Moved out today.

Woke up at seven o'clock and lay in bed, too tired to move, for awhile. Rachel was sound asleep. When I finally did get up and dress, I noted gloomily that the pavement outside was wet. I ate breakfast while reading Flannery O'Connor, suitably depressing.

After Rachel went out to meet with a professor, I put on headphones and spent all morning listening to sermons while I packed up almost all of my possessions. Listening to the riches of God's grace, His effectual invitation to us, the wonderful promises that we will be like Christ, the truth that the commandments are in themselves promises of our future Christ-likeness, and so forth, took some of the sting out of the melancholy work. I hate saying good-bye to places.

I started to carry things down to the Tank: boxes of kitchen supplies, mostly, and the lamps, baskets, and a few other odds and ends. The rain was sprinkling the pavement, misting the cardboard as I shoved the boxes into place in the trunk of the car.

Once I had packed everything I could on my own, I went to the caf and picked up lunch. It was half twelve. Back in the apartment, Rachel was there. She got lunch from the caf, too, and we sat and chatted while we ate on the floor. Talked about economics and writing parodies of the Austrian school in the vein of Lewis Carroll's "Walrus and the Carpenter". Rain rattled against the windows, and the afternoon gloaming stretched chill and dreary over blank walls.

Rachel spent the afternoon working; I spent it reading O'Connor. The stories were so depressing, though, that I really ought to have worked instead.

At half two, my father and Stephen arrived from Stillwater with the minivan. They loaded the mattress and box springs into the minivan, and then it began to rain again in earnest. While they loaded the rest of the furniture, Rachel and I carried more things down to the Tank. We managed to fit almost everything into the Tank until my father realized that my desk wasn't going to fit into the minivan. So we rearranged everything--but by the time he was finished, everything had a place, stowed away in some nook or cranny of one of the two cars.

Once the cars were loaded, we went up to the apartment to regroup. Rachel had been helping us valiantly. I opened the wee box my father had brought from home: a necklace, my parents' graduation present to me. Lovely. My father had a gift for Rachel, too, a book about George Whitefield. Then we said good-bye to Rachel and headed out. Stephen rode with me in the Tank. We left before my father, but we got stuck in a traffic jam just after we merged onto the highway. So when we arrived at the first toll booth, there was the minivan right ahead of us--I have no idea how he did it. It made Stephen and me laugh, though.

We talked most of the time. I kept awake by asking Stephen random questions. We watched patches of vivid red Indian paintbrush slide through on the road embankments, and I saw a tiny black hummingbird in one of them. It rained the whole way.

In Stillwater, my mother welcomed us in the kitchen. She was making chili and cornbread for tea. Laura came bouncing downstairs. While she and I emptied the smaller things out of the cars, my father and Stephen carried the furniture into the entryway. Laura and I filled my room with boxes, suitcases, lamps, baskets, etc. Then she left to take a final exam. I spent half-an-hour or so tidying the place up.

My parents, Stephen, and I sat down to tea together at six o'clock. We had chili, brown rice, and cornbread. Stared at the sodden lawn with the rain steadily falling. We talked about moving, about Laura's graduation next week, about birds (I saw a goldfinch outside), about OSU and finals. It was good to sit and talk for awhile about things.

At seven o'clock I drove downtown for a haircut. The Greenery was open unusually late. Mrs. H was just putting the finishing touches on the styles of two women, one older and one middle aged, while a large middle aged man sat and watched. When I sat down, he immediately started to ask me questions, which I answered as politely as I could.

After the trio left, and Mrs. H had shampooed my hair, she cut it, laughing and laughing about her three guests. She and the other stylist told some pretty sad stories about their family and the family feuds that they've heard about. "It always makes me thankful that my daughters are healthy and walking with the Lord and living reasonably normal lifestyles," Mrs. H declared.

I drove home through persistent mizzle. Laura, Stephen, and my parents were watching "Loony Tunes". Then my father read a Sherlock Holmes mystery. I sat in the living room with everyone. My mother was ironing and Laura and Stephen were eating dried cranberries. The mystery was long and convoluted and not finished until nine o'clock. Then we did family worship. Psalm 139B tonight, so good, "If I say, 'Darkness covers me', the darkness hides not from Thee. To Thee both night and day are bright; the darkness shines as the light."

After family worship, I said good-bye to everyone. Laura bounced all over me. They stood on the front porch and waved good-bye through the rain.

Back on campus, I went up to the apartment. RCS was talking on the phone with her family. The apartment seems large and bare, cold, lit by the fluorescent lights. Not too unbearable, though. Both the sofas are still here, and Rachel's photos and posters on the walls. Rachel and I chatted for awhile. Told each other about our afternoons, laughed about our families. Then she gave me a poster as a gift, a beautiful map of Middle Earth. I was so delighted.

I'm sleepy.... Rachel sits on the floor by the red sofa, working on History of Economic Thought, her enormous binder spread beside her. Rain patters on the windows, and the lights hum monotonously.

All the

WHITE RABBITS

got flooded out by the rain.

Now Playing: J.S. Bach, "Passacaille and Fugue BWV 582", "Prelude & Fugue in A Minor BWV 543", from his organ works.

Writing for ENGL 4863 all evening. Ecstatic.

More pictures here.

Now Playing: Blavet, Vivaldi, and Bach.

Today.

At half seven, Mrs. S came to take Rachel and me to breakfast at Panera. We met Mrs. P there: she's one of Rachel's good friends from Grace Bible Church, an older woman. Panera was crowded at breakfast, of course. The four of us sat at a small high table in a corner by a window. The ladies were very kind and friendly.

After, Mrs. S dropped me off at the apartment, taking Rachel on to her class in Chapman at half nine. I finished my devotions, sitting in a patch of sunshine. I love noticing the way the light falls differently in different seasons. On winter afternoons, the sunshine slanted through the south-facing window, making an oblong behind my desk. On spring mornings, it slants from the north, long over the blue armchair.

The verse today: "Light is sown for the righteous, and joy for the upright in heart." God has planted gladness for me, even if I do not reap the fruit yet.

I walked to Tyrrell to practice before HON at eleven o'clock. As I walked to HON, I stared at the day. Glorious day, peerless sunshine, blue skies. In HON today, we discussed the crisis in Darfur and whether the U.S. should be involved. I picked up a salad in the food court, then drove to Woodward Park to meet Tara for lunch. Lunchtime traffic around Utica Square was heavy, so it wasn't until nearly one o'clock that I got to the park.

The park was a little bit crowded. Tara had spread herself out on the lawn near the rose gardens. The roses aren't blooming yet, though the dogwoods and azaleas on the hillside facing 21st Street are making a luscious display of red, magenta, and white against the dark oak trees. Tara and I ate our lunches in the warm sunshine. We watched people walking dogs, notably a pair of very cheerful beagles and an enormous imperturbable Husky, behind us.

I left at about a quarter to two in order to meet Dr. E at two o'clock for another independent study. Then I practiced for another hour in Tyrrell, playing through the pieces slowly with the metronome. That helped ease the nerves a little. All day long I'd been telling myself to relax, relax, relax. As I stepped out of Tyrrell, the sunshine engulfed me. I flopped down on the U, firm cool grass under my back, and spread my arms out to the sunshine.

As I lay there, Jenny M. joined me. Rachel joined us, and then Hannah came strolling insouciantly across the grass. The four of us sprawled together in the sunshine. Conversation trailed off into comfortable silence. We all just lay there in the sunshine on our stomachs, listening to cardinals singing around campus.

Jenny went to choir at five o'clock. At half five, Hannah went to work. Then Rachel and I went back to the apartment. We opened all the windows. I washed dishes, then made a sandwich for myself for tea, and wrote e-mails.

I left for Tyrrell at ten to seven. I felt small and incongruous: pink brocade dress, flip-flops, and enormous black backpack. At Tyrrell, Professor R had already set up the stage. Michele joined us. We ran through a few spots in some of the pieces, getting used to the hall again and to the rhythms. Now that the time had finally come, I was actually not as nervous as I'd expected. Not paralyzed, anyway. My parents and Stephen arrived. I stepped outside with my mother. Abby was perched on the stone steps outside Tyrrell, watching Annabelle running over the grass, collecting sweet gum balls. Rachel Jr. and Nicole showed up, then Stephen N., then the Hs. I stood outside joking around with them for awhile.

Finally I went indoors, slipped into the cool musty recital hall and into the strange space backstage. All sorts of odds and ends are stored back there, and the ventilation system makes weird noises. I sat on an old wooden chair under a partially-boarded window and was quiet.

Michele came backstage. Took a few minutes to breathe--the dress restricts that a little--before we went onstage. There were perhaps twenty-five people present, mostly from RUF. And so we launched into the recital. The Blavet was a wee bit stunted. Not too dreadful, but not perfect. I was glad when it was over. All those repeats make me nervous. Michele and I went backstage, I shook out my tight muscles, she took a drink, and then we went back on again for the Vivaldi. Joy and delight. Then, at last, came the Bach. It's a weighty ordeal, like trying to muster a cathedral out of a flute and a keyboard. It went off fairly well. We bowed, then went backstage, so I went on again, and bowed, and everyone stood and applauded, which made me very happy.

After the recital was over, I went down to say hello to everyone. Even Dr. S was there. Everyone was so kind. My mother had brought fruit and cake, which everyone enjoyed in the hallway afterward. Stood around chatting. Crystal approved of my outfit; Annabelle kept running up to give me hugs. Abby laughed that she had heard the word "Princess" several times during the evening. Gradually people began to leave. RUF was at nine o'clock. Philip and I stayed with my family, cleared away the leftover food, chatted. Then we said good-night. They left. Philip went to an ultimate frisbee game.

I walked back to my apartment with the strange sense of pointlessness that comes after a performance of any sort. I changed clothes, then walked to RUF. Marc was just starting his sermon. Last RUF.

