The Misnamed Trio

And suddenly, in a flash, I could relate to the three men in the fiery furnace. 

You probably know them as Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, though their mother's refer to them as Hananiah, Mishael and Azariah, but almost nobody knows that now. 

Here is what I used to think: King Nebuchadnezzar--let's call him Rupert--crafted an idol of himself and demanded everyone bow down to worship it.  The Misnamed Trio refused, because they only bow down to God. Rupert threw them into a furnace that burned so hot, the guards who threw them in died (my Sunday school teacher's always emphasized that).  But suddenly, Rupert saw FOUR people in the furnace, and one was super shiny.  He told the men to exit the furnace and realized they served the real God because even their eyebrows were still in tact.

If you have ever run the propane too long before starting the barbecue, you know how easy it is to lose your eyebrows.

I always thought this meant I should never bow down to a big golden statue.  And if someone tried to throw me into a furnace, God wouldn't let me die.

Then - something changed.  Like a crack of lightening (in the middle of a prayer meeting) I related to Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah. 

These were three guys who loved Jesus.  Then Rupert, the most powerful worldly force around, (Daniel 2:26-40) tells them to worship his statue.  They refuse.  They are persecuted.  God shows up.  Amazing.

I ask myself; what is Rupert telling me to worship above all else?  What does the world say I should dedicate the majority of my time and attention to?  

Myself.  

And I do.

I am a proud person.  I was afraid of praying for humility for a long time because God would probably make me look like a fool.  I couldn't risk what the lover of my soul might do to me if I became vulnerable like that.

Then I talked to Pastor Bonnie, who is so wise.  Humility, she said, is realizing it is not all about you.

Game changer. 

I can absolutely live a life that is not all about me.  I think.

I reject Rupert's plans for my time and attention.  I'm going to mess up.  Now you know and that could be good or bad.  Though since it isn't all about me, you may not even consider it once the post is over.

It is going to be rough, but God will show up.  And I will come out of this with my eyebrows fully intact.

Please Jesus, let me keep my eyebrows.

Not the Best?

This post in honor of "Butter my Biscuits," a long-standing camp volunteer with a very different name he uses in real life. He suggested the idea of "Beta Man," who doesn't see the need to give 110% all the time.

"Try your best."

Teachers, parents, posters, notebooks, greeting cards, and advertisements all encouraging the same mode of operation: your best.

My best self is friendly to everyone, parallel parks successfully on the first try, and cooks the bacon to perfect crispness every single time.

My best self socializes well, always does her homework before midnight, and never drips marinara sauce on her mint capris.

My best self is an excellent communicator, wakes up without the snooze button, and daily eats a proper serving of fruits and vegetables.

My best self is not me.

I tried to be my best self for a while.  Then I got tired of always trying, and reverted to "real me." Real Me has thoughts, feelings, and needs that ruin the Best Self image.  To say the very least, Real Me has marinara sauce on my mint capris.*

That isn't to say that I am no good.  I am, in fact, glorious.  The Ultimate Creator crafted me from the salt of the earth with the tips of his fingers; how could I be less than remarkable?

So - is "best" what we are really supposed to strive for?  Nope.  I think we should shoot for "genuine." The True Self.

My True Self usually needs to shimmy the car three or four times before I successfully wiggle into a parallel parking spot. But does that really matter?

Being your True Self is not an excuse to let all your selfish tendencies run wild.  Nope.  True Self is about embracing who you were created to be.

I was not created to skip class and turn in my papers late.  I was created to glorify My Maker.

And since My Maker said to go to college, stay in college, and take an extra year, than I had better do it to the best of my ability.



Shoot.  Usually, by the end of these things I feel like I've figured something out, but there I'm still trying to be "the best."

Dear Jesus,
What exactly should I be thinking about this now? Please help.
Amen.


*I inexplicably find myself eating spaghetti every time I wear my mint capris.

Why College?

Deborah Rodriguez was a beautician living in Michigan. Dissatisfied with her life, she joined an aid team going to Afghanistan.

The rest of her team - Doctors, dentists, and nurses - had obvious parts to play.  But what could a hair dresser possibly do?

As her book, Kabul Beauty School tells, she could do a whole lot. Sharing her skills, she taught classes of women how to do hair, nails, and make up. With these skills, the women provided for their families and earned positions of respect in their households and communities.

With the technical skills of a hair dresser she turned around the lives of hundreds of women.

