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A Hobbit Hole of Sorts

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The house in which I grew up is the smallest house I've ever been in. When I reflect on the past twenty years of residency in it, I marvel that all family members are still alive and well and happy and thriving.
In fact, I love this house more than I love any other place I've lived (at college, that number totals 4 additional abodes). It has a distinctive smell that I only heard about until I moved away. Now I welcome it gladly after the long drive from university to here. Upon returning to college, I savor the few days that my pillow carries home's odor (akin to the smell of a cupboard that has housed the same dishes for many years).

Having now lived in a much larger house with several girls, my return this Christmas break has shed light on several family quirks. Because of the house's minute size, the family's complaints and pickings are likewise minute. For example, rarely would one hear, "Could you please pick up the living room?" Rather the very specific, "Did you straighten those pillows after you sat on the couch? " is much more common. We all complain about the shower curtain being left askew and one of the ice trays left unfilled. It is true that a single magazine left on the coffee table makes the entire room look cluttered. It's quite persnickety, if you ask me.

This week my grandmother is coming to stay with us after an arduous stay in the hospital. This means she'll be in my brother's room, who will be in my room with me. 5 adults + 1 bathroom. I switch between dread and excitement. While it will be even more crowded than usual (not to mention the sudden growth of persnickety-ness), it is a perfect example of the Lord's command to look after the widows and elderly. I so admire my parents for welcoming her into our little home without hesitation.
--
Recently, some friends and I spent a lengthy time discussing what race each of us fits from Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy. It was unanimously agreed that I am a Hobbit. As I began re-reading the series yesterday, I was struck with this truth in relation to my parents. From the Prologue, entitled "Concerning Hobbits," here is a spot-on description of my parents.

Hobbits are an unobtrusive but very ancient people, more numerously
formerly than they are today;
for they love peace and quiet and good tilled earth:
a well-ordered and well-farmed countryside was their favourite haunt.
They do not and did not understand or like machines...
They are little people...
Their faces were as a rule good-natured rather than beautiful,
broad, bright-eyed... with mouths apt to laughter.
They were hospitable and delighted in parties,
and in presents, which they gave away freely and eagerly accepted.
(1-2)

Though I often complain about the size of my home and nature of my family's quirkiness, I really love them, persnickety and all.

Merry Christmas, from our Hobbit Hole to yours.



Regarding vocal juries.

A vocal jury is one of the most anti-climactic things to ever exist. Lots of things are anti-climactic for those of us who romanticize and idealize and plan and analyze analyze analyze, but juries are currently at the top of my list. As a student who is studying voice at a university with a prestigious music program, I have finally begun to understand the gravity of juries. For those of you who are not familiar with the term,

vo·cal
ju·ry (voh-cul juh-ree)-- noun. A 5-7 minute session at the end of each semester when music students are given one chance to prove that they 1. have improved over the past 4 months 2. are better than all the other students of the given instrument and age group 3. possess some sort of personality/ personal interpretation of classical pieces which may or may not actually have meaning 4. are physically attractive 5. if female, can walk confidently in high heels 6. ... can sing well.


6 voice professors (all of whom possess both doctorates in voice and extensive successful performance careers) and 2 vocal coaches (with specialized language training) recline in the padded seats of a small performance hall, while grad students, waiting singers, friends, other random people sit directly outside the room and listen to each jury. By "listen to," I actually mean "judge and compare." Everyone wants to receive the highest mark; despite the fact that the juries claim to be "un-biased," we all know that they aren't. Each professor takes into account interactions he or she has had with the student, and even his or her relationship with the student's professor. Bill (my voice teacher) told me that after his own senior recital, a professor gave him an F simply because he didn't like Bill's teacher. Whaa...?

Anyway, hours and hours of practice and performance mean little to nothing during a jury. Every time I walk on stage, I forget most of what I've been drilling for the last hour. It just sort of flies away. Those 5 to 7 minutes are hinged mostly on muscle memory and luck. I always end up doing some strange thing that I've never done before, like an awkward hand motion or random breath in the middle of a word or flying spit across the stage.

After the first song (chosen by the student), one of the faculty members chooses a song from the remaining list (of 4 or so options). This year, they chose "Clair de Lune," the song Bill assured me they would not select. I was so thrown off that I sort of took my own tempo and made up a bunch of phrasings. Oops.

5 minutes later, you exit the stage and the next student walks in. All of those hours and rehearsals and score studies and acting lessons and coachings have ended. The next student has already begun to sing as you gather your wits and quell your adrenaline.

Basically, it's a huge smack to my ego, which I often need. It's good to be reminded that I am not the shiz.

Untitled Musings on Breaducation

Well, I made it through a[nother] summer at good ole' Pantera. Summer #3, I believe. If we're counting years, it's been 4 since that fateful day when I bounced into the Woodland Hills Mall, handed over my application, and signed over my life blood to America's favorite big bread business. To echo the wise musings of Jim Halpert, "Oh young [Laura], if only I could warn you. But alas, I cannot."
Really, the summer wasn't as bad as I had thought it would be. English Comp II (online) was bearable, and I somehow managed to squeak by with a low A, despite my minimal efforts.

Back to Panera. If you've ever had a conversation with me about Panera, you know what I'm going to say.
Why. Does. Wearing. A. Uniform. Change. The. Way. People. Treat. You (Me)?

