The thoughts of others better than mine

I find it impossible to celebrate or meditate on certain days or aspects of Christ without thinking of this or that poem or line or hymn. Palm Sunday and the Easter week perhaps more so than any other. And I do not mean to undermine the Scriptures by my literary bent, only that some ideas, days, character qualities of Christ have been deepened or beautified for me by the well-written understanding of others who have wrestled and written before me.

Palm Sunday, the day that Jesus came into Jerusalem in great celebration as the beloved Lamb who was to be slain, is today. And ever since a dear college professor introduced this poem to me freshman year, it has never failed to enter my thoughts on Palm Sundays.

The Donkey
G. K. Chesterton

When fishes flew and forest walked

And figs grew upon thorn,

Some moment when the moon was blood

Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry

And ears like errant wings,

The devil's walking parody

On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,

Of ancient, crooked will;

Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,

I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour,

One far fierce hour, and sweet:

There was a shout about my ears,

And palms before my feet.

The Hunger Games

This morning I finally closed the cover on Suzanne Collins' Mockingjay, the final book in the Hunger Games trilogy. And I must say, I am so glad to be done. What began in The Hunger Games as a fun ride turned into an exhausting political game, told by a main character I no longer trusted or even liked.

The story is dark and brutal, set in a post-nuclear America ruled by force and fear, where children are sent as sacrifices each year (to pay for the past uprisings against the all-powerful and wealthy Capitol) to a televised gore-fest called The Hunger Games. It's not okay. And Collins does not sugar coat the pain of this broken world; she writes this brutality so that we will cringe and cry with the oppressed for this to end. It's not okay, and it's not supposed to be okay.

Aside from the other two books, I enjoyed The Hunger Games. I appreciate the trilogy in light of the entire story, of the fight for justice and freedom, and the struggle throughout to do the right thing in a world gone crazy. I just got bogged down by the third book by the first person monologue of the narration. I stopped caring about Katniss.

Collins writes to explore the themes of the effects of war and violence on young people, and this crazy sci-fi teen romance definitely does that. She also does a good job of showing a broken world, seemingly much more broken than ours, and yet with chilling echoes of the very society and culture we live in.

I'm glad I read the series, but I'm not planning on buying my own set of books. I am, however, extremely curious about the upcoming film, which has rocked Rotten Tomatoes so far with a 100% rating, and such reviews as "The best American science-fiction film since the Matrix," (Box Office Magazine) and "As thrilling and smart as it is terrifying. There have been a number of big-gun literary series brought to screen over the past decade. This slays them all." (Empire)

No candle to Harry Potter (I'm a little biased), vastly superior to Twilight (isn't everything?) -- but I think I'll withold judgement until I see the films.

What do you think?

Secrets, secrets

I keep thinking about Hopkins' poetry, probably because I know his so much better than most other poets' works, but this one just seems so appropriate to me.

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;

As tumbled over rim in roundy wells

Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's

Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;

Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:

Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;

Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,

Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came.

I say móre: the just man justices;

Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;

Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is —

Chríst — for Christ plays in ten thousand places,

Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his

To the Father through the features of men's faces.

Coming August 31, 2012.

the sound of silence

Our house is so quiet, and I ashamedly find myself seeking out the internet, or browsing our movie collection to break this quiet into something brainless and meaningless -- as I do far, far too often.

But reader, I am a coward. My Bible sits nearby, my journal I haven't written in in months equally close ... my books of poetry, my own notebook of attempts at poetry, all these things I claim to care for and long for -- I am running from them.

I'm afraid of the darkness of my heart. I'm afraid of the fear, the uncertainty, the brokenness I've squashed down and ignored. I'm so afraid of my own inadequacies, afraid that I will cry out like Hopkins: birds build -- but not I build; no,  but strain, / Time's eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes. / Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain. 

And here I am, writing about my cowardice instead of braving the darkness my soul is aching to have flooded with light.

Here I go.  

Let the children come!

I must confess a good bit of jealousy of Lindsay's ability to so candidly share her teaching stories and pictures on her blog -- I would probably get fired if I posted pictures of my kids on here.

(Here. These are my kids.)

Image via: Squidoo.com

But I can tell you about them! Like any teacher, I totally have favorites. I love all my fifteen kids dearly, but there are those few who tug on my heartstrings in certain ways.

