A Word With Penelope

Job: An Intro

2012-02-11T11:49:00.000-05:00

Jumping in to Job this week and latest update is that every single thing has been taken away from Job by Satan himself. This week I have several chapters of Job's poetic rendering of his grief to look forward to. "Why did I not perish at birth?" Heavy stuff.

In chapter 1, the writer sums up what kind of man Job is:

In the land of Uz there lived a man whose name was Job. This man was blameless and upright; he feared God and shunned evil. He had seven sons and three daughters, and he owned seven thousand sheep, three thousand camels, five hundred yoke of oxen, and five hundred donkeys, and had a large number of servants. He was the greatest man among all the people of the East.

His sons used to take turns holding feasts in their homes, and they would invite their three sisters to eat and drink with them. When a period of feasting had run its course, Job would send and have them purified. Early in the morning he would sacrifice a burnt offering for each of them, thinking "Perhaps my children have sinned and cursed God in their hearts." This was Job's regular custom.

I only have a few short comments about this description.

1. Job was really, really righteous, thus, he was very, very rich. Or so you might think. The description of Job's wealth is really a set up for the point of the book: do Job's circumstances reflect his standing before God? If things are bad (as bad as possible) is it because God is punishing Job? Or if all is well, does this reflect Job's obedience? Or are circumstances and moral standing unrelated, even arbitrary? Can't wait to find out.

2. Job really cared about holiness, more than he cared about anything else. You can tell that he does because he not only is upright himself, he initiates sacrificial cleansing for his own children's sins. He takes the initiative, absorbs the cost of the sacrificial animals himself, and he does it faithfully, or you might say, in full. He expressed his love for his children by looking out for their holiness, and protecting their relationship with God. Kind of like Jesus. I hope one day I can be a parent like that.

That's all I have for now. Maybe more on Job later.

Weekend Highlight

2012-01-29T21:51:00.000-05:00

Today I had the opportunity to go to a CD release party. What band you may ask? Well, actually, it was an album of songs by the organ and violin. My friend Chelsea Chen was the organist, and Alex Wong the violinist- together they make the Chen-Wong Duo.

The album is called "Eastern Treasures: A Collection of Asian Folk Songs for Violin and Organ". Both Alex and Chelsea are Juilliard grads and another college friend of theirs, Yui Kitamura, arranged several pieces. Chelsea also wrote and arranged many of the pieces on the album.

Until I knew Chelsea, I always thought of the organ as a sort of... dark instrument. Dracula, scary old churches, stuff like that. But Chelsea and Alex's music was fresh, passionate, even fun. The spirit of the songs was light and moving. And there's nothing like hearing it live in the reverberant chapel at Union Seminary. Chelsea is seated at the front of this enormous instrument, and we all nibble on sticky rice dumplings while she and Alex play. Makes for a pretty good party!

The album is pretty great. If you want to buy a couple songs on iTunes, I like "Omiode" and "Haruga Kita." Their website is www.violinorgan.com.

Just thankful for the unique talents and people New York affords!

Golden

2012-01-27T18:06:00.000-05:00

Sometimes the city just glows. I left work today and the whole sky was gray, but the south side of the Beresford was glowing yellow with sunset light. Gorgeous.

Because the trees are bare, all the glow from the Fifth Avenue buildings were visible across the park. As I was walking home from the train, all I could think about and notice was light.

With the dramatic gray sky rolling in, there was a marvelous backdrop for beautiful, golden light.

And sometimes, through branches and between buildings, I get to see the moon.

A Jumpy Sermon

2012-01-27T17:56:00.000-05:00

Today I read three chapters- Genesis 20, Nehemiah 9, and Matthew 16.

Genesis 20: This is the section in which Abraham lies to King Abimelech about his drop-dead-gorgeous 90-year old wife actually being his sister, and Abimelech takes Sarah as his own. Before he can consummate his new marriage, the king has a dream from God saying to return Sarah to Abraham because she is actually his wife. Now, it's not like Abraham lied- Sarah was his half-sister. On the other hand, this is the second time Abraham has done this cowardly thing- he told the Pharaoh of Egypt that Sarah was his sister and Pharaoh took Sarah as his wife too, only to be afflicted with boils for it. Abraham even goes as far as to say to Sarah, "This is how you can show your love to me: Everywhere we go say of me, 'he is my brother.'" This behavior is perhaps reinforced by the fact that both Pharaoh and Abimelech give Abraham sizable amounts of money in penance for taking his wife.

My personal feeling on this story is, "SERIOUSLY, Abraham? Seriously." God has just told you that you and Sarah are going to have a baby and be the parents of a large nation. You've seen God face to face many times, and you are worried that he can't save you from losing your life over your hot wife? God promises him lavish things, and then he just can't seem to shake his fears.

Cue Nehemiah 9. There here are many times where the Israelites or early church leaders poetically rehearse what God has done for the nation of Israel. They reflect on Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Egypt, Red Sea, Moses, kings, prophets, and the captivity of Israel. Nehemiah 9 one is one of the best renditions. In this chapter, Nehemiah has just led the Israelites in rebuilding the walls of Jerusalem. They've reread the law of Moses aloud. The priests pray this beautiful prayer that extols how patient God is even as the Israelites, throughout their history, have abandoned him over and over. Here's a summary:

"But as soon as they were at rest, they again did what was evil in your sight. Then you abandoned them to the hand of their enemies so that they ruled over them. And when they cried out to you again, you heard from heaven, and in your compassion you delivered them time after time." (vs 28).

God just gave them whatever they wanted. When they wanted evil, he gave them evil, but when they wanted him again, he gave them himself. He even gave them himself when they didn't want him.

In Matthew 15, Jesus miraculously feeds four thousand people- "Then he took the seven loaves and the fish, and when he had given thanks, he broke them and gave them to his disciples, and they in turn to the people." (vs 36). This is the exact same language Matthew uses in chapter 26, verse 26, when Jesus institutes the first Lord's supper. I think what Matthew is hinting at is this: Jesus has shown himself sufficient to spiritually satisfy the multitudes of Israel. Four thousand here, five thousand there, and the disciples are his agents. But only a few verses later, the disciples are all tied up in knots because they forgot to bring bread with them on their boat trip with Jesus. Chapter 16 demonstrates the disciples just as fickle, cowardly, and forgetful as Abraham and all of the Israelites (and Christians) since.

Things start to look up when Peter makes his confession, "You are the Christ, the Son of the living God" (vs 16), and Jesus says that Peter is the rock upon which he will build his church. No less than 3 verses later, Peter patronizes Jesus, telling him that, ahem, you are not going to be killed if I have anything to say about it. Then Jesus says "get behind me, Satan! You are a stumbling block to me; you do not have in mind the things of God, but the things of men." A characterization that kind of reminds me of Abraham. Here is one of the fathers of the church, thinking like a mere man, blundering, arrogant, foolish. Peter will continue to make many mistakes, and yet, Jesus graciously charges him to be apostle to Israel, promising that the "gates of Hades will not overcome" the church.

As in Communion, as on the Galilean hilltop, as in the Abrahamic covenant, God says that when we are not sufficient, he will be. When we fail, he will be victorious; when we are in need, he will provide enough truth, enough grace, enough of himself.

This post may seem like a sermon that jumps around too much, but all I'm trying to say is that no matter what you read in the Bible- pick two or three chapters- you'll find the same themes. It's just so cool.

Subscribe to Story-time!

2012-01-08T11:01:00.000-05:00

Lily Watson cared very little for afternoon tea. The cakes set out by her governess, Nan, were always dry and a bit hard, and she often found tiny specks of tea leaves floating in her cup, looking very much like ants drowning in dirty bathwater...

Thus begins The Rookery, a new children's novel by Amanda C. Hill, a close friend of mine. She's promoting the book by posting one chapter per week on a special blog. The book reads like your favorite novel from childhood. Amanda's influences include the Narnia series, Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, The Secret Garden, and classic fairy tales. The Rookery is funny, charming, and creative, as good children's literature should be!

During her writing process, I spent many an evening curled up listening to Amanda read her latest chapter. It's addicting. Each chapter takes about 15 minutes to read, so if you have a lunch break to fill or have a boring commute, indulge in reading a chapter or two. She wants your comments and feedback. Do subscribe- you'll thank me. :) From later in the chapter:

Lily’s eyes had drifted closed, and she was just on the edge of sleep when a piercing cry awoke her from her daydreams. “Why! Why!” it cawed from a few feet away. Lily had heard the rooks calling out to one another over the moor her entire life. But this rook sounded different somehow, and though she was extremely annoyed that it had interrupted her daydream, her curiosity took hold, and she sat up from where she had been concealed in the heather.

One Who Has Authority

2012-01-07T12:04:00.000-05:00

Today two of my best friends are being received into the Catholic Church. After years of study and mentorship under priests and Protestant ministers alike, they have finally decided to make the switch. I'm going to Mass today then we are having pot-luck supper to celebrate (the Protestant part of the evening- ha ha).

A friend of mine recently asked me why I'm not Catholic, since I seem to profess a lot of the same social thought. The most significant place where we differ, I told him, is the question of authority. My friends have decided to submit to Papal authority, I have decided that is not necessary.

It really is all about authority isn't it?

Religious or irreligious, we're all deciding who is in charge of our lives. At a bare minimum, the average American submits to the police, their boss, and, to varying degrees, the opinions of others. After that, any claim of authority over them is considered an infringement on personal freedom. In a highly individualistic and progressive city like New York, we have so few social norms anymore that the opinions of others are not authoritative over our actions.

The Christian, however, is always submitting himself to the authority of Christ. Moment by moment, day by day, their decisions reflect what seems to the outside world to be unnecessary self-flagellation. Christian sexual ethics are the most obvious example of going against the New York grain. Of people who know I'm a Christian, many of them still assume my boyfriend and I live together (we don't), which reveals their assumption that self-authority always trumps any culturally unsavory demands of religious authority.

I just finished reading the Sermon on the Mount, and at the end is this interesting comment by Matthew, the author,

When Jesus had finished saying these things, the crowds were amazed at his teaching, because he taught as one who had authority, and not as the teachers of the law. Matthew 7:28-29

Mark's gospel uses this same language. I heard in a sermon once (and noted in the margins) that the word "authority" in the original language meant something more like "authorship." The Sermon on the Mount, which is a good overview of how to live, was explained by it's author of life itself.

Catholics and Protestants alike both ultimately submit to the authority of someone who invented man, invented life, invented our hearts. Thus we trust his authority on sex, work, relationships, etc, and do our best to conform to it. Jesus knows better than us how we can flourish.

Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock. But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on sand. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell with a great crash. Matthew 7:24-27

New Year's Resolution- Gen. 2

2012-01-04T23:21:00.000-05:00

Friends, I have taken on the task of reading the Bible in a year. I haven't done this since I was 10 and a more legalistic version of myself found a one-year-Bible on a friend's shelf and started reading it. I have to admit that I scanned some parts... I think I only persevered because I wanted to say I had done it. And sure enough, my pastor brought me up in front of the whole church and made an "example" of me to all those grown-ups. When you're legalistic, you don't care about the Bible your reading, you care about yourself reading it.

But now, I care about the Bible. I love the Bible. I pray that I'll treasure it more- crave it more. I love the grand narrative arc of Creation-Fall-Redemption, the hidden longings of the ages paradoxically paired with moments of deepest fulfillment (the already-but-not-yet theme). I love the God that I can see, that is, Christ; whose sandals I can hear padding down the dusty streets of Galilee, whose hair blows in the stormy wind until he quiets it with his voice.

I thought I'd try to blog my way through a selection of the texts I read. I'm doing the M'Cheyne reading plan which means 4 chapters a day. Google it, it's a great plan.

It is early in the year, so naturally I've read Genesis 2 recently. The part where God creates Eve has always captured me, but upon this reading, I noticed something I hadn't noticed before:

"The man said,
'This is now bone of my bones
and flesh of my flesh;
She shall be called 'woman'
for she was taken out of man'

For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united with his wife, and they will become one flesh." Gen. 2:22-24

It was the "For this reason" part that piqued my interest. For what reason must a man leave and find a wife? There's a reason? Look above- "she was taken out of man." That's why men need women- they are incomplete without them.* Woman was carved out of man, leaving an empty place, a longing for relationship.

But there's more- she was carved out of the same stuff as man. The same bones, the same flesh. She was of the same essence as Adam, yet had distinct differences. In mankind, by God's design there is both unity (one flesh) and diversity (male and female).

God said it was not good for man to be alone- but man was not alone- he had the animals, but even more importantly, he had God to keep him company. It says later that God would walk through the garden of Eden in the cool of the day (can't you just hear the crunch, crunch of the leaves under his feet- no sandals?).

So why is God worried about Adam being lonely?

Adam was made in the image of God. He is like God the way the moon is too the sun- a reflection. Man had the qualities of God, though not in the same quantity (that's for sure!). Man had qualities like love, creativity, joy, workfulness, and justice. But here's the kicker- The only quality that differentiated God and the image of God was that God was not alone. In a mystery called the Trinity, God is three in one, three beings of one essence- of one kind of flesh, a divine kind. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit love each other eternally- they fit together, they cannot do without one another. The Trinity is the definition of "unity and diversity," and Adam would never fully embody the qualities of God without having it in his own life.

Eve was created to be Adam's equal, the recipient of his love, and the giver of her love; this love would beget children who would love their parents, completing a mini-trinity of one-flesh beings loving each other distinctly and especially.

I've heard it said that Trinitarian theology is the backdrop of the Old Testament like furniture in a dark room (C.S. Lewis?), then it comes out more obviously in the New Testament. Hoping to detect more in the OT before the year is out!

----

*There's a lot more to say on this, but I personally think that all men are called to wisely seek marriage unless God specifically prompts them otherwise. But even unmarried men and boys need women as influencers and helpers- mothers, sisters, female friends, etc.

And Darkness Will Not Overcome It

2011-12-07T21:51:00.000-05:00

Arise, shine, for your light has come,
and the glory of the Lord rises upon you.
See darkness covers the earth
and thick darkness is over the peoples,
and his glory appears over you.
...
I will make peace your governor
and righteousness your ruler.
No longer will violence be heard in your land,
nor ruin in your borders,
but you will call your walls Salvation
and your gates Praise.
Selections from Isaiah 60

I will make peace your governor. What if Peace governed me? In a way it already does- as a believer, I know intellectually that Peace will get it's way- my heart and fate are sealed for a future with God that will be nothing less than Peace and Love itself. That will not change.

But if I lived like that were true in every moment- oh, how things would change. If I really lived as if all would end in Peace, I would take risks more. I would be uninhibited by fear. I would walk in confidence I do not yet know.

Light has risen upon me. It has chosen me out of the darkness. Glory appears over me- no more resisting with my fears and anxieties, no more putting fear in charge when one day it will bow to a God of Peace.

I Have to Have this Glue

2011-08-09T22:40:00.002-04:00

My boyfriend Andy made this marvelous find at Rite Aid:

Home School Glue!

Adhesive for the biggest-baddest cardboard forts, 4-H projects, and science experiments!

Once you use Homeschool Glue repair the bindings, your 8th child can use the Saxon Math 8/7 book after all!

Your kiddo won't practice violin? GLUE that fiddle to his shoulder!

"Beowulf" has inappropriate content for your precocious young reader? Just glue the offending pages together, and they'll never know!

Can't get your handmade tin-foil armor to stay on your sweatsuit for the Renaissance Faire? Homeschool Glue does the trick!

If you lose your bobby-pins along the way... this makes a bonnet stick any day!

Can't get your teen to sit still through another courtship seminar? Works great on metal folding chair seats!

... it's Home School Glue!

New York History Lesson...The Farmer Poet

2011-07-16T11:27:00.004-04:00

Many of you know me as your one New York history buff friend/enemy, mostly because I had a stint as a New York City tour guide... And I wrote part of the Encyclopedia of New York City.... And I worked at the New York Historical Society.

Okay. Your assumption is not misplaced. I mean that in the humblest way possible.

The other day I was flipping through the ENYC, and was intrigued by a particular entry:

Cutter, Bloodgood (1817-1906) Poet. Intrigued mostly by his name, I decided to look into it a little more- turns out he was one of the most quirky characters ever to live in Queens (and that's saying something). Here's one stanza of one of his poems (in honor of the 200th anniversary of Glen Cove):

Oysters and clams grow on your shore,

You have them brought fresh to your door;

Then they are a delicious treat,

But canned, they're hardly fit to eat.

Apparently, Mr. Cutter believed himself to be a marvelous poet, and was also a deeply religious (possibly hypocritical) man. He would walk through town handing out his poems and reading the Bible aloud. He believed that the San Francisco earthquake was judgment from on High, and New York and Paris had it coming to them too.

Eventually he self-published his poems in a lengthy volume entitled "The Long Island Farmer's Poems." Apparently, there is still a copy of it on the shelf at the Great Neck Public Library in Queens.

He took a 5-month voyage to the Holy Land, a trip known as the "Quaker City" excursion. He met Mark Twain on the passage across the ocean, who had this to say about Bloodgood:

Bloodgood was "that guy"

He is 50 years old, and small for his age. He dresses in homespun, and is a simple minded, honest, old-fashioned farmer with a strange proclivity for writing rhymes. He writes them on all possible subjects and gets them printed on slips of paper with his portrait at the head. These he will give to any man that comes along, whether he has anything against him or not. He has already written interminable poems on 'The Good Ship Quaker City' and an 'Ode to the Ocean' and 'Recollections of the Pleasant Time on Deck Last Night, which pleasant time consisting in his reciting some 75 stanzas of his poetry to a large party of passengers convened on the upper deck.

Twain subsequently caricatured Bloodgood's character as the Poet Lariat in his book Innocents Abroad. For the rest of his life, Bloodgood would brag about his acquaintance with Mark Twain.

You can click here to read a 1906 New York Times article about Bloodgood, fresh off the boat from his excursion abroad, showing up at the Mineola Fair in a heavy coat and rain boots and composing a poem on the spot.

Bloodgood's mill and mansion

Despite his eccentricities, Bloodgood ran a large mill, and died with a large fortune, most of which he left to the American Bible Society.

After he died, the Flushing Journal described at length about his filthy home filled with odds and ends from abroad:

Next is the door to the room where Mr. Cutter spent most of his days. In addition to an ancient desk, a cheap table, 2 or 3 old chairs, the usual medley of books and papers; standing, lying, leaning, toppling here and there are clocks enough to keep all the time forevermore. Next to this sitting room is a dingy little cubbyhole with a single window, whose tiny dust covered panes are not even translucent. It is so filled with odds and ends of furniture and fragments that one must literally back out to turn around. Here Mr. Cutter slept and died, among dirt and bugs.

Sources: Encyclopedia of NYC
Long Island Genealogy webpage
Douglaston/Little Neck Historical Society

Amateur Consumer Reports

2011-07-11T20:18:00.004-04:00

I call myself an amateur because I am so new at this big-girl life thing- when I was a teenager, I would pretty much save all my money and I looked down on my friends who bought frivolous things like Starbucks or clothes. I was lucky to have a grandma who bought me clothes.

But now, I am a consumer. It sounds so senseless- like I just walk around with a blowtorch, needlessly consuming innocent objects in flames.

It is nice to have an income, and not feel this absolute terror that you're going to quite literally run out of money. I told myself when I was a poor college student that when I had an income I would stay penny-pinching, but in fact, my life has adjusted to fit my income. People still call me Pennie though. Part of it is that the student spendthrift lifestyle isn't really sustainable. You can't eat hummus for every meal for all of your life (maybe they do that in Lebanon). You can't just NOT buy new clothes or shoes ever. And eventually you have to buy your own plane tickets home to visit.

It is freeing to be able to buy a book if you want one. Or a pair of shoes. Or an iced coffee.

There are a few things I've learned to love and prefer (after over a year of consuming them). I've categorized them for your convenience.

MY CONSUMER REPORTS:

Food:

> Strawberries and raspberries from the fruit stand at 96th and Broadway- it's 24 hours!

> New York Burger Company- their onion rings are to die for (literally, the grease will kill you).

> Cosi's Chicken Tinga sandwich - is already healthy AND you can order it with carrot sticks.

> Sabra hummus. Yes, I still eat hummus, and this is hands-down the best kind.

> Did you know you can buy one or two tacos at Chipotle? You aren't stuck with the default three. Don't let them trick you.

> Rita's Water Ice- imagine the lovechild of sorbet and a snowcone. This is what I am recommending to you.

Personal Care:

> Soliel razors- just as nice as Venus razors, but way cheaper.

> Body Shop body wash- Olive scent. You wouldn't think it... but it's really, really nice.

> Getting neon purple nailpolish on your toes in a sketchy salon on 125th St. You wouldn't think it...and you would be right. However, the neon purple looks great.

Random:

> RSVP Pens. They have always been my favorite journaling pens- for years!

> The Encyclopedia of New York City- every one should buy one! Even if you're not a New Yorker. *wink wink*

> Nikon Coolpix L120 - my camera. Everyone thinks I'm a serious photographer because the camera has a big zoom lens. But I'm not, and this baby still takes awesome pictures and the battery lasts forever!

Places:

> The Upper West Side. The perfect place for frolicking, dating a super-awesome guy, etc.

> Fort Tryon Park in Inwood. Wooded, quiet, magical Narnian land. Full of beautiful stone bridges. Overlooking the Hudson and a flawless Jersey shore (not that Jersey shore- I guess it's the Jersey riverbank)

> Hell's Kitchen Community Garden... if you have a key. If you don't, call me and we'll go!

Coffee on my commute:

> 43rd and 9th coffee guy has good hot coffee, not enough ice in the iced.

> 42nd and 7th coffee guy has decent iced coffee, but it's Times Square prices. Also, you should know that he is father to an honor student at Parsippany High.

> 23rd and 5th coffee guy is super cheery and super fast. His coffee is good and cheap.

> Cupcake Cafe cappuccino (not on my commute- but so good!)

I hope that in some way this enriches your life... Please feel free to offer your recent discoveries in the comments section. Let me know if you have a favorite blow-torch brand for my consumerist exploits.

The Sharing Shelf

2011-07-05T20:56:00.001-04:00

On 43rd Street there is an apartment building, and in that building is a stairwell, and in that stairwell is a window, and in that window is a sill.

A wide sill. Wide enough to be a shelf.

The Sharing Shelf.

My neighborly neighbors place little trinkets, old magazines, well-worn books, vases, pairs of shoes (from time to time) and other sundries that they no longer need on the Sharing Shelf. We all have a chance to claim any of these goods for our own use.

The Sharing Shelf reminds me of when times were simpler, when people recycled not by law but out of virtue, when people reused things and didn't call it "green," just "sensible," or "thrifty" (a fun word to say).

People in my building are so thrrrrifty (roll the "r") that the pickin's on the sharing shelf have been rather spare of late:

A Word About Bagels

2011-06-22T14:04:00.000-04:00

Just taught myself to bake my own bagels just in time- H&H is closing their Upper West Side store.
Time for an enterprising me to perfect my recipe and go into business...

http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/06/21/for-upper-west-siders-an-end-to-h-hs-steaming-hot-bagels/

Immortalized on Film #1

2011-06-21T22:37:00.000-04:00

In honor of that not-forgotten artichoke on the sidewalk, I thought I'd post a few of my latest photos. I do not claim to be a good photographer, but I do claim to be good at noticing unusual things in my surroundings.

The Souped-Up Sistine Chapel Elevator.

I recently visited a friend in Harlem, and her super had painted the interior of their elevator silver and gold, and plastered the ceiling with Biblical art. Mostly saints and naked Old Testament characters. It was a very old elevator, kind of a bumpy ride, and it didn't help your sense of safety when John Mayer's "Free Fallin'" started playing on the radio inside.

The Taxidermotel

When we went to Maine, my boyfriend was kind enough to point out this sign. It's his favorite of all [5 of] the signs in Jackman, Maine.

Reminiscent of a certain Alfred Hitchcock film, eh?

In Jackman, there is a giant motorized hook in the middle of town where you can hang your "game" for all the town to see. They also tap trees for maple syrup and go logging.

My Favorite Sign in New Hampshire.

