My Finale

Stories have an incredible power to display aspects of life which can not be shown any other way. They uniquely describe the ideas they are built on by pulling at emotions and “shared” past experiences between characters and audience. Their ability to work multiple themes into one overall motif allows for multiple interpretations which give so many different faces to one specific story. And a story is the reason for this post.

        Scrubs was on tonight. And for those of you who do not know what Scrubs is my best advice is…well…go watch it. But in case you don’t want to do that here’s a quick synopsis. Scrubs is a TV show which deals with the lives of four doctors, their families, and their lives in the hospital Sacred Heart. It’s a sitcom but unlike most the writers blend both comedy and drama nearly seamlessly. That blending is the aspect which caused me to fall in love with the show. Anything that can make me both laugh hysterically and sit contemplating life situations all within a half hour is worth watching; at least in my opinion.

        So tonight was the last episode of this show. Watching it, and hearing what J.D. had to say about the future, about how it is still his to mold and how the past will always influence what he wants the future to look like, began me considering what I want to see in my future. But that only happened after I thought back on the year and a half that I have been watching Scrubs. Weirdly enough it has been a huge “staple” during that time. The show has been a way for me to wind down after a long day, something to have on when its raining outside, or a trigger for certain memories over the last year. So the last episode sparked something in me; a type of nostalgia.

       Much of what was said tonight on the show resonated with my experiences of change. I specifically remember leaving California and how it was the most significant thing which was happening in my life at that time. Yet for the lives of everyone around me it was just another day. Sure I got cards and good-byes but for them it was a small change in the over all aspect of their lives. For me it was a complete life change. And Dr. Cox sums that feeling up perfectly when he states “"I'm real sorry there, newbie. But this is not a special day for me. It's just a day." 

      But more than that, when I first saw Scrubs it reignited a flame which I had long thought had been put out. It reawakened my interest in medicine, in wanting to be a doctor. The show acted as a catalyst which pushed me to where I am now. It pushed me to realize that my true interest does not actually lie in sustainable energy, in ecosystems, or even in environmental medicine/public health. It lies in medicine and the practice thereof. But to admit that also ties me down to one specific path which opens up the possibility of failure, something that I am not good at accepting or dealing with. So in a way Scrubs both acted as a catalyst for me rediscovering a dream of mine, as well as a catalyst for me actually admitting that dream and committing to a course which, hopefully, will bring me there.

      So much more could be said about the things Scrubs brings to mind when I watch. And those things hopefully will be said at some point in my life, either here or in a journal. But I wanted to jot a few things down here, real quick, just as a ode to a show which has, strangely enough, meant quite a bit in my life. So thanks Scrubs and everyone involved for an amazing show (word keeps telling me that this sentence is a fragment and just to spite it I’m gonna keep it that way…also with all this on the end it no longer classifies as a fragment). Keep up the good work. 

Breathe

Yod, Hey, Vav, Hey...

One More

You know a book is good when it speaks some old truth in a huge new way every time you read it:

"The writer of Genesis makes it clear that in all of creation there is something different about humans. They aren't God, and they aren't going to become God, but in some distinct, intentional way, something of God has been placed in them. We reflect what God is like and who God is. A divine spark resides in every single human being.

Everybody, everywhere. Bearers of the divine image."

And then the authors commentary in the back of the book continues the thought with this story:

"Recently I saw my friend Josh, who teaches fifth and sixth graders. He was preparing the lesson for that day and had hsi supplies with him: a large glass bowl, a can of beef, fatty tissue, sauerkraut, a jar of olives, some anchovies, and a hundred-dollar bill. I know- I was curious too. So i did exactly what you would have done. I asked him what his lesson was about. He replied, 'I put all of the ingredients in a bowl, including the money, and then I mix it together. Then when it doesn't taste good, I pretend I'm going to throw it away. At this point the kids go crazy, telling me not to. I ask them why I shouldn't, and they say, 'Because it's valuable.' And then I counter with, 'But it smells and it's disgusting.' At which point they rush to the front, volunteering to reach into the bowl and pull out the hundred-dollar bill. Actually, I may have to start using a twenty for this lesson, becuase the last time I used a hundred, they trampled each other to get to the front. I then read to them from Genesis chapter one about how every single human being bears the image of God and how no matter what else is mixed there, a person still has limitless worth in God's eyes."

I want to meet Josh. 

Just Something To Think About

Bit long, but this is a quote from a book I just started for the second time....saying anything more might take away from what I'm gonna quote. So here it is:

"If we were to go through your garage or storage shelves or sock drawer, I guarantee we would find the strangest things. I have a trophy from when I was fourteen. The little man on the top fell off sometime in the '90's, the lettering that says what it's for has faded, and the years have revelaed that, shockingly, that isn't real marble. but I've kept it. I haven't thrown it away because it's more than a trophy to me. That trophy is the first time I actually won something on my own. It represents a certain period of my life and the struggles of being fourteen and finding my identity and wondering if I'd ever be good at anything. 

It's a trophy, but it's more than a trophy.