Afterward, I put things away in the apartment. Rachel and I chatted for a wee while about the recital and her mother's visit. Then I settled down to write this. The windows are open. Chilly evening air seeps through the screen. And noises, noises, noises. Cars driving through the car park; an Iranian chap on his mobile phone; people talking. The train whistles blowing, as they always do at night. Emergency sirens. The buzz of air conditioners. I'm tired.

Pictures here.

Now Playing: Handel, Messiah, "I Know That My Redeemer Liveth".

Our call to worship today was Hosea 6:1-3:

"Come, and let us return to the LORD; for He has torn, but He will heal us; He has stricken, but He will bind us up. After two days He will revive us; on the third day He will raise us up, that we may live in His sight. Let us know, let us pursue the knowledge of the LORD. His going forth is established as the morning; He will come to us like the rain, like the latter and former rain to the earth."

Something beautifully appropriate about these verses, especially today. As we worshipped, it poured outside, a long gentle soaking rain. After the huge wildfires in Oklahoma this past week, the rain was a welcome change.

I love the way this passage demonstrates the union of Christ and His people. Christ is stricken with us, and as He was raised up, so we will be. The passage talks about God reviving His people on the third day--what appears to apply specifically only to Christ applies to us, too, as His body.

I was just reading Rachel's and Leslie's posts, which are also appropriate to today. There has been so much hurt and pain, so much dying over this past term, over this past year. I, too, need the reminder that my Redeemer lives, and that in my flesh I shall see God, I myself will see Him with my own eyes, I and not another. (Job 19:26-27)

That truth stands under and above and around all the chaos and fragmentation and alienation, all the despair and helplessness and fear. Christ lives. He rules now over all of this. And the leaves of the Tree in Heaven will be for the healing of the nations, for our healing.

"How my heart yearns within me!"

Now Playing: Chris Thile, "Stealing Second", Track 3, "Kneel Before Him".

I've been noticing how loudly I'm being told to go elsewhere for safety. For meaning, for security.

In HON, we're reading The Dumbest Generation: How the Digital Age Stupefies Young Americans and Jeopardizes Our Future, Or, Don't Trust Anyone Under 30. You can guess the whole book from the title. Perhaps the author has a point. But my main concern emerged as I read his endless lists of cultural icons that have been forgotten by young Americans (supposedly). What a Marxist critic would call "cultural capital": the Mona Lisa, Michelangelo, Beethoven, Bach, Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, Jane Austen, Tolstoy, Tchaikovsky, and the rest.

The author seems to think that if you don't know who these people and ideas are, then you're not a complete person. Somehow being without these great philosophical trends of Western civilization diminishes your humanity. Therefore, be liberal arts majors, everyone!

Or, if you'd rather be rich than cultured, listen to the President of the university. He quoted the father of an alumnus who has made millions on starting car rental agencies: "The only way to be successful is to work twelve hours a day, seven days a week." Work hard, make lots of money, donate to the university, and you'll be a successful person.

Or, if you'd rather spend that money than make it, listen to the shops in the mall. Glossy photos of models sporting the latest fashions. Enticing smells from food kiosks. Glamorous posters on the wall of the cinema and the pervasive smell of stale popcorn. Buy! Be entertained! Watch Brad Pitt, wear American Eagle or Fossil, patronize Victoria's Secret! Define yourself by your possessions, by your consumption!

Tacitly accompanying this message: Be popular. If you don't dress right, don't laugh at the jokes, don't use the language, don't listen to the music, then you're "out". Not wanted. Not worth much.

Or, if you'd rather not make money or spend it, or know anything either, then be a bohemian. Listen to Sarah Bareilles and Augustana, who told the crowd over and over again, "All you need is love! Love, love, love!" Shout it to the world and listen to the world shout it back to you. And if you aren't satisfied with your latest partner, write an angry song that blasts vitriol and electric guitar so loudly that it breaks everyone else's eardrums with your broken heart.

One more thing: Don't think that if you're a Christian, you're immune. We still have the propensity toward idolatry even after we're redeemed. We may try to satisfy ourselves with our spouse's love, our children, our friends, our service opportunities, our tithing, our doctrine, or whatever, but if it replaces God, then it is as hollow as any of the "bad" things listed above.

With so many enemies, enemies outside and enemies within, I wonder sometimes how any of us can ever leave this world and enter Heaven safely.

"Do not fear, for I have redeemed you. I have called you by name; you are Mine."

Now Playing: Chris Thile, "Not All Who Wander Are Lost", Track 1, "Song for a Young Princess".

10 April 2009.

Rachel was away yesterday evening to Colorado for the weekend, so I woke this morning in an empty apartment. It was a cold, grey day outside. At half eight I was supposed to go to a breakfast for scholarship students. Accordingly I dressed up in business casual and hunched my way over to Collins Hall, the new administration building.

On the upper level outside a very posh meeting room, we were greeted by the President of the University and his staffr. They treated us as though we were royalty, nudged us first towards the food, seated us at an enormous sleek table, and entertained us for an hour with conversation.

As soon as it was over, I went back to the apartment, put on jeans, and went to the library to work on a HIST paper. At one o'clock, I went to HIST. Back in the apartment, I ate crackers, carrots, and peanut butter for lunch. The apartment was small, quiet, and grey, silent, the still, colorless light of the grey day outside lingering on empty furniture and pale walls. After I ate, I finished The Age of Innocence, which I've been reading for pleasure.

The book ended with a quiet poignance, somehow fitting the still, empty room. I curled up on the sofa and fell asleep.

I worked for an hour or so until Crystal rang me. The two of us met down in the car park at five o'clock and drove to Woodland Mall to shop for "accessories" to go with my senior recital dress. Emmaline complained that she hates shopping with me because I always know exactly what I want, and the unfortunate Crystal had to put up with the same thing. We spent two-and-a-half hours wandering around the mall. We weren't in a particular hurry, and Crystal enjoys shopping, and I enjoyed being with her.

We were back on campus by eight o'clock. I retreated to my apartment, ate leftovers for tea, and watched darkness fill the sky.

At half eight, Philip rang me to say that he and DMac were heading over to the basketball stadium for the concert. Every year, the university puts on a week of activities for students called Springfest, and the activities always culminate in a free Friday night concert.

So Philip, DMac, and I joined DMo, Kathryn, Nick, and Amy Sf. in the stands. The stage was in the centre of the floor with about a third of the court roped off for the audience and the rest of the court off limits behind barricades. It was set up, but the band hadn't started to perform yet. I sat with Philip and some of his engineering friends in the row in front of the others. Sarah Bareilles was the first act we saw. When the bass began, DMac shouted, "I can feel the air hitting me!", and Philip and I nodded back--could feel it pounding in my torso. Also there were spotlights, ostensibly to add to the hype, but really to blind all of us, DMac thought.

Sarah B. was a pop singer, fluttery and flirty. Like a pink butterfly. "She's a female musician," Philip laughed at me when I was laughing at her. All her songs were love songs. A couple of them were alright; they were all fluff. She played piano and ukelele and had guitar, bass, and drums (all guys). There was a small crowd on the floor around the stage, but almost everyone was sitting in the stands. Joanna and Nicole showed up for the last two songs.

After her band, there was a very long intermission in which the stage was rearranged three or four different times. I perched on the back of my chair and talked to Joanna and Nicole. Philip disappeared.

When Augustana finally came onstage, Philip reappeared on the bleacher steps, shouting at all of us to come down. Joanna, Nicole, and I ran down the steps onto the court. More and more people were making a crowd on the court. As Augustana started their first song, Philip got down on his hands and knees, and I climbed onto his shoulders. I found myself suddenly way above the rest of the crowd, fairly close to the stage. At first we were both nervous, Philip holding tightly to my legs and me swaying tensely, but then we both loosened up and started to dance a little bit. Nicole and Joanna were laughing at us. The adrenaline rush was pretty incredible. Unfortunately, when he put me back down, poor Philip got his hand stepped on, which made me feel awful.

Augustana was an all-guys band. The phrase "effeminate Greeks!" kept trickling into my mind from (Roman) HIST this afternoon. The lead singer, as I said earlier, was high, and somehow appeared to become more and more high over the course of the concert. His mannerisms, his face, the way he sang all reminded everyone of Captain Jack Sparrow. It was fun to watch the band, though--they all seemed to be enjoying themselves thoroughly, and enjoying one another.

In the middle of the concert, I suddenly found myself surrounded by a bunch of guys I didn't know but whose voices were vaguely familiar. It took me a moment to realize that they were pointing at the Queen's crest on my hoodie and to recognize their accents. Philip, DMac, Joanna, and Nicole turned around and stared. It was very hard to talk in the middle of the crowd with the band playing right above us, but there was something wonderfully surreal about discussing Coleraine and Belfast in shouts.

So the rest of the concert I stood a little behind everyone else, standing on tiptoe to try to see the stage, my head in a blur of sound. The lead singer rattled off the usual derisive comments about Tulsa, Oklahoma, and our school spirit (or lack thereof).

The concert ended at a quarter past eleven. I ran up to my apartment. It was quiet and dark.

It's been a surreal day. I shall post more tomorrow. For now:

Tonight I went to my first concert, consisting of Sarah Bareilles and Augustana.

The lead singer of Augustana was extremely high, became more so over the course of the concert (if that's possible), and reminded everyone of Johnny Depp. (*cough*)

In the middle of the concert, I was suddenly surrounded by four Northern Irish guys. (Only knew one of them, Ciaran.) All of them were amazed at the QUB hoodie, and we all pulled out our QUB ID cards with the horrendous photos to show each other as though we were wee kids showing off the latest toys. Philip slagged me off for "breaking out the Northern Irish accent", and before they left, they all gave me enormous hugs--!

Oh, yes, and I also spent the entire first Augustana song sitting on Philip's shoulders, way above the crowd, practically in the band's faces (it seemed at the time), trying to keep my balance while we both danced.

And now I'm thankful for peace and quiet.

