Waiting for Advent

I've been waiting for Advent for weeks.

It's strange, I suppose, to anticipate and wait for a season that is all about anticipation and waiting.

Holidays, I find, are too quick. One day of celebration and it's over. Advent is a season. I need the time to marinate. Advent is like a walk in the woods- there's time for marveling at big trees, dipping toes in the stream, a picnic, bouldering to the highest point, and maybe even a nap in a sundrenched clearing.

Advent is about remembering how to be and become more human.

Advent gives us four weeks to find light in dark places, to remember that wandering and searching have both purpose and an end, to remember promises and long for their fulfillment, to be human in all humility and glory, to find hope in unexpected places, to be near to God, and yet feel not near enough. It brings out our every longing and need, and yet doesn't leave us vulnerable or taken advantage of- it mysteriously holds both our needs and their fulfillment in the same breath. It gives us hunger while it cooks us a feast. We are safe to long for, anticipate, and even expect, and that honesty and security is a gift.

As much as I enjoy this season, perhaps the greatest glory of Advent is that it ends.

Come Thou Long Expected Jesus

 It's Advent. Finally. I've been looking forward to this season for weeks, and hoping to do more writing during this time.

To kick it off, something I wrote for a different blog last year:

Expectations. They get us into trouble, or at least leave us with dashed hopes and broken hearts.

I expected that my best friend would remember my birthday. I expected that I’d be married by now. I expected that I’d be able to have children. I expected that my boss would respect me. I expected that my hard work would pay off and I would feel fulfilled. I expected that black and brown lives would matter.

I expected that things would be…different.

Even when expectations seem quite reasonable, they leave us vulnerable, at the mercy of someone else to meet…or not.

A great deal of conflict arises from differences in expectations- among friends, co-workers, family, local and international leaders alike.

God’s people, too, had (and have) expectations that were heart wrenching and conflict inspiring. From the moment Adam and Eve left the Garden, God went before his people, and followed after them, leading and leaving trails of expectation. “Expect me to show up,” he was trying to teach them. It was the beginning of Advent.

I will bless your children and your children’s children. Expect me.

There’s fire in this bush. Expect me.

There’s water in this rock. Expect me.

There’s manna falling from heaven. Expect me.

I rescued you; I will rescue you. Expect me.

I give you this king; I will give you a King. Expect me.

I am your strength, your consolation. Expect me.

I will bring joy to your longing heart. Expect me.

“Expect me,” God whispered for centuries into wandering desert trails, on cliffs and in valleys, in 

palaces and huts, to men and women and children, to the young and the old, the familiar and foreign, the rich and the poor. All of creation was living in Advent- looking for signs of Jesus, feeling vulnerable and impatient, caught between great hope and anxious despair.

Wilderness wandering and high leader turnover taught a stubborn and self-reliant people how to expect God to show up. Faith-filled expectation doesn’t come naturally to them, or me. It’s one thing to expect to be paid on time, or for a good friend to lend a listening ear. It’s quite different to expect the God of the universe to come and fulfill all of my longings, to be the restorer of the whole wide world.

But amidst all the chaos and tenuous promises of the world, we have a God who whispers gently, and sometimes shouts, into our stubborn ears and hearts: expect me! The glory of Advent is that the longing and expecting, the searching and wandering, does end. Jesus comes! (Perhaps not as was expected…those expectations, man, they’re tricky business). God bids us wait, expect, learn to long for him. But not forever. Advent was never meant to last forever. Jesus came! Messy and fleshy from birth to death. He tastes our sadness. We taste his glory.

It encourages me that the impulse to long for a world more beautiful, more peaceful, more just, more healthy is not simply childish discontentment; instead, it is living a life of Advent hope. God’s final word to us isn’t “wait, hold on” it’s “I’m here, come in.” I’m not always sure what exactly I’m expecting when I long for the end of our current Advent, for a time when Jesus returns and shalom invades and reclaims the earth. The Advent of Christmas tells me that expecting Jesus, now and one day more fully, is the surest and most glorious expectation I can have.

