You're not finished with me yet...

Hello out there - it's been a while.  More than a year, in fact.  

Grad school has a tendency to take over everything, and while I find my work interesting and challenging, it's not the sort of narrative that I feel called to share at this point.  In deference to how this blog began, searching for starfish means paying attention to my work, and that has meant (and will probably continue to mean) that my posts will be limited.

I never intended to shut this operation down, and I still don't intend to, but the one who invited me to begin blogging is now inviting me deeper inward.  In addition to school, which would be plenty to stand in the way of writing, there is this bigger piece, the story I do feel called to share, and that's the part I have a hard time articulating right now.

I had a professor in undergrad who told us that all we could say about God was that, "God is," and that even that was saying too much.  Because every box I try to put God in, God blasts right through it and insists on not being contained.

We learn in quantum mechanics that confinement leads to quantization, that discreteness arises from containment.  God is in everything, refuses to be rationed out, but instead shows up to all of us everywhere.  And what does that mean for us?  I chew on ideas such as these as I ponder the more "practical" applications of my science.

And perhaps all that I can say is this: as I continue to show up to my education, I come to know and love a God who first knew and loved me, who has gifted us with a beautifully interesting universe and filled it with beautiful people.  

I also wanted to make this hiatus "official" because I know that I will be preparing for my oral exam in the summer.  I have to pass this exam in order to qualify for PhD candidacy.  If you're a pray-er, I would ask for your prayers this semester and into the summer as I navigate this next part of the journey.  

And know that all of you, wherever you are, you have my prayers, too.  

Peace and all good,
Rachel

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=it4BHq6DYKs

Never refuse a kindness.

At the end of my time at the Welcome Center, the sisters wanted me to tell them what I had learned.  I had some ideas, and I shared them, but in the back of my head, I knew that more lessons were coming.  The motto of our program, "One year to change a life," carries with it the imperative that the learning never stops.

Sr. Eileen was my direct supervisor while I worked in Philadelphia.  She is a social worker by training, and she is the director of the Welcome Center.  She helps people access particular services that they need and walks with people as they navigate new situations.  This is her "job description," but what she does every day goes far beyond that.  Over the course of my year, I noticed that if anyone offered to help, Sr. Eileen would make sure that there was something for them to do.  She is wonderful at inviting people to participate in the ministry of the Welcome Center in whatever way that they are able.

Moreover, she tried to teach this to me.  One day at the Welcome Center, I had a bunch of things that I needed to store while I was at work.  We were discussing where they might go, and I was gathering myself to bring them all downstairs.  Sr. Eileen offered to help me bring them downstairs, but I was feeling especially independent at that moment, so I told her I would do it.  The polite back and forth ensued, and it ended with her saying to me (of something she had learned in her SSJ training), "Never refuse a kindness."

All of that was rolling around in the recesses of my brain when one of my students from last semester stopped by my office today.  We spoke of the upcoming semester, and I told him that I would be teaching freshmen this time around.  He offered me his old labs from general chemistry so that I would have a better foundation for grading these students (having the answers and all).

Neurons fired in my brain at light speed: "it's general chemistry, how hard could it be?" "they give me a rubric, it won't be so difficult" and "I don't really need more things to clutter my desk."  All of that was ultimately pushed aside by remembering this: "He wants to help.  Let him help you."

Sr. Eileen's words have allowed me to understand something fundamental: people will bring you what they have.  Even if it is not what you want or need or expect, accepting what they offer with open and loving arms is the most important thing you can do for them.  Welcoming each person as they are lets them know that they matter, and that is a key part of being Christ for others.

I haven't received these lab reports yet, but when I do, I will be sure to smile and and thank my student.  Having those papers will serve to remind me that even if I already know all the chemistry on them, there is still more learning to do.

If they learn nothing else this semester...

To my students,

I know that it is extremely hard to keep showing up to problems that you don't understand.  (It might not be obvious to you, but I struggle plenty with my own coursework.  It comes with the territory.)  We choose our paths in life (and they choose us), at least in part, because we are good at what we do.  For example, as much as I would joke about joining the circus as an undergraduate (which was often), realistically, I would be a terrible fit for the circus.  My body doesn't move like that, and I'm not really into animals.  But that's beside the point.

When you start learning science, the path is fairly well traveled.  Many people have gone before you, and there is a clear indication of where you ought to go next.  Study {science} in college.  Learn as much as you can.  Do research.

For a while, people will know the answers to the questions you ask, but as you keep going, the path will branch out and bottleneck.  There will be fewer and fewer people who have gone before you, until you find yourself at the edge of science.

I have a great deal of admiration for Robert Frost, but this letter is not about the "road not taken."  Research is about the road that doesn't exist yet.  When we reach the end of the path we are on, we must keep building the road and connect it to other roads.  A road isn't as profitable if it dead ends; the major thoroughfares are what everyone wants to be responsible for creating.  Sometimes this is easy, and sometimes, it isn't. 

Even the best scientists won't know exactly what will happen next, 100% of the time (heck, even quantum mechanics will only give you probabilities!).  The soil that you will build on may be clay, or shale, or full of sand.  The problem might seem overwhelmingly simple at the outset, but complications may prolong completion.  The alternative may come to pass: it could begin as a huge mess that simplifies drastically as you proceed.  Most of what you do will be, I hope, somewhere in the middle.  Not understanding how to get to the endpoint right away doesn't make you a bad scientist.  Choosing not to understand, however, means that you will never get any further than you already are.  

