Garden Building

{EDIT: I apologize that this post went out early to some of you. It was meant for Monday morning, not Sunday! I planned to have some time picking out the pictures I wanted to share with you…. Sorry about that mixup! Enjoy the real post!}

I’ve wanted a garden for ages. Two years ago I grew tomatoes in a pot on my parent’s back porch. The taste was better than anything else, sweet and tangy, rich with earth and sun. It made the desire for a garden even greater. Last year I tried to figure out how I might scrape one out of the dusty backyard at G and J’s house. I thought the fringes of the yard, near the leaning fence might be the best hope for a place the kids wouldn’t trample in their afternoon adventures between lunch, naps and chores. But G and J were stationed to Colorado Springs and I realized that the garden would just be sprouting in time for them to move. This year I thought about trying to plant one in the courtyard of our building. There are these areas near the bottom of our staircases, empty plots of dusty earth that get tracked into our apartment by barefooted children, screaming and laughing and wanting to learn. But it couldn’t be protected from neighbors or the cats that keep multiplying and prowling the parking lot.

And then E moved into an apartment with free rent in exchange for property management. He gained a back patio with plenty of sunshine and just enough room. The roommates abandoned their one bedroom house and they tore down the loft that allowed four grown men to share that one room and there was all that wood…with bolts and screws and absolutely everything you might need to build a little enclosed garden.

So we did. (or, he did.)

Which goes with the next point: I decided my blog could use some more pictures. Since it’s summer time and I’ll be going on lots of adventures (see WHY: I love the Summer) there will be plenty to share with you! So here are the first ones from that garden. E building the garden boxes (and building me a loft for my bed–now I can fit more bookcases in my room) and some pictures of us filling up those boxes. We used a mixture of dirt from a property he’s working on (they had to dig out the driveway) and potting soil bought at Lowe’s, on top we finished off with a bag of compost (we’re both sort of green). It took 12 18gallon buckets of the free dirt, three bags of soil and 1 bag of compost to fill these beauties and make them a welcome home for the plants we chose.

The pictures are your chance to journey with our little plant heaven on the back patio at E’s new place. So, welcome to the week of planning and set up. The hardest part–digging up dirt, building the boxes, lining with trash bags, and filling with aforementioned dug up dirt and finally, a watering can to get this garden off on the right foot. No thirsty plants on my watch! It’s a good thing we did much of this in the evening and on some cooler, rainier days! I love the sunshine but not always the heat that goes along with it! (I’m a pansy!) You can click for a larger image and slide-show your way through the magnificence.

Welcome to Ithir.

WHY: Summer Days

Last week was the end of school. I wrote about 120 pages. Essentially,  I wrote a thesis. Or I wrote as much material as a thesis would be, but on more topics. Still, can we marvel over that number? I don’t mean it in a pretentious way. I mean it in a oh-my-word-how-could-anyone-write-that-much-and-still-be-sane kind of way. Maybe I’ve lost my sanity without even realizing it….

I’m very glad that I’m done. I don’t love change, I don’t love things ending (like classes, semesters and assignments) but I’m quite glad that the semester and her massive amount of writing is all done. I’m also glad to be done for the year because it means something more than just the end of assignments and schoolwork.

It means that summer has begun.

I love the summertime. It means, later nights with brilliant, burning sunsets. Bike rides become leisurely without looming assignments that snag the wheels and threaten your perseverance up that hill of wasting time (which should, obviously, be spent on said looming assignments). It also means that the mountains will have shed their thick white blankets and dried out in the afternoons of late spring. And that means two very glorious and spiritual things can happen:

hiking.

camping.