Now Playing: Bach, "Sonata in B Minor", "Andante." Two weeks until my recital! Augh!

Burroughs on discontentment and using God's mercies now to fight discontentment:

“To be discontented in any afflicted condition is sinful and evil, but to be discontented when we are in the midst of God’s mercies, when we are not able to count the mercies of God, still to be discontented because we have not got all we would have, this is a greater evil.” (Ch. 10)

“… Job helped himself against all murmuring thoughts against the ways of God, with this consideration, that he had received so much good from the Lord.” (Ch. 10)

“If you do not make the mercies of God help you against your murmuring, you will make them aggravations of the sin of murmuring.” (Ch. 10)

Burroughs comparing us to old horses--old horses don't do much work, so they are turned out to pasture and not fed as much: “… when our consciences tell us we live and do but little service for God, why, what if God should turn us upon the commons? We are being fed according to our work.” (Ch. 10)

“[Of walking with God like Enoch] To observe what work God is now about, and to join with God in that work of his; so that, according as God turns this way or that way, the heart should turn with God, and have workings suitable to the workings of God toward him.” (Ch. 10)

Now Playing: Chris Thile, "Stealing Second", Track 7, "Leaves Fall".

“[Discontent] takes away the present comfort of what you have, because you have not something that you would have.” (Ch. 9)

“Do you think that the Lord will come in mercy a whit the sooner because of the murmuring of your spirits? …. And this is the very reason why many mercies are denied to you, because of your discontent.” (Ch. 9)

“So when we are content with our conditions, and what God disposes of us to be in, there is a blessing in it, then it is sweet to us, but if we must needs have more, and keep it longer than God would have us to have it, then there will be worms in it and it will be no good at all..” (Ch. 9)

(Burroughs is comparing God's blessings to manna in the quote above. As the manna that the Israelites collected went bad the next day if they collected too much, so God's blessings will go bad if we cling to them instead of to Him.)

“God may justly withdraw his care of you, and his protection over you, seeing God cannot please you in his administrations.” (Ch. 9)

(Burroughs)

Sobering and a little terrifying. Not that God will ever remove His love from us, but even loving discipline appears frightening, especially when one is in the middle of it.

Now Playing: Beethoven, Symphony No. 6, "Allegro Ma Non Troppo", which is usually on the playlist on cool days when the windows are open.

My poor sad lonely blog needs something to cheer it up, so I'll give it the story of today.

At a quarter to nine, I drove to Brady Heights for a community garden workday.

At the Ps' house, everyone was still praying. I stood upstairs on the threshold of the dining room while the group around the table finished praying through Psalm 51. After prayer, Tara beckoned me into the room. I sat at the dining room table, and Leah put a steaming piece of spinach quiche in front of me. Justin fed Augie pieces of very soft banana; Ellie and Ian rattled around the house with plastic trucks, and so forth.

It was about ten o'clock when people began to leave. Tara and I walked down to the garden together. The morning was cool and very, very windy from all directions at once. An intensely blue sky behind budding trees. The wind whirled maple helicopters everywhere, rough yellowing seed wings twirling through the air. Tara and I showed Ellie and Anna how to throw them up in the air so that they spun.

Jeremy and Justin were both working on pulling up weeds and sod between the beds, so Tara and I found shovels and joined in. When we got tired of yanking up dandelions and henbit (that tufted stuff with the wee purple flowers that comes up so enchantingly every spring over every available inch of ground), Tara showed me her garden. She has a nice crop of kale right now, as well as chamomile and curry bushes. Anna and Ellie were riding their bicycles up and down the neighbor's driveway and helping us feed grubs to the chickens.

Tara and I started to haul mulch from the foot of the garden to the cleared places between the beds. We had a couple of wheelbarrows and a pitchfork between us. It wasn't until after we had both gotten splinters in our hands that Justin mentioned casually that he had a bag of gloves we could use...!

The morning became warmer as it went on. Tara and I worked away. David B. came over from his house to help, with a wee baby strapped to his chest. Jenna came out to say hello, carrying Autumn. When she came out, we all stopped working and gathered around the picnic tables for a drink of water. Ian, Ellie, and Anna started to fish the ice cubes out of the pitcher, and after that no one particularly wanted a drink.

At about half twelve, Tara and I walked back to her house. I sat at the dining room table while Tara made lunch. Tara boiled pasta and sauteed onions, mushrooms, and the kale in a saucepan. We ate that for lunch along with homemade bread, real butter, and raspberry jam. Tara was doing her best to be a good conversationalist, but I was too dozy.

Driving back toward campus after lunch, I realized with some surprise that I feel guilty being happy. I've forgotten how it's done. Happiness seems like a strange trick, trying to loosen muscles that are always tense.

On campus, Rachel was studying in our apartment. I wrote a HIST paper, rang my family, and sent out invitations to my senior recital. After RCS went running, I walked to the library to print off my paper, then lay in the grass on the new U for awhile, reading for ENGL 4863. While I was lying on the grass, the afternoon was beginning to be overcast. Long clouds coming up from the west, blowing over the sun.

At six o'clock, Rachel and I walked over to ACAC for the Indian Student Association evening. The festival was being held upstairs in the great hall. We found an empty table and sat down. The main part of the evening was dancing, of course: Bollywood, "classical", and hip-hop/classical/Bollywood fusion. Katie danced with one of the groups. It was all flashy colorful costumes, jangling jewelry, and loud pumping music.

Towards the end of the program, tea was served. Everyone got up to eat at once, probably between a hundred and fifty and two hundred people. Indian students, of course, dressed in brightly-colored clothes with gold embroidery. Asian students, too, and then a fair number of other TU students.

Rachel and I waited in line for ages. The food was delicious, of course--spiced rice, naan bread, chicken tikka massala, and other dishes I didn't recognize--reminded me of getting Indian food with Emmaline and Rachel during exams last year.

While we ate, there was more dancing. The last dance was an impressive traditional dance, including both men and women (all the other dances had been women only). Highly choreographed, concentric circles weaving in and out of each other, each dancer holding sticks that they banged rhythmically against one another. Jumping, twirling, kneeling, leaping up again.

Rachel and I went back to our apartment. I curled up in the blue armchair to finish Castle in the Sky. Rachel has been working on her laptop most of the evening. I read "The Physician's Tale" and "The Pardoner's Tale" and ought to write a paper about them before I go to bed. The evening outside is cool.

Now Playing: Brahms, Piano Concerto No. 2, "Andante".

Burroughs:

“By murmuring you undo your prayers, for it is exceedingly contrary to the prayers that you make to God. When you come to pray to God, you acknowledge his sovereignty over you, you come there to profess yourselves to be at God’s disposal… Unless you will stand, as it were, at his disposal, never come to petition him.” (Ch. 9)

“When you are alone, you should spend your time in holy meditation, but you are spending your time in discontented thoughts.” (Ch. 9)

“… for this is the vile nature of discontent, to lessen every mercy of God…. For you say that what God gives you is nothing and only common gifts… when they are the precious graces of God’s Spirit and worth more than thousands of worlds—how ungrateful it is!” (Ch. 9)

“… if a cross comes to make the cross but little, but if there is a mercy to make the mercy great…. Thus, a godly man wonders at his cross that it is not more, a wicked man wonders his cross is so much.” (Ch. 9)

Now Playing: The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian, Track 1, "Prince Caspian Flees". It's been one of those days as far as music goes: LOTR soundtracks and now Narnia soundtracks. Some people who (used to) read this would be shocked.... *grin*

On Wednesday morning, which would be yesterday, at least that's what the calendar says, I woke up at half five. (Nice long run-on sentence there.) For some reason, my brain was unusually perceptive at that hour of the morning, at least that's the way it seemed. I had to wake up early to see Laura S. safely on her way to Indiana. Until I ate breakfast, my mind was full of all sorts of intriguing overlapping and intertwining ideas, but as soon as I ate, they all disappeared.

Perhaps it's for the best.

Nevertheless....

Life seems to be a perpetual waiting game right now. I feel as though I'm staring at a wall, trying to see through it, not realizing that the wall is actually a window through which I could see if I understood--the way it is at night sometimes when you look out of a lighted room or a car window.

Psalm 90 has been my fare this week, thanks to Matthew Henry and the (stilted) Heart Aflame translation of his commentary.

This Psalm is sobering. It makes human life sound futile in some sense. We are like a passing watch by night, like grass that is thrown into a fire, like yesterday. Everything we do is transient. Nothing appears to matter or have significance.

Even worse, we cling so easily to the things that aren't significant in order to find significance. Looking back on the past year, I find it so full of evil that it's discouraging. Every time I tried to do something that I thought was right, it turned out to be wrong. Half the time I wasn't even trying to do what was right but just trying to survive. It all looks very futile.

Back to Psalm 90. The end of the Psalm, vs. 17, has always terrified me a wee bit. The Psalmist prays for God to "establish the work of our hands on us". I have never particularly wanted my work to be established on me. But Calvin says this about that verse:

"Although God converts to good in the end whatever Satan and the reprobate plot and practise against Him or His people; yet the Church, in which God rules with undisturbed sway, has in this respect a special privilege. By His providence, which to us is incomprehensible, He directs His work in regard to the reprobate externally; but He governs His believing people internally by His Holy Spirit; and therefore He is properly said to order or direct the work of their hands.

"The repetition shows that a continual course of perseverance in the grace of God is required. It would not be enough for us to be brought to the midst of our journey. He must enable us to complete the whole course."

I've been praying for God to redeem the past year. Though I still think that prayer is a proper one to pray, Calvin here seems to suggest something more powerful--that God has "undisturbed sway" over His church (see the end of Ephesians 1) internally, that He is directing us from the inside despite our sin.

Also, it is not we that must persevere in the grace of God. Calvin means (unclear translation here, I think) that the grace of God is the "thing" doing the perseverance, not us.

