i charge laughing

I am a self-proclaimed cynic (or realist, depending on my mood). I have an all too real view of how wicked and fallen the human race is. I involuntarily scowl sometimes at what I'm thinking or what someone else is saying. I enjoy watching tragic movies and listening to sad songs. I nod along with T.S. Eliot when he's at his lowest emotionally (April really is the cruelest month). Sometimes, I relish in what I consider my heightened understanding of the world. I'm not living under some kind of false sense of light and happiness.

I sound like an arrogant jerk, right? Well, it's because I am.

Okay, so I'm not like that all the time; I just kind of highlighted all of my cynical qualities at once. On good days, I see all the darkness and wickedness, but rejoice in the joy and good. I see people like paintings: I see God's brushstrokes and the colors and the painful scrapes of the painting knife, but I also feel I can see a glimpse of the final product. Because I'm outside of the painting looking in, I can get a sense of where God's heading with His creative license. And oh, it is so beautiful.

So I'm not a Debbie Downer all the time. While fake cheerfulness can irritate me, I appreciate genuine optimism.

But I'm realizing what my problem is: I start with the bad stuff and work to the good. That's how I've operated for the past several years, and I think it's hurt me more than protected me. Because, really, that's why I do it--protection.

The past couple weeks have been kind of stressful for me. Just lots of work due and not enough sleep. But then, this week, I've had the most amazing things happen. They're all small and seem insignificant, but they have done more to boost my spirits than anything else. On Wednesday, a friend just randomly bought me a doughnut and chocolate milk, which if you know me, you'd know just how much I'd love that. Last night, I went shopping with another friend, and we had some great conversation: deep, thought-provoking stuff. But then mixed in with that, we tried on ridiculous dresses, ate Italian street food, and just joked around. After that, I saw another friend of mine in a play, and we went and got coffee afterwards, being far too loud for such a small shop.

I just feel so blessed to have these friends. I know people say that a lot, but I really truly mean it. Last year, I didn't have that many friends at Cedarville. Maybe 1 1/2. I felt isolated, and I frequently second-guessed my choice of coming to college. But now. I have these amazing people surrounding me; every single one of them is different and add to my life in incredible ways.

What right have I to start with the bad when there's so much good?

It's funny because I started writing this blog post this morning during a lull in activity at work. Since then, I've gotten a card from my mom. Here's a little bit of what she said to me.

Remember, one day, one step at a time. God's grace is sufficient for today.... In the midst of your busyness and stress of this semester, keep a sharp eye out for your little blessings like a Mr. Robin [my mom loves birds], or an Olaf [she also loves Frozen], or a tiny flower, or some entertaining campus golf [I narrated a game to her this past Saturday]. Be sure to just stop now and then, breathe, look around you, and thank God for the little blessings.

Isn't my mom the greatest? The correct answer is "yes."

It's always the little things that matter. I can lose sight of that being a big picture, future-oriented, cynic kinda gal. I have to pay attention to the details. Step by step I'll get to where God wants. The big stuff will only come after the little.

Which leads to another funny story. After I read that card and booted up the computer to finish this blogpost, an e-mail was waiting for me. It was the director of the study abroad program in Oxford; I got an interview with him tomorrow.

The big stuff came after the little stuff. My heart was already bubbling with warmth and contentment because I turned my eyes away from the stress and darkness of the future and focused on the little blessings in my life.

So, enough of early Modernist T.S. Eliot. So what if April's the cruelest month? In response to Eliot's depressing and empty view on life, E.E. Cummings wrote his poem "[into the strenuous briefness]." Cummings was naturally optimistic and resisted the hopelessness of his fellow Modern poets.

into the strenuous briefness

Life:

handorgans and April

darkness,friends

i charge laughing.

Though there's April and darkness, don't forget the handorgans and friends. Life is hard and brief, but it is also good. Focus on the good: and charge laughing. 

What's in a Name?

Forgive me for the frightfully unoriginal title. I wish I had my dad's gift of naming things: he's pretty witty and clever when it comes to quick quips and flashy titles.