My job is to help you get comfortable with building those roads, to practice troubleshooting.  To develop your scientific intuition.  To embrace Murphy's Law as the fifth Gospel, and then to move beyond it.

This class is just as important as other, more "relevant," classes that you'll take.  Here is why: this class is helping you to be more comfortable making connections between things you know and things you don't know.  That is the general idea behind all that you will do in research.  You learn about the world, and you use what you already know to draw conclusions about what you don't yet understand.  And then you see what happens.  

You have a person with only marginally better "eyesight" leading you through all of this.  It is non-trivial to show up to your own education and say, "this is going to be hard, but I am going to learn something from this, and that knowledge motivates me to keep on keeping on."  That attitude is precisely what binds me, covalently, to my education.  I might get excited by stray photons, but, as we recently learned in lecture, there are a number of ways to relax to the ground state.  And, as one of my professors in undergrad told us (about tunneling and bound states): you always get out eventually.

With respect and best wishes,
Rachel

A chip off an old block...

When I first moved to Philadelphia, we didn't have a coffee pot.  I didn't mind, because I wasn't in the habit of drinking coffee, but one of my housemates was all about coffee.  We bought instant coffee to tide her over until we could obtain a coffee pot, which happened relatively quickly.  Thus, we had a lot of leftover instant coffee.  What to do?

That general idea (having things and needing to re-purpose them just a little, with somewhat limited resources) resulted in the following recipe, adapted from this recipe.  The feedback has been overwhelmingly positive in both Philadelphia and Rochester, so I thought I would share it with y'all.  Since this isn't a food blog, I don't have pictures like the real dedicated folk.  Sorry!  I will try to be as clear as possible. =)

Rachel's Cafe Cookies 

(Scientists are all about naming things after themselves, and I really couldn't think of a better title.  If you come up with one, I'll happily oblige you!)

2 cups brown sugar, softened

2 sticks butter (1 cup)

2 eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla (optional)

3 cups all-purpose flour (wheat is equally good and adds a nutty flavor; you can add some of each, to total three cups, if you like)

1/2 teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons baking soda

2 tablespoons instant coffee (dry)

1/2 to 1 cup instant oatmeal

2 to 3 cups chocolate chips (to be fair, I never am exactly sure how much chocolate goes in - I really ballpark this.  I also will often use dark chocolate chips, and the ones that I've bought are larger than "normal" size chocolate chips.  Ultimately, that results in larger cookies.)

1.  Preheat oven to 350°.  Cream the brown sugar and butter in a large bowl until the mixture is homogeneous, then add the eggs.  If desired, add vanilla.

2.  In a separate bowl, combine the dry ingredients (except the oatmeal and the chocolate chips).  Mix well, and then add to the butter sugar mixture.  Sometimes I've been able to do this with my hands, and other times I have to use a large fork because the batter is too sticky.  This is correlated with the addition of vanilla (no vanilla, less sticky), but I am not convinced that there is an underlying causation there.  Just something I've observed.  

3.  If the dough is sticky, chill in the fridge for about half an hour.  Drop about 1/8 cup dough rolled into a ball, onto a greased cookie sheet, about two inches apart (you should be able to get a dozen on there without trouble from spreading).  Bake about 10 minutes, until the bottoms are golden brown.  I personally go for chewier cookies, so if you're looking for a crunchier cookie, you're looking at 11 or 12 minutes.  There is some variation in ovens, so I would watch the first batch and go from there.  

Yield: ~ 3 dozen (but mine are larger, you could probably get closer to 4 dozen with smaller chocolate chips and smaller cookies)

N.B.  The Betty Crocker recipe mentions a coffee sugar drizzle.  I've never tried to make it, because when I first made these cookies, we didn't have any confectioners sugar.  The reviews have been great without it, so I haven't had any motivation to change the recipe.

That's all for now from this corner of cyberspace.  I hope that everyone out there is well and staying warm!

Peace and all good,
Rachel

Those who can, teach.

The coolest thing happened the other day in the lab that I teach.  One of my students was two hours late (this is not meant to be sarcastic, but I have to tell you this so you understand the rest of the story).  Because she was so late, her lab partner began the lab without her.  He was a bit nervous about having been cast off on his own, but as the TA, I tried to help him as best as I could. 

Unfortunately, my co-TA had come down with strep throat and at the last minute, she couldn't come to lab.  I, too, had been cast off on my own.

The professor was around for some of the lab period, and there are only ten students all together, but I learned a variation on Murphy's Law that day: all of the students will have questions at the same time.

My co-TA is an undergrad who has taken this particular course before, so I have been especially grateful for her experience.  In some ways, I was no different from my student who was temporarily without a partner.

An hour and a half into the lab period, that student got my attention.  We worked through another point of confusion with the experiment, and he said to me, smiling, "I really learned a lot today."  

What was equally awesome was the care he took with his lab partner when she finally arrived.  Newly an expert at this particular activity, he began explaining to her some of what he had done.  While I would never wish for my students to be late to lab, this was the best possible outcome.  It reminded me of a line I heard once:

“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” ~ Maya Angelou

Peace and all good,
Rachel

I suggest this is the best part of your life...

