A journey in distinguishing selfnessess from self-negligence and the place for selfishness

I’ve come to realize in the last year or two that there is a notable difference between self-negligence and selflessness, namely the intent.  I have come to learn that my desire to “be selfless” came out in the form of me believing that that meant I had to completely give up everything I’ve wanted and everything that made my own life better. While I’ve learned there is some merit to this, I’ve also learned that if I’m not doing it in the right mind and heart and if I’m, metaphorically speaking, dead because I’ve neglected myself then it is worthless.

I’ve found that the places I am most selfless are the places I actually want what is best for someone else. When I give up a road trip to see a friend I can see some other time so I can attend a once in a lifetime experience of another friend. When I come back to Huntington to just be more available to a friend who has had a loved one die, instead of staying in Fort Wayne to hang out with a friend who is only in town for a week. When I give up talking about myself so much and start looking people in the eye when they speak instead of my typical wandering and uncomfortable eyes, even though looking people in the eye freaks me out.

Giving up what I want because someone else wants it  and is making a bigger deal about it, isn’t it selfless it’s avoiding conflict. Not going somewhere I was invited because I feel like it was a pity invite and I would be a burden isn’t selfless. It’s mopey.

What I’ve learned and am continuing to learn is that self-negligence isn’t selfless unless your intent is for the very best for someone else. What I’ve learned and am continuing to learn is that self-negligence isn’t selfless if my intent is simply to ensure I have the very worst. What I’ve learned and am continuing to learn is that self-negligence isn’t selfless (most of the time) at all. It’s actually very selfish.

A Journey in Coping and Helping

I very distinctly remember sitting there next to Claire Smith, my clarinet in my hand. Mr. Borror was completely oblivious, but I noticed when Aaron and Nathan got up to go out back.  When Phil and Sherry walked across the gym floor without Ed I knew something wasn’t right. I knew that Ed wouldn’t miss Phil’s senior night for anything. When the ceremony ended and the game started a few of completely ignored KennyB123 direction to start the song.  We got up and headed across the floor to the locker room hallway.  Some stupid boy from the opposing school said something offensive to me, but I just kept walking. I went to the commons and we started praying. A big group of people I hardly knew, just started praying.  We didn’t know anything for certain we just knew something wasn’t right. It wasn’t much later that night we learned that Ed Maurizi passed away. Missy was one of my dearest friends and I had spent a lot of time at the Maurizi house. I had gone to an ‘N Sync concert with Missy and Ed (and Kate and Dave and my dad). I wanted to go over to their house right then, but what would that do? Crowd an already very crowded house (7 kids and a huge church family). So I sat in my room and prayed. And when the doorbell rang around 1 I knew who it was. My dad opened the door. We were all still awake. Seconds later Katelyn was sitting on my bed with me and we were both sobbing. The events that unfolded are your typical story. I won’t bore with the details.

When Jess texted me at 4 on Monday morning I found myself at a loss again. I prayed. I prayed and prayed. I told Jenn and Frauf. I prayed and prayed, and passed out again some time between 5:30 and 6:00.  I got a text from Jenn around 7:30 and answered and prayed again until I fell asleep again. I got up around 10:00 and left for Huntington. I’m not a terribly useful person when it comes to these things. I just sat around Huntington until around 4:00 when I knew Jess was going to be at Good Shep. I don’t know how to be useful.

I want so much to help. I want so much to know how to deal with things. I want to be available to anyone who might need it. I find myself stuck in the same place though. I only know to pray. I know how to be in the proper area so I can be more readily available. When a friend leaves for a missions trip all I can do is pray. I never know what to say to them. Offer a hug maybe. I’ve no sagely advice, no helpful tips, no words of encouragement.

It’s not a really a journey, because I’ve not made any progress in any direction. I’m not moving. I’m only doing what I know, and it doesn’t feel like much or enough.

An Adventure in Hearing God and Listening to Him Under Any Circumstance

I don’t know if it is appropriate to describe God as a “cool cat,” but I just did it in a conversation with a friend.

Last night was the big premiere of Nero Bloom: Private Eye a film directed by Jason Eberly and written by Nathan Hartman starring Philip Black, that I have been helping with all year.  Needless to say I was pretty darn excited to be there.  I had to wear a fancy dress and pretend to be a real person for a whole night, and I mean the whole night.

My guest for the evening was a very good friend who took me out to dinner before the premiere. We made quiet and strange conversation the whole car ride to the restaurant and then even at the restaurant.

