This is one of those awful-looking photos that people upload to the web thinking, "Aw, my kitty is the cutest in the world! Let's put it up on some website of cute animal photos so that everyone can be subjected to it!" This cat is not cute. She bites, scratches, and jumps on anything that moves.

My longsuffering mother smiling away at the end of the table....

You'd need to be longsuffering with these goons around!

Now Playing: Sufjan Stevens, "Seven Swans," "All The Trees Of The Field Will Clap Their Hands."

So... birthday.

A lovely late autumn day--crisp, blue sky, made even better by the prospect of not having to work on grad school applications all day. Of course, my dad and Stephen had already eaten breakfast, so I sat down alone, until my mother came back from her early-morning walk. "You're not supposed to be up yet!" she exclaimed and set a big box of bagels down on the table. I ate half of one--really good, soft and sweet, with a chewy skin.

I had practically the whole gym to myself this morning, except for the pump class happening in the studio. So I was able to use the weight machines without feeling like a wimp for once, which was nice.

After a shower I settled down to do my quiet time. God blessed it especially today. Finding my feet again after a few weeks of drifting. I cried twice today: once when I was reading the prayer from The Valley--and once when I was cutting up onions this evening....

Philip, Laura, Keith, and Will arrived at about noon. Laura, Keith, and Will had flown in to Tulsa from Geneva, and Philip had driven them over in his car. He said that it had no acceleration and roared particularly loudly with all the extra weight. Laura bounced all over the house, let the guinea pig lick her face, admired her newly-painted bedroom, asked to bake bread.

We sat down to lunch. Leftovers. Conversation was lively, my mother asking Keith, Will, and Laura loads of questions about classes and professors. My mother was baking tomorrow's turkey, and the smell filled the house.

After lunch, we all somehow settled down in the living room. Philip was mucking about with his laptop again, and Keith sat in the dining room, talking to my mother. Will and Laura were "studying" for Bible, which meant pretending to read the Old Testament but actually arguing and shooting rubber bands at each other. Stephen worked on Latin homework and asked me grammatical questions. I replied to e-mails and Facebook posts on my laptop amid the mayhem.

At about three o'clock, my father came home early from work. I went upstairs for a wee bit. The upper floor was completely silent, cool, full of sunshine from the west-facing windows.

When I went back downstairs, I played around with my journal for awhile, and then I helped my mother with tea. Donned an apron and plunged in. Anna was slagging me off for liking to cut up vegetables recently, but you pretty much have to like cutting up vegetables in this household--especially when the main dish for the evening is curry with loads of vegetables in it (sorry, Emmaline :o). Cut up onions, red and green bell peppers, mushrooms, broccoli, and garlic. Laura stole slices of mushroom.

The boys went outside to play basketball. Laura sat at the dining room table and drank a big cup of black tea, which subsequently made her extremely hyper. She was quite proud of the fact that her hands were trembling. My mother was snipping the tips off of artichoke leaves, then carving the turkey, then heating meatballs in the oven, then frying tofu.

Pots of artichokes on the stove boiled out clouds and clouds of steam and their peculiar rich, sweet smell. I set the table. My mother made curry sauce--cinnamon, curry powder, turmeric, tomato sauce.

All eight of us sat down to eat at the long table. We ate artichokes and butter, then curry and rice, and grapefruit. Pretty much a perfect meal. At seven o'clock, the grandparents arrived, and we had ice cream and cake for dessert. I opened presents, and then everyone sat around the living room and talked.

At one end of the room, Keith, Will, my mother, and the grandmothers were talking about "eating everything but the intestines." At the other end, Laura was explaining playing the cello to my grandfather, and my dad and Philip were talking about computer programming.

The grandparents left at about half eight. We all settled down in the living room and had family worship. Then my mother sent Laura up to bed--she, Keith, and Will had been up since half two this morning! Philip practiced chords for his jazz piano lessons on the piano while Keith, Will, my mother, and I discussed the new Psalter. I made cards in a corner on the floor.

And now the house has suddenly become mysteriously quiet. I suspect that everyone is in bed--except maybe Philip and Keith across the hall. Sufjan Stevens is pretty much perfect for this moment: mellow, acoustic, upbeat. Owls are hooting outside.

Now Playing: Jon Foreman, "Limbs and Branches [Spring and Summer]", "Deep In Your Eyes (There Is A River)".

Today was my first full-ish day of work at Crepe Myrtle. I arrived just as the lunch rush was beginning at half eleven. Since an OSU football game was scheduled for this evening, the area around campus was unusually busy for a Thursday noon, and customers kept coming into the restaurant well after two o'clock, when the rush usually ends.

So I was thrown into the deep end. Laurel, my boss, let me wait on two tables at a time instead of a whole section, but in between taking orders and refilling drinks, I tried to keep the ice bin filled, bus other people's tables, seat customers as they entered the restaurant, and stand near Laurel when she was taking orders so that I could see how it was done.

We had an interesting variety of customers today: a British couple who were very, very soft-spoken, except that they wanted milk with their tea, which sent me scrambling among the mysterious refrigerators under the counter in search of a nearly empty jug.

The smell of frying oil filled the restaurant, and the air was hot from bodies moving quickly, zipping in and out between tables and booths. At last, when people began to leave, Laurel showed me how to help with cleaning: disinfecting countertops, sweeping the floor.

 I felt as though I was scrambling all day, running, running, running--running on eggshells because the floors are perpetually slippery, and everything has to be done quickly but without slipping and spilling a trayful of drinks or big plates of food.

By four o'clock, only one group of people was left in the restaurant. I was hopelessly late for meeting Rachel, so I bussed the two tables I had left and "checked out," a mysterious process whereby Laurel reckoned up my tips and discovered that yes, I had made above minimum wage.

With that reassurance, and an untidy wad of cash in my purse, I rang Rachel to apologize and began the trek out to her house. Generally I love the drive out to the Ss' house, but today the town was crazy with people in for the football game. Still, stopping the car at a stop sign near their property, I had time to look out over green fields hazy with rosy dust from the roads, and the sunshine gilding the trees along the creek.

Rachel and I walked out in their pasture and stood chest-high in grass to discuss Burroughs, which we've been reading together. Being outside was magnificent. Late afternoon was perfect: cool southeast breeze, high powder-blue sky veiled with loops of clouds going pearly, the low sunshine striking white from the supple copper buffalo grass. After such a good summer, the grass was very thick, rich shades of umber and russet, and Rachel and I absently scattered fluffy white seeds while we walked. Plumes of seeds dazzling as the sun went down.

At home, my father and Stephen had already left for the biweekly practice in Ponca City. My mother and I ate leftovers for tea. After tea, I went upstairs and rang Katie so that we could sort out plans for this weekend. Then I took a couple of minutes to breathe and check e-mail before my mother and I took Moochy for a walk.

The night was dark, of course, streetlights throwing splashes of orange light over the road between huge dark patches of shadow. Yellow house lights punctuating the deep darkness under big trees. Overhead, the sky was full of stars and milky with clouds reflecting the opalescent glow from the town and the big stadium lights. At the end of the road, at a cul-de-sac, we found three deer grazing perhaps five hundred yards away. Instead of tearing after them, Moochy sat perfectly still, and the three of us watched the deer, who stared back at us. The rest of the time, the dog panted and wheezed, yanking on her leash like a barely-contained freight train.