I have been hanging out in this corner of cyberspace for far too long without making a peep, and the longer I stay silent, the easier it is to stay silent.

I moved back to New York in the middle of July after a wonderfully fruitful year with the Sisters of St. Joseph of Philadelphia.  My time as a volunteer, both in Philadelphia and in Camden, continues to inform my worldview as I transition into this next chapter.

During my short vacation, I was able to go to Chicago, where I spent several days at a conference, Catholics on Call.  About 45 twenty-something Catholic young adults gathered from all over the US (and even one person was from Canada!).  It was a phenomenal way to process all that has been on my heart these past two years.  There were several presentations, but for me the most fruitful part was hearing the stories of other young adults, just like me.

Soon after Catholics on Call, I moved out to Rochester, where I have begun school at U of R.  I love being back in school.  It's a ton of work, for sure, especially as I ramp up my math skills.  I have made some truly silly mistakes as I slowly un-bury all the things that I used to know, but it is fun, and I love that I get to be doing it.

I live with seven others: four Sisters of St. Joseph of Rochester and three volunteers.  Two of the sisters are nurses by training, and one of the volunteers just graduated in Biology.  It's fabulous.

Looking back through my journals from my senior year of college, I was reminded of all the support that I had as I prepared to head off into a next step that was so far removed from all that I had done.   As grateful as I hope that I was then, I am even more grateful now for that support.  To be back in school, for me, is more than just a continuation of an idea that grew and grew throughout my college years.  It is the way that I feel I can honor all that I experienced in my two years of service.

I'll leave you with the song that's been in my head of late...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7kbvTPlYgNw

Peace and all good,
Rachel

Can Anything Good Come From Nazareth?

I had all sorts of dazzling words in my back pocket, but in the end, after being off the grid for so long, these are all I can muster:

This August, I will move to Rochester, NY to pursue a PhD in Chemistry at the University of Rochester. 

These past two years of service have been full of grace, and, with only a few days before I am to see my brother graduate from Le Moyne, I know that I am ready to make this next jump.

In an email that I wrote just the other day, I noted that, "I don't have any kind of certainty, but God has never wanted that, just my openness and my courage to come and see what good things can come from Nazareth."*
*For more on this reference, click here!

There are many "Nazareths" in my life, but I have found time and again that good things can and do come from these places, if I look for them.  The goodness can be found in the midst of a reality that holds sorrow, joy, awe with the same set of hands, and all of those things only serve to make it sweeter.

More to come.  I hope that you readers are all well, wherever you may find yourselves. 

Peace and all good,
Rachel

This is where I am at.

(It's short and sweet today.)

What choice will help you to be more loving?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wtS4ef0vqhU

doing justice doesn't always make cents...

After a crazy two months, I am back and better than ever.  I am at the tail end of application season (grad school) and (knock on wood) I hope that I won't get too sick again.  

Much has happened, but for now I will leave you with the article I have written for the upcoming newsletter for the Welcome Center, where I work.  It's the story that spawned this post in November.

**********************************************************

My afternoons at the Welcome Center are busy and varied; I play "office manager," "lesson planner," "tutor" and "photocopy maker" on a daily basis, while also always trying to be "ready for any good work."  With my desk in the reception area, I am often the greeter of many of our dear neighbors.

One afternoon in November, Edona arrived at the Center directly from her job as a cafeteria worker for a local school. I had only met her once or twice before, but I knew that she had been one of our dear neighbors for quite some time. That day, she had a velvet carpet bag for a purse, which carried her money, three pears for her lunch, and some other sundry items.

"That is a pretty bag," I told her.

"Do you want it?" Edona asked.

"Oh no, thank you," I replied.

It was too late.

Edona began emptying the contents of her purse into a small plastic bag that she'd had inside. "Take it," she insisted.

"Thank you very much, Edona, but I have a bag." I pulled my own purse out from under my desk, as if my word wasn't enough to prove that I did not need the bag.

Edona would not be dissuaded. The whole scenario had reached the point where it was no longer going to take a polite declination of her offering to stop her from giving me that bag. She had turned it inside out and was picking crumbs out of it. I stood in the reception area, thoroughly mortified. In my mind, I was stealing. I had a bag already, and I had another at home, and I could get a bag if I really needed one.

That following Sunday, sitting in church, I heard again the story of the widow who gave all she had. In his homily, the priest recounted a story that he had been told about Mother Teresa. One day, she encountered a beggar who knew of her great works. He wanted to give Mother Teresa his whole day's earnings, about thirty cents. For that man, thirty cents was everything. It meant that he might be able to eat that day. Giving it away meant that he would spend another day hungry. For Mother Teresa, thirty cents was hardly any money. It wouldn't buy much. Taking that man's money, however, meant that he could earn back some of his dignity by feeling connected to her mission.

Mother Teresa took that man's daily bread, and I took Edona's carpet bag. They each offered freely all that they had, and doing justice meant accepting them, as they were.

That bag is a constant reminder to look deeper. I recall stories of people with bottomless bags (Mary Poppins and Hermione Granger come to mind), and I know that my heart must be like that bag, bottomless, open, and freely given.

