Author Archives: alicewithpaper

Grandmother’s House

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HI!

Please picture me wondering around an empty house turning off the radios my Grandpa has left on, spreading grass with a large, lethal pitchfork, trying on an extremely classy sixties dress and coat set from my Grandma’s closet, going to battle with a mulberry bush that lives in the middle of the prickliest roses, and discovering the most wonderful photographic evidence of some very early cousin bonding. Kindly remember that I have not yet visited Walmart, and there is still a cow carcass to be removed from the barn. Wish you were here.

Love, Alice

(That was a postcard for you)

Other highlights so far have included having a very business-like game of waving with Cheryl’s twin boys, finding that unless I have the number memorized I am far too slow for the dial telephone, making friends with a sixteen-year-old girl at the library who’s obsessed with anime, finding a really cool cigarette lighter in the yard, walking up to the cemetery on Memorial Day, then slinking away when real mourners came, and making the life-altering decision to give the dog a bath, so that when he gets friendly while I’m weeding I’ll still be able to breathe.

I’m rather lonely—my cousin Charity won’t be here for another week and a half—and am still adjusting to life mostly sans internet and phone reception. There is currently a rather startling red X over the wireless icon at the bottom of my screen, but tonight I’ll drive Grandpa to Moberly for his prison Bible study, sit in the YMCA, and use their Wi-Fi to post this. And I’ll probably watch the season finale of Modern Family, and it will be very therapeutic.

One more thing. I’m making dinner tomorrow night, and in a counterproductive act of utility I convinced my Grandma to give away a good deal of her cookbooks last week. She doesn’t use them—but I would. Ideas? Something simple that would remind me of home.

A Long, Cumulative Entry

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I have finally had time to think. I finished finals on Monday, missed some people in my good-byes, and left school on Tuesday. The past few days have been full of helping my mom cook, and driving Mary back and forth to Davidson to move her in and out of houses. Next week is for unpacking and repacking, and generally being of use to some favorite high school teachers.

A couple hours after I got home, I went to Caldwell’s spring choir concert, and after about two songs, I wanted nothing more than to sneak out the back door and go home. I stayed because to leave would have greatly perturbed George, my date, and because this was something I had promised my high school self. It wasn’t that the music was hard to listen to. Mama Twigg, you always put on a great show, and the other night was the best I’ve heard. Our choir department is dang good, and I hope they’re getting a heck of a lot more money than they were when I was there. Neither was it loneliness that made me uncomfortable. Lots of faces lit up when they saw me, and I got all the hugs I could reasonably ask for. I think what bothered me most was my own detachment. Last year, I was fine at graduation, but I bawled at the spring concert. Choir was far and away one of my favorite parts of high school. Almost all of my close friends were in it at some point or another, and as one of the few who liked almost every single song we sang (yes, even the Robert Frost cow one) I was possibly its most devoted member. That girl still exists, and I hope she always will, because for the most part, she’s a good kid. But in the last year many layers, some of them rather thick, have stretched over her. I have grown larger, more substantial, more myself. On Tuesday night at the concert I had only just left a heap of dear friends, and there were very few theatrics with which to mark my goodbye. I was not in the mood to watch all these nice kids gush over each other, and the extremely tight bond which was cemented by perfect harmony and pleated black cumberbunds. I wanted to be home on my study couch, writing an entry such as this. Here goes.