When I was in Haiti, I met an American woman who went to Haiti to pour concrete.  While she was there, the Haitians asked her if she could teach some kids.

And when I met her, she had been teaching for the last two years with no plans to quit. A high school diploma plus construction experience, and she was doing important work in a place that needed her.

I went to High School Camp a few weeks back, and a speaker came who had traveled the world with YWAM.  22 countries, 6 years, and who knows how many lives changed for Jesus?  He just graduated High School and started going.

So - what the heck am I going to college for?

I really just want to help people, but is college making me over qualified?  I mean, what good is a communications and sociology degree to people who need to learn to make a living?

Or maybe the opposite is true: maybe I'm under qualified.  I don't know anything useful to anyone.

I've been wandering the whirlwind of options for life after graduation: Haiti, , Fulbright, Peace Corps, Masters Degree, Kenya, Masters Degree and Peace Corps, Fiji, Teach for America, DTS, Starbucks Barista...and I can't help but wonder why all of this "education" is going to matter.  

If I wasn't so certain God wanted me in college, I'd be out of here in a heartbeat. But God's got a better plan. I'll try hard to be patient and wait.

Sometimes I Feel like a Pillow

Somedays I feel like a  pillow.
The place people go when they've no where else to be.
The reliable safe heart always ready for a cozy memory.
A dependable place to cry or pound angry fists.

Always forgiving.
Always accepting.

Sometimes I feel like a pillow,
Neglected for something better.
The snot stains from your grief become repulsive.
The lumps from your fist too disconcerting.
And really - the case was never that attractive anyway.

Sometimes I feel like a pillow,
Shoved into the closet
Mixed with ugly sweaters
and shrunken winter jackets.

And there I take the tears
And there I take the anger
And there I'm not wanted
But there I'm left to be.

Until,

She comes.

Or rather,

I go.

To hands big enough to hold the world.
They squeeze me,
Knead me,
And ask why I stayed away so long.

Sometimes I feel like a pillow
Fresh.
Full.
And ready for my purpose.

Again: Grief

It's like a ship
Far away on the horizon
An unremarkable
Shapeless
Black smudge
Slowly growing larger
Until an outline is discernible
Details slowly coming into view
The clean lines
The rigging
The flag
Until finally,
In sharp focus, it appears.
The name.
The Identification.
The reason for the smudge.
It is Grief
Again returned to the harbor
Raising its weary head
Forever to taunt me
Forever to linger
Like a ship on the horizon.

I Wear a Size Sexy

What if, instead of sizing clothes with numbers, we used compliments.

"I wear a size infatuating."

"Hmmm...Gorgeous isn't fitting quite right there, how about you try it in a va-va-voom?"

"Do you have these jeans in boodylicious?"

No one could complain about their size!

"Shoot! Radiant is too small. Now I'm a size exquisite."

I know it wouldn't solve all of the body image problems in the world.  Learning to love the way you look takes more than a dress in size beautiful, but claiming women of all sizes as attractive could be a step towards winning the mind game of impossible beauty standards.

So, the next time some one asks, I think I'm going to tell them: "I wear a size sexy."

I Need a Black Voice

I've been volunteering with an awesome organization in South Seattle that tutors kids after school.  I have gone twice a week for the last quarter, and love it so much I've been hired on for the summer.

When I'm there, I'm typically the only white person in the room.

I don't have a problem with being the only white person in the room.  I went to a minority majority high school, and overcame the false notion that "all black people will shoot you" a long time ago. I don't think the kids treat me any different because I'm white--except for suggesting sunscreen when it's hot.

But there is this one thing.  Let me explain:

Ms. Charlene and Abbey left me in charge for a bit so they could pick up the church van.  No problem, I can handle being the only adult in the room.  I do it all the time.

Everything was going great until I looked up from helping Joseph with his poster to see Ryan running around in his socks.

"Ryan, aren't you supposed to be wearing shoes in here?"

"Ms. Charlene said it's fine."

I knew for a fact it is not. "I'm pretty sure you are supposed to be wearing shoes."

"Nooooo!  Abbey said it was okay!"

I rolled my eyes and gave up.  I haven't quite seemed to convince Ryan that I'm an authority figure, and even thought it wouldn't help matters, I didn't feel like having the battle without back up.

A little later, Abbey came in.

"Ryan, I need you to put your shoes on please."

He immediately put his shoes on.

Now it is true that Abbey has been working with Ryan for much longer than I, so he probably respects her authority more than mine.

