It Doesn't Matter; You Won't Understand

“It doesn’t matter…he won’t understand.” Wise words from a student during one of my last weeks of classes. Maybe tragic, defeatist, hopeless words…but wise nonetheless.

My English class was having a discussion about some aspect of marriage…comparing marriage customs or norms between cultures, I think. Then the topic of gay marriage came up.

When this topic comes up in my classes, I am usually extra attentive, due to my own curiosity about where people are at on this issue as well as an awareness that I need to be prepared to re-direct and protect, diplomatically navigating through a very thorny subject.

Some of you may know my stance on the matter, reflected in my recent signing of the OneGeorgeFox letter. Briefly, I’m probably barely liberal on the issue for being a twenty-something Pacific Northwesterner, and much more liberal for someone who believes in things like the Holy Spirit and that Jesus was resurrected from the dead.

More forthright: I support gay marriage and don’t believe same-sex attraction is something of which one need repent. While I'm still learning about these things and how they all fit in God’s plans for humankind, I do sense that God prefers two gay people in love to commit to one another in lifelong fidelity rather than pursue some kind of reparative therapy, or suffer in isolation and shame, or live the harmful and soul-destroying life of promiscuity that can occur when you tell people they “can’t have” marriage because “it’s ours.”

I also don’t believe such a stance makes me unbiblical or shows my submission to the ways and whims of “the world” (as those on my side of the issue are often accused of being). My Christ-centered faith has led me to this conclusion. My relationship with God, with Jesus, with the Bible, and with people—real people, not just faceless, nameless statistics—has led me to this conclusion.

I’m comfortable with some disagreement with my beliefs; I’m a little uncomfortable with the assumption that those like me have abandoned Jesus, holiness, commitment to Truth, or are flaky, changeable, and people-pleasing rather than rooted and faithful.

That probably sounds defensive, doesn’t it? I’ll work on repenting of that. Maintaining a peaceful spirit is important to me, especially when it comes to matters such as this.

But back to the point of my post. Two of my students were arguing over this issue, a male and a female. The male was adamant about the wrongness of gay marriage, I think probably citing religion, its diversion from what is natural, and maybe just, to put it crudely—“grossness."

And by "grossness" I mean that visceral reaction I think many feel toward homosexuality that is often at the root of their rejection of it—not simply what is right or wrong, but deep-rooted prejudices, maybe influenced by years of thinking about the issue in one particular way, an opposition that often looks more like repulsion, maybe like what you feel when you contemplate eating a food you really don’t like.

After a few minutes of discussion, the girl—arguing for gay marriage, just looked up at me and shrugged her shoulders, saying something like “there’s no point, it doesn’t matter…he won’t understand.”

“He won’t understand.” “Won’t” here sounds like a prediction based on evidence, a perfectly suitable modal verb for this context. But “can’t” may have also captured her meaning, a word choice that would have reflected her feelings that it wasn’t just unwillingness on the part of her partner, but incapability. The idea he argued against was too foreign, too apparently false to even consider, even if to her it seemed credible, reasonable, compassionate, and right.

I’ve been teaching English long enough and the topic of gay marriage has come up frequently enough for me to notice a couple very general trends. For one, my female students are overwhelmingly more supportive of gay marriage than my male students. That means something.

I’ve also noticed that religious conviction is an oft-cited reason for rejecting gay marriage, whether my students are Christian or Muslim or other…but that where religion is absent from the lives of students, they find other reasons outside of religion to dislike gay marriage. That probably also means something.

When I have these discussions in class, my primary goal as an English teacher is English practice—learning how to articulate a point of view, respond to another’s, push back, challenge, affirm, etc, with the appropriate language.

But when I bring up complicated issues, I also know that I’m using my role as teacher to encourage thoughtfulness, reflection, consideration of one’s own opinions, feelings, biases, and a willingness to have one’s views challenged, maybe even come to embrace another’s views as one’s own, if they are good, beautiful, or true in some way.

But sometimes it’s just hard to hear another person, to really see the coherency or beauty or credibility of what they’re suggesting. We’re so entrenched in our views that it’s hard to imagine changing them without feeling like we’ve abandoned the right path, the way, the truth.