I return to the metaphor of the believer being like a tree in Psalm 1. I want to be doing, to be adding, to be working hard, exerting all my effort. Though obedience is necessary and good, I wonder if it wouldn't be better sometimes to remember that it's not the obedience that saves.

Simply existing for God's glory, like a tree, is far better than working like a gerbil on a treadmill to be perfect. Crystal pointed out one afternoon while we were walking past the chapel that trees grow with their branches constantly spread to the sun, always in a posture of prayer--like the stability believers should have, constantly waiting on God.

Now Playing: The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe soundtrack, credits song by Imogen Heap, "Can't Take It In".

It's been awhile since I've posted any Burroughs, so here's some for this evening.

“How unseemly it is that you should be a slave to every cross, that every affliction shall be able to say to your soul, ‘Bow down to us’!” (Ch. 8)

“We are of one spirit with God and with Christ, and one spirit with the Holy Ghost; therefore, we should have a spirit that might manifest the glory of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost in our spirits: that is, the spirit of a Christian. The spirit of a Christian should be a lion-like spirit….” (Ch. 8)

“A Christian’s profession is to be dead to the world and to be alive to God, that is his profession, to have his life hid with Christ in God, to satisfy himself in God. What! Is this your profession? And yet if you have not everything you want, you murmur and are discontented.” (Ch. 8)

“A Christian should be satisfied with what God has made the object of his faith. The object of his faith is high enough to satisfy his soul, were it capable of a thousand times more than it is…. God never promised me that I should have these comforts, at this time, and in such a way as I would have. I am discontented because I have not these things which God never yet promised me, and therefore I sin much against the Gospel, and against the grace of faith.” (Ch. 8)

Mr. C was talking to me the last time I was in Stillwater, and he said that a friend of his had compared reading The Rare Jewel of Christian Contentment to a story he'd heard. Apparently a shop somewhere employs people who are disabled mentally or physically. The employees do a good job at the simple work they're given, but every few months, they forget how to do their job because of whatever disability they have. The people who own the shop have to retrain the employees several times a year to remind them what they're supposed to be doing.

That just about perfectly sums up my relationship to this book. I especially like the first and second quotes here, the second because it mentions having a "lion-like spirit". That phrase reminds me of the passage in Prince Caspian when Lucy is complaining to Aslan about having to wake her sleeping companions and Aslan must breathe on her, making her a lioness, before she can obey willingly.

I woke up so early this morning that I saw

WHITE RABBITS!

Laura S. drove out to visit Tulsa. She arrived early this morning (or very late last night), and today we visited Woodward Park.

Pictures here.

Now Playing: Beethoven, Symphony No. 7, "Allegro Con Brio".

Catherine rang me today!

And I got to eat lunch with Jenny M. after spending all morning listening to student presentations.

The AAAS-SWARM conference (which sounds like some sort of disease to me) is convening at TU this week, and they needed student judges to adjudicate presentations. I had the benefit of hearing two actually interesting presentations about a certain gene that may make people more likely to get stressed out (or, on a more serious level, suffer disorders such as bipolar or depression). The amusing part of the presentation was that the students had used watching a horror film as their stress test--Jenny, who'd helped with the research, told me afterward that the film was actually rather ridiculous and not very stressful at all.

Anyway....

Before HIST class this afternoon, Emily whispered to me, "I had a dream this weekend that it snowed. When I woke up this morning, the dream was over." There's hardly any snow left on the ground, except in a couple of big piles on the north sides of buildings. Even the extreme moisture has mostly evaporated because of the nearly gale force south winds all day. Yesterday, we could've paddled Rachel Jr.'s inflatable kayak around our apartment complex, but today the ground was only a wee bit mucky.

Now Playing: Handel, Messiah, "Thus saith the Lord...."

New pictures here.

Now Playing: Mark O'Connor, "The Fiddle Concerto". Cadenza to the third movement.

In honor of our class poetry reading tonight, here are a couple of the pieces I've written for class this term.

~

Dark

“Though I walk through the valley of deep darkness”
Honeycombed brain twisting heart roped throat
labyrinth aorta ventricles feeding minotaur
in dark places of world, fill habitations with violence
valleys of deep darkness, armpits, eyelids, neck
soft folds, tendons, bones, freckled skin

“characterized by absolute or relative absence of light”

Standing under medulla medusa wrapped stingers
tentacles along spinal cord, this inside minds
writhe gloom consuming by enzymes

“A dark house was formerly considered a proper place of confinement for a madman”, obs.

Shining on floor, yellow rectangles, three-by-six,
eyes invert images automatically match medusa
walking through the valley of deep darkness
“I will fear no good, for you are not with me”
Crawl away from coffins shining on carpet,
away from holes onto empty iridescence,
skull, entrails, epidermis quivering
into

~

Sun

Photoheterotrophs sip liquid vitality—
his ascendance enriches their pedalfer,
slow multifoliate unfolding face by face
downrushed viscosity spreading veins
eternal biosynthesis of wholeness.
They reach arms forward, upflung heliochryse
in jacinth foliage of foaming flesh
fingers’ mesmerism stretch toward the source:
no heliodon needed to track his path
metamorphosed chrysalises sprout
his swath’s cyclosis, infinity’s heliotropes.

~

The first one is an inversion of Psalm 23, to some degree. Intended as an exploration of the darkness of the human being, physically and spiritually, and what we do to God's promises.

The second one is a depiction of the final resurrection through the frame of biological language.

Now Playing: Flook, "Haven", Track 2, "Gone Fishing".

Warning: I'm so tired that I can hardly see straight, so if this post is weird, that's why.

Reasons why:
a.) Haven't been sleeping well lately
b.) Have had weird dreams when I have slept (I dreamed very vividly last night that colonies of bacterium were living on my shoulders)
c.) Enormous thunderstorms have happened at night, which is truly awesome but also not conducive to sleep
d.) Woke up at a quarter to six this morning

And therein lies the tale....

Woke up, dragged on clothes, ate breakfast sitting in the dark at my desk, and crept out of the apartment so as not to wake Rachel. The east was just beginning to be grey. The morning was chilly. Sparrows were already chirping shrilly in the eaves of the apartments, though. I walked across campus to ACAC, seeing only the early-morning maintenance workers on their way to the physical plant building and the caf.

In ACAC I met the other faithful few from Mortar Board, our resident senior honors society. When my grandmother was at uni at SMU in Dallas, being in Mortar Board actually was "one of the highest honors an undergraduate could receive" (quoted from the script I heard repeated all morning). She always gets teary-eyed when she reminisces about how she knew she was selected for Mortar Board when she saw her sister stepping off the tram. However, at TU, Mortar Board is, for better or worse, rather a joke, known only for its extremely peculiar initiation ceremony.

This ceremony involves waking up ridiculously early (as previously noted), donning flapping black graduation robes, marching around campus in a big group, singing the Mortar Board song, banging on apartment doors or barging into classrooms, and "tapping" the selected student on the head with a graduation cap. ("Tapping" being reading aloud the schpiel quoted above, informing the student that he or she was excused from class for the rest of the morning, and then hitting them lightly on the head with the cap.)

Hence, at about seven o'clock, after a long delay, we all marched over to sorority row, where we managed to get into two sorority houses to "tap" new members. Then we went to the apartments, where we unceremoniously woke people to inform them that they had been selected. And so it went.... We even went into the volleyball gym, where the team was practicing. One of the coaches thought we were a choir, though I don't know how he made that mistake, since our singing left a lot to be desired.

We had about an hour-long break at eight o'clock. Then we were mostly going into classrooms, singing in the hallways of the buildings. People in Kep stared at us as we walked past; the secretaries in the business building smiled at us. We happened to go into one of Philip's classes in Kep, so he and I wrinkled our noses at each other while the selected student was "tapped". It was amusing to watch the students' and professors' faces in the classrooms: the professors generally watched us with bland good humor, having been warned ahead of time via e-mail, while the students gaped or raised eyebrows. Apparently there were usually people who had applied but not been accepted in the classrooms, and whoever had done the actual tapping always complained afterward about feeling awkward.

One of the students had skipped class. Accordingly, we all marched over to the frat house where he lived, went upstairs, banged on his door, and "tapped" him, joking the whole time that he was going to have his new membership revoked immediately for skipping class.

So my entire morning was spent parading around campus, listening to the other members chatter away, mumbling the Mortar Board song, and trying not to look too awkward while we crowded into narrow spaces in classrooms and apartment balconies. At least the morning was pleasant: cool, sunny, a high sky criss-crossed with contrails.

At eleven o'clock, I ducked out to go to "senior salute". Another peculiar tradition: the Great Hall upstairs in ACAC turned into a maze of tables at which graduating seniors can purchase photos or class rings, sign up for career services postings, check to make sure that the reader pronounced their name correctly, etc. I picked up my cap, gown, and tassel, and then went to Tyrrell to practice flute. After I practiced, I went to the SAC in Mayo for the Mortar Board lunch. Stephen was tapped today, so I sat with him and a couple of his friends.

After HIST this afternoon, I went straight to the CGE to work for a couple of hours. The CGE was fairly busy this afternoon. I worked on formatting the international students' study abroad handbook. At half five I walked over to ACAC. Philip had promised to teach me how to use the espresso machine at Carrello's. When I got there, I was treated to Amy, Jenny M., Andrew, and Philip hanging out together.

At seven o'clock, Hannah came to our apartment for prayer. We chatted until Rachel Sr. entered. When she came in, she was holding an absolutely stunning spicebush swallowtail butterfly in her hand. She set it carefully on the sofa, then on the carpet. Hannah immediately got down on the floor to look at it, and I pulled out my camera. It was one of the most perfect butterflies I've seen in a long time. Rachel said she'd found it on the ground, but it was completely undamaged. Beautiful: glossy black wings, sleek veins, iridescent blue, stunning red-and-gold eyespots, elegantly curled antennae. Hannah and I sat on the floor and stared at it while Rachel made jasmine green tea for the three of us. We all watched the butterfly for a long time. It crawled over the floor and then rested on the wooden moulding at the base of the wall. Finally, Rachel gingerly scooped it into a plastic dish, and we took it outside and put it in the grass on the new U.

