Cursive Days, where have you gone?

Monday evenings are pretty slow at Alice's. Somehow Joe (my manager), Marchelle (a server), and I started practicing writing with our non-dominant hand. I wasn't kidding when I said Monday evenings are pretty slow. This eventually led to all sorts of handwriting discussions.

Do you know how to write a capital "Z" in cursive?

Think you do?

We all thought we did too.

Google to the rescue. Turns out, we were all wrong!

Do you really remember? Try writing one.

Does it look like this?

I'm sad that they don't teach cursive handwriting in schools anymore. It was always so much fun to learn this "secret writing"-- wasn't it? I remember thinking it was so cool when I knew how to write something that my little brother couldn't read. Like a secret code or something.

Clearly I got over it, since I don't even know how to write a capital Z anymore....

All You Need Is.... Passion?

I'm not the newest kid on the Alice's block anymore. Marlon, a new busser, started today. He's a friendly, cheerful guy from Jamaica who sings to himself as he goes about his work. He doesn't add sugar or honey to his tea because, as he says, "My blood is made of honey, mon. I am sweet enough."

When you meet another Alice's employee, the question is always "What type of artist are you?" Marlon knows the drill. Just about the first question he asked me was "So, are you an actress, a singer, or a writer?"

Oh no, I break the mold. I am none of the above.

Ryan (a writer) overheard this. "That's not true; you're an artist! Tell him!"

Um.... then you know something I don't know.... I don't think drawing signs for the different flavors of scones counts as being an "artist."

"Tell him-- about the helping people thing. It's the best kind of art!"

Ah.

Yeah, I want to work with inner city kids.

"Oh mon. You need patience to do that!"

I know....

"Why you think you'll be good with inner city children? They are a different breed!"

And so I told him.... how these kids have my heart, and how I think so much of it boils down to their desire to be loved and cared about-- how if you take the time to listen to what they're upset about, you'll earn their trust, their respect, and their love. And how, though it might take a long time, you will eventually see that they stop looking for attention in negative ways because they'd much rather have your positive attention. I went on.... really just talking about my experience with my basketball team and how much I love those girls.

"Wow," he said when I finished. "You are perfect for this work!"

Oh I hope so.

I just hope someone else agrees so I can get a job in that field!

"Oh you will."

I really hope you're right.

"No, mon. You have passion. When you have passion, you can overcome any obstacle. You will be fine. You have the passion."

I sure hope he's right....

Blogger's Block

I haven't blogged in a while. It's not that I don't have thoughts to write about; it's that I have so many thoughts going through my head that I'm not sure how to make sense of it all.

I pretty much walk around all the time with this question at the forefront of my mind: What am I going to do next? Not "next" in the next five minutes of my day, but "next" in the next chapter of my life....

Do I stay in New York?

Do I go back to Philly?

If I don't go back to Philly, what do I do with my house? My car?

If I don't go back to Philly, why did I buy my house?

If I stay in New York, do I stay in this apartment or look for a new (cheaper) one? Where will I work? Where will I worship?

If I don't stay in New York past the summer, will I feel like I gave it a full chance? Will I always wonder what would have happened if I stayed longer?

If I go back to Philly, where will I work? Who will I live with?

If I go back to Philly, I won't live near my brothers; I will be "flying solo" again, and I will miss my family. Ah, but there is no guarantee that they will stay in New York either... what if they move-- do I follow them around the country?

And the questions keep coming-- swirling around in my head and I can't settle any of them with a satisfactory answer. I feel like a little kid trying to grab at bubbles blowing around my head-- I reach for it, and it disappears as soon as I think I have it in my hand.

What's the balance between being proactive and being patient? I think this might be the theme question of my summer; well, that and "Do you trust Me?"... maybe the two questions are related?

I'll say yes, Lord

"I'll say yes, Lord, I'll say yes
To Your will, Lord...
Where you lead me, I will go.
I'll say yes, Lord, I'll say yes."

This was the closing song at the Brooklyn Tabernacle prayer meeting tonight.

But I'm going to need you to tell me what your will is, where you're leading. Because I have no idea.

It's still June; I have two full months before the summer's up. But every day I feel like I'm haunted by the uncertainty of my future and the decisions that are looming ahead of me.

I know the answer is "yes"; but I'm not sure what the question is yet. "Will you stay in New York?" Yes Lord, if that's where you want me. "Will you go back to Philly?" Yes Lord, if that's where you want me. "Will you go to...." Yes Lord, I'll go anywhere you want me.