Jewelry, pictures, sculptures  made by children, antiques that have been in the family for years, art projects, souvenirs, velvet paintings- we hold on to them because they point beyond themselves. If we were to ask you about a certain picture and why you have it displayed in such a prominent place in your home or office or why you carry it in your purse or wallet everywhere you go, you'd probably respond by tlaking about the people in the picture, where it was taken, when it was taken. But that would only be the start. Those relationships and tha tplace and that time are all about somethign else, something more. If  we kept exploring, you'd probably end up using words like trust and love and belonging and commitment and celebration. 

So it's a picture, but it's more than a picture. 

The physical thing - this picture, rophy, artifact, gift - is actually about that relationship, that truth, that reality, that moment in time. 

This is actually about that. 

For me its a simple 10 peso bill from the Dominican Republic. I was given that bill during my first trip down the Carribean to visit my family down there. During that time I helped repair a house by the church we were building. 

By myself. 

When I was 6.

That day I was supposedly helping the guys build this church. But like any other kid I had found some friends to hang out with. They were native Dominicans, really cool people...at least from what I could tell. I didn't exactly speak spanish when I was 6. And they didn't exactly speak English. But through hand signals we had found a way to communicate what we wanted and eventually that lead me over to one of the house's along the same street as the church. As I walked up to the house I began to realize that instead of an actual solid wall surrounding the door in front of us there was a wall with huge gaps between the boards. 

I could see straight into the house...which kind of negates the reason for a door.

But instead of ignoring the man-sized gaps in the wall I decided to run back to the work site and pick up some of the extra lumber to drag over to the house (imagine a 6 year old trying to drag a 2 by 4 30 feet across/down a road). No one seemed to notice...until I felt the other end of the board lighten. I looked behind me and there was the kid I was hanging out with, helping me carry this board over to the house. So with this 2 by 4 I started connecting the existing boards in the wall to close the gaps. Then the kid with me caught on and started handing me nails. And then his dad came out and started helping out as well. 

We eventually gave up the project. Unfortunately the three of us couldn't fix up the entire house. But still, it was the first time I helped someone out just because I thought I should. 

I've loved doing so ever since.

So there's my "this is actually about that" story. 

Whats yours?

My Fight

For some reason my whole College experience has been one fight against belief in God. Or more specifically belief in religion. Yet that fight. The one against religion has lead to a serious questioning of the existence of a higher power, a divine being, Elyon. I have accepted things that make traditional christian belief absolutely impossible. Ideas such as evolution, natural selection, and modern genetics. All these point more and more towards a random and chaotic existence. Humans being but a blip on the radar of the natural universe...

But then something brings me back.

I can't explain what it is. Mere words can not begin to capture the essence that brings me back. Concepts such as love, forgiveness, caring, community and more all begin to form a rough puzzle of what I feel grabs at me every time I try to rid myself of my fundamental belief in what God has done. But story seems to capture it best. Something as fundamental as memories creates a picture out of the jigsaw pieces in my mind...

Light comes in through the window of the bridge between the Emergency Room and the main hospital one morning while I am moving patients from one point to another. The halls are lined with detailed paintings of the American West. In one a group of Native Americans walk through a snow covered alpine forest. Green from the trees just barely poking through the layers of snow. But this painting isn't one of hope. Behind the Natives follow a pack of wolves. With a closer look one might even be able to see the desperation painted on the faces of each character. One, in fact, is carrying a friend with him on the back of his horse. Some unknown malady has hit the man and he is dead but for his friends...

But none of this catches my attention. I've been down this hall hundreds of times. I'm bored with the repetition. Then I see something that causes me to come back down to earth out of my daydreaming. A girl with her mother. The light catches them both just right so their skin seems to glow. The white walls of the hallway only accentuate this feeling. But it wasn't the light that first caught my attention, it was the pink surgical mask over the girl. Her hair had fallen out as well. She had cancer. One of her chemotherapy treatments had just occurred and her immune system wasn't up to the challenge of walking around the hospital unprotected. So the nurses gave her a pink surgical mask to match her pink pajamas.

Then her eyes met mine. And she smiled through the mask.

Her life will affect more than most. Her death maybe even a greater number. I don't know. But she smiled. She has hope.

There a thousand more stories like this. Ones that seem to be hopeless but on closer inspection there is always a glimmer, a pinprick of light. Like the smile of a girl. Or the gentleness of a family in the slums of Kolkuta. Maybe even the generosity of a Moroccan man who sees five Americans in a part of the city which is known for violence and leads them to a safer spot, shows them a place to eat, and then disappears. Even in the difficultly of adjusting and living in two different cultures within the span of one year. Or even in human existence. Research it sometime, human existance is a statistical anamoly.

These stories point to something more. Something that compells people to pass on hope to others. To give others a reason to fight, to move forward, and to love.

I think its some mystical being. An ineffable essence which permiates all aspects of this world; God.

Me+God

I was reading a friends post and I came across something; a sentence that started Me+God. The phrase got me thinking. I just returned from a trip to Wyoming. It was filled with hiking, kayaking, and some quality family time (along with a rodeo). But while I could say it was an experience of Me+God+Hiking+Mountains etc. it feels better to me to say God+Me. That simple change in order speaks volumes about what I feel when I'm out there. I see God. And that's why I say God+Me. I'm in his territory. Area that God entrusted to us to take care of.

