Post

Describe a time when you felt sorry for someone.

Sometimes I wish I could have seen somebody about four hours before I actually see them. It's like zooming out with a camera so you get a better perspective. What put that smile on your face? What wiped away the one you had earlier? What has heaped on your shoulders and pulled your head down?

When we were in Boston this summer, one of my favorite things to do was just watch people. I love doing that when I travel different places: it reminds me of how alike we are, regardless of where we're from. People everywhere are trying to better themselves, get through each day, raise their families, find love, discover something worth smiling at - these inate desires are universal. Unfortunately pain is universal as well. Every day people see death, lose friends, experience disappointment, hear bad news, give bad news. And to the strangers around them, it's just another day. Or so they think - no doubt those strangers are hiding something with a blank stare as well.

The "blank stare" is the hallmark of public transportation, and nowhere else is that more evident than in big cities. Traffic in Boston is hellacious, so smart people use buses or the subway, or just walk. By the end of our four days there, we were familiar with ("pros at" would be a generous overstatement) the subway, or the "T". On one of our last days, we were on a crowded bus on our way back to our hotel. Everyone on it was tired; the ride was silent as people leaned against windows with closed eyes or quietly watched the buildings crawl past. At one stop a woman got on and sat next to me, and I could tell she'd been crying. I wondered what had happened to her that day, what had crushed her blank face, caused her to crack the stoic front and let the hurt run down her cheeks. I had on my "I'm not in my small midwest town so I should keep to myself" face, and I thought I should just leave her alone. But after a little while I pulled out from my bag a left-over napkin from lunch and offered it to her. She smiled and declined, and soon she got off the bus.

I still have the napkin, taped in my journal as a reminder of the humanity that surrounds me. Everybody has a story; everyone has a hurt. It's good to remember that as I interact with people on a daily basis. Before you act, think about what that person experienced over the past four hours. Give everyone a little room to act in response to their situations. Be gentle; you don't know who may be near their breaking point. You may be the nudge that pushes them over or away from the edge.

Options

When I was eight, I had such a definite idea of how my life would play out. My uneventful childhood would cross into an uneventful adulthood. I wouldn't have to worry about money or watching my weight - somehow all of that would be magically taken care of without me worrying about them too much. I would live next door to my parents (apparently my neighbors were planning on moving out) and host family Thanksgiving at my house (my sister would take care of Christmas). When we were old enough (in ten years), my at-the-time boyfriend and I would get married, and I would be a pilot, like my dad. I was a church-going, sword-drill-winning Christian because everybody at my school was a church-going, sword-drill-winning Christian (they had a one-up on me, though, because they all went to AWANA and I didn't), and my faith would be that simple probably forever. I tolerated my younger siblings but was pretty sure we'd have nothing to do with each other when we grew up. (My sister once told me that I'd be the one in our family with the tattoos and face piercings. In our small world that was the epitome of rebellion, and after that I swore we'd never be friends again.) And with any luck, my hell of practicing piano for twenty minutes every day would soon be coming to a close: I had told my parents and teacher that I was finished, and finished I intended to be.

When you're eight, you don't realize how much of a life you have stretching before you. If you get your timing right and die on your eighty-fifth birthday, you watch over 31,000 days. And while I was busy sitting at my desk in third grade, writing out the names of my future kids, I had no idea that I'd seen less than three thousand of those days, several hundred of which I don't remember. Oh, sure, I understood the broad outline: school/college, married, kids, work, dead. But I had no idea what I'd see during - and even in between - those stages.

In several months I will be twenty-one, but sometimes I feel like that eight-year-old, planning my life. "After graduation, I'll get a job at the school where I do my student-teaching, and after I get some experience I'll go somewhere else and eventually wind up where my passion leads me." But I have to remember the expectations I had at eight and how differently my life has turned out. Frets about money and how the world perceives me are on my mind almost hourly. With their newly-remodeled kitchen, my neighbors probably aren't leaving any time soon; but that's alright with me, since I'm not planning on living in my home state forever anyway. I have felt something yanking on my heart (which I'm pretty sure is my Isa telling me where He wants me), and it's definitely not as a pilot. My relationship with church and "Christians" has not been the best, particularly in the last few years. With bad experience after bad experience with Pharisees masquerading as followers of Christ and churches that are based more on politics and finances than the Word of God, my view of much connected with ministry is backed by a little glare. I didn't foresee the situations when I'd sit in front of my mirror and say to my reflection, "What the hell are you doing?" I didn't imagine being more comfortable in a secular environment than I am at my religious university. When my dad said I'd be allowed to date at fourteen, I didn't think I'd be waiting until I was seventeen to actually start, and then reach a point after almost four years of not dating that it was fine, that I'm actually content to not have anybody, even though the books and movies say my "clock" is running out. (And I'm graduating two years from now and apparently college is one of the last prime places to meet a guy. So I've heard.) And I certainly didn't plan on my parents overriding my declaration to quit piano lessons; I eventually completed twelve years, and even three years after quitting, the first thing I do when I go home on breaks is play my piano for a solid hour - it's become so much a part of me, I can't imagine that I ever wanted to quit.

I've heard my entire life that life is short, but in the past week I've heard that it's long - very, very long. And I forget that when I look at where I am: within two years of jumping off one ledge onto another, very different one. All I can see right now is the gap that I'm about to leap; I can't see the plateau that I'm jumping to, with its new hills and crags and valleys to explore. (And now I'm sounding like a bad graduation speech.) I forget that I have so much life to live. In the grand scheme of things, I'm young and inexperienced and clumsy and a royal mess. How in the world can I, at twenty years old, expect to have things figured out and organized and under control? That's like handing a toddler a jacked-up car motor and saying, "Fix this, will you?" That's dumb.

Anyway. Exam week is coming up, which won't be half as bad as the week before exam week. Papers, books, analyses, quizzes....heaven preserve us.

Style

Do you ever wonder if you've being heard? Your words are tossed into a void, maybe never to be acknowledged. As a writer I'm supposed to expect rejection - it comes with the territory. I don't mind my voice getting lost in the shuffle, it's not a totally-unknown possibility. That sounds really whiny, but that's just how it is. Sometimes the answer is "no." Get over it.

So when I get a written response from one of my major influences....O_o

After almost three months, I got a response from Terry Jones, one of the surviving members of Monty Python. If you know anything about me, you'll recall that I'm a Python NUT. And I am sitting six inches away from a note from Terry Jones. Hand-written. Personal. International stamp.

This is a big deal.

I wrote to him when I decided to write my literary analysis criticism on "Life of Brian." And I was pretty sure my letter had gotten lost in the heaps of mail that he no doubt receives. I've written to celebrities before - almost seven years and no response from Geoffrey Rush. (Kevin McNally did write back. And I got a mass-produced autographed picture with a note "from the office of Keira Knightley." But that's another story.) Every now and then I wondered about it, but I wasn't too bent out of shape over it. So to receive something back from him...I nearly passed out when I pulled the letter from my mailbox.

I quote:

 

Thanks so much for your wonderful letter. It's good to know that something we've done is still having some effect! I hope you continue to be independent and thoughtful!

 

Looking at it five hours later still makes me light-headed.

 

It's a vicious cycle, really. He knows his work is still appreciated by a generation whose parents were children when Python was first popular, and I know my letter wasn't totally ignored. And how fitting to get it today, after I've finished the second draft of my "Life of Brian" paper? Python has been such a crazy influence in my life over the past year, and to get that well-wish from one of my idols (meant in an iconic and not religious way - I know actual idols are bad)....my life has been made.

 

Now back to the reality that my paper is due in a week (among so frickin' many other things) and is still only in the drafting stage. Actually I'm really proud of the work I've done in only about three weeks. My goal was to find a middle ground between the Pythons and religion, and I think I've done a fairly decent job. But lest we bask too long in that knowledge, just remind yourself: it ain't done yet.

 

Tonight Mr. Jones' letter lies as a bookmark in my journal, like a little whisper reminding me that it's good to think outside the box (or, in my case, the Bubble).

 

~

 

Your words are worth-while. Write on.

-Arbor Brannagh

Seventy

Fall break. Tomorrow. One crazy night left, and then four glorious days of nothing. We're about halfway through the semester now; next week the countdown to Thanksgiving begins, then it's only a few more weeks until Christmas and winter break...Where is this year going???

Do you believe in coincidences? I do, in a sense; but I believe that coincidences are God's way of working behind-the-scenes. I think He uses these in a teaching way, just as He uses our screw-ups. Like freshman year, when my grades bombed and I blew a scholarship. That's how I ended up working at the store. And for the last two years I've been digging myself out of a hole that I created for myself, both financially and grades-wise. I'm .05 points away from getting the scholarship back, and the way this semester's going, that should be no problem. But if I hadn't lost it, I probably wouldn't have gotten the job at the store, met the incredible people that I work with and love like my family, and learned about fixing my own problems.

But the problem remains: I am now the proud owner of student loans that I earned myself. At the beginning of this school year, I decided to get a job. But when I looked around campus, there weren't many to be found. One door closed, this one never opened; and two months into the semester, I still had no job. I thought about selling some of my writing for money, but I don't feel confident enough about any of it to actually send to publishers. And there also remains the problem of having no money, which is usually needed when you submit works to publishers. I prayed a lot back in August that God would provide some kind of job opportunity. But so far...nothing.

Until Saturday.