Where you lead me, I will go..... please show me where that's supposed to be.

Happy Padre's Day!

I failed to send a card. Again. I meant to-- I just can never find one that says what I want it to say, and then I kept thinking I had plenty of time to find The Card. But then next thing I knew, it was Saturday and there was no way to get a card from Cape Cod (where I was when I realized the date) to Maryland.

I called my dad to wish him a Happy Father's Day. But how do you tell your dad on the phone on the designated Hallmark day that he means the world to you-- without being incredibly cheesy and cliche? (This is actually one of the problems I have with sending cards, too. I want to tell him he's The Best Dad in the World because I really believe that-- not just because those are the Hallmark cards being featured this month.

My dad reads my blog (of course he does-- he's The Best Dad in the World; how could he not read his only daughter's blog?), so now he will know that there isn't a card in the mail, and that Tim is, in fact, the responsible child (he's the only one of the three of us that thought ahead). But I also want him to know this--

I think my dad is pretty cool. Anyone who's had him as a math teacher will know that he is one of the cheesiest, corniest joke-tellers in the world. And he cracks himself up, which makes it even better. But he's also one of the best teachers in the world-- not just of math, but of hanging drywall, and living for God and loving people. He doesn't just talk about these things; he lives them.

He is an amazing source of advice. Somehow life just makes more sense when I talk to my dad. One of my favorite things to do is to sit on the couch in his office with a cup of coffee, Lucy and Dakota curled up at our feet, and just tell him all my problems and confusions and get his perspective on it. He talks to God regularly, and it comes across when he talks to me.

He'll do anything for his family. When I was in 7th grade and wanted to play basketball, he helped coach my town team-- even though he'd never been on a basketball team before. He and the other coach showed up with a stack of library books and showed us pictures of what our shooting form should look like. Somehow we won the championships that year. When I bought my house this summer, it needed so much work (don't believe me? Check out the facebook album-- seven layers of wallpaper on the walls and two or three on the ceiling and crown-molding; that's all I have to say about that). He put in 16+ hour days until it was liveable-- and then continued to come up whenever he could take a day off to do more projects. And maybe more impressively, he is still talking to me even though I'm in New York and not in that house. Why? How is that possible? Because he genuinely wants me to be where God wants me to be, even if that somehow proves not to be in the house into which he poured so much of his sweat and energy. (Equally, I don't think he will be remotely sad if I do end up back there!)

He is one of the hardest-working men I have ever met. That's not true.... He is the hardest-working man I have ever met. His idea of "taking a break" is doing a different project. I worry that he literally doesn't know how to relax, but I have also come to realize it is because he is so selfless that he literally is happy to use every moment he has helping other people.

A couple months ago he and my mom made one of the biggest sacrifices I've ever seen them make. My mom's parents have Alzheimers, and they moved into my parents' home in Maryland this past March. Although they have a few specialists and aides come in throughout the week, my parents take care of my grandparents almost completely by themselves. They are making huge sacrifices because they are living out the biblical command of "Honor your parents." And it's not surprising, because this is how they live their lives-- making whatever sacrifices God calls them to, because they trust him to give them the grace to make it through.

Have you seen a Hallmark card that could communicate adequate appreciation for this kind of dad?

Me neither.

Happy Father's Day, Padj. I love you.

Bonding in stereo

Maybe it's because I miss my dad. Or maybe I'm just a sucker for little kids. But whatever the reason, I found myself mesmerized by a father-daughter pair on the subway on my way home from work earlier this week.

The dad was young and wasn't wearing a wedding ring. He was cool-- you could tell from his clothes and his attitude as he moved to the music playing on his ipod. His daughter was cute-- fidgety and babbling and reaching for everything she could get her hands on. They sat down across from me on the train. The girl squealed with delight at some things, cried at others-- wanting things that were out of reach, wanting to get down from her dad's lap and run around the train.... just antsy and ready to play. And then suddenly, silence. It was 11:30 at night-- she must have fallen asleep. But when I looked over, I saw that was far from the truth.

The dad was still listening to his ipod, but now she was too. One of the earbuds was in his ear; the other was in hers. And she was sitting in her dad's lap, loving his music. She didn't squirm, she didn't try to get down-- she just sat there with contentment written all over her face.

The earbud fell out, and she calmly put it back in her ear and snuggled up to her dad again. He tried taking it back once, but she would have none of it. He smiled and let her listen along with him.

