Yes, you can sit here for a while.

Sometimes when autumn shows up it creeps in slowly and gracefully, like you imagine you do when you’re 17 and ten minutes late for curfew. Other times, it just comes out of nowhere, like that chair or nightstand that you inevitably run into and wake up the entire household, announcing your tardiness with a literal bang. This year, I remember the night that autumn played the role of the chair well, because when I walked into work at the hotel around 11:00 pm the temperature was a comfortable 50-something, but when, around 1:00 am, I was standing at the front desk and the lobby door opened and a few shivering folks meandered in after the bars closed, the air that blew in was crisp and wet and had me wishing for a sweater and a little more summer. 

The wind blew in something else that night. Around 2:00 am, I went for a cup of tea and noticed a middle-aged man sitting on a couch in the lobby. He was looking at a paper and drinking a cup of coffee, and I breezed past him without a second thought. Upon walking back toward the front desk, I noted his bag of belongings and tattered jeans. Knowing that my employee code of ethics for the homeless-man-in-lobby situation differs greatly from me personal code of ethics for such, I chose to forget what I had seen and get back to work in hopes that he would have his coffee and move on before I would have to acknowledge his presence and ask him, as a non-paying guest, to exit.

I ran out of work to do around 2:30, about the same time the man walked out the back doors of the lobby. I thought to myself how difficult it must be to have to wander, and wondered if he was a “resident” of the area or just passing through. I wondered if he had family, if he knew where the local shelter was, if he had eaten today. As worry for this man began to set in, he walked back through the doors and approached the front desk.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“Well…” he stumbled and looked up at me, revealing a mouth of decay and glasses with rims broken nearly in half and one earpiece completely missing. “I was just waiting for my friend here. And I thought he was going to be staying here or at the other hotel. But I think he said he would be here. And I was just wondering if I could wait here for him. Because…because it’s so cold outside.”

It’s funny the dilemmas I find myself in, isn’t it? One day I am debating whether to get my usual Starbucks latte or to try out some Frappuccino or another and the next day I am confronted with the reality of making decisions about temporarily housing a man who, perhaps, hasn’t showered for a week or more and who has just spent the last 15 minutes wandering outside constructing a story to get himself a warm couch for a while.

I am no stranger to the homeless. I worked in mental health case management, so I’ve known homelessness, mental illness, poverty from a professional standpoint. Something here, however, hit me personally. I was confronted by images of the homeless that I see on the streets of Chicago when I visit. I typically drop some change into a cup and have, on occasion, purchased a cup of coffee on a winter day for someone on a street corner. But, even as a social services professional in a postmodern world, I am often pulled between two thought processes in these cases. One thought is something like, “is this person really homeless? How much money or coffee has he been given today? Couldn’t she be at a shelter if she wanted to be? Is he going to spend this on alcohol? ” The other is something to the effect of, “how is my coffee really making a difference? Should I feel good about this or should I be doing more? What more could I possibly do for someone who I don’t even know?”

I felt that in that moment, my best choice would be to extend the kindness that was asked of me. I chose to believe that this man’s friend would be coming soon to check in (despite the fact that I had no reservations left for the evening) and allowed him to sit in the lobby during the cold, dark hours of the night.

Around 4:30 am, I knew that guests would start waking up to check out soon. I went to make the morning coffee for the lobby and found my friend dozing in a chair near the doors. I knelt down and gently spoke to him.

“Excuse me, sir? It’s morning. I don’t think your friend is going to come. I’m very sorry. Do you have a place to stay?”

He stirred and began to mumble. “Oh, I guess he isn’t coming. Well, yeah, I live with my sister just a little ways a way but she doesn’t like to have company a lot and stuff so…but I live with her. Well, she lets me stay with her. So I could go there if I wanted, but I was just waiting for my friend.”

He looked down and shuffled his feet. “Do you know when any restaurants open?” He asked.

I looked at him and tried to see beyond the moment.

“I don’t know what time the earliest opens that is close to here. Maybe 6 or 7? Do you know where the mission is? Can you get there on the bus? They start serving breakfast at 6:00 am for free if you’d like. And the next bus leaves in just half an hour and it will take you right there.” I pulled a dollar in coins from my pocket – all I had with me that night – and offered it to him.

He accepted the coins, looked at me and gave a little sigh. “Thank you so much for letting me sit here and wait,” he said. “I don’t know where I will go, maybe down to a restaurant or something. Thank you for the money. I will come pay you back when I get some money. Thanks for your kindness ma’am. I will give it back to you.”

I smiled. “Don’t worry about it. It’s yours.”

