These are my confessions

This week has been full of revelations for me. Yesterday, for whatever reason, I got the Usher song Confessions in my head, so I thought maybe I would share a few of my confessions on my blog. Don’t worry, none of my confessions are quite as juicy as Ushers.

1. I’m not a Bob Marley fan. I’m not actually into the reggae genre at all. It’s just not my thing.

2. Babies scare me. They didn’t used to. I baby sat all the time as a teenager and had no problem. Back then I didn’t realize how much damage I could do to the little ones. I didn’t even know what the term liability meant. And there seem to be much more gadgets for babies now days then there used to be. Truthfully, I feel like I don’t quite know what to do when I’m left alone with a baby. And I feel an extreme since of relief when Logan and I hang out with couples who don’t have children, and don’t seem to be trying to either.

3. I liked Tina Fey’s book Bossypants, but I didn’t LOVE it. I think the fact that it seemed so “eh” actually made me like Tina Fey more. Because truthfully, it’s hard to really like someone who seems ridiculously perfect. Tina Fey’s book was a funny, down-to-earth quick read that I liked, especially where she calls out the breast feeding Nazis. (You’ll have to read the book to see what I’m talking about. :))

4. I wish I had people over for tea more often. One of my cousin’s got me cutest tea pot for my wedding and I really haven’t used it much. Probably because it’s been 115 degrees, but still. When I lived in my apartment I used to have people over for tea. I don’t do that any more and I really wish I did.

5. I’m not much of an animal person. I love Gunther, but I probably wouldn’t choose to have another pet after he dies. Maybe I’ll change my mind. Puggles are really cute, but I just don’t feel suited for taking care of live things, whether it’s a plant, animal or human.

6. I could never be a nurse. I wrote about nurses for three years and think it’s a great profession, but I don’t think I have the empathy to do the job. When someone asked me for pain medications for a minor wound or injury, I would have to fight the urge to say, “Are you serious? Suck it up.”

7. I fear my lack of empathy makes me an overall awful human being, or at the very least a bad wife. Three sayings the Hoskin family lived by from childhood memories are: life’s not fair, suck it up, and tough it out. I sometimes expect other people to have these mantras for their personal lives. But when it comes to systematic injustices I have compassion down. I hope that balances me out enough to at least be someone people would like to have a beer with. I think it does.

8. I really like McDonald’s.

Living a good story

I had lunch with my grandma and grandpa last Friday. One of the things I like best about spending time with my grandparents is the stories my grandpa tells. My grandpa likes to tell some doozies, some are true, some are completely fiction.

On Friday Grandpa told me about his childhood visits to his grandfathers. Apparently my great-great-grandfather lived next to a black night club called the Sugary Peach. My grandpa said wild things happened at the Sugery Peach- bar fights, stabbings, all the typical riffraff you’d expect from an establishment in Missouri.*

If my great-great-grandfather had lived in an uneventful cul-de-sac, I doubt my grandpa would have as interesting stories about his childhood. Everyone knows it’s the turmoil and trials that make a story worth retelling.

In Donald Miller’s latest book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, he challenges his readers to view their lives as a story. He challenges us to live a good story. Miller said good stories start with inciting incidents that propel you forward. Losing my job and getting married are probably the biggest inciting incidents of my life thus far.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the kind of story I’m living lately. I’m in a transition career wise, and in my first months of marriage, so it’s a good time for self evaluation. I know what kind of story I lived during my childhood, adolescents and early 20s, but what will my story be as I enter this new face of adulthood? What will my story be now that I actually feel like an adult? What will the conflicts, rising action and plot include?

My past has never lacked drama. And in the absence of conflict, I have to admit, I have a knack for creating tension myself. I know what you are thinking, Arley dramatic? Never! It’s true, it’s true, at times I’ve been known to be a drama mama. I can’t help but wonder, if writers in general sabotage themselves for the sake of a good story.

I’ve decided that I want my story to be more than drama, for dramas sake. Bart Campolo once told me the best way to get out of a complacent slump is to look around at the things in society that really piss you off, like perhaps the state closing Lawrence’s SRS building. Take on those battles, Campolo said, and you’ll have a fulfilling life. Take on those battles and you’ll create a great story.

As a married couple, I feel like Logan and I are living a great story so far. He balances out my social activism with fun projects like pimping out our bikes (they are retro Schwinns) or brewing some tasty beer. Someday we hope our story will include some baby Arkenbergs. And my dream is that years from now our children will ride their own shiny Schwinns with a heart of compassion that naturally advocates for the underdog.


