I am going to South Africa

really soon.
I'm slowly realizing how many people won't be here when I come back in September. Internationals and Seniors alike.
I'm slowly realizing that life will go on without me while I'm gone. A lot of things can happen in nine months. A lot of relationships could change substantially. I don't know who is going to make the effort to stay in touch. I don't know who is going to be a tangible support, or who just says they will now.
I'm slowly realizing that I'm gonna learn so much more than I thought. And its going to be so freaking amazing and different than anything else I've ever done. But I've adjusted to culture shock at Whitworth, and the little culture lessons I've learned from life in Fresno, and I feel like I can learn to live there too. and its gonna be great. one step at a time, and this is my step to take.
This is where I need to be.
This is where I'm going.

To all boys who may or may not be reading this:
if you say you're gonna call, you best call.
if you think you can drop in and out of someone else's life, you best get some good apologies to precede whatever it is that is so important.
if you start reminiscing, keep it to yourself.
if you want to start recommunicating, do something a little less public than a facebook wall
if you have a girlfriend, stay the hell away from me and all other exes. it just makes life easier for all involved.
if you're gonna sign your name at the end of a note, don't even think the word love.

thanks buddy.
you're always there for me....

I'm in a disconnect right now that I used to name and see in others and despise.
I love who God is. I love listening to people praise him. I love reading Isaiah. Psalms. the Gospels. Over and over again I page through them. And I take comfort that that is who God proclaims Herself to be. (Iveth has started doing that in our Bible Studies. I think its interesting how much that throws me off, so I'm doing it more, as an exploration of a pattern, to figure out what I think)
And yet. The whole personal relationship thing? The whole Spirit thing? it feels so far away.
So far.
And so I wonder what I do believe. and I wonder what the point is in appreciation.
One side of that is "inactive faith". But another way of saying it is "resting in who God says He is". Is that self-imposed distance? Or is that what faith is supposed to look like?

I dunno.
I cry out. I cry to him. And there are many beautiful people in my life who pull me forward and are pulled by He who has called them. And He has called me too. Its just been so long since I've heard his voice. So long since I've felt Him around me. This summer I saw Him move. I saw Her in my GAYG girls. I see the beauty in Her children. I see Her grace in others.

and of course my question is: what do I do?
and I'm pretty sure that actions aren't supposed to dictate it. But they sort of are?
"its about Be-ing, not Do-ing"
so is it out of control?
or doing things that make you more open to Be-ing.
or doing things that help you not focus on do-ing the right things or always do-ing more.

i want to walk in those rhythms of grace that he promises. the ones where the burden is light

Matthew 11:28-30 (The Message)

The Message (MSG)

28-30"Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly."

Life is heavy for me now.
And it snowed this morning at Whitworth
And I still want to be anywhere but here.
And something happened last night with Paulo but I'm not even sure what he was saying under what he was saying. so we'll see. dunno. dunno. healthy? depends. good that its not serious from the start. good to start small light. could be good for both to work on be-ing okay without ______. you know? or could be disasterous like josh.
but i don't even know what happened really. i'm really out of it these days..... no good.

So I don't know if the hypothetical audience of this blog has picked up on this yet, but I struggle through a lot of race/culture paradigms. pretty consistently at Whitworth.
I wonder if part of the problem is that I don't like people that are different than me in their opinions. I don't know if I rebel against the feeling that they think I agree with them, or if I truly don't understand how they think that way. I think that makes me elitist. smile.
I don't see the appeal in Palin. Does that make me one sided? Have I just attached myself to Obama, and idolize him to the point of not seeing wrongs in him, and demonizing his opponent?
She didn't point out a single difference between mccain and bush's policy? she enumerated multiple times word-for-word portions of Bush policies. are you kidding me? really?
aand, apparently, she/her administration in alaska were responsible for killing that bill diverting funds from Sudan that she now really wants to pass. no source on that. just angry new york times readers.
i think bidens a smart smart man. it will be interesting (oh please please jesus) to see if he and obama do butt heads due to differing opinions like my new moody friends were talking about today. also. palin didn't answer the question about whether or not she would follow through on mccain's policies

And I may not answer the questions that either the moderator or you want to hear, but I'm going to talk straight to the American people

Pretty sure in a debate you're supposed to listen to the moderator, and generally even answer her/his answers.

