Install me in any profession....

O God, O Venus, O Mercury, patron of thieves,
Lend me a little tobacco-shop,
or install me in any profession
Save this damn'd profession of writing,
where one needs one's brains all the time.
- Ezra Pound's "The Lake Isle"

--

No kiddin', Ezra.

--

It's getting to that point in the semester when I'm looking at my to-do list and most of it involves writing. I have an explication essay for American Poetry due soon. I have a news script to write for Tuesday. I have a big research paper I haven't started, and another I'm not even going to attempt until a few days before it's due.

My brain is fried.

But, I keep chugging on. Sometimes all you gotta do is write anyway -- whether it turns into a masterpiece or just an Anne Lamott-style shitty first draft.


Here's to writing.




Lauren


Scriptwriting Archive:
Broken-down Poetry, and what it means
The strenuous marriage of writing
Poetry as Therapy, pt. II
Imagination
Sh*tty First Drafts
Cross-train
Go get a life
Wishing writing could change me

Go get a life

At a panel discussion with top literary magazine editors at the College Media Advisers NYC conference Monday, a quote by Rainer Maria Rilke came up. You've heard it before: "Write what you know." One of the editors pointed out that Rilke didn't stop there. He said, right what you know, but if you don't have anything to write about - go get a life.

Let's be honest here: I don't have much of a "life." Forgetting my Iraqi escapade, I've lived my whole life in the Midwest, I have a normal family, I go to college. I don't have a lot of interesting things to write about.

So. What do I do?

I get a life. I find adventures to write about.

But I don't think that means I have to travel abroad every summer either. I think I can find adventure here (okay, I'm in New York as I write this. Here as in Marion). I think that if I look hard enough (or broad enough) I can find adventure wherever I am.

I just need to find the excitement in the ordinary, everyday.

It's not that I have to lie and pretend something's exciting like I do on Twitter. (Whoa! #awesome sandwich I'm eating! #yummy!) I can just have a different perspective on something.

This trip I'm on, for example, has been quite the adventure. School trips are, in theory, supposed to be kind of lame. Or typical.

Well, we're staying at a church in a rougher part of Brooklyn with the kindest church members taking care of us. We're a group of students with very diverse personality traits. We have gotten lost who knows how many times. Our internet is shoddy, so we've been improvising with our homework. (I've had to dictate an email to my boyfriend over the phone so he could write and send it for me.)

It's been an adventure.
And it's something to write about.

So, in response to the Rilke quote, I'd say, yes. Find adventure. But don't assume adventure only involves foreign countries, passionate romances or danger.

Adventure could be right in front of you.



Scriptwriting Archive:
Broken-down Poetry, and what it means
The strenuous marriage of writing
Poetry as Therapy, pt. II
Imagination
Sh*tty First Drafts
Cross-train

Cross-train

So I write a lot -- go figure, I'm a writing major. But, I don't spend a lot of time writing for fun. As outlined in my last Scriptwriting blog post, I do a lot of everything for my classes, but I don't have a lot of time or energy to write for fun.

Last Sunday I got to. I got most of my homework done for Monday and Tuesday, so I spent the day writing poetry. Some of it turned out interesting.

I'm not entirely finished with the following poem. I think its metaphor was lost a little. But I'll let you read it. (You're welcome.) Ha.

--

Like the birds

You pointed up at a bird perched and

showed me how

its feathery neck moves in          jerks—

sharp, decisive

on a pivot

because its eyes are stationary

without periphery.

You pointed back at us and

said the same thing

about human eyes:

how they move like a bird’s neck, in          jerks—

always trying to focus.

I find this particularly entertaining

that as you tell me this,

I do whatever I can to avoid          you—

I look every which way in jerks,

sharply, decisively

to avoid your glance.

I dream of flying away.

--

As I began writing this post, I wanted to pose a goal for myself: write a poem a day. As I thought about it, I decided to shorten that to a poem a week. Then, I gave up on the goal completely. Do I have time?

I should make time.

Like anything else, writing gets better with practice. And like anything, variety is key. When you exercise your body, you don't spend all your energy on one set of muscles. Even those training for marathons cross-train.

I need to cross-train my writing. That may mean putting aside my homework to slave over a poem -- but that's okay. (I'd probably rather being doing that anyway.)


Lauren


Scriptwriting Archive:
Broken-down Poetry, and what it means
The strenuous marriage of writing
Poetry as Therapy, pt. II
Imagination
Sh*tty First Drafts

Broken-down Poetry, and what it means

Hello, my new readers.
Welcome to Broken-down Poetry.

For those of you who frequent my blog, you're probably wondering what's with the intro. Duh, I'm at Broken-down Poetry.

Well, here's what's up: Today and for weeks to follow, I am blogging for a class, Media Scriptwriting. We're required to blog about writing weekly. Well, I do a lot of that anyway, so I thought I'd go ahead and keep with Broken-down Poetry instead of creating a new blog. (Plus, BDP needs more readers!)

So. Welcome.

--

So what is Broken-down Poetry?

First and foremost, it's a blog I started my senior year of high school over at Wordpress.com. (Funny story: I moved from Wordpress to Blogspot because I thought Blogspot was cooler. Most professional bloggers are doing the opposite.)

I named the blog from a quote by George MacDonald, a 19th Century clergyman/writer. He said that "poetry is the highest form of the utterance of men's thoughts. ... Prose is but broken-down poetry."

I knew in twelfth grade that I was a prose writer - I didn't write any of that poetry crap. I fell in love with MacDonald's words because I knew that what I wrote came from my heart, but it was broken into easily digestible pieces.

Okay, what do I mean by that?

I mean that I am not a flowery writer. You know who's a flowery, detail-oriented writer? Jane Austen. So is Nathaniel Hawthorne. And so is another Nathaniel, my boyfriend, who is probably reading this and is probably not very happy with me. (Heh. Flowery in a good way, Babe.)

I am a clear-cut, let's-get-rid-of-these-stupid-adjectives writer. I delete word; I don't add them. I don't waste my time describing a scene to you. I say: here's the scene. Imagine it yourself.

When I started writing poetry earlier this school year, I noticed that even then I was eliminating words. I was breaking down poetry into smaller bites of poetry.

If you look around my blog, you'll see that everything is short. The posts may be long, but paragraphs short. My poems are typically 5-8 syllables a line.

So what's this mean to you? Nothing, I guess. I just find it interesting.... I find it interesting how my writing style fits my personality. I'm the one telling people to hurry up - let's go! I'm the one who goes from one task to the other without slowing down. I can't sit through movies because I'm too antsy.

I write the way I feel - rushed. Let's not belabor this.

I like that media scriptwriting is all about writing within time constraints. Oh, I can do that. You say 30 seconds, and you got it. I can tell a whole story in a few seconds if I want. (Okay, I imagine it's going to be a lot harder than that.)

But truthfully, I'm excited. Finally I can worry about keeping things short than adding words to meet some stupid page requirement.



Win!

Christmas Break Goals Revisited

Major fail. I tried, though, I promise.

1. Read three books. I've read two so far (Drops Like Stars by Rob Bell and Real Sex by Lauren Winner, which is better known as "That One Sex Book Lauren Winner Wrote") and I have about a chapter left of Wild at Heart which, yes, I started well before Christmas break. I'm non-committal. I can't finish books I'm not excited about--not anymore anyway.

2. Volunteer five times. Heh, try zero. It's really hard to volunteer after you haven't for a few months. Major fail.

3. Do my Sojourn homework. I started it! I'm 1/3 through it. I've also done other stuff for the paper, i.e. making handouts for the staff, planning how I'm going to do edits next semester, contemplating what should change about this semester, making goals, etc.

4. Write a paper. No, I didn't do it. BUT I have some ideas for poetry and creative non-fiction pieces. That's a start, right?

