The Pacific Was Born Today, and I'll Tell You How

This blog is dedicated to Shawn, my future-mother-in law, by the way, because she is a dedicated blogger unlike the rest of the world. I figured that my first blog in a long long time could not be written without her name being noted.

The reason I haven't blogged is because I've been trying to devote my writing energies to writing the great American novel. Unfortunately, I'm stuck, and I'm just rarely in the mood. Maybe I need to pray.

Summer is half way over, and it's a little different than I expected, but not that different. I think the best thing about it is that I feel summer is really working - it's medicine for my soul. I went to Multnomah's campus yesterday (to demand a financial award letter) and for the first time since school got out, I didn't feel tension in my innercore the moment I stepped onto campus. In fact, I'm getting excited for classes to begin. Also, I doubt it will happen, but I'm praying my mom will stay in the States longer than approximately three weeks, long enough for her to visit a class or two with me, and to attend a PROKOPE meeting. Just kidding, about the second part.

Speaking of my mom, this is the biggest part of summer that is different than I imagined. I waited, waited, waited for June 16th for months, the day my family would walk down the airport aisle, I would hug them and introduce my mother to the only person dearer to me than her: Danielle, my betrothed.

Anyway, But instead of that happening sporadic pneumothorax happened. My mom then planned to come back June 29th. She wasn't quite recovered, and reschedule for July 11. That very morning, more lung problems popped up and she might be back in two weeks.

I really miss her. That's about all there is to say, right now. I miss her squinty smile, and the way she just listens and listens, and how she lets me hang around her for so long - even when I'd imagine she would get sick of me. And listens some more. Danielle and I have this theory that families weren't meant to be scattered across the world. Strange, coming from a couple of missionary families, but it's true. We both of family members around the world, and pieces of our hearts chip off for each of them.

I'm trusting God that He knows what He is doing, and that he's going to take care of this fragile heart of mine. It's strange, I've been "moved out" for three years, so maybe by now I shouldn't miss my mom so much, but I still do - on a weekly, if not daily basis. I bawled the other night for her. It was the night she had been schedule to get in, right when I would have been driving her out to Beaverton, right when I would have heard her voice.

I don't know what else to say, really. I'm tired, my job is hectic, and it's been a warm week. And I miss my mom. God is faithful, and I can see how he has taken care of me, and my family. I know that God is graceful, and he can take me through anything, but I suspect that this summer - when I thought I would see my mom, and spend more time with my family and I haven't - without Danielle and the Strannigan family, I would have ended up a sad. I see God's grace through that family all the time.

Maybe I've talked about this before, but I remember being a kid and feeling sick. I'd come home from school and climb into bed where my mom would rub my back and talk soothingly to me, praying for my stomach. I'd drift off to sleep, feeling safe. Waking up, my room would be empty and cold, and my mom would be nowhere to be found - probably downstairs making dinner, or somethng. I'd feel lonely and abondoned, and to be honest, when my family comes back to the States, but things just happen to work out where I don't see them very much, I feel like this. Like I felt safe, and then I wake up and it's different than I had thought. I'm okay, I think, just a little dissapointed and sad. And grateful that I've gotten to see my family as much as I have. And thankful for God's grace that ministers to my emotions and my fragile little MK heart.

A Poem: John 16:8

I know my poems don't read very well; I know where the emphasis and the rhymes are, but I don't present them well. Anyway, here's my latest that I wrote for Harper's pneumatology class.

John 16:8

I sort of hear you late at night,
like the wah, wah, wah, wah of a drive through
and the next morning I wake up,
showered in guilt from head to toe, thanks to you
conviction pouring out the faucet,
cold and harsh as the grass' early morning dew
and my head hangs heavy
unsure of what are lies from my heart, and what is the truth
the pattern of your ghostly fingerprint
is efficiently pressed into my forehead
and that's even long before I manage to fall out of bed,
onto the floor
where you're already telling me to get up
and get the hell out the door, and I tell you to stop
just stop telling me what to do all the time, stop, stop stop!

See, I've been peeling back my skin for days
– look at my hands, scabby and scathed –
trying to find you in me somewhere,
but you're so damn elusive
like the mouse that no one can find,
other than his left-behind
nibblings, on a mid-ocean ship
and for being so good at hiding,
you're still so inescapable
I mean, I never knew bullhorns
could be so loud, that intercom systems could be so global
so I was ducking behind books, and hiding under bed clothes
which works about as well as plugging my ears does.
And it just doesn't.

