Papa and Mutti's House

There are many things I love about my grandparents' house.

I've been to their lovely little home in the countryside of Biarritz, France, more times than I can remember. The biggest difference now is the absence of Mutti, my mom's mother, who passed away last February. The second biggest difference is that the old, always-out--of-tune piano in the back corner of the living room has been replaced by an electronic piano. Other than that, everything seems about the same. Yesterday I was helping Rebekah prepare dinner in the tiny kitchen, and I had to use a paper towel to clean something up. When I was finished, I tossed it in the trash can by the door without thinking twice about it. I didn't need to look for it; it was right there, in its place, like it has been all these years.

My grandparents' house is full of memories; it has been a recurring stage on which I spent parts of my growing-up. I remember being much younger, playing games with my much younger cousins. I remember feeling shy around my family here, because I would only see them every once in a while. I remember climbing the tree in my grandparents' front yard, sometimes with cousins, sometimes by myself. I would climb as high as I could, and sit and look out over the field across the street, watching the world. Among the business of family visits, those moments of solitude stand out in my mind. Right now, I'm sitting on the mustard-yellow couch in my grandparents' living room; David is on his laptop next to me, Jordan and Hannah are playing gameboy games, Papa is reading the paper, Rebekah is dozing across the room. In a way, this house is a home for me; that sense of familiarity and comfort is, I think, an intrinsic part of what makes a home, a home.

This house contains not only memories for me, but tangible, physical memories as well. I wandered upstairs yesterday to look around, and in every room there are faded photographs, papers, yellow newspaper clippings, and other remnants of the past. In one room, a room that I don't think I've ever actually been in before in all the years, there was a homemade paperweight on a desk - a rock that had been decorated by my mom and one of her brothers as a birthday present for my grandfather who knows how long ago. My grandparents started a Christian radio station thirty-three years ago, and it's still broadcast from their house. In one room upstairs, the chief radio hub of the house, there are large monitors, audio equipment, and walls lined with casette tapes.

I know that over time, change is inevitable, and that things morph and fade into other things, but sitting here, in my grandparents' house, it's hard to believe that change can effect, and has already effected, a place as stable and as engrained into my memory and childhood as this house is.

Where Is God?

A poem I wrote last semester, partially inspired by a piano piece I had been working on (from Mendelssohn's Songs Without Words) and a book I had been reading (On God and Christ by St. Gregory of Nazianzus). Originally published on Facebook, March 10, 2009.
*****
Where is God?
In the wind that laces through my fingers
And whispers in the trees -
Their furtive murmurings that speak
Of subtle mysteries.

Where is God?
With the sun that gently warms my skin
And floods the earth with light -
And by His word, relents its heat
For coolness of the night.

Where is God?
In the harmonies of well-tuned strings
And hymnals of the birds -
The choirs of creation praise
With songs that have no words.

Where is God?
Within the fibers of my heart
From whence He urges me -
'Tis better to remember Him
Than 'tis for me to breathe.

©
*****
Reading it through again, I can see in my memory, quite clearly, the different things that inspired various parts of the poem. I was sitting under two tall trees, watching and listening to birds singing. I was walking to class from my dorm, in the bright afternoon sunlight, gently moving my arm, hand and fingers in the breeze. I still have that piano piece memorized; I love it. And I love learning, reading and thinking about God, and how He is present in every part of my life in very deep, very real ways.

The Heights, and The Depths

I'm glad today got gray. As the sun went down, the clouds gathered a bit more, hiding the blue sky behind their wintry blanket. I meandered across campus, going from office to office getting signatures for my leave of absence form. The air was cool, the leaves were golden, and as I walked past the library, I mused about how the delicate white flowers in the bushes looked, at first glance, like bits of tissue paper strewn among the leaves.

I had lunch with my mentor, Dr. Vincent today. It was nothing short of wonderful. She treated me to In-N-Out, a fitting farewell meal, as she put it, since we don't have In-N-Outs in New Mexico. We talked about marriage, and Paul, and school, and theatre, and "The Dining Room".