I suppose the inability to name things is the point of this blog post.
(I actually don't know what the point of this blog post is. I never know. If I say I do, I'm lying. I'm a big proponent of the "fake it 'til you make it" mentality.)

So my name. My name (as you undoubtedly know) is Alexis Faith Ancona. Nothing super complicated. My parents didn't insist on spelling my name Ehleksis (lookin' at you, Xavier) and though my last name elicits inevitable snake jokes from virtually everyone I meet (including that stranger at an away game in Portland that one time. Dude, I don't even know you. Please don't laugh and tell me my last name is one vowel and one consonant away from being "Anaconda." I promise you I'm already aware of that), "Ancona" really isn't that complicated either.

What I'd like to know, then, is why so many people either forget or mispronounce my name. I suppose it's not so much mispronouncing as it is just calling me something that's not my name (ie. Alex, Alexa, Alexi). It's a frequent occurrence in my life, and it makes me unreasonably angry. (I said unreasonably so you would know I'm self-aware that I shouldn't be so bothered by this, but I am.)

When I was eight (nine? ten? seven? I was little), I had a friend named McKayla (I don't know if that's how she spelled her name. Why can't we agree on one spelling for different names?). McKayla and I hung out a lot: every Sunday after church, in fact. We went to summer camp together one year, played Frogger, got in arguments about bikinis, and ate a ridiculous amount of humus. I knew her for quite a while--probably two or three years (before she moved to the south. I've lost a crazy amount of friends to the south).

During the whole time I knew her, she always called me Alexa. I never corrected her because I didn't want to upset her. I had it in my head that if I told her my name was "AlexIS" not "AlexA" (you should definitely read that in Hermione Granger's snottiest know-it-all voice), I would come across as snooty. Then it just got to the point where it would simply be awkward if I corrected her. "We've known each other for six months, and you're just NOW telling me I've been saying your name wrong?" So I didn't.

When I was thirteen, I went to Canada to work at camp, all my campers called me "Alex." I guess those extra two letters were just hard to remember.

My youth leader at Shiloh Chapel only remembered my name after turning it into a mnemonic device. "Alex is..." and he would fill in the blank. It became a running joke at youth group. Whenever anyone said it, though, I always filled it in with "Alex is...not my name." or "Alex is...a dumb name" (sorry to all you Alex-es [how do you plural a name??] out there. I was a bitter twelve-year-old).

My first semester of college, I went to virtually all bro-sis events, hung out with my brother hall, tried to be super social and step out of my comfort zone and whatever, and at the end of the semester during a Christmas party, my brother RA called me "Rachel." (which, oddly enough, is a name people call me a lot. I guess I just have a Rachel face)

There's a girl in my Advanced Composition class who I've known since freshman year who still calls me "Alexa" regardless of the half a dozen times I've told her my name's Alexis.

The point of all these stories, I guess, is to communicate that this is a surprisingly frequent issue in my life. I've tried to pass it off as people being bad with names, but I've always thought that was a poor excuse. My good friend* The Office writer/actress Mindy Kaling affirmed my suspicions in her book Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?:

I don't think it should be socially acceptable for people to say they are "bad with names." No one is bad with names. That is not a real thing. Not knowing people's names isn't a neurological condition; it's a choice. You choose not to make learning people's names a priority. It's like saying, "Hey, a disclaimer about me: I'm rude."**

I just feel names are really important. I always took mine to heart. I had one of those bookmarks you get from Christian bookstores that tells you the meaning of your name and has a Bible verse on it. According to this bookmark, "Alexis" means "helper of mankind." I took that really seriously growing up. One time, I accidentally took a card game home from school, and I cried for an hour in my room because I had stolen something and did the opposite of what my name meant.

I remember watching an episode of the old Tarzan TV series and there was a bad guy named Alexis. That's when I found it that it's a boys' name in Russia. I've also been unreasonably proud of that ever since.

It makes me feel really, REALLY good about myself when someone uses my name when talking to me. I don't mean a creepy amount of times like at the beginning and end of each sentence, but like, "You look nice today, Alexis." or "Hey! How are you doing, Alexis?" Things like that. It just makes it special.