When a customer enters the store, she is immediately greeted (per-Panera-protocol) with a loud "hello!" As Customer waits in line or in front of the bakery display, one or two (nay, sometimes three!) P. associates stand at attention, ready to fly into action as the order leaves Customer's mouth. Per-Panera-protocol, the utmost speed and cleanliness is utilized by Associate while Customer "experiences" the "Paneradise."* Latex-free gloves, thin baker's paper, and constant usage of Germ-x ensure Customer the cleanest "experience" possible in the Mid-Western restaurant industry. While Customer angrily mumbles something about the over-priced salads or over-stuffed menu, Associate subtly yet intentionally turns the conversation into a light-hearted commentary on the difference between a scone and a biscuit ** After several minutes of ponderation, Customer relates her order to Associate, offering information in the wrong sequence entirely. Patiently, Associate massages the correct bits of information in the correct sequence, smiling softly as Associate mutters, "I don't know what side I want, d@!# it! Gimme a second, ok?!" When all information has been entered into the register, Line Associate approaches. Quietly, she whispers to (Register) Associate, "We're out of pineapple bits for the Strawberry Poppyseed and Chicken salad."
Quickly, Register Associate glances at Line Associate. Danger is on the horizon, but Register Associate has tread this ground before. She should be able to avert the crisis...

"[Customer]," Associate begins, "We are unfortunately out of the pineapple bits that come on the salad you ordered. Instead I can offer --"
"What."
"Um, we're out of the pineapple bit--"
"I heard you the first time. So--SIGH-- what does that mean?"
"Well, I can offer you an extra helping of strawberries instead, or--"
"I don't want extra strawberries. I want the pineapple bits. That's why I ordered the d%&$ salad in the first place."
"You see, we get a delivery truck tonight, but until then we'll have to make--"
"I don't really care, ok?! Just give me the strawberries."
(Associate brightens. Crisis averted!)
"Great. Extra strawberries at no extra charge! Now then, I believe I have everything in order. Your total is $12.94."
"WHAT!?!?!?! $12.94?!?! How is that possible??!?!"
(Associate swallows the acrid taste in her mouth, forces a smile, and replies)
"If you'll take a look at the menu, you'll see that the S.P & C salad is, in fact, a 'Premium Signature Item,' due to its unique seasonality and special chicken upcharge. It's $1.45 extra."
(Customer slams her purse on the counter and glares at Associate.)
"This is absolutely ridiculous. All I want is the salad my friend told me about. Said it was something special. Said Panera was something special. Said it was a great place to eat. Well missy, I'm starting to think that--"
(Associate panics. This is getting ugly fast.)
"I'm so sorry. There's nothing I can do about the fruit. But perhaps I could offer you--"
"Don't interrupt me. And you know what?! I don't like your attitude. I want would like to talk to you manager right now!!!!"
(Customer angrily relates false details to Manager. Manager listens, knowing full well that Customer is insane. Customer receives a free salad and cookie. Crisis averted? Perhaps... except that Associate has lost part of her soul.)

Ok ok... every day isn't that bad. That only happened a few times. Still, the question remains: how does a uniformed worker differ from a fellow citizen? If I accidentally bumped into the same lady (Customer) at the grocery store on the fruit isle, and said, "heads up, they're out of pineapple bits," she'd probably give me a sad smile and we'd commiserate about our empty fruit salads. Or something. Point being, the lady would probably be nice to me because I am wearing a tank top rather than a burgundy polo. I don't understand.

Anyway, the Pantera saga part IV has come to an end. Part V begins in the next week or two.

P.S. I hope this won't discourage anyone from eating at Panera. It's pretty good. The asiago bagels are great... and... er ... yeah...

*if interested in further Panera jargon, consult the "Breaducation" leaflet that I am currently writing.
** there's hardly any difference.

I am fed up with the American idea of "love."
"What is love?"
Lately, it looks like Bella and Edward.
No thank you.
... Or, yes please?
A recent reviewer of Twilight mused,

In short, these viewers were engrossed in the film's fantasy world -

and I'm not talking about the whole vampire-and-werewolf fantasy.
I'm talking about the film's fantastical view of love...
Eclipse takes romanticism to another level,
giving us two male protagonists who are practically god-like:
Edward is a knight in shining skin who props his beloved Bella on a pedestal;
Jacob is a dark-haired pinup idol, sensitive and vulnerable even as he's virile and strong.
They are creatures of pure imagination -
preternaturally powerful and kind and desirable and desirous.
No wonder teens who are still mulling what true love looks like are attracted to these characters.
No wonder grown women -
many of them who fell in love, got married and found their relationships
weren't wall-to-wall passion and joy forever and ever -
find themselves drawn to them, too.

(To read the entire review, click here. As an aside, I've never been a huge fan of this site's movie reviews. It is generally too conservative for my taste. This one, however, seems pretty spot-on.)

I didn't mean to make this a Twilight bash. In fact, I have always enjoyed Twilight-- the books and the movies -- and make it a point to defend its merits whenever possible. This reviewer makes a point to emphasize the movie's many 'positive elements,' pointing out

Edward loves Bella just as deeply as she loves him.
But his is a more mature, selfless love.
He's positively chivalrous when it comes to courtship,
always looking out for Bella's wellbeing...

