Why learning a new language is hard for me

I've had a long, sordid relationship with the Spanish language.  It started in 8th grade when I opened my fall schedule and discovered, with great horror, that my first period class was P.E.  What kind of school does that to a 13 year old girl?

Fortunately, there was a Beginner's Spanish class also offered during first period, so I traded being sweaty and gross for the rest of the day for la lengua mas bonita - Espanol.

Thanks to this early morning 8th grade Spanish class, I can still recite the pledge of allegiance in Spanish faster than I can recite it in English:

Prometo fidelidad a la bandera de Los Estados Unidos de America
Y la republica que representa
Una nacion, bajo Dios, indivisible
Con libertad y justicia para todos.

So far, this has not proven to be a useful skill, but I haven't stopped hoping.

One year of middle school Spanish turned into three more years of high school Spanish, which turned into two years of college Spanish. By the time I finished my last college Spanish class, I was having dreams in which God would speak to me in Spanish.  I wish I could remember what He told me because maybe things would make more sense in my life than they currently do if I had followed His Spanish instructions more carefully all of those years ago.

As is generally the case for most gringas who learn Spanish in school, I had little or no use for it in my real life, and no opportunity to practice it.  I subsequently never mastered the art of speaking Spanish, but every once in awhile, my ears would perk up when I was out and about and ran into Spanish speakers, mostly late at night in Walmart.  Sometimes I would even go to the Santa Fe Walmart late at night just to listen to the Spanish families out shopping. Recently, I've discovered the Fort Collins Walmart is also a jackpot late at night for Spanish speakers.

So over a decade goes by since my last formal Spanish class.  Flash forward to spring 2010 when I take a group of friends to Mexico, only to get pulled over by a Spanish speaking police officer for driving the wrong way down a one way street.  I was grateful that I miraculously remembered the phone number of a Spanish speaking Mexican friend who lived in the same town and was able to get him on the phone with the cop (actually with all four cops who appeared out of nowhere and surrounded my car when I pulled over) and with some veiled threats and bribery promises, my friend cleared up the situation for me.  But I realized in that moment I was a bit rusty as far as Spanish went and put it on my list of things to work on.

In the meantime, I switched jobs and all of a sudden found myself periodically being more or less a tour guide in Spanish speaking countries.  Right before my first trip to Peru last June, I devoured Rosetta Stone as if I were on death row eating my last meal.  It paid off to some extent - my friend Jeff went to Peru with me (and he had also been on the ill-fated Mexico trip the year before) and said to me within 45 minutes of being in Lima, "Your Spanish is way better this year than it was in Mexico."  Yes!  Gracias, Jefe.

But for me, better is never good enough.  So I started taking Spanish classes and all sorts of other Spanish related things (you can read more about that here).

In the month that I've been immersing myself in Spanish as much as is possible for someone who works 40 hours a week and also wants to have some semblance of a life that's not just about Spanish, I've been encouraged to see how much my comprehension and reading ability has come back, but I'm still really struggling with speaking Spanish and writing it.

For instance, on Thursday, my Spanish teacher taught me about past participles.  Being an English major, you'd think I would know what a past participle is, but I didn't until I learned about them in Spanish on Thursday.  He wanted me to write some simple sentences using past participles, for instance:

Maria ha puesto la mesa.

Maria had already set the table.

I didn't think he was actually serious about making me write sentences like this but after a couple of minutes of me just sitting there watching him do other stuff, he said, "Are you deep in thought?  Why aren't you writing your sentences?"

And I realized that it was because writing a simple sentence about a recently completed action was way too hard, not because I lack the vocabulary or comprehension to make it happen but because I want to know so much more about Maria than that she's already set the table.

I want to know why she set the table in the first place and who she set it for.  I want to know what kind of dishes she used, if they were her grandma's old china or something cheap she bought just to have.  What kind of food is she making?  And why does her name have to be Maria, my least favorite female Spanish name in the world, for personal reasons mostly having to do with runaway train.

My English speaking brain can't handle keeping things simple, so naturally any attempts I make at speaking or writing in Spanish are beyond my realm of capability because I want to jump to a skill level I don't yet have because that's where I automatically go in my native language.