Patriotic is saying, government, you know, you're not always the solution. In fact, too often you're the problem so, government, lessen the tax burden and on our families and get out of the way and let the private sector and our families grow and thrive and prosper

and saying that holding to the Republican party line of deregulation and smaller government is not patriotism. I would hope that half the country doesn't hate America, or isn't patriotic, they just choose to affiliate with the Democratic party. you can't say that sarah palin, you can't say that.

PALIN: Yes. Well, as the nation's only Arctic state and being the governor of that state, Alaska feels and sees impacts of climate change more so than any other state. And we know that it's real.

I'm not one to attribute every man -- activity of man to the changes in the climate. There is something to be said also for man's activities, but also for the cyclical temperature changes on our planet.

But there are real changes going on in our climate. And I don't want to argue about the causes. What I want to argue about is, how are we going to get there to positively affect the impacts?

We have got to clean up this planet. We have got to encourage other nations also to come along with us with the impacts of climate change, what we can do about that.

As governor, I was the first governor to form a climate change sub-cabinet to start dealing with the impacts. We've got to reduce emissions. John McCain is right there with an "all of the above" approach to deal with climate change impacts.

We've got to become energy independent for that reason. Also as we rely more and more on other countries that don't care as much about the climate as we do, we're allowing them to produce and to emit and even pollute more than America would ever stand for.

Although China surpassed US for the first time this year in gross carbon pollution, our per capita rate is still 8.1 tons per year, around 4 times that of the Chinese per capita usage. also, India's is still at like 1.4 (out of a Foreign Affairs article, Setp/Oct 2008). Lastly, if we're pumping crude oil out of alaska, its still gonna produce the same carbon as oil from those terrorists who hate American freedom.

last palin frustration from the debate: she didn't seem to hear biden any of the multiple times that he stated explicitly that John Mccain voted the same as Obama on the funding for Iraq.

...
yeah
...

Indeed, the US incarceration rate has become the highest of any country in the world. In California alone, there are more people imprisoned than in any other country in the world except China.
The number of adults incarcerated in federal or state prisons or local jails in the United States skyrocketed during this period, quadrupling from just over 500,000 in 1980 to 2.2 million in 2005, according to the Department of Justice. Two-thirds of those are in federal or state prisons and one-third in local jails; the vast majority are young men between 18 and 39. An estimated 80 percent of them either violated drug or alcohol laws, were high at the time they committed their crimes, stole property to buy drugs, or had a history of drug and alcohol abuse and addiction — or some combination of those characteristics. Adding those on parole or probation to the incarcerated population, nearly 7 million adults are currently under correctional supervision, 3.2 percent of all US adults 18 or older.

In addressing the common idea that immigration brings crime:

The total incarceration rate for the native born is more than one percentage point higher in California than in the rest of the country (4.5 percent to 3.4 percent). In contrast, the incarceration rate for the foreign born in California was less than half the foreign-born rate in the rest of the country (0.4 percent to 1.0 percent).

So really, its the disenchanted second generation that you have to look out for....

http://www.migrationinformation.org/USFocus/display.cfm?ID=403

Where is my heart?

I was hoping to write a post that wasn't about me, that was about some deeper theological concept. Or perhaps a greater more brilliant hypothetical situation with intelligent analysis. Or I could talk about specific quotes, writing a stirring encouragement to people who fulfill this this and that criteria. I had a couple good conversations today. I talked to Maddie, was silly and hung out with Lindsey, and had dinner with Alicia. But even these come back to something I discovered in counselling yesterday.