I got an email from a lady on campus asking if I wanted to help out with mailers, stuffing envelopes, etc. I replied that I'd be interested in it and the pay they were offering. I went in yesterday to do my time, and she said that the email was intended for another girl on campus who happens to have my same name. (I've gotten several emails meant for her, and no doubt she's gotten some that were supposed to come to me.) BUT THE LADY PUT ME ON THE PAYROLL ANYWAY!!!!!!!!!! I was sitting sealing envelopes when I thought, This is an answer to my prayer from two months ago!! I still can't believe it! I'd totally forgotten about it, and here I am with a job!!

MY GOD IS SO GOOD!!!!! HE IS FAITHFUL TO HIS CHILDREN AND PROVIDES FOR THEM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sting

I'm typing this entry on my mom's iPad...the next one I write will definitely be on my laptop.

Recently I came across a quote by C.S. Lewis that says, 'Has this world been so kind to you that you should leave with regret? There are better things ahead than any we leave behind.' And in the week (or so) ahead, this will be much on my mind.

For those of you who are friends of mine (I'm pretty sure if you're reading this blog, you're a friend - I don't think many other people read it) you'll know that my family has been watching the decline of a very close friend for a few weeks now. My adopted grandfather, now 86 years old, has been diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis. For those not familiar with medical terms, your lungs need to expand when you breathe, and the walls of his lungs are hardening, which makes it difficult for him to breathe. It's only a matter of time before he suffocates. I have visited him every weekend for several weeks now and make it a point to call him when I can't make it home from school. They say he's doing better, but they said the same thing about my uncle the day before he died. To put it bluntly, I wake up every day expecting the phone call that he's gone.

Does this make me a pessimist? Not in the least. I am a realist, and I know the danger of getting my hopes up in an inevitably-hopeless situation. I think this gives me a clear vision when I look at him - I don't see the possibility of healing, but I don't necessarily see only the grief that will come with losing him. I see a very tired man who has lived a rich, full life. He's been married to the woman he loves for over sixty years. Though his own two children passed away about twenty years ago, he has been blessed with so many others who call him uncle, father figure, and friend. Since three of my grandparents are dead and we don't see our own grandfather often, Mr. Everett has become the only real grandfather figure who has been constantly around for my siblings and me. I remember waking up to the doorbell and, running to the door, finding no one there but a box of donuts, where he'd dropped them off and run back to his car before we could catch him. He's been there on birthdays and  holidays, and at Christmas my siblings and I would go to his house and sing carols with him and his wife. His carpentry - wooden pumpkins, painted snowmen with acorn eyes, a birdhouse with a bent license plate for a roof - still sit around our house.

When he was about my age, he went to the Pacific to serve his country n World War II. Though he still wears his veteran's hat, he has never said much about what happened there. Sometimes when we would visit them, I would watch him and think, 'What have you seen? What happened that is still so painful that you won't bring back the ghosts of sixty years ago?' Once I asked him if I could interview him for a school project, but he said he'd rather not talk about it. When I was little I always thought how cool it'd be to be the one he'd open up to and reveal his secrets to. But now that I'm older, I realize that he'll go to his grave with his secrets. And why shouldn't he? What good would it do to drag up all those memories again? Some things are best left alone.

When my mom and I were talking about him over lunch yesterday, I couldn't help but cry as I thought about losing this man I've know since my first year of life. But when I went to see him last night, he was joking and laughing, like he always used to. I will miss him terribly - how can you know someone for twenty years and not feel a void when you lose them? But how selfish it would be of me to ask him to stay. He told my mom the other day that he's just tired. I can see that when I look at him. But behind those tired eyes, underneath his ragged breathing and thin skin, I see no fear. When I look at him, I see a man who has had enough. He's not giving up - he just knows when it's time. He's ready to look his God in the face, to see his children, to breathe easy again, to erase the scars on his memory.

When I get to his place, I pray that I may have the same peace.

Prayers would still be appreciated for everyone involved. The next few weeks will be tough.

Vanilla

What does it mean to be strong? Not in the "I can hoist a car on my shoulders" strong - I mean the "I feel like sobbing into a pillow but I'll put on my happy face" strong. Maybe it's like holding in a sneeze until after the chapel speaker's finished praying - you deal with stress but you wait until nobody sees it, and they'll think you're so capable and you have it all together. Maybe it's like holding in a sneeze until it goes away altogether.

I've been called that twice in the last week; so apparently if you keep a cool head in a non-stressful situation, or you're willing to tell a friend that you can't talk anymore, that makes you a strong person.

The funny thing is, I've never considered myself "strong" in that sense. (Or the "I can hoist a car" sense, for that matter.) When I went to visit my brother in the hospital when he had his tonsils taken out, I saw his IV and had to lie down before I passed out. When things go slightly un-according to plan, I panic and wonder how it'll get fixed. Or better yet, I mope around, bemoaning the misery that has befallen me. We'll just toss that out there: I'm a worrier, a fretter, a hand-wringer. I have just developed this trait in the last few years, about the time I started college. Am I getting all the right requirements for my major? Am I even in the right major? Well, this is what I feel called to do, but was it God calling me or just some whim? I picked to be a teacher, so I'd better get used to eating ramen noodles out of old Tupperware and wearing out shoes until the soles fall off. What about that crack in my tooth, is my nerve exposed, am I going to die? All I see on Facebook anymore is people getting married - am I left out? Will I ever get married and have kids? But shouldn't I wait for that until I've lived life a little on my own? Why am I worrying about that when I have three papers and a test due this week? The list drags on.

I believe God speaks through coincidence and repetition. (My high school AP English teacher always said, "Repetition is the key to understanding.") I believe that all of us need to hear something six or twelve times before it really sinks in and we start believing what we hear. And this week, on three different occasions since Thursday, I have had this passage shoved in my face:

Can all your worries add a single moment to your life? And if worry can't accomplish a little thing like [getting you food or clothes], what's the use of worrying over bigger things?...Why do you have so little faith?...your Father already knows your needs. Seek the Kingdom of God above all else, and He will give you what you need.

 

When my pastor said he felt led to talk about this today, I rolled my eyes like, "Alright, God, I understsand You're trying to teach me something here."

 

In the past few weeks, I've been getting such a crash-course in not worrying. Like when I found out another considerable sum of money had been tacked on to my college debt, which will translate into student loans. Or when my adopted grandpa was diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis - I went to visit him for maybe the last time today. Or when I haven't been able to find a job on campus. Or when I worry about my future as a teacher or, more recently, whether I will find a boyfriend or wind up old and alone. (I'm a girl, it's in my DNA to freak out about such things.) Today in church my pastor directed us to Matthew 6, that section in the Sermon on the Mount where Christ talks about possessions and worrying. And at some past point I had written in big pink letters next to the above section, "RELAX, AND KNOW THAT I AM GOD."

 

I don't have all the answers. I don't know how much longer my grandpa will live. I don't know where money will come to pay off my student loans. And who knows - I may be single forever. But it's not important that I know all of those things. Because I know for damn sure I don't have to worry about them. I'm learning to be content with the life I'm living right now. I am Bethanie, single, at this specific weight, in X-amount of debt, with a living grandpa for today. Today I thank my God for having everything under control. And I'll work with what I have for today to give glory to the God who has all my problems, issues, struggles, trials, and insecurities in His hand.

 

Maybe that's why I'm dubbed "strong." Maybe it's because I know Who holds my yesterdays, todays, and tomorrows, and everything that happens during those days, and I don't let those hiccups get to me. Instead of looking at everything I'm dealing with, I look up to my Father who says, "Chill out, my child. I got this."

 

Be encouraged today, my friends. You are loved by the Father today.

Wonky

Isn't doing the right thing supposed to feel a little better than this? Usually it means jumping up and down screaming, "OH MY GOSH, THIS IS SO LIBERATING!!!!!" I've triumphed over sin, kicked the devil in the face and said, "Yeah, that's not gonna be the way things go anymore!" This is a happy occasion!

But I just want to lay face-down on my bed and not think about it. God nudges me on the shoulder and I brush Him away like, "Yeah, yeah, I know it was for the best. That doesn't mean it's any less frustrating."

I wonder if Paul ever had those moments after being tossed in prison. Again. I wonder if he looked over at Silas in the jail in Philippi and said, "You know, this schtick's getting really old."

I Peter (supposedly the book on suffering) says that suffering for what is right is actually a good thing. My situation is certainly far from "suffering" - there was no physical pain involved, no abuse for my faith, nothing like that. But the wound is there because I did the right thing, because I said "this is wrong" and changed it. I wonder if it's actually a wound in my heart. Right now my heart's saying, "You did the right thing;" it's my head that's scoffing at me, "Well, that was stupid, what'd you do that for?"

One thing's certain: I feel like a weight has been lifted off of me. My brain is still working out the logistics, but there's a small voice somewhere inside me that's comforting me, "Well done, my child. You have made what is right more important than what you want."

And I suppose that's comforting....sort of. It'll take a while to process this one....

Ever

Remember that verse in Psalm: "Take delight in the Lord, and He will give you your heart's desires." As a kid I always thought that meant that, when you're in touch with God, He'll give you what you want. This is what's referred to as the "vending machine God" - He's sitting around waiting to bless you and give you what you want.

Now flip through some of the other psalms and read about David's problems, his tests, his loss. The book of Psalms has some of the most desperate literature ever written; it is here that you can find a man at his most broken. "O Lord, how long will You forget me? Forever? How long will You look the other way? How long must I struggle with anguish in my soul, with sorrow in my heart every day? How long will my enemy have the upper hand? Turn and answer me, O Lord my God!" What about Paul, credited as one of the most intense servants of God? He was imprisoned, beaten, shipwrecked - he actually said in his letters to expect persecution for our faith.