Not surprisingly, my most meaningful and in depth conversations with native Spanish speakers have generally been with 7 year old girls and they go something like this:

Me: Hola.  Me llamo Robin (Hello my name is Robin.)
Girl: Hola.  Me llamo Anna (hello my name is Anna)
Me: Tengo dos gatos (I have two gatos.)
Girl: Tengo un perro (I have a dog).
Me: Que bueno! (that's great!)

Anna and I are totally on the same page when we talk in Spanish, mostly because I have no problems dumbing myself down when talking to a child.  But I would never walk up to my grown man friend Ricardo and say, "Hola, Ricardo.  Tengo dos gatos."  Maybe Ricardo would be really glad to know that I have two cats, but most likely he would wonder why I felt compelled to share that information with him in the first place.

So learning Spanish again for me right now is a lesson in slowing down, not trying to make something simple into something complicated, and to build on each step as I master it.  There's a lot of wisdom in this for me overall when it comes to life.  I tend to make things way harder and more complicated than they need to be and right now Spanish is forcing me to keep things simple.  And tell whoever will listen about my awesome cats.

Closed door # 3

Closed door # 3 of 2012 happened yesterday.  I had suspicions that it was about to close but it was still surprisingly hard when it did.  He changed his facebook status from single to being in a relationship with some other girl, so I did what any reasonable, mature 33 year old single woman would do - I unfriended him.

The short side of the story is that it was a case of hit and miss that went on for a long time. We were introduced by a mutual friend a couple of years ago but the timing was never quite right.

We most recently connected just six weeks ago, right before I went to Cuba.  I was thrilled to finally actually spend some time with the guy and enjoyed talking to him and wanted to spend more time with him and thought maybe this time the timing would be right.  But then I went to Cuba and then I came home for three weeks and then I went to Canada and then I came home and BAM!  Surprise! Slammed door # 3. He's got a girlfriend and it's not me.

Last night I spent some time thinking things like, "I should have made a point to actually have gotten to know him better years ago" and "If I hadn't gone to Cuba then maybe things would have been different" or "If only I had stayed longer at that party."

And then following that came the typical barrage of "you're worthless, you're unwanted, you're unlovable, you're going to be alone for the rest of your life, no one is ever going to want you, just accept it now," crap that nobody wants to admit actually goes through their minds but the truth is, it goes through everyone's mind at some point.

So where am I going with all of this?  That's a really great question.  Today has been a hard day.  My contacts have been cloudy all day from last night's crying. I drowned some of my sorrow in creamy habanero sauce from Cafe Mexicali, which definitely improved things. And I'm trying really hard to not let my heart feel too sick even though hope deferred makes the heart sick.

It's not even necessarily about this particular guy.  It's more that it's just another closed door and I'm so tired of closed doors.  I don't even want any doors anymore at all, but it's like God keeps allowing them to crack open just a bit only to then slam them in my face. 

Deep down in my soul, I know that's not true.  God doesn't operate that way.  He doesn't dangle a carrot in front of us only to rip it away.  Jesus says that God is a good father who gives good gifts to his children.  A good father doesn't taunt his children.  A good father will keep bad things away from his child, and I know ultimately that is the reason behind every door He's closed this year.  For whatever reason, some more obvious than others, none of these men have been what God considers good for my life.  Any of them together with me is not going to accomplish the best plan that God is working out.  I know that.  But the sting...it still doesn't stop the sting when it happens.

I started reading a book Saturday evening (God has good timing) written by a woman who's further along in her 30s than I am and who is still single. The chapter I read last night after all of this went down was about how Satan would want us to believe that we're unwanted and unlovable when we're faced with rejection but that it's simply not true.  And I do know that, really I do.  It was the perfect chapter for me to read at that moment, and God knew that when He had me start reading the book the night before. He holds my times in His hands. 

But it's like the pain right you feel right after someone you love dies.  Even though you know you'll see them again, it doesn't stop your earthly heart from feeling pain.  It takes time for the heart to align with the truth that the mind knows.  That's why I'm glad God made us to have both minds and hearts.  We need both of them to get us through this messy life.  I'm grateful that my rational mind can hold me together when my heart is completely irrational, and that sometimes my irrational heart encourages my rational mind to take risks and allow myself to feel.

