Irresponsible American

In fifth grade, I was awarded a certificate for being "Optimistic". I beamed with pride as I stood before my class, then I went home and asked Mom what optimistic meant.

Many changes have evolved between fifth grade and my last semester of graduate school--including the character awards. In the past week, I've realized the newest reputation I've been building:

Irresponsibility
  

It's not pretty. 

It's also not true.

If you put me up against the wallpaper of the American culture, I perfectly match the design of irresponsibility: I only keep busy six days of the week instead of seven, I complete school assignments with mere minutes to spare, I lose important things, I fall asleep in class, I'm 10 minutes late to my externship, and I've never seen a 4.0 GPA on my report card in my life.

When the world says busyness, perfection, and work are life's priorities, I fall short like an anvil in the ocean. But I am not of this world. God has spent the gap between Optimistic and Irresponsible transforming me into a new person--He's changed the way I think. I grow more capable each day to discern His good, pleasing, and perfect will. (Romans 12:2).

God purposefully created our bodies to require rest. America shouts at its people to defy this instruction: Work 7 days a week. Don't sleep, just drink coffee. Don't eat, you're prettier that way. Don't rest, you're lazy.

I rest. Rest enables me to perform at 100% for God. Without rest, I'll just be a permanent 65%-70%. I don't want to settle for a 70% life. Yet, God's version of 100% is not America's idea of 100%. My desires lie outside of the nine-to-five job, the money-earning mindset, and the straight-A goal. I'm okay with a part-time job. I'm happy with a limited savings account. I have no problem earning Bs. 

Why?

Because my school/job/to-do list/internship is not my life. In between those things, I write novels, I learn how to enjoy the Bible, I celebrate marriage with my husband, I learn more about God, I create dreams, I cultivate passion, I find purpose....

Who cares if I'm voted, "Most likely to be late to graduation"? The only harm done is that my chair is cold for 5 extra minutes. Maybe I'm late because I wrote a new scene in my novel. Maybe I prayed a little longer. Maybe my husband surprised me with flowers and I wanted to put them in water before leaving. 

I'm not late because I'm lazy. I'm not a B-student because I'm careless. I'm not last-minute with school projects because I procrastinate. 

These things happen because my life is filled to the brim with more than just work, money, and brilliant reputation. My cup overflows, but not with the American Dream.  I don't want to live in a box. So deal with it, America. You call me irresponsible, but I'm living a 100% life and loving it. 

Of Passion

I've never run up a hill with my arms thrown wide in a nun outfit belting in song. Have you?

I have however, run around a bedroom on stage in pajamas...belting in song. The Sound of Music is the one real play ever to receive my secret acting talents upon its memory. I had a prestigious role: VonTrapp daughter, Louisa. Approximately 7 lines in the entire play (not counting songs) and one fluffy pink party gown (the highlight of my acting career). I was fourteen.

"Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens, brown paper packages tied up with strings, these are a few of my favorite things."

I sang this song (and danced to it, too!), but apart from the "raindrops on roses" (only if they're yellow), the lyrics listed very few of my favorite things. Bright copper kettles remind me of scrubbing for hours. Warm woolen mittens make me want to buy anti-itch cream. But we all like to talk about our favorite things. We all like to share what quickens our hearts, what widens our eyes, what makes us gasp, what makes us smile, what makes us secretly want to throw out our hands and run up a hill in song (okay, maybe not that far).

Everyone has loves and hates. A professor of mine started a semester class with, "Write down two loves and two hates." Then, "Share them with your neighbor." The room exploded with passion--from hatred of celery to the love of waltzing. From loathing fruit-scented candles to joy in a baby's giggle.

We. Have. Passion.

"passion"--n. strong and barely controllable emotion

We have passion from the small to the unfathomable--from pet-peeves to life-long beliefs. It is meant to be shared, like smiles, hugs, and scar-stories. So (accepting that God and His Word are givens and in a different category anyway), here are some of mine.

Small loves:
Yellow Roses
Sunrises
Laughter

Small hates:
Crinkled paper
Black licorice
Darkness

Serious loves:
Unity among people
Communication
Passion

Serious hates:
Arguments
Being fake
Crude humor/sarcasm

I know you have passions--loves and hates. Write them down somewhere--recognize your passions. Why? Because it reminds us how real we are and how much depth we have. It reminds us that there are things we love and cherish, that there are things to cherish--things we want to weave through our lives with thicker strands.