I can't get your song out of my head,
something about love or something, I think
but what I hear isn't quite what you said
I closed my eyes to pray at the exact moment you winked
just like my uncle does when he's giving me a hard time
so I'm just left feeling bruised
and wondering what's your free choice and what is mine.
Whether you like me for me,
or just that you can lead me where you want,
and I can't do a thing about it because I'm so weak and I'm so blind.

I'll be honest: Spirit, I can't not hear you.
Please keep that in mind, next time you run through
all the things that I'm still doing wrong.
Isn't it supposed to be your kindness that leads me to repentance?
so something's gotta be wrong with me,
because what I tend to see in you is a nagging nuisance
- that somehow always get the better of me.

It's just that sometimes you remind me of a tornado:
taking me up to the heavens
as you bash me against the barn, the tractor, the hay
the cow, and the milk pale along the way.

As far as I can remember I have felt that my dad has pushed more further than I can go; asked too much for my scrawny little muscles or mind; put too much pressure toward a goal I cannot reach. This isn’t really about my dad, though. It’s about me and how I have a hard time working hard. All the Mayfields have an incredibly strong work ethic, even my black-sheep, ex-alcoholic, crazy uncle Marcus. I’m telling you now, though, that I realize this is something I’m going to need to learn; something I’m trusting the Holy Spirit will teach me and strengthen me for. I’m getting ready to get married, and I know that I’m a fool if I don’t expect to work my you know what off.

But back to my childhood: My dad took us on bike rides around Roseburg, and I always, always hoped he would only take us to Crescent Park and back. It was about a ten minute ride, or less, from our house. We never stopped there, though. He took us up the great hill – the one so steep we had to walk halfway down before riding our bikes, and sometimes we’d ride along the golf courses, other times toward the VA, and other times underneath the I-5 bridge where the river was green, the trail was littered with broken alcohol bottles and I feared that the noise of the rumbling semi trucks above would be enough to tip my brother or myself into that green water. I always feared that water more than falling, because my dad told us was loaded with bacteria, and I imagined that dying simply from a mouthful of green river. It always felt so long – it was probably an hour. I never complained – except to my mom, later – but I felt like he was torturing us, making us ride all that way, and every sunny day I dreaded that dad would tell us to get out our bikes.

This was a good example of many tasks my dad pushed us to do. Memory verses for AWANA; picking up leaves from weeping willow (we collected its tears all year long, because it was dying); cleaning our rooms; and schoolwork. Schoolwork was the worst.

There were numerous assignments and project, and my dad demanded a good job on them. I remember sitting in front of a science assignment one night, a frustrated fifth grader, believing I just couldn’t do it. My mom came into my room, and I told her I just couldn’t do it.
“Dad’s going to be in here in about half an hour to check on your progress. You remember how we decided what point you had to get to, tonight.”
“Mom,” I whined. “It’s too hard. Dad is asking too much of me. I just can’t do it.”
“Just keep working, Krispin. You’re doing okay, just keep trying.”
“I’m stuck.” I said, resentfully. I was a brat sometimes.
“Well, why don’t you go ask dad. Remember, you and he had set up this plan for the week to get this project done.”
I didn’t want to ask dad. If he helped me, I knew he’d make me do it really well. Besides, he was the one making me do this. I didn’t want to call him in here. Even though he’s the best teacher I’ve ever known.
But I did.

With a calming sigh, he sat down. Even in the case of a night-before case of procrastination, he’d sit back with his hands behind his head.
“So,” he began, “what have you done so far?”
I told him, and he nodded with his big kind, brown eyes. His mustache hung straight across his lips; he didn’t smile, but he wasn’t frowning. Just listening. He has a good listening face that I try to imitate when I’m trying to be a good friend.
He’d slowly explain it to me, lead me move by move. He’d make me do it well – and walk me every step of the way. He led me through excellence.

Sometimes when I think about the Holy Spirit I think about feeling the hairy arms of my dad rubbing against mine as he reached from behind me to point his finger across diagrams, and the way he smelled of organic deodorant and sweat - the way his voice was soft, relaxed and nearly a whisper. When I think of the Holy Spirit, I think of the sharp feeling of my dad’s face, when I hugged him before bed.

