Before Facebook

I was having fun trawling through some of my old posts on "Across the Pond", the blog I kept for several years in England for the Chicago Sun-Times, and enjoying being transported to the Stephanie from 5 years ago.

But then I discovered that on this very blog I can access archives from its earliest days, going back all the way to 2005. 2005! That Stephanie was only 26 years old! I was amazed to discover I'd posted 35 entries in 2005 and wondered what on earth I'd found of enough import to post so frequently. It seems that, these days, I am only tempted to post on here if I have the energy to write a literary essay and the appropriately themed subject matter that is vulnerable but not too vulnerable for public display.

So I eagerly click on 2005 to see what exciting topics consumed the Stephanie of 9 years ago. And I find entries about the new Harry Potter novel ("The Half-Blood Prince", to be precise), an update on my visit to the allergist after my anaphyactic scare, a picture of wedding dress to be worn in my brother's upcoming wedding, an annoyed entry about wanting to watch "The Thin Man" but having no access to the DVD player in my apartment. In short, they were mundane, somewhat entertaining entries about not much at all. It's extremely rewarding for me to get a glimpse of my daily life from my 20s, in the years when I was a journalist and before all of the life changes that came with a move to England. But they're not exactly earth shattering.

In 2006 I had 70 entries. 2007 started off well, with 47 and then they simply drop off. The big death knell to my personal blogging life (my professional blogging life carried on for years with "Across the Pond") was Facebook. Yes, in May 2007 I joined Facebook, which hadn't been open long to the general public. I remember being dubious about it but being talked into it by my dear friend Sus Montgomery, now Susanna March, back when she was the yin to my yang and we spent most of our free time together (in the days before husbands!)

It's hard to remember a life before Facebook. A friend and I were reminiscing the other day how the early years of Facebook seemed to be all about apps (did we call them apps? I feel like apps is a new-fangled word) where you could install a fish tank on your page, for instance, and your friends would all buy you fish for it. Then there was the Scrabulous craze. Then the Notes. Remember when we all wrote Facebook Notes, because the status update tool only let you use 100 characters?

I remember when our moms and grandmas started joining Facebook, and being relieved at how much easier it was to keep in touch with everyone with this new tool after moving abroad. And I remember when Twitter started, being appalled at the idea that each tweet had to be 40 characters or less (I'm still a little appalled, actually. I have a Twitter account but there is a conspicuous lack of tweets from me).

Nine years ago, when I first started this blog, I don't think the term social media even existed. Now it determines our lives. I, and many others, have benefited from tools like LeechBlock, which help to curtail time spent on social media and other time-wasting sites. Social media has become such a part of our lives that a Dutch college student recently faked a monthlong trip to Thailand in order to prove that what we put online can be absolutely contrived (reminiscent of one my very favorite episodes of Miranda, I must admit. Trouser press, anyone?)

I love social media. I am inspired by it, I connect with it, I use it very often for work and I keep in touch with interesting people and much loved family members and friends through it. But it's worthwhile to step back every so often and to try to remember a world without it. A world where a frustrated writer, say, a former features journalist who is very happy in her current job but who still misses the world of the printed word, can write about the mundane things of life on her very own, very old fashioned but very trusty blog.

Dream Home

Lately I dream about homes.

I don’t just mean this in the touchy-feely where one’s heart is kind of way (like I wrote about in this post for the Sun Times 5 years ago). I mean it in the structural, bricks and mortar kind of way.

Two years ago, on April 16, 2012, we found out we’d be moving from Nottingham to Chicago, with just three months to make it happen. You’d think finding a new home would be a high priority but we were far too consumed with more urgent details, such as getting our English flat ready to put on the market and applying for Andrew’s visa.

One panicked July evening, when we realized we were about to be homeless, we scribbled a list of our temporary dream apartment would be like. I phoned an Evanston landlord I’d rented from in my Single Girl in the City days and 10 minutes later we’d lined up a place that ticked off each item on our list: a 2-bedroom vintage apartment close to transit, my work, Chicago & Evanston. It was dog friendly, only one flight up so we could get in a piano, would be ready right when we arrived and miracle of miracles, was under $1,000 a month. I’d lived in the building from 2004-2005 and liked it, and the landlord didn’t require a credit check since he remembered me. A few days later my heat-hating English husband researched Chicago summer temps, which led right into research on air conditioners, but the very next day our landlord emailed to say he’d installed a window unit, which still ranks as one of most powerful experiences we’ve had of realizing there really is a Big Guy up there, one who not only knows the number of hairs on our heads but also that we wanted an air conditioner. Finding our Evanston apartment was by far the easiest part of our international move.

We negotiated a 6-month lease, thinking that as soon as our Nottingham flat sold we’d buy our first-ever house. I couldn’t wait to have a garden, and Andrew scoured the real estate listings daily. But, as anyone who lived through the next 18 months with us knows, our UK flat wouldn’t sell. First one sale fell through, then another, then the third and final offer dragged on for months, draining our bank account and credit and providing constant real world opportunities to practice faith, which is not as fun as it sounds.

Our flat finally sold just before Christmas last year, and we certainly celebrated. But we also mourned, for we knew as we paid off all that had accrued during that difficult year and a half that we were saying goodbye to any imminent dreams of homeownership.

Nearly two years on we are still in that apartment we got in a 10-minute international call.

Don’t get me wrong, I love it here. I really do. Andrew and I have built countless marriage memories here over board games, cups of tea, meandering conversations that would bewilder a bystander but which make perfect sense to us, and plenty of healthy Regester arguments, in which we’ve learned not to shout for fear the neighbors might anonymously slide marriage counselor brochures under the door. We’ve decorated each available space, I’ve got plants in every corner and I’ve even managed, Brother Lawrence-style, to find a certain peace in the hours spent over the sink in our dishwasher-free kitchen. (I’m still working on maintaining my calm, however, whilst trying to cook a big dinner with only a few feet of counter space and very specific appliance usage combinations to prevent a blown fuse).

We’ve trained and raised a puppy in this place and we all three survived the Great Polar Vortex of 2014 here, even when the outside air nosedived and stayed there for months on end, and I resorted to exercising Lizzy with a laser pointer in the communal basement until the lady above asked me to stop.

We’ve hosted more than a dozen houseguests in our apartment, with lots more coming this summer to take advantage of our much-mended air mattress. Andrew has recorded songs and taught piano, I’ve held small groups here and spent hours curled up on the sofa watching HGTV. At our second annual St. Patrick’s Day party more than 60 guests crammed into our home, although thankfully not all at once, and the apartment lived to tell the tale. I love that I can clean our apartment from top-to-bottom in only an hour or two, and with each passing month the closets and drawers get just a little bit more organized.

But the thing is, I didn’t think we’d still be here.

Two years ago on April 16 I walked home from the corner shop in the fragrant English spring evening air, my eyes on the River Trent across the road and the international mobile to my ear as I told my dad in awed tones that I’d been offered a job at the Evanston Vineyard church and that we were about to move to America. My mind was full of possibilities that night. It felt like a deep sea change had occurred and that, finally, our lives were about to really take off.

If you’d told me then we’d still be in the same stage of life, that of a newish young married couple without children, whose social lives line up more with our 20something friends than those our own age, I don’t think I’d have believed you. I’d have pointed out the advantages of a steady job and our good financial position as homeowners; I’d have talked about new opportunities and building on the foundation of our first two years of marriage. While our marriage has certainly been strengthened, in practical matters it’s easy to say we’ve gone back a step. We’ve gone from being homeowners with two cars to renters whose only asset is a little car of dubious quality. Careers have been challenged and goals are crystallizing through the change, but we’re by no means certain yet what God’s master plan may be.

