Yes, Grandma. I’m Coming.

“It was sad,” my mother reflected a few years ago. “They all just withered away.”

A few minutes earlier she’d been telling me stories about her parents, their friends, her aunts and uncles, and many other adults who had been in her life when she was young. There was distance on her face in that moment; she could see them simultaneously in her mind: in their younger years and in their older, fragile states all at once.

For several months now my mother has been telling me about the onset and fast-paced memory loss which has been taking over my grandmother (my father’s mother). Confusion about how to use the phone properly; panicking over small misunderstandings; falling down often while trying to walk her dogs. She’s confused just enough to know that she’s confused, and it upsets her.

When I went home for Christmas a few weeks ago I got to experience it firsthand. “Be prepared,” my mother said. “And you know, honey, she’s not going to get better.”

“I know,” I said.

We went to her house on Christmas day for gift exchange and to bring a plate of food from the Christmas Eve dinner she hadn’t felt well enough to attend the night previous. She greeted us at the door like she always has: her two dogs barking enthusiastically at her feet while she opens the screen-door as we climb up the front steps. What once would have been arms thrown open and exclamations of excitement in her Jersey accent is now just a large smile and a shaky, “Hello!” while she tries not to lose her balance from the dogs. Over the next hour we sat at her kitchen table while she ate from the plate we’d brought for her. We explained one of the Christmas gifts we gave her–a small back scratcher, which she mistakenly thought was a pendulum to go with the clock we’d also given her. I hung the clock for her and took down her grocery list. At some point during the conversation we discovered that a local carpet-cleaning company had taken advantage of her, charging her $250 for what should have cost around $90. Next time ask us for help, Grandma, just in case, we told her. Before we left, I re-taught her how to use the TV remote, and she told me how the people at the TV repair store she calls for help get angry with her. I told her not to fret; she can call me instead if she needs help.

I made several visits to her house while I was home, and the week I returned to Durham she had appointments with a neurologist at her doctor’s request. Her memory-loss is developing quickly, and they want to check her overall neurological and mental health so that a more proper assessment about ‘the next steps’ to take in terms of care can be made. When we told her about the tests she needs done, she panicked.

“Oh, Cathy!” she bellowed to my mother with eyes wide and breath quick. “I don’t want to be moved into some room somewhere! I’m so worried!”

“Well, we don’t think that’s going to happen, Jan. Don’t panic. Let’s just get the check-ups first.” My mother said, putting her hand on my grandmother’s arm. We continued to reassure her that she was going to be fine.

This is not the first time my mother had experienced such a reality. The last memory I have of her father, my grandfather, was when I was 12. He was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s when I was young, and spent the final few years of his life in a nursing home. The last time I walked into his room there was on a visit I made with my mother. My grandfather had been a navy pilot in WWII. After the war he flew a plane as a storm chaser, and then finally settled in his career as an eye-doctor, fitting most of my hometown of Vero Beach with their first pair of glasses for the next few decades. He and my grandmother were kind people, using their money to put braces on the teeth of my mom’s high school sweetheart, and pay for him and several other young men to go to college who could not have otherwise afforded it. He then retired, and spent the remaining years he had with my grandmother as madly in love with her on the day she died as he had been when he met her at a friend’s wedding in their 20s. (“You see that girl?” he said to his friend the first time he saw her. “I’m going to marry her.” She thought he had a lot of nerve.) He spent his years as a widower picking up me and my sister from elementary school and spending the afternoon with us while my parents were at work. I remember watching baseball with him in the den of his house. He taught me how to color inside the lines. We used to eat Milano cookies with milk.

And there he was, sitting in a chair with a portable table pulled up in front of him. His eyes were unfocused, and he was drooling.

“Hi, Daddy,” my mom said as she leaned in and gave him a kiss. He looked at her with a far-away expression and said nothing. “Do you know who I am, Daddy?” He did not reply. She motioned to me, standing a few feet off in silence. “Daddy, do you know who this is? Do you know who that is, Daddy?”

He slowly looked up from the table and set his eyes on mine. “Anna,” he said.

“Yes, Daddy. That’s Anna,” my mother said. That was the last thing either of us ever heard him say. He died not long after.

And as I stood in my grandmother’s kitchen unloading her groceries I took a good look around. I thought about how the employees at the TV repair store get frustrated with her phone calls and questions. I harbor no anger–they don’t understand. To them she’s just a confused old woman who cannot work her remote control. Holding a box of oatmeal I turn slowly, looking at our gifts from years past which decorate her shelves and walls. I spent so much time here growing up; this is where my sister and I spent weekends every few weeks, and had Christmas brunches every year. I was standing in the kitchen where she would wave us over to sneak tastes of Thanksgiving dinner while Mom and Dad weren’t looking. You always have to pick the food, she’d say with a mischievous grin while we dug our fingers into the dish. She is the woman who married young, and as a divorcée in the 50s raised two young boys. She is the woman who once interviewed Albert Einstein for her high school newspaper; who was uniformly drunk after one glass of white wine. She never went to college. She never remarried. She was always the life of the party. She never complained.

