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.

Losing Control

"You are stronger, You are stronger. Sin is broken; You have saved me. It is written--Christ is risen! Jesus, You are Lord of all." --Hillsong, "Stronger"

So many times in my life, I panic at my lack of control. Things happen--or don't happen--all around without my say-so. At times--like tonight--I feel helpless, broken, and afraid. Papers, exams, quizzes, readings put me on edge. Let me tell you, that Lit Analysis paper I'm supposed to be getting back tomorrow is destroying my sanity.

Things so far in the future, some of which, may never even happen--marriage, a job--consume my mind. I've become so juvenile in my pursuit of things that I don't need. In reality, these are such small things to be concerned about, especially when put into perspective with God.

He is stronger than anything and everything in my life. He is stronger than me. I get tired and weak as I am now. This angst is so easily ignited by simply staying up too late or missing a meal. My body is frail--I have no great strength physically or emotionally. I can't even come close to measuring up to the "youth" in Isaiah 40. That guy could probably run circles around me for months, and I'd just collapse in a wheezing fit, clutching my inhaler. My emotions are as easily controlled--have you seen me watch Tangled? It's not pretty.

I am so weak and He is so strong. Why I insist on grasping to the phantom that is control is beyond me. I've never had it, and I never will. The key is not letting this helplessness overwhelm me, for I have a God Who has saved me--and He is stronger.

It's time for me to step aside and let Him do His job. This is where, like James, I need to prove my faith by my works.

So this is it. I find myself at the Red Sea once again, praying to God that when I take that step, the waters will part. What's the best thing? I know what will happen because I know my God.

Spoiler alert: they do.

Bleeding Words

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

-Ernest Hemingway

     Something most folks don't understand about me is that I am quite introverted. Those who know me are probably thinking, "Really? I never thought of you as an introvert. You're so...outspoken all the time!" or "But you're so loud and talk to so many people!" 

     If either of those things, or something similar, came to your mind, you'd be correct. Being from New England (I could compose a whole other entry on the personality traits of New Englanders, but for now, just go with me here.), I'm rather opinionated, loud, firm, harsh--whatever word you wish to use. I thoroughly enjoy getting to know people--talking with them. I even enjoy blathering on and on about random nonsense.

     However, where my true passion lies is in quiet analysis. Of art, literature, music, people, anything. And, contrary to what I thought before, I internally process most of the information I receive.

     For example. One of my biggest joys is listening to human beings describe their passions. There's nothing quite like it--you could even talk for hours about differential equations (That's a thing, right? I feel like I may have made that up...), and I would be enraptured if you were, for some reason, passionate about such a thing. Sure, I loathe mathematics as a general rule, but if it excites you, tell me about it! 

     It is through your passions that I am better able to understand you. Through understanding you, I can better understand the human race around me, and maybe, someday, I'll understand myself. Because, if I'm honest, I understand my own thoughts the least of all. But most importantly, I'll be able to help those around me, which is what I desire most of all.

     This is why I often am exhausted in large groups of people. There's so much to see, hear, smell (especially in the university cafeteria, if you know what I mean), and process. I enjoy being there if the time is right (and relatively short), but, as a hobbit's heart lies in the Shire (yes, I went there), so mine lies in the quietness and reflection of a book or a pen and paper where I can internally review everything I have just experienced.

     My introverted tendencies are something that I've recently discovered about--or rather, admitted to--myself. I'm still much louder than I often intend to be, and words have a tendency to flood out of my mouth without my say-so, but these are more defensive rather than core qualities of myself.

     I've been rambling incessantly, but my point in sharing this is that you may be able to understand why I'm opening up this blog. Writing is something I love passionately with my entire being. Therefore, it is through words--whether they appear as font on a screen or scrawling on a spare sheet of paper--that my truest thoughts are revealed. It is so cliche, but writing is putting my heart on paper. Because of this, it physically pains me to think of other people reading any words I put together. 

     Which is exactly why I'm starting this blog.

     I want to write. It's a passion God has given me--whether I'm any good is debatable, but my passion remains nonetheless. Hoarding this passion for myself would go against God's desires. I'm convinced of that fact. It is my desire that as I struggle to understand exactly who I am in Him, and what my purpose is, maybe I can touch somebody else--even one soul. And if I can't, at least I have an avenue through which I can process my thoughts.

     After all, the only reason I exist is to serve Him and His kingdom with everything I have. And, I assure you, my writing is everything I have.