Socialism, since we’re on the subject…

While I am a chronically anxious person, I am usually amazed at my ability to keep calm and composed in an emergency situation.  Take, for example, when I got into my first (and only!) car accident and had two precious students from my youth group in the back seat.  Somehow, I held it together long enough to ensure their safety, get all the details I needed to obtain from the other driver, and, essentially, not totally freak out, as I always imagined that I would…  Or take, as another example, the time a shady-looking man in Barcelona tried to make me his next pickpocketing victim, and I miraculously managed to hold it together long enough to outwit and out-maneuver him.

So maybe I’ll be able to look back upon last night some time in the future and marvel at how well I was able to hold it together.  And just what happened last night, you ask?  Well…

Peter and I went to bed at our ordinary we’re-getting-old time, said our prayers, and drifted into a deep and peaceful slumber.  Then suddenly, promptly at 2:00 in the morning, Peter bolts to an upright position and proceeds to make the most horrific scream-wheeze sound I have ever heard in my entire life.  And it just keeps going and going and going…  And I’m wide awake, pounding his back with one hand, and shaking his shoulder with the other.  And I don’t know how long it went on (probably just a minute or two), but that hardly mattered.  Imagine, if you will, the sound of a horse giving birth.  To an elephant.  While stepping on an asthmatic cat in heat.  This might approximate the sound that was coming from my dearly beloved, and, let me tell you, if it was 20 seconds or 20 minutes, it doesn’t matter.  The sound is now emblazoned on my hippocampus.

After the maddening sound ceased, Peter and I were totally panicked.  He explained to me, with great alarm in his youthful eyes, that he suddenly could not breathe.  At all.  So he sat up and wheezed and wheezed until his breath returned.  Here we are, in a tiny flat in Edinburgh, Scotland… a whole Atlantic Ocean away from basically anyone we could call on for help.  And we didn’t know if this crazy breathing thing was a one-time deal or if it was going to come back again… like a contraction.  Because, have I mentioned that it sounded like an animal birthing something unholy?  Because, yes.  That’s the sound haunting my head at the moment…

So, I did the only thing I could think to do: I called the paramedics.  They are our only friends!  And this is where I say, CALM DOWN AMERICA!  Because here’s what happened:

-Not five minutes later, an EMT was buzzing our flat.  I let him in.

-He rushed to Peter’s bedside and immediately started to assess the situation, checking all his vitals and getting all the details of the situation.

-Not ten minutes later, TWO OTHER EMTs buzzed our flat, ready with an ambulance to take Peter to the closest hospital.  I let them in.

-The first EMT consulted briefly with the other two and discussed our options with us.  He said that, in his professional opinion, Peter did not need to go to the hospital but that it was entirely up to Peter.

-Peter decided not to go to the hospital because of the care and consultation we had been given.  He signed a waiver, and we thanked the EMTs.  They left.

(The rest of the night involved details not pertinent to my experience with socialized medicine, so I’ll keep those to myself.  Suffice it to say that this experience is one of those lessons in love that teach me that maybe–just maybe!–I could survive as a mother.  We’ll see…)

The next day, we realized that we needed to get Peter to a doctor to figure out what had happened and what to do to prevent that sound from ever departing his lips ever, ever again.  So, here’s what happened:

-I called the local healthcare centre that oversees the care of people who live in our region.  We were told that we would need to come in to the office and register.

-We walked over to the centre (a 10-minute walk from our flat), brought all the paperwork that is required (proof of address, visa, passport, etc.), and walked right up to the front desk.

-We were told to wait for a few minutes, and then we were given two brief forms to fill out.  Very shortly thereafter, we gave all of our paperwork to the receptionist and were told to have a seat.  We got out our books, waiting for the infamous hellish wait–the BUREAUCRACY! standing between patient and doctor–to take effect.  I had charged the iPod and brought the Y-jack, ready to sit in a crowded waiting room and watch the entirety of “Little Miss Sunshine.”

