Northern California Day 3: Pure Bliss

Few landscapes bring me more joy than the sight of gently rolling hills cloaked in green grass and sprinkled with deciduous trees. Such was the scene I happened upon in Novato, California this evening while hunting for dinner. I drove downtown to see a beautiful green peak blocking half the sky, and drove neighborhood streets until I found a path opening to the mountain. With the sun sinking lower in the sky and a sweet spring breeze brushing past, I perched on a rock on a hill's crest, surrounded by nothing but green. I think I could get use to Novato.

Northern Californai Day 2: Tracking Numbers

The day got off to a panicky start. When I checked with the front desk to claim the 6 boxes I had shipped to the hotel with fair materials, the girl told me she's seen no such boxes. My UPS tracking code confirmed that the boxes had been received, but still, the girl said she could find nothing. Refusing to despair completely, I drove 5 minutes down the road to church where I tried to concentrated on worship while formulating a plan to not enter every college fair after today's empty handed. Harlan, the door greeter who must be in his seventies gave me a grand-fatherly hug on the way in and out of church which helped calm me a little. The boxes had to be somewhere.

I headed to the Stockton fair and made acquaintance with reps from Liberty and Gonzaga. Everything started slow, but then I began to see a steady stream of students, most with interests in pre-med and engineering. This was ideal being how George Fox has top-notch science programs. Half-way through a conversation, the announcer came over the loud-speaker letting us know the fair would be closing 45 minutes early. Apparently, they felt the attendance was so poor the fair didn't merit the full 3 hour duration. I laughed to myself thinking of how many transfer fairs they would have canceled. This fair was hopping compared to Oregon Transfer Days. Things must move faster in California.

After the fair, I went for a run. I'm not a fan of running in Manteca. Cat-calling and honking apparently are appropriate forms of expression towards female runners. Not so cool.

Dinner tonight was in Modesto with two counselors from Liberty and one from Penn State. Apparently, George Fox is a small school compared to Liberty's 20,000 and Penn State's 80,000. Still, I think we're pretty amazing. Our waiter was a funny guy, telling cheesy or inappropriate jokes, and I think very disappointed none of us ordered alcohol. I would love to write a character sketch on him someday, but I think it would be irreverent.

Finally, at 10pm, I decided to bug the front desk one more time. Ask and it shall be given. The boxes were in a back closet all this time. I'm thanking the Lord there will be no panicked phone call to the office tomorrow morning asking for overnight shipping. I almost hugged the girl at the front desk--literally.

Tomorrow brings a 7:30am check in at CSU Santislaus and then a two hour drive to the bay area. Manteca's been great, but I'm ready for some water! More to come...

Northern California Day 1: Flying Southwest

I arrived at the airport about an hour and a half before my flight, thinking that would be plenty of time to check my bags, get through security, and find my gate. Little did I know that Southwest had grounded several planes earlier in the day due to a tear in a jet's skin mid-flight from Phoneix to Sacramento. Apparently passangers could see the sky while at 30,000. Don't worry, I flew into Sacramento.

I made it to my flight on time, got my luggage and headed to the rental car counter where I was great by Ryan, my friendly Enterprise agent. He "discreetly" mentioned he's 30, gave me a free upgrade and left a message on my phone later in the evening letting me know he forgot to write down my lisence plate number. Apparently he was "distracted" and was hoping I could please call him back. Hey, I'm happy to take the Hyundai Elantra over the Chevy Aveo I was supposed to be driving.

Currently, I'm sitting in my hotel researching ways to get my ears to pop. Words to the wise: don't fly with a cold unless you want to be deaf in one ear. Hopefully tomorrow brings relief and some great interactions with students at the first college fair.

Running Lesson #3: Proper Nutrition

It's been awhile since I last wrote about my running exploits. It's been awhile since I've had any running exploits. However, just this weekend I signed up for my first-half marathon. Currently, I'm trying to decide if I'm ambitious or just plain stupid, but nevertheless, training has begun.

