Nowa Dziewczyna {Part Two}

Over the last few months though, I’ve been getting to know the girl from Poland even more as we navigate a new sort of foreign world -college. She knew a grand total of three people back in August, so it’s been interesting to watch and see what she has done with her new start -how she chose to present herself to people, what she said about who she was, and how many of the lessons she learned this summer made their way into who she is. As the semester has gone on, I have learned more and more about her and have really enjoyed having the time and opportunity to do so. I’ve learned that…

She loves practically any place that is small, eclectic, or otherwise hole-in-the-wall-ish. She enjoys the quiet, the charm, the uniqueness of these establishments and the way that they almost feel like hers -a secret of sorts that most other people in the busy city miss. Some of the most worthwhile places in her opinion are those that take a little bit of effort to stumble upon. 

She is an absolute wimp when it comes to the cold weather. Like a full on jacket, gloves, hat, scarf, long sleeves and still miserable wimp. I often wonder how she makes it between classes. 

She keeps a journal of quotes with her almost all the time. It is filled with the words of historic figures, musicians, novels, and bloggers and is one of her favorite things to add to. As a result, she can typically come up with a quote [or four] whenever she's asked [and often when she’s not as well]

She loves hiking and bouldering and anything that puts her outdoors. The view from atop Birmingham’s hills and the calm away from the city are some of her favorite things.

She has mastered the art of conversation with strangers because after all, if you can small-talk your way over a language barrier, doing so exclusively in english is a piece of cake. As a result, she has met a host of interesting people in coffeeshops, elevators, and the cafeteria whose stories she never would have heard otherwise.

She enjoys chemistry, psychology, and reading and has no issue admitting to this or that she actually enjoyed the assigned article from the night before. She knows she’s a dork and she’s pretty okay with it.

She still cannot handle a great deal of “girl talk” which she blames on too many years spent as a die-hard tomboy. She leaves most of this to her roommate and much prefers the skimmed down, drama-free synopsis she typically brings back.

She loves thrift stores and used book stores and could spend hours getting lost in each. She loves weathered postcards and vintage photography equipment especially and occasionally wonders if she was born in the wrong era because of it. While there is something to be said for the fresh, pristine clean of a new novel, she has learned to appreciate the well-worn, well-loved text as well. Her favorite finds are often ones that have been extensively underlined, doodled-in, and commented upon because she loves seeing the little pieces of themselves that people before her have left behind. She loves the city’s book exchanges for the same reason. 

She can, in fact, sing in front of people and actually really enjoys karaoke nights at the BCM or singing along [where people can actually hear her] with one of the guy's guitars.The people from her old youth band would be shocked.

She has only a very vague idea of her future career path, but she is determined not to worry about it for now. She is taking her classes, learning, and exploring the world around her. As nervous as it makes her advisors, she is taking a break from worrying about who she should become and is loving every minute of it. 

She is still single. For her polish girls, it has not changed since the last time you asked. Or the time before that. Or the time before that.

It only takes a few meetings with her to see she has a decent list of flaws, but as the semester has progressed, I’ve learned she has her fair share of strengths as well. She is far from the most interesting person in the world or even the most interesting I’ve met, but the more I get to know her, the more I think, 

I kind of like her.

Nowa Dziewczyna {Part One}

I met a girl this summer, in Poland. 

She was visibly exhausted from a long day of flying and far from anything that even remotely resembled her comfort zone. She was happy to be there and excited for the week that lied ahead but intimidated by almost everything and everyone she met at the camp. She assumed that each of them was completely prepared and ready to begin and that it was only a matter of time before they all realized she had no clue. She was constantly wondering how she wound up in the midst of the people she did, with their warmth and depth and magnetic confidence. She was struck all throughout training by her smallness and insecurity and constantly doubted her ability to teach english, to lead worship, to even teach the silly camp dance to the students. She spent most of the first days at H2O enchanted and smiling, but scared out of her mind.

But then she did something I didn't expect and certainly would never have done myself…

She decided she didn't care.

Around the third day of training she gave it up. She decided that sooner or later everyone would figure out her secret -they would find out how little she knew about what she was doing and how insecure it made her feel. So, she embraced it. 

She learned to ignore her insecurity and begin conversations with people before confirming that they liked her. She held talks for hours in two broken languages about nothing more than favorite foods, music, and the fact that no, for the eighth time, she still didn't have a boyfriend.

