Cannonball off the High Dive

The lamp throws a warm light around the room. The air conditioning unit thrums rythmically in the corner. Emily Dickinson sits calm and green on the desk beside me in the quiet room. A book of her poems, that is. And I? I'm finally at college, in a dorm of my own.

As it happens, my room mate hasn't shown her face yet. So I have a room (a big room!) to myself until she materializes, or someone takes her place. Which I expect to be any day now.

I definitely won't be able to recount all the bliss and whirlwind of the past few days since I arrived for orientation on Saturday. (Is it really Tuesday night?) It feels like a year since I left. In a good way.

After yesterday's extreme schedule makeover, I find myself the proud, happy, and excited enrollee of an Ancient/Near East Archaeology class and a Conflict Transformation class, plus Appalachian Literature taught by a local author I'm already really appreciating. Also a writing class and a health class.

Berea is crawling with possibilities. Opportunities. Chances to try things I've always wanted to do and didn't have the guts to. I know that voice lessons, cross country running, and swing dancing aren't fear factor fare for most folks. But for me, it's what Hasan Davis at freshman convocations called "the cannonball off the high dive." Now is the time to leave behind the excuses we've always carried around with us.

I love my home, but in a way I feel like a prisoner released from a life sentence, or a cancer patient restored to health. Being landed a place like Berea with $100,000 tuition covered and everything from free laptop and very low cost music lessons to unbelievable study abroad options feels like being handed a new life.

It's not just the opportunities though-- it's the atmosphere. I'm quick to let others "name" me and allow the tradition of who I've been and how I feel defined by myself and others rule everything I do and don't do. I have my excuses following me around like mongrels on a leash, yapping at my heels. And anybody who really knows me would wonder why I'd stay okay with that, 'cause I'm certainly not a fan of dogs.

The biggest thing that has impressed me so far at Berea is the diversity and respect that is cultivated in this place. I don't agree with everything condoned by people on campus. Or a lot of the things. But I can't begin to say what pleasure I get from seeing black people and white people walking around on campus together, looking an African American in the eyes and smiling like we're actually friends. Cause we are. And for some reason, even when I wanted that to be a possibility, it was a struggle at my community college at home.

I can't begin to tell you the relief, surprise, and dignity I feel when, in an auditorium NOT homogonously Christian or even religious, students can stand on stage and say they want to stay a virgin in college, and the place erupts in cheers. Respect. I feel it for real here. And I like it a lot.

I feel like I've entered some kind of bubble, some kind of dream world. I have four years here max. I want everything to count. I want to love people. I want to do the things I've craved and dreaded. In the midst of it, the heart of it, I want the Holy Spirit to be my Teacher. I want to listen and hear "This the way, walk in it."

I want to ask the important questions, like "How do you see me?" and hear Him say, as I felt Him say to me out of the blue during a very worldview-challenging session, "I think you're beautiful." I want to constantly exalt Him to the highest place, because He deserves it. I want to give everything to Him because $100,000 tuition is nothing to the new start He has given me by the sacrifice of His Son's beautiful life.

A guy named Jake in Ukraine talked to us in a retreat about how he always thinks of the scene from The Count of Monte Cristo (movie) where the main character beats the pirate Jacapo in a fight (I think this is what happens; it's been a while since I've seen it) and Jacapo, after being mercifully released from death, pledges his life to serve him. His words in that piratey accent keep coming to mind, "I am your man forever."

I guess the gospel shoulders fresh meaning when I realize that He's offered me every opportunity for new life free from the fear, guilt, and shame that was always dogging me, if only I would step up to the challenge of faith. The challenge to obey His Word and see what happens, forsaking every doubt, fear, and self-will for the sake of an enduring loyalty for the Friend of Friends, who first gave His love to me.

It's time for the cannonball off the high dive.

In Which I Actually Shed Tears of Pain but Consider it Worth the Results

I have a lot of questions about life. Especially here. Especially now. But despite the metaphysical ponderings, one question rises above all the others, begging to be resolved:

How, I wonder, does one go about picking one's nose with a nose piercing?