It has been, now that I think about it, a wonderful year. A very nice beginning sort of year. I am startlingly, some what of a big girl coming out at the other end of it (dare I say…adult?) When buying lunch I think about food groups. I take myself, and sometimes my friends for long, late-night walks. Sometimes I forget my make up and it’s totally okay. I have a books-to-read list and a movies-to-watch list, and I can identify and mock bad literary criticism when I see it. I am more shy when I am uncomfortable, but I am more honest with those I’m close to. Somehow, by a lovely perverse law of nature, if you get in the habit of always sharing your honest opinions, your opinions honestly become nicer, especially if you make a practice of listening to other people’s first. I’m less theatric, more practical, and in addition to my usual endearments, have picked up some soothing forms of address such as “dude” and “man.” My speech is also sometimes  liberally sprinkled with unintentionally pretentious literary references. I am much more dependent on this little computer than I would like to admit. Aside from this blog, I’m addicted to several TV shows on hulu, and I no longer feel the need to handwrite the first draft of every paper. (I’m a little nostalgic about that last one.) Friends have gotten in the habit of giving me their cast-off clothes (sweaters and dresses in particular,) and telling me when I’m getting sassy. I’ve learned to live with snow and boots and wet jean-cuffs and a Jesus who is much more real and active than I’d ever really known. And, dude, I’ve probably given and gotten more hugs in a nine-month period than the rest of the Borough of Grove City combined. (As Jackie would say: like a BOSS!)

Anyhow, a week from this coming Tuesday, I leave for six weeks at my grandparents’ in Missouri. It’s exactly what I did last summer, and it was not the plan this time around, but, you know? It’s gonna be good. I’ll weed some rose gardens, wash some windows, and forge through that book list. Here, for your reading pleasure, is what that good kid under all those layers wrote as she sat in the car last July heading home to Carolina, after a generous dose of Brookfield, MO.

   As I left for Missouri I had two basic ideas of what would be happening once I got there. Books and Boys. It was to be a summer to remember, a summer to grow up in. Something adult was going to happen. Yet instead of late nights reading or in town, I found myself sprawled across the bed in the end room till midnight or so, comfortably suffocated in the estrogen-saturated atmosphere, telling stories and discussing isms. Shakespeare, Calvinism, elevators, Jane Austen, Silly Bands and feminism. I grew to love Charity’s questions and the way Faith mocked my figures of speech. Every boy was pronounced a “sweetheart” and chigger bites were documented on film. We cut and dyed our hair just for kicks. Girlhood reigned. One afternoon I ran into town to get something from Walmart for Grandma. While there I suddenly noticed something I hadn’t before. There were hordes of girls, about my age or a little younger, wandering around a little aimlessly, wearing a great deal of eyeliner and a uniform of t-shirts which had been ripped open down the sides, then tied back together to artistically display their sports bras underneath. It dawned on me. Walmart is the one place in town everyone comes. This is the equivalent of clubbing in Brookfield. They were looking for love. I bought my bleach and left with no regrets. I had a cake to make, and later maybe the girls and I would lie out. We would get in the pool, pour bleach on each other’s heads, and then go to the front yard to let it dry in the sunny breeze off the lake which feels like the warm moment between waking and sleeping, like Aslan’s breath.

  I have learned many things about myself this past month or two. I have learned  that I easily lose patience with those who annoy me, and I have so little self-control that I will consume an entire jar of Nutella in 24 hours. I have learned that I do not appreciate either KFC or Lady Gaga more on better acquaintance, and that there are moments when sixteen-year-old boys could suddenly go extinct and I would totally be okay with it. But mostly, I have learned that I am blessed. As the psalmist says, “The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places.” Places like a camp with tall trees, tall cousins, and ginger cookies. Places like a twilight cemetery on a hill full of cicada song. Places like a long, low house looking over a lake, which smells of bacon first thing in the morning, and only has little country mice. And my family. I have several cousins who like to give presents for every occasion, (mostly I think, because they like to buy them…) but I’m not sure they’ll ever understand that the greatest gift they give me is the way they listen. They listen when I talk like they want to hear. They ask me to read; they ask for stories. I’m someone important. I’m their cousin. Of course, my grandparents are the sort of people you rarely meet if ever. They have done what their Lord has asked of them, and spent their lives being the salt of the earth, preserving and seasoning what is good. I will never find better or more godly examples.

            So now I have packed up to go home after seven weeks. I had to sit on my suitcase to zip in all the new clothes I have gotten practically for free and all the letters friends from home have sent. I have learned my way around my grandma’s kitchen, even making a pie of which she approved, though none of my cakes quite made the grade. True, I did not play on any hay bales, but I got to visit the Marceline Business Complex, and drive Highway F with the windows down, so what more could I ask? There were people to hug when I left Brookfield this morning, there will be people to hug tonight in Nashville, and, most excitingly, there will be people to hug when I get home on Friday. Whenever anyone asks my grandfather how he is he answers, “Greatly blessed.” Tell me about it, Grandpa. Tell me about it.

