The Awkward Blogpost

Something inside of me has been rebelling against the word "awkward" for a while now. It's so much a part of my generation. Every encounter is ranked on a scale of 1 to 100: how awkward was it?

Eating dry cereal for breakfast: 12
Walking down a long hallway toward someone you know and having to decide when to say hello and where to look the whole time: 46
Getting a Facebook message from someone who likes you a whole lot more than you like them: 78
Accidentally starting to pray at the same time as someone else during popcorn prayer: 107!

I propose that the only reason we interpret all of life's events as awkward or not awkward is because of the existence and popularity of the word "awkward" itself. Really, it's an awkward situation. Back when I was a small child (to clarify...that could mean 6 or 9 or 15), the word wasn't popular. There wasn't much concept of awkwardness. Things were weird. Things were different. Things were uncomfortable. I didn't know what to do with my hands. Life was less awkward for me because I didn't know what awkwardness was. I didn't understand that one day I would see a Citadel cadet running down Calhoun St. in the center of April at 1:16 in the afternoon wearing a beanie and comment on how awkward it was.

We create awkwardness in ourselves and in our society by having and using the word. Suddenly, any feeling that isn't complete happiness is translated into awkwardness. Even the idea of awkwardness is awkward. Awkwardness is taking over the American culture. Everyone loves Zooey Deschanel. Quirky is the new normal. Awkward is the new everything.

I think more people get drunk and get more drunk now because of the word. It's a reason to drink: I feel awkward around lots of people. I feel awkward dancing. I feel awkward when I'm not drinking and the people around me are. The drunk people around me are awkward and it makes me feel more awkward. The solution: Drink away the awkwardness. I don't know about this. I don't drink. I just think about alcohol and awkwardness. What a pair they must be!

I don't like when my hands smell like food. It's distracting. I try to accomplish things, but I smell onions and remember the pizza I had for lunch and don't accomplish anything.

I tried to replace the word "awkward" with "stupid," but it was an awkward/stupid idea. It didn't mean anything. It was like using "laughing my feathery armpits off" instead of its less polite counterpart. Essentially, you mean the same thing, but for some reason--morality concerns, nearness of children, speech impediment or hearing impairment--you just replaced the "bad" words with "better" ones. It doesn't change the concept. Instead of saying "I laughed so hard it was awkward," I tried to say "I laughed so hard it was stupid." Nothing. No difference. Apples and oranges.

Mr. Tony of "PTI" and "The Tony Kornheiser Show" likes to say, "The kids have a word for that these days: awkward!" He also likes to do the penguin dance.

Someone somewhere decided to call this postmodernism. It's really just awareness of the language I'm using and how it shapes my thoughts and perceptions. But that's not official enough to teach an entire Western Civ lecture about so they call it "postmodernism." I like things that are meta and postmodern...like "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" and "The Office." I like when things think about themselves, what they're doing, why they're doing it, and then make fun of themselves. I wish the word "awkward" were more aware of itself. I wish mini microwaves existed named "Hitler." I like that I can use quotes and throw everything's "meaning" into "question." It feels like power.

Maybe technology makes us awkward. We text and message and chat...via technology. And so we're hyper-aware of ourselves when we experience real, face-to-face interactions with other humans. Suddenly, without the assistance of emoticons and "lolz," we don't know where to put our smile or our arms and it's awkward. But technology can only make us awkward because the word "awkward" exists and allows us to understand the concept of awkwardness.

The elevator in my building got angry and then tried to take me to the fourth dimension today. It was awkward.
Autocorrect on my iPad changed "wuwei" to "Susie" in my Religions of China and Japan term paper and it was awkward.
I listened to song by Jude Moses called "Mistaken Hands" and thought he was singing: "I'll make you sufferrr. I'll make you die." He was actually singing, "I'm make you supper. I'll serve you wine." It was awkward.



I wrote a blogpost about awkwardness and how much the word affects our lives and it was awkward.

I feel like the Knights Who Say Ni...because I can't stop saying the word "awkward." Ah! I said that awkward word again! Ah! It's so awkward that I can't stop saying it! Now I feel even more awkward! Ah!!!

I fear that if we stop the word now, we will lose ourselves. What will happen to our skepticism and cynicism? What will happen to self-awareness and these feelings inside of us that alert to awkward moments? Remember awkward turtle? I liked to make up random awkward animals when I was in high school. I felt cool when I did it. I wasn't. I was just another teenager with braces, lame jokes, and "original" ideas, the very definition of "awkward." Henceforth, you can just call me "Awkward posterchild."


Coming soon: The Hipster Blogpost
A look at the word "hipster" and an explanation for why they burn their tongues all the time.

(Not really...I just wanted to make you feel awkward about another popular word/cultural phenomenon. You're welcome.)