*While I and some of my family members have lived in Missouri at some point in time, I would like to state that my blood line is Kansan through and through. I bleed crimson and blue.

Double dog dare me

This weekend I busted out my sewing machine. I decided to transform a few pillow cases I bought at a garage sale for 25 cents into a 1920’s style dress.

With a little inspiration from @newdressaday, I felt ready to go. I don’t like to use patterns when I sew. I like to take a few dresses I already have and convert them into templates and guides to create a new outfit.

Once pieces are cut and penned together it’s time for my favorite part of the process, the actual sewing. I love the rhythmic sound the machine makes as I sew the stitches. The hymn of the machine hypnotizes me and takes me away to a simpler time. In this age of smart phones, twitter feeds and instant gratification, I appreciate the process it takes to sew a dress. With a google search and couple clicks of the mouse I could purchase a 1920s dress, but there’s something calming about slowing down enough to get my creative juices flowing and make my own.

As I continue to look for work, I can’t help but be inspired by blogs that go viral, like www.newdressaday.com or the website that inspired the movie Julie and Julia, www.julieandjulia.com. I seem to have some similarities with the women who created both these blogs. Both were 29 when they started the blogs. (I will be 29 this November.) Both were also in times of transition professionally. Here I am, wondering what I’m going to do next and hoping to come up with that next big blog idea. I need a challenge that I could blog about that would be interesting enough draw in an audience. Any ideas? Any double dog dares? I’m ready for a challenge and I have about three months to think of one. Stay tuned.

Accidental housewife

I never planned on being a house wife. But when I got laid off four days before my wedding I seemed to accidentally fall into this position.

Logan and my normal distribution of chores completely shifted when I had an extra 45 hours a week of time to spare. To be fair I do spend a number of hours a week looking for jobs, working on my book and social networking (it is the thing journalists are supposed to do these days.) But never the less, the duties of cooking, cleaning, laundry, and grocery shopping now fell on me while Logan went to work each day to “bring home the bacon.”

In truth I am the one who literally brings home the bacon when I go to the grocery store each week, Aldi’s Fit and Active turkey bacon to be specific. The switch to turkey bacon was among the many disputes Logan and I have had as I took on the role of sole grocery shopper. We’ve also had arguments over milk, bread, orange juice and eggs. Fortunately, I think we’ve finally started to iron these things out.
But one thing I haven’t come to grips with is the idea of me as a stay-at-home wife. I know, I know, I’m on unemployment and am looking for a job. I realize I’m working on a book that someday could inspire hundreds, or more likely tens, of people. But in this bleak economy, I can’t help but think, what if this is it? What if my life from here on out is house work and children with a little bit of freelance on the side. It seems the way it goes for so many couples, but I hate fitting into the normal gender stereotypes. And I always thought that Logan and I broke that mold. He knows how to cook and I can bate my own line. And we all know who would win if Logan and I got in a hot dog eating contest. Yet here we are, Logan the provider and me the semi-domesticated wife.

When people ask me how married life is going I always say “Great!” Because it is. I love my husband more than I ever imagined loving anyone. But somedays I don’t feel great and I want to tell people married life is kind of like a starting a new job- even if you like it you really don’t know what the heck you are doing for the first couple of months.

Yesterday at church the woman who gave the sermon asked us to picture the Kingdom of Heaven. What did we think it looked like?

My mind instantly thought of my wedding day. All the people I love gathered together celebrating at our feast. Family members who hadn’t spoken in more than 20 years laughing and smiling together. Arguments of the past disappeared. That day I thought to myself, this is what heaven will be like. Laughter, food, beer, blue grass, God and all the people you love. This is heaven.

I was really surprised when Heather didn’t say the Kingdom of Heaven is like a wedding feast instead reread that mornings scripture.

“The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, which a man took and planted in his field.” (Matthew 13:31)

She went on to verse 33, “He told them still another parable: ‘The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed into about sixty pounds of flour until it worked all through the dough.’”

The Kingdom of God is like planting a garden and cooking dinner?

Apparently, according to Jesus it is. The Kingdom of God isn’t just the big celebrations and accomplishments it’s what we do everyday.

I may feel like my life as a sudo-housewife is meaningless and unfulfilling, but the truth is this is where I am right now. And when I can learn to rejoice in that, I think I will start to see the Kingdom of God as I cook dinner and Logan waters the garden.

When I look back at our amazing wedding, I realize we were celebrating so much more than just our wedding day. We were celebrating the good and the bad. In that time of feast we were acknowledging that we’d support each other through the times of famine.

Maybe next time someone asks me how married life is going I’ll say it’s kind of like watering the plants and cooking dinner, but then getting to eat the meal with the person in world who means more to you than anyone.

