Now Playing: Fearings!

23 December 2009. Slept in until half eight this morning, when certain high-pitched voices started to twitter in the schoolroom. I ate breakfast downstairs. Aunt Lisa was knitting in the dining room, and Andrew drifted down eventually, and Anna followed suit. We were sitting and chatting pleasantly when Stephen poked his head into the room and said, “E, I think Moochy is out of the yard and is running up and down the easement.” I dashed outside, and Moochy came bounding up to me. Stephen held her, I roped the gate shut, and we put the dog back inside the gate. About half-an-hour later, Ross returned from a run around Boomer Lake. “This black-and-white dog followed me halfway. It looked both ways and then ran across the street, and it followed me until it got distracted by the geese,” he said. O, the adventures of Moochy….

After lunch, Laura, Lillian, and Annalee went ice skating with Bridget and Abigail. Ross started to make lasagna noodles for tonight, using my mother's pasta press and Mary’s help. Anna and I went with Uncle Kirk, Philip, Andrew, Peter, and Stephen to Boomer Lake to play frisbee golf and walk Moochy. The morning had been overcast and chilly but not cold; the afternoon was overcast with a rising North wind. The cold was becoming bitter. The boys walked across the hill to start on the course, and Anna and I walked on north around the lake. We only went as far as the second bridge, but as we started down the path, an enormous hawk fell out of a tree with a big pigeon clutched in its talons. It dropped the pigeon and glared at us from the top of a lamppost; we were so close that I could look right up into its great yellow-rimmed eye.

We were the only ones at the lake. Anna and I turned around and walked back up the hill, rejoining the guys, who were starting the fourth hole. A red SUV drove past slowly a couple of times, the passengers gaping at us, and a couple of black cars with tinted windows also circled by before stopping to park under a tree. It was a bit creepy. We had been sauntering happily around the course, but then we picked up our pace, crossed the inlet, and went up the hill by the playground, away from the road. Moochy was enjoying herself thoroughly. Philip egged her on so that she wrapped Uncle Kirk in several loops of leash, and then he teased her to start chasing him, with the result that Uncle Kirk stumbled mildly and then extricated himself. Andrew decided to try the trick himself—but instead of winding anyone in loops of leash, Andrew tripped, fell, and ended up in a ball on the grass, Moochy enthusiastically licking his face, butting her nose through his crossed arms. We stood round and laughed at him. He was laughing, too.

We walked on, a loose knot. Anna and I trailed behind the boys, encouraging them or laughing at bad throws. When they got to the hole at the top of the hill by the ROTC building, I started to feel chilled, so Anna and I walked home. Anna, Peter, and Andrew sat on the sofa, reading Sheldon comics. I curled up with them, and Mary came and fell asleep sprawled across our laps. We giggled and giggled. Stephen squeezed onto the sofa beside us. My mother was quietly reading her Bible at the living room table; Philip was playing a game on his computer upstairs; Ross and Aunt Lisa were cooking. The house felt very quiet. The four or five of us sat on the sofa reading about Sheldon, Arthur, and Dante for about two hours, while Mary napped on our laps.

The girls came back from skating, and the house was full, warm, and noisy again. We ate tea at about six o’clock. After, while Philip, Ross, Peter, and Annalee were playing spades, the rest of us convened in an arc in the living room to watch “A Lesson in Murder” from Season 1 of Foyle’s War. Anna, Laura, and I had seen it before and relished everyone’s reaction when they recognized David Tennant. The episode ended at about ten, and Anna went home to meet her family.

After she left, people started to go to bed. Mary kept popping downstairs to say good-night or get a drink, but finally all the wee jack-in-the-boxes were put to sleep. Aunt Lisa, Ross, Uncle Kirk, and I sat in the living room talking until about eleven o’clock with Stephen and Peter. Aunt and uncle make one feel included but also carefree, relaxed, at ease. Finally I got up and turned out the lights, and we went to bed—except the boys, who are playing computer games in Philip’s room. The wind is picking up outside. Tomorrow is supposed to be a blizzard.

