Last week, one of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott, was in town. The type of writing that I feel most comfortable and compelled to do sort of mirrors the type of nonfiction writing that she does. I don’t want to say that I want to write like Anne Lamott because then people will just say, “She wants to be the next Anne Lamott.” Not such a bad idea, but comparing yourself to someone else just means that if you are more like yourself than the person you’re comparing yourself to, you will have seemed to miss your mark. (Does that make sense?)

I like Anne Lamott’s short essay format that describes a situation in her life, with deeper meaning pulled out of the mundane. This is what goes on in my head all the time. I think that’s why I am so comfortable with solitude. I’m much more comfortable creating a monologue in my head than trying to make small talk with other people.

I didn’t make a point to get to Anne Lamott’s reading early or even on time, so I got stuck in the back of the crowd. A short person in the back of a standing-room only situation is never good. Keba showed up, and tried to find holes in the crowd where I might be able to see Anne’s head. On tiptoe in some spots, I could barely make out the roots of her dreads. “She looks just like she does in her books,” Keba said.

She read about 10 minutes of her latest novel, which I really had no interest in. I’m a much bigger fan of her nonfiction work. When she opened the floor up for her questions, I thought, “This is it! She’s going to inspire me with her advice on writing!” And then the questions came. From where I was standing, I couldn’t hear what was being asked, but I could pretty much guess what they were based on her answers. She gave advice to a parent of a toddler on how to stay in touch with her child when he/she became a teenager. To another parent, she said, “If you think something is wrong in your child’s life, something probably is.” *yawn*, I thought.

I was sorely disappointed. If I could have pressed my way to the front of the crowd (or better yet, dropped on a stretcher through the roof of Barnes & Nobles by caring friends), I would have asked her how she overcame the hurdle of baring her soul and not caring what other people thought of her. Honestly, that is what keeps me from being completely candid whenever I put anything down on paper (and online). “My parents don’t know this or that about me. What will they think?” “I know so and so reads this and would probably be offended if I wrote this.” I censor myself, knowing who reads my blog. I seriously care too much what people think of me, so I want to know how she does it. How can she be open with her thoughts and experiences without wondering if future encounters with friends and family will be awkward? Or it just that I think my friends and family are more judgmental than they really are?

Yesterday after a very fun and inspiring interview with my next blog interviewee (hopefully to be posted within the next week or so), I was hugely inspired to be more disciplined about writing (again). And, with perfect timing, I received an alert from the library that a book was waiting for me: Anne Lamott’s “Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life.” I’d read the book already but wanted to reread it.

During my lunch break today, I started rereading the book while walking around the parking lot. Just by reading her intro alone on how she became interested in writing, the urge to pick up and pen and jot down my thoughts was so strong. When she talked about how much she loved reading and writing, I grinned and wanted to cheer, “YES!! That’s me!!” But there I was, in the middle of the parking lot, with only 10 minutes left before I had to return to my cube to work. To write, nonetheless, but not for myself.

Maybe my words aren’t inspiring, but I can at least share with you some of Anne’s that have spoken to me:

Writing has so much to give, so much to teach, so many surprises. That thing you had to force yourself to do – the actual act of writing – turns out to be the best part. It’s like discovering that while you thought you needed the tea ceremony for the caffeine, what you really needed was the tea ceremony. The act of writing turns out to be its own reward.

…for some of us, books are as important as anything else on earth. What a miracle it is that out of these small, flat, rigid squares of paper unfolds world after world after world, worlds that sing to you, comfort and quiet or excite you. Books help us understand who we are and how we are to behave. They show us what community and friendship mean; they show us how to live and die. They are full of all the things that you don’t get in real life…And quality of attention: we may notice amazing details during the course of a day but we rarely let ourselves stop and really pay attention. An author makes you notice, makes you pay attention, and this is a great gift.

(BTW, pics from the flash mob and my parents’ weekend in Seattle are now up in my Picasa gallery!)

“You are always writing, writing in your notebook. You need to experience. Really experience.” I’m getting every word – “always writing…need to experience,” when the irony dawns on me. I stop writing and look up. I mumble something lame about old habits dying hard. (The Geography of Bliss, E. Weiner)

A few months ago when my friend, Susan, visited during her road trip from San Diego, we had a discussion about keeping a blog. As a photographer, Susan does a great job of sharing what’s going on in her life – not just with her photography business, but also moments that are special to her. I asked her if taking pictures (and the responsibility of posting them) ever got in the way of just experiencing life and enjoying the moment.

