The only way to the top of the mountain is through icy trails on steep terrain. For me, the daughter of a mountain man, the only way to the kingdom of snow, is on Dad's sled. I would never entrust myself to another rider. Dad's agility, confidence, and years of experience make him the only candidate for this death ride. He does not ride recklessly, though it feels as though the limits of safety are far behind--down on the roads where common folk drive. He is one with the sled, a lone rider in freezing domains. My father is a dragon.
His sled is bright red, the color of blood. It hums and roars, with open throttle. It holds a place for me; though I am almost six feet tall, my build is slight, and I tuck nicely behind the handlebars. To keep warm from the elements, I wear Dad's second set of riding gear. Fleece pants, long-johns, bib snow pants, and his black Klim jacket. My hands in ratty gloves, worn from use, grasp the round handlebars, and I tense my muscles to keep my body in place. It is important not to allow myself to jolt straight up; this would cause my helmet to smack into my father's. Similarly, I hold a tight brace so my face and body do not smash forward into the handlebars. I crouch low, and sit in the center, not wanting to impede with Dad's ability to press the throttle or grab the brake. The helmet I wear is slightly too big, so my hair and hood are tucked up inside to keep it secure. Sometimes it slides down low, blocking the top portion of my view. As we ride along, I am thankful for it. Sometimes I don't want to see how freakishly steep the next climb will be until we're actually on it. Then I tip the helmet back in place, and take it all in.
The first time we did this was last winter, and I was in shock. The panic, induced by the reality of possible pain due to gravity's pull in steep terrain, left me shaking and wishing it were all over. But this time, I knew what I was getting into. I knew it would be incredibly thrilling, a kiss of mortality, an embrace of insanity. And I chose to go in faith. Faith in life, faith that the things worth doing and seeing aren't always the easiest, and faith in my father's ability to carry me through.
It's quiet up there, and the snow glistens like a thousand white sparkles in the rays of the sun. Trees are stunted, and blown over from high winds. Thick blankets of white crystals have made their homes on branches of bull pine, creating tree forts and figures for the imagination. The kingdom of snow has a tower called the Crowsnest. From this vantage point, the ocean and islands can be seen for miles. Horizons of ridges and wilderness coastlines, stretch out like waking youth, and promise adventure as well as great mystery. I am as high as the earth rises, on the breath of a miracle wind. It was not easy, though it seems I had nothing to do with getting here, I did have to consent. I had to harness the fear inside me. Panic has no place in me. I worship one God, and every breath belongs to Him--whether in sleep, or fully awake. It is He--Great Spirit, who destined me, to be on the top of mountains, through trails of ice. I was born to be a witness of adventure, a seer of great visions, and the daughter of a Dragon.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
The End
I woke up this morning at 6a.m. and thanked my lucky stars for the good fortune of finding half a cup of coffee left in the pot. I poured it steadily into a mug, and shut the microwave door just a little too hard. Sitting on the couch, with two nights of very little sleep, I cracked the pages of my neuroscience book. After the first drink of caffeine, I marveled at how alert my mind feels on five hours of sleep and day old coffee. Today I had two finals back to back. Neuroscience at ten a.m. and Physics at one.
I've got to eat. It's not good to take tests which require such cognitive abilities without having fuel. I took a shower, threw on some disheveled clothes, and dragged myself to the den to buy some breakfast and go over old tests.
I had very little anxiety. This time last year, I felt like a completely different person. I literally lost ten pounds during the finals week my first semester at Fox. The tests for Gen. Bio and Gen Chem seemed like the most daunting tasks I'd yet faced in my life. But three semesters in, I feel I can take what comes with more stride.
The neuroscience test went fabulously. I felt like I aced it. By the time I was sitting in my physics class this afternoon, I was giddy from caffeine and sleep deprivation, and excited that after this test I was home free. No more school for three weeks. For five minutes, I had been sitting sideways in my desk, telling my friend Alison all the things I've never done because I grew up in Alaska. "I've never been to a Target." I said. She was shocked. "I drove on a freeway for the first time last year, and went to my first concert this semester." The list went on. As the professor began to announce the beginning of the test, I dutifully spun in my chair to show I was prepared. To my surprise, the bottom right corner was not bolted and jolted backwards, giving me the feeling that I was falling through space. "Oh shit!" I stammered in reaction. After regaining balance, I realized the professor had pretended not to notice. Here we are at a Christian university and I'm yelling profanities. I began to laugh. My friends close by couldn't hide their giggles.
