Today, I met Joseph. I'm sorry to say that I know very little about him, except for his name and that "everything sucks" right now. Yet, those two bits of information did something big - they forced me to consider another person's humanity and to pray for him. That wouldn't have happened if I'd been in a car.
Joseph was standing next to a freeway off ramp with a wet cardboard sign that read, "Build Christmas Karma. Help Me." If I had been driving by, I would have given him an apologetic smile and left it at that. I probably would have felt badly about not helping him, but would have been able to rationalize my decision. Today was a little different. I was walking home. I was sharing the same rain as Joseph, the same splashes from cars, the same traffic noise. Barriers were missing and we shared a physical spot in the world, even if our situations differed.
At first, I crossed the street behind him and looked back at his face after I was on the other side. My mind played the tape it keeps on hand for rationalizing in situations such as this: "He might be pretending to be down and out to get easy money.... I shouldn't reinforce begging....There are better ways to get on your feet....I can't help every single homeless person I meet...."
More quickly than usual, the tape stopped and truth took over: "God doesn't differentiate His giving - He gives to whoever asks or is in need. This guy qualifies. I just got some money at an ATM and for whatever reason, I actually got $20 more than I needed. God is more than able to take care of me if giving to this guy makes me broke or he's taking advantage or something."
I crossed the street again and stepped through some stopped cars to get to him. We had a short conversation, I gave him the money, and asked how I could pray for him. Honestly, the best part was looking him in the eyes. Recognizing another creation of God and his immense value as such.
I'm left wondering what other ways we can remove barriers in life? How can we get in places of sharing spots in life with people in need - be it an emotional spot or physical? I'm grateful to those who set a precedent for me in ministering to the world. I feel like we need to testify and remind each other that it's worth reaching out and it's worth obeying God's little nudges. Because those people holding their signs next to the road have names. Because God is trustworthy and good.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Winter Instincts, Pack Your Bags
Yesterday, Iowa City saw its first lacy dusting of snow. More like icy dandruff than an accumulation, it still served to awaken my winter instincts. My body may live in Iowa, but everything I know about winter still lives in Seattle. This was evident at recess when I stood on duty next to the Kindergarten teacher. The tiny flakes whipped around our faces and I danced in place. “So, what does it take to cancel school?” I asked, thinking that what was currently falling would suffice to send kids home in Washington. “It has to really dump and make it hard for the plows to get things clear in time for school to start. It’s not so bad here. I keep snow pants at work and twenty minutes before recess, I put boot warmers inside my boots. It’s great,” she replied, “The kids bring sleds.”
After work, I drove down the street to get my hair cut. I have head knowledge of how to drive in the snow, but little firsthand experience. My inner Seattle girl knows the best way to drive in the snow is not to drive at all. After you’ve braved the roads to stock up on groceries, head home and stay there until things melt. Turn on the TV and keep tabs on “Winter Onslaught 2010”, or whatever the local news station has named the current weather system. On the way to the salon, I coached myself, “Easy on the brakes. Leave lots of room. Nothing sudden. The railroad tracks could be slippery. You can do this.” The people around me drove as if it were any other non-snow day. That makes sense, because, as I mentioned before, there were no real accumulations to be had.
The only accumulation I really had to deal with was the buildup in my memory of winters where every flake was cause for alarm. This winter will no doubt involve many stretching experiences and quite possibly the purchase of some good snow pants, but I welcome these. It’s time for my instincts to move to Iowa too.
After work, I drove down the street to get my hair cut. I have head knowledge of how to drive in the snow, but little firsthand experience. My inner Seattle girl knows the best way to drive in the snow is not to drive at all. After you’ve braved the roads to stock up on groceries, head home and stay there until things melt. Turn on the TV and keep tabs on “Winter Onslaught 2010”, or whatever the local news station has named the current weather system. On the way to the salon, I coached myself, “Easy on the brakes. Leave lots of room. Nothing sudden. The railroad tracks could be slippery. You can do this.” The people around me drove as if it were any other non-snow day. That makes sense, because, as I mentioned before, there were no real accumulations to be had.
The only accumulation I really had to deal with was the buildup in my memory of winters where every flake was cause for alarm. This winter will no doubt involve many stretching experiences and quite possibly the purchase of some good snow pants, but I welcome these. It’s time for my instincts to move to Iowa too.
Graham Central Station
One of the bigger perks of living in the Midwest is having access to an ice cream store called Whitey’s. They offer smoothies, milkshakes, and sundaes, but I think those are offered because they needed to fill up space on the menu board. I can’t see any compelling reason to order anything other than a simple scoop of delicious ice cream. The folks at Whitey’s are happy to give samples of any flavor. I always know exactly what I want, but I taste another option first for the simple pleasure of variety.
Variety in ice cream is a fairly new concept for me. I remember going to Baskin-Robbins with my brothers as children. We’d carefully examine each of the 32 flavors, even pausing to voice our observations. “Bubble gum ice cream? I wonder how they got it to be so pink!” “Wow, that’s a lot of chocolate in that one. Look at the brownie pieces!” After thoughtful consideration, the three of us would come to the same conclusion: French vanilla (because it’s clearly more sophisticated than plain vanilla).
I don’t think Whitey’s offers French vanilla and I wouldn’t choose it if they did. My new fixation is a masterpiece called Graham Central Station. The fact that someone created an ice cream that tastes like graham crackers blesses me to no end, but it doesn’t stop there. They added a personal touch (shout out, if you will) for those of us who eat with texture in mind: sweet, slightly crunchy chunks of graham cracker mixed throughout. Jeremie and I fondly refer to these scoop sections as “bits” and he says the word with a slight lisp that makes me laugh. If I offer him a bite, I make sure it’s got some “bit action” in it.
Someday, when I move away from the Midwest, I will miss my Whitey’s treat. I am glad you can’t get it everywhere; exclusivity enhances its preciousness. I mean, having Whitey’s available all over the country would be like having a scoop of Graham Central with every bite containing a “bit”. Hmmm….that sounds pretty nice, actually.
Variety in ice cream is a fairly new concept for me. I remember going to Baskin-Robbins with my brothers as children. We’d carefully examine each of the 32 flavors, even pausing to voice our observations. “Bubble gum ice cream? I wonder how they got it to be so pink!” “Wow, that’s a lot of chocolate in that one. Look at the brownie pieces!” After thoughtful consideration, the three of us would come to the same conclusion: French vanilla (because it’s clearly more sophisticated than plain vanilla).
I don’t think Whitey’s offers French vanilla and I wouldn’t choose it if they did. My new fixation is a masterpiece called Graham Central Station. The fact that someone created an ice cream that tastes like graham crackers blesses me to no end, but it doesn’t stop there. They added a personal touch (shout out, if you will) for those of us who eat with texture in mind: sweet, slightly crunchy chunks of graham cracker mixed throughout. Jeremie and I fondly refer to these scoop sections as “bits” and he says the word with a slight lisp that makes me laugh. If I offer him a bite, I make sure it’s got some “bit action” in it.
Someday, when I move away from the Midwest, I will miss my Whitey’s treat. I am glad you can’t get it everywhere; exclusivity enhances its preciousness. I mean, having Whitey’s available all over the country would be like having a scoop of Graham Central with every bite containing a “bit”. Hmmm….that sounds pretty nice, actually.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Preschool
Tie Maggie’s shoelaces
Three times today
Double-knotted, please
There’s a mess on the floor
Dominic helps with his child-sized broom
Twice as slowly as I could do it on my own
Sit on the floor of the Reading Corner
Four year olds draped over me like a shawl
Still captivated by each word, the fifth time through
Aubrey’s made some cookies
Jonah’s turning out a pizza
A play dough feast to share with their teacher
Someone’s crying
Again
Comfort, resist the urge to diminish their grievance
Ginger says someone had an accident in the bathroom so she can’t go
Crouch down and wipe it up
Serve this potty-dancing girl
So tempted
To cling to self
Assert my importance
Low pay is not me
Bathroom accidents are someone else’s job
I won’t be bossed around by a preschooler
Clinging to
Grasping for
Rights I never had
“Whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first must be your slave – just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and give His life as a ransom for many.” – Matthew 20:26-28.
