Palmtree Contemplations

When I was getting ready to come home from Korea, I made a chain of paper links to help me count down the days until I left. Everyday when I came home tired, frustrated, and achy, I would rip a paper link off the chain, flatten it out, and write down one thing I was thankful for that day. Then I tucked the piece of paper into an old shoe box. This was hard for me. Generally I would consider myself to be a fairly creative person, but somedays it was a real struggle to think of something I could express gratitude about to God. I said to Him repeatedly, "This is so hard. Why do I have to do this?" The humorous side of me likes to imagine God replying, "Well, dear one, this was your idea. I don't know that you HAVE to do this." With my days full of constant stress, screaming children, cross cultural confusion, exhaustion, and brain fog, it sometimes seemed impossible to come up with anything I could hold up to God and say, "Thanks for this." I persever

Recently, a lot of people have asked me about Lyme Disease and how it has manifested itself. Essentially, Lyme Disease is caused by a bacteria called Borrelia burgdorferi sensu stricto that is carried by ticks. I don't remember ever being bitten by a tick, which can and does happen in many cases. This bacteria can affect many different parts of the body and, as many people with Lyme will tell you, symptoms can vary from time to time. Here is a brief history of my symptoms leading up to my diagnosis.  Fall 2012-Spring 2013       During my Junior year of college I experienced a dark depression that included debilitating panic attacks and many long nights with little to no sleep. I also began having what I called "Crashes." I wasn't sleeping well, but often, even after nights of getting sleep, I would come home after only attending one class and worry that I might not make it into bed. I had this incredible need to sleep so much, and it was very difficult to l

Six weeks ago, I made the decision to leave Korea at Christmas. It was a hard day. I once said that leaving a job uses a lot of language similar to a break up. I had to say, "This isn't you, it's me," and "I am so sorry to do this to you," and "This isn't fair to you," all while crying my eyes out in front of my administrator. She was very understanding, thankfully. We agreed I would leave at Christmas and I began making plans. Two weeks later, they told me they had found another teacher to take my place mid-November. I would be leaving a month earlier than planned, with a lot less money than I wanted. It seemed like the best decision, though. Stress and Lyme disease don't work well together. There have been days when my panic attacks keep me from going out the door, days when I feel I will pass out during class, and days when I forget the day or my students' names, and cannot make out what people are saying. It is best for everyon

Jungle It is Creative Expression day, which is the fancy term for art class. I am excited because today we are only drawing and coloring, not trying to make bi-planes, origami, or even- heaven help us -clay figurines. No, today will be the easiest of assignments: drawing and coloring a desert caravan. I quickly load pictures of camels when I come in, and even show the kids photos of the desert so they understand the setting. Then, I find a video of camels making funny gargling and groaning noises. Suddenly, as I'm loading the video, the unthinkable happens. Bella begins crying. There are different types of crying in children. There's the short, hiccuping sobs accompanied by a couple of tears. There's pretend crying which fools some people (particularly guys who don't know how to handle any type of crying) and there's also "I-want-my-mommy-I-just-peed-my-pants" crying. What Bella is doing can only be described as explosive crying. It comes out of nowhe

I am walking up this mountain and Each step is colder than the last. Do You see me where I fall Finding here no relief, No warmth, No love, Nothing but sensations whipping past? I am walking up this mountain and Each shattering thought is of You. Do You see me where I climb Fighting the frozen wind, For breath, For strength, For a bit of grace to fall into? I am walking up this mountain and The blackened valley is calling. Do You see me where I stand Looking out and down to The ice, The rocks, The chasm I'd meet in my falling? I am walking up this mountain and My loving hands are frosted over. Do You see me where I hide While the blizzard kills My words, My notes, My songs with cold exposure. I am walking up this mountain and The blue drum in my chest keeps beating. Do You see me where I kneel In the hardened snow with A cross, A map, And a compass to mark Your leading? I am walking up this mountain And I will not stop until I see You.

One need not cry out very loudly; He is nearer to us than we think.”  -Brother Lawrence, The Practice of the Presence of God- Bronchitis is, strictly speaking, a nasty disease. No matter how you look at it, the whole fact of nasty mucus coating your throat, lungs, and nose cannot be avoided. Days spent in bed, which should be happy times of required rest, are not happy at all, just dreadful and exhausting. After all, how are you supposed to sleep when you're coughing every twenty minutes? Along with bronchitis, another cold and cough have settled in, or perhaps they are just cousins visiting the bronchitis and will soon have to leave. Regardless, I am a bit worn out from all their familial merrymaking. As a result of said bronchitis, I have now officially taught kindergarten and elementary students with no voice. It was a bit like practicing silence, though in this case it was under the duress of teaching 10 hours a day, not during one of those weekends at college when we al