Talking about gay marriage is not like telling a friend, “this is a good movie, I know it looks bad, but you should see it” and having that friend respond with “well, I trust you, and I guess it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try…okay then…I am now willing to see it whereas before I was not!” People don’t usually change their stance so abruptly.

In my regular perusal of websites, blogs, news articles, and Facebook threads, I see lots of argument, sometimes very heated, about gay marriage. And I rarely see anyone in one of these threads or articles admitting a change happening right then and there. They may have changed their views in the past, but mostly people are just trying to correct one another, prove others wrong and themselves right, and fight for “Truth” as they understand it. People on both sides of the issue.

I’ve come to realize that, despite my changing convictions on this issue, it is going to be rare that a well-crafted argument wins someone over to my side. Barack Obama recently came out in support of gay marriage, saying his views have “evolved” over time. And then some people seemed really critical of the fact that his views would change, as if that’s not a very normal, human thing.

But evolution of perspective seems like a very natural thing, to me. People do change, but most naturally this takes a long time. People need space, and time. People don’t seem to like to be pushed before they're ready. At least I don’t, I think. Nor does my wife (chuckle, chuckle).

I don’t really know if Obama was sincere about his journey, or if his actions were more politically-motivated. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt, even if that draws accusations of naivety. But I get the process. Just like in nature, where change and movement happens slower than a snail’s pace (unless you’re a snail), people need time to process new ideas and challenges to their ways of thinking.

But it sure seems hopeless at times. Like my student, who realized her partner wasn’t really “hearing” her because he wouldn’t (or couldn’t), I realize it requires an enormous amount of patience with others when you feel convicted about something and hope others will one day share your convictions.

On this particular issue, all I feel I can do is endure in my convictions, continue to reflect, listen, and study, and let my “light” shine, persuading others not primarily with well-prepared arguments and pleas but with a life and heart that are continually being made more holy, more love-filled, and more obviously in relationship with and inspired by the God of Jesus—the God of Love, the God of Justice, the God of Peace.

My words here are not primarily about one issue, even though I’ve used the topic of gay marriage to explore this topic of “understanding.” But the larger questions I ask myself and end with are:

• Am I capable of deeply understanding different points of view than my own?
• Can I learn from others with openness while avoiding defensiveness?
• Do I respect that others who I might hope will one day see things as I do need time...and that it may even be rude and disrespectful toward their process and journey to be overly pushy in expectancy of quick change?
• And, how well do I balance the rootedness and firmness that I think Paul encourages via warning in Eph 4:14 (“We must no longer be children, tossed to and fro and blown about by every wind of doctrine, by people’s trickery, by their craftiness in deceitful scheming.”) with the openness Jesus wished for his hearers but did not always see, as I think is addressed in Mark 6:52 (“…for they did not understand about the loaves, but their hearts were hardened.”)

It is good to be rooted. But maybe it is also important to put down the right kind of roots. I think humility demands as much. Truth may not change, but humans do…we learn and un-learn, discover and rediscover, grow and mature, possess illusions and experience disillusionment, are broken and repaired.

Playfully put: roots and readiness make a dashing couple. J

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I’m not totally sure of its precise significance to this conversation, but Jesus’ “pow-wow” with his disciples after one of his famous parables in which he references Isaiah’s words seems relevant: Mark 4:9-12   ⁹ And he said, "Let anyone with ears to hear listen!"  ¹⁰ When he was alone, those who were around him along with the twelve asked him about the parables.  ¹¹ And he said to them, "To you has been given the secret of the kingdom of God, but for those outside, everything comes in parables;  ¹² in order that 'they may indeed look, but not perceive, and may indeed listen, but not understand; so that they may not turn again and be forgiven.'"

Goodbye EF "Seattle" (Says Matt With Air Quotes)

My organization’s Olympia school markets itself as “EF Seattle” because of the more recognizable and alluring name for potential students from afar. This has been the basis of an ongoing joke in my classes over these last two years, in which I mock yet sympathize with my students’ plight.

Many of them become annoyed a few days after arrival when they realize their school is not really all that close to Seattle. Some usually get annoyed by the rain too. But then most of them make great friendships and, in the end, get over it.

So, haha, students reading this blog…one final jab. J

To all my students over the last two years, I write to say thank you. This is a blog post for you.