Certain items have been packed away these two years that we thought we’d use in our own home, such as a roll of designer purple vine wallpaper we bought in Nottingham but decided not to hang in the flat’s bedroom (after papering the dining room nearly sent Andrew into apoplexy), along with other decorative and practical items that now live in storage down in the basement.

We have other things packed away, too, though they are in a metaphorical storage, items like baby names and activities and routines we’ve dreamed up for our future family. Four years ago we thought we’d need them soon, two years ago we hoped their need was imminent. They still live in storage, filed away in our imaginations under “Someday.”

I’ve had visions of buying secondhand furniture and giving it new life, of painting and picking out backsplash tile and growing my own tomatoes and planting spring bulbs when the autumn leaves fall (perhaps I need to curtail my HGTV). I still hang on to the idea of a semi-permanent guest space, where visitors from the UK and other parts of America can come stay with us for longer than a few days, and I still hope for a front door that easily swings open to admit neighbors and kids and their friends and their parents, and single folks from the church who want a taste of family life, and young couples who want to laugh and learn from our mistakes. I see community breezing in and out of my kitchen as I cook dinner and pop the kettle on, and then on again as we get distracted by chatting and I forget all about making the tea until the water has cooled.

Over the last few months Andrew and I have talked often about moving, explored a few possibilities and hit just as many dead ends. It seems clear that this apartment—and its limitations—are where we are meant to be. At least for now. And if God has given me an assignment for what feels like extended young adulthood then it is to suck all of the joys and pleasures out of this life stage while we can because somehow, someway, someday it will surely end.

So for now we continue to enjoy life in our little apartment. Lizzy still runs from the front windows to back to watch the dogs go by in the morning and evening, we still pull out the air mattress and rearrange the study furniture to fit it in when visitors arrive. I’ve bought another flower basket this growing season to hang from the tree at the very edge of my building’s property, where I can see it from my kitchen window, the purple petunias spilling over the edge just visible as I wash the dishes by hand.

We use our extra time as a couple to go downtown for free concerts or hang out at the local pub with our single friends, or we stay in and play games or watch “Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.”, “Downton Abbey” and “Call the Midwife” together. Andrew writes songs by the bucketful and I devour books, novels and non-fiction and poetry. And I still keep watching HGTV and storing up home decorating and home renovating ideas, just in case. Because you just never know.

Go Team Regester!

Last night I Skyped with Jenny, a dear friend from junior high days. Regular Skype dates have bridged the distance between us, although Jenny lives in Japan and I am now in Chicago. And, in typical Jenny fashion, she has started assigning me deep questions to ponder and homework to complete during the weeks between our Skype dates.

This time around it was reading Rachel Held Evans excellent bestseller "A Year of Biblical Womanhood." We liberal-minded, feminist evangelical girls both found much to love in the book, but Jenny in particular liked the fact that the author's husband Dan will call out, "Go Team Dan and Rachel" when something good happens for them. She was surprised to hear that Andrew and I already have a similar habit. Very occasionally, one or the other of us will announce a celebratory "Go Team Regester" after a good morning leading youth ministry together, or hosting friends for a fun meal, or even when we sneakily beat our entire small group at Mafia (as the Mafia) a few months ago.

Tonight I am sitting in my armchair surveying our home with a contented air. This morning I was despairing and depressed over our apartment's untidiness, but Andrew and I worked together to tackle the mess. Now our floors gleam, the kitchen is sparkling, the rubbish bins are empty, the laundry is humming in the basement tumble dryers, the fridge is full of healthy food, and I was even able to free the furniture of all dog hair, thanks to Andrew's help working out how to use the extendable arm on our secondhand Dyson. Lizzy, our 10-month-old shepherd mix puppy, is asleep at my feet, worn out and contented after a day when "mummy" and "daddy" alternated taking her out to play in the snow and giving her plenty of treats and cuddles indoors. Like Lizzy, I feel peaceful and contented. All is right with the world. Go Team Regester!

The truth, though, is that all is not right with the world. Not with the world at whole, and certainly not with this Regester world. We have big questions and concerns, major financial stress due to our unsold UK flat, and ongoing visa issues. We are still transitioning to life in America, to leading a ministry together, and to dealing with the many changes of the last 8 months. Although so much is going well on this side of the pond, particularly the middle school ministry that we moved here to lead, I am more and more frequently having to fight off a feeling of dread. I know this is normal and only to be expected after living through so much change in such a short time, and now living under such a daily strain. In the last two days, both Jenny and my youth work mentor have reminded me of the simple, powerful weight of breath prayers and last night I prayed "Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner" as I drifted off to sleep.

This morning when I awoke and saw my sleeping husband beside me, I was filled with new hope. This journey has put pressure on our marriage, of course, but it has also brought us together in a new and profound way. More and more, we really are becoming Team Regester. I can be strong when Andrew needs encouragement, and when I start to crumble into a ball of weepy stress he takes over and is strong for the two of us. We have laughed together, argued together, adventured together, been sad together, and even been lonely together since we boarded that one-way fight on our second wedding anniversary last August. People on a team don't always agree, sometimes they don't even want to be around each other, but in the end they pull together and rediscover that chemistry that makes them a powerful, winning team. At our wedding, my uncle said in his sermon that Andrew and I were like two Clydesdales. Individually we'd both become quite independent, strong and dominant, but that now it was time to work together. There would be struggle and pain and frustration and even ridiculous laughter as we learned to operate as one but, in the end, we'd be able to pull exponentially more weight as a pair than separately.

The two and a half years since Andrew and I were married have certainly been eventful, but its only since August that I've really begun to feel like we are becoming those Clydesdales, whether it comes to something as simple as cleaning our home or as major as weathering an international move and dual career change. And so, although we still have many questions, many burdens, many stresses and strains, I wouldn't have missed the journey so far for anything. Go Team Regester!

The Writer Awakes

My heart, huh?

My heart.

Hmmmm.....

As a quick browse through these blog archives will show, I used to be quite the blogger. Before blog days, I was quite the emailer. A quick stop on my Facebook page will show that I am still quite the Facebooker. I love to chronicle stories, moments, share ideas, post photos. I wanted to share the adventures I am having with others, and spark lively debate and celebrate a general joie d'vivre.

But for some time now, as my mind and spirit have quietened down from the whirlwind of an international move a few months back, as I've settled into just one job (a heckuvan all-consuming job at that, but just one job) for the first time in five years, I have felt a voice in my heart stirring. The reflective writer in me is awakening.

She has been buried in busyness for so long. Ten years ago I moved to Chicago for grad school, to hone my craft as a features writer. I spent 2004-2007 writing several long newspaper pieces each week, not to mention editing an online thinking Christian's magazine at the same time. I had little energy for creative or personal writing. Then I moved to England in autumn 2007. My freelance journalism work paid the bills for the first few years, as I immersed myself in a new community, in British life and in exploring a new calling. Even in the three years that followed: through jobs as a an intern pastor, as a debt counselor and finance assistant, through engagement and early married life and finally a stint doing communications at a missions agency, I was writing. I was writing for work, I was writing articles on the side to help pay the student loans, I was editing dissertations and job applications for graduate students. Between the writing work, the professional work and the purely relational work of life, my creative well was exhausted. I laughed at the mere thought of blogging again.