“Granny, why are you always smiling?” I once asked her while we were in the car on the way to her house for the weekend.

“Because I’m always happy!” she exclaimed, grinning even larger and looking at me while I sat in the passenger seat.

I put the oatmeal I was holding in her pantry and finished unloading the groceries. The TV was roaring loudly in the living room so she could hear it. I heard her talking to my two nieces who were in the room with her, playing. As I looked in from the kitchen she put her shaky arm out to my oldest niece, Marcella, who is two years old and looks remarkably like me.

“Come here, darling. Come sit with Great-Grandma. Come here, Anna,” she beckoned her, confusing Marcella with a young me.

Yes, Grandma. I’m coming.

- Anna -

“Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.” -James 1:27

Bed and Breakfast

The best breakfast I have ever had was in the Namirembe Girls’ Hostel in Kampala, Uganda. We had arrived the night before around 10:00 at the Entebbe International Airport, and with the exception of a bump or two regarding our luggage, we headed to our hotel without delay. We were escorted by the man who would be our guide for the remainder of our trip, Reverend Asa, and our driver, Casey. About 30 minutes later–tired, jet-lagged, but altogether cheerful–we found ourselves sitting in the lobby of our hotel in a strange country on another continent being told that there was a mistake, ‘they had no rooms reserved for us’ like we had been told before we left America.

Well, this was a problem.

However we very calmly and coolly collected our things as Rev. Asa piled the six of us back into the van, and said, “I know somewhere we might go.” So we went: across the city (or at least it felt that way, since I had no concept of our location) until we arrived at a gate with an armed guard out front. A few moments later we were waved in. I saw a sign in the dim light as we passed that said, “Namirembe Girls’ Hostel”, and soon after that we were standing outside the van, being waved up by Rev. Asa, who had gone up ahead of us to speak with those inside. As I looked around I saw very few outside lights, and no lights coming from any of the windows on that side of the building. We climbed the stairs to the second floor balcony, and were suddenly greeted by a Ugandan man in his pajamas and a bathrobe. This was Patrick.

Later, when people asked what I would have done if I had been somehow separated from my team in the middle of Uganda, I told them, “I kept a $20 American bill on me at all times,” ($1 = 2200 Ugandan Shillings). “I would have waved it at a taxi driver and said, ‘Take me to Namirembe Girls’ Hostel in Kampala.’ I would have found Patrick.”

Tall, lanky, and wearing two sleepy eyes and a large, tired smile, within thirty minutes this man had given us rooms with our own beds, bottled waters, and shown us where the bathrooms and showers were located. Shocked and overwhelmed by the kindness this stranger was extending, we thanked him profusely and made way to our rooms. After a few minutes of chattering, unpacking, and listening to wolves howl in the distant night, we settled into our pajamas and climbed under the mosquito nets into bed.

Early morning fog hanging over the courtyard at Namirembe, just before going down for breakfast.

The next morning we all showered and went downstairs to have breakfast with Patrick, his wife, and the several other adults who lived at the hostel. The table looked set for a king, in my eyes. There was a box of the Ugandan version of cornflakes, room temperature milk, small sweet bananas, sliced-bread and a greasy spread that tried very hard to be butter, boiled eggs, instant coffee mix, and Ugandan tea. As we ate together we listened to Patrick tell us about the hostel. He ran it on behalf of the Church, housing for girls in Kampala while they got an education. His voice was slow and melodic, smoothly carrying across the room. We’d apparently stumbled onto his doorstep during a week break from school, leaving the hostel and all of its rooms empty and available. Our stay, costing us significantly less money than our hotel would have charged us, was money Namirembe greatly needed.

As I sat there taking in everything I could from our first morning in Uganda, I remember thinking, I don’t think I will ever forget this meal. After we finished eating the team all went upstairs to pack our things while Fr. John went with Patrick to pay and thank him for his unparalleled hospitality. Lindsey, Angela and I leaned on the balcony outside our rooms overlooking Namirembe’s center courtyard covered in the morning mist.

“It’s amazing,” I reflected aloud. “I don’t even feel like we’ve gone very far from home.”

“Really?!” they both exclaimed. “No,” Lindsey continued, “I feel very, very far away from home right now,” and we continued to lean over the balcony and take-in our surroundings. By mid-morning we’d said good-bye and gave our final thanks, piled into the car, and began the eight-hour ride to Kasese.

Believe it or not, I told you that story so I could tell you another one. (I promise, it will be shorter than the first.)

The doorway out of Lindsey and Angela's room to the balcony at Namirembe. Photo Cred: Lindsey Thompson

Last week was “Finals Week” here at Duke University. While many of the first-year Master’s students in my department had finished by Wednesday, those of us who had decided to take either Greek or Hebrew were the last to finish, rounding off our finals week with a language exam on Friday. On Thursday evening five of us hijacked an empty classroom in the Divinity School; we translated Greek sentences, memorized vocabulary, recited grammatical rules and the like. I was standing at the chalkboard reproducing verb paradigms as my friend Katherine called them out to me. We began chatting about Christmas while we worked.