Then we went back to the apartment. Lotus tea tastes exactly like honeysuckle, Hannah and I decided. Childhood memories for both of us. The three of us shared prayer requests, largely for provision for housing and work and guidance. Then we prayed through Psalm 84. Hannah read out of the Northern Irish split-leaf Psalter since she didn't have a Bible. The image of the butterfly was fresh in all our minds. So intricate, lavishly beautiful--and yet God says in Isaiah 43, "you are precious in my eyes...". If the butterfly is so incredibly beautiful, but God does not call it precious but reserves that term for His people....

After we prayed, we chatted for awhile. Hannah left at about a quarter past eight, and Rachel and I settled down to work.

I worked pretty intensely on poetry for two-and-a-half hours. I also rang Crystal and chatted with her for twenty minutes or so. Finally, when my eyes felt as though they were about to fall out, my muscles and joints were stiff, and my stomach was an acid knot from tension, I stopped and got on Facebook.

Pictures!

Psalm 89:14,

"Righteousness and justice are the foundation of your throne;
steadfast love and faithfulness go before you."

Today I was walking around San Born Lake. The woods are beginning to bud and flower so that the late afternoon sunshine made silver halos around all the trees. Cardinals were singing everywhere, it seemed, crimson trilling against the pale green and white of the woods.

I was meditating on this verse from Psalm 89, just the "steadfast love" part. When I was younger, I used to pray over and over again, thanking God for this place because I was afraid that if I didn't thank him enough for it, he would take it away.

Despite the grave misunderstanding of his character implicit in that prayer (which, of course, continues on many levels), he graciously answers it. The peace and prosperity, the stability of this place resemble his steadfast love.

Continuous, no matter where I have been, no matter what I have done or said, no matter where I come from or where I am going, no matter what I am thinking. I cannot do anything to shake it or change it, nothing to break it.

This is not just God's kindness and goodness: those are key ingredients of love, of course, the will to do what is best for someone and the actual performance of that best thing. But also His delight in and enjoyment of His people in Christ, a truth I don't think about much. Whenever I do encounter it, my mind glances off of it--so wonderful that I don't want it. A dangerously potent joy, too heady for this mind.

They are blessed "who walk, O Lord, in the light of your face." (vs. 15)

Now Playing: Coldplay, "Viva La Vida", "Lost!"

“… you cry out as if you were undone and yet are a King’s son, you who stand in such relation to God, as to a father, you dishonor your father in this; as if either he had not wisdom, or power, or mercy enough to provide for you.” (Ch. 8)

Quite a response to a) discontentment and b) worry!

“Consider your relation to Jesus Christ, as a spouse and married to him: his person is yours, and so all the riches of Jesus Christ are yours, as the riches of a husband are his wife’s.” (Ch. 8)

(Burroughs)

Now Playing: Cherish the Ladies, "Woman of the House", "Betsy Bell and Mary Gray".

Can't escape Burroughs.

“As contentment argues much grace, and strong grace, and beautiful grace, so murmuring argues much corruption, and strong corruption, and very vile corruptions in your heart. If a man’s body is of such a temper that every scratch of a pin makes his flesh to rankle and be a sore, you will surely say, this man’s body is very corrupt, his blood and his flesh is corrupt, that every scratch of a pin shall make it rankle. So it is in your spirit, if every little trouble and affliction makes you discontented….” (Ch. 8)

“Men are deceived in this, if they think their conversion is finished merely at first; you must be in a way of conversion to God all the days of your life….” (Ch. 8)

(Receiving and resting on Christ alone for salvation has to be a moment-by-moment practice.)

Now Playing: Annie scurrying around the house.

Spring breaks are wonderful things, even if you don't get to spend them in New Zealand or the Grand Canyon, like some people.

Woke up to the sound of birds outside. I dressed, did my devotions, and went downstairs for breakfast. My mother was sitting at the dining table, reading The Four Loves. We chatted while I ate breakfast. We sat and talked until ten o'clock at least, and then I had to go to The Greenery downtown for a haircut at half ten.

It seems as though nothing changes at The Greenery: the same decor, the same ancient permanent machine in the corner, the same dusty green knick-knacks on the shelves. Mrs. H chattered away happily about Ireland (St. Patrick's day is her favorite holiday) and politics in Stillwater and visiting Tulsa yesterday, wearing a bright green suit to church while she scrubbed and snipped my hair. I basically grinned the whole time.

After she was finished with me, I walked down to the bank, then back to the house. I did my wash, rummaged through my albums for TFYP photos, scanning them into the computer, and so forth. My father came home for lunch, and we all ate together. Laura and Stephen were quite silly. After lunch, my mother, Laura, Stephen, and I went to SLS to volunteer, while my father went to visit his parents. My mother has been working on editing and collating addresses of donors to SLS. She's already logged several hours, and her goal today was to finish with our help. We split into pairs. Stephen and I worked together, giggling irrepressibly at some of the names we found. We finished the work in about an hour.

Then we drove out to Grammy's house. At Grammy's house, Laura and I refilled the bird feeder. We sat inside with Grammy for awhile. She and my mother talked. We went outside after awhile. My mother and I trimmed back the rose bush, which has grown quite large. It's a very thorny variety, with some extremely big thorns. The afternoon was warm and sunny with a slight southeast breeze. Driving back to the house, the countryside was so brown. Incredibly dreary. The blooming pear trees seem out-of-place.

Back at home, I made a toy, a rubberband and string, for Annie and played with her in the back yard. I dragged it through the brittle leaves and grass, and Annie pounced and frolicked along after it. Then I went indoors to finish my wash and to hunt for my mother's needlework, which has gone missing. She had asked me to look through the boxes and drawers in her room. It was a bit surreal to go through the highboy, the chests, the dressers, the boxes, to find bits and pieces of my parents' lives--familiar sweaters, blankets, handkerchiefs, tablecloths, papers, antiques going brown at the edges. Baseballs in my father's dresser; a book of half-sketched watercolors in my mother's drawers.

I helped my mother make curry for tea, and when she had to leave for an SLS board meeting, I kept an eye on things until the vegetables were done cooking. My father, Laura, Stephen, and I ate tea together and watched "The Three Stooges" afterward. Then I practiced my flute for an hour in my room, all Blavet. The sun went down quickly behind the budding trees. Laura has been learning "Dawn" from the new Pride and Prejudice soundtrack, and occasionally fragments of the beautiful running melody floated upstairs.

My father is reading to us now, "The Dancing Men" from The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. My mother is back and has been eating a belated tea, while Stephen sits and listens, and Laura teases Annie with the rubberband. Annie is absolutely wild. Sandy lies curled at my father's feet. Cool evening air seeps through the open back door.

Now Playing: Brahms, Requiem, Track 1, "Blessed Are They That Mourn."

"Has your blog become one of those "lonely few", an artifact of the time before Facebook?" - Petr

That says exactly what I've been feeling for the past month or so. Methinks it looks a wee bit abandoned around here. *ahem*

I wish I could have taken a photograph of today.

Beautifully quiet this morning, chilly, incredibly still.

Since Nicole, Hannah, and I were planning to go to Redeemer today, I had time to do my devotions before church. On our way out, we picked up Dipti and Divya, who were in town this weekend for Sarah G.'s wedding.

We arrived at Redeemer in time for church. I sat next to Rachel because she wanted me to: vaguely pleasant little-kid associations with, "Mommy, can I sit next to -- in church today? Please, please, please?"

We took communion today. The first time in awhile for me, since January at least. I was meditating on the (philosophical) image of God as a page on which time is inscribed as a line (an explanation for His omniscience, sovereignty, etc.). Something made the association between that and us being "inscribed on the palms of His hands" as I looked at the bread and wine laid out on the communion table. He can not not know what is written on Himself--and He would not have it any other way. A sense of His continuous burning consciousness of me, intense perhaps to what would be pain to us, but willing on His part, joyful.

The method of taking communion today, though, was a wee bit unpleasant. They set up four "stations" with elders, and we just walked up in lines, took the bread and cup, ate and drank on our own, and passed on by. I was talking about that with Hannah afterward, and she used the word "bureaucratic". Part of the point of communion seems to me to be the very experience of standing around the table with other believers, seeing the body of Christ spiritual in that small section for that small moment.

After church, we drove back to campus. Nicole, Hannah, and I ate lunch in the caf, the caf's "famous" waffles. We ogled a pair of international students who slathered their waffles with enormous amounts of ice cream and hot fudge. And we remembered together the "good ol' days" (I teased Hannah for sounding like an old person) of freshman and sophomore years when we'd spend hours sitting in the caf, cramming as many people as possible around the small round tables and watching the guys concoct ridiculous combinations of food (usually Asher and DMac, though Kevin's specialty was drinks).

At about one o'clock, we went our separate ways. I wrote e-mails for about an hour to Elizabeth, Alyson, and Missy. Then I noticed that I'd missed a call from Syneva, so I took my phone and went outside to the new U. The afternoon was just cool enough that at first I wore my hoodie, sprawled on the grass in the sunshine, my jeans rolled up to my ankles. I love the feel of firm earth under my back, warm sunshine, the rich, rich smell of the grass. There were a few other people scattered over the U, sunbathing or playing frisbee. Syneva and I talked for an hour or so. I watched a honeybee burrow in the short green grass.

Just after we finished talking, Jenny H. rang me to ask if I was free to hang out with her. Only a few people had showed up to play soccer, so she was free early. I walked over to the pitch to meet her, and then we drove to Riverside in her car with the sunroof open. Oh, it was a lovely day, lovely, lovely. Riverside was crowded with people. She parked the car, and we crossed the street on the raised footbridge, then crossed the river on the long bridge and walked alongside it.

