A Letter to My Trader Joe's Cashier

Dear Inquisitive Trader Joe's Cashier,

You might have just been asking me about my day, as is the usual routine as you scan my groceries, but your questions only furthered my current existential angst. You asked me a question that echos what I have been hearing from many a stranger and close friend and which, I thought, wasn't a question I would ever have to face.
It started out so innocently. "So, what's next for you?"
I apologize for seeming aloof. At this stage in life, what's next usually refers to vital relationship or career moves, not my plans for 4:30 on Wednesday evening.
"Home to write a paper that's due tomorrow," I replied with trepidation.
"On what?"
I paused and looked into the distance for a while. In general, I try to avoid letting people know I'm a theology student. I like to let strangers have a chance to view me as a "normal" person rather than the crazy girl who studies theology and clearly must protest with the Westboro Baptists.
"Come on, just tell me."
As if he could read the shame that I usually try to deny having about my field of study.
"A theology of women.... in leadership."
The checkout, which seemed to last forever, had enough time to identify my graduate school and current program, as well as my doctoral hopes and my vocational plans to move into the academy once I (finally) finish all my schooling. And then he asked me the question that I thought only pastors asked, "Teaching? Why not go into the field, go into ministry?"
Why not go into ministry?
If you only knew, inquisitive cashier, if you only knew how many times I ask that same question. If you only knew that I struggle to write my statement of purpose because they want to know my post-doctoral vocation plans and I have no idea of what to say. If only you knew that I spent Sunday evening at a dinner for pastor-theologians asking the men who run the program what space there was for women like me in ministry. If you only knew how many times I've said, "If I were a man, I'd know my place." If only you knew.
So I apologize for my blank stares as you asked me the question that is reverberating in my brain. I apologize for leaving the store without a good bye or a thank you, just a receipt and a bag of groceries. I walked into the store thinking it was a safe space to ignore the questions that overwhelm me, and ironically, you, dear stranger, reminded me of the worlds that I am torn between.
So to answer the question I left lingering at the register: Why not ministry? Simply, because I'm not ready to accept that option yet.

Funeral Flowers

Westminster Larger Catechism: Question 84.  Should all men die?
Answer: Death being threatened as the wages of sin, it has been appointed unto all men once to die; for that all have sinned.

A man asked one of my pastors if Presbyterians believed in funerals. He had been at Covenant for a few months, and had yet to hear us mention a death or funeral. With this void, he assumed that Presbyterians had a faux pas about death, and simply ignored the subject matter.
If that man would have waited a month, he would have heard his answer.
"Pray for the Wierenga family as they mourn the loss of their daughter, Alaina."
"Pray for Sherri and Phil Brendenberg as they mourn the loss of their son, Kirk in their fifth month of pregnancy."
"Pray for Kevin, Eve, Megan and Collin as they mourn the loss of their son and brother, Aidan."
Three funerals. Six weeks. All children.

With the first death, I cried uncontrollably. I called friends for advice on insignificant details on the death announcement as to avoid actually thinking about two week old Alaina's death. I spent 4 hours picking out the right flower arrangement for the funeral, settling on a bouquet of lilies.
By the second, I grew calloused. I bought 5 kinds of gray card stock for the memorial service. I sent flowers to the couple's home, vibrant yellow and orange ones, fitting what I knew of their design aesthetic.
By the third, I simply asked questions. I grew weary. I knew not what to say. I order an arrangement of white flowers.

I went to Aidan's funeral. I may not have known him, but I knew that being present for my church body was important. I sat in the back, with my purse full of tissues. I accepted the closure that the funeral brought and moved on.

Shortly after Aidan's funeral, Ryan started coming by the church office to play the piano. Ryan was undergoing chemo treatments for cancer. The pain was so intense that he had left his job. On his good days, he stop by to practice his favorite piano pieces. Some weeks, I'd see him every afternoon. Other weeks, his absence would be noticeable. Near the end of December, he sent me a playlist of his favorite piano pieces. It took me several weeks to get around to playing it, but when I returned to Chicago from Christmas, I was excited to share with my him my favorites, to ask him to play me "A Song of Simplicity" by Elijah Boseenbroek.

I returned to the announcement of his death. In my absence, he had moved home into hospice care and soon died. I sent the family a plant.

