Three Cheers for Good Service

This post may be pretty tedious, but I feel like it involves three harrowing escapes from all manner of inconvenience and frustration, due to the helpfulness of three good people.

First, a small one: way back in March, I had the heater service people out. They offered to do a routine maintenance thing that I had already had done this year (by another company), and I asked them not to do it this time. But a few days later, they sent a follow-up guy out, and when he left, I saw that he'd done it anyway. Uh-oh, I thought, but I didn't get a bill for it . . . until July, after a delay where they'd tried to send it to my home warranty people first. Figuring it was going to be almost impossible to verify that I had asked them not to do it, I was ready for a fight, and I warmed up what Dottie, in her hilarious account, calls the Def-con 3 teacher-voice. But they were so nice that I never had to get beyond "pleasant but puzzled." They called me back the next day to say--again, so nicely!--they were dropping the charge.

Second, I had tried to cancel my satellite TV in an effort to pursue a deeper inner life (yeah, yeah--keep reading). But when I called, I was informed that the people who had installed the satellite had signed me up for a 2-year contract, to which I was certain I had never agreed. I got transferred to someone named Peter, and he told me he would look up my contract. I never expected to hear from him again, since I agreed to keep the satellite until the issue was resolved rather than incur an early cancellation charge. But Peter actually called me back to tell me that the installer had been incorrect, that they would track the installer to make sure it wasn't a pattern. And--he left me the number of his direct line. Wow. Go, D1shNetwork! (As for me, my halfhearted momentum has passed and I still have the TV for the time being.)

Finally, RoomBob needed a doctor. Instead of trundling across the room sucking up dirt, he kept going short distances, zig-zagging, and then making a sad chiming sound and turning himself off. He doesn't have a drinking problem (that I know of), so I looked online for some assistance. The iRobot site gave a suggestion and advised calling their hotline if it didn't work. (I liked that they actually recommended calling the service folks, rather than making it difficult--has anybody ever had to get help for a D*ll computer?)

After only a single branch on the iRobot phone tree, Frank answered the phone.* He told me to let him hear the Roomba's sad sound, and immediately diagnosed the problem. [There was no long hold, no pseudo-soothing Muzack.] He told me how to fix it, and after a conversation of two minutes, Roomba was happily trundling in his usual efficient patterns. [I did not then have to bundle the thing up, take it to the post office, and wait six weeks for a letter telling me that he was being held hostage until I paid for an un-warranteed repair. ] I just called the guy, and he told me how to fix it. Yay Frank!

*Not Mr. Frank who appears now and then in this blog. But another Frank of similar good cheer, patience,** and technical capability.

**Joan, I can hear you laughing right now.

Trials and Errors

The letters of the new Testament often make reference to "spiritual gifts," which range from the breathtakingly supernatural, like healing or evangelism or prophecy (which in the Bible tends to mean the revelation of hidden truth, rather than the prediction of the future), to the more mundane, like administration or the quaintly named gift of "helps." I've seen people exercise what I truly believe to have been the gift of healing, and I've witnessed people with prophetic insight speak gently and kindly and incisively and therapeutically into the secret pain of others. Those moments often feel ordinary, yet warmer and somehow more alive--I feel calm, but intensely alert to what God seems to be doing.

It's the best feeling in the world. I've done a little yoga, and somewhere along the line I realized that the purpose of yoga appears to be to replicate that feeling, which in yogic practice is called "being present." I have yet to achieve it in any deep way through yoga--yoga feels, in a sense, like an imitation of that feeling at best.

Anyway, all this is to say that that wonderful feeling of peace and alertness is exactly the opposite of what I've been experiencing lately in my inept (not-yet-apt?) efforts to serve my church. I've just joined the media team, which seems up until recently to have consisted mainly of one guy. He ran the website, made Powerpoint slides for each worship service with our song lyrics and sermon outline on them, ran the slides at every Sunday service, and created videos for each week to illustrate our activities (viewable at http://www.myspace.com/vineyardchurchofwashington).

Occasionally, he has to work on Sundays, so I've been substituting now and then, running the Powerpoint slideshow during the worship service. The main activity required is using my one finger to press the "down" arrow to move from one slide to the next. Not too taxing, right?

Except for this: when I signed up for the job, I didn't tell anybody about how when I was in elementary school, my teachers would always give me the job of clicking the filmstrip (does anybody remember those? The little pictures that went along with a recorded story, and you'd flip to the next picture at each chime?)--and I would always mess it up. I would space out, drifting off into my own thoughts, only to be recalled to the present when my dismayed classmates would wail my name. Startled, I'd come to my senses and flip us too quickly along to catch up to the recorded story.

