After All

23 Apr 2013 1 Comment

by nataliaria in Kiddos, Parental, Swimming, Work

It’s been raining all day and I wore TOMS to work, only to take them off halfway back to the train and walk barefoot through mud puddles all the way to the train stop.

I worked this evening and sometimes my tired, my impatience slips through more than I’d like it to, and I get to the end of the day and it worries me: do these little athletes know that I love them?

I write about what is important to me, what is on my mind, but the end of the semester is occupying so very much of my thoughts, I worry about sounding repetitive.

It’s as dark as a room in the city with no curtains can be, and I’m lying here listening to the hallway, creating this post on my phone.

I saw the mother for seven minutes this afternoon and she gave me a purple umbrella, two clementines, and a box of crackers and I dutifully used that umbrella all the way back to the train (barefoot though I was) and I ate the clementine between the Argyle and Berwyn stops on the Red Line; saved the crackers for later.

I stopped for a moment in the entryway at the pool, talked with the little swimmers waiting there. And one little boy- Tommy, six years old, buzz cut- wrapped his arms around my waist all of a sudden, which shouldn’t have surprised me because his sister, all dimpled smile and grow-up teeth, she told me before that I’m his favorite, anyway.

And I rubbed his fuzzy head and thought, “Maybe they do know how much they’re loved after all. Maybe it’s really just fine.”

It’s all gonna be just fine, after all.

~Natalia

Pool Mornings

17 Feb 2013 1 Comment

by nataliaria in Kiddos, Swimming, Work

It was only two mornings spent on the pool deck with these small athletes. Nothing out of the ordinary, really; we have meets that last much longer all the time, and I’ve spent many more consecutive hours at that particular pool. But these two morning felt settled, felt like routine, and there must have been something significant about them because I’ve spent the rest of the day missing it all, just a little bit.

My guys, there’s eight of them this weekend. Four little girls and four little men. They’re all on one end, one little section, of these cold metal bleachers, and they’re all sitting in the same seats, too. The littlest girl and the smallest boy, they sit in the front. I suppose that’s good because small people are easier to walk past, in this narrow passage between seats and pool. They’re sitting there because their backpacks are there, but they’re really not sitting at all. They stand and they watch and they cheer and they jump, but they do very little sitting.

The girl, she’s a doll, but I’d say that about all these children, wouldn’t I? Deep, bright, baby blue eyes, and blonde hair, too. But you can’t see that because she asked me to put her swim cap on at 9 in the morning, and she’s not taken it off. She’s lost two teeth, the bottom two teeth, and they’ve grown back in white and jagged- the natural bumps on new adult teeth not yet worn down. I know her teeth because I see them frequently because this sweet, tiny bundle of energy, she smiles. She smiles sitting, she smiles standing. She grins and she glows and she’s so small, I picked her up off the diving block and set her down gentle on the pool deck; she dives better from there, anyway.

The little guy next to her, well, he’s the talking one. Eight years old, I’ve folded his clothes a million times these two days because little boys loose things frequently and it makes me feel motherly to fold his t-shirt, fold his towel, and put them back in his backpack all over again. Life is an adventure no matter how old you are, but it’s especially exciting when you’re in second grade, and I could write a small book about the things this tiny young man’s related to me these past months. Today I’ve heard about the Auto Show and his sister’s ice skating and the time he found out he was on the team. He’s told me about his new swim suit and how he’s going to rinse his goggles free of chlorine and it makes me smile to hear his little voice go.

The one on the end, she’s been around awhile. I’ve seen her grow up just a bit, and she’s almost nine, and I sat on the bleachers because the other two had gone and she stood right there in front and I said proud. I say it because we’re supposed to, and I hope it feels good to hear, but I say it too because they gave an award for the most points scored and you know which little girl won? This one, my girl did. I would have been proud anyway, though. She’s moving up, because children grow up and little ones move on, and I asked another boy, he’s also moving up, if that’s a good or bad thing.

What’s a good thing? He asked- little boys sometimes are rather distracted.

That you won’t see me anymore! It’s not exactly true, though, because their new lanes are beside mine, and their coaches laugh with me in the five feet that separate us, and I’ll see him every day. But he’s not in my group anymore. My kid? Always, they’re all always my little athletes. But they’re growing up and it makes me proud.

But this kid shakes his head and grins a grin that I know, because he knows, too. Sad thing! He exclaims. And I know that it’s been a good time, good meet, good season for them, too.

