Life in Dallas feels more normal these days. It feels more like it should. In small ways this feels more like my city.

It's always hardest when I've been to visit my family for a few days, and have to return to Dallas. That hasn't gotten easier. But God has helped me feel more at ease in this city in the day to day.

Friends help. My community group is a great one. We're all young single guys who just started new jobs within the past few months, so it's cool that we're all in the same place.

Work has started to feel more sane. Even when it's insane, it feels a tiny bit more sane. I don't question whether I made the right career decision as often. :) On most days, I can handle my workload and patient situations. It feels cool. It's been a little longer than six months since I started work at the hospital. It hasn't quite been six months since I became a Registered Nurse.

I worked on Christmas Eve and Christmas day. I was bummed about it, but my parents had suggested I drive home for three days that I had off a week before Christmas, which I had done. My Mom wrapped up some presents and we all had a big breakfast on the last day and opened presents. They also waited to decorate the tree till I got home that week. It felt really nice to have my family shuffle things around so that I could have a sort of Christmas. And a little weird. I felt my parents' love for me. And at times it made me want to squirm. To not be so lavished on. And that made me wonder. Why do I get uncomfortable being loved sometimes?

I prayed about working on Christmas Eve and Christmas. My parents both pointed out how it's an honor to serve the sick on the day that we celebrate our God, who came to serve us and die for our sins and deliver us. And God was good. It snowed on Christmas. I saw it out the windows as it fell. The hospital cafeteria prepared a free Christmas lunch for us employees. And it was a good day. I found myself amazed that I had very little temptation to engage in self pity. And thanked God.

The week before, on the last day at my family's house in San Antonio, (skipping around, work with me here,) I was talking to my Mom about the weirdness of this Christmas for me, and she said something that has stuck with me, and has made me think. She said that Christmas is more than our expectations of it, and said that Christmas happened while Dad was deployed to Iraq: "He had Christmas that day, in his tent, you know? But it's bigger than our expectations of it."

Yeah. That just kind of stopped me. Just very wise. I have never thought of it like that. Each year it has been comparing my expectations of Christmas to what happens, and reacting based on the inequality. I've always treated my expectations as bigger than Christmas.

So I've been sitting still this Christmas. Letting Christmas happen and feeling myself enveloped in it. The walk from the parking lot to the hospital entrance. The families visiting in the hospital, the cookies and small Christmas trees on hospital bedside tables. The empty apartment. The Christmas lights in the street. The talk I overhear in Starbucks, at the nurse's station, in community group, in stores. Christmas is bigger than me. And yet it does happen to me.

Maybe this doesn't make sense. It might be because the booming bass to the song playing overhead in this Starbucks is distracting me right now. I don't know. Maybe it just looks like stopping my attitude of, "But I wanted it this way," and sitting quietly and curiously, questioning, "What does it look like?" It feels a great deal more mysterious and beautiful. And maybe it's made it easier to rejoice.

I really like this band City and Colour. It's this guy Dallas Green, and whoever else he enlists to play with him. He plays acoustic and sad songs, but his voice is amazing, and if you can stand depressing lyrics, it's good music. Haha. He did a cover of this song called "Soon Enough," and it's spectacular. This line sticks with me,

"Soon enough, work and love will make a man out of you."


I went for a run today and instead of running on the paved "trail" through Uptown, I took a turn and ran along a lake in Highland Park, marveling at the mansions people live in. It was a fun run. Standing on a bridge across the end of the lake, I watched the clouds blow over as the weather made up its mind. I found a few small parks and quirky sculptures. And reflected that something within me is sleeping. I don't know what it is. But something is different and I wonder when it will change.

Lambics

I read an article a while back about lambic beer. Now it intrigues me. Tonight a friend and I are gonna have a lambic party, which basically means we're gonna hang out and drink a few different types. Unfortunately, I think we'll have to stick to Lindeman's lambics. Unless I can find a Timmerman's. Or maaaaaybe a New Belgium, but I don't know if it's even in season.

Lambics are originally from a few regions in Belgium, near Brussels. While other beers are made using cultured yeast strains, lambics are made in a less controlled way. See, if you want to make a type of beer, you need something to ferment the wort (the malt and wheat liquid, pre-fermentation). If you were a brewer, people would expect the same flavor from two different batches of beer if you labeled them both "Cherry Wheat" or "India Pale Ale" or "Keller Bier" or whatever you happened to be making. To do this, you'd need the same type of yeasts, the same strains, cultured again and again and again. You'd replicate your original recipe, put in the same ingredients, and expect the same results. This is modern brewing.

