Janis Carelock- A life Well-Lived

On Friday, August 10th at 5:40 PM, Janis Lee Carelock went home to be in Heaven with her savior, Jesus Christ after a courageous 5-year battle with cancer.

Born in Fredericksburg, Texas in 1948 to Lee Roy and Louise Woerner, Janis spent her early life helping with the family ranch and Woerner Feed Store. After graduating from high school, Janis embarked on a career in Nursing in Austin, completing her BSN and MSN at University of Texas School of Nursing, where she later found her passion teaching.

She was known for being a tough instructor, earning the nickname "The Terminator" among students. The students who wanted to be good nurses loved her, and she always said that when she was a patient someday, she wanted to be relieved when she saw one of her students walk in the room, not terrified. Her passion for nursing education and student mentorship made a difference in the lives of hundreds of students, and countless patients across the country.

Janis remained a teacher through her cancer journey-- teaching the nurses who cared for her and guest lecturing, but most importantly teaching those around her what grace and courage and unwavering trust in God looks like through times of pain and suffering. She never once asked "Why Me?" and was always giving thanks for the little blessings of each day.

Janis is survived by her loving and devoted husband, Wayne Carelock, her adoring children, Benjamin Carelock and Katherine Meese, brothers Bruce Woerner and Steve Woerner, parents Louise and Lee Roy Woerner, and the most kind, generous, and faithful community her family can possibly imagine. 

What will be remembered most about Janis is that she truly believed that every human was specially created by God, and thus worthy of respect, love, and the best of her time and talents, regardless of titles, wealth, education, color or class.

Her family would like to thank the countless people who brought meals, hosted parties, stayed up through the night, prayed, called, emailed, wrote, traveled to Houston to visit her in the hospital, encouraged and supported her loved ones, took care of the dog, sent clothes to make Janis feel pretty, provided nursing care, did laundry, gave her lake and mountain adventures, sang hymns, and spent hours upon hours just to wait with and comfort her loved ones during her final days. They would also like to thank the compassionate employees and volunteers of Hospice Austin, who provided tremendous care to Janis and her family.

Janis left a final message of hope for those she left behind in this video.

We invite you to celebrate the blessed life of Janis Lee Carelock at her memorial service:
Friday, August 16th 3:00 PM
First Evangelical Free Church of Austin
4220 Monterey Oaks Blvd Austin, TX 78749

In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to:
Hill House Austin
Search Ministries- Please designate for Austin Area-48

If you would like to share special stories and memories about Janis, you can send them to katherine.meese@gmail.com.

Voyage
The Valley of Vision: A collection of Puritan prayers
O LORD OF THE OCEANS, My little bark sails on a restless sea,
Grant that Jesus may sit at the helm and steer me safely.
Suffer no adverse currents to divert my heavenward course;
Let not my faith be wrecked amid storms and shoals;
Bring me to harbor with flying pennants, hull unbreached, cargo unspoiled.
I ask great things, expect great things,shall receive great things.
I venture on thee wholly, fully,my wind, sunshine, anchor, defense.
The voyage is long, the waves high, the storms pitiless, but my helm is held steady,
Thy Word secures safe passage, thy grace wafts me onward, my haven is guaranteed.
This day will bring me nearer home.
Grant me holy consistency in every transaction, my peace flowing as a running tide, my righteousness As every chasing wave.
Help me to live circumspectly, with skill to convert every care to prayer.
Halo my path with gentleness and love, smooth every asperity of temper;
Let me not forget how easy it is to occasion grief;
May I strive to bind up every wound, and pour oil on all troubled waters.
May the world this day be happier and better because I live.
Let my mast before me be the Savior’s cross, and every oncoming wave the fountain of his side.
Help me, protect me in the moving sea until I reach the shore of unceasing praise.
Amen.

New Hobby

It is amazing how sometimes in an effort to save money, we spend more.

For example, in preparing for my return to school this fall, I have started looking for ways to save a little coin here and there. About two months ago, I decided that it would be a good idea to imitate Penelope Cruz and dye my hair darker. But a thrifty Grad Student would never pay for a visit to the salon for a dye job! So I did it myself, from a box. Apparently, “Dark Golden Brown” actually means RED. So instead of paying for one box of dye, I have now purchased 5 in an effort to fix my mop, and it is still RED. So going to the salon would have probably been cheaper than 5 boxes, and I wouldn’t look like little orphan Annie.

I learned that lesson several times this weekend. The car saga continues…

When I picked up my recently purchased Honda on Friday night, I realized some very important things about myself:
1. I should never be allowed to purchase a used car alone
2. I lose all sensory perception when I am looking at a car for purchase.

I might as well have been wearing a gas mask, the little eye cover they give you on long plane flights, and bright orange hunting ear plugs. Apparently, my senses of sight, smell and hearing all disappeared when I was test driving this Honda.

It is amazing what one learns when spending more than 10 minutes with a car.

So, it was DEFINITELY a smoker car. Not only did it smell like one—I found a used cigarette in the back seat. When I threw the car into reverse and backed out the driveway, it sounded like a Bollywood film. The brakes were making such a high pitched squealing noise that I could barely hear the radio. How did I not notice this in the test drive?!?!

I’m not sure whether the paint job could be called a “paint job” or “vandalism.” It looks like a 13-year-old went to town with a silver spray-paint can. The interior detail job I had done was worth every penny, and fortunately the man at the car wash was able to remove the French fries that had been wedged between the seats. Last but not least, the 6-CD Changer is actually a NO-CD Changer. Broken.

So I headed straight for the mechanic to see how terrible this car purchase was. The dealer told me that he had just put on brand new brakes and rotors and that it would take them a few days to loosen up. LIE. Two-thousand dollars later, after replacing all four brakes, rotors and the rear struts, installing a jack for my ipod, removing French fries and replacing the headliner with the blood splatter on it, I called it a day.

