Best-Laid Plans…

It would be an exaggeration to say that we had “grand plans” for our 5^th anniversary. We did, however, have plans. After a morning hangout with Jim’s sister, who had stayed with us after landing at the airport the night before, we were going to head up to Jim’s parents’ house and spend the day making “Christmas in July” cookies with some cousins. We planned to stay until after dinner that evening and then head home and watch a movie after putting Hope to bed. The next day was Sunday, so we thought we’d venture down to Midtown after church and grab brunch at one of our favorite go-to restaurants from when we were dating. No, they weren’t “grand plans” by any means, but they were plans all the same.

Those plans were immediately shelved when Hope woke up on Saturday covered in puke. Our sweet girl had thrown up at some point that morning and then continued to vomit several times during the next few hours. It was not pretty, nor was it pleasant for anyone involved. Poor thing!

And with that, our plans shifted from cookie-making to “cookie-tossing.” Our “date” to Midtown turned into a trip to the pediatrician’s office. Yes, the best laid plans of mice, men, and mamas often go awry…

Yet looking back, this was exactly the type of day that we needed. Rather than our planned busyness with extended family—fun though it would have been—we ended up sitting on the couch together reading books and just relaxing. (I literally cannot remember the last time we did that.) Once Hope was up from her nap and it was clear that the medicine was working, she joined us on the couch and “read” her own books. It was the sweetest little family time… although after she had a fruit popsicle snack for “hydration purposes,” she then became the most hyper/spazzy I think I had ever seen her! Instead of cooking an elaborate dinner or going out to eat, we opted to make a dent in our leftovers supply. This freed us up to go for a walk as a family around the block—a rare treat since I am usually on dinner duty during this time slot. We held Hope’s little hands and helped her “jump” over cracks in the pavement, all the while enjoying her delighted toddler squeals. After Hope went to bed, we snuggled up and watched a movie together. And that was our 5^th anniversary. No, it wasn’t fancy, and it certainly wasn’t what we had planned, but in the end, it could not have been more perfect.

The longer I live—and the longer I’m married and am a mom—the more I realize that life is often like this. We can (and arguably should plan), but we should also be flexible and willing to pivot. Sometimes the pivoting comes with a new set of challenges, yet other times it leads to an even better outcome than the one we originally intended. Not only can you end up with a sweetly memorable wedding anniversary, but you also just might encounter God in these unexpected places. The book of Exodus offers us a fantastic (or flame-tastic?) “case in point”: the story of Moses and the burning bush. According to the text, Moses was minding his own business, just living another typical day of herding his father-in-law’s sheep in the Midianite backcountry, when he “turned aside to look” at something odd just off the path… and the moment he did that, the trajectory of his life and the lives of countless Israelites changed forever. A key thing to note in this story is that, while God arranged the burning bush to get Moses’s attention, he still had to be open to that change of plans. Thanks to this small detour and this bit of flexibility, Moses found himself on a completely new path—one that would turn him into one of the most renowned leaders in the Old Testament and that would ultimately result in liberating his people from bondage in Egypt.

Now, our 5^th anniversary change of plans didn’t result in the freedom of hundreds of thousands of enslaved Jews; however, it did provide an unexpected respite for our little family. There was no way we would “miss” our puking toddler as Moses could have done with the burning bush, but we could have missed the opportunity to turn that Saturday into an impromptu Sabbath. We could have easily treated it as a bonus workday and tried to get things done around the house and in the yard. But then we would have missed out on the invitation to simply be and, more importantly, to simply be together. Had we tried to keep going and pressed onward with our plans, we would have walked right past the gift of rest that God was so kindly offering to us.

In case you were wondering, we will eventually get to celebrate our anniversary with a weekend away in August, and we did get to enjoy that brunch in Midtown this past Sunday. I’m grateful that both of these opportunities worked out in the end. Yet I am also incredibly grateful for the way our actual anniversary panned out. No, it wasn’t flashy, nor was it “Instagram-worthy,” but it was perfect all the same. God knew what we needed, and in His goodness He made sure that we got it.

So here’s to another five years and beyond of growing in flexibility, learning to pivot, and being open to what God has for us each day… though hopefully it won’t involve more toddler puke!

Ready or Not…

To say that we have a lot going on right now would be an understatement.

As of my writing this post, our kitchen has been under construction for five weeks, and during that time its entire contents (including pantry, dishes, and all appliances) have been hanging out in our living/dining room. Our master bath, which was also gutted around the same time, is now mostly done; however, we are waiting on a new vanity and a shower head before we can actually start using it. (But hey, at least we no longer have a toilet in our hallway). As a result, the itty-bitty sink in our guest bathroom is currently our only water source. I feel like I’m back at Oklahoma State living the dorm life, washing my hands and my dishes in the same undersized sink. The top of our clothes dryer now houses our drying rack for dishes, and it all looks very, very classy.

This would feel like a lot in a normal life season, but this season happens to be anything but normal. Because yes, in the midst of all this home-reno craziness, I’m also 39 weeks pregnant. Which means we could be welcoming a newborn into this chaos literally any day now.

At some point in this long and nutty process, we decided to just laugh. I mean, what else can we do? From the beginning, none of this has been in our control anyway. We started the renovations as soon as we possibly could (phoning our General Contractor was essentially the first thing we did after I got an official offer for a permanent academic job. Yay!). There have been the typical setbacks, hiccups, and subcontractor/supply chain issues along the way, and we’ve simply had to roll with them. Similarly, while we had a certain amount of (*cough*) influence over when our parenthood journey would begin, the timing of our baby’s due date and ultimate arrival has always been out of our hands. As friends and doctors have consistently reminded me, babies come out when babies are ready to come. So all we can do—in response to both these crazy life situations—is wait.

