Thankful

Before the visions of sugar plums, snowflakes, peppermint bark, and twinkling lights overcome my senses, I want to dwell a moment on the gift of Thanksgiving. Though I will vehemently voice that Christmas is my favorite holiday, Thanksgiving is special in its own right. Each year, I tend to pause more frequently and acknowledge the blessings of the year.

It may be that "maturity" thing that tends to come with age. Twenty years ago I did not know how much money and time it took to create the meal. I just showed up with my stomach. Ten years ago I did not know what it was like to go without a paycheck, be on the other side of the continent and be utterly helpless driving by the corner peddlers wondering if I was going to be there.

Four years ago I bowed my head to give thanks alongside a new family--a family that welcomed us holiday orphans in for their meal, festivities and traditions.

This year has been shaky, odd, unplanned, and in may ways just plain hard. Though there has been frustration and uncertainty in great multitudes, the treasures of the year have been many. The thrill of canoeing new waterways, great friends, a new home with friends, unemployment checks, unconditional love from Zach, encouragement from random people, and continual hope for something bigger.

This year we celebrated alongside our housemates, their extended family, and friends. It was the first year in our marriage that Zach and I 'hosted' a Thanksgiving feast. We loved the opportunity to be a part of the cooking crew; well, Zach was more the taste testing crew. We loved the busyness of preparing the basement to hold the abundance of food. We enjoyed our respective Thanksgiving morning workouts--step and Turkey bowl. Overall, it was just plain good.

Brief Respite

The days have been long and bulging with activities.

Step class. Turkey bowl. Thanksgiving feast. Laughter. Black Friday. Fatigue. Tree hunting. Full house. Jaunts to and fro. Christmas decorating. Moments.

Moments such as a brief respite from the hysteria in the most comfortable chair in Kitchen Kaboodle. Despite our delirium, exhaustion and utter happiness from our time in the comfortable chair, we are deeply perplexed as to why Kitchen Kaboodle stocks overstuffed arm chairs.

Our Annual Tradition

Every Thanksgiving Eve (minus last year due to outstanding circumstances) since moving to Portland, Zach and I have joined a multitude of volunteers to serve the annual Portland Rescue Mission Thanksgiving Feast.

It is a privilege to serve these men and women a hot meal in a nicer setting than their typical cafeteria style. In past years I have been a table host, sitting for hours alongside these guests while they ate their food. Conversations varied--reasons they were on the street, favorite holiday memories, expressions of gratitude, and even complaints of how salty the potatoes were on that night. Zach has manned the host position--ushering the guests into the chapel, seating them and introducing their server.

This year I changed roles to kitchen server. Approximately 425 plates passed through our hands with military precision. Visions of green beans and turkey will dancing in our dreams tonight.

After the stuffing has been devoured, the pumpkin pie demolished, a grateful staff continually gives us thanks and the final table decoration taken down, we walk out the doors to find our guests lined up for a warm bed. It is a solemn and humbling moment that though they are well fed and loved on for the moment, it is just for the moment. The battle continues to find food, housing, job, and ultimately hope.

I am reminded of what Thorton Wilder once wrote, "We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures."

Zach's Outlet

After Zach and I married six years ago, we settled for a time in his hometown, Winchester. Since he was a local boy, I frequently heard stories of his upbringing especially the tales surrounding his time on the soccer field--indoor and out. His aggression was well known and people felt proud to let me know what kind of man I had married. I loved hearing the stories and felt a ping of sadness that was a piece of his life I would only know secondhand. Granted during the years he played intramural and pick up games but in his words, "I'm not what I used to be."

Within the last couple of months, Zach has been bemoaning the fact that he needed an outlet. Sitting behind a desk was instigating some extra poundage and pent up energy. With a little coaxing and research, he discovered that there was an indoor soccer facility a few miles south of our house. He got a players card, joined a team and has been re-discovering his moves once again.

Last night I went with him to his game; it was exciting to see a bit of his past. He scored the only goal and played well. In his words, "I think I am finding my groove again."

Randomography: A Week By Film

The rainy season and descended, but the sky has been quite giving with its rainbows.

Melissa turned another year older. She is one of my dearest friends.

I figured out how to use the black and white setting on our new camera. With this knowledge came many great settings...vivid, neutral, red, purple with orange dots...

I went downtown to listen to Karli Fairbanks. She is good; Backspace Cafe sucks due to bad seating and bad ambiance.

The Mosaic leadership gathering is this weekend and I have been in the throes of planning, decorating and baking these delicious, ooey-gooey cakes for dessert.

