Two Top

Nice to Meet You, I’m Number 3

{ March 16, 2011 @ 8:56 pm } · { California, Oakland }
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I’ve lived in California for almost three years. I’ve been summoned twice for the noble task of jury duty. The first time, I asked to be excused because the timing was completely inconvenient. The second time, I went in.

It was late November. Everyone told me the likelihood of actually being chosen was low. I figured I’d just get out of work for a day, hang out at the Oakland courthouse, and hopefully get some reading done. Right?

After watching an incredibly lame dvd about how wonderful jury duty is, my name was called. I was herded with 125 other potential jurors to the courtroom. The judge explained that this was a murder trial. He wanted us to fill out a questionnaire and then return two days later. Ok… interesting. So I sat in the jury room filling out 25 pages about my beliefs and ties to the legal system.

Two days later, we all returned. By random, they called up 12 people to sit in the jury box. They handed the first juror a microphone and started asking questions about their paperwork. I was frozen. Seriously? They are going to have us explain ourselves in front of a hundred people? I started sweating. What did I write again? Was it stupid? Incorrect? How does my hair look?

One by one, the lawyers dismissed jurors and called up new ones for questioning. It was obvious the people who wanted out. It was obvious the people who wanted in. I couldn’t figure out the rhyme or reason as to who they were keeping and dismissing. Finally, on the second day, they called up Janelle Stanelle.

I stammered through questions about my work, my volunteer roles, my husband’s job, my past speeding tickets, my name and why it rhymes… It was painful, but it ended. Now all I had to do was wait until they dismissed me like all the other jurors before me. Two days passed, dozens more questioned, and I remained. That’s how I became juror number 3.

For the two weeks to follow, instead of heading to work in Berkeley, I got on the subway to downtown Oakland. Every day, I walked through a metal detector, took a private elevator to a secured floor, said hello to our armed guard, and took a seat in a bulletproof locked room. My days were filled with reviewing evidence, listening to witnesses, and learning about the differences between 1st and 2nd degree murder and manslaughter.

I wish I could explain all of the details related to the trial. The truth is, there is gang activity involved and I’m happy to keep some anonymity. Somehow I ended up as the foreman and was tasked with “leading” the other jurors in the deliberation process. Three days of discussion and we came to our conclusion.

As we filed back into the courtroom, we gave our verdict. I stared straight ahead and barely glanced at the defendant, who was surrounded with police officers. Families were crying, but somehow the room was absolutely silent. We walked back up to our jury room, gathered our items, and headed on our way.

I guess I tell this story, because I just learned of the defendant’s punishment. The judge sentenced him to 60 years to life in prison. That sits really strangely with me. He committed the crime, that’s not a question. But to know that someone is spending their life in jail because of something you did is a weird feeling. I don’t feel guilty, but I don’ t feel guiltless. I just am sitting in the fact that I helped do this. What is justice? What is the justice that God calls us to? And how do we love both mercy and justice?

Legal Pad Meets Post-It Notes: a love story

{ January 17, 2011 @ 1:25 pm } · { Hopes, Oakland, Work }
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I sat on my porch yesterday and smoked a cigarette. With my Tecate in hand, I shivered and zipped up my winter jacket. It was 63 degrees.

I walked to Trader Joe’s to pick up some persimmons for dinner. It’s beautiful and backwards here. Flowers bloom boldly with the winter rain.

I spent time at a community center in East Oakland. I listened to stories of shootings at the liquor store down the block, of drug deals, of children being recruited by gangs. I played Connect Four with a 13-year-old girl who wants to go to college.

I think I stopped blogging because, well, life here has become normal. The shock of this place has worn off and potential blog topics have become pieces of my normalcy. Sort of. I recently realized that I am continually adapting. Adaptation is different from integration. I am not integrated. If I blog, I become a voyeur. Sometimes that’s easier than being a participant.

Today, I looked at my empty calendar and felt relief. I had no meetings, no plans, no appointments. Eric was at work.

On the days that I am motivated enough to do yoga or P90X, I think a lot about breathing. You breathe out as you flex, you breathe in as you relax. My life feels like a constant exhalation. I pour into work, into challenging relationships at work, into my neighborhood, into my church, into my CASA girls, into friendship attempts. I am always ten steps behind and even spending time with “friends” is work. When I look through my calendar, all I see is muscle flexing. Solitude and Eric are my creature comforts.

