After not writing a single post in nearly a month, I wrote "One Day" this morning. Just hours later, I am sitting down to write again. This is a story that simply must be documented. Perhaps it will be a once in a lifetime experience.
Because I had a fever last night, Hope and I decided it would be best if I didn't go to work today and infect Emi. My fever turned out to be a blessing in disguise since otherwise I might still be sitting on the side of the road somewhere in Pennsylvania.
I was supposed to work at Hair Cuttery in the afternoon, but since I was feeling better, I decided to run a few errands before heading to work. On my way to Towson, a little yellow light popped up on my dashboard. I looked it up: "Transaxle/cooling system." I ran my errand, and then headed to a gas/service station to get help pouring some sort of liquid into my car to fix it up. I never made it; another light popped on too, and I drifted to a stop on the beltway, I looked up at the clouds and thanked God that at least it wasn't raining. A couple of phone calls and texts later, and Carrie was on her way to pick me up. It is definitely a weird feeling, sitting in the grass on the side of the road, completely helpless, while cars fly by at 75 miles an hour.
A man stopped to see if I needed help, but when he heard my problem he wished me luck and went on his way while a police flew right on down the highway without a second glance in my direction. A towe truck arrived on the scene soon after Carrie, and he took my car to a shop. Thanks to Carrie, I am now home, and will be borrowing a car for the next few weeks.
Oh, what a day!
Monday, May 2, 2011
One Day
I found this entry in my journal. I had been living in Lancaster for two weeks.
From Sunday, September 12, 2010
Father,
I don't even know if I'm suppose to feed the parking meters. How far will I really get when three quarters only gives me thirty-six minutes in a cafe?
. . . Can I always run to a little city cafe to make my problems fade away under the smells of coffee beans and cookies?
I want church. Home. . . .
I want a job.
I want to live in the ghetto.
I want friends.
I want to ride a horse.
Do You hear me, God?
Do these desires just bounce off the ceiling, and get shut in my journal?
I know the answers to these questions. I know You're here, God. But my heart asks them anyway.
I believe. Help my unbelief.
I love You. Help me love You more fully.
Exactly thirty-three weeks later:
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Sundays are sad days for me. I miss church. I miss home. I use to look forward to small group and Sunday morning church at NewSong. Now, I don't look forward to anything. And I miss touch. I miss a hug, a shoulder squeeze, or even a familiar hand shake. The tears came as I realized this today. So thankful for tears. So thankful that I've been through this before, and God is faithful.
After I wrote this last night, I sat on my couch. The only light was a candle burning on the end table. I prayed. I remembered. I cried. I remembered the frustration and the loneliness of not having people or church when I first moved to Lancaster. I remembered getting lost on all the one way streets in the city, and searching for a job for months. God brought them all. I found home. I had a church. Friends. I knew my way around. Horses. Jobs. Blessings. Because God was faithful then, I remembered that He promises to be faithful now too. One day, I will again have something to look forward to each week. I will hug and be hugged. I will sit on the couch with a new friend. I will not get lost four times in one morning. I am blessed.
And maybe one day, I will live in the ghetto.
From Sunday, September 12, 2010
Father,
I don't even know if I'm suppose to feed the parking meters. How far will I really get when three quarters only gives me thirty-six minutes in a cafe?
. . . Can I always run to a little city cafe to make my problems fade away under the smells of coffee beans and cookies?
I want church. Home. . . .
I want a job.
I want to live in the ghetto.
I want friends.
I want to ride a horse.
Do You hear me, God?
Do these desires just bounce off the ceiling, and get shut in my journal?
I know the answers to these questions. I know You're here, God. But my heart asks them anyway.
I believe. Help my unbelief.
I love You. Help me love You more fully.
Exactly thirty-three weeks later:
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Sundays are sad days for me. I miss church. I miss home. I use to look forward to small group and Sunday morning church at NewSong. Now, I don't look forward to anything. And I miss touch. I miss a hug, a shoulder squeeze, or even a familiar hand shake. The tears came as I realized this today. So thankful for tears. So thankful that I've been through this before, and God is faithful.
After I wrote this last night, I sat on my couch. The only light was a candle burning on the end table. I prayed. I remembered. I cried. I remembered the frustration and the loneliness of not having people or church when I first moved to Lancaster. I remembered getting lost on all the one way streets in the city, and searching for a job for months. God brought them all. I found home. I had a church. Friends. I knew my way around. Horses. Jobs. Blessings. Because God was faithful then, I remembered that He promises to be faithful now too. One day, I will again have something to look forward to each week. I will hug and be hugged. I will sit on the couch with a new friend. I will not get lost four times in one morning. I am blessed.
And maybe one day, I will live in the ghetto.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Allison
Meet Allison. She stirs her coffee with one hand while grabbing napkins with the other. The woman she is accompanied by is still placing her order at this little café in the city, and a chocolate cookie is in her hand. Offering it to Allison through a mouthful of the sweet goodness, she laughs as she spills chocolate out of her mouth. Allison refuses, “I use to love chocolate, but ever since I’ve been pregnant, I just don’t like it anymore. Weird, huh?” The older woman laughs, takes her coffee, and heads to a table near the back with Allison behind her. Even under her black, wool coat and the big scarf she has hanging around her neck, she is unmistakably pregnant.
I get my drink and sit at a table next to them with my journal in hand. It’s my last time at Square One Coffee before my move to Cockeysville. There’s a lot of commotion tonight: an impromptu band is stumbling through music, a few people sit at tables with laptops in front of them, and I can hear the staff joking in the kitchen.