As we were discussing (and chuckling at) this chaos the other day, Jim shared a profound realization: we are having a genuine “Advent” experience… a sort of “Christmas in July,” if you will. During this liturgical season, the Church spends December in active anticipation of Jesus’ arrival at Christmas. We read books, decorate our homes, open paper calendars with daily treats, and try to prepare our hearts for the coming of the baby in the manger. It’s always a bit challenging, though, to meet Christmas with a sense of genuine surprise and wonder because–spoiler alert!–Christmas comes on the same exact day every year. But for Mary and Joseph at the very first Christmas, there was no telling when Jesus would arrive. They had to actively prepare (and walk a really long way to Bethlehem) without knowing precisely when or where their precious baby would make His debut. So, in the midst of a whole bunch of uncertainty and disorder, they did their best to be ready to welcome Him into their hearts and lives. Right now, we are also in a state of uncertainty and disorder (see photos below for proof). We are truly living in limbo. And at the same time, we are also trying to get ready to welcome a baby into our family. No, things aren’t exactly as we would like them… let’s be real; they’re not even close! But, like Mary and Joseph with their very important baby, all we can do is our best with what we have while we wait. After all, that’s what God wants from us anyway.

So as much as we can and as best we can, we are choosing to greet this time of anticipation with excitement rather than frustration, with peace rather than anxiety, with joy rather than annoyance. Because whether we are ready or not (emphasis on the “not“), our baby girl will come in her own timing and her own way. The question is if we can keep leaning into the chaos and learn to enjoy the ride…

… even the ride to the hospital. 😉

Living Room… aka the new home for everything from our Kitchen.

The hall toilet. So classy.

It will be a nursery… someday.

Out of Control

I had big plans for last week.

Jim and I were finally done moving, so I planned to get most of the remaining boxes sorted through and organized.

Universities have started posting ads for academic jobs, so I was going to work on drafts of my cover letter, teaching statement, and other application materials.

I’d gotten feedback from my advisor about an article I had written. I hoped to start making revisions, so I could send a new draft to her and a couple other colleagues in the next week.

Yes, I had big plans… but then I caught a cold.

Colds may be the most annoying sort of illness. You’re not sick enough to feel socially justified in taking the day off to sleep, yet you’re not well enough to accomplish anything when you do attempt to work. Basically, you’re just left with a guilt-laden crapshoot. Or “cough shoot.” You know you should keep going and save the time off for when you’re actually “properly” sick. But as your brain turns to some form of oatmeal-eqsue mush, and you know deep down that your efforts aren’t going to get you anywhere, and you would have been better off staying in bed with Nalgene full of water and a box of off-brand Kleenex, thank you very much.

Needless to say, my week of “grand plans” was all for naught. As Tuesday turned into Wednesday and Wednesday into Thursday with no relief in sight, I accepted the fact that my dreams and schemes would have to wait until Monday. Friday ended up being a runny-nosed wash, as I zombied my way through previous commitments to collapse at the weekend’s finish line.

My goals had been big, but not overly ambitious. In a week of normal health and productivity, I could have easily accomplished them. Yet for one cosmic—or microbial—reason or another, this was not a normal sort of week.

In between naps and doses of Nyquil, I have caught myself coming back to this question: what, if anything, can I actually control? I’d set goals and created a schedule to meet them, only to have a cold “knock me out cold.” Terrible pun intended.

Sure, we can optimize our circumstances all we want, making sure that we take enough vitamins, get enough rest, and do enough exercise. But all that preparation can’t guarantee that we won’t get sick. We can take perfect care of ourselves, and a renegade germ will still get the best of us.

This fact doesn’t just apply to colds; the limitations of our control affect every area of our lives. Say, for instance, that you’re a parent. You take care of your kids, you try to raise them “right,” and you remind them often that you love them. Still, there’s no guarantee they will ultimately love you back. Or say that you’re single, and you hope to get married one day. You can put yourself in all the “right” places, try out all the dating apps, join a church with lots of eligible singles, but there’s no guarantee that you’ll meet your soulmate.

Or here’s an example from my life right now: I can get a PhD—the highest possible degree—from a top-ranked university, I can (maybe) even get accolades on my dissertation, and (if I’m lucky) publish an article or two. I can do all the “right” things like teach classes and receive research fellowships and serve on university committees to demonstrate my commitment to the historical profession. Yet there’s no guarantee I’ll become a professor at my dream school—or any school, in fact. Statistically speaking, there’s a high probability that I won’t. Because even if I had the “perfect” application, the most stellar teaching record, and the most outstanding research, dozens of other factors come into play. Department politics, needing to hire a more diverse candidate, or the idea that my research doesn’t quite “fit” are just a few possible examples of the infinite things that might get in the way. As an applicant, I have no idea about these extra factors and, even if I were aware, I wouldn’t be able to change them.

This begs the question: what can we do when we are ultimately in control of so little? I have spent a lot of time thinking about this question during the last couple years not just while applying for jobs. I’ve encountered health challenges (not limited to the common cold), I suffered an unexpected heartbreak last winter, and I’ve watched family and friends struggle with illness, loss, and change. So many parts of our lives are so out of our control. How can we respond authentically to the unknown, admitting that it feels difficult or scary, while also having hope?

I think this is where faith comes in. Not the trite or cheesy “pretend your problems aren’t that bad so you can smile and say that ‘God is good’” kind of faith. I mean the faith that accepts that our challenges are real and that our feelings are legitimate, and then chooses with the help of God Himself to move forward all the same. Oswald Chambers captured this kind of faith well when he wrote that “faith is unutterable trust in God, trust which never dreams He will not stand by us.” The book of Hebrews gives a similar definition, saying that “faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” But one of my favorite descriptions of this kind of trust from a novel by Maria Semple. Describing faith as riding a bus to an unknown destination, she writes, “If you truly believed you had a benevolent bus driver, and you were certain he was taking you somewhere good, you could just settle in and appreciate the ride.”

That, my friends, is what I am praying for the grace to do: trust that God really is the “benevolent bus driver” of my life and that He is taking me somewhere good, so I can settle in and appreciate the ride. I have some room on the plastic seat next to me. Will you join me?

Photo by 7.hust on Pexels.com

 

(Not So) Sweet Emotion

It’s been almost four months since I last posted. In case you’re wondering, that’s the longest break I’ve taken since starting this blog almost eight years ago. Sometimes I take “blogging breaks” when time gets away from me. Other times, I just don’t have the emotional energy it takes to write (especially when that’s how I spend my days anyway. Yay for dissertating). But this “blog break” stemmed from an icky combination of the two: Time has been moving way too fast (seriously, where did the spring go?), and I have more feelings than I know what to do with.

