A love letter to London's public transport

Public transportation is truly a thing of wonder. When I was in college, I had a U-Pass, which gave me unlimited rides on Metro and Sound Transit, and I took full advantage of it. On Fridays I would go on excursions to Sand Point, downtown, South Seattle or Ballard; on the bus it would often take me up to an hour to arrive at my destination but I considered it all a part of my "urban pilgrimage." Since that time, King County has expanded its transportation infrastructure to not only include local and express buses, but Link Light Rail and downtown streetcars as well. I'm pretty proud of our public transpo, but I must tell you, it's nothing compared to London.

King County's Link Light Rail: One line, 77k daily ridership

London Underground: 11 lines, 4.8M daily ridership

London public transport, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways...

Stratford to London Fields

Our first day outing to London we decided to park and ride from Stratford station, which is located near the stadiums constructed for the 2012 Summer Olympics. Little did we know that it was the weekend of the World Athletic Championshps, where Usain Bolt was soon to run his last competitive race. Needless to say, the place was a zoo. In order to catch the tube to downtown London, we had to walk through one of the largest indoor/outdoor malls I have ever seen in my entire life: Westfield Stratford City.

We made our painfully slow way through the heart of the mall, shoulder to shoulder with the enormous and unending crowd. Bear in mind, we were with Naomi's family, and they have three small children, and had never been into the city before. When we got to the station, we had to get a couple floors underground to actually catch the tube--and unfortunately the lift was broken. So we lifted the double stroller and the children through a series of escalators and stairs (it really did feel like a labyrinth) to hop onto the Central Line.

One thing I learned about the tube is that they keep some lines up better than others. The Central Line is definitely not as well kept as others. It is physically small. Riders sit in rows facing each other with one aisle for people to stand. The seats are upholstered with a vibrant pattern that looks like it came out of the late 90s. Also, it has no air conditioning and since we were there in mid-August it was muggy, so all the windows were open. Thus, the whole way in, we could hear every scrape of metal and bump along the tracks. It was so un-glamorous. I loved it.

When we got to Bethnal Green, we ended up walking a little over a mile to get to Broadway Market and London Fields. I played "I spy" the entire way with Naomi's niece, though she says "My spy with my little eye," which is one of the cutest things ever.

London Fields where we met a lot of hilarious local kids on the playground

We ended up catching a bus from Hackney to get to Blackfriars, and like the tourists we are, the first thing we did was run up the stairs and sit in the very front, which, of course, is the best place to take photos and Snapchat selfies.

Being hella cheesy

I must say, the ride was exhilarating. Some "local youths" sat behind us, conversing loudly with much profanity and mentions of alcohol/drug use. And I saw a billboard for Jay-Z/Craig David, the gherkin and St. Paul's! 

Epping to South Bank

Our second time into the city, we took the Central Line again, but this time decided to park and ride from Epping, which is further from the city than Stratford. Epping definitely felt more like a suburb, and I enjoyed the part of the ride looking out into neighborhoods and industrial zones before we plunged into the darkness of the underground tunnel.

One thing you need to know is that we were going to see Much Ado About Nothing at the Globe, and since I had no notion of what the dress code might be, I was in a sheath dress with 2" heels (turns out I was WAY overdressed; major fail). Well, we ended up having to transfer from the underground to a double-decker bus. However, when we got to the bus stop, it was not in operation due to construction! So we started walking up to the next stop and watched our bus peel off when we were less than half a block away.

"We still have time," I reasoned, as we waited for the next one to arrive. The show started at 19:00, so even though we weren't getting there right when the doors opened to get the best spot in the yard (we got tickets where you stand in front of the stage the entire time, kind of like a mosh pit without the lingering fear of getting trampled to death), I figured we'd be fine.

The bus dropped us off near the Thames, and then we had another 10 minute walk. When we got to the venue, the lobby was entirely empty. I should have known then that something was off, but in my mind we still had time to spare. When I gave my name to the guy at the box office, he said, "The first act started about 15 minutes ago but if you go through those doors and to the left there should still be plenty of room." I blinked several times. "Wait, you mean it already started? I thought it started at 19:00 and that doors opened at 18:30!" He explained to me that the play started at 18:30; the doors had opened at 18:00. We had missed the beginning of the play! "I was wondering why you were so chill," he added, and I gave him my best self-deprecating shrug as we ran up the stairs to catch what was left of the play. "Americans," I'm sure he muttered to himself.

 
Slightly frazzled from the lengthy commute, I nonetheless greatly enjoyed the play. It was pretty funny, if a bit absurd. Next time, though, I'm wearing Keds.

Heathrow to Stepney Green

My last public transport story is my first solo trip in the city on my way back from Madrid. Flying from Madrid to Heathrow was kind of fun, actually. I had tons of time to kill at the airport, which worked out because the line for passport control was huge. It was an unexpected blessing to be able to speak to a couple of ladies next to me in line (who were from Central America) in my Mexican accent. They understood me (I was getting tired of the funny looks I kept getting in Spain because of the verbs and idioms I use) and their accents felt like home.

(Another aside that has nothing to do with public transportation: Spanish vending machines are on a whole other level! I purchased a smoked salmon sandwich on poppyseed bread... from a vending machine. Is there some way we can get these kinds of boutique offerings in the U.S.???)

When I touched down at Heathrow I followed the signs for the Heathrow Express, which is more or less a bullet train that gets you to London in less than half the time it might take through traditional routes. The first thing that was strange to me, was that they didn't ask for my fare; I just hopped onto the train, stowed my luggage on the rack and chilled. I kept waiting for some security guard to escort me off the train and arrest me. Turns out that they check your fare partway through the ride, kind of like they do on the Hogwarts Express in Harry Potter. Apparently they're really trusting!

Heathrow Express is NOT paying me to say this but it was honestly one of the most luxurious mass transit rides I've ever experienced. You can watch the news on a small flatscreen, charge your phone, connect to complimentary WiFi and enjoy the smooth as silk ride. I think my dad would like the Heathrow Express. It's like the Cadillac of trains.

From there I transferred at Paddington station to the Hammersmith & City Line to Stepney Green to get to 40 Winks, a very unique and memorable B&B. Paddington station is HUGE. It's also hugely under construction. The first thing I noticed when I got off the train was there were tons of staff people just standing there, waiting to help clueless travelers like me. A man greeted me, then looked at me with some pity. He had to break the bad news that there was no working lift to the platform, so I would need to lug my rolling check-in, rolling carry-on and a backpack up a couple flights' worth of stairs. "It's okay!" I assured him as I walked away. "I'm strong!" I lied.

