those who blog

Blogging is an art because you must blog like it's no big deal, but also with just the right amount of narcism:

"I just painted my coasters this putty color, and then I put the family crest on it. And then I pulled together this awesome outfit and adopted four children. All in a days work, of course. But naturally you want to see it."

I can't hate because I pretty much eat that stuff up. And then I try to manufacture my own polyblend of narcism, wit, and good grammar. Mostly it leaves me here: stuffbiblecollegestudentslike.wordpress.com

or it lands me here:

on a boat in california with a scarf wrapped around my head.

Billy Collins: A tribute to my parents on the eve of the eve of the eve of their 35th wedding anniversary.

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.


Billy Collins

shameless plug.

I should tell you that I have another blog.
I think I've mentioned it before, but I do have another blog and today someone read it all the way from KENYA.

I'm excited about that, merely because then I know that when it says (5 VIEWS TODAY) that only 4 of them could possibly be mine. I'm not in Kenya, last time I checked.

Wait a sec--

Nope, not in Kenya.

If you're reading this-- you, my blog friends, you might just click on this convenient link here:

stuffbiblecollegestudentslike.wordpress.com

and then read it. all of it.

Tell me what you think. Subscribe to it. Tell your friends. Tell your enemies. Tell your frenemies. Tell your cat!

On second thought, leave your cat out of this.

Spring Fever! (is there such a thing?)

March 21st and I'm sweating in my room.
We don't usually make sweat-while-simply-existing status until June, at least!

What is this?

Global Warming? I kiss thee.
That horrific earthquake in Japan last February? Well that's possible. I've heard rumors of how the shock waves some how jilted the earth some degree... considering I only scored a 24 on the science portion of my ACT, I'll stop trying to explain it to you now.
God's good pleasure? Yes. Probably.

Can I tell you something? I wasn't even a tiny bit sad about not going some place tropical for spring break. Save for the pang of longing I had when I realized that four of my dearest friends were vacationing in Arizona for a week, I've been perfectly content about living in my skinny jeans and cardigans and cute ankle boot moccasins in dreary drizzly march in the suburbs.

But no.

It's been 85 degrees outside, and I've even laid out in my bathing suit in the backyard. Did it do anything? No, not yet. The ozone layer is too thick from the winter still (I made that up). But still- the simple fact that it was BEFORE the first official day of spring and I was standing in front of my mirror giving myself the pre-season bathing-suit pep talk---> 

"You can do it. I know you can!"

"No. I can't. Bad. Bad. Bad. Why did I keep those Valentine's Day cookies in my room?"

"Come on! Just put on that bathing suit!"

"They're gonna see me!"

"Who is going to see you? You're in your backyard!"

"Right. But my legs."

"Yes. You have those."

"But they're hairy."

I couldn't deny that. They were hairy. I buy razor cartridges that cost $17 a pop. I use them sparingly. But the sunshine proved too tempting, and so out I went in my pasty bloaty splendor and said to myself:

"Shaving is for the birds."

I no longer stand by the mantra since the weather has been consistently warm enough for me to wear shorts and skirts of the miniature variety, and I love people too much to show them legs which haven't seen the light of day or a razor in over a week.

TMI?

I'm tossing caution to the wind! It's spring baby!

Springtime

Spring Break.
It's actually 80 degrees today in Chicago.

Chicago is usually flighty in the spring. And fickle. One minute blizzarding, the next sending a soft breeze to ruffle your hair and tickle the back of your neck to remind you that something better is on its way.
But today, today Chicago is balmy. Hazy, even. And I like it.

Except I read something disturbing in the newspaper today. Several somethings disturbing in the newspaper, actually. But this one was a fashion consultant who was giving Chicagoans advice on how to dress when the weather was just completely unpredictable.

(You'd think that the sky was falling here. )

1. Don't wear bare all your leg yet. It's only March for goodness sake.
2. Don't wear sandals. It's only March for goodness sake.
3. Don't put the two together. Two wrongs don't make a right. It's only... ok, you get it.

It's interesting to me the way that this story actually made the cover of the newspaper, while an article I read on Obama's unwillingness to support Israel was neatly tucked away on page 16, in the bottom left (or right, I don't remember) corner.

It's like, our society wants to make you think that Fashion Threat Level is at Orange and that everything else is fine and chipper.