I watched him brave the not-so-chilly morning as he walked toward the bus station, then finished making the coffee and headed to the front desk to check out my first guests of the morning.

I probably will never see the man again. I don’t know that what I did or said was right, or if it was enough or too much, but I have unrest about the situation even in my knowledge that I did something. I ask myself whether I would have questioned allowing him to stay had he been dressed in a suit with a nice haircut – of course, not. I wonder whether he actually made it to the mission and whether or not he had breakfast. In fact, I wonder if he had breakfast this morning. And as strange and slightly irritating it is for me to continue to have little moments of concern for this man, it also is a reminder to me that I have not grown cold to the needs of those around me. I wonder how many times a week – a day, even – I may be presented with an opportunity to show a glimpse of lovingkindness to someone, and how many times I simply don’t see the opportunity. I want to continue to say “yes” to seeing things that I have chosen not to see before, and to say “yes” to opportunities to help without judgment. Maybe it doesn’t matter if my dollar goes to buy an alcoholic some gin or if my cup of coffee is the seventh that woman has been given today. Maybe it’s more about someone being seen and acknowledged, and about the continued shaping of my own heart. Maybe it’s about seeing someone as human, as a child of God, rather than homeless. Or an alcoholic. Or a single mother or father. Or a widow. Or a millionaire. Maybe it’s time for me to stop labeling as part of loving.

It seems as though I paid a dollar in quarters for a very intense therapy session. I owe a thank you to my friend who came in with the blustery winds of autumn.

Hello, new season.

 “There are no great things. Only small things with great love.”  - Mother Teresa 

Yes, I am going to turn that assignment in late.

 Those who have spent any time with me academically or professionally or more than a smidgen of time with me personally know that I like to do things as perfectly, precisely, concisely, and comprehensively as possible. Work project to do? I’d like to have it done before expected, better than it’s ever been done before, and having added a little extra zsa zsa zing. Homework assignment? I may procrastinate before getting it started, but I think that’s more about the thrill of getting it completed on time and well  when it’s “down to the wire.” Which I will - 99.9% of the time - barring a major life event that prevents my completing it on time…

…until this week.

I worked my first entire weekend on third shift at the hotel this weekend. It was a bit hectic, but overall great! I had a few strange incidents, but in the end everything worked out smoothly and I felt accomplished and excited to continue next weekend. However, by Sunday afternoon I was so exhausted that I felt I couldn’t stand upright. I knew I had a paper that wasn’t completed for one of my classes and some research notes that needed to be turned in for another, but I also knew that trying to complete both perfectly in the shape I was in would be improbable at best. So I made an executive decision, and decided to put one off.

For the very first time in the history of my scholarship, I chose to just not turn in an assignment on time. No one suffered a traumatic brain injury and I did not have a violent illness – I just wanted to sleep and chose to do so. It was strange for me, knowing that I wasn’t making the absolute best choice for my schooling. I believed at the time, however, that I was making the best choice for me as a whole. I think I still believe that.

I considered my options, of course. I could do the assignment and probably do it well enough to get an “A” if not the 100% I craved. I would be a zombie by the time I completed it, but I would still be able to get a good night’s rest and hold my head up high for having taken down the obstacle before me. Or, I could not do the assignment, feel crappy about it, but snuggle up in my bed and watch an episode of Friends before falling asleep at 2:00 pm and waking up with enough time to revise my paper and submit it for the other class. Friends and blankets won out, and I woke up with exactly enough time to have one of my two assignments completed and submitted.

The late assignment got turned in last night. It will be about a 10% reduction in my grade. I can’t say that I am happy about that, although I know that losing 10% off of one assignment in a class of 30 assignments shouldn’t be that big of a deal. I also know that to most of my peers, my issue with turning in an assignment 24 hours later than scheduled seems like a petty thing to fret about. I recognize this, and I am actively working on learning to care less about the destination and more about the journey. I used to tell my clients to take small steps, and that’s what I am doing. I may not turn in another late assignment until next semester…or ever…but I did it once, and I’m choosing to be content with that decision. 

Yes, I will go back to Africa.

Finally! I have been waiting for weeks to get a response letter back from my internship application with Blessing the Children International. It came today.

"After reviewing your application, we are excited to inform you [that] you have been accepted for a social work internship position."

The summer before last, my youngest sister and I went to Debre Zeyit, Ethiopia, to spend two weeks working with a school and foster care program for orphans. It. Was. Awesome. No, seriously, it was awesome. Two weeks was a good amount of time for a first trip. It was not enough time to get completely immersed, or to feel like any project we started would be long-lasting (except perhaps the sponsorship project we became a part of which culminated in several children getting sponsored by American families once we returned to the U.S.) It was, however, enough time to fall in love with the kids, the social workers, and the church families with whom we spent time. It was enough time to know that we needed to go back there "one of these days."