Ladies and Gentlemen,
I love summer time in Colorado. I love hiking. I love camping. I’m a journey hiker (which will be a later post) and I’m both a backpacking and car camper. Just give me those Rocky Mountains and I’m happy as a clam in the deep blue. Except there’s not much blue here. It’s more brown with runs of green and forests that look black as smoky ebony when the setting sun hits just right. There are great things to learn of God that come through intellectual discussion in classroom settings. But most of those great experiences with God recorded in the Bible take place outside. If you come to Colorado, you will discover why he speaks in the wilderness–or perhaps, he always speaks, but you will discover why we hear in the wilderness. There is a majesty there, a magnitude that cannot be described or uttered, it can only be seen and experienced and it leads to worship in a way that nothing else can. I can’t put the picture into words. So here are the reasons I love Colorado summers told by photos, here is a sample of the beauty in which God has manifested himself to me in the wilderness that I am privileged to call home:

(Mountains, with snow, in August; Hiking trail; Under the waterfall at Hanging Lake; Standing above Hanging Lake; Looking down onto Hanging Lake; Dusky sunset at a park overlooking the foothills; Before a concert at Red Rocks; Backpacking up to Mt Evans; Giants must live here–Narnia!; Backpacking with a friend from college; Feeling small amidst the Rockies; Clouds on one of my favourite trails; A recent sunset caught in my side view mirror by my cellphone camera)

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One Year Down

and…. two more to go? It’s grad school so, who really knows?

In a fitting end to our year, two of my friends decided to strip and run for the River behind campus yesterday. It was a brilliant day of sunshine, festering studies and tedious exams. But it was finished. Last night at 915, we were free men and women as we strode from the lecture hall and headed to the Mellow Mushroom for gluten free pizza and half price margaritas.

I thought you might appreciate the pictures of my friends who took a little swim, then tried to catch trout with their bare hands. All the while, screaming and jumping and laughing after that beast of an exam in NT.

Enjoy.

WHY: Living Among Refugees

I’ve talked about this briefly in other posts, or perhaps, I’ve only mentioned the bare facts of the case: that I live in a rough(ish) part of town among refugees. I’ve thought about telling you more, for many months in fact. But today, with soft grey skies and the hope of a thunderstorm this afternoon, I thought I would tell you more.

We moved there almost a year ago. Molls and I had been talking about living together for a few months. She wanted a house, a yard, I knew I could never afford that. So we drove around and I let her look at signs, always knowing in my heart that this would never come to be. I simply didn’t have the income. Eventually, when nothing turned up, we  both put the idea on hold. I wasn’t panicked yet. Sure, G and J were moving and I needed a place asap. I didn’t worry though, because my life always turns out to be alright. But I thought that was the end of living with Molls and I started to consider (in thought if not in reality) other options.

So when Molly called on a rainy afternoon that I actually had off of work, I was surprised. I barely asked her how she was doing before she cut me off with “I found where I want to live and I think when you see it, you’ll want to live here too.” She was talking fast, about visiting Baba and children in the courtyard, something about Aurora and a landlord who could hold an apartment for two white girls. I paced and waited for her to come up for air. My mind was whirling. I remember looking at N, the guy I was dating at the time and I could see in his eyes, there would be disapproval. She said, “Colfax and 225, but there are so many kids,” and “you just have to see it.” Before I even knew, there were words coming out, “yeah. when?” We hung up, and N asked what was going on. I told him and when he asked where it was, he muttered in an exasperated tone, “I knew you were going to say that.”

He wasn’t the only one. As soon as the word colfax comes out of my mouth, anyone who has lived in Colorado long enough just looks at me like I’m crazy. Two single, white girls, there?

I understand why they question it. In the summer time, E bought dowel rods because it made Molly feel better about leaving the windows partially open at night. I was dying every time she closed the glass, suffocating with out air conditioning, despite the massive box fan lodged in my window during the day. The heat was brutal. But Molly was worried about someone breaking in so we put rods in the windows. To this day, whenever one of us forgets to lock the door at night, I never tell her in the morning. I almost always leave first, and as far as I’m concerned, she doesn’t need to have extra worry added to her burdens. But it isn’t just the windows and doors. There were five cops at the apartment next door only a couple months ago. Across the breezeway there were cops to settle a domestic dispute. Sometimes–when I get home from a late night out–the parking lot makes me anxious. Once I’m inside the courtyard, I feel safe. But the lot is a different story.

So you see, I understand the concern because I feel it every night, every day.

