pictures

Last night was the RUF Christmas Formal. Pictures are up on photobucket.

Enjoy!

college snow day (11_30_06)

Now Playing: Beethoven's Symphony No. 5.

This morning when Rachel and I woke up, it was snowing outside. Light snow, snow on the ground, grass poking through like thin fingers. I rattled out yesterday’s journal entry, then stopped downstairs in Nicole and Mary’s room for prayer. Mary had already left for an exam, but Rachel and Nicole were there, sipping tea. We shared prayer requests and prayed. Then I ventured out into the snow. Not really snow yet: pellets of ice, rattling against the sidewalk and the trees and my face. I hunched my neck down into my coat and plowed along. I went to ACAC and met with Mr. K for an hour-and-a-half, until time for MAW.

Snow was still falling outside. The eleven o’clock bell rang before I even reached Lorton, but I pressed on in some despair until I bumped into Rachel, coming the opposite direction. “Class is cancelled!” she announced cheerily. “What?!” I exclaimed, thankful but miffed that I’d had to end the talk with Mr. K. Class really and truly was cancelled, so I ducked into a practice room in Tyrrell and practiced for an hour. Sleet rattled icily against the windows. I staggered over to the caf for lunch, where I met Spencer, Asher, Rachel, Amy, Crystal, Kevin, Alex, and Grant G. Everyone was sitting at one of the long rectangular tables near the athletes’ room. And everyone was in a holiday mood. Hats, mittens, scarves, gloves, boots, and coats abounded everywhere. Outside it was snowing so hard that you could hardly see the construction equipment across the street to the south. Crystal was very excited. “College snow day! College snow day!” she laughed. “Did you hear? Classes are cancelled today and tomorrow!” I could hardly believe this, but it was true. “I was singing the doxology all the way over here,” Rachel sighed happily.

After lunch, Rachel and I holed up in our room to work on papers. Just before two o’clock, Syneva suddenly appeared at our door. “I thought that instead of making you walk over to the apartment in the snow, I would just come here,” she said cheerily. She looked around our room, admiring the pictures and the quilt on my bed. “A feast for the eyes,” she sighed happily. Then she and I went down to a study lounge to leave Rachel to write in peace. As we settled ourselves on a couch, sleet banged against the windows, brittle bits pecking glass. Deeper and deeper, in endless long skeins, the snow kept falling. We talked seriously about many things. We stood at the window for awhile, watching the snow fall. Partway through our conversation, the clatter of icy sleet on the windows had softened to the whisper of true snowflakes, falling thick and fast. We’d been talking for almost two hours, so Syneva decided to go practice her piano. I walked her out, then returned to the room to work.

A short time later, the phone rang. It was Jenny H., inviting Rachel and me to come with herself and Crystal to the Penthouse (Tara-Alisha-Jenny S.’s apartment). I gladly accepted since I’d already been planning to visit Tara today. So I shut down my computer, packed up books, notebook, papers, computer, and camera, and headed downstairs, bundled in my warm clothes. Jenny H. and Crystal were just getting ready to go. Crystal had a baking sheet with her, and Jenny had scissors and paper for making snowflakes. As we stepped outside, we gasped and laughed. The north wind hit us head-on, whirling snow in our faces. Snow blew in drifts across the lawn, across the library. We trudged across the lawn through the deepest part of the snow, laughing and shouting. Snow whirling in our faces, settling on our coats, blowing into our open mouths. Snow dusting my eyelashes and my hair, winking across my camera lens. We cut through John Mabee to get warm. Jenny made a video on her camera, introducing her parents to everyone in the rooms. In David and Spencer’s room, Kevin and Mattlock were playing Wii while Amy studied. Down the hall in a study lounge, Spencer was busy working on a paper. Andrew sat outside in the hall, writing seriously. The girls lingered behind for awhile, so I had to nudge them along, out of the hall (which smelled like pizza and sweat) and into the snow again. We crunched across the street, snow squeaking under our boots. Jenny giggled with delight. She’s from Texas, so she’s never walked in this much snow before. “Texas pansy,” I joked. As we climbed the stairs to the apartment, we thumped our feet satisfyingly on each step to knock off the snow. We banged on the apartment door, and Tara opened.

Loud music blared out from inside. “Yay! A party!” Jenny S. laughed heartily as we entered. Kathryn and the two Davids were already there. David Mc. was stretched out, asleep, in front of the CD player, too exhausted to move. “He’s our David-dog, guarding our door,” Alisha joked. Jenny S., Alisha, and David Mo. decided to go outside. A few moments later, Amy joined us. Amy, Kathryn, and Jenny H. went right to work snipping out snowflakes from circles of white paper. Crystal bustled about in the kitchen, baking, while Tara hung snowflakes from the kitchen ceiling on long threads. Amy joined Crystal in the kitchen to bake cookies. Jenny and I nibbled some of the bitter chocolate dough, smacking our lips appreciatively. A string of Christmas lights glowed blue and green and yellow and pink up the wall and around the ceiling. Crystal turned off Jenny S.’s “ghetto music”, and turned on Sufjan Stevens on her laptop. The happy, pulsing music danced out of her computer—hymns and Christmas carols with bells and banjos and guitars. The apartment was warm with all the people crowded inside. The chatter and giggling of girls’ voices, the sweet smell of the cookies in the oven, Tara’s lava lamp oozing green bubbles on a desk.

I ventured outside again for awhile, slogging through the snow by myself, delighting in the whirl of flakes falling silently over trees and buildings. When I came back, I sat down on the floor to edit my Honors paper. Crystal was busy working on her Poetry paper on her laptop. Suddenly, something thumped against the window. It was, of course, a snowball, tossed by Jenny S. all the way up to the third-floor window. Tara and I ran out on the balcony. Jenny S., Alisha, and David were standing down below, laughing and throwing snowballs up at us. Tara threw one down at them. “You all should come make snow angels in the road!” Jenny S. shouted. “It’s amazing!” She demonstrated, flopping down in the middle of the street and spreading her arms, pushing the snow away. Jenny H. ran downstairs to join them. Rachel arrived a little after that. Tara, Rachel, Crystal, Amy, Kathryn, and I sat, chatting and making snowflakes, while David dozed on the floor.

Time passed quickly in the apartment, and I was very surprised to see that it was already five o’clock. The evening outside was getting dark fast. A pinkish twilight was settling over the grey world, the sky sparkling with light crystals as each flake reflected the city lights. Soon, the others banged into the apartment again. David woke David Mc., who was bleary-eyed and confused from being asleep. The two Davids went off with Kathryn. Amy and the Jennys followed. Alisha burrowed herself into her room to edit a paper. Crystal and I worked on our laptops, editing papers, while Tara studied Greek and Rachel tried to decode Edgar Allan Poe poems. The apartment was quieter now. I crunched a chocolate cookie, warm out of the oven. Crystal decided to go share someone’s pizza in John Mabee, so she left.

Rachel and I debated as to whether we should venture into the cold to investigate whether the caf was open, or if we should just stay put. Tara and Alisha flung open cupboards and the refrigerator, producing sandwiches and other edibles, but both Rachel and I were reluctant to eat their food. When Jenny H. unexpectedly reappeared to pick up her things (she’d left her scissors, cellphone, etc. in the apartment), we decided to walk with her to the caf for supper. Rachel and I bundled ourselves up and followed Jenny back into the cold. The wind whirled snow down our necks as we crunched toward the caf. Jenny laughed and sang, exhilarated and delighted. Crystals sparkled everywhere under the lights. The library was dark, closed for the evening, and I teased Rachel about her second home being shut down. Steam rose from vents in the ground, pluming on the cold air. We ran to keep warm, jogging down the sidewalk under the young sycamore trees, their shadows lying black on the white snow.

In the caf, our shoes squeaked on the tile floor as we knocked snow from them. We sat with James, Eleanor, Carl, Alex, and a couple of other guys. Amy and Mary joined us. We sat for a long time over the meal.

Rachel and I walked out of the caf together, though she went back to our room, while I continued on to the apartment alone. Back in the apartment, Crystal was busy baking. She’d had to let her dough thaw before it could be cooked. She and Tara were taking rolls, flattening them into little pancakes, and dusting them with a concoction of spices. Crystal slid a sheet of these into the oven. Soon, a delicious bread-and-spices smell began to seep out of the oven. Ten minutes later, Crystal pulled them out. She folded them in half, pressing them down so that the spices were sandwiched between layers of golden-brown bread. She slid them onto plastic plates for us to eat. Rachel, Tara, and I sat cross-legged on the floor, nibbling. The bread was absolutely delicious, warm, soft, and sweet, with the spices adding a delightful zing of lemon and sage and dill. Crystal said that she’d gotten the recipe from a Lebanese woman. The concoction of spices is called zattar. I added it to my list of favorite foods. We all praised Crystal’s cooking, and she slid another sheet into the oven to bake. When Alisha emerged from her room to take a break, I gave her part of mine to try. I turned on a Psalm CD on my laptop, “Strongold”, for Rachel to hear. The strong words poured into the warm room. I lay on my back with my eyes shut, listening, comforted. Snow hushed against the windows. The little room was dim, colored Christmas lights on the ceiling and creamy Christmas lights on a small tree in one corner glowing against the white walls. Paper snowflakes bobbed in a draft.

When Alisha finished her paper, there was much rejoicing. It was about eight o’clock, but snow still fell thickly outside. The apartment seemed like a little warm nest in the midst of all the cold. The only unpleasant thing was that the neighbors downstairs have a penchant for loud music. “Does it never stop?” I asked Tara, marveling. “Nope, not even at night,” she sighed as the music vibrated up through the floor. The Jennys briefly reappeared, but only to take Alisha off to an RUF core group meeting. Rachel vanished to work on her paper. The apartment seemed empty and quiet. Tara, Crystal, and I decided to watch Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire since the other two like Harry Potter, and I’ve never seen a whole movie before. Crystal and I shut down our laptops, Tara switched off the lights, and we curled up on the floor to watch the movie. Tara wrapped herself in a black-and-red crochet blanket.