Last October, Eric got an email. A pediatric surgeon with whom he worked took interest in his skill set. Unbeknownst to us, she arranged a potential research position for Eric with her mentor. Her email asked if we would consider moving to New York City for a year. We laughed. Us? In New York? The Upper East Side? At the most prestigious oncological research center in the world?

As a courtesy, we followed her steps; sent in the resume, emailed the program director, called the assistant, etc. We waited patiently for everything to crash. Surely, the money won’t be enough to sustain us. Most likely, we will never find housing. Quite possibly, this won’t be as great of a job as communicated. Perhaps, I won’t be able to leave my job.

In early December, Eric was invited for an interview. We prayed. The same day, I got a bonus check which easily covered the cost of a last-minute flight and hotel. We prayed. He flew on a Monday morning, had a 15 minute interview, and flew back Tuesday afternoon. We prayed.

As he climbed in the car at SFO, we looked at each other and realized that we were moving to New York. The money is enough, the housing is supplied, the position is truly a fantastic opportunity, my job is open for my return. Of course, we mulled through all of the details. Eric’s mind works like a bulleted legal pad, mine functions in a mosaic of colored post-it notes. So trust me, we went down every possible avenue and explored each detail in full. In the end, we both knew it was foolish to decline this gift.

Maybe this is my inhalation. Eric will work 30-40 hour weeks and gain holidays off. I can work or volunteer. We can spend time together and explore a new city. Is this a gift of air from God? Is this a trajectory for Eric’s career? Either way, we are amazed at the love of our God. We are filled with gratitude and ready for some time away.

P.S. I don’t smoke. It just seemed like a good idea until I felt sick. 🙂

Table for One

{ June 18, 2010 @ 4:46 pm } · { Relationships }
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I recently reread some of my posts on relationships. In September 2008, I wrote about my lack of community. Yet, I still had hope that it would come. In August 2009, still no significant friendships, and I mused that my loneliness might be my own fault – that I was possibly closing people out. Now it’s June 2010. I want to tell you about all of my new amazing friends; our last trip to Tahoe, the recent documentary we saw together, our Wednesday night happy hour at the local dive bar, our book club, our Bible study, our cookouts, or the regular gatherings to watch “The Bachelorette”.

But I can’t.

Last week, Eric and I were invited to a couple’s house for drinks. They wanted to introduce us to two of their best friends. In the past six months, we have been spending a significant amount of time with them and their friends. After an evening of pleasantries, talk of movies, good restaurants, and church programs, Eric and I left. As we drove home, something welled up in me. Deep. Like from the pit of my stomach. Many times, I experience emotions before I know the reason for them being there. And if you’re like me, that interim period between feeling and knowing is really frustrating.

As I began my infamous verbal processing, I quickly realized that I was overwhelmed with anger. “Two hours!” I kept screaming at Eric. “Two hours! TWO HOURS!! And no one asked me a single question.” Then I cried. Because sadly, this is very normal.

I suddenly realized that I have changed. That in the past two years, I’ve learned that I have nothing to say. I’ve been shunned, corrected, shot down. Many days, I’ve been forgotten, unrecognized, not invited, the outsider. I can’t explain it unless you’ve lived here, experienced it, felt the weight of it. I could tell you so many examples, so many stories that have brought me to this place.

We examined this from a couple of angles. Is it the people? People who are comfortable talking solely about TV, the weather, vacations, and grad school? Maybe it’s just a midwest thing that I expect so much more out of friendships. Or maybe it’s because we didn’t grow up in situations of affluence. Is it cultural? We absolutely live in an area full of intellectual snobbery. Maybe I lost my voice trying to keep up with opinionated Berkeley.

Either way, I’m conditioned. I’ve grown to stay quiet, to feel insignificant, to embrace the loneliness as comfort. Because it’s better to be lonely alone, than lonely in a room full of people. My confidence is shattered most days. I walk through work as a ghost. Sometimes I test people. I open up to someone. I share something that’s important to me. They shut down. I can see it in their eyes and then we talk about our favorite types of breakfast pastries.