Well, I'm not going to just fall prey to this. I'm going to get to praying for our nation. And Israel.

And then I'm going to find a mini-skirt, sandals, and a tank top because it's 80 degrees today.
Stickin' it to the man.

oh yeah. read this:
stuffbiblecollegestudentslike.wordpress.com

no will to blog.

eh,
who are we kidding? it's not happening.

A tribute to 2012 courtesy of my iPhone.

It's happening! It's happening!

She's back in the blogging world everybody!

And the grand idea is to give you a year in review- all with pictures from my phone, some instagramed and others plain. Bo-ring.

Anywho.

Get Ready:

Ah, January. I am now the proud owner of an iphone and a large box of my very most favorite food in the world. Popcorn.

Sweet February. The month in which I turned 21 and my sister came for a visit. We celebrated by going to Cozy Noodle (must eat, if you're in Chicago). 

March was interesting. Two weeks on the road with the women's choir. Visited British Columbia, Seattle, Spokane. And this small town where they have a dandelion festival. 

April was a good month. I wore this dress twice-- in one weekend! Went to a school banquet and then to a wedding the day after. 

"Wow!" says you, "Rachel! What happened?" We were playing a game in which I fell from the shoulders of my friend who is six feet tall. Conveniently landed on my thumb. Happy April! When I called my mum to tell her she said, "I hope you're not in a cast for our trip to Florida..." 

I wasn't in a cast. I'm also not pictured in this picture since I had massive diarrhea for half of our family trip (TMI? Remember whose blog you're reading. They don't call me "Curry Pits" for nothing...)
 In May we took our first family vacation in 11 years!

Then off I went to North Carolina to work at the best place on earth. Camp Greystone.

Then July came and I had a weekend off so I went and snuggled with my gorgeous cousins (once removed?) They're the daughters of my cousin Eli and his wife Susy. I don't know what our relationship is technically. But they are delicious.

You've seen this picture. Family is reunited again in SoCal for the Wedding of our dear friends Sarah and Mark!

And by September, I live here. This is the view from my room.  I am a lucky duck.

Meanwhile, I nannied for the WORLDS CUTEST CHILDREN. Seriously. SERIOUSLY.

Oh, and lest we forget the grandest adventure of the year: A segway tour of Chicago.
As you can guess, I'm a natural on that thing.

Best part of the year? David put a ring on it! I should clarify: David, my brother, proposed to Alyssa (his girlfriend) and she said yes! Happy November!

And December. A really strange picture of me my dear friend Simone at Chicago's hidden gem: Taco Veloz! 

So, there we go blogging world!
Here's to 2012. I'm ready to come back now.

marcus johnson, you rule!

Nerd Alert:
I am thrilled for my classes this semester.

Here's why,
"Admittedly, it is difficult to schematize temporally the boundless riches of God's saving grace exercised from eternity passed to eternity future."

I mean, if that's not a hysterical statement I don't know what is.

Well, except for this:
when asked to share an interesting fact about oneself to large class of counseling and pastoral students, I shared:
"I wasn't potty trained until I was three and half."

professor of class called "Ministry to Women in Pain" replies: 

"Woah. Maybe you need some counseling. Sounds like you've got some things to work through..."

Welcome school year 2012. You win.

2012

Thinking, praying, pondering (procrastinating) how this blog will change with the new year- a happy new one to you, by the way.

It just seems useless to have an online journal where I'm trying to be funny and transparent, but not so funny as to be cruel. And then to be not too transparent so that you're not yanking at your proverbial tie thinking, "gosh, it suddenly got uncomfortably stuffy in here..."

So, since I'm not traveling (see June-August 2010) and I'm not going to try to emotionally blarther with a thin veil of humor (see all other posts) I need to do something else with the blog.

If I want all parts of me to count for eternity (a big concept, we can discuss that later if you want) then my blog should be a part of that too.

I'll keep you posted.

still no journal

John Calvin once said:

"God is pleased to hide all future events from us, in order that we should resist them as doubtful, and not cease to oppose them with ready remedies, until they are either overcome or pass beyond all care... God's providence does not always meet us in its naked form, but God in a sense clothes it with the means employed."

Amen.

Dear Diary

Note To Self:

Must buy a journal. Have been fighting increasingly frequent urges to start blogging my feelings all over the place, and at this point, am quite sure that no one wants to read that.

