Putting a Feeling to It

I am 32. Very soon I shall reach 33. Or perhaps, it shall reach me.

I’ve never dated. For reasons that could be explained in another posting I grew up tacitly convinced that, like my father, 29 would be my last year. So although I was interested in romance I couldn’t see the utility in it. I never pursued it, and the few times it seemed to pursue me I ran away in terror.

After Time illegitimatized my own personal narrative (the Me-Dying-Before-30 Narrative) I considered how to replace it with a different and hopefully more redemptive one. In the new Narrative (the one that I like best) the plot includes marriage, children, and the adventure of growing with a family of my own. But as more birthdays visit me and the plot continues along a solitary trajectory a different kind of terror assaults me, the terror of being forever single.

“No one cares for my soul,” complained David from the Cave of Adulum. His was a legitimate complaint, holed up in that great darkness because a psychopath political leader was hell-bent on murdering him. He felt the loneliness of rejection and the terror of uncertain death. I remembered David’s song riding my bike today as I was searching for words to craft my terror-feelings into something more tangible.

No one cares for my soul. In David’s words I hear the guttural complaint of deep loneliness, grief, and fear. “Cares for” is the verb-part of his prayer. No one, says he, verbs my soul, actions my soul, looks out for or takes care of my soul. “Soul” is the essence of David, the substance of his being. No one notices or values the him of him. I hear him shriek from the Cave of Adulum. His is a lonely cry.

David’s words echo the feeling of it for me, this feeling of remaining unpursued by romantic love: No one cares for my soul. It feels barren, it carries grief, and it occasionally threatens with shame. Into David's cave I crawl.

I believe that I have emotions because God made humans to look and operate a bit like the ways He looks and operates. So sometimes when I have a feeling – a strong, lingering one, like the one I now have- I try to seize hold of it, bend and project it upwards, and look through it as a lens. The lens can teach me something about God.

This I do. And it surprises me. I learn that God’s nature is not to be solitary, but to enjoy and to relish in being enjoyed. I learn that He too craves intimate, active, holistic love. I learn that God also feels a wild grief when the Him of Him remains unpursued.

The lesson for me isn’t a new one; but finally it is becoming a real one. It is one to which I can now associate a real emotional experience. Through this I’m learning –experiencing- the tangible nature of God. And from my cave, it is a comfort. He is a comfort.

Psalm 142 ends in a redemptive tenor:

"The righteous shall surround me, for You shall deal bountifully with me."

More than I can Handle

February wanes, and with loud laughter. Today sings to me that spring will be soon! A late afternoon sun plays her accompaniment to Saturday’s song, with her rich, golden notes that surge strong upon chilly bursts of wind. All the world beneath her hears the music, and some of us tap our toes. It’s not an impatient tap, but one that contentedly enjoys the Now by joining in on this harbinger-song of spring.

The evening is exquisite and I share River Road Park with Jeff, who shares Duke with me. We walk briskly. At intervals, Duke paces between our bodies or drifts away from us. Jeff holds his lead with strong arms. I’m enjoying the adventure of this new friend. -Who knows where it will take us?

Our conversation, curious and bright, mimics the weather. We share smiles and warm greetings with the handful of humans we pass along the trail. Duke drinks the river. I drink the colors. Jeff drinks my presence beside his. He does not speak to win my affection, to impress me. He is just Jeff, and that’s attractive.

He’s concerned for his parents’ happiness at 62, 63.

–That’s sweet, Jeff, I say with brio.

He conjoins, “Well, I just think that when I’m in their shoes, I want to be happy.”

–And happy at 35 (his age, at present). And 32 (my age, at present), I add, my face shining at his, with meaning.

“Oh there are moments when I’m happy. I’m happy right now,” his voice rises, hopeful and lite at the end, and he shines back at me.

I am listening to his words, to the emotion behind them, and I ponder. Happiness can be a raw and redemptive conversation, if only gently thrust in the right direction. But I won’t thrust. I won’t manipulate this conversation. In this moment my soul is me, at rest. My voice trills, natural, into a pleased, girlish laugh -I’m happy right now, too, and I cast an enquiring glance at him.

But Jeff is looking downward and, uninterrupted by me, tries to continue his thought: “I know He doesn’t give me more than I can handle…” but his voice trails off at the end, revealing that his thought in its fullness, though perhaps true, is dissatisfying to his soul.

Simple, I answer him with a question. –Why do you believe that, Jeff?

“That God won’t give me more than I can handle? Well I’ve always believed that,” turning to me, “and besides, it’s true.” But again his voice ends with a question.

Gently, I probe deeper. -Yes, but how did you get the original thought? From where did it come?

Jeff, pensive, “I guess my mom has always said it.”

We have turned to each other during this brief exchange and time has slowed. Quickly, not to avoid his gaze but in thought, I turn away from him. –I wonder where she got it.

