As a writer, one of my my favorite byproducts of an article is discourse. Good writing should make people think and prompt intelligent debate. But in the age of anonymous...

Like many Returned Volunteers, I watched ABC's 20/20 investigation on the Peace Corps with rapt attention. It was a gripping story on all accounts. And incredibly sad.

I suppose there’s never a good time to be wrongfully imprisoned, but now is as close to good as it gets. Today, Michael Anthony Green is scheduled to be a free man for the first time in 27 years. Green is now the longest-serving inmate to be exonerated in Texas. He was wrongfully convicted of rape in 1983.

Texas: It’s a whole other country. While this phrase once caused me to smile and reflect fondly upon my native state, I’m not a fan of the latest manifestation of Texas’ rogue attitude: Rewriting History. On May 21, the Texas State Board of Education voted 9 to 5 to amend the social studies and history curriculum. The votes were taken right along party lines, with all Republicans in favor and all Democrats opposed.

I feel I should preface this post with the fact that I do indeed, like dogs. All my life, I’ve enjoyed having a furry friend scampering about the house. Even though my first dog, Blanche, bit everyone who came over—family members included, I still have fond memories of her, tolerating our presence as she did.

I’ve always been a basketball fan. While I may not have the height to compete at a high rank, I enjoy everything from pick-up to play-off games, with ranging levels of personal participation. So when March rolls around, I’m in hoops heaven. With the NCAA Tournament starting on Thursday, I needed to stretch my basketball-watching muscles in preparation for the big dance. I decided on an old favorite—The Houston Rockets.

While my body is constantly in America, my mind is often in Ukraine. And I’m not talking about memories. My outlook on life is so changed that I routinely act in manner more befitting a Ukrainian than an American.

I’d been warned about reverse culture shock. I’d been told it would be just as difficult to adjust to as the shock I felt my first weeks and months in Ukraine. But seeing is believing. A week after I landed in Houston, I have already counted six people in their pajamas in public. I stare at them with an open mouth and judging eyes. Shaming them in the Ukrainian fashion. To be clear, I’m not talking about sweat pants. I mean legitimate nightwear: flannel fabric, patterned designs and drawstrings. After the high-fashion world of Ukraine, I find this appalling.

It’s that time of year again: quarantine in Ukraine. Of course, this is no ordinary closure of schools. Generally, there are isolated outbreaks of the seasonal flu in January or February, causing individual regions and towns to shut down for a week or two. In addition to arriving in fall, this round of quarantine is nationwide for three weeks and affects all schools, universities, and public gatherings.

Epiphanies occur in a host of places. In America, mine often came about in the shower. This is probably due to a habit I purposefully instilled from grade school. I know its cheesy but I’ve sort of always wanted to become a writer. When I was in elementary school, I remember reading an interview of a famous author who said she did her best thinking in the bathtub. I thought this was a great idea and started to sit in an empty bathtub, fully clothed to do my serious, grown-up 8-year-old-thinking. This matured into pensive showers, and I can trace many good ideas, stories or not, to soapy-lathers and pumice boards. I don’t think my pondering pattern would’ve changed had I not moved to Ukraine. I’ve been forced to find new sanctuaries in the past year, as a bucket bath is not nearly as conducive to contemplation as its cousin the shower. Lately my startling realizations have come in two far less sexy places: on the phone and in front of my laptop.

I’ve officially been in Ukraine for a year. In a way, it’s not hard to believe. Practically every time I met another volunteer the subject of time came up. “So how far along are you?” “How much longer do you have left?” It’s interesting how much our conversations mimic pregnancy jargon. We even speak [...]

So much happens in life that is worth writing down that it’s impossible to record it all. Something always slips through the cracks. Stories I’ve never told come to me in the moments before I fall asleep, as I sit in hour-long meetings that I barely understand, and when I’m trapped anywhere with no escape, (over-packed vehicles of public transportation or birthday parties that last a minimum of twelve hours, to name a few). But lately, I have had a plethora of time in which to think and write. Theoretically, I’ve had two full days with no classes, no social events, and no athletic activities. The problem is I’ve also scarcely been able to move.

In Ukraine, I wear a lot of hats. And not just in winter. I’m an English teacher, an American culture expert, a Mexican food chef, a basketball coach, a yoga instructor, a journalist, a travel agent, and a decent day laborer. I’m also a novice economist.

I made a pact with myself when school started. I was going to run everyday during September. I’ve always been good at daily exercising, but I’ve never had to do it on my own before. It’s a lot easier when you have a team or a gym waiting for you. Hitting up the local soccer stadium where more people are smoking cigarettes than burning up the track is less than inviting. But people are surprisingly friendly there.

This is my moment of zen. I hesitated to share it with you. In a culture as public and communal as Ukraine, I get territorial about my precious private moments. I took this photo on the coast of the Black Sea, after the rest of my party departed for a nap. It was pretty bold of me to stay behind.

Sitting in a house-church in Burshtyn, Ukraine, I heard a familiar song. It was the only one my new friends knew in three languages. First they sang it in Ukrainian, then in Russian, and finally in English. "I have decided to follow Jesus, No turning back, No turning back," rang out in the living room. I smiled and sang along. It was the culmination of what has been at least a summer-long struggle between me and God. Believe it or not, being engaged and in the Peace Corps is not the easiest thing in the world. When I started dating Riley, I was finishing my application to the Peace Corps. I remember questioning rather to even include the fact that I was in a relationship since it was so new and seemingly tenuous. Little did I know a year and a half later he would be flying to Ukraine to propose. Life is full of surprises The last six months since he popped the question have been exciting, depressing, humorous, confusing, and wonderful all at the same time. The fact that I can plan a wedding from 6,000 miles away is cool. The fact that I only see my fiancé on a computer screen is not. The pain of missing him is compounded by two factors: firstly, everyone is always telling me how sorry they feel for me. This makes me feel sorry for me, too. I mean, really, who goes and gets engaged and then lives in another country for two years? This is illogical, I hear all the time. And then I start to believe it. I see my friends get engaged, shop for dishes and curtains, and get married. In less than a year. Spending nearly everyday together. I get more cynical. That's the way it's supposed to be, I tell myself. This is cruel. Which brings me to my second point. The Peace Corps is not the Marine Corps. I can leave at anytime. It's my choice to be here. I'm not a masochist. So why don't I just go home? Live in the same time zone as Riley, pick out china patterns, and be married by Christmas. Well, there's this tiny little detail. I actually don't think that I just chose to be here. I feel useful, needed, and challenged in Ukraine. I believe God wants me here. It should make it easier that Riley thinks that, too. But it doesn't always. I routinely forget this vital fact. And when it smacks me in the face, I rebel against it. The other night, I was talking to Riley and admitted that I just really wanted to come home. I said I wished that instead of doing web development work, he had a steady job with health benefits so he could support us while I looked for work in the states. I said I didn't know how much longer I could be away from him. I was coming from a pretty selfish standpoint. I missed him. I missed laughing together and eating ice-cream and watching Cowboys games. But, he came from a different place. He said half-jokingly, "Maybe God knows if I had that kind of job right now you'd come home, and I really think you're supposed to be in Ukraine right now." Joking or not, it struck a chord, and I knew God was trying to tell me something. And I hated it. I literally writhed and whined, lamenting my plight in the world. My friend Molly was over, and I complained to her, "I don't want to be mature about this." She replied with a chuckle in her ten-year-older-than-me-knowledge, "Don't worry, you're not." God is really teaching Riley and me some pretty important lessons in all this. Like that fact that we are not God. We cannot even begin to do this on our own. Of all the lessons we have to learn as a couple, this is probably the best foundational one. The other day, I was listening to music and feeling melancholy when a song I had never heard came on. The lyrics went like this, "Those who trust in the Lord are as strong as mountains. They will not be moved." I really needed to hear that. I needed to be reminded that my God is a constant source of strength. And I am human. Trusting in myself and in Riley is not going to cut it. As fate would have it, after weeks of trying to track down a protestant church in Ukraine (no small feat!), I finally found a phone number for a Baptist Church about an hour away from me. I called a very enthusiastic and slightly confused man named Vladamir, the local pastor. The trip to Burshtyn was filled with obstacles, like hailing a bus in the middle of the street and getting off at the wrong stop. But we made it. And Vladamir was there to greet us. As soon as we got to church, we felt like family. I know that sounds cliché, but as foreigners in the former Soviet Union, this is not a common feeling. It takes a while for people to trust you and welcome you into their homes. While Ukrainian hospitality is no myth, this was the first time I felt it instantly. Never mind the fact that I didn't understand half the things being said. They were smiling, gave us hot tea, and kissed us on the cheek. Before the service started, Vladamir gathered Molly and me to pray with a couple of other people. We listened as intently as we could to their heartfelt, Ukrainian language prayers. I didn't get most of it. As a government employee and secondary school teacher, my vocabulary is limited to social and professional contexts. When it came to my turn to pray, I was afraid. I literally had no words. Then Vladamir said, "In English." I had forgotten I knew a language effortlessly. To open the service, we sang a Christian hymn "How Great Thou Art." Molly and I couldn't stop smiling. It was in Ukrainian, of course, but we knew the melody and could translate most of it. One of the funny differences between Ukrainian and English is that we have a lot of little words that mean big things and they have a lot of long words that mean small things. So in translation, the Ukrainian version of "How Great Thou Art" is simply, "Big You." I mean, really, that gets the point across. So Molly and I sang "Big you, Big you" and thought, truly, How Great Thou Art. God is as strong as a mountain and quite big enough to see Riley and me through this and much more. After spontaneously being asked up front to give our testimonies (in Ukrainian, of course) as the 35mm cameras clicked and flashed, we were ready to sit down. In the back. But Vladamir had another request. "Now you will sing a song?" He half asked, half told. I assumed he meant the whole church would sing a song while we were positioned up front. I was mistaken. He actually wanted Molly and me to belt something out a cappella in English. The congregation waited expectantly. I, true to form, burst out laughing. I have zero musical talent. Molly shook her head and said "We can't, we can't," in Ukrainian. They encouraged us more. I started to translate "Big You" in spoken word, but Molly decided to give them a little taste and sang the chorus. They were looking for more, but we just took a bow and sat down. The sermon drew on Matthew 7, where Jesus asks "Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him." I know that God wants to give me only the best kind of gifts. I know this on my best days. But when I'm at my worst, I think I know better. The next verse I recognized quoted was Psalm 144. I looked it up in my Message translation of the Bible and it began, "Blessed be God, my mountain." My attention was officially grabbed. The day came to a ceremonious end as we ate lunch together and were implored once again to sing English worship songs. We were jolly but at a loss. Then Natalia said she knew only one song with English words, and God reminded me once more that with Him, there's no turning back, no turning back. Note: When I looked up the lyrics to How Great Thou Art, I discovered that it was translated into English from Russian by a missionary to Ukraine. I couldn't make up stuff this good.