The whole town seemed to be out. Two families with loads of wee children, equipped with fishing poles and buckets. "Saunterers", "shufflers", bikers wearing brightly-colored spandex, loads of people walking dogs of every shape and size (Jenny cooed whenever she saw them), fathers shepherding children on training wheels, teens on rollerskates, women pushing strollers, ridiculously fit runners/bikers of every age and variety, sleek muscles bulging, weaving effortlessly between all of us paeans sauntering down the footpath. People sitting on blankets on the brown grass by the river. The Bradford pears are blooming right now, shimmering haloes of white blossom, dazzling like the haloes of Byzantine saints. The river flowed fast and loud over a low dam, and below the dam, people in waders were standing out in the middle of the water, fishing.

She drove me back to campus. She left me off on campus. We were both tired, well-stretched from the walk. Satisfied from the sunshine. Rachel was studying in the apartment. It was past five o'clock. I napped for an hour or so.

When Rachel and I got tea from the caf, we took our sandwiches out on the old U, sitting up closer to the library. The U was fairly crowded. Someone had strung a hammock from two of the young trees. "Good to see they're being put to some use," Rachel chuckled. People were sitting on blankets, too, and kicking soccer balls/throwing footballs. Mourning doves cooed in the trees. The grass where we sat was scattered with fuzzy bud shells, like rabbit's ears, soft as silk. The evening was beautiful. Cool, cool grass underfoot, cool sky overhead. Long thin clouds, like grass plumes pulled silver against the blue. In the west, where the sun was setting, they were vivid gold leaf, and higher, iridescent mother-of-pearl, unusual and beautiful. We didn't talk much. People rode skateboards down the sidewalk. We saw Kathryn and DMo having their engagement photos taken. I lay on my back in the grass and watched the sky. Airplane contrails interlinking.

We walked back to the apartment. I worked on Bible study, Psalm 22 this week. Then I started this journal entry and made tea for Rachel and me. We still had some windows open, though the night was becoming much cooler. Tara texted me, so at about nine o'clock, Rachel and I drove over to her house. The three of us settled down and watched Howl's Moving Castle. Lovely light fairytale, full of gorgeous scenery. Reeshe sprawled on the sofa next to Rachel and snored contentedly.

After the film, we chatted for awhile, and then Rachel and I went back to campus.

Now Playing: The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers soundtrack by Howard Shore. Track 2, "The Taming of Smeagol".

Last night, a group of us from RUF went to Karl's recital in Tyrrell Hall. Philip insisted that Tyrrell should be converted into a mead hall, complete with enormous fireplace, several large boars roasting on spits, long tables, rushes on the floor, dogs, shields, and tapestries.

This was Karl's senior composition recital, so all the music on the hour-and-a-half long program was music he had composed himself. The opening and closing pieces were from a musical he's writing entitled Paul's Waltz, a piece dealing with homosexuality, Christianity, and male friendship. The pieces in between explored lying, sex, murder, deceit, anger, pain, and so on, with a dash of very strange parodic humor.

Kent and Karl played piano, and Karl sang with Kirsten and one of their friends. A string quartet played some of the pieces, including a movement from the incidental music Karl wrote for TU’s Hamlet. Poignant, the movement for Ophelia. Dark themes, conveyed at times with nearly grotesque humor; the audience laughed quite a lot (the performance opened with the typical “please turn off your mobile phone” announcements expanded, with ironic commentary, into a full-blown musical number).

As Mrs. P said afterward, “I just went through so many emotions.” She said that she was proud of him for being so personal and honest. She said that displaying one’s sin so openly takes a lot of courage and a huge understanding of God’s grace, how much one has been forgiven.

He was speaking for so many people so powerfully. It became harder and harder to listen: to see this open display of sin, so honest, so forthright, with parody, irony, humor, anguish, pathos, outrage displayed onstage. At times I hated the audience for laughing.

Why does humanity find its sin so enthralling? Because we are thralls, I suppose. Carnival? We can mock our master, mock ourselves and thus construct the façade of freedom for a few moments. Lampoon our sins and set ourselves farcically free. Make the beggar king for a day, social critic for a day.

Also, in the face of what was at times pure genius, I felt my own worth as an “artist” dwindling away into nonexistence. Music and words perfectly fitting, yes, but even separately, either words or music, exactly conveying harsh intense emotion. Conveying the gaps between sin and forgiveness, the tensions between ought and is, between desires and realities. In light of something so much more skillful: entertainment, commentary, conviction, indictment, all at once—why bother writing what has already been said?

Also, the words ripping out my own fears. Listening to others’ sins, my sins become more potent. And guilt: a good little church girl shouldn’t do or imagine such things.

Of course we all applauded thunderously when it ended, and then everyone stood round chatting for ages in the warm, humid hall while the performers deconstructed the cluttered stage.

Now Playing: Elgar, "Violin Concerto in B Minor", Movement 3, "Allegro Molto".

“So the creature in the apprehension of its own baseness, and the infinite excellence that is in God above it, when it comes to worship God, comes and crouches to this God, and lies down at the feet of God…. ‘I am a dog I confess, but let me have only a crumb.’ …. in active obedience we worship God by doing what pleases God, but by passive obedience we do as well worship God by being pleased with what God does.” (Ch. 7)

“So if we would be vessels to receive God’s mercy, and would have the Lord pour his mercy into us, we must have quiet, still hearts. We must not have hearts hurrying up and down in trouble, discontent and vexing, but still and quiet hearts, if we receive mercy from the Lord…. When the heart lies down quietly under God’s hand, then is it in a fit frame to receive mercy. ‘Your strength shall be to sit still,’ says God, ‘you shall not be delivered from Babylon but by your sitting still’.”

And yes, it is now 78.5 Fahrenheit (25 Celsius) in Tulsa! And sunny!

Not much time to post--I need to go practice flute this morning before my lesson. But I've been giving Burroughs a break, so I thought I'd post several of his aphorisms at one go.

“… the saints of God have an interest in all the promises that ever were made to our forefathers…. To Joshua God says, He will not leave him nor forsake him; but in this place in Hebrews in the Greek there are five negatives, I will not, not, not, not, not again….” (Ch. 4)

I love the above quote because it demonstrates how the Old Testament is fulfilled in Christ's work in the New Testament on the "small" level of the promises: even the Old Testament promises become more expansive in Christ.

“A man who is little in his own eyes will account every affliction as little, and every mercy as great.” (Ch. 5)

“… God has set me in this world, not as in my home but as a mere stranger and a pilgrim who is traveling to another home, and that I am here a soldier in my warfare….” (Ch. 5)

“God is most honored when I can turn from one condition to another, according as he calls me to it.” (Ch. 5)

Something I am very bad at!

Now Playing: Coldplay, "Viva La Vida".

“As it is with a vessel that is full of liquor, if you strike it, it will make no great noise, but if it is empty then it makes a great noise; so it is with the heart, a heart that is full of grace and goodness within will bear a great many strokes, and never make any noise, but if an empty heart is struck it will make a noise.”

- Burroughs, of course

Vivid reminder to be careful not to complain when struck.

Now Playing: Beethoven, Violin Concerto, "Allegro Non Troppo".

Currently I have an annoyingly peppy song stuck in my head, one of the ones we used to listen to all the time in N.I. because it was always on the radio. Last term one of my classmates in HON brought it up and explained the lyrics, which completely ruined the song for me.

Today was long. Rachel left early for her eight o'clock this morning, of course, and because I was meant to meet with Emily at ten o'clock to study for HIST, my usual Wednesday routine was rather rushed.

As I left for the gym, I surprised a pair of house finches sitting on the railings outside the apartment. There's a family of them that lives in the gutters above our windows, I think.

So at ten o'clock I went to the library. When Emily arrived, we went upstairs to the study lounge, where they just installed new trendy furniture. We studied until noon for our HIST midterm on Friday, checking each other's dates and so forth.

At noon, we both dashed off to our next engagements, me to a lunch in ACAC for ENGL 4863. Poet Carla Harryman was visiting today, and Dr. J had arranged lunch with her in one of the conference rooms upstairs. It turned out to be very relaxed.

After lunch, I went to Tyrrell to practice flute. Whitney and another girl from class were giving Ms. H a tour of campus, and they walked past and waved in the window at me as I was in the midst of Bach. After practice, I went to ENGL at two o'clock. (No HIST today.) The afternoon was spectacularly warm, even moist. I walked across the Commons, as the "new U" is officially called.

Sun on arms and face, smell of damp grass underfoot.... C.S. Lewis mentions in "The Weight of Glory" how at times we receive murmurs like "news of a far country we have never visited" that are echoes of Heaven slipping into our daily experience.

When I walked into The Collective, everyone was sitting round on the sofas in the second room, which was largely deserted except for class. And everyone was having a lively discussion about something. Ms. H has very definite ideas and likes to talk, it turns out. I spent three-quarters of class daydreaming as a result of being tired, on the brink of euphoria, and not liking her ideas very much.

She left at about four o'clock, at which point we took a break. I went for a walk down the side lane into the neighborhood. A saucer magnolia was blooming in front of an empty house. Heavy crown against a very high pale sky, a sky criss-crossed with contrails and thin high clouds. My feet almost didn't touch the ground after that.

The last half of class was spent revising our collaborative in-class exercise from last week. I paid attention then because I like editing. But when Dr. J started to talk about our etudes for this week, I began to daydream again, about Heaven and God's pleasure in His creatures. I almost wonder how knowing that sheer full satisfaction could not translate into flight.

Class ended at five o'clock. We sat around for awhile afterward, of course. I finally left, walked back to the apartment, dumped my flute and some of my books, lifted my Bible, and went to ACAC to meet Nicole and Kathryn to discuss Bible studies this week.

The Hut was ridiculously busy. Tonight is a game night, so loads of people were in. We found the only quiet booth we could. When Kathryn came, we ordered our food and spent most of the time discussing Hebrews 7-8, and some of the time discussing Psalm 139. I had to leave at a quarter to seven for Ms. H's poetry reading. Danielle and Claire (ENGL classmates) also happened to be in The Hut, so I walked over to the library with them. We had a ridiculous conversation about what Danielle was going to buy with her boyfriend's new high salary--a lion tamer, silk robes, kitties, dogs, a tiara, and a trampoline all made appearances at various points.