I'm not a morning runner. There is something about giving up precious opportunities to press the snooze button that doesn't appeal to me. But really, I don't run in the morning because I don't want to run on an empty stomach. I need some fuel and energy if I'm going to make it up the huge hill my house is perched on top of. My best runs are right after work. I've got enough energy left over from lunch, and get to run for my dinner.

I've been told by the family of tri-athletes I live with, on long runs, you need to consume 100 calories every hour. They jog with their sports gels which they eat as they run the course. Bottom line--the longer the run, the more calories you need. They also tell me I have to drink water every ten minutes regardless of whether or not it's a cool day.

I can't help but think my life's journey is no different. As I look to stretch my capacity not just as a runner but a runner of "the race set out before me," I realize the longer, the more tedious the course, the more of the word of God I need in my life. Sometimes, amidst the busyness, it seems this is the first thing to go. When days get particularly demanding, it's easy to just read a few verses for the sake of saying I've done my devotions for the morning. The truth is, if I want to see great fruit, if I want to reach my full capacity, as the race gets longer and more difficult, I need to dig deeper. I need to eat and drink more than I have before.

And as I move forward with the proper nutrition and the proper training, my eyes are fixed firmly on the finish line.

What I Love More than Anything Else...

“Joshua, you’re going,” his dad says.

“No, I’m not coming.”

Another classic Sunday morning battle ensues. Joshua doesn’t want to get on the bus to go to church. Well, he doesn’t, then he does, then he doesn’t, then he’s told he has to, and then he crosses his arms against his chest, stubbornly scuffs the ground with his foot, and sticks out his lower lip.

“No, I’m not coming.” His curly hair flops against his head with resolve even most defiant adolescents can’t muster.

“Get your shoes,” his dad says with a poker face that trumps Joshua’s. The seven-year old is set into motion but not without lack of heavy steps and dramatic rants on the tortures of kids church.

Ten minutes later, I’ve picked up all the other kids from the neighborhood; Joshua finally trudges after me, urged on by the watchful eye of his father from his front door. “Church is boring. I hate church,” he yells.

The angry child climbs aboard the yellow school bus and sits down next to his little brother. Turning to me he asks, “When do we get snack?”

“After church,” I inform him just as I do every week.

We pull up to the church, and he races off the bus into the gymnasium eyes watchful for the nearest basketball. Joshua laps around the court putting up shot after shot until the announcement to sit down comes over the microphone. He begrudgingly hands his basketball over to a leader and sits sulking in the back row far away from all the other kids except his little brother. Try as I might, he no longer falls for my VIP seating tactic and refuses to be escorted to his “specially reserved, important seat in the front row.”

During worship, he sits motionless, blank stare on his face. “Joshua, help me do the motions. They’re so fun.”

He shakes his head, “I don’t want to.”

The video lesson flashes across the screen, and behind his glazed eyes, I can’t tell if he’s listening to the characters or daydreaming once again about snack. He stays in his seat as all the children line up for small group until I escort him to his proper class.

“God, does he hear anything we say?” I wonder.

We board the bus, and he once again sits by his little brother, joking and laughing the whole way home. His sister passes out snack to all the kids as they exit the bus. Joshua is first in line.

As I walk him and his siblings to their front door, Joshua asks me a question. “Do you know what I love more than anything else in the whole world?”

“What do you love more than anything else in the whole world, Joshua?”

“Jesus!”

“Do you know what I hate more than anything else in the whole world?”

“What do you hate?”

“Hot dogs!”

Today, I knock on Joshua’s door to find him fully dressed, ready to go, with his Bible in hand. “Daniel, get your Bible,” he says to his younger brother. “You need it for church.”

He runs to the bus with no question about snack, sits in the second row with his sister during worship, sings and does all the hand motions with great gusto, and tells me on the bus, “if Jesus is sick in Heaven and I am in Heaven, I will serve Jesus.”

As I walk Joshua to his door, his friend from a few doors down comes running up to him. “Sorry for calling you a booger face yesterday,” Joshua says.

I turn to leave, and he calls after me, “Dot, I’m gonna miss you between now and next week.” And he skips toward his front door.

