A Better Look

Thanks to Kelly for my new header!! I'll have to start posting more often now :-)

Thursday Evening

An evening with a few hours of unexpected free time finds me making my way to the coffee shop to work and to study. As the California sun sets behind a blanket of clouds (for once!) I make my way down the escalator from the parking garage. This development (very chic, modern mixed residential/commercial) is the sort of place I could go on a philosophical tangent against. Its gaudy, fake-big-city in the Los Angeles suburbs. Its a cheap substitution for community, a-historic retro with no real roots.

And I love it.

I can't help it. I love the old-fashioned elevators and doormen in funny caps. I love the huge hotel-like lobby open on one side to the outdoors with its marble floors, overstuffed chairs and player piano. I love the huge bouquet of stargazer lilies and pink orchids in the woman's restroom, the heavy paper-linen napkins, the bottle of William-Sonoma hand lotion next to the sink.

It makes me laugh to watch people riding the replica trolley around the one square block of shops. It is driven by a conductor in a black hat and double-breasted uniform. The passengers sit straight in the wooden seats, looking anything but comfortable.

In the center square there's a huge fountain with dancing water on the hour and on the half.
The fountain is my favorite. I am glad they don't use coloured lights, there is something more truly beautiful about the simply lit water coreographed to familiar big-band standards. Something exciting about the sound of the water as it laughs and bubbles about the fountain. Even if I did complain about modern development, I wouldn't criticize the fountain.

I like the little permanent booths situated around the lawn, selling all sorts of treats from cheeseburgers and pretzels to crepes and gelatto. I like the perfectly manicured grass. I like the retro streetlights with the tiffany glass in their lamps. I even like the ridiculously gaudy crystal chandelier that hangs over the street.

Despite myself, I find myself admiring the window-displays in Tiffany's or Armani Exchange. I watch the diners in the dimly lit restaurants. They are dressed in clothing more expensive than I will ever own, sipping drinks more expensive than most meals I will ever purchase.

Everything about this place is extravagant, overpriced, overdone. Its neither small town nor big city . . . nor even quite something in-between. There is nothing authentic about the development and probably very little authentic about many of the diners and shoppers. But that doesn't mean they aren't interesting. In fact, there is something fascinating about the whole spectacle.

So fascinating that I think I probably shouldn't come here anymore when I'm trying to study. I'm not getting anything done.

Faithfulness

". . . If we are faithless, He remains faithful, for He cannot deny Himself" ~ 2 Tim 2:13


And a good thing too!

At the End of the Day. . .

When the questions press in and overwhelm
And faith without sight seems impossible
When the road ahead seems empty and lonely
And hope deferred makes the heart sick
At the end of the day only one question matters
Do I believe God is who I say I believe He is
That God is God and He is good?

Only a Guy in His Twenties . . .

Last night I picked Andrew up from youth group. I arrived, as usual, a few minutes early, and waited in the courtyard of the by-now-familiar church and school, hugging my sweater tightly around me, surprised at how cold the evening had become. I could hear the quiet murmer of voices from the various classrooms where the children and their leaders had divided into small groups. The room directly in front of me had a group of about six guys who looked a couple years older than Andrew.

Their conversation was led by a guy about my age, tall and dark and a little on the too-skinny side. I watched the boys as they listened to him, sometimes laughing at a comment, sometimes looking serious and adding a thought of their own. Eventually the group bowed their heads to pray, and even though I couldn't hear what they were saying, I felt like I was eves-dropping and wandered away.

The doors to the gymnasium were wide open, and I stepped inside to get out of the cool sea-breeze. It wasn't long before children dismissed from their Bible study groups began crowding through the doors. Andrew saw me and waved as he ran into the gym, but the look on his face was clearly not an "I'm ready to go home" sort of look. I was in no hurry so I let him join the others.

A couple seconds later, I recognized the leader of the group I had seen through the window. He saw me - an unfamiliar adult face at a church usually elicits a friendly response - and offered his hand, "Hi, I'm David." I shook his hand and introduced myself.