Unless you're making a lambic.

(And I should clarify: lambics are a type of sour mash beer. The lambic beers are made by adding fruit to beer that's been made like I'm describing, to re-ferment which adds some carbonation and fruit flavor.)

So with lambics and sour mash beers, brewers make the wort, and then they leave the vats uncovered and open the windows for the night. The process is called spontaneous fermentation. The yeast and bacteria in the air help to jump start the fermentation process. This element of wild unpredictability would be a nightmare for a Budweiser brewer. But for a lambic maker, it's part of the adventure. It's necessary. Part of the lambic taste profile includes funky and tart flavors, which is why it goes so well with additional fermented fruit flavors. It also makes each lambic highly specific to its location. One lambic drinker described "leathery" or "barn-like" aromas in certain lambics. While I can think of more appetizing flavors for my beer, the regionalism is fascinating.

The brew is transferred to wooden barrels that have brewed other lambics in other times. The flavors mix. The old gives to the new. Microflora from previous brews may be present as well. Then it's aged, for as long as three years. Making lambic requires a lot of hope and a lot of patience. Then it is transferred to bottles, where the flavors can continue to develop. I think the original fruit that was added was cherry, (Kriek,) but peach, raspberry, and currant are other common lambic flavors.

The weather influences brewing. The temperature, the humidity...air conditions have to be right for a lambic to start brewing, for the necessary microflora to be present in the air. Lambic can't be started at certain times of the year. And this is Belgium, remember. The Cantillon brewery is famous for their lambics, which they started making in 1900, and they ship it to a couple stores on the East Coast. Only within the past few years has anyone attempted an American made lambic. There are a handful of these brewers. New Belgium has made a lambic. A brewer in Portland (surprising, I know) is making lambic. There's one in Michigan. There's one on the East Coast. And each brewer has successfully made a lambic, and offered it till the batch was gone. Some only offered the drinks in local bars, not bothering to bottle it at all.

So the only lambic that I'm aware of that's available in the Dallas area is Lindeman's. For the most part, they make fairly un-complex, sugary sweet lambics...as far as lambics go, like the Starbucks Pike Place coffee of lambics. Or maybe Folgers. But I'll continue to keep my eyes open. The wildness of making lambic intrigues me. And I'm definitely making it a trip priority for the future, to try to experience an American made lambic. It sounds like a passionate process. I'm drawn to that.

Circadian Rhythms

Two weeks ago, my Dad had his retirement party. All of us, his sons, were able to come down to be with the parents for the weekend. Twas great fun. My uncle and grandfather also came down. I've been sick now for about four weeks, and that was around the time when I felt the worst, (the poorest?) so I took naps and tried not to cough on people, but it was still really cool being present for the party. Apparently it's a big thing if you've been in the Army for your whole career to have a retirement party when you leave. My Dad wasn't going to do so, but eventually he realized that it was a chance to thank and recognize a lot of people in his life that he was grateful for, at work and at church and at home. So he threw one and we went.

It was a really cool time, having all of us sons together again. Rob's wife, our sister-in-law, couldn't make it down, as they now live on the East Coast. And it was a short two days. But it was still great. Also, it was really cool at the retirement party, hearing people who have worked with my Dad and gone on deployments with him and been in stressful situations with him talk about how he tries to be compassionate and honest and live like he believes in Jesus. His faith was mentioned multiple times as people talked about him, and I thought it was really cool how there were stories of his professional skill and funny anecdotes, but there were also people who held the microphone and talked about specific times when they needed a friend at work or a listening ear in a sandy tent in Iraq, and my Dad was there. Those are the kind of things that just left me feeling immensely blessed and encouraged, hearing that my Dad is the same man at home and at work. I hope I can be known for things like that someday.

It was hard to come back to Dallas. And still, I have certain friendships here in Dallas that stand as tangible reminders that I am here for a reason. Relationships that won't let me ask God, "Are you sure I'm in the right place? This feels hard and uncomfortable."

As I drove back to Dallas, I thought about the night shift and how my sleep schedule has come to be consistent with my work schedule, and how I hate that. I miss mornings. There's something psychologically weird about waking up as the sun is low in the sky and the afternoon turns into evening. I had talked with my parents and my Dad had encouraged me to switch to day shift as soon as the opportunity presented itself. My Mom had told me to pray about it, because I had told her that while I didn't feel ready to switch to day shift yet, as I still worked on time management and learning the thousands of "hospital FAQs" that a nurse deals in daily for patients, I wanted to be able to switch to day shifts within the next few months. Mom pointed out that it was beyond my control and to pray that God wouldn't give me a chance to switch to days until I was ready.