Mostly because I have a brother named Roger. At the end of our trip to Maine, we took an evening drive through New Hampshire at sunset. We saw adorable little towns, beautiful farms, lakes, mountains, and Roger's Supa Dolla.

My Homemade Bagels
*self-glorifying interlude!*
Yep- that's right. I live in New York, one minute away from at least 6 bagel joints, and I decided to take the time to learn to make them myself. It was a simple yeast bread recipe, and the smell of the yeast in the warm water brought me right back to being 14 and baking bread for the 4-H Fair. After you shape the bagels, you boil them, then bake them. Our water comes through these giant pipes from these reservoirs in the Catskill mountains, and legend has it that New York bagels taste so good because are boiled in New York water... and oh man were these delicious.

The Parking Job

My friend Iris is a 27-year New Yorker, and she drove me to the reception in Brooklyn for a wedding we both went to this past weekend. With perfect finesse, she parallel-parked her car with 6-8 inches to spare on each side. I was amazed.

And finally... (I had to blow it up so you could see what it is):

Tarp Makes me ANGRY

Spotted on the Upper West Side: the Incredible Hulk's enemies captured, tarp-ed, and tied our green friend and hurled him into a back alley.

I was able to snap a picture before our hero blew the tarp to smithereens, made a whip out of barbed wire (handy and available) and scourged his foes.

I Am Like Nine Lepers

2011-06-21T21:24:00.000-04:00

See Jesus, walking along the border of Samaria and Judea. Twelve Hebrews of Hebrews walking with him, keeping a lookout, no doubt, for Samaritans. They enter a village to stay the night, and no sooner have they entered town, legs sore, feet dusty, the crickets starting to chirp as twilight infringes, ten men emerge from the shadows- silhouetted and barely visible against the falling night sky.

"Jesus, Master, have pity on us!"

Their voices are hoarse, and they move sluggishly. A few steps closer, and it's clear to Jesus that these are ten lepers. Some of them Hebrew, some of them Samaritan, but the lesions on their skin make it hard to tell the difference. Emaciated limbs hang limply; their eyes are sunken and glazed over. And Jesus responds immediately- "Go, show yourselves to the priests,"

Their response was equally immediate- they went. And as they went, they were cleansed. Their flesh started to rebuild itself, their skin regained color, their hair became soft and clean, their cheeks became smooth. They saw one another's faces visibly transform into perfect clean skin, and they knew that they could look in to a glass and see the same restoration on their own bodies.

They ran faster. As soon as the priest would declare them clean, they would have their lives back. They would be able to kiss their wives, and hold their children, and all the shame of uncleanliness would dissolve into a flood of God's glory- oh yes! They would be allowed into the Temple once more! God himself had favored them so!

In fact, God was standing right there. God had heard their plea for healing, the Great High Priest had sent them running faster, faster.

All but one ran faster and faster, assuming all their problems were over, running toward the fruit of an answered prayer without acknowledging the True Vine. But one remembered, that even in a restored state, he still wanted Jesus first. He turned from his course and fell to kiss Jesus' feet, wrap his arms around Jesus knees in worship, and praise the Son of Man for taking away his shame.

Life without leprosy is still a life in a harsh world, he knew. Life without leprosy is still a life of need... one answered prayer is granted, ten more needs arise within a day. Leprosy was a problem, but he knew he needed more healing, deeper healing of his heart. The life of worship, of delighting in our need and the Savior's sufficiency was the life he wanted. He was a Samaritan- a non-worshipper- by race, but a better Hebrew than most at heart.

I am a healed leper- but one that runs away faster and faster. He still mercifully heals me, daily, hourly. But there is glory greater than my solved problems that I choose to ignore. I am neglectful to thank my Savior for his great healing work in me, and I do not glorify him. I am a Hebrew by race with a Samaritan heart- a chosen daughter of God through Christ, but with a heart that does not worship, an entitled heart, even.

Oh Jesus, heal me more deeply than my skin. As deeply as you can. May I come to you first with all my joy, for every good and perfect gift is from you first.

Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen but on what is unseen... (2 Cor. 4:16-18)

One Thing I Did. One Thing I Want To Do.

2011-06-08T19:14:00.004-04:00

THE THING I DID:

In my latest act of cancer prevention, and because of multiple warnings from my caring boyfriend and from Time Magazine, I've decided to stop using my cell phone as an alarm clock.

I bought a vibrating, under-pillow alarm clock on the online and it just came in the mail today. I guess vibrating alarm clocks are usually popular with people who are deaf, and they ought to be popular with people who have roommates!

Actual size. You can't even feel it under your pillow. Don't even worry about it! I will be sure to let you know how it serves me tonight and if I feel more alert tomorrow at work without all that overnight radiation.

THE THING I WANT TO DO:

Did you know that you can teach your fish to do tricks? Did you think that goldfish had only a 5-second memory span? Well apparently, not!

Apparently, you use this little food-dispensing wand to coax your fish into doing the Slalom. Isn't this totally fun!? I taught my poodle back home to dance on her back two feet and jump through hoops. I see no reason why the next fish I have couldn't play soccer.

Maine and my New Gadget

2011-05-27T14:24:00.004-04:00

My favorite writers, John Steinbeck and E.B. White, had a lot to say about Maine. I expect that I will too, after visiting there this weekend. I'm going to logging country. The nearest Starbucks is 3 hours away. I can't wait.

In other news: I just bought myself a *sweet* camera, and I got a pretty good deal too. I am hoping this little beauty will make me a better blogger, because now I can take pictures of all the ridiculous things that I see every day and fill your lives with my wonderous insights and discoveries.

In recent weeks, I was going back and forth in my mind about whether to purchase a camera, and the thing that put me over the edge was seeing an artichoke on the sidewalk.

Just laying there.

This artichoke was begging to be photographed and blogged about... it yearned for a funny caption like "Upper East Siders must be reminded not to litter."

"THAT'S IT!" I said to myself. "I'm buying a camera, and I'm going to carry it around with me everywhere!"

...oh, and my sister's getting married this summer. I should take pictures of that too.

My camera has already documented a fundraiser for Love146. My photos are already doing good!

I was too cheap to buy a camera case. In fact, I plan to make one out of some lovely gray and red plaid wool I have at home. In the meantime, my pretty new toy is nestled in a knit ski-cap and fastened with a hair-tie. I hear Maine is a cold place, after all.

And Other Mysteries

2011-05-21T09:03:00.001-04:00

September 25, 1997.
We went to see Market Square Arena to see the circus for my tenth birthday. I was only allowed to invite two friends, so we did a little family party my sister and I + you and your sister. As we drove downtown, you handed me a little present wrapped in tissue paper, and I was delighted to discover the latest Point of Grace album inside. We turned it on, huddled around the CD's insert and sang with the lyrics. We thought we were just like Point of Grace - two blonde sisters, two brunette sisters.

You are Lord of life, love, and other mysteries
You know my future, you know my history
I find in you, all I ever need to know...
About life and love and other mysteries

You were a budding feminist, wearing acid-washed jeans, and scrunchies.

September 25, 2010
You got the idea to come visit me in New York for my 23rd birthday. We went on walks, to street fairs, and even sat in beautiful church talking about the failures of feminism in the church pews. You got a scent of how God is at work in this city, and something in you knew you should move to New York, live here, love here. We walked the High Line with a number of friends for my birthday party. You loved everyone and everyone loved you. One young man especially took notice.

May 21, 2011
You move into your Manhattan apartment today. Nine months later, your hair-brained idea to move to New York turned into a job, an apartment, and a pretty great boyfriend. I have never seen someone pursue what they want so hard and with such faith. I'm sorry for those times when I wondered if you were being ridiculous.

Now that you're a New Yorker, know that soon, life will slow down. You've made it here, you'll get used to it here, the shininess will fade off of the glass skyscrapers and subway cars. You'll work day-in, day-out. I'm here for you, whatever you need. I'm almost a 5-year New Yorker, after all. But go to God first- he's the Lord of your life, all your love, and every other mystery up ahead.

Tomorrow.

2011-05-21T00:34:00.000-04:00

"See you in Heaven," my coworker said on his way out the door.

Oh yeah. Tomorrow is doomsday.

On my way home today, I was walking through Times Square and there was a guy with a sign that said,
"THE BIBLE GUARANTEES IT."

A girl standing right behind him held a sign that said, "JESUS IS FAKE."

There has to be some sort of middle ground.

Like:
JESUS IS REAL, BUT HE'S NOT COMING BACK TOMORROW.

Powerful Words at the Royal Wedding!

2011-04-29T07:31:00.006-04:00

First of all, I am so glad I got up early to watch the streaming video with my Anglophile roommate. We loved that the BBC used no commentary, just followed the action with great camera work. My roommate knew who everybody was- political leaders, British celebrities, the royal family members. My favorite shot was the bells at the end of the ceremony- so like a fairy tale.

And of course- you gotta love the Book of Common Prayer. Thank God for it, providing some gospel orthodoxy and conviction in a society that would no doubt default to softened and politically correct words, and celebrate a secularized view of marriage. In that sense, the Book of Common Prayer is more precious today than ever. Just look over this definition of marriage from the ceremony- it's clear, concise, and flies in the face of many of our secular notions:

First, It was ordained for the procreation of children, to be brought up in the fear and nurture of the Lord, and to the praise of his holy Name.

Secondly, It was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication; that such persons as have not the gift of continency might marry, and keep themselves undefiled members of Christ's body.

Thirdly, It was ordained for the mutual society, help, and comfort, that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity. Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined.

Commoners and royals alike across the world have been getting married to this liturgy for a thousand years. The richness of the words offers both a blessing and a challenge to the marrying couple- nobody is exempt, nobody's love is above being a work of transformation of choosing the beloved over the self. Not even a royal couple (except that Catherine noticeably left out the part in the vows about promising to "obey" William).

The marriage ceremony from the BOCP (my affectionate name for it) has a mysterious way of taking your eyes off of even the most celebrated of couples and pointing you to the greater story that each couple takes part in telling; that is, Jesus choosing his Church, and giving himself up for her. The wedding did just that- Cate and Will sat off to the side for the majority of the ceremony, while hymns were sung and scriptures read. Even in one of the few aristocratic societies left in the West, Jesus is the name above every name, we ought to obey him, if only because of his self-giving love.

How wonderful to see that declared in front of 2 billion people... the largest television audience in history. Now if only I, like the British, could get the day off work too!

Won't You Be My MicroNeighbor

2011-04-09T10:49:00.004-04:00

My rent went up $200 this year. It's our third year in this apartment. Last year we had no increase at our renewal, and but this year- $200! There was weeping and gnashing of teeth in true Hell's Kitchen form, but we renewed all the same, wondering why all of a sudden our apartment was suddenly worth so much more.

With perfect timing, New York Magazine graced my mailbox with a feature article about "20 microneighborhoods that may just be the Next Big Thing." First thing I thought was, hmm, microneighborhood- that's a cool word. Then I saw it, #3, Far West 42nd Street. Apparently, the giant glass box that has been going up for the past year, destroying our view, is actually the Next Big Thing in a good way. It's called the MiMA and it looks like this:

Apparently, it has all these amenities, and floor-to-ceiling windows, and blah blah blah. All I know that indeed it is a Big Thing and that it also has special powers to raise the rents of everyone nearby.

"We're going to get pushed out of Manhattan," my roommate ominously prophesied.

I promised her nothing of the sort would happen, and vowed to use the power of the pen to fend off any snooty shoe designer or New York Mag editor from becoming my microneighbor. So I am ready to compose a list of why you don't want to move to West 42nd St.

1. The view. What they don't tell you about the MiMA is that there isn't gorgeous blue sky around you. Oh no. Your view is actually going to be the two ugliest apartment buildings in Manhattan.

These buildings are two blocks apart from each other, and the MiMa is now right between them, behind the stripey building, and in front of Manhattan Plaza (the brown one).

2. Manhattan Plaza. People go on and on about Manhattan Plaza- "oh! Jerry Seinfeld used to live there!" In actuality, it's a crazy place. It's a subsidized apartment building for artists, and most of them are very elderly. Aww... elderly people make for a great neighborhood, you might say. Well these aren't your sweet grandma and grandpa type of elderly people. Imagine a 20-year-old bohemian artist type hanging out on St. Mark's Place in the East Village. You imagine tattoos, wild parties, probably drugs, sardonic sense of humor, and a general disappointment with "society." They say, sardonically, "I've been around the block a few times." Now add 60 years of "going around the block," purple tube socks, and a Yorkie with matted fur. THOSE kind of old people. That's why Jerry Seinfeld moved to West 81st Street.

3. Spring Break. West 42nd St. means West of Times Square. This means that every March and April, you'll be navigating larger-than-usual crowds of people to get anywhere. The usual touristy family isn't so bad, it's the choir trips. The scads of hyper high-schoolers from Iowa with their I Heart NY hoodies and directionally challenged chaperones. The choir trips include the obligatory Broadway shows, so you can't even go out at 8pm or 10pm because the sidewalks are so crowded with teenagers teetering on their high heels.

4. No-Man's-Land. I'm talking about the stretch between 8th and 9th Avenues. I walk it every day, and it puts the Hell in Hell's Kitchen, most notably because of all the spit. Spitting is SO gross, and for some reason, the sidewalk on that stretch is particularly spitty. Port Authority Bus Terminal, that venerable icon of urban ugliness, is also along that stretch- yes, one more scenic part of your view from MiMA.

5. Need one more reason? I'm struggling to think of another... I mean, on the whole I've been incredibly happy here. Maybe the fact that it's no longer undiscovered. Most of you readers know that I am always raving about my neighborhood as the Next Big Thing... but now that it's actually happening, I might need to go scout out a new territory.

A Song I am Obsessed With

2011-04-06T11:03:00.002-04:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJ3xTjvj9tw&NR=1

I'm sure it's been out for thousands of years and I'm just now discovering it.

That's always the way it is with music and me. I get very behind.

Here's a song that's actually been out for a thousand years and I'm just now hearing it:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dlr90NLDp-0

Which one do you think is more groovy?

What song are you listening to over and over?

Tell Me About Yourself

2011-03-22T20:43:00.004-04:00

I read an article recently in Time magazine about data mining. No, not literal mining- it's just that every little thing you've ever put up about yourself online is captured by these out-of-control data companies who sell it to advertisers so they can try to target ads for your particular interests on the websites that you visit.

As of right now, for example, my Gmail ad (on the top bar) reads:

Calls that Work For You - Have Effective Calls. Get More Done

I have a sales job where I make a lot of calls and somehow Google knows this.

My Facebook ads read:

"Good at Calculus? Win cool rewards for answering calculus questions."

"If you're in NYC and want to check out the hottest clubs..."

Not so accurate, Facebook, I used to be good at calculus. And I only like the hottest 4-H clubs. However, I won't slam you, Facebook, because I just added a "Like" button to this blog, and I want you to Like me back (there's also a Twitter button- at the suggestion of Anonymous, one of my favorite commenters).

Pandora, the internet radio site, posts ads seemingly based on one simple data point: I'm a woman. I was talking to a guy about this, and sometimes we get ads for the same thing but with different wording for a man. But most of the time it's different ads altogether. For example, Soap.com lets him know that they sell (I hate writing this, but it's true) condoms. I get ads for graduate programs. He met this fact with indignation, to which I responded, "Well, women are statistically more likely than men to go to graduate school. And men are more likely than women to wear... well..."

*cough* *cough*

We both get Pandora ads for 250 free business cards from a printing company. The happy voice on the ad lists several handy ways to use your new business cards- Networking cards! Dating cards! Mommy cards!

Let's take this in order:

Networking cards.

Dating cards.

Mommy cards.

Networking cards- I get that. You shrink down your resume to the size of a business card. Duh.

Dating cards? I would be seriously creeped out if I went to one of those hottest clubs and the hottest guy started talking to me and handed me a card that was specially made for handing out to girls. I would wonder, "How many of these has he handed out tonight?" and "Am I supposed to call him??" My boyfriend gave me his business card when we first met, and now he's kind of embarrassed about that. At the time I thought it was kind of cool especially since I could choose from three colors. A "dating card" would be just slimy, no matter how many colors they came in.

Mommy cards? According to the photo on the ad, you are supposed to write, "Sarah Smith, Timmy and Bobby's Mommy" with your phone number. When Timmy and Bobby make friends with Johnny and Ricky at the playground, you're obligated to hand over a Mommy Card to their mommy and schedule a play date. If you make friends with the other mom first, do your kids give her kids Kid Cards? If these exchanges happen at an Upper East Side playground, perhaps there should be a variation called the Nanny Card.

Clearly, I'm not going to order 250 free dating cards or mommy cards... but 250 free cards is a pretty cool deal. I have been contemplating the places in my life where there is obvious communication breakdown that could be remedied by a card. The cards put everything in writing in 75 characters or less. You just hand over the card, and there will be no mix-up.

Chipotle Cards: "Vegetarian fajita burrito with no cheese or sour cream please. Thx."

Phonetic Name Pronunciation Cards: "It's Pen-EL-oh-pee not "Pen-ah-lope. Thx."

There are other times in my daily life when I'm too shy to say what I'm really thinking, and maybe the option of just handing over a card could bridge the gap.

Rafiqi's Halal Stand Cards: "Chicken over rice, with a little bit of hot sauce, and STOP flirting with me or I'm going to Chipotle!"

Beautiful Person in the Subway Cards: "You're a really beautiful person, and you should know that."

Realistic Contact Info Cards: "Here's"my phone number: ###-###-####; I hate voicemails and I never check them. Just text if I don't answer."

Since I'm getting all into publicizing my blog more, maybe I should get A Word With Penelope Cards. It's an idea.

What would you put on your cards? What communication gap would you close? What do you find yourself writing down OVER and OVER that you could remedy by handing out your free cards?

What else would you like to tell me about yourself?

What would you do with a couple extra hundred bucks from a data miner after you sell him your hypothetical readership's hypothetical information? Thx.

A Tribute to New Followers

2011-03-01T21:07:00.002-05:00

Today I noticed that I got three new followers!

Thank you, Sharon for following my blog. It was lovely to share brownies with you the other day and talk about classical music.

Karen- thank you for following. You're great to have subscribed, and I hope you can help Grannie get online to see what I write.

Steven- I don't think I know who you are. I know a lot of Stevens. You could be my dad (Steven) or you could be a movie director (Spielberg). Thanks for following- tell your friends. Run any screenplay adaptations by me when you get a chance.

Bookshelves Happen

2011-02-24T20:43:00.006-05:00

Sometimes something will happen that makes me wonder if I'm witnessing that particular thing that is happening for the first time it's ever happened in the history of the world. Saturday happened to be one of those times.

Here's what happened:

On my way home from Harlem, I was between 8th and 9th Avenues in midtown, and I noticed they had closed off the street and a Parks Department van was parked with its flashers on. Everyone standing around was looking up at a shelving unit that was caught in the upper branches of a tree. Yep- a bookshelf in a tree. Now I've heard of cats getting stuck in trees; Ian Frazier even wrote an entire essay for the New Yorker about plastic bags getting caught in trees; there's a whole blog about that phenomenon in fact. But a bookshelf? A Parks Department guy had this long expandable rod (reminiscent of one of those kiddie light-sabers but longer) with a hook on the end. I watched the shelf slide off the branch and fall to the ground- I think it bounced.

I laughed pretty hard to myself and kept on walking. My two-doors-down neighbor,

comedienne and actress Kristen Schaal, witnessed the incident as well. She was walking from the other direction and I heard her quip in a sing-songy voice, "how did it get there?"

Good question Kristen. I wonder that myself. Was it a not-really-all-that-clever- prank by a local group of hoodlums? Were two people having a raging argument in an apartment across the street and in the heat of the moment one of them flung the bookshelf (!!!) out the window? We may never know, but we do know that we need an expandable rod like that should it ever happen again.

By the way, here's the character Kristen Schall named after me.

Another By the Way: City Bakery is having their Hot Chocolate Festival right now, and every day they feature a new creative flavor of hot chocolate. Today, I went with my friend Emily and they were serving beer flavored hot chocolate. So two questions:

1. Isn't that disgusting?

2. Which should I start a blog about: hot-beer-chocolate or bookshelves-in-trees?

I Kind of Hope This Happens to Me One Day

2011-02-18T12:35:00.005-05:00

Another newsworthy moment in New York City life: Woman gives birth in a taxi in the Lincoln Tunnel. What an adventure! My coworker's wife is about to have her fourth baby, so needless to say, I forwarded him this story promptly after reading it.

I love that an NYPD paramedic delivered the baby. You can read here about my personal experience with NYPD officers. They didn't perform any medical intervention, but we did eat donuts together in a police car in the South Bronx at 3am. Come on, you know you want to read it.

I am now trying to think of some witty way of saying that trying to drive through the Lincoln Tunnel takes as long and is just as arduous as trying to get a baby through the birth canal...

... there has to be a metaphor in there somewhere and a non-creepy way of expressing it. Sorry for the way my mind works.

An "Only in New York" Kind of Yesterday

2011-02-15T15:14:00.004-05:00

I counted a grand total of ten men clustered around the flower shop on 43rd and 8th at 5pm. Despite these guys' obvious lack of planning, the spectacle was cute.

I sang "Happy Birthday" to Mike Bloomberg at the Bowery Mission Gala at the Plaza Hotel. Just a day in the life.

Andy and I had our first dance.

It felt like 60 degrees outside... it was probably only 45, but my heart was warm.

It was a pretty great Valentine's Day.

In the Olden Days

2011-02-12T21:54:00.008-05:00

In the Olden Days I used to wear shiny metallic jeans. This was when I was about 13, and I remember being fixated on getting a pairin a way that I am rarely fixated on getting anything. I remember my Grannie taking me shopping and looked in store after store before I found jeans that were shiny enough. I wore them to Chuckie Cheese once, and I probably wore them to sleepovers and the hippest junior high parties. Yesterday, the sun cameout and I was walking to the post office in my nice "dress" jeans from a grown-up store

(not Limited Too). I noticed that, in the sun, these jeans have a shiny metallic sheen not unlike my pair from the Olden Days.

In the Olden Days, matchbooks used to have the striking strip (I just made up that term, but you know exactly what I mean, don't you?) on the front of the matchbook. Then, people would leave the matchbook cover open when they struck the match, which would accidentally catch the entire matchbook on fire. People got hurt. Burned. They tried to print "close cover before striking" on the matchbooks to warn people. But people didn't listen. They tried anti-smoking campaigns. But that didn't work either. So they made a law that the striking strip had to be on the back of the matchbook. The matchbook industry has never been the same.

In the Olden Days, my mom and her sisters were teenagers and they made up acronyms for dating-- like MMK for Mutual Mature Kiss. They also nicknamed Sir Walter Scott "Stinky." My mom wore pig tails and tied the ends with that bulky wooly yarn they loved in the 70s. She was on a bowling team too. It would have been fun to grow up with my mom.

Sir Walter "Stinky" Scott

In the Olden Days, James Stewart was considered Hot. He had an honest face, he was clean cut, and he had a comforting voice. Have you ever seen "Rear Window?" In the only shirtless scene I've ever seen him do, Jimmy Stewart makes it absolutely clear that he does not have a hot bod. No he does not. And yet, my love for him is enduring and true- he was handsome at every age. Today, girls swoon over boring faces like Channing Tatum's simply because he has nice pecs. Please! A good pec's life expectancy is about 3 years, then he hits 25 and it's over.

Ageless.........

..................... Aging.

In the Olden Days, women-folk would sew ruffles for everything, mostly because in the Olden Days people were scrupulously modest- even for furniture. Ruffles had to cover not only your own legs, but table legs, piano legs, and chair legs. This is silly, and one reason I am glad

I did not live in the Olden Days.

Gaa! The wing chair's ankles are showing!

In the Olden Days, my neighborhood was ridden with gang activity. Today it is ridden with Thai restaurants. Another reason that I made the right choice not to live in the Olden Days.

"I Exerted Quite a Bit of Energy"

2011-02-11T12:50:00.003-05:00

"It's a fully functional igloo, and I want to prove it by sleeping in it," said Gindoff, an air conditioning service manager who lost his job two weeks ago.

Read more. What a solid way to use your days of unemployment.

Watch the video- it's priceless.