I got to the point where I loosened up the tiniest bit when we got to the theater, but I had this huge balls of nerves sitting in my stomach because I was told I’d be meeting the man I’ve recently been referring to as my “Secret BFF,” a columnist for the local newspaper that I’ve been communicating with via the internets for the past few years. As more and more people arrived to the event I felt more and more uncomfortable in my fancy dress and my big curly hair and my borrowed, outrageously tall shoes.

The films began and went off without a hitch and were magnificently well-received.  The reception was, well, I’m sure it was wonderful for Jason and Nathan.

After spending some time at the reception my dear friend and I scurried off to Club Soda where we were to meet up with friends.  While we waited for our table for ten a drunk woman and her fella walked in the door. I stood there in my sparkling and bedazzled champagne colored dress, with my friend in his providencially cooridnating tie and suite, and the woman approaches us almost immediately upon entering saying, “Oh my God! You two are too cute! You’re perfect for each other! Your hair colors compliment each other perfectly!” There is a brief beat. “OH MY GOD DID YOU JUST GET MARRIED?!” I stifle a snicker. My friend simply replies, “Not yet.” “Oh my God are you getting married TOMORROW?!” “No, not tomorrow,” my friend says looking at me, “it’s what now? Seven months?” I can’t let the fun stop now. “Yep, seven months,” I say. “REALLY?!” The drunk woman shouts. The boy looks at the woman and then to me and says with a slight chuckle, “No. Not really.” “Oh good,” she says, “I was going to have to commit suicide,” and she trails off as she walks away.

We went to our table and talked to friends for a couple of hours, maybe three of them. As things were winding down the conversations between the dear friend and I grew more and more pressing, I suppose is the best word. I learned a good deal about him and his life, and I tried to, while simultaneously trying not to make it about me, give him that same courtesy.

There was no need for anything to end in the 40 minutes in a drive back to school so we went for a walk in Headwaters park and spent a little time with my good pals the Hamilton Women Statues. After a little while my dear friend started being loud and making loud noises, which were then replied to by someone from across the river. A small shouting match ensued.

We sat quietly conversing about life when a gang of five teenage boys rode up on bmx bikes. They asked us if we were the ones shouting; we told them we were, but we did hear the shouting. They were still pretty convinced it was us. Smart boys. We just sat there and talked to them for about twenty minutes. Well, my dear friend did most of the talking to them, but we mostly just let them talk.  A thirteen-year-old who thought he needed money and needed it badly enough to be spending his time (at 1:30 in the morning) stealing bikes so he could sell them. A seventeen-year-old who dropped out of school to take up a full time job so he could pay his mom’s rent. It was sad. These kids who knew so much about juvey. I wanted to give each of them a hug and tell them that even though I don’t know them I still love them, but I didn’t really know how to make that work without seeming weird. So I just listened. The boys finally left us, and we decided that it was best that we, too, left.

We drove back to Huntington and talked about some really cool things. Things I’d never found the courage or the opportunity to talk to anyone else about.  Things I’d never even admitted to myself, but there I was flatly telling my heart.

Then conversation that changed my heart.

I have a hard time with girls, particularly girls who seem to somehow step right into cool parts of my life just as they’re getting cool and take them from me.  It’s not an intentional thing, always. And in this particular case it most certainly was, mm is, not. But somehow this girl seems to just pop up everywhere.  Places I have to earn my invitation to she gets invited for no reason and with no one else knowing her. People who I work hard to get to know she knows within five seconds of meeting them, and has them falling in love with her. And I admit that if there’s one thing I am, it’s jealous of her for being so wonderful. The conversation in the car though pointed me to something I wasn’t prepared for.  This girl and I have more in common than I could have ever guessed, and while I didn’t judge this girl ever, which is startling for me, I did become instantly jealous of her.  That jealousy then got in the way of me ever wanting to let myself get to know her, which I think perhaps I should have, because now there’s something rather unique that I’d like to speak with her about.  At least to say, “Hey, you’re not alone.” Because knowing that I’m not alone was encouraging to me, at least in this particular case.

It’s interesting to me how God can use the people we want him to use the very least to give us hope and encouragement, or worse yet an ally of sorts. There’s still a big part of me that doesn’t want to talk to this girl about our situation, but the tiny part of me that says I should is prodding at me and bugging me.  It’s a strange subject to bring up, but I feel that I should bring it up. I don’t know that it would do me any good to talk to her about it, but I want to at least give her the chance to talk to someone else who is in the same boat. If that’s what she wants, but there’s no harm in at least offering the opportunity.

