Palmtree Contemplations

I couldn't make sense of any of it. In chapel, Janie scribbled away in her journal as if she was taking a timed writing test. I overheard her muttered whispers in the hall on several occasions, things like "Do not awaken! Do not awaken!" or "Steadfast! Steadfast! Hold steadfast!" She was gone in the woods for stretches of time, doing who knows what, coming back exhausted and barely staying awake during study sessions. I wondered, "Has she lost it? Is our beloved Janie really going crazy?" What bothered me so much was that I seemed to be the only one who noticed. Then again, study groups didn't notice that kind of thing, and our Bible study was made up of girls who all had very different schedules. Additionally, Janie was living by herself this semester, so there was no roommate to comment on her frequent trips to the prayer closet. Maybe she was finally cracking under all the pressure of school and work. Finally, one day I could not handle all th

"Can you give me more of the top voice?" Dr. Whitley asks. I nod and focus on bring the top notes out in the next few chords, looking to him for the verdict. He shakes his head, which in Whitley-ism means, "No, not even close." I play one chord, drawing out the upper note with my pinky while barely playing the other note. This earns me a nod. (Whitley-ism for "Hmmm. Better.") "Again, but much slower."  I play the entire measure. A shake of the head this time. He plays it for me on the Kuwait, so I can hear what he wants. I try again.  "No, no, no. You're not listening to each note." (Whitley-ism for "You're not paying attention.") "Listen to each note, and go slower, much slower." I focus on hearing the melody in the upper voice as I play it. This time we both shake our heads. I can hear how the middle voice of the chord is taking over the melody line, making it indistinguishable. I play it agai

The pre-game show for the Superbowl was on, but no one paid much attention. I sat alone on the couch, while the rest of the family talked and munched in the kitchen and the dining room. On the television, a young man with curly brown hair took the stage. "Oh dear. He's probably going to be annoying like the last performer," I thought. His relaxed stance drew me in, though. I leaned forward as he took his first breath. Halfway through the first verse I was shushing the rest of the family, "Hey, this guy's good. Listen!" "Who is this?" "I don't know. Josh somebody or other." I stayed silent for the rest of the performance, captivated by this Josh guy's voice and the song, You Raise Me Up. Shortly after that, we bought Josh's CD Closer. It was my sister's first year of college at a school only two hours from where lived, and on trips to visit her we always listened to Josh, at least once if not twice. I always sang my l

There's a reason they call it "writer's block". For me, it means every good idea that I have suddenly seems so terribly cliche that all I want to do is rip it to shreds and watch all my silly words burn amber to black to grey. I hate this feeling with everything that is in me. The inability to express what is going on around me creates this strange, frustrating vortex of emotion. People might think I'm angry, but I really just want to be able to write something good and I can't think how to do it. Every sentence I begin seems ridiculous, even the one I am now finishing. I wish I had some easy answer to give. Why do I sound like a cynical old woman in my inner thoughts, criticizing the world and feeling that nothing is original. Yet, when the sparrows take flight and I am standing below watching their black-winged clusters flap against the gold-tinged azure sky of twilight, I remember what it is to wonder. I remember the little girl who used to stomp through

The only freedom I ask is this: Give me a field to roam in, Flowers to pick, sunshine to bask in, A sky bursting with blue, and above all, The strength to lay all these "good" burdens at Your feet And the sense to kneel and listen to The only truth worth hearing: You are God and I am Yours.

The young man did not know what to think when he saw her coming. At first he thought she was a mirage, another hallucination to torment him in his inner struggle. Then, as the tattered edges of her clothes came into focus, he knew she was real. The confusing things about her were the lack of shoes and something else the young man did not at first identify. Coming out of the desert, people always looked worn-out and dirty. She was both of those, and yet something else as well. Glad was the word for it, the young man decided. He wanted to ask her how she had done it and why on earth was she glad? She was, after all, barefoot, sunburned, bruised, and dirty. Caught between his confusion and inner battling- should I go? should I stay?- the young man silently contemplated the ripples of the sand before him. "Hello," the young woman called out. He looked up, realizing that she had advanced and was determined to speak to him. He nodded. She stopped a few feet from him, her filthy

So this is what it is to be held? This strange peace that settles So soft and still Like dust caught in sunbeams. So this is what it is to be held? The yielding to love that comes Quiet and clear Like stars sparkling in the black. So this is what it is to be held?  This contentment that seeps in Slow and tingling Like the fire's warmth in winter.  So this is what it is to be held: The sureness that buoys, Firm and freeing Like the ocean holds me now.

I have been to lyceums before, but nothing could ever top Alex McDonald's incredible performance earlier this month. From the moment he stepped out on the BPAC stage, Alex was one of the most accessible performers I have ever had the privilege of hearing. Even the faculty went crazy over him, which is saying a lot since our faculty is very picky. Behind me, the Wubbenas kept making approving whispers to one another, and I think I heard Mr. Smith give an "Amen" after Chopin's Nocturne in c minor. I could not see Mrs. Rollene or Dr. Whitley, but I imagine they were both smiling. After the intermission, Alex did a lecture on and performance of Liszt's Sonata in b minor. I settled in for the sonata, which is hard for any pianist to perform, no matter how talented or experienced. It lasts for half an hour, but it was one of the happiest half hours of my life. When I saw him reaching for the last note I wanted to say, "Oh, no, don't play it. Replay one of the