Oh and PS this is also from a friends site (sorry im stealing it Katrina). It gives a bit of insight into what the God I'm talking about above actually is:

"I feel, however, how resistance is growing within me against everything "religious" - almost to an istinctive abhorrence - which is certainly not good, either. I am not of a religious nature. But I must continue to think of God and Christ. I place a lot of value on genuineness, on life, on freedom, and on mercy. It's just that I find the religious clothing so uncomfortable".

Dietrich Bonhoeffer (from 'I want to live these days with You')

A Might Be Good Story

Entry into my journal I thought would be fun to share with some friends I know, but everyone who reads this is also more than welcome to enjoy:
October 14, 2007

I'm sitting in the rail station in Fes, Morocco right now. I know, how crazy is that? Our trip has been ridiculous. In a good way though. It began with a bus schedule out of Sevilla which was incorrect. Great start huh? We got up at 7:30Am and went to the bus stop at 8:30. Found out our bus didnt leave for another hour. FANTASTIC. But we rolled with it. We got on our bus and headed down to Algecerias to catch a ferry to Tangier. WE got to Algecerias 3 1/2 hrs later and found out that the ferries cost 70 euros each. Ouch. But still ok. We paid the euros and jumped on the ferry.

Oh and I forgot. We met an American on the bus. One of the most annoying guys ever. His second question was whether or not we could smoke hash on the bus. But we also met an extremely helpful Moroccan man. His name was Mohammad. He spoke 4 or 5 different languages. Absolutely amazing and makes me feel like an idiot. Me who only speaks a language and part of another...I really need to try harder at this Spanish thing.

So anyway, back to this ferry. We got on after a bit of a cringe because of the cost. Once inside we had to wait through the customs line to get our passport stamped. That took a good 30 minutes. By this time we were hungry (little did we know that this problem would be one of the main ones of the trip: "Where do we find food??"). So we ate our bocadillos. The ferry ride was incredible after that. We went off onto the deck outside and chilled, too pictures, and talked....

Back up again though. The ferry didn't leave until 2 hrs past the point it was supposed to leave. That made it ~3:30 PM Spain time. Thankfully that is only 1:30 Moroccan time. So we still have plenty of time to make our train in Morocco. But here's the thing. Two modes of transportation down. Two modes of transportation which were late. So far, so good.

So now we are in Tangier. We need to find a place to change money, to ask directions to the train station, and figure out if we can walk to the train or if we have to catch a cab. Also this is where I'm supposed to "take care" of all these women with me. So now I have the voice of our director, Leslie, in my head telling me that if anything happens down here its basically my fault. No pressure right?

We get to the information desk at Tangier and its all women. The group of us talk and the girls decide to chat with these information women. Already I would have been lost without the people im supposed to be "protecting". The ladies at the desk let us know where to change money and also say we need to catch a cab to get the to train station.

After changing money we all pile into one cab, because we're not supposed to split up, and head to the train station. When we arrive there we find mass chaos with cops trying to keep order. "What is this?!?!" was the question we were all asking. So we decided to get out of the taxi (good idea???), pay the man, and figure out our train situation. Enter helpful Moroccan man numero dos. This guy just started talking to us randomly. And he know perfect English. What?!? He helped us navigate the mob out side of the station. With his help we pushed our way in. Then I saw the line, or lack thereof, for the tickets. It definitely was not a line but a mob of men all screaming for a ticket to Fes. Wow. And I have to get in in that mob??? Fantastic. Well i did what I had to and joined the mob...very awkwardly. The only white guy in a group of Moroccan men tends to stand out. We've got some good pictures.

Eventually the cops came by and started yelling at us to get into a line. That gradually happened, although it was a very tightly packed line without any personal space...whatsoever. I went through this line and got the tickets (helpful Moroccan guy numero dos was a huge help during this process as well). They ended up costing 487 DH. Not bad. Not quite 10 euros a piece.

The next step is to get on the train. Problem is the mob which was previously in front of the ticket booth has moved residences to the area surrounding the doors leading onto the loading platform. And its grown. 200 angry, hungry Moroccan residents who have not eaten all day...or for the last month, does not lead to anything good. They were banging on the windows and whistling/yelling at the cops who were holding the doors shut. Eventually the mob won and broke one of the doors by ripping one of the handles clear off its hinges, forcing themselves out on the patio; most then began sprinting for the train.

Needless to say while this was all happening we were in the back of the crowd without a clue of what to do...and be logical beings we just decided to roll with it and force ourselves towards the only door available to the 1000 (yes it increased in the last few seconds) people flooding out towards the train. Somehow we found ourselves outside. By half running half walking to the last car, we miraculously we found seats available next to some Moroccan people. We all sat down...a bit stunned over what just had occurred.

And then I thought seriously about what we had just done. We're on a Moroccan train, about to embark on a five hour train ride to a city called Fez...yes, we are insane :).

Theres the first entry I made. The others will come later :).