Imminent Domain

“It isn't going to be what we expected. It is old and little, and altogether delightful--red brick. From hall you go right or left into dining-room or drawing-room. Hall itself is practically a room. You open another door in it, and there are the stairs going up in a sort of tunnel to the first-floor. Three bed-rooms in a row there, and three attics in a row above. That isn't all the house really, but it's all that one notices--nine windows as you look up from the front garden.”

When E.M. Forster wrote these words in Howards End, he understood the central importance constructions of brick and wood have in our lives. Houses construct meaning. The house in Forster’s novel is built by the people who live in it, but the house builds the people as well—it shapes their perceptions of what is “safe,” what is “stable,” and what is “home.” A house, as Forster suggests, can become a touchstone for wealth and happiness, providing a standard by which we compare our lives with others’. The windows through which we gaze out into the world are always framed, and those frames are part of a threshold of experience we create, protect, and invest with time and energy.

What Forster’s novel doesn’t show is a house composed by the hospitality and humanity of the people within it: a house that welcomes, befriends, comforts, and heals. Maybe Forster never saw a house of this construction in his day, but they must have existed. You can’t recognize a building of this type by its drawing-rooms or dining-rooms or red bricks; it can only be experienced in relationship with its people, for the house becomes an extension of the human desire to belong and connect.

For months we have been looking for our “dream house,” and we have been slow to realize that our dreams really don’t depend at all on the shape or size of a building. Days after this epiphany struck us, a nice little house with a big yard came up for sale close to campus. We put an offer down within three hours of the listing.

So we buy a house on Friday, and our thoughts and prayers frame our hope for the house to become a space of belonging and connection.

“Only connect.” –E.M. Forster, Howards End

Deus Imbrium

August 21, 2007

Last Thursday as the sun went down, had you been traveling in rural Comanche county, past the fields of cows and quiet ranch houses, miles away from any city lights, you might have seen a car stopped by the side of the road—its blinkers on and music issuing almost imperceptibly from its closed doors. Had you been a native West Texan, you might have wondered at the car’s California plates, noticeably out of place among the pump jacks and mesquite trees silhouetted in the darkening West Texas sky. “Tourists” you might have thought at first, but then you would have remembered that there is nothing to draw tourists to Rising Star, Texas, or, for that matter, to the nearby towns of Pioneer, Okra, or Chuckville. You might have thought “kin”, but then you would have had to rationalize the car’s present stopping place in the middle of nowhere. Ultimately, you would have been forced to conclude that the artifact from California had ended up where it was for a reason, and that, since it wasn’t your business to meddle in Californians’ affairs, you’d better just pass on by and be grateful that you were a Texan.

The car was ours, and the story of how it came to rest on a country road in the middle of rural West Texas is worth telling. It started with a sunset. Driving home from Brownwood, Texas, where we had helped my sister move in to her college dorm, we witnessed a dazzling display on the horizon—the sky awash in streaks of blue and gold as a thunderstorm faded with the dying light. We had to stop and take a picture. Mistake number one—violating the Texas Code of Living: Texans don’t stop and take pictures. The cosmic forces of Texas immediately made us pay for the mistake by locking our car doors and blowing them shut—our keys still inside. Then, without warning, the beautiful storm we had been watching in the distance changed course and began heading back towards us, thundering ominously and blackening the sky as it advanced.

As the rain began pounding the ground in front of us, our vision was clouded so that the only light we could see was the car’s turn signal blinking feebly orange. We had seen a ranch house in the distance before the storm hit, and we fled from the storm in the general direction of the ranch. Fortunately, we found the ranch house after a short sprint and the elderly couple inside graciously allowed us to use their phone, having first made sure that we were not rogue highwaymen come to wrestle their cattle. (I admit we did look rather harried—and I’ve always fancied myself a bandito.) A few phone calls later (including one “800 number” that was NOT a 24-hour towing hotline), I managed to locate an ‘ol boy with a truck who would help. Our conversation proceeded thusly: “When can you come?” I asked.


“Is it stormin’?”


“Yeah,” I said. “It’s comin’ down pretty hard” (I did my best ol’ boy Texas accent here.)