Yeah. I got something to look forward to in a few weeks, don’t I?

Pew, Fitwell, and Other Finishings

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I have come to the end times of my freshman year of college. Which is really not that big of a deal. At all. But, you know, I thought I’d talk about it anyway.

On Monday evening I had my last cello recital of all time. All year, you see, The Pew Fine Arts Center and I have had a rather tense relationship. In fact, I’ve gotten into the bad habit of referring to it as “Eeeeew…Peeeeeew.” (Because it rhymes, and I happen to think that’s funny.) I started college last fall rather naively thinking that since I’ve played cello for most of my coherent life, it would be natural to just keep on. I dropped out of orchestra after one rehearsal and was only kept from dropping lessons by my loyal parents. The thing is, the music majors scare me. Everyday, particularly last semester, I would march myself down to the practice rooms in the bowels of Pew where there is no cellphone reception, and no one will hear you scream, but everyone will hear you play. Even on the nastiest winter days, I always went the long way round outside so that I wouldn’t be walking through the lounge where they sprawl wretchedly across couches, complaining about practice hours and solfeggio, as if they are the only ones who really work. On my way down the nonsensical flights of stairs I usually stopped at the bathroom to give myself a little pep talk in the mirror, and I’m not really joking. I actually did that. After practicing Bach in a tiny grey room with a heavy door the color of raw meat for what was always a shorter time than I intended, I would play the one thing I still felt proud of–Amazing Grace, doublestops, fortissimo, eyes closed like a doofus. Then I would pack up and sneak out the way I had come.

The thing is, you may have the wrong impression of me about this, but I’m not musical. I can sing on key and play the cello, and I like doing so in most situations, but ask me what artists I listen to, and I will tell you the truth: none. I like words, and when it is not the time for words, I like silence. Deep down, notes and chords and harmony don’t mean that much to me. I’m not saying they are not as eternally significant (or insignificant) as any thing I read or write, just  that they are not the language I speak. Pew is not my place. I will be perfectly thrilled to go to class in the Hall of Arts and Letters for the rest of my college career.

That said, I am thankful to have parents ( a mother in particular) who were dedicated to my cello even, and especially, when I wasn’t. I’m thankful for the year of lessons I took here, and for my nice new bow that makes a pretty sound. During the week between Easter break and my recital I didn’t go over to Pew at all. I practiced in my room. I worked on memorizing my Bach, played hymns, and enjoyed the friendly, wide-eyed heads that poked themselves around my door. That was great. So on Monday night my nervousness was really pretty inexplicable. The only people who would hear me were my teacher who had heard me earlier and knew I could do it, Heidi who would love me anyway, and a couple dozen nice people who actually didn’t care at all how I sounded. Yet when I sat down on that stage with the rest of the kids playing Bach’s first suite, I put my cello to my chest and I could feel my heart thumping against it. Definitely not a resting heart rate. As I listened to the movements before me, the thumping got exponentially louder and faster. When my turn came, I put my trembling bow to the string, and the first note quavered audibly as I played it. The second note shook too, and the third, and so, to be honest did every note after that. It was a somewhat ridiculous performance. By the end of the suite (several movements and performers later) my shaking lessened somewhat, and by the time we got to the ensemble pieces I was able to zip through Cripple Creek and smile. As Heidi and I walked out, I cried about five tears from giddy relief. The only sign of me left in Pew is a big empty cello locker with my name misspelled on a piece of masking tape.