5. Get a tan. I went a few times, but I didn't care enough to keep paying money to go. I'm not pasty white anymore, and that's all that matters to me.

6. Practice being wise with money. Nope. I went broke buying Christmas presents ... and tickets to a Decemberists concert. Even bigger fail.

7. Update resume/apply for internships. This I did well. I wrote a cover letter, updated my resume, and updated my website (my online portfolio). I did a huge transformation to my site, at the request of my boyfriend who demands everything be clear and simple. (Meh, he was right.) This was probably my greatest accomplishment over break. I'm happy with how the site looks now. It still needs a little work, especially on the multimedia page, but I think it looks a lot better. Future employers, here I come!

8. Take care of Body. I did pretty well with this too! I only pigged out a few times this break, and only because it's the holidays. I've eaten tons of healthy foods (salad! vegetables! hummus!) and smaller portions. And I've only been drinking water ... and Old Crown coffee. I also got Wii Fit for Christmas, which has helped me stay active. Believe it or not, that game works. I'm not a huge fan of the aerobic exercises--because I don't think they work all that well--but I love the yoga and strength exercises. How can push-ups not be good for your body?

9. Blog/write for fun. Okay, I haven't done much of this either. I've journaled a bit and have written a few poems, as you can see from my blog, but I haven't done a whole lot. Like I said before, I wrote a cover letter, which is definitely writing. I haven't abandoned my love completely.

10. Relax. Mmm. I've done this too. Guess how many episodes of How I Met Your Mother do you think I've watched? Maybe 100. How many times have I seen dear Nathan? Seven. (Which isn't enough, obviously, but it's pretty impressive for a 3 1/2 week break, and we live an hour apart.)

--

Break's almost over for me. I move back to campus on Thursday and Sojourn workshops start Friday afternoon. I think I'm ready for the semester. I'm a little scared because my schedule looks intense, but I'm excited for a lot of the classes (mainly my two Mary Brown courses).

I've always had a soft spot for spring semester anyway. It seems more romantic for some reason. There's nothing like walking to class at 7:45 a.m. when the sky's still black.





Lauren

What I Do 40 Hours a Week

Most of you have been asking about what I've been up to, other than learning about what it means to be a Kurd in northern Iraq. ...

I am an intern. I work 40 hours a week - did you know that? I walk to the office every morning at 9, and walk back at 5. I have a lunch break from noon to 1:30.

We work in an office space on the third floor of a mall. In our office there's a lobby with couches, a kitchen, a bathroom, and two rooms. We have a split (A/C) in both rooms, but our power often goes out, which renders them useless. Also, the Internet hasn't been working.

So, most of us leave the office and go to 1. Assos Hotel across the street 2. Melody Cafe, where all the Amerikim hang out 3. Blue Cafe with delicious milkshakes or 4. home.

On every morning except Monday (our work week is Sunday-Thursday) we have a staff meeting at 9. We talk about what we did the previous day, what we will do that day, and what might stop us from accomplishing our tasks.

On Mondays we, the interns, spend our mornings having Interlocutions a.k.a. "Fireside Chats" with Jeremy. We typically discuss blog posts or news articles as a group. (Last week we talked about starting an NGO, why you should travel to countries outside Europe, and about something called voluntourism.)

After our meetings, we get to work! Everyone has a different task, according to their interests. I am in charge of Preemptive Love's year-end review, which is developing into a "Who We Are" coffee table book. It's coming along rather nicely. (A quick shout-out to Dr. Karnehm. Working on the School of Nursing magazine has helped me out a lot since I've been here!)

Besides the year-end review, I help others out with their tasks (such as updating the PLC blog or doing audio for the Honya video).


Soon I'm going to blog about the other interns - they're so awesome. I want you all to virtually meet them!



Lauren

... and overcomes conflict to get it.

I go home Wednesday - I'm halfway through college. I'm terrified; I'm sad. I love college - especially the learning - and I don't want it to end. But I'm beat. I'm sick of writing papers. I want to rest my brain.

In between writing this, I'm working on my final exam for Media and Society. We're supposed to comprehensively write about our approach to media literacy, using just about everything we've learned this semester. Dr. Perry suggested we start with a specific medium or issue and go from there. 

I decided to start with RELEVANT.

Seven months ago Kevin Erickson emailed me about his RELEVANT thesis. Six months ago I sobbed and screamed at God for killing my dream. 

But now I'm writing about RELEVANT and what it has taught me about media literacy and what I think Neil Postman would have to say about it. And it's forcing me to relive last fall. I'm rereading Kevin's thesis - yes, all 99 pages. I'm rereading my emails with former employees. I'm reading that email from Jason Boyett where this game started.

But you know what? It's okay. It's really okay. In fact, I don't want to work for RELEVANT. I think it'd be cool ... and I wish there were more magazines like RELEVANT out there ... but I don't need to work there.

I'm beginning to wonder if it was just getting  in the way. Maybe that whole experience was the "inciting incident" that got me from there to ... well ... Iraqi Kurdistan.

--

My mom said yes - I'm going to Iraq this summer.

God is good. How good? Let's see:

December: Lauren finds Preemptive Love Coalition internship

December: Lauren tells sister about PLC internship. Sister freaks out.

December: Lauren tells mom about PLC internship. Mom freaks out.

January: Lauren tries to convince mom that she can handle said internship. Mom says no.

January: Lauren prays a lot.

January: Lauren fasts Wednesday lunches.

January: Lauren applies anyway ...

February: Lauren buys passport

February: Sister finds out and freaks out.

February: Mom finds out and freaks out.

February: Lauren considers giving up dream.

February: Lauren reconsiders giving up dream.

March: Lauren can't sleep because she doesn't know what to do.

March: Lauren gets internship!

March: Sister finds out and freaks out.

March: Lauren still can't sleep because she doesn't know what to do.

March: Lauren tells mom about internship.

March: Mom says no again.

March: Lauren tries to reason with mom to no avail.

March: Mom gives Lauren a chance to "propose" the internship to her and stepdad.

March: Lauren prays a lot.

April: Lauren asks other people to pray.

April: Lauren proposes internship. It doesn't look good.

April: Mom contacts lots of people who know PLC. It looks better.

April: Mom changes her mind!

April: Lauren buys plane tickets. :)

I know I didn't handle that maturely. The praying part was good, so was the fasting, but the going behind my mother's back thing was not. The arguments and stubbornness wasn't good either.

But holy cow. O Jacob, you worm: I am nothing. This, this was all GOD. I can't even make it seem like this was my doing. GOD worked a huge miracle. 

--

I leave in less than a month. I'm not scared yet; I don't have time to be scared. There's so much planning I need to do. 

To think I was so sure I'd be planning for my RELEVANT internship this time last year.

Instead, I'm planning to spend the summer in freaking Iraq. IRAQ! Man alive. I get to work for a organization whose mission statement I not only believe in, but can be sure that they live up to it. 

Praise GOD - he knows what he's doing. 

ezekiel

Repentance, forgiveness, etc.

Last Sunday at my church, Westminster Presbyterian, Pastor Justin preached about the Prodigal Son, one of my favorite parables of Jesus. (Cliché.) But Justin taught it in a new way, a way that made me really, really angry at first. (Foreshadowing.)

What if the prodigal son was not repentant?
--

This blog is dedicated to Nick, who buys me Starbucks before church every Sunday.

--

Last Tuesday Haley and I upset Prof. Perry (our favorite IWU professor, no matter how long it takes him to grade our exams). We were on Facebook during class, which he hates more than anything, and our conversations popped up on his news feed. 

Yes, that was a huge FAIL on our behalf. If we're going to break rules, we need to be better at breaking them. 

Anyway, I felt horrible about it - the good kind of horrible. The kind that brings me to repentance (II Cor. 7:10). Because though I've been on Facebook during this class before and Prof. Perry has known, I have never repented. I haven't really been sorry.