She memorized the interns' creed: Be infinitely flexible and constantly amazed, doodled it into her binder, and followed their lead as they all found new ways to live it out. 

She admitted to her co-teacher and later to her class that this was completely new to her and that while she would try as hard as she could to do her best, she was still learning at this too. So she would down another cup of spark, open up her binder, and rework her lesson plan…again. She learned the art of creative explanations and that sometimes it’s okay to scrap a lesson and play "ninja" or “singing in the rain” instead.

She played guitar in front of a music major and stopped wincing each time her fingers missed a fret. 

She faced her inability to dance and did it anyways, matching her partner step for step as they moved through each verse of the camp song with the excitement and grace of two four year-olds. She filmed a Disco-Polo music video and joined in the impromptu dance parties between English sessions and traded in her reserve for the chance to be part of something bigger and more important than herself. She didn't even flinch as the Polish school teachers began pulling out camera phones to record the crazy groups of dancing students and volunteers.

She learned to open up. That vulnerability and honesty are sometimes painful but often essential. To not only accept her awkwardness and her quirks, but to embrace them. And she learned this from some of the best. 

She memorized quickly the word przepraszam -polish for sorry or excuse me- and used it liberally as she waded through a new culture and language, always with a smile, a quick laugh at herself, and the resolve to get it right next time. 

And because of all this, she found herself at the thresholds of many new doors. She gained a greater appreciation for the people and stories that surround her and a better idea of just how many people are waiting to be spoken to and cared about and loved. She mastered ‘two-ball’, nearly woke up the campus in a 2 a.m. foosbol match, and fought off swarms of mosquitos the size of South Dakota on the outdoor volleyball court. She learned honesty and openness are far more appealing than perfection could ever be and because of this, found a confidence she never knew she had. She climbed towers in the Czech Republic, wandered the square in Krakow, and ’backpacked’ across Europe with one of her best friends. She finally discovered how to both spell and pronounce Jastrzebie-Zdroj, the town she was living in and made her share of friendships, mistakes, and memories while she was there. 5,133 miles away from her home, she learned a new language, culture, and a few new dance moves, tried the best stuffed dumplings and ice cream she had ever eaten, and had the time of her life in the few weeks she was there.

Saturday Morning Grace

   

     It's sitting alone in the crowded coffee shop, nursing a latte and taking in the hum of conversations all around me. It's being able to stare out the window past the birdcage lantern and take as long as I want to finish my crêpe. It is walking through Pepper Place and marveling at the actual non-cafeteria food that I had forgotten still exists. It's mason jars of sweet tea and buckets of fresh vegetables. It's the way the older gentleman smiles at me and thanks me for my business and the way the apples and fresh flowers smell as he places them in my bag. It's the way people here smile at each other -genuinely smile- and strike up conversations with strangers.
         
     And somewhere amidst the flannel and the tea lights, the worn pairs of boots and the bright white tents, it is Peace. Community. Restoration.

     So often I feel like I pray for these very things -beg for them even- and then sit back disappointed as some great wave of supernatural calm doesn't immediately wash over me. I wonder at the fact that it feels like God must not have heard me, and then the firm knowledge that he did -that I know for a fact that he always does- makes me feel even worse. I look at the week that I've had, the problems I'm facing, or the items left on my ever-growing to-do list and wonder just how much more I have to do to merit a break, what more I need to bring onto my plate before he decides I am deserving of some help. Lost in the distorted scope of my own issues, my fatigue turns to frustration, and I sit like an upset toddler, arms crossed, miffed at the perceived lack of attention.

    And then I have moments like these. Moments of small blessings and brief escapes. Moments that remind me that perhaps God does not only work within great supernatural movements, but in the small practicalities of my day-to-day.
   
     In my fatigue, stress, or determination to feel sorry for myself, I forget to notice and appreciate many of the little moments throughout my day and as a result, miss out on so many of the ways my Father tries to bless me. It is almost as if in looking ahead so intently for the peace that I've asked for, I fail to notice the opportunities for rest and renewal that had already been placed in my life -before I even knew I would need them. It is yet another way that Grace continues to amaze me. The way that I am so well taken care of time and time again even by someone who knows just how often I fail to notice and who continues to pour out his love despite my attitudes, inabilities, and impatience.  
   
