Happy Birthday, Jesus

Since the twins were born, we started making a birthday cake for Jesus on Christmas. According to my grandmother, it's a German tradition. Having little to no background in German Christmas traditions, I'll have to take her word on that. The cake was red with a single white candle in the middle. The red represented Jesus' sacrifice while the candle represented his "light of the world" status. My cousin Sam said the cake should have been white because Jesus didn't die until Easter, but I wasn't about to argue theology with a 6-year-old.

"Christmas" is now over. It's funny how fast it ends. I was barely awake this morning before breakfast was eaten and the presents were unwrapped. Somehow I'm not sad about that. Christmas doesn't hold much magic to me anymore.

But there is something I've been anticipating for the last few weeks: a trip to Florida with the Fieldhouses. In a few minutes, I'll be delivered from Eville. I'll meet up with Kimbra and the fam somewhere near Louisville and continue on to Naples for a week of relaxation. So excited.

Of course, there's much more to look forward to after Florida. January 14, for example. That's where the magic is for me right now.

This is my island in the sun

It's over 50 degrees outside. On this day last year I was wading through waist-deep snow. What a difference a year can make...

So, I'm thinking of throwing on my bikini and laying out in my backyard so I can get a base tan for FLORIDA!!! I leave Christmas Day. Talk about a holiday miracle. But there's no time for sun right now. My dad will be here in an hour to wisk my brother and I off to Mt. Vernon for Christmas with he and the steps. That and I have a mortal fear of hypothermia.

Le ho ma

I smell like I just came out of a Chinese restaurant, which is quite odd because I didn't. Mystery.

"Leave the world behind me..."

“Free, I don't wanna be stuck in the city
With the cars and people downtown,
Waiting in a line,
Wishing I was far away
Where no one knows my name or my address,
It's a place I've never been
When it gets too familiar I'll be gone.

--“Airstream” by Fastball

What is it about Eville that repels me? Sometimes I enjoy the familiarity of it all, but after a few hours I’m ready to get back on the road. Perhaps it’s because my heart isn’t here. Who knows?

Right now, I’m ready to move out. Granted, I don’t live here in the first place, but I guess all I’m saying is I’m ready to officially start my life elsewhere. I’m standing on the edge, I’m ready to take the plunge, but time hasn’t caught up with me yet. I feel like it should be Dec. 25, or better yet, Jan. 14. It’s not, though. I must be patient and stop living in the future.

Those days will come and go eventually. Am I squandering my time in the present? Even if I am not entirely content with where I am, I should heed Incubus’ Warning to not “ever let life pass [me] by.” This may be the last time I’m in Evansville for more than a weekend. What shall I do with this time?

The freedom of space

“At that moment there was very little I knew of myself or of the world—I had but one sentence on my mind—always the same: ‘I called to the Lord from my narrow prison and He answered me in the freedom of space.’

“How long I knelt there and repeated this sentence memory can no longer recall. But I know that on that day, in that hour, my new life started. Step for step I progressed, until I again became a human being.”

--Viktor Frankl
Man’s Search for Meaning

When one is in the midst of captivity (whether real or imagined, self-imposed or other-imposed) hope seems but a dream that dissipates too quickly with the coming of the dawn. Very little in the way of encouragement penetrates the confining walls; it’s only when escape has been successful that one can truly see the light.

It took several days for Viktor Frankl to accept the reality of his freedom after his release from internment in the concentration camps. His above mantra did not originate on the grounds of experience but rather, when repeated, it created a reality unto itself. He stepped out in blind faith with no evidence that his prayers would be answered. Perhaps there is some truth behind the adage, “God helps those who help themselves.”

This past semester, God answered my prayers “in the freedom of space.” It’s amazing how a little shift in geography can liberate a heart wrapped in barbed wire. Granted, my relocation involved much more than spatial change, but fresh scenery certainly helped.

I can honestly say this has been the best semester of my life thus far. It wasn’t always easy, but it was fulfilling beyond all I could ever hope. Looking back on past journal entries the other day, I came across several impassioned pleas to God for a change in situation. Surveying the past several months, I now see that every last one of my requests was not only answered but blessed beyond anything I could ever have imagined. It’s almost impossible to believe that this summer I’d considered dropping out of college. Two roads diverged, eh?

I like the way Ollie Hubbard interpreted the Robert Frost poem “The Road Not Taken.” Instead of a joyous affirmation of nonconformist principles, Ollie said it was a verse marked by regret, given the title’s emphasis on the path the poet rejected. Fortunately, I can see that the road I took was indeed the right choice. I’m so thankful.

In coming back to Taylor, I stumbled blindly toward an unknown fate. I did not know what awaited me in Upland. I’d pretty much abandoned all of my friends, my jobs, my major, my positions… everything that had once made me Megan Elder at Taylor University. Although I feared the year ahead, I no longer had a reason to stay in Evansville. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I honestly I didn’t want one.

This semester, I discovered the Truth of community in several amazing friends. I became aware of deeply hidden dreams and desires within my heart. I came alive to a world of possibility and change through the gentle prompting of my professors. I encountered authentic relationships at a level of reality I never knew existed. I took chances, I risked, I loved, I lived. I was not even conscious of such a life this summer. I could barely hope that there was such a thing.

“I called to the Lord from my narrow prison and He answered me in the freedom of space.”

The broken heart can be healed. The ensnared lark can find its voice. The prisoner can run free through open meadows.

The best things happen when we least expect them.

Battened down to fair the wind

"After all these implements and text designed by intellects
So vexed to find evidently there's just so much that hides.
And though the saints of us divine in ancient feeding lines
Their sentiment is just as hard to pluck from the vine."
--from "Saint Simon" by The Shins

I've barely touched a book the last few days and finals are upon me. Actually, I'm in the midst of them. I'll jump through my hoops and emerge from this week unscathed, I'm sure, but in the end how much knowledge will I retain? There's still so much yet to be discovered, so much I don't know.

One thing I do know: Yakima, Washington is a heck of a long way from Upland, Indiana.

“Book lovers never go to bed alone”

When it comes to literary promiscuity, I’d say I get around. I tend to flit from book to book, sometimes enjoying several at once. Some of these books demand my committed devotion while others could better be described as “one-night stands.” As Catherine might say in Under the Tuscan Sun, “He’s not bad; he’s not good either.”

And then there are some books that you experience once and they alter your soul, but as time goes by you forget about them and move on with life. Perhaps months or years later, your old flame re-enters your life and you wonder how you could ever see the world rightly without its light.

This past weekend I finished Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl. I’d characterize this book as an “old flame” kind of book, although our last encounter was mere months ago. At the time, it spoke to the depths of my soul but I didn’t let it change me. I guess I just wasn’t ready. Now I am.

From personal experience, Frankl recounts the power of the human soul to find meaning in all situations, even in the abject suffering of a Nazi concentration camp. If I ever do become a counselor, I plan to incorporate aspects of existential therapy, specifically Frankl’s logotherapy, into my practice. The presupposition of man’s innate significance and capability fascinates me. The world could justifiably be described as absurd, but what really matters is what one chooses to do about his unique situation.

When Frankl speaks of meaning, he says it will “differ from man to man, from moment to moment. Thus it is impossible to define the meaning of life.” On this point, I think many Christians (including myself?) might take issue. Any creature’s meaning in life is to bring ultimate glory to God, therefore it can be defined. Yet this goal seems a little too abstract, and so I think Frankl has a point. Individual, transitory meaning can and must be ascribed in order to propel us in the adventure of life. Frankl writes, “Being human always points, and is directed, to something, or someone, other than oneself—be it a meaning to fulfill or another human being to encounter” (133). It’s why we strive for connection amid perceived isolation. It’s why we long for adventure beyond the drudgery of routine. It’s why we fight for goodness, Truth and beauty in a world that’s “gone to hell.” In these smaller meanings, we can discover the ultimate meaning if only in momentary glimpses.

Frankl concludes his book with a challenge to the reader, “for the world is in a bad state, but everything will become worse unless each one of us does his best. So let us be alert—alert in a twofold sense: Since Auschwitz we know what man is capable of. And since Hiroshima we know what is at stake” (179). At this, I rolled over in almost orgasmic enlightenment. Is this not what we live for? To be worthy of our sufferings for humanity hangs in the balance? Certainly we believe we are no one in particular, but maybe there is something great going on behind the façade of triviality. Perhaps the importance of our experiences on this earth is to find meaning in them, encounter others through them, and in this way gaze upon the divine.

G-Bread Bliss

Heather gave me homemade gingerbread biscotti today for Christmas. I think I'm in love. I also had a gingerbread cookie from the Grille. It's like a party for my mouth. I guess I'd never realized how much I LOVE gingerbread until this year. It's so perfect with coffee. Wow, is it perfect!

I'm not high on the gingerbread lattes at Starbucks. They're not bad, but they're not great either. I suppose I'm just into gingerbread FOOD.

Heather got her recipe from AllRecipes.com. That place rocks my face off. I wish I'd known about it in Ireland! There's even an option to convert recipe measurements to the metric system. Could have saved me a lot of brain cells... oh well. I've added a link to my sidebar for easy access. Mmmm...

Hey mister, she's my sister!

kt hesse has my heart. Seriously, she's amazing.