It is hard to be 33 and single.  It's hard to watch people much younger than me get married and have kids.  It's hard to be completely content one day and be so lonely I could die the next day.  It's hard to face the reality that most likely I'm not going to get to have children. It's hard to hear all of the well meaning things that (married) people throw my way whenever I start talking about being single.  As if someone who got married when they were 23 knows anything about being single.  I hate it when people use the verse about God giving you the desire of your heart if you delight yourself in Him.  As if somehow my life is a disappointment to God, which is why I'm still single.  Or why they finally were blessed with marriage - because they figured out the key to delighting themselves in God and were subsesquently blessed with the golden chalice of marriage and now they just want to encourage me to do the same thing.  I could hit those people and one of these days, I just might.  Or unfriend them on facebook. I'm good at that too.

The bottom line is - I trust God with my days. He has a reason for everything that He allows or doesn't allow into my life.  He knows the big picture - I just see today.  He has a timing and a season for everything.  And He knows what He's doing. 

I was blessed to be able to text my dear friend Paige this afternoon.  She's been out of town for the weekend and I didn't want to bother her last night because she was at a fancy schmancy award ceremony with her husband, so I texted her this afternoon.  She has such a way of encouraging me and and helping me feel better no matter what (and it usually makes me cry).  God has gifted her with encouragement and it's a gift I long to have in more abundance for others. 

This is what she said (after she told me that I'm sweet and wonderful and that she never liked him anyway and that he was the one actually missing out, not me):

I will choose to believe her words tonight and also keep moving forward with my life.  I'm not waiting for a man to begin my life.  I love my life!  I love the places I've gotten to go and the people I've met and the things I've seen that maybe wouldn't have happened if I was married and had kids.  God has crafted a beautiful life for me regardless of my marital status.  I'm just sad for tonight, for another closed door, but I know that God brings joy in the morning.  So I wait for Him.

And eat some chocolate cookies in the meantime.

Oh, the irony

Last night I was watching a movie about a runaway train and about halfway through it realized the irony. I won't go into the details, but the opportunity/temptation to jump back on the runaway train in my life presented itself not too long ago, so in some ways watching a movie about a literal runaway train was maybe God's gentle reminder to me to be wise and remember that runaway trains are dangerous and unpredictable and even though it may seem like the ride of your life, in the end it might kill you. Point taken, God and Netflix.

Also on the irony radar in the last couple of weeks is that I started going gangbusters on learning Spanish better. I'll get to the ironic part in a second. It started when I joined a Spanish Meetup Group right before I went to Cuba, mostly because I wanted to practice some Spanish before my trip but also partly because I was starting to feel like I should meet some new people. I really hate meeting new people, and it astounds me that I have any friends at all because at some point they all were new people to me and I probably hated meeting them. It's not that I hate people, it's just the act of meeting them that's tough for me. I'm terrible at small talk, I never know what to ask people, and it freaks me out when new people want to know anything about me. I'm the girl who doesn't go to parties at all or when she does, she stands in a corner with a cup of water and tries to not make eye contact and then leaves when she's been there for a reasonable amount of time, usually around 17 minutes.

But every few years I get this idea that I should meet new people. It's been about three years since the last time and with all of my friends up and moving to different states, it seemed like the time to make new friends. (I would like to mention that I still have Christina. She would point this out to me if I did not first acknowledge it here.)

So I went to the Meetup twice before Cuba and since coming home from Cuba have added Spanish movie nights, Spanish game nights, Spanish lessons, Spanish workshops and more to my calendar. I have six Spanish events happening this week and five next week.

My name is Robin and I'm a Spanish-a-holic.

Here's where the irony comes in. Back when Erika got engaged, there was an engagement party for her. This was back in January. At said engagement party, I was standing in a corner with a cup of water in my hand when this woman came up to me and started a conversation. Yes, a new person had the nerve to talk to me and somehow I managed to choke out a conversation back. She knew Erika through her husband - her husband and Robert are in the Air Force together. When she was growing up she used to travel a lot with her family. I started sharing some of my travel stories with her and how I really wanted to learn Spanish better, and she told me about this guy who teaches Spanish and that I should go take lessons from him.