He smiled politely enough, but then quickly turned to herd children. From a closet he pulled a tub filled with hockey sticks and began handing them out left and right - red sticks to the girls; blue to the boys. There was, apparently, no limit to team size. Everyone got a stick. And everyone was herded to the gym floor and set loose on the basketball court to chase a tiny rubber ball.

All was soon chaos. The men - there were about five of them, all in their early twenties - were on the girls' team, and playing far more aggressively than most of their younger teammates. The boys were screaming and diving after the little ball, swinging hockey sticks haphazardly. It was only a matter of minutes before the first injuries, of course, but they were not fatal injuries and the game continued.

I stood against the wall, trying not to get trampled by the stampede that followed whenever the ball got too close to me. "Only a twenty three year old guy would think this was a good idea," I thought, but then found myself laughing at the chaos and wishing I could join the game.

There were a significant number of injuries, and a few spilled tears, but the cuts and bruises, I knew, would become battle-scars the next day, and many of the children who never came anywhere near getting a swing at the ball would remember the game forever. I watched the game for about half an hour before dragging a reluctant Andrew off the court and on home. If it hadn't been a school night, I just might have let him play all evening. And if I'd had shoes on I think I would've joined in . . .

Overwhelmed

I don't usually post links to other people's blogs, but this article by one of the girls I went to college with is beyond beautiful:

And Then You Saw Miracles

Remember when you believed?--there was a significance then to everything, to each blade of grass around the periphery of your path, to each barrier raised in the midst of it. . .

A Moment at a Fountain

I wrote this last spring, on one of the bright March days just before Easter. I was outside the mall waiting to meet a friend for dinner and watching the people around me. For some reason I remembered it today and since I am not writing anything original I decided I'd post it belatedly:

It seemed like a good idea – I hadn’t been productive at the coffee shop. I needed a change of scene. And I could work anywhere. So I drove down early and ran my errands at the mall and then settled down against the wall in the corner of the courtyard to study. Most days it would have been a perfect corner to study. But today is not most days. It is just warm enough to make me drowsy and just cool enough to keep me interested in my surroundings.

There is a little boy - perhaps seven or eight years old playing near the fountain in the middle of the courtyard. He is alone, but he chatters constantly to himself, and grins as the breeze blows the spray from the fountain into his face. He is not lonely.

On the other side of the fountain a woman sits reading a book. She has a baby in a stroller that seems to be asleep (the baby, that is, not the stroller). She looks dignified and content.

A young couple walk through, fingers entwined. They have the awkward solemn expression that seems a necessary part of a highschool relationship – as though they’re determined to show the world that they are old enough to be dating. They kiss. But it is a serious kiss. There is no laughter in it – and no love either, I think.

Then another couple enters the courtyard. They aren’t much older – perhaps in the first couple years of college. She has thickly curling dark hair and a pleasantly curvy figure. He still looks most like a boy, but there is a gracious ease to his smile that makes his face manly and attractive. In contrast to the forced intimacy of the younger couple, these two don’t even touch – but they walk side by side, faces turned toward each other, shy, perhaps, but eager and not uncomfortable. They laugh and smile and seem glad to be together. I watch them until they round the corner out of sight with a smile.

And so they come and go past my little corner. Each person has a story that could be told. . . and I long to be able to tell the stories.

The Good and the Bad of Living with Grandparents:

The Good: Freshly brewed coffee every morning whenever I wake up, and in the winter the sweetest icy-cold grapefruit from the back-yard tree and in the summer a bowl of fresh strawberries

