Silly Picture

on to Michigan

Having spent nearly a week in Iowa, my family and I are continuing our holiday adventures by driving straight from Iowa to Michigan, bypassing our house to save a couple/few hours. While fourteen of us were at my grandparents, we played a lot of games, went bowling, disc golfed, opened gifts, sang Christmas carols, went to a larger family reunion, and ate a lot of food. Many of the same things lay in store for this coming weekend.

Opening Gifts

We opened gifts today!

Merry Christmas

Relaxing around the house on Christmas Day.
It’s time for a supper of dried beef and cheese.
Lights on the tree match the colors of the sunset sky. Dulcimer and banjo playing carols on the stereo. 
Grandma takes her harmonica and happily joins the tune.



Ultra-Merry Christmas

A series of sugar, sugar lows, and the occasional sugar high. No, this is not all we did on Christmas day– just what we were doing while Auld Lang Syne was playing.

Feliz

Finals are done! It’s almost suppertime! I’m going to Amy’s tomorrow! Video chat is working! It was 55 degrees today! I have 60 meals to eat before I leave tomorrow! I think I got all A’s! I sold one book back and have money in my pocket! I have to pack for five different places tonight! It’s getting closer and closer to Christmas! I’m listening to Christmas music!

If I Ran the Library

Dear Librarian, if I were you,
There’s little things that I would do
To make this place a better one,
To make this place much better run.

I don’t say these books are bad
Or that the aura makes me sad.
It’s just that I have definitely had
Enough of this– it makes me mad.

I’m talking about the level of noise
Produced by inconsiderate boys.
Who strip this place of all it’s joys.
It makes me want to lose my poise.

I’ve searched throughout all Illinois
To find a study undestroyed
A quiet harbor to enjoy
Without these voices that annoy.

The noise would be less deafening,
The atmosphere less scary
If I could do this one small thing–
If I ran the library.


Late Friday Night

This is what me and friends look like late on Friday night after drinking a lot (of apple cider) and hanging out in a steel-sided shed with paint on the floor and leak spots on the ceiling and colored lights and mashed-up Christmas music pulsing through the air. We raised money for an AIDS-affected community in the area by selling art and clothing and hearing at least five live performers. If anyone wants some good cheap Hopi tribe art to hang on your walls, I have a source.

I should probably write something.

My brain is feeling a little hazy with lack of sleep from the huge amount of Christmas and end-of-semester activities and assignments and I have quite a bit of stuff to do before ten minutes from now so I thought I’d take a break and blog for a minute.

on the size of this college

This college is too small. I have to work my schedule around its schedule.

This college is too big. It’s impossible to learn everyone’s name, so half the time I don’t know who people are talking about.

This college is too small. I walk down the sidewalk feeling obligated to acknowledge everyone.

This college is too big. I take the same class as my friends, and we don’t even get to be in the same section.

This college is too small. The weekends are dead.

This college is too big. If some of these lovely young women would leave, the guy/girl ratio would be a lot more level.

This college is too small. I can’t avoid those mediocre professors.

This college is too big. The most classes I have with the same person is two. How am I supposed to get to know anybody if I have two classes with them tops?

This college is too small. The cafeteria has really short hours. On weekends I don’t even have time to go back for seconds.

This college is too big. I have to pass up dozens of promising activities every week.

This college is too small. “There’s like nothing to do. We have to dye our hair every week just to stifle the boredom.”

This college is to big. Too much room for people who say, “There’s like nothing to do. We have to dye our hair every week just to stifle the boredom.”

This college is too small. Something is wrong when I can already tell whoever is walking behind me just by the sound of their voice.

This college is too big. It takes forever to walk to the parking lot where my car is at.

This college is too small. I’m running out of places to explore.

This college is too big. I feel defeated because there is no way I will ever be able to learn all that is offered, especially the life lessons that individuals offer. Like tonight, I’m sitting in psychology and we have to talk in groups and I find out that the girl I am sitting next to has an inspiring story and many of my same interests, and I don’t even know her name. And if this college was smaller, we would probably be best friends or something. But no. I may never even have another class with her.

This college is too small. It is missing something important: an obvious best friend for Rebecca.

This college is just right.