The movie ended at about eleven-thirty. I thanked Tara and Crystal, and crunched through the snow back to Lottie, slipping on the ice buried under the snow, sinking far above my ankles in the deep drifts. Snow sparkled under the streetlights, glittered on the lawn, danced through the sky. Rachel was busy working on her paper when I got back. I showered, and it was just after midnight when both of us went to bed.

And there are pictures up on photobucket! You know the drill.... If you need the username and password, check an old post on blogspot, and you'll find it.

yesterday (Wednesday)

Well, that post about Tuesday was going to be my last for awhile, but yesterday was too interesting and wonderful.

November 29, 2006

This morning I dressed, did my devotions, ate some of Laura’s bread, and walked to Tyrrell to practice my flute. The morning was humid with a slight breeze, clouds racing low overhead from the south. There was an unusual number of crows out. Usually in the morning a flock of about ten crows busies itself on the lawn, searching for food, cawing and croaking. This morning there must have been twenty or thirty of them, flapping from tree to tree, spiraling, hanging on the wind with their huge black wings half-pointed back. They cawed and clanged at each other loudly, as though disturbed. I practiced my flute, then went upstairs for MT. In MT today, we sang through some people’s final composition projects. After MT, I walked to Honors. “You know it’s a bad sign when you’re coming out of class and the lights are on,” someone said behind me, pointing to the sidewalk lights, which were lit. The air was very still, but the trees rustled faintly, though I could feel no wind blowing. Stifling, a waiting feeling. In class, we discussed The Tempest. And as we sat talking, a tempest came in: wind and rain swooped against the windows, making a howling sound like a huge beast. Rain rattled, wind howled down the alley to the west. We glanced outside the window, hushed for a moment in our discussion. By the time class was over, the rain had mostly stopped, but it was much colder outside. I walked to Tyrrell for my flute lesson. After flute, I rushed back to my room, pulled on a coat, and walked to the library faculty study for the lunch with Fanny Howe. In the faculty study, a few tables and chairs had been set up. At one end, near the bookcases, was a long table loaded with food, carefully patterned—a tray of vegetables, trays of wraps with meat and cheese and lettuce bundled together in green or red or yellow tortillas, a tray of cookies. A few girls were standing around, talking. Crystal came shortly after, and the two of us leaned against the deep stone windowsill and talked until the professors and their guest arrived. It was all very informal.

At about one o’clock, most people left, including Dr. J, but a knot of students and Dr. G remained behind with Fanny Howe. One of them was Rachel B., a girl from my MAW class whom I’ve sort of gotten to know. They sat around Fanny Howe, talking to here, while I sat on the edge, listening. She glanced at me occasionally, as though puzzled by my silence, but didn’t say much to me. Their conversation was rather empty: not talk about poetry really, but discussion of Oklahoma history and beard-growing contests (don’t ask). When the bell rang at one-thirty, everyone decided it was time to go. The other students all thanked Ms. Howe as we filed out the door, as did I. “You’re the quiet one,” she said, looking at me keenly as I passed by her. But I could say nothing, so I only smiled, ducked my head, and left. Downstairs in the computer lab I found Tara studying, and I stopped to chat with her. She let me read the short story she was putting in a class anthology. Then I walked back to my room.

I spent the afternoon working on my TURC paper, drinking the black Tetley’s tea that Missy gave me a couple of Sabbaths ago, and staring out the window. A cold thunderstorm blew through. Cold thunderstorms are eerie and unusual: the chill of the north wind associated with January, but the thunder and lightning associated with August. Lightning flashed across the sky as the clouds hurried south on a cold north wind, and rain rattled against the windows like scales. “The clouds are Your chariots, the winds do Your will/The flames and the lightnings Your pleasure fulfill.”

Just as I was getting ready to go to supper at five-fifteen (and getting worried about Rachel, whom I hadn’t seen almost all day), Rachel stepped through the door. I was delighted. The two of us ate supper together. In line for food, I bumped into one of the girls from MT, Becca. We stood in line and chatted. She didn’t sit with Rachel and me, though. The two of us sat in a quiet booth. After supper, I walked over to Oliphant for Poetry. The professors and Fanny Howe all sat at the front of class, and the students around the edges. We carried on class for about an hour-and-a-half, asking questions of Ms. Howe mostly. She has a beautiful smile, warm, that makes you feel welcomed in. The wrinkles around her eyes network all over her face like lines of handwriting that intersect.

We asked a variety of questions—about faith, writing, etc. Thunder rumbled and banged in the background, the voice of many waters. After class ended, a bunch of us lined up to ask her to sign our books. She signed my copy of The Wedding Dress. Crystal and I hung around for a bit. I thanked the professors, and the two of us walked out together. The night was miserable. Cold, sleet blowing almost horizontally on the north wind, ice congealing on the branches of the trees. We slogged through puddles on the sidewalk. The sidewalk was a puddle, a stream of cold water that flowed downhill, freckled with round raindrops. In the plaza between the Chapel and the library, strings of lights on the trees bobbed and twinkled in the wind. We splashed along, hunched into our coats. We had been planning to visit John Mabee, but the weather was too nasty. So I came up to Crystal’s room to read a poem she’d written using text from Martin Luther’s Commentary on Romans.

I half-planned to go to my room and study or sleep, but I really wanted to go to Bible study. I peered out the window and saw that the weather had lifted some. So I wrapped Elizabeth’s blue scarf around my neck and over my head, like a Russian nesting doll, and shouldered out into the cold. The walk to Syneva’s apartment for Bible study was cruel: the north wind blowing sleet right in my face, scouring over my feet, beating against my legs in their thin slacks. I was afraid of slipping on the drenched grass. The trees crackled and groaned with their burden of ice, sparkling in the streetlights.

Finally I reached the apartment door. I knocked. Someone opened at last. I found a circle of smiling faces turned toward me as I stepped over the threshold and shut the door against the north wind. I slipped off my boots and slid onto the floor. Amanda tossed me a pillow. Syneva explained where they were studying (1 Peter 1:22-25), and we launched into discussion again. I sat with the pillow over my lap, getting warm. The smell of freshly-baked cookies hung on the air. Paper snowflakes, intricate patterns, swayed gently on long threads from the ceiling, running in a long band around the living room against the walls. Nicole, Alisha, Syneva, Amanda, Esther, Jenny H., Amy, Rachel, and Tara were all there. Esther, Rachel, and Alisha left either during or soon after the study ended. It was a very good study.

After the study, the girls hung around, chatting. I nibbled a crispy-gooey cookie and perched on a stool to watch the proceedings. Everyone was talking about the Christmas party on Friday. Jenny H. doesn’t have a dress, so when Amanda brought out her dresses to show us, she offered to let Jenny try one on. Jenny did so, and stepped out of the bathroom looking very elegant. The black velvet dress fit her almost perfectly, though the hem was a bit low, pooling over her bare feet on the carpet. (Though I could see the point of Amanda’s father’s objection to the dress, when he’d told her which one he preferred—there really wasn’t enough material in the back to make me comfortable!) Amanda ducked into her room and emerged with a couple of scarves, which she proceeded to drape in artistic fashions to cover the back and the one low shoulder of the dress. Nicole and Amy helped, tweaking and twisting the satiny fringes of the scarves. The only difficulty was that scarves would restrict Jenny’s arms, and she didn’t want anything to hold back her movements while dancing (there will be swing dancing on Friday as well as English country dancing). So she changed back into her normal clothes. Tara, Nicole, and Amy left. There were gasps of surprise and delight as they stepped onto the porch. “Even your mat is icy!” someone called.

Jenny and I lingered in the warm apartment. Syneva, Amanda, and Jenny giggled about silly movies they’d seen (Two Weeks’ Notice, The Emperor’s New Groove). Then Jenny, with her mesmerizing storytelling powers, told us a story about herself, Amy, and Nicole. Today the three of them had been driving along Delaware and had seen a strange man sitting against a brick wall. His eyes were open, staring; his mouth was agape; his face was pale blue with the cold, and he sat stiff against the wall, unmoving. “Was that a dead man?” Jenny gasped as they drove past. Amy decided to turn around, so they did. Jenny went right up to the man and asked him if he was alright. As she imitated him, shivers ran down my spine—the ogling eyes and gaping mouth slowly turned towards her, like a frozen corpse coming to life. They ended up calling an ambulance to take care of him. “But we don’t know what happened to him,” Jenny finished rather sadly.

Jenny and I left the apartment a little after ten o’clock. A heavy white slush was falling, blown on the cold north wind. About half-an-inch of it covered the sidewalk and the street. Our feet sloshed around in icy pellets, while more pellets pounded our bodies. We laughed and squealed. Jenny shouted, singing in a big bold voice to push back the cold, to stay warm. As we turned east (she wanted to go to John Mabee to study), the sleet stung my face, pellets pricking every inch of skin. The two of us huddled together, Jenny using her arms to shield her face and mine against the wind. We stumbled up the sidewalk and into the building, so thankful of warmth and dryness. Down the hall in a study lounge, we found the usual assemblage of characters: Kevin, Crystal, Amy, David, Asher, Grant…. “David has an amazing umbrella. Get him to walk you back,” Jenny advised. Kevin held up David’s umbrella, which was leaning against the wall. “I’ll walk you back,” he offered.

