Providence

This week, I prayed a lot.  It's a good thing that word count doesn't matter too much though, because my prayer life has pretty much been reduced (or simplified, if you're a glass half-full type) to two-word phrases.  This week:

Jesus, provide.

Although sometimes it was more like:

Jesus!  Provide!

No matter.  The point is this:  I'm tired and spent and don't have too much left to give, but I can see that God did provide this week, both for me and through me and for others in ways totally unrelated to me.  What He did not choose to do this week was provide in overly abundant ways (according to the world's standards), and in my selfishness, this lack of excess can prevent me from seeing my life through the lens of gratitude.  The reality is that God provided enough.  There have been, and will be again, weeks that overflow with things that I can readily see and praise Him for.  This week, God is working on my eyesight, teaching me to see and praise Him for that which is simply enough.

Splitting Up

Today, I witnessed the end of an era.
My post-college roommates and I moved in together almost 3 years ago, and while people have come and gone, there has been a core of three of us.  Last spring, when I moved in with the Sherwoods, Rachel and Taylor moved into an apartment together, but I was still pretty much part of the family.  I had the spare key, I slept on their couch after late nights of watching the Bachelor, I napped on their couch between shifts of work and babysitting, and I invited myself to eat anything I could find.  We had dinner parties and craft parties and no reason at all parties.  Earlier this spring, Rach moved home, and Taylor has been living in the apartment by herself.  I still found myself there quite often, making dinner with Tay and other friends, watching movies, or participating in a little jam session.
Tomorrow is the last day of the lease on the apartment.  Rachel is in town this weekend, and the three of us and one of Taylor's new roommates spent the afternoon cleaning, as well as sorting out the last few things in the apartment.
Who ended up with that corkscrew?
I can't remember whose jars those are, but I'm really hoping they're mine!
Hey, there's that pink hand towel I bought when I came to Whitworth.  That's OLD!
What are we going to do with the collection of fuzzy posters we colored over the years?
That last question was a bit a of heart-breaker.  Taylor, the fuzzy poster expert in our little group, somehow managed to acquire a big poster at least once a semester and we would leave it out on the coffee table for anyone to color.  As ridiculous of an art form as they are, they represent something beautiful about the life we created as a house, as a group of friends, as a community.  Rach and Tay and I each picked out a fuzzy poster to keep today.  They serve as monuments to the time we spent sharing our lives with each other and the wider community in which we found ourselves.  Time spent praying around Rachel's big dining room table, joining hands with whoever happened to be there and asking Jesus to be present as well.  Time spent watching Disney movies, and baking cookies, and hosting birthday parties and bridal showers.  Time spent caring for friends and caring for each other.  Time spent arguing over groceries or cleaning.  Time spent letting go of whatever grocery or cleaning issue we were so worked up about earlier.  Time spent singing Lady Gaga at the top of our lungs.  This list could go on for quite a while.  The beautiful thing about today is that while we have to split up all of our stuff, there's no way we can split up our lives.  The impact Rachel and Taylor have had on me is now ingrained into who I am and who I am becoming.  My impact on their lives has become part of their identity as well.  We may not always be close, but the truths we learned about life and ourselves during our time together will always be part of us.  This is the beauty, and challenge of relationships.  People tend to stick.  That's why I am so thankful for these wonderful girls, and that God gave us grace to live together and learn from one another.  Here's to you, Rach and Tay!  And here's to the God who created us to be relational, and made a way for us to connect with one another in spite of our brokenness.

wonder and gratitude

Apologies

Tonight, I realized that I owe someone an apology.  While I have not always respected her and struggled to interact with her on a daily basis, I can understand and appreciate the things that motivated her, and I am sorry that I did not honor the light of Christ that was shining through her cracked exterior, just as the light of Christ is shining through my extremely cracked exterior.  And, regardless of whether I can say anything kind about her, I can say that she was brave and that she did things when she believed in them.  I am much more likely to sit back and passively judge people for doing things incorrectly, when really I should be judged for not doing them at all.

I also owe God an apology, for not trusting that He could work through the person I struggled to work with.  Although one particular choice made by this person impacted my life and the lives of people I care about in a challenging way for a long season, I am coming to see that this choice also made possibly the glorification of God here on this earth.  Tonight, I had several wonderful conversations that reminded me that is God who is at work in all things, not people, making possible all sorts of miracles.

So, Creator and Redeemer of All, I'm sorry I underestimated You.  Thank you for constantly turning my expectations upside down and backwards, and for working in ways that are of Your kingdom and not mine.  Please show me how to live in the Kingdom, even while every fiber of my being tries to convince me that reality is something else.  I love you.
k

"Bye!"

"Bye!"

That sweet little girl shouted it across the (small) security checkpoint at the airport, waving her whole arm wildly as she called.  I waved back, and smiled, knowing that she was too far away to see the sadness cross my face.  I pulled myself together, dismissed my emotions, walked to the parking garage and continued on with my day.

Taking time to reflect now, I'm sad that my friends and their adorable children are moving halfway across the country to go to seminary.  I could give you a list of reasons why I shouldn't really be sad, why the logical part of my brain tells my heart that these emotions are useless.  But that would be defeating the purpose of the exercise, which is to acknowledge that I felt something, and that it was valid.  I have spent most of my adult life offering people permission to be themselves, to feel what they feel, to stop listening to all of the "shoulds."  And yet, I have not offered myself the same permission, and doing so now is one of the most difficult things for me.  

So, there.  Today, the simple word "bye" broke my heart a little.  I'm sad.

Little Things

Today, sunlight was streaming through the blinds when I woke up.
(I immediately checked my phone to see what the temperature was outside, but no dice.  Still 34.  Brrr!)
Today, I finished reading a book while laying in bed, imaging myself in the author's shoes in Italy.
(Literally, because she supposedly has great taste in shoes.)
Today, I picked up a friend and we went shopping.
(Well, browsing really.  Neither of us bought anything, and Lisa actually returned something and I picked up tips from my old store so I guess we both made money?)
Today, it rained like we were in Portland.
(I left my coat with a hood in the car.  Good thing I was the new kid and didn't have to do a garbage run.)
Today, I spent eight hours trying to impress my new boss.
(I'm betting the three hours I spent reading and watching training videos were the most impressive.)
Today, I met a bunch of new people and realized I have a bunch of new stories to learn.
(I also realized what a crazy small world it is.  And how badly I want to ride a motorcycle someday!)
Today, I remembered that being new is hard, but thankfully I didn't cry about it.
(Yet.)
Today was made up of millions of little moments.  When I sat down at home after getting home from work tonight, the enormity of all those little moments almost overwhelmed me.  There's too much to think about.  I can't process them all, or respond to them all, or learn from them all.  There's simply too much.  But that's ok for now.  For now I will appreciate all the little things, even if I don't understand them.  Today was comprised of little things.  Tomorrow will be as well.  And the day after that.  In fact, all of life is comprised of little things, and the sooner I realize that, the sooner I can stop developing a framework and instead focus in on the things that matter, which are, apparently, the little ones.