I'm trying very, very hard not to screw up the church service in the same way. It requires all of my attention. I signed up to help out because writing and editing are second nature by now (in spite of whatever typos or infelicities you may observe in this blog), and I wanted to help with the slides . . . but then what I like about those activities is that you can write something and proofread it a dozen times before going public. This indulgence is quite pleasing to someone with my control issues.

Running the Powerpoint at the worship service is actually just the opposite, though. Any number of things could happen, I've found--the worship leader changes the order of the verses, or there's a different situation requiring a different combination of spot- and houselights (also the media person's job, and also requiring nothing more than the nudge of a knowledgeable finger), or somebody asks me to do something I've never done (play a video, record a sermon). I haven't quite learned to improvise yet, so everything I do to adapt to the changing situation is projected onto the screen at the front of the church, or similarly obvious to all. I'm always hoping that people aren't distracted from worship by thinking, "Why are the lights dimming and brightening at random?"

So on Sunday, there was a little snag, and I was concentrating intently on trying to fix the problem before the service started, which was supposed to have happened three minutes before--and I was working pretty hard to suppress my frustration and a sense of having failed at a responsibility, however small. In the midst of it, though, I heard my pastor, Jodi, say soothingly from the side of the control booth, "Tara, honey, you just tell us when you're ready."

Which made me realize 1) that yes, indeed, I was the one holding up the service, and 2) that it was okay. And I don't know, it felt like a moment of grace, and I was reminded of how good it is to be in a place where you can fail, and how the freedom to do so gives you the opportunity to grow into something new--to become good at something that you're actually pretty bad at, at first. And maybe that's how we continue to receive new spiritual gifts--not just by doing what comes naturally, but by persevering in things that we're failing at, accompanied by those faithful, patient folks who wait by our side and say, "just tell us when you're ready."

Filthy Lucre for Dummies

In academia, everybody claims to be motivated wholly by factors other than salary, yet salary is one of the chief dissatisfactions one hears about in the profession. I guess those two facts aren't contradictory--you can complain about something that isn't your main reason for going to work. I don't go to work for a comfortable chair, but if I didn't have one, I'd probably mutter unhappily.

So what I notice is not the complaint, which seems reasonable, but the insistence that money isn't important, and the way that insistence shuts down plain and constructive talk. It's true nobody in her right mind would become a professor for the salary (in the humanities anyway), but look, doesn't everybody have a mortgage, or need to buy a $3 gallon of gas now and then? And isn't it fair to ask for these things? So why all the disingenous denial?

My observation of this oddity in the world where I live is maybe why I found Dottie's post sort of refreshing--because she mentioned in her calm and candid way that she wants to earn money in her job. When I was doing my job search last year in the infamous academic market, I got some excellent advice from a friend of mine who had gone to business school, where they're shockingly open about wanting to make money. It was much more practical than the disavowals of salary that comprised most of the money talk I had heard previously, and I've pretty much blabbed it, solicited or not, to everybody I know who is looking for a job. So, once and for all, here goes:

1) Never negotiate salary until you have an offer in hand (why negotiate beforehand, when you have no power?). Practice maddening evasion, even if they corner you.

Them: What are your salary requirements?
You, smiling winningly: I'm sure we can settle on something once you've decided whether you'd like me to come and work with you.

2) If you think they are trying to sniff out something they can't legally ask you, like whether you're married or whether you plan to have children, get to the heart of the matter (oh yeah, this one came from somebody else).

Them: Are you married? How does your spouse feel about moving to Fargo? (Some questions may be illegal, but some employers may be clueless. And socially awkward.)
You: If you're asking whether there are any barriers to my accepting the job here, there are none.

3) Always negotiate. A recent book called Women Don't Ask says that the average salary increase negotiated is $3,000. That $3,000 plus inflation and very modest interest equals over $500,000 over a 30-year career.

You don't have to play hardball, but at least ask, "Is there any room for movement on the salary" when you get the offer. If it seems low, follow up with a reason: "Is there any room for movement on the salary? I'm expecting that the cost of living in Fargo is higher than where I live now." It could be a $500,000 question.

The Fifth Commandment

Once you start noticing them, you see them everywhere: pairs of ladies a generation apart, wandering through Target or Boscov's or the grocery store. The one walking ahead is in her fifties, dressed in what's called sportswear (but has nothing to do with athletics). She's looking for something; she has a list. The one tagging along more slowly in the back bears some resemblance to her but has stopped coloring her hair, which has gone white. She isn't looking for anything, just peering around contentedly as she holds onto her handbag.