Before he would leave, though, Kevin took me to David's room to “show me something”. Jenny curled up on David’s sofa, while David sat at his desk, studying. Christmas music danced out of the stereo, carols and jingling bells. Kevin turned on David’s TV and handed me a controller: the famous Nintendo Wii (that’s how it’s spelled, I think, though it’s pronounced like the English first person plural pronoun). It’s a bit smaller than a TV remote, with a few controls on it, and a trigger on the back. When you move it, your character on the screen moves, too. Kevin entered the game. A crowd of little smiling, bobbing characters appeared on the screen. “Click on that one,” he said, so I did. A little red-haired chick, in a green costume, with freckles on her cheeks, and eyebrows and eyes and smile that all lit up together. The bubble over her head said, “E--.” “Wow, guys! I can’t believe it! You made a character for me!” I exclaimed, delighted. Kevin showed me his character (a chap with a little goatee and a smirk), Spencer’s character (big googly eyes), Crystal’s character, David’s character, James’s character…. A whole bunch of RUFers represented as little swaying characters on the screen.

“Would you like to play?” Kevin asked. David didn’t seem to mind that people were camping out in his room, so I said I would, though I was laughing at myself—Crystal has been wanting to show me this for awhile, but I’d told her I was going to bed. The charm of that funny little character was too irresistible, though. I told Kevin that Crystal had to be there, so he ran and fetched her. “See! Isn’t it amazing!” she laughed when she saw me standing a bit uncomfortably in the middle of the small cleared space on the floor in front of the TV. I laughed with her and at myself. She stood beside me like an older sister, enjoying my fumbling attempts to play the game—bowling, as it turned out. Other people stopped in: Grant G., Asher, and Amy. Kevin and I played against each other. It took me awhile to learn the knack of the controller. As you press down the trigger, the character on the screen follows your movements almost immediately, but not quite. The faster you swing, the harder the character throws on the screen. It’s a lot easier than real bowling—and a lot more fun, too (I don’t really like real bowling that much—but on Nintendo, there isn’t any cigarette smoke, or disgusting rock music, or greasy looking people hanging about, other than the other little grinning characters that walk through the background). Kevin let Jenny and Amy try it, too, taking a couple of his turns. Jenny was quite good on her first go.

After the game, Kevin walked Amy and me back to Lottie. As we stepped outside, he unfurled David’s huge umbrella: a capacious canopy, each section a different rainbow slice, like a color wheel or a crayon box. Amy and I huddled under the umbrella which Kevin held low to shield our faces from the wind scouring over the lawn. Lights on the trees sparkled, and lights on the slush sparkled. I stepped carefully, feeling like a penguin trying not to slip on the ice. The grass was covered in ice, like feathers. As we turned west, the north wind, which had been at our backs, gusted sideways. The umbrella tipped, and I clung to the edge of it to keep it from flipping inside-out, clutching purple nylon silk between my fingers. At Lottie, Amy and I thanked Kevin and then bundled inside, laughing and shivering.

Rachel came in shortly after I arrived. I showered, while she studied. After I turned out the lights, I peeked out the window. “It’s snowing!” I gasped. Rachel, who’d just taken off her glasses and crawled between the sheets, scrambled out of bed. “I have to see!” she exclaimed. We peered between the blinds of our windows, staring outside. Fine snow blew straight across the window, billowing in huge whirls in the streetlights, as fine as smoke. Whiteness had piled up on cars, on the street, in the hummocks of the construction pits along the sidewalk.

As I lay down in bed again, I felt as though I would burst with joy. Childish joy, just happiness, gladness, glee.

Crunch time!

Now Playing: "Stronghold" by New Song. Track 1, Psalm 9.

This morning when Rachel and I woke up, it was raining outside, so hard that the drops rattled against the windows. After I dressed, I did my devotions and wrote e-mails while I ate a thick slice of Laura's buttery challah bread for breakfast. The rain gradually stopped, and the sky cleared quickly, becoming a clean sheet of blue-pink, like an unruffled puddle. Only drops stuck around the edge of the window showed that it had been raining an hour before.

At eight o'clock, I went down to Nicole and Mary's room for prayer. Rachel stayed behind to work on her paper. In the hall, I met Jenny H., rushing off to a piano jury. When I knocked on the door, Nicole and Mary were just getting out of bed. I sat cross-legged on the floor, sipping blueberry green tea and chatting with Nicole. We prayed for each other, for Rachel and Jenny, and sat and talked for awhile about our vacations and our families.

After prayer, I wrote a couple of e-mails, practiced my flute, and went to class. Rachel and I ate lunch together with Kevin, David, Grant G., Jenny H., Asher, and Amy. A fairly crazy bunch, though everyone seemed somewhat subdued. I think finals are weighing on everyone. Asher was up to his usual tricks, mashing brownies into ice cream and milk in a cup, and David tried to eat an apple in quick bites without anyone noticing, which made Kevin laugh.

At two-thirty, I went to Dr. G's office hour. He, too, was frazzled and hadn't eaten yet. I asked him a few specific questions about parts of my Poetry paper, and he was very patient and helpful. I marched to the library after that and worked for about an hour-and-a-half on my Poetry paper, hardly conscious of the passage of time as I edited frantically in a corner of the computer lab. A couple of guys with huge Afros talked in Indian nearby, and were replaced by a bunch of confused sorority girls. The afternoon darkened to pearly grey outside the little slit window next to my end of the long desk of computers. When I "finished", I stuck my head in the other computer lab. Rows of computers on long tables were full of students. Among them I spotted Rachel working on her paper, but I decided not to interrupt her focus.

Back in the room, I worked for awhile longer. When it got close to suppertime, I decided to declare the paper finished and went to eat. A full table of RUFers (Eleanor, James, Grant G., Crystal, David, Bob, and co.) made room for me. Eleanor, Crystal, and I compared notes about our various "sufferings"--exams, papers, etc.

Crystal and I walked out together after the meal. She went over to John Mabee to hang out for awhile, but I went up to the library, intending to work on editing my Honors and MAW papers. Of course, I didn't have them with me.... So I sat upstairs in the student study reading the first volume of Schaff's History of the Christian Church, which was somehow in my knapsack with my notebook and Fanny Howe books. There were only two other people in the long room, both guys with calculators and fans of notebook paper and textbooks spread before them on the battered and scarred wooden tables. I stared at the massive painted ceiling beams, the marching faded green jackets of the Library of Congress classification books on the dark wooden shelves, and the blank stained glass rosettes in the paned windows, their patterns faded into the darkness of the night outside.

At seven o'clock, I crossed the hall to the faculty study for Fanny Howe's poetry reading. Black folding chairs had been set up in rows on the green carpet. A smattering of students and faculty occupied the chairs. I recognized a few people from Poetry class. When Dr. G and Dr. J arrived, they scooted the podium off to one side and trundled a heavy small round table from one corner, setting a massive black chair beside it. A little hunched woman came in with them, wrapped in a bulky pale green windbreaker, her grey hair clipped bushily around her neck and standing out over her forehead in bristling bangs. Crystal slid into a chair beside me just as Dr. G stood up to introduce Fanny Howe. He listed off all her accomplishments, and then she folded herself in the chair at the front of the room.

She read for about thirty minutes. She is a frail woman, her pointed face shadowed by thick glasses. She wore black, but she had a silk shawl in bright Byzantine colors wrapped around herself, intricate patterns of gold and green and red and pink. Her voice made up for her smallness: surprisingly confident and demanding, self-assured, very much the acclaimed poet's voice. She read from a sheaf of papers she held in her left hand, gesturing with her right hand as though writing or stressing the words as she read. Her voice emphasized starts of words and phrases, the way a violin bow does. The works she read were rather dark and sad. Anger. Most of it didn't sound like poetry--at least, my eyes, setting it up on a page as she read, didn't see stanzas most of the time, but the paragraphs of the books of "essays" we've been reading for class. But there were a few beautiful, dense, concrete images--smells of herbs, tastes of foods, stars and rivers.

After she read, people asked questions. I stood for awhile listening to people as they came up to her after the Q&A period, eavesdropping on her conversations with them, though I didn't have the confidence to speak to her myself. Crystal and I chatted with Lauren and Christina, a couple of other girls from P&P, about our papers. Then Crystal and I walked over to RUF, which was held upstairs in the Chapel tonight.

Thankfully, we were just in time for the sermon to start. Before Mr. K read the passage, he chose leaders for discussion groups. He picked me, and when I heard my name called, I bowed my head and shook it a very little bit. "Oh, E-- said no to me. I'm sorry, E--. But Ange can't say no," so he chose her instead. I was surprised, not expecting him to see such a small movement, but thankful. He read 1 Corinthians 7, and I didn't feel at all equipped to guide a discussion about it. After he read, I joined Syneva, Amanda, Katie, and another chap with Spencer, who led our little group in listing the advantages/disadvantages of marriage listed by Paul in the passage. After a short time of discussion, Mr. K preached, a good sermon--thought-provoking.

We sang Psalm 130. When the benediction had been said, people started to talk. David and Kevin started to wrestle around with small Josh K., as usual. Jokers produced bursts of laughter, crazy antics and conversation. In the midst of it all, I talked with my friends, a spot of more contained laughter in the midst of the craziness. Amanda gave me a beautiful birthday present: wrapped in patterned paper, a pretty little jewelry-holder, a cloth pouch stitched from blue-and-white cloth like porcelain. Syneva, Amanda, and I talked for awhile about plans for the RUF Christmas party this Friday and about the Christmas Ball later in December. Rachel joined Syneva and me, and we talked about our work: laughing at ourselves as being overachievers. Syneva, with her funny stories, seemed to help lighten Rachel's mood. Rachel went off to study, and Syneva turned to Amanda and Mandi. I talked with Tara for awhile. We compared notes about our different creative writing classes and the students we know in both classes. Both of us are going to be in the class on Lyric Poetry next semester, which will be fun. While Tara set up a time to meet with Mr. K, I chatted with Kathryn. Then I had my own chance to set up a meeting with Mr. K.

Then I picked myself up and left. The upper room was almost empty--a semicircle of people standing quietly, waiting for John in the room, and a few people (Andrew, Asher, Jenny H.) standing in the hall, putting away instruments and talking. I walked back to the dorm alone, and found the room empty. I showered and am ready for bed now!