Edona already knows about bottomless hearts; the proof is that I am the one with the carpet bag.

I needed that bag more than she did, after all.

Look beyond the bread you eat...

Last night, after a long day of classes and tutoring, I came upon Maria, one of Sr. Pat's students.  She and Sr. Pat were talking about how Gabi, Maria's seven year-old daughter, loves the ham at the Welcome Center.

"Do you want a sandwich for Gabi?" Sr. Pat offered.

"Yes, thank you," Maria replied.

"I'll make it," I piped in.  I walked over to the bread drawer.  There were sandwich thins, oat nut bread, and rye bread. 

I have never developed a taste for rye bread, perhaps because it was introduced late enough in my life that I never felt "accustomed" to it. I trained myself to prefer whole wheat bread and other, "healthier" alternatives to white bread, but rye bread hasn't stuck.

As such, I couldn't imagine any seven year old wanting a sandwich made of rye bread. 

The potato bread was all the way upstairs.  And okay, it sounds lame to me now, but I in that moment, I was willing to let anything be an obstacle.

I seriously considered making the sandwich with one of the alternatives.  I couldn't see Gabi wanting any of them, though.  Some seven year-olds don't even eat the crusts on their bread; if I handed her a sandwich with oat and nut pieces in it, I could envision her handing it back to me. 

It's fairly simple to predict the inclinations of a seven year old girl.  Extrapolating beyond that, for extra people or for different situations, becomes more complicated with each additional layer.  How can you know what someone would want?

The heuristic approximation is sympathy.

                                                  *****

In December of 2010, as a senior in college, I was bagging Christmas presents at the St. Francis Inn.  All of the bags that I had were too small for this box, a present for a young boy that was a guest there.  Completely baffled, truly, I presented this dilemma to the volunteer who was supervising me, Kelly.

"What would you want?"  That was her answer, or something similarly sassy.*

The implication was that, obviously, I had to find a bigger bag.   

Would I want a present half sticking out of the bag, not in the least bit surprising to its recipient?  If I were giving this present to someone, what would I want it to look like? 

Kelly's question challenged me to look beyond the act itself toward the way in which the act was performed.  By doing this, instead of being an act of responsibility, it becomes an act of love, a demonstration of concern for the person on the receiving end.

                                                  *****

I walked upstairs and grabbed the potato bread to make Gabi's sandwich. 

It could have been nothing, but it was everything.



*(Side note: I love Kelly, and I love her sass.  I know she is channeling it wonderfully in her fourth grade classroom!)

My first official blog endorsement for John Flynn.

I wrote the following poem/lyric in January of this year after seeing John Flynn perform live in Philadelphia.  I was moved by the caliber and artistry of his stories, and used that inspiration to channel my own experiences into this bit of writing.  I came back to it today after an encounter that left me without any words but these.  

Also, this is my plug for John Flynn.  I think he's phenomenal.  But you can judge for yourself.
http://www.johnflynn.net/


"Two Coins"

Two coins.

That was all she had,

all she could afford,

and as they fell out from her hands,

she said a prayer to her lord.

"I’m asking for tomorrow.

You’ve blessed me with today.

I don’t need much of anything,

just extended stay.

I’ve got so much to finish here.

Please help me see it through.

Whatever is your will for me

is what I will to you."

I took the silver coins she gave

and held them in my hand.

It wasn't much, but it would buy

her way into the promised land,

and as she gazed into my eyes,

I memorized her face,

for never had a clearer picture

been given me of grace.

"I’m asking for tomorrow.

You’ve blessed me with today.

I don’t need much of anything,

just extended stay.

I’ve got so much to finish here.

Please help me see it through.

Whatever is your will for me

is what I will to you."

I hoard the much that I’ve been given.

She gave all she could afford.

At night on bended knee,

I whisper this prayer to my lord:

Please teach me her example

each and every day.

The love she has is all she needs.

Don’t take her soul away.

I’ve got so much to learn from her.

She’s teaching me to do

whatever is your will for me.

That’s what I will to you.

Won't you be my dear neighbor?

My Facebook newsfeed has been filled with pictures and statuses about Hurricane Sandy, of late.  Living in Philadelphia, my community and I were in the middle of the storm, certainly, but we were very blessed to not have much to show for it.

We lost power for about fifteen hours, and most of that was during the night, when we slept.  We had a roof over our heads and four walls to protect us from the wind and rain.  We didn't lose any of our food, because we were able to bring it to the Welcome Center, where I work, and we had warm pancakes for lunch on Tuesday with the sisters who live there.


Among all of the political mudslinging and meteorology-mania, I found this quote in a Facebook post:

“Never worry about numbers. Help one person at a time and always start with the person nearest you.”

― Mother Teresa

When I began contemplating a year of service, I was ready to go to the ends of the earth, convinced that the more removed from East Greenbush, New York, I was, the more I would learn, and the more meaningful my service would be.

Relative to Ecuador and Kenya, Philadelphia and Camden are both practically next to East Greenbush, and they are near to each other (the Ben Franklin Bridge connects the two cities, and it's only five dollars to go from NJ to PA).

I can't compare my real service experiences to hypothetical ones in a meaningful way, but I will say that I have been challenged to grow and learn in so many ways, and I wouldn't trade them for anything.