I guess that question has been on my mind more than usual in the past 48 hours: On Wednesday I got my nose pierced. Connor drove me in Little Stu, his Toyota, and on the way we ate dark chocolate because he was in a mood for driving around and eating dark chocolate. And I was pretty much in the mood to get my nose pierced, though I was trying not to give myself time to think about it too much.

I have thought about it, off and on, for about four years. But since the strained phone call between me in India and Mom and Dad at home in which I asked their blessing to pierce my nose and was met with mildly appalled and incredulous responses, I left the idea dormant.

But it was always there, and I guess I hinted a little that since I was going away and Dad wouldn't have to look at my face anymore, it might not be such despicable thing. He didn't answer. But on Wednesday, he came into my room where I was sitting on the floor, surrounded by cardboard boxes, sorting clothes and notebooks and things.

Later I realized that he had that look on his face that feels like he's hugging me, the look he gets when I'm going somewhere for a long time. Because we were talking about something, and then suddenly, he handed me some money and told me I could take it and get my nose pierced. Which, in that moment, showed me how much my dad loves me because that was a lot of money to give someone to do something that you personally think is disgusting, especially when that someone is your oldest daughter. It was totally a sacrificial gift. Not to mention a surprise.

So naturally, there was no going back on it. And I really still wanted to do it. So I wheedled Connor into going with me. I just wanted someone to stand there while I got punctured. Cause wow, it hurt. I knew it was going to hurt, but I thought it would be really quick, like getting your ears pierced...just shoot it and you're done, and it just stings for a little while.

But instead of a quick little shot, Tattoo Man grabbed the inside of my nose with a clamp (not too big of a deal) and then put the needle through it (a much bigger deal). And it wasn't quick. Their was a major piercing moment, and then I thought Tattoo Man was going to let go, but he didn't. Just sat there with the needle in my nostril while the tears squeezed out of my eyes.

I wasn't trying to cry and I never expected to cry, but suddenly, there they were, warm, fresh tears popping right out and rolling down my cheeks. Two to three seconds felt more like twenty minutes. "Aw, you're crying," Tattoo Man said. "Yeah, it hurts." I said. "I want my mom." Somehow I figured my mom wouldn't have much sympathy for me at that moment.

But I sat up, dried my eyes, and looked in the mirror, and there it was, a sort of bloodied sparkle sitting on my nose, reminding me of Queen Esther and Agra, India at sunset and a little girl named Jaya.

And now, I am happy with it. I must say it presents a few challenges on the practical side of things (hence the all-important question of nose-picking). But who am I, after all, if I can't embrace a few challenges for the sake of something beautiful and meaningful to me? Let it be a reminder for the future, I tell myself, that there's always a price to pay for the things I really want. And may a little clear crystal in my nose be a symbol of always wanting the good things, the true things, the eternal things that really cost you something in blood, sweat, and tears.

Cleaning the Closet of Catastrophe: A Date With Disaster

I am organizing my room. Finally.

For weeks I've been avoiding eye contact with my fourteen year old sister just because I'm ashamed that I'm the one who thought I was a neat freak but can't seem to control my junk piles.

But now, I've finally dived into the Closet of Catastrophe. I spent yesterday morning and part of this morning exploring the Harrowing Hanging Rack, then plunged into a Rubbermaid tub of Lamentable Lingering Letters. Tomorrow, the Shelves from Sheol and Daunting Desk of Doom. And finally, if I keep my courage, the Banal Bookshelf.

I love that bookshelf. And I love the books in it. Every last little one of them. Like children. So the Banal part is picking which ones stay and which ones go to Berea with me, where I can almost guarantee there will be no space for them, and my room mate will hate me forever and ever Amen.

To steel myself, I continually quote Laurie from Little Women:

"Jo, I won't be taking all of Dickens to college with me..."

Fortunately, I've not yet acquired a taste for Dickens. A few less tomes to agonize over.

Today it was the letters I had to work with. Ever since I concluded that at least part of my life will probably be spent moving to and fro over the globe, I figured I should forget collecting excessive amounts of anything.

Haven't convinced myself of this entirely regarding objects made of paper. And though I'm more than willing to rid myself of some of the ponderous proof of correspondence from the past fourteen+ years of my short life, the process feels a little like trying to get rid of the toilet paper after having your yard rolled.