Three times today
Double-knotted, please
There’s a mess on the floor
Dominic helps with his child-sized broom
Twice as slowly as I could do it on my own
Sit on the floor of the Reading Corner
Four year olds draped over me like a shawl
Still captivated by each word, the fifth time through
Aubrey’s made some cookies
Jonah’s turning out a pizza
A play dough feast to share with their teacher
Someone’s crying
Again
Comfort, resist the urge to diminish their grievance
Ginger says someone had an accident in the bathroom so she can’t go
Crouch down and wipe it up
Serve this potty-dancing girl
So tempted
To cling to self
Assert my importance
Low pay is not me
Bathroom accidents are someone else’s job
I won’t be bossed around by a preschooler
Clinging to
Grasping for
Rights I never had
“Whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first must be your slave – just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and give His life as a ransom for many.” – Matthew 20:26-28.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
5 Lessons I Learned in Minnesota
This past weekend, Jeremie and I drove ten hours north to go canoeing in Minnesota’s Voyageurs National Park. We rolled into our first campsite at the frigid hour of one o’clock AM, used headlamps to set up camp, and slept quite comfortably. When the sun rose, the Ash River dock served as a great breakfast table – we ate leftover hummus (see Lesson 1) and watched fishermen and people with homes on the lake put their boats in. Conversation was friendly but cautionary. Boaters whose voices belied Minnesota or Wisconsin roots warned us how cold it gets at night and wondered at our choice to camp. With every indication of doubt, my concern grew. We had been fine last night, but maybe these locals know something I don’t know. Jeremie pointed out that from the perspective of a houseboat, camping would appear a little crazy; our willingness to engage with the outdoors was different and we would be fine. We loaded our gear into our rented, red “Old Town” canoe and set out. Paddling out in that gorgeous wilderness, I learned some valuable lessons which I now impart to you.
Lesson 1: The World’s Best Hummus is Hiding in Minneapolis
On the drive up, our hunger for dinner and our arrival in Minneapolis happily coincided. We used Jeremie’s iPhone to find The Holy Land, a well-recommended Middle Eastern restaurant on the fringe of town. In one step, you go from nondescript sidewalk to bright, loud, gathering of nations. Jeremie and I stood in the swirl of language and activity smiling – this was going to be a good place to eat. I had a chicken kebab platter and Jeremie tried the souvlaki. We dipped fried pita chips into thick, creamy hummus drizzled with olive oil. Now, let it be said that Iowa City is home to some very popular hummus. Oasis serves the best. Or, so we thought. With all due respect to Oasis, The Holy Land has the best hummus my mouth has ever had the privilege of experiencing. Not only did we take leftovers to eat for breakfast the next day, but we stopped for another round of souvlaki and hummus on our way home on Monday.
Lesson 2: Canoeing is Communicating
If anyone wants to build better communication skills, I would highly suggest taking up canoeing. There’s no way to get from Point A to Point B in a variable-sensitive vessel without learning something about yourself and your paddling buddy. It required lots of little adjustments between the two of us. For starters, I needed to take the time to understand where Point B was. Translating the islands on the map to the scene before us was tricky at times. It sounded something like this: “Okay. See that little yellow tree on the bank next to the big rock?” “On the roundy island or the flattish one?” “Roundy. We want to head for the left. There should be an inlet there that we can’t see yet.” “Got it.” If I was in the back seat in charge of steering, it was important for me to assert myself in directing and to ask for help when I needed it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was successful.
Lesson 3: Squirrels Will Be Squirrels
Thanks to Dr. Brauner’s lavender-scented biodegradable soap, I had an invigorating bathing experience on the second night. It was much too cold to swim, so while Jeremie explored the island, I stayed at the dock and followed his advice for washing one section at a time and keeping the rest clothed and warm. That night, I left my wet camp towel outside. The next morning, there were curious bits of blue cloth scattered about. Hmmm….they look like my towel. Well, the squirrels had bitten off towel fragments and apparently decided against taking them home, preferring to strew them around. I can’t be mad at them. If I were a squirrel, I know I’d pillage anything in my tree’s vicinity – especially something of the REI quick-dry variety.
Lesson 4: Smoky Was Right
“Only you can prevent forest fires!” – Smoky the Bear. So true, Smoky, so true. One cold, windy morning, Jeremie went about packing up the tent while I took charge of boiling water for oatmeal. Jeremie had taught me how to use his stove and I muttered the steps to myself as I put the pieces together. I carefully poured the fuel and struggled to light it in the strong wind. I was determined to do this on my own. Surely I could do something useful around camp without Jeremie’s help. Finally, I lit it. I stood by, proud and vigilant, and made little place settings with our mugs and sporks. The flame seemed much stronger than I remembered when Jeremie did it yesterday. Maybe it was the wind. Or, upon closer inspection, maybe it was because the plastic coated picnic table was on fire. “Jeremie! Please help me!!!” He raced over, tipped the covering off, and the flames dropped to the ground, consuming dry twigs and pine needles. Now a patch of table and a section of ground were on fire. Jeremie grabbed a water bottle and doused the flames with the water he had arduously pumped and filtered the night before. I had missed a step in my stove process. The fuel was meant to sit in the holder, off the table. We looked at each other and the scorched circle on the table and had to laugh a little. I’ll bet I’ll never need another reminder about how to use that stove!
Lesson 5: There’s Fall and Then There’s FALL
My whole life, I’ve loved fall. It’s a beautiful season. I always knew that the east coast had tour-worthy leaves, but I stubbornly adored my Washington trees for what they brought to the table. Well, friends, I’ve had a taste of FALL. It was like God was showing us what He meant colors to look like when He first created them. Dark green trees and thick, bright green moss. Stark white trunks. Thick clusters and delicate sprays of oranges, yellows, and reds. All reflecting on sparkling blue waterways. One time, Jeremie and I got out of the canoe to explore a bit. I was embodying the word crabby. We forged our own path to the top of a rise over a beaver dammed lake and sat in the sun, watching individual aspen leaves dance to the ground. What a beautiful moment. Crabby or not, I couldn’t imagine feeling more privileged to be in a spot in the world. Thank you, God, for FALL.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
For Janet
Janet Shellito was an Anna. Like her faithful Biblical counterpart, Janet was waiting to see Jesus. His return in her lifetime was an event as matter-of-fact as the mail arriving and venerable as, well, seeing Christ face to face. She couldn’t wait. I imagine there’s little difference in Janet’s earthly and heavenly mindset. Despite being confined to a body that wouldn’t always cooperate, Janet lived in biblical reality. With the same simplicity that she waited for Jesus’ return, Janet expected the world to yield to the truth of His Word. If she encountered an aberration, she prayed and waited for things to return to God’s system. The day she saw a bumper sticker advocating integrated world religions, she told me about it as if she’d witnessed a waterfall flowing upwards. I remember her speaking out loud to her injured back, reminding it that the Lord created it straight.