My supervisor is going on sabbatical for four months. She expects me to take on leadership of the department. She’s from the outside too. Born in Japan, raised in Hawaii and S. California. Last week, I told her how I felt. I asked her why the First Pres staff doesn’t want to hang out with me. Why don’t they invite me to the parties that they laugh about on Monday? (I should correct this. I just got invited to a party… a moving party. I can go, help pack, and carry boxes into a moving truck. I suppose I shouldn’t complain.) Then, when I do hang out with some of them, why do they never ask me anything of significance? Do they only want to know my favorite Thai restaurant? I could tell them about Thailand… Do they only want my opinion on “So You Think You Can Dance”? I could tell them how I grew up taking Lyrical Jazz…

She understood. She understood well because she’s felt this too. We don’t know why it’s that way, but she’s an outsider, just like me.

Yet, God is so good. I praise him for giving us an abundance of visitors and meaningful phone conversations. That has been my community. And for that, I am incredibly thankful.

I miss you all. If you are reading this, I promise that I miss you.

A Ticket to Nuuk Please

{ May 29, 2010 @ 10:25 pm } · { Hopes }
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I have this recurring dream where I am lost in a foreign country, trying to orient myself. I always find a map, however countries and continents are scrambled. It’s like the world is reassembling into Pangea. The other night I found myself in in the middle of a huge field. There were hills in the distance and plants I had never seen. A group of Nomadic travellers informed me that I was in Tajikistan. After consulting their map, I walked for miles, eventually crossing the border into New Zealand.

I actually love this dream. Maybe it’s the adventure, like a treasure hunt for knowledge. Or maybe it’s the people my subconscious invents that I love. Either way, I always wake up with this hunger to finish the dream. Although, I don’t really know my end goal. I don’t necessarily think I’m trying to get “home.”

Lately, I have two travel obsessions – Eureka, CA and Greenland. I have never been to either location. Every time I find myself northbound on Hwy 101, the signs indicating “Eureka” seem to be beckoning me there. I know nothing about this city. There’s just something about it that makes me want to drop everything, to pan for gold, make friends with loggers, and spend my weekends at local pubs listening to stories about bigfoot sightings.

Greenland is three times the size of Texas, 80% of which is covered by a glacier. The people of Greenland live on the perimeter of the island in small towns without connecting roads. There are – get ready for this – only 57,564 Greenlanders. Each family has 2.16 children, they boast 100% literacy, life expectancy is 70 yrs, 55,800 of them have cell phones, and 100 Greenlanders are living with HIV/AIDS.

Ok, so what’s the deal with these places? Why do I make Eric look at dozens of Google images of Greenland? Why is he so tired of hearing me suggest Eureka, as our next romantic getaway? I’ve always been obsessed by what’s foreign, strange, different, completely unknown. As a kid, I used to say that as soon as I got to heaven, I was going to spend all of eternity exploring every corner of it. Perhaps I still will.

When I think of these places and when I’m lost in my dreams, I sense the weight of oblivion. I feel deeply forgotten, unknown, alone, humble, tested. However, like standing near the vastness of the ocean, I also imagine the height and the depth of the love of God. I find the humility to be humanizing. I love the moments where your culture, your upbringing, your life context lose all significance and there is a sudden connection to your humanity… which to me, only signifies the connection to our creator.

I’m not sure if I’ll necessarily find those moments in Eureka or in Greenland. But I suppose I’ll have to go there and try.

Euros, Dirhams, & Baht in my Pocket

{ March 21, 2010 @ 11:52 am } · { Work }
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In the last two months, my feet landed on the earth of three continents. After a refreshing, yet utterly exhausting trip to WI in January, we spent 10 days in France, 10 days in Morocco and 2 more in Spain. We loved it! (Pictures will be posted in Facebook later today.) We found ourselves saying repeatedly, “Well, this might be the last vacation like this for a while… ” Looking forward to things like, kids (not in the near future!) and Haiti (as many of you know has been on our hearts since Eric’s trip there in Feb 2008), we forecast that our future travel might look different.

After 10 days back in Oakland, I dragged my tired body on an 18 hr flight to Chiang Mai, Thailand. I met the First Pres team there and spent the week building a house for a Thai family. I enjoyed Thailand much more than I did two years ago. Many reasons why… Anyways, if you want a great voluntourism trip – Habitat for Humanity is the way to go. I left the team early and hid away for two days in Bangkok alone. I took boat taxis, wandered the city, bartered at markets, enjoyed a pedicure, photographed temples and ate amazing food.