Costa Rica and Toxic Charity

As I scooped my laundry out of the dryer and into my clothes hamper this afternoon, I groaned. I dried my Costa Rica soccer jersey all the way again. Now, where it used to say “SAMSUNG” is just a few random black lines, and “BIMBO” emblazoned across the front is very faded. (Yes, I proudly wear a shirt that brands me as a bimbo. It happens.) But anyway, seeing how faded it has become took me back to my trip to Costa Rica in the summer before my senior year of high school. I went with nine other youth and adults for a weeklong mission trip there. We spent time in a neighborhood that had been built on a landfill. Raw sewage ran along the dirt paths and into a giant river. The breeze tossed around trash and the smell of gang violence, prejudices, and hopelessness. I remember it feeling very apocalyptic until people emerged from their homes into the streets, especially the children whose smiles made the neighborhood seem like a much happier place.

I vividly remember two kids in particular. One was a boy who recently had surgery on his leg. His leg had many stitches running down it, and a metal contraption around his calf kept him immobile. Two of his friends carried him to us so I could paint a bat on his face. The other child I remember was a girl with short curly hair that latched onto me. She didn’t say a word the whole time she was around me, but she became my shadow. I wondered what it was like to live their lives in this place where fathers where a rarity and an armed guard stood outside the nearest ice cream stand.

But then the week was over—it went by much too quickly—and we had some time for a shopping adventure on our last day. Before soccer jerseys were even the cool thing to wear, I wanted one (I might as well just succumb to my fate as a hipster).  And just as vividly as I remember the two children who made me rethink the life I was living in America, I remember my great American blunder in the little store that last day. Several of us were scrambling around trying to find the right size in the coolest jerseys, pulling jerseys out of their little plastic wrappings and trying them on over our t-shirts. We were the only ones in the store except for the shopkeeper and our bus driver Cory. And we caused quite the commotion and mess. Maybe, if you’re an United States-ian reading this, our actions don’t seem bad. We were shopping as only Americans can. But now when I look back on that moment, I can’t help but cringe. We were so loud. We left behind us such a mess for the shopkeeper to clean up. I still remember Cory’s face: he seemed surprised to see the competitive, covetous prey we turned into when faced with souvenirs. Everything we had seen in Costa Rica was forgotten in the high of buying memories.

It didn't register at the time. I felt no shame in what I saw as just another part of mission trips. You raise money, you go, you "serve," you buy some stuffs, you come home, you tell people how awesome it was, you make an album of your killer "pics" on the Facebook machine, and you put it out of mind as life goes on.

I recently read a few chapters from the book Toxic Charity: How Churches and Charities Hurt Those They Help (And How to Reverse It) in my Honduras class (and I'm on the waiting list for the book at my local library).  The section I read talked about the dependency we create when we go into a community and give the people clothes, food, even a well. It sounds very noble, and we feel good after we do it. However, we don't think about the long term effects of our actions. As we discussed this needs-based approach to charity in class, I remembered a picture I saw in a WMI presentation of several Haitian men getting water from a new Water Missions International water pump. The man doing the presentation pointed out that one of the men in the picture wasn't wearing shoes. Apparently, the man could buy shoes—he had the money and there were local businesses producing shoes—but he didn't see any reason to buy shoes when he knew someone would come in and give him a pair for free (ummm...TOMS). This mindset can be detrimental to a developing people and to developing local businesses. Hearing "toxic charity" explained that way was a DUH moment for me.

Naturally, not all charity is toxic. In emergency situations, we should definitely go in and help. I think everyone involved in a church should go on a mission trip at some point in their life (sooner rather than later, though!). Youth, in particular, should spend time serving, painting houses, replacing roofs, serving food at a soup kitchen, doing inventory of supplies in a women's shelter because doing so can reveal a plethora of opportunities for their futures that they never knew existed. And as I told my friend Julia who is studying abroad next semester, I believe every American should try to spend some time in a third world country—not to experience extreme sympathy and not to serve in a way that births arrogance, but to get a new perspective on the way we live.

With short term mission and service trips, I like going in and serving an organization already established in a community that serves the community. In the world of volunteerism, we call that "indirect service." I think it's beneficial to use short term missions as an opportunity to do indirect service because instead of leaving a giant mission trip footprint that crushes the "needy" people you serve, you empower an organization that is already doing good work in the community to continue doing so.

Robert Lupton, author of Toxic Charity, proposes an oath for compassionate service:

Never do for the poor what they have (or could have) the capacity to do for themselves. Limit one-way giving to emergency situations. Strive to empower the poor through employment, lending, and investing, using grants sparingly to reinforce achievements. Subordinate self-interests to the needs of those being served. Listen closely to those you seek to help, especially to what is not being said. Above all, do no harm.

We have to give and serve in a way that empowers others. The best part is that when we do that, we are also empowered. Our actions become more than an album on Facebook, more than a soccer jersey dried too many times, and more even than the inside jokes that inevitably arise out of mission/service trips.