The other part of my life which officially terminated this week was Fitwell. Really, how was it that I ended up at one of the fittest colleges in the nation, where your physical condition affects your GPA? We have half a semester of lectures then another semester and half of “labs” (circuit training, mech weights, aerobic conditioning…) Then there’s a “Fitness Appraisal.” Aren’t you pumped just hearing about it? For girls, we’re scored on sit-ups, push-ups, flexed arm hang, broad jump, sit-and-reach, and (wait for it….) the step test! I improved since last semester, which was my goal, but of course I still only scored about a fifty percent. However, I don’t feel too bad, because the standards they use are the same as the U.S. Marines’. I’m finished, I never have to wear a grey P.E. uniform again, and the rite of passage is over. I’ve officially done my time as a Grover freshman.

Two more things before I go study for my next exam–As my sister pointed out, I can now rejoice in the fact that I’m officially half of a United States Marine. Also, one morning as I was plodding up the stairs out of Pew after a dismal practice session, a music major hurried past me, and as he disappeared down the hallway in front of me, I could hear him whistling Amazing Grace, louder than even I had played it. Just remembering brings me an overwhelming sense of victory.

Growing Up and Life Abundant

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I have been home, and I’m not really sure what to say about this week, except that, for the most part, I was very grouchy. Mostly because I could be. I turned nineteen today, and I still have a lot of growing up to do. I’m very good at playing grown-up, for weeks on end sometimes, (especially in writing,) but that doesn’t mean I am. I still throw an all-out fit when my mama tells me to put on shoes for a walk. I guess I don’t know a whole lot about growing up, whatever it is. The few times I have done it have come and passed without my noticing till much later. I don’t know–maybe I matured seven years today, but who’s to know?

I’ll tell you something, though. I need to learn a lot of things about cheerfulness and patience and swallowing my words (including the thought process that led to them,) but today is Easter. Resurrection Sunday. A day for being new. A day of waking up for the first time to the Real World itself. A day, above all, for being ALIVE. Granted, I have not been very alive today. I been more than a little dead in my sins and trespasses. But the great thing about Easter is that , in a wonderful cheesy sort of way, it’s just Life Awareness Day. A day to be assaulted by the fact that Christ came out from death bearing life abundant for you and for me.

On facebook today someone posted the lyrics to an Andrew Peterson song that calls today “high noon in the valley of shadows.” I should not be sulking today. You know what I should do? I should go put on the pretty easter dress I took off a few hours ago out of stubbornness, and I should climb out the window onto my roof. I should scramble all the way up to the highest ridge pole like Anne of Green Gables and after teetering and giggling in the breeze for minute I should spread my arms wide and grinningly begin to scream, “Hey! It’s high noon! Christ is offering grace upon grace! COME AND GET IT, KIDS!!!” And then I should follow my own advice.

Silly Thoughts

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I’m lying on the couch in my study at home and dinnertime sun and neighborhood sounds are coming in through the open window. It’s a good place to be. I highly recommend it. My brother is downstairs, probably communing with poptarts and the computer, and my dad will be home anytime, and we’ll have frozen pizza for supper. This evening, I may do some reading for school, I may look for jobs (I have an itch to clean houses this summer), or I may watch a movie. Nothing here is really of a particularly high-caliber, except that this is that place called home, and I can sit on my picnic table and watch the sun stream through the thin oak leaves, so new that they’re almost damp. We have a new car. He’s a 1992 navy Volvo, and I’ve named him Horace. I have a crush on him. Right now I don’t really want to go back to school. I just want to lie on this couch for few more decades. Then maybe I’ll get up and wander off into the sunset.

I can feel myself detaching in a funny sort of way.

April

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Yesterday was Junior Crimson day, and so in the morning there were approximately 25 tours following each other all over campus. Therefore, Laura and Liesel and I strolled strategically past loudly saying nice and/or odd things about our school and occasionally skipping. We even helped some people find the book store. In other news, I just finished a paper on Gerard Manley Hopkins–“In a flash, at a trumpet crash, / I am all at once what Christ is, ‘ since he was what I am, and / This Jack, joke, poor potsherd, ‘ patch, matchwood, immortal diamond, / Is immortal diamond.” Marvelous stuff. And I’m beginning one on The History of Rasselas and The Doll House and another on 2nd Corinthians. Then maybe one for Renaissance Lit, but hey, who knows? Dr. Harvey doesn’t.