“Will I get wet?”


“Very likely.”


“Well, then, I’ll come whenever the storm finishes.”


“How long will that be?” I asked.


“Hard to say,” he said. It was clear that the cultural barrier had been breached at this point and I was not a welcome stranger. Imagining a long night in a lonely farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, I changed tactics.


“Is there anything I could do to persuade you to come more quickly?” I importuned.


“Depends” he said. “I don’t wanna get wet. What are you offerin’?”


So much for Texas hospitality. After a bartering session, we reached a gentleman’s agreement on a rip-off price and our noble rescuer promised to brave the storm and be there soon.
In the meantime, the kind woman who had taken us in had been talking nonstop to K— and was now scooping pecans into a bag for us to take on our way. This stranger, a veteran of many years on West Texas farms, had managed during our short intrusion to cover her entire family history from the Civil War to the present, with photographs for illustration. But her loquacity was comforting in a way, for the generous welcome and hospitality we received reminded us that there are still places where a stranger stranded by the side of the road will be taken care of—without thought of reparation or consideration of cost.

The ol’ boy towing man arrived about twenty minutes later, minutes after the rain had stopped completely. After taking all of two minutes to wedge open our car door and lift the lock with a tool, the tow-man went his way and we went ours. I began thinking about how silly we had been to make such a costly and time-consuming mistake. Then K— spoke. “That was amazing!” she said. “I wish that would happen more often.”

Whats Next

“Well, we must wait for the future to show,” said Mr Bankes, coming in from the terrace.(1)

We have arrived in Denton, Texas. We knew it when we saw our first old cowboy—waving to us with a kindly welcome and a friendly grin. The fact that it was one in the morning and in front of a grocery store seemed only slightly odd. We are living now in a town where the car at the stoplight is bumping Brad Paisley. The local donut shop is called “Donut,” and it coexists happily with “Yummy’s” and “Frilly’s”— Greek and Cajun eateries. We are living now in God’s country, where on Sunday we heard a local preacher enliven his sermon with the phrase, “I’d kill ‘im, and you would too.”

We are living now with a seven-toed cat named Kalamazoo. “Kally” and his companion were part of the gift set, along with a house and pool, generously offered by friends to help us transition into life here in Texas. The house astounds with its glass-happy architecture and vibrant colors. You would love it. The cats qualify as our only roommates right now and constitute, unless we widen our circle to include waitresses and 7-11 employees, the group of living organisms to which we speak. Cat friends are depressing.

But our outlook brightens. After all, we survived the caravan from California to Texas. If, in last year’s trip to Russia, we identified with spacemen visiting an alien world, then this year we were mahouts coaxing our van across the 1400 mile desert. We had estimated our driving time at about 22 hours. For most of the 30-hour journey, our boxy beast was the slowest thing on the road. The languorous pace allowed plenty of time to take in surroundings; unfortunately, the surroundings of New Mexico and Arizona comprise mostly truck stops and mile markers. The exception is “The Thing”—a marvel of Interstate 10—which we visited after years of mystery and speculation. In fact, “The Thing” somehow had the power to draw our moving van forward with the fuel tank on “E” for 23 miles—uphill and through the rain—so that we stopped eerily at the doorstep of the “The Thing’s” gas station. Yes, “The Thing” has that kind of power. No, I won’t say what “The Thing” is. No, it is not a papier-mâché hoax.

So we arrived, moved into our temporary house, and unloaded our van into storage last week. We have spent this week enjoying our beautiful temporary house and chasing down driver’s licenses, car registration, and any leads on houses for sale. We have eaten at the local Pei Wei three times. Tomorrow we will try “Donut.”

(1) Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse

Uncle and Aunt

Today we're happy to announce that we have new titles: "Uncle Matt" and "Aunt Kinzie". You should know that the Russian word for uncle is "dya-dya" and for aunt, "tyo-tya".

Oh, and also, Makinzie's sister Ashleigh and her husband Lance just had a baby boy--Caedmon Patrick Kelley. Born on March 7, 2007.

