I am writing this from the "Faros Holiday Village," located in Cyprus. It's a fairly nice place, along the ocean beach, with a pool and a dedicated staff, who are the kind of friendly that after one day has you wanting to hug them, and after three or four has you wanting to punch them in the kidneys. I'm sure you konw the type. Fortunately, I've only been here one day, and have managed to restrain my hugging impulses.
To continue the story from my last post, the last few days of yearbooking were as much of a debacle as the rest of it. I ended up pulling a near-all-nighter (I slept about 2-3 hours) on Thursday, going to school, and barely finishing the yearbook for the deadline. The school's business manager, Nasree, and I went to the print shop to give them the file.
Let me back up. Last year's yearbook suffered from serious printing problems. The size of the file created by the yearbook team didn't match the size of the page the printer's software wanted to create, and so various things were cut out of the yearbook, etc. To avoid this problem this year, we invited the printer to the school and asked him which files he wanted, in what format, what size, etc. I have spent the intervening months working on the basis of this information. When we arrived at the place, promptly at noon, we found that the person to whom we spoke at that time had since been fired, and that the new computer guru wanted an entirely different file format.
The next 8 hours were me reformatting existing files to fit in with those particular plans. The interruption was an interview with Bruce Cannon, the school's departing principal, who is moving back to Montana to be with his family. He will be sorely missed. Aside from that pleasant interlude, it was an incredibly frustrating time. I had psychologically and emotionally been DONE, and to have to spend extra time on the thing was tough. I finished it, however, and delivered it to Nasree, who kindly stopped by the school (where I was working due to my computer not having the new necessary software) to pick it up.
It was incredibly draining. I ran around all over town picking up this file and that file from various students, and frequently slept about 4 hours a night. I didn't really eat right, or enough, or often enough. Then, too, I was tormented by the spectre of failure, the thoght that
Throughout this whole process, God has been there for me, and I'm very grateful to him for many things he did. In the first place, my staff has been uniformly amazing (well, there were one or two exceptions, but no more), cheerfully accepting a lot more responsibility than I would have been comfortable putting on them, had there been any possible alternative. A girl named Miki, one of my English students and a 9th grader, has been the most indispensable member of the team, not excepting me, and as far as I'm concerned is completely ready to enter the professional world due to her organization, intelligence, and dedication. Others did equally well.
On one occasion during one of my late-night duels to the death with a bunch of pictures, my trusty laptop cord finally stopped working. I was talking to a student at the time, and told him that I had to go out and buy a new one. His reaction was "at this time of night?" It was about 10:30.
I went to Garden Street, where there are lots of computer stores, and returned to a store where I had previously spotted a cord for JD55 (US$80). This was more than I wanted to pay, but I was out of options. I was thrilled to see that it was still open, and dashed inside to buy the thing and get back to work. A bored-looking clerk informed me, however, that the maintenance department was closed, and that was where all the used parts were kept. Despite all my entreaties, he couldn't open that part of the building, nor sell me the part.
I walked back along a bustling Garden Street in something very like despair, simultaneously praying hard and formulating what I was going to tell my boss/the kids/their parents when we missed the printer's deadline. When I had nearly reached the place where I was planning to get a cab and go home, I noticed an open computer store surrounded by three other closed ones (I had previously passed no fewer than 11 closed computer stores). In this store, I found three shabaab (young men) smoking a hookah, who clearly saw no reason to close the store as long as it was providing them with comfortable office chairs in which to sit. It was a filthy little rat hole of a place, and I somewhat hopelessly pulled out my trusty laptop and asked the guy if he had a cord for it. While he glared at me resentfully for interrupting his argila sunset, he did bestir himself and find me one. The price: JD22. 60% less. And that was the only open store. Coincidence?
I arrived home that night, and chatted with Melissa Villanueva. Melissa's in town for a semester abroad at a local seminary (she goes to Moody normally). I was very bitter at the time, because while Bruce had suggested that I take a day off to work on yearbook, I had been unable to find a substitute for as much as a single hour (of 5), even among those teachers for whom I have covered time and time again. I hadn't asked Melissa to sub, because I didn't expect her back from a backpacking trip in a small country west of Jordan until it was too late to matter. But she came back, and eagerly agreed to substitute for me, so I had the whole day to work on yearbook. This was crucial to me making the deadline.
If you're keeping track, I'd call that three minor miracles in the span of an hour. That's what it's been like, with God's incredible faithfulness even in mundane things sustaining me through one of the most stressful times I've ever experienced.
So now, here I am in Cyprus, eating pork (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!), swimming (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!), attending some workshops and playing volleyball and basically loafing. I'm going to try to buy a frizbee while I'm here so I can scratch that particular itch (I can't find one in Jordan). I'll be here 'til wednesday, after which there will be 3 more weeks of school. I anticipate arriving in Minneapolis in early June, which should be in time for everybody's wedding if you're worried.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Why I less than slash three the past two weeks
So, I've been putting up some extremely depressed Facebook statuses recently, and a lot of you have kindly emailed me wanting to know why. So here it is.
I am in charge of Whitman Academy's yearbook. I took on this project at the beginning of the year, blithely assuming it would be a one-day-a-week commitment to watch some kids copy and paste pictures on computers. What I did not realize at the time was that Whitman Academy is a school with less than 100 students that wants all the benefits of thousands. I'm expected to turn out a large-school quality product with a team of 8 kids (that comes out to 10 pages of yearbook per kid) and, until a desperate appeal to the board, no budget at all (more on that later).
The main problem is Adobe Photoshop. This is the software we're using to do almost all of our work, and the school owns one computer that can run it. This computer is located in the computer lab. Current school policy requires a designated teacher to be present in the lab while the student works. This is not "any teacher," this is "the teacher who is responsible for this student at this hour of the day." This means that for a student to work on a lab computer, I have to be physically present. I have one free period per day (out of 7), so this is typically not feasible. The alternative is for me to meet personally with each student and use the copy of Photoshop installed on my computer to do the work. It takes about 45 minutes per page. At 80 pages, that's 60 hours of work to be done by me. A few things can lower this number (two students also own the program and can work for themselves without me present) but it adds up to a heck of a lot.
Moreover, at the beginning of the year, neither I nor any of my yearbook staff nor any other faculty member, student, or parent at Whitman knew how to use the software. I had to outsource, hiring a photoshop trainer to give us a 1-hour seminar in the basics of it. I spend each day finding how an hour wasn't enough.
Yearbook is essentially devouring my life, with every spare minute being spent with one kid or another getting pages into the computer. It's eating away at my time for everything else. I haven't done laundry in a dog's age, or been grocery shopping. I'm not sleeping enough, and when I do it's fitful. I'm stressed, I'm exhausted, I'm malnourished because it's easier to buy fast food (not as unhealthy in the states, but not long on fruit or veggies either) than it is to bring stuff home.
There are bright spots in this grim picture. I have the most wonderful staff of kids you could possibly imagine, who are working all kinds of long hours just as I am, and finding solutions to problems I didn't know existed without even needing to consult me. On Monday, the school board voted me JD2000 in funding, which will allow me to cut the price of each yearbook from 25 JD to 8, still make money, and have some discretionary funds left over to buy the school some computers/cameras/USB drives (at the moment, yearbook runs on people's personal equipment, which is unreliable and also bad business practice). Also, next year will be a class rather than an after-school activity. However, none of that solves my immediate problem, which is having too much to do and not enough time to do it.
I think, in fact I'm fairly sure, we'll get the thing done. This is a new-ish development. Last weekend I spent all of Friday in a state of complete despair. Despair, however, is unproductive, and probably not warranted.
Happier news is that I have been singing in a choir, which did an Easter concert last night and tonight. While rehearsals have been eating into a lot of other activities, and taking time it's tough to justify spending, it has been of extreme psychological benefit. That whole music hath charms thing is an overused cliche, but it's become so because it's true.
Our concerts went unbelievably well, as in if you had told me at our last rehearsal that I'd be so satisfied with the performances, I'd have either laughed or cried. We performed in a stately old Catholic church (for decor style, think "the off-White House" and you won't be far off. Pictures to follow, inshallah) that had glorious acoustics and a ton of atmosphere, matching our largely liturgical music selections almost perfectly. I am not the second coming of Pavarotti, but I did ok, and our collective sound was wonderful according to every audience member I talked to. My only complaints were that the priest glowered at us menacingly the entire time from start to finish, and that standing for two 35-minute periods within a two-meter radius of a dozen men in the heat of the nascent Jordanian summer quickly approaches biohazard levels of body odor. It was worth it, however. I wish there were more shows.
Spring break is coming up, and I need it as I didn't think I could ever need anything. I'll be spending it in Cyprus, and internet access is not a given. I'll try to stay as wired as possible, we'll see.
I am in charge of Whitman Academy's yearbook. I took on this project at the beginning of the year, blithely assuming it would be a one-day-a-week commitment to watch some kids copy and paste pictures on computers. What I did not realize at the time was that Whitman Academy is a school with less than 100 students that wants all the benefits of thousands. I'm expected to turn out a large-school quality product with a team of 8 kids (that comes out to 10 pages of yearbook per kid) and, until a desperate appeal to the board, no budget at all (more on that later).