When I see them, I think of my mother and my grandmother, who were such a pair until my grandmother passed away a year ago. They went everywhere together. My grandmother had given up driving, but my mother wanted to keep her life as active as it had always been for her. They talked every morning at 9:00 a.m.--once in a while, when I was home visiting, I'd make the call and would sometimes call at 9:01 or 9:02, and she'd answer the phone, "You're late!" They went grocery shopping every week, and it was a whole-day affair, involving lunch, a trip to the butcher, a stop at the bakery, a visit to the pharmacy, and the occasional manicure.

Now when I stop in somewhere and see these little pairs of ladies, I think of how good they're being to each other, however irritated they may be in the moment. I once saw a middle-aged woman, frustrated, holding her keys, and muttering, "Where is she--she always wanders off!" I looked around, expecting to see a sullen teenager somewhere in the vicinity, but then I heard the woman say, "Mom! We're over here!" They are taking care of each other, and it reminds me of the countless unremarked ways my mother's generation has looked out for their families.

Ho-Hum

Your Brain is 87% Female, 13% Male

You have the brain of a girly girl Which isn't a bad thing at all You're emphatetic, caring, and in tune with emotions. You're a good friend and give great advice.

What Gender Is Your Brain?

It's no surprise that I have the brain of "a girly-girl." But 87% . . . that's almost an A. ;)

Water, Water, Everywhere

On the Fourth of July, a town near where I live has a big parade, which they proudly promote as the second largest in the state, after Philadelphia. Having experienced Fourth of July in Philly, I suspect it was not a close contest. But however large or small, you can't beat a parade for a festive occasion.

For the past several years, my church has had a float in the parade, giving away thousands of bottles of water to the people on the sidelines "to show God's love in a practical way." There's no talking or church invitation, just a bottle of water for anybody who's thirsty. At church the week before, everybody told me how much fun it was. "It's so hot, and people just love getting any icy cold bottle of water for free!" they said. Okay, I thought, why not? So in a burst of fellow-feeling, I signed up. I trusted them so unquestioningly that on the morning of the parade, I didn't even consider the thunderclouds gathering overhead.

It started to rain when we were gathering in a parking lot nearby, and as we headed over to the parade on the flatbed trailer, it poured. I was sitting against a cooler, and I could feel that an enormous pool of water had accumulated in my T-shirt above where my back was pressed against the edge, and that the water was going to gush down my back when I moved. (Did I mention that it was a cold day too?)

It sounds miserable, but it really wasn't bad--even drenched, the company went a long way. We huddled under the doorway of a warehouse near the railroad tracks for about two hours, waiting for our turn, and I can honestly say that I was glad to be there. These are people you'd want to huddle with in a rainstorm, and the fact that they didn't even think of backing out silenced my own ambivalence about staying. That, and other fact that I hadn't driven myself.

So, anyway, we got to the parade part, and it was true--it was a lot of fun to give away the water. It was fun to see how many people wanted the water even though it had been pouring down rain minutes ago. It was fun to see that they were surprised it was free, and it was fun to to see that some people were waiting for us and saying things like, "Oh, look, it's the church! We hoped you were coming!" It was fun to serve in a physical way--just keep handing out the bottles and smiling and moving on. No thinking necessary.

Except that I did find myself doing a little superfluous thinking. Some people took more than one bottle, hiding them under their chair or their jacket and flagging down the next water-person. Other people were noticeably drunk ("Hey, honey, you got anything stronger?"). Lots of people didn't say thank you. All of these people I found exasperating, and undeserving of water. I wanted to give the water to the cute little kids, or the veterans with their caps, or the little old wives who had gotten one but had given it right away to their husbands or grandkids. Part of our team stayed on the float, refilling buckets of water bottles for us to hand out as we walked along, and I thought, the people on the float don't have to make such hard and consequential decisions as who gets the water.

Yes, that's right--I found myself trying to decide who was deserving of water. One of our most basic necessities, and the substance that we're made of (something like 70% if you believe what you read on the internet). Water, in this case, that we were supposed to be giving away as a sign of God's unconditional, free, and lavish love. Because here's the thing: God doesn't give His mysterious, abundant life to those who act like they deserve it, who are generous or nice or polite or sober. He gives it to anyone who reaches out a hand, however selfish or grabby or inebriated with alchohol or self-righteousness.

Sometimes new situations wake you from your grogginess, and you dimly hear Him calling you, and in the spaciousness of the echo you realize how far your heart has drifted from His. But you do listen, and He calls again, and like a creature coming sluggishly out of hibernation, you start moving.