But there's another difference.

Several of my black friends talk about the need for a "white voice."  They change the way they speak in certain situations to give themselves credibility.

Likewise, I think I need a black voice.

According to the stereotype, for a woman to speak passively and meekly is to be white.  I don't do it naturally. Ever since I was a kid, my parents have told me to stop talking like I know everything. So, I pose statements as questions, "um" and "awe," and try to "speak gently," etc.  I know I often fail miserably with people I know well, but in certain situations, it's the only type of language I can seem to muster.

With my white church kids, it isn't really a problem.  It's a speech code they all understand and can adhere too.  But my South Seattle kids?  It's a completely different ball game.  Their speech codes are different and I need to change to fit their kind of talking.

So, I think I need to learn a black voice.

Thoughts?  I am definitely open to advice here!

Safety Net

A few weeks back I went to a movie with somebody dear to me.  Western Washington still clung to winter, and and night fell early even though it was spring break.  Out of the darkness a woman approached:

"Do you have any money to spare? I'm hungry."

I turned away and told her no.

Stepping into the building, my purse felt like lead.

I had $12 cash in there.

I wish I could say that I went back outside and handed her the money, but I didn't.  We were running late, I didn't want to get left without a ticket, and I didn't want to explain myself to my companion.

Essentially, I placed more value on the first few minutes of previews than the woman.

I took my seat and watched my movie, feeling horribly guilty.

Later, mediocre movie over, settled at home, I expressed my guilty conscience.

"I can't believe I didn't give her any money.  I still feel terrible about it."

"She probably would have spent it on drugs or alcohol."

"But you don't know that.  She might have had a family to feed.  She might not have eaten today."

"Why risk it?"

I thought for a minute.  "Because if I was ever homeless, I'd want someone to give me the benefit of a doubt."

"But your middle class background says you'll never be homeless," the one who is dear to me responded, then she changed the subject.

I don't have the research handy to tell you the details on why this is true.  But it is unlikely I will ever be homeless.  The middle class is raised with the speaking habits, manners, and values held in high esteem by the privileged people in America.  Our upbringing provides a comfortable safety net of potential employers and established family connections to halt a descent into poverty.  We are privileged to be less likely to end up homeless than the people from lower classes.

Exasperated, the voice in my head retorted: Just because I was lucky enough to be born in a middle class family with white parents and white grandparents who have all been able to get good jobs for most of my life - does that mean I shouldn't care?

No, it doesn't.  Not at all.

God gave me certain privileges, and I strive to be conscious of how I use them.

The Gamble

"Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and unite the cord of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—When you see the naked, to clothe him, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood? Then your light will break forth like the dawn, and your healing will quickly appear; then your righteousness will go before you, and the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard.  Then you will call, and the Lord will answer; you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I.  “If you do away with the yoke of oppression, with the pointing finger and malicious talk, and if you spend yourselves on behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday.  The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and strengthen your frame.  You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail.”

Isaiah 58:6-11 (NIV)

I have underlined this passage in my bible again and again.  I read the words and think of my beautiful Haiti girls, my Mexico babies and the hundreds of women and children on the streets and in brothels I have only met through the pages of my books. These are the oppressed people I feel called to set free!

Then I realize how limiting that is!  The passage says to feed the hungry.  It does not say to feed the hungry people who are in an economically worse situation than you.  It says to clothe the naked. It does not say to clothe the naked who shop at Goodwill more often than you do.

Everyone says to eat your food, because there are starving children in Africa.  What about the starving children in Seattle?  

What about my classmate with uncomfortably worn out shoes?

What about the people I see every day, oppressed by a racist, sexist system?

They need me too.

I know, that sounds like a lot of people.  1 in 4 children in Washington are at risk of hunger, according to Food Lifeline.   

How can one person given enough to feed them all?

Before you fall into the depths of inadequacy and despair, remember the rest of the passage.

After this call to action, there is a promise!

If we do these things, we will be healed!  

If we do these things, God will answer our cry! 

Our light will rise, night will be like noonday and – my personal favorite – “[The Lord] will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land.” 

How amazing would it be to feel satisfied? 

Not satisfaction from sitting in the lush green of nature with the sun caressing your face and the wind just barely lifting your hair, with the taste of bacon on your tongue and a Jane Austen novel in your hand.

Nothing like that.