Thanksgiving

As always (except for the time I was in Tokyo), I spent Thanksgiving in Pella, Iowa. As always, we spent the time with extended family, feasting, talking, holding a trapshoot, and playing games. What made this year unique was the unseasonably spectacular weather and the lack of mashed potato explosions.

My cousins stayed through Friday, which left time for movie watching, disc golfing, indoor swimming, dress-up playing (My grandma’s dress up box is stocked with old bridesmaid dresses that we have just recently grown into.), and pizza eating. That night, my cousins said goodbye and went back to their home.

The rest of the weekend, we did some Christmas decorating, went bowling, did a little homework, and relaxed. On Saturday night my parents hosted a party with their high school friends. On Sunday we went to church and ate a delicious dinner (carved above.) That afternoon my family and I also departed. My parents were going to have to bring me all the way to Trinity, but I got a guy we saw on the interstate to bring me.

Getting together with the extended family is marvelous. Having to say goodbye at the end of every time together makes me wish that we lived closer. It makes me daydream of us all setting up permanent residence there. Like a commune, with cousins as close as siblings, and shared resources, and more time to play balderdash together.

This weekend

What a college kid can accomplish in 61 hours, starting on a Friday morning:

Go out for breakfast with cousins Matt and Laura. Eat yummy stuffed french toast and talk about Trinity.

Go to an international teaching job fair. Ask recruiters what credentials they look for. Ask about student teaching options.

Try to take a nap. Fail.

Do a little homework.

Go to a talkback after that night’s showing of A Plague of Angels to discuss theological and ethical implications of the plot.

Party at the Art Raid to Save. Listen to live performers at the open mic. Watch people knit and crochet like no tomorrow.

Drink hot apple cider. Color a picture. Buy an appliqued t-shirt. Not know how to dance. Play Apples to Apples.

Sleep.

Go to the Palos Heights Library with several friends. Get a library card. Borrow “The Very Best of Artie Shaw.”

Hang out in Alumni 221 with a few upperclassmen friends (Allison, Caitlin, Liz, and Roz). Drink hot chocolate. Talk.

Do a little homework.

Run fun errands with Allison and Caitlin. Buy roller blades at Salvation Army. Buy rice, tortillas, and tea at Trader Joe’s. Plan a
pre-Thanksgiving meal of rice and beans.

Attend a gospel choir concert. Damage my ears. Enjoy it anyway.

Do homework.

Sleep.

Congregate with Hope Church in Oak Forest. Sing. Listen. Read. Eat cake.

Do a little homework.

Have my family over. Have them bring me food and an internet cable that is long enough to wrap around the outside of the
room so I don’t have to duct tape the shorter one across the ceiling to reach my desk.

Attend Eric’s senior recital. Listen. Laugh. Hear him sing in his bass range and his soprano range.

Visit my cousins. Savor soup and sandwiches. Swing little boys around by their feet. Bounce them on knees. Bake bread with a bigger boy, the big brother. Eat pie and ice cream. Inspire Jonathan (first grader) to ask his dad if he could get a laptop too.

Ride back to campus. Sing Keith Green songs loudly. Discuss global warming.

Write a blog.

Once again, “Last Weekend”

Last time, I wrote about the previous weekend soon after it happened, but didn’t get around to putting it on the internet until after the next weekend, which is the weekend I would like to tell you about tonight. The weekend in contemplation is the eleventh and twelfth.

If you count Thursday night as the weekend, you can say that I went to Trinity’s fall play, A Plague of Angels, last weekend. A deep and thought-provoking drama.

Friday night I did nothing of significance, which is remarkable. So I guess that makes it significant.

Saturday I went downtown on my own. It was easy. I drove to Midway, paid two bucks to park, paid two bucks to get on the train, and got a free business card telling me to read The Purpose Driven Life. I also got some free counseling from a rundown man who told me to “Stay in school.”

I attended a lecture on Goya’s art at the Art Institute. Once I was in there, I took advantage of the chance to look at all the art without paying admission.

Then I wandered towards the next lecture I wanted to attend, hoping to find some relatively cheap food on the way. I saw a whole-in-the-wall Szechwan restaurant that looked promising. I walked through under their chintzy awning and past their taped-up menus and into a large, professionally decorated foyer. I was escorted to a tidy, modern dining room and seated at a table with a cloth napkin and a leather-bound menu.

