather closed community, but I can say that we are excited. Its a people group whose religion is one that I was terrified of as a kid and prayed that God would never make me go minister to. Whadaya know, God laughed and here I am several years later incredibly excited about what He is going to do through my team and in my team through the new friendships we are going to soon be establishing. I don't know what the end result will be - obviously we're hoping for a thriving Church. But God will do whatever He wants, we're just trying to be faithful.
Anyway, for my Church planting class we had to write a paper on "the Irreducible Ecclesiastical Minimum for Church" or in the vernacular, what makes a Church a church, what's the definition, when does it move from Church plant to full blown church, and where in the Bible does it back up your definition? It was challenging because I started out with a very simple answer, then started talking to some colleagues who said NO, it is FAR more complicated than that, one MUST struggle far more with the issue as it will define one's ministry for the rest of one's missionary career. This threw me into a conundrum, as I really did think the issue was more simple than that. So I thought about it for a few more days, and here I am an hour before class starts, just now printing off my paper and hoping that I struggled enough with the issue to give a decent argument for my still-simple viewpoint.
So I thought I'd share with you once again some homework. Hope you enjoy.
In other news, I gave some Seminarians a piece of my mind last week. You'd think they'd run off and black list me from the dating possibility list, warning all other desperate seminarians who are looking for a wife to avoid me like the plague. But the end result is that I now have an interesting friend who knows as many wacky languages as me. I actually have had three girls come up and thank me for spelling it out to the seminary guys tho. I've summed up our conversation in one simple sentence: Girls want pursued, not stalked.
Yes, it is really that simple. And lets work on establishing platonic, mutual-respecting friendships before we pull out the checklist for appropriate pastor's wife characteristics and start interrogating the poor unsuspecting freshmen girls who just came in.
Okay I must stop ranting and print off that paper. :-)
Cheers,
~Princess Ouch~
">The Irreducible Minimum for Church: how is Church defined? When does a church plant graduate from being simply a group of new believers meeting to an ‘official’ church? In essence, what is a church? What defines a church as such, what makes it different from merely a Bible study or a gathering of believers?
Anyway, for my Church planting class we had to write a paper on "the Irreducible Ecclesiastical Minimum for Church" or in the vernacular, what makes a Church a church, what's the definition, when does it move from Church plant to full blown church, and where in the Bible does it back up your definition? It was challenging because I started out with a very simple answer, then started talking to some colleagues who said NO, it is FAR more complicated than that, one MUST struggle far more with the issue as it will define one's ministry for the rest of one's missionary career. This threw me into a conundrum, as I really did think the issue was more simple than that. So I thought about it for a few more days, and here I am an hour before class starts, just now printing off my paper and hoping that I struggled enough with the issue to give a decent argument for my still-simple viewpoint.
So I thought I'd share with you once again some homework. Hope you enjoy.
In other news, I gave some Seminarians a piece of my mind last week. You'd think they'd run off and black list me from the dating possibility list, warning all other desperate seminarians who are looking for a wife to avoid me like the plague. But the end result is that I now have an interesting friend who knows as many wacky languages as me. I actually have had three girls come up and thank me for spelling it out to the seminary guys tho. I've summed up our conversation in one simple sentence: Girls want pursued, not stalked.
Yes, it is really that simple. And lets work on establishing platonic, mutual-respecting friendships before we pull out the checklist for appropriate pastor's wife characteristics and start interrogating the poor unsuspecting freshmen girls who just came in.
Okay I must stop ranting and print off that paper. :-)
Cheers,
~Princess Ouch~
">The Irreducible Minimum for Church: how is Church defined? When does a church plant graduate from being simply a group of new believers meeting to an ‘official’ church? In essence, what is a church? What defines a church as such, what makes it different from merely a Bible study or a gathering of believers?
In the New Testament, the Church was defined corporately, usually by city, not by individual small groups meeting in homes or buildings. The Church was not a street location or fancy building with a symbol on top announcing its religious affiliation. It was a group of professing Christ-followers who were committed to living their lives in a way that reflected the teachings of Christ and spurring others of the same lifestyle to continue their professed faith with diligence. They did not have church charters or governmental outlines, requirements for membership into particular meetings or councils on what color the chairs would be when they rebuilt their meeting places. Rather, they were like-minded people drawn together due to the need for fellowship and encouragement in an era and region where Christianity could be a death sentence. Their goal was to live life in as godly a manner as possible. They cared for one another as best as they could, and expected God to answer their prayers and help them in areas in which their knowledge or resources failed.
