Now Playing: The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers soundtrack by Howard Shore. Track 19, "Gollum's Song."

Right, so this made me laugh a lot today. Or want to, anyway.

Picture: Our very astute medievalist, head of the English department, older professor with hair beginning to bald appropriately enough along the lines of a monk's tonsure. He had just spent an hour discoursing discursively (ah, alliteration) about the ins-and-outs of Chaucer's Troilus and Criseyde to me, staring into space and rambling in his soft genteel way. At the end of the hour, he was assigning my reading and writing for next week, Book V of the Troilus. "And as a critical issue, you might consider the incredible faffing about that happens throughout Book V," he said with a completely straight face.

I had to work very hard not to smile. "Faffing about" is not an American-ism, least of all parlance of a well-educated American academic. Hadn't heard it in quite some time.

And since this post is completely frivolous, it shall die a quiet death here. Good-night.

So you all already know how silly I am about knowing the names of birds and plants and places and constellations and things. My flute professor told me to find sound recordings of goldfinches to listen to online since I'm playing Vivaldi's "Il Gardelino" concerto. In the process of searching for clips, I found this site. It's in the links on my sideboard now, too. It's amazing! Video footage of so many different kinds of birds. Type in "buteo jamaicensis" and you can watch red-tailed hawks soaring and calling. Type in "ictinia mississippiensis" and there's an incredible clip of hundreds of Missisippi kites migrating. Type in "great horned owl" and you can see videos of a pair in Brazil, of all places, sitting on a branch and hooting at each other--a sound I thought only existed very, very early in the morning (as in two o'clock) on winter nights when I had my windows shut against the cold and was trying to sleep until one of these blighters landed in the maple tree right outside and started making a ruckus. Affectionate mockery. The sound these owls make is actually really soothing in an eerie way. Anyhow, go type in random bird names and watch some clips!

Oh, and type in great blue heron, too. There are a couple of pretty incredible videos of one individual swallowing a fish at least as big as its neck. I want to know whether they still wiggle around inside once they've been swallowed....

Now Playing: Loreena McKennitt, "An Ancient Muse". Track 4, "The English Ladye And The Knight".

One wonders why, if she insisted on using the "authentic" spelling, the artist did not also use the authentic pronunciation. I'd like to hear anyone sing the Old English/Middle English "gh" gracefully--it is, to borrow an exceedingly cliched example, "loch" or "Bach", or, if you prefer something more original, "shough", as Heather M. would say it. Oh, yes, and when I asked Heather how to spell aforesaid word, she stared at me and said, "I don't think it's ever been written down," though I'd heard an elderly man from Trinity RPC use it, so it's been around for quite awhile. So I apologize for misspelling it, if such an apology can exist for such a word.

I believe the events of the day merit a blog post.

Not, of course, that it started out particularly auspiciously. Monday morning, as most Monday mornings. Rachel left for her eight o'clock class. I drank my mug of Tetley with a scone, read The Rare Jewel of Christian Contentment, and went to the gym to run.

Then I bolted out the door to practice my flute before my lesson. It turned out that I didn't have a lesson at half eleven after all. I rapped on the professor's door and wasn't answered, so I trudged over to ACAC, where I checked my e-mail, and of course found a polite request from him to do lessons on Friday.

I ate lunch in ACAC by myself. Didn't have much of an appetite, though. Bad Tex-Mex. Not too appealing. Philip was working at Carrello's and Alex was hanging out with him, so I said hello to the two of them on my way to HIST at one o'clock. In HIST today, we discussed Octavian or Augustus or whatever you want to call him--the emperor with the poky-out ears is how I remember him--and had a whirlwind lecture through all twelve Roman emperors for twenty minutes before class let out.

It was upon getting out of class that the real fun started. During class, a mist had started to fall from the north. The sky was thickly overcast. Already a strange gelatinous coating was forming on the grass and sidewalks, not quite ice, simultaneously slippery and sticky. I cautiously climbed the stairs to our apartment.

This afternoon I listened to a CD Catherine had concocted for me for my birthday. Oh, good times. Half the songs I recognized, though I hadn't known their names the first time I'd heard them. Songs from the radio in Renwick, from the barn party, from riding around with Catherine and Emmaline. I was attempting to read Troilus and Criseyde, but I spent most of the time chuckling to myself. An appearance by the High School Musical soundtrack made me laugh and laugh, remembering Deborah, Rachel, Daphne, Emmaline, and co. singing at the tops of their lungs down Stranmillis Road.

I got on Facebook to thank Catherine, and my brief appearance resulted in two hour-long conversations, one with Catherine herself, and one with Missy, who's laid up with strep throat.

At half four I exercised my remaining scrap of self-discipline and signed off. I finished Book IV of Troilus and wrote a "note" (one page paper) about it. Then I started to work on revising the articles I'd written last week for the study abroad newsletter, all of which were, of course, too long. (Judging by how much I trimmed out of them, these poor blog posts would be about a third shorter if I actually edited them that much before I posted them. Alas, my laziness foists their bloated beings upon the cyber world and all you unfortunate readers.)

At six o'clock, I skidded to the caf to eat tea with Amy. Penguin weather. The afternoon had deposited a pleasantly slippery (*ahem*!) coat of ice on everything, in places an eighth of an inch thick. The street lamps have icicles at least eight inches long dangling from them with a slight southerly slant. All the trees and shrubs are cased in ice, and unfortunately as I write this, the wind is picking up, which means that the likelihood of branches breaking is getting higher every minute.

The caf was packed with people. Amy and I finally found a quiet booth where we could eat and talk. Then we slid back to Mayo together. Said good-night. Rachel and I have spent all evening studying in our apartment, drinking endless cups of tea. We've listened to the entirety of Handel's Messiah and excerpts from various Loreena McKennitt albums, as well as a LOTR spoof that Rachel's sister Christiana sent her. Commiserated over her work: her computer is too slow to process all the data she's throwing at it. Laughed over my work: I was reading Roman history, and the absolutely ridiculous accounts of Nero, Caligula, Claudius, and co., who seem to have enacted a perpetual Bizarro strip throughout their reigns.

Outside, the cold is growing sharper. The slush in the car park is freezing into nasty sharp gledes. An opaque sheath of ice covers all the cars, the roofs, the footpaths, and sparkles on the branches of the young trees. Uni has been cancelled for tomorrow, and there's talk of the university being shut down on Wednesday, too. As long as the power doesn't go out and we still have heating....

Now Playing: The Decemberists, "The Picaresque", Track 1, "The Infanta".

Currently I'm eating Percy Pigs and enjoying them thoroughly. :o)

Rachel was up early this morning. I heard her run out to an APO service day, but of course, in typical Saturday morning fashion, I just fell asleep again until the light through the purple-blue sheets over the windows was too strong to ignore. It was so luxurious to be awake and actually enjoy being awake. I pattered around the flat, opening all the blinds so that the sunshine could fill the rooms, heating water for tea.

As soon as I finished my devotions, I bundled up and drove The Tank down to Woodward Park. The day was cold enough that I could see my breath as I walked over the park toward the tangle of neighborhoods between 21st and 31st, an area that houses not only Woodward Park with its rose garden but also the Tulsa Garden and Historical Societies and the Philbrook Art Museum.

I walked for an hour through broad neighborhood streets lined with old houses. Like a storybook. Real Thomas Kinkade material except for the dull brown lawns and bare black trees. Gorgeous houses, some of them squeezed together on small lots, adobe "haciendas" side-by-side with Dutch Colonial, Tudor, and New England clapboard. Many of the houses had sun porches, glowing, glassed-in, full of plants or hung with lacy curtains. Odd wee windows everywhere, scattered up and down over three stories, giving glimpses of designer living rooms and wrought iron banisters.

I walked along the front of the Philbrook. Beyond it were a couple of enormous estates set on several acres of parkland. One of them was composed of two wings joined by a big round tower. At the bottom of its sweep of lawn I found a creek running between stone banks, water flowing amber clear over stones--somehow it's fitting that this neighborhood would have water in its creekbed when nowhere else in Oklahoma right now has any water.