Sitting in a house-church in Burshtyn, Ukraine, I heard a familiar song. It was the only one my new friends knew in three languages. First they sang it in Ukrainian, then in Russian, and finally in English.

It's been awhile since my last post. Although I am a repeat offender, I am contrite. It's not that I mean to neglect this blog. It just happens. The reasons are varied. In the winter, it was more paralysis, brought on by snowstorms and 4 p.m. sunsets. In the spring, it's quite the opposite.

It's been awhile since my last post. Although I am a repeat offender, I am contrite. It's not that I mean to neglect this blog. It just happens. The reasons are varied. In the winter, it was more paralysis, brought on by snowstorms and 4 p.m. sunsets. In the spring, it's quite the opposite. My love of Ukrainian spring is wide and deep. I spend many an afternoon sitting on my newly-cleared off balcony, reading, drinking Crystal Light Ice Tea (hurray for drinks that can be mailed in powder-form), and soaking up the rays. I might head over to the local stadium and join a pick-up soccer game. I might rest in the shade of a beer tent. I've never been anywhere else in Europe in spring so I can't say if this is a work of continental genius or simply a Ukrainian brainchild, but the magic of the tent is very real. It consists of a shady structure, comfortable chairs, and beer that is cheaper than water. Forgive me if my posts are a little lacking since the sun came out. I have had a lot of outdoor lounging to catch up on. We are in the last week of classes and try as I may to spice things up with episodes of Saved By the Bell, and slideshows of pictures from America, it's increasingly difficult to capture the attention of any class beyond the 5th grade. God bless the 5th graders. They just can't get enough of learning. In Ukraine, it is illegal to fail a student. So, once they reach middle school, they pretty much just show up when they feel like it. Which, surprisingly is a lot more often than you would think. Except in the spring. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and summer vacation is right around the corner. Without the threat of failing, it's hard to keep students in their desks, despite Zach Morris's latest scheme or the allure of the Empire State Building. But not in the 5th grade. They haven't figured out how to skip class yet, precious little rule-followers that they are. And even though they dash in after the bell, sweat dripping off their eager faces, they come. After completing the national curriculum requirements and doling out the necessary number of grades, I wanted to reward the little tikes. But, as I quickly learned, they were too young for multimedia perks like video clips. Not only do they lack the language skills to understand, they lack the self-control to sit still and pay attention when they aren't directly, or preferably kinesthetically, involved. The excitement of a laptop and pretty pictures just about causes them to self-combust. Another Volunteer passed along her sage advice: "Simon Says." The students are all engaged, the activity requires zero home prep, and stresses vocabulary comprehension. Now there's a recipe for success if I ever heard one. I added about ten minutes of review before the big show began, and I tweaked the name of the game to "Ms. Clara Says." It was a smash-hit. After they got the hang of it, I turned the responsibility over to them. Suddenly the game became "Oleksi Says" or "Solomiya Says." They were entertained to say the least, and improving listening skills to boot. I leave with you a few pictures of this joyous activity. Feel the excitement.

I'm fond of saying that I've learned a lot in my short time in Peace Corps Ukraine. And one of the more tangible things is a proverb: краше пізно ніж ніколі. It means "better late than never."

I'm fond of saying that I've learned a lot in my short time in Peace Corps Ukraine. And one of the more tangible things is a proverb: краше пізно ніж ніколі. It means "better late than never." And it's just as true in the U.S. as anywhere. So, here's a post on my 6 month and two week anniversary in the PC. In stream-of-consciouness-order, the Top 10 Things I didn't know about the world until I moved halfway across it : 10. Grapes have seeds. And they're not the only ones. Those tiny oranges, aka tangerines have 'em too. Throw in cherries, blueberries, and just about every fruit save the banana and you'll get the picture. Granted I probably knew this at one point in my life, like before we started genetically modifying our fruits and veggies. But it's hard to remember what things were like back in the day, which brings me to my next point... 9. You can adjust to almost anything. I went from living in Texas, a hotbed of conservatism, evangelism, Spanglish, country music, and well, heat and humidity, to living in the frozen tundra of Greek Orthodox Ukraine. Pumping water from a well, using an outhouse, hiking 20 minutes in the snow to work, and frequently working without heat and electricity became my norm in just a matter of months. I actually think I prefer a turkish toilet now. Weird. 8. English is really hard to learn. We have like a million words that mean all basically mean "good." As a native speaker and lover of language, this is grand--a virtual playground of prose. But for the aspiring English student, it can be quite frustrating. I once tried to comfort a colleague by saying that I keep a dictionary at the ready to look up words while reading. She was not encouraged. Besides sheer volume, there are all the irregular conjugations and a whopping 18 tenses. Plus, we have a bunch of silent letters, foreign words that we steal, and the ever-confusing use of prepositions. Oh yeah, and we employ more figures of speech in colloquial language than you can shake a stick at. So thank your lucky stars you were born with an English spoon in your mouth. 7. There are four distinct seasons. In Texas, we have two: Summer and Christmas. Summers in the lone star state are greedy, enviously eying the months from September onward. Rarely, a day or two will escape the sweaty clutches of August and her smoldering sisters to bring forth a cool breeze and perhaps even warrant a hot chocolate or two in December. Rarely. But in Ukraine, I arrived in October to hues of red, orange and yellow. Then, I watched with bated breath as the first snow drifted out and changed the landscape until, well, this week. Spring is here, and I couldn't be more energized. Every room in my apartment has a window propped open right now, the sunlight beaming in as the birds chirp from still barren, but hopeful, tree branches. The flowers on my window sill are a touch ahead of the game, and are blooming with abandon. Neighbors are out tilling the soil in their kitchen gardens, and the sun doesn't set until 8 p.m. A full four hours later than in Winter. If the degree of change from Winter to Summer is any indication, I think I'll be able to wear shorts one day. Sweet. 6. Change, like nickels and dimes, is a luxury. It's a common occurrence at the store here to be met with a blank stare when you don't have exact change. And the amount of change on your bill makes no difference. "You don't have 87 cents?" They ask incredulously. Because they don't have the 13 either. So, in lieu of the money properly owed to you, a small handful of candy is given in its place. Sometimes just a piece, if the amount is 10 cents or below. Today I was given the equivalence of 65 cents (6 pieces of candy). But it was ice-cream flavored and quite delightful so I didn't really mind. 5. Hot, running water is the greatest thing in the world. Say what you will about the cotton gin, the printing press, or even the internet. But I'm siding with steaming showers and the round-the-clock capability to wash your hands without wincing in pain. I didn't know cold could hurt until I turned on the tap in January in Ukraine. I feel so confident in my opinion not only because I live at a high latitude, but because my friend and fellow PCV in Nicaragua recently said the same thing. She lives basically on the equator and her biggest complaint was a lack of hot water. And back sweat. But still. 4. American culture is the most pervasive thing on the planet. Sadly, this doesn't mean democracy, free enterprise, and individualism reign globally. It just means I hear Britney Spears on the radio, see Nike and Adidas logos everywhere, eat Nestle Chocolate, and hear people use words like "Super" and "OK" even though they don't speak English. Inexplicably, I also witness at least one person wearing something that says "Miami Dolphins," "Arizona State University," or something else as seemingly random daily. I've even seen a "Golden State Warriors" starter jacket. There are really no words. 3. Simplicity goes a long way. Most people have heard the joke about how NASA spent millions of dollars formulating a pen that could write in space without the aid of gravity to allow the ink to flow. And the Russians? They used a pencil. I've been using a lot of pencils lately. Like instead of making powerpoint slides or showing video-clips in classes that are less than friendly toward technology, we play charades, hangman, and vocabulary tic-tac-toe. As opposed to dryers or dishwashers, I hang my clothes in the bathroom or on my balcony and I rinse plates and use a drying rack. "Why would you pay for air?" I've often heard when I explain that we have machines that blow hot air on our shirts and cups, thus rendering clothes lines and dish racks virtually obsolete. 2. People are people. I gotta give a shout-out to PCV Kristi Goldade on this one, for she was the one who coined this phrase, in my lexicon at least. As "other" as everyone seems at first glance in Ukraine, and many times, on the second and fifty-second glance, there are good and bad people everywhere you go. So maybe the old women here wear bonnets and fur boots, rising temperatures be dammed, and they don't smile at strangers but feel free to stare. When you sit down with them, have a cup of tea, and talk about life, there are too many intrinsic commonalities to get caught up in the differences of language, dress, culture, and social mores. As Obama is fond of saying about people, "The burdens of global citizenship continue to bind is together...those aspirations are bigger than anything that drives us apart." That's applicable to people from California to Louisiana to Maine and for humanity as a whole. Decent people in America can get along with decent people in Ukraine, Iraq, Afghanistan, North Korea or anywhere else. There are angry, rude, evil people in every country in the world, but the trick is not to characterize a nation by their worst representatives, even when they are sometimes the loudest, or the most accessible examples. 1. Flexibility. I feel like this list has plateaued. And while a "Top 9 List" isn't exactly conventional, I think I'm going to go with. Sometimes, I walk into class and expect to teach 10th grade and end up with 6th. Sometimes, I end up with no class at all. But, I find a way to make it work, and I'm learning not to let it ruffle my feathers too much. Maybe I'll go to the gym or the playground and strike up conversations, or plan lessons for tomorrow that are adaptable to a variety of ages and skill levels. Or I'll just have an early lunch. It always works out, as cliche as it sounds, and the world doesn't come to an end just because my schedule isn't set in stone. I'm on a cliche roll. I better stop while I'm ahead. Looks like I've got a Top 10 list after all.

