Ending the Run-On Sentence

The past five years have been to and from and flights and car rides and new semesters and new places and new people and new jobs and since I was 18 life has been a perpetual run on sentence and I’ve never stopped.

How does one stop?

After I wrote these words at the beginning of last month, not knowing the answer to the question, I did the only thing I knew how to. 

I went.

I went in hardheaded intensity of trying to figure things out and drank a pot of coffee one morning and powered through crafting my CV and looking up to see that it was 4:00 p.m. and I had applied to 6 jobs and 2 hours later I had two interviews in Boston that would allow me to continue this run-on sentence that seemed to be going nowhere fast, and fast was the only thing that seemed to jive with my embedded sense of work and morality and it’s been something I’ve worked on since I spoke in church that Sunday morning when I was 18 about rest, and then proceeded to intensify the smallest thought or concern with anxiety of purpose and existential quandaries throughout the inside of the pinball machine of five young, heavy years (takes breath).

Yes, I went. Down to Boston. Down to the city that I had idealized as the only energizing, soul-lifting plot of land that I could possibly escape the depression of isolation that I had faced, but still respected enough to fear. Weeks before, I had lived a fairy-tale day in Boston with a friend. Sprawled out in a grassy park with just enough shade to make me chilly, she told stories of the community, accountability and friendship that was all wrapped up in Christ, a kind that I longed for.

So two weeks later I sat in a Starbucks in glasses and Mom’s grey pencil skirt, over an hour early to the interview and feeling kind of dowdy. I tried to enjoy my scone, despite the stomach pains, my faithful companions to any event more stressful than doing the dishes.

The first interview went well, I really liked the school, and Boston, was, well, Boston.

I got to feel the subtle rush of using the subway, which signified independence and memory, though of course it didn’t compare to Moscow. I observed an almost fight over some money or drugs that was filled with lots of expletives and made me wish I wasn’t alone. I had a guy my age drill me with a memorized speech to try to get me to donate money to Planned Parenthood. I ate Dunkin Donuts.

I had another interview the next day, a group interview in which I had to give a demo lesson. This one was less fun, of course, but I was able to at least give myself a solid B when I walked out.

And all throughout, I prayed for wisdom. 

And wisdom, He gave.

Though I couldn’t escape the intensity that is such a part of who I am, I felt peace. I think in the deepest place, I knew the answer before I boarded the bus, but this answer was confirmed in the voice of a beloved professor I got to visit and in the conversations with the girls I stayed with.

And the answer, for now, is Maine. I was offered the first job, and called in for a follow-up interview for the second. Financially, neither of them were the best choice, but that’s not why I’ve decided to stay put. I’ve decided to stay in Maine, because I’m finally surrendering to the truth that what I need most right now is a time to rest. 

I discovered that I’d been telling myself lies, preaching guilt-induced dogma that had no basis in the truth. I was telling myself that I had to abide by black and white rules I’d extracted from what the culture expects of me plus some twisted applications of Scripture, blind rules that didn’t take account of my unique situation. And there was also the doubt that God had the desire to meet my needs for rest and restoration of spirit.

I still have to fight the lies daily, even hourly, but I am becoming more at peace at where I will be in this next season of life. 23 doesn’t look like what I thought it would, but that’s okay. I have room to rest right now while still moving forward. In a few weeks, I’ll be starting online classes toward my MA in TESOL, I’ll be tutoring international students at UMaine, and even get to do some work at a local school that is close to my heart.

But above all, my number one goal in this season is to rest, to heal, to unlearn the patterns of anxious control, to learn how to be led.

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Your Tongue Will Get You All the Way to Kiev

Язык до Киева доведет. Your tongue will get you all the way to Kiev. My RD in Vladimir last summer shared this proverb with us to remind us of the power of using our voice. For many people, this little epigram is simple to carry out, but no matter how badly I desire boldness, assertiveness eludes me like the Roadrunner outruns Wile E. Coyote. It is embarrassing to admit, but despite my many times abroad, I cringe at the thought of approaching ticket counters. In reality, no one cares other than me if I make a fool of myself, but I still carry around the inflated image of scowling matrons and customs officers disgusted by the incompetence of stupid American girls. This image has stopped me many times from using my voice. On top of this my reticence to approach the ominous “other,” I rarely travel alone, so I have gotten into the bad habit of defaulting to the eagle-eyed directional skills of my friends.

When it comes to travel, I am a follower.

When it comes to travel, I am too timid.

Not wanting to impose upon the very people whose job it is to be imposed upon, I walk around terminals and train stations with unsure steps, hoping and praying that I actually board the right plane or train.

You’d think I would have learned by now that timidity in traveling is a vice that needs to be vigorously fought; after all, it was not asking questions that once landed me in the wrong airport without money or a phone. But still, no matter how badly I want to be assertive, no matter how many times I try to reframe the situation with psychological tricks, it still takes everything inside me to confidently state my question or concern to an unsmiling stranger. Add to this a language barrier, and the fear level spikes. I will never forget the adrenaline-filled trepidation that overwhelmed me as I approached the ticket counter to buy my first train ticket in Russia. Of course, it wasn’t as scary as I had imagined, but still, when I successfully bought the ticket to where I needed to go, I felt as victorious as if I had won a marathon, and almost as exhausted.

Now that I’m going to be doing extensive independent travel in my year abroad, I realize that putting so much emotional energy into such an everyday task will be exhausting. I’m going to need a lot more смелость (boldness) if I’m going to thrive in the rigors of the Russian travel system. So as a “warm-up,” I decided to take a trip down to Boston this week. It was my roommate from Gordon’s 22nd birthday, and I thought it would be fun to surprise her. All that stood between me and our reunion was a bus, a few subway rides, and a commuter rail. And I feel a little funny saying it, but I was scared. I was scared, but I couldn’t let that fear cripple me. I had to exercise my tongue. And as is often the case, things went much more smoothly than I had imagined in my worst-case scenario addicted brain. I almost got lost a few times, but I used my tongue when I needed to. And today, as I strode through the bustle of the Boston South Station, my steps were imbued with a purposeful bounce. The familiar traveling smells of coffee and cigarette smoke and city air brought back broad memories of trekking through Moscow and St. Petersburg, and at once I was confident, able, смелая. Язык до киева доведет; my tongue will get me all the way to Kiev, but first I had to let it get me as far as Boston.

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