Side note: I've noticed that these last two posts seem very guilt-driven, and they're not really. I felt guilty about how I treated my former crush only because I hadn't done anything about it (that is, repent). I will feel guilty about disrespecting my favorite professor as long as I continue to peruse Facebook during his lectures.

So I won't anymore. Hear me, Prof. Perry, I will not be on Facebook during your class anymore. It's done. My laptop will stay in my dorm room, no matter how inconvenient it is. 

--

I hate disappointing people. If anything is going to bring me to repentance, it's that watery look in your eyes.

--

So what if the prodigal son was not sorry? What if he only came back to his father because he knew he had no other option? It's as if I'm not going on Facebook in Perry's class because he banned laptops. But I can still bring my laptop to his class. I can still be on Facebook and post rude comments about his class on his wall. (Argg.)

But I'm not. (This is beginning to sound self-righteous; I'm aware of that.)

Pastor Justin used Luke 15:17-19 to back up this theory:

"When he came to his senses, he said, 'How many of my father's hired men have food to spare, and here I am starving to death! I will set out and go back to my father and say to him: Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired men.'"

Jesus says that the prodigal son "came to his senses," but that's not the same as saying the son knew he was in the wrong. Yeah, duh eating from a feeding trough wasn't "sensible." You don't have to think you're in the wrong to know that. The text doesn't come out and say that the son was sorry, just that he knew he didn't want to be poor and hungry and dirty anymore.

Pastor Justin said that the phrase "I have sinned against heaven and against you" was meant to remind the Pharisees of the last time that phrase was used, with Pharaoh during the exodus (Ex. 10:16). I agree that this is probably true because Jesus has done this before ("My God, my God, why have you forsaken me," Ps. 22). And honestly, Jesus likes shocking the Pharisees. He does it a lot.

But what's interesting is that Pharaoh told Aaron and Moses that he had sinned against God and them, but he still wasn't repentant. He was just trying to get out of trouble. He didn't want another plague, but he wasn't about to let the Israelites free.

And finally, if the son was really repentant, do you think he'd really care to be a hired hand? He still wanted paid, probably to go out and go crazy all over again. Get more gambling money. Replenish the supply, so to speak. If he was sorry - truly sorry - wouldn't he be okay with being an unpaid slave?

Of course we don't know any of this for sure. And it's a little frustrating to believe that this could possibly be true if you've heard it one way your whole life. But if it is true, what does that say about Grace?

It says that God forgives us - he runs to us, embraces us, pardons us - before we ask for forgiveness. Before we even feel the need to be forgiven.

--

What's scary about asking for forgiveness is that no one has to forgive you. Not everyone is as gracious as the prodigal's father. No one is God.

I hate disappointing people because they aren't obligated to forgive freely. Prof. Perry could hold a grudge against me. I could've affected our relationship by my disobedience.

So ... I guess that's where we come in. That's where Christians come in. Freely we have received, freely we give.

It's up to us to forgive freely,
to hold no grudges,
to love unconditionally.



It's hard. I know.


ezek.

The Little Red Hen, retold

Once upon a time there was a Little Red Hen that was a communication major at a small private university in central Indiana.

The Little Red Hen lived among other farm animals and worked with them too. One day the farmer assigned the Little Red Hen and several other animals the task of baking bread. She went to work.

"Who will help me plant the wheat?" asked the Little Red Hen.

"Not I," said the pig. "I have too much homework."

"Not I," said the cat. "I forget how."

"Not I," said the dog. "I'm not very good at that."

"Then I will plant the wheat myself," said the Little Red Hen, and she did! She dug up the earth with her claws, planted seeds and buried them in dirt. The wheat started to grow.

"Who will help me water the wheat?" asked the Little Red Hen.

"Not I," said the pig. "I have something else due that day."

"Not I," said the cat. "My schedule's really tight."

The dog never checked his email.

"Then I will water the wheat myself," said the Little Red Hen, and she did! She carried the bucket between her beak all the way from the well up the hill to her garden. She poured the water on her own. The wheat began to grow, and it was time to harvest it.

"Who will help me harvest the wheat?" asked the Little Red Hen.

"Not I," said the pig. "Uh, sorry."

"Not I," said the cat. "Wish I could."

"Not I," said the dog. "Whoops."

"Then I will harvest the wheat myself," said the Little Red Hen, and she did! She carried her machete from the barn all the way up to the garden. She used her beak to thrash the machete against the wheat. She carried it to her kitchen. There the Little Red Hen threshed the wheat all on her own, not asking for help, knowing she wouldn't get any.

"Who will help me bake the bread?" asked the Little Red Hen, one more time.

"Not I," said the pig.

"Not I," said the cat.

"Not I," said the dog.

"Then I'll bake the bread myself," said the Little Red Hen, and she did! She scooped out flour; scooped out yeast; poured water; poured milk; stirred it all together. She popped it in the oven with her feathered hands and watched it bake. Mmm! And it smelled delicious!

The pig, the cat and the dog came in to admire the Little Red Hen's work. Their mouths gaped open in awe.

"Who will help me eat the bread?" asked the Little Red Hen.

"I will!" said the pig.

"I will!" said the cat.

"I will!" said the dog.

The Little Red Hen put her wings to her hips and replied: "You did not help me plant the wheat. You did not help me water the wheat. You did not help me thresh it or bake it into bread either. And now, I will eat the bread myself!" And she would have ...

... Except, just then, the farmer came in, admired the bread, patted the pig, cat, dog and the Little Red Hen on the back and gave them each an equal slice.

"Good job," said the farmer. "A's for everyone!"

The End.

THE MORAL OF THE STORY: I hate group projects.

It is fine, it is fine with my soul.

Most of you are well aware of my cynicism. I haven't done a very good job of hiding it, after all. I've been trying to get to the root of it, to know exactly why it is I feel so jaded, but I'm not sure I can narrow it down to one or two things. But I'll try. Maybe then I'll be healed of it.
--
Friday in our typical day-before-break praise and worship chapel, we sang the hymn "It is Well with My Soul." For some reason, singing it reminded me of when I was in middle school and I'd pray before getting a test grade back.

I'd say: Pleaseohpleaseohplease say I got a good grade, God.
The Spirit would reply: You did fine.

Every time he'd say that: "you did fine." I knew even then that "fine" was a relative term. When I'd pray that in a history class, "fine" meant an A or A+. When I'd pray that in geometry, "fine" meant passing.

God's telling me today that I'm fine. I'll be okay. Whatever I'm going through will pass, and I'll be stronger because of it.

But as an apology to all the people affected by my cynicism, I present this blog. Here's why I've been so melancholy, or at least a few guesses:
--
1. How hard I work in class or how naturally gifted I am - manifested by my GPA - determines my worth.


I wrote a creative piece the other day about Sixteen-Year-Old Lauren haunting Present Day Lauren. It made me miss my youthful optimism. Observe:

I really don’t have time for this, Laur.

Come on. Here. I’ll help you pack up your books. Where you going anyway?

World lit.

Oh man. I’m in American lit right now. What a killer.

You’ll get an A. Well, A-.

Same thing.

Ha, I like your optimism.

Remember when "A-" was as good as an "A"? Now I'm well aware of the raging gap between a 3.7 and a 4.0.

Prof. Perry and I had a conversation about this a week and a half ago. I told him how desperately I wanted an A in his class, and how he should consider making the class easier in order for me to achieve that. (Despite our good relationship - I have been called a brown noser, teacher's pet and suck up more than once, thank you - he did not relent.) Actually, I think that upset him - that I wanted an easy A.

The thing is, that's not even true. I don't want an easy A. I want to learn. That's what I want more than anything ... to know as much as I can about the things I care about. I want to know more about media and society; I want to know more about writing prose; I want to know more about the character of God.