"Did you embarrass yourself?" The professor said in a humorous tone.
"Yeah," I answered. "That's code for, 'boy I can't wait to take this test!" Everybody laughed, and he gave me mine first.
The physics test was a marathon of mathematical equations and conversions. I could feel the glycogen stores in my neurons unraveling to feed the monster of linear thought. Every muscle in my back tensed up and my neck began to ache. I have run a marathon before, and that's exactly what this was like. One painful problem after another. But I wasn't worried.
It's either the grace of God blanketing my life, or I am successfully living in denial. Whichever, I feel great.
And, I have reached it. Now I can go home for Christmas and lounge on the couch. It's the end.
I've got to eat. It's not good to take tests which require such cognitive abilities without having fuel. I took a shower, threw on some disheveled clothes, and dragged myself to the den to buy some breakfast and go over old tests.
I had very little anxiety. This time last year, I felt like a completely different person. I literally lost ten pounds during the finals week my first semester at Fox. The tests for Gen. Bio and Gen Chem seemed like the most daunting tasks I'd yet faced in my life. But three semesters in, I feel I can take what comes with more stride.
The neuroscience test went fabulously. I felt like I aced it. By the time I was sitting in my physics class this afternoon, I was giddy from caffeine and sleep deprivation, and excited that after this test I was home free. No more school for three weeks. For five minutes, I had been sitting sideways in my desk, telling my friend Alison all the things I've never done because I grew up in Alaska. "I've never been to a Target." I said. She was shocked. "I drove on a freeway for the first time last year, and went to my first concert this semester." The list went on. As the professor began to announce the beginning of the test, I dutifully spun in my chair to show I was prepared. To my surprise, the bottom right corner was not bolted and jolted backwards, giving me the feeling that I was falling through space. "Oh shit!" I stammered in reaction. After regaining balance, I realized the professor had pretended not to notice. Here we are at a Christian university and I'm yelling profanities. I began to laugh. My friends close by couldn't hide their giggles.
"Did you embarrass yourself?" The professor said in a humorous tone.
"Yeah," I answered. "That's code for, 'boy I can't wait to take this test!" Everybody laughed, and he gave me mine first.
The physics test was a marathon of mathematical equations and conversions. I could feel the glycogen stores in my neurons unraveling to feed the monster of linear thought. Every muscle in my back tensed up and my neck began to ache. I have run a marathon before, and that's exactly what this was like. One painful problem after another. But I wasn't worried.
It's either the grace of God blanketing my life, or I am successfully living in denial. Whichever, I feel great.
And, I have reached it. Now I can go home for Christmas and lounge on the couch. It's the end.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Fall-o Me to 23rd
White lights wrap around leafless trees
naked, exposed, shimmering bright
patrons walk in and out of stores
chimes behind them as they exit through doors
footsteps
one in front of the other
people synchronizing pace
to the rhythm of the hands they hold
clogs in the window, ninety-dollars a pair
girls in black working at Mac
under florescent lamps, in platform shoes
langere store down a flight of stairs
candy shop
soap fragrance curls around me
whispering a dialect I do not understand
a painted horse, life-size and lifeless
asks me to pet him but not ride
There ahead, brick building, dark inside
the Ram's Head
fall
oh fall
fallow me
to 23rd, and see the portrait of a culture
naked, exposed, shimmering bright
patrons walk in and out of stores
chimes behind them as they exit through doors
footsteps
one in front of the other
people synchronizing pace
to the rhythm of the hands they hold
clogs in the window, ninety-dollars a pair
girls in black working at Mac
under florescent lamps, in platform shoes
langere store down a flight of stairs
candy shop
soap fragrance curls around me
whispering a dialect I do not understand
a painted horse, life-size and lifeless
asks me to pet him but not ride
There ahead, brick building, dark inside
the Ram's Head
fall
oh fall
fallow me
to 23rd, and see the portrait of a culture
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Dirtsick
I visited my aunt last Thanksgiving and began to tell her some of the struggles in my life. She said something that stuck with me.
"Wow Lauren, your facebook tells a different story. It always seems so positive, like you live the perfect life."
It puzzled me for a moment. Aren't I supposed to maintain the image that I have it all together? I breathe the air of idealism, and see the world through romantic-colored lenses...