I am really good at processing with my brain. With analyzing. With retelling stories, and attempting to find meaning and sort through them. I am good at finding patterns. I am really good at figuring out what (or deciding...) what I did wrong in a specific situation. I can find fault well. I can sit in counselling and describe well, who I am, where I have come from, I can narrate specific events from my past well, and even dig into the emotions attached and appropriately affix them to my face in the retelling. That doesn't mean that I address issues and problems. (or find the solutions either)

But somewhere along the way, the brain started covering for the heart almost completely. In a way, its a defense mechanism. I don't feel Known or Appreciated here, it must be because I haven't been vulnerable enough. If _______ knew my story, or knew my struggles, or understood where I was coming from, surely they'd understand better what I am trying to communicate to them now.

I do think there is tremendous potential for great healing through the power of story. Through sharing the hardest parts of life. I just think I have learned the patterns and have bypassed the actual openness/true vulnerability for blunt honesty. I can tell it like it is really well. That doesn't mean I can tell it like it feels.

In counseling, Pam asks me to use feeling words. I'm not very good at it, which surprised me. I'm really good at saying "I feel like..." but then I finish the sentence with "what I saw was inappropriate" or "this person is wrong". Not so much "I felt abandoned. I felt hurt. I felt angry." I use "I feel" to mean "My perception was this", which leaves open the possibility that I was wrong, I took things the wrong way, which seems to show that I don't place very much validity in my own experiences. I can easily take moral relativism to heart. (Lindsey and Dustin are arguing it for Ethics tomorrow, and think it is the most ridiculous thing to say, their whole defense is somewhat mocking). Is my story just as valid as the other person's? Are my feelings important? Or are they important just so they can be voiced, labeled and put away without any expectation of change in the other person's behavior. Is that one of the things that was so appealing about Stuart? "I do what I want", no apologies, but you should talk to me, you should share your feelings, you should spill your heart, what I do with it is my business? is that an accurate view of our communication?

I don't know what my feelings are. I can do nice, I can do giggly, I can do contemplative, I can be bothered, I can probably most easily access outrage, anger and bitterness, but primarily on behalf of others. I think sometimes I project myself onto the people I try to help. I got really worked up over Nait, and her story, recently. And then I realized that she's doing alright, she has come such a long way, and she is on her way to go even further.

And I? I have come a long ways too.

And I don't know where my heart is. I know a great many things about my Jesus. And I know that I am loved. But does my heart? and what does it need in order to start feeling more Real in the ordinary things? What does healing look like? Does this really go back to Stuart (like Pam says)? Or to my father before him? Or is is this just what growing up looks like, and I just think too much? Too much thinking, not enough actual living, actual experiences?

And if my God is as powerful as he is said to be, in the Word that is Life and Light and Truth, then how then do I behave? (We read Psalm 18 Monday night, and I was somewhat overwhelmed by how strong and overpowering the description was).

Dwelling. Growing. Attempting. Messing up. Questioning. Hoping. Looking elsewhere. Trying. Asking for help.
I am His. (and what does that mean?)