This is a pretty long blog post, but I promise I'm almost done.***

In Genesis, God commanded Adam to name all the animals. I've always taken that to imply that names are super important. Some of my favourite studies in devotions and chapels and sermons were on the names of God. He's just really good at coming up with names. I mean, telling Moses He is "I Am" is a great way of communicating His identity. He is. I feel like it's a way of saying He Is Everything. He Is All That Matters.

And that's what it comes down to, I guess. Names communicate identity. You read all kinds of mythology and fantasy about the power of a name. That's why God calls His people "by name." He's not just calling to people in general, but has called each of us individually, especially, lovingly by name. When given a name, we're no longer part of the masses, a blur in a sea of faces, we become individual. We were deemed important enough to have a name.

So I guess my plea is don't forget that. Don't forget all the people you see have names. And if you want to make someone happy, learn theirs, and don't forget it.

I see the city lights all around me. Everyone's obscure; ten million people each with their problems. Why should anyone care? And in Your eyes I can see: I am not just a man, vastly lost in this world. Lost in a sea of faces. Your body's the bread, Your blood is the wine because You traded Your life for mine. -Kutless, "Sea of Faces" 

 *(For legal reasons, I have to tell you that I actually do not know Mindy Kaling personally, though I wish I did.)
**(I should make my own disclaimer that I also have used the excuse "I'm bad with names." I apologize. Sometimes, I can be a bad person.)
***(I wasn't actually almost done.)

A final note: Don't worry if you forget my name. I won't actually freak out. Also: I'm a fan of nicknames and I do have some friends who call me "Lex," "Lexi," and my brothers call me "Lu." The instances to which I refer in this post are when people simply don't know my actual name.

Do You Want to Build a Snowman?

The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don't always soften the bad things, but vice-versa, the bad things don't necessarily spoil the good things or make them unimportant. -Doctor Who

Okay, I know I've probably put some people off with a Doctor Who quote, but bear with me. (Also: there are more references to come. Can't help it. I'm a nerd.)

I'm late for chapel every day. This semester, I took a job as a chapel scanner. This means I get paid two dollars an hour, stand in a doorway, and press a button on a little machine to scan people's ID cards. It's pretty great, actually. I basically get paid to be social. Anyhow, because of this, I have to wait until 10:05 (chapel starts at 10:00) to make sure everyone gets in, and then I go sit down.

Today, however, I was fifteen minutes late.

There are typically two scanners for each doorway, which means that I get to hang out with my friend Dan while working, too. As we were returning to the main lobby (we stand at one of the side doors) to replace our scanners, we looked outside and saw (quite literally) a winter wonderland.

The snowflakes were as big as my nose! They drifted slowly and beautifully down from the sky. It looked just like the closing scene to White Christmas (without the fake sound-stage, as Dan pointed out). Unable to contain my excitement, I declared that I MUST catch at least one snowflake on my tongue before going to chapel. Dan enthusiastically joined me. I forgot that I wasn't wearing a coat or boots or anything of the sort, and ran outside.

We instantly started laughing. I stuck my tongue out, outbursts of laughter still coming from the back of my throat. We were spinning and blinking in the pure whiteness.

I haven't laughed so much and so genuinely in a long time. I barely felt the cold even though my little dress flats were soaked and my forearms were exposed to the blizzard. I was so utterly amazed at God's gorgeous creation. I felt so blessed.

Suddenly, intense childlike joy consumed me as the snowflakes melted on my tongue and--in true Sound of Music fashion--clung to my eyelashes. Compelled with this new-found joy, I threw my stuff on the ground and started making a snowman. Dan was also apparently struck with the urge, and we both began work on our mini frosty friends.

I was reminded of one time when Evan and I went on a walk with our Nana through her neighborhood in the winter. Ev reached down and grabbed some snow. I shrieked, thinking that a snowball to the face was imminent, but he just reached down and grabbed more snow. He told me he was making a mini snowman. So as we walked, we just started producing little snow people, leaving them sitting in snowbanks along the road. It's one of my favourite memories with him.