The Kingdom

I was telling my friend (and airport ride) about the wedding I was in this weekend, and said something to the effect of "I don't know why I always cry at weddings!" and she said, rather matter-of-factly, "I always cry at weddings.  It's an image of the Kingdom."

Well, fine, if you want to be all philosophical and theological and metaphorical and all sorts of other -icals about it.  And, totally right.  I hate it when she does that.

I've been thinking about this image over and over again today, and while I know God uses the images of a wedding and a bridegroom and bride to describe the coming of the Kingdom and Jesus and the Church, I was struggling a bit.  Marriage, as near as I can tell, looks tough.  Two people make things more complicated rather than less.  Separate personalities, desires, and modi operandi create conflict at various points.  The coming of the Kingdom, as near I can tell, is supposed to be awesome.  And so is marriage, from what I hear, but I also hear a lot about the difficult, challenging aspects of that institution.  Not so much with the Kingdom of God.  But wait- yes so much with the Kingdom of God.  In fact, that's nearly all I hear about the Kingdom of God.  This already-and-not-yet paradox that is at odds with just about every aspect of our culture and society is mostly difficult and challenging and complex.  And yes, awesome.  But when I really think about it, word on the street is that acknowledging the reality of God's Kingdom in the midst of the reality sin has created in our world is a tough job requiring a lot of grace and faith and hard work.  When I describe it that way, it does sound a lot like marriage.  Maybe God knew what He was talking about metaphorically after all.

Home

Last Wednesday, I flew home to Portland.
My dad picked me up at the airport and we drove home to Tualatin.
I spent all day Friday at my home church in Lake Oswego, decorating and planning for a wedding.
Today, my parents and brother and I left our home and drove to the airport, where Neal and I checked in for two separate flights, taking us home to San Diego and Spokane respectively.

As is usual of a trip back to the area I grew up, I'm thinking about the concept of home.  I lived in the same house my entire childhood, and then found myself living somewhere completely not my house for college.  Initially shocked, I adjusted well and soon found myself referring to Spokane and Whitworth as home as well.  I remember being embarrassed the first time I did so in front of my parents, fearing that they (well, really, just my mom) would be offended.  She probably was, but she didn't say anything, so I kept up the double usage, and to this day, if I were speaking to you in Seattle and said I was heading home, it would be anybody's guess as to which city I was referring.

Apparently a sense of place and home is a big deal for us human beings.  We need to know where we have been and where we are to know and understand where we are going.  It has not always been this way for all peoples- nomads certainly have a different understanding of these concepts.  But I fall into the non-nomadic category of human being and home is huge for me.  When I was younger, place and home were synonymous.  Now, the distinction is becoming apparent as some places that were once home are no longer as homey, and other places initially foreign are now familiar and dear and safe in all the ways that a home should be.  I don't handle change particularly well, and I've been struggling with what it means for home to a moveable concept that changes with me for the last couple of years.  I'm still not sure what I'm supposed to do about it all, but today I had the distinct pleasure of experiencing a bit of home in both places that I have referred to as such over the years.  Breakfast with a dear Portland friend this morning, dinner with a dear Spokane friend this evening.  Time with my family both at our house and in transit.  A good book and sunshine at almost every interval today.  Home definitely exists in the intangibles every bit as much, if not more so, than in the things I can see and touch and taste, but I'm an experiential person, so the places matter to me too.  And I guess, as long as Southwest Air continues to offer good prices for flights to and from Portland, I don't have to decide which is home quite yet.

Super Powers

I decided today that if I were to invent a super hero identity for myself, I would be known as
The Fire Extinguisher.
Metaphorically speaking, it's kind of what I do.
And when my ability to facilitate stuff and things leaves other people free to enjoy their special day, I feel great about it.  Tired, but great.  Congratulations to two very dear people on the occasion of their wedding today- what a joy to celebrate with them!

Toast(s)

I really wish that tomorrow I could just talk about toast, instead of giving one.  I love toast.  Thick-sliced bread, toasted and covered with melting butter and jam that warms from the heat of the toast.  Crispy, thin pieces slathered in too much butter and an abundance of cinnamon-sugar, more dessert than breakfast.  Peanut butter and bananas.  Bacon, lettuce, tomato.  Cream cheese and honey.  The possibilities with toast are, apparently, endless.

And so with toasts.  Basically, in asking me to give a toast, my friend has given me open mic time at her wedding.  But what to do with it?  Tell her and her soon-to-be-husband how much we all love them?  Give them advice about marriage, something I know not very much about?  Make everybody laugh?  Make everyone cry?  I think the point of a toast is to wish people well, and I do wish them well.  I wish them love.  And joy, and peace, and patience and kindness and goodness and all the other fruits of the Spirit.  I wish that their life together would be easy and natural and good.  But I also wish that their life together would be deep and meaningful, and more often than not that means challenges will come their way.  And I know that their life together will not be painless because we live in a broken world.  Where is the place for reality in a toast?

I don't know.  And I'm so tired I'm not thinking straight.  I think I'll write the toast tomorrow, after I sleep for a while.  As for right now, I think I'll make some toast.  You know, research.  Right?

The Love Seat

My parents got married in the summer of 1982 in Pullman, WA, and promptly moved to Southern California.  After a year or so they relocated to the Portland area, and in the fall of 1986, bought the house in which they currently live.  After living in Spokane for 7 (!) years, I can almost tell when a house was built in the 70s.  Fortunately for my parents, the 80s were slightly kinder to homeowners and the structure of our house does not immediately give away it's age.  Also fortunately for my parents, my mom has good, timeless taste, and pretty much once we hit the mid-90s, all traces of strange 80s fads were eliminated from our living spaces.

Except the love seat.

The sofa/love seat set my parents bought way back in the day served our family well for the first decade or so of my life.  The couch was big enough to turn into a pretend fishing boat, and the cushions had good fort building potential.  Both parts of the set are boxy without being sharp, cozy without being sloppy, and although the corduroy-ish fabric looks dated now, it's not too terrible.  The couch was one of the first major pieces of furniture I remember my parents replacing.  It's been gone for a long time.  But the love seat got to stick around, and eventually found its way to my parents' bedroom, where it sits at the foot of the bed, facing the door and the tv my mom cleverly hid in an old armoire.

