grateful

I work for a church. There was a time when I swore I'd never go back into a full-time music ministry job, but here I am, six months into a new position and still alive, not having ended my life by my own hands in a fit of fury and frustration. I absolutely have days when my mind's eye sees me leaving after a staff meeting and never looking back, but ultimately, I am aware that it isn't the parishioners or choir members that I'm frustrated with, but rather the nuances and unspoken rules that govern Church (with a capital C) and the privileges that go hand-in-hand with priesthood.

What impresses me most about my current place of employment is how the people of the community so positively respond to Christ's teachings- to feed the hungry, clothe the naked and visit the sick. I see examples of this everyday.

During the Christmas season, parishioners donated cold weather items (hats, mittens, scarves, thermal underwear- "long johns," etc) to local organizations. By the end of December, there was a heaping mound of these items under the tree that decorated the back of the church. The van used to transport the items was filled, and I was particularly struck by how many of the items were handmade.

This week, the parish is "Church of the Week," which means that we are sponsoring those who seek food and shelter from the nearby Place of Hope. Parishioners take turns cooking meals for the people in Place of Hope's care, and at night they sleep in the school gym.

Wednesday evening, as I was cleaning up after one of the choir rehearsals and getting ready to go home, I started thinking of how it was going to be especially cold this week. In order to get to my office without going outside, I had to tiptoe through the gymnasium, where the homeless persons were bedded for the night. In the darkness, I heard the occasional whisper and position adjustment as people attempted to find comfort on a sleeping mat on a gym floor, covered only by the blankets available to them from the garbage bag allotted each person.

What circumstances led them here? What single event devastated their existence? What twists and turns in their lives took away shelter? Does a mental illness prevent some from regular employment, and therefore the inability to pay rent?

The last three years have not been easy ones for me, financially speaking. Not having even an inkling that the economy would take a nosedive, I quit my full-time job and took up a teaching certification program in winter 2008, planning on working a few part-time jobs to make up for my lost income. I lost track of the applications I filled out- trying for everything from waiting tables to office assistant and in desperation, even McDonald's. Things were extremely tight, and I somehow managed for the next few months on my tax return, PTO that I cashed in when I quit my job, and a meager $500ish/month that I made at a very part-time church conducting gig. Even after that, I struggled. Ultimately, I ended up juggling 2 different conducting gigs, teaching a class for adults coming into the Catholic church, and cooking at a chain restaurant. There were many times when I had to decide between gas and groceries or my car payment and rent. Without a doubt, not an easy time, indeed.


No matter my circumstances, however, I knew that if the struggle got to be too much, if I  had to, both of my parents would have welcomed me home in order to get back on my feet. If not my parents, then a grandparent or generous aunt and uncle or cousin. If not family, then friends.

Fortunately, I am employed full-time again, and life is less stressful (to a degree) than before. 

I have so much. Even though I still need to find creative ways to pay all my bills- mainly, student loans-  (LBA and I keep the house at a very chilly temperature in order to save on heating costs), I have food to eat in my refrigerator, a bed with many blankets piled on top to keep me warm, and clothes to wear. Personal possessions aside, I am richly and profoundly blessed with supportive, loyal, trustworthy friends and family.

And so, as I quietly walked through the gymnasium last Wednesday evening, I was reminded to thank God for all that I have and all that is to come.

bathing

It is my personal belief that showering is a privilege, not a right or a mandatum, and that on a person's day off from work, is completely optional.

resolutions

I doubt that I have ever made a New Year resolution in earnest. 

Of course, there was “that time in college” - sophomore year, to be precise, if my memory serves me- when I decided to exercise diligently, since starting the year with a J-term would provide me ample opportunity to go pump iron with the football players during their off season. (I should point out, before writing any further, that the thought of working out in any kind of proximity to Carthage football players wasn’t one that excited me, but rather gave me a great sense of anxiety and apprehension. These creatures that shall hereafter be referred to simply as “college athletes” were of a simple, yet frightening stock).
  

Unencumbered by the busyness that typically left me feeling overwhelmed during regular semesters, I felt I was at the threshold of something new and exciting- by golly, I'd have time on my side. No longer was I powerless to combat the seemingly unceasing barrage of studying, homework, rehearsals, lessons, paper writing, sorority functions, committee meetings, weekly phone calls to my mother (and weekly phone calls from my mother, usually on a Friday or Saturday evening around 10pm- probably just Julie checking in to make sure I wasn't ruining my life with sex, drugs and alcohol) and self-righteous IVCF members (Inter-Varsity Christian Fellowship... a feeder group for a frightening evangelical church whose followers were known to often make others uncomfortable by speaking in tongues, go about preaching that certain Christian denominations weren't actually Christian at all, and decide who and when to date solely because "God told [them] so"). 