The people that have been nearest to me this past year and a half are some of the most strong, hardworking, courageous, and loving people that I have ever been blessed to encounter.

*******************************************************

With my neighborhood faring rather well, all things considered, and both Monday and Tuesday off of work, I found myself with much time to think.  I spent that time remembering the many friends and acquaintances that I knew were suffering more deeply because of the storm.  They held some of my attention, but another storm captured my attention, too.

Katrina. 

I've never been to New Orleans.  I have many friends who have gone and done beautiful work there, and I think I would love to go, too.  One day, I hope.

Katrina made her visit to New Orleans seven years ago, in a record-breaking hurricane season that brought devastation to so many.  Just like Sandy has.

Seven years later, people are still going down to NOLA, providing help when they can, and that's awesome. No sarcasm intended.  I really think that individual people and groups are doing as much as they can.

That's why I am here, in Philadelphia, right now.  I am doing as much as I can for the people nearest to me.

I'm curious to see how long it will take for the northeast to recover from Sandy.  I hope and pray that it won't be seven years, or seven months, or even seven weeks.

I ask myself, "Is that long?"  That depends on who you're asking.

The St. Francis Inn is a soup kitchen in my neighborhood, and they served a meal yesterday despite being without power at least two hours before the meal was scheduled to begin.  I don't know what they served, but I do know that whoever braved the storm to come eat must have been hungry and grateful, even if their demeanor didn't reflect it.  I know some guests by name who have relied on that support for years.

Ask Diane, who just had her fourth child, what she would do for seven weeks if she couldn't rely on the support of the Inn to feed her growing family.

Or, if my own ministry, the Welcome Center, what if we just shut down for several weeks?  We work with immigrants, helping them to become citizens, and whatever your position is on immigration, let me say this: the people I meet every day aren't trying to play the system, they are trying to not get played by the system.

I meet with a woman on Mondays to practice for her citizenship interview, and she is one of the most faithful of all of my students.  Every Monday, at 1:30, we practice speaking and writing, answering over and over the questions she'll need to know in that interview room.  The charm of her self-effacing laugh diffuses each moment that I've managed to not sufficiently communicate a point to her, again, as if it's somehow her fault.

These are the people who I am nearest to and people who I have come to know and love.  They are no more or less important than those in South America, Africa, and other parts of the USA, but in my own reality, they are my world.

I doubt I'll get to New Orleans or New York any time soon.


I have English classes to teach.

...every heart to love will come, but like a refugee...

Be still and know that I am God.


Be still and know that I am.


Be still and know.


Be still.  


Be.


Thus began our community prayer last night.

It was not the first time I'd heard this meditation before; it found me at Le Moyne, and later it found me during my year as a Franciscan Volunteer.  And now as an SSJ Mission Corps Volunteer, it continues to follow me.

I resisted every bit of this prayer.  My mind did jumping jacks and cartwheels; my heart kicked and screamed all the way though the moments of silence.

For me, this prayer always calls to mind the difference between the worldview I was given and the worldview I am slowly gaining.  God, who could be so loving, must certainly be able to do something about all of this suffering, all of this brokenness that I encounter every day.

Somewhere between the second and third line of this meditation, I was able to step outside of my own inner tantrum and picture myself.  I was flailing violently, as a small child in the throes of anguish, certain that she had just been slighted and appalled at the injustice of it all. 

As I maintained my mental outburst, I saw myself comforted, held in the arms of that same loving God that I was cursing.  I kept kicking, screaming, crying, and God never let go.

God was telling me exactly what to do, offering exactly what I required, but those things were presented in a way that made me uncomfortable.  I didn't want to stop fighting, because I was not convinced that anything would come of the stopping.

This the same counter-intuitive block that I have toward taking some free time before I have finished everything on my to-do list: I feel like I am wasting time when I could be finishing this one thing, or this other thing.  I don't know where the research is that disproves my beliefs, but I know there is some out there, and despite that, I hold fast to my entirely flawed convictions.  The invitation remains:

Be still and know that I am God.

All the tools are there, all of the things that I need are right in front of me, though it might not appear that way.  I just have to take the time to look at them and assume the responsibility for them.

There's a story, which I have heard many variations of, where the main character sees some sort of injustice, becomes upset, and asks God what he is going to do about it.  In all of the permutations, the reply from God is the same:

"I did do something. I made YOU!"  

Why is the world like this and not how I thought it would be?  
What are you going to do about it?  

I made you.

But I am not strong enough, brave enough, prepared enough...

And then I hear the response.  It's not an answer, but somewhere in there is a promise that if I do what I am told, I will figure out what I am supposed to do next.

Be still and know that I am God.


Be still and know that I am.


Be still and know.


Be still.  


Be.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ma5tF6TJpA

tell yourself...how lucky you are!

A while back, someone told me that typically, people graduate college, get a job, and ultimately face the fact that the real world is quite different from college.  

I, however, was so very wrapped up in my new volunteer life (which is both like and unlike the "real" world to which I referred) that I had forgotten to do that, until now.  

Today, on a cold, rainy, fall afternoon (one of my favorite kinds of days), all that I wanted to do was to go curl up somewhere cozy and journal, with some hot tea.  My only stipulation was that I needed to leave my living space.