Only two waitresses today at the restaurant, A and me, so I opened up by myself for the most part. Just as I was dragging the heavy wooden noticeboard out onto the footpath outside the restaurant, preparing to turn on the "OPEN" sign, an SUV pulled up, and a couple of people walked in. They turned out to be the first of a three-hour lunch rush, which lasted steadily into the afternoon, and picked up again even after a lull.
Now the words "three-hour lunch rush" sound innocent enough in themselves, like some nice little ditty, comparable to Gilligan's Island's "three hour tour." However, when there are only two waitresses and three cooks, the lunch rush becomes a hurricane that practically demolishes the restaurant. Codes of conduct such as "Set the customers' table before bringing out their food," "Check back with the customers a couple of times during the meal," and "Ensure that drinks are filled at all times," are swept away with the flotsam and jetsam of empty straw wrappers, dirty plates, and soiled napkins.

(I hope, dear reader, that you are not taking this overblown rhetoric completely seriously.)

And so we were very nearly literally run off our feet today for a large portion of the shift. A party of ten and a party of seven came in at almost exactly the same time; meanwhile, the booths were filling rapidly, and the phone was ringing incessantly with take-out orders to be processed. Someone had spilled lettuce and tomatoes in the kitchen walkway, and the ice bin was practically empty.

A and I raced around, run, run, run, with trays of drinks and plates of food, trying to keep everyone happy. After, since A and I were the only ones working, we had to split the cleaning, so I worked until four o'clock cloroxing tables, refilling sugar boxes, etc. At four o'clock, I drove downtown to meet Sarah, Rachel, and Laura, who wanted to ice skate on the temporary rink that has been set up in a side street next to the old Katz building.

The rink was fairly busy. A fringe of children stumbled and crashed and giggled along periphery. Teens and adults skated confidently around the centre. An Asian man was helping his wee daughter learn how to skate; a couple of girls were clinging to each other, laughing; one wee boy kept crashing into the bit of wall adjacent to me. Every so often, Sarah, Rachel, and Laura would stop in their mad careen (hardly!) and shout to me across the racket of Christmas carols being played from a cheap speaker system.

After tea, Philip came home at about half six. Laura and I took Moochy for a walk. The night was practically balmy by the standards of the past month. Stars were gorgeous. At home, Sarah had come over to watch Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. Philip hasn't seen any of the Harry Potter films yet and wants to. I showered quickly, and then all of us except my father went upstairs. We set ourselves up in the schoolroom and settled down to watch the film.

I have a special affection for the Harry Potter films. They are to my college experience what The Lord of the Rings was to my highschool experience (though of course LOTR is far, far, far better). Since the time I was first introduced--thanks to Lottie's widescreen TV, Tara, Alisha, a basilisk, and a phoenix--I've been fascinated by the creatures especially. I also appreciate that Rowling's bad guys are truly bad and use the same language about power, manipulation, and the lack of right/wrong as do classical villains.

However, the first film also reminds me of all the things that annoy me about Harry Potter. The evil of the villains has no clear good to balance it. Harry's goodness is definitely exaggerated. Indeed, Rowling's muse seems to express itself in exaggeration--I am always disgusted by the Dursleys, not because they are disgusting necessarily but because they seem to me to be unnecessarily grotesque, like images in a carnival mirror. It also bothers me that the main "good" characters are repeatedly rewarded for transgressing. The sheer disrespect of the "good" characters calls into question their goodness and why they are so different from the bad characters. "The end justifies the means" appears to be be the moral of the story on a foundational level.

But all of this has been said before and can be argued for or against. Suffice it to say that I enjoyed watching the first one again and introducing Philip, Laura, and Stephen to the world and its inhabitants. In the middle, we took a break for family worship, then went back upstairs to finish it. I'd forgotten how long the first one is: it was after eleven o'clock before we were done. Sarah went home, and the rest of us went to bed.

Now Playing: Tchaikovsky, The Nutcracker Suite, "Waltz of the Snowflakes."

The Mr. Darcy Dance at the Cs' ball last night.

Dancing the Dashing White Sergeant.

Sarah and me

TU people! Matt, Joseph, Grant, Stephen; Tara, Syneva, Amanda, Rachel, me, Nicole

More photos from the ball here.

Now Playing: Casting Crowns, "Praise You In This Storm."