 It has been a hard week in some ways. I am drained. A couple nights ago I was talking on the phone to this friend who’s wonderful and she said that she was tired of being the bigger person. She wanted to just lose it and scream. I know what she means. I’m tired of being adult. I want to go home, and have somebody other than myself get me out of bed in the morning and make sure I eat my vegetables. I want other people to drive me to houses where I can listen to everyone else talk then go home and go to bed early. I want to pour myself a glass of milk from the fridge without worrying about how fast I’m using it up. I want to cry so hard that I hiccup when I talk, and not need an excuse. Two weeks seems like a long time to wait for those luxuries.

But. This morning I went to the chapel to read 2nd Corinthians, and here is what I found:

1: 5 For as the sufferings of Christ abound in us, so our consolation also abounds through Christ.

1:12 For our boasting is this: the testimony of our conscience that we conducted ourselves in the world in simplicity and godly sincerity, not with fleshly wisdom but by the grace of God, and more abundantly toward you.

2:15 For we are to God the fragrance of Christ among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing.

3:11 For if what is passing away was glorious, what remains is much more glorious.

3:18 But we all, with unveiled face, beholding as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from glory to glory, just as by the Spirit of the Lord.

4:5 For we do not preach ourselves, but Christ Jesus the Lord, and ourselves your bondservants for Jesus’ sake.

4:7-18 But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellence of the power may be of God and not of us. We are hard-pressed on every side, yet not crushed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed— always carrying about in the body the dying of the Lord Jesus, that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our body. For we who live are always delivered to death for Jesus’ sake, that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our mortal flesh. So then death is working in us, but life in you. And since we have the same spirit of faith, according to what is written, “I believed and therefore I spoke,” we also believe and therefore speak, knowing that He who raised up the Lord Jesus will also raise us up with Jesus, and will present us with you. For all things are for your sakes, that grace, having spread through the many, may cause thanksgiving to abound to the glory of God. Therefore we do not lose heart. Even though our outward man is perishing, yet the inward man is being renewed day by day. For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory, while we do not look at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen. For the things which are seen are temporary, but the things which are not seen are eternal.

5:4 For we who are in this tent groan, being burdened, not because we want to be unclothed, but further clothed, that mortality may be swallowed up by life.

5:14-15 For the love of Christ compels us, because we judge thus: that if One died for all, then all died;  and He died for all, that those who live should live no longer for themselves, but for Him who died for them and rose again.

5:17 Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.

5:18-21 Now all things are of God, who has reconciled us to Himself through Jesus Christ, and has given us the ministry of reconciliation, that is, that God was in Christ reconciling the world to Himself, not imputing their trespasses to them, and has committed to us the word of reconciliation. Now then, we are ambassadors for Christ, as though God were pleading through us: we implore you on Christ’s behalf, be reconciled to God. For He made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him.

12:9-10 And He said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore most gladly I will rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.  Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in needs, in persecutions, in distresses, for Christ’s sake. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

I’m tempted to think that I went overboard with posting all that, but I’m pretty sure you can’t have too much of the truth, so it stays. It is spring, weather.com is totally lying when it says it’s 36 degrees outside, and He will continue to give me grace in abundance. Hallelujah.

Mary

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I would like to take this opportunity to say something: On Friday, my sister will be twenty-one. That seems like an important number, and I’m sure it is for many people. But the real age of excellence for Mary and me will be twenty-seven. When she turns twenty-seven, that is when I will throw her a huge surprise party (not that she hasn’t gotten one anyway the past two years in a row…) and bust out champagne and not-the-caviar-cause-I’m-pretty-sure-she-would-hate-it.