As those of you who are currently at our school already know (and for those of you who’ve come and gone since I started here in September 2010 who don't), today was my last day of classes.

I’ll be spending the rest of the summer giving most of my attention to my wife and newborn daughter, before moving in mid-August to start a PhD program at the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley, California.

And I wanted to take a moment to say thank you to you all. It’s the nature of EF that there is a lot of turnover here, and so I’ve met and quickly said goodbye to a lot of people in the last two years. But I have not forgotten you.

No, I remember you all very fondly. My first “cohort” that included Almabrok, Ana, and Ewelina. Then Suhail, Aimen, and Marcia. Manon, Sergio, and Oh. Bo Ram, Sam, and Andres. Anna, Santi, and Roy. Mohammed, Motoko, and Chase. And all of the rest of you from General English and SPIN classes who I’ve omitted here for the sake of brevity…not because you aren’t important to me. J

Thank you. You’ve all been a part of my story, and have played a role in my own formation as a teacher and as a person—some of you due to being excellent students and great representatives of your countries, and some of you, for, well, being students who challenged my patience and self-control and poise and graciousness...I'm thankful for you too. J

Thank you for helping me grow as a teacher. I’ve gained a lot of knowledge, skill and confidence when it comes to teaching both English as well as teaching in general.

Thank you for your willingness, especially you advanced students, to engage some challenging topics and have your opinions challenged and worldview expanded by one another.

Thank you for laughing at my jokes, which certainly feeds my ego but also makes the classroom much more fun.

Thank you for your praise, attentiveness, kindness, responsiveness, and thoughtfulness.

Thanks for playing Arthur’s favorite game—and doing it with such enthusiasm and excellence, once you got over your initial groaning. J

Thank you for expanding my own understanding of your respective cultures—for challenging my stereotypes and for enriching my life by exposing me to that beauty that is inherent to plurality and diversity and uniqueness.

Thank you for letting me challenge you in ways outside of English alone by letting me push back on your opinions and give you new ways to think about things.

Thanks for helping me grow in character. My goals in meeting with you every weekday extended beyond language instruction; I sought to model excellent character, seeking to display virtues like compassion, restraint, humility, tact, justice, patience, and flexibility, among others. I sought to show you what you might call respect, devotion, sacrifice...or maybe you'd just call it what I call it: love.

You’ve helped me grow in love and in all of these others areas, for sure, and I hope that I’ve at least in some small way made your life better by "living well" in your midst. Please forgive me for the ways I’ve failed and done you more harm than good.

Thanks for the great memories. As I said to my students today, I’ve just gotten used to goodbyes and accept them as inevitable. They make me sad, but I’m at peace with them. At least there’s Facebook; that’s actually quite comforting.

But there’s always hope, and I am one who hopes deeply, about and for many things. So…I hope our paths cross again—all of you, those with sunny dispositions eager to soak up new insights from our classes and those who I kicked out of class for being “naughty”, as we might say of a child.  J 

I hope we meet again…in this life or the next. It’s a hope not based in wishful thinking alone, I don't think, but in anticipation of what I think the future really does hold for us all.

It Takes a Lot to Make Me Cry

It takes a lot to make me cry. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve cried in the last 15 years. Four. A total of four times.

I don’t feel like "stoic," "heartless," "cold," "devoid of emotion," "shallow," "indifferent," or "numb" are really fair descriptors of me—words that might be associated with a non-crier. For whatever reason, the way I process situations doesn't usually involve tears.

Though to correct myself, I guess I do cry quite frequently, but not because of sorrow, stress, anguish, frustration, heartbreak, etc. It doesn’t take much to get me to laugh until my face is tear-soaked.

In fact, I just cried a few days ago from laughter. I’m not sure the humor of this really translates outside of Joann and I (that is to say, perhaps you had to be there), but in response to the question posed by Joann: “Did you meet your Dad at home or at the service center today?” I responded quickly and instinctively by saying, “Mug.” Actually, it was more drawn out like, “Mmmuuuuuhhhhgg.”