Fast forward 36 hours. I was driving back to Dallas after that weekend. My boss called and told me that a position had opened up for day shift in two weeks.

Haha. Two weeks. And I had planned on 3-6 months. I told her I would call her back.

I prayed about it and talked to a few people.

And decided to take it. So tomorrow is my first day shift. I'm so excited. And a little nervous. I'm sure it will be overwhelming. The day shift is easily twice as fast as the night shift at times. 

Looks like I'll get faster.

I told a few night shift nurses and they gave surprised and disappointed, "Aw, what?"'s. Of course it stinks for them, because I'm just now becoming efficient and asking fewer questions, pulling more of my own weight. But I also realized that quite a few of them actually like me. There's a man who works in the supply room of the hospital at night, a heavier bearded guy in his late 30s, I'd guess. I saw him in the hiring office at the same time I was applying for this job. I met him early on, walking through the halls, and he's the friendliest guy in the world. He's loud and friendly and a little goofy, and he'll wave wildly at me while he's a hundred yards down the hallway. "Don't let 'em work you too hard!" His greetings help me loosen up and smile self consciously when I see him, usually as I'm tensing up for the beginning of my shift. It strikes me that he doesn't have the slightest clue that I'm stressed and have a million things to do, and so his smile feels more genuine, somehow. Yeah. I dunno. Every time I see him it's a blessing.

On Becoming What Andy Bernard Terms A "Big Tuna"

Day by day, my nursing routine gets more smooth. There are challenges that still seem overwhelming. Patient problems that I ask other experienced nurses about, having little to no clue about the right answer. But some days, I even feel efficient. :)

 I was up late the other night, not working, but preserving Le Circadian Rhythm Du Jour, and watched this documentary on Netflix. It was called "Jiro Dreams of Sushi." It caught my eye because fine, expensive food interests me...but the interest is not borne of sophistication, but probably because I, like most people, am drawn to things produced by passionate people. Or maybe more accurately, we are drawn to the things passionate people are passionate about. It doesn't seem possible to make fine food without passion. This guys is 85. Or he was when the documentary was made. He started making sushi when he was 19, I think. He takes half days off for holidays. He stared straight into the camera and talked about his craft: "When you choose your career, then you must work your hardest to become excellent at it. There is no other way." The opening scene is the camera following him into his restaurant, interspersed with clips of the kitchen prep, and his bare hands forming the sushi, brushing it with soy sauce, and placing it exactly on the plate, the diagonal angle unfailingly consistent. Very Japanese.

His oldest son is in his 50s. In Japan, it is customary for the oldest son to take over the father's business once the father retires. This son has been under his father for thirty years. And still he waits. The sushi, however...the documentary tells of how the Michelin Restaurant Reviews have awarded three stars to Jiro's restaurant, the highest rating, indicating the food is worth a trip to the city simply to eat at the establishment. Reservations are made a minimum of a month in advance, and there are only ten seats in the place. The bathroom is outside of the restaurant. It is in an underground area attached to a metro station in Tokyo.

 At one point a man come into the restaurant office, asking, "Do you have informational pamphlets?" (Nearly the entirety is in subtitles.) The reply, "No. We have business cards. We will give you two." The man continues, "Can we order sake and appetizers?" The son replies, "No. We have sushi only."

 "No appetizers?"

 "No."

 "Can I make reservations for dinner?" "You must. It is February now, so you can make it for March. We are full for February." Hilarious.

Apparently it is around $300 per person to eat there. And depending on how fast you eat, it could be over in 15 minutes. Nevertheless, the guy is legendary. One sushi critic they interviewed said that he had eaten at every sushi place in Tokyo, and he is intimidated every time he goes to eat at Jiro's restaurant. With Jiro forming the food as he faced the bar, patrons sat at the ten chairs across from him, quickly eating their sushi under his piercing gaze. Yes. He stares at you while you eat.

 His son is more relaxed, subdued. Just when you begin to think he's a pushover, the camera follows him to the fish market, where he quietly and confidently tells the camera so much about seafood and sushi that you think your head will explode. He jokes with one man about the fast pace of his father's restaurant, and winks at the camera, "I like speed. My car can top 300 km/hr." The camera cuts to a picture of him in front of a sleek blue Audi sportscar.

