Frozen

Do you realize that I have not been in the US since before Frozen came out and became a phenomenon?

In fact, I have not been in the US for 15 months now and when I arrive I may not get all your pop culture references. I may not know all the American news. And I most certainly won't be able to catch up in just one day. 

I can tell you lots of cool stories, maybe even in French. I can tell you about skiing in the Alps and adventures in the Lausanne metro. I can tell you about awesome iCafé nights and great conversations with people you've never met. My life has been a crazy wonderful adventure filled with good and bad things and I'm sorry we haven't had any shared experiences from these past 15 months. I can't just let it all go...

BUT, I'm aware that your life hasn't frozen either. You've gotten engaged, married, pregnant. You've had a great time on vacation or a horrible time at work. Your family is really struggling at the moment and you just need a break. 

Maybe you want to hear about my life, maybe you don't, but I sure want to hear about yours! Please don't think that because I'm the one who left that I'm the only one with something to share. Tell me to shut up and listen if I don't. Tell me to hug you tight if you're hurting and tell me to share if you want to listen. 

Maybe we could do something together, to once again share an experience, to unfreeze our lives and get reacquainted? 

Do you want to build a snow man?

Deleted Scenes

Not every moment of every day can be a big event. There are invariably gaps or transition times in and amongst the grander activities. Some of these stay with me as small seemingly unimportant events, like the superfluous material the director cuts from a film. So here they are: a few deleted scenes.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Where there's smoke there's fire, or rather, a lot of cigarettes. It is unfortunately a rather frequent experience to choke on clouds of second hand smoke just about everywhere on the streets of Lausanne. The bitter smell lingers around the whole train station and if I want to sit outside to enjoy the sunshine in a public place like a park or a café I also have to be prepared to deal with breathing in the acrid fumes. On the metro or bus I am often sandwiched between people whose clothes reek of ash tray. The streets are littered with orange and white butts flicked from careless fingers. I start to wonder at the irony of a country obsessed with recycling and going green who are singlehandedly polluting their own bodies. Although I think it's sad to see so many smokers, particularly young ones, I generally don't have a problem unless someone is blowing their smoke directly in my face. But on one particular day, as I am walking through the train station during a busy afternoon, a man passes close by me with a lit cigarette held loosely by his side. In the jostling of the crowds, the glowing tip presses against my finger and leaves a white hot burn that quickly turns to a blister. He mumbles an apology and slinks away. Thus I learn an important lesson: cigarettes are harmful in more ways than one.

A perk of public transportation is the people watching. Mostly people are on their phones. They don't do more than text or bop their head in time to their music, their fingers swiping across touch screens answering messages and playing silly games in silence. It is important to not disturb your neighbors. On this day, I'm on the metro going to the university and watching a little girl with her dad. I can't hear the words but she's tapping on the window with a small chubby finger and asking him a question. He smiles at her, leans toward the glass and breathes a hot puff of air leaving a smudge. She draws her fingers through the condensation caused by her father's breath on the window, delighted as if you had given her a coloring book and every Crayola color under the sun. She's just another metro rider swiping at a screen, but her laughter is not silent and even the woman playing Candy Crush next to me looks up to see if she might be missing out on life. The dad smiles at the little girl, breathes once more on the window and, above the scribbles of his daughter, draws a heart.

It's 7:30AM. I know because the drilling noise has begun and I can't block it out with my pillow. Yesterday there was a note in the elevator informing our whole building that they were going to be doing some work tomorrow starting at 7:30AM. It is not a time of day to appreciate Swiss punctuality. It's 7:30 AM and I needn't have bothered with the alarm.

My toilet won't flush. I know I need to call the plumber but I've been putting it off. It means a phone call in French and one out of three times I can still get the toilet to work…I call the plumber. The French conversation goes rather well but I have to wait five days for an appointment. The morning of, a short man in overalls with a tool kit shows up at my apartment, his fingers stained with grease and a cheerful can-do attitude. I show him to the bathroom and he helpfully supplies the French verb for flush when I trail off with a purposeful gap in my explanation of the problem. He putters away while I work on something on my computer in the other room. After about half an hour, he emerges with a moldy looking plastic contraption that he has removed from the toilet. With finger pointing to the broken piece he explains to me the reason for the problem I've been having. "You only have the one toilet?" he asks me. I say oui. He explains that he doesn't have the part with him in his van and in fact I need a completely new flushing mechanism. He will have to go to a store to get it. "I'll go right now and be back as quickly as I can," he says. Thank God for cheerful plumbers who go out of their way to make sure that before the morning's out I have a working toilet.