That isn’t what I thought of when we went to visit. Y took us to an apartment that was being renovated. The twenty year old stove was pulled out from the wall, there was new carpet the colour of watery mud. The white tile was smudged with the dirt of the courtyard, tracked in by workers who we would discover are not always competent. Outside I heard kids screaming and laughing. There were children who shied away from us, but peered in the open door at our backs as we surveyed the first floor home. I think they were curious because we were white. Because we were women without men.

I don’t remember anything Y said. I remember Molly looking dismally at the dead roaches all over the floor, killed by a recent bug bomb. I kid you not, all over the floor. I kicked some of them out of my way as we went down the hall to the bedrooms. Molly would later tell me she feared that was be a turning point for me; that I would say no. I glanced down at them and shrugged. “Those are little ones,” which was true. These are the size of my little toe. The ones back in Costa Rica were the size of my palm. They’d be a nuisance but… the children outside, the dreary rainy day, the cold tile beneath my sandals and the uneven cabinets… it was like coming home.

There were so many languages being yelled in the courtyard that day. There were ethnicities and clothes I didn’t recognize. The parking lot was (and is) a mess of potholes and unevenly parked cars. The bedroom windows looked onto the highway. But the breezeways were open and there were trees in the courtyard. There were children and isolated mothers, wearied men and lost grandparents who hardly survive the transition to this country.

It was home. It was everything I longed for, even when I did not always know it.

I said yes. We signed a lease two weeks later.

It isn’t always easy. Sometimes I stay away until late at night because I can’t deal with being needed as soon as I get home. My little free time is easily sucked away by people who want to talk, who want your help, or who just want to be with you. Molly is much better at it than I am. It’s an annoying drive to school–30 minutes on a good day. The workers are incompetent at fixing most things. I wish I was closer to the mountains that always wait so patiently for me to come and find my rest. Last night I walked into the bathroom at 1230 to find a cockroach on the toilet. I didn’t even apologize as I killed him and wiped the seat clean. The refugees get married too young, they drop out of school, they don’t do homework, they don’t fight for their jobs or their GEDs. I don’t know how to help them. I don’t know how to explain Jesus to them because he is so easily entangled with my western churched perspective. I’ve cried with friends about the frustration, the hopelessness, the incensed anger I have to the societies that drove them here and our failure to make their lives much better than the ones they fled.

But there are these times when I am reminded of why we went there.

A few weeks ago, I climbed the stairs after another long day of classes and work. The sun was shining and I was hot. The children were back in the courtyard, riding second hand bicycles and kicking a half flat soccer ball. There was a little girl spinning in a circle, her skirt twirling around her. She wore a hijab* of brown with faded teal blue swirls that look like sunbursts. Her sweet face was framed by the cloth of her land, her smile was brilliant as she giggled and hopped from one foot to another. The orange of her hijab clashed horribly with the dress she wore but one could hardly notice that for the glow of her eyes in the warm light that covered the rowdy courtyard. She spun again and again to the delight of a younger sibling, wearing her own hijab of flowered print. They were playing with the Nepali girls, battling through cultural and language differences. I walked on the breezeway above their heads, leaning over the railing to watch them with enraptured hope that these children could someday heal the wars of clashing civilizations. Boys hung off the railing, jumping ten feet to the cement below with wild laughter. Women squabbled and laughed and pushed their children in strollers or held babes on their hips. There was a woman in purest white, her hijab edged in bright yellow that glowed like the sun and made me long for summer. She has such dark, smooth skin, she is what the ancients might have called a Nubian beauty.

And that was what I thought of as I walked to my apartment, where I left the door open and dumped my bags, like empty burdens, as I sat on the arm of a stained white chair.

That little girl, spinning in her mismatched clothing, she was beautiful. I don’t know her name, but I want to. The sound of their laughter and shouts rang in the open door, the afternoon breeze drifted lazily through the courtyard, bringing with it the scent of curry and unknown spices.

There is beauty here, and that is why we came. It is not the sort of beauty that America looks for: clean, contrived and subdued. It is the type of beauty that survives, that endures, that stands strong, that remains true. It is the beauty of resilient humanity that remains ever hopeful.

