Dear Verizon, fire your marketing team

This past week, I've been in DC during the day for a class. This means that I woke up every day at 4:45, left the house by 5:40, arrived at the train station at 6:00, stood in the dark and cold until the train came at 6:10, slept the whole way to DC, took a bus from Union Station to Mount Vernon Square, went to Starbucks, had class from 9:00-4:00, took a bus from Mount Vernon Square to Union Station, ran to try and catch the 4:24 train (I made it on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but Tuesday and Thursday found me on the 5:20), read The Time-Traveler's Wife (go buy that and read it right now) until arriving back at the train station around 5:30, then driving home and walking in the door around 6:00. So I have been understandably exhausted. But I was alert enough to notice something while taking the Circulator back to Union Station. It was a billboard that looked just like this one:

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Now, because of the building where this ad is located, you can't really see the bottom right corner from the street, because it is angled. But every day, when we passed this billboard, I couldn't help but wonder, "Why is Verizon equating their phones with buckets of angry female deer?"

Albeit, I haven't been watching as much television (or when I do, it's usually taped, so I fast forward through commercials), so I haven't seen the Droid commercials. Had I been paying more attention, I would have seen that Verizon means that it is a bucket of third-person-singular-present-indicative "do." But let's take a second to think about this, Verizon. What do buckets contain? Matter. Actual physical matter. Buckets do not contain verbs, so I would venture to guess that most people are going to think of angry female deer when they see this ad. And then the ad doesn't make sense to them, and they have little desire to buy your product. And then Apple goes and makes straightforward ads, and, well...we know who emerges victorious. Just saying.

Anyway, this billboard really bothered me, and I know I have a few editors (or at least word-conscious folks) who read this blog, so I figured you would appreciate it. If you see this billboard, just picture a bucket of raging mothers of Bambi, and it will give you a good giggle.

*And just a side note, I really, inexplicably hate the word "bucket;" you know I'm dedicated to this post, because I think I used it five times, including in this side note. And you all think I don't love you.

Cue the sappy coming-of-age vignette

Last night, I went to visit Pink and JD (my friends who are getting married) and we had a fabulous night, just cooking, baking, eating, and watching the Penguins totally dominate the Maple Leafs (Leaves?). It was a great night, and actually, I kind of forgot that I wasn't still in undergrad just down the road; I mean, I probably spent about half of my evenings doing some variation of that all last year. So like I said, awesome night. It was just what I needed. What I didn't need? The emotional breakdown I had once I got to the parking lot (don't freak out, mom, just keep reading).

I got in the car and immediately pictured myself driving back to my college. I had to shake that thought out of my head and remind myself to go 35 miles beyond that down the road. That's when the waterworks started. Now, if you know me at all, you know that it does not take much to make me cry. I cry during almost every movie, when I'm sad/happy/angry/frustrated/excited/any emotion, and at plenty of other things. It's really just how I express myself, and it usually relieves some stress. But last night, I just let loose and basically cried steadily for the ten minutes it took to get from the parking lot to the exit that I used to take to get back to school. I felt this inexplicable pull to take the exit and just drive through my college campus.

So I did just that. I started around the road that encircles the campus and just drove slowly, remembering what it was like to be there. I drove past the academic building where I spent the better part of my class time (and the majority of last semester in general), the library where I used to do research for my senior seminar paper until they kicked me out at midnight, and the campus center where I checked my mail every day, worked in the snack shop, ate in the dining hall, worked out on the elliptical, and went to a bunch of concerts and dances. I kept going around and ended up driving along the Yellow Breeches, a creek that runs through campus. I drove over the covered bridge that I drove over every day last year and pulled into a space in that commuter parking lot I hated so much. I was just going to go sit by the edge of the Breeches, but then I realized that the grass was soaking wet, so I nixed that plan.