But lo, it rains in my corner of the world like it does everywhere else. I still have unanswered questions, moments of inadequacy, mediocrity, dullness. I don't post these on facebook--no. That's my happy place, my community place.
But if I were to be honest, I'd say I come up lacking. I don't floss my teeth as much as I should. I do the minimum to get by in the classes that don't interest me, and spend too much time doing things that have nothing to do with school. My room, my whole life, has been out of control. I am addicted to wearing makeup to cover the imperfections of a blemished face. I bare secret shame. I buy fresh foods that go to waste and don't eat enough. I am in the process of divorcing the idea that I am always going to be rejected and it's only a matter of time before those I love leave.
One thing that bothers me about our current lives, is the disproportionate amount of material to organic. Down here in Oregon, I watch the cars go by on the multiple lane highways, am overstimulated by the glow of billboards and store signs, and numbed by the repetition of fastfood joints from town to town. When I'm at home in Alaska, the proportion of nature to man made things is, in my mind, ideal. The mountains dwarf my town, the ocean silences the sound of cars. Life is a little bit slower. We linger inside together just a little bit longer. Our cars rattle and shake with the vicious winds, and trees bend their bows under the weight of the sky's great licking tongue.
What would it be like to be surrounded by earth again? Cooking in a kitchen where the floorboards are made of trees, and the veggitables in my hands are from the earth outside in my yard? Where the fish cooking on the stove is from the neighbor who wants to pay back a favor.
I think I'm homesick...I think I'm dirtsick. I think I want to live authentically.
"Wow Lauren, your facebook tells a different story. It always seems so positive, like you live the perfect life."
It puzzled me for a moment. Aren't I supposed to maintain the image that I have it all together? I breathe the air of idealism, and see the world through romantic-colored lenses...
But lo, it rains in my corner of the world like it does everywhere else. I still have unanswered questions, moments of inadequacy, mediocrity, dullness. I don't post these on facebook--no. That's my happy place, my community place.
But if I were to be honest, I'd say I come up lacking. I don't floss my teeth as much as I should. I do the minimum to get by in the classes that don't interest me, and spend too much time doing things that have nothing to do with school. My room, my whole life, has been out of control. I am addicted to wearing makeup to cover the imperfections of a blemished face. I bare secret shame. I buy fresh foods that go to waste and don't eat enough. I am in the process of divorcing the idea that I am always going to be rejected and it's only a matter of time before those I love leave.
One thing that bothers me about our current lives, is the disproportionate amount of material to organic. Down here in Oregon, I watch the cars go by on the multiple lane highways, am overstimulated by the glow of billboards and store signs, and numbed by the repetition of fastfood joints from town to town. When I'm at home in Alaska, the proportion of nature to man made things is, in my mind, ideal. The mountains dwarf my town, the ocean silences the sound of cars. Life is a little bit slower. We linger inside together just a little bit longer. Our cars rattle and shake with the vicious winds, and trees bend their bows under the weight of the sky's great licking tongue.
What would it be like to be surrounded by earth again? Cooking in a kitchen where the floorboards are made of trees, and the veggitables in my hands are from the earth outside in my yard? Where the fish cooking on the stove is from the neighbor who wants to pay back a favor.
I think I'm homesick...I think I'm dirtsick. I think I want to live authentically.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Dualism in Modern Day Christianity: The Leaven of Religion
The topic of spiritual formation is a deep, often unexplored study. It can be as intimate as sharing a journal entry, or as prescriptive as a routine doctor’s visit. In an age of relativism, who holds the key and power to ultimate truth? Does truth change like a growing alder tree, or unfold like a tender pink rose? Does it develop and metamorph like the genetic blueprints of a baby child? Does truth have a timeline, a season, or a hiding place? Does it go into hibernation, or take a back seat to the gift of self will? Who are the children of truth, and does truth have an enemy? Am I at war with it, or its ally, or its long lost friend? In my desire to be a follower of Christ, have I settled for half-truths, or called something evil good, or good evil? I look at the fabric of my life—who I was born to, the nature of my conception, and I see such redeemable properties in ordinary mistakes. If life were rated on a pH scale, with absolute truth being a 7, which things would be basic and which acidic, and could we truly operate in this life if everything were neutral?