According to the Myers-Briggs personality test, I am very much a “feelings person.” This means that, when it comes to making decisions or navigating through life, I tend to go with my gut. I can make choices based on logic; I think through—and likely overthink—just about everything I do. But when it comes time to make a choice or take a next step, I’m going to act based on my emotions. If something doesn’t feel right, then I’m probably not going to choose it. And my emotion-driven tendencies aren’t limited to making decisions. I feel many things very deeply and, according to one personality test, even turbulently. As much as I try to downplay it or deny it, I feel things very strongly; that’s just how I’m wired.

This characteristic comes with its share of pros and cons. On the one hand, I really do enjoy life. When things are going well, I experience—and spread—a lot of joy. People describe me as having a “sunshiny personality,” and even my American Sign Language (ASL) name is a play on the sign for “smile.” When life is good, it’s really good, and I experience those feelings fully. But the reverse is also true. When life is hard and when sad things come, I feel those emotions deeply. It would seem that you can’t have one without the other.

Just as there are some things that will always bring me joy (catching up with friends, guinea pig snuggles, and the perfect bowl of cornflakes), there are also certain things that will inevitably make me sad. Change—and the passage of time, more broadly—is one of the biggest culprits. For as long as I can remember, the passage of time has filled me with a sense of loss. I remember being four or five years old and crying in my parents’ bedroom about the reality of change and time and growing up. Although I don’t (necessarily) cry in my parents’ room anymore, that feeling of sadness has never quite gone away. In fact, the more friendships I build and the more goodbyes I say, the more acute the pang of loss becomes. No, it doesn’t always last as long as it used to (I was a wreck for months after leaving Graz in 2010), but the pain is still real all the same.

In sum, I’m not a fan of change. And if I could control time, I would slow it down, rewind it, redo it, and live it all over again. I realize that’s not possible. I’ve come to accept that time marches on, and I can’t stop it. And as much as I dread changes, I adapt to them fairly well; history has shown that I come out fine on the other side. But that doesn’t mean that I enjoy the process. Even good changes—like getting married to the most wonderful guy—can still make a part of me feel sad inside.

Add my dislike of change to my affinity for feelings, and you’ll see why I haven’t blogged in the last few months. Yes, I’ve been ridiculously busy with writing a dissertation, planning a wedding, and figuring out so many details about being married (after two straight months of searching, we finally have a place to live!). But busyness is only part of the story. I’ve also been a bit of a basket case. To quote the great philosopher Ron Burgundy, I’m in a glass case of emotions. Or in the words of Mean Girls, “I just have so many feelings.” And I don’t even go here.

Don’t get me wrong. I really am excited about what lies ahead. In two months, I’ll be married to the man I love. In the spring, I’ll be teaching another class at Emory. And by this time next year, I’ll have graduated with my PhD. Amen, praise be, HALLELUJAH! I have so much to be thankful for, and I truly am grateful.

But even in the midst of joyful anticipation, I also feel some sorrow. Because although these are incredible gains, they also entail loss. I won’t be as independent anymore. My relationships will inevitably change. My roommate and best friend of six years will be living in another state. In other words, my life will look very different. And while I know it’s a good and exciting different–one based on beautiful new beginnings–it requires an ending. In many ways, life as I’ve known it will be gone for good. So although I am excited for what’s to come, I can’t help but mourn the things left behind.

And so, to get back to the original intent of this post, that’s why I haven’t written. When my schedule and feelings are full, my energy stores (and tear ducts) become empty. In times like these, writing becomes challenging. I like to write posts with tidy conclusions and clever endings. I don’t enjoy the tension of being both happy and sad, excited and sorrowful Mixed emotions make me uncomfortable because, perhaps more than anything else, they remind me that I don’t have things “all figured out.” But I’m learning that being present–and being honest–means admitting to and experiencing all the feelings, even the not-so-sweet ones.

Speaking of sweet things, I could really go for some Nutella right now…

(The End of) the End

They say there’s a first time for everything.

What they don’t say is that sometimes there’s a second time, and this second time may come quickly after the first.

At least, that’s what happened last month when I ripped my pants.

Prior to then, I had never, ever, ever ripped a pair of pants. Sure, as a kid, I’d torn holes in the knees (a natural hazard of refusing to play “house” unless I could be the dog). One time I accidentally ripped a dress when I was running up the stairs. And of course I’ve retired some jeans after noticing signs of wear around the back pockets. But ripping them completely? That’s just the stuff of sitcoms and low-budget kiddie movies.

I was wrong.

When I was initially preparing to leave Atlanta for the summer, I decided to bring three pairs of jeans. And because I have become an expert packer (schlepping one’s belongings for months on end can have that effect), I knew exactly which to take: a pair of Gap skinny jeans, a trusty pair from American Eagle, and another pair I had bought during my year in Berlin. They each matched my jeans travel criteria. All three were sufficiently comfortable for long bus rides and hours of sitting in archives. And all but the skinny jeans passed the “capri test”, i.e. the legs could be easily rolled up in case of unexpectedly warm European weather. I had contemplated bringing only two pairs of jeans (in this case, the skinny ones would have been left at home) but decided against it. While two pairs would have been enough for typical summer weather, a third pair could come in handy during the 10-day trip I’d planned through Scandinavia.

After starting my summer with a conference in Hamburg, I caught a day-long train to Copenhagen, where I spent a few days braving the icky weather, eating seafood, and learning about Hans Christian Andersen. I even had a pleasant surprise when a friend from my semester in Graz hopped over from Sweden to visit me. With my heart happy and all three pairs of jeans intact, I headed to Stockholm. The weather was unexpectedly warm, so I gladly donned shorts for two of my three days there. During my visit, I learned about Vikings, took a ferry ride through the archipelago and even discovered that pickled herring actually tastes good. With a full belly and a few hundred grams of real Swedish fish, I caught a flight to Bergen, Norway, blissfully unaware that my first pair of jeans was about to meet its end.