      So this morning I am thankful for unique and undeserved moments of grace. That the same God who moves through pillars of fire and great miraculous signs also reaches out through coffee shop window seats and conversations over baskets of tomatoes, and that the God of earthquakes and galaxies and mountain ranges is also a God of fall harvests and Nutella breakfast pastries and a thousand quiet moments. And most of all, that I come across so many more such moments of immense grace and peace and restoration than I can ever recognize enough to be thankful for.

Midnight Storms

There is something incredible about midnight storms at the beach. Something remarkable about the way the claps of thunder echo between the hotels full of unaware, sleeping residents and how the lightning flashes the sky to bright purple, its brilliance reflected across the water despite the fact that I feel like I am the only one awake to appreciate it. It is as if the entire beach, now thankfully devoid of its many intruders, is putting on a grand show for itself, just because it can. The spectacle tonight is vastly different than any daytime shower, and though a part of me feels like I have stumbled into an event on which I have no right to be imposing, it is fantastic, and breathtaking, and altogether wonderful.

Lessons from the Goal Line

     Those who know me well know that I am not by any means a huge fan of football. I'm not sure how exactly I seemed to miss that gene -growing up in the south where both loyalties and rivalries run deep and seem to take on a life of their own- but I did. Whilst all my friends spent their Saturdays in pulsing college towns, clothed in team colors and legacy pins, I was involved in other activities and never once worried that I was missing out. There was nothing wrong with the games, they just weren't for me. There were, however, two exceptions to this rule: I loved going out and actually participating in the sport -whether through powderpuff games at school or saturday rounds of ultimate between churches- and I loved to watch my high school play. There is something to be said about attending a game that you have heard being talked up for weeks, when all you hear in class, at lunch, during breaks is how many points someone is going to score, what elaborate plays will be run, and other reports of imminent victory. It's endearing, I guess.
 

  Because of this, whether the night finds the school meeting against a cross-town rival or a relatively unknown opponent, the way you view the game changes. It becomes personal as you stand and cheer with your friends, wait to see how well the surefire plans actually pan out, and memorize moments that you know will be major talking points come Monday morning. This aspect of community, more than anything else, has gotten me through what has become a Friday night tradition for the last six seasons, game after game spent learning how to balance while standing on top of bleacher seats -often in heels- in the middle of a pulsing student section, and remembering somewhere amidst the freezing cold, the cramped quarters, and the pom-poms that would inevitably make accidental contact with people's faces, just how much fun it is to be a participate in something like that, an event where people are so passionate and so excited, to be part of a whole in a moment that you cannot completely understand or explain, but will never forget either.

Which brings me to this post...

This is the part of senior year that I hate.  Amidst all of the expected decisions and celebrations and milestones the year plays host to a much less glamorous collection of lasts. Last volleyball trip, last Homecoming week, and most recently, last football game.

Sometime while watching the clock tick down the seconds, everyone -players, fans, coaches, parents- began to face the possibility that had been lurking in the back of their minds for much of the quarter -this was it. Six years of blistering summer practices, hours in the weight room, and nail-biters spent under the bright florescent lights of the field could be felt as they came to a close in those final moments and listening to the band's final song took on a different meaning as the defeated faces we looked into were those of our boys and our grade who would never step foot on that field again. Having recently gone through the same situation during the state volleyball tournament, it was not at all difficult to imagine what was going through their heads.

While high school sports are by no means the most important part of life as a whole, they do represent many hours of determination, friendships formed, and memories made. There is nothing that can replace the feeling of a loud, energetic crowd reacting to your performance and the knowledge that all of those people stopped what they were doing to watch you and your teammates do what you love. Moreover, the lessons these experiences teach contribute a great deal toward the people that we are and are becoming. However, becoming these new people requires change and like anything else in life, sports are no different.

As we enter into the new phases of our lives next fall, much will be the same. We'll still be attending classes like we have for years in high school, semi-formals and formals will replace the country club dances we've grown up with, and numerous opportunities for social events will still abound. On the other hand, one of the key facets of these last few years that will not remain for the majority of us is our sports. While there are plenty of opportunities for intramural teams in college and even a few afterwards, it will not be the same. The feeling of pulling on a jersey and going out to prove just what you're capable of to not only your coaches, your friends, and your school, but yourself as well is unique and may only be found in this one chapter of our lives and while it means something different to every person, it is nonetheless invaluable to each.