I have tried writing this article multiple times, wanting to adequately describe my frustration with spiritual abuse and the imposing legalism of today’s religion. I set out to tease these intermeshed fibers, trying not to be discouraged by their unending tangles. I desire to confront the obvious resentment I have for allegiance to one set of ordinances, or the culture of identification with only one congregation. I feel like an eagle on the ground among a species of four-footed animals that possess undiscovered wings, tethered by rules and legalism and an honest desire to please God through man-made religion.
I could spend time creating profiles of individuals I have met on this elusive trail to perfection and eternal bliss. In the wake of man’s attempt to gain holiness, are ditches full of carnage. There are hiding holes, nomads land, blackout windows camouflaging the lives of those who have found solitude and camaraderie among the unchurched masses. I myself have ventured from the narrow road, down into the highways and byways, searching for not only myself, but also those of a common revelation.
Somehow I lost part of me, you see. I traded in mystery for a set of rules. I idolized being right in the sight of God at the cost of unique and meaningful relationships. Yet pearls of great wisdom were gained, a few deep friendships of spiritual vitality were formed, and truths were forged into the deep foundations of my inner being that may not have been created had I avoided immersion in strict religion. The loss of something vital came in a subtle corrosion of creativity. I put away the fantasy novels, somehow lost touch with the eternal poet who grasped out inside of me and tried to write about greater things. I saw structure, walls, rules, black, white, do’s, and don’ts. I associated only with the elite—those who understood, what I perceived to be, the deep things of God, in an attempt to conserve an undiluted righteousness.
But I don’t want to discredit a mystic inside me. The Jesus who ate with prostitutes and tax collectors, who wrote in the sand and looked in the eyes of an adulterous woman with mercy and grace, was somehow living out his life in the 21st century through me. The Jesus who was accused of being an alcoholic and blasphemer, who was persecuted, rejected, betrayed, and hounded by people seeking a sign, sat with me in coffee shops and listened to stories of fishermen and world travelers.
He walked with me down the street, taught me things about nature, revealed mysteries to me in dreams and through books. He sent me friends who would never step foot inside my church, but were drawn to me with a tenacious loyalty. These friends, these books, these secular songs that seem so dark, have been my unpolished saints and unprinted scriptures that point me to this truth—the truth of a person who loves me and has divine qualities that I cannot deny.
And I see it now, the dualism of my own life and the division caused by modern evangelical Christianity. I read the scriptures with a new desire—as if it holds minerals and vitamins for my depleted soul. I think of the Old Covenant and how it has been taught that God never expected men to live up to it—it was set there as a means to convict us of sin. I want to relate religion to this in the same way—it seems that there comes a point when anyone desiring to follow Christ sees the shallowness of playing church, and hopefully it drives them to delve deeper into the person of Jesus Christ. With this discovery of who he really is, comes liberation from the need to be perfect. It frees of us the one-plane religion that keeps us associating only with those who are like us.
Fredrich Buechner writes in his book, The Sacred Journey, of the people who should be remembered who helped us get to where we are. He writes,
“On All Saint’s Day, it is not just the saints of the church that we should remember in our prayers, but all the foolish ones and wise ones, the shy ones and overbearing ones, the broken ones and whole ones, the despots and tosspots and crackpots of our lives who, one way or another, have been our particular fathers and mothers and saints, and whom we loved without knowing we loved them and by whom we were helped to whatever little we may have, or ever hope to have, of some kind of seedy sainthood of our own”
I will remember then with joy those who have shared my journey. I see myself taking a look at my past, and walking with gratitude down the road that got me here in reverse. With the same gratitude that the 10th leper had when returning to say thank you to Jesus, I will revisit these people in my past. Thank you, to the pastor who taught me to seek God first and then turned into a cult leader and turned half my friends against me. Thank you to the philosophy teacher who mentored my friend and oversaw her diversion from Christianity, but had the guts to present information that would challenge her shaky foundations. Thank you to the boss from the Middle East who bucked against my confident assertions because I am a woman, who took me outside and yelled at me to put me in my place. Somehow I don’t have resentment. Thank you to my favorite fisher woman who taught me to fillet a halibut, wants to talk to me about Jesus and struggle with the hypocrisy of those who call themselves Christians.
I have stepped outside the four walls of the church into a sunshine-filled day. I know the air I breathe is Holy Pneuma, the gift of the Father, sent because Jesus went to the cross. And I know that he will guide me, even unto death.
