The roaring 20s

I turn 30 tomorrow. (Cue a sharp intake of breath.) I can be calm this year because I had my freak out session last year when I turned 29. Still, this birthday feels momentous in some way. 

Let’s summarize my situation: I am unemployed, I live on student loans, I was closer to getting married at 19 than I am now, I’ve still not figured out where home is and I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up (I thought I did, but then I got confused when I started grad school).  

In short, I shouldn’t be turning 30. It’s irresponsible of me. However, I do have this to say for myself: I may look like I graduated from high school last spring, but I’ve had time to run around the proverbial block a few times. Here are six important life lessons my “roaring twenties” taught me:

1. I am a late bloomer. I’ve needed time to figure out what I think about things. I’ve needed time to figure out what I want. I’ve needed time to fight what I know is inevitable. Basically, I’ve needed time to figure out that everything my mother has ever said is annoyingly true. 

2. Life will never turn out the way I expect it to. Duh, right? But as with most obvious lessons, it’s taken me many years to learn this. Detours can be anxiety inducing. They can also be incredibly life giving. I choose which attitude to adopt. Also, a thankful attitude is really really helpful when you don’t know what the hell is going on.

3. It’s okay to be particular. I apply this principle in growing measure to every aspect of my life: boys, friends, jobs, food, hobbies, purchases, you fill in the blank. And I’m happier and more satisfied because of it. My theory is that when you are particular, you are less prone to make wasteful mistakes. 

4. Relationships are incredibly important. Another duh. But when I say they are important, don’t assume I mean all relationships. It’s easy to indiscriminately invest time in people who are only going to drain you. The older I get, the better I get at differentiating between those who will improve my life and those who won’t. I won’t ignore people, but I will not partake in their drama. You may call it antipathy; I call it relational triage. 

5. Do not grow weary in doing good. This is harder than it sounds. I don’t always like the world I live in, and when I say this I’m not referring to the big world crises that keep journalists buzzed. I mean the subtle attitudes and habits of people - our disgusting degree of consumerism, our quest for happiness in all the wrong places, our conformity to political correctness, our indecently corrupt political and financial systems, our entitled attitudes. The good guy rarely wins. The bottom line steers pretty much everything. I don’t wish to sound cynical, but the romantic idealist in me is feeling slightly deprived of oxygen. Despite this, the truth remains the same: It is always right to do the right thing. Good does win at the end of the story, but we haven’t gotten to the end yet. 

6. The advantages of handing over the reins of my life to my Creator cannot be overstated. The longer I live, the less I understand. The less I understand, the more I have to trust. Trust is not easy, but it is incredibly freeing. Every life plan I’ve ever made has veered into a pit stop and resulted in a change in direction. I’ve had to eat my “nevers.” But what I’ve gotten instead is an inner peace, a grateful heart, and a certainty that the best of life is still ahead of me. I don’t have to know everything. 

Back from Bosnia - Part 4

Put the Sarajevo Jazz Fest on your bucket list. Their slogan is “The best music is where you least expect it” and it proved truthful in every way.

I have been to Sarajevo five times now, the first four for work (see previous Back from Bosnia posts). I feel that with this fifth time I’ve finally put it to rest. The city is depressed and I would never want to live there (as Lina said at one point, this is the first time she’s not heard me say “Ooo I want to live there!” as I point to an apartment building in whatever city we’re visiting), but it is dear to my heart nonetheless. My love for this city goes far beyond strolling the streets and enjoying the sights. It’s tied up in the history of the place and the people I’ve met who call it home.

The point of this trip was to attend the Jazz Fest (which has been happening every November for 18 years). My friend Eldar is the stage manager (that feels awesome to say!) and he arranged for my friend Lina and I to stay at a friend’s mother’s friends’ empty apartment. We even got picked up from the airport in the VIP car that is used to shuttle the festival’s artists around. Incidentally, we arrived on the same flight as Håkon Kornstad, one of the artists we heard (we didn’t know this until we saw him on stage and realized we’d seen him in the passport line). I wonder what car he was picked up in….

