Of Modesty and Men (and Women too!)

I have been following the issue of women and modesty (which I have dubbed the modesty storm) rather disinterestedly for some time time now. I didn’t even bat an eye when one of my fellow Oregonian bloggers gave up wearing leggings in order to be modest. My only thought was, Duh! All women should give up leggings. How do they expect their brothers in Christ to not stumble when they look upon the bountiful gifts bestowed upon women? 

I applauded the woman and moved on with my life, silently scoffing at those who balked at her dedication to truly following Christ.

However, I do pride myself in being egalitarian; men and women are equal, after all. Equal but different of course, but that’s a different subject. As such, I have often wondered about men and how we can help our sisters in Christ to not stumble as well.

Finally, I came upon a solution!

I found a blog post on some site called Ain’t I a Woman entitled Let’s Talk Men, Sin, and Afghan Blanket Shorts. The author, Melanie Springer Mock, also wonders about modesty for men and has come up with the beginnings of a great idea.  She proposes that men should wear shorts made from afghan blankets.

However, like many revolutionary thinkers, she doesn’t go far enough.

Sure, the general unattractiveness of the shorts is enough to divert the lustful thoughts of many a sinful woman. However, shorts do leave a significant portion of the leg exposed.  It’s impossible to the deny the attractiveness and tempting powers of a well toned calf muscle.  This is true of both men and women.

So, what men really need to do to be true men of God is to put on a pair of afghan trousers.

Of course, these trousers need to be worn with shirts. Otherwise, we men will be back to making women stumble.

A full length trouser protects our sisters in Christ from falling by the wayside.

Other adjustments need to be made as well.  For example, such trousers would need some sort of lining to prevent chafing. After all, we wouldn’t want to hurt any of our own God-given gifts.

I am willing to take this step and I hope other men will follow me on this brave journey.  To my sisters in Christ, I want you to know that I only want to help you on your quest for Christ.  Together, we can live modest, Christ-centered lives.

 

In Hot Water: A Tale of Awkward Interaction

I remember being amazed at seeing one of my teachers outside of school when I was in elementary school.

I’d just be at Safeway with my mom and all of a sudden, there’d be my teacher, walking down the refrigerated aisle, just looking at yogurt as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Didn’t she know that she was breaking some sort of rule? How dare she exist outside of walls of the elementary school. It was weird enough that she would occasionally come outside during recess.

Of course, I later realized that teachers were people too and that they have lives outside of the area in which I interacted with them. See your teacher at the supermarket is nothing out of the ordinary. I thought I had developed beyond the problem of extracurricular student-teacher interactions when I went to college.

I wasn’t.

 

During my freshman year of college, I grew fairly close with my RA, Chris. He had a listening ear, a propensity for music, and he was always a source of intelligent conversation and jocularity.

In order for the guys in our freshman hall to just get a chance to hangout and have fun, Chris rounded up as many of us as he could and we went to go swimming at the local indoor pool. During certain hours, GFU students had free access to the pool and Chris thought it would be a great time for all of us to just relax and have fun.

I had a great time. We played monkey in the middle and a game that was mixture of half court basketball, water polo, and football.

And then we decided to get in the hot tub.

This sounded like a great idea. Hot tubs are relaxing and warm. Who doesn’t want to pretend they are a lobster?

Sir Patrick Stewart sure does.

Unfortunately, that’s when things started to go downhill.

While making the transition from the pool to the hot tub, a woman entered the pool area with two boys. I didn’t pay much attention to this. After all, this was a public pool so there was nothing extraordinary about a woman and her kids coming for a swim.

And then she got in the hot tub.

Again, not a big deal….

…until I saw who it was.

The woman who had gotten into the hot tub with us was Melanie Mock, professor of English. I was in a hot tub with a GFU professor.

At this point, my readers are probably questioning why this matters. “But Levi, you were a psychology major,” I imagine them saying. “Why would it matter that an English professor was in a hot tub with you? She doesn’t know you from any other non-English major.”

But she did.

My freshman year, I had the great honor of being the news editor for The Crescent, the student newspaper. Melanie was (and still is) the faculty advisor.

