Take Me Home

"Books loved anyone who opened them, they gave you security and friendship and didn't ask for anything in return; they never went away, never, not even when you treated them badly." - Cornelia Funke, Inkheart

Here at Wheaton College, it's not that there aren't people.  It's not that I don't like the people I'm around or that the people I'm around don't like me.  In fact, I'm in a wonderful environment full of wonderful people doing wonderful things all while "actively pursuing intentional community." But it's lonely. It's lonely because none of them are truly my friends.  It's lonely because during the past two weeks I've constantly had to pay attention to my appearance, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about my behavior:  what I've said and done and what I should have said and done.  It's lonely because everyday I'm meeting at least three new people and trying to remember the names of all the people I met the day before.  It's lonely because the conversations seem never to move beyond "Hi, what's your major? Where do you live?  What were your classes today? What do you like best about Wheaton?"

And most of all, it's lonely because I can never go home.

It's not so much that I'm missing my physical home, but rather that I miss having a home.  Here at Wheaton, I don't really have a home.  There is no where on campus where I feel truly and completely comfortable.  And so, in the absence of a physical home, I've had to turn to my virtual home.  Perhaps it's not healthy to feel out of place in reality and at home in books, but maybe I'm not as emotionally healthy as I'd like to think.  The truth is, when I pick up Ender's Game and reread it, or The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle or Inkheart I feel at home.  It's hard to explain, and I wouldn't believe it if I didn't experience it, but I feel like I know the characters.  They're my friends.  These books are a place where I have memories, safely preserved and easily accessible.  It's not so much that I want to live in these stories all the time, but rather that they provide an escape from the constant homelessness I experience when on campus here.  I know that sounds pathetic and kind of weird, but I don't know if I could do this otherwise.  Having books for a home makes being away from home more... bearable?

Someday, I think Wheaton will become home.  I really think it will.  But until then I'll have my books, and I'll have my journals, and with some soft music playing in the background, I think I can make that my home for the time being.

The End.

What’s the end really like?  That’s what I want to know.  In stories, the end is either a whimper or a bang, and equally shocking either way.  But is that what the end is really like?

And more importantly, what will my end be like?  What is MY end? 

Sometimes, we like to imagine that we are magnificent.  That we are great lions, fierce and facing the world.  Or even that we are dogs, foolishly brave and unrelentingly loyal.  But perhaps sometimes we're not even that.

Most people think that they would be a hero if they could, but not many have to chance to figure out if they might be one.  The fact is, we never hear about the failed heroes.  We don’t hear about the heroes who broke the rules and died.  Or the heroes who followed the rules and died.  Because in our minds, they aren’t heroes – not really.  And even if they are, who is left to tell their story?  Who will tell the story of the almost-heroes who almost-won?  It doesn’t make for a climatic ending or a dramatic beginning. 

The end of the story is the most important.  Without it, a hero never becomes a hero, and the traitor never is uncovered, and the last minute convert doesn’t have time to switch sides.  The villain is never vanquished, and the damsel is never rescued. 

Not a very good story, eh?

But what’s the end really like?  We only hear one kind of ending – the happy kind.  But sometimes, the almost heroes, those who are forgotten, make a sort of ending – a different, bitter ending.  These are those who led the failed revolution and died dishonorably.  Or those who couldn’t push the man out of the way of the train, or weren’t able to block the bullet.  The people who couldn’t mend the relationship, who didn’t get the part.  Those who weren’t successful despite all of their efforts – they have an ending too. What about the heroes who couldn’t be heroes, who failed at being heroes?  Those who did everything right, or everything wrong, just hoping to save someone else, or even just themselves.  

Who tells about them?  What’s their ending like?

The Marvelous Musical Mansion

We used to watch this movie, my sisters and I.  It was called "Wee Sing Presents The Marvelous Musical Mansion."  It was about these three kids who go with their eccentric aunt to a (wait for it) marvelous musical mansion.  It was, quite possibly, the most embarrassing movie that ever made the nineties ridiculous.  And yet, for some utterly incomprehensible reason, we loved it.  I mean, it ranked right up there with The Swan Princess and Homeward Bound (which is really saying something, because it's pretty hard to beat cartoon princess musicals and sarcastic cats).  Anyway, throughout the whole movie there was this sort of undercurrent of wonder and magic, as though music was more than just music, but perhaps something a good deal more powerful and important.  They make music out as magic.

And I think Wee Sing may have been on to something.  Definitely not the fashion choices, but the whole music-is-almost-magic thing.  There really is something magical about listening to music.  And I'm not talking about the songs on the radio, nor am I talking about lyrics.  There's something magical about music itself.  As cheesy as it sounds, it has to do with the way that music can just completely change where you are and how you feel.  I can't help feeling that perhaps music means more than we let it mean - maybe it really is marvelous and almost magical.