I grew up knowing Janet at church. The first time I felt compelled to receive the gift of tongues, I was twenty-one and Janet was eighty-four. I scanned those waiting at the altar to pray for people and approached Janet. She had a serene confidence about her that drew me in. We prayed and waited. Nothing happened then. I was discouraged; Janet was certain. She urged me to go home and continue to wait for His power to fall on me. I followed her counsel, but didn’t receive tongues for seven more years. When it happened, Janet was the third person I told, following my mom and roommate. She was thrilled. The next time we met together, she hugged me and dragged me over to the kitchen table so we could sit down and pray.
“Let me hear your new language, Brooke!”
She held my hand and began speaking in tongues.
“Come on, let’s hear it!” she coached.
I was awkward at first and Janet encouraged me to pray in tongues every day “to build my Holy Spirit muscles”.
After returning from my first trip to China – five weeks of teaching the summer after graduating from college – I was hungry for deeper spiritual growth and wanted someone to disciple me. I prayed and felt led to ask Janet. She and I had had little interaction since praying together one year earlier, but she was excited at the prospect of meeting together. Janet seemed to miss the fact that I was coming to her for wisdom and chatted on about how she needed someone from a younger generation to teach her more about the Lord. We met on Saturday mornings for three years. We’d talk about what we’d learned in our personal Bible study that week and pray together. Sometimes we’d break routine and go out to breakfast at the Old Country Buffet in Kirkland. There were always several of her acquaintances eating there, like a high school reunion with waffles and hash browns. Janet would introduce me, “This is my girl.” Each bite took ages to make it to her mouth as we chatted. I’m a quick eater and had to make a secret game of staying even with her pace. It seems obvious now, but at the time I didn’t see that those outings were never about the food.
I went to China again in 2005, that time for one year. Janet and I stayed in contact. When I returned to the US, we met on and off for another three years. Then, I decided to move to China yet another time. I have a vivid memory of our last meeting before I left for Beijing. We stood in her front yard next door to the fire station.
Janet held me at arm’s length and said, “Now, Brooke, if the Lord returns and we’re raptured while you’re in China, how will He know where to find you? Will He know?”
The question puzzled me. I couldn’t tell if she was serious or not. She waited for my reply, with inquisitive eyes never leaving mine. I realized she meant it.
“He’ll know where I am, Janet,” I said, “He’s the one who’s sending me there, right?”
“Well, I want you to meet me at the east gate in Heaven,” she said, “That’s what it says in the Bible.”
I agreed and drove off, watching her wave at me in my rear view mirror.
Jesus didn’t return that year in Beijing, and as far as I know, He is still biding His time. Last night, ninety-three year old Janet stopped waiting and went to Him. I will miss her. Terribly. There are pieces of me that have been forever shaped by her remarkable precedent. Today, may I choose to see the world through God’s reality. May I pray in assured expectation. May I grow older, without retreating from His call on my life to serve Him fully every day. Like Janet.
I will meet you at the east gate, beloved friend. Wait for me there.
I grew up knowing Janet at church. The first time I felt compelled to receive the gift of tongues, I was twenty-one and Janet was eighty-four. I scanned those waiting at the altar to pray for people and approached Janet. She had a serene confidence about her that drew me in. We prayed and waited. Nothing happened then. I was discouraged; Janet was certain. She urged me to go home and continue to wait for His power to fall on me. I followed her counsel, but didn’t receive tongues for seven more years. When it happened, Janet was the third person I told, following my mom and roommate. She was thrilled. The next time we met together, she hugged me and dragged me over to the kitchen table so we could sit down and pray.
“Let me hear your new language, Brooke!”
She held my hand and began speaking in tongues.
“Come on, let’s hear it!” she coached.
I was awkward at first and Janet encouraged me to pray in tongues every day “to build my Holy Spirit muscles”.
After returning from my first trip to China – five weeks of teaching the summer after graduating from college – I was hungry for deeper spiritual growth and wanted someone to disciple me. I prayed and felt led to ask Janet. She and I had had little interaction since praying together one year earlier, but she was excited at the prospect of meeting together. Janet seemed to miss the fact that I was coming to her for wisdom and chatted on about how she needed someone from a younger generation to teach her more about the Lord. We met on Saturday mornings for three years. We’d talk about what we’d learned in our personal Bible study that week and pray together. Sometimes we’d break routine and go out to breakfast at the Old Country Buffet in Kirkland. There were always several of her acquaintances eating there, like a high school reunion with waffles and hash browns. Janet would introduce me, “This is my girl.” Each bite took ages to make it to her mouth as we chatted. I’m a quick eater and had to make a secret game of staying even with her pace. It seems obvious now, but at the time I didn’t see that those outings were never about the food.
I went to China again in 2005, that time for one year. Janet and I stayed in contact. When I returned to the US, we met on and off for another three years. Then, I decided to move to China yet another time. I have a vivid memory of our last meeting before I left for Beijing. We stood in her front yard next door to the fire station.
Janet held me at arm’s length and said, “Now, Brooke, if the Lord returns and we’re raptured while you’re in China, how will He know where to find you? Will He know?”
The question puzzled me. I couldn’t tell if she was serious or not. She waited for my reply, with inquisitive eyes never leaving mine. I realized she meant it.
“He’ll know where I am, Janet,” I said, “He’s the one who’s sending me there, right?”
“Well, I want you to meet me at the east gate in Heaven,” she said, “That’s what it says in the Bible.”
I agreed and drove off, watching her wave at me in my rear view mirror.
Jesus didn’t return that year in Beijing, and as far as I know, He is still biding His time. Last night, ninety-three year old Janet stopped waiting and went to Him. I will miss her. Terribly. There are pieces of me that have been forever shaped by her remarkable precedent. Today, may I choose to see the world through God’s reality. May I pray in assured expectation. May I grow older, without retreating from His call on my life to serve Him fully every day. Like Janet.
I will meet you at the east gate, beloved friend. Wait for me there.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Kalona, IA
“No dream comes true until you wake up and go to work.” – Amish proverb
This summer, I’ve come to empathize with the unemployed. Since returning from China, I set my alarm clock because I feel the need for structure; a structure that normally exists in going to a job. Days are spent catching up with friends, job searching, and doing leisurely things like baking bread. Now that I live in a new city, my local friend base has disappeared, leaving me with a little too much solitude. One thing that has been clear since moving to Iowa is that God is nudging me to write. It was this combination of hungering for writing inspiration, ample free time, and apathy towards the job search that resulted in yesterday afternoon’s adventure.
I put the keys in the ignition, positioned my sunglasses while looking in the rearview mirror, and entered Kalona, IA into my new GPS unit. Kalona is located fifteen miles southwest of Iowa City. Highway 1 quickly exchanges nondescript strip malls for gently rolling cornfields. Growing up near the Pacific Ocean, I used to imagine people in the middle of America who had never seen the ocean. I pitied them, whoever they were. How sad not to know the salty, slightly foul smell of tide flats; the sound of lapping waves and raucous seagulls; the vast spectrum of blues. Now I know that while I was busy feeling sorry for Midwesterners, there must have been a girl in Iowa pitying me. How sad that I didn’t know the way miles of fields can look like an animated artist’s canvas; the way the rustling wind dances through the rows, occasionally bending a stalk back in an impetuous dip. It’s a beautiful thing.
I knew I was getting close to town when I saw my first horse drawn wagon coming towards me on the road. A man with overalls, straw hat, and a squared-off beard loosely fingered the reins as my 60 mph dust invaded his tranquil ride. Kalona was established in the 1840’s when three Amish families settled in the area. Today, it is home to the largest Amish settlement west of the Mississippi River. Modern restaurants and businesses mix with tourist-attracting Amish shops and historical sites. For my first stop, I ate a sandwich for lunch at the Kalona Bakery. The downtown area was torn up with a road construction project, so I followed a detour along narrow side streets. That led me to Kalona’s Historical Village.