But this entry isn't about Eclipse, per se. It's about the love that is displayed, glorified, and embodied in it, and how that concept has drastically influenced American culture; therefore influencing me.
Yes, I'll admit it. I have been influenced by both Twilight and America's idea of love. It's almost impossible to not be.
And it's not just women who are confused about love. This article details the effects of Axe Body Spray's effect on young men who are convinced that "These sprays along with a little of your innate charm (you do have innate charm don't you?) will cause women to go to great lengths to find you" ("Does Body Spray Make You Irresistible To Women?"). Just as women have created false ideals of manhood via Jacob Black and love via Edward's obsession, men have equally falsified real femininity by assuming that a squirt of cologne will cause the animal within every sex-goddess to fall at their feet in submission.

This entry also isn't meant to bash our culture and its screwy advertisements. I don't want to bash anyone or anything in particular. My confusion and frustration is not due to one thing. But, I'm still confused. And frustrated. With a few painful breakups under my belt, I'm not exactly jumping at the prospect of "falling in love" any time soon, even though everything around me screams in favor of its necessity. Not that I even know what "falling in love" or "loving" someone even means, apparently. Yet, Twilight and our culture make me feel so out-of-the-loop and despondent when we don't have anything in common. Maybe I don't want it, maybe I want something else. I hope I want something else.

But what is it that I want?
And we're back at the beginning.

This didn't make much sense, did it? Me either.




"Don't drip on the carpet,"

my mother said as I walked in the front door this afternoon.
As I was driving home amidst this (rare) summer deluge, I decided spontaneously (which doesn't happen often) to sit outside for awhile. As I sat in my father's truck bed, hugging my knees close and seeing how long I could keep my eyes open and lifted, I had a revelation.

This revelation requires background.
Firstly, I am a very sensual person. Don't get too excited-- by sensual I mean vividly aware and appreciative of things pertaining to the senses: the texture of a leaf, the orange/red/yellow swirls of a day lily, the scent of Earl Grey mixing with honey and milk. To be sure, I can over-romanticize ordinary things and fly away into a dream world quite easily, so I often have to remind myself to stay grounded in, er, reality. I tell you this because--
Secondly, I gripe at God a lot because He isn't tangible. I can't feel Him, touch Him, or see Him, and this is exceeding frustrating to my senses. At times, this causes doubt in my faith. Why isn't He tangible? Or, why couldn't I have lived when He was? If I can't physically register His presence, then how do I know He's near? Far? "It's not fair." Often it seems like His intangibility is a wall that blocks true communion. Or, so it has always seemed until today.

Pre-revelation, I was marveling at the feeling of thousands of rain drops massaging my arms, legs, and face. I didn't have a bad morning, but the rain was certainly making the day better. Green grass, dancing puddles, garden flowers, quiet street, parade of ants, dirt explosions-- sensory overload. Suddenly, I remembered that "every good and perfect gift is from above." The passage goes on to say "... coming down from the Father of Lights with Whom there is no variation or shadow due to change" (James 1:17, ESV). All at once, I marveled at the tangibility of God. The rain, the grass, the puddles, the flowers-- everything good is of God and is a reflection of His image and character. Not to suggest that within each flower resides the Spirit of God, but that when I revel in the beauty of falling rain, I am also reveling in the physical beauty of God. It's not a perfect metaphor, but it encourages me.

I'm all for context, so here's the precursor to verse 17.

Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial,
for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life,
which God has promised to those who love him.
Let no one say when he is tempted, "I am being tempted by God,"
for God cannot be tempted with evil, and he himself tempts no one.
But each person is tempted when he is lured and enticed by his own desire.
Then desire when it has conceived gives birth to sin,
and sin when it is fully grown brings forth death.
Do not be deceived, my beloved brothers.
James 1:12-15, ESV

Make no mistake-- my sensuality can certainly (and does) lead to temptation. The excess of it becomes an idol, and the lack of it causes discontent. As James reminds me, this temptation is of my own and can 'give birth to sin.'
However, it does not have to be utilized thusly. Under control, it is a marvelous way to relish in the beauty of my Father. I am so grateful for this, because this afternoon as I felt the rain quench my skin, I felt the love of God. Tangibly.

Thoughts on Domesticity, part II



I think I published part I at some point last summer.

Earlier this week, I made a renewed attempt at domesticity by baking my first ever coconut cake, topped with my first ever batch of egg white icing. It was messy. It was arduous. It was suspenseful. It was triumphant.
[It was definitely not this dramatic. My summer has been so boring.]

"Unforgettable Coconut Cake" is the title of my maiden voyage. It was not unforgettable. But it was good!

The egg white took 20 minutes to stiffen. I don't think this is normal.


These are the stiffened egg whites. They don't look half as impressive as I felt after finishing them. Check out those 'soft peaks!'












The 'egg white icing.' Supposedly it only takes 7 minutes to make. False. You have to use a double boiler (a pot on top of a pot of boiling water) and beat the mixture constantly. Because I didn't have a hand-held beater, I kicked it old school and stirred furiously for 12 minutes.









The finished product! It was really too rich to be accompanied with ice cream,
so we sipped either coffee or [iced] milk with it.
My outsider test subject, Nate, had no comment after inhaling his piece. I was almost grateful, because I didn't want to receive some contrived or expected compliment. He did, however, finish his whole piece quickly, which I silently took as good news.

All in all, I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. As I was beating the icing (at about minute 8), I thought, "If I never had to have a career, and could just make my house a home for my family, I would be content."
Despite my revelation, I have decided to continue my university education in the fall. Hopefully my roommates will want to partake in my future attempts at domesticity!

I'd like some Fiction with my bread and butter.