For every bit that Stockholm’s weather had been pleasant, the weather in Bergen was crappy. The sky was completely gray, and the rain came down with the kind of irritating persistence that makes being outside completely miserable. Only once did it briefly let up during my 18-hour stay, and of course this respite happened while I was indoors eating. The gray and gloom wouldn’t have been so bad if it at least been warm, but the temperatures refused to creep above 55 degrees. Although I should have expected this weather—a Google search revealed that Bergen has an average of 231 rainy days per year—the advance notice did not make the experience any more pleasant. I hate being wet, and I hate being cold. But I really, really, really hate being wet and cold. Still, I recognized that since this would likely be my only visit to Bergen, I chose to tough it out. Pulling on my trusty old American Eagle jeans and grabbing an umbrella, I ventured outside to hike Bergen’s main tourist-attraction mountain.

The trip to the top was cold and rainy but, apart from a brief accidental detour (*cough* I got lost *cough*), it proved wholly uneventful. I enjoyed the view, got a few pictures, and then headed back down to the city. I then walked around the harbor, grabbed dinner, and organized my luggage—completely unaware that I had a gaping hole in the back of my pants. I only noticed when I changed into my pajamas that night, hours after the rip had happened. But rather than being mortified, I managed to take it in stride. I mean, what a classic Steffi moment, to have torn straight through a pair of pants without even noticing. Chuckling to myself, I bid adieu to my now-worthless American Eagle jeans and climbed into bed.

Fast forward three days. In the intervening time, I had journeyed through the fjords, wandered around Oslo, and caught an early morning flight to Berlin, where I’d be visiting friends for a mini-homecoming. I couldn’t wait. As fate would have it, my jeans had their own homecoming as well; I was wearing the pair I had bought in Berlin two years earlier. But since the weather in Germany was ridiculously hot, I wasn’t planning to wear the jeans for long. Changing into shorts was #1 on my to-do list. And guess what happened when I did… Yep, I saw that these jeans were ripped too, just like the first pair. Right down the middle? Right down the middle. My second pair of jeans had bit the dust.

In the weeks since my jeans’ demise, I have shared this story with friends and family who, like me, find my “pants problem” quite entertaining. I purchased some new jeans (on sale!) at H&M, just in case my remaining pair suddenly decides to follow suit. And I’ve also spent some time thinking about my initial (hours-long) embarrassing moment and its soon-after sequel. I mean, who unwittingly walks around Europe with their underwear showing, not once but twice? And how did I fail to notice that my jeans split down the back? Could I have seriously been so oblivious to something that was so painfully obvious to everyone else? As I was pondering these questions about my jeans, another thought hit me:

I can be just as clueless about problem spots in other areas of my life.

Just like I when couldn’t see the hole in the back of my jeans, I’m also can’t have a hard time recognizing places in my life where I am falling short and/or need to grow. That’s why I need close friends, mentors, and my family members to walk alongside me–or for the sake of the metaphor– behind me. Because their perspective is different from mine, they recognizes patterns, weak spots, and shortcomings that I don’t automatically see. Sometimes their words may be difficult to hear, like when they point out an area where I’m struggling to surrender things to God. But more often than not, their different perspective allows them to offer insight and encouragement in the places I most need it. Regardless of how their advice may feel in the moment, I can trust that they’ve “got my back” and that they truly want God’s best for me.

My jeans story would have likely played out very differently if I’d been traveling with a friend. While I eventually figured out that my pants were ripped, a friend would have noticed much earlier and, ideally, would have cared enough to tell me. To paraphrase Ecclesiastes 4:9-10,

“Two are better than one because they have a good return for their labor. For if either of them [rips her jeans], the other [will tell her] companion. But woe to the one who [rips her jeans] when there is not another [to let her know].”

The moral of the story? Surround yourself with godly people you trust.

… and always pack an extra pair of jeans. 😉

 

(Don’t) Forget It

Oh, how well I can identify with this. Source: https://sallyinthehaven.net/tag/forgetfulness/

For me, the most basic things are often the hardest to remember.

For instance, when I was in fifth grade, we were making our annual Thanksgiving trek to visit my mom’s side of the family in St. Louis. We were about 45 minutes into the drive when I looked down and realized that I’d managed to forget my shoes. I had a pair of Mary Janes for church, but these would be woefully inadequate for playing in the woods by my grandparents’ house. And so, we turned around and went back to Kansas City, so I wouldn’t have to go barefoot. To this day whenever we are leaving on a family road trip, everyone not-so-surreptitiously looks at my feet to make sure I’m wearing shoes.

Another classic moment of forgetfulness happened yesterday afternoon. Since I was getting ready to leave for the summer, I spent a few minutes cleaning out my car. After all, no one wants to return after 2.5 months to a messy vehicle. I took out all the trash, organized the glove compartment, and even made a daring peek under the seats where I found some unused post-it notes. Because I helped some friends move last weekend, my back seats were still down. So I reconfigured the back seat and trunk before returning to my front-seat tidying. But in my trash-removing zeal, I forgot to close the back door. Until, of course, about 20 minutes after a thunderstorm. Oops.

As if these moments of spaciness weren’t bad enough, I also have a terrible memory for details. As a historian, this is especially  frustrating. When I’m teaching, I make up for this by bringing really detailed notes. So if I can’t remember a name or a date, at least I know where I to find it. But this poor recall gets very frustrating, especially when I’m trying to tell a historical story without my cheat sheet. For instance, I cannot even count the number of times I tried to tell the story of my favorite 20th-century Hungarian conman Ignaz Trebitsch-Lincoln only to say something like, “So there was this guy… and he pretended to be someone he wasn’t… and it was really crazy!” Forget being a steel trap; my mind is more like a strip of lint-covered Scotch tape. Very little sticks to it.

Harmless though this forgetfulness can be in everyday situations like tennis shoes and Hungarian conmen, it has a darker side when it comes to my faith. Even though I have been consistently reading my Bible for years, and even though I’ve heard literally hundreds of sermons about God’s love, I still have a hard time remembering it. For some reason, this truth bounces off my lint-covered Scotch-tape heart. No matter how hard I try, information about God’s love and care for me tends not to stick.