Dear reader, may I share a word of advice with you? If you travel in London, pack light. When entering an underground station, you place your oyster card on a sensor that opens gates swinging inward. Well, when I tried to go through with all my luggage, I wasn't fast enough because the gates closed on my check-in bag. I yelped, trying to pull the surprisingly strong gates apart so I could extricate it. A man behind me immediately tried to help; trying to push the luggage through but it just seemed to make the gates close even harder. As I was frantically working with him on this, my check-in luggage and backpack fell over onto the ground with a dramatic crash. By then the man had waved over a transport staff, who used her card to open the gates. I scrambled to pick up my other bag and guy with a European accent asked, "Are you all right?" I must have looked distraught. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," I insisted, more embarrassed than anything as I headed to the lift to the platform.

Another reason to pack light: When I got on the tube, I had to stand at first and it was a nightmare. Spinner luggage is great for getting around in airports with smooth, pristine, polished stone floors, but my bags rolled around with a mind of their own at every stop along the tube route, much to my chagrin. When I managed to get a seat, I assumed an assortment of different positions to keep my luggage stationary with marginal success. Thankfully, the Hammersmith & City Line is much more spacious and better kept than the District Line so I didn't feel like I was being too annoying with all my luggage.

As we neared the downtown stations, a Chinese British couple (or so I assumed based on their appearance and accents) stepped onto the train and sat down next to me. They were smartly dressed and had their Starbucks in hand. The guy pulled out an enormous iPad and started fiddling with it.

At some point during the journey, one of them spilled their latte, creating an ever-growing pool of light brown liquid right in the middle of the train. The guy seemed pretty pained and embarrassed about it, so I dug through my backpack and handed them half of the travel-size pack of tissues that my mom had given me (thanks, Mom). He scrambled to mop up what he could as she kept insisting that it wasn't a big deal. When the train arrived at their stop, I noticed the guy hanging around near the door. He paused briefly. "Thank you," he said in his British accent. "Oh yeah, no prob," I replied.

When I finally got to Stepney Green I made my way to the exit only to find... they didn't have a lift. As I sighed, preparing myself mentally for the climb with my bags, which at this point felt like they were full of literal rocks, a guy stopped and offered to carry the largest one for me! It ended up being three flights up to the street surface level, so I was so grateful for his help.

I then rolled my way through Mile End another 15 minutes as the sun was going down. I really appreciated the paint at every sidewalk intersection with guidance for out of towners like me: "LOOK RIGHT."

After such a long day of travel, it was wonderful to come home to 40 Winks, change my clothes and charge my phone. My exhaustion, however, didn't keep me from venturing out again to get a little something sweet. :)

Comparative Religion

I spent months planning things to do and see during our trip. I made a list of things that seemed interesting and began culling it to only include the must-sees. At the top of my list were cathedrals: a Catholic one in Spain and an Episcopalian one in England. I had gone to mass in Mexico and Episcopalian services in the States, so I knew a little bit of what to expect, but couldn't wait to attend services and experience it all firsthand.

Santiago de Compostela

I heard about this ancient Catholic pilgrimage site a while ago and had a desire to visit. It was about an hour drive from where we were staying on the coast. I had planned to attend mass at 9:00am and arrived with minutes to spare. Since Santiago de Compostela receives visitors from all over the world, I didn't realize that there would be multiple masses held in different parts of the cathedral at the same time. I ran to a small chapel where I heard singing, but discovered quickly that I had witnessed the tail-end of the German mass. Some of the people there asked me in German if I spoke German and I just shrugged. I asked the priest in Spanish where the Spanish mass was and he didn't know! Too hilarious. So I zipped out of there and thankfully found another chapel where they were holding mass in castellano.

It was a grand room with a dome four stories high and an ornate gold altar. Glass doors shielded it from the throng of visitors and a sign disallowed photography... so I was with people who were there to worship God, not take selfies. I came in while the priest was in the middle of the homily and he was encouraging parishioners to be faithful to God wherever the journey of life may take us. They had readings from the Old Testament, the gospels and Acts; a time of prayer; and a time for communion. After mass concluded I stayed to pray, and it was so special to have such a quiet, peaceful place to talk to God. Before I knew it another mass began! I decided to stick around and was happy to find that the presiding priest enunciated his words more than the last one had, which meant I better understood the homily this time around.

When I go to cathedrals, especially ones as ancient as Santiago de Compostela, I like to think about all the generations of people before me who have knelt there praying to God. It makes me think of Revelation 8:4 which talks about the incense along with the prayers of the saints that rise to him. God has been faithful to generations of people seeking him and he hears all our prayers.

I took a guided tour of the cathedral where we literally ascended to the roof, walking and standing on it as our tour guide explained the history of the place. I loved my tour guide's accent because it took me back to my days at the University of Washington, where I had a couple of young and hip Spanish teachers from Madrid and Barcelona who spoke like her. She explained that pilgrims would come west from the area near the Pyrenees and as a token of their journey, they received shells which they wore around their necks as a pendant. She explained that when pilgrims arrived they would, as a symbol of starting a new chapter of their lives having gone on this pilgrimage, would surrender their clothes to be burned and would receive new, white ones. She told us that regardless of social status, everyone received the same white clothes.

The cathedral museum had centuries' worth of religious art--sculptures, paintings and tapestries. Much of the depictions were of events occurring in the gospels and I enjoyed seeing the artist's interpretation and reflecting upon the story itself.

It was such a joy to experience God and worship him in Spain.

St. Martin-in-the-Fields

Towards the end of my trip I had one glorious, super-packed day in London. Someone from my home church had recommended going to visit St. Martin-in-the-Fields, which is Anglican (Church of England), so I attended their evening prayer service. St. James Cathedral in downtown Seattle is one of the most beautiful I've ever seen, but I must say that St. Martin in the fields quite nearly surpasses it. Adherence to the Church of England is well on the decline (recent surveys show 15% of Britons identify as Anglican). Similar to the trends of mainline denominations in the U.S., most attendees were older adults, and though the cathedral was vast in size and had two stories worth of seating, I would say there were about 20 of us present.

A soprano soloist accompanied by a pianist sang some beautiful hymns. It was great. I love high church so much. The priest did readings from the Old Testament and gospels. She read the story of David and Saul when David was in the cave with him and could have taken his life. It was a poignant reminder that as tempting as it may be to take justice into our own hands, we must ultimately leave it in God's.

We had spent much of the day hustling to and fro in the city (we had walked for an hour or so downtown along the Thames, I got through about 1/6 of the National Gallery, we visited Daunt Books and survived the zoo that is Piccadilly Circus), so it was a great change of pace to be in a quiet, reflective space. I really liked being able to pray with other people, with the written-out prayers (we prayed the bolded text, just like we sometimes do at my home church), and to sing along with some hymns that I didn't know.

It was such a joy to experience God and worship him in England.

This is another of the many things I loved about travelling in England and Spain. More to come...