The trees were gorgeous, rows of big sycamores, their trunks vividly white in the noon sunshine. Oaks and pecans rearing massive trunks and branches above two- and three-storied houses. The sunlight had that strangely intense, pale quality about it of a cold day after it's just snowed (though last night the sleet was only thick enough to stay on the roofs of the apartments).

I listened to Pastor Donnelly's final lecture about Heaven: about the renewal there of heaven and earth, about the deep human relationships, about the eternal restful service of God. Walking through these palaced avenues and lanes, thinking about "In My Father's house are many mansions...."

I made a meandering circle, coming back north by the Tulsa Gardens property. A circle of five statues of Native American ballerinas stands at the corner of that property, and I stopped to gaze at the smooth lines of curving arms. Walked up through the rose gardens, dead and empty, tiny rosehips on the Ballerina bushes like red beads. Thick gnarled trunks bedded deep in pine needles and oak leaves.

As I was going back to the car, I noticed the greenhouses behind the Tulsa Garden Society building and randomly decided to investigate, exercising some of my mother's perennial curiosity. I turned the handle of the first one, and it opened--which was rather a surprise, since I'm used to doors being locked. Warmth and faint sweetness wrapped out toward me. Shutting the door, I went down a few steps. The door was overshadowed by an enormous broad-leafed fig tree. A pond was surrounded by potted water plants. There were the usual raised shelves full of specimens. A couple of avocado trees and a coffee arabica tree were growing at the far end of the greenhouse. I found a rosemary plant and brushed my fingers on the leaves, smelling the spiciness.

I went next door to the other greenhouse, an older greenhouse, almost a miniature version of the Palm House in Belfast, white Victorian wrought iron. This one was obviously more established. In the central room, a deep pool was sunk in the floor, with a graceful statue of a boy sitting in the middle, staring down at the water, surrounded by equisetum. A slender orange tree grew over the pool, its thin twining branches hung with tiny oranges and tinier white waxy flowers. In one of the wings, potted orchids were growing, fanned like peacocks' tails, all bright colors on stringy stems. In the other wing, desert plants, including an enormous spiky barrel cactus and a miniature baobab.

Relaxed by the warm humidity, I walked back to the car. On my way to campus, I stopped at Reasor's for eggs and baking powder. I picked up a sandwich from the caf and ate it with salt-and-vinegar crisps while reading for ENGL 4863 (poetry). After I ate, I sat cross-legged on the floor in the bay window with a cup of tea. The sun, slanting south, made a warm oblong on the floor. Eventually, I stretched out under a pashmina and dozed.

When I woke up, I was really woozy for some reason. I listened to Coldplay and Correlli and read more for ENGL. At about four o'clock, I got extremely bored, so I rang Daphne. She was at youth club but obliged me by chatting for about five minutes until her service cut out. Though I tried to ring back, a polite English voice told me every time that my call couldn't be connected. So I tried Rachel instead, and was rewarded with a veritable whoop of gladness on the other end.

After we finished talking, I rang my family. My parents were both trying to prepare the house for a visit by the grandparents tonight, so they didn't talk long, though my father gave me some advice about job/grad school. I made two batches of scones, listening to Correlli, taking the same visceral pleasure in kneading the dough as I had in making mud pies in milk bottle caps in the back yard....

I finally finished my reading for ENGL and decided to make tea since Rachel still wasn't back. We had had mushrooms left over from the curry last Sabbath evening, so I made an omelet with them. I was just sitting down to eat when Rachel came in. She heated up leftover mac-and-cheese and helped me finish the omelet.

Then we settled down to work. Finished Correlli, listened to Vivaldi and Bach. I worked on ENGL assignments. Finished the dreaded "self-assessment" assignment, though it's not much to read. Troilus and Criseyde now for independent study. Wrapped up in the black-and-yellow pashmina, Emmaline's Christmas gift last year, still smells faintly like barbecue sauce.

Now Playing: Coldplay, "Viva La Vida, Or, Death And All His Friends."

He who goes out weeping,
bearing the seed for sowing,
shall come home with shouts of joy,
bringing his sheaves with him.

I thought at the beginning of Christmas break that no term could be much worse than last term was thanks to all my private calamities.

I was wrong. Watching the world I thought I knew come crashing down around our community in one long slow ongoing overthrow, I was reminded last night of this verse. I usually hear it applied to evangelism, but that might be too narrow. The body of Christ evangelizes itself, in a way, as we speak the Gospel to each other in times like this. Any believer, missionary or not, is bearing the Gospel message to everyone around him or her, whether they already believe or not. And that Gospel is perhaps most powerfully preached through tears.

The promise of this verse is rich: God is a God of deliverances, and "Sinai is now in the sanctuary", Psalm 68:17. The power, glory, and holiness is still dwelling with us even in this. Calvin wrote about Psalm 68 that we often underestimate the power of God with us, "The chariots of God are twice ten thousand, thousands upon thousands." "There are more with us than those that are with them."

So while it's still true to say, "Save me, O God! For the waters have come up to my neck. I sink in deep mire, where there is no foothold...", Psalm 69:1-2, that's not always the way it will be. Someday all of us, no matter how broken we are, will be with Him in glory, sharing in the triumph of resurrection forever.

"The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations...." Revelation 22:2

Now Playing: Psalm 121.

I'm taking a break from beginning to read more Roman history to bring you this news bulletin about the insane happenings in our apartment last night. Rachel and I were quietly minding our own business. Sabbath afternoon, she reading a magazine, me listening to Pastor Donnelly's last sermon about Heaven, sunshine sliding over the floor. Our peaceful musings were rudely interrupted when noises on the stairs outside warned us that a troop of elephants might possibly have decided to try to climb to the third floor. Unbeknownst to us, this herd decided that it was going to bang on our door. Rachel unwittingly opened it, and we were flooded with sleeping bags, pillows, suitcases, purses, textbooks, and Laura, Sarah, and Anna, who turned out not to be elephants after all but very hyper visitors from Stillwater.

They promptly made themselves at home. We sat around and discussed why marijuana is the only substance that won't kill you if you overdose until I looked at the clock and realized that it was time for me to drive to Christ Pres to help with nursery for the evening service. Anna, Sarah, and Laura decided to come along. I had offered to give Eleanor a ride. She blithely plunged into the insanity, she, Anna, and Sarah swapping car trouble stories while The Tank bumped and swayed through the narrow potholed streets. The sunset this evening was glorious, huge swathes of red cloud, like the beaten-down seedheads of summer grass, shimmering against an aquamarine sky.

At Christ Pres, Eleanor and I hurried back to the nursery. Anna led the other three girls to the service. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw them being given a warm welcome. At first Eleanor and I thought we weren't going to have anything to do and settled ourselves down to discuss Christmas break. Were we ever wrong.... We ended up looking after thirteen children from seven to just barely standing. A couple of other girls came to help us. The big room went from being quiet, empty, and orderly to being noisy, crowded, and chaotic. Toys went everywhere. Legos, dollhouse furniture, stuffed animals, board books, action figures. Most of the older children decided that they were all going to be dogs. They ran around and around the tables in the middle of the room on their hands and knees, yapping, barking, begging to be pet and fed, arguing over who was what and whose name went to whom. The very little children had commandeered the chalkboard and dollhouses in one corner. Wee Kara (about 2 years) latched onto me and would leap into my arms every so often with an enormous grin on her face. Eleanor attempted to keep little Augie (short for Augustine), who's just learned to stand, from being trampled by the pack of wild dogs. Oh, we had a lively time of it, particularly when the supply of graham crackers ran out and everyone wanted more.

We worked for an hour-and-a-half. Back on campus, we left Eleanor off at her apartment. Up in our apartment, Rachel had set the table beautifully and was steaming the rice. Laura helped me make curry while Anna worked on the dessert, and Sarah and Rachel stood and talked to us. Classical guitar was playing on Rachel's laptop in the background. I threw all sorts of things into the big saucepan with the curry--carrots, peas, some leftover chicken, cashews, mushrooms, enough that the spices themselves turned out not to be very strong. I used tomato soup, too, for the base--it's creamier and less oily than tomato sauce. The food was ready at about nine o'clock. The reek of the onion was so strong that we had to open a window and prop open the door with Rachel's backpack.