Yes we still can

With the midterm elections just a few days a way I’m reminded of the passion and excitement of 2008.
I remember hearing Obama speak at Liberty Memorial shortly before the presidential election. My friend Tamra stood on my shoulders so she could catch a glimpse of the future president. Thousands of people stood around as Obama declared that he would fight for us regular middle class Americans.
“Yes we can!” the crowd cheered.
Two years later Obama doesn’t seem to tout the same audacious hope that he used to. In the midst of recession, and the long drawn out passage of health care reform, Obama seems more on the defensive.
Not surprisingly democrats and independents are not as enthused as we were in 2008. Tea Partiers have their base rallied, but honestly I don’t hear the same enthusiasm coming from the left. And my message to those of us who identify with the progressive movement is Yes We Still Can!
Obama’s message wasn’t “Yes I can.” It was “Yes we can.” His campaign’s success was its simple grassroots nature. I see the same strategies played out in the Tea Party. They aren’t just following a group of candidates; they are following a movement.
Whatever side of the political isle you fall on I believe that the majority of people have good motives and genuinely care. Maybe it’s pre-wedding idealism talking but I honestly think most people love their families and want to help make the world a better place. (Don’t get me wrong I know there are douche bags out there but I want to focus this blog on the rest of us.)
The political process is necessary for our democracy to survive but true change goes beyond politics.
Yes we can make a difference. Real change requires people connecting with others. Change can’t happen in Washington until it first happens in us. When you’ve worked in a third grade inner city classroom school finance seems personal. When you have gay friends you naturally want them to have the same rights as their heterosexual counterparts. When you know a senior on a fixed income you become concerned about the fate of Medicare.
The flame behind Obama’s 2008 presidential campaign wasn’t a charismatic politician from Chicago, it was us.
Yes we can be the change we want to see. And next Tuesday I urge you to vote for the candidate you believe will make that happen. For some of my friends I know that will be a Republican and that’s okay. Regardless of what happens Tuesday, lets remember the fervor we had in 2008. Let’s get out in the community, connect with others and become the change that we desire.
Because, yes we still can.

Music, momories and milestones

Well, it’s fall so I feel like I should write another blog, for the few readers I have out there in the blogosphere (you know who you are).

I went to a Waterdeep concert last Friday. Earlier that day I had visited my alma matter to interview Miss Rodeo Kansas, who happens to be a MidAmerica Nazarene University nursing student. The trip to MNU quickly turned into a venture down memory lane.

Needless to say, I felt nostalgic when I arrived at the Waterdeep show. I started listening to Waterdeep when I was 16-years-old.
16-year-old Arley and 27-year-old Arley are so different that it’s hard for me to even comprehend what’s going through teenagers minds when I talk to them these days. Although, having three teenage sisters, I certainly try my best.

In college I started going to as many Waterdeep concerts as I could. During high school my first two years of college I went through what I now call my assuredly-obnoxious-right-wing phase.

That phase concluded when spent a year in Philadelphia. During that time I listened to my Waterdeep CD’s whenever I got homeless. (I also listened to Garth Brooks to curb my homelessness.)

Waterdeep has been a part of my life for almost 12 years. During every phase of life Don and Lori’s music provides encouragement and support. The songs are like a friend who simply listens, without judgment or advice sprinkled with false hope.
The same Waterdeep songs I listened to at 16 still strike a cord. While the lyrics meanings continue to adapt and reach different levels, they provide consistency that I appreciate.

The Waterdeep concert reminded me of my belief in a God who doesn’t change, despite how frequently I do. There’s something profoundly comforting about a deity who finds delight in me- in all my quirks, moments of anxiety, times of joy and periods of utter confusion.

In this newest phase of life I’m entering, marriage, I realize that Logan will never know me completely or understand all the underlying issues that make me tick. Just as I will never fully understand him. The idea that there is a God who does, is a faith to which I still cling.

69th Street Terminal, making all stops

I am a fan of public transportation. I admit the only time I’ve ever ridden the Metro in Kansas City is as a shuttle in the Trolley Run. Never the less, when I travel I use public transit.

I went to Philly in April for the ACES conference (http://www.copydesk.org/). I arrived in Philly the afternoon before the conference with plenty of time to spare.

I planned to take SEPTA, Philly’s transit system, into Center City to get to my hotel. Seeing as how it’s been six years since my year-long stint in Philly, I forgot that the best method to get from the airport to Center City is the train.

I saw the bus stop before I saw any signs to direct me to a train terminal. With $2 worth of quarters in hand I boarded to bus to the 69th Street Terminal.