I guess it's really just a matter of deciding what you want to gain when you give: a feeling of pride because you gave that man a pair of shoes or a feeling of empowerment because you gave that man the ability to buy his own shoes from people in his own community.

 

Apples and Oranges

But they're both fruits...

I am awful at idiomatic expressions. Seriously. I just create my own idioms: Take a shot in the dark! That’s a whole different ballpark. This is problematic for me since I am a writer. As Ziva of “NCIS” once said, “Ah! American idioms drive me up the hall.”

What’s even more problematic is that my roommate is also awful at idioms. We don’t even pick up on each other’s mistakes anymore. The other night, she tried to explain how two things were the same by saying, “Apples and oranges.”* If I had been present for this conversation, I would have probably nodded my head and gotten on with life. But no. She was with people who actually grasp meanings of expressions. They laughed…a lot.  It’s okay, though. Now Courtney and I both understand how to use the phrase. See below:

You can’t compare the Harry Potter movies to the books! That’s like comparing apples and oranges!

How can you say pens are more useful than scissors? You’re comparing apples and oranges.

*Disclaimer: “Comparing apples and oranges” is not to be confused with the diametric expression “same difference.” Thank you and have a good day.

Are you awaiting some life relevancy? If not, you can stop reading now. If so, here goes.

Christians love to pray that God would reveal to them His will for their lives. I think they really mean “plan,” but they say “will” and it changes everything. Let’s just say, though, comparing God’s will and God’s plan for your life is like comparing apples and oranges. It doesn’t work.

³ God’s will is for you to be holy, so stay away from all sexual sin. ⁴ Then each of you will control his own body and live in holiness and honor— ⁵ not in lustful passion like the pagans who do not know God and his ways. ⁶ Never harm or cheat a Christian brother in this matter by violating his wife, for the Lord avenges all such sins, as we have solemnly warned you before. ⁷ God has called us to live holy lives, not impure lives. ⁸ Therefore, anyone who refuses to live by these rules is not disobeying human teaching but is rejecting God, who gives his Holy Spirit to you. 1 Thess. 4:3-8

My Community Group leader shared these verses with us a couple weeks ago, just days after I had to make a decision about my summer plans. His wife laughed as realization ran down my face like a raw egg: earlier that week, I'd sent her an email asking her to pray for guidance as I was seeking God's will for my summer. In Community Group that night, we discussed all that God's will for our lives might entail. Then we talked about how it's different than God's plan for our lives. 

Quick differentiation:

God's will: Be holy! This can involve a lot of different things: i.e. the Great Commission, the Ten Commandments, love your neighbor as yourself. But the idea is that God's will is the same for all believers. It's also immutable and set in stone.

God's plan: This is different for each believer. God's plan for my life might involve overseas missions or going to seminary or working at a summer camp (*cough cough*), whereas His plan for Courtney's life might involve teaching in an innercity school or spending her summer at home. This is usually what Christians want God to reveal to them. We know, because of Jeremiah 29:11, that God's plan for our lives is good, but we want to know what it is going to involve. I think we feel apprehensive about this because it seems easily changed and shifting...

I had a miniature panic attack over spring break when I was deciding between India and Camp Longridge for this summer (which was really like deciding between an apple and orange). I wanted to make the right choice, but I wasn't sure what it was. At some point in the deciding process, though, I realized that I am following God's will for my life...or at least trying my best to do so. I also realized that the Holy Spirit indwells me and acts as my counselor. So even if I wasn't feeling some supernatural conviction, the Holy Spirit was still helping me decide.

Feeling paradoxically empowered and insecure, I made my decision...(drumroll please)...and I'm going to be a counselor at Camp Longridge. God's will would have my go either place and be holy: do good and share with others (Heb. 13:16). God's plan has me ministering to kids and youth at Camp Longridge this summer. I'm excited. Aaaand very ready for the summer to get here already!

(They're kissing.)

Ruth's Story, My Story

It begins with Naomi…and her husband Elimelech. They had two sons, and after Elimelech’s death, the two sons married foreign women named Orpah and Ruth. When the two sons died, they left their two widows in a distant land with their mother. Orpah, upon the bidding of her mother-in-law, returned to her home and her family: the rational decision. Ruth, on the other hand, refused to leave Naomi alone: the irrational decision. Because of her irrationality, her kind stubbornness, it then becomes Ruth’s story.