“I always feel such a sensation of relief at Christmas time,” I said. “It’s as if every year I get to Christmas, and I suddenly exhale, you know? It’s not because classes are over and I have time off of school–though that’s nice. But this season always reminds me that in the middle of history everything started over. I don’t have to worry about it any more. ‘It is finished.’”

“Yeah,” Katherine replied, “I know what you mean.”

“It’s amazing how much I forget it though,” I was thinking out loud at this point. “It’s strange, I think. That very news which prompted me to become a Christian is the same news I forget most often.” Then a light bulb went on in my head, “I think that’s why I like Eucharist so much,” I continued, standing in front of the chalkboard with a half-completed Greek verb paradigm scribbled in front of me, waving a piece of chalk around as I tried to articulate what I was thinking. “Every week I get to go to a table I have no right to be at and share a meal, reminding me that I’ve been invited in. It’s over. I don’t have to worry.”

We all paused for a moment, and then I embarrassingly said, “Anyway,” and continued writing the paradigm on the board.

I keep thinking about it, though. Every week we get up and go to a table that we are only able to approach because of the unparalleled hospitality of a God who invited us. We are outsiders: foreigners who found ourselves in an awful predicament, and instead of being left out in the dark of the night we were given rest and nourishment–a bed, and breakfast.

Often I joke with my classmates that at the eschaton I am going to hunt down people like Simon Weil and Ignatius of Antioch and ‘high-five ‘em!’ and I certainly do intend on it. But if I never make it back to Uganda in this life time, then upon my death and arrival to the other side, I am going to wave my hands in the air, and flag down the first person I see.

“Take me to Patrick,” I’ll say. I want to have breakfast with him. And I hope the menu has not changed.

-Anna

When my thirst got great enough to ask,
  a clear stream welled up inside,
      some jade wave buoyed me forward,

and I found myself upright
  in the instant, with a garden
     inside my own ribs aflourish.

There, the arbor leafs.
   The vines push out plump grapes.
       You are loved, someone said. Take that

       and eat it.

excerpt, Mary Karr, “Disgraceland”

The Final(s) Push

My latest update letter, for those not on the mailing list.

My friends,
Whew! I cannot believe it came so soon, but my first semester is over! I am surprisingly less exhausted than I imagined I’d be, but I am still tired. Ahead is two full weeks of exams before I can officially say “I’m done!” but we’re getting close! I fly home for Christmas on the 19th to spend about ten days with my family, and then fly to New York City for New Year’s Eve to see my old roommates from undergrad! Needless to say, December looks pretty exciting (and busy!) all around.
It’s been an exciting semester, packed full of seeing my first snow, and being introduced to the new world of “ice scrapers” for one’s car, and the art of “coat over jacket over sweater over tank top–and don’t forget your scarf!” This South Florida girl is quickly learning the ways, and my friend Laura, who is from Illinois, finds the whole affair to be quite amusing. It’s been a semester of befriending interesting locals and encountering exciting out-of-town guests–like this past week, when I was afforded the incredible opportunity of hearing Walter Brueggemann speak at Duke Chapel.
I spent Thanksgiving here with friends, and we of course had enough food to feed 20 people. However there was only four us, so everyone took home quite a hefty amount of leftovers. I am also still working at Copa Vida Coffee, and still loving every minute of it. Not only does it allow me to interact with those outside of the Divinity School, but it also makes me feel more a part of the local community. Ironically, I gave up caffeine a few weeks ago, which makes working at a coffee shop a bit laughable, but I still drink decaf, and maybe a cup of half decaf/half regular, when I feel like going wild. My customers all find it to be hysterical, and a few always ask, “So how’s that no caffeine thing going?” as I serve them their lattes. Meanies.
So much has changed since I first moved here, and I have grown to truly love the everyday life that has come with it, even though it means almost all of my time is spent on campus between one or two buildings. But that is easily forgivable, especially since most buildings at Duke look like something out of Harry Potter. The long days are a bit wearisome, I confess, with a lot of us spending sometimes 12 or more hours at school in a day, several days a week. It is commonplace to see one of my peers sleeping on a sofa in the student lounge of the Divinity School; it is even more commonplace to hear people discussing how exciting it was to discover that there’s a private shower in the school, which makes all night study sessions without sacrificing hygiene a possibility. I have not quite gotten to that point yet, however I pass no judgment–those of us who haven’t reached that point are always teetering the line. All in all, friendships are growing stronger, community is building, and a sense of “normal” and “home” is seeping-in. There’s a strong feeling of camaraderie among us, and several upperclassmen have noted that my class in particular seems to be remarkably close. I agree whole-heartedly. I think we’ve all been having a lot of fun together, but we’ve had our more somber moments as well. A few students have already faced personal tragedy; more than one peer has confessed that they’re not sure if they want to come back next semester; friends went home for Thanksgiving to face families who just don’t understand the life they have chosen to pursue; feelings of inadequacy, fear and doubt have checked many of us; and during a presentation all sat still as we watched one of our classmates fight back emotions, struggling to articulate what it’s like to adjust back to life in America after several years in Africa.
The sobering reality is that the life of ministry–in whatever capacity we serve–is hard. So it would make sense that Divinity School would be hard, too. And it is. But what’s been most important for me lately is understanding the balance between “getting the job done” with our classes, and holding one another up when it gets tough. In my experience, holding one another up tends to be the more common job to which all of us in community are called. And those around me have been teaching me all of the incredible ways in which we walk hand-in-hand with each other, encourage those on our left, and on our right–and when necessary, how to carry one another. On so many occasions, during conversations about classes, and work, and personal struggles, I’ve heard people say to one another, “Don’t panic. We’re all in this together.” And we are.