Cioppino

My grandmother lifts her spoon from the large soup pot to taste the simmering stew. Adding a pinch of salt, she stirs the muscles and clams with the crab legs and halibut morsels in their rich tomato bath. Christmas dinner will be served in moments, cioppino the main course. Grandmother has spent many years perfecting her recipe, and Christmas isn't Christmas without the Italian fisherman's stew.

Legend claims cioppino (chip een o) got it's name from hungry fishermen who all "chipped in" their catch of the day to make a collective stew. It's an awkward dish to eat with shells still cradling clams, muscles, and delicious pieces of crab meat. For the Tobey family, eating Grandmother's cioppino is almost a rite of passage. If you want to become a Tobey, you'll tuck a napkin under your collar, put your spoon in the potent stew, and crack the shells with the best of them.

For me, the simmering substance grandmother gently stirs symbolizes the tie to the eclectic races and cultures that make up my heritage. I, like cioppino, feel I'm made up of a little of this and a little of that without any main ingredient at all. Since the time I was a young girl riding the bus to and from school, people have starred ponderously at my brown skin and dark hair wondering how I could possibly be related by blood to my pale and fair-haired sister sitting next to me. They awkwardly guess at my nationality of origin, and though I'm descent of mostly Western Europe, I always explain my race by my skin.

"I'm Mexican and Italian," I say, although I'm Irish, Scottish, English, Canadian, and many other things as well. "My great grandmother was the daughter of a ranchero from New Mexico which was a part of Mexico at the time. She was fluent in English, Spanish, and Italian. Her husband, my great-grandfather, was an immigrant from Palermo, Sicily." In my mind, these characters are larger than life. I see my great-grandmother watching her father as he rides through the dry dessert, in my day-dreaming, his stead always black stallion rearing on it's hind legs. I envision my nineteen-year old great-grandfather approaching a desk on Ellis Island, shoving some papers across to a disgruntled clerk, and receiving the stamp that made my existence in the United States of America possible.

But, if I'm truly honest with myself, the scenes of their actual lives really weren't as romantic as I've made them out to be. My great-grandparents married, had three girls, and then my great-grandfather left them. As a single parent, my great-grandmother worked much of her life in a cannery and nobly provided for her children. Although, I'm a product of the better life she sought to provide, still, I stare at the stew in front of me, and long for some connection to Italy and to Mexico, to feel even through my white, middle-class, American upbringing, the threads of their culture woven into mine.

I am cioppino, many cultures, races, and stories chipping in to make my substance. As I pop open each shell, removing each crab leg, clam, and mussel, I gain a larger understanding of myself and the individual stories and decisions that have shaped my life. The substance may be messy and awkward at times, but it is the specialty of a Master Chef who lovingly stirs the pot over a low flame. And as each flavor works together, a masterpiece is created. Someday, I will serve this dish to my children at our Christmas celebrations. I tuck my napkin under my chin, and dig in.

Of Ships and Shoes and Singing Penguins

"3, 2, 1, blastoff!"

Captain Daniel punches the red button and our spaceship, made of a large purple blanket draped between the couch and two chair from the kitchen table, launches into the final frontier.

"Captain Daniel, there's a giant flying donut ahead! What do we do?"

The three-year-old space adventurer pauses for a second, carefully calculating his next mode of action. "Eat it!" he says, with a grin of sheer glee illuminating his face.

I hold 18 month Kaden on my lap who quickly proceeds to shoot the donut with his TV remote blaster, saving our spaceship from certain dismemberment by flying pastry.

Kaden ducks under the blanket behind the captain's chair to check on the singing penguins we've rescued from Planet Transformer along with a large stuffed puppy dog, a monster truck, and Bumblebee himself. Daniel pretends to cut down the Christmas tree feeding our group of refugees their quota in greens for the month.

And I am amazed at the faith Daniel places in large purple blankets and kitchen table chairs, and how confident he is that no matter what junk food we encounter in space, nothing will stop him from reaching Planet Transformer. And I want that faith for myself, a faith that meets each twist and turn in the story with eager enthusiasm, a faith that believes I've been equipped with everything I need to reach my destination. And maybe along my way, I can rescue a singing penguin or two.