Great Expectations

I had just finished a 6-hour scrabble match. More importantly, I had just said bye to the Rossers—potentially the last time I see them for years or perhaps a lifetime. Right now seems to be a transitioning moment in life for many.

It was 1230 am, and I had to finish packing for my trip. I had finally made peace with checking a bag. I mean, it’s two weeks, and I need options. 1235 comes along with a rap on my door. It’s Rosser. “Do you have any jumper cables?”

Could it have ended any other way? No. I know coming back in the morning to take care of jumping a truck is a nuisance for them. I know it. But it brought me a great deal of closure and humor. So, for this, I am thankful. It did not end on a mushy note but a fitting one.

1am to bed. 430 wake up. Savored my last pour-over and waited for my ride. The airport looks busy, but Sea-Tac’s never impressed me with slowness. Not a hint of anxiety on me. Not even a hint. My ticket was bought with miles under American Airlines, but the first leg is on Alaska—so this is where I attempt to check-in. They’ve got a great thing going on there. It’s a breeze, unless of course, the machine does not recognize that you have reservations. Hmm. Ok, so I must have to go to American, which I think is this way. Still, calm. Not even a hint. Yes, I see American. Yes, I also see that ridiculous line wrapped around the corner and expanding into the security gate’s hallway. This shouldn’t be too bad; machines are fast, the line will move. Sigh of relief as I figure out these people are all in line to speak to an agent!? Why?! Just use the machines, you bunch of crazies. No line at the machines. And it recognizes my name. Searching….searching….searching.  No itinerary found.

Alright, let’s be serious here. I pulled out my phone to check the e-mail sent to me by the purchaser. What if I search by my flight number instead of destination city? Ding, ding, ding! Yes, there it is. Those are my flights. I’m sorry, what? Go see an agent? My flights aren’t all through American? You can’t give me my passes and check me in?? Maybe if you saw the line, you could make an exception. You don’t talk? OK.

I walk around the corner to the end of the line. When I reach the last person, I immediately leave. I walk back to Alaska not really sure what my plan was. I do not have time to stand in a line. I didn’t think it was going to be like this. Oh, can’t I just go back? Back to how it used to be. I didn’t know what I was talking about, but this seems to be my reoccurring cry of distress.

I’m just going to try the Alaska machine again. I don’t have a confirmation number…but we’ll try a little of this, a little of that. These are the moments when some people pray—these are usually the same kind who pray for parking spots. Then when they find a spot, they think God gave it to them when really all along, it may have been there anyway. Don’t they ever wonder about that? I’m not one of those people. Yes!!! The machine recognizes me. I don’t really understand why it changed its mind, but I promise to move to Alaska as it prints my passes.

Security gate nerves? Not even a hint. These lines have always been good to me. I got up to the front, unloaded, unpacked, undressed… Oh, what’s this? A knife? Oops. Well, it’s decision time. Do I leave it and try to get past the surveyor without its detection. Or do I say something? Are they going to interrogate me if I leave it? Oh my gosh, this knife cost money. I want it. They’re going to take it from me. “Ummm, excuse me. I just realized I have this in my bag.  And I’m guessing it’s not ok. “ “No, that’s a blade.” “Right, so…” I was waiting for the woman to just take it from me, but she was hesitant for some reason. Do you want me to tell you to take it? Just take it! “We’re going to have to confiscate this.” She took it from me, and told another guard that I “surrendered” my x-acto knife. I sure did. I’m such a good, honest person.

Alright, so just let me get dressed and to the lounge so I can make pancakes and get syrup all over myself. My stay at the club was the shortest I’ve ever had. I really did not give myself much time today, which makes sense since it’s the high season of traveling…

Apparently, my flight to Reno is on a little plane. I have to go outside to board it. I didn’t even realize I was never assigned a seat number until I saw my name on the information board. There was a check next to it, which made me think I had a spot. Correct.

Through the gate and to the plane. There are three planes, and I’m not sure which one to go to, but the woman before me went through my gate, so obviously I should follow her onto the right plane. Greetings to the attendant. Walking down to row 19, seat E. I thought it was going to be a middle seat, but the plane is so tiny, it’s a window!

The attendant is saying something over the intercom, but I’m too busy rejoicing over the window that I don’t start listening until the end…”Make sure you are headed to Pasco because the gate you went through is used for three different flights, and people sometimes get on the wrong plane.”