Needless to say, this is not what I expected, and the prices were far more than I wanted to spend. Furthermore, I didn’t really have time for a sit down restaurant. So, I ordered off the appetizer menu, dumped all my ice in my soup so I could eat it faster, burnt my tongue anyway, and ran to the next lecture. But that velvet corn soup was worth it.

The lecture I went to was entitled “Ourselves As Others See Us.” The “others” were an Indian journalist, a Dutch journalist, and an American journalist who had spent a few years in Mexico. The panel was an annual part of the Chicago Humanities Festival, and the auditorium was packed with people who wanted to hear the opinions of those who look at United States’ politics from a different perspective.

Well, what do you know? We found out that the rest of the world agrees with liberals.
I’m sure every organization, every faction, every circle, gathers to itself people who will tell it what it wants to hear.

Conservatives are no different. And neither are Christians.

So should we find people who will tell us what we disagree with? That seems silly. Should the liberally-run, liberally-attended Chicago Humanities Festival have purposefully sought for conservatives to tell them a few benefits of the war in Iraq? They could’ve done what they did for another panel: pick one liberal, one conservative, and one moderate (which made for a good panel because their was actually debate, which makes panelists use logic and reasoning, which is always advantageous). Or they could’ve picked the panelists based on their credentials, and not on their credos. Maybe they did, I don’t know. I don’t really know their credentials.

If we have reasons for believing what we believe, we should not be afraid of hearing people tell us why they don’t believe the same thing. We shouldn’t have to resort to ad hominem arguments (as I saw happen at the panel in which there was debate). We shouldn’t have to count “the ‘others’ agree” as one of our reasons.

Moving on with the weekend:

By this time I had joined two other Trinity women, and we went to a performance in a Jewish synagogue. But we walked out after a few songs because we literally could not see the performers. The stage was kind of below that part of the horribly-designed balcony. It might have been okay if the sound system was either quality or well-run (both would have been good.) So we took the train back to Midway and drove… Home? Is that what this place is? For as much as it feels like home, everyone reserves that term for the place they go on the holidays. Odd.

On Sunday I went to yet another good church with people who shake your hand and don’t even know if you are a member or a lost soul. Or both, or neither.

In the afternoon I went to a guys junior recital and found out that foreign language songs can be done very well and that German is a beautiful language.

Most likely I did nothing of interest that night. I probably went to bed. I should go to bed.

Last weekend

I spent last weekend downtown Chicago attending lectures and presentations that were a part of the Chicago Humanities festival. I got to here about the art of interviewing, teaching a culture of peace and justice, and photographing war. I heard that republicans are all rich, that becoming a Zen Buddhist is the ultimate in peacefulness, and I heard the liberal on the panel called “Iraq War Strategy” say that more troops are needed in Iraq.

I walked miles, spent fourteen dollars on public transportation, ate delicious food, attended the Moody church, slept in a hostel, got a few hours of sleep. At the Field Museum I met another young woman who is going to Spain. Same program, same semester.

Amidst all this I took the oh-so-important Basic Skills Test. If I had known when I signed up for the test that I would be living downtown at that time, I would have signed up for the one in Chicago. But since I signed up for southern suburbs, I had to get up at five and take public transportation to Harvey and back.

flying and talking

I’ve been losing my voice over the past few days. Today it was gone. I think it is on vacation in Hawaii. I think the weather from Hawaii was on vacation in Palos Heights today. We benefitted from the tourism.

So anyway, my voice is gone. I never realized how many people I chat with every day and how important working vocal chords are for those interactions. My friends thought my whispering amusing, yet they sympathized.

In a noisy environment I was trying to sign what I was trying to say. It wasn’t working. My friend intervened and said, “She can’t talk.”

“Why not?”

I tried to explain, but when they heard the first frog-croak noise they said, “Oh! You really can’t talk.” So true.

What if I could never talk again. What if I had that strange disease that systematically shuts down your vocal chords. What if there was a reason for my building interest in sign language. What if I had to decide to be an author instead of a teacher.
What if I could never sing again.