Merry Christmas,
Anna

Greek Fatigue

I’m taking Greek this semester, and I cannot begin to describe to you how frustrated I have been with this reality. Greek is my fifth language to date. In high school I took three years of Spanish (don’t be fooled, I took three years, but I only got up to Spanish II); in my undergrad I took three semesters of Ancient (mainly Biblical) Hebrew–a dead language; after that I took a semester of Syriac (which is a form of Aramaic)–also a dead language (though there are still variations of it that are alive and well); my last semester of undergrad I took German (pass/fail, so nothing stuck. Big mistake); and here I am, in Hellenistic Greek–my fifth language, third deceased.

Now, in all fairness, as much as I went kicking and screaming into my first class, my teacher is probably one of the best language teachers I have had (and as you can see from above, I’ve had quite a few, and some good ones for that matter), and believe it or not Greek itself has come easier than any other language I’ve taken thus far. For some strange reason it also makes German easier, but we’ll get to that in another post at another time. So I forgive you for being dead, Hellenistic Greek. I forgive you.

So! Here I was today in Greek class. I’ve been weaning myself off of coffee the last few days, partly because I’m a caffeine addict and partly because they’re contributing to my anxiety attacks–also for another post at another time–so I was sipping a hot, fresh cup of green tea with honey instead. The teacher is going over the homework from the previous night, and after we discuss “an interpretive decision that so-and-so made with this sentence in translating this particular preposition in the accusative form–” you get the idea…

I raised my hand, quite frustrated with “so-and-so” and his interpretive decision-making, and began expressing this opinion for no other reason than to have said my peace about “so-and-so” (the author of our textbook and who probably lives a thousand miles away). Clearly I am stressed.

Five minutes later, when we’re moving on to discuss the next chapter in our book:

“You all right, Anna?” asks Teacher.
“Yeah.”
“It’s a lot of information to take in, but all of you are doing really well,” says Teacher, addressing now me and the whole class.
“Yeah, I know. I just…”
Pause
” …I just want to go home.” Classmates begin laughing, and several nod in agreement. “I just want to go home. I want to hang out with my two year-old niece and dance with her to her favorite Michael Jackson song,” which is ‘P.Y.T.’ in case any of you were wondering, “vegetate with my mom on the sofa, and watch movies all day long.”

And I do. I cannot wait to get home. Things here are wonderful. And Tallahassee was wonderful when I visited. But sometimes a person just needs to go home. To go be with people who have nothing to do with the mountainous (and sometimes idolatrous) life of schedule! and busy! and crazy! and deadlines! and papers! and madness! and IhavesomuchworktodoIhavenotimeforfoodorbowelmovementsanymore! so that I can not talk about any of it with them, and I am forced to talk about something else.

And there need not be any kind of philosophical or deep, analytical meaning or reason behind it. I just miss them, and I cannot wait to go home.

Four weeks, and counting . . . Αμην.

-Anna

Prior to Long Journeys

Prior to Long Journeys

Looking back to my roots,
long journeys, many steps,
how gracefully my homeland
has run after me, snow covered
those glittering clouds
just above the changing mountains.

Like a small child am I
whose heart cannot match
the rhythm of this world.

The lonely wind has gone
with me. In me is desire, desire
such hope it brings!

Maybe I will fall into
the emptiness of my youth.
Quite alone is this home
with the door latched
and behind me the serenity
the emptiness
all my long journeys.

by Ali F. Bilir

[The first time I heard this poem it was read by the author's daughter in its original language of composition--Turkish. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard.]

High School Reunion

Last night I had a dream that I was at my high school reunion . . . so naturally, it was a nightmare, not a dream. Haha, no, but seriously–I have these dreams all the time: I’m standing there in this really stale looking ballroom, probably in a hotel somewhere, and sometimes there’s a faceless figure next to me (presumably my husband, should I be so fortunate to be married); everyone’s spending their time being superficial and discussing all their accomplishments and how great their lives have become; everyone wants to know who’s become most successful. All the while I stand there with my glass of wine and think about how much I hated high school. It was superficial, hateful and fake.