I slowly sank deeper into the bubbling waters, hoping a rogue kraken would pull me under and rescue me from this awkward situation.

Unfortunately, that was not the case.

I sat there, partially submerged and quickly running through my options.

“Well, I’m turning into a prune,” I said as I pretended to examine my finger tips. “I think I’m going to go change.” The guys, either feeling the same way or sensing the awkward vibe (most likely the former), all nodded in agreement and departed with me.

From that day on, I was terrified of Melanie and for a long time, I avoided her.

But people kept telling me how great her classes were. In my quest to become a better writer, I took a nonfiction writing class with her. I did my best to hide in the class, as I was still embarrassed and intimidated.

And that is probably one of my greatest mistakes in college.

If I’d have been brave and gotten over my embarrassment I would have realized how awesome Melanie truly is. I didn’t truly come to know that until my junior year when she accompanied the newspaper staff to a journalism conference in San Diego.

But that’s another story and I have strayed away from my topic of hot tubs and teachers being people.

When I mentioned the hot tub incident to Melanie recently, she didn’t even remember that it had occurred. I bitterly laughed to myself about this. Here I was with this embarrassing memory and no one to share it with.

I think there’s a moral somewhere in this post, but this blog is not for handing out morals. So, if there is one, I hope you find it. If there isn’t one, don’t ascribe one to it.

Yeah, I’m not sure what quite happened either.

Learn all the Things!……..Now What?

My undergrad education is rapidly coming to an end. I’m just a little over a semester away from graduating and I still don’t know what I’m doing with my life.

I’m a little uneasy about it.

I’ll be graduating with a BS in psychology. When you tell people you are getting a degree in psychology, you get quite a few predictable reactions. I’ve outlined these elsewhere (here) so I won’t go into them.  One thing I didn’t mention is just the sheer number of people who assume you are going to go into counseling. There’s always that person who goes, “oh, so you want to be a therapist or something, huh?” I’ll admit that I considered that as an option for a while, but then I realized it wasn’t the option for me.

I know that counseling is not the only occupation in psychology out there; There’s always research. The problem is, I’m terrible at research. It’s a miracle I got through my research methods class. There are variables to control and manipulate or questionnaires to design and frankly, that’s not my forte. Even worse is the use of statistics. Surviving statistics class is still (at least in my mind) one of the most impressive and confusing accomplishments of my life. Not sure how I did it because I’m still not sure how to use a regression or ANOVA, but I somehow did it and I’m not complaining.

I’ve got the whole newspaper thing going for me and I’ve enjoyed that. Over the past few years, it has provided me with a writing outlet other than classes. I don’t think I would do well as a full-time journalist, though. I’m about as good at conducting interviews as giraffes are at doing the limbo.

 

It’s awkward every time.

Just to add more confusion, I added a philosophy minor this year and have been taking random writing classes. I’m all over the place.

Sure, I know an undergrad degree is not a huge deciding factor. My advisor continues to remind me that have a degree is the main thing. But i really wish that I could have been like other people and had my major help me better decide what I’m doing with my life. That would have been great!

It just seems like I have more questions than answers.

Should I go to grad school? If so, for what?

Should I take a gap year? What will I do during that time?

Should I just enter the workforce?

Frankly, I thought I would have these questions answered by now.

I keep waiting for a sign to show up to give me a clue. I’m not asking for a burning bush, I just want something.

I’d even take that if it gave me direction.

How I Know I’m still not a Real Adult

The fact I used this picture should be a good indicator.

I only sometimes consider my self a real adult.

I pay rent fairly regularly.

I can vote and do so willfully.

I even own furniture.

However, there is still ample evidence of my non-adulthood.

1. I’m not sure what you do with your plunger when you move to a new home.

I know how to use one properly, but what do you do when you pack up and leave? Do you leave it for whoever moves in like some well-meaning housewarming gift? A nice sentiment……perhaps. Or doe you shove it in a plastic bag and bring it along to your new place? At least you don’t have to buy a new plunger that way.

2. I still can’t successfully grocery shop.

Story of my life.