"I should tell you, I should tell you I have always loved you. You can see it in my eyes." --Rent

"Love is as strong as death"

I saw the truth as it is set into song by so many poets, proclaimed as the final wisdom by so many thinkers. The truth—that love is the ultimate and the highest goal to which man can aspire. Then I grasped the meaning of the greatest secret that human poetry and human thought and belief have to impart: The salvation of man is through love and in love. I understood how a man who has nothing left in this world still may know bliss, be it only for a brief moment, in the contemplation of his beloved. In a position of utter desolation, when man cannot express himself in positive action, when his only achievement may consist in enduring his sufferings in the right way—an honorable way—in such a position man can, through the loving contemplation of the image he carries of his beloved, achieve fulfillment. For the first time in my life I was able to understand the meaning of the words, “The angels are lost in perpetual contemplation of an infinite glory.” (Frankl, 57)

A love beyond borders, beyond presence, beyond time, beyond death: that’s the kind of love Viktor Frankl advocates in Man’s Search for Meaning, his autobiographical doctrine of “logotherapy.” Logotherapy, also called the Third Viennese School of Psychotherapy, is an existential therapy based on the premise that “the striving to find meaning in one’s life is the primary motivational force in man” (121). Frankl developed this model of therapy in his early Viennese practice but personally put it to the ultimate test during his internment in such infamous Nazi concentration camps as Auschwitz and Dachau.

The above excerpt speaks of the power of Frankl's love for his wife to sustain him through sufferings. He later writes, “Love goes very far beyond the physical person of the beloved. It finds its deepest meaning in his spiritual being, his inner self. Whether or not he is actually present, whether or not he is still alive at all, ceases somehow to be of importance” (58). At the time of this realization, he didn’t know his wife had been gassed upon admittance to the camp. Even if he had known, Frankl confidently states that his enjoyment of her memory would not have been compromised. The power of his love would still compel him to endure.

Such love absolutely blows my mind. It moves me to thirst for more in life, to make people my priority, to hope. One of my favorite scenes in one of my favorite movies, Under the Tuscan Sun, revolves around this point. Aphrodite smites Francis Mayes over and over again, yet she recognizes the reality of the young love of Pawel and Chiara and fights for it. Chiara’s father protests the match, denying the existence of true love and citing Francis’ personal experience as an example of its nonexistence. Francis bravely responds, “No. I looked for it and I didn’t find it. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.” Personal experience can be a cruel discourager, but we cannot lose hope in the essential Truth of love in its every sense: a man for his wife, a friend for a friend, a father for a son, a God for his people.

You break me open

TU has a lot of balls putting that Nativity scene back up this year after last year’s antics. I like that. It shows they aren’t afraid of us. It looks pretty nice, too. Mary got her man back, which is good. She’s still missing the hand, tho. Maybe she can ask Santa for a prosthetic limb for Christmas.

Actually, Cat is writing an amazing opinion piece about the Nativity scene that will run in the Echo tomorrow morning. If you go to TU, you should read it. If you don’t go to TU, you should come and visit and read it and then teach me to snowboard. ;)

I just rediscovered Jars of Clay today. OMG… AMAZING. How did I lose track of these guys?

Below is a photograph of our Penny War earnings. Ever wonder what almost $200 in pennies looks like? Well, wonder no more. That buys a LOT of diapers, let me tell you.

"Kiss me, it's beginning to snow."

After a few more “warm” days, the temperature has dropped yet again, this time maybe for good. But now I’m not so bitter about it because I’m prepared. Also, a miracle happened over Thanksgiving Break that allowed my new Landsend coat that had been backordered until Dec. 12 to be delivered to my house last Friday. My Ireland coat was so nasty I didn’t even bother bringing it to TU. This new jacket is rainproof, windproof, lightweight and surprisingly warm. I’m a happy customer.

That reminds me, I need to return Rebekah’s winter gear now that I have my own. She was so amazing to loan it to me when I had nothing. I love my friends.

Unless you’ve heard the original Rent soundtrack, the title of my blog probably doesn’t ring a bell. That’s really sad, because it comes from one of my fav songs, “Christmas Bells.” Therein lies my biggest beef with the movie version; they cut out some of the best songs! Ugh…

But it really is beginning to snow...

To be beautiful

Il faut souffrir pour être belle.

I don’t know a lick of French, but according to Frederick Buechner, that phrase translates to “You have to suffer in order to be beautiful.” Oh how true I’m finding that to be.

There’s something about “perfection” that makes us squirm. It’s just not natural to be perfect and human at once (unless you’re Jesus, but, chances are, you’re not). And yet, it seems everyone strives to be perfect anyway, usually in an attempt to appear more attractive to others. In order to be “perfect,” one must wear a mask and hide the true self. After years in disguise, we lose ourselves, all in an attempt to be liked, to be beautiful.

But is beauty in “perfection” or in the breakdown of all the lies we hide behind? I believe true beauty comes from the broken heart exposed. A perfectly symmetrical face is not desirable. One marked with flaws captivates the beholder.

And so it is through suffering that our beauty is made clear. At 11-years-old, I declared myself an atheist. I didn’t see how a God could exist in a world disfigured by divorce, abandonment, and heartbreak. Of course even in my disbelief, I still searched for God. He wasn’t in Sunday School trivia. He wasn’t in the half-hearted sympathy of well-meaning adults. But He was in the convoluted story of a misplaced teenager, blown to the Islands by the winds of chance. An illegal immigrant from Indonesia named Cathy led me to Christ. As far as messy testimonies go, hers took top honors. She showed me that being a Christian (and, I’m now learning, being beautiful) does not mean being perfect. It means being unfinished. It means challenging preconceived beliefs. It means letting go. Cathy used an illustration of a clay heart to make sense of my trials. Your soul is like a clay heart, she explained. God is carving the heart with intricate designs. Each carving pierces your defenses and brings great pain, but in the end these carvings will result in a beautiful work of art.

Let go of the striving, the hiding, the manipulating. "There’s beauty in the breakdown."

Forget regret or life is yours to miss

Thanksgiving Break has come and gone. Bring on the academic barrage of papers, projects and presentations. Not to mention final exams. Graduation seems lightyears away. It’s really about six months. Scared yet?

In reality, I’m not too worried about the upcoming weeks. I have three classes MWF. Two have been cancelled for the entire week, meaning I only have one class every day this week. What will I do with all my free time? Work on projects, of course. But, hey, at least that means they won’t cut into my real free time so much.

I need to stop by campus safety and get a temporary parking permit for my mom’s car which I had to bring to school in the place of my beloved ’91 Ford Taurus. Something is broken on the Taurus and my grandpa didn’t trust it to bring me all the way back to school. I hate car trouble. Give me a train pass and some walking shoes any day.

Over break I bought about 600 diapers to donate to Crisis Pregnancy Center as part of our senior project (the Penny War). I only had half the money, too, so for Christmas, CPC is getting well over 1,000 diapers from TU. I’m so excited!!! I’m actually really thankful that we had to do this service project for senior sem. At first I thought it was ridiculous and a waste of time, but we were really able to make a difference. Serving like this is really helping me see my heart for changing the world, even if it’s just one woman’s world.

I have Rent songs stuck in my head, which is not at all an unpleasant experience. I tried to find my complete soundtrack while I was at home, but amid the avalanche that was once my room, all I found were some ancient t-shirts that surprisingly still fit me. Right now, I’m wearing one from zoo camp in 1992. It’s black with white writing and says, “I did the Wild Thing at Mesker Park Zoo.” It makes me smile.

Why Dorothy and Toto went over the rainbow to blow off Auntie Em.

"How can you connect in an age where strangers, landlords, lovers, your own blood cells betray?" In Jonathan Larson's hit Broadway musical-turned-movie Rent, seven friends seek to answer that question in HIV-positive New York City. The answer they find: "love."

The plot relies mostly on the character development of its ensemble cast. There's Roger the struggling songwriter, Mark the renegade filmmaker, Mimi the drug-addicted stripper, Collins the gay philosophy professor, Angel the transvestite street drummer, Maureen the exhibitionistic performance artist, and Joanne her lawyer lover. Their stories weave together one Christmas Eve as they fight eviction from their apartment building in the East Village. Over the next year, their friendship is tested by jealousy, betrayal and loss. In the process, they find that the risk of authentically engaging one another in love is worth the pain.

Rent is a thematic treasure trove. It stresses the importance of authentic relationships that go well beyond the surface. Everyone has baggage, but when we can bear with one another and "cover" each other with love, life is worth living. This theme is aptly expressed in many scenes, but one of the most compelling is in Roger's struggle to let himself love Mimi. A year prior, he'd lost his girlfriend April to AIDS and had been waiting for the virus to take him as well. Mimi challenges him to stop dying and start living, to "give into love or live in fear." It's a fitting testament to essential Truth of the power of love to "drive out fear." (1 John 4:18).

Artistically, the movie is beautiful. The lighting, the imagery, the cinematography... perfect. I wasn't terribly pleased with the re-writing of some of the dialogue, though. Much of the dialogue was taken directly from original song lyrics, which made conversations sound sing-songish and odd. It was a bit jarring for someone like me who has the entire show memorized to hear the many places where songs were mangled to fit onto the big screen. They also entirely cut out some of my favorite songs, including "You Okay Honey?," "Christmas Bells," "Happy New Year," and "Halloween." I also didn't like the added scene of Joanne and Maureen's engagement party. Oh well. Some things will just have to be better on stage.

It was incredible to be able to see the characters' faces the way one can only through cinema. Of the eight principle players, six were original Broadway cast members. Each one brought an intimacy to his or her character that can only be cultivated over 10 years. The only two non-original cast members were Tracie Thoms (Joanne) and Rosario Dawson (Mimi). As Thoms was a virtual unknown, I wasn't too concerned about her performance. She was magnificent, by the way, especially in that little black dress in the "Tango Maureen." Wow. I was, however, entirely skeptical of Dawson's abilities. In fact, I was prepared to hate her. I didn't, though. I actually loved her and thought she just about stole the show.

I would advise discretion in viewing this movie. Everything shown can be seen on primetime television nowadays, but drug use, language, and sexuality are fairly prominent. However, I felt it was largely shown in good taste and I didn't mind viewing even the most explicit scenes in mature mixed company.

