il bel far niente

Once upon a time when I was 10 or 12 the Carter family was loading itself into the Plymouth Voyager after having wreaked havoc upon the Arbys and gorged ourselves upon a sumptuous fare of roast beef and curly fries, and we spied something with our little eyes. I don't remember all of the details from this evening, but I can tell you that the curly fries were excellent. Anyhow, one of us raised a ketchup stained finger into the air and hollered, "what's that!?" and thus began the adventure. Apparently none of us backwoods, sheltered, wishbone watching, adventures in odyssey listening, beanie baby obsessed home schooled kiddos had ever seen a searchlight before, and so naturally we were riveted by the big city spectacle. My mom has been known to speculate that when you get in the car with dad, you really never know what you are getting into. (I have many an afternoon spent bedecked in ruffles and gargantuan hair bows, buckled into the minivan after church whining uselessly through an hour of "neighborhood investigating" tucked away in my memories to prove it). Well this particular evening all if took was one of us inquiring after the spiraling column of light in the sky to set the wheels in motion (pun intended - I know, I know). Faster than we could say "Whit's End" we were off, determinedly angling the wood paneled mini van towards the unknown source of the lights. Which turned out to be the grand opening of some chinese food dive, but brother did we have fun getting there.

I keep trying to turn this memory into some cheesy metaphor for my life, something about how I need to just "enjoy the journey" or "half the fun is getting there," or some baloney like that, but I'm having trouble convincing myself. In fact, I'm having trouble convincing myself of anything at all. I occasionally grasp at glimpses of contentment and productivity - coupled with the occasional dose of rational thought - but then I start to crumble under the weight of it all, and my smiles falter and my sentences become muddled, and I shake hands and say thanks, good to see you, take care, and then scurry home to my picture frames and bookshelves, full of smiles and stories from worlds I am more familiar with than my own present reality.

"Eternity: for all its invisibility, we gaze at it."

-Muriel Barbery

twenty five cents

Four or so years ago my little sisters came into my room right before bed and sheepishly dumped handfuls of quarters onto the bedcover. It was pretty much the last night I ever saw them while they were my baby sisters. Being that four years ago makes them 13 and 11 respectively, they were technically still "little." Ever since that night, whenever I see them it hits me all over again that they are not "the little girls" I used to refer to them as. They may still be younger than me, but you wouldn't know it to see them and talk to them. Occasionally I am forced to realize how much they have grown up, and then I have to stop and think - wait, does that mean I've grown up too?

I don't feel like a graduate. But then again, what is a graduate supposed to feel like? So far the only big difference is the fact that Barnes & Noble is no longer a huge basket of forbidden fruit - I now have all the time in the world to read whatever juicy option strikes my fancy in the aisles (Proust this time, I didn't stand a chance). Well, all the time in the world but maybe not all the money in the world- but I'll get cracking on that next week.

Really though, I feel that I am the same me that I was four years ago- but when I witness the mature young women my little sisters have morphed into all of the sudden I think I potentially have grown a bit too, right? It shocks me that that night wasn't 24 hours ago. I can still feel the tears welling up (the first tears of my "being left at school three states away from everything I have ever known" experience) as my sisters' small hands sprinkled hoarded quarters onto my bed. Their offering may seem silly - but those quarters washed many a sock and shirt during my freshman year, and when I slid them into the greedy slots of my hall washer & dryer units I never failed to remember that night. In fact even now, four years later, with all those quarters long gone, I still am often called back to that night whenever I see Washington's silver profile or slam down the lid on our washer.

Isn't it funny the things we recall? I can't think why I am so vividly and emotionally tied to that memory, but I don't think its going anywhere.

Frankly, I prefer it that way.

these are a few of my favorite things

My dad laying on the family room floor tossing a baseball up and down, a game on the TV and my mom's laughter from the kitchen.

Bright sandy beach towels strewn messily over our front porch banisters.

Loud music in the car. Loud music in the kitchen.

Days I don't do my hair.

Books. Reading books, buying books, lending books out, re-reading books, talking about books. Getting so absorbed in a book I don't hear anything going on around me.

Swingsets and hammocks.

The sound of baseball games. On TV, at the park, wherever. (Oh and actually watching them too...)

Brushing my teeth.

Eva Cassidy's voice. Deb Talan's lyrics.

Real silence.

Maneuvering and darting through large crowds in public places.

My purple rain jacket.

Descriptive adjectives.

Folding laundry. Except when there are missing socks.

Hammering things.

Dancing and doing the dishes with my siblings.

When all my hair stays in a pony tail without having to pin bangs or layers or things.

Label makers.

Aunt Bertha's potato salad.

Waking up to anything but an alarm.