A room without books is like a body without a soul.
G.K. Chesterton

The feelings I have for my favorite hobby ebb and flow. At times I pride myself in my expansive reading history; at other times I blush at the overriding theme of the literature I have read (mostly novels); sometimes I become angry at myself for escaping into false realities; yet at other moments I relish in the peace of another world, basking in C.S. Lewis' comment that
Literature adds to reality, it does not simply describe it.
It enriches the necessary competencies that daily life requires and provides;
and in this respect, it irrigates the deserts that our lives have already become.

Lately I've been trying to stay away from romance novels in an attempt to keep a firm grasp on reality. Right before I made this vow, I re-read Jane Eyre. It is one of my favorites, mainly because the heroine, Jane, possesses a meekness that I only dream of having (though I do think meekness is really attainable on some level). As J. Oswald Chambers wrote,
If it is true that a man is known by the company he keeps,
it is no less true that his character is reflected in the books he reads,
for they are the outward expression of his inner hungers and aspirations.

One of the great things that I graduated with from Mingo Valley is an awareness of worldviews; simply, that in everything created by man there lies within a bias, a purpose, and an intent. This has aided me not only because I can aspire to be less of a consumer and more of a discerner, but also that I can look beyond the surface story for lessons, whisperings of the author's life, and most importantly, reflections of the Gospel.
I love Little Women because it's about sisters, and I have always wanted a sister.
I love Anna Karenina because Tolstoy's analysis of the female personality is spot on.
I love Dracula not only due to the gripping story line (and my bizarre fascination with vampires), but also because it reflects on a grander scale the terror of a Christian's battle with evil, and the hope of victory with the help of friends and Truth (even if that wasn't the author's intent).
I love Paradise Lost because it completely changed the way I view Heaven. Until I read it, I thought of Heaven as a dream-like world that existed in fuzziness and hopeful ideals. Milton brilliantly creates a dramatic setting that assigns real personalities to familiar Biblical characters, which makes one realize the, well, realness of creation, angels, demons, and Heaven.

I digress. I love reading. Right now I'm reading The Jungle Books for the first time, and loving it. I have to be careful, because if I read for too long I start to become cranky with the world in which I reside. This summer especially I would rather imagine myself in the Indian jungle than at Panera.
However, I would encourage you, dear reader, to read with eyes open deep and wide whilst you peruse your next novel. I am convinced that Jane Eyre has done just as much or more for my inner realizations than any given Christian book. Meaning or not, authors often include reflections of the Gospel in their stories. For my 58th quote of the day, think on C.S. Lewis' remark to young adults, as he utters,
A young man who wishes to remain a sound atheist
cannot be too careful of his reading.


I am going to use a lot of " ".

I have never wanted to be a boy, but some days I think I'd make a good one.

I am, by nature, forward. I don't mean 'forward' as in 'progressive,' 'foremost,' or 'speedy' (thank you, thesaurus.com); rather I mean audacious. Whether or not I am perceived that way, I fancy myself as such.
This is a very good quality-- for a boy-- to possess. The polite, female counterpart is 'friendly,' which I not-so-surprisingly received in high school as my defining characteristic.
The thing is, I don't think that Christian women are supposed to be forward. Or maybe it's just that the really good ones aren't... or aren't perceived as such. Oy.

In the past, I have done my fair share of overwhelming people with my 'friendly-forward-audaciousness.' By people, I mean guys. Christian guys. You see, I feel like Christian guys don't want forward Christian girls. Perhaps they want 'friendly' ones, but I don't think that's what I am. Nor do I know if I should want to be just that.
They mistake my forwardness for flirtaciousness, and are immediately turned off by my assumed attempt to 'pursue' them. Christian girls aren't supposed to pursue Christian boys (it's against the Bible). I'm not saying that I want to pursue any boy,--Christian or not--but I have definitely lost many a friendship/relationship opportunity based on a misconception about my personality.

The truth? I like getting to know [boys]. Like, know them. Pursue (if you will) who they are, not just a relationship with them. Not only boys, but girls too. People, in general, are a love of mine. Unfortunately, that mixed with a seemingly unhealthy blend of brazenness and energy is often misinterpreted .

Not that I haven't done my fair share of misinterpreting. Forever I've thought 'meekness' to mean 'weakness,' when we as Christian girls have been told time and time again that it most certainly does not. 'Meekness,' rather, means 'power under control.' I think I mess up at the 'under control' part.

My point? None of this would be a problem if I were a boy. In fact, I'd probably be admired as confidant, bold, and courageous. I could sweep some 'meek' (heh) lady off of her feet in a torrent of romantic advances and have a Christian wife in no time! (this is sounding better and better as I think about it!)

I don't know if any of this makes sense. Charlotte Bronte puts it better than I.

Women are supposed to be very calm generally;
but women feel just as men feel;
they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts,
as much as their brothers do;
they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation,
precisely as men would suffer;
and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures
to say that they ought to confine themselves to
making puddings and knitting stockings,
to playing the piano and embroidering bags.
It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them;
if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has
pronounced necessary for their sex.
(Jane Eyre)


I don't think it's proper to end with a quote.

This heat is oppressive

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but it doesn't oppress me.

I like the heat. It makes me work, which makes me sweat, which makes me stronger; therefore, more resilient.
I've been thinking about this all day as I play mental gymnastics with myself in an attempt to prepare for my first work day at Panera.
I bought a new set of uniform clothes, because this Panera is more strict in its dress code. As I stared at my image in the dressing room mirror, 'neath the dressing room florescents, I despaired a little. A collared polo tucked into a pair of hip-hugging khakis is not the most exciting reflection upon which to gaze. I made sure to purchase a bright blue polo, which will at least bring a little cheer if I catch my likeness in the bread slicer.
I was greatly convicted this morning as I was reminded to "do everything without complaining or arguing..."
... two things I have most definitely done several times in the past few days.