I just want my grades to reflect that.

And you know what? My grades would reflect that if I tried harder, if I pushed myself further. But physically, I can't handle that. I can't stay up all night writing an essay just to get it to the right word count (sorry, Dr. Allison, you say 1500 words, I say 1000).

So right. Correct. I would rather get an A without the unnecessary hard work, if I was still learning. True. I believe that. I want to be pushed harder, but when I push myself harder ...

I get obsessed.

Vicious cycle. It doesn't even make much sense.

Except that I want to be good at everything. I want to have A's in all my classes. I want to make Mom proud and Dr. Ferguson (my advisor) proud and Prof. Perry proud and all the other lazy comm. students jealous.

It's just not all possible. I can't be good at everything, which is a hard truth for me to get. Thus, it's making me cynical.

2. Despite what I tell myself, I let boys define who I am, or the act of liking boys define who I am.


I was listening to this song on the way home from Jacque and Carlee's:

Say you're wrong
Let's get this over I
Would like to get some sleep tonight ...

Now I know that I was not the man you wanted
You know I loved you and I wanted to make you proud
My intentions were to never give myself to anyone
Look what I've done

Mmm. I love those last two lines: "My intentions were to never give myself to anyone, look what I've done." I'm going to try to remain vague and general here, but I don't know how successful I'm going to be. Pretty much I let myself get burned because of a crush. I haven't been burned like this in a while, and though I've done a pretty good job at blaming him for this, it's my fault.

It's my fault, friend.

Though I don't regret liking him - and despite my general attitude of hatred toward him, I still think he's a really cool guy - I handled it horribly. I expected too much out of someone who didn't return the affection.

I go back to my quote of the month: "When people are in love, they act stupid. When people get their hearts broken, they act even stupider."

As Lindsey would say, "That's not very profound, but it's true."

I want to make it up to this kid. I'm trying to think of the best way to do it, but I think it involves leaving him alone forever. And deleting his number from my phone. Maybe.

All I know is hating him and writing essays for Prose about how much I hate him isn't solving anything. I'm brooding; I'm just getting angrier. It's been seven weeks - seriously. Heart, move on. Start focusing on things that matter!

3. We Christians are good at talking, but we're not very good at doing.

I have Matthew Paul Turner's "Jesus Needs New PR" blog bookmarked on my Google browser - I frequent it often. (Probably because he updates it like a madman. Imagine if I updated this blog three times a day!)

MPT blogs about the Christian subculture mostly, and likes to pick fun at it. He grew up a fundamental baptist, so he has room to make fun of fundies, but sometimes it gets a little ridiculous. He has a "Jesus Picture of the Week," for example, with paintings of our LORD with his own snarky, semi-sacrilegious captions below. Or, he'll rant about Joel Osteen (using $ for all his s's). Or, he'll post videos of dorky Christian musical groups.

It's cool to have a sense of humor. I told you that I frequent this site often - it makes me laugh. But it gets draining after a while. In fact, it makes me wonder if MPT isn't turning into his own kind of fundamentalist. ...

I like what Brian McLaren said (via a character) in A New Kind of Christian: "I've found that liberals can be fundamentalists too. Liberals are often just fundamentalists with a different set of beliefs. Not all of them, but many." p. 9

Huh. Sounds like me most of the time.

(And please, Matthew, if you're reading this - thanks, Google Alerts! - know that this isn't about you. You're just a for-instance so my audience gets it. I will still read your blog. Keep up the JPotW!)

But I am just like MPT. I roll my eyes at people who believe in the literalness of the Bible or who quote scripture in their sleep. I've taken a liking to MPT's jingle: "You can't spell 'fundamentalist' without F-U."

It's kind of disconcerting though. Making fun of something gets old after a while. I wish instead of talking about what's wrong with the Church we could be busy being the Church.

I wish I would. I wish I'd stop focusing on myself or rolling my eyes at others.
--
Finishing this blog doesn't make me feel better - surprise, surprise. Reading this blog probably didn't inspire you all in any way either.

But I guess that's okay. Here's where I'm at spiritually. It's messy, but oh well. I'd rather be honest and transparent than pretend I have it all together.
--
"Be true! Be true! Be true! Show freely to the world, if not your worst, yet some trait whereby the worst may be inferred." - The Scarlet Letter
--

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come
Let this blest assurance control
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate
And hath shed His own blood for my soul

It is fine, it is fine with my soul

ezekiel

Title Track: Thanks, Postman

I find myself in a bit of a pickle.

See, it’s the middle of the semester: the time everyone just wants to give up and quit, letting grades slip and procrastination kick in. It’s almost spring break – one more day! – and I’m burned out.

So I watch TV. I want my brain to take a break from reading and writing to laugh at Jeff Winger on “Community” or get swept up in the drama of “Heroes.” I’d like to stare at the black box in front of me for an hour and detoxify from everything school-related.

But I can’t. I blame my major.

You know how professors warn you that “this class will kill your love for [insert your favorite major-related activity]”? I’ve heard it more than once. But as a communication major, my love for the media not only gets killed, but beaten relentlessly, kicked around and spit on. So much for detoxifying.

In my media and society class, we’re reading Neil Postman’s “Amusing Ourselves to Death,” which is about how this generation’s prominent form of communication (the media, specifically television) affects the way we think and the way we discover truth. Because television is the predominant medium of our culture, we have become conditioned to certain things. Like, we expect information to be given to us in quick sound bytes and we expect to be entertained.

This doesn’t really sound like a problem, until you really start to think about it. It’s fine to want TV to be fast-paced and entertaining, but if you expect everything to be fastpaced and entertaining, there’s a problem.

Postman argues that our attention spans have been shortened by TV (and, though he wrote the book prior to the Internet, I’m sure he’d agree it has played a part). We can’t stay focused if the content isn’t entertaining.

Take sermons for example. During the school year I go to a liturgical Presbyterian church. The service bounces from prayer to song to Scripture-reading to homily pretty fast – only 20 minutes maximum for each section – yet still I find myself getting fidgety. I’m not the only one, either. The lady in the pew in front of us always does the kids’ word search in the bulletin.

The longest I have to stay focused is only 20 minutes, and still I cannot handle it. TV, what have you done to me? Or think about class: How long do we listen to the professor before we start perusing the Internet? Not very long.

Even as I write this, I see the truth in this. Every time I get writer’s block, I check my Facebook. I can only handle homework for short periods of time before I look for entertainment.

This is why I’m in a pickle. I feel too guilty to watch TV, but know no other way to rest my brain from school work. I wish I had never read Postman and could back to ignorantly blaming my lack of attention on undiagnosed A.D.D.

I’m left to wonder what I should do. How can I rest my brain without damaging it more with television?

I could read – but even I, an avid reader, don’t want to look at tiny print after I’ve spent hours writing a paper. I could play Sudoku – but even that involves a certain amount of math.

Maybe the problem is our time frame for rest. Most of us take sporadic breaks throughout the day between homework assignments. We spend Saturday mornings doing homework then have fun Saturday night.

What if we tried it the Jewish way – what if we worked really hard six days a week and left a whole day for rest, for Sabbath? Instead of taking minor breaks, what if we took one big break.

We wouldn’t need to squeeze in a television show here and there, but could spend the day shopping in Indy or taking a road trip to see friends.

Whenever I think about Sabbath, I get really uneasy. I’d much rather take smaller breaks every day than have one whole day of rest. But when I think about what I’m taking my breaks with – mindless television shows that do more damage than good – the idea of Sabbath becomes more appealing.

Because even though I like watching shows like “Community” after several hours of homework, I don’t feel rested once the episode is over. Most of the time I want to watch another episode and forget about homework completely.