Now, though. Now. Well....

Now I am sitting with my fingers on these keys, feeling peace descend. There is writing energy in me once more, a desire to put words to paper (so to speak), to create life with them. As my 15-year-old self wrote in a poem that made it into several juvenile publications: "I am a friend of words, and I glimpse them in their secret moments."

What does that mean, I wonder? Did 15-year-old Stephanie even know what that line meant when she crafted it? I think she was trying to describe the mystery of words, to spy on that moment when a string of symbols suddenly sparks and bursts into flame with meaning. Did she consider the craft of writing back then, as I do now, as akin to Frankenstein? He is leaning over his monster in a dark basement as the lightning crackles, shouting, "Life! I have created life!!!" and the monster flexes into being. All I know is that she - the she that became me - sensed that something special happens when a writer creates something out of nothing.

And this is what I hope to do now. For the first time in about a decade, I am not going to write something with the aim of writing to an audience, or entertaining, or informing or even chronicling. I simply want to use words to convey what is in my heart. Is that egotistical? I suppose it is, but nobody has to read it. Nobody except my dear friend Shanel, the last person to comment on the previous incarnation of this blog, the one whose comment, rediscovered a few months back, really got me thinking and has helped me to realize that I'm ready to go deeper. I've shared about my adventures. Now I'll attempt to share my heart.

My Sun-Times blog is live

I still intend to post here, especially to post thoughts that are more private and also relate to the Christian spirituality of my experience in Nottingham.

However, for current news and updates, visit my Chicago Sun-Times blog at:
http://blogs.suntimes.com/fosnight/

I've already been getting all sorts of comments and emails from readers around the world. Exciting!

Fun photos and an article that makes me ANGRY!!!

OK, here are some photos of the last few weeks. First we've got a bunch of us disciples squished together on a bean bag chair before we watched "The Life of Brian" in our module on Jesus. It was interesting to me that a lot of young Brits don't enjoy Monty Python. I loved seeing that film again, but some of my friends just couldn't see the point. Then there's a photo of me winding up to kick what I thought was a big, pink ball on the Hayling Island beach. As I kicked it, I realized that it was actually a buoy, and then I saw the rope attached to it. Hayling Island is just off the South Coast of England, across from the city of Portsmouth, and on our free afternoon at the National Leaders Conference, several of us girls went for a long walk around the island. That's Rachel, Liz, Ruth, Jida, Jo and me in the next photo. Kristen was with us earlier but had to go back to the hotel to set up for an event, Jen was with her boyfriend Tim H. and Laura was with her boyfriend Tim B. It was fun to get so many of the girls together for a walk, though! The final photo was taken from up high in Spinnaker Tower, a huge structure in Portsmouth that offers gorgeous views of the sea, coastal towns, naval ships and the Isle of Wight. I'm in that photo with my friends Sarah and Andy.
















The other item I wanted to post was a link to this excellent article in the Washington Post. That is, the article is excellent, but the people it profiles make me FURIOUS! Especially the woman who puts on a surgical mask whenever a Mexican immigrant passes by so that she won't catch a disease. She says she's not racist, but I don't see how she can possibly defend that claim.


I'm very glad that McCain is doing well. I think he and Kennedy came up with a very sensible plan for immigration and it was a shame that it didn't pass Congress. I loved what Columbus Vineyard pastor Rich Nathan said at the leaders/pastors conference last week. He said, "How do you feel about your country (the U.S. or UK) changing because of immigration? Does it scare you? Do you want everyone to go back where they came from? Well, the Bible says that God loves the aliens and the poor. You might want to consider joining the winning side." I completely agree that we need to control immigration and somehow put a stop to all of the illegal crossings and attendant problems they bring, but I also think that we, as Americans, have to get used to the idea that the face of our country is changing. By 2050, America will be a nation made up of a majority of non-whites. Yes, we Caucasians have had a good run in America, but we have to accept that the world is not predominantly white and neither is the "assembly of the righteous" that will bow down before God in heaven (Psalm 1, Revelation). I admit that this idea challenges me and sometimes I want my country to stay the same and look the same and have the same traditions it's had for 250 years. But the reality is that it's not going to happen. I feel that our job as Christians is to make our cities and lands a welcoming place where the peace and justice of God's kingdom will reign, and that means welcoming in the foreigners who *will* come and finding the best way possible to integrate them into our ever-changing societies.

There, my rant for the day is done. Now to that banana bread!

Read the Feb. 10 Chicago Sun-Times !!!

Hey everyone,

Make sure you pick up a copy of the Feb. 10 Chicago Sun-Times (if you live in Chicago). You can find it at Jewel, Dominick's, the gas station and other newstand-type places, and you'll even be able to get it on Saturday.

The main travel story (in the travel section) is by me, about me! It might even have a photo of me, though I won't know about that until I see it. I wrote about the experience of "cashing in" and moving to another country.

Sunday is also the day my Sun-Times travel blog "Across the Pond" goes live. I won't provide the url until then, but then I'll put it up on here so you can visit me at the Sun-Times page. Be sure to make comments, too, to get people interested in it.

In other news, I've had a few quiet days of writing and relaxing, something I desperately needed after 11 straight days of serving at church and at the National Leaders Conference (so exciting!). On Monday night I did go back to church once more to help with our next round of More, a course that Ade (one of our pastors, the guy who leads the discipleship year, and husband of my friend Emma) pioneered to help newbies learn more about the Christian life. Many of our 30 or so attenders just finished the Alpha course. I'm a table leader and help facilitate discussion, and I also will be presenting two of the evening's programs: one next week on Daily/Devotional Prayer; and one in three weeks on the Holy Spirit. I did this last fall and it was really fun and went extremely well, so I'm looking forward to the chance to present again. I love telling stories and using PowerPoint and getting folks really excited about the stuff that I'm excited about. I then send them home with the little booklet on daily prayer ("Meeting with God", linked to this blog) that I wrote for the Evanston Vineyard. I wish I could update the booklet because I've learned so much more in the 2.5 years since I wrote it, but at least it's a starting point to give people some ideas and inspiration for embarking upon the amazing, fantastic, mysterious journey of intimacy with Christ.

Yesterday I met a friend for coffee, did some required reading, memorized a psalm for my spiritual disciplines course, and then met up with my friend Alex for my first guitar lesson. Alex is a very good guitar player, but I wasn't sure what to expect in the way of teaching. Let me just say that I was blown away--Alex prepared very thorough introductory material, lent me a guitar and gave me an amazing lesson. We had to quit when my poor fingers were about to bleed. (Come on, calluses!) I left knowing how to alternate pick a chromatic scale, having learned three chords, a strumming pattern, and the chorus of a Sheryl Crow song. I mean, it's not like it sounds like a Sheryl Crow song yet, but I'll get there. And Alex gave me very specific homework before we meet up again next week. He is doing all of this out of the kindness of his heart, and I am so grateful.