I have tried writing this article multiple times, wanting to adequately describe my frustration with spiritual abuse and the imposing legalism of today’s religion. I set out to tease these intermeshed fibers, trying not to be discouraged by their unending tangles. I desire to confront the obvious resentment I have for allegiance to one set of ordinances, or the culture of identification with only one congregation. I feel like an eagle on the ground among a species of four-footed animals that possess undiscovered wings, tethered by rules and legalism and an honest desire to please God through man-made religion.
I could spend time creating profiles of individuals I have met on this elusive trail to perfection and eternal bliss. In the wake of man’s attempt to gain holiness, are ditches full of carnage. There are hiding holes, nomads land, blackout windows camouflaging the lives of those who have found solitude and camaraderie among the unchurched masses. I myself have ventured from the narrow road, down into the highways and byways, searching for not only myself, but also those of a common revelation.
Somehow I lost part of me, you see. I traded in mystery for a set of rules. I idolized being right in the sight of God at the cost of unique and meaningful relationships. Yet pearls of great wisdom were gained, a few deep friendships of spiritual vitality were formed, and truths were forged into the deep foundations of my inner being that may not have been created had I avoided immersion in strict religion. The loss of something vital came in a subtle corrosion of creativity. I put away the fantasy novels, somehow lost touch with the eternal poet who grasped out inside of me and tried to write about greater things. I saw structure, walls, rules, black, white, do’s, and don’ts. I associated only with the elite—those who understood, what I perceived to be, the deep things of God, in an attempt to conserve an undiluted righteousness.
But I don’t want to discredit a mystic inside me. The Jesus who ate with prostitutes and tax collectors, who wrote in the sand and looked in the eyes of an adulterous woman with mercy and grace, was somehow living out his life in the 21st century through me. The Jesus who was accused of being an alcoholic and blasphemer, who was persecuted, rejected, betrayed, and hounded by people seeking a sign, sat with me in coffee shops and listened to stories of fishermen and world travelers.
He walked with me down the street, taught me things about nature, revealed mysteries to me in dreams and through books. He sent me friends who would never step foot inside my church, but were drawn to me with a tenacious loyalty. These friends, these books, these secular songs that seem so dark, have been my unpolished saints and unprinted scriptures that point me to this truth—the truth of a person who loves me and has divine qualities that I cannot deny.
And I see it now, the dualism of my own life and the division caused by modern evangelical Christianity. I read the scriptures with a new desire—as if it holds minerals and vitamins for my depleted soul. I think of the Old Covenant and how it has been taught that God never expected men to live up to it—it was set there as a means to convict us of sin. I want to relate religion to this in the same way—it seems that there comes a point when anyone desiring to follow Christ sees the shallowness of playing church, and hopefully it drives them to delve deeper into the person of Jesus Christ. With this discovery of who he really is, comes liberation from the need to be perfect. It frees of us the one-plane religion that keeps us associating only with those who are like us.
Fredrich Buechner writes in his book, The Sacred Journey, of the people who should be remembered who helped us get to where we are. He writes,
“On All Saint’s Day, it is not just the saints of the church that we should remember in our prayers, but all the foolish ones and wise ones, the shy ones and overbearing ones, the broken ones and whole ones, the despots and tosspots and crackpots of our lives who, one way or another, have been our particular fathers and mothers and saints, and whom we loved without knowing we loved them and by whom we were helped to whatever little we may have, or ever hope to have, of some kind of seedy sainthood of our own”
I will remember then with joy those who have shared my journey. I see myself taking a look at my past, and walking with gratitude down the road that got me here in reverse. With the same gratitude that the 10th leper had when returning to say thank you to Jesus, I will revisit these people in my past. Thank you, to the pastor who taught me to seek God first and then turned into a cult leader and turned half my friends against me. Thank you to the philosophy teacher who mentored my friend and oversaw her diversion from Christianity, but had the guts to present information that would challenge her shaky foundations. Thank you to the boss from the Middle East who bucked against my confident assertions because I am a woman, who took me outside and yelled at me to put me in my place. Somehow I don’t have resentment. Thank you to my favorite fisher woman who taught me to fillet a halibut, wants to talk to me about Jesus and struggle with the hypocrisy of those who call themselves Christians.