~Natalia

Didn’t Miss Everything

30 Jan 2013 1 Comment

by nataliaria in Kiddos, Swimming, Work

I coached a swim meet this evening.

Rather a frequent occurrence, although weekday competitions are less common.

Four coaches, 80 athletes, three hours,

it was a fast-paced event.

And that’s good- I’m glad is was well-run,

and that we weren’t dawdling around,

waiting to hurry up and wait some more.

But I didn’t sit down until the end

also means

I wasn’t in the same place very long

also means

I didn’t get to spend much time

with the kiddos tonight.

I saw them, yes. And we communicated, of course. But my words to them were mostly shouted above the general noise of 25 littles gathered around, and it’s hard to make eye contact when they’re all wearing goggles.

I saw them and I spoke with them, but even conversation one on one is short when another of my guys is in the next race, and I barely have time to bend down eye level and offer a high-five and a smile before I’ve straightened my back and am yelling at the next one to put his goggles on and get on the block.

I liked tonight’s short timeline, but the tradeoff was time with little athletes I love interacting with, and I rather like that time.

There were no long breaks, and the usual games and jokes and conversations that characterize time with swimmers and time with other coaches were in short supply tonight: we just didn’t have time. But I was still there, and I still worked and watched and cheered and taught, and I didn’t miss everything.

I didn’t miss little girl, eight years old, she’s still just a little unsure. I can wait behind the blocks with her the first time, but second race is trickier because I need to be elsewhere, so I’ll send a 10-year-old sub instead. And older child is wonderful, and she knows what she’s doing, and she’s holding the younger one’s hand, and she gets her on the block right when she’s supposed to, and I’m so proud of both of them. I’m back and forth up the pool deck, but I’m still watching the child and my little assistant coach, and my heart catches and swells to see that the helper didn’t leave when the child dove in, which I had rather assumed she would.

She cheered and she yelled, and she collected her charge at the end of the pool. She high-fived and she smiled, and the pair appeared in front of me, grinning both. And I congratulate the little, and thank the big, and they’re both done, I think.

But helping hands and gentle, compassionate hearts aren’t finished yet, and this older child, she’s still working, working. She helps younger find backpack, boots, coat, and they hunt up and down, searching for a Hello Kitty towel gone missing. And finally, possessions are claimed and home beckons, and the little hugs the bigger, and it grabs my attention even more because two children just barely introduced, support so well, care so free.

And I was busy, quick at the meet tonight, but I didn’t miss everything.

~Natalia

Jesus In

30 Oct 2012 1 Comment

by nataliaria in College, Family, Friends, God, Grace, Happiness, Home, Kiddos, Little Sisters, Love, Moody Bible Institute, Swimming, Work

I didn’t run around today. Didn’t sprint across campus to get to class on time, to print a paper, or to turn in an exam. I didn’t panic in front of my computer, or scamper from one thing to the next to the third at top speed. I didn’t do any of those things today, but I did quite a bit.

The Roommate and I hop a bus and enjoy a lovely breakfast of pancakes and cinnamon buns, hot chocolate and orange juice. There is catching up and talking, sharing stories and laughing, too.

Mary Queen once said that roommates get into a “rhythm of life” after living together for a while. I wasn’t in the mood or position to believe what she said at the time, but her words stuck with me and I realized recently that she’s right. The Roommate and I swing in and out of the room, the door, the campus, circling around our individual lives and hearts, but we move together, swing together in this little dorm room; we’ve learned to live together and in doing so, we found the rhythm of life.

It’s Moody’s homecoming week, the culmination of which is the flag football game of the year on Friday night. Festivities kicked off on Monday with Moustache Monday, leaving me sitting in Christianity in Western Culture, feet propped on the auditorium seat in front of me, doodling a moustache on the inside of my pointer finger.

Twin Day today, and Chy and I wear our matching dresses, the same dress purchased years before meeting, while living in separate states, with glee. Dresses, jeans, cardigans, and flats; matching, matching, match. It’s fun to take pictures, and to walk around together, but there’s something deeper here, too.

Matching clothes, identical wardrobes on Twin Day, says I know you and we go together and I want you to stick by me. But real community says that, too. Genuine community, the kind that God Himself models in the Trinity, and that we have the blessing to be a part of in the church, and in Christian circles such as Moody, true community says we’re the same in Christ and you belong here with me and I love you because Jesus loves us both.