Since I’m a historian, you think I’d be extra skilled at remembering past examples of God’s goodness. In theory, I should be able to recall them at the drop of a hat, and stories of His faithfulness should continually be at the tip of my tongue. And while this is sometimes the case, and I have moments of being overwhelmed by God’s goodness, provision, and love, these reflections are far rarer than I care to admit. More often, stumble forward in nonchalant forgetfulness, simply wandering from one thing to the next. When life is going well, this forgetfulness doesn’t seem like a problem. Yes, it would be better to remember, but it doesn’t feel urgent. But when life gets tough, when I am afraid of the future or feel ashamed about the past, this forgetfulness can become catastrophic. In these moments of difficulty, when I am blindsided by this destructive form of “soul amnesia”, I forget. I forget God and His goodness. I forget that He has been with me in the past. I forget all about His love. Rather than treading water or reaching to the side of the pool for help, I flail and thrash and start to sink. It’s awful. But what can I possibly do about it?

The answer is fairly simple. In the words of the great philosopher Mufasa, “Remember who you are.” Especially in moments of difficulty, God calls us to remember who we are–and Whose we are. He helps us by using other people, who encourage us and speak truth to us. He speaks to us through His Holy Spirit, who lives inside us and who helps us “call to mind everything [Jesus] taught” us. And He does this through His Word. But the truths don’t magically jump off the page and into our brains; there is no passive spiritual osmosis. Rather, we must be diligent to read it, to spend time daily soaking it in, and sitting with its Truth. In doing so, we are reminded of our identity as God’s children, and we learn that our lives truly are “hidden with Christ in God.”

As I have been struggling lately to grasp and hold onto the reality of God’s love, the movie Fifty First Dates keeps coming to mind. In this film, Drew Barrymore’s character Lucy suffers from short-term memory loss. When she wakes up each morning, she has completely forgotten everything from the day before. Despite this obvious challenge, Adam Sandler’s character Henry falls in love with her, and (spoiler alert!) the two eventually get married and have a family. But Lucy’s memory problem doesn’t magically go away. So what is the solution? Henry makes a short video about their relationship and their family, and Lucy watches this every morning when she wakes up. Before she begins each day, she is reminded of who she is and where she belongs.

I think the same must be true for us. If we are going to flourish in Christ–i.e., if we want to live consciously in light of God’s love and our place in His family–then we have to start each day by letting Him remind us of who we are. This is absolutely essential to an abundant life in Christ. No, reading the Bible won’t magically make all of your worries, fears, and problems go away. But it will remind you of the God who cares for you in the midst of these things. And this awareness of God’s love, my friend, is unbelievably important.

Alright, that’s enough for today. I have a flight to catch. I should probably make sure that I packed my shoes…

Crazy (November) Eights

I’m not particularly into politics.

This is probably not surprising to anyone who knows me even remotely well. I have what might be called a “harmony-seeking personality”, which means I prefer everyone to get along. And it would seem that politics, by definition, is built upon strife. Which means that, though I may be a hopeless extrovert, I will never be the life of any political party. Haha.

While growing up, I had occasional delusions of political grandeur or, more accurately, delusions of interest in politics. For instance, my junior year of high school, I ran for class treasurer. But despite my active campaigning—I even passed out fake coins with “vote for Steffi” stickers taped to the back—I still managed to lose… to a really popular guy… who decided to run the day before the elections. Go figure. Out of pity, the Stuco sponsor offered me a position as “at-large representative” as a consolation prize. And I’m pretty sure I showed up to more of the 6:30 a.m. meetings than the actual elected treasurer.

In college, I figured that I had left the usual “popular crowd” competition behind, and I decided to apply for a spot on the Freshman Representative Council. At orientation, I’d heard that FRC was the ticket into Oklahoma State’s student government and, more broadly, to influence on campus. As a self-proclaimed (*cough* prideful and slightly delusional *cough*) up-and-coming mover and shaker, I knew that FRC was the place for me… until I didn’t get in, that is. Oh well.

In retrospect, though, this was probably for the best because I soon began to realize that I really, really don’t like politics. I’d rather read about the debates and drama of the past than deal with political conflict in the present. Although spending a year in Germany taught me the value of cordial political discussions—seriously, debating politically charged topics with friends is a favorite German pastime—it will never be my preferred Saturday evening activity. And as a harmony-seeker and peace-keeper, I would prefer that we all just get along.

But politics, and especially this most recent election season, does not lend itself to such pie-in-the-sky niceties. I cannot remember a time in which emotions have run so high and an election has been so polarizing. It has been disheartening, discouraging and—for this conflict-avoidant and politically ambivalent grad student—downright frustrating. And yet while on the one hand I have been wanting all this to finally be over with, gosh darn it, on the other hand I have dreaded the end because neither outcome strikes me as particularly appealing. Especially in terms of cultivating a “can’t we all just get along?” cultural mentality.

And so, while I did exercise my civic-duty muscles and cast my vote last Friday, I didn’t feel awesome about my decision. In fact, although I had done my research, thought through, and prayed extensively about my, I still second-guessed my decision, even as I pressed the green “submit” button. I came home not feeling liberated, but burdened. What if I had made the “wrong” choice? No, my vote ultimately wouldn’t matter all that much on its own. But the beauty—and danger—of democracy is that enough inconsequential individual votes can tip the electoral scales. What if my vote helped to tip it the “wrong” way? What if? What if? What if?

These thoughts and questions pestered me the entire way home, like a repeated needle prick or a sharp rock in my shoe, welling up into anxiety-filled doubt. And that’s when I heard it, that nagging little whisper I’ve learned to pay attention to, the one that redirects me when I most need it. “Where do you seek your peace, Steffi?”, it seemed to ask. “Who do you think is in control?” and even more pointedly, “Will you choose to trust Me?”

I’d heard a similar set of questions in a different context two years before. I was in my third year of graduate school, prepping almost nonstop for my PhD qualifying exams. For the months leading up to it, I was absolutely convinced of my impending failure. And as my starting date drew mercilessly nearer, my anxious thoughts became all but unbearable. Yes, I knew that God was in control; He wouldn’t abandon me, and He would carry me through. But I still couldn’t shake the nagging fear that my efforts wouldn’t be enough. No, God would not let me down or fail me, but I was still part of the equation. Which meant that I could still screw it up, and I could still find a way to fail. I had learned to trust God in a general sense, but I struggled to have faith in the face of my own real and potential frailty.