I think it would be okay if I went home. Today in church, Steve talked about our primary identity as the church as being servants, and what that meant. The self-sacrificial love that should be 24/7 and not just for "community service opportunities".
I started thinking about the dichotomy between the idea that "I am called to serve Here" and serving the people around you.
At Whitworth, if my identity (rooted in being God's beloved) is that of a servant, I would stay here for forever, trying to serve those around me. I would love Kaitie slavishly, and I don't know that anything would change about her. But I would pour and pour and pour, and maybe even commit spiritual suicide like i did last semester. I would not be in my "sweet spot", the place where my passions/desires/gifts meet the needs of the world. I would continue to be out of place and disjointed.
I could do that. And I would find fulfillment through the International Students who come and visit our house, through the refugees that I would work with twice a week, the kids I worked with on Sundays. And if I did that, I don't think I would be trying to gain status, or be trying to prove myself to the world. I wouldn't be trying to prove myself to God. I feel almost driven by something, but I don't think its selfishness. I think its Jesus.
In the words of Shusako Endo, "I cannot leave the church, Jesus has me in his grasp".
And I am not perfect. I am not pure, except for the purity of Christ which he claims to cover me. I am so bitter and I am broken and I am overcompensating by being strong, but my strength is beautiful too, I think. I think I am right much more often than I actually am. I get frustrated by people who I judge. But at my core, I am Christ's. I have Christ in me.
I could stay here. I could manage to get through this semester, piecing together what I need to stay sane and emotionally stable. I could do all those aforemention fulfilling things. I could get the credit, go to South Africa, but then what? Am I going to learn better to appreciate what is here? Or will I continue to feel a call outward? Will I continue to be discontent?
I don't know that I was ever a college girl. The whole fun, lighthearted, careless existence while learning all these things that will eventually be useful is a neat concept. And I like doing that sometimes. And I like doing that with people that I trust (and appreciate me, I'll be honest). But I want more. you know?
...
So I could go home.
And I could start going to State. Or maybe FPU, but I dunno that I want to jump from one small Christian school to another. And I could still apply to go to South Africa. And I could study in Port Elizabeth or Durban, instead of Stellenbosch. And I could volunteer with GAYG girls. And maybe help with AcaDec at Roosevelt. And I'd go to Kyle's graduation. And I might get a job, move out. Or stay home, do the dishes. I dunno what friends I'd make. I'd get around on the bus and my bike. If I went home, I'd have to find a way to be moving forward, and not just slide back into high school. And I'd need to stay on track to graduate.
...
impediments to leaving:

1. money already paid for semester.
2. would feel bad leaving the class I'm TAing.
3. wouldn't want to leave Iveth.
4. have made new friends from all over. I like them.
5. housing contract?

If I make it through the semester, then it will be time for Stellenbosch, then it will be time for travel, then I could stay there, but then I would eventually have to come back here. I don't know that I'll want to do that any more then than I do now. What is the likelihood of my motivation being so strong that I will be able to push through and get it all done?
...
lots of questions.
searching. praying. contemplating for answers.
...
I am God's Beloved.
No one else gets to define my identity but Him.

This is another reason why Whitworth sometimes really pisses me off.
Today, in my class on Political Change in the 3rd World, we had a conversation about a good book about poverty in India. Good discussion. Good learning. etc etc.
Until people started talking about how in the US when a crop fails its not that big of a deal. We have enough diversity of resources; we have enough government support, etc. etc.
But I don't think that applies to the Central Valley.
Like when ALL the oranges froze two winters ago. I said in class that people starved. I don't know that that is true. They died. I'm 90% sure of that. It could have been from the cold. lack of heat. lack of work. thus lack of money.

John Yoder said that people in Somalia or Ethiopia would have been jealous of the "starvation" in California.
I don't know though.
in 2001, 12.8% of " Low-Income Immigrant Households With Children" (granted, that is a lot of qualifiers) were Hungry; only about half were considered "stable" or secure in their food sources. Even low income families where the parents were born in the United States had a hunger rate of over 10%. Half of low-income families could not eat "balanced meals"

when crops fail and thus there are no jobs harvesting...
when no one comes into your restaurant or store because almost the entire town works in the fields...
when the food banks run out of food the second day of the week...
when so many kids qualify for free/reduced lunches that certain schools don't even require the paperwork anymore... (including the city high schools that my bro and I attended... not even just the ones in the countryside, which are poorer.)
when illegal immigrants don't qualify for Food Stamps...
when those statistics are over 7 years old, and the economic situation has only worsened since then...

what the hell do you think happens?
they bask in the nutrients of the American air?