So what do you think, do we try setting aside whole days for rest? Or do we continue bouncing from activity to activity to keep ourselves amused?

The post was originally printed in Indiana Wesleyan University's The Sojourn newspaper.

Title Track: The Unlikely Disciple

The end of last year, my sister Sam visited Indiana Wesleyan from Purdue. After she spent my last points at Wildcat and we settled down in the back corner of McConn, I began tutoring her in Photoshop. (Sam is not computer-savvy; comparatively, I am Steve Jobs in tech skills.)

We spent a few hours working, and by the time Sam left, full on Firehouse Grill chicken tenders, she told me how cute our school is – her words, not mine.

Sam, who is agnostic, told me she liked IWU and would attend there, if it weren’t for all the rules.
I laughed to myself because I knew my sister would have to adjust to more than just the rules. Sam has never been submerged into the Christian subculture.

She doesn’t understand our evangelical lingo: “I am saved!” “God spoke to me!” “Jesus lives inside of me!”

She doesn’t understand why we listen to worship music on our iPods, or why we sign a contract, promising not to drink, watch R-rated movies or dance.

She especially doesn’t understand why we go to school with kids who have the same beliefs as us, learning from professors who have the same beliefs as us, in order to have careers among people with different beliefs than us.

I try to explain it to her, but I haven’t been successful. (Especially since I don’t know the answers to all of those questions myself.) Some things must be experienced firsthand.

Over the summer I read “The Unlikely Disciple” by Kevin Roose, a memoir by a secular college student who decides to attend a semester at Liberty University, the largest Christian school in the country. Having never gone to an evangelical church – let alone had any born-again friends – Roose observed the culture of the Christian university as a complete outsider.

What I liked most about the book was Roose’s attitude toward Christianity. Though he never converted to the faith, Roose never stooped to mock the faith or put anything in a false light. Even though there were moments of frustration, Roose acted respectfully (even Christ-like) toward those with beliefs foreign to his.

And I think that as IWU students, we can learn from his experience. I know we don’t go to Liberty and that our rules aren’t as strict as theirs, but reading “The Unlikely Disciple” as if Roose had attended our school instead of LU forced me to put things into perspective:

1. Not all IWU students are Christians. It’s easy to assume that since you chose to go to a Christian university, that everyone else has and for the same reasons. Roose discovered that at LU, he wasn’t the only non-Christian. In my year-and-a-half at IWU I’ve met non-Christians who played the game well.

I’m not suggesting that we go around demanding people prove their faith in God in one way or another. (Spontaneous testimony sharing?) But I am suggesting we take interest in others’ faith with God and respect where they are: not condemning them for being less holier-than-thou or nagging them to conversion.

2. Not all IWU students are straight. What frustrated me about the Christians in Roose’s book is their homophobia. I know as Bible-believing Christians we can’t ignore that homosexuality is a sin. I get that. But can we please stop treating gay people like untouchables? Can we stop using “gay” as synonymous with “stupid”? (I know I talked a lot about this a few columns ago, but it still drives me crazy.)

3. Not all IWU students are Republicans. Granted, Liberty was founded by the late Jerry Falwell, father of the Moral Majority – IWU doesn’t boast of those beginnings. But still, I’ve engaged in several angry conversations with people who just assumed I was a fellow conservative. That is, they think that until they see the Obama Health Care bumper sticker on my desk. Then they shut up. (And start praying for my soul.)

Hint: you don’t have to be a Republican to be a Christian. Hint, hint: just because you hate everything about President Obama and his politics, don’t assume everybody agrees.

“The Unlikely Disciple” also reminded me of how lucky we are at IWU. We go to a university that holds fast to Christian doctrine, but doesn’t speak harshly of those with different beliefs. I can’t imagine President Smith inviting a famous atheist on campus to debate the origins of life. And, unlike Falwell, I know our president would never call people names on national television.

I can’t end this column without a shameless plug: please read this book. Learning about a conservative evangelical college in the point-of-view of a typical, non-religious student puts so much into perspective. At the very least, if you’re frustrated with IWU’s policies, at least recognize that our rules are hardly strict compared to schools like Liberty, Bob Jones and Cedarville.

But I hope that you’ll read this book in order to see that our attitudes need to always reflect Christ, even within the bubble. You never know who’s paying attention.

A cynic's take on Summit Week

Life has been going well. My work load has lessened; my classes still interest me. Ironically enough, I feel it's as good of time as any to write about cynicism. Maybe I won't have to label this blog with "rant" or "disillusioned," but maybe that's wishful thinking.

This week was Spiritual Emphasis Week, or "Summit," where IWU invites outside pastors to speak and worship is (usually) obnoxiously loud and fun. Of the three Summits I've been to, not including this semester's, two have turned my beliefs upside down.

And I expected God to do it again. I figured, hey, since I'm trying to figure out what to do about this PLC internship, I bet I'll find out during Summit. God speaks so clearly then; of course I'll magically know what to do.

Maybe just because I thought that God would make this easy for me he decided not to. I didn't really learn anything during Summit this semester.

Okay, that was an exaggeration. I learned some stuff. I learned how our society is rotting and it's our divorced parents' fault. (Ha, that's another exaggeration.)

Let me back up.

I finished re-reading "The Unlikely Disciple" by Kevin Roose, a memoir about his semester at Liberty University. But here's the kicker: he's not a right-wing evangelical Christian. I know there are a few non-Christians at IWU and even more democrats, but that's not a line you tread at Liberty U. This is Jerry Falwell's school. The guy is the Pat Robertson of the 80s and 90s (really up until his death in 2007). I'm just trying to make connections here. Most of you know who Falwell is anyway. Hint: he blamed gay people and the ACLU for 9/11.

The first time I read this book, over July 4th, I became almost disgusted by how similar IWU is to LU. I mean, I don't think our biology professors teach strictly young-age creationism and I know bringing Sean Hannity onto IWU's campus would not bring as much mirth to the Wildcats. But IWU is pretty conservative. And a tad fundamental. And we can get so caught up in trivial things.

(In one chapter, Kevin has to go to an accountability group to help with his masturbation. The guys in the group talk about the week's "falls" and give each other advice about how to stop touching themselves. Kevin realizes how backwards this is: Liberty is so focused on combating a "victimless crime" like masturbation and homosexuality instead of caring for the poor and marginalized. Are we the same way?)

But even more than our concern on seemingly trivial issues - because there is a time and place for that - we're good at provoking graceless guilt.

Back to Summit Week. This semester's theme was "You Asked for It." Students got to post questions on a blog about sex and dating, and our chapel speakers answered them on stage.

In theory, this is a cool idea. How often do you hear a pastor say, "masturbation!" or "orgasm!" in chapel? But really, it got pretty ridiculous. Not that these pastors said much I disagreed with - though a few things were a bit too conservative to my liking - but sometimes it gets really old being told and retold not to have sex before marriage and to not look at porn.

But what was so frustrating is how guilty it made me feel. I am a pure as any star IWU student, but I still felt guilty. Maybe I should feel guilty about going to a boy's apartment alone. Maybe I should feel guilty about thinking Tom-Cruise-Hair (this kid on campus who has really, really, REALLY nice hair) is cute. Maybe I'm lusting.

Or the one that really started getting to me: maybe I should be mad at my parents for divorcing.

Uh, no. This is where I put my foot down.

I don't think this was the Summit speakers' intent, but on the Wednesday morning message about how divorce became socially acceptable in the 70s screwed us over, a part of me started getting upset. My parents have been divorced since I was six and I'm getting mad now?

I shouldn't be mad: I love my step-family. And my mom and stepdad model a healthy marriage for me. I don't think growing up with my mom and dad fighting all the time would teach me what a marriage is supposed to look like. Even if I saw their commitment as refreshing, the fighting would get old.

