I’ve always been a big New Year’s Resolutions fan. I know there are some unbelievers out there. Some may criticize the idea of making resolutions, saying that they’re unrealistic and that people forget about them anyway. And, perhaps that is true for the most part, but I like to try to make realistic ones and I do my best to stick to them.
I looked back through my journals to see what resolutions I’ve made in past years, and I realized that I haven’t made resolutions for the past two years! In 2004 I was too caught up in preparing to go to Spain, and in 2005 I was worried about my student teaching placement for my last semester in college. The last time I made concrete resolutions was in 2003, and out of the 7 that I made, I followed through completely with 3. I’d say that 3 out of 7 is pretty good—better than none, anyway.
This year? Here’s what I have in mind:
1. I want to consistently set aside time for God every day (whether that be offering a prayer, reading the Bible or simply sitting quietly and meditating on Him and nothing else). Even if it’s just 10-15 minutes, I want it to be something I do every day.
2. I want to read at least a chapter out of the Bible every day. Now, in years past, I’ve made resolutions to read the whole thing, and I will admit that I have accomplished reading the entire Bible through only once. But maybe it would be more realistic to say a chapter a day. That’s doable.
3. I want to continue my regimen of taking care of my skin and hair. These things have always been a bit of a struggle for me (my face breaking out, my hair not being my friend), but I’ve gotten it to where my skin has calmed down and my hair is growing and is nicer to me. I want to keep it that way.
4. I want to do a significant amount of physical activity at least once a week. That might seem like a weak resolution, but I’ve never been this huge workout person and I would like to be. My ideal is to take an invigorating walk at the park near where I live every Saturday morning.
5. I want to be more honest with myself and with others. I consider myself an honest person in general, but I want to get to the point where I feel comfortable saying “no” to people and not feel so worried about what other people will think of me if I express how I truly feel about things. I want to be more honest with myself by not being in self-denial about my feelings and by admitting to myself that there are some things I cannot do on my own.
I think these resolutions are pretty reasonable and doable. Now, for a reflection on this past year: Several pretty important things have happened, lots of firsts, and it’s hard to sum everything up, but I’ll try.
1. I completed a scholarly article of research on Second Language Learning, and finally got it published. I cannot even begin to tell you how much work that was.
2. I student taught while taking a class and being a Resident Assistant all at the same time. I thought I wasn’t going to make it, but I did, and finally walked across the stage May 7th, 2005.
3. I had to make a difficult decision over whether I would continue and go straight into grad school to get a Master’s degree or to take a break from school and work in my profession.
4. I was recruited and interviewed for the first real professional job in my life, and in the end, I signed on the dotted line to be a real, live teacher. I got my first professional paycheck in August, and I finally got a taste of what the working world is like.
5. I had the first serious relationship ever in my life.
6. I became a part of the first Spanish ministry our church has ever had.
7. I went to a Young Adult conference in St. Louis (the first of its kind) and got a lot of direction that has influenced some of my choices and plans.
I pray that the Lord will continue to order my steps in whatever I do, and I pray the same for all who are reading this. Happy New Year, everyone!
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
The Banquet Babe Returns: The Proof
I promised that pictures would be forthcoming, and they say that a picture is worth a thousand words, so I'll just let my words be few and let the pictures speak to you.
Me and the Christmas tree!
Me and the girls!
Great minds dress alike.
Guess which one is my mom. Who knew?
The Banquet Babe rests her case. Until next year!
Me and the Christmas tree!
Me and the girls!
Great minds dress alike.
Guess which one is my mom. Who knew?
The Banquet Babe rests her case. Until next year!
Marathon Reader
Whew! I finally finished The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami. I think it must be the longest book I've ever read in my life (well, except for the Bible). That sucker was 600+ pages long!
I'm not going to sit here and like give a book review or anything, but I'll just say it was quite an engrossing read. Now, I need to take the same energy and fervor I had reading Wind-Up Bird to reading my Bible and things that'll help me out spiritually. I started The Purpose Driven Life by Rick Warren. It's not meant to be devoured in large chunks. So far I've gotten some pretty amazing, yet simple pointers that will help me focus on the most important things.
Today I had lunch with some old high school friends. I sat savoring an iced chai tea latte as we caught up on each other's lives. My high school years were pretty memorable, in a good way. I went to a public college prep magnet school. Anytime I told anyone where I went to high school, I often got, "Oh, you go to that nerd school" in response. We were all nerds and proud of it. I can't tell you how liberating it was to be in an all-nerd environment. I could be myself and nobody cared! And we were pretty tight-knit. We had a graduating class of like 50 something kids.
Later on, I met up with one of my road dawgs that I also graduated from high school with. I'll just call him Brother, because he really is just like a brother to me. When people see us together, they often ask if we're related. We hit up Barnes and Noble and he took my book recommendations (well, some of them). He absolutely had to read Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison. And I begged him to get Blink by Malcolm Gladwell. I bought that book on a Friday night and had it finished Saturday night. I was so enthralled with it, I passed it on to the assistant pastor.
Then we went to Family Christian Bookstores where Brother went on a search for an illusive affordable Bible with a Greek and Hebrew lexicon, and I went on a hunt for some uplifting music. From now on, I'm going to try to put on postive stuff to lighten my mood when I start feeling blue instead of putting on mood-appropriate music and wallowing. Ugh. I've done more than my fair share of that.