The main problem is Adobe Photoshop. This is the software we're using to do almost all of our work, and the school owns one computer that can run it. This computer is located in the computer lab. Current school policy requires a designated teacher to be present in the lab while the student works. This is not "any teacher," this is "the teacher who is responsible for this student at this hour of the day." This means that for a student to work on a lab computer, I have to be physically present. I have one free period per day (out of 7), so this is typically not feasible. The alternative is for me to meet personally with each student and use the copy of Photoshop installed on my computer to do the work. It takes about 45 minutes per page. At 80 pages, that's 60 hours of work to be done by me. A few things can lower this number (two students also own the program and can work for themselves without me present) but it adds up to a heck of a lot.
Moreover, at the beginning of the year, neither I nor any of my yearbook staff nor any other faculty member, student, or parent at Whitman knew how to use the software. I had to outsource, hiring a photoshop trainer to give us a 1-hour seminar in the basics of it. I spend each day finding how an hour wasn't enough.
Yearbook is essentially devouring my life, with every spare minute being spent with one kid or another getting pages into the computer. It's eating away at my time for everything else. I haven't done laundry in a dog's age, or been grocery shopping. I'm not sleeping enough, and when I do it's fitful. I'm stressed, I'm exhausted, I'm malnourished because it's easier to buy fast food (not as unhealthy in the states, but not long on fruit or veggies either) than it is to bring stuff home.
There are bright spots in this grim picture. I have the most wonderful staff of kids you could possibly imagine, who are working all kinds of long hours just as I am, and finding solutions to problems I didn't know existed without even needing to consult me. On Monday, the school board voted me JD2000 in funding, which will allow me to cut the price of each yearbook from 25 JD to 8, still make money, and have some discretionary funds left over to buy the school some computers/cameras/USB drives (at the moment, yearbook runs on people's personal equipment, which is unreliable and also bad business practice). Also, next year will be a class rather than an after-school activity. However, none of that solves my immediate problem, which is having too much to do and not enough time to do it.
I think, in fact I'm fairly sure, we'll get the thing done. This is a new-ish development. Last weekend I spent all of Friday in a state of complete despair. Despair, however, is unproductive, and probably not warranted.
Happier news is that I have been singing in a choir, which did an Easter concert last night and tonight. While rehearsals have been eating into a lot of other activities, and taking time it's tough to justify spending, it has been of extreme psychological benefit. That whole music hath charms thing is an overused cliche, but it's become so because it's true.
Our concerts went unbelievably well, as in if you had told me at our last rehearsal that I'd be so satisfied with the performances, I'd have either laughed or cried. We performed in a stately old Catholic church (for decor style, think "the off-White House" and you won't be far off. Pictures to follow, inshallah) that had glorious acoustics and a ton of atmosphere, matching our largely liturgical music selections almost perfectly. I am not the second coming of Pavarotti, but I did ok, and our collective sound was wonderful according to every audience member I talked to. My only complaints were that the priest glowered at us menacingly the entire time from start to finish, and that standing for two 35-minute periods within a two-meter radius of a dozen men in the heat of the nascent Jordanian summer quickly approaches biohazard levels of body odor. It was worth it, however. I wish there were more shows.
Spring break is coming up, and I need it as I didn't think I could ever need anything. I'll be spending it in Cyprus, and internet access is not a given. I'll try to stay as wired as possible, we'll see.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Better late than...
When you sign into blogspot and your "last posted" date is more than two months in the past, it is a sign of something. I'm sure you have been drawing conclusions about what that "something" might be. Perhaps I am suffering a drastic emotional crisis and do not wish to blog until I'm in a better mood. Perhaps I got hit by a bus and am now blogging from Heaven.com. Perhaps I am simply to lazy to sit down at a computer and get the thing done.
In point of fact, what has happened is that I seem to have grown a life. I've picked up several regular or semi-regular activities to participate in. One of these is English tutoring in Mahatta. Mahatta isn't Arabic for "desperately poor," but it could be and it would fit. Many of the denizens are Iraqis. There's a church there where all are invited on Saturday afternoons. Kids bring their English books and, essentially, ask me to do their homework for them. I have largely managed to avoid this so far, and it stretches my Arabic to its uttermost limits, which means it's good for me too.
I've also joined a choir. We're singing some pretty advanced (perhaps only by my limited standards) stuff. It's very easter themed; only one of the songs is in English, the rest splitting between Latin, Italian, and one Greek number (but I only sing about 3 words in that one, and stay on the same note for the entire first page. Gotta love being a bass.) I'm really enjoying the experience, although the fact that the concert is in two weeks would throw me into an abject, gibbering panic if I let it; we're not close to ready. However, I do love making music, and I hope to stay involved with this choir (which is apparently a Christmas and Easter tradition) next year.
So, those and other things are why I haven't blogged in a dog's age. I will now proceed to fill you in briefly on what's gone on in that time period.
One of the first things that happened after my last post was that Brittany, whom I was dating at the time, broke up with me. In answer to all the questions that are occurring to you about why, the answer is that I frankly don't know. She underwent a shift, it seemed, from really liking me and enjoying my company to not even wanting me around at all (which remains the current status quo as far as I can tell). This took about two weeks. There are, of course, dozens of possible things which could have caused this, but after several weeks spent tormenting myself with the question, I have decided with some effort to just let it go and not worry about it. If you like, you may insert cliches about the other fish in the pond, or about can't live with 'em or without 'em, at this juncture. The words may not precisely express how I feel at the moment, but the attitude which generally prompts such statements is a reasonable approximation of my attitude.
I have also moved. I now live with a guy named Moses, who works the sound board at the church I attend. Moses is from Nigeria, and is a very neat and tidy individual, which has occasioned some conflicts between us (we ended up hiring a maid). However, nearly everything else about my experience here has been positive. I can now walk to school each day, which saves me something like $8 a day in taxi fare from one end of town to the other. I live much closer to church, as well, and to the places where I've been in the habit of shopping. It's a very different culture on this end of town, much closer to what I was used to in the States than what I've been used to in Ashrafieya. I miss the character of East Amman, which felt much more like a foreign country to me. Were money no object, I think I would still live there. Sadly, money matters, and stewardship dictates that I live where I live.
Work continues more or less unchanged. I teach. They learn. I'm teaching Hamlet, and dealing with words like "incest" and "adultery," as well as the whole revenge theme and the question of Catholicism's concept of absolution as opposed to the correct one. It's been a rewarding experience. Next Monday, I'll be collecting the paper I've assigned, and we'll see how much they actually absorbed. My impression is that it's a lot. They're smart kids.
That's a pretty general update. If you don't know, I plan to spend the summer in North America, hopefully working and visiting people and weddings, of which 3 are currently on the agenda. My exact travel dates are still a bit of a mystery, but I'll keep you posted.
Thanks for your prayers and support.
In point of fact, what has happened is that I seem to have grown a life. I've picked up several regular or semi-regular activities to participate in. One of these is English tutoring in Mahatta. Mahatta isn't Arabic for "desperately poor," but it could be and it would fit. Many of the denizens are Iraqis. There's a church there where all are invited on Saturday afternoons. Kids bring their English books and, essentially, ask me to do their homework for them. I have largely managed to avoid this so far, and it stretches my Arabic to its uttermost limits, which means it's good for me too.
I've also joined a choir. We're singing some pretty advanced (perhaps only by my limited standards) stuff. It's very easter themed; only one of the songs is in English, the rest splitting between Latin, Italian, and one Greek number (but I only sing about 3 words in that one, and stay on the same note for the entire first page. Gotta love being a bass.) I'm really enjoying the experience, although the fact that the concert is in two weeks would throw me into an abject, gibbering panic if I let it; we're not close to ready. However, I do love making music, and I hope to stay involved with this choir (which is apparently a Christmas and Easter tradition) next year.
So, those and other things are why I haven't blogged in a dog's age. I will now proceed to fill you in briefly on what's gone on in that time period.
One of the first things that happened after my last post was that Brittany, whom I was dating at the time, broke up with me. In answer to all the questions that are occurring to you about why, the answer is that I frankly don't know. She underwent a shift, it seemed, from really liking me and enjoying my company to not even wanting me around at all (which remains the current status quo as far as I can tell). This took about two weeks. There are, of course, dozens of possible things which could have caused this, but after several weeks spent tormenting myself with the question, I have decided with some effort to just let it go and not worry about it. If you like, you may insert cliches about the other fish in the pond, or about can't live with 'em or without 'em, at this juncture. The words may not precisely express how I feel at the moment, but the attitude which generally prompts such statements is a reasonable approximation of my attitude.
I have also moved. I now live with a guy named Moses, who works the sound board at the church I attend. Moses is from Nigeria, and is a very neat and tidy individual, which has occasioned some conflicts between us (we ended up hiring a maid). However, nearly everything else about my experience here has been positive. I can now walk to school each day, which saves me something like $8 a day in taxi fare from one end of town to the other. I live much closer to church, as well, and to the places where I've been in the habit of shopping. It's a very different culture on this end of town, much closer to what I was used to in the States than what I've been used to in Ashrafieya. I miss the character of East Amman, which felt much more like a foreign country to me. Were money no object, I think I would still live there. Sadly, money matters, and stewardship dictates that I live where I live.
Work continues more or less unchanged. I teach. They learn. I'm teaching Hamlet, and dealing with words like "incest" and "adultery," as well as the whole revenge theme and the question of Catholicism's concept of absolution as opposed to the correct one. It's been a rewarding experience. Next Monday, I'll be collecting the paper I've assigned, and we'll see how much they actually absorbed. My impression is that it's a lot. They're smart kids.
That's a pretty general update. If you don't know, I plan to spend the summer in North America, hopefully working and visiting people and weddings, of which 3 are currently on the agenda. My exact travel dates are still a bit of a mystery, but I'll keep you posted.