The reason I asked was because sometimes I find myself experiencing something and then thinking about what a great blog post it would make. I even find myself coming up with phrases with which to describe the scenario. I know it’s partly because I love writing and sharing experiences with others, but I began to wonder about the whole idea of blogging. I read about one blogger who put herself in new, sometimes awkward, situations simply to have something interesting to blog about. I guess you could describe it as living to blog.

I don’t think I’ve gone quite that far, and as I’ve thought about it more, I think I’m still on the safe side with my blogging habits. I think I feel the need to blog because I have stuff I want to share with others (especially since our family and many friends are not local), and I just love to document experiences – whether through the blog, my own personal paper journal, or through photos. I wrote in my journal the entire time we were in Hong Kong, and because of that, I haven’t felt the urge to “report” on our HK trip on here. The need to document the trip has already been satisfied.

On the flipside, I think there is a benefit to feeling this way. When I come up with phrases to describe scenarios, it makes me more aware of all the details. Today as Matt and I rode bikes along the Burke-Gilman trail, I made a point to take in the Christmas decorations on each house, the squawking birds filling up the branches above us, and the mountain range across the lake. Or when I take pictures, sometimes it does get in the way of enjoying the moment because I want to try to capture the perfect moment or the ideal lighting. But in doing so, I become more aware of the details that otherwise might get overlooked.

This year, I will strive to be more aware of the details…to slow down…to take more time for myself, for my personal projects, whatever they may be. A co-worker passed along a great phrase that has been running through my head since she shared it: Do less, savor more. When I try to do too much, life becomes about thinking ahead and preparing myself for what is to come, rather than enjoying the moment and savoring the details. She also said that people go through seasons – one season may be more outward focused, and the next season may be more inward focused – and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.

That’s what I want this year to be about, and hopefully, it will become a habit that continues in the years to come.

2009 already has been quite an exciting year. I played with dolphins in Mexico, ran my first half-marathon, and – on Sunday – finally went skydiving. Skydiving has been something I’ve wanted to do for many years now. Back in April, on our way up to Vancouver, Matt surprised me by stopping off at Skydive Snohomish for a jump for my birthday. Unfortunately, the clouds were too low, and we had to reschedule. About a month ago, we had to reschedule again because of low clouds. Finally, with no clouds in sight, and 85-degree weather in the forecast, we rescheduled yet again for this past Sunday. On Saturday night, the clouds rolled in and rained on a party in a co-worker’s backyard. I love rain and all, but this was one weekend when I wanted the clouds to stay far, far away.

As we drove up to Snohomish on Sunday, I was excited that it was finally going to happen! In the car, I had a LOT of gas, like I was letting out a fart every few minutes. I asked Matt if he remembered if he was already strapped to his instructor during the flight. My fear was that my instructor and I would be strapped together, and that he/she would feel me farting the entire way up. Or even worse, that all the passengers would smell me farting the whole way up. That would be horrible, but thankfully, a visit to the bathroom took care of that fear.

Once we arrived, I checked in and signed a multi-page contract that basically warned me that skydiving was dangerous, that I could get hurt or killed, that the employees were humans and could make errors, and that I wouldn’t sue should anything happen to me. As I was checking everything off, Matt walked in from parking the car, followed by my co-worker Paul (who lives near the airfield), his wife Rita, and another co-worker Jackie, who had eaten dinner with Paul and Rita. Together, we watched the “training video,” that walked us through the entire jump. When the video showed the jumpers hovering in the doorway of the plane, my palms got sweaty. After all, everyone who had skydived (skydove??) before had told me that that was the scariest part – being suspended outside of the plane, attached to your instructor, while waiting for them to let go.

Our class of six people went outside after watching the video to practice arching our backs (the position for freefall) and lifting up our legs (the position for landing). Some people got suited up with long-sleeved blue jumpers, and while I wanted to look like an official skydiver, I also heard that the temperature in the plane was 90 degrees (it really wasn’t). I was not about to sit in a plane for 20 minutes, completely covered, in 90-degree temps. No way. The air at 13,500 feet was supposedly 45 degrees, but I was willing to risk being a little cold. My philosophy is that it’s better to be cold than hot. So I decided to just jump in my tank top and pants that I had arrived in.

I met my instructor Luke, a young, enthusiastic guy who pumped me up even more. “I’m so glad you’re small,” he told me when we first met. “This is my last jump, and I’m tired.” The guy before me had been taller than he was and slightly larger, which took more effort on Luke’s part to maneuver. He checked my harness, adjusted a few things, and we got on the plane. I had chosen to go 2nd – I didn’t want to wait too long, but I also wanted to watch someone else go first.

