Church-hopping (and landing).

Daniel and I were despairing of finding a local church after our first two Sundays here. The first church we attended was a shocking departure from the one we had left in San Diego. Instead of an (uneasy but glorious) mix of college students and homeless people, we found a tiny cluster of white, silent figures frozen before the discordant warbling of the worship leader. Instead of the cerebral and loving sermons we had begun to take for granted, we found a well-meaning but clueless pastor convinced that the Ann Arbor Arts Festival was a bastion of evil that needed to be purged from the city. I jotted this in my sermon notes: “Facebook updates I wish I could post: ‘Everything about church-hopping disgusts me. But can I really attend a church where the pastor thinks Te Deum Laudamus is an author?’” (Straight from the pastor’s mouth: “I was reading in the hymnbook and this quote by someone named Te Deum Laudamus really struck me.” )

On the way home, we made a short list of church deal-breakers. We knew we weren’t going to find a place that espoused our exact beliefs (nor do we have every theological issue sussed out), but we did know that there were some things we didn’t want to budge on very much. The list:

• iconoclasm [The pastor’s denigration of the arts festival, as well as the starkness of the sanctuary, indicated a distinct fear of images that we consider at odds with the whole of Christian history.]
• bull-headed creationism (I’d settle for a well-round skepticism, though full-fledged acknowledgement of evolution is preferable) [You don’t have to go far to find an evangelical preaching brimstone upon the heads of those who acknowledge evolutionary theory as broadly acceptable (and we didn’t). But I am firmly convicted that evolutionary theory, a rudimentary form of which dates back to Augustine, provides the most robust theological account of God’s creative power, as well as a fruitful beginning point for understanding the problem of evil and the ultimate redemption of creation.]
• fear of mainstream culture [The pastor repeated multiple times that watching cable television is not something a good Christian does. Please.]
• revival [I am not opposed to the idea of revival as such. I cannot, however, believe that Ann Arbor today is more depraved than it ever was—that just because it houses a university, it is somehow a moral cesspool, and if we could just throw up some tents and find a latter-day Jonathan Edwards, God would be more pleased with us. Revival, in its common usage, often implies returning to the good old days, and I don’t believe in good old days.]
• overt pro-capitalism [Consumer church culture cripples American Christianity, and pro-capitalist as well as strongly politicized comments from the pulpit are unconscionable in light of this.]
• strong nationalism [American Christians who consider themselves just as American as they are Christian don’t understand what Jesus was talking about.]

The second church we attended was quite similar to the first. (In fact, the pastor straight-up told us, “We’re probably not what you’re looking for . . . but we’d love to have you!”) By the morning of the third Sunday, we were seriously doubting our entire enterprise. Daniel suggested we check out the BioLogos website (an organization co-founded by some PLNU profs) and search “Ann Arbor,” on the off chance that something would come up. And, funnily enough, a pastor from Ann Arbor had written a series of posts that was featured on the site. We liked what he had to say, and so we hurriedly got dressed so we could make it to the 11 am service.

Sure enough, the sermon didn’t go near one of our deal-breakers. We walked out of the service comfortable with the picture of Jesus the pastor had presented for the first time since we had moved. It had been prayerful, welcoming, and alive. As we headed toward the door, the pastor struck up a conversation with us and ended up inviting us to dinner that weekend.

So we’ve found a church that is almost literally everything we asked for. It’s not a carbon copy of our beloved San Diego community, but nothing ever could be. We’ll probably find some points of disagreement along the way, but the important ones are taken care of. The church even serves communion every Sunday, something we never thought we’d see in a non-liturgical setting again. And how can you not adore an evangelical church whose statements of faith are the Nicene and Apostles’ Creeds?

The most dubious of accomplishments.

Today marks my 50th job application (full cover letter and tweaked resume for every single one). Just thought I’d note the momentous occasion. At least underemployment means my apartment smells like pumpkin bread.

Action-packed weekend.

Friday night, Daniel and I got dressed up and ready to go see John Malkovich perform in “The Infernal Comedy” downtown, and then we realized we had tickets for Saturday night, so we went to Walmart and bought winter shoes.

Saturday night, Daniel and I got dressed up and ready to go for realsies, and we had an excellent time. Malkovich was completely engrossing as an Austrian serial killer on a book tour to promote the “real story” behind his crimes, and the play’s gimmick, placing a 40-piece orchestra and two opera singers behind him, actually worked. And it was fun to go out and people-watch Ann Arbor’s finest senior citizens.

Sunday afternoon, we went canoeing with a group from the law school.

It was cold but sunny, and we didn’t get even a little bit wet.

It was more floating than anything. The Huron River runs right through town, and we just meandered along it.

The leaves are a’changing.

We were amazed to find how middle-of-nowhere we could feel while being in the heart of Ann Arbor.

I just knew there would be turtles, and they didn’t disappoint me. Took me back to the Cleveland Metropark ponds of my childhood.

That evening, I looked out the window and spotted a little rainbow. It hadn’t even rained.

“Are you sure you don't want to go to grad school?”