European changing rooms are an education. In the US, changing tends to be a discreet flash of naked flesh quickly hidden beneath a strategic towel or article of clothing. Here, I am confronted with so much nudity, I am aware of these women's tattoos and piercings in places I shouldn't be seeing. The showers don't have doors and consequently I keep my bathing suit on. A little blond boy about three years old is in the ladies' changing room today with his mother. He stands naked across from the shower stalls where his mother is finishing her shower and talking to him. He keeps staring at me and then glancing at his (I assume, naked) mother as if wondering why I'm still in my bathing suit. I finish washing my hair and have to walk by his mother's stall… I try not to look, it's just…there are no doors!

When I arrive at my building, the old man who lives across the hall from me is just arriving too. He doesn't walk very well and is losing his hearing. He has a series of hired women who come in and help out and they are always left banging on his door and repeatedly ringing his bell because he's too deaf to hear that they are there. When he sees me, which is rare, he greets me with a, "Are you the one who lives across from me? Are you my neighbor?" I smile politely, nod my head and say yes. He usually asks me some kind of question, and I often have to have him repeat it. Tonight isn't much different as he shuffles into the elevator and I push the button for the fifth floor. I think he asks me something about the weather but I smile and make some kind of noncommittal noise as I'm not sure. We arrive and he pushes the elevator door open and booms a "bonne soirée" in my direction as I unlock my apartment door. I shut the door, have dumped my things on the table, when my doorbell rings. Surprised, I wasn't expecting anyone, I go to the door and open it to find the old gentleman outside. "Can you help me," he asks. "I can't get this button undone. He gestures to his coat. Although a bit taken aback, I nevertheless reach over and undo the offending button for him. He thanks me and turns back to his apartment. I close my door again and am glad that, for once, being neighborly hasn't required any words.

How do you measure a year?

In the musical Rent (which, for the record, I have never seen) they have this famously obnoxious song Seasons of Love where they remind you how many minutes are in a year (525,600, in case you're curious) and ask the question: how do you measure a year in the life? Apart from minutes they propose several solutions, you could measure a year in daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee, in inches, in miles (well, I guess not in Switzerland!), in laughter, in strife. The one solution they come to is how about love? Specifically, and hence the song title, seasons of love. Despite the fact that the number of minutes is technically incorrect (according to Google anyway), I think the question is actually more valid than the proposed response. How DO you measure a year in the life?

A year ago today I arrived in Switzerland. So I'm commemorating this momentous occasion by writing a blog post. In college in one of my creative writing classes we read an excerpt of a book called The Things They Carried by Time O'Brien. This collection of short stories tells you about a group of American soldiers in Vietnam by describing what they carried with them. It allowed the readers to really get an idea for what these men valued, how they spent their time and what they needed to survive. In a similar vein, I'm going to tell you about about the things I'm carrying these days.

In my purse one thing you would currently find is a copy of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban in French. Language is definitely an area in which I've grown and improved in over this past year. I decided to read Harry Potter because then I wouldn't get bogged down in comprehension since I already know the story, but instead I would be able to learn new vocabulary in context. For example, today while reading Harry Potter (it's the same name in French just with slightly different pronunciation) I learned that "avoir une peur bleue," which literally translates "to have a blue fear," means "to be scared to death." The greatest thing about learning this little phrase was that no one told me what it meant, I didn't have to look it up, I could totally figure it out from the context. What a huge encouragement!

In my purse you would also find my planner. It's full of reminders of meetings with people, meetings for planning, and academic calendar dates. My planner last year also was full of homework assignments for my classes. I took courses in literature, culture, language, and more. The classes definitely helped improve my French but were also a great place to meet international students from all over the world. The planner helps me stay organized and to make the most of my time.

In my purse you would find the most important book of all which is, of course, my Bible. More than a book, what is says is what everything I do here kind of revolves around. "Go and make disciples of all nations." It is also a great guide, comfort, and mirror-check.