When I was going through a hard time a while ago, one of my pastors told me to talk to my Heavenly Father about it-- to "crawl up in his lap" and have a heart-to-heart with him. That image came to mind as I watched this little girl sit there and just enjoy what her father was enjoying. It made me miss my dad; but it also made me think how I don't do that with God nearly enough-- just sit there and enjoy sharing life with him.

Do you trust me now?

You know those old Verizon commercials with the guy walking around saying "Can you hear me now?" and then he walks to another place and says "Can you hear me now?"?

I feel like that's what God is doing with me-- "Do you trust me now?" He gives me good things, and it's easy: "Do you trust me now?" Sure do! Life is good, life is fun: "Do you trust me now?" How could I not?!

Or to bring it more close to home....

I get a job interview with my dream organization.

"Do you trust me now?"

Oh yeah! You are giving me good things!

The interview goes well and the woman says I probably have the job, but I just need to meet the supervisor, which is really just a formality.

"Do you trust me now?"

You betcha; I can see how you're providing for me!

And then I don't hear from the supervisor.

"Do you trust me now?"

Yes... there's still time for him to call me.

And then it's Monday, and there still hasn't been a phone call. So I call the woman who interviewed me, only to learn that they filled the position with someone "already in the system."

"Do you trust me now? Will you trust me when I don't act according to your plan for your life?"

I think so. But I really wish you would show me the "why" of all of this; it just doesn't add up.

"Do you trust me now?"

I'm trying.

"Do you trust me now?"

I do.... but my faith isn't strong. Help my unbelief.

Dancing Disadvantage

I grew up not going to dances. In fact, my high school was adamantly opposed to dancing-- we had a Senior Banquet, not a prom. When I got to college, it became obvious to me that I had missed the boat on learning how to dance. And the fact that I didn't dance growing up isn't the only issue; I'm also white. And yes, I have white girl rhythm-- which is to say, hardly any rhythm at all.

I've been to a lot of weddings since graduating from college, and by necessity have learned to hold my own on the dance floor (please note: there is a huge difference between "holding one's own" and "excelling"; I am only claiming survival skills, not excellence). But it does not come naturally to me, and I often wish that I'd been able to go through the awkward learning-to-dance phase when my peers went through it, rather than ten years later.

This same feeling washed over me at church today, as I watched those around me dance as they sang worship songs. It wasn't distracting or irreverent or inappropriate; they were dancing in praise to God, like we are told to do in Psalm 149-- "Let them praise his name with dancing..."

Is this what heaven will be like? Will we dance in praise to God? I can't imagine that we won't.

Ah, but then this question came to mind: Will I know the steps? or will I have missed out on all the "rehearsals" because I thought dancing didn't belong in church?

I'm not sure how dancing went from being commanded in the Bible to being frowned upon. I'm not sure why we read the Bible and think that God couldn't really have meant what he says there. Maybe I'm missing something because I don't have a seminary degree and don't understand the original Hebrew and Greek. Or maybe it's just not as complicated as we want it to be.

This church-hopping thing is making me re-examine many of my convictions about worship. I do know this: I don't want to show up in heaven and find that I don't know the steps to the dances I was supposed to learn while I was here on earth.

Words can never hurt me: the myth

"The reason you and Jenna* don't see eye-to-eye is that you just don't understand people like her and like me," explained one of my college roommates. "You're not beautiful and charming like we are."

She wasn't being mean, which probably made it worse. She really meant it, and it was her way of explaining the ways of the world to me. Seven years later I'm still haunted by that "insight" into the world. I saw Jenna recently, and those feelings of inferiority rushed over me just like we were back in college.

I'm not beautiful and charming like she is, plays the all-too-familiar refrain in my mind.

Remember those days when you were little and you came home from school crying because someone said something mean to you? What did your mom tell you? "Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me." Yeah, ok. On what planet? is what I would like to know.

I'd like to propose that we change that little ditty. What about "Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will hurt me longer"? Because really, isn't that way more accurate?

*names have been changed to protect the innocent (or to protect me, depending how you look at it). ;)

"So, I like you...."

...said the woman interviewing me this morning.

Sa-weet!!!! Does that mean I have a JOB???

"But," she continued (why is there always a "but"?!), "my supervisor will need to meet you first; I don't have the authority to hire anyone."

Let me back up.

My faithful blog readers may remember that during my 3-day stint at Danny's, I had a table of staff members from Harlem Children's Zone (see blog post "A Tip of a Different Color"). One of the women at the table, Emmanuella, gave me her email address and told me she would circulate my resume around the organization if I would email it to her. I did. And she kept up her end of the bargain. Last Friday I got a phone call from a woman named Vanessa, and she set up an interview for this morning.