I was dozing in the saddle when I felt Starlight come to a halt. I looked around, wondering where we were. Surrounding us were green hills, and mountains beyond. "This isn't Perin," I stated, confused. "No, it isn't," Starlight answered. "But I thought- "I said we were going to Perin without making the usual stops. I didn't say we wouldn't stop from time to time. I can't walk and carry you all the way there without resting, don't you know," she answered in her huffy, unicorn way. Her long white legs folded as she settled down in the billowing grass. The wind was strong now. I stared at the mountains, suddenly concerned. There were storm clouds on the horizon. What kind of storms existed in this strange world? "Don't be frightened, little one. It is a little wind and a bit of thunder. Come, it will be getting colder soon," she lifted her wing, and I crawled beneath it. There are no words to describe the

Is this all right? This lack of understanding. This yearning to know, And the inability to discover. Is this all right? This wishing I was free, Free from what? Does not the prison door stand open? Is this all right? This anger that I hold, So close, and oh so fiery, It hurts if water comes too near. Is this all right? This pounding frustration, It shakes the ground, And leaves me blank and numb. Is this all right? This silence that I give you. Though there's love in your eyes, I cower in fear.   This is wrong. This aching to yell and scream. This is wrong. This refusal to bow the knee. This is wrong. This burning, red-hot rage. This is wrong. This self-wrought, iron cage. These are the empty days When thoughts run wild and unwritten. These are the empty days When dark mem'ries won't stay hidden. Oh God, what a wretch I am!

        For all of you who were wondering what happened to me this summer, here it is. In March (which honestly feels like a lifetime ago), I was recruited to work for a publishing company called Southwestern. The internship itself has been around since the 1870s and is the number two internship in the U.S. (the number one internship is really a law firm, so it doesn't count) I could give all sorts of names for what I did, and try to make it sound really fancy and intriguing. In essence, the company hires college students to sell their books door to door throughout the United States. So, for thirteen weeks, I sold books door to door in Wisconsin. What is it like to live an entire life in thirteen weeks? That is how it felt. Everyday was filled to the brim with laughter, tears, anger, joy, slammed doors, opened doors, kind moms, jerk moms, funny dads, cruel dads, adorable children, bratty children, etc. I met generous people, I met selfish people. I met people who I hoped someda

The days all roll into one, the way the wheels of my borrowed bike roll over the endless miles of suburbia that I cover every day. My feet and hands hurt from the demanding daily schedule of biking and knocking, biking and knocking. Calluses are forming on the middle fingers of both hands. The sun and rain are my constant companions. As a result, I now have a beautiful farmer's tan, and believe that though rain may be cold it will pass. When I signed up for the internship with Southwestern, I did not know what I was getting myself into. Yes, I had been over all the details with my manager and I knew how hard I was going to have to work. I committed to it before I arrived in Nashville for sales school. Still, nothing prepared me for the brutal honesty and challenges of the bookfield. Every day I take on the same task: to see and sit down with as many families as possible. I did not know that I would cry, but I do, and they are honest tears brought on by real experiences. I did not

1) Green leaves 2) Birds singing 3) Fragrant flowers 4) Kristiana's voice 5) Claire's smile 6) A baby laughing 7) The sounds of Grace Episcopal Choir rehearsing 8) Edith's eyes 9) The glow of candles 10) Hugs 11) Mr. Romig's inquiring mind 12) Light falling through the trees 13) Deep conversations Blessings are like snowflakes; each one has a uniqueness that cannot be duplicated. I am learning to count them and to remind myself of them. Why? Because each blessing is a God-sighting, and I do not want to forget that I am being lavished daily with gifts from my Creator. Do you?

Over the past few months I have been increasingly surprised and blessed by the men in my life. On a walk today, I started listing all the lessons I have learned from them. Here are a few. 1) Listen (and turn your phone off).     One of my friends in particular has demonstrated this to me again and again. I'll never forget the first time he sat down and really listened to me. His phone went off three times, but he didn't even look at it. He gave me his full attention. Now, whenever I am listening to someone I turn my phone off too. 2) Don't Worry About Money.     I learned this lesson from a friend over the summer. I told him how worried I often feel over my lack of money. He looked at me and said, "You know, I've just decided not to worry about it. God will handle it." He is right. After a year and a half of seeing God provide money over and over again, I have decided that it is best not to worry about it. Instead, I can be excited to see how God is goin

        I couldn't believe it when I heard it. It was impossible, implausible, and absolutely ridiculous to think that one of my best friends, one of the most non-emotional people in the world, was actually in love. She called me a few days after I found out. We had barely spoken our hellos when I said, "Well?"      "Well, what?"      "Oh, come on. Tell me everything. When did this happen? How did this happen? The last time we talked you were just as determined to stay single as I am. Tell me everything!"      Slowly and with great detail the story came out. I lay on my bed, listening, laughing, and nearly bursting with joy because I could hear that sound in her voice: the sound of a woman abandoned to love. There's a question I have been asking ever since I first heard that sound:      "What is it like?" I am always asking people this question. A lot of people find it amusing, probably because they know and can not imagine not know

      For so long, now, I have been filling myself with everything I want, and everything that I believe will fill me. I don't want that anymore. It's hard to say what has changed. I think it started when I realized that nothing really satisfies me. Nothing. The most beautiful piece of music, the sweetest conversation, and the greatest view in the world do nothing to heal this ache in my heart for I don't know what. Then, I don't know when, I started asking myself, "Is this all you really want? Is this all there is?" The answer is no. I have spent too long cutting myself off from the source of life, the only One who can heal me of this ache. I am not worthy, I know. Neither am I capable of giving God back everything He deserves. But this I do know: when I look at Him and I say, "I am an empty vessel, fill me with Your desires," He does not hesitate. This life I live will be an exploration of those desires.         Here's to the adventure of walk