Wow. That really makes it sound like I don't appreciate all those letters. But that's not what I mean. In fact, the reason it's so hard to toss them is that I feel like I'm betraying my friends by throwing away their letters.

So if you're one of the friends who wrote me letters, and you feel betrayed, sorry. Of course, I still have all the really pretty ones and the ones that still move me when I read them. Just not the whole rubbermaid tub-ful.

Due to the time consuming nature of having to open every card and letter to skim it before making the fateful decision, the tub of Lamentable Lingering Letters may have to be finished another year.

Chickpea to Cook

"A chickpea leaps almost over the rim of the pot
where it's being boiled.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

The cook knocks him down with the ladle.

"Don't you try to jump out.
You think I'm torturing you.
I'm giving you flavor,
so you can mix with spices and rice...

Eventually the chickpea
will say to the cook...

You're my cook, my driver,
my way into existence. I love your cooking..."

-Rumi
From "Chickpea to Cook"
(Coleman Barks translation)


I tried making a chickpea curry for the first time a few days ago. It was surprisingly good. I didn't have to hit my chickpeas much, because it was more simmering than boiling. I went the easy route and used canned chickpeas.

I was going to write something about the honest terror I feel at leaving most of what I know and love to go to college in another state (don't try to comfort me with shallow platitudes; they've already told me it's a wonderful opportunity and how I'll make lots of friends, etc.) New friends are great. I would just like to keep the old ones too.

I don't want to be melancholy, because I said I was going to practice gratitude instead. And because I know in a short time, most of the shallow platitudes will prove to be true. Even if it involves some boiling.

Because, eventually the chickpea will say to the cook...

Consequences

Well, I'm back. Don't feel threatened. It's just me.

What do you really say after a trip like that? I feel a sudden urge to flee this blog entry and go make banana pancakes, even though it's one in the afternoon and I'm not even that hungry.

I returned from Afghanistan with great joy last Tuesday, flying into the Shreveport airport. An intensity of green everywhere. It felt like things should have changed while I was gone, but it didn't seem that they had at all. I had to keep reminding myself that I wasn't even gone four weeks. Not even Ethan had time to grow perceptibly.

The flight was delightful, as most of my flights seem to be. We'll just omit the part about the food. To think, I would survive (and thrive) on Afghan food for a month, only to fall prey to a container of discolored rice. Let's just say my layover in Atlanta was more exciting than last time. Ahem.

I loved the part where I got a window seat flying out of Kabul so that I could say a proper goodbye, because I have no idea when I'll get to come back. I spent half the flight water coloring frantically in order to finish the storybook I was making of the trip. The rest of the time I watched two thought provoking movies and conversed with a rather outgoing marine biologist who had just spent two months on a boat near Dubai and must not have talked to ANYONE during that time. Because she had a lot to say to me. And she likes dogs.

And on the flight between Atlanta and Shreveport I had another window seat and couldn't sleep, so I put a kink in my neck staring out the window at my homeland going by. So green! (At least that part of the country.) Prayers filled my heart for the place I was leaving and the country I was flying over.

I think on this trip my heart has been tenderized and my eyes opened to how people all over the world are in deep bondage, all kinds of bondage, without the power of Jesus. And how prayer is the way that His power changes things. Prayer, obedience, love. And it has to involve His bride. Us.

In Atlanta, pressing through a very disorganized line at five in the morning, I found myself feeling bitter and frustrated with my fellow Americans for the lack of dignity, the slouchiness, the sense of flopping all over the place. It was silly and petty, and pretty soon I was hit with how much we all have our issues, all over the world. One society might have strength in certain areas and another in others, but we're all a hopeless cause without Jesu, joy of man's desiring.

I guess the consequences of getting nosy and crossing oceans is that you find yourself torn between two (or three or four or five) sets of customs, scenes, mindsets, people, and experiences, and it's impossible to ever put yourself back together again. But that's a price I'm willing to pay.

I've decided to practice gratitude wherever I am for the good things in the spot I'm in today. Such as my family members. Good coffee. Fast internet. My bed. Going for walks and singing as loudly as I want. Worshiping with a big fellowship full of people who are seeking. Stuff like that.