So it was forty-five minutes before class started, I had a fifteen minute presentation due, and I had no voice to speak of. That’s when I realized that the wind had slammed my door shut so hard it had locked itself and all my materials were inside.
Thank God for suitemate’s friends, bobby pins, and a sympathetic professor.

And by the way, I had a dream that I learned how to fly. It was rather easy. In my dream I thought, “Millennia ago scientists were trying to figure out how people could fly. But they gave up and made planes to fly for them. If they had only known more about aerodynamics, they would have seen how easy it is to fly just with your own body.”

Then I woke up and found out that those giver-uppers were right and that I couldn’t talk.

If you had to say what you say in a whole different way,
what would you use? 
If you had to give up something to speak,
what would you lose?
If you had a choice between flying and talking, 
what would you choose?

A bouncy ball of ideas

It’s been too long since I have written, which makes writing one more difficult because something makes it seem like I should write something profound or at least important. As if I had needed the past week and a half to gather my thoughts.

Which could be true. There is not enough time to think. We could all get more out of life if we just stopped to reflect more often. And sleep more while we are at it.

But I’ve found many chances to reflect while I am out doing things. It is not very quiet type of reflection. Kind of a “community reflection,” a bouncy ball of ideas and opinions, which can be used as a weapon, but is usually a lot of fun.

I love college. I love having all these people around. I can walk out into the hall and poke my head in peoples rooms and ask them questions and tell them what I am excited about at any hour of the day. My roommate Lori and I can talk about random topics until two-thirty in the morning. We can encourage each other and identify with each other. I have learned so much from the people I have met already this year.

I love college.

Advertizzle

This video got an A and is now the teacher's favorite video to show off to people in his classes. Thank you to an amazing team! Group projects actually can be fun.

autumn on campus

There’s something about all those trees that makes the ground spring up into crunchiness this time of year. That noisy texture comes with a particular smell, which is a good smell that you’d like to keep if it wouldn’t go bad.

I’d like to keep this beautiful weather, but I know it won’t stay. Soon I won’t be comfortable without five layers wrapping me, the top one being a winter coat. I’ve heard that South stays pretty warm through the winter. I hope that the person who says that has the same definition as I do. Seventy-five is a good temperature. Eighty is good if it’s a sit-around-and-do-nothing day. But I haven’t had many of those!


journal jottings

It’s a beautiful day. I wish I was out on the lawn, but I have to do my homework. I could do my homework on the lawn, but that is not as simple as it sounds. It is easier to write a new entry here.

It’s quiet here today.

I might be able to change my website name. Any suggestions?

Group projects are not that great unless everyone is aiming for the same grade.

The musical Raisin is great. I saw it last night with the honors group plus one friend who didn’t know she was going until five minutes before. She kept a ticket from going to waste. I ate raisins during intermission.

If you do a google image search of “raisin,” you get pictures of grapes.

I got a Curious George sticker on the last banana I ate in the cafeteria.

I got a job designing flyers for houses for a real estate agent.

Singing happily along

Today I decided to hang out with a couple of my friends, seniors Esther and Josh, and go to Reba Place, because it sounded interesting in the email they sent out about it. But by this morning I had forgotten the details of the email (such as that it’s a Christian, largely Mennonite community in Evanston). So when we got there, I didn’t really know what to expect.
First, we did church. The service was globally focused, as in they were very aware that their congregation was just part of the world-wide body of Christ. The people were diverse and they didn’t were bonnets or aprons or black suspenders. We shared in communion with them. I shied away from the common-goblet and opted for a dixie-cup.
Afterwards there was a potluck. Mennonites cook good food. We talked about England, studies, and migration of ethnic groups throughout Chicago.

Then we went to the house where Tatiana and Chico live along with seven other young adults. We rode bikes (which they had taken off the streets and fixed up) to their garden plot which they rent from the city. We talked about our economical choices and how they affect the environment and those working in third-world countries. They shared with us some delicious cookies.
We all know that the food we eat comes from places all around the globe. What we buy at the grocery store has been shipped, using expensive resources, for thousands of miles. And it’s often still cheaper than the stuff grown locally. Which means that the laborers who raise our tomatoes so we can eat them fresh (although fakely ripened) in the dead of winter are getting paid next to nothing.

