Christianity, like any religion, has so many denominations and sects that it’s often hard for people who aren’t Christians to get a clear picture of what Christianity really is. In fact, I don’t think there really is a clear picture if you look at Christians/Christianity themselves.

I grew up in a small, conservative Mennonite church in rural Pennsylvania. There were around 200 members, most of whom were white and straight. As a child in the church I did feel love and happiness but it wasn’t until I became a teenager that things changed.

Some friends of mine began bringing friends of theirs to weekly youth group (a Wednesday night meeting where youth study the Bible and hang out together). It soon became apparent that youth leaders and youth parents were uncomfortable with having these teens hang out with their teens because they drank and smoked and weren’t “perfect little Christian teens.”

I soon realized that many members of this church were not accepting of people who were different than them. I became increasingly uncomfortable. To me a church should be a place of vulnerability and openness and when the biggest discussions the church has revolve around what type of music to sing or what kids should be allowed to hang out with their kids then church stops being church and starts being a members-only club.

In college this church went through a difficult, heartbreaking split with many people following the leader who brought the church to its destruction. It was hard and I gave up on churches in their pristine buildings where petty arguments and hatred overruled truth and light.

This is not to say that this whole church was a corrupt place. There were people there whom I loved and respected deeply, and still do. But when the church split it felt like a huge chasm appeared in my own faith. When the church stops being a place of unconditional love then it stops being what Jesus intended it to be. If we can’t be real in church and have the church respond in a supportive and loving way then where can we be real?

Over the last two years I started attending two Mennonite churches, one in NYC and one in Philly, where church was real. In these churches I shared about depression, suicide, and rape and no one judged me. As my words hung in the air and I feared for the worst, people took those words and held them. And then they held me. And they cried. And they loved. And they were church to me.

Other people shared about their struggles and shame, about being gay in the church, about having a disability, about failing to be perfect, about being taught that their “sins” were too great to be forgiven. And we took their words and we held them. And then we held the speakers of those words. And we cried, and loved, and were church.

And it is in these settings I can exuberantly proclaim that I am a Christian without any buts or caveats attached. And a clearer picture of Christianity emerges and it is beautiful and it is real.

And then there are the waking dreams. I see him in everything. On a day when the billowing clouds make just the right shapes I am taken back to summers on his fishing boat, drifting on the bay. Anytime a customer asks for a fig bar at work I am handing it to him– I always wanted him to try one because they would surely surpass the Fig Newtons he loved.

I see him in my mom’s features. I see him in my grandma’s tears. I see him everywhere and nowhere at the same time. And I’m angry. I am so angry. I don’t deal well with change, especially change like this. It’s too definite, too final. And it’s not fair.

Some days I don’t want to wake up from my dreaming because the dreams feel so real. Some days I imagine the real dream is that he’s gone and the reality is that he’s here and, somehow, I had them mixed up these last several months.

But I know I’ve had it right all along, as much as I try to deny it. So now all I can do is wait for sleep so he and I can go walking again.

Fast forward 4 years. I hate the trolley, and I mean hate it! I suppose after a year of riding on NYC’s excellent transportation system, I am more than a bit spoiled.

I abhor trudging out to the corner of 48th and Baltimore at 5:45 am on a Saturday to catch the trolley that only comes every twenty minutes to work.

The worst is getting back home. It seems like every time I try to make my way back to West Philly the good ‘ole 34 trolley takes its sweet ‘ole time coming down the pike.

The 10, 13, and 36 go by. Followed by the 11. And then the 10 again. Still no 34. It’s cold down in the station and inevitably someone lights a blunt or a cigarette beside me and blows the smoke in my face. Oh the warmth.

Finally the 34 lumbers down the track, overcrowded as usual since everyone and their brother were waiting for it for the last thirty minutes. Surprisingly, there’s an empty seat. What luck, a seat on a crowded trolley! Only after I place my butt on the plastic do I realize why it’s empty: unidentified stickiness. Too late now. I’m already down and I’m not getting up until 48th.

Another reason I hate the trolley: it never fails that while winding through the corridors of the 15th Street station to get to the trolley stop I will get hit by the unbearable smell of piss. One moment I’m hauling ass up the steps and around the corner, the next I’m blindsided by the smell of urine. My eyes water and my arms flounder wildly in the piss cloud quickly encircling my body. Lurching forward I round the next bend and breathe the stale, musty air of the trolley stop. Relief!