At some point during the last few years I realized that I spent most of my high school years absolutely terrified of everyone. Not that I hadn’t good reason: I spent those high school years trying to make friends with the same people who physically bullied me in middle school. And when you spend enough of your developing years with people both in the school system and in the church who make it their business to make you feel worthless and small, eventually you give and expend all of your energy searching for the approval of just about anyone. All the while who you really are retreated into the depths of inner-silence years back.

But I think if I’m going to be an adult, and look back on those years as objectively as possible (which isn’t really possible); if I’m going to go around searching for the energy and strength required to forgive people who to this day the thought of and the things they said and did still make my stomach churn; if I’m going completely live in the freedom of that world no longer existing for my life, then I think I need to remember a few things.

First–and this is a point I’ve had no trouble with–high school is over, and I don’t ever have to go back. Praise the Lord, anyone with me?

Second: just as I’ve changed, so have other people. Some people who are ignorant douchebags are going to remain ignorant douchebags for the remainder of their days, but not everyone. Just as who I was in high school was a facade over the real person living inside, so too were other people hiding. That knowledge is enough to give me motivation to pursue who they really are, both who they’ve become and who they always were beneath it all.

Third: I’m not terrified of anyone anymore. I mean, I haven’t been for a while–probably several years–but I think in the last year the thought has finally articulated itself in my head. I love my life, my friends, the dream I’m pursuing, my community. I’m in no way ashamed of the life I lead or the people I have in that life. I think I do have to give credit to a few high school students I worked with this past year who, just by being who they are, brought healing to so much of my hatred for their entire age-group.
Well, maybe not the entire age-group . . . okay, maybe the entire age-group.
But in all seriousness, their lives were just so different than the reality I experienced at their age, and have seen perpetuate in many groups. Indeed, just to work with high schoolers as an adult was definitely a bit of irony for me. I cannot count how many times I threw my hands up and thought, “God is laughing at me, I know it.” And he was, but when you loosen up a bit you realize that it’s because the joke is funny. And these particular students lived in such a way that reminds me that life doesn’t have to be the way everyone is living it. Just because it is doesn’t mean it should be or has to be, and so for them it isn’t. Which is pretty radical, and pretty cool.

And finally: it is such a wasted spiritual energy to withhold forgiveness from other people. And while I’ve been in the process of forgiveness for several years, and have let go so much, I would be lying if I said I’d let go of it all. I have to wake up every day and choose to not wish broken dreams and unhappiness for certain people. I have to wake up each morning and remember that they’re people, too, and if God does not withhold forgiveness from them or from me, then who am I to withhold it? Moreover, just as I am not to withhold forgiveness from others for being . . . well, stupid teenagers when we were 16, I also cannot withhold forgiveness from myself, either. I have to forgive myself for the time I wasted hating people, for the vicious, horrible things I said (often on this blog), for the friendships I destroyed with people on my rampage of anger and bitterness and disdain for all things “hometown.” In some ways it’s also hindered me from truly loving the new places I’ve lived and loved, and that’s not a good option either. I am under no impression, mind you, that anything I’m saying here is in any way profound; it is liberating just to say it.

Now, whether or not any of this means I’m going to make time to go to my high school reunion is a different story. But it’s certainly a start.

-Anna

Little Mercies, Little Mercies. It is Good.

A copy of my latest update letter.

My dearest friends,
Greetings from North Carolina! I have just finished my second week at Divinity School, and it feels like so much has happened since my last letter. My roommate, Laura-Allen, and I are in “the full swing of things” here, with books to read and papers to write. Every morning I arrive at school around 7:45, drop my things, drink coffee and head in to Morning Prayer by 8. I’ve made the commitment to attend Morning Prayer daily, and while I often stumble-in sporting a very classy “sleepy-eye,” I confess that this is probably the most incredible part of my day. The beauty of the early morning sun shining through the windows of Goodson Chapel (the chapel in the Divinity School) never gets old. Plus, I am instantly robbed each morning of ever forgetting why I am here–and that is a great comfort.

I spend each day juggling class and spending my free time between those classes reading and writing for them. And after a long, hard day of soaking in all the things I had no idea that I didn’t know, participating in communal weeping with my fellow Divinity students over the complexities of Greek “declensions” (I don’t even want to talk about it), and drinking a minimum of 3 cups of coffee, I head home to eat dinner, drink more coffee, do more school work, and fall asleep by 10pm without difficulty. Though, I should make clear that I am absolutely loving every minute of it; the new students are beginning to build community, encouraging one another and reminding each other that we’re in this together. When I am not in class I am involved in the Anglican/Episcopal House of Studies (AEHS), I play Ultimate Frisbee every Friday (a way of celebrating the arrival of the weekend), am attending All Saints Anglican Church, and working two 8-hour shifts at Copa Vida Coffee a week. Needless to say, I am a bit tired, but in a good way.