Unlike the rest of us, Tatiana and Chico allowed this information to affect there daily choices. They and their housemates eat organic, fair-trade, and locally grown food. And their grocery bills have actually decreased because they are making use of plant proteins and shopping wisely. Because meat is an inefficient use of land and energy resources, they don’t buy it.
They told us what they struggle with about communal living and what they’ve learned from their struggles. They showed us that consciously striving for holy living means being different, radical, set-apart. It’s in the definition.

What a beautiful day to sit at a picnic table in a flourishing garden, talking about things that matter with people who aren’t just talking. It makes me want to sing.

Sadly listening to Joy

Too many people go home on weekends, creating an anti-climax for those of us who don’t. Wandering around campus, I found several small pockets of activity: a group watching a movie, a group playing cards, and another group watching a movie. Today I don’t feel like doing much, so I shouldn’t complain about there not being much to do.

It’s not like I didn’t do anything. I finished my homework (for Monday). I batiked in the laundry room (we’ll see if it worked later). I observed some soccer being played. I ate ravioli that tasted like cigarette butts (I was wondering what that pseudo-familiar, disgusting taste was when Elvis told me that they tasted like cigarette butts, and I took another bite and said, “You’re right.” The cafeteria ladies don’t put as much love in their entrees on weekends.). I went for a walk with someone who can’t tell the difference between an oak and a maple (talk about diversity!), but she reminded me that I don’t know what an almond tree looks like. I cleared some papers off my desk.

So now I am just sitting here, listening to George Winston play “Joy,” his rendering of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” It’s funny how if I was in a more cheerful mood, I would find his arrangement particularly pleasant and peppy. But tonight, it sounds like a sympathizing lullaby.

Whenever you are feeling blue
Would you rather listen to
A song to make you tap your shoe
Or something blue along with you?

Clarity

I love how, even if I don’t yet know what church I’m going to attend, I do know of one that I am definitely not going to attend. That was made very clear this morning.

So we (a couple friends and I) decided to attend this church this morning because Trinity’s choir was singing there and it was almost as fast to walk there as to walk to my car in the far parking lot. We didn’t even have to cross a busy road, and the choir sung beautiful songs beautifully.

The sermon was on the Proverbs 31 woman. I thought “This will be good. I need to learn more about what precisely the biblical role of a woman is, both in her family and in church.” The pastor prefaced his message with, “This is a hard passage to preach on” and “I am only the messenger.” Sounds like humble things for someone who is about to get nitty-gritty about the truth of the Bible to say.

He started by telling a few jokes. A few too many jokes. I turned on my particularly skeptical ear when he said that “Proverbs is some old-lady’s drawer” (referring to the way it jumps from topic to topic) and that nobody really likes Proverbs except for teacher’s pets. He was basically saying that the reason Proverbs does not often mention God by name was because it was written as a way for humans to be their own gods.

He went on to say that a Proverbs 31 woman is indeed hard to find. “Impossible.” “Ridiculous” “The dream of Proverbs is the modern church’s nightmare.”

I thought, “What can he mean? Is the Proverbs 31 woman so far beyond our reach that we should be afraid?” I waited for him to make his point clear. He did:

“Proverbs 31 presents a warped view of the role of a woman. Where are the children in this passage? Don’t they have chores too? The woman shouldn’t have to do everything. This passage presents her as having no value except what she is worth to others; what she can provide for her family. And the husband, sitting at the city gates. The Bible doesn’t say this, but he was actually playing poker there. Women shouldn’t have to do everything. Women today think they need to do everything. Look how busy families are. Everyone is trying to be the best, as if that will get them into heaven. Where is grace in all of that? It’s like all these ‘servant leaders’ today. They are all just trying to look good. No. Grace is all we need.”

Yes, I agree that families get over-involved as they try to be successful. Some ‘servant leaders’ need a lot of help with the service part of their job. But grace is no excuse for sloppiness. The possibility of taking pride in achievements is no excuse not to achieve.

The pastor finished with these words: “Take Proverbs 31 and tape it to your mirror. Look at it every day. And say to yourself, ‘No. That is not how I am going to live.’”