Anyways, we’d bought tickets for three nights and each concert was better than the last. I can’t really transmit through words the tremendous music experience that it was. Suffice to say, if you love music it is well worth the trip at some point in your life. Friday night was Dianne Reeves. The woman has an incomprehensible range and vocal elasticity. There is nothing she can’t do. The concert was brilliant. You can get a taste of it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h6G7K1nIPxE

Saturday night was Håkon Kornstad, a Norwegian saxophone player turned opera tenor (no joke!) who also plays the flute with a clarinet mouthpiece (who knew?). With his trusty old loop machine, he became a one man band. Lina and I even got serenaded in Swedish when he sang a beautiful old folk tune Ack Värmland du sköna. And he was just the opener! The main attraction was Avishai Cohen Trio, three guys from Israel who play jazz like nobody’s business. The pianist was insane, the drummer (who shouldn’t even be called a drummer because it sounds so unsophisticated compared to what this guy did) was brilliant, and Avishai, the contrabassist, was genius. With all of the amazing stuff they did together, the highlight for me was when he sang an old Argentine ballad in Spanish and an old Hebrew song written by a young poet from Odessa in the late 1940s. His voice and expression were so sublimely melancholy. It profoundly touched me.

Sunday’s concert was Ibrahim Maalouf, a trumpet player from Lebanon/France. I’d never heard of the guy, but apparently he is pretty popular in Bosnia because the crowd cheered at the mention of certain songs. This guy is the whole package: a versatile and humorous musician, a charismatic showman, a strong band leader, and a seemingly unpretentious guy. Even though the music itself wasn't my favorite kind (although the bagpiper rocking out to a Led Zepplin tribute was pretty awesome), the full experience was one I am so glad to have witnessed. It was more than music. He comes from a war-torn Beirut and he played in a war-torn Sarajevo. The full significance of the feelings transmitted through his playing is something I may never be able to fully grasp, but the audience around me did. It sounds so cliché, but music like that transcends time, history, conflict and pain. It’s all there in the notes, notes that don’t need words to be understood. In fact, words would just ruin it.

Ibrahim Maalouf

The drummer was an ongoing party

Of course we did more than just attend concerts. We slept till noon, ate our breakfasts on a “park” bench, strolled through the city, befriended a Bosnian tea shopkeeper named Hussein who spoke no English but did speak perfect Italian. He was a colorful character with his wavy long white-gray hair and ankle length black tunic. We ate some good food, saw a gallery exhibition with photographs from the genocide in Srebrenica and most importantly, spent some quality time at my favorite café of all time, The Goldfish.

The Goldfish café keeps bringing me back to Sarajevo. 

Reunited with my friend Eldar and made a new friend in Alfred (far left).

This may very well have been my last trip to Sarajevo. Or it may not have been. I don’t know. But I am certain that I’ve taken the very best of it with me.

Cultural Differences: Episode 2

I was out for a walk this afternoon to clear my head (I’ve been working on a final exam this week) and I noticed that traffic had backed up on the main road going into a roundabout, creating a long line of cars. Nothing unusual, except for one thing: there was a girl on a moped waiting in the traffic line, and I thought to myself, “Huh, that’s odd. Why doesn’t she just zip right past them?” Which led my train of thought to once again consider the cultural differences between Swedes, Spaniards and Americans:

The Swede’s attitude toward mopeds in traffic: Of course I should wait in line just like every other vehicle on the road. To do otherwise would be dangerous - and it would violate traffic laws.

The Spaniard’s attitude toward mopeds in traffic: I own the road, hombre! To wait in line just like every other vehicle on the road would be inconceivable, and who cares about traffic laws?

The American’s attitude toward mopeds in traffic: What kind of loser drives a moped? Gimme a friggin’ Escalade! 

The new (unplanned) diet

Much of Tuesday night and Wednesday morning of this week was spent in the ER trying to figure out the cause for the tremendous abdominal pain I’d been experiencing since Monday night. After much poking and prodding and waiting, I was told that I have an inflammation in my large intestine, a condition that is highly uncommon for a woman my age (I’m much too young). It’s even more perplexing since the most common cause (according to google) is a diet low in fiber and high in stress, something that does not describe my situation at all. In short, I am stumped.

But I am relieved to know that I’m not dying and that I don’t need to be operated on (because there was talk at first of it being early stages of appendicitis). The doctor told me go on a liquid diet for seven days, eat fiber packets for at least four weeks and then come in for a colonoscopy in six to eight weeks. Easy (albeit slightly uncomfortable) plan.

