Lost and Found

Hungry.


I forgot, for a little bit, what it was like to read great fiction on a rainy summer evening. Day after day of humidity and heat build up, until finally, the skies relax, the cool breeze comes and I become a sigh. Pressure disappears and the important things become less dire. Tomorrow can wait until tomorrow, because I have a book to read. And, finally, it's raining.

For the past few days, I've been carrying Water For Elephants around with me. Reading it during my lunch hour, when I get home from work, in the morning as I brush my teeth. A whimsical (yet historically accurate) page-turner, this novel about a Depression-era travelling circus was as quenching for my mind as last night's rain was for my dying hosta plants out front.

I became a child again for a few days, awaiting the rain and the next page of the novel. An excellent feeling it is, to rediscover a lost love. So many non-fiction books line the bookshelf that is my nightstand. So many things to learn, ways to better myself, people to read about. But part of joy is balance. And so it rains when the sun no longer becomes bearable. And I am released from being an adult, being responsible, being important and busy and sharp and equipped with answers to everything I know and pretend to know. I can figure stuff out later.

The book is finished and every page was a delightful surprise. And now I'm hungry for more. I want to visit other fictional worlds, to quiet my mind once more and appreciate things without thinking about them. I want to listen to the rain on the rooftop and open the windows and let go.

Auto Update.

So, it's been a week since the accident and I hate to admit it, but my back hurts. This is quite unfortunate, as the man who hit me, the one that I made a grand effort to be kind and friendly to, had no auto insurance.

I learned a few days later, as I was on the phone with State Farm, as they told me that "the vehicle was not insured at that date and time."

I was speechless, trying not to weep over the phone.

"Was it insured before I got hit?" I asked.

"I cannot reveal any more information, Ma'am. All I can tell you is that the vehicle was not insured by us at that date and time."

Silence. "So. Pardon my language here, but am I fucked?"

"Ma'am, all I can tell you is that the vehicle was not insured by us at that date and time."

"So what am I supposed to do?" I asked no one in particular.

What I do, it turns out, is file a claim through my insurance agency, pray that they can get ahold of either the man who hit me or the woman in Michigan (yes, Michigan) who owns the vehicle, and get ready to shell out a $500 deductible to repair my trunk, which is being held shut with a bungee cord. Neat. The step after that, supposing that Nationwide doesn't hire bounty hunters to track down my insurance-free nemeses, is to go to small claims court to try to get the deductible back.

Because some woman in Michigan who won't answer her phone is definitely going to come down to Columbus, Ohio to defend herself against not having insurance, or whatever it is that they do in court. Chances are, she has no idea that her vehicle was even in a car accident.

Point is, now I know why dude was so mad at himself. A speeding ticket and a car accident within 24 hours isn't so fun for someone who will have a difficult time coming up with proof of insurance.

Other point is, is that there are functional things that just make me drag my feet. Going to the bank. Exchanging things at stores. Returning library books. These are things that I'm getting better at, but still. The idea of going to court, sueing someone, just doesn't sound like something that I would choose to do.

When I was a kid, I used to think that all people who end up in court were guilty. If you were a suspect to a crime or couldn't agree with someone on something, or whatever, you were just as bad as the guilty person, even if you were innocent. Guilty by association. Bad people went to court.

I guess it turns out that I'm going to be one of those "bad people," if things turn out the way that I envision them.

It's weird. I'm just thinking about the things that I'm supposed to be learning here. (Because I believe that bad situations that I have no control - as well as the ones that I've caused myself - happen for a reason. They produce strength in character, they give opportunity to learn and give reason to hope.)

So what is it that I'm supposed to learn? Perhaps that people who have bad things happen to them aren't necessarily guilty? I think that I figured that out sometime between my youth and adulthood. I mean, I vote Democrat. That's what we're all about.

Perhaps I'm supposed to not trust people as much. Maybe I jump too quickly to see the good in humankind. This is something that I'm reluctant to give up. I don't want to walk around assuming that everyone around me is going to screw me over. I don't want to be cynical and bitter. I know people like this and ultimately, they're unhappy.