Why? I was thinking about how I’d just given my dad a “Grandpa mug” for Father’s Day when Joann was asking the question, and out came this nonsensical utterance. LOL. I’m laughing yet again as I write this, much like Joann and I erupt in laughter every time one of us brings this up. So yeah…maybe you had to be there. J

Anyway, I remember fairly well why I cried in each of these four instances. The first was when I was 15, a freshman in high school. My mom pulled me away from a school function and took me to a park, then proceeded to tell me that my childhood best friend had just killed himself. Unable to cope with his depression any longer, he jumped off of a bridge.

I not only wept tears of sadness, hurt by the permanent absence of my friend, but probably tears of shock and confusion. I had no clue at the time (though it made some sense in retrospect) that he struggled with such things, and had never experienced something so horrifying and confounding. No more heartbreaking news than this have I ever been given.

The second time I cried must have been later that year, when I was 15 or 16…and is kind of embarrassing. I’m tempted to omit it. These were pouty tears, an expression of frustration and disappointment. I was essentially grounded for staying out too late one night without informing my parents. This grounding prevented me from hanging out with friends the next night, a night I was really looking forward to. I believe it was my annual tradition of launching water balloons at trick-or-treaters…that’s what Brad, my accomplice, tells me. So I cried and pouted. Poor teenage me. So naughty.

The third time I cried was more reasonable than the second, though I do feel slightly conflicted and cynical about the cause of the tears now. I was 18, attending a Christian youth event at Memorial Coliseum in Portland. There were bands and a very dynamic speaker. I don’t remember the message precisely that the preacher delivered, but given that the event was called “Acquire the Fire”, it was likely intended to motivate young Christians to take our faith more seriously, live our faith more devoutly, with more passion, etc.

I was very moved, and went down toward the stage to pray in a spirit of surrender and determination. I was sincere, and I really do think it was a profound moment for me, even if I don’t remember precisely why anymore. I will admit that I’m a bit suspicious these days of Christian events geared toward “saving souls” and making more “passionate Christians” that are enthused and emotional but not necessarily actually better off or better for the world just because they're more enthused and emotional. Especially considering how manipulative those kinds of big events can feel.

Regardless of these reservations, I remember it being a powerful night. I was so moved that I wept, and stood with Brad (he’s been there a lot for me) for several minutes weeping in his arms, followed by uncontrollable laughter. Though the nature of my emotions that night are a bit foggy to me now, I was obviously moved. We jokingly referred to that experience as my “sloshed in the Spirit” moment.

Since that day, I hadn’t cried for over eleven years. That is, until two weeks ago.

Many who are reading this know the basic story by now. My wife, in her seventh month of pregnancy, began to show some strange symptoms, most of which we attempted to deal with through natural methods…rest, chiropractic treatment, supplements.

Things began to worsen...rising blood pressure, pain in her rib area, numbness in her arm and face, excessive bruising, vision spots. We suspected something called pre-eclampsia, but weren’t sure, and began to feel nervous by the ambiguity of our situation. We realized we needed to take more extreme measures, and so left Olympia a little over two weeks ago to check into a Vancouver hospital, planning to stay overnight to be observed and assessed by a doctor the next day. After taking some tests upon arrival and getting the results, the doctor came back and spoke chillingly and directly: “It’s not good.”

She explained that Joann had HELLP, which had led to a dangerously low platelet count, damaged liver and kidneys, and put her at serious risk for stroke, seizures, blindness, and even bleeding to death. Being that the only cure for HELLP is removing the baby, the doctor told us we needed to have a C-section immediately. Even as she spoke other doctors and nurses were swarming into the room, preparing Joann for surgery. As the doctor outlined the risks of both her condition and the surgery given her condition, she again emphasized that death—of Joann and of baby—was a real possibility.

As they prepared Joann, I made a few phone calls to her family, and then my own. As I spoke to my mother, trying to explain what was happening, I choked up, and was unable to get my words out. When I went back into Joann’s room, another wave came over me and tears came streaming down my face. I was scared. The urgency, the shock, the danger—it all overwhelmed me.

The thought of losing either wife or daughter—scared the sh** out of me and I just lost it. The tears did feel good, I guess…to get that release. And it was also good to know that Joann was secretly enjoying the moment, even though she hurt for me; she had never seen me cry and wished she could have caught some of my tears in a dixie cup as a souvenir.