Alex is one of my fellow disciples, so we share the Discipleship Year bond. On the last night of the conference down on England's South Coast, we disciples worked hard to help break down the conference venue and stack chairs at about 11 p.m. Then, in thanks, church bought us each a drink from the bar (I love my church!) and we all gathered around a table to chat. Granted, most of us on Discipleship Year had been meeting for drinks, cards and conversation each night of the conference, but this night we were ALL there, all 15 of us. We took a group photo and played the party game Empire (very fun) and it felt so good to have all of us together. It's amazing how if one person is missing, something just doesn't feel right. Being part of this little community is such a wonderful experience and I'm really trying to savor it, especially since the year is half-over. We're all so silly when we're together. After we finished stacking chairs, loading up the van and returning tables to the conference venue, the conference folks taped off the entrance to the venue and asked us to exit the area. The tape was stretched at about my chest level, and so we decided to have an impromptu limbo contest. I, of course, got under it just fine, but most of the others fell (especially the ones who are taller than 6 ft). We all stood around cheering for one another as we limboed our way under the tape line.

Yesterday was Shrove Tuesday, or Pancake Day, or Fat Tuesday. Since England is a technically Christian country, it's been the custom here for centuries to eat pancakes (really more like crepes) on Shrove Tuesday, so as to use up rich ingredients like sugar, butter and eggs before Lent. So my friend Ruth invited me round for tea (dinner) and we made pancakes. I usually like them with sugar, butter and lemon juice, but Ruthie had some golden syrup that was absolutely delicious on them. I'll get more pancakes tonight when my small group meets at my place for a pancake social. Yes, I know it's the first day of Lent, but none of us seem to care that much. I've only found three people who are giving anything up (sweets and telly). I'm not giving anything up. As Ruthie's housemate Josie said last night, "Anything I would give up I like too much to give up." And we all sort of agreed with her. I know that's the point of Lent, but none of us feel very convicted about it and our church doesn't put any emphasis on the season. In fact, I've never gone to a church that has. Maybe some day in the future I'll decide to sacrifice for Lent. I'm sure it'll be very meaningful, it's just not really on my radar at the moment.

Today I've got two articles to write and my Sun-Times blog to prepare. I also need to polish the silver, as I haven't done anything around the house for the marvelous Grange family in ages. Then there are a few really, really, really ripe bananas I thought I'd make into banana bread (i'm sure they don't have that in England) and I ought to go to the shop and buy some more tea since I used the last tea bag today. Finally, I may cycle up to the beautiful flat of my friends Andy & Lui so I can do some creative writing in a peaceful place. Oh, and I have a long meditation exercise for my spiritual disciplines class. Tomorrow the church serving cycle starts again. I love this life!

Off to a conference

It's been a crazy week and I've got another ahead! Tomorrow morning I'm leaving at 6:30 a.m. for Haling Island, near Portsmouth. I am very excited to spend a week on the English coast, especially if the gorgeous, sunny, warm weather holds up (I doubt it). But Emma is from Portsmouth, and she tells me it's much warmer down there.

This week I:

1. Wrote 4 newspaper articles, including my BIG story for the Chicago Sun-Times Travel section. It should appear on Sunday, Feb. 10, and my public blog will launch on their site that day.
2. Helped a lot of people at the Arches, including several pregnant teenage girls. I was thinking a lot that day about what a difference birth control can make in a woman's life. I'm glad these girls are carrying their babies to term but ... anyway, I was told that English girls can get birth control from the school nurse or even a GP. Hasn't seemed to make much of a difference in these girls' lives. However, I was encouraged by one lovely young woman. She's just 18 and had been kicked out of the house by her mum, she doesn't really know how to cook and looks quite lost, but she clearly loves her two-month-old baby girl so much and has been given a new flat. Her brother and sister are helping her out, so maybe she'll be OK.
3. Got my visa extension application paperwork sent off! Please join me in praying I get approved for my final two months here and also that I get my passport back by Feb. 15, since I'm supposed to go to Norway on Feb. 17.
4. Did a lot of learning, growing and stretching in spiritual and emotional matters.
5. Taught kids and found out from some parents that that their kids talk about me (in a good way) at home.
6. Was given a gorgeous grey, wool cardigan by Anna; fun footless tights by Jules; and 6 STUNNING, beautiful, almost-new pairs of shoes, plus one pair of boots, by Carmen
5. Rode my bike to and from church A LOT!!!

(and now I need to go do it again, as I'm due at church to help with set up in 22 minutes. Ah, well, I guess my packing for tomorrow morning is going to have to wait until I get home at about 11 p.m. tonight. The joys of Discipleship Year continue).

Welcome to my private blog

Hello! In just a few short weeks, I'll be launching a public blog from the Chicago Sun-Times Web site, to appear in conjunction with an article I'm doing for the Sunday travel section about my year in England. The editors and I agreed that my personal blog should therefore go private, since I will need to maintain a modicum of professional privacy in my new Sun-Times blog. (When the new blog goes live, I'll post the link on here).

That means that you now must be added to my approved list before you can read this blog. I do know I have many blog visitors who are acquaintances, so if you know of someone who might like to get added to my list, simply ask them to send me an email at: stephaniefosnight@gmail.com I'd be happy to put them on it.

I've just posted a ton of fun photos from my Christmas holiday. I started out by flying to Phoenix for 8 days, which I spent happily with my family in Mesa, Tucson and Mexico. I then spent another week in Chicago for my dear friend Sus' wedding and to see other wonderful friends. I've posted several sets of photos below.

Here are a couple of pictures from my exciting day out this past Saturday. My sweet friend Emma and I drove to the National Peak District in Derbyshire (just about 90 minutes from Nottingham) to spend a day searching for natural beauty. We had a marvelous time, and as you can see from these photos, discovered some rather dramatic scenery. We picknicked and drank tea on the edge of the cliff, and even spent about an hour sitting by a (very swollen) river praying for one another. It was a chilly, misty, extremely muddy day, but as long as we kept moving we were fine. I still haven't managed to get all of the mud off my Doc Martens, but it was worth it!

Just in case you'd like to see even more photos from my recent Christmas fun, here are links to several public galleries on Facebook:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=76821&l=69efb&id=807395516

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=76290&l=c5806&id=807395516

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=83656&l=4e982&id=807395516

Mexico

On the day after Christmas (Boxing Day to the Brits), Mom, Dad and I; Peter, Melissa & Isaiah; and my cousin Tanya drove about four hours over the Mexican border to the beach town of Rocky Point on the Gulf of California (Tanya's parents and brother decided to visit with my grandparents in Arizona during those days). We stayed in a luxury condo overlooking the beach and had a wonderful time playing in the sand and tidepools, playing frisbee and tennis, playing tennis, and eating delicious meals. (Playing and eating seem to be themes of my family). Here we have Tanya and I feeding lettuce to the ceramic turtle who was perched on the dining room table of the condo; Isaiah's little fingers in the sand; a shot of me while I'm playing frisbee with Dad at low tide; and Isaiah riding very happily on his daddy's shoulders. It was a wonderful, restful and very fun few days just hanging out with my family. The day after we returned, Mom & Dad took some quiet time while I drove Uncle Eric, Aunt Tammy and Justin and Tanya down to Tucson to visit Peter's family once more. Pete & Melissa made us a delicious lunch of spare ribs, then we all headed out to the Sonoran Desert Museum. I really felt like I got to hang out with my aunt, uncle, cousins and brother and sister-in-law, and I also spent five days with Isaiah and really got attached to my little nephew. It was so hard to say goodbye to him!

Christmas with Isaiah!