Oh, I've only one more week of unadulterated bliss left before I have to go back to the daily routine. I must soak it all in before the clock strikes twelve and my carriage turns back into a pumpkin and my lovely dress back into plain old house clothes. Well, at least I'll get to keep the glass slippers.
I'm not going to sit here and like give a book review or anything, but I'll just say it was quite an engrossing read. Now, I need to take the same energy and fervor I had reading Wind-Up Bird to reading my Bible and things that'll help me out spiritually. I started The Purpose Driven Life by Rick Warren. It's not meant to be devoured in large chunks. So far I've gotten some pretty amazing, yet simple pointers that will help me focus on the most important things.
Today I had lunch with some old high school friends. I sat savoring an iced chai tea latte as we caught up on each other's lives. My high school years were pretty memorable, in a good way. I went to a public college prep magnet school. Anytime I told anyone where I went to high school, I often got, "Oh, you go to that nerd school" in response. We were all nerds and proud of it. I can't tell you how liberating it was to be in an all-nerd environment. I could be myself and nobody cared! And we were pretty tight-knit. We had a graduating class of like 50 something kids.
Later on, I met up with one of my road dawgs that I also graduated from high school with. I'll just call him Brother, because he really is just like a brother to me. When people see us together, they often ask if we're related. We hit up Barnes and Noble and he took my book recommendations (well, some of them). He absolutely had to read Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison. And I begged him to get Blink by Malcolm Gladwell. I bought that book on a Friday night and had it finished Saturday night. I was so enthralled with it, I passed it on to the assistant pastor.
Then we went to Family Christian Bookstores where Brother went on a search for an illusive affordable Bible with a Greek and Hebrew lexicon, and I went on a hunt for some uplifting music. From now on, I'm going to try to put on postive stuff to lighten my mood when I start feeling blue instead of putting on mood-appropriate music and wallowing. Ugh. I've done more than my fair share of that.
Oh, I've only one more week of unadulterated bliss left before I have to go back to the daily routine. I must soak it all in before the clock strikes twelve and my carriage turns back into a pumpkin and my lovely dress back into plain old house clothes. Well, at least I'll get to keep the glass slippers.
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Here I sit, not knowing
whether I’m really going to post this or not. But this is my way, this is my outlet, my opportunity to let things go. To release whatever I need to get rid of and fling it into the far reaches of the blogosphere.
What do I need to let go of? What do I need to fling away? Oh, it’s just a jumble, a mixture. Partly my fault, partly part of being a human being, I suppose. Ugh. Awkwardness. Trying to keep things under a smooth veneer of “I’m fine.” Trying to be natural, but inside, wringing my cold, clammy hands together. Trying to smile, but inside on the verge of tears. Is it anyone’s fault? No, not anyone else’s. And now that I think about it, not my own, either. It’s just a part of the circumstances of life. When life puts you in a circumstance, what else is there to do but behave and think and feel like any other normal human being in the same circumstance? Sigh. No, it’s not that bad, really. I wonder how many psychiatrists would eventually lose their jobs if blogging were prescribed instead of Prozac?
Now my mind is drifting back to this morning. To spending time with my family and opening gifts and reflecting on all the wonderful things God has done for us this year. He’s greater than any circumstance of life.
What do I need to let go of? What do I need to fling away? Oh, it’s just a jumble, a mixture. Partly my fault, partly part of being a human being, I suppose. Ugh. Awkwardness. Trying to keep things under a smooth veneer of “I’m fine.” Trying to be natural, but inside, wringing my cold, clammy hands together. Trying to smile, but inside on the verge of tears. Is it anyone’s fault? No, not anyone else’s. And now that I think about it, not my own, either. It’s just a part of the circumstances of life. When life puts you in a circumstance, what else is there to do but behave and think and feel like any other normal human being in the same circumstance? Sigh. No, it’s not that bad, really. I wonder how many psychiatrists would eventually lose their jobs if blogging were prescribed instead of Prozac?
Now my mind is drifting back to this morning. To spending time with my family and opening gifts and reflecting on all the wonderful things God has done for us this year. He’s greater than any circumstance of life.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Christmas and Haruki Murakami
What does the day that our culture has chosen to celebrate the birth of Christ have anything to do with a contemporary Japanese writer?
I’m always trying to make connections in my mind. I have this romantic (not as in hearts and roses, but you know, the other meaning of “romantic” that has to do with artistic and literary movements—well, I guess it could be hearts and roses too, depending on how you look at it) idea that things, no matter how seemingly unrelated, are somehow connected.
It’s really interesting. I guess because I read a Haruki Murakami novel last Christmas break too. Maybe that’s how the connection made its initial appearance. Last year I read Dance, Dance, Dance. This year I’m reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.