Comparative media studies

I can honestly say that my friends and I made the absolute most of our two week trip to England and Spain this month. We experienced rural, suburban and city life; we spoke and thought in multiple languages/dialects; we walked extensively (22,000+ steps some days!), hopped on public transpo and drove for hours (well, they did--I was just there for the ride along). Everywhere we went, there was more to learn about and stare at, and I couldn't get enough. The faux cultural anthropologist in me was on cloud nine.

Video Supercut of our Trip

One of my favorite things was listening to the radio when we were on the road (which was a fair amount of the time). BBC Radio London and BBC Radio Cambridgeshire offer a fun variety of music, news, political talk radio and "travel" (traffic) updates. They played a lot of classic Motown and in the midnight hours, big band. I found it strange they they didn't play Adele, Sam Smith, Ed Sheeran or Coldplay once. (Ironically enough, I heard more Coldplay on the radio in Spain.)

I was especially interested to get the British perspective on President Trump. Photos and cartoons of him dominated every newsstand I passed, and much of the airwaves as well. We were in England when news broke about Charlottesville and the death of Heather Heyer. The BBC interviewed a British expat living in Virginia and his general response was one of astonishment and shock. I got the impression that in England, most folks consider England to be much less overtly racist than the United States (or so argued the host of the B&B I stayed at in East London). As I listened to the BBC cover Charlottesville, I was impressed with the their nuanced understanding of the history of U.S. race relations, our demography and politics when it came to Charlottesville. I can't say that in America we have the same level of knowledge of the U.K. and its intra-group dynamics.

The other two main topics heavily debated on BBC radio were Brexit and ISIL radicalisation (as they spell it :-P). Since we were in London mostly, we were in a bit of a political bubble. The folks I spoke with readily shared that they voted to remain in the European Union, and they had some strongly negative opinions of Theresa May. However, on the radio, a man had called in that seemed to be more closely aligned with the Tories, so my ears perked up to hear from him. He reiterated multiple times that the recent calls for another election re: Brexit were "undemocratic," much to the bafflement of the BBC host. The debate over Brexit and the manner in which GB would leave the EU, is highly charged and a source of anxiety for many. They talked about it a lot in Spain, too. Since we live in a highly interdependent global economy, it makes sense.

There's also, understandably, a preoccupation with ISIL radicalisation in both countries as well. Driving home one night, a mother spoke about her son's decision to go to Syria and join ISIL. It was absolutely heartbreaking. We didn't listen to the entire programme but it seemed that he did eventually get out of that situation and return home. This mom had gone onto the program to try and help other parents who were losing their children to ISIL as well, which I thought was quite brave of her, since when her son was initially being heavily recruited she was too ashamed to share what was going on.

Obviously, the topic of radicalization came into sharp focus while we were in Spain. We were waiting in line to ascend the Torre de Hércules in A Coruña when I heard the couple next to us watching a video on their phone. It didn't sound good. I checked Twitter and CNN already had footage of the breaking news out of Barcelona. It was awful. That evening my roommates and I prayed together. The next morning I purchased a copy of El Mundo and read a detailed, in-depth investigation into how the young men who planned and carried out the terrorist attack had most likely been radicalized by a local imam. I looked at a year-over-year graph of the rate of terrorist-related arrests and attacks/attempts, and the total for 2017 to-date had almost surpassed the total for all of 2016.

I would argue that most major news outlets in the U.S. tend to be focused on domestic issues a majority of the time, and only cover international news if it's a major crisis or if it affects America in some way. Consuming British and Spanish news was pretty refreshing to me and (based on my small sampling of the Telegraph, the Guardian, the BBC and El Mundo) I found their reporting rigorous with thoughtful analysis of good data. It was a great reminder that it's not all about America because, I'll admit it, sometimes we can be a bit of a self-involved nation.

This is one of the many things I loved about travelling in England and Spain. More to come...

More lists

Reasons I loved growing up in the suburbs

• Waking up Saturday mornings to my dad's gas lawnmower and the smell of freshly cut grass through my window
• Having a front and back yard
• Falling asleep in the summer to the sounds of frogs croaking in the pond behind said back yard
• Enjoying such simple past times as movies with friends at our one local theater and getting Coldstone afterwards
• Benefiting from a public education that was rigorous enough to get into college but not so demanding that I had a nervous breakdown
• Having my pick of sprawling parking lots in which to learn how to drive
• Having parking, always, wherever I went, period
• Having... quiet... so much of it. No buses, trucks, trains or planes. 
• Beautiful, glorious suburban sprawl as far as the eye can see.

Concepts I learned in college that I still think about constantly

• Rational choice theory
• Law of diminishing returns at the margin
• Implicit bias, Implicit Association Test
• Social loafing
• Learned helplessness
• Game theory, prisoner's dilemma, zero-sum game
• Opportunity cost, sunk cost
• Compassion fatigue
• Triangular theory of love
• Confirmation bias
• Tokenism
• Utilitarianism
• Nihilism
• Secular humanism
• Microaggressions

Boutique business starter pack

• Chalkboard 
• Instagram promotions
• Compostable packaging
• Edison string lights
• Succulents
• Exposed brick
• Young employees
• Square
• Gentrified neighborhood

Things I like about working in Pioneer Square

• Picking up holds at the Central Library on my lunch break
• Walks on the waterfront now that there's less construction
• Meeting up with my mom who works nearby
• Chinatown for Uwajimaya (and Pokemon Go gym battles)
• Columbia Tower for juice
• Westlake for buying presents
• Witnessing the full spectrum of social classes, all together in one square block, more or less. 

How millennials communicate

• writing things in all lowercase letters
• capitalizing the first letter of only specific words for Emphasis, even words that Aren't Proper Nouns
• using exaggerated kerning with words, also for e m p h a s i s
• putting👏clapping👏hands👏emojis👏between👏every👏word👏to👏add👏even👏more👏emphasis
• using gifs
  
  
• using #hastags #thelongerthebetter
• starting sentences with the word "honestly"
• ending sentences with imho, lol, lmao or tbh.

Things I look forward to when I travel to England/Spain this August

• Buying and reading a physical copy of the local newspaper
• Tasting the best of that region's junk food (very important; I'm talking sweet and savory)
• Taking public transportation
• Chatting with locals
• Attending church and worshiping God in a different way
• Spending hours at museums
• Taking tacky selfies
• Committing a cultural faux pas (like the one above)
• Getting lost
• Shaking my head at other tourists. 

Just a bunch of lists

Over the course of the past five years I've

• Held five different jobs
• Lived in four different places, including another country
• Read 182 books
• Lost two grandparents
• Learned so much.

Things I've loved about living in North Beacon Hill

• The sound of train horns in the night
• Growing tomatoes on the deck with western sun exposure
• View of Puget Sound, SoDo, the stadiums and downtown
• Hearing the cannons at CenturyLink Field go off with every Seahawks touchdown and field goal (which then broadcasts on my TV, delayed)
• Having two ovens
• Delite Bakery, Hair Skill Design, Red Apple
• Walking home from work
• Driving to church in eight minutes
• Reminders and memories of my Grandma Yvonne.