It was a very pleasant meal. The fresh cool air coming in from outside brought the stillness of the night, the noise of a train whistle. Warm light and Rachel's music. The girls were crazy, of course. We talked about school and church. The curry had turned out well. We sat for a long time over the meal, talking. When I finished washing the dishes, we sat down on the sofas, brought out our Psalters, and sang. Psalm 25A, 126A, 68A, 127A, 3A. Between Psalms, Laura, Anna, and Sarah, sitting on the sofa, were absolutely ridiculous. I laughed at the three of them and their silliness until I fully couldn't breathe anymore and was begging them to stop. Our singing after laughing was still full and beautiful, Rachel's voice beside me resounding clearly.

Nicole knocked on the door at about eleven o'clock. Anna was just bringing the brownie-chocolate-chip-and-whipped-frosting concoction out of the refrigerator. Even though Sarah, Laura, and Anna hadn't had any sugar yet, they were still completely crazy. As we sat around the table, eating the dessert, Nicole tried to start a polite conversation with the girls, but her eyes got wider and wider as Laura went off on some ridiculous tangent about how she was seventy-one and dyslexic.... We sat around for an hour or so. After Nicole left, we took turns getting ready for bed. I washed the dishes and asked Sarah about how she's finding the nursing program this term. After Rachel went to bed, I stayed up for awhile with the girls. Anna and I were curled up on the red sofa, each of us with an earbud from her iPod, listening to Coldplay and almost asleep, while Sarah and Laura, lying in their sleeping bags, giggled and talked at a rapid rate about something.... I finally went to my own bed.

Now Playing: Coldplay, "Viva La Vida, Or, Death And All His Friends". Track 5. I don't think I've enjoyed a pop CD so much, for the most part, since Kevin lent me The Decemberists' "Picaresque". Strikingly different from The Decemberists, of course, but the rhythms and sweep of the instrumentals recall the U.K. vividly.

This morning I showered, ate cereal, did my devotions, watching the light slide smoothly over the white walls. I could almost see the plants on the kitchen counter unfurling new leaves as the morning went on. I spent all morning writing and revising two articles for the CGE newsletter. Rachel and I ate lunch together. When we stepped outside to walk to the cafeteria, I was surprised by how warm it was. I didn't need my coat. Watching the airplane contrails criss-crossing the bright blue sky, I asked Rachel if she liked flying. She launched into a careful practical answer that made us both laugh.

I spent more hours working on CGE articles, then drove to the shop to buy groceries for Anna, Sarah, and Laura when they come. As I drove with the window down, I listened to the end of Pastor Donnelly's third sermon on Heaven. He spoke about how Christ will be utterly pleased with us, will be filled with wonder and delight, will be completely satisfied when He sees us in Heaven--with us not merely as a body but as individuals.

Wal-Mart, of course, nearly swallowed me alive. Busy Saturday afternoon, crowds and crowds of people, family flocks chattering in Spanish, men in black leather with fringes, old wrinkled ladies. I scuttled through the chaos and was glad to escape. Back on campus, I went to the library to return a book, and in the process I checked out A Short History of the Printed Word, an excellent little volume by Warren Chapell on the history of printing. I walked back with James and Eleanor, a treat, since I don't get to talk to them very often. The evening was still so cool that when I got back to the apartment, I opened the south window and pulled off my socks. Rachel was talking with her mother on the phone. I curled up in the big armchair to read for ENGL 4863, writing disagreeing notes in the margins of the essay.

Rachel and I had to run to the caf for tea--we got there just before it closed. Talked about politics and economics. She left to study. I sat in the armchair, finishing the article, then doing some word research on the online Oxford English Dictionary when Nicole rang. She came over, having just returned from an overnight trip home to OKC. We started to plan our adventure to Europe in the spring, which had been hypothetical last term, but which may actually happen now. Belfast, St. Andrew's, Prague, Rome is the tentative itinerary at the minute.... I was so excited, and so was she. We went back to her apartment and made shortbread. We spent the rest of the evening together, baking in a leisurely fashion. Talked about our families, mostly, about all the quiet small doings of siblings and parents and grandparents.

After the shortbread came out of the oven, we drank Earl Grey tea and ate some of our handiwork, and laughed about gardening and about all the silly things we did as children, making stews with maple seeds ("helicopters") and clay pies in milk bottle caps in the back yard, digging pits and weaving plates out of iris leaves, to our parents' dismay. Summers of warm sunshine, moist dark earth, dappled shadows under the rose of sharon and lilacs, piles of smooth waxy green acorns, milk bottles full of little round clay coins, flitted through my memory, and glimpses into hers, fragile rough maple wings, grandmothers' back yards like secret gardens, spoons made from sticks with leaves twisted on.

I left at a quarter past eleven and ran back to my apartment. Orion in the southern sky, the evening chilly. Rachel had already gone to bed. I sit here, listening to Coldplay on my headphones. Outside, people are walking through the car park, laughing, screaming, squealing. The venetian blinds slit the light on the dark walls. So many vivid memories today.

Yes, my profile is hidden for the semester ahead because I can't hide it on the ENGL 4863 class blog without hiding it on this one, too. I don't particularly want my classmates finding this blog or people who read this one being subject to the class blog, so until the end of the term, quarantine ensues.

Sigh.

Now Playing: The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King soundtrack by Howard Shore. Track 17, "The Return of the King".

13 January 2009, second day of classes, spring term.

Actually managed to wake up this morning, which, even though it's only the beginning of the semester, is already a feat. Rachel left early for class again, so I spent most of the morning quietly in the apartment, sending e-mails and writing questions for the study abroad newsletter interviews. Warm sunshine streamed through the windows, bathing the white walls and the slowly-recovering plants in intense light.

At eleven o'clock, I went to Honors in Chapman, the same classroom as Imperial Rome. This is my last Honors course--good thing, too, because the longer the Honors program goes, the less interesting the courses get. Of course, starting off with Greek poetry and drama isn't really fair to any of the other sections, though Shakespeare and medieval history can compete pretty well, but the history of science and these two contemporary issues courses don't stand a chance. If Rachel Sr. and I had our way, this last contemporary issues course would be dropped completely, and everyone would take both Shakespeare and Enlightenment instead of having to choose between the two.

Anyhow, I found myself in the room with the usual bunch of people, except for a small deputation of girls who soon discovered that this was not American Revolution and betook themselves elsewhere. The professor for this course is Dr. L, who taught my freshman linguistics course, a huge white-haired fellow whose his specialty is not modern ethics or politics but the anthropological ways of the South Pacific. We managed to spend an hour talking about "stuff" before he dismissed class for the day.

I ended up walking out of Chapman with Gavin, who was in Honors last fall, and who's a friend of Rachel's and Crystal's. We walked to ACAC and ended up eating lunch together since none of the usual RUF crowd could be found, although Crystal joined us briefly.

At one o'clock, I went to practice my flute. Worked on Vivaldi the whole hour, then walked back to the apartment. The afternoon was absolutely gorgeous, a heady blue sky that seemed to make every breath teeter on the edge of drunkenness, but it was also very cold. In the apartment, I made a cup of green tea and sat down to read. I read for Imperial Rome (very interesting) and for Honors (frustrating).

Rachel and I ate tea together. After tea, I finished reading for Honors and started to read for my independent study with Dr. E. The enormous Riverside Chaucer is the main textbook for the course, a beautiful but weighty volume. I was thoroughly enjoying the introduction about Chaucer's very colorful life when it was time to walk to The Collective for RUF. Instead of having "proper" large group tonight, we were just getting together at this coffee shop for "hang-out time". Nicole, Rachel, and I walked over together.