This weekend, I am home for a wedding, but this afternoon found me with nothing on my plate except a half-finished beach read and possibly a nap.  My mom was resting when I got home, but when I stopped by her room to check on her, I remembered the love seat.  I got my book and my phone and snuggled in, and the safety of hundreds of afternoon naps, evening study sessions, and weekend movie marathons sunk into me.  The afternoon sun streamed through the blinds.  Our family dog curled up next to me on the floor for a while, until he couldn't stand it and I had to share the already-too-short-for-my-long-legs space with him.  This is home.  And while I know I can't stay here forever, today I'm resting, literally, in the warmth and safety of my past, trusting that I will find the same in my future.

Departures and Arrivals

There is no place where I feel more alone, more lost, more
in
transit.
People gather, sit, talk loudly on the phone, stare silently at books and laptops.
New people come, striding the long steps of one who is almost home, shuffling the tired steps of one whose journey has been long, start-stopping as one who doesn't know where to find baggage claim.
As if the Spokane International Airport was that big.

There is no place were I feel more comfortable, more brave, more
in
motion.
I walk off the plane, past the people gathered, sitting, talking, staring.
I feel like a new person, striding the long steps of she who is almost home, who knows exactly where her tired but patient dad is waiting, who can predict exactly which carousel will hold her baggage.
As if the Portland International Airport was a part of me.

Images: Breath

in
out
in
out

as strong as the desire to eat, to drink, to sleep

in
out
in
out


an intuition, a compulsion, a survival strategy

in
out
in
out


my past, my present, my future

in
out
in
out


my only course of action, inaction, and the state in between we call deciding

in
out
in
out


Jesus
save me
Jesus
heal me
Jesus
send me

Looking for a Self-Esteem Boost?

I have found that the most effective way to feel good about yourself is to leave something while you're relatively ahead.  I'm not recommending quitting as an everyday life choice, but just like choosing to hit a tennis ball while it is still moving up after it bounces, you can choose to leave a situation when things are still good.

This, of course, is generally a cowardly way to live (not the tennis part- that's just smart physics).  But sometimes transitions just happen to work this way, and when they do, you should enjoy the moment.  This is my last week at my store before transferring to a new store in town and a new title, with more responsibilities and more pressure.  At my current store, I'm still in the lowest position available to someone at Starbucks (a barista- although rumor has it there is such a thing as a cafe attendant, who literally just does lobby slides all day- blech), but I've been there long enough that I'm pretty good at it.  I've also been at my specific store long enough to be the partner with the fourth-longest record of time employed at our store, which means that I've helped train (in some way... probably by counter-example a lot of the time) most of the people on our staff.  This means that people are generally sad to see me go.  Not all of them, I know, but a few, and the few who are vocalizing their feelings are making my week.

Yep.  That's right.  I enjoy hearing that I'll be missed.  I am, in fact, that self-absorbed.  But mostly, I'm pretending I'm a bear eating up everything in sight in preparation for hibernation.  This way, when I'm at my new store and screwing things up left and right and having to go cry in the bathroom on my breaks, I'll have some sunny memories to draw on and I'll know that things will get better (things seemed to start this way at my current store, and look how they turned out).  Or that, at the very least, some people would be very glad to take me back.

Thankful

Going to church this morning was an exercise in gratitude.  From the people greeting us at the door to the hug I got as service ended, I was both comforted and challenged, and I'm so thankful.  The simplicity, honesty, and authenticity of that community today blessed me beyond all belief and helped renew my faith that God can indeed work through us.  The energy and passion of that community for life in the Kingdom of God called me out of myself and into true life.  I felt, and feel, so much more than I can express here.  I think, looking back on this season, today will be one of those days that marks a turning point in my journey.  I have no idea where the journey will take me, so for now, being thankful is the best response I can come up with.

She's (Almost) Here

Here in the Inland Empire of the Pacific Northwest we have four seasons.  We know this because every kid who moved here from California to go to college raves about them.  We also know this because we have tons of clothing, approximately half of it always in storage, waiting for the next three to six month period of time in which we can wear that pile of sweaters or these shorts.  Most of us have multiple sets of tires for our vehicles, and REI makes more money on our jacket purchases than anything, I'm sure.  I personally have a fleece, a shell, a snow jacket, and two pea coats, and I'm not even that much of jacket person.

Right now, we are in the throes of the beginning of Spring.  All of the other seasons here seem to handle transition just fine, but Spring seems to march to a different drummer.  Summer sneaks up on you, and one day in June you realize that you should probably turn on the air conditioner.  Fall lazily appears in September, quietly shortening your days and turning everything the most beautiful colors.  Winter literally falls from the sky, blanketing everything and making it all quiet like the little old woman who says "hush" in the children's book Goodnight Moon.  But Spring, ah, Spring.  Spring is a defensive, road-weary, feisty traveler, and she feels the need to fight her way onto the scene.  Violent rain and gale-force winds followed by clear skies and sun only to be finished off with drizzle and possibly some hail; each day in this transitional period is a complete toss-up.  Spring is not happy until she has beat Winter's attempts at melodrama with her own soap-opera.  She breaks hearts left and right, leading us on with bits of sunshine and high 50s only to crush us with record-setting precipitation.

There are a few benefits to this season's personality.  As an Oregonian at heart, I love a good rainstorm.  And as a Spokane transplant who now knows what clear skies look like, I love what happens after a rainstorm.  This morning it poured for a couple of hours, then cleared off and was generically gray and windy this afternoon.  When I got up from my nap around six this evening, sunlight was streaming in my window, and as I drove to a friend's house around seven, I noticed a violently beautiful sunset.  The clouds that never seemed to quite leave today were creating the perfect backdrop for the intensely vivid pinks and oranges filling the western corner of the sky.  Spring here in the Inland Empire can be a tough one to love at first; she's a bit rough around the edges.  But as a result, her beauty is true and deep.  There's nothing surface-level about her.  So keep fighting, Spring.  We'll stick with you.  The beauty is worth the pain.

Just a Thought

This is not my thought, but of all the seemingly-ordinary-yet-strangely-profound things that happened today, this is the one I want to communicate:

"Maybe you contain multitudes."

That's a lovely idea, isn't it?