We talked a lot about my experiences in Philadelphia and why I want to work with inner-city kids; and she was excited about how I could fit with their program. It's a part-time position, but it would be helping with their summer program during July and the first part of August-- with the option to continue with their after-school program in the fall. I've been wanting to learn how to run a sustainable outreach to inner city kids, and this organization is definitely that!

Pretty much everyone I work with at Alice's is working there to allow them to do what they really want to-- for most of them, that's acting or singing or writing. I'm pretty excited that the way the scheduling works, it would mean that I could pursue what I really want to do, even if "working with inner city kids" still doesn't classify me as an artist like the rest of them. ;)

So, I'm supposed to hear from Vanessa's supervisor today (hmm.... doesn't look like that is gonna happen....) or tomorrow. I'll keep you posted!

Yes, I am wearing a Chase Utley shirt. In New York.

Okay, okay. I'll admit that I knew I was asking for it when I picked out my clothes for work this morning. Phillies are playing today; may as well show my Phillies pride. And I put on my red Phillies shirt with Utley's name on the back. Who knew it would turn out to be such a conversation piece!

Ryan, one of my co-workers, was the first to comment. "I love that you're wearing a Chase Utley shirt," he remarked, and then went on to talk about how no one can hate Chase Utley, even if they hate the Philies. My brother, the avid Mets fan, would probably disagree; but if that's what you think, I'm not going to argue with you. But then the manager came in: "I have extra sidework for you today because of the shirt you're wearing." And I got to count bags of tea. Many bags of tea.

"Your boy is slipping," said an almost-homeless-looking man to me on the corner as I waited to cross the street to meet Ellen after work. Since I know that I don't hide my emotions well, I'm sure that the confusion was written all over my face. He gestured to my back. "Utley. He's slipping. But don't you worry, he'll come back! I'm a Philly boy myself!" Phew, I'm glad we're on the same side here!

Ellen and I went to the Museum Mile Festival (one of the many cool things in NYC-- all the museums on Museum Mile were free, and there were vendors and street performers all along Fifth Avenue). First we walked to the Guggenheim Museum to see how long the line was. To our surprise, there wasn't a line at all! So we headed towards the door. Only to discover that there was no line because we were going in the exit instead of the entrance.... which the security guard announced very loudly: "This is the EXIT; no entrance! Especially," and his voice got louder as he pointed at my shirt, "to people wearing shirts like THAT." I laughed and we started to walk away, but he kept going. About how he was a Yankees fan and something about the World Series. Blah. Blah. Blah.

The line was huge, so we kept walking. At the Jewish Museum, we discovered there was a Curious George exhibit (!), and the line wasn't long, so we headed in. The usual bag search, and then two security guards with metal detectors yelling "take out whatever you have in your pockets and hold it in your hand!" I dutifully took out my cell phone and approached the guard. He took one look at my shirt and waved me through with a look of disgust: "What? The Phillies? Go on, get out of here!" No metal detector for me; he didn't want to be in that close proximity to a Phillies fan, I guess.

All I can say is, I'm sure glad we won tonight-- I think I did my part to support the team. :)

Sidewalk conference

"Let's meet on the corner of Presstman and Strickler," said the voice on the other end of the phone. My friend Mary and I were being chauffeured around a sketchy neighborhood of Baltimore by my dad, who was talking to his friend on speakerphone. My dad was giving us a tour of urban outreach efforts in that city, in the hopes that it would help us as we processed our futures. They agreed on a time to meet, and we headed that direction.

What a weird place to meet.

We drove past one abandoned house after another. And another. And another. Gradually, the area started to look better-- not great, but noticeably better. My dad began filling in some of the gaps. "This area used to be worse than what we just drove through. Allan and his wife moved here to Sandtown about 20 years ago and have committed themselves to this neighborhood. He started a church with Mark Gornik, and they partnered with Habitat for Humanity and have renovated about 300 houses so that people here can afford to own their own homes. They've established a presence in this neighborhood, and it's come such a long way since they moved here."

And then my dad went on, "I don't know if I told you, but Allan is in a wheelchair-- he's a quadriplegic." Sure enough, as we approached the appointed meeting spot, there was a man sitting in a large wheelchair on the corner.

Isn't he nervous sitting out there in such a vulnerable spot in this neighborhood?