The night was very cold, so it was good to be inside and order tea. We found Di, Matt, and several freshmen guys already gathered around a coffee table. The group expanded quickly: Hannah and Leslie, Alyson and Amy, Rachel Jr., Stephen and Joseph, Philip, Andrew and Jenny, Asher, Charlie, Phil, Matlock, Kevin and Holly.... The conversations were vastly different and amusing. In front of me, across the table, Matt was explaining to a freshman why he thought all vampires should die; nearby, Hannah and Leslie were examining a "Tulsa World" newspaper; behind me, Alyson, Jenny, and Rachel were discussing Harry Potter and trashy Christian romance novels; behind them, Philip, Charlie, and some other guys were discussing books. A basketball game had just let out from the TU arena across the street, and people were flowing back to their cars. Leslie showed us her ring. Danny told me about his hiking trip in Arkansas over the break and how proud he was that now he's an early morning riser. Matt was sketching something in a big green book and discussing teaching methods with Di. And so it went.

Rachel, Nicole, Phil, and I walked back to Mayo at ten or so. I resumed work on interview questions for study abroad. At eleven o'clock, I said good-night to Rachel.

Now Playing: Not much.

12 January 2009, first day of classes, spring term.

Of course I had the best intentions for starting off the semester, waking up at seven and all that. However, when my alarm did go off, I found it unaccountably difficult to wriggle out of bed, largely because it was still black outside, with just a hint of grey in the east. And it was cold.

Rachel rushed off to an eight o'clock. I walked to the gym to run. O bliss, today all the TV screens at the front of the workout area were turned off, and some of them were even in the process of being drywalled over. The happiness of not having to refocus myself constantly away from those alluring flashing pictures was somewhat taken aback by the appearance of my adviser, of all people, Dr. S, in workout clothes with a book. She actually said hello to me before settling herself down on one of the bike machines.

At half eleven, I went to Tyrrell to practice my flute, then to ACAC for lunch. On my way to ACAC, I ran into Crystal, who's working on her senior project from last term. We talked for awhile on the sidewalk in the sunshine about poetry and photography. Then I went to buy a salad. Jenny M. and Amy happened to be in ACAC at the same time. The food court area was extremely crowded, but the three of us found the end of a table that was free. I said hello to Philip working at Carrello's on my way out.

My first class of the day was at one o'clock in Chapman, one of those second storey white-walled classrooms. The classroom was packed. Emily J. is also in this course: Imperial Rome and Its Legacy. The professor turned out to be quite a character: a skinny short wee chap, with a very pale face and deep dark bags under his eyes, a big black beard, and nearly shoulder-length black hair. He must just be out of his last degree. He kept talking about how small this class was, a perfect size for discussion, though it has to be one of the biggest courses I've been in my whole time at TU (20-30 people). He also reserved for himself the right to swear, except in cases where students found it appropriate. "Be respectful," he told us. (!) Today, of course, was just reading through the syllabus and introductions, but it promises to be an interesting class. Lectures on early Christianity and Roman culture later on.

After class I took care of all the small errands that had to be done: buying a coursepack in the library, paying a small overdue fine, making sure the library knew that it had listed me incorrectly as having checked out a book, and so forth.

At four o'clock, I was supposed to meet with Ms. S at the CGE about the next newsletter. I walked over to the CGE trying not to brood, asserting still a faith that God is good and over this. The CGE was, of course, as busy and cheerful as ever. Everyone there is always smiling, it seems. Ms. S and I ironed out the list of articles (five!) that they want me to write, the contacts, the focuses, etc. Then I said good afternoon.

Back in my apartment, I fired off half-a-dozen e-mails to people requesting interviews for the newsletter. Then I texted Nicole to ask if she still wanted to make tea for the Ks. She did. So I ran over to her apartment. We were just getting ready to head to the shop, having decided which dishes to make and made a list of ingredients, when Rachel Sr. rang. Nicole said to ask her if she wanted to join us, so I invited her over.

We drove to Reasor's on 15th Street and bought what we needed. The shop was really crowded. Back in Nicole's apartment, we started to cook. I made barbecued chicken; Rachel diced vegetables for a roasted vegetables-with-cream dish, and Nicole worked on short bread. We were all very quiet. Rachel Jr. and Amy came back from tea together, sat down, and put on a "Scrubs" DVD. Amy's laughter was infectious, and pretty soon both Rachels were laughing with her. Nicole was frustrated: she accidentally melted the butter for the short bread instead of softening it, then put the concoction in the freezer, then forgot about it and so had to melt it again. The chicken took ages to cook, and then when we put the vegetables in, the potatoes simply would not soften. Eventually, though, Amy and Rachel Jr. both left. We waited around and waited around. Rachel and I sat down on the sofa, and Nicole sprawled on the floor. The wind was seething under the windowsills and howling around the corners of the apartment. We decided to tell a round story.

Our round story was short and sweet this time, about a little girl who lived in a valley with a cat named Felix, a dog named Joanna, and a cage of little yellow birds. The wind blew so strongly that it terrified her birds until they wouldn't sing and started to lose their feathers, so the little girl asked the wind to stop. She threw spices onto the wind, but the wind said that wasn't enough. So then she walked all the way to the next town to the library and asked the librarian for help. The librarian gave her some advice. The little girl made a whole bunch of pinwheels and stuck them in the grass far away from her cottage. "You can play with these over here all you like," she told the wind. The wind was delighted and swooped first one way, then another way through the pinwheels--leaving the little girl peacefully in her cottage, and the birds beginning to sing again.

When we finished our story, we watched an episode of "Hogan's Heroes", which was amusing. Nicole finally decreed the potatoes done, so she rang Mrs. K to ask if we could deliver the food. Outside, the night had become frigid, a north wind roaring down through the sky. The Ks were all in their dining room with some friends over, working on odds and ends of homework, bits of sewing, curling hair, whatever. They welcomed us warmly. We left the food and said good-night.

We went silently back to campus. Said good-night to Nicole. I ran over to Crystal's apartment to say hello to her since she's still working on her senior project, due Wednesday. Went straight to bed back in the apartment.

Psalm 65.

Praise is due to you, O God, in Zion,
and to you shall vows be performed.

God's goodness, as Calvin would say, "constantly affords" new sources of praise for his people. The Psalter translates this opening passage, "Praise waits for you...", and Mr. C, giving his meditation on this Psalm as our congregation's Psalm of the month last week, translated it, "Praise is silent before you...". The very act of giving God praise must sometimes be silenced before his grandeur. "Thank you for..." may be alright when human beings give us things, but when God stoops to give us himself, the phrase used politely to acknowledge a good meal or stocking stuffers pales into triteness and insufficiency.

O you who hears prayer,
to you shall all flesh come.

God reveals himself as the one who hears prayer. This is his name, part of his character, part of his eternal personality. He delights to hear prayer, indeed, as the rest of this Psalm shows, he hears and answers prayer in abundance over and above the requests presented. Reading Heart Aflame this afternoon, I was struck by Calvin's forwardness since he writes that God "must" answer prayer; "to do so would be to deny his nature". Hearing prayer is thus an abiding part of his glory. If I could only believe this, it would give unquenchable confidence. He never lacks the power or knowledge or willingness to respond because of Christ.

When iniquities prevail against me,
you atone for our transgressions.

Christ is the second part of this verse since it is only through him that all flesh can come to God, as the next verse amply demonstrates. It might be wondered how all flesh could come to this holy God thanks to the phrase "When iniquities prevail against me," but then, "you atone for our transgressions". Christ is our access to God. He has already provided for our sins and covered them himself. One matter for awesome praise: God does not leave us to pay for our own sins but delights to pay for them himself, taking on himself the burden of our wrongdoing. That is mercy.

Blessed is the one you choose and bring near,
to dwell in your courts!
We shall be satisfied with the goodness of your house,
the holiness of your temple!