We have had only three girls in our class until very recently, and one of those original three (we'll call her Anna) is an incredibly sweet and intelligent little girl. She just turned two a week or so ago, so she'll be moving up soon, but I'm soaking in my last days with her. She was gone for over a month for Christmas, and just returned to us this Monday -- we actually thought she wouldn't be back, so what a surprise when the door opened! Of all the adults in our room, Anna is most attached to me, and insists on coming to me for everything, even when there's obviously another adult already taking care of the task she needs doing. I really feel like her mom some days.

Now, the best bit: this girl is very intelligent, and very articulate -- she speaks in complete sentences -- but I never have any idea what she is saying. Now, almost six months spending forty hours a week with toddlers, I consider myself very fluent in their stumbling articulations. Anna, no way. She's so obviously speaking clear, complete thoughts, but I have yet to discern their meaning. I can distinguish my name, and sometimes catch a word or two, but after all these months, I still never know what she's trying to tell me. Fortunately, Anna is bright. She comes up, calls my name, makes sure she has eye contact and my attention, speaks her mumbling hilarities, and then grabs my hand to pull me to wherever or whatever is the subject of her excitement/concern.

Yesterday, it was a paint spot on the table, left over from art. So, she helped me wipe it up. Another day, it was extreme excitement over a co-worker's Mickey Mouse lunchbox. At that one, once we were over at the lunchbox, the squeal of "Mickey! Mickey!" was easily understood. Sometimes, she just repeats, "Uh-oh! Uh-oh!" to show me a spill, or a friend who has fallen or been pushed over. Gosh, I'll miss her when she moves up to the Twos class.

Image via: MadeForMums.com

Another sweetheart is a little mop-headed boy, whose blonde curls always seem to need cutting; his bangs constantly brush his eyes. He reminds me of Peter Pan, who was so charming because he still had his baby teeth: this little guy's (we'll name him George) teeth seem so small in his wide smile. This kid is more in love with animals than anyone else in our class. When we pull out our plastic farm animals, George and I spend the entire time naming the animals and making their sounds -- over and over. He doesn't get bored of it. But this kid's articulation is in the back of  his mouth, so even though his words are excellent, they sound a little different (Try saying "cluck cluck" in the back of your mouth, with the back of your tongue, but smiling at the same time. That's George.), and he spits with almost everything he says. I know it won't be cute in a couple of years, but it is now, and in a couple of years, he'll have learned to speak properly anyway. They all do.

George is also a cuddler, and, as his words are really good, he loves to name everything he sees. When we're playing outside on the playground, he often comes running up to me and asks, "Up peese!" so that we can name the trees, the cars, the clouds, the airplanes, and all the other toddlers outside by name. He's one of the few kids who calls us teachers by our names -- and he never moves on to naming something new until I 've repeated and affirmed what he's just said. He also loves to pull away and grin at me, then bury his head against my shoulder for a hug and snuggle, then pull away to laugh again. Repeat five or six times. We play this game almost daily, and it makes me laugh every time.

Of course, Anna and George aren't my only two favorites, but I can't write about them all. I mostly wanted to affirm that, even though I often speak of my struggle with discontent at this seemingly thankless or lowly job, God blesses me daily. How can I think it lowly to love these children? I should be learning from them, for Jesus says I must become like them. And on the days I feel selfish and grown-up, I need to say with Him, "Let the little children come!"

"Almost Heaven, West Virginia"

I don't know if I totally agree with John Denver, but West Virginia is an excellent place to visit. This weekend, Andrew and I and our buddy Bogle headed up into the gnarly mountains with a host of our friends from church for a weekend full of snow, Killer Bunnies, and Settlers of Catan.

Image via TheGameBoardNut.com  /  Image via TheDoorYard.typepad.com

Fifteen of us in a cabin, fifteen minutes from a very pleasant ski lodge. Ten inches of snow, and constant flurries for three days. Excellent.

I have been skiing only once before, my senior year of high school. Well, I've been water skiing more times than I can count. Snow skiing, only once. Our church friends all lived in Montana or Colorado at one time or another, so they're all professional winter explorers. I don't even own snow pants.

 My plunge into the world of winter sports was rather intense, so let's play a game of pretend. First, pretend you woke up at 6 in the morning on a Saturday to drive four hours through ridiculously curvy mountain roads to West Virginia, watching the snow increase as you go. Then, pretend the people in the town you're staying in decided not to salt the roads, so some idiot in front of you decided to slam on his brakes, necessitating your brakes and a not-so-graceful slide into a (thankfully) nearby parking lot. Let's pretend you're nauseated, and not sure if you're planning to ski at all.

