a novel

my fall was more than a dorm room. my fall was amazing people, a relationship to food, a chance to embrace irrational faith, and an opportunity to fall in love with my girl friends. God gave me so much this fall. I am so thankful. I'm also ready to move on. I love all my EMU peeps (as Carolyn would say) so much. and you matter a lot to me. but i'm also ready to jump with both feet into the shara and boiling sun in post-colonial chad. i want to be challenged. i want to grow. i want to break my heart. and i want to fall in love with God's people everywhere. i'm trying not to worry about some of the things i've left behind and some of the things yet to come. teaching will be a challenge. living with my parents again will be one too. and patriarchy might cause me to scream a lot more than is good for my lungs. but life is good and God is love and so I will go forward. in less than 24 hours i will get off the plane in the desert. my life will change yet again! and you kn...

i left an empty door open to a standard order dorm room early this afternoon. a week ago it was a very different place. filled with life and character, typically a mess, and my temporary home. 8 months ago i was introduced to maplewood 116 in its current state. it housed my worldy possessions while i went and challenged my world. and then again, 4 months ago, i greeted this room, this time with megleg by my side. we challenged the standard order dorm room to become so much more than it had ever been before. we hung peppers in the window sill, stuck random quotes and inspiring photos to the door, and stuffed in three godfearing and life changing woman who can't be contained. it was an adventure. we hosted people. we cuddled. we dropped way too many wheat shucks on the floor. we watched chick flicks. we cried. we laughed. we threw pillows. but most importantly we loved. and it was an epic adventure.

i start my malaria meds today. at noon. i hope i don't forget. this whole getting ready for africa thing is so out of this world at times. i'm not quite sure where my feet are grounded. in liminal space - when worlds collide - life gets interesting. i'm definitely there right now. exams combined with malaria meds and last minute christmas shopping and seeing friends who used to matter a lot more to me but with whom i think i grew apart. and spending time crocheting and braiding hair and drinking cider and tea and sitting on couches and laughing with people i am closest to at the moment. too many worlds colliding. too much liminal space. some times i feel like we're supposed to be grounded on something solid. but i think of god being love, and that while love is solid, i wouldn't call it grounded. at noon today. i take my first malaria pill. i hope i don't get side effects.

endorphins rush through my brain and body at super speed today. the joy of menial tasks such as highlighting study notes, the excitement as i sit down to talk about teaching in africa with another student with similar experiences, the relaxing task of making tomato chicken soup, the fear and stress when packages are lost on the way to my suitcase, the dread of writing papers that don't inspire the passions of my heart, the euphoria when i finish the last sentence, and the anticipation of a night with friends and other honors students. those are some of the emotions i have been feeling today. and i have no doubt this is just the tip of the iceberg for what i will be feeling in the next few weeks. my payer is that the lesson of joy this 3rd week of advent will penetrate to my soul so that the plethora of emotions i feel will not crush my underlying joy in Christ my King.

Deck the halls with books of boredom falalalala lala la la Tis the season for study quorums falalala lala la la la Don we now our study habits falalalala lala la la Troll the hurried paper edits falalala lala la la la See the empty screen before us, Fa la la la la, la la la la. Strike the keys and fill the porous. Fa la la la la, la la la la. Fast away the school year passes, Fa la la la la, la la la la. Fail it all, or study your classes, Fa la la la la, la la la la. Sing as everything's finally finished, Fa la la la la, la la la la. Heedless of the sleep diminished, Fa la la la la, la la la la.

I have been in a haze the past few days as I strive to finish off live here in VA and prepare for my adventure in Africa. It's been difficult to juggle the different geographic locations my brain wants to occupy. And also to not become overwhelmed and apathetic towards the school work that still has to be done. In general, it hasn't been the best couple of days. That is until yesterday afternoon. Instead of grumbling about all the work I have yet to do and all the packing and all the endings, I went to visit a friend i haven't had spent too much time with this fall. And then I got to enjoy Thai food for a Weather Vane party. And then joined my roommate at a wonderful a capella Christmas concert. And finally, the best thing I did last night was plan community. My roommates for next year and I sat around, did some knitting, and talked about how we want to format our community living next year. We got carried away when talking about music and the two of us whose music tastes a...