Instead, I decided to disregard my earlier post regarding "being smart" (as well as the fact that a girl was recently attacked on the campus...okay, so I'm giving away my location), and I walked along a path alongside the Breeches, towards the swinging bridge. As I walked, I figured out why I felt so pulled back to that campus that night: I wanted to be in a place that knew me. I love where I am now, don't get me wrong. But I can't attach my new home with my spiritual, emotional and intellectual development. That campus, however, is where I became who I am today and met some of the most incredible and influential people I've ever known. And as I continued to walk, I realized that I had never really grieved the loss of this place in my life.

I don't want to trivialize the grieving process; I've experienced the death of loved ones, and this is not the same situation. But in a way, it is similar: I had a deep connection with the people and the place, I lived and breathed it for four years, and all of a sudden, I wasn't a member of that community anymore. At least, not in the same way. I spent my senior year getting ready for grad school and living off-campus, so I had already mentally disconnected myself from much of the community. This really helped me move forward, but I think it led to the setback I experienced last night. I had this sudden realization that I had basically wished away the end of this experience while striving for the next one. And this past summer, I didn't have a spare second to just sit with that loss. A month and a half of moving home, tying up loose ends, planning and packing; sixteen days backpacking in Europe; five days of unpacking and re-packing; a week in New Orleans; five days of unpacking and re-packing; a week at the lake; five days of unpacking and MAJOR re-packing; moving to a new place. Last night was the first time I really thought, "I miss this, and I miss it a lot."

I kept walking (being mindful of the time, because there is a midnight curfew and I didn't want to start my life as an alum by being arrested) and eventually got to the bridge. I walked across, and stood in the place where I stood just over a year ago, in the midst of a fun photoshoot with my housemates. At that time, we felt like we were right in the middle of our lives; we were about to graduate from college and get jobs (or, in my case, pay for some more education) and start this whole second half of our lives. And as much as that's true, I feel even more in the middle right now.

While I am kind of straddling that gap between college and real life (grad school screws with your head, guys), I'm also stuck between living in the present (as well as for the future) and embracing my past. I'm trying to figure out what it means to appreciate and really love where I've been without trying to get back there. Without needing to get off that exit every time I drive past.

After that slight revelation, I felt way more at peace, and I walked back to the parking lot, where I literally started the car at 12:01 (but there were no PSafe around, so I was good), and finished driving around the circle. I drove back to Civil War Land with much less stress and a new perspective. I'm still working on how to balance those two extremes, but at least I'm not an emotional wreck like last night. Stay tuned for further developments, my dear readers.

The Guilt-Ridden Samaritan

There was once a man traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho. On the way he was attacked by robbers. They took his clothes, beat him up, and went off leaving him half-dead. Luckily, a priest was on his way down the same road, but when he saw him he angled across to the other side. Then a Levite religious man showed up; he also avoided the injured man. A Samaritan traveling the road came on him. When he saw the man's condition, his heart went out to him. He gave him first aid, disinfecting and bandaging his wounds. Then he lifted him onto his donkey, led him to an inn, and made him comfortable. In the morning he took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper, saying, "Take good care of him. If it costs any more, put it on my bill—I'll pay you on my way back." -Luke 10:30-35, The Message

 Almost everyone knows the story of the Good Samaritan. Even if you've never been to Christian church in your life, you could probably give a pretty good rendering of the story. A guy gets messed up by some bad guys, and they leave him to die on the side of the road. A priest and a Levite walk past him (doesn't this sound like the beginning of a bad joke?), and you'd think that they would stop to help him, but all they're worried about is becoming unclean after having contact with this half-dead man. Then, a Samaritan comes by. Now, Samaritans were basically the most ritually unclean people you could find back in the day. Jews didn't want to have anything with them because they were part Gentile. The Gentiles wouldn't touch them because they were part Jewish. So the Samaritans really understood what it meant to be passed over. It's nice to think that that's why the Samaritan stopped; he had seen these two religious leaders totally ignore the guy, and he knew what it felt like to be ignored for pretty surface reason. But I'm not a biblical scholar, so I can't make any bold claims about why the Samaritan stopped; we just know that he did. He helped this poor guy out and followed up with him, paying for any additional cost, not just pawning him off on the next willing participant in this story. The story of the Good Samaritan is lifted up as the paradigm of Christian brotherly/sisterly love: that we would help someone because they need help, putting our own concerns (like cleanliness or cash flow) second to their immediate and long-term needs.