Satisfaction in a place where none of this exists.  Satisfaction in a sun-scorched land where the only water is the perspiration on your brow caked with the dry dust that floats chokes your nostrils with every step.  

Satisfaction in that place of utter lack and desolation.   

I think we do not give because are afraid of that place.  

“If I clothe all the naked, what will I have left to wear?”  Well, should you reach a point of having no clothes, do not worry about it.  

You have reached the sun-scorched land and you are satisfied.  Having given so completely you will have reached a point where what you have simply does not matter anymore.

It is a risk; to give until you have no more.  You might end up with nothing, but according to this passage, it will not matter.  You will be satisfied.

Will you take that gamble?

Center

Dear Jesus,

I would like you to be in the middle of everything I do.

That's right, everything.  All that I think about every single moment.

Oh, but I do need to think about school still.  I've gotta read that textbook, so maybe I'll get to my bible later.  I have to get good grades after all.

And work of course.  I really don't see how I could think about you and purchase orders at the same time.  And since I have to buy myself food, I need to keep my job.

When I'm writing for the newspaper I just don't see how you'd fit.  I mean, what do you have to do with the haunted house?  No connection, so don't bother.

Then there is the prayer ministry.  You should be part of that too, just don't keep me from getting those e-mails sent.

Relationships...well, do I really just want to sit and pray with people all the time?  That doesn't seem like very much fun.  And if all we talk about is you, won't we run out of things to say?

When I'm trying to sleep, just let me sleep.  Don't bother me with deep thoughts because I'm tired.

I mean really, I've become a certain kind of person.  People expect particular things from me.  Don't screw that up.

So, be my center, just don't get in my way, okay?

You're the best!

Wait...

It breaks my heart to see this about myself.  I may not consciously make those choices, but really, what does my schedule show?

Jesus, I'm not even sure I have a center right now.  Teach me to put my focus on you.

Thanks,

-Rachel

Facebook 2.0

Almost a full quarter without facebook, and what have I learned?

Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  It is just as easy to sit looking through people's pictures for hours on end as it ever was.

Shoot dang.

I tried.

Then again, I'm home instead of school now, so that makes a difference, right?

I suppose we'll see in another week or two.

Feet

I was walking down the steps to the cafeteria one day, when I overheard a conversation between two girls walking in the opposite direciton.  One was explaining to the other that happy people tend to walk around looking at the world, while sad or depressed people tend to look down at their feet when they walk.  As I was racing to make the omelet line before it closed, I did not follow them around to hear more of the conversation, so I have no idea where she got her information. Besides, that would have been weird.

This got me thinking; what do people see when they look down anyway?  Well, if they are out of doors, probably their shoes.  For this reason, everyone should always where shoes they like, so when they are feeling blue they can look down and see their glittery Toms or cherry red converse.  A splash of wonderful waiting for a chance to be admired.

What about when you are not outside?  A sad person looking down will probably see their feet-a justification for pedicures that provide sparkle or flowers for boring old toes.  Another option would be socks.

I love fun socks.  It all started when I was helping my Grandma in her backyard for a couple of weekends one summer.  The Oregon Grapes had over run the greenbelt behind her house, and I was helping her pull them out.  I was rather young, and probably didn't actually help that much, but one day, after we were finished, she handed me a pair of white socks.  The cuff, when unfolded, featured a yellow halo sprinkled with stars.  When folded down, the word "angel" could be seen in blue type, with a yellow outline. She told me she bought them because I was such an angel for helping her in the greenbelt. (A decade or so later, I only have one of those socks left, but I plan to keep it forever.)

This small gesture from my Grandmother sparked in me an sincere attachment to wearing fun socks.  Stripes in a plethora of colors, spots in a range of sizes, arigile in various color combinations, orange and yellow cheeta print, and even two pairs with peacocks. 

When I am bogged down by homework, depressed by the cloudy sky, and freezing, I can always look down at my pleasently adorned feet and know that the world is not as dismal as I thought.

Facebook

Yes, it's true.

I deactivated my facebook.

I nearly cried.

Pathetic, right?  But as soon as I made the final decision, my gut twisted and ripped and my face felt hot. I was suddenly certain I would loose all of my friends.

Funny, you hit the button and a screen pops up showing pictures of three of your facebook friends.  A message appears and says, "These people are going to miss you.  Are you sure?"

Talk about gut wrenching.

It took me a moment, but I officially deactivated.