As for my heart, soul, and sanity–well, let’s say it’s all still in progress (but are we ever not a ‘work in progress’?). I am reminded daily that humility is not only something we learn through experience, but also something we must actively choose each morning; through humility we are made teachable, and only then can we appreciate the vast amount of ways others, even in positions of authority, are serving us. And the kindness of others here truly abounds. I am also learning that sometimes the place we want most to be is not necessarily where we are supposed to be, and sometimes to go where God calls us the sacrifices can be excruciating. I confess that at the end of the day, my heart longs most for Sonya Cronin’s cooking and Brian Cronin’s jokes, the high-pitched shrieks of my middle school girls when they see a bug, Ashley Wallace’s gloriously strong coffee, and the sight of the high school boys destroying Fr. Andrew and Wes Winfree at “foosball.” However, lack of ease is not a lack of affirmation. And I would be lying if I said that it doesn’t get better and better here every single day. Everything has changed, but I am genuinely happy. It is good–and I mean that in the fullest sense of the word.

Blessings,
Anna

Christie

I was getting out of my car a few minutes ago in the parking lot of my apartment complex. I shut the car door, locked it, and began walking down the lot toward the mailboxes. A young boy on a bike rode by, and we exchanged “Hello’s” as he passed. Then, a young girl followed a few seconds later on her bicycle.

“HI!!” She shouted emphatically.

“Hi!” I smiled back.

“You look pretty,” she said as she approached and slowed her bicycle to a stop. Surprised, but flattered, I took a good look at my unexpected admirer. She couldn’t have been more than 8 or 9 years-old, her braided hair resting on her shoulders. Her two front teeth stood confident and large at the front of her mouth, surrounded by two rows of baby teeth, subtly interrupted here and there by gaps.

“Thanks! I think you look pretty too!” I replied, with genuine gusto and returned sincerity.

“Really?” she asked, as though baffled that I thought so. Her outfit was the same color blue as her bicycle–what’s not to love? This girl has style! And her skills with linguistics had her quickly climbing her way to the top of my ‘Favorite People in the World’ list.

“Yeah! What’s your name?” I asked.

“Christie.”

“Well, Christie,” I said as I reached out my hand and shook hers, “I’m Anna. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Will you be my friend?”

“Absolutely!”

“Okay,” she smiled. “Bye!!!” And she rode off to catch up with her friend. I gathered my mail from the mailbox and headed back down the lot toward my apartment door.

I think God sent her to me.

Cast and Catch

I remember, when I was about 14 years-old, my mother encouraged me to wear make-up because I was “in high school now, and don’t you want boys to think you’re pretty?” Now, first of all, in defense of my mother, she was battling a very large front–one of epic, gothic, “I only want to wear black,” and, “I never want to wash my hair” proportions–but all the same, I remember it. I had (and still do) an incredible, beautiful older sister. I came home once from school and heard my mom telling a story about how “I called Mrs. So-and-So to ask about your sister’s paper today; and then [the teacher] went on and on about how all the boys in the class are in love with your sister, and it’s so funny…” (True story.) Or I’ll never forget the time a boy in my class saw my sister’s yearbook picture; and after calling over all the boys in the class to see it, and raving about how “hot” she is, he looked me up-and-down and exclaimed, “Wow! You guys don’t look anything alike.” (Also a true story. But it’s okay, you can laugh, I’m at peace about it. Haha).

Granted, I was a bit awkward. I spent about a year and a half refusing to wear colors, was late in the game of learning personal hygiene practices, and spent much of my class time freshman and sophomore years writing emo-poetry. Never-the-less, I kind of always got this impression that I’d somehow enter this mysterious, magical dating-world when I hit high school. That suddenly I’d wake up and boys would go from thinking I had cooties to thinking I had beauty. And with a sister who was 2 years older and (from my humble perspective) just about everything there was for me to achieve in the “Incredible” Department (just for the record, she’s still everything I want to achieve in the Incredible Department. She’s everything amazing and wonderful), needless to say I had definitely had this “dream cast” for high school. A net for high school was cast, and what it would catch would be my transition into the woman world from the girl world, and it would be marked by boys thinking I was pretty and pursuing me.

Welp, so much for that!

When I was 17 I got my first boyfriend, and a few months later that ended. Shortly after that I got my second (and at this point, last) boyfriend… and that, too, ended within a few months–before I’d made it to my 18th birthday, no less. And I remember after one of these break-ups tearfully looking at my sister and exclaiming, “What did I do? When is it my turn?” One’s got to wonder if that came from the tragic depths of post-break-up hurt, or if it was simply my realization that I’d cast a net, and years later had arguably caught nothing at all–or at least caught a reality that was not in line with the dream for which I’d cast it.

So of course, the summer before I left for college, I heard a lot of, “You’re going to go to FSU, and meet all these wonderful guys who will sweep you off your feet.” Or, “You’re going to meet someone in college who is going to think you’re so wonderful…” (blah blah, you get the idea). Comfort talk.

Or, in other words… a new net had been cast. And this time, the dream-casting was for college; the old net which had been cast for high school had been eternally put to rest (R.I.P. Net#1).