"Goodness and mercy all my life
Shall surely follow me,
And in God's house forevermore
My dwelling place shall be."

a beautiful picture

Thank God for friends!

(And a brother who's a good photographer. :o)

Thank you all for the birthday greetings. I had a delightful day on Saturday.

a break? really?

What a week!

Monday: Doctor's appointment, haircut, and trip to the used bookstore with my mother, which resulted in a whopping hardbound copy of Umberto Eco's Foucault's Pendulum.

Tuesday: Grocery and clothes shopping, visiting my grandmother, and looking for clamshells with Elizabeth.

Wednesday: Having lots of fun with Laura (delicious apple turnovers and a walk around the lake), getting a Thanksgiving card from Rachel M. (Happy porcupines! :o), and a wonderful Thanksgiving Psalm sing at our house, with seven families represented.

Thursday: Biking to Albertsons to pick up a can of corn with Stephen, helping my mother fix a sumptuous lunch, playing ultimate frisbee with my dad, my brothers, and the Parnell boys.

Friday: Spending the afternoon with Sarah and Rachel, washing dishes, looking at pictures, watching a "Sherlock Holmes" movie, and taking a long walk; watching both "The Three Stooges" and "Looney Tunes" after family worship with my family.

The list of things that did not get done is rather formidable:

Finish a draft of my Poetics paper (I didn't bring my books with me...!).

Write a poem for Poetics, and polish off my portfolio.

Bake cookies.

Write e-mails to all and sundry.

Call Jenny and Alisha.

Tidy up all the little scrapbooking projects that I have stowed away.

Read An Introduction to Paradise Lost by C.S. Lewis.

So tomorrow will be a day of reckoning, as Mr. Carroll likes to call birthdays. :o) I just have to keep being thankful, and remember that God never gives me more than I am able to bear.

Thanks to all of you for another year of friendship! Each one is a blessing to me.

clamshells

Now Playing: The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring soundtrack by Howard Shore. Track 17, "The Breaking of the Fellowship".

This morning I stayed in bed for awhile, pale blue light hovering on the walls. After I dressed, I ran downstairs and ate breakfast. My mother was lying on her bed, reading her Bible, with Mandy to keep her company. My father had already left for work. After I finished eating, my mother and I left the house to spend the morning running errands. First, my mother dropped me off at Hobby Lobby, while she drove down to the other end of the strip mall to pick up allergy medicine from the pharmacy. I bought a package of scrapbook pages. After that stop, my mother swung by the bank, where I deposited a check. Then we drove to Wal-Mart to buy groceries for my grandmother and a few last items to tide us over until next week (my mother isn’t going shopping on Saturday because that’s a day to protest Wal-Mart’s approval of homosexual marriage). I tagged along behind my mother while she puttered down the aisles. Wal-Mart was very crowded. After Wal-Mart, we drove downtown. To get to Main Street, my mother took the avenue that runs under the sycamore trees—royal trees stretching long white limbs across the road, pillared trunks rising up to the blue sky, courteous trees. Downtown, we drove past stores decked out with evergreen wreaths, lampposts wrapped in holly and red ribbons. We stopped at Elite Repeat, the secondhand store, to look for clothes. I didn’t find much: a white formal gown with a beaded bodice was much too large, and a rich velvet dress with tiny rose-shaped buttons didn’t suit me somehow. So the only thing I bought was a sparkly silver turtleneck, thick and serviceable. Then we drove to Walls, where we poked around among long racks of clothing. I found a pair of jeans with beautiful magnolia blossoms embroidered on one leg, but they cost forty-eight dollars, far too extravagant for my taste. My mother found a plain white turtleneck, which fit, so we bought that, and then headed home.

We ate an early lunch and watched the start of The Return of the King while we did so. After lunch, Laura ran down to the Yosts’ house to babysit Raychel and Joseph while Stephanie packed for the Yosts’ vacation to Colorado. I wrote a couple of brief e-mails and then drove down to pick up Laura. The two of us drove out to the Fishers’ house. I dropped Laura off to do therapy with Christa and continued on to my grandmother’s house. She’s been rather sick lately, so we’ve been doing most of her shopping for her. I brought her groceries and her newspaper. At least today she was up and dressed, and looking somewhat better. After I unloaded the groceries, the two of us went outside and struggled with the empty birdfeeder for awhile. My grandmother held it steady while I yanked up the lid and attempted to pour birdseed into it. In the strong south wind, the birdseed kept blowing away before I could shake it into the birdfeeder. Back indoors, we settled down on either side of the kitchen table to talk, my grandmother with her mug of coffee, and me with a glass of cranberry juice. She asked about how things are going at Tulsa. She took me back to her bedroom, where she turned on her computer and showed me pictures of the cousins at a Texas A&M football game: Annalee and Mary grinning winsomely, Ross scowling formidably. It was about three-thirty, time to return to the Fishers’ house and see if Laura was possibly done yet (and to say hi to Elizabeth).

I said good-bye and drove back to the Fishers’ house. When I knocked on the door, it took awhile before anyone opened. Elizabeth finally came. “What are you doing here?” she asked when she saw me standing on the threshold. “Umm… I was wondering if Laura was done,” I said. While Elizabeth hurried back to the guest room to check Laura’s progress (I could hear Christa giggling), I poked my head around the corner of the door. Mrs. Wagner, Mrs. Fisher, Ruth, Ben, Greg, and Calvin were all sitting in the living room, just sitting and talking, warm afternoon sunshine slanting over them through the two windows. The boys had set up a wooden racecar track.

Elizabeth came back to say that Laura would be awhile yet. “Do you have anything better to do? No? Good!” she said, and put on her shoes. The two of us went for a long walk. We strolled down the street, across a neighbor’s lawn, and into the woods. Unclouded sunshine, clear and harsh, not softened by leaves, slanted onto our heads as we entered the woods. Branched black shadows barred the path. We crunched through deep drifts of oak leaves, our feet sinking into the soft soil where the path had been churned by horses. Elizabeth and I compared notes about our weeks so far: Elizabeth told me about her night with Anna “on the town”, and I told her about the basketball games. Low webby bushes growing on the forest floor shone pale green-gold, purple berries hiding under tiny leaves. We crossed a couple of dry ravines and came out on the shore of Lake Carl Blackwell. Blue water stretched north in front of us. We scrambled among sandstone boulders down to the waterline. Because there hasn’t been any rain for a long time, the lake is very low, much lower than when I last visited. Tiny clamshells clinked among pebbles on the beach as we poked around among the boulders. We investigated eastward, following the curves of the shore. In a silty, sandy place, we found a couple of huge clamshells. Flaky ridged exteriors opened into iridescent purple. We washed the clotted sand away, mother-of-pearl shining in the sunlight. “When you open them, there’s only sand inside,” Elizabeth sighed. “I wonder what the creatures really do look like when they’re alive, and where they go when they die.” We explored along the shore, picking our way over a hard clay bank, where little holes had been dug by creatures under the hanging beards of tree roots. We squelched across a muddy inlet, where deer, raccoon, skunk, squirrel, and goose prints had sunk deep in the goop. We stalked northward along the shore, across another inlet, and up a sandy beach, pausing along the way to pick up large and beautiful clamshells until our hands were full. Stopping to wash more clamshells in the water, we spotted a shoal of slender green minnows hanging like glass needles in the golden water. Pink, purple, blue, and grey, with tints of flashing green, glistened in the water on the clamshells. As we stood under a bank, we heard something rustling in the thick grass above the bank. Peering through the tufts of creamy grass, we saw an armadillo nosing in the deep drifts of oak leaves. Its armored back gleamed like a bowling ball. As we approached it, not taking too much care for being quiet, it stood up on its hind legs and sniffed at us, its pointed snout wiggling into the wind. We had approached it from downwind, so our smell was blowing toward us. When it finally caught our scent, it started to trundle away through the leaves, galumphing along like a tank, leaving a dark furrow behind it. Elizabeth and I stood and laughed at the odd-looking creature until it disappeared among the leaves. We continued on a little ways, walking in the sunshine, the wind whipping our hair, talking lightly about the things we saw—clouds of flies that unfurled under our feet, thin beds of pondweed left high and dry, tiny red frogs that sprang to safety as we passed. The lake was quiet, hardly any other living creatures in sight—no birds or humans, but blue sky bounded by the distant shore, thick with oak trees, and the blue water below. We turned around after awhile, making our way back along the shore. Our shoes sank deep in the mud, which slurped at each footstep. A neighbor walking his dog along the trail shouted a greeting to us, which made me jump, so used was I to the quiet.

We walked back to the Fishers’ house as afternoon shaded to evening, deep blue-grey shadows sifting down under the trees over last summer’s leaves. As we walked up to the Fishers’ house, Laura and Christa scampered across the front yard to hide in the juniper fort, where Calvin was sitting and waiting for them. I called to Laura to tell her that it was time to go, but instead of Laura, Christa came running out of the fort. I braced myself as she raced toward me with open arms, sun flashing on her glasses and her pale eager face. “Evelyn!” she giggled happily. “What you have? Shells! Oh, pretty!” I let her hold and inspect the shells until Laura arrived, trundling Calvin in the red wagon. Greg bumped past on his bike, practicing riding without hands. We hugged Elizabeth and Christa good-bye. On our drive home, Laura and I discussed a surprise.

Back at home, we found my mother busy fixing supper already, though it was only four-thirty. She’d just put a cake in the oven, and she set Laura and me to work. We made meatballs: a cup-and-a-half of oatmeal with just enough milk in to cover; two eggs; a couple of chunks of ground beef; two teaspoons of sage, two tablespoons of minced onions, two generous shakes of paprika, and two tablespoons of lemon juice. When all this was together in the mixing bowl, Laura and I mashed it up with our bare hands and rolled meatballs, stacking them along the side of the bowl while my mother heated the griddle.