My favorite part of the story, however, is the response of the car salesman when I pointed out that he had blatantly lied to me about the brakes. He replied, “I was very nice to you ma’am." Nice but dishonest? Not my favorite.

At least I can find some comfort knowing that I got an awesome price when I finally sold my other car. OH WAIT. I could have chopped out the leather in the back seats, made purses out of them, and sold them for more money than I got for the car…

A Look under the Hood of my Honda

And when I say “hood," I don’t mean the part of the car…

I recently decided to leave my cushy job in the world of corporate finance and return to graduate school. One may think I have acquired ZERO financial knowledge during my time as a financial analyst, since this is the worst fiscal decision I could possibly make. Not only will I leave a well-paying and stable job in the middle of an economic downturn and one of the highest unemployment rates in recent history-- I will be paying to study all day. Not only that, but I will be making almost no money and have no job security when I finish school. Awesome. This is obviously riskier than bungee jumping, eating steak from a restaurant with a hearse parked out back, and trusting Nancy Pelosi with our nation’s finances…combined.

Nevertheless, I am excited about being a student again and getting my Master’s in Public Health. However, to prepare for the personal budget cuts, I am making some changes. Bye bye BMW, hello Honda. I figured owning a car that costs $800 for a routine brake job is no bueno for a poor student. So, I bought a Honda. After test driving endless cars with broken window regulators, crunchy brakes, and inspection sticker that have been expired for two years, I found the perfect car. I bought a 2005 Honda Accord, silver, for a great price.

And perhaps a great price for a good reason. A few days after the ink dried on my check, I started to put 2 and 2 together. As I slid into the leather driver’s seat, I noticed plenty of exciting buttons, and that the car looked and smelled clean—not a smoker car. When I was test driving the car, I looked up and noticed brown splatters on the ceiling. I thought perhaps a coke had exploded, or cigarette ashes had made their way to the roof… but not a smoker car… Hmmm.

After we drove, I took a look in the back seat. There was a quarter sized hole in the leather with singed edges around it. It was about 3 inches deep into the foam of the seat below as far as I could tell. I asked the man, bedecked with bling, about the origins of said hole. “A cigarette burn,” He said. But again, not a smoker car. I thought this was odd, but I bought the car and sent it to get the leather and the roof fixed.

But then the lightbulb in my head came on. Somebody was SHOT in the car! The roof stains were caused by a blood splatter, and the large “cigarette burn” through thick leather was the bullet hole! The carfax didn’t say “Murder” or “Crime Scene” on it, so I figured I would be okay. But I have to wonder if someday this will come back to bite me. This car definitely has a little hood under the hood.

I’m halfway expecting to get pulled over and hear, “Ma’am, please step out of the car.” Six months later, you can see me appearing in court wearing an orange uni pleading “Not Guilty” to murder.

I hear prison communication is limited, and let’s be honest, one phone call is not enough to plan an escape. So let’s just get it out of the way right now… If I land in the slammer, I would like for you to come visit me. Please bring mani-pedi supplies. But more importantly, bring a chocolate bunny with a chisel hidden inside. That way I can break out Shawshank Redemption style.

Thank you in advance for your help.

John Mayer and the FBI

When I listen to a rap song on the radio, most of the words are bleeped out— radio edits. But the words that are still audible are usually about three important topics: Pimping, Hoes, and Money. Occasionally there will be commentary on life in the hood. This seems to be common in all rap music, therefore one may deduce that this is indeed a prerequisite for being technically considered rap music.

Therefore, when I hear of a rapper in his personal life endorsing pimping, hoes and money, I am not surprised. There is no disconnect.

However, when I hear about the comments John Mayer makes in his personal life, I struggle with tremendous disillusionment. John Mayer sings about love, and relationships and how my body is a wonderland. Look no further than his recent and shocking interviews with Playboy and Rolling Stone to see that this is ALL a facade, an act.

I felt a similar inward confusion when I learned about the underground sex trade in Houston, Texas.

When you see evidence of the sex trade in Thailand, there is nothing shocking about it. The streets are lined with massage parlors with hot pink signs, openly advertising scandalous services. Therefore, when you ride an elevator up to your apartment with a businessman and three prostitutes, you remain unphased. You expect it.

HOWEVER, learning about the sex trade in Houston is a different story. Houston is a place for families and churches. Houston is full of friendly Texans, philanthropic ventures and reasonably-priced real estate. But that is only the song—in reality, there is a much darker side.

Houston is the second largest port in the United States for human sex trafficking. The FBI is watching Houston like teenie boppers watch Justin Bieber’s Twitter. On the last major raid of sex-related industries in Houston, including adult DVD stores and lingerie shops, a shocking percentage were involved in the underground sex trade.

Girls are brought into Houston from all over the world and then transported in 18-wheelers to destinations all over the US. Many of these girls are sold into slavery by their parents from southeast Asia, some for as little as $25. The average age of the girls rescued by the FBI in Houston was 10-15 years old, turning an average of 15 tricks a day. The biggest question is what to do with these girls who have been horribly abused when they are rescued.10 years old. Can’t speak English. Can’t go home because their parents sold them.

Hopefully this disillusionment, a million times worse than John Mayer, will someday see its end.

www.katherineannphotography.com

http://www.katherineannphotography.com/

The second best lesson I have learned is to always keep a good book in my purse and a camera in my pocket. The last few years have been filled with journeys to Europe, Asia, Africa, and North and South America. What I am most impacted by are not the continental contrasts, but the similarities we all share regardless of age, race or class.

The best lesson I have learned is that the human spirit is resilient and beautiful-- through poverty, through genocide, through sickness, struggle and victory.

Please join me in admiring that beauty...

"It is lovely to know that the world can't interfere with the inside of your head. You might be poor, your shoes might be broken, but your mind is a palace." -Angela's Ashes, Frank McCourt

Confession

I have sinned. I am a hypocrite and a heretic.