We all filed into the plane, sitting between the legs of the person behind us. In my case, Luke sat behind me so that he could easily strap me onto his harness when the time came. The small plane had a transparent pull-down door that looked like a mini garage door. From where I sat, I could see the scenery get smaller and smaller below us. I saw a hazy view of Mt. Rainier, the Seattle skyline, the surrounding mountain ranges, and Lake Stevens.

As we climbed higher, Luke asked me several times how I was feeling. The plane was so loud so I mostly just yelled, “Great!” or “I’m excited!” and gave him the thumbs up. He told me that when we jumped out, I should hold onto my shoulder straps, with my back and head arched. When I felt him tap my arms, I would hold them out with a 90-degree bend in my elbows. Got it. It was almost time. Luke strapped me tightly to his harness. I could feel his chest expand every time he breathed, and I’m sure he could feel my attempts to inhale deeply through the secure straps.

It was weird to see the door to the airplane open. It just goes against everything I know to see the airplane door opening when we were not safely on the ground. The first jumper and his instructor edged forward to the door and were out without even pausing. Luke told me to scoot forward, and I must say, there is nothing like willingly moving yourself toward that open doorway. I said aloud, “Oh shnap,” which is a phrase I have never heard myself say until that moment. We had all been told to hook our legs over the doorway and touch the bottom of the plane with our feet. Yeah, right, like my legs are long enough to do that. I had barely gotten my legs over the doorway when I heard Luke yell, “Ready?!” and then we were off.

When we first jumped out, I felt that slight rollercoaster feeling, where your heart comes up to your throat, which I love. But a second later, I just felt like I was in a wind tunnel. We were falling at 120 miles per hour, so you can imagine the force of the wind. We had been told to scream, breathe through our teeth, or turn our head slightly to the side to help us breathe. I tried all three. Turning my head helped a little. Screaming was hard because the wind was so strong. All I could think was, “My mouth is REALLY dry!!” At one point, Luke grabbed my arms and sort of flailed them. Maybe I had been holding them too stiffly? Who knows. I had asked him to spin us around during the freefall, so I remember wondering when we were going to start spinning. My idea of spinning was that we’d be going at a dizzying speed that would really disorient me, but we never spun that fast. Turns out we were spinning the whole time, which explains why the scenery was changing every second. I felt so free – and not once did I feel scared or unsafe.

After about a minute, the rollercoaster feeling was back for a second or two as the parachute opened and we were yanked upward. And then the world slowed down around us. I swallowed hard a few times to unplug my ears. I kept repeating stuff like “This is SO MUCH FUN! This is amazing!!!” because I couldn’t think of any other words to describe my emotions, and because floating down on a parachute didn’t seem like the appropriate time to make small talk. There were fields of green below us, water off to the front, mountains to the side…but the view I remember the most was the sunset. I had deliberately scheduled myself for the last jump of the day because I wanted an unforgettable sunset. The sun was a perfectly round glowing orange ball, and its light was reflected off of a snaky body of water below it. Off in the distance were fluffy clouds that were tinted pinkish orange, you know, the color that clouds take on during sunset.

“So do you want to keep doing this, or do you want the crazy s—?” (censored for my young readers :)) Luke asked. “Let’s do the crazy stuff!!” I answered. He let me take control of the levers that were controlling the parachute and told me to pull down really hard on the right lever. That spun us around in tight circles to the right. When I pulled down on both levers, we stopped. I did the same on the left side. So much fun. Luke took the reins back and turned us back toward the sun. “One last look at the sunset…” he said, as we headed lower toward Harvey Airfield.

We were low enough where I could see Matt and the gang. They were standing up, waving and cheering, and I waved back. It was time to get my feet up for the landing, and before I knew it, we had landed smoothly. Luke unhooked me from him and I got up, watching as other skydivers landed around us. It was just an amazing sight to look up and see colorful specks in the sky.

When I got back to Matt and the gang, I said it was the most fun thing I’ve ever done. One of my co-worker’s first response was, “Even more fun than getting married?” I *knew* someone was going to say that as soon as the words were out of my mouth. For one thing, we’re talking about two completely different things. Marriage is a lifelong adventure and there are fun moments – but there are hard ones, too. But even then, the fun moments aren’t quite “skydiving-fun” moments. And the wedding day – well, having all our loved ones together was great, but being the center of attention and having to be “on” and social the entire day was more tiring than anything else. So my comment still stands – it was the most fun thing I’ve ever done!

I would love, love, love to do this again. When I left the skydiving place, I was given $10 off discount referral cards to give to friends. With each card that is turned in for a jump, $10 will also get credited toward my next jump. If there is no expiration date, I will continue to spread the word to try to get other people to jump – and hopefully one day, I can go again at no cost. :)

Click on the pic to see the rest of them!