This past summer, my sweet friend Jessica took a team to work with the same organization and the same kids. I did not go. I was insanely jealous. I'd like to say that "I'm not the jealous type" but that wouldn't be true. I feel envious quite a lot, actually. Sometimes I am envious that my sisters get to spend a lot of time together and are making these wonderful memories that, as The Oldest Sister Who Moved Away, I don't get to be a part of. (Please excuse my dangling participle.) (When I type 'dangling participle,' I feel like I'm saying something dirty.) Sometimes I am envious of my friends who have doting husbands or boyfriends who say nicer things to them than my mirror says to me. Sometimes I am very jealous of the women who can snack on M&Ms and regular coke all day at their desks and never gain a pound. (Don't try to tell me they don't exist. I know them, although through no fault of their own they are not my friends.)

I digress. Jessica went to Ethiopia. I did not go. I was very jealous. I was also a bit heartbroken, which felt strange to me because typically my coveting others' experiences does not involve heartbreak. It mostly just involves wanting to stomp my feet a little and then telling myself to suck it up and having a glass of pinot grigio while watching You've Got Mail and reminding myself that I don't have to do anyone else's laundry so life isn't all bad. That typically cures what ails me.

So when the heartbreak happened, I decided going back to Ethiopia sooner rather than later would be a good plan. Then I reminded myself that I'm an Adult with a Real Job that doesn't include paid time off for mission work, nor would my supervisors look fondly upon my request for unpaid leave to flit off to Africa for a bit. I decided it was best that I just sit back and wait until I had a Sign that told me it was time to go back. Did I say that at this time my youngest sister had recently been accepted to do a six week internship in the summer of 2013 with Blessing the Children? Well, she had.

Upon my Quitting My Job and becoming a nanny through May 2013, I realized that I had some freedom, which included the ability to flit off to Africa for a bit. I applied for an internship myself, knowing that I would have school work to do while there, but also knowing that online classes and a flexible internship would make it easy for me to schedule a few hours for school each week, and I could organize my class schedule so that I would have just one class while in Ethiopia.

The rest is history. Or future, I suppose. I applied for a social work internship, asking for approval to provide counseling services to the BCI program's orphaned children and their caregivers. Three weeks later, I got the acceptance letter in the mail and my sister and I started brainstorming fundraising ideas, since, as broke college students, neither of us can actually afford a 6-week internship overseas. We will make it happen, though. Who says it's impossible to raise $4,500 each in 9 months? It's not. Right? ...Of course not.

Besides, at what other point in my life will 6 weeks in Ethiopia just slide easily into my grand life schedule? None other time. I'm going. 

Yes, I will do this grad school thing.

Last week was my first of about 60 weeks of graduate schooling. I'm working on a Master of Arts in Human Services (cognate in Marriage and Family) through an accredited online program at a university.

Here are things I have learned thus far:

1. Online grad school is much different than living on a college campus for your undergraduate education. It takes crazy amounts of discipline. Classes involve taped lectures, lots of reading and writing, and interaction with peers through discussion boards. Additionally, there is no way to solidify my place as the Most Detested Student (as Recognized in a Poll Taken of Other Students in the Class) by sitting at the front of the class and asking clarifying questions, prolonging the length of the class. I'm not saying that I ever did that in past educational experiences, but I will say that if someone was going to do that I wouldn't judge her for it because she is paying to be in that class for precisely 100 minutes and everyone else is texting anyway.

2. If I plan to spend 2 hours reading a textbook, I will, in actuality, spend 45 minutes reading that textbook, 15 minutes checking Facebook, 20 minutes adjusting the temperature, lights, and noise level in the room, and 40 minutes taking an impromptu nap.

3. A charming smile gets you nowhere in online classes. No one can see it, and if you use emoticons it's unprofessional and creepy.

4. There is no such thing as too much tea. Or chocolate. Or, apparently, according to my professors, relevant peer-reviewed journal articles that should be read as a supplement to the text. 

As it turns out, this week was actually a bit difficult. After several weeks of being quite unproductive and several years out of the schooling system, regaining the discipline and time management required to succeed in these classes has been (and most likely will continue to be for a time) an uphill climb. Also, while I have a support network, there is no one here to actively cheer me on or call me out during my accidental naps whilst reading about the integration of psychology and theology. It's interesting - really it is - but I'm tired.

