No Longer Seeking Mr. Right

The 'M' word seems to come up more and more these days.  "So, are you married?"  "Why aren't you married yet?"  "Don't you want to be married?"  "Oh, don't give up — I am sure that many men would be interested in you.  You should be married!"  "But you're such a nice girl — aren't you ever going to get married?"  "Don't shortchange yourself; you would make a wonderful wife."

The thing is, I have given up on the idea.  And there just is no way to admit that in a conversation without people jumping to all sorts of assumptions and offering all sorts of unsought advice.  The biggest objections seem to be:

1. You're too young (I'm almost 29, so yes, I admit I am still young).
2. How can you just give up??  Don't you trust God at all?
3. Aren't you putting yourself in the place of God making this decision?
4. Oh, you poor thing.  You must really have been hurt.  But don't let a few hurts make you give up on marriage!
5. You must be bitter.
6. You can't possibly know the future.
7. You know, I used to feel the same way and then one day I met my husband . . . 
8. Have you prayed about this?
9. God wants you to be married.  He has someone out there for everyone.
10. Maybe you just have standards that are too high.  (I like to joke that my standards are "Christian, male, and breathing" — if that's too high, there is no hope for the human species.)

People mean well.  The ones bringing up the subject of marriage are, almost always, loving and dear people who wish to see me happy.  They want the best for me, I'm sure.

I spent my entire teen years and the first eight years of my adult life praying for God to send the right man.  When you add it all together, I'd say I spent at least thirteen years of my life praying for someone who never showed up.  I joined dating sites.  When you add those endeavors together, I'd say it adds up to about $500 total (multiple attempts throughout multiple years).  It all seemed worth it if I found the right partner for my life — because where marriage is concerned, no sacrifice is too great, right?  What is money in the face of love and a future?  But the money couldn't find "him" either.  I just wasn't the woman men were seeking.

And then one day, I said, "This has gotten ridiculous.  I am an intelligent, capable woman of God, and I have more important things to do with this priceless time that has been entrusted to me!"  I didn't stop because I doubted God — I do not doubt God at all.  I do, however, recognize three concrete, unchangeable facts:

1. Sometimes God says no.
2. If God wants something to happen, He is omnipotent enough to see that it comes to pass.
3. An endeavor that wastes time, energy, and money without results is utterly foolish.  At some point, it is no longer faith; it's waste.

I awoke one day to the realization that it just wasn't worth it.  If you added together the insecurity and the hurt from feeling unwanted and rejected by every man who sent a message and then faded into the electronic void before meeting me or every man who never returned my hopeful smile . . . well, I could certainly do without the weight of it, and what idiot would pay good money for that sort of baggage?  If you added up all those prayers for the non-arriving man, it would total so many hours that it would, in fact, make up entire days out of my life spent in pursuit of this one object.  If you added up the daydreams and the hopes and the plans and the furtive glances at men who just might be "the one" and the six months spent dating the "the one who wasn't The One" because I thought I couldn't do better — I'm sure all that could fill a year or more of my lifetime.  

What might I have instead accomplished with all that time, energy, and money?  What could I have learned?  Most importantly, what could I have contributed?  Instead of praying for someone who likely doesn't even exist, why not instead pray for those who do exist, those people I see and hear of day after day with needs that I am insufficient to meet — needs which God is fully sufficient to meet?  Couldn't the money instead have been given to someone who needed it, rather than a website full of snazzy photos of smiling couples with flawless teeth and skin (and, of course, a kindly looking fatherly figure reassuring you that true love was only a click away)?  What acts of kindness went undone because I was too busy in a fruitless quest? 

I may be lousy at math, but I can still see in every place I have lived, the trend within churches and within Christianity itself is increasingly that women outnumber men, particularly among singles.  The odds are just not in the average single Christian woman's favor.  Among single Christian women with higher education, it becomes even more difficult.  And when you throw an overseas calling into the mix, it just no longer makes any sense to waste resources on such an endeavor.  The fact is, there is simply no way for every single Christian woman to have a partner — unless we start sharing.  So, the simple and unavoidable fact is, that unless God is so weak that man has thwarted His will for our lives, there is absolutely no way that it can be God's will for every Christian to marry.  That means that for some people, the answer has to be no.  And if the answer for me turns out to be no, I cannot live with the guilt of reaching the end of my life and realizing that I wasted that much in a quest for something that God never planned for me.  

I am not saying that I do not believe in marriage, or even that I would oppose marriage.  Truth be told, if I could be married, I would be.  But, no one ever came along.  And I couldn't risk throwing away my life on what might be when I can instead spend it on what is.  I was bought with a price beyond value by Christ.  I cannot squander that.  And so, I made a decision that was not flippant, bitter, selfish, or anything else of that ilk.  It was a mature acceptance of the fact that I have to place God above my dreams — and that means giving some of them up, and moving on.  Making the decision hurt a little, though far less than the rejections had; carrying it out was painless and surprisingly peaceful.

I don't pray to find a husband anymore — I pray for people with needs or I pray to be more effective, or sometimes I just praise God.  I don't search for a husband.  I never knew how to flirt or had the nerve to try, so in that area there was nothing to give up.  I'm not bitter; I don't blame God or men; and I don't fault other women who are still searching (hey, maybe I made the odds a little better for you!).  Accepting singleness while I'm still young means that I can do more now; I can live my life making and carrying plans (and accepting that God often changes them).  I don't have to stop and say, "But wait, how will I ever find a husband if I do that?" or "Maybe I should wait until I'm married to go there or do that." I'm not filling my life with substitutes while waiting for the 'real thing'  — this is the 'real thing'.

Twenty for the Twenties

I realized today, courtesy of a wretched friend with far too good of a memory, that I have a birthday coming up in two months.  And it's the last birthday of my twenties.

I need a pause so that I may suck in my breath dramatically.

Thank you.  I think that helped a little.

Yes, I know that 29 is not old, that I have plenty more years ahead of me (well, probably — I mean, I've cheated death so many times now that I'm starting to think that I might be part cockroach), and that birthdays are not the enemy.  But, I still am having a hard time realizing that the twenties are almost over.  I mean, where did the time go?  And how did it go so quickly?

I used to make lists of things to do each year, and I got out of the practice after completely failing at the list I made before turning 26.  This year, however, in honor of 29 being the last year of my twenties, I have made a list of twenty things to do before my twenties are over (sort of a 'bucket list'):

1. Go to Ireland.  See the original Book of Kells, Skellig Michael, Christ Church Cathedral, Trinity College, and about a dozen other sites.
2. Go to 桂林 (Guilin), one of the most beautiful places in China.
3. Go to 云南 (Yunnan) province.
4. Pass the HSK 4.
5. Pass the HSK 5.
6. Learn to crochet.
7. Get a dog.
8. Finish editing and publishing Sidhe Eyes.
9. Write my second novel.
10. Start my second master's degree (an M.Ed. this time).
11. Write a textbook.
12. Read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe in Chinese.
13. Figure out Evernote.  
14. Try a hobby that I've never tried before.
15. Eat a fruit that I've never seen before.
16. Lose the weight that I gained in grad school.
17. Decorate my next apartment.  (I have avoided this in the past two apartments.)
18. Make my own cookbook of recipes that can 'easily' be made in China.
19. Start keeping a journal again.
20. Have a qípáo made.