When I want to listen to God the least that seems to be when he doesn’t want to shut up. And when I want to like someone the least that seems to be when God decides it’s a great idea to use that person in my life. He’s sneaky that one.

A journey in rage and controlling my anger

rage: noun Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Late Latin rabia, from Latin rabies rage, madness, from rabere to be mad; akin to Sanskrit rabhas violence  Date: 14th century. 1) a fit of violent and uncontrolled anger 2) violent action 3) an intense feeling; passion 4) my present emotional state

I sent a detailed explanation of my situation to Dr. Friesen, basically pleading with him to let me walk in graduation. Today I received an e-mail in return that, first of all, was not from him, and second, was essentially a long, formal, impersonal, why-should-we-care-to-be-empathetic, “Hell no.”  So I took it upon myself to reply with an email that said not one thing except “super,” which they likely won’t catch as sarcasm.

Now I have to deal with what the hell I’m supposed to do next. I don’t want to go to graduation. I don’t want to go to Forester night. I don’t want to be here at all. I don’t want to talk to people. I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to eat.

I want to take those stupid graduation announcements the school made me spend $65 on and throw them all over Friesen’s and the Registrar’s office. I want to demand that $65 back. I want to pack up everything and never come back. I want to curl into bed and never come out.

So now I have to decide what to do with the depression I have that I can almost directly attribute to this university and the anger that I can directly attribute to a very small group of authorities of this university.  The depression can’t really be changed at least not by blind determination to better myself.

But my anger that’s a different story. Because love is not easily angered and I’m beyond angry. I’m beyond pissed. So I already know my reaction is not that of a godly woman.  Do I have a right to be upset? Hell yes I do. Do I have a right to be angry? No. This is not a righteous anger. It is selfish; it is fury that I should not be harboring, but I can’t seem to let it go. Nor do I particularly want to let it go. In Ephesians we’re told not to sin in our anger and not to let the sun go down while we are still angry. So am I supposed to walk over to the registrar and make ammends with them? Tell them I think they’re asshats and it’s bullshit, but I deserve it.

Because I’m not mad that I can’t walk. I mean that sucks, but it’ s just a dumb thing anyway. I’m mad that this school has done such a fantastic job for the last four years making me feel like shit. Reminding me that I’m not good enough to be someone they consider a fine example of HU student. I’m not on a sports team, so I’m fat. I never did a summer tour of Godspell, so I’m untalented. I’m not a ministry or bible and religion major, so I’m going to hell. I’m not on JMC, so I hate the community. I’m not on SAB, so I hate my fellow students. I’m not on Senate, so I hate the school.  I’m an English major who dabbles in theatre and film and writing. I have friends in all different areas of the campus. I go to events that interest me or if I have the time or means. I volunteer where I feel led. I auditioned for Godspell all three times, so maybe I am untalented.  I don’t play sports because I’m too competitive.  But I’m not someone the school would want on any sort of poster, because I’m actually a college student.

I don’t know what I’m going to do next or how I’m going to get past my selfishness, but that’s my battle and that’s my next adveture.

A Journey in Dealing with Anger and Depression

Alright, if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s to shoot straight and I learned that from a dear friend of mine, who once upon a time would be considered a mortal enemy. Krista Kowatch has taught me to shoot straight, always tell it like it is, why dance around it with your friends? So here, to an audience of? McCann? I dance not.

I’ve been at Huntington for nearly four years now. That’s a fine fair amount of time to spend in one place. I mean, it’s no 13 years at Blackhawk, but it’s a tough competitor. Maybe that’s the plainest showing of my fear of change. Stick it out because moving on is a scary business. Leave the country but the idea of doing it with a real place to come back to, with friends and family that love me. That’s scary.

In four years I’ve grown or at least changed more than I can explain. And I don’t really know who to blame for that. I’m okay with blaming in this case, because I’m not convinced my changing is such a bad thing. As scary as change is it is terribly important. Imagine I never changed my clothes again. That for the rest of my life I wear this pair of black leggings, same underthings, same tank top, and perfect wrap dress. Imagine  I never changed from dirty back to clean, because who needs hygiene? Imagine I never changed directions when driving. How would I ever get home or to the store? well, I wouldn’t. So change is necessary.

And in four years I’ve changed from hating myself to finding my worth in other people to falling away from those people to finding no worth in myself to hating myself to dare I say start to at least not hate myself if not even like myself to leaving the country to hating myself more than ever and returning home.