First and foremost, my Lyme is acting up, which means that the entire bus trip and subway ride to Hongdae are both discomfiting. Lyme comes in waves sometimes, and it makes me wants to stay in bed nursing my aching body into some sort of equilibrium. The hair appointment has been made, though, and I can't stand to cancel and keep looking like the same me for another week. It's a funny thing. With everything around me and inside me maintaining a state of flux, it follows that something physical and semi permanent needs to change, too. Hence, the hair appointment and the 50 minute subway ride to Hongdae. When I arrive, I cannot find the hair salon. I walk up one side of the street, then cross and walk up the  otherside. No luck, even with directions a friend gave me. A clown on stilts smiles down at me, holding out an orange balloon flower. I smile back, take the flower, and proceed to get directions. The Hair and Joy salon is full of other expats, which is a good sign. My ha

"Since love is work, the essence of nonlove is laziness." -The Road Less Traveled-  I remember the first time I read this quote. I was sitting on top of Mr. Knightley (my car) at City Lake enjoying a golden, green, summer day. Korea was a month away and I had very little to do except teach some piano lessons and bid long farewells to all my friends. That day at the lake, I watched ducks in the pond, listened to men with trucks fishing to my left, and felt so certain that I understood this idea of love being work. I didn't. I don't know that I still completely fathom its implications, or am properly acting on the knowledge of what it means to really love. I am learning, though, and that is a good thing. I have been thinking about this quote a lot as it pertains to teaching. My fellow English teachers and I work 50+ hours a week, teaching 11 classes three days a week and 10 on the other two. Every day is full of moments and decisions that are surely defining and wort

Whose idea was this? Kids are hard enough to interest as it is. Try making them sit in class and communicate in another language. I've never taught full classrooms before. It's exhausting. There's this one kindergarten kid who hates me. I know because every day in class he screams at the top of his lungs just to make me jump. This is a common occurrence. He spits in my face at least once a class period when I kneel down to try and help him. He hits me in the chest with his little fists, and climbs on or under the table constantly. He calls me "poo" in English and in Korean every ten minutes. The hours are so long there is no time to figure things out. I meant to get a phone within my first week. I've been here for almost a month and still don't have a phone. So that's really working out. Whose idea was this again? I'm living with the Lyme disease diagnosis and it's awful. I can't eat anything with gluten, dairy, or sugar in it. I a

I am off to see a friend from high school who lives in Gubeundari. The bus takes me to the subway station, and I'm late catching the first train of the trip. No problem. I wait ten minutes, and another train comes. It is a little crowded as I board. Everyone is headed towards Seoul and its environs. Glancing up and down the car, the realization comes that I am the only foreigner. At Sangbong, I get off to transfer. This is when the first mistake happens. My Subway app tells me to get on the green line going towards Myeonmok. I find some tracks that have Myeonmok written in small letters, Sangbong in big letters, and Junghwa in smaller letters next to that. Great, this is exactly what I want. This whole subway thing is so easy. About five minutes later, we pull into Junghwa. I check my map and realize this is not the direction I want to be going. Just before the doors close, I jump off. I need to get back to Sangbong. How do I do that? I can see the people on the other side of t

All the way across the ocean, my window had to be shut to help create a dark, sleep worthy environment for the other passengers. Every few hours, when the flight attendants were busy elsewhere, I snuck quick, blinding glances at the blue white world outside. Once, I thought I saw an island, but it may have just been a glare. The rest of the time, when I wasn't eating some of the best airplane food I've ever tasted or watching the inflight movies, I tried to nap, albeit unsuccessfully. How could I sleep on such a flight? After twelve and a half hours, we landed in Seoul, and my driver, Mr. Lee, picked me up outside customs. I was a little worried we wouldn't be able to find one another, but he was waiting for me with a huge handprinted sign that said simply "Rachel". I needn't have worried. When we reached his van, he began checking things off on a to-do list on his phone, and from the back seat I noticed a picture of me. He smiled and showed it to me when

The ladies in the library can't believe me at first. "You're going where?" South Korea. "Why would you go there?" To teach English and pay off loans. "Do you know anyone over there?" No, not really. "Do you speak the language?" I can say thank you. The librarians are shocked. In this moment, they resemble a group of wizened cats, cocking their spectacled faces in curiosity as they consider me. They share a glance before asking, "How do your parents feel about this?" Oh, they're fine with it.  The bookish ladies shake their heads at me, grey hair swaying behind their ears as they exchange looks again. I try not to laugh. The JBU librarians' reaction does not surprise me. After being their workstudy for three years in college, I suppose they feel a certain sense of protective instinct. I am used to their questions, truth be told. Everyone has the same ones, and I sometimes wonder if people are worried I haven&