Pray for me as I embark on this stale trek of summer mundane-ness. It leaves everything to be desired.

Which to bury, us or the bagel?

Words cannot express how frustrated I am to have to work at Panera Bread this summer. I have been employed on and off with this company since 2006, and am ready to be rid of them. Despite all of my best job searching endeavors this month and last, I was unable to find anywhere else willing to hire me for just June/July/August.
I get a stomachache whenever I think about starting on Wednesday. I just called to find out my work schedule, and the manager would only tell me the first day that I'm working. She said that I could check the other days when I get there on Wednesday. I needed to know the other days for other commitment purposes, but she would not budge. It probably made me angrier than it should have, but it feels like a reiteration of small bitternesses stored up since 2006.

My online class is overwhelming and confusing. I wasn't able to enroll on time; consequently I am behind on the assignments. With Panera looming ahead, it makes the class seem like a bigger deal than it probably is.

I don't like it when others (or I) say things like, "I can't wait for [allotted amount of time] to be over." I would like to think that the Lord has me at [Panera] for a reason-- something I don't yet understand but hopefully will soon. So...

I won't say it. Just think it.

Language of the Romantics

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I love the days when it's ok to roll around in my romanticism.
(but how do I know when those days are?)

I attended a seminar called "Life Together" (regarding Biblical community) at RUF Summer Conference. Though we only briefly talked about the difference between romantics and cynics, it made quite an impression on me.
You see, I am a romantic.
Stereotypically, romantics are idealists. They love dreaming, visualizing, hoping, and creating. They also avoid confrontation, ignore problems, and pretend like pain doesn't exist. Granted, not all romantics are always all of these things; nonetheless, they are tendencies.

Lately I've been confused about my romantic tendencies, and have wondered if they are God-glorifying.
In his book Life Together, Dietrich Bonhoeffer looks at romanticism with disdain. He says

Innumerable times a whole Christian community
has broken down because it had sprung from a wish dream.
The serious Christian, set down for the first time in a Christian community,
is likely to bring with him a very definite idea of what
Christian life together should be and to try to realize it.
But God's grace speedily shatters such dreams...
God is not a God of the emotions but the God of truth...
Every human wish dream that is injected into the Christian community
is a hindrance to genuine community and must be banished
if genuine community is to survive
(27).

I'm having a hard time understanding this. On the one hand, I agree that "wish dreams" are fruitless. However, what about vision? Goals? Is there a worthy distinction between the two?
How am I to use my romantic tendencies for the glory of God? Where do romantics fit into the Body of Christ?

God obviously created emotions, and He obviously does not desire us to be ruled by them.
How does one who is so prone to constant, intense, emotional urges enjoy them and use them in a proper manner?

For example, tonight I spent a long while relishing the summer wind. It was glorious. I tried to imagine every inch of exposed skin being caressed by the delicious, warm breeze.
And another: yesterday morning I baked chocolate-chip banana bread. I sat on the porch with it and a cup of coffee and pondered true femininity.

More seriously: On Sunday, my pastor gave a moving sermon about "anticipation" and living a life wholly dedicated to Christ. As I listened to his fervent pleas for life action, my mind began to race at the possibilities for my own reponse. My heart beat faster and faster, and my stomach filled up with flurries as I envisioned a radical future of ministry and adventure. I could hardly sit still until he finished. It is almost Friday, and I still have tingles.

Are these things ok?
I don't know.
I accidentally put almond instead of vanilla extract in the banana bread. It produced a queer yet unique taste. Hmm.

6.8

I should have gone to the art museum today instead of running errands. I had an overwhelming urge to do so, but suppressed it.

Instead, I'm sitting at the library. In the sun. Responding to emails. Trying to use Ozone.
Listening to Yanni.
I love Yanni.

I have to take the food handler's class for the third time tomorrow morning. I also need a liquor license. I do not know where to acquire this.

Lindsey and I spent 3.5 hours at the community college yesterday, and accomplished virtually nothing. Stand in line, ask a question that you think will gain the proper information, get on the computer, discover a problem with your account, repeat. And repeat. And repeat.
It's so frustrating to know that if you ask the wrong question (because you don't know what question to ask, because you don't know how every facet of college works) you will receive an answer (maybe) that doesn't help. My self-righteousness wanted to stand on a chair in the middle of the enrollment line and scream, "OU RULES MOTHASUCKASSSSS," and storm out angrily, causing all the useless forms to spiral around me in a lovely tornado of green and yellow. At hour 3.25, we considered breaking into the "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY" closet. We didn't. Yet another batch of spontaneous urges that should not have been suppressed.


This is a not-so-great picture of what is on the other side of the window I'm sitting next to.
I'm getting really hot.

I miss my friends who are not here.
For the first time in my life, I feel out of place living at home with my parents. I think this will be the last summer I do so. It's that awkward I'm-not-a-teenager-but-not-really-an-adult-but--feel-like-an-adult-mostly situation.

Can you dehydrate Coke?


Why are vampires always involved in my thought processes?