I jumped back into work the moment I arrived on US soil. I project managed a walk on the UC Berkeley campus, benefiting vulnerable or orphaned children with HIV/AIDS in the Congo. We had 350 walkers and raised $23K. Shortly after, my supervisor was approved for sabbatical – July through November. Some huge responsibilities have fallen into my lap: hiring/training a new intern in August, the Global Church Conference in October, the Gift World Art Gallery in November, and a new initiative – sending teams to Haiti. (Obviously, this task is pending until organizations have established themselves and we are in no way a resource deficit to the country.)

The perk? All of it. I’m actually embracing this temporary role. I receive no extra pay, no extra help, and probably can no longer attend the CCDA Conference in Sept. BUT… I’m going through the process to be a Habitat Global Village Leader which allows me to lead one (or some) of these Haiti teams. Perhaps this is the leaf turning over? Has God injected a way for me to be passionate about my job again?

I have never found a way to live in a place of contentment. The carrot always dangles in front of me… kids, trips, moving, home buying, the next big event. Can I move into that place now? Three continents in two months, isn’t that enough? A job where I get to support kids in the Congo? That sends me to Haiti?

If I’ve learned anything, it’s that I can assume nothing. We think that January was our last vacation for a while. However, in the last week, I’ve committed to flying to New York and road tripping through Canada with my sister in June. My job apathy has fizzled into rigor. And God continues to move…

Lost in Thought

{ November 20, 2009 @ 1:40 pm } · { God, Work }
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In October, I spent six days at three different conferences on missions. One was dedicated to the short-term trip, the second focused on world missionaries and the third dove into US urban ministry. I don’t know about you, but just thinking about these ideas gets me over-the-top excited. Community development! Cultural sensitivities!! Reckless faith!!! Urban relevancy!!!! Yee-ha!

I’m going to cheat on this post. I’m going to paste below an excerpt of a paper I wrote to personnel upon return. This may be incredibly boring. So I apologize in advance if my geeky excitement over Jesus (and cultural mission patterns!) is not your thing. These are my reflections and my learnings in a very small nutshell (Excuse the use of excessive abbreviations and vagueness on names. I don’t need to come up on someone’s google search and I have yet to disable this feature.):

The first conference speaker offered interesting findings of his research on the effectiveness of short-term missions (STM). He concluded that STM conducted with the purpose of partnership formation, team participant spiritual growth, and resource sharing are the most effective. Monolingual, monocultural teams that go into “unchurched” countries for the purpose of evangelism are considered highly unsuccessful and possibly damaging to sensitive regions where long-term mission groups are building relationships.

Based on his statistics, these conclusions are valid. However, I find it incredibly ironic that evangelism should be discouraged as a priority for an STM team. It’s widely understood that if you go on a missions trip, it is for the partial purpose of bringing the gospel to unchurched places of the world. This may be an underlining effort through the vehicle of the positive aspects mentioned above. However, it is also found that most teams (82%) are going to under-resourced regions of widespread Christianity.

If evangelism is not a priority for a STM team, where is evangelism a priority in the church? No longer can we write checks to a long-term missionary and truly believe that our call to share the good news is being appropriately addressed. I believe that we are called to sensitivities within our circles of influence outside of the church walls. A heightened urgency of our local and urban areas of need is essential. This presentation has stirred my growing passion to mobilize Followers of Christ (including myself) into local areas of need, throwing away idols of societal acceptance and comfort, and moving towards an appropriate, God-led place of fearless gospel sharing.

At the Presbyterian Mission Conference, we learned about the history of missions. The “old” model if you will. Missionaries go into countries for a lifetime of service. The rest of us support them through funds and intercession. I looked around the room of 700 to see it full of grey hair and white skin. I was one of 5 people under the age of 50.

Next, I hit a plenary session at an urban mission conference. Here’s where I found the young people! The speakers were relevant, dripping with humility. They had an unmatched energy for the fearless pursuit of God’s will in their lives. They were faithfully committed to their communities and to making them a better place. I felt as though the paradigm were shifting directly under my feet.

Finally, I am at a place of pondering the merge of missions models. I praise God for the commitment of those at the Pres conference. I thank God for how he led/is leading the active groups. However, I find the “new” idea of mission to be a movement into a lifestyle for all as opposed to a calling for some. Once again, I focus my attention on local and friendship driven mission. What does it mean to be a missionary to my own family? What would it mean to ask this question to Christians at large?