Perhaps last Monday's accident happened, simply, so that I can appreciate what I have. A car that runs, a body that (mostly) isn't in pain, a relationship with a God that can encourage me to be friendly and forgiving to a guy who will be having a pretty shitty few weeks and months in front of him. (What with the whole losing the license thing - from the speeding ticket, not the accident - and the Nationwide Insurance Bounty Hunter sitting on his front porch every night.)

Plans.

I've somehow found myself on the Board of Directors for the Women's Club. I'm the Social Director, and my first role is to plan the summer social for the ladies.

I ran into the President of the club outside the bakery the other day. She's been sending e-mails, suggesting that I don't need to do all the work myself, that I need a planning committee.

Me: Hi there.

President: Hi Jill. Did you get my e-mails?

Me: Yeah. I don't really know why I need a planning committee...

President: That is exactly why you need a planning committee.

To be continued...

Back Pain.

I got rear-ended yesterday on my way home from work. For the record, when an SUV and a Chevy Malibu get into a fight, the SUV wins. As I got out of my car on the off-ramp to 315 to check out the damage, the guy who hit me was in a self-depreciating state of rage, swearing at himself and shaking his head. I almost wanted to apologize to him, but it wouldn't make sense. I'm sorry my car was there for you to hit. Feel better.

Apparently he'd just received a speeding ticket the day before.

I was calm, as I usually am in real problems. (Imagined problems are another story.)

"I think that we should probably get off the off-ramp and call the police," I suggested as sweetly as possible. I did not want to give this guy any more reason to be mad at himself. "You know, it's cool. It's just a car..."

We drove to the neighborhood next to the hospital and waited awkwardly for the police to show up while standing in the 90 degree sun. SUV guy gave me a water and we paced in silence.

The cop came and decided to do all the processing of the accident from the inside of his air conditioned car, while the two of us stood, waiting. And waiting.

It wasn't until I got home that I started having back pain from the accident. I don't want to be that girl, the one who is nice at the accident but then has lots of complications thereafter. The one who shows up to court in a neck brace. I really don't think that will happen, but I'm trying to will the back pain to go away, so that I don't have to be a bearer of bad news to this guy and his insurance company.

Meanwhile, I'll be spending time with a heating pad and a bottle of Ibuprofin, feeling slightly old and just a little more nervous around SUV's.

Mini Me.

So there's this girl in the high school Bible study who reminds me so much of myself as a teenager, that it's kind of painful.

Although she's charming, adorable and artistic in nature, she's incredibly insecure. She begs for attention but won't talk to anyone. Every week, she shows up in some sort of ensemble, hot off the runway of the early nineties. My favorite outfit was a combination of short (really short) denim shorts, red patent leather heels, black tank top and a sort of fishnet football jersey thing with the shoulders cut out. Or perhaps it was the time she showed up in all black with half a pound of black eyeliner under her eyes and various chains and zippers hanging off of her (paired up with a purse fashioned out of handcuffs, of course). Maybe it was the plain white tank top and jeans matched up with the loose tie - a father's day reject - hanging around her neck.

Every week it's an adventure to see what she will be wearing. (This is not, I don't think, the part that reminds me of me. I'll get to that in a second.*) This week, the outfit was simple: jeans, a tank top and an arm sling. Apparently, she broke her elbow after falling off of her bike. I wasn't aware that anyone could break their elbow, but I'm not surprised that she'd find a way.

This girl is hopelessly in like with one of the more popular boys in the group. Each week, it's fun to watch her work her magic to get his attention. What's painfully obvious is that in her head, she thinks she's subtle, but to everyone else, she's screaming, "Pay attention to me! Please? Thanks."

One week, I suggested to her that I'd heard that said boy wants a spiritual girl.

Away went the goth, and out came Chicken Soup for the Christian Soul.


"You know," she said casually to me this week, while leafing through the book filled with bookmarks, dogears and highlighter marks, "This is the best book I've ever read."