“So you don’t believe—“ Jeff is beginning to guess the motive of my questioning. He's right. I don't believe that little axiom, not theologically nor practically nor experientially.

We’re walking slower, stepping intentional. My thoughts form with each step, building. He has invited my reply and I say -Life itself is so full of more than I can handle. That’s the point, I’m looking downward, scanning where my feet will walk, it’s why I need Jesus.

Sun sets red behind February’s naked trees. I turn my face to Jeff and I am a flash, a grin. The sun catches my eyes and lights them into a green blaze. -Every day life gives me more than I can handle, Jeff. That’s why I need Jesus. Every day.

She and You

Sometimes

Guilt is my closest neighbor.

She knocks at my door,

She stands stubborn on the threshold of my Home.

Chiding me,

"Abbey, you should *do* differently.

*[robotic, formulaic actions, disregarding emotion or desire]*

You should live ӿelsewhere.ӿ

ӿ[relocate to the overpopulated, busy City of Serving]ӿ

Your hunger and grief are your own fault."

So I am temporarily shy with You who live here in my Home.

Like, I am the Problem, it’s me.

I heed Guilt, she dines with me. I give her the queen with the crisp sheets in my spare room.

Until the tears choke,

Anguish floods my lungs.

Till the only way to keep breathing is to weep,

Guilt's presence suffocating me.

Then I have to run to You, I have to bring You the tears and the grief:

"Father? I don’t want to blame You,

Don’t want to kick and wrestle You,

You are not on trial,

I don’t want to question Your goodness.

I don’t even- so desperately- desire You to change my circumstances as I DESPERATELY CRAVE

For You to satisfy me, You Yourself.

Here.

Now."

Wet-faced, I spill off Your lap. You're moving purposefully towards the door. Your kind eyes, laconic, tell me You have a neighbor to shoo.

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"Confidently trust in God, even when you do not see what He is doing. Trust that God, with great compassion, gives you trials in proportion to the help that He wants to bring you. There is no doubt that the life of faith is the most penetrating of all deaths." -Francois Fenelon, The Benefit of Trials

A Monologue to Suffering

The Characters:

Suffering: Shape-shifter; sometimes monolithic, other times miniscule; as Elizabeth Elliot sees it, “having what you don’t want; wanting what you don’t have.”

Human Girl: Easily distracted, often self-absorbed; fighter, lover; bone, muscle, synapse; spirit, soul; philosopher, pilgrim.

The Complaint:

Human Girl (dejected, impassioned, staring out her second story window)

Oh, Suffering! House Guest, arriving unannounced and staying longer than propriety and good society would allow. Stubborn, you linger.

(Pause. Sternly,) Do you think you own this House?

(Pause. Voice rising,) Who invited you?

(Pause. Voice falling,) Are you welcome nowhere else?

I have other goals, but your presence here engulfs me. You occupy my time; you distract my thoughts; you exhaust my emotions.

(Contemplative,) This is why I quarrel with you, Suffering.

This is why I sometimes wrestle you, though you bloody my nose and bruise my arms and still I am the loser:

(Pause. Whispers,) I never invited you.

(Pause.) You’ve stayed too long.

(Pause. Aside,) I cannot be a gracious hostess or a friend to you, Suffering, because, (pause, sighs) as yet, I have no idea how much I need you.

Organizing Chaos

Can you find the tiny Kurdish flag in the mountain? Flags here are everywhere: Patriotism abounds!

Friends and Relations, what a dynamic life we live! Thank you for your unique part in my own! Your kind emails, thoughtful responses, timely encouragement, and simple “likes” to my past Facebook posts have been energizing, have made me smile, laugh, and have reminded me to thank God for you!

Can you help me with something? I will be making much fewer Facebook posts, and possibly also taking a long hiatus from blogging. HOWEVER, I’m NOT going offline and if you’d like to keep up with me and my adventures on the other side of the globe will you (?) …

- Check and see if you received a Mail Chimp email from me circa early-mid Sept. If you DID, you can disregard the next point…

-If you did NOT, sign up HERE to receive my E-Letters (called "Abbey Mac and I-raq Newsletter" )

> -If you’d like my personal email for interactive and more regular communication, please message me through Facebook and I will be happy to share it!

-There are even ways to “text” and “talk” with me and I’d be happy to explain the means by which you can set that up, too!

“No man (or woman!) is an island.” You are the piedmont, the mountains, prairies, forests, and shorelines that constitute my continent and for Who are are, and your role in my tiny narrative, I thank you! All my love,

-abbey mac

This is my grocery store! No, for real peanut butter and coffee. :( Yes, for fresh, affordable produce, drinkable water, and bulk nuts and seeds! :)

First Impressions

Who is praying for me? If you’re reading this post you’re probably guilty. For your influence on my first two days of school being a success, thank you.