I'm pretty sure neither of them said, "Gosh, I'd really like to be persecuted - nothing would make me happier."

As I thought more about it, I thought this meant that, the closer you walk with God, the more His desires become your own desires. You will crave righteouness and the peace that comes with it, because you will understand what's important to God and what He wants for you.

This morning I was thinking about that verse, and it clicked: maybe instead of our own desires aligning with God's desires for us, maybe He implants those desires in our hearts. When the psalm says He'll give us the desire of our hearts, it doesn't mean He'll give us what our hearts desire - it means the desires themselves were placed there by God.

I've actually been noticing this in my own life lately. I'm an English education major, and I've been thinking about where I want to teach when I graduate. I've thought about Christian schools, since that's all I've ever known - fifteen years and counting in Christian education. But last year, during our winter missions conference (missionaries come in and tell us what they've been doing and try to hype you up to go overseas to "preach the gospel") I was talking to a friend of mine about potentially teaching overseas. She suddenly mentioned that we have a people here in America that we all too often forget about: Native Americans on reservations. I started doing a little research and found statistics about reservation education (in case you were wondering, they're appalling). And for maybe the first time in my life, I felt a reassurance that God was leading me somewhere, and that He had a plan for me. In late March of this year, I wrote in my journal:

"My God, I've been praying for You to show me what to do and where to go. I've asked for a sign, for a drive, for a passion...And I've started to question if You're really leading me or not. Everything been so foggy, nothing has been definite...Two weeks ago I sat under a tree, begging You to teach me, to show me. And now I hear You. Oh my God, my God, I have that realization, that knowledge, that assurance. I can't write it fast enough - I can barely sit still, I want to run and scream and tell somebody but I can't figure out words to say it...I know it now! I'm literally drawn to my knees, face-down on the floor, writhing on the ground from the realization that this is it! MY GOD, MY GOD, YOU ARE HERE, OF ALL ELSE I'M LETTING GO!! I'M COMPLETELY YOURS!!! TAKE ME!! HELP ME TO SAY WHAT YOU WANT ME TO SAY!! TAKE ME TO THE CHILDREN WHO HAVE THEIR CULTURE AND NOTHING ELSE!! SEND ME TO THE FORGOTTEN, THE LEAST OF THESE!!"

Since then I've been learning more about the Native American culture from classes and documentaries. In that time it's been reaffirmed over and over again that this is where I need to go. And it's becoming more than "I feel like I need to do this." I actually want to do this! I find myself looking forward to graduation, when the calling of my life can be fulfilled and I can begin to do God's work in kids that I've never met but I love already.

Maybe that's what that psalm means...I feel like I'm starting to "get it."

Unheard-of

I've been reading a book by Joseph Prince called Destined to Reign, probably for longer than is really necessary for a book this short. My pastor gave it to me back in the summer and said, "You have to read this book." And in typical me-fashion, I let it sit on my dresser for about a month before I picked it up.

Oh my word. Blew my mind after the first eight pages.

I've been raised on religion basically my entire life. It's not my parents' fault, that just happened to be what we were taught at the churches we bounced to through my childhood. After twenty years we've finally found the church where we "fit", probably because it's different from all the other churches we've been to. The main message is not one of conversion (although that's important, obviously), fire-and-brimstone, or tithing (thankfully - our last church was big on that). It's one of freedom - not a week goes by that my pastor doesn't say, "NO CONDEMNATION!!!" And this book that he's passed on is right in line with that.

Maybe because I haven't been raised on such a message (this is the first time I've ever really heard of God's love for believers instead of God's judgment), the book continues to blow my mind. I feel like I need to get a bunch of copies and send them out to people - so many of my friends need this book! And it isn't just a reminder for the seasoned Christian - it's new even for this Christian who's been in and out of church for twenty years, it's stuff I've never really heard before. I want to give it to my brothers and sisters who are fed up and discouraged, trying to keep up in the rat race that religion has put us in. And I want my non-Christian friends to read it so they can understand what my God is all about, because I think a lot of them have been severely misinformed. (Some of my work friends spring to mind.) They are under the impression that God is just looking for ways to punish us, that He's sadistic and gains pleasure from our suffering, that His standards are set impossibly high just so we can fail and be dealt His judgment. But even I'm learning that MY GOD'S NOT LIKE THAT!!! He loves me regardless of what I've done or will do! He wants me to succeed and actually encourages me when I fail! I feel so cheated that I've never heard any of this before! I want to send it to those who have walked away from God because they were jilted by people who fed them religion but no truth! I want to give a copy to my Jewish friend so she'll see the joy that can be had through literation that comes from living under the New Covenant! That's what this is - it's freedom that makes me want to jump up and down, attempt to dance, sing at the top of my lungs regardless of my swollen sinuses and smoker's cough! I can barely sit still enough to write this, I can't get the words down fast enough!

HALLELUJAH! MY GOD AND MY FATHER, THANK YOU FOR YOUR LOVE AND YOUR FREEDOM!!!!

Alright

In high school we learned about the writing process: draft, draft, draft, draft, revise, final. Introduction, three paragraphs in the body, summary conclusion. Then I got to college and learned to throw out that structure.

Apparently that included the writing process as well. Let me introduce you to the actual writing process of a college paper....This was last night, when I was working on the worst paper of my college career.

~~~

This is by far the worst case of writer's block I have EVER had. (How fitting since it's the worst paper I've ever written.) I'm a writer, for crying out loud - THIS SHOULD NOT BE THIS DIFFICULT!! But it's awful. For the last six hours I've been putzing along, a line at a time, and am about halfway down the third page, with a page and a half to go. I took about a forty-minute Monty Python break, so now I'm gonna hunker down and write this sucker. I will finish it. TONIGHT!!

So it's Edgar Allan Poe's "Annabel Lee." And it's a biographical analysis, so he's written this in response to something in his life, something tragic. According to Mr. Ingram's biography of Poe, it sounds like it's about his wife. She died about two years before the poem was written, but the gap in time is explainable, he may have been grieving and really unable to process his emotions. But it was written about five months before his own death. And the last stanza is about him laying down next to her grave...Foreshadowing his own death? Like he knew he was about to die, and he was simply biding his time until he would be with her...that seems like a stretch, but it works.

GET OFF FACEBOOK.

Alright, refocused. With "Watch What Happens" from "Newsies" rolling through my head, as it is writers block set to music. Wow, I just realized how sick I am of being sick - I've had a cold for the last five days. And this pseudo-smoker's cough if getting really old.

Oh...that reading for worldview development is really long...

Right. Poe. FOCUS.

It was published in his obituary, maybe as an explanation of his death. Like a suicide note, except not, because he died of illness, not suicide.

Am I really supposed to fill up five pages? I'm on page three and Ive said everything I needed to say! What else am I supposed to put?

GET OFF FACEBOOK!!

Had to listen to "Watch What Happens." Hush, it's motivation.

Aaaaand you're back on Facebook. Crap. Alright. Back to work.

Two more sentences typed. Considering how the rest of this paper has gone, we'll call this a "roll." And I have a title. We're movin' now, boys.

He seems to be laughing at some greater power through the piece. (I actually put that line in there.) Just as their love defies the separation of death, they defy cultural bonds, since they are children but love with a love greater than adults. They also defy the heavenly beings who separate them - "neither the angels in heaven above, nor the demons," yada yada. It's like he's assuring himself that their love is different, it's special; and regardless of those who tell him to move on, or the God who took her from him, they will be together.

Oh my Lord, why is it so much easier to journal about this??

ALMOST HALFWAY THROUGH PAGE FOUR!!!!!

Dang...I just got hungry.

The question now is, could I, in all actuality, finish this tomorrow? I mean, all I have to do is a couple classes, and this is the only thing due-

THAT IS A HORRIBLE IDEA!!!!

Not really, because I have a free hour-and-a-half before class on Thursday in which to edit it...And I have other homework to do now.

Let the procrastination commence.

~~

P.S. The paper is finished. I have to revise it, but the first draft at least is finished.

Remember

I was in Mrs. Anderson's fourth grade class. Since we were only ten or eleven, they didn't let us watch the footage, but we got the ten-year-old-terms version: something bad happened in New York City and a lot of people have died. Jordan read a verse, we prayed, and the day went on as normal. When we got home I sat on the couch watching the news while I worked on math homework; we were leaving for the mountains two days later and had to work ahead on school assignments. My dad is a pilot and hadn't come home from work yet, and even though we were a good way away from New York I was still pretty paranoid. But when he walked in our kitchen I thought everything was under control. Later that night he sat with my siblings and me and told us a bit more about what had happened. I was terrified he'd have to go to war (I'd seen "Hogan's Heroes," I knew about the draft), but he assured me he wouldn't be called. And for my ten-year-old self, life continued as normal.

I didn't know it at the time, but that day attributed to a shift of our nation back to God. Now, in the years after the fact, I've realized that America is a nation under God as needed. At that point "In God We Trust" was all over the place: bumper stickers, T-shirts, billboards. And then...well, nothing. It was like God had blessed America with a littl ehealing, a little rebirth, and we waved Him back into the clouds with a "we'll let you know if we need anything else."

And we shake our fists at the sky when things go wrong and say, "Where were You when this happened?" I can just imagine Him shaking His head and saying, "Sorry, boys, you didn't summon Me for this one."

Where is God when tragedy strikes? That's the typical question. Or the other one: why did God let this happen? If God is a God of love and compassion, how does He allow (or cause) horrible things to happen to innocent people?

People who ask these questions forget that little space between creation and the Flood in Genesis, between perfection and destruction. Remember the Garden of Eden? Remember when Adam and Eve screwed up and were kicked out of paradise? There were all those pronouncements: snakes won't walk, work will be hard, childbirth will be hell. Creation wasn't cursed because God was having a bad day - the current state of our fallen world is in reaction to man's sin. Plain and simple. Two people failed, and every single person (except One) since then has paid the price. You look at every tragedy that's occurred in the history of time - the Irish potato famine, the European black plague epidemic, the San Francisco earthquake; every tsunami, tornado, hurricane, and flood; the Cambodian killing fields; shootings at schools; explosions at hospitals; and, more importantly on this day, the murder of thousands by enemy terrorists - and it can be traced back to sin. Let me say that again: tragedy is a result of sin, NOT GOD.

THE WORLD AS IT IS, IS NOT HOW IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE. When tragedy strikes and people die, God isn't sitting removed in heaven saying, "Yeah, you got what you deserved." And if we got what we deserved, we'd be punished every single time we sinned. Oh, that negative thought you had about somebody the other day? Punished. Bam. BUT OUR GOD IS NOT LIKE THAT!!!!!! He is a God of grace, who has given us a way out of that punishment that we earn every time we sin! He grieves with those who grieve; He feels our suffering; He sees the way the world is, and it breaks His heart, because it's wasn't supposed to be this way. The only people who will "get what they deserve" are those who ignore the grace and life He extends to us (Rom. 2.7-11). We don't serve a sadistic God who gets His giggles by making us suffer, because it's not Him who makes us suffer! It's like going to the doctor with a broken leg and blaming the doctor for breaking it and not preventing you from getting hurt. God is indeed there when the world suffers, but He's not the cause.

Oh, and to you who say 9.11 was God's way of judging America: we have the account of God's judgment on a whole people. Remember Sodom and Gomorrah? God's judgment then wasn't an attack on one part of the city, it was total annihilation of the entire city. When that happens in the U.S., then you can say that God is judging America.