I'm tired because I have been training to be your New Favorite Hotel Front Desk Lady every weekday night. That means I get up in the morning to run after the Monkey, "go to class" in the evening, and then head to the hotel from 11pm to 3am. There's time for sleep, but the schedule is more than a little thrown off. By the time I get accustomed to it, it will change and I will only be working nights on the weekends. However that will re-rearrange my sleeping schedule, I am looking forward to it. I'm starting to feel like a narcoleptic.

I will truck on because furthering my education is extremely important to me and I know it will get better. Yes, it is a challenge. Yes, I am exhausted. But I'm going to save the world one of these days, and I'm pretty sure that Mother Theresa had at least a grad degree.

(Upon google stalking Mama T, I have found that this is a lie. Mother Theresa had no education. At all. So logistically, my point is moot. In my heart, though, she has an M.S.ed.) 

Yes, I will treat my body with more respect.

I was on a kick about 6 months ago. I was going to the gym 5 times a week and loving it. In all honesty, I was also very bored with my job, which was infiltrating my personal life heavily, so the gym was an escape and a way for me to avoid dealing with the reality of my situation. I typically hate running, but had gotten myself into a stride (ha!) of combination walking and jogging that had me feeling great about my fitness level.

About the time I hit my stride (seriously, I can’t stop myself) I decided I was feeling good enough to make some life decisions. I moved from entry-level desk job to professional position within a reputable, local company. I watched my waistline shrink and the scales put up smaller numbers. I was a happy camper.

Then, on a Tuesday morning in May, I woke up unable to move. I knew immediately that I had somehow exacerbated the back injury I sustained last summer, but refused to believe that it would keep me down. I took a day of rest, a lot of ibuprofen, and prayed.

The next morning, I still couldn’t move. I called and made an appointment with my orthopedic specialist, who had told me last summer that my back injury could be “an ongoing problem, or it could just go away. These things happen, and everyone is different.” Twenty-four hours later, I was sitting in his office with an order for an MRI and strict instructions not to go to work or visit the gym until the next weekend. When the doctor left and the nurse popped in with a chipper attitude, stating, “Lucky you! No work or workouts!” I completely broke down. I didn’t have enough sick hours built up at the new job to take more than a week off of work. I also couldn’t imagine missing my workout for 10 days in a row. Concerned, the doctor came back in and inquired about the situation. Upon hearing out my concerns, he changed my work restriction to “no driving for work” rather than “no going to work.” He remained firm about the gym, telling me that if, by next weekend, I felt better, I could look at taking walks on the treadmill.

Walks on the treadmill? I put on my “poor me” pajamas that night and, although I woke up and went to work the next morning, I kept the self-pitying attitude for some time. My routine became so: I got up and went to work, came home and ate a ton of junk food, went to bed, and started over the next morning. This lasted about 2 weeks, at which time I became approved to go to the gym to walk on the treadmill and do limited weightlifting. After this full restriction was lifted, I went immediately to the gym and walked for 30 minutes on a treadmill. Between the loss of fitness from time off from working out and the inability to participate in my typical gym activities, I became easily frustrated and discouraged. I walked out of the gym and didn’t go back for several weeks. Of course, by the time I convinced myself to go back, the calendar read July – the Month of the Trial. After two short workouts, I was without the time, energy, and motivation to get to the gym due to the physical, mental, and emotional exertion of getting to and through the Trial.

Needless to say, my relationship with my health was – is – faltering. With the back injury, the Trial, and the job quitting, I all but gave up on ensuring that I was taking care of my physical wellbeing. Prior to hurting my back this spring, I had lost nearly 15lbs, had a kitchen stocked with fresh fruits and vegetables, was sleeping well, and felt good in my own skin. As of last week, I had gained back 13 lobs, had a freezer full of pre-cooked, overprocessed foods and a refrigerator full of soda and leftover pizza, and I hadn’t seen a treadmill in the month of August (unless you count that time when I threw chocolate chips at the woman working out on TV.)

Last week, I decided I’d had enough of not respecting myself enough to take care of me physically. I also decided I didn’t want to go back to exercising addictively, because in all honesty I was addicted to the avoidance, not the running. My doctor and I had come up with a “safe” exercise routine for me back in June  - which includes minimal lifting and a lot of low-impact cardio – that I decided to use as a starting point. Last week I went to the gym 3 times, a big step up from 0 times. I cleaned out my refrigerator, so that nearly all of the foods I brought to the O’s are healthy and fresh (or at least not labeled “DiGiorno” or “Haagan-Daaz.”) I know that I am not going to make it to the gym every day between two jobs and school, and there are two things that I have decided not to do now that I have recognized this: 1) I will not feel guilty if I can only make it 2 or 3 days per week, and will try to find other ways to get physically active in my down time. 2) I will not become discouraged and give up when I miss a week because of schoolwork or have a day when I don’t feel particularly energetic. I deserve better than to give up on me.