Meet My Co-Workers

Target is darker at night. Literally; they turn most lights off and leave us with a dimmer work environment, which I am fine with for three reasons: a) energy conservation is important b) who really wants to be under bright fluorescents for eight hours at a time? c) it's easier to half-sleep while working that way. I can get four hours of sleep during my eight hour shift.
I'm usually met at the door by Jerry, whose mood is apparent as soon as he unlocks the door for me, depending on whether he says

“Good morning!” cheerfully.

or

“Alright,” and quickly walks away.

Jerry is Tiger from Fivel Goes West. He's short and stout, has a mustache and his teeth are short, except his canines which are usually the only teeth to be seen. He talks in a cartoon voice, like he's singing in opera, only he's just talking. I like Jerry in that he's nice to me; I don't like that he's irritable and often full of dirty jokes that he brushes off as soon as their out of his mouth, as if they had just come from the shelves or the package of peeps we're stocking. He's also gay, and this is the source of most of his jokes. He's my boss, but not my “big boss.”

My big boss is Amy who is hilarious, easy-going, sarcastic and has two sons, one of which is named after a Dukes of Hazard character. It makes my night when she works, and I let her know that. She always calls us – the employees - “my little muffins.” As in, “Well, my little muffins, it's time for lunch. Feel free to actually clock out this time, just for giggles and stuff.”

Then, there's Shawn and he's new, looks like he's 34 – although he's ten years younger than that. He's a minimal if not post Christian. He says, 'goddamn,' a lot and is the tech guy at his church. He's pleasantly humorous, and also easy-going which is of utmost importance at 3am.

“The squad,” which is another name Amy made up for us, is composed mostly of those in their early 20's who have little existence other than work, sleep, unhealthy food and video games. Actually, from what I hear, many times video games take over sleep and they tell me things like, “I only slept two hours since I worked last, but I got to the temple of Odocaian.” I'd like to think of these people as, well, people, you know, possible receptors of the gospel. But I can hardly make conversation with them past joking, and I feel utterly lost. Lost, lost lost.

Stephen falls into this category, but he brightens my nights. He's loud and obnoxious, but both clever and what I like most about him is his gregariousness. He's short and beginning to bald – he is, afterall, 29. He plays a lot of video games, and doesn't have much outside of that and Target. He's friendly as anything, though, let me tell you. I like him much better than Rio, who complains all the time, or Joe who is dryly sarcastic, or Ashton. I have conversations with these people, and the following with Ashton is typical of most.

“So Ashton, what's life like beyond Target, for you?” It's always hard to phrase the question, 'Do you actually have a life outside of work?' in a tactful way. One cannot ask, 'Are you in school?' or anything along those lines for fear of forcing the answerer to concede, 'Well, uh, Target is about it. Yeah. I just work at Target.'
“There's not a lot. I just live at my girlfriend's parents house.”
“Oh. Any hobbies?”
“Well, I just play a lot of video games.”
“Oh. Mmm. What are some of your favorite movies?”
“I just saw 300. It was awesome.”
“My friend told me about it. He said he liked the cinematography.”
“Well, it has all the elements I like in a movie: action, gore, violence, death, blood, gore and violence.”

You get the picture.

Then there's various people who aren't from America. Wah is Vietnamese, and I'm not sure from what Asian country Connie is from. I think there are some Egyptians, too. One of my favorite people is Heff, a hispanic man. I don't work with these people often, though. Which is unfortunate.

There are other people, too. Misty is my favorite. She's a cute little black woman about as wide as she is tall, with a gentle fierceness toward anyone who gives her any trouble. Unperturbed, she is sweet and interesting. She has two sons – 10 and 12 – and we talk together about the middleschoolers in our lives. She's attending Portland Bible College, and hopes to finish at Warner Pacific, eventually. We cover shifts for one another, and find a bond through our faith.

I also find kinship with other college students – Kaylene and Erik are both in school, and so you might find any one of us reading a book during break. We are all glad this is just a college job. Erik has begun sitting next to me at break, which is great because my old “best work friend,” Brian – who goes to Vibrant and used to room with Multnomah students, and is now in real-estate – left at the end of March.