It was far too much of an addiction.  I would check it first thing in the morning (sometimes to the point of missing breakfast), and I would check it last thing before I fell asleep.  I rarely had time to read my bible or hang out with friends, but I always had time for facebook.

That's a problem.

Tomorrow marks week 1 of being facebook free, and guess what?  I have so much  more free time!

I talk to real people, face to face so much more often!  I always make it to breakfast, and I have lots more time reading my bible with Jesus.

But, I will tell you that I still go the login page and enter my info.  It's like having an arm amputated, and even though I know it is gone, I still want to scratch it.  I still want to see everyone's new pictures and post a "Happy Birthday" message on someone's wall.

I'll get over it eventually.

My greatest hope?  People will still read my blog even though I can't post it in the news feed any more.  Fortunately, I've got a few faithful followers, so I wont feel like too much of a loser : )

So, if you want to contact me, and cannot find me on facebook anymore, send me a text, shoot me an e-mail, comment my blog, get my number from any of the people I know.  I have faith that I can still have relationships without facebook.

Two Year Olds

Two year olds get a bad rap.

Like a pubescent male, they are undergoing a very big life change in a very short time.

Boys' voiceses change, two year olds come into the human condition.

Recently empowered by their ability to scream opinions and move about freely, they see the things they want and bellow if they do not get them. The rest of the world (Mom and Dad mostly) are constantly having to tell them the proper way to behave, and correct them if they don't.  Frustration, hair loss, and exhaustion ensue.

But for a solid year, the two year old keeps on keepin' on.

Then, after loosing battle after battle; after being stopped, told no, spanked, and put in time out; after so constantly being repressed, they turn three, and realize they cannot win.

They cannot be exactly who they want to be.  As soon as they wander a little ways on their own path and realize how far they are into unfamiliar territory, they scream in terror and run back to the Mom or Dad that was left musing over which juice to buy in the other grocery aisle.

I think I'm like that sometimes.  Sometimes I want to wander off on my own and do what I want to do, but after being there for a little while I realize, with a gasp of panic: I have no idea what I am doing.

Luckily, Jesus never gets distracted by the apple juice; he is walking right along side me, waiting for me to come back and do what is best for me: his plan for my life.  Every time I insist I have learned my lesson. "I will not wander alone again."  But then, a few days, a few weeks, a few months later, I find myself doing it again.  Wandering off, screaming in panic, running back to Jesus.

After all, it wouldn't be called the Terrible Twos if they learned their lesson the first time.

Wait; Again

Okay Jesus,  I think I get it a little better now.

"...but they who wait for the LORD shall renew their strength;
   they shall mount up with wings like eagles;
they shall run and not be weary;
   they shall walk and not faint." Isaiah 40:31

The waiting is not about sitting around in expectation for something to happen.

The waiting is not looking for what is coming next.

The waiting is being where I am, soaring through the air, until God tells me to do something else.

No flapping, no searching, just soaring.

I suppose its really a matter of being content with where I am and not looking for the next best thing.

God might need to beat me over the head with this one again, but I'm going to try.

To read my first post about waiting, go here.

Forgiven

Crazy thing God showed me.

When I gave my little sister a swirly, she remembered.  A few weeks later, she dumped a huge glass of water on my head, despite the fact that I had apologized.

When I sin and ask for forgiveness from God, he forgets. Yes, I still have to suffer the consequences of my actions, but he does not hold the bad things I have done over my head.

It's like this:

I screw up.

Me: "God, I am so sorry for that thing I did the other day. It was wrong and I should not have done it."

God: "Beloved daughter, I forgive you."

Me: "Thank you Jesus! I really don't deserve that.  I mean, it was a really terrible thing."

God: "What was?"

Me: "That thing I did."

God: "I already forgiven, I have moved on.  Go and do better next time."

Me: "Thanks God.  I love you!"

God: "I love you too."

Whether a person forgives you for what you have done depends largely on the person.  But will they ever truly forget-excluding cases of memory loss? No.  It is always there. And, nine times out of ten, they want you to pay for what you did.

How far we have fallen from the way we should be, yet how wonderful to know the guilt of our mistakes need not weigh down our hearts.

Ask God to forgive you, and enter the new year free from the weight of your past mistakes.

It is a glorious feeling.

Theory on Sleep Patterns

I have a problem.  Every morning my alarm clocks sings to me, and every morning I hit snooze.  I doze for five minutes, and snooze again.  This can go on for an undeterminate amount of time, particularly if I have nothing to do that morning.