At home, my mother left to watch the game with my grandparents. I went up to my room with one of the cats to keep me company and rang Nicole.

We rang off in time for me to join my father and Stephen for family worship. After family worship, I took a shower, which felt so good. Washing off the food oil, sweat, and doginess. I made myself tea and have been sitting in my room, working on my writing sample and listening to Jon Foreman and the cat snoring on my bed.

Now Playing: Bob Marley, "Confrontation," "I Can See Clearly Now."

At last it was sunny today after several days of clouds and rain and cold wind. Clear late autumn sky, pale, high, chilly. I went to the gym this morning and worked out, which was good. I've been listening to Pastor D's sermons on Nehemiah about rebuilding the church--challenging. As I listen, I wonder what good I as an individual can do in a church that is at times so hard to mobilize, especially considering my tendency either to be petrified with fear or to rush unwisely into situations. But I love the applications to personal life and, indeed, to the life of the church: the hope of revival, God's faithfulness to raise up leaders who love Him, His Spirit's power to stir up His people.

When I came home from the gym today, Annie was chasing something in a coil of hose on the back porch. The house was empty: my father at work; Stephen at a meeting with his academic advisor at OSU; my mother in cataract surgery at the surgery centre. I showered and then left immediately to pick her up, stopping at Wal-Mart on the way. Listened to Bebo Norman, who reminds me a lot of The Lighthouse Family. Cheerful Christian music, not particularly deep.

The waiting room at the surgery centre was packed with people. The TV was on, and everyone seemed to be talking at once. I sat near the door and read Master and Commander until suddenly, Mr. C appeared out of a side door and asked me if I wanted to go back and see my mother. He seemed to be quite at home there. He opened a door that had no handle and ushered me into what appeared to be post-surgery care, a series of cubicles and a nurse's station. My mother was in one of the cubicles, looking very pale.

I drove her home. At half eleven, I went over to OSU to help with the CRF book table. Lunchtime in the Student Union is busy, all sorts of people hurrying through the low-ceilinged corridors between bookshops, stylist's salons, the food court, and the post office. Pastor and Jon were sitting at a table in a corner, and I joined them until Pastor had to leave. Then Jon and I were stuck together for an hour, during which we attempted to come up with a more colorful logo for CRF. A couple of guys stopped by to look at the books.

At home, I found Mrs. S just arriving to pray with my mother. I put drops in my mother's eyes and ate a late lunch with the two of them while they talked about "heat hogs," dogs and cats who like to sit on top of heater vents. Then I worked on personal statements for graduate applications until I had to leave again at three o'clock.

I went to Crepe Myrtle for another training time. Laurel wanted to go over the waitstaff test I had taken yesterday. The restaurant was nearly empty, so we sat at a booth, and she went over all the minuscule details of writing orders. Particular layouts, pricings, exceptions. She tried to explain to me how busy the restaurant gets, how to handle several tables at once, and so forth, while I tried somewhat unsuccessfully to absorb it all.

Then I ran errands: to the church office to return the book table supplies; to the bank to cash a check. At home I had to start making tea. Chinese beef and noodles and stir fry tofu. I enjoy cooking, but there always seems to come a point when everything is sizzling or boiling or spitting oil (and flames!) at once, which is slightly terrifying. No sooner had I begun to put the tofu into the oil than the stove darted out a couple of flames, and no sooner had I boiled the water for the noodles than the beef and tofu both started to scald to the bottoms of their separate skillets.

So I had a lively hour-and-a-quarter of it. My father ended up setting the table, and my poor mother had to slice up vegetables to go with the tofu. But everything tasted alright when it finally arrived on the table.

At seven o'clock, Stephen and I drove over to OSU for CRF. I always try to leave early because it takes us awhile to walk to the Student Union from the car park, but tonight we didn't leave early enough: an OSU men's basketball game was creating a furor all around the stadium. Add to that a "Mr. and Ms. International" pageant happening in the Union, and all the parking spaces were full. We circled and circled for nearly twenty minutes before we finally squeezed in beside a sports car near Hideaway, and then we had to walk to the Union.

So of course we were late for the Psalm sing. Jonathan was away, so CRF tonight was just a Psalm sing, and a paltry one at that. Sarah and I were the only sopranos. We warbled valiantly, but we were usually either sharp or flat, while Logan manfully tried to pull the rest of the guys along on bass. It didn't help that we sang several tunes with which none of us are quite familiar, or that Sarah and I were both tired and kept singing words from the red Psalter instead of paying attention to the new wordings.

In the middle, we stopped so that Jon could present his "brilliant" idea for the new CRF logo. The sword dripping blood made all the guys laugh. J.D. redrew a passable revision, but I still think the sword is rather random. We bantered around, sang some more, ate cookies, and then people started to leave. Sarah and I sat and chatted quietly in a corner of the table. Stephen and I walked with her to her car, and she drove us to ours.

As we walked up the sidewalk to our house, our breath left plumes of mist on the still air.

The finished product! We need to hem the curtains up considerably, but otherwise this is how it will look.

 

 

Now Playing: Handel, Messiah, "Comfort Ye."

Anna, Stephen, and I painted Laura's room on Wednesday.

 Three of the walls are a sort of latte brown color: a dark beige, I suppose.

 

The other wall is robin's egg blue. I meant it to be aqua, but my mother hates green, and as soon as she got this paint on the wall, she said, "Oh, it's too green!" So we had to compromise and use this paint instead of getting something either more aqua or "less green." (Though you can't get much less green than this paint!)

Got exam results back from the general GRE this afternoon, and they were good! So thankful for that.

When I actually sit down to write about today, it seems singularly uninteresting. I went to the gym this morning, where I lifted weights for the first time in my life, and probably made a fool of myself in front of a mascara-ed girl (why would anyone put on makeup to go to the gym?!).

Stephen spent the morning helping the First Presbyterian Church cover its organ with a tarp prior to a remodeling job, and then he and my mother went to get flu shots. After a shower, I sat and attempted to memorize Crepe Myrtle's menu. I ate peanut butter, apples, and crackers, and tried to remember what ingredients go on a Melvin Burger, and how much orange soda costs.

At half eleven, I went to my first training shift at Crepe Myrtle. Laurel, the owner, had me tag along with her for an hour-and-a-half over lunchtime. I mostly tried not to get in the way. She gave me a whirlwind introduction to seating customers, taking orders, bringing out orders, pouring drinks, busing tables, and ringing up checks. I staggered through the usual self-consciousness of the new person on the job and began to do things independently. The restaurant wasn't overly busy today, so she let me go just before one o'clock.

Then the round of errands began: ordering transcripts at OSU (OSU's campus has such a different atmosphere from TU's--big university, lots of people rushing in and out, no one really knowing anyone else, everyone very nonchalant and impersonal), cashing a check, posting a letter to Catherine, and going to the library to meet the director of the Stillwater Literacy Council at two o'clock.