I start to learn about these two women. The older one is Catholic, and a single parent herself. Allison is living by herself, just started college, is agnostic, and is very much expecting. The two hardly know one another, but Allison feels comfortable with this woman for some reason, and has sought her out for advice.
They talk about the options. There’s option A: to keep the baby. Option B is adoption, and option C is abortion. Because the older woman went through the same thing, and kept her baby even though it was rough, her advice is to go with option A. She is definitely pro-life, by her comments, and would be just as happy for Allison if she chose option B. Allison talks through the entire situation: the boyfriend, the house, school, work, friends . . . . She doesn’t see how any option is doable except for option C, an abortion. She doesn’t seem to really want to abort her baby, but at the same time she doesn’t feel ready to add a baby to her lifestyle. Tucking her bangs behind her ear, she sighs. “What am I suppose to do?”
The conversation turns toward God. There’s a fire to the older woman’s voice now, and a frustration to Allison’s. This is not what she came to talk about. The older woman soon changes the subject, leaving Allison with a challenge to look up to heaven and ask God, if He is real, to help her.
The pair soon leaves the shop, leaving me at the table with my journal and pen, and a prayer for Allison and her little one.
That was last week. I still think about Allison and the tiny person inside her, and I pray for her.
I get my drink and sit at a table next to them with my journal in hand. It’s my last time at Square One Coffee before my move to Cockeysville. There’s a lot of commotion tonight: an impromptu band is stumbling through music, a few people sit at tables with laptops in front of them, and I can hear the staff joking in the kitchen.
I start to learn about these two women. The older one is Catholic, and a single parent herself. Allison is living by herself, just started college, is agnostic, and is very much expecting. The two hardly know one another, but Allison feels comfortable with this woman for some reason, and has sought her out for advice.
They talk about the options. There’s option A: to keep the baby. Option B is adoption, and option C is abortion. Because the older woman went through the same thing, and kept her baby even though it was rough, her advice is to go with option A. She is definitely pro-life, by her comments, and would be just as happy for Allison if she chose option B. Allison talks through the entire situation: the boyfriend, the house, school, work, friends . . . . She doesn’t see how any option is doable except for option C, an abortion. She doesn’t seem to really want to abort her baby, but at the same time she doesn’t feel ready to add a baby to her lifestyle. Tucking her bangs behind her ear, she sighs. “What am I suppose to do?”
The conversation turns toward God. There’s a fire to the older woman’s voice now, and a frustration to Allison’s. This is not what she came to talk about. The older woman soon changes the subject, leaving Allison with a challenge to look up to heaven and ask God, if He is real, to help her.
The pair soon leaves the shop, leaving me at the table with my journal and pen, and a prayer for Allison and her little one.
That was last week. I still think about Allison and the tiny person inside her, and I pray for her.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Another Moving Day
Friday I left my little closet bedroom in Lancaster city and moved to my fifth home in the past year. (Indiana, Rosedale, Lancaster with the Weis family, then with Hannah and Melody, and now Cockeysville.)
I don't think this will be a long post because I really have nothing else to say. I miss Lancaster, and love it so deeply.
The end.
I don't think this will be a long post because I really have nothing else to say. I miss Lancaster, and love it so deeply.
The end.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Why Must The Curtains Close?
Why must seasons end? Why must straight roads turn? Why must the curtains close? Why must the credits roll?
Will the tears ever end? Must as soon as I stop crying about one thing, I begin to cry over something else? Why did I ever ask God to soften me, and pierce me, and let my blood flow?
Can't it be another way? Why would I move here and love here to be yanked away from it?
Today, I walked the city street one last time. Streets that I have often walked in prayer. I walked by the fence that I dream about. Even before I had ever walked that section of town, I had dreams of the ghetto, and a fence. That fence. There is no bike leaning up against it, like in my dreams. At least no bike on the side that I walk past. But without a doubt, it's that fence. As I passed the fence, and continued up the street, a car came flying down the hill, and a girl was shrieking from inside. Not far behind was a police car, in pursuit. I wondered why God turned my heart to the city, why I love it so much, and why that scene didn't panic me.
Why did God bring me here, and make my soul fall in love? Why did He open doors to a place to live and a job in Cockeysville? Why did I have to walk by an apartment for rent in the city today? Why couldn't the sign have gone up tomorrow? Must I be torn like this? Why must I love so intensely a place I normally would have run from, a place that would have made me uncomfortable, a place that would make me fearful? Why must these seven months end so abruptly? Why must the curtains close?
When can I come back, God? Will You bring me back?
Will the tears ever end? Must as soon as I stop crying about one thing, I begin to cry over something else? Why did I ever ask God to soften me, and pierce me, and let my blood flow?
Can't it be another way? Why would I move here and love here to be yanked away from it?
Today, I walked the city street one last time. Streets that I have often walked in prayer. I walked by the fence that I dream about. Even before I had ever walked that section of town, I had dreams of the ghetto, and a fence. That fence. There is no bike leaning up against it, like in my dreams. At least no bike on the side that I walk past. But without a doubt, it's that fence. As I passed the fence, and continued up the street, a car came flying down the hill, and a girl was shrieking from inside. Not far behind was a police car, in pursuit. I wondered why God turned my heart to the city, why I love it so much, and why that scene didn't panic me.Why did God bring me here, and make my soul fall in love? Why did He open doors to a place to live and a job in Cockeysville? Why did I have to walk by an apartment for rent in the city today? Why couldn't the sign have gone up tomorrow? Must I be torn like this? Why must I love so intensely a place I normally would have run from, a place that would have made me uncomfortable, a place that would make me fearful? Why must these seven months end so abruptly? Why must the curtains close?
When can I come back, God? Will You bring me back?
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