The First 100 Days

The first 100 days a president is in office is often used to define the entire term's agenda. The most important, or most pressing business gets addressed first- or at least that's the goal. The administration is full of energy, enthusiasm, support, hope, and fresh gratitude for getting elected. Some go as far as to say it the most productive, if not only productive, time of the entire term.

During RA training in college, I recall learning, similarly, that what a freshman commits to and does in their first 100 days of college will likely play a big role in shaping their entire college experience. 100 days is long enough, they said, to try out a few new things, find a niche, a few friends, and to start forming habits, trends, patterns. Students who start out partying, continue partying. Students who start out going to the gym, continue going to the gym. College, more than maybe any life stage, is full of change and growth, and yet the stats they showed us back then still supported this 100 day trend.

I recall reading (wouldn't be able to tell you where, or who) that the first 3-4 months (ie. 100 days) in a new job, or new home, set the patterns and habits that tend to stick for years to come. Workers who start out arriving on time or arriving late continue those trends. The time you get up, where you park, whether or not you pack your own lunch, if you say hi to the door man- they are all small parts of a routine that start out as a myriad of small decisions and quickly become a routine rarely requiring questioning or second thought.

The "100 days" theory, which I more or less to believe to be true, isn't meant to be restrictive and prescriptive. It is simply descriptive of the way things often go. Habits and patterns are comfortable, even if they are unintentional. The discomfort of being in a new place drives us to develop routines that foster a familiarity that brings comfort and belonging.

Of course change is always possible. Change, though, is often reactive. The first 100 days have the freedom of being more proactive. Most decisions in life lie somewhere on the spectrum between proactive and reactive, often having a good mix of both. There is much importance and value in reactive change and decision making too- realizing something is not the way you want it to be and working to change it is what most of us spend all day doing in one way or another. But, there is something special about more proactive change- you've got a few more raw materials to work with, fresh dirt, new seeds, rather than old soil that needs fertilizing and a garden that needs weeding and uprooting.

Since we've just moved, I've had lots of proactive questions for our new life. Small questions like where to get groceries, and big questions like how will we establish life in a way that cares well for ourselves as well as our new city? In some sense, there are no small questions. Everything says something about what we value and why. The challenge (and fun?) in being proactive is that it marries the big and little questions to produce or create a culture of "me" or "we." Culture creating is a more helpful term, I find, than culture change. We're created to create, are we not? Given how hard culture (and habits, patterns, trends...etc) is to change once it's in place, it seems worth spending time thinking about the culture we want to create before it mindlessly forms on its own.

I've been in Florida 18 days and thought a lot about what creating life here might look like. So far I've settled on planting gardens, killing mosquitoes, getting to know the names of my neighbors, killing more mosquitoes, learning about who lives where and why in this city, not having a TV, getting reacquainted with my piano, and going for long walks.

December 10th. On December 10th I'll have been here 100 days. I wonder what kind of culture will be created by then?

Called to Exile

"Calling" is a tricky word. "I've found my calling," people say. "I was called to go to ___." "I'm trying to find my calling." Calling, in our culture, is used most often as a noun, a destination. It arouses the notion that by some mix of skill and circumstance and effort and success and a dash of mystery and aligning stars, we find a vocational, relational, geographical resting place that feels more like home than anything else we've found. Calling feels like a new outfit that fits just right and gives you that confident bounce in your step.

What I've noticed, is that this glorious notion of calling can actually be quite debilitating, paralyzing. What if it doesn't all happen so neatly? What if it isn't obvious to what or where you're called? What if you spend years, decades, searching for your calling? What if your interests and your gifts don't match up? What if life is just hard, and "calling" is a privilege that comes at the expense of survival? And how can you ever be really sure you've found it?

I don't mean to sound cynical, and I do believe that the God who knows every hair on our head makes unique people for unique purposes, and that it is incredibly energizing to find that one job, person, place, that seems to perfectly connect with your own personhood. Calling, though, was never meant to be so finite, so specific as to mean a job or person or place. Calling was always meant to be a verb.