Just yesterday I was musing over a cup of decaf coffee that in our lifetime, we are only allowed to see the world from our own point of view. For example, could I ever really understand my younger brother? No, I reasoned, because I could never be him. I could never know what it’s like to be a male (I mean, not that I would ever want to be a male—I’m pretty happy being a woman). I don’t know what it feels like to be a middle child. I haven’t had the same experiences as he has had in his life nor fought the same struggles. As much as I claim to know my brother, my flesh and blood brother that I grew up with, could I ever really truly understand him? Then I thought about people in foreign countries, like Third World countries who just barely eke out an existence every day. I couldn’t fathom wondering if I were going to eat every day I woke up. I could never know what it’s like to be Chinese. To speak a tonal language where much of meaning depends on pitch and to write characters to convey meaning instead of like a phonetic system. The idea fascinates me for some reason. That we can never be anyone but ourselves. And we can’t have a true understanding of the world outside of our own understanding of it.
But then, let me rewind to last week. I was pondering the word Bildungsroman. It’s a German word used to describe a genre of literature that is just a fancy way of saying ‘a coming of age novel.’ I got to thinking about Bildungsroman because I was searching in the archives of my blog for a particular entry and I happened upon a haunting poem that I posted by a brooding turn-of the-century German poet named Rainer Maria Rilke. And then Rilke’s German-ness made me think of Bildungsroman, a word that one of my rather wordy English professors used when we began discussion of some novel we had to read: “So, what genre would you say this novel falls under? Is it a satire, a semi-autobiography, a Bildungsroman?”
Now, fast-forward. I checked out The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami from the library earlier this week. On the front inside flap, I read that among other things, this novel is “a bildungsroman about a compassionate young man’s search for his own identity as well as that of his nation.” I suppose the word is so common that it can appear now in un-capitalized, un-italicized form. Connection. Then, the first paragraph of Chapter 2: “Is it possible, finally, for one human being to achieve perfect understanding of another? We can invest enormous time and energy in serious efforts to know another person, but in the end, how close are we able to come to that person’s essence? We convince ourselves that we know the other person well, but do we really know anything important about anyone?” Back to those musings over decaf coffee. Connection.
So, today I sat, comfortably curled in a chair, reading Haruki Murakami during Christmas time, the air thick with déjà vu.
Merry Christmas, everybody, and Happy Birthday, Jesus!
I’m always trying to make connections in my mind. I have this romantic (not as in hearts and roses, but you know, the other meaning of “romantic” that has to do with artistic and literary movements—well, I guess it could be hearts and roses too, depending on how you look at it) idea that things, no matter how seemingly unrelated, are somehow connected.
It’s really interesting. I guess because I read a Haruki Murakami novel last Christmas break too. Maybe that’s how the connection made its initial appearance. Last year I read Dance, Dance, Dance. This year I’m reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.
Just yesterday I was musing over a cup of decaf coffee that in our lifetime, we are only allowed to see the world from our own point of view. For example, could I ever really understand my younger brother? No, I reasoned, because I could never be him. I could never know what it’s like to be a male (I mean, not that I would ever want to be a male—I’m pretty happy being a woman). I don’t know what it feels like to be a middle child. I haven’t had the same experiences as he has had in his life nor fought the same struggles. As much as I claim to know my brother, my flesh and blood brother that I grew up with, could I ever really truly understand him? Then I thought about people in foreign countries, like Third World countries who just barely eke out an existence every day. I couldn’t fathom wondering if I were going to eat every day I woke up. I could never know what it’s like to be Chinese. To speak a tonal language where much of meaning depends on pitch and to write characters to convey meaning instead of like a phonetic system. The idea fascinates me for some reason. That we can never be anyone but ourselves. And we can’t have a true understanding of the world outside of our own understanding of it.
But then, let me rewind to last week. I was pondering the word Bildungsroman. It’s a German word used to describe a genre of literature that is just a fancy way of saying ‘a coming of age novel.’ I got to thinking about Bildungsroman because I was searching in the archives of my blog for a particular entry and I happened upon a haunting poem that I posted by a brooding turn-of the-century German poet named Rainer Maria Rilke. And then Rilke’s German-ness made me think of Bildungsroman, a word that one of my rather wordy English professors used when we began discussion of some novel we had to read: “So, what genre would you say this novel falls under? Is it a satire, a semi-autobiography, a Bildungsroman?”
Now, fast-forward. I checked out The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami from the library earlier this week. On the front inside flap, I read that among other things, this novel is “a bildungsroman about a compassionate young man’s search for his own identity as well as that of his nation.” I suppose the word is so common that it can appear now in un-capitalized, un-italicized form. Connection. Then, the first paragraph of Chapter 2: “Is it possible, finally, for one human being to achieve perfect understanding of another? We can invest enormous time and energy in serious efforts to know another person, but in the end, how close are we able to come to that person’s essence? We convince ourselves that we know the other person well, but do we really know anything important about anyone?” Back to those musings over decaf coffee. Connection.
So, today I sat, comfortably curled in a chair, reading Haruki Murakami during Christmas time, the air thick with déjà vu.
Merry Christmas, everybody, and Happy Birthday, Jesus!
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Bliss
Bliss is not having to go to work in the morning. Bliss is having the choice to sleep in for as long as you want. Bliss is having the opportunity to take long, leisurely showers without brothers yelling for you to get out and stop using up the hot water. Bliss is having time in the morning to go to Chick-fil-a and get a much-craved-after chicken biscuit breakfast combo with orange juice instead of coffee. Bliss is having the time and money to get your family and friends special things for Christmas. Bliss is sashaying around the house blasting Louis Armstrong's "Is That You Santa Claus?" while decorating the Christmas tree. Bliss is having time to read for pleasure. Bliss is having the opportunity to go to my favorite place in Montgomery of all time--The Alabama Shakespeare Festival--and to enjoy a production with friends.
