Palmtree Contemplations

Today I want to write about someone very special: Miss Elaini. I first heard about Miss Elaini on the Rebelution blog. All I knew then was that she was going to wear 1 dress for 100 days in order to help orphans in India. I very quickly discovered that there is a lot more to this story. I started reading her blog miss elaini ous' , and found out a few things about this amazing girl. Elaini has always struggled with health problems. For many years, she was unable to attend college because her health was so bad. It was a difficult time. On her blog, Elaini writes, "Over the next four years, I struggled not to go completely crazy from the pain and sleepless night." Yet, despite all this sadness and physical pain, Elaini has chosen to rely on God. She believes that God can and will use her pain for good. A lot of times, I meet people like this who say that God will use their pain for good, and then they just sit there waiting for Him to do it. Elaini is not one of those

This was my second year to perform in JBU's annual Candlelight service. The experience was a blur of memories. Here are a few: I remember leading devotions the first night and praying over all the girls in Women's Chorus section by section. I looked at each of them when I prayed their name, marveling at how unique they all were even when they stood before me dressed in identical black dresses with their heads bowed in unison. I remember the thrill of that first step into the Cathedral. I was the last choir member to enter, which made me feel special. I remember how nervous I was during the first rehearsal. My hands started clenching up because I wasn't breathing properly. I remember how Lindsey's face glowed as she passed the flame to my candle before Silent Night. After two nights of listening to the Cathedral Choir sing "Incarnate Love", I discovered that they were singing about elephants and mosquitos. A suppressed giggle vibrated down our row dur

Tuesday Original plan for the evening: Buy food with Nette at some fast food place, practice piano, do homework, and be in bed before midnight. How the evening actually turned out: Nette and I were on our way to said fast food place when we took a "slight detour." Of course, little unsuspecting me did not suspect anything when we headed for the basement instead of the parking lot. That must be why I screamed so loudly when a bunch of my friends jumped out and yelled "Surprise!". It was one of the most incredible surprise birthday parties ever, complete with blueberries, cake (still warm!), brigadeiro frosting, and chai. So much for practicing. Thank you to Danny, Sophie, Lisa, Nette, and Jonathan for making it such a great party. Wednesday Ah, sweet sleep. Nette and I both ate cake for breakfast. Then, it was off to Nette's house to be attacked (in the most affectionate way possible) by her siblings and pets. Nette, Missy, and I stayed up late to bring i

We all have a scarlet letter That we try to hide We all have a secret sin Buried deep inside We wander aimlessly Believing we're alone We wear masks that smile To hide our hearts of stone Do you wonder... Is there anything pure? Is there anything holy? Is there anything good Left anymore? Will we forever be standing here Straining to see another shore? Do you wonder? I do. I cry until I cannot breathe Beat the walls with these fists. Take well planned shots at life But still, I always miss. Dark sorrow remains. People die across the sea, While I sit here weeping, Weeping over me. Do you wonder... Is there anything pure? Is there anything holy? Is there anything good Left anymore? Will we forever be standing here Straining to see another shore? Do you wonder? I do. A carpenter came to my shore He made my scarlet letter his own And bore my secret sins. Said, "You'll never be alone." He tore away my mask Wiped all the tears away

      When I was growing up in Brasil, there was one thing I always wanted that nearly every other Brasilian MK had: a tuberculosis shot scar. For years, I played soccer alongside these kids, swam in the river with them, and cooked sausage with them on our camping trips. Whenever I  brushed up against a sweaty body and saw the sun shining on that round indentation, or when I caught sight of a bared upper arm at swim time, or when the firelight lit us up with its flickering glow, whenever any of that happened I wished that I could look down and see a mirror image of the other person's scar. It was more than just a scar. It was a badge of honor in my mind. To be able to see someone else's scar, and then to look down and see an identical one on your body meant you fit somehow. You were one of the clan.        The reason I don't have one of those scars is besides the point. I still grew up there. The scents and sounds of that place are in my soul, and I do not believe they wil

A true phrase: "People are creatures of habit." I learned this one in my psychology class during my senior year. As soon as I heard it, I did what all psychology students do: I began analyzing all of my friends to see how true it was. After I grew bored with them, I started analyzing myself to see if I conformed to this statement. And of course, I did. There is one particular habit that I still maintain: flip-flop flinging. How do I fling my flip-flops? I pull my foot back, kick it and fling the flip-flop off. I'm always trying to fling them in such a way that they land right side up. It's harder than it sounds, believe me. At home, I always used to fling my flip-flops right after lunch, just before I walked home. On one particular day I came out into the bright sunshine, and did what I always did. I brought one foot back and kicked hard, sending the flip-flip end over end. The second one followed quickly after. They both went spiraling through the air in two pe