In my purse you would find my wallet which is filled with Monopoly-like money known as Swiss francs (CHF). In the US every bill is green and the same size with a different guy's face on it and we have one, two, five, ten, twenty, fifty, and one hundred bills. In Switzerland, the franc bills vary in color and they only have bills starting at tens, so the other denominations are coins. The ten is orange, the twenty is red, the fifty is green, the one hundred is blue. When we go to an ATM in the US even if we take out $100 we would probably still get it in twenties. Here 100 bills are pretty much normal and they never seem to really go very far. I often feel quite poor in Switzerland! Also, the smallest coin is 5 centimes and it is the only coin that is gold in color instead of silver. There are no pennies! Anyways, all this on currency to say that I've gradually adjusted to what the money looks like and kind of gotten used to the fact that I have four currencies in my apartment (dollars, pounds, euros and francs). Also, how rich do I sound if I say I have a Swiss bank account?!?!

In my purse you would find some other junk like American chapstick, American chewing gum, American sunglasses, but my iPhone with a British flag cover. Along with the Swiss driver's license in my wallet, I guess you could conclude that I am just a little bit cross-culturally confused.

In my purse I did not find all of the words to really sum up and measure this year in Lausanne. It's been an incredible adventure and I'm glad it's not over yet! Thank you to all of you who made it possible!

A Spider's Web

Imagine you had never seen a spider before. You're sitting in a garden and suddenly see this strange looking insect. It moves delicately amongst the leaves of a nearby bush and after a little while you start to see that it leaves something thin and silvery in its wake, like very fine thread as thin as a hair. It glistens in the morning sun and from where you're sitting you can see the grand design. An intricate web. Imagine your surprise and pride for this little insect, who is now crouched in the corner, resting and admiring its work. You wonder how it spins the thread, how it knows what pattern to make, and if it makes others to please its friends or attract a mate.

All of a sudden another insect buzzes by. It stops to admire the web and you wish you also were small enough to pay a visit. But then the insect wants to leave and clumsily twists its legs on the silken strands. It starts thrashing and and beating its wings and tears a hole in the grand design. "Oh you silly bug," you want to say. "How could you ruin all this lovely work?" You turn to tell the insect in the corner that you're so very sorry, but it is calm and watching. It does not get upset that its work has been destroyed. It goes on sitting and waiting. Eventually, the trapped insect is still and you watch the web-builder descend and wrap it up and with dawning comprehension and sickening awareness you sit back on your garden bench and watch a spider eat its meal.

There is no denying that a spider web is a work of art, but its purpose is deadly. And because the spider knows that the web's purpose and goal it does not fret when the web is being destroyed. It does not lament the damage done to all their hard work. It is not even really surprised, because the web is doing its job. Recently, I've rather felt like a spider who realizing her web is being destroyed frantically races around throwing up her arms in the air yelling, "What do I do? What do I do?" It all began with tearing my ACL, which created a huge hole in the carefully laid web of plans. Instead of remembering the purpose of webs, I started panicking that I was losing control and going to have to start all over and that I'd never be able to get things to look quite as nice ever again. I forgot that I cannot be the helpless flailing bug and also be the spider at the same time.

In case you don't appreciate marvelous analogies (and yet are somehow still reading this blog) then here's the facts: I tore my ACL, I was going to have surgery and five days in the hospital in Switzerland, my insurance will not pay for me to do the operation here as it would only be out-patient surgery in the US, so I am coming back to the US for the operation this December/January. This is wonderful in that I will be around for the beginning of the semester activities, I will be able to leave at a less busy part of the school year, and I'll be home where I can have lots of TLC all while celebrating Christmas stateside! :) There's still lots to be sorted and it wasn't in the original plan but I think it's for the best and I am certainly glad that I will very soon get to see lots and lots of people in person!

