Big Bites: A Reflection On Time

Sonya Langeford via Unsplash, used under CC0 license

When I graduated from college, I thought my free time would grow exponentially. After all, studying was what took up all of my time, but if you took that away, then it follows that I would naturally have more free time for whatever pursuits my heart desires, right? Wrong.

Even over that first summer, I noticed that I didn't feel much change in the amount of free time I had/wanted to do things like reading, painting, and dancing. It was filled up with other things--soccer (plus practices), meeting up with friends and mentors, and of course spending time with Jake. As fall approached and my career path gained more definition, my time was even more consumed by my work. Believe it or not, lesson planning can take a long time!

These days, my week looks like this
M: Work for CP, Teach for VA, chores, art class
T: Babysitting for women's Bible study (a commitment I will not be renewing next semester despite the "easy thirty bucks"), work for CP, prepare youth group lesson, grading etc. Running with Dad
W: Work for CP, lesson-plan, youth group
Th: Teach for VA, work for CP,
F: Lesson-plan, lesson-plan, lesson-plan. Running.

Obviously, there is not a lot of time for Jake in all this, especially when he works all the nights that I'm free. Because it's so frenzied during the week, I tend to place my weekends on a pedestal as my only days to hang out and have fun (with Jake and others). But this weekend, I overdid it.

On Friday, I facilitated the youth group girl's retreat up on Mt. Lemmon with a team of other leaders. We decorated the cabin, cooked up some lasagna, decorated journals, sang worship songs, learned about God.... etc. etc. It was all a really wonderful time and I got to know a girl from our small group a lot better. But I stayed up til 1 in the morning and was up again the next, ready to serve these girls. It was fun! But hardly relaxing. I got home in the late afternoon and spent the rest of the evening trying to solidify my lessons for this week, calling it quits when my eyes watered from staring at my computer screen too intensely.

Sunday morning I went to early service, worked in Sunday school, and jetted over to me and Jake's small group with two newly purchased loaves of epi bread from the local bakery. After small group, I left for another dinner engagement with some friends on the Northwest side of town--which required a frenzied drive on the freeway taking the I-10 east instead of west, turning around, finding the right neighborhood, but walking into the wrong house, before I finally made it to Farzana's house where we enjoyed good company and much laughter together. It was very pleasant time together and I don't regret it. I rushed home so I could  go running with Dad before Jake arrived for a late-night catch-up before the week started again.

So here we are at Monday morning, the day I'm writing this post, and I'd intended on going to a breakfast hosted by the Tucson Missions Network. Having been two times already, the people there capitalized on my youthful energy and asked me if I could come early to help set up and bring some fruit for the breakfast. Despite the early arrival time (6:30 am, which meant leaving my house at 6am, which meant waking up at 5:55), I agreed and had bought the fruit and everything... but 7:40am rolls around and I wake up to my dad in the doorway saying, "So much for getting up at 6." I jumped out of bed, "Holy crap what time is it?" and in my feverish half sleep tried to calculate the math of how long it would take to arrive if I left in 2 minutes exactly. It was not enough. I'd set an alarm, but it didn't go off and now I'd let my friends down.

Perhaps I needed the extra two hours of sleep, but I didn't want it at the expense of disappointing my friends. I wrote an apology note and will see them in person soon. But I think I bit off more than I can chew. Maybe next time, I'll take smaller bites.

The Best Love Story of All (long)

Circa 2009

Jake's family has been somehow connected to ours for over 12 years. His mom, whom I affectionately called  (and still call)"Miss Jessica," taught my Sunday School class when I was six years old. Since her youngest son Joe was also in the class, she moved up every year with us and I grew under her tutelage. To be truthful, I don't actually remember when Jake first came on my radar, since he was older than me.

It could have been our sudden frequent exposure to the Coffin's three children, for reasons unbeknownst to me at the time. Mom and Dad constantly took us over to their house to play while the adults all went off to dinner. Cam and I weren't complaining though; we loved having playmates. We'd play hide-and-go seek in the house or huckle-buckle-bean-stalk or we'd watch veggietales while feasting on the hugest batches of popcorn we'd ever seen.

But I believe it was Fish Tales-- a cute little children's skit in which we both had the lead parts and the characters were in constant competition with one another. (Actually, the majority of our childhood friendship consisted of competition, most of which I think I initiated.) On one particular day while practicing the script my character had the parenthetical direction "lovingly" written before the line and somewhere deep in my 11-year-old mind I thought something along the lines of, "well I might as well start now!" Thus began a massive and enduring crush that lasted three and a half straight years. I was "madly in love" with Jake Coffin (secretly, of course!).

Sister Africa's Story: Why I Read

Antelope Park, Zimbabwe

I love reunions. They make me cry, but man, I love reunions. There is so much joy and grief and pain all mixed up in a single embrace, as if a flood of all the past emotions away from this person are suddenly released. I've been through several reunions--reunions with family members, with returning service men and women, and of course we cannot forget Jake--more times than not, I cry.

Today, I think I stumbled across one of the most beautiful reunion scenes I have ever read. It was from Zenzele: A Letter for My Daughter by J. Nozipo Maraire, a book I'm reading for my African Literature class. The biography is a running dialogue from a mother to her daughter, consolidating all the stories, wisdom, and traditions Maraire wants her daughter to know in one place as Zenzele prepares to continue her academics in America. It is a beautiful blend of memories, anecdotes, and motherly concern and advice.

