Dreaming.

"Stop for a moment and close your eyes... dream with Me... Be still, My precious one, and let me renew the eternal hope in your heart today."


Dream. Let me dream for a moment with the Lord about what 2011 could bring...

Leading the GAs on a mission trip that changes their lives.
Seeing God work through me.
Visiting friends who live overseas.
Proverbs 31 in the flesh.
Seeing the Lord continue to frustrate my hope that is placed somewhere other than on Him.

Zumba mastery.
Running.

Dream... dream.
Stop blocking them.

Africa. I dream of Africa. I dream of Tahmee and Sofani and Mama Vuyi.
I dream of chai. I dream of yarn stores in Europe.

Year in Review.

*Did not move to India.
*Graduated from Oklahoma Baptist University.
*Full-time job teaching at Machetanz.
*Visited family.
*Studied Ruth with Sr. Woman's Bible Study.

Rethink.

I. Love. This.

Thanks, friend.

Conversations With A Second Grader.

“Okay, what does this card say?”

“FROG!!”

“What is it? Try again.”

“Frog.”

“Let’s Touch Spell it: F O G.”

“Frog.”

“No, let’s Touch Spell again: F O G.”

“Frog.”

“You keep adding an R in there! Does this card have an R on it?”

“No.”

“No… let’s Touch Spell again: F O G.”

“Frog.”

“Try again.”

“Frog.”

“Touch Spell it for me.”

“F O G. Frog.”

“You added an R again! You’re being silly. Touch Spell it for me again.”

“F O G. Fog.”

“Awesome! You got it! Try it one more time. What does this card say?”

“Frog!”

“Ah, you added the R again! Touch Spell it for me.”

“F O G. Frog.”

“Let’s Touch Spell together: F O G.”

“Fog.”

“There you go! Read it to me again.”

“Fog.”

“Phew. I knew you could do it.”




Love, love, love my job. She cracked me up today, adding the R nearly every time we tried to read the word “fog.” For some reason, it just stuck in her mind that it needed an R in it… and by golly it would have an R! They’re all little frogs, jumping up and down while reading words.

And now, we creep down the hallway silently, trying not to let anyone see us. Conventional? No. But it keeps them quiet in the hall and we get to the class quickly, stealthily. They duck down to go past windows, of which there is a plethora. And we dart past open doors. Other teachers who see us look on warily, then laugh when they catch onto our plan. They’re jealous of our Mad Skillz.

The Principal called me from the office this morning, asking to employ my Spanish skills… I have no Spanish skills. I know French. I was sad to not be able to help, but really flattered that he had thought of me, that he remembered that part of our interview wherein we discussed multi-lingual education. Shoot, if any new students from France or Canada show up, call me! Maybe I should get a Spanish tutor. Buzz Lightyear, perhaps.

I have my own desk. I am not sitting at it right now though. I was told I could bring anything I need to make the classroom feel like mine also. Mine. My classroom. I am in the process of gathering paperwork to apply for my Alaska teaching certificate. Then I may get a contract to last through the end of the school year. As it is, I will be here anyway. A job, everyday, until May, doing what I love.

The Meaning Of Chai.

While I was in Oregon, Grandpa asked me why I like chai so much. And I don’t know.

Maybe it is the memories associated with the drink more than anything else: preparations to go overseas; being in India with my family; early mornings in the apartment with light streaming in through the windows; singing on the street corner with hands outstretched; on break from driving to the Taj Mahal; after riding elephants in the rain; in countless houses; with whole milk, straight from the cow, and with no milk; then later, reunions in Amreeka.

Maybe I connect it with community.

Chai is relational. In India, you offer chai to any and every guest. It is the first thing you offer them when they enter your home. It is drunk with family everyday. To Indians, it is a means of showing hospitality, coming together and sharing one experience: a pot of chai. It forces you to slow down as you allow it to cool, swirling it in the cup with grace and ease, allowing the aroma and sight to overwhelm your senses. It ranges from red to light tan, can taste sweet or bitterly savory, but is always served in tiny little cups, half the size of American coffee mugs.

I can still remember distinct chai times, though I was in India over a year ago. Drinking it in the pink house, in the village with the curved stone paths, trailing between age-old houses, past water spigots, with the 100 year old woman. The villagers about had a riot trying to get us to come to each house. Then we walked along the train tracks. We saw shantytowns, small children who would peek out to see the foreigners, more piles of rubbish burning in the afternoon’s fading sun. It felt like we walked forever in the wrong direction, but we made it back to the town in short order. That was the town where we had the power outage and spent over an hour just talking in the complex that housed the evil monkeys and Jack Fruit trees.

Early morning chai was the best: 6:00am in Guwahati, Steve quietly saying good morning or simply waving hello, pointing to the kitchen where the ant hill was the size of a dinner plate. Love. We would stream into the kitchen one at a time, the guys always first, rubbing sleep from our eyes. One by one we would gather chai, our Bibles, and bowls of cereal, not talking much, but really just… savoring. Savoring the time before the horns became obnoxious, before it was too hot to do anything, before our J-Man helper arrived to interrupt our family life. Chai was our bonding agent – our glue. Even for Jordan who was lactose intolerant before the trip… but was not afterwards. Chai healed her. Well, God healed her. Chai was the avenue.

I only have chai with people I love – my India family, parents, Chris, Tuesday Night Preposition Club, Goers, and now my Grandparents. It symbolizes love, dedication, and a slowing-down of the pace of life. That is why I like chai.

The drink is good in and of itself. But the life associated with it is even better.

(No Title.)

Tonight was my Pastor's annual Christmas Open House, and the first one I've been to in four years.

I am right where I belong. I guess.
The last month and a half has been very challenging. Nearly as much as when I was in India.

And it still is. Just in different ways.

My Christmas Wish List:

- a bicycle.
- a contract to teach.
- the ability to speak fluent French.
- Brad and Paige to be here.
- diamonds.
- laughter and love.
- to see the Northern Lights really clearly.
- to finish the Christmas Presents I am making.
- to go sledding and/or snowshoeing.
- new boots.
- new snow pants.
- for Lola to stop licking me every time I pet her.
- for "Say Yes to the Dress" to be on TV more often.

Grandma And Grandpa's.

What a nice, relaxing time with Grandma and Grandpa.
Their house always smells the same: like home and peace and love.

Grandma always cooks piles of food and Grandpa always watches Fox News.

And I always savor it.

Evenings, in the living room warmed with a wood stove, listening to their tales of living during WW2, when everything was rationed. The perils of falling in love and threats for current love. Challenges and joys and favorite vacations and how Grandma’s favorite color is blue and how Grandpa’s favorite accessory is belt-buckles.

Go back in time. Tape-record it all so that every moment becomes a part of history that is integral to my being. Integral to me being me, Melissa.

Looking through pictures and making more candy than we could ever eat. Driving Ethel June and spending minutes at the beach staring into tide pools. No star fish, but I saw an anemone. Being drizzled on and loving it.

Feeling soft rain on your skin is proof that you are alive and alert to new senses.