Frank Sinatra.

Doing hand stands in the pool.

Being in my bed during thunderstorms. Being on screened in porches during thunderstorms. Being in the car during thunderstorms.

The Cracker Barrel's macaroni and cheese because it reminds me of Granny's.

The sound Otis makes when I scratch his ears.

That scene between Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart in The Philadelphia Story. And every other scene in that movie.

Freshly cleaned pillowcases.

I know that I am in this world and not of it, but these are the things of this world that make me content to be in it until I really go home.

"No man who values originality will ever be original. But try to tell the truth as you see it, try to do any bit of work as well as it can be done for the work's sake, and what men call originality will come unsought."

-CS Lewis, The Weight of Glory

talitha koum.

So I can't get my "religious views" on facebook to be anything but a link to random groups that I have zero association with - and like a true American I find myself irritated at the counterfeit appearance of interconnection that creates. I prefer to stand alone and "special," even when I am trying to affiliate myself with a religious group. The self-contradiction of my conundrum is not lost on me.

I suppose I could just surrender gracefully and change the tagline to something like, "Christian," but the truth is that what I put in that obscure box actually means something to me. I mean I realize that the box, and indeed facebook on the whole, are just technological mechanisms which I have been socialized to use as valid forms of communication and image maintenance - but this box was different. Its not that I spend hours composing riveting fillers for the boxes on my profile - but I'd be fibbing (we all would) If I said I didn't at least think how whatever I put would be read by others. Seriously though, it is a social network, and the whole platform exists as a means to communicate - both directly through conversation and indirectly through posts and pictures and the various little boxes in the "About Me" section. But I digress... Oh yes, "this box was different," or some nonsense like that.

My most favorite story in Matthew comes in chapter 5, when Jesus heals a sick girl. Excuse me did I say heals? I meant raised. From the dead. Anyways, "Jesus saw a commotion, with people crying and wailing loudly. He went in and said to them, 'Why all this commotion and wailing? The child is not dead but asleep.' But they all laughed at him. After he put them all out... he went in where the child was. He took her by the hand and said to her, "Talitha Koum!" which means, "Little girl, I say to you, get up!"' Immediately the girl stood up and walked around."

I put those two little words in the box on my profile, because it said: "Religious Views" and then there was a blinking spacebar waiting for me to fill the void. Religious Views? What are my views on religion? Well whatever they are, they're much too cumbersome and involved to fit into that elfin box. I guess what it means, then, is what do I believe? That one's easy. I believe in a Christ who once told a dead little girl to, "get up!" and she did. Immediately. I believe in a Christ who says to me every morning, "Talitha Koum my daughter!" although I confess I don't always get up quite so immediately...

I wonder what else Jesus says to me, only to hear my foolish, self-assured laughter in response. The reality of the dead girls' dead-ness was undeniable to that crowd, but the fact of the matter is that they were wrong wrong wrong about the truth of the matter. My reality is not the truth that Christ lives in. I hope that when the Lord asks me to get up I wake up to the truth, rather than worldly reality.

Now if only I could get the box to stop linking to a non-profit in Waco. (Oh but good work though, guys.)

Life without a callous

I have a mammoth callous on the ring finger of my right hand. Its true, I do. Its been there towering over the rest of my finger for as long as I can recall. Its as much a part of me as the freckle on the bottom of my foot or my horrid widows peak, and yet it is not something I was born with. It is in fact the child of the insane amount of force with which I apply writing utensils to the page. I can remember being made to learn to write in i t a l i c s as a child (pre-everyonehasahomecomputer-era) and ripping through the page with my ball point pen. Miss Kitty, my kindergarten teacher, scolded me for gripping the crayons so fiercely (but I was just so hyper focused on staying inside the lines, I couldn't help it). By the end of a single page in my Little House on the Prairie Diary I would have to shake my hand to get the blood flowing again (year 9 was quite full of an angst that only Laura Ingalls could appreciate). I have grown out of many things in my life: chomping on Bubble Tape, obsessing over seed beads, and finally letting go of overalls at 14 - but to this day when I set down the pen my knuckles are reliably white and smarting. The long term ramification of this habit is, of course, The Callous. I can remember being disgusted by its stubborn existence in high school, rejoicing when July rolled around and the relief of summer vacation had diminished its prominence. For some reason though, I no longer find its presence offensive. This callous is quite literally the product of notes and drafts and blue books and essays and highlighting and highlighting and highlighting, and circling "true" (No, false. No, true, No actually false. No, really, I'm wretched at true/false) and flash cards and outlines and poster boards (when I'm lucky, I do so love attacking things with scissors and a glue stick...) and signing my name on a roll, profoundly declaring my presence and my role. This trifling, ugly little bit of me is the external evidence of how much being a student is who I am - who I have been since Miss Kitty's class when I learned that finishing an assignment doesn't mean you get to go around and show other students how to do it (I believe, quite frankly, that she told me she'd like to hot glue gun my "cheeks to my chair" if she could).

