Uncategorized – Page 5 – Kayley Chartier

Blooms in a Bucket

There is a Home Depot bucket in the center of our lawn containing a just-now-flowering tulip magnolia tree. I guess it’s not exactly on the lawn–it’s in the dirt section we cleared to landscape and hopefully plant that tree in… two years ago. It’s a really beautiful tree that honestly should be in the ground, but it seems to be doing well for now. The irony is that bright orange beacon of a bucket. I love how something so coarse—something so unexpected and almost foolish—could so effectively house something so lovely.

The month of March has been one giant mix of that same bloom of hope inside a Home Depot bucket. I wish I could say more about it, but for now I’ll just say that I applied for something at the beginning of the month, went through the process of hoping, then doubting-myself enough to throw the proverbial crumpled paper in the trash, subsequently removing said crumpled paper, and being more than pleasantly surprised at the result. I have things to look forward to for the following year. God has resurrected dreams and been faithful to bring them to fruition, and I am so thankful for his faithfulness.

On another note, friends has been a theme this month. The day of Saint Patrick’s Day I arrived home right after work, which, considering the fact that I am NEVER home before 10:30pm, was already cause for concern.

The day before I realized that I had been so excited for my Spring Break plans that I skipped not one, but two weeks of planning in my scheduled lessons:

Anyway, my brain was a fried egg. When I got home, a box from my dear college friend, Erika, was waiting for me. Inside was the most thoughtful collection of gifts and trinkets: face mask and scrub for relaxation; tea, hot chocolate and apple cider to drink while I relax; Ghiradelli squares for that chocolate fix; play dough for stress-relief (I’ve used that a ton this week); glow sticks for funzies, and two shamrock necklaces for St. Patty’s. It was the most thoughtful and timely thing. In her note, she mentioned how I had looked tired on our Zoom call a week before and even if she couldn’t directly help lighten the load, at least she could lighten my spirits. What an amazing friend.

The box was timely in other ways, too. Days later I received a series of sobering letters from an old friend. I’ll spare the details, but it was a less-than-joyful subject. I questioned my ability to call myself a good friend and fell into a slump, but the somber feeling lasted only for a day because God blessed me one more time with a surprise AM visit from my best friend. We drank tea and gloried in God’s faithfulness to both of us. We only had two hours, but those two hours were desperately needed. I’m still in awe of this ten year friendship that has, by the grace of God, survived military-induced communication barriers and lots of long-distance. I love you, Toler!!

Rules for surprise Kenzie visits: 1) She will come in without warning (she knows our door code), probably holding a cat she picked up outside. 2) She will walk in wearing shoes, take them off, and leave without said shoes, resulting in you chasing her car for a few seconds down the street before she realizes what’s going on. This will never change.

Speaking of friends, my other best friend and I celebrated nine months together last week! We sat on the phone last night reviewing the photos we’ve sent each other over the course of our relationship. It was sweet to see us progress from the tentative, safe realm of food photos to weirder memes as we got more comfortable. Hilarity ensued. Here are some of the greats:

One of the high school students made some creative edits of Mr. Chartier. MIB? MIBPS? (Men in blue pinstripes??)

My plague mask I was THIS close to buying. It seemed so fitting back in the lockdown world of June 2020.

Calvin’s bunny outfit that apparently got him in huge trouble in high school. It was a security issue, but still—sometimes I wish educators would lighten up enough to let their students actually enjoy school.

The last one is one of the reasons we’re dating. When the head of our church’s pantry asked if I wanted a partner to help me pick up the bread we’d distribute, I knew it was my in for asking Calvin to hang out. Later on she clarified that I didn’t actually need help. I didn’t tell him that until later. The rest is history. 😉

Speaking of God’s faithfulness, this sweet man brought me a surprise latte in between my parent teacher conferences Wednesday. I didn’t realize how stressed I had been until I was able to hold my coffee and be held for a minute. About a year ago I went through the most painful breakup of my life, and I’ve never been more grateful for anything because it meant finding someone who gets me and makes me laugh and encourages me to look to Jesus in everything. I love him so much. He works hard at school and digs trenches for work like a character in Les Miserables without complaining. He brings me lattes at work and I love listening to him play guitar and crush it at his CrossFit competitions.