~~~

My thoughts and prayers go to the families of those lost eleven years ago.

Chair

This weekend has has been pitifully unproductive. I'm pretty sure 84% of it was spent sitting right here on my butt at my desk on my computer. I can't even what I did on Friday night/Saturday. Like, physically can't remember. And it's not because anything crazy happened since then to overshadow it...it was just so boring that it evidently wasn't worth remembering. Apparently I wrote in my journal, because there's an entry there from then. Oh, and I skyped one of my best friends from high school, and went to get severely-overpriced ice cream downtown. (For the record, it was good. But when you consider the outrageous hike there and back, plus nearly six dollars for a milkshake, I would settle for the dinky ice cream place across the street any day, gourmet or no.) I think a movie may have been included in there somewhere. Sunday was a church day (yes, I actually went. First time in nearly a month. Broke the streak), then we made homemade soft pretzels for lunch. Which were FANTASTIC. Linus and I came back and farted around for a while, I watched the Python oratorio (made my night) and wrote a letter. Then we wound up spending the next five hours with our friends at their dorm - five fabulous, Sorry-filled, brownie-ridden, movie-soaked hours.

This morning was the Labor Day firehouse (or, if you're from Pennsylvania, fire hall) pancake breakfast. Since we had a day off from classes and pancake breakfasts are one in a blue moon (which, incidentally, we had last week - Neil Armstrong was buried by it) we hiked downtown with our brother unit. It was actually a lot of fun. We came back in the drizzle and worked on homework for a while.

No, seriously, I did: I was so bored sitting here watching Monty Python and playing Freecell that I got a headstart on my homework due this week and beyond (a.k.a. my final analysis not due until December and a biographical analysis paper due next Tuesday...for which I should have started research last week). Went for food and fireworks at the Labor Day festival (first time in my life I've ever been close enough to fireworks to be showered by ash - as a friend of mine noted, it was like Vesuvius), had one of those laughing-so-hard-that-you-forget-you're-actually-walking journeys back to the dorm. Where I sit now. In my chair, as I have for most of the weekend. I shall call him Old Reliable, because I never leave him.

Scratch that: just got up to kill a bug. Should've warned Linus before I smacked the wall witih my shoe.

I didn't do anything productive in the past three days. I'm going home this weekend, and I'm sure I'll regret not working ahead when I'm ignoring my family on Saturday night writing a paper about Edgar Allan Poe. (Alright, I actually have two pages finished on that and it was super easy to whip out. The rest is opinion....how hard can that be?) I really didn't hang out with many people (except my brother unit, and they're pretty cool), didn't even leave the village. And aside from the bored-to-productivity bout at the end, it was really, really good. It was the first legitimately free weekend I've had since...spring break. I watched the "Life of Brian" debate and got some really good material for the paper I'm writing on it (the first paper in maybe forever that I'm actually excited to write). I wrote a lot on a fiction thing that randomly came to me earlier this week and is actually becoming something intriguing.

Tomorrow it's back to real life and class and homework and a schedule. But we needed such a break, even after two weeks of class. I think we'll be able to make it to fall break. : )

Oh, and I got to explain underlying aspects of a play to an actor who was actually in that play a few years ago. Felt very posh indeed. : )

Happy Labor Day to you, whether you labored or not.

Seriously?

I'm the only person I know whose faith has been influenced by Monty Python. If you don't know who they are (and you should, because they're wonderful), they are an English comedy group, most popular from the late-60s to mid-80s. Their credits include a television show, "Monty Python's Flying Circus," and four films, the most popular of which is "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" and the most controversial of which is "Life of Brian." In various interviews, each of them have stated their distaste for organized religion because of the hypocrisy; Terry Jones said, "What's funny is that Christ said all these really good things about 'love thy neighbor' and everything, and then for the next 2000 years people are killing each other and torturing each other because they can't quite decide how He said it." However, where most of them have completely shunned religion, I chose to look for something different. As Shane Claiborne wrote in his book Irresistable Revolution, "I'm not a Christian anymore. I gave up Christianity to follow Jesus."

This realization comes at a pretty prime moment in light of the whole Chick-fil-a ordeal, which I'm really starting to get sick of, so please forgive whatever I may write here because I'm in my "I'm fed up, let me rant" mode. My Facebook news feed is full of "so-and-so expressed their personal opinions about Chick-fil-a" and "another so-and-so wrote some profound explanation of how their faith is different so they won't rock the boat and offend people."

Python was criticized for their film "Life of Brian" (which actually isn't blasphemous if you watch it in the mindset that Python intended). But they strove to offend people who followed man's rules of religion blindly without bothering to hear what God had to say (we call them "Pharisees"), and they did just that. I'm writing my own personal stance on the Chick-fil-a saga, knowing that I may get criticism. But it's my personal belief, and since everybody else is proclaiming theirs, I'm doing the same.

In an LA Times article, one same-sex advocate said that God supports all kinds of love. "Love is love," she said, "and God has given us love to be shared."

Really? Because I'm pretty sure the act of homosexuality is a pretty blatant no-no: "If a man has sexual relations with a man as one does with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They are to be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads" (Lev. 20.13). I see no addition that says, "Well, it's OK if they're actually in love because all love is acceptable." Chick-fil-a is showing their detestation for the act of homosexuality because as Christians we are supposed to detest it. It's a sin - we are to have no stomach for it at all. But because of the fallen nature of our world, we who call wrong "wrong" are dubbed "intolerant" and "unloving."

I'm not saying that homosexuals will burn in hell, I want to make that VERY clear. The act of homosexuality - the actual sexual act, not necessarily the draw toward people of the same sex - is a sin, just like lying, coveting, and gossip, all of which I am guilty of. (Oh, you got me, I'm a Christian and human and I screw up.) "Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners - of whom I am the worst. But for that very reason I was shown mercy so that in me, the worst of sinners, Christ Jesus might display His immense patience as an example for those who would believe in Him and receive eternal life" (I Tim. 1.15-16). I wasn't judged for my own sins - in fact, Jesus Christ took my shortcomings (past, present, and future), transported them from me to Him, and suffered in my place. And this isn't just me - this is EVERYONE who has been saved by Christ, whether they be liars, thieves, or homosexuals. And He didn't say, "You're a horrible person so I'm cutting off your hand so you share in the suffering since I took most of it." Our sins are GONE - no more, ceased to be, totally off our record. So we should feel no authority to judge other people because of their actions or personal beliefs because we don't have that authority!!!! We never have, we never will. EVER.

I'm gonna say it: I'm a Christian. I'm against the act of homosexuality, just as I'm against murder and lying and theft and gossip. I can't help it - when I was saved that aversion entered my nature and I can't get rid of it. But I have homosexual friends, just I have friends who are cut-throat and legalistic and atheists and very difficult to love. And I love them dearly because that's what I'm called to do.

In a world that cries for tolerance of personal beliefs, perhaps people who don't want to be judged shouldn't judge themselves. Christians shouldn't call out other people for being wrong and immoral - they should love them with Christ's love, because that's why we're still here on this earth. And maybe those who want tolerance for their sexual preferences should allow for other people's personal beliefs, like those who say that homosexuality is wrong.

Come on, people. Judge not lest ye be judged.