Summarizing Four Months in One Post

It has been such a long time since I've been able to blog.  Four months . . . and actually, it feels in some ways like four years.  There's been so much to come to terms with and so much to take on, and frankly, there are times when I question absolutely everything . . . except for why I'm here.  I can honestly say, I never question that.  I question my abilities, my effectiveness as a teacher, how I'm viewed by others, some of my decisions in the past.  But in spite of everything, I still know I'm supposed to be here.

I had a conversation several days ago with two friends whom I regularly help with their English.  One of them asked me about my decision to come to China.  Well, I call it "my" decision, but in all frankness, it was not.  It was His decision, and I accepted it and I have never regretted accepting it.  My friend asked me how I knew it was the right choice, and I struggled for a moment as to how to explain the inexplicable certainty that I felt and still feel.  I have never in my life, other than when I accepted Christ, felt so certain.  Finally, I found the right words for it.  I answered her with another question, "How do you know that the sky is blue?"  That, I think, is the best explanation I shall ever have for how I know.

Obviously, I can't go into too many details of some of the struggles of the past four months.  Some things would be distasteful to air in as public a forum as a blog, others unprofessional, and other details would merely serve no constructive purpose.  Suffice to say, there are a lot of struggles that I battle through emotionally; sometimes I almost feel inclined to succumb to temptation and blame Satan by labeling it all a 'spiritual attack'.  Some mornings, when I've felt so overburdened that I've wanted to hide away from life, from people, from everything one can hide away from, I've had that very thought.  And, because I know better, I eventually slap on some common sense and pull myself together.

The truth is that every trial I face boils down to being a flawed human working with other flawed humans in a world riddled with further flaws.  Satan doesn't have to lift a finger — he can merely recline in his lair and watch bemusedly as we all do his work for him, many of us claiming all the while to be doing the Lord's work.  In fact, I sometimes speculate that we Christians do an awful lot of Satan's work for him — all with the best of intentions, of course.  We shut people out and call it 'community'.  We work ourselves to exhaustion and call it 'service' without actually serving anyone.  We pat ourselves on the back and feel holy because we did one simple task that's expected of us; all the while, the truly important tasks are left for someone 'more qualified'.  I believe that nothing demonstrates the unfathomable scope of God's love so much as the fact that He deliberately chose the most inefficient, whiny, insufferably arrogant creatures and called them His children.

Knowledge Litter

Ever have one of those days where your brain functions only slightly above "imbecile" level?  Lately, I fear I've been abusing that privilege.

Mostly I've been demonstrating this through loss of prior knowledge.  For instance, in my past few Chinese lessons, I keep forgetting characters that I learned ages ago, or suddenly going blank on how to use a particular grammar pattern that I previously drilled myself on.  I find myself forgetting other knowledge that I should know well, too, like how many electoral votes there are total, or the US presidents in order (I memorized this years ago and used to be able to whip through them in 28 seconds), or major features of various ancient empires.  Yes, I realize that for most people those things might not be the most common of common knowledge, but when you take into consideration that I majored in history for both degrees, teach history, and have been researching history for fun since I was seven years old, you come to see just what a frightening load of information is dropping out of my head lately.  I have a mental image of my brain actually strewing facts and thoughts across the streets as I walk, leaving a path of knowledge litter behind me wherever I go.

Knowledge acquired less than a week ago is particularly vulnerable lately - it slips through my mind like water pouring over my hand.  This would be why I nearly threw The Arabian Nights across the room in frustration - the intricate web of story within a story within a story tied my beleaguered brain into a series of successive, dizzy knots.  It got to the point where I couldn't figure out where the plot had gone.  Only the fact that the book is in electronic form on my iPad saved it from hurtling through the air!  That's another thing - I seem to frustrate easier lately, too (and no, it has nothing to do with merely being female).

I think the two flus in succession is what did me in.  I feel like my body finally recovered, but forgot to tell my brain.  Here's hoping that the two finally agree to synchronize once again - China is littered enough without the contents of my brain falling out!

2011 in Review

2011 was . . . wow, even I am at a loss as to how to describe it.  I think this is the best I can do:  2011 was a bipolar teenage female year having a very rough, long menstrual cycle and occasionally getting drunk or taking mind-altering anti-psychotic medications in order to cope with it, and also battling numerous authority issues.  Yup, that about sums up 2011.

History students will one day study this year -- actually, my history students will study it for a little while when they return to school at the end of January!  It was the year of protests, revolutions, scandals, dead despots, and the world media's obsession with Pippa Middleton's rear end.  I don't have space for all of the events that took place, but here were just a few that captured my attention:

• The US finally got Bin Laden.  Now I am not a person who rejoices in death of anyone, but here I had to make an exception.  That man was evil.  I don't care that another will just rise up to take his place; Bin Laden had a special kind of dreadful hate about him, and I cheered when I read that he was gone from the world at last.  I still have nightmares sometimes about September 11 -- that day will likely haunt me for the rest of my life, and I didn't even lose anyone that day.  I cannot forget the horrible, wrenching fear that gripped us all that day and the days that followed.  My teenage journal records all the sleepless nights I spent as a high-schooler, convinced that we were headed for World War III.
• The Arab Spring.  It was like a game of Middle Eastern dominoes, with revolutions breaking out right and left and Twitter and Facebook suddenly playing a role that their creators never imagined.  I hope and pray that the new governments will do better by their people than the old, but . . . I am not holding my breath.
• The deaths of Qaddafi and Kim.  Two more evil men, both of whom had hands and hearts so blackened with blood and corruption that they almost ceased to be human. Others will take their places, sadly.  Especially in the case of North Korea, winter is far from over.
• A whole bunch of people throughout the US got really mad, had no common goals/aims/ideologies, and decided to riot and basically make lawless pests of themselves.  I'm sorry -- I just can't take the "Occupy" protesters seriously.  Change is not brought about by neglecting your responsibilities, shouting, waving signs (several of them with abominably bad spelling, by the way), and trying to goad the police into using gas.  What takes place when those protesters gather is nothing grander than small-scale anarchy -- it's like a bunch of overgrown toddlers throwing tantrums because Mommy won't let them breastfeed anymore.  Yes, change needs to happen, though I am certain I disagree with most of the protesters as to exactly what type of change is necessary.  There is certainly a better way to bring it about.