Anyway, even though she’s only turning twenty-one, and that’s nbd(no big deal), I still want to honor her, because she is honestly wonderful. There are a lot of people who I can stop and think about, and say, “Wow, my life would be sort of lonely and sad without you in it…” But with Mary, I can’t say that, because I simply can’t imagine being without her. I shared a room with her for sixteen years, and, you know,  that’s longer than many marriages last. One of our favorite things to do together is reminisce. Here are some things to remember:

-the time we made that perfume for all the moms-the time we walked to the arboretum after dark-the time Wheezy married Emily- the time I gave you a tour of Davidson-goofy guy-the 500,000 times Peter quit Monopoly-the time we were singing in the rain and the car didn’t stop fast enough-Adam Nordaker-Sadie Hawkins Dance-“and my sister fell down so then there were only two of us”-time the String Beans did not light candles with the AF-the Protestant Reformation we all looked forward to so much- the time we walked down the whole creek in the greenway and there was a dead fish- the rainy day cd-the flower club-when everyone was in love with Paint-Unwritten-pantyhose- all those picture on our walls- Muzzy-the time you and your weird friend gave Rosie and me nasty water-Person-the guy who gave us the “vahse”-Creve!-when you read me your diary every night-the time I cleaned your desk for your birthday and just made a bigger mess-the time we made Mom and Dad a collage-ALL THOSE SCRAPBOOKS-Pushy Haddin and Grammy’s stuffed animals…

That was a poorly executed list, there were so many more things that happened, and there are also so many more things that will happen. Really. Now, a few more things I want to tell you, sister: “Mary, let’s LAUGH!” “Good job, little buddy, you sang your little heart out!” “Everybody over here says good night to everybody over there!”

I love you so much, and am thankful God has given you to me. You are kind, pretty, generous, and full of grace. I’m incredibly proud that you are my sister. And you’ll be my sister for always….

(GOOD-night-sleep-tight-don’t-let-the-bed-bugs-bite)

Weather and The Woman Question

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Today is the first day of spring, and here at Grove City we believe that. We really, really believe that. On Thursday I wore shorts (!!!) and Liesel and Jackie and I took obligatory pictures with the statue of J Howard Pew. On Friday, I wore a dress, had Renaissance Lit in the (dry) fountain in the courtyard, and received an ecstatic voicemail from Laura saying we needed to take a walk. So we did. Barefoot. We love sun here. Anytime it is out, the boys take off their shirts for their frisbee games, and the girls sunbathe in the inner quad. It is essential to absorb every drop through every pore, and save for a rainy day. Really.

And now for something completely different. The fact is, though Grove City has been wonderful for me in many ways, I have one particular weakness which it continues to  exacerbate. That is, as curious as it may sound, my womanhood. Suffice to say, the other day I read Genesis 3:16 with painfully open eyes. “To the woman He said:   ‘I will greatly multiply your sorrow and your conception;  In pain you shall bring forth children; Your desire shall be for your husband,  And he shall rule over you.'” That curse explains a lot of things. Not to you, the reader, probably, but to me, as me. In any case there are a lot of things wrong with me. As I’ve said to a few friends recently, I’m pretty screwed up.

Here is what I don’t want: I don’t want to believe that filling the culture’s expectations, and being bright and cute and well-dressed and size two is enough, or even worth anything.  I also don’t want to buy into the image being peddled by much of the Christian community. Last week there was a “women only” chapel on campus about balancing career and family. I didn’t go myself, but now I wish I had, so I could form my own opinion. There was an editorial about it in The Collegian, and this woman, Candice Watters, is quoted as saying “just settle–settle down with the first godly man you meet who wants to have babies with you.” My friend Laura told me she also mocked women who go to graduate school as only doing so because they don’t have a ring on their finger, and advised everyone to give hope of a guy who’s a ten, and just settle for an eight. Her point was obvious: Stay barefoot and in the kitchen–anything else is compensation for your failure to catch a man. I cannot express how angry this makes me. This is absolutely  the last thing Grove City girls need to hear. We already have ring by spring, engagement posters galore, and an unhealthy obsession with babies. Our babies. The ones that won’t be born for years. It’s frightening if I think about it. “Your desire shall be for your husband, and [that desire] shall rule over you.”