She turned out to be a bustling woman in an office in the depths of the library. I had to go in one side of the elevator and out the other because the stairwell was locked. She sat me down at a table and went over a packet of information with me, chattering the whole time about how she has singlehandedly reformed the literacy program. She immediately paired me with a South Korean student. When I interjected breathlessly, asking for some sort of curriculum, she whisked a few books off the shelves and gave them to me airily to use as I see fit--! I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing, so I'll just have to muck along as best I can....

Then to Wal-Mart, to Hastings to buy baby books for Jenny's wee one, and then home at last. At home, my mother was raking up the carpet of leaves from the back yard. Stephen and I spent an hour-and-a-half before tea stripping wallpaper from Laura's bedroom. Thankfully, only one wall in her room is papered, but someone had painted the wall yellow underneath the paper. The paint came off in flakes and got everywhere. Stephen and I were both tired and sore (he from his shot, me from the gym), so pulling off the paper seemed to take longer than usual.

At tea, my father discovered for the first time that I have a job--! Goes to show how smoothly communication has been in our house over this last week. Neither my mother nor I had realized that he didn't know. After tea, we watched Jeeves and Wooster. Meanwhile, a big thunderstorm billowed up outside. It has been very warm and still all day, unseasonably warm and still for the beginning of November. And even after the storm this evening, I'm still sitting with a window wide open to the night air.

After we finished eating, my mother and I cleaned up the debris in Laura's room. While my father read a Margery Allingham mystery aloud, Stephen and I taped. Annie frolicked, finding stray bits of wallpaper to pounce on under the plastic sheeting on the floor. Hopefully we can get Paint Coat #1 on the walls tomorrow.

Now Playing: Inexplicably unseasonably, Tchaikovsky, "The Nutcracker."

Today we embarked on the second Great Painting Adventure in Bedroom #2.

The wallpaper was already beginning to peel off the walls in this case, and there was just one wall of it. So this time it only took us an hour-and-a-half to complete the task.

But now it gets worse before it gets better. Someone had decided to paint the wall yellow before attaching wallpaper!

Now Playing: Coldplay, "X&Y," "White Shadows."

This morning after going to the gym, I posted a package to Indonesia. It's always amusing to me how posting something to an international destination makes one feel important--even more than posting something domestic.

When we were kids, we used to post things to Lebanon, Jordan, and Yemen. I remember my mother buying the special blue air mail envelopes, which are actually stationery that fold into envelopes of their own. She would write over every available centimeter of paper, and sometimes she would let us scribble something of ours before she folded it up like an origami animal and took it to the post office.

And there's always the hope that something will come back in return--a letter with a colorful stamp on it, or a parcel with exotic food. Once our friends brought back incense that looked like crystallized rocks or brown sugar. We've never burned it. I've always wondered how it would smell.

The parcel I posted today was one of these readymade US Postal Service boxes. They, too, fold up like origami. Some engineer must have had a delightful time deciding just where to put the scoring so that the sides would fold together properly and hold together with just one strip of adhesive down one side.

I, however, am not an engineer, and I have spent most of the day trying to cram my brain full of Literature in English for the exam on Saturday. Currently a tall stack of books sits beside me on my desk, including titles by George Eliot, John Steinbeck, Jane Austen, Oscar Wilde, Tennessee Williams, and Maya Angelou. Last night I dreamed literature.

Whether or not any of it sticks for the exam, I have started writing poetry again. With my head so full of words, I have to put something out in order to fit something else in. This shrapnel-style survey of literature does leave one with an overwhelming sense of elegy, of melancholy. No matter what era I dip into, I find humans fighting for meaning--even if that is the assertion that there is none--and, failing, falling back miserably into their own cobwebs.

Cobwebs and adders' eggs is how Isaiah 59 describes our efforts. Apt. We cannot clothe ourselves with our works, and our creative attempts in so many cases only hatch poison. I love the promise of the following chapters: instead of snakes and spiders, God turns His people into a garden full of fruitful trees.

Now Playing: The Fray, "Look After You."

More photos here.

Now Playing: Andrew Peterson, "Love and Thunder," Track 5, "Just As I Am."

Today the Great Renovating Adventure came to an at least partial conclusion. A crash-bang thunderstorm woke me this morning on the top bunk of my brother's bed. After breakfast, while it was still pouring and nearly dark outside, my mother, Stephen, and I began the arduous task of moving everything back into my room. The bed and bookshelves were comparatively easy with their help. Then came the hardest part: carting all the books from Laura's room into my room, putting them in the right places on the right shelves, dusting them off, and making sure that they didn't slide in avalanches all over everywhere.

Thanks to the fact that my packrat instinct has fastened itself largely on books, it took all morning to get everything settled satisfactorily. My mother had an appointment this afternoon with the ophthalmologist, and after she left, Stephen and I worked on our chores. Debris from the guinea pig, dust from the books, and general messiness from nearly a month of topsy-turvydom has left the upstairs in quite a mess.

When we finished, I sat down and wrote e-mails, then had my quiet time, then took a shower. At half five my parents and Stephen left for a basketball team pizza party in Ponca City. I settled myself down with Coldplay and Virginia Woolf (quite a combination!) to finish Woolf's essay, A Room of One's Own. I love her style. She scintillates. Refreshingly honest, straightforward, yet sauntering, leisurely.

When I finished the essay, I warmed up leftovers for tea and worked on Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea, trying to brush up on my Great Modern Novelists for the Literature GRE. Somehow I managed to escape twentieth-century novelists all through highschool and undergrad. I have only had a very little Steinbeck and Fitzgerald, and even less Joyce, Hemingway, and Faulkner. Not that I regret that much, but it does make revising for this exam time consuming.

I spent the evening at the Fs' house. The robotics team was pounding away in the basement, so Anna, Ruth, and I sequestered ourselves in their room with the DVD player and Horatio Hornblower: Mutiny, and tea and cookies. We would have been on the edge of our seats had we not been sitting on the floor.... It was a very tense episode in the life of our brave hero. When we finished, Dani, Ruth, Anna, and I stood round chatting and laughing (Anna was very hyper) for awhile.

On the way home, I had a sort of breakdown. It's such a ridiculous, trivial, quotidian (now there's a good GRE word for you!) admission to make, but I realized that I've been worshipping these painting projects. Such silly things to idolize, you think. The mind plays its tricks very cleverly. "When I get this finished, I'll be happy.... When I have everything just the way I like it, I'll be at peace...." Of course, it can be even more insidious than that. "When I finish this exam.... When I finish this paper.... When I finish this next paper.... And the one after that.... And the one after that.... And...."

So that we end up being like the guinea pig with a carrot dangling in front of its nose. Standing up as tall as we can, whiskers quivering, paws trembling with effort, but never quite able to reach.

This fact is nothing new, nothing earth-shattering. Ages ago (on my tiny scale), in freshman year, Mr. C wagged his head wisely at me and imparted the fact that I have to choose to be happy today, otherwise I'll never be happy. "I remember, when I was a boy, that I realized that if I didn't decide to be happy now, I would never be happy at all," he said.