It is amazing how we talk ourselves into immorality. We make excuses. We justify our behaviors. We act like martyrs and blame others.

But the truth is, I alone am responsible for my actions.

“It was such a good deal!”
“It is for my brother.”
“But it is REALLY cold up there.”
“I’ll only do it this one time. This is a special circumstance.”
“Well, at least I’m not as bad as that other girl I know.”

Those were the thoughts racing through my mind as I stood in line to make my purchase…

of not one…

but TWO dog sweaters…

and a pair of doggie reindeer antlers…


Truly Penitent,
Katherine

Cultural Immersion and Weapons of Mass Destruction

Thailand 2008

This weekend I walked into 7-11 with a gun. A Weapon of mass destruction: Winnie the Pooh. I was fortunate enough to commandeer a massive water gun with a canister to hold extra ammo in the shape of Winnie the Pooh’s face.

I spent the weekend in Chiang Mai, in the northern part of Thailand, for the largest water fight of the year. It was the Songkran festival here, which is a celebration of the Thai New Year. Basically, wherever you go, you will be completely drenched with water for three straight days. It certainly brings a whole new meaning to cultural immersion. I think my hands were like prunes for seven straight hours as we danced in the streets to the techno-logically advanced music which maliciously attacks all unsuspecting eardrums.

I spent the next day recovering and getting slapped by a Thai female prisoner. The Chiang Mai women’s prison has an awesome rehabilitation program. When the prisoners are to be released within 6 months they are taught the art of Thai massage. They are allowed to work in the prison gift shop and massage parlor, open to the public. The money from the massages is put into an account for the woman to have a financial foundation to start her new life when she is released. So, to support the cause, we went for massages, and I spent the hour wondering why she was there.

In case I contract some bizarre and exotic disease from being immersed in less than sanitary street water, I would like to leave my final will and testament:

Brother, you can have my position as the favorite child.
Mom, you can friend all my friends on facebook.
Dad, you can have all my money as payment for emotional damage caused by me comparing you to Phil Donahue in appearance.
Mandy, you can have my bike since yours got stolen off the streets in San Francisco.

Top Ten Things I Strongly Dislike

1. Satan
2. Throwing up
3. Osama Bin Laden
4. AIDS
5. Excessive Credit Card debt in America
6. Houston Potholes
7. Houston weather
8. Houston traffic
9. People who think they are invisible in their cars and pick their noses thinking nobody can see
10. The refusal to use DDT to get rid of malaria in Africa.

Around the House

Rwanda July 2007

Victoria

I am a domestic disaster.

She cooks three meals a day. She cleans and does laundry. No stove--ladies and gentlemen--she makes omelets and crepes on hot coals. Her name is Victoria, and she is the cook at our house in Butare. She is always creatively slicing the avocados, or making flowers out of the tomatoes, or cutting the papaya in the shape of a fish, complete with carved scales.

Last month, Victoria came into the kitchen in the morning, and said in French, “The whole world speaks English, and I learned French. I want you to teach me English.” So for a while, I practiced my French, and she practiced her English. We hit a minor setback when I discovered that in fact, she doesn’t quite speak French either. So for the last month, I have been the master of charades, and have redecorated the house with labels, including the butter and jelly jars. I managed to track down a list with some phrases in Kinyarwanda and English. When I went outside to go to work, it was such a treat to see Victoria in the sun practicing the word “Wednesday.”

We have had some victories to celebrate along the way. A few weeks ago, she wrote the entire grocery list in English. Last week, she said, “ I need money for the Market. I go to the Market this afternoon.” A few days ago, she asked when I was leaving Rwanda. Then she said, “You are American. I am Rwandaise.”

This was particularly encouraging, not only because she is making great progress in English, but because it also represents the progress of the country. Before, people would say I am Hutu. I am Tutsi. But now, there is only Rwandaise—yet another sign of the hope and healing that is happening here.

Matthew

Pants or no pants? That is the question.

The night guardian at our house is named Matthew. He lives in a small room attached to the bright blue gate that surrounds our house.

Every time we are greeted by Matthew at the gate after dark, we wager on whether or not he is wearing pants. I would say we get no pants about fifty percent of the time. One hundred percent of the time, we get a huge smile and a handshake, which has become a pleasant constant in our daily routine here. Last night, I offered him half of a cookie I was eating while he was in no pants phase. That was a new experience, giving a cookie to a man with no pants on.

Matthew is a key player in our next-door-choir, literally and figuratively. He plays the keyboard for the girls next door when they sing in the morning and at lunch.

I will admit that we had our doubts about Matthew as a night guardian. He wears no pants. He smiles a lot. He plays the piano. And he is supposed to protect us in the night from doom and destruction?

Yes.

We just found out that Matthew was a child soldier in the Congo for years. He is only 26 now, and would like to go back to finish his secondary school. Knowing what Matthew has experienced, and the horrors he must have seen, gives me a greater appreciation for his infectious smile, though I still can’t figure out the no pants situation…

Lady for Sale: A Play

Thailand July 2008

The elevator ride to the 35th floor is an interesting stage for watching the acts and scenes that make up the Bangkok drama.

I am privy to the somewhat normal elevator actions of: the tourist with shopping bags in hand; the businessman on his way to breakfast; the resident who no longer feels the need to wear more than a robe on the way to the pool.

In Bangkok there is yet another scene, which I watched again last night.

Cast: Prostitute 1, 2&3, Fat Old US Businessman, Me

Curtains open:
Ground floor. Silence. Observation.

26th floor. Ding.

“He is fat,” she said.
“You are fat, she said,” she said.
Number three remains silent.

29th floor. Ding.

“Thank you,” he said as he patted his belly. Pause. “Did you have to work already today?”

Yes, in unison.

30th floor. Ding.

“Japanese?”

Yes.

34th floor.
Fat Old US Businessman exits the elevator with his three prostitutes, perhaps not older than 20 years of age and clad in denim shorts and pink glittery jackets, hanging on his arm like Christmas ornaments.