At some point in that pre-exams process, though, I made a conscious decision to trust God and to believe in His provision despite my own inadequacies. Coming to this realization was difficult—in some ways, even more difficult than the exams themselves—but it remains one of the most valuable spiritual lessons I have ever learned. We serve a God who is sovereign over and faithful in the midst of our messes, both potential and realized. His purposes succeed, and His plans play out despite our mistakes and our lack of faith. While our actions matter and do have real consequences, we cannot mess up or thwart His plan.

Two years ago, I learned this lesson in a very confined, personal, and finite situation. While the stakes felt high (and to an extent they were; if I failed I theoretically could have been kicked out of graduate school), the outcome would ultimately be quite contained, and its effects would be limited to me. In contrast, this election is a big deal with far-reaching impacts. The decisions made by our government in the next four years will undoubtedly affect our country and the world for generations to come. And yet despite the wider scope and different circumstances, I think the fundamental questions facing us remain consistent: Where are we putting our hope? From what do we seek our peace? And who do we believe to be in control?

It’s 11:20 p.m. on election night. I haven’t checked for updates all evening because I prefer right now not to know. But even in my state of self-imposed ignorance, I remain convinced of this: whatever happens, however this absolutely crazy, polarizing, and disheartening election plays out, the sun will come up tomorrow, and God will still be in control. And so with that, my fellow Americans, I am going to bed.

… after I take a couple Advil. Goodnight.

 

Obligatory voting selfie. Don’t let the smile fool you; I was not happy.

 

The Year in Zahlen (Numbers)

I’ve never been much of a “numbers person.”

When I was in school (and by ‘school’, I mean the kind where I still had to take math classes), this made things like Geometry and Calc II rather unpleasant. And when I was applying to graduate school, this arithmetical antipathy led me to enroll in a remedial GRE math-prep class. It’s a good thing too; thanks to the class (and my self-imposed intensive study sessions at the local public library), my math score jumped from abysmal to relatively decent.

But it’s not just the “complicated math” like Calculus or problem-solving math like on the GRE that gives me trouble; I also manage to struggle with very basic numbers-related things…. Like, counting. You have no idea how badly I wish I were joking. If you tell me to count anything–sheets of paper, dollar bills, rooms in a house, I guarantee that 2 out of 3 times, I will get it wrong. And if I count it twice, I will get two different numbers. I can’t even be trusted to  measure ingredients correctly when I bake. (This may be why my favorite gluten-free cookie recipe has a one-one-one ingredients ratio…) With groups of people, I am hopeless. And with small children? Even worse! In fact, the only way I survived being a kamp counselor—or, more accurately, that my kampers survived having me as their counselor—was that I learned to assign them each a number at the beginning of the week and trained them to count themselves. #winning

But although I’m not a numbers person, I know they can be very important, as my accountant mother and my engineer boyfriend frequently remind me (yes, that “complicated ” fella and I made it official 7 months, 1 day and 22 hours ago… but who’s counting? 😉 ) I may not “get” numbers, but I still have a lot of respect for their quantitative capacities. So in a show of solidarity with all you math-inclined folks out there, I’ve compiled some stats from this last year.

Housing/Places I’ve stayed:

• I left for Europe on July 31, 2015, which was 420 days ago. Apart from 3 weeks at Christmas and 10 days in May, I have been in Europe that entire time.
• During those 420 days, I have stayed/spent the night in (at least) 37 different places. Only 3 of those were for a month or more. The maximum uninterrupted duration spent in one housing arrangement was 3 months and 5 days.
• I’ve stayed in 11 Airbnb or Airbnb-type places for a total of 43 nights in 7 cities and 5 countries.
• I have worn flip-flops in the showers of 9 hostels in 7 cities and 4 countries. *Note: the maximum duration was 10 nights total. And this included my 27th birthday.
• I spent the night in 4 hotels in 2 countries for a total of 10 nights. The maximum stay was 4 nights, and that’s because Groβ Särchen didn’t exactly have other housing options.
• And last but not least, I have enjoyed the spare rooms, pull-out couches, and/or incredibly comfortable floors of 10 friends in 6 cities and 3 countries over a total of 28 nights.
• And of these 37 places I have stayed in the last 420 days, 26 of them were from the end of April until the middle of August.**
• **Author’s note: spare yourself the trouble and don’t do the math. Although I did my best, the numbers probably don’t add up.

And why was I traveling so much?, you ask. While I’d love to be able to say that I was vacationing my way through Europe, most of my trips were for research. And speaking of research….

Research:

• I have visited 11 archives in 8 cities and 2 countries.
• I have presented my research 3 times in 3 cities and 2 countries…. in German.
• I have photographed thousands of documents and, as a result, lost approximately 57 GB of space on my computer.
• I have read through/interacted with/taken notes on at approximately 300 files. (I wish I could give a more exact number, but my computer decided to die 2 weeks ago… thank goodness for online backups!)
• I have spent approximately 320 hours in Polish archives. And close to 4x that (i.e. 1,280 hours) in German ones.

And to get to all those research-related (and the occasional fun) destinations, I had to…

Travel!

• I have made 18 journeys on planes. 5 of these were trans-Atlantic.
• I sat (or, in some very overcrowded cases, leaned against my luggage) for approximately 40 hours on trains.
• I attempted to sleep on at least 12 buses*. (I purchased 2 more bus tickets, but failed to use them).
• In addition to all this traveling within and beyond Germany, I have transported all or most of my belongings across Berlin via public transit at least a dozen times.

While the above numbers can show a lot–such as why my marathon training has been less-than-ideal or the reason my suitcase wheels have broken… twice–they don’t show everything. Because although my math friends out there may disagree, the most important things in life cannot be quantitatively measured. So why did I bother compiling these stats and sharing them with you? Simple.

Because each of these numbers represents areas of growth.

