8:13 am

The Writer

In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which

The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.

I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole in, lifted a sash

And retreated, not to affright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top.

And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,

It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.

It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.

[richard wilbur]

presentiment

It's rained all morning--soaking soul-satisfying rain. It being my day off, I played some Norah Jones in the empty apartment and flung the front door ajar, until the humidity in the air wilted my hunger for fresh air. Now the sun glitters off raindrops everywhere, and I have sealed myself into the air conditioned apartment for the final two hour interim before my housemates return.

Halfway through July already. I realized this morning that the calendar on our living room wall thought it was mid-May...rather like myself, till that moment. Poor June barely had a second to see the world before I flipped to July and studied the dates in dismay. August and hell week and student orientation and junior year are on their way. And I'm not ready.

I hope that my stay at home will help reorient me. Meanwhile, I'm going to brew another pot of coffee, dig up a good book, and immerse myself in the tranquil, muddy waters of denial.

Presentiment--is that long Shadow--on the Lawn--

Indicative that Suns go down--

The Notice to the startled Grass

That Darkness--is about to pass--

[emily dickinson]

what subterfuge is this?

Today in Sunday School, I heard several quotes from John Calvin that made me resolve to read The Institutes soon. After being raised constantly associating Calvin with deep, unsearchable (and certainly almost incomprehensible) erudition, I found his sentences regarding True Worship not only legible, but also entertaining! He speaks of "bleary-eyed men" in scathing anecdotes, and drops words like "subterfuge" with impunity.

So, upon returning home from church, devouring a meal, and sleeping it off--I logged onto Encarta to see what quotes my favorite encyclopedia had to offer. You know what I found?

One quote, out of volumes and volumes.

It reads thus: It is a mockery to allow women to baptise. Even the Virgin Mary was not allowed this.

My friends, Muhammed the Prophet has eighteen quotes. Encarta awarded Buddha five. Even Joseph Smith's voice was louder than Calvin's by three quotes.

It's moments like these when it strikes me how drastically different were the cultural emphases on my life than those on most members of my generation. Calvin, to each crop of Reformed Christians, is just beneath the Apostle Paul when it comes to his impact on the church's teachings. To the wide world (if Encarta can be permitted to judge), Calvin is a negative blip on the radar...a French fanatic whose extreme and narrowminded views contributed to the oppression of women in the world.

So I am even more resolved now to read the Institutes and judge for myself.
I still love the word subterfuge.

i'm gonna sit right down and write myself a letter...

After a day of slow and steady work yesterday, Rachael dropped by our beloved apartment four and whipped up some cheesey hamburger helper, which Buck and I devoured while viewing two episodes of Malcom in the Middle. Afterward we partook of a typically wacky discussion touching on all major topics (life, love, coworkers, and movies). When they left, I felt a sudden need to call Hannah. It had been over two weeks since our last talk, and all week I'd been battling an increasingly powerful missing feeling that I couldn't shake. S0...I borrowed Buck's phone and meandered off to Shadowlands field. Hannah answered on the first ring, and after our usual opening awkwardness--false starts and dead ends--got a good conversation up and running. It's tough for me to generate a dialogue out of two weeks' absence, to muster the conversational momentum that comes so easily to some people. I used to be rather ashamed of this, but ever since high school physics, I've realized that universal laws are on my side, which rather takes the bite out of my deficiencies.

Our talks always end in family. Hannah lives at home, in the thick of the clamor and confusion, the caring so powerful that it sometimes ends up causing more damage than good. And I, listening to her, love them all so much!

During our conversation, the sky behind the treeline that borders the soccer field keeps flashing with sheet lightning, outlining the deep boiling clouds, while the thunder grumbles. Just as I return from the field, a crack of thunder precedes the sudden rush of rainfall that chases me the last few feet to my front porch. The rest of the night, it poured and poured...and this morning dawned overcast and puddlewonderful and mudluscious.