When the meatballs were done, Laura and I washed our hands and joined Logan and Stephen in the living room. Logan had come over for supper. We bounced a rubber ball around for awhile and talked and read the comics. I suggested that we play telephone pictionary. The four of us played two rounds, until Philip joined. He played a round with us, and then my father returned from work, so he joined in, too. For this last round, we stipulated that the prompts could only be from a movie, anything from any movie. An example: I scribbled “Lurtz” on my scrap of paper and passed the paper to Philip, who drew a picture of said character. My father wrote, “A graduate holding up a diploma”, which Stephen proceeded to interpret. Thanks to his drawing, Logan wrote, “A Russian,” and Laura responded accordingly. Almost everyone’s turned out to be quite a funny mix-up. Laura’s was the only one that had stayed at all the same, and even hers was changed by Logan adding a camel to her initial prompt of Route 66. After the stacks were finished, we passed them around, laughing at the metamorphoses, and talking about old movies.

My mother called us to supper, so we sat down to eat. Curried meatballs, rice, squash, and salad tonight—one of my favorite meals. My father had to leave early for a session meeting, but after he left, Stephen and Laura played four “Looney Tunes” shorts, which we sat around and watched. Then Stephen and Logan showed me a Strongbad short about an English paper, which was quite funny (being rather accurate in its portrayal of the lazy English comp student!). Laura went to bed, but the rest of us sat downstairs in the living room. My mother read The Fellowship of the Ring until her throat turned sore, and then Logan read for awhile, very well. I drew patterns in my journal while I savored the story, re-living it. Partway through “Three Is Company”, we halted for the night. My mother asked Philip to read Romans 9, and we sang Psalm 147B and prayed for family worship. Stephen disappeared upstairs, but the rest of us sat downstairs, talking. My father returned home at about nine o’clock. Logan bade everyone good-night and left. I prowled upstairs to shower and go to bed.

for your amusement

So I took that Pride and Prejudice quiz, too. And I ended up as Mr. Darcy.

Accurate?

Your character is often hidden to those around you and people often make mistakes about you: you have a kind heart really. However you can say the wrong thing at times...

Mr. Darcy		70%
Mr Bennett		65%
Jane Bennett		55%
Charlotte Lucas		55%
Mary Bennett		50%
Elizabeth Bennet		50%
Kitty Bennett		40%
Mr Bingley		40%
Mr. Collins		40%
Mrs Bennett		40%
Lydia Bennett		30%
Lady Catherine de Bourgh		20%
Mr. Wickham		20%

be thankful for peace

Time to hang another "Gone Paper-Writing" sign on this blog.

Thank God for His goodness, for His mercies are new every morning. After talking with some of my friends, I've realized that the "suffering" I endure is really not much at all. I need to learn to use the peace I have to encourage those who truly are suffering. As someone told me this week, if you focus on ministering to others, your own problems become much easier to bear.

But please pray for me still....

See you all in awhile (maybe a month)!

God bless.

exhausted

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

This has been a long day....

When the alarm went off this morning, Rachel stayed curled up in bed, but I went jogging at the gym. I couldn't find a treadmill with a bookstand, so I had to run without reading, trying desperately not to watch the raunchy shows and sports reviews playing on the TV screens at the front of the gym.

After I showered, did devotions, etc., I tramped over to Tyrrell to practice. Before Music Theory this morning, I perched on the windowsill of the third-story window and stared down at the sidewalk. I saw Alisha walking to class, and watched the last ragged yellow leaves shimmer on the huge old hackberry tree beside the building. In Honors today, we had a prospective student visiting. Dr. W showed off his prowess by reciting endless lines from Mark Antony's funeral speech in Julius Caesar. I have a feeling that I'm somehow on his bad side. This is the first time I've ever had such a feeling, and it's unpleasant, though I probably deserve it.

After Honors came flute lesson. We worked on the last movement of the Telemann sonata, which was pleasant. Dr. R was in a jolly, rather silly mood today, laughing most of the time.

After flute, I ran to my room to drop off my books, then hurried back to Tyrrell. On the way, I met Jenny H., locking her bike at the racks. We briefly commented on how beautiful the day was, and then went on about our business. In Tyrrell, I sat downstairs and worked on music theory homework until Alisha got out of class (Music History, which she shares with Syneva). Then Alisha and I walked to ACAC to eat lunch together. She bought swiss ham-and-cheese sandwiches for both of us, and we found a quiet table in the atrium where we sat and talked. When we finished our sandwiches, she produced chocolate-and-mint patties from her bookbag, which we nibbled happily. A.C. stopped by to say hi, and Kevin walked past. Our converesation was mostly serious and very thoughtful.

After we ate, we walked down to the post office, and she bought snowflake stamps. I walked with her back to the apartment. The afternoon was almost hot, a warm wind stirring the last red leaves on the young maple trees. I scuffed through drifts of brown oak leaves on the sidewalk and stared up at the dazzling blue sky. We parted at the apartments.

I spent the rest of the afternoon working on my P&P research paper. I have nine pages so far, nine pages which feel like complete lunacy. I listened to CD after CD: Franck, Holst, Mendelssohn, Chris Thile. Outside my window, at the construction site at the corner of the street, a jackhammer pounded, and a dump truck rumbled back and forth.

Rachel and I ate supper together. She asked about Fanny Howe, so I told her some of the things I've been discovering: the poignancy of Howe's work, her hopeful despair about God's transcendence, her discussion of names. We talked about Honors, too.

After supper, I walked over to P&P. The evening was deep blue. Pigeons clattered on the roof of Lottie, settling down on the slates for the night. At Oliphant, I sat down alone to work on homework, until Crystal walked up. We started to talk about the poetry we'd been assigned to read, and when Dr. J came to unlock the classroom, he joined our discussion. In class tonight, we talked about Lisa Roberston and Kenneth Goldsmith, who styles himself the most boring poet ever to live. During the break, I went outside and sat down under the pine tree, on a thick carpet of auburn needles. The stadium lights seemed to lay a flat glass sheet over my world so that I stared up at the sky like a bug in a glaring glass case--but I could see one star in the south. I wanted to fly away and leave everything behind....

When I sat down at my desk again, Crystal offered me part of the chocolate bar she'd bought at the vending machine. I sucked the bittersweet rectangles carefully. "Want some?" she asked Dr. G, who sat on her other side. He declined at first, but when Crystal started to talk about how good it was, he accepted with a slow smile that made the three of us laugh. The second half of class was a discussion of Kenneth Goldsmith's works. He styles himself the most boring poet, and sets out to define different types of boredom in his statement of poetics. The class got into a heated argument as to whether his definitions were correct or not: a boring discussion about boredom. I found the whole business hilariously ironic, but hardly anyone else seemd to see it that way. Dr. G used an illustration of making a boring meeting "unboring" by writing down every third word that's said, so I started to do just that. I didn't get very far since everyone was talking quickly, but it was funny.

After class, the debate continued. I lingered to wait for Crystal, who was talking to Dr. G about boringness--the boringness of Wordsworth, in particular. The two of us ended up being the last people out of the building, for we stood talking outside with Dr. G for quite awhile. A friendly discussion--camaraderie and sympathy between Dr. G and Crystal, as she complained about having Wordsworth ruined for her by being forced to write a paper about the fellow. Dr. G managed to remember one of Wordsworth's Lucy poems, a poem "That's the most perfect eight-line poem ever written."He likes Wordsworth, he said, but he's always afraid as a teacher that he's making what's interesting to him boring. "I sometimes walk out of class and think, 'I just did everything I could to make that boring.'" I laughed, "I just know that's what I'm going to be doing in ten years! Teaching Beowulf to a class of bored undergraduates!" Dr. G grinned. "It does happen."

Crystal and I walked back to Lottie together through the warm autumn night. She picked up a tiny, perfectly-formed oak leaf from the sidewalk. In her room, she played bits of Sufjan Stevens and another pop artist for me--soothing, dreamy music. She showed me a copy of My Utmost for His Highest, which she really enjoys reading as both convicting and encouraging. We talked about poetry, assignments we'd written, etc. As we parted in the stairwell, Rachel was coming up from Bible study.

Now Rachel and I are working in our room. Through the open windows, a slight breeze rattles the slats of the blinds. One of the first things I did when I sat down at my desk was to watch the second video clip of the Olympic Irish dancers/skaters on Anna's xanga. Flying in their flight as they matched movement to music, gliding effortlessly over the ice. Rachel watched over my shoulder and enjoyed it, too.

ear-shattering

Now Playing: Beethoven's fifth symphony, fourth movement.

Katie F. requested this post: I saw her as I was waiting for Syneva and Alisha to pick me up tonight.

This evening I went to the Tulsa Signature Symphony concert with Syneva and Alisha. They picked me up outside Lottie at six-fifty, and off we went. Alisha was in a very silly mood and managed to insult just about everyone on the drive to TCC. "We were just going to leave you to die in the cold waiting for us. I thought it would be good for you. Sanctification," she laughed. She pulled a packet of skittles out of her bag and shared them with Syneva and me. She and Syneva laughed about movies, their conductor, etc....

At TCC, we parted ways. Syneva and Alisha walked to the back entrance, while I went in through the front doors. I picked up two tickets from the will-call office and stood to one side, waiting for Amy. She had promised to come to the concert, too. I watched everyone streaming into the auditorium. There were a good many elderly people, dressed in luxurious winter coats, but there was also a healthy smattering of families with younger kids. I recognized various TU students in the crowd. At five minutes until concert time, I got nervous, and decided to head into the auditorium without waiting any longer. Once I was situated, though, I crept back through the stream of incoming people to see if I could find Amy. She met me just as she was coming in, and we sat together. She's a ruddy girl with blond hair and a cheerful smile.