my room was a mess today of boxes and bags and clothes. i went to walmart. i'm on perpetual count-down mode. my head hurts. i can't wait to be in africa. i don't want to leave virginia. there are too many things to think about. god is love.

i am single. that's where i am in life right now. it's a state of being. and it's a good place to be. i've been single most of my life, so why does singleness seem like such a challenge? however, when those who are close to me pair off and chose other people to be there "one", at least for the moment, i am confronted by my facebook relationship status. at times like these i think dreamily of that someone for me. and there happens to be slight ache in the belly (and not from my cooking skills!). currently there are many someones, but no special one. and don't get me wrong, i love those many "someones" with all my heart. but it would be nice to be some"one"'s special focus, at least a moment in time. and then i am hit really hard, right in the heart, by the realization that i will always be God's someone special. and there is no "one" who could ever value me more. and so i'm okay with being single now. because, as cl...

beauty, according to one old European writer I read this semester, is seeing reflections of our humanity around us. I don't really agree with the nameless old man whose thoughts have muddled with all the pale faced male writers I have read this semester. Instead I wonder if humanity is not a reflection of the beauty in the world around us? If, when we see God in ourselves, when light glitters off the reflections of her divine beauty in our lives, we realize what it means to truly be human? or maybe, when we glimpse the hint of darkness of which light does not reflect, where we do not mirror God, we understand what it means to fail at humanity? last week I glimpsed my humanity in two separate mirrors. i met with two wise women for completely unrelated reasons and found them prepared to confront me with reflective mirrors and defining words. one shined a Christ-light on my pride, illustrating for me where i can learn humility and patience. the other showed me the potential for world ...

i started this fall with a pen in my hand. i thought i would do the writing and you could do the reading. i was convinced i had it all together, or at least that i could learn it all on my own. how wrong i have been proven. how my heart longs for women of wisdom to speak into my life. why do they expect us to write history on our own? as if every women has the time and the ability to write a unique story? who would have the longing to read that many manuscripts? why can't we just add to the divine manuscript? because the story is already being written, there is no need for me to write it all. there is so much more wisdom out there. so many others who have so much to say. and i am learning to listen. to put down the pen of arrogance and read the stories of the ages. and i am so excited to read what, oh mother god, you are writing on my heart.

I love the girls in my life. They are amazing. Meg and Grace complete me. With bits of Jamila, Aly, Amy, and Melanie thrown in. But somehow, I always approach the male gender with the expectation of more. I can’t simply decide to develop friendships with them. And I hate that about me. I am content as a single woman with amazing friends. But I always approach men like they are meat at the dealers. Like I could purchase a future mate. When really, I just want good companionship. But at some level society has taught me, or maybe it’s simply my nature, there is going to be a man out there for me. And I can’t help but look for him. And it drives me crazy. Because it’s always running through the back of my head. And I’m not sure if that’s wrong or not. “Promise me, O women of Jerusalem, by the swift gazelles and the deer of the wild, not to awaken love until the time is right.”

i sit surrounded by my friends and laugh at surface content. we enjoy ourselves and don't worry about the details. but as i sit i feel the ink of markers burning into my skin. the Xs on my forearms are visable to the rest of the world. they contradict the "amore" on my arm in a radical way. While the french word for love expresses my confidence in my self and my faith, the other markings speak to the hidden thoughts and many other women (and sometimes myself)who can't accept themselves for who they are. and they are hidden. my hippie skirt and highnecked t-shirt hide the words of shame that cover my body and some of my less favorable curves. i don't usually walk around covered in self-degrading ink. today i do so because it makes a statement. maybe not to the people sitting in the circle around me, but to the photography artist, her audience, and most importantly myself.