Twenty-five

In honor of recently turning twenty-five I thought I would share 25 things I have learned over this past year.
1) It is possible to have more than one home.
2) I miss things from the US while I'm away that I don't even really like in the US. Ex: candy corn
3) Normal is relative.
4) I am not less of a person if I cannot communicate deep or complicated ideas in French.
5) Long distance communication is hard and incredibly frustrating.
6) I can experience FOMO (fear of missing out).
7) Getting to know so many people from so many different cultures is so fun and keeps life interesting.
8) I am so grateful to have two passports.
9) I can say a prayer in French.
10) I know some people with whom I only communicate in French and that is way cool.
11) Skiing in the Alps is no longer something I need to check off my bucket list.
12) I have learned to be more accepting and to reserve judgment.
13) Cadbury's is still my favorite chocolate.
14) I love living in Lausanne.
15) There's nothing quite like getting a letter from someone letting them know they're thinking of you.
16) Even I, the non-touchy one of my family, can suffer from lack of hugs.
17) Getting kissed on the cheeks by men and women is still weird.
18) I have the best view in the world.
19) I know how to cook lots more than I did before.
20) I have learned to know the temperature in celsius.
21) Wearing comfortable shoes over fashionable ones is almost always the right choice.
22) Ça va? seems like a much more effective way to ask how are you?
23) Starbucks coffee tastes like home even if it's more expensive than I really want to pay.
24) I'll never be Swiss enough to go for a nine hour hike and call it a short walk.
25) Friends can be found in the most extraordinary ways, don't dismiss the value of an invitation for cheesecake.

Where Caring about the World Cup is Way Cool!

I'm a soccer fan. I have been since I was a little kid and kicked a ball around with my dad in our hallway, garage, and yard. Growing up in America, the World Cup wasn't really all that big. I remember more of an excitement over the Women's World Cup than the Men's, and that I was the only one of my friends who would get really excited that soccer was on.

Being in Europe for this World Cup is exhilarating. There are flags hanging out of windows, stuck onto cars, and available for purchase on the streets. Everyone seems to have some kind of patriotic gear and are always talking about the matches. There is a giant screen set up where people from the city can all gather to watch the live match. And shops have capitalized on the World Cup fever with soccer themed everything. When a goal is scored and when a game is won, the streets erupt with car horns and people making noise.

Anyone who has been watching knows that it has been an interesting World Cup with lots of big teams (hello, Spain???) leaving the tournament earlier than expected. Many goals have been scored at the last minute, just enough to tip the scales from uncertainty to victory, and many players have dramatically rolled around in the grass looking for a free kick, penalty, or maybe a few minutes break. In fact, the major criticism that I have heard throughout this World Cup is about soccer players pretend falls. When you watch the replays, it becomes pretty obvious pretty fast that they're a bunch of fakers. In a game that takes a lot of skill, endurance, and team work, it is a shame to see its reputation being spoiled by the very players whom you want to admire. This led me to wonder what would a player of integrity look like? What if there was a player who only stayed down if he was well and truly injured? What if there was a player who never cried wolf? Who fell and got back up again? Maybe then we would admire him not for his fancy hair, fancy foot skills, or flashy jersey, but because of play and not his playacting.

Pain and Desperation

It all happens in a moment. One minute you're running down the field confident you'll get the ball, and the next you're rolling in the grass wondering if you'll be able to walk. It's not the first time I've found myself downed by an injury in the game of soccer and it probably won't be the last. But my most frequent problem was usually getting the wind knocked out of me because I was always so much smaller than many of my opponents, and that's an injury you can recover from and play on in the same match. I knew lying on the ground on the field in France it was much more serious than that.

The best thing about being on a church weekend away when you get injured is that there are so many people who are willing to help you. So many who are doctors or nurses, so many who are willing to help you walk, get you dinner, or make you comfortable. But, so many who want to know what happened and how are you and does it feel better than it did 5 minutes ago? And I know they all mean well but it's tiring and I don't want to be in the spotlight. I just want to feel better, to be able to tell them it was nothing. "The wind was knocked out of me, but I'm fine now," I'd like to say. I don't want to have to depend on them to walk, to eat, to get around. I don't want to have to ask for someone to help me to do something like tie my shoes. And there I come face to face with the ugliness of pride in my life. I don't want to have to be dependent on other people, I want to be strong on my own. I want to be able to stand on my own two feet and yet, if those people weren't there, I wouldn't be able to move at all.

