will you accept a collect call?

the phone number at my new house sucks. it must have belonged to 100 different people before belonging to brett and me. every day when i get home from work my message machine blinks a promising 6 or 7 new messages. for a second i think i may be popular. but then i press the button to find that floyd anderson and jeannie have once again received more calls than me. then there are the telemarketer calls. i can lower my interest rate, i can consolidate my loans, and i can donate money to the police. this one really gets to brett because we recently got a ticket for parking on the wrong side of the street. we live on an "even/odd" street. this rule exists for the snow plows. but, the day we got the ticket they failed to plow our street. this kind of thing really sets brett off. so don't expect any money from us, coppers!

we received the strangest message last night. have you ever had someone call you collect? then you are familiar with the routine. that strange female voice sweetly says, "will you accept a collect call from" and then the person making the call will say their name. well, our call went a little something like this:

sweet female voice: will you accept a collect call from...
gruff, angry sounding male voice: JIMMY
sweet female voice: who is an inmate at the Kent County Prison.

huh? apparently "jimmy" used his one and only call to ring us, the Nelsons. and we didn't answer! if brett and i go missing, tell 'em jimmy did it. -SN

the true nativity

there is a wonderful picture in the latest issue of TIME magazine, the "best photos of the year" issue (no. 9). it is a haunting picture of a pakistani woman, an earthquake survivor. her head is wrapped with a bright red shawl. her eyes are dark, shadowed by the weight of her life. she is looking at the camera with such great intensity that you feel as if she can see you. her young son is laying before her and she is huddled over him as if trying to keep him warm. you feel guilty for your own warmth, your own sense of safety. together they wait under a white tent, their make-shift shelter. you wonder what they might be waiting for. from somewhere above there is a bright white light shining down, illuminating their tent and the desperateness of their lives.

my initial thought, when looking at the picture, was that it looked like a nativity scene. mother and child together, under their second-class shelter, with a guiding light shining faithfully above them. i showed the picture to some of my workmates and asked, "doesn't this look like a nativity scene?" i didn't get much of a response. sometimes i can be somewhat of a "downer" at work. nativities are supposed to beautiful. they are supposed to display an angelic mary holding her newborn baby, Christ the King, surrounded by the heavenly hosts and cute little sheep. it's CHRISTMAS! But this picture did not display that sense at all.

upon further reflection i realized just how similar this picture was to the actual scene played out that day in Bethlehem. jesus did not enter a tidy, happy world. instead he entered into a desperate world. ceasar was on the move, killing thousands of people in his path. people were living impoverished lives, having to pay close to 80% of their earnings in tax to the mighty roman empire. many of them had to give up their land, land that had been in their family line for generations, land that brought honour to their names. their honor had long since dwindled. these were people who were crying out, "help me, save me." but they didn't know who they were crying out to.... mary herself was a desperate young mother, ridiculed for being pregnant before she was wed. she gave birth to a king in a dirty, shit-smelling shed.

and then, there was that light...and it gave great hope.

jesus' birth came in direct defiance to the world. a king born into poverty. a saviour whose death would mean life. jesus was born into a dark world to be a light. he came to be peace. and he came to bring JUSTICE.

the picture in TIMES shows us exactly how unjust our world still is. the poor woman, her dying son, her intensity that screams "just DO something!"

and then there is that light above her. it gives light to her dark world. she may not know the source of that light, but it has come to save her. it is a modern day nativity.

Merry Christmas. --SN

exam...ple

ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce...exam week, schipper style. errr...nelson style. well, no. i'm going to stick with schipper style on this one b/c i believe that this tendency is genetic. which leads me to the exam of the week, genetics.

i have never been one to go for the A. an A is just not worth the effort, in my mind. all of those people who worked for A's...where did it land you? with a job? b/c i have a job. no, you see A's mean nothing besides that you spent too much of your time in the library and not enough time outside having fun.

last week i had an exam in my first nursing course and i went into it cold. i HAD actually gone to the library with good intentions but realized that the exam was going to cover the entire book. i was so sick of looking at that book that i decided to not even open it. i went home instead. i got a C on that exam. not bad, not bad at all.

now, i don't want y'all to get the wrong idea about me. i'm a serious student. i take learning VERY seriously. it's just that i try to weed out the important stuff and let the rest fall under the table...orrrrr i just rely on the written components of the class. for me, writing assignments are like free points. give me journals, bring on the discussion boards, i'll knock you over with my theses. but keep your exams, cuz i ain't gonna study for 'em.

but this week is different. i give you genetics. and i give you a teacher whom i despise. she is a no good, dirty rotten scoundrel. she has never once answered any of my questions. in fact, she has made me feel stupid several times for even asking a question. once, she even read one of my emails (along with several other students' emails) in front of class, ridiculing us for challenging her over a couple exam questions. this woman expects her students to read her mind and weed through her jargin. and she calls her own daughter "bride-zilla" in class. you know what lady? keep your family to yourself. i'm sure they'd appreciate it.

i have been struggling in this class. i have actually studied very hard for every quiz and exam. i've put in some mean library time and yet....
tomorrow is the exam. i've studied every night for the last three nights. i've dutifully crawled into my library cubicle with flashcards and notes and books. slowly, slowly i'm learning each disease, genetic trait, and genetic pattern. i've cross refrenced the info in my notes with what the book says. and i've separated what i know from what i don't so that i can study the "don't know" pile even better.