Rent exceeded my already high expectations, leaving my friends and I in awe. It's a powerful show that could very well transform the box office the way it did Broadway several years ago. At least I hope so.

Nothing lasts forever...

I was quite dismayed by one sight on my way to a lunch date at G.D. Ritzy's today. Seriously, I leave the city for three months and everything changes. I'm of course referring to the name change of Putt Putt Golf. It is now Mr. T's Fun Center or something like that. I mean, ok... the mooning giraffe is still there and everything, but the point is that we cannot honestly go "putt putting" anymore. All the memories of elementary school birthday parties, scavanger hunts, IMPAX outings... it's like they're all gone. Rest in peace Putt Putt.

I guess the only good thing about overdevelopment is that Evansville is now the proud owner of a PANERA!!! Welcome to the 21st century! Mmmm... Bacon Turkey Bravo... Cream of chicken and rice soup... I.C. Mocha...

Tonight I'm hitting up Rent with KT. Get excited!!! I miss that girl. She's my rock. Seriously.

Pumped

I just gassed up for $1.88/gal. I heart the Flying J of Haubstadt, IN.

Great Expectations

“I do my thing and you do your thing. I am not in this world to live up to your expectations and you are not in this world to live up to mine. You are you and I am I, and if by chance we find each other, it's beautiful.”

–Fritz Perls, Father of Gestalt Therapy

I love that quote. It’s so brilliant, yet also so challenging. Last Friday in Fundamentals of Counseling, Vance was discussing Gestalt therapy, a theory of counseling that focuses on the “here and now” and the “what and how” of individual experience. While the theory has its flaws, it has some good things to say about human interaction. In class, Vance was explaining the ramifications of imposing one’s expectations on another human being. He said an example of a bad expectation would be “that my son grows up to be a godly man.” Hmm… sounds like a worthy goal, doesn’t it? But if you look closely, such a goal demands the involvement of another person. When we impose our expectations on other people, our own identity gets wrapped up in their performances. People will let us down. If we let the actions of others determine our own self-worth, we run the risk of certain devastation.

I’m humbled to consider the many ways in which I’ve imposed expectations on others. Whether those expectations were fair or not matters little, the point is that I’ve often let healthy hopes become unhealthy goals. It’s ok to hope someone will treat you a certain way, but when you begin to expect that kind of behavior, you’re just asking for trouble.

While I was in Ireland, my dad and I began to nudge toward reconciliation. It all started with an e-mail and slowly progressed to the end of the summer, when he took me out to dinner at Red Lobster. For the first time in my memory, I felt like I was sitting across from my father and not some enigmatic stranger who took me to the movies every now and then. Things continued along those lines when he asked to come to Parents’ Weekend. While the prospect of having both of my parents in the same place at the same time stressed me out, it excited me to finally show my dad the place I’d been living for the past three years. About a week before the big event, all of my expectations came crashing to the floor when he e-mailed to inform me he would not be coming to visit.

To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. I felt like I’d finally let myself trust him again and he’d betrayed that trust. My pent-up anger unleashed itself into the cold night as I struggled to overcome the hurt and shame. How could I have let myself trust again?

I now see that my trusting him was not the problem. Long ago I’d come to terms with the fact that my father was not a perfect man, and yet at the first sign of progress I put him right back up on his pedestal. It wasn’t fair, nor was it right, to expect him to come and then be furious at him for not meeting that expectation. He didn’t do it to deliberately hurt me and he has shown me in recent months that I do matter to him. Sure, he doesn’t make it very clear, but he has made an effort. I need to appreciate that in him and stop blaming him (and myself) for the flaws in our relationship.

When something goes wrong, especially in relationships, we always ask, “why?” or “what could I have done differently?” It’s basically a grasp for control that supercedes our reliance on God to restore us to each other. “God’s not calling us to figure it out, he’s calling us to let it go,” Vance said. Let it go. Sound familiar?

Here comes the cold...

So Tuesday we had thunderstorms and tornadoes because it was so warm. Today and yesterday it’s been snowing. I forgot what cold felt like. Ha! I thought Galway was cold!

And then the most amazing thing happened. I walked into Rupp from the DC a few minutes ago and the cleaning lady opened the handicap door for me. I thanked her and she said I looked really cold and asked where my coat was. I told her it was at home and I’d get it over Thanksgiving Break and she offered to bring me a coat from her home! Can you believe that?

“We live in a beautiful world, yeah we do, yeah we do.” --Coldplay

"Which way to Never Never Land?"

Pretending to read:

Here I Am: Now What on Earth Should I Be Doing?

By Quentin Schultze

I’m doing a pretty unconvincing job at pretending to read Here I Am, considering I hadn’t even picked it up off my shelf until today. I’m supposed to be writing a 3-5 page essay about my “spiritual and vocational calling” based on this book, but as usual, I’m not feeling it. I mean, (1) I don’t like writing papers, (2) I don’t believe in the idea of “vocational calling,” and (3) I don’t even have any good ideas about my future from which to BS a paper, much less write one seriously.

Toward the beginning of the year, I started stressing out about the future. My counselor pointed out that this is crazy. I could have the next 10 years of my life planned out to the second and it could all change tomorrow. God does NOT guarantee us tomorrow. He doesn’t even guarantee us an hour from now. Worrying about my future won’t add a single day to my life. So why plan? Ok, maybe that’s just me being a bit irresponsible… or maybe it’s me learning to trust that God will provide my path for me when he leads me to it.

I could be doing a lot of things seven months from now. This week (World Opportunities Week) has been reminding me of all of my options. Even though the world feels full of choices, I feel overwhelmed about picking one. I’m pretty sure I’m moving to Indy this summer, but that’s as far as I’ve gotten. No job. No apartment. Still, it seems like a logical step. Beyond that, my choices are endless. Do I get my MSW (I haven’t even taken the GRE, so this probably won’t work)? Do I join a newspaper staff? Do I move to Dublin and become a bum? I don’t even like Dublin that much! Why would I call that an option? Basically, I have no direction. Just scattered thoughts of things I could end up doing. I don’t feel “called” to any of them. But that makes sense.

A month or so ago, Kathy Bruner (my interactive media prof) really inspired me with this concept: Never in the Bible did God “call” someone to paid vocation. Our primary calling is to relationship with Him. The rest are just details. Whew! I can stop stressing.

My roommate loves Shel Silverstein and was sharing with me about her new favorite, Lafcadio: The Lion Who Shot Back. Lafcadio is a lion who learns to shoot a gun, so he goes to the city and lives among sophisticated humans. He’s invited on a hunting trip where he faces a dilemma: either join the hunters and shoot the lions or join the lions and eat the hunters. He wants to do neither. At the end of the book, Lafcadio walks off alone; unsure of who he is because he doesn’t fit the mold. I can relate to Lafcadio. Here I am (ahaha), graduating in May, completely unaware of where I fit in this world. And so I’m walking off alone, but in faith.

"And [Lafcadio] didn't really know what was going to happen to him, but he did know something was going to happen, because something always does, doesn't it?”

Hello again

So about an hour ago, I got off the phone with KAYLYNN KIYABU!!! I haven't spoken to her in, like, two years. She told me all about her life and all of my old Hawaii friends in Koinonia. Everything has changed in everyone's lives (naturally) and it's amazing to get up to speed... but I'm still catching my breath.

People lose touch with one another. It's a fact of life that is sometimes very sad and at other times is kind of a relief. Losing touch with Koinonia is sad. One is married. Two are in California. One is still in Hawaii. Kaylynn just moved to Las Vegas. I'm in Indiana. Maybe in summer of 2007 we'll all go to Europe like Kaylynn was saying. It would be amazing, but will it ever happen? A lot can happen in two years. Obviously.

This means WAR!

Our senior sem. project is blowing my mind. Each group had to plan a service project, so at my roommate’s suggestion, we organized a Penny War to raise money for Crisis Pregnancy Center in Marion. Each residence hall can donate spare change in milk jugs at its front desk. Pennies count toward the hall’s total score. Silver coins (nickels, dimes, quarters) count against the scores of all other residence halls.

I’ll be honest, I was skeptical. I mean, I’m sure it worked in Margaret’s high school, but would Taylor students donate money? I never even notice things at the front desk unless I get a package in the mail (which is never). I figured we’d make $5 at the most. As of last night, we had about 25 times that (and we still have a week left in the war)! Obviously this campus (especially English Hall) knows how to answer a war cry. I’m so excited to really be able to meet a need for an organization about which I care so much. So… party on.

In completely unrelated other news, I’m SO PUMPED about next semester! I registered last week and I’m all set to grad in May. Contemporary Christian Belief TR 9-10:15 is going to be an absolute PARTY. I mean, we’ve got Win Corduan, almost all of my girls, and my two favorite Asian boys (as if one could quantify such a thing). Yeah, so I’m going to die of over-exposure to Gen Eds (adolescent psychology will be my only respite from lib. arts core curriculum) and I have to write a senior paper, but with Jenny on campus and Janell taking Contemp before rushing off to her practicum, I think it’ll be a good time.

There's no place like home...

This morning while I was having fun with a new friend in Indy, a tornado was pummeling Evansville and Newburgh. As far as I know, none of my friends or family were in its wake. Still, it's sobering to see your hometown flattened on Fox News.

To the fatherless:

“The sadness was I’d lost a father I had never fully found. It’s like a tune that ends before you’ve heard it out. Your whole life through you search to catch the strain, and seek the face you’ve lost in stranger’s faces.” --Frederick Buechner, Godric.