Dr. Vincent began talking about how things in this life, while tainted by sin, can still be "tastes of heaven"; I think it stemmed from our discussion on marriage. Marriage, we agreed, is a sanctifying tool given to us by God. As Paul encourages his churches to do in his letters, spouses in marriage are not to simply endure trials, or each other's faults, but they are to actively pursue righteousness. As a wife, I am not to think, "I must suffer through my husband's faults and failures." Rather, I am to think, "How can I work with and around those things in order to serve him and purify us both?"

This life is not all about just getting to the next life. We can still have good things now, we can still be good people, friends, spouses, servants, now. I think, in a way, that's what Paul means when he says that marriage is to be an example of Christ's love for the church; we are still sinful, yes, and not fully perfect as we one day will be, but as Christ became our servant in order to make us righteous, we are to serve each other and help sanctify each other. We are saved by faith, not by works, but faith without works is dead. Faith in Christ justifies us; works in Christ sanctify us. In these ways, marriage is a taste of God's perfect love.

We talked about heaven. Dr. Vincent said that the times she most often wants Christ to come back is when she is feasting with friends. There is something about gathering together, around a huge, delicious meal, surrounded by people that you love, that tastes like heaven. She said she often wishes that all of her friends were there, and her whole family, too. She longs for everyone she's ever known and liked, and even those she hasn't liked because there were differences between them. She would love to have the time to see past those differences and to really get to know them. Time to sit, and be together, and shoot the breeze; to talk about things that are important, and things that aren't; to, as she put it, "sit in a corner with them, and eat nuts and berries."

I told her about our Gregory of Nyssa Christmas party, last Saturday at Laura's house. We didn't really think about it at the time, but looking back I think most of us have realized that it was likely one of the last times we'll all be together as our original group; the last time for a long time, at least. It's that same feeling she described; there is something about gathering together with loved ones around a feast that seems so heavenly. Those spaces and times in which we can enjoy each other's company, eat, laugh, or just sit together, content; in some small, shadowy way, that must be what heaven feels like.

Except, in heaven, there will be no need for goodbyes, and we will never feel rushed. We will never run out of time to get to know each other, or to say everything we want to say. As Sheldon Vanauken says in his painfully beautiful A Severe Mercy,

"Golden streets and compulsory harp lessons may lack appeal - but timelessness? And total persons? Heaven is, indeed, home."

I've said a lot of goodbyes lately. I said what will probably be my final goodbyes to some people in my group last Saturday. I cried.

After our long lunch, I decided on a whim to see if Mayers Auditorium was empty. It was. Devoid of people, but full of memories. I sat on the stage for a good half hour, the stage on which me and the rest of "The Dining Room" built characters, confidence, and friendships. I soon realized that I wasn't just sitting, I was waiting; I kept looking toward the door, expecting cast or crew members to walk in at any moment. It felt unnatural to be in there alone.

And I cried. But it wasn't a bad thing; in fact, I think it was a good thing. All the talk about life and marriage and the show had gotten a little emotionally overwhelming, and I just needed to let it out. I began to realize how much I'll miss my friends here, and how the love I have for them makes these goodbyes all the harder. It's painful, but it's a joyful pain, and I think that kind of pain is the sharpest. It reminds me that we're not home yet.

Thinking of everything Dr. Vincent and I had talked about, I couldn't help but remember Megan's final monologue in the play:

"Lately, I've been having this recurrent dream. We're giving the perfect party. We have our dining room back, and grandmother's silver, before it was stolen, and Charlie's mother's royal blue dinner plates, before the movers dropped them, and even the fingerbowls, if I knew where they were. And I've invited all of our favorite people. Oh, I don't just mean our old friends, but everyone we've ever known and liked. We would have the man who fixes our toyota, and the intelligent young couple who just bought the Peyton place; the receptionist at the doctor's office, and the new teller at the bank. And our children would be invited, too, and they'd all come back from wherever they are. And we've have two cocktails, and hot hors d'ovueres, and a first rate cook in the kitchen and two maids to serve, and everyone would get along famously.

My husband laughs when I tell him this dream. 'Do you realize,' he says, 'how hard it would be to throw a party like that? Do you realize how much a party like that would cost?' Well, I know. I know all of that. But sometimes, I think it just might be worth it."

I am not afraid like I used to be; afraid of the unknown, afraid of failure. God has blessed me incredibly, and I'm excited for how he is going to use me and Jordan to exemplify his love, sanctifying us through our marriage. He has also given me many friends, whom I love deeply; and so there is some pain in our parting, but it is a joyful pain.