Without going into as much detail (for the sake of your eyes and my fingers), I’ll simply say: that net, too, proved faulty. I successfully graduated from the university Cum Laude and sans Love Life. Not one date *takes a bow* (R.I.P. Net #2)

Why am I telling you this? Not for your sympathy, nor from some deeply rooted low self-esteem thing (I’m quite happy with myself, actually), nor still for comments where you tell me I’m beautiful, or that some man is going to love me some day, or something something something whatever whatever.

I’m telling you all this to tell you something else: when I got in to Duke… it started again! *sigh* The whole, “You’re going to go to Duke, and meet some awesome guy… blah blah blah blah.” For clarification, though of this I have not yet been accused–I’m not going to Duke to get an Mrs. Degree! To go into the crippling amount of debt into which I am in order to attend this Master’s program, I’d have to be either extremely desperate or extremely stupid to do so only for the sake of “hopefully” getting married one day. For heaven’s sake! Enough said on that hypothesis.

Nevertheless, the net was slowly being woven. Little bit little, inch by inch, a friend here, a mother there, a godmother over here, a family friend over there. They all were simultaneously weaving this net to cast for me and my new life in Durham (“You know, I’ve always pictured you with someone a little older.” <– WTF?!?!). And then, as though almost out of nowhere–slightly out of somewhere–I woke up one day this summer with this overwhelming realization:

Some people don’t end-up married.

Normal people! Beautiful people! Intelligent people! Great personality, life of the party, crafty, easy to be around, “I didn’t choose to be single,” people! Some people stay single always! Some people never meet anyone! Some people are just freaking unlucky!

I’m not saying this to be pessimistic (though as I expressed to my friends Daniel and Kathryn about a month ago, there’s just no way to express what I’m thinking without sounding more pessimistic than I really am). But while I’ve always known that some people don’t get married, it’s different when it’s you. It’s different when you wake up one day and realize that for the past several months you didn’t even notice that you’d started accepting the fact that it could totally be you. There is no reason why I should be more likely to wind-up married and in happy romantic bliss than any other person. I know lots of older, single, incredible people. I know someone who is beautiful, and smart, and independent, and kind, and an amazing woman… and she’s in her 30s and single. Moreover, I must quickly, yet gracefully, assert to my female friends that if you’ve never been “that girl”–you know, the one who was never asked out on a date in college, that guys never pursue or express interest in, who was the comfort-friend during all of her friends’ break-ups, who was invited to 9 weddings in one summer; if you’ve never been her, you will never understand what it’s like to be her. I’m sorry, I love you, but you just won’t.

I have no idea why I’m telling you this, or typing it out for all the world to read other than to say:
Net casting is stupid. And I can’t do it anymore. I cannot live my life constantly hoping for a catch, or to be a catch to someone else. And I’m not saying that I don’t want to get married (trust me, I really do). But what I am saying is that I’m exhausted. It’s so tiring putting so much effort into something that may or may not be what’s intended for my life. I have got to come to grips with the fact that some people never get married, and I may end up one of them. The people around me need to come to grips with that fact, just as I need to come to grips with the fact that some of my friends may never get married either. It’s not that I’m letting go of some dream of marriage one day. This is just where I am in my head right now, and I really think it’s okay. I really like the fact that when I dream about my future, and all the amazing things I’d like to do and places I’d like to go, sometimes I think about it in the context of marriage, and very often I don’t. I think it’s healthy that dreaming doesn’t start there, and I would be concerned if dreaming stopped there.

I remember, about two years ago, being on the phone with a friend of mine. During a conversation in which he reflected on a friendship gone sour, he said, “Part of growing up is realizing that people can be happy without you.” And he’s completely right. And I think, too, part of growing up is realizing that there may never be a man who “likes it and puts a ring on it” (you know, so-to-speak); that the ‘dream’ my net (or everyone else’s net for me) was intended to catch could be perfectly happy with someone else.

I’m not saying I’m okay with a single, celibate life and future. I’m single and very open to the notion of dating. And to be honest, giving up the dream of being a mother one day would be excruciating, to say the least.

But, I am saying that at some point it’s time to grow up. I don’t think nets are bad, I just think we should be careful. There’s always a catch.

-Anna

A More Detailed Report

Today I sent out a more detailed update of my new life here in Durham. I thought I’d copy and paste the e-mail here, in case anyone who may have been forgotten on the e-mail list wants to know what I’m up to. And if you would like to be added to the e-mail list, don’t hesitate to let me know.