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My only comfort is that we are in the hands of God.
Only for that faith it would be easier to die than to live, and so be quit of all the trouble...
It is a wild adventure we are on.
Here, as we are rushing along through the darkness,
with the cold from the river seeming to rise around us,
it all comes home.
We seem to be drifting into unknown places and unknown ways;
into a whole world of dark and dreadful things.
[Jonathan Harker]
from Dracula

Hope.
What is that? ^
Rather, what does that mean?
What do we hope in?
I am fast learning that a life void of hope is completely meaningless.

It seems like my own sentiments often echo Jonathan Harker, Stoker's fictional creation. Granted, Harker was on a wild vampire quest... and I am not. However, I can relate to the feeling that all that lies ahead is "dark and dreadful." The key to the Christian's life is the first sentence. Regardless of circumstance, we are to always --only-- take comfort in being in the "hands of God."
Recently my home-church pastor made a compelling, accurate assessment of hope for the believer.
It's amazing how, when we look forward to something special in the future,
it not only affects our present actions in a positive way
but also overpowers the negative feelings & behaviors
when there is nothing special to anticipate.
Actually, if only for a period of time, living in anticipation of a special happening
not only affects what we do but also gives us
a purpose and enthusiasm for life itself.
[Dr. Bruce Ewing, March 14th, 2010]

So, again, what do we hope in? What do I hope in now? At first thought, I'd say nothing. Nothing great is happening or is going to happen in the near future that I can tell.

It's at this moment that my analytical, reasonable, habit of thinking kicks in. Of course I have a hope! ... a hope that surpasses all earthly shadows of a promise.
It is the most glorious, grand promise of all glorious, grand promises. It is a description of the final act of unity for God and His people, the Church: the Marriage Feast of the Lamb as foretold by the apostle John.
After these things I heard something like a loud voice of a great multitude in heaven, saying,
"Hallelujah! Salvation and glory and power belong to our God;
BECAUSE HIS JUDGMENTS ARE TRUE AND RIGHTEOUS;
for He has judged the great harlot who was corrupting the earth with her immorality,
and HE HAS AVENGED THE BLOOD OF HIS BOND-SERVANTS ON HER."
And a second time they said, "Hallelujah! HER SMOKE RISES UP FOREVER AND EVER."
And the twenty-four elders and the four living creatures fell down and worshipped God who sits on the throne saying,
"Amen. Hallelujah!"
And a voice came from the throne, saying,
"Give praise to our God, all you His bond-servants, you who fear Him, the small and the great."
Then I heard something like the voice of a great multitude and like the sound of many waters and like the sound of mighty peals of thunder, saying,
"Hallelujah! For the Lord our God, the Almighty, reigns.
Let us rejoice and be glad and give the glory to Him,
for the marriage of the Lamb has come and His bride has made herself ready."
It was given to her to clothe herself in fine linen, bright and clean;
for the fine linen is the righteous acts of the saints.
Then he said to me, "Write,
'Blessed are those who are invited to the marriage supper of the Lamb.'"
And he said to me, "These are the true words of God."
[Revelation 19:1-9]

Justice is coming. Expulsion of sin is coming. There is hope--perfect hope-- in this perfect ending.
Through darkness riseth light-- light to the upright.
[from Felix Mendelssohn's oratorio Elijah]

"Who's your type, Summer Girl?"

When I was in the union yesterday, I passed by a booth that was handing out free cds. Woo! I grabbed two that looked artistic. One sounds like a Radiohead wanna-be cover band (Mum) and was slightly disappointing. The other, however, is a gold mine! They are Family of the Year, and they are great. Who can dislike 6 part harmony? You can almost feel the sunshine shine on your hippie band as you sway back and forth to the simple melodies.

Speaking of sunshine, today is glorious. Around one o'clock, I jumped in the car, grabbed some Schlotzskys & cherry Sprite, and headed to a nearby park. As I sat at a picnic table, munching on salt and vinegar chips and reading Real Sex (regarding chastity and Biblical direction for sexuality), I found myself distracted by the myriad of children frolicking on the playground. Bemused by the irony of having just read the section entitled "Sex is for procreation," I laid down my book and watched the kids.
At first it was charming to see the little ones pump their legs earnestly to swing higher than the others. Moms chatted with each other as they watched their spawn from behind large, sepia-colored sunglasses. There were lots of dogs (yuck) running to and fro. Occasionally a tshirted girl would jog by, keeping in time with the silent beat of her headphones. I smirked as two spandexed teens sauntered by, dragging a chihuahua behind them. It was altogether romantic... until I heard a bloodcurdling scream come from the slide. The ensuing scene went something like this:
Mom: "Grant, you cannot throw things at your sister. That is mean."
Grant (3 or 4 year old): "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"
Mom: "Apologize to your sister right now."
Grant: "NOOOOOOOOOOO"
Mom: "If you don't apologize, you have to sit on that bench until your change your mind."
Grant: "NOOOOOOOOOO"
Mom: "Ok, have it your way." (and hauled him over to the bench)
Grant: "NOOOOOOOOOO"
Mom: "Stop screaming right now. You are acting like a baby."
Grant: (sniffle, gulp, gasp, snort)
Mom: "You will sit here until you calm down and apologize."
(silence for 30 seconds or so)
Grant: "Mom?"
Mom: "Yes?"
Grant: "What do I have to do to keep playing?"
Mom: " Tell me why you are sitting here first."
(I couldn't hear his response)
Mom: "Yes. Was that kind?"
Grant: "No."
Mom: "Will you apologize now?"
Grant: "Yes."
(peace, love, and happiness)

This all repeated 5 or so minutes later when poor little Grant sinned again. To my surprise, "Mom" responded in the same, patient way, yet with a little more firmness and threats to leave the park.
Every since then I've been thinking about parenthood and procreation. It was almost like those high school classes that assign a robotic baby to teens for a week in order to scare them away from premarital sex. If anything, it was a good reminder that sex does result in babies.