I really appreciate the presence of the older people. Keith is a big black man who walks around with a radio at his hip that plays funk, loud enough to cover over the in-store stereo, if you're near enough. He, Misty and another black woman, Stephanie all talk sassily to each other. I love eavesdropping on them, although half the terms I don't understand. Then there's Rose, whose long, blond, frilly hair looks ragged and full of split ends, and she seems to always be sick and have bloodshot eyes behind her glasses, and consistently wears corduroy pants. I'm not sure if she's 25 or 35, but she's always sad, or at least quiet.

“How are you?” I asked her last night.
“I'm doing okay,” she said quietly. “How are you?”
“I'm feeling a little sick.”
“Well stay away from me,” she said softly, “I've been sick for the past two weeks.”
Our conversation ended because we had to go in different directions; five minutes later she popped into my isle again and said, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to see rude.” And I told her I hadn't taken it that way.

Then there's Ed who is both jolly and cynical, and probably something like 52 years old. He kind of looks like Dick Van Dyke, except more American.

I really like my squad, and I wish that I knew how to talk to anyone about Jesus, seriously. Most nights I can't even keep a conversation going. I know to ask what family members and girlfriends are like, but I need more imagination than I have in order to get any further. Imagination I'm working on conjuring up, I suppose.

Spring Break, Make Haste!

I am inspired. I think that I like to write, but I simply haven't been writing much lately because, well, I feel like I have little to say. Then, this afternoon I spent a good hour or more reading through a bunch of Danielle's old blogs, back from before I knew her, and it made my day - if it hadn't already been made. She's a brilliant writer, in case you didn't know - warm and quirky, clever and honest. I spent some time thinking about how much joy her writing brought me, and came to the conclusion - as egocentric as this is - that good blogging brings joy, and so I should try to do more.

For the record, good blogging from Jacob and Josh bring me the same joy; and I haven't read that for months. I think everyone needs to write more, maybe we'd all be a little bit happier from reading the writing of one another. Maybe someone could write a book about how blogging should be a part of every good Christian's "QT" and it would start a wonderful trend. Except I'd have to come up with some other scheme for Jacob. And get back on top of my own "QT."

Well, it's been a lovely day. Soon after waking and a shower, a hyperallergenic Danielle picked me up and we went to the DEQ, and Galdys went through a small inspection and made it out to freedom! Later, we went shopping and to be honest I felt a little suburban, walking along a stripmall holding bags, heading toward another store. There's just something about walking into another store, already holding things you bought that makes me feel uncomfortably shopper-like. Well, all I bought at the second store was muffin mix for muffins that tasted good and formed badly. The afternoon was fabulous, and I learned quite a bit about Revelation from Danielle's paper, which I was editing. She was incredibly tired from her allergies, and don't spread it around or anything, but it was really cute. It was darling, in fact.

Just as Danielle was dropping me off, a cloud floated in front of the sun, and suddenly I forgot what I was talking about. It was as though I traveled through time - from a sunny day, to some other cloudy one and I felt quite confused. This happens often, with the weather. It's worst when the sun suddenly appears - I forget that it's not summer yet, and that school isn't out yet. I get in an poppy, accoustic mood and put off even finding books for a paper that's due in a couple of weeks.

It's not only the sun that betrays me. I can hear the clinks of tee-ball outside my window, and feel the cool breezes that blow through my windows that were opened when the day was warmer. I am so ready for spring break. Especially to see old friends I haven't seen for over a year.

I talked with Kirk, my old youth pastor, about them about a month and a half ago, telling him that I've moved on.
"You know, those are the friends, the ones you really bonded with, that are worth keeping. You may not even talk to them for months, but make sure to see them every once and a while - once you see them, it's like no time passed. I know that if, say, Becca was here with us, it would be less than an hour and it would feel like you'd seen each other yesterday."
He's right. And I lied about moving on. God used those people - Jacob, Josh, Carli, Ashley, Val, Becca, A.J. - to rescue me from some moderate insecurity, and loved me through some dreadful transitions. They will always have a special place in my heart. I'm incredibly excited to see them.

I have written about music in a blog for a long time, I mean not like I used to

I've retreated into the past.

Saturday I woke up around 1:30 (I'd gone to bed at 6am, after work), and took a stroll down to Danielle's Starbucks. The cars were all on their way to picnics or road trips, and the clouds were behind the curtains. I had my iPod in my ears, and a quick step in my walk. It reminded me of being at my grandma's house, and going on those long attempt-at-escape walks in the sunshine. It made me pine for summer, for that feeling that America is lovely and exciting and new. Some days, when the air is warm enough and the place suburban enough I'm filled with those old euphoric feelings of freedom and open space. America, I sigh.