Picturesque

We lost an icon this week with the passing of Andy Griffith. As a figure of Small Town, USA, he represented a time when things were simple, life was sweet, and everybody knew your name when you sat on your front porch with a guitar.

Now, fifty years after Mayberry, that place seems a thing of the past.

If you're from Ohio, you'll remember the "hurricane" that blew through several years ago. For eight or ten hours, the wind blew at 80+ mph, taking down trees, knocking out electricity for days, and damaging houses. My siblings and I walked around our neighborhood in the middle of it to see who had lost the most trees. People checking their yards would wander over next-door to talk with their neighbors. Our city was only out of power for a few hours, but friends living on the outskirts went for four or five days without air conditioning or refridgeration. So we sent out an invitation for them to come to our house for showers, laundry, and dinner. Since their freezers were out, all of them brought food, and for several days we constantly had people in and out of our house, bringing clothes, Stouffers lasagnas, and frozen meat. My sister commented that every day found us asking, "Who's coming over tonight?" At one point we had close to twenty-five people.

It was strangely fun, and I was a little sad when their power came back on.

Why does it take a "natural disaster" to make people neighbors? "Neighbor" has come to mean "the person you live next to whose name you may or may not know." When did it stop being "the person you interact with, help, talk to, invite over for barbecues"? It seems we get so focused on our agendas and our priorities that we forget to look at the people around us and say, "I wonder how they're doing today." So often we live in a community without being a community, in the same way that Christians are part of the church whether or not they go to church. When did we lose the ability to embody "neighbor" and "community" and extend ourselves to others?

Are we ever going to bring it back? Will we ever again live in a Mayberry state-of-mind?

Rest in peace, Andy. You were more to us than just a sheriff. You were a symbol, one that we don't want to let go just yet.

Breakfast

In less than a week I will be twenty years old. Typically, as with the end of a school year, I take a minute to evaluate what’s going on in my head – lessons, realizations, brainstorms, what-have-you. As I sit this morning in a quiet house, I have a chance to think about things. And I realized that the life in which I find myself can be described as “day in, day out.” And I’ve had more comforting thoughts to ponder over breakfast.

This morning I let my dogs out of their crates, got them breakfast, made coffee, ate a protein bar, got on the computer. I’m about to pour another cup of coffee, go get a shower, go to work for eight hours, come home, eat dinner, work on biology homework, clean, watch TV, read, then crash into bed, just to do the same thing tomorrow. I know I’m only nineteen (twenty in six days) and that this life I’m living will pass. But what if it’s the first of many stages? What if the rest of my life will be punching a time clock and having that “just getting by” feeling hovering over my head?

What do you do when you realize your life is becoming “day in, day out”?

How do you change that? If you even can?

It’s a great comfort to me that this “now” is temporary. I won’t always be here. I won’t always work at a job I hate or don’t understand. Biology won’t last forever. I won’t always be confused. Actually I probably will be, but maybe someday I’ll be able to articulate it, maybe even fix it. Eventually I will be able to look backwards and be grateful instead of yearning for “forward”. A day is coming when I won’t put so much stock in my appearance or what people think. I’ll feel the freedom to live out my dreams and say “Screw the logic, screw the reality dose.” I won’t be afraid to put myself out into the world, I’ll remember that failure is a disguised stepping stone. I will play the violin whether I’m good or not, no matter who hears me. I might follow a whim or two, without regard for what others deem it, “cool” or “lame” with a raised eyebrow and wrinkled lip. Maybe someday I won’t rely so heavily on their opinions – I’ll listen to the head on my shoulders and the heart within me and realize that they are actually much stronger than I gave them credit for.

I have a lot of “somedays” left to live.

Who says I can’t start living them today?

We'll re-evaluate in the next twenty years.

New England #2 - Numb

In her book Eat Pray Love (of which I only read the "eat" part), Elizabeth Gilbert talks about slowing down, so much so that you gain ridiculous, wonderful pleasure in small things. "The amount of pleasure this eating and speaking brought to me," she writes (in the Italy section), "was inestimable, and yet so simple." She forgets about her body image for a while, allowing her body to say, "Eat for today, we'll re-evaluate later."

Last week, I put aside my calorie-counting and slowed down at tables across New England.

Most of our food was of the sea variety, being so near the Atlantic. In Rhode Island I tried a clam sandwich for the first time, as well as jambalaya (which I love anyway) with oysters (which made it a fabillion times better). My first experience ever with fresh lobster was at a little lobster shack just over the border in Kittery, Maine. Simple things along the way: pizza at Mystic Seaport, hotdogs at Long Wharf in Boston, several Philly cheesesteak sandwiches (a personal vice), a reuben at an Irish pub in New Hampshire (another vice, sans the saurkraut), one night all we wanted was a milkshake, another night we stuck to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in our hotel.

And of course, one can't venture to New England without getting several bowls of legit, creamy, un-canned clam chowder.

My favorite place, though: definitely the North End. Otherwise known as "Little Italy."

Just a jaunt over from the Old North Church is Hanover Street, the first place that I've ever smelled the transition from Chinese to garlic. Naturally there are tons of Italian restaurants throughout the North End, but we chose a place called Strega on Hanover. I had chicken covered in cheese, prosciutto, and a sauce that made my brain shut down. And if you ever travel to Boston, don't you dare leave without going to Mike's Pastry and getting a canoli. If you don't know what a canoli is (you should watch "Cake Boss" more often), it's basically a hard dough shell filled with cream or ricotta cheese (sounds nasty, it's not), and depending on what kind you order, a type of flavoring. We went there twice, and I got a florentine (the shell is made with honey) and a hazelnut (the cream is flavored with hazelnut and the ends are covered in grated coconut).

I read a quote in a book once: "The chocolate mousse made me happy to be alive." In Boston, the canoli made me happy to be alive.

Since I'm home I'm paying for my indulgence now, but it was vacation. It was New England. And it was awesome.

New England #1 - Map

After a week of walking, eating, and sightseeing (but mostly eating), we are home from New England. For years my family has been working on a goal of visiting all 50 states, and we hit six - Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New Hampshire, Vermont, and Maine - in a week.

We flew into Boston on Friday and drove up to Rhode Island, where we spent two nights. We didn't do much sightseeing there - hung around in our hotel on the first day, went to some local food joints, saw the mansions in Newport (if you get a chance to go there, make sure to go off the beaten path and see the Breakers - the largest house in that area, built by the Vanderbuilts). On Sunday we drove to Connecticut and saw Mystic Seaport (not "mystical," it's an actual town called Mystic) and the Hartford houses of Mark Twain and Harriet Beecher Stowe. We continued to Vermont, where we stopped long enough to get gas and walk around the gas station (if we touch the ground there, we say we've been there) before heading to New Hampshire. Monday morning found us in Maine at a lobster house (the first time Austin and I ate lobster), and we were back in Boston by dinner.

Our sightseeing began on Tuesday in Lexington. We tried to go to the Isabelle Gardiner House (an incredible house in which the walls are covered with collected artwork) and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's house, which doubled as George Washington's headquarters during the Revolutionary War...but both were closed on Tuesdays. Frustrated, we drove back downtown to the Old North Church, where Robert Newman hung two lanterns to let Paul Revere know the British were coming by sea (remember the poem?). Behind the Old North Church is Hanover Street in the North End (Little Italy), where Mike's Pastry is located and sells canolis - a must when you hit Boston. After eating our canolis under a statue of Paul Revere, we walked across Boston Common to the Granary Burying Ground, the final resting place of Paul Revere, Sam Adams, John Hancock, and many other Sons of Liberty.

Foul weather on Boston Day #2, so we spent most of the day inside. Austin led us to the aquarium, and, being near the water already, we visited "Old Ironsides" (the USS Constitution, used in Revoluationary War battles against the British), saw the Boston Massacre sight at the Old State House, grabbed lunch at Quincy Market, took a "duck tour" of the city (a "duck" is a vehicle that can be driven on land and taken directly into the water as a boat), and saw Paul Revere's house in Little Italy. As we left the hotel the next morning, we found the weather to be much better and took a trolley tour of the city, as well as a two-hour cruise in Boston Harbor on a tallship. (Legit ship - ropes, sails, helm, whole nine yards. We were even able to "hoist the sails" with the crew members. Chan, Aus, and I decided that we had to watch "Pirates of the Caribbean" when we got home.) Incredible dinner in Little Italy that night to round out a great week (don't worry, I'm dedicating another whole post to the food).

I'm not one for big cities - NYC unnerves me, Chicago is nice but I don't think I could live there, San Francisco is more my speed if it didn't cost a small child to live there. But I think I could do Boston if I had to. A car is out of the question there: parking payments are outrageous, you probably wouldn't survive if you aren't a defensive driver, and an entire day can easily be wasted, even outside rush hour. The bus is a good option, the "T" (subway system) is even better. We all used an extra measure of flexibility and tolerance (and not to be claustrophobic, especially in public transportation). Overall, it was a great trip - learned a lot, saw a lot, gained a little more appreciation for the freedom that began in that very city (more to come on that as well).

Lysosome

My days are all wonky. I started a five-day working stint on Friday and rolled out bed this morning thinking, "Wow! Thursday already!"

Nope.

