Tag Archives: Jesus

Sometimes

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I’ve had one of those weeks. Not the awful, overwhelming kind, or the traumatic kind, or the inexplicably sad kind, but the kind that I can’t remember. The kind where someone asks me how my week has been and I look at them blankly, because I can’t remember a single thing that happened. I know that I went to class and did some reading and wrote an essay and slept and ate and talked, but as far as anything worth latching onto and remarking upon… nothing, apparently. It’s one of those days where the last notable thing I remember happening to me is the time I played Vengeance in my high school gym. Right now my parents and George are in Scotland, and Abby’s at a wedding, and it’s Laura’s nineteenth birthday. I remember these things, and I think, “Someday I will go to Scotland. Someday I will go to a wedding. Maybe even have one myself. Someday I’ll have another birthday. ” And that’s true, but, of course, right now I’m just sitting here writing a paper about the tragedy of inaction in Dickens’ Bleak House. I’m thankful for the opportunity, but really? The tragedy of inaction? MUST WE RUB IT IN?

I’ve always believed, or said I believed, that real, vibrant, spirit-fueled life is made up of lots of tiny little puzzle pieces of  sharing blankets and having wet hair in the morning and giving hugs and having sandals that sometimes rub and saying “it’s you an’ me till three o’clock” to my paper. We were meant for these little things too. And yet, I am apparent ly not content to find that God lives in quiet lives, such as mine is right now. I want mountains and hurdles and heartbreak and rebirth. Yet here I am feeling dull and remarkably unspectacular. But perhaps I am, as Deut. 33:12 would have it, “dwelling between his shoulders,” and I’m just failing to notice or appreciate. It’s been known to happen, Lord.

Read This One

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This semester I’ve gotten involved in a Beth Moore Bible study at Heidi’s house. It’s led by her mom and her mom’s friend, and consists mostly of senior girls, with the addition of Laura and Heidi and me. Last Thursday, when we were sharing prayer requests at the first meeting I mentioned my kind of frustrated relationship with everyone back home, particularly my family. In the scheme of things I thought it wasn’t a huge deal, or I wouldn’t have shared it with a bunch of nearly-strangers. But then, almost before I noticed, I started crying, which was not supposed to happen. Everyone looked at me so sympathetically, and hugged me so long, and I got back to campus that night in a foul mood.

This past week I did the five days in the workbook, and was occasionally a little frustrated by Beth’s questions. No, I could not imagine what Jesus’s face might have looked like when he delivered a particular line, or how John might have felt witnessing his first miracle. I knew that Jesus did and Jesus said and that John was there too. Wasn’t that the important part? I also withdrew from a class, which was something my parents didn’t want.

Last night, at our second meeting, what all the other girls said they had appreciated most about that week were the very questions which had frustrated me. I kept my mouth shut. The video teaching for the evening had a lot to do with finding your calling, and the girls, most of whom are student teaching, and already have one foot out in the real world, shared that it meant a lot to them. This was something I’d never struggled with. I always know what I want.

When we prayed, I put my head down on my knees, and told God in no uncertain terms, “I do not like this. I do not like being different. Sometimes at this school, I feel as if I’m the only volatile one, the only one whose sin is motivated by rebellion rather than fear. I am not a fixer or a people pleaser.  While they’re all nodding understandingly at each other’s struggles with insecurity, here I am I am digging my heels deeper into the tar, and crossing my arms, knowing nothing will move me unless I want it to. But if I tried to tell someone, I’d cry again, and it would be embarrassing.”

Then we went home. As we got out of the car, one of the girls whom Laura and I had been riding with, Anne, attached herself to my arm, and told me she wanted to get to know me better. We should go to Warriors together. And so we did. (I’m so glad.)

I don’t remember any of the songs, although I think I sang all of them. I do know, though, that probably for the very first time I admitted something to myself that probably most of you already knew. I have walked though life being a quitter and not a joiner, and I have always said that it’s because I don’t have anything to prove to anybody. But that’s not true. I have a lot to prove–and almost everything I do is motivated by it. I went running at six-thirty this morning to prove to my parents that I am growing up; I dress up every Friday, not only because I love good clothes, but to prove to the world that I am beautiful; I started this blog to prove that I can write; I so rarely talk to boys to prove…well, I haven’t figured that one out yet, but there’s some sort of insecurity there–obviously.