At Le Moyne, that space would have been my room, and I could have happily gone to the lounge, or to the library, or to a friend's place, and I would have walked there.  

In Philadelphia, there are not random "lounges" where one can sit for extended periods of time indoors without attracting undue attention to oneself.  Or, if there are, I haven't found them yet (there is a "Memberz Only Lounge" - spelled just like that on the sign - near our house, but I don't think that's what I am going for).  The Philadelphia Free Library has 54 branches, but only one branch is open on Sundays, from 1:00 pm to 5:00 pm.  And I don't have twenty-five peers at my disposal to entertain and to be entertained by.  

I ended up crouched on the floor of the Barnes and Noble in Rittenhouse Square, no tea, for a couple of hours.  My bum was a bit sore, but I did feel good at the end of all of it, truly.  

In having gone to Barnes and Noble, I am more fully able to appreciate my house for what it is.  In leaving Le Moyne, I have come to cherish my alma mater even more.

I tried the best I could to appreciate Le Moyne for what it taught me and brought out in me, and some days, I did better than others.  Last fall, however, when I visited campus and was walking around at night, I relished ever more profoundly the kind of privilege I was exercising.  

Only at Le Moyne could I walk back from the Science Center to Harrison Hall at 2:00 am by myself without thinking twice about my safety (although in retrospect, that was not one of my better life choices - the late night walking alone part).  

Only at Le Moyne could I sit in the Den and read or write without having to buy anything.  

Only at Le Moyne is the library open for more than four hours on a Sunday. 

BUT!

Both at Le Moyne and in Kensington, I have been able to come to know many wonderfully fabulous people.

Both at Le Moyne and in Kensington, I have been challenged to grow in ways that I never thought possible. 

Both at Le Moyne and in Kensington, I have been given the opportunity to learn so much, in traditional and extraordinary ways.

Both at Le Moyne and in Kensington, there is overwhelming beauty, if you look for it.  And I don't mean pretty scenery, I mean bursting-and-radiating-from-the-cracks-in-the-pavement beautiful.  

And one day, I'll miss Kensington as deeply as I miss Le Moyne.  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kzJqMt1hfUk&feature=relmfu

This one's for the teachers.

I only continue to appreciate the many wonderful teachers that have graced my life now that I am trying to teach my own class.

Somewhere, along the line, I figured out that being a good teacher implied a degree of entertainment.  People are far more likely to remember something if you make it memorable.

I learned this from an English teacher who hopped across the room pretending to be a spider, from a coach with more spirit in her left pinky-finger than most people have in their whole body, and from a physics professor who threw things (both accidentally and on purpose) and occasionally put his own safety in jeopardy, among others.

On Tuesday, in my own attempt to be a good teacher, I took off my shoe and then waved my hand in front of my face (and made the stinky feet face), just to show my beginner class what a shoe was (and keep them captivated).  They laughed, so at least I knew that they were paying attention.

And thus, one of my mantras continues to be: check your dignity at the door.

I dance around the classroom, I sing, I jump, I do whatever I can to make sure I know that they are internalizing the things that I offer to them.  I can't joke with words; that is the exact reason I have these students to begin with: they don't understand the English language.

I repeat over and over small phrases such as "what is it?" and "it's a pencil" with the hope that by June, I won't have to wave a card in their face with the words on it.  Their responses will be as natural as me dancing around the classroom (which is actually pretty natural, believe it or not).

Thus, I enter the classroom every Tuesday and Thursday night, ready to be laughed at.

Tonight, those same beginners are playing Bingo for brownies, a reward for all of the time spent thus far repeating the same questions over and over, with me hoping that I won't have to explain what they mean or how to answer them, again.  Amid the fun, they will actually have to practice knowing their numbers, and the jury's still out on how that will go. 

I've never thought otherwise, but I want to go on record as having said: teaching is not easy, but it can be really fun.

Even if I have to smell my own stinky shoes.

Peace and all good,
Rachel

To be happy...

I signed up for this year, expecting full well that I would be teaching adults, and I am.

There are, however, several children that come in and out of my life at the Welcome Center, and one in particular, of late.

Manny is five, and he only started Kindergarten on Wednesday, so he's made quite a few appearances at the Welcome Center.  Last week, Sr. Pat and I took Manny to the library, and as we picked him up, he told us that the woman who had been watching Manny and her own son, "They made me angry!"

"Why?" we both inquired.

"Because they made me angry."  Five year old logic, of course.  We told Manny that he was too young to be that angry, and he said, "Okay," in this blind acceptance and gleeful sort of stupor.  He always says "okay" that way.  It sounds like sedated joy, and it makes me laugh every time.

"Why are you laughing at me?"  Manny demanded.

"I'm not laughing at you," I assure him.  "I'm laughing because I want you to laugh, too!"

And it's true.  I want him to be happy.  I said to him, "I want you to be happy all the time," and then I retracted the last bit by saying, "well, most of it."

If we're happy all the time, then we are blind to the realities around us.

If we are constantly satisfied, then we fail to realize the value of the things we have.

If we never have to wait for anything, we can't appreciate the time that has been spent so that we don't have to wait.