-BUT!  Just as I settled in, “Megan and Peter Kline?”  I though I was dreaming.  Were they really already calling our names?  Isn’t this supposed to be a nightmarish experience?  Weren’t we going to have to stand trial before a death panel?

-We went back into the tidy office of a doctor who I immediately wanted to invite over for dinner.  She was kind and warm and understanding, and she was a great source of comfort and help for us in our obviously anxious states.

-We got the help we needed, the support we needed, and the medicines we needed.  All for… are you ready for this?

-Four.

-Pounds.

-Yes, that’s right.

-Four pounds.

-About seven dollars.

So, there’s that.  Government option?  Could it be possible to do it well?

ON THE OTHER HAND, SO HELP ME GOD, BANK OF SCOTLAND!  IS IT POSSIBLE TO BE ANY MORE INCOMPETENT THAN YOU HAVE BEEN?!  I SINCERELY DOUBT IT!!!

(But that’s another blog post, for another day.  After a day like today, I’m just still trying to hold myself together.  Maybe someday, I’ll look back…)

Socialized Media.

After graduating in May, I did something I vowed I would never do and gave into the whole Facebook thing.  I vowed I would never do it because (a) it seems like a perfect time-waster, and I am nothing if not the world’s most dedicated procrastinator; (b) I hated the idea that pictures of me could be posted for the world to see without my control (I have a very strict post-no-pictures-of-me-in-a-swimsuit-lest-you-achieve-the-immediate-dissolution-of-our-friendship rule, still in effect!); (c) I make everything into a competition, and I could see myself desperately trying to amass as many friends as possible in order to WIN!; and (the craziest reason) (d) there are some people in the world who I do not want to know that I even still exist…

It turns out that I was perfectly right to be concerned about (a), I fear that I might just have to get used to (b) in our day and age (though, that swimsuit rule still applies, people!), I was embarrassingly right about (c), and I have more control over (d) than I realized (namely, I need to simmer down).

But!  I never realized the reason that is perhaps the only legitimate excuse to be wary of social media, namely, that there is nothing truly social about it.  I know I’m not the first to lobby such a complaint, but it seems to me that this form of communication is inherently isolating.  We sit behind computer screens and invent personas that we deem safe enough to reveal to the general public, and then we reveal them slowly and with calculation…

Meanwhile, there are lives to be lived!  People to interact with!  Things to be experienced!

Meh.  Maybe another day…

On Church-Finding and Job Hazards:

This morning, Peter and I did something that we never, ever do:  we walked out of a church in the middle of a service.

We have visited three churches in Edinburgh so far.  We have visited one twice, one once, and the one this morning.  After travelling through the European continent over the last few months, we were expecting the churches in Scotland to have some of the similar qualities of many of the churches we found there.  That is to say, we were expecting enormous cathedrals nearly empty except for a few elderly people scattered throughout.  Instead, we have found many thriving churches filled with people of all ages, and we have been pleasantly surprised by this.

And yet, we haven’t found that fit, that almost indescribable sense of belonging that sometimes, miraculously, occurs when you take the time to sit your butt in a pew on a Sunday morning.  You sit, you listen, you sing, you pray, you shake some hands and smile at some faces.  You read through the bulletin or the liturgical guide, and you feel…home.

I am not an idealist about this occurrence, not even in the slightest bit.  I realize that a part of that “home” feel is accompanied by feelings of family dysfunction; that part of why I feel at “home” in a new church is because I feel like this might be a group of people who share my “traits” in some sense.  And in my case, these traits include, among other things, a tendency toward self-absorption and self-loathing, a fear of my past and of being “found out” for my past, an intolerance of elitism, on the one hand, and of banality, on the other.  In short, while I often feel at home in church because of all the good stuff (say, for example, the common awareness of God’s redemption of humanity in Jesus Christ through the power of the Holy Spirit…), I also must confess that I feel at home among people who share my issues.  Maybe you know what I’m talking about…

But one of the hazards of following through with a sense of calling to a vocation in Christian ministry is that finding a church becomes an exercise in bringing out your inner split-personality.  There’s the one person, the scholar Christian, who sits in a pew and analyzes every minute detail of the entire experience of church-going (how is the sanctuary arranged, how does the service begin, what information is provided in the bulletin, why is that candle there, what are the theological and hermeneutical  presuppositions that allow the pastor to say that one sentence in the middle of the sermon, and, hey, what about that “um”… what does that imply?!?!).  And then there’s the other person, the believer Christian, who sits in the pew and spends most of the service trying to tell the scholar to shut up, all the while trying to feel something, dangit!  Feel!  Experience!  Believe!