I really, really want people to like me and be proud to know me. I’m deliciously insecure. It’s when I figured that out that I started to smile. Because if I admit I am weak, I can accept help. I don’t have to be stubborn. FOR ONCE, I CAN ACTUALLY TRY! What a relief…

I will continue to go running (with my little lungs protesting at every step), not for my health and not because I think anything I do or don’t do will ever make my parents love me more or less, but because I like to make them proud. And I wouldn’t care if my dad came all the darn way up here just to take a picture. I will dress up with relish every Friday and continue to blog, because I don’t care who knows that I have good taste in words or clothes, and they’re welcome to watch as that taste improves. And boys? I’m just not going to worry about that.

I didn’t know giving into God would be this easy. I’d been resisting this change of heart for years, and bracing myself for His painful sanctification, but it felt like opening my eyes–and that’s all. I didn’t just feel clean, I felt free.

At this point, (I bet you had I forgotten that I was at Warriors while all this was going on. Don’t worry–I had too.) Anne leaned over, grabbed my arm, and whispered that God was going to heal my relationship with my parents. She was sure of it. Funny thing–I was sure of it too. Because that’s what God does. He heals. I may have cried a little, but mostly I felt like dancing. I was not peaceful, but exhilarated. I think I bounced a lot.

So here’s the point: God is good. I mean He is not just kind and loving, but He is righteous. He is good. The other thing: He is faithful. It’s been a long few months, but here he has been.

The only thing I do remember from last night at Warriors is one of the passages they read.

Ezekiel 36:22-28: Therefore say to the house of Israel, ‘Thus says the Lord GOD: “I do not do this for your sake, O house of Israel, but for My holy name’s sake, which you have profaned among the nations wherever you went. And I will sanctify My great name, which has been profaned among the nations, which you have profaned in their midst; and the nations shall know that I am the LORD,” says the Lord GOD, “when I am hallowed in you before their eyes.  For I will take you from among the nations, gather you out of all countries, and bring you into your own land. Then I will sprinkle clean water on you, and you shall be clean; I will cleanse you from all your filthiness and from all your idols. I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; I will take the heart of stone out of your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.  I will put My Spirit within you and cause you to walk in My statutes, and you will keep My judgments and do them.  Then you shall dwell in the land that I gave to your fathers; you shall be My people, and I will be your God.

Beth Moore, I know how Israel felt, and what God’s face looked like, because that is my story, and the promise is for me. It wasn’t what I was expecting. It never is, thank God. Really. THANK GOD!

A Sunday Morning Sidewalk Entry

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I had a blog entry all outlined the other day, but then I didn’t have time to write it, and now, looking at what I’d written, I don’t really understand the flow of it. So…scrap that.

I’m back at Grove City, which is a relief. Sometimes I like myself better here, you know? I like the girl who reads for Storytime and takes late-night walks better than the girl who snaps at her family, and tells her best friends she just doesn’t feel like hanging out–it’s too much effort. Not that I don’t have my screwy problems here occasionally, like bursting into unexpected tears in front of a Bible study group I’ve just met, and taking too many Tuesday-Thursday classes, but overall, I’m better here.

I write to you from my room—MEP 119. Liesel and I needed a little table to go between our beds, so, a week ago Friday, when we went to Salvation Army, we bought one for $4. We were carrying it back down Main Street when a nice man pulled over and offered to take it for us. When we got home, fifteen or twenty minutes later, it was standing sedately on it spindly little legs in the mulch by the PLC. It looked great. And it looks great between our beds too, as do the teapots that cover the walls, and Dr. Jewell in his place of honor. Sometimes college is priceless.

*                     *                             *

Just now, I got back from church. I go in the evenings here, to a place called Grace Anglican, attended by a huge sector of the Grove City English Department. Seriously, I think I counted four or five of my professors there tonight.

I love this place because of the way the liturgy constantly drags me into the presence of God with wonderful collects like “Almighty and everlasting God, who is always more ready to hear than we to pray, and disposed to give more than either we desire or deserve; pour down upon us the abundance of your mercy; forgiving us those things whereof our conscience is afraid, and giving us those good things which we are not worthy to ask, but through the merits and mediation of Jesus Christ, your Son, our Lord. Amen.” The sermon tonight was about God’s righteous judgment, but it ended (as every good story does) with redemption, and the ever-new proclamation that Jesus died for you and for me that we may “live by faith” and be counted as righteous.

Also during communion we sang “Jesus Paid it All.”

Lord, now indeed I find thy power and thine alone,

Can change the leper’s spots and melt the heart of stone.

My heart of stone is showing signs of life again. Like coming home for good.

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.

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.

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.

How Things Are

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I am home. Back at school, I mean–the other home. I am in three lit classes this semester, which is a heaven built of anthologies, and yesterday Sarah and I rearranged our room to resemble something livable. I keep getting distracted from typing because I have to stop and stare at our acres of floor space and cozy-corner-that-would-hold-a-chair-if-we-had-room-for-one. The time to visit me is now. Especially if you like snow–honey, we got it!