Someday, these tastes of heaven will give way to the real thing, the complete, timeless perfection. And then, there will be no more bittersweet goodbyes, and the pain of homesickness will have been worth it. And we will all come back, from wherever we are.

All in a day's work

I think I've had a fairly productive evening.

I say "evening" because I didn't actually start any of my work until after the sun had gone down. I woke up late, showered, met a friend for lunch, said goodbye to said friend because today was his last day on campus, got coffee, bumped into another friend at the coffee shop, shot the breeze with second friend, went back to my dorm, proofread my fiance's paper for him, talked through my proofreading with fiance, AND THEN got my stuff together and drove to Starbucks to study.

Like I've mentioned before, my music theory final is in the morning, at 8:00. Yuck. If there's anything this class has taught me, it's that anything that happens before 9:00 in the morning might as well not happen at all.

Perhaps that's an unfair statement. Perhaps play rehearsals that run until midnight or later don't mix well with 8AM classes. Regardless, I think I would have learned a lot more about theory if the class had simply been held an hour later in the day. Oh well. The play was worth it.

I spent a good hour 1/2 or more reviewing theory, and I think I'm in pretty good standing for tomorrow. The stuff from the beginning of the term is basic, stuff I already knew; the stuff we just learned is still fresh in my mind; I went back and brushed up on the newer concepts from the middle, and all in all I feel fairly solid. I hope. After this I've got just one more final to go!

After studying, I went to Target and got some supplies for Christmas gifts I'm working on. Usually I'm pretty bad at gift-giving, but this year everything seems like it's falling nicely into place.

Just a little something

I'd like to post more pictures in my blog. After all, I am a visual-learner type of person. I sort of think everyone is, really.

What an unexpected semester this has been. I know I keep talking about it, but it's because I can't stop thinking about it.

Music theory final Tuesday. Sight-singing final Thursday. Hopefully lots of talks and hugs and goodbyes with friends in between. Tomorrow morning I'm going to Target to get some stuff for Christmas gifts I'm putting together for the cast and crew of "The Dining Room" and for my lovely Torrey group, Gregory of Nyssa. I usually feel really bad at stuff like this; planning, gift-giving. But these might actually turn out nice. We'll see. I'm still bad at planning, though.

Seasons

I need another accordion file. Probably a couple, actually. I just spent some time cleaning up my desk space, which was covered in papers and mail and books. I am not a naturally organized person, and sometimes I don't know how my (more tidy) room mates put up with me. Clothing is the worst; when I get lazy, I don't bother to fold or put away clothes when I take them off. Especially if I'm just stumbling in after a long day; all I want to do is get in bed ASAP.

Another thing I need: to write something, even just a little something, every day. I think I'll set a goal for myself - maybe to spend fifteen to twenty minutes writing, either in my journal or on here, every day. The past few days I've been thinking to myself, I need to write, I need to organize my thoughts; but I haven't made the time, and if I put it off, those thoughts slowly fade away.

I think I could be a writer someday, in some form. I enjoy it, and my mentor says I've "got the chops" for it. But I am learning that, like almost everything in life, it is definitely a craft that needs to be practiced and perfected. One does not become a brilliant writer with charming syntax and a polished voice in a day, or a week, or a year. Life is all about the process. Life is, itself, one continuous process of continuous change and growth. As is writing, I think. As are most things.

This semester. Sheesh. So much has happened, most of it unexpected. I was in the play, which was one of the most formative experiences of my life; I made friendships I never knew I would make; I read a TON of theology; I got engaged. I feel like a totally different person now than the scared, insecure girl who began this semester. I'd almost forgotten about that girl entirely.

This semester, this crazy, wonderful, life-changing semester, finally feels like it's really coming to a close. Today, my good friends Anna and Christine threw me a bridal shower. It was so much fun, with lots of laughing and food and games. God has blessed me beyond words with the people, and the friends, that are here. In all of the heights and depths this semester has brought, they have rallied around me with encouragement and tender, genuine love. I think it's rare to find that in a group of people.