but, i'm not studying for the A, per se. oh no...i just want to show that lady that i don't need her to answer my questions to do well in her class. i can weed through her silly questions. i can, in fact, read her mind...something i believe terrifies her. I'm doing it for the principle. i'm doing it for her daughter, bride-zilla.

me and gas

this is not about me and flatulence.

but, for some reason i always seem to have a difficult time at the gas station. one time, the automatic shut-off decided not to work. gas spilled out of my tank and onto my summery sandaled feet. i came to work and got sent home b/c the fumes coming off of my feet were making people feel light-headed. i went home and soaked my shoes and my feet in vinegar. all that resulted was gassy-vinegar smelling shoes and feet. another time i drove away from the pump with the nozzle still in my tank. well, you can imagine... another time i filled up and realized that i had no money. well, THAT was embarrassing. and today, i reak of gas and i don't know why. i went to the pump, filled up, got back in my car, and drove away. normal right? well, for some reason the smell of gas on my person is overwhelming. i have no idea what happened! do i have gas on my shoes? sometimes my hair likes to soak up nasty smells, like smoke in bars. could that have happened? i do not like this. -SN

my pop starts another chapter

on this very day some even number of years ago my father was born. today is his birthday and i would like to honor him here.

when i was learning how to drive my parents both had stick shift cars. so, if i ever wanted to go anywhere i had to learn to find that "sweet spot." my dad's technique was to take me to this quiet street near our house that was on a big hill. he drove half way up, parked, and told me to get behind the wheel. "now," he said, "find the sweet spot." i rolled ALL the way down that hill backwards without ever finding it. "try again" he said. i gunned it, jerked forward, and stalled. "let your foot up easy, listen for it. the car's sound will change when you've got it right." slowly i began to inch my way up that hill.

and so it has gone my whole life. over the years my dad has again and again taught me how to find that "sweet spot." in life, as with cars, sometimes you have to roll backwards in order to move forward. and listening until you've "got it right" will help you inch upwards until you've reached the top of the hill.

but those were just a few of the life lessons that my dad has taught me. now, he never sat me down and said "sara, this is what you need to know." rather, he has put in the blood, sweat and tears to help shape the person i am today.

first, i'm a ghetto child. my dad chose to raise his daughters on "that" side of town. the side where people believed all the city's drugs came from, the side where mother's would not let their sons roam for fear of loss of innocence. it was the side where the BLACK people lived. many of my high school friends' were not allowed to come to my house b/c their parents said it was too dangerous. did that make me dangerous too? i never understood that. i LIVED there! and it was there where i learned to be a neighbor, where i learned to see the beauty that exists in the inner-city, and where i learned to ignore color.

second, coffee. when i was little my dad used to take me on coffee dates. or rather he ordered coffee and i ordered french fries. he did this b/c on Friday nights my older teenage sisters were out on dates of their own and going to football games. so my dad and i, we dated. he would sit and listen to me jabber and would sometimes perform amazing magic tricks with the salt and pepper shakers. and when i tried a trick he would pretend that it was the greatest, most impossible trick he'd ever seen. even when i'd drop the shaker on the floor, he would ignore the sound. lesson learned? i mattered.

third, there is always room to ease up. when i was a junior in high school my boyfriend at the time dumped me b/c his mother said we were getting "too serious." this was very funny b/c we were probably the two most innocent high schoolers to ever date. the most "serious" thing we ever did was almost get swept off of a pier in December while holding hands. anyway, on this particular night i was very late for my curfew...a big no no in the schipper house. i was never late for the sole reason that i had older sisters who had been. but on this particular night i was late and i knew that i was in big trouble. that, on top of being dumped as a 17 year-old, was almost enough reason to take my own life. when i got home, there paced my dad. when he turned around i had already braced myself for the worst. but, instead of a grounding i received his open arms. somehow he knew. lesson learned? rules are there for a reason, but hearts are more important. the next day the boy and i were back together...such is the life of a high schooler.

fourth, i received a letter from my dad when i turned 21, what he considered "monumental." his baby, 21! in that letter he explained how difficult life had been for him when i was born. at the time he was working at a JC Penny but was thinking about moving his family from Bradenton, Florida to Grand Rapids, Michigan where he would attend seminary, be unemployed, and try to be a dad all at once. He said that at the time of my birth he was at one of the lowest points of his life. I was a "surprise." That doesn't seem like the greatest letter to receive from your father on your birthday... but that wasn't how it ended. I'm not going to share the ending because it's all mine and i cherish it as my own. but, what I learned is that sharing weakness is God-honoring. admitting it can show the lengths you would go to love another.

fifth, laughter. when i was in high school i was on the volleyball team and my dad came to almost every one of my games. that in-and-of itself meant a lot to me. but, as a freshman i was a pretty weak player. it took all 87 pounds of me to push that ball just over the net when i served. not only did i have to use my arms, but i had to get my legs into it as well. every time it was my time to "serve" i knew my dad already had that twinkle in his eye and a smirk on his face. i couldn't look at him. after i would serve, the whole place would hold its breath, exhaling only when the ball would just drop over the net. that's when my dad's laugh would ring out. without exception my dad laughed after every one of my pathetic serves. only then could i look up at him and give him that, "holy cow, it went over!" face. i didn't mind my dad's laugh. it taught me not to take myself so seriously. life is meant to be fully enjoyed. my dad does that well and he's taught me how to do it too. and, i'm sure that i looked pretty ridiculous on that court anyway...i laugh just thinking about it.

i could obviously go on, but i'll end simply by wishing my dad a very happy birthday. thank you for teaching me to find the "sweet spots" love you lots. --s