There’s another thing about which I’m really quite exhilarated: I’m writing a story. And I think this one’s going to be a novel, or at least it seems gargantuan in my head, and to plan it I’ll need a whole wall of chalkboard which I don’t have. I also need a bunch of Vogues and a pretty detailed cross-section of St. Paul’s Cathedral. To be honest, I probably also need some books about London because the three days I spent there when I was fourteen crying on the Tube and staring at crown jewels aren’t much to draw from. I’m planning on making some nice Wordsworthian allusions and rekindling my love for dollhouses. I’ll see. We’ll see. But please be excited for me.

There’s something else. Not really something else, actually, more the reason for it all. God is pursuing me. I don’t have any specific stories to tell or any great revelations to share (at least not yet). But I can testify that, as my dear Hannah would say, “God is so, so cool, you know? He really is.” He is doing something spectacular. He is making my little stubborn-as-heck heart want Him. I really, really want Him. I have never been able to say that with complete honesty before. I’ve wanted what he has to offer–I’ve wanted forgiveness, I’ve wanted redemption, I’ve desperately wanted to be clean, but I’ve never wanted Christ. And now I do. I mean, not all the time, only occasionally, but I am beginning to have some inkling of what people mean when they pray to have “a heart for Christ.” I can’t remember ever having asked for it in that way, but He is giving and giving and giving. I am beginning to be able to worship my Lord both for what He did for me and who He is. He has been that “still, small voice” recently, and even there, especially there, He is breathtaking.

So, how are things? Well, not that I was in anything like a bad place before, but things are looking up. And so am I.

Cousins, California, and Christmas itself…

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Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Hello. In case you were wondering, exams went well, except for one. Then after many hugs, and fending off the last wisps of stress, I boarded a plane to Iowa. Of course, I do not live in Iowa, but my family was there already with my Mom’s side at the Wasserbahn Water Park. (What a place!) Thus began my vacation of lots-of-people-for-not-long-enough. I did see my cousins, of course, and it was a good time. Since United didn’t get my bag to me on time, we had an adventure to some nearby outlets to buy me $70 worth of clothes for which I will be reimbursed. There was also an extremely satisfactory Secret Santa, a rendition of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” which we found so entertaining that it is posted on Facebook, lots of Uno and Telephone Pictionary, and much cousin bonding on the couch in the hospitality room which was also Uncle Jon’s room. Poor UJ. We spent a quiet Christmas day at my grandparents in Brookfield, MO, and were up very, very early to get on a plane to San Francisco.

My dad’s entire family is in California, but except for him, the rest of us hadn’t been out for six and a half years. There has been some pretty awful drama which you may know about, and the details of which I’m not going to go into right now. Suffice to say, I’m so thankful we went, and that such a thing was even possible, but it was a surreal experience. We met my Granddad’s new wife, Shirley, and saw lots of cousins, whom I knew I had met before, but whose faces were unfamiliar. Last time I saw my cousin Lorenzo, we were kids and we visited the Jelly Belly factory together, this time he got more cheerful with each of four beers. It has been a very long time. We visited St. Mary’s Cemetery where my Grammy’s memorial is. We all stood around in the grocery store beforehand and said “I have never bought flowers for a grave before. How does one do this thing?” We got yellow because that was her favorite color. We visited my Aunt Sharon in the little house in Sacramento where Grammy and all of her siblings grew up. We drove down to Orange County to see my uncle and aunt and cousins. We went to a beach (a beach!) on New Year’s Eve. There was Bananagrams and a deeply competitive game of Silver Screen Trivial Pursuit.

I’m still sort of in awe that all of this could happen. That we could get on a plane in ten degree weather, and get off to see trees heavy with oranges down every other block. That Mary and I could sit there and watch as Grammy’s sister, my Aunt Marge, and Granddad’s new wife next to each other on my cousin Nancy’s couch making friends. That my family could step out of the car on Partrick Road in Napa, where my dad grew up, and smell the eucalyptus, and chew on stalks of anise. I had not remembered that California was so beautiful. Wherever we went I always felt like we were in a valley, surrounded by mountains that looked like cozy giants sleeping in extravagant positions. I could pick out a rumpled shirt-tail here, the crook of an elbow there. The palm trees that were not pruned looked quite silly—as if they were wearing shaggy fur coats beneath a bad hairdo. I looked out the window a lot.