Last night, I had to do quite a bit of schoolwork and then work the night audit at 11:00 pm. I squeezed in a short workout around 10:00. It wasn’t about burning 1,000 calories in one session or avoiding dealing with a work issue, it was about taking care of me. I feel great about it. 

Yes, I will ask for help.

At about 11:00 on Saturday night, I was made aware that the truck I had planned to use for moving the last of my furniture (including my bed) to the O's house would, in fact, be unavailable. This presented me with a problem, as I don't have a truck myself and it's a weekend so finding a truck to rent would be difficult. Bugger. 

Another problem: I hate asking for help. I'm don't dislike it, I absolutely abhor it. People who are close to me don't understand this. I don't blame them. I don't always understand it myself. As a self-proclaimed woman of strength and confidence, it doesn't make sense that I would be crippled by the idea of seeking out assistance from family members or friends. But it's my reality. 

As I ponder it, I can think of several reasons for this. One, I like to feel self-able and enjoy being able to accomplish tasks on my own. I am a first-born with a type-A personality. Independence is coursing through my veins.  Two, I have a persistent and ever-nagging fear of rejection. Due to some issues in my past - including being told by a prominent figure in my life that the only reason I pursued a relationship with him was for his money - mixed with that Type A insanity, I find myself in a near-constant state of fear that people will say "no" or think badly of me for asking for their assistance. Three, I struggle with pride. It's an ongoing struggle, and not one that I will soon be able to release. It's an issue which I spend a considerable amount of time thinking about and probably not nearly enough time actually working through. 

Imagine being in a situation where you would need to ask President Obama if you can borrow $50,000 dollars from him. You are probably going to feel ridiculous, and be convinced that the outcome will be an answer of "no" and a laugh in your face if you can even get past the secret service. Then you figure the President is going to sit around the dinner table with his distinguished guests and talk about the diphthong who just came and asked him for money. The alternative is that he will graciously lend you the money, and possible even tell you to not worry about paying it back. But are you really going to put yourself out there for the chance of a "yes"? 

Every time I need to ask for help, I feel like the guy who is asking for the 50 grand, and the person I'm seeking out is the Prez. 

Over the past week, I had already stretched myself to ask for help from my mother and sisters with packing, from my grandparents to use their home as storage, and from several friends with loading and unloading boxes and small pieces of furniture. So when Sunday morning rolled around and I realized I was without my "paid" help, my stomach flipped. I couldn't leave my bed in the apartment for even one more night. I had limited options - one - rent a truck at a weekend rate and hope that I'd be able to afford it, or two - ask a friend with a truck for an hour of his or her time. 

I knew I'd have to suck it up and ask the Obamas for some help. I actually ended up asking my friend Megan and her husband, Danny, who graciously said "yes" without hesitation. They came with their pickup around 1:30 and loaded up my bed, dropped it off at the O's, and refused to accept anything but a thanks for their help. I felt a bit guilty about it, but those are issues to tackle on another day. 

After Megan and Danny left, I forced myself to think about reasons it's actually good to ask for help. Here's what I came up with: 

You learn humility. You build trust within the relationship. You give other people the opportunity to be a blessing. You learn humility. You give someone else the chance to redeem a favor. You broaden your perspective and gain insight into the lives of those who are unable to live independently. You validate the lyrics "people who need people are the luckiest people in the world." You learn humility. 

I don't love it. In fact, I still kind of hate it. But I think I am growing. I know that I am grateful for the people who put up with my stubbornness and my fierce independence to the point of recklessness at times. I am certainly grateful for those who continue to ask me to ask them for help, because they are contributing to my growth (and putting up with my annoyed attitude when they continue to ask.) There are times when I do push people away who want to help, and I am realizing that even when I am unhappy about not being able to "just do my thing" on my own, I am extraordinarily blessed.  There are billions of people in this world, and perhaps a sprinkling who have that kind of love and support surrounding them. 

I'm going to be mad that I have to ask for it, but thank you for your help. 

Yes, I will stay up until the early hours of the morning watching sitcoms.

Not because I can't sleep - I'm tired this evening.

Not because the sitcoms are particularly good - they are reruns that I've seen at least twice before.

Just because I'm grown-up and I have the prerogative do things like this for no good reason, other than because I can.