Hmmm. “People like me!” I turn around while people laugh at me. You know how hard it is to go the opposite flow of direction in the aisle of a plane? So hard. The attendant told me the workers on the ground could tell me which plane is mine, but you know what? They couldn’t. I told them I would just keep boarding planes ‘til I found mine.

But I found it. And the flight was nothing write-worthy. Reno airport on the other hand…usually, I do not mind spending a few hours in a busy airport during holiday season. I just love it. I found the exception. This place is a dead zone. First of all, the terminal I’m in is half the size of the breezeway at Highline, and second, there’s just no one in it. Oh, and I guess there’s a third…no coffee. Get a grip, Nevada. It’s complete silence interrupted by the “wheel of fortune” machine every 2 minutes. Spending four hours here is just beneath me. I look up at the flight boards. There is an American flight to Chicago at 1145. If I could just hop on that…call my brother, he tells me call American if there is no one at the desk. Alright, call American. I keep hitting zero so I can just talk to someone, but the technology has become sensitive to this approach. The robot tells me she knows I want to talk to someone but if I could just answer a couple questions first, it would help get my info ready. Alright, fine. Eventually, I connect with a woman who makes me repeat all of my flight info anyway. I tell her what I want to do. She says the flight was bought with award points, and I can only get on the other flight if it has award spots available, which it doesn’t. She looks at it some more. She informs me that the 1145 flight goes through Dallas first. Oh, hmm, well nevermind then. Goodbye.

I guess I’m here til 1. I stare back up at the board and think about how weird it is to show that the flight goes to Chicago, if it actually goes to Dallas first. Really weird. This is affirmed when I realize I’ve actually been looking at the arrivals board.

We’re boarding in five minutes. This flight takes just as long as the flight straight from Seattle. I think that’s weird too. But on the other side, I know that O’Hare awaits me. Not just O’Hare, but O’Hare at Christmas time. Is there a better place to be than O’Hare just days before the 25^th? If there is, I don’t know it. I’m tempted to tell my mom to pick me up an hour late, just so I can run around and watch people and use the bathrooms over and over again. While I’m on the plane, I think about how weird the day has been. I relive it in my head and realize I forgot to take the bagel out of the toaster in the boardroom. 

It is not a full plane. There are people in the back laying across three seats and sleeping. I do not have that luxury, but I don’t mind. I read about Pip. At the moment, he’s discovering that someone has great expectations for him. This is what he’s been dreaming about for years; he’s about to become a gentleman. But in the same moment, he feels so much conflict about leaving his old life for one he thinks will be so much “better.” I stare of into space (literally) many times thinking about his problem and its parallels in my own life. I’ve kind of decided no life is ever better, especially the one you think will be better.

We land. We taxi to our gate for 20 minutes. 20 minutes of driving!? This airport is huge and lovely. I walk off the jetway. So many people, so many lights and big red bows. I get to walk through the hallway with a domed ceiling made up of windows. Birds made out of evergreen and lights are above me alternating with garlands and, of course, the huge golden globe.

I walk outside. Its weather is comparable to Seattle’s. Immediately, I hear the traffic cop arguing with someone who wants to sit and wait for his arriving guest. Not in this town, buddy. I wait. My mom is on her way. I watch the people embracing their visitors, family, friends…quickly, of course, so as to not enrage the regulator. The airport reminds me this an exciting time of year, and I get to be a part of it. As the next car drives past me, I catch the license plate, “Illinois.” Hmm. That’s right. I’m somewhere else now. It never really hits me until the cars tell me so.

I get the feeling that the next two weeks are going to be eventful in more than just obvious ways. In exactly two weeks, I age. I cover my mouth to hold back the gag reflex. Where did my life go? As it is, I have no plans for the next two weeks, but I know they will be made quickly. Before I know it, I'll be right back here. I cover my mouth again. Maybe I will know more about myself, my life, my future in two weeks. Maybe I will have a huge epiphany. Maybe, God will talk to me. Two weeks. The shortest, longest period of time I know to exist. Am I nervous? Maybe just a hint.

Remember this. Do something.