35th floor. Exit stage left.

Curtains close.

Please hold your applause.

Green Gift-Wrap

Thailand April 2008

My body has decided to be patriotic and remain on US time. I am such a great American.

I wouldn’t at all be surprised to find that my liver is actually shaped like a piece of apple pie, and that my heartbeat mimics the cymbal clash in the Star-Spangled Banner. I can’t wait to see how it behaves on 4th of July, but my first thought is that I will develop some sixth sense that will allow me to sleepwalk to the nearest authentic Mexican burrito.

That being said, it is nice to be outside the USA, where:
Tomatoes taste like fruit and aren’t ripeness imposters;
Coca-Cola Light tastes better because it has one calorie instead of zero;
Fresh flowers are seen as important, not frivolous;
BBC is more popular than CNN and botox is not a prime-time prerequisite;
I would have to be ambitious and proactive to find out how Britney Spears is scarring her children for life today.

As I sat at breakfast this morning, about 20 stories high, I noticed an unusually large number of sky-scrapers under construction. The buildings are all wrapped in bright green cloth. I have seen this before: In Europe, it seemed like almost every time I visited some world-famous church or monument, it seemed to be covered in a similar cloth: Closed for renovation/cleaning, etc. It was so frustrating, but at least they usually took the time and spent the money to screen-print a picture of the monument on the front of the cloth, so that if you take a picture in front of it from far away, you can still put the picture on facebook so everyone will know how cool and cultured you are.

Closed for renovation: This building is so old it is time to restore. Here we are certainly on the other end of the development spectrum, with new construction everywhere. The green cloth certainly stands out—perhaps an allegory for growth, or a subtle effort to send a message of environmental consciousness. My green rolling hills of California have been replaced with green towering gift-wrapped buildings, and I couldn’t be more thrilled.

Design

Thailand April 2008

I think the Thai must be very into design.

Not ergonomic design--mind you—but the trendy, contemporary, your butt will be sore after 8 seconds in this hard white plastic chair kind of design. The bookstore shelves are mostly filled with large glossy-paged books of branding and design.

The religion section of the bookstore hardly fills a column, and is the poster-child for diversity and tolerance. Unlike the US, you will not find rows and rows of “Christian Fiction” using some vague Bible verse to come up with a gas-station romance novel substitute that is just scandalous enough to keep bored church-ladies excited, but not quite racy enough to require repentance. Unlike France, you will not find the religion section filled with books about the merits of humanism.

No, it seems that design is the dominant doctrine.

Speaking of design, I have found a downfall with my 20th story breakfast vantage point. Though I am not incredibly familiar with architectural principles, I am pretty sure that buildings are not designed for the aesthetic viewing pleasure of helicopter pilots. A building is not meant to be enjoyed from the air.

In fact, from a financial standpoint, I am sure the rooftop design portion is the favorite part of project management.

“So, please tell me what kind of budget we are looking at for the roof.”

“Cheap. We will probably not even bother to match the color with the rest of the building, and we might just stick some HVAC units up there.”

“Excellent.”

“Would you consider putting some solar panels up there?”

“No. Let’s put them somewhere more visible, like the front lawn. We need the good press—We’ll consider it a marketing expense…”

To see this place in all of the dirty, gritty, raw, authentic busyness, I need to descend from the tower.

Instead of a Thousand Words

Rwanda Summer 2007


Blue
Karaba Coffee Cooperative
Huye Province, Rwanda
Blue is a complicated color because it can represent such a wide array of things: Despair, depression, royalty, a limitless sky, an endless horizon, grand prize, first place. Sometimes it is difficult to know what you are seeing. How shall we feel about this child? Is she an orphan, raising herself? Is she hungry? Will she ever go to school? Does she have AIDS?

Perhaps she lives with both parents. Perhaps they are poor but happy and healthy. Perhaps she will start primary school next year, and will grow up to be a teacher, or a member of the parliament.

Or perhaps…



Joy
Karaba Coffee Cooperative
Huye Province, Rwanda
These are the children of Karaba, one of the larger coffee cooperatives in the Southern Province of Rwanda. Despite hard circumstances, these children are still able to laugh and play. They are content with what they have, though for many, a plastic water bottle is the most valued possession. Many of them will grow up to be farmers, mothers and fathers. It is unlikely that any of them will have the chance to go to school, or to learn to read.


Art
Maraba Coffee Cooperative
Huye Province, Rwanda

Art is often the most visible manifestation of a culture. French Arcihtecture. Italian Paintings. British Literature. Texas BBQ—all art forms that give us an appreciation for those cultures. Unfortunately, when suffering and tragedy strikes, art is usually the first luxury to go. Though the arts in Rwanda have not fully recovered from a period characterized by genocide, somehow it can still be found—perhaps in fields and faces.



Eyes
Karaba Coffee Cooperative
Huye Province, Rwanda

These are the children of Karaba. What do their eyes tell you? I see a quiet, steady confidence. I see a playful curiosity. I see a hope for the future of Rwanda.


Barrier
Lake Tanganyika
Bujumbura, Burundi
In this picture, taken at Lake Tanganyika in Burundi, barbed wire coils separate the public beach from the private beach. This represents the dangerous barrier that lies between the haves and have-nots. Through education and hard work, some are able to crawl through the coils to the other side, but many will never have the chance.


Open Hands
Karaba Coffee Cooperative
Huye Province, Rwanda

In Rwanda, the open hand can mean several things. There is so much need-- so many that have been unable to recover from the horrors of the genocide-- and must open their hand to ask for help. There are others with open hands who, though they have little, reach out to give to others in need.


Reconciliation
Maraba Coffee Cooperative
Huye Province, Rwanda
Day after day, these women sort through the coffee beans, ensuring that only the best quality beans are selected for further processing. Often the women working at the coffee washing stations are genocide widows. Some are widows because their husbands were killed during the genocide. Some are widows because their husbands are in prison for doing the killing. Tremendous reconciliation is taking place as these women are helping each other through the trials of being a widow.