Yes, that's very true, but I keep circling closer and closer to that truth, in long, slow circles, circles that are more like undulations: up, then down, then up, a little higher again. Like being on a swing, going a little bit higher with each thrust of arms and legs.

No, I won't be happy when this project is finished, or after I've taken the next GRE, or when I've turned in all my applications. What are we all waiting for? The next paycheck (if we're fortunate enough to be earning one)? Or the next child moved out of the house and happily married? Or the next diploma earned? What is the "next thing" that is sitting on the throne of my heart in the place of Jesus Christ?

Generally speaking I don't agree with the idolization of one teacher or writer above others. Because of that, I've actually been suspicious of the "cult" that seems to surround John Piper. His mantra that "God is most glorified in us when we are most satisfied in Him" smacked of suspicion to me when I first heard it. But in this case, I think he's right. When I take all of my joy, all of my peace, all of my strength from God Himself and not from anything else--not from finishing the exam, or the paper, or the project, or whatever it is I need for success--then I am saying that He is good enough to satisfy me. Then He has His proper place: King above everyone and everything, Lover, Creator, Redeemer.

Why am I still waiting? He is above all else powerful and beautiful. It's not a quip. It's not just something that's easy to say, a placebo for everything that's going wrong in life. It's not just a bunch of smart words or even just a bunch of apparently reverent, actually self-righteous words.

The Everlasting God promises that if we pursue Him first, He will provide for everything else.

Photos from this week here.

Now Playing: Tchaikovsky, Violin Concerto in D, Finale--Allegro Vivacissimo.

All day I've been trying to avoid thinking about the GRE. This morning I sat down and worked on math for an hour before breakfast and was only discouraged as I missed about a quarter of the problems in each set I attempted. That's the last of my practice, though. I can't do anything about it now. If it's in my head, it's in my head; if it's not, it's not.

My only comfort is that God Himself is overseeing this exam and its outcome. Anna reminded me yesterday that whether I get a good test or a hard test, whether I remember what I've learned and practice it or not--it all depends on sheer providence. Nicole said something similar. I can't keep myself from freaking out and losing my head. I can't keep myself from going "high" and breezing through the exam, only to find that I've ignored most of the directions on the way. Physically, emotionally, mentally I have very, very little control over myself. That's true. No matter how well disciplined I may be, if some chemical in my brain isn't balanced just right tomorrow, there's nothing I can do to change it.

Now that sounds very fatalistic. I had a professor once who declared in class that he thought it was useless to pray before an exam. "You should be studying, not praying!" he pontificated. On a practical level, maybe that's true. But I say I believe in a sovereign God who is closely concerned with every detail of my life, a God who worked out to the most precise millimeter how far away the earth would be from the sun, and how many cells would be in each blade of grass, and what color my hair would be.

It seems ridiculous, in one sense. God has a cosmos to manage. Surely He can't be conscious every moment of every day of exactly what one individual human being is thinking or doing. Surely He can't be involved with every detail of every life that's being lived at this moment--not to mention every detail of nature and its laws. He must know about everything in some grand, supreme, impersonal sense. He must command, "Hearts, keep beating," and "Sun, stay in your course," and "Rain, fall," in a general, big-picture sort of way.

Hard as it is to believe, though, that's not what God says about the way He operates. He told us that He has counted every hair on our heads, that we are more precious to Him than many sparrows (grand example of litotes there!). He doesn't command every human heart to beat in some impersonal way. He says, "E--'s heart, beat now, beat now, beat now, beat now." He has planned (not just knows, but has planned) what I will eat for breakfast tomorrow, and what I'll say to Katie on Saturday, and whether the Pythagorean theorem will be tested tomorrow.

Listening to The Silver Chair this evening, I realized that God controls even our appetites and desires, things we normally think of as being wrong. As Christians, we seem to spend most of our time trying to control our appetites and desires, trying to subdue our dreams and goals, trying to weed them out. We talk a lot about conformity to the will of God, about being content with His plan for our lives.

At the beginning of The Silver Chair, just after Jill has pushed Eustace over the edge and Aslan has blown him to safety, Jill has a good crying fit. And then she becomes very, very thirsty. Now my reaction to such a desire might be, "No, I'll not go and get a drink. I don't deserve it just now." But in the story, that appetite impels Jill to seek water, and, with the water, to discover Aslan himself, in all of his stern grace.

So I realized this evening that God controls, gives as a gift, our appetites and desires, whether that be so that we can learn His grace by controlling them failingly (when they are sinful), or whether that be so that we can glorify Him when He satisfies them.

And, of course, the satisfaction of these desires lies in the hands of the God who sacrificed His Son in my place. Isaiah 43 always gives me pause for thought. God tells His people that He gives Egypt as their ransom, Cush and Seba in exchange for them: "Because you are precious in my eyes, and honored, and I love you, I give men in return for you, people in exchange for your life."

This isn't simply the Old Testament God attempting to comfort His people with some sort of political analogy. This is a foreshadowing (another grand understatement!) of what God will give in exchange for His people: His own Son, who is far more rich and powerful and lovely and dear to Him than any pagan nation in the bloom of its golden age.

So when I walk into the exam building tomorrow and sit down at that monitor to take that test, the outcome, whatever it is, lies in the hands of this God.

Now Playing: Focus on the Family's adaptation of C.S. Lewis's The Silver Chair.

Stephen and I stripped wallpaper all day today in my bedroom. An arduous task. We used a steamer the Ws lent us and managed to contribute about three gallons of water to the atmosphere over the course of the day. That meant that my room was foggy and smelled like dissolving wallpaper glue, so we opened all of my windows--which made my room cold and even clammier, thanks to the fact that it was raining outside. But now the wallpaper is all off, and I've cleaned up the mess, and am nearly ready to paint.

Stephen stripping wallpaper in the morning.

By the afternoon, we were over to the desk.

And the results of the day's work: a glorious mess!

Now Playing: Flook, "Haven", "Padraig's".

This last weekend, I drove all over everywhere, it seemed. Friday evening we had our first high school girls' Bible study. I had been concerned that we'd have trouble getting the girls to talk, but of course no such worries with this group. Anna had more trouble keeping the girls from giggling and interrupting each other than she did persuading them to answer the discussion questions. I found it very refreshing to see the girls' genuine eagerness to fellowship with each other and learn about the Christian life. This makes me sound like an old person already, but I really do wish I had been as open, confident, and eager as they seem to be.

After the Bible study, I spent the night with Anna and Ruth at their house since their family was away camping. More specifically, I spent the morning with them since we stayed up until about three o'clock in the morning watching Robin Hood and Merlin episodes, courtesy BBC TV.

On Saturday, I drove to Tulsa for the afternoon and evening. I had been grumbling to myself mentally about only being in Tulsa for a couple of hours and not being able to see many people, but I ended up being there until half ten at night and having some really good conversations. Watching Philip, Alyson, and one of their friends play Scrabble while keeping score on a spreadsheet (such engineers!) made me laugh.