"But the Lord God called to the man and said, "Where are you?"" Gen 3:9

We were called, from the beginning, to return to God. To look for him in both gardens and concrete jungles. To let him find us, naked and ashamed and broken, and to let him re-set our paths. What if to find our calling meant to find a gracious God, looking for us between trees and along garden paths, longing to redirect our steps towards a journey of grace, mercy, freedom, life? What if calling actually means listening for the whispers and shouts of "Where are you?" as we move through life, and to respond with, "Here I am." (Gen 22:11, Gen 46:2, Ex 3:4, 1 Sam 3:4, Is 6:8, Acts 9:10)

"Where are you," God calls.
"Here I am," we say.

With that, God becomes our sherpa, travel companion, path straightener, brush clearer, guide. He sends, leads, and sometimes exiles. He calls us, not to a job or city, but to find him.

I'm moving soon, and that brings up all kinds of questions of calling and notions of being sent and lead and, yes, even exiled. Because, if I'm honest, going to Florida feels more like exile. Leaving family, friends, faith communities, cities I know and love, job offers full of vision and mission I believe in, and life rhythms that are comfortable. "Here I am," but do you have to send me to Florida?

I've read and re-read passages about God's people being lead through deserts and wilderness, with the great promise of a flourishing land of milk and honey. I've longed to feel apart of that journey, to feel purposefully lead with vision for a new home.

I'm tempted to linger and wallow in those passages that talk of the great places God promises to bring his people and the ways he'll provide for them there. I long for this move, new job, new life, to feel a part of God's great plan and vision in a way that it just doesn't (even if I know- head knowledge- it is).

But those promised land and beautiful Jerusalem passages end, and like any good story the plot twists. How easily the land of milk and honey becomes wilderness and desert. How far God's beautiful plan for the world was from the cities and temples his people built in the promised land. It was never about the land, was it? It was about learning to live as a "called people." It was their called-ness to be with God, to be sought after and to seek, that made their land and life good. God called his people to the promised land to dwell with him, but the promised land became desolation as his people started to dwell alone.

Exile results. God calls his people to exile. They leave all they know- their culture and familiar surroundings. Just as he lead them to the promised land, he lead them into exile. God wasn't banishing them, he was saying to them in a new way, "Where are you?" The capture of God's people, their exile to Babylon aren't happy passages to read. The joy of journeying onward towards the promised land and basking in the bounty of God's provision seems miles away. Strikingly, though, his instructions to his people in exile aren't any different than those he gave them in the promised land. "Live, love, flourish, seek and find me" God tells them. Even exile can become a place of flourishing if life is lived with God.

God always calls his people to himself. Exile and wilderness aren't only, or even primarily, about location and lack of comfort, they are where people have forgotten to seek God, where they've forgotten their calling. The promised land and flourishing cities, similarly, aren't just prime real estate filled with great jobs, they exist anywhere God's people remember their calling- that they are called to be with God.

"Where are you," God asks.
"Here I am" I say.
"Me, too," God answers. "Me, too"

Half Mast

Our flag has spent a lot of time at half mast the last several months, years. So much time, in fact, I can't always tell if it's meant to be there to symbolize a new loss or tragedy, or if we've just left it there as the new normal.

I don't know that I believe we live in more tragic times than in the past. Perhaps we're more aware of it all from the media. Our tragedies are different than those past, but we've always had tragedy in our midst. Well, not always, but almost.

Whose job is it to decide when our nation's flag should be lowered as an acknowledgement of tragedy? Who gets to decide what is "enough tragedy" to lower the flag. How many people have to die? What other countries do we show solidarity to, and for how big a tragedy? How long does the flag stay low? How do we decide we've "recovered," nationally, and can raise the flag high again? **

It's a rhetorical question. I know there are regional and local variations, and there really must be someone who gets to decide. I'm sure there are protocols and flow charts.

Flags, I know don't solve problems. They aren't even a particularly personal way of showing support or solidarity. But they've become a visible and public demonstration, and certainly aren't without meaning, either.

I wonder, if we each had our own flag to raise and lower, in demonstration of support and empathy, how would we each choose to do so? Maybe it isn't even an American flag, maybe a family flag, a Stefanie flag.