2011 was a big year in my personal life as well.  I really have no historical significance at all, although I do like to hope that I at least brighten whatever corner I happen to be in (I do try, anyway).  However, since this is MY blog, I'm going to indulge in mild narcissism and review some of the big events that happened to me this year:

• I brought in 2011 with no clear idea of what my future held, other than that I was pretty sure God was ignoring my wishes and calling me back to the classroom.  After the Manasses experience, I had sworn off ever teaching again.  Fortunately, God knows what's best for me and never listens to my feeble protests (to be fair, He does make the journey very pleasant once I stop kicking and screaming).  It was not until February that I became aware that I was likely headed back overseas in my future -- and even then, I confess that I had plenty of doubts.  I had two dogs, tons of furniture, and a car -- how could I possibly leave the USA?
• I fought the War of the Thesis.  It was bloody, exhausting, fraught with danger and difficulty, plus the CIA tried to reclassify a large portion of the documents that I needed.  At several points, both my thesis chair and I believed that the thing would never be written.  I had nightmares about showing up to my defense with nothing to defend.  I even wrote a short story about my thesis becoming self-aware, coming to life, and trying to kill me.  On April 23, just a few months after I started, I was able to write on this blog, "As of 10:00 am today, the horrible, monstrous, insidious, ill-formed offspring of my feeble mind, also known as my thesis, which has plagued me like a host of ten thousand camels tap-dancing on my shoulders in combat boots, is finally written."  On May 2, I defended the monster and passed with flying colors!  In the same vein, I graduated on May 13 with my Master of Arts degree in history, having completed it in a year and a half, and finishing with High Distinction (solid 4.0).  That's pretty much the biggest achievement in my 27 years of life.
• There was, of course, the car accident on May 6.  A distracted young driver hit me head-on on a mountain road.  She is now trying to push a claim against me.  Ah, irresponsible, greedy Americans -- how they warm the heart.
• I moved to China!  It was by far the biggest decision of my life, but once I made it, I never doubted that it was the right choice (even though my family thought I was nuts -- they usually do, so I lovingly ignored them).  Since leaving in late July, I have found a degree of happiness and contentment that I previously could never have imagined.  I teach at a fantastic school with the finest group of educators I have ever met, and my students are a brilliant and witty ensemble of pure awesomeness. I don't have a single student that I would like to lead to the guillotine!  I occasionally indulge in the mental image of bopping one or two of them, but on the whole, I love 'em all!  I also have had my heart completely stolen away by China -- who would ever have foreseen it?
• My mom got sick.  This was, for me, probably the most difficult thing to get through in 2011.  She's doing all right now, but for a while, she had me pretty terrified.  It's really tough to grapple with sick relatives and not be able to do anything for them because you're thousands of miles away.
• I wound up on this surprise extended journey in Korea, all because of an obstinate ankle that refuses to behave.

And so, I face 2012 with a lot less uncertainty than I faced 2011 (for one thing, I have THE BEST JOB EVER! and for another, I don't have to worry about whether or not I can actually write a thesis).  As I enter another year, I do have a few questions on my mind:

• Will I start the new year with an operation?
• When do I get to leave Korea and go back to China (not that Korea isn't a great country, but China is home)?
• Will Kim Jong-Un be as evil as his father?  What will happen here in Asia because of him?
• How will I ever get this bloodsucking reckless driver off my back?  Doesn't she realize that I'm as good as a pauper?!
• How soon is too soon to give my freshmen a pop quiz next semester?
• Being out of sight, is it only a matter of time before I'm out of mind for the people I left behind in the USA?  Has it already happened with some?
• How can I better brighten my corner?  Am I doing enough?

Farewell, 2011!  Welcome into the world, 2012!

And a happy New Year to everyone!

Ten Years from Now . . . with Commentary

In one of my high school classes, I was given the assignment of writing about what I expected my life to be like in ten years.  At that time, at age 16, I made a scrapbook about my future.  The assignment intrigued me, however, so a year later, I wrote a short essay on the topic, just for fun.  I came across this essay recently, while sorting through some old files that had somehow wound up on one of my thumb drives.  It was rather an appropriate discovery, since the essay, dated May 27, 2001, is discussing me at age 27, my current age.  When I stumbled upon this little “blast from the past” the other day, I decided to add a bit of commentary from “future Stephanie.”  The new commentary is in purple and is italicized, so as to keep from getting confused with the original essay.

Ten Years from Now

Ten years from now, in the year 2011, I will be twenty-seven years old.  I’ll be older and hopefully wiser, and I will probably look even more like my dad than I already do, but at heart I’ll still be in many ways the same person that I am right now.  I think I’m going to be a much better version of myself by then, so long as I don’t mess it up.  Let’s step forward ten years and meet the Stephanie Thompson of 2011:

2011 Stephanie is seated at a very large desk in her office.  She is currently working on her 3rd novel, a historical fiction story that takes place in Hollywood during the 1940s.  She looks up from her work when she hears someone approach.

Dear Teenage Stephanie, have you any idea just how difficult it is to start and finish ONE novel?  At 27, book one is still being completed!  Interestingly, I did actually start that story about 1940s Hollywood (when I was a freshman in college), but at about eight pages in, I came down with a mixture of writers’ block and disgust at my plot, and subsequently deleted the whole story from my hard drive.

“Hi, younger me!  I haven’t seen you around in ages . . . gosh, it’s been ten years!  You won’t believe all that I’ve been up to!  This is my new office that they gave me just last month.  The library has been really excited about all the educational programs I’m starting.  I’ve only been working here for about two years, but I plan to be here much, much longer.”

“Oh, you want to know about the photographs on my desk?  Well, this is my husband and me on our honeymoon to Australia, where we went to the Queensland Reptile and Fauna Park and got to meet Steve and Terri Irwin.  And this is us on our first anniversary, when we were living in Oregon.  I was expecting our daughter Kathryn at the time.  This picture here is her latest school picture.  She’s finishing up kindergarten right now.  That picture over there on the wall is of our twins, Julie and Megan, who just turned three.  The baby, Michael, is almost eight months old.  That big picture by the potted rubber tree is our most recent family portrait.  We had that done just a month ago.  Those pictures on the bookcase are of some of the classic actors and actresses that I got to meet when I wrote my nonfiction book about film history.  It was a big success.  And this picture here is from our vacation to France last year.”

Ah, so this was in the latter stages of the “Crocodile Hunter” obsession.  Frankly, that no longer sounds like an appealing honeymoon trip.  Somehow, I just don’t find crocodiles and snakes romantic, now that I’m 27.  And I never made it to France at 26 — I did go to Atlanta and South Carolina, though.  You’ll be happy to know that the classic film obsession is still going strong.  Boy, you sure have enough kids planned for us!  I’m sorry to say, none of those four dear children have been born.  I actually have 54 kids now, but I didn’t have to go through labor with any of them, and I get to send them home at the end of the school-day.  Still, I have to admit to a bit of sadness that those four vivid little ones that you imagined never got to exist.

“When did we move to Switzerland?  Oh, we came here a couple of years ago.  We love it here in Bern.  We have a beautiful chalet that sits on a hill.  The kids love rolling down that hill!  And there’s a nearby lake where we go boating.  There’s a bakery close to us where we get croissants and delicious pastries on Saturday mornings.  We take short train trips around Europe whenever we get the chance.  And whenever Mom and Dad come to visit, we usually travel down to Italy or Spain so that they can have their beaches.  Mom and Dad still don’t care enough about history!”