In one week my college career will ostensibly come to a close. I will walk out of my last class into the empty pages of my planner. From there I have a few events written in ink: Graduation with an exclamation point, Laura's wedding with three. A concert here, a birthday there, a movie night in pencil and then... nothing. My planners are not accustomed to empty pages. "Tuition fee due," "First day of class!" "Last day of drop/add," "Test," and "Paper due," typically riddle the pages months and weeks in advance. "Babysitting," "Kudu with so and so," "small group," "Sullys," and "house dinner" constantly reside in the gaps between. And so it has been for the past four years, and much the same for the first two decades of my life. Oh I have no doubt that the pages will fill to the brim, what inspires trepidation is the not knowing just what I will be writing on them. The successful student in me is timorously clinging to my callous. Clinging because it has been so much a part of me; grasping because I don't know what life will be without it.

humidity returns

This whole city bumbles along slowly, despite all our pretenses at hustle and bustle. The heat of summer steadily creeps back, suddenly making the breeze that blows my page away something to be grateful for. My concentration scattered, I behold the scene around me. As things come into focus I realize with a start that the couple sitting near me just got engaged. They goggle at each other, the ring, back at each other, at their iPhones, back at the ring, back at each other - who knows how long this has been going on and all the while I've been oblivious. "Why couldn't you have proposed to me at the battery?" A woman scolds, before she returns to peppering her small child with questions: "What color is this, honey? Blue, good. What color is the grass? What color are your shoes? What color is my hair? No honey: brown. Can you say brown? Can you say that? Tommy? Good, now what color is my hair again?" She turns, "if we can just get him to learn his colors we can get into that preschool," she tells her husband searchingly. He nods. To my left a couple's argument dissolves in laughter. To my right a couple's argument dissolves in tears. Across the sidewalk a family picnics and a small girl sits on a lap, her colossal pink bow brushing against gray whiskers. He pats her knee, she giggles at him, safe in a world of trust. Twin boys no more than three race around a huge tree trunk. One trips, falls. The other, without hesitation, throws himself down to the ground as well. Their raucous laughter fills the air as their anxious mother, who had been expecting tears, settles back down to the grass. A family walks their microscopic dog between me and the water, and there in all their glory are the matching polka dotted mother-daughter Easter duds. The daughter doesn't seem to mind, I wonder if someday she will. Her tiny brother, on the other hand, tugs impatiently at his tiny polka dotted tie. Obvious tourists wander hungrily around the gazebo. One group stops, a bossy man orders them into positions for a picture. "No not there, here. No don't stand like that, put your arm - here let me show you. See, if you just stand like this...Okay now lean, oh crossed arms are a just great way to show we are happy, aren't they? now can you ju- what? What? Oh. Oh no I didn't realize the lens cap was on...nervous laugh, nervous laugh, okay just stand wherever." Even I have to chuckle at that one as I packed up my hefty tome and resolved to be reading a shorter something next time I lugged a book down to the Battery. I paid attention to these people for only five minutes, and that is all of their expansive, involved, eventful lives I will ever know. But that is not all there is, for "we have tomorrow bright before us like a flame." What color is a flame Tommy? Red? Good.