I suppose what I'm getting at is that it seems that we could easily find endless good reasons to always fly at half mast. There's more than enough tragedy out there to go around. I don't say that with a sense of depression, but simply out of truth. Life on earth is a bit like our half mast flag- simultaneously symbolic of greatness and tragedy. To fly high seems to discount the true and great hurt inside and around us. To lower our flag to the ground undervalues and dishonors the great hopes of freedom, love of neighbor, and fullness of life we strive for and get some real glimpses and tastes of in this country, world.

Whether our flag is flying high or lowered, I'm reminded that I'm not only a citizen of this country. I'm a citizen in God's kingdom. While He mourns and weeps better than any of us over the tragedy of this earth, He's able to fly his own flag of victory high, knowing that goodness and truth, beauty and honor, justice and peace, love of neighbor and life everlasting will win, have won, are winning. His flag flies high not out of nationalistic pride or the limits of his empathy, but out of power, love, and ultimate victory.

** I always feel a little awkward about showing pride in our American Flag, or really national pride at all. Maybe it's the post-WWII German in me who is has a healthy fear of nationalism. I love many parts of our country, but intense nationalism scares me a lot.

Live Where You Live

I walked to work one day last week, something I fantasize about doing regularly in the future. I walked behind a little boy and his grandmother. He was probably 5, maybe a tall 4. She was probably 40, maybe a young looking 45. He had a superman cape on and those shoes that light up when you stomp. He clutched some nondescript glazed pastry in one hand, the kind you can get for 1.99 at the check out counter of 7-11. His other hand was holding onto grandma. Grandma was holding him tight in one hand, and swinging his batman backpack in her other hand. They weren't rushing, but walked steadily, with purpose. I walked behind them for about 5 blocks until they reached his school and we parted ways. She let go at one point and told him to run ahead and get his energy out before school started. Off he darted, happy to have some freedom. Her newly unoccupied hand reached for a cigarette which she enjoyed over the next few blocks, still swinging batman with her other hand. She caught up to him, put out her cigarette and dropped him off at school. His batman backpack looked huge on his wirey frame, but he darted happily inside the brick building. You could tell life wasn't perfect, but grandma loved him and he loved batman.

It was only about 7 minutes in total, but it reminded me of how valuable it is for me to be present and to live life in the same geographical and social space as my patients (another life long fantasy). There's more information to be gotten from that morning observation than from 10 minutes of diligent question asking in an exam room.

I thought about that kiddo the rest of the day. I wondered if he was hungry after the sugar rush wore off? I wondered if he had asthma, and grandma's smoking made it worse? I wondered what his home life was like? I wondered what he learned in school, and what was inside that big batman backpack? I wondered if he would get mislabeled as ADHD, or if stomping his feet to make his shoes light up filled him with feelings of security and magic powers, like batman, to face an imperfect world every morning. Kids are resilient, people say. But are they? Really? Look how many people grow up to have physical, mental, relational difficulties because of their childhood. That's not resilience, it's incubation.

A few miles away from that morning walk, and two years ago, I remember sitting in my hospital's lobby. This time, I was a patient, waiting for lab work. I had decided I'd go to doctors and deliver my baby at the hospital in which I worked. On the one hand, it was convenient. I was an intern with no time, and proximity and inside connections were gold. On the other hand, I knew all too well the flaws and messiness of my hospital. Sitting there in the lobby, it was pretty clear I wasn't the typical patient.

Similar to being a neighbor in the neighborhood where I work, being a patient in my own healthcare system was probably the best medical education I ever got. I learned about long wait times, frustrating insurance, chaotic offices, an overwhelmed hospital, and being surrounded by people who didn't look much like me. I pushed a baby out in a hospital room that was less than luxurious, yet had everything I needed. I faced my own sense of entitlement that things should work better for me!

But it isn't the humble environment or semi-chaotic atmosphere that I remember. It's is the deeper joy and importance of having my vocational, social, health, and geographical worlds collide. It is the deeper meaning behind having my baby delivered by a Nigerian, washed by an Ethiopian, and handed to me by a Korean. There's a peace that comes with being fully present- it overcomes awkwardness and social or cultural barriers. I've since delivered a few other babies in that same room, and each time had heightened meaning because of my own relationship with that space.