Images: Rain

I pull open the car door and throw myself in, closing the door behind me as fast as I am able.  Taking a deep breath, I begin to untangle myself from my purse, my water bottle, my keys, all the while trying not to soak the interior of my car with the rain currently rolling off my jacket.  If there's one thing I hate, it's being slightly damp in a mostly dry space.  Once I settle in, I pause for a moment before putting the key in the ignition, watching the rain pelt against the windshield.  To be this close to the force of nature that defined my identity as an Oregonian, shaped my outdoor sport seasons, and informed my fashion choices for the first 18 years of my life but not be actually getting wet is a treat.  More than that- it's a bit of sacred space for me.  I watch the drops land one by one, then follow the path of a few down the windshield, all of them pooling together at the bottom.  The strange noise of the rain on the roof of my car, the window, the windshield- it's a bit of a wild sound, and yet, strangely comforting.  I feel at home here.  I feel at peace here.  This is the only area in my life where I can honestly say "The Lord giveth.  The Lord taketh away.  Blessed be the name of the Lord."  And mostly, I can say that because the rain will always come back, just to spite all of us spring and summer types.  But seriously, the sound, the smell, the sight of rain will always bring me back to long days of playing inside, lazy afternoons of napping under piles of blankets with a good book close at hand, tennis practices turned conditioning days due to huge puddles on the courts.  The feeling of peace that comes from knowing you can't change it so you might as well enjoy it.  The distinction of being emotionally connected to something most people view as a nuisance.  I turn the key in the ignition, and wait for that magic moment when you first turn on the windshield wipers.  Then I put the car in gear and drive home, swaying gently to the rhythms at hand- the rain on the car, the wipers on the rain, my heart at home.

Rest

Tonight I went to a worship service I've never attended before, and sat in the back by myself, and closed my eyes and tried to be present.  A few minutes later, my eyelids fluttered a bit, and I noticed something glowing next to me.  I thought my eyesight was just going, which is a definite possibility at this point in my day (long open at Sbux, followed by fun but tiring babysitting).  I opened my eyes all the way and realized that someone had brought me a tealight in a glass votive holder and set it on the chair next to me.  This was particularly touching for several reasons, all too involved to explain here, but needless to say I'm glad I went tonight.  I was blessed and restored and renewed, and am learning again how to receive grace.  Waking up in six and a half hours to go to work?  Bring it on.  I don't know how my body will do, but my spirit is going to make it just fine.

Shopping Friends

Over the years, I've noticed that shopping with certain friends yields certain results.  When grocery shopping with Jessie, I come home with several meals planned for that week, and definitely an onion of some sort.  When grocery shopping with Jay, I come home with more baby carrots and fresh greens than a vegetable-avoider like myself could ever hope to eat in a lifetime, much less before the produce goes bad.  When clothes shopping with Kelsey, my classy alter-ego is brought forward and I come home with the cutest, classiest jeans I've ever owned, and occasionally great shoes that work well with many outfits and yet are totally adorable and full of their own charm.  When I shop with Rachel or Melody, the essence of my style comes out, and I come home with things that look like, well, me.

But today I wasn't shopping with Jessie, Jay, Kelsey, Rachel, or even Melody.  Today I was shopping with Megan.  And shopping with Megan means that my crazy alter-ego steps into the limelight and I come home with the strangest, most awesome things imaginable.  Megan is the shopping friend that lets me dream about who I could have been in another lifetime.

Are you the girl who wears straw fedora hats?  What about adapted military style hats with a little flower on the side?  How about both?  Ooo, you've thought about piercing your belly button?  Let's do it!  You love this unusual color of dusty red that matches nothing else in your wardrobe?  Try on this shirt with a crazy silhouette.  You need a bikini top?  Target on a Tuesday night is the place for us!


While these are not transcripts of actual conversations I've had with Megan, you understand the spirit of our shopping adventures.  I do currently possess a straw fedora, a black military hat made of linen with cute flowers on side, a pierced navel, and an awesome red shirt, all thanks to shopping adventures with Megan.  But today was maybe our crowing achievement, and I can now say that I'm the proud owner of an adorable, deep magenta, bandeau-style bikini top.

Aside from indicating that Megan has a good sense of style, I think these adventures indicate that she is a person who lives life relatively unafraid.  She knows that the style choices I make don't ultimately mean that much for my future and identity, and yet can be incredibly freeing.  I tend to put too much emphasis on decisions that don't have eternal consequences.  These stories also indicate that Megan is great at celebrating the successes of others.  She is always so excited about these new additions to my wardrobe. What a goofball.  I love all my shopping buddies a lot, but tonight I'm especially thankful for Megan, and for the confidently playful way she approaches life (and swimsuit shopping).

I'm Hearing Voices

I'm not sure who to blame.  Maybe it's my old youth staff, for taking me to Mexico on mission trips 10 years ago.  Maybe it's Whitworth and their JanTerm schedule, making adventures so convenient and educational.  Maybe it's my love of photos and my desire to see with my own eyes what people have captures in pixels.  Regardless, I keep hearing a voice that's telling me to go.  Sometimes, it's just a quiet one, a sneaky one, that tempts me to just keep driving every time I get on I-90.  East or west, it matters not.  The voice just tells me to keep driving and see what I find.  Other times, the voice booms in a loud voice, "Now paging Kathryn McIvor to the IcelandAir ticket desk.  Kathryn McIvor to the IcelandAir ticket desk."  Twice now I've yielded to that voice.  My second major trip to Europe is a mere two months away, and I'm getting more and more excited every day.  

In an effort to get ready to go to Europe, I'm trying to put my finger on why it is I like to travel so much.  It seems a little strange.  I hate being wrong.  I avoid going to new restaurants or coffee shops here in Spokane because I'm afraid I won't be able to find the bin for your dirty dishes or what it means when the menu has two little stars next to an item's name.  It has taken me nearly 25 years to figure out that I only need my toothbrush and change of clothes for a weekend out of town.  Seriously- how can I be a traveler?  And yet, I love it.  I think part of the appeal is losing myself in something else.  And I think the other part might be the unspoken hope that in hearing someone else's story and living into their world, I just might understand my own more clearly.  Or maybe it's the chance that somewhere along the way I'll discover a place or a person or a career that is so totally me that I finally feel at home.  I think it's probably a combination of all of these, and the freedom that comes when the only person I'm answering to is myself and my sense of adventure.  I don't know.  Maybe I'll never know.  