Being a cripple recently has made me reexamine the injured in the Bible who desperately sought Jesus. It's funny how their pain was linked to their desperation and perhaps even fueled it. But pain can also lead us to anger, despair, or even pride. And if it does make us desperate, does it make us desperate for the right thing?
Consider the example of the paralyzed man who was lowered through the roof so Jesus could heal him (Mark 2:1-12). It was actually his friends who went out of their way to take him to Jesus. And seeing the friends' faith, Jesus forgave the man his sins. Or, the woman who believed that all she had to do was touch Jesus and she would be healed (Luke 8:41-48). She was so desperate to stop her bleeding that she fought her way through the crowd to touch his cloak just because she hoped he could heal her.
Don't you ever wonder why if Jesus had the power to heal everybody, he didn't just heal them? Do you think that perhaps it has to do with our desperation to be near him and our faith that he will heal? And sometimes our injuries and our healing are nothing to do with us. In both of the cases above, Jesus used healing to demonstrate his power to the people who were watching. It's not that he wants us to suffer, or that he withholds his power, but he uses it all for the greatest glory.

And no matter what kind of healing we need, it highlights the fact that we are not invincible, that we cannot survive only on our own. We were meant to live in community with others and in communion with God. So, thank you, Jesus, for reminding that my injury is not about me. Thank you, church friends, who were willing to be Jesus' hands and feet (especially feet) for me at the retreat weekend.

Getting off the island one stroke at a time.

I'm sitting in a room surrounded by people, but it feels as though I have been marooned on a desert island. It's not like I haven't felt alone before in a crowd of people. I'm an introvert after all, and it takes effort for me to be sociable with lots of people. Usually, when I feel disconnected it's because I don't know many of the people or they are super different from me and I'm struggling to come up with how to make connections quick so I become connected to the group. But, this time, my isolation is due completely to language, or rather lack of understanding. The loneliness hits me like a particularly large wave as I realize just how much of our human connecting is done via words.

This is not my first time speaking French, but it is late and I am tired and we have moved on to a whole realm of vocabulary I don't have the words for. Conversations hum around me and I just don't know how to break into the flow. I struggle to martial up French phrases and make them stand at attention, ready to fall into line. My English keeps getting in the way, mowing down the French constructions as quickly as I summon them. Je pense que…I have no idea.

My helplessness and frustration are quickly getting on the highway for self-pity city, so I mentally grab my shoulders and give them a shake. I politely explain to the person sitting nearest me in my English-ravaged French that I can't understand what they're discussing because they're talking too fast, and make a quick exit. I refuse to feel like a failure for this. Sometimes, it is just too hard or too late in the evening to continue to think.

When I think about this experience and my emotions in it, I begin to better understand others when they are trying to learn English or exist in an English-speaking environment. It is exhausting and it is lonely to not be able to communicate more clearly than a child. I have thoughts and opinions but I can't express them. Everyone's laughing at something, but I have no idea why. I'm asked a question to which the answer isn't really yes or no, but I somehow make one of those responses work because it would be too complicated to explain more. The hardest part is inserting yourself into the conversation. If someone asks you something directly, it is so much easier, and if someone offers to explain something, it is even better!

Now, to the flip-side. I AM making progress in French. Not every day is like the situation above. When  people ask me if I speak French I have stopped responding by saying, "un petit peu" (a little bit) but instead saying, "Oui, je parle français." Because I do! Not as well as perhaps I would like, but I do speak French. The other evening, I had a whole conversation with a French-speaker in an English-speaking context just because I was imagining myself in her situation. Her English was great, don't get me wrong, but sometimes it's nice for someone to make the effort to talk to you in your own language. It's perhaps harder to speak French with a native than with someone who is also learning French. I become very conscious of my mistakes in any case but we were able to connect on a much deeper level because I made an effort in her language instead of expecting her to make an effort in mine. I know it's not always possible to do that, but when you make an effort it can have a big reward.

The isolation that can come from not speaking the language is a very real, very present ocean. But I can't let my fear of the water keep me on the island forever, so I wade in and start to swim and if I sometimes get caught up in a big wave, it's ok to come up for air and strike out once more.

Global Impact - Berlin

This blogpost is long overdue, but it's been a crazy week since I arrived back from Berlin on Monday. I went there with my team leaders for the Global Impact conference which is all about international student ministry (ISM) in Europe. There were about 80 people from 40 different countries all over the world with a whole range of ages and experiences. Some of the participants are currently international students studying in Europe, others were there because they are involved with their country's national movement, and still others who have long been involved in ISM and were there to train and encourage those with less experience. The conference center we stayed at was about an hour outside of Berlin, but we had some time before the conference and afterwards to visit the city. I finally saw the Berlin Wall! Unfortunately, I had a cold before and during the weekend so I was in a bit of a congested fog for a lot of the time. Some of the people I will see again at future conferences, and others are now my newest Facebook friends, but it was wonderful to meet so many really awesome people. One of my favorite parts was when we had a multicultural night. People had been warned ahead of time so they brought food from their countries to share with everyone. YUM! We also were treated to several different performances of songs, dances, stories, and skits.

