This is my bedouin friend with her youngest baby girl. I'll never forget their faces.
Tuesday, August 15
a mother, foremost
Jordanians
This couple was touring the same castle ruins I was. Both are dressed in conservative Muslim clothing. The man's headscarf is the national Jordanian pattern.
on the dig site
I'm uncovering the famous "storage pot" here. It was under the wall that ran through my square. When I started excavating, the dirt was filled up to the surface line in this photo. I spent about two weeks on this square. 
shaneena
The bedouin lady used this sack made of goat skin to churn butter. Here we are in their tent. We had just finished digging for the day and stopped in for some goat's milk and pita. The goat's milk is called "shaneena," and I affectionatly called it "shanay-nay." It actually didn't taste as bad as my face is saying in this picture.
Friday, June 2
Thursday, June 1
so, i've been thinking lately....
"When we last saw our main character she was sneaking up on a big milestone. Let's rejoin her, a few weeks later, and uncover what she has been up to..."
Oh, hi there. Surprise! Don't be alarmed, this is just a blog post. This kind of stuff happens all the time, for punctual people at least. It is high time this ol' blog of mine got a makeover. And that makeover shall come in the form of a POST. It needs something a with a retro flavor, a throw-back to the good ol days when posting on one's blog was at the top of one's to-do list. Have a listen, then:
So...I graduated from JBU. I wish that deserved an exclamation point. Alas, I have not received my diploma, and when I do I will be sure to edit and add that exclamation point. I have not received my diploma because the fine institution of JBU has not received all of my course work. I am completing 6 more credit hours within the first six weeks of summer. Yes, that is a lot of work, you are correct. I am independently studying classes entitled "New Testament Book Study and Hermeneutics: The Book of Revelation" and "Foundation and Practice of the Christian Life." The former is difficult, the latter is not. These classes involve me reading too much and writing more. Hopefully, I'll have that diploma in the mail by the middle of June. That is, if I don't lose an eye or something.
Reading and writing all day long wouldn't be so bad if I were home all day long. Over the past few weeks I have done quite a bit of traveling. Namely, I went to CALIFORNIA!!! (That does deserve an exlamation point, to the third degree). First stop: Pt. Loma Nazarene University for the graduation of the class of 2006. I vicariously graduated in the Greek alongside my comrades with whom I began this crazy, 4-year search of knowledge and/or wisdom. It was lovely to see everyone, I only wish I could have stayed longer (or arrived earlier).
Next stop: Auburn, California!!! (necessary exclamaiton points, indeed). Auburn is home to Andrew J. Cox and family, my most favorite Californians. Drew, the dasing, young intellect that he is, escorted me all around Northern California. Well, technically his parents did the escorting. I did some pre-emptive allergic conditioning, and the cat hair didn't seem to be any problem. Experiencing "family" with the Cox family was very refreshing.
That about catches us all up to speed, I suppose. My most recent endeavors include playing in the rainstorm this afternoon and catching up on life with a Turk named Ian. I'm off to Orlando, FL this weekend for a week-long orientation and training with PIONEERS, my future mission agency. Then, watch me go....I'm off to Jordan for the summer. I'll be digging up treasure. Seriously. A group of rag-tag archaeologists and I will be excavating a Byzantine-era church site around Abila, Jordan. If you are reading this and have any idea where I can get a hand-pick, I would greatly appreciate your input.
Just a few things that have been swimming with my brain lately:
--Magnolia trees remind me of recess on the wooden playground at Thomas Jefferson Elementary. I suppose it is just the smell of them, or maybe their waxy leaves, but when I run under one I'm thrown back to times when blisters on hands meant you were totally awesome on the monkey bars and scraped up knees meant you were chasing coodie-infested boys for 25 minutes after lunch.
--Of course concrete is easier to maintain than natural trails, but why waste the concrete? People have been walking on plain earth for all of history. And for most of history, those people were probably walking barefooted. Walk barefooted.
--God has a receiver AND a mouthpiece. Use both.
Tuesday, May 9
saturday...saturday...what did I do saturday?