i like to think of myself as a liberal. i like to pride myself on my openness, on my ability to accept the margined and outcast. i'm pro-choice, pro-choose your own sexual orientation, pro-any other way of loving outcasts. but maybe i'm not pro-conservatives. and maybe that's an issue. as i work in the kitchen, make my own clothes, and put people back into every aspect of who i live, i wonder if in some ways i am not conservative too. i want to conserve our planet, conserve our family values, conserve the ability to actually converse with one another in person and build real relationships. today i had the opportunity to stand up for those values, in the form of what i thought would a protest for stoves in the dorms. i went with my defenses up and my arguments stacked. ready to confront a conservative and make him see the light of day. or so i thought. i was shocked that the first words out of this supposedly conservatives mouth where "i going to listen". and he wa...

five o'clock rolls around and my stomach starts to grumble. grace comes to me asking for my id so she can eat in the caf as i drag myself away from my homework and into the kitchen. i am in a good place to set the pattern for how i will live the rest of my life. it's been two weeks now of cooking dinner each night from local or salvaged food. there is justice in what i eat and as of yet, i'm not even tired of it. the tomato juices run between my fingers as i slice away their imperfections. Crumbs of bread drop to the floor on their way to the toaster. the cheese flakes under my knife. food that is grown not from the alienation of migrant workers or the destruction of God's creation, but by the hard work of local farmers and the resurrection of the victims of our North American waste culture. there is nothing quite like it. the smell of bread rising, or pumpkin soup boiling on the stove, or a kale, pepper and onion stir-fry waft out the kitchen door and fill the dorm ha...

their pain is raw. there are too many of us with these stories of abuse, of assault and of fear. too much pain for any one, any person, to process. too much collective pain to be contained in an evening, in a week, in the statement "take back the night". and as the stories were told and continue to be told my heart breaks for those who refused to listen. for the parents who dare not admit that this abomination could happen to their child, in their community, on their watch. and for the children and victims who have been silenced by the fear that their story will not be validated, that it will fall on deaf ears and that there will be no one there to help them shine their light. and as we move on, as we move past the stories, as my own story becomes old and used and no longer feels relevant to where i am in life, what now? how do we escape the victim mentality? how, without taking responsibility for the actions that were done to us or that we were forced to do, do we move on ...

For a long time I have struggled with the concept of being a pacifist and being a victim of sexual assault. It is difficult for others to understand the shame that goes along with being abused in such an intimate way. And yet, I know that I am called to follow Jesus and to love as he loved all the time. In my struggling with this issue I have come to realize that there is no situation, no matter how complex or violent, in which Jesus would justify putting myself and my safety, or even the safety of my loved ones, above his love for the attacker. However, this evening I found myself at the Self-Defense class for Take Back the Night. I wasn’t quite certain why I went. I am on the Take Back the Night Coordinating Coalition, and maybe I felt it was my responsibility to attend some of the events my team members worked so hard to plan. However, when the instructor asked us to reflect on why we were there, the word empowerment came to mind. “I’m here to empower victims” is what I thought. Th...

there are were two pumpkins outside our dorm room door this morning before the moist heat of fall buildings forced us to place them out of doors entirely. they read: INHER BEAUTY and A SAD STORY, BE. and in their moist melting they detail the statement my two roommates and i tried to make last night with our hair, our dress, and our handy-dandy eyeliner. "WE represent beauty" we replied to the countless number of questioning looks we got all night long. as "worldy beauty" i tried not to be seen without my cohorts, "biblical" and "inner" beauty. sadly a mini-skirt, skanky top, and layers of impersonal makeup does not seem costume worthy for our world today. while my outfit took the most work, it was meg, as "biblical beauty", who aroused the most curiosity. I guess taking the restrictive aspects of the bible literally enough to cover your hair, wear a DJellaba, and draw an x in eyeliner over your lips deserves to be note worthy. "we...

i read other people's writings. they are powerful. they are meaningful. they are full of life. and while i love the authors even more for what, and how, they write, my self esteem plummets. i get tired of writers block. i try to write poetry, yet what comes out is not "beautiful". while i wish it were, i know that's not the issue. I would be content if only i could address the deep issues cursing through my soul. And yet, every time i try they allude me. What comes out on paper, or in type, does not even graze the surface of the food issues, the beauty issues, and the identity shaking feminine-feminist issues that are convulsing inside of me. The concepts running through my head are different. Durkheim, Mill, Yoder... all good men but they aren't talking to my soul. Maybe that's why my recent papers are hard work and incoherent. i am scattered.