He is the unexpected flowers in the Home Depot bucket and I am in awe of a God who would bless me so richly.

Baptize my Mind

This year began with a plunge into the ocean. In the middle of the night, straight into cold water–the exact kind of thing I usually don’t like. I told Calvin I was going to need to be thrown in if I was going to do this midnight dip thing, and he happily obliged. I remember bracing, closing my eyes as tightly as I could, and suddenly being in the air. Then came the plunge. The feeling was what I imagine getting shut into a washing machine would be like. A few seconds went by before I emerged and opened my eyes. At first I legitimately didn’t know where I was.

My brain was saying one thing only. Run.

We sprinted back up the beach, up the long Seacliff stairs under a shower of fireworks, and back through the softly illuminated seaside neighborhood, shouting and laughing as we ran. I was in utter disbelief at what had just happened. One minute I was dreading the icy waves, the next I was feeling clean and invigorated and happy. The night ended with the six of us packed into a friend of a friend’s backyard sauna singing songs and doing bad impressions and stand up. In the sauna my sister and I sat across from each other and giggled. What kind of fever dream was this?

Since then things haven’t been as crazy fun… they’ve just been crazy. First of all, school started back up with one week online before we headed back into the classroom. It’s been mostly great, but also, try taking 35 teenagers who have just spent a month at home and tell them to write poetry while their friends who get to go to virtual school are at home in their fuzzy socks.

Also, as of late my car has been having some expen$ive issues resulting in me having to use my dad’s car, which then started having its own issues. To be more detailed, issues like stalling on the freeway during the biggest storm of the year and hydroplaning across three lanes. That wasn’t my idea of a great Tuesday night activity, but hey, I’m just happy nothing super serious happened.

Someone humorously remarked that so far, 2021 is just 2020 with bangs. I’m seeing it. But before the New Year I prayed over a word to focus on, pray over, and hopefully grow into. After a few days of praying it became clear that that word was “peace,” which sounds great and doable at Christmas when the word is plastered on every card and Christmassy ornament, and nearly impossible to achieve when you’ve spun out on the freeway in the middle of a rainstorm.

One of the more peaceful moments: a hike and mountaintop wine and dinner for our 7 months. ☺️

But I do need peace. His peace. And as I’ve prayed into this word this last month, I have come to viscerally learn the difference it makes when I stop myself and my spiraling thoughts and ask (more like beg) to be shown His peace. My struggle with anxiety and perfectionism means that there will always be a battle for my heart between those two really bad masters I keep trying to serve and the one Good Master who has already served me and set me free. This quest for peace, then, isn’t a journey toward something Jesus hasn’t already given to me. It’s a battle for my passions, the things my heart chooses to focus on. It’s a battle to take captive every thought that sets itself up against the truth I have in Christ and make it obey him (2 Cor. 10:5). And in that battle He’s already fighting for me, I receive the gift He has already bought for me: peace.

So this year, my goal is to truly take each anxious thought captive–to chase it down, hog tie it, throw it in the back of the truck (where did I get a truck?), and bring it to Sea Cliff State beach. Then I will carry it down to the sand, bend low and then spring up, throwing it into the icy water to be washed. Then I’ll pray that it stumbles back up the slope, a bit disoriented, but mostly invigorated and full of His life and His purpose–ready to run freely through the street below the glow of fireworks.

Lord, help me to reign in my anxious thoughts and baptise my mind with your peace.

We’re not Lost

In the quiet of the morning I take my coffee and park, as I have since I can remember, on the stairs overlooking the living room. Red and green light flashes softly from the scraggly tree in the corner, illuminating the two dozen snowflakes that hover over the room, suspended in their fall by navy blue thread.

To be honest, Christmas crept up on me this year—what with new pandemic regulations restricting many of the traditions I usually use to mark our progress through the season. (Particularly missing Streets of Bethlehem: a live nativity-meets-market that tells the Christmas story with costumed vendors inviting guests to make their own spice blends, spin wool, eat flatbread, and watch a teenage Mary and Joseph try to find a place to stay. It’s amazing.)

Not only that, but the flurry of Dead Week and Finals, moving from in-person classes to Zoom right before breaking for Christmas was NUTS. I don’t think I’ve ever had more emails in my inbox at a time.

And yet, there’s this shining moment of peace with my coffee and my cat and at least a few more minutes of dark before I make myself go out and run.