Class next and an opening prayer and I’m once again glad that I recommended this professor to friends. I’m secretly proud of the small part I have done to spread this professor’s good reputation because I truly respect him. Grey hair and soft eyes and kindness that makes my heart ache with the faint urge to cry.

In between teaching us how to conduct music and explaining dominant 7th chords, he talks of Heaven and hope and eternal joy. He bows his head to pray over the class and words flow as if he never even stopped praying, and I wonder if there’s a God and man conversation going on even as he marks treble and bass clef on the chalkboard.

There’s a need at the pool, a need at work, and I’m momentarily pondering where academics takes precedence and when I should instead value the employment that I’ve poured myself into for six years. I’m not sure what I think about it, but I duck out of class at the break and ten minutes later, I’m standing on a train watching the same classroom building roll by.

So very many athletes and the first group leaves me drained yet somehow energized, too. I hear my instructions, my own yells ringing in my ears, and stop for a second to wonder if the little swimmers know that I care for them. There can be heart in Do and Don’t and Stay and Go, but there isn’t always, and I pull them out to explain.

Maybe they don’t get it, but I’m preaching to my heart just as well. Grace is something undeserved. Grace is that wasn’t done well, but I give you another chance. More yet, grace is I know you can’t do this, and maybe you didn’t even try to do it well, but I choose not to punish you. Grace is love, too, but I’m not sure where one ends and the other begins, so I leave that aside.

The day stretches long, but there’s a stop at home in between work and school, and a kindergartener and a first grader wrap little arms and legs around my own legs. Balancing dinner plate, I stumble around the kitchen, forty pounds of sister love clinging to my leg. They have gifts and surprises and stories to tell and they’re making me think of Jesus, even as they accidentally pants me with their hugs.

I think of Jesus because I want to run to Him just like they run to me, sticky bare feet pounding down the hallway when they hear the front door click. I want to shout His name and full-out body slam into Him, too. I want to hang on Him and talk to Him and show Him what I’ve done, and hear His voice, too.

I didn’t run around today, but I was around. I went and I came and I moved and I saw and when I sat down tonight, I looked up and looked back, and I saw Jesus in the day.

~Natalia

Why I’ll Teach

20 Sep 2012 4 Comments

by nataliaria in Beauty, Casa Hogar, Church, God, Grow, Kiddos, Mexico, Moody Bible Institute, Swimming, Teach, Writing

I wrote the following last night, as a part of my application to the Elementary Education program at Moody.

Twelve years old, and it’s Sunday morning. From where I’m sitting in this basement sanctuary, I can see the front; the worship team, the pastor. I can see them, but they’re not all I see. Two rows up, three rows over, even to the very end of the sanctuary, I catch glimpses of the children of the church. Little ones, younger ones, that I’ve known for weeks, months, years. Little ones whose hearts and minds I’ve come to know and love.

An hour later, the service is over and I’m not in the aisle anymore, not seated on the blue padded chair anymore. I’m in the church lobby, a chubby toddler named Emma balanced on my young adolescent hip, her older sister, a lean kindergartener, clutching my hand.

Individuals my age are hard to come by in this church body, but that’s okay; I look up to the college students, relishing the time they spend investing in my life, and I spend my after-church community time where I most want to be: in the children’s classrooms. The adults in my life, starting with my parents, are showing me how to love, how to teach, how to train a heart, and I’m knee-deep in the practical application of the life lessons I’m soaking up from them.

I’m in the Sunday school room, playing and interacting as the children wait for their parents to come collect them. Balanced on a child sized chair, I listen to Isabelle tell me about her craft project, her frizzy braids bobbing up and down in her excitement. A pull on my hand and Elijah fights to capture my attention, his four-year-old cowlick sticking up rather comically from the top of his head. All around me, little ones, precious young ones, are growing and living and learning, and I’m head over heels in love with their hearts, their lives.

Twelve years old and people ask me what I’ll do when I grow up. I don’t know exactly, but something with kids, I tell them. I know it’ll be something with kids.

Years have passed, I may be older now, but my answer has not changed; something with kids. I attend Moody Bible Institute and list myself as a children’s ministry major; there are young ones, growing and developing hearts and minds, all over the world, and when I finish school, I’m going to minister to them. Minister to these children because that’s what I’ve felt called to all my life. That’s what has brought me the greatest joy. I know what I’ll do.

But slowly, another thought begins to take shape. An idea, a vague conviction, that’s been pulling at the back of my consciousness for years now.