I trotted down the road for half an hour, when I came upon Danielle's Starbucks. She looked doubly beautiful in the sunshine, closing her eyes claiming it was medication - and I could see that it was; I could see the 8-hour shift being washed off of her face, and the joy creeping across the skin, beginning to call out freckles. The look on that pretty girl's face was like rolling along a back road with the windows down singing your favorite summer music at the top of your lungs with a campfire and night of stargazing ahead of you.

Walking back I listened to Norma Jean and Fear Before the March of Flames and Across Five Aprils, and I just couldn't help but dance in the happiness pouring from the sky and the beauty pouring into my ears and I swung my hips and my arms and mouthed screams and felt incredibly joyful. It reminded me of summers ago when people would tell me, "So my parents saw you walking the other day. They said they could tell it was you from far away because you were dancing all around." Gosh, I love the sun and good music and a sidewalk.

I'm moody. Sunday morning, after first service I ditched and threw on my headphones again and retreated to the waterfall and listened to Electric President while trying not to be unspecifically bitter. It began to rain, and I just sat there and thought about how great it is to sit alone. I don't know where this comes from, except maybe some adolescent instinct that still hangs around that wants to feel unique. I didn't come back until five minutes after the service had started, and I couldn't tell whether I just don't quite fit here, or if I do somehow fit, and I'm just retreating into my past.

Showers

When I was in highschool I always got my best inspiration in the shower. We had this shoddy little bathroom in my corner of the house. It wasn't particularly different than the other bathroom, or other bathrooms around China. Bathrooms in China are just sort of shoddy, in general, and I like it that way. Mine had chipped, mismatching tile, a sagging plastic-covered ceiling, a shower which sometimes gave me hot water, sometimes gave me cold, and sometimes gave me scorching water. Usually in that order. There was a maroon toilet that worked depending on what day of the week it was, and a little drain which was showed to be a perfect breeding ground for little cockroaches.

I took showers before bed, after I did a few push-ups and sit-ups. I'd get some idea in my head while bathing, usually some thought or idea, and I'd go into my room and write about it for about an hour on an old 486 which had once-clear, now-tinted green monitor. The computer could do literally nothing but word processing. The CD-rom drive had died, there were no USB ports and internet would have sent it into either ceisures or a coma.

I poured my heart out on that little black computer. Sometime during 10th grade, Zayne and I began a "weblog." I'd rather not talk about it.

I rarely write, now. The thoughts in my head while I shower are those such as, "Who just came in?" and "Why does my shower gel say, '3X Clean Guaranteed!' and what does that mean?" I run through the thoughts of things that I need to do between getting to bed too late, again.

Every other time I talk to my brother I tell him to enjoy his highschool years, things get crazy soon. He's entering the airforce this summer, and I don't even know what that will be like. I just know it won't be the same as what he does now: riding all over Chengdu on his bike, playing soccer with anyone he can.

We've had a lot of showers, lately. It reminds me of my childhood, the way the wet cement smells. It's strong, but inexact.The air smells clean and clear. I think I have memories like these because that smell stopped when I moved to China. In China it rains during the summer, so it smells steamy and dirty. It's as though the droplets of water pick up dirt off the ground, as if the steam raising the trash of the streets into the air. But here, it's clean. It's like my childhood.

I remember waiting by the bus, that smell hanging in the air after an early morning rain. My brother rarely wore pants, ever. It could be cold and wet, and he'd be out at the bus stop in shorts and his arms pulled out of his sleeves and tucked into the t-shirt he wore. We threw rocks around, talked, played games. Then, we'd see that big yellow bus coming around the corner, and we'd yell "BUS!" for those who were further away engrossed in a game. Bus didn't have the meaning it does to me now, it felt more like a codeword for an entire event: racing back to bus stop where our bags were lined up, saving our spots and pushing if we needed to in order to enter the bus before at least one other person.

Somedays, when I've finished a paper, have been confused by my psych class, made reservations for bowling with middleschoolers, and preparing for a weekend of working nights, I think back to my room in Chengdu, typing away into the late hours of night; or walking around my neighborhood as a nine-year-old, smelling the rain on the cement, and I'm really glad I am where I am right now.