Reasons I love Twitter

• The memes
• Curated news and articles
• Black Twitter
• Subtweets
• Heartwarming viral videos.

Things I loved about working in Belltown

• Walking to the Pacific Science Center
• Getting lunch at Pike Place Market (Michou, DeLaurenti, Mexican Grocery)
• Concerts at Westlake Park
• Watching the biospheres construction
• Sitting/standing desk
• KEURIG
• My co-workers <3. 

"Peak Millennial"

• Thinkpieces
• Irony
• Instagram
• Pressed juice
• Sanctimony
• Binge-watching
• Mash-ups
• Complaining about millennial thinkpieces.

Things I loved about Los Angeles

• How it feels like one giant suburb
• Diaspora communities
• TV/Movie billboards that are six stories tall
• Sunshine, Santa Monica, the PCH
• Feeling like I could happen to run into my favorite screenwriter/director/actor at any time
• East L.A. and the mestizaje vibe
• The overall creative *atmosphere*
• The satisfaction that I was, if but momentarily, a part of the zeitgeist.

Favorite demographic data sources

• Gene Balk, "FYI Guy," The Seattle Times
• Nate Cohn, "The Upshot," The New York Times
• Pew Research Center.

2017 Podcast Roundup

• With Friends Like These, "The Help Is Coming From Inside the House"
  A deeply personal, brutally honest discussion between Ana Marie Cox and Joe Moe on depression, chemical dependency and suicide.  
• Another Round, "A Dude Named Hot Sauce"
  Tracy and Heben conduct a hilarious interview with writer-comedian Yassir Lester about his creative process, pop culture news and funny stories from his adolescence.
• Comedy Bang Bang, "120 Adam Scott, Harris Wittels, Chelsea Peretti"
  Throwback episode from 2011 featuring comedy writer Harris Wittels, actor Adam Scott (Parks and Recreation) and writer-comedian Chelsea Peretti (then-writer on Parks and Recreation). The improv in this episode had me laughing until I couldn't breathe.
• The Axe Files, "Ep. 128 - Sen. Kamala Harris"
  Substantive, immigration policy and prosecutorial law discussion between David Axelrod, former Chief Strategist to President Obama, and Kamala Harris, former California Attorney General serving her first term as U.S. Senator. Riveting.
• Pod Save America, "He'll run the country from jail like El Chapo"
  Endearing conversation between Jon Favreau (Head Speechwriter), Dan Pfieffer (Strategy and Communications Advisor) and Alyssa Mastromonaco (Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations), as they reminisce on their days in the Obama White House. I read Mastromonaco's book by the way; it was funny and great.
• The Axe Files, "Ep. 120 - J.D. Vance"
  Thoughtful, respectful and analytical discussion between David Axelrod and J.D. Vance, author of Hillbilly Elegy. Appreciate Vance's perspective on Appalachia, the future of labor and industry, and political conservatism in the Trump era.

Netspeak I find amusing

• mood
• sjw
• soft
• smol
• hbd
• petty
• receipts
• my aesthetic
• it's lit. 

Favorite parts of teaching Sunday school

• All the kids talking over each other because they want to tell me about their week
• Their elation at being able to drink Crystal Light
• Pretend marching around the walls of Jericho with paper plate "trumpets"
• Inadvertently predisposing them to libertarianism by giving them Hershey Nuggets then having tax collector Zacchaeus collect 2/3 of them back
• Yelling "NO SPOILERS!" when a student already knows the Bible story and tries to tell the whole thing to the class
• All tangents leading to Star Wars
• So many Teddy Grahams 
• Being asked, "Do you know what a gangster is?" 

This was fun and maybe I'll do it again. Have an idea for a list you'd like me to write? Request it in the comments.

Make-up was a dead end

Who knew beauty could be so complicated? For my birthday last year I decided to make my first serious foray into the world of makeup. I didn't know what I was getting into. In a naive way, I thought I would be able to show up at a makeup counter at a department store, buy an entire line of products, and be good to go. Looking back, I can't believe how absurd and laughable a notion that was.

The makeup artist at Nordstrom rattled off an overwhelming, large amount of steps meant to "prep, correct and conceal." I could barely keep up: face base, under eye cream, eye base, layering three eye shadows, gel eyeliner, mascara, foundation, sheer powder, bronzer, blush. When she was done, I looked in the mirror and felt conflicted. While I knew I now looked more conventionally "beautiful" I questioned if this was a step in the right direction.

My justification to wear makeup was tenuous at best. I was bored, I had recently gotten a new job with higher pay and I thought, "Why not?" Some irrational part of me believed that makeup was the one missing piece I needed to manage to attract a boyfriend. According to my then-logic, if cultivating my intellectual prowess and spiritual depth wasn't enough, if it hadn't managed to end the seven-year drought since my last romantic relationship, then maybe outer beauty paired with inner beauty would do the trick.

Well, it's almost a year later and I've spent a bunch of money, wrecked my skin and still don't have a boyfriend. What a bust.

T r a i t o r s (chronological use L to R)

Correctors, concealers, BB creams, foundations, cream and oil primers--brand after brand left me with dry, tight skin and pimples galore. Did I look great in pictures? Even glamorous? Sure! But at night, alone and makeup-less in front of the mirror with my own thoughts, I was unhappy, disappointed and doubting myself.

I know that for others, makeup isn't such an agonizing ordeal. Good on them. They are hashtag blessed.

My skin just won't abide make-up, but it's taken a while for me to finally give in to defeat. Each time a product wouldn't work for me, I'd return to Sephora, deflated, and an enthusiastic employee would suggest some new wonder product: a cleanser with a four star review, a serum, a foundation that's completely weightless and "totally buildable." I'd go home wanting badly for it to work for me; none of them did.

All this to say, I'm throwing in the towel when it comes to makeup. It's created more problems in my life than benefits.

On a deeper level, this is all about adequacy. It's about trust in God. I've spent so much time wondering why some women my age are dating, married and having kids, and I'm not. I know that God is not doling out rewards or punishments to women based on whether they "deserve" a boyfriend/husband/kids. On a bad day, though, I crumple in on myself in prayer or ignore God altogether in a passive-aggressive attempt to rebel against how he wants to order my life. Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret.

Look, no amount of navel-gazing or hand-wringing will get me a boyfriend any sooner. Makeup, new clothes, a better body, fancy haircut; it really doesn't make any difference. Perhaps this sounds bitter, but it's been my experience. Okay, okay, being single is not the end of the world; this much I know. It's painful, though.