We came for the beauty.

And I, for the first time in at least four or five years, I was gifted a home.

 

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Hijab: muslim head covering for women. Though, this one might technically be more of a chador or at least has some resemblance to being worn with a jilbab. Basically, the Somali hijab covers more than the typical ones I’m used to seeing.

WHY: The Diet Change

Recently I decided to go yeast free again. I know you’re thinking that this is a terrible subject for a Why Wednesday but I actually think it’s rather important. In a day of obesity and increasing health problems, it’s important to think about what we put into our bodies and how that affects them. Especially given the increase of antibiotics that can lead to “super bugs” or diseases that are more powerful and resistant to our antibiotics, looking at natural remedies and healthy lifestyles as preventative care is incredibly important.

I struggle with headaches. It’s a given in my family. My mum gets migraines, my brother has had a few in recent years and I had my first two this past year. My grandfather had a stroke not too long ago, and I had a conversation after that with my mum about the possibility that my great-grandmother didn’t have alzheimer’s but actually several small strokes that had the same debilitating effect. Either way: as far as cerebral health goes, I’m pretty unlucky.

Mine started in junior high. I would get them from stress or emotions–I had a friend accuse me of “making up” headaches to get out of things I didn’t want to participate in. I think both sides were true: I didn’t want to participate, I was insecure and stressed, so I had a headache; which then enabled me to not participate. I really began to deal with headaches in high school. My sophomore year, fifth period, I would get a headache each day. I’d excuse myself for the restroom and actually go to the drinking fountain to pop two advil which was technically against the rules at my high school. Unfortunately, my body, like my personality, can be quite addictive. It wasn’t long before I had to have advil (even though I didn’t realize that’s what was happening). Upon finally going to a doctor when the semester was almost over, we discovered I was causing my brain to have rebound headaches. It expected the drugs and without them, I would have a sort of withdrawal–manifested by a headache. Of course, thinking it was just the normal problem, I took more pain killers, thus increasing the dependency!

I wa alright in college the first semester, but the second semester every thing started up again. By the summer time, when I was nannying, I had headaches each week and nothing (running, hydration, protein) seemed to help. After a few weeks my mum suggested that I go yeast free.

We’re not talking gluten free here, kids. Yeast free is another animal.

My friends who can’t have gluten still eat natural sugar: fruit, honey, etc and they can have fermented things as well: cheese, wine, vinegar. Yeast free means none of those things. Do you know how much I love cheese and fruit? “A lot” would be the biggest understatement of the week.

But my mum agreed to do it with me and for a summer I went without bread, fruit, cheese, tortilla chips, Coldstone Ice Cream, salsa and all that is good in life. I ate weird foods like quinoa and brown rice. (rice, in my opinion, should be white.)

But it worked.

I didn’t have a single headache.

Fast forward to this summer when my awesomest friend Kelsie is visiting. Her last day I wasn’t hydrated enough and it was brilliantly hot on the Platte River where we sat for hours. We went and had pedicures after vacating the cool brown green water of the “river.” For a good portion of that experience I had to keep my eyes closed and recite things like the Nicene Creed just to keep the world from spinning. After I dropped her at the airport, I went home, took an icy cold shower and crawled in to bed. It was a miracle that I didn’t vomit, a miracle that we made it to the airport alive and that I didn’t drive off the road on the way home from sheer desire of ending the misery. Heck, when your head hurts this badly in a non-pain-kind-of-way, it only makes sense to drive off the road…

Instead, I came home and the next day I went yeast free. I can’t do this in grad school. I can’t afford to miss classes and exams for a migraine. I kept true for awhile. But it required a lot of planning. I have to bring lunch with me each day, I can’t plan on Chic-fil-A for meals. I struggle to eat out with friends, I have to say no to things like Dairy Queen on the first sunny day of springtime. And I’m hungry all the freaking time. I mean, let’s face it. Snap peas and almonds for lunch is not the same as a hearty sandwich stuffed with meat, lettuce, cheese and mustard. My mouth waters just thinking about it and I’ve been munching on said snap peas since I started typing this post.