pint-sized

I am a short person. I am, its okay, its true. I came to grips with this fact ages ago, and really once I left middle school youth group it has hardly attracted any attention. Well that is not necessarily true, but at least now instead of mockery over being "vertically challenged" I just have to put up with people having sudden revelations to the effect of, "woah, you are really short aren't you?" Really, I had no idea. Seriously guys, I don't own a single pair of pants that haven't been hemmed and I just bought shoes in the kids section at Target, I think I know I'm short. (PSA: they're totally cute, even if they do have velcro...). Only very occasionally do I get a Lilliputian comment, and then I'm just too dazzled by their vocabulary choice to be upset. I mean sometimes I can't reach items on shelves, but they have ladders for that sort of thing. Most movie theaters are now stadium seating, so please, sit in front of me - see if I care. Maybe my feet reach the floor when I sit in a chair, maybe they don't, so what? Crossing your legs is overrated anyways. So what I'm saying is, I am just peachy keen on this whole being short thing. As a rule I don't struggle unduly with my inevitable shortness-related conundrums, but occasionally I run into a really just sincerely obnoxious scenario. For instance, last night I was at a concert at the Music Farm, aka standing room only, and you can probably see where this is going (or maybe not, if you're tall, in which case you are the source of the problem). And so it was that I spent a fair portion of the evening (that is, whichever parts of the night the two amazons with swingy (hit you in the face) ponytails decided to lean over to talk to each other, which lets be honest was a lot of time) staring at their elbows. A lifetime of fruitless efforts have taught me not to even attempt craning my neck to catch a peek, but ever since I was knee high to a grasshopper (which was yesterday last time I checked) I have just been forced to get creative. And so it was that I ended up watching the artists perform via the screens of the various and sundry digital cameras sprinkled throughout the crowd. It was rather reminiscent of when we went to see U2 and I had to remind myself to stop gaping at the digital kraken towering over them, and actually watch the band. As I scanned the crowd for suspended iphones and cameras last night, my mind stumbled across a thought from the Steinbeck book I read over break. Andiquote: "I could hear them say, 'you mean you were that near Yellowstone and didn't go? You must be crazy.' Again it might have been the American tendency in travel. One goes not so much to see but to tell afterward." Let me just say, I never had to glance twice to find someone standing with their arm outstretched, their camera paying more attention to the actual living breathing person than they were. (I on the other hand, was clearly glued to the stage and not at all pondering such randomness as this. And just so no one can call me a hypocrite, I photo documented a bit too.)

Magic Moment

It has finally happened. I have been waiting for this moment for about four months. Tonight, at approximately 1:21 AM I woke up warm, hot even. After this unreasonably cold winter that was only made all the more dreadful by the death of my beloved space heater in a huge blue snap of electricity, the weather has finally shifted. As I slowly awakened to the realization that I was feeling rather toasty, joy spread through me like spring through the land of Narnia. I'm making a big deal of it, you say? Yes. Yes, I am. If only you could understand how much I despise sleeping in multiple layers. In socks. In twisty sheets of tangly death. IN FLEECY HELL. Yes, my friends, that is where I have been the past few months, you just don't know it because I am such the poster child for silent suffering. But never fear for that time has come to a close. We've had a few sneakily warm days here, a few outright beauties that were such teasers, and a few cruelly cold days in the past few weeks, but this - this is the first night that the warmth has subsisted. Enough so that at approximately 1:23 AM I joyfully tossed back my covers, kicked off my socks, scoffed at the fleece blankets relegated to the floor, and skipped into the hallway to flip on my fan (yes I said hallway, this is a crusty old gem of a house I live in, and some of its wonders cannot be explained). All of this very naturally riled me up to the point that I could not exactly settle back into my slumbers, and so here I am, sharing my jubilation. I have to say, as I lie here basking in the freedom of one layer instead of seventy-three, with my feet dangling outside without fear of blossoming icicles, I feel rather alive.

lions and tigers and bears, oh my

Life is unpredictable.

Cheese grits are unpredictable.

Relationships are unpredictable.

It makes the world a messier place, but that mess is all encompassing: the good and the bad. From the crummy messes of hurt that people carry around, to the crumby mess on the family room floor - the only remnants of the two pound bag of animal crackers my roommates had just spent twenty minutes pelting at each other while doubled over laughing.

Unpredictability is what makes life worth living, because unpredictability is really just a sign of the fact that we don't yet know the plans the Lord has for us. But we trust, whether the pain will come from wounds deeper than we can imagine, or from abs aching after raucous laughter, that they are plans to prosper us. Not to harm us. Plans to give us hope and a future.

That's what I'm thinking about as I tumble into bed, animal cracker crumbs strewn throughout my hair.

"Whenever we insist that God should give us an answer to prayer we are off track. The purpose of prayer is that we get ahold of God, not of the answer." - Oswald Chambers

Fine, Chiquita. Fine.

The other day I ate a banana for the first time in 12 years.

I pause for dramatic effect.

Twelve. Years.

The Truth: I have spent the last twelve years (Alright, if I'm being honest: 22 years, although I technically can't vouch for those first 3 or 4, as I don't remember them. Its just that twelve years ago, at the age of 10, my father couldn't stand the dramatic tears and gagging anymore and finally gave up trying to make me consume them. Thusly I didn't eat one for the next 12 years.) abhorring bananas with every fiber of my being. The smell makes me nauseous. The sound of someone contentedly munching on one (aka: squelching) near to me makes me gag. The thought of the sound of someone contentedly squelching one near to me makes me gag. I can't speak to the how I react to the taste of one, as I hadn't had one in twelve years and the memory had thankfully faded away. That scene in Honey I Shrunk The Kids where the girl passes out because she has a weird potassium deficiency so they literally stuff one into her slack jaw and she miraculously revives makes me...excuse me... Also that game they play in youth groups where they put panty hose over some wretched kid's face and make someone else smash the banana through it...I can't even go there...