I'm doing my level best to make the most of it. I'm reading a lot of books, joining rec leagues, going on fun outings with my other single friends. I have a lot of time to pray for others. I write short stories three paragraphs at a time. I talk to God about the things I'm thankful for. If I focus on other things maybe I won't feel so sad.

Until next time...

Reflections on 2016

Originally shared at my church's Christmas Eve service.


Good evening. For those who don't know me, my name is April, and I have been attending this church since I was born—I'm what you might call a "lifer." No, but really, I am proud to call Presby home and this year especially I am grateful to be a part of this community—because I could have gotten into some real trouble if not for the grace of God in my life.. I almost made a mistake that could have seriously harmed me and probably would have changed my life forever.

This year I had planned to move to South America to do what I thought would be missionary work: entering into full-time ministry with a local church in Bolivia evangelizing, interceding and teaching. I had a lot of hopes and dreams to glorify God there.

However, a couple months before I had planned to leave, I found out from a couple of friends who were serving that that "church" that the "church" was actually a pretty psychologically and emotionally abusive cult. My friends were not allowed to leave the "church" (where they lived) without supervision, were bullied aggressively by pastors whenever they questioned the way things were run, and my one friend was even locked into the kitchen alone without promise of release. It was a horrific time, and thankfully my two friends left the Bolivian "church" shortly thereafter, around the same time I decided not to go down and join them.

As you might imagine, I spent much of this year coming to terms with this whole fiasco. The main question I had for God was, of course, "Why?"--but also the immediate question of "What now?" I had quit my job! I had been hurtling toward what I had thought was an international ministry opportunity "from God" and now needed to, in many respects, turn on a dime and change course.

I was disappointed and hurt, and felt very confused about God's direction in my life. I didn't know what to do, and God wasn't giving me epiphanies on how he wanted me to "recalculate," as it were. I spent time in reflection and prayer to God, pouring out my heart to him as it's written in Psalm 62. To be fair, though, I also spent a lot of time trying to be numb and trying to survive, in an attempt to ignore my pain and anger towards God for how un-glamorous and stuttering my life had become.

One theme from this year is pretty clear: God has invited me again and again to trust him—to believe he is everything he says he is, taking into full account my painful past, my present shaky circumstances and even my own negative feelings, no matter how strong and all-encompassing they may be.

There were many days this year when my alarm went off in the morning and I just did not want to get out of bed. I didn't feel like I had the energy or the will to face another day. To get motivated, I would sometimes listen to my gospel playlist, which has a song by James Fortune called "I Trust You." The chorus deeply resonates with me and I wanted to share it with you tonight: "I'll trust you/ Lord it's not easy/ Sometimes the pain in my life/ Makes you seen far away/ I'll trust you/ I need to know you're here/ Through the tears and the pain/ Through the heartache and rain/ I'll trust you."

I still don't know a lot of the "whys" behind the whole Bolivia debacle. I'm not yet at a place where I can genuinely thank God for that trial which has tested my faith significantly this year, and brought a fair share of heartache and despair.

However, there are a few things I can say with certainty and conviction:

1. God warned me and protected me from going to Bolivia; he loves me.
2. It's not over; God is still writing my story.
3. Jesus Christ is Lord.

Jesus Christ is Lord. This truth has helped me a lot this year and comforts me greatly.

For me, no matter what happens, no matter how difficult things get, no matter how little things may make sense in the moment, no matter my own helplessness or God's seeming silence—

Jesus Christ is Lord.

In the midst of failure, embarrassment, mistakes and crippling self-doubt—

Jesus Christ is Lord.

When I am lost and don't know what to do—

Jesus Christ is Lord.

"In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it" (John 1:4-5).

Yeah, I'm single

Yeah, I'm single.

In April I started working at an office where the median age is 55 years old. I am not sure what exactly causes my older female coworkers to be so concerned about my relationship status, but they have all asked me at one time or another (pretty out of the blue, I might add), "Do you have kids? Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend?" When I respond in the negative, they inevitably follow-up with, "What do you think about _____ [insert name of one of the only men between 25-35 years old in our office]? Do you like him?" At this point in the conversation I become very uncomfortable so usually reply evasively, "I'm a ghost" or "I am not real." Then they get really confused.

Maybe they are simply trying to connect with me or maybe I remind them of their daughter who is also in their twenties. Nevertheless, it is difficult not to take these matchmaking efforts personally, because they more or less imply that my life is simply not good enough if I don't have a husband to share it with, or something like that.

This year two of my childhood friends are getting married. It's really exciting and I am happy for them. Even so, I kind of dread attending their weddings. Weddings are a glaring reminder that Yeah, I'm single. They bring up the unanswerable question of "If my friends are getting married, then why not me?"

Yes, I am familiar with the many platitudes meant to soothe a despondent single woman such as myself:

• God knows you want a boyfriend/husband, and he will answer your prayers.
• God has someone in mind for you and he will be perfect for you!
• God's timing is better than your timing.
• Being single is great! You have so much flexibility!
• I'm sure there are plenty of guys who like you and you don't even know it.

These kinds of comments make me both angry and want to say, "Well, f--- it then" and just be numb about it all. I know they come from a place of wanting me to feel better, but perhaps a more appropriate response is, "That sucks that you aren't in a relationship but want to be. How can I support you?" The agony of being a single Christian woman is having to live in this really vulnerable place of simply waiting on God.

Perhaps the public persona I project is one of independence, competence, intelligence and strength, but those close to me know that I am sensitive, sentimental and quite the romantic. I haven't dated since 2010 and have had my fair share of unrequited crushes since then. I am not single by choice. The painful reality of my singleness is at times quite acute.

That being said, I am doing what I can to resist wallowing for too terribly long. I know how to soldier on, even if it means having to crawl in the times that I cannot even bring myself to walk.

Yeah, I'm single today and maybe I am not fully okay with it. I might cry about it today but tomorrow could be better. Yeah, it may just be.

Reboot

So I'm back to blogging! Hooray! Shut down the site for a bit while I was job searching (prospective employers would probably have been understandably alarmed/concerned if they had perused my social media accounts), but now that I've been hired, I figure I'm more or less in the clear now (though, jury's always still out; I'm an at-will employee).

It's been quite an interesting journey, these past four months of unemployment followed by a month of temporary employment followed by what will (hopefully) be a year of term-limited temporary employment. There's been plenty of time for soul-searching and tears, but thankfully it appears that the worst of the crisis is over. I may not ever fully understand the "whats" and "whys" of the entire Bolivia debacle, but I'm just so glad that chapter is now more or less over. It was definitely scary, and I still cringe knowing that three of my friends are still in that "church," being psychologically and spiritually taken advantage of in a very icky way. Yet, in order to cope, I have had to face the fact that since they do not want to leave, and I have done my part to try and convince them otherwise, the situation must be left in God's hands. I have had to relinquish responsibility and trust that the eventual arc of their lives will bend towards wholeness, wellness and healing, though for the present it is not.