Friends and family,
Greetings from North Carolina! I am writing to you from a local cafe here called, “Mad Hatter’s,” enjoying a hot cup of coffee, and every few moments getting a nice whiff of fresh pastries that it’d probably be best I stay away from. I have been in Durham for two weeks, and I can tell you that it’s been quite an exhausting two weeks! On Sunday, the 25th, I and my friend Cody loaded everything I own into our two cars and made the 10 1/2 hour drive to Durham, (which actually took closer to 12 hours, because we got lost in Georgia. Lovely). We began moving in to my new apartment Monday afternoon; on Tuesday I, by the grace of God and with the help of a local friend, had already secured a job as a barista at a local coffee shop; and on Wednesday morning, Cody had left to head back to Tallahassee, and that afternoon my new roommate left for Colorado until August 15th.
So there I was, in my brand new (we wont call it “tiny,” we’ll call it “quaint”) apartment, all alone. I’ll spare you the details and simply say that I most certainly did not sit on the floor of my empty, furniture-less living room and cry my eyes out for hours, several days in a row. Nope. Nor did I cry when I turned on the television for the first time and realized that the channels were different. I definitely did not cry when I found out that there is not a single Publix in the entire state of North Carolina, nor when I discovered it’s alternative, Kroger, doesn’t carry Tempeh. And I most certainly did not cry the first time I got lost in the city (or as I like to call it, “involuntary exploring”). No, no, I’m a tough one, weathering every difficulty and trial with the world’s most unbreakable poker face.
Throughout last week and the week before, I spent much of my time unpacking, little by little, and I am happy to report that this weekend I finally finished emptying the last duffel bag and the last box. I also did productive things during my breaks from unpacking, like building a pantry, buying hand towels, and not crying some more in different rooms of the apartment. On Monday of last week I started my new job, which I really like. It is at a new coffee shop here in town, called Copa Vida Coffee, and it’s right across the street from Duke’s campus. It’s been an incredible opportunity to meet new people, and my boss, Christine, is a wonderful young Christian woman who is still a little new to the area herself. She’s extremely kind and encouraging, and a blast to work for and with. And the name of the coffee shop itself, Copa Vida (or, “Cup Life”)–while in ways is alluding to coffee–is also alluding to communion. Plus, while I’ve worked at a coffee shop before, it’s been a great opportunity to learn a bit more about the coffee trade. For instance (Angela Hobby will appreciate this one), on my first day of work I learned that if I fill a mug with coffee and then tilt it slightly toward me, it will spill down my front, and I can thereby go through my first shift looking like I’ve peed my pants. And on my second day I learned that if I repeat those actions, I will get the same result. I am now convinced that my learning-curve is at the same level as Albert Einstein’s.
Finally, I’ve visited two churches here in town, including an Anglican Church which is about five minutes from my apartment, called All Saints (it probably sounds familiar to some of you). I want to make sure I give every church I visit a chance, and go a few times before I decide if I want to go somewhere else. And I also want to make sure I look into small group options as well, if it’s possible. Either way, I plan to continue fervently on my hunt for community and spiritual leadership.
As far as I can think of, those are the bulk of my activities thus far, excepting a few detours down “Re-Reading Most of Jane Austen’s Unabridged Works” Road, and “Why Doesn’t the Air Conditioner Work in My Bedroom” Lane. For all you St. Peter’s folks: you’ll be happy to know I have had several opportunities to hang out with the Duke fellow from this summer, Zac Koons, and his girlfriend Anna, as well as a few of their friends. They have been extremely kind to me, and having a familiar face around has definitely been helpful with the transition. I also discovered this week that a friend from Tallahassee, Olivia, moved to Raleigh last week, so she and I met up to have coffee. Again, familiar faces help a lot.
I intend on sending out a prayer/update letter about once a month to keep everyone posted on how things are going here in Durham and at Duke. If you would like to be removed from this email list, I will not be offended–go ahead and let me know. Also, if you know of someone who may want to be included on this list, please be sure to send me their e-mail address. And below are a few different ways you all can be praying for me as I get going on this new season in my life.
I hope everyone is doing well, and know that I love and miss you all immensely. Please don’t hesitate to send me updates of your own on how things are going. I’d love to hear from you!

All my love,
Anna

PRAYER REQUESTS

Community and Friends:
While I am trying to keep my chin up, I have been extremely lonely since I’ve left Tallahassee. Finding community in a new place is extremely difficult, but I know it is not impossible. Please join with me in praising God for the people here he has already placed in my life with whom I can spend time and develop friendships. Ask that I would continue to meet encouraging, kind, and fun friends in whom I can find solace and who can find solace in me as well. Also, pray that I could keep a positive attitude about meeting new people, and keep in perspective that these things take time.

Roommate and Living:
My roommate, Laura-Allen, is also going to be a first year in the Divinity program here at Duke. She is adorable, sweet, fun and energetic. Praise God that in the few days we spent together, we got along very well, and I’m confident we will live well together. Also, ask that a good living environment will exist between us, and that our apartment will grow to be a supportive home, at which we can find peace, rest and encouragement.

Discernment:
I ask that you would please be in prayer for discernment for me and my roommate–for me as I continue to pray about the different lay ministry opportunities I could pursue, and Laura-Allen, as she begins the process of ordination in the Methodist Church.

Church and Spiritual Leadership:
While I fell madly in love with St. Peter’s back in Tallahassee, finding my community there was a task that was neither easy nor quick. Please pray that I keep that in perspective, that I am patient in my search for a new church, and that I remember not to go looking for “another St. Peter’s,” as this will leave me disappointed. Instead, ask that I find the church which will be right for this new season in my life, and that I am open to (but also wise about) going under the leadership of new mentors and priests.