Jane Austen quiz:

Amanda

Thanks for the fun quiz! Here's my results for which Jane Austen character I am:

Take the Quiz here!

Starbucks announcement

I just want to bring it to everyone's attention that for a limited time, your local Starbucks in Taiwan is now offering the Red Bean Frappuccino. Enjoy!

The PK's life

I'm a PK. That means Preacher's Kid. That's who I am. It's who my father was as well. And his father. I think it's why I had it a bit easier than other PK's. I didn't rebel when I reached my teens, because I didn't need to. I was a preacher's kid.

PK's have a reputation. It can be said much of it is deserved. It can also be said that DK's (deacon's kids) don't receive half the credit they should. It takes two, if you know what I mean. (Well, on second thought, it doesn't, but it does if you want your mischief to be organized and effective in any way, shape or form.)

So here's the thing. PK's have the reputation of being trouble, and in my case it was true. But in retrospect, I think this had less to do with trying to get into trouble (except in those organized, effective circumstances) and more to do with just feeling at home at church. While for some, the building holds an atmosphere of reverence, for me it was a great place for hide and seek or tag.

See, being a PK meant being at church on weekdays and Saturdays or hanging around after church. It also meant staying after and entertaining ourselves during "quick" or urgent counseling sessions. It was never something I hated. I enjoyed being there. It really was a home away from home.

Where trouble began was when that playfulness translated itself to the actual church service. This was something my friends didn't seem to understand. It just didn't sound as bad when they got in trouble in church. Once, when I was a little too involved in gabbing with a friend, I heard a voice from the pulpit say, "I know two girls who are going to be in big trouble if they don't settle down!" How ominous is that?

I used to sit behind a bald guy in church and pretend the light reflecting off of his head was the sun. We used to make faces at babies to get them to cry. Or hand them keys to play with. The poor parent didn't know what to do. If they took the keys away, they would cry, if they didn't, well, they were jingling keys in a quiet church.

Once, my friend brought a handful of poprocks in church with her. Her hand started sweating, the poprocks started popping, and we were reduced to a giggling mess.
Sometimes we would laugh so hard, the entire pew would shake. Then, of course, that made us laugh harder. And everything is funnier when you aren't allowed to laugh. Think of the Seinfeld episode when Jerry put a Tweetie Pez dispenser on Elaine's lap during a piano concert. It's like that.

It was usually after times like these that I was restricted to the front row, piano side, because my mom played the piano. She could semi keep and eye on me. Then there were the times when more serious punishment was needed. Some strategies were developed during those times. Like not talking on the way home from church. It reminded the parents that we were there.

I used to wear shorts under my dress so I could play tag after church with my friends. I wore those along with my red tennis shoes. Did mom really think I wouldn't run? I got a spanking once for playing hide and seek and hiding in the baptistry. It was a great hiding place. It took my parents a LONG time to find me. Of course, when I heard the tone of their voices, there was no way I was going to come out saying "Ollie, Ollie oxen freeee."

Yeah. PK's don't have it the easiest. But we have a good time. And we tend to see church a little bit differently than the average person. Overall, I'd say it's a good life.

*The Eclectic Life contest*

Faces and Hands

Anna, over at her site, was able to capture two of my favorite subjects in a picture: faces and hands. She was riding a bus in London and captured an old Sikh man she met along the way. The pictures are stunning...please go take a look.

I mentioned on her blog that I like to see pictures of faces and hands, and promised to post a few of my favorites. Old people are a particularly favorite subject, because the lines in their faces show so much character. I really don't think I'm going to be the kind of person who nips and tucks wrinkles. They speak so much about a person's life, and in the end, they will tell my story, I think.

Hands show a lot about a person as well. While I admire pretty hands, the ones that capture my attention are the ones that tell a story. The hands with the tattoos (above) are interesting because they tell which village this person belongs to. If she were ever taken captive, anyone who rescued her would know where she belonged. The smaller hands are of particular interest to me. They are worn and shabby, with years of hard labor represented in them. The kicker is that they belong to a 10 year old girl.

Keyless

My friend and I had a conversation about keys today, and it seemed a blog-worthy conversation. She's finishing out her life here in Taiwan, and is heading to an exciting new adventure to work on her Master's in Scotland. Let me just say, because it has nothing to do with our conversation, that she will be missed. She has the character to leave a place better off than when she came, deserved or not. You have to admire that.

Anyway, about our conversation. She commented that she now has one key to her name, and that is to her house in the states. All other keys have been dispensed: scooter key, apartment key, classroom key, desk key...all are gone. It's a strange feeling, being keyless. I remember when we came overseas the first time. I had a really hard time with being keyless, and it surprised me. It wasn't the keys themselves...they were bulky and bothersome. It's the ownership they represent. The responsibility. So when you are suddenly keyless, there is a sense of letting go. It is transition in it's most basic form, at least for me. It's the moment that hits me: I'm moving on. No key to open the front door of the house. No key to lift the trunk to put groceries in the car. No key to open the classroom door or set up my desk for the day.

Funny how something so small can represent so much. I had about a day of pondering about my keys, then I was given an amazing sense of freedom. Freedom from stuff. It's fun knowing you can do much more when not encumbered by earthly things. Don't get me wrong...things are great. But once you're keyless, you begin to see how much time and energy is spent caring for stuff, and what a small amount of time is spent on the things that matter. In the end, stuff will just be passed around to loved ones. The influence and impressions we leave on our loved ones mean much more.

So this post is for my keyless friend, Sabrina, and her new freedom as she travels abroad. She came, she saw, she transformed, and she moved on.

Blessings!

Keys

I've got something to say about keys. I can't blog about it now, but I just wanted to remind myself.:)

Thoughts on Worship

Anyone can worship, and look like they are worshiping. True worship takes place outside of church, in our daily lives and work. Honoring God in our daily lives is where true worship begins. Call it the rubber meeting the road. Those moments in time when we make our choices....choices that enable us to honor God and his Word as He works in our lives, or choices to do otherwise for other reasons; The recognition that our lives are testimony to how other's see Christ. It is this life lived that enables us to come to church and pour our hearts into worship: singing, learning, listening.

Worship is more than just an hour or so of singing each week.