Another downside: the trolley is on tracks. Obvious I know. This means that when the trolley is cruising above ground it cannot dodge things that cars can: vehicles parked in the middle of the street with their four-ways on (a Philly staple), slow traffic, or construction. During these instances the driver either honks their horn persistently or, in the case of construction, we all tumble out of the trolley and onto a bus for a a couple of blocks.

Yes, the trolley is a thorn in my flesh but it’s a necessary evil. Despite my distaste, I always feel a sense of relief and joy when I see that ‘ole 34 a’rumblin  towards me. The doors swing open and the driver’s familiar face welcomes me aboard. “34 to 61st and Baltimore!” And home we go.

What to do, what to do? My usual fall back, a loaf of bread from the bakery where I work, is super stale and half eaten. No go. For goodness sake I don’t even have crackers and cheese! Frozen mac and cheese will take too long. So it’s down to apples or cereal.

I go with the sliced apples and peanut butter, grab both dishes, and rush out the door. Who knows, maybe if people are desperate they’ll eat the potato mush.

Turns out, they did! And I didn’t even have to pay them!

Tuesdays nights have become one of my favorite nights of the week because of these potlucks. Known as Togethering, these meals are chance for members of West Philly Mennonite who live in West Philly to get together, eat good food, and enjoy each other’s company. Simple as that. (And anyone is welcome).

And the added bonus: no one seems to mind my terrible cooking! Oh the joys of the Mennonite potluck.

1. Just because you have a “ticket” does not mean you have a seat on the bus. Many buses, particularly Chinatown buses, oversell tickets. Arrive early, 20 minutes or more, to ensure your spot in line. If there is a line. Be warned that there may be a rowdy mob pushing to get into the bus doors. Do not worry, this only lasts a few minutes and then you will be safely aboard the bus. Bottom line: you do not have a spot on the bus until your butt is in the seat, period.

2. Don’t be concerned with seat numbers. The only people who care about these are overly stressed first time riders. Everyone else sits wherever the hell they please. Unless of course the driver yells at you in Mandarin that you cannot sit in the front two seats.

3. Always come prepared to combat weird smells: piss, puke, crotch rot, untraceable smells, what have you. A few creative ideas I’ve learned from other passengers to keep bad smells at bay: squeeze a bottle of shower gel gently under your nose. The puffs of air release pleasant aromas that can overtake the nasties. Bring a bottle of Febreze and spray the surrounding seats and air. Flowers also work. I was never more appreciative of the flowers my dad gives me each birthday as I was last year when the drunk man beside me peed himself five minutes into my four hour journey back to NYC. Those flowers stayed pressed to my nose the entire trip. Overwhelming piss smell? Never even noticed it!

4. Do not be alarmed by strange noises (get your mind out of the gutter!). You may hear the flick of a lighter, an overbearing snore, a woman talking excitedly in high pitched tones. Do not let these bother you. They are normal sounds aboard a cheap bus line. If you let them get to you, you might just blow up and end up cursing someone out. This makes you look like a fool. Or a hero. There is a thin line between the two.

5. Close your eyes. While you are hurtling down the highway at record speeds, your large tour bus flying by every car and truck in sight, simply close your eyes. No, it is not likely that you will die on this trip, although it may feel like you will. The Chinatown bus is just doing its duty to get you to your destination on time. And trust me, it will. (Note: Chinatown buses are the only ones that get you to your location on time. Megabus and Bolt Bus are always 30 minutes to 3 hours late).

6. Bring snacks and water. No need to explain.

7. If possible keep your bag with you at all times. Putting your bag underneath the bus makes it susceptible to strange liquids being spilled on it or 50 pound suitcases being thrown on it. I always keep my bag on my lap,  no matter how uncomfortable it is.

8. DO NOT, I repeat DO NOT, under any circumstances, use the bus bathroom.

9. Bring layers. It never fails on these buses that the temperatures will take you from the Arctic to the Florida Keys and back again. With your layers you can strip down to as close to naked as possible without breaking any laws or slap on sweater after sweater til your heart’s content. Socks are always a must because your feet will freeze.

10. Have fun and enjoy your trip! Smile because while your friends and family are spending an arm and a leg on gas to fill their cars or are spending three times the cost of your bus ticked by taking the train, you, my friend, are on a cheap bus line, the standard of the world! And you will get to your destination on time. Mostly in one piece. Congratulations!