When the shower was over, it was a little bittersweet as I realized that it might be the last time for a long time that I see some of those friends. When the term's officially over next week and everyone has scattered in the wind, there will be some people I won't see until, perhaps, the day before our wedding - if then. It's really ending, I've realized. It's caught me a little off-guard; mostly, I think, because this semester has been jam packed with business and change. So much has happened, it's hard to believe it's almost over. This adventure is finally ending, and a new one is about to begin.

But, I do know that while it is more sad to leave this place because of the deep friendships I have gained, there is comfort for that very same reason. Although this is an end, it's not the end, and there are few people I'm saying goodbye to now whom I doubt will remain a part of my life, in some (if only small) shape or form for a very long time.

But even if not. Even if after a couple of years I lose touch with people, even if this is the last time I see some of them (I pray that's not the case), it will be okay. Because it has been good. It has been painful, and hard, and unbearably scary at times, but it has been good. I have tried, I have learned, I have grown, I have loved. And that will only continue in the future, whatever happens.

I have regrets. But this time, this season in my life - it has not been a waste.

Fall in Winter and Free Hot Chocolate

Today is a beautiful day. It's December 1, but it feels more like Albuquerque in October.

I got a free hot chocolate at Common Grounds, the Biola coffee shop; I came in here to procrastinate before my next class, and I guess the barista accidentally made an extra hot chocolate. Score.

The Last Leg

I hate the first day after break. I got back to school yesterday evening, but it feels like I just got back this morning.

I have a love-hate relationship with Thanksgiving break. I love it, because it's Thanksgiving break, and that means I'm home. I hate it, because it's just long enough to start feeling like I'm home again, but it's not long enough to see everyone I want to see, or to really settle in and relax.

This semester has been a good one, but right now I'm freaking out a little. The next two weeks are going to be dedicated to finals preparation. I have my don rags (Torrey final) a week earlier than normal because my mentor, Dr. Vincent, is due to have her baby at the end of the semester, and she didn't want to risk having her water break during finals. The downside is that I have even less time to re-transition back into school because I must immediately start prepping for don rags, but the upside is that I'll be done with my most stressful final a week early, which will probably be good; I'm getting a (bad) feeling that I'll have to study a fair amount for my music theory final.

Music theory has become a sort of thorn in my side. I'm the only one to blame; I just haven't put a lot of work into it this semester, partly because for the bulk of the last two months my time, thoughts and energy have been dedicated to "The Dining Room", and partly because I just don't really like music theory. At this point, I don't think I'm going to continue my music minor. All in all, I just don't have a lot of drive for it anymore.

I feel like the semester is basically over, but I still have to study hard and get ready for finals. My mind is racing; there's so much to do before the end of the semester.

While the play was going on, I let myself get a little lost in it. I let myself slack off a little on schoolwork, but I'm worried that it's going to come back and bite me.

I really need a few days of buffer in order to get my bearings; it's hard to just dive back into things. I can't believe how fast this semester has flown by. So much has happened, and there are so many more changes in the future.

School Thoughts

This week has left me very scatter-brained so far, and I doubt it will end any time soon.

I've been thinking a lot about my major, and what direction I want to go in school. For the past year and a half I have felt very aimless, and I haven't really come across anything that I've felt passionate about, and actually excited about pursuing. Until now.

I guess I've been thinking about journalism for a few months, really; I remember the thought floating around in my head a bit over the summer, as I considered my interest in writing and telling stories about real people. This semester I've had more conversations about it with Dr. Vincent, other students, and just time to think about it myself, and it's beginning to solidify as something I think I'd actually like to do.

What got it started was my involvement in "The Dining Room". Since I was in the play, I was exempt from writing a Torrey paper this semester; in lieu of that, Dr. Vincent said she'd have me write a short reflection about my experience in the play, to have something besides everyday assignments to hone my writing a bit.

In a later meeting with Dr. Vincent, she told me that she had been thinking about my interest in theatre, and reflective art, and things like This American Life, and suggested that I think about journalism as a possible major choice. It seemed like a good fit.

Well, I have been thinking about it, and while I've wavered between English and Journalism a bit, the more I think about it the more journalism does seem like a good fit. At the moment, I'm thinking that a journalism major plus an English minor would be a good combination. That way, I could incorporate creative writing and literary analysis into journalism, because I think that journalism would enable me to more actively pursue what I'd like to do. I'd learn how to research topics and put together stories, as well as have the opportunity to publish articles or do editorial work, which would be great experience for future jobs.