One of the ideas I've rolled around in my brain this afternoon is that travel forces humility.  Humility is one of my great struggles, I'm realizing, and traveling forces me to say "I don't know" and "I can't do it" and "I'm wrong" all the time.  Which is incredibly good for me.  Also, travel (as vacation) is usually an experience of grace- all of the lovely desserts and sites of a foreign land without the taxes and day-to-day troubles of plumbers and cell phone bills.  And in some respects, that awakens me to the simple pleasures available to me here at home too.  Since traveling to Germany last summer, I've found myself thinking much more about viewing Spokane and Portland as lands I'm visiting, and asking myself what I would do if I was a tourist here.  What would I seek to understand about life here?  What would I make sure to see, to eat, to visit?  What are the things I'm deeply grateful for and would want to share with a visitor from far away?  And as my friends and family spread out across the U.S. and I plan adventures to visit them, I find myself seeing these trips with the same eyes that I see this trip or the trip to Germany last summer.  I also think about the people I meet here differently.  While traveling, I'm intrigued by everybody I come across.  What is their story?  Where did they come from?  Where are they going?  Everything seems so much more important simply because it is different from where I live.  The hidden truth is that everybody here has a story too.  I'm just not interested because, on the surface, it seems that their story is too similar to mine to be of any importance.  Travel has shown me that even the ordinary becomes miraculous when seen through the eyes of someone looking for a miracle.    

Travel reminds me that the world is so much older than the state and country in which I live, and that the issues I sometimes view as distant are, in fact, pressing ones for most of the rest of the world.  Traveling to developing countries reminds me that my "first world problems" are indeed ridiculous, and visiting other places our society has labeled "developed" reminds me of my responsibility to be a global citizen.  For as long as I can remember, I've loved the feeling of understanding "the big picture."  I'd rather climb a mountain and view the valley than sit alongside the stream in the valley.  The first thing I do when editing a paper for someone is create an outline based on the text they've given me.  I compulsively close every application running on my laptop so I can see the desktop picture and then, one by one, open the applications I need to use.  I've made so many to-do lists in my lifetime that I need to personally reforest several acres of trees.  In a sense, travel helps me see the big picture.  Outside of my own society and culture, I can view them with a bit more objectivity.  I can also see what's going on in the rest of world, which is so hard for me to do when I'm wrapped up in the drama of my Starbucks store or my weekend plans.  As a stranger in a foreign country, I feel like I'm walking around looking at everything without the pressure of being a part of it.  This is, of course, a false perception- of course I'm a part of it.  But I love the feeling of seeing the big picture.

At this point, I need to conclude these thoughts.  But I can't quite wrap my head around everything I've just said, so I think I'll leave it as it stands.  I love traveling.  My big-picture-loving self wants to know why.  Maybe someday I'll find out, but for now, I'll just keep listening to the voice that tells me to "go".

Wasted Energy

It seems to me that if I worried less about what other people think of me, and what I think of other people, and just lived, I'd be a lot less tired.

For example, today I went to church by myself.  I was fashionably late, so I got to slip in relatively unnoticed while the music was starting and found a spot in a nearly empty row.  I was a happy camper.  Until some people came to sit by me.  Then I had to worry about how I was singing, how much I was moving about, and what they were thinking.  Worse yet, I kind of sort of recognized one of them from college.

Now, to the average person, discovering that you know the person you are sitting next to at church is probably a relief.  You are not alone in the world.  You have a friend, or at least an acquaintance, and during the always-awkward "meet n' greet" part of the service, you can catch up (or pretend to catch up) and thus avoid having to meet the other people you don't actually now.  To me, however, this discovery turned my relatively low-energy-requiring morning into an event.  Judging others, and defending yourself against being judged takes up a lot of energy.  It's like my old laptop that couldn't handle too many programs running at one time.  Even if you can't see that you have Word
AND Excel
AND Firefox
AND iTunes running, it's making the whole process slower.  Just like thinking about
What did I wear this morning?
AND What are they wearing this morning?
AND Do I remember their names?
AND What are the chances they remember mine? distracts me from worship and study and fellowship.

In the end, it turned out to be great sitting next to them.  They've been going to this church for a long time and were eager to talk about my experience there and were some of the best church neighbors I've experienced that weren't already close friends.

All that wasted energy.  Think about what I could have learned this morning if I had turned all my focus to the present moment.  Think about all the opportunities I miss in general because I cannot stop evaluating myself and the people around me.  It's like I missed the part of the Gospel where we are able to receive grace.  I guess it's not just energy I'm wasting.  It's grace.  And while grace isn't going to run out anytime soon (or ever), I'd rather not miss out.

Gold Stars

On Thursday, I earned a gold star (a metaphorical gold star) for correctly solving a story problem using algebraic expressions.  My friend Mark, who is a teacher, texted a bunch of his friends a picture of the entry task he had his students work on as they started the day.  This story problem starred his wife (Lisa) and her sister (Kerry) and a visit to Chuck E. Cheese, and we had to figure out how many tickets each of these lovely women acquired during their adventure.  It was funny to see the reactions as people replied all to the message.  My friend (and co-worker) Matt tried to solve the problem while we were working, and of course, got it just slightly wrong (because everyone knows you can't do algebra while helping grumpy Friday morning people with their coffee).  I waited til my lunch break and then solved the problem (using a sticky note and some very sketchy math methods), promptly informing Matt that he was incorrect.  Christina simply replied that she wished she could go to Chuck E. Cheese with Lisa and Kerry.  Hours later (because apparently his workplace has terrible cell reception), Kerry's husband Greg replied that the whole problem was set up wrong because Kerry ended up with less tickets than Lisa.  Talking with Mark's parents later that day, his dad solved it in his head after hearing the problem twice and sent in his answer, and his mom told me that it was too bad Mark hadn't replied to my correct answer yet- no positive reinforcement.  I love living in a world of educators!
Yesterday, I think I earned another gold star, and in some sense the need to receive this star is as ridiculous as my desire to be rewarded for correctly completing basic algebra problems.  At Whitworth, we talked a lot about the idea of vocation. I'm sure there's an actual definition out there that I'm supposed to be using, but I tend to just think of it as a calling, something that informs the whole of your life, whether we're talking job or family or church.  As a Whitworth grad, sometimes I feel pressure to have a vocation, or a calling, or something that I can use to easily label myself and focus my future goals.  An application I recently looked at filling out asked me about my calling in ministry.  Someone I was just catching up with asked me the same thing.  And until yesterday, every time I saw that question, it made me a little bit angry and rather defensive.  

"I don't know!  Leave me alone already!  

Can't I be a good person without knowing my vocation!?!?!?!?"  