Ok, ok...so I graduated from college. Big deal. What? Do you expect pictures or something? Commin' right up.
Tuesday, May 2
GNC art
This is the "art" I created for Invisible Children. IC plans to combine all artwork created at the Global Night Commute (maybe 55,000+ pictures!) into one "scrapbook," then use that for fundraising, and possibly as a gift to the children in Uganda. We were asked to include a picture of ourselves on the art. Part of my job that night was to collect all of the art. I must say, each piece was beautiful representation of the heart...hearts that desire PEACE in UGANDA.
night falls on the gym floor...or the parking lot.
The lights went out in the gym around 11pm. Most of the people decided to stay in the gym overnight, but some (including me) decided to brave the rain and cold, outside in the parking lot of CCF.
letters and art
These are my letters and art that were sent to the President, Senator Lincoln, and Invisible Children--all piled onto my little sleeping spot, made up of a blanket and a sheet-thing, and crayons, markers, rubber cement, and a pillow.
just a fraction
A quick snapshot of our Global Night Commuters, from my vantage point, as we took the group picture to send to Invisible Children.
Registration at GNC
Middle-schoolers, high schoolers, college kids, families with babies, pastors, businessmen, moms...our GNC crowd was very diverse! This is a picture of the registration table. The papers in the bottom left-hand corner are info packets and letter-writing material for petitioning our government officials for PEACE in UGANDA.
Wednesday, April 26
"Americans are closing their eyes to open the worlds' to an unseen war. By lying down, we are joining the invisible children in northern Uganda, and demanding that our government put an end to the longest running war in Africa, and one of the worst crises in the world today."
Click here to be a part.
Saturday, April 22
it has come to this
Unless I wanted a SouthBeach Fiesta Wrap, I was going to have to be creative in order to eat tonight. Turns out, I did not want a SouthBeach wrap (the whole SouthBeach theme going on in my dad's kitchen is quite humerous to me, by the way). Surveyed the fridge: Pimento Cheese Spread Family Size, half-can sized Cokes and Dr. Peppers, Bread and Butter Pickles, a pony, a potato, bacon, Sharp Cheddar, and...what's that? What do I see perched in their rectangular plastic carton? The Incredible Edible Egg.
A week ago I could have scrambled that egg, and that was about it. Or, I could have boiled it. But the satisfaction of a boiled egg is slim without a little pedastal to put it on, and a butler to serve it under a shiny, pewter dish. But, my recent education on eggs and egg preparation boiled to the top of my brain, and my salivatory glands did back flips, when I recalled the highly acclaimed "Fried Egg Sandwich," which was introduced to my pallet last week.
On purpose, and out of purely my volition and desire, I cooked for myself and ate a Fried Egg Sandwich for my evening meal. Thank you, Dr. Drew, for the instruction and encouragement in such endeavors. Next stop: Bananas.
Monday, April 17
Easter with Emily
He fumbles at your soul
As players at the keys
Before they drop full music on,
He stuns you by degrees,
Prepares your brittle nature
For the ethereal blow
By fainter hammers, further heard,
Then nearer -- then so slow
Your breath has time to straighten,
Your brain to bubble cool --
Deals one imperial thunderbolt
That scalps your naked soul.
Your Soul-- Dickinson
Tuesday, April 11
policy schmolicy
This is a sentence from the study sheet for my Econ exam. I have read this sentence at least 5 times, and each time I think I understand less of the sentence:
"Besides discretionary fiscal policy, there are various stabilizers to counteract decreased or increased aggregate demand: transfer payments, progressive tax rates, unemployment insurance."
Basic Economics has been my nemisis this semester. But, actually, maybe not. I think for something to be my "nemisis" would mean that I actually care what "it" does to me. I do not. However, I do find it quite hilarious that my class is convinced that I am a communist. I'm deeply considering entitling my final research paper "The Joys of Communism ~ a memoir." My class feels this way because I bring the issue equality, the image of God, and respectability of all human life into every class discussion about capitalism and fair wages and government spending and the sort. I wonder if people actually think before they speak anymore?