I have posted pictures from our Mexico trip (in the Spring folder), as well as some summer adventures so far. I feel like I’m so behind, and it’s really nice to be able to finally feel caught up. It’s hard to believe July is almost over. Where did summer go? Aside from hiking in Montana at Glacier National Park, we haven’t gotten out for many hikes this summer. We have two camping trips planned in August (one at Olympic National Park and the other in our friends’ backyard), but usually, summer means more hiking and camping. This year, there seem to be many other things that we’ve been busy with, namely working in the backyard.

But the summer hasn’t been a complete loss. We spent the day out in the sun yesterday with our small group, riding the newly opened lightrail system, and just came back from a friends birthday BBQ and a walk around Greenlake. Today during our walk, Matt and I vowed to leave more time for getting out to do fun things we enjoy and exploring other neighborhoods in the city. It sort of feels like we get out a lot, but we’re not as deliberate about finding new things to do, it seems. We’d like to do more fun things on weeknights, too, while we still have long days. We seem to have a lot of meetings in the evenings, though, especially this month, but we’d like to figure out a way to pare down our schedule. Is it wishful thinking? I hope not.

We have had some great moments during the summer so far, though…and I’m not just talking about watching Harry Potter on Friday with my friend, Carolyn! I’ll save that for another post. :)

At the end of June, the same time we did the Rock N Roll, the Ips came to visit, and we had a good time with them. Usually when visitors come, our schedule becomes a whirlwind of visiting one place after another, and trying to figure out great restaurants to impress people with. But our family was really laid-back and low maintenance, having visited Seattle before. In fact, a large chunk of their time was spent in our house – and they didn’t seem to mind at all. Sarah had homework to do, Jon had movies to watch, and mom and dad kept themselves occupied. Mom and I even spent one evening plant shopping at Fred Meyer and later put together a hanging basket. They did get some sightseeing in, we went to the Museum of Flight, and we cooked a couple of meals at home together.

The weather was beautiful the whole time they were here, and at one point, I was amazed that they just wanted to stay inside on such a sunny day. Then I remembered that the weather is always like that where they’re from. In fact, mom was hoping for thunderstorms, which sadly, never showed. Overall, it was a treat to have them around, and I’m just incredibly appreciative that they were such easy-going guests to have.

The day after the Ips left, Matt and I headed out on a road trip to Montana. Our first stop was Missoula, where we stayed with my friend, Bobbie, and her parents. Bobbie and I met in the bathroom (“Are you one of the lunchtime knitters?” she asked me) at Canon, my first job in LA, and we’ve been friends ever since. The last time I saw her was Christmas 2007, when she celebrated the holiday with Matt’s family in LA. She moved up to Missoula a few months ago to live with her parents (who moved there a few years ago from Rancho Cucamonga, CA), and is looking for a job in Seattle.

We only had one night with Bobbie and her family, so as soon as we got there, the fun immediately began. Bobbie and her mom had spent all day preparing an amazing meal for us (probably enough to feed 10 people for several days). Bobbie’s dad whisked Matt away to check out his “man cave” downstairs, and to share stories of his outdoor adventures. Bobbie and her mom showed me their craft area(s), and I finally figured out where Bobbie gets all her creativity. Her mom is amazing…she has sketches of clothing patterns that she has created or plans to create, she has bags and bags of jewelry that she made, and she has folders full of caricatures that make her laugh.

Our visit with Bobbie’s family and with Missoula was short, but definitely left us excited about visiting them once again. Bobbie’s parents are avid outdoorspeople, so they promised us biking and hiking excursions if we visited again. Before we left Missoula, Matt and I tried out a homemade ice cream joint that was located in a cute area with a yarn shop, fabric shop and bookstore. I told Matt that if there was a boba place and a plant nursery nearby, I could live on that block and be happy.

We headed a few hours north to Whitefish where we met up with our friend/co-worker Emily, her husband Marc, and some of their friends who were all visiting Emily’s parents. They have a beautiful house on a large piece of open land. Missoula is more of a college town, where Whitefish has the small-town feel, especially as you go through the main street and everyone seems to know each other. Many of the residents have lived there all their lives, but you also get your seasonal residents who go up there to “get away” and enjoy the outdoor sports.

The trip was well-planned and organized, thanks to Emily’s meticulous planning efforts, and everyone was always up and ready before our designated departure time. I don’t think that has ever happened when I’ve been with a group of 20-somethings. And if they’re capoeiristas? Forget it! Anyway, our days were comfortably packed with activities that encompassed what Whitefish was all about. We took in a rodeo (because we needed to do “something redneck,” as Emily put it), did some short hikes in Glacier National Park (where a mountain goat almost charged at me), shot guns and fireworks in the backyard, went whitewater rafting (where we all screamed more from the cold water than the rapids), laughed over marshmallows expanding in the microwave, and played an intense guys vs. girls game of Catch Phrase. (Those last two probably aren’t characteristic of just Whitefish, but I had to include them.)

