Like Watching the Sunrise

I've always wondered at the concept of growing up. It's a complex process, and a transition that's impossible to pinpoint exactly. There doesn't seem to be a moment in time you can press your finger against and exclaim, "Aha! Here marks the turning point into adulthood."

No, it seems much more gradual, and seamless, than that. Of course, there are certain milestones everyone is familiar with (in no particular order): the eighteenth and twenty-first birthdays, graduating from college, moving out, marriage. But all of these things happen in different ways, and at different times, for all of us.

I think that growing up is like watching the sunrise. The world seems to barely change at first, yet before you know it, dawn has broken, and what was cool and dark and quiet only a few minutes before is now flooded with light and life and warmth. It is both fast and slow, both a stark change and a gradual one. The more I live, the more I see that life is a combination of paradoxes; it seems I have found one yet again.

I know several people - peers of mine, people I went to high school with - who are recently married. It's been very strange, watching people I know go through such a big life transition; mainly because it doesn't seem like much has changed. Just the other day, I was looking at photos from someone's honeymoon, and all I could think was that these people looked just the same as they always had. Nothing had changed. They were still the couple I had always known.

And that's when I realized that while marriage is a huge change, in some ways, it's not. People don't change completely after they get married. The next day, you're still the same person, the same couple, that you've always been. With your same mannerisms, sense of humor, goals, dreams, vices.

I think the reason this discovery came as such a surprise to me was that for all of my life up until now, there has been a great gap between me (the child) and married people (the mature adults who have their lives more or less sorted out). But now, I'm entering the stage of life where the adults, the ones becoming married people, are my peers, and I myself am a part of that group. The gap between me and adults that I know is slowly, yet quickly, shrinking.

I've always thought that I'll never realize I've grown up until it's already happened. I pictured myself looking into the mirror one day and realizing that I am no longer a child. That day hasn't come yet, and I'm not quite sure when it will. But it is coming, slowly, and quickly.

Big rocks, bigger sky, and not a soul in sight

I wandered around my house tonight, not sure what to do with myself. I pittered at the piano for a few minutes, and then picked up a giant book of Ansel Adams photography. I wanted company, so I made my way to the kitchen, sat down at the table across from my mom, and opened the book, rather listlessly.

I read a bit of the introduction, and learned that Ansel Adams documented the world with his photos longer ago than I thought. He first visited Yellowstone when he was fourteen, and I remember a date from the 1930s - early on in his career?

"Is Ansel Adams dead?" I asked my mom, bluntly.
She replied that she wasn't sure, but probably, yes.

Tired of reading, I flipped through the book, which is divided into sections: sky, water, plant, rock, and others. Any one of the photos are breathtaking. I'd like to see some of his color photos, I thought to myself, my eyes scanning black-and-white landscape after black-and-white landscape.

What I thought most interesting from the introduction was this: Adams' own description of his work. He saw it as divided into two sections: "within" and "without", "without" being his hired jobs (more color photos), and "within" being his own creative productions. Very cogent, Mr. Adams. Almost anything could be categorized as such, because all inspiration comes from one of two places: without one's self, or within one's self.

Sitting there, at the kitchen table, I reminded myself of my grandfather, whom we visited in France just a few weeks ago. In the evenings, when it would be just a few of us over at his house, he would sit there, at the dining room table, and read articles chosen at random from the World Book Encyclopedia.

The thought of it makes me a little sad, because I think he is lonely. I was a little lonely tonight, so I flipped through Ansel Adams' work with no particular direction or investment. To behave such likely means one of two things: one either possess some amount of free time and nothing better to do, or one is a little lonely. I suppose they are not mutually exclusive, and perhaps not necessarily bad. But I always hated saying goodnight to my grandfather, leaving him alone in that great big house.

Fuuuun.

Maybe stress inspires me to write. I guess it at least kicks me out of the "slouch couch" mode my mind was in a little while ago.

I was online checking up one some school stuff, and I noticed that I had some "late payments" on my account with the University of New Mexico. Let me explain: I had applied a while ago, because I had been in between what I wanted to do about school for a long time, and I still have an account open. Upon calling, I was informed by a bored-sounding (aren't they always bored-sounding? Could the people who work these jobs at least attempt to feign interest to make us lowly callers feel slightly more significant?) woman that none of my payments had been made for the fall semester. Uh-huh. Wait, what? Listen, bored woman, I did not attend UNM in the fall. I had considered it, so I had registered for some classes, but I decided against it and I made sure to inform admissions and other various offices of that decision.

Apparently, there's a rule I wasn't aware of that even if I tell UNM that I'm not attending, and they check it off and tell me that there's nothing else I need to do, I still need to drop the classes I registered for. I have an ugly, sneaking suspicion that this is some kind of common knowledge that I should have acquired by now, being in the middle of my second year of the university world, but it's not. Bored woman referred me to another office to sort this out, and told me that I might have to file an appeal, which could take (here's the fun part) up to four weeks to process.

So I call the second office, and am answered by a woman who (Lord bless her) had a little more human empathy toward my situation. Other than emotional support, however, there wasn't much more she could do for me. She said that I needed to call the office who had referred me to her, and sort it out with them. By this time, the offices were going to close in a matter of minutes, and I was a little too frustrated to call the bored woman again.

I guess I'll be making a bunch of phone calls tomorrow, and hopefully I can sort this out without having to file that appeal.

Slouch Couch

Wow, I've been really horrible at my "write one thing a day" rule. The past few days I've just been lying around my house, which is empty save for my two cats, Hawkeye and Hoss. Hoss is keeping me company right now on the couch, and I'm watching an episode of CSI.

In a way, I feel like my Christmas break just got started. The first week back was so crazy, what with Christmas and shopping and seeing family, and then we left for France, and I've been back since Thursday. A couple of my friends are already back at school. Weird.

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.