Verses 3 and 4 combine the individual and the group in a startling way. The Psalmist says "When iniquities prevail against me" but "you atone for our transgressions", and "Blessed is the one you choose" but "We shall be satisfied...". I've been puzzling about how personally to take the promises, particularly those in the Old Testament, such as Isaiah 40-43. They are made to the Old Testament people of God, yet they are partly fulfilled in the New Testament, and will continue to be fulfilled as Christ saves his people to himself. So how is it that I as an individual can take these promises for myself--these promises for guidance, for blessing, and so forth? Merely an individual, merely part of the group. That, however, does not seem to be the Psalmist's perspective, or God's. Christ prays in John 17 for his people to be one as God as one, that unique Trinitarian unity that still preserves distinction. What God does for the whole, he does for the individual, and vice versa. Each believer as an entity is a microcosm of God's plan and promise, yet each believer is also the means of fulfilling those plans and promises. We see his goodness and faithfulness in our particular lives, but our particular lives fulfill his grand promises way back to Adam and Eve, to Abraham, to David.

This is the satisfying goodness of God, the goodness of fellowship with him and with one another, of peace and unity. This is the love and joy he has given us, that we are permitted to partake of his holiness, his greatness and goodness. With such favor upon me, how can I still be afraid and worry so often?

By awesome deeds you answer us with righteousness,
O God of our salvation,
the hope of all the ends of the earth and of the farthest seas;
The one who by his strength established the mountains,
being girded with might....

God replies to our prayers awesomely, perhaps not always as we expect, but always for his glory. His power exercised in righteousness is our hope. His beauty lies in this, this power exercised in gentleness and goodness and in truth. Why is he the hope of the earth?

... who stills the roaring of the seas,
the roaring of the waves,
the tumult of the peoples,
So that those who dwell at the ends of the earth
are in awe at your signs.
You make the going out of the morning
and the evening to shout for joy.

He brings peace. Even before he walked on the Sea of Galilee, God was known as the one who stills uproar, who brings order to chaos, who brings quiet to noisiness, calmness to distress, certainty to confusion. The "tumult of the peoples" is, I think, not only the war between nations, the friction between depraved human beings, but also the chaos within each one of us, the constant clamor of nagging desires all yanking and yowling at each other. He brings peace to our guilty consciences and judges peace to ourselves. He brings certainty to each individual's life, that "living hope" in 1 Peter 1. I love the last two lines of these verses. Like Psalm 84, "Advancing still from strength to strength," each day is joyful before him. I never valued joy and certainty so much as I have begun to over these last months. Knowing that each day, each place, each season is an advance and not a retreat, is part of God's purpose to satisfy me with his goodness, is precious, invaluable.

He is so lovely in his power: he makes each day, even these days on sinful earth with all their pain and sorrow, to shout for joy.

You visit the earth and water it;
you greatly enrich it;
the river of God is full of water;
you provide their grain,
for so you have prepared it.

This is his glory as he answers prayer, his overflowing abundance. The river here reminds me of the River of Life in Revelation and the promise of drinking eternal life with the Savior forever. He has prepared our physical and our spiritual food for us, day by day. This section of the Psalm is richly physical, for God is God of the very practicalities of earthly life--whether it rains or not; whether I have a job or not; whether we are sick or in danger or not. He has prepared each part of it.

You water its furrows abundantly,
setting its ridges,
softening it with showers,
and blessing its growth.
You crown the year with your bounty;
your wagon tracks overflow with abundance.

So beautiful! Rich, rich, rich. Who would have thought of God as having "wagon tracks"? The phrase startled me the first time I read it in the ESV, but there it is, glaring confrontation that I cannot push God out of my life by saying that he only cares about my moral choices and whether or not I have praised him enough today or said the right things in Bible study. He has made the rough-and-tumble details of life, suitcases and laptops and shoes and houses. To say that he doesn't watch over those simple plain details is absolutely foolish unbelief.

The pastures of the wilderness overflow,
the hills gird themselves with joy,
the meadows clothe themselves with flocks,
the valleys deck themselves with grain,
they shout and sing together for joy.

The end almost seems like overkill. Joy, joy, joy. Overflowing. When Mr. C read this Sabbath morning, the image instantly burst into my mind of the lane just above the McCollums' house, standing between the hawthorn hedges and looking down over the valley toward Coleraine, with the sun through the clouds glancing off long puddles of water shining in green fields. I only wish I could always trust God with the rich entertwined faith of the Psalmist, joining the atonement for sins with the practical provision of crops for each year. To me it seems as though I may be saved, yes, but after that it's sink or swim. God may pay attention to my physical needs, and he may not, but it's up to me to make the right choices and take care of myself. That is simply not God's way. He doesn't leave any corner of the life of his redeemed alone; he delights to meddle in every part of our daily affairs, to answer prayers in stunning and spectacular ways. It is both incredibly terrifying and wonderfully liberating to believe this: that God's joy in the atonement spills over uncontrollably, unquenchably, into every part of the world of his people, not only in special grace to us but in general grace to everyone.

My idea of God's grace has been so narrow, as though grace were a grudging permission toward us--or perhaps more accurately, not as though he were grudging, but rather as though our privileges were very limited, restricted to atonement, the judicial declaration of our righteousness in Christ. Rather I see a happy, gleeful, joyful exuberance, love that flows eagerly into every area and spreads itself through my whole life, into every moment of every believer until we are at last brought into his immediate presence to be satisfied forever. For now that immediacy is too much, and so instead we have the glorious abundance of the natural world as a token of what is to come.

Lord, give me faith to believe and to praise you.

Now Playing: Jean-Yves Thibaudet, Pride and Prejudice soundtrack. (Thank you again, Aunt and Uncle!)

Thanks to the basketball game last night, which the Trinity boys pulled ahead at the last minute, it seemed, everyone woke up late today. My alarm went off at eight. I lay in bed for half-an-hour, enjoying the waking up process gradually, until I remembered that I was supposed to ring Emmaline at nine, at which point I woke up for real. I took a cup of Earl Grey upstairs and sat down at my desk. Emmaline rang quite promptly at nine, and we spent nearly an hour-and-a-half, me with my feet up on my desk, she on her bed halfway round the world, being our usual silly selves.

Laura was trying to find a recipe for bread online. I left at half ten to run errands. I went to the hair salon to pick up styling lotion and to Staples to buy speakers for my laptop. On the whole a surprisingly painless zip around town. Just as I got back, Laura was leaving to work out at the fitness centre with Sarah.

I had the house to myself for two blissfully silent hours.... When Laura came back, while she made Swedish limpa bread dough, I heated up bean with bacon soup for our lunch. We listened to this soundtrack. While we ate our soup, she was silly, of course, and said awful things. I listened to her silently until she told me I was too quiet and turned the music back on.

"The parentals" and Stephen came home from the last tournament game at half two. I'd done my laundry and finished packing by the time they returned. My room is now lined on one side with suitcases, boxes, bags, and a backpack full of stuff. Food, mostly from Emmaline and Catherine; the Harry Potter books from Alyson; some of Philip's things; clothes, textbooks, and so forth.

At about four o'clock, I walked around San Born Lake. The afternoon was shiningly clear but quite cold, with a brisk northwest wind. The pear trees are starting to bud, though. I thought about the promises in 1 Peter 1, "Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! According to His great mercy He has caused us to be born again to a new and living hope through the resurrection of Christ Jesus from the dead...."

Back at home, the house was full of the wonderful smell of chicken soup cooking on the stove. My mother was flustered: the Spitlers were to come for tea tonight. She was making chicken-and-dumpling soup and broccoli-and-cheese soup, as well as fruit salad. After the two of us moved tables, I set the long table for twelve.

The Spitlers arrived at five o'clock. We had a delicious meal, all seated at the long table. Outside the moon was rising enormous above the back fence through the black branches of the trees: huge, creamy white, luminous. Mrs. S said that this is the largest moon of the year. We watched it rise before our eyes. The conversation was interesting: a mixture of Native American and Oklahoma history, ancestry, British trivia, tartans (OSU has had their tartan registered in Scotland!), and so forth. We had ice cream and cookies for dessert, and after the tables were cleared, we played games. I managed to organize a game of Cranium with Stephen, Hannah, and Rebekah on one team, and Sarah, Susanna, and me on the other, while Rachel and Laura bounced away, quite pleased with themselves, to join the parentals for a game of Scrabble in the dining room. Cranium was quite amusing, particularly thanks to Susanna, who is an extremely hyper nine-year-old and gave hilarious pantomime renditions of The Titanic and rainbows. After Cranium, we watched the Scrabble game, and then we played two rounds of Apples to Apples before the Spitlers decided to leave.