The Good: Sitting in the garden under a bougainvillea and next to a rose bush (both in full bloom) to do morning devotions in the California sunshine.
The Bad: Little twinges of guilt for not spending enough family time during weeks with crazy loads of school work.
The Good: Waking up with “Tennessee Waltz” stuck in my head and attempting to play it on the upright grand in the front room. Apparently my fumbling notes are at least recognizable because Grandpa is soon standing over my shoulder singing along in his rich tenor.
The Good: Perennial grandmotherly fear that I’m wasting away to nothing resulting in plenty of home-cooked meals and not a few warm-from-the-oven batches of cookies as I study. 
The Good: Sitting up late with Grandma as she tells stories of her experiences in the Los Angeles public school system in the 30s and 40s (graduated, Los Angeles Polytechnic High School class of 1947 – “and then I went to work for the phone company, but not until after we got back from the East Coast, because Dad didn’t have any vacation through the war, so now he had seven weeks off, and he wanted to introduce his three daughters to his family in the East, but Doris got married first. He thought she should wait, but she didn’t want to”)
The Bad: Seeing a 55-year marriage up real close and realizing that even after that amount of time, the marriage still has problems. . . but then maybe that should actually be the Good since God’s grace is big enough to make two people love one another despite their own selfishnesses. And realizing that imperfect doesn't mean "not good". . .
The Good: Saying “I love you to grandpa” and seeing his flustered smile and hearing him awkwardly answering, getting used to words he isn't used to saying.
The Bad: Worrying that if I get home late I will have caused someone else to worry.
The Good: Settling in to research and hearing the sound of my grandparents’ voices reading the Bible together out loud and praying for each member of the family. Discovering that I have a tremendous heritage of family and faith.

Hmm . . . looking at it this way, the bad sure isn’t all that bad, is it? I am tremendously blessed.

Settling In

It’s almost 11 pm on a Monday night. I sit curled up on Helena’s sofa, still wearing the long skirt that I wore to class today, contemplating changing into my pajamas. At the table on the other side of the room, Hans, Nick and Helena are working on their Religion Policy together over bowls of chili. Since I am not in their class, I am over here studying. Can you tell?

There were times when I first got back to California that, as happy as I was to be studying again, to be immersing myself in hard work, to be close enough to see family on the weekends, I nevertheless assumed, quite simply, that friendship was something I’d left behind in Virginia. I would sit at the beach by myself, almost content to be alone, but wishing despite myself that I had my little group of friends to go home to. I missed my college friends. I missed my church. I missed Sunday afternoons with my roommates and Felicity and, yes, I even missed Chris (much as I hated to admit it). After five years of such fellowship I couldn’t imagine being at home with anyone else. But that was ok. I had work to do. This would just be a couple years of a different stage of life, I thought.

But as I sit here tonight, I realize . . . almost for the first time . . . that I’m settling in despite myself. I’ve found a few of those moments of home after all. It isn’t the same, of course – how could it be? People are so very different. But that doesn't change the fact that we are friends. . .

Right now, it’s Hans’ turn to read. He’s reading a Churchill speech about the American Declaration of Independence. In true Hans form, he includes the parenthetical sound effects “this is a war for righteousness! (cheers)” His voice is dry, but takes on a sudden enthusiasm every time he reads the word “cheers.” The other three have turned it into a “drinking game” (good thing Helena’s drink of choice is water and Hans and Nick are only drinking red wine). Now he reads “loud and sustained cheering.” Their glasses clink and they cheer obligingly. From my corner I crack up. They are distracting me. I’m definitely not studying. Oh well. I don’t mind if I get nothing done tonight. It’s almost bedtime anyway. For now, it’s good to feel like I belong.

And if this moment of blessing isn't enough. . . I get to go to my "other home" next week. God is good.

9:35 am yesterday morning, I bid goodbye to my cousin, pulled off the yellow paper hospital gown and blue powder-free latex gloves and threw them in the nearest trash-bin with a sigh of relief. I don’t like hospital visits. Never have. Never will. But familial duty called me to the sick bed early Wednesday morning, and I tried to respond with something resembling cheerful alacrity even though everything in me wanted to rebel. I had found my cousin seemingly comfortable and surprisingly cheerful, visited for as long as I could bear the vinyl chair and scratchy gown and then made my escape.

I was in a considerably better mood as I wound my way back through the maze of hallways, down the elevator and through a series of lobbies. A couple more doorways and the end would be in sight. In my haste I nearly ran into a man about my own age coming through the second lobby door. He was well dressed and attractive, but unshaven and disheveled. In one hand he held a cup of coffee and in the other an empty baby-seat. The visitor pass on his shirt read “maternity.” As I apologized he glanced up with a half smile, but immediately forgot about me as the expression on his face returned to something between sheer terror and pure joy.