The soloist for tonight's concert was a Scottish woman named Evelyn Glennie. She's deaf, so she feels the vibrations of the music through her bare feet on the stage. She's something of a firebrand, Syneva told me, very opinionated. She has certain views about how to make classical music more "accessible" to the public. Her theories include the idea that tuning is unprofessional and that light shows should take place during the performances to help the audience understand the music. So there was only minimal tuning before the concert started, and during the first half of the concert, colored lights shone on the stage, changing colors and patterns as the music changed. I found it distracting, and Syneva complained that it was nearly impossible to read the music when the lights went down. But such was the artistic inspiration of Ms. Glennie.

The first piece on the concert was Shostakovich's "Festive Overture". A galloping fanfare, hurrying, as though to prepare for a feast. Then a sighing middle section, sweet-smooth as caramel, moving to a plucking hop-skip beat which burst back into energy, happiness, and excitement again. It's a definite crowd-pleaser, but I still like it.

The second piece was "Konzertstuck" by Askell Masson. This was Evelyn Glennie's first piece. She strode onstage with quick, smooth, controlled steps, and took her place at a snare drum beside the conductor's podium. She's a small, slender woman with grey ropy hair that still has hints of red in it. Her eyes and lips looked very dark under the stage lights, and her ears poking through her hair looked almost pointed to me. Alisha had described her as an "Earth Mother type", and I could see why. She wore a deep red, shimmery dress, sleeveless, fit close to her upper body. Her white arms were amazingly powerful, muscle showing through.

The piece opened with the orchestra mewing and honking, like a zoo-ful of animals. The snare drum rattled, ferocious and tense, and soon dominated the stage. The snare seemed to be independent of Evelyn Glennie, having a life of its own, rattling away. I couldn't understand how two small arms could produce so much sound from one instrument. She watched her drum intently, like a witch watching a pot come to boil. The orchestra's bows bounced, the tambourine hissed. Blue lights came up on the stage, slanted like eyes behind the orchestra against a livid purple background. The drum entered its cadenza, a frantic dervish, whirling, endless, rattling against our ears with a never-ending sound. Amy said later that it made her think just what a violent instrument the drum is. Evelyn Glennie stooped over her instrument, intent, hovering back and forth. The drum went into a five-minute decrescendo, one of the most controlled decrescendos I've ever heard--but also one of the most fruitless, hopeless pieces, ceaseless sound, just sound without any music or melody. At the end, she raised her head and looked at the conductor, who struck up the orchestra again. Red lights flared back onto the stage, and the orchestra banged the piece to a close.

Next up was a percussion concerto by Joseph Schwanter. This time Ms. Glennie climbed to the risers at the back of the orchestra where a drum set and marimba had been set. Behind her, the lights glowed orange and red, so that she stood in her red dress like a presiding goddess. She padded, barefoot, over the stage, playing with quitck, sweeping movements, her head flung back to the music, abandoned, her body gliding smoothly between instruments. The marimba floated and flowed over the orchestra, many notes mingling lyrically at once. While the orchestra eased into the second movement, she lightly crossed downstage, back to the drumset at the front of the stage by the conductor's podium. The second movement was more serene than the first, full of underwater sounds. She played the vibes, ringing like glasses full of water, and the xylophone. The drum hissed as she stroked it, like the skirts of incoming waves. As she dipped an "Eowyn gong" into a bucket of water, its roaring bay filled the auditorium over the slow, sad pulse of the orchestra. She played a cascading theme on the vibes, building in concentric circles, ripppling outward. My ears felt like stroked glass, ringing from the noise. Then the strings eased back in, played slow and sad, dark and cold, reminding me of the story of Proserpine. The percussionist moved with swift, delicate, soundless motions, setting up one set of sticks to take up the next. She used a bunch of sticks and a violin bow to stroke the big drum beside her. The music spiraled down, and the drum became like mailed footsteps ringing in dark caverns. The beautiful melody was swallowed by chaos, until the vibes spoke out again, returning to their first trickling, lilting theme. Between second and third movements, Evelyn Glennie grabbed a pair of maracas and crossed quickly upstage, rattling her instruments as she glided swiftly between the members of the orchestra. The rattles reminded me of medicine men. The percussion section replied to her rattles, the two sections talking back and forth, racing ahead of the menacing brass, which pursued them rapidly. The piece was an urgent chase, galloping, fleeing. Then the marimba again, endlessly changing, and then anothe long cadenza on a drum set, the endless mouthless pulse of the drums, like a dance, heartbeats and feet pounding together until the end.

"What did you think of that?" Amy asked, a bit breathless after everyone had stood and clapped. "Interesting," I replied, my ears still dull from all the noise. During intermission, we sat and talked, getting to know each other a bit better.

The second half of the concert consisted of Shostakovich's fifth symphony. I had a hard time getting a foothold on this piece, though I could understand most of it. The first movement had a creepy opening. The flute floated over the orchestra, disappointed, depressed, sad. A cold dirge for a world gone wrong. Then an ominous march, which became ironically gay, cynicall, and then relapsed to the flute lullaby. The piece ended with solo violin taking up the flute's melody. Cold and lonely, dejected in ruins. The second movement was a cynical little scherzo, which sounded like a gypsy fair. Strange little percussion forays, a violin-harp waltz, tubby bassoons, plucking like tittering girls fluttering long eyelashes. The third movement, the largo, was my favorite. Strings like wind through cold, wet grass, mournful. Harp weaving threads together, flutes like a shuttle between warp and woof. It came to a bitter climax, and the conductor flung his arms out like the arms of a crucifix. Then the cold became not the cold of winter but the cold of spring: clarinet blooming over snow, harp ticking like the passing of time, strings cold as the shadows of a tree on a bare wall, shadows cast at night by dim streetlights outside--a vivid image of dark, half-budded branches wavering behind the bars of a window. The last movement was fast, spinning. Bells tolled in a cold street at night, and then the theme returned, sneaky at first, then bolder, swelling to a victorious conclusion, the hope of triumph.

The audience stood and clapped--rather lackadaisically, I thought. Afterward, Amy and I waited for Syneva and Alisha in the atrium outside the auditorium. I rode back with Syneva and Alisha. It was somehow comforting to fly through the quiet streets, looking down from the highway on the malls, restaurants, businesses, hospitals, hotels, and homes spread in an endless network of dark trees and glaring parking lots. Back at campus, I ran up to our room. Rachel was on the phone with her father. I changed into my pajamas, and both of us went prompbly to bed.

Small mercies add up.

Now Playing: "Nickel Creek" by Nickel Creek. Track 1, "Ode to a Butterfly".

I feel as though I haven't posted anything "real" on here in a really long time, so I'll do the best I can with my half-hour to fill you in on today, at least.

Yesterday and today actually sort of blend together in my mind. I stayed up until twelve forty-five this morning, trying to enroll in classes for next semester. Unfortunately, the whole system crashed for about an hour, so I went to bed and slept for half-an-hour, until Rachel came in at one-fifteen. Then I woke up and tried to enroll again, but the website kindly informed me that I was not eligible for enrollment. Fed-up, but trusting that God would make the best of the matter in the end, I went to bed and slept until six-thirty. Then I went running alone in the gym. As I left the gym, I patted down my coat pockets to make sure that I had my ID with me. To my dismay, I couldn't locate my ID anywhere. So I went back upstairs and searched all over the floor where I'd been running, but I couldn't see the ID card. Eventually, I hunched down and peeked under the machine I'd been using--and there it was. Somehow it had gotten shuffled underneath the machine. I fished it out and walked back to Lottie, thankful.

I showered, ate a bit of Laura's raisin bread for breakfast while I did my devotions, and then walked to Tyrrell to practice my flute. The morning was chilly but sunny. Before Music Theory started, I sat in the hall downstairs. Another girl in the class, Becca, came and sat next to me. She's blond with very brown eyes and a pretty, round face. She's forthright, matter-of-fact, and friendly. She had AP theory in highschool, so she has an old-timer attitude toward the class, which is somewhat reassuring. Dr. M didn't realize until the end of class, when he glanced at the syllabus, that we have an exam scheduled for Friday. He decided to reschedule the exam for Monday.

In Honors today, Dr. W launched into discussion of A Midsummer Night's Dream by telling us that the play is "very, very dark", a "dark comedy". He listed off a whole string of the Liberal Professor's Favorite Themes to Discuss (the oppression of the patriarchy, gender roles, homosexuality, relativism, etc.). Rachel staunchly resisted this interpretation of the play and piped up boldly to tell him that she thought it was meant to be a comedy. "I don't know anything about the author's intent. All I know is what I have," he said with an indulgent smile on his portly face. After class, I cheered for Rachel. "I was sitting there, wondering what it reminded me of, and realized that it reminded me of that dialogue I wrote last semester making fun of Freud," she chuckled.

After Honors, I had my flute lesson. We worked on tone today. Ah, the bliss of working on tone again. :o) Dr. R played a CD for me of a Turkish flutist who has an amazing command of tone colors, and then he helped me apply some of that to my etude, a pretty little adagio. After flute lesson, I stopped in at the computer lab in Tyrrell and checked my e-mail. Earlier, I'd e-mailed Dr. S (my advisor) and the head honcho at the enrollment office with a pitiful plea for help. Both of them had replied by telling me that I had some sort of problem with my financial account, and that I should go to the business office.

Dutifully, I marched off to the business office from Tyrrell, trying very hard not to be downcast or frantically terrified. Thankfully, I really didn't feel that way at all: just a sense of inevitability, and trust that somehow this was all going to work out in the end. The teller at the business office frowned at me, puzzled, and told me to go to the financial aid department. So I trotted over to Lorton Hall, stepped up to the secretary in one of the offices, and explained the trouble. She was a sweet-faced woman with soft brown eyes. She gently looked into the problem. Apparently she didn't have a copy of my financial aid award letter, and that missing piece of paper was the cause of the whole hullaballoo. So she let me print off the letter on one of the office computers. I signed it then-and-there, and walked back to my room, where I flopped down at my desk and enrolled. Praise God, all the classes I needed were still open.