I've had my coffee fix, and my Hannah fix, and a pancake with bananas too! Listening to the "You've Got Mail" soundtrack as I type this and pack my Annie Dillard read into my lunchbreak bag, I am confident that it will be a good day.

sunday morning

I am ready to go home.

big comfy couch

I like the couch that has taken up residence in my apartment. I like it mainly because its ample armrests can easily cushion my cup of coffee, while I perch crosslegged adjacent, my rear perfectly situated in the gap between the seat and back cushions. I like the calm blues--navy and sky--that pinstripe across its curvacious form; the glimpses of exposed stuffing and padding in the corners and crevices. I love that, when I seat myself thus, I command a view of the entire front half of the apartment: the kitchen, dishes littering the sink and green handtowel stuffed in to the refrigerator door; the bookshelf (or should I say movieshelf?) displaying its eclectic wares; the ever-watchful television set, offset by the coca-cola glass of graceful orange flowers; and the windows, offering a splintered vision of the nieghboring vehicles and a fringe of tulip tree greenery.

From this very post, I have visited and revisited the spheres of Facebook and Hotmail, of Banner and People.com--humming along to Michael Buble or Rosie Thomas; chatting on occasion with my roommates as they pass in and out. I have reveled in the melodrama and tedium of reality tv shows. I have shared pot after pot of gurgling Maxwell House to visitors.

From this vantage point, I can say with a sigh of satisfaction, that it has been a good summer.

Cheers.

sumatra morning

...it'll be a good day!

i love this poem

The Lantern out of Doors

Sometimes a lantern moves along the night,

That interests our eyes. And who goes there?

I think; where from and bound, I wonder, where,

With, all down darkness wide, his wading light?
Men go by me whom either beauty bright
In mould or mind or what not else makes rare:

They rain against our much-thick and marsh air

Rich beams, till death or distance buys them quite.

Death or distance soon consumes them: wind

What most I may eye after, be in at the end
I cannot, and out of sight is out of mind.
Christ minds: Christ’s interest, what to avow or amend
There, éyes them, heart wánts, care haúnts, foot fóllows kínd,
Their ránsom, théir rescue, ánd first, fást, last friénd.

--Gerard Manley Hopkins

The voice of this poem principally comes from that of a narrator, who describes his feelings as he watches a light with interest. In the first stanza, he thinks wonderingly about the owner of that light and his or her destination. The setting is somewhat eerie: he thinks “Who goes there?” like a guard, alert for signs of danger, as he watches “down the darkness wide, his wading light.” The adverb “wading” gives me the picture of a wavering light, moving through a dense liquid medium: the darkness. The adjective “wide” intensifies the ghostly imagery, making us feel the vastness of the darkness, which makes the light seem smaller.

In the second stanza, he discusses what sort of people pass by in this darkness. “Men go by me,” he writes, “whom either beauty bright/In mould or mind or what not else makes rare…” These people are “rare”, beautiful physically or intellectually or in some other way. In other words, all men that go by him are somehow uniquely beautiful and precious. These men “rain against our much-thick and marsh air/Rich beams, till death or distance buys them quite.” Men are the lights that he sees, shedding brilliance against the stifling boggy air in which he dwells…until they are snuffed out, either by death or distance, beyond his sight.

The third stanza emphasizes this last point by repeating it: “Death or distance soon consumes them: wind/What most I may eye after, be in at the end/I cannot, and out of sight is out of mind.” Even those that he most “eye[s] after”, the lights he tries to observe the longest, eventually are quenched. The last line is dismissive, “and out of sight is out of mind.” Once they vanish from sight, he no longer wonders about them.

But, even though he no longer minds these faltering lights, “Christ minds.” Hopkins writes about the comforting spiritual truth that “Christ’s interest, what to avow or amend/There, eyes them, heart wants, care haunts, foot follows kind,/Their ransom, their rescue, and first, fast, last friend.” These lights cannot depend upon the “interested” eyes of fellow men who observe them until they depart or die. Rather, they must depend upon Christ, who eyes, wants, haunts, and kindly follows them with the intent of ransoming and rescuing them. He, unlike fickle human bystanders, is a true Friend: first, fast (loyal), and last.