The Whole Truth: All of these emotions and memories and experiences led to twelve years of instances similar to the time that kid mashed banana in my hair at the beach and I was actually sick. On him. Or the time some friends of mine thought it would be funny to chase me with a banana peel and I ended up shivering and shoeless on the cold front porch rather than suffer the presence of what is, in my opinion, the most revolting joke Nature ever played on us. Or that time we were at the movies sharing a bag of jelly beans and I accidentally ate a banana flavored one because it was dark and I innocently assumed that would just be too cruel of a joke for the gods to play on me. Or that time I unknowingly took a sip of my sister's banana-laden smoothie and very nearly spluttered it all over her face. Or the time everyone at dinner was asking me...you know what, no. I refuse to live through that one again (if you were there, you'll doubtless remember well enough on your own).

Nothing But the Truth: The other day I was wanning downtown (walk-running, duh) and I thought to myself, "Hmm, I'm hungry, what shall I have for lunch when I get home. I mean besides apples and whole grain cheddar goldfish. Huh, a banana sounds good maybe I'll ha-WAIT, WHAT!? What am I thinking? Why did I, oh my gosh, it really does sound good what is, what do I, how did I, how do I, what should I, who do I, whaaaa!?" And then my train of thought deteriorated into something as mushy as a banana...oh sick. But then I got home and told my roommate what crazy thing had happened. The second I told her, her eyes lit up. Really though, there was a bit of a maniacal glimmer to them as she said, "Well I have a banana." Silence. Deep breath. I wanted it.

So help me God: I ate the banana. Well okay, I ate the sliced up sections of banana my roommate put on a plate with a fork about two feet away from me. I picked up the fork. I gingerly stabbed a sliver. I inspected it with the utmost of skepticism. I did not smell it. I closed my eyes. I ate it. I liked it. I ate the whole banana. The only reasonable explanations I can come up with involve chemical imbalances and scenarios in which my body has been possessed by the black smoke funnel monster from Lost - who apparently loves bananas. Seriously, nothing else could explain the phenomenon.

Twenty minutes later I was cleaning up and was greeted by the splayed out, splotchy, sick nasty banana peel on the top layer of our trash can, and my gag reflex immediately kicked into gear. So apparently it was the peel, all of these years. Sorry for the theatrics dad, but if you want me to eat them you're going to have to peel and slice them like I'm still 6.

( )

Dearest parentheses, Oh how I love you. How you so generously and wholeheartedly embrace my sarcasm, musings, and asides. This is not a lukewarm affection that I harbor for you, and this is not a mediocre affair. Indeed my love for you runs true and deep. You. Complete. Me. No, really - without you in my life I couldn't do things like comment on my own comments. Why is there no verbal version of you that would allow me to interject my asides into discussions without diverting the entire waterfall of conversation down a new route? (Or earning funny looks...lots of funny looks I get when you are not around, parentheses). Why are you the only one that understands me, parenthesis!? You accept my suppositions and accusations without criticism or mockery, and for that I am eternally grateful. I do believe it is safe to say that when you harbor my parenthetical proclamations, you deliver the truth of the matter (whether it be touching, or ugly snark). We live in a messed up world, parenthesis, and all I can say is that I will never let the imbroglio come between us, even if other sentences do. So parenthesis, on this sacred (commercial) holiday (sham) created by the love gods (Hallmark), I celebrate our love. Cheers to whatever thoughts of mine you may hold in the coming months, and hey - happy valentine's day baby!

diffidence and daisies

Today, at a new coffee shop, I encountered one of my vices. Or insecurities? Or weaknesses? Maybe I mean my inhibitions. Or reservations. Psychological block, if you will. All of these words are applicable, or not. Anyhow, this is what happened: I walked into the sun drenched room and blinked my way through ordering a cup of coffee - the same order my compatriot had selected (hey, she'd been there before, better safe than sorry right?). The barista started to do something fancy and confusing with the coffee, the owner answered my companion's question. "Your total is $2.53," he told me (extra charge for fancy and confusing, apparently) and I handed over a five dollar bill. A woman in a poofy purple coat walked in, greeted them as familiars. "Here's your change," he said, as he asked poofy coat lady how she had been, and handed me some odd coins.

An ordinary encounter, ordinary circumstances, ordinary response - at least on my part. Response to what, you may ask? Well if you are like my friend the cashier then you also failed to notice the discrepancies on the part of the financial interchanges that had just occurred. I'm sure it was entirely unintentional (no one in such a nice shirt needs to shortchange customers to get through the day) but the man kept two too many of my dollars (then again, maybe that's how he got that shirt- hmmm). What did I do, you ask? Well since I said before that I responded in the ordinary way, I must have gently reminded him of the disparity in my change, right? He must have genially apologized for the confusion and remedied the situation, right? I must have told him it was no problem, we must have all laughed about it, right?