When not slaving through an online biology class and Victor Hugo (I quit reading Les Miserables with only one hundred pages to go, so I'm reading the whole thing over again before I see the new movie, which, by this movie snob's standards, actually looks pretty good, I'm reading The Power of an Ordinary Life by Harvey Hook. It's been sitting on my shelf for three years, and I've never read it all the way through. (I have a problem with starting books and forgetting about them.) As I was reading last night, it dawned on me that I have a skewed perspective of God. Hook wrote a poem, supposedly what God was saying to him, and one part said, "Be still. I love you." I've grown up in church (not Sunday school, though - never have I ever been to Sunday school), so I've heard my entire life, "For God so loved the world," "the love of God," "the love that God has for us." But I've never thought of it as actual love. I've never considered it the flippant "love you" I shout to my family on my way out the door. (That's wrong, the love isn't flippant, just the way I say it.) But I've always pictured God as the benevolent ruler to be respected and honored, not the Father who runs down the driveway to throw His arms around me and say, "Oh, my child, I love you so much!"

When I think of Him that way, I don't feel the rush of joy and pride, that "yeah, I'm loved by God, that's pretty awesome" feeling. Instead I fall to my knees and hide my face with my hands. "My Lord, my Lord," I can't help sobbing, almost in pain under the weight of His affection, "I'm the last person, alive or dead, who deserves Your love. I'm completely unworthy, there's someone else that has earned it and lives in such a way that merits Your favor."

So often I forget that He doesn't leave me on the ground. He pulls me up, puts His hands on my shoulders, and whispers, "I know. But I'm giving it to you anyway."

Just an example of the things I think about when I'm exhausted and should really be studying biology instead of writing.

***

Premonition - that feeling you get when you put on a pair of underwear and say, "These are going to give me problems all day" and still walk out of the house wearing them.

Graphic

***DISCLAIMER: This is completely unrelated to my life right now. I am not dealing with any grief, loss, or intense emotional pain. This is just a thought I had this morning and felt the urge to write. I am totally fine.***

Have you ever carved pumpkins? We did once, and it ended with a trip to the ER when the kitchen knife slipped and cut a major vein in my dad's hand. That might be why they sell kits with those tiny serrated knives: so mishaps like that are avoided.

Imagine lying on a table. The room around you is sterile, white with synthetic light and Clorox. An operating room. A man stands over you with one of those pumpkin-carving accident-proof knives. Instead of an anesthesiologist, there are four huge men holding you down - you couldn't move if you tried. With very little care, the doctor digs the blade into your chest. You struggle, attempt to sit up, try to stop him from carrying out this agonizing and apparently pointless task. But those hulking giants are there to keep you down, and they're very good at what they do. The sadist finishes a jagged circle in your chest; he reaches for an ice pick and rips out your heart without any consideration that you need it to survive. He flings it, still clamped in the pick, across the room, removes his gloves, and walks out of the room. The men release you, but you don't move: the pain keeps you where you are. Before all the men leave, one returns to the table and dumps a vial of acid on your gaping chest. Your scream chases him from the room.

Two more men enter the room. One has a camera and dances around the table, capturing your agony on film. The other carries a microphone and gets right up in your face.

"Wow, you look like you're really suffering here," he says, examining your chest. "Could you tell us how it felt when you had your heart cut out? Or maybe what you're feeling right now? Just one word for the camera, if you don't mind."

Would you really sit up and say calmly, "Yeah, it hurt like hell, but I know it'll heal eventually, might leave a scar, but I think I'll be alright, that's comforting enough to make me stop screaming now"? Of course not. You look at him in awe and think around the seering hole in your chest, "HOW CAN YOU EXPECT ME TO PUT SOMETHING LIKE THAT INTO WORDS?!?!!?!!" Instead of a well-formed response, you scream in his face.

In the past three months I've had several friends/acquaintances deal with death. Some lost parents, one lost a close grandfather, the anniversary of my own grandmother's passing was two months ago. As I watch those who have lost, I remember a little-known Proverb that says something like, "A comforting word to the grieving is like salt in a wound." How can we really expect those who are grieving to behave "correctly," to speak coherently, to express themselves logically, when their hearts are heavy and their lives now contain a void? To ask them to behave normally is just as unfair as asking one whose heart has just been ripped out to put into words how he feels. Let them grieve; let them be upset and angry and desperate and paralyzed. They'll come around when they're ready, but your kind words may only be comforting you, letting you think, "Wow, I did something nice, I encouraged them by saying 'they're in a better place' or 'there's a purpose in this'." (My personal favorite is "God works all things together for good" - how dare you imply that something about the loss of this cherished person is good.) Leave them alone, and don't expect more of them than they are physically able to give.

To you who are grieving: Don't feel pressured to muscle up an answer when a scream will do.

My God, My God...

This is a prayer I've had on my heart for a while but finally took time to write down last night.

God, You revealed to Ezekiel "living beings" who had faces on all sides of their heads and four wings. You directed them down the path you chose, and, despite their fearful appearance and power, they moved straight ahead to where You told them without turning to look at what was behind.

My God, give me faith like that.

God, You heard a couple's cry for a child and granted them a son, even at ancient ages. Then, as a test of his faith, You commanded the father to sacrifice that gift-child to You on an altar. Only when You reached out to stop him did he pause in carrying out Your will, even if it meant killing his only child, his miracle seed.

My God, give me faith like that.

God, a young woman was approached by a total stranger at a well. She was given gifts and told to come with him, that it was God's will for her to marry a man she had never laid eyes on. And when they asked if she would leave her home, her family, her life and set out toward an unknown future, she said without hesitation, "Yes, I will go."

My God, give me faith like that.

God, a man bowed before You in a garden. So many before him had been willing to do all that You said, but he begged for another way out. If there was an alternative - someone else to do what had to be done, a different way it could be carried out - if only it didn't have to be him. But You sent Your peace to him. You calmed his spirit like rain on a blaze, and he did what You commanded with a final phrase on his lips: "I want Your will to be done, not mine."

O, my God, my God. Give me faith like that.

Orange

Classes have been over for a week, and I am sitting at home. Very un-cool for a Friday night, but I got in somewhat late from working an eight-hour shift today. Now that school is out for the summer, it's back to the more grown-up responsibility of working forty hours a week. This is the second summer I've worked at a grocery store. It sounds very shop-around-the-corner-esque, but in reality I am part of a huge, impersonal, commerical machine. There is nothing very picturesque about us.

During my first few weeks of work last year, older employees were constantly asking me, "Are you having fun yet?" And really, how could I lie and say "yes"? Not much about my job is fun. Especially in the first few days back, I clock out, stagger out to my truck, and peel my socks and shoes off my blisters. I roll out of bed in the morning with a groan and stump down the stairs, stiff all over from bending and kneeling and seven-and-a-half hours of walking every day. The environment is potentially toxic, what with the politics and the gossip and the stupid questions and the inevitable battle of relationships (in the span of about a month I've managed to attract, be asked out by, refuse, and piss off one of my coworkers...but I really shouldn't be surprised, I've been told men are confusing wherever you find them). Throw in stupid customer requests, furniture sales and pick-ups at stupid times in the evening, frantic deliveries of product during the last twenty minutes of the closing shift, and you'll understand why I tend to sit and stare when I come home at night.

Though my "Christian school bubble" pops every time I walk on that back dock (it's actually refreshing to get away from the religious and be around "real-world" people...is that bad? : / ), I am appreciating the lesson in perspective. The other day a fellow worker told me when I asked if she was alright, "There's really no point in complaining, everybody else is going through the same thing I am." I chose to complain regardless after cleaning up the toy aisle multiple times in half an hour, and when I declared I'd "had enough," one gentleman sighed, "Man, I know what you mean. I leave here at ten tonight and have to be back here at eight in the morning, and this is my sixth day of work this week."

Comments like that usually shut me up. They put me to shame.

It's days like today when I struggle to overlook the blisters, the grime caked on my hands, the sore muscles, the frustration burning in my head, the way my life constantly revolves around going to work, being at work, or coming home from work, the wonky scheduling that frustrates my family as they demand my asking off when I know I'm frustrating my boss when I ask off because my family wants me to, which makes me frustrated at them and them even more frustrated at me. (It's a vicious cycle...) But I feel that my gratitude is getting as much of a workout as my thighs. I have a job. I am earning meager but apparent pay. I haven't had to completely rearrange my sleeping schedule to adjust to third-shift hours. I typically get two days off. And being employed at the grocery store most used by my family means we get to take advantage of the very nice discount on groceries.

I whine. A lot. And I know in my head that I shouldn't. And though I sometimes think, when I ponder the futility of my job (like when I straighten an entire aisle of toys twelve times a day), "I could really do without this", I do appreciate what I'm getting out of it: a paycheck, nicely-shaped leg muscles, and a few life lessons on the side.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to throw up from the precious wrap-up to that thought. :) Oh, and Happy Mother's Day.

Institution

In about twelve hours I will be a college junior. Counting that unavoidable extra semester (the perils of changing majors so late in the game) I am almost halfway through my college career. Only one more final stands in the way...but it's fundamentals of grammar...not exactly worth a proper freak-out.

At this time, ladies and gentlemen, it is the custom to reflect on the past year and see what I've learned and how I've grown. Sophomore year is supposedly harder class-wise than freshman year - you're getting more involved in major-related classes and they expect a little more of you than the gen eds. But you're used to the way things work: how you study best, exactly what defines "clean" for roomchecks, maybe three months is a little too long to keep chili in your fridge (not personal experience), how long you can make a half-gallon of milk last between you and your roommate. In theory you have a good idea of who you are by this point, where you fit, where you are most "you". You have a pretty set group of friends, you know which buildings go by which acronyms, and you know to avoid the meat at the cafeteria's Mexican bar (we aren't exactly sure what it's made of, but calling it "meat" is a little vague). And most importantly, you don't stick out as a freshman, using a tray in the cafeteria (the only way we know who's a visitor) and studying a campus map with a scared/lost look on your face.