"How can we be expected to respect faceless people, people that don't even respect our government's laws and regulations?" said Ms. I-Do-My-Homework-But-Don't-Consider-What-Jesus-Would-Have-to-Say-About-American-Policy-on-Illegal-Immigrants.
(note: names have been changed to protect the identiy of the ignorant)
Of course it is easier to love those that love you and those that respect your country's "policies." Loving those without a face might be harder, but loving those that love you is a shortcut. Loving and respecting those who don't follow the rules is counter-cultural. Loving those that don't love you is what we signed up for when we say that our Savior King came from Nazareth and that his suffering, death, and resurrection were sufficient and put an end to all this mud-pie-making, gave us a clean clothes, and asked us to follow.
Saturday, April 1
we love this guy
This man is partly to thank for the creation of such crazy people. Take it up with him.
Friday, March 31
life again on Packenham
"I never asked God, why, Jennifer. I never did. But if I would have, I think he would have answered me with this little block party and all of y'all... He would have said, 'This is why, Betty.'"
Maybe it is that I'm not as strong of a woman as Mrs. Betty M. of 29 Packenham Avenue, Chalmette Louisiana, because I have asked God why he would allow such tragedy in New Orleans and the Gulf area over and over again for the past six months. How could a God of love let a hurricane and flood completely ruin so many lives? How could a God of compassion make thousands homeless with one storm? Why did God let Hurricane Katrina destroy families and homes and memories and futures? And maybe I haven't discovered the full answer, but I feel much closer after living among the victims for a week, experiencing life in a community which should have been lifeless.
We took a wrong turn, or maybe a right turn, as it turns out, placing our caravan of white Caravans smack in the middle of the 9th Ward, St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana. It was about 9:30 at night and we were lost in the hardest hit area in New Orleans. After a hurricane wipes out large portions of a city, by the way, there are no street lights, street signs, road signs, or stop lights. I learned that people deal with shock in many different ways-- some ignore it, some cry over it, some vocalize it, some just turn up the radio. For me, I wept. I watched block after block pass by my back seat van window and each block seemed more desolate and destroyed than the next. Abandoned cars, 100- year-old trees splicing houses in two, cars under houses, houses on houses, missing ATM machines, obviously looted stores and businesses, debris everywhere. And the eeriest part? There were no people. Actually, I saw one man. He was walking the opposite direction we were driving, and for good reason. A city without people isn’t really a city. Where did the city of New Orleans go? Our home for the next week would be in the 8th Ward of St. Bernard Parish, the bottom of the basin formed by levees.
"God, I don't see you here. But you are, right?" I thought to myself repeatedly through the week of de-mucking houses. Our task was to completely gut houses which had not been opened for about six months-- houses which had been flooded up to 15 feet for four to six weeks. These homes were rank. Mold and mildew covered everything. "Katrina juice," as it came to be known, was still in anything that could hold water, like coffee pots and casserole dished and glasses (precariously leaned against the inside of cabinet doors, only to come splashing on the unsuspecting person's face who first opened the cabinet). The kitchens were in the living rooms and the living rooms were in the bedrooms. De-mucking a house took about six hours with our teams of twenty students. Some days we even completed two houses. At the end of the day the trash pile, which was actually a pile of what people used to call their "lives," was bigger than the house and spilled into the street. Only the studs and exterior walls remained.
We worked mainly on one street, Packenham Avenue. Requests began to flood in (no pun intended) from neighbors and family members who heard of the respectful nature our teams displayed while gutting houses. So, we were good at getting rid of trash? Interesting. We met most of the owners of the houses we cleared. We asked them to come help us, if they wished, and at least come for prayer. We prayed before we began for peace and safety, and afterwards for restoration and blessing. Everyone we worked with wished to pray with us, so we did. But those weren't the only prayers I offered. I talked with God a lot while I carried arm-fulls of Mardi Gras beads and saturated photo albums to the curb, and wept in anger to Him as I smashed my hammer through molded sheetrock. "Where are you and why didn't you come sooner to Packenham, God? Richie and Betty created 41 years of memories here, but you allowed one storm to take them away? Why, Father?"