18 December 2009.

This afternoon, just as I was putting the last few things in my car to go to Ponca City for the Cs' ball this evening, Sarah pulled up. She's going with me. I helped her pack everything, and we pulled out. The drive to Ponca scares and awes me: open fields cut with erosion gullies and an unbroken sky from horizon to horizon, unmediated, terrifying.

We arrived at the Cs' house early, at five o'clock. Jacob informed us that everyone was still at the Hutchins, decorating the hall for tonight. Sarah and I sat quietly in the living room, chatting and petting the cat, Jasmine. Jacob told us eventually to take our things upstairs, and then Nicole arrived, and then the Cs all came piling in through the back door. Sarah, Nicole, and I sat at the table in the small dining room, eating soup and bread and talking about Christmas plans. Syneva and Stefni had disappeared to splice music for tonight.

After we ate, we went upstairs to Syneva's room. The three of us changed clothes in there. When we came down, the three of us piled into my car, and we followed the guys (Matt, Stephen, Joseph, Grant) to the auditorium.

The night was very chilly, and we were shivering as we scampered up the sidewalk and through the glass doors. Inside, the big auditorium had been decorated like last year with reindeer, sleigh, poinsettias, lights, and enormous Christmas tree on the stage. Beautiful, elegant. Before the dancing began, we stood about in awkward knots, talking. Amanda and Rachel K were there, and they joined our wee circle.

At a quarter past seven, Mannheim Steamroller came on, and Syneva lined us all up for the grand march. Approximately a hundred twenty-five people came to the ball this year, so the grand march was slower than usual, though I was still dragged along, running, at certain points. The tunnel was extremely long; Joseph and I were scurrying under people's upraised arms for ages, it seemed. The curves and windings and tunnels and arches eventually unlaced themselves, and we magically resolved into an enormous circle on the dance floor. Mr. C welcomed us all, and the dance began.

We danced mostly old favorites: Scottish Wheel, Virginia Reel (like Strip-the-Willow, only less spinning), Fairfield Fancy, Dashing White Sergeant (have fun making hey!), Waves of Tory, Mr. Darcy, Posties, Broom Waltz, Polka. Three new ones this year: Dancing Priest, Joys of Quebec, and Preston. Joys of Quebec was a contradance, which felt like all the dances spliced together in a new way.

The dance seemed to go by astonishingly quickly. Part of that was the fact that we spent more time this year walking through the dances without music since there were more people who didn't know them. Syneva said that she left out a whole set because they ran out of time.

Sitting in the stands, I had a lovely view of the whole affair. The irregular pentagonal floor outlined with hanging Christmas lights, the enormous tree towering on the stage, hung with bronze and gold ornaments, and the elegant, orderly sets of dancers. I love the pattern of these dances, the logic, the rhythm. There are certain definite patterns that are shuffled in different ways for each dance, so that a night of English dancing is like becoming part of a living kaliedoscope, tracing the patterns in an endless variety of orders, all logical, lovely. The Sicilian circle, the long lines, the advance-and-retire, the spins, the genteel star, the circling left or right.... As formal, as reassuring, as elegant as the pattern of veins in a leaf or the order of stars in a constellation.

After the last Posties, everyone joined hands in a big circle--though not quite as large now because many people had left. It was after half ten. Everyone sang the doxology. Then Syneva turned on swing dancing music. Tara was practically dancing in place before Stephen invited her to dance with him. It was fun to watch Matt and Syneva dance together. They're both very, very good and love what they do.

Eventually, people started to leave. We took our usual TU people photo, and other photos. I chatted with Tara about books, and with Tara, John, Jessica, and Matt N about people falling asleep while driving--! They left to drive straight back to Tulsa. It was twenty to twelve before we walked out of the auditorium into the frigid night. At the Cs' house, when I stepped out of the car, I was awed by the spread of stars overhead.

Indoors, Nicole, Sarah, and I changed into pajamas and went downstairs. The guys, Syneva, Stefni, and one of Stefni's friends were lounging around the living room. We sat up for probably an hour-and-a-half, talking. Syneva brought out a bottle of Chardonnay, and we ate brie and crackers and pizzelles. Matt, true to form, had plenty of ideas for starting random conversations. We talked about our ideal house, the ideal location for said house, and how we could name children after monuments or historic events.