No, this was a new semester, a new year. I felt lighter than air. My only responsibility in this winter haven month was to successfully memorize music for the opera that I was a part of, and during my ample spare time, I set out to get caught up on MTv's "Newlyweds" (RIP, Jessica and Nick's marriage), "The Osbournes" (I still do a fantastic Sharon impression), read books for pleasure, and get in shape. I had no excuse any longer- I couldn't say I didn't have the time, and I couldn't say that I didn't have access to an exercise facility. Carthage College, in its far-reaching kindness, offers admission to the fitness center to all of its students, free of "extra cost" (though, when a person figures in the cost of tuition, room, and board at Carthage, the fitness center should seem a standard feature, especially when one considers that the college made mad profit from their washing and drying machines in the dorms). 

And so, this is how it came to be that BS (formerly BG) and I embarked upon our J-term 2004 exercise adventure. 

Having no actual fitness attire for myself, I was resigned to wear an old t-shirt, a pair of $7 Wal-Mart purple sweatpants that AKE (formerly AK) had given me (mostly likely in effort to persuade me from walking around our dorm room without pants on- which, as it turns out, can make those who aren't accustomed to no-pants living uneasy) and the pair of Nike "cross trainers" (?) that I'd purchased when I was going through a sporty phase. 

In addition to my awkward accoutrement, I gave the appearance of the oft-used analogy, that is to say, I was a fish out of water. I wasn't at all accustomed to this fancy new building with its fancy floor-to-ceiling windows and fancy televisions and fancy equipment. I spent most daylight hours in the darkness of the sub-basement of the JAC, where it was common knowledge that yes, a rape had taken place in the building, and yes, asbestos was not something to be speculated about- it was fact. 

This fancy fitness center in the fancy TARC was home to a subculture that I did not belong to (and still don't). Contained in the fitness center were strange machines and contraptions, things of which I had no knowledge of. Wanting to give more than just my legs a work out on the stationary bike (now that, I know how to use), I had to make a concerted effort to learn how to use other, more imposing equipment by observing brawny (what football, baseball, and basketball players lacked in brain, they made up for in brawn) athletes in such a way that didn't make me appear incredibly creepy. This plan was in no way fool proof, and in the end, I am sure I left in a more confused state than when I entered the fitness center.

Not accustomed to any sort of strenuous physical activity, I allowed BS to act as my motivator. Something about the TARC and the fitness center changed her into a very intense, very driven and almost scary exerciser. Like the Incredible Hulk, who, when instigated, could morph into a being not himself, BS would have a curiously piercing persona come over her on the treadmill. Not having a competitive streak (where sports are concerned, anyway, and my 7th grade basketball season is gross evidence of this), I quickly came to learn that it for the best to simply get out of her way at times like this. While Bethany raced herself and set higher and higher distance goals with each visit to the TARC, my only incentives for finishing that 30 minutes on the elliptical (I didn't use a treadmill because, well, I've never been the running type) were
1) I'd stay until the Real World episode finished and
2) when I was done, I could go back to my room, shower, dry my hair with the hand dryer that was oddly installed at about eye level in the floor's communal bathroom, and get back to my book, all while convincing myself that I'd become more healthy that day.

And then there was the sweat. More than all the other repugnant facets of exercising in a communal fitness facility (including, but not limited to: back-ne, the smell of metal and other people on your hands after using equipment that hasn't been properly sanitized, overhearing the grunt-ish conversation of college athletes, headaches caused by poppy dance tunes turned up too far on the loudspeakers and ESPN and ESPN2 being broadcast on every television), sweat is the one thing that I recoil at when I think of how I feel at the end of a hard workout. Encountering a single smelly person isn't a pleasurable experience, and so when several stinky, steaming-with-sweat hulking bodies are crammed into one area, one is blasted with an unforgettable stench upon entering the space where they are gathered. You know what I'm talking about, diligent exercisers- that odor of sweat mingled with iron- and you know full well that it takes some time to adjust to the air whenever you visit your local fitness club.

I believe that I made it to the TARC a total of 4-5 times that J-term. None too impressive, but when considering obstacles blocking my path to physical fitness, I like to think that that J-term was one in which I overcame the odds, blazing a trail for my future exercise endeavors, and maybe, just maybe, I like to think that I burned off almost all of that cheese sauce I so very generously allowed myself during our nightly dinners in 'the caf.'