Wrong. This is not the first time this has happened to me - rather, this is not the first time I have let this happen to me. This is not the first time I have quietly deposited the nickels and dimes into my wallet and begun the fruitless search for the half and half, instead of... well, instead of doing anything else. This is not the first time. What would have been a first would have been me correcting him. I don't know what it is about me. I'm a huge weenie when it comes to such instances, and not just in coffee shops. Something in me prefers not to correct, not to interrupt the conversation with the poofy coat lady, not to bother, not to draw attention to myself. Not to speak up. I've found that I don't face this intimidation in many circumstances. Ironically I usually only find myself cowering in the corner with the lion from the Wizard of Oz in scenarios that involve me paying others for any sort of food or beverage or service. For some odd reason I am petrified to bother someone I am giving money too. I'm not even bothered at the cashier, only at myself for being such a silly monkey. As my friend the lion sings, "I'm afraid there's no denyin'/ I'm just a dandy-lion / A fate I don't deserve / I'm sure I could show my prowess / Be a lion, not a mouse / If I only had the nerve." If I only had the nerve, indeed.

But ahs me, life goes on. I chatted. I blew on my hot coffee. I encountered a semi-famous-sortof-actor (an episode of the OC counts for something, even if that other movie was ehh, right?). I said goodbye to a friend, thanked her for bringing me there. I snuggled up (well, figuratively speaking) with my book. I texted my sisters about the semi-famous-sortof-actor. I grinned when the barista turned on an the Avetts. I took a sip of coffee as I turned the page. I tweeted something inane and irrelevant about the word 'bougainvillea.' I decided that fancy and confusing was worth the $2.50 (but maybe not $4.50...next time I guess). I packed up my things: book, phone, cahier. I searched out my sunglasses. I threw away my cup, kept the cute paper sleeve. I walked outside, said goodbye to the daisies in the windowsill, to some folks on the porch. I wound my way home, following the sunny side of the street.

Wilted Plastic

This morning at internship I worked the food pantry in the outreach center. I arrived, bearing a red nose and a grim countenance (which was immediately cleared by the effects of caffeine offered to me practically before I got through the door). Contrary to my expectations, the room was as bustle-less as could be. After flipping on lights, opening cabinets, and starting another pot of coffee, I and my two co-workers sat at one of the brown flaky tables and sipped our watery coffee. 9:30. 9:37. 9:48. 9:52. 9:53. 9:56, nothing. "They'll come dear, don't worry" she said as she perused her newspaper.

This was an unforeseen turn of events. We sit and wait? Not my strong suit- not when I came to get things done. Considering I had neglected to bring along my usual arsenal of book and magazine and backup book, I began aimlessly flipping through the battered issue of Real Simple someone had left behind. I learned how to properly load a dishwasher. I read about a few women's worst holiday hostess moments (yes, one of them actually decorated all of her mantles and centerpieces and wreaths with spanish moss because she was so enamored of it the first year she moved to the South, and as a result gave all her guests a healthy dose of mites along with their turkey. Another result, far less important to Ms. Morgan of Florida, is that I now have to eat my words and admit that all those warning signs stapled to trees are (sadly) far from superfluous.) I read about six women's favorite times of day ("right after I tuck the kids in", "my dawn morning coffee" - this magazine is obviously not catering to my interests).

And then they came. All at once, just like she said, "dear." As they filed into the room and began to engage in the horridly disorganized process of form-filling and explaining they filled out a form last time and hearing they must fill out a new form for the new year and so on and so forth, I began to help them choose from the cans and cans and more cans. "What are you looking for today? Black beans or pinto? Pinto, okay - how about some rice, do you want white or brown? White. Alright, soup? Tomato? Two cans? What about applesauce? Milk? Bread? Tuna? How about vegetables, there's the spinac- - oh, no? Okay how about the green beans instead? Two cans, perfect."

I had been warned that they were running short on the plastic grocery bags they usually used to distribute the food in, so I had come prepared with a bulging sack of balled up plastic collected at 43A over the past few weeks. Sure enough, about halfway through the morning their supplies ran out. I stood at a table and began de-crumple-ifying the stack I had brought (yes, that is the technical term), and then began to double layer the wilting plastic before handing it over to be burdened with heavy cans. Occasionally as I pulled out bag after bag that had previously borne groceries back to Vanderhorst, a crumpled up receipt would tumble to the ground. "Raspberries," they read. "Rice Pilaf, Yuengling," read another. "Hummus, carrots, apples, organic milk, cheese, eggs," read a few. "Whole grain Goldfish, yogurt, granola, strawberries, bell peppers, avocado, pistachios, diet coke," read mine. "Total: $47," one read. "Total: $26," read another. "Total: $58," read mine.