It’s 11:43 p.m. and I’m feeling incredibly tired from being outside nearly all weekend…and trip recaps already are difficult for me to write, so I’ll end this year. Hopefully the pictures will say it all.

Ten years ago today, I became a college graduate with a degree in journalism from San Francisco State University (Go Gators!). The night before, I stayed up late, making flowers out of Fimo clay to affix to the top of my graduation cap. Because of SFSU’s centennial anniversary, all the graduates were wearing purple caps and gowns (the guys must have loved that!). Now, mine stood out with bright pink, green and yellow flowers.

Under my gown, I wore a floral green dress that I bought from the kids section at Macy’s. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I wore a kids’ dress to my college grad, but heck, I still ocassionally buy clothes from the kids section of Gap or Old Navy – and I’m in my 30s. SFSU had about 5,000 grads that year, and everyone was graduating during the same ceremony, as opposed to being split off into different disciplines. Surprisingly, I was able to spot my family and friends in the stands.

The ceremony was a blur. I just remember the commencement speaker reminiscing about the incredibly slow elevator of the Humanities building. I, along with my fellow journalism majors and others who spent most of our time in that building, cheered in agreement. At the end, we didn’t even walk across a stage (as far as I can remember). I think we just walked up near the stage and got a rolled up piece of paper, as our name was called (and called very quickly!).

I recently looked at pictures of SFSU online, and I have to admit that my memory of the campus is not very strong. Maybe because I only lived there for two years, but also because I’ve just forgotten some things. The transfer dorm where Tami and I first lived is now a regular dorm, and a newer, snazzier building is available for transfer students. Even though I lived on campus for awhile, I didn’t take away any friendships from college except for Queencie, who I met during my last semester in capoeira. I already knew Tami from high school, and she and I mostly hung out. I never meshed that well with my roomies, so I never cared to keep in touch. I enjoyed going through my journalism classes with the same set of classmates, but never got to know any of them well enough to keep in touch with after graduation.

I remember being on the school newspaper and the magazine – and now looking back and seeing how bad I was as a newspaper writer when I first started. I signed up for archery with a pass/fail grade, and surprisingly failed the class because I was always blowing off the class and volunteering for last-minute newspaper assignments. I took two semesters of “Singing for Self-Expression,” and will always remember the Disney-themed performance that a group of us did, where another Chinese girl and I sang “Reflections.” We also handed out cupcakes to the other students while singing “Be Our Guest.”

Living on campus was an interesting experience, too. I expected the typical dorm experience where people just walked into each others’ rooms. But since we lived in apartment-type rooms, the doors were always closed and, well, they just didn’t stay open on their own. There were two guys down the hall that we got to know (I worked with one of them at Learningsmith), and we were always storming into each other’s rooms and shooting each other with water guns. I also remember meeting a sort of strange girl downstairs one time because she overheard me playing Smashing Pumpkins songs on the piano. Doing laundry was always a pain because you never knew if the machines were going to be occupied. Even though I lived on campus, sometimes I’d be too lazy to walk back to the dorm room. I usually took naps in “The Pyramid,” an odd-shaped tower above the student union. The Pyramid was always dim, and there were cushions strewn around the room. I’d find a quiet spot, lay down, and snooze until the next class.

I took a guitar class and played “Stay,” as one of my final assignments, and fortunately a friend took the same class with me and gave me rides home so that I wouldn’t have to carry my guitar on the bus. I remember Tami and my junk food drawer in our dorm room, and how she and I would sing Lisa Loeb’s “I Do” at night as I attempted to play it on the guitar. I also remember scoping out new VW Beetles in the school parking lot so that I could gather a collection of photos of each color of the bug. And then there was my Geology of California class where the lights were always dim because of the slide shows. One day I fell asleep and farted so loud I woke myself up. No one laughed, so maybe they didn’t hear. I loved the literature classes, but not enough to take more classes to earn an English minor.