That sort of thing (I know, I know- surprising, right?  Me, defensive?  No!).  But yesterday, as I was talking with a friend about the idea that keeps lingering in my heart to go to seminary, I said some some things about what I want most out of life and what I want to do most that caused her to say, "Well, sounds like that's your calling then."  We were on a walk, and I pretty much stopped right where I was.  

"What!?!?  I have a calling?  And it's something I've known about myself for a couple of years now?  

How does that work?  Oh wait.  I think that's exactly how it works.  Go figure."  

It was a lovely moment.  And I felt like I earned a gold star.  Which is ridiculous.  Knowing that my calling to be the best Christ-follower I can be has a more specific direction that embraces who I am is maybe a silver star kind of moment.  Gold star will be when I'm living it out well.

Beginning to See the Light

Spring arrived today.  And although I've heard she will not be staying with us long, she graced us with her presence just long enough to awaken hope in our hearts (and to cause us to let body parts see the light of day that have spent the last 4 months in sweaters and long underwear and ski pants).  To honor our short-term guest, I tried to spend as much time outside as possible today.  Unfortunately, my day started when my alarm went off at 3:48 this morning, so by the time I got home from work around noon, I really needed a nap.  Statistically, my best naps happen in my bed.  Realistically, the sun might not come back for weeks.  Inconveniently, the only window in my room did not have any sun coming through it at this particular time of day.  So, what did I do?  I put on some warmer clothes, grabbed a blanket and pillow, and headed for the gliding rocker bench on our front porch.  I curled myself up, and was in a semi-conscious state in no time.  It was not the best nap I've had, and I only lasted for about an hour, but I loved that I was trying to be present in my world and take care of my needs all at the same time.  What I didn't love was the blinding headache I woke up with.  There's just something about sunlight and my eyes that don't match up very well.  Even when my eyes are completely closed, I can still "see" the light.  I'm sure there are ways to avoid this (sun glasses, for one, but being a glasses-wearer, sun glasses and I don't get along either), but for the most part it's true that I can't spend the afternoon in the sun and walk away unscathed.  It made me sad to think about the ways that my body is not made to handle light and sun, which are two of the things that make my soul absolutely soar.  It is yet another reminder that this world is broken- that which should give us life can also bring us great pain.  I'm looking forward to the day when I can stand to see the light.

Child's Play

Today, someone asked me what play looks like in my life right now.   I thought about it for a minute, and then told her that I was going to Europe for a month later this spring.  Her jaw dropped, and we reveled in the beauty of that reality for a moment.  Then, she narrowed back in, and asked me again what play looks like in my everyday life.  This was not because she doesn't consider a month-long exploration of France, Italy, and Switzerland play, but because she is wise enough to know that we as human beings need play and rest as a regular part of our rhythm, not simply occasional anomalies in our busy lives.  I thought about it for a minute, and began to realize that I don't play well without others.  I seem to need others to spur me on to try new things, or to accompany me while I try new things.  I try to fit myself into what play looks like in other people's lives, which in some respects has been excellent.  I've sung in a madrigal choir, played on indoor soccer teams, and even taken up watching The Bachelor in an effort to join people in their idea of play.  These things (and more) have been great, but sometimes I find myself needing to play when no one else is available (or seemingly so) and not able to figure it out on my own.  The friend I was talking with today encouraged me to make a bucket list for the Sabbatical I'm currently taking.  This statement reminded me that my friend Ann told me this eight months ago.  Oops.  I have done some of the things on the Mental Bucket List I formed while thinking about the Sabbatical, like:
     .....go home for Christmas.....
             ......read books for fun.....
                        .....help Ann direct her "Our Town".....
.....go to church but not do anything particularly useful.....
           ......not apply to grad school......
      .....send birthday cards.....
and others.  But the time has come for a more specific, more daring, more fun version of the Bucket List.  This will hopefully be a lovely adventure in learning to define play on my own, and also in inviting others to join me, instead of the other way around.  But at the moment, I need to leave the house and go to small group (my first time back after a many-week hiatus), and to be honest, you know I'm too chicken to just brainstorm a list here on the spot.  This is NOT child's play.  Or is it?

Muscle

I'm trying a new work out plan, and between that and spending most of my day on my feet, I'm thinking about muscles.  My body hurts when my muscles aren't used properly (aka soreness from bad posture, tense shoulders, that sort of thing).  My body hurts when I'm training my muscles to work properly (aka soreness from Jillian Michael's and her darn 30 Day Shred).  The goal is to get the point where nothing hurts, but so far, no good.  But I'm ok with that, as long as I'm still convinced I'm making progress.

Anyways, today I've also been thinking about metaphorical muscle.  My general approach for most of life includes a lot of muscling, do-it-myself, labor-intensive effort.  This has, generally, served me well.  I'm known for being a hard worker who finishes things, and people trust me with all kinds of projects.  My personality has also lent me the tendency to know what people need, and combining the twin forces of need anticipation and strong work ethic tends to make me a good friend.

Until.

Until what people need is more than I can do.  There is a point in time where I can't do something for someone, when carrying one more box or painting one more wall or volunteering one more hour to just show up and be there won't cut it.  Not because I'm not trying hard enough, but because what I have to give doesn't line up with what someone else needs to receive.  This has been one of the hardest life lessons of the last seven or so years.  When someone's heart is broken, there's only so much dark chocolate and red wine I can bring before we're both drunk but their pain is not numbed.  When someone's life is turned upside down, I can help manage a lot of chaos and I can cheerlead with the best of them, but I cannot quiet their heart.  I can run errands and do chores like a kick-ass assistant, but I cannot be the things that only that person is to the people in their life.  I can speak encouraging words but I cannot free someone from burdens they've carried for years.

And yet.

And yet, there must be something.  I'm not sure I believe there's a point where I'm allowed to sit back and say, "well, see ya later, and good luck with that _____."  I'm just sure of it.  What I'm not sure of is what I'm supposed to do.  I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to pray, but I have no idea how.  If I remember correctly, Paul (or someone else equally apostolic and important) said to pray without ceasing, and each of those darn letters that make up a good chunk of the New Testament include wonderful examples of how people prayed for one another in those days.  The answer to my limitations as a friend seems, quite obviously, to turn to the One who is limitless in both His love and His power.  Why can't I do that?

Humility.