I turned to watch him as he entered the elevator. He stared at the empty seat he held, seeming almost surprised by his burden. Soon, I realized, he would come back down the elevator with the same tiny car-seat . . . but it wouldn’t be empty. At the top of that elevator a mother was waiting with a new-born baby – his new born baby and in just a few minutes they would follow my steps out the front entrance. For me, the automatic doors would open on just another Wednesday. For them, they would open on a brand new life. I tried to imagine how that would feel, but failed. As the doors closed on the young father, I wished him a silent blessing, then turned and went on my way.

A Short Story for Finals Week

Because Emily wanted a story. And because we both got left behind this weekend while the others went to New York:

Once upon a time there were six girls and they were all good friends and loved each other very much. But then four of the girls went to New York City without the other two. And the two who were at home were very sad.

While their friends were gone, the other two girls were writing papers. And two amazing (interesting, attractive, godly) men showed up (one at each of their doors). And they all realized they wanted to go to Key West.

So they ran away and eloped. And the two dudes were really rich, but they didn't want to live extravagant lifestyles. So each couple bought a little old-fashioned bungalow house (within easy walking distance of each other but each on plenty of land) on the central California coast. And they spent their days talking and walking in the countryside and traveling. And they all wrote poetry and short stories.

And the girls who went to New York were stuck working on Capitol Hill for the rest of their lives.

The End.

How COULD He Have Come?

It rained today. A cold driving rain that, if damp and miserable, was nonetheless welcome because – for the first time this year – it has felt like Christmas may come to Southern California after all. Not that the lack of winter has prevented me from delighting in the commencement of the Holiday Season thus far. The radio in my car has been set to the all-Christmas-music stations since the day after Thanksgiving (I refused to listen when several stations started playing Christmas music before Thanksgiving—tradition should mean something!). And despite the sunshine and seventy-degree weather, my efforts to celebrate have not been in vain.

Song after song tells the strange story of Bethlehem. Over and over again, they ask why God would sleep in a manger? How could the Messiah be born – not in a palace — but in a stable? So many times I have asked myself what kind of foolishness would allow animals and shepherds to welcome the Incarnate Christ. The modern democrat in me always turned to the human answer – an answer I have heard expounded by Pastors and Philosophers. They say Jesus’ birth was humble to establish man’s equality before God. He came not as the Savior of aristocrats and royalty but as Savior of the World. There is, no doubt, much truth in the explanation.

But it is not the whole story.

Yesterday, on the way to school, I heard the song Strange Way to Save the World. Suddenly I was arrested by one line: “to think of how it could have been if Jesus had come as He deserved.” I did think of how it might have been. 

What if Immanuel was born in Solomon’s Palace with the Queen of Sheba bringing tribute? What if the babe’s first cry had echoed through the halls of Versailles and been celebrated with feasts and galas across Europe? What if he were showered with gifts and lulled to sleep by the music of orchestras and choirs?

We would have missed the point.

What tales men would tell about the lavish celebrations thrown to welcome the king! Musicians would tell their children and their children’s children how proud they were that they were selected to play first violin in the birth-day concert. Artisans would advertise that their cradle, carved of the finest cedar and overlaid in pure gold, had been the cradle of choice for the newborn Messiah. A cradle fit for a King. And from generation to generation we would retell how we gave the child the welcome he deserved.

But we’d be wrong.

All the splendor of every court in every nation could not be what he deserved.

A child’s Christmas song asks “what can I give him, poor as I am?” The wealthiest man in history could ask the same question. 

 What is all the pomp and circumstance in the world, but the dimmest reflection of his own glory? Of what value are all the gifts that could be given to one who legitimately owns them all? Is the stable really any more humble than the palace? Is the court any more worthy of God?

The true humility of the Christ is not in his surroundings, but in himself.