Around November I gave up.

Then, last week I had several headaches and my digestive system was straight up ticked off for no apparent reason that I could decipher. I looked at what I had eaten and realized: bread.

I’m not gluten intolerant. I do however, occasionally come to a moment when my body dislikes so much sugar and starch. So I decided, after three days of feeling ill that I was done with it. I’m going yeast free again (mostly). My camelbak water bottle goes with me every where, as do a bag of peas and almonds. And you know what? I feel awesome. A little hungry, but mostly just great. Snap peas are sweet and yummy. Cherry tomatoes burst to life between my teeth with that tart edge to their sweet flavor. Almonds are like sugar candy, pecans too.

The funny thing about being yeast free is that food tastes better. Seriously, I can taste more flavor when it’s not blocked by all the fuss and production of normal food. I appreciate natural foods again and I don’t feel gross, oily and 300 pounds after each meal.

The best part is: I haven’t had a headache in three days; my body feels happy.

I think that yeast free is a tough diet and it’s not as though I’m going to be this way permanently (it’s more of a cleanse). I’m also doing it with exceptions (yogurt, for instance). My point is this: too often Americans want a quick fix and there are better solutions awaiting us. We want a pill that’s going to take away the pain, we want easy results and easy effort. The truth is, it’s important for us to take responsibility for our own lives and our own health. It may require effort and some amount of lifestyle change but it’s worth it. Not only is the reward worth the effort, it’s almost our duty to take care of ourselves. Especially as Christians, we’re called to steward these bodies, take care of them, love on them. Jesus, after all, inhabited one of these things; he didn’t just redeem sin, he redeemed creation. That includes the body which is now the new temple. Treat it well.

musings on coloradan beauty

this was written over the period of several classes so…hopefully it’s coherent. On Monday I went for a brief hike to have some alone time and to just be outside as I’ve been cooped up with far too much schoolwork lately. I have recently been struck by the beauty of the place where I live and attempted to put words to that. This is what came out in Doctrine 1 and NewTestament 503…

I went hiking today. I went alone. I wanted the silence, though I did not know it at the time. There is a part of me that is called to the wild places of Colorado, the sweep heights so shorn by bitter winds and summer sun. I love the lands I’ve been to, I still long for the places where I’ve lived in past years. But deep in my soul is a piece that longs for the majesty of those mountain faces, and the brilliancy of snowy hillsides dotted with scraggly pines scattered amid stones and deep red earth.

The snow had been stripped down on the rocks, blown across by daily wind till it was carved to fine edges and smooth glittering surfaces. The snow looked like worn sandstone whose years are beyond measure, cut away in curves on the edges of the ridge like smoothed shale that sparkled like diamonds in the ever present sunlight. The ice crunching beneath my feet, broken by the borrowed boots was the only sound heard above the howling wind.

I sat on a ledge, over looking the narrow valley before the hogback, watching the sun rise over a city that never truly sleeps. The red boulder beneath me was scattered seeds of the pine tree at my back, shaking in the wind that tumbled over the mountains. THe seed will never take root. The pine will still shake off its bounty though it will come to naught. The wind plummeted o’er the heights and pushed forward a storm that would not take root until Thursday. But the wind knew the coming blessing and hurried on her way out to the Eastern plains.

I  watched the earth sit solidly amid the chaos that raged beneath the heavens, and for a long while I just rested amidst it all. It was  loud but it was silent, for I was deaf to all beyond me, to all the bustle of the thing we mistakenly call life.

The majesty overwhelmed me. The idea that a hand had carved the great monoliths and paint thee hillsides that dwarfed my insignificant sent. Who am I that you should take note of me? I can hardly climb to these great places, and he could have but breathed and it would come to be. And there I sat, small against the world. School work far from mind, bills and rent seemed to not exist and I could think of nothing but the beauty of the wild places and the glorious One who made it all.

WHY: I love and hate coffee shops

Today I went to a coffee shop to do homework, check my email, be warm, etc. It’s snowing outside. Apparently, it has been snowing since last night. I woke up to a frosty blanket all over the parking lot and a creeping fog on the windows spotted with crisp frost.