Passion can't be faked.
Passion can grow.
Passion is always beautiful.
Passion is real.

I pray that I act on my passions--that someday I encourage unity, I pursue communication, and I maintain and grow in my passion. And maybe someday I'll stop my arguments, avoid being fake, and preserve clean/wholesome humor.

Passionless Professors

.
Dearest professors, where is your passion?

I cannot imagine pursuing a life career without passion. Perhaps I have an extra dose of passion or perhaps my professors only received an Oliver-Twist-serving.


No matter the 'perhaps', passion is lacking in the classrooms of my profession. What must it feel like, waking at 5am only to scrape false motivation off the floorboards and dump it in your day-old coffee on the way to work? What does the heart feel, knowing that 24 hours of life are ticking away with bitterness never to be retrieved?

Nearly all my professors at UCM have tied PhD's to their names with sparkling ribbons. I admire their perseverance. I admire their drive. But in the classroom I only see frowns and pursed lips, I only hear monotone lecturing, I only touch the weight of bland printed powerpoints, and I taste nothing but despair and sympathy toward them.
My PhD-less professors at Biola University inserted a syringe of joy and zeal into my speech-therapy veins. They were miracle-doctors, accomplishing the impossible in Nadine-the-Titanic.





"Even God can't sink this ship!" people said about the mighty Titanic, yet it sank with tragedy.




"Nothing can make me like speech therapy!" I said to my friends, yet now I drool over terms like dysphagia, perseveration, and aphasia.

My undergraduate professors did that. They subjected themselves as tools into the hands of the most skillful Mechanic and He tweaked me into this disco ball of speech-therapy passion. So what is missing in my professors here in Missouri? Why do they seem so incapable of enthusiasm? Why do I want to jump from my seat, snatch the laser pointer from their limp hands, and scream to my classmates, "This is interesting! This is fascinating! They're just not showing it to you!"
These same classes that changed my life in undergrad are leaving my poor graduate classmates (deprived of these topics in undergrad) hanging from the rope of discouragement. How can my speech therapy girls fall in love with a topic that's being presented as if it's a dead bug stuck to the wall?

Now that I look, now that I despair, it's not so hard to see why my undergraduate professors were so much more impacting. The world said they were unqualified because they had no PhD's, but God...God said differently.

Please pray for my professors here at UCM--that their lives find the meaning that they so desperately want. That fulfillment will crawl into their alarm clocks and that early sunrises will turn to joy instead of wake-up calls. So much could be different. So much could be learned...

Favorite God

I have returned to Missouri.
I can't say I was excited to step foot onto the un-snowy ground. I can't say that I wanted to be here. I can't say I was optimistic or positive. And I certainly can't say that Missouri noticed my return.
But God did.
He stood on the airport tarmac in the biting wind, the humid cold, and the grey air, waving a bouquet of yellow roses, lace, and cheer. He reminded me that Missouri is my home away from home and that having a 'home away from home' is okay. After all, He picked it for me last March and then He found me an apartment. He showed me good churches and introduced me to wonderful friends.
Yes, I can call Missouri home, and that makes all the difference in the world to my attitude.

Suddenly, with my Jesus-bouquet in hand, positives charged around every corner with bursts of confetti and surprise: I was picked up by one of my favorite people. We laughed about some of our favorite memories. He gave me Christmas/birthday presents from one of my favorite stores.

The presents were two of my favorite things. Then we chatted over one of my favorite hot drinks. Then to add a cherry to my sundae of encouragement, God gave me my favorite weather...snow.

All of these favorites crammed themselves into a few late-night hours when I was flying with numb toes, a sore throat, a lost voice, grouchy flight attendants, and I had just bid farewell to my family. The result?

It felt good to be back.

I'm ready. I'm ready to tackle the new semester. I can't help but think how lucky I am. How lucky that, when there's only one real God in existence, He just happens to make first place on my 'favorites' list. Good thing our world didn't get stuck with a grouchy, black-flowered, pessimistic God. Otherwise, this journey back to Missouri would have gone so differently and I wouldn't have had Someone to wave to on the tarmac when my plane landed....