You don’t need me to tell you that this year has been a trip right from the start. My own pandemic experience was unique in that I went through my first breakup just days before lockdown, which was honestly great timing because no one really questioned why I was staying home! God was so gentle with me in those months, bringing so much hope and healing with the promise of something new.

My chicken coop was very symbolic of that period. The old coop we used as a foundation was a lost cause. And yet, we took something pretty beat up and made it into something beautiful. Even the timing of it was symbolic. It took months to build, and by the time I was finishing up with the paint, the sweet boy who fixed my computer and helped me hand out groceries to the needy was calling me on the phone. We spent those early months talking books and travel and about our faith and really becoming friends. In the year that everyone is calling “lost,” I found him—the kindest heart I have ever known. I’m sure glad those moments weren’t lost on me.

Then there was finishing my Master’s, which was no small feat. To all of you who have spent the last 6 months complaining about Zoom school, try doing 15 grad classes with zero lectures, a million books to read, oh! And each class is five weeks long with no breaks in between. I didn’t have the Colorado mountain-graduation I was expecting, but I did walk away with a sense of accomplishment I was afraid I’d miss out on by doing school online.

Studying the Bible in depth deepened both my appreciation for the scriptures as well as my faith. That wasn’t lost on me.

Then there was teaching English for the first time, which honestly felt like running on a treadmill that’s floating down a river on a pallet. Four grades, three courses, a million and one lessons learned. I’m so grateful for the opportunity, not only to teach works I’ve studied and loved, but also to connect with students in a year they’ll remember forever: a year people will try to tell them didn’t matter. It’s been encouraging me to tell them with all the joy and conviction in my heart that this moment DOES matter because God is still working when they can’t see it. That was not lost on me.

Neither was praying with students at youth group after we discussed their very hard, very real questions—nor was the opportunity to even be meeting IN PERSON with students every week, playing, encouraging, and worshipping alongside them.

Nor was dancing in the light of the Intern House Christmas tree after my love put together a day of cheesy Christmas things I’ll remember forever.

Nor is sitting at the table with my grandparents eating French toast.

Each year presents an equal opportunity to get lost, or to get lost in God. Six years ago I started reading Genesis with the knowledge that the same God who guided Abraham into the wilderness could also walk with me into the unknowns of January, and each January after that. I haven’t been the same since.

I’m not naturally good at living in the moment, but perhaps this slower year has taught me how. I think it starts with acknowledging God’s character: his steadfastness, his mercy when we’re hardheaded, his ability to counsel, comfort, and guide and bless beyond what we could ever dream. That knowledge gives way to gratitude, which I’m realizing is the real secret to contentment even in a crap year. I can *actually* stand with Paul and be content, not on my own strength but in the strength of the Lord:

“I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through him who gives me strength.”
Philippians 4:12-13

In 2020, and even in 2021, we’re not lost when His many gifts are not lost on us.

Merry Christmas and wishing you the blessing of a deeper relationship with Him in the New Year,

Kayley

Pride and Paint Color Prejudice

It is a truth universally acknowledged that an in-progress home project will always make the neighbors wonder what the heck you’re doing with your already-chaotic scrap-metal Millwright Mecca/chicken-haven of a property.

There are streaky lines in the stucco where enormous cracks have been patched, and the once turquoise-green trim has been sanded into ugly patches. If that weren’t enough, there’s a commercial shipping container that looks like a train car in the driveway to temporarily house my dad’s work materials.

My boyfriend can attest that I was happy about none of this for about a week. First world problems, I know. For the 20 years that I’ve lived here, our house has been white, and in my stability-seeking, change-fearing mind, this did not need to change—except since my parents are trying to refinance, it totally did.

The other day when I was whining about how much I hated the new paint color, I asked him if I was being ridiculous. His look, though supportive and gentle, said something along the lines of “you are freaking out over a PAINT COLOR, so yes.” Turns out moving back and forth between military houses where you can’t just paint the walls or change the carpets gives you a healthier perspective on things. Paint and carpets and even houses are just things! They’re temporary. And the sooner I learn to let go of the things I can’t change, the easier my life will be. (And I actually do like the new color now!)