I think the biggest thing I've learned this year is to let things go. Especially last fall, I ran around with a vendetta toward everybody. I was constantly up-in-arms about this and pissed off at that and just couldn't stand that person at all. I would get frustrated, sometimes downright angry for absolutely no reason; my mood would flip on a dime, and I would get so upset, I couldn't see straight. Or worse, I would sit and fume until I exploded over somebody who breathed wrong. This spring particularly has been a new start and a lesson in not caring so much what other people do. I got especially fed up with a guy in one of my classes; every time he opened his mouth, I would flair at his ignorance and closed-mindedness. But as a very wise friend of mine told me, "He is NOT my problem." I'm learning to ditch the "angry young man" theme and go more with that Zac Brown Band song: "save your strength for things that you can't change, forgive the ones you can't, you gotta let it go." I mentioned this to Linus the other day, and she pointed out how freeing it is to live focusing only on controlling yourself and leaving other people to do for themselves. It's still a work in progress, but at least there's been progress.

Our room is packed away, the walls are bare, and we rebunked our beds. By this time tomorrow we'll be gone, another year will be in the bag, and we'll be one step closer to adulthood and all the pain and joy it has to offer. As I sit on my bottom bunk, looking at this room that will only be mine for a few more hours, I try to savor it for a minute. I can't help but grind in my heels just a little against the clock and say, "I know I have to keep growing up, and I have to be responsible this summer, taking an online class and going back to work full-time on Monday. But hang on just for a minute. Let me sit in this room where my only responsibility is to be a student. I'll keep going down that path toward the grown-up world tomorrow. For now, just let me be."

Void

Every year on my birthday, I go off by myself and watch "1776." Being born on Independence Day, I've heard the same cliche my entire life: "Oh, you're so special, the whole country celebrates your birthday." (People are the same the world over, and cliches are unlimited by time or space.) I know it's a musical and subject to Hollywood-y influence; but I like to think it embodies a lot of the tension and frustration and agony that went into creating this country. It's refreshing to think that this land wasn't always the "land of opportunity," that we came from a rebellion, and we were formed by arguments.
There's a scene toward the end where the Secretary of the Continental Congress is reading a dispatch from General Washington, and he sings the general's words: "Is anybody there? Does anybody care?" It's a simple, three-tone melody, sung in a dark, solemn room. You can practically feel Washington's desperation through his words: is anybody paying attention to what I'm saying?

I thought about that scene when I was starting this blog. I wonder if there's any point. I watch the page-view statistics; I see the single-digit view-counts on each post. I feel like Meg Ryan in "You've Got Mail", sending her words out into the void to some unknown reader. I've been told to give myself more credit for what I write, that I have something to say and say it in a nice way. But my greatest fear is to be selfish and credit-seeking; I'm not the type to demand to be listened to, because I shrink back into my natural "please, please, please don't pay attention to me" shell when the spotlight suddenly focuses on me. But I wonder if anything I post on here makes someone think, makes someone laugh, makes someone pensive. Is there a reason? Is it doing any good?

Is anybody there?

Does anybody care?

Ketchup and Onions

Woke up around 11 today, was dragged to lunch by two of my unit mates crashing into my room saying, "Come on, you're going to eat with us NOW," then finished my mother-of-all-others American Lit paper (a friend of mine once said she felt like she was giving up a child when she turned a paper she was proud of...I'm proud of what I wrote, but I'm more in the mood of throwing it in my prof's door as I run past her office...a deliver-and-run) before heading over to the biggest celebration on campus other than Campus Christmas. Typically thrown within the last two weeks of school, it's a time for us to celebrate the accomplishments and talents of students from earlier in the year. Athletes, "unsung heroes," musicians, designers - they're all recognized in between music performed by students. It's big, it's loud, it's crazy, everybody dresses up in either formals or costumes, and, according to my older friends, this year's was the best we've had yet.

And it was - it was great. Downright awesome. But the fun started for me after we changed clothes and headed off campus.

We didn't do much, just a handful of girls and two guys from our brother unit going to Graeter's for ice cream. The car I was in detoured at McDonalds/Burger King (hey, we wanted ice cream and burgers - save your judgment), then we came back to campus. Simple. But it was awesome in its simplicity and made for one of the most fun nights I've had in...gosh, months. We honked at a couple making out outside our dorm, then sped away in case they'd recognized us. We had twelve-year-olds in the car in front of us flirting with our driver in the Burger King drive-thru. We drove down the road screaming "TONIIIIIIGHT WE ARE YOUNG SO WE'LL SET THE WORLD ON fi-IRE, WE CAN BURN brigh-TER THAN THE SUUUUUU-UU-UUUUN" with mouths stuffed full of hamburgers. Two girls sat flinging Dutch Blitz cards at each other, while we took turns holding my four-foot-eleven roommate's head with extended arms and watching her flailing as she tried to hit us. We played cards and were entirely too loud for 12.30 in the morning.

Then we came back in our room and took down all our pictures and posters, since all the walls have to be cleared by Monday for moving out.

As Linus (my roommate - I call her such because she is short and wise) and I sat playing cards, she said, "You know what I'm looking forward to? Heaven. Because then we'll be able to hang out and make memories and never have to say goodbye and make them end. That was my sad and pensive thought for the evening, now we can play cards again." Later we were reminiscing about the night, and she said that's what college is all about.

It's the last weekend before summer break, and we've just now realized what college is about....is it sad that it's taken us this long?

Calzone

There comes a point when you look at the essay that's due tomorrow, think, "Oh my God, I can't remember what I just wrote two minute ago...and I'm not entirely sure it was two minutes ago or forty...", save what you've written, and resolve to finish/edit it before class tomorrow. You still have time.

It's really not that late - it hasn't even clicked over to midnight yet. Today was my day to sleep in, I only had one class, and the only thing of product I did was write three more pages on my mother-of-all papers due Monday for American Lit. I have no reason to be tired. But I can barely hold my eyes open. Except Sam is singing "Rent" from the shower. She keeps me from falling asleep, but not in the state of mind that will get me a good grade on my paper. Whatever I write won't be worth it.

By all accounts I should have no drive to write for myself. It's Tuesday - last week of classes before finals - and I've already written two complete papers and five pages of the American Lit doozy. Presentation tomorrow morning, two papers due tomorrow afternoon, paper due Friday, paper AND presentation due Monday, three final exams and two final papers next week. I mapped it out in my planner over the weekend, and it sounded much worse then than it does now that I'm actually knee-deep in it. As my dad says, "One day at a time, one project at a time." In my case, one headache at a time. I talked to a few friends who are engineering majors, and they moan their calculus, C++ (something design-related, I think - they've explained it to me several times and I still don't get it), and computer courses. One said (a little arrogantly as I conveyed my paper-writing woes), "I had to write my second paper of the semester this week." I glared at him and wondered if it was too late to switch out of the English department.

Of course, I have a prime example of "slave till it's done" dedication about six feet from my desk. My roommate, who is one of the most driven people I know, will say what she has to do without necessarily whining, as I tend to do. She puts me to shame with her constant good mood, her nose-to-the-grindstone-even-if-it-means-losing-my-nose mentality, and, above all, her ability to stay up until dawn's early light and still keep going. Last week she was averaging three or four hours of sleep a night. For a straight week. She's a veritable machine. That's one thing that sets me apart from most college students I know: I am physically incapable of pulling an all-nighter. (I did once, though completely not school-related: I went to the midnight premiere of "The Hunger Games," and since we weren't allowed back on campus until after curfew was lifted, we drove around until 5 in the morning. Since I had class at 8 I decided not to go to bed. My own dedication shone through when my 8am class was cancelled and I still managed to survive until 10 that night with only about an hour of sleep. I said I would do it, I did it, and I'll probably never do it again "just for the heck of it.") I've tried, I really have. I sit at my desk, staring at my computer, thinking, "It's one in the morning and I have just started this paper, I can do this." About 1.45 I wake up in circus-like positions in my desk chair, with nothing grand at all about my paper except that I spelled my name correctly in such a condition. So for every night in two years (except one last year), I have gone to bed before my roommate. Before I drop off, I shrink under the covers in shame: "I should be working, I should be at my desk doing something. I don't have anything else due tomorrow, but there's gotta be something I can work ahead on into the wee hours."

But after about 12.30, I start to be useless, and by the time 1am rolls around, I'm completely out of it. Unfortunately, tonight is one of those nights when my useless phase hits at midnight, and I'm the grandma of the unit, calling it a night while others have just begun.

Another night of shame, I guess. -_-

Mismunandi

Spent some time analyzing my desk today. It’s not small – in fact it’s quite roomy: about 3½’ x 2½’, bigger than my dorm desk last year, complete with a plan of wood that pulls out on the side as an armrest, footrest, or extra writing space, depending on the day. My binders for class are packed away in a drawer; a metal bookcase holds most of my books (about a foot of which are literature anthologies and novels…spot the English major), a bulletin/dry-erase board, my clock, and a picture of my family, the only picture I brought to college with me. (When you live in a room this size, you learn to nix things like that to make room for the essentials.) Other than a dusted laptop screen, I can’t really pride myself on being neat at my desk.