Yet the trip was not idyllic. I suppose I am too old for that to be possible, but it was more than that. We never saw anybody long enough to get properly comfortable with them, and even then my aunt and her lies seemed to lurk a little triumphantly in the corner of every conversation. And there’s another thing. I think I missed Christmas. I mean, really, where was it? There was that one quiet day at Grandma’s, but I was busy packing. It is a silly thought, but I feel as though Christmas and I planned to meet, but missed each other by a few minutes. That doesn’t mean, though, that it didn’t happen. When I got off the plane from Pittsburgh and walked toward the baggage claim, there was a large group with American flags and signs, waiting for their soldier. I was a little shamed to walk past them in my dress and leggings. I was so obviously not the hero they had come to meet. Then my sister jumped suddenly out from behind them trying to scare me and hug me all at once, and I could feel their smiles at our little reunion, and I didn’t feel embarrassed anymore. That was Christmas. In Iowa, we took a cousin picture wearing light-up necklaces. That was Christmas. In California, we drove down the road in our cramped rental car listening to Simon and Garfunkel, and George snored on my shoulder. That was Christmas. Last night driving back from the Kansas City airport the stars above me refused to come into focus. They stayed icy and soft no matter how I squinted, so I closed my eyes and went to sleep. That was Christmas.

Christmas is no less than a promise fulfilled, an expectation realized. We are told every year that Christmas will come again. It does. “When we are faithless, he remains faithful.” He does. “For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.”  And He is.

A Haphazard Winter Tears Christmas Entry

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This morning I woke up to go to my eight-o-clock and looked outside to find that it was snowing heavy and windy. Tramping through dry, slippery winter without a hat sounded unappealing, as did Civilization class, so I stayed in bed. Already you and my day have been properly introduced. Isn’t she lovely? At nine I went to Brit Lit where I blinked my way through “Gray’s Elegy” and Christopher Smart’s cat. As I was walking out, Dr. Brown stopped me, and said that I’d seemed so tired lately, was taking fewer notes, and did not seem to be concentrating very well. Was I getting enough sleep? I said I was just ready for the semester to be over. Then I hurried away and tears sprung from some hitherto unknown reservoir of weariness.

I called my mother just to ask about a novel and she heard my panic. I did my French homework, and began to calm down. I walked over to the SAC to pick up a package from home. On the outside was written in sharpie “Dear Alice, Don’t cry in the mailroom. Mom.” I was startled. How had she known? It wasn’t as if she’d sent the package in the last twenty minutes, and all of this fatigue had only hit me today. As I walked back to MEP I wondered, was there something inside so touching, so personal…? That wasn’t like my mommy. Then I remembered something she’d mentioned several days before. She was only joking, saying that now I wouldn’t feel left out while all my friends were opening their big fat care package ordered by their parents for a campus fundraiser. Of course. She did not expect tears and melodrama, she expected laughter and good sense. That was the mother I knew and loved.

This afternoon I sat in the lobby with friends, and just happened to look up my house on google maps. Then I looked up my grandparents’ house,  then Karen’s, then Caldwell… I gave myself a virtual tour of home. In fact, I even tried to drive home from school using street view, but the going was a little slow. So I just switched back to my house and stood in the middle of Scott Avenue, spinning in circles, watching the summer leaves shading my front porch race by again and again. It was almost as good as the real thing. Well, not almost. Just sort of.

As everyone else is beginning their Christmas season, we here at Grove City are entering our stress season. I already have friends studying behind locked doors, and I myself am contemplating who exactly would be a good jailer for my computer. Maybe Katie? Anyhow, true to form, I’m not worried about exams, but I hate them just as much as everyone else. They haven’t begun yet, though… On Saturday night I went to a lovely Christmas party with lots of families. There were about seven different kinds of soup for supper. Then we went caroling and had a gingerbread house competition. I wished I was nine years old again, sliding around in sock feet with a sparkly Christmas sweater and my hair falling into excited, sweaty wisps about my face.

Then last night were the candlelight services at the chapel which are famous, and rightly so. Lots of people from the community come, touring choir sings, the Christmas story is recited, and then everyone lights their candle and Harbison Chapel’s sanctity seems to be consummated yet again as the organ swells and we all sing Silent Night. At “Christ, the Saviour is born; Christ, the Saviour is born” as everyone lifted their candles in solemn unison, and Liesel and I snorted back laughter, I forgot my constant wish that Christmas would arrive faster. Why wish for something you already have?

So to summarize this jumbled entry: Don’t cry in the mailroom, Alice, because in eight days you will be on a plane zooming toward the dear sister you haven’t seen since August, your tall baby brother, your parents, and assorted cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents. Also, go ahead, be nine years old with pink cheeks and a sugar high, for “Christ, the Saviour is born!” Happy Christmas, goober. Study hard.