I went gleaning today with Fields to Families. I’ve worked with them once before, and they’re a really awesome organization that I should work with more often. At ten this morning, I met up with a few friends and a few strangers in downtown Charleston to head out to Rosebank Farm on John’s Island. We took a red minivan and a silver SUV…like the cool people we are. We had some adventures trying to get there. RocketVan, as our red minivan became known, made some awesome u-turns, though, and in spite of a faulty GPS, we made it. It was beautiful in that drawling way that the Lowcountry has, with Spanish moss dripping from old oaks that form endless archways over dirt roads. The field where we were gleaning had lines of collards that had burst into little yellow flowers as tall as me, which is impressively tall for a collard green plant. We were gleaning collards…

Fun fact: you can eat the leaves, the stalks, and the flowers of collard plants. And I definitely tried all three parts while gleaning today.

Ruth's story took her to Bethlehem in the early spring—just in time for the barley harvest. One day, Ruth asked Naomi if she could go out into the fields and gather grain behind the harvesters. A relative of Naomi's husband, Boaz, happened to own the field where Ruth went to collect food for Naomi and herself. He inquired about Ruth, and his foreman explained to him how hardworking she was, collecting grain tirelessly and rarely taking a break. 

Anyone at a loss for what “gleaning” means? It’s central to what Fields to Families does. Local farmers with extra crops that they aren’t going to use or that they want to give to others let volunteers come in and harvest the extra. Then Fields to Families take the extra and give it to organizations that feed hungry people who, under normal circumstances, don’t have access to healthy food. 

Boaz went to Ruth and welcomed her to his field, encouraging her to help herself to the water in the well if she became thirsty and inviting her to eat lunch with his harvesters. His kindness confused her, and what she didn't even know was that he also told his harvesters to purposefully drop extra barley for her. 

We worked for a few hours, bent over inspecting leaves and breaking off healthy ones. We filled about ten garbage bags with the green leaves—a little over a hundred pounds of collards. It didn't feel like we were out there long enough. The breeze was gentle and cooling in the warm March sun, and even though the bees were constantly buzzing around our heads, there was something wonderfully relaxing about the manual labor. One of the girls gleaning with us commented on how nice it was to be so connected to the source of our food. It's true. Food looks so different once it's in grocery stores. Most of it is processed, canned, or boxed. Even the produce, though, has a certain degree of "perfection" to it that you just don't see in the fields. After gathering our bags of collards and loading them into the back of RocketVan, we sat in a circle on the ground and reflected, talking about food deserts, the accessibility of healthy foods for people with a lower income, educating children to make healthy choices. I drew circles in the dirt with my finger and thought more about Ruth and the world she lived in.

At the end of the day, Ruth took home half a bushel (I think that's about 20 quarts) of barley to Naomi, as well as leftover food from her lunch. Naomi was delighted, not just at the amount of food Ruth had provided but moreso at the generosity of Boaz.

I've never looked at Ruth's story before with a focus on Ruth. I always hear about Boaz and how his role as the "kinsman-redeemer" is allegorical for Jesus's role in saving us. I hear about the romance between Boaz and Ruth, and probably like a lot of Christian girls, I've been told about how incredible it is to have a kinsman-redeemer marry you. I was talking to my dad about my plans to go gleaning today, and he pointed out the connection to Ruth. I jokingly asked if he wanted me to go find my Boaz while on John's Island today. In all seriousness though, I was astonished at how beautiful Ruth's story is. As I was collecting the leftover collards, I thought about her story and her character, and I began to admire her more and more. Ruth was resourceful. She was humble and submissive, not usually admirable qualities in people by the world's standards today, but qualities that I undoubtedly admire in her. She was hardworking and generous. And she had loyalty to her mother-in-law and to godly love that I envy.

At the end of our day, we loaded back into RocketVan and the SUV (that wasn't cool enough to have a nickname) and left John's Island. The RocketVan took the bags of collards to Crisis Ministries, attempting to make some more awesome u-turns in the process ("attempting" here meaning that we tried and just ended up doing a 3-point turn in the middle of an intersection under the pressure of oncoming traffic). My roommate and I went back to our dorm and cooked up some stir fry that featured collard greens and collard flowers. Wow. Trust me when I say food tastes better when you harvested and cooked it yourself. So good.

 . 

 

American life lets me be lazy. I don't work with my hands. I'm not out in the hot sun meticulously picking up the barley harvesters overlooked or dropped. But even beyond that...I am lazy. I'm done with my week by noon on Fridays. Most days, I watch TV or oversleep. I realize it's good to rest and have time to recharge, but I should actually do something worthwhile and tiring beforehand! Forget about anything past Ruth chapter 2, forget about her and Boaz's romance that most Christian girls are ready to swoon over. Ruth was a beautiful, godly woman....even before Boaz (I can hear the gasps of shock now...). Maybe I'm alone in having only been taught Ruth's story in relation to Boaz, but even if you've heard it before, I encourage you to go back to Ruth and look at her life. I spent an afternoon living the life of a gleaner, and I saw Ruth's story come to life. It began in a field on John's Island, harvesting collards and paralleling my life with hers. But hopefully, the connection doesn't end there.