Laura and Stephen went to feed Jonathan's dog (he and Logan are visiting Stirling this weekend). I helped my parents with the dishes a wee bit, then took Sandy upstairs with me to my room to put the finishing touches on packing. She is now curled up on my bed asleep.

Now Playing: Arcangelo Corelli, "Concerto grosso in G Major, Op. 6, No. 8, 'fatto per la notte di Natale'." (Thank you Aunt Lisa and Uncle Kirk!)

The holidays always present one with a long list of things to be accomplished. I found myself at last coming to the end of my list today. I woke up this morning deliciously rested. I showered and was downstairs just in time to hop in the car with my mother and Stephen, who were driving out to visit my grandmother. We picked up a sack of books for her at the library on our way to her house. We stayed at her house until about eleven o'clock. Stephen and I got her humidifier working while she and my mother chatted away. Ross had posted my grandmother a box of chocolate chocolate chip cookies, and she shared them with Stephen and me while my mother worked on finishing a basket.

Back at home, I attempted to sew a fabric cover for my Bible. It didn't go too well. We ate lunch when Laura came back from MTC, watching a little bit of Prince Caspian while we ate, and after we finished eating, I went back to my sewing. That didn't last long, though. I finally gave up and went upstairs.

At three o'clock, I drove out to the Aspen coffee shop in Fountain Square mall, on the west side of town, to meet Pastor and Mrs. Parnell, Sarah, and Elizabeth. The afternoon was glorious, one of those midwinter days given as a sudden gift: clear skies, warm sunshine, still air, a haze hanging over the pale and brown fields. Mary and Will were sitting at a separate table, reading respectively a comic book and a Redwall book. I joined Pastor and Mrs. P, Sarah, and Elizabeth at their table.

The sunshine was hot and low through the western windows when we said good-bye.

The Parnells went home, but Elizabeth, Sarah, and I decided to go for a walk. We walked fast, down the sidewalk along the road, under the bridge, and up the other side, along the bridge, and back along the narrow winding street that branches off the main road. We walked down to the park at the end of the street, and beyond the park into the woods. Huge tall pecan trees reared overhead, long branches like coral fronds patterning the sky. We scrambled down the soft red embankment into the gully where the creek runs. The winter has been dry, so although the banks were muddy, the creek itself was low. We walked along the bank, our feet sliding in the deep loam and scuffing through drifts of silver leaves. We threw big branches into the water to see how deep it was. I saw a hawk flying away through the trees. A woodpecker shouted at us from a tree high up on the bank above. We stopped by mutual consent at the foot of a big pecan tree with its roots protruding from the red soil, and our conversation died away.

Silence. We must have stood together without speaking for quite awhile. An airplane buzzed through the sky, invisible, and its noise died away. It was evening. To our right, down the creek, the sunshine slanted through a gap in the west bank, glowing rich gold on the facing bank. The pecan trees reared overhead, patterning every part of the still blue sky. The light was ruddy on their trunks, and still sky and still trees and golden earth were reflected perfectly in the water. Tiny winds that none of us could feel ruffled the still face of the creek, endless variation and vibration of overhanging trees, grey and gold and pale blue sky stretching away into amber water, the pale white moon behind the pecan trees reflected opalescent behind the branches in the water.

Someone slipped, or someone coughed or stirred, and we laughed and turned and scrambled up the bank again, talking as we ran through deep drifts of dead white winter grass. The hawk soared ahead of us over the evening sky. Low in the west bars of cloud, grey on top, were being burned orange and gold below. We walked back along the bridge, under the road, and along the road on the other side, laughing about old age. Flocks of geese flew overhead, undulating against the sky, lilting bronze and gold wings.

I drove Elizabeth home. Ben and Greg were bouncing on the trampoline in the Fishers' back yard. I drove home listening to the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe soundtrack. The sunset was beautiful, aquamarine sky behind still trees. When I got home, my father was just coming outside to search The Tank for Philip's missing keys. I stood quietly, watching the sky while he looked. The sky was even quieter blue, Jupiter bright white in the west and the moon bright white overhead, with that peculiar pale winter clearness.

Inside, Bridget and Laura were practicing "What Child Is This", Bridget trying to learn it on her harp while Laura picked out the chords on the piano. Bridget ate tea with us. Chili tonight. After tea, at seven o'clock, Philip, Laura, Stephen, and I drove down to the Parnells' house for college Bible study. When we reached the Parnells' house, we found the street outside their house all parked up. Inside, everyone was just finishing tea. A lot of people had come: Jonathan and Logan, the Darnabys, the Spitler girls except Susannah, Elizabeth, Anna. The study tonight was from the Spiritual Disciplines book that the team to Airdrie always does, tonight the chapter on silence and solitude.

After the study, I went over to talk to Leah. Elizabeth joined Leah and me. We talked about traveling, about silly things we'd done as kids, about our siblings, about Dinah and Donald, the Darnabys' kids. Chat, chat, chat. Said good-bye to Anna when she left for work at nine; said good-bye to Sarah when her sisters pulled her away. Elizabeth complained about having to drive home in the big van all by herself, so Laura and I happily hopped in with her, and she drove the two of us back to our house on her way home. The streets were so empty that she joked about driving on the left side and not using her blinker--I told her about the time when Emmaline and I were driving back to Coleraine after our LOTR marathon and Emmaline had decided to drive on the right side of the road to see if it made me feel more at home...! Elizabeth laughed and laughed at me.

The house was quiet, everyone having left already. My mother was writing e-mails in the study with Sandy curled up on her lap. Philip, Laura, and I said good-night to her. I went up to my room to write this entry. Laura popped in to say good-night and to inform me, as she does every night, with a high-pitched giggle, that bedbugs are real. She seems to derive a great deal of delight from imparting this knowledge to me.

Listening to Corelli. I somehow never get tired of this music. Baroque music is, I suppose, far more enjoyable for the musician playing it than for the audience in most cases. Romantic stuff is more interesting to the audience, plenty of emotion and drama, perfect for crowd-pleasing. But Baroque music, particularly Vivaldi and Corelli, has such joi de vivre, and then of course Bach with the endless variations that draw the listener further and further into a world of complex interlocking harmonies. This is nearly the last track of the CD I have, though, so I shall be away to sleep soon.

Pictures from New Year's here.

Now Playing: Laura with her guinea pig and Stephen on the computer.

1 January 2009.

The reason I white rabbited none of you poor people out there this New Year's is that I was at the Wagners' house for the day with two of my charming siblings. Missy and I stayed up until three the night before talking, so when pale sunshine started to slant through the blinds at eight o'clock in the morning, I woke up, blinked, wondered how anyone was supposed to sleep with that much light in the room, and promptly attempted it, with the result that Mrs. Wagner had to wake both Missy and me up at half ten. I took a shower and was downstairs just in time for breakfast, or brunch if you prefer. Missy and Mrs. Wagner had prepared scrambled eggs and French toast casserole. Katie and Missy are the only two Wagner girls home right now, so there were seven at the table. We spent a long time just sitting and talking and laughing so that it was past noon by the time the food was cleared away and the dishes washed.

Mrs. Wagner, Missy, Laura, and I played a game of Scrabble. Philip and Mr. Wagner left to play raquetball on the USAF base, and when they came back, Philip "helped" us. Mrs. W and Missy knitted busily. This is one of Mrs. W's first projects, so both Missy and Laura were giving her advice. The two dogs, Reese (chocolate lab) and Taffy (golden retriever, but looks like an Irish setter), prowled around, tails thumping against the coffee table, hunting for attention. Taffy put her sleek ginger head in my lap so that I could rub her behind the ears.