        When I was little I spent hours and hours pouring over a collection of fairy tales. It was a magical book, and by magical I don't mean full of unicorns, rainbows, and Disney pixies in bedazzled miniskirts. The book was an unimpressive dark blue on the outside, but the inside was a place of wonder where I lost myself for hours and hours. This was magic: something so seemingly plain could hold such beauty within.        One of my most favorite stories to read was The Princess and Pea. I used to read that story on stormy nights in the middle of rainy season, imagining how awful the princess must have felt being stuck in a downpour like the one outside my window. I was always disappointed, though, because I felt that I never knew enough about the princess or the prince.       Which is why I was very happy when I stumbled across Mark Swan's animated film The Princess and the Pea. Swan's rendition shows the Prince Rollo being a very idealistic prince when he is young. H

       (clears throat) Thank you all for coming here today. I understand that this is not something most people would do. It means the world to me that you are here to help me through this.       (dabs at eyes) Today I am celebrating and remembering the faithful service rendered to me by a certain red Shasta Bible College T-shirt. I never would have thought that a shirt could become so much a part of my everyday life. Just seeing it brings back memories, both sad and joyful.        I wore this shirt one morning when I got up early to watch the sunrise and be with God.        I wore this shirt during a late night walk with Kelsey around the quad.        I wore this shirt for Monday work details, when I carried diaper clad children on my back, or raked up rotting jambos, or told long romantic stories to the 8th grade girls as we bleached the library's shelves.       I wore this shirt when I was happy. Sometimes it made me happy just to wear it.       I wore it on hikes in the j

When I was 17, I read a book called Do Hard Things by Alex and Brett Harris. I remember being skeptical at first. Chuck Norris wrote the foreword, so when I was his name on the front cover I immediately thought, "Is this a joke?" It wasn't, though. In fact, that book helped change my life. I learned of other teens who are fed up with low expectations and mediocre achievements, just like I was, and still am. It inspired me to challenge myself to really try and make a difference where I am with what I have.         I am a proud member of the Rebelution, which is the movement the Harris brothers started.  We Rebelutionaries are always asking each other, "What's your hard thing right now?" Mine is a class called Musicianship. Now, for all those non-music majors out there, let me explain. Musicianship is a class which trains the inner ear. Remember that part in The Sound of Music where Maria starts teaching the children how to sing? She uses something called so

After dinner I decided I wanted to take a walk, so I did. I walked down the Mayfield stairs to the basement and went out the back door, humming a hymn to myself. Instead of taking the road, which would have been too easy, I walked down the trail behind Mayfield. Hard rocks ground in my feet, and I had to watch my step to be sure I didn't step on any really sharp ones. The trail led downhill to the baseball diamond. I carried my chinelos in one hand and let myself walk very slowly, savoring the feeling of thick green grass against my bare feet. I have discovered that a great way to feel at home is to get my feet really dirty.      I crisscrossed through the grass by the intramural fields and ventured into a patch of sweet smelling white flowers. The act of plucking them off their stems in bunches and burying my nose in them brought back beautiful memories of flowers at home. I gathered a bulky bouquet and kept walking. When I reached the rugby fields, I turned my head so that the

       It had been a long morning. Linen changes are linen changes, but linen changes in the summer heat of Missouri. Well, that's another thing. After a a whole summer, I have come to accept it with a smile.      Anyway, my last linen change that day was in the motel. The linen combination for the motel room is very simple: 4-4-1. I grabbed four towels and four washcloths, swung a bathmat over my shoulder, and headed to the room at the other end of the motel from where I was: Room 201.       I rapped my knuckles on the door and called out, "Housekeeping." No response. I pushed my key in the lock. It wouldn't turn. I tried again. It still wouldn't turn. Finally, I jiggled the key, pulled it a centimeter out of the lock, and turned it. Success. I kicked the door as I turned it (most of the doors at this camp respond very well to kicking, I've noticed) and began changing the towels.      The door opened when I was halfway through my work. I turned to see a yo

"I hate everything in the world!"        These are the words of Mrs. Paddy, a character in the play The Curious Savage . Mrs. Paddy is a very interesting woman. She gives up electricity for Lent, and likes to paint seascapes, even though she's never been to the sea. The most important thing to remember about her, though, is that she hates everything. Throughout the play she stands up to loudly declare, "I hate everything in the world..." followed by a lengthy list of everything she hates. Every time she stands up to spew forth her hatred everyone in the room ducks for cover. I don't blame them.        I am terrified that I will become Mrs. Paddy. It seems everyday I find something new to dislike. I hit my hand several times while I was making beds today. Guess what I hated? The beds. The other day I hated the heat. A few weeks ago I hated the music on the radio. And everyday I declare my dislike for the food here. More than that, I find myself hating p