Community, Affluence and the Death Railway

Thailand September 2008

This weekend, I went for a ride on the Death Railroad on the Burma-Thailand border. With sheer cliffs on either side and sharp turns, it certainly earned the title. Though the ride certainly kept my mind on the possibility of death, the railroad was named because of the massive death toll during its construction. The railway extends between Bangkok, Thailand and Rangoon, Burma. It was built by Japan during WWII using prisoners of war. Due to the terrain and the working conditions, nearly 110,000 people died during construction.

When we first tried to get on the train in the regular section, there were people crammed inside from end to end. We couldn’t find standing room, the smell was launching a full scale attack on my olfactory system, and the heat was suffocating. So we made an executive decision to pay an extra $9 for the “Foreign Tourist Pass” to sit in a less crowded section.

Less crowded is an understatement. There were only two Thai locals sitting in front of us in the large boxcar. It was too expensive for the average Thai person to afford. This situation perfectly demonstrated the inverse relationship between community and affluence.



So often, our affluence leads us toward isolation, and separates us from human contact and community. Technology has a similar effect. You have your own car, so you don’t need to sit with strangers on the bus. Your apartment is equipped with a washer and dryer, so you’ll never see the same people every week at the Laundromat. You have wireless internet at your house, so you’ll never learn from eavesdropping on outspoken coffee drinkers at the internet café. You can afford your own apartment, so you won’t enjoy the company of a roommate.

None of these things are necessarily bad, though they do shield you from human contact. We NEED human contact—to learn from those who are different than ourselves, to develop patience, to remember that we are caught up in the human struggle, and most importantly, to remember that we are not alone.

Pedestrians in Berkeley= Clueless: A Poem

Pedestrians in Berkeley raise my levels of cortisol,
By jumping out in the street without looking at all.
I fight the urge to honk, gesture and curse,
But I just can’t imagine anything worse
Than crossing without looking both left and right
At all times of day and especially night.

I slam on my brakes and try to slow down.
I curse quietly at the people and town.
I hold my breath and count to ten,
Until my stress level goes down again

I appreciate their smarts and the size of their brains,
But when crossing the street, they drive me insane.

Dog Bless America

U.S. pet industry spending for 2009 is estimated at $45.4 Billion. BILLION.

That is higher than the GDP of Panama.. or Lebanon…

I have been stewing on this statistic for weeks, wondering how this could really be possible. Somehow this seems to represent all that is wrong with America—a point further emphasized by the recent invention of the Snuggie for Dogs.

How is it that Americans decided that dogs would be treated like children (designer clothes, elaborate day care centers, and becoming the central focus of the family) and that children would be treated like dogs(don’t tell me that you have never seen a parent in the airport or mall with their kid on a leash)?

I was getting my hair cut this weekend in preparation for a special trip because it looked like a chestnut-colored kitchen mop. Or a poodle with dredlocks.

My mom was with me, sporting her short curly locks, and the stylist mentioned that she could cut my mom’s hair as well.

“Thanks for offering, but she just got done with chemotherapy, and it is finally growing back. I think she wants to keep as much of it as she can.”

“Oh. I am so sorry. That must be so hard. I know how you feel, though. I just lost one of my children.”

“Oh how terrible! I am so sorry, truly.”

“Well, I am healing okay. She was the sweetest little Bishon…”

A bishon…

A BISHON. A DOG….

She compared losing a bishon to me losing my mother. I have never wanted to laugh so hard, but tried to maintain composure and give my condolences…

I wanted to simply say:
“In Vietnam, they EAT bishons.”

While it is generally agreed that pets may help decrease blood pressure, cholesterol levels and feelings of loneliness, perhaps we have gone too far. Dogs can also help us maintain our selfishness, and can isolate us from true community. It is easy to love a cute furry object that doesn’t speak and only needs to be given food from a bag and walked occaisionally, and who loves you no matter what. But we grow in our relationships with people--as difficult as they are-- and by learning to love them regardless of their faults.

Post-Olympic Duathlon in Beijing

China August 2008

Regardless of what any Olympic publicity campaign tells you, visiting China is not for the faint of heart. It is a contact sport.

I went to Beijing last week, and little did I know that I would be competing in two contact sporting events, and losing both of them.

Silk Market Sparring:

I went to the Silk Market after dinner one evening for a casual browse. Casual Browsing does not exist.

I tried on a jacket, and was quickly committed to purchase when the saleslady told me everything I could possibly want to hear in one continuous sentence: “Oooooooo lady you look so pretty and so young you have boyfriend I know because you so sexy and jacket make you most pretty lady in china.”

Sold—round one goes to the Chinese teenager.

The trying on of the fake designer jeans was a whole different story. I picked up a pair and asked if I could try on. They held up a sheet in the small stall for me to change behind, with shoppers parading by outside. I put the jeans on, and after ooooohs and aaaaaaahs from the saleslady and a hard slap on the rump, I began to change back into my other jeans. When I had my pants down, literally, she said, “Let’s talk price.” How can you bargain when you are standing in a crowded market sans pants at the mercy of the saleslady not to drop the sheet and expose you? The answer is, you cannot. The episode ended with a few more slaps of the bum, and her walking me by the wrist to get more money from the ATM so I could get shamelessly ripped off.

Round two goes to the Chinese teenager.

Great Wall 100-Meter Dash

The second contact sport was a dash to the entrance for the Great Wall of China. I was in line with my colleagues, admiring the scenery and people watching. Behind me was a beautiful older woman who looked a little bit like a turtle. I was shocked that a woman her age was going to hike it up the Great Wall, and started thinking I should drink more green tea. She was so lovely. I smiled at her. WRONG MOVE. Apparently, she took it as a sign of weakness, and the competition began. She proceeded to shove and push and elbow me, and stampeded right past me in line.