Well, Teenage Me, you were right about living overseas at age 27, but you picked the wrong continent!  My “chalet on a green hill” is actually an apartment by the ocean.  And instead of Bern, it’s in Qingdao.  We don’t see much in the way of croissants and pastries here (actually, I’m not nearly as fond of either of  those as I used to be), but we do live close to a very good kimbap place.  It amuses me to think about how you would CRINGE if you saw some of the things that I eat now . . . only last week, I ate raw fish!  That’s right, RAW FISH!  You were right about one thing, though — Mom and Dad still don’t care enough about history!

“Oh, you want to know more about the past?  Okay, well, I graduated with my degree in English from Evangel University, which is where my husband and I met.  Then I got my masters in library science from the University of Michigan.  My husband is an officer in the Navy.  We have traveled a lot because of his job, but now we’re staying put for a while, which is great because I love working as a librarian here.”

Ah, yes, I do still admire a man in uniform . . . but Switzerland??  You did realize that Switzerland is landlocked, didn’t you?  What on earth made you think the US Navy would station someone in Bern?  You’ll be happy to know, though, that I did get my BA and MA:  both in history, both from LU.  I’m not sure why you wanted to go back to Michigan for an MA, but be very glad that you didn’t.  You were right about getting to travel a lot.

“Well, that’s pretty much our life in a nutshell.  I love my family and my career, I get to travel a lot, and I go to a really nice little church.  So stay positive, younger me, because the future is going to be fantastic, even if the present isn’t!”

Yes, Teenage Stephanie, the future really is fantastic.  You didn’t get very many of the things that you thought you wanted most — no husband, no kids — but you do grow up to be a very happy and fulfilled person.  And someday, you really will finish that novel.  Someday.

Inspired by the Great Pencil Massacre

 Inspired by the past few days of sharpening pencils for Assessment Day (I sharpened a grand total of 3,680!), the poet in me felt the need to compose a few soothing limericks:

I

There once a girl named Stephanie

Who had pencils ‘far as she could see.

Though she coughed from the lead

She kept plunging ahead,

Stephanie and her sharpeners three.

II

Poor Stephanie had pencils galore,

And boxes piled up with e’en more!

She sharpened each one

Till the whole pile was done,

Then, exhausted, collapsed to the floor!

III

Three sharpeners sat on a desk

Each acting quite statuesque

When the pencils in their stead

Started shedding their lead

And turned the act into burlesque

IV

A grad student working at LU

Had numerous odd jobs to do.

Her bulging resume

Had a great deal to say

When at last she bid them adieu!

V

Thousands of pencils sat waiting

While the sharpeners kept on grating

Said a pencil to his friend,

“Dear, this is the end,

For I fear that my size is abating.”

VI

One day I had pencils to grind

Till the noise put me out of my mind.

The whole office cheered

As the last pencil was sheared,

But cried when Dr. Letting resigned.

VII

There once was a girl in IE

Who went on a sharpening spree.

Poisoned by the lead,

She went nuts in her head,

And was quarantined by CDC

VIII

A proud student of academ-ese

Found her brain beginning to freeze.

Though she loved her subject,

She began to suspect,

She was killing herself by degrees.

Torn

It's one of the most difficult decisions I've ever made in my life.  Never have I felt such an inner struggle over which way to choose.  The choice boils down to two countries.  I have two solid offers, and a third one likely coming (based on what I've heard).  But which do I choose?  China or Cambodia?

My heart positively bleeds for Asia.  Its a continent that got under my skin and stayed there.  God put that love there; I always thought Europe was my love when I was younger and playing with atlases (okay, I admit it, I still play with atlases).  Since coming back from Korea, I doubt that I have gone more than two weeks at a time without dreaming about being back in Asia.  I check the BBC news on Asia twice a day or more.  I think about the people over there in need, and sometimes I just start crying.  So many millions, so many souls to be reached, so many tragedies . . . so much need.  I could give my life to Asia in a heartbeat.

But which do I choose?  China or Cambodia?

Cambodia has suffered so much.  War, genocide, governmental instability, poverty, disease (it has one of the highest rates of HIV in the world) . . . the country is full of need.  The school that offered me the job is a small school in Sihanoukville.  They have daily power outages.  They can't attract highly qualified teachers because teachers with higher qualifications want more money, and the school can't pay very much.  The school lacks a lot of resources, and they need a creative and innovative teacher who could build up a curriculum and take what she's given and make something more from it.  I could make a difference here.  I could use my God-given gifts and give to students who need good teachers if they're ever to get anywhere.  I could use the pain from my past to empathize with souls in even more turmoil.  I could meet Jesus when I die and tell Him that I fed His sheep.  But they can't pay very much, and I have student loans.  Could I live off the low pay after meeting the loans?  Yes, but it would be tight.  There would be no extras, no savings, no luxuries.

China has been through a lot as well.  The cities that I would teach in (there are a few possibilities) are financially well off, but still in need of good teachers, and desperately in need of God.  Communism makes it difficult for the spreading of the Gospel, but dedicated people keep at it.  I would earn decent money by local standards (little by American standards, but that's never bothered me).  I would be comfortable and taken care care of, although I would of course be under considerable restrictions.  Still, I would have more than I needed.  I would teach in a beautiful school full of every resource I needed.  I would still be using my God-given talents for good and for the spreading of His Word.  I would still be able to meet Jesus one day and tell Him I fed His sheep.  There are just as many needs there as Cambodia; some are different and some are the same.

My heart aches for both countries.  Somedays I wake up with China on my mind; some nights I go to bed thinking of Cambodia.  I would be serving God in either location.  I would be needed.  I could fall in love with little Cambodian elementary students, or I could fall in love with international middle school students in China (Christian schools aren't allowed to teach Chinese students in China).

But which do I choose?  China or Cambodia?

The Days Tick by . . .

I have eleven days left in which to make my decision regarding the job offers I've received.  It may not seem like enough time, but honestly, it is.  And besides, I can't be unfair to schools and hold them in limbo just for me.  They need to fill their vacant positions, and the sooner they are able to, the less stress there is upon their directors.  So, I'm currently a location-researching-machine.

Thus far, I have offers from two different countries, each with their own sets of pros and cons.  I can easily see myself in either location.  Next Friday, just to add to the mental process, I have yet another interview, which I have quite a good feeling about.  On the bright side, it's the first time in my life that I've ever had more than one job offer at a time.  At the same time, I've always found multiple options to be a bit . . . well, stressful.

So what are my priorities in this job hunt?

• Need.  I'm going into this as a ministry, so I want to go to the place that needs me most, a place where I can make a real difference.  In other words, poverty is an attraction.  I want to go someplace where I can be a blessing to a school that cannot easily attract good teachers.
• God's Guiding.  If I cannot discern God leading me, then I don't want to go.  It's one of those life lessons that I learned the hard way. ☺
• Opportunity for innovation.  One of my (many) complaints with the American educational system is that while it claims to encourage teacher creativity, it really doesn't.  In fact, many schools are currently following policies and curriculums that are downright stifling.  I suppose part of the problem is that schools don't really trust their teachers.  One of the best parts of working overseas is the opportunity to try new methods, create original curriculum, and exercise my creativity to the maximum, for the benefit of my students.
• Support.  Wherever I go, I need to have a supportive base in the other faculty, the administration, and the local church or mission.  I also, sadly, have to have enough financial support from the school to be able to not only live locally, but also pay my student loan payments.
• Housing.  I have to keep at least a little bit of safety in mind, so I'm only considering schools that provide housing.  Believe me, in the places I'm looking, this is a necessity!
• Countries that are not presently at war with the US.  I figure this is a good general rule to follow, even though it would be phenomenal to teach in Afghanistan.  Well, maybe someday after my great grandchildren finish fighting that war . . . 