It's a real drag when my journal runs out because I am a snob about my journals. I only like those bound in leather. With gridline paper.
But I didn't budget $20 for therapy from

Dr. Moleksine this month--->

I blame it on my love affair with Monseigneur Caffein.

Love is such a costly habit. 

my dad!

I'm not unlike my dad. Sometimes we cry at commercials together. I prefer to drink my coffee with cream, no sugar. While he's slightly more introverted and introspective, I take a little bit more after my mom- I can make conversation with a wall; I try not to make a habit out of it. People start to look at you funny.

But he's kind and thoughtful, hardworking, intelligent, handy around the house, and has a knack for saying the right thing when I call him sobbing hysterically. I can't boast in sharing any of these aforementioned qualities- I'm still in process. He's Jewish. So I am too.

And it's this weird idea that I've been tossing around for a while. Not tossing around. That makes my identity sound like a bouncy ball. Mulling over. It started when I was in first grade. We were lining up for music class and I began to talk about Hanukkah. Who was it? Emmy? Paul? That asked me, "You mean you get 8 nights of presents! NO FAIR!"

I was pretty proud of myself in that moment. Darn right I get 8 nights of presents and Christmas! Did not realize at the time that I wasn't getting extra presents. They were just spread out over a longer period of time.

Then I was thirteen and I hated my life because I was stuck listening to a tape of Isaiah 60 in Hebrew for my Bat Mitzvah. Woe is I. I let everybody know too how miserable I was. I looked at my parents, "YOU DID THIS TO ME! WHY DO I HAVE TO BE JEWISH?"Then I stopped crying when I opened up the bracelet from Tiffany's after all was said and done. Pain is beauty.

But then, always with the up and down and back and forth. Sometimes being Jewish was a nice cop-out answer when someone asked if I was religious and I wasn't excited to tell them that I was a Christian. Sometimes I was just a Christian so that I could avoid the raised eyebrows and the perplexed looks and the question: "So wait. You're like, Catholic or something?"And to some, I was neither. My high school principle, for example who looked me squarely in the face and announced in my AP World History class, "Oh no honey. You're not Jewish. You can't be Jewish if you're a Christian."

Tell that to my dad. Actually, I did tell that to my dad. He didn't like it anymore than I did.

So what does it mean? What does it mean to be Jewish? Is it a culture? Ethnicity? Nationality? Religion?

All of the above?

Like I said, I'm in process. I'm still trying to figure it out.
But one thing I am sure of. The longer I've walked with the Lord, the more heavily I have felt burdened by my Jewishness. Not in a bad way. I haven't ever wanted to get rid of it. More in the sense of, "what does this look like for me?"

This is a rather inconclusive post. I am really trying to work through this and figure it out. I am about to start a research paper that asks if being Anti-Zionist is synonymous to being Anti-Semitic. Is it? Maybe?  If we deny the Jewish people the right to have a Jewish state, an ethnic state essentially, then it would be anti-semitic. And I don't think it's fair to say that being Jewish is simply a religion. Because then we couldn't call the Holocaust a genocide, and what else could we call it?

A million things. Horrific, to start. But definitely genocide.

So I'm learning. I'm learning from my Dad who taught me many things well. And I'm learning from my heavenly Father. I bear His image too.

feast your eyes!

I have a certain conviction that my blog is boring, so I wanted to add some pictures to spice it up.

So this is my family
<---- See them? How cute they are!

Mom and Dad married for 35 years in April.
Brother and his lovely girlfriend.
My best friend and sister, Sarah.
Oh and me in the middle in this fab little dress I bought from H&M that is itching to come out again.
Probably with tights and boots seeing how it's October already.

BAH. October? September! Where the heck did you go?

It was certainly here because the first wave of people I love turned 22 this month. Birthdays on the 16, 18, 20, and 22. I am hoping that the next friend I make is born on the 24. Or the 14. I would like to eat cake every other day in September for the rest of my life, regardless if you're here with me to celebrate (or I with you. How about whoever lives in a cooler place...). Here's to you, I'll say on the even days of the month of September. And I'll raise my cake (or cupcake) wish you well and then eat.

I don't have anything of consequence to say this post around. But I think there's only so much proverbial wisdom you can handle coming from a nearly 22 year old who still sleeps with a blankie.