 I thought the whole thing was fascinating. Perhaps I've bored you by now. You should watch it if you have a spare 1.5 hours. Definitely encouraging though. They interviewed some of the kitchen chefs at one point. They were trained for ten years, if they could stand the rigorous standards of their perfectionistic boss. But at the end of that ten years, they were regarded as "first rate" sushi chefs, and could open their own sushi restaurant, confident that they were trained by the best. (Chef? Are you a chef if it's raw? Hmm.) One man sat there sharpening knives on a small chair, talking about being entrusted with making egg sushi after months of training to perfect rice. He said he did not satisfy Jiro and his son for four months of trying to make egg sushi. Four months. Of trying every day, time after time. And after four months, he made some that Jiro approved of. That kind of persistence and dedication is inspiring.

I dunno. I was just reminded that there are others in life who are training at jobs and not succeeding immediately. And that sometimes it takes decades. And it's good to stay in the middle of those uncomfortable feelings of realizing, "I'm not where I want to be. I need to focus on improving continually," without becoming complacent or ignoring those uncomfortable feelings because they're uncomfortable.

Even so, the title is drawn from something Jiro says in the beginning about his decades of pursuing perfection. "I used to dream of sushi," he says with a crooked grin.

Mreh. I think I'll pass on that, for now, at least, and use my dreams for other strivings.

Pauses

Pause. Merriam-Webster defines it as, "a temporary stop." Another reads, "temporary inaction especially as caused by uncertainty." Still another gives, "to linger for a time," when used as a verb.

Especially as caused by uncertainty. Perhaps that's the worst definition for me, the one that sits in my gut like an accusation. No one ever accused me of being too decisive when faced with a choice. I acknowledge the truth of the definition and move on to more welcoming ideas for the word.

To linger for a time. This is the pause I hold most dear. With the first sip of carefully roasted and carefully brewed coffee. With the memories of the air rushing past as I rode my bike downhill on the way to class. With the sacredness of moments where I realize my shoes are on when they should be off. With friends reunited in the same room, even though we talk about nothing important and everything unimportant.

I'm learning things about myself. In the rush and busyness of learning how to continuously shuffle mental tasks in my head while caring for patients on a medical/surgical unit in a large medical center, I'm learning that I appreciate moments when I can pause. While working, the best pauses happen with patients and their families: praying with them for peace in the midst of pain, talking with them about trips to places in other countries that we've both been to, hearing stories about their families. On my days off, the pauses look like coffee and a book. A run. A time to go to church. Dinner with friends. A song that reaches out with new meaning in the lyrics and grabs me, holds me. The moments that stand out from the baseline.

This is my new blog. I continue to write because I continue to have thoughts. I'm sure some are pompous. Some are silly. Some are meaningless, some are untrue. But I don't like the idea of stopping blogging altogether, so here is the new home for these thoughts. Bear with me or not. I hope some listen. But it's often to catch the overflow of my head, rather than for informing.

Ramble. Maybe that's what I should have entitled this blog. ;) Or I could have gone with Improperly Placed Periods. Or Overused Commas.

I'm getting into this band Kye Kye. The siblings are from Estonia, or at least they were born there. The lyrics for their music on their website have Bible verse references after each line, which I think is awesome. It looks like the verses gave inspiration for the words, since sometimes the connection is a loose one. I suppose that's the way with poetry sometimes.

Their song "Introduce Myself" is a great one. The chorus goes,
"Love and sight is what you granted
Trust inside so we believe
I lay outside this very night
To dream of what you've done for me."

As the nights get colder, I've enjoyed standing on our balcony looking up at the five stars that shine in the night sky despite the Dallas city lights. It's a good time to pray and hold tea or hot chocolate and "dream of what [He's] done for me."

The last verse just grabs me.
"Hands, is it worth my work?
If it's not with Your eyes, what is it worth?
Love, what is it worth?
Cause if it's not from Your heart, it's from my mind."

The stress of each shift that I work wears on my attitude. Often I slip into an attitude that feels fulfilled and happy when I have finished giving medications and charting necessary documentation at a given point in a shift...and stressed and frustrated when the charting has to wait because patient needs keep me running from room to room for hours. God reaches down and reminds me about what is important when a patient apologizes for being "so much trouble," and I'm reminded that the job of meeting their needs is my primary one. "If it's not with Your eyes, what is it worth?"

The last two lines, too. They remind me to look for the source of love I am to give, look for it in God's heart. I dunno. It feels trite, writing it out. But it is so true. My mind can think up many, many ways to justify things. I love the reminder, "If it's not from Your heart, it's from my mind." Mhm.