http://www.csufresno.edu/ccchhs/documents/childrens_institute/Immigrant_Children_brief.pdf
Hunger and Food Insecurity Among San Joaquin Valley Children in Immigrant Families
Petra Sutton, Virginia Rondero Hernandez, and Kathleen Curtis
A Publication of the Central California Childrens Institute, California State University, Fresno

Its the last night before I go to school.
Traditionally, for one reason or another, I end up staying up all night before I leave to go to Spokane or come back to Fresno.
Tonight I am exhausted, but I feel that I have so much still to say and process.
I spent this summer:

1. working at FIRM!
2. feeling the experience of being exactly where God wants me (finally again)
3. getting more action than Logan (lol)
4. feeling lost and confused (again)
5. hanging out with GAYG girls (LOVE)
   
6. not dealing with Whitworth issues

since I haven't been dealing, I've become bitter, about just about EVERYTHING that has anything to do with Whitworth. Is this healthy? no. Do I enjoy my bitterness? generally yes. Are there really good things about Whitworth that I've been conveniently forgetting? I really hope so.
And that is so sad.
Thats a sad picture of my heart. and thats a sad picture of the place that has been my home most of the past two years.
And I'm more or less dreading getting on that plane, and leaving Fresno behind.
I need to though.
I spend way too much time when I'm here thinking about the same thing over and over again. When I'm working, or hanging out with girls from camp, not so much; however, the past two weeks while i've been sitting at home, sort of working on things, thats when i do the most detrimental thinking.

Let go already girl. There's so much more AHEAD of you than what you leave behind.

A Story By Christine. Who has not written in a very long time.

Show white space:

“I don’t care” she turned slowly to him one last time, searching for a glimpse of concern mirrored on his charcoaled face. His windswept hair had lost her attention long ago, but the sky behind him suddenly caught it again. Maybe she did care just a miniscule amount. He still said nothing, just looked deep into her eyes. They had been through so much together.

He had first come to her on the long flight from visiting her best friend in Durban. She had had to leave right after the reception, but after so much time spent planning, sending out invitations and counting RSVPs, Elisabeth was glad to leave Nichola to enjoy her new life. Nichola’s man was a dynamic adventurer who seemed to always be looking forward to conquering the mountain in front of him. Apparently he was worth over a million dollars. Nichola had had so many guests to thank, and Elisabeth didn’t trust herself when South African wine was so readily available. Thus, after greeting a few former friends, she had changed out of the ugly dress that Nichola had chosen for her and taken off.

She had been planning on sleeping early, to get herself back on Melbourne time, but he had been persistent. Even after giving up on sleep, she could feel his eyes on her as she caught up on her grading. He had been drawn by her fingers, he told her in a conspiratorial whisper. She had scribbled her name on the corner of the sheet of paper, thinking she would never see him again. The next week though, as she sat on the terrace of her favorite café, his face appeared across the table. She smiled at the memory. In Australia he seemed more down to earth, less stiff and flat. His eyes smiled more in the December sun.

Sitting in the barren loft, she noted the discrepancy between then and the present reality. She had tried, she really had. She’d tried to take the time that she knew he was worth. When that hadn’t worked as well as expected, she’d tried forgetting, avoiding, hinting, but she just couldn’t erase him from her life. So she had committed. She had dropped other engagements so they could have the quality time together that he deserved. In the beginning at least, she’d been captivated by him. She felt inspired after their afternoon adventures. Her friends didn’t understand, but then again, neither did she. She had always been the solid, practical, science and mathematics type. None of this romantic artsy stuff. This had been Nichola’s area of expertise. Maybe after living together for four years, and seeing her many exploits, she had picked up some technique through osmosis.