One of the most impactful classes I took was capoeira, which I took my last semester of college. I’m embarrassed to say I’ve been doing it for 10 years off and on (more off than on) because of how little I’ve improved over that time. But it remains one of the highlights of my week, to be able to work out in a way that is really fun (but tiring) and to be surrounded by interesting and entertaining people. It has indirectly been a part of my life for so long now. Through that class, I got more interested in the Brazilian culture, traveled there twice – the second time, meeting a pretty cool guy. ;)

It’s funny how most of these memories have very little to do with my education – or even the classes in my own major. I do remember getting assigned a “beat” in one of my newswriting courses. My beat was SFSU and the surrounding Lake Merced area, so I attended meetings that had to do with stuff going on at school, I reported on local crimes, and attended community gatherings. Let me tell you. Not too much was going on around there! It was during a Copy Editing class that I discovered a talent for picking out spelling errors, extra spaces between words, and faulty design elements. That led to my becoming one of the two copy editors on the school magazine, which meant late nights in the magazine room right before the publication was published. They were a pain, but I thought, “This is the life of a journalist!” and I loved it.

Our teachers always reminded us, “If you’re going into journalism, you’re not doing it for the money.” My first job out of college, I made $24,000. When I got the job offer, I told my parents how much I was going to make. “That’s really not a lot,” my mom told me. When I calculated everything, I realized she was right – but I was merely comparing it to the meager wages I had been earning throughout college. But it was OK – because I was doing what I loved. I truly believed that – and still do.

I don’t regret only having two years at SFSU. My two years at Cosumnes River College (or Across the Street University, as it was known by Valley High students) were valuable, as well. I got my GE taken care of at a less expensive price than at SFSU, and I also got my first taste of being on a college newspaper.

My experience in SF during those years has led me to still be in love with that city. I don’t think anyone who hasn’t lived there could love it the way someone who has lived there could love it. As for college, I think I will always be a student. Even after graduating, I couldn’t resist taking a couple of classes at the local community college. Being able to learn new things is one of the best gifts you can give yourself. Today, I’m choosing not to enroll in classes, although sometimes I’m tempted. But I still think of myself as being in learning mode – even if I’m not getting graded on anything.

Whether you’re still in school, or if you’re a recent grad, or if you’ve been out of college longer than I’ve been alive, I hope you never stop learning. Find something you’ve always wanted to learn and pursue it. See life as one big learning experience, whether it means taking a class, picking up a new hobby, or just getting involved in someone’s life and learning from them. Living deep and sucking the marrow out of life doesn’t end when you become an adult. It’s a lifelong endeavor – and I hope I will always live with that intention.

I’ll get around to posting a “real” entry one of these days…

In the meantime, here are two videos that my dad e-mailed me that I really enjoyed. The first is a clip of a contestant from Britian’s Got Talent. This woman has an amazing voice, but what I love more is the fact that the audience and judges wrote her off before she even got a chance to prove herself. And prove herself she did. I have never seen Simon Cowell so moved before.

The second is a surprise mass dance in a train station in Belgium. Our family was there in 2003, and it reminded me and Na of Hogwarts! What a fun treat for everyone who witnessed this.

I love this quote from U.K. Prime Minister Gordon Brown:

Let us remember there is a common bond that unites us as human beings across different beliefs, cultures, and nationalities. It is at the core of my convictions, the essence of America’s spirit, and the heart of all faiths. And it must be at the centre of our response to the crisis of today. At their best, our values tell us that we cannot be wholly content while others go without, cannot be fully comfortable while millions go without comfort, cannot be truly happy while others grieve alone.

And this too is true. All of us know that in a recession the wealthiest, the ten most powerful, and the most privileged can find a way through for themselves. So we do not value the wealthy less when we say that our first duty is to help the not so wealthy. We do not value the powerful less when we say that our first responsibility is to help the powerless. And we do not value those who are secure less when we say that our first priority must be to help the insecure. These recent events have forced us all to think anew. And while I have learnt many things, I keep returning to something I first learned in my father’s church as a child. In this most modern of crises I am drawn to the most ancient of truths; wherever there is hardship, wherever there is suffering, we cannot, we will not, pass by on the other side.

Jim Wallis quotes Prime Minister Brown in his column here, which is worth a read, and includes a link to Brown’s full speech.

She’s hung with First Lady Laura Bush and American Idol contestant Melinda Doolittle, but you would never recognize her name or her face. But when you hear her story, you can’t help but see her as a hero, as someone who deserves to be well-known.

Every so often at work we have “Lunch and Learn” events, where you bring your lunch and learn about a certain topic. Sometimes you’ll hear about a project in a different country, and sometimes you’ll learn about something new going on within the organization. Today’s Lunch and Learn was an intimate gathering with Lister Chingangu, a caregiver from Zambia. Over the past three weeks, she has visited 13 states, speaking at churches and also advocating on Capitol Hill for government funding to fight AIDS, malaria, and TB.