It's Cold

2011-01-12T22:06:00.007-05:00

Tis the season for derelict Christmas trees- every[stinkin]where. That is, every sidewalk on a block that is even remotely residential is littered with pines of all sizes that are so dry that they hold their shape even when lain on their sides. It snowed all night last night, so the trees were covered this morning, just the way pine trees should be in Colorado (or somewhere)- a touch of frosty glitter on every needle. But because the trees were sideways, walking to the train was like walking through a freakish Salvador Dali dream scape from a certain Alfred Hitchcock movie I happen to own (trivia points if someone can name it).

The outside air has gotten so frigid that it stings the inside of my nostrils. It's like breathing brain freeze. As winter approached, I promptly borrowed my roommate's extra stocking cap, only to realize upon arriving at work that it had bent my bangs into a perfect right angle. I was forced to pick up a looser, non-bang-squishing hat for a few bucks at H&M. Until this week the hat has been treating me quite satisfactorily.

(forgive the poor/dorky photography)

Like I said, until this week. My sister sent me a package full of souvenirs from China including the most epic set of furry earmuffs ever conceived by a human mind, Chinese or not.

Pictured below with hat for maximum warmth:

The photo, again, does not capture the awesome size of these earmuffs (we must forgive again the poor photography). My sister says that such muffs are all the rage in Beijing, and that people walk around looking like they have a stuffed animal on each ear. It is my belief that Tricia's intent in buying me these was to not squish my bangs. I decided the only way to get away with these earmuffs in a city other than Beijing (i.e. New York) is to work it when you wear them. Strut with confidence so people think you're so "with it" they just can't understand. The muffs are so warm, it is impossible to resist them, and also impossible for your brain to freeze. Thank you, Tricia!

This weekend, my choir is going on tour to Canada, so I am definitely bringing the fluffy earmuffs along. It's gonna be the coldest experience of my life up to this point, or so I hear from former Canadians of my acquaintance. I love winter, so this shouldn't be too trying.

An update will be in order when I return.

Warm Sweaters, Cold Blizzards

2010-12-29T10:46:00.002-05:00

There were sweaters waiting for me when I arrived in Indiana for Christmas- a couple of the bulkiest, coziest sweaters imaginable- sweaters from my high school days that my mom had decided not to throw out. It's Christmas, so you're allowed to wear sweaters that are huge and make you look as chunky as a skein of mohair yarn. You have to leave room for cookies, after all.

With the exception of my sister being away in China, the spirit of Christmas weekend was intact- not only intact, but fresh. During college, it felt strange to be home from NYC, like I was torn between two identities, associated with two places that could not be more different from one another. Something switched over this past fall, and I've finally started to feel like I live in New York- not like I'm camping out there or playing house there. Now, an Indiana break is welcomed, not confusing.

An epic blizzard hit the entire Eastern seaboard this past weekend, so my flight back on December 26th was canceled. I'm rescheduled for December 31st. That was the earliest they could get me back. I ran out of socks, so I'm borrowing my brother's. I'm filling the time with crocheting, shopping with my grandmother, chillin' with cousins, watching movies, riding in cars (!), and teasing my Dad (poor guy- but what does he expect when three times in the last 24 hours he's walked through the house delicately holding a baggie of snow-dusted poodle poop?).

My ever-suburban parents insist that I visit the BMV to get a replacement driver's license while I am home- I misplaced mine over a year ago, and I still haven't gotten around to getting a new one. I haven't needed it, I tell them. I never drive, and if I get carded at a bar, I show them my passport, which admittedly is a rather dorky thing to do. If only to save face at bars and concerts, I will go to the BMV.

I shouldn't say my parents are ever-suburban- they really like cities. I've been campaigning the idea that when my parents get old and are no longer able to drive, they should move to NYC to live with me. A city like New York is a marvelous place to be old- you can get around by bus or by foot (albeit slowly), you can get out and do things without being dependent on others to come pick you up in their cars. When you are old in New York, I tell them, you live a simpler life- less stuff, less space, more grandchildren. You don't have to keep up a yard- you can just bedeck your balcony with lawn ornaments that make you happy. You can get up at the crack of dawn and go to the diner for coffee and slowly digest challah French toast and the Wall Street Journal. You can sit on a bench in the park and feed pigeons or give nickels to little kids. It's all very romantic- an adventure for the end of life. And if they still want to use their driver's license for something, they can go to a bar. I think they are warming up to the idea.

Indiana fits like an old sweater... it's a little roomy and stretched out, just like the wide open parking lots and farm fields in Indiana. The sky is so expansive here! But I don't feel exposed- I feel warm. Other than the occasional gasp that greets my new nose piercing, Indiana welcomes the new me. It's okay that I miss the city a little too.

See you soon, New York.

On Thanksgiving

2010-11-23T15:40:00.004-05:00

You should be jealous of my Thanksgiving. I can hardly contain myself, I'm so excited.

You should be jealous that I get to hop on a plane, get home, hug my parents and siblings, and have a warm cuddly puppy jump into my arms the moment I walk in the door.

You should be jealous that on Wednesday I get to try on bridesmaid dresses with my bride-to-be sister. I get to catch up with my newly grown-up brother.

You should be jealous that Thursday, I am eating fried biscuits, potatoes, turkey, and glazed carrots in a log cabin lit by candles and a roaring fire. Uncle Mark probably has another one of his international adventures to tell us about, and Nana will tell stories about her students, Papa will tell stories of his childhood pet, Joe the Crow. We'll go to the State Park and hike off our meal, then cozy up in musty afghans and flip through National Geographic or old family albums. We'll talk about our ancestor, George, who crossed the Atlantic on the Mayflower.

I have the coolest, Thanksgivingest Thanksgiving in the New World.

But you won't be jealous. This is exactly what I love about Thanksgiving- everyone gets to be grateful, whether you are with a flesh-and-blood family over the river and through the woods, or braving the impenetrable crowds of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade in Manhattan. You get to be grateful to share a potluck feast with a surrogate family of choice, thankful for hospitality and for the warmth of brothers and sisters who have chosen to invited you. You can be grateful to have a day off, a day to yourself.

Thanksgiving is what we were made for- the act, not the holiday. Savoring, cherishing, resting. We're all invited.

Saved

2010-11-22T18:11:00.003-05:00

My favorite song we sing in choir, and a source of encouragement every time we perform it. Listen to it here.

You have pardoned my transgressions,
You have sanctified my soul.
You have honored my confession,
By your blood, Lord, I've been made whole.

Lord, you prosper and protect me.
And your blessings ever flow.
You have filled me with your glory-
You have made me as white as snow.

By your blood, Lord, I am forgiven,
And by your grace I've been set free.

I am saved by your mercy!
I've been transformed by your love.
You're my glory,
And the lifter of my head,
Strong deliverer, you'll fight my battles in my stead.
You will preserve me,
By your mercy.
Hallelujah! I am saved!

Your Name Here

2010-11-14T22:32:00.004-05:00

Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies, Penelope? Why do you think I could forget you, when I never forget a sparrow? It is outside my very nature to overlook any creature that I love, and I do love you. No one can snatch you out of my hand, little one.

Penelope, I have kept count of your tossings- the times you cannot sleep from worry. I have a bottle of your tears. I log the tears in a book and write down the story behind each one, and I promise, I promise, that I will fill volumes of books with stories of your joy.

I remember everything, I know everything that is to come- in me all things hold together, because I made them. That means you, Penelope. My purpose for you will stand. I will do all that I please for you because, Penelope, you have aligned yourself with me. And I have demonstrated my love for you in this- while you were still in rebellion against me, I died for you. You could not be in safer, more able hands, for I rose from the grave. I live. I reign. I have your good at heart and your joy in mind. Your supreme joy is me- and I am completely available to you.

Just as I have overcome death, you can overcome the difficulties of this world, because I am within you and you will never be without me. I have already overcome the world.

And yet, Penelope, I still hear you contend with me at times- I hear your arguments- "why are you doing things this way instead of that way," you say. Penelope, do not quarrel with your Maker, it will only bring you woe. Does clay form a mouth and say to the potter, "what are you making?" Of course not- the clay spins and spins on the wheel, and with every touch of the potter, with every gentle stroke of his fingers, the clay becomes closer to what the Maker intends.

You, Penelope, take a spin on this earth I created day after day, and my gospel is bearing fruit everywhere. You don't see it all, but you are a part of it. Let me touch your heart, change it, form you, like I did in the womb, and I will help you. Do not be afraid, Penelope. My servant whom I have chosen, what I have planned that I will do.

And there is plan. It won't harm you, but it will prosper you. What can any man do to you when I am on your side? Your enemies will turn back- just call out my name.

Based on: Luke 12:6; John 10:29; Colossians 1:17; Romans 5:8; Romans 8:28; Isaiah 45:9; Colossians 1:6; Isaiah 44:2; Jeremiah 29:11; Psalm 124:3; Psalm 56:8-11

A Receptionist's Life #5 Messes

2010-11-11T11:17:00.003-05:00

Today on my way to the bus, the pomegranates on my neighborhood fruit stand caught my fancy so I bought one. I've never bought or eaten a pomegranate before- all I know about pomegranates I learned from Song of Solomon or home school co-op. I know you are supposed to eat the seeds, but how access the seeds... anyone's guess.

I anticipated getting to work 10 minutes early, allowing plenty of time for me to configure my pomegranate experience. I imagined myself with the beautifully sliced Biblical fruit on my desk, leisurely eating a seed or two between phone calls and emails. Oh no- I cut the thing open and bright red juice went EVERYWHERE. It looked like animal sacrifice had taken place in our office kitchen- also Biblical, but not what I had had in mind. The sticky juice was all over me, and I was completely immobilized from answering the phone, refilling the coffee, finding a roll of paper towels for a coworker. I persevered however, and gradually picked out each and every seed from my pomegranate, depositing them onto a saucer. I am now leisurely eating seeds at my desk, having learned the lesson that pomegranate consumption is more of a Saturday project because it will make me late for work.

Most every work place has its messes. Hospitals especially, but also your typical office space in the Empire State Building. No sooner had I sat down with my seeds, than one of my coworkers confessed that they had made a mess in the kitchen and they did not have time to clean it up. No problem at all... the coffee maker just overflowed everywhere.

A couple weeks ago, someone was changing a toner cartridge in another department and made a nightmarish mess that I fortunately was not in charge of cleaning up. The average layperson may not know this, but toner for the printer is actually a fine black powder, and before you put the cartridge in you have to leave the cap on and shake it. This guy took the cap off and shook it, creating a cloud of black toner dust that coated everything in the vicinity. Needless to say, he was embarrassed. I am pretty sure that's what happens with those chunky plastic security tags on clothes at department stores- they squirt ink all over you if you try to remove them. Also embarrassing.

Sometimes epic messes happen in the antiquated Empire State Building- the sewage leaks or a mysterious white film settles over everything in the men's restroom. My company has a storage space that we call The Cave in the sub-basement of the Empire State Building. Whenever you walk in you can hear/see rats scurrying about and a bucket catches a slowly dripping yellowish-green goo that secretes from the ceiling. It's the sort of thing that makes me appreciate how small my messes are.

Basic Principles

2010-11-07T09:42:00.003-05:00

"See to it that no one takes you captive through hollow and deceptive philosophy, which depends on human tradition and the basic principles of this world rather than on Christ." Col.2:8

Basic principles of this world are concepts like scarcity, entropy, chaos, chance. There will never be enough, things are always getting worse. More concrete examples: recession, messy politics, wars.

Living by these principles will leave you hollow, deceived, and worst of all, a captive to fear and striving.

Basic principles of the life in Christ: Riches of joy and love, the promise of ever-increasing glory and renewal, Providence and grace- the unmoved mover. Principles of Christ are not just based on blind optimism, they are reflected in reality. If you follow Jesus, you have seen God change someone's life from captivity to freedom. You have seen a marriage take place in which two sinners declare covenant love forever with the help of God. You have seen God provide for your needs when things seemed scarce.

Why? Why do the principles of Christ supersede the limits and setbacks of the world's basic principles? Because Christ is the ruler. He is in charge.

"He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation. For by him all things were created: all things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things were created by him and for him. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together." (Col. 1:15-17)

Highly Recommended

2010-11-04T12:09:00.002-04:00

http://catalogliving.net/post/1477920371/polar-opposites

Dying of laughter.

A Receptionist's Life #4 Sichuan

2010-11-01T18:32:00.004-04:00

As I mentioned before, I work in the Empire State Building. Usually the building is swarming with tourists, as it is the #1 NYC destination for tourists. In addition, one of the top 3 busiest Starbucks in New York rents space on the ground level (the other two in the top 3 are each a block away). Needless to say, it's a busy building.

What most people don't know is that the Empire State Building is 60% empty. The building has a hard time attracting renters for some reason, which means that things are pretty quiet on the 15th floor.

Since terrorism is a general concern, the tallest building in New York is protected by stringent security measures. Uniformed guards pace the lobby. Velvet ropes guide the tourists. Any guest to your office must have a visitor pass and show photo ID to get one. To get a visitor pass, a receptionist must individually enter the visitors' name into a password protected security system 24 hours prior to their visit. Or, the guest may be escorted by a tenant. If the stranger has no escort- a "walk in," if you will, the security desk personnel will call the receptionist to ask permission to issue the visitor pass. I have more than once turned someone away, mostly because I didn't know who the heck they were or they were sales people.

Even if you make it past the visitor desk, pass in hand, a set of especially finicky turnstiles guard the elevator banks. Most every guest has a terrible time scanning their pass- it's enough to frustrate any potential hoodlum or invader. Only those with the purest, goodliest of hearts get the satisfaction of reaching the elevator. Once you alight the elevator, you have to ring a doorbell and the receptionist will let you in and the door will lock behind you. Even the bathroom doors are locked and you can only get a key from a scrutinizing receptionist like myself. I have more than once turned people away... just kidding. I let them use the bathroom!

Essentially, the Empire State Building is guarded by a security system that resembles something out of "Ocean's Eleven." It's no small feat to have access to the quiet, mysterious offices of the 15th floor.

What stupefies me is that no matter how secure we may feel in our limestone tower, unsolicited Chinese take-out menus still end up on my desk or under our door. Sometimes a sneaky Chinese guy will slip in and have the gall to hand-deliver it to me. Not only is this demonstrate the weaknesses in the Empire State Building security system, it is a direct affront to my power as the receptionist. Shall we say,I am far from likely to cheerily go buy Chinese food. My stomach is rather unsettled instead, and I promptly throw out the menu.

Chinese take-out menus are like my bobby pins. No matter how much I try to contain them, they somehow end up everywhere. Stuck in my couch, in the cracks between doors and door frames, in the middle of the floor, on the bathroom counter. They are aggressive little things. To my grave I probably won't be able to keep them under control. In fact, even as they lower my casket into the ground, a Chinese take-out menu will inevitably flutter down from the sky and land atop the roses and daisies.

Nobody is safe from Chinese take-out menus. I can fend off unwanted sales calls and prevent printers from running out of toner. I can personally select every single visitor to our office, and successfully avert crises of many kinds, but the ubiquitous Chinese take-out menu will forever be a reminder of how little control I really have as the receptionist.

A Receptionist's Life #1 3/4

2010-11-01T16:49:00.002-04:00

I feel guilty- the moment I posted that, the Guy showed up with my coffee carafe. Granted, I gave them a call, but still. That was great service.

GUY AND GALLARD HAS AMAZING COFFEE, SANDWICH BREAD, GUYS, AND GALLARDS!

Revenge IS the Lord's. Message received.

A Receptionist's Life #1 1/2

2010-11-01T16:29:00.002-04:00

An addendum to my first post about the Snake.

I said that the catering guy could never let me down. Today a catering guy let me down- not THE catering guy (from Europa) but the Guy of Guy and Gallard. One more piece of evidence that the Europa guy is beyond flaw or blemish- he is far and above the best catering guy.

You know what Guy and Gallard Catering Guy did? He came in on Friday afternoon to retrieve the restaurant's coffee carafe, only to walk out with OUR coffee carafe. Now I have to negotiate a switch back to the way things ought to be- the one with the massive GUY AND GALLARD decal on the front back in the cupboard of Guy and Gallard and the one with the two-inch label that says 15TH FLOOR back in the cupboards of, you guessed it, the 15th floor.

Now that Guy and Gallard has let me down (and not by the inferior quality of their sandwich bread this time), I could sabotage their reputation with everyone on our floor by putting "Seattle Style Dark" coffee in their labeled carafe, thus leading everyone to believe that Guy and Gallard has terrible coffee. This would be a shame however, because Guy and Gallard coffee is the best thing they have to offer.

Revenge is the Lord's. I try to remember that. Why is it so easy to think of revengeful things? To be fair, the Guy and Gallard Guy wasn't intentionally malicious like the Snake. He just made a mistake. I do too. By the way, is "Gallard" the fancy term for a "gal?"

But all that to say, the Europa guy has still not let me down. Let it be known.

Just When You Think New York Can't Get Weirder...

2010-10-31T20:39:00.002-04:00

... Halloween comes.

My motto in New York is to be not ashamed to act weird in public, because there is always someone weirder. This means that if you have the impulse to start singing "A Whole New World" at the top of your lungs, or if it becomes absolutely necessary to change clothes behind a bush, or if, like me, you start applying tin foil meticulously to each button on your winter coat on the subway, feel free to do so. People will just say to themselves, "Only in New York!" and start comparing stories with one another about weird things they've encountered while walking the streets of our weird, but great, city.

After my embarrassing, failed attempt to get a free burrito at Chipotle tonight (you have to be completely wrapped in tin foil to get the freebie), I popped in Sufjan Stevens' Christmas album to distract myself from the Halloween outside.

I mean, who listens to Christmas music on Halloween? Well, I do. They say who you are when you're alone is who you really are. Before I go on, I should mention that I cooked pasta, knit, listened to a John Piper sermon, and enjoyed other noble activities while alone today. Just so you know.

But maybe Halloween, if it serves any purpose, is an opportunity to see who people really are- kind of like when people are alone.

There is something so fascinating to me about the ritual of wearing costumes. To assume another identity, hiding who you really are... and yet, the costume can say a lot about who you really are. You have to wonder what motivates someone to dress up like a construction worker in short shorts, or a peacock, or a tree, or a troll, or a piece of pizza with fairy wings. Judging by how cold it has been this weekend, it's rather revealing (no pun intended) that so many thousands of women are braving the weather in their teensy skirts and fishnets.

Picking out a costume and going to a party is a pretty vulnerable activity- I mean, what if someone comes with a more ironic costume than yours, or what if someone has the same idea for a costume, or what if you feel stupid in general because you're dressed up as a piece of pizza with fairy wings and people didn't think it was as funny as you did when you thought of it (See! I'm the pizza fairy! Get it?! No? oh.). Maybe girls go for showing leg because even if something terrible happens at the party, at least they got attention for their fishnetted albeit frostbitten legs.

I would say the most common costume I saw in New York this weekend was Spiderman. My pastor's son showed up at church in his Spiderman mask today. Either everyone had the same idea, or the real Spiderman (I believe he's real) has been personally protecting me all weekend, and that's why he keeps showing up. I'm no Mary Jane, as I prefer to wear proper undergarments while getting mugged in the rain, so I doubt it was the real one. I hate to disappoint the Spidermans of this October 31, but I've been seeing my friendly neighborhood Spiderman year round. When I was too poor to afford subway fare, I would walk home up Broadway, and sometimes at night I would see Spiderman heading home for the day, rolling luggage in tow. Only in New York.

I found it ironic tonight that on my way home that I passed Max McLean on the sidewalk, the actor who is playing Uncle Screwtape, a legit demon, in The Screwtape Letters at the Westside Theatre on my block. He was not dressed up in costume, when of all people, he has every reason to show up looking a little fiendish on Halloween. I didn't introduce myself, for I was still a little demoralized by my Chipotle experience.

A Receptionist's Life #3 Domesticity

2010-10-29T11:39:00.005-04:00

After I graduated from college, I started getting a strong hankering to be domestic... which is funny, because I went in to college interested in domesticity, only to have that desire squelched by multiple factors. In college, I started to fancy myself an academic type- I began to cherish the life of the mind and fancy that "influence" could only be had outside the home.

But after graduation, I started cooking again. And sewing again. And I was good at it. And I realized that maybe this 9-5 life in a library or office isn't so great or influential after all. Maybe this fighting hard in the mean outside world doesn't fuel my spirit like I thought it would. And, maybe I could still enjoy the life of the mind... from my apartment over a well cooked dinner.

I've decided that the actions of the "domestic" are actions of civilization. A messy, dirty home is not a civilized home- one may wonder if it is a home at all. To clean and maintain an environment is a direct act of combatting the Fall. It is opposition to entropy, the assertion of a redeemed self on a decaying world. Add in the development of personal creativity in the home, and you've got not only maintenance but dominion and restoration- you ADD something that wasn't there before- a homemade drapery, a new muffin recipe, a nutritious salad, a crocheted rug. There is something theologically beautiful about domestic life. Just because you aren't paid to do it does not mean it is not important or fulfilling.

So what does this have to do with being a receptionist, you might ask? Until recently, I didn't know the answer myself. Now, after the situation detailed below, I understand that being the receptionist requires a predisposition toward domesticity. A receptionist, like a house manager, keeps an office civilized, which keeps everything else moving. A receptionist's main purpose is to tame the always impending chaos for the sake of her coworkers who have "more important" things to do. Keeping coffee (even sub-par coffee) made for example.

The aforementioned situation I now reveal to you:

A couple of weeks ago, the Empire State Building broke. The water went out. Unfortunately for us, these kinds of things happen often- either the water goes out, or theres too much water and leaks spring all over. Sometimes they have to test the fire alarms, which means they go off without warning, and only after the fact do we hear an announcement over the intercom that it is only a test. It's the most annoying thing ever. Sometimes the heat goes out. On Columbus Day, the union workers had the day off, so they weren't there to turn on the air conditioning.

Part of being in an old iconic building, I suppose. It's been renovated, valves have been moved, and pipes have been switched out so many times that when things break, the 1929 blueprints on file don't match what's actually in the walls and ceiling. Thus, getting things fixed takes a very long time.

All that to say, I spent that morning walking our guests over to our other offices in another building to use the restroom. Thankfully, I only had to make a couple trips before the cold water was back on, but not hot water as yet. Apparently there was asbestos near the hot water pipe. Great!

We can do without hot water, we thought. We were wrong.

Someone started the dishwasher in our office kitchen, which is connected to the hot water pipe. When the dishwasher stopped, all that had happened essentially was the drying cycle, which meant that hot air had cooked the food remnants on our ceramic dishes. mmmm.

It became clear that my first priority, over all my administrative work, emails, or calendar managing, was to wash the dishes. I find it kind of relaxing to wash dishes, so it was no big deal. We had a lot of dishes because we held a few special lunch events, and people usually use dishes for their lunches. I found it interesting that dishwashing came first over all my other work. The environment was not allowed to go to pot- if it did, nobody would be able to function, no other work would get done. Two days later, the hot water came back on, and I was able to resume my usual tasks.

Thus, we find the moral of this tale. We see that even in an office, the environment must be cultivated, like the Garden of Eden. Perhaps the most important person in our office is Annabelle- our Empire State Building cleaning lady who shows up with her housekeeping cart every day at 5:30. Perhaps our most important machine is not our copier, but our dishwasher. Domesticity, therefore, is essential, noble even.

On a side note, have any of you readers ever noticed that every single Empire State Building cleaning lady is about 5' 2" ? I think it's funny when I end up in an elevator with 20 of them and I tower over them all in their little blue uniforms.

A Receptionist's Life #2 Problem Solving

2010-10-28T13:17:00.004-04:00

The receptionist is often the first and last resort when problems come up in the office. The receptionist (me) can say "no- I don't know" to any question, and if the person asking can't find another way to solve their problem, they come crawling back five minutes later. It is good for their character to let them try to solve things themselves first.

I feel it would be highly gratifying to provide a partial list of the problems I have solved thus far:

> Greg got stuck in an elevator. He called me, and with super-human strength, I wrenched the elevator doors open and rescued them.
> The special events team was swamped so I stamped place cards for them.
> The finance department wanted seltzer water for purchase in our drink fridge so I ordered some.
> I Cloroxed the door knobs to prevent illness from spreading.
> I frequently give informal training seminars for the copy machine.
> The ladies bathroom key got lost so I began providing my secret spare to dismayed potty-dancing ladies everywhere.