a pot of rice boiling on the stove. no geographic land-marks to locate. it gathers in twilights tradition. to divide cultural classifications a pile of homework sitting on the kitchen table. no consistency for orientation. it displays scattered division. to unite all conversation voices rising in argument or agreement definitions of identity enclosed in questions candle light breaks the pattern of day feminist self indivisible from feminine hearth a knife cutting through cucumber. no language in which to speak. it stands still to remember. to create a home of contradiction.

fall had broke. the weight was crushing all our shoulders. you could see people with their foreheads scraping the ground. i think i must have collected a garden worth of gravel in my hair. the last stretch was the worst. paper after paper added weight to the stack. you wouldn't think that 14 pieces of paper could be so heavy, but i swear there was so much dirt in my henna died hair that it was turning brown again. and then it broke. just like that. stress, stress, stress, and then nothing. i watched glee, triumph of love, stardust, and big bang theory all in one day. i knitted a pouch for my id because i felt like it. "me time" was on the schedule again. we had a four day weekend to shake all the gravel out of hair and straighten out our backs. lying down flat in the middle of a road staring at the stars helps with that. so do naps. and climbing mountains at midnight. though you might end up replacing the gravel with colored leaves. working with good food helps to clear t...

i have a perpetual head ache. my feet are dirty, wet, and probably smell. most of all they're tired. i'm too warm or too cold. i want to be around people and i want to be alone. i feel like i wear too many masks to keep track of them all. they are starting to slip. it's the end of septemeber. my dreams are going unmet and my plans are being rewritten. i find myself stuck in habits that i might want to break, hanging out with people who i want to love, and staring at books i want to burn. my back is getting soar from perpetual stress, my heart is breaking from the pain i see all around me. and my soul is crying out for time to spend in god's arms. but there is joy. i am surrounded by love. i see the beauty in the rain. i learn that things happen for a reason. and more often than not, my tears are those that come with laughter instead of with sadness. if only i could get more sleep...

locke, hobbes, webber, marx, descartes... i spend my time reading the philosophes of the past. we debate their theories and compare and contrast their thoughts. we get good grades when we analyze them correctly. they dictate our learning. and i wonder, are they unique in their ability to think outside the box? have we buried ourselves in the coffin they created for us? can we think outside of their theories? is there such a thing as individual thought anymore? but then i go back to their words to find justification for my unique thoughts. as i quote rousseau in the fact that "all (men) are born free" to think on their own, i fall back once more into the intellectual coffin of western modernity. i cannot escape.

"...my summer was so-so... and yours?...." As people gather to talk about their lives, as voices raise and fall and laughter rages around the circles i find myself in, I wonder about the substance of our dialogue. I long to ask questions about faith, about politics, about reality, and instead find myself telling stories explaining the details of pointless things. "...i think i'm going to drown in all my reading..." What thoughts are running back and forth between your ears that aren't exiting your mouth? What questions about life are you bottling up? And what long stories are going untold? "...You take your foot in one hand and the nail clippers in the other and..." I'm frustrated by normalcy. I was expecting some earth shattering conversations. Am I living in the illusion that there are still earth shattering things to discuss? If I am, I'm having a hard time silencing the voices that scream in my head: WHERE IS THE CHALLENGE HERE? W...

time is flying past me at super speed.

I can hear the fresh page turn. The crisp smell of new paper and deep purple ink just waiting to b explored. The excitement of unread pages, new knowledge, and experiences previously untrodden fill me with anticipation. And yes, the ink is purple. Not a pale lavender, like the flower fields I visited a few days ago with by brother, but a dark, majestic, Tyrian purple. An imperial purple, a royal color, that under the wrong light can even seem black at times, but should never, ever, be mistaken as such. I'm not exactly sure why the ink is purple. Perhaps to convey some message about the in-between, purple is after all neither black nor white. It has power, this color worn once only by royalty, and it is filled with emotion. Passion, wisdom, friendship, sympathy, and even rage. It is also the color of change, of commitment, of spring, and of Lent. And the paper, while it seems new, unexplored, and fresh to the touch, is the faded yellow of ages past. The hue of an older, long patie...