I have stepped outside the four walls of the church into a sunshine-filled day. I know the air I breathe is Holy Pneuma, the gift of the Father, sent because Jesus went to the cross. And I know that he will guide me, even unto death.
4:14
"...Yet who knows whether you have come to the kingdom for such a time as this"--Esther 4:14
It is easy to believe that we're missing out, that we made some choice in the past that set us off track and God is somewhere in the distance trying to call us back. But in reality, if we stop and listen, we are often right where He wants us to be. I remind myself this when I've had too much coffee, forgone washing my laundry in favor of spending time with friends, or put off an assignment until the very last minute. I remind myself that God's grace is my treasure, and covers me when I feel most unworthy. That my own misgivings, frustrations, and insecurities are not enough to stop His plan from unfolding in my life. That He has set friends, professors, even perfect strangers in my path to cheer me on when I feel bored, unmotivated, ill-equipped, or darn right stupid. God has a funny way of bringing the best to the forefront when we've held our lives out to Him with open hands. So, I had a re-evaluation recently. I thought I'd switch my major to English, but now I've changed my mind. It's OK. I'm not bipolar or confused. Things are tested and shaken in this life, and often those things we think are easily moved are the most ingrained.
I got into my car today in a fit of emotions. Part of me wanted to bag it all, forget the impending papers and projects I have due, and take a run on a country road overlooking the vineyard-filled valleys, or race the sun on the river in a kayak. I turned the key to the car and the clock came on. That digital time teller which I've neglected to turn back an hour. There, in bright green lights, flashed the numbers 4:14. I sighed. Without another thought, I set about my next endeavors and let the pint up energy float out of me on the waves of a rock song coming over the radio. I am here, at George Fox, going to school for a reason.
4:14 is a set of numbers I see all the time. They are like a spiritual flagship to remind me I'm on the right course. When choosing to leave behind my friends, family, job, apartment, and favorite cat in my little seaside home in Alaska, it comforted me to know the university I was heading to was situated on 414 N. Meridian St. in Newberg, OR. Even this school is destined for greatness, and carrying out its purpose in God's Kingdom.
Soon after arriving at the store today, I saw a friend in the craft section. She asked me about pre-physical therapy.
"Well, it's funny you should ask," I said. "I almost switched it last week, but then I thought about how hard I've worked, how much I left behind, and how long I've believed this is the right track for me...and I'm going to finish. I'm going to get my Allied Health degree."
She nodded with approval in her eyes.
After coming home, I turned on my computer to set about my next assignment. And there on the top of the screen was the time--the correct time--, reminding me once again that even when my life seems disheveled and haphazard, this really is where I am supposed to be.
4:14
It is easy to believe that we're missing out, that we made some choice in the past that set us off track and God is somewhere in the distance trying to call us back. But in reality, if we stop and listen, we are often right where He wants us to be. I remind myself this when I've had too much coffee, forgone washing my laundry in favor of spending time with friends, or put off an assignment until the very last minute. I remind myself that God's grace is my treasure, and covers me when I feel most unworthy. That my own misgivings, frustrations, and insecurities are not enough to stop His plan from unfolding in my life. That He has set friends, professors, even perfect strangers in my path to cheer me on when I feel bored, unmotivated, ill-equipped, or darn right stupid. God has a funny way of bringing the best to the forefront when we've held our lives out to Him with open hands. So, I had a re-evaluation recently. I thought I'd switch my major to English, but now I've changed my mind. It's OK. I'm not bipolar or confused. Things are tested and shaken in this life, and often those things we think are easily moved are the most ingrained.
I got into my car today in a fit of emotions. Part of me wanted to bag it all, forget the impending papers and projects I have due, and take a run on a country road overlooking the vineyard-filled valleys, or race the sun on the river in a kayak. I turned the key to the car and the clock came on. That digital time teller which I've neglected to turn back an hour. There, in bright green lights, flashed the numbers 4:14. I sighed. Without another thought, I set about my next endeavors and let the pint up energy float out of me on the waves of a rock song coming over the radio. I am here, at George Fox, going to school for a reason.
4:14 is a set of numbers I see all the time. They are like a spiritual flagship to remind me I'm on the right course. When choosing to leave behind my friends, family, job, apartment, and favorite cat in my little seaside home in Alaska, it comforted me to know the university I was heading to was situated on 414 N. Meridian St. in Newberg, OR. Even this school is destined for greatness, and carrying out its purpose in God's Kingdom.