Marvel not at an infant lying in a manger, but at God living in an infant.

Stare in wonder as He who holds the nations in the palm of his hand needs his own heavy head supported in the palm of his mother. Rejoice with great joy as the Word through which all things were made struggles to learn the speech of man. Be still in awe as the Eternal Son explores his own creation with the wide-eyed wonder of childhood.

And begin to understand that the humble delight of shepherds is a more fitting tribute than the proud offering of kings. The backdrop of the stable is only a protection against the ignorant foolishness of thinking Earth could be worthy of Him. Through Bethlehem God glorified His Son by clarifying forever how very unworthy we are of such a gift.

The foolishness of God is wiser than man.

Merry Christmas

Friday Night

Bare brick walls, open beam ceilings, simple, art-deco benches and chairs; it’s Friday night at the coffee shop. I order my Chai and survey the other patrons as I wait. There are a couple of girls by the front door with textbooks open, but their conversation doesn’t seem much related to their studies. There are four Asian guys – each with a laptop open concentrating diligently on the screens in front of them. I open my own laptop. We’re all losers, I think. It’s Friday night. Surely we could all find a party somewhere.

There are only two people in the place not even pretending to study: a lesbian couple sharing a piece of cake and talking quietly over their cups of coffee. The woman nearest my seat is quite pretty and put together, the other is thick-set and dressed in baggy jeans, a pollo shirt, oversized jacket and newsies cap. She wears men’s earrings.

I left my headphones in the car. Perfect. I close my computer and shove it back in the bag. “Hey, I’ll be right back,” I tell the barista, and she smiles patiently as she steams the milk for my chai.

It’s cold outside, but there’s a guy sitting in the dark at one of the outdoor tables anyway. He sips his coffee and watches the traffic pass. He surveys me curiously as I pass him for the second time in five minutes with nothing to show for my time inside. I blush slightly and hurry to the car.

There’s a diner in front of where I parked. It’s dark and locked up for the night, but I can still see the special in the window. Eggs, bacon, pancakes and coffee for less than what I paid for my chai. Why would a student think she could afford coffee shop prices?

On my way back, the guy at the table laughs, “Forget the power chord?”

I grin, “headphones.” I hold them up so he can see. He smiles through his scruffy beard. Since when did I like facial hair? I smile and pause, but I can’t think of anything to say so I wave and head inside.

My paper isn’t getting done. I keep leaning forward to look out the window to see if he’s still there, sitting almost next to me on the other side of the brick wall. But it’s not long before he leaves. I suppose I should get to work. . .

Just before bed . . .

There are certain times, and certain states of mind in which one should not be allowed to write. Times when tiredness, and sleeplessness, and sentimental music and looming lists of “things to do” make writing a tempting escape. But those are the very same times that the computer should be turned off without a thought to the endless blank Word documents and faceless internet readers. Much better instead to spend the evening re-reading a Jane Austen novel. . . or perhaps watching a Jeremy Northam movie. Or, I suppose, watching Emma, which is kind of a combination of the two.

So Alexandria girls, wanna fix a batch of sinful popcorn and join me? Not tonight? You’re right, I suppose it is getting rather late. I suppose I should power down and head to bed.

Miss you!

Saturday Fading. . .

Jimmy Stuart's voice fills the little house. Tonight, he has a western drawl, the annoying, affected accent found only in 1950s cowboy movies, even more exaggerated by the amazing volume at which the television is set. I wonder idly whether Grandpa turns the volume up because he is deaf, or whether he's deaf because he turns the volume up. At least Grandma doesn't seem to mind.

I make myself a cup of tea and steal a slightly overcooked sugar cookie from the bright red tin on the kitchen counter. My room is just down the hall from the television, but with the door closed, the ceiling fan on high, and music from the internet radio, I am finally able to drown out the sound of the movie. I nibble my cookie as I settle in to read A Communist Manifesto.

It's a quiet sort of Saturday evening. There's a calm safety to the business of studying on the weekend. For a little while, it will feel good to be productive. And then I'll go to bed.