Last night, Zach and I drove to Cedar Hills Crossing Powell's to partake in an author speech and signing. Brandon Sanderson was chosen specifically to finish the Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan's widow. His story is amazing, intriguing, and insightful. I think I may start reading the series.

PUB QUIZ

The night air was brisk as we hurried into the Thirsty Lion Pub last night. A few nights prior our friend, Will, had called Zach requesting our participation in pub quiz. A new term to us, Will explained that it is pseudo trivia pursuit held in pubs across Portland; this week was Star Wars themed.

The Maser Jedi was committed.

For three hours, Mr. Pub Quiz stretched our craniums with a variety of trivial facts with a large amount specifically involving Chewbacca, Princess Leia and how many people Darth Vader killed.

Our deep intelligence and the advantage of having a Jedi on staff paid off in the end; we came in third out of twenty teams. We were bestowed a chunk of the monetary pot. Each us walked away with eight dollars!

It was a fabulous night! Zach and I loved our time among friends, in a cool pub, and being a part of something unique. I highly recommend this adventure; click here for schedules. Plus, during my perusal of the page, I found that we BOUNTY HUNTERS got a shout out here!

Tuesday Nights

Tonight when I ran upstairs to grab an item for our life group, I took a moment to gaze at the pile of shoes at our front door. It made me smile.

I believe an Australian proverb sums up the situation: "We are all visitors to this time, this place. We are just passing through. Our purpose here is to observe, to learn, to grow, to love...and then we return home."

Diverted

I could type sentences about a weekend filled with rummaging through Adidas ware, an Hawaiian festival, friend moments and other hysterical piffle. However, I am diverted.

The other night while out and about with Zach, the sky broke from its torrential downpour to display an amazing sunset and rainbow. It was as though the sky was apologizing for such an ugly weather day.

Regression

Never mind we have six bookcases sagging under the weight of fully loaded shelves. On any given day, a plethora of books can be found strewn around our bungalow from the library. Sci-Fi, memoirs, fantasy, and those that do not fit a category circulate through frequently. Every so often there is a book that takes me by surprise, rattles my core, makes me think, hem and haw, and tangles with my fundamental beliefs. This week I wrestled with such a book.

Introducing Blood River: A Journey to Africa’s Broken Heart.

The author, Tim Butcher, is a Daily Telegraph journalist who chooses to retrace the steps of Henry Morton Stanley, the first outsider to chart the Congo River and is infamously known as the man who found David Livingstone. Very few people, myself included, know that beyond his legendary statement, “Dr. Livingston, I presume,” Stanley was an integral piece to the colonization of the Congo Basin. His methods were rash, horrid, and deadly, yet the feat was epic. In August 2004, Tim Butcher sets off on his journey.

For 346 pages, Butcher presents a firsthand account of a broken, warring, inverted country. He is diligent about questioning locals, NGO workers, and remaining missionaries on the Congo’s history—wars, dictatorships, colonization, etc. The results are heartwrenching , maddening, and have troubled me.

One of the chiefs Butcher interviewed said, “Over the years, things have got worse and worse. We have lost the things we once had. Apart from what we can carry into the bush, we have nothing. I think the last time I saw a vehicle near here was 1985, but I cannot be sure. All these children you see around you now are staring because I have told them about cars and motorbikes that I saw as a child, but they have never seen one before you arrived.” Butcher continues with his contemplation, “The normal laws of development are inverted here in the Congo. The forest, not the town, offers the safest sanctuary and it is grandfathers who have been more exposed to modernity than their grandchildren. I can think of nowhere else on the planet where the same can be true.”

I have read about the Congo, but glimpses of current events. As I read, I flipped flopped between sadness and hatred, being perplexed to understanding, uncomfortable to even more uncomfortable. How does a country that was prosperous and thriving return to archaic rituals but even more barbaric? How is there a country that suffers more than 1,200 deaths daily and nothing is said? Where are the “Save the Congo” bumper stickers? How is lawlessness and violence so rampant in a country that the United Nations is even hesitant to send in peacekeepers? As one of Butcher’s acquaintances said, “How is it that one of the most resources rich countries is practically the poorest?”

I cannot pinpoint the core reason as to why this book unnerved me. It could be that the somehow the world has written off the Congo as a lost cause. It could be that colonization can be evil, but to revert from it after years is even worse. It could be that, though I have traveled widely, this book scared me enough that I am unsure I would travel to the Congo.

I know I will be grappling with this book for a while and am compelled to do more research.

Ironic...Humorous...

After I parked on Multnomah's campus today to pick up Zach, I noticed an oddity of sorts. It seems Multnomah is above the recession and has upgraded their maintenance vehicle fleet.

I am curious as how the hedge trimmer fits in the back without snagging the leather seats.

Been Carved Long?