And So Lent Begins

Today is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent.  Having only just joined the Anglican church last year, this will be my first year observing Lent, and I have been looking forward to it for nearly a month.  It took a little thinking to figure out the right thing to give up for Lent.  I joked that I was giving up my cell phone for Lent (those who know me well, know my hatred for phones)!  Of course, giving up something you dislike or only occasionally use completely misses the point of Lent, and those who do so miss out also on the blessings of Lent.  For myself, I decided at last to give up meat.  It's something that I will miss daily, something that I greatly enjoy, and something that will affect me without putting me in a hospital.  To avoid any health problems from this (I have a tendency toward anemia), I'll be taking an iron supplement and increasing my intake of non-meat iron-rich foods.

What is Lent all about?  From perusing some news blogs today, I noticed a common misconception.  Dear people, Lent is NOT just about "giving something up."  It goes so, so much deeper.  Lent is a forty day period in which to prepare your heart and mind for the observance and remembrance of Resurrection Sunday (no, not Easter.  Easter is the name for the non-Christian holiday that happens to fall on the same Sunday).  Two thousand years ago, Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who was the only perfect person ever to live (fully God and fully man), willingly took upon Himself the sins of the entire world - all people living before Him, at the same time as Him, and after Him.  Can you imagine the burden of that horrible depravity and filth, particularly upon Someone who had never committed any wrong?  That in itself was remarkable.  But Jesus went even further.  He allowed Himself to be the final sacrifice, the One Sacrifice large enough to redeem the world.  When they cruelly pressed the crown of thorns into His head and  drove the nine inch long nails into His wrists, He was redeeming souls - they very souls of those who killed Him, had they but asked.  Perhaps one or more of them did; we have no way of knowing.

No greater love than this can or has ever existed.  This is not a flippant "love" like one observes on The Bachelor.  This is not a love built upon our own worth or own own ability to earn it - quite simply, we cannot.  This is the deepest, purest, completely limitless and unending holy Love.  He didn't wait until after He had redeemed us to love us - He loved us right at the moment those nails were being hammered in, and the horrible insults shouted at Him.  He loved us while we were yet sinners (read Romans 5:8).

Just giving up something is insufficiently observing Lent.  Along with the fasting, one should spend greater time in prayer, greater time in devotions, and greater time in pondering the meaning of what we are observing.  We should also spend greater time in submission.  Lent is not about us, it is about Christ. In the midst of some of the biggest decisions of my life, I have been most eager for Lent.  Here is a time to really concentrate on God and His will, to give up something for Him and to listen to Him.  A time to ask for and, hopefully, to receive answers and guidance.  A time to tremble in awe of God, and to daily thank Him for his unmerited mercy.  "And Jesus, moved with compassion, put forth [his] hand, and touched him, and saith unto him, I will; be thou clean." (Mark 1:41, KJV)

1Ascribe to the Lord, O heavenly beings,
ascribe to the Lord glory and strength.
2 Ascribe to the Lord the glory due his name;
worship the Lord in the splendor of holiness.

3 The voice of the Lord is over the waters;
the God of glory thunders,
the Lord, over many waters.
4 The voice of the Lord is powerful;
the voice of the Lord is full of majesty.

5 The voice of the Lord breaks the cedars;
the Lord breaks the cedars of Lebanon.
6 He makes Lebanon to skip like a calf,
and Sirion like a young wild ox.

7 The voice of the Lord flashes forth flames of fire.
8 The voice of the Lord shakes the wilderness;
the Lord shakes the wilderness of Kadesh.

9 The voice of the Lord makes the deer give birth
and strips the forests bare,
and in his temple all cry, “Glory!”

10 The Lord sits enthroned over the flood;
the Lord sits enthroned as king forever.
11 May the Lord give strength to his people!
May the Lord bless his people with peace!

~Psalm 29, ESV

Wisdom from Chesterton

With all that I've had going on lately, it sometimes feels like there's no down time.  So, at night I have taken to reading for pleasure on my Kindle for about half an hour or so, until I fall asleep mid-sentence. ☺  Last night, I decided to start reading G.K. Chesterton's Orthodoxy, a book that I've been meaning to read for years.  I am blown away by the man's brilliance.  I simply had to share a few quotations that I've bookmarked so far:

"Shall I tell you where the men are who believe most in themselves?  For I can tell you.  I know of men who believe in themselves more colossally than Napoleon or Caesar.  I know where flames the fixed star of certainty and success.  I can guide you to the thrones of the Super-men.  The men who really believe in themselves are all in lunatic asylums."

"If you consulted your business experience instead of your ugly individualistic philosophy, you would know that believing in himself is one of the commonest signs of a rotter.  Actors who can't act believe in themselves; and debtors who won't pay.  It would be much truer to say that a man will certainly fail, because he believes in himself.  Complete self-confidence is not merely a sin; complete self-confidence is a weakness."

"If it be true (as it certainly is) that a man can feel exquisite happiness in skinning a cat, then the religious philosopher can only draw one of two conclusions.  He must either deny the existence of God, as all atheists do; or he must deny the present union between God and man, as all Christians do.  The new theologians seem to think it a highly rationalistic solution to deny the cat."

Not quite the namby-pamby jargonistic self-esteem fluff that you were fed in public school, is it?  And that is one of the reasons that I love Chesterton.  He has sense!

Only Sayers Can Be Sayers

I ordered a few frivolous (i.e. non-academic) books as a reward for surviving this very stressful semester. Among those was one which particularly excited me, Thrones, Dominions. Thrones, Dominions is based off of a final, unpublished manuscript left behind by Dorothy Sayers, my favorite author and admitted role model. Years after her death, Jill Paten Walsh was asked to finish the manuscript. I had heard that she did so seamlessly, so although I despise on principle the practice of modern authors attempting to write as older authors, I decided to give the book a chance.

I ought never to have done so. The book is an abomination, a blight on the brilliant works of one of the most fascinating and inspiring female novelists (Sayers, not Walsh). Walsh may be a talented writer; not having read her work, I cannot judge whether or not she is capable in her own right. As Sayers, however, Walsh is incapable. The book is blundering, at times nearly crass, and wobbles unsteadily from chapter to chapter, each character a hollow imitation, even an unintentional burlesque, of the full-fledged characters Sayers carefully and skillfully created. I stopped reading midway through, unable to stand the horrid text any longer. Someday I'll sell it at a garage sale, and the offending document will trouble my bookcase no longer.