So. Yesterday afternoon found me browsing the grocery aisles for soup, juice and yogurt. Shouldn’t have been hard, right? But the trick was to find these items sans chunks. As in no soups with vegetable and/or other chunks. No juices with pulp. No yogurts with bits of fruit. Still findable, but the choices became really limited. And boring.

Now I’m on day two of this unplanned liquid fast, and I am hungry. I’m feeling much better, but now instead of being distracted by pain, I’m distracted by my grumbling tummy. I feel like I’ve lost the joy of living. If I can’t look forward to the next good meal, WHAT ELSE is there to look forward to in this life???? (Obviously I’m being dramatic.) But it’s making me realize how much I take the joy of eating for granted.

Eating is not something we do just to survive. Eating is something we do together, in relationship, because it’s FUN. Sure, for us single people who live alone, eating is often done in silence and solitude. But those times we do get to share a meal with a group of people, there is so much more involved than just eating. It’s fellowship, it’s community, it’s a celebration. When you are not allowed to partake in this ritual for whatever reason, it’s kind of depressing. Colors turn to gray scale. All you want to do is heave a sigh and mutter “Bah! Humbug!” (at least I do). 

Unexpectedly, I feel that I am developing a greater empathy for those who suffer from food allergies or other conditions that prohibit them from experiencing the full enjoyable spectrum of food. I know several people with such allergies and I’ve not dedicated the issue more thought beyond the occasional “sucks to be them.” My diet will only last a week. Theirs may last a lifetime.

So, on behalf of all my previous insensitivity, I apologize and I empathize with you. I never thought of how isolated it could make you feel. Kudos to you for putting up with people like me.

A contemplation on death, but mostly life

Jenna, the daughter of some dear family friends just died a few hours ago after battling stomach cancer for some time. She was 23.

I’m sitting here crying but I don’t know for exactly what reason. It’s tragic that a young woman with such a promising future should have it taken from her for no apparent reason. And I can only imagine what her family is going through at this moment. The loss, the grief, the questions. I would be a mess if it were my brother or one of my parents. A complete mess. But that’s not why I’m crying.

I suppose it’s natural when something like this hits close to home to spend more time than usual thinking about death, eternity, and the true reason for life on Earth. Hollywood has freely speculated on the concept of death and life after it, my favorite one being the film “Meet Joe Black.” I don’t consider its take on the concept to be realistic, but it comes close to asking the important questions.

So what are the important questions? I don’t have a definitive answer, but I have decided on what the two most important questions for me are: 1) Where does life begin and end? and 2) Is God really good all the time?

If you are unfamiliar with authentic Christianity, it may be hard to wrap your brain around what I’m about to say. But hear me out.

I don’t spend enough time thinking about Heaven. I know I’m going there when I die, I know it’s fantastic, and I know I’ll spend way more time there than I ever will here (on Earth). Still, I don’t think about it a ton. Why? I have no respectable answer to that question. Clearly I’m too focused on natural rather than spiritual reality.

I do however spend quite a bit of time thinking about my own death. It’s disconcerting for me to not know how or when I’m going to die. My dramatic mind thinks up a number of horrific ways I could go. I don’t want to die one of these violent deaths, but at the same time I can’t truly visualize myself dying a peaceful death at a ripe old age. I don’t know if it’s a legitimate premonition or just my own morbidness, but I’ve always thought I’d never make it past 50. You’d think that with this prospect I’d be one of those carpe diem people. But life is something I take for granted. All the time.

Please don’t feel depressed. I’m getting to the good stuff.

Life, eternal life, starts the moment you give your life to Jesus. And it never stops. It just keeps going. Death is merely a door. And Jesus has always been the point.

Also, God is good. All the time. I struggle with the fact that I don’t see powerful miracles happening. The Bible is full of documented healings and demonstrations of power, and since I absolutely believe that God is the same today, we should reasonably still be seeing the same class of miracles. (Note: There are miracles happening today, just not nearly as many in the Western world, the reason for which is a whole other issue and not one I will expound upon here).

But my point is that I, and Christian believers in general, often think about God in a completely erred light. To take the example of the miracle of resurrection, what if it wasn’t a matter of Jesus deciding to not allow this miracle to happen, no matter how much we prayed for it to? What if He gave the person standing at Heaven’s door the choice between returning to Earth with a restored physical body and staying in Heaven with Him? After tasting the splendor and majesty of Heaven, who wouldn’t choose the latter?