I want none of that. None. But I don’t know what it is I do want. I want to know God’s current purpose for my femininity. I read Proverbs 31 the other day, and all I got out of it was that that lady was super busy. I can’t dye cloth, I don’t have money to buy land, and I certainly don’t have children to call me blessed. I’m just not at that place in my life yet. What does radical, countercultural womanhood look like for an eighteen-year-old lover of dresses and books and nutella? (When I google it, all I find are blogs that want me to buy books that bash physical beauty, then give you no solutions.) How can I love others not only as myself, but as a woman? How can I love Jesus as a woman? He made me a girl, now what does He want me to do with it? In the Bible, godly women were either saving their people or, in the case of Ruth, finding a husband! Again, not what I’m being called to right now. (Besides, I think Ruth was the exception–in most cases he finds you.) In any case, I don’t know where to look for answers. What did God intend when he created women? Our role is to support men, but there must be more to it than that. In Perelandra, Ransom tells the King and Queen, “I have never before seen a man or a woman. I have lived all my life among shadows and broken images.”

I am at a loss.  All I know is that my version of womanhood is wrong and desperately needs redemption. The Deceiver has twisted and marred God’s creation till we cease to recognize ourselves. Yet there is a promise in Romans 16:20, “The God of peace will soon crush Satan under your feet.” Pray for me. Pray for answers. I don’t know where to turn.

Grace

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I have had a harder week than usual. I had a baffling poetry journal due Friday, along with several other big assignments, it snowed again, and on Thursday, in aerobic conditioning, we did kickboxing. (I know there are many people in my life who would probably pay to see me kickbox, and actually, watching myself in that big mirror really was quite entertaining. But tickets aren’t yet for sale. Probably never will be, actually.) I am tired and I am needy, but this week, I have been given grace. My friend Heidi has been sending out prayer requests for specific girls each day, and Thursday was my day. I was so very blessed to know that so many people who love me were praying for me at once. God heard their prayers, and gave me the grace to live and blog again.

I’ve been thinking a lot this week about the nature of the grace extended to us in Christ. There was an “insuperable barrier,” and that, of course, was the law. 1 Timothy 1:8-11 says, “But we know that the law is good if one uses it lawfully,  knowing this: that the law is not made for a righteous person, but for the lawless and insubordinate, for the ungodly and for sinners, for the unholy and profane, for murderers of fathers and murderers of mothers, for manslayers, for fornicators, for sodomites, for kidnappers, for liars, for perjurers, and if there is any other thing that is contrary to sound doctrine, according to the glorious gospel of the blessed God which was committed to my trust.” That is me: lawless, insubordinate, contrary. That is all of us.

Here is my favorite part: When God, “according to His glorious gospel” wanted to save us, He did not give us the power to obey the law He had made for us. He did not make us capable. He said, “As long as the law exists, you will not be able to perfectly fulfill it. But I will fulfill it for you. WATCH ME.” God didn’t just give us rest, He gave us himself, the Prince of Peace. He didn’t just give us strength, He gave us Himself, the God of all might. He didn’t just give us  the power to love, He gave us Himself, and He is Love.

When we take the Lord’s supper it is symbolic of the truth that He is our bread and our wine, the sustenance of our soul, mind, and  body. In John 6:57 Jesus declares “As the living Father sent Me, and I live because of the Father, so he who feeds on Me will live because of Me.” This is what Gerard Manley Hopkins meant when he said we must “glean our saviour.” He is the only source of life. Without Him we fade and crumble. Every particle of our energy must be had from Christ. God loves you and I enough that He gave us, not a gift or even many gifts, but the Source of all good and perfect gifts. 1 John 4:10 says “In this is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins.”

This means something else, though. We are to be “little Christs,” and “imitators of God.” What do we do? What do we give Him? Ourselves. God did not give us power, because He did not want the fruits of our labor. He gave us Himself, because He wanted us, and nothing less.