The Jury Show

March 1, 2007
(Matt)

I spent the entire day yesterday on a court-summoned field trip to learn about our criminal justice system. This was a new world of discourse for me, and I really became aware of the fact when I made it through the metal detectors at about 7:30 am, went up the stairs and down a long hallway, and happened to overhear a rough-looking man huddled in the corner saying into his cellphone, (imagine a deep, shadowy voice here) “Well, if the game won’t change, then the players will just have to change the rules . . .”. I have only the wildest thoughts about what such a phrase might mean within the context from which it was spoken. Anyway, it was clear that the “game” I would be playing throughout the day as a juror-in-waiting was going to be far different than the life I usually live as a normal citizen.

In the jury room, over 280 people were gathering as hopeful chosen’s for the days trials. I tried to read and look preoccupied so that no one would talk to me in the big jury room, but it didn’t work. The girl who sat down next to me noticed me reading and asked me if I was a student. The question turned out to be more of an introduction to her own autobiography, which began with the opening strategy of shock: “It’s no fun when you’re three years old and your mom has brain surgery and you try to jump on the bed to keep her from getting up and she throws you onto the floor and you hit your head.” What does one say to such a statement? I had to agree that the times this situation has happened to me, it has indeed been no fun. Sadly, my name was called as part of an 80-person jury selection panel, and I had to say goodbye to my new awkwardly self-revealing friend.

The jury selection process might be compared to the standard part of a game show where the host asks the contestants to tell a little bit about themselves, except that in the courtroom, the host throws out the contestants if he doesn’t like their answers. Well, and also, the questions from host to contestant deal with criminal background and presuppositions about guilt and innocence. Oh, and also the contestants do not WANT to be on the show (for the most part) and keep trying to find excuses to NOT play the game. Watching this process from the audience, I felt myself feeling both a perverse curiosity about the intimate details of these strangers’ lives and a profound sense of entertainment as judge, lawyers, and reluctant jurors put on a sensational show.

The real highlights of the day were the “show-stoppers”. These are the jurors-to-be who, for whatever reason, feel that the courtroom setting is their time to shine. Most lines of questioning take about five or six minutes; the “show-stoppers” get about thirty. I think that everyone in the audience had a favorite “show-stopper”, but mine was “Maria”, the woman with “two Master’s degrees, your honor”, who initially asked to be excused because (and this is her logic faithfully represented) she lived in the same town where the crime took place and jogged every morning around the track in her neighborhood with two black women. After about ten minutes of clarifying questions, neither the judge nor anyone else in the courtroom was any closer to figuring out what in the world this lady was saying. But it got better.

Although Maria (not her real name, for reasons you’ll soon see) grudgingly acquiesced to the judge’s order for her to take a place in the jury box, she was not through developing her argument. When the judge asked if anyone had a predisposition morally against the defendant, Maria said, “I think I do.” During the next twenty minutes, Maria revealed the following facts in support of her argument: 1) She was college counselor. 2) She jogged around the track in her neighborhood with two black women (yes, I know, but she said it again). 3) She married “an Asian”. 4) All the male students at her college seemed to love her. 5) She had a “gift” for being objective. 6) She thought that the defendant had a “system” in place that would find out where she jogs in her neighborhood if she was on the jury. 7) She prayed every night to be safe because she was a Christian.

Fortunately, the judge was able to hone in on Maria’s primary concern, and asked: “Excuse, me, Mrs. ____, but are you afraid that someone in this courtroom will retaliate against you if you are on the jury?” Yes, Maria, admitted, although she reiterated her gift at being “objective.” “What kind of TV shows have you being watching, Mrs. ______?” the judge wanted to know. So, it turns out that Maria believed (objectively) that because the defendant had looked at her as she took her place in the jury box, he was memorizing her name and face and preparing to send out hitmen from his “system” to “take care of her” while she slept—or perhaps jogged with her two black friends. Amazingly, Maria made it onto the final jury and was only dismissed at the last minute by a peremptory charge from the prosecuting attorney.