We played in a leisurely fashion. When we finished our game, and Philip finished his shower, the six of us drove to the base to go bowling. The roads on base are arranged with roundabouts, which always catch me slightly off-guard since I'm used to approaching roundabouts from the opposite direction and having them built up with odds and ends of trees or bits of boats and flowerbeds on them. The bowling alley on base is small, clean, and fairly new. It's also very cheap. One game is only fifty cents. Four of the six lanes were occupied by young families with wee kids. We took the other two lanes, Laura, Mrs. W, and me on one, Philip, Katie, and Missy on the other. Mrs. W won the first game, and I won the second, though I was absolutely abysmal. Mrs. W bought tatertots and French fries, which we consumed quickly. Between turns, I asked Mrs. W questions about her family and how she came to know the Lord--through meeting Christians on base after she and Mr. W were married. She came from a Catholic family.

After a couple of rounds, we drove back to the Wagners' house. Philip ran outside to play with the dogs, and after trying to help the other girls find a film to watch tonight, I joined him. The evening wasn't too cold, but bracing, clear. Taffy was loping along the western fenceline, barking at the next door neighbor's children. Her red-gold fur was silky in the failing sunshine. Reese, on the other hand, was doing what she was made to do: retrieving. Philip and I teased her for being a ball-worshipper. Philip was her high priest. He had a tennis racket, and every time she brought the ball to him, he'd bounce it onto the tennis racket and hold it high above her head, while she stared at it adoringly with her big Precious Moments eyes, until he whacked it far out into the yard with the racket, and she raced after it, tearing up the lawn with her speed, sending grass and dust in spiraling trails as she wheeled to grab it in her mouth. She never tired, though she did slow down and begin to hold onto the ball for a little bit longer. Taffy ran circles around her, barking, trying to play the game, too. Reese growled at her in annoyance. Philip and I ran around with the dogs, laughed at Reese, laughed at Taffy, played tricks on Reese, wrestled with Taffy, and so forth, until Reese was almost too sore to run and the light began to fail. The clear sky overhead was becoming deep ringing blue when we went inside.

Upstairs, Missy and Laura were watching "I Love Lucy". I sat on the floor in Missy's room with them until teatime. Mrs. W had made special Mexican soup and cornbread for tea as a New Year's treat. We sat long over the meal, chatting and laughing. Mr. W teased Philip about his "goat beard" and asked him if he ever found the sudden urge to go around baaing. "Well, he does eat everything in sight," I said, which made them laugh. We sat round, just talking about school and family and life in general, and about politics a little bit.

After tea, we drove to Enid's illustrious mall, where we stood in line for ages to buy tickets and then went to see Marley and Me. Pleasant little story. At least it doesn't gloss over some of the hard parts about marriage and childrearing, though of course I wouldn't know much about that. It was strange to watch the actors "mature" and to try to get one's mind around the fact that this will be me, or at least my siblings and friends, over the next twenty years.

Back at the Wagners' house, Mr. and Mrs. W and Katie went to bed almost immediately, though it was only about twenty to ten. Missy, Philip, Laura, and I made hot chocolate. We sat at the dining room table with a box of oreos and played a round of Mille Bornes. We had to teach Missy. She's supposed to be learning how to be nice to guys, but she claimed (when Philip objected to her playing an accident on him) that that rule was suspended for games. When we finished, at about half ten, we all went to bed. Missy and I only stayed up talking (about CY retreats mostly) for a little while before I was too drowsy to do anything but mutter in agreement, and we both went to sleep.

Pictures from the CY retreat.

Not entirely fair to make so many posts in one day, but I did want to say that this weekend parcels from Emmaline and Catherine and an amazing card from the Wilsons arrived. Very happy times. Laura was delighted with the Percy Pigs, and I sat on my bed and laughed for ages over the ridiculous cow card.

Laura and I decorated the house this morning. We listened to The Nutcracker, which seemed appropriate. We unpacked the most battered cardboard boxes ever, which live on the top shelf in the laundry room and are mostly full of newspaper with a few ornaments thrown in for good measure. Yards and yards of brown packing tape crumbling from their battered corners. A lot of the decorations are fairly ancient. While Laura put knicknacks and odds-and-ends on the living room bookshelves (the traditional wooden jigsaw puzzle beasties, a tiny tree with colorful lights, Noel Christmas holders in the shape of a train), I tried to hang the big wreath over the dining room door, resulting in a quarter-inch splinter in my finger. When the wreath was finally hung, Laura chose ornaments to go on it. The result doesn't look too bad, though in the process I dropped a green glass ball, which smashed all over the dining room floor. My mother remarked calmly that she'd always wanted to know what happened when one of those broke, and swept up the sherds silently.

Now Playing: "Age of Empires" on the boys' computers upstairs.

An account of the Ponca City Christmas ball. (Yes, Emmaline, we danced the Waves of Tory at both dances, and it was AMAZING! :o) No Strip the Willow, though the Virginia Reel is very similar.)

19 December 2008. Slept well and woke at about half nine. The basement bedroom is dark, of course, at the bottom of the Colles’ huge mazelike house with all of its random oddments from far-away countries (mostly Asian), and its warm Christmas decorations on the main levels, poinsettias, red and gold. Mrs. Colle knocked on the door to say that breakfast was ready. Syneva, Stefni, and Rachael had already left to start decorating the hall, but Alyson, Philip, Grant, and I ate at the table in the kitchen, delicious blueberry waffles, hot off the griddle.

We packed the cars with more decorations and drove out to assist with the decorating process at about half ten. The hall is a “memorial”, built in the 1970s, across the street from the highschool on the other side of Ponca City. It’s not a particularly beautiful building. It’s just a concert hall. Inside, the wooden floor extends in an enormous pentagonal fan toward the stage, with the hall doors as the shortest side. On the two long sides, rows and rows of chairs ascend up to the high ceiling, looking down on the expanse of floor. When we arrived, Stefni was hanging lines of icicle lights along the railings running down the two sides where the seating was while Syneva sat in the seats, splicing songs. Jacob and Josiah set to work setting up the twelve-foot Christmas tree. Philip, Alyson, Grant, and I “fluffed out” the fake plastic needles and hung the ornaments, which were incredibly fancy, red and bronze, heavy Renaissance-style things. Mr. Colle arrived with a set of light-up deer and a pair of light-up moose, which made Syneva and I laugh. Mrs. Colle and another woman were busy decorating the table where the food was to be. Alyson sat on the stage wrapping boxes to go under the tree. Rachael and I sat with Syneva and the boys while they tried to figure out how to splice the songs.

We spent all morning there. All the wee things that had to be done were done very slowly: there seemed to be a lot of bustling about nothing, flicking, twisting, plugging in, moving about, arranging, rearranging, but all with a happy spirit. When the sound system was hooked up to Syneva’s laptop, the riotous Mannheim Steamroller song for the Grand March came on, and I couldn’t help dancing the two-hand by myself. Syneva thought aloud to Rachael and me, trying to figure out a better way to dance the Grand March. We unpacked more ornaments, wrapped more presents….

Stefni, Rachael, Jacob, Josiah, and I went back to the Colles’ house at about one o’clock to bake pizza for lunch. Stefni and Rachael didn’t need much help, so I settled down in the living room with my laptop to write up yesterday’s journal entry, and when the others returned, they collected nearby. Syneva flopped down on the sofa beside me, and we talked about our plans for next year, going to the U.K., and so forth, while everyone else listened. The pizza was ready at about two o’clock. We crowded around the table in the kitchen, talking about plans for tonight. Thin early afternoon sunshine streamed through the long windows.

Philip, Alyson, Grant, and I spent the afternoon icing cookies, batch after batch of sugar cookies, as Rachael cut them out of the dough and baked them. While Alyson edged each cookie in thick white icing, the three of us slathered on runnier colored icing that filled in the outline. Grant was careful to make each cookie rather wild. It was a fun time. Someone had turned on orchestral Christmas music on the speaker system in the living room, and we worked away while Syneva and Stefni bustled around us, preparing other foodstuffs and sewing last minute repairs on dresses before the ball. When tea was ready, at about five o’clock, I took a plate of rice and meatballs up to Stefni’s room and sat on the floor, watching while Stefni painted glamorous blue-and-silver swirls and sequins on Syneva’s face.