Thanks for your prayers and support.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
There's No Day Like A Snow Day
It's 11 AM and I am deliriously happy. Never mind that the whole city has essentially shut down and I have to live on the meager supplies found in my home. I don't have to go to school today, and tomorrow's not looking so good either unless there's a serious and unforeseen melt.Addendum: it's freezing rain, wet slick roads, and school has now (about 8 PM) been canceled for tomorrow as well.
This seems like a good time, since we've come full circle, to describe what's been going on in my life since the last snow day, which was a week ago Tuesday. On that date, everybody actually went to school in the morning and we were then dismissed about 10:00 AM. Those of us who didn't have to leave immediately (and this was most of the student body, faculty and staff) went out in front of the school and threw all available snow at one another. After this, Brittany and I went over to Sara Kim's house, which is right across the street from school. There we watched the movie "I Am Legend" which is slightly better than the average apocalyptic zombie movie. It was a wonderful experience, however, because I don't get all that many chances to hang out with Brittany when not surrounded by a horde of children who still don't know we're even together. So we bonded.
After the movie, we went and painted sets for the school's production of "Oliver Twist" (not the musical version), which Brittany is directed and I helped out with. Actually I was credited as a "co-director," but that drastically overrates my contribution, which was essentially to help control the crowd at rehearsals. Anyway, we painted these sets (canvas on wooden frames) with two other teachers, the aforementioned Sara and Ruth the art teacher. We ordered Domino's (yes, there's Domino's here) and had fun.
It was a good thing, too, because for the next few days (until the last performance on Sunday night, really) life was shatteringly hectic. I was either worrying about the play, worrying about my actual job, or sleeping most of the day. The play definitely gave cause for concern, with kids forgetting their lines, or losing their props, or missing their cues right through the dress rehearsal. I was extremely stressed and snappish, and had to apologize to a few people for going off on them. This is not typical of me, and was distressing.
The play itself, however, went well. There were two performances. After the first performance, I started out being extremely glum, because some things had gone wrong that we had worked hard on (bad) or hadn't foreseen at all (worse). Naturally I blamed myself for all of this. Then I got up out of my spot and walked around, and realized that everybody except me was happy. Effusive parents praised me for how excellent the show was. Grinning kids thanked me for being involved. Brittany couldn't stop smiling and found time to tell me how amazed she was. So I got a little reality check, remembering that making all those people happy was basically why I did the thing in the first place. I wasn't attempting to reach some abstract standard of artistic perfection, I was attempting to make folks happy. And apparently, the level we performed at did that. So I quit being glum and smiled too, and then we improved a lot for the second night, which was standing-room only. I am satisfied, not because of the improvement, but because I adjusted my standards for success, and because the transparent joy of a child is so utterly, irresistibly contagious.
On Tuesday, I signed a contract for next year at Whitman Academy, so now I'm officially sewn up for that, although the decision has long been made.
Then there was today, when school was canceled due to horribly inclement weather. I did some much-needed house cleaning, and went over to the Judsons for games and food. Two other ladies from the Ashrafieya area were there, and it was just a generally good, carefree time. I won a game of monopoly by a lot, ate better food than I usually manage to provide myself, and relaxed. Tomorrow, the plan is to go to Zarqa and visit Haitham and (perhaps more importantly) a jacuzzi he knows of. A hot tub in winter is a truly wonderful thing. This is only if the whole city isn't covered in disgusting slush by then, which is unfortunately looking increasingly likely.
In the last couple of weeks, I've joined a small group. It's composed primarily of married couples with children, but one thing which I've found there and almost nowhere else is men to talk to and share with. The study this week was on what it means to be "filled with the Spirit" and it was a very insightful, deep, yet practical discussion. Also, in this group there is a young man named Moses, who lives within walking distance of Whitman Academy and is looking for a roommate. That could turn out to be a godsend, as I am sick and tired of living alone. Some solitude is good, but too much can crush your soul.
At the moment, though, despite being alone in my empty house, my spirits are high. A 5-day weekend will do that for you. And then, of course, there's the Super Bowl on Sunday.
Prayer requests: Wisdom with regard to living arrangements, effective time management to do my work and do it well, more motivation to keep up a daily time with God, and grace to conduct my relationship with Brittany (official now, by the way) in a God-honoring way.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
The Mouse that Roared- The Fury of an Apparent Nonentity
I suppose I should be happy, all things considered, that only one of my students has failed a class of mine this semester. My students' grades scatter pretty predictably and evenly on the scale from excellent to poor, which seems to imply that I'm challenging them, but not impossibly. Whatever satisfaction I derive from this, however, is getting lost in what may be an irrational surge of anger and indignation, but is no less potent for that.
The student who failed the class (Spanish I) wasn't really a surprise, to him or to me. He has detested me personally almost since we met, and this has been intensified by a couple of incidents in which I unnecessarily (in his view) got him in trouble. In addition to this, he never really wanted to be in the class in the first place, and routinely refused to put in even the most elementary effort. Once, when he was the only one in class not taking notes, I asked him why, and he told me that he "hates writing." This was fairly typical, and certainly indicative.
However, though unsurprising, the fact that he actually failed the class was unpleasant, and caused the predictable (if you know me) loss of confidence and period of intense, almost masochistic self-examination for what possible flaw in me or my methods could have caused the problem. It was in the midst of this that I went to break the news to his mother, accompanied by my boss, Julia.
I don't want this to be read as bashing Julia. She is an amazing lady. Her official title is "High School Department Head," but it ought to be "The glue that holds this place together, and has for years in the face of significant adversity." If you're looking for a hero in the story of my work here, she's right up there at the top of the list, and I don't want what I'm about to say to detract from that.
The first thing the student's mother asked me was "can you fix it?" Translated, this means that the woman (also a generally kind and reasonable person) was asking me to fudge my numbers so that her son would get a passing grade he hadn't even tried to earn. This is what the woman's long experience at Whitman had led her to expect; she could work behind the scenes to make up for her child's shortcomings, and even his deliberate and sustained disrespect and rebellion. As I will demonstrate shortly, she was right.
I plucked up what little was left of my courage to tell her that I certainly could tweak the grade, but that I chose not to due to the student's consistent and unapologetic disdain for me and everything I had to teach. In a case of a student who was legitimately struggling in the class, my answer might have been different, I said. I would like you, dear reader, to pause a moment and imagine how difficult this was for me to do under the circumstances, wilting under the accusatory stare of a mother defending her child, with my boss in the room and the crushing weight of my inexperience and related insecurities clouding my judgment. But I did it. I stuck to my guns, for all the good it did. Here is what happened next.
I immediately disappeared from the conversation, as the two women put their heads together. In under 5 minutes they had hammered out a plan. Whitman policy requires a student who is failing a class at the end of a semester to drop said class. Now, it seemed that the young man had always wanted to study Latin. If he could find a way to do an effective independent study program in Latin for two hours per class day for the remainder of the year, the school could justify giving him a high school foreign-language credit to put on his transcript.
I was (and remain) appalled and dumbfounded. So, a kid has deliberately personally antagonized a teacher, misapplied his formidable native intelligence into destructive pranks rather than academic performance, failed a class simply because he didn't feel like passing it, and we're going to REWARD him? We're going to give him a chance to study what he wants rather than what's required? We're going to wipe the slate clean and let no record of his unacceptable showing even remain in documentary form? Are we an educational institution or manufactory of meaningless diplomas unrelated to any actual knowledge or performance? Considering that no faculty member knows Latin, how can we possibly ensure that he studies anything at all when we can't check his progress? And (perhaps most importantly of all) would the same accommodations be made for somebody whose parents don't have the clout that this one's do?
My whole experience with Whitman Academy leads me to doubt the last point. I should say here that Whitman Academy is, in many ways, an absolutely heroic achievement. It provides a desperately needed- indeed, all but irreplaceable- option for parents who can't or don't want to homeschool their children, and can't afford the exorbitant rates of Amman's other English-language schools. The place is, in some ways, held together with spit, chewing gum, and a lot of prayers, and its impact and value can hardly be overstated.
However, the fact that the school's creators and main participants form such a tightly knit group leads to things like what I described above (which is far from being an isolated experience, although it's my worst one so far). There's an active and thriving network of relationships, connections, and favors owed and paid behind the school's impartial and dignified facade, and it leads people not only to hope, but even to expect, that their children will not be permitted to fail a class, or even do poorly (I base that assertion on two similar, previous incidents) regardless of effort, aptitude, or behavior.
Whitman is in the final analysis a homeschool which has outgrown the home. It was founded with seven children from two families. Now, there are nearly 100 students, and the original two rooms in somebody's house have grown to 12 classrooms in an apartment building entirely dedicated to the purpose. There's even a school board. The problem is that many of the parents who remember the school's roots are apt to dig in their heels and oppose any change, no matter how necessary or well-advised. For example, a policy new to this year prohibits parents from simply going to a classroom and removing their children from it. They have to go to the office first, and sign out their kids. This sounds very reasonable and familiar to any parent who has had children in an American school of any significant size, but is complained about, or simply ignored, by long-standing Whitman parents to a pathetic degree.
In another totally inexplicable absurdity, Whitman Academy's teachers are prohibited by official policy not just from contributing to school board meetings, but even from knowing what goes on in them. This means that decisions like the school schedule (number and placement of instruction days, etc) and curriculum requirements must by rule be made with no input from teachers at all. Now I don't claim I know any better on these topics than any of the members of the board, but this doesn't apply equally to all teachers, and several decisions made this year have led to consequences that are as regrettable as they were avoidable by a 5-minute conversation with any of 4 or 5 people whose experience would have told them the results.