I can’t remember anything without a list. But, nine times out of ten, I will leave my painstakingly well planned out grocery list just lying on the counter. Then, all  I can do is try my best to just recall what I needed. I always forget something. Once, I was shopping so I could make spaghetti. I forgot to get noodles. NOODLES!!!!!

Frequently, I find myself getting lost in Fred Meyer’s. I can’t find anything. I just meander around until I stumble upon what I need. Asking for help is an option, but that requires talking to strangers and I can’t handle that.

3. In my entire lifetime, I’ve purchased one sheet of stamps and still haven’t used them.

My stamps look just like these and I am quite proud of them.

This is more of a choice thing, of course. Why use my own stamps when I can use my parents’ stamps? Besides, stamps are expensive.

4. When  I go to the bank, I still ask if I can have a piece of candy even though it’s quite obviously up for grabs.

The bowl just sits there by the teller. It practically screams “Eat me!!!” Yet, I’m compelled to ask. At least my parents should be proud that I say please every time.

5. I say adulting

I didn’t coin this term; it’s just something we 20-somethings say to mean acting like an adult. Kelly Williams Brown kind of cemented it into our vernacular with her book.

6. There is no such thing as going to bed early.

If I had a dollar for every time someone told me to sleep more or go to bed earlier, then I’d have enough money to pay off my student loans (oh, how I long for that to happen).

On paper, the process of going to sleep seems simple enough: you get tired, you go to bed, you go to sleep. Nice and Easy. WRONG. If I tried to go to bed when I was tired, I’d never get anything done. Sometimes, that would require going to sleep during classes or work. Not good ideas, from what I’ve heard.

7. I’m still subject to giggling at potty humor

I think the video really illustrates this point. It also reminds me that I need to write a post about how Chandler Bing and I are the same person. I’m still snickering about “duties.”

Now, these aren’t the only reasons I probably shouldn’t be considered a real adult. I mean, for crying out loud, I don’t even own a real bed; I sleep on an air mattress. However, what I have displayed is more than enough evidence to support my non-adultness. If I added any more points, I may just discredit myself more if I haven’t already.

I’m a Writer………..Apparently

 

Until recently, I never considered myself a writer.

Snoopy, who never doubted his true calling, is one of my heroes.

In fact, the realization that I was technically a writer didn’t present itself until this summer while working at Estergard Farms.

“Are you going to be a journalist after you get out of college?” my boss, Cole, asked one day during lunch.

“Well…” I started.

“He’s probably going to write books,” my other boss, Dustin, interjected. “And you know at least one going to be about us.” They laughed and joked about about all of the terrible stuff I might write about them and who all would read it (they both graciously said they would).” Then, it was back to business as usual.

From that day on, the question “Am I a writer?” began to bump around inside my head.

As the name implies, a writer is someone who writes. But for some reason, I was always under the impression that one could only call himself or herself a writer if he or she was getting paid to do so.  And then I remembered,

I do get paid to write.

I have been on the staff of The Crescent since my freshman year in 2011.

The first issue of The Crescent that I worked on

I have been getting paid to write and edit articles for almost four years and I didn’t consider myself a writer. Granted, I’m not getting paid a lot, but some money is better than no money.

Even though I defined a writer as someone who got paid to write and I was getting paid to write articles, I refused to call myself a writer. In the world of psychology, we call this cognitive dissonance.

So there I was, doing all this writing under the pretense that I was not a real writer. I could be a writer someday, I’d think. But right now, I’m just a guy who writes.

But I’ve had to come to terms with the truth.

One day I was eating lunch between classes with some friends. We started to talk about writing and the different projects we were working on.

And then someone referred to me as a good writer.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” I said.

“What do you mean?” someone asked.

“I’m not really a writer and I wouldn’t call myself good,” I replied “I just write stuff and people seem to like it.”

“Sounds like you’re a writer to me,” someone else said.

I didn’t know how to reply.  Everyone took my silence to mean the conversation was over and moved on to other subjects.

And that’s when the coffin was nailed shut on my denial of being a writer.  No matter what I do, whether I enter the world of being a professional writer or not, I will always be a writer.

So long as I keep writing anyways.