You see, in the midst of all the apartment-hopping, research-tripping, and stuff-schlepping, I was also changing. And as a result, behind each of those numbers is an example of where I learned a little better how to handle life, rather than letting life handle me. Adulting can be hard; adulting in a foreign country (or foreign countries) can sometimes feel impossible. And although I had my fair share of anger-, frustration-, and tear-filled moments, the process of going through them–of having to figure out logistics, troubleshoot, and problem-solve–was not in vain. Because slowly, little by little, across these last 420 days, I grew. I learned to be self-sufficient. I gave up my constant need for a plan and for control. I adapted and went with the flow. I started to let go and to trust more easily. I became more grateful for the little things, like trans-Atlantic phone calls and unexpected hugs. And most importantly through this entire process, I think (or at least I hope) I became more like Christ.

And so it seems fitting that, as I look back over these last almost-fourteen months, He is the One who stands out. I can’t help thinking of a quote from Oswald Chambers’ My Utmost for His Highest: ‘Faith is unutterable trust in God, trust that never dreams He would not stand by us.’ Two years ago I typed those words on a digital sticky note on my computer’s home screen, in the hope that I would one day believe them. Now here at the end of my research year, I can say that–while my faith is still far from perfect–I trust Him more than ever before, and I know that He really does stand by us. In the midst of uncertainty and changes, He is faithful. And if we continue to seek Him, over time His faithfulness will water and tend the mustard-seed of faith inside our souls.

That said, my time abroad is almost at its end. In 6 days, I will be boarding a plane bound permanently or ‘für immer’ to the States. On the one hand, I have a good sense of what waits for me there: hugs from family, reconnecting with friends, and transitioning back into Atlanta grad-student life. I will no longer be lugging my belongings all over Europe, and I will finally be able to unpack my suitcases once and for all. But though I look forward to more stability and to having a place to call home, I also recognize that this ‘familiar’ life will bring its own challenges and uncertainties. I’m going to have to start actually writing my dissertation, reverse culture shock is real, and gosh darnit, Atlanta’s traffic will still be as terrible as ever. So in the midst of this transition, I’m going to choose to trust in my Savior, knowing that He who was with me these last 420 days will be with me on the other side of the Atlantic too. He is faithful; I’m trusting in that, hoping for that, and choosing to rest in it.

… Or I guess you could say that I’m ‘counting’ on it. 😉

Last day at the Protestant Central Archive in Berlin!

Running on Fumes

A ferret in a “dead sleep.” #jealous

Steffi confession #153: I have a weakness for terribly corny jokes.

And when I say “terribly corny”, I mean that they should appear on Laffy Taffy wrappers—or they likely already have. Or they warrant a sassy response like, “3^rd grade called; they want their joke back.” As a former summer camp counselor to elementary-school kids, I have collected quite a few of them over the years. Here are a few of the most memorable:

Q: What’s the most musical part of a chicken?
A: The drumstick!

Q: Why did the chicken cross the playground?
A: To get to the other slide!

And my all-time favorite:

Q: What happens when you stand in front of a bus?
A: You get tired!
Q: What happens when you stand behind a bus?
A: You get exhausted!

I’m not exaggerating when I say that, every time I tell that last joke, I crack up, regardless of whether anyone else finds it funny.

…I’m also not exaggerating when I say that right now I am absolutely exhausted.

On the one hand, it makes complete sense that I would be tired. I mean, I spent 9+ hours today at an archive, reading and taking notes on Polish primary sources. Of course my brain is sleepy after that!

But I’m afraid that I’m not simply tired from today. Because if this were only a “gosh I had a long work day” kind of tired, then a good night’s sleep and a cup of coffee tomorrow  would cure it. No, I think what I am experiencing now is a deeper, more prolonged type of weariness, the cumulative effect of many long days of working toward a very delayed gratification.

Again, this makes sense. After all, I left for Europe almost exactly a year ago today, and I hit the ground running. After another 6-week Polish class in Krakow, I started my archival research in Berlin. In the last several months, I’ve basically been on a perpetual/extended research trip, visiting archives all over Germany and now Poland. While I have taken some wonderful breaks, such as during visits from friends and family as well as some fun trips of my own, I have spent most of the last 10 months doing research and, with the Polish class, the last 12 months intensively learning in some capacity. There seems to be an inverse relationship between my energy stores and my computer’s harddrive: the more filled the latter becomes with notes and document photographs, the less capacity my brain has to handle it. Like someone standing in front of  AND behind the bus, I am wiped. I’m also really temped to buy this mug:

Here I should say that I’m not trying to complain or feel sorry for myself, although that’s probably how it sounds. I know that I’ve been given incredible opportunities to both pursue a graduate degree and to conduct research in Europe. And I am immeasurably grateful for this time; I truly am. But the truth is that, as much as I enjoy being a “professional nerd”, sometimes all this studying can leave me feeling pretty tired. I guess “living the dream” doesn’t necessarily come with restful sleep.

In addition to my brain being tired, my body isn’t particularly happy with me either. Apparently sitting on one’s rear and staring at a computer screen for days on end isn’t the healthiest lifestyle choice. So to counteract my current sedentary state, I decided to train for another marathon. In theory, this was a great idea because it ensures that I am physically active at least 4-5 times a week. But in reality, most days it feels absolutely terrible. You see, when you try to run long distances after sitting for 9-10 hours each day, your body responds by getting very, very angry. Or at least mine does. No matter how hard I try to pick up the pace, my times are the slowest they’ve been in years, if not ever. I just can’t seem to kick my body into gear. Like my brain, my body no longer wants to cooperate. I guess it’s worn out too.

On top of this mental and physical weariness, I am also spiritually spent. Starting at the beginning of June, I decided to pick a topic each morning and then pray about it throughout the day. And then almost on cue, the world decided to melt down. Now I have a hard time picking just one item for each day; there are way too many injustices and tragedies to go around. And it seems that every time I check the news, another one hits the headlines. My heart hurts for the world around me, as pain and suffering seem to multiply by the second. And though the Bible calls us to “mourn with those who mourn”, this too can be draining.