I must say that January birthdays are the best and, no, I am not biased at all. While the rest of my family and friends are lamenting the end of the holiday season, I am bubbling with excitement and anticipation at the near arrival of my special day. While the weather is (normally) cold and dreary, the promise of my birthday makes the weather seem a little less frightful.

I think I say this every birthday but 23 was the best year so far and I look forward to what 24 will bring!

A friend of mine asked me on my birthday last year to reminisce on being 22: what did I learn, what did I love, what did I lose? Well here are a few remembrances on being 23.

I learned that I love being with people. Little old introverted me, who prefers being at home to being most anywhere else, gets so much energy from being surrounded by people.

I loved my community and church in New York City. This incredible group of people in this incredible city provided the space for me to explore myself.

I lost this great community in one sense but I gained another. I lost my dear, dear grandfather and I still have trouble grappling with the hole he has left.

My 23rd year of life was full in so many ways. Full of challenges, full of love, full of life, full of sorrow. Simply put, it was full. And I hope 24 will be filled to the brim as well.

I don’t typically set New Year’s resolutions because I think they are cheesy, cliche, and doomed to failure buuut I do believe in birthday resolutions because they are most certainly NOT cheesy, cliche, or doomed to failure. And since my birthday coincides pretty darn well with the New Year, well, what better timing? So here they are…

A Few Goals for a 24 Year Old Megan:

Learn Spanish at a conversational level.

Actually keep up this silly blog and post once a week.

Read every David James Duncan book.

“Work out” 3 times a week, whatever that may entail!

Bike to work, bike to work, bike to work! (And avoid hitting trolley tracks!)

Go on a silent, meditative retreat.

Make a new crochet project once a month.

Learn how to cook…finally. (Ok I know how to cook, it just doesn’t taste good so really this should read “Make good tasting food…and not by accident”).

Go backpacking for a weekend, kayaking for a weekend, hiking for a weekend, camping for a weekend. If possible, all at once.

That’s the shortlist for now and I share it with you my friends so that I can be held accountable for all this nonsense. Thank you all for your love and support in my 23rd year of life! Here’s to the 24th year, in all its glory.

My fear of criticism is combined with an acute fear of failure and an impulse to get everything accomplished at lightning speed. Recipe for disaster.

I remember very vividly as a fifth grader taking the metal back of my eraserless pencil and scraping it across my forehead when I got a bad test grade. Bad being a 93 or something like that.

In middle school I decided the best way to avoid criticism was to point out my mistakes or flaws before anyone else did. You know, beat ‘em to the punch.

“So guys look at this gut I’ve got goin’ on. Gotta lose a few huh?”

“Did you hear how bad I played guitar and sang it chapel? I mean talk about hitting all the wrong notes!”

I finally realized that tactic was just stupid. No one wants to get in a conversation with someone who constantly puts themselves down. Also, I was imagining that everyone in the world (and I mean everyone) could see the extra 0.5 pounds I had gained or could hear when I missed that one note. Turns out, probably no one would have even noticed until I pointed it out to them. So much for that little stunt!

As I grew older I became much more confident in myself and my abilities. I no longer have to say things like, “Haha wow how much do I suck at basketball?” But I still wrestle with that demon of overly critical self.

Part of the reason (or maybe most of the reason) I had such a difficult time at my job last year was because of the way that I perceived my boss perceived me (do you follow?). My boss was a take-shit-from-no-one type of person and I was a take-everyone’s-shit-even-if-it’s-not-meant-to-be-shit-and-smear-it-on-your-face type person. Baaad match.

I recall sitting in a meeting with her and my co-worker and they were tearing up (not literally) a report draft I had written. Now this is natural and necessary in the editing process and they were simply trying to make my writing, and the report, the best that it could be. But I could not handle it.

I became flushed, defensive, and agitated. Tears stung my eyes. I felt faint. Air, must get air! 

“Are you okay?” My boss asked me.

“Yep. I’m fine,” came my curt reply. “I just need some water.” With that I rushed out of their office, hid in my cubicle, and cried quietly for a few seconds. Calm down, calm down, calm down. Why are you crying? 

As unfortunate as it is, crying is my first reaction to most things. Stub a toe, cry. Get yelled at, cry. Mess up at work, cry. That little stinging sensation always bubbles up behind my eyes not matter how hard I try to force it back.

I came back into the office, somewhat composed and saw that it was just my boss. My coworker was nowhere in sight. THIS was my worst fear at the time: being alone in a room with my boss.