From a recent More Intelligent Life column:

“Your mental focus narrows, and you discover that you have spent your 20s as an overgrown schoolboy, or girl, rather than establishing yourself in a career. . . . There are far better things to do with your 20s than acquiring yet more letters after your name.”

Yes.

After-dinner conversation.

“What do you want for dessert—ice cream or boba?”
“How about both?”
“We can’t have both.”
“Yes we can.”
“No we can’t.”
“Yes, we can.”
“Oh, wow—you’re right.”

Welcome to adulthood.

Mostly employed.

I was all geared up last week to write a post on rejection after I didn’t get a job I really wanted, but then I received a deluge of freelance work and didn’t have too much time to feel sorry for myself. The job I wanted was a salaried position copyediting a financial newspaper based in New York from home, and the job I have now is freelance curricula editing/thesis editing/ghostwriting. While I would prefer the steady income and résumé cachet of the former, there’s something to be said about the variety and flexibility of the latter. Today, for instance, I dropped Daniel off at school in the morning, headed over to the farmer’s market, came home and edited a unit from an intro to art course, touched up a project management lesson, revised the first portion of a course on paralegals and family law, and spent the afternoon researching neuroscientific approaches to investing. It works for now. I’ll keep looking for more gigs, but for the time being I’m happy to wake up in the morning and have a list of tasks waiting to be completed.

Daniel and I have been cooking a lot, and by a lot I mean every night, because we haven’t quite gotten the whole let’s-go-out-for-dinner thing down yet (even though we budgeted for it and told each other we were going to go out once a week...). The novelty of having my own little kitchen hasn’t worn off yet. Nor has the gratuitous feeling that no one is going to take my food or leave the dishes in the sink (dorm life is not for the uptight and persnickety). While I currently want, with every fiber of my being, to be one of those self-satisfied domestic bloggers who posts SLR shots of every meal she makes (you know what I mean), I don’t have an SLR (I told myself if I got that fancy job I would treat myself to a cute little Rebel, but alas, it was not to be. I have no other way of justifying half a month’s rent on an electronic toy...) and I don’t quite have the chutzpah to believe anyone actually wants to see boring pictures of my food (believing anyone wants to read my words, though? I’ve got buckets of chutzpah for that).

I will, however, give brief descriptions of some of our best meals so far, because I want to remember them and because I’m quite proud of what we’ve come up with (posting menus is nothing new for me; cf. The Dinner Club). Tonight, we paired the soba noodles we picked up at the Asian market yesterday with a spicy peanut sauce, and had these huge steamed green beans fresh from the farmer’s market on the side. For dessert, we had homemade cinnamon-apple boba tea. Talk about a pièce de résistance—boba is surprisingly easy to replicate at home. Other triumphs:

• Red bell peppers, roasted on the stove burners and filled with tuna 
• Butternut squash soup with garlic cheese bread
• Fried tofu with spicy peanut cabbage stir-fry
• Garlic edamame with tofu and rice
• Macaroni with homemade cheese sauce (roux ftw)
• Italian sausage on sourdough with cabbage salad

Et cetera. Thinking of dinner is a pain, but whipping it up and having everything I need at my fingertips is a serious joy. I can’t wait for fall foods. I just picked up a bag of Jonathan apples this morning. The fall weather, however? Not so much. I noticed this morning, looking out our window, that some of the leaves on the trees in the courtyard have started changing color. Um, it’s still technically summer. Go easy on us, Michigan.

Retroblog: What it took to get to Ann Arbor.

We left my sisters’ house in Carlsbad early on a Thursday morning and made it to a giant thermometer before lunchtime. Because we had loaded the car with every earthly possession we could (including hundreds of pounds of vacuum-packed clothing), we tried not to run the air conditioning too much. It was hot.

Soon the Nevada border arose out of the glimmering heat.

And then Las Vegas did, too.

Most of the drive was not very exciting, and Daniel hogged the first seven hours of driving, so I was left to entertain myself. Woooooo.

Arizona showed up unexpectedly, and we skirted the edge of the state.

We crossed through imposing canyons.

And all of a sudden, we were in Utah.

St. George, Utah: red hills, white temple. At this point, we had to stop, so we traipsed through the Target and giddily grabbed licorice, fruit leather, iced tea, and other strange things that sound appealing when you’ve been driving for longer than you normally sleep.

The only picture of me from the entire drive. It’s best that way.

In Utah, you can see really, really, really far into the distance.

As the sun set, we reached colorful Colorado. Tragic.

It got later and later, and we still weren’t at our destination (the home of Daniel’s gracious friends, the Blessings). At one point, we careened through the Rocky Mountains via this tunnel. At long last, we pulled into Denver at 12:30 am, 20 hours after we had left California, and four hours after we’d expected to be there.

We had a pleasant morning, and then shoved off. This is what Denver looked like.

This is what Nebraska looked like.

This is a Nebraskan sunrise. We stayed the night in Omaha and left early the next morning, now Saturday, and arrived in Michigan that evening.

This is how we sometimes stretched our legs. Daniel can totally drive with his left foot.

Right?

This is the Mississippi River.

It brought us into Illinois.

We got more and more excited as the radio station sources changed. Before we knew it, we were crossing into Michigan.