Adulthood can be disorienting at times. I've had so many folks give me well-meaning yet disparate advice of what I should do and how I should live my life, but when it came to Bolivia, and the choices I had to make afterwards, there came a point where I just had to decide to do something and live with the consequences. Bolivia eroded a lot of my self-confidence, especially in my intuition, judgment and discernment. However, living life at a standstill, paralyzed and afraid of making the "wrong" choice, I found, was simply impractical.

I am wary of religious perfectionism, which requires that each and every personal decision made must be tested and approved as the explicit "will of God." This requires much agonizing, weighing of options, and hours of prayer devoted to receiving "confirmation" or God's "blessing" on moving forward with something. Is life really that spiritual? Yes, there is absolutely Biblical precedent for asking God for guidance and direction for important decisions (2 Chronicles 20:12; Acts 13:1-3), but I just am highly skeptical that this level of intense scrying is altogether necessary. God obviously intervenes when there is, in fact, a "wrong" choice to be made (case in point: me returning to Bolivia). However, is every little choice and decision judged in a moral/spiritual scale, implying there are gradations of spiritualized choices, with God keeping score? I've decided this is a miserable way to live, full of regret for what could have been, and fear of what could be (see the psychic headache that is The Adjustment Bureau). Thus, I've nixed this approach to life.

I'm also wary of the other extreme, self-protective human secularism, i.e. taking matters into my own hands and barreling forward in life assuming God approves/I know his will absolutely. This would mean "running after" food, clothing and housing (a la Matthew 6:28-34) as ends in themselves and winding up a materialistic, "self-made" woman. It would also require a certain amount of hard-heartedness towards God (relationship with him is implied/assumed rather than deep/actual), which I'm not willing to stomach. Again, hard pass.

My latest strategy has mostly just been to not really take things so seriously or overthink them. I can be intense, perfectionistic and exacting; so in other words, I'm trying to "lighten up." I'm just trying to respond to situations as they occur and make peace with the fact that I won't always get things right the first time. I'm seeing that there's a lot of safety in knowing God and belonging to him. Sure, due to my own choices, I can get myself into a lot of trouble. That's always going to be a possibility. Yet, having made it out of a couple of pretty dramatic tough scrapes so far, God's care and faithfulness is undeniable.

Is this what it feels like to "wing it"?

The past two months in hypothetical blog post titles, categorized.

Didn't see it coming

• I almost joined a cult. Whoops!!
• Escaped a cult and not sure how f---ed over my mind is?
• On being a neurotic Christian. 
• When good intentions don't preclude failure. 
• When a detour feels like a prison. 
• The harmful effects of shame. 
• Is it all just in my head? 

Coping

• Recovering from a punch to the heart. 
• TV bingeing: a recipe for general life dissatisfaction. 
• Falling down the Wikipedia rabbit hole. 

Metacognition and deconstruction

• Realizing I think in black and white. 
• R.I.P black and white thinking. 
• Paralyzed: don't know how to think. 
• Does anything mean anything? 
• Nuance and ambiguity is everything now, I guess. 

My emotional self

• On verbal dramatics and hysterical realism OR When every word that comes from my mouth is hyperbolic. 
• How my strong emotions make others uncomfortable. 
• To be or not to be: when contradictory advice makes me question my entire identity and very personhood. 

In sum

• The agony of agonizing. 
• Crying and I don't know why. 
• Jesus?

In-Between

Today marks the end of the fourth week (!) since I finished up work at University Presbyterian Church. I have been living in Beacon Hill at my grandma's two-bedroom condo, and have been spending much of my time cleaning up and cleaning out the place to get it ready for sale. My grandma has vascular dementia and for more than a year has been living in assisted care facilities while her old condo has remained vacant.

The kitchen and hallway closet which have since been significantly de-cluttered.

Systematically going through different sections of the condo boxing up items to donate to Goodwill, and cleaning (sweeping, mopping, dusting, vacuuming), has been a welcome challenge to tackle in this in-between time prior to my return to Bolivia in January 2016. I am amazed with the sheer amount of unopened items (platters, vases, clothes, pots, pans, mugs, tea pots) Grandma stored in her closets. I assume she intended to either use these things later, or give them to others as gifts.

My favorite things I have stumbled upon so far have been some precious old photos from my dad's childhood and even from grandma's childhood, her high school diploma from Franklin High School and her yearbook (1949). She also tended to save birthday, Mother's Day and Christmas cards from family. Those cards kind of make me sad when I realize she probably would have little to no interest in reading them in her current condition. I am saving them in a box anyway.

As I reflect and pray about my upcoming departure to Bolivia, I am overcome with gratitude and also hit with a considerable dose of sorrow thinking about the dear family and friends I will be leaving in order to serve with the Bolivian church and to engage in God's purposes there. So I am doing my best to be grateful for each day here in Seattle. It's not always comfortable to be in this in-between space between points A (UPC) and B (Bolivia) but I so am thankful for it! Working, resting, waiting, praying, preparing. It is all good!

Sunrise from Grandma's condo

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in the heavenly realms with every spiritual blessing in Christ. For he chose us in him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in his sight" (Ephesians 1:3-4). 

Bolivia Is Not Mexico

This post is part of a continuing series about the School of Christ in Cochabamba, Bolivia. All posts will be tagged "Bolivia." Read all Bolivia posts here.

Many of my friends and family have asked me, "So how was the food [in Bolivia]?" To be honest, the answer is kind of complicated. Bolivian food is not particularly my fave, but it was okay. As my teammate DeAndrea would say, Here's the thing: Bolivian food is not Mexican food. Further, Bolivian culture is not Mexican culture. Throughout the 21-day school, I kept having to wake up to this reality.

I'm not sure if it was the same for others on the American team, but most of my cultural references to "Hispanic" or "Latino" culture* are Mexican. In the United States, Mexican culture, food and language are interwoven into mainstream American life--probably most likely because a huge chunk of the contiguous U.S. used to be Mexico (please see: Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, 1848). I mean, the average American probably has at least some baseline knowledge of some distinctly Mexican/Mexican-American cultural markers: pinatas, burritos, tacos, Cinco de Mayo (which is actually not really celebrated in Mexico, ironically enough), the word ándale**, etc. It's just part of the North American experience. I would say that Americans probably know Mexican culture better than any of the "Hispanic" cultures simply because of history and proximity.

Furthermore, for me personally, I am more familiar with Mexican culture just because Mexico is the only Spanish-speaking country I've ever lived in prior to going to Bolivia this summer. I lived in Mexico for 10 weeks in 2010, and then for six months from 2014-2015. Living in Mexico, I was able to observe the way of life, the daily rhythms/customs, and pick-up on the subtler cultural mores (e.g. communication style, social etiquette). I don't purport to really know fully the Mexican culture (which again, is not necessarily definable in monolithic, generalized terms) BUT it is the "Hispanic" culture with which I'm most familiar.