As for me, my own time in the spotlight was much less dramatic. I watched the pool of 62 “leftover” jurors dwindle as more people found excuses for not wanting to serve. Time was running out in the day when my name was finally called, and I moved from alternate seat to the real jury box with only six jurors left in the pool. The defense counsel had said that he was happy with the jury as it was, but then the prosecutor stepped in and dismissed me with one of his “peremptories”. I was slightly relieved, because I don’t know what would have happened if I had to miss the last two weeks of teaching my writing class. When I told this to my class this morning, they returned a unanimous decision that they would have done fine with a two-week break.

So what did I learn in the process of jury duty? One, take an iPod to the jury room to avoid any kind of interpersonal interaction. Two, use the words “financial hardship” as a magic ticket off of any jury panel—they seem to work without question. And three, since you’re given the chance to stand up in front of an educated audience including judges, sheriffs, lawyers, and various other upstanding citizens in society, take time to make it worth everyone’s while. Razzle-dazzle ‘em. Not everyone can make it to Hollywood or Broadway, but most of us will get at least one chance every twelve months or so to turn the criminal justice system into a venue for the most dazzling of human spectacles.

Coping with Good News

(Matt)

We apologize for the almost two-month gap between this post and our last, but the momentous weight of the events in the interim have given us a need to "set a spell" and gather our thoughts.

The most surprising news is that Matt has been offered and has accepted a tenure-track professorship at a large research university in Texas. We had been praying that our choice would be made clear, and it has become unquestionably clear that this is the "right" next move. We just signed a six-month lease on an apartment here in CA, so it looks as though our transition from California to Texas will begin in early August of 2007. The prospect of starting a new career and having a more stable (read: actually paying) basis for researching and teaching is really exciting, and we are looking forward to finding our place within a new community. The job itself is an answer to prayer; teaching at a big school presents both a blessing and a challenge. I have to admit personally that I am anxious about the process of establishing tenure and getting a book-length work ready for publication, but at the same time I have seen my greatest fears turned into moments of faith-building and trust in the last few years.

What surprises us most about the "good news" is how we have acclimated to the reality of having the next big phase of our life settled, to a certain extent. Our discussions of late have revolved around our sensations of scatteredness and even confusion. We’re excited about the future and at the same time we feel like we’re stumbling around a bit in the present.

This state of nebulousness is not really a bad thing overall. In fact, I know that we will emerge with a greater clarity of vision. In the meantime, at least our blog is back up :)

Back home

We made it back home to so cal last night and are staying with some sweet friends until we can get into a place.

These past few weeks have been crazy going around from place to place trying to squeeze as much as we could out of our time while we were in Texas. Family—I know some of y’all we only got to be with for a few hours, but, sitting next to Francie and feeling the radiance of her spirit on a Sunday night, getting to feel the life growing in Ashleigh’s tummy, traveling with Mema, talks with the cousins—these things and many more brought a warmth to my spirit; thank you for blessing us with your lives.

Because we did so much hopping around through Texas and Philadelphia (praise Him for the blessing of a school-site interview!) I know for at least myself I didn’t get to process everything that happened as we transitioned to life back here. We were blessed so much through mutual sharing, love, encouragement, etc. with those we love back in Russia—because of this, I felt this empty space as we returned to life back in the states; partly because I’m just plain sad about the separation and partly because I hadn’t quite thought through how exactly those relationships would continue when we returned.

Along with those feelings, as we drove back to California I felt a little nervous (along with excitement) about getting back into life and lives—wasn’t quite sure about what things would look like, especially since we’re unsure where God will take us after these next six months in Riverside.

This morning I spent some time driving around and at a place of peace for me here in Riverside and the Spirit blessed me with my own renewed sense of peace that I hadn’t felt since we were back in Moscow. Thank you, Father. I feel healed.

-Makinzie

Granddad

Matt’s granddad passed away this past Sunday. I know my relationship was different with him than that of his kids or grandkids because I’ve only known him for the past 8 or so years. I want to say thank you, though, to Jack. Thank you for being willing to share and laugh with me (things I did with my own Papa before he died 9 years ago). I am thankful that we were blessed to be with Granddad for a few hours over the holidays and thankful for God’s perfect timing through this whole thing and thankful that for all of our grandparents that have guided and been a voice in our lives as we try to live lives of love that we’ve seen through them.

-Makinzie