This was an exit we passed. Hah.

We got our key and parking pass, went to open up our apartment, couldn’t get the key to work, got a new key, and exhaustedly emptied the car. We built a blanket nest and huddled to sleep. This is our living room, with everything we fit into the car sprawled across it.

The next day, we walked through the U of M law quad and checked out Daniel’s new view. The town was shockingly beautiful (especially after hours of mid-American highways), and we were quite glad to be there.

Top five reasons why Ann Arbor is not in the middle of nowhere. (Alternate title: It’s not a cultural pit! They have Asian food!)

5. There are two Targets, a Walmart, a Trader Joe’s, a Whole Foods, and an Ikea within twenty minutes. Everything our pedestrian married selves could desire. Not to mention the way-too-cool-for-us Urban Outfitters, American Apparel, et cetera downtown A2 center.

4. Borders was founded here! Oh wait...well, I got a dayplanner for 75% off.

3. Detroit, while potentially as scary as everyone around here seems to think (I’ve yet to venture out there), is definitely a major metropolitan city, and only 35-40 minutes away.

2. It’s beautiful and woodsy, and the Huron River runs straight through town, but it still manages to be walkable and urban. The central campus, where the law school is located, is neo-Gothic wonderfulness with all the deciduous trees you know are going to be spectacular in the fall.

1. There is boba. Proof:

Yesterday we stumbled upon not one, but two bubble tea proprietors. I also timidly dashed into an Asian foods store the other day, haphazardly grabbing Want-Want and Bin-Bin crackers as I tried to track down some mochi. I’m never more aware of my whiteness than when I’m in an Asian market, but my deep and abiding love for certain products overrides my self-conscious sense of trespassing. Sorry for being clueless and white, cute Asian checkout guy!

Been there, read that.

Is it weird that right now I feel like I never want to read another book again? I mean, besides the book that Daniel gave me for Christmas that I’m still only halfway through, and the book a friend gave me for graduation that was a nice way to turn my brain off during wedding week, I haven’t read a single thing that wasn’t compulsory in more than a year. And I happen to be at a place in my life where I have a bit of free time, so I asked myself this morning, might I like to read a little? And I responded with a virulent “No!”

It’s funny, because I know a lot of people my age are marveling at the fact that, as newly minted grads, we’re not going back to school this week (cf. the plethora of Facebook “We’re not going back to school? Weirrrrrd” posts), for their primary identity has always been student. I’ve held my status as a student at a wary distance at times, but I have always been a reader. Always. Ask my mom what I was doing when I was three. She’ll be glad to tell you the story.

Not that I haven’t been reading, technically. I earn a living (can we live on it? Stay tuned) by reading, and redacting, and rereading. As a senior literature major, I read every word that was assigned to me (I’m almost embarrassed to admit I’m not lying about that). I read every newspaper article that ran in our paper (twice). I read my Facebook feed, and my RSS feed, and the latest Slate articles, and far too many Yahoo front page features. But sitting down, of my own volition, and just devouring a novel? I didn’t. I haven’t. And I still don’t want to.

I think I know what happened. Well, I have a few theories, anyway. I was (am) reading an awful lot, so why would I want to read more? It’s much more likely that in my free time I would want to stare at something further than twelve inches away from my face for a while. And a (tragically) large portion of the reading I did in the last year was conducted in light of a literature class (and of that reading, I had already read a large portion of it in high school. I thought reading as many of the classics as I could in high school would give me an edge, and it did, but it also set me up for some seriously tedious introductory lectures). And maybe that was it—maybe it was seeing the beautiful, the transcendent moments in the text overlooked, trampled, or garbled in the mouths of my classmates that turned my flame down lower and lower, until the pilot light just went out.

But that’s a terrible and pretentious thing to say, and it surely cannot be the whole truth. So I’ll hold forth with my final theory: that real life became much more interesting and exciting than anything I could find in a book, and that I wanted to try my own hand at the archetypal human experiences sans other narratives. Maybe I’m just Gwendolen in “The Importance of Being Earnest” carrying her diary around so that she always has “something sensational to read in the train” (I’m telling you, let those pesky narratives into your life and you’ll never escape them), but it’s a really good story. And I can’t put it down.

[M]editations.

It’s happening, slowly but surely. My brain is catching up with my body. Assuming my brain is synecdochically standing for my general consciousness instead of some otherized Cartesian homunculus, for anyone who cares (here’s looking at you, Daniel).

There’s been a lot to do this past year, and I’ve mostly been doing instead of thinking about. My familiar meta-level mental running commentary dropped off somewhere, and that urge to self-reflectively categorize my thoughts in my self-satisfied corner of the interwebs in a tentative attempt to be understood dissolved into actual, real-life being understood (here’s looking at you, Daniel).

But the engagement-senior year-graduation-wedding-European backpacking honeymoon hyperlife we managed to pack into October to July is turning into move to Michigan and pretend to find a real job, a place and a life in which my brain and my body are falling into their familiar meta-meta-meta working relationship.

And there’s something about writing and revising text for other people all day that makes you want to write and revise a little text for yourself. And there’s something about pressing a button called “Publish.”