The match goes to Chinese grandma.

It is payback time, Grandma. I am posting your picture so that the whole world knows how feisty you are. I win.

Real Men of Genius

Thailand June 2008

Today we salute you, Mr. Thailand:
You with your 15-cent meat on a stick;
You with your efficient, clean, and air-conditioned public transportation system;
You with your lovely population who ages at 1/8 the rate of normal people;
You with your night bazaar supply and demand mismatch of fake Calvin Klein boxer briefs;
You with your produce section full of fruit that resembles a colony of alien babies;
You with your elephants in the middle of my sidewalk with bicycle reflectors on the tail.

Mr. Thailand, this 29-cent wine cooler is for you.

A Tribute to Thai service and Infidelity

Thailand May 2008

Dear Thailand,
Thank you very much for your superior concept of customer service. Daily I am impressed by how helpful and kind your members are. I am particularly moved by the service at Coffee Beans coffee shop on the SCB building ground floor.

On my first visit, I ordered a small non-fat cappuccino with one packet of equal, to-go. The next day I returned, and before I could even say hello, the woman behind the counter asked if I wanted the same drink as yesterday. Yes, indeed! After ONE visit, I achieved the much coveted and highly sought after status of REGULAR. I can come in and merely say, “The usual please.” In fact, I believe they actually start making it when they see me round the corner in my miserably uncomfortable shoes and knit sweater set.

In the United States, I worked for almost three years to achieve “regular” status, and I had to practically become a piece of furniture in the place to do so. Even then, due to the unreliability and high turnover of college-aged employees, I still had to verbally order my drink every time, causing much trepidation.

Thank you for producing and legally employing such remarkable people.

Forever Grateful,
Heavily Caffeinated Financial Analyst


Dear Cappuccino-Making Lady with Memory Like Elephant,

I do not have the words to express my sorrow to you, and my regret over my infidelity. I was going to tell you, and I’m so sorry you had to find out this way—caught in the act.

From this day forward, I promise to remain faithfully yours.

I hope we may never again cross paths in the parking lot, while I am holding a Starbucks cup in my hand.

Eternally Sorry,
Small Non-Fat Cappuccino One Equal To-Go

Corporautopsy

Thailand April 2008

When a surgeon makes his first incision on a man, he will likely find all the organs to be in the same place despite his nationality or locale.

Likewise, if we make an incision on The Man, we will find a similar inward homogeneity, regardless of physical location.

If we perform a corporautopsy and examine the innards of a corporation, there is surprisingly little difference between the nine-to-five in Thailand versus the USA. Cubicle creativity has been kept at a minimum worldwide, and an office is an office is an office. Therefore, adjusting to the new business climate has been relatively seamless.

As a result, I am left with little writing material. I have been reduced to pondering such deep and relevant questions as:
Who determines the algorithms for these elevators? That person must be brilliant and malicious. How do they know to go slower when I am in a hurry?

Looks like I will have to resort to scavenging for blogfodder while exploring on the weekends.

I did learn a few lessons in the office this week, which I wanted to share with you, in the spirit of “creating synergies, “ sharing best practices” and other MBA jargon:

When invited to go to lunch by your boss’s boss:
-Do not order sushi with large pieces and attempt to eat in one bite. You will be forced to swallow the piece whole when asked a question, and will wonder if you will need to have it surgically removed after the rendezvous.
-Minimize all references to This is Spinal Tap, a “rockumentary” about a fictitious aging rock band on tour filmed in 1984. Do not tell her you “want to take it to 11.” A more professional approach explaining your desire to work hard is appropriate.

YELLOW

Rwanda July 2007

Today I danced in a sea of yellow with an eighty year-old Dutchman.

Every morning, I wake up to the sound of singing from the house next door. Thirty voices singing in unison, and occasionally a uniform beat on a makeshift drum. It is a fantastic alarm clock.

Today I got to put faces with my next-door-choir.
Our neighbor Ernest runs a center for orphans and widows. The young girls learn dressmaking, and the widows weave baskets. We visited the center along with a few people from Holland who help support the program. After tea and cookies, we went to talk to the ladies who were making baskets. Ernest told me that most of them were infected with AIDS. I took pictures and told them they were beautiful. They were so grateful, and it dawned on me that perhaps they had never been told that they were lovely. Instead, they are ostracized, cast aside, shunned. I realized what a simple and easy gift it is to find value and admire beauty in another.

Next we ventured into the sewing room to meet the girls. Outfitted entirely in yellow, the girls work diligently while laughing and talking. They make school uniforms to sell. Once they make enough money from the uniforms, the center helps them buy their own sewing machine and teaches them basic business skills. Many of these girls are able to leave the center and support themselves completely.

We sat in the front of the room, and the girls sang and danced for us. The music was beautiful, and it was such a privilege to witness. Before we knew it, we were engulfed in the sea of yellow, dancing, clapping, and singing. My favorite part was watching the eighty-year-old Dutchman dancing hand in hand with these girls. I was briefly worried that the exertion would be too much, but he showed remarkable endurance.

One of my co-workers is responsible for researching Cassava plants. A few days ago, he came in with a hideous looking root about a foot-and-a half long. “This is the Cassava,” he said. “And do you know the name that we have for this root?” My first thought was: UGLY.

“Hope.”

That was such a humbling moment for me. What I see as an ugly root, these people call hope. This is a source of food and life for many of them. It is a symbol of wealth and security. I was so unappreciative because I have never had to worry about the next meal. These women with AIDS are so appreciative of a one-word complement, and these girls with no parents are able to laugh and sing and rejoice. I have much to learn from the people here about finding joy in all circumstances…

Che Guevara Sans Mustache

Thailand July 2008

Last weekend I rode motorcycles with my best friend around an island off the coast of Thailand. A typical right-brain literary explanation overloaded with adventuresome adjectives will not do this experience justice.
Nay, it cannot be accurately captured or portrayed in narrative form. And what mechanism do we typically use in the quest for accuracy and precision?