All this to say, it was, at times, disorienting to be in Bolivia because I kept expecting things to to be, well, Mexican. Comforting things that I got used to in Mexico just aren't the Bolivian way of doing things. They were small, but notable. For example, in Mexico, the common greeting each morning is buenos días, and is said to pretty much every individual you come across. In Bolivia, the greeting of choice is decidedly buen día. So I started saying that instead. Bolivia is not Mexico.

Or there are just some Mexican words that don't make sense in Bolivia. For example, the idiomatic phrase of "having a cough" is traer tos in Mexico. However, when I used this expression in Bolivia, I was met with blank stares. So I literally just had to say, Are you sick? in Spanish, after a few unsuccessful attempts of just repeating the same Mexican idiom. Or another common word used in Mexico is platicar which means to chat, shoot the breeze, etc. I guess that word isn't a thing in Bolivia, either. Bolivia is not Mexico.

Also, the food. There are so many things I appreciate and love about Mexican food. In Mexico it's common to have beans and eggs with tortillas for breakfast. While we were in the school we didn't once eat tortillas! Or another favorite breakfast of mine is tamales with canela (a kind of tea made with cinnamon sticks and sugar), again, both things which are not Bolivian. It was so hard to switch gears and realize that I wasn't going to be eating Mexican food in Bolivia! Mexican food, which is so ubiquitous in North America, is probably easily much more foreign to Bolivians than American food! Bolivia is not Mexico.

While we were in the school we had few traditional Bolivian dishes: pique macho, sopa de maní and majadito.

Pique Macho

Sopa de Mani

Majadito

Pique macho is a somewhat perplexing mix of protein, carbs, veggies and condiments. It's got it all: chopped beef, boiled eggs, some hot dog, fries, tomato slices, onion, (spicy) green pepper, mayo, mustard and ketchup. A truly unique dish. Sopa de maní, or "peanut soup," is also a very particular dish with a beef broth and ground peanuts, along with potatoes, peas, oregano and basil. It's quite distinct. Majadito is probably my favorite of the three, with well-seasoned fried eggs, fried plantains, rice and a salad of onion and tomato. In general I wasn't necessarily over the moon about Bolivian cuisine. Maybe it was because these dishes bear little to no resemblance to the Mexican dishes I am accustomed to and have grown to love. Bolivia is not Mexico.

I think the most disorienting thing about Bolivia was how similar it was to Mexico in some ways (which at first caused me to rely on my Mexican cultural heuristics) but then would totally catch me off guard by being, well, so decidedly and distinctly Bolivian. I don't know why I was so surprised. New information alert! my brain would signal to me.

For example, Bolivia is very similar to Mexico in its orientation to time (fluid rather than rigid), generosity (i.e. Don't tell a Bolivian you like anything of theirs otherwise they will literally give it to you), importance of the family, traditional gender roles (machismo) and mix of indigenous and Spanish culture (mestizaje). Yet there is an undeniably marked distinction between the two countries. Bolivia is not Mexico!

While at the school, I had to come to terms with the fact that I was going to encounter some Bolivian cultural markers that I was just not familiar with. The cultural things I learned while living in Mexico could only take me so far, and then I just had to "figure out" some new things, some new Bolivian things. It was a humbling experience. Learning about and adapting to a new culture can be an uncomfortable experience--sometimes it feels like trying to find my way around in the dark with groping hands--but I am grateful for the challenge it presented. It kept me on my toes and reliant on God rather than coasting on my prior knowledge and experiences.

Bolivia is not Mexico. And that's a good thing.

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*I acknowledge first of all that it's problematic to lump all Spanish-speaking nations together like this, but that's a whole other story. 

**I'm not saying that any of these things sum up or define what it is to be Mexican/Mexican-American, but these kinds of "stereotypically" Mexican things are arguably embedded in the American psyche notwithstanding.

Taking Off in Prayer

This post is part of a continuing series about the School of Christ in Cochabamba, Bolivia. All posts will be tagged "Bolivia." Read all Bolivia posts here.

As you may already be aware, a part of the daily rhythm of the School of Christ is praying for two hours every day (from 6:00am-7:00am and 6:30pm-7:30pm, respectively), no exceptions (not even on Sunday!). I must say, this was actually one of my favorite parts of the school. But it wasn't at first.

I think many friends and family of mine can attest to the fact that I am not a morning person. In the evenings I lay out my clothes, pack my lunch and purse so that when I wake up, I can get dressed and go without having to "think." I've got it down to a science: once I get the wherewithal to actually get out of bed, I can be ready on 20 minutes (leaving maximum time to sleep).

So when on the first morning of the school we were woken up with a piercing siren not unlike a dormitory fire alarm, followed by a voice on a megaphone yelling, "Get up, get up, get up!"* I groaned and grumbled to myself, "It figures." It would still be dark outside at 6:00am when I would enter the classroom to pray and by the time we concluded the sun would be up, illuminating the high, snow-capped mountain peaks that surrounded us on every side.

The style of prayer at the school is very much different from the kind of "typical" prayer in an American Presbyterian church (which is the tradition I grew up in). Whereas in the States, most corporate prayer is led by one person praying over a microphone with everyone else agreeing silently until the "Amen," prayer at the school can, at the outset, appear to be a disorderly, cacophonous mess.

A strong memory I have of prayer is walking in at 6:00am (I was usually one of the last to arrive because I was herding in my fellow roommates to get there on time, see my older blog post for more info.), and the first thing I noticed is the low-grade sound of murmuring. You see, in the School of Christ, everyone prays out loud at the same time. For an hour.

Add to that baseline layer of whispered/spoken prayers (1) the oftentimes assertively loud worship music in Spanish being transmitted by large amplifier speakers (one at the front of the classroom and one at the back), and (2) the prayers of the pastor on the microphone up front and well, it's a party!!! I can't imagine what it was like for my teammates that didn't know Spanish; at least I could understand the lyrics of the songs (and even sang along with a few that were also popular at my church in Mexico) and could follow along and agree with the pastors' intercession up front.

     

In the School there were about three different options for physical postures of prayer: on your knees with your face to the ground, kneeling over a chair or standing. That first week I found myself standing quite a bit because, well, if I hadn't been standing, I would have straight up fallen asleep in those intensive morning sessions. One morning as I slowly got down onto my knees to pray, I sighed into the ground and said out loud to the Lord, "Okay... Here we go." Little did I realize that my teammate Heather was nearby, listening. She laughed out loud. I'll tell you this, prayer at 6:00am is not glamorous! At first I was seriously dragging to get there. But by week three I would walk into the room, that low-grade murmuring would hit my ears and I would be comforted. And then I'd get down on my knees and get to work.