We were all very relaxed, and as the evening went on, the silences lengthened and deepened. Syneva laughed that this was the annual "Stare at each other after the ball" event, but it was very, very good to relax and chat.

By about half one, Stephen and Joseph were both practically asleep, and Matt was, too. Syneva took the hint. All of the girls went into the kitchen to put the food away, and we ended up eating cookies and talking for a wee bit longer before going upstairs to bed. Nicole and Sarah slept in Syneva's bed, and I slept on the floor.

Now Playing: Andrew Peterson, "After the Last Tear Falls."

My alarm woke me out of a deep, dream-filled sleep, like shooting up through dark water past iridescences. At nine o’clock I went to the FRC to meet Huhee. We worked on kitchen words today: I brought a bunch of utensils and dishes, and we worked on learning basic nouns and verbs.

Afterward, I sat in the car and finished chapter 5 of Burroughs. Sunshine slanting through the window kept my legs warm, though a frigid north wind was scouring out of a scraped-clean powder blue sky. I asked myself why I’m not happy and realized that I may not have the “freedom” I think I want, but I’m not using a basic freedom I actually do have—the freedom to rejoice in Jesus Christ.

At half ten, I drove to Crepe Myrtle for work. Today was steady again, busier than yesterday—at one point nearly every available seat was taken. I took a big table at first, and when they paid one of the receipts didn’t print, so after the lunch rush, Laurel told me that it looked as though one of the people hadn’t paid. If someone doesn’t pay, I have to pay, so I was cleaning, trying not to be too distressed, when she told me that she had found the missing transaction after all. I need to be objective, but I find that I'm even more sensitive at work to people's likes and dislikes. I want to make it all perfect, to be the best, smoothest server--of course. No room for grace in my world....

I finished cleaning early, before three o’clock, and went home. Moochy trotted up to the gate to watch me pull into the driveway the way she always does. Clutching my bag and pots and pans on one arm, I checked the box for post and found an envelope with the ETS stamp. My legs started to shake. I set everything down at my feet and ripped open the envelope, cold fingers fumbling with the folds. At first I stared at it, unable to believe what I was seeing. Far better than even the good score I’d gotten on the practice exam. I was too numb to do anything but tremble. God provides, God provides, God provides. I don’t understand why He keeps providing in my dumb, beast-like way (Psalm 73), but He holds my hand.

Amy had organized a surprise 21st birthday party for Catherine this evening (this evening over there, 3:30 p.m. here) and had invited me to come via Skype. So I settled down with half a bagel and my webcam in my room, afternoon sunshine slanting, dazzling, through the windows. So strong that it whited out the webcam at one point. The screen became a window into a wee room in Belfast, where a group of people (some of whom I knew, some of whom I didn't) were hiding in the dark, waiting for Catherine to arrive. Stephen had me practice "hiding", and Rosemary, Stephen, and Emmaline all informed me that I sounded very Northern Irish--! I watched the silhouettes moving around in the gloom and laughed.

Catherine finally did come, and we all shouted "Surprise!" and laughed at her appropriately surprised expression.... I sat by my laptop for most of the rest of the afternoon, watching the proceedings. Gareth had been trying to make me flinch by snapping party poppers in front of the camera, so I scared him by putting the guinea pig up to the webcam. Annie also made an appearance, albeit a squirming, disgusted one.

After my mother left, I sat and chatted with Gareth, with Naomi, with Daphne briefly. Faces poignantly vivid through the computer-generated haze. It was so, so strange to know myself to be present only as virtual reality to them--to know that I was a weird blue sheen in the corner to the people who didn't know me, and a reduced, two-dimensional version of myself even to the ones who do. I wonder if that's how Christ felt on earth, stripped of His divine glory (not to minimize His humanity; it's a bad analogy). And it was strange to have these people, so dear to me, transmuted into shadows, silhouettes, at best blurred portraits of themselves--photos of friends eerily aged, metamorphosed into Caravaggios.