I'm really not that American who travels abroad and eats at McDonalds. OK, up until my trip to Prague last week, that was a true statement. Immersing myself in local culture, eating foreign cuisine, and speaking as little English as possible are all checkpoints of a good overseas adventure in my book. Besides the pure enjoyment I get from doing something totally new and different, I've always felt like it's a morally upstanding way to travel. You know, the whole "When in Rome"

aphorism. Well, six months in Ukraine teaches you a lot of things. How much I love America is just one of them. That isn't to say I don't also love Ukraine. If I didn't, I wouldn't still be here. I've given props to borshch on more than one occasion, and I won't rehash my affinity for babusyas and open-air markets. Yet there is something so wonderful about the familiar. I've never been a big fan of huge chain restaurants, but I nearly wept at the sight of Starbucks. And I don't even drink coffee. Walking up the steps, smelling the fresh grounds, hearing Starbuck-speak of "tall, grande, and venti," was just good for my soul. Not to mention the free, high-speed wireless. One of the many unexpected fruits of my travels has been a heightened sense of home. The more places I go, and the more varied friends I make, the more I value where I came from and the people I've known all my life. Not because they are superior circumstances or citizenry, but because they are mine. I was always one of those people who was quick to say the U.S. had no real "culture." No national dress, no defining food, and overall very little that was actually "ours." We have German Christmas Trees, a British Language, and cuisine from all over the globe. Although we may not have the traditional hallmark national customs, we certainly have our own culture, albeit a difficult one to define. I'm still not quite sure what it is, but I can nearly always spot an American in Ukraine, or in Prague for the matter. Before they open their mouths, my US-Radar is alerted. Sometimes, it's the tennis shoes, worn with jeans. Other times, it's a particularly affable expression, a whistle on the lips or a bounce in their step, that exudes Americanness. Want another tell? Americans generally text with two hands, Ukrainians with only one. Granted, anyone from any walk of life could act like this, they just usually don't. And even when they do, they don't pull it off like an American. It's probably how I look, stomping around in the snow in my knee-high boots, carrying plastic bags and all in all "looking the part" of a Ukrainian. But not really.

I still get higher cab rates, and clerks still speak to me in English, before I even have a chance to butcher the language. As the world gets smaller, cultures blend and with it the concept of a "foreigner" becomes less black and white. I like that. I also like the idea of having my own identity, my own country, and my own culture.

The fact that America is a hodgepodge of European, Asian, Latin, and African traditions enriches our culture. It doesn't diminish it.

I'm really not that American who travels abroad and eats at McDonalds. OK, up until my trip to Prague last week, that was a true statement.

Today was a good day. After many failed attempts and half-starts, I had my very first English Club.

Today was a good day. After many failed attempts and half-starts, I had my very first English Club. I had tried several times to arrange meetings through the chain of command: principal, vice principal, head english teacher, my counterpart. It was a long process. And, it had finally come to a foreseeable conclusion when the Flu Quarantine was declared, and the school was chained shut for two weeks. This was followed by a Monday holiday for "International Women's Day." Suddenly I found myself halfway through the Spring semester with nary a meeting to my name. And it wasn't for lack of interest. Students in general are pretty fascinated by American culture. They wear American brands, listen to American pop music, watch Hollywood movies, and snap pictures of me in class with their cell phones. I wasn't really worried about students showing up to my club. I was more concerned with getting the proper permission and following protocol. I was trying to respect the Ukrainian emphasis on authority and obedience. Note my use of past tense. Yesterday it just hit me. If I don't get this club rolling, it might never happen. With a key to the English Teacher's Cabinet in hand, I announced to all my high-school age students that there would be an English Club Wednesday at 3 p.m. "Another lesson?" they asked skeptically. I assured them it would not be a lesson. "I want to talk about American culture, show pictures, and play music," I said trying to lure them in. Now what I really envision for this club down the road is more akin to a debate club or a writer's circle, but that would scare them away. And I intend to start small and entertainingly. My school doesn't really have a "club" concept. They have a lot of plays and drama presentations, but other types of enrichment clubs are nonexistent. In the Soviet Union, students were required to do a certain number of after-school activities. Ukraine rebels against this idea in much the same way that they rebel against drab colors. In the Soviet Union, the only colors students could wear to school were brown, black, and navy blue. Knowing this history helps explain the tangerine orange jackets, purple pants, and lime-green sweaters I see peering at me from behind desks. The club phenomenon is another verse of the same song. Activity overload gave way to a dearth of clubs and organizations. And students and teachers alike are understandably skeptical of such ideas. After all, it sounds like more work, but without grades or pay. This is not entirely untrue, but clubs can also be a place of discovery, authentic learning, cultural exchange, and fun. A more controlled, academic sort of fun, but still a valid entertainment source, I think. Well, one meeting down and I'm feeling pretty positive about the possibilities. Ten students, all female, were waiting for me outside the English Cabinet today at 3 p.m. sharp. I was encouraged to say the least. I was also a bit confused. Some of the students who attended aren't even in my classes. And the ones who are always coming up to me after lessons (and sometimes during them) and asking to take a picture with me, or hear about my tastes in music, movies, and food, were notably absent. Logic tells me that those over-eager students would jump at the chance to spend an extra hour with me, but logic doesn't get me too far these days. I started the club by playing pop music (Justin Timberlake, Kelly Clarkson, Michael Jackson, etc), and showing a slideshow of pictures from various American cities. I had prepared a good bit of flashy entertainment as well as a slightly dry worksheet on the differences between American and Ukrainian cultures. After about 20 minutes of pictures and generic lyrical ballads, I posed a question. "Do you want to see more pictures, or do you want to talk about American and Ukrainian values?" I fully expected them to choose the mindless work of picture browsing. After a full day of lessns, I could hardly judge them. But, once again, I was wrong. "We want to talk about America," one girl said. I pulled out a large sheet of white paper with "Ukraine" on one side and "America" on the other. I had about twenty slips of paper with opposing world views on them, such as "formal" and "informal" or "group-oriented" and "individualistic." It was a good old-fashioned Venn Diagram , with some of the values like "freedom" and "hospitality" going in the middle column. The ensuing conversation surprised me, not only because it was so robust, but because we so frequently disagreed. At first, the girls put the slips where they belonged for them. Words like "authoritative," "reserved" and "flexible" were on the American side, while "loud," "private," and "ambitious" were on the Ukrainian side. Their categorization was interesting to me, especially considering that I had done this exercise with Ukrainians before during training and they hadn't put the puzzle together this way. In that group, we had nearly unanimously agreed that privacy was an American concept, Ukrainians were far more flexible than those across the pond, and authority was much more respected in the East. But as we began to discuss their choices, it appeared our disagreements stemmed from different definitions of the words themselves. The girls described privacy as "fences and gates around our homes," and "not talking or greeting people they didn't know." I had to admit they were correct. We (I speak for the South at least) frequently greet everyone we meet with a smile and hello, regardless of friendship or acquaintance, and sit out on our front and back porches. But the privacy I was thinking of was of a different stripe. Our children have locks on their doors, and parents are generally expected to knock before entering. We like to live alone at some point in our lives, and value time to ourselves. Two different definitions of privacy, but both very accurate. Our definitions of ambition also differed dramatically. The girls defined it as "getting married and having a family," but this was an ambition not just for girls, but for boys as well. Family here is everything. When I explained that in America, when you meet someone for the first time they will inevitably ask you, "What do you do?" not "What's your family like?" they snickered. But it's true. And I've found the reverse to be quite shocking in Ukraine. As I went through the ritual of meeting new people, I couldn't believe the number of questions they asked about my family. "Do you have a brother or a sister? Are they married? How old are they? Where do they live?" were all asked frequently, but what I did for a living rarely made the cut. I think many people whom I consider friends in this country still don't know I worked as journalist in the states. But they know that I'm the youngest child of three and that my mom had a kidney transplant last year. When it was my turn to arrange the values, I did a 180 on the aforementioned ones. We had a really fruitful discussion not only of the characteristics themselves, but on how we defined them, which really told a lot about our cultures as well. At the end of our non-lesson, I posed a very Ukrainian question. "When do you want to meet again?" In America, we would meet on the same day, at the same time, in the same place. But in Ukraine, life and plans are always subject to change (hence my categorization of flexible). They decided to meet Monday at 2:30 p.m. Why not. I've learned enough in the nearly six months (wow! i can't believe it's been that long) to know not to ask why this Wednesday was good and the next one is not. I'm sure they have their reasons. All I really care about is seeing them again and having more conversations like this as often as possible.

A frosty wind isn't the only thing in the air in Western Ukraine right now. Flu season is in full-force, causing many schools to be "quarantined" indefinitely.

A frosty wind isn't the only thing in the air in Western Ukraine right now. Flu season is in full-force, causing many schools to be "quarantined" indefinitely. My school closed on Thursday, February 19, to the delight of all well-bodied students. I still don't understand why the announcement was made in the middle of the day, rather than at the end, as students could hardly be expected to pay attention in the remaining three classes after learning an unexpected vacation was imminent. It was like a scene out of a Disney Movie. The principal called an assembly for students and announced to closure to cheers, high-fives, and papers tossed in the air. Students then paraded about the school, skipping up and down the halls. And then the bell rang. Time to learn about National US Holidays, kids. Yeah, right. I tried to maintain some semblance of a lesson, but we ended up playing hangman--with new vocabulary, mind you--for about half an hour. I learned just moments ago that we will go to school tomorrow for a groundhog-day-like trial-run. If more than half the students are absent, we will have another week of quarantine. If not, classes will resume as usual. Now if I were a student and I knew the weight of my absence--or presence--in class, I would take all necessary measures to ensure I was anywhere but in my desk at 8:30 a.m. Only time will tell if Ukrainian students are as cunning as my imagination. In lieu of classes today, I participated in a "Living Library" event in Ivano-Frankivsk. It sounded self-explanatory. I figured I would read aloud a book about the U.S. and thus make it "come alive." Well, as I shuffled in the door five minutes before go-time, I was asked what the title of "my book" was. "Oh was I supposed to bring one?" I asked. "I thought I could just grab one of the shelves." Then I was told I was the book and as such I would be giving a 10-minute presentation to four different groups of students. I needed a title and summary of my life in book format. That's a tall order in itself, but in under 5 minutes it's even more absurd. I quickly jotted down some lines on a borrowed sheet of notebook paper. I sped up the editing process and crossed out my first attempt just moments after writing it. I always need at least two drafts, and preferably seven, before I feel confident sharing my writing. I headed over to my first group with the working title "American Traveler" intact, but not much else in my arsenal. Then I remembered I had my laptop in my bag. Suddenly it appeared that I had prepared an extensive presentation. I flipped through pictures of my travels as I discussed different countries and cultures. And the kids were none the wiser about my lack of instructions. In the Peace Corps, that's all in a day's work.