Buechner’s father committed suicide when he was 10-years-old. The tragic event, in addition to his father’s alcoholism up to that point, colored Buechner’s life from then on. His perception of reality shifted, but perhaps more importantly, he lost touch with a sense of God’s character. It’s hard to see God as a Father when you don’t have one. I know from experience.

It’s chapels like today’s that bring back all the confusion. Renowned Bible expositor Sinclair Ferguson spoke on Romans 8. His chapel on Wednesday had been quite inspiring to me, so I looked forward to this message with anticipation. What I got instead was pain, guilt, confusion and heartache.

Ferguson’s words cut to the core of my soul. “No true father restricts his children from knowing him,” he said. This proclamation was met with a smattering of “Amens” from the surrounding student body. Tears flowed from my eyes. For 11 years I lived in the same house as the man with whom I share 50 percent of my DNA and I can’t remember a single thing about him. The only words I can remember him saying to me came after he moved out when he told me he would not tell me his side of the story. He refused to share his story with me. He refused to let me know him.

Ferguson went on to illustrate God’s love for us in the sacrifice of His Son. This too fell flat, as he explained how terrible it is for a father to be separated from his children. Much like Everclear’s Art Alexakis, “my father gave me a name and then he walked away.” He wanted separation. He declined joint custody. He’s never even set foot on the college campus where I’ve been for the last three years and two months. Difficult for a father to leave his children? I don’t think so.

To be fair, I don’t think my dad did any of that stuff to hurt me, but whether intentional or not, I will bear these scars for the rest of my life. Just like Buechner, I search through every face trying to discover the man I lost. God has been merciful, providing “father-figures” in the most unlikely of people, and yet the confusion, the fear, the vulnerability remain. A huge part of my soul is missing and always has been, to the point where I can’t even understand a simple example in a chapel message. Oh, God, please help me in my unbelief.

Alpha huh, what?

I should probably be writing a precis right now, but I'm not feeling it.

This past weekend I was inducted into a hoop-jumpers society. The ceremony was one of those tasteful affairs where professors rattle off each students’ achievements to the subdued applause of their parents and peers. When it came my turn, I was pleasantly surprised by my advisor’s introduction of me. Instead of listing my accomplishments, she chose to define me by my character and my wounds.

She described the various meanings of my names and explained how I embodied each of them. She briefly mentioned work I’d done, but placed overwhelming emphasis on my personality and affliction.

I was so encouraged by my advisor’s synopsis of me because it truly reveals where I am in life right now. In the past year, I’ve fought with the idea that all I am is what I’ve done. I took dramatic steps to negate that perception by dropping the Echo and learning to say “no.” The result has been a much more fulfilling semester in which I’ve faced my everyday battles head-on instead of burying them beneath workaholic tendencies. Slowly but surely, I’m discovering who I am and what I desire out of life. It’s good to know that others are seeing the fruit of this invigorating/agonizing process.

Humanity should not be defined simply by labors and accolades. It should be defined by stories. Are we not human beings as opposed to human doings? I am my feelings, my desires, my hopes, my wounds, my struggles, my stories. So what if I can jump through some hoops? What is important is that I am an authentic human being.

Red scare

They don't call it the Dining COMMONS for nothing. Marx would be proud.

Confessions of a surrogate editor

Last night I published my 48th issue of the Echo (not counting this year's freshman edition). The experience was indeed surreal and I'm not sure how I feel about it, so I'm going to try to sort that out on here.

This year's Echo leadership had left town this week for the CMA's. I suppose I was the natural choice to fill in and Donna offered me hourly pay. I decided one more night in the Echo office wouldn't kill me (it might make me stronger) and I needed the money in case I have to pay that ridiculous parking ticket, so I went ahead and took the offer.

As this week commenced, the slew of articles to edit and crises to avert reminded me why I quit in the first place. Making a paper takes time, time I'd rather spend making a new friend over pool or sharing deep dreams with an old one over coffee. Instead of frolicking around Ball State on a Thursday night and venting at Starbucks with my friend Laura, I was cooped up in an office surrounded by layout and copy. Funny how that was once my idea of a pleasant evening. My, times have changed.

Let's be honest, the Echo didn't always feel like work. The whole Echo night experience has changed. I no longer feel the strong sense of family that originally compelled me. Everyone from my inaugural staff has graduated... it's just not the same without them. A few current staff members remain dear to me, but the cohesive unit that was once the Echo is no more.

That said, last night was surprisingly benign. Anders called to encourage me at the beginning of the night. Several friends stopped by/IMed for moral support. All of the staff members respected me, at least to my face. My Irish cream latte was reduced 50 cents for an event in the Union. I had my frustrations, but no breakdowns. But the best moment of the night came when I drove into the English parking lot just before 3 a.m. and found a space adjacent to the north door. Pure elation. Life is beautiful.

No, I don't fancy sacrificing another Thursday night on the alter of student journalism. I have my memories and at least I know that if I ever need them, I still have the skills to slap a newspaper together. But my priorities lie beyond colored pens and layout software. The Echo does not afford me the one thing I desire in life right now: meaningful connection with other human beings. As long as work hinders my ability to relate (and boy did it ever), I feel I must abstain. Sure, loving people is a lot harder than trying to make a block of copy fit into the allotted space on a layout, but it's a million times more rewarding in the end.

Never meant to be so cold

I'm pretty sure I'd freeze to death if it weren't for my brother. I love that man. :)

Like a regular tourist

Fall Break was, well, excellent. No, I didn’t get to meet Wayne or Garth, but I did have an amazing time with some of my favorite people. Here are some “stories and bleary-eyed photos”:

Sarah, Alison and I started out after classes/work on Thursday. We made a pit stop in West Laf to see my brother and get the warm clothes he’d brought back for me after his fall break. It was good seeing him for three minutes and it’s always fun to navigate the ‘Due!

The rest of the ride to Chicagoland was uneventful, except for a stop in a Starbucks with some crazy ladies who commented on all our orders and got our drinks wrong. We arrived at Cat’s house in St. Charles (no, not Aurora… plans changed) and ate an amazing dinner made by her parents. After dinner we watched MST3K The Final Sacrifice. Rowsdower.

Friday we took the train into Downtown Chicago. Stepping off the Metra onto Madison Ave. was unforgettable. It had been over three years since my last sojourn to downtown and I’d completely forgotten how much I love the city. Allegedly, Oprah walked right past us on the sidewalk, but I was too off-in-my-own-world to notice the beautiful celebrities.

We spent the afternoon walking around the city and taking in Millennium Park. We also had dessert in the Walnut Room and relaxed in Borders. Here are some photos (note: all photos by Alison Gill, Janell Hanna, a lady in the park, or a man on the train… I hope that Finnish student is still REALLY enjoying my camera):



Here’s a lovely shot of Millennium Park with the city beyond.



“The Bean,” probably the coolest piece of modern art I’ve seen in a while. I love the way the city reflects in it, and I love this photo of Janell, me, Margaret and Cat admiring it.



Our reflection in “The Bean.” (L-R) Alison, Sarah, Cat, me, Margaret and Janell.



It was an absolutely BEAUTIFUL day to be in the city. Here’s a group shot of us in the park squinting in the sun. Alison, Janell, me, Cat, Sarah and Margaret.

The train ride back was especially fun as we got into a semi-heated discussion with some college kids about existentialism and other random topics. It was very refreshing to talk to people who don’t share my beliefs in the existence and nature of God. Here are some group photos of my friends and I in the train pre-discussion:





Saturday everyone split up. Cat hung out with the fam, Margaret went to a wedding, Alison and Sarah went to Wheaton, and Janell and I made a short pilgrimage to AURORA!!! Here I am outside the most excellent place on earth:



After eating Taco Bell, we went back into Geneva to find a Barnes & Noble. On the way we found an Irish pub called the Claddaugh and decided to check it out. Instead of rugby, they definitely had an MSU football game playing on the TV over the bar. There’s just something wrong with sipping a Guinness whilst watching American football. Not that I’d even bother with Guinness in the states anyway. Heck, I hardly bothered with it in Dublin! The pub was definitely mass-produced Irishness which was a little nauseating, but they had the best straight-up coffee I’ve ever put in my mouth.

That night, Janell, Alison, Sarah and I braved World Series traffic into the city for some authentic Venezuelan cuisine. The food was amazing and the atmosphere was unforgettable (Hispanic men getting emotional sitting along the wall watching Game 1 on TV).

Coming back to TU arouses many mixed feelings. I definitely don’t want to be working on projects and reading textbooks and taking quizzes, but it’s nice to be back in my own space. Fall Break was definitely necessary, but it’s over now. Back to reality.

Rusty HTML

I was planning to post glorious photos from Fall Break. I can't get my tags to work though. Maybe my seventh grade knowledge of HTML has finally failed me. Oh well. I'll try again later.

DynaMITE

Whoever discovered the unbeatable combination of chocolate and pretzels deserves the Nobel Peace Prize.

Also, Margaret and I have CURTAINS. We didn't have a rod, so we hung them with rope.

Telling (More) Secrets

I am a firm believer in the oft quoted phrase, “All truth is God’s Truth.” All of Creation reflects aspects of God, although sometimes one must look harder to find them. No where is this more true than in our own hearts, where our secrets lie. As Buechner says, “I not only have my secrets, I am my secrets. And you are your secrets. Our secrets are human secrets and our trusting each other enough to share them with each other has much to do with the secret of what it is to be human.” (39)

What happens to our hearts when these secrets remain hidden? We harden. We fester. We regress. Sharing our secrets is a risk for sure, but not taking that risk is where the real danger lies.

Telling Secrets by Frederick Buechner is one of those books that change one’s soul. It certainly touched mine. It’s a candid expression of humanity and spirituality that reaches deep into the human experience.