I’ve got the best seat in the house today. You get somewhere early enough, you can have any seat you want. I sit up against the front window of Roy Street Coffee and Tea. The intersection right outside is complicated—Broadway runs into a dead end or maybe it curves around the block and continues; I’m not quite sure. There are four street signs on the post with arrows in all directions, not really clear on which way is which. Sounds familiar.  At any given moment, there is a new group of people standing in front of my window. They all have places to go, things they need to get to, you know, life to get to.

I’ve spent my time here planning for the week’s upcoming math lessons. It’s not something I enjoy, but I have to do--part of my responsibility to life. The woman who sat next to me when I first arrived spoke about her daughter. She was confiding in her two friends about the ills she has had to put up with. Every time the girl’s boyfriend comes over, she has to leave. She can’t stand him. Sounds stressful. Since then the ladies have been replaced by two women discussing a book.

I’ve been reading through Screwtape Letters. One chapter caught my attention, and I find myself returning to it often. Screwtape is instructing his nephew on how to distract us, of course. He talks about one of his own, who came to him at the end of his life reflecting on how he spent his life. He says; “I now see that I spent most of my life in doing neither what I ought nor what I liked.” He spent his life doing nothing. He spent his life in a routine. Did not help the poor, invest in relationships, explore deep questions because he had a life to get to. Did not go on vacations, splurge on expensive things, date, drink too much, blow off work on his birthday to celebrate because he had a life to get to, and he was responsible for it. He didn’t do what God wanted him to do. He didn’t do what he wanted to do. He did nothing.

I get scared when I can’t remember my day 48 hours ago. My stomach churns when I can’t decipher year 24 from 25. I’m not sure what makes a day striking enough to be set apart from an otherwise possessive life routine.  Maybe each day isn’t supposed to be memorable enough, maybe we’re just supposed to live by moments. But time has to be important; it’s one of the first creations—symbolically, literally, whatever. We live by it and we’re limited because of it.

God speaks to us in revelation, and I usually don’t like to write until I’ve figured out ten percent of what He’s getting at, but here I am staring out a window, wondering where all these people are going and writing about it. Will they remember this moment, this day next week? Will I? I’m pretty sure relationship is somewhere tangled up in the middle of this.  It’s just the way He does it. Every time.

I’m going to leave soon, and some lucky person with great timing is going to walk in and see this seat empty. It’ll be the only one, as this place crowds up Sunday afternoons.  Then he/she will have the best seat. I hope he/she takes a moment to look outside and wonder about life—break away from work and routine to figure it all out or at least become more confused. It’d be a shame to waste this window.

There’ll Never Be Another (Ode to Rosser)

Tomorrow is our first faculty meeting of the year. I’m going to walk into the library, but I'm not going to be looking for anyone. I’m just going to sit down. And that’s how it’ll start. When the day is over, I’m not going to stop by room 179 to hear about stock quotes. I’m just going to walk out the doors. And that’s how it’ll end.  It’s going to be different. It’s going to be a bit lonelier. It’s going to be sad.

I’m having trouble pulling myself together long enough to write this. Who wouldn’t? I remember when I first found out. It’s an odd thing to react to. On the one hand, all I can think about is myself, my feelings, my life, my workday. On the other hand, all I can think about is how right this is and how I’d never want to change it. The result is a very odd emotion, and I wouldn’t mind if I never felt it again in my whole life. You think I’m being dramatic, but that’s fine because if you know him, you know what I’m talking about. If you don’t, then I’m very sorry for you because you won’t get to for 3 and a half more years.

You can’t write this character up in a book, people wouldn’t believe it. And when I try to recreate the experience of knowing him, people don’t get it. When you’re with him, chances are you’re about to be in a story told for weeks to come. And if there’s a boat or some sort of sea-faring vessel involved, years to come. I can’t think of a better way to live a life.

He has his own sort of way of doing things, and even though people try, no one can ever blame him for it. Once you know him long enough, you find yourself revisiting a grin and the phrase “that’s about right” regularly. His decisions are completely unpredictable, yet never surprising. He teaches those around him adventure, integrity, and innovation. If something’s broken, you bet he can buy it off Craig’s list and fix it. If you need help, you bet he will be there to help you move for the 5^th time. He’ll never tell you what you want to hear, but he’ll tell you what you need to hear. Over and over again. He has revealed parts of God’s character to me that I’d never thought about and taught me how to ask good questions.