The majority of the young ones I interact with daily are no longer church-raised children, but rather young individuals that I coach on the youth swim team, or fatherless children at an orphanage in central Mexico. Some of them have the Holy Spirit working in their hearts, some of them don’t, but they are still growing, still learning. Jesus in their hearts or not, someone is still teaching these children, training their minds, molding the way they think about the world, the other souls they interact with daily; molding the very way they see their Creator.

I’m still deeply entrenched in their lives and stories, I still love them with a love I now recognize only the Lord could give, but something pulls at my heart. These children, Christian or not, need someone to teach them. Their schools are teaching them facts and information, but they’re also teaching them so much more.

Day in, day out, the precious ones here are learning, learning because they are always watching. Watching teachers, watching role models, watching peers. They’re picking up on worldviews that come naturally; humanistic, individualistic ways of thinking, of living. They don’t know the names of the beliefs that they’re subconsciously making their own, but what is being taught explicitly and implicitly in their schools, whether Christian or otherwise, is affecting the way they see the world, the way they see everything.

There’s deep beauty in their own hearts. I didn’t know the word for it when I was 12, but I do now; it’s the image of God. These precious, God-created children bear the image of God in them. It’s what makes them, makes all individuals, beautiful and at the same time deeply tragic. Tragic because this image we bear is a scarred, marred image.

We’re fallen and need for the Redeemer to heal our hearts, to heal the way we think and see.

Does the way children are being taught the world over teach them to see the Redeemer? To see Him in their peers? In the creation we’re utterly surrounded by? In themselves?

I’m fallen and marred, too. I don’t always see the beauty, the Creator, as I should, but part of being a Redeemer is that He chooses to use individuals who are broken, who are marred, and yet who have chosen to serve Him. He chose me, I chose Him, and I choose education. Because these children, these students, need someone to show them the image of the One who made them; someone to show them, and to teach them to see Him everywhere.

~Natalia

Life Jacket

04 Sep 2012 1 Comment

by nataliaria in Games, God, Swimming

I once played a game in a river in Texas. Bobbing up and down in the green-tinted water, encased in yellow plastic life jackets, we counted to three and then dove under the water.

Kicking frantically, pulling at the water with our arms, we fought to get down to the river bottom, struggling against the powerfully buoyant life jackets. We held our breath as long as we could, scrambling to reach the murky bottom and grab hold of anything we could wrap our fingers around before the life jackets won and we popped up to the surface. Panting from the effort, we showed each other our prizes, our proof; a rock, an uprooted piece of seaweed, a handful of sand. And sometimes, an empty hand, raisined finger tips curled around nothing.

I’ve heard it said that Jesus is our rock and that when we get away from Him, when our hearts stray and our minds wander, we’re going downhill. We’re sinking into a valley, falling off a bridge, descending into the depth; we’re going down.

But right now, I’m not scrambling to climb a mountain; I’m not begging God to help me get back up to Him.

No, right now, I’m floating. Today, I float. Bobbing up and down in the river that this life is. It’s too deep to touch the bottom, and I’m not sure if it’s worth the effort to fight against the jacket to get down there.

But I want to be down there.

Somewhere, under the layers of school, relationships, and endless to-do lists that I’ve created to keep myself busy, keep myself marching through life, there’s a safe place. A strong, secure place, resting on the palm of the hand of the very One who made me.

I want to get down there. I want to slip off this life jacket, a neon-colored reminder of my humanity; a brilliantly colored, ever-present reminder that I can’t get myself there on my own.

I want to unclip the life jacket, slip out of its strong, binding, prohibiting grasp, and sink down to where I know I’m known, know I’m secure.

But it’s different, really. Unlike our invented game, I’m not taking a gulp of air before plunging myself into the water, not to breath again until I resurface seconds later. In this life, this reality, down there is where I breathe best; nestled safely in the thick sand of my Father’s hand, His heart.

If I can just get down there, I know I’ll be able to breathe. Be able to give my anxiety, my busy, my to-do, to Him. If I can just get this life jacket off and get down there, I know everything will be okay.

But there’s a little more there, too.

God’s not chilling at the bottom of a river, a solid rock much too heavy for me to lift, for me to raise. He’s not stuck down there and He’s not staying down there.

God is living and active and more involved in your life and in mine than either of us could ever imagine. He comes up, comes to where I am aimlessly, confused, moving in the water as the waves wash over me, pushing me a tad closer to shore, and then pulling me back out again.