Whenever I can solve a problem for people, I feel like a superhero. That's the best part of being a receptionist. Most recently, I have been trying to solve the coffee problem. You see, the coffee in our office is deplorable. It's this off-brand "Seattle-style" kind, and it tastes like watered down mud. I've tried making it with more water so it's less strong, and I've also tried doctoring it with Mini-Moo half and halfs. It is still like drinking battery acid. The worst part is that I keep perpetuating the problem because I'm in charge of purchasing coffee. My manager insists that this is the best coffee we can get in our price range.

It is a dangerous thing to have tired, caffeine-addicted people angry at you about the quality of their coffee. If only for my personal safety, this coffee situation needs to be resolved. And it's up to me.

I have a couple possible solutions- the option to make good coffee and charge a dollar for it, or have anyone who wants to participate pay up front and have our own secret stash of Caribou or Chock-Full-O-Nuts underneath the counter- a black market, if you will. I am all for a free coffee kind of office- it keeps things going- but if there's an option to pay 50 cents and get coffee that not only charges you up but actually tastes good, I'm there.

One of our other departments just bought one of those spiffy single cup brewing machines. They explained that it's less wasteful because why make a whole pot of coffee for the two people who drink it? I know that would get way out of control in my larger, more coffee-dependent department, especially if it was free. At my summer internship, the coffee machine was like something out of Willy Wonka's factory- you put in a dollar, choose what drink you want- from a basic cup of coffee to a double-espresso mochachino- and press the blue button. An LCD screen would track the progress of your brewing and 30 seconds later, you'd have exactly what you want.

My manager suggests that next time I order coffee, I should ask for a sampler of the different types, then try one each day. That might be pretty fun- I could put out a temporary comment card box, and get the conversation going.

But on the other hand, maybe an all-out rebellion will occur.
I can see it now:
"Wait... this is new coffee? You mean... we have OPTIONS?"
"It doesn't have to be THIS WAY?"
"Forget the comment cards! Grab your pitchforks! Grab your cast iron frying pan- let's get that receptionist! It's all her FAULT!"
All the rancidness of the coffee they've been drinking for years takes over their minds and the rabid crowd uses a battering ram to tear into my workspace and slaughter me.

A Receptionist's Life #1 The Snake

2010-10-27T10:53:00.005-04:00

Background: In typical recent-grad fashion, I am a receptionist. They say you always start at the bottom, but I have to say that being a receptionist is probably my favorite job thus far. It's the perfect combination of emailing/computer work and people work. I also get to work with my hands- pushing office supplies on carts and making coffee.

My so-called "bottom-rung" life has more than once put me on top of the world, as I work in the Empire State Building, the tallest skyscraper in New York.

Without further ado, a Receptionist's Life.

#1 The Snake

Perhaps this goes without saying, but I handle the office's daily mail. This means that every day, our postal service guy, Francis, drops off a corrugated cardboard bin full of letters and packages, which I sort and deliver. Most of the time, the mail itself is a source of bemusement, as we receive a number of unsolicited catalogs for the strangest things (dissection specimens, for example) or poorly spelled angry letters.

Monday mail is the worst, because Francis has the day off. Thus, this tall guy with a buzz cut and a mustache (not an attractive combination) does the mail drop. While Francis makes the effort to walk the bin the full four steps to my desk, Monday Mail Guy only drops it by the door and without fail "accidentally" leaves our next door neighbor's mail in the bottom of our bin, creating more work for me.

So this Monday, I decided a confrontation was in order. I caught Monday Mail Guy at the door, and I said, "Hey- did you make sure our neighbor's mail isn't in our bins?"

"Well if it is, it isn't my fault- it would have been The Snake." His full-bodied New York accent was charming, but not, if you know what I mean.

"The Snake?" I asked.

"Yeah- The Snake. He always hides the mail underneath so the drop guy doesn't know it's there. He does it on the fourth floor too."

"Wait... which guy is this?"

"He's off today- he's got the gray slicked down hair. You know..."

Francis? I thought. The Snake?

"You should call him The Snake next time he comes in. He's gonna love it."

I wasn't sure if I believed Francis would love it, but when Tuesday came along, the confrontation continued. I asked Francis about his nickname. "So I heard yesterday that your coworkers call you The Snake." He didn't love it. Instead, he was slightly indignant.

"Who told you that?"

"The guy who came yesterday."

"Oh- does he have a buzz cut and a mustache?" It was apparent on his face that the combination repulsed him as well. "He talks too much."

Francis' indignation arose from the fact that his sneakiness had been exposed- he's been the one plaguing the fifteenth AND the fourth floor by sneaking several mail deliveries into one bin and angering receptionists everywhere, and not only that, he's framing Monday Mail Guy for it.
The previously charming face of Francis suddenly appeared more prickly and pimply than before, his hair more greasy and slick, his eyes more sinister. It is a shame not to be able to trust your local postal service personnel.

I am probably in for further disillusionment with public employees. Perhaps from here on out I shall save my smiles for the guy who always delivers our catering orders. He has yet to disappoint me.

Our Times

2010-10-20T11:02:00.002-04:00

O LORD, be gracious to us;
we long for you.
Be our strength every morning,
our salvation in time of distress.

The LORD is exalted, for he dwells on high;
he will fill Zion with justice and righteousness.

He will be the sure foundation for your times,
a rich store of salvation and wisdom and knowledge;
the fear of the LORD is the key to this treasure.

He who walks righteously
and speaks what is right,
who rejects gain from extortion
and keeps his hand from accepting bribes,
who stops his ears against plots of murder
and shuts his eyes against contemplating evil-

this is the man who will dwell on the heights,
whose refuge will be the mountain fortress.
His bread will be supplied,
and water will not fail him.

Your eyes will see the king in his beauty
and view a land that stretches afar.

In your thoughts you will ponder the former terror:
"Where is that chief officer?
Where is the one who took the revenue?
Where is the officer in charge of the towers?"

You will see those arrogant people no more,
those people of an obscure speech,
with their strange, incomprehensible tongue.

Look upon Zion, the city of our festivals;
your eyes will see Jerusalem,
a peaceful abode, a tent that will not be moved;
its stakes will never be pulled up,
nor any of its ropes broken.

Isaiah 33 (excerpts)

All That is Left

2010-10-06T22:51:00.002-04:00

Faith: Darkness for the intellect.

Hope: Darkness for the memory.

Love: Darkness for the will.

- A paraphrase of St. John of the Cross

Mmm... Brooklyn

2010-09-04T23:18:00.003-04:00

My boyfriend just moved into an apartment in Brooklyn, and I have to say that I've officially jumped on the band wagon. Brooklyn is awesome.

He's on the border of Greenpoint and Williamsburg, and we love taking walks down Graham Street. It's delightful, and I would very much love to live there one of these days. No buildings over 3 stories, so many nice people, cute restaurants and coffee shops, a vintage store or two, the oh-so-convenient L train.

I'd like to give a shout-out to a great restaurant called The Blue Stove. They specialize in pie, so you can get dinner there (potpies) or dessert. The prices are reasonable and they have a really fun selection of soft-drinks, most of which are in glass bottles. I had a pulled pork pot pie (who knew?) with sweet tea. Yummy.

That is all I can think to say now about Brooklyn- just expect to hear further praise in the future.

It's Fall and I Feel Like a Woman Again

2010-08-25T14:16:00.003-04:00

With the first burst of fresh cold air I felt completely new.

Yesterday was August 24, and it should have felt as hot as a day at the Indiana State Fair, but it didn't. It felt like the perfect day to walk over to Anthropologie and try on sweaters. So I did.

This summer was really, really hard. I read in New York Mag that our red hot June and July narrowly missed being the hottest ever in New York by one tenth of a degree. Thus, my daily life seemed like a quest for survival. The worst part was waking up in a hot apartment and trying to get ready for work in the humidity. My curly hair would never obey. Also, my skin is white as snow, so I was always on the lookout for shade as I walked the city streets pursuing daily tasks.

No need to elaborate very much on this, but any rant about the difficulty of summer in the city would be incomplete without the universal groan that comes when you mention the hot subway stations. All together now!

Summer makes everything harder. Laundry- the bane of my existence- already requires a 4-block walk with my Santa-size bag of dirty clothes, and with the heat it felt like I needed to launder myself with each lap. Thus, I avoided it. One day, I even resorted to doing laundry in my kitchen sink and hanging it up on a makeshift clothesline in my bedroom. I felt like a liberated woman- free to do laundry by hand at home, free from the tyranny of quarters and dryer sheets! The clothes took forever to dry, so I'll never do that again.

But now, Fall is coming. I hope I do not speak too soon. After all, it is only August 25. But I say ENOUGH heat! ENOUGH suffering! ENOUGH oppression! Perhaps God will listen to my cry and deliver me from Egypt- I mean, New York in the summer (I've been to Egypt, and the heat is dry and tolerable. Not like New York.).

As the title states, it's Fall, and I feel like a woman again. After all, this is the season during which I made my debut into the world. Twenty-three years ago, I felt September would be more pleasurable and safe than the warmth of the womb, and I was right! Today, I put on a drapey sweater. I pulled my hair up into a relaxed, librarian-like bun with little wisps hanging down around my face. I am assured that no sweat will drip down these wisps or make my mascara run down my face like Emo tears. I am wearing blues, purples, greens. I can break out my Snuggie. One of the most foreign sensations in ages: my feet are cold. I love it!

Last night, we talked through our Pursuits for the Fall during my Bible Study group. Mine? To wear sweaters and start fresh. What are yours?

The Greatest of These is Love

2010-07-27T20:47:00.007-04:00

At first glance, she might be able to charm anyone and connect with anyone. She can speak their language. She could have a quick and brilliant mind or have an impressive religious resume. She might give her things away and even surrender her life to the service of others... Everything might appear to line up, but if she cannot love, her words are only noise. She is nothing and she can gain nothing. She is a failure.

But if she is a lover, she will never really fail.

A lover is patient. She waits for the beloved. She waits through hurt and figuring out. Love is realistic, but she also has faith.

A lover is kind. Love resists the urge to say anything in haste that she might not really mean. She is careful with the heart of another.

Love does not envy. She does not fail to delight in the gift of the beloved or long after the past or the future. Love savors what she has been given, for everything is beautiful in its time.

Love does not boast. For boasting is the opposite of envy- Love does not wish she was something she is not, nor does she exaggerate or elevate herself above another. Love does not compare herself. Love is content with herself and with others. Love is secure.

A lover is not proud- no, she is humble. She recognizes that there is quite a bit to learn. She does not pretend to have all the answers. She is quick to listen, slow to speak, slow to become angry. She is aware of the weakness that pervades everything in the world.

Love is not rude. She listens. She never belittles. She always speaks the truth in love. She does not take out her cares unfairly on another.

She is not self-seeking. She seeks her beloved, and his good. She gives herself, and finds freedom there.

Love is not easily angered- she is full of grace and forgiveness. She is gentle and honest and approachable. Teachable. She has ears to hear.

She keeps no record of wrongs. Her heart instead is full of the good. It overflows with warm memories, even when the moment is difficult. Love is carried from glory to glory, from strength to strength, but is not surprised by a falter or stumble.

Love does not delight in evil- rather, she resists evil, she flees from it, for she knows it poisons and burns up what is good.

Love rejoices with the truth- she delights her heart in what is good. She seeks wisdom and righteousness. Her hope is in many great and precious promises. All other ground is sinking sand.

She will always protect and guard her love from anything that may disrupt it. She is vigilant and does not let her beloved slip away.

She always trusts her beloved and always trusts in the hesed love of God to be her source.

Love always hopes for renewal and rejuvenation. A hopeful lover is able to rest.

Love perseveres through the marathon of life, through anxiety and pain, she drinks at length from the overflowing cup and stores blessing away for the harder times. She holds up the lamp of truth to her path and keeps walking, even if there are only two steps visible ahead. She does not let her lamp burn out, because the bridegroom may come when she does not expect him.

Love never fails. Even when prophecies cease, and conversation is quieted, and things are still and maybe even boring, love stays. Even when she loses her edge, and her knowledge and youth pass away, and even if nobody ever recognizes her achievements, a lover is no failure. Imperfect love will one day be perfect, because it alone never fails.

A Last Home School Hurrah

2010-05-24T14:38:00.003-04:00

A bright, hot New York City summer is commencing without me, and it's okay. I'll be there soon enough.

I graduated from college in New York a little over two weeks ago. Right now, I'm in the Midwest for a few weeks, jumping in on a myriad of family events and celebrations, and enjoying the AC while I can (we have none in my apartment). Last week, it was a wedding in Cleveland with my boyfriend, this week, my brother graduated from high school, and next week is the Indy 500. The next week, my sister returns from doing medical work in Togo, then we're going to Virginia Beach for my brother to compete in nationals for speech and debate. I'll take a bus up the coast back to NYC in time for my internship to start.

Yesterday was Roger's open house graduation party. The most conservative estimate is that there were about 150 people there. We still have fruit, corn chips, and three Cost-co size bags of pita chips left over. Celebrating milestones and witnessing ceremony are two of my favorite pastimes, also, pita chips and hummus are generally what I live on. It's been a good three weekends.

It was a bittersweet time for my family because Roger is our youngest, so we all feel like we're graduating from the world of homeschooling- and believe me, it is a whole world. As much as I like to poke fun sometimes at the quirks and hang-ups of the homeschooling subculture, I willingly affirm that after this week, I'm so proud to have been homeschooled.

Roger's open house wasn't just the typical collection of relatives in the house and cluster of peers in attendance, though both were there. It was a parade of entire families who are friends with my entire family, adults who have invested enormously in Roger either through our homeschooling cooperative, church, AWANA, or 4-H. Most of them also invested in me in the same ways- several commented that they'd been to all three open houses for us kids. One family we are close to volunteered to do set-up and keep abreast of all the food through the whole party so we could focus on mingling with everyone.

Earlier this week, I went to a homeschool production of "Fiddler on the Roof," which, I must say, was just as high-quality as any high school play I've ever seen. I caught up with three old friends there watching the play- one has started her own photography business, another is doing ministry in Colorado, one is in pre-med at Vanderbilt. The audience was teeming with small children, and every last one was quiet and attentive through the entire performance.

Also this week, I went to a homeschool graduation ceremony for a homeschool co-op with 5 graduates. I made it for the tail end, just in time to hear one of the dads talk about his twin sons from the stage as he handed them their diplomas. He spoke of how both boys were interested first and foremost in being servants of Christ, in being men who love the Bible and live a life of faith. He spoke about his sons' strong character and maturity. I remembered these twins from when Roger played in a basketball league with them years ago. Another graduate was from our 4-H club. Another had been a friend from AWANA.

The cooperative was called Iron Sharpens Iron, drawing from Proverbs 27:17, "As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another." An appropriate name, for in my homeschooling experience, such sharpening is allowed to happen over the long haul and through many different avenues. I don't agree with everyone about everything, to be sure, and some think I'm a little crazy for living in New York City. We all agree that being countercultural is hard, and I can only pray that one day my children could have a community this vibrant and enriching as they pursue an uncommon life of faith no matter where we live.

Last Night's Thunderstorm

2010-05-03T09:25:00.004-04:00

I was walking to the Times Square subway station to go to a party at 7:15pm on Saturday night. That was right when the car bomb on 45th St. was being dismantled, and I had no idea. I only knew about it when I came home after the party and tourists were swarming on Broadway and 42nd St, straining for video footage and photos, or stranded from going back to their hotels. I heard there was a bomb scare, and I was ready to get the %*&# out of there. I couldn't figure out why the high school choir-trip kids from Minnesota and the weekend-getaway ladies from Long Island weren't freaking out more than I was. It was like a game to them.

I laughed the next morning with my roommates about how funny tourists are- they don't care if they die by car-bomb, they just want to be the first to post a youtube video. How American. I laughed at the New York Times piece about the street vendor who saw the smoke issuing from the back of the Pathfinder. He was cranky and upset that he had to stay at the site all night. When asked what he had to say to New Yorkers, he grumbled, "See something, say something." I imagined him grimly sitting next to the First Lady at the next State of the Union address, still bitter and completely devoid of enthusiasm unlike the subway hero from a couple years ago. Laughter helps remove the fear and softens the drama of the Times.

At about 1am last night, I was sleeping in my blistering hot apartment. The windows were open, but no air was moving through. I was awoken by a loud boom- it seemed to go on and on, and in my half-awake stupor, my first thought was, "They got us this time." I laid there for a few minutes and started to hear distant sirens- lots of them. I covered my face with my hands. Eventually I got up and flipped on my computer. I had to make sure nothing terrible had happened. I discovered it was thunderstorming, that was all. I also discovered that the car bomb incident actually did scare me- I could laugh about it, but something inside me feels vulnerable. I fell asleep asking myself, why would anybody want to kill New Yorkers? This irrational person caught on tape in the red T-shirt would have been happy if I had died on my way to the party.

Tourists can mill around and take pictures, they are going back to their anonymous hamlets soon enough- far away from danger. Times Square is like an amusement park to them. Take a ride, get the picture, head out with armfuls of souvenirs. I have to be a little braver, I suppose.

Which Neighborhood?

2010-04-12T21:08:00.002-04:00

A fascinating article came out in the latest issue of New York Magazine about neighborhoods in NYC. They were rated on a variety of criteria, with Park Slope reaching #1. My neighborhood was low on the list- #34, for being "gritty." I like grit, but apparently, NY Mag's readers don't- they like fake, cleaned up, "on purpose" grit, like in Tri-Be-Ca or the East Village. It's okay if Midtown West (Hell's Kitchen) doesn't get much publicity- at least people won't flock here and hike up my rent.

NY Mag falls into the camp of post-modern cultural opinion leaders who champion bucking tradition while preserving its aesthetic. This is betrayed by the heavy weight that the neighborhood rating matrix placed on "creative capital," that is, the vibrance of artists, bohemians, and gays in a neighborhood. It's a theory they borrow from urbanist Richard Florida, and it's gaining a lot of traction. Creative capital and school quality were weighted equally, and creative capital outweighed green space access and housing quality.

Creativity is great, artistry is great, but there has to be a vibrant local economy to support the art- I guess I wonder why there is no category for vibrancy of small businesses and entrepreneurship. Is there high turnover of small businesses in the community? Are people living in Park Slope merely for the "neighborhoody" aesthetic, or are they doing business there too? The "follow the artists" model is intrinsically flawed, because artists can move wherever they want, while normal people can't. If the artists jumped off a cliff, would you go too? Well, maybe if there were finance jobs at the bottom.

I'm trying to resist the urge to go on another diatribe about the weightless aesthetic of tradition that is so hip. There was another article glorifying a New Urbanist beach town development in the Far Rockaways. Don't get me started on New Urbanism. I'm so disappointed that it's encroaching on my city.

On a lighter note...

A few fun stats from the article:

My neighborhood is 75% single male. ??

The Upper East Side was the largest contributor to McCain in 2008.

The Upper West Side was the largest contributor to Obama in 2008. Hm.

An East Villager downs an average of 9.2 drinks per week. Whoa.

If you want to find out your ideal neighborhood, you can set the criteria for what matters to you most. For instance, I don't care about bars/nightlife, so I set that criteria to zero. Affordability was high on my list, as was safety. Apparently my ideal neighborhood is Brooklyn Heights. Sounds good to me!

Check it out for yourself here. Seriously, it's cool.

To its credit, NY Mag was not too snooty to include some neighborhoods in Queens high on the list. Queens really is under-rated, as it is so great for families. In addition, there was a lovely piece on how New York neighborhoods have changed through history.

The Check

2010-04-05T23:37:00.002-04:00

I was packing my suitcase to head to New York after Spring break. Dad handed me a check for my rent money. I'm not looking forward to the day when I will have to pay my rent without some help.

I thanked him, took the check, and shut it in the back cover of a book for safe keeping. The book was called Ten Theories of Human Nature.

Dad laughed. "There's got to be a sermon illustration in there somewhere."

Our Condition- Weeping for Hope

2010-04-02T14:13:00.001-04:00

King David- the shepherd-king “after God’s own heart,” boy Goliath slayer, the writer of the Psalms, a man who turned to God’s everlasting arms in all things- exploited a woman. He summoned her from her home by force, raped her (or at best, seduced her with empty promises he did not keep), impregnated her in John Edwardian fashion, and to cover it up had her husband killed. Political sex scandal is as old as civilization itself.

We aren’t sure how public the scandal was to the nation of Israel, but we know that the prophet Nathan took it upon himself to play the hard-lining friend who tells it like it is. Nathan told David a story about a rich man who stole and killed a poor man’s precious lamb, and David’s sense of justice was kindled. “The man who did this deserves to die!”

Nathan, I would guess with a gasp of shocked laughter, replies, “You are the man!”

You are the man. I am the man.

My generation is an activist generation- we hate injustice, we long for sexual exploitation and trafficking to end, we want every child in Africa to have food, clean water, shelter, medicine, education, and security. We hold rallies for the Dalits in India, we host art exhibitions and serve cocktails to raise awareness, we wear T-shirts, we make documentaries. We are astute to see that stopping human dignity violations is the abolition movement of our day: we see the Bathshebas of this world to be the precious lambs that they are- we are enraged when they are stripped of their dignity- we are after God’s own heart.

But we must pause before we pat ourselves on the back. For you are the man. As it turns out, we will do almost anything to distract ourselves from our own heart’s corruption. But without a sober knowledge of it, our activism is only a symptom of a dangerous bi-polar self-unawareness.

Take human sex trafficking, for instance. If we have a shred of a heart at all, we hate that the average age of a prostitute in New York City is 13. We cringe at thought of the monstrous man who pays $3 to rape a little girl in Cambodia. We shake our heads at the sketchy “Massage Parlors” in our neighborhoods.

If we are going to stand against sexual exploitation and human trafficking, we have to ask hard questions about sex itself. Unless you are for a legal, “safe,” and regulated sex industry, and few of us would admit to that, we are forced to extend our activism to the defense of sex itself. If sex is wrong when it is paid for by a stranger, the conclusion must be the that sex has a context that is right and true and beautiful. The only logical answer, and this is another argument to expound upon another day, is in a lifelong commitment called marriage. For when does one cease to be a presumptuous stranger, except in marriage? Where does one cease to pay for or earn sex, except inside marital commitment?

It follows that the moment one of us looks at pornography, even if it depicts a consensual actor on the screen, we are the man. The moment we women let a man wine and dine us for sex, we are guilty. We dress to seduce, we fantasize and experiment, we hook-up on the fumes of empty promises then further devalue the encounter with a quick phone call two weeks later. The moment we betray the beauty of contextual sex in any way, and we all do, we are the man. I am the man.

Who can stand, then? We can argue that those sex vacationers in Thailand are especially corrupt, demonically influenced even, but the truth is that demonic powers are ready, willing, and able to sink each of us to the same depths.

We can look at the most unjust betrayal in history, the betrayal of Jesus by his own trusted friend, Judas. The account in the gospel of Matthew puts remarkable blame-shifting on display during the trial and crucifixion of Jesus, and to Judas’ credit, he’s the only one who grasps the weight of his sin. He throws the blood money across the floor of the synagogue, begging for forgiveness. “What is that to us? That’s your responsibility.” The chief priest scoffs.

Pilate, having just been warned by his wife who had a dream about Jesus, washes his hands before the crowd. “I am innocent of this man’s blood. It is your responsibility.”

Peter betrays Jesus too, but instead of hanging himself as Judas did, he sees the eyes of Christ and weeps bitterly, only to one day be endowed to build the Church.

We, like Peter, can hate evil and love what is good, and still, betrayal is part of our condition. We find ourselves weeping bitterly because we betray the best things given us by God: sex, one another, time, even Christ himself. It is only by great grace that we are dusted off and anointed to bring goodness to the Bathshebas of the world.