I'm more and more convinced that I can't pray for others because of my own pride.  As long as I can muscle along and help someone myself, I can be proud of my strength.  Prayer admits that I can't do something, and need God to fill in the gaps.  My gaps.  The gaps of others.  The gaps of our humanity, our brokenness, our neediness.  It is easy for me to work hard, to move your furniture, to love your kids, to feed your cat.  While these things are sacrifices of my time and my body, and while they are always meant out of deep love for you and your family, they are not sacrifices of the deepest part of me.  When I can look you in the eye and tell you that I pray for you regularly, in addition to doing these other things for and with you, then you and I will both know that I have learned another layer of what it is to love sacrificially.  In the meantime, I'm going to keep muscling on, and try to listen more closely to the voice in my heart telling me that where one set of muscles leaves off, another must pick up, and just because I have yet to develop that particular set of muscles does not excuse me from the task at hand.

Images: Summer

The rough weave of the "Mexico Blanket," as it has lovingly been dubbed, rubs against my skin.  I'm sure I'll have funny indentations on my knees and elbows later from laying here.  My left foot lays carelessly off the blanket, in the soft grass of the well-cared for lawn I've captured for the afternoon.  I love the feeling of grass; I hate the feeling of insects.  Maybe it's not laying there so carelessly after all, but in reality ready to shake itself free of anything claiming the prerogative to explore my toes without my express permission.  The soccer shorts and loose tank top I am wearing make any position I can find comfortable; it's my shoulders, and their inherent tension that makes it difficult to relax reading a book while on my stomach this lazy summer afternoon.  But I soldier on, determined to add some color to my back and shoulders this afternoon while the sun is still behind me.  I would say my legs too, but since I graduated from high school and stopped playing tennis, there's pretty much no hope for them.  Eventually I give up, the pain in my shoulders distracting me from even the most fascinating of words and stories.  I roll over, flopping one arm over my eyes to block out the bright sun (as a glasses wearer, sunglasses and I are not good friends).  That's when it hits me:  summer is better felt than seen.  The brightness of the sun (even when not facing it directly) makes it almost impossible to really experience the things around you.  It's the musty smell of that blanket, the feeling of grass between my toes, the tickling sensation as sweat gathers in my arm-pits and knee-pits and trickles between my shoulder blades.  It's the feeling of sun-warmed skin, ice cold water pouring down your throat, the sounds of summer mornings, afternoons, and evenings, so diverse and yet connected.  I lay there, letting myself just breathe for five minutes, instead of constantly distracting myself with a book or song or movie or some other task.  This is what it feels like to be safely suspended from reality and simultaneously present in an altogether holy way.

(My) Grief (Un)Observed

This morning I started reading C.S. Lewis' A Grief Observed.  Between reading the first part of that book, and a conversation with my brother and some old friends from home over a late lunch in rainy Coeur D'Alene this afternoon, I was reminded that I don't really know how to grieve.

One of the introductions to the book pointed out that this is the account of one man's grief, hence the little word "a" at the beginning of the title.  There is no way someone could write a book titled Grief Observed and have it make any sense to anyone.  That comment pointed my attention to the title of my post, which was originally just A Grief Observed.  But in reality, this is not "a" grief.  It's my grief.  And when I'm being honest, I haven't taken time to observe it.  I feel like my grief is sitting just below the surface of my life, threatening to spill over the edges at any moment.  I spend a lot of time and energy keeping everything balanced and calm, but every once in a while a kind word or a shared memory or someone's honest revelation of their own grief tips the scales and a big ole splash of grief comes pouring out.  And yet, there is never less grief.  I'm guessing that until I empty the whole bucket it will just continue to grow, no matter how many times I spill some.  I long to empty the whole bucket, but at the same time, I'm a little frightened.  I'm not exactly sure who I am without the bucket.  There's been something in the bucket for ten and a half years, and in some respects who I am today is shaped around that full bucket.

One of the friends we had lunch with today commented that they are always impressed because my brother and I always seem to have hope.  I was a little shocked, primarily because I don't feel very hopeful right now.  But if other people can see it, maybe it really is there, and maybe the very Hope that raised Christ from the dead will work on my behalf to empty that bucket and fill in the bucket-sized hole left in my life.  I'm thinking chances are pretty good.  Here's to observed grief- may there be some coming my way soon.

Now That I See You

I’m pretty sure I fall into the category of “hopeless romantic” (so much so that I just had to refrain from using the phrase “hopeFUL romantic”).  I’ve believed in the epic quality of love since I was old enough to watch Beauty and the Beast.  I’ve been a sucker for film score music since before I knew what a French horn was or how a suspended chord works.  And as I’ve grown, and watched people live and love well, my theology of marriage has come to include a belief that God can work through a couple in some pretty amazing ways.  Since my dating experience amounts to a grand total of, well, none, I don’t have any personal evidence to test my theories, but I’ve seen enough to recognize that with a lot of work and faith and prayer and selflessness, love can be a game-changer.  I’m not ready for that now, but I’m hopeful that someday I’ll be entrusted with a relationship, to care for and nurture and be shaped and changed by.  In the meantime, I’m just a little more aware of emotional, romantic things I encounter in my world than the average human being.  

Historically, Disney movies do not promote healthy views of love or marriage or even family life, so I know some will scoff when my next sentence begins, but stick with me.  Tonight, I watched the movie Tangled with my brother, who is visiting from San Diego and apparently had not made time in his busy school schedule to view this treasure.  I’m pretty much in love with Zachary Levi, who did the voice of the main male character, and I don’t mind Mandy Moore as much as I used to (she did the voice of the main female character), so I was paying attention to the duet they sing three-quarters of the way through the movie.  The line that caught my attention (between the epically awesome French horn lines) was “All at once, everything is different- now that I see you.”  I’m not sure I believe in that moment, but I’ve come to believe that a big part of love is really seeing the person you claim to love.  Not seeing the person you want them to be, or the person they’re presenting to the world, but actually seeing them, and doing so in such a way that they know you see them.  One of the things I’m profoundly aware of in this incredibly single stage of my life is that there is no one here to really see me, and nobody whom I am allowed to really see.  I’m deeply thankful to be single right now- I’m having wonderful adventures and rocking sometimes-crazy and/or completely-unstable schedules and all sorts of things that are hard to do when you’re sharing life with someone- but I’m praying that God is preparing my eyes to do some good seeing someday.  Because I long to be seen (known) so deeply, I know that I must be prepared to do the same for someone else, and I’m anticipating the joy that will come through that process (and the hard work and pain- don’t worry, I haven’t been completely Disney-fied).   