The Fosnights had a veritable family reunion this year. Not only was I back from England and not only did Pete, Melissa and Isaiah came from Tucson, but my mom's brother and his family came all the way from Minnesota to spend Christmas with us and my grandparents. We ate a marvelous Christmas ham dinner at Grandma's house and the place was packed with the Fosnights, Grandma & Grandpa Bower, Eric, Tammy, Justin and Tanya Bower (and their dog Riley), and also longtime family friends Shanti, Sopor and Nini. We missed having my older brother Shane there, however.

Of course, Christmas this year was all about Isaiah Peter Fosnight, my nephew, Peter's son, Mom & Dad's grandson, etc. Now eight months old, Isaiah is quite content to be the center of attention and happily charms us all. Here he is playing with his new duck that he got from Grandma Fosnight; enjoying a Christmas dinner of mashed fruit, and playing with Riley in the post-feast stupor. It was a wonderful day.

A few more wedding pix

I couldn't resist including these of Miss Cutie Kailey in the moments just before her mama's wedding. Then there's one of my fellow bridesmaid Whitney, jumper cables in hand, as we worked on jumping her dead car battery in the VERY cold Chicago night between ceremony and reception. You haven't lived until you've climbed through snow drifts in a bridesmaid dress and heels doing auto repair. Finally, there's a shot of me with the beautiful Miss Hillary Pranga. It was amazing seeing old, good friends at the wedding. I felt as popular as the bride, getting hug after hug from friends. If only I'd had time for a leisurely chat with you all over coffee...

The latest photos

It's definitely time for me to post again, but I must be honest and say I don't have the energy. I've been fighting an ear infection for awhile now and it's tim for me to go to sleep.

But I did get some new photos up on Facebook and they're great, so take a look here:

Discipleship Year, Southwell Minster, Libby's Wedding and More

A Tribute to Mallory

Last Tuesday evening I was doing creative writing while meditating on Christ when I felt compelled to write the following letter to Chris and Lee Langill, Mallory's parents. I sent it off and told them no response was necessary. But Chris wrote write back to say that they'd been meaning to ask me if I'd write something to be read at Mallory's memorial service back home in Evanston, and whether they could read the letter. I was honored to be asked. Here is the letter that was read.

December 4, 2007
Dear Chris and Lee,

I am sitting in a friend’s second-story flat in Bramcote, Nottinghamshire, England, perched above a park filled with noisy ducks. I’m facing a wall of windows and watching the most beautiful sunset I’ve seen outside of Arizona. I’ve never seen a sunset like this before in Minnesota, Illinois, England or Washington, D.C. The sky is literally aflame with long orange clouds topped by pink, gauzy strips. Shades of deep purple give depth to the brilliant colors. And I am thinking of Mallory.

I didn’t know that Mallory liked the sunset colors until I read your journal today, but it makes perfect sense. I do know she loved pink and orange and purple, because she was always wearing them! When I think back on the last year of Kids Church and my nearly 52 Sundays spent with the same small group in that same room, I always see Mallory as a little bright ball of energy and smiles, even if she was coughing or fighting a fever.

Of course there are no words that will make you feel better or diminish the grief. In fact, I know from experience that, when we Christians are going through deep grief, people will say so many words. Most of them will be well-meant, but even then we will want to scream because we’ve heard the same thing so many times. We get sick of being “preached at” or “cheered up.” We get sick of giving the same dreary explanation and the same assurances of gratitude over and over again. But we do not get sick of knowing someone else cares, that someone else wants to help carry the burdens, if even for a short while.

I just wanted to let you know, then, that I care. I do not know either of you very well and I certainly did not know Mallory as well as many did, but I did know her. And I treasured her. I loved her calm, helpful presence in the midst of a chaotic class, and I also loved that she wasn’t always calm. Despite the fact that she was the “sick kid” (though the other kids never seemed to notice this), she was still human, not saintly. Sometimes she talked too much or didn’t listen, but on the rare occasion when this happened, she was so quick to respond to my gentle chiding. She was not a saint, but she was better than a saint, because she was real yet she loved Jesus and she loved life with her whole heart.

As I told you in an email last summer, Mallory spoke into my life in a dark time, when she shared the complex picture of the servant seeking a precious jewel at great cost, only to see the jewel turn grey and lifeless as he presented it to the King. She wanted to know what it meant, and when I told her to ask God, she did. “I think it means we’re supposed to keep trying, no matter what happens and what the outcome is,” she told me. “God says that what matters is what we do and how we do it, not what we end up with.”

That was a powerful message to me as I contemplated events in my own life, but now I see her picture in a whole new light. God has used this word to speak to me of Mallory’s own life and her own heart. I see Him being tremendously pleased with her, and all that she accomplished for his kingdom, although the ending is so horrendously wrong.

I think of Mallory now and I remember her chattering about her cats, about how Aaron always wanted to play in the hospital play room, about how excited she was to go home and sew a teddy bear with her mom. I remember her bowling me over with big hugs and giggling and giggling and giggling. I remember watching her come into the kids’ room and scanning the crowd for her friends, then her big eyes brightening and that huge smile splitting her face as she ran towards Marissa or Emily. I remember Mallory raising her hand every week to ask us to pray for her and for her loved ones, and I remember her clear, sweet, unbelievably-intelligent-voice reading scripture passages with complete ease.

I recall how last year at Advent the children wrote prophetic Messiah passages onto paper ornaments. It was an activity that was fine and dandy for the older kids, but I knew many of our first graders wouldn’t be able to fit an entire Bible verse onto a Christmas ornament. So I handed the Bible to Mallory and she wrote out the entire verse in careful, perfect, small script more legible than my own. I thanked God yet again for sending Mallory to my class.

I’m glad, right now, that I’m not teaching Sunday School at Evanston Vineyard this year, for I don’t think I could bear being there without having Mallory in the midst.

The sunset is darkening now and the colors are becoming more muted—all but the orange. The orange is flaming out brighter than ever, as if in defiance of the approaching night. The reason I came to my friend’s place this evening is so I could do some creative writing in a peaceful spot, so I was doing some writing about a little dialogue I was having with Jesus. I “saw” him sitting next to me on the sofa and we were chatting about many things, when I suddenly noticed the stunning sky.

“This is one of the most beautiful sunsets I’ve ever seen, Jesus!” I exclaimed in my little mind’s eye conversation. I heard his response quite clearly.

“Yes,” he said. “Mallory had a say in it.”

I am so sorry for your loss. There is nothing else to say, but know that Mallory’s death touches so many of us, including me. As I write this, my eyes are filling with tears yet again.

It will be so wonderful to see her again. But I’m going to have to wait in a long line in heaven to get my turn, I think, because no doubt the Lord has already spread her fame far and wide around there, just as he’s done here.

With love,
Stephanie Fosnight

P.S. If you have not already seen it, I do recommend the book “A Sacred Sorrow: Reclaiming the Lost Language of Lament” by Michael Card. It’s at the church bookstore.

Mallory Blake Langill (2000-2007)

Mallory died on Sunday morning.

Who was Mallory? She was an amazing, 7-year-old girl who loved Jesus, her parents, her little brother, her friends, her cats and making stuff. Her favorite colors were orange, pink and purple, because they were the colors of the sunset. I had the immense privilege of being her Sunday School teacher for one year. This photo was taken on my last Sunday in Chicago, just a few months before Mallory began to deteriorate. She'd always been sick from cystic fibrosis, and was on the double lung transplant list, and about a month ago was moved to a children's hospital to await new lungs. She didn't make it.