I truly believe I have found my calling as a teacher. There aren't many other professions that allow the professionals so many opportunities to have moments of bliss. I know the kids are overjoyed for their two-and-a-half weeks off, but believe me, the teachers get pretty giddy about it too, and I'm savoring every moment of my having-to-do-nothingness.
I truly believe I have found my calling as a teacher. There aren't many other professions that allow the professionals so many opportunities to have moments of bliss. I know the kids are overjoyed for their two-and-a-half weeks off, but believe me, the teachers get pretty giddy about it too, and I'm savoring every moment of my having-to-do-nothingness.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
The Banquet Babe Speaks
Now, I don't believe that I am a conceited person. Many times, after appraising myself in the mirror, the results are unsatisfactory. But today was one of the few times I thought I looked pretty good.
Okay, okay, before you think my head has increased in size to near exploding point, let me give a little background. Tonight was our church's annual Christmas banquet. I've been looking forward to this one especially because I haven't been to one the past 3 or so years--when I was a Resident Assistant at UA, I usually wasn't able to leave campus in time to make it. But since my college and RA years are over, this time I was able. Secondly, the Christmas banquet is like the only time of the year that I can get super dressed up. I love getting super dressed up. But since I'm not like this . . . socialite or whatever that goes to balls and numerous social galas all the time, the Christmas banquet is like my chance. Thirdly, I took special care to do the whole accessorizing thing just right. I wore a long, red, short-sleeved, mock-turtleneck dress with a black sweaterish top over it with (fake) fur around the collar. Since I had the fake black fur thing going on, I had to accessorize accordingly. I found the perfect black purse that had kind of feathery fur lining the top. I borrowed some perfect black shoes with the furriness thing. I scoured hair accessory stores and finally settled on a black flower surrounded by soft fluffy black fur. And to bring out the red a little more, I pinned on one of my favorite pins--a little one of Santa and Mrs. Claus under the mistletoe. I did my hair in my favorite curly, tendrily up-do. I was ready.
I will admit, however, that negativity tried to slide its ugly way in. It said: Why are you going through all this trouble trying to fix yourself all up like you're trying to impress someone? Why are you going through all of this trouble trying to look nice when there will be no one there to really appreciate it? Sure, a few church folks will say 'Oh, you look nice,' but you know what I'm talking about. Come on, who are you kidding? Your labor is in vain.
But I refused to let it lodge. I told negativity to chill, and I had a fantabulous time. I smiled my big toothy smile (I know my teeth are huge, but it's all good) and took loads of pictures by the pretty little Christmas tree afterwards. And just for that, negativity, for trying to ruin my time at the banquet, I hereby crown myself the Banquet Babe, and I rebuke you forever and always. Take that!
Oh, and pictures will be forthcoming.
Okay, okay, before you think my head has increased in size to near exploding point, let me give a little background. Tonight was our church's annual Christmas banquet. I've been looking forward to this one especially because I haven't been to one the past 3 or so years--when I was a Resident Assistant at UA, I usually wasn't able to leave campus in time to make it. But since my college and RA years are over, this time I was able. Secondly, the Christmas banquet is like the only time of the year that I can get super dressed up. I love getting super dressed up. But since I'm not like this . . . socialite or whatever that goes to balls and numerous social galas all the time, the Christmas banquet is like my chance. Thirdly, I took special care to do the whole accessorizing thing just right. I wore a long, red, short-sleeved, mock-turtleneck dress with a black sweaterish top over it with (fake) fur around the collar. Since I had the fake black fur thing going on, I had to accessorize accordingly. I found the perfect black purse that had kind of feathery fur lining the top. I borrowed some perfect black shoes with the furriness thing. I scoured hair accessory stores and finally settled on a black flower surrounded by soft fluffy black fur. And to bring out the red a little more, I pinned on one of my favorite pins--a little one of Santa and Mrs. Claus under the mistletoe. I did my hair in my favorite curly, tendrily up-do. I was ready.
I will admit, however, that negativity tried to slide its ugly way in. It said: Why are you going through all this trouble trying to fix yourself all up like you're trying to impress someone? Why are you going through all of this trouble trying to look nice when there will be no one there to really appreciate it? Sure, a few church folks will say 'Oh, you look nice,' but you know what I'm talking about. Come on, who are you kidding? Your labor is in vain.
But I refused to let it lodge. I told negativity to chill, and I had a fantabulous time. I smiled my big toothy smile (I know my teeth are huge, but it's all good) and took loads of pictures by the pretty little Christmas tree afterwards. And just for that, negativity, for trying to ruin my time at the banquet, I hereby crown myself the Banquet Babe, and I rebuke you forever and always. Take that!
Oh, and pictures will be forthcoming.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Subcultures
I often take pity on myself and bewail the fact that it seems that I don’t fit in anywhere and that no one understands me, etc. Those things are, at the core, untrue. I realize that, and I know that those self-piteous complaints are old and tired.