After enrolling, I went to the cafeteria to pick up my lunch. As I picked bits and pieces of things from the salad bar, Alisha came up behind me. "Today isn't rabbit food day," she laughed when she saw what I was planning to eat. "No, but it is white rabbit day," I replied quickly. "Really? I don't believe you," she chuckled. "No, seriously. Happy white rabbit day! Come home with me, and you can ask my mother," I said, trying to be as earnest as I could, though I was nearly bursting with the ridiculousness of the situation--trying to prove such a silly holiday to Alisha. We chatted for a bit. Somehow, she had heard about my enrollment troubles (I'm now convinced that Alisha has the sixth sense, ever since she accurately predicted Mr. K's arrival at the Ks' house that one evening :o). After a pleasant chat, we parted ways--she to get a cookie, I to eat in my room and work on my Honors paper. I sat down at my desk with my box of food, very grateful: for enrollment, for God's provision of food (I was very hungry after having almost no breakfast), for God's provision of good fellowship with Alisha.

I spent the afternoon studying pleasantly in the room. I worked on the Honors paper while I ate lunch. Then I worked on Music Theory homework and made a study sheet for the exam on Monday. I listened to "The Chronicles of Narnia" soundtrack. When I finished that work, I napped for an hour: getting only about five hours of sleep had left me absolutely exhausted. I dozed pleasantly in the warm sunshine streaming through the window, stirring occasionally at the sound of voices laughing, passing down the hall outside. At four o'clock, I got up, fixed myself a cup of black tea, and drank it while I worked on my Honors paper and P&P homework. I rifled the library catalogue for resources for the Honors paper, and found a fairly satisfactory list of applicable books.

At five o'clock, I walked up to the library to pick up my books. The sun was already very low on the horizon, casting long, blue shadows over campus, everything just edged with orange-gold. The brick sidewalk reflected the blue sky. I walked through the grove of young crepe myrtle trees beside the library, red leaves falling around me, purple in the twilight. Down in the stacks, I hunted up my books--and in the process of shelf-reading, found several other useful texts. As the librarian checked out my books at the desk, he said, "I really like your cross." "Thank you," I replied, feeling my face glow with pleasure. "You're not alone," I said to myself as I left the library, familiarly rough dustiness for the clear, cold air outside. "But then, I never am."

I went to supper in the cafeteria. Crystal and I ate together. We talked about P&P, of course. Both of us are writing about Fanny Howe for our research papers, so we compared notes and talked about sources. Crystal changed the topic then, and started a discussion of theological issues. We talked about eschatology and whether it influences life now, or whether it's pure speculation. She asked about accapela sole Psalmody, and I did my best to explain it to her, feeling an uncanny sense of repetition since I'd had almost the same discussion with Jenny H. last Sabbath. ("I understand your position, but I don't agree.")

We walked to P&P together in the deep blue evening, through a world like a bowl full of blue light. When we arrived at Oliphant, we stood in the hall outside the classroom and chatted with the other students: with Stephanie, who long-hands all her papers before she types them into the computer (it wastes less time, actually, than sitting and staring at the computer screen for an hour), with Russ, who believes in writing twenty-page papers the night before they're due, and with Christina, who shares our fondness for Fanny Howe. Christina and her friend Lauren are the two non-English majors in the class, and Crystal and I have struck up a sort of pleasant friendship with them.

Fanny Howe herself was scheduled to visit class tonight, but she's ill with the flu. "We're tired of starting class. You guys start," Dr. J commanded after everyone got settled in. The result of this was that everyone stared at each other, caught off-guard, and then one of the girls asked everyone in a bubbly, maternal fashion, "So, how was everyone's Halloween?" Discussion thus descended to a discussion of costumes, the students enthusiastically comparing notes, and Dr. J participating in the talk by sharing his own anecdotes of past Halloweens, while Dr. G watched with an amused smile. We spent class comparing a couple of Fanny Howe books.

To our surprise and delight, the professors let class out about an hour early. After class, I hung around, waiting to talk to Dr. G about assignments, and to thank him for substituting in Honors class last Friday. He told me, "I wasn't sure how the discussion would go, especially when the class went, 'Well, we talked about that last week, and came to the opposite conclusion.'" "That was the other students," I laughed, "Rachel and I were cheering for you."

After class, Crystal, Stephanie, and I walked over to John Mabee, with a sense of holiday. It's Crystal's nineteenth birthday tomorrow, so she took the time off as an early present. At John Mabee, Crystal and I knocked on the guys' doors, but no one was home. Crystal even opened the doors to Spencer and Davids' room and Asher and James's room, but no one was home. "A ghost town," she sighed, "They've all gone to Reformation Celebration." We decided to walk to the Chalet for Bible study since Bible study would've begun just half-an-hour ago.

At the Chalet (Syneva, Amanda, and Rachael's apartment), we found Amanda leading the Bible study in Syneva's absence (due to Signature Symphony rehearsal). Jenny H., Tsebaot, Nicole, Mardel, Rachel, Tara, Amy, and Laci were all there, in a circle in the living room. They made room for us. Mardel tossed us pillows from the sofa, and we sat on the floor, leaning against the wall. Amanda led us through 1 Peter 1:3-9, a very encouraging study on our eternal inheritance. God provides both the inheritance and our worthiness of the inheritance. We ought to look forward to Heaven, to view this life on earth as very meaningful because it is our practice, our preparation for Heaven. Heaven will be a place of contented work, of perfect relationships with others, of eternally satisfying fellowship with God. Aftr the study time, Amanda split everyone into three small groups to pray. Amanda, Mardel, Crystal, and I went back to Amanda's room--a small room, but cozy and elegant. We shared prayer requests and prayed. After we prayed, I admired Amanda's calendar, which has a picture from Sherwood Forest for every day of November.

Everyone left directly after prayer time ended. Jason came for Mardel. Crystal, Amy, Jenny H., and Nicole went to play dodgeball, and Tsebaot went to watch. Amanda and I brought up the tail-end of the procession. We parted ways at the parking lot: she went to watch the end of the soccer game. I caught up with the dodgeball crowd and chatted with Tsebaot until we reached the gym. Then I walked the rest of the way to Lottie alone. My square-shouldered shadow slid over the sidewalk. A bright white moon shone high and clear in the dark sky, a sky too dark for stars, polished like black glass. I sucked chocolate candy (with crispies and peanut butter in it), courtesy Amanda, and thought about the study.

In the room, I found Rachel just crawling into bed. I hurriedly put my things away, unplugged my computer, and betook myself to a study lounge to type up this entry. People come and go in the hall outside the study lounge, girls bundled in thick coats, wrapped in scarves, carrying hot drinks.. Cars in the street outside, cheers and the announcer at the conclusion of the soccer game. "Nickel Creek" is on its last song, and I'm on my last legs.

But thankful!

pictures and a poem

New pictures up on photobucket!

www.photobucket.com
username: Elfellyn
password: psalm84

If you want to see weird people in weird costumes, go to "Art and Coffee".

If you want to see pretty flowers, go to "Rose Garden 3".

This is the other sonnet I read at Art and Coffee (I also read "The Rainbow"). It's based on Hebrews 12:1-2, and I wrote it in Enid last summer.

The Runner

He ran the race with grace and speed. The track
Unfolded perfectly from flying feet.
He ran with arms spreadeagled, head flung back
Until he shattered time with bloody cleats.
Behind him, shadows fleeting in the sun,
The other sprinters came. They ran his race,
And sat down in the stands when they had run,
To watch the others who ran in their place.
Now I am running, feet poised on the sand.
The watchers in the stands shout, spur me on,
A field of fingers pointing to the end.
There stands the runner, he who first began.
I fix my eyes on him. All else is blur.
He was my start—he is my finisher.

for your enjoyment

Sis having fun

pictures are up on photobucket

username: Elfellyn
password:psalm84
file: homecoming parade

a blessed Sabbath to begin a new week

Here's my last post, perhaps for awhile. I know I've posted a lot lately, and long posts, too, but since I probably won't post more for a bit, take the time to read and comment! :o)

This morning when I woke up, the room was so cold that it took me a long time to persuade myself out of bed. I shivered as I crawled out from under the thin blankets. As I dressed, my mother was going around, banging on our doors: on Laura’s door, on Philip’s door, on my door, making sure we were awake. After I dressed, I nibbled a granola bar for breakfast while Laura ate her oatmeal, my father filled water bottles, and Stephen finished fixing the green bean casserole in the crock pot. Philip had slept so late that at nine o’clock, we left him behind when we went to church, leaving him to follow at his leisure in the Taurus. At church, the parking lot was already full, thanks to the Mormons, who have taken to meeting all day in the Community Center, which we have to share with them. In the cafeteria, we found Logan reading Precious Remedies against Satan’s Devices for Sabbath school, having already finished setup. The Parnells pulled in just as we did. I stood around with Laura, Stephen, J.D., Sam, and Logan, listening to them relive the robotics competition yesterday. Captain Thunderbolt had showed up as the team’s mascot (the homeschool robotics team name is Thunderstorm Robotics, so their mascot is appropriate), so Logan had spent the whole time asleep under a table, except for mealtimes. Apparently, the girls from the team in the next booth were so taken with Captain Thunderbolt that they passed him notes (which Anna threw away) and begged to have their picture taken with him. Most of the other team mascots were rather absurd, according to Laura. Mary pranced up to me while I perched on the table, listening, and told me that my eyebrows were “too sharp”. “Oh. Should I shave them off?” I asked. “Yes,” she said, “and your eyelashes aren’t long enough. You need to make them longer.” “How do I do that?” I inquired. “Actually, they’re too long. You need to cut them off,” she decided after some deliberation, “and you should shave your hair off, too.” “How would you like it if I shaved your hair off?” Laura asked, pinching Mary’s curly ponytail between her fingers. Mary squealed and scampered away. Laura and I held open the doors for the Wagners as they carried in crock pots, Bibles, and notebooks. Beth and I discussed research papers, our common ailment, until Sabbath school started at nine forty-five.