Some Thoughts on Calling from Wise People

2010-03-25T13:37:00.002-04:00

I'm currently looking for jobs, thinking about what I'm going to be doing with my life, trying to avoid panic, and suppressing that panic with take-out fried rice and useless wanderings through the job postings on NYC.gov. Truly useless. I am only qualified to become an urban park ranger, which is more like a glorified camp counselor without the free meals and housing. After putting it that way, it appears that a camp counselor is a glorified urban park ranger.

I've been lucky enough to hear speakers every day this week: Andy Mills, President of The King's College with a charming Aussie accent; Peter Kreeft, philosophy professor and professional wit; and Susan Wise Bauer, writer, pastor's wife, academic, homeschool mom, farmer. Her book on classical education inspired my mom to homeschool.

Andy Mills, first:

We have to stop looking at work as either a means to another end (money to fund whatever it is you really enjoy), or as our obsession (workaholism). Nor is the workplace your alibi for being a covert missionary to coworkers. To see work any of these ways is to miss the point. Work came before the Fall. It is a good in itself, and yet so many Christians feel unsettled in their work places- like they're not spending all this time on something high enough on some "spiritual activities" scale. Why is it a good in itself? Adam, the first man, was told to name the animals, to work and tend the garden. Adam's job was to finish God's creation... and Andy said that today's work is still the act of finishing Creation. Hard to imagine that all those emails actually create anything, but I think he's right. To work the garden and to tend the garden are distinctive tasks, and food for our own thought, he said.

Peter Kreeft:

My favorite genius did not talk about calling and work specifically, but he said something that caught my attention: "You move toward what you love." He was talking about why he became Catholic, but I was surprised by how it applies to my thoughts on work and calling. God is love, therefore everything he made reflects that love, including us. We are creatures moved at the level of our affections before we are moved anywhere else.

When we love something good, Kreeft would say, we ought to love it a lot. We ought to move toward it fast, and work courageously to be near it.

Sometimes I'm a bit utilitarian and I think it is a waste of time to really pursue what you love because chances are it won't make any money. But I'm not supposed to love money anyway. New York City, singing, writing, sewing, marriage, children, and lots of people laughing around a dinner table-- these stir my affections. I love them. Kreeft made such love okay. Leave it to the philosopher to be so vague, but vague things that are true can fit a lot of specific problems in their scope, and set you free from what's ailing you.

Susan Wise Bauer:

When asked how to approach being influential on the culture, she said, "Quit trying to save people." She said that too many Christians are trying to "be salt and light" and evangelize their coworkers, when to be salt and light is simply to "be" and "be" well. Bauer said, "God doesn't need you to save people. He can do that without you." Work where you're gifted, examine your heart regularly, be excellent, and you will change the world as a consequence. A paradox, truly: by not focusing on changing the world, you do just that.

Finish Creation, Tend Creation. Pay attention to your loves. "Be" salt and light.

That's a lot of wisdom for one week.

Oh, to Capture NYC

2010-03-01T23:15:00.003-05:00

I have a few friends who take some of the best photographs of New York City known to man- well, known to me. They're other students like me (you know who you are!), and the reason I love their photos is that they notice the things that I notice on the streets. Even so, only a few photographs- one in hundreds of my incredibly photogenic city- really take my breath away.

Capturing New York City is really hard to do in a fresh way, whether in writing, art, photography, or song, it's hard. Not only are all the trademarks of the city now plastered in cheap fabric paint on tourist T-shirts hanging ostentatiously on every corner, but even the best things about the city can get exhausting. It's hard to think taxis are cute and "so-New-York!" when one's wheel sends a spray of slush on to your pant leg. Rather, "So N

ew York," is uttered with a groan when someone yells, "BACK DOOR!!!" to the bus driver, when the back door is already open, and the yeller too dull to notice... yes. It happens. New York isn't cute, it's seedy, dirty, glamorous, high, low, cold, and hot, and drippy, and steamy. And it makes your feet hurt. We New Yorkers tend to resist any art or slogan that simplifies our city too much.

Oh, it is so difficult to capture New York City. However, I didn't just write this to complain- I recently stumbled upon a fresh capturing of New York that was so simple, it worked.

It made me laugh, because it was like reading a list of inside jokes for those who really do pound the pavement daily. It's called I Lego N.Y. by Christoph Neimann. Here's one of the pictures from the book:

Precious right? Check out the blog post- it's fantastic.

Jesus-Endorsed Sabbath Activities

2010-02-28T23:15:00.005-05:00

It's trendy, and rightly so, in the "Christian hipster" circles I run in, to take a legit Sabbath every week.

That's right, the old-school Jew's-day-off kind of Sabbath. The hipster anti-establishment part of the revivalled Sabbath is that said Sabbath does not have to take place on Saturday, or even Sunday. You just have to pick a 24 hour period each week for some TLC or R&R. The other part is that "rest" can be defined in a multitude of ways. Make time work for worship, read your B-I-B-L-E, then do "what brings you life" for the rest of the day. For me, this might be playing some guitar, sewing cotton sundresses, tea with a girlfriend, or a walk to my favorite part of Manhattan, or browsing a used book store. I just reread that list and I am appallingly Christian hipster-like in the way I use my Sabbath.

Incorporating patterns of work and rest into my life has given me a lot of peace and much valuable time with God and others. To rest, and REALLY rest, is an act of faith- that God knows my needs and is more sovereign than I.

I love Jesus- and I love what he says about the Sabbath- that it was made for man, not man for the Sabbath. I wonder sometimes if Jesus used the word "Sabbath" like a verb participle (like the email I got this weekend from a friend who said she was "Sabbathing."), but beyond that, I love the way Jesus Sabbathed. My roommate asked me today what she should do with her Sabbath, and being the Biblically literate Christian that I am, I asked her, "what would Jesus do?" She didn't know the answer, so I gave her a list of super-hip things Jesus endorsed for Sabbathing activities. Perhaps you might incorporate a few into your Sabbath routine!

Here's the list:

1. Pick heads of grain and eat them as you walk along the road (Mt 12).

2. Heal a man with a shriveled hand in front of a rabbi or two (Mt 12).

3. Pull a sheep out of a pit (Mt 12). That's what they do in Wales on the Sabbath.

4. Claim to be the Messiah (Lk 4). Actually, you aren't, so don't do everything Jesus did in this case.

5. Expel demons (Mk 1). If you forget how, go see "Mary Poppins" on Broadway, there's this epic exorcism scene involving a demon nanny and a birdcage... if you've seen it, you know what I'm talking about.

6. Heal a crippled woman and call bystanders hypocrites (Lk. 13).

7. Untie your ox and donkey to give it water (Lk. 13). I hope they get water more than once a week, just saying.

8. Eat with some Pharisees, and heal a guy with dropsy (Lk 14) (not sure I'd recognize dropsy if I saw it... but you can look it up).

9. Tell a man to pick up his mat and walk (Jn 5). Then, call down woes on those who say the guy isn't allowed to carry your mat on the Sabbath- after all, what if carrying the mat "gives him life?"

10. Get circumcised. It's as good a time as any (Jn. 7).

Jesus-style Sabbaths were a good time. If your Sabbaths are full of naps and football, think again, hipster.

"Wear the Pants"

2010-02-07T13:31:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, I was walking to Grand Central to catch a train to Connecticut (and yes, I just dropped that in because it sounds so glamorous), when I stumbled upon a Dockers ad on Madison Avenue that read,

Once upon a time, men wore the pants, and wore them well. Women rarely had to open doors and little old ladies never crossed the street alone. Men took charge because that's what they did. But somewhere along the way, the world decided it no longer needed men. Disco by disco, latte by foamy non-fat latte, men were stripped of their khakis and left stranded on the road between boyhood and androgyny. But today, there are questions our genderless society has no answers for. The world sits idly by as cities crumble, children misbehave and those little old ladies remain on one side of the street. For the first time since bad guys, we need heroes. We need grown-ups. We need men to put down the plastic fork, step away from the salad bar and untie the world from the tracks of complacency. It's time to get your hands dirty. It's time to answer the call of manhood. It's time to WEAR THE PANTS.

I couldn't really believe what I was reading. Is this real? Is our culture rediscovering manhood? Well, it's too early to tell, but this ad was a little glimmer of hope after a week of studying the gender achievement gap and how feminism has made this world a very tough place for men who want to act like men in a traditional sense. It has been troubling me that our culture can't conceive that a strong male spirit and strong female spirit can live side by side. The two are not mutually exclusive, in fact, they are complimentary.

I decided to do a little research on the ad campaign, to see if it has gotten any push-back from either the gay community (for reinforcing stereotypes- that is the lattes and discos) or the feminist movement (on behalf of the little old ladies who are in fact perfectly capable to cross streets). I found an article from the New York Daily News outlining a few people's remarks against the ads, but overall the critique is pretty minimal.

Why? Possibly because the brains behind the "Wear the Pants" campaign is a highly accomplished woman named Jennifer Sey. She's the VP of global marketing for Dockers. According to Wikipedia, Sey was a national gymnastics champion, a Stanford graduate, published author, short film producer, and a recognized talent in the advertising industry. Despite her achievement, Sey expresses in an interview her concern over the confusion modern men face. She said, "In today's world, men have lost a bit of footing, in part because women have come so far... eighty-percent of those who suffered unemployment in the last year were men. Women outnumber men in the workforce now." She said the goal of the advertising campaign is to help define the "new modern idea of man," that is, "sensitivity, chivalry, ambition... decisiveness." Sounds great to me!

Dockers is running a Superbowl ad tonight, and I'm excited to see how the world reacts. All I know is that I agree with Dockers- it's time to put the "Man" back in "Manhattan."

The Pawn that Never Moves

2010-01-30T22:02:00.005-05:00

“You have to have a reason to be in New York,” said Maurice. “If you’re not here for a reason, you shouldn’t be here.” He meant, if you have no reason to be here, the city will wear you out. Without a mission, without something else that gives you life, New York City cannot give you life enough to survive. Maurice is a Grand Master in the game of chess, and he teaches private chess lessons to the boys I nanny. I didn't get to ask him his reason to be in New York City, but I have a feeling he must have one. I also have a feeling that a rook serves some purpose, but that remains to be seen.

We’re hanging out in the Wall Street Suite at the New Yorker Hotel. There’s a few Upper East Side and Upper West Side moms sitting around a table across the room, and chess pieces are laying around on the floor. Today is the city-wide chess championship, and my “nanny-kids,” Steve and Dave, are representing their elite private school.

The New Yorker Hotel sounds like an amusement park- children laughing everywhere, running through the hallways, an abandoned chess board with toppled pieces sprawls out in the elevator bank. There are about 500 kids competing, and they’re as diverse as the city itself. The rich ones are practicing with their chess coaches, four year olds are practicing with their dads. They are black and white like a chess board and everything in between, representing both public and private schools. Many a chess mom browses a resource table covered with chess puzzles, sets, and strategy books. I had no idea there was so much gear for chess players—zip up bags for vinyl boards with pockets for the pieces, fancy speed-chess clocks, and score books. These kids record every move of every game in a notebook so they can recreate the game later with their coach and figure out to get to checkmate faster.

All the parents are so proud. I told my nanny kids in the cab back that the only comparable experience I have in my memory are 4-H livestock shows. Parents check the standings every two minutes, they cheer from the bleachers, they teach their kids to win and lose gracefully. The difference is that chess moms wear cashmere cardigans, not Wranglers with sparkly belts, and chess dads work in finance and not in farming. Chess kids manipulate pawns and bishops with the finesse that a farm kid grooms his steer and guides his hog through the mulch in the ring. The seriousness is the same. Family bonding is the same.

One of chess moms told me she has been to Indiana before- that she went to the wedding of one of her nannies in Laporte. The rehearsal dinner was in a church basement, and the nicest hotel was a Hampton Inn, but she was refreshed by the simplicity- especially since her kids liked the hotel pool. She probably finds me as mysterious as I find her to be.

I met Steve and Dave because I started babysitting for their parents' Bible study on Park Avenue. All the other kids who come to the Bible study go to different schools, but all of them play chess. I am way over my head as they compare their respective player ratings, challenge each other to games, and try to teach me a thing or two about chess strategy. I get slaughtered when I try to play the 8 year-old. I can’t think ten moves ahead the way she can. One move at a time- that’s how I think- so I always lose.

Today was one example of how I often find myself in alternate worlds as I live in New York City. Today I found myself castled into the world of elementary school competitive chess. I'm the nanny, which is like the pawn that never moves the whole game because the other pieces are so busy around it. Checkmate happens in five moves in the wood-paneled Wall Street Suite while I watch. Is it enough reason to be in New York to be the pawn who never moves? I think so. No other place has a higher rating than New York when it comes to the richness available for the watching- and watching can never wear you out. In watching, I don’t have to think ahead, or be ahead, and I still win.

This is How it Works Part 1: Logistics

2009-12-13T22:44:00.003-05:00

Growing up, we had two cars. That made things pretty easy all the time. Not pretty easy, REALLY easy. We could do anything we set our minds to. We could paint huge cardboard boxes for skit scenery and cart it all over for rehearsals. We could buy heavy jars of marinara in bulk. We could tie a Christmas tree to the top of the van. Even more profound: My mom, sister, and I could stand inside the church foyer while my dad went out in the cold to get the car and drive it up.

I don't usually miss cars now that I live in New York City. In fact, in many ways I resent them for what they did to American culture, but that's another topic for another senior thesis. The other night I was at a cafe with some friends, and we were confessing what we do when we have the rare pleasure of getting a subway car to ourselves. It's only happened to me once, and I sang at the top of my lungs. My roommates and I had a car to ourselves once and we left our purses on one bench and sat on another a ways down, reveling in the victory of not having to guard our belongings in a public place. We also danced around the poles. Not pole-danced. That's different. This was mere twirling and... well... maybe it was pole-dancing. I don't know. Sheesh, it was just us.

In mass-transit land, you're limited by how much you can carry and how far you can walk. A friend of mine saw a guy bring his Christmas tree on the subway with him the other day. One time, I carried the moose-head that is usually mounted on the wall on my campus (long story). At least three times I have moved an entire rock band on a cart (the equipment, not the musicians) through Herald Square. I got yelled at once for bringing two lamps and a desk chair on the bus, and my arms scream at me when I attempt to carry more than two bags of groceries at a time.

Those are New York logistics for you. Everything is dense, there's never enough space, and there are no short-cuts. Everyone is under the control of these spatial parameters. Even the movie stars who have itty-bitty trailers set up in a narrow, puddly street in midtown during shooting. We all have to figure it out as we go, and you work with what you have.

A year ago, I was planning a concert to be held at my college, and we were going to use this really attractive space in the basement of the Empire State Building. Then, the day before the concert, a new store was going in the lobby level and somebody was jack-hammering the floor. This made huge chunks of cement and plaster start falling from the ceiling on the basement level, forcing us to move the concert to the sub-basement, in a dusty lecture hall full of broken chairs. With some borrowed black sheets, Christmas lights, wooden stools with table cloths thrown over them and turning off the florescent lights, the room looked like any other NYC venue that would be in the sub-basement of a super famous building, and the band enjoyed a quite classy concert after all. We didn't spend a dime, either. I'm also now dating the drummer. You see, things just come together sometimes.

My friend Kiley moved into the top floor of a walk-up building this past Fall, and it was the cutest apartment I've about ever seen. There was a skinny spiral staircase up to a little roof-level annex where Kiley's room was, which was cool except for one problem. Kiley had a giant wardrobe for her room, but it was just sitting in the living room because it couldn't fit up the spiral staircase. So instead of leaving it there, she recruited a few people, including me, to carry out an elaborate plan. We had to bring the armoire down four flights of stairs, outside to the next building, carry it up four flights and exit through that building's roof door, only to bring the armoire across to Kiley's roof and through a sliding door into her room. All that to move an armoire no more than ten feet from where it was originally. We did the same thing with her box spring. For some reason, my job turned out to be schmoozing with Carmello, the superintendent of the building next door. Kiley had to tip him handsomely to let us carry the furniture through his building and across his roof. I kept telling him how nice he was and what a good job he was doing, even though all he did was unlock a door or two.

My choir director, Henric, is the king of finagling logistics. He is one of the most driven guys I know, and the things he accomplishes in this choir, by hook or by crook, are pretty marvelous. He planned a Christmas concert in Times Square a year in advance, working with college choirs all over the city and such. What do you know, the day of the concert was freezing cold, and soppy wet snow was falling heavily over-- everything was gross. And yet, we still had an acoustic piano in Times Square and we sang from under a tarp and people watched and loved it.

Only room for a few vignettes of big-city logistical magic here, but know that it's the plight of every New Yorker- it's a city of improvising. Even if you have a car and have to move a rock band, you still need arm strength, permits to use the freight elevator, and a few friends; oh, and watch out for parking tickets. Learn to "eyeball," get used to skinny hallways, and form relationships with a doorman or two, and you'll be unstoppable. This is how it works.

A City Summer

2009-09-18T22:50:00.002-04:00

The city's bustle cannot destroy,

The dreams of a girl and boy.

We'll turn Manhattan into an isle of joy!

-Lorenz Hart

“So how was your summer, Penelope?”

“Great” I would say to you if you asked, gazing off into the distance as if I were secretly in love. “I know this is my home now,” I will say. I let myself fall in love with NYC this summer.

What if we asked New York City about her summer? What were the highlights?

She would say that the summer was rainy, and I would agree. There were hot nights when a slight breeze from the window would signal a summer storm rolling in. My friends and I would turn off all the lights and watch the lightning flashes illumine the clouds. In the high-rise across the way, blue and white flashes of light bounced on the walls from people’s televisions like mini storms. What movies could these thirty apartments have on that are more epic than waves of rain issuing from red and black clouds?

The rain was draining to New Yorkers, and seemed never to end. My rain boots developed a hole from extensive usage. Then New Yorkers had something new to talk about: the fare hike starting on June 28^th. The fares for mass transit increased by 25 cents for a subway or bus rides and my monthly metro card hiked from the old fare of $81 to $89. Apparently, one rush hour morning in August, all old-fare monthly subway cards expired, causing French Revolution-esque riots in the 86^th Street station on the Upper East Side. I could have expected such behavior from the tormented souls that have to use the 6 train every morning.

Shall we gracefully change the subject to the West Side? Probably the most exciting thing that happened (besides glamorous and fulfilling daily life) was that the New-York Historical Society closed for renovations and still insisted on leaving the hyphen in its name. If New York was a lady, she’d call the West Side her “good side.” I, for one, was disappointed that Nora Ephron didn’t set her latest movie there this time.

Instead, the indisputable New York City movie of the summer was Ephron’s Julie and Julia. The Julie part was set in Long Island City, Queens. She portrayed it as a tundra of disappointment, and this was an accurate representation according to my experience: This summer, there was a male model living there who was supposed to have dinner with me but it never materialized. But back to Manhattan.

Manhattan saw a few makeovers of public spaces during this summer. Broadway is transitioning into a pedestrian walkway between Times Square and Herald Square, which afforded many New Yorkers picnics in the middle of the street this summer. In addition, Bryant Park added a porch, bocce courts, ping-pong tables, and a reading room to its already ample summer amenities. The High Line, an old elevated train track turned landscaped public walkway opened down in the Meatpacking District. Far Rockaway and Brighton beaches enjoyed rediscovery by cash-strapped Manhattanites who couldn’t’ afford a trip to Montauk or the Jersey shore.

Politically, not a whole lot went down, except that term limits were lifted for the office of the mayor, allowing “King Mike” Bloomberg to run for a third term. There were also a few days when the entire Department of Education completely disbanded, but they’re back together now, so we don’t have to go there.

In the wide world of wildlife, the pigeons still continue to breed in my alley. There were also sightings of the Battery Park turkey in residence, Zelda. An assisted living facility in the Bronx had sickly goats wander on to its property on three occasions, with no apparent explanation. The King’s College’s favorite pet bird, Kira of the house of Lind, flew out the window in Harlem to everyone’s dismay.

And that was New York’s summer. It was a city summer, with hot cement, stinking stagnant puddles, and stuffy subway stations. But it was also a summer of glinting sun on glass skyscrapers, summer storms loud enough to wake you, and long days to build my relationship with this “isle of joy.”

My Unfortunate Career as a Tour Guide

2009-07-24T14:11:00.005-04:00

"Good afternoon, my name is Penelope, and I'll be your guide for this uptown tour."

It was the beginning of July. I had everything written on cards, from the number of windows in the Empire State Building* to the year the subway opened*. I was ready. I had been ready for months.

In March, I was trying to get internships with publishing houses and magazines. Resumes and cover letters were flying in the direction of Simon and Schuster, New York Magazine, Random House, Penguin, literally everything literary I could think of. Then I met with Prof. Campbell to talk with him about the publishing industry. He had been a children's book editor at HarperCollins back in the day. He leaned back in the chair at Starbucks and told me, "Publishing is a great field if you have no ambitions of being a writer yourself." He explained that you get paid nothing to read terrible writing all day and send rejection letters. Demoralizing.

If that wasn't enough of a clue, none of the internship applications yielded any acknowledgment. I started to think, well, what do I really love? New York City. I thought of all my New York City books on my bookshelf. I noted the fierceness with which I would charge out of midtown on Saturdays to study in other parts of the city. I recalled printing out a walking tour of Chinatown* and guiding several friends around for one of the best days I've ever spent in the city. Tour guiding, perhaps, could be an option.

I checked it out on the internet. I quickly discovered that tour guides must be licensed by the New York City Department of Consumer Affairs, and only after passing a 150 question exam.

The only thing I knew about the tourism industry in NYC was that there were double decker buses that whirl around the city, and ticket agents crawling the streets, hawking tourists to buy and ride. I could lead a bus tour, I thought. I emailed a cover letter to a bus company. Two weeks later, I got an email back putting me in touch with a man named Hugh.

Hugh and I chatted on the phone briefly the next day, and I was invited to attend his free tour-guide cram class, in which he helps potential guides prepare for their licensing exam. The first class was the next night. I walked to 50th and 8th*, determined to be on time. The company office was a reworked walk-up apartment building, with a piece of plywood covering the door, and a pen-scribbled sign taped next to the doorbell. I rang, it buzzed, and I cautiously walked up a dank stairway to the third floor. A few ticket agents, eyeing me, squeezed past me. I told them I was looking for Hugh, and they pointed me upstairs.

My grandpa calls people "characters" sometimes, which means the person is slightly bizarre, but you can't really fnd anything negative to say about them. Hugh has achieved the status as the best "character" I've ever met in New York. He's a portly 70-something with a dramatic, off-center handlebar mustache. He wears suspenders, spits a little when he talks, wiggling his bushy white eyebrows. He is slightly intimidating, but endearing enough that I knew I could get on his good side. Class began in a dingy room furnished with card tables and rickety folding chairs. It smelled mildewy. I was seated by a energetic artist named Mary, a delivery man named Charles, and a bug-eyed Italian who was skinny as a rail. There were about 20 more characters there, and I was decidedly the most ordinary.

Hugh handed out lists of people, places, foods, architecture, and traffic laws. He then spent the next hour or so telling us story after story about New York's history. I was so fascinated, but struck by how little I knew. I kept attending his class when I could for the next few weeks, and spent my free time taking notes on his handouts, reading the Blue Guide on New York City, preparing for this utterly intimidating exam.

One night, Hugh took us on a walking tour of the Financial District. My favorite part was when he pointed out the office building where "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus" was written*. I sat next to a classmate on the train to go home, and his name was Henric. All I knew about him at the time was that he could speak Swedish. We got talking, in English, and I found out that Henric directs a Christian symphonic choir in the city. We exchanged contact information, and next thing I knew I was scheduled to come to rehearsal.

Once school ended, I gave myself a week to study, then I went downtown to take my test. I paid my $80 to the license bureau, turned in my paperwork, then was ushered to an exam room for 150 questions. Henric was there too. I was more nervous about this than any of my finals, but I passed with flying colors, probably because my roommate had helped me make up mneumonics to remember which architects went with which buildings (Bunshaft designed the Lever House- see if you can figure that out. Hint: Lever as in the soap company).

Next step was to meet with Hugh at Starbucks and prepare for bus training. We talked through details, then talked for half an hour about old movies, jazz standards, and the 9th Avenue street fair coming up this weekend. Ha! I am on his good side.