Last year, when Laura Bush and Melinda Doolittle visited Zambia and handed out mosquito nets, Lister was there. She and Mrs. Bush greeted one another with a handshake. This time, when they reunited in D.C., they greeted each other with a hug, Lister said.

Seven years ago, Lister– a pastor’s wife–started a ministry called God Our Help Ministries in Lusaka, Zambia. Her program trains volunteers from the community of about 100,000 who visit people living with HIV or AIDS in their homes, and cares for them and their families. Lister described a typical visit: cooking a meal for the patient while bathing and changing them; talking to their kids to see how they are doing, encouraging them to go to school; giving the patient medicine; reading the Bible to them. And they don’t just visit one patient a day. They often visit up to 10 people in one day!

One of the connections between Lister and World Vision is that her ministry uses Caregiver Kits that are put together by World Vision donors. Many churches (and other groups) donate money that goes toward buying supplies (cotton balls, bandages, petroleum jelly, gloves, flashlights–or “torches” as Lister calls them) to put into plastic cases that the caregivers take around on their home visits. With patients who are seriously ill, the kit can last 5-6 weeks. With patients who aren’t as sick, one kit can last up to 3 months. Each kit also includes a handwritten note from the person from the church or group that assembled the kit. Lister said she always reads the note to the patient, and the patient is always so grateful that someone is thinking of them. Prior to having the Caregiver Kits, the caregivers had to improvise, such as tying plastic bags onto their hands in place of gloves.

There are thousands of home-based caregivers like Lister in Zambia, and Lister’s own ministry has about 65. They are trained to care for and love people who are sick–many of them dying. Many of the caregivers get around by bike, and are helping people the entire day. The cool thing is that once patients are taking antiretroviral medicine, they often get their strength back and can work a little. Many of them even are so touched by the care they’ve received that they ask to become trained to be a volunteer caregiver, too. They are in an awesome position to encourage people to get tested for HIV and to take medicine. Fortunately, the stigma surrounding AIDS isn’t as strong as it was before, thanks to more and more people being educated about the disease.

So why do they do it? Lister said as Christians, we are called to help the widows and children, and they take that call literally. Christ says that when we are feeding the hungry and helping the sick, we are in a sense helping Him. Lister said that those verses motivate her to do this selfless, tiring work each day. On top of that, the people they are helping are in their community, which makes them family. How many of us could say that people in our community are family? Would I volunteer to wipe up my neighbor’s wounds, cook them meals, and bathe them each night? Sadly, I don’t think I would. I wouldn’t consider them family simply because I live next door to them.

When the caregivers cook food for their patients, the meals are made with their own ingredients, bought with their own money. But since these caregivers are volunteering all day, they have very little money–mostly from side jobs that they manage to keep to make a little income. To us, it’s a huge sacrifice to help other people when you’re barely scraping by. To Lister, she shrugs and says, “You only need very little to be able to give.” Later on, she adds, “We are happy to give, because God always provides the next day.”

That just blew me away. How many times have we said that when we have more money, a bigger house, a better job, a bigger car, THEN we will help other people? Then we can tithe more, donate more to charity, take in people who need a room, give people rides? But I highly doubt we will ever feel like we have “enough.” So to hear this woman say that you only need very little to be able to give was such an encouragement.

In addition to being such a genuine, humble woman with an amazing heart, she was just so gosh darn cute. She said that when she arrived in the States, she spoke with her kids back in Lusaka who asked her, “Mommy, what is it like there?” Lister got this look on her face that made her look so excited and child-like as she said, “I told them, ‘It’s just like in the movies!!’”

I wish you all could have seen her and heard her story. I was just in awe of this woman. Oftentimes, we’re inspired and impressed by people who volunteer their time to help others. But these caregivers are full-time volunteers–and the work they do is tough and draining, both physically and emotionally. They are true heroes in my book.

Click here to read more about why Lister was visiting the States. Here is more about the Caregiver Kits, plus a photo of Lister.

If someone came to your door, begging you to hide them because people of their ethnicity were being killed, what would you do? Shut the door before they could come in? Tell them you’ll pray for them and then send them next door? Or take them in, knowing full well that you were risking your own life?

When faced with this situation, Paul Rusesabagina, hid more than 1,200 ethnic Tutsis in the hotel where he worked in Rwanda. More than once, his life was threatened, but each time, he negotiated with the militia who were seeking out the Tutsis, and was able to survive the confrontation. Sadly, although Paul helped those who came to him, more than 800,000 people died over a span of 100 days in Rwanda. Paul’s story and the events of the Rwandan genocide were captured in a movie, “Hotel Rwanda.”