Encounters of the Banana Kind, Pt. 1

I’ve never considered myself particularly lucky. Not that I’m particularly superstitious or that tons of terrible things have happened to me, I just have terrible minor luck.

Take my commute between school and my apartment. The total drive time is about ten minutes, give or take a minute depending on traffic.  However, there are three traffic lights on my route.

And every time,

without fail,

I hit each one just as it turns red.

It’s like the eye of Sauron, just waiting for me to come within its domain.

This usually adds another five minutes to my drive.

In the grand scheme of things, this is nothing and such instances are hardly worth mentioning. There are days, particularly the bad ones, where hitting every red light, on top of whatever crises were faced that day, is absolutely maddening.

There are other aspects of my life where Lady Luck looks upon me with great favor. Some of the quirkier instances are my encounters with bananas.

I love bananas. Straight bananas, banana bread, banana cream pie, banana pudding, etc. You could say I’m bananas for bananas (yes, I did have nice chuckle about this sentence and I am aware of the cliché).

I have never encountered a wild banana. On occasion, I envision myself swinging from tree to tree like some 21st century Tarzan, snagging a banana as I gracefully fly through the trees. This is not an opportunity that tends to rear it’s head in America, though.

All of my banana run-ins have been with the domestic variety which is and entirely different thing. They have a different shape, size, taste, and texture. I won’t go into specifics, but what we Americans call a banana isn’t entirely accurate.

Generally, I experience bananas in normal settings: Pies and breads. The occasional fruit bowl. If I’m feeling really adventurous, I’ll take in a fruit salad. Pretty standard stuff.

But on occasion,

I have experienced something magical:

The elusive, rogue banana!

They don’t usually levitate…..

The average person probably pictures a ravenous animal when they see the word rogue; applying the adjective to something that seems so unexciting could be a cause of confusion. I simply mean bananas that appear where you would least expect them to be.  And this is where I tend to luck out.

The first time this happened, I was checking my on campus mail. It was a rainy day and as I descended into the ravine that we lovingly call the canyon here at GFU (at the bottom of which is where the campus mailboxes are), I noticed a banana lying on the sidewalk.

Frankly,  I was startled. I also felt a bit sad. Here was this poor yellow thing, soaking wet, unpeeled and unloved, left to fend for itself.

I approached with caution. Slowly looking around to see if this was the bait for some sort of Rube Goldberg-esque trap, I picked up the banana. Upon examination, I discovered that it was perfectly intact. There was no one around.

So, I did the natural thing: I ate it.

It was pretty tasty. Definitely a better representative of its food group.

This has not been an isolated incident. I have found bananas all over campus and each time I pick it up, see if it belongs to anyone, and then I eat it. Its a rewarding experience every time.

I’m not sure if these instances are actually caused by some great force of chance. Maybe bananas actively seek me out. For all I know, there is a conspiracy around leaving bananas out for me to eat.

I’m not complaining, though. Why mess with a good thing?

After all:

Eat bananas. Doctor’s orders.

Royal Reflections

This week is Homecoming Week at George Fox University. The football team will be playing a home game tomorrow, the campus is crawling with alumni, and yes, there is even a Homecoming Court.

And this year, I found myself in the awkward position as king.

I must admit, I was a bit overwhelmed at first.

 

Every now and again, someone says, “Congrats, Levi. You deserve this.”

I appreciate the sentiment, but I don’t understand what it means. It makes me think back to being on my high schools court. I didn’t win that one. I was a junior, but we did Homecoming in a way that every class representative had a chance to be crowned King or Queen.

I could tell a story about how being the King in college raised my self-esteem and made my insecurities go away.

But that story would be garbage and a lie and there is nothing worse than dishonest trash.

That too

I understand that, somehow , this is an honor. To be honest, it’s nice to know I can win in a popularity contest even when I tell people not to vote for me. My ego is so well fed right now, it makes Marie Antoinette look like she should be the one to eat cake.

However, I should probably be careful about comparing myself to deposed French monarchs.

So why is it awkward?

Because I don’t get the point of the whole thing.