Buechner’s prose is insightful and colorful, drawing from raw, personal experience. Normally, wordiness bugs me, but his long sentences were compelling from conception to conclusion. His words evoke laughter in one part and heartbreak in another. It is an emotional journey into the heart of a man rocked by the storms of life.

I loved so many parts of this book, but one of my favorites took me back to the Emerald Isle where I wrestled with so many of my own secrets. Buechner told the tale of a sixth century Irish saint named Brendan the Navigator. He spent much of his life sailing the seas in search of paradise. Some say he made it as far as Florida. When it came to the end of his life, he wondered if he’s wasted his life on a wild-goose chase. Perhaps he should have stayed home and followed the tried-and-true path of monastic service. Buechner includes this scene from Brendan where the saint concludes an interview with Welsh historian-monk Gildas. Brendan’s friend Finn narrates the scene. As Gildas rises to leave the interview:

For the first time we saw he wanted one leg. It was gone from knee joint down. He was hopping sideways to reach for his stick in the corner when he lost his balance. He would have fallen in a heap if Brendan hadn’t leapt forward and caught him.

“I’m crippled as the dark world,” Gildas said.

“If it comes to that, which one of us isn’t, my dear?” Brendan said.

Gildas with but one leg. Brendan sure he’d misspent his whole life entirely. Me that had left my wife to follow him and buried our only boy. The truth of what Brendan had said stopped all our mouths. We was cripples all of us. For a moment or two there was no sound but the bees.

“To lend each other a hand when we’re falling,” Brendan said. “Perhaps that’s the only work that matters in the end.”

The power of that last statement brings tears to my eyes even now. We are all crippled in some way, but some of us know the Way to restoration. We must be willing to give of ourselves, to tell our stories, to give an account for the hope we have in the midst of the pain we endure.

Read Telling Secrets. Your soul will thank you.

Skip-A-Class

Last night was Skip-A-Meal. For those of you who aren't familiar with this bi-yearly TU tradition, once a semester students sign up to skip their meal and give the money designated for that meal from their meal plan to a particular charity. This semester, the money went to benefit Katrina relief.

But seriously, how much money can they get at maybe $7 a student? Sure it adds up, but just think of the possibilities if we moved this idea to a larger scale.

Solution: Skip-A-Class. I've heard the figure passed around that a 50-minute class session costs $60. What if once a semester, everyone skipped one of their classes and designated that money for a charity? I'm sure participation would be widespread (most people tend to be more willing to sacrifice class than food), and at $60 per person, we'd REALLY make a difference!

Here's to changing the world. I'm totally serious. Well... maybe not totally. :)

You give and take away...

“Grasp not at much for fear thou losest all.” – George Herbert

Last semester, I studied John Eldredge’s Journey of Desire. He includes a chapter on “Letting Go” that I found particularly hard to swallow. See, last semester, God stripped me of everything. I was utterly alone in a foreign country. As the days stretched out before me, I felt the tugging of desire in my heart. This is not the way things should be, my heart said. But I held onto my bitter feelings. I held onto my inadequacies. I held onto the future I’d painted for myself in my head. I came to the chapter with white knuckles from all my grasping and arranging. Somehow, I couldn’t let go.

God’s Creation has an odd way of softening my heart. Daily, I’d perch upon the rocks overlooking the Irish Sea and yell at God for letting my heart break, for taking away what I thought he wanted me to have. As His Truth penetrated my defenses, I slowly began to relinquish control. By the semester’s end, I truly had let go of it all… except for one thing.

I let that one thing go last night. It’s strange how letting go is in one breath liberating while in another devastating. I’m grieving as I hope in faith for restoration. Eldredge says,

“Grief is good. It is cleansing. It undoes my world—and that is the best part of it. I need to be undone; simply undone … We need to mourn; it is the only way our hearts can remain both free and alive in this world.” (188)

My accountability partner is an amazing woman who works here on campus. She invited me over a few weeks ago for cookies and conversation. As I was leaving she gave me a poster of a girl on a swing, but instead of the swing being tethered to a sturdy branch, it is supported by a divine Hand. The words “Will you trust me?” run along the bottom. The poster now hangs beside my desk as a constant reminder to let go and trust God.

"I walk the streets of Japan til' I get lost"

Last night was Wok Night in the DC. I hate the lines, but I always love the chance to try some “authentic” Asian cuisine from authentic Asians. I somehow trust them more than the regular DC cooks when it comes to international culinary accuracy. Anyway, last night was a little different than the typical Wok Night because all the food came from Japan. I was a little scared at first since the extent of my Japanese-food experience is the Hawaiian hybrid spam musubi and a night at the local Japanese Steak House for my brother’s birthday. I usually play it safe when it comes to eating, but last night I tried something new and I really liked it. If my brother ever moves to Japan, I’m definitely going to visit him for the company and for the food.

Strawbellies!

My hair smells like strawberries and creme. It's making me hungry.

O tidings of comfort and joy (comfort and joy)

Sometimes I feel like two people at once. No, that’s probably not right. I’m one person with very conflicting emotions. My heart is reeling in confusion and pain. I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know how to face it. And yet, there is hope. Again, I’m humbled and thankful for my friends.

Yesterday, Margaret and I went to Indy after church. We ate at Panera and studied for an hour or so before heading to the airport to pick up Alison. Alison’s flight was delayed in Pittsburg, so Margaret and I went to Starbucks and studied and drank coffee (actually, I had an amazing strawberries and crème frap. I was a little coffeed out after MAC and Panera). We made a new “friend” just before leaving to meet Alison in baggage claim. Even though I was tired and occasionally frustrated (especially when I missed an exit on my way to the airport), I had a relaxing and enjoyable afternoon with my roommate. It definitely would not have been the same without her.

On the way home, traffic stopped dead on I-69 for about twenty minutes. I’m still not sure why. When we finally got moving, there was nothing to indicate a crash but a bent guardrail. It was ok, though, because while we were stopped, Alison showed me pictures from her friend’s wedding. It was so good to have Alison back. She always leaves this distinct void when she isn’t around. The longer-than-usual ride back from Indy was quite pleasant with her there.

We made it back to the DC in time for dinner, which was surprisingly delicious. After we got back to the apartment, Margaret found out her sister is pregnant, so we went out to celebrate at Payne’s, but first we stopped by the Brick House. Jenny called with more good news and there was much rejoicing and happiness.

I’m doing a Beth Moore study of the Fruit of the Spirit, and yesterday I was learning about phileo (friend) love. One of the verses really struck me as I remembered all of my friends.

“Suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one. Does she not light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it? And when she finds it, she calls her friends and neighbors together and says, 'Rejoice with me; I have found my lost coin.'” (Luke 15:8-9)

The word for “friends” in this passage is actually best translated “girlfriends.” It gives a Biblical model for how friends react to each others’ good news. We rejoice! I’m so thankful for my friends, that even in the midst of all this pain and confusion, I can be joyful with them.

Thriller, thriller night

"This was our last Airband," I said to Jenny as we left the chapel last night. Of course, it was also, in a way, my first Airband. See, my freshman we were in it, my sophomore year I took photos and last year I didn't go because I had to edit the Echo. I'd never camped out all day outside the chapel vying for a good place in line. I'd never stampeded into the building as the doors opened. I'd never actually enjoyed the show as an innocent bystander. And so, I must say I enjoyed my first real Airband experience.

Sitting in the audience was way fun, especially because Jenny was there all the way from Indy. Yeah, and she has to teach today. She's CRAZY... and I love it. I'm also glad that I got to be with many of my other good friends, but we all missed Alison and Heather and Melissa. :(

Gerig won, and they deserved it, but the judges obviously had a Disney bias. Disney acts took all the top honors. English really should have placed, in my humble but accurate opinion, because their act blew my mind. The other act I thought was pretty amazing was Sammy II and Fourth Berg. I'm always down for a little break dancing.

So now I really want to dance. Fortunately, my dance class that is usually on Wednesday was moved to Saturday this week, so I will get to dance tomorrow.

Today could potentially be good because I don't have any plans. I'm sick of making plans. We turn in the video project from HELL today. How could a 30-second commercial cause so much heartache? Well, it's out of our hands, or at least it will be in two hours. GOOD RIDDANCE.

"It's something unpredictable, but in the end is right. I hope you had the time of your life." --Green Day

Pay for your prints

I think the heat-wave ends today. So sad. I’m liking the Indian Summer, mostly because all of my warm clothes are still at home and I’m not planning to return home until Thanksgiving. So when it starts getting cold again, don’t mind me and my ONE warm outfit. I do like my 3SE sweatpants, but not that much.

Also, there are lots of bees here. What’s up with that? I don’t remember any bees the last three years I’ve been at Taylor. Now they’re EVERYWHERE. I think there was an MST3K episode about that.

Some of my friends and I are observing the month of Ramadan through prayer (and maybe an eventual fast). I don’t know much about this season or about Muslims in general, so I’m looking forward to the opportunity to learn more.

This week is pretty amazing. MWF both my 1 p.m. and 2 p.m. classes have been cancelled, so I get six extra hours in my week. To compensate for this streak of good luck, my digital video project is due on Friday instead of Monday. So I now live in an editing suite. Drat.

“You see a woman wants her cowboy like he wants his rodeo.” –Garth Brooks

Lost in translation

"Mixing without restraint beingdarring when no-one can see she plays with all her possible identities."

So profound, yet so meaningless. That's a quote from a shirt I bought in Hong Kong. I like it.

That reminds me of an ancient proverb. The one about how awesome William Yu is.

"You can pick your friends, you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your friend's nose."

Grille muffins are from God. Seriously. If you eat nothing else in your life, you should eat a Grille muffin. It just might change your life.