Secret's out.

the great "e" word

"Is that edifying?" Mom would ask us. We'd freeze in our spots on the couch, eyes darting from television screen to each other. No one wanted to move. We'd just pretend that we hadn't heard her and keep on in our merry way.

"Rachel?" Now things were personal. She was calling me out by name. I couldn't pretend that I hadn't heard her. I'd watch Sarah and David breathe a sigh of relief as they settled back into the couch. Mom had just made me the family whipping boy.

"Well, it's not that bad!" Pitiful attempt to try to dance around the inevitable answer that no, it wasn't exactly edifying, but durn well if we liked it! Rookie mistake really, because then mom would reply with, "tell me what's edifying about this television program!" And really, what can be said about the Simpsons. Or Seinfeld. Other than--- nothing, really. Homer and Jerry were crass. And both had bad hair.

So we'd turn it off, and mom, placated, would go back to whatever she was doing before her sixth sense of children-acting-in-folly would alert her.

Even though we rolled our eyes until we gave ourselves headaches, and even though Sarah and David would pinch me for not doing a good enough job defending why we were watching that television program, and even though sometimes I was convinced that you were trying to sabotage my life-- well, I just want to say thank you.

Thank you for introducing me to the word edifying and teaching me to choose wisely.
Thanks too for loving me even when I didn't choose wisely and ended up watching Maury when I had strep throat and then didn't sleep for 8 months after that for fear of a serial killer coming to snatch me in the night.

I love you Mom.
Happy Mother's Day (Five Months Later)

I told a nice girl in my Systematic Theology class today that I blogged. As soon as I said it I instantly regretted it. I'm no blogger. I write three times a month, produce some kind of emotional spiritual cocktail and then pat myself on the back. Well done good and faithful Procrastinator.

Yes. There it is.

I'm sorry that I don't have a fancy camera and that I don't tell you funny stories about my life. I'm sorry that I'm not a mom and I don't have cute kids to put up on the interweb for you to drool over.

I don't know if Bible college is making me boring, or if it's just this weird transitional being 21 but needing to be a responsible RA/Student thing that's really cutting down on my "bloggable thoughts."

Maybe I will just walk away from "titless" for a little bit.

that was supposed to say titleless.

ok, now that's funny.

throwback.

"My pants smell like poverty."

That was actually something that I wrote in my journal a year ago. Can you believe it? Who comes up with a thought like that and then goes so far as to write it down. Granted, they did smell like poverty- that's what 3o hours in New Delhi will do for you.

It's weird to think that it was over a year ago that I was in India. Weird to look back on that whole experience actually- some moments the memories are fresh; poignant and sharply focused usually induced by the taste or smell of curry. Other times the experiences slink into the back of my brain like a quiet fog- my heart strains its eyes to make sense of what comes from the shadows of that dark spiritual place.

Did I ever really talk about what happened in India on this blog?

I'm not sure. I know I talked about have curry armpits, and that one time that little boy tried to mug me and he got more than he was asking for. But I don't know if I ever really painted a good picture of what it was like- for me at least.

I am only able to recall it now because I spent an hour or so reading through my red leather journal from Massah. A lot of the things that I wrote in there are embarrassing- petty frustrations and my general immaturity. Some of the pain was so acute though- so crushing, and so familiar that I had to give pause and think for a moment.

I thought that God had left me. Over and over again I begged Him to speak.

Say anything! Don't you hear me, God?

I had a lot of doubts. How do we know that Jesus is who He says He is? How can God become man? What if Jesus' death wasn't enough? Is it really Jewish to believe in Jesus?

I wasn't sure if His loud silence was judgment, passivity, or absence. I demanded answers.

I began to realize that my whole life was tied up with Christianity- school, family, friends, future career goals... Jesus was the thread that held it all together. To pull on that thread would mean that I would totally unravel.

And then what?

Well, the doubts didn't just stop. I still had (ok, have) massive questions about God and his character and who I am and how the heck I can't do a single thing on my own to please the Lord... the list goes on. We can talk about that later if you want.

But the first part of my journal was an e-mail that my friend Natalie had sent to me. Gosh, what a beautiful e-mail. I might post it some day. The part though that helps me articulate the necessity of the depth of pain and spiritual wandering I felt in India is in the line that she quotes from Oswald Chambers:

"Dare to invest yourself in the character of God."