Today, however, Church is defined much differently. Usually it requires a building of some kind, although the paradigm is slowly shifting to include house-churches and church plants that do not meet in a building officially dedicated to Sunday morning meetings. The church in today’s culture has a Pastor, or some might even have a few pastors. At the least an Administrative pastor, and some Churches have a Youth Pastor, Pastor of Praise and Worship, and an Administrative Pastor. There will probably be an elder or deacon system, but that depends on the denomination – or which particular branch of non-denominationalism the Church is affiliated with. Requirements for membership or acceptance into the Church body have been carefully outlined and expressed to the people who want to be associated with that church. Participants in active worship partake of the Sacraments regularly. A meeting of these people has a set order of events weekly and includes a certain amount of time dedicated to religious songs, an exhortation by the pastor, and a certain amount of time for fellowship amongst the body.
I personally have partaken in many different forms of church; from evangelical non-denominational in both mega-church form and small church plants or home churches, to denomination-affiliated churches both in the United States and abroad. I remember one day when I was about twelve, my family had moved to a new area and was still searching for a home church. My father decided that we would not go to yet another new church that day but would stay home and have ‘house church.’ We all gathered in the living room while my mother led us in some worship songs and hymns we all knew, and then my father taught a simple lesson in language all of us children could understand. The topic was on loving one another, and at the end he washed all of our feet. It was a unique experience, and as I look back on it I appreciate it a lot more than I did at the time of its actual occurrence. I consider the event an authentic church service experience for several reasons.
First, every member in my family was and is committed Christians, and we had gathered together for the purpose of glorifying God, learning more about Him and exhorting one another to continue in that mindset and lifestyle. Mark 11:17 mentions Church being a house of prayer for all nations, and our home was a house of prayer as we lifted each other up and also our friends and Christian family on the mission field that day.
We were all baptized, and while we did not practice communion that particular day, we did and do regularly with other believers. Acts 10:48 and Luke 22:19 speak of the role of Baptism and Communion in a believer’s life. Both the practice of communion and baptism in believer’s lives were actions that were spoken of as commandments, not options.
My father led our meeting, and my mother helped him as well to keep us children focused on the point of the meeting and behaving in a disciplined manner. In 1 Timothy 3:2 the Apostle Paul speaks of the church leaders having a family dedicated to his ministry as well and maintaining discipline, order in the home as well as the ability to teach and disciple.
We children were always taught and encouraged to be bold in our faith and to tell others about Jesus, as well as to invite others to church and whatever Christian meetings we were attending at that time. My parents took the Great Commission in Matthew 28:19 very seriously, considering raising their children as part of the ‘creating disciples.’ They encouraged us to be clear in our vision when we went out into the world that we were winning Souls for the Kingdom, not just people for today.
There are many characteristics of the Church, and these cannot be mistaken for requirements. For example, if a church is strong in fellowship and discipling people within the church body, but does not go out into the world and evangelize, are they no longer a church because they have not met the characteristic of going out into the world? They still meet regularly, are a body of believers who practice communion and baptism, but are not pursuing an important aspect of Christianity, that is, evangelism. Are they still considered a church? What about a church that is in an area where wine or grape juice is inaccessible and bread is made from sweet potatoes, or where water is so scarce that baptism by immersion is impossible? Is this fellowship unable to call themselves church because they do not participate in activities that have traditionally defined church? If they can, then why are they given that privilege? Where is the list of requirements to name something ‘church’ and where is the list of exceptions we can or cannot overlook? While there are clear guidelines in the Bible for what requirements a pastor or church leader must meet, there are no such requirements for what constitutes a church.
It is therefore feasible to conclude that the characteristics of the early church recorded in Acts are a feasible measurement against whatever gathering one has undertaken for examination to see if it is truly a church. Is it a gathering of committed Christians, solely dedicated to following Christ, baptized and practicing communion, watching out for one another’s spiritual and materialistic needs? Is it led by a pastor and elders who are maintaining accountability amongst themselves as well as the Christian body under examination, and guarding against sin or heresy in the community?
While some may wish to hammer out specific details and legalistic requirements for what clearly defines church, they must bear in mind that the Bible does not give them any clear license to do so. Individual autonomous churches such as we have today did not exist in the New Testament. They were divided by city and small groups which met individually and corporately, and sent delegates to Jerusalem when controversial issues arose. This system is somewhat reflected in the Southern Baptist tradition of having autonomous churches which meet in the Southern Baptist Convention, however it is not identical.
It is important to have a clear idea of what the end vision is when church planting. However, it is important to realize that the word ‘church’ is going to change, depending on culture, context, the people involved, and the time era being conducted in. The goal must be authentic disciples for Christ, who are reproducing what they have been taught through redemption in Christ. The end vision is a long chain of committed Christians, passionate to see others come to the Lord, going so many places and accomplishing great things for the Kingdom, getting work done that is impossible for just one missionary to cast a vision for or hope to do in one lifetime.
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