Maraire begins chapter seven telling Zenzele about the difficulties she perceived surrounding the black diaspora, until Sister Africa changed her perspective. It is Sister Africa's story that I am most interested in telling here.

Maraire met the African-American (originally named Mary William Smith) through her sister at an underground political meeting."There was something charming, fresh, and open about the girl. And so it happened that despite myself, by the time they reached my corner of the room and [my sister] stepped forth to introduce us, I was genuinely interested in meeting her" (Maraire 95). Maraire soon discovered the exceptional qualities of Sister Africa. She had traveled widely throughout Africa and endeared herself to many there, earning the name Sister Africa.

She'd come to Africa in search of her Nigerian father who left her and her white mother behind when she was young. She followed every clue she could glean of him. He'd apparently become widely known in the underground politics, but no one could divulge his whereabouts. Every time she heard where he might be, she traveled there only to learn he was gone again.

Many years later, Sister Africa had given up hope of ever finding him, but by now it held less sway over her. She had developed her identity as an African now. She didn't really need to find him, but she still admired him for being the great African thinker and revolutionary that everyone knew him to be. In South Africa, she was arrested several times, finally being sent to the Robben Island, a terrorist camp disguised as a disciplinary facility. There she met other revolutionaries and exchanged ideas with them.

One day, they brought in a high-profile revolutionary known all across Africa as Baba Africa (Father Africa). Baba Africa spoke to them on many topics, including a fruit analogy which Sister Africa took especial liking to. On her last day, he spoke to her, "Daughter, how came you to be here?" Awestruck by the fact that this great man whom she admired so much was talking to her, Sister Africa was speechless. "I have heard of your bravery," he encouraged her, "Keep up the struggle for a united, prosperous Africa; it is a dream worth fighting for. Your love of freedom makes you a true daughter of Africa."

Later, she has the following encounter with her friend Keki:
"He asked me about you and I told him you were from America originally. He was very impressed that you had given so much to the struggle."
"Really, Keki, you must have exaggerated greatly for him to take any notice of me."
"Oh, no, Sister Africa. He is fond of Americans. He is a Nigerian, you know, but he went to one of those big, rich famous American universities when he was young. Columbia, I think. Yes, he studied law there. There is a rumor that he was once married to an American woman, or was she Oriental? I cannot remember. He dropped everything for the struggle. They say he has traveled all over the continent" (Maraire 105-106).

My heart dropped like a stone when I fully realized that. Of course, I had known all along: Mariare told me that she eventually met her "old man" (101) and as soon as she mentioned the high-profile prisoner, I began to suspect. But my suspicious did not prepare me for the emotional impact of realizing it. It was so beautiful, I lost my words. All I could think was, "This is why I read literature." There are a multitude of reasons why people read literature--to relax, to be entertained, to escape. But I read literature to experience something beautiful. And when beauty is achieved through words, there is nothing comparable.

"Zimbabwe 27 01042011" by Dave Mulder  used under Creative Commons Attribution-Share-alike-Noncommercial license.Da

Tell Me Your Story: Part 1

[T]here are surprisingly few occasions--or rituals--in which people are

expected or invited to tell the story of their lives from whatever they think the

beginning is: or to tell the even odder story that is their dream. (`The Telling of

Selves' Phillips On Flirtation 1994:75)

If there's one thing you should know about me, I love stories. So when I came across this quote in my African literature class, I was captivated. Ever since I read this, I have wanted to change it. Ever since I read this, I have been dying to ask someone, What is your story? What is it that made you the person you are today? Who are you and why are you here? What is your purpose? What do you wish you were doing? These questions roll and toss around inside my head, but I haven't given them voice, yet.

I want to be the kind of person that gives you space to tell your own story. I want to provide an exception to this quote. Part of this is my love for stories, the other part stems from my personality: I have a strong desire to overcome obstacles and constraints. Don't tell me something is impossible, because I will try to prove you wrong. There is something invigorating for me about struggling for something and achieving it, making the reward that much sweeter. This quote is just a constraint for me to break. There are few occasions for people to tell their stories? Then I will give them occasions. I will give them chances. I will give them spaces to be heard.

Last week, Jake and I talked about something similar to this. We were talking about life when he said, "I think the first episode of my life ended when I was diagnosed with cancer." Then he asked me how I would divide up the episodes of my life. The question caught me off guard, but I enjoyed answering it. I found that the first episode of my life ended when we moved away from Santa Rosa. I loved seeing how we split up lives differently. Though we've grown up together, we don't see ourselves the same way and I love that diversity!

I was telling him about how compelled I was by this question, "but I haven't asked anyone yet." I've been tempted; I've thought about it. But the words just haven't come out yet. So we turned it into a game: first person to ask someone else what their story is wins "a prize" (which will probably be merely mild gloating rights. It's not the prize that makes it fun; it's knowing that someone else is doing it too.). Jake was all, "I'm going to ask someone tomorrow... No, I'm going to ask someone right after I get off the phone!" "Whoa whoa, that's not fair!" I protested, "I'm going to sleep after this!" (Secretly, I also think it's not fair that he has such a large pool of people to pull from being at college, while I study locked up in my room all day!)

I get the feeling that this will become much more than just a game and it won't end with one story r two stories. (Hence the "Part 1" in the title of this post!) I see us collecting a multitude of stories like little puzzle pieces--fragments of a larger story that is begging to be told.