I'm finally getting the respect I never deserved. As a five-foot-two basketball player, I'm not exactly a show-stopper.

I'm finally getting the respect I never deserved. As a five-foot-two basketball player, I'm not exactly a show-stopper. Sure, I can drive the lane or spot-up for a three, but I'm no superstar. In America, that is. In Ukraine, a female basketball player with fifteen years of experience is a rarity, and, I'm discovering, something of a draw. When I walk into the school gym, children applaud. Now this I could get used to. Since I discovered the tri-weekly meetings of a girls basketball club, I've been there as much as possible. The group has expanded from 10 to 15 girls, many of whom have never played basketball before. This only reinforces my stardom. Last week, one girl actually brought a video camera to tape our scrimmage. However unfounded my town's awe of my basketball skills is, it's surely more sensical than their fascination with my other habits, such as what time I leave for work in the morning, what kind of bread I buy at the bazaar, and what my shoes look like. It's a tall order to be the picture of the United States to an entire community, especially in the former Soviet Union, where not too long ago, America was a distant, forbidden, land. But I relish the opportunity to share American Culture and learn about Ukrainian life and history. As obvious as the attention I garner is to me, the outside observer may not even realize what close scrutiny I'm under. When Riley visited in January, he actually commented on our "anonymity." No sooner had the words left his mouth then my phone rang. My friend was calling to say that her aunt (someone I've never met) had seen me holding hands with a man in the street. Other people had spotted us in a taxi, and still someone else saw us eating in a cafe in Ivano-Frankivsk. Inquiring minds wanted to know who this guy was. So much for anonymity. When I first moved in, little kids would knock on my door and when it opened, they'd steal a look at me, giggle, and run away. They've become more courageous, though. A couple of girls brought me a basket of apples the other day and even came inside for a few painstakingly-silent minutes of fidgeting. One of the braver ones, a fifth grade student, comes over a few times a week to play Go-Fish. I'm not complaining about all the attention. I'm just in awe that people care what I ate for breakfast this morning. I'm not sure what I'll do when I go back to the states and my entrance into a gym doesn't include paparazzi.

I know what you are thinking. It’s been more than a month since my last post. But remember that time when I have you two posts in one day? It’s that time again. What a crazy month it has been. Encouraging fact: I’ve started to think and dream in Ukrainian. Discouraging fact: I teach English. While In any given classroom I’m still the expert on the British-born babble, I can’t help but notice how my own English skills have regressed. (10 point word). When I started teaching in October, I received feedback like, “Use smaller words and simpler sentence structures.” As a recent Baylor grad, my vocabulary was slightly beyond the grasp of a 10-year-old Ukrainian. Although this particular problem no longer plagues me, I’m more concerned by the fact that I spent a good ten minutes the other day trying to remember the name for thin, green onions (scallions). As a writer, the idea of my vocabulary decreasing is a potentially life-threatening one. Despite my shrinking lexicon, (maybe I still have it after all), my lack of posts have not been for a lack of words. It is a simple lack of technology. My MacBook Air, which worked perfectly inside the confines of the motherland for a solid six months, decided to reveal a hardware defect once I changed hemispheres. Safely outside the reach of any Apple Store, Itunes, Microsoft Office, and Quicktime programs all mysteriously crashed, something that is apparently related to faulty memory. Oh brother. This crushing blow coincided with the single-greatest event of my life to-date: Riley proposed! He flew halfway around the world with a ring in his pocket and popped the question. It was pretty much amazing. I couldn’t ask for a more thoughtful, supportive, hilarious, and all-together wonderful fiancé. I’m sure he’ll be embarrassed by my public praise of him, but his modesty is equally as endearing. In addition to diagnosing my computer troubles, he fixed my sink, and helped me pick out a couch for the living room. I seriously underestimated how sad it would be to watch his plane disappear over the horizon at the end of the week. Not only did I say goodbye to my fiancé, I said goodbye to my fiancé and my computer in one swift motion of isolation. However, there is quite the silver lining on both accounts. Most importantly, saying goodbye to your fiancé is a lot more reassuring than chunking the deuce to your boyfriend. Knowing I have the rest of my life with Riley takes the sting out of his absence—a little bit anyway. Secondly, in a terrific turn of events, my college roommate, Mary, is traveling through Europe in celebration of her master’s degree (way to go, champ!) and had already planned to make a weekend stop in Tysmenystya, Ukraine. Through the magic of Apple, Fed-Ex, and Riley’s lightening-fast Mustang, my MacBook was repaired just in time to make it on the plane with Mary and thus on its way to me. By the time it is in my hands, it will have logged more than 10,000 miles and a handful of countries, states, and time zones. Oh the wonders of the modern world. So now you know just how much effort has been expended to ensure that this and future posts will be at your fingertips on a somewhat regular basis. My sincere appreciation to all involved! **A personal note on the title, I quote the King James Version of the Bible out of context whenever possible. I mean no disrespect for thee or He.

It’s kind of a funny thing to say considering I’ve never met the guy or been to his church in Dallas. But I really am thankful for him. I heard him speak about a handful of times at Baylor and his message would always resonate with me, but I probably wouldn’t have had much more of a relationship to the guy if it wasn’t for my boyfriend (now the fiancé, holla!) setting-up my ipod. Riley had heard Chandler speak for an entire summer when he worked at Glorietta in New Mexico, and, being the tech-savvy guy that he is, he subscribed to his podcast. When Riley set up ipod, he moved his entire music library to my computer (my apologies to Apple and the music industry as a whole). In addition to Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Weezer and other man-centric audio files, were nearly 200 podcasts from The Village. They pretty much lay dormant on my computer for a good year. I wasn’t exactly sure what a podcast was, embarrasingly enough for anyone under the age of 30. And I went to school at Jerusalem on the Brazos. My Christian cup overflowedth with Wednesday night Bible Studies, Sunday School Classes, Youth Lock-Ins, Women’s Retreats, and the like. When I joined the Peace Corps, however, and moved to Ukraine in October, I was suddenly cut off from Christendom as I knew it. While Ukraine is highly-religious, it’s of the Greek Orthodox variety and quite naturally the services are conducted in Ukrainian. Even though I do appreciate the beauty and reverence, my religious fulfillment from church in this country is nil. In the absence of church as I know it, I’ve been doing my best to create spiritual space in my week. I crank up the Christian tunes, read my Bible, and, amazingly enough, listen to a sermon in English from the great state of Texas no less. It’s always funny to me how sitting in my Soviet Bloc apartment, curled up in a blanket sipping hot tea while snow falls outside my window, I can find relevance in a sermon to 5,000 Southern Suburbanites. But it just works out that way. The podcasts are catalogued by date and title so I’m able to peruse for seasonal sermons (Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter), as well as topical ones. It’s kind of like Church on TiVo, which isn’t necessary by any means but is fun nonetheless. On a Friday when I was having one of those aimless afternoons where I wonder what have I done, where in the world am I, and would chips and salsa from Food For Thought in Waco be able to make it through customs in a package to me, I decided to order up a little church. I scrolled through the list and selected a cool combo: a sermon titled “Perplexed” that was also given on August 3, the birthday of yours truly. As I fire it up, my battery bar turns orange—ipod users you know what that means—and I say some unholy words under my breath. Since my computer was touring Europe without me, I had little choice but to hope for the best. “Well,” I thought aloud, “I’ll just see how long it lasts.” Now the sermon is my favorite part of church, but even in America when I’m sitting in the pew with the minister in the pulpit right in front of me, my thoughts have a tendency to wander. I know it’s not unique but I thought I’d throw it out there. When I only have the audio, it’s even more difficult for me to stay on task, but I’ve found that if I have something to do with my hands it helps me focus. So I was washing some clothes in my bathtub and contemplating the ninth chapter of Luke, where—to paraphrase Chandler—Jesus basically confuses the heck out of everyone. He sends out the 12 disciples, assures them they will be mistreated occasionally and instructs them to take no provisions for the journey. When they get back, he feeds 5,000 people with a little kid’s lunch, tells Peter to keep his Lordship a secret, and repeatedly predicts his own death. Basically, for 63 verses the disciples are constantly alternating between epiphanies and total confusion. As Chandler points out, there are the guys who spend the most time with Jesus out of anybody, and they are still lost. What this says to me is that the big picture of Christianity isn’t this crystal-clear, lighted-path to righteousness and revelation. It’s as perplexing as it is enlightening and sometimes it’s both at once. Christianity hasn’t given me all the answers to life, but it’s helped me get to some pretty cool questions. And along the way it’s fostered a healthy respect for the complexity and wisdom of God. If the 12 disciples didn’t even understand their purpose in life sometimes, then I think it’s more than okay for me to question mine, too. That was just the point Chandler was harping on when my battery gave out. I chuckled out loud at the perfect timing. I can’t understand why my ipod was able to play 52 minutes of audio with no battery power left and then cut out exactly at the “ah-ha” moment, but I’m really glad it did. It was the perfect combination of the absurd, the mundane, and the divine to make this a sermon I won’t soon forget.

I know what you are thinking. It’s been more than a month since my last post. But remember that time when I had two posts in one day? It’s that time again.