Hmm. Just a messenger?

He prayed. The choir sang a beautiful song glorifying the triune, hard-working God who inspired Proverbs. The pastor gave a few more announcements: “Consider hosting for the progressive dinner,” and “Make sure to stay for the congregational meeting to see how you can get involved.”

I had hoped that he would have made some things clear in his sermon. I guess he did.

you need more sleep

when you are trying to fight off millions and billions of college germs. I think that every third person around here would define themselves as sick. It’s kind of funny when someone laughs and it just comes out as a wheeze.

My general strategy is to drink earl grey tea, which I first became familiar with at Lifest back in jr. high. Not only does it taste good and warm you up, it gives the illusion that you don’t really need to sleep.

I need new eyes

That movie I just watched was so stupid. There were a few funny jokes, but sleeping would have been a much better use of my time. It makes me mad that the world thinks all that junk is so funny. It makes me madder that Christians think whatever the world laughs at is funny. It makes me maddest to know that I just voluntarily wasted my time letting it soak in.

My friend Amy gets mad when she sees people walking around wearing t-shirts that say “Gay? Fine by me.” I would too. But just because I am on a Christian campus and most everyone believes homosexuality is wrong doesn’t mean I don’t hear gay humor. Like I said, many Christians think whatever the world laughs at is funny.

I may not tell gay jokes or laugh at gay jokes, but there are plenty of other sinful, destructive habits I’ve laughed at. Mostly drugs and alcohol. Those things have been “funny” for so long that joking about them is “harmless.” But imagine joking around about alcohol in front of someone who has faced abuse because of it. Not funny.

When will I learn to look at sin through God’s eyes of judgment and sinners through God’s eyes of love?

my first speech in speech class

There is something magical about toast.

It's easy to understand how it is made. A slice of bread is inserted into a slot in a squarish appliance, where it is surrounded by coils of wire that become hot when a current of electrons passes through them. The wires warm the air around the bread until the outside surface of the bread is dry and golden. That's what turns the bread into toast. Then the toast pops back out of the slot, ready to be enjoyed.

The aspect of toast that is so magical and mysterious is not the process, but the end result. Toast is completely different than bread, although it is made up of the same fundamental elements in roughly the same configuration. A standard or even sub-standard piece of bread can be turned into a delightful piece of toast. Like I said, it's magical.

Think about it this way. If you were a glob of raspberry jam, or whatever your favorite flavor is, wouldn't you feel honored to be spread on a piece of toast? Wouldn't it feel good to be so close to so much warmth and stability?

Toast has been called "bread transfigured," a "super-conducting breakfast," and a "slice of calmness." Every day in this nation, more than 75 million people eat toast. Twelve million toasters are sold every year. People sing about toast, make up jokes about toast, and write cookbooks about toast.

In days of old, spiced toast was used to flavor wine. And since drinking wine to the health of an honorable individual also added to the wine-drinking experience, the word toast gained a second meaning.

So I propose a toast to toast. In honor of the best way to enhance bread without adding calories, here's to toast!

Shh.

You’re supposed to be quiet. That’s why I came in here. A quiet place to study. Plus the internet isn’t working in my dorm, thanks to the lightning. But some people don’t know how to shut up, even when they are in the library.
Oh good. They are done with their group meeting, which means I can concentrate again, so I better get back to work.

It was so loud.

The general consensus was that the thunderstorm at Trinity last night was the loudest that anyone had ever experienced. In a really good thunderstorm, you’ll hear one of those exploding, cracking, feel your ribs rattle type thunders. Think of the biggest, baddest, closest, scariest one you’ve ever heard. I heard about ten of those last night, and many more that were up there. Ask anyone. It’s true.
I love thunderstorms. Even when they make me whimper and lose an hour of sleep.

You should give blood.

Because it’s fun. You get free orange juice and cookies when you’re done. You get to be a little late for class. You get to wear a sticker.

And because you could save someone’s life.

hard to believe

It’s hard to believe that those terrorist attacks took place half a decade ago. That was not one, but two “phases” of life ago, if you count schools as phases, and I very much would. I was in jr. high. High school was in the future, and I never spent time thinking about college. Now it takes an anniversary to make me think about jr. high.