Little did I know. For the next twenty minutes or so, Allan Tibbels talked to us about the New Song church and what they had been doing in Sandtown, how they were seeking to bring the love of Christ to that community and to see Him renew it-- spiritually, physically, economically. He and his wife gave their lives to it. It was a little hard to concentrate because people kept interrupting-- they just wanted to say "hi" to Allan or to ask him a quick question about getting the keys to their new house or to say "thank you" for something he'd done or set up for them. It was clear that each of these people respected and loved this man.

He told us great and exciting stories of the ongoing transformation of that neighborhood. But when we left, Mary said to me, "I think the biggest testimony to the work he's done here is seeing him interact with the people from the community. You don't just get respect from people like that-- he must have earned it."

This past weekend I was on my way to the Revival 2K10 conference that the New Song Baltimore church was hosting. I had been planning to go ever since I first heard about it, but almost backed out after I moved up to NYC and realized it was more challenging to get down there. But I'd told Allan that I was coming, and I was looking forward to seeing him again, hoping to hear more from him about what things they had planned for their neighborhood. On my way down there I got a text from my dad: "Did you hear that Allan Tibbels died yesterday?"

I hadn't.

I only met the man that one time, and we couldn't have talked for more than twenty minutes. But I have thought often about the challenge that he didn't even have to verbalize-- his own life was a challenge in itself, as he gave all of himself to show Christ more clearly to those around him. He makes me think of one of my favorite quotes by Jim Elliott: "Wherever you are, be all there. Live to the hilt every situation you believe to be the will of God." Allan Tibbels did that-- he never let the confines of his wheelchair prevent him from "being all there" in Sandtown, Baltimore. And what a legacy he left as a result, to the glory of God.

... and that's the rest of the story.

Or an update on the stories anyway-- I realized that I haven't been good about following up on the stories, so many of you don't know the latest on the previous posts (sorry!)...

Here goes:

1. Danny's is officially sporting a "Prime Retail Space Available. Call Owner" sign in the window. Before it closed, though, I did get my "paycheck"-- which, shockingly enough, was just cash because the "paychecks hadn't come yet." I don't ask questions; I just ask for cash. Camille wasn't there when I went back, so I still don't know if/how I'll get in touch with her again.

2. Alice's is going well. I especially love the people I work with. I'm working at two of the three locations, and the Chapter 3 place (where I spend the majority of my time) is definitely my favorite, as I'm already feeling like I have friends there. Today was my first real day at Chapter 1, and I'm sad to report that it is not as easy to "think in color" there because of the way they store the teapots and lids (I'll be glad to get back to my system at Chapter 3 on Monday).

3. I have an interview with Harlem Children's Zone next week!!!! It's for a part-time position helping with their after-school program, but it starts this July. I'm not sure how that works, but I'll get more details at my interview!

4. The church-hopping continues; tomorrow I'll go to New Song Community Church in Harlem, which I've been wanting to visit for a really long time. It seems especially fitting in light of the death of Alan Tibbels, one of the founders of the original New Song Church in Baltimore (the Harlem church was planted by Alan's co-founder, Mark Gornik).

5. People continue to entertain me on the subway. :)

New York: the new city of brotherly love

Today is my brother Tim's birthday, and Steve and I got to celebrate with him in person-- even though it's a weekday.

I know it's cheesy, and I'm increasingly okay with that-- but I just love being near my brothers.

It's a good thing I think in color...

I dream in color, too. I think that means I'm creative? Not sure what it means that I think in color-- maybe it means I'm OCD. But whatever it means, it sure comes in handy as an Alice's barista!

When I'm brewing up to ten different pots of tea and have to remember what's in each so I can announce it to the table as I pour it for them, I'm really thankful for this bizarre quirk I have of thinking in color. We have four different color teapots, and one of the Alice's traits is that the pot and the lid should never match. So that's 24 possible combinations (if I haven't lost my math abilities...).

We have teal, orange, purple, and beige. Chocolate Mint Tea has to go in a teal pot, probably with a purple lid. Summer Peach Tea-- orange pot, beige lid. Alice's Tea-- purple pot; lid color can vary. Birthday Tea-- orange pot with a purple lid, because that just says "Party" all over it, as birthdays should. And on it goes.

Maybe this really just means I am more of a wanna-be-storyteller than I care to admit, if even the teapots need to tell a story about what they contain.... Either way, it makes the job feel like a game instead of feeling stressful. And many times during a busy rush, I'll think to myself, "Man, I sure am glad I think in color!"