Every night, I crawl in bed, and cannot sleep.  I watch TV episodes.  I facebook.  I read blogs.  I write blogs.  I turn off my computer and start thinking. I use the bathroom three or four times.  I think some more.  I read. Finally, after laying in bed for what seems to be forever, I fall asleep.

Why is it that when I want to be awake I sleep, but when I want to sleep I am awake?

Perhaps I am dissatisified with my life.  I do not want to sleep because I continue to hope something great will happen to end the day, or I do not wake up because I fear nothing will occur to make being awake worth the trouble.

Perhaps the opposite is true and I love my life.  I feel a sleep cycle officially ends a day, but why would I want a wonderful day to end?  To belay sleeping and waking up make the good times last longer.

I doubt either is accurate.  That's the thing about extremes; they tend to eliminate the more moderate truth.

Really, I've probably created a habit of  doing homework late, and, since I need copious amounts of sleep, I optimize every single moment of rest possible.  Hence the habit of staying up late and sleeping as long as possible.

Or, the childhood hatred of having to go to bed continues to persist.  Plus, to lay in bed, curled up under the covers with nothing to do, is one of the most comfortable things I've ever experienced.

But, you know, whatever sounds most interesting to you.  I just wish counting sheep worked and I could wake up at the first discordant notes of my alarm.

The Perfect Place to Study

I sit at my dorm room desk and stare at a map of colonial Africa. From the crack under my door a host of distractions beckon: a dance party in the bathroom, a movie in the room across the hall, a trip to get hamburgers, and a game of Ultimate Frisbee.


The smell of burnt popcorn and fresh baked cookies assail my nose. My stomach gurgles in response. A snack would taste yummy, but would only make studying harder.

My roommate turns on the TV. Of course, Wipeout. The big red balls toss ordinary people like acrobats, twisting and turning into the waters below. It is one of the funniest shows I have ever seen. How am I supposed to get anything done now?

After a plethora of weak-willed attempts, a paper describing the decolonization of Ghana has proceeded no farther than a title. The blinking cursor flashes like a neon sign taunting me to chase it across the page with a torrent of words, but none will come.

It takes all my powers of refusal to pass up an opportunity to play ping pong. Instead, I gather my supplies and strike out on a quest to find a place where I can study.

I try the library. I sit at a desk with walls on three sides, immediately eliminating any potential for visual distraction. This could work.

Twenty other students study around me. I can smell the remains of a portable dinner- Thai food from a doggie bag-mingling with the musk of old books.

Only the sound of air whizzing through a vent can be heard.

My ears ring with the silence.

It is intolerable.

Again, nothing is being accomplished.

I decided to move again, this time off campus to a coffee shop.

I walk through the doors and am greeted by delicious smells and cheerful baristas.

I purchase a cup of heaven covered in whip cream and sit at a table by the window. I situate my textbook and computer, sip my beverage, and try again.

My quest, it seems, has finally come to an end.

Baristas continue to brew coffee, crush ice in the blender, and steam milk. Other patrons talk quietly across the little tables. The unique white noise is louder than silence, quieter than my thoughts, and diverse enough to prevent a stalemate in my mind.

Trendy music flows through the room and unique artwork adorns the warmly painted walls. The ambiance surrounds me like a friend who knows me well enough to let me work in peace.

Distractions are limited. There is no TV, no friendly floor mates, no dance music and no flying discs. I do not need to worry about my laundry, my messy desk, my perpetually unmade bed or the constant stream of customers who remain outside of my sphere of interest.

Many of the people seated around me are reading, writing, knitting, and other such solitary activities. They focus only on what it is they are doing. I am inspired to do the same and dedicate myself completely to the task at hand.

Time slips past unnoticed. I easily become so absorbed in my studies that the “open” sign is turned to “closed” before I realize it is time to go.

If I am diligent in my work and finish before the sun has fully set, there is the opportunity to walk back to campus. I step out the door and find myself embraced by the crisp air. Colorful leaves crunch underfoot. Cozy houses line the street, and occasionally the smell of a homemade dinner will drift from a kitchen window, teasing my palate with its garlic scent.

Feeling like a conquering hero, I return from my quest ready to socialize. My assignment is finished, and the brisk stroll in the fresh air has chased away the heavy, intellectual thoughts that had previously consumed my mind.

In the future, should I be confronted with a monumental task, or menial writing assignment, I intend to skip the foreplay and go directly to a coffee shop, where success is assured.