In this poem, I believe that life is personified as a wide dark bog: an eerie, dangerous place. Human beings “wade” through this bog like solitary lights, viewing each other with “interest” (and perhaps warily, like guards who demand “Who goes there?”), and recognizing the beauty and rarity of each individual light. Yet as soon as the light is quenched, or wades out of sight, they lose interest and become self-absorbed again, forgetting about the beautiful light that so entranced them. Christ, on the other hand, does not forget. He loves and yearns after these lights, haunting them, following with kind intent, not losing them in the dark mire. He alone is their friend, and they can turn to no other but Him for rescue and ransom from the darkness.

The poem is divided into four stanzas: the first two are quatrains, the second two contain three lines. Throughout the poem, Hopkins reverses word order, placing objects before their verbs and nouns before their modifiers. I don’t really understand why he does this or how this contributes to the overall meaning of the poem itself, but I love the resulting cadence of the words, and the way it sounds when read aloud. He also uses alliteration in the following instances: the “w” sound in the lines 3 and 4; “beauty bright”; “mould or mind”; “death or distance”; “foot follows”; “ransom, rescue”; and “first, fast, friend.”

All of these elements combined create a stimulating, ear-pleasing poem that contains a comforting message about Christ’s love, even in the midst of our bleak lives. I believe that it also encourages individuals to care about their companions on earth even when circumstances make it difficult.

breakfast blend

It's Mother's Day!

I slept in this morning, brewed myself some Starbucks' Breakfast Blend coffee to sip along with my feast of "Melt in Your Mouth" Bisquick Pancakes. The sun continues to blaze outside, and the world is bright and golden and green. Lauren and Melanie still sleep in their respective bedrooms--so I settled at the kitchen table to type and listen to Kris Delmhorst's crooning ("So we'll go no more a'roving").

My plan for today is to get dressed, showered, and ready for church. This afternoon I want to go lay out at Highlands again, with another good book. After the evening service at Cornerstone, I will go for a jog in the twilight of Shadowland's field. It's been far too long since I've jogged...my life feels so disordered yet that I allow the chaos to distract me from doing the things that will actually contribute to a sense of law and order in my life. Funny how I let my discipline slide when outside circumstances start to confuse or disorient me. I need to work on being unflappable. I just love that word. And currently, I'm just flapping and flailing around. It has its attractions, don't get me wrong, but I know that in the long run it will have only negative consequences.

Oh my soul, steer us to uncharted waters, hoist the anchor, shake out every sail.
My brave soul, if they're out of season, heaven why should we not go where all maps fail?
We've been waiting in our harbour
We will head for deeper waters
Farther, farther, farther, farther now...

(Is that Walt Whitman?) Because I like it.

the WEEKEND!!

That's right...Saturday has come at last, and my first week of BEST summer team is officially under my belt. We changed over Carter and did a lot of organizing and crushing the first week, which made the time fly. I'm also moved into the glamorous apartment #4, complete with an earsplitting window AC unit and a phone landline with an unreliable connection. I'm rooming with the beautiful Ugandian Melanie, and Buck and Lauren share our home. Already, we've done some entertaining. Amy S. and I cooked some chicken fajitas the other day, and last night we had George, his pregnant wife, and Trevor over for some spaghetti and a rousing game of Imagineiff, followed by "Diversity Day" (an episode of The Office).

I love slow Saturday mornings! Today I slept in until 8:30, took a long refreshing shower, and then watched another episode of The Office before heading out to Highlands with a blanket and a book to lay out and read for an hour. Upon my return, I've watched Buck and Melanie battle each other in Nintendo. Now that's a good day!

Quite a few of our team have departed for their respective homes in honor of Mother's Day, which signifies a low-key weekend. I sent Mom a letter yesterday, and am hoping that it arrives in time. I also intend to call her tomorrow.