So Dan and I tore little branches and berries from a little tree next to the lake. I stuck the berries on as buttons, their holiday red contrasting the stark pure white of the snow. Dan smashed his berries on his snowman's head, attempting to give him eyes.

We bursted out laughing at his creepy snowman, our freezing fingers, and the sheer happiness of it all. We took pictures, expressed how excited we were this happened, and parted ways.

I swiftly gathered my typically-college travel mug and my discarded coat, and ran up the steps into the DMC. I was hoping to get into chapel before I was TOO late.

The thing is, the floor in the main lobby outside the chapel is marble. I was wearing wet dress flats. Plus, I'm me. So, you know, I of course fell spectacularly, rolling my ankle (hearing the familiar pop) and slamming my left hip against the floor.

There were a few people sitting in the lobby. They all looked up suddenly, mild concern on their faces.

I, however, just started laughing hysterically.

I wasn't embarrassed, I didn't care about the bruise already forming on my hip, or my mild ankle sprain (that's just commonplace now, honestly). As I laughed and choked out rushed sorries to no one and everyone, one girl shook her head disapprovingly, turning back to her book.

I felt a lot like (NERD ALERT) Bilbo Baggins running through the Shire. In the book, Tolkien does this great thing where he describes all the disapproving Hobbits shaking their heads and muttering about Bilbo's craziness. But did Bilbo care? Of course not, he's part Took (sorry, that was extra nerdy)! He proudly shouted, "I'm going on an adventure!"

For once in my life, I didn't care what they were thinking. I was so filled with what I know was God-given joy. Some of you probably think I'm ridiculous for getting so much out of a little snowman, but that's how God works, you know? He knew I needed some childhood joy and a friend to laugh with.

I guess I don't know exactly where this is going, but back to the Doctor Who quote for a moment. After all that fun outside, I went in and immediately (and literally) crashed into the hard ground. Though I was actually in a lot of pain (and still am--I limped all the way to work), I was just so happy, I didn't care. Bad things come and go, but so do the good. It's your choice whether you focus on your pile of bad or your pile of good.

Right now, I don't really know what my future holds. I'm kind of terrified about this semester (and the future in general). I don't know what's going to happen. I've had a lot of bad things occur over the past few years.

But my choice? I'm not listening to the scoffs, looking at the shaking heads, obsessing over the unknown, disregarding joy--no matter what form it takes.

Me? I'm going to focus on the good.

The Greatest Love Story Ever Told

So (I begin a lot of sentences with "so." I should work on that.) in my British Literature class, we talk about...well, literature. With discussion of literature comes discussion of genre--such as romantic texts. We look at the structure of a romance, it's key characters and plot devices so that we can better classify other texts.

Are you ready to be educated?
(This really isn't that complex, and most of you probably know all this anyway, but I digress.)

Now, to have a romance, you need some specific things. First, the plot structure. A romance, at its simplest, involves three story arcs--an integration, a disintegration, and a reintegration.

For example, look at any romantic comedy ever. For the sake of this blog post, we're going to look at Aladdin (because it's awesome).

In the beginning of the film, our thieving hero meets the gorgeous heroine, and, true to Disney form, they immediately fall in love. This would be the integration.

An important note: The series of integration does not necessarily have to involve an eros kind of love. It can be a familial or national unit--really any kind of grouping.

Okay, so now our protagonists are integrated and in love. BUT WAIT. What good story doesn't involve some conflict? Cue disintegration. Now, Aladdin actually has a layered plot in that Jasmine and Aladdin experience integration and disintegration twice. Right after their first integration, they are separated because our poor unfortunate soul (hehe I'm hilarious) is arrested. However, they are integrated again when Aladdin returns under the guise of the magnificent Prince Ali. It is after this that the climactic disintegration occurs: Aladdin's secret is revealed, putting him out of Jasmine's good graces, and sending him packing on a one way trip where his prospects take a terminal dip.

During the disintegration, the protagonist usually goes on some quest involving dangers and a discovery of one's identity. It's usually difficult--emotionally, physically, mentally, spiritually, or all of the above--but the main character comes out of it stronger than before and with a better understanding of who they are, and, consequently, who they are with the original unit. So Aladdin gets evicted by Jafar, causing him to realize his childishness. He is no longer concerned merely with getting the pretty girl to like him, but with saving his friends--no matter the cost. (Our little boy's all grown up.)