And now here we are. Clara is healthy and growing, albeit with the help of doctors. But she's getting "A-pluses" from her doctors and is on the right track to eventually be released. Joann is rapidly recovering and feeling better and more like her old, pre-pregnancy self every day. Though it wasn't our plan, at least Joann's pain is gone, and the stress and fear of the unknown are gone, and our baby is safe. All three of us seem destined for a happy, healthy future. And while life in a hospital is not the optimal place to call home, it works for now. The personal pizzas in the cafeteria are good and reasonably priced.

I haven’t cried in the last two weeks, though I have felt some new emotions that I couldn’t really experience until two weeks ago. Daddy emotions. It doesn’t take much for Clara to move me. The best part of my day is “skin-to-skin” time where Clara and I just sit together. I talk to her, sing to her, make faces at her, but mostly just stare and smile. I helped make her. I will help grow her, nurture her. Protect her, care for her, advocate for her. Make her feel important, empowered, whole, loved.

My heart aches when I think of her and how much I just want to keep her safe, make her happy, instruct her in such a way that she finds the fullness of life that I feel today when I look at my wife—alive, recovering, smiling, with me and not away from me—and when I look at my daughter, and feel like this is the pinnacle of human existence: being with the ones I love so deeply that the thought of losing them can literally bring me to tears.

--

PS...I suspect more tears will come...I imagine I'll cry with Clara one day. Maybe when, as a teenager, she comes home in tears because some boy broke her heart (I'll kill him). Or maybe when in Jr High, some girls bully her (I'll kill them). Or maybe even sooner, when she falls off the playground slide (I'll kill the slide designer). Or even more immediately, maybe when a dog barks at her and scares her (yep...I'll kill the dog). I got your back, Clara. And I'll cry with you, if I can.

Then Everything Stops...

...and a lot of my life--ambitions, concerns, obligations, goals, interests--seems insignificant in comparison. I'm not sure I'd ever been as scared as I was for that hour or so early yesterday morning, nor so immersed in the present as I have been these past two days. I am grateful that my girls are alive, considering this reality seemed truly threatened. This is it, I think; this is as deep and true as life gets. I told Joann today that I feel primitive, thinking that this is what it might have felt like to be a hunter-gatherer: few ambitions and commitments other than health, survival, community and care.

Spring in Pictures

I’ve been rather silent here lately, feeling a lack of time and “space” to put up any kind of content. But it doesn’t mean I/we haven’t been having fun! Spring, according to my calendar, is nearly over; here are some glimpses (swiped from Joann’s FB page) into what we’ve been up to in this season of new life.

I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m crying. Joann made me laugh so hard I was crying and even having a little trouble breathing. That’s really all I’d better say in this venue. It was funny.

I blogged several weeks back about the Dragon Boat race preparation and implied some broader applications to the principles of effective dragon boat racing. You can see some of Joann’s extended family in the bottom shot, come to cheer us on, and one of the actual races in the top photo. That’s our team in the back—in last place. We raced three times against three competitors each race. We lost every race. Once we were way behind and caught up; another time we were in the lead, and then must have gotten overly giddy and lost focus, as we ended up in last. If winning is everything, then we did not experience “everything.” We did have fun.

Joann’s so good to me. She’s very tolerant of my obsessive Mariners fandom. I don’t usually watch the games, though we occasionally go to El Sarape to catch one (she usually brings something to craft or grade). I guess this is my game-watching face. I’m not sure what’s going through my head, or if I’m just kind of entranced, not really thinking about anything. If there was a thought bubble with this picture, it’d probably say something like: “Oh no…I’m simultaneously aware that we’re probably not going to score that runner from third, and that I forgot to ask for guacamole.”

 

And a real game! Thanks Mom, for a great birthday present. They lost. The weather was nice. I drank expensive beer.

Baby clothes and toys! Joann and I have an ongoing lighthearted feud about the value of acquiring baby clothes, especially so early. She, of course, feels it to be VERY important. Don’t worry, I know I’m wrong.

Our now-preferred branch of our favorite Olympia coffee, Batdorf and Bronson, next to the Farmer’s Market. And amazing, homemade oatmeal cookies Joann made later that day.