Soon after arriving at the store today, I saw a friend in the craft section. She asked me about pre-physical therapy.
"Well, it's funny you should ask," I said. "I almost switched it last week, but then I thought about how hard I've worked, how much I left behind, and how long I've believed this is the right track for me...and I'm going to finish. I'm going to get my Allied Health degree."
She nodded with approval in her eyes.
After coming home, I turned on my computer to set about my next assignment. And there on the top of the screen was the time--the correct time--, reminding me once again that even when my life seems disheveled and haphazard, this really is where I am supposed to be.
4:14
Sunday, November 28, 2010
In Between
Thomas Merton wrote, "If a writer is so cautious that he never writes anything that cannot be critisized, he will never write anything that can be read. If you want to help other people you have to got to make up your mind to write things that some men will condemn."
I am sitting here with a towel wrapped around my head, a cup of black coffee sits next to me on top of neuroscience papers, and U2 plays in the background, "all roads lead to where you are..." I have five minutes before I need to be out the door and all I want to do is sit here and write. I want to expose the inner workings of my heart on a blank cyber page, for no particular reason except that I feel the need to. My life has taken so many turns. Yesterday I wrote a list of all the undergratuate courses I've taken--I am five classes away from getting my degree in Pre-physical therapy. But some of my closest friends have been watching me with their spirit-eyes and see another Lauren all together. Not a studious, scientific girl--but a writer, a lover of words, a seeker of adventure stories. They see chapters turning as the pages of my life fill with spontaneous encounters and exciting travels. Last year I went to Africa for three and a half weeks on a mission, then I went to Hawaii with my grandmother to meet an incredible woman whose story needs to be told. I am sitting here, in the throws of my junior year in school, about to change entirely. The pendulum swings from scientific jargon to studying Great Brittish writers from the past. Who knew that under the layers of self and ambition was a girl radiating words. These words seem to seap out of the pores of my being and have been whispering to my friends, "Tell her. Tell her she's a writer." And they did. Four of them, on the same day, one at a time told me..."Lauren, are you sure you want to be a physical therapist? I think you should be a writer." I'm in shock. Has my inner voice betrayed me? Why did I cry at the liberation I felt upon hearing these words? Should I cut the prickly rope that holds me to the dead weight of a career I thought was for me? What about all the time and money spent on getting those prerequesite courses? And in the background Bono sings, "all roads lead to where you are..." I think I'm going to be ok. As Corey Beals said, "You're not quitting. You're moving beyond." So, I guess this is the time. I think it's true. I'm in the Write place.
I am sitting here with a towel wrapped around my head, a cup of black coffee sits next to me on top of neuroscience papers, and U2 plays in the background, "all roads lead to where you are..." I have five minutes before I need to be out the door and all I want to do is sit here and write. I want to expose the inner workings of my heart on a blank cyber page, for no particular reason except that I feel the need to. My life has taken so many turns. Yesterday I wrote a list of all the undergratuate courses I've taken--I am five classes away from getting my degree in Pre-physical therapy. But some of my closest friends have been watching me with their spirit-eyes and see another Lauren all together. Not a studious, scientific girl--but a writer, a lover of words, a seeker of adventure stories. They see chapters turning as the pages of my life fill with spontaneous encounters and exciting travels. Last year I went to Africa for three and a half weeks on a mission, then I went to Hawaii with my grandmother to meet an incredible woman whose story needs to be told. I am sitting here, in the throws of my junior year in school, about to change entirely. The pendulum swings from scientific jargon to studying Great Brittish writers from the past. Who knew that under the layers of self and ambition was a girl radiating words. These words seem to seap out of the pores of my being and have been whispering to my friends, "Tell her. Tell her she's a writer." And they did. Four of them, on the same day, one at a time told me..."Lauren, are you sure you want to be a physical therapist? I think you should be a writer." I'm in shock. Has my inner voice betrayed me? Why did I cry at the liberation I felt upon hearing these words? Should I cut the prickly rope that holds me to the dead weight of a career I thought was for me? What about all the time and money spent on getting those prerequesite courses? And in the background Bono sings, "all roads lead to where you are..." I think I'm going to be ok. As Corey Beals said, "You're not quitting. You're moving beyond." So, I guess this is the time. I think it's true. I'm in the Write place.
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