I parked in front, turned off the engine, and tried to assess whether or not it was worth visiting. The building’s exterior had no agenda, as far as enticing visitors. Just a simple, wooden sign and friendly curtains in the windows. In the end, my decision was made based on a need to use a restroom and wanting to escape the uncomfortably hot car. Three elderly women wearing matching patchwork vests greeted me from behind a large octagonal information desk. We smiled at each other for a moment and I tried to assess what this place was all about.
“What would you like to do, Sweetie?” a woman with “Anita” on her nametag asked.
“What can I do here?” I inquired back.
Anita explained the different tour options and the rooms I could see, with different prices.
“We close at 4, so you probably don’t have time for the long tour,” she said.
I looked at my watch. It was 2:30. From what I could see, the whole place would take me fifteen minutes tops to take in, and that was allowing for my restroom visit.
“How about the short tour?” I said.
I paid $6 and Anita’s teammate Ellen led me out the back door into the heat again. I thought it was a guided tour, but Ellen pointed to a row of outbuildings and explained that I should go inside each one and push the button. Then I would hear a recorded explanation of the historical site. With the exception of one retired couple, I was alone.
The first building was a post office. I unlatched the hook-and-eye door and stayed in the doorway, rather than going in. Truth be told, I was a little freaked out. The open door and one window provided the only light for the scene. Complete with a mannequin postmaster, everything was enclosed behind a glass wall. I saw the aforementioned button and reached inside far enough to press it firmly. At once, the glassy-eyed postmaster came to life, rotating from side to side, as the recording boomed about the rigors of sorting mail in the olden days. It was the historical equivalent of a haunted house. I slammed the door and jumped off the porch, shaking the spooky feelings off with a shimmy-like dance sequence. The door swung back open and I refused to go back and lock it. Ellen or Anita could see to that at four o’clock.
I looked at my watch. 2:34 and I was ready to go. Good thing I was too late to take the long tour. How was I going to kill enough time to justify spending six dollars and convince the information desk ladies that I was a mature adult who could handle their freaky row of fun houses? I stood in the shade for a few minutes, watched the retired couple smile at the antics of the general store mannequin, and then decided I could handle the barn of antique tractors. The barn was musty and quiet. I walked slowly, feeling like I’d shrunk – the machines towered over me. I got to the midpoint and remembered the postmaster. What if he had friends lurking in the corners, feigning tractor repair work? I made a 180 degree turn and booked it out of there.
Back in the hot sun, 2:40 pm. I took a deep breath and went inside the last building – a Mennonite Museum. Much to my joy and relief, there were other visitors milling about and a real live tour guide inside. I became a quick fan of these Mennonites. I decided to move around the large room in a clockwise direction. The first display showed a list of ministers from the early 1900’s. I gasped in delight when I noticed “Moses W. Yoder, 1933.” I happen to be dating a handsome Moses J. Yoder, 2010. I took a photo with my phone so I could show him evidence of his Mennonite counterpart later that day. The name Yoder was everywhere. I snapped several more pictures, should Jeremie be interested in seeing his last name on various farm items like feed sacks.
Before long, the tour guide came over and greeted me with, “And who are you?”
“Brooke Caldwell from Seattle, Washington. Who are you?”
“Ruth Yoder. Kalona, Iowa.”
I took to Ruth right away. She talked about the differences between Amish and Mennonite traditions and told stories about the items on display. Without her, I would have passed right over the funeral sticks. They were just a bundle of sticks, leaning against a display case. When she pointed them out, I saw that they had name tags affixed to them. Ruth explained that when someone died, a family member would cut a stick to match the person’s height and take the stick to the local coffin maker as a measurement. The coffin maker’s son had kept a collection of sticks and his family donated them to the museum after he died. I wonder if they made a stick for him too.
Ruth and I chatted about the museum, her growing up and living her whole life in Kalona, and what had brought me to Iowa. She told me she’d recently seen mountains in person for the first time when her daughter took her to South Dakota. It gave her appreciation for the words, “lofty mountain grandeur” in the hymn, “How Great Thou Art”. We sang a few bars together and smiled at God’s goodness in creation. Before I left, Ruth encouraged me that God indeed would take care of me – job-wise and otherwise. What a gift it was to meet her.
3:30 pm! Wow. I had just enough time to cruise through the Amish quilt collection in the main building. Anita smiled as I came back in, and gave me a laminated card with quilt information on it. The postmaster may not have had tractor-fixing friends, but he certainly had buddies in the quilt room. With Anita at my side, I kept my eyes up on the walls where the quilts were and refused eye contact with the life-sized plastic family, frozen in meal preparation and childcare poses. The quilts were beautiful and reflected Amish values. For example, red was hardly used because it’s seen as a flashy color and they don’t believe in calling attention to themselves. I left at 3:45 with a Fall Festival flyer in hand and a promise to return for the festivities later in September.
On my way home, I made two stops: first, to drop off a resume at a Christian school and second, to buy a snack at the famous Stringtown Grocery. Stringtown is an Amish-run store that offers fresh produce, snacks, bakery items, and bulk goods. I walked inside and turned down the first aisle. There was a wide cart of items blocking the way and a dress-covered backside and legs with black wool stockings stuck out, kneeling behind the cart. I squished past and the old woman stood up, her white bonnet reaching just below my shoulder. I looked at the large collection of bulk spices, labeled by hand. As I moved toward the back of the store, I was perplexed by how dark it was. What was going on? Think, Brooke. You’re in an Amish store. No electricity. Just sky lights.
After exploring the small store, I bought a small bag of peanuts from a tall young woman behind the counter. She wore a modest light blue cotton dress, apron, and a white bonnet partially covered her blonde bun. Behind her, a wooden sign listed the prices of bulk goods. They were listed in 25 and 50 pound increments. What does one do with 50 pounds of flax seed?
The bell hanging from the door rang lightly as I left and got back in the car. Seatbelt fastened and air-conditioning flowing, I looked behind me before backing out. Wonder of wonders, there was the little old woman who had been stocking shelves a moment ago. She was backing her Oldsmobile out of the parking spot to my left! She could barely see over the steering wheel and the car moving was evidence that somehow her feet could reach the gas pedal. But, driving? What kind of Amish woman did she think she was? I’ve since learned that there are varying degrees of rules within the Amish community. The Old Order does not use electricity, telephones, or other modern conveniences, while far on the other end of the spectrum, “Beachy” (named for a family) Amish drive cars, use electricity, and have modern farm equipment.
I drove back to town on Highway 1, past a “Watch Out for Horse Drawn Vehicles” sign and a cluster of kids in overalls and homemade dresses. The corn provided a gorgeous backdrop for white sheets blowing dry on a farmhouse clothesline. Before long, I was back on Iowa City’s brick streets, passing gas stations, university buildings, and old churches. What a rich day. I don’t have work to get me out of bed, but I am certainly grateful that I get to wake up in Iowa. I hope the postmaster stays out of my dreams.
This summer, I’ve come to empathize with the unemployed. Since returning from China, I set my alarm clock because I feel the need for structure; a structure that normally exists in going to a job. Days are spent catching up with friends, job searching, and doing leisurely things like baking bread. Now that I live in a new city, my local friend base has disappeared, leaving me with a little too much solitude. One thing that has been clear since moving to Iowa is that God is nudging me to write. It was this combination of hungering for writing inspiration, ample free time, and apathy towards the job search that resulted in yesterday afternoon’s adventure.