Do we (teachers), or do we not, perform a valuable function? Is our opinion important or isn't it? Ought our needs, desires, and preferences to be considered or ought they not? The verbal answer to these questions is always yes, but the demonstrated one typically isn't, and it's frustrating both on a practical and a personal level.
All of these problems don't change the fact that I believe in what I'm doing, and have no desire to stop. This place means something to me, something important, and I love it. But I don't think that means (as some seem to) that we have arrived, or that no further improvement is necessary from our current level of achievement. As I hope I have made clear, I disagree. Strongly.
Otherwise, things are going well, if stressful. Right now it's the run-up to the school play, in which more than half of all high school students have roles, and which Brittany is directing. I try to help out where I can, though I have no official role. I'm also in charge of the yearbook, which has some important deadlines coming up. Both of us have a lot of stress at the moment, exacerbated by a lack of what most teachers in the states would consider basic teaching necessities (several classes don't have textbooks of any sort, and for a couple of her history classes Brittany had to provide her own).
Prayer requests: I could use a roommate. Living alone is fun in that I never have to clean anything unless I need to use it, but the place is awful empty and lonely, more so because (seperate request) I'm still generally short on male friends my own age. And speaking of age, my decrepit old laptop is finally starting to show its. It would be really nice if the thing could just hang on until this school year is over. The longer it lasts, of course, the longer I can wait to buy another one.
Praises: Found a new way of doing lesson plans which makes it a lot easier to actually get them done. Also, some incredibly encouraging developments in the money department mean that my situation in that regard is ever so much better. Thanks to all who were involved in that, and if you would like to be, by all means drop me an email.
Finally, I'm sorry to everybody I missed seeing while I was home. There just didn't seem to be enough hours in the time I was there. I'll probably be home again during the summer. We'll see.
The student who failed the class (Spanish I) wasn't really a surprise, to him or to me. He has detested me personally almost since we met, and this has been intensified by a couple of incidents in which I unnecessarily (in his view) got him in trouble. In addition to this, he never really wanted to be in the class in the first place, and routinely refused to put in even the most elementary effort. Once, when he was the only one in class not taking notes, I asked him why, and he told me that he "hates writing." This was fairly typical, and certainly indicative.
However, though unsurprising, the fact that he actually failed the class was unpleasant, and caused the predictable (if you know me) loss of confidence and period of intense, almost masochistic self-examination for what possible flaw in me or my methods could have caused the problem. It was in the midst of this that I went to break the news to his mother, accompanied by my boss, Julia.
I don't want this to be read as bashing Julia. She is an amazing lady. Her official title is "High School Department Head," but it ought to be "The glue that holds this place together, and has for years in the face of significant adversity." If you're looking for a hero in the story of my work here, she's right up there at the top of the list, and I don't want what I'm about to say to detract from that.
The first thing the student's mother asked me was "can you fix it?" Translated, this means that the woman (also a generally kind and reasonable person) was asking me to fudge my numbers so that her son would get a passing grade he hadn't even tried to earn. This is what the woman's long experience at Whitman had led her to expect; she could work behind the scenes to make up for her child's shortcomings, and even his deliberate and sustained disrespect and rebellion. As I will demonstrate shortly, she was right.
I plucked up what little was left of my courage to tell her that I certainly could tweak the grade, but that I chose not to due to the student's consistent and unapologetic disdain for me and everything I had to teach. In a case of a student who was legitimately struggling in the class, my answer might have been different, I said. I would like you, dear reader, to pause a moment and imagine how difficult this was for me to do under the circumstances, wilting under the accusatory stare of a mother defending her child, with my boss in the room and the crushing weight of my inexperience and related insecurities clouding my judgment. But I did it. I stuck to my guns, for all the good it did. Here is what happened next.
I immediately disappeared from the conversation, as the two women put their heads together. In under 5 minutes they had hammered out a plan. Whitman policy requires a student who is failing a class at the end of a semester to drop said class. Now, it seemed that the young man had always wanted to study Latin. If he could find a way to do an effective independent study program in Latin for two hours per class day for the remainder of the year, the school could justify giving him a high school foreign-language credit to put on his transcript.
I was (and remain) appalled and dumbfounded. So, a kid has deliberately personally antagonized a teacher, misapplied his formidable native intelligence into destructive pranks rather than academic performance, failed a class simply because he didn't feel like passing it, and we're going to REWARD him? We're going to give him a chance to study what he wants rather than what's required? We're going to wipe the slate clean and let no record of his unacceptable showing even remain in documentary form? Are we an educational institution or manufactory of meaningless diplomas unrelated to any actual knowledge or performance? Considering that no faculty member knows Latin, how can we possibly ensure that he studies anything at all when we can't check his progress? And (perhaps most importantly of all) would the same accommodations be made for somebody whose parents don't have the clout that this one's do?
My whole experience with Whitman Academy leads me to doubt the last point. I should say here that Whitman Academy is, in many ways, an absolutely heroic achievement. It provides a desperately needed- indeed, all but irreplaceable- option for parents who can't or don't want to homeschool their children, and can't afford the exorbitant rates of Amman's other English-language schools. The place is, in some ways, held together with spit, chewing gum, and a lot of prayers, and its impact and value can hardly be overstated.
However, the fact that the school's creators and main participants form such a tightly knit group leads to things like what I described above (which is far from being an isolated experience, although it's my worst one so far). There's an active and thriving network of relationships, connections, and favors owed and paid behind the school's impartial and dignified facade, and it leads people not only to hope, but even to expect, that their children will not be permitted to fail a class, or even do poorly (I base that assertion on two similar, previous incidents) regardless of effort, aptitude, or behavior.
Whitman is in the final analysis a homeschool which has outgrown the home. It was founded with seven children from two families. Now, there are nearly 100 students, and the original two rooms in somebody's house have grown to 12 classrooms in an apartment building entirely dedicated to the purpose. There's even a school board. The problem is that many of the parents who remember the school's roots are apt to dig in their heels and oppose any change, no matter how necessary or well-advised. For example, a policy new to this year prohibits parents from simply going to a classroom and removing their children from it. They have to go to the office first, and sign out their kids. This sounds very reasonable and familiar to any parent who has had children in an American school of any significant size, but is complained about, or simply ignored, by long-standing Whitman parents to a pathetic degree.
In another totally inexplicable absurdity, Whitman Academy's teachers are prohibited by official policy not just from contributing to school board meetings, but even from knowing what goes on in them. This means that decisions like the school schedule (number and placement of instruction days, etc) and curriculum requirements must by rule be made with no input from teachers at all. Now I don't claim I know any better on these topics than any of the members of the board, but this doesn't apply equally to all teachers, and several decisions made this year have led to consequences that are as regrettable as they were avoidable by a 5-minute conversation with any of 4 or 5 people whose experience would have told them the results.
Do we (teachers), or do we not, perform a valuable function? Is our opinion important or isn't it? Ought our needs, desires, and preferences to be considered or ought they not? The verbal answer to these questions is always yes, but the demonstrated one typically isn't, and it's frustrating both on a practical and a personal level.
All of these problems don't change the fact that I believe in what I'm doing, and have no desire to stop. This place means something to me, something important, and I love it. But I don't think that means (as some seem to) that we have arrived, or that no further improvement is necessary from our current level of achievement. As I hope I have made clear, I disagree. Strongly.
Otherwise, things are going well, if stressful. Right now it's the run-up to the school play, in which more than half of all high school students have roles, and which Brittany is directing. I try to help out where I can, though I have no official role. I'm also in charge of the yearbook, which has some important deadlines coming up. Both of us have a lot of stress at the moment, exacerbated by a lack of what most teachers in the states would consider basic teaching necessities (several classes don't have textbooks of any sort, and for a couple of her history classes Brittany had to provide her own).
Prayer requests: I could use a roommate. Living alone is fun in that I never have to clean anything unless I need to use it, but the place is awful empty and lonely, more so because (seperate request) I'm still generally short on male friends my own age. And speaking of age, my decrepit old laptop is finally starting to show its. It would be really nice if the thing could just hang on until this school year is over. The longer it lasts, of course, the longer I can wait to buy another one.
Praises: Found a new way of doing lesson plans which makes it a lot easier to actually get them done. Also, some incredibly encouraging developments in the money department mean that my situation in that regard is ever so much better. Thanks to all who were involved in that, and if you would like to be, by all means drop me an email.
Finally, I'm sorry to everybody I missed seeing while I was home. There just didn't seem to be enough hours in the time I was there. I'll probably be home again during the summer. We'll see.
Monday, December 17, 2007
He Breathes
Breathes there the man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored , and unsung.
-Sir Walter Scott
Well, the heart-burning is going on all right, but the actual turning homeward of footsteps is proving to be moderately dicey. Chicago O'Hare, my layover on the way from Amman to Minneapolis, is apparently 3 feet deep in snow or something, and my flight has now been delayed a total of about 18 hours with no end in sight. I have decided to just go to the airport and besiege it until somebody parks me on a plane home. This is partly related to an interesting story that happened today.
I got in a taxi to go from my home to the local office of Royal Jordanian Airlines 7th Circle. I did this in order to pre-check my bag and avoid that hassle at the actual airport. I make a trip to a nearby location (Whitman Academy is near 6th circle) approximately 5 days a week, and every time it costs me about JD1.75 to do. How much that is in dollars is not really important to the story. So I ride in the cab, I talk to the driver, I improve my Arabic, and then suddenly when the meter clicks to JD3.50 I realize that I have no idea where we are, unusual given that it's a route I take every day. I ask the driver where we are and he tells me we're in the University District.