First I went to see Molls at work. She’s fabulous. I’ll talk about her some other day.

Then I ended up at a coffee shop. I sat down beside a friend from school who had just finished his shift. We started talking about classes. I announced that i was reading for homework–even though my JTerm class doesn’t begin until next week, and the regular semester doesn’t begin until the week after that. Someone looked over to us, asked where we went to school and I knew from the look in his eye that we weren’t likely to have a quick conversation with this man. He wore his wedding ring on the wrong hand, his glasses were from two decades ago in style and shape. His face bristled with the scraggly growth of three days and no shave. He asked, did we know the Master’s name?

My first thoughts went like this:

What? Master? As in the Grand Master from the Templars?

The Templars ended in the Middle Ages, thanks to a weakened pope and a heavily indebted Philip the… seventh? In France. Good lord I’m a nerd for knowing that.

But seriously. Are we talking about the Templars?

Does he mean Lord? Does he mean God?

Master? Who just asks that across a coffee shop full of people? Who just says that: “Do you know the Master’s name?” What do I look like? Someone who’s going to be comfortable with such a question?

Is he crazy? Is this a trick question?

I picked the wrong day to come to a coffee shop.

Curse the way Rusty’s voice carries. We could have avoided this question if you didn’t talk about Seminary so loudly.

My friend, Rusty, had no idea how to answer. And in the interest of not having a staring contest added to our already uncomfortable situation I asked if the man meant Jesus. Turns out Jesus was the wrong answer. Because what he really wanted me to say was YHWH or Yeshua. Oh. My bad. I didn’t know you spoke Hebrew and wanted the original of Jesus’ name. I thought translations were ok. Especially since we’re in America. Speaking in English. But sure. Hebrew’s great too. I like dead or revived languages as much as the next person.

So for an hour…I don’t even know what we talked about. We sort of argued. Rusty was a bit heated at times. I wanted to reach out and touch his knee, whisper “shhhhh. He’s crazy. Just let it go.” But the man was also saying things that were somewhat heretical. So, in a sense, he had to be challenged. Rusty is good at trying to listen to people and he really tried to hear what the man was saying before responding. But we went on so many tangents…by the end of the conversation, when our new friend left, I turned to my fellow seminarian and was like “what did we just talk about?” We covered, in an hour, everything from the Nicene Council(s) to the Vulgate to Warlockery (which, if you’re wondering, is not a word) to the “spirit of death” hanging over today’s churches. And that’s all I can give you. Because I was still reeling from that conversation when a second individual sat down in our little corner of the coffee shop.

He heard us processing, heard something that sounded “Jesus-y” or “church-y” and sat down. He quoted John 1 and said we were brothers in Christ. Interestingly, he said sons of God, not sons and daughters. Just sons. No political correctness here. Good thing I’m only flirting with the line of Egalitarianism.* Then he began to say that Scripture was true. He called it the Dynamic Word. He talked about the KJV and how it was close then. But it’s even closer today with the NIV or the NASB. That was kind of awesome because the first guy had been pretty strongly against scripture. He kept talking about re-instituting the use of the Hebrew name for God…Except…we don’t really know how the tetragramaton is actually pronounced because the Jews stopped saying it and they didn’t write with vowels. He was so sure that Scripture has been corrupted. The second man was like a breath of fresh air with his certainty on scripture.

But we didn’t just talk about Scripture. In about 30 minutes, that man crammed in more information than I’ve heard crammed into a three hour class. I shouldn’t even say we talked. My friend compared it to drinking from a fire hose. And we couldn’t back away. The fireman had us held in place, while another forced that thing into my mouth and a third turned it on full force. I once prayed and asked God for a prophecy. I had a friend who had prophecy spoken over him and I thought it would be a good experience.

It’s actually incredibly overwhelming. I was uncomfortable. I wanted to stand and leave. But I couldn’t. I could hardly move, I was so riveted by even the stare that this man had as he leaned forward, gesturing fervently with his hands as he made his points. There were things to be sifted through, to be sure. The verse that kept coming to mind was to test the spirits, test the spirits. So I know that perhaps he wasn’t entirely right on absolutely everything.