But there is a new knowledge awakening in my brain. (No, not of the Kate Chopin variety, thank God.) That is that there are chunks of me that fit into certain slots. Not that I’m separated into slots, but maybe I’m more like a Venn diagram, and the circles of the different categories or whatever interlock to create who I am.
We’re all members of varying subcultures.
sub'·cul· ture n. 1. a distinctive social group within a larger social group 2. its cultural patterns
I don’t completely fit into the conventional version of each one, of course, but I will admit that parts of me do fit in somewhere. Something that I love about subcultures is that each one has its own specialized jargon that wouldn’t make sense to those without it. Part of belonging is understanding the significance of the lingo. Examples:
The black female subculture
Biology pretty much decided my inclusion in this one. One subculture concept that is extremely common is the term “new growth.” Now, to most people that would seem to be something positive, especially when referring to hair. But anyone in the know would understand that “Look at all the new growth in that girl’s hair” is not a compliment. Among those of us who have relaxed hair, the “new growth” is the natural hair that begins to grow in at the roots. If you get to the point where you have too much new growth, that means it’s time for a “retouch,” otherwise known as the application of a chemical crème at the roots of the hair in order to straighten it.
The Apostolic/Pentecostal subculture
Biology was not a factor in my inclusion in this one, but it may seem the case for the so-called “generational” members. Now, there is so much specialized lingo up in this one, it would be an exercise in futility to try and enumerate. And some of it is so convoluted that it confounds sometimes even the members. But a simple example is the term “shout.” Now, to your average Joe, “shout” means just what it appears, a synonym for “yell,” right? However, the question “Did you see Sis. Susie shouting tonight?” indicates that it involves movement as well as sound. For those in the know, “shout” is a simplified way of saying “scream, jump up and down, do a Holy Ghost dance, spin around a couple of times, cry, and/or fall out speaking in tongues.” Only a visit to a jumpin’ Sunday night service would do it justice.
The student “college kid” subculture
Alright, alright, I’m not a member of this one anymore, but I can still relate. Here’s a quick vocab list:
cereal – one of the major food groups
next semester – when you promise yourself you’re going to do better
studying – looking over notes the night before a cumulative final
dinner – free pizza at an activity put on by the Residence Hall Association
office hours – a time during which you can never find your professor when you need him/her
laundromat – your parents’ washer and dryer on the weekends you go home
So next time I start pulling out the streamers and balloons for a pity party, I’ll think of subcultures and Venn diagrams to counteract it.
But there is a new knowledge awakening in my brain. (No, not of the Kate Chopin variety, thank God.) That is that there are chunks of me that fit into certain slots. Not that I’m separated into slots, but maybe I’m more like a Venn diagram, and the circles of the different categories or whatever interlock to create who I am.
We’re all members of varying subcultures.
sub'·cul· ture n. 1. a distinctive social group within a larger social group 2. its cultural patterns
I don’t completely fit into the conventional version of each one, of course, but I will admit that parts of me do fit in somewhere. Something that I love about subcultures is that each one has its own specialized jargon that wouldn’t make sense to those without it. Part of belonging is understanding the significance of the lingo. Examples:
The black female subculture
Biology pretty much decided my inclusion in this one. One subculture concept that is extremely common is the term “new growth.” Now, to most people that would seem to be something positive, especially when referring to hair. But anyone in the know would understand that “Look at all the new growth in that girl’s hair” is not a compliment. Among those of us who have relaxed hair, the “new growth” is the natural hair that begins to grow in at the roots. If you get to the point where you have too much new growth, that means it’s time for a “retouch,” otherwise known as the application of a chemical crème at the roots of the hair in order to straighten it.
The Apostolic/Pentecostal subculture
Biology was not a factor in my inclusion in this one, but it may seem the case for the so-called “generational” members. Now, there is so much specialized lingo up in this one, it would be an exercise in futility to try and enumerate. And some of it is so convoluted that it confounds sometimes even the members. But a simple example is the term “shout.” Now, to your average Joe, “shout” means just what it appears, a synonym for “yell,” right? However, the question “Did you see Sis. Susie shouting tonight?” indicates that it involves movement as well as sound. For those in the know, “shout” is a simplified way of saying “scream, jump up and down, do a Holy Ghost dance, spin around a couple of times, cry, and/or fall out speaking in tongues.” Only a visit to a jumpin’ Sunday night service would do it justice.
The student “college kid” subculture
Alright, alright, I’m not a member of this one anymore, but I can still relate. Here’s a quick vocab list:
cereal – one of the major food groups
next semester – when you promise yourself you’re going to do better
studying – looking over notes the night before a cumulative final
dinner – free pizza at an activity put on by the Residence Hall Association
office hours – a time during which you can never find your professor when you need him/her
laundromat – your parents’ washer and dryer on the weekends you go home
So next time I start pulling out the streamers and balloons for a pity party, I’ll think of subcultures and Venn diagrams to counteract it.
Monday, December 12, 2005
In the Midst of Ouches
And Samuel said, Hath the LORD [as great] delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices, as in obeying the voice of the LORD? Behold, to obey [is] better than sacrifice, [and] to hearken than the fat of rams. -- 1 Samuel 15:22
Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset [us], and let us run with patience the race that is set before us. -- Hebrews 12:1
Obedience really hurts sometimes.