Mathematics.

Therefore, I present the following equation:

2(American Tourist) + 2( Motorbike) – 2(Helmet)
= _________________________________________
Monsoon [(Remote Thai Island)+ 2(2 day weekend)]

= Recipe for Death
= Helluva good time
= ∞ (utils of happiness)

PINK

Rwanda June 2007

On the eighth floor of the hospital, pink means: It’s a girl!
At the florist, pink means: I like you but not enough to commit.
On aisle nine at the grocery store pink means Pepto, and in the men’s clothing store, pink means: Yes, I am secure enough in my manhood to wear this.

In Rwanda, pink means prisoner.

Rwanda, the land of a thousand hills, is a small country nestled in east Africa. Though it is home to gorillas, volcanoes, rainforests, and some of the best coffee in the world, this is not what makes the country famous. In 1994, Rwanda was also home to one of the largest genocides in modern history, caused when the Hutu tribe sought to eliminate the Tutsi tribe. Over 800,000 people were massacred in a matter of months. The stories are horrific, and the scars of the genocide are still visible in everyday life thirteen years later.

The lush green landscape is occasionally interrupted by large groups of men dressed in pink prison uniforms, many of them guilty of genocide crimes. Behind them is a man in khaki with a gun. No handcuffs. No high fences with barbed-
wire coils at the top. The men in pink work in the fields, and can also be seen roaming the streets on occasion.

One of these windy roads dotted with pink ends at Murambi, a memorial to the genocide. The tour guide is an older man named Emmanuel, tall and worn. During the genocide, his wife and five children were slaughtered before his eyes, then he was shot. Emmanuel managed to make it to the top of a hill after he escaped, and watched in the coming weeks as the Hutus continued to massacre his people. He was one of four survivors from Murambi. He is the only one left today. Sixty thousand were killed.

Day after day, Emmanuel tells his story as he walks through the empty grounds of what was once a school. When he unlocks the first door, the light filters into the room, illuminating tables covered in oddly preserved bodies of the victims. There are probably a hundred people in the first room. The memorial is made up of twenty-four rooms. Twenty-four rooms filled with hundreds of these aging corpses.

He says he can never leave this place, because he knows that his wife and children are in that schoolroom turned mausoleum. Emmanuel has no family, and is shunned by the community for telling the truth about what happened at Murambi. When asked if he had found forgiveness, he replied, “ I am ready to forgive, but no one is asking for it.”

Conditional.

Ernest is also a genocide survivor. When the genocide swept through his village, he watched as most of his family was killed--everyone except his mother and sister. He later mentioned that his mother is still injured, and that she is HIV positive because of the genocide. This leaves little room for confusion about the brutality she must have faced.

Ernest fled to Burundi, where he joined a militia with the sole purpose of revenge. He was fifteen years old at the time. There he met a soldier who began to support him by paying his school fees, and providing for him financially. Ernest went all the way through secondary school, with the aid of this soldier. He decided that the strength to survive must be coming from God, and he became a Christian. He left the militia, and began to pray for the ability to forgive.

Over time, he began to forgive the Hutu tribe for what they had done to his family. Now he runs an organization that supports orphans, many of them Hutus. He teaches the women about the gospel, dressmaking, and basic business skills to help them become self-sufficient. The center pays the school fees of 83 children, and provides trauma counseling to genocide survivors.

He explained that there are two kinds of forgiveness for him. The first is to be able to forgive the Hutus for what they had done, to be able to pass them on the street, to regard them with love instead of hatred, and to help their children go to school.

The second kind of forgiveness is perhaps more complicated. Ernest is often called upon to testify against people in the community, and tell the horrific stories of what he witnessed at the weekly trials held for genocide crimes. Every week, he is forced to relive the tragedy, often from the witness stand. He says the second type of forgiveness is to merely tell the facts of what he saw, and not to seek revenge in the courts. It is so easy to accuse instead of to report, but he feels that his role as a Christian is to let God decide the fate of these people.

Ernest’s story is one of both tragedy and hope. When asked what enabled him to forgive, he quoted the Lord’s prayer: “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

Unconditional.

Both Ernest and Emmanuel experienced indescribable tragedy, but the outcome could not be more different. Let this be a reminder of the power of the unconditional love of Christ, the healing brought by forgiveness, and the destruction caused by its absence. When we choose to make our forgiveness conditional, it leads to bitterness that becomes like a schoolroom filled with rotting corpses.

We stack our hurts on tables to view daily, and to relive the tragedy. But when we choose to forgive, regardless of circumstance, Christ begins a healing process which allows us to move past our hurts to a life characterized by love.

a= ?

Texas April 2009

Our Expectations (E) can be set by many things, good and bad. Perhaps it is our expectations for our own performance or perfectionism, our family’s expectations of us, the expectations of our culture or our jobs, or of what is best for ourselves, our families, friends, and nation. Some of these expectations are up to you, and some are not. Some are reasonable, and some are not.



R= Reality. This differs significantly from our expectations in many ways, good and bad. Some of this reality is up to you—influenced by your own personal choices and decisions. Some is not.



The difference= a. What is a? This depends on you.

a= anxiety about the unknown.

= anger about dashed hopes or things working out differently than your plan.

= acceptance of things that are out of your control

= accusation when your values and decisions are not popular

= adjustment when you choose to make the best of what you have

= apologies when you make poor choices

= avoidance of the things that keep you at your best or worst.

a= …



So how do we determine a? That part is up to you. Perhaps it is allowing ourselves to develop community that helps us see when our a is negative. Perhaps it is taking the time to forge out our values and beliefs. Perhaps it is listening to people who are completely different than us, and evaluating our own priorities. Regardless, today our a is acceptance, and we are making plans to deal with the unexpected news in the best way possible.