Finally, after risking life and limb for his beloved, and forsaking his lies, Aladdin is reintegrated with Jasmine (and Genie, actually--an example of another layered plot), and they live happily ever after! The end.

So now you know the basic plot structure of a (comedic) romance. They can also end in tragedy--like Tristan and Ysolt or Romeo and Juliet--where the lovers are reunited only by dying together.

Just some final key things to note: classic romances also typically involve...

• A love story (which can sometimes be secondary)
• People of the upper class (knights, nobles, monarchs, etc.)
• Magic or some other supernatural force--even Christianity

Okay, now that I've probably bored most of you away, I'll get to my point.

We are a part of the greatest love story ever told. You probably know where I'm going with this, and you've probably even heard that phrase before, but it just clicked for me, basically blowing my mind.

As humans, we were integrated with the all-loving God at the beginning of creation. Adam and Eve walked with Him in the Garden. I imagine they laughed, hugged, fed squirrels, and just loved each other--Adam and Eve learning more about God all the time. It was love at first sight.

However, like Aladdin, we kind of messed things up. And by "kind of," I mean, oh boy, did we really screw up. We stole from and lied to our Creator God. We had to be separated.

BUT WAIT; THERE'S MORE. This is where the fun stuff comes in. Jesus Christ descended, bridging the gap between Bride and Groom for the ultimate reintegration, which happens only through the supernatural intercession of God. Furthermore, this story involves nobles, for we are His chosen race, joint-heirs with Christ, children of the most High King.

Our story, like any good narrative, is a little layered. We still have to go through life here on earth, which is wrought with pain, trials, and self-discovery, but soon, we'll be with Him for eternity.

We are living with Him happily ever after, and I don't know about you guys, but I can't wait to return home.

The best thing about this love story? We will never hear the words "The End."

You Okay? No. And That's Okay.

So I have this friend who is really close to me. The last couple years of high school, we did all kinds of stuff together. Anything from running around in blanket capes, to McDonald's in our PJs, to deep late night conversations.

One time, during one of our late night conversations, she said something that revolutionized my life. I don't remember what we were talking about, I don't remember the day, but I remember the words.

"It's okay not to be okay."

That sentence changed how I thought about everything. We have this weird custom in our culture (I'm sure you're aware of it) where we greet each other with the phrase, "How are you?" The typical response, I know you'll remember, is "I'm good." This response is given regardless of circumstances.

Now don't worry, I'm not going to rant about the dishonesty or whatever with that whole thing--at this point, it's just another way to say hello. But it does illuminate an interesting aspect of our culture.

Everyone has to be "good" or "okay" all the time.

I'm sure you've heard or said something like, "They just look like they have it all together." That's what we do as Americans (and especially as Christian Americans): we gotta keep it together.

But who the heck has it all together? Who is okay all the time? Stuff happens, things get hard--tests are failed, relationships crumble, loved ones die--life just happens with or without our say-so. And even sometimes, for inexplicable reasons, we just don't feel okay.

Life can be going smoothly. Lots of friends, decent grades, time to sleep, roof over your head, food to eat, but you hurt. That's kind of where I'm at tonight as I blog at 1:30 in the morning with a Biology test in seven hours (for which I should be desperately studying). I just don't really feel awesome about myself right now. I'm not okay.

But that's okay.

When things happen (or even if they don't), you have to work through it. Cry, scream, hug someone, get angry, whatever you need to do. It's okay to express what you're feeling.

Ecclesiastes says there's a time for everything under the heavens. Jesus sweat drops of blood in the Garden of Gethsemane. You can't tell me Jesus was okay--I've been in some rough spots, but I've never sweat blood. Jesus wasn't feeling too great in that moment.

Now, don't get me wrong. We are not to be ruled by our emotions. But. We do have emotions. God didn't give us feelings to force us to subdue them. We aren't Vulcans, people.