Those grocery bags are in for a rude awakening.

Those grocery bags are going to live in places I have read about in textbooks more than I have witnessed firsthand.

Those grocery bags are being carried with gratitude, rather than entitlement.

remains of the day

This morning my gender studies professor declared, "it's your body, you have to protect it, its all you have!"

False.

So so false.

Often I forget that belief in greater purpose is neither universal nor inherent. I can barely comprehend what it must be like to walk through life without the assurance that there is more. That this is not my home.

The other day a friend looked at me and asked, "why aren't you dead yet?" (She wasn't referencing a surprising survival in the face of dangerous behavior on my part, most likely because there isn't much aforementioned dangerous behavior on my part to survive). She was asking me what I was living for, why the Lord hadn't taken me home yet. She was telling me that there is obviously a reason I am still here, that I have purpose on this earth whether I am aware of it or not. My body is essential to my life here, but it could not be farther from "all I have." In fact, more than anything it is simply a tool that has been given to me in order that I may fulfill my greater purpose. So that I will bless the Lord. So that I will bring glory to His name. So that I can be forgiven. So that one day I can go home.

One Twenty-Four Eighty-Eight

There are no words for how I am feeling right now.

Oh wait, yes there are:

Loved.

Surrounded.

Humbled.

Loved.

Treasured.

Understood.

Loved.

Today I was showered with love on all sides, with many of my most favorite things: people singing happy birthday in my voicemail in French, (well, at least once - I still appreciated it in English!) and surprise ice skating trips, and red velvet cupcakes, and people photoshopping me into pictures with Michelle Kwan, and blisters from birthday shoes, and astoundingly thoughtful gifts, and sangria, and books, and m&ms, and Sermet's sweet potato fries (and that blessed salmon salad), and prayer, and texas sheetcake (and strawberries and vanilla ice cream duh) and sweet words, and friendship and laughter and I'm getting carried away.

After all that here I am, sitting in my bed alone pondering all of the blessings I have in my life, and it just started to rain. And then it started to pour. And then it started to thunder. (Key detail to understanding the rest of this: I. Love. Thunderstorms. In a giddy sort of way.)

This, I understand, is my birthday present from Him. In that one peal of thunder I heard and understood the Lord's love for me. I heard and understood that all of these blessings came directly from Him. I heard and understood that He somehow believes I am deserving of these blessings. I heard and understood that for some inexplicable reason, I matter to Him. I hear, and I understand that I am humbled. I am grateful. And I am in awe of the mercy and grace He has showered over me.

jargon.

I do believe I will strike the phrase "I think the Lord blah blah blah..." from my vocabulary. I do believe I will replace it with "I feel the Lord x y z's." The alteration may seem Lilliputian, but its impact is more thank skin deep in that it reminds me to relinquish control of my faith.

My point is this: yesterday I talked to a friend about worry, I talked to a friend about "boy trouble," I talked to a friend about her loss, I talked to pretty much everyone about Haiti, I talked to my roommates about our impending "futures," I talked to a friend about her wedding. In every one of these conversations the Lord was a dominant figure in the discussion. If you word searched a transcript of these chats, His name would most likely been frequently sprinkled throughout. I know that the words I spoke about the Lord were genuine, born out of a genuine desire to share what is on my heart for them, but as I reflect on my days I am realizing that I periodically talk about the Lord before talking to Him. In addition, by virtue of the fact that I am so often surrounded by individuals possessing staggering faith, I find myself leaning on them as if they were crutches as I hobble my way down the road to Heaven (sometimes quite literally hobbling, as in when I get tendinitis in my left foot and become a gimp, as in right now). And this has to stop.

What's funny about this to me is that literally nothing I say after "I feel the Lord..." has to be different from what would have followed "I think the Lord..." and in no way do I have to begin ignoring those who have embraced me, challenged me, confided in me, questioned me, and loved me well - - I can have the exact same encounters and experiences. As usual I simply need to be more conscious of the source of my speculations - because all I say will only ever be speculative until I cease looking to myself for words first. When I put aside what I think or what I hear from others and begin to rely more on what the Lord is whispering in my heart, I believe He will use my tongue (and my thoughts) to serve Him more fully. I feel like Camus' Sisyphus, pushing my rock back up the same hill every day, but it is a continual struggle for me to look first to the Lord.