It's a constant tightrope dance for me.  I want to have a true picture of reality, and the truer it becomes, the heavier it becomes.  I've heard myself say, over and over, "I want you to tell me, I can handle it."  I have also been on the side that thinks that love is to protect the ones you care about by shading their reality for them.

When I was on my silent retreat in August, Fr. Ned told us that, in this world, there was always suffering, but the difference was that, in Christianity, we are invited to embrace that suffering.  I haven't come to a conclusion about how I feel as far as whether or not God "ordains" the painful pieces of our lives, but I know this: without the cross, there is no redemption.  Without something having gone awry, there is nothing to straighten out.

But Manny's only five.

He's still learning.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cfMEmSjkukQ

How to be like Jesus.

It's times like these you learn to love again. 

It's times like these you give and give again.

It's times like these you learn to love again.

It's times like these time and time again.
~ Foo Fighters, "Times Like These"

I spent the majority of my afternoon half carefully, half carelessly, placing labels on envelopes for newsletters.  I thought absentmindedly about who would get them, and I paid a measure (but certainly not a full one) of attention to my two charges, Maria, who is learning French, and Nhi, who was working on an assignment about St. Thérèse of Lisieux.  I rushed through those envelopes so that I could run to the library, where a movie and two books were wating for me.

As it turns out, they are still there, because I rushed through reading the directions and made a wrong turn.  When I arrived to the library, it had closed minutes before.  All of that rushing, and if I had only stopped to pay a speck of attention, I would have known that the library was closing.

I returned, tail between my legs, to an empty office.  I had a couple of things to read and send out before returning home.

The doorbell rang, but, even though I had told Nancy that I didn't mind being in the office alone, I hadn't any intention of opening the door and occasioning any potential trouble.

I continued my reading in the hope that the man at the door would give up.  Not very Christ-like, I know. 

At least four times more he rang the doorbell, a plea to be heard.

An extended period of silence lulled me into a false sense of security: maybe he's gone...

But then, the doorbell.  A high pitch, followed by a low pitch.

Whatever this man needed, he would not be ignored, so I opened the door.

"Is Sr. Pat or Sr. Eileen here?"

No, they aren't.  They just took Colleen up to the novitiate.  They won't be back tonight.

But I still don't know this man, so I put up the yellow caution tape.

"They can't speak with you right now; is there something I can help you with?"

"I need them to help me with some papers," I thought I heard.  "Can I come back tomorrow at this time?"

"Can you come in the morning?" I offered, knowing that the sisters would be here, and that if he came tomorrow at this time, he would be interrupting their dinner.

"I work in the morning," he said, "but I can come in the evening."

We settled on an evening time, and I knew that the sisters would be there to greet this man, whose name I learned to be Antonio.

Before he left, he offered me the bag in his hand, for the sisters.  "It's going to go bad," he said.  It was some sort of cake.

As I closed the door, I was humbled by his persistence, his care, and his gratitude.

The story that has followed me, of late, is that of the Canaanite woman (Gospel of Matthew).  At this point in the Gospel, Jesus has been traveling and he has been trying so hard to stay out of the limelight for just a little while.  His notoriety cannot be quenched, however, and he is approached by an outsider, this Canaanite woman, with a request to heal her daughter.

Jesus replies to her that it is not fair to take the children's bread and feed it to the dogs.  Jesus hung with the outcasts, for sure, but this woman, a Canaanite, was outside of those "outsiders."

 "...even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from the Master's table," she counters.  I might not be in your circle, but I matter, she implies.

Jesus praises her faith, and heals her daughter. 

All I could do was stand there, both awed and dumbfounded, and tell Antonio to come back tomorrow. 

Lesson learned still learning.

Home is a verb.

Last night, I dreamt of the wonderful faces of St. Anthony's School, a place where magic continues to happen every day.  I know this to be true because there were a number of magic wands that poked and prodded at me all year until, finally, my toughened exterior broke open.

It is little more than magic and grace that presents to you the me that is now in Philadelphia.

For years, God has been trying to get me to Philadelphia.  Most of my life, actually.  It started when I was in grade school, and my mother was offered a transfer to Philadelphia with her company, which she turned down to stay in East Greenbush.  It continued with my mother's prodding to "go to Siena," which I promptly dismissed, since Siena was too close to home.  At Le Moyne, I was swirled into the wonder of the St. Francis Inn, which led me to FVM, and ultimately, to Camden.

And Camden was just enough to get me here.

If I watch carefully out the window of the elevated train, I can see bits of the Camden skyline during my commute to and from the Welcome Center.  While it's not St. Anthony of Padua Parish and School, it still reminds me of a place that I have learned to forever call home.

About a year and a half ago, I crafted a blessing that included the following:  "May you remember that home is not an address, but a place in your heart for the family you are given and the family you choose."

The other day, though, reflecting on home, I remembered something that completely snow-globed my understanding of the word:  home is a verb.  

Definition number twenty on dictionary.com for the word home: to go or return home.  And number twenty-two: to navigate toward a point by means of coordinates other than those given by altitude.  

I home is not just a cool piece of technology that will charge your iPod and wake you up in the morning.  It means that I am moving toward a point, toward my home.  Which, by my own definition, is a place in my heart.  

Perhaps the definition is a tad redundant, but the meaning is what matters.  