I’m teaching three high school courses. In 10th Grade literature I have 15 students. Eventually we’ll read the Epic of Gilgamesh, The Odyssey, and C.S. Lewis’ Till We Have Faces, but this week we’re laying a foundation for why we study literature. My Humanities course is 9th through 11th grade combined, 52 students. We meet in a large “lecture hall” and I talk at them about history (we’re supposed to cover Carthage through the Enlightenment). Today we got to define history and ask “Why does this matter?” My goal is to present History as a story- The Story- that God is telling about Himself through the human narrative of the ages. Journalism is an elective chosen by 33 students. I’ll need creative ideas for this one! So far I’ve filled time by asking them personal questions and giving an overview of the history of journalism. Did you know that some carrier pigeons were awarded medals in wartime? Before today, I didn’t!

With very few resources available to me (several of my classes are lacking books; one class has no book at all- not even a teacher’s manual!) and lacking a “Grand Scale” view of where each course is going I’ve been completely reliant on God as I prepare and give my lessons. I ask Him to provide me with resources and with direction for how to conduct the class. Then, I leave it up to Him and read, think, write, visualize what each class needs, and search online for information. I don’t freak out, I just believe that He’s heard my prayer and that He actually cares to answer it. And that He has the resources to help me. So far, so great! Even yesterday, after only three hours of sleep the night before, while giving the lessons I felt alert, energized, and had so much fun!

Some things that are difficult for me related to school: Name pronunciation… Hearing (my hearing is bad, and there are many competing noises that contribute to my partial deafness. In a classroom, and cross-culturally, this is a recipe for Problems) and understanding the students when they speak: some students have no accent at all while speaking English; others have a very thick one... Not making eye contact with men (how do you look at a person’s face- which is permissible- without looking them in the eyes- which is scandalous-?! Not looking feels very foreign, very uncomfortable to me. Fortunately my boy-students culturally are not considered men, so I can have an authentic conversation with them when needed!)

Some beautiful things related to school: Students are all very respectful, even the I-Don’t-Want-to-Be-Here, I-Have-Zero-Interest-In-the-Words-Coming-Out-of-Your-Mouth, sit in the back row students! ...Our head administrator’s helpfulness towards and care of his teachers. ...My coworkers’ kind friendliness: many are very young, and most, like me, are new this year to this school; most are fluent in English so we can communicate...

In my life here I am very, very confined. This dynamic made my List of Expectations for Life in Kurdistan, and the extent of my confined-ness is not at all a surprise. I’ve learned that I CANNOT run outside and that in Dohuk, women’s gyms (which do exist but in very few numbers) are not places for respectable women. I am VERY thankful for my TRX suspension trainer; it’s a tool that at least helps me sweat a little harder than what the natural climate induces and affords me a little extra movement and a few endorphins. When I do yoga in my bedroom it’s behind a drawn shade (so men-neighbors in the nine stories of apartments above ours cannot see me in shorts and a t-shirt), emphasizing this cloistered reality and magnifying my confinement. I know what leprosy feels like.

Even with these and other challenges (lacking water in our apartment at random intervals; not having electricity when I need it; having electricity but not having the right adapter to convert it into usable energy; currently having only three protein sources available- peanut butter (and within less than a week’s time I have only half a jar left!), eggs, and canned tuna; never seeing the stars because I cannot step outside at night; missing my brother’s wit, my sister’s amiability, Daddy’s wisdom, and Mamma’s love; remembering- or forgetting!- to not put paper down the toilet; etc.) I’m actually quite happy. Because I am confident that this is exactly where my God wants me right now.

God knows what His kids can handle but He also likes to push us. Nonetheless I’m asking Him to provide my roommate and I with an apartment within the school’s neighborhood. This would give us liberty to walk to school on our own (currently we’re dependent upon a driver). We could get to know our neighbors with greater built-in security (in our high rise apartment the flux of people coming and going at all hours of the day/night makes it sketch). And because I’d be within walking distance maybe, just maybe, I could stay after class at the end of the work day and run up and down, up and down the school’s three flights of stairs to release stress, sweat, and grab endorphins! Hannah and I are currently talking with a friend about this whose apartment would become available for us within the month. It looks hopeful!

The entrance to The Classical School of the Medes

The entrance to our apartment complex

Discovering Bookends: Why Rehearsing the Past can Bolster Hope for the Future

A sleepless night. Above the darkness the ceiling stares back at me coldly, offers no counsel or consolation. Mamma had asked me, So Daughter, do you have any fears? Yes, Yes I do. I number them. I am afraid of confinement. I am afraid of not getting [any or enough] exercise. I am afraid of the Loneliness. I am afraid of potential relationship tensions with roommates and co-teachers and students and administrators. I am afraid of shaming my hosts or dishonoring Jesus through my own cultural ignorance… But these are not the fears that surround me tonight.