I am shocked. Jordan University is so far on the far side of town it barely even counts as Amman any more. In fact, we have by this time traveled more than twice the necessary distance, and still not arrived at our actual destination. I remonstrate with the driver, stretching my pidgin Arabic to its uttermost limits, to tell him that I'm not just some dumb tourist that he can screw over at will, but that I've lived in Amman for half a year and know my way around well enough to know that this is the wrong way to go. His response is that he was "avoiding traffic."
I pull out my trusty blue notebook, repository of much informally acquired Arabic vocabulary, and begin to copy down his license number and name from the card on his dashboard, my intent being to call the company or the traffic police. This causes him to panic. He explains (rather belatedly, it seems to me) that he is new, and does not even live in Amman but in Zarqa, a smaller city about 45 minutes distant. He practically grovels, telling me that he'll get me where I want to go, and if I don't want to pay him anything, that's mazbuut (fine). I say no, I want to pay him a fair amount, but I know that a fair amount is 2 JD for the ride he was supposed to give me. After he stops to ask for directions, we arrive at Safeway, a large grocery store and well-known landmark, without further incident but approximately an hour and ten minutes after leaving home for a 15-minute ride. I pay him 2 JD, tear off the page of my notebook with his information on it and give it to him, and ignore the rude gesture he makes not quite far enough behind my back once I've left.
So now, having divested myself of the dishonest or incompetent cab driver, I find myself standing outside a bustling supermarket with my suitcase, my iPod, and no earthly idea where to find the office, which I only know is "near Safeway."
I approach a pleasant-looking man and, with a hint of desperation tinging my voice, ask him in Arabic if he speaks English. He does, and tells me where I want to go, and then gallantly offers to drive me there since he works right across the street. It's only a few blocks, but it means a lot.
When I arrive at the office, the providential nature of the whole thing becomes clear. While checking my bag, I eavesdrop on the conversation a young American man is having with the lady at the next counter. He wants to know when the last bus to the Airport is. The answer, given that at this point our flight has just been postponed until 3 AM, is functionally "not nearly late enough." I ask the young man, whose name turns out to be Jeff, if he would like a ride in my friend's car, since I have to pay for it anyway.
Jeff is grateful. It seems that his home is not Amman but Damascus, and he's stuck in Amman with nowhere to stay and not much knowledge of the city's layout or its transit arrangements. I take him to Whitman and introduce him to some folks before he opts to strike out on his own and explore downtown a bit.
So in an hour or so (at 11:30 PM), Sami (who cuts my hair and drives me places for a modest fee) and I will be picking him up at a prearranged location and proceeding to the airport together. If not for my long and arduous cab ride, the two of us would probably never have met.
My flight has now been postponed again to 6:15 AM. Will I ever get home?
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored , and unsung.
-Sir Walter Scott
Well, the heart-burning is going on all right, but the actual turning homeward of footsteps is proving to be moderately dicey. Chicago O'Hare, my layover on the way from Amman to Minneapolis, is apparently 3 feet deep in snow or something, and my flight has now been delayed a total of about 18 hours with no end in sight. I have decided to just go to the airport and besiege it until somebody parks me on a plane home. This is partly related to an interesting story that happened today.
I got in a taxi to go from my home to the local office of Royal Jordanian Airlines 7th Circle. I did this in order to pre-check my bag and avoid that hassle at the actual airport. I make a trip to a nearby location (Whitman Academy is near 6th circle) approximately 5 days a week, and every time it costs me about JD1.75 to do. How much that is in dollars is not really important to the story. So I ride in the cab, I talk to the driver, I improve my Arabic, and then suddenly when the meter clicks to JD3.50 I realize that I have no idea where we are, unusual given that it's a route I take every day. I ask the driver where we are and he tells me we're in the University District.
I am shocked. Jordan University is so far on the far side of town it barely even counts as Amman any more. In fact, we have by this time traveled more than twice the necessary distance, and still not arrived at our actual destination. I remonstrate with the driver, stretching my pidgin Arabic to its uttermost limits, to tell him that I'm not just some dumb tourist that he can screw over at will, but that I've lived in Amman for half a year and know my way around well enough to know that this is the wrong way to go. His response is that he was "avoiding traffic."
I pull out my trusty blue notebook, repository of much informally acquired Arabic vocabulary, and begin to copy down his license number and name from the card on his dashboard, my intent being to call the company or the traffic police. This causes him to panic. He explains (rather belatedly, it seems to me) that he is new, and does not even live in Amman but in Zarqa, a smaller city about 45 minutes distant. He practically grovels, telling me that he'll get me where I want to go, and if I don't want to pay him anything, that's mazbuut (fine). I say no, I want to pay him a fair amount, but I know that a fair amount is 2 JD for the ride he was supposed to give me. After he stops to ask for directions, we arrive at Safeway, a large grocery store and well-known landmark, without further incident but approximately an hour and ten minutes after leaving home for a 15-minute ride. I pay him 2 JD, tear off the page of my notebook with his information on it and give it to him, and ignore the rude gesture he makes not quite far enough behind my back once I've left.
So now, having divested myself of the dishonest or incompetent cab driver, I find myself standing outside a bustling supermarket with my suitcase, my iPod, and no earthly idea where to find the office, which I only know is "near Safeway."
I approach a pleasant-looking man and, with a hint of desperation tinging my voice, ask him in Arabic if he speaks English. He does, and tells me where I want to go, and then gallantly offers to drive me there since he works right across the street. It's only a few blocks, but it means a lot.
When I arrive at the office, the providential nature of the whole thing becomes clear. While checking my bag, I eavesdrop on the conversation a young American man is having with the lady at the next counter. He wants to know when the last bus to the Airport is. The answer, given that at this point our flight has just been postponed until 3 AM, is functionally "not nearly late enough." I ask the young man, whose name turns out to be Jeff, if he would like a ride in my friend's car, since I have to pay for it anyway.
Jeff is grateful. It seems that his home is not Amman but Damascus, and he's stuck in Amman with nowhere to stay and not much knowledge of the city's layout or its transit arrangements. I take him to Whitman and introduce him to some folks before he opts to strike out on his own and explore downtown a bit.
So in an hour or so (at 11:30 PM), Sami (who cuts my hair and drives me places for a modest fee) and I will be picking him up at a prearranged location and proceeding to the airport together. If not for my long and arduous cab ride, the two of us would probably never have met.
My flight has now been postponed again to 6:15 AM. Will I ever get home?
Sunday, December 9, 2007
The Most Wonderful Disaster I've Ever Enjoyed
There's a week left in the semester. I've already assigned the finals (essays) to two of my classes, and the others will take place on Thursday. After that, there will be one more day of school (during which nothing of any substance will be done in any class of mine), and one staff Christmas party, after which I'll be on a plane for home.
I am trying very hard to fight against coasting through this last week of school, but I admit it's pretty hard. In two classes, there is only cumulative review left to do, and in others there's really only makework. I am so excited to be home, and ski, and take as long of a shower as I want and have it stay hot the whole time, and get in an elevator and push the button and magically arrive at the desired floor, and see all my friends and loved ones.
On which topic, it would be horribly sad if I got home and missed out on seeing somebody in the two weeks I'm there. I'll be in touch with folks over the next couple of weeks to try to arrange whatever meetings I can squeeze in. As I posted previously, I will be home from the 17th to the 31st (can't stay for New Years', unfortunately).
I have a lot to figure out while I'm home. To fill you in, I now enclose an edited version of an email I sent my cousin, because I don't feel like rewriting the thing.
~~~~~~~
... There is, if I haven't filled you in, most distinctly a lady in the picture.
Her name is Brittany Snyder, and you may have noticed her in my most recent facebook photos if you have had a chance to go through those. She's a Christian (nominally AOG, but when challenged, won't stick up for the whole second blessing theology, so that's ok), a coworker of mine at Whitman, and 23 years old. Originally from Memphis, went to school in Texas (unlike some people who shall remain nameless, she's a certified teacher), and is now committed to live in Jordan and teach at Whitman for this academic year and the next one.
She has eyes that I swear change color sometimes; they seem to range between blue and green, both heavily tinged with gray. She's got an awesome smile (actually several different situational ones). Dresses well, brown hair with blonde highlights about halfway down her back, fair skin with a few freckles.
Personally, she's intelligent and motivated to serve God (well, she's here isn't she?), very kind and supportive to everybody, even kids she can't actually stand. She's got a sense of humor, and can handle my tendency for casual mockery, even giving me a run for my money in that category at times. However, she can be serious when she needs to be, and we've had some great conversations on topics ranging from AOG theology to individual students we share to the Iraq war. She is willing to think, and although I notice a certain reluctance to let go of an idea once established, it's not full-fledged dogmatism. She likes herself, though she has what I'd call a typical number of body image issues and is very hard on herself when she screws something up.
So, I like her a lot, and have established that she reciprocates. In fact, the past 3 weeks (approximately the time since we discovered our mutual interest) have been my most content and happy in this country, for which she gets a lot of the credit.
Now, this should be great, right? Wrong. The problem is related to the second major issue in my life: whether to come back and teach for another year next year. Bruce, the principal here at the school, has asked me to do so, (this was before Brittany entered the scene romantically) and I am sorely tempted. While I am lonely and depressed at times, and while living here is anything but easy financially, culturally, or emotionally, I am doing something here that I really believe in.