I put the keys in the ignition, positioned my sunglasses while looking in the rearview mirror, and entered Kalona, IA into my new GPS unit. Kalona is located fifteen miles southwest of Iowa City. Highway 1 quickly exchanges nondescript strip malls for gently rolling cornfields. Growing up near the Pacific Ocean, I used to imagine people in the middle of America who had never seen the ocean. I pitied them, whoever they were. How sad not to know the salty, slightly foul smell of tide flats; the sound of lapping waves and raucous seagulls; the vast spectrum of blues. Now I know that while I was busy feeling sorry for Midwesterners, there must have been a girl in Iowa pitying me. How sad that I didn’t know the way miles of fields can look like an animated artist’s canvas; the way the rustling wind dances through the rows, occasionally bending a stalk back in an impetuous dip. It’s a beautiful thing.
I knew I was getting close to town when I saw my first horse drawn wagon coming towards me on the road. A man with overalls, straw hat, and a squared-off beard loosely fingered the reins as my 60 mph dust invaded his tranquil ride. Kalona was established in the 1840’s when three Amish families settled in the area. Today, it is home to the largest Amish settlement west of the Mississippi River. Modern restaurants and businesses mix with tourist-attracting Amish shops and historical sites. For my first stop, I ate a sandwich for lunch at the Kalona Bakery. The downtown area was torn up with a road construction project, so I followed a detour along narrow side streets. That led me to Kalona’s Historical Village.
I parked in front, turned off the engine, and tried to assess whether or not it was worth visiting. The building’s exterior had no agenda, as far as enticing visitors. Just a simple, wooden sign and friendly curtains in the windows. In the end, my decision was made based on a need to use a restroom and wanting to escape the uncomfortably hot car. Three elderly women wearing matching patchwork vests greeted me from behind a large octagonal information desk. We smiled at each other for a moment and I tried to assess what this place was all about.
“What would you like to do, Sweetie?” a woman with “Anita” on her nametag asked.
“What can I do here?” I inquired back.
Anita explained the different tour options and the rooms I could see, with different prices.
“We close at 4, so you probably don’t have time for the long tour,” she said.
I looked at my watch. It was 2:30. From what I could see, the whole place would take me fifteen minutes tops to take in, and that was allowing for my restroom visit.
“How about the short tour?” I said.
I paid $6 and Anita’s teammate Ellen led me out the back door into the heat again. I thought it was a guided tour, but Ellen pointed to a row of outbuildings and explained that I should go inside each one and push the button. Then I would hear a recorded explanation of the historical site. With the exception of one retired couple, I was alone.
The first building was a post office. I unlatched the hook-and-eye door and stayed in the doorway, rather than going in. Truth be told, I was a little freaked out. The open door and one window provided the only light for the scene. Complete with a mannequin postmaster, everything was enclosed behind a glass wall. I saw the aforementioned button and reached inside far enough to press it firmly. At once, the glassy-eyed postmaster came to life, rotating from side to side, as the recording boomed about the rigors of sorting mail in the olden days. It was the historical equivalent of a haunted house. I slammed the door and jumped off the porch, shaking the spooky feelings off with a shimmy-like dance sequence. The door swung back open and I refused to go back and lock it. Ellen or Anita could see to that at four o’clock.
I looked at my watch. 2:34 and I was ready to go. Good thing I was too late to take the long tour. How was I going to kill enough time to justify spending six dollars and convince the information desk ladies that I was a mature adult who could handle their freaky row of fun houses? I stood in the shade for a few minutes, watched the retired couple smile at the antics of the general store mannequin, and then decided I could handle the barn of antique tractors. The barn was musty and quiet. I walked slowly, feeling like I’d shrunk – the machines towered over me. I got to the midpoint and remembered the postmaster. What if he had friends lurking in the corners, feigning tractor repair work? I made a 180 degree turn and booked it out of there.
Back in the hot sun, 2:40 pm. I took a deep breath and went inside the last building – a Mennonite Museum. Much to my joy and relief, there were other visitors milling about and a real live tour guide inside. I became a quick fan of these Mennonites. I decided to move around the large room in a clockwise direction. The first display showed a list of ministers from the early 1900’s. I gasped in delight when I noticed “Moses W. Yoder, 1933.” I happen to be dating a handsome Moses J. Yoder, 2010. I took a photo with my phone so I could show him evidence of his Mennonite counterpart later that day. The name Yoder was everywhere. I snapped several more pictures, should Jeremie be interested in seeing his last name on various farm items like feed sacks.
Before long, the tour guide came over and greeted me with, “And who are you?”
“Brooke Caldwell from Seattle, Washington. Who are you?”
“Ruth Yoder. Kalona, Iowa.”
I took to Ruth right away. She talked about the differences between Amish and Mennonite traditions and told stories about the items on display. Without her, I would have passed right over the funeral sticks. They were just a bundle of sticks, leaning against a display case. When she pointed them out, I saw that they had name tags affixed to them. Ruth explained that when someone died, a family member would cut a stick to match the person’s height and take the stick to the local coffin maker as a measurement. The coffin maker’s son had kept a collection of sticks and his family donated them to the museum after he died. I wonder if they made a stick for him too.
Ruth and I chatted about the museum, her growing up and living her whole life in Kalona, and what had brought me to Iowa. She told me she’d recently seen mountains in person for the first time when her daughter took her to South Dakota. It gave her appreciation for the words, “lofty mountain grandeur” in the hymn, “How Great Thou Art”. We sang a few bars together and smiled at God’s goodness in creation. Before I left, Ruth encouraged me that God indeed would take care of me – job-wise and otherwise. What a gift it was to meet her.
3:30 pm! Wow. I had just enough time to cruise through the Amish quilt collection in the main building. Anita smiled as I came back in, and gave me a laminated card with quilt information on it. The postmaster may not have had tractor-fixing friends, but he certainly had buddies in the quilt room. With Anita at my side, I kept my eyes up on the walls where the quilts were and refused eye contact with the life-sized plastic family, frozen in meal preparation and childcare poses. The quilts were beautiful and reflected Amish values. For example, red was hardly used because it’s seen as a flashy color and they don’t believe in calling attention to themselves. I left at 3:45 with a Fall Festival flyer in hand and a promise to return for the festivities later in September.
On my way home, I made two stops: first, to drop off a resume at a Christian school and second, to buy a snack at the famous Stringtown Grocery. Stringtown is an Amish-run store that offers fresh produce, snacks, bakery items, and bulk goods. I walked inside and turned down the first aisle. There was a wide cart of items blocking the way and a dress-covered backside and legs with black wool stockings stuck out, kneeling behind the cart. I squished past and the old woman stood up, her white bonnet reaching just below my shoulder. I looked at the large collection of bulk spices, labeled by hand. As I moved toward the back of the store, I was perplexed by how dark it was. What was going on? Think, Brooke. You’re in an Amish store. No electricity. Just sky lights.
After exploring the small store, I bought a small bag of peanuts from a tall young woman behind the counter. She wore a modest light blue cotton dress, apron, and a white bonnet partially covered her blonde bun. Behind her, a wooden sign listed the prices of bulk goods. They were listed in 25 and 50 pound increments. What does one do with 50 pounds of flax seed?
The bell hanging from the door rang lightly as I left and got back in the car. Seatbelt fastened and air-conditioning flowing, I looked behind me before backing out. Wonder of wonders, there was the little old woman who had been stocking shelves a moment ago. She was backing her Oldsmobile out of the parking spot to my left! She could barely see over the steering wheel and the car moving was evidence that somehow her feet could reach the gas pedal. But, driving? What kind of Amish woman did she think she was? I’ve since learned that there are varying degrees of rules within the Amish community. The Old Order does not use electricity, telephones, or other modern conveniences, while far on the other end of the spectrum, “Beachy” (named for a family) Amish drive cars, use electricity, and have modern farm equipment.