*Note- The books on this list are not listed in order of importance. Also, if you read any of these books, do not like them, and want to have an argument (ahem) discussion about it, by all means let me know. I will willingly argue (ahem) discuss the merits of any of these books. 1) Goose Girl by Shannon Hale- I have read a lot of fairy tale "rewrites", but this one is definitely one of the best in the genre. Every person I have ever given it to loved it (except for my Mom, who doesn't really like fantasy) 2) The Pianist- I like this because it is true, and very sad to read.  3) On Writing Well by William Zinsser- If it is possible to be in love with a "how to" book, I am in love with this one. 4) A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini- I like this book because it shows beauty and perseverance in the midst of adversity. 5) The Chosen by Chaim Potok- Nothing really happens in this book, and yet so much happens. Potok is a master at creating tension

       At home, we lived in our bathing suits during the summer, and stood dripping at the door every evening during the school year. Swimming was like singing: we did it frequently and we had fun doing it. I can still remember the way my right foot always curved over the corner of the boat dock just before I dove into the coffee black water.        Because we lived twenty miles away from the river port city of Manaus, we saw huge ships coming and going nearly every day. I remember floating on my back at sunset when the water was still and smooth. Underwater, I heard the distant churning and whirring of a ship's motor. I sat up, and looked downriver. There, cutting across the water was a ship loaded with boxes and crates. Where it was from did not matter. What mattered was how big the waves were going to be when they reached our side of the river. When I was younger, I was sometimes afraid of the waves. I thought that the waves would keep coming and I would not be strong enough to

         The idea of the Pact began during a long walk. It was the end of my senior year, and Kelsey and I were talking about the future. We knew we were different from a lot of other kids our age. We have known that since we were young. We were excited about graduating, going to college in a different country, and being challenged in new ways, but also apprehensive about the culture we would be facing. Our nervousness was on several levels: language, unspoken rules, food (if we would like it or not), clothing, and boys.          "I have a hard enough time understanding boys as it is," I said.          "I know. Add a culture barrier and it's back to the very beginning," Kelsey said.          "Where we know nothing."          "Yeah, exactly."           There was also the question of whether or not we were even spiritually mature enough for a relationship. I knew I did not feel ready for it then, even though I was at home and secure in my

             This is what my father taught me: read the Word every day...and at night when you can not sleep.            Every morning before school we sat down as a family and had family devotions. Light filled the kitchen where we all sat around the counter, our plates and cups empty save for a few crumbs of toast and drops of orange juice. I can still hear Dad's deep voice in my head reading the thrilling accounts of the prophets, the poetry of the psalmists, and the sermons of my Savior.         I inherited my father's knack for waking up in the night. On many such occasions, I awoke to see the glow of a candle reflecting off our tin roof. If I stood up in bed and peeked over the wall, I could see the source of the light. It was always Dad, sitting at the kitchen table, with a huge book stood up to protect his candle from drafts, and his Bible open before him. It always comforted me to know that he was out there, awake and aware just like I was.           This is what my

          The packing barely took a day.           I filled the boxes quietly.           All the colors of my life           Fit so well, so neatly           Into their square allotted           Spaces.          If only life were like that,          I sighed into the silence.          If only everything had its small allotted          Space, and never strayed outside its          Lines.          But life is never square,          No matter what the classicists say.          Life is a set of circles upon circles,          Every color bleeds into the next,          Like rainbows dripping in the          Sun.            Give me no squares and no lines,         I said in my head.         Let me have arches of living gold         To lead me from the places I've been         To where I want to         Be.       

 Tuesday, 8:45 P.M., Sometime during my Senior Year "Okay, what is our class verse going to be?"  It was class meeting and Esther was looking around at all of us expectantly.  "I really like Romans 12:1-2," Raffi said.  "Great idea. I love that chapter," I said.  "Well, I was thinking of II Timothy 1:7," Heidi said.  "I like that one too," Esther said.  "Yes, well, I like Romans 12:1-2," Raffi said.  He smiled as if to say, "Hint hint." Heidi shrugged and Esther took another bite of her cake.            Our senior class verse ended up being II Timothy 1:7, "For God did not give us a spirit of fear, but a spirit of love, of power, and of self-discipline." Our motto based off this verse was "Fearless." It was an appropriate motto. I have felt so afraid this past year: afraid of never going home, afraid of messing up my life, and afraid of not having friends. I often let that verse run through my min

      I hope all of you read the title and started thinking, "Oh yes! Rachel is going to talk all about her relationship with her boyfriend! This ought to be good." If you thought that, way to go. That's exactly what I'm going to talk about.        My boyfriend is incredible. There's no other way to put it. In this crazy world full of egotistical males, I am so glad I have finally decided to wait for someone as incredible as my boyfriend. Incidentally, I am still waiting.       How did we meet? Well, I will tell how you about all the opportune moments we could have met, but did not.      *We did NOT meet all those times when I went to watch the sunset on the Amazon River. It would have been a great time for him to introduce himself to me (such a romantic and exotic setting), but he did not.      *We did NOT meet during any of my quiet walks under the stars after the lights went out at my boarding school. (I'm glad we didn't. I probably would have run