But he said good, true things. Some things that I needed to hear. And things that my friend needed to hear. Things like…

We don’t control our thought lives. We could, if we submitted. If we obeyed and we allowed God to do it for us. But you don’t hear sermons preached on taking every thought captive. But we are what our thoughts are, and we are our thoughts before the throne of God. Yikes. Seriously. Yikes.

We need to submit. We need to obey.

He’s coming. I don’t know what he meant by that, but the man said several times–He’s coming. Like a thief in the night. What does that mean? About how I’m living? About how I’m not living?

We aren’t condemned. There is no condemnation.

We might fail and do things of the flesh, true enough. But it’s what we’re after. It’s what we are going for. So we aren’t condemned, because though we may fall, God knows we aren’t after the things of the flesh, ultimately.

He said some far out stuff about the Holy Spirit too. Something about the indwelling of the Spirit changing the molecular structure of humans so that they in turn change things around them (with out even meaning too). Like the Apostle’s shadows healing people. Like knowing that the person you’re sitting next to is a fellow Christian without even speaking to them. Far out, man.

I think there was more. I’m still sort of reeling.

I love coffee shops. I love watching people. I like getting to know regulars. I enjoy the quiet ambience, the chance for mild distraction while I read thick philosophical books. But that, that was a little much. I’m a bit overwhelmed. I keep glancing at my text book on the Seven Ecumenical Councils. I kept trying to make myself read it. But I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m still processing. I’m almost numb after everything the just happened. Warlockery? It’s not a word. Condemnation? The flesh? I needed to be reminded of unconditional love. That he chose to die. Yet, all of that, in barely two hours, when I was hoping to enjoy my last lazy day of break? I love coffee shops. After all, this couldn’t have happened anywhere else.

___________________________________

Maybe once every three hundred sixty five days,
God will do that, have two random prophets speak to us.
{Rusty}

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Egalitarianism: I’m cautiously flirting with the idea. Don’t worry too much.

Little Amusements

My nose is infected from that blasted nose ring. So I have to soak it in saline again. Last night, I grumpily poured a bowl of hot water, clunked it onto the tilted black table in our eating nook and began to swirl the water with non-iodized-salt. “What’s that?” Molls asked.
“Salt water,” I said in a rather cranky tone that probably made her think she had offended. Really, it was the bright red side of my nose that had given rise to the frustration. I sat down and sighed, “it’s for my nose.”
“Hm.” she mumbled and went about writing another Christmas card.
“Don’t laugh,” I said as I gathered my hair and leaned close to the bowl. Molls looked over and didn’t even attempt to hide her chuckle. “Alright, fine!” I snapped but I was laughing too, “you can laugh! I know it’s ridiculous.” And then I smooshed my face into the little bowl, hunched over while Molls happily enjoyed my misery for the next three minutes. I couldn’t even join the amusement, the last time I laughed while doing this, I inhaled salt water. Not fun.

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Tonight it was snowing and the car I was driving decided to let the windshield wipers go. Of all the things! I mean, the seat warmers are great, but I could manage without that fuse functioning tonight. And the alarm system–that could have died as well. But of all the things, Gretta thought the most unecessary for driving included the windshield wipers. Ah, Gretta. Somedays, you’re an old dog that just needs put down.

So I’m parked at my parents, instead of driving thirty five minutes to my own home. And upstairs I can hear my mum shouting “I can’t hear you!” while my dad laughs uproariously. I don’t know what that’s all about. But I’m glad we’ve returned to junior high. It’s pretty fabulous.

And now, I’m off to some reading. Pleasure reading. I love break. I’m reading three books concurrently, and I chose every. single. one.

Seattle Bound!

By the time you read this, I will be on the road to Seattle.