Talk to God about what you're feeling. I don't mean recite the Lord's Prayer (though that's never a bad idea) or start speaking Elizabethan English...verily forsooth.

No, I mean really talk to Him. God is a God of all the ages. There is literally nothing that makes English from 1611 better than modern English. God wasn't like, "Pray without ceasing--but none of this 2000 AD stuff. That's not good enough." That's what is incredible about our God! He transgresses all barriers--time, language, people groups, etc.

Sorry. I digress. That's a topic for another time.

If you want some inspiration, just read some of David's Psalms. That guy was seriously not okay sometimes--and he let God know it. You aren't fooling God with your fancy, masked speech. He already knows what you're feeling so you might as well scream it out at the top of your lungs. Trust me, you will feel about a billion times better about everything if you just let it out. 

Anyway. All this to say, I'm not feeling very okay, but that's okay. God's listening. I can still have joy in Him even when I'm upset (the beautiful difference between joy and happiness). 

Most importantly, He loves me whether or not I'm okay--and that's pretty great.

The One with the Bounce House

Being social is hard.

At least, it is for me. A lot of people confuse enjoying social interaction with being good at social interaction. While I (for the most part) thoroughly relish in conversing with/meeting people, I'm usually pretty bad at it. It also absolutely terrifies me.

Literally (yes, I mean literally) hundreds of thoughts flash through my mind at warp speed. I analyze everything I say before I say it.

If I phrase it this way, they'll think I'm too nerdy, but if I leave that word out, I'll come off as arrogant, but I don't want to be arrogant. I also don't want to seem like a push-over so maybe if I just say it this way...

And so the saga continues. Unfortunately, however, with all of these thoughts (and more) going through my mind at the same time, my brain goes all Windows Vista and just freaks out. As the great sage Chandler from Friends says, what will come out sounds approximately like this (now I'm paraphrasing here): "Bloughaooiewwooaghoisljgd..."

Such uncontrollable awkward outbursts lead to situations such as...

• having an asthma attack in the middle of Olive Garden
• spraining both ankles in one night and having to be carried downstairs
• accidentally setting up the guy I've liked for a year on a date with someone else

The list goes on. One of my favourites, however, takes place just over a year ago--August of 2012, and my first night at Cedarville University.

Okay, let me set the stage for you. It's been less than twelve hours since my parents dropped me off at my first year of college. I've been whisked around all day, and speaking as a small town girl from a small town church and a small town private Christian school from Maine, I'm experiencing some severe sensory overload. There are people--hundreds--a few THOUSAND people my age all around me....

WHAT?! That just doesn't happen. I was a graduating class of two, youngest of three kids. There were a total of fifty students at my school K-12. I'm in full-blown panic mode.

Now it's approximately 9:30 at night, I don't know anyone at CU (except for one guy I met at youth camp one time), and I'm at the Getting Started Party--affectionately known as "The Awkward Freshman Party."

Never has a nickname been more accurate.

Okay, so at this party, there are all kinds of shenanigans going on. Zipline, mechanical bull, Just Dance, these weird spinny swing things, basically everything that further proves that college students are just taller second graders. Most important to the story was the bounce house obstacle course.

Here it is: my doom.

My roommate asked me if I wanted to race her in this bounce house, and me, all ready to be adventurous, excitedly agreed.

If you know me at all, you know I'm not incredibly...agile. My brother's used to say that my middle name should have been "Grace" instead of "Faith" because it would be so hilariously ironic. This vacancy in my abilities meant I was pretty slow moving through the course. I was near the top of the wall, ready to slide down to the finish, and thankful it was almost over.

But of course it couldn't be that easy.

Suddenly, as if Thor himself thundered down into the bounce house, I heard a loud cheer, and everything was shaking. I was relatively certain there was a massive earthquake and there, in that bounce house, I was going to die. I lost my grip on the wall, plummeting back down into this little crevasse at the bottom. It was pretty tight before, but now, something else was in there with me.

That something else was a six foot three (not gonna lie--pretty attractive) dude.

Limbs were tangled, awkward apologies were uttered, and confusion took over. This bounce house clearly wasn't big enough for the two of us.