These kids remind me so much of myself at their age. I never went to the same school twice until 10th grade, although we didn't actually move around that much, and I suffered from a fair number of social problems and some introversion because of that. I rarely got to put down any roots without having them torn up. A kid who goes to Whitman Academy, especially one who came as a teen, has a high likelihood to be in a very similar situation with a twist. They are angry at their parents for bringing them here, angry at God whose plan they're reluctantly following, and often unwilling to form meaningful relationships with anybody; it's just one more person to lose. My friend Annedien, also a teacher here, calls these kids an unreached people group.
I have, in short, discovered something I have lacked for most of my life: a job that I am willing to spend myself or burn myself out doing (though of course I hope it won't be necessary) because I believe it to be more important than I am myself. This is absolutely priceless, and makes up, most of the time, for whatever inconveniences and even outright suffering I am going through in this country. That, however unpleasant, doesn't seem to matter compared to the emptiness I see in the eyes of a kid who's about to leave because her parents got deported, or the pitiful and self-destructive efforts to fit in by doing vandalism or pranks or using foul language or disrespecting me. If you can see through it, you see a huge, raw, open wound. It kind of eats me up inside, and I can help. I am helping. I want to continue doing so, both because of the growth experience it is for me and to serve some kids that Jesus loves, reminding them of that fact if they forget.
I'm sure you see my problem. Now that Brittany is in the picture, I have to question all my motivations for wanting to come back. A lady can be a reason to come back, but she needs to not be the reason. That's an insult to my whole spiritual life and whatever work I might manage to do here.
I also have to consider the fact that I'm horribly alone in a lot of ways, and the possibility (distasteful but real) that I just seized whoever came along first as a drowning man will clutch at a straw. This same possibility exists for her, of course, in fact perhaps more so, because I am the only male in her age bracket that she actually gets a chance to interact with regularly. Then, of course, there's the fact that we're coworkers, so if the thing goes sour on me, I'll have nowhere to hide and no way to avoid painful daily contact with her. Then there's the fact that we're in a country where it is impossible to carry on a relationship in a way that I'm used to without totally crippling my reputation and, by extension, harming the reputations of Western Christians in general. I'd have to come up with a whole new paradigm, and I'd have to do it in a situation that, however fulfilling, is already putting the greatest strain of my life on my mental, emotional, and spiritual resources (to say nothing of my financial ones).
So, why do I want to come back? I wish I knew, and that question is the topic of considerable daily soul-searching on my part. I will not make this decision until I'm home for Christmas. I am daily surrounded with all the reasons I want to come back (the kids, the coworkers, the lady, the language and cultural experience, the conviction of doing something right and necessary) and I want to be able to come home, to feel again the pull of all the reasons not to continue (the comfort, the better spiritual support network, the familiarity, the ministry opportunities I left behind to come here, the friends, maybe even an unknown potential girlfriend who would be a lot easier to be with than anybody in this country from any background), before I decide. My decision-making hardware is pretty much a wreck, at the moment. I need a break. I need to detach.
So that's the situation. Most of my thoughts are here, it is now time for you to add yours. Any insights you have to offer would be welcome, and please please pray for me. I especially don't want to endanger our ministry at Whitman, because it's crucial.
~~~~~~~
So there it is. I am suffering much confusion and need some wisdom given to me generously without reproach. Please continue lifting me up in this reagrd, and please also pray that I will, while I'm home, be able to improve my financial situation, which has the potential to become extremely difficult during the next semester because my roommates are both moving out. Another major prayer concern is that I'll find new roommates, or at least one, to ease the financial strain and so I won't have to come home to an empty place all the time. I'm already feeling isolated enough.
On the positive side, work is going quite well. I heard of a situation recently where a parent of one of my students told the student that I was giving out too much work in one of my English classes. The student actually stood up for me, said that it was good that I held them to high standards, she didn't think it was too much to do, etc. The student is nothing like your stereotypical overachiever, and I was frankly dumbfounded when I heard the story. I seem liked by students and coworkers alike, and my stress issues have receded almost entirely as I find myself settling into a routine. I am getting it done. As they say in Arabic, alhamdulillah (literally, the glory belongs to God. My translation includes a strong overtone of surprise or disbelief). I like where I live, and my informal study of Arabic is going as well as I could expect. If I have the money, maybe I'll hire a tutor over the next semester. I'm also planning to join one of the small groups from Church, which will hopefully help me to find a little more human contact.
God Bless you all. I miss you, and I hope I can see everyone who's now reading this in the next 3 weeks or so.
I am trying very hard to fight against coasting through this last week of school, but I admit it's pretty hard. In two classes, there is only cumulative review left to do, and in others there's really only makework. I am so excited to be home, and ski, and take as long of a shower as I want and have it stay hot the whole time, and get in an elevator and push the button and magically arrive at the desired floor, and see all my friends and loved ones.
On which topic, it would be horribly sad if I got home and missed out on seeing somebody in the two weeks I'm there. I'll be in touch with folks over the next couple of weeks to try to arrange whatever meetings I can squeeze in. As I posted previously, I will be home from the 17th to the 31st (can't stay for New Years', unfortunately).
I have a lot to figure out while I'm home. To fill you in, I now enclose an edited version of an email I sent my cousin, because I don't feel like rewriting the thing.
~~~~~~~
... There is, if I haven't filled you in, most distinctly a lady in the picture.
Her name is Brittany Snyder, and you may have noticed her in my most recent facebook photos if you have had a chance to go through those. She's a Christian (nominally AOG, but when challenged, won't stick up for the whole second blessing theology, so that's ok), a coworker of mine at Whitman, and 23 years old. Originally from Memphis, went to school in Texas (unlike some people who shall remain nameless, she's a certified teacher), and is now committed to live in Jordan and teach at Whitman for this academic year and the next one.
She has eyes that I swear change color sometimes; they seem to range between blue and green, both heavily tinged with gray. She's got an awesome smile (actually several different situational ones). Dresses well, brown hair with blonde highlights about halfway down her back, fair skin with a few freckles.
Personally, she's intelligent and motivated to serve God (well, she's here isn't she?), very kind and supportive to everybody, even kids she can't actually stand. She's got a sense of humor, and can handle my tendency for casual mockery, even giving me a run for my money in that category at times. However, she can be serious when she needs to be, and we've had some great conversations on topics ranging from AOG theology to individual students we share to the Iraq war. She is willing to think, and although I notice a certain reluctance to let go of an idea once established, it's not full-fledged dogmatism. She likes herself, though she has what I'd call a typical number of body image issues and is very hard on herself when she screws something up.
So, I like her a lot, and have established that she reciprocates. In fact, the past 3 weeks (approximately the time since we discovered our mutual interest) have been my most content and happy in this country, for which she gets a lot of the credit.
Now, this should be great, right? Wrong. The problem is related to the second major issue in my life: whether to come back and teach for another year next year. Bruce, the principal here at the school, has asked me to do so, (this was before Brittany entered the scene romantically) and I am sorely tempted. While I am lonely and depressed at times, and while living here is anything but easy financially, culturally, or emotionally, I am doing something here that I really believe in.
These kids remind me so much of myself at their age. I never went to the same school twice until 10th grade, although we didn't actually move around that much, and I suffered from a fair number of social problems and some introversion because of that. I rarely got to put down any roots without having them torn up. A kid who goes to Whitman Academy, especially one who came as a teen, has a high likelihood to be in a very similar situation with a twist. They are angry at their parents for bringing them here, angry at God whose plan they're reluctantly following, and often unwilling to form meaningful relationships with anybody; it's just one more person to lose. My friend Annedien, also a teacher here, calls these kids an unreached people group.
I have, in short, discovered something I have lacked for most of my life: a job that I am willing to spend myself or burn myself out doing (though of course I hope it won't be necessary) because I believe it to be more important than I am myself. This is absolutely priceless, and makes up, most of the time, for whatever inconveniences and even outright suffering I am going through in this country. That, however unpleasant, doesn't seem to matter compared to the emptiness I see in the eyes of a kid who's about to leave because her parents got deported, or the pitiful and self-destructive efforts to fit in by doing vandalism or pranks or using foul language or disrespecting me. If you can see through it, you see a huge, raw, open wound. It kind of eats me up inside, and I can help. I am helping. I want to continue doing so, both because of the growth experience it is for me and to serve some kids that Jesus loves, reminding them of that fact if they forget.
I'm sure you see my problem. Now that Brittany is in the picture, I have to question all my motivations for wanting to come back. A lady can be a reason to come back, but she needs to not be the reason. That's an insult to my whole spiritual life and whatever work I might manage to do here.
I also have to consider the fact that I'm horribly alone in a lot of ways, and the possibility (distasteful but real) that I just seized whoever came along first as a drowning man will clutch at a straw. This same possibility exists for her, of course, in fact perhaps more so, because I am the only male in her age bracket that she actually gets a chance to interact with regularly. Then, of course, there's the fact that we're coworkers, so if the thing goes sour on me, I'll have nowhere to hide and no way to avoid painful daily contact with her. Then there's the fact that we're in a country where it is impossible to carry on a relationship in a way that I'm used to without totally crippling my reputation and, by extension, harming the reputations of Western Christians in general. I'd have to come up with a whole new paradigm, and I'd have to do it in a situation that, however fulfilling, is already putting the greatest strain of my life on my mental, emotional, and spiritual resources (to say nothing of my financial ones).