It’s kind of a funny thing to say considering I’ve never met the guy or been to his church in Dallas. But I really am thankful for him. I heard him speak about a handful of times at Baylor and his message would always resonate with me, but I probably wouldn’t have had much more of a relationship to the guy if it wasn’t for my boyfriend (now the fiancé, holla!) setting-up my ipod.

I remember this time last year how curious I was just where I would be celebrating the birth of Christ in the coming year. I had already been accepted to the Peace Corps, but I was waiting on my placement. After settling in to Ukraine in October, my thoughts quickly moved to the holiday season. I had never spent the holidays away from family or outside of the U.S., so as November turned to December, I had mixed feelings of excitement and mild depression.

I made the mistake of watching Love Actually, a Christmas movie, in early December. I thought it would help put me in the holiday spirit. I hadn’t really counted on all the cultural references to traditions I was missing, and the general theme of the importance of being home for Christmas. When the movie ended, I felt remarkably further away than ever before. But I still had enough of a sense of humor to laugh at how my best idea to cheer myself up had backfired.

As the days increased in number, and the 25th got closer and closer, my interest grew. Just what would my first Christmas in Ukraine look like? Ukraine is officially Greek Orthodox Catholic, meaning that they celebrate Christmas on January 7. I learned that I would be attending work on December 25, and this disturbed me greatly.

I pictured myself going through the day just as any other. But, I hadn’t counted on the enthusiasm of my neighbors and fellow English teachers for the American holiday. On December 23, my neighbor came over with a handwritten-note from her 14-year-old grandson, “Will you go to the Holy Supper with us tomorrow?” it said in neat, cursive letters. Her family was Roman Catholic and would celebrate Christmas on December 25. I enthusiastically accepted the invitation and my mood lightened a bit imagining that I would be at a church on Christmas Eve after all.

The dinner was served in traditional Ukrainian fashion, with gigantic portions, exactly twelve dishes, and plenty for everyone. After a delicious supper of borshch, fried fish, mushroom soup, potatoes, fresh-baked bread, beet salad, and a half a dozen more dishes I can’t remember, it was time for church in Ivano-Frankivsk, a neighboring city. The snow had been falling all day, but it picked up speed in the spirit of Christmas and I marveled at the size of the flakes falling before my eyes.

The church was absolutely packed, and we made our way to the standing-room only section on the left side of the sanctuary. As I took in the view Christmas trees and nativity sets, I listened to the hum of Ukrainian prayers offered aloud by kneeling babusyas. There was an interesting blend of the familiar and the foreign before me, and I smiled thinking of how shared experiences, no matter how small or large, bring people together. Still, I had a feeling this wasn’t going to be the most familiar of services.

Despite the fact that it was a Roman Catholic Church, I was in a different hemisphere, with a new climate, culture, and language to contend with. I said a little prayer that there would be at least one thing in the service that would make sense to me and give me a feeling of home. As I opened my eyes, the church went dark. Candles were lit and passed down the aisles. Then, the organ played Silent Night. I let out a soft chuckle. God was just showing off by opening the service like that. And it’s a good thing He did because the entire service was conducted in Polish, and I didn’t understand a word of it. I think He knew I would need the encouragement at the beginning to make it through two hours of Polish standing up.

Toward the end of the service I got another glimpse of home when we exchanged the peace. To be honest, I wouldn’t have known what was going on, but I guess I was giving off an American radar signal because a young man turned to me and said in English “Peace be with you.” I returned the sentiment in Ukrainian, and we both laughed. As we shuffled out of the church, the big wooden doors swung open and snowflakes started swirling inside.

I awoke on the next day filled with hope for my first White Christmas. I threw back the curtains with anticipation, and I was not disappointed. Trees were bent with the heavy weight of snow, and my windows had the kind of frosty frame that we buy in cans in Texas. I switched on some Christmas tunes and snapped photos from every window in my apartment before enjoying a cup of hot tea and watching the snow fall. I was awakened from my silent reverie with the reality that I had to go to work today. I bundled up, grabbed some homemade gifts for my colleagues, and started my hike to school.

I opened the door to the English Teacher’s lounge and was greeted with many wishes for a Merry Christmas. As I handed out burned CDs with Christmas carols, their faces lit up like children’s. But then the mood changed, “We didn’t get anything for you!” they cried. I assured them that their countless acts of hospitality in the past two weeks were more than sufficient, but they were unconvinced.

“We must get you a TV,” one teacher said. “And the Internet,” another chirped. “Today?” I asked incredulously. “Yes, come with me,” they said. “It’s Christmas, we’ll see what we can do.” And, in perfect Christmas-miracle fashion, by the time the school bell sounded I had both a working television and access to the Internet in my apartment.

I don’t think I’ve been this excited about a Christmas present in a long time. I’ve rediscovered the beauty of the world wide web in a way I never imagined that I could, but three months without it gives you a new perspective on the genius of Google, the immediacy of e-mail, and the wonders of 24-hour news updates.

I remember this time last year how curious I was just where I would be celebrating the birth of Christ in the coming year. I had already been accepted to the Peace Corps, but I was waiting on my placement. After settling in to Ukraine in October, my thoughts quickly moved to the holiday season.

After 10 weeks of training, it was time yet again to leave a family, a community, and in my case an entire region of a country. Since graduation, it seems as if I’m in a constant state of motion. First, I left Waco for Katy, then Katy for Ukraine. My training site was in a village of less than 5,000 in the Northeast of Ukraine. My permanent site is a city about twice that size in the Southwest. Instead of predominately Russian, I have Ukrainian. Instead of the plains, I have the Carpathian Mountains. Instead of having a host family, I live alone,although that’s a relative term when you’re the first American in town. Yesterday no less than five neighbors dropped by to see if I needed anything and to bring me food, curtains, and a teapot. My apartment was sparsely furnished when I arrived a week ago, but it has been steadily gaining bits and pieces of home décor. I’m a television set and a kitchen sink away from the lap of luxury. The good think about joining the Peace Corps right after college is that you don’t have a lot of luxury in your memory bank. Not only is my apartment the biggest place I’ve ever had to myself, it’s also the first time I’ve ever lived “downtown.” Granted, downtown in a city of 10,000 isn’t exactly NYC, but it beats the dorms and the suburbs. From my bedroom window I can see the beginning of the Carpathian Mountains, and from my kitchen I can see the golden domes of a traditional Eastern Orthodox Church. I’m a five-minute walk away from my school, and just about anywhere else I need to go. If I have a craving for peanut butter or avocadoes, I’m only a fifteen-minute bus-ride from Ivano-Frankievski, an Oblast Center (the Ukrainian word for biggest city in the region). I’m the first volunteer in my city, and I’ve been welcomed like a celebrity. The principal of the school met me at the train station and drove me to town in her car. After settling in and meeting my neighbors, I was fed a delicious breakfast at school and introduced to everyone as “Our American.” Although the names and faces are a little jumbled in my head right now, I have never felt more appreciated of cared for by such a large group of strangers before. No matter who I speak with, young or old, male of female, they all inevitably ask the same question: What are you doing here? My landlord is completely boggled by the fact that I have left my family, friends, and country for two years to live in the former Soviet Union. My favorite version of the question was phrased this way over dinner: I know why Ukrainians go to America, but why do Americans come to Ukraine? When the daylight is short, the wind is cold, and the electricity functioning intermittently at best, it’s sometimes hard to answer. But, when a neighbor invites me over for borshch, or a child stops to greet me in the street, I remember what the mission of the Peace Corps is all about. I’m not here as a political figure, or to try to change Ukraine. I’m here to be a friend, to spread a message of peace and understanding, and to teach English to the next generation of Ukrainians. To many of the people in my city, I am the first American they have met. The fact that I’m here, learning Ukrainian and having a cultural exchange with them is invaluable in their eyes and mine. At our Swearing-In Ceremony in Kyiv, the U.S. Ambassador to Ukraine, William Taylor, spoke to us about the history and future of Ukraine. He talked about how the whole world is watching this new democracy develop, and that we all have a stake in how it turns out. Proficiency in English is just one way that Ukrainians can become a bigger player in the world market.

I know, I know: two posts in one day. But I've been internet-less for about a week and oh so much has happened. On a chilly Wednesday evening, I witnessed my first Ukrainian snowfall. It was silent and beautiful. We had just left the house to run out for some snacks to nibble on while we watched a movie. As I turned on my flashlight, I noticed little white flakes fluttering to the ground. My fellow PCTs, who are both from Minnesota, did not return my enthusiasm. I skipped down the street, and they tried not to be too embarrassed.

The first flakes were short-lived, and by the time we finished the movie, they had disappeared. It was only November 21, and I reasoned, from my knowledge of holiday movies and television specials, that real snow wouldn’t stick until December. How wrong I was.

I awoke on Sunday morning to a blinding white landscape. I stepped outside to christen my winter boots and was smacked in the face by the coldest wind I have ever felt. The shock of its force actually amused me. It looked so peaceful and calm, but it packed a punch. I crunched my way to the bathroom, and was pleasantly surprised how much warmer it was out of the wind’s reach.

When I came back inside, I proudly proclaimed to my host family, “Cnih! (snow)!” They were even less enthused than the Minnesotans. I decided to go to the school gym, because it is theoretically open on Sunday mornings. I say theoretically because I have tried to go practically every Sunday for the past two months and have only found it open once.

I was far from shocked that it was closed, especially considering the weather. I really just wanted an excuse to stomp around in my boots and parka. As I trudged through the snow, I noticed I was not the only one who wanted to play in the powder. I was however, the only one above the age of 10. This fact has never prevented me from enjoying myself in America, so I decided it shouldn’t stop me in Ukraine.

I threw snowballs, built a snowman, and pushed a cute little girl around on a sled. Unfortunately, the coming of winter also means the days are markedly shorter. It was only 4 p.m. and the sun was already on its way down. Not wanting to walk home in a dark snowstorm, I had to bid the children adieu and start my hike back.

Growing up in Texas in the 21st century, I never thought I’d be able to say, “When I was your age, I had to walk two miles in the snow to get home.” But that’s just one of the ways my world is expanding these days.