Depravity and Hope?

I just realized I need to prepare a devotion for session a week from Wednesday. I'm not pressed for time or anything, but I want to be thinking about it in the back of my mind as I go through my week, and prepare for the second weekend of "The Dining Room". I've been searching for hope in the play, and I'm beginning to wonder if there is any, or if it's just unresolved. As a Christian, I can supply my own hope in light of human depravity, but is it there in the play itself? Maybe I can work these thoughts into a devotion somehow. It would be appropriate, with what we've been reading this semester, and now how we're going through Paul's epistles. We'll see what happens.

The Constant Battle

I feel that I am a bad planner.

In "A Severe Mercy", Sheldon Vanauken, when speaking of the relatively short marriage he enjoyed with his wife, Davy, said that in spite of the fact that they never even reached a silver anniversary, he felt that they had had very timeful (that is, time-full) lives. If you read his book (which you should; go get it RIGHT NOW), by the time you get to the part where he says this, you'll know exactly what he means. He speaks of him and Davy spending entire summer days walking and talking and reading, and there are many "moments made eternity" that they share, in which they are so engrossed in the moment that it seems as though time has ceased to exist.

So often I feel like I am being pushed forward by time. This is where the planning thing comes in; maybe I'm just thinking about it too much, but I feel that if I were to plan things out better, and be more intentional with how I spend my time, I wouldn't feel like my time were being taken from me. It's so strange that humans and time are locked in a constant struggle; no one ever seems satisfied with their relationship to time. There's always too little, it goes too fast or too slow, and the more time passes the less time we have. I get a little depressed thinking about it.

Lately I've been feeling like I need to write down everything that happens in my life; lots of big things have happened in the past few weeks, but it's hard to take the time to really sit down and process everything. Yet if I don't, I feel like somehow those events and experiences will escape me. There's something in my subconscience that believes if I can only write everything down, that thief called time won't be able to steal it away from me. And yet, when I try to journal in a play-by-play style, it feels more like a burden than a release.

I'm not really sure how to resolve my thoughts. I feel a little unresolved, so maybe it's appropriate.

Act I: A Major Decision

I am fascinated by the constant chain-reactions of life. It seems like everything, from individual relationships to political and religious movements to ideas in the media and the arts are nothing more than a series of actions and reactions. Everyone is reacting to what the people before them said, although sometimes ideas become circular, like fashion trends. Is there a limit to the ideas that we plant our flags in, or is there no end to where it goes? Is this chain-reaction of life going in a circle, or in a straight line?

The more I think about it, the more I talk about it with other people, and the more I experiment with it, the more I think I want to be a journalism major. I love thinking about abstract ideas, but I also love thinking about real people and experiences, and applying those ideas to the realities of life. Journalism seems like a good place to do that. I'd want it with a literary twist, though; news anchoring or newspaper reporting sounds boring to me, not creative enough.

As my paper project I'm in the Torrey play, and my mentor suggested, after I expressed an interest in creative journalism, "This American Life" style, that I could produce a creative non-fiction podcast as a reflection on my experience in the play. I need to just sit down and think about how I want to do that; the play opens this week, and this semester has been a whirlwind so I haven't taken the time to really hammer it out. I'm excited for it, though, and like I said, the more I think about journalism like that, the more it sounds like something I'd actually want to do.

I think thoughts. Lots of thoughts.

Today has been a weird Thursday. My Thursdays are usually pretty busy; I've got music theory at 8:00 (it's a fine class, but an evil time), then I try to go to chapel, then I usually lay down to take a half hour nap and wake up two hours later (rehearsals until midnight plus 8:00 classes take their toll), then I'll get lunch, do a little homework, go to sight-singing class. After that, I'll do more homework, usually go to Bible study with my floor mates from last year, then dinner, then more homework until rehearsal. Tired yet? I am.

Last night I was up until about 1:30. I could have left rehearsal early, but I simply didn't want to. Rehearsals just get my blood pumping, and even though it's late and I usually have to stay up after to finish homework, it's absolutely worth it. I stayed while they blocked a scene I'm not in, and enjoyed observing my fellow actors work and journaling in my theatre journal. Afterward I finished my music theory homework that I had forgotten about in the Student Union Building with Nick, a junior in the play, and Chelsea, also a junior, and our artistic director.