Way catchier than my pants smell like poverty.

If we're investing ourselves in the character of God, that means that we will often be deeply rooted in things that do. not. make. sense- at least in this life. Like unconditional love. Faithfulness in spite of faithlessness. Forgiveness. Grace.

Especially grace.

But here it is:

I prayed that I would be able to live in the reality of God's character, and as much as that means owning my own failures, I think it is more owning God's sufficiency in the face of my failures. When my faith fails, he is faithful. When I am selfish, He is working for His glory. When my sin has left me dirty and disgusting, filthy and naked, crushed under its burden, it is His hand, which is not too short to save, that reaches down and makes me new.

I guess- well, is that a creed? Maybe.

God was not silent. He answered my "dare" and placed my roots deep into His character.

And I am free to grow and thrive and be pruned and to sometimes whither.

But above all, I am His.

"For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord."

Romans 8:38-39

a letter to my parents

Dear Mom and Dad,

I'm sorry for ever being a teenager.

I know it was necessary in the whole making it into (semi)adult-hood, but I'm sorry that I ever did that to you.

I should also thank you for not trying to exorcise me when I was possessed by a hormonal outburst.

I am learning now, after being in charge of over a hundred thirteen year olds, that you must have had supernatural patience and an iron will.

Love always,

Rachel Lydia

the joy of the Lord is your strength

Have been growing a lot at camp, I think. There were a couple of things that I was expecting, and simultaneously not expecting.

1) not expecting to be positively spiritually stretched

I knew that camp was going to be difficult spiritually, but I thought it would be more in the desert-sense. As in, feeling far away from the Lord and doing that spiritual water treading where you don't feel like you're making any forward progress, you're not exactly sinking, but if something doesn't happen either way then houston-we're-going-to-have-a-problem. Instead, I've actually been using what I learned in all of my classes this year, writing Sunday school lessons for the girls each week.

Four words:

Dang! This is hard!

As is speaking in front of people. Wanting to have something to say that's biblical, relevant, funny, educational, as well as concise and thought provoking- it actually feels like rocket science. I have a new appreciation for Pastors and teachers, Sunday school leaders, and anyone that's ever stood before me with their Bible open and said, "This is what the Word says."

2) expecting to be lonely

Quite the contrary. I work with the most hysterical people- we laugh. We laugh and laugh and laugh. I've been on the receiving end of encouragement more times than I think I've been on the giving end. New friendships have been born, old friendships have been strengthened. I think too, that my perceptions of what it is to be lonely has changed- I think I'm becoming more introverted. I love quiet moments- driving my car without the radio on, sitting on the dining hall porch during rest hour reading, journaling, praying- simply being. It's sweet.

3) not expecting to meet the man of my dreams

well. that actually hasn't happened, so at least some things are par for the course.

the name of the game for this (short) season is joy.

thanks for praying.

kissincousins?

what i learned today while reading the Bible:

moses' father married his aunt. so moses' parents were aunt and nephew before they were man and wife.

i'm tempted to make a cougar joke...

i'll restrain myself.

a bulwark.

the joy of the Lord is your strength.

Well, what does that even mean?

Say the phrase over and over again and try to make sense of it.

Pretty soon it's going to sound like the word "cellar door" a la Donnie Darko and you've totally lost the meaning at all and it sound little more than a meaningless string of consonants and vowels.

But I want this.

I want this "Joy of the Lord" and I want to know what it is. Exactly.

Is it joy from the Lord? Is it joy that belongs exclusively to the Lord? Is it joy from knowing the Lord?

I feel needy with all of these questions. I'm nearing the point of a casual desperation. I'm going. I'm doing. Camp is GREAT. I'm working hard. I'm loving the people that I'm working with, but I'm so...

fleshly.

It's all in my own strength. You know, you send up the occasional SOS to God and then you keep on. You grit your teeth and bare it. Because it's just one day at a time.

But I want it to be each day to count for eternity. And I know that I can't get there, or even halfway there, without the Lord strengthening me and equipping me with his powerful joy.

Joy cannot simply be some sweet attribute, a delicate fruit that hangs on the Spirit's vine.

The scripture says it is our strength.

Let us lean heavily into it.