I drove back to town on Highway 1, past a “Watch Out for Horse Drawn Vehicles” sign and a cluster of kids in overalls and homemade dresses. The corn provided a gorgeous backdrop for white sheets blowing dry on a farmhouse clothesline. Before long, I was back on Iowa City’s brick streets, passing gas stations, university buildings, and old churches. What a rich day. I don’t have work to get me out of bed, but I am certainly grateful that I get to wake up in Iowa. I hope the postmaster stays out of my dreams.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Iowa State Fair
“This is Kaitlin’s first funnel cake!” - overheard at the Iowa State Fair, Des Moines, IA
When my brother Brent told his Iowan co-workers that his little sister was moving to their homeland, they all agreed on one thing: going to the State Fair was a must. Not ones to miss out on must-see opportunities, Jeremie and I drove to Des Moines last Friday. The charcoal sky looked menacing as we set out, and gave way to a good hard rainstorm before we arrived. I put our valuables in a plastic bag inside my backpack and we committed ourselves to getting wet and muddy. Other fair-goers had a similar attitude, happy to don plastic ponchos and step around puddles. A sparsely toothed, smoking parking attendant waved what looked like a crowbar and directed us to the closest entrance. That’s where we met Charlotte. Her white hair and glasses made me wonder if Charlotte had been attending the Iowa State Fair for decades. At this Fair, she was in charge of the ticketing. She manned that booth with genuine friendliness, but refused to let chit chat sway her from the task at hand. Jeremie bantered with her, while she adeptly handled our indecision about using a bank card or cash to pay. We left the booth with tickets and a mostly dry Fair Guide.
Our first stop was the exhibition hall that held the prize winning food entries. Jeremie’s roommate Will comes from a famous family, as far as the Fair is concerned. Will’s dad cleans up in the canning division. We peered through the glass, looking at shelf after shelf of Iowa’s best. If you can eat it, someone had canned it. There was even a “Fruit Other Than Named” and “Meat Other Than Named” prize, which someone explained was when the entrant had mixed ingredients beyond the category title (like a cherry-plum jam in the plum category). Will’s dad certainly dominated. I smiled when I overheard two ladies comment on it, “Gosh, that Rod Zeitler got everything, didn’t he?”
Looking at all of that food made us hungry, of course, so we headed for the main drag. We took a brief detour at the Exotic Animals Petting Zoo, saying hi to some not-so-exotic-but-very-cute goats, some camels, and a horse. “Feed the animals! Dollar a cup!” a woman in a folding chair called out every few seconds. As we exited, Jeremie noticed a sign which read, “Don’t Feed the Animals.” He asked the “dollar a cup” woman how this fit with her business and she said that sign was there because they used to have baby lions and tigers in the Zoo. Enough said.
The rain had eased into a sprinkle by the time we started looking at our lunch options. After our initial walk-through, this much was clear: just like we had committed to getting wet, we were going to have to commit to eating a lot of fried food. Mac ‘n cheese, Oreos, Twinkies, candy bars, chicken, hot dogs…all deep-fried for your cardiac roulette pleasure. One booth gave me hope with its listing of vegetables and cheddar cheese, until I realized that those too were victims of the deep fryer. Jeremie and I started with a deep-fried Twinkie. While waiting in line, we interviewed a young couple embarking upon their first deep-fried Snickers experience. The girl seemed to resist taking a bite and ended up with barely a nibble. I wonder if that’s a front all us girls need in such a situation. Like, somehow it’s not ladylike to admit that that much fat tastes really good. We watched our Twinkie take its greasy hot tub soak, and then Jeremie went for the first bite. Not bad. Like the Snickers girl, I took a tentative bite. Twinkies aren’t culinary masterpieces in the first place, so when you batter and deep-fry them, they remain their okay Twinkie selves, cloaked in the intrigue of wanton disregard for everything you know about health.
Our meal continued with a steak sandwich, hot, homemade potato chips, a giant lemonade, and a funnel cake. Eating gave us a wonderful opportunity to people-watch. Families and farm-wear presided. I took a photo of three elderly citizens on scooters; the lead granny sporting a fuzzy pink hat in the shape of a pig. Several families kept little ones close with the help of a leash. One grandma, dressed in red, white, and blue, wove through the crowd with two little girls, the younger on a leash. I would have put money on the leashed girl’s ability to knock grandma right over, if she had a mind to run after some cotton candy. Maybe she had been trained since babyhood to think that the leash was boss. Like strong carnival elephants who don’t realize they can break free from their little ankle chain.
The next stop was the baby animals barn. A golf cart with “Livestock Control” sped by us, no doubt on their way to apprehend the latest heifer escapee. I don’t consider myself a big city girl, but my exposure to farm life is limited. Little did I know how my eyes would be opened in this unassuming barn full of little corrals and small children running about. First, we took in the ducklings. Leaning over the railing, Jeremie kept account of which ducky was getting the best position in the huddle of fluffy sleepers. Then, we wriggled our way into a crowd of people waiting for chicks to hatch. Downy newborns sat in the heated cage amidst eggs at various stages. Some eggs were empty remnants, others had hopeful cracks, and the rest looked untouched. I had high hopes for seeing my first chick hatching and felt sure that the fourth egg from the left was wobbling from the efforts of that baby trying to emerge. Sadly, the miracle of life requires an attention span of greater than five minutes. I got bored and we moved on.
There was a line to see some piglets, so we shuffled single file past the huge mothers with their busy, buffet-style underbellies. Jeremie and I spent a long time near the sheep. Their wobbly legged attempts to follow their mothers were pretty amusing. One sheep looked painfully pregnant. As we wondered when her labor pains might strike, our attention was suddenly redirected to the cluster of big screen TVs overhead. My eyes were riveted in awe and horror as the screens showed a female veterinarian, elbow deep in a pig’s you-know-what, assisting with a piglet’s birth. All of this was happening just 20 feet away in the corner stall that was currently swarming with onlookers. We watched the blood-covered newborn slip out and get a quick rubdown with a towel before it was held up to the camera lens, eyes just barely able to open. What a change to go from a nice, cozy womb to a barn full of spectators who smelled like fried food. I don’t envy that pig, but I’m glad I was there to marvel at its grand entrance.
After witnessing a live birth, all other venues took on a subdued quality. Jeremie and I ambled along, stopping to check out things as they interested us. We held some butterflies in the butterfly tent and took a picture with one perched on my nose; we sat and watched a chainsaw artist make a wooden lighthouse; two young carnies tried to cajole Jeremie into swinging the sledgehammer to ring the bell and win his woman a giant stuffed animal. There was a gospel quartet and a one-man band; a life-sized cow sculpted from butter; pumpkins big enough to provide all of Iowa with Thanksgiving pies. We found ourselves wandering the homemade quilts, half looking for Will’s mom’s entries, half in a stupor. It was time to go home.
Brent’s co-workers were right. It was an amazing event. Since last Friday, I’ve met Iowa natives who have never been to the Fair. That’s inconceivable. As an outsider, I thought seeing the Fair was part of embracing Iowa. I suppose that’s one benefit to living somewhere for the first time – everyday things become fascinating quests. As far as I can see, Iowa has a lot to offer.