What steals sleep away is the fear of my own inaptitude. Perhaps failure awaits me in a foreign land. What if I totally bomb it? What if these students are way beyond my ability to teach? What if I get in the classroom and have nothing to say? What if I can’t plan lessons and grade papers and have no clear vision of where I’m taking these students?

And on and on the fears march, encircle, and besiege me. I am prisoner of war to these fears.

Then, like a mediator, the power of memory intervenes. Cease fire.

I think about California, a pleasant memory. I recall my experiences there- very strategic ones God had prepared for me. Each one a rock to plant my feet on. I replant my feet on each one, retracing the steps, remembering…

Tutoring at the Arab American Learning Center (who knew that Sacramento had such a huge Iraqi refugee population? that my church volunteered with the school aged kids there? that my presence would be welcomed?). For once each week I get to be the minority, a foreign tongue invades my hearing, and Middle Eastern children teach me who they are and what they value…

Global Pipeline, a ‘worker’ internship through a local church that envelopes me into a rich community of like-minded friends. We learn Jesus stories from the Gospels. We read and discuss the Qu ‘ran, visit a mosque, and make friends amongst our Muslim neighbors. This community graphs me into their family through laughter, prayer, and quality time…

Teaching Sunday school, way out in the country, I get face time with young people in a small setting. My tiny flock challenges me with their purposeful theological inquiries. I co-labor with God the Holy Spirit to teach us from John’s book…

Substitute teaching, my first real experience in the classroom with authority. How God had prospered that chapter! He gave me favor with students, administrators, and fellow teachers.

I muse on subbing, an Adventure!

I taught in the ‘burbs. I taught in the city: in elite Sacramento communities, and in shady ones. I taught at a charter school, at fundamental schools, at mediocre schools, at handicapped and emotionally disturbed schools, at alternative schools, and at blue-ribbon schools.

I taught Kindergarten (oh, terror! and, oh! Miracle! and, oh, experiment proving the grace of God!), I taught seniors, and I taught everything in-between.

I read stories, ran laps, pedaled bribing candies and awarded with fruit bars. I danced. I played board games and DVDs, walked with and heard troubled teens. I glared, laughed, threatened, disciplined, and learned why some people drink after work. I made a list of “Why Jesus is Better than Substitute Teachers.”

I earned a nickname (Mis sMackdown), earned praise, and felt the sting of failure. I was assaulted with criticism, with hugs, and with students’ encouraging hand-drawn papers. I sent students outside, dismissed them to the principal’s office, left good reports, and left my jacket.

I often made a single outfit last for a week (because each day I frequented a new school).

I taught P.E. and French, Algebra, English, History, and Art. I taught Spanish, study hall, and science. I taught Government, Econ, Music, and Music…

M-U-S-I-C! My thoughts slow, and on my bed a flood of knowing suddenly sweeps over my body. It’s an assaulting physical sensation of astonishment and peace, giddiness and calm: I am remembering that my substitute teaching career literally began and ended. With Music.

Tenth and Eleventh grade Music, Western Sierra Collegiate Academy. At Trader Joe’s the night before I’m rehearsing with my coworkers what to say to these students. They don’t need to know that I’m green, that I’m terrified, that I literally have no idea what I’m doing. Let them think I’m a professional substitute. But I will be straight up with them about one thing: I know nothing about Music. I’ll tell them that today, they are the Teacher and I am the Pupil; they will school me in Music. Kids like that- people like that- when you’re transparent about your limitations. And they like being asked for help. And so I am, and they do. And they sing me through a fabulous first day of school. A strong and satisfying start to my substitute career.

Months later, last week of school, at Cottage Elementary I am filling in for the long-term sub who had been covering for music teacher. Kindergarteners clap, stomp, and chirp their way through class (yes, with hand motions!). Third and fifth graders proudly bellow songs for Years’ End celebration. First and second graders faithfully warble their repertoire. With their songs my career ends, music reverberating from classroom to car, cheering me onto my next adventure…

From under my silent ceiling I consider this, the musical bookends of my subbing career: God saying, Daughter, I began and ended your teacher training with a song. Same as I was in those details, I am in the ones before you. Take confidence, take heart. I like singing and this Song I have for you is a good one. Fast turn on the light and study this from Zephaniah’s book:

On that day they will say to Jerusalem, “Do not fear, O Zion; do not let your hands hang limp. The Lord your God is with you, He is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, He will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing” (3:16-17).

God in the details, God bookending that significant Chapter with verses and song. I relax. This same God, singing over me then, sings over me now. He will sing over me in Kurdistan the same. Because He’s that kind of God, taking delight. A gasp and a whisper, Thank You, Jesus, and fears retreat as sleep invites.