Today, I had to go to the library to copy some pages out of a book for a paper I need to write. As I was walking back to my apartment in the rain, I saw a man standing in front of my building with two large bags, the straps crossed in an X across his chest. I didn't recognize him, and even six weeks in, I can at least remember seeing almost everyone at the seminary. So I was a little wary. As I got closer, he called out to me and asked if I was a student here. I said yes, and he proceeded to tell me his dilemma.

He needs to get to Chambersburg (a town about 30 minutes away) because his brother is picking him up there tonight. He stayed in Gettysburg last night, but it was too expensive to stay a second night, so he's going to just hang out in Chambersburg until his brother arrives. But as he was driving out of Gettysburg, his car broke down and he can't afford to get it fixed. He wants someone to drive him to Chambersburg, and he'll give that person $10 for gas. He asked the "pastor" if he could help (my friend was supply preaching in a congregation this morning, and thus was wearing his clerics while he took another student's dog for a quick walk), but the pastor said he was too busy. He just wants to know if anyone can give him a ride so he doesn't have to stand out in the rain. One of the large bags is a $2,000.00 breathing machine that the VA bought for him, but if it gets ruined, they're not just going to buy him a new one. Can someone please give him a ride?

I agreed to go inside and ask if anyone would be able to give him a ride. This is where the guilt set in. In reality, all I have to do today is work on some homework, watch the Ravens beat the Browns and go to a church thing later this evening. Do I have an hour to drive someone to Chambersburg and back? Absolutely. But let's break down this situation and what was going through my head:

I have never seen this guy before, his broken down car is nowhere in sight (he said some old man let him push it into his yard), he's got two sketchy looking bags with unknown contents, and if I'm being honest, he just looked pretty shady in general. So am I going to invite him into my car and take him to a small town 25 miles away on a rainy Sunday? Not likely. But will I go inside and alert someone else to the situation? Sure.

I went upstairs and heard a male voice, so I figured that was a good place to start. Three seniors (two girls, one guy) were just sitting down to watch a football game, and I gave them the rundown. The guy, D, affirmed the creepiness of the situation, and the girls agreed. However, D agreed to go back down with me and talk to the guy. D was very upfront with him, and told him that the situation sounded shady, especially because the guy told us that neither he nor his brother had cell phones or any way to get in touch with one another. After some more back-and-forth, D agreed to take the guy to Chambersburg, rejecting the gas money the guy offered.

I went inside to tell the girls that D was taking this guy to his destination, and they were just as concerned as I was. We agreed that it was better that D was taking him than if a girl were, because there are just too many red flags for that to be a good idea. I expressed my guilt over the situation to the girls (M & K), saying that I just kept running the Good Samaritan story through my head. That I wanted to be a good and faithful Christian who would sacrifice her own concerns for the needs of the other, but I couldn't shake the creeped out feeling, even if the guy's situation was legitimate.

Then K said something that stuck with me. She said (and I'm paraphrasing here), "I think we forget that, in the Good Samaritan story, the guy on the side of the road was half dead. He wasn't a threat to anyone at that point...except for the priest and religious leader who didn't want to become ritually unclean." Great point, K.

So here's my theological-but-practical point for the day: be smart. Yeah, as Christians (or just as human beings, really), we should try and help those who need it. But if you think that a situation could be unsafe, don't abandon all common sense for the sake of living up to the Good Samaritan. Because how can I be faithful to the Gospel if I blindly put myself in danger without considering the circumstances? God wants us to help people, but God also wants us to stay alive, and finding that balance is necessary. If D hadn't offered to take the guy where he needed to go, I probably would have grabbed a friend and asked him or her to come with me, to be safe. Could we still have gotten into a shady situation? Sure, but because we were smart, it would be a whole lot less likely. So I beg of you, make good choices that aren't just for the benefit of someone else but also ensure your safety...God gave us the gift of common sense for a reason!

NB: I just got a facebook message saying D is safe and on his way back. He gets the Modern Day Good Samaritan award today.