Blurry car pic from our Pacifica expedition two weeks ago. The star of this post is really him. Thank you for lovingly telling me when I’m being ridiculous and for praying with me. And for taking me to boujie Taco Bell’s for the best chalupas I’ve ever had in my life! ❤

That was lesson one for this month.

Lesson two could be filed under any of the following: 1) Learning to Ask for Help; 2) Learning to Ask for Help When You’re Standing in the Dark Behind the Church and Bleeding; or the ever-practical #3) You Should Have Sucked it Up and Gotten Stitches, You Big Dummy. I urge you to exit this page now if you’re the squeamish type (I’m not) because the cut isn’t worth the trouble telling you about if I can’t show you.

(Seriously. Leave now, or at least squint a little bit as you scroll if blood makes you puke.)

On Wednesday night, one week after a high school youth group student accidentally kicked me full-on in the shin during a game of yoga ball soccer, I cut open my other shin. It was a game similar to a hide and seek scavenger hunt for the adult leaders, and I was NOT going to be found. Except I was found… twice. After being discovered behind a palm tree, I decided enough was enough, tried to jump from a 3’ high ledge in the dark, and landed in a pile of leaves behind the church. Honestly, I would’ve been fine had my leg cleared the ledge. A searing pain shot up my right leg. I hoped it wasn’t broken.

Knowing that I was injured but too stupid to give up my position just yet, I limped down a dirt road and hid behind the church, waiting for the game to end while wondering where the water dripping down my leg was coming from. (I thought it was runoff from that morning’s rain but later learned it was blood.)

***

Asking for help is not my forte. And neither is sitting it out when I know that I’m probably incapable of going on. When I cut my knee open on a loose nail in my grandparent’s rented RV, 5 year-old me opted to keep my leg completely straight for three weeks to avoid getting stitches. Just last week, I hit my head on a brick staircase and, despite my suspicion that I had gotten a mild concussion, drove home anyway. The next day at work, just minutes after discussing my dizziness and light sensitivity with a co-worker, a freestanding whiteboard fell on my head and either gave me a concussion or just made the existing one worse.

Volleyball circle in the church’s new event tent. High school group is hands-down my favorite event of the week!

I asked Calvin the other day, “What exactly is God trying to teach me with all of these injuries?” I recounted my schedule—how I’ve been getting up at 4:00am recently to prep for work; teaching during the day and working at church in the evening; stressing about silly things like paint colors; and carrying these things day after day like a pack mule. He said he didn’t know, but that it probably had to do with pride.

Ah, yes. That old familiar friend who convinced me that drinking 5 cups of coffee a day my junior year of college was worth getting all As, even though it also meant developing stomach ulcers. Pride tells me that I am capable of controlling the outcome—that working myself to death is somehow worth the pat on the back.

But is it? I’ve been trying to work out whether this is a good exchange rate, and the bandage on my leg is telling me it’s not.

Pride says to strive, but God says to rest (Psalm 46:10).

Pride says perfection is attainable, but God says He’s perfect in my weakness (2 Cor. 12:9).

Pride promises praise but ultimately keeps me unsatisfied, because even when I’m busting my butt making the world’s greatest lesson-plans, I can’t control the level of effort my students put into their work.

So maybe, just maybe…. seeking perfection and control is a sham and God is right:

“I have seen all the works which have been done under the sun, and behold, all is vanity and striving after wind.”
Ecclesiastes 1:14

Striving for perfection and control can be as self-centered and useless as speaking in the tongues of angels without love (1 Cor. 13:1). Plus, I’m of little use to anyone if I’m knocked out or literally unable to walk.

The extremely purple, quite imperfect, but pretty tasty scones we made last night. They remind me of that one MacDonald’s character who looks like a huge McNugget. Google says his name is Grimace, which, to me seems like a weird name for a smiley purple thing, but who am I to judge what a fast food chain names their anthropomorphic chicken nuggets? Anyway, point is, embracing the imperfect.

***

Before the trim on the house was painted, all I could see were the course spots where the old paint had been buffed out. I quietly wondered what our neighbors thought—if they thought we’d leave the house in that state. But it doesn’t matter. Those ugly patches are being revealed, and that’s potentially embarrassing.

But the thing is, they’re being revealed.

Now the new paint will stick—and though that process isn’t very attractive, it’ll result in something fresh and beautiful and worthwhile and new.