Among the conversations I had with people in Tulsa, the topic of writing kept cropping up. A sense of disillusionment or defeat when it comes to writing. Whenever I hear people talk about their projects, though I enjoy listening to them and giving advice, I also feel hopeless. At the minute some of the people in Stillwater are working on/planning to work on their own personal novel projects. Oh, yes, I've had ideas kicking around in my head for settings, characters, and plots since before high school. Whenever I try to write them down, though, the result is abject failure.

Probably the problem is that I'm requiring too much of myself. Perfection is a pretty high goal to reach even for the best writers. So why ask it of my very first attempts at prose fiction? As someone else said this weekend, it's an issue of pride, of course. Here I could apply the Christian principles of grace: I don't have to be perfect because Christ has redeemed me; I use the abilities He has given me for His glory; He will love me no matter how good or bad the results are.

Those things are true, but they don't address the question in my mind as to why another piece of fiction should be added to the world's already-bulging libraries. Why bother? Everything that needs to be said has already been said a thousand times before, and a thousand times more skillfully than I could manage. That applies not only to my ideas for prose but also for poetic projects that occasionally sprout up. Reading the Norton Anthology--or even my friend's sonnets--is a daunting prospect because I know that as a result I will inevitably be paralyzed when it comes to writing.

Paradoxically, of course, reading other people's pieces, whether they come from the Norton or from a friend's blog, also makes me want to write more. Response, interplay, dialogue with what others have been or are producing has become an important ingredient in my own creative process. Films, music, painting, sculpture, and dance all drive me to respond in writing, to capture my perception of that creative event in a repetitive, reverberating event of my own.

Overshadowed by the Romantic and Modern ideals of art as completely new and original, though, I encounter that barrier of intimidation again and again. It seems so pretentious for me to try to put anything into words and then to demand that others read it, especially when many of those others have written perfectly good things themselves. That's one reason why I love journaling: no one has to read it, not even me. That text puts no expectations on the reader, no demands, no requirements. The books stack up on shelves and boxes, silently, useless except for whatever tiny random facts may be required in the future about flight details or medical appointments.

Yesterday after church, Katie asked me if I'd been writing anything recently. I love talking to Katie, but she invariably touches whatever sore spots I'm trying to hide from myself and everyone else. It was the second time last weekend someone had asked me what I'd been writing and had given me the "older sibling look" when they heard the answer.

So, circling again, the same factor that pushes me away from the keyboard also forces me toward it, the pressure (shame, if you like) from others.

Now Playing: Corelli, Concerto Grosso in G Minor.

It's been raining for the last four days. This afternoon I took our neighbor's dog over to the lake to trudge around in the mud and mist.

She got royally wet and muddy, of course. Every so often she had to stop to shake herself off.

The sumac, goldenrod, and asters are all in bloom right now. It was lovely when the sunflowers and goldenrod were blooming together, in September and early October, but now the sunflowers have been reduced to black spiky dead heads. The sumac leaves hang like flags left over from a gala, glowing but sodden with mist.

The mist fell steadily over the lake. Only two other people were out there, a suspect couple--the man was carrying a rifle and smoking a cigarette, and they both glowered at us as we slogged past.

The woods around the lake were rich with color. 

And a black-and-white to finish it all. Waterlogged asters, bending with the weight of the rain.

Now Playing: Andrew Peterson, "Far Country", "Mountains".

Another garden variety journal entry (ooh, look at that pun...).

My parents, Stephen, and I drove down to Oklahoma City this morning to visit the Crystal Bridge in the Botanical Gardens. The morning was cold, overcast, with a strong north wind. Everything has begun to turn: the Johnson grass is going burgundy and mauve, the sumac, poison ivy, and Virginia creeper are going scarlet, the oak trees are going brown, the elms have already gone gold.

Today happened to be a free day at the gardens, so there were a lot of other people in the long, battery-shaped greenhouse. Nestled in the centre of the downtown area, the Botanical Gardens are built like a big green drainage ditch with a long pond running down the bottom. The Crystal Bridge is built over this pond. At the south entrance, we were captured by a docent who recognized Stephen's hoodie and asked us what our connection was to Horn Creek.

We spent all morning in the greenhouse, wandering on the paths through the plants. At one end, the environment is tropical, and at the other end it's desert, and in between are tropical and temperate plants. A lot of palms, ferns, and banana trees. A lot of orchids, too. We climbed up underneath a waterfall at the tropical end where huge ferns and bromeliads were growing. Then down the walkway that runs a couple of storeys above the floor down one side of the building. We could look down on the broad fronds of the plants, the ferns and cycads, the poinsettas. Long-winged butterflies fluttered around us like leaves trickling from the trees.

At the other end, we came to the desert area. All sorts of weird cacti and succulents and aloes. Stiff leaves in surreal geometric patterns. Of course, it took my mother a long time to work through all the plants. She likes to stop and point everything out to Stephen and my dad. I watched people walking around down below us: a group of Asian tourists, four or five highschoolers who reminded me of Cyprus, elderly couples, and mothers with small flocks of children around them.

Before we left, we looked at the orchids for sale on a big table. So many orchids! Rearing frilled and fronded heads like dragons on their long thin stalks. Some of them smelled like cocoa and vanilla; others like butter. My mother was too daunted by the prospect of caring for one of them properly, so my father just bought her a couple of the flowering stalks in water.

Out of Oklahoma City, we drove to Arcadia, to a new restaurant, Pops. It's built on Route 66 and prides itself on the 500+ varieties of soft drinks it sells. A huge statue of a soft drink bottle stands outside, and the building itself is an odd architectural specimen. The two long walls are glass, lined with shelves, which are lined with glass bottles, all bright fluorescent colors. It's basically a tourist trap. Convenience station, fast food restaurant, and bar combined. We had hamburgers and drinks. My dad and I had milkshakes that were amazing. So chocolatey that I couldn't finish mine.

We took back roads to Stillwater. Because of all the recent rain, it was like driving across a marsh in places. Stock ponds overflowing, creeks and rivers roiling angry red, pastures shimmering with water.

At home, I did loads of wash and helped my mother make tea for tonight. My father's parents, one of his cousins, and one of my grandmother's sisters were all coming over for tea. Quite a grand occasion. Thanks to my grandmother, her sister, and her sister's daughter, there was no lack of conversation at the table. Cousin Betty was happy to talk about her job, about Galveston and Houston, about Texas. My grandmother and her sister unearthed all sorts of memories between the two of them.

After tea, we sat round the living room. The adults laughed about memories of family get-togethers. All sorts of embarrassing stories, especially about my siblings and me. Stephen and I sat and smiled politely. Grandma vividly remembered her father reading "Mr Wiggly" comics and feeding her ice cream when she had her tonsils out; they talked about Halloween and trick-or-treating, about Philip breaking things when he was a toddler, about folding cloth diapers.

At about nine o'clock, we said our good-byes. I went upstairs.

Now Playing: Tenth Avenue North, "Over and Underneath", "By Your Side".

My mother and Stephen at Pops beside a big model of a soft drink bottle. More photos from today here. 

Now Playing: Beethoven, Symphony No. 6 "Pastorale".

For the Christian Reformation Fellowship Bible study, we've been reading Jerry Bridges's book Transforming Grace. It's a good study--I highly recommend it--but it would be even better if I could actually understand the truths that are being said.