Turns out the conversation that ensued was one of the best I had with her that whole year. She explained she was trying to help me, not trying to diminish me. It was a huge relief and I suddenly felt incredibly empowered…and incredibly foolish.

Even in my new job I often have trouble with this still. It’s especially bad when I get a critique via email because there are no tonal cues. Invariably I always assume that any critiquing email is sent using the angriest possible tone:

“This paper needs a lot of work” really means “This paper is the worst piece of garbage I have ever seen. I want to vomit. You suck at life! “

It’s called reading between the lines and, yeah, you could say it’s a gift.

To think so much headache was caused last year because of silly perception issues, misread emails, and fear of failing. Learning it’s okay to make mistakes and accept criticism is unfortunately going to be a lifelong trial for me but it’s doable. I may not be ready to make the leap into the land of uninhibited criticsm but maybe I can handle a few stairs and maybe a few bruises along the way.

I was taken aback by the question. She hadn’t even acknowledged my presence beside her since I got on the trolley 10 minutes before.

“Well I have a few friends who suffer from anxiety but don’t know anyone with social anxiety. I’m sure it’s a thing though.”

Sure it’s a thing though? Come on Megan, how stupid do you sound right now!

“I’m sure me sitting this close to you doesn’t help,” I went on to say, “I could move if you want to me to.”

“No, no. It helps to have someone to talk to.” She went on to tell me that she’s suffered from social anxiety on the trolley for the last 10 years. Yes, she has talked to someone about it. No, it hasn’t helped. No, she doesn’t know what causes it.

I wished I had some comforting advice to give her. “I’m so sorry you have to deal with that,” I said. “I truly hope it gets better for you. Have a good day,” I stammered as I got off at my stop.

Her words and the look on her face kept coming back to me: the tears, the nervousness. “Do you know anyone who suffers from social anxiety?”

How difficult it must have been for her to talk to me, a complete stranger about it. Or maybe that was the easiest thing. I felt bad for judging her as rude when she ignored my polite, “Can I sit here?”

As someone who grew up with anxiety and depression and, eventually, suicidal thoughts and even an attempt, I knew what it was like to hold that in until, without a second thought, blurting it all out to a complete stranger. I hope her confession gave her a sense of release. I hope my words gave her some kind of comfort.

But, in the end, I’m sure she doesn’t remember anything I said. My words weren’t that important. The most important thing was that she dared to speak up.

The culprit? A large potted tree in the bathroom that dear Timo gave his mother when he was in elementary school. It was small at the time, like he was, yet it now takes over the far corner of the bathroom by the window. In its nearly two decades of life the tree has always been a blend of brown and green, roots and leaves. Until recently.

Now it sprouts long stems of beautiful flowers. Each one resembles a firework bursting, long white lights shooting out from the center. Pop! And with the explosion comes the fragrance. And with the fragrance comes the stark reminder that the plant exists.

I was talking to a friend yesterday about how restless I am in this phase of my life and she gave me these words from Thomas Merton: “Love winter, when the plant says nothing.” She went on to remind me that winter may appear to be a desolate time but, underneath the ground, living things are preparing for the spring when they will bloom.

It’s hard to know how long the winter will last (this poor plant was in winter for years) but when it ends the spring will be all the more fragrant.

Kindergarten through 12th grade I attended a Mennonite affiliated school which meant no proms and no homecomings and no talk of the beautiful connection between the body and the spirit and how dancing can free the soul.

Last night at the bakery an old woman leaning heavily on a cane placed a few extra coins in my tip jar. “So you can go dancing,” she said.

Normally I would have tried to stifle a chuckle, thinking, “Oh lady, if only you knew the danger of the statement. Me, dancing? Ha!” But instead all I could do was smile at such a simple but profound phrase.

So you can go dancing. Her words keep ringing in my ears and I feel more and more compelled to claim them as my New Year’s theme.

So you can go dancing, oh you of little rhythm and grace. You of a restless, wandering spirit. You of an unsettled heart. So you can go dancing.

I want this new year to be about the things that make me dance, in every and any sense of the word. I want to grasp what sets my soul free. I want to move my feet to the rhythm of life lived in the present. I want to embrace challenges in spite of my two left feet and the trepidation that comes with them.

So on this New Year’s Day I wish you a few more coins in your jar so you too may go dancing.

Happy New Year!