When I came home I was met with such a loving reception. Friends who push me to find myself and my worth in something greater than any of us. Friends who tackle me while I eat lunch with other friends. Friends who know that the instant I get back they can call me because of something that’s bothering them. Friends who love me more than I can understand or comprehend or believe to deserve.

And since I’ve been back I’ve not been well. The first week I was back at school, any moment I was alone I would sob. The instant I stepped into my room I would begin weeping. When I was with people I had to convince myself it was okay to be around people, to feel loved.

Slowly I’ve gotten past it, not entirely, but enough to function.

Recently I’ve learned that I’m not going to graduate this year, and because of a stupid rule the university has I’m not going to be able to walk until next spring either, and  I must walk which means my degree is void until next spring no matter when I finish it.

Needless to say this news did not excite me, in the slightest. In fact, I was downright furious. Fury has subsided into a state of pissed-offed-ness.  To the point that when I talk to friends about it I can at least laugh about it, or make jokes.

That doesn’t change another wrench my life has had thrown in the works. (as an aside any time I say “has had” I instantly want to finish listing the being verbs). I’ve gained a new state of melancholy at best. I never want to leave my bed.  And often I don’t. I sleep through my morning classes and go to my afternoon one’s if I can muster the will to get up. And it’s not awesome, nor is it something I’m terribly proud of.

I’ve had a bug to get out again. To leave. To start over maybe. To change scenery. I just need to move, forward and the school that was supposed to help me do that is holding me back. And it’s not helping me grow anymore. My dreams and my imagination and my strength have far outgrown it. And now I don’t know where I’m going to go next or how I’m going to get there until the school let’s me go.

tornadoes and tunnels

Another day. Another adventure.

Last Sunday Brett and I decided to completely avoid our homework and our commitments by making the drive to Fort Wayne to return something to the mall.

Well, the mall turned into Target and plans to meet the Freers for sushi.

So we make our run to the mall to return the article of clothing and then choose to venture to Target as we still have about an hour to kill before we have to meet the Freers.

We go to  Target because this lady needed underwears.   I find some undapants and a flick I want to buy. I have them in hand and we are headed to the check out when Target employee Fatsy Markson tells us we all have to go to the “fire tunnel” because there’s a “tornado” coming.

“What?” I say.
“Are you serious?!” Brett says.

And we are herded with the rest of the cattle at Target into the Target “fort.”  Brett and I avoided the grumblers and went to the back of the fort in the Fort.

Settled on the floor next to the baby mattress Brett says, “Whenever I’m in situations like this or like on a plane I wonder to myself which of these people I’m going to bond with when we start to die.”

I laugh a little, hoping this isn’t the way we go.

“Let’s check our supplies,” Brett says as she opens her purse.

A pen, a notebook, some moneys, and probably something outrageous.

My turn comes.

“Well, I have my Bible,” I say.
Soon to be new friend, funny Target employee “Shirley” (that’s what I call her in my head now) says, “You better go ahead and start reading us that just in case.”

We laughed, because that was a pretty funny thing to say, but it was made funnier when the lady with the little girl who had weasled back into our corner looked really panicked by the statement.

I list off some more useless things. And then providence smiles on me there in my impending doom. My good nosering. The stud. The magnificent missing friend returned to me, valiant.

“MY NOSERING!” I shriek.

A few more hour minutes pass and I say, “We’re gonna be late for sushis.”

And it happens. Our new BFF Brandon (or BFFB or BOBFFB) says, “Aw that sounds so good right now.” And we smile.

We make jokes about the world ending and how none of us will survive and how those fire doors aren’t tornado doors and we’ll soon be dead.

Then the manager tells us it’s safe to leave the “fort”.  We do. I buy underwear and Shaun of the Dead from BOBFFB and we almost ask him to sushi, but wuss out.

And no one died at all.

Who do you think you are? Tina Fey?!

Alright, so I’ve got some potential projects lined up in my life.  My novel is underway.  Nero is wrapping soon. Tory’s new flick is about to get cranked out; he and I are meeting Sunday. I’m looking ahead to One-Act festival. Hartman and I are discussing a potential sketch comedy show.

So it’s all got me thinkin’.

What is comedy? Who is comedy? And as I try to come up with some names of girls in my life who are funny I find myself asking, “Are women funny?!”

Now, I know the answer to that last question can very often be an emphatic, “Frick yeah!” But the problem is are women intrinsically funny. 