I've watched people write bucket lists, and I've never thought to do the same. I've never felt the urge. I've always been content to let life hit me, told God that life was good and I wouldn't feel cheated if I never got to do some of the things most people aim their lives towards. I guess we all change. This summer I have been hit with the desire to do many things. Many more things than I can fit into my plan at the moment, things that will have to wait, even though I don't want them to. Is it right, I wonder, to write that list down so that I have something to lament if it never comes to be? Can't I continue to live in the satisfaction that my life has been good, that life is good, and that God has not cheated me of anything? But isn't it also right to look forward at life and see potential? To see all the things that may be? To dream of the many, many good things yet to come? I am not sure which is best anymore, but I have the desire to write some dre...

Those who know me know that I'm a crier. It's hereditary. Like closing my eyes during pictures, or finding my arms unconsciously supported in the dinosaur hold, tear ducts that well up at the slightest provocation is a trait I share with my mother. Whether I see my over anxious tear ducts as gift or curse depends completely on my mood and the period of life in which I find myself. (Thankfully I've never had to worry about mascara streaks or blotched eye liner to make them a constant curse.) Currently, life is going by at a slower pace and I am enjoying the time to contemplate most things, including the salt water that leaves streaks down my cheeks. Lately I've found myself wiping moisture from my eyes around 9:45 each morning as I stare down at the faces of 20 or so beautiful children. It is my task to tell the bible stories, to give the lesson, and to share God's story with these children every morning at day camp. Why I would tear up when giving the lesson boggle...

Today is the birthday of this nation, the place where i was born. On days like today we celebrate the gift of equality and democracy, of a government that protects it's people and doesn't just profit from them, of a place where we can feel safe to be individuals. My friends down south will celebrate a similar event just 3 days from now. And yet is this freedom, equality, and justice that we celebrate simply an illusion? 4 days ago my brother got released from a holding cell after being in custody for 20 hours. He was arrested on Sunday for passing the peace to the police officers at a prayer vigil. Earlier that day he'd marched along with many other global citizens in protest at the G20, demanding a democratic process and a global policy that balances social and economic issues. From his account, the police were the victims and the other 700 some prisoners were, like him selves, the tragic heroes. To my ears it seems a tragedy of epic proportions, with the only character fl...

count for the the days I got to spend out of the city on an organic vegetable farm 1. the number of kale smoothies i slurped down while sitting in a relatively bug free dinning shack 2. the nights i slept in the shack while slapping at the few mosquitoes who managed to make it past the barriers 3. the number of vehicles i got in to take me back to nature (there were 3 buses, but still...) 4. the number of wonderful people who welcomed me into their home and shared their life with me for a few days 5. the meals i ate that were fried over a wood oven in a caste iron pan that i accidentally let rust 6. the number of rungs on the new ladder i made for the bunk beds 7. probably the combined hours I actually got to work in the field because of all the rain 8. the number of phone calls i missed while going without technology 9. the fresh kale leaves i snacked on between meals 10. the time it gets to late to read by the light of twilight on these longest days of the year 11. the number of bit...

A month ago I blogged with my mind in the depths of the Congolese jungle while I pulled myself away from the pages of the Poisonwood Bible. It's been a long month, and at many times a hard one, but in the end it has taught me something. At least that is my hope. Regardless of the lessons from the past month, I have been struck recently by a story from the Poisonwood Bible that had stood out at the time, but had been buried by all the others. Hidden within the culture upheaval and the independence and then American sponsored military coup is the story of a village hunt. All of the villagers partake in the hunt, including the white missionary family in their midst, and when the animals are killed and the carcasses are brought together, a celebration would have been tradition. However, the conflict of skin tone and privilege takes what was once a joyous celebration of abundance and turns it into a competition of scarcity. The village families fight over the bounty, and in the end what...