Speaking of babies, I think I want to have a lot of them. Children, that is. At least 5. The other day at lunch, I sat and listened politely as a fellow music major detailed her desire for one perfect, porcelain, angel baby girl. When she finished, I blurted out that I want 7 kids.
Confession: I mainly did this to watch her eyebrows raise and sputter for words. That was probably immature. I'm not actually sure that I want 7, but if that happens, YAY! The more the merrier. Being a camp counselor in 2008 was the best job I've ever had. Corralling 16 kids is exhausting, but so rewarding.
It doesn't take much to remind me how much I hate being alone. Every one of my friends is gone this weekend. I'm not exactly lonely... just bored. Even sitting on a couch is better when you're next to someone else.
Anyway, a lot of kids is exciting to look forward to.
If I can ever graduate.
Oh, and be found by the love of my life.

Speaking of immaturity, I wonder sometimes if I'm "mature." When does one become really "mature?" What does "maturity" even mean? I tend to equate "immaturity" with "silliness" and "a lack of having fun." If that is the case, I don't really want to be mature.

Speaking of fun, I had my first "Friday night at the bar" last night with some other music majors. It was nice to be with people, but not so nice to sit for hours and watch them become more and more intoxicated as I sipped my water. My idea of friday night fun looks a lot more like exploring, roller skating, scavenger hunting, game playing, baking, movie watching, and discussing ridiculously "deep" issues that end up making someone needlessly angry. Does this make me immature?

Panera re-scheduled me to close tonight, so at least I won't have to sit at home and watch a movie by myself. Come say hi!




Do you ever look in the mirror and really see yourself?
Like, you look in the mirror multiple times a day,
but only sometimes do you see who you are.
That happened to me today.
I've been confused ever since.

Thoughts whilst reading my music history homework.

I have never really enjoyed studying history. This is unfortunate, because I have always believed that one of the main purposes in studying history is to realize trends among the decades, centuries, millenniums, etc. in order to both understand why things are what they are today and prevent the same mistakes from happening again (... whoa, award for the longest, wordiest sentence ever?).
I really don't know what motivated me to do my music history reading today. Granted, we have a test on Monday, but usually I just skim my notes and wing it. This is probably why I have always gotten Cs in history.
The last two semesters of music history have been wretched. "Music in Culture" sounds interesting but really boiled down to a blow-off, boring overview of 3 or 4 cultures (with a strong emphasis in the Native American flute), and "Ancient Times to Baroque" was simply overwhelming (and how many identical gregorian chants can one memorize, really?). I hesitated to add history this semester for fear of burn-out. It ended up being one of my only options, so with great hesitancy I added "Late Baroque to Romantic" to my schedule and gritted my teeth.

Surprisingly, I have been intrigued. Our professor does a great job of weaving classical music's significance into the threads of history by assigning relevant readings (who knew that was possible?!) in moderate doses. She loves Haydn, Bach, and Mozart, but especially Beethoven (who now my proclaimed "favorite" composer of the period). When we listen to excerpts of various symphonies, she closes her eyes and occasionally bobs her head for emphasis. It's great! I can't help but smile when I watch her. Her passion for classical music, however nerdy it may be, is totally inspiring.

ANYWAY, to the point. The more I read the chapters in Music in the Western World, the more I realize that art (visual art and music, namely) have often been the main catalyst for social reform. In the same way that much of music's style reflects the type of present government, "avant garde" music is usually a foreshadowing of the people's desire for government reform.
For example, in the 18th century opera seria was the main style for Italian opera. This style, literally meaning "serious opera," consisted of conservative instrumental arrangements (mostly strings), aristocratic cast (servant characters were always minor) , moderate dynamics (neither soft nor loud volume), and serious themes. Around the time of literary "Enlightenment" (when philosophers like Rousseau and Paine were prominent writers), music began to change its style as well.
Composers started small by writing comic intermezzos, or short, comedic plays that were performed during the intermission of an opera seria. The most famous of these plays is La Serva Padrona, in which a servant girl forces her master to marry her by staging a bullied fight and locking him in a bedroom. While the theme of servant manipulation of their masters is common to us now, it was shockingly revolutionary in the late 1700s. La Serva Padrona became more popular than its contemporary rivals, and the public began to demand more comic intermezzos.
Rousseau immediately grasped this new style of opera, and declared it "enlightened." French operas mimicking this style exploded into the music scene, and became a hallmark of the middle class. The French Revolution of 1789 is greatly attributed to the new themes of opera, in which characters married for love, not duty. This message embodied competing class ideals, in which "the self-made class began to threaten that of hereditary priviledge" (MWW 14).

I really didn't mean to make this an essay review as much as an excited blog about music's influence on society and history. It gives new excitement to my pursuit of a music degree. Not only do I now have a vision for educating children in the most beautiful of art forms, but also a piece in the reform of society and government. My support and/or performance of the "avant garde" or other new interpretations of music will directly influence the new trends that become "normal." How exciting is that?!

Rainy days make me more dreamy than usual.