All in all, I'm looking forward to this summer!

sadness

Tonight is the last night that I will spend snuggle up cozily in my Hotel Prestige bed, with mosquitoes buzzing in my ear. Tonight is the final Thursday night dinner that Meridyth, Vouj, Felty, and I will spend fixing food and feasting upon it late into the evening in our spacious apartment. Today was the last day I trudged over to the Katolicka Jednota to our classroom for CHOW II and American Writers in Europe. Tomorrow will be my goodbye trip to Tete, Tesco, and the Building...because tomorrow at 3 am, my bus departs for the Bratislava airport, jetlag, and home.

I'm sitting here, having cranked out one full essay and researched and outlined another, listening to Shawn Mullins while Felty dissects some aromatic chicken breast on the burner. The sunshine is glowing through the shades in our window. Books and articles of clothing are scattered across the beds and tables, and our Billa trash bag gapes open from the handle of the interior door.

I'm going to miss it here.

blameless

Have you ever thought about that word, "blameless"?

I just realized, last night, that I've never appreciated what God means when he calls me to be blameless. It means that I live in such a way that I am above reproach--above blame--above suspicion. Like Christ.

That shakes me. That is NOT my life. Thousands of self-judged "minor" infractions characterize everything I do.

I need to stop rationalizing my sins away, and recognize that if I act in a way that could incur blame, I sin.

Just a thought.

a memory...

Ah, the men of Italy. Tall, dark, handsome, amorous, and persistent—their kind has peopled the annals of art and literature for centuries. No woman, I was told, could ever visit Italy and leave feeling undesirable.

I visited Rome, and I encountered men who fit the pattern…some, embarrassingly so. But my most memorable meeting was with a quite different individual.

It was the final day of our stay in the eternal city: a gusty, cloud-swept night. The lights of the city and the noises of traffic made me question whether I was, indeed, walking the venues of that ancient city—it felt so industrial, so modern. As my doubts gained credibility, the street blossomed in front of me into a vast flagstone piazza, dominated by a massive sculptured fountain: the Piazza del Populo. Now this was Rome. Lovers walked arm-in-arm across the wide area, or draped themselves in various attitudes on the benches and the stairs of the sculpture. The patchy breeze and the plashing of the fountain mythologized even the distant roar of traffic. My companion and I seated ourselves on the cement stairs of the fountain and looked about us in silence.

The stranger annoyed me at first. Another grasping peddler, destroying my experience by trying to exploit my tourist’s purse. He approached us hesitantly at first, hovering from a distance of several yards as if weighing his chances. In the darkness, I distinguished a short round figure in jeans and a sweatshirt. In his arms he bore a bunch of roses. His dim outline gradually gained clarity as he gained nerve and approached us. I guessed that he was of Indian origin by his pigment.

He extended the rose to us with a fawning sort of smile.

“No thank you,” I shook my head apologetically and smiled. “They are beautiful—but I have no money.” I hated this aspect of tourism. All week, I had been turning down the wares of wandering vendors, speculating whether this was their only source of income, and how much actually depended upon my reception or dismissal.

This man appeared unfazed. “Where are you from?” he questioned, his already timid voice so confused by his accent that it took a moment for me to decipher its message.

“Umm....oh! I’m from America,” I replied.

“America,” he nodded and smiled, lingering.

Maybe he had gone all day without exchanging more than a haggling conversation or two with a handful of self-important tourists. His posture and the eager expression on his face told me that he desired to stay. And I, on my part, was intrigued.

“Where are you from?” I returned.

Without need of further prompting, the man unleashed a torrent of words. It took all my powers of concentration to be able to interpret the unfamiliar cadence and articulation, but I understood the gist of his speech. Originally from Bangladesh, he had moved to Rome three years ago to earn some more money. He planned on returning to his homeland soon—within the year. I asked if he had family there, and he shook his head.

He began questioning me then. Did I like Rome? When did I return to America? Did I have a boyfriend? Gradually, his voice had acquired vigor, and I found it easier and easier to understand what he was saying.