I slept for about two hours, then got up at 3:45 to take my friend Anna to the airport for her 6:00 flight. The whole trip only took about an hour, because there was very little traffic at such an ungodly hour to be awake. Even though I was tired, I enjoyed the drive; I love Anna, and we talked about the plays (she's in "The Magician's Nephew"). I told her about our super-duper fun rehearsal on Monday night (to read about it, check out my theatre blog). I got back to school about 5:15, slept for two more hours, went to theory . . . and everything else pretty much follows the pattern from my first paragraph.

This semester is flying by, probably due to my busy schedule with the play. The only thing that makes me sad is how quickly it will be over, but I won't think about that; I am going to be intentional about loving what I'm doing! I always look back on seasons in my life and wonder, should I have been more proactive? Should I have done something differently to have gotten even more out of that experience? But those thoughts are silly. I'm thoroughly having a blast in "The Dining Room", and for the most part I haven't been plagued by those self-doubts that are so typical for me.

I feel like there's so much I want to do; write more, read more for fun, play piano again, draw, and I've been toying with the idea of somehow compiling passages/ideas/themes from the authors and theologians we've been reading that have been particularly impacting or inspiring for me. Torrey plans their curriculum well, and there are always common threads and echoing voices in the texts we read every semester. And this semester is particularly important; like I said earlier, it's particularly difficult, and I haven't had as much time or energy to put into it with the play, but I don't want to let it just slip by. That's why I'm thinking, maybe starting next weekend or week, I'll start putting together some kind of informal essay to pull things together. It might be helpful to do this weekend, because I've got "mid-rags" (Torrey mid-term) on Monday. And I'll have a sort-of break next week, because instead of class we have a special conference Monday through Friday.

In particular, I'm thinking about the ideas of mysticism presented by Pseudo-Dionysius, Bonaventure and Dante, as well as the beautiful, unfathomable concept of the immense love and grace God has for us, manifested, of course, in Jesus Christ.

A Brief Thought on Calvin (and other things)

I really need to write more. Life has been crazy with the play, and school, and just life stuff. It's getting to the point that I feel I'm going to burst from all the things filling up my heart and mind unless I write them down. Writing is such a wonderful release, such a wonderful way to articulate the things that swim around in my soul.

I'm reading Calvin's Institutes of the Christian Religion for Torrey right now. It's been a tough semester; with the play, I haven't had as much energy to focus on Torrey work, although everything has been really interesting. Interesting, but difficult. I think Jordan put it aptly when he said that he thinks I like everyone; that is, I'm pretty charitable toward almost any author I read. It's easy to get worked up over theology, especially when Calvin's in the mix, and maybe I'll feel differently when we actually get to his meatier, predestination stuff, but mostly I enjoy learning about what everyone has had to say about Christianity, and usually I can understand where they're coming from.

I want to write more, but I have to go to class. Meh.

Sunday afternoon

I don't have much time to write; I'm going to a theatre workshop this afternoon for the Torrey play. It's not mandatory for the cast of "The Dining Room", but it sounds like a cool opportunity. A guy named Chad (that's all I know about him) is going to be leading it, and apparently he has done some of the stuff we're learning about more professionally. Plus, it may be the only time the casts of "The Dining Room" and "The Magician's Nephew" do something together.

Time to go!

All grown-ups were once children, although few of them remember it.

I'm reading The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. I had been wanting to find something . . . lighter to read to off-set all of this heavy theology (currently steeped in: Aquinas). I didn't even know I had The Little Prince with me until, after getting up today, I bent down to find something on my bookshelf unrelated to school with which I could occupy my mind for a little while. And I found it. Underneath Strunk's Elements of Style (which I also considered; yes, I read that for fun. The craft of communicating well is a true art form).

I began reading, and soon I was in Neverland. The appreciation of children, the loss of not only innocence, but imagination that seems to plague adulthood; J.M. Barrie flickered in and out of my head as Saint-Exupery eased me out of my box and into his world that feels so close yet so fantastic.

Happy Friday

I am so glad it's the weekend! I haven't felt this ready for a weekend for a while (and it's only the second week of school!). This week has been busy, and things are only going to get busier (but hopefully in a good way).