Over the last month-and-a-half or so, I've realized just how little I understand the truths of God's grace, justification and sanctification in particular. Those two big words sound dreadfully scholarly. Though I've grown up with them, I've discovered that the common malady which afflicts most born-in-a-Christian-home people has crept insidiously into my life. The big words are just big words.

What do justification and sanctification really mean? Not just as esoteric words that form the basis for countless controversies, but as lived realities? Will it ever be possible for me to live them not just "the way I should" but even a little bit more authentically than I do now?

What does justification itself mean? I could rattle off the catechism answer, but a wise person I've been talking to recently has given me an even simpler idea. Justification means that the sins I have committed, those failures and acts of rebellion that I have performed, are forgiven in the present. They are swept away, are blotted out, are erased by God.

This means that when I feel as though I need to plunge myself into guilt before God will forgive me, I am not understanding this reality. Instead of begging and pleading, I can hold onto the promise that those who confess their sins are forgiven. Justification is thus a completed act in the past that reverberates into the present.

How does the fact that my sins are forgiven change my life in the present? By the power of God's Spirit, I should obey God out of freedom and thankfulness. I have been bought with a price; I belong to God. Redemption is a solemn fact that should encourage me to appreciate what Christ has done by obeying Him.

The "should" there can be treacherous, though, because I can turn "freedom and thankfulness" into duty, too. I can say that because I am not living life freely and thankfully, rejoicing in what God has done, therefore God does not love me.

Thankfully, no matter what I do or what my motives are, God will always continue to love me because of who He is. If I could only see myself from His perspective, maybe I would understand that better. Instead of seeing a failure, He sees Christ in all His delightfulness and vigor.

As I've written these words, I've come face-to-face again with the disturbing fact that these are just words. They flicker on the screen without efficacy to change the way I think, feel, and behave. Every time I sit down to read Bridges's book, I am confronted by my inability and unwillingness to absorb the immense truths he discusses.

Sheer unwillingness, in fact, is part of the problem. Partly I enjoy playing the martyr and being miserable. Partly I am unwilling to let go of what I perceive as being my role in salvation. I am clinging with whitening fingers to "my sanctification", to the "shoulds" and "oughts" and "have tos". I am downright afraid to let go, afraid that if I do let go, I will never even try to obey God again.

Why? Because that obedience has defined my personality, defined my appearance, defined my existence both in my own head and to everyone else around me--Christian and non-Christian alike. Expectations, demands. My mind is full of all the things I ought to do and should be doing and failed to do. Having my definition of Paul's command to "work out your salvation with fear and trembling" suddenly ripped away is a terrifying thing, for I am afraid that I will cease to be myself.

If I were honest, I would realize that "myself" isn't really a very pleasant person to be after all. Altogether too proud, too self-absorbed, too restricted, too afraid. Currently, I'm too hard-headed to act in the reality that would release me from this. When the Psalmist says, "I have been like a beast before You," I sympathize. Except that in my case, "have been" should be in present tense.

During a highschool flute lesson, my teacher was showing me new breathing exercises. Coaching me toward  a fuller sound, she was having me breathe more deeply with a different embouchure. Since it was the first time I'd tried this, I was failing. I started to panic, which resulted in cracked notes. My teacher laughed and said, "You're like the two-year-old who is learning how to walk. You're frustrated because you see how it's done, but you can't do it yet yourself."

Mercifully, God doesn't leave anyone to figure this sort of thing out themselves. Understanding grace in sanctification must be part of the process of sanctification. Christ is my wisdom as well as my salvation.

Now Playing: Focus on the Family's dramatized The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

Last night, my parents, Anna, and I went to the Oklahoma International Bluegrass Festival in Guthrie. We heard three bands play. The last one was Mark O'Connor with two young musicians from Julliard. They were spectacular. I love listening to bluegrass generally speaking. Not because of the singing, of course, which is usually abysmal, but the instrumentals are so exuberant. Heard some incredible mandolin, banjo, and fiddle. 

The stage had flags hung around it: Scotland, Ireland, Canada, U.S., Australia, Italy, France, Germany, and Canada.

 

My parents; me and Anna. We were very, very cold by the time the evening was over. I was shivering in my chair. This, by the way, is Post 600. Woo.

For the first day of October, it's so warm outside that all the

WHITE RABBITS

are melting.

Now Playing: Andrew Peterson, "Carried Along", "Havens Grey".

A few pictures from today: the head of the nature trail.

Pelicans fishing below the dam.

Stephen and my mother digging for selenite crystals.

Now Playing: (One of my favorites) Andrew Peterson, "Love and Thunder", Track 3. 


Today my mother, grandmother, Stephen, and I went to the Great Salt Plains. This was a very different experience than traveling in the clunky Buick with two other college girls. Stephen and I sat in the back seat, he studying Calculus, me reading over notes for the Literature GRE and vocabulary for the general GRE. My mother and grandmother discussed all sorts of small bits and pieces of news, and every time they saw a bird in the fields along the road, they would both exclaim as though it were an earth-shattering event.

The two-hour drive seemed much shorter than I remembered it, probably because I wasn't driving. We went north instead of south and drove along the auto trail first. The nature reserve was deserted. The early autumn morning hung like a flame in the trees, catalpas and cottonwoods turning yellow, elms already shedding their leaves, Virginia creeper and poison ivy neon red, clinging to trunks and branches. The gravel road wound between marshy areas. We saw a couple of deer grazing in beds of cattails, only their heads showing, looking like the heads of sea monsters gazing gravely at us from the thick mats of plants. 


Stephen also spotted a raccoon that vanished in a twinkle almost as soon as he pointed it out. Red-tailed hawks perched ponderously on treetops and vultures circled overhead.


At the head of the nature trail, we stopped, and Stephen and I were bundled off to walk the trail and bring back a thorough report of whatever wildlife we saw, while my mother and grandmother sat in the shade and waited. 


The woods were cool and beautiful. Huge withered catalpa leaves on the ground like discarded terrapin shells. We went out on the overlook to see the birds on the lake. Through the telescope we saw several pelicans with their ungainly heads tucked under their wings, a lineup of great white egrets and great blue herons fishing, and flocks and flocks of ducks and avocets skimming the water. 


Later, I sneezed, and a big brown bird, probably an owl, swooped down the tunnel under the trees above the path. Stephen spotted a doe and her fawn further along. We stopped and stared at them, and they raised their long necks and stared at us. They watched us unblinkingly as we stalked over the bed of silver cottonwood leaves. We were fairly close when the doe flicked her tail, and they galloped away into the trees.


We walked down to the grove of catalpa trees, which was eerie and beautiful. Catalpas can be such odd looking trees--they look as though they belong somewhere tropical because their leaves are so big. Along the path were huge fallen trunks like dinosaur bones. Overhead, cottonwoods going yellow were swathed in crimson creeper.