Not to mention there's also a pretty good chance I wouldn't be at IWU without going to Northeast Christian, which we started going to when my dad was dating Kelli.

So chapel speakers: I'm okay that my parents got a divorce. I'm sorry that you didn't get over your parents' divorce, but don't spark anger in me for no reason.

Can you see? It's guilt.

I skipped the last session of Summit on Wednesday night. This morning I asked Lindsey if they mentioned Grace at all. Nope. Six do-this, don't-do-this sermons and no mention of Grace.

So I guess it's up to me. ...

Guys, it's okay. Really, it's okay. We're humans. We make mistakes. God loves us now - even if we haven't overcome sexual sins (or otherwise). I know we hear how much this or that will screw our future marriages over, but know that nothing can screw up your relationship with God.

You're forgiven before you repent.

Can we please stop talking about how much wrong people are doing and (to use Miles's illustration from last spring semester) "turn on the lights of nobility"? You know: encourage. Show Grace.

Maybe there is a place to address sexual issues in a corporate setting, but why at Summit? Perhaps this goes back to my original frustration of God not catering to my big internship dilemma. Maybe Summit was really good for you. I guess I need to step out of the way and let you appreciate it - even if it drove me mad.

I just want us to focus on things that matter. I don't want to be known as the girl who cares more about keeping her purity than helping the poor.



With love and squalor,
Ezek.

Stereotyping!

I've been extremely cynical these past few days (thanks a bunch, Summit!), so I thought I'd channel that angst into ... uh ... stereotyping people.

Okay, I explained that poorly. I just think in charts. (Remember that episode of How I Met Your Mother when Marshall finds out that the print shop at work can make charts for him, so he makes really random charts all the time, driving everyone crazy and eventually leading them to do an intervention?) It's like that.

Elizabeth and I were waiting outside of our classroom for Dr. Allison to unlock the door. While the rest of our class socialized, we sat on a bench observing. Rather, I observed. I don't know what Elizabeth was doing.

Anyway, I came up with a theory based off my class. It's pretty true, with only a few exceptions. Observe:

Of course if I were to put myself onto this chart - not officially a writing major yet or an English major - I'd put myself with the Girl English Majors, like Elizabeth. (I know that's pretty unfair. I'm calling myself quiet and cool. Most of the time neither of those are true.)

But really, start plugging people into this baby. It's amazing how true it is. I mean, if we're going to generalize people into harsh categories like this.

I have another theory about comm. majors too. It's also filled with lots of rude stereotypes.

THEORY: Comm. majors have more fun than any other major.

PROOF: Communication is the department you turn to when you don't have any other academic interests. You're not a huge fan of school anyway, so you might as well do something enjoyable. 'Cause really, who DOESN'T like being on the radio or filming basketball games or acting?

MORE PROOF: Since you aren't as academically-minded you don't spend your Saturday nights doing homework. You actually have fun, unlike those crazy nursing and pre-med/bio majors. (More stereotypes!)

EXCEPTIONS: Me. I'm a nerdy comm. major and I have plenty of academic interests.

I have more theories, like how elementary education majors get to relive childhood. And how CM majors are arrogant. Haha. That's not really true. I only know one CM major, Santos, and he isn't arrogant. I like ruffling feathers.

--

Back to that cynicism: there will be a blog to come. I want to wait a little while till I've cooled off and heard everyone's side of the story. No use ranting.

So enjoy this not-always-correct, yet pretty-much-correct chart and the other theories that followed. And have a lovely day.


See you on the cynic-side.

With love and squalor,
Lauren Deidra

To tell a better story

I finished Don Miller's "A Million Miles in a Thousand Years" a few days ago; it made me want to marry him even more.

The book was very moody. It had the structure of "Blue Like Jazz" (more like a memoir than SFGKW or TPD), but had the tone of "Through Painted Deserts" - thought-provoking, contemplative. It made me moody too.

Don talks about Story, about how he didn't find his story worthy of the big screen, and how he tries to change that. So Don rides a bike across America. He hikes in Peru. He starts a non-profit.

Don talks about living a better story, which made me consider my current story. I go to class. I drink a lot of coffee. I have interesting conversations ... sometimes.

I know I'm in college and that limits my freedom to live a bigger story, but it doesn't stop me either. Gosh, all this talk of being World Changers here at IWU has gotten to me. I really do want to change the world. I was made for greatness, as Pastor DeNeff would say. I'm not designed to sit on my hands, drag myself from class to class and settle for banality.

I like what these guys at TellABetterStory.ning are doing. They're just a couple of college kids (like me!) trying to shake things up.

ezek.

That was his total reaction.

I've felt very odd this week.

I've had a lot of frustrations, most of which came from a single person, one who I vow to hate as to avoid any feelings of sadness or loneliness. Perhaps this is why I am in this mood.

I'm not as happy as I was last week, but I'm not as down as I was two weeks ago.

I feel ambivalent, apathetic, like I'm floating from my room to class to McConn to class to McConn. I'm lukewarm. Not strikingly successful, but not a failure. I've had wins and losses this week: nothing has upset me, but nothing has excited me.

What's up with you, self? Why are you acting this way?

God's been teaching me about Grace, and how it doesn't rely on any merit system. It's free for everyone. I wonder if Love isn't the only thing that lacks a price tag. Maybe Grace is the same way.

Last year I was so far from God. I pushed him out, I reluctantly prayed and begrudgingly read the Word. I didn't care one way or another. I sought after my own desires, and honestly, my life reflected it. I wasn't happy. I had hope, but I wasn't happy.

This year I am again having a hard time seeking God. I try, but I don't try very hard. I read my Bible when I feel like it, pray when it comes natural. But my life is awesome. I love my friends, I love what I'm learning and I love my job. My self-esteem has skyrocketed.

I would have found irony here. I would have. I would have said that's the devil out to trick me, that he's just making it seem like my life is good, but it's really not because it's not full of the fire of God.

But that's not the point. I cannot earn good days. God is no subject to karma.

Grace says that my good days are gifts from God and my bad days are too. They're gifts, not punishments or illusions.

This is rough, but I got to keep chugging - not as a way to earn more good days, but to remember who those days came from.

oh mediocre

My Facebook status the other day was: "You know your life is uneventful when your dreams involve finishing homework (on time) and attending class (again, on time and fully clothed)."

And it's true.

The past few weeks I've been dreaming about school: about waking up, going to class, interacting with my professors, winking at a cute boy, then starting my homework. How lame is that? I'd take the dream where Ashley viciously murders me over a strand of boring, uneventful dreams.

When I'm awake it's not much better. All I can think about is school or the research I've been doing on RELEVANT magazine (which is going exceptionally well, mind you).

I want a cause; I've been praying for a cause.

I've got to be spending my time thinking about someone other than myself and about things more important than Radio Production homework. Honestly.

So far I've just been praying for RELEVANT. I don't mean "just" as in it isn't important - because it is. I'm starting to worry that I'll get so consumed in the magazine again that I'll fall back to where I was a year ago. Worthy or not, I can still make RELEVANT a god. So I need to be careful.

Without giving too much away, because I know this will pop up on RELEVANT's Google alerts, Tuesday I'm talking to former RELEVANT employee Dylan Peterson on the phone. I'm in kind of one of those celebrity-dazes. I mean, he was a pretty important part of the RELEVANT team. Well, he did make me fall in love with Andrew Bird and Anathallo.

Anyway, that's Tuesday. More research to come. More prayer to come.

I'm hoping, honestly, that I find something to devote my thoughtlife to - something God will appreciate. I've made this observation before, but it's really, really hard to pray when you have nothing to pray about. Dear God thank you for rain. Thank you for helping me wake up on time. For fresh brew. For ... class? For, ... okay, I'm out.

Thus: I need a cause.

And I need to spend less time on Facebook.

Lauren

The Mirror

Hello, friends.