I made a decision the other day. A friend of mine encouraged me to be proud of how I spend my time this summer, to plan things to look forward to, and in many ways to enjoy life. For awhile now I've waited on God to change this summer, and somehow I've forgotten that I have hands, feet, a heart, and a brain to change it too. And so I set out to make a list, a list that will bring joy, encouragement, and excitement to me as well as others. In many ways it's a simple list, consisting of smiling, leaving random notes of encouragement, and caring a trash bag around town to pick up the worlds litter. However, this list is helping me to find the passion for life that I felt I might have left at school in Virginia. Being so far from the God-loving, hippie culture of the past year is forcing me to come to terms with how I can love God's world and Her people in my own way. And this time, doing things like not-washing my hair, washing my clothes by hand, and building calluses on ...

I recently rediscovered my iTunes and mp3 player. It's not like I had forgotten they exist, only that I have forgotten the power music can have over the soul. Simply letting music play, fill in the spaces in my boredom, helps me to feel emotions I have put off and to apply poet's lyrics to the stories of my life. Thoughts about loneliness, about change, and about friendship have been comforted by familiar tunes and songs I'd forgotten I knew by heart. I guess you could say that the music has helped me to make peace with my summer, with this time of unknown and insecurity. At least it has helped me to fill the days with something. That's not to say that I am stuck in my loneliness, more that I have accepted the situation here and am not looking for more. And somehow music makes that acceptance a whole lot sweeter. Peace and Prayers

A week ago I was asked what I had learned this past year. I lied somewhat. I said that I had learned that there is a difference between what you need to exist and what you need to live. This distinguished between being a body and "being" a person. And in many ways I am learning that, but that isn't something I learned at school. When I originally thought back to what this year taught me, it was that I can survive on my own. I learned that it is possible for me to create a place where I felt loved, excepted and needed. This summer that lesson is being turned on it's head. In church today I was reflecting on everything I currently miss - my family, my friends, feeling loved, feeling special, etc - and I realized that this summer maybe my lesson is the exact opposite. I feel as if all I learned was nonsense, that it is impossible to create a community where I can belong and that without that community I am nothing. And I'm not sure how to live with this lesson. Becau...

Remember wishing for yesterday to arrive? Well that was me. Yesterday came, right on schedule, and dropped off a whole boatload of possibilities. And while most of me is grateful for yesterday, I still wish I was waiting for it to arrive. Don't get me wrong, it's nice to have possibilities, to hear change clink together in my bag, but some part of me wishes I still had time to blog about nothing in the middle of the day and read a good novel. It's a small part, but it's there. Reminds me of the Noma Video I watched with my hosts last night. It's called Today, and it's about not holding on to the past. How much of the past am I holding on to? Or how much have I let go of that I should still be holding on to? This place, these people, most of theme seem like strangers. Is that because I let go too fast? And, those other people, the ones who read this blog and live so far away, they are the ones who I wish I could hold on to forever. Will it always be like this? Le...

read this : http://www.thesimpleway.org/resources/details/50-ways-to-become-the-answer-to-our-prayers/. I did. And while I knew it was a call to change, I kept checking off all the things I already do. I hate that somehow, in my mind, the few things on that list I have done or do, like laughing at advertisements or writing someone in prison, seem to justify my fears of actually sacrificing something to make a difference. Here, at this point in my life, when I have all the time in the world, I read that list and check off the things I did at school without thinking of the things I could do here and now, in my lonely existence. I know full well that my sadness and my loneliness have to do with having nothing to be passionate at the moment, having nothing to keep me in love with the world. And yet, I don't know how I can adapt the list of simple, radical living, to inspire me today to make a difference. I'm not sure how I can be the answer to prayers in this place while I continue...

Yesterday, I sat for 2 and a half hours on a plastic chair in a stuffy basement room full of people older than myself. I enjoyed it immensely. I sat, comfortably squished between those closest to me in age, my elders by a few years, and laughed, or commented with genuine concern and healthy sarcasm on the issues brought to light. We discussed vision, process, decision making, and our future by listening to all the voices in the room, be they spoken by an elder who has seen much change and may have much reservation or through a caring mother on the behalf of her unbaptized children. The community, the care, and the genuine respect for all influenced our discussion and our decisions as we moved towards consensus practices and future leaders. This community gathering, yes, this annual general church meeting, was genuinely enjoyable for me to attend. That's not saying that it not get dull at parts, that I wasn't tempted to drift off due to the lack of sleep I had gotten the previou...