Fortunately, there is at least a temporary end in sight. After finishing up the Polish portion of my research on Friday, I’ll leave for a much-needed two-week vacation. I’m hoping that this break will rejuvenate me and put some of the “pep back in my step”, metaphorically and literally (I’d love to start clocking some decent running times again.) But as much as I am looking forward to it, I also recognize that my current weariness is likely not a one-time-only thing. Because although I won’t necessarily spend almost an entire year doing research by myself in foreign countries, I will inevitably end up in tedious and tiring circumstances again for extended periods of time. From what I can tell, that’s kind of how life goes. So the question remains: what in the world can I do about it?

I don’t have any magic answers. (And if I’m entirely honest, my first response is to sleep and sleep and sleep.) But even in the midst of the weariness, I keep coming back to these two things: to keep going and to keep coming.

I already discussed the first one in a post a few months back, so I’ll be brief about it here. As Woody Allen said, 80% of life is just showing up, or in this case, keeping going. For me, that means dragging myself out of bed and to the archive for the umpteenth day in a row, if for no other reason than that’s the task before me for the day, and I want to be faithful where I am.

And the second one: keep coming. In one of my all-time favorite verses, Jesus tells us, “Come to me, all you who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.” While I don’t necessarily feel magically refreshed by spending time in prayer or God’s Word, I know that Jesus promises to give me His rest if I come to Him. And so, I do my best to just keep coming, day after day after day, trusting that He is faithfully filling me up even if I don’t always feel it.

Alright, that’s enough for tonight. It’s time for this sleepy grad student to head to bed.

Hey, speaking of bedtime, have you heard about the new corduroy pillows? They’re making headlines. 😉

 

(No) Going Solo

Sushi Party! 🙂

I am a hopeless extrovert.

When I was younger and less self-aware, I tried my best to be introverted. I checked out dozens of library books at a time, so I could spend countless alone hours reading them… but even then my sisters and I would end up reading together or (worse) pretending we were make-believe librarians and patrons. After sixth grade, I got permission to take my Latin textbook home over the summer, so I could study grammar on my own. I used it twice, preferring to spend my days at the pool with my sisters instead. I even attempted to have an imaginary friend—I mean, how much more introverted can you get than that?—but it didn’t work. I got so bored. So I gave up and returned to real people. After all, they are much more exciting.

Despite these childhood attempts at denial, I think I’ve always known that I’m extroverted. Even in my early teens, I showed definite signs of needing to be with people. During one summer when I felt particularly lonely (none of my school friends lived nearby, and there were very few kids on my block), I habitually rode my bike around the neighborhood, just hoping that a new friend would magically appear. Pathetic, I know. Fortunately, though, for my sanity (and for my non-creeper status) I did make a new friend that summer. Courtney and I met at the swimming pool, and I spent the rest of the break hanging out with her and her 7 siblings. Talk about an extroverted dream-come-true.

But in case I wasn’t absolutely sure about my extroversion, I got an undeniable confirmation when I started grad school. During fall break of my first year, my roommates left town, which meant that I had the entire weekend to work uninterrupted on a term paper. Although I did no strenuous physical activity, got a decent amount of sleep, and drank plenty of way too much coffee, by the end of day three I was completely exhausted to the point that I could barely keep my eyes open. Somehow, though, I managed to muster up the energy to meet a couple friends for dinner. And then, like magic, within just a few minutes of hanging out, my body and brain had come back to life. This wilted extroverted flower had been revived, thanks to the water and sunshine of human interaction.

As I’ve gotten older and periodically put down more roots, my simple extroverted need for people has shifted and perhaps even matured. While I still enjoy small talk, I now crave deeper conversations and the community that often accompanies it. In the last several years, I have come to appreciate and long for this type of community more and more, and God has consistently provided it, at the Kanakuk Institute, in Atlanta, and now this year in Germany. He has continually brought wonderful people into my life—not just to quench my extroversion, but to encourage me and challenge me and help me to grow in my faith. Saying goodbye to these friends was the hardest part about leaving Atlanta, and again it was the most challenging thing about temporarily leaving Berlin this spring. I’m a quintessential people person who also needs community. And as I headed out for two months of research in Poland, I couldn’t help feeling rather discouraged and alone.

Yes, I knew that God was going with me. And yes, I knew I would still be able to talk with my family and friends at home and abroad. But the prospect of spending the summer by myself in Poland wasn’t exactly appealing. Don’t get me wrong; I love Poland. But apart from a few people in Krakow, I didn’t actually know anyone here. And since I’d only stay in each city for a few weeks at most, I didn’t foresee myself making any friends, let alone finding any real community.

But as you’ve probably figured out, God has a way of providing for our needs—and going above and beyond in the process. On my first Sunday in Wrocław, I visited an international church. By the time I returned home that afternoon, I’d already been prayed for, received a half dozen hugs, gotten at least that many phone numbers, and had been invited to Bible Study that Tuesday night. Later that week, I left my Airbnb studio apartment and moved in with a Polish girl from the church. Over the next four weeks, I went out to dinner and ice cream, attended a percussion recital/concert, watched Finding Dory (in Polish!), and ate a whole bunch of homemade sushi and chips and salsa (not together) while watching the Polish Eurocup soccer game. When I left Wroclaw this past Sunday, I was sad but also overwhelmingly grateful. I had come to Wroclaw feeling empty and spent, and I left completely refilled.

And as much as my inner-extrovert is happy, I don’t think my current joy stems from simply being around people. After all, one of the world’s loneliest places is in the middle of a crowd; encounters with people are not automatically life-giving. No, my heart is full because God used His people at the church in Wroclaw to minister to me. He used them to listen to me, to laugh with me, to pray with me, and to give me lots of hugs. And in the process, He reminded me that we weren’t made to go it alone. In the Christian family, there can be no “Lone Rangers” or “Hans Solos”. For although God can and does encourage us individually, He often most clearly channels His love to us through other believers. That’s one of the reasons why in His almost-last words to His disciples, Jesus instructed them to love one another, because through this the world would know they are His people.

And that is exactly what I experienced in Wroclaw: God used His people to encourage my soul. And even though I was physically present with the Wroclaw community for just a few weeks, I will never forget their hospitality and kindness. And I really will thank God every time I remember them–both for their encouragement and for reminding me so tangibly of the value of community.

Alright, that’s enough blogging for today. I need some human interaction. Anyone up for a quick phone call? 😉