The dreadful collection of pages masquerading as a novel led me to ponder the sad state of modern fiction. I have been accused before of being elitist in my literary taste, a rebuke that is perhaps occasionally earned (although, let me remind one and all that most great writers of the classics, such as Dickens, wrote not for the elite alone, but for the common masses). I do often make the judgment that if a book is a bestseller today, it must therefore be awful, since mass appeal is seldom earned anymore by books of quality. From time to time, I have been proven wrong in this judgment. More frequently, however, I have been proven right. I do not know whether it is the readers or the writers who are ultimately most to blame, but a large portion of censure is certainly deserved by the writers.

Many modern authors really don't understand how to write! Character development is the greatest casualty; so many modern writers are incapable of creating unique, flesh-and-blood personalities that are distinguishable from one another (and from book to book). Plots are cliche-ridden and oftentimes paper-thin, routinely teetering dangerously on one coincidental decision by a character, or, worse, mere whim. Authors are now increasingly falling into the Hollywood trap of dumbing down for audiences (I give them the benefit of the doubt here and assume that they themselves are not the stupid ones): every part of the story must be explained repeatedly in this new literary style. One cannot simply let the characters take over the story, as the old masters did; no, they have to tell the poor, stupid readers exactly why Mary crinkles her nose or tell us every thought coming in John's head as he gazes upon the lovely woman (and the woman is always lovely). We must be reminded over and over why a certain action takes place, why the door is closed, why the heroine wore red. Occasionally, the author attempts to be clever and delivers a crucial, plot-altering decision devoid of reason! Gone is subtlety; art is dead.

Allusions to brilliant old works are seldom quoted anymore; Sayers positively delighted in obscure literary references, which gave a peculiarly wonderful and scholarly feel to even her detective fiction. Sayers' characters had multiple sides to them, depth, passions, dreams, and, most importantly, history. The past directed, haunted, pursued, and by some characters, could be overcome. Characters grew and developed from their pasts. An entire novel did not have one plot alone; Sayers had side-stories and peripheral events, just as real lives do. Her characters conversed intelligently; modern characters comment on surface details, like how attractive they find one another. Sayers's characters had lives; modern characters have episodes.

As I sadly learned last night, only Sayers can be Sayers. She was a gifted, scholarly, multi-faceted novelist with vigor and depth. She was a theologian, philosopher, educator, and historian as well as author. Many modern writers (I'll be fair and not say all, since I have come across a few rare and deeply appreciated exceptions) are apparently graduates of the People Magazine school of writing: all beauty lies on the surface, where the dense can see and appreciate it, all people are guided solely by their glands, and a woman's sole purpose is be a man's sex toy. Thought, depth, and scholarship are penniless orphans cast into the snow, left to freeze and starve.

Listen for the Bells

I've been increasingly reminded lately, even in the midst of the almost ceaseless migraines, of just how fortunate I am and how much I have been given. It seems like so many dreams that I had become practical and given up on have suddenly been laid out before me, wrapped in silver paper. If I were to try to write them out, I don't know that I would ever finish.

I wanted to give something back. So many people have entered and enriched my life this year; somehow, it wasn't enough just to thank God for them. I wanted to thank them, too. I wanted something more than that, even; I wanted to hear the bells.

There's an old story that I remember reading years ago, which made quite an impression. It was about an old chapel whose bells would only ring when someone gave a gift of true worth and love. Kings and other wealthy and important men traveled for many miles to reach the chapel, where they lay down gifts of jewels, gold, and beautiful garments on the alter. But the chimes remained silent. Week after week, the gifts continued to be given, and the chimes continued to stay still. People grew angry, believing that the bells were broken, or that their beautiful music was nothing but a lie concocted to gain wealth for the chapel. Many people took back their gifts and went on their way. Then, one particularly cold and windy night, a little boy came upon the chapel. He searched his pockets for something to give, but he had nothing. Finally, his face brightened into a smile and he took off his thin little coat and laid it on the alter. Instantly, the bells sprang to life, and the air was filled with the most beautiful chimes anyone had ever heard.

I think about those bells a lot. I didn't hear them last year, because I was too caught up in my own misery (largely self-imposed) to listen. But I did think about them then. I thought they had gone silent. So did one of my favorite poets, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, once. In 1862, he was having a miserable year. He had lost his dearly beloved wife, Frances, in a fire. His first-born son Charles had left abruptly earlier in the year to fight in the Civil War, and had been severely wounded at the Battle of New Hope Church. The war itself was ongoing, with no end in sight, and an entire country torn in half. On Christmas morning of 1862, a broken, heavy-hearted Longfellow put his pen to paper and the words poured out:

I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

I thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

And in despair I bowed my head:
"There is no peace on earth," I said,
"For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men."

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men."

Till, ringing singing, on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime,
Of peace on earth, good will to men!

Yesterday morning, sick with a migraine, I had to stay home from church. I started to feel sorry for myself, something I've been prone to with all of the health woes this semester. Then I thought about my favorite professor, one of the dearest people in the world, and the much worse health problems he is battling. I thought of some of the hard-working people I know who get over-looked or under-appreciated, and of some of the people with power whom I know, who deal with stress that completely dwarfs my own. I thought about how kind they have all been to me, and about the daily encouragement I receive from them.

I started baking. For the entire day, I ignored the migraine and stayed on my feet, until the entire kitchen and dining room were covered with warm, fragrant cookies. Although the pain and nausea never left, I didn't seem to feel as much of them. I focused on the people I was baking for and felt very, very blessed. In the back of my mind, I thought I heard a faint chiming.

Today, loaded down with an enormous box full of bags of fresh cookies, I played elf, going from office to office. I delivered cookies to all of my coworkers and professors, as well as a few deserving people who work in stressful offices. Nothing is quite as much fun as surprising frequently-overlooked and under-appreciated people with yummy baked goods. I got some hugs, a few cheers, lots of surprised looks, and lots of smiles. That's really one of the best parts of the holiday season: when you give something to someone, thereby letting them know that they matter enough to be thought of. The bells are beautiful then, unlike any earthly music.

It's amazing just how many deserving people get taken for granted, even people with the big offices and their own secretaries. I guess everyone just assumes that they know their own worth. I know that I often do. Maybe people don't think about it at all. Maybe a mass-mailed e-card seems like enough. Somehow, though, nothing brings quite the twinkle and smile that cookies or handmade gifts do.

It takes time to make things, a lot more time than it takes to fill a shopping cart. Especially now that online shopping makes it so much faster. You can sit, and you're comfortable, and your feet don't hurt. You don't burn your fingers, and there's no mess to clean up afterwards. The bells don't seem to ring as loudly, though. Sometimes they don't ring at all. I guess most people would say the bells don't really matter; after all, only the giver can usually hear them. And you can't keep them, or wear them, or replay them over and over. They're old-fashioned, maybe even corny. Sappy and sentimental, surely. But they are so beautiful . . .

The whole time you make a gift, you think of the one you're giving it to. A little bit of love goes into that stitch, or that paint-stroke, or that cookie batter. You're thinking about them, not yourself. That's a foreign concept today; I think some people would even laugh about it. What do you really get out of making things? Sore feet, sore back, burned fingers and palms, headache, a bit of sweat. It takes time; time is valuable. Time is ours; it ought to be spent on the things most important to us. Oughtn't it?