Here is an email I sent out today to all who'd been praying for Mallory. I am determined that I will always remember this little girl, and as long as I am writing and telling stories, I will talk about Mallory.

If you haven't already heard, Mallory's body could no longer take the wait for new lungs. She finally had to stop fighting. As her parents reported in their blog announcement, God decided to not only give hernew lungs but a whole new body to enjoy in His presence, in heaven. She died at about 4 a.m. CST on Sunday morning. See the entry here:

http://www.cotaformalloryl.com/node/35

I found out this morning, as I did not get a chance to check email or messages yesterday. Of course I am very grieved, not for Mallory because, cheesy as it sounds, it's more than true to say she is in a far better place. But I am grieving for her parents Chris and Lee, for her little brother Aaron (who's 4) and for all of us in her extended network of family and friends. Including myself.

Mallory had such talents and gifts of intelligence and friendship, as well as an incredibly perceptive heart. I was so looking forward to seeing her live life with new lungs and seeing her grow up into a lovely girl and young woman. I will miss her and I will never forget her.

Her own dad said that Mallory probably impacted more people in her 7 years than her parents have in their 40-something years.

Thank you for all of the prayers, whether you know Mallory or not. Her parents say the prayers and support have really gotten them through this time, and they are also grateful that so many strangers (including those in England!) have been praying for them. I know they will appreciate continued prayers as they now grieve and continue to face financial challenges because of the medical bills. Please pray for them as they strive to celebrate Christmas with Aaron in the face of such painful loss.

Some of you had mentioned that you felt uncomfortable praying for lungs for Mallory, since someone else had to die in order for that tohappen. Our prayers had simply been that some other family, in theirgrief and loss, would make the choice to donate their loved ones' organs. In the end, it was Mallory's family who made the decision tod onate their own daughter's organs, and I know that Mallory's death will mean life for others we will never meet. Please consider organ donation yourself, if you haven't, and check to make sure you'vecomplied with your own state's organ donor laws. For example, the Illinois laws changed a few years ago, but it's easy to register online if you haven't done so.

I wish it hadn't turned out this way. I know it didn't have to. But despite the sometimes overwhelming presence of death and evil in thisfallen world, I still know God is good and He is faithful. And rightnow Mallory knows that more than any of the rest of us.
Thank you,
Stephanie

If you'd like to learn more about lung transplants and cystic fibrosis, as well as hear the story of a very cool guy named Steve and the young woman named Kari who gave him new life, go here for an article I wrote last year:

http://www.pioneerlocal.com/evanston/lifestyles/health_family/135554,on-kari-111606-s1.article

As Steve told me in his condolence email, he constantly tells Kari's story for all of the Mallorys in the world. And now I want to tell Mallory's story for all of the others like her.

Differences Between the U.S. and U.K.

1. The man just came to read the gas meter. I had to let him in, direct him to the kitchen cupboard where it's kept, and let him out to a "cheers, love." A man also came to read the electricity meter. Aren't all these meters now outside in the U.S., if not just transmitted digitally anyway?

2. There is a milkman. Not everyone uses the milkman anymore, but we do. I love it! And the milk does seem to taste better (most dairy products, in fact, taste better here than at home...with the exception of ice cream).

3. Ketchup and Salt and Vinegar chips (crisps) are sweeter. I know everyone says the U.S. makes everything sweet, but I've found most desserts (puddings) here to be sweeter than at home. Sometimes I miss the tang.

4. No tumble dryers. We hang our wet clothes outside or inside on radiators.

5. Buttons and symbols on stoves, remote controls, ovens, vacuums (Hoovers) and pretty much anything electronic, which means i sometimes feel like an idiot when I can't figure out how to work stuff.

6. Loads and loads and loads of words. Where do I begin? onesie (baby grow), dinner (tea), zucchini (courgette), rutabaga (swede), brew (steep), trunk (boot), hood (bonnet), vest (undershirt), waistcoat (vest), suspenders (braces), pants (trousers), underwear (pants) and I could go on and on and on...

7. Intersections and traffic. Backwards and with roundabouts. Nuff said.

8. Fahrenheit into Celsius, pounds into kilos or stones, inches into centimeters (except when talking about height). But a pint is a pint is a pint, thank goodness!

There's a tiny little window into my new life.

Bonfire party photos

Everyone loved the sparklers!
Rachel, Laura and Stephanie attempt to dance the haka, some fierce tribal thing the New Zealand rugby team performs (menacingly) before each match.
I am all smiles at the bonfire birthday party. Look at those flames!
I have a difficult time blowing out the candles on my birthday cake because I am laughing so hard.

Bonfire Night Birthday Party!

Hope you enjoyed the above photos!
For more photos, follow this

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So, yes, I received the birthday gift of an amazing, very fun, very well-attended party, thanks to the Grange family.

Monday was Guy Fawkes Day aka Bonfire Night aka The 5th of November aka My 29th Birthday. I'd had a big party last year and so this year I hoped someone would invite me to a bonfire or something. But then Pete & Sue told me they used to have bonfire parties when "the children" (now 23, 25 and 27) were small and suggested we host another. I was delighted, of course, and sent out invitations with the tagline, "Bad Day for Guy Fawkes/Good Day for Stephanie."

Monday was a quiet day. Even though my U.S. phone didn't start ringing until 1 p.m. (when America woke up), I still got plenty of birthday text messages from thoughtful new friends here. I also received birthday greetings from Pete & Sue (who gave me tokens for buying a new book...they'd picked up somehow that I enjoy reading!!!) and a sweet card from Julia. I tried to get work done but my phone kept ringing and my mobile kept buzzing and then Pete started to build a magnificent bonfire, wigwam-style, in the driveway, so I gave up all pretense of working. Pippa (one of the discipleship year pastors) took me out for a lovely cup of tea and slice of birthday cake at a cafe overlooking a lake in the nature preserve and then I got home and helped prepare food. Julia, who used to work for a professional stylist, then helped me put together a glamorous, cold-weather birthday outfit that meant I wouldn't have to wear a coat (gloves and scarf were very necessary, however). I love having my own stylist--and her closet-- one bedroom door over!

By 7:45, 15 minutes after the official start of the party, everything was ready. Dave (who'd been poring over fireworks catalogues for weeks) had them set up on the lawn, Pete couldn't wait to set off the bonfire with his beloved blow torch, and Sue had broiled 40 sizzling sausages. The onions were fried, the chips and dips ready, the cakes and toffees laid out, everything. We sat quietly in the kitchen, enjoying the calm before the storm, until I quipped, "You know how at the start of every party you wonder if anyone is going to come? Well, that's how I feel right now!"

A few minutes later, though, one person came. Then two, then three and suddenly the kitchen was crowded and we enlisted everyone to carry the food and drinks out to the big table set out in the hedge-enclosed driveway. Then someone called, "Stephanie, there's a horde of people coming down the driveway!" and sure enough, there was a well-bundled, chatty, happy crowd heading down the path.

"More friends!" I cried gleefully and ran from person to person getting hugs, kisses (from the girls), cards and even some presents (lots of wine and chocolate...yay! I shared the wine but hid the chocolate away). Before long there must have been about 40 people present, and Pete torchd off the bonfire to cheers.

