a novel

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...