The common denominator on all the surfaces in our room (and the lounge…and the bathroom…and the sidewalk outside our door) are bobby pins. EVERYWHERE. I’m developing a writer’s habits by jotting thoughts on scraps of paper and flinging them on the desk on my way out the door to class. Notes, handouts, and old essays sit in a pile to my left, neat for now but usually sliding through the gap in the end-board onto my bed, where my Literature binder has taken up residence because there’s no space for it on the desk. (And why would I bother to put it away if I’m going to use it at some point in the next two weeks?) Amid the books and papers are (ashamedly) dishes that have yet to be done. My literature anthologies are no longer covered with only dust, but also house this morning’s breakfast bowl and a plate from lunch on Sunday. (That’s actually a complete lie, I have touched each of those books at least twice in the last two days. But for right now, they are, in fact, crowned with dishes.) Of course the most-used item in my room – my coffee mug – stands ever faithful by my computer, along with my keys that I will probably forget when I leave for class tomorrow morning. Old cards and notes, Valentine’s Day messages (those mass-produced cardlets usually bought at drugstores with Blow-Pops or Starbursts), and loose sticks of gum speckle the rest of the free surface. This may explain why I’m writing now from the lounge.

Every now and then I’ll have a claustrophobic attack and run around, usually very late at night, growling, “Must. Clean. EVERYTHING.” But most days it stays like this. Let me assure you, I am by no means a slob: my laundry is done weekly and does not smell between washings, my bed is most of the time made, and the garbage rarely spills out of the can. (I am on good terms with my roommate and would very much like to keep it that way.) But my desk is my space. Other people may sit on my bed, my trashcan is often used by visitors, that’s all fine. But only once or twice has anyone ever used my desk. It is my dominion: often unsightly, but I am used to the clutter.

I think it says something about my character. Obviously the books say “reader,” and the post-its with out-of-context quotes that make sense only to be reveal a thinker with oddities filling the brain. I suspect my future apartment will look like this one day: my own systematic nightmare, slightly more chaotic than organized. To me, though it makes sense: if I need my First-Year Seminar altered syllabus, it will always be in this pile, and my journal will never belong anywhere else except between Jo’s Boys and my notebook filled with quotes.

It's my space, the only place on campus that I truly call my own. And I will clutter it as I please.

Irony

I feel like nights like these are what college (well, dorm life) is all about. With two weeks left before finals, we all have to mope about how much we have to do. This takes up twice the time it would actually do the work, but it makes us feel better. Besides, it's nice to know you aren't the only one who's drowning.

We've already declared a study break of cards necessary (between last night and tonight, most of us now know how to play ERS, Dutch Blitz, and BS). But for now, we slave. I'm on the couch in the lounge, drinking coffee far too late at night for my own good and reading a book I should have started a month ago. Sam is fussing at Naomi to read a play, while Naomi is insisting she can't read the print book while waiting for her e-mail to load. Another girl has slammed herself up in her room to drown out the rest of us shouting across the lounge to each other's rooms, and Linus (truth be told, the only diligent one among us) is blaring the "Last Five Years" soundtrack from our for-once-open door. (We're usually never this social after about six in the evening.)

It's like a family (a wonky, all-female, the-oldest-among-us-is-twenty-one family). For this year they've been my family. I'm part of it; I belong somewhere; after being just another face on campus, I can come back and plunk on this couch and be 1/8 of my unit. And when I feel most of the time that I don't make much of a difference anywhere...that's some small comfort.

Just got finished telling my sister what a study-conducive environment we're creating (this never happens), and here I sit splunging when I should be reading. Back to the grind.

Fuel

Saturday. Morning after junior-senior (Christian school version of prom. For anyone who cares, I'm adding this one to my repertoire of "awkward prom stories" and called it a "learning experience"). I've been up for about an hour and haven't done anything - it takes me a while to get started in the mornings. Except it's almost 1. And I have three papers due for Monday. AAH.

At some point every day I have two cups of coffee. I've already had one, and the coffee pot on the desk has stopped smoking, meaning the other one is ready. I don't know why I keep up this ritual. Coffee was the original energy drink, but I've been downing the stuff for so long, I don't feel anything until number four or five. The second cup is usually weaker than the first, but I'm too cheap to dump the grounds and make a fresh pot. So if it's not for the energy...why do it?

Maybe it has to do with image. Though I'd love to sit in a messy apartment for the rest of my life, downing Folgers and writing thought-provoking essays, I was practical enough to choose English education as my major. (I've heard of people who bag groceries for a day-job and write on the side...but I work at a grocery store now, and I know better than to stay there forever.) But that doesn't mean I love writing any less - I still love the days spent alone in my room, when I sit at my computer and let the thoughts flow, driven by black caffeine. As mentioned in an earlier post, I love losing myself in words and a dark roast. In the hour between my 8am class and chapel at 10, I brew a pot and curl up on the couch in our lounge with a book; it's my time to not think before I take on the day.

Maybe it's the connection I have with the past. Every morning when my dad's home starts with coffee; my grandparents' house always smelled like coffee. Sometimes my sister and I would stop at Starbucks on the way home from high school, back when we spent time together every day, lived across the hall from each other, and drove around listening to Broadway soundtracks. During play/musical seasons my fellow acting buddies and I would leave rehearsal and spend hours at Panera, keeping the conversation flowing with mochas and frappes. It was a staple on mornings after sleepovers, when we'd sit around my kitchen table and pick up the discussions we'd stopped at 4am.

Maybe it's my way of showing I'm growing up. Coffee always seemed so very adult-ish when I was little. I tried it once at maybe seven or eight years old - my mom said you could only eat Snickerdoodles if you had coffee with it - and I hated it, vowing I would never drink it again. I've been told over and over, "Try new things, it stretches your horizons, it builds character." And at some point I re-tried it; now I can't get through a day without it. And I'm developing my own method of doing things, my own routine. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I have it before and after chapel; on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I have one cup before chapel and one after my 11am class; on Saturdays I start with it first-thing, and I make it when I get back from church on Sundays (if I go at all). Just like I have specific times I eat dinner or days I go to Zumba, I have my appointment with my coffee pot.

An hour later, I still haven't started any of my three papers; I've wasted enough time here.

Snippet

I was looking back over my first journal from my senior year of high school and found an old assignment from English class. We were studying Chaucer's "Canterbury Tales" and had to write up a description of ourselves following certain guidelines. Like, line three had to be "friend of...", line five had to be "who needed...", things like that. I thought it fitting to include it with my post about myself from yesterday, just to see if things have changed from senior year of high school to sophomore year of college...not much difference. :)

Compassionate, painfully sarcastic, imaginative, musical

Friend of Chan and Aus

Lover of one-liners, a happy ending, and an adventure to get there

Who felt that everyone's entitled to their own identity, unbearable annoyance for the willfully-ignorant, and pity for the snobs

Who needed a to-do-list, a quiet thought, and constant music

Who gave joy when there was none, a smile to those who needed it most, and a (very) small token to the world of literature

Who feared the future (sometimes), uncertainty, and the clock

Who would have liked to see my great-grandpa, Philadelphia, and Charles Dickens in their glory days

Jane

I see myself as the girl who is most content curled on a sofa in an ugly sweater, holding a cup of coffee and reading Jane Austen. Look off into space occasionally, sip my coffee as I ponder something I've just read, close my eyes, nod as the sheer brilliance seeps into my brain and speaks to my soul. Think to myself, "She is the essence of what it means to be a woman." Post quotes from her work all over my Facebook, text all my friends some wisdom I've discovered and command them all to read "this amazing book that will change everything you thought about life." Talk to girls my age about how much I wish I lived back then - wore the dresses, spoke with their vocabulary, lived the life, got the handsome guy who loved me despite my flaws.

Except for one thing: I hate Jane Austen.

I've tried, I really have. I love the story of Pride and Prejudice - skimmed it once for a class, watched the movie countless times, gushed over it like the rest of my friends. But I just can't get into her writing. I like old literature - Little Women and The Hunchback of Notre Dame are two of my favorites. But for some reason ane and I have never meshed.

Maybe it's the utter girly-ness of her stories. I love a good romance as much as the next girl, don't get me wrong. But reading about that time, that culture - when everything revolves around meeting Mr. Wonderful-and-his-3000-a-year - one can really only take so much. And there's not much action. Lots of dialogue and moving around from engagement to engagement with the fashionable Lady So-and-so, but no running, screaming, chaos. Everything's just so...nice. It makes me want to find a Stephen King novel and be shocked and grossed out and disturbed.

This isn't a proud proclamation, this is a major dilemma. I feel like I'm somehow less of a woman because my soul isn't touched by Jane Austen. I cry at "Titanic," sigh contentedly at "P.S. I Love You," celebrate at the end of "Sleepless in Seattle," and raise my fist with Bridget Jones. I eat chocolate, mope over boys, and, though I'm not a fan of shopping, will go if food is involved at some point. But despite all that, I feel like I'm standing in the middle of a hostile mob of women, judging me for being a freakish anti-Austen half-woman.

For the record (I feel the need to justify myself somewhere) I happen to love sitting alone on my front porch reading with a cup of coffee. But something funny (The Divine Secrets of the YaYa Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells), fast (Angels and Demons by Dan Brown), or just downright ridiculous (A Liar's Autobiography by Graham Chapman) are more my speed.

My apologies to Jane. You are indeed appreciated by many woman...I just happen to not be one of them.

Also, I feel the need to drop book titles in wherever possible. This is not meant to prove anything; this is just me being snobbish.