Models come and go. I walk away fearful of putting God in any sort of box and claiming that the old way was essentially “bad” or “ineffective.” In many years, the way we are doing it now will be old-fashioned and yet another paradigm shift is imminent. In fact, all we can really claim is an awareness of our current cultural relevancy. (To which we all must agree that God functions outside of cultural relativism.) Last June, I had lunch with A. Ndjerereou on a visit from Chad. Somehow the topic of colonialism and missionaries of the early 1900’s came up. As I hung my head in “white man’s shame,” he quickly offered his refute. If colonialism did not happen in his country, he and many might not know Christ. How can we judge that as being wholly negative?

Final Thought: Just when I think I have enough information to form an opinion, one that makes me sound very cool, edgy, slightly radical and informed… God reminds me that he’s bigger than my opinion.

I HATE YOU, will you pray for me?

{ October 2, 2009 @ 6:33 pm } · { Work }
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I am overwhelmingly sensitive. I know that. But knowing doesn’t make me feel better when some Berkeley Day-Ruiner cuts me off and then gives me the bird. It sure doesn’t help when I watch an emotional “Oprah” and am reduced to a blubbering crybaby. It didn’t do anything for me today when I read a hurtful e-mail from a volunteer in the church.

Monica and I had been working together on a prayer e-mail list. She is revered in the church because she is the daughter of an adored pastor who retired in the 80’s. I have heard stories of her attitude of ruthless entitlement. However, we always maintained an amicable relationship. My role in her prayer list was to help her send it out monthly to a specific list. She called me an “answer to her prayer” back in April.

Today, I sent out her October list, as usual. A few hours later, I received an e-mail from her, with my supervisor copied. She was angry, saying that I was not sending it the way she wanted it sent. She ripped me apart. Suddenly, it wasn’t about my formatting anymore. It was about my need to control and my inability to listen or hear any sort of instruction. SHE has experience doing this and NOT me. I’m pushing my own agenda and I am a clear waste of her time. Along with these claims, she questioned my intellectual ability in several stabbing inferences. She ended with “I suggest you find someone else to do next month’s list.”

This e-mail came after a day of difficulties and stress. I laid my head on my desk and cried.

Which, by the way, I hate. Crying at work is the worst. Why can’t I just do this the apporpriate way and be home, listening to Smashing Pumpkins’ Meloncholy and the Infinite Sadness CD, curled up in the fetal position on the couch?

My supervisor called me promptly. “Monica’s a sick woman. I’m sorry you received that evil e-mail.” she said. “What do you want to do?” I thought about it. Egg her house? Prank call her? Send 25 pizzas to her door? Start sending her stalker letters with fingernail clippings in them? No, those wouldn’t work. “Let’s have a meeting with her.” I said. “She can’t hide behind an e-mail. She needs to say this to my face.” Really?! What kind of crazy masochist am I turning out to be? For whatever reason, in all her cruelty, I need to stand up for myself.

I spent the next hour obsessing. Did I actually do something wrong? Is there anyway that her e-mail was warranted? I read back on all of our friendly e-mails. Not a hint that I was doing things the “wrong way.” As the hours of the afternoon wore on. I felt the comfort of perspective settle in. I’m sick of the cowardice that our electronic communication enables. There’s this sense of invincibility that Facebook, Twitter, e-mail, (this blog!), perpetuate. Not this time. She’ll need to take accountability and own up for the words that she put out there.

And people… After all, we are talking about a prayer e-mail list, in a church. Her deep sense of pride over this formatting issue will keep over 200 e-mail recipients from praying this month. Wow. Ok, yes, I’ve found it… There’s the evil.

Free Will is Overrated

{ September 4, 2009 @ 6:20 pm } · { California, Musing }
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Per my dear friend Mary Anderson, this blog is about Eric’s heroic life-saving adventures and my singing to homeless children on the streets. Unfortunately, today I am dealing with a slew of mediocre struggles: a bitchy co-worker, a busy husband, a parking ticket, a lonely weekend forthcoming, and a headache.

Going home to Wisconsin is always dangerous, especially in the summer. Everything is green, evenings are warm, and thunderstorms are imminent. People are nice. My family rocks. I still can’t believe that there are such incredible people that call me a friend. I got home and the stewing began. What if we transferred to Madison? Or Chicago? Could I leave California? Ultimately, do I prefer community or lifestyle? This is where I get really annoyed with this whole Free Will business.