COUNTENANCE

Rwanda June 2007

Due to an unexpected and sudden change of events, I was having a bit of a discouraging day last week. I am sure that my posture made that quite apparent to the people I passed on the road on the way to work in the sleepy town of Butare, Rwanda. I looked off to my left down a dirt road, and saw a young girl who looked to be about eight (which probably means she is 11 or 12). She took off running in a dead sprint directly towards me. She came to a halt right in front of me, giggled, and said, "hellohowareyou." We chatted for a minute, and she kept giggling. When we had exhausted her English and my French, she ran away again. I continued my walk to the office, and a few minutes later, heard the pitter-patter of her tiny little feet. She grabbed my hand and put a small bouquet of little pink flowers in it, giggled, and ran away without saying a word. I cannot tell you how much I needed that encouragement, and how her countenance made my day. I was so delighted to see her laughing and running and giggling.

That caused me to think about the way we carry ourselves. I think too often, I view my countenance as my own, and don't think much about the effect it might have on other people. But in reality, my countenance is the only contact I have with every person I see. We never know the condition of our passers-by, and I hope that we never underestimate what a tremendous gift our countenance can be.

UP

California December 2008

For the month of December, Ben was living in my apartment, as he had a podiatry rotation about 20 minutes away. It has been a fun brother-sister reunion, and I forgot how fun it is to spend time together, and how different our opinions of "messy" are.

Towards the end of our stay together, I had my birthday. In a grandiose display of brotherly affection, Ben lovingly took me on a 4 hour bike ride up a mountain in 40 degree weather to celebrate. As we slowly climbed 3000 feet with sweeping views of the San Fransisco bay as the backdrop, I pondered two things: how many pieces of birthday cake I was earning, and LIFE.

I wanted to share a few thoughts from the ride:
As we continued to climb the hill, it seemed to keep going UP. I was sure the summit was just around the corner, but as we rounded, we were only faced with more UP. Many many times, I thought, okay, we are are almost there. No more up. WRONG. There was an unbelievable amount of endless UP. As we were burdened with the UP and more UP, I very much longed for DOWN.

I kept thinking, the downhill will be worth it. Keep going, because you'll enjoy the downhill. After 3.5 hours of UP, we were nearing the summit. The end goal--at last! About 200 yards away from reaching the very top, we hit a roadblock. Ice. Snow. Covering the road. I didn't think it wise to ride across the ice and snow in my shorts with skinny tires and feet clipped in. Sounds like the recipe for death to me, so I stopped. After hours and hours hoping to reach the summit, we were stopped just short of reaching our goal. As we turned around to enjoy the much awaited downhill, almost simultaneously, the sun popped behind the clouds, and the temperature dropped quite a bit. With the wind going downhill, we quickly realized that this was going to be a miserable experience. We had to stop every 5-6 minutes to warm our hands so we could grip the brakes. I've never been so cold and miserable. The much anticipated down turned out to be disaster-- the worst part of the ride.

So what we learn from this experience?

Having expectations for the future during times of uncertainty is the recipe for disappointment. The ride would have been much more enjoyable if we had stopped trying to guess what was around the next corner, and would have just enjoyed the scenery and unknown. All seems uncertain for our family: Ben and Ashley are waiting to find out where he will be doing residency, the economy is teetering and we don't know what is next for Mom. We are learning to enjoy each day.


Not knowing what was ahead, at each turn I longed for DOWN. When life gets tough, it seems like there are times when surely, things couldn't get any more difficult. Then --KABLAM! Things get harder. During those times, I'm sure we all have the propensity to long for the downhill, when life feels easy. However, sometimes what we long for instead is no better. Instead of wishing things were different, we are trying to enjoy the uphill. Sometimes you think the uphill will be the worst, and the downhill will be better: not always. Savor where you are instead of longing for what is ahead.

When we unexpectedly hit the snow, we were thwarted from reaching the top: If you don't reach the summit, the uphill climb was not wasted. Even in times of challenge, pain and suffering, and UP-- the right and left still hold beautiful views. Even if the outcome isn't what we want, the journey still has intrinsic value.

Imprismed in Bangladesh

Bangladesh June 2008

We learn in elementary school that white light is the convergence of all the colors in a prism, and black is the absence of color. Though when mixing paint in art class, this lesson does not apply. The principle does hold true however, in Dhaka, the capital city of Bangladesh.

Dhaka is a white city. A skyline of whitewashed concrete buildings with white mosques. That white is not an absence of color, but a convergence of all colors.

Inside the walls of the white concrete buildings built with bamboo scaffolding, you will find a whirlwind of brightly colored textiles sewn by the hands of young women in the sweatshops whose babies are taken at the door and used to beg at the traffic circles.

Colors. The things that make life real, and lovely and painful, and human.

The purple of dignity and royalty and abuse.
The red of pain and suffering and school uniforms and romance.
The yellow of sickness and celebration and curries and graduation tassels.
The green of life and health and agriculture and rickshaw covers and envy.
The blue of loyalty and water and it’s a boy and political campaign signs.
The orange of jumping in damp autumn leaves and beetle nut juice that stains the sidewalks, and women riding in rickshaws with jewel-studded shawls, and the pounding relentless heat.

I travel in black.

We drive through the streets of Dhaka in a leather-seated black SUV: Air conditioned protection from the heinous heat index, and isolation from the noise except for the tap-tap-tap on the window by the woman yelling for food with only her skin and bones and infant.

Black. The absence of the colors that make life real, and lovely and painful, and human.

No touching, and no personal questions, please. No laughter at the wrong times, and for heaven’s sake, have some diplomacy—this honesty is not welcome. Black pants and black suits and briefcases and laptops and black Mont Blanc pens. Most importantly, a neatly organized black file cabinet in which to store all items of color—out of sight, door closed—not to be removed between the hours of nine and five.

Though describing something as “black and white” is typically an indicator of clarity, there is nothing clear about being a have in the have-not black and white city of Dhaka.

May we be mechanisms of grey.