Good God. My mind went through massive time travel and I found myself in the auditorium of a church on Bethel Road roughly thirteen years ago. I, too, had a crush, and I was pretty certain that no one in my Christian musical group had any idea. He was an intellectual - a writer! And so. I'd show up early to group and stay late, making myself über-melancholy, hiding my social nature so that I could sit off to the side and read such excellent reads such as Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul, Chicken Soup for the Christian Soul 3, Chicken Soup for the Christian Soul 5. I would write in a journal that would only be filled when key people were around; I would write poetry about my absolute love of things like God and trees. And anyone with even a little discernment could see right through me.

So. I have a tender spot in my heart for this girl. And I have a lot of hope for her. Hopefully, she'll learn more quickly than I did that true spirituality isn't something that can be faked, that it's not something that is done only in front of others. Hopefully, she'll realize, in a more expedient manner than I, that she doesn't have to perform to be loved. And hopefully, someday she'll just talk to the boy and be herself. Not the goth girl, not the injury girl, not the nineties prostitute girl, but herself.


*I did once sew raggedy-looking backpack thing together from a pair of old jeans. The piece looked ridiculous, and if I remember correctly, I wore it in public.

Language Shift.

When I first started doing the high school youth group thing over a year ago, I was appalled by the language of the masses of thirteen year-old boys. Never having had a brother, I wasn't prepared for a lot of things that came with the boys. Like the desire to kill each other (in a loving, Godly way, of course) and the ability to control one's own flatulence.

I had different strategies for letting these guys know that dropping the f-bomb every few seconds wasn't, like, cool. Especially in public.

At first, I'd glare at them, or say something super-effective, like, "Watch your language." They'd roll their eyes and use another word.

Next, my strategy was to educate them.

Me: So, you think that Josh is a douche-bag?

Boy: Hell, yeah.

Me: Do you know what a douge-bag is?

Boy: (Squirms)

Me: Well, you see, sometimes, when a woman...

Boy: No! Stop! You've ruined that word for me!

Me: Good.

Unfortunately the definition strategy doesn't work for all words. I'm pretty sure every thirteen year-old boy is pretty aware of and comfortable with the concept of, let's say, feces. The attention given to the behind and nether region of the body, in general, might suggest that feces is something they quite enjoy.

This past Sunday, a bunch of the boys were playing basketball. I approached the most sarcastic and goth kid with a white bread, mayonnaise and raisin sandwich.

Me: Eat this.

Coleman: No. You eat it.

Me: I guess you're a pussy.

Coleman: You're a pussy. You eat it.

Other guys: Dude, she called you a pussy. Eat the sandwich.

More guys: You got called a pussy by a girl!

Coleman: I'm not eating that.

In the end, I ended up taking a bite out of the sandwich and spitting it out, secretly respecting the kid for not eating the disgusting concoction. It wasn't until the drive home that I realized I'd given up the language war. I couldn't beat them, so I joined them, with one of the most horrible words I could possibly use. (Sorry feminist friends, really, I am!)

I guess I can continue to focus on the important things. Like helping them spiritually mature. And making sure they don't accidentally die while under my watch. My favorite (completely un-PC) phrase to use when instructing these guys? Don't be retards.

They never listen.

Food.

"I guess God doesn't want me to eat." I remember complaining to friends the summer after my senior year of high school. We were on a tour, spreading mediocre musical theatre to the midwest in the name of the Lord, and I was having digestion problems. It seemed that every time I ate, I felt sick. This problem, incidentally, did not disappear with the changing of the seasons, as my nutrition turned from fast food to dining hall food.

Of course, along the line, things worked themselves out, possibly due to varying my diet and eating things that don't come on plastic trays.

Now, ten years later, I remember the feeling, the nausea associated with food. And it's heart-breaking. Because I love food. I make a living from food. One of my favorite things in the world is forcing people to eat my food. (Also, shoving my music down their throats; I like that, too.)

I forgot to eat for a little bit, due to stress and timing issues. It's ironic that a woman who works in a grocery store doesn't have time to go to the grocery store. As my food consumption decreased, my coffee intake increased. And my stomach grew smaller, which meant that when I did eat, I would eat too much, hence the nausea. Throw in dizziness from low blood sugar, and headaches from coffee rot and you have a woman in poor health who, ultimately, should know better. This has been going on for awhile now, and now I'm training my body to accept food again, through things like jello, cereal and water. I'm learning to eat with the diet of a toddler.