I spent the next week taking free tours on the buses, learning the ropes. The guide who led my Downtown tour promptly explained to me that she hates New York and that Europeans don't tip well at all.

Next was an audition with Hugh. He had me describe the panorama of Madison Square Park, explain Lincoln Center*, talk about the Empire State Building. He told me to proceed to the "industrial tundra" of Long Island City to fill out my employment paperwork.

I did that the next day. I got off the train, and tracked down the office in Queens*, which was nestled between a cement mixing plant and a warehouse of some kind. I filled out piles of papers, and the associate assured me that full-time work was available. She told me to get in touch with Jim. On my way back to the train, an agitated neighborhood youth threw water at me.

It took me two weeks to track down Jim. Despite my many unreturned phone calls, I finally found him next to a bus in the rain, and he had me duck into a subway station, only to tell me that there wouldn't be work for me for a few weeks. I found Jim to be one of the most terrifying people I've ever met. Every time I had to interact with him, I'd feel a little oppressed by the dark side for a couple hours afterward.

I asked Hugh to put in a good word for me, and in the end I didn't work until July 4th weekend. I spent the 4th slaving over my cue cards, brushing up on my facts. I led an uptown tour first, and my bus driver forgot a couple times to make some of the hop-on-hop-off stops along the way. This caused a 16 year old tourist to charge to the front of the bus and cuss me out for missing a stop. She got off at the next stop, but it totally took the wind out of the rest of the tour, which showed in the $3 I recieved in tips. After that I led a night tour, and we were treated to a beautiful sunset view of the skyline from Brooklyn, and fireworks from the Manhattan Bridge*. I made $17 in tips.

Next day went beautifully too, an uptown tour and a night tour. I felt in my element, despite Jim the Fearsome, and despite that my tourists were more fascinated with the street fight going on in Harlem than with the Duke Ellington* statue I was trying to show them.

I went to work on Monday, and heard some commotion while I waited to be put on a bus. I looked toward the street, only to witness a dispatcher verbally assault a customer. It was the worst fit of rage I've ever seen in New York City, and I've seen quite a few (read about the flute player a few posts ago). I approached one of his fellow dispatchers and asked what the perpetrator's name was so I could report it to management. The guy wouldn't share names. "We don't work that way." Apparently, dispatcher comraderie extends through thick, thin, and assault. It was me against them, and they were big, strong, and scarier even than Jim. I backed off.

Jim finally showed up, and took me and another guide aside. "This kind of thing is pretty typical," he explained, as if that is supposed to be reassuring. "It really has nothing to do with you."

"Yes, it does," I said. "I work for the same company. I'm implicated."

"No, we have a whole quality control department that manages this. There's no reason for you to tell others about what happened. It doesn't concern you."

"This does concern me, especially when I feel physically in danger at work." I was so agitated that I was short of breath, tearing up.

"I'm actually going to send you both home tonight. You're in no shape to work."

"Wait, wait. We are losing our evening of income because another employee acted up? And you say this has nothing to do with us?"

"Well, you two were just extras anyway," Jim explained. He sent us home, advising us to walk around the block so we wouldn't pass the angry dispatcher. I took my fellow guide to my place for an impromptu dinner party. We were shaken, but we had a pleasant evening.

Within two days, I decided to quit. I told Jim I was coming in to meet with him, but when I got there, he was not there. I unwittingly found myself in a tourguide union meeting instead. I stuck around, and found myself even more assured of my decision after hearing their complaints. I ended up quitting over voicemail, because Jim never answers his phone. When I picked up my last paycheck, I pranced out of that scary walk-up building feeling like I'd been freed from the Chateau d'If. I promptly went next door to Duane Reade* and purchased a copy of the New Yorker, and the cover made me laugh all the way home.

Since I quit, I've surveyed the spoils of my miserable trek with the bus company, trying to figure out if it was all worth it. I figure I made enough money in two nights of leading tours to come out even for all the materials I purchased for my class and my licensing fee. This is assuming that each hour of preparation and traveling and studying are worth about 25 cents each. I also ended up in Henric's choir, which has been a highlight of my summer. What's more, I now know Manhattan and parts of Brooklyn like the back of my hand. You can't buy that.

*There are 6500 windows in the Empire State Building.

*The subway opened as a series of privately owned lines in 1904.

*New York City's Chinatown has the densest population of Chinese outside of mainland China.

*50th and 8th is the location of Worldwide Plaza, the site of the third Madison Square Garden, where Marilyn Monroe sang "Happy Birthday, Mr. President" to JFK in 1962.

*The New York Sun published "Yes Virginia" by Francis Church in 1897.

*The Metropolitan Opera House at Lincoln Center is large enough that you could fit a 40 story skyscraper on its side in the auditorium.

*Queens is nicknamed the "borough of homes."

*The Manhattan Bridge has a grand entrance designed by Carerre and Hastings.

*Duke Ellington Circle: 110th and 5th.

*Duane Reade gets its name from the intersection of two streets at Foley Square downtown.

Thinking in Terms of Dan Smith

2009-07-23T19:17:00.008-04:00

Dan Smith Will Teach You Guitar. Oh, the power of a simple slogan, or rather the power of simple, straightforward prose. "Dan Smith Will Teach You Guitar" is a testament to the timeless principles of Strunk and White:

1. Use the active voice.

2. Put statements in positive form.

3. Use definite, specific, concrete language.

4. Omit needless words.

At least two of the three adjectives in the #3 seem needless, but whatever you say, Will and E.B.

Who? Dan Smith. Dan Smith Will Teach YOU Guitar. Dan Smith Will Teach You what? GUITAR.

There are no real questions, all is clear, and all of it is plastered on every bulletin board in the city. You've seen Dan Smith. The simple man with the simple flyer. The man is ageless, his hair without a spot of gray, yet swooped upward, wild and free. His simple, gray long-sleeve tee speaks no presumption, and his closed-mouth smile and folded hands seem welcoming and warm.

I believe if his flyers were personal ads, they would be just as effective.

But Dan Smith only knows guitar, and likely has no time for love. Flyers are posted every where, in the humblest bodega, in the shiniest Starbucks. Some places even have Dan Smith's business post cards for the taking. It is a marvel that a one-man business could have canvassed the entire city like this. Who is this Dan Smith, and how is he everywhere?

I've taken a fancy to Dan Smith so I checked out his website, attempting to track down a little more of his personality. He is pictured wearing more monochromatic cotton shirts, in what my friend Kate calls the "Target colors," light olive, dark red, gray, and black. Click "Dan's Guitars" and you find breathtakingly non-descript instruments, meant not to intimidate, but to inspire the humble beginner: a Stratocaster, Telecaster, and bass by Fender, and an unassuming Yamaha acoustic. No Taylors, Martins, or anything I would be afraid to break. He even mentions that he will let you borrow a guitar for your lesson.

He even has a quote list on his site, with pithy sayings from music legends like Les Paul, Jimi Hendrix, and Keith Richards. He quotes Einstein, MLK Jr., Mark Twain. Scroll down to the bottom and you find a quote by Dan Smith himself:

Think in terms of what you want, not in terms of what you think you can get.

We are left stroking our chins in pause because Dan Smith (who teaches guitar) posts himself among the greatest thinkers, wits, and musicians. Perhaps this is meant only to obscure the fact that his quote doesn't really mean anything at all.

Still I find Dan Smith almost irresistible. Because his flyers follow me into every store and meet my eyes again on the way out, I feel perhaps, that he is pursuing me relentlessly, offering his number. Perhaps I like his clean cut, unpresumptious style. Even his name is easygoing. He brings what he has to the table, Yamaha and all, and declares the product to be had: Dan Smith Will Teach You Guitar. There is no "would teach you guitar," or "might teach you guitar." He's committed to the task at hand. He WILL teach you guitar. Against all odds, despite all barriers, no matter how little you know, he's ready, willing, able. In no time, he'll have me playing slap bass like Bootsie Collins if I so desire.

The catch, and there always is one, is that his lessons cost $100 per hour. However, for a up and coming musician like myself (for that's how he makes me feel) that's not a bad investment.

Instead of forking over the $100, I searched for him on Facebook. There were 105 matches in the New York, NY network, and they were diverse: one is pictured with an out-of-control Bunsen burner, another with a red feather boa. For some reason a Dan Spicehandler shows up too, but Spicehandler is much more of an overwhelming name than Smith. Bad form, Facebook, bad form. But it made me wonder...

Me: "What do you do for a living, Dan Spicehandler? You don't teach guitar, do you?"

Dan Spicehandler: "Oh no, you're confusing me with Dan Smith. It's okay. I get that a lot. I handle spices, of course!"

Dan Spicehandler Will Teach You to Make Red Curry Chicken.

Dan Spicehandler Will Take You on a Far East Expedition.

Dan Spicehandler Will Organize Your Seasonings.

Dan Spicehandler Will Teach Your Seasonings Circus Tricks.

The 1 Train was Crazy Yesterday

2009-07-19T00:51:00.002-04:00

Yesterday, the 1 trains were traveling in packs. They would come by the droves, one after another, then a long lagging time would go by, everyone sweating on the platform, before another showed up. They were trying all day to space out the trains evenly; their method is have one train running express and the next running local, when usually they are all supposed to run local. This gets everyone confused and angry, especially if they can't understand the announcement crackling over the speaker, "The next stop will be 96th Street. We are skipping 79th and 86th Streets." Over the speaker it sounds like this: "Thsss nesss sssstossss is 2364625th streetsssss." Unhelpful, to say the least.

Even the musicians were angry. A Mariachi band played on my car for a while then passed between cars to play again. I'm not sure how they got a string bass through that door. At the next stop a flute player came through the same door into my car and asked me, "Were they just playing in here?" meaning the Mariachi guys. I nodded. I wasn't about to ignore this flute player, for this wasn't your fainty-blonde-high-school-marching-band-girl flute player. This was a really big guy in a purple wife beater, with arms that were like all of my muscles added together. The Mariachi band was loco to mess with him. He threw a hissy fit: "You gotta show respect. If someone's already playin' a train-- what are they doin' anyway?" He left the train at 116th Street with me, and I watched him take long strides to the exit, possibly to switch to a downtown train. He yelled at the Mariachis on the platform. Angry artists aren't as fun to listen to.

On the way home, I unwittingly got into a car that wasn't air conditioned. Languishing in the heat, I sat and fanned myself. At 79th Street, a kid got on the train with this huge styrofoam creation. The two girls sitting next to me were oohing and ahhing along with me, and they took pictures. I asked the young chap what his project was. "A space station," he replied. He told me a little more about his mess of popsicle sticks, paper cups, scotch tape, and a tissue box attached to the styrofoam that probably packaged a television. I got off at the next stop. "Good luck in all your future endeavors, my friend."

And good luck next Friday, 1 Train.

Laundromat Nostalgia

2009-07-15T00:14:00.002-04:00

I was sitting on a ledge covered in ceramic tile at the Laundromat on 39^th and 9^th today. There was a Cherry Dr. Pepper in my hand, and Steinbeck in my lap, and a whirring noise, then a shaking noise, then a whirring noise again vibrating from the silvery washing machine behind me. My purple and blue towels were coated with bubbles on the other side of the machine’s plexiglass porthole, and I sat there, suddenly wondering whose life I was sitting in. A detail or two here, a detail or two there, and I'm plucked from childhood to a Laundromat.

Was this really my life? Or rather, when did this become my life? Three years ago last night I was in the 2006 Miss Hamilton County 4-H Fair Queen pageant, with glittery eye shadow and a homemade evening gown, teetering, high-heeled, down a runway in Indiana. I was a little girl in a suburb with a move to New York City on the horizon, idealistic, believing I had little to learn in college.

Carrie Spencer won the 2009 Miss Hamilton County Pageant last night. Her big sister, Nikki, and I were in the pageant together all those years ago. I remember thinking it was so quaint that those sisters grew up on a U-Pick strawberry farm. Then a detail or two changed. Nikki is married now I think, and she does her laundry somewhere in Indiana, but that’s all I know. I’m single and in a Laundromat in Manhattan every other week, lugging my hot-pink canvas bag of clothing four blocks, then spending my evening in Queens, with friends, wine, and cheese, discussing psychosomatic unity. It turned out I had plenty to learn, including, it seems, the implications of the fact that my physical body and eternal soul are indissoluably unified. I also learned that I like wine.

I want to cry a little when I think of all the beautiful details that have slowly crept into my life in the last three years. How many of these details were just waiting for me to show up? My pretty little walk-up building with the gray stone, for example: when it was built 120 years ago, did God look at the third floor and choose it in advance for his little Penelope girl? I am convinced that the Empire State Building has been waiting for a Christian college since 1931.

People come with places, and are the best details of all. My Ohio friend married my Pennsylvania friend, and my Polish friend married my German friend. I met friends from everywhere, and we all met in this big city because we all went to the Empire State Building after the same Objective; an Objective that; like the Building, is the tallest and grandest in this city. But like the college that hides in the basement of this building, the inroads to the Kingdom lie hidden, quieter than the roaring city streets, unassuming like a lamb.

I've written before about the importance of place: the way places stand as monuments, Ebenezers, to the work of God. As my physicality and sprituality are inseparable, what happens and where it happens are inseparable, dependent on one another, beautified by each other. Places and persons seem to come together at just the right time. And when we pray for the right place for our person, we find ourselves sitting in a Laundromat in the most unlikely of neighborhoods. But when I find my place, I find God there, the grand Objective, who was even beating in my nervous heart on that runway years ago. He’ll be as grand when I’m a parent, grandparent, and widow.

My grandmother still has the bar of cranberry soap we bought her in Boston, and whenever I find it at her house and smell it through the paper wrapping, I am instantly back there. In the same way, the hallways at my old apartment building remind me of being a freshman, and pencil-shavings smell hearkens to first grade. One day, when I’m in a new place, visiting Hell’s Kitchen will have an eerie scent of an old place, and old times. It is too bad to think that stale pigeon poop smell will cause my recollection of my apartment on 43rd street, or perhaps the fishy smell of leftover ice dumped on the sidewalk from the seafood market. Not every place can smell like cranberries, I suppose.

The places of old times hurt me a little inside—they shouldn’t probably, but they do. I shouldn’t be ashamed that I was once an idealist freshman-to-be, disappointed by not winning my county beauty pageant. One day I may be amazed that I had time to talk about psychosomatic unity over wine and cheese. A detail or two here, a detail or two there, maybe a whirring noise, and I’ll be in a new situation, new normalcy, and I’ll have some new fodder for nostalgia in my repertoire.

I’m never home, but I find pieces of it along the way, and each one is precious. One thing I do know is that I will always have laundry to do: there is always the dirt of streets, the sweat from chasing my Objective to wash out of my clothing. Thank God the Objective never changes like the details do.

Morning People

2009-06-25T23:37:00.002-04:00

Sometimes I wish the subway were still a bit of a novelty to everyone, like it was 1904 again, and the trains were new. I mean, I know I still get a thrill out of that wind blowing my hair in every direction when the train rushes into the platform.

I have recently started to commute, which means I experience this thrill daily. I set out at 10 am, and I walk two avenues east, and one street south, and hop on the 2 or 3 train. I get off at 96th to catch a 1 train, which is right across the platform.

Some days, there's a bit of a wait for the 1 train to come, and hundreds of people are waiting on the platform with me, and hundreds more on the downtown platform across the tracks. The strange part is that the 96th Street station is perfectly silent. Like a tomb. All the people in this tomb are just as silent as the figures painted on the walls of an Egyptian crypt: poised, stiff, and impersonal. Like those Egyptian figures, they all look the same. This silence only means that all of us travel alone, alone with other loners. Some say that commuters are silent because it's the morning and everyone is grumpy. Being alone makes me grumpy too.

Even a novelty holds no thrill when you are experiencing it alone. And those things which are not novelty are almost like sleeping when done solo. Without the boy to laugh at your hair as it whips into the air from the train's gust, you never know how funny it looks. When you have a girlfriend to talk to, you can take the local train and it's okay if it takes longer. People always look so happy to see children on the train because kids make much needed noise, say funny things, and even might smile at you if you're lucky.

I will be spending my train rides with John Steinbeck, who also never travelled alone. In Travels With Charley, which is my current reading selection, Steinbeck packs up a pick-up truck and drives cross country with this French poodle, Charley, meeting many an all- American character along the way. A dog is company enough when you fill up your tank on conversation at every gas station and diner along the way. A good lesson, especially for New Yorkers who live alone with dogs and commute alone.

New Yorkers- it's okay to be quiet in the mornings, but make sure your tank is full... don't be so alone (and poodles don't count). I'll talk to you any time.

Thunder, Papaya Dog, Curtains, & Coffee

2009-06-13T14:04:00.002-04:00

Ever since the storm the other night, I keep thinking I hear thunder. I want to relive that thrill of being awoken and almost feeling the heat of that lightning, but no sound is ever lightning. Rather, it is a truck rolling over a metal plate in the road. Another time it was the jackhammer or cement sander or some other noisy tool that they are using to refurbish the façade of the building next door. Or the dishwasher rinsing one more time. Not that glorious thunder.

No storm will be as thrilling as that storm was on Monday night. The problem is, New Yorkers never get to relive thrills because things change so fast. For example, Papaya Dog changed sides of the street. One day, I realized it was gone, and I stood on the street corner and mourned its passing by letting my mouth fall open slowly, the way a city bus lowers to the street and makes that high-pitched beeping noise. I figured the health department shut them down. The next morning, however, to my astonishment, Papaya Dog had a shiny new sign and open doors directly across 9th Avenue from where it was before. The $1 French fries aren’t as good, probably because they don’t have that distinct rat poop flavor anymore.

Another change is that my apartment has new curtains. There is a lot of victory wrapped up in those laurel-green curtains, for I made them myself. My mom and I stepped into Parom fabrics and bought the crinkle organza for $5 per yard from this old man with a limp and a great smile. Then we went to the trim store and bought scissors and thread and needles and thread snippers. Then we cleared the counter space in the kitchen, chopped it up and had beautiful curtains up in no time. Great results after making do with what you have makes you feel in some way heroic. People make movies with themes like that, the quadriplegic who runs a marathon, the woman who gets elected to public office in her backward small town prior to women’s suffrage, or the underdog lawyer winning the case with only a wrinkled letter as evidence. Why not the young girl and her mother who makes luxurious curtains with hardly any money, a secondhand sewing machine, and a kitchen counter? I think “The Curtains” would be a really cute short film, especially if it were in French. The old man with the limp could have a kind of magical quality about him.

Speaking of windows—the other day, I sat next to the window to drink my coffee, and there was a plastic chicken leg on our outside windowsill. The little girl upstairs had thrown it out the window as it turns out, but we kept it for a few days as a scarecrow to the pigeons. We’ve been especially sick of them lately, since my roommate spent an hour chipping the caked pigeon poop off the windowsill. It was as hard as cement, and we don’t want any more of it.

In other news of change, my former roommate got married two weeks ago and a week later, another friend of mine had her first baby. As my friends stepped into marriage and motherhood, I stepped into singledom for real. When people your age start getting married or having babies all around you, it makes you want to assert your identity on the world too, to do something only single folk may do, like move to the Himalayas or stay up really late. Lately, my singleness has manifested itself in my drinking coffee at nighttime. Married people can’t do that because coffee breath is no good when you sleep six inches away from someone else. Moms can’t either because they need their sleep. My assertion of my identity may not be ceremony and consummation that reflects the beauty of the Trinity or the creating and nurturing of a new living soul, but having no obligations in your sleep schedule is glorious in its own way.

Awake for Rain

2009-06-09T02:53:00.005-04:00

Hell's Kitchen feels summer storms, three A.M. storms that wake you up. The window in your hobbit hole of a bedroom that looks out on a brick wall flickers with lightening so close and so loud. No time to count seconds between the flash and the crack. The wall outside the window glows with window light from the floor below and above. The neighbors are awake too.

This is the low hanging storm, personal and intimate, the only kind Hell's Kitchen can hear over ambient city-roar. The thunder cracks like splintering wood, and surprises you so you pull the covers up closer.

This is the wet storm, drippy and streamy; you feel a mist through the window screen and hear droplets, and the overflow of the roof gutters slapping to the ground; it makes you wake up thirsty.

Some sirens whiz by-- you were wondering how long it would take for a fire to start somewhere from the lightening. Storms are when the hot air meets the cold air-- will tomorrow be hotter or colder? It's mostly blown over, except the slapping rain and its bouncing drops that sound like popcorn.

Strand of Conciousness: A Novel

2009-06-07T23:23:00.003-04:00

I visited my favorite book joint in the city- the Strand on 12th street, and going there always teaches me something new, even if I don't buy a book.

I can depend on a worldview reality check when I go to Strand. The book selection, from the authors, to the Top-10 Picks, to the "gift ideas" table is reeking of relativism and nihilism. Despite the luxury of cheap books in ridiculous quantities (18 miles to be exact), and the reverential treatment Strand bestows on the Classics, I leave feeling a slightly belittled for being a Christian. Oh, how the covers of books seem to cry out that traditionalism has had its day, let us eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die with a book in our hands.

The Strand has an entire section devoted to New York City. It's behind the elevator shaft, with an auxiliary table full of tourist favorites in the main aisle. There's just way more than you could ever read, especially if you like to read anthologies of short essays about the city.

Which is what I write.

And most of them are marked down to $6.75.

Well.

That's discouraging.

Just like the starving artist crowd, I dare, however foolishly, to dive into a market that's more saturated than baklava is in honey. It is tempting to be just as flaky as baklava and just find another city to write about. Is it possible to write anything fresh about New York? I shake my fist at the sky. Do I have the capacity to discover a previously unwritten nuance to city life, or a sentiment, or a metaphor, anything? The baklava one was pretty good, I guess.

Not so much a lesson was a resolution that I will never, ever, write or read something that has the subtitle: "a novel." No way, Jose. I just think it's the most self-important thing you can do if you're a novelist, and I refuse to indulge it. When I see a 1-2 inch thick book in the fiction section, I know it's a novel. Relentless: A Novel is actually a real book, a novel in fact, unintentionally denoting for us all the unrelenting use of this frustrating subtitle. I also decided that I will never title any of my future books with a pun that plays on the title of another book. For instance, the new release, The Other Side of Paradise, depends on Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise for the punch of its title. Such a move is humiliating for the author. Authors should have enough self-respect to create a new title worthy of their fresh thoughts. Make a title that other people will pun- but don't stoop so low yourself!

Lesson number four was that I unwittingly mastered the "Strand Look." I bought a vintage dress at the neighborhood rummage sale yesterday for $5, and I must brag that it is killer. Purple linen, circle skirt, handmade, embroidered collar and pockets. I wore it today with a vintage belt I bought for $10 in Indianapolis, a purchase I justified by pointing out that in Bible times you were considered naked if you wore no belt. I am a traditionalist after all. The June air was just humid enough to give me that big frizzy curly hair that makes people think you're really smart and quirky and from NYU. I was adored at the Strand tonight. Even the weird kids talking in the poetry section were trying to sound poetry savvy in front of me: "I never took her seriously as a poet, her work was always full of feminist anger." "Check out this opening line... Oh, f*** prose, I can never write it no matter how hard I try." "Do you like Thomas Hardy?" And so on, back and forth between them. I thumbed through some books and wished I liked poetry like they did. I've only read Thomas Hardy's prose.

The cashier complimented the dress. I complimented her hair. She wanted to be my friend because of that dress, I know it. If I ever become a missionary to the Strand, I now know how to win respect in this proudly progressive book store: just wear a dress that is 40 years old. That doesn't really make sense.

What the Heck's Kitchen

2009-05-14T00:54:00.002-04:00

And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees—just as things grow in fast movies—I had the familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.

n F. Scott Fitzgerald

When you want to write a piece that you don’t know how to begin, a cheap way out is to insert an epigraph, as I just did. An epigraph is a quote that is uncannily appropriate to the essay that follows, and is not to be confused with an epitaph, which is what you write on a grave stone. Epigraphs are for beginnings, and epitaphs are for ends; and this essay is about beginnings. If you’ve ever read The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, you might know that this quote is said by the almost invisible narrator, Nick, after he moves to New York, Long Island to be exact. This is where the uncanny connection comes in.