     Here's my attempt to sum up a few of the things my friends at JBU have taught me in the past 9 months since I first met them. 1) Walk slowly- They often have to call me back, or tell me to slow down when we're walking. I walk so quickly sometimes that I walk backwards and still stay ahead of them. I think I am catching on, though. Yesterday I caught myself meandering on the quad. 2) Listen- I am convinced that the ability to listen well is one of the most important skills anyone can develop. My friends have taught me that listening is one of the greatest gifts you could ever give someone. 3) Neatness- My roommate Leslie is one the neatest people I have ever met. Living with her over the past semester has made me realize how much I like everything being clean. Seriously, when everything is clean and neat it makes me so happy! 4) Prayer- So often I think I can make it on my own, and then I fall. My friends have helped me to remember that taking it to God does make a

       In the Culture District of Fort Worth, Texas, there is a museum dedicated to modern art. Last weekend, I wandered through its quiet halls, taking in the colors and eccentricity of modern artists. I have developed a routine for this sort of thing (honed to perfection whenever my younger sister and I went to "artsy" places) It normally entails: 1. Walking slowly 2. Stopping in front of paintings 3. Tilting head at different angles. 4. Making some comment on the artist's use of color, or lack thereof.     Note: This routine is partly because I actually like museums. It is also partly because I like to fool all the rest of the museum occupants into thinking that I know what I am doing, while they are still clueless.       There were several modern art works that caught my eye, either for their eccentricity (aka complete randomness. How else am I supposed to describe a screen door with Abe Lincoln and a train light attached to it?) or strangely unnerving beauty (t

         "Micah, what do you do when you're depressed?" I said. It was lunchtime in the cafeteria.          "I don't get depressed," he said. Micah is one of the most concise people I know. His words come out like his math calculations: short and to the point.          "Why not?" I said. Depression is something I think everyone experiences on some level because we all have so many expectations about life that do not get fulfilled.          "Why should I?" Micah said.          "Because the world is depressing, Micah."          "No it's not."          "Yes it is."          "No it's not."          "Yes, it is," I said. What was he getting at? Of course it is depressing.          "Not it's not. It's just the world," he said, smiling in typical Micah fashion as if to say, "You silly girl."         I sat there, thinking and thinking. The realization

"Fill us up! Fill us up!" The white pages called "Fill us up! Fill us up!" What shall I write? I asked in reply. Of truth, and of love, Of beauty, and goodness. Of sadness, and sorrow, Of pain, and of trials.  Fill us with life, All the life that is longing to break  Forth from your pen onto our  Silent white pages.  But how? I replied.  How shall I fill you? With courage and hope,  One word at a time.  Don't waste a second now.   Fill us up! Fill us up! So I picked up my pen, and  I wrote, and I wrote, filling The pages with color and life.  Everyday I answer the lurking question What shall I write? With "What can't I write?"

           Wednesday was not a good day. When I came back to my room from dinner I really did not want to go and practice piano. I really wanted to lay in bed, eat peanut butter, make myself some milk powder paste, and read a book about Baghdad. There were a few problems with that, though. First, I could not lay in bed without feeling guilty because I have the gift of responsibility. Secondly, I did not have peanut butter or milk powder. And thirdly, I knew from experience that the book about Baghdad would only satisfy me if I had finished everything I wanted to finish. "Set out to finish" is a better way of putting it, since I really did not want to do any work right then. I trudged out the door towards the back of the Cathedral. Sometimes I really despise being responsible.           The halls of the music department are not straight. They curve and wind, like catacombs lined with blue-grey carpet.  When I arrived Wednesday night I unlocked my practice cell and went throug

          Sometimes when the rain hit the aluminum roofs the only sound I heard was a tinkling. Those times I did not worry too much because it meant only a light sprinkle and some steam off the sidewalks if the sun was out in full force. Other times, though, the first drops would pelt the roofs hard and fast. It did not matter what I was doing, then. If I was not at home, I started running, racing the wave of rain to the clothes' line.           Once the clothes were safe, I was back outside no longer fighting the rain, but reveling in it. My friends and I played soccer in the half flooded field, kicking up water and loose grass. More than once I hit a cluster of fire ants in the puddles, and had to go running to the rain gutter to rinse them off. I didn't care, though, because it was an excuse to feel that wonderful, clean rain water rushing down on my head like a waterfall. Afterwards, we lay down on the still warm futsal court and stuck out our tongues to catch the raindro