(written for my journalism class as my first column)

Life Calling

The most stressful day of the quarter is not what you might think.

Some would say it is the first day of class.  Walking into a new class, trying to find a good seat, and hoping some one you know will walk through the doors and the two of you can be bosom friends throughout the hour and twenty minutes you will be sitting there.

Others will declare that is completely incorrect!  The most stressful time in college is not a day at all, but the three days of finals, and the "dead week" that proceeds them. 

I disagree with both of these statements.  The most agonizing time for me is registration.

Every single time I pick classes I seem to re-evaluate what I want to do with my life, and what major/double major/minor/double minor combination would be the best path to getting me there.

And of course, now that I have registered I have been doubting if I am taking the correct classes and constantly scan the "open class" list, searching for a class that particularly calls out to me.  None have yet screamed my name.

These thoughts have been running through my head all week.  All month, really.  But last night, when I went to my secret place to spend time with Jesus, I wasn't thinking about it at all.

I said, "Jesus, I love you.  I'm listening."

And this is what he said to me:

"I am like the voice of one calling in the desert, 'Make straight the way for the Lord.'" -John 1:23b

"A voice of one calling, 'In the desert prepare the way for the Lord; make straight in the wilderness a highway for our God.  Every valley shall be raised up, every mountain and hill laid low; the rough ground shall become level, the rugged places a plain.  And the glory of the Lord will be revealed, and all mankind together will see it.  For the mouth of the Lord has spoken." -Isaiah 40:3-5

First I thought, "If everything is made smooth, we will have no hills for sledding!  Instead, we will fly on our joy."

Then I wondered what exactly this meant for me?  The voice that calls out in the desert promises that all obstacles will be removed at the glory of God will shine everywhere.  That is such a hopeful message! I need to share that message with people in deserts.  Does that mean a literal desert?  No.  It means places where there is no life.  It is there that I should go.

Haiti.

I asked if I thought it out of habit, but I am certain that God whispered it in my ear.

I am going to go there and say good things for them

"Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute.  Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy." -Proverbs 31:8-9

and to them

"Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your moths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen." -Ephesians 4:29

I know I am headed in the right direction because

"If the Lord delights in a man's way, he makes his steps firm; though he stumble, he will not fall, for the Lord upholds him with his hand." -Psalms 37:23-24

You can bet I'm shaking, but I have not fallen yet.

So I'm going to stick with a communications major, but I plan to throw in some english courses (for writing purposes), some theology courses (for a more sound biblical education), and political science courses (because I like them so much that they must be important for something in my life).

Now that you have read this, I ask that you help me.  When I can't seem to have forgotten what direction I am supposed to be going with my life, remind me to read this post.  Then I can remember where exactly I am going. 

It'll make the most stressful time of the quarter a little easier on me.

Splattered Orange Juice

Once upon a time, I sat at a large round table in the lunch room with a group of band friends.

A boy from a different table, one of the "cool kids" who no one at my table was friends with, came and sat next to us, bringing his plastic bottle of orange juice.

Odd thing about this bottle; he had squished in the sides, destroying the original shape.

After a few moments he left, forgetting his juice in the crushed bottle.

Just as I was about to take his orange juice to his table for him, the squished sides popped out, and juice came flying out of the bottle and splattered my friends and I.

The guy's table busted up laughing.
Rude.

I grabbed the bottle and tossed it in the garbage.  Only after did I consider pouring the remaining juice on his carefully combed hair and all over his designer t-shirt.

Those kids thought they were better than us and could push us around.  It is easy to laugh at those who aren't as bold, flashy, or laugh quite as loudly as you do.  But it is one of the most humiliating things that could possibly happen to a high school freshman.

We who are strong ought to bear with the failings of the weak and not to please ourselves." -Romans 15:1

That means if you are the confident, fun loving kid with all the friends, you should not tease the kid who sits alone in the lunch room because it makes you laugh.  Instead, you need to stand by the loner kid-they need your help.

Senior year of high school, I became friends with those cool kids.

A Vietnamese girl was sitting with us at the table during lunch.  She had lived in America for several years, but her English still wasn't the best.

When she got up to leave the table, a "cool dude" said that she should learn to speak English or get out of America.

I laid into him for his rude, uncalled for, insensitive comment.

We never spoke again.

I would so much rather never speak to the "cool kids" if it means I can uphold the weak in society.