After I ate, I ran downstairs to get ready with Alyson, the two of us doing our hair and makeup in the bathroom together, then going into separate rooms to wiggle into our dresses. Everything was all a-flutter. The Colle guys were, of course, ready first, and left with Syneva and Stefni to add final touches to the hall before people arrived. Just as Alyson and I arrived upstairs, we found a deputation from Tulsa, consisting of Stephen, Matt, DMac, and Alisha, hurriedly eating tea. P, Grant, Mrs. Colle, and I left together. The dance was scheduled to start at seven o’clock. The night was fine, frosty, with a biting northeast wind.

We were among the first to arrive, wandering a little uncertainly into the concert hall. The overhead lights were dimmed so that the icicle lights on the railings and around the stage, and the Christmas tree on the stage and the deer in the corners, glowed brilliantly. For awhile everyone stood around talking awkwardly. At last, Syneva took the mic and corralled everyone into couples. Stephen asked me to dance, so we all lined up for the Grand March: about sixty couples crowding in the entry area just outside the hall with Syneva and Jacob, the older of her two brothers, at the head. As the lively music struck up, we marched into the hall, following them.

When the music ended, we applauded, standing again in a great circle. Mr. Colle then stepped out, welcomed everyone, and introduced the callers, Syneva, Stefni, and Amanda, and the evening began. We danced through all the dances in succession, with short breaks between every two or three: Scottish Wheel, Virginia Reel, Emma Dance, Mr. Darcy Dance, Waves of Tory, Fairfield Fancy, Spanish Waltz (which rather fell apart while Stefni was calling because the music had some extreme rubato), Dashing White Sergeant (which I danced with P and Alyson, as we’d done at the practice last night), and finally the Posties. The guys who know the dance make Postease into a competition. Philip asked me to be his partner with a ridiculous grin on his face, as he freely acknowledge, so that he could throw me around. He, Matt, and Luke formed a set with another couple, and the dance began. When he heard the music, Matt rolled his eyes, for the pace was absolutely wild. The dance became a race, a competition, a merry free-for-all, with everyone laughing and gasping and twirling and galloping over and under. I was laughing so hard that I was out-of-breath, never mind the fast pace of the dance.

When it ended, everyone was hot, sweaty, and grinning. I stepped outside to cool off in the baltic breeze. Clouds had come over the sky. Back in the warm hall, everyone was taking a half-hour break, eating, drinking, snapping pictures. After the break, the dances began again, and so it went. We danced through all of them (except the Spanish Waltz). People began to leave. I sat up in the chairs, watching the dances and taking pictures: the more I danced, the more blisters formed on my feet.

The last dance of the evening, by request, was the Emma Dance. I had been sitting up in the seats, half-dozing with exhaustion, half-laughing at the last set of Posties, when Matt came up and joined me. He invited me to dance with him, so I did, which was pleasant. We finished the evening as we always do, standing in one great circle, hands joined, singing the Benediction, with applause to follow. Of course people stayed afterward. More photographs, more eating of cookies. RUF picture, saying good-bye to Alisha and Stephen before they returned to Tulsa with DMac, listening to Matt tell teacher horror stories to Rachael, saying good-night to Amanda, and so forth. Someone asked for the music to be turned back on so that another set of Posties could be danced, but Alyson and I both had excruciatingly sore feet, so Philip and Grant drove us back to the Colles’ house.

Alyson and I immediately ducked downstairs to change into comfortable pajamas. Rachael joined us, and we talked about Nickel Creek happily. Back upstairs, I was just getting ready to serve the hot wassail, as instructed by Syneva, when the Colles all came trooping in the back door. After a good deal of bustle and laughter and unpacking of food, we all ended up sitting comfortably in the living room with cups of hot wassail (hot apple and cranberry juice boiled with an orange, cloves, and allspice), cookies, grapes, and cheese and crackers. The whole Colle family (except Josiah, who fell asleep on the floor in the corner), Grant, Matt, Rachael, Philip, Alyson, and me. For some reason we talked about serious things at first, about how the dance had gone, about Syneva’s plans for next year, and so forth, until Syneva joked about how it seemed impossible for us to be silly.

At that point people began to try to tell jokes, which became quite amusing. Matt: “What is black and dangerous and sits in a tree? A crow with a machine gun!” and so on. Some very bad jokes and puns were made over the course of the evening. P began to doze. Mr. Colle went to bed. Syneva took me upstairs to the boys’ room and showed me the incredible map of Middle Earth that she and her brothers had painted during the last week of summer: on one wall, the whole map, and on the other three walls, close-ups, very impressive. We sat around and talked for awhile, the conversation slowly degenerating until at about one o’clock in the morning we all decided to go to bed.

Now Playing: Star Wars V on the VCR. Laura and my mother are giving Angie, the Chinese exchange student who lives next door, an introduction to American culture.

I thought it would be appropriate, considering the season, to think about the names of Christ in Isaiah 23. He is the Wonderful Counselor. Whenever I read that phrase in Isaiah, it puzzles me: I don't think of counselors as being particularly wonderful. What does it mean to be a "wonderful counselor"? In common parlance, "wonderful" would just be "good", someone who gives excellent advice. Aside from its everyday connotations, though, the word carries the idea of amazement, surprise, delight. So Christ is our counselor who is directing us to glory, a glory beyond imagination. His wisdom goes beyond our expectations; He leads us through things for purposes that we cannot understand but that will result in surprise and delight. His guidance is infallible, even if at the moment it does not seem to work out very well. I can trust that whatever direction He gives me is right and will be worked out by Him for glory.

The name Mighty God emphasizes His authority to carry out His counsels. If He were just to guide His people with His wisdom and to plan history through His insight, but not to have the authority to carry out those plans, His wisdom would be diminished. However, as God He has the power and sovereignty to accomplish His plans. When His guidance of me appears to work out to be dark and difficult, or even to have resulted in sin because of my foolishness, there is still room for hope because of His power as God to direct and accomplish everything by His will.

If Christ were merely Mighty God, He would be distant, terrifying, separated from us. Since the Godhead is Everlasting Father, though, His wisdom and sovereignty are carried out in love. As our Father, He knows our needs, our weaknesses, our abilities. As our Father, He provides the gifts we require to live for His glory. As our Father, He disciplines us, in His wisdom teaching and training our faith. We have freedom before Him, though He is the Mighty God, though He is the all-knowing Counselor, to pray to Him, to grieve before Him, to rejoice before Him.

My favorite of all Christ's names is His title, Prince of Peace. The name rolls off the tongue (lovely English translation alliteration). It's easy to say without thinking, to cling to without understanding what exactly it means. I was trying to puzzle out Christ's office as Prince of Peace and so started to think about other titles. Ideally, I suppose, the Prince of somewhere rules over that place and controls it. He is in charge of its affairs, of the goods it produces, of the welfare of its people. Christ rules peace. In order to have peace, He is the authority to whom I must turn, for He is the owner of it, the controller of it. He is in charge of giving peace. On the other hand, though, a prince is someone who hasn't reached maturity yet, someone who is waiting to be crowned, the ascendant to the throne. His rule is not yet complete. So Christ, though He is our Prince of Peace, though He has made full peace between His people and God, in some sense lacks His full glory. In Heaven His office as peacemaker will be fully displayed, for there we will enjoy to the greatest extent the benefits of His peacemaking. On earth we can taste it as we go about our daily lives, but in Heaven He will be King of Peace, His glory fully and completely revealed.

I love the fact that Christ not only makes peace between us and God but between us and ourselves, between us and other people, between us and our circumstances. Looking back on the year as it's gone by, I'm amazed at His faithfulness to protect my faith despite all the skyrockets of joy and depths of sin and sorrow the year has brought. Salvation always comes eventually, even if it's not when I expect, and with salvation, peace. Rest in the knowledge that my sins are completely forgiven; rest in the knowledge that broken relationships are being healed; rest in the knowledge that the confusion of this season of life will be resolved and is being resolved with every passing moment. Beyond that, though, delight: Someday all of this will be dissolved in the glory of His revealed Kingship and the arrival of peace that cannot be disturbed by sin or confusion any more.

May a taste of that peace be with His people now and always.

Pictures from the ball in Ponca City are here.