Tonight I had to drive back to school in the rain. There was a huge blurry spot right in front of my face on the windshield, making it difficult to see the road through the raindrops and oncoming headlights.
Eventually my eyes adjusted as I focused on the road ahead. I thought about life right now--dramatic as it may seem--and its parallel to the windshield. Staring at the smudged window would have resulted in impaired vision, so averting my eyes to the road ahead proved relaxing and more effective. I was still aware of the smears, but they weren't overwhelming anymore.
Maybe the parallel is a little extreme, but that's how things seem at this point.
This thought process is lacking... but there is no more to it. I blame it on a lack of self-awareness.

Normally I don't name my things, but this is an exception.



I am the proud parent of a yellow iPod nano.
My roommate and I drove 30 miles to the specific Apple store that carried the yellow version; Best Buy apparently does not carry yellow ones. After following the wrong directions (thanks, Google maps) and asking for help at a Sonic drive-thru, we arrived. It took a lot of shaking of the head to extra deals and accessories before I was actually in possession of the little guy. When I bounced up to the counter to present my hoard of Christmas+birthday money, the cashier remarked that yellow was the store's worst decision regarding iPod coloration. "It looks like pee," he commented.
I was crushed. But I bought it anyway. I was later vindicated when a desk assistant in the mall commented (when referring to that certain cashier's inability to make my gift card work) that he was a "wiener biscuit." I have never heard that diss before. It was great.

In elation, I went to the gym today to run whilst listening to music with my new possession. I didn't think about the fact that the headphones might become entangled with my favorite necklace, resulting in a dramatic cutting of the chain. It was too knotted to salvage. Now Dijon (iPod) and I have a love/hate relationship... and it's only day 2. Wow.
--
Sometimes I leave my clean, folded laundry on the bed for a few hours because I think it looks nice. There is something very comforting about clean laundry.

Today I was sitting in the library and working on adding album art to my iTunes library. The longer I sat, the more self-conscious I became. I'm not ashamed of any of my music, but I felt strange knowing that other people could see my library and album art. I have no idea why this was weird.

I'm not very self-aware. Sometimes I post pictures of myself on facebook or wear an outfit that really doesn't look good. I need loving individuals to tell me when this is the case, because I'm oblivious.
--
Today I checked out two textbooks from the library. What an idea.

Confession: I can't stand Will Ferrell. Or Jim Carrey.

The nose ring fund is growing (!).

Relient K will always be my default favorite band. Always and forever.



White and Red Apron

I have always admired my mother.

Perhaps it's her feminine grace and pose. Even with small children, she always kept her nails clean and painted, and I can't remember a day when she didn't sit at her vanity and apply a modest amount of makeup. She has made exercise a habit for as long as I can remember, and has been rewarded with a slim figure that most women her age read about in magazines. Despite our family's meager income, her clothes are bright, ironed, and usually decorated with a small broach or stone necklace. She puts on a smile for everyone even when she is tired or frustrated, and I have always been amazed at her gracious ability to host guests and make them feel comfortable no matter what her day has looked like. Purposeful yet gentle questions such as, "Tell me about your day" and "How are your studies going?" make the receiver feel cared for and important as their answer is absorbed with an encouraging smile and nod.

Perhaps it's her sense of adventure. Most people assume that her quiet personality lends itself to homebodiedness, but they couldn't be more wrong. When Mom was 26 years old she flew to Papua New Guinea as a missionary school teacher. She stayed for 2 years without returning home. While there, she partook in all kinds of tribal traditions, ate primal food, learned Pidgin English, and rode on motorcycles (though I can hardly imagine it). She was planning to continue her education in England when she and Dad decided to get married. I'm happy that they got married, obviously, but her unfinished adventures have left me craving travel. She and I are planning to go to Italy at the nearest possible time.

Perhaps it's her meekness. For years I misunderstood the definition of this word to share meanings with shy, timid, and scared, but have since decided that just the opposite is the case. Mom has enough fire and determination in her to compensate for the entirety of a room, but reigns it in with purpose. She can listen quietly without interrupting, although an onlooker might notice the myriad of thoughts behind her eyes. Don't be mistaken--she will definitely voice her thoughts in due time, and with due passion, but her self-control causes the passion to fit perfectly into the definition of meekness, which is "power under control."

Perhaps it's her devotion to Christ and pursuit of a closer walk with Him. Every morning she sits in the living room with a cup of tea and reads the Scriptures, praying for wisdom to be a better wife and mother. Although she didn't become a Christian until her college years, her faith is outstanding. Twelve years ago, she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and predicted not to live long. On top of surviving the surgery, she insisted on a shortened dose of chemotherapy, and has been cancer free since 1997. When I asked her if she was scared during the process, she responded that although she had always worried for her family's safety and well-being, she realized that only God could care for them perfectly and therefore determined to release them into His hands. "After all," she admitted, "if I die, what good then would my worrying do? He is sovereign and trustworthy." Thankfully, He spared her life (which is wonderful for many reasons, although one minor point is that my dad's cooking ability is limited to box pancakes). In the months following her surgery, she lost all of her hair and had to wear a wig, which was borne with the utmost pride and confidence. Apparently most people never guessed it was fake... until Dad would happily follow their comments with, "And isn't she beautiful? Never would've guessed it was a wig, wouldya?!"

Although these are things I love about Mom, I think the main reason I admire her is because she's my mom. Whenever I get the chance I borrow her jewelry, put on her apron (like right now), mimic her handwriting (which is exquisite), use her lotion, and cuddle in her bed.
She doesn't often express her feelings in words, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she loves me and my brother unconditionally with fervor and devotion. Her quiet strength is something I will aspire to always.

P.S.- She also makes a mean sweet tea.