Nichola’s life philosophy was to show white space. An early trusted mentor had told her this after observing she seemed to crowd everything she touched. Nichola had written it out in calligraphy and hung it above the bathroom window, saying it reminded her to breathe, to say no to some commitments, and to let whoever was in front of her have a say, too. To some, the unorganized style looked unfinished, but it had freed Nichola from her perfectionist tendencies. Without learning that lesson, she would not have met Will, who would not have invited her to his studio that fateful night. She would not have been inspired by his daring creativity and would never have been able to tour with him. It was serendipitous the way that everything had fallen together for Nichola.

Maybe that was what Elisabeth needed, to give the soulful dark eyes some space. She sighed disappointed. He still hadn’t spoken to her. She stood up and walked across the room and said softly “I need some fresh air. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone”. Maybe things would look different after a walk along the river. She locked the door behind her, its not like he was going to do it.

Show White Space. Was it already too late? Was the creased forehead permanent? What was she going to do?

She was going to breathe. She crossed her arms and then realized her hands were filthy. Her new beige blouse had two dark handprints neatly above both elbows. Figures. She looked at her hands, unsure at the next step to take. Inspiration hit. If he wasn’t going to turn out the way she had always envisioned, well, he was going to have to deal with a new post-modern identity. She laughed; it came out slightly more maniacal than she had intended.

She practically pranced home, marched across her solitary apartment in the late afternoon sunlight to the place where he sat. She reached toward his perfect hair and smeared it up into the sky. Birds became jewels in his new poof that even Marie Antoinette could be proud of. She then reached for the towel for her hands. After wiping them carefully, she stared again, then reached for his shoulders, she blurred them into the trees, then stood up too quickly. She tripped over an end table on her way to her bedroom to grab the pastels too long unused. She smelled the chalky dust as she opened the box Connie had given her many years before. Grabbing the first two or three she touched, she rolled them between her hands. The forest green dropped to the ground and shattered. She set the pastels on the table, then reached for her soon-to-be masterpiece, and continued the destruction. Smearing ochre, sunset red and the traces of green all over his jacket, any traces of dignity were obliterated. After a few minutes of chaos, a method and pattern emerged in his patchwork jacket. Marie’s hairstyle was given ribbons of midnight blue and light grey. It flowed up and around the top of the paper. From the floor, discarded sketches looked on approvingly.

His chin. His chin was still too serious. He needed a shave. And to be less square. With the red-orange, she crafted him three new chins, each of which was followed with its own mouth expression. The mouths were in a brighter shade of orange, the label of which had fallen off during the first piece she’d ever seriously attempted, her freshman year of college. She giggled a bit to herself, neither thinking of how long it had taken her nor of how this portrait would be worth twenty times more than Nichola’s million when it was finally bought by the National Gallery forty years later and the two contrasting firsts were hung side by side, “heralding the inauguration of a new artistic era” according to the Daily Telegraph and clipped to the refrigerator unobtrusively surrounded by grocery lists, report cards and cutesy magnets

When she was done coloring in, over, around and through her formerly-fastidious charcoal work, she stood a few feet back. Too much she thought suddenly. The whole point of her inspiration had been Nichola’s advice. She grinned as she grabbed the rubber square on the windowsill and erased the heart out of her muse.

This I know to be True:
That I am stronger than I have been before.
That I am calmer
That I still am bitter about a lot of things
I don't know what I should do about that
I know to be True
that God is Love, and above all else, calls us to love without limit.
I'm not very good at that
I love being Home, at least for the first few days
I love my brother fiercely, more than anything or anyone else on this planet.
and theres more. but its gonna go on a different blog. cuz it is kinda personal. and i need to write it out to figure it out.


Sort of poetry. i used to write better. maybe just further statements of fact. don't know why i've been feeling the urge to attempt to be creative as of late. i kinda like it. i also kinda wish it hadn't been so long. last night stu asked me about theatre. its been a long while since that too...