As a member of the Homecoming Court (and as King of course), I am obligated to do three things: Show up for the coronation this past Monday (duh), make an appearance at the game this Saturday, and then go to an alumni dinner that night.  I don’t even have to stay for the full game (and I don’t intend to). I just have to show up and be paraded before the masses. I’m not even expected to stay for the entirety of the alumni dinner. I just have to appear and rub elbows with the other attendees.

I imagine this is what it’s like for Britain’s royal family.

“Just smile and wave, boys. Smile and wave.”

 

I will do all of this. I will be pleasant about it.  I will attempt to have a good time.

But I still don’t get it.

The vast majority of my fellow students don’t get the point either. Almost immediately after being congratulated, I am always asked what it means or why it matters.

I never have an answer for them.

Maybe it’s one of those cultural things we just do.  We have forgotten the actual intended significance, but it’s a tradition so we do it like Halloween. We just do it every year because people seem to like it and no one has attempted to do anything about it.

And in a way, not understanding the point of it all robs this victory of its significance.

However, this doesn’t mean I can’t have fun with it. Others shouldn’t be dissuaded from enjoying it either.

 

I’ve taken to calling other people plebs (as a joke of course). That has been a major source of entertainment. In return, many of my friends and the professors who I am more familiar with have taken to referring to me as King Levi. This would seem appropriate, but they are always careful to do so in the most embarrassing way possible. It seems like an even exchange.

So, I guess all hail me!

Humility in Sickness

I hate being sick. I don’t know many people that like it.  But I super hate it and I refuse to take it lying down.

But, that’s what I am doing right now.  I’m not happy about it.  There was quite a few things I needed to do today.  I can’t help but feel that I am letting those around me down.

And yet, everyone I know tried to disprove me.

My first apology went to Kris Kays.  I have two classes with her on Thursday: Advanced Counseling and Human Sexuality.  I went to the former (I felt weird, but I thought it would pass), but skipped the latter.

Assuming that my sickness was due to lack of sleep and too much coffee, I emailed Kris (yes, my university is cool and we have the privilege of referring to our professors by first name) saying that I would not be in class because I was not feeling well and needed rest.  I then apologized for this.

“Forgiveness in not a concern…this is about wellness,” she replied.

I was incredibly grateful.

I next sent an email to my poetry professor, Lynn Otto.  I had done the homework and everything.  I had hoped to be in attendance and I apologized again.

She didn’t even acknowledge the apology.  Instead she sent well wishes and the first line of Rita Dove’s poem, “The Secret Garden.”

“I was ill, lying on my bed of old papers…” I wonder if she knows how true that statement is right now.

It soon became apparent that there was no way I was going to be able to go to work in the Academic Resource Center (ARC).  I sent an email in to tell everyone about my situation and to see if anyone could cover my shift.  My coworkers quickly rallied to my support, readjusting their lives to accommodate me and sending in wishes of a fast recovery.

And yet, I still didn’t get the message.

I had taken care of everything, but one meeting.

This meeting was important.  It was for all Multicultural Scholars, of which I am one, about the changes in our requirements.  A big deal.

There I was, just sitting in a chair feeling absolutely terrible, the sun beating down upon my head and people milling about.  I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“You don’t need to stay if you’re not feeling well.  We can catch you up later,” Jamie Noling-Auth, the new campus pastor, said.

I tried to protest, but in her soft, calming way, she convinced me to go.

And there it was.  It took someone who I barely knew to knock out that final bit of pride I had left.

The Crescent’s social media manager, Izzy (who had been taking care of me all day), offered to drive me home.  I, bent over double from the pain in my stomach, weakly accepted.

Now I am laying in my bed thinking about everything I need to do.

And as I do this, a text from Leah, my co-editor-in-chief, runs through my mind.

“Don’t worry…Take care of yourself first.”

So obviously, I had to blog about it!

But I’m working on it.

Today, I get Personal

My phone vibrated.

I pulled it out to see what it was. My housemate, Micah, had sent a group message to me and our other housemates. When I read the message, I almost threw my phone across the room.

Oh, how freeing that must feel.

Micah: “Hey Compadres! I was thinking we all should have a house meeting 🙂 sometime maybe this next week/end.”