I had all of these goals of getting ahead on schoolwork over Labor Day weekend; of course, few of them were met. When I have extra time off, it's so hard to push myself to do extra work. I usually fall into the temptation of extra relaxation that things like long weekends or canceled classes offer. Actually, that's probably a good thing for me; I tend to overwork myself. Still, I have resolved to push myself these next couple of Saturdays, because things are speeding up and I want to stay ahead of the game.

Monday night I went to the first official meeting of the Torrey Creative Society, a group of Torrey students with a passion for, well, creativity, and helping Torrey to run smoother and be presented and advertised better by utilizing the creative and administrative talents of students. I'm technically already a member, which was kind of a surprise at the end of last semester. I went to an "informational" meeting and was told that everyone who had shown up was an automatic member. I wasn't exactly sure what I was getting into, but I'm actually really excited about it; plus, now I don't have to go through the "selective" application process.

Tuesday night: I auditioned for the Torrey theatre plays! There are going to be two this semester, "The Dining Room" and "The Magician's Nephew". Two plays, two directors; and one told us specifically that she's perfectly okay with the fact that probably no one at Biola has ever heard of "The Dining Room". I debated for a while about whether or not to audition, but I am SO glad I did. I love theatre! I've missed it, and auditions themselves were super fun. Even now, I have lingering doubts, but it feels good to take a risk and own it.

Wednesday and Thursday night: callbacks. I got called back for both plays! Both of the call backs were unique and exhilarating. Dining Room lasted from 9-midnight, and I was done with Magician's Nephew by 9:45. I know both plays will be wonderful, and the cast lists will be posted tomorrow morning. Fingers crossed!

So here I am on Friday night, enjoying the decreased pressure of having to get things done by the next morning, although like I said, this weekend will be filled with homeworking. It will be good, though; I'm ready to tackle some of this stuff (I think; I'm reading Thomas Aquinas, and he's pretty heavy).

The Deep Breath Before the Plunge

This week is the calm before the storm, I just know it. Not much homework, catching up with old friends, hot, lazy weather. I can already tell that by about mid-next week, it'll hit me. I'll look up from my schoolwork and realize that I have arrived. It has begun.

Tomorrow we're going to the beach. I guess I should enjoy this calm while it lasts.

Back to the Beginning

It's beginning to sink in that I'm actually going to be starting school tomorrow. Although it's still weird. I didn't get fully settled into my new dorm until yesterday, and even now I still feel a little disoriented; I don't feel like I packed very well, I seem to have forgotten a lot of little things that I had last year. My external harddrive, a waste basket, a laundry basket, decorative things, etc. I tried to pack more lightly because we had less room in my car with Hannah and my mom accompanying me, plus their luggage. Oh well, most things I forgot can be bought or mailed.

It was hard saying goodbye to Hannah and Mom today. Being back at school will be surreal, even though I know I'll settle into a routine soon enough. Having been home all summer, I got re-used to my old house, my old habits, my old, comfortable places. New Mexico is my normal, not Biola, even though it gets more normal with time. I miss my family already, and Jordan. While I'm happy to see my good friends at school, I'm beginning to see that it's almost a little anti-climactic. Chelsea and I talked about it a little yesterday; this time last year, most of us were excited to go to college, to start that "experience" everyone talks about, at a new place and with new opportunities. This year, some of the novelty and mystery has worn off, and I think most of us are returning with an attitude more like, "Well, back to school."

I'm going to be doing some schedule orchestrating in the next few days. I'm half ready to drop a drama class I'm signed up for, mostly because I don't think I want to keep that major (Comm), and if I do, I may replace it with a music class, or I'm even considering an English class. Everyone keeps telling me that I'd be a good fit as an English major/teacher, so maybe I should try it out. Although I'm also considering just dropping the class (if I decide to, I'm going to the first day to get an idea of what it's like) and leaving myself with a lighter class load. That may be a good option because I want to be in the Torrey play this semester, and I don't know yet if I'll get paper credit for it; if I do, awesome, but if not, it'll be that much busier. Hopefully good busier, but busier nontheless.

My mind always goes into overdrive at the start of the semester, as I try to figure out classes, update schedules, and just get into the general swing of things. I keep feeling like there's more I have to do before school starts tomorrow, but I think I'm ok. Tonight I think I'll do some reading, read through the many policy updates from my Torrey mentor, and update my planner.