I wanted to start this blog with a forward to stop those who might criticize the following. This isn't for you; this is a testimony to who God's shaped me into and a testimony to who I am becoming. Maybe I'm too honest in it, maybe I'm not honest enough. Whichever way you see it, please keep the hate to yourself.

I've never written anything that has opened my eyes like this piece. It has shown me how far I've come in the past four years ... and it's showing me how far away I still am. Tonight, while flipping through an old journal of mine, I realized that my pursuit of my identity started with a boy -- Adam. I wanted to know who I am before dating him. I never dated Adam. Nor have I "found myself." I'm intrigued by how God has used these gentlemen (Adam and others) to show me who I am.

So, without further ado. ...

“The Mirror”

By Lauren Sawyer

My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love …

These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself

- Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself” -

The hurricane of bath water filling the tub only makes me turn my music up louder: the punk-rock I’m so fond of at this time, the heartbreak the artist squeals. It fits my mood. I’m a romantic even at fourteen.

I am in eighth grade, thinner than I know, with shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair – straight in the winter, wavy in the humid summer. Nothing about me categorizes me as either beautiful or repulsive, save for the metal brackets glued to my teeth. (My orthodontist let me get colored rubber bands only once, and I chose gold – the same color as the food particles stuck between the grooves.)

Still, plenty of other girls have braces and I don’t feel any different than them. So I smile in the mirror in front of me – and sing.

I sing a love song for my future husband and a love song for the God I already know. I change audiences as I sing, knowing that both God and this boy would appreciate my song. No one can hear me outside the locked bathroom; my singing is muffled. My middle school prayers are disguised by the water and song.

This is my ritual. Bath time is set aside to be alone with myself and with God, when my mind muddles through memories of this day and expectations for the next. I dream now; I sing my love songs and pray now. It’s my special time-oasis. It’s my Walden Pond.

I stand across from the sink wearing cotton shorts and a lace camisole that fits too loosely at the top. I keep my socks on for irony, contrasting my long, bare legs bending in at the knees. I twirl in pirouettes twice before adjusting my look in the mirror – I twist tiny braids into the crown of my hair. There. Perfect.

Skipping back to the tub, I release a few inches of water to add more time to my pre-bath ritual. I’m back by the sink, looking at myself curiously in the mirror. My journal, the flimsy red thing I hid beneath my towel, is pulled out and I begin writing:

Dear Jesus, I know who I’m going to marry.

And I do. His name is David and he’s a musician. He wears a modern-day beatnik beanie with curly brown hair peeking out; his muscles bulge at the biceps. I write down his characteristics: blue-eyed, shy, respectful, funny, smells good. I push aside the notebook and stare at myself in the mirror.

I make faces as I always do. My favorite is the tiger growl (I wiggle my fingers accordingly). I scrunch up my nose or bite my lip, attempting an endearing look like the girl-next-door in the movies. I practice flirting with my eyes – something I have yet to accomplish.

My bathwater’s nearly full, but I must play with my hair once more before immersion; I push the fibers into a dramatic pouf. I make a fierce model face then promptly splash into the tub.

My ritual’s complete, but it’s to be repeated tomorrow and the next day. For four more years I dance in front of that bathroom mirror, praying and singing to both God and man, with no distrust for the reflection before me. I love myself in the way a healthy girl should.

But slowly, like the dripping of a broken faucet, my confidence began to wane. My ability to stare blankly into my face and at my half-clothed body became increasingly difficult. By college I was afraid to look.

--

I am in tenth grade and I have found true love.

In May of last year I decided to create a Myspace page to track down a high school senior, one I had heard about for years from my sister who had a crush on him. His name is Adam Parker and he is the greatest guy ever.

We talked on Myspace for over a month before meeting. And the night we did meet – a group of twenty high school students arranged a capture-the-flag game in my neighborhood – the first words I heard out of Adam Parker’s mouth were: “Where’s Lauren?”

We stood out in the humid air, agreeing on rules and team names. My hair had turned from silky to coarse in a matter of moments, and my shirt refused to disguise the sweat stains under my arms. My metal smile greeted him. “Hi.”

He reminds me of David, my husband from two years ago, the one so delicately described by my bathroom sink. He doesn’t like me the way I think he ought to, but I know I matter to him. He tells me all the time:

“You inspire me, Lauren.”

“You are so wise for your age.”

--

I’m a junior now and a master at ping-pong. My boyfriend Luke and I play whenever he comes over. We don’t keep score, but if we did, I’m sure I’d win. Sometimes he hits the ball across the room just so he can watch me chase it, and then he runs up and hugs me.

After a few weeks as “exclusive friends” – which, despite not knowing what that meant, gave me something to think fondly of in class – Luke cut short one of our ping-pong games. Once he whispered to me his plan, he walked up stairs and asked my mom permission to date me.

Luke buys me things to show his affection: a necklace, a DVD, dinner, a slushy. Or sometimes he slips notes or gas money into my pocket, as if I don’t notice. But most of the time, Luke and I walk through our neighborhoods talking and arguing and holding hands.

--

I’m still a junior, but Luke and I broke up. We started fighting, mostly about my best friend. She doesn’t like Luke very much. Everything is so confusing. I want to make everyone happy – my friend, Luke – but I’m the one suffering.

Tonight we sit tightly on that green leather sofa, my best friend on my right, Luke not five feet away.

“I hate him,” she tells me. I think she smiled. “Well, I hated him.” She reemphasizes the past tense to make me feel better. I don’t feel better.

Luke and I dated for four months – only two we called “official” in fear of my best friend throwing a fit. She didn’t like the way he came over every Monday night or joined us at youth group and answered all the questions in Sunday school.

“But I liked him,” I reply, not emphasizing the past tense. “Actually, I still kind of like him.” I get up from the couch and talk to another friend – not looking at her, not looking at Luke.

--

I haven’t had a date in front of the mirror in a while.

--

It’s summer and I am seventeen years old. I haven’t had a boyfriend since Luke, but I don’t care very much. I am a single woman; I can woo any boy I like.

Today’s the third day of a nine-day mission trip in Slidell, Louisiana where I’m teaching Vacation Bible School to young Katrina victims. Outside it’s a limitless sauna, so I do my best to stay indoors to tame my frizzy hair. I haven’t taken a shower all week, I have proudly announced to my friends. Not because I am a bra-burning feminist, but because of the cockroaches. They love the shower stall more than me.

But even without a shower and with my hair, which is cut short in a bob and responding like a 70’s afro, I manage to attract the attention of a boy.

His name is John Derek and he is Matthew McConaughey – in both looks and attitude.

He’s lying on the floor, elbows propping him up, playing a handheld video game. Charming, I know, but I still want him to notice me. I myself lay down, at least three feet away, and pretend I’m caught up in something else. I pull out my cell phone and begin texting no one at all.

I squirm closer – he doesn’t notice.

I army crawl an inch, two inches, three until John Derek notices me. “Hi.”

He turns back to his game. “Hi.”

I lean over his shoulder and ask what he’s playing. Pokémon, I think. I somehow see past the geekyness to ask him how to play.

He tells me, seemingly uninterested, but he puts the game aside. Then we engage in what I can only describe as a “flirting war” – one of those awkward-for-everyone-else-but-the-people-involved bustles of quips, poking, tickling, giggling and blushing. It carries on the rest of the night and most of the week.

Until my best friend told me it wasn’t worth it. He did live a thousand miles away, and he did flirt with all the other girls. And besides all that, he wasn’t really my type – jerky, manipulative … good-looking.

In an attempt at self-respect, I spent the final two days of the trip far away from John Derek. I had friends act as body guards, standing in the way whenever he got too close to me.

I left Louisiana without saying goodbye to John Derek. I think with him, though I had maintained dignity by not flirting with an unattainable boy, I left a part of my vulnerability. After that week I forgot that I was pretty enough to flirt.