We ate lunch at the picnic shelter where mother dear and Grammy had been waiting for us. It was quite pleasant. Then we drove over to the dam. Of course we had to stop to explore a couple of the camp sites along the way. At the dam, Grammy stayed in the car, but the rest of us got out and climbed around. A great blue heron was fishing on one of the spillways. The air was full of seagulls, weaving around each other, wings flashing. At the top of the dam there was a flat barren space looking out toward the lake. Desolate, the salt flats a white stripe far away on the horizon.


Down on the red water of the river, three pelicans were fishing. They swam up the river, then turned and let it carry them downstream, dipping their beaks in sync into the water. 


Eventually, we drove through Jet over to the salt flats. Grammy had never seen them before and was absolutely amazed. They are an eerie sight: bare, white as snow, stretching away at water level so that you can't tell what is mirage and what is lakeshore in the distance. 


She stayed in the car, and again the rest of us got out and, armed with shovel and bucket, essayed the salt flats. By scooping just under the surface, we found crystals. The wind wasn't as strong today as it had been last time. We squatted in silence, speaking softly, the great open plain stretching terrifying away around us under a fierce blue sky. Crystals shone like glass in the sand. 


After about half-an-hour, we drove back to Stillwater. The car was very quiet. I read, and we listened to Bach. Stark contrast to the little battered towns through which we passed--nothing grand or Baroque about them, their stiff misery, empty storefronts and deserted houses. 


We were home by about half four.

Now Playing: Andrew Peterson, "Redemption Letters, Vol. II.," "Hosanna".

Pictures from the OSU Botanical Gardens on Monday here.

Pictures from today's expedition to Great Salt Plains here.

SRPC campout happened last night at Lake Carl Blackwell. Mr. C built a nice big campfire at one of the camp sites. The wee kids ran around everywhere, squealing and poking along the lake shore, while the older kids disappeared to play a game of ultimate frisbee somewhere. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the middle of the proceedings, it began to sprinkle. The result was some slightly damp napkins and this rainbow.

 I told a story to these three little goons in one of the big tents. They only sat still for about ten seconds at a time. Most of the time, they were zipping and unzipping the window flaps, playing with a broom, and telling each other to be quiet. 

 

Now Playing: Mozart, Requiem, "Benedictus".

Another one of those cheesy cat-and-computer shots so popular among people who fancy themselves to be creative types.

This, however, is the people-eating (not people-pleasing) cat, Annie. The one, Emmaline, who was sneaking around my room earlier today. 

Shortly after I took this photo she jumped into my chair and decided to stalk me.

 

Now Playing: Andrew Peterson, "Love and Thunder", "High Noon".

Miss these friends!

Spent all day today revising for the GRE, o joyous activity. In the morning, took a practice test, and in the afternoon, read chapter after chapter of The Princeton Review's guide to this wonderful exam. If I ever write a book, there shall be a mock heroic account of the hero doing battle with a fearsome standardized test monster.

Our cat Annie likes to jump up onto my windowsill and look out the window while I'm working. She bathes herself and sleeps up there, and wakes up if she hears the slightest sound outside. I'm a little bit afraid that someday she'll pull a boy-in-the-window trick as in the Book of Acts and fall out during one of her naps.

I've decided to make a tour of my music collection this fall and listen to it from start to finish. There are a lot of albums that I don't listen to at all, so it's high time for me to become reacquainted with whatever I have floating around in iTunes.

Ruth and I presented about our RP missions trips on Sunday. Hooray for Lorna and her straighteners! Petros's hair will never be the same (especially after that last haircut right before we left!). It was good to get to talk about what happened in Cyprus. I miss full time missions work. Maybe it's not really because I miss the actual service but because it made me feel good. Such is my heart. After I've been reading about God's grace, I come to God with my requests for the day and for my friends and relatives. And instead of asking purely with faith, expecting to receive whatever God decides is best, I come rationalizing, editing, choosing my words so that they'll be as pleasing as possible and make me look as good as possible. Prayer has become very difficult, especially, for some reason, after reading C.S. Lewis's Screwtape Letters. I'm afraid that I'm just praying to the page. But how do I know for sure? Christ promises that we will ask the Father and that He will hear our requests because He loves us. But the enemy in my head whispers doubts constantly while I'm trying to pray so that praying becomes an effort, slogging it out, never sure whether I'm supposed to be "relying on the Spirit" or "excercising my responsibility", or something in between. 

Don't we all just love the tensions of the Christian life?

Now Playing: "Artificial Animals Riding on Neverland".

Good visit to Tulsa this weekend.

Philip and I hatched nefarious schemes on Thursday afternoon. Tara and I sat on the Bs' front porch and ate watermelon with their wee girls (except for the one who doesn't like watermelon, who pedaled a red tricycle around the porch) on Friday morning.

I ate lunch with Alyson--oh, how I've missed that absolutely deliciously gourmet ACAC food--on Friday and went to Woodward Park with Amy in the afternoon. I made the acquaintance of Amy's and Hannah's new cat, Piglet.

Amanda, Tara, and I ate at the restaurant where Crystal works on Thursday night, and on Friday night I met Alisha at the coffee shop, where we relaxed and poked quiet fun of some guy playing an awful piece on the out-of-tune piano.

Jenny and I visited the Farmer's Market this morning, and she bought an exuberant bouquet of zinnias, and we smelled packets of spices and taste-tested hot peppers (she did, anyway). Crystal bought the first Harry Potter book for me at the Ps' yard sale, and I talked poetry with Matt at Doubleshot in the afternoon.

Amanda, Tara, and I ate a late picnic lunch in Woodward Park under the big old oak trees before I came back to Stillwater.

Now Playing: Harry Gregson-Williams, The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian soundtrack, "The Door in the Air".

Decided that it was too late to fill out graduate school applications, but not too late to blog. Go figure.

I spent the morning studying for the GRE, of course. The Hs came over so that my mother could help wee David with his reading. During lunch, my mother, Stephen, and I started to watch the old BBC Bleak House TV series.

On Sunday, Ruth and I are supposed to present about our RPM teams this past summer, so after lunch I went over my presentation a couple of times. I'm always so paranoid about being too long and too boring that when I actually read the presentation through, it was just barely long enough.

Going back over the photos and experiences from Cyprus has been really good, though, as a reminder of God's faithfulness. I saw God answer prayers spectacularly, immediately there: saw Him provide food for our weekend when we hadn't thought there was enough money, saw Him convert a guy who'd been sitting on the fence with regards to the faith, saw Him stirring the young people to ask questions about the Bible, saw Him protect us and provide grace for us.

Yesterday in my quiet time I read Psalm 136 with the refrain "His steadfast love endures forever". From Creation to the Exodus, God's love has been fastened on His people. He loves us patiently, persistently, powerfully. It's awesome to remember that the power that called the sun and stars into existence loves us.

In the afternoon, I ran errands. Stillwater is such an odd town. I drove down to the bank that we've gone to since I was less than five years old. Now I go there myself to cash my own checks. The teller, Charlotte, talks to me about the weather.

Then I walked across the street to the post office to post a letter to Catherine. I miss being able to walk to the post office in ACAC at TU. I have to drive all the way downtown to send international post now, and the post office is always absolutely packed with people standing in line.