Fragmented Communication

I just cleaned my car. Trust me, this is a big accomplishment. I still have stuff in there from driving home in May.

As I was stuffing old fast food receipts, MapQuest printouts, and leftover food from eating breakfast on the way to work into my trash bag, it came to me that a person's trash can say an awful lot about them, their life, their habits. Whenever I clean out my car, or my room, or an old school notebook, I begin to think like a CSI. What would I deduce about my life if I were sifting through these things with a stranger's eyes? Take my car, for instance. An outsider could probably easily see that I eat on the go a lot, and am therefore either very busy or very often running late (just so you know, it's the latter). There was an old Starbucks card under the front passenger seat, as well as an eyeliner pencil, a visitor's guide to Bakersfield, and a handful of almonds. At any given time I'll probably have at least four half-empty water bottles rolling around. On the front seat there was a small case of dental floss, and in the back, a bag of pool goodies: goggles, diving toys, and the like.

I'm fascinated by scenes like the one of my messy car. One can pull and piece together fragments of someone's life and try to make a cohesive statement out of it, but it's never the whole picture. I feel similarly about coffee shops, restaurants, or episodes of This American Life. They are all places where diverse, often unrelated lives collide in a common intersection, and strangers are given very little to form an impression or opinion of each other. A brief encounter, an exchange of words, a glance at what someone is reading or eating. Mere snippets of someone's life, which is what, it seems, so many of our day-to-day interactions are like, even with people we know well. Can we ever fully see or know someone? Can any form of communication ever be an adequate expression of what someone thinks, or feels, or is?

The Five-Finger Discount Comes at a Price

We must have at least one shoplifter a day at Hobby Lobby. One that gets caught or at whom we shake our fists as they run through the parking lot, at least.

Today this woman tried to leave with a shopping bag containing a few t-shirts, and when she set off the security sensor my fellow employee began to question her. Soon a manger was called, and although I continued to help other customers, I overheard their conversation. The woman claimed to have been helped by someone in the back, and she said something about "just wanting to exchange some shirts". However, her shifty story and a lack of a receipt or any employee to confirm that she had been helped by "someone in the back" soon forced her to confess. As the manager began talking with her, I heard her say, "Well, I'm out of here,", and the manager replied that she could leave and we would take down her plates and she would inevitably be caught, or she could cooperate and this would play out a little more smoothly.

Shortly after this, I took my lunch break. In the break room upstairs, the atmosphere was tense, and for a few minutes I couldn't figure out why three or four of our managers were just standing there, as if waiting for something. I saw the woman again, but I didn't recognize her as the shoplifter. Soon a police officer arrived; he interrogated her with questions like, "Do you know what you did?" and "Do you understand that it's against the law?", to which she simply responded "Yes" in an increasingly strained and shameful tone. I overheard the cop saying that if she even sets foot in the parking lot after today she can expect the police to be called and to be detained again. I didn't know they did that to shoplifters, but I guess it makes sense. Why would you want to allow someone who had stolen from you back into your store?

Witnessing the prosecution of a shoplifter just reaffirms my belief that all sin stems from self-deception. The people who shoplift from our store almost always strike me as ashamed of themselves; of course, everyone who steals knows that it is wrong, but to be motivated to steal one must delude oneself at least as far as to think that one can get away with it. Although, not every shoplifter has been remorseful. A punk couple with lip piercings that I checked out last week set off the sensor, but instead of returning when hailed by an employee, they made a bee line for the door and skipped, yes, skipped to their car. I guess they thought that skipping made them look somehow less guilty than full out running, but I felt personally slighted because I had checked them out. They stole something from right underneath my nose, and then they obnoxiously skipped through the parking lot.

The woman today must have deceived herself, either into thinking that if she shopped farther from home, she was safer (I heard her say that she usually shops at the store across town), or maybe that she really could just swap out some merchandise without having to answer to anyone (She also said that she doesn't like the hassle of returns and exchanges). Whatever the case, I couldn't help pitying her a little bit while that cop was questioning her, and before the cop came, as she just sat there, surrounded by managers and employees taking lunch, probably wishing she could melt into her chair. Her apprehension and anxiety was tangible.