Exulansis: ( n ) the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it. (John Koenig, The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows)  When I first came back from Brasil, I used to talk about it all the time. It was all I knew, and it was everything that I loved. My longing for everyone to understand what I had experienced and what my views were was only surpassed by my limited ability to explain it. How do you explain a life where people don't own cars but own boats? How do you explain the strange smashing of languages and quotes that your siblings and missionary kids friends understand intuitively? How do you explain your aversion to little things that don't bother anyone else: the way the lights of the city never die, the seeming wastefulness at every meal, and the repetitive, flimsy nature of worship songs at church?  You don't.  Or maybe, like me, you try, and it is so hard and frustrating to hit the wall of collective mis

I have never done Lent, and I do not come from a tradition that does. I used to read about it in books on Reformation England, when the Catholics would do it and be persecuted for it. It all seemed very violent and strange. I never thought it was something I would want to do until this year. Back in February, I began to realize how oftentimes I encouraged my own loneliness. Planning things to do with friends is great, but sometimes it's hard, or it takes effort, or making conversation is tiring. More frequently than I'd care to admit, I've wound up in front of my computer until 1 AM watching HIMYM, New Girl, Castle, or Downton Abbey. The truth is, I don't really like Ted Mosby that much, and New Girl is superficial, most of the time. Castle is sometimes a smart show, but it's really just a cop story, and I almost always guess who the killer is within the first ten minutes, anyway. As for Downton, well, everyone knows that half of the good plot lines died with Matt

Rust paves the streets of Alone, Chances have fled with the sun. Dreams lie entombed in stone. Empty shoes and barefoot memories groan, Companions to a neighborhood of one Rust paves the streets of Alone. Silver horns and bagpipes drone Love departs, its bright journeys unrun, Dreams lie entombed in stone. Salty rain drenches Nature's bones, Picnics and tea parties by water undone Rust paves the streets of Alone. Dim lamps light inky flights flown Above battered, disassembled guns. Dreams lie entombed in stone. Flickering ghosts deceive with forceful tone. Dead leaves drift, raked by none. Rust paves the streets of Alone. Dreams lie entombed in stone.

Alone, I fill my hands with        Beauty. Light spills through them,        Music and wildflowers That bloom for hours,        But languish in my Silent days.       Though I fill my hands Again and again,        Beauty always flees. Then you sit beside me.        Starbeams glimmer above And we catch them,        Hands clasped, Sharing Beauty in smiles,        And bouquets of words Passed with murmuring         Wonderment. And Beauty makes a Home.

October The month began with a two day stint in bed. I was so sick all I could do was look at the ceiling and ask God to help me get up. An hour later, I would muster the energy to go to the bathroom, or make tea, or maybe text a friend. Two days dragged by in this manner, and I spent a lot of time thinking about my schedule, since there was nothing else to be done. If I hadn't been sick, I know I would have been rushing around and around, like a lunatic hamster on one of those exercise wheels. Finally, my mind was made up: I've decided that I need to quit working at the Cafe at the end of the month. The late nights aren't helping, and I honestly believe that the strain of holding down three jobs is going to drive me crazy, even more so than it already is. I can't do this. I really wanted to think that I could do all of this, and do it well, but I just can't. My friends surprised me with their kindness throughout this time. Almost every weekend that I worked a

Bring me out of the Mists,       Where all is shrouded in thought And the seeking of answers.       It is a place where knowledge Flits just out of reach,      Beckoning to me, Always distant, always near.      Bring me out of the Mists. Bring me out of the Mists,      The Grey King holds sway Over my little boat.      His words are smooth and Silver toned like bells,      Promising fresh water and land, Sweet music in a sea of silence.      Bring me out of the Mists. Bring me out of the Mists.       The Grey King keeps me here, Fumbling with a broken compass.       Vapors of death are in his wake, Cloaking his darkness in opaque hues.       Thick, despairing fog follows, Ruining my map, dimming my lantern.       Bring me out of the Mists.     You bring me out of the Mists.      Light streams from Your ship To my oarless rowboat.      Rope is flung through the air My lifeline: three strands of rough cord,     Woven strong and true. I grab a hold, and Yo

"Be careful always to remember-and never forget- what you have seen God do for you."  Recently, I finished a journal and, in keeping with a personal tradition, read through the account of the past 9 months from start to finish. People have been asking me about my life after graduation, so here is a creative sort of update, with short journal entries included. This isn't all of it, but rather what I have deemed to be the parts I am willing to share with everyone. May May was hard and easy at the same time. After my recital and graduation, I literally had zero motivation for anything. Staying in Siloam Springs was a good decision, but I had no car, and no idea what to do with so much free time. All I wanted to do was sleep, go on long walks in the park, and read books...for about a week. After that week, I desperately wanted a job. Being thrust outside the safe ivory tower of academia I had inhabited for the past four years was scary and, oddly enough, boring. Days c