Anyway, after a group of people left, the girls who were left played games. I was on Amy, Charlotte, and Rosemary's team. Then they took photos and managed to put the laptop in one of them so that I saw a digital photograph of all of them and a laptop in one corner, which was even weirder.

Then it was tea time.... Outside, the furious white blaze of afternoon through bare trees had dwindled to cobalt, still pure, still intense. All four of us were there for tea tonight, and afterward, we watched a Jeeves and Wooster episode. Annie jumped up on the stove and ate part of the casserole my mother had made! When I went upstairs, I had a missed call from Sarah, so I chatted with her on the phone for a bit.

After I talked to Sarah, I talked to Anna for awhile about random nonsense. Sat on the floor and read names of British birds to her, talked about Sutcliff and Churchill, about Latin and Greek, about her stories, the mess in her room, our families' very different approaches to going on holiday (her family plans almost nothing; mine plans everything). Then it was time for family worship, so I went downstairs.

After family worship, back upstairs again. Graduate school application submission time! I turned in eight applications tonight, all at once, plunging into deep water and paddling up to the surface breathless. Peter got on Skype. Now I'm sitting bleary-eyed, staring at the screen, listening to Andrew Peterson, Coldplay, and Tenth Avenue North.

Now Playing: Beethoven, Violin Concerto. (My other favorite violin concerto....)

If you would, please pray: I need test scores and letters of recommendation to arrive within the next six days in order to submit applications on time. God has proved His timing perfect before, and I need to trust that He will do so again, whether it looks that way from my perspective at the moment or not.

Now Playing: Felix Mendelssohn, Violin Concerto.

It appears to be the general trend for blogs to shake themselves off at the end of November like dogs emerging from a cold lake: "Well, glad we got that over with." (See Alistair, James, and co., Anna, Rachel, Jenny, Annalee, and even Asher.)

When I woke up this morning, it had been raining. The rose-and-gold colored leaves of the sweetgum tree outside my window were tipped with ice.

Showed up to work at half ten. I was three minutes early (score!), so instead of sitting in the car and trying to sip down the last few mouthfuls of hot Punjana, I rang Sarah to see how her revision is going. Her final for nursing is tomorrow morning.

O and I were the only two waitresses working this morning. The lunch rush began at noon today and only lasted for half-an-hour. I felt as though I could still breathe (for the most part), which was unusual. All my customers were kind. A couple of guys who came in yesterday came in today with a friend. They always order the same meal, right down to the drinks, but their friend kept asking me if we had beer and if he could bring some in from the club next door.

The lunch rush subsided quickly. I successfully checked out my last customers and started cleaning. Not having to deal with the soft drink machine today, cleaning went much more quickly, and O invited me to eat with her.

O and the cooks ended up leaving, so I finished my salad alone. The restaurant was empty except for the two bosses and the afternoon cook. I drove to the post office to post Christmas cards to the McCs and the Ws in N.I. Waiting in a line that ran out the door, I started A Ring of Endless Light, which Tara had lent me.

At home, I changed clothes quickly and took the dog around San Borne Lake. The afternoon was dramatic with the morbid flair of winter: brown-and-grey fields made even more dismal by soaking rain, low dark clouds racing across the sky, strokes of pale light glancing on black branches. No birds in the woods today except for a flock of mallards sheltering in the lee of some trees on the water. The dog raced and sniffed, zig-zagging, yo-yoing ahead and behind.

At home again, I sat on the floor and talked to Nicole on the phone for forty-five minutes. Intense but refreshing. Just as my mother called upstairs to say that tea was ready, we said good-bye. Annie chased a twistie all over the dining room floor during tea. Insane animal. My father and Stephen went to basketball practice in Ponca tonight, as usual. Having nothing else to do, it's become something of a tradition for my mother and me (and Sarah, when she's free) to watch a film on Tuesday evenings. Tonight, my mother and I settled down in the study to watch Prince Caspian.

I've written e-mails and uploaded photos to Facebook. My father and Stephen are home now. Outside the wind roars up the street, howling, a great, eerie endless booming in the bare trees. It whistles in the screen and moans like a siren under the door. It even stirs the curtains hanging over the window.