Here we all are!

Strasbourg

This past week, my team joined other teams working in Francophone countries for a mini retreat. Twelve of us met up in Strasbourg, France where another American couple works. We were able to stay with them in the church where they have an apartment. It was great to have free accommodation and lots of space to hang out in. We enjoyed fellowshipping together and sharing with each other. 

Strasbourg is an amazing city and a mix of French and German influences because it is right on the border between these two countries and changed hands many times throughout history. I also got to meet up with an old friend of my mother's who is currently living there. She showed me around the city and it was beautiful even in the rain! On Thursday, we left Strasbourg and it was sunny so we arrived early enough to wander into the city before our train left for Switzerland.

Our group of Francophone workers, Teams Lausanne, Strasbourg, Paris, & Brussels

Making dinner

Samuel in Molsheim, where we stayed.

With Lynette, my personal tour guide, in Strasbourg

La Petite France, Strasbourg

Strasbourg Cathedral

inside Strasbourg Cathedral

inside Strasbourg Cathedral

Astrological clock

Strasbourg from the river boat ride

The European Parliament and Council

Strasbourg in the sunshine

Andrew and Claire enjoying the sun in Strasbourg.

More than Hot Milk

One minute and forty-five seconds. I have determined that this is the ideal amount of time that my cup of milk has to stay in the microwave in order to become a delicious mug of hot chocolate. But it's not one minute and forty-five seconds all at once. First I zap the milk for one minute and thirty seconds. Then, I take it out and add three teaspoons of Cadbury's drinking chocolate to the now hot milk and stir vigorously. I replace the mug in the microwave for an additional 15 seconds, remove, stir, and sip happy warmness in a mug. Mmmm...

Sorry, short break while I go make a cup of hot chocolate....

Precisely one minute and forty-five seconds later...I'm back! :) Imagine one day my milk starts talking to me. It complains that it is too cold in the refrigerator and that it would like to try being warm. So, I stick it in the microwave and before the first minute is up, it is complaining it is getting a little too warm. Then, I have the indecency to dump in chocolate powder and it complains that it doesn't like brown and why didn't I try to turn it blue or pink or orange? It also detests being stirred and complains bitterly about being heated for even more seconds. When, at last, it has been turned into a delicious mug of hot chocolate it cries and says heatedly that it wishes I had spilled it on the way from the refrigerator rather than having gone through all the hassle and unpleasantness.

It is a little bit ridiculous to think of milk talking, even more so that it wouldn't want to become something as delicious as hot chocolate! But even as I sit here contemplating this whole ridiculous situation I find that I myself am often rather like this "sour" milk. I tell God I'm too cold, then too hot, I say I don't like brown, I'd prefer green, I complain about being stirred, and I whine about the rising temperatures. I don't even notice that he's working to improve me, that he's turning me into something even better than cold milk. He's making me warm and chocolatey and all I can say is I wish I was a puddle on the floor. It's a little like the verse in Isaiah:
You turn things upside down, as if the potter were thought to be like the clay! Shall what is formed say to the one who formed it, "You did not make me"? Can the pot say to the potter, "You know nothing"?

Or, perhaps sometimes I am aware of the uncomfortable circumstances are caused by God and I tell him that I'm hot enough, that I can't take any more microwaving, I'm fine with being just hot milk. That's when he takes me out and I think I'm done, he says "not yet" and calmly sticks me back in. Because, God does not want us to be comfortable. He wants us to be mature and complete, not lacking in anything. In fact, if God were to take us out before we had learned from our trial or hard situation, he would be doing us a disservice. We would be a lukewarm chocolate that no one wants to drink.

The fact of the matter is, I need to be heated up, stirred up, and changed by God into something delicious into a pleasing aroma of Christ amongst those who are being saved and those who are perishing. And all the while, he holds the mug in his capable hands. He knows exactly how long I need to be in each and every situation of each and every day. And I have the audacity to complain. I am silly foolish milk, but by the grace of God, I don't have to stay that way.