After a few minutes, he shook my hand with an enormous smile, wished me and my friend a good final evening in Rome, and bade us goodbye.

So much of his story remained a mystery. What had inspired him to leave his homeland in the first place? Why Rome? Where did he stay? Did he find it difficult to make ends meet? Why roses?

As I wondered about that man, the people teeming around me took on a new strangeness. Every single one of them had a story like that of the Bangladesh rose-vendor, a story that had led them to Rome: Rome, the city that had drawn people from all civilizations and walks of life to it for centuries. On every face, the genetic material of ages of human life had blended to produce an absolutely original individual. How many of our ancestors had encountered each other in the past, in other settings, under other circumstances? And there we all were, cheerfully breezing by each other in a starlit piazza of a Roman spring.

Even as I sit here reminiscing, I wonder if that man still walks the streets with his armful of roses, telling his story to anyone who will listen. I wonder how many people from all walks of life have his blooms, dried and pressed, adorning the pages of their scrapbooks. Perhaps he has returned to Bangladesh, and there entertains his friends with tales of his adventures abroad.
And I wonder…does he tell the story of two American girls he met on the stairs of a fountain in the Piazza del Populo, who would not buy his roses?

Do I have to go home?

ah, the benefits of travel...

Foreign places help your mind to float free

And reduce you to such simplicity

You only know the words for Good night and Good day

And Please.

You don't know how to say

"My life is torn between immutable existential uncertainties."

Garrison Keillor

shantih shantih shantih

Happy belated Easter!

So in my American Literature class we are reading The Wasteland, which begins "April is the cruelest month." NO WAY. I love April! (Aside from the little important detail of it being tax month...but I don't believe that that's what Eliot meant anyway.)

I just returned from a trip to Vienna and Salzburg with Lauren. Tra-la-la--What can I say? (In the words of our exuberant hostess, Monica Byers...)

The first day we departed from the Trnava train station directly after class, and got a connecting flight to Wein Sudbonhof through Bratislava. On board, we met a fellow American--this guy was studying medicine in Martin, Slovakia and took the weekend off to party in Vienna. He gave us a lot of advice about what sort of things to look for while we were in Vienna, and then two other American guys heard us talking and came over. I cannot describe how great it was to be able to communicate freely in American English. We arrived in Sudbonhof and Lauren's friend (an elderly patient of her father's who insisted we call her Monica) picked us up and took us to her apartment, where we unpacked and then took off for the metro. We spent the evening wandering around Stephensplatz...looking at all the mimes and street performers, window shopping, and picking up some bratwurst for a euro in a sidestreet. Bed in a real homey environment was indescribably delicious.

The next morning we both felt so rested! Monica fixed me a whole pot of real drip coffee, with fresh bread from the market and yogurt and granola for breakfast. We got ready, and then took the train back into Vienna again. There, we explored the Belvedere--I got to see a lot of Klimt (not my favorite, to be honest), Kokoshka, and some other famous (and by now over-familiar) painters' works. After that, we went to visit the Schonnbrun gardens, and got sidetracked into checking out the Easter markets. There were so many gorgeous things for sale, and delectable dishes--it was great to just sniff and ogle everything. The gardens were gorgeous, and offered a marvelous view of the city as the sun set.

The following day, Monica took us on a personal tour of some of the quieter, more scenic Austrian cities: Baden (the place that Mozart, Beethoven, Strauss, and others all went to rest and rejuvenate when they were fed up with Vienna), Gumpensdorf (which had a lovely church), and Modlin (where she treated us to lunch on a panoramic hilltop outdoors). We returned to Vienna in time to catch Verdi's Simone Boccanegra at the Opera house--standing room tickets, which cost only two euros.