Gut Reactions

Tonight I had the privilege of attending a fantastic recital at Whitworth, where two friends gave a wonderful performance that culminated four years of private lessons, instrumental and voice lab performances, and late nights of practicing.  It was awesome to experience their gift of musicianship, but I couldn't help noticing my reaction to being in the recital hall where I spent so many hours as a college student.  Part of me felt nervous, as if I would be called on at any moment to sing something on the spot.  I remember vividly all the insecurities that come with studying music among talented peers.  The other part of me felt as though I didn't belong.  I recognized more students in that hall because they come to my Starbucks than because we were at Whitworth together, which is probably normal for someone nearly three years out of college.  Still, it felt uncomfortable, even as it felt all too familiar.  I think the saying "you can't go back" acknowledges the ways that people, places, and institutions change over time.  Every time I return to Whitworth's campus, I am reminded of the ways that I have changed and the ways Whitworth has changed.  At our core, Whitworth and I are still who we always have been.  But tonight, my gut reactions reminded me that I'm on a journey, and although I seem to keep coming back to the same places, nothing stays the same forever.

Evidence to the Contrary

Apparently, I'm not yet an adult.  But I might be on my way?  Today when my car battery died, I called my dad in tears, crying like I did when I lost the 6th grade spelling bee.  And then, like the grown-up I'm masquerading as these days, I got out my AAA card (which is paid for by, guess who, my dad) and called the lovely people at the Roadside Assistance number.

Public service announcement:  AAA is great.  They are very sweet, and seem to instinctively know when women are on the verge of tears.

Then, like the teenager I really am inside, I called my dad again.  While he told me what he has discovered about the going rate for car batteries fitting my beloved Babs' needs (sidenote:  I did not name my car.  Kudos go to Rachel, Katie, and Taylor for that one), I stepped into Trader Joe's and bought myself some power food:  salami, cheese, and bread.  If it got me through three weeks in Germany, I'm hoping it can handle the sleep deprived, slightly hormonal version of myself I'm experiencing today.  This is evidence that I'm maturing.  Ten years ago, I would have just kept crying and failed to recognize that everything seems about fifteen times worse than it actually is when I'm hungry.  Or tired.  Or in this case, both.

The rest of the story plays out mostly in the adult decision-making realm.  I waited for the AAA guy to come, watched as he cleaned and tested my battery, and nodded knowingly when he explained the results, despite the fact that the only sentence I actually understood was the one that went like this:  "I don't think you need a new battery today."  At this point, I'm feeling good.  So good, in fact, that I call my dad, just to let him know that all is well in my grown-up world.

Baby steps.

Ebenezer

I'm on the phone with my little brother right now, and we're "rehearsing" the hymn "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing" for our friend Amy's wedding later this month.  I sent him the chord chart earlier this week, and tonight, after making it through the first line and a half, he called me to complain about the dm7 chord in the second line.  Typical.

Ok.  Now we're off the phone and I can focus on the millions of little stories running through my head.  I think tonight I'll just tell three of them.

#1, or, Why You Can't Skip the Dm7
In the world of music theory, there are a bunch of different seventh chords, classified by the type of triad formed by the root, third, and fifth, and then again by the quality of the seventh interval between the root and the seventh.  In ear training classes you develop all sorts of techniques (mostly associations based on feelings) so you can recognize these chords instinctively, rather than having to logic through all the notes you're hearing.  My favorite, by far, is the minor-minor seventh chord, which is built with both a minor triad and a minor seventh interval.  The cool thing about this chord, aside from the sound which is in and of itself awesome, is that in context it often creates interest in potentially boring situations.  Often, you can substitute a minor-minor seventh chord built on the second degree of a scale for a major chord built on the fourth degree of a scale, and in a world where most worship songs bounce back and forth between I, IV, V and the occasional vi, a ii7 can add a lot.  Ok, musically nerdy moment over.  But the reality is that by playing this chord in the song we're rehearsing, it adds something poignant, a reminder that not all is as it should be.  It also adds motion, propelling us forward to the resolution of the chord, reminding us that we have to keep going.  I don't play the guitar, so I don't understand what's hard and what's not, but I'm not letting him off easy.  The dm7 stays.

#2, or, How Ebenezer Sometimes Equals Bricks
Ebenezer is a funny Old Testament word that shows up in the second verse of "Come Thou Fount," depending on which arrangement you're using.  It basically means "monument" or "reminder" and the context is building something to remember God's faithfulness.  Earlier today, I was helping a friend pack up her home in preparation for moving this weekend, and I came across a third of a brick sitting on the kitchen table.  "What's the story here?" I asked, not expecting the answer that followed.  It turns out that buying this house was quite a process, and the previous owners were not happy with the outcome.  In what can only be assumed to have been bitterness, when they left, they took a pile of bricks that was waiting to be used to finish a landscaping project, leaving behind only six or so broken bricks.  My friend has held onto this chunk of brick for the last 10 years, using it at a bookend and various other things.  It is a little Ebenezer, a monument to something that came before.  I'm waiting for my friend who is getting married to tell me which version of the hymn she'd like us to sing, and I'm hoping she picks the one with this funny, strange-to-our-21st-century-ears word.

#3, or, Why My Brother is Going to be OK
During most of our phone call, my brother had me on speakerphone, and I quickly realized he was not the only person on his end.  A friend of his from school was there with him, a friend I had the privilege of meeting last January when, in a stroke of genius, I planned a vacation and escaped snowy Spokane for beautiful San Diego.  As I talked with both boys, a wave of gratitude swept over me for their friendship and for the other guys in their lives.  Last year's visit was about as good a visit as a big sister can have with her little brother, and I fell in love with each of the 4 or 5 guys that he spends most of his time with.  I couldn't feel better about the choices my brother has made in his friendships.  First of all, they are almost all engineering students of one sort or another, which means they're nerdy enough to avoid most college boy trouble, and if they do try to pull something, it's so nerdy that it is also not inherently stupid or dangerous.  Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, they're all great guys.  They love God and their families and their friends, they work hard at both school and enjoying life, and they were so sweet to me when I visited.  They laughed at my terrible jokes and didn't mind my tagging along on all their adventures, and complimented me on everything from how I rib on my brother to how I sing.  They take my brother home to visit their families and they call when they're near our home visiting family or friends.  They care for one another, and celebrate life together and push each other to work hard.  One of things I value most about my college experience is the relationships that were forged during those formative years, and one of the things I was worried about most when my brother left for school was that he wouldn't have that transforming experience of sharing life with a consistent group of people.  Turns out he did just fine.  Every time I think about that trip, or look the picture on my desktop of my brother and I in downtown San Diego, I remember God's faithfulness in our lives, especially with our friendships.  So, here I raise my Ebenezer.  Good night.