Eaten alive

On Monday at lunch, Bekah was discussing how she was turning into her dad. "The apple never falls far from the tree," Alison said. I exclaimed my discomfort at the thought of being near "the tree" and Alison said maybe I'm a seed that a bird picked up and is taking to some distant land. Bekah said that must mean that the bird ate me and I'm going to get pooped out. Yeah, nice word picture, huh?

So I am presently in the metaphorical digestive tract of a bird. That actually explains a lot.

A new kind of world that's takin' over

I love a good revolution. Third floor English made Airband last night. This marks the first time English has been in Airband since we made it my freshman year. It's like an evil dictatorship has finally been deposed. Ladies and gentlemen, a new age is upon us.

Stickers and salvation

There’s a car parked in the Cellar lot with a sticker on it that reads “When Judgment Day comes, you’ll wish you had a Jesus sticker.” Wow. Words fail me. I’m no Bible scholar, but I’m pretty sure Romans 10:13 doesn’t go, “Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord and affixes the appropriate bumper sticker to his/her vehicle will be saved.”

On Thursday, I had the refreshing experience of attending Campus Crusade at nearby Ball State University. At Taylor, “fellowship and Christian community” is an everyday expectation. All one needs to do to be surrounded by fellow believers is get out of bed. It’s easy to take common worldview for granted at Taylor, so I think it’s a good thing to burst the Bubble once in a while and be enveloped by a world where such an expectation does not exist. It’s healthy to have to seek out Christian community and be challenged by a world that disagrees.

I don’t know which girl owns the asinine bumper sticker in the Cellar lot, but I have to wonder how many people she’s encountered that don’t share her worldview. I doubt that she honestly believes that car logos could lead to exclusion from the Kingdom of God, but that’s certainly what the sticker communicates. I also have to wonder how many non-Christians have seen that sticker and thought, “Wow, I want to have Jesus in my life!” More likely, they scoffed and sneered at this misrepresentation of Christ’s gift of salvation.

Woman in the White House

I'm in the process of writing a rhetorical critique of Margaret Chase Smith's 1950 "Declaration of Conscience" speech. Smith was the first woman elected to both congressional houses but interestingly enough refused to be aligned with the feminist movement. A lot of people speculated that she'd run for president. In my research, I discovered a response that literally made me laugh out loud. When asked what she would do if she woke up in the White House, Smith said, "I'd go straight to Mrs. Truman and apologize. And then I'd go home." Amazing.

Why I blog

For the last several months, I've been thinking about why I blog. I wondered if it was just a ploy to get attention. I now doubt that. Although I enjoy it when others read and interact with my thoughts, readership is not my primary objective. But what, then, is my primary objective?

I haven't been able to answer that question with any degree of satisfaction until last night. I was sitting in Ball State's library waiting to meet a friend after doing some research. I took a break from reading about Adlerian therapy to enjoy my new pleasure, Telling Secrets by Frederick Buechner.

Buechner has this to say about the vital importance of telling one’s story:

But I talk about my life anyway because if, on the one hand, hardly anything could be less important, on the other hand, hardly anything could be more important. My story is important not because it is mine … but because if I tell it anything like right, the chances are you will recognize that in many ways it is also yours. Maybe nothing is more important than that we keep track, you and I, of these stories of who we are and where we have come from and the people we have met along the way because it is precisely through these stories in all their particularity … that God makes himself known to each of us most powerfully and personally. If this is true, it means that to lose track of our stories is to be profoundly impoverished not only humanly but also
spiritually. (30)

I suppose I was onto something in January when I discussed blogging for mental heath. Blogging is not so much about the self-important broadcast of thought (or at least it doesn’t have to be), it’s a means by which we live in community. I still keep a private journal as I process some of my deeper secrets, but I’m learning to reach out in my introspection in counseling, in relationships and in this blog.

I’ve been told on several occasions that I write differently than I speak. Some people think this is a horrible trait while others see it as an interesting quirk. I’m choosing to believe the latter. I don’t think anyone needs to read my blog or any other writing I’ve done to get to know me, but I do think it adds a dimension to who I am that would otherwise not be there. For some reason, God created me with an ability to make my thoughts somewhat clear on paper (er… word processor), much clearer than they’ll ever be in my head. I’ve tried to fight this fact for the last several months, but I can no longer hide from the truth. This is just the way God made me.

So I will write, in whatever form that takes. Writing is not my identity; it is a means by which I can explore who I am, who God is and what this world is all about. Feel free to join me on this journey.

Breaking fast

I always loved it in Stephen Lawhead books when he referred to breakfast as "breaking fast." There's just something romantic about that. For a good time, read Taliesin and then read the rest of the books in the Pendragon Cycle. They sustained me through my freshman year of college. :)

The purpose of this post is actually to inform the reader that yogurt burst Cheerios are delicious. I purchased them in Muncie yesterday (along with Girl, Interrupted on DVD for $5.50. I know! It's ridiculous) when searching for morning sustenance. They were actually cheaper than the cereal I usually get, so I thought I'd give 'em a whirl. Thanks are in order to Sarah Janke for her rave review at dinner the other night .

God bless those brits!

There's a band called "Dogs Die in Hot Cars." :)

The blink of an eye

This afternoon, I was walking outside and the sky was bright blue with a few clouds. The air was warm and mildly stale, but a good breeze could be felt every now and then. I go inside for thirty minutes and emerge to a dark and stormy world, the once-clear sky now heavy with anger and rain.

The perfect allegory for my mood.

Telling Secrets

“[Our] original shimmering self gets buried so deep we hardly live out of it at all … rather, we learn to live out of all the other selves which we are constantly putting on and taking off like coats and hats against the world’s weather.”
– Frederick Buechner, Telling Secrets

The other day at breakfast I came across the above quote in John Eldredge's The Sacred Romance. It reminded me of Jennifer Lewis and our Ireland group therapy session cleverly disguised as "Cross-Culteral Living" class. She read to us from a lot of books including Buechner's Telling Secrets and even had us write a short paper on the "shimmering self." Jennifer thought it should have been called "Telling Stories," but that doesn't matter.

Anyway, a few days later I was in Jenny's apartment in Indy and she had Telling Secrets and we got to talking about it. She offered to loan it to me, but I said, no, I probably should read for class (lol).

Well, I think God wants me to read Telling Secrets because not 48 hours later, Vance gave me my own copy of the book. I started it on the way to/during Media & Rhetorical Criticism and it's quite good. I may need to put it on hold for a few days until I can get digital video out of the way, but we'll see how long I can resist. Stay tuned for more comments.

A dream deferred

I want to live in Colorado.

My cheatin' heart

The following is a part of a hymn I've found myself meditating on lately. I have been having a hard time reading the Bible lately, so God has been ministering to me in the strangest ways... comments from professors, homework, DC conversations, friends, the weather, hymns that mysteriously get stuck in my head...

O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I'm contstrained to be.
Let thy goodness like a fetter
Bind my wandering heart to thee.

Prone to wander, Lord I feel it.
Prone to leave the God I love.
Here's my heart,
O take and seal it
Seal it for thy courts above.

-- from "Come Thou Fount"

We all float face down

I don't belong here.

Johnny can't decide...

On the streets you hear the voices
Lost children, crocodiles
But you're not into
Making choices, wicked witches,
Poppy fields, or men behind the curtains,
Tiger lilies, ruby slippers
Clock is ticking, that's for certain
--from "30/90," tick, tick... BOOM

A few weeks ago, a psychology friend of mine asked if I was a minor (as in psych minor). I said, "No, I'm 21." Ahhahahaha.

Anyway, even though I'm technically not a kid anymore, I still think of myself as such. Let's face it, my inner-child is probably six-years-old. I dodge responsibility. I whine. I hide in corners. And I HATE making decisions.

It seems like every choice I have to make has undesireable consequences. I don't want to deal with those consequences, so I put off making a decision until the last minute. Not a very "adult" way to behave, huh? Oh well.

In a lot of ways, I see myself in the characters of Jonathan Larson's tick, tick... BOOM (which I have not seen, but I know the soundtrack). Just like Johnny, I can't decide... anything. Just like Susan, I long to get out of the rat race and settle down. Just like Michael, I've bartered my heart for survival.

I'm challenged by a line from The Journey of Desire where John Eldredge writes, "Do we reach for nothing in life because our reaching opens us up to tragedy?" I honestly don't know what to do with this question right now. As usual, Megan can't decide.

"You're fit but, my gosh, don't you know it."

I've been in Upland for the past three Labor Day weekends but only this morning did I venture out at 6:30 a.m. to the annual all-Upland garage sale. Basically, the entire town has yard/garage sales on the same day. How did I miss out on this these past few years? Well, it probably had to do with valuing sleep. Anyway, it was quite a good time. UCC was giving out free popcorn and ice water. Upland Friends Church also had free sodas and cookies. While my friends stocked up on furniture and appliances, I spent 55 cents and aquired two new books, both in great condition and both of which I'd been planning to buy. The first was Love Must Be Tough by Dr. Dobson. The second was The Sacred Romance by Brent Curtis and John Eldredge. I'll look forward to blowing off scholastic reading this semester to indulge in these treasures.

Gather ye rosebuds...

What's with all the psuedo-international cuisine in the DC? We're an American institution. Let's eat like it.

I'm learning a new trick. Instead of constantly rushing from one thing to the next, I'm training myself to welcome spontaneous conversations and activities. Today I was going to the post office to mail something and an old friend was in the Union. Instead of running off, I stayed and talked for about 45-minutes. It was amazing and refreshing. I'll admit I struggle with wanting to rush off. Last night we were talking at dinner and I kept trying to get up and leave to go to senior sem. I was so paranoid I'd be late! But, no, I restrained myself and we made it to the recital hall with plenty of time even after stopping several times to converse with random people.