Before I found out I was moving to Ukraine, I probably couldn’t have found it on a map. Ukraine, Romania, Georgia, Poland, and Belarus all blended together in my mind when I pictured Eastern Europe and Russia. My prior knowledge primarily consisted of what I had seen in movies and briefly covered in history classes. Basically, I pictured a lot of fur hats, shots of vodka, potato-centered meals, and a love of futbol and hockey. After learning I would be serving for two years in this part of the world, I tried to learn as much as I could about Ukraine. I read anything I could get my hands on about this part of the world, including children’s books from the library, and I talked to anyone who had ever been to the former Soviet Union. I heard many interesting tidbits, some about the strength of Ukrainian Cossacks, the national heroes and founders, and many more about food, laughter, and songs. While I have discovered Ukrainians do indeed love fur hats, vodka, potatoes, futbol and hockey, there was one characteristic missing in all the descriptions I heard: intense volleyball players. It makes sense actually, considering snow and ice cover the ground for nearly half the year, that indoor sports would be a popular pastime. But to me, volleyball had distinct correlations to spandex shorts, schoolgirls, and the beach. Not exactly the picture of Ukrainian life. So after hearing the gym was open on Thursday afternoon for “volleyball,” I was intrigued. I figured there would be mostly girls, and, as my understanding of “open gym” implied, that it would be fairly low-key. I entered the gym with the aforementioned expectations intact.

As I looked out on the brightly-colored court, I saw a hodge-podge of ages and genders. There were 10-year-old boys, young teenage girls, and guys who looked about 19 all out there together. The age range reinforced my feelings of informality, and I hopped right into a passing game with a couple of the young ones. I like a lot of sports, but volleyball has never really been my thing. You can’t run around enough for my tastes, or steal the ball from anyone, and I usually end up standing around a lot. I’m also not very good at volleyball. I don’t understand how people can hit the ball without injuring themselves. However, as a lover of competition and exercise in almost all forms, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to work up a sweat. With snow covering the ground and daylight hours in short supply, volleyball sounded like my best option for physical activity. And I thought once I got in the gym, there was always the chance I could just play basketball instead. After a couple of particularly painful hits bounced off my forearm, I decided to use the volleyball like a basketball. I dribbled, drove down the lane, and shot a lay-up. I was generally enjoying myself when the coach came over to greet me. Now I must digress for a moment to say our meeting was a pretty big deal to me because he shook my hand. Men do not shake women’s hands in Ukraine. Actually, women do not even shake each other’s hands. Somehow, my presence in the gym bridged the cultural divide. After enthusiastically returning the gesture, I was feeling pretty comfortable with my choice of activity for the evening. It almost seemed like I was back home, in a gym, working out and shaking hands. I was brought back to reality when the coach told me I couldn’t play basketball anymore. It was time for volleyball. Although I was confused by what seemed to be a free-for-all gym extravaganza and what I understood in Ukrainian as a structured directive, I said, “Ok, let’s play.” He flashed a big grin and blew his whistle. Suddenly, the chaos dissipated and everyone huddled up. He split us into two teams, and the next thing I know, I was lined up at the net opposite a very skilled Ukrainian player. I’m not even clear on the rules of Volleyball in English, so having them shouted at me in Ukrainian while dodging Vladik’s jump serve was no walk in the park. I had no idea Ukrainians took their volleyball so seriously. I had stumbled right into the middle of a full-fledged match. The coach whistled players on and off the court, and paused the game to offer technical tips—most often to me and the other shell-shocked American with minimal volleyball experience, Kristi. It was an intense game far unlike the pick-up scenario I’m used to in America. Players who missed a shot were scolded and made to do push-ups or run laps. Kristi and I looked on with a healthy combination of amusement and fear. We were by far the worst players on our respective teams. And they were all so into it. We tried on several occasions to take ourselves out of the game, but we were waved back on. Some of the players tried to coach us, and we pretended to understand, only to duck and cover the next time a ball came flying in our direction at break-neck speed. In a moment of panic, I actually forgot to run for cover and took a ball directly to the chest, soccer-style. I signaled a thumbs-up to reassure my concerned teammates. Finally, the game was over, and Kristi and I quickly—and sheepishly—headed for the door. Living in a foreign country is kind of like playing a new sport. Everyone else knows how to act and what to wear, and you spend most of the time with your mouth open trying to understand what’s going on and how to dodge uncomfortable situations. It’s also pretty invigorating. You might get smacked around every once in a while, but if you look hard enough, you can find a friendly face and advice on what to do differently next time.

I'm finding it harder to write these posts because there is so much going on that narrowing down what to say is a struggle. In addition to our daily language classes, we’ve started teaching four times a week. Probably one of the funnier experiences I had in the classroom was the first time I taught fourth grade. The great thing about the younger classes is that they are completely enamored with Americans. They are the ones who shout “Hello America” as I walk down the street, and follow me when I go for jogs. So when I entered the school for my first lesson without a Ukrainian translator, I was feeling pretty confident. I went into the class and started setting up, but there were no kids. There wasn’t even a backpack or a jacket lying around. Confused but undeterred, I double-checked my schedule and the room number. I was in the right place at the right time, but I was apparently the only one. I decided to wander the halls for help. That’s when I saw Stas, a little boy I knew to be in the fourth grade. I flagged him down and we started having a very labored conversation in Ukrainian. “Is this your classroom?” I asked, relying heavily on gestures. “Yes,” he said proudly in English. “My class.” “When do you have English today?” I questioned. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Upstairs.” I’m not really sure about the last part as it was in Ukrainian, but that’s my best guess. “Tomorrow?” I asked skeptically. “Not now, not today?” There was something in little Stas’ grin that made me think he was messing with me. Let’s be honest, if you were 10 and had a foreign teacher asking you in broken sentences if you had class, you’d probably say no. I know I would. As we were talking, a substantial crowd had gathered. After a few more questions I discovered they were in the 4th grade. Feeling clever, I decided I had uncovered an attempted mutiny. “Okay, everybody: It’s time for English,” I said as I rounded up the little ones and pushed them toward the door. At this point, several little girls squealed with delight and one actually hugged me. This should’ve tipped me off that something was amiss, but I was thankful for the encouragement. Just as I was about to begin, a Ukrainian teacher opened the door and, either not seeing me or assuming I was a student, started telling everyone to get out of the room and go outside. I approached her and found out that the fourth grade actually had recess right now. There had been a change in the schedule. Chuckling at my own conspiracy theory, I apologized and said I hadn’t heard of this. But the kids were no longer in the mood for recess. After all, they had an American all to themselves. They weren’t going to give this up without a fight. The girls cupped their hands together and pleaded, “Please! Can we have English?” Incredulously, the teacher looked at me and said, “Well if you still want to have class, you can.” Thinking I’d be a fool to turn away such thirst for knowledge, I said “Of course we’ll have English class. Why not?” The children erupted in applause. Now I’d like to tell you they were angels after this ceremonious beginning, but that would be a lie. My intrigue disappeared the moment we started drilling vocabulary and the kids realized they just volunteered to skip playtime. Preying on my limited Ukrainian skills, they ran around the room and dared me to discipline them. Using a handful of powerful words, I told them to sit down, be quiet, and listen to me. That worked for about a minute. Then Vladik staring hitting Sasha, and Sergihy decided to pound his fists on his desk. Remembering my own elementary experience, I put Sasha and Vladik on opposite sides of the room and brought Sergihy up to the front. I didn’t really know what to do with him so I just had him stand there, away from anything that could possibly double as a drum. Ironically, the boys reveled in my attention. It’s kind of hard to discipline children who are beaming at you in adoration. Through the magic of markers and white paper, I was able to bribe them into behaving. There’s nothing like a drawing activity to quell an elementary insurrection. By the time the bell rang, they were all working quietly, and had even spoken a little English. Sure, it was no recess, but I’m pretty sure they enjoyed themselves all the same.

I’m at the halfway-point of my Peace Corps training program, and I’m getting really excited about teaching full-time and being in my new site. Of course I still don’t know where that is and what exactly I’ll be doing, but that’s part of the allure. On Wednesday morning, I gathered with Brandon and Kristi, my fellow Peace Corps Trainees, in a drafty cafe to hear the election results on my shortwave radio. It's not quite as romantic as it sounds, but it was still pretty cool. We high-fived and cheered with abandon as the numbers were called out. I must admit I felt a twinge of jealousy for the current Lariateers who were able to witness this historic event in the newsroom. There's nothing like being in-the-know on election night. Speaking of being informed, after a month of taking an hour bus to the nearest city to check my email, I discovered an internet cafe in my village. I don’t think I’ll get over that for a while. What’s crazy is how most people are unaware of it as well. Generally, the internet is understood to be for playing games and other trivial pursuits. We plan on making a community project to increase awareness about the internet and all the marvelous things you can do with it, especially in the classroom. We are even going to write a grant and try to get internet at the local school. I found BBC on my shortwave radio last week. Between that and the internet club, it’s a whole new world here in rural Ukraine. The signal isn’t that clear though, and sometimes cuts out, which is heartbreaking, but I’ll take whatever I can get. In other news, we recently visited the agricultural institute in Nizyhn (the closest city to my village). It was quite the experience. I understood that we would be sitting in on a class and there was a “conference” going on. Well, it turned out we were the conference. We walked into an auditorium and are whisked to the front of the room by the professor and seated on a panel. Flanked by the American flag on one side and a USA map on the other, we listened to our introduction carefully to figure out our next move. “Today we have four representatives from the United States Peace Corps,” the professor said. “They are here to tell you about their organization and their lives in America.” OK, I can handle this. Probably the best part of the conference for me was when they asked what hobbies I had. Among other things, I said I liked jogging. The teacher, who was translating, took about five minutes to explain my hobbies. She asked her students to raise their hands if they liked to jog. They all chuckled and no one raised their hand. She then told me, “I have been to America, and I have seen this, but we do not understand your hobby here.” It was really interesting to speak with Ukrainian students. We are trying to set up a more casual venue sometime in the near future. I’m not sure who’s more excited about this idea—us or them! We both enjoyed getting to know each other and are looking forward to continuing our conversations about history, culture, and society. Don’t forget to check out my column in the latest edition of The Wacoan!