I woke this morning from a far off place where I had been in the comfortable company of a friend I knew then but cannot now remember. I had fallen asleep once more with the now desperate prayer of "God find me something to do" ringing in my ears and woke up comforted, though still without a foreseeable plan for the day. Somehow this dream inspired a sense of peace and encouragement to keep trying, regardless of how exhausting the search may be. I'm puzzled by this realm of disappearing details and puzzling associations. I'm no Joseph, I can't read dreams as I read novels or textbooks, but I wish I could remember what about the dream was so comforting. There was no mad hatter, like the one who assisted Alice in making sense of her reality, no blue caterpillar to point the way, and definitely no smiling kittens. (Yes, I watched Alice in Wonderland yesterday.) Simply a good friend and a comfortable hug. That is all I can remember. But maybe it is enough. The encourag...

My insides curled and my eyes built up with tears. Compassion for the stories of so many filled me and once again the conviction to do something in this world consumed me. Oppressed people. Greedy pockets. Cries for justice silenced. And the quotes: "Preemptive attack...fight terror with terror." It hit a note deep within my soul. I watched Avatar without 3D. I am not sorry. I may have missed the spectacular flying shows, but I caught the spirit. What does it say of a culture that watches movies about justice, about oppression, and about themselves and sees only the acrobatics and the animation? Do they miss the point? Are they so much centered on amusement that they forget the meaning? More than a movie about flying blue people and amazing digital technology, Avatar is the story of oppression, subjugation, genocide and greed that has been told so many times throughout history and never been heard. The point is clear. The words are there tying the story of Pandora to the stor...

I make list after list after list. Apparently theses lists have value,and at least they help me sleep at night. There is some encouragement that with lists, the day of nothing will pass by in some form of productivity. And that every single one of the 19 individual cover letter's I have typed could be a potential job. Or that one of the phone calls I make will put money in my pocket instead of taking money out. But truly, is that the purpose of all things? I struggle with justifying the details. I have no greater purpose at the moment then to write lists, and to turn those lists into cover letters and phone calls. But why? For what end? And with what purpose? I simply want to love God and her creation! So why must I put fingers to keyboard and ink on mechanically digested trees in the homes of taking printed value from one system and investing it in another? What good is that? And where does it actually lead? The details seem pointless. The process is an endless chase of frustrati...

So I have been informed, by some lovely friends, that my post made no sense. I was half aware of this last time, but I was hoping that somehow my nonsense would make sense to others. Unfortunately, my hopes were mislaid. And thus, I am going to try to write more plainly. But as you can see, that is a nonsensical effort. I have thoughts, and I have thoughts, but they make no sense to even me. Perhaps this mood comes from having too much time, and too much time makes thinking difficult. I don't know. You would think that I would have the ability to make sense of what is under my skin. That in this small realm I could complete parasitically domination. Alas, it does not work. My thoughts escape my attempts at grooming and come forth, once again nonsensical to confound my readers and even myself. But where else am I to unleash these senseless thoughts? I know my blog is crammed combination of intellectual and poetic prose that glides swiftly past some thoughts and barely skims over oth...

I stop to write my first entry in a long awaited blog while exiting the jungles of newly formed Zaire (modern day Congo) that are filled with death and new love, to discuss my existence and my life. In my temporary respite from the despair of survival and the damnation of a Baptist preacher in Congo, 1961, where Barbara Kingsolover’s The Poisonwood Bible has recently kept me captive, my thoughts are clouded with the continuum of death and life and the existence of love and even faith. I must apologize for the morbidity of those thoughts, but if I am to begin a blog, which I appear to be doing, it will be from where I am in life and not one step ahead or behind. You are open to reading or ignoring, to listening or even to hiding within these words, or to not reading at all. Frankly I cannot decide that these words are even legible, but they are from my heart, and hence they will choose to grace this page and some space in your thoughts if you give them leave. While my thoughts find them...