Confession

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I’ve been wanting to write this for weeks, but, in many ways, it’s a really good thing that I haven’t gotten around to it till now. A while back (it was a Thursday, if you were curious) a group of students organized an event at Grove City called “less.” There were vague posters up all over campus about finding freedom, and how a chapel credit was offered, so Crawford was quite full. Familiar faces, even a few whose names I knew, went up on stage and shared what even I consider to be hugely personal–struggles with sin that most of us cannot imagine speaking  into a dark room full of a thousand faceless classmates. These were things which you just don’t talk about at Grove City. Just like we don’t make eye contact, we don’t use a microphone and an auditorium to discuss masturbation, suicidal depression, and addiction to pornography. As awful as it is, we want those things kept miserably behind closed doors, where they will fester and grow. I know there was plenty of uncomfortable squirming, and muffled gasping in the audience that night. All we really wanted was a chapel credit. But we needed to hear this. Sometimes here I think everyone feels like you ought to say that we are all sinners, but not actually be one yourself. It is good to crush that lie. The thing which struck me the most though, was the boldness of these people. I cannot imagine confessing such secrets, not only to the people you already know, and those you will never meet, but to that kid you’ll sit next to in class next semester who may not remember your name, but will remember your greatest weakness.

I think I know where this bravery comes from, though. When I went to this event I was in the middle of reading Lewis’s The Great Divorce, in which those damned to hell are bussed to the outskirts of heaven, met by the spirits of people they knew on earth, and given the chance to stay. None of them do. They are too proud, too insistent on their own way, unwilling to let go of themselves and become Christ’s, adamant that they will not take the “bleeding charity.” Except for one man. He comes to the outskirts of heaven with a lizard on his shoulder which whispers in his ear. The lizard is lust, and the man is afraid to be without him. He knows that if he lets the shining spirit incinerate the lizard it will hurt. It will hurt, in many ways, worse than hell. Finally he agrees, and is knocked to the ground by divine force. But then…that’s it. He is free. He is in Christ, and he is at last himself. The dead body of the lizard has turned into a magnificent stallion, on which he rides up the mountain of heaven. I think that is what each of my fellow students meant when they said, “In Christ, I have found freedom.” Their sin, to which they were once enslaved, has become what it was originally intended to be. All evil is perversion of good. In fact, I think the precise thing you most struggle with is a warped version of what God originally intended, and still does intend, to be your greatest strength, if only you will give yourself up to him. Lust becomes passion, depression compassion, self-love love for one’s neighbor, and pride worship.

But why is it that the people up on that stage, and the man with the lizard all seem to have the shocking, icky, socially unspeakable sins? And they are the ones who get it? They are the prostitutes and the tax collectors–they are the blessed who are constantly confronted with their depravity and crave freedom. Then there’s the rest of us–me in particular. If I had gotten up on that stage, I wouldn’t have needed such bravery. No one would have gasped at my sins. They would have yawned. My sins are creeping, almost invisible at times. I could say them out loud all day long (and I have), and people will just say, “Oh aren’t we all?” or “You’ll grow out of it honey.” But that is dangerous. Confession is important–even when it’s so easy that it almost seems worthless. So here I go.

I am vain–self-obsessed. I am proud. I think I am smarter, prettier, more wonderful and huggable than everyone else. I don’t want them to know I think like that. But I do. Constantly. It’s an epidemic. It’s a sin. It’s a master. I am lazy. I am selfish. I am without question the most ridiculously stubborn person I know. Pay attention to the modifier there: I’m stubborn about the most ridiculous things. I hold onto bitterness like crazy. If you ask me to do something that’s out of my comfort zone, no amount of begging or peer pressure will change my mind. And I take pride in that! I take pride in cowardice! I have this mindset that I only do the things I’ve always done. I’ve put myself in a box, and tried to keep God in it with me. Well, let me tell you: He won’t stay! But neither will he take me out if I’m unwilling. I have manic attachment to who I think I’ve created myself to be. I’m so proud of her. It’s sick. Revolting in a way that nothing said on that stage few weeks ago could ever be.

So this is my beginning. It is not the first and it will not be the last. I want freedom, but I need someone to pry open my fists which still cling to the silly girl who loves her name, her clothes, her family, her life, but so rarely her God. Only Christ is strong enough. He died, He rose, He will set me free. He will.