I belong in Fresno for more reasons than a late August night
For more than faint tea and brilliant sunsets or routines
To sweat is to be home, far from wintersnowcold
To wander Tower or Huntington or even Fig
infinitely more fulfilling than the Loop or even Back 40
Even Star-damntheMan-bucks is better than Mind and Hearth at school

I belong to Fresno for more reasons than the permanent pollution in my lungs,
The scars on my legs from fences and boxes, or the callouses on my feet
To be tan is to be healthy. to be pale grossandmiserable (nevermind
the skin cancer worries of the Inland Northwest)
To swim backyards or at the club or bike around or walk
legitimizes exercise to me, nevermind fitness centers or treadmils

for more than the murals on the walls, the graffiti on the streets
or the police helicopter that circled my old high school tonight
for more than the good Mexican food, or the announcements in another tongue
over any loudspeaker in almost any store.
for more than the fact that people don't "look different" (ie not-white)
when you've been here more than 5 or 6 days
for more than the political jabs made in the Fresno Bee, including the top 10
I belong in Fresno for more than a childhood, for more than mere roots,
I could be transplanted... i like to think... to any place slightly less xenophobic than Spokane of course.
i don't know why i belong here. i feel that it can't logically be any of these reasons. there has to be something more. or maybe theres not. maybe this is as close to Home as I'm gonna get.

Houseless/Homefull

I find it funny that I have been more myself this week than I feel like I have been for a while. I was houseless for the week. Sleeping outside in the cold (woke up with snow falling softly on my face the first night). Asking other people for food. (No one ever refused). Spending a lot of time huddled. Spent a lot of time in public space (Whitworth makes me happy). And I laughed a lot. The things people said were truly funny. (perhaps due to a lack of sleep). We had a beautiful community of about 30 people (and some dropped out halfway through). We met every night to talk about the day. The good stuff. the bad stuff. Stories. the Happies and the Crappies. We napped in public places. Stole food from fancy Whitworth events. Some people sustained themselves by eating off the trays that people had deposited in SAGA. Once again: Beautiful. Our most pressing concern was always sleep. The warm places. The cool places. The soft places. The dark places. The windy places. the sheltered places. Some freshmen girls from Tiki took it upon themselves to bring hot water and cocoa and cider around midnight every night to whoever they could find.

We cuddled at night. For warmth of course. But it surprised me how much I miss having a body nearby when I sleep. I sleep so much more soundly (that might be due to how tired i was). Kristen my new friend was a very good snuggler.

And then I came back to reality. or real life. or whatever you want to call this carefree warm world of dorms and cafeteria food whenever you want. I have my laptop again, freeing me to continue working on this paper past midnight when all the buildings on campus are closed. I slept in my bed last night. Wasted six hours of my life watching movies last night. Listened to my insecure roommate try to reestablish the old relationship with her boyfriend Tyler (who also did the houseless challenge). I have stopped loving her, I think. And I think if I was more servile, it would bother me more than it does.

I wasn’t super close to Jesus in the traditional ways this past week. In fact, I’m still somewhat disillusioned with his followers since spring break. But, I lived in the trust and knowledge that I would be taken care of. I read the sermon of the mount on Wednesday, and I smilingly understood when I read the part about the lilies of the field. Whether it was from an unspoken inherent dependence on God, or a knowledge that the sphere of the world I was inhabiting was truly safe, I did not fear during the week. I was fed by others. I was encouraged by others. My community and I grew together. And somehow that picture of the Kingdom was more than enough to sustain me, even without the vocabulary attached.

I don’t really like it back in the easy life. I want K-Jo to see more to life. Or maybe just for her to see it like I do. big smile, I know I’m biased sometimes. I am alive. I am treasured. I can laugh freely in Christ’s Kingdom. I am not dependent on boys or male approval or any of those other things (Katie Petitt and I decided that my relational hopes should be looking forward to SA since they have eluded me so far on campus. lol. i’m hoping that there is some magic formula that some male will have inhaled so that I will find him mature, non-awkward, passionate and more. KP has her David here, so I think she might live vicariously through my dreams)

That night we slept fitfully in her car, Katie and I talked about dreams, and disappointments, and hope. How good we are at having high expectations and being upset when they aren’t fulfilled. We talked about many things. It was good to see an independent mirror of my heart.