An hour later I arrived at the 69th Street Terminal, still 30 minutes from my desired destination. The hour long bus ride gave me the opportunity to remember how it feels to be the minority (I was the only white person on the bus until about six stops in and even then the white girl that boarded the bus looked sorely out of place). The scenic bus route also gave me a chance to see West Philly neighborhood by neighborhood.

When I planned my trip to Philly I scheduled time to visit with friends from Greater St. Matthew, the church I attended when I lived in West Philly. I was eager to see Pastor Johnson and all the ladies who became my surrogate grandmas during my year in the inner city.

I wanted to see my friends from my old neighborhood as well but I worried that I wouldn’t feel comfortable. When I lived in Philly in 2004, I proudly touted the label “light skinned” (the high school girls I worked with at West Philly High assured me that I wasn’t white) I now knew myself as a single white women, distant from the issues my West Philly neighbors dealt with on a daily basis.

I don’t hear gun shots in my midtown apartment in Kansas City, nor do I see drug dealers on the corner every time I come home from work. I don’t worry that my children, if I am ever blessed to have any, might get sucked into the lifestyle of the corner or bullied if they do well in school. I don’t worry about the houses next to me falling down or being looted for scrap medal. I don’t worry about these things that are constant issues in my former neighborhood on Yewdall. I don’t worry about these things because I no longer live there. And I felt like the distance I created might be too much for my former neighbors to welcome me back.

In a neighborhood where white people represent cops, social workers and teachers, I worried that I could no longer be considered a neighbor.

As I looked out the bus window at the West Philly neighborhoods filled with water ice shops, children playing in the streets and elderly women sitting on their porches, my desire to see my old friends surpassed my fear of being an outsider.

When the bus finally arrived at the 69th Street Terminal I hopped on the El and made my way to 13th Street. I smiled as I passed the 56th street stop. I hurried to my hotel, grabbed a cheese steak from Reading Terminal and then got on the subway to head back to West Philly.

I got off the 56th Street terminal with a confidence that said, “I belong here.” Logan assures me that despite my silver hoop earings I did not look like I belonged when I walked down the steps onto Market Street.

I walked down 56th Street to Vine and then headed to Yewdall. I looked down as I walked and noticed the litter. I’d liked to say that a smiling child’s face stood out among all the things I saw as I walked from 56th and Vine to my former street off Yewdall and Race. Honestly, I have to say the litter stood out the most. To be fair there didn’t seem to be many children playing outside at that time and I couldn’t walk an inch without stepping on some cheese curl package or empty artificial juice container. Where is the warm fuzzy moment I’ve been waiting for? I wondered.

When I stepped onto Yewdall I found my warm fuzzy. Her name is Miss Mary.
I saw Miss Mary as I rounded the corner in her usual spot on her porch.
During my year in Philly, everyday when I walked home from West Philly High I would stop and talk to Miss Mary. We talked about my day at work, the neighborhood gossip and Oprah. I really enjoy the older crowd, as in senior citizens, and Miss Mary ranks among my favorite.

I wonder if she’ll remember me, I thought as I started to cross the street toward her house.

“Is that my girl?” Miss Mary stood up and yelled across the street in her signature scratchy voice.

“Yeah, it’s me,” I said, with a smile on my face and a tear in my eye.

I jogged over to Miss Mary’s and she gave me a giant hug as if I was her prodigal daughter.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” she said.

I stood on the porch as we caught up. She told me who still lived on the street, who recently had children and how our community garden was doing.

I promised Miss Mary that I would write her when I got back to Kansas City. I left Miss Mary’s and went on to Greater Saint Matthew where I met up with one of my all time favorite spiritual mentors, Pastor Gregory Johnson.

There are so many things in life that compartmentalize us and separate us from others. Black and white. Liberal and conservative. Believer and skeptic. Sacred and secular.

In that small block on Yewdall in West Philly those labels seem to melt away. When I ran to Miss Mary’s porch I didn’t feel like a white, social just do-gooder from the MidWest. I felt like Arley. I felt human. I felt like I belonged.

This is the Kingdom of God. Or at least it’s what I envision as the Kingdom of God- when our love for others breaks down our fears and misconceptions.

Pastor Johnson teaches this unifying faith. And describes God’s love in a way that’s both overpowering and real.

Sometimes I wonder if there’s a bus to heaven (figuratively, not theologically). I mean, on the highway heaven I doubt we’ll be sporting our separate SUVs. A bus makes more sense. If there is a bus to heaven I hope that I’m fortunate enough to sit by someone with as much love as Pastor Johnson and Miss Mary.