The reading was upstairs in the faculty study, where Will Alexander read last week. I sat at the back beside Laura and talked to her about "Stylus". I left at half seven and drove to Di's house for an RUF meeting.

When it was over at ten o'clock, Amy and I drove back to campus, talking about our respective days. Laughing shakily. RCS was studying in the apartment when I returned. I opened my laptop and discovered an amazing photo of EMM and CMAM making pancakes on Facebook. So now I'm drinking pomegranate juice and going to bed.

Now Playing: Felix Mendelssohn, "Violin Concerto".

“Of his fullness do we receive grace for grace; there is strength in Christ not only to sanctify and save us, but strength to support us under all our burdens and afflictions, and Christ expects that when we are under any burden, we should act our faith upon him to draw virtue and strength from him…. You will say, Can I have the strength of Christ? Yes, it is made over to you by faith: the Scripture says that the Lord is our strength, God himself is our strength, and Christ is our strength. There are many Scriptures to that effect, that Christ’s strength is yours, made over to you, so that you may be able to bear whatever lies upon you…. You must not therefore be content with a little strength… but you should be strengthened with all might, according to the glorious power of God….”

Why is it so hard to live as though this strength is really ours? In Ephesians 1, we are promised that God has given us every spiritual blessing in Christ Jesus, and this strength that Burroughs points out is one of those blessings. Yet I do not experience this blessing. The barriers of unbelief and laziness--the fact that I can hardly discipline my mind to focus on these promises for more than five minutes while walking to class--probably have a lot to do with it. Isn't God the one who overcomes our sins, who is victorious over the enemy in us? Yet aren't we also responsible for our actions, for our obedience? Every time I begin to put forth strenuous effort, I become discouraged after awhile and relapse. But I'd far rather do that than trust God's grace more--that is just too terrifying. (!) Basically I'm afraid of believing that God loves me. The promises sound nice, but like Custard the dragon, I'd rather stay in my nice safe cage.

Now Playing: Brahms, "Requiem". Track 3, "Lord, Make Me To Know".

Still working through Burroughs.

“… what he does have he has by right of Jesus Christ, by the purchase of Jesus Christ…. the right that the saints have is a right of purchase: it is paid for, and it is their own, and they may in a holy manner and holy way claim whatever they have need of.” (Ch. 2)

This first one astonishes me now every time I sit down to eat a meal. Jesus Christ bought my oatmeal and tea with His blood...! That could be just a ridiculous juxtaposition of the extremely spiritual with the extremely banal, but perhaps it should more actually be a reminder of how close Christ is to us--willingly, freely, delighting to be so.

“Every little that they have is but as an earnest penny for all the glory that is reserved for them; it is given them by God as the forerunner of those eternal mercies that the Lord intends for them.” (Ch. 3)

I'm reminded again of Psalm 73. I tend to be like an animal, focusing only on the physical, when the physical is only a shadow of the spiritual blessings (and, ultimately, "trans-physical", to steal from C.S. Lewis) stored up in Christ.

Now Playing: Sweet silence.

Cyprus is for this summer, but before I go there, before Alyson comes back to the States, some of us are developing plans to go visit her/Belfast/other places that take our fancy. It's going to be a grand time.

Cliff.... How do I explain Cliff? If I say he was a good friend, I feel as though I am overstating the case for myself. If I say he was just a guy I knew, it's a grand understatement. I met him on the streets in Belfast with Rachel, Daphne, and co. last year. He'd come to the cafe on Tuesday nights and talk with us. We shared the Gospel and prayed with him. He's an older man, but whenever I ran into him on the street he'd kiss my hand and sing me a wee song about Tulsa. He used to work for an airline, so he flew through Tulsa, oddly enough. I don't know what else to say about him. So many people were closer to him than I was, but it still feels very strange to be all the way over here in the midst of this. He was a great performer, so friendly to everyone. He always embarrassed us somehow or other when he came to church, but it was alright. I still can't wrap my head around the fact that he's not here anymore.

~

So, more quotes from Burroughs:

"A little in this world will content a Christian for his passage, but all the world, and ten thousand times more, will not content a Christian for his portion."

Contentment is gained "not by adding more to [your] condition, but rather by subtracting from [your] desires, so as to make... desires and... condition even and equal."

Psalm 73, "God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever". As believers we ought to be able to travel through the world content with very little, while in the end desiring the greatest possession of all, if I may put it that way: God Himself. Accurate but hard to practice.

Easier to wake up these mornings—the routine of getting up at half seven and the fact that the sun is rising earlier. Also, an unaccountable joy has been capturing my heart and mind, an effervescence, even as recognition of my worthlessness weighs down.

Usual morning routine. The day was quite chilly, though very sunny and still. I practiced my flute and went to HON. After HON, Gavin, RCS, and I ate lunch together. We were an unusually quiet bunch, for the three of us. The two of them walked with me when I had to leave abruptly for Tyrrell at one o’clock. Flute lesson.

Professor R brought a Baroque flute to my lesson today. The delight of beautiful things…! One of the loveliest looking and sounding instruments I know turns out to be the Baroque flute. It’s shorter than the modern flute and stouter, though tapering considerably from headjoint to footjoint. It’s made out of European boxwood, Professor R explained, and because the wood must be thick enough before it can be used for the flute, the makers have to fell three-hundred-year-old trees in order to carve these instruments. The wood is a deep reddish brown with six small fingerholes and one lever on the footjoint. It has no lip plate, but only a hole in the headjoint. It’s lighter, smoother, more buoyant. No mechanism to interfere with finger movement, so trills and fast passages are much more fluid. The sound quality is entirely different as well. For one thing, it sounds a half step flat. Its sound is diffuse, mellow, open, haunting. I halted through a scale, and then Professor R played the opening of the Bach B minor sonata—lovely, silken. So we spent the rest of the lesson playing Blavet’s fifth sonata and trying to get my metal instrument to sound like his wooden one. It actually went alright. Both of us were enjoying ourselves, I think, until a quarter to two, when I had to leave abruptly yet again.

I went back to the apartment. At two o’clock, Sara W, the intern coordinator at Horn Creek, rang me for a phone interview. I sat in the oblong of sunshine on the floor and tried to answer her questions as honestly as possible. Inquiries along the lines of “How did you choose your college and your major? Do you have mentors? Describe your greatest strength. Describe your greatest weakness. Why do you want to work in a camp setting? What is your testimony and your relationship with Christ, especially over this last year? Have you ever been self-indulgent in your life? What are you reading right now?” and so forth. I had been extremely concerned about the interview. Not that it would go well, necessarily, but that I would be honest: after trying to answer questions like this, I always feel extremely fake.

After the half-hour interview, I spent the rest of the afternoon working on my ENGL 4993 “note” for Dr. E. I experience so much resistance right now to writing. It’s terrible. It took me an hour-and-a-half to write this one small one-page paper about “The Knight’s Tale” in The Canterbury Tales. Ridiculous. RCS came back at three o’clock and worked quietly on her laptop. At four o’clock, I napped for half-an-hour. When I got up, I sat on the floor against the sofa and read Carla Harryman books for ENGL 4863. Listened to Beethoven’s violin concerto and Brahms’s second piano concerto. Since I wasn’t enjoying the poetry much at all, the music was even more beautiful, more rich, hearing harmonies I hadn’t encountered before. Evening came gradually outside, lingeringly.

RCS and I ate tea in the caf at six o’clock. Philip was in the caf at the same time, so we stopped to say hello to him. He was astonished that RCS is a black belt in tae kwon do, which he’s learning from a friend right now. RCS and I went back to our apartment. I was preparing to settle down to work before small group at seven o’clock when CMAM rang. Cliff’s funeral was today. She described vividly to me the scene in the common room: made me ache to be there so much.

Hannah showed up at seven o’clock for small group, so I prayed for CMAM on the phone, then said good-bye. Hannah, Rachel, RCS, and I made up the contingent tonight. We studied Psalm 8. Thanks to combined lack of sleep and dose of coffee, Hannah was slap-happy, which turned out to be contagious. We had some pretty whacky moments tonight. RCS talked about how human beings are “vanishingly small epsilons”, and Rachel said something about how “We are the crumbs of the universe.” It was a really good discussion, though, and then we prayed through the Psalm afterward. Bible study ended at half eight or so.

When the girls had left, Crystal came over. She’d been at the etiquette dinner tonight. She had a new issue of “Six thirty one” with her, which we perused with gusto, especially Alex’s article about surviving an earthquake while studying abroad. Crystal eventually succumbed to the red sofa, where she is currently stretched out, tapping her bare feet together and reading Guyland. RCS sits on the floor with her laptop in her pajamas, staring intently at the screen. I’ve been drinking lemon tea and eating animal crackers. Also replying to Facebook messages. I want to be reading a piece by Adorno for ENGL 4983, but my eyes and brain are tired. Was just talking to Nicole on the phone, too, laughing about how St. Augustine uses the phrase “brazenly stupid” in the middle of a philosophical teaching piece. Hooray for political incorrectness in ancient writers.

Now Playing: Blavet, Sonata for flute No. 5 in D Major. "Allegro".

Today's quote from Burroughs:

“I would unfold this further to you with this simile: To be content as a result of some external thing is like warming a man’s clothes by the fire. But to be content through an inward disposition of the soul is like the warmth that a man’s clothes have from the natural heat of his body.”

Now Playing: The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers soundtrack by Howard Shore. Track 10, "Treebeard".

I've been reading The Rare Jewel of Christian Contentment by Jeremiah Burroughs lately. His illustrations are pretty incredible. I think I shall post some favorite quotes I've found so far.