Yesterday, Vance called me the "new and improved Megan Elder." I suppose he's right. Margaret says I'm a LOT more laid back. I like myself better this way. I'm actually able to enjoy the blessings God has given me instead of rushing with my head down from one thing to the next. Unfortunately, even Type-B Megan has to do her homework. Oh well.

Beginning of the end...

"It's the beginning of the end of the last chapter of the second book," said Margaret last night, referring to our last first day of class as Taylor students. It's important to note that life goes on after college. In many ways, all of us are longing for that life-beyond, but I suppose we better make the best of our time while we're here.

A cat named Martin

A few nights ago, Cat and Sarah went for a walk around the loop. A little cat followed them for several laps and, of course, they fell in love. Cat named the cat Martin. We discussed leaving food out during the day, but nothing ever came of that.

Today, a few Cellar girls investigated a rumor that there were kittens in the boiler room. Sure enough, Martin is a mom. Although pets are forbidden in English Hall (unless the pet is a tropical fish), the staff said it would be okay to keep them around until they're weaned. Awwww.

I'd place a photo of a kitten here if I had my camera, but some Finnish exchange student is probably enjoying my Olympus right now. Drat.

"Toddmonster Elder... it just rolls off the tongue"

Well, my brother has officially been a Boilermaker for two weeks now. I just got back from a short visit to the 'Due to hang out with him. We had a lot of fun (Or at least I did. He said there are "more exciting things" than hanging out with me. That's fair.). Still, I get SO confused there. All the streets are one way, there are swarms of people everywhere and all the buildings look the same. It's enough to make me miss my simplistic loop of a campus.

It's so wild to hang out with my brother as adults. I mean, we've never really hated each other (we'd fight when we were younger, but in general we got along), but our bond goes way beyond tolerance or general friendship to genuine love and understanding. I think that in some senses, Nate is the only one who gets me because he is the only other person who grew up in my house and dealt with the stuff I went through. That is the glory of siblings. While other people can and will get to know me, Nate shares my genes as well as my upbringing and that says something powerful.

I am the Highway

What is it with southern Indiana farmers and large, fiber-glass fruits? I mean, the Big Peach has been there for ages, but on my most recent trip up 41, I noticed a rather large strawberry in a nearby field. Maybe it's been there forever and I just now noticed it. Figures.

Green Day's "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" played on the radio as I drove up alone with my stuff crammed in my ancient Taurus. How fitting.

I'm all moved into my "apartment." I still live in the dorm, but we have a bathroom, a kitchen, and our very own rape door. It's nice to be on the same floor as the laundry, but it's still a dorm.

Cat has season two of Batman the Animated Series on DVD. Wednesday night we watched "Cat Scratch Fever." Quality.

You've got mail.

Have you ever sat with your inbox open and compulsively hit the refresh button waiting for an email to come in?

No?

Oh. I have.

And we've reached an all-time low.

I wish my gag reflex were a little less sensitive. Or a little more sensitive. I can't decide.

However hard I try (which I admit isn't very hard), I can't seem to achieve any degree of normality. I feel like I've had a lobotomy or something... like a huge chunk of me has been lopped off. I'm through with talking to people. I'm just going in circles and people are sick of me right now. Maybe I'm just sick of me.

You'd think that after 21 years of experience, I'd be pretty decent at falling asleep. Not so. I lay in bed in the darkness and my mind and heart churn. Sleep eludes me.

It's pretty sad when the lyrics to a Kelly Clarkson song best define one's life. Oh well. "I can't breathe, no I can't sleep, I'm barely hangin' on."

Open-heart surgery

I feel like an amputee... only worse.

In other news, I spent more than four hours at Culvers last night. That's gotta be a record. (It was the first time I'd talked to my cousin in years. I don't LOVE Culvers or anything. It's not bad, but it's a tad pricy).

Also, some idiot called my cell phone twice this morning around 5 and asked for Nicole. Who's Nicole? Not me. Go back to sleep.

Have you ever confused a dream with life?

Stupid me. I thought time would heal all wounds. I couldn't have been more wrong.

Also, part of my left foot is numb. Is that a problem?

It's really NOT all for you, Damien

I'm pretty easy to scare. I mean EASY to scare. Odd noises scare me, shadows scare me, strange lights scare me. One night a few weeks ago I came home late to my grandparents' house and drank a glass of ice water before heading to bed. When I touched the dishwasher, their intercom system sprang to life with this horrible static-y noise. Then a bunch of napkins fell on the floor from across the room. I freaked out, set down the glass, and ran to bed. I'm sure all those things can be explained logically, but I'm not logical-- I'm scared.

Movies scare me too. The Village wasn’t even supposed to be scary, but when that girl was all turned around in the woods, my heart was POUNDING. Ok, so I’m a retard and should probably toughen up a bit. Still, there is a good reason for fear. It drives us away from dangerous situations. It’s a protective mechanism that, in many cases, one should listen to. Some things in life really are scary.

The 1976 film The Omen is one of those movies that would scare anyone. It is by far the scariest thing I’ve ever witnessed. It is not scary because people die or because that little kid’s eyes get red, it is scary because it is demonic.

Spiritual warfare is real. The Omen brought this to the big screen. The movie is frightening because the forces with which it deals really do exist. However, the eventual conclusion is “Satan wins.”

There is a true Enemy who stands opposed to every person on this earth. He is the master of fear, holding dark movies like The Omen up to shatter our will. He tells us we cannot prevail against him… but this is NOT true.

When I was in Northern Ireland (a place ruled by fear), Cliff referred me to Psalm 27 where King David proclaims; “The LORD is my light and my salvation—so why should I be afraid? The LORD protects me from danger—so why should I tremble?” The Omen does well to point out the earthly battle between good and evil, but it does not award the prize to the TRUE victor. The Book of Revelation gives us a glimpse of the real Hero. So like I said, scary things exist in the world, but even if they scare us, we shouldn’t be ruled by fear because One greater than ourselves has already triumphed.

Fox recently announced plans to remake The Omen. I will not see it. The film is not a healthy admonition to be awake to spiritual warfare. It is a seed of evil and defeatism that caught me once before but will not snare me again. I’m going to live by faith and claim Psalm 97:10: “Let those who love the LORD hate evil, for he guards the lives of his faithful ones and delivers them from the hand of the wicked.”

I may get jumpy sometimes, but I trust my God to protect me. In the words of Kevin McCallister, "I'm not afraid anymore."

Michelle My Belle

In 1991, I breathed Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. It’s kind of sick to think how crazy I was about a Disney movie. I saw it in the theater four times. I had Beauty and the Beast clothes, dolls, school supplies, books, tapes, collectible figurines… it was my movie, my obsession. I’d wake up in the morning and flit down the stairs singing the opening song, “Bonjour.” I dreamed that I was Belle and wished with all my heart to be like her. She was strikingly beautiful and everyone noticed (even with brown eyes like mine). She wasn’t simply lovely on the outside, she had a beauty of character that made her little town step back in awe. I could relate to Belle, because even though she seemed to have it all together, she felt alone. “I want much more than this provincial life!” I didn’t know what “provincial” meant, but I longed for more in my life as well. I longed for adventure.

It’s been more than a decade since I’d discovered Beauty and the Beast. Most of the brand paraphernalia disappeared long ago. I forgot about Belle and my dream for “much more.” In the process of growing up, I shut down my desires and went along with the flow of life. Duty. Obligation. Work. Stress.

A few days ago, I received the Captivating Guided Journal in the mail. I was in a spiritual rut and had no idea how to get out. I’d tried reading the Bible, but I felt its words were closed off to me somehow. Nothing penetrated. Maybe a journal could help. As I filled in the pages, I felt God tugging on my heart to return to my love of Beauty and the Beast. I didn’t need to feel ashamed of it. God put the desire for fairy tales in everyone’s hearts. Different tales resonate with different people. Beauty and the Beast happens to be the one that most resonates with me.

I haven’t had to work this week, so with a lot of time on my hands, I dug through our old movies and recovered our tattered old VHS of the film. I popped it in the VCR and was again transfixed. My young heart rejoiced… and grieved and laughed and reminisced. Amid the classic children’s story, I discovered lessons long forgotten or never fully realized. Here is a glimpse of what I found:

For the past few months, God has been teaching me about the roles men and women were created to play (thank you, John and Stasi Eldredge and Cliff). A man is the image of a warrior God. A woman is the image of a beautiful/life-giving God. Bell and the Beast model these roles with striking clarity. At first, both are fallen. My current favorite scene in the movie is the wolf fight. It all starts out when Belle defiantly trespasses into the Beast’s West Wing. The two already hate each other, and Belle’s insubordination (a result of her sinful urge to control and dominate) enrages the Beast. The Beast lashes out in violent anger (a result of his own wounds), using his strength against her instead of for her. Belle flees the scene, although she’d made a commitment to stay. She’s frightened and probably ashamed that she incited such rage in the enchanted prince.

Ah, and then there’s redemption.

As Belle and her horse take off through the woods, wolves attack them. Belle tries to fight them off, but she is ill-suited for the task and it seems all hope is lost. Just in time, the Beast comes for her. He didn’t have to do it. He hated her. He had every right to be mad at her. Yet still he came and fought for her. And it was brilliant! In the end, he is victorious, but he is wounded. He offered his strength for a woman who was running away. What was her response? She didn’t have to stay. He’d scared her. He’d yelled at her. He’d thrown things at her. And yet, she nurtured him. Her cold, defiance melted away as she offered her beauty through her actions. It’s an incredible testament to the way men and women can inspire one another to be the image of God they were created to mirror. *sigh

That was the start of their relationship. They didn't wait until they loved one another perfectly to fight for and nurture one another. Instead they offered themselves, fallen as they were, and it brought about surprising results.