  

Out with the old, in with the used-but-new-to-us. My parents, concerned for us but more for the well-being of their coming grandchild, decided we needed a vehicle upgrade. We’re now driving an 03 Saturn Vue. It’s been a lot of fun…so many little conveniences that I didn’t know I was missing, including the ability to put down the back seat and take naps. We actually took our second car nap today, driving over to the marina and parking for an hour or so.

We continued (and likely concluded) a now two-year tradition of a Memorial Day trip to Ocean Shores. Here we are outside and inside the car, parked on the beach, likely waking up from our first nap in our new toy.

It’s official! I had been accepted a few months ago, but had to send this official document in as an “acceptance of my acceptance.” Been spending a lot of my free time apartment/rental house shopping in the bay area (heavily considering Alameda) and doing some preparatory reading to ready myself as much as possible for the program. My excitement for the move and life change has been a bit overshadowed by my emotions surrounding that other big life change happening…but…I’m ecstatic. It’s really a dream come true. Two dreams coming true. Actually…three dreams. My third dream is that pregnancy would end as soon as possible, so that my wife can return to some kind of normalcy. I’m sooooooo over pregnancy. J

My pregnant cutie.

My cutie again, doing something that she’s not as good as me at. Not to brag or anything.

I thought we’d miss them but we didn’t! My grandma’s lilacs were in full bloom during our last visit to Woodland, with their wonderful aroma and variety of colors. Joann made me do the muscle pose. I’m really not normally a muscle pose guy. I swear. I’m more of the frolic, jump-in-the-air type. Those bottom two shots were my creative choice. J

We did it…all six seasons of “Lost.” Started at the beginning of Spring, just finished a few days ago. Fun to take the “journey” again; definitely a different experience watching it all in about two months rather than six years.

So proud! Joann’s play—The Pirates of Penzance—was nominated for several awards by a Washington State awards program organized by a professional theater company (5th Avenue). More significantly, she herself was recognized with a nomination for best direction. Because, she’s awesome at what she does.

Some of my guests at the show—my mother, and a group of my English students on a “field trip.”

An early spring jaunt to Portland, down at the waterfront. I like this picture a lot.

Prom! We didn’t go to Tumwater’s prom; it came to us. Our early evening picnic at Capital Lake received a welcome interruption from a group of Joann’s theater students. We didn’t dress up, so…we…ate each other’s sandwiches.

My latest, favorite food discovery—Quinoa. Which I’ve been pronouncing like “Kee-oh-na” like an idiot. That’s not even a reasonable mispronunciation, given the letter order. It’s of course, “keen-wah.” And it’s one of the healthier things you can put in your body…and versatile!

And finally…tree-climbing. I whimsically climbed up the tree, enjoying a moment of nostalgia. Until I began to distrust both the tree and my flip-flops and proceeded to climb back down. I’m really intrigued by the way we perceive people and how that’s different from how we perceive ourselves. A co-worker today was shocked to discover how messy my desk was (WAS…I gave it a good tidying today and it now looks pristine) with papers unorganized and haphazardly stacked—it didn’t fit her polished image of me. I wonder how many people I know would feel a bit of cognitive dissonance at knowing I climb trees. Or, differently, who would feel the same in discovering I’m pursuing a PhD. Or that I love to cook. Or that my desk was so messy. Or that I support gay marriage. Or that I love baseball statistics. I guess it’s a fascinating thought—the possibility that every person who knows me has a slightly different picture of me, just as I perceive you, if I know you, differently from how others perceive you. I don’t know what it means…maybe nothing significant. I just find it interesting.

Watching Tides and Mourning Brevity

Growing up we used to make a two hour drive up north to stay at a cabin on Hood Canal (west Puget Sound) that belonged to some church friends. One of my most vivid memories of those visits was tide watching. With the help of a tide guide/booklet, I would take frequent jaunts down to the beach to see how much the water had risen. I made seeing high and low tides a priority.

The coming and going of the water fascinated me. And, I’ll confess, I’m proud of my youthful self for so deeply appreciating something like this. The rhythm, the predictability, the naturalness, the connection between moon and water…I don’t know what it was that primarily captivated me, but something did.

I was thinking about this memory today because the rhythm of tides—the water coming in, the water going out—is an image connected with some of my emotions stemming from the season I’m in. Given the impending transitions coming for Joann and I, I’ve entered that final phase where I really start to prepare for the end of an era—if just under two years can be considered an era—and reflect back upon it.