Live where you live, I've learned. Work where you live. Be where you live. Don't just see patients, be one. Don't just treat patients, live with them. It makes me a better doctor, to be sure, but also a better neighbor. We're all just neighbors in the end, aren't we?

Street Cleaning, Solo-Parenting, and Margins

Tuesdays were my least favorite day of the week this year. 

Tuesday is street cleaning day on our street. (don't even get me started on how ridiculous street cleaning is) I'd guess that most of DC has felt the burn of waking up on "street cleaning morning" with a sharp pang of "argh. *&*$^&$^** I forgot to move the car." It might only be 7:01AM, but you probably already have one of those infuriating pink tickets. 

If you park before 6:30pm on Monday night you have to go out and move your car to the other side of the street before 7am on Tuesday. And then if you get home before 7pm on Tuesday night you have to move your car back to the normal side by 7am on Wednesday. I repeat, *@^&@&$*@!!. 

With Jonathan away in NYC during weekdays this year, street cleaning day has become particularly painful. Do I drag a newly bathed, ready-for-bed kiddo out to the car, strap him in, and drive around until I find a new parking spot? Do I wait until he's in bed, sneak out and hope he's ok and drive around alone to find a new spot? Sometimes I found a spot immediately, other times it was a 15 minute ordeal complicated by weather or traffic or other people's poor parking. 

It's such a simple thing, but each week it brought to surface the difficulties of solo-parenting.** 

If this year had a theme, it would be margins. I did a lot of living life in narrow margins. 

Margins provide extra space. Room to correct mistakes. Wiggle room. Cushion. Protection. 

Life without much margin feels tenuous, and perpetually vulnerable. Small deals become big deals. A kid with a cough becomes a potential day-care phone call that he needs to be picked up, which turns into leaving patients waiting or unseen. A patient close to her due date becomes a potential 2am phone call saying I need to go to the hospital and figure out what to do with my sound asleep kiddo. A night on call means planning weeks in advance about who can pick up munchkin from daycare, feed him, and be with him all night. Staying later at work means late dinner for munchkin means cranky-pants kid. Not being able to carry everything from the car to the apartment turns into worrying what item is least likely to be stolen while it sits in the backseat, and wondering if it’s ok to leave munchkin alone in his crib while bringing in groceries up 3 flights of stairs. Spending 2 glorious hours from 6-8pm feeding, bathing, and playing with legos means maybe my medical board scores won’t be as high.

I’ve never in my life spent so much time double and triple checking when I leave the house that I have everything- phone, keys, wallet, food, kid…etc. Forgetting those things becomes lots more complicated when you’re alone. I worried more about getting a flat tire or having the ER suck all the battery out of my phone and being unreachable more than ever before.

Small deals become big deals when life doesn’t have much margin. Distant worries become real fears. Potential snags in the day seem to become imminently possible and probable.

Were there friends to call? Sure. But this is DC. Everyone is busy. It’s hard to call for help at 2am when you have to go to the hospital no matter how good of a friend.

By the grace of God, I haven’t had any big emergencies. No 2am hospital calls that didn’t work out in the end. No late dinners or early mornings or street cleaning days or chief resident emergencies or lack of groceries that had any lasting impact. Practically and tangibly, things worked out. But life still felt vulnerable, hanging in a delicate balance between “things working” and “system failure.” There didn’t seem to be any middle ground.

I’ve learned how much I love margins. I’ve thought deeply about individuals and groups who permanently live life without much margin. Single parents, unemployed, homeless, disempowered minorities, the chronically ill. Small things become big deals. Life is more delicate.

Everyone needs margins and help on their “street cleaning” days.

**I use term solo-parent rather than single parent because, well, I'm not single. Jonathan may have been away a lot, but we're still together, and we're only apart for a year. He was always there for a supportive text or call or email. Once he even rushed back from NYC on a train (I wouldn't let me him tell me how much last minute tickets cost) when I had to bring Theo to the hospital. We saw him for long weekends almost each week. We mutually agreed that this was the best plan for us this year. I'm not single, but I learned a lot about what single parenting might be like.