Mr. Carroll taught Sabbath school about the end of the second chapter of Precious Remedies, a book by the Puritan author Thomas Brooks. After Sabbath school, I listened to Sarah tell Beth about the robotics competition, and asked Brioni about her week. Then I hurried over to the “sanctuary”, one of the larger rooms in the main part of the Community Center, for the church service. I brushed past Dani, past Mrs. Fisher settling Calvin down in the front row where the Fishers always sit, and sat down in the next row with the Wagners, Elizabeth, Sarah, and Ben. Today, Pastor Tweed preached the sermon. Pastor Parnell was gone today, assisting with Communion at an RP church in Kansas, so Pastor Tweed visited and preached. He’s an elderly man, and very earnest in his preaching.

After the service, I talked with Elizabeth for awhile. She described her week to me: endless Calculus problems, Greek memorization, and orchestra. Over in the cafeteria, I chatted with Brioni (whose morning it had been to be in the nursery) about her week. She’s been looking for an apprenticeship or a college that will teach her to train service dogs for wheelchair-bound and deaf people. In the lunch line, Emily peeked at me from behind Mrs. Carroll’s skirts. “You going to tell me a story?” she chirped. “After lunch,” I promised. I asked Rachel about her day yesterday. Instead of going to the robotics competition with Sarah, or going to the parade with Hannah and Rebekah, she stayed home to clean house (the Spitlers hosted the Tweeds last night). In the evening, she and her sisters watched “Zathura”. The two of us sat with Elizabeth, Mrs. Brocato, Brioni, and Jessie. We talked about movies and school. Rachel described the chapel services that Hannah and Rebekah are acquired to attend at Sunnybrook Christian School. Elizabeth asked Mrs. Brocato about how Danielle is doing. Vinny brought Mrs. Brocato cheesecake for dessert. Mrs. Brocato and Brioni discussed food allergies and health foods. Sarah came over and rubbed my shoulders gently, and laughed with Elizabeth and Rachel about the robotics competition. Elizabeth and Sarah are both full of ideas for the next competition—improvements, advertisements, etc. Elizabeth got a piece of cheesecake and shared bites with Rachel and me. We sat around, chatting cheerfully, for a long time after lunch, until Mrs. Patterson came over and said that it was time for the girls’ Bible study. Elizabeth and Sarah trailed off reluctantly, and Brioni and I went around with trashcans to all the tables, picking up the debris left from lunch: Styrofoam plates and bowls, crumpled napkins, cups half-full of water. While I was working, Emily danced up to me. “You tell me a story now?” she asked. “Go find Mary and Christa, and I will,” I said. She couldn’t find either one of them, so when I finished, I went outside with her, and we found Christa playing with the boys. We sat in the cafeteria on the stage at the head of the room, and I told them a story. Mary and Raychel sat on the floor and listened until it was time for second service.

As I drifted into the sanctuary for prayer meeting, I noticed Laura and Rachel sitting next to each other, heads bent close over a Psalter and a scrap of blue paper. The chairs had been rearranged from the orderly rows of the morning to a circle, more relaxed, akin to family worship. “Sit here!” Christa cried, patting the seat beside her. I looked up at Mr. Fisher, who was just entering the ring of chairs. “If you would sit with her, that would be great, because I have to lead today,” he said. So I sat by Christa. Mr. Fisher sat at the head of the circle, directly opposite us. Sarah, Anna, and Elizabeth sat beside us. We sang a lot today. It turned out that Mr. Fisher had employed Rachel and Laura to select Psalms which they thought everyone would know and enjoy. They’d made out an extensive list for him to use. Christa held the Psalter for both of us. She insisted on finding the selections herself, batting my hand out of the way whenever I tried to point her in the right direction. When she found the Psalm, she marched one grubby finger along underneath the words. But she was too interested in chewing gum (probably a gift from Miss Hannah) to sing, so I put my mouth close to her ear and sang loudly. “Sing, Christa!” I hissed at intervals, and she piped up for a few bars before subsiding to smacking her lips and humming again. Her voice was reedy and high-pitched, wavering enthusiastically off-key. Usually in second service, Mr. Parnell gives a brief time of teaching, but since he was gone today, Mr. Fisher led us in two times of prayer. We prayed through Psalm 39, our Psalm of the month—a dark Psalm, after which we sang Psalm 23C, a beautiful setting to the tune “Resignation”. Then people shared their prayer requests, and we prayed again. Christa fidgeted and slouched against my shoulder. I had a hard time praying, “Sit up, Christa!” being the constant refrain in a whispered undertone.

After second service, I took my bookbag to the car. I found J.D. carrying Calvin to the Fishers’ car at the same time, with Anna. Anna dumped her Bible, camera, and journal in J.D.’s arms while she ran back inside to get the keys from Mr. Fisher. Calvin, camera, journal, and all started to slip, so I swiped Anna’s stuff from J.D. The camera was the best part. I took pictures of Calvin and J.D., Greg eating a cookie, Sarah and Elizabeth crossing the parking lot, and Anna—who covered her face with her arms and shouted in mock outrage when she saw her own camera pointed at herself. Sarah, Anna, and I scrambled into the Fishers’ van, and Anna played back parts of a crazy movie she’s filming with Ben, Greg, and Dani. We also looked at pictures from the robotics meet yesterday, and video footage. Elizabeth, Anna, Sarah, and I frolicked around outside. Anna and Elizabeth were as mad as March hares (or as crazy as October hares, as the case may be). They did not approve of it when I hijacked the camera again. Elizabeth pulled fish faces at the camera, and Anna swung her hair over her face. We munched sugar cookies leftover from Raychel’s third birthday party yesterday, colorful icing crumbling on our fingers. We pretended to be horrified and insulted by each other, and Anna attempted to take a picture of Elizabeth, Sarah, and me. Elizabeth draped an arm over Sarah and me, and flopped back and forth so that we never were standing still. The bright afternoon sunshine glinted off Elizabeth’s glasses, in Sarah’s pale hair, on Anna’s silk scarf. Our blue shadows tilted over the white concrete. We just laughed and laughed and laughed. Japanese lanterns, the golden rain trees’ seed pods, bobbed on the frisky breeze.

Back at home, I changed clothes, then went downstairs to listen to my father read. Stephen was sitting in the blue rocking chair with Sandy curled up on his lap, a self-satisfied smirk on her whiskery face. Laura nibbled dry cereal, and I ate a granola bar while my father read. Logan came by at about four-thirty to pick up Philip, Laura, and Stephen, and take them to the Bible study in Enid tonight. After my mother fed the cats, she and I went outside to pick the last of the summer’s bell peppers. Tonight a freeze is forecasted. She took plastic ice cream tubs and a couple of scissors, and each of us set to work to fill the tubs with peppers. We ran our hands through the long, thick leaves, seeking the smooth, glossy fruit. We snipped spongy stems and dropped the peppers into our tubs. Long and slender or short and fat, blushed red or yellow by the sun. A sweet, sharp smell rose from the dark leaves. I flicked a big black spider from one pepper before I tossed it into the tub. We cut all the peppers that were large enough. Then my mother dead-headed the zinnias, cutting off the dry flowers and snipping the blooms that were still pretty enough to take indoors. Many of the flowers were brown at the edges, with little holes where caterpillars had nibbled through. She handed the good flowers to me, like cutting fireworks: red, magenta, pink, and orange, exploding in my hands. I prowled around the garden, among the remains of the echinacea and the zinnias, the candy tuft still blooming valiantly with small white flowers, the spiny phlox, the rattling rags of the clematis, the sweet-smelling basil seeds, all plants gone leggy and untidy, leaves brown at the edges. The sunflower in a pot at the end of the garden flopped dejectedly, its heavy seed-head borne down, crowned with crisp petals. Above us, the buckeye tree blazed in golden glory against the blue sky. A few daisies and the pale purple Russian sage bloomed in the bed across the sidewalk, a bee hovering over the daisies.

The three of us ate a quiet supper. Mandy lounged on the floor and licked herself. My father and I ate leftover chicken-and-dumplings (delicious! thanks to Laura). We talked about the sermon today, the visitors who’d come to church, and plans for the week ahead. After supper, I printed off pictures for Danielle and read the selection from Precious Remedies for Sabbath school next week—the first three or four Devices in Chapter 3. Chapter 3 is about Satan’s devices to keep people from focusing on God.

After I finished reading Precious Remedies, my father did family worship, while my mother read along in her Bible, I sat curled in a corner of the sofa, and the cats placidly bathed themselves on their armchairs. After devotions, I stretched out on the sofa, cat-wise, and listened to my parents talk. At seven-thirty, I packed up. They trailed behind me down the front sidewalk. I loaded my suitcase into the trunk, settled my knapsack on the front passenger’s seat, and put the plastic cup full of zinnias into the cupholder. I hugged my parents good-bye on the driveway. My mother was shivering in the chilly breeze, but my father wrapped strong arms around me, bundling me in his thick jacket. Cold stars shone down on the dark neighborhood as I started the engine and pulled out of the driveway.

Back in Tulsa, I found Rachel S. studying in our room. While I unloaded my things, we compared notes about our respective weekends. She’d gone to Tara’s birthday party Saturday night, and I told her about the robotics competition. Once my things were put away, I sat down to write some letters. Outside, whistles blow and people shout encouragements to flag football players on the intramural field. Tyres squeal on the street. Girls laugh and talk in the dorm as they walk down the hall past our open door.

May God bless you all this week.