My grandma’s lilacs have already come and gone, I hear, and I wasn’t able to get home for a visit to see them this year. Also, as I took off my running shoes yesterday to find cherry blossoms stuck to the soles, I realized that as quickly as spring has come, some elements of this season are already passing away. Even the sun today reminds me that as quickly as such nice weather comes, so quickly will it leave, this time of year in the northwest.

As Joann and I watched her last show at Tumwater High School this past Saturday night, I was a bit baffled at how quickly two years can pass by. I think about our initial reason for moving to Olympia—to start a church—and how what once seemed a significant part of my story feels now more like a blip, a moment that certainly packed a punch in the way it shaped who I am today but which also now seems only brief event in my story.

I think about all of my international students. Over my 20+ months at EF, I’ve seen hundreds of students come and go. That’s the nature of our school, with some students staying a whole year and some only two or three weeks. Lots of turnover, lots of goodbyes. Lots of people walking into my life and then swiftly walking out of it.

I cope with it by telling them I’ll see them again someday, or that Facebook will be a source of contact; and I do kind of believe that I might see them, given my love of travel and the increasing smallness of the world and my relentless optimism that makes me tell myself little lies, from time to time.

Moreover, part of how I understand Christian hope is that it is a hope that I really do have all the time I could ever need to see those who walked the earth with me. Still…it’s a coping mechanism, a reflection of my grieving over the numerous goodbyes I have to say and have said to me.

And I always begin to think a similar thing at this point when the “tide” begins to shift and recede: have I savored this time? How much time did I spend thinking about what’s next? How much time did I spend not thriving but simply enduring? How lightly or even indifferently did I consider and feel toward the precious souls who blessed my life simply by their presence in it?

It makes me a bit anxious…though I want that pressure, I think. Part of living well, in my opinion, means taking as much of my life as possible as seriously as possible—seriously in the sense of gratitude, awareness, appreciation…not in the sense of being uptight or humorless. But when I get to the end of something, I start to feel that pressure—have I loved this part of my life? Am I aware of its richness, of the greatness of these opportunities, or did I miss it?

I got a little preachy last Thursday to a roomful of 200+ students at a lecture/presentation I gave, and told them the value of “ending well.” Sometimes students leave our school disappointed by something about their experience, and often go out with negative feelings, eager to be rid of “rainy, boring Olympia” or whatever their lament might be.

I strongly suggested to them that a much better way to live life is to end well—to be grateful for whatever it is that’s ending, not because it’s ending but because it contained beauty, goodness, people that mattered, experiences that shaped you, invaluable learned lessons. I suggested that ending well is an important ability that will increase your overall happiness in life.

I’m hoping to feel the same. To do the same. To end well. To be grateful for these memories, but not feel anxious about how quickly everything seems to have passed, nor feel regret that I didn’t do this or that “more” or “better.”

A lot of things come and go quickly. There’s a balance I want to embody: to enter in as deeply as possible to temporary, passing things, yet not anxiously try to hold on to something when its time has come to an end. To both celebrate and mourn the end. To realize that life is full of ends, yet also of beginnings.

I tend to think that after I die, none of the precious events of my life will be forgotten, and that whatever the afterlife looks like, I’ll be afforded the opportunity to be aware of and grateful for all that’s happened in my life. That makes me feel better about letting things go in this life, knowing that they are preserved and cannot be totally lost nor forgotten.

I pray I’d have the capacity to do what I’m talking about. To savor, to embrace the comings and goings without anxiety and self-doubt but instead with gratitude and peace. The virtues of various religious traditions, including my own, come to mind as potential tools: the “mindfulness” and “attentiveness” so valued in Buddhism; the “discipline” I see modeled so well by many of my Muslim students; the “tolerance” and “respect” for everyone and everything and the way of the universe so sought after in Hinduism; the joy, peace, and hope Christians seek after.

Much of life follows this same rhythm of tides: coming and going, ebb and flow, presence and absence. I suppose knowing this is half the battle of coping with a season such as this. The other half of the battle is actually handling this reality well—both mourning it and being at peace with it.

I’m a generally joyful person, contagiously so at times, I’m told. :) But in my heart, I grieve times like this, and must work through the melancholy induced by this very natural part of life.