There is so much in life you can't predict, and in the Peace Corps, there is even more. I have been in Ukraine for nearly a month, and I am already starting to look fondly upon the fluid life I'm living. For example, I can buy tomato sauce at the Post Office, but I have to go to the next town to get conditioner. From dodging the family goat on the way to the bathroom to understanding the always-changing bus schedule--Everyday is truly an adventure! I live in a village of about 5,000 in North Eastern Ukraine. I am really settling in and loving it. I must admit the first few weeks were rough. Adjusting to the cultural differences, a new climate, and the language all at once was a challenge. It's already funny now looking back at it. I am continually learning so much about Ukraine and the Peace Corps it can be overwhelming, but I am so happy to be here. I taught my first English class last week with a fellow PCT (Peace Corps Trainee) and enjoyed it immensely. It was awesome. Students are accustomed to a heavy emphasis on grammar translation and were quite thrilled to play hangman and matching games with new vocabulary. It was great to see the look of excitement on their faces as we introduced ourselves and gave our first lesson. Students here are very disciplined and work well with strict instructions. Not exactly the typical American classroom! I am certainly thankful for the controlled atomosphere Ukrainian teachers have established. Next week, I am teaching a 9th grade class on the topic of Great Britain. The topics are assigned by the national curriculmn but we have some latitude on how to cover them. I am going to use the Beatles as main part of the lesson and plan on playing a song for them as a listening activity. I am really looking forward to it! Besides official training activities, I live with a host family that serves as a continuing classroom. I was able to have a genuine conversation with them this week. After receiving a letter from home and translating it for them with the help of a Ukrainian/English dictionary, they posed a great question: Why did you leave your family and friends and move halfway around the world to teach English in Ukraine? I was only too happy to share that my desire to teach English is just a small part of my motivation for joing the Peace Corps. Truly, it's about promoting world peace through real relationships and cultural exchange. It's about understanding people thousands of miles away from home, and helping them understand you, too. I'm not sure how much of that i got across in Ukrainian, but it was the start of a beautiful conversation. Note: For the next year, I will have a monthly column in the Wacoan. Check out the first one in the November edition!

While it’s against my peace-loving nature, I honestly believe the time has come to go to war. Predatory lenders and other white-collar criminals are far more menacing—and costly—than the teenager on the corner selling marijuana. Yet the so-called “public defenders” spend next to no time chasing down the top execs at Fannie Mae or AIG. The government bailouts are costing taxpayers billions of dollars, while the guilty parties sneak off with hefty paychecks and bonuses. Companies like the Lehman brothers and Merrill Lynch aren’t so lucky. They took bad advice, disguised it as good investments, and hoped for a greater return due to their risk. The companies don’t get to ride the government’s coat tails because their effects weren't calculated to be as large as Fannie or Freddie. Oh well, at least the CEO of Merrill Lynch stands to make about $252 million from the Bank of America buy-out. That makes me feel better. I understand the AIG bailout is perhaps the lesser of two evils, considering the effect of huge corporations going under on our already fragile economy, but that’s not good enough. The stock market is holding, while our national debt climbs the charts at an alarming rate. Somewhere, our capitalism credo has run amuck, and predatory lenders are looking out for no one but themselves as they hand out mortgages to the masses and set off a chain-reaction of problems.

Sure, in an ideal world, the public would be highly educated, fiscally responsible, and wouldn’t even apply for a loan they didn’t qualify for. But back in reality, people want nicer homes than they can afford. It’s the professional responsibility of lenders and credit agencies to tell people their limits. That’s why you have to get “approved” for a loan. The idea isn’t to pick the weakest candidate and exploit them. This isn’t the African Sahara.

These checks were in place to determine suitability for large financial responsibility, but now they are being used to take advantage of people. This is the crime of the century. It’s affecting the entire country, and except for saying “Shame on you,” playing the blame game, and writing a check with our money, the government isn’t doing much about it.

So what do I want? A full-scale attack.

We must go after the predatory lenders with vigor. We have to make an example out of them. Right now it’s the perfect crime. We’re telling business men and women, go ahead, screw over the public, write yourself a nice, fat check, and we’ll bail you out. Literally. I want investigators on the case. I want undercover raids. I want to turn the small-time peddler of bad loans into a snitch to reel in the big fish. I want the corporate version of the SWAT team assembled.

This isn’t going to be cheap. But I’d give a rough estimate that falls somewhere below $85 billion.

The home front, quiet save for a preponderance of leaves. Frightening radar images projected Hurricane Ike would decimate not only Galveston and Houston, but the surrounding areas as well. While certain parts of South Texas are devastated, Katy is not one of them. Although trees are down and sections of the city are without power and possibly water, the damage pales in comparison to other communities. Check out this interactive map on Chron.com for more info. Parts of my neighborhood have power, and others do not. Clearly, I am in the former category. CenterPoint Energy, the largest power company in the greater Houston area, reports that out of their 2.2 million customers, 2.1 million are out of electricity. I snapped a few photos of the occasion for your viewing pleasure. The neighbor's yard saw a little more action. A fallen tree in the schoolyard behind my house as seen through my foggy lens. An industrious neighbor's yard, tiddy just hours after the storm.

Palin has no one to blame but herself for the so-called “invasion” of her family privacy. By choosing to simultaneously parade and hide her pregnant teen, Palin thrust her daughter into the spotlight but asked that we wouldn’t look too closely.

Give me a break.

If she really wanted to spare Bristol, she would’ve left her at home. At 17, she’s clearly old enough to fend for herself. But no, Palin decided to stick her on stage, five-months pregnant with a baby on her hip. How dare the bloggers comment! How dare they question this preposterous sight!

With no explanation from Palin, the inquisitive mind was left to its own devices. Instead of asking why Palin chose to hide the fact that her daughter was pregnant, let’s blame voters for trying to put the pieces together themselves. It wasn’t the ideal way to get to the bottom of things. But what choice did they have? After the mainstream media dropped the ball on the Edwards affair, the Tabloid genre got a little credibility boost. And you can’t fault the bloggers entirely. They were in the baby ballpark.

And now Palin is using this whole baby-blogger-shenanigan to blast the media. As she said in her RNC speech, “Here's a little news flash for those reporters and commentators: I'm not going to Washington to seek their good opinion. I'm going to Washington to serve the people of this great country.”

Here’s a news flash for Palin: Journalists are actually part of society. I know it’s shocking, but we vote, too. So you are seeking our good opinion, along with everyone one else’s. Why else would you fly in Bristol’s baby’s daddy for the RNC? He wasn’t a necessary part of the family for your introductory speech, but once the dirty little secret was out, suddenly he was needed. While Palin tells the media to back-off her family, there’s a photo-op for McCain and Levi on the tarmac.

Talk about mixed signals.

The most ironic part of this whole saga is not Palin’s support of abstinence-only education, (which comes in a close second in my book), but her statements about Bristol’s “decision” to have the baby. According to Palin, there shouldn’t be a choice to make. She’s for bringing babies into this world in the case of rape and incest. But please, give her daughter some privacy. If it were up to Palin, the government would unilaterally make that decision for women everywhere. Now that’s a parallel worth drawing.

Honestly, I’ll be happy if I never have to write about the mating habits of the Palins ever again. But the choice is hers. Stop sticking your pregnant daughter in my face and I’ll stop writing about it. Deal?

A typical family moment for Brent, 28, Amber, 25, Mom, Dad, and Me, 22 This year, the passing of Labor Day marked more than the end of white shoes or summer vacation. It marked my last month in the states. Since graduation in May, I’ve been to New Mexico, Louisiana, and Waco. I am now nestled in my hometown of Katy, where I will reside until I leave for Ukraine Sept 25.

Far from my typical activities, this summer has been filled with new memories. Besides going to jail with my grandmother, I went swimming with two octogenarians, fed alligators, rode a rice combine, drove an assortment of farming equipment, and taught my grandpa how to play computer solitaire. And that was just in Louisiana.

In Waco, I lived with a darling family of five and worked at the Baylor Line. In between interviews and stories, I learned to crochet (sort of), heard tales of Sergey Bubka, and got the feel for magazine life. In-between work hours, I quasi-nannied three children ages 3ish, 6ish and 8ish. Who taught me that it’s fun to be chased by someone you love, standing on the table is a good way to get attention, and clothes are overrated.

Since I’ve been home I’ve found myself doing things I almost never did growing up. Like going on walks with my parents or doing chores voluntarily. Leaving the country has strange effects on people. Of course, some of my changed behavior could be attributed to increased maturity. But let’s not get carried away.

I love my family dearly. I consider it a blessing that my family isn’t contained in one house, one state, or even one country. My travels have yielded unlikely friendships and broadened my understanding of the world. But the experience cuts both ways. I have learned that to go also means to leave.

When I think about the relationships forged over two summers in South America, I hurt for the friends I may never see again. But I’m so thankful for the time we spent together and the way they shaped who I am today. Our lives are enriched by communion with others, and I can’t wait to learn from and give to a new community in Ukraine.

One of my favorite all-time books is C.S. Lewis’ The Four Loves. In it, Lewis says, “The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.” So out into the East I go: willfully-vulnerable, anxiously-awaiting new friends, and with a deep and abiding love for all the family I know today.

Just 72 hours after Sarah Palin was unveiled as McCain’s VP, the story of her 17-year-old daughter’s pregnancy hit mainstream media. Several versions of the story have been raging on the blogosphere all weekend, with CNN and other big names picking it up early this afternoon.

To be honest, I’m still not convinced. McCain’s campaign released a statement to “get the truth out.” Calling Bristol 5 months pregnant would appear to negate the rumor that she gave birth to 4-month-old Trig, but loopholes remain.

1. According to several sites, Bristol missed 5 months of school last year due to mononucleosis. 5 months? Really? The Daily Kos says “Checking with the Anchorage High School that Bristol Palin attended, reporters were given word that her family had taken Bristol out of school due to contracting infectious mononucleosis. The amount of time Bristol was absent shifts from five to eight months.” It's a pretty unusual period of absence for mono but not for teen pregnancy.