Indicative of my life for the past few months is the fact that when I tried to upload this photo, the browser popped up with my most recently uploaded file: a writing sample for Yale! Anyway, this is our high school girls' Bible study cookie baking party at our house last week. Good times, especially when Sarah tried to feed Anna a spoonful of icing.

This last weekend I was in Tulsa for Esther's wedding, which was wonderful. A reunion of old TU friends. I stayed with Tara and got to spend a whole afternoon/evening with Philip and Alyson. Syneva was in town for the event: Tara, Syneva, and Alisha played for the wedding.

More photos on Facebook are here.

Wheee.... White rabbit, everyone!

Some slightly jumbled quotes/distillations from the last three chapters of "Spiritual Depression: Its Causes and Cure" by Martyn Lloyd-Jones. One of the most beneficial, gentle, straightforward, honest Christian books I have ever read.

When filled with worry: Come to God in prayer. First, use worship/adoration to come face-to-face with God. Second, use supplication to bring your problems to God. Then, use thanksgiving to praise God for being your Father, for loving you so much that even your hairs are numbered.
The Gospel is concerned about you, not your circumstances! God promises that “you will be kept in peace in spite of” your circumstances. He is the one who is going to do something—not you, not your prayer. This peace works by showing you Jesus Christ. God cannot forsake you!
It does not matter what you’re worrying about: “Be careful for nothing, but in everything, by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God.” In everything, no matter how big or small. (“The Peace of God”, Spiritual Depression, L-J)

You are to be self-sufficient, independent, free, no matter what your circumstances. The apostle Paul was “not mastered or controlled by circumstances. By all means if you can improve your circumstances by fair and legitimate means, do so; but if you cannot, and if you have to remain in a trying and difficult position, do not be mastered by it, do not let it get you down, do not let it control you, do not let it determine your misery or your joy.”
I do not depend for my happiness upon what is happening to me.
Remember these steps:
Conditions are always changing, therefore I must obviously not be dependent upon conditions.
What matters supremely and vitally is my soul and my relationship to God. That is the first thing.
God is concerned about me as my Father, and nothing happens to me apart from God. Even the hairs of my head are numbered. Do not forget that!
God’s will and God’s ways are a great mystery, but I know that whatever He wills or permits is of necessity for my good.
Every situation in life is the unfolding of some manifestation of God’s love and goodness. Therefore my business is to look for this peculiar manifestation of God’s goodness and kindness and to be prepared for surprises and blessings because ‘His ways are not my ways, neither His thoughts my thoughts.’ Paul was taught through physical weakness God’s grace.
I must regard circumstances not in and of themselves but as part of God’s dealings with me in the work of perfecting my soul.
Whatever my condition may be at this present moment, they are only temporary, and they can never rob me of the joy and the glory that ultimately await me with Christ.
Learn to find your pleasure and satisfaction in Christ. (“Learning To Be Content”, Spiritual Depression, L-J)

Christ is all-sufficient for every circumstance, for every eventuality and possibility. A mighty power enters into us; it is a life that is pulsating in us. It is an activity, and an activity on the part of God. God is doing something in and through you.
Christ infuses so much strength and power into you that you are strong for all things. You are not alone, struggling against mighty odds. Great power from Christ Himself has entered you and is there as a dynamo, an energy, a strength. Not I only, not Christ only, I and Christ, Christ and I, two of us.
Use the indirect approach! I must get to know and concentrate on knowing Christ. I must read the Bible, exercise, practice my faith in all its fullness. Abiding is active.
God controls the supply and the power. He infuses it.
Do not agonize in prayer beseeching God for power. Do what He has told you to do. Live the Christian life. Pray, and meditate on Him. Spend time with Him and ask Him to manifest Himself to you. And as long as you do that you can leave the rest to Him. He will give you strength…. He knows us better than we know ourselves, and according to our need so will be our supply. (“The Final Cure”, Spiritual Depression, L-J)

Now Playing: Canned Heat, "Going Up The Country."

Look it up on YouTube and find some pretty ridiculous videos! Courtesy The Blind Side, which has this song during the credits.

We're missing Laura, Keith, and Will, who flew out this morning from Tulsa. I've been writing letters, Facebook messages, and blog posts most of the day and reading Spiritual Depression. We raked eleven bags of leaves.

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.