When my brother Brent told his Iowan co-workers that his little sister was moving to their homeland, they all agreed on one thing: going to the State Fair was a must. Not ones to miss out on must-see opportunities, Jeremie and I drove to Des Moines last Friday. The charcoal sky looked menacing as we set out, and gave way to a good hard rainstorm before we arrived. I put our valuables in a plastic bag inside my backpack and we committed ourselves to getting wet and muddy. Other fair-goers had a similar attitude, happy to don plastic ponchos and step around puddles. A sparsely toothed, smoking parking attendant waved what looked like a crowbar and directed us to the closest entrance. That’s where we met Charlotte. Her white hair and glasses made me wonder if Charlotte had been attending the Iowa State Fair for decades. At this Fair, she was in charge of the ticketing. She manned that booth with genuine friendliness, but refused to let chit chat sway her from the task at hand. Jeremie bantered with her, while she adeptly handled our indecision about using a bank card or cash to pay. We left the booth with tickets and a mostly dry Fair Guide.
Our first stop was the exhibition hall that held the prize winning food entries. Jeremie’s roommate Will comes from a famous family, as far as the Fair is concerned. Will’s dad cleans up in the canning division. We peered through the glass, looking at shelf after shelf of Iowa’s best. If you can eat it, someone had canned it. There was even a “Fruit Other Than Named” and “Meat Other Than Named” prize, which someone explained was when the entrant had mixed ingredients beyond the category title (like a cherry-plum jam in the plum category). Will’s dad certainly dominated. I smiled when I overheard two ladies comment on it, “Gosh, that Rod Zeitler got everything, didn’t he?”
Looking at all of that food made us hungry, of course, so we headed for the main drag. We took a brief detour at the Exotic Animals Petting Zoo, saying hi to some not-so-exotic-but-very-cute goats, some camels, and a horse. “Feed the animals! Dollar a cup!” a woman in a folding chair called out every few seconds. As we exited, Jeremie noticed a sign which read, “Don’t Feed the Animals.” He asked the “dollar a cup” woman how this fit with her business and she said that sign was there because they used to have baby lions and tigers in the Zoo. Enough said.
The rain had eased into a sprinkle by the time we started looking at our lunch options. After our initial walk-through, this much was clear: just like we had committed to getting wet, we were going to have to commit to eating a lot of fried food. Mac ‘n cheese, Oreos, Twinkies, candy bars, chicken, hot dogs…all deep-fried for your cardiac roulette pleasure. One booth gave me hope with its listing of vegetables and cheddar cheese, until I realized that those too were victims of the deep fryer. Jeremie and I started with a deep-fried Twinkie. While waiting in line, we interviewed a young couple embarking upon their first deep-fried Snickers experience. The girl seemed to resist taking a bite and ended up with barely a nibble. I wonder if that’s a front all us girls need in such a situation. Like, somehow it’s not ladylike to admit that that much fat tastes really good. We watched our Twinkie take its greasy hot tub soak, and then Jeremie went for the first bite. Not bad. Like the Snickers girl, I took a tentative bite. Twinkies aren’t culinary masterpieces in the first place, so when you batter and deep-fry them, they remain their okay Twinkie selves, cloaked in the intrigue of wanton disregard for everything you know about health.
Our meal continued with a steak sandwich, hot, homemade potato chips, a giant lemonade, and a funnel cake. Eating gave us a wonderful opportunity to people-watch. Families and farm-wear presided. I took a photo of three elderly citizens on scooters; the lead granny sporting a fuzzy pink hat in the shape of a pig. Several families kept little ones close with the help of a leash. One grandma, dressed in red, white, and blue, wove through the crowd with two little girls, the younger on a leash. I would have put money on the leashed girl’s ability to knock grandma right over, if she had a mind to run after some cotton candy. Maybe she had been trained since babyhood to think that the leash was boss. Like strong carnival elephants who don’t realize they can break free from their little ankle chain.
The next stop was the baby animals barn. A golf cart with “Livestock Control” sped by us, no doubt on their way to apprehend the latest heifer escapee. I don’t consider myself a big city girl, but my exposure to farm life is limited. Little did I know how my eyes would be opened in this unassuming barn full of little corrals and small children running about. First, we took in the ducklings. Leaning over the railing, Jeremie kept account of which ducky was getting the best position in the huddle of fluffy sleepers. Then, we wriggled our way into a crowd of people waiting for chicks to hatch. Downy newborns sat in the heated cage amidst eggs at various stages. Some eggs were empty remnants, others had hopeful cracks, and the rest looked untouched. I had high hopes for seeing my first chick hatching and felt sure that the fourth egg from the left was wobbling from the efforts of that baby trying to emerge. Sadly, the miracle of life requires an attention span of greater than five minutes. I got bored and we moved on.
There was a line to see some piglets, so we shuffled single file past the huge mothers with their busy, buffet-style underbellies. Jeremie and I spent a long time near the sheep. Their wobbly legged attempts to follow their mothers were pretty amusing. One sheep looked painfully pregnant. As we wondered when her labor pains might strike, our attention was suddenly redirected to the cluster of big screen TVs overhead. My eyes were riveted in awe and horror as the screens showed a female veterinarian, elbow deep in a pig’s you-know-what, assisting with a piglet’s birth. All of this was happening just 20 feet away in the corner stall that was currently swarming with onlookers. We watched the blood-covered newborn slip out and get a quick rubdown with a towel before it was held up to the camera lens, eyes just barely able to open. What a change to go from a nice, cozy womb to a barn full of spectators who smelled like fried food. I don’t envy that pig, but I’m glad I was there to marvel at its grand entrance.
After witnessing a live birth, all other venues took on a subdued quality. Jeremie and I ambled along, stopping to check out things as they interested us. We held some butterflies in the butterfly tent and took a picture with one perched on my nose; we sat and watched a chainsaw artist make a wooden lighthouse; two young carnies tried to cajole Jeremie into swinging the sledgehammer to ring the bell and win his woman a giant stuffed animal. There was a gospel quartet and a one-man band; a life-sized cow sculpted from butter; pumpkins big enough to provide all of Iowa with Thanksgiving pies. We found ourselves wandering the homemade quilts, half looking for Will’s mom’s entries, half in a stupor. It was time to go home.
Brent’s co-workers were right. It was an amazing event. Since last Friday, I’ve met Iowa natives who have never been to the Fair. That’s inconceivable. As an outsider, I thought seeing the Fair was part of embracing Iowa. I suppose that’s one benefit to living somewhere for the first time – everyday things become fascinating quests. As far as I can see, Iowa has a lot to offer.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
"You Know You're In Iowa When..."
I would have been hard-pressed to think of anything to put in that blank two weeks ago. Two weeks ago, I was living in Seattle, visiting family and friends after spending a year away in Beijing, China. Somewhere in the middle of that year in China, I had to make a decision about what I would do the next year. I prayed and researched all sorts of options. Doors in Asia closed one by one, and I found myself waiting for divine direction the night before my decision had to be made. While hanging out with close friends that evening, I leaned back against the soft couch cushions and recounted my decision-making journey.
"Why don't you move to Iowa?", one friend said.
Silence. A furrowed brow.
"Seriously!", she pressed further, "Of all the things you're invested in, why not move to Iowa?"
She was right - I was invested in Iowa. Or, rather, my investment currently lived in Iowa. I'd been pursuing relationship with a friend from Seattle who was getting an MBA at the University of Iowa. Things were going well, and as I let the idea sink in, it made sense to live in the same city.
Months later, here I am: sitting in an Iowa City coffee shop called T Spoons, drinking iced tea and looking out at the street as I type. I've been here just under two weeks, but I can fill in the blank pretty well already.
I know I'm in Iowa because....
-pedestrians seem to adhere to a town uniform; black and yellow with the word "IOWA" stamped somewhere on their person
-total strangers have plenty of time to chat with me
-I can buy corn and green beans at the Farmers Market that were picked this morning
-Amish families sell baked goods at the Farmers Market (hooray for Mr. Yoder)
-cicadas sing me to sleep at night
-wherever I drive, I'm bound to see a cornfield
So, here's to a year of exploring my own country. It's obviously quite different from exploring China, but my method will be similar: build community, observe details, try new things, and push my comfort zone. I'll start by getting myself a pair of jogging pants with "IOWA" on the bum...