2. Sarah Palin waited until she was 7 months pregnant to announce the news to her staff, who had no idea. As this was her fifth child, biologically she should have been showing for months. Check out local coverage—and disbelief—on the story here.

3. I saved the best for last. Palin apparently went into early labor while giving a speech in Texas. Local story here. After her water broke, she then decided to take a cross-country flight, including a layover, that totaled 10 hours, without notifying the staff of the plane she was leaking amniotic fluid. Then, after landing in Alaska, she drove past several hospitals to Wasilla, the small-town where she served as mayor, to deliver the baby. Her reason for endangering her child’s life, not alerting the airline staff, and risking her own health: “You can’t have a fish-picker from Texas.”

Forgive me for not eating up McCain’s band-aide explanation, but the skeptic in me is unconvinced. Let's hope Palin is lying about Trig’s lineage—for her own sake. The recklessness she is clinging to in her alibi is far more disturbing than the whole shebang being a cover-up for Bristol. What does this mean for the GOP hopeful? Only time will tell. With this bombshell dropping after just three days, who knows what gems wil be uncovered in the coming weeks, months? It seems Palin's stance on abstinence only education is backfiring in the most ironic of ways. For someone running on family values, Palin isn't exactly exhibiting the textbook conservative behaviour she has been promoting. I'm all for women advancing in the workplace, but maybe when you have a 4-month-old disabled child and a pregnant teen, it isn't the best time to live on a bus with a 72-year-old man. I'm just saying.

For a good timeline of events, check out this post by The Daily Kos.

For highly entertaining commentary, check out this local Alaskan political blog. As far as I can tell, this is where the story first really took off. To date, there are 441 comments.

Yesterday, a friend of mine with a pretty popular blog asked me to write a guest column. Naturally, I was thrilled. Jenny Simmons, lead singer of Addison Road and fellow Baylor grad, had written a post about the largest illegal immigration raid in history when a robust debate broke out. When she asked me to write a post addressing the question, “What should we as Christians do?” there were 9 comments. Just 24 hours later there were 18. Enter my column, reposted here.

It’s a good thing I didn’t write the Bible.

OK, that’s the understatement of the century. But in all seriousness, I just can’t imagine how Jesus came up with such a great answer to “Who is my neighbor?” I probably would have just said “everyone.”

But that wouldn’t get the point across like the parable of the Good Samaritan does. In Luke 10, Jesus’ answer tells us not only are the clean, nice-looking people our neighbors, but so is the naked bloody guy with no money on the side of the street.

We should treat him with pity, and, judging from the parable, extravagance. So who is our neighbor today? As surely as it is the nuclear family next door, it is the illegal immigrant.

The New York Times put it aptly in a June 3 editorial: “A nation of immigrants is holding another nation of immigrants in bondage, exploiting its labor while ignoring its suffering, condemning its lawlessness while sealing off a path to living lawfully.” Although how to handle illegal immigration is undoubtedly a Christian moral issue, it is also an issue that strikes the core of American life.

We were founded to be a refuge from tyranny, oppression, and injustice. Whatever happened to “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free”? I fear we have replaced it with, “give me your paperwork, wait two to five years, learn a new language, or we will imprison you indefinitely.”

I realize the issue is complex and challenging. We cannot allow immigration to go unchecked. We must protect our citizens and our country first and foremost or we won’t be much of a sanctuary to anyone. However, protecting the immigrant is an important, and recently missing, piece of the American character.

So where should we, as Christians, start?

I won’t rehash the parable for a second time, but I think you know where I’m going with this.

We must love illegal immigrants, our neighbors, as ourselves.

This won’t be easy. I daily have trouble loving people who look, talk, and think like me with as much grace and understanding as I afford my fallen self.

To remind myself to do things, I like to use lists. Little things I can check off, keep up with, and hang on my mirror. But “love illegal immigrants” doesn’t really belong on a post-it note next to my grocery list.

In fact, it sounds downright ridiculous.

It has to be written on our hearts and seen in our actions or else it won’t matter. It won’t be the real, life-changing love that God gives us everyday. It will be hard. It will be awkward. It might even cause you to loose a few friends or social standing. Sound like anyone you’ve heard of before? Jesus didn’t ride into town on a white horse. He saddled up a donkey. Jesus didn’t hang out with the rich and powerful. He chilled with the poor and rejected.

While there are a number of passages in the Bible about following the law and respecting your government, there are more still about loving others unashamedly and unequivocally. Contrary to welfare legislation, there is no such thing as the “undeserving poor.” As human beings, we all deserve compassion. And as Christians, we are all commanded to dish it out with utter abandon. Not delineating between the “good” poor and the “bad” poor, but loving each and every one of God’s creatures as ourselves.

Looking for a practical application?

A good place to start might be volunteering to teach English as a second language. My church in college, Calvary Baptist, had a Wednesday night ESL class open to the community. From that class, a Spanish-speaking Sunday school class was born. Hey, sometimes you just need to use your mother tongue.

And from that class, a new ministry to immigrants in Waco evolved. It was amazing to see. And it made a difference. Another area immigrants typically lack understanding is personal finance. One member of our church helped organize a “Bank Fair/Carnival” so that parents could learn about checking accounts and other services while their children jumped on bouncy-castles and ate snow cones.

Some people might think providing these classes without knowing if those receiving the services are legal citizens is a crime in itself. I’m not one of them. I think a greater crime, one against God, is committed when we turn our back on the poor. As Jesus said, “Whatever you do unto the least of these, you do unto me.” I’m not telling you to start housing people of unknown descent in your guest room. But loving others is always a risk.

Another practical way Christians can respond to the plight of the illegal immigrant is with our votes. I’m pretty big on the separation of church and state and honestly even invoking political language next to passages of the Bible makes me nervous.

But I’m not telling you who to vote for, just to look at your local and federal elections with a keen eye. Find out where the candidates stand on illegal immigration. Call your congressman or woman. Let them know this issue is important to you.

I believe a key component to the illegal immigration problem is in the hands of lawmakers. As long as companies are hiring illegal workers, they will come illegally. There need to be harsher penalties for companies who employ illegal workers. In many cases, they are exploiting people to work for below-minimum wage, with no benefits, for far too many hours a week. I sincerely think those who hire and abuse immigrants are as guilty, if not more, than the workers are.

For most of us, however, our role is not to pass legislation. In the words of Micah, “What does God require of you? To do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God.”

Amen.

In just a few short hours, Hillary Clinton will speak at the Democratic National Convention. While it’s not exactly the scenario she had planned, she still holds a pivotal role in the election. With a flock of angry supporters behind her, Clinton needs to address the latest tactic by John McCain to misdirect her flock.

McCain’s recent batch of television ads are trying to reach out to the disgruntled Clinton camp. Using sound bytes of the New York Senator calling Obama inexperienced, in one McCain concedes, “She was right.”

Oh please.

Like McCain has ever thought Hillary was right about anything.

What we have here is a classic case of Washington manipulation at the hands of a 72-year-old seasoned veteran. McCain could no more agree with Clinton than he could stay up past 10 p.m.

It’s an act, and a poor one at that.

In perhaps the most transparent campaign charade yet, McCain is shamelessly pining for votes with the most unlikely of supporters—fiercely dedicated democrats. The problem may be, however, that Clinton’s supporters are more devoted to her than the principles of the Democratic Party.

Like a spoiled child, Clinton supporters who defect to McCain are clearly acting out of spite. How else can you justify not voting for Obama—whose policies are 95 percent the same as Clinton’s—and thus denying a democrat the white house for another four years? It must have been the pants suits—and not the policies—that Clinton supporters were so ardently in favor of. Otherwise, the transition to Obama would have been seamless.

What I’ve found more disappointing than McCain’s manipulation (not a real surprise), is Clinton’s less-than-passionate disapproval of the ads. Only when prompted did Clinton respond to the ads by saying, “I am Hillary Clinton, and I did not approve this message.” A clever play on words, but far from the serious, impassioned defense of Obama and attack on McCain’s cheap tactics one would expect of a die-hard democrat in an election season.

McCain may butter up to Clinton and her supporters now, but rest assured that if he takes office there will be no place for Clinton at the table. Obama represents the same ideals as Clinton, and more importantly, the same party. Clinton’s political career may not reach the office of “Madame President,” but there is still room for a high position in the Obama administration. If Clinton supporters really want the best for their candidate—and their country—they will vote for Obama. UPDATE: Clinton's speech Tuesday night was exactly what it needed to be. In her own words: "No way, no how, no McCain." Check out this article in The New York Times for in-depth analysis.

Breaking news: The tiny children parading around in tights and flying through the air with the ease of babes are underage. What a shocker. This article, although outdated, from Selena Roberts of Sports Illustrated is probably my favorite on the subject of Chinese gymnasts. It is complete with quotes from the always-entertaining Bela Karolyi and his wife, Martha on the subject of “itty-bitty teeth.”

Although the age requirements of 16 have raised ire with a number of gymnastics supporters, few have showed such blatant disregard for the rules as the Chinese. A paper trail follows the limber He Kexin all the way to the Olympic podium where she received a gold medal on the uneven bars and the team competition. It doesn’t take a private investigator to raise questions about He’s youthful appearance and childlike fearlessness in the face of such pressure. But it did take one to uncover documents dating back from 2005 that listed He’s birthday as January 1, 1994.

While articles stating He’s age as 14 have conveniently disappeared from online sources, the registration documents from 2005, 2006, and 2007 remain. Yang Yilin, a double bronze medalist in the all-around and uneven bars, is also facing questions of underage acrobatics. What’s really sad about this whole affair are not the missing gold medals on the necks of American gymnasts, but the missing childhood for the Chinese.

The Olympics are about sacrifice, to be sure, but not child labor. And I think this qualifies. Between cases of child abuse and the thousands of people whose homes were destroyed to make Bejing “less crowded” for the Olympics, what kind of message the world is sending by having a host nation such as this?

While such a promotion to the Olympic stage could have spurred China on to improve its human rights record, the opposite has happened. The elderly are being sent to labor camps for requesting to protest. Journalists are being jailed. Activists are disappearing. All the while, the Olympic banner is waving.