So after the party, I checked out the guy's website and it looked like something that would be right up my alley. But then runaway train ran me over and one of the side effects of that was a complete aversion to all things Spanish, and the thought of purposely learning the language any more than I already knew it seemed like the quickest way to make myself vomit. I forgot the guy's name, forgot about lessons, and mostly forgot the conversation at that party ever really happened.

I had to work through some things, mostly forgiveness, so learning Spanish was put on the backburner until right before I went to Cuba, when it all of a sudden became a necessity again.

Ironically, since January, the guy changed the name of his company so when I started going to the Spanish Meetup he organized, it didn't click at all that he was the same person who had been recommended to me months earlier. In fact, I didn't make the connection until a couple of weeks ago when I overheard him say the name of the old company to someone else. All of a sudden, I realized I was right where I was supposed to be and where I should have been months ago before runaway train happened.

So I'm taking Spanish lessons because Erika's friend told me to from the guy she told me to take them from but I went about it in a very roundabout way. Sometimes life has a way of working itself out that way. You never know who or what is going to reappear in your life, so it's a good idea to be as kind as much as possible, forgive, and be open to new opportunities. That's probably a whole separate blog topic for another day.

I love that God has put me back on track even though I was derailed for awhile earlier this year. I love that He puts movies about runaway trains in my Netflix list right when I need the reminder. I love that He brings us back to where we should have been before bad things happened and somehow makes it look like the good, the bad, and the ugly were all part of His plan for our lives. I love that what seems like irony to us is just His way of doing things. I love that He is the same yesterday, today and forever.

Life's better when you have an old friend

My oldest friend in the world is John.  And by oldest, I don't mean literally he's the oldest, because he's only 34, but oldest in that our friendship is going on 27 years now.  He lives in Hawaii so I don't see him a lot but his brother, who I have also known for 27 years, lives in CO Springs and once or twice a year, John finds himself in the Springs and so I find myself there too.

It's great to have a friend who has known you at every stage of your life and yet still enjoys spending time with you.  John is like the best pair of jeans I've ever owned and he makes me laugh like nobody else, partly because we have decades of material to work from.  I hate that I only get 8 or 10 hours with him once or twice a year but I'll take what I can get.  He's always been there when I've needed a friend, whether I was 7 or 16 or 32.  He gives great advice and always directs me back to God.

Here's a look at me and John through the years. 

This is my 7th birthday party.  Note how John is stuffing his face with ice cream instead of watching me open my presents.  Not much has changed since then, except that I get fewer presents these days and John eats more ice cream.

In the early years, John and I would play 1 of 2 games.  Either we would play "Land of the Lost", which involved running around my backyard and screaming loudly while throwing sticks, or we would play "Spy", which involved sneaking into my neighbor's house and belly crawling around trying to not be seen.  This game was sadly put to an end when my neighbor told my mom what we were doing.  Apparently it's not polite to just sneak into other people's houses and hide from them.  Whatever.

This is me around age 9.  While I don't have a picture of John from this time period, suffice to say he was as awesome, if not more so, than I was.  This was the year we went to summer camp together, where apparently his cabin spent the whole week spraying bug spray in each other's eyes to see who was toughest.  I spent the week learning Bible verses and singing songs.

My family, and subsequently life, fell apart between ages 10-11 for me, and I didn't see John again until my freshman year in high school, but it was pure magic when we were reunited again.

Now that you've seen this photo, we have to kill you.

High school was officially the spy era.  Mostly, John would spy and then call me the next day to tell me about it because I was too scared I would get in trouble if I joined in any of his shenanagins.  We even gave each other spy names.  Mine was 003 and his was Secret Agent John.  We still call each other by these names today.

This was my version of an artistic head shot when I was 15.