Personal Neil Armstrong

I just stumbled across the US Championships (of figure skating, duh) on TV. There was a time in my life when I would have known the exact schedule of this event a full month before it began, and here I am today happening upon it by chance. There is a simple reason for this travesty (because I'm sure you all see it as such). Her name is Michelle Kwan.

Michelle Kwan was my man on the moon. No really.

I listen to my parents tell stories about their parents waking them up to watch the news the night Neil Armstrong bounced around the surface of the moon, and all I can think about are the nights (and there were many) where I would grudgingly tromp up the stairs at my bedtime. I was obviously a bit tetchy about this. What's that? You don't understand why I would be upset aside from the long standing tradition of kids hating bedtimes in general? Well you see my bedtime was predictably slotted to take place before Michelle Kwan stepped on the ice. It was just because she was so daggum talented so she of course was always the last one to skate. Drat you NBC and your ratings-hungry schemes.

Anyhow where was I? Oh yes, begrudged tromping. My specialty. Well my parents, being that they are lovely people who care for my emotional well-being (and in this case stability) would often whisper-yell my name upstairs to come back down. We all pretended I hadn't been lying in bed with my eyes wide open for the past two hours, straining to hear everything going on during my absence (because I was pretty much naive enough to assume they were still glued to the Grand Prix or World Champs or whatever it was). Without fail my covers would go flying (along with my poor Bitty Baby Sarah-Claire...Yes I gave my doll a double name. I'm such a Richmonder it hurts) and I would hurl myself down the stairs until I reached the corner where I would be visible to my parents. At this point I would slow down to a relatively normal speed, and enter the room in a dignified manner. Okay thats a fib. I Tazmanian-Deviled my way into the room every time. And then literally sat on my knees in front of the TV Sound of Music style (a la minute 1:06) and breathlessly awaited her appearance.

She may not have been achieving anything as great as old Neil did, but she meant that much to me. When I think of being a kid I think of those nights, and how earnestly I admired her and how much I loved getting to tumble down the stairs in my pajamas and sit with my parents while she kicked ass (ubiquitous side note: the footwork in that one still takes my breath away). Whether you like her or not you do have to admit that she did what she did well. She has 9 gold medals at the US Champs, 5 golds at the Worlds, and 2 medals at the Olympics to prove it (plus more, but I'll spare you at least that). I actually got see her win one, but that's a whole 'nother story.

I can't necessarily prove it, but I'm pretty sure that everyone has their own version of my Michelle Kwan homage - their own personal Neil Armstrong they tumbled out of bed to goggle at. Someone or something that whips them into an unabashed frenzy of excitement and admiration and support and joy. I sure do miss mine.

Bliss

Last semester I took this awful class that was filled to the brim with cynics, which wouldn't have been all that terrible but for the fact that the professor at the helm of our discussions was a lame duck if I've ever met one. Considering the man gave us study guides with 25 bullet points before every one of our 25 question tests, the class was not all that... well, riveting. Let's just say that as long as you went to class the day he handed out the study guide, and were willing to put half an iota of energy into finding the answers, you were set. So needless to say, being that I am an avid people watcher, I found something other than my professor to divert myself every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 10 to 10:50 in the morning. Amidst the ever so opinionated and assertive members of my class, I found one very intriguing girl. Lets just say she was hard to miss. While she was beautiful, funny, loud, tall (humph), a cute-if-over-accessorized dresser, intelligent, and so forth - I bypassed all of these things to fixate on one thing. Every morning this girl would waltz into class fashionably late (I'm pretty sure no one has ever told her that rule does not apply to classes- moreover she never seemed the least bit frazzled by her lateness, whereas when I come to class late I usually slam the door, drop my notebook, have trouble finding an empty seat, and then sit there with my stomach growling for the whole class to hear because obviously, if I don't have time to brush my ridiculous hair, I don't have time for my multigrain cheerios) with a delicious and nutritious looking smoothie in tow. And this was no ordinary smoothie either; no it was most painfully obvious to me that this fortunate girl was in possession of a miraculous little thing I feel is perfection beyond words, but the rest of the world knows as The Magic Bullet. Ugh, I will not lie I totally coveted that girls sleek little cup with the convenient handle and removable lid (which I'm pretty sure she color coordinated with her outfits, and I'll admit thats a bit of a stretch. But I'll also admit thats just the sort of thing I would do). Anyhow when my mom texted me for my Christmas list early in December you can be sure that I sent back MAGIC BULLET without delay. And guess what, Santa found me! Or rather, my aunt and uncle found me. To put it simply the Magic Bullet, in all its 17 piece glory, is living up to its name. I skipped into class the other day with my vitamin packed and scrumptious smoothie, on time and with a head full of hair in somewhat respectable order. And yes, I matched the lid to my outfit. Heck, why not!?