Needless to say, finding a home amidst the chaos in my brain is… challenging.  (WHOA, I just had a total epiphany about the homeless epidemic!  Anyhoo…)

Still, with all this, I never just walk out of a church-in-progress.  I know from experience the difficulties and challenges of getting that one hour simply into existence.  And, by golly, I’m just too danged polite to walk out of a Christian sibling’s labor and toil.

But this morning, we walked out.  This morning, the scholar and the believer started their ordinary banter.  And I continued to sit and stand and sing and navigate my way around their arguments.  And then!  Something unprecedented.  Then, the scholar and the believer suddenly stopped in their tracks, looked at each other, and said in unison, “Uh…let’s get outta here.  STAT!”

So I looked at Peter and whispered, “Go?”  And we did.

Calling All Skirted Men!!!

A lot has happened since we last posted, and, as always, we apologize for the long absence.  This time, we’ve had some good excuses.  You know, better than “we got busy with seminary.”  That’s sooo lame.

So, what are these excuses, you ask?  (And no, we haven’t had a baby.  That would be a lame excuse, too.  HA!  Just kidding, People-Who-Reproduce).

First, I travelled to Europe in April and May.  I went to Spain, France, and Switzerland, and I am slowly writing about those experiences in my new travel blog, TravelingBabbling.   Check it out.

Then, I came back to the States, and Peter and I graduated from PTS, got those sacred degrees, and moved back down to Texas.

Peter got nice and settled in Texas… and then left, two days later.  He went on a whirlwind trip of Israel…

…then a month in Germany, all by his lonesome.

I joined him after a month, and we had us a grand ol’ time.

We spent the month of August back in the States, preparing for a move abroad, and having a blasty blast with our friends and family.

And then, we moved to Edinburgh, Scotland, where we now live in our very own little flat.  Peter is attending school at Edinburgh’s New College, working on a second masters.  And I am looking for love in all the wrong places.

Agh!  Work!  I meant… looking for work.  It’s kind of frustrating, but I’m coping, especially now that our flat has TV and Internet.  That, and the fact that this city is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen.

So, that’s about it.  Now you’re updated.

Take some time to peruse the new features on our blog, including our “we like” page.  We have some awesome people in our lives.

We hope you do, too.

Love,

M&P

Israel and Palestine

Well, I am back from my two months abroad. My first stop was Israel with a group of Jewish and Christian seminary students. Lots of thoughts, lots to say. Here’s a passage from Rowan Williams’ sermon: “The Poor Deserve the Best”: 

One of the most chilling things on this journey to the Holy Land was the almost total absence in both major communities of any belief that there was a political solution to hand. So step back from that for a moment and ask, ‘What do both the communities in the Holy Land ask from us – not just from that convenient abstraction, the “international community”, but from you and me?’ Both deserve the best; and the best we can give them in such circumstances is at least the assurance of friendship. Go and see, go and listen; let them know, Israelis and Palestinians alike, that they will be heard and not forgotten. Both communities in their different ways dread –with good reason – a future in which they will be allowed to disappear while the world looks elsewhere. The beginning of some confidence in the possibility of a future is the assurance that there are enough people in the world committed to not looking away and pretending it isn’t happening. It may not sound like a great deal, but it is open to all of us to do; and without friendship, it isn’t possible to ask of both communities the hard questions that have to be asked, the questions about the killing of the innocent and the brutal rejection of each other’s dignity and liberty.