What have I learned from this?

1. No matter how old and wise I think that I'm getting, my 18 year old self sometimes resurfaces. I should cherish these moments, for, like, ten seconds and then be happy that, for the most part, I'm not that little girl anymore. (For the record, I like 18 year-old Jill better than 22 year-old Jill, or even 24 year-old Jill.)

2. God does want me to eat. He may not, as it turns out, want me to eat dairy, and I think that he feels the same way about food that comes on plastic trays (or in paper bags through a drive through), but as an overall concept, food is something that he thinks will be good for me.

3. Food gives me real energy; coffee does not.

Birthday Party.

I went to a birthday party tonight for a friend who has known me longer than most anyone that I know. He's seen me through the insecurities and heartbreak that come with being fifteen years old; he's heckled and encouraged me through years of finding who I am, who I was designed to be. And most recently, he's given me the opportunity to be a real friend to him. I am thankful for his friendship and wish the best for him.

But this blog entry is not about him. It's about his birthday party, and the interactions brought about by his turning (kind of) old.

Scene: A bar near my neighborhood.

Characters: Me, Barb and Random Dude.

Play begins with Barb and I having a conversation that is, in reality, not so deep,but in the context of the party, borderline philisophical.

Me: I'm uncomfortable talking to and meeting guys. Especially in bars.

Barb: Yeah, I know. I'm the same way.

Me: I think I have a way to get them to leave us alone.

(Time elapses.)

Barb: Blah blah blah.

Me: Yeah. Blah blah blah blah blah.

(Random Dude approaches.)

Random Dude: Hey ladies.

Me: I'm thinking of becoming a missionary.

Random Dude: I can help you find a way out of that.

(Silence.)

(After a few seconds, Random Dude walks away, leaving Barb and I to ourselves. Mission accomplished.)


End scene.

Lost Letters.

The media are reporting today on an amazing collection of letters found in a Swiss laundry room. These letters, written by Napoleon, Churchill, Mahatma Gandhi and others are part of a collection that will soon be auctioned in London.

I'm just as guilty as the next person for the decline of one of the most truly intimate art forms of human history: the hand-written personal letter.

Why is it that we don't write letters today? Is it that we lack the time? Or is it that we are short on patience? Why wait for a letter, when we have the telephone, e-mail and text messaging at our disposal? Perhaps the medium of letters is dead because it's just not convenient in our culture. But I think that it's something more.

I think that we don't write letters because we don't have anything to say.

A letter has to have a purpose. Anything that takes several days to get to its recipient must contain more content than simply, "What's up? Things are fine. I bought a new set of knives at Target."

The letters found in that now-famous Swiss laundry room were personal, pointed and deliberate. And they were vulnerable in nature. They were written to good friends, future wives and to widows. They, unlike most communication in our day, were written for the benefit of the receiver, rather than for the author.

Writing letters requires the discipline to think, to make decisions, to have a purpose. There's no "delete" button with letters; once mailed, the writer cannot take back what she's said with ease.

Perhaps I'm a bit of a romantic. Perhaps the letters in today's news are almost entirely dull accounts of the day. "Today Margaret brought some herbs in from the garden. She asked if the basil looked wilted; I think that it looks fine. I daresay that she worries too much." Somehow, I doubt this. These letters are valued at 2.3 million pounds. These letters had meat.

The letters I write usually don't make their way to paper. And if they do, the probability of them being mailed to the intended recipient is very low. Every few years or so, I find piles of letters that I've written and never mailed. It's a treat to uncover these relics from my distant and recent past. If these letters affect me so much now, I imagine how they would have impacted the friends and family who were supposed to receive them.

To write and send a letter is to say to someone, "I care about you. I spent half an hour thinking about how to encourage you, how to show you love, how to comfort you." To place that envelope in the mailbox is to say, "For one moment in our digital age, I'm choosing quality over quantity." To wait for the words to travel through the postal system is to say, "I'm being brave enough to say something, to stand behind words that cannot be erased, to author ideas that may last longer than I will."

Here's the story.