I wasn’t actually angry with Micah. In fact, I am always quite happy to see him. He is kind of like the house ghost: he lives there, but we don’t always see him. That’s life and we are all busy.

What got me worked up was that word: meeting.

For some reason, it just seems like I spend my entire life in meetings. I have bi-weekly meetings with ASC, monthly meetings with my newspaper staff, meetings to plan those meetings, group meetings for classes, and then various meetings that just seem to pop up. I probably should’ve seen this coming when I took up the role of Co-Editor-in-Chief of a student newspaper.

But I didn’t.

Of course, if I could go back in time, I wouldn’t change the fact that I took the position. I might tell myself to get more organized a little sooner and maybe to figure out a bit more planning (or would that create some sort of Doctor Who-ish timey-wimey issue?), but I would still do the job.   Besides the problem is not the The Crescent.

Time paradoxes come with terrible consequences.

The whole ordeal is just about me coping and, so far, I have not done a well at that.

For me, my ability to cope is directly opposed to my anxiety. In fact, anxiety really opposes everything productive in my life.

In my counseling class this past Thursday, I realized that I had quit listening to what one of the members of my group was saying because I was sitting there stressing about….something that I don’t even remember now. Instead of being present with my group, I was off in another place worrying about things to come. I don’t even know how I started thinking about what I was thinking about. It could’ve been a word or phrase that someone said or something I saw. Regardless, it took me out of my group and, for that moment, made me useless to them.

I would love to say that I’ve come up with a solution. I would love to tell you that I’m okay. I would love to end this post with some sort of reassuring advice about anxiety to other people who suffer like this.

But, I can’t.

I can only set my teeth and put one foot in front of the other. Life doesn’t stop and neither can I.

And I don’t have to go it alone. I just need to find the humility to seek out help.

Me: “Can we not call it a meeting? It seems I spend my life in meetings.”

Now we’re calling it “Micah’s Tea Party.”

That feels like a step in the right direction.

Peter Capaldi: The Doctor we Needed and Wanted

Beware! Spoilers may be ahead!

As many of us know, Matt Smith, King of the Hipster Nerds, abdicated his thrown as The Doctor in the waning days of 2013. Gone are the days of bow ties, fezzes, and companion flirting among other things.

It was about time.

None of these things were bad things.   Bow ties and fezzes are still cool and make wonderful additions to any wardrobe. The hints of romance between The Doctor and his companions humanized the Time Lord. But, it was time for change.

This change has come to us by way of Peter Capaldi. For the first time since the classic series, we have a Doctor that looks and acts his age. We could contest that John Hurt’s appearance in the 50^th anniversary special was a testing ground for this and that he marked the return of older actors playing the titular character. This is an important point, but he is really only in one episode and then cameos. Capaldi, on the other hand, is here to stay, at least for a while.

The greatest aspect of bringing Capaldi into the show will be the loss of the David Tennant/Matt Smith bandwagoners. These people joined the fandom because they found the actors to be attractive. While this did help to boost the popularity of the show, it made it difficult to tell who the true fans are. See dorkly.com.

At the same time, this could be an opportunity for the bandwagoners to become real fans. Having the opportunity to see past the eye candy may allow them to truly appreciate the show.

Hand holding, a hint of romance

Another benefit is that there is finally a good dynamic between Clara and The Doctor. When Clara was running around with The 11^th Doctor, many fans did not like her. This was partially due to the poor writing within season seven, but also because the hearts of the fans were still with Amy and Rory. Many of these fans felt that The Doctor picked up a new companion too soon and replaced her in his heart before he could truly get over them. There was also some worry that she was just a cheep romantic replacement for the show, but the fans were tire of the romance.

Awkward, unwanted hugging – not a sign of romance.

Now we have two people who do love each other, but not romantically. Instead, The 12^th Doctor and Clara are more like very close work associates. This dynamic seems to be working for the both of them.

Capaldi is lending himself well to the new role as well. He plays such a different Doctor than we have seen in the past few years. It will be interesting to see how the character progresses for the remainder of his tenure on the show. Hopefully, they don’t give him a catch phrase, but I would like to see him use his spoon some more.