He comes up and He smiles. Smiles and beckons me to come back with Him. Come with me, child. Take your life jacket off. Take those worries off, those cares, that fear. Take it off and come with me.

But I can’t, LORD. I tried. I can’t get it off.

He smiles again, maybe He chuckled a little bit, too. I know that. Of course you can’t take it off by yourself- but I can. Let me help you.

And clip, the thing’s off. He knew the load I carried, the worry that pulled me back from Him, and He knew how to take it away, too. He’s the only one who knows all and can do all.

And then I’m free. I’m not plunging my head into the water, fighting violently to make any progress as I struggle desperately to try to get to him.

He comes to me. Comes to you. He comes and reaches out His hand and says, Here, come with me. Let me help you.

And He does.

~Natalia

Bullet Point Post: A La Mexico

09 Jul 2012 4 Comments

by nataliaria in Bullet Point Post, Casa Hogar, Food, Friends, Kiddos, Mexico, Simple, Spanish, Swimming, Teach

• I started English classes today. Teaching, not taking, although I could probably use a couple of classes in this crazy language. One time, while I was living here last winter, after writing a late-night, rather incoherent blog post, Stevy informed me that I was beginning to write as if English were indeed my second language. This was both hilarious and sadly, rather true.

• No, but for real. I spent three hours this morning teaching English to assorted groups at the Casa Hogar. I, and I say this fully aware of the repercussions it may carry, spent most of this time wishing desperately that I actually payed attention when my mother taught English here. Beki tells me that the woman brought in real sugar for them all to sample when she covered baking items. If only I could bring in real jungle animals…

• There was a cockroach in the room that Ana and I share this morning. Now, sitting alone in the dining room, I’m mentally composing lists of all the ways a roach could approach me.

• It’s a long list.

• My day at the Casa Hogar ended with sitting in Cuarto Uno with Ana, Karen, and the oldest girls. We told stories and retold stories and teased each other and laughed until it was 11pm, and suddenly time to go.

• Occasionally, it occurs to me to wonder if I was supposed to be Mexican.

• But then I’d have to deal with more cockroaches.

• I assigned each English class homework and spent half my afternoon sitting on beds doing the very homework I had assigned, while my littlest students looked on in interest.

• Little Rosa asked me again today if I spoke English. The English class having done little to convince her, she devised the hardest test as seven-year-old could to test my fluency: say all the vowels in English.

• To her utter amazement, I passed the test with flying colors.

• I was recruited to teach two classes in this program of activities that Hermana Tere has devised: English, and swimming. Swim class starts on Wednesday, with the oldest girls, and I must say, I’m as interested to see how it unfolds as they are. I’ll be sure to report back after Wednesday.

• I’m Facebook chatting with Carly about simple, and the plausibility of unplugging completely from the cell phone era, and the irony of blogging while fb chatting while my iPhone charges next to me is very nearly too much to bear.

• So, I think I’ll go to bed. Today was English class and kitchen work and friend time, who knows what tomorrow will bring.

~Natalia

Happy I’m Back

05 Jul 2012 2 Comments

by nataliaria in Casa Hogar, Family, Friends, Kiddos, Mexico, Sleep, Swimming, Travel

The plane jolts, shaking slightly up and down, and I’m awake. My neck is stiff and my hand is asleep from leaning on it. We’re in the middle of the clouds; my view out the window is white and puffy, as if I woke up just as the plane passed through a gigantic cotton ball.

Leaning back in my seat, I watch the window absently. After what seems like a while, the white fluff on the other side of the double-layer window gives way to blue sky, and leaning forward in my seat, I can make out the green and brown checkerboard below me. A mountainous Mexican landscape peppered with a heavy layer of tan dust.

I’m in line at immigration, clutching my passport and immigration papers in one hand, and fiddling with my shirt with the other. In the pause between airplane sleepiness and pushing 100 pounds of luggage through customs, I’m suddenly nervous. Pressing my hand to my chest in an incredibly futile attempt to stop the pounding, I’m suddenly possessed with the worry that no one is coming to pick me up.

But then I’ve traded my immigration paper for a tiny slip indicating that I can leave the country legally (No te vayas a perder la hoja, ok?) and somehow managed to drag my suitcases through the final sliding door. And two seconds of confusion, and then Manuelito is greeting me and relieving me of one of my 50-pound burdens.

Out to the van and more hugs, more kisses, and how are you, how is the family, how was the flight?