The Sensory Study

I've been inspired by Kate's blog to tell my own story of having been a subject in a research study. I've always been always intrigued by the classifieds, and in grad school, reading them often stoked my smoldering fantasies of escape: What heretofore unimaginable job could I quit my own to start doing? Or they tempted me with fascinating objects with strange histories: what are people giving away or selling or losing or seeking, and why? The ads sometimes also expressed rather unsavory desires, and what surprised me was not that people had such impulses, but that they advertised them in the newspaper. I'd never read the classifieds in a university town before, and the location added a whole new dimension of interest.

One day, I read an ad seeking participants for a "Sensory Study." It sounded like a minimal time commitment, and the pay was generous; the purpose was to track people for a number of years, so they had to pay well enough to keep people coming back. So I signed up. It turned out to be a study on pain perception. At the dental school.

Woo-hoo! Just my thing. (Here I'm being sarcastic, but I don't know of any punctuation-based emoticon for that.) To be honest, the people were incredibly nice, and it wasn't that bad, even if the instructions were a bit alarming, to wit: "We can assure you that none of these procedures will cause any permanent damage. When the discomfort becauses entirely unbearable, press this button and it will stop immediately."

In various tests, they put pressure against the side of your face, then heat on your wrist, and then a tight band around your arm. I realized after the first round that actually the maximum amount of discomfort they would cause was not all that bad, and then I just pretty much relaxed and let them do their thing. At the end, they said admiringly, "You have a really high pain tolerance."

(Julie, you can get up off the floor and stop laughing now.)

In truth, I'm a total wimp about pain--the kind of person who flinches and says "Ouch!" before somebody actually touches your finger with the tweezers they're going to use to get the splinter out. But I guess it's the threat of pain, or the fear of pain, that's more troubling than the actual pain itself--at least on the level I have experienced it. Knowing that they weren't going to do anything really bad made it fine.

It would be nice if my faith in God's mastery of his world were as complete as my belief that the testers would follow their own self-authored rules (and, I guess, the rules of the people who approve testing on human subjects). I was so certain that they wouldn't do anything really painful or damaging, even if what they were actually doing hurt in the moment. Theoretically, I believe the same thing about God--I believe not only that He wouldn't hurt me, but also that He is actively seeking my good--and yet often my theoretical faith is not substantial enough to salve my fear of things that might, in a larger sense, be good for me. It's a question of trust, I suppose, as embarrassingly trite as that is.

I'm often mystified by people (believers and outsiders alike) who think that faith offers us easy answers. On the contrary, I think having faith--gaining knowledge of God and receiving the grace to allow Him to operate in our lives--is the only really hard thing, even if it is also the only really worthy one.

Home

As always, it was hard to leave my parents; life is just too uncertain not to feel a twinge of mortality at every good-bye. It feels like I just got back to Washington, but nearly a week has passed in cleaning, laundry, and moving (from one office to another at work).

The first night I spent back here, I had a nightmare I've had before, where people were crawling into the downstairs windows of my house. I don't generally feel afraid living alone, but I did realize when I moved in that this house is more vulnerable than my condo, which was on the second floor and afforded little opportunity for a break-in--at least, I figured all my first-floor neighbors would be easier targets. This house felt somehow more porous to me--lots of doors and windows. I had gotten used to it, I thought, until I came back here from the safety and warmth of my childhood home. But what can you do?

Apart from that, returning was nice--I bought a ton of fruits and vegetables at the farmers' market and resolved to eat better, which is so delightfully easy in the summer. I had some friends over for dinner last night: the everpresent Andrew, whose lovely wife Noel is finally arriving in Washington this week (welcome, Noel!), and a new family who just moved to town because the wife is beginning a job in our department.

But the best part of being back in town was these two moments on Sunday morning. Before the service, I ended up helping my friend Kim get ready for our monthly after-church potluck. As the worship team practiced the music for the morning and Kim set out dishes and I sliced watermelons brought by one of the men from the Mission (a local shelter), we chatted and people arrived and she told me that they'd had the first open meeting of a new ministry for people in recovery from various addictions (it's like a 12-step program, with worship and prayer). She and a bunch of others from the church had been meeting all last spring to work through the program materials themselves in preparation for leading these groups, and they had their first meeting welcoming anyone who had this kind of need. They had 61 people!

It made me feel so happy, and so confirmed in the mission I believe our church has in our community. When the music started, I went into the service and as we were singing, it was the usual scene--probably the same atmosphere that, the first time I attended, made me cry as I felt the weight of all the sadness and pain in the room and realized how how much of a struggle it would be to walk with this church. But this time, I also felt a deep familiarity--like being in your own bed, or wearing your oldest shoes or your softest jeans, where something that once felt lumpy or tight or stiff now feels like the most comfortable way of being to you, and I thought, there's no other place on earth I'd rather be worshipping, right at this moment. And I realized: I was home.