I just moved, and I will honestly say I moved “to” New York, even though I’ve lived in New York for three school years. I passed the test of “real New Yorkerhood” I had placed upon my own shoulders, which was finding an apartment outside of student housing. To move a week before finals, and even to arrange furniture when I had a paper to write was to make the inaugural statement, “I am an adult now, I am a New Yorker, and there is more to this city and my life than my GPA.” The neighborhood I’ve stumbled upon and fallen in love with is called Hell’s Kitchen.

Despite the fact that my college is in the Empire State Building, and I spend the majority of my time there, I never felt more like a New Yorker as when I stepped into the Stilles Produce Market in my neighborhood for the first time. It has a dingy little entrance, not much to look at, but any good New Yorker knows that a place that looks like that has got to have good prices. Just be sure to have cash. Produce is one of the hardest things to get cheap in this city. That and breakfast cereal. The inside is like a big tent, with yellow-painted plywood displays full of fruit and vegetables. Nothing extra- no folds of green tissue paper cradling every apple, like at Morton Williams, no, this is plywood, and this is the cheapest box of strawberries I’ve seen in a long time. The onions are gleaming gold and perfectly round, the outer layer of filmy casing intact. The juice oranges are 20 cents.

At the checkout counter, I hand her a twenty to pay for my strawberries, and she moistens her finger on a thick slice of cucumber to count my change. Her booth is festooned with pictures of Jesus and countless saints, like a chapel. Fancy that, a chapel in Hell’s Kitchen.

I hear Hell’s Kitchen gets its name from Davy Crockett, who upon visiting New York was so disgusted by the manners of Irish working men, that he exclaimed that they ain’t fit to swab Hell’s Kitchen. The other story is that the name comes from the temperature of the place. I like the first story better, but I especially like that the name sticks, even though we don’t know why. Realtors tend to opt for the more elegant name, “Clinton,” after DeWitt, not Hillary, but they can’t compete with the King of the Wild Frontier. I suppose we could compromise and call it Heck’s Kitchen.

The area is full of old tenements, but a few high rise buildings are going up. There’s a relaxed atmosphere that you can’t find in other parts of New York. We are on the West Coast of Manhattan Island, so I suppose that makes sense. I think I live in an old boarding house, since every apartment has two or three doors and the hallways are so narrow. I imagine what happened in these hallways since the 1880s—how many little Irish or Italian children were born in these bedrooms, how many gang rumbles like West Side Story (set here) took place by the river visible from my front stoop. My superintendent says that Marilyn Monroe and Lou Gehrig lived in my building when they were an item, and Lou was a Yankee and not a disease.

I live two flights up, and all but two of my windows look out on a brick wall four feet away. Between my building and the next is a sizeable pigeon colony. I hear the city slips birth control chemicals into bird food and gives it to the pigeons, but there’s still a lot of twitterpation and raising young that happens in that alley. When they’re cooing in the middle of the night, I wonder if the entire pigeon population regenerates outside my window.

Another noise I hear at night is a rumble in the ceiling, kind of a pitter-pattering clamor. It is Bootsie, my upstairs neighbor Delia’s 19 pound cat playing night-tag with her other cats. Delia tells me that if I ever see Bootsie, I should shoo him back upstairs.

On move-in day, I met my mostly-out-of-work-actor friend, Tony. He’s a 60-something Italian guy with sparkly eyes, and a knack for making fast friends. He handed me his card, and told me to call him if I ever want a massage. He recommended Lenny’s for their $1 coffee.

Since we met, Tony seems to pop up around every corner—I went to Lenny’s the next day, and I was watching for the bus. He strolled by, saw me, and stepped inside.

“Eh! You took my advice!”

“Definitely- it’s great coffee.” We talked for fifteen minutes.

I’ve seen him at Dunkin Donuts, at the Little Pie Company, and coming back from Lenny’s another time. The man lives on coffee. He must. My favorite place when I have an excuse to splurge on coffee is the Cup Cake Café three blocks away. It turned out that I moved just in time to “Kick off the iced coffee season” as the bearded barista quips.

“Do you need any weaponry?” He asks right after handing me the prettiest cappuccino ever- the swirled foamy milk on top, in a white ceramic mug. It looks like something out of a magazine. “Weaponry--you need a spoon or anything?”

“No, no, this looks perfect.” I say. It tastes perfect too. No weaponry necessary, not even a teaspoon of sugar. I have yet to see Tony at the Cup Cake Café.

Even without Tony, there’s plenty of street life to take in. It rained a lot in early May, and the trees lining my street burst into the brightest green of early summer. It was still too wet for me. One day I was walking in the rain along 9^th Avenue, and a pretty girl was walking near me with no umbrella. Suddenly, a handsome stranger swept in next to her and offered to share his red umbrella with her. She batted her eyelashes and took him up on it, and he soon had her wrapped up in small talk with him. “Good catch!” I wanted to exclaim, and I walked on, jaw dropped.

Today I turned off 42^nd Street and there was an ancient man with an unkempt white beard staring at me. He started screeching, “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” with wide eyes in my direction, and I remembered that I was wearing a Beatles T-shirt and realized he was referencing, however vaguely, “She Loves You” by the Beatles. I ignored him, and I had the unfortunate opportunity to go that way again an hour later. “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” he croaked again, as creepily as before, but I cracked a smile, and he said, “Now do you understand what I was doing before?”

Right up the street from the Cup Cake Café is this man who sells used books on a card table on the street. His name is Edwin. My neighbor, Judy, is a fast-talking lady who thinks I’m so sweet inside that she wants to set me up with her nephew, Leo. Juan and Laura live upstairs with their two girls, and Brad the squash player lives downstairs. Sometimes people leave little items on the windowsill of the stairwell for other tenants to take if they want to, like a garage sale. The other day I picked up an old book about a New York mayor, Jimmy Walker, from an anonymous donor.

I learned recently that the most dangerous and most congested intersection for pedestrians in the city is 34^th Street and 6^th Avenue—where I used to live. Reverse the digits of the street and flip the 6 and you’ve got my new home, 43^rd Street and 9^th Avenue, which speaks safety to me, not chaos. When I walk to my apartment building, I consciously realize when I’ve crossed the last street I have to cross. I’m on my block. I’m really home.

Relocation always heightens the senses like new-car smell, or driving somewhere new, or stepping off a stuffy plane into a sunny airport. This is a lot less lonely than traveling, though. I hope somehow that I never stop seeing the light and dark grays of my apartment building’s brick, or noticing the crown molding in the vestibule. I hope I never tire of introducing myself to each neighbor. I hope I never stop gasping in raptures at the bright green leaves of the trees in the sun. I hope that the novelty of a fire escape by the window never wears off. No epitaph, no endings. Only a beautiful growing friendship with my city that starts this summer.

The Devotion of Incarnation

2009-04-05T19:58:00.007-04:00

A friend and I recently rode the M4 bus down Broadway from Washington Heights, across Cathedral Parkway and down 5th to 42nd Street. It was a good hour to talk about God and life, for this is a woman I truly trust to have insight into my heart-- her listening and speaking are penetrating, but gentle.

She told me that she has trouble feeling close to God in the city. Without the space and with too many distractions, she finds it dizzying and interruptive of her dialogue with God. She relayed to me that in church that morning, Tim Keller had mentioned that New York City is crowded with image bearers of God, so many that it can hardly help but lead us to worship. Keller had challenged the urbanites in his congregation to see people as the glory of God around them, despite the fact that they can't have grass and trees or solitude.

Inside, my first reaction was, "Ha, of course I feel close to God in New York City. In fact, I would say that I see the beauty of God in the faces all around me." But the Holy Spirit whispered a warning to look for hypocrisy in my heart. I can think of people I encounter in this city for whom I have not an ounce of love in my heart. I admitted this to my friend.

We talked about how much we like the "idea" of cities-- the idea of a close-knit neighborhood, the idea of reaching out to coworkers, the idea of caring for the poor, the idea of raising a family here. Just like I love the idea of reading great books all the time and I don't, I wonder if I would pursue any of those things in New York.

If the same homeless man or woman depended on me to bring them a sandwich every morning on my way to work-- if I took it upon myself to care for them every day-- to find someone to do it for me when I'm out of town, and that homeless person never tried to change, never stopped depending on me in that small thing- would I be okay with that?

Probably not. I need to learn what it means to "incarnate" into the world of the needy, like Jesus did. Sickness and hunger were not Jesus' fault, but he shouldered them in his ministry and ultimately in his death. He shouldered my sickness and hunger. Like him, I must step into the problems that are not my fault, be fully present, and so committed that I would die before leaving them helpless or unprayed for.

What a call: to "incarnate:" a high call. Only grace can make it possible. Only the grace to stop on my busy way to work to buy a meal for the hungry, to give of myself. To merely give money is cheap, if I'm truly honest with myself.

A number of excuses rise in my mind when I think of serving with reckless abandon: I'm a poor college student. I'm a woman and I don't want to be assaulted. I can't do enough to make a dent in the problems of this world. Why can't I just choose a ministry, a group of people, something unintimidating, something that uses "my gifts?" New York City makes me terribly aware of my excuses to not step into a new lifestyle.

"My gifts" are the riches of my own forgiveness, the friend and confidant I have in Jesus, the promises he has made, the words of Scripture in my heart that have healed me. Love does not pick and choose who or when. I like the idea of loving people, but when I see faces in need I know I see my own fear and not the portraiture of God there. I see the cruddy exterior and my own vulnerability before I see the masterpiece that healing could uncover.

Strange that in my reaction to another's depravity, I see my own.

Isaiah 58 promises an incredibly dynamic relationship with God to those who take seriously his true definition of devotion:

Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:
       to loose the chains of injustice
       and untie the cords of the yoke,
       to set the oppressed free
       and break every yoke?

Is it not to share your food with the hungry
       and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—
       when you see the naked, to clothe him,
       and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?

Then your light will break forth like the dawn,
       and your healing will quickly appear;
       then your righteousness will go before you,
       and the glory of the LORD will be your rear guard.

Then you will call, and the LORD will answer;
       you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I.
       "If you do away with the yoke of oppression,
       with the pointing finger and malicious talk,

and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry
       and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,
       then your light will rise in the darkness,
       and your night will become like the noonday.

The LORD will guide you always;
       he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land
       and will strengthen your frame.
       You will be like a well-watered garden,
       like a spring whose waters never fail.

My friend on the bus was right, it's hard to be a Christian in New York. I can't reconcile Scripture with my life and not admit my own hypocrisy along the way, or at best, my own lukewarmness. It confronts me daily.

Grown Up Things

2009-03-02T20:56:00.005-05:00

I just turned 21 in September, and I initially decided that being a grown-up is far too complicated. I'm in this gigantic city, where virtually everything is at my fingertips, but I can't seem to find the time to do grown up things. For example, I had to get an eye exam this past fall. I dwelled on it for weeks before I finally did anything. Basically, I just ran out of disposable contacts, which made me take action.

Today I went to the shoe repair place. $8 to fix shoes I paid $3 for at Goodwill. There's something unfair about that.

I somehow managed to get an absentee ballot for the Presidential election in the fall. How I managed to do that is beyond me. If Indiana hadn't been a "swing state," this priority would not have been so dire. The swing status made the effort gratifying.

Another looming task was figuring out how to get a bank account in New York. I got a special coupon in the mail that promised me $100 free if I opened an account with Chase, so I did. That $100 went to pay for my eye exam. Ouch.

My drivers' license expired too, so I had to file an extension request by mail. I did it just in time for my 21st birthday. The endeavor knocked the wind out of me and I had to recuperate for the entire weekend. Some say it was just a wild birthday that did that to me, but I know it was that renewal form, especially since my birthday wasn't really all that wild.

Then I got summoned for jury duty. In Indiana.

Then there's work, school, extracurriculars, family, friends, homework, grocery shopping, cooking, laundry, burn out, keeping cash on hand, and high-heels. I commented to a friend that perhaps being grown up gets easier when you get married. He concurred-- division of labor is a very real advantage.

This past weekend, however, I felt that I did the most grown up thing that I've done so far-- almost as grown-up as getting married in my book, minus the division of labor. I signed on to be an official member of Apostle's Church here in New York. I didn't expect it to feel as climactic as it did, especially since it was a one day class on a Saturday on my own college campus and all we had to do was sign a paper at the end. When I signed the covenant, however, I felt a strange weightiness inside. Signing this sheet is signing into a family- affiliating myself with a group of people that will become my first priority and no doubt have real implications for what happens in my future. It was also a step of faith that I was counting on God to keep me here in New York City for the long haul- that it was him who had put that desire in my heart and would follow through.

I suppose getting married feels like that (more so, I'm sure)- you walk down the aisle, knowing you're doing exactly the right thing with the right person, but you can also feel the weight of it, the start of a new chapter of life. The ring's on the finger, and you're in for good.

Now if only my church could help me get a credit card... so I can accrue credit history... and lease an apartment one of these days.

Ask the New York Dog Expert

2009-03-02T20:48:00.000-05:00

Dear New York Dog Expert,

Whenever I go to the Upper East Side for church, I see more dogs than children. I count as I walk, so I know this is true. What’s more, the sidewalks are covered with excrement, and I thought the UES was reputed to be the cleanest part of town. Are these two observations related?

--Pooped in Midtown

Precious Pooped,

You’re like an amateur me! Your findings are true: a study was done in which researchers discovered that there are indeed more dogs than children in Manhattan. It has everything to do with the well known doctrine: “it is difficult to raise children in New York City.” If you don’t know, the Upper East Side, while overrun by dogs, has a high number of children for a New York neighborhood. You have astutely observed the UES younglings’ excrement littering the sparkling sidewalks. See why it’s easier to have a dog in the city? Congratulations on picking up on these sociological phenomena- hope this clears things up.

Dear New York Dog Expert,

I have an Irish Wolf Hound the size of a pony. Would it be okay to bring it on the subway?

-- Stuck on 92^nd Street Til Further Notice

Gentle Stuck,

Funny you should ask, because just last month a woman got a ticket from the transit authorities for doing just that. She argued that her dog was a “service-dog” to help her with her post-traumatic stress syndrome. She sued for $10,000 and won. She’s filing a federal suit for $10 million. I say, while the issue’s hot and in the news, see if you can heckle an MTA worker into issuing you a ticket, then sue for the big bucks.

Dear New York Dog Expert,

When I walk my dog through Washington Square Park at night under a full moon, he howls at it with reckless abandon. Then he paces across my kitchen all night long, keeping me awake. Can you explain this strange behavior?

--Sleepless in Soho

Dearest Sleepless,

I am a firm believer in a dog’s keen sense (mostly through their nose) for the unseen, that they can sense earthquakes coming, see demons and such. Thus, we must be careful where we walk our dogs, in an effort to preserve their mental health. Washington Square Park used to be known as the potter’s field, and holds mass graves of 20,000 of the city’s impoverished citizens and yellow fever victims from the 19^th century. The exact plot where the fountain is today is where the city gallows used to be. All this to say, your dog is seeing ghosts, and you have made a grave mistake, pun most definitely intended *chuckle*. Unless you own a werewolf, your dog is definitely suffering from post (and present) traumatic stress syndrome, a tell-tale symptom of which is pacing kitchens. You should refrain from taking your dog to Washington Square Park, and avoid taking him on the subway, lest he get ticketed for taking you with him.

Dear New York Dog Expert,

I want to name my new dog something unconventional. What are the most popular dog names in New York, so I can avoid them?

-Remaining Nameless in Tribeca

Dear Nameless,

New Yorkers typically name their dogs after food or really famous people. So not surprisingly, the most popular names for dogs are Halal, Brooke Astor, America-Runs-On-Dunkin, and Olasky. I myself named my toy poodle Magnolia after the bakery. In Sex in the City, one character has a dog named Elizabeth Taylor. Naming a dog is like getting a tattoo—pick something simple, but which opens the door to a quick conversation with strangers about its meaning.

Fifty Reasons

2009-03-01T13:15:00.007-05:00

In honor of your 50th Birthday, Dad, here are 50 things to remember, and reasons to celebrate you:

1. You are an amazing listener.

2. Remember our impromtu wrestling tournament when I was seven? You wore Tricia's pink bathrobe. That was really fun.

3. You have great taste in sweaters.

4. You kept that brown Dodge Neon until you'd gotten double your money's worth.

5. You worked at high-Lilly.

6. You did my taxes this year! Thank you!

7. You can euchre the other team going alone. Twice. We're in the barn!!

8. You will talk to me about economics at the dinner table.

9. You selflessly help around the house all the time. I love folding laundry with you- it's conducive to some great dating advice.

10. You knew more than the tour guide did about the house where Lincoln died.

11. We would all come home from AWANA and you'd be listening to old records in the dining room. You're so cool.

12. The Star Wars Cantina was just like the Nutcracker Suite.

13. Rollin' With my Homies.

14. The way you worship- out of obedience and faithfulness, you play the piano to honor God weekly, and he meets you there.

15. The time you told me you could not imagine me going anywhere else than The King's College. That meant so much to me, as do your opinions about everything.

16. You have really fun friends, who all have really fun daughters, who are all my friends. It works out.

17. The only time I remember you having a real beer was after we drove eight hours in that snow storm back from Chicago.

18. You can cook. All kinds of things: pizza bread, tacos, brats, all that good stuff.

19. You counted denim jumpers with me at the homeschool convention.

20. You are not afraid of promises- that's what a real man is.

21. When we were little, you put up with listening to Christopher Church Mouse in the car all the time.

22. You got to meet Bob Kravitz.

23. You have a valuable level headed manner of handling things as an elder at church and in our family.

24. You refereed at AWANA Olympics. That pretty much made you the coolest dad at AWANA.

25. You always get Mom a new set of home phones for either Christmas or Mother's Day. I don't know. It's just funny how many we've gone through.

26. When I moved here, I had to learn the subway system by fire because you always "handled it" when we would come to visit NYC together.

27. Actually, you have a very good habit in general of "handling it."

28. Your compliments really matter when you say them. That's something I want to emulate about you.

30. You are terribly difficult to buy presents for, but that's because you're so content. I've never seen a shred of materialism in you.

31. I like going to the bank with you on Saturday (before noon!) mornings and listening to Car Talk on the radio.

32. Thanks for making me feel safe with you all the time-- except when we were down on 38th Street pumping Superchick in our white minivan. What were we thinking?

33. Thanks for going trick-or-treating with us.

34. I'll never forget that one time Tricia and I were putting on a Barbie fashion show and we made you watch it, but you were in the weirdest hyper mood, and you wouldn't quit making ridiculous comments.

35. Thanks for being up for the whole home schooling undertaking. It speaks volumes of how much you want to put the good of our family above yourself.

36. You finally made the transition of calling Toastie by name instead of just "dog."

37. Thanks for teaching me how to write well even when I was really young, and for laughing at my humor pieces... "I had some rope!"

38. When a week of camp was over for me, you'd drive all the way to Michigan to pick me up then listen to me go on and on about the week of Camp all the way home. I bet that was pretty exhausting for you, especially since I was learning all kinds of Southern Baptist propaganda... whoops. I think I still do that when you pick me up from the airport.

39. Sometimes it bothers me that you don't sit down when we are watching a movie together--instead you hover behind the couch. It bothers me until I realize you just don't feel like watching Bride and Prejudice... again.

40. Musk... ox?

41. Thanks for videotaping our boring little plays, visits to Santa, and exercise videos for posterity and my future embarrassment.

42. Thanks for inheriting such gorgeous jewelry! *wink.

43. You have reshaped the future and redeemed our history as a family by making Christ the center of our home.

44. Thanks for raising me in a church plant. What an adventure! I'm starting to realize how sharpening that was for me and our whole family.

45. Growing up, it sure was nice to be able to call you any time at work and ask you silly questions.

46. You've gotten over your hatred of the YMCA song, and I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. At least now we can play it at parties.

47. Hiking with you and Uncle Paul on Thanksgiving is too fun for words. Especially once you get talking about dead presidents.

48. The way you play "The Christmas Song" on the piano is my favorite version.

49. You always told me that I would like coffee once I got to college. You were right. You usually are.

50. 1 John 2:14, 27 paraphrased just for you: I write to you my father, because you have known him who is from the beginning... because you are strong, and the word of God lives in you, and you have overcome the evil one...the anointing you recieved from God remains in you and you do not need anyone to teach you. But as his anointing teaches you about all things and as that anointing is real not counterfeit-- just as it has taught you, remain in him.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Love,

Pennie

Greatness of Grace on Queens Boulevard

2009-02-10T12:00:00.001-05:00

There is a box-shaped building in Queens that I can usually see from the air as I fly into LaGuardia airport. Other than the Queensboro Mall, it is the tallest building on that part of Queens Boulevard, and a graffiti-adorned statue of an elk guards the front steps. I always smile when I fly over and spot it below because this building opened my eyes and heart to the gripping enigma of urban living. I say enigma because while non-city dwellers enjoy the comforts of suburbs and space, urbanites most readily live without either, for reasons you don’t understand until you live in the city. The building is a 1920s former Elk Lodge, and now houses New Life Fellowship church.

My pastor in my hometown once served as an intern at New Life Fellowship while he was in seminary. When he moved to Indiana, he promptly proposed a youth trip to NLF. Five of us oldest teens, all girls, traveled in a big van to Queens for a ten day stint of intense Bible study and evangelism projects with New Life Fellowship. The pastor, Pete Scazzero, is a loud Italian, whose preaching style is fast paced and passionate. Elmhurst, Queens is the most ethnically diverse zipcode in the United States, with over 120 nations relocated into its neighborhoods. 60 of those nations are represented at New Life Fellowship.

The church’s Sunday morning services present the church’s aptitude for adapting to the city’s logistical challenges while at the same time displaying everything that cities do well. There’s a sign on Queens Boulevard that says, “A pedestrian was killed crossing here” to remind you to cross the street carefully. Once safely across 8 lanes of unpredictable traffic, you would walk past the oxidized elk statue, and into a huge hall painted bright orange. The curtains were made of a stained tapestry material that looked like it had never been changed since the Elk’s 1920s drinking and smoking parties. Now Christians of every color and origin are sharing bagels and coffee in this room. There are still elk heads mounted above every doorway.

The sanctuary is a two-story assembly hall, adorned floor to ceiling in Aztec motif woodwork in a multiplicity of oranges and yellows. It’s terrifyingly ugly, and looks slightly pagan, but somehow the beauty of the worship music outshines everything else. At the time, the Elk society still owned and rented out the building on weekends, so the floor of the sanctuary was glazed with dried out beer and liquor from a party the night before, perhaps a wedding reception. At New Life, they call this the “Sunday Morning Stick,” since your shoes stick to the sugary mess during the service. Behind the stage in the sanctuary are narrow hallways adjoining small rooms and apartments, hidden as if they were once used for the Elks’ secret initiation rites. In fact, the entire building is a maze of rooms, some still have black and white portraits of the Elk officers hanging on the walls, their hair slicked back with pomade like Cary Grant.

In the basement is the longest mahogany bar in the city which served as the set for the pizza parlor scene in A Beautiful Mind. Today this bar serves as the youth group room, where students have the opportunity to perform original rap and hip-hop music. Also hidden in the basement is a debilitated bowling alley from the 1920s. The room looks frozen in time- the lanes, pins, and balls are still there, but much of the room is in severe disrepair, save a few stained glass window wells by Charles L. Tiffany.

The building points back to a time when Elmhurst, Queens was a white society man’s world, but today’s congregation shows that New York has welcomed the entire world. During worship, some wave flags, others dance, others clap and sing at the top of their lungs, reminding me of the promises in Revelation that every nation will one day be worshipping before the throne of God. The church is full of diverse stories and characters. William was a member of the Columbian drug cartel before becoming a Christian and taking charge of the church’s evangelism ministry. Drew is a Korean pastor in training. Debbie is an African-American woman who does secretarial work for the church. Jusup is a vocalist from Indonesia who taught himself to play guitar so he wouldn’t always have to wait for instrumentalists to show up. Zola is Jamaican and after serving time in prison for drug trafficking, is now a strong Christian and runs the youth ministry.
Joseph was an Italian high school student who became my friend during the ten day trip, and taught me so much about the city. I remember sitting with him over Malaysian food and hearing his stories about going to a big private school in New York: “One of my friends from Brooklyn has a huge accent. One time he tried to tell us this joke, ‘So, a guy walks into a poo-ahn shop…’ and I’d stop him, ‘wait- what do you mean, a pawn shop or a porn shop?’ and he’d say, ‘A poo-ahn shop. You know. Deh’s a distinct difference: poo-ahn, and poo-ahn. See?’” Joseph was a funny kid, and welcomed me into his hometown readily.