Last year I spent that time feeling sorry for myself, and I never heard a single bell. I missed those bells, but I was too busy with me to notice. A funny thing happened; the more I thought about my misery, the more miserable I felt. Misery loves fertile ground to grow and thrive in. Sometimes it generously invites its friends: regret, sorrow, bitterness, jealousy . . .

This year, I decided to spend the time better. I spent it remembering the hearty "good morning" that greets me every day, the offer of help when the copier gets stubborn, the concern when I don't feel well, the explanation of how to write the book review better next time. I spent time thinking about the helpful advice, the phone call that straightened out my student account, the joke that lightened a stressful day. People spent their time on me; yesterday I remembered. I gave back a little bit of time. The migraine made it cost more, but, for once, I spent it anyway.

And yesterday and today, I heard the bells.

The Twelve Days of Migraines

On the first day of migraines,
My professor gave to me
Incentive against a PhD!

On the second day of migraines,
My professor gave to me
Two computer glitches,
And incentive against a PhD!

On the third day of migraines,
My professor gave to me
Three large aspirin,
Two computer glitches,
And incentive against a PhD!

On the fourth day of migraines,
My professor gave to me
Four cups of coffee,
Three large aspirin,
Two computer glitches,
And incentive against a PhD!

On the fifth day of migraines,
My professor gave to me
Five thesis meetings,
Four cups of coffee,
Three large aspirin,
Two computer glitches,
And incentive against a PhD!

On the sixth day of migraines,
My professor gave to me
Six deadlines nearing,
Five thesis meetings,
Four cups of coffee,
Three large aspirin,
Two computer glitches,
And incentive against a PhD!

On the seventh day of migraines,
My professor gave to me
Seven primary sources,
Six deadlines nearing,
Five thesis meetings,
Four cups of coffee,
Three large aspirin,
Two computer glitches,
And incentive against a PhD!

On the eighth day of migraines,
My professor gave to me
Eight reviews for skimming,
Seven primary sources,
Six deadlines nearing,
Five thesis meetings,
Four cups of coffee,
Three large aspirin,
Two computer glitches,
And incentive against a PhD!

On the ninth day of migraines,
My professor gave to me
Nine marxist historians,
Eight reviews for skimming,
Seven primary sources,
Six deadlines nearing,
Five thesis meetings,
Four cups of coffee,
Three large aspirin,
Two computer glitches,
And incentive against a PhD!

On the tenth day of migraines,
My professor gave to me
Ten things to forget,
Nine marxist historians,
Eight reviews for skimming,
Seven primary sources,
Six deadlines nearing,
Five thesis meetings,
Four cups of coffee,
Three large aspirin,
Two computer glitches,
And incentive against a PhD!

On the eleventh day of migraines,
My professor gave to me
Eleven previous studies,
Ten things to forget,
Nine marxist historians,
Eight reviews for skimming,
Seven primary sources,
Six deadlines nearing,
Five thesis meetings,
Four cups of coffee,
Three large aspirin,
Two computer glitches,
And incentive against a PhD!

On the twelfth day of migraines,
My professor gave to me
Twelve books for reading,
Eleven previous studies,
Ten things to forget,
Nine marxist historians,
Eight reviews for skimming,
Seven primary sources,
Six deadlines nearing,
Five thesis meetings,
Four cups of coffee,
Three large aspirin,
Two computer glitches,
And incentive against a PhD!

Why Autumn Is My Favorite Season

Crispy cornflake leaves crunching under my feet as I step,
Yes, I believe I will walk a little further
Just to
Crunch!
That bright golden leaf
Over there!
The breeze caresses my hair,
Warm still,
With just the hint of cold,
It envelopes me in
Bonfires, roasted marshmallows,
Memories of

Jumping!

Into giant piles of red, orange, yellow, brown
Leaves.
I stop and smell the air, linger just a little longer,
The mountains behind me are crimson and gold,
The sunset is bolder, accented by the trees.
The wind is stronger now, deliciously colder, too.
I pull my jacket a little tighter,
And wonder if I ought to have grabbed a scarf.
The wind paints my cheeks with a blush
To match the

Falling,

Spiraling,

Dancing,

Pirouetting

Leaves.

I pull my jacket tighter still,
And wander just a little further, glad to be alive.
Piles of plump pumpkins

Peek at me from their perches,
I pause to smile back at their toothless grins.
The wind blows again,
I throw back my head and laugh,
As it tickles me,

Chills me,
Rustles my hair.
My nose lightly numbed now,
I go inside,
And snuggle up under a soft, flannel blanket,
Sipping a hot pumpkin pie latte,
As I read that novel
That summer was just too busy for.
And outside my window,
The whistling wind

Whips about,

Whisking the last leaves

To and

Fro,

To and

Fro,

I take another sip,
And revel in the splendor

That is Autumn.

Chaucer and Sondheim on a Friday Morning

"We little know the things for which we pray." ~ Chaucer

Maybe I'm odd (maybe?), but I've always liked Chaucer. I read The Canterbury Tales in high school, and found them enchanting. So I love it when a Chaucer quote pops up on my homepage; it's sort of like getting a morning greeting from an old chum. Today, perhaps owing to my pensive mood, Chaucer made me start thinking. The soundtrack from “Into the Woods” made me start thinking even more.

Anyone who has seen "Into the Woods" can probably remember the rather haunting song from the second act, “Children Will Listen.” The part of the song that has always stood out to me is where the witch sings

“Careful the wish you make
Wishes are children
Careful the path they take
Wishes come true, not free
Careful the spell you cast
Not just on children
Sometimes the spell may last
Past what you can see
And turn against you
Careful the tale you tell
That is the spell”

My thoughts led me in the direction of unanswered prayers, and what would have happened had they been answered the way I wanted originally. I don’t care to go into particulars here, but in every instance, I would have come out so much the worse. The consequences for getting what I wanted would never have been worth the pleasure of getting what I wanted. Who’d have thought? – I really don’t know what’s best for me. God does.

A Grad Student's Prayer

Now I sit me down to write;
Looks like I'll be up all night.
I've got to read this giant book
(Or fake it so that's how it looks),
And then write a book review,
Pointing out which points are true.
And so dear Savior, Lord of me,
Help these watering eyes to see
The thesis of this monograph --
Oh, intercede on my behalf!
Make my analysis astute,
Bless me with undeserved repute.
Help me analyze each source --
Oh, God, just let me pass this course!

Yes, Stephanie Still Lives Here!

New look, new name, same address, same writer. In light of how my life has shifted and evolved since I first started this blog, I felt that a new name was in order, as well as a bit of a makeover for this ole blog.

What's a history gypsy?
Why, I'm so delighted that you asked (and if you didn't, just roll along with me)! As my regular readers are well aware, I am neck-deep in a history M.A. program and I'm about as big a history nut as one can physically be while still functioning. I plan to make my living out of history -- whether by researching it, writing it, teaching it, etc. is yet to be determined. Hence, the history part. And as for the gypsy bit, well, I certainly do move around enough to qualify for gypsy status! In 2009 alone, I moved four times. For someone who's not in the military, that's quite a feat! And I get to do it again in a year (yuck)!