So really, when Jesus is the ultimate destination, you can’t not win. There were two options for Jenna: either the Lord would do a miracle and restore her completely from her sickness, or He would take her to be with Him for eternity. Either way, she’d win.

And I think that is why I’m crying. Because in the midst of the sadness, I am overwhelmed by and in awe of the goodness of Jesus. None of the events make sense in light of natural thinking.  None of them. But when I gaze upon who Jesus is and think about the true nature and purpose of life, the life that HE gave us, it’s impossible not to feel joy.

Today, Jenna won.

Woes of a grad student, part 2: When your inadequacy glares you in the face.

I’m generally a secure, self-confident person, not unusually prone to performance anxiety or people pleasing. But sometimes things happen that serve as uncomfortable reminders that it is so easy for me to base my self worth on how others gauge my abilities. I’m generally good at the things I do, and the things I’m not good at, I avoid. I don’t like looking like a fool and I take negative feedback personally. I do not have thick skin. And this bothers me. How can I expect to survive in the world of international politics when I don’t have thick skin?

                         

I’m in a Master’s program that combines the realms of political science, economics and global studies. I am absolutely in the right place at the right time; this is what I’ve been wanting to do since I had an epiphany in 2006. However, unlike my classmates, I don’t have any formal background in any of these areas. Which puts me in the slow lane as far as I’m concerned. I’m not a fan of being in the slow lane, but I’ve kept my head high about it.

Until I got my first failing grade on a paper. Granted, I knew full well that this particular essay was not my best work. In contrast to the first paper (which I aced, by the way), I wasn’t feeling inspired, I wasn’t finding an angle to attack it from, so I just wrote a mediocre essay, handed it in and hoped for the best.

Well, my prof was not having it. She gave me a “no pass,” told me my analysis was severely lacking, and now I have to rewrite it. Which is a good thing, really. I’m grateful for the second chance. I’m just feeling slightly discouraged and inadequate.

But actually, here’s what’s really going on: This particular professor is exposing my weaknesses, and I resent her for it. That’s not fair to her, because there are things I need to learn. This is why I went back to school - to learn what I do not already know. Unfortunately for me, this involves a great deal of pride swallowing. In this season of my life, I need to allow the limits of what my mind is capable of to be tested, and it is very uncomfortable to feel those limits in the flesh. 

Incidentally, this same morning I listened to a convicting podcast sermon about humility. I even had a nice little time with the Lord about it, asking Him to uproot any prideful attitude, to strip away my self-reliance, to help me embrace humility, etc etc. What perfect timing, as I was certainly made to embrace humility. But I can yield because I am loved by God. There is nothing I can do on my own and in my own strength that is going to impress anyone. I know the plans He has for me are epic. I know that I will someday hold a position of influence on an international scale. I’ve sensed this for years, but I do not for the life of me know how or what or when. I have nothing that qualifies me for such a destiny. Only the fact that God chose to plant a dream in my heart and bestow favor. 

So I am going to reject the temptation to grumble and I am going to rewrite this blasted paper, and it is going to be analytically brilliant.  

Woes of a grad student, part 1: No money.

Today I went on a reconnaissance trip to Gothenburg with a friend in order to locate the political science building that is to be my new second home for the next two years. And being from a small town where the shopping is limited, we also browsed the stores. To be accurate, I browsed and my friend bought. This was hard. 

Understand something: I love to shop. And I don’t buy crap. I like the things that I buy to be made of quality materials, which naturally ups the price tag. Since I’ve had a steady income for the last several years, this has not been a problem. My salary has been modest, but I’ve also led a relatively scaled-down, inexpensive existence (if one disregards all of the traveling). So I’ve been able to afford some of the finer things in life. 

Not anymore. Now I attend grad school. Now I’m living on student loans. Now, suddenly, I have no money to spend on anything other than the. Absolute. Necessities. 

Boring. SO boring. 

So today as we perused shoe stores, clothing stores, department stores, I felt the depressing reality set in. I can’t buy any of this. Having a “day on the town” will only be upsetting from now on. Not forever of course, but for what feels like a pretty long time. Ahhhh what have I done?