So, why do I want to come back? I wish I knew, and that question is the topic of considerable daily soul-searching on my part. I will not make this decision until I'm home for Christmas. I am daily surrounded with all the reasons I want to come back (the kids, the coworkers, the lady, the language and cultural experience, the conviction of doing something right and necessary) and I want to be able to come home, to feel again the pull of all the reasons not to continue (the comfort, the better spiritual support network, the familiarity, the ministry opportunities I left behind to come here, the friends, maybe even an unknown potential girlfriend who would be a lot easier to be with than anybody in this country from any background), before I decide. My decision-making hardware is pretty much a wreck, at the moment. I need a break. I need to detach.
So that's the situation. Most of my thoughts are here, it is now time for you to add yours. Any insights you have to offer would be welcome, and please please pray for me. I especially don't want to endanger our ministry at Whitman, because it's crucial.
~~~~~~~
So there it is. I am suffering much confusion and need some wisdom given to me generously without reproach. Please continue lifting me up in this reagrd, and please also pray that I will, while I'm home, be able to improve my financial situation, which has the potential to become extremely difficult during the next semester because my roommates are both moving out. Another major prayer concern is that I'll find new roommates, or at least one, to ease the financial strain and so I won't have to come home to an empty place all the time. I'm already feeling isolated enough.
On the positive side, work is going quite well. I heard of a situation recently where a parent of one of my students told the student that I was giving out too much work in one of my English classes. The student actually stood up for me, said that it was good that I held them to high standards, she didn't think it was too much to do, etc. The student is nothing like your stereotypical overachiever, and I was frankly dumbfounded when I heard the story. I seem liked by students and coworkers alike, and my stress issues have receded almost entirely as I find myself settling into a routine. I am getting it done. As they say in Arabic, alhamdulillah (literally, the glory belongs to God. My translation includes a strong overtone of surprise or disbelief). I like where I live, and my informal study of Arabic is going as well as I could expect. If I have the money, maybe I'll hire a tutor over the next semester. I'm also planning to join one of the small groups from Church, which will hopefully help me to find a little more human contact.
God Bless you all. I miss you, and I hope I can see everyone who's now reading this in the next 3 weeks or so.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Recovery
I have a bad habit of writing these depressing blogs when I'm feeling down and leaving them even once things get better. Therefore, it frequently happens that the first thing you see when you log into my blog page is a great indication of how I felt at one point, but rarely an indication of how I am feeling when you actually read it. There are two solutions to this problem. One would be for me to blog more often. I can't say much more about that than "I'm working on it." The second is, if you want to know how I'm feeling, drop me a line. I'm much better (although still not what you'd call "great") about responding to emails than I am about blogging.
The period of numbness I described in my previous post turned out to be fairly transitory, lasting from about ten days before that post to a couple of days afterward. I'm still not sure what caused it, but I can tell you what fixed it.
On Friday the 16th, the Amman International Church, which I am attending more often than not, had its annual Thanksgiving potluck dinner. It's a week early, as far as I can figure out, to allow those people whose families are present to celebrate the holiday privately on the correct day. Even aside from the mountains of good thanksgiving food, it was generally a nice time. There is a great deal of overlap between Whitman Academy and AIC, and so a bunch of my students and coworkers were there and I wasn't forced to pretend a false cordiality with a bunch of people I don't really know. In fact, I spent a lovely time sitting at a table with a bunch of people approximately my own age. All of them happened to be female, which elicited the predicted winks, whistles, and cross-room mouthings of "player!" from my 8th-graders, but all of us took it in stride and even managed to slide in some actual conversation between the far more important business of overeating. Afterward, in keeping with tradition, a bunch of us went outside and waddled bloatedly around chasing an American football in unpredictable directions in the dark (it's getting dark pretty early here).
The week was more or less normal. The only hiccup was that my room was TPed. Now, apparently this is traditional at Whitman, happening to a different teacher every year. It was so traditional, in fact, that another teacher actually witnessed the event and allowed it to continue. I didn't know this, and I didn't take it how it was intended, as a harmless prank. In fact, my reaction was to take it as a personal attack. I was wounded, asking myself what I'd done to merit this kind of treatment. The teacher I mentioned, noticing my reaction, actually cried about it afterward, and the students involved felt terrible. Later in the day, one of them bought me flowers, and they all apologized to me, after which I felt better and things continued.
On Thursday, I had my second thanksgiving dinner in 7 days. This one took place at Michelle Griffin's house (another teacher) and was attended by 2 families and a few other singles (all of them older). We played card games, watched a little TV, and just generally relaxed. I stuffed four plates of food in my face, presided over one guest's first piece of thanksgiving turkey EVER (he's Dutch), and felt great.
The following morning (Friday if you're losing track), I got up ridiculously early to get on a bus and go to Petra. I was accompanied by Sara Kim and Brittany Snyder, teachers with me, and a friend of Sara's named Carrie. We rode the bus for two and a half hours, after which it disgorged our bleary-eyed selves on the outskirts of Petra itself. I've been there before, but let me reiterate: this is absolutely one of the most beautiful, awe-inspiring places on earth. Everyone should try to get here at least once in their lifetime. I stayed in a cheap (but clean) hotel, walked up approximately 2,000 stairs (if I'm exaggerating it's not by much) and back down, rode a horse, lost my glasses and found them again, spent a pile of money I didn't really have, ate some pretty good pizza and a really bad cheeseburger, and most importantly, relaxed. I had no responsibilities and I wasn't surrounded by people who judge my entire culture by my behavior. The companionship was good, the weather was close to perfect, and at this moment I'm as content as I've been since I've been in this country despite the dizzying number of blisters on my feet.
I'm glad I'm here. It's always been true, but right now it's very easy to say it and mean it. I'm doing something I believe in, and in the gaps in it there are a lot of idyllic little interludes as just described. I am beginning to consider seriously whether I should come back next year.
That said, I'm also glad to be going home. I'll be arriving at Minneapolis airport on Dec 17th at 8:06 PM and leaving at 6:32 on December 1st. Drop me a line if you're interested in spending some time during this period. I hope I can get everybody in, because I miss you all. A lot. Even in my happiest moments.
The period of numbness I described in my previous post turned out to be fairly transitory, lasting from about ten days before that post to a couple of days afterward. I'm still not sure what caused it, but I can tell you what fixed it.
On Friday the 16th, the Amman International Church, which I am attending more often than not, had its annual Thanksgiving potluck dinner. It's a week early, as far as I can figure out, to allow those people whose families are present to celebrate the holiday privately on the correct day. Even aside from the mountains of good thanksgiving food, it was generally a nice time. There is a great deal of overlap between Whitman Academy and AIC, and so a bunch of my students and coworkers were there and I wasn't forced to pretend a false cordiality with a bunch of people I don't really know. In fact, I spent a lovely time sitting at a table with a bunch of people approximately my own age. All of them happened to be female, which elicited the predicted winks, whistles, and cross-room mouthings of "player!" from my 8th-graders, but all of us took it in stride and even managed to slide in some actual conversation between the far more important business of overeating. Afterward, in keeping with tradition, a bunch of us went outside and waddled bloatedly around chasing an American football in unpredictable directions in the dark (it's getting dark pretty early here).
The week was more or less normal. The only hiccup was that my room was TPed. Now, apparently this is traditional at Whitman, happening to a different teacher every year. It was so traditional, in fact, that another teacher actually witnessed the event and allowed it to continue. I didn't know this, and I didn't take it how it was intended, as a harmless prank. In fact, my reaction was to take it as a personal attack. I was wounded, asking myself what I'd done to merit this kind of treatment. The teacher I mentioned, noticing my reaction, actually cried about it afterward, and the students involved felt terrible. Later in the day, one of them bought me flowers, and they all apologized to me, after which I felt better and things continued.
On Thursday, I had my second thanksgiving dinner in 7 days. This one took place at Michelle Griffin's house (another teacher) and was attended by 2 families and a few other singles (all of them older). We played card games, watched a little TV, and just generally relaxed. I stuffed four plates of food in my face, presided over one guest's first piece of thanksgiving turkey EVER (he's Dutch), and felt great.
The following morning (Friday if you're losing track), I got up ridiculously early to get on a bus and go to Petra. I was accompanied by Sara Kim and Brittany Snyder, teachers with me, and a friend of Sara's named Carrie. We rode the bus for two and a half hours, after which it disgorged our bleary-eyed selves on the outskirts of Petra itself. I've been there before, but let me reiterate: this is absolutely one of the most beautiful, awe-inspiring places on earth. Everyone should try to get here at least once in their lifetime. I stayed in a cheap (but clean) hotel, walked up approximately 2,000 stairs (if I'm exaggerating it's not by much) and back down, rode a horse, lost my glasses and found them again, spent a pile of money I didn't really have, ate some pretty good pizza and a really bad cheeseburger, and most importantly, relaxed. I had no responsibilities and I wasn't surrounded by people who judge my entire culture by my behavior. The companionship was good, the weather was close to perfect, and at this moment I'm as content as I've been since I've been in this country despite the dizzying number of blisters on my feet.
I'm glad I'm here. It's always been true, but right now it's very easy to say it and mean it. I'm doing something I believe in, and in the gaps in it there are a lot of idyllic little interludes as just described. I am beginning to consider seriously whether I should come back next year.