We rafted the Jemez river in a pool raft, considered frosted animal crackers a worthy meal option, and played water poker in his front yard.  When I got grounded, John organized a sit-in with my friends in my driveway.  He also liked curling my hair, so we did that a lot too. 

But all good things must end.

John graduated a year before I did and left me alone at LAHS for my senior year. Jerk. But we both look really good in this picture.

John was a year older than me and went off to college.  Luckily, the internet was invented around this time, so we stayed in touch via this new-fangled thing called "email."  And there were adventures to be had at Christmas and summer breaks.

We may have lived in a town full of rocket scientists, but that didn't mean we knew how to work the photo booth at the mall.

I almost followed John to college but chickened out at the last minute.  I had a scholarship to Luther and everything.  It's complicated why I didn't go, but it's the biggest regret I have, not so much the not following John part but that I stayed close to home for those 4 years instead of going out into the world.  Sometimes I wonder what my life would look like today if I had chosen the other way.  But I believe in a God who works all things out for good, and me not going to Luther didn't throw the world off kilter.

John used to wear Old Spice deodorant.  Best smell in the world. As you can see, I'm about armpit height. He would shove my face into his armpit on a regular basis to make me smell how good he smelled. That's what friends are for.

Life happened.  His mom moved away so he stopped coming to New Mexico after awhile and eventually moved to Hawaii.  I moved to Colorado and figured I would never see him again.  But one day on a whim, I put my spy skills to use and found an email address for his sister, who was working at Luther at the time, and she put me back in touch with him.  Then we discovered facebook, and the rest is history.

My semi-annual day in the Springs with John and his nieces is a highlight now for me.  Sometimes we go to Chuck E. Cheese's, where we can be kids too, but yesterday we just played driveway volleyball and Monopoly Deal and bored everyone with stories of our youth.  After 27 years, he's still one of my favorite people to play with, and I'm counting down the days until Christmas break.

003 and Secret Agent John.  Undisclosed location.  This picture will self-destruct in 10 seconds.  So will your face.

Who's your oldest friend?

Sinners and Saints

I got to know a couple of very different people not all that long ago.  If you were to use the classic Christian definitions of the words, one was by all accounts a sinner and the other was a saint.

I'll be honest - I liked the sinner a lot more.

The sinner shared an unbelievable story with us late one night over drinks (it's so like sinners to be up late at night drinking).  He told his story with courage, humility, and all kinds of grace, both for himself and for others.  His willingness to share opened the door for me to then share some of the pain and hurt I have wrestled with over the last couple of years.  While we never openly said it, I think everyone around the table that night sensed Jesus sitting there with us.

The saint, on the other hand, never bothered to learn more about me beyond my first and last name but was very quick to point out the ways I fell short and how he could have done things much better than I was doing them.  I'm not completely ungrateful for my brief interaction with him, though, because he did teach me this important truth:

Self-righteousness sucks.

It doesn't attract people to God, it repels them.

It doesn't endear people to you, it alienates them.

It doesn't help heal what's hurting, it makes the wound worse.

I'll be honest again - until about two years ago, I was about as saintly as they come.  I cringe now to think about the judgment and the self-righteousness I wore like my favorite shirt and the damage I undoubtedly did to so many people.  I am so sorry.  Please forgive me if I ever treated you like you were scum and I was not.

But then my friend died, I lost my job, I wrecked my car, I got sick, and I lost my way.

There's something about brokenness and heartache and pain that transforms saints into sinners.

I want to live the rest of my life like a sinner (I hope all the saints out there read that and freak out.)

What I mean is I want to live the rest of my life aware of my own unending need for grace, kindness, and second chances.  I want to live a life that welcomes people to share their hurts and fears and wounds with me, and I with them, so that together we can seek healing in God's heart.

And somehow at the end of it all, God will make me His kind of saint because He is the friend of sinners.

If I speak with human eloquence and angelic ecstasy but don't love,

I'm nothing but the creaking of a rusty gate.

If I speak God's Word with power, revealing all His mysteries and making everything plain as day,

and if I have a faith that says to a mountain, "Jump," and it jumps,

but I don't love, I'm nothing.