The main excitement of the afternoon was gift hunting, though. I poked my nose into Murphy's, where the three shopkeepers were gossiping by the cash register. They let me browse among the colorful kitchenware unmolested. Then I went down to Elite Repeat, just out of curiosity. Mrs. O, our next door neighbor, was behind the counter. She asked me how Laura is doing--she has a particular soft spot for Laura.

Then I went over to Hallmark. I persisted past the racks of greeting cards to the far corner of the shop. Stationery and journals. Beautiful, beautiful things. Textiles, jewelry, and well-made printed matter--some of my favorite indulgences in life. I found some gorgeous journals.

Further down the street, I visited The Beadery. They have cats, sitting among the elegant bureaus and wardrobes and mirrors and racks full of jewelry.

Then I drove up Main Street. Turned at the art gallery. On one side of the street is a scooter shop, where rednecks and hip-hop types were working together on an ATV. Across the street is the international food market, which largely stocks Middle Eastern and Indian foods. I did manage to find a couple of boxes of PG Tips tea, though.

At home again, dragging my feet, I started to work on graduate school applications at last. Just then, of course, my mother called us for an early tea. My father and Stephen drive an hour north to Ponca City every Tuesday and Thursday for basketball practice now, and they have to leave at six o'clock.

Sarah and I met at the Marble Slab, over by OSU, this evening. It was a busy place tonight. Group after group kept coming in: sorority girls, guys from Countryside Baptist college group, families, couples, freshmen, giggling, greeting each other noisily.

Sarah and I ordered our ice cream and sat at a side table for an hour-and-a-half or so, talking. It got dark outside quickly. At about half eight, we walked around campus for awhile. Campus was quiet tonight. Everyone seemed to be studying in the library. We walked past the Student Union and Gundersen Hall, along behind the Civil Engineering Laboratory and the Library, past the Botany Department/Arts and Sciences Offices (we could see plants growing in a lab through a window), and onto the porch of the library. We walked down the lawn to the Student Union. We went up and stood on the balcony, looking at the dark formal gardens. The bell in the library tower struck nine o'clock.

When I got home, I had to weave my way through half-a-dozen spiderwebs hung along our front porch. My mother was sitting alone in the living room, knitting. We talked until the guys came home.

The wind outside slides through the trees, stroking the windchimes across the streets, and crickets purr gently.

Now Playing: Felix Mendelssohn, "Overture: The Hebrides".

Mendelssohn and Vivaldi both always put me in a good mood. Such joyful music.

Time for a change of layout, I felt. Still can't get rid of that lime green, though.

Now Playing: Brahms, Violin Concerto in D, Op. 77, "Adagio".

An adagio seems appropriate for a day like this. Early September, always full of the high, sharp-edged hum of crickets in the grass, like the whir of a bicycle chain. Sky is overcast, as it has been for most of the week, and all the windows are open.

I finally managed to make a start on all those applications this week. So far I have three of ten forms filled out and one fairly solid draft of a personal statement. At least, I hope it's fairly solid. We'll see what the professorial types say when they get their hands on it. Despite having graduated, I still live in awe of my undergraduate advisor and her pencil.

As usually happens when I've been away somewhere and come back, a foolish prodigal idea has crept into my head. And as also usually happens, it's taken about a year to work its way into the blinding light of day. (If anyone is counting, this is a record, because when I decided to cut my hair nice and short, that had been about six years in the making at least.)

I've decided to paint "my" room. Yellow, as a matter of fact. We'll see if it actually happens or not, though at this point I'm determined enough that it just might. Need some paint, a roller, loads of newspapers, a steamer and other unsavory items for stripping wallpaper, and probably some help. Don't worry, father dear, you won't be asked to paint: just move the dresser over there.... And would you mind managing the bed and all those bookshelves, too?

I'm thinking of making some curtains while I'm at it. Green? Yes, please. That way it will look like spring in November.

Of course this will all take time and effort and money, which I'm currently rather short on. The curtains may have to wait. But it's amusing to think about anyway.

On Wednesday I fished around and found a volume of The Well-Tempered Clavier downstairs in the basket by the piano. I tried to play Prelude No. 2, and was shocked by the state of my piano abilities. It has been over ten years, I guess, since I played seriously. Still!

Not to mention the fact that my poor family will probably get sick and tired of hearing me play Bach. Bach on the piano, Bach on the flute, with a little Vivaldi thrown in for good measure. Nothing like Baroque music to cheer things up. I'm not much one for crash-and-bang Romantic stuff, not to play, though I don't mind listening to it (as the current music choice shows).

Tomorrow is Sunday. With typical human attitude, I want my rest today, not tomorrow. To-do lists and I have a love-hate relationship. Their tyranny depresses me when I don't get as much done as I planned, but writing down everything I have to do helps me pretend that I have already done it, which alleviates stress. Always a good thing.

So now I'm going to cross "blog" off my list and write some e-mails.

Now Playing: Andrew Peterson, "Love and Thunder", Track 3.

I'm not entirely sure why I'm bothering to post on here. Today I meant to start filling out the basics of graduate school applications, but I didn't even begin to bookmark them online. So much for making a good start, though this is just the beginning of the week.

Listening to Andrew Peterson in the evening has become my m.o. so far this fall. I wake up with his songs running through my head, songs about grace.

It's become increasingly evident that I don't understand grace at all. For months and months I've been trying to do the right thing. It's always in the back of my mind. Have I prayed with exactly the right mixture of truth and emotion? Have I participated with every ounce of my being in the worship service? Have I thought about God every moment today? Are my motives completely pure?

Of course this leads to a battle with assurance. Christ said, "Seek and you will find, knock and the door will be opened to you." In my quiet times I've been working through a list of the names of Christ, trying to know Him better. Last week I came to John 6, Christ as the Bread of Life. My father read that chapter to me when I came to him one night, teary-eyed, a little girl asking for help.

I have the same question of that chapter now as then, but it's not as easily answered: "Am I saved?" Now the question is complicated: "Have I come to Christ truly? Have I really and truly looked for Him?" Haunted by Hebrews 12 and the words about Esau who could not find repentance, "though he sought it diligently, with tears".

That response doesn't understand grace--at least, I don't think it does. Does my salvation rest on my coming to Christ, or on the work of Christ? The two are so closely intertwined, faith and salvation to faith, that I can't separate them. What if I don't have that faith?

None of this is helped by an undefinable sense of failure. The culture informs me in no uncertain terms that I'm a loser, someone with a B.A. who's living at home, and jobless for now. Which creates guilt, shame, loneliness, and resentment. An event in my life that I didn't plan isn't very flattering to my sense of control.

The "what ifs" crowd around. What if the relationships had gone smoothly? What if I had found some awesome missions opportunity for the year? If this time is part of God's plan, it feels completely unreasonable, almost petty. There's nothing grand or wonderful about it, just the challenge of obedience to the mundane.

In the end, though, I think it's basically a matter of perspective based on a misunderstanding of grace. If I understood the grace of God, I would know, as Mr. C puts it, that every day is God's gift to me; that what I have today is the very best thing God could give me for today.

Like the woman at the well, I'm thirsty but too confused to recognize the Savior sitting in front of me.

I've been missing the

WHITE RABBITS.