"Why don't you move to Iowa?", one friend said.
Silence. A furrowed brow.
"Seriously!", she pressed further, "Of all the things you're invested in, why not move to Iowa?"
She was right - I was invested in Iowa. Or, rather, my investment currently lived in Iowa. I'd been pursuing relationship with a friend from Seattle who was getting an MBA at the University of Iowa. Things were going well, and as I let the idea sink in, it made sense to live in the same city.
Months later, here I am: sitting in an Iowa City coffee shop called T Spoons, drinking iced tea and looking out at the street as I type. I've been here just under two weeks, but I can fill in the blank pretty well already.
I know I'm in Iowa because....
-pedestrians seem to adhere to a town uniform; black and yellow with the word "IOWA" stamped somewhere on their person
-total strangers have plenty of time to chat with me
-I can buy corn and green beans at the Farmers Market that were picked this morning
-Amish families sell baked goods at the Farmers Market (hooray for Mr. Yoder)
-cicadas sing me to sleep at night
-wherever I drive, I'm bound to see a cornfield
So, here's to a year of exploring my own country. It's obviously quite different from exploring China, but my method will be similar: build community, observe details, try new things, and push my comfort zone. I'll start by getting myself a pair of jogging pants with "IOWA" on the bum...
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Soaking up the Season
I’m glad I went to English Corner. It was a valuable time. On the way home, I had the taxi driver drop me off a few blocks away so I could walk in the snow. There has been no precipitation in Beijing since the first week of November. I felt almost intoxicated with joy as the flakes danced around me in the dimly lit street.
The next day, it snowed about one foot. My friends and I played in it until we were soaked and shivering. I'm getting the most out of every season. I don’t want to overlook one season in looking too much towards the next. I’m doing pretty well with this concept in other areas of life – I’m still working hard at teaching even though a Thailand trip is around the corner. I am finding new things to love about China, even though I wonder when and if I’ll be called back to the States. Still, I need people in my life and big snowfalls to keep reminding me of the goodness in the present. Taste and see that He is good, my friends! How is He good in your current season?
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The next day, it snowed about one foot. My friends and I played in it until we were soaked and shivering. I'm getting the most out of every season. I don’t want to overlook one season in looking too much towards the next. I’m doing pretty well with this concept in other areas of life – I’m still working hard at teaching even though a Thailand trip is around the corner. I am finding new things to love about China, even though I wonder when and if I’ll be called back to the States. Still, I need people in my life and big snowfalls to keep reminding me of the goodness in the present. Taste and see that He is good, my friends! How is He good in your current season?
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The Rap Taxi
Every Saturday, I help facilitate discussion at an English Corner. English Corner is a term for when people who want to learn English get together and have discussions. I like the opportunity to discuss deeper issues with college students and adults.
After lunch at Jenny’s, I took a nap on my couch and woke up feeling apathetic about going out in the cold to get to English Corner. It takes me about an hour if I travel frugally by bus and subway. I’m disciplining myself to follow through on commitments of all sizes, so I got up and got ready. To make it more appealing, I decided to splurge on the faster, warmer option of taking taxis both ways. I stood out on the cold street, jumping in place, and asked the Father to send me a taxi with a nice driver. One of my deals with myself is that I use taxi drivers as conversation partners. It’s been an awesome way to practice Chinese. Some drivers are not as willing to chat as others, so I was hoping for a gracious one.
A taxi pulled up and I got in. “Hello! Where to go?” the driver boomed in English. I laughed out loud. The Father sent me a guy who knows English! It was a fabulous ride. He had learned some English from foreign passengers over the years and was delighted to converse in a mishmash of English and Chinese. He told me he liked American music and then turned on some rap. I asked if he understood the words and he said no. It was a fun life moment for me to be sitting in a Beijing taxi, snow beginning to fall, translating rap songs into Chinese. “…There’s a man driving a nice car and he wants the pretty women to look at him…”
After lunch at Jenny’s, I took a nap on my couch and woke up feeling apathetic about going out in the cold to get to English Corner. It takes me about an hour if I travel frugally by bus and subway. I’m disciplining myself to follow through on commitments of all sizes, so I got up and got ready. To make it more appealing, I decided to splurge on the faster, warmer option of taking taxis both ways. I stood out on the cold street, jumping in place, and asked the Father to send me a taxi with a nice driver. One of my deals with myself is that I use taxi drivers as conversation partners. It’s been an awesome way to practice Chinese. Some drivers are not as willing to chat as others, so I was hoping for a gracious one.
A taxi pulled up and I got in. “Hello! Where to go?” the driver boomed in English. I laughed out loud. The Father sent me a guy who knows English! It was a fabulous ride. He had learned some English from foreign passengers over the years and was delighted to converse in a mishmash of English and Chinese. He told me he liked American music and then turned on some rap. I asked if he understood the words and he said no. It was a fun life moment for me to be sitting in a Beijing taxi, snow beginning to fall, translating rap songs into Chinese. “…There’s a man driving a nice car and he wants the pretty women to look at him…”
Good Times with Jenny
My coworker Jenny is a character. She knows more about the U.S. than your average American. She asks detailed questions and will not rest until she is satisfied with the answer. Jenny and I have discussed the correct way to pronounce “kangaroo” at least three times now. When she says, “Brooke, is it kangaroo or kangaroo?” the words sound exactly the same to me. I know there’s a difference for her that I’m not catching, but we can’t seem to find a place of agreement. I respond with, “kangaroo”, the only way I know how to say it, and she goes back to, “Are you saying kangaroo or kangaroo?” “I’m saying kangaroo,” I say, and on it goes.
This past Saturday, Lina and I took a bus to the outskirts of town to have lunch at Jenny’s apartment. Her daughter, Jia Chuen, is twenty months old. We were surprised at how quickly she warmed up to us. Within minutes of sitting down, she was dancing, clapping, playing with our jewelry, and demanding to see herself on my camera screen. As is common in China, Jia Chuen called me and Lina “Aiyi”, which means “Auntie”. While we played, Jenny buzzed in and out of the room, helping her parents cook lunch. At one point, she popped her head out of the kitchen and said, “Do you like dog meat?” Lina and I both think eating dog meat is a short step away from cannibalism, so we ummed and ahhed until Jenny said, “Okay. Let’s eat beef.” It was a delicious meal. Jenny’s parents are from Xi’an and made dishes that are a little different from Beijing’s dishes. The chicken marinated in beer was a favorite. It was a treat to learn more about Jenny’s life and interact with her in her own surroundings.
This past Saturday, Lina and I took a bus to the outskirts of town to have lunch at Jenny’s apartment. Her daughter, Jia Chuen, is twenty months old. We were surprised at how quickly she warmed up to us. Within minutes of sitting down, she was dancing, clapping, playing with our jewelry, and demanding to see herself on my camera screen. As is common in China, Jia Chuen called me and Lina “Aiyi”, which means “Auntie”. While we played, Jenny buzzed in and out of the room, helping her parents cook lunch. At one point, she popped her head out of the kitchen and said, “Do you like dog meat?” Lina and I both think eating dog meat is a short step away from cannibalism, so we ummed and ahhed until Jenny said, “Okay. Let’s eat beef.” It was a delicious meal. Jenny’s parents are from Xi’an and made dishes that are a little different from Beijing’s dishes. The chicken marinated in beer was a favorite. It was a treat to learn more about Jenny’s life and interact with her in her own surroundings.
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