After serving hot sausages and mulled wine, everyone walked through the hedge arch separating the driveway from the garden (yard) where the crowd lined up and waited expectantly for fireworks. I must admit I was pretty nervous about this, because even though Dave had been doing lots of research on how to (literally) get the most bang for the buck, we only had €35, and for days guests had been coming up to me saying, "I am *so* excited about the fireworks at your party!" However, I needn't have worried. Dave had arranged two separate fireworks displays and each one filled the air with showers of rockets and stars. There were even the fun crackly ones that I always love to listen to. The crowd oohed and aahed---and once, when a firework ricocheted off a branch and headed towards us before exploding above our heads--screamed and ducked, and then nearly fell over laughing at our fright. It was awesome! We all loved it and all had a blast.

In the break between fireworks we passed out sparklers and they sang to me and I blew out the candles on my birthday cake. As guests walked in ones and twos back through the hedge arch, I stood on the other side watching. At first I was waiting to get through to the kitchen door, and then I just stopped and marveled as each person came through the arch. With the exception of a few friends of Steve, whom I hadn't met before (but who were very welcome), I knew every single person there. Most came from Discipleship Year and small group, as well as a few other ministries I am part of, like prayer on the streets and children's work. And I knew some of them quite well after weeks of serving alongside them.

"I can't believe I didn't know anybody two months ago," I said to my friend Libby (also a Discipleship Year pastor) who was standing with me.

"Just think, all of these people are here because they love you," she said.

"I can't believe it," I said. "It's so amazing. God has blessed me so much with this community."

For awhile I simply wandered happily among the various groups, from those in the kitchen heating mulled wine (you rock, Tim B.!) to those in the garden to those gathered around the food table and the bonfire. It was a perfect night...cold with some clouds, but still stars, and everyone was scarfed and mittened and hatted and happy. Most of the party is kind of a blur, but I remember laughing and laughing and laughing. There was more of the usual teasing about my accent, but when one of the guys jokingly made a disparaging comment about me, "that rude American," a whole group of girls flew to my defense and wouldn't even let him joke about it. I just cheerfully told him if he kept it up I'd shove him into the fire (not a nice thing to say, admittedly, but it was funny).

As it got towards 11 p.m., folks started to leave (it was Monday night, after all), but a hardy group of about 20 pulled up chairs around the fire and we roasted marshmallows and chatted. Folks finally left about 11:15 and Sue and I stayed up until midnight cleaning and talking about the party.

The next morning I received a flurry of wonderful birthday cards from dear friends and family members in the States, all hoping that I felt loved and celebrated. Trust me, I did. Thanks to the Granges and my wonderful new community, I couldn't have had a better birthday.

Chatsworth House and grounds

I decide which book I would pull off the library shelves, were I allowed.
One of Mom's favorite sculptures (a copy of the bust is in the Minneapolis Institute of Art), only this time the Vestal Virgin gets a touch of Christmas festivity. (Yes, we visited on Nov. 3, but the English really get into the whole Christmas spirit thing...early).
It may have been Christmassy inside the house, but outside it was pure autumn bliss.
I pose with my traveling companions and fellow disciples Ruth and Jo. We left Nottingham at 8 a.m. on Saturday morning and traveled by bus about 2.5 hours, stopping in the city of Derby and then little villages as we wound our way into the Peak District and then to Chatsworth House. We spent an hour exploring the house itself but then four hours having a blast on the grounds. We walked all through the formal gardens and got lost in the hedge maze, we traipsed through woods and over bridges, we climbed alongside fountains and took a tram tour of the woods on the ridge and an Elizabethan hunting tower. We picknicked on a ledge overlooking the valley and then had tea and cake in the stables-turned-restaurant. We finally left at 4:15 p.m., took a bus to the village of Matlock and puttered around a bit there before catching another bus back to Nottingham. We arrived home around 7, tired but very happy with our exciting day.

For more photos and comments, click here

.

What a Week

"Oh the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person, having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are -- chaff and grain together -- certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and with the breath of kindness blow the rest away." -George Eliot (pen name of Mary Ann Evans), novelist (1819-1880)

I pulled this quote from

17 pens

, my pal Michael's blog. I love it.

I don't even know where to begin writing about the last week. The last week has been intense but amazing and just, overall, good. Very, very good. I feel such contentment and peace about being here in England, doing this work. This morning my friend Laura came for tea and we sat in my peaceful, quiet, sunny bedroom chatting and just being. I sat there, perched on the bed, clutching my tea and watching the shifting sunlight, blown about by the apple tree branches outside the window, move in patterns over Laura's lovely face. And I felt again that encompassing peace. I didn't even really want to talk, and Laura understood (although, as you can imagine, I was soon talking plenty!)

I do worry about next year and wonder where on earth I will be. I realized the other day that, during all of last year as I prayed and discerned about doing this Discipleship Year program here in Nottingham, I was more or less planning on returning to Chicago since I was in a serious relationship. Even before we were engaged, I just sort of assumed I'd be going back and picking up my life more or less where it left off. And now, of course, there is nothing compelling me to return. Oh, yes, there are marvelous friends and wonderful places and opportunities in Chicago, and I was very happy in my life there. But I do know that when I return, if I stay, it will all be different. Everyone will have changed, everyone will have moved on, in a sense. And I will have moved on, as well. Consider the experiences I've been having lately. It's impossible to NOT be transformed.

Last Wednesday Julia and I went shopping for Soup Run. Twice a week a team from Trent Vineyard goes out into the city centre with sandwiches, crisps, chocolate and cold and hot drinks. We go to meet the homeless population, and they all know that we'll be out and they look for us, as well. It was my first time on Soup Run and I wasn't sure how it would all come together, but it really wasn't hard at all. Jules and I went to Sainsbury's and bought the stuff on the list: fruit, bread, meat and cheese, chocolate, crisps, squash (the drink, not the veggie), plastic bags, etc. We were famished and treated ourselves to McDonalds on the way back to church. We did arrive 5 minutes late (due to the long line at Sainsbury's, not our McDonalds stop) but received much merciless ribbing. We brought all of the food into the church kitchen, where small group leaders were waiting to assemble it all, but left our Mickey Ds out in the hall. Then Julia and I snuck into the hall and began quickly eating our hamburgers, hoping to escape notice. However, group leader (and youth pastor) James happened to stick his head into the hall. He saw us and his face fell.

"You went to MacDonalds?" he asked (they all say it with a pronounced "Mac" here). "And you didn't get me any?"

Then he stuck his head back into the kitchen.

"Come here, everyone," he called. "Come see why the girls were late."

I sensibly slipped behind a pillar but Julia squared her shoulders and planted her feet in defiance and began cramming her Big Mac into her mouth with a look of pure rebellion on her face.

"MacDonalds?" Nathan exclaimed. "Julia, that's disgraceful!"

"I'm not sorry," Jules said, glaring at him as she continued to stuff her burger into her mouth. Much merriment ensued.

We made about 50 sandwiches and picked up the rucksacks filled with thermos bottles, hot drink makings, emergency supplies and things like socks and dog food. Then we headed out to the city centre. After splitting into two teams, we wandered around the city, looking for someone who might want a hot drink or some food.

We finally settled on the steps of the downtown Marks & Spencer department store and set up a little drinks station there as the guys started coming. We chatted with them for a long time--I spent a very long time talking with one man who was telling me all of his conspiracy theories about JFK, Tony Blair and everything in between. We gave out sandwiches and the other food, as well as lots of tea, hot chocolate, coffee and even some soup (hence the name: Soup Run). Then we all went off to a pub where a friend's band was playing for a farewell event (or, as they say here, a "leaving do").