The days went by painfully slow, but looking back, were so incredibly full (of blessing). I still had classes, still had homework. It was slightly more awkward to try to do hw, but at least, I could always leave to a more quiet place. I was unapologetic about that sort of thing, unlike if I was in my own room.

On days when I had water aerobics in the morning, I carried my swimsuit with me, waiting for it to dry so I could put it back in my backpack with the rest of the stuff I was carrying. I spread my bright pink towel over the fake trees upstairs in the HUB, with my speedo one-piece awkwardly hanging underneath.

I did most of my homework on one of the two computers upstairs in the HUB. Near a circle of couches upon which, generally, one or two of us were napping at a time. There were piles of baggage whenever two or more of us had gathered together. We were also unapologetic about that. (interesting metaphor that I might extricate further) We easily shared the food that had been donated to our cause, and at the end of every meal period, we usually had leftovers. Duvall had a prayer labyrinth one night, and donated their leftover communion bread and grape juice to us. We had delicious Jesus for breakfast for the next two days.

It was easier for some to ask for food than others. Kyle Navis as of Thursday hadn’t asked for food once. Some people took up fasting, while others (myself included) ate more than we usually do in a week. I had two blatant requests for food. and one coffee begging. I asked this girl Caroline, who I vaguely know, to buy me a Luna bar for lunch one day, which she did, but was somewhat gracefully confused about. And I asked Josh to buy me a muffin (more to see if he would or not than for hunger reasons…. is that bad?) He bought the muffin reluctantly, and definitely took three bites out of it before he handed it over. Silly boy. Maybe I’m judging too harshly (I know, probably shouldn’t be judging at all), but that boy is selfish even in giving to hungry people he knows. And just to exonerate/sanctify myself further, I will add that I went back to our group huddled around the fireplace and shared that chocolate chip muffin with everyone there.

Another funny Josh story. On the first day I was sitting in Lied Square (the lobbyish area of the HUB), and Josh comes awkwardly out of SAGA (after passing me earlier without greeting) and asks if I’m doing the Houseless Challenge. I say that I am, and he thrusts a banana at me, then walks away quickly. I’m a little upset about this abrupt interaction, especially the lack of actual conversation, until I hear as he walks out the door “Hey! that’s my roommate!” Tyler had been completely snubbed and ignored, while I had only partially been. Apparently what I experienced was the perks of having dating the interesting character of Joshua Steven Jensen.

I think, if I wasn’t going to be in South Africa next year, I would try harder to be inconspicuous. I would try to see if I could get people to feed me without me telling them I was participating in the Houseless Challenge. I would come up with reasons for carrying my various articles with me, or I would bring less stuff, and just have a normal backpack. Or I would try the fast thing a little more.

I love Whitworth. I love that Communities in Crisis (the club that sponsored this event) exists. And that there are other people who are attracted to things like this, and that we can experience and attempt to understand together. It would be interesting to see how much further this could be taken. (While still understanding that homelessness is so much more than our one small vain attempt). With more time it would feel less like an adventure, less like a camping trip, and people would probably get tired of feeding us. we’d also probably figure out new shortcuts, get better at depending on each other, and grow even closer. We’d build more permanent structures. We’d smell even grosser. And I think it would be an even more breathtaking picture of how we’re supposed to live as Christians.

everything is familiar here, but in a foreign way.

so says my friend hanna.

i wonder where I'll end up. where I'll realize I belong.
The longer I stay at Whitworth the more fully convinced I am that I belong in some inner city neighborhood in the states. i'm sure my international studies degree will come in really handy.
i also want to go to UW.

i also need to be less obsessive. i could very easily get myself in trouble

so more later?