We’ve barely driven out of the airport parking lot when I realize little Beki, sitting in front of me, is wearing a swim shirt and shorts. Going swimming? I ask her, smiling as I wait for her response. A chuckle ripples through the van and Hermana Tere glances back at me in the rearview mirror: Everyone is already at the pool! We’re going straight over!

And then we’re at the house with the pool, and 35 kids are splashing around and I’m hugging beloved people that I haven’t seen in almost exactly six months. And Viri and Samanta climb out of the little kiddy pool and offer wet cheeks for me to kiss, and Lupe is called over to say hello, and Norberto is squirting me in the face with a squirt gun.

And lunch had, I’ve changed into swimming clothes, and we’re jumping in and out and I’m not sure how more than thirty people are functioning so well in this little pool. But there’s buckets, too, and some of the big kids are using them to dump water on Hermana Deysi and Hermana Lulu and Hermana Tere. Then, blink, they’re in the water and the kids are laughing and cheering and so much splashing.

And we’re back at the house, tucked into warm, dry clothes, and it feels just like the home it’s always been. Have some tea, here’s a drawer for your clothes, you need some closet space? Did you get dinner?

And Manuelito, Beki, Ana and Karen, siblings I lived with, played with, worked with, last winter, are sitting around watching a late-night movie, and I’m blogging, and tomorrow will be another day with kids and challenges and fun.

I’m happy to be back.

~Natalia

This is Summer {#12}

26 May 2012 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in Swimming, This is Summer, Work


I’ve spent so many days
at such places as this pool
smells like chlorine- yum!

~Natalia

Swimmy

26 Mar 2012 1 Comment

by nataliaria in Bible, Purpose, Realizations, Swimming

Remember when my life was like a circle chart, except all the colors and ideas kept swirling together and overlapping and I couldn’t for the life of me get a grip on which part of my life was which?

I’m experiencing a similar dilemma.

I sat down to write a minute or two ago, and paused a moment to consider what my life is like right now; what word or phrase or image or idea sums up me right now. And then I was absent-mindedly typing the word “swimmy” into the “Enter title here” space, and I knew exactly what my life was like.

I feel a bit like a fish. Not an intelligent or attractive fish, mind you, but rather like a wind-up, plastic, toy fish. I’m little and small and a bit fuzzy and I’m not going anywhere. In fact, I’m going gently in lopsided circles. I’m not lost, and the water’s not murky- it’s brilliantly blue and feels sterilized, like a swimming pool. No, lostness is not the issue; goal-less-ness is.

If only I could get a hold of some greater purpose, if only I could wrap my little fins around some higher goal, then maybe I could swim straight. Then maybe I would feel more like a determined seal than a mindlessly swimming goldfish.

So I tried out a couple different goals.

Spending the next several weeks of school expending copious amounts of energy for the purpose of doing phenomenally well in all my classes sounds great, but “A”s in and of themselves are not something to swim for; there must be more.

So I thought about spending the final weeks of this school year throwing myself body and soul into my relationships with friends. This is most definitely something I want to do more and more; I value my friends very much and want to bless them like they bless me, and be involved in their lives.

But no matter how much I love them, and how big a part of my life they are, friends can’t possibly be the reason to move in this life.

I kept going. Trying out goals and purposes and reasons to move. School, friends, work, Mexico, home, church, Bible study- I considered the various facets of my life. But each part, each slice of my life, was just that: a slice.

No one part of my life is anything more than a part. I’m not going to find an ultimate reason to move and swim and do and go in any limited aspect of this life that I live day in and day out.

Just like the circle chart whose colors refuse to stay inside the lines, so my life, my reasons, my goals, can hardly be sectioned off into segments and areas, each with its own purpose, its own meaning.

It doesn’t work like that.

Because school doesn’t make sense without church and church is not church without friends and friends are not such friends if I take away the Bible, and so on. Everything is connected here, and there’s no easy answer for this fish.

I’m spinning slowly around, trying hard to get a steady foothold on anything, something to push off of and be on my way. But I’m not going to find a foothold, a reason, a purpose to move for, in any one bit of my life. Rather, the answer is in the whole thing.

When I piece together each aspect of my life, watching them slide into place, connecting with one another as they were meant to, that’s when I’ll find reasons, that’s where I’ll find the push to go forward.

I still feel a bit like a fish, and I think I’m still swimming in a bit of a circle, but I know where to look now for the reason to go, the push to swim straight ahead, and it’s not in school or friends or home or work; it’s in all of these put together.

~Natalia

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