Captivating

I few days ago, I finished reading Captivating by John and Stasi Eldredge. I tried to stretch it out over a long period of time, but every time I started reading, I couldn’t stop. The book spoke to my heart in so many ways, helping me see my unique beauty as a woman and the irreplaceable role I play in God’s plan.

Last Thursday night, I tried to explain the book’s premise to someone and failed pretty miserably. The book is straightforward, yet it’s also quite complex. It delves into a wide variety of issues dealing with the feminine heart, so it’s hard to pin down an overriding theme. The best way to sum up this book is that it explains God’s passion for the female heart and what can happen when she lets Him restore her.

Like in Wild at Heart where John narrows down a man’s desire for three things, the Eldredge’s assert that “every woman in her heart of hearts longs for three things: to be romanced, to play an irreplaceable role in a great adventure, and to unveil beauty” (8). The book goes on to explain how each of these desires can be attained in our relationships with God, other people and one’s self.

Captivating plays on themes from Eldredge’s other books but delves much deeper into what those themes specifically mean for women. It would be fairly accurate to say this is the Wild at Heart for women because it follows the same structure and flows from the same source, yet the book stands very much on its own. It touched places in my heart I didn’t expect and opened my eyes to the freedom of being a “woman at rest” in my femininity (have you ever realized how difficult it is to pronounce “femininity?). I’m so excited to tap into all God has created me for.

I recommend this book to any woman. I’d also recommend it to men, but I’d suggest reading Wild at Heart first. God created man and woman for great things. We can mirror the image of God to each other when we allow Him to restore our hearts in gender-specific ways. These books offer incredible insight to unlock our hearts’ potential. That gets me excited.

Spoons

All the spoons here are outrageously large. I miss bite-sized spoons.

Southwestern Ireland and such...

Thursday, March 24, 2005

Brian picked us up in the now-so-familiar Finnegan Bray coach at 8:30 a.m. and we headed from Greystones to the Southwest. On the way, we stopped at the Rock of Cashel, an outcropping of limestone in CO Tipperary where a castle/monastery was built. The weather definitely did not cooperate and our tour guide was terribly boring. It’s an impressive structure, though, and in its time it served as a point of great importance for the people of Ireland, particularly the people of Munster (not North’s debate arch-enemies but the ancient southwestern province of Ireland).

We ate lunch on the bus as the rain poured down and then we headed for Killarney in CO Kerry. Killarney is basically a tourist town that would serve as our base of operation for the rest of the trip. It’s the Gatlinburg, TN of Ireland. We stayed at the McSweeney Arms Hotel and I shared a rather large room with Natalie and Mia.

Wednesday, March 25, 2005

At 9 a.m., we set out from Killarney for the Dingle Peninsula, the most western point in “Continental” Europe. Our first stop was Inch Strand, a wide, long, flat beach on Dingle Bay. Although some people took a swim or at least got their feet wet, I decided to stay dry considering we still had the whole day ahead of us in the bus. Brian brought a rugby ball and taught us how to play (sort of). I definitely like the game better than American football.

Next we stopped at a scenic overlook of the Blasket Islands. The water was probably the most blue I’ve ever seen. We ate lunch at the overlook and then headed a little further down the road to another bay where one of the Spanish Armada ships got wrecked. Here’s a photo of the little bay:

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Our last stop was Gallarus Oratory, one of the oldest churches in Ireland (about 1300-years-old). Check it out:

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Since it was Good Friday, we had a special service inside the church. We sang “The Wonderful Cross,” “In Christ Alone,” and “Angus Dei.” Then Dr. Harbin read from Our Daily Bread and we sang “The Doxology.”

Saturday, March 26, 2005

This morning we hiked the Gap of Dunloe, a seven-mile path meandering through the “mountains.” It was a pretty easy walk, almost entirely paved.

We ended up at Lord Brandon’s Cottage where we ate lunch and then took a boat ride over the three lakes. We landed at Ross Castle, a tower house right outside of Killarney. The first tour was completely booked so we sat outside in the sun for an hour until the next tour started. I was so tired I could hardly stand up to listen to the guide, but fortunately she was fairly efficient and the tour only took about an hour.

Sunday, March 27, 2005

Happy Easter!

This was the first Easter I’ve ever spent away from family (I think), so it didn’t really seem very Easter-y. I went to a service at Killarney’s Methodist Church. It was an odd service, considering our group doubled the congregation and packed out the little building. Screaming children were everywhere. Toward the end of the service, right after communion, the fire alarm went off and everyone just ignored it and went on with the service. Fortunately, we were soon excused.

After lunch, we went to Muckross House, a plantation home that once belonged to the Herbert family. When Queen Victoria came to Ireland, she stayed in Muckross House. They spent about eight years preparing for her visit and she only stayed two nights. After the Herberts went bankrupt, they sold Muckross House to the Guinnesses. It passed through a few more hands before winding up in the custody of the State.

Muckross House is comparable to Powerscourt, although it’s not nearly as large. It’s also surrounded by gardens and an arboretum. We walked around the gardens for a while and it started to rain. Brian took us nearby to Torc Waterfall and we hiked up the trail to the top of the falls. We couldn’t really see anything from the top, so we hiked back down, soaked and ready to go back to the hotel.

Monday, March 28, 2005

This morning we drove the Ring of Kerry. We started out at Lady’s View, an overlook that Queen Victoria’s ladies in waiting enjoyed. It’s a good view of the three lakes in Killarney. Next we stopped in the town of Sneem for a restroom break. It was a cute little town—all of the houses were very brightly painted. Then we went to some beach for lunch.

Our last stop was Portmagee, where we boarded boats for the Skelligs. The Skelligs are jagged islands 12 miles off the coast of Ireland where monks used to go for solitude. The ride out to the islands is pretty brutal. The weather and sea conditions have to be perfect in order to make the voyage. One ISP group never made it out to the Skelligs, so we were very fortunate to have had the chance. Our boat circled around Little Skellig which was never inhabited by humans, although it is still heavily populated by birds. Alfred Hitchcock would have been inspired. Here’s a view of Little Skellig from Michael Skellig. The little black dots (if they show up at this resolution) are birds.

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We docked at Michael Skellig and climbed up about 600 stairs (built by the monks in the 6^th century) to the monastic city. The settlement consisted of a few bee-hive huts and carefully built rock walls. The buildings were constructed in the same manner as Gallarus Oratory so no mortar was used. Michael Skellig is covered in peat moss which makes it a prime mating ground for puffins. Here’s a photo of some of the funny little birds:

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Monday, March 29, 2005

After one last hearty Irish breakfast, we bid farewell to the McSweeney Arms Hotel and set out for home with a few stops in County Cork along the way. First was Blarney, famous for the Castle, the Stone, and the Woolen Mills. Blarney Castle is pretty tourist heavy, yet we had a decent time exploring the various rooms. We stood in line for the Blarney Stone for a good 15-minutes. I honestly don’t see what the big deal is. I expected there to be an actual stone or something protruding from the wall, but, no, they expect you to kiss the wall. I guess it’s fun because one is upside-down whilst kissing the wall. Think Spiderman. Anyway, we did get a good story out of the deal, because Brubs decided to lick the wall and got an F-bomb dropped on him by the guy that holds the tourists when they’re kissing the Stone. That was rather humorous. Here’s a photo of my rendezvous with the castle wall. I now supposedly have the “Gift of Eloquence.” Yeah right.

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Blarney Woolen Mills is kind of like Wall Drug in Wall, SD, but not nearly as cool. I did buy my first Irish t-shirt, but they wouldn’t give me a VAT form (if you’re a tourist, you get a tax refund on all your purchases if you have this special form) because the lady behind the counter claimed it was a kiddie size. I don’t think it was, but being a foreigner unaccustomed to the European size labels, I let it slide.

Our next stop was Cobh (pronounced “cove”), which was one of Ireland’s most important port towns back when port towns were important. It was once called Queenstown in honor of Queen Victoria, who first set foot on Irish soil upon its shores. Since England’s been out of the Republic, the town reverted to its Irish name. Anyway, it was the Titanic’s final port of call before it sank and the Lusitania (sp?) sank just off-shore. The reason we went to Cobh was for Queenstown Museum, a multi-media extravaganza of educational enrichment. Mostly, the museum chronicled emigration out of Ireland, but it also touched on the two famous shipwrecks I already mentioned.

Back on the bus, Brian decided to take a shortcut through Waterford and Wexford. All went well until we got stuck in standstill traffic in Waterford for almost two hours. By the time we crossed into Wexford, it was past dinnertime, so we stopped in New Ross for dinner. New Ross was basically a ghost town. We eventually found a little take away open and we persuaded them to let us eat in an adjoining dining room that had been closed for the night. It took a while to order, get our food and pay, so by the time we got back on the road, we were looking at a post-10 p.m. arrival in Greystones. We did eventually arrive, said goodbye to Brian, and settled back into the Y for our last stretch of the semester.

Tuesday, March 30, 2005

Aha! You thought my trip ended on Monday! Well, it did, but this morning we had another field trip into Dublin, this time to Vance’s favorite place… Kilmainham Gaol. It was actually an interesting tour (we had a good guide for a change). Kilmainham Gaol is the prison in which the leaders of Easter Rising were executed in 1916. We saw the prison cells of DeValera, Grace Plunkett and Robert Emmet as well as the yard where the 1916 executions took place (three of which occurred on May 3, my birthday). The East Wing is featured in several films, including The Italian Job (the old one) and Michael Collins.

It’s hard to believe that in one month, my semester will be over. For the next three weeks, I’ll need to buckle down and get projects out of the way, so there probably won’t be too much activity on here. We’ll see if I get inspired to post.