That said, I'm also glad to be going home. I'll be arriving at Minneapolis airport on Dec 17th at 8:06 PM and leaving at 6:32 on December 1st. Drop me a line if you're interested in spending some time during this period. I hope I can get everybody in, because I miss you all. A lot. Even in my happiest moments.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Gush
I have reached an interesting state, one which I had sort of forgotten even existed. This is the state in which most events in my life fit in a category called "normal," which means that I generally expect them to happen and know how to deal with them when they do. Occasionally something "unusual" or "strange" or "abnormal" comes along, which requires me to be creative and think about how to deal with it. Sometimes I even succeed. This, I believe, is where most people live their lives. It is good, in a way, to rejoin them. I have a routine, a rhythm, even occasionally a plan. For the last 3-4 months, this has not been the case. I may finally be recovering from a kind of punch-drunkenness caused by having to adapt to so many elements in my life (and the removal of so many familiar ones).
At the same time, for reasons I don't entirely understand, I am withdrawing into myself. I have a perfectly good personality which I exhibit to the world, altering it as necessary in the direction of solemnity or levity, frustration or happiness, conversation or silence, or any of the other moods and demeanors life and work require. However, I increasingly find that this external self does not mirror what I actually feel. Most of the time, I don't feel much.
There was a time, not long ago (I mentioned it to some of you), when I was given to overreaction to whatever happened to me. I especially noticed it in the area of anger. Relatively trivial things would cause outbursts of rage, or rather "inbursts" because nobody ever saw them but me. If you know me well enough, this is not surprising on one level; this is how I get angry. I seethe internally (and usually briefly) rather than displaying my anger. Until recently, the aberration was how often I would get angry, and how angry I would get. Both were way beyond what I'd consider healthy levels, and way beyond the norm for me.
Now, however, the pendulum has swung the other way. I feel like a limb that has fallen asleep from being slept on wrong. Such a limb feels pressure, or even sharp and ordinarily painful blows, as a vague and distant sensation lost in a sort of general deadness. Simultaneously, the limb can't function properly. It loses its ability to sense its own movements. When you try to pick up something and your hand has fallen asleep, you either grip it too tightly or not tightly enough, because you can't really tell how tight your grip is. The equipment that normally gives you that information is malfunctioning.
The analogy is nearly exact. It takes a lot to get through to me these days. I am a person who loves to laugh, and it's taken the people I work with and for very little time to figure that out. Repeatedly over the past week or so, attentive and well-meaning students have been asking me questions like what's wrong, or why I'm so sad or angry. I'm not, particularly, but what's prompting them to ask is that I'm not laughing as much. Things I'd normally enjoy and laugh at are instead being greeted with a blank look or even a disdainful sneer. If a merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance, then what I've just described is certainly the outward expression of this bizarre emotional limpness and attenuation. I still crack wise at the slightest provocation or none at all, I still greet people sunnily as they walk by, I still converse on various topics of people, but it's all at some kind of remove, as if the words are being spoken by somebody else whom I'm trying my best to understand, but it's not working.
I also can't tell how well I'm doing. I teach, and give quizzes, and the students seem to be learning what I'm teaching them. I don't have any serious behavior issues as far as I can tell, and a couple parents told me at the recent parent-teacher conferences that their kid told them one of my classes was their favorite. So as far as I can objectively tell, I'm doing ok, yet I don't have the satisfaction that used to come with doing something well. Maybe it's getting lost in the fog.
There are definitely things that still cause strong reactions one way or the other. Last week, a family from the school was blacklisted by the authorities (the reasons aren't entirely clear), and if nothing has changed in the next 5 days, they will be forced to leave the country. While I wouldn't presume to make any judgments about who has the right to be in this country and who does not, the mere fact that they are being forced to leave, that four young people are having their roots torn up so suddenly and traumatically, that a family's entire livelihood now has to be reestablished in a strange land somewhere, has punctured this weird bubble I'm in to fill me with impotent rage and grief. The oldest girl, one of my students, is a joyful, even bubbly young lady, who for the past few days (since she got the news) has been valiantly trying to keep a smile on her face, but it doesn't reach her eyes. She'll forget, sometimes, for a while, and at those times she fills the space around her with a glorious aura of youth and joy and innocent gladness just to be alive, and then there's a gap in the conversation and she remembers, and the room sort of gets a little colder and darker. To look into her eyes at that moment would melt a heart much harder than mine, if such a thing exists in my current state.
I am richly blessed. I have more than enough money, a great living situation, an important and often rewarding job, good food, good spiritual support, and regular contact with those of you who care about me back home. I have absolutely no reason to be in this state. I can't understand it, but I want it to end. Joy is conspicuously missing from my life right now, and it's affecting my work, my personal relationships, my rest, my psychological health, and my relationship with the source and object of all Joy. This must cease. Humanly speaking, I'm on a burnout pace right now. If burnout is what God has in store for me, then burnout it will be; it's a risk I took, coming here. But I'd like to avoid it, because if I flame out and crash now, I won't just be hurting my insignificant self, I'll be letting down a bunch of sweet kids, a dozen kind and dedicated coworkers, and a lot of self-sacrificing parents. Less importantly (but it's still on my mind) I'll be establishing a pattern of failure that might be hard to shake as life goes on.
This might be one of those things that I reread tomorrow and feel the need to revise. We'll see. I hope so.
At the same time, for reasons I don't entirely understand, I am withdrawing into myself. I have a perfectly good personality which I exhibit to the world, altering it as necessary in the direction of solemnity or levity, frustration or happiness, conversation or silence, or any of the other moods and demeanors life and work require. However, I increasingly find that this external self does not mirror what I actually feel. Most of the time, I don't feel much.
There was a time, not long ago (I mentioned it to some of you), when I was given to overreaction to whatever happened to me. I especially noticed it in the area of anger. Relatively trivial things would cause outbursts of rage, or rather "inbursts" because nobody ever saw them but me. If you know me well enough, this is not surprising on one level; this is how I get angry. I seethe internally (and usually briefly) rather than displaying my anger. Until recently, the aberration was how often I would get angry, and how angry I would get. Both were way beyond what I'd consider healthy levels, and way beyond the norm for me.
Now, however, the pendulum has swung the other way. I feel like a limb that has fallen asleep from being slept on wrong. Such a limb feels pressure, or even sharp and ordinarily painful blows, as a vague and distant sensation lost in a sort of general deadness. Simultaneously, the limb can't function properly. It loses its ability to sense its own movements. When you try to pick up something and your hand has fallen asleep, you either grip it too tightly or not tightly enough, because you can't really tell how tight your grip is. The equipment that normally gives you that information is malfunctioning.
The analogy is nearly exact. It takes a lot to get through to me these days. I am a person who loves to laugh, and it's taken the people I work with and for very little time to figure that out. Repeatedly over the past week or so, attentive and well-meaning students have been asking me questions like what's wrong, or why I'm so sad or angry. I'm not, particularly, but what's prompting them to ask is that I'm not laughing as much. Things I'd normally enjoy and laugh at are instead being greeted with a blank look or even a disdainful sneer. If a merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance, then what I've just described is certainly the outward expression of this bizarre emotional limpness and attenuation. I still crack wise at the slightest provocation or none at all, I still greet people sunnily as they walk by, I still converse on various topics of people, but it's all at some kind of remove, as if the words are being spoken by somebody else whom I'm trying my best to understand, but it's not working.
I also can't tell how well I'm doing. I teach, and give quizzes, and the students seem to be learning what I'm teaching them. I don't have any serious behavior issues as far as I can tell, and a couple parents told me at the recent parent-teacher conferences that their kid told them one of my classes was their favorite. So as far as I can objectively tell, I'm doing ok, yet I don't have the satisfaction that used to come with doing something well. Maybe it's getting lost in the fog.
There are definitely things that still cause strong reactions one way or the other. Last week, a family from the school was blacklisted by the authorities (the reasons aren't entirely clear), and if nothing has changed in the next 5 days, they will be forced to leave the country. While I wouldn't presume to make any judgments about who has the right to be in this country and who does not, the mere fact that they are being forced to leave, that four young people are having their roots torn up so suddenly and traumatically, that a family's entire livelihood now has to be reestablished in a strange land somewhere, has punctured this weird bubble I'm in to fill me with impotent rage and grief. The oldest girl, one of my students, is a joyful, even bubbly young lady, who for the past few days (since she got the news) has been valiantly trying to keep a smile on her face, but it doesn't reach her eyes. She'll forget, sometimes, for a while, and at those times she fills the space around her with a glorious aura of youth and joy and innocent gladness just to be alive, and then there's a gap in the conversation and she remembers, and the room sort of gets a little colder and darker. To look into her eyes at that moment would melt a heart much harder than mine, if such a thing exists in my current state.
I am richly blessed. I have more than enough money, a great living situation, an important and often rewarding job, good food, good spiritual support, and regular contact with those of you who care about me back home. I have absolutely no reason to be in this state. I can't understand it, but I want it to end. Joy is conspicuously missing from my life right now, and it's affecting my work, my personal relationships, my rest, my psychological health, and my relationship with the source and object of all Joy. This must cease. Humanly speaking, I'm on a burnout pace right now. If burnout is what God has in store for me, then burnout it will be; it's a risk I took, coming here. But I'd like to avoid it, because if I flame out and crash now, I won't just be hurting my insignificant self, I'll be letting down a bunch of sweet kids, a dozen kind and dedicated coworkers, and a lot of self-sacrificing parents. Less importantly (but it's still on my mind) I'll be establishing a pattern of failure that might be hard to shake as life goes on.
This might be one of those things that I reread tomorrow and feel the need to revise. We'll see. I hope so.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Skype
My new webcam is all set up and works great, and my new skype name is silasbrinkmann (imaginative huh?). Whoever has skype should add me. I'll be on it pretty often.
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