Westminster Shorter Catechism: Question 37.What benefits do men receive from Christ at death?
Answer: The souls of believers are at their death made perfect in holiness and do immediately pass into glory; and their bodies, being still united in Christ, do rest in their graves, till the resurrection.

Cutting My Losses: Mid-semester Thoughts on Graduate Education

I wanted to be a professor since before I knew the word for it. As a child, I wanted to teach and the older I got, the more certain I was that full-time academics were for me. I wanted a PhD and while my field of choice changed the ambition never did. I was determined to be a doctor, determined to publish profound articles and shape young minds.
On the first day of graduate orientation, I told a peer that I wanted to get my Ph.D in theology or teach third grade. I told her that the verdict was still out, that I wasn't sure which age range God had gifted me to serve.
The verdict is still out. Although I wear the hat of a professor on Monday nights, teaching 19 year olds about philosophy, I refuse to sign my emails as "Professor Atkinson" and instead simply maintain my student identity as "Larissa Atkinson." I refuse to look at schools for doctoral research, despite the fact applications are due in 8 short months. I refuse to write for publication, quit my part time job, pick a research topic. Despite the myriad opportunities to fulfill my lifelong dream, I refuse to move forward in fear that the dream was a mirage, that if I keep going, I will only find myself stranded in the desert with no option but to stay in the desert, letting academia slowly drain the life from me.
Most days, I'm left wondering what happens if my dream is no longer my dream. What becomes of the ambitious child who read encyclopedias for fun when she discovers that the vision of her future life is not a life worth pursuing? If the dream which has defined me is no longer my dream, then what am I aiming for? Where do I turn?
In the midst of this existential angst, I talked with one of my favorite classmates and we commiserated about the difficult material in our class and the rejections he recently received from his second doctoral application process. I said to him, "At some point, doesn't it just feel like academia is a gamble? In the end, the house always wins. A few lucky souls win a large pot and retreat to their high roller suites, but at what point do you realize that won't be you? How many hands do you play before you cut your losses and go home? How many more years of my life do I give before I duck my head in shame and return to where I was before this began?"
That question still remains: When is it time to cut the losses and go home? Do I wait out a good hand, bluff my way through the process, and take each won hand as an indicator of a larger pattern, or do I see a scam when I see one and retreat from the table, never knowing what could have been?

Sabbath

I like the idea of Sabbath keeping. I've taught about it, encouraged those I mentor to embrace the practices, written it on my to-do list.
My body knows it needs it. I invariably need a day off -- my body grows weak, my brain cannot keep up and in order to violate the Sabbath, I must try far too hard with limited results.
Last year, I vowed to take a Sabbath on Friday evenings. I started out well. I went home, grabbed a book, and read for the fun of it. I took time to make a nice dinner that I enjoyed, and to spend time in prayer and Scripture. After 3 hours, I was bored. I made art for my wall. I reorganized my closet. I did laundry. I went to bed with my next day's to-do list completed and felt accomplished.
I talked to my boyfriend the next day, sharing with him all the things I was able to do on my Sabbath. He pointed out that "my Sabbath" failed in one crucial area -- it wasn't a Sabbath.
I still venture these attempts every now and then. I either end up reading school work, of course, for enjoyment's sake, or doing household chores for the good of my roommates. The idea of rest, of doing nothing, is not in my DNA.
This semester, I am teaching at Moody. Part of my agreement is to use this opportunity to grow spiritually, not just improve my teaching ability. I made one of my goals to keep Sabbath, to rest and maintain my focus on God.
The last two Sundays, my computer has simply failed to work when I came home from church. Both weeks, after hours on the phone with tech support, no solution was found and they told me to send it in for repairs. Both weeks, I had fully intended to spend my Sunday writing my lecture for Monday. No computer means no lecture.
Yesterday, I decided to work until the battery completely depleted. It was still running, albeit denying its charge, and I concluded that I would take advantage of the terrific battery life of the machine and use it for the next 4 hours.
As I sat writing about Aristotle and Augustine, prepping illustrations and powerpoints, my roommate, Linsey, stopped by to chat. When I explained my computer frustrations, she jokingly said, "Maybe it's just taking Sabbaths. Maybe it will work tomorrow."It was funny and I  brushed it off continuing to work on the Sabbath.
This morning, after letting my battery drain last night, decided to see if my computer would start. It did. Fully charged, fully functioning,no remnants of yesterday's failures.
My computer insisted on a Sabbath. It wanted a day of rest, a moment away from the fast-paced life I put it through. The irony did not move past me. My computer is better at Sabbath keeping than I am.