This is not the first time I have learned this lesson. Some of the times have been more difficult than others, however. But what I've also realized is that when you suck it up and obey, God will honor it. And I have learned that whatever you give up for God can never compare to what He can and will give in exchange.
I've also come to the realization that not everything God may want you to give up is something blatantly bad, evil, sinful, what-have-you. Hebrews 12:1 says to "lay aside every weight." The scripture makes a distinction between the "weight" and the "sin which doth so easily beset," therefore, the "weight" is not necessarily a sin. The weight is not something that has the devil written all over it. It is not necessarily something that will give you a one-way ticket to the pit. But perhaps it is something that is ever so slightly hindering you. Perhaps it is one of the little things that is weighing you down and is preventing you from progressing in your walk with God.
I've been convicted to give up some favorite things, and it hurt to give them up. But though I held out a little while--I knew for a while that maybe I needed to have done this long before now--ultimately, I couldn't let anything take precedence over what I felt that God was leading me to do, even in the midst of ouches.
Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset [us], and let us run with patience the race that is set before us. -- Hebrews 12:1
Obedience really hurts sometimes.
This is not the first time I have learned this lesson. Some of the times have been more difficult than others, however. But what I've also realized is that when you suck it up and obey, God will honor it. And I have learned that whatever you give up for God can never compare to what He can and will give in exchange.
I've also come to the realization that not everything God may want you to give up is something blatantly bad, evil, sinful, what-have-you. Hebrews 12:1 says to "lay aside every weight." The scripture makes a distinction between the "weight" and the "sin which doth so easily beset," therefore, the "weight" is not necessarily a sin. The weight is not something that has the devil written all over it. It is not necessarily something that will give you a one-way ticket to the pit. But perhaps it is something that is ever so slightly hindering you. Perhaps it is one of the little things that is weighing you down and is preventing you from progressing in your walk with God.
I've been convicted to give up some favorite things, and it hurt to give them up. But though I held out a little while--I knew for a while that maybe I needed to have done this long before now--ultimately, I couldn't let anything take precedence over what I felt that God was leading me to do, even in the midst of ouches.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
The Will, Revisited
A while ago, I wrote a post about the elusive Will of God. I never really came to a conclusion about the whole thing. However, I read a blog entry posted by a young lady whose blog I frequent often and was absolutely blown away by the clarity of her thoughts on the subject. It is definitely worth your time to read. It just made so much sense. I now have a fresh take on what it really means to be in the Will. Check it out here.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
The Writer
One of my best friends, Homegirl, and I have this running joke. We always remind each other that we could never marry a writer because it just wouldn’t do to be with someone who would be more dramatic and emotional than we are. Of course, this writer we are talking about is a stereotypical one. He wears black-rimmed glasses, is a caffeine-a-holic, is always brooding, and always intensely releasing the agonies of his soul through his writing. Here is a fully fleshed-out account of the content of our joke:
Brooding in a dimly lit corner in the study of an apartment, in a student-ghetto complex filled with graduate students, sits the writer.
The only light in the room consists of the glow of his laptop screen and the streetlight that shines through the window, creating an eerie cast over his pale skin and black-rimmed glasses. He runs a hand over his unruly dark hair and sighs deeply as he stares at the blank Word document screen before him. The cursor blinks unceasingly, taunting him.
He rubs at his bag-laden eyes, red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Scattered about are empty venti-sized Starbucks cups, drained of coffee he could barely afford to drink. He is trying to do what he supposedly does best—write. But inspiration is lacking. His muse has been uncomfortably silent. He has nearly spent himself, trying to reach into the depths of his tormented soul—tormented by the same demons that torment writers and artists and musicians and all those of the creative bent—to draw out that one nugget of raw, unadulterated impetus that he could always depend upon to get him going, to get his thoughts rushing from brain to fingertips like adrenaline-laced blood through his veins.
But lately, he has turned up nothing. Every attempt he makes seems futile, and, there, in the solitude of his study, mesmerized by the emptiness of the Word document, he finds himself sinking deeper and deeper into the abysmal abyss of losing his writer-identity forever.
A timid knock at the door jolts him into existence. He remembers his girlfriend said she would come over at about this time. She was a waif of a thing, almost like the wind could blow her away, he thinks, remembering the time they met at the reading held by the Creative Writing department. He could feel her eyes burning into him as he read an excerpt from his unpublished novel. Though she had the air of a complacent child at times, her intensity about things, about life, was what had initially attracted him. But no, she is not what he needs now. Not right now. Not when his grasp on the craft that has become a part of him is so weak. Not right now, he almost says aloud as he opens the door.
“I brought you some peanut butter cookies,” she whispers. “Your favorite.” She hands him a freezer bag bulging with them. He takes them and mumbles a greeting as he stands back to let her inside. It is as if he forgets she is even there as he goes back into his study to take up staring at the empty screen again. She cautiously follows him. “Are you uhh . . . going to try some?” she ventures. His back is to her as he sits slumped before the computer. No answer. “Baby, what’s wrong? You can tell me.” Her voice is soothing, almost musical, and she lays a soft hand upon his shoulder. He stiffens.
“No.” She doesn’t realize that his “no” is not really a refusal to tell her what is troubling him. At this moment, it’s more of a refusal to entertain any living entity in any manner whatsoever.