This weekend, a friend is getting married. I first met Amanda when she bounced across the hall in our freshman dorm during move in. I was a bit overwhelmed by the energy contained in this short dark haired figure that invaded the room I shared with Karin. But by the second or third week I was bursting into Amanda’s room without knocking at all hours of the day (and night). I was sit on her or August’s bed and just ramble about my day, the upper class boy, theology, etc. Amanda only yelled t me for my intrusions once when I interrupted a roommate arguement. But we were fast friends.

So this weekend, I am thrilled to have the chance to see her get married. She put up with a lot of unfortunate experiences in her dating life. How great is it to see her wed a good man who loves God and loves her?

Two of my friends are driving up with me this weekend. The twenty one hours in a VW Jetta this weekend (each direction) will be really good for bonding…or really good for annoyance with one another! We will be driving through Wyoming, Montana, Idaho and Washington. We go from sunny Colorado to rainy Seattle and will arrive on Friday evening.

As I’m headed out, I am reminded of how good community is so important. When I first talked about this trip I had no idea how it would be affordable. I was getting to Seattle one way or another. But I also couldn’t imagine how I would afford a plane ticket. A couple of friends, however,proposed driving and splitting the cost of gas. How great is that? And how great is their willingness to ride with me for 21 hours? I beyond blessed to have friends like this.

I had to leave my study group a bit early Thursday morning to grab a few last things for the trip. All my boys said goodbye and said they’d be praying. I love that I know they are serious. Just as we pray for a friend’s wife who is having joint issues, I am able to trust that they will be praying for safety.

And then there is the community I am going home to. There are cousins to see (and meet!), Keeleh on Saturday, Dr Davis on Sunday and half a dozen on Saturday night for Ethiopian food at my favourite spot! God blessed me with a huge community in college. Even the ones I don’t talk to on a regular basis are the kind of people I know will still come and see me when I am in town. How sweet is that?

Not to mention the church I get to attend on Sunday night. Mars Hill Ballard look out. Cause I’m coming home.

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I will be doing updates via phone on Facebook and Twitter. Follow me there to see pictures from the drive and the trip! And I’ll see you next Wednesday for the first installment of “Why Wednesday?”

feelings

tonight I am feeling bizarrely overwhelmed…and yet at peace.

it’s almost midnight, and I should be in bed. But instead, I’m kneeling on the floor at Ethan’s computer which is sitting on my bed, and I’m prattling away on the internet.

Yesterday I went hiking in the mountains. It doesn’t seem like yesterday. It seems like months and months ago. It was so good–the long drive over the Rockies that led us into the higher desert looking land on the Western side. The short steep climb to Hanging Lake where we sat and stood and waded and felt the peace of God on a cliff side shelf away from the heavy weight of the world below. The tunnels through which I always screamed–even Eisenhower, with its winding curves and signs that shout to not change lanes or speed or really do anything reckless at all. I yelled at the top of my lungs and laughed and cried when I was gasping for air. But I’m a Franks by half and the tunnel gods need to be pleased so I hollered out the window like we did in PGH when we were children.

It was a good day of hiking. It was refreshing. Something I find my soul needs more and more frequently as I delve farther into a topsy turvy schedule. There are days I leave at 640AM and don’t get home till 11PM. I scurry from one job to the next, and I do homework in between while children are napping, or cars are being fixed, or I’m eating a solitary meal of almond butter on tortillas. I find myself harried and stressed but well assured that this will all get done and things are as they should be. Still, I need mountain air and roaring waters.

Tonight, as I am kneeling at the computer which isn’t mine, I keep thinking that I’ll one day be free of all this. Sometime, in a distant future, I’ll have a PhD. I’ll teach and lead a settled, well ordered life. Perhaps I’ll be married and have children. Or perhaps I’ll live alone but I’ll have people over all the time and laugh and play while we eat delicious food like brie and crackers or stuffed mushrooms or pinwheels or brik…or something. But I’ll have a schedule and I’ll have free time and I’ll have some consistency and days will look similar rather than erratic and confusing.

And then, as a siren howls down the highway just beyond the parking lot, and a baby is crying in the courtyard while someone sings over him…I laugh and think to myself,

I doubt a day of consistency will ever really come.

 

{and somewhere deep down, I think I am alright with that}