"So a well-tempered spirit may enquire after things outside in the world, and suffer some ordinary cares and fears to break into the suburbs of the soul, so as to touch lightly upon the thoughts. Yet it will not on any account allow an intrusion into the private room, which should be wholly reserved for Jesus Christ as his inward temple."

What a blessing it would be to be able to live by this rule, to have a "holy of holies" in one's mind and emotions reserved for Christ, a quiet place into which nothing could intrude.

Now Playing: Chris Thile, "Jessamyn's Reel". (Thank you, Anna.)

Today has been a microcosm of the truth that C.S. Lewis depicts in Out of the Silent Planet: experiences don't end when their physical presence ends but grow as they are remembered.

It actually started out darkly. Outside the day was overcast, moist, billows of mist blowing between the blocks of flats over the new U. After the routine, I went straight to practice my flute.

When I climbed out of the basement of Tyrrell, the morning had become sunny and warm. I sat on the wall outside the library with my face to the sunshine before HON and watched the cloud shadows drift over the green grass. One of those translucent foil-sheen days. Downtown skyline, grey building blocks against grey sky, illuminated in the foreground with sunshine, mist flowing lightly over them. Grey-blue sky, green grass.

In HON today we watched an awful DVD about commercial wrestling. I sat in the corner and stared out the window, trying hard not to look at the screen. It disgusts me that this exists in American culture, of course--the sheer depravity of it. "Total depravity" takes on a whole new meaning. Every part of life degraded, it would appear.

I was first out of the classroom and sat on a bench in the study lounge in Chapman. Sunshine full and warm on my face and body, drawing my anger to relax into sadness. Danielle sat beside me and chatted--after telling her what we'd seen in HON, I missed an excellent opportunity to share the Gospel. The desire to please people is ridiculously controlling, considering the eternal consequences.

Eventually I walked over to ACAC. Philip was just leaving work at Carrello's. Today in ACAC there was a poster sale, so he and I spent a good twenty minutes browsing together. They had set up tables in the atrium, and the tables were covered with enormous "books" of posters, each one with massive reinforced plastic pages holding the posters. They were so heavy that I could barely turn them, so I either struggled through them laboriously or looked over Philip's shoulder. We laughed at some of them and were disgusted by others, of course. I told him to get a Pirates of the Carribbean poster, and he told me to get a 300 poster.

We both pounced on a beautiful print of a Japanese painting of mountains and mist. He also bought a really cool cityscape of New York and a "trippy" poster (slightly Escher-esque) of a cathedral pouring into some sort of galactic whirl. I just bought the Japanese print. I was delighted to find exactly the same posters as Emmaline and I had had on our wall last year, as well as a map of Middle Earth (which was exorbitantly expensive). We pushed through the crowd of people milling among the tables, going through all the books of posters, handling the ones we chose gingerly.

After he left for class, I ate lunch with Rachel. The day had become so glorious that she suggested we sit outside. It was actually amazing to sit in the sun, feeling muscles melting in the warmth. Sparrows twittered in their nest in the lettering on the building. While we were eating, Gavin joined us. He had just been discussing the merits of science fiction as literature with some of the other guys from HON class. His recap of that discussion merged into a lively debate between he and Rachel about currency, time, money, and global economics, while I sat and listened, trying fitfully to pay attention and understand, mostly just enjoying their enthusiasm.

We walked back together, Gavin and Rachel still in deep debate. At about half two, I met Crystal, and she and I drove to the Gilcrease Museum. They have a new exhibit of American Impressionism. The exhibit itself was a little disappointing. Perhaps because the last time we had been in that gallery, it had been full of staggering Ansel Adams photographs, or perhaps because American Impressionism just isn't as good as European, we were rather under-whelmed. We went through the gallery in just an hour or so (it had taken us fully three hours to get through Ansel Adams, and in the end we left because we just couldn't absorb it any more, with two or three rooms left virtually untouched).

There were some lovely little landscapes, though, with the green-and-brown translucence of Corot, that captured both of us. Also a cityscape that I liked with Crayola box colors--if I had the big box I used to use when I was a kid, I could pull out the crayons with the names of each colors, even the mauves and greys, not to mention the primary blues, greens, reds, and yellows.

After we looked at the Impressionists, I took her briefly into the permanent collection to see that huge painting of the Shoshone Falls. There happened to be two tour groups of old people, both of which glowered fearsomely at us as we hurried through the galleries. We browsed through the museum store and then went outside. The afternoon was changing: the whole western sky was full of great wet grey clouds, hurrying east, and very, very high overhead, the lacy sharp edge of the front white against the blue sky.

We walked down into the park on the hill below the museum. The oak trees were tipped with hard bronze buds. In the soil on the hillside daffodils and tulips were beginning to break the leaf mould. We scrambled down the uneven sandstone paths to the ponds at the bottom of the hill. In the pond, an enormous turtle sat on the end of a log, watching us soberly. He didn't move when Crystal snapped his photo with her Nikon, and he still didn't move when she used the big noisy Polaroid. Shoals of fish and half-a-dozen smaller turtles paddled in the water underneath his log, but he just sat there, staring at us. Crystal nicknamed him the "turtle-osopher".

We drove back to campus. The west was becoming rapidly darker and darker. I was very, very sleepy. When I got back to the apartment, I boiled the kettle and made tea. Rachel came in. Worked for a couple of hours as dusk fell outside. I wrote a rough draft of my HON midterm. Rachel and I ate tea together in the caf. As we were walking to the caf, a sudden burst of lightning illuminated huge red towers of cloud in the west.

After tea, I worked more on HON. It began to rain suddenly, enormous fat drops splattering the window and the footpath outside. RUF was at eight o'clock. Just in time for us to leave, the storm became really bad. Thunder and lightning split the sky, purple and livid white; the black asphalt in the car park shone inches deep in water. It didn't look as though it was going to let up anytime soon, though, so I opened my umbrella, and Rachel pulled up her hood, and away we went.

Sheer adrenaline rush of splashing through puddles, practically wading, it seemed, in the gutters along the street, and ducking every time the lightning flashed.... Gasping and laughing, soaked to the skin, my jeans wet a good twelve inches above the hem. When the lightning flashed, we hurried, splashing even more, Rachel ploughing right through the puddles, me trying to skip around them and laughing at my inability to stay dry. We rushed and ran helter-skelter, pell-mell, as the lightning came closer and the thunder louder, and finally burst into Sharp Chapel soaked through.

Inside, Marc, Spencer, Charlie, and DMo were playing (guitars, mandolin, drum). In a corner, people were standing and chatting.

After RUF, I chatted with Jenny briefly. I was glancing around to find Nicole, and she was walking past me on her way to the door. She didn't have an umbrella, so I walked her back to her apartment. It was still raining, and the lightning and thunder were still rioting around the sky. The evening was much colder, though--soaked from the rain, shivering, we were both laughing, too, at the sheer outrageousness of the storm. Said good-night at her apartment.

I sprinted back to my apartment through the rain.

Now Playing: The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring soundtrack by Howard Shore. Track 2, "Concerning Hobbits".

Late afternoon surprise:

Reaching into the bag of Cadbury’s chocolates that Emmaline sent for my birthday and pulling out a brightly-colored purple-and-orange one labeled “fudge”. Opening it, biting in, expecting the typical dark chocolate gooeyness—instead, met by the flaky, crystallized, faintly butterscotch flavor of NORTHERN IRISH fudge.

That, a mug of Tetley, enormous dark clouds promising a thunderstorm, an Honors paper, and a roommate discoursing enthusiastically about economics make up my afternoon.

“If you understand the grace of God, it makes the worst times bearable and the best times leavable.” – John Newton

Now Playing: New Song, "Enter His Presence". Psalm 73A-C.

Thankfully, God has given us Psalms for times like this. Also thankfully, Rachel has an eight o'clock class, so she wasn't in the apartment to listen to me mousing out Psalms in my early morning voice.

I "discovered" Psalm 73 last week, and this week it was Psalm 77. On Thursday Psalm 77 said exactly what I wanted. It was incredible. For me the "mighty deeds" of God included that Saturday in September a year ago hiking the Mournes: a taste of glory right there.

Tonight I went to an amazing guitar concert. Trace Bundy is a believer and an incredible artist. He uses acoustic guitar and electronic re-recorder in his performances to create some spectacular effects. Afterward, I went out to Braum's with the Klingamans, Crystal, and Matlock. Tulsa's version of McFlurries after ice skating. Crystal was wearing a highlighter orange wig and drinking frozen yogurt through a hot pink straw, and the Klingamans were making up intentionally awful book titles. Matlock made Crystal laugh until she cried, which was quite a sight to see.

Here are pictures from random times, by the way.

Now Playing: Arcangelo Corelli, "Concerto Grosso in F, Op. 6, No. 12, Giga, Allegro."

Good, happy music.

Rachel patiently put up with my frustration today over HON: our lecture today (discussion, actually) was all about "reproductive rights", i.e., abortion. Quite a lot of talk with nothing achieved as far as I was concerned. Quite a lot of raised voices, too. What irks me most is that there's no room for a "religion"-based argument. Even the pro-life arguments were all purely secular, written by Liberals. It felt like sinking into a quagmire of circular arguments and undefinable statements.

Reading our assigned popular textbook after class about contemporary masculine culture was even more depressing. The author makes it sound as though all young men are frat pledges, and the antidote to our ills is feminism, which will teach young men to respect women and be honorable and upright. And to learn from their kind, nurturing mothers. Ha! As though that will ever happen. Maybe I'm just being a pessimist, but feminism doesn't appear to provide much of an "unshakable ethical core", especially since the feminist book we read blathers endlessly about how women "inhabit the site of ambivalence" throughout their individual lives and throughout history.

Defining modern "personhood" is quite a chore, one for which no one seems particularly capable of finding a solution.

Now, if we just tried to understand ourselves as being broken images of God.... At least that would provide a definition to work with.

Ha!

Yay for

WHITE RABBITS.