He has shown me what it looks like to care deeply for people and in knowing their stories and histories. Once in Greece, he spent time researching the different icons. He picked one for each of his young life boys, and then we set off to go get them. Not a moment passed in the cab before he was digging into the life of the driver, language barrier be damned. This is what he does though. He has pushed me to invest in those around me more times than excuses I have. I’m going to miss that. No one else tells me to do that.

He has been constant, consistent, and resilient in the lives of kids around him even when they have been nothing more than inconsistent, rude, and uncommitted. And once married, he and his wife have been partners in ministry that I’ve not once taken for granted. They know what it’s supposed to look like. They’ve caught the vision, and that’s why they have to leave.

I’m not sure what I think about Seattle without them. I’m not sure I’ll like it as much. You’re thinking this is a bit morbid, even inappropriate. They're not dead after all. But God told me I’m not getting married in Seattle, so in June 2015, home will be somewhere else. So I know this is it besides fleeting visits here or there. I will never be able to interact in day-to-day life with them quite like I have been able to the past 5 years. This is a heavy thought for me, and I almost can’t grip it. If you know them, you know what I’m talking about. If you don’t, then I’m very sorry for you because you only have 4 days left.

Tomorrow it begins. CS Lewis says, “Crying is all right in its own way while it lasts. But you have to stop sooner or later, and then you still have to decide what to do.” I guess I have a choice—think about their absence or think about how blessed I was to have their presence. Here’s to the Rossers—a duo unlike any other. Nothing less than Kingdom seekers, nothing more than obedient. That’s about right.

Take notes and wash the dishes.

“Welcome home…or Welcome back? Which is it?”

What a question. Was I coming or leaving? Soon as I returned this morning, I took the walk down to my refuge, Burien Press. It had been a while, and I thought seeing faces I adore would ease the transition. I was startled by the question to be honest. Maybe she saw it on my face, but my mind still hadn’t left the Rock. So, which is it?

When you learn something, you should write it down. You won’t remember it later. And if you don’t remember it later, it’s like it never happened. To get it back, you have to relearn it all over again. And that’s exhausting for everyone when all along you could have just taken notes. School is one thing, but life is another. I can’t keep going in circles, can’t keep failing the same class over and over again. I’ll go mad, and God is a teacher I do not want to disappoint. I want to avoid all that.

So I write because I need to remember. I need to remember what it was like. I need to remember what He told me. I need to remember the people, oh…the people. I need to remember how washing thousands of dishes a day with some of God’s finest brought me so much joy. I need to remember that I’m not here to read about and stalk Jesus; I’m here to move, to act—love does. I need to remember that when I forget about myself, He gives me life, and I want to remember what that life is like. That life is simple. It’s real. It’s good. It’s honest. And most importantly, it’s possible.

I got to see what it was meant to be like, and I can’t let go of that. I have to write it down. It was meant to be full of joy. There is joy in waking up early to the smell of dead fish in Hobart's belly. There is joy in scrubbing dozens of sheet pans and smelling like the “river” everyday. There is joy in taking breaks to dance, and rap, and walk around the kitchen. There is joy in yelling the names of people you love just to keep them on their toes. There is joy in sorting bags and bags of trash. There is joy in carrying freight up ramps at low tide. There is joy in the frustration of being in the middle of a 40-person game of signs. There is joy in sharing one shower with 20 people. There is joy in spilling your life, your insecurities to people whom you may have just met but somehow trust with everything you’ve got. There is joy in serving. There is so much joy.

It was meant to be full of love. There is love in conflict and reconciliation. There is love in praying for each other. There is love in knowing each other’s “levels.” There is love in hearing each other’s stories and asking tough questions. There is love in sharing the weight of each other’s jobs and lending hands to help. There is love in creating a conversation with a stranger just so you can know their name and use it for six days. There is love in serving. So much love.

It was meant to be full of hope. There is hope in knowing it’s not about me. There is hope in knowing I am second. There is hope in knowing that He makes the difference in every single life. There is hope in knowing that even if I forget this, He will never forget me. And right now, all I want to do is honor this glimpse He gave me. There is hope in serving. So much hope.

So, which is it? Truth be told, I don’t want to answer the question. I’m not sure it matters anyway. He is still working. Still telling me what that life is like, so we have to keep writing. Write so that we can remember and move forward. You need to write too. It’s the only way for us all to get home.

New blog