So even though our status as players and cheerleaders and coaches by no means defines us, and though we realize that in the grand scheme of the rest of our lives what a short and seemingly minor chapter it is, it is important and the feelings it brings are important and as a result, it's alright to sit for a while and recount final drives and battles conquered and trophies won, memories and mistakes made. Because while some may argue that these activities are in no way world-changing or of any incredible importance, the friendships we've formed, the things we've accomplished, and the lessons we've learned have changed our worlds.

Purpose, Purpose, Purpose

     It's been a long day. You know the kind. A day full of back to back appointments, countless people to please, and a list of To Do's that seems to double each time you turn your back. A day of last minute homework assignments scribbled before the bell, of hurried cafeteria lunches spent catching up on a weekends worth of news, and of that English test you forgot about on the book you never bothered to read anyways. Or it's an entire day spent with nothing to do. Of sleeping in, ice cream and pizza and chocolate, and more episodes of your favorite T.V. show than you'd be willing to admit. A day filled with ideas for progress and possibilities that go largely ignored because, after all, that would require work and if your oversized, flannel pajama pants are any indication, none of that is getting done today.
     Whichever way -or combination of ways- that you chose to spend your day, whether it will go down in your book as a successful 24 hours, and despite how it has left you emotionally, one thing is evident -you are exhausted. So you slip in to bed and turn off the lights, relieved that the day is over and it is finally time to rest. Only it's not that simple. The longer you lay there sinking into the cool of your pillow and trying to will yourself to sleep, the clearer it becomes. You may have been able to wash away the physical mementos of your day -the makeup, the sweat, the dirt- but there is something that you seem unable to shake. Something from your day -a particular sight, exchange, or feeling perhaps- returns to your mind, demanding that it be felt and explored and considered. It is in this moment of recollection that you realize that sleep -at least for the time being- is not an option and choose instead to face whatever pressing idea has filled your mind.
     For this brief period, you sit in the quiet and think. Half-asleep and patrolled by a looser sense of practicality, your mind is free to wander and concentrate as and where it wishes. Depending on the night and the catalyst, this leads you in wildly different directions. You take a hard look at your life and decide that you are not all that you would like to be, that you had hoped to be by this time and mile in your journey. You vow to be a better person; to eat better, be kinder, read more, exercise...maybe. Or you decide that you're pretty decent after all and set high and noble goals because in the solitude of your moment, with no one to tell you otherwise, you feel that you can do anything. And maybe you can. Or maybe your mind went in a different route altogether -introspection is not everyone's thing. You decided to tackle a certain issue instead, a problem that you have perceived in the world around you. It might be a global conundrum -a topic of political debates and blog posts worldwide- or something from the world around you -an issue with the way something is handled, a challenge in the life of a friend, a problem that while smaller in scale is of no less importance to you. It might not even be problematic, just something in your life or your day that continues to hold captive your attention. As you ponder it, you begin to realize a great many things about the world around you, evaluate your place within it, or problem solve until you remedy the troubling situation -at least in your mind.
     By the end of this period, you have progressed through a myriad of possible emotions and stages. You have experienced moments of extreme passion, thoughtfulness, inadequacy, contentment, depression, clarity. However, sometime between the making of your midnight vows and ideas and your waking up the next morning, you lose a measure of these. It is almost as if the feelings or even the ideas themselves snuck away as you drifted -finally- to sleep and remain just out of your reach. You forget little by little the keenness of your sense of perception and the tangibility of your ideas and the intensity of your personal call to action. By the time your morning shower is over and you begin the search for acceptable clothing and breakfast options, you have put the late night musing away almost completely, storing it away somewhere deep within your brain in order to make room for the flood of new thoughts and feelings that the coming day will bring. You leave it there until something else in your life brushes off the dirt and requires you to re-examine it once again.
     This happens to me time and time again often because the late, quiet hours of the night seem to be the only times to think. Following the craziness and business of a full day, they are a welcome relief and a time to reorient myself. However, the ideas rarely survive into the daylight hours. Days are full, energy is in limited supply, and there are  not enough hours to see everything that has been pondered or decided in the night through to fruition. It is simply not possible. And so my midnight monologues become just that -monologues, a collection of pretty -or not so pretty- words that never move beyond the quiet darkness of my room. That being said, this is my way of documenting those, of being able to remember my ideas -the ones that seem to be so pressing and urgent and interesting- long after I've awoken and moved on. It's to hoping that even those that may never transform themselves to action can serve to inspire or convict me -and possibly you- in the days to come.