If I give everything I own to the poor and even go to the stake to be burned as a martyr,

but I don't love, I've gotten nowhere. So, no matter what I say, what I believe, and what I do, I'm bankrupt without love.

Love never gives up.

Love cares more for others than for self.

Love doesn't want what it doesn't have.

Love doesn't strut,

doesn't have a swelled head,

doesn't force itself on others,

isn't always "me first,"

doesn't fly off the handle,

doesn't keep the score of the sins of others,

doesn't revel when others grovel,

takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,

puts up with anything,

trusts God always,

always looks for the best,

never looks back,

but keeps going to the end.

Love never dies,

--from The Message, a paraphrase of 1 Corinthians 13:1-8



Handpicked

I don't think I've mentioned yet that Erika is getting married tomorrow (June 2), which also happens to be my birthday.  I'm a bridesmaid, and she has promised to throw her bouquet at me in honor of both her marriage and my birthday.

I was talking with a friend yesterday about how awkward and horrible weddings can be for any number of reasons, not so much thinking of Erika's wedding, because that one will be wonderful.  But as an introvert, weddings often fill me with great fear.  Fear of who I'm going to be assigned to sit with at a table for three hours, fear of being forced to get up and dance in front of people if I don't willingly want to, fear of having to talk to people who otherwise annoy the snot out of me, and usually those people end up being the people I've been assigned to sit with for three hours.  All very Christ-like approaches to celebrating the primary way God has chosen to illustrate His love relationship with us.

Erika let me pick my tablemates for her wedding, kind of like a birthday present.  So if you end up sitting at my table tomorrow, know that you were handpicked to sit there.  And if you are not sitting at my table, please still be my friend.  I couldn't pick everyone, although I tried.  Not really, because that's not an introvert's way, but I said it to make you feel better and not hate me.

So this friend I was talking to yesterday, who is sitting at my table, and I were talking about good strategies for how to deal with people you don't want to talk to at weddings who seek you out to talk to you.

I suggested that if that happens to us tomorrow, I will jump up from the table in my bridesmaid dress, grab a concealed weapon that's on someone else sitting at the table (knowing the people at my table, it's 99.9% certain that there will be at least one concealed weapon at the table.  I told you I handpicked who is sitting there...), do a backflip through the air and then shoot them, Jack Bauer style, in the kneecaps as they approach.  Sort of like a scene from Kill Bill, which is what every bride dreams her wedding reception will turn into.

It would make for an awesome blog post on June 3, that's for sure.  But I would have to change the name of my blog to BecauseErikahasbannedmefromeverspeakingtoheragainandnowI'minjail.blogspot.com

That's too much of a hassle for me, so I'll just play it cool tomorrow.

But being a bridesmaid on my birthday has solved my other introvert dilemma, which is how to deal with the perpetual question I get asked this time of year, "What do you want to do for your birthday?"  I hate this question.  HATE it.  I don't know what I want to do two hours from now, let alone on my birthday.  And when I do decide to do things on any other day, I voluntarily pick things I can do alone or with one or two other trusted friends.  I don't normally devise ways to spend as much time as possible with as many people as possible where I am the center of attention, so why would I all of a sudden think that doing that on June 2 is a good idea?

Here's what I think birthdays should be about.  It should be about letting the person know why you are grateful that God chose to give them life and then thanking God for creating them and asking Him to continue to use their life in your life and in the world until the day He chooses to not give them breath anymore.

God is the giver of life and the one who carefully knits together each life in the womb.  Every person who is on this earth today has been handpicked to be here by God.

So if you want to "do" something with me tomorrow for my birthday/Erika's wedding, that is what you can do.

For you created my inmost being;

you knit me together in my mother's womb.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;

your works are wonderful, I know that full well.

My frame was not hidden from you

when I was made in the secret place,

when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.

Your eyes saw my unformed body;

all the days ordained for me

were written in your book before one of them came to be.

Psalm 139:13-16

By the way, I am taking submissions now for next year's June 2 wedding that I can be a bridesmaid in.  Don't worry - I won't shoot anyone in the knee caps at your wedding either.

Katie made a video

Katie Herzig made a video of my current favorite song of hers.  Check it out!