First Night

I lost my keys.
My syllabus came out orange instead of white.
I told a student that his answer was incorrect with which he followed, "but I pulled it straight out of your notes."
I forgot the answer to the question I was asking.
I left part of my lecture notes behind.
I had the wrong cord to connect my computer to the smart desk.
I didn't know how to turn off the light.

The night is over and I am amazed at how quickly 3 hours goes by from the front of the class (and how dry my throat can get!). It's going to be a long semester, but an amazing one. My students are fantastic. Quite a few seemed to engage with the class material and show an interest in learning. The remainder are respectful, albeit skeptical. I've got a tough task on my hand to make philosophy accessible to them. Hopefully, I can be faithful in seeking out answers for them and guiding them to the truth.
I'm a little overwhelmed, very scared, but thankful for the support I have. I came home to find a bouquet of flowers, an apple, some chocolate and a card addressed to Prof Atkinson from my roommate, Linsey. It brought a smile to my face and will again when I feel insufficient or overwhelmed.

I learned about a third of their names.
They left understanding the correct version of modus ponens and modus tollens (although, for a whiel there, I wasn't sure they would).
I made them feel comfortable with me.
I found my keys.

On Epiphany

I knew of Ryan long before I knew him. He was mentioned every Thursday morning in staff prayer as we prayed for healing for the men in our church who were undergoing chemotherapy for rampant cancer. I knew his name but not his face. His troubles, but not his hopes.
He stopped by the church one afternoon and asked to play the piano. I helped him make himself at home at the baby grand which sat in the cold sanctuary, where we did not run heat during the week. I offered him a space heater, recommended a jacket and turned on the stage lights before heading back into my office on the other side of a thin wall from where the piano sat.
One day, the cold in the sanctuary gave him a bloody nose, so he sat in my office with a box of tissues, embarrassed. We talked about our eclectic music tastes, his diverse musical skills and my utter lack of them, and we became friends.
He came in often. A few months prior, the treatments had become so harsh on his body that he simply could not work. The weeks alternated between his treatment and his piano playing. I grew accustom to hearing "Breathe" by Greg Maroney for hours each day. I told him I admired his playing, and he offered to send me a list of his favorite piano songs.
It took me a month to list to it all, not because it was long, but because I rarely choose instrumental songs in the office. Last Wednesday, on my first day back to work after the holidays, I sent him an email telling him that I finally listened to his list and giving him my favorites.
The next morning, at staff prayer, I learned Ryan had moved home. In the two weeks since I had been in the office, Ryan's tumors had grown. The cancer was pressing against his internal organs and causing him immense pain. The doctors said it was time for hospice.
Hospice. Where people go to die. Where people go when all hope is lost and the end is near.

Epiphany. The day the historical church celebrates together the kingship of Jesus. The culmination of the Christmas season, in which we celebrate the life of Christ and all that he has done for us. We cheer together as a church that light has overcome darkness and that the hope of the Messiah is present with us.
My church is liturgical; therefore, each year we celebrate Epiphany. We talk about the Magi, the bearing of gifts, and the hope that this truth gives us. This year, we still did these things. We still sang "We Three Kings" on our way out of church and talked about the nations coming to worship their king. We also talked about Ryan. We talked about death and fear and sadness. We talked about loss, about young life, about cancer. Pastor Jeff mentioned Ryan's faith, his willingness to see what God had in store for him, without anger or resentment. He talked about Ryan's way of rejoicing in the Messiah on his deathbed.
We printed in the bulletin, one of his drawings which he made for our Advent theme this year. It is a picture of an open door, shining a bright light into darkness, and a crowd of people standing in the back. Some are choosing to enter the light while others remain in darkness. Ryan has chosen the light.
Rev 4:1 -- "After this I looked, and behold, a door standing open in heaven! And the first voice, which I had heard speaking to me like a trumpet, said, "Come up here, and I will show you what must take place after this."