But He was there. He was there loudly and boldly. He was at the crawfish boil and at the fried chicken block party. He was in each home and neighborhood. He was on the roof with the families, waiting for days to be rescued. He was with John and his dad as they fished out families with their trolling-motor boat. He was there when the families came back and discovered that flood waters can wash away life. He was there as we discovered soaked wedding albums and heirlooms under dressers, somehow preserved. He never left. And he was weeping, too. And He will stay there with each rebuilding and relocation. He is a God of restoration and He is a God that does not fail. I learned these truths in a new way in New Orleans.
I don't know why God uses a horrible storm like Katrina to glorify Himself, but he does. I saw it. I saw the loving God that I know bring joy again into people's lives. And He didn't need to use anything but Himself. I think I might have been given a glimpse of what the kingdom of heaven on earth is supposed to look like, as strange as it may seem, amidst the storm-torn community of Packenham Avenue. On that street and through my work, my only joy was God, and He was all I could think about. Hope-filled laughter and thankful smiles were plentiful, and people were in the process of restoration. We prayed a lot. We shared pain and wept willingly. We listened to each other's stories because they taught us truth. We were thankful for our lives. And maybe just for moments, our neighbors had no needs. He was exalted and glorified. The food was fried and we got to eat with our hands. Heaven indeed.
Maybe it is that I'm not as strong of a woman as Mrs. Betty M. of 29 Packenham Avenue, Chalmette Louisiana, because I have asked God why he would allow such tragedy in New Orleans and the Gulf area over and over again for the past six months. How could a God of love let a hurricane and flood completely ruin so many lives? How could a God of compassion make thousands homeless with one storm? Why did God let Hurricane Katrina destroy families and homes and memories and futures? And maybe I haven't discovered the full answer, but I feel much closer after living among the victims for a week, experiencing life in a community which should have been lifeless.
We took a wrong turn, or maybe a right turn, as it turns out, placing our caravan of white Caravans smack in the middle of the 9th Ward, St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana. It was about 9:30 at night and we were lost in the hardest hit area in New Orleans. After a hurricane wipes out large portions of a city, by the way, there are no street lights, street signs, road signs, or stop lights. I learned that people deal with shock in many different ways-- some ignore it, some cry over it, some vocalize it, some just turn up the radio. For me, I wept. I watched block after block pass by my back seat van window and each block seemed more desolate and destroyed than the next. Abandoned cars, 100- year-old trees splicing houses in two, cars under houses, houses on houses, missing ATM machines, obviously looted stores and businesses, debris everywhere. And the eeriest part? There were no people. Actually, I saw one man. He was walking the opposite direction we were driving, and for good reason. A city without people isn’t really a city. Where did the city of New Orleans go? Our home for the next week would be in the 8th Ward of St. Bernard Parish, the bottom of the basin formed by levees.
"God, I don't see you here. But you are, right?" I thought to myself repeatedly through the week of de-mucking houses. Our task was to completely gut houses which had not been opened for about six months-- houses which had been flooded up to 15 feet for four to six weeks. These homes were rank. Mold and mildew covered everything. "Katrina juice," as it came to be known, was still in anything that could hold water, like coffee pots and casserole dished and glasses (precariously leaned against the inside of cabinet doors, only to come splashing on the unsuspecting person's face who first opened the cabinet). The kitchens were in the living rooms and the living rooms were in the bedrooms. De-mucking a house took about six hours with our teams of twenty students. Some days we even completed two houses. At the end of the day the trash pile, which was actually a pile of what people used to call their "lives," was bigger than the house and spilled into the street. Only the studs and exterior walls remained.
We worked mainly on one street, Packenham Avenue. Requests began to flood in (no pun intended) from neighbors and family members who heard of the respectful nature our teams displayed while gutting houses. So, we were good at getting rid of trash? Interesting. We met most of the owners of the houses we cleared. We asked them to come help us, if they wished, and at least come for prayer. We prayed before we began for peace and safety, and afterwards for restoration and blessing. Everyone we worked with wished to pray with us, so we did. But those weren't the only prayers I offered. I talked with God a lot while I carried arm-fulls of Mardi Gras beads and saturated photo albums to the curb, and wept in anger to Him as I smashed my hammer through molded sheetrock. "Where are you and why didn't you come sooner to Packenham, God? Richie and Betty created 41 years of memories here, but you allowed one storm to take them away? Why, Father?"