--

High school is behind me; I have graduated. I gave up on finding a high school sweetheart and have pursued only friendships with guys.

Meet Matt. He’s in an on-again, off-again relationship with my best friend, but for most of our friendship they haven’t been together. Matt and I are close – really close – except nothing physical takes place. We’re just always together: getting coffee every weekend, seeing movies on boring evenings and texting till midnight.

Until now.

My finger dances on the plastic lid of my latte cup. He is speaking, but I’m trying not to listen. I swirl the cup around, imagining the brownish funnel the coffee is making inside. I guess how many sips were left: three? four? I take one for myself, the lukewarm cream dissolving in my mouth before making it to my throat. Just one.

Now it’s empty.

Now I’m forced to look at him and listen to his story.

He’s leaving me again, for her. It’s not that we were dating … I have no desire to actually date him … at least not admittedly. But when Matt went back to my best friend for the third time, leaving me dateless for the eighteenth month – well, now I’m lonely.

--

Welcome to college.

I expected nothing less than a dozen dates lined up by the first day of classes. I am in college and all college girls are pretty and worth dating – except me. I ho-hum through the first semester, finding plenty of crushes and very few dates.

My best friend isn’t here to weed out the losers. There are no Adam Parkers or Lukes to declare my importance. Matt is back at home, miles away, with his girlfriend.

And I am without a bathroom of my own; I’m stuck sharing it with my two roommates who wouldn’t understand my singing or my silly face-making.

I figure I need to do some soul-searching: to learn how to see myself in a new way, to learn how to find a mirror that casts my own reflection, not the reflection of others’ view of me. For too long I’ve relied on other people to define who I am.

I am not just the girl who crushes after a certain boy, or just the girlfriend of another. I am my own person, if only I knew who that was. I need to find myself and know myself as an individual.

I need a new bath time ritual.

I need a new song to sing.

disillusioned

A few months ago I thought it'd be really cool to be disillusioned with the world. I wanted to be like a post-WWI expatriate or like Franny Glass from Salinger's novel. I pictured myself in a bar drinking a Shirley Temple slurring my life story to the bartender, telling him over and over again how much I liked eating the cherries at the bottom. (I'd be faking the banter, of course, because I'm drinking a non-alcoholic beverage. The bartender is too distracted to notice.)

I decided a few months ago that I no longer cared about being prude or blameless, I wanted to dress like a whore and cuss the crudest words. I typed out a few cuss words that night. I felt a little better, but not a lot.

Then I decided I was going to marry someone at least ten years older than me ... someone who was just as disillusioned as me so we could complain together about this godforsaken world we live in! and about how no one understands us! Or something like that. I don't really know what disillusioned people complain about, to be honest.

And then I realized that I am not disillusioned. I am actually quite optimistic and forward-looking and hopeful. I just wasn't happy with where I was and who I was among at the time.

A few months ago I was just starting college. I chose an extremely conservative Christian university to attend, not thinking much about all the rules that entailed. But I have always been a rule follower. I have always been the "good girl," the teacher's pet, the leader at youth group, the favorite daughter. (Don't tell my sister.) I figured I could handle whatever this university threw at me.

Except ... I couldn't. That's where all this disillusion came from. I thought this school would be my "comfort zone": Christians around other Christians talking about Christian-y things. But I really don't like that. I especially don't like the pressure.

It turns out there's no such thing as a cookie-cutter Christian. One week of college told me that. There are cliques here at Christian schools, you know, but all of them have the word "Christian" before them. The "Christian" preps, the Christian jocks, the Christian hipsters, the Christian nerds, etc.

I found it much like high school, except there's that pressure of being "on fire for God." Not only do you need that place to fit in ... you need to prove your worth as a Christian: "Hi, my name is Lauren and I read my Bible every night."

So into the first month of school I had pressure from all sides: to find friend and to be "on fire for God." Neither were really working. I had friends, sure, but none like the ones at home. I loved God, sure, but I wasn't healing people in Jaheezus name!

I began to realize that I did not like this. I did not like feeling of being judged by these Christians, whether they really were judging me or not, and I hated that it was hard to find friends at a Christian school. So I decided to become a Christian expatriate. I wrote down those cusswords. I started writing a novel about that bartender.

I figured that the reason I felt so disconnected with those people was because I just didn't fit into their club. There are Christians and then there are Christians. I must have been part of the latter, those who look, smell and act Christian but aren't really. I don't follow their code of ethics or something.

I really wanted to break my school's rules because I thought that would prove that I was not like the other Christians in my school, not just "kinda not" like them. Once I decided that, I found myself really bitter toward my roommates' opinions. I made sure that I found a flaw in whatever the speaker said at chapel. I really had become disillusioned with the world.

And it was ugly.

I know the first few months of college are supposed to be hard. I know there's a lot of homesickness and stress and fear ... but I didn't have any of that. The only thing I was really afraid of was myself. (As cliche as that sounds.) I didn't like how I "measured up" against the Christians around me.

I would have killed to be the Christian hipster or the Christian prep. But I knew I wasn't. I was the "Christian outcast." I cared too much about where I didn't fit in instead of seeing where I did. I got too caught up in, what the apostle Paul calls, "civilian affairs." I was losing sight of my true identity and instead looked for it in others.

And so here I am. The semester just ended, and I can only hope that I am closer to the person I am supposed to be. A friend told me once that we can never really know our true identity, but I don't know if I believe him. I mean, maybe not to the extent God views us, but I know that I can be closer than I am.

I know most people don't follow their New Years Resolutions but I am going to make one anyway. This year I want to see myself the way God sees me: as a woman of God, passionate in what she does, a creator, thinker.



"This is my voice, all shadows stayed. This is my heart upon the altar laid. Please take all else away. Hear my cry, I beg I plead, I pray. I'll walk into the flames, a calculated risk to further bless your name. So strike me deep and true, and in your strength I will live and die both unto you." ("Identity Crisis," Thrice)



with love,

ezekiel.

First things first

First thing's first.

Indiana Wesleyan's "Verse of the Year" is Matthew 6:33: "Seek first His Kingdom and His Righteousness and all these things will be given to you."

On our first chapel, Umfundisi talked about how we need to get our priorities straight. What's consuming our time? Are we worrying about who's on Facebook instead of schoolwork? Are we watching volleyball games out the window instead of reading our Bibles? (Heh. Heh.)

I decided to commit myself to this, signing a piece of paper and everything.

Then Wednesday night happened.

I am having a blast at college, really, I am. But I had a rough night on Wednesday. I was writing my first paper (yes, it was loads of fun) and out of nowhere my "c" key just started typing. I had random c's all over my letter to Shane Claiborne. (And yes, that was my assignment.)

It was 11:20 at night. I had class at 7:50am.

So I took the key off.

In hindsight, not the best idea. I have taken keys off before--I had a sticky m a while back--but usually I get the suckers back on. This stupid c would not go back on.

I spent a half hour trying to get the thing back on. I failed.

The next day I went to IT. Right when it closed.

The c's kept appearing. The key was still off.

And God said to Lauren, "First things first."

I let things escalade too much. I got the wrong book for a class, I need more school supplies, my ice tray can't fit in my freezer, this chinese food is too salty!, c's fall off... and I make a big deal out of them all. Oh please. Get over it, girl.

This is my first semester of college. My goal is to not be overwhelmed with stress, to be on top of my homework so I never have to pull all-nighters or cram for tests.

For those of you in school or have full-time jobs, I challenge you to do the same. Don't let the little things get you down. "Don't sweat the small stuff," as they say. When you start to feel overwhelmed, talk to God. He values rest. He created a whole day for it, actually.

Forget about all the c-keys in your life, keeping you up late worrying. It's not worth it. Trust God.

First things first.