Upon moving here, our first plan was to see if a few friends/family members would come and visit. Success! We’ve had about 22 visitors, with some repeats. Through November, we’ll host 10 more visitors. The second plan included hinting and plugging and even begging our friends and family to move out here. Not as successful… But you’ll know that Eric loves you when he harasses you so much about moving here, that you truly start to feel guilty about not quitting your job and renting a U-Haul immediately.

In all, I feel full. My heart is filled with joy. I got on the westbound flight feeling like I let out a breath that I had been holding for months. I gulped some fresh WI air and pray it will sustain me until next time. I’m not ready to leave California. I sense that something is pending. Last night, I was driving near east Oakland and heard a loud pop near the front of my car. Instantly, I assumed I had been shot at. I mean, really… who wants to leave that? (No worries, it was just a large rock.)

To Small Group or Not?

{ August 4, 2009 @ 10:45 pm } · { Relationships }
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Tonight I went to my small group; it was pizza night. I joined in February and somehow only make it to half the gatherings. There are four core girls and the rest come and go. It’s an open door group which makes it more difficult to really dig in deep. Conversation tends to stay rather surfacy as we move through our Max Lucado study book.

Tonight, a girl joined us who has come about half a dozen times. She is a tiny, pale, cute Asian woman. Her voice is so small that it seems she is whispering all of the time. I’ve never been particularily drawn to her because she is somehow overwhelmingly quiet. This evening, she sat across from me.

The whole night, she never said a word. I stared at her as she meticulously cut her pizza into itty-bitty pieces. She ate at the pace of a turtle with a toothache. In between bites, she straightened her already 90 degree posture and folder her hands on her lap. “What a prissy girl!” I found myself thinking. Finally, she got to her dessert – a cookie the size of a Girl Scout thin mint. First, she broke it in half and put half back on the table. As if someone else would be interested in half of a thin mint. Then, with her half, she started to gently gnaw off a crumb from the corner. Seriously? I think she actually chewed it the recommended 20 times. I started counting her bites. When she got to five, I was frustrated. Are you kidding me? This was a clear, one-biter. After an excruciating seven minutes, she finally polished off the remaining eighth bite of her cookie. Now I was angry. “What a weirdo!” I thought. If Seinfeld was still on, I would have written this in as a story idea.

The night ended and I walked out to my car. I was still totally irked by this. I decided that it was pretty obvious that she would never be a good friend of mine. Or maybe she was even the enemy. What other woman has the inhuman strength to savor half of a cookie for seven minutes and be perfectly content?

In the same breath, I’m realizing that I still don’t have many friends. Last week, I bought a ticket to come home, solely based on my loneliness. Oh, I still place partial blame on my environs. That hasn’t changed! But perhaps I have been a little too hard on people. Maybe I need to loosen up and actually commit or not to this group. Maybe I just need to make sure I don’t sit across from this woman again…

M is for Me

{ July 15, 2009 @ 9:30 pm } · { Musing }
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INFJ. That’s what I am. Myers-Briggs has put me into a four letter word. Eric is a ESTP. We are exact opposites.

On Facebook, people are always taking quizzes; What Disney princess are you? What position do you like best in bed? What’s your real age? How many kids will you have? What “Sex in the City” character are you? What Kenny Chesney song are you? You get the point.

During my Myers-Briggs seminar, I found myself at the edge of my seat, mesmerized. “So if I’m a N and you’re a S, how do we communicate? Oh, I see! And so why do I think like that? Because I have both N and J? Yes! That makes sense because I totally do that! And how in the world do I respond to a J who’s a learned P, that has a tendency to switch from T to F in stressful situations, and is an extreme E??? I mean really, that’s got to be hard.”

What it comes down to is that we are all utterly obsessed with ourselves. Which makes sense because I tend to think about “me” most of the day. We love to learn new, fascinating things. Find explanations for why we do the things we do. In reality, as much as I think about myself, I don’t have myself figured out. So if a four letter word gives me more definition, I’ll take it!

Anyone else ever taken it? Let me tell you about mine, because I find it incredibly interesting…hehe. INFJ… I’m an Introvert, meaning I process and recharge internally; N for Intuition, meaning I think all over the place where one thought can go quickly to something very basically related; Feeling is the way that I make decisions, based on what’s right for the moment; Judging is how I work. I do tasks for projects quickly and up front to save stress closer to the deadline.

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