But He was there. He was there loudly and boldly. He was at the crawfish boil and at the fried chicken block party. He was in each home and neighborhood. He was on the roof with the families, waiting for days to be rescued. He was with John and his dad as they fished out families with their trolling-motor boat. He was there when the families came back and discovered that flood waters can wash away life. He was there as we discovered soaked wedding albums and heirlooms under dressers, somehow preserved. He never left. And he was weeping, too. And He will stay there with each rebuilding and relocation. He is a God of restoration and He is a God that does not fail. I learned these truths in a new way in New Orleans.
I don't know why God uses a horrible storm like Katrina to glorify Himself, but he does. I saw it. I saw the loving God that I know bring joy again into people's lives. And He didn't need to use anything but Himself. I think I might have been given a glimpse of what the kingdom of heaven on earth is supposed to look like, as strange as it may seem, amidst the storm-torn community of Packenham Avenue. On that street and through my work, my only joy was God, and He was all I could think about. Hope-filled laughter and thankful smiles were plentiful, and people were in the process of restoration. We prayed a lot. We shared pain and wept willingly. We listened to each other's stories because they taught us truth. We were thankful for our lives. And maybe just for moments, our neighbors had no needs. He was exalted and glorified. The food was fried and we got to eat with our hands. Heaven indeed.
Thursday, March 30
about that...
Observation:
Tea-in-the-morning makes my body happier than coffee-in-the-morning.
I like coffee-in-the-night while enjoying good books that I read instead of required books.
Hot Chocolate is my new chocolate craving substitute (though I suppose it isn't really a substitute for chocolate, since it is chocolate).
Oh, about New Orleans and the lessons gleened therefrom.... be patient. Thoughts are still coming to a boil, and too many cooks spoil the broth, or something like that. I'll post soon about all that. In the meantime, check my Flickr pictures and invent your own story. Just make sure it includes redemption, restoration, heartache, and crawfish.
Friday, March 10
she censed me from a mile away
The US Census came to my house today (I'm taking a vacation to home where I can retreat from the short twin bed and dusty bookshelves of my dorm room).
Toni, The Census Lady, came bouncing down the street towards me. I was just getting out of my car, which now must park on the street because it is having touble controlling it's oil lately and having accidents on dad's driveway. Barely out of the door, I hear Toni say "OOOOOHHHHHHH a BIKE! [I had my bike on my roof rack] That's GREAT! Isn't it lovely out today...I hear it is going to be just a splendid weekend. Are you going to ride?" I looked down at her badge, and at this point noticed that she was a Census Lady, and was curious as to exactly what that had to do with my household income and occupants. But I also realized that people probably hate her and her job, and this was her way of breaking the ice with me.
The questionnaire was quite simple:
Yes, I'm over 18.
No, I don't live here.
Yes, my dad does.
No, he's not an illegal immigrant.
Yes, he owns this house.
No, you can't call me or him for follow up questions.
Then, I got to hear a great story about another "censed" person who forgot about one of his kids when he was filling out the census. Poor kid. I'm sure his/her homelife is charmingly unorganized. I hope the dad remembers the kid at supper time.
So, Toni The Census Lady bounced off down the street and out of my life, just like she bounced in. Before she went she needed to give me the confidentiality statement, but couldn't find it on her clipboard. I wanted to say I trusted her, but realized that she was only a pawn in the system, and that actually, I didn't trust the government she represented. I would need that half piece of paper telling me (and my household) that all information (which I typed out above) would be kept under lock and key, at least until it was needed to hunt me (and my household) and wiretap our house. Who knows what the government would do with the information that my dad is not Mexican! In her search for my half piece of freedom paper, a gust of wind "let fly" all of the censuses (censi?). It was a pretty, beige whirlwind of scantrons. There she went, bouncing off and collecting her paperwork.
I'm glad my dad has never forgotten me.
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