At seven am the next morning, Lauren and I were standing in Westbanhof waiting for the train that would take us to Salzburg for Easter, clutching our prepurchased tickets. I have never missed Sunday morning Easter service so much in my life. There seriously is no place to celebrate Easter in a non-Catholic fashion in Vienna...so on the train there Lauren and I read the Easter story and prayed for awhile. It was okay, but I was seriously homesick for Cornerstone, and coffee with the family afterward.

Arriving in Salzburg was a bit rocky at first, because we realized that we hadn't planned anything for once we actually arrived! But we scrounged up a tourist map, hopped on a bus to the center of the city, and found ourselves smack-dab in the middle of the Sound of Music Tour (and, I might add, a large number of elderly American couples). We traipsed through the gardens, picked a street, and started walking down it. It took us across the Danube, to the oldest part of the city, where we wandered through beautiful shopping streets and cafes, bobbing in and out of ancient cathedrals, and checking out stunning view after stunning view of the city as we climbed higher and higher in the foothills of the Alps. We took a trail that led to a castle, and took pictures of the view. Then we went back down to the Danube and just sat on the banks for about an hour, before heading back to the old city and finding a Franciscan cemetery. Just as we got there, the bells started tolling for Easter, and the air was full of them for about a half an hour! Transporting. Finally, we got dinner in an Italian restaurant and caught our train back to Vienna. Several train-switches and metro-rides and a ten-minute walk later, we were back at Monica's apartment--dead tired, and o so happy.

We left the next day, after visiting St. Stephen's cathedral (my favorite church so far!) and Starbucks.

It wasn't all spectacular, though. We were waiting in the Sudbonhof station for our train to come in, and the only open seats were across from these four men (probably late twenties), and next to a girl about our age. She had a half-empty bottle of Vodka in one hand, and she was so drunk. Her teeth were horrible, and her eyes were bloodshot, and she was wearing a very short skirt and boots and kept knocking these off her seat and muttering under her breath. The men started pointing and laughing at her, and she looked at them and started talking to them, asking if they could tell that she was "on drugs", saying she was waiting for "her man", that she had a little daughter but her mother was taking care of her because she was on drugs...all in broken English. Then she talked to us, asked us where we were from, and said she wanted to go to America because she heard they had great "disco-techs" there. She told us not to talk to the men because they "just want to fuck"...that they had propositioned her before we arrived.

I don't know--she was so kind and sweet and friendly to us, but so incredibly messed up! I was so upset that the minute we got on the train back to Bratislava I just completely lost it and started crying. After the "high" of being in Vienna and visiting all these marvelous places and experiencing Easter in a foreign country...to be reminded so graphically of the evil in this world... I just kept wondering if there was anything I should've said, any way I could've offered her hope, instead of just chatting sweetly and abstractly about "America." Just reliving the memory makes me sick to my stomach. In that sense, Eliot's poem makes more sense...I'm sure that girl would agree that April is the cruellest month. Without a risen Christ, this world is a horrible, horrible wasteland. Praise God that He is powerful enough to overcome death, and bring "shantih shantih shantih" (peace that passes all understanding...the last words of the Wasteland).

I think I want to teach English here once I graduate--and work with the Building in their ministry to the Roma here. I know I could get a job, and I really am beginning to wonder if God gave me this opportunity to point me in that direction. And there's such a need for people to work here and spread the Gospel! Slovakia is dark in so many ways, and most of the time I'm oblivious because I'm being a tourist, or sticking with my safe little group of Covenant friends. But that incident (along with a few others on a lesser scale) have made a really strong impression on me, and I'm wondering if God wants to use me here.

We return in two weeks, and every time I think about it, I get a sinking feeling because I LOVE IT HERE. I definitely want to come back someday.