The part that naturally becomes frustrating is that the coordinates I am getting are not taking me right there.  I must, necessarily, travel to points other than home, because (and pardon how cliche I am going to sound, please) the journey is what will allow me to experience home when I finally arrive, and it will also be the arrival.  

Rosa, one of my co-workers at the Welcome Center, told me yesterday that they feel as though I have been here for five months, even though it's only been about two or three work weeks.  It is as if the spot existed for me this whole time and they were just waiting for me to come and fill it.  

Classes start on Monday morning, and, well, here I am. 

Just in time.

Standing out in a crowd...

I have been living in Kensington now for three weeks.  I continue to confront the reality that whether I live here for three months, three years, or three lifetimes, I will always be an outsider.

My safety net is too strong.

I am a Caucasian female who was born in the suburbs and got an education that many of the people I encounter on a daily basis never even had the option to choose or reject.  The color of my skin and the knowledge in my brain cannot be taken away from me.  There is power in that that I am only beginning to understand.

I am currently part of a volunteer program that supports me financially and spiritually, and while our director claims that we live below the "official" poverty line, I will never be living in economic poverty the way that I see it played out by my "dear neighbors."

I will always have enough nutritious food to eat.  For me, it will not be a question of where my next meal comes from, but when will I go to the store, and what will I buy when I get there.  Knowing that I will be supported in this way allows me to use the knowledge that I have accumulated to buy food that will nourish me, and not merely fill me up.

I will always have a roof over my head, heat in my house, and clothes to wear.  I am fortunate enough to have a washer and dryer in my basement AND a washer and dryer that I can use at work, both free of charge.

I have a transit pass that allows me to take the elevated train to and from work every day.  I am able to ride to work in the safety of mass transit.  Since the pass is for unlimited travel, I am also able to leave Kensington, at no additional cost, and find solace in the comfort of a small park or bookshop.

I will always be an outsider because I will always have an out.

I have many people in my life who care about my well being and about the path that I have chosen.  Those people support me as I make the conscious choice to live this way, even though I might have gotten a job that paid much more, or I might have gone to school, ultimately for the same end result.

Some of those same people would support me if threads in my net began tearing.  Many people here in Kensington don't always have the means to do so for the people that they love, no matter how much they want hold each other up in that same way.

This is the SSJ Mission Corps pledge: give us one year of your life, and we will give you a better understanding of yourself, your neighbor and God.  I came into this year regarding it the way I regarded the promise made by my Jesuit education (that I would be made a woman for others): skeptically.

Here I am, living the truth and reality of both.  I am a woman, for others, who is learning by experience the value of what it means to be in relationship with my neighbor in a direct way.  And I am trying to find God in all of it.

Slowly, but surely.

This race was never to the swift.

Peace and all good,
Rachel

This is *reality* Greg!

Readers, beware!  The title is meant to be a humorous foray into a heavier subject.  To get the joke, you have to know only two bits of context.  The first is that my father's nickname is Greg (which in no way resembles his actual name, but that's another story for another time).  The second is that the line is from E.T., near the end, when Elliot is getting one of his older brother's friends to help bring back E.T.

Elliot: He's a man from outer space and we're taking him to his spaceship.
Greg: Well, can't he just beam up?
Elliot: This is *reality*, Greg!

How does that relate to my day, you're probably wondering.  I hope you are at least wondering that now.

Well, my father and my mother both came to Kensington today with the remainder of the things I was not able to bring on the train when I moved down here.

They told me that when they arrived, before I was able to swoop down and collect them from outside, that they had seen two men shooting up down the street.  I would imagine it was heroin, but honestly, I don't know anything about drugs.  It's the only one I am sure involves a syringe.  At any rate, they were doing well, all things considered, but I could tell that any one of a few thoughts were running through their mind.

- This place is more dangerous than the place we left her last time.

- (My father)  I left the city so that my kids wouldn't live in such a desolate place.

- We're going to take her home, now.

- Rachel must be out of her mind.  How can she be calm right now, when we are trying to be calm and (so obviously) struggling to do so?

Alas, what I want to say to my father is: This is *reality* Greg!

I don't know how to communicate effectively my environment to people who haven't seen it without scaring them, or making them think I am disillusioned in any way, or making them think I have missed some fundamental part of the human experience by being here.  This blog is helping me navigate those waters, but it is far from the whole answer to how I will pass on what I have been a part of here.

Today, I want to emphasize one particular point:

Kensington is part of the human experience.

Every day on my way to work, I walk past dozens of people.  Real people, some of whom are addicted to illegal substances, some who are homeless, some who are single parents struggling to get by.  Soon, I may be sharing my morning commute on the elevated train with students running late to school because they are the parent figure in their house, and sharing my evening commute with nurses who have spent the day caring for the sick and struggling.  Each of the people I encounter is participating in the human experience.

Why then, is my father's human experience so radically different from the two men down the street, shooting up?  I respond with a line from a sign that was on our back porch area last year in Camden, from Mother Teresa.  "God does not create poverty.  We do, because we do not share."

There are so many layers to reality.  Kensington is only one of many of mine.  I invite you to consider which realities are yours.  How does living your human experience affect another's human experience, someone who you will never know?

Peace and all good,
Rachel