“Oh, it’s okay, baby, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. It just seems as if--”
He suddenly lifts his hand to silence her. “No . . . not now,” He says brusquely. Doesn’t she understand? His identity is slipping away from him and all she has to give in response are empty words and peanut butter cookies? He just needs to be left alone.
Tears well up in her eyes. How can he just shut her out like that? She has always been there for him, been his emotional support. She was always able to calm him, to soothe his mental anguish. “But honey, I--”
“NO! LEAVE ME ALONE!” He spins around in his chair to face her. Though his voice is harsh and bellowing, one could sense a tinge of desperate pleading in it.
She flees the apartment, sobbing, and slams the door behind her.
Brooding in a dimly lit corner in the study of an apartment, in a student-ghetto complex filled with graduate students, sits the writer, alone.
(That was for you, Homegirl. Love ya much!)
Brooding in a dimly lit corner in the study of an apartment, in a student-ghetto complex filled with graduate students, sits the writer.
The only light in the room consists of the glow of his laptop screen and the streetlight that shines through the window, creating an eerie cast over his pale skin and black-rimmed glasses. He runs a hand over his unruly dark hair and sighs deeply as he stares at the blank Word document screen before him. The cursor blinks unceasingly, taunting him.
He rubs at his bag-laden eyes, red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Scattered about are empty venti-sized Starbucks cups, drained of coffee he could barely afford to drink. He is trying to do what he supposedly does best—write. But inspiration is lacking. His muse has been uncomfortably silent. He has nearly spent himself, trying to reach into the depths of his tormented soul—tormented by the same demons that torment writers and artists and musicians and all those of the creative bent—to draw out that one nugget of raw, unadulterated impetus that he could always depend upon to get him going, to get his thoughts rushing from brain to fingertips like adrenaline-laced blood through his veins.
But lately, he has turned up nothing. Every attempt he makes seems futile, and, there, in the solitude of his study, mesmerized by the emptiness of the Word document, he finds himself sinking deeper and deeper into the abysmal abyss of losing his writer-identity forever.
A timid knock at the door jolts him into existence. He remembers his girlfriend said she would come over at about this time. She was a waif of a thing, almost like the wind could blow her away, he thinks, remembering the time they met at the reading held by the Creative Writing department. He could feel her eyes burning into him as he read an excerpt from his unpublished novel. Though she had the air of a complacent child at times, her intensity about things, about life, was what had initially attracted him. But no, she is not what he needs now. Not right now. Not when his grasp on the craft that has become a part of him is so weak. Not right now, he almost says aloud as he opens the door.
“I brought you some peanut butter cookies,” she whispers. “Your favorite.” She hands him a freezer bag bulging with them. He takes them and mumbles a greeting as he stands back to let her inside. It is as if he forgets she is even there as he goes back into his study to take up staring at the empty screen again. She cautiously follows him. “Are you uhh . . . going to try some?” she ventures. His back is to her as he sits slumped before the computer. No answer. “Baby, what’s wrong? You can tell me.” Her voice is soothing, almost musical, and she lays a soft hand upon his shoulder. He stiffens.
“No.” She doesn’t realize that his “no” is not really a refusal to tell her what is troubling him. At this moment, it’s more of a refusal to entertain any living entity in any manner whatsoever.
“Oh, it’s okay, baby, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. It just seems as if--”
He suddenly lifts his hand to silence her. “No . . . not now,” He says brusquely. Doesn’t she understand? His identity is slipping away from him and all she has to give in response are empty words and peanut butter cookies? He just needs to be left alone.
Tears well up in her eyes. How can he just shut her out like that? She has always been there for him, been his emotional support. She was always able to calm him, to soothe his mental anguish. “But honey, I--”
“NO! LEAVE ME ALONE!” He spins around in his chair to face her. Though his voice is harsh and bellowing, one could sense a tinge of desperate pleading in it.
She flees the apartment, sobbing, and slams the door behind her.
Brooding in a dimly lit corner in the study of an apartment, in a student-ghetto complex filled with graduate students, sits the writer, alone.
(That was for you, Homegirl. Love ya much!)
Saturday, December 03, 2005
Moody
It happened some time after I got home from work yesterday. The gray clouds descended. I don't know why or how, exactly, but they did, and now I'm waiting it out, trying not to annoy those around me.
I'm moody. At least I'm honest and I recognize this little . . . quirk of mine for what it is. Though I will add that many times it is not simply a quirk of my personality but one that assaults all of those of the female gender during certain times more than others. Moving on.
It is during these times when my gaze is locked into space. I don't want to be touched or bothered by anyone. I get extra mad when people cut in front of me while I'm driving. I don't feel like going out and doing spontaneous stuff. I cry easily. I want to clean up the kitchen, scour the bathroom, wash clothes and bedsheets in a frenzy. I want to sit on the floor and listen to Coldplay. I want to curl up in the corner and read. I want to sleep. Man, I got a lot of sleep last night. I went to bed at 9:30. It was probably much needed.
During times like this, my brothers always frustratedly tell me that they feel sorry for whoever marries me. It used to bother me and make me feel even worse. But now that I think about it, I sort of feel sorry for whoever marries me too when I'm in a moody mood. I mean, what is a guy supposed to do when he has a woman who begins to cry inconsolably about nothing?