"Morning Dedication"

Almighty God,
As I cross the threshold of this day
I commit myself, soul, body,
affairs, friends, to thy care;
Watch over, keep, guide, direct, sanctify, bless me.
Incline my heart to thy ways;
Mould me wholly into the image of Jesus,
as a potter forms clay;
May my lips be a well-tuned hapr
to sound thy praise.
Let those around see me living by thy Spirit,
trampling the world underfoot,
uncomformed to lying vanities,
transformed by a renewed mind,
clad in the entire armour of God,
shining as a never-dimmed light,
showing holiness in all my doings.
Let no evil this day soil my thoughts, words, hands.
May I travel miry paths with a life pure from spot
or stain.
In needful transactions let my affection
be in heaven,
and my love soar upwards in flames of fire,
my gaze fixed on unseen things,
my eyes open to the emptiness, fragility,
mockery of earth and its vanities.
May I view all things in the mirror of eternity,
waiting for the coming of my Lord,
listening for the last trumpet call,
hastening unto the new heaven and earth.
Order this day all my communications
according to thy wisdom,
and to the gain of mutual good.
Forbid that I should not be profited
or made profitable.
May I speak each word as if my last word,
and walk each step as my final one.

If my life should end today,
let this be my best day.

The Valley of Vision

weekend

Aside from the general air of gentility and decorum he lends to this page, Babar has no connection with the following entry.

Today I spent almost entirely with Lauren Edewaard. We talked. We ate. We drank. We studied (in that order, and on that value system).

Felty is off gallivanting in Vienna with Julia and Darcee.

Tonight, "The Boys" will visit us for coffee and a movie.

It's been a good day. And that's all I have to say about that.

tongues

Recently, Pentecost has been on my mind.
Seated on a bench in the building as Slovak university students interact with a Slovak lecturer, my mind grapples with noises, styled by human tongues, that hold meaning for everyone there except me. Every now and then, a name will hit my consciousness and register. Schopenhauer! G.K. Chesterton! New Age! A glimmer of excitement, which gutters out in the relentless torrent of a foreign tongue.
I sit there and for the first time truly appreciate the power of Babel over humanity. My mind cannot surmount it. Imagining the horror and chaos of that ancient day entertains me as I resign myself to ignorance. Did God, in a moment, implant original systems of words and expressions in the minds of mankind that day? Did they each think that the other was speaking gibberish, or did they recognize that the words springing to their minds were not the ones they once used? The Bible is really close-lipped about the whole affair. “The LORD confused the language of all the earth. And from there the LORD dispersed them over the face of all the earth.” (Genesis 11:8,9) And, thousands of years later, here I sit: a true daughter of that dispersal.
Of course, I’ve also been taught that in Pentecost, the consequences of Babel were reversed. Acts 2 records that, heralded by a rushing wind and divided tongues of fire, the Holy Spirit “gave [the apostles] utterance” to speak in other tongues. Sometimes it seems to me that this event has only led to more confusion—hostility over the idea of speaking in tongues continues to divide the Christian community. And it had that effect at its occurrence: some marveled, some accused the apostles of drunkenness.
Even as I mused on how convenient a baptism with tongues of fire would’ve been that particular evening, I realized that it wouldn’t solve the real problem. The real problem existed even before Babel: it arrived along with a host of evils with the fall of mankind. Even those who understood the words of the lecture had to grapple with the import of the words, which, from the tone of the debate, was far from clear. If we all spoke the same language, we’d merely be better equipped to argue over concepts—the customary state of affairs for me in America. We speak the same language…and then again…we don’t.
And there is yet another reason heaven will surpass my imaginations. I cannot imagine a realm free of confusion, where every man fully understands every other man. And as I leave the Building, that Final Pentacost is on my mind.

a reminder

It confuses me that Christian living is not simpler. The gospel, the very good news, is simple, but this is the gate, the trailhead. Ironing out faithless creases is toilsome labor. God bestows three blessings on man: to feed him like birds, dress him like flowers, and befriend him as a confidant. Too many take the first two and neglect the last. Sooner or later you figure out life is constructed specifically and brilliantly to squeeze a man into association with the Owner of heaven. It is a struggle, with labor pains and thorny landscape, bloody hands and a sweaty brow, head in hands, moments of severe loneliness and questioning, moments of ache and desire. All this leads to God...
[Donald Miller, Through Painted Deserts]