After reading through the numerous comments my facebook note brought on, Chuck Stone raised an excellent point.  That men are reared to be funny and brave and all sorts of things and women to be dainty and pretty.  Kristen pointed out that comedy can be taught, and I think she’s right. I think someone can fully understand how comedy works, but it’s one thing to know how something works and be able to do it in a way that still works.  I know many people who would know how to direct something comedically, but that does not for one second mean that if you put them in place of an actor they’d be able to do the same thing. 

So where does that take us? 

Am I funny? Am I comedic? I like to tell people, quite regularly that I am.  In fact, my sense of humor is one of the things about myself I’m truly proud of.  Maybe I’m not always proud of the things I say for the sake of comedy, but I do know that it’s funny.  I told someone just the other day that I’m not a thief, but if I knew it would be funny I’d thieve in an instant.  And it’s true.  If I know something could be made funnier by a word or an action and I see the opportunity I’m going to take it.  Maybe that’s what makes everyone so certain I’m an extrovert, but that’s not the case. I’m not an extrovert. I’m an entertainer. 

The only way to make comedy really work is to move with reckless abandon.  You can’t think about what’s going to be a consequence or what someone else is going to think.  You just have to act, and then anticipate what’s going to happen from someone who may be willing to play it back to you.  Comedy truly is give and take and then give some more. And without the willingness to make a complete and total ass of yourself, then you’ve no place in comedy. And that’s just the truth.

So sadly, what Chuck said burdens many women, because making an ass of oneself ain’t a pretty thing.  In fact, most of the time, it’s down right ugly.  But that’s what’s so good about comedy.  You can make yourself as ugly as possible in a situation whether it be through what you say or what you do or how you actually look, but that comedic outcome, that punchline, that laugh is a beautiful thing.

Estimated time frames are never accurate

Last night was a time to spend with old friends. Saturday in general was a day for old friends.  Friday was a day all alone.  Thursday was a day with newer friends.  Today was a day of work with new friends.

Loaded up around nine and were off to Berne.  Phil in the passenger seat fiddling with the ipod, his radio a.d.d. accommodating my own quite nicely. I couldn’t even tell you how long it took for us to get there, because I wasn’t paying attention to time. We pulled into the parking lot of an elementary school. 

The gym that we fondly referred to as the “holding cell” made me feel like I should be sitting next to Kevin and Winny at the big game, or better yet sitting next to Daniel and Nick making fun of the game, but secretly getting into all the yelling and chanting! The seats of the gym were old school boss, wood floor boards with a step between each row.  Jeff and I sat mostly quietly as Phil was taught a well-choreographed fight scene by Darren and Mark. Then it happened it was time to move to the cellar.

When I say cellar I mean boiler room. When I say boiler I mean BOILER. When I passed the furnace Hartman did me the courtesy of pointing out that if I looked through the tiny window I could see the purple and blue fire swirling around inside what now seemed like a very flimsy metal box. Water covering the cement floor flowing slowly to the hole in the floor.

The day was long, and perhaps not as eventful as it feels in my head, but somewhere in there it does feel that way. Eventful. Maybe it was just educational. Or worth my while. I’m not sure.

It wasn’t the easiest weekend to live, and I don’t anticipate a mess of easy days to come, but as they say, “Without chaos, there’d be no happy accidents.”

You can learn a remarkable amount about one person simply by driving them a longish distance. It’s well worth it and I wish I could do such a thing with each of my friends, sit in the car, let them control the music and listen to what they have to say. Perhaps…

Some thoughts on strange things

Alright so adventure one is not an adventure.

I think “canker sores” should be called “cantankerous sores” because they’re angry and sore at me.

Adventure two is a literary adventure.

For creative writing class we’ve been assigned to write 35,000-40,000 words for a novel in the next month.  So far I have 1,046 words on this my second day, but I’ve not sat down yet to pound out the words for day two.  I’m actually pretty excited about this little fella. He’s already shaping up brilliantly, which is startling as I’m expecting him to end up as total crap. Though I suspect that will come about soon enough.  HU won’t really let me sign onto this for some silly reason that has nothing to do with lightspeed, so I’ll not let you know about my journey a whole bunch, but I’ll do my best.

Well, back to the journey!

Challenge and ADVENTURE!

Now, the theme here is adventure, so I’ll do my best to maintain some sort of adventurous tale with each new post. Deal? Deal!