You make it up the incline driveway to the lodge, where your large group of friends, having arrived the previous night, are currently leaving to go skiing. Um, okay. We'll change and meet you at White Grass.

 Let's pretend the world is white; a glorious, sparkly white, and all the plants look like cotton in high summer.

Now, let's hike up a mountain. All the way to the top, about a thousand foot ascent. Up a steep slope, which is bumpy, covered in snow, and occasionally slick with ice. Except your feet are five feet long and four inches wide. Ah. How to get up the mountain? You have to maneuver your absurdly long and skinny feet into something resembling ballet's second position (spread your legs wide and point your toes out), and walk like a duck up the mountain trail. Um, gravity. So you must hold your ski poles behind you and push up so you can take a step. Come on, triceps! For three hours. Not all so steep, but all continuously up, and sometimes the trail is slanted sideways. For the gradual slopes, you can just slide your skis forward, like skating, which is a relief from duck-walking. Climbing a mountain in your skis. Who knew?

I discovered that cross-country skiing is one of the absolute best cardio exercises. One website claims it burns between 600 and 700 calories per hour. That's more than running. And my triceps and thighs felt it, for sure!

The view (which I could not possible express well in a picture, even had I thought to bring my camera skiing), was incredible. A panorama of snow-covered mountains and valleys, and a wind so cold my face hurt. Absolutely worth the workout.

Going back down the mountain was accomplished in a third the time it took to climb, but it was also, in many ways, more frustrating for me. The ascension took nothing but gritting my teeth and burning my muscles. We took a much more gradual path down, so descending was a combination of fighting for control on the first few curves and slopes, and then having to skate my skis and tired legs on parts that were not quite steep enough to actually ski down. The skiing parts were great, but Bogle and I agreed we actually preferred the uphill.

And then, we slept.

We also went snow shoeing, which sounds cool, but just means walking around in snow shoes.

They look ridiculous.

But you can walk around in some lovely places.

A frozen lake near our cabin.

A not-so-frozen creek nearby.

The partially frozen Sweenys.

The moral of the story? I'm glad I went.

Edit:

Our friend Elissa also blogged about the weekend; her pictures are worth seeing here or here.

Radical Monotony

This year, I turn 24. Achingly close to the culturally-acclaimed pinnacle of my life and looks.

What am I doing with my one wild and adventurous life?

I am learning to be married, praying for healthy children soon, and working 40 hours a week loving on the toddlers of other 20-somethings who make more money than I do.

I am not ashamed of my job; on most days, I enjoy it--but when I compare my journey with the journeys of others I know, my heart grows dark. My best friend Lindsay (who always will be cooler than me) works in South Korea, living her dream, romping with crazy awesome new friends and soaking in a foreign culture. Another bestie, Elizabeth, spent all of 2011 on the World Race, loving on hundreds of kids, romping with crazy awesome people, eating bugs, speaking truth to the hopeless, and soaking in a dozen foreign cultures. My husband is spending his hours studying to become a doctor, so he can love on people and save their lives for the rest of his life.

I blog, but only for my own enjoyment: I know I'm not a fantastic story teller, or any sort of photographer at all. What this means is that, to the world, and to hip cultural Christianity, I am boring. My mundane life wouldn't bother me if the internet weren't full of Christians just as caught up in wanderlust as our culture: this desire to go, be, to live an orgy of experiences and adventures and then settle down to a plaid-wearing spouse and write best-selling books about how you met God in Cambodia.

But, reader, I can't believe that Jesus calls me away from the life I am now living. I have never felt a call to overseas missions; my personality and talents are much better suited for one-on-one relationships in a small community. I don't want, or feel the tug on my soul, to learn another language and move to a jungle. And, reader, I don't believe this negates God's call and purpose for my life.

Andrew Byers, in his excellent article "We Need Boring Christians," (go read it) reminds us that "Radical discipleship is not adventure tourism." Jesus, by changing my heart and calling me to himself in forgiveness, has already called me to a radical life. But my radical life right now doesn't look radical. But, reader, I am free in Christ to live a mundane life where He has placed me and my family. I am free to work, to help my husband pay the bills as he studies all day to pass his medical boards. I am free to be a servant to people I don't know, and to their children -- many of them Muslims. I am free to follow and strive to be like Jesus in the small way He has called me to in this season. I am free to trust and struggle on the dark days.

I hope this monotony of daily living and trusting is never shameful to me.