Thank You, Mr. President

Thank you, Mr. President.

I am a graduate student. I have no money. I live from hand to mouth, and I depend on my Stafford loans to pay my tuition costs (which, by the way, are not low). I have stacks of books to read each week. Every waking minute is spent worrying about what to write in my next paper - and there is always another paper to write. I write at least two small papers each week, all the while working on at least one or two ongoing large papers. I have presentations stacking up on top of each other like Duplo blocks. I practically ingest coffee through an IV.

My stress is very high, Mr. President. I am in debt up to my eyeballs, and I am trying to get through school as fast as possible to keep from adding too much more to it. I have little chance of getting a job in the USA once I graduate. The one thing that I haven't had to worry about, Mr. President, are my loans. They were cut and dried. The money is in my student account, and I've been confidently eying it, knowing there was just enough.

And then, because you couldn't do it in the open like an honest person, you snuck a clause into your massive pork-barrel health bill about overhauling student loans. Is my money still there? Do I have to reapply for aid? Do I have to sign another promissory note? Who do I pay back now, the government or my lender? Who is my lender now? Do I owe part to my old lender and part to the government now? Do I still have my money on the same terms? Are you going to change my interest rates or the date when I have to start paying it all back?

I chose a bank I had dealt with in the past to be my lender. They gave me agreeable terms. They treated me well. I was happy. Now, because you are determined that government should take over as much as possible of the private sector, I have to waste time that I could use for studying trying to figure out what is going on with my loans. I'm confused and I am frustrated. I have no idea what the new terms of my loan will be. I have no idea what changes you will decide to make for me. And now, when I should be writing my thirty-page research paper, I can't. Instead, I have to call every office and their brother office trying to figure out what is happening with my loan.

What do student loans have to do with healthcare? Nothing, aside from the fact that you're trying to convince everyone that 62 million dollars supposedly saved from loans (which, like your other claims, you have yet to back up with evidence) will pay for your 938 BILLION dollar scheme. You have no idea how to pay for it, but you shoved it through anyway. And of course, since you took all that campaign money from special interest groups, they got to have a say in what went into the bill. The people of the United States didn't get a say, but your pals did.

You have no right to tell me who I can and cannot borrow money from. You have no constitutional right to interfere in this matter (let alone the matter of health care) at all. None. Zilch. Nada. You have the constitutional right to protect my rights and to protect me from harm. I don't care what intentions you claim to have in all this, the point stands - YOU HAVE NO RIGHT. You have violated the United States Constitution. (Have you ever read it? I have. It's a great read.) You have no right to force me or anyone else to buy health insurance in 2014 - and threaten us with fines if we don't. You have no right to make me or anyone else pay for someone else's abortion. I wonder if your supporters are aware of the fact that many premiums will go up by as much as 30% under your "brilliant plan." Taxes have to increase to help pay for your plan. In the middle of a depression, companies will lose millions of dollars because of your plan. Do you think that won't mean more lost jobs?!

I am mad as hell. I want to storm down to Washington, grab hold of your padded shoulders, and shake that self-congratulatory, I-just-saved-the-world look off of your face. I want to sit you down and make you read the Constitution (probably for the first time). Then I'd like to make you read it again, just to drill it in. I'd like to make you study history, government, and economics so that maybe, just maybe, you'll finally come up with an idea that isn't downright stupid. And maybe after all that you'll also realize why giving the queen of England an iPod with videos of your speeches was in poor taste, and why reassuring terrorist groups that you're going to cut the number of US troops in their playground by a certain date is lousy strategy (and stupid).

I am going to campaign for whatever candidate runs against you in the next election until I drop from exhaustion. I don't care if I have to quit whatever job I have by then in order to have time to do it; I will campaign until I'm blue in the face to keep you from being reelected. I will sell my blood to buy signs if I have to. And believe me, plenty of others feel the same way. We've had it. We've been humiliated internationally by all of your many faux pas, we watched in horror as you collected a Nobel Prize that you had no right to (for heaven's sake, you hadn't done a blasted thing to earn it, and you had the nerve to accept it), and now we've lost even more of the liberty that far better men than you DIED for. We will campaign against you and have tea parties until we puke just to get you out. YES, WE CAN!

Thank you, Mr. President. Now please go help North Korea and Iran the way you've helped the USA.

A Shift in Thinking and Behavior

I realized today just how differently graduate students think and behave compared with undergraduates and schoolchildren. I found the differences both interesting and amusing. Here are just a few differences that I noted:

1. Reaction to delays and cancellations. Schoolchildren and undergraduates generally respond to snow days or two-hour delays in the same fashion: "Hurray! No school!" They whoop, they cheer, and then they have a marvelous, often lazy day. Graduate students (the majority of them) respond to this situation in this way: "NO NO NO!!!!! Don't you DARE cancel school after all those sleepless nights I spent reading all these books and writing this paper! I WILL present this material today!" Snow days are not bright beacons of happiness to graduate students; rather, they are an insult heaped upon the injury of hours upon hours of research. Rather than celebrate, the typical grad student responds to cancellations and delays by using the time to read more, or to rewrite their latest paper again.

2. Relationship with sleep. Undergraduates sleep through classes, sleep in and skip classes, and sleep rather than study (okay, most seniors don't, but the majority of the underclassmen do). Schoolchildren, likewise, value sleep over study. To a graduate student, sleep (and, in fact, most bodily functions), is more like taking time get an oil change - it's a hindrance that must occasionally be given in to, but it gets put off as much as possible. There are various maxims that the other grad students and I gaily toss about: "Sleep is for sissies!" "You can sleep when you die!" "Read more, sleep less." As a result, the undergraduates are a well-rested, laughing bunch with a desire for parties and socialization, whereas we grads are a bunch of gaunt, pale creatures with bags under our eyes who go about discussing authors and experts as though they were our significant others.

3. Relationship with research. Undergraduates and schoolchildren use encyclopedias, dictionaries, and (shudder) Wikipedia, and consider that to be sufficient research. Occasionally they may visit a library and use a few books (some may even use a sizable stack of books). Not so with graduates! We occasionally darken the door of a library, but usually only to pick up our inter-library loans (books we have asked much bigger libraries to send to our nearest library for our use). Generally, we are hunkered down in front of computers, devouring as much as we can from our primary sources of nourishment: JSTOR, ProQuest, ebrary, Google Scholar, Netlibrary . . . dictionaries and encyclopedias are but a fond memory. If we're not hunkered in front of a computer, we're sneezing in dusty archives, reading primary sources that most people don't even know exist. We deal with sources that must be translated, tracking down out-of-print books, and trying to decipher rare manuscripts.

I write this not to make schoolchildren or undergraduates look bad, but to highlight the difference in thinking and behavior that happens to a person once they reach the higher echelons of education. Also, it is a good explanation for why schoolchildren and undergraduates are so much better looking and healthier than graduate students - they live to live, we live to research. Sometimes I miss the good ole days!