As we walked towards the pub, I saw Steve, one of our group members, walking ahead looking rather dejected. I caught up to him and asked him what was wrong.

"Well, I was just thinking about what we're going to do now, versus what those guys are going back to," he said. And he was right. We'd finished our job and were off to enjoy ourselves in warmth and comfort once more. And these men were going back to their difficult lives on the streets. Living rough, they call it here.

The next morning I was down at The Arches, as usual, doing project working (meeting wih the clients and helping them get what they need), as usual. I recognized a few of the guys I'd met on Soup Run and said hello. One man came in for a shower so I helped him get some toiletries and a change of clothes together. He rifled without shame through the bin of donated, (gently) used underwear and socks, and went off for his shower, leaving quite a trail of scent behind him but pleased with a change of clothes. He was about my age.

I also helped a young woman a few years younger who'd come in with her 12-day-old baby boy. "Sharon" had just received legal refugee status after having fled Eritrea and coming to England seeking political asylum. Her tiny new son looked like a precious doll, and he slept through the entire interview. Since Sharon had received status and been given a flat, we knew that all she had was a cooker, microwave and mattress on the floor, and I was allowed to be generous, especially as her fiance is expected to join her from Sudan in a few weeks. However, when we went back to the Furniture Arches, there was nothing there. We haven't had many donations lately and it had all been claimed.

While we were looking, though, the church van pulled up. My friend Jen explained that a woman had just died and her daughter donated the entire contents of the house to the Arches. Sharon was right there standing with me and we were able to claim it all for her: double bed, matching wardrobe and chest of drawers, dining room table with four chairs, sofa, display cabinet, mirror, etc. Sharon just couldn't believe and neither could I, hardly. I wish the woman who so generously donated her mother's things had been there to see the immediate difference they had made in the life of a new young family just getting ready to start over in a foreign land.

Friday I spent all day at church doing fun Discipleship Year team day stuff, as usual, but then that night I was on the Cabin rota. The Cabin is similar to the Soup Run except the team brings out a little camper-trailer (they call it a caravan), hook up a generator, and serve hot food from it in a parking lot.

My fellow disciple Pete and I were just there to help, so we rode in the cab of the truck out to Sneinton Market, where the homeless and poor guys (and a few girls) were waiting. We helped set up tables and chairs in front, and then a couple dropped off the food: pots of hot chili, lots of baked potatoes, bags of cheese and bread. Another team came and served hot drinks from one window, as well as passing out sandwich packs, while Pete and I dished up the hot food. Some men were very pleasant and polite, some were ... not. "How come his is bigger than mine?", "Oi, I want more chili," "Don't put any cheese on mine," "Chili and potatoes again? What happened to the Caribbean chicken," were just a few of the comments. However, the teacher in me refused to be bullied and I made the guys wait their turn and didn't give them special food unless a) they asked nicely and b)there was enough. Later Pete told me he was impressed with how strict I was. But I kind of had to be. Many of them were drunk or stoned so it was pretty much like dealing with a bunch of toddlers!

Of course, they weren't all like that. Some of the men were very pleasant and polite. My accent always gives away my nationality, of course, so I talked to several of them about America. After the food was gone two of the guys stood up by the window and talked with me. One of them has traveled quite a lot in the West, so we talked about that. The other was pretty out of it. He is just 20, he said, but he was missing most of his teeth. His black hair was incredibly greasy and obviously hadn't been washed in a long time. He didn't speak clearly at all and was very hard to understand. He started telling Cary (one of the other helpers) and me about how he is trying to get off meth and a few other drugs. His father started giving him drugs when he was just a boy. He spent most of his teen years in jail. As I watched him and listened to him, my heart just broke. "God had so many different plans for you," I thought. "He wanted you to grow up in a healthy family where you were loved and where you thrived. You could be a successful young man starting out in business right now, or a university student. Intead, you are here, broken and bruised and quite possibly beyond true redemption." I prayed a lot for him that night.

I was surprised, though, that both young men began asking me about God and whether or not I was a Christian. I guess they know we're there from a church, so these questions come up even though I don't introduce them. The young guy told us about how he attended some Bible studies in jail and how he liked reading the Bible now, but that it was hard on the streets to find a warm place with lights where he wouldn't be kicked out.

After awhile we shut the Cabin up and drove back to church, but the day still wasn't over. There was a women's ministry event that night, attended by about 300 ladies, and I had to help break down the tables and chairs. I rode my bike home very wearily and fell into bed around 11 p.m.

The next morning was Saturday and I got up early enough to watch an episode of "Friends" while eating my cereal, but then I was on the train into town to meet the others for our biweekly Ministry on the Streets event. (For stories from that event, go

here

). Afterwards I spent two hours at a cafe working on editing a paper for a Northwestern grad student (something I get paid handsomely to do, so I didn't mind) and then my friend Ruthie met up with me. We went to the bus station to inquire about our upcoming trip to Chatsworth House on Nov. 3, then caught the train back to my place. Soon a few other friends had arrived and a lively game of "Ticket to Ride" was in progress, followed by a girlie night spent watching "Dirty Dancing."

Sunday morning I was coordinating the 9-11s room at church. We had 35 kids and started with only 3 teachers, not a good plan when we're all crammed into a tiny room, but a few others got cajoled into helping. It was a hectic but very fun morning and the lesson plan and curriculum I prepared seemed to go over really well, even the teaching bit where I gave the kids a mini-sermon. They also seemed very enthralled and had a good time.

I was back at home to polish off that paper for the NU student and send it off, then enjoyed a lovely roast pork dinner with the family before I had to get on my bike and go BACK to church, this time for choir rehearsal. They've put together a special choir for the Christmas carol service on Dec. 9, which is always a really big deal. That was very fun and the choir is quite good, but I couldn't stay for the entire rehearsal because I had to get down to the auditorium to do set-up for the evening service (it's true. When you are on Discipleship Year they work you very hard!). By this point I was insanely exhausted and nearly falling over, but I made it through the service and clean-up somehow and staggered home on my bike at about 10:30 p.m.

Yesterday was much more relaxed (I slept in until 9 a.m.!!!) but I spent much of it preparing to teach a course on prayer that evening. I'm helping to lead the MORE course, which our pastor Ade pioneered to help new Christians learn about the Christian life and healthy spiritual habits. I was excited to teach on prayer (I distributed my "Meeting with God" booklet--download the PDF from the link list at left) and had a fun PowerPoint presentation to help the 30-or-so adults engage as I told lots of stories and outlined some practical ideas for prayer. I was very nervous before beginning but actually had a GREAT time standing up there (in the same spot and same room where I'd taught the kids the day before, actually) getting to wax eloquently about intimacy with Jesus, one of my very favorite subjects. We followed it up with small group discussion and afterwards several people gave me excellent feedback. I think it was a very helpful session and really helped to demystify and "deguilt" the whole concept of prayer.

So that was my week. Today is quiet and I have to do some journalism work, but tomorrow it all starts again, first when I have coffee with my mentor, then with an evening core group meeting for the small group (the leaders asked me to join it), followed by the actual small group. Then on Thursday I'm helping my friend Hannah present two school assemblies about the poor and what we do at the Arches and will be getting involved with preparing and presenting those. It's a never-ending round but I am loving it. I'm just loving it. Although, if I didn't have these quiet Monday-Wednesday mornings, I'd surely be tearing my hair out by now.