Last Friday, I had the privilege of hearing Paul speak for an hour at the Elliott Bay Bookstore in Seattle. He recently published a book called “An Ordinary Man,” which tells about his experience during the genocide. I was truly amazed that this guy, whose life I had seen in “Hotel Rwanda,” was standing before me, talking about his experience so calmly.

One thing he said was to not underestimate the power of words. Many times when he was confronted by the militia, he calmly stepped forward and used words to relate–not knives or guns. He soon realized that words were more effective than violence or force. Another thing that stuck out to me was when someone asked him about his experience with Don Cheadle, the actor who portrayed him in “Hotel Rwanda.” Paul said, “I spent time with Don so that he could see that I am not a Superman.” I think it’s so easy to see admirable figures like this, and to place them on a pedestal. That’s great, but there is a danger in doing that. When we see people as great, extraordinary figures, we separate them from ourselves. When we separate ourselves from them, we also put their abilities in one box and our abilities in another, meaning, we say, “He’s this great guy so of course he was brave enough to hide people in the hotel. I, on the other hand, am not special, so I wouldn’t have been able to do that.”

Paul wanted to emphasize that he was not a Superman, because he just did what he felt he had to do to help people. If he is just like you and me, that means we should also feel like we could do great things to help other people. We shouldn’t feel like we have to be qualified in any way to help people in need. The reaction to help others in need, in danger, should be automatic. Unfortunately, it’s not, and I’m speaking for myself.

When I see someone in need or if someone asks me for help, I’m ashamed to say, but oftentimes, my first thought is to wonder how it will affect me. Will I be inconvenienced? Am I putting myself in harm’s way? If Paul had reacted in that way, 1,200+ people would not be alive today. And he was just an ordinary man, not a Superman, as he says. I–along with those 1,200+– people would disagree, but his life just shows that we are all capable of what he did.

(I’m on a waiting list to check out Paul’s book from the library, but I’ve also read “Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust” by Immaculee Ilibagiza, which is a powerful first-person account of a girl’s experience in the genocide. She, along with some other women, hid in a bathroom for several months, as people frequently came to the house, searching for them.)

…and he can feast for days!

Moving up here to Seattle has opened up a whole list of activities that Matt and I have never thought of. One such activity is crabbing. And not just crabbing the old-fashioned way of setting out crab pots (traps) and waiting for the little buggers to crawl in. Matt’s childhood friend passed on the crabbing method that he learned–just grab the crab.

We were out on the water around 8:30 on a low-tide morning. The water had receded, leaving a shallow layer of water and sheets of seaweed about ankle- to knee-deep. We put on our new aqua socks and trudged through the sludge, sinking into the mud with each step. As we walked further out into the water, we left footprints in the seaweed. It was a hilarous process of getting used to walking through the mud. There was a lot of laughing and slurping of the mud around our feet.

When we got out to where there was more water than mud, we learned the tricks of the trade. Slowly walk through the water and sweep your feet along the surface of the sand. If you feel something hard, put pressure on it. If it’s firm and resistant, it’s a rock. If it gives a little, it may be a crab. (Even with these instructions, I pulled up plenty of rocks that I thought could be crabs.) When you’re stepping on what could be a crab, let your foot up a little bit. If the object pushes up a bit or if you feel it move, keep your foot on it. Then reach down with your hand, grab the end that is not pushing up (the crab will push up with its head), and pull it out of the water.

Some of us wore gloves for good reason. And even with gloves, I didn’t get away without a couple of scars. Those pinchers are mighty strong, and those crabs are stubborn. It was a little nervewracking at first, not knowing exactly how the crab would feel under my foot, or not knowing if I was brushing past a crab that was going to pinch my ankle. Or how would it feel trying to pick up a crab? For awhile, I didn’t feel anything that could be a crab, and I was getting discouraged watching people around me pick up crabs left and right. The next time someone caught a crab, I asked to have it put under my foot so I could know how it felt.

I picked up a couple of crabs after that, but had to chuck them back in the water because they were either too small or were female (there are rules about what you can keep). Along the way, I saw a small (dead) starfish, and a jellyfish that was pulsating in the water. In the end, with 7 of us crabbing, we had 27 crabs for lunch.

I felt a little barbaric, watching the crabs get dunked into boiling hot water. They turned bright red in the water and took on a dull color as they dried in the sun. Potatoes and corn were thrown into the pot, and we ended up with a tasty, filling lunch. We all sat on some logs and feasted on our catch. Boy, those crabs were amazing. It’s troublesome to have to crack them and try to avoid the juice dripping out of them, but they tasted SO good, even without any seasoning or butter. Aside from the sun beating down on us (causing my sunburn, grrrr…), it was a perfect lunch.

Here are some of my favorite pics from the day…