I point to New Life Fellowship as the archetype of the New York experience because the church has paid the price of urban living but reaped the rich fruit of the efforts. The price includes logistical adaptation- paying high rent to do church in a non-church building, moving extensive sound equipment on a sticky floor every Sunday, having youth group in a bar next to a torn up bowling alley. Another hurdle: such diversity presents unpredictable needs for Christ-like reconciliation. Pastor Pete will tell you that the congregation routinely deals with numerous socioeconomic, gender, and ethnic barriers. At New Life, you find Bible studies comprised of a black man who grew up hated by whites, a white man who was taught to be suspicious of Puerto Ricans, and a Puerto Rican who felt threatened by the blacks in his neighborhood growing up. You find former drug addicts, the illiterate, and the illegal immigrant, and a white collar Wall Streeter on the same ministry team. The pain and pent up anger are real, and historical differences and prejudices inevitably come to the surface. But through intentional reconciliation and hard work the church has created a space where it is safe to take your place as a Ugandan, as a Chinese, as a Pole, or as a Bolivian in the larger community of faith. This has caused the ministry of the church to be unfathomably dynamic to the larger Queens area.

Through our immersive Bible study in Galatians during my stay in 2003, I came away with a new understanding of the greatness of grace. Pastor Pete sums up the gospel this way: “I am more sinful and flawed than I ever dared believe, but I am more loved and accepted than I ever dared hope.” The people of NLF had mastered the art of giving and receiving grace. Their congregation has hit major potholes in the road to where it is today, but the greatness of grace pervaded that place. It changed my life, attracting me to one day move back to New York City, which I did three years later.

What non-urbanites do not understand about big cities like New York is how much grace is required of New Yorkers to keep the lifestyle from driving you crazy. At New Life Fellowship, the congregation must have the grace to worship in an ugly sanctuary, grace to reconcile with one another for the sake of Christ, grace to put up with orange walls and a sticky floor. In the same attitude of grace, a New Yorker has the grace to stand body slammed on both sides on the crowded 6 train to work, the grace to wait patiently for a slow elevator, the grace to share the narrow aisles of the grocery store with their neighbors.

With the cost of urban living, the city repays by extending endless gifts to all her inhabitants. The city graces you with the richness that human life and culture have to offer, just as people from 60 nations sing together at an NLF service. The city, believe it or not, is full of understanding people who, if prompted, will readily converse with each other and provide directions to lost strangers. If anything, it is a city of tolerance. The city is the intersection of all paths of life, awe-inspiring, shaped by a colorful history, never boring, always giving and giving and giving.

More than ever, the Christian presence is growing in New York, and that presence is motivated and mobilized to serve the community more than any other network of believers I have ever seen. What happens at New Life Fellowship and so many other churches across the city reaches far beyond the walls of the sanctuary on Sunday morning. City dwellers have tasted grace, and perhaps they call it “tolerance,” but places like New Life Fellowship hint at a greater depth of grace that might be known in New York.

$5 Trip to China

2009-01-31T18:36:00.003-05:00

Chinatown, until today, was one of those formidable parts of town that did not seem to offer anything more than knock-off purses and other cheap souvenirs for tourists. Until today, I had never ventured much further than fast-paced, crowded Canal Street when I visited there. But I found a self-guided walk through Chinatown on the website of Time Out New York magazine, and decided to round up some friends to give it a try. After all, the point of the tour was to try a variety of snacks and pastries throughout the area- everything for dollar or less.

One of these friends, Nick, spent a year studying in Beijing, so I was anxious to learn from him and hear him speak Chinese. He had already spent the morning in Chinatown, so he met us at the Grand Street subway stop. As the tour suggested, we kicked off our Chinatown "eating-walk" at Prosperity Dumpling on Eldridge Street. The space on the inside was about 6 feet square, and dumplings were 5 for a dollar.

Most everybody waited outside in the 22 degree weather, listening as two or three men argued heatedly over a parking space. Nick surged to the counter and confidently ordered enough dumplings to feed an army (that is, us). As soon as he uttered one syllable of Chinese, the entire staff of the establishment and every Chinese person in the store exchanged looks of shock and awe. One old man with yellow teeth and a thin face smiled like a little boy who'd just seen Santa Clause. One Chinese woman turned to us and said in English, "I'm impressed. I can't speak Cantonese that well."

The dumplings, we agreed, were incredible, as was the 60 cent sesame pancake. A couple blocks later, we were at the second destination on our little map, Lucky King bakery. The place was crowded, and more than usually pink for a New York establishment. The staff was entirely comprised of cute young women with matching pink bandanas, and they were especially interested in chatting with Nick. We tried to get warm, and were highly amused by the Chinese soap operas and commercials on TVs in the bakery. The show, taking place in ancient China, reminded me of one of those cheesy History Channel documentaries when they try too hard to dress up someone as Alexander Graham Bell, except in this case it was someone from the Ming Dynasty (who killed JR?). One of the commercials showed what happens when the toxins come out of your skin- green goo oozes out into your foot bath. Great.

We took a few minutes to sit and try all kinds of pastries- sweet noodles stuck together like a Rice Krispie treat, a bun with Asian spiced pork inside (at a bakery?), and sesame pie with an almost waxy texture. The hot tea was fantastic- served in cotton-candy pink cups with lots of milk and sugar, the tea bag floating merrily in the middle. All for about $2 per person.

Across the street we picked up some egg custard (90 cents) at Egg Custard King Two Cafe, and retreated to the nearby park and munched as we watched teens playing basketball. Chinese New Year was last week, so hundreds of homemade lanterns were hanging between the trees overhead. By now our eyes were tearing up from the cold, and we couldn't feel our toes, and I accidently led us far afield, into Soho. Whoops. I think I might skip this part. It's rather unpleasant.

Half an hour later, we found ourselves in Chatham Square- a mere stone's throw from the infamous Five Points area of the 19th century. Five Points was the intersection of five streets, and the center of a sprawling New York immigrant slum and site of Irish gang rumbles, as in the movie "Gangs of New York." Chatham Square felt more like Hong Kong. In the center there was a statue of Lin Ze Xu, a pioneer in the war against drugs, who lived in the late 18th and early 19th century... before there really were drugs, Matt said. Not sure, but he still gets a statue.

We warmed up in a little store called Aji Ichiban on East Broadway. As expected, the store owners were incredibly amazed and happy to talk with Nick in Chinese, and we picked up a collection of Chinese gummies and salted raisins. Next door was a Chinese stationery place, with beautiful Chinese New Year pop-up cards and books of Chinese characters for school children to practice tracing with ink and paint brushes.

QQ Bakery across the street, between Catherine Street and Forsyth, had a breathtaking wedding cake in the window, and again, more young ladies who were more than ready to talk to/flirt with Nick. I'm sensing a theme. I asked Nick how to say "thank you" in Chinese, and it was incredibly difficult to get the complicated syllables and tones out of my mouth. No wonder everyone was so amazed. Having Nick there, I felt, validated us. We were not typical tourists, boisterous and invasive to this delicately protected neighborhood. A few fluent words of the language gave us a right to be there- we were Nick's accomplices in making all these people feel valued and understood.

Finally, we stopped in at Fuzhou snack shop for some fried vegetable balls. The shop was in a maze of a building under the Manhattan Bridge, almost reminscent of a miniature mall. At this point all of us felt like we were actually in China, except the buildings were old brick tenements with elaborate iron fire escapes. There were no tourists here, no knock-off anythings, just whatever someone from the old country would need to feel at home- dried sardines and octopus for sale, a Buddhist temple, a Starbucks in the one building that looked Chinese. I saw numerous fruits I'd never seen before, some piled at the feet of small Buddha statues in shops.

We made it full circle past Prosperity Dumpling as we headed back to the subway stop, as if we'd escaped from New York City for a while- steeped deep in the Chinatown that we didn't even know was there, interacted with people we never would have been able to talk to, tasted flavors of hot tea and sweetened pork wrapped in rice dough.

Staying

2009-01-19T20:02:00.004-05:00

God, do you love me?

I was disappointed-- mostly in myself. I was uncomfortable with how easily touched my heart was- how vulnerable I was in the face of the most passive rejection, or the least lonely variety of loneliness. There was no outward, obvious reason to feel rejected, lonely, or discontent, which meant that this was a deeper, more acute kind of pain.

I decided to walk to the evening service for church in the snowy weather and have it out with God-- I know by now that I can go to him and hold on until there's a breakthrough.

Fifth Avenue was beautiful. The snow was really coming down, each flake making a cameo appearance in the yellow street lamp light. The Flatiron Building was dark up ahead, shrouded by snow, like in a movie. "That's one of my favorite buildings, " I thought amidst my emoting at God. "Why did you make me? Madison Square Park looks like Narnia! I hate that my heart hurts. Why don't you show me that you love me? All the buildings look extra tall tonight." The Met Life Tower came into view, almost theatrically. It's clock told me I'd be on time for church.

"Lord, why are you drawing my attention to the City so much? I love the city, but aren't we talking about something else?"

No... look. I brought you here.

"Yes, I suppose you did."

Pennie, you wanted with all your heart to be here. Now look, you're in Manhattan. This winter is yours. You recognize these buildings, you're learning about this place. Pennie, I brought you to the place that was the desire of your heart.

I began to sing for some reason, as disconnected as I was still feeling. How Great Thou Art...

I got to church and asked God to satisfy me- to renew my ability to recieve love. I'm so bad at that, which is probably why I'm so lonely at times.

The pastor got up and spoke about living in the mindset of the gospel- challenging us to make decisions based not on questions of personal convenience or comfort, but on what is in God's heart for us. He used New York City as an example: "Do you just want to leave New York after you pad your resume for a couple years? Are you counting down the days til you can live in the suburbs?" He asked us if we were interested instead in pouring our lives out for this city- staying intentionally to serve the city.

I could say with confidence that I wouldn't dream of wanting to leave. I don't care if years from now I'm raising kids in a tiny apartment or still having to buy expensive groceries. I would be happy if I never "got" to own a car. I want to "pad my resume" so I can keep my competitive edge to stay here.

Pastor JR had visible urgency in his eyes as he begged us to love the city...

Check.

...to pour our lives out here.

I want to.

...to put up with it even if it isn't the so called "American Dream."

Not a problem.

... and have bigger dreams for this place- that the city would encounter Christ.

YES.

He prayed, "God would you raise up people to commit to the renewal of New York City- to live here permanently? Raise them up."

Everything within me wanted to stand up and volunteer. Or at least raise my hand. I went forth to recieve communion. As I partook of the bread and wine, I imagined the gospel taking over my inner self, captivating me.

You have a willing heart. There will be a way for you to stay. I made you for this. Your love for this city is significant to me.

Loneliness dissipated. Rejection was replaced by feeling known and affirmed. Disappointment was sidestepped by hope. I stepped out of the church, and I knew it was no waste of time to adore the snow on the iron fences and untouched benches, because he made me to do just that. I walked to Gramercy Cafe, ate a muffin by the window, and admired the night time snow as hard as I could.

What Do You Think of Me?

2009-01-19T19:55:00.004-05:00

Amidst my doubts, a friend challenged me to ask God what he thought of me. So I went home and asked as I cut up onions for some soup. This is what he said:

You have legitimate hopes, but illegitimate fears.

There is so much packed into that statement:

I know you, in fact, I gave you the hopes you have.

You are far too safe and loved to ever be afraid.

Do not be afraid to hope, because my perfect love drives out fear. I will never disappoint you.

Do not be afraid of insignificance.

Good News

2009-01-19T19:46:00.003-05:00

I don't dare stand here.

Yahweh,

I am who I am.

I am yours, Yahweh, save me.

Who am I that I think I can decipher you?

I bow, I grovel, you pick up my hand from the ground.

I keep my eyes shut because

I don't want to look into the eyes of holiness,

Eyes of authority so terrible and which claim all of me.

But I can't not listen,

You still ask for me,

You stroke my hair

And put your gospel on my shoulders.

"Carry this. Carry this to the world."

What else can I do but walk with you?

You are Yahweh who in trembling love,

Poured blood to wash me and my race.

I'll carry this.

Even if I leave all else behind-

If I have to make all things new,

So you can too.

Even my burdens? Even me?

I have seen a great light,

Even with my eyes shut...

It glows through my thin eyelids.

Unto me a child is given,

Exchanged for a Passover murderer who got to live.

Yahweh, even I get to live.

I will carry this-

It is weighty, but strangely light.

Waiting for Advent

2008-12-21T22:17:00.002-05:00

After church I walked to a bagel place on 75^th street. “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” was playing over the speakers. I sat down with my bagel and my Bible and open to Luke 2. That’s what you’re supposed to read when advent starts, right? I felt a little funny because there were Hassidic Jews sitting at the tables around me. All the men were wearing yarmulkes and the women were all in skirts past their knees. I hoped they would not notice or mind that I was reading the New Testament.

Now there was a man in Jerusalem called Simeon, who was righteous and devout. He was waiting for the consolation of Israel.

The consolation of Israel?

And the Holy Spirit was upon him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not die before he had seen the Lord’s Christ.

I tried to imagine the urgency lodged in Simeon’s consciousness at all times—he knew it was coming, but when? He would wake up every morning and wonder, “Will it be today?” Day after day, he’d start to wonder if he had been wrong, maybe he heard God wrong… The silence of God toward Israel for the last 400 years had been deafening, and Simeon felt this more than anyone, waiting for God to speak.

Moved by the Spirit, he went into the temple courts. When the parents brought the child Jesus to do for him what the custom of the law required, Simeon took him in his arms…

I went back in my mind to what it is like to hold a very new baby. The soft skin against my dry hands, the floppiness of his limbs and head. The vulnerability, the little noises he makes… no matter how many times I hold babies, the perfection of their tiny hands always astonishes me. I see Simeon pulling the baby Christ close, his tiny fingers grasping the gray curls of Simeon’s beard for a moment- Simeon holds him at arms length to stare at him…falling to his knees, he holds the baby before his face, still staring…crying too.

And he praised God saying, “Sovereign Lord, as you have promised, you now dismiss your servant in peace. For my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the sight of all people, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.

Simeon held in his hands the physical person of Christ… a little jealousy rose up in me. Sometimes I wish that Jesus was still here in the flesh—that he could walk around the drab streets of the city and heal and speak, and show us how to live. Oh that these Jews around me could see his face and see their consolation. But they’re still waiting.

The reality of spiritual emptiness starts to hurt, and I feel I must go. I gather my belongings and step outside. I start walking to the subway stop. “Oh Come, O Come Emmanuel,” I start singing quietly as I walk. Over and over. God, come BE with us! We’re waiting. I pass a synagogue. Look at all these Jews, your people still waiting. Look at these Gentiles— lonely and hungry.

Simeon saw that we’re all the same—so hungry that we don’t even feel the pangs of it anymore. So lost that we don’t even search anymore. So far gone, that we don’t even hope anymore. If we saw you, Emmanuel, would we believe?

I take a seat on the train, my Bible on my lap, and find there’s another Jewish family across from me. I can see my reflection in the window of the subway car as we shoot through the dark tunnels.

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light…

And we with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord’s glory

…the glory of the one and only, full of grace and truth.

He made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Christ.

He has made us competent ministers of a new covenant--

Suddenly, it’s clear—I am chosen from the inside out, the depth of knowledge of God is fuller in my heart than it ever could be in my hands. I’ve found the consolation of Israel—he came. He died. He lived again and the search is truly over. I am found. I have Simeon’s urgency, but now it’s for others.

It doesn’t mean the Jews and Gentiles of this world aren’t hungry or waiting. But the consolation has come already—and God, you want to show yourself through me?

Simeon held an infant Jesus. He only saw the beginning. How greatly would Simeon rejoice if he could see the advent of Christ into human hearts.

Patrol Magazine | The Arts & The Times | New York, NY

2008-11-13T09:44:00.001-05:00

Patrol Magazine The Arts & The Times New York, NY

I've been published!

Defying Gravity in New York City

2008-11-10T22:57:00.005-05:00

Every time I visit my grandpa in my hometown of Indianapolis, he asks me "So, have you tried out for any of those big shows in New York?" Flattered as I am that Grandpa likes my singing, I have to remind him that actors have to have "credits" and "equity" and join the actor's union and have agents and headshots and resumes and be able to dance like the Rockettes if they want to be on Broadway. Besides, singing professionally is a dream I gave up long, long ago.

He just says, "You never know. One of these days."

One of these days finally came. Two weeks ago I had heard that there were "open call" auditions coming up for Broadway's hottest show: Wicked. Open call means WIDE open. Anyone has a shot-- actors with or without equity, with or without credits. But you had to have 16 bars to sing, a headshot and a resume. That was it.

As soon as I heard about the auditions, I started dreaming-- could I be the next Glinda or Elphaba? The show takes place in the land of Oz, "before Dorothy dropped in," as the tagline says. Glinda and her green-skinned college roommate Elphaba ride their broomsticks into an Emerald City revolution in which the girls find out their destinies as the bubble-floating, wand waving pink sprite and the Wicked Witch of the West. The songs are full of high-power vocals, the sets and costumes lavish, the hands jazzy. It's arguably the most sparkling show on Broadway, and these auditions would determine the casts for the New York and California productions and two national tours.

I knew it was a long shot. I mean, come on, it's NEW YORK- the city of starving artists and people with really good headshots. On the other hand, this is New York. The city of big breaks and ruby slippers for girls from Kansas. I poured myself into the preparations. I incessantly practiced my favorite 16 bars of a song from Les Miserables. The headshot was low-tech-- an shot of me from Facebook printed in black and white was all I could manage.

The tricky part was the resume. I threw together a page of performance experience, and hoped that the producers would notice that I'd had a solo of Wicked's "Defying Gravity" in choir once. I hoped they wouldn't notice that I've only been cast in one real theater production. My part? A plate. Really. I was once cast as a dancing and singing plate in Beauty and the Beast at a theater in Indianapolis. I was also "lady with cane" in the opening "poor provincial town" number and "woman with frying pan" in the "kill the Beast!" scene. I had three lines: "Mais Oui!" "I need six eggs!" and "Is he dangerous?" I had to wear three different wigs. For some reason, I thought spelling out all this detail out on a resume would do me more harm than good, so I wrote "cast member" and "24 performances" next to the name of the show and made room on the page for my college Shakespeare course and four years of clogging experience.

The auditions were this past Saturday, and only a short walk from my apartment. I got there at about 7:50am, and I was already 156th in line. At about 9am, the line started to move forward ten people at a time into the lobby of the audition studio.

As about 500 more Wicked hopefuls lined up behind me, I sensed that despite the hint of competition, there was at least outward comeraderie between this starving artist crowd. I got talking to the people behind me in line, Elijah, Julia, and Kristen. They had led completely arts-centered lives so far-- all three had studied theater, music, or dance in college. They thought I was crazy to be a politics, philosophy, and economics major. "Sounds like an endless nightmare," they said. I thought, "At least I'm not starving." Even though they'd name-drop the most obscure musicals to make themselves sound really theater-savvy, they'd tell me in the next breath that I was brave to sing from Les Mis.

Several women were wearing fluffy-skirted dresses to try to look like Glinda. Kristen and I discussed the importance of using your appearance to set yourself apart from the rest. Kristen said, "I'll be 'the girl with the purple shoes.' You're 'the girl with the blue tights.'" Yes. I knew it was smart to wear those tights. We both agreed that the fluffy dresses and golden fake curls were overdoing it. There was one blonde ahead of us who was trying to be "the girl with the two Maltese puppies," but failing miserably at getting anyone to take her seriously with those yippy pseudo-Totos.

At last, I got to go inside the studio. I had expected that with so many applicants, they would do what they call "typing out," which is when a first line of producers looks at your resume and your physical appearance, and turns you away if you're not the right "type" for the show or if your only legit theater experience is playing first soprano dinnerware. But they didn't--instead they ushered me to a line of people waiting to sing for a casting director. As my turn approached, I expected my nerves to rise in my throat and choke me, but they didn't. I prayed and thought, "Heck, this is finally a chance to sing as loud as I want without bothering any neighbors." The process was rather anticlimactic-- I stepped inside this little room and sang my 16 bars acappella for two guys who looked like tall munchkins, now that I think about it. They flipped through my resume, said "thank you!" and I left.

When I stepped out the door, the first thing I thought of was saying, "Actually, yes, Grandpa!" on Thanksgiving. New York City is truly the yellow brick road to opportunities like this that make long forgotten dreams seem a little more likely. And Grandpa's right, you never know.

I'm Not Much on Rear Window Ethics

2008-11-09T14:19:00.004-05:00

I love to sit in my window seat. It's exactly the right size for me to sit with my feet up, wrapped in a blanket, watching the bustling Herald Square below.

I've seen pretty crazy stuff from that window sill. Even though I haven't seen a murderer in windows across the way, I often feel like the broken-legged L.B. Jefferies, played by Jimmy Stewart in my favorite film, Alfred Hitchcock's "Rear Window." He's stuck in a wheelchair for weeks, with nothing to do but look out his window at his neighbors. In his neighborhood on 1954 ninth street, there's Miss Torso the ballet dancer, the struggling musician, and the woman who lowers her terrier in a basket every morning from the fourth floor. There's also Miss Lonely Hearts-- the old maid on the ground floor, the newly weds who keep the shades drawn, and of course, Lars Thorwald, the murderer.

Here I am in 2008 midtown, quite far removed from the quirks of the Village or the 1950s New York rhythm. But I have several windows, and a rear one at that. As Leza Freemont, played by Grace Kelly, comments to Jefferies, "I'm not much on rear window ethics." I show little discrimination about who and what I watch out my windows. I'll watch as long as they don't catch me, and as long as the neighbor is not walking around in his towel (which has happened).

I can see where Broadway and Sixth Avenue cross 33rd street, and besides the usual high school kids on their way to the Manhattan Mall or commuters rushing back and forth, there are stories rising from the sidewalks just asking to be deciphered. Last night, for example, a group of seven grown women all dressed up were carrying balloons. Bachellorette party. Obvious. Another night at about 2am, I saw an ambulance come and take an elderly homeless man out of his wheelchair and to the hospital.

Last fall, this wacky guy in a Spiderman body suit was always jumping around bothering pedestrians on 33rd street. Every single day. When the weather got cold, he caught a little common spidey-sense and stayed warm indoors somewhere. I haven't seen him since.

A couple floors above Lenscrafters, there's an old man who is always staring out his window at me. I say "always" in a literal sense, because he's actually a cardboard stand-up. Perhaps his purpose is to scarecrow the windows of the neighborhood, preventing any Hitchockian wifecides... but more than anything, he just startles me. There's a cardboard conversation bubble attached to him, and it's too far away for me to read; but I think if I could snag one of L.B. Jefferies's telephoto lenses and zoom in on it from my windowsill, it would say, "PSYCHE!"

This is hard to explain unless you see the building I live in, but after the second floor, the rest of the building is split into three wings. Thus, the third floor rooms (like mine) have a courtyard like roof outside their kitchen windows that serves as the destination for all kinds of airmail from higher floor apartments. We're not allowed to climb out the window to clean anything up, so right now there is an assortment of cigarette butts, a pumpkin that blew up like a bomb when it fell, and a blue bra. One time, we met a new friend because he had to retrieve his sunglasses that he had dropped from the seventh floor. On Monday mornings I get out of the shower and see a maintenance guy out there sweeping up the debris. That definitely reminds me not to walk around in a towel myself.

Speaking of which, last night the towel guy climbed out of his kitchen window (fully clothed, thank goodness) on to the second floor courtyard/roof to smoke. I was sitting on my couch in my pajamas, and we waved at eachother. Awkward. I half-wished that a pumpkin would fall on him, and fully hoped that he wouldn't see the blue bra and think it was mine. Here's hoping the debris guy will sweep up the lingerie this Monday.