Back to school in a more permanent semi-permanent sense.  I’ve been back at school for about a week now.  Most of my time has been spent in my room thinking about things and trying not to let my mind wander or focus too much on how undeserving I am of the people in my life.

I do not deny that coming back to school has been a monstrously challenging occasion. Spending two weeks with one person had its positives and negatives, but coming from that to a mess of people, or even just six of them has been rough.  I spent this week sitting. I did a lot of crying. I did  some throwing up.  Mostly I sat.

Tuesday was something I desperately needed.  I went to Pose’s flat and made a delicious vegetable and rice soup.  We got out the English muffins.  We made, I think three pots of tea, and in our variations on black dresses, Abi, Pose and I sat around a table laughing and reminiscing as we had our tea and muffins and soup and waited for Lindsay.  Lindsay joined us late, but was no worse for the wear as we simply enjoyed the company of good friends and a nice quiet evening tea.

One night I sat on my bed with Ashley for an hour or so laughing and being silly, an act we later took upstairs.

Thursday I spent with Lucy, almost exclusively. We took a road trip to Fort Wayne. Not a fabric store went untouched by us.  Declaring “ADVENTURE!!” as we entered each store in pursuit of purple corduroy.  After some work at finding Hancock Fabrics we found ourselves in the back storage room looking through about 30 different corduroys trying to decide if that purple looking one was actually purple or just pretending to be purple in the fluorescent lighting.  It was not. If you see her though compliment her on her lovely “purple” “blag”. We then made the next necessary trip to first my house to get my sewing machine, then to Wal-mart to get the remaining bits for the “blag”.

While at the Wal-mart in Fort Wayne we examined their fleece selection as Lucy is hoping to make a no sew fleece blanket.  She was dissatisfied with the selections so we went back to Huntington.

Jess and Brett came over and we had tea in the office (a.k.a. the space under my bed) and ordered ourselves a right fancy pizza. We also spent the evening watch “Big Train”, which was the perfect solution to my post-travel blues. I, to quote Mr. Shakespeare, “Laughed myself  into stitches.”  Jess and Brett were a bit concerned, as the show doesn’t actually make enough sense to possibly be that funny in real life.

Later that night Lucy and I learned something most devastating. The Huntington Wal-mart does not sell fabric anymore, to which I must ask, HOW WILL COLLEGE STUDENTS MAKE THEIR CLOTHES?! They won’t! I’m spent! It’s ridiculous!

Friday, was spent much like the rest of the time in my room. Only this time I spent the day sewing Lucy’s “blag.” (To those of you questioning “blag” that’s what Lucy accidentally called her “bag” so that’s what its name is).  So I spent the day sewing her bag and putting that all together.  I had to make a Wal-mart run to pick up new needles for my machine as Lucy’s blag tried to end me.

So I’m sewing at her bag right? And as I feed the fabric through the machine I hear it preparing to break off, but I tell myself I have to finish the seam.  And then, a chunk, a couple of clicks, and a ching and the fragment of needle and a pin fly at my throat.  Concerned but not daunted I get up to make sure I’m not dead. Really, the act of getting up was proof enough, but to satisfy my blood lust I made sure I wasn’t bleeding too.  I was not, but I did suffer a nasty scratch.

So we go back to Wal-mart get some needles and make our trip back to the campus.  We get Meagan and head to my room to watch P.S. I love you while I finish Lucy’s blag, now that I had needles again!  I finished the blag right there and she had it before the movie was done. I must say her blag is much nicer looking than my bag.  No one’s perfect.

Saturday happened.

Today, I spent a little bit of time looking at some of the pictures of Taylor students who went to Murlough as well.  I won’t lie, I’ve got a strong desire to be back there.  My heart was at peace just looking at the pictures.  My mind was racing about how to get back, but my heart was settled.  I won’t deny that I have a small case of the weepies again, thinking about it, but it’s not the same kind I’d been suffering, so things are shaping up.

I’d like to see so much of that beautiful country. I’d like to spend more time with my family there. I’d like to see the Giant’s Causeway. I’d like to sit and talk to Cynthia about her life, but mostly I’d like to see what sort of great things God is doing there and be a tool for him in any way I can be. Hopes and dreams. Prayers and thoughts. Some day? I certainly hope so.

I’ve been talking to Ben about post-graduation things, and I don’t know what I’m going to do yet. I’d like to go to Murlough and work for Project Evangelism. I’d like to teach English in Japan. I’d like to work for Dr. Clark. I’d be okay with subbing, but some day I want to get back there. In a permanent semi-permanent sort of way.