In that moment, I questioned why I ever thought college was a good idea. Why did anyone think releasing my crazy redheaded self into the world would benefit anyone? I was ready to call my parents, tell them to take me home, and never let me leave my room again.

Eventually, we figured out whose limbs were whose and were able to escape that air-filled den of torture. He was extremely apologetic, very kind, and we both had a pretty good laugh about it afterwards.

I see that guy on campus all the time. I'm 99% sure he doesn't know who I am, but I don't think I'll ever forget his face. Every time I see him, I chuckle a little bit and remember just how incredibly awkward I am.

Talking and opening up to people is terrifying for me. I felt pretty vulnerable that moment in the bounce house. I was leagues out of my comfort zone. My whole life, I had thought out every college scenario possible, dreaming about what it would be like. But I definitely never came up with a strategy for being squished in a bounce house with a strange man.

Anyway, I digress. This is all to prove that interacting socially is just really difficult for me. It honestly terrifies me--mostly because I'm ridiculously proud. I don't want to look like a fool. I don't want others to dislike me because that exposes what I already dislike about myself. I would spend my First-Year Seminar (a freshman English course) classes sitting by myself in the back because I didn't want to screw anything up.

What I've been learning at school, though, is how much life is not about me. I live to serve--both Christ and His creation. It doesn't matter if they like me, think to include me, or hate me. I am called to serve, and that's what I want to do. I'm an English major because I love discovering more about people--their thoughts, passions, feelings, ideas.

It's about time I started loving not only what people create, but the people themselves. It's time to stop loving myself so I can love the Creator and His creation.

Beautiful

     So I've been MIA for quite a while--more than just from this blog, but also from everything else that doesn't have to do with Leo Tolstoy or 1880s Russia (Lit Analysis, ftw). But I'm here now, and just wanted to share something with you.

     

     If you've never experienced worship through music at Cedarville University, let me just tell you that you're missing out. Pastor Rohm used to say that he believed the angels in heaven would praise and rejoice with those who did on earth, but, sometimes, when Cedarville sang, they'd stop and say, "Shhh. Cedarville's singing; listen." I've always thought that had to be true. I'm convinced that worship at the 'Ville is just a glimmer into what worship in Paradise will be like.

     What's great is that, since there are so many people from so many places, the methods of praise vary exponentially from person to person. Clapping, hands raised, kneeling, silent prayer--so many different and beautiful expressions of passionate love for the God Who not only created us, but loved us and led us to such a fantastic place as Cedarville University.

     There's one song we sing, which I absolutely adore, called "You're Beautiful" by Phil Wickham (seriously, go listen to it right now). The song is about seeing God throughout creation, and expressing how beautiful He is. Whenever we sing it, I can't help the smile that dominates my face--no matter what kind of day I'm having. Anyway, that song inspired a sort of love letter I wrote to God, which follows.

Dear God,

     I saw You today. I saw You in the faces of Your people. You had long hair, short hair, black, blonde, red, and brown hair—straight and curly. You had pale skin, dark skin, and freckley skin. I saw You lifted up by the small, big, and worn hands of Your children. I saw You in big blue, green, and small brown eyes. From some flowed sweet salty tears of joy, and others were closed in awe of Your glory. I saw You in the wide grins of those who were incapable of containing the shining felicity of Who You are. I saw Your wounds reflected in the battered knees of grateful sinners as they collapsed before Your throne.

     I heard You in the alto, soprano, bass, tenor, and off-key voices singing Your praises, which are all pleasing to Your ears. I heard You in the staccato burst of hands clapping together—Your majesty bleeding through each beat. The drums, keyboards, and strings echoed Your name. Your presence was made known in the sounds of shuffling, stomping feet as the energy of Your love moved Your servants.

     I felt You in the thrum of the bass. It vibrated my heart as it cried out for You. I felt You in the embrace of my brothers and sisters—Your children. My body burst with the joy I felt as I moved nearer to You, for You are always there. Your love, joy, power, and holiness filled that place and were tangible to all.

     I saw Your face in Your beloved, and                     You’re beautiful.