Oh, well. Writing this has helped me get it out of my system a little. In the end, I know it's all good. This too shall pass. Stop sulking and count my blessings. I know, I know. In my mind, I know. But somehow, it doesn't stop the sighs from escaping.
I'm moody. At least I'm honest and I recognize this little . . . quirk of mine for what it is. Though I will add that many times it is not simply a quirk of my personality but one that assaults all of those of the female gender during certain times more than others. Moving on.
It is during these times when my gaze is locked into space. I don't want to be touched or bothered by anyone. I get extra mad when people cut in front of me while I'm driving. I don't feel like going out and doing spontaneous stuff. I cry easily. I want to clean up the kitchen, scour the bathroom, wash clothes and bedsheets in a frenzy. I want to sit on the floor and listen to Coldplay. I want to curl up in the corner and read. I want to sleep. Man, I got a lot of sleep last night. I went to bed at 9:30. It was probably much needed.
During times like this, my brothers always frustratedly tell me that they feel sorry for whoever marries me. It used to bother me and make me feel even worse. But now that I think about it, I sort of feel sorry for whoever marries me too when I'm in a moody mood. I mean, what is a guy supposed to do when he has a woman who begins to cry inconsolably about nothing?
Oh, well. Writing this has helped me get it out of my system a little. In the end, I know it's all good. This too shall pass. Stop sulking and count my blessings. I know, I know. In my mind, I know. But somehow, it doesn't stop the sighs from escaping.
Friday, December 02, 2005
The End of an Era
I knew the time was coming. I just didn't know when.
I still check my old Bamamail (University of AL student and faculty email system) every once in a while, and, with much dismay, I received the following message today (an excerpt):
"Our records indicate that your account on the bama.ua.edu system is flagged for removal and deletion. This is a normal purging process which is designed to remove accounts belonging to individuals who are no longer authorized to use the bama.ua.edu system. The bama.ua.edu system is for current students, faculty and staff at The University of Alabama. According to our records, you are no longer a University of Alabama faculty or staff member, active student, or retiree. Therefore, your account has been scheduled for removal and deletion on December 20, 2005."
A small part of me died after reading that. I am scheduled to be purged from the University of Alabama system forever and always. Whatever evidence remains on the bama server of my existence as a student for 5 years of UA life will be wiped out with a few keystrokes and clicks of a mouse. I am no longer an active student. I am no longer authorized to use Bamamail. My exit from the college world into the so-called real world is about to be sealed and finalized. There is no turning back.
Let it be known hereupon, that on the twentieth day of December, in the year of our Lord two-thousand five, Chantell Irene Smith will be permanently erased from the electronic memory of the University of Alabama. This momentous occasion marks the end of an era, and the subject is hereby welcomed into the world called real.
So-long, Bamamail. You were the conduit through which many a professorial-crush-laden email was sent. You were there through every heart-pounding checking of email, and you were the only witness to my disappointment at finding an empty inbox. You helped me keep in touch with family and friends near and far while I was away at school. You archived many a sentimental message and many a friend-sent poem, and you were the proof that I was an enrolled student which helped me get discounted plane tickets to Spain. We had some good times together, didn't we? I'm only sorry that it has to end this way. Perhaps you will forget that I ever existed come December 20th, but know that I will never forget you and that you will always have a special place in my heart.
There are just some things Gmail can't replace.
I still check my old Bamamail (University of AL student and faculty email system) every once in a while, and, with much dismay, I received the following message today (an excerpt):
"Our records indicate that your account on the bama.ua.edu system is flagged for removal and deletion. This is a normal purging process which is designed to remove accounts belonging to individuals who are no longer authorized to use the bama.ua.edu system. The bama.ua.edu system is for current students, faculty and staff at The University of Alabama. According to our records, you are no longer a University of Alabama faculty or staff member, active student, or retiree. Therefore, your account has been scheduled for removal and deletion on December 20, 2005."
A small part of me died after reading that. I am scheduled to be purged from the University of Alabama system forever and always. Whatever evidence remains on the bama server of my existence as a student for 5 years of UA life will be wiped out with a few keystrokes and clicks of a mouse. I am no longer an active student. I am no longer authorized to use Bamamail. My exit from the college world into the so-called real world is about to be sealed and finalized. There is no turning back.
Let it be known hereupon, that on the twentieth day of December, in the year of our Lord two-thousand five, Chantell Irene Smith will be permanently erased from the electronic memory of the University of Alabama. This momentous occasion marks the end of an era, and the subject is hereby welcomed into the world called real.
So-long, Bamamail. You were the conduit through which many a professorial-crush-laden email was sent. You were there through every heart-pounding checking of email, and you were the only witness to my disappointment at finding an empty inbox. You helped me keep in touch with family and friends near and far while I was away at school. You archived many a sentimental message and many a friend-sent poem, and you were the proof that I was an enrolled student which helped me get discounted plane tickets to Spain. We had some good times together, didn't we? I'm only sorry that it has to end this way. Perhaps you will forget that I ever existed come December 20th, but know that I will never forget you and that you will always have a special place in my heart.
There are just some things Gmail can't replace.
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