Pastor Fernando, who taught for the first week, explained to us early on that praying in the Spirit is like a plane taking off. He even conceded that sometimes the first 45 minutes can seem utterly fruitless, and a struggle to concentrate and focus on God. "But when you take off..." he explained, with somewhat of a wistful look, "That is when you soar with God." He added further that prayer in the Spirit does not necessarily take on a certain "form" outwardly. Some students would yell out in prayer, cry, weep, groan. Yes, Pastor Fernando affirmed, this can be praying in the Spirit, but even someone who is completely still and silent, they too can be praying in the Spirit. "I can just look at people and know," he explained. There's no getting past him!! :)

For me, praying in the Spirit was like going underwater. It was immersive. I would just submerge myself in prayer, not opening my eyes once until the pastor said "Amén" an hour later. Sometimes I would have lots to say to God but other times I would run out of things to say and just worship him the rest of the time. I would wait before him in silence, thanking him. Sometimes the Holy Spirit would bring to mind a certain passage from scripture, or a picture, or a brief little phrase. Sometimes he would highlight a mindset or actions that I needed to repent of. Sometimes he would break my heart to pray for someone in particular. Other times I didn't really have a clue what God was doing in that hour other than sanctification in general terms. But I knew something was happening.

After most prayer sessions I would check-in with my teammate DeAndrea, trading notes on what God had been speaking to us. We were in total agreement that in that first week with Pastor Fernando, the presence of God filled that classroom in such a sweet and powerful way that it was undeniable. "It almost makes you sway," DeAndrea observed. I mean, it really did hit you when you entered the room.

One of my favorite memories from the school is when, one evening for prayer, Fernando asked those who had a special calling from God over their lives to come forward. "You know who you are," he said, with a serious look on his face, referring to those over whom he had prayed earlier in the week (during prayer he would usually set down the mic and then go to pray for people as the Holy Spirit led him). Of course, then just everyone in the school pretty much got up and stood in the front (I mean, who doesn't want to be chosen?) but he reiterated again, "I'm going to pray for those with a special calling in God, those on whom he will place his burden on and use in a significant way."

So everyone began to pray (that comforting thrum resuming again), and Pastor Fernando started "making the rounds." I realized, however, that many of the American team wouldn't be able to understand what he was praying because they haven't studied Spanish. So I started following him around, interpreting his prayers so they knew what he was saying. And man, I would just cry as I was translating because God was truly using Pastor Fernando to bless my American brothers and sisters! Through the Holy Spirit Pastor Fernando spoke such words of insight into folks' hearts, things that could only come through revelation--and they were such specific words of truth, love and encouragement that one after another would break down in tears as he prayed. God was healing them and building them up spiritually before my very eyes.

So like that airplane, praying was a struggle to start and get going (especially in the mornings)... But once I got into the rhythm of it, I grew to treasure it. It was, in fact, one of the only opportunities I had to "be alone" with God (albeit in a group of a bunch of people but trust me, I am and expert at blocking noises out). I would just get "in the zone." And afterwards I would frequently leave the room, remarking to DeAndrea, "That was just nuts..."

"And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the saints" (Ephesians 6:18).

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*Thankfully after the first morning they used the doorbell to wake us up from then on.

Bolivia Anecdote: Cinco minutos, hermanas...

Author's Note: So although I had planned on drafting blog posts while I was in Bolivia to post once I returned (because we didn't have internet at the School of Christ), I definitely didn't get around to doing that. Whoops. There wasn't really time. In lieu of that, I'll be periodically posting anecdotes, memories and revelations from God that I received in the school, as they come to mind. I hope to mix the humorous and absurd stories with the profound and serious. Buckle up!!

Cinco minutos, hermanas...

So one of the responsibilities I had during the three-week long school was to be "room warden" for a group of 20 or so of my classmates. There were two women's rooms; my friend Jessica was in charge of Room One and I was in charge of Room Two. We were chosen because of our bilingual skills, mostly (as Bolivians and Americans were split evenly between the two rooms). As you can imagine, each room had row upon row of bunk beds and our room had the special privilege of a wooden door that scraped nails-on-a-chalkboard-style against the floor every time it was open or shut. Good times.

One of the first days in the school we were instructed on the way that our bunk beds needed to be: signs with our names on our bunks (in case individuals needed to be punished for not following room regulations), towels ONLY hung onto the frames (not even jackets or coats were allowed), beds neatly made each morning (our Bolivian peers tended to bring legit bedding, like sheets and blankets, rather than sleeping bags), luggage/backpacks zipped and placed directly underneath the bed with two pairs (maximum) of shoes lined up meticulously in opposing corners.

Part of my duties were to make sure folks were adhering to these regulations, but also make sure that everyone got up on time and went to bed on time. First off, this was a bit of a challenge seeing as I didn't have a watch... but that was soon remedied as my American teammates Matthew, then Jacob, graciously lent me theirs. You see, the tricky thing was that if anyone from my room was either late to 6:00am prayer or caught up past the 10:00pm lights-out hour, my butt would be on the line AND the entire room would be punished. So the stakes were *high*.

Each morning we would be woken up by a bell ringing at 5:30am. I would quickly albeit with a noted absolute lack of coordination, fumble my way down from my rickety top bunk and shuffle over to turn on the lights. The first week or so, people would get up as soon as the lights were turned on. By week three, though, there were a handful of regulars that continued to lie there, unmoving, perhaps attempting to squeeze in a few more minutes of precious rest. I mean, seriously, some girls knew how to take it down to the wire. I tried to be fair by giving folks multiple warnings, 20, 15, 10, 5, 2 minutes and then 30 seconds out from our 6:00am call time. The same would go for counting down to lights-out at 10:00pm. I would just say tersely, "__ minutes, sisters [__ minutos, hermanas]." It became such a regular thing that my American teammate DeAndrea (who knew very little Spanish) would repeat perfectly after me, "Cinco minutos, hermanas!"

The strange thing was that even with these (what I believed to be) ample warnings, some girls seemed absolutely shocked when I would give the final warning in the evening, "30 seconds and I'm turning out the lights!" I would hear cries of alarm, followed by pleading, "Hermana, por favor," or "Ay, no, hermana!" Hermana! Hermana! and a half-hearted scrambling to get ready for bed.Without fail, though, I would turn out the lights at 10:00pm, because if not, the guy in charge of discipline would have my head for it (he would regularly be patrolling the hall at this time).

One time when the pleading was especially numerous and insistent, and I abruptly turned out the lights anyway (to further cries of distress), one of our Peruvian classmates, Eina, said, "April is a good soldier of Christ Jesus! She cares more about pleasing God than pleasing man!"

There may have been some truth to that.

Mostly, though, I was just happy to finally go to bed.

"Hermana..."