While I was at Bethel, sometimes I'd be listening to a particularly good song, and I'd want to rip out my ear-buds and turn up the music so that everyone nearby could listen.  I never did, of course, but I always wanted to.  For some songs, it isn't enough to have just one person listening.  It seems selfish, you know?  I just want everyone else to hear this song because it's so wonderful and beautiful and perfect.  For just a moment, I was almost absolutely convinced that perhaps this song was the solution, was magic, was what would bring all the hunched figures nearby to life.

Writing it out, it seems silly, I guess, but maybe it's true.  Maybe the right song at the right moment with the right people really is magic.  Sometimes I think that all I really want for Christmas is a soundtrack to my life. And then I can force everyone else to listen to the magic.

Things That Matter

My summer reading binge is in progress.  I go and check out 10 or 20 books from the library, and then I stack them on my closet shelf and read through them, constantly replenishing the supply so that I never have less than 5 books out at a time.

Some summer, huh?

You know, I don't know much about life, but I know that stories matter.  I'm still trying to figure out exactly why they do, but at least I know that they do.

I mean, think about it.  I haven't had much heartbreak, pain or loss in my life;  I've never fallen in love, nor have I really known betrayal or bravery or danger.   But I swear I've felt these things anyway. Books.

It's not just that stories make me think, but rather that they physically resonate with me - when I read a good story I feel it inside.  I don't know how to describe how the importance of stories for me.  It's not like "Ah, that was a well-written book with rounded characters, a stellar plot and a fantastic ending." For me, a good book isn't dissected into its components and then declared "good";  a good book is a story that tumbles around inside me while reading and still lingers on my skin later on.  A good story is one that makes me think about life and myself and other people and what it really means to be alive.

It's a form of breathing, really.

It's like stories allow you to feel what you would never feel otherwise.

Maybe it's just that all of those words somehow grasp exactly what I'm feeling, or maybe it's just that they give me an excuse to feel something.  Either way, I eat stories, I scarf them down again and again and I'm still not full to the top.   I don't think I ever will be.  Why stories?  Why do stories matter?  I don't know, and it frustrates me, but I just know they do.

Obviously, not everyone feels this way about books, but I'd like to think that most people feel this way about something. There has to be something like this for everyone: something that helps them to feel the world and understand themselves.  Perhaps that's why people play the rebel role and "yolo" and make bad life choices and do stupid things, just because it allows them to feel it deep inside of them the way that I do.  To feel it running up and down their rib-cage.  Maybe they're just trying to find something that matters for them and something that allows them to feel the right way.  I've always wondered why people destroy themselves so willingly for just a bit of pleasure, but perhaps this is why.

Maybe that's the only reason that anyone does anything, to feel it.

And for what it's worth, I think, I think I can respect that.

How I Earned My Introvert ID Card

If I ever had any doubts about whether or not I am truly an introvert, I consider myself to have laid such hesitations to rest forever.  I've always wondered what my limits are, and now... well, now I know.

I may or may not have had a (minor) emotional breakdown.

It went like this.  After writing my final paper on Wednesday, playing for baccalaureate on Thursday, attending the graduation rehearsal, poverty exhibit, and class dinner on Friday, and finally graduating on Saturday (I was verse spokesman and gave a lovely speech about prepositional phrases), I was done.

100% done.

I had been at the church since 8:30, but we didn't leave until 3:30, and then we went to dinner at Red Lobster.  Now, I'm not really one to complain about good food, but I was feeling a bit stretched by that point.  And by the time my sister stopped at J.C. Penny's on the way home, I was blinking rapidly and hoping that I wouldn't start crying in the underwear section.  At 7 pm we finally pulled into the driveway.  I looked out my window and what should I see in the backyard but two bouncy houses.

Bouncy houses.  Like the big red, yellow and black things that kids jump around in at the county fair.

I stared for a moment, then said, "Why are there bouncy houses in the backyard?"

My sister has known me long enough to know when I'm about to go over the edge.  She looked at me, gave me an apologetic smile, and said something about 50s bands.

I took a deep breath through the nose and pursed my lips.  Putting my left hand up like a stop sign, I closed my eyes for a moment and said, "Just.... no. I cannot have bouncy houses at my grad party." Then I slipped the leftover Red Lobster bag onto my arm, slung my purse onto my shoulder, and gathered my diploma and hat in my arms.  I kicked off my shoes as soon as I was inside, and didn't stop to say hi to Mom in the living room.  By the time I had dumped all of my junk on my bedroom floor, I was already crying.

The next thing I knew, the fan was on, I was in sweatpants, and I was curled up on my bed listening to music while scrolling through Pinterest.  I continued crying pretty steadily until about 10:30 pm (which was when I feel asleep).

The funny thing is, I didn't really know what I was crying about.  At first, it was all about the bouncy houses, but it didn't take long for me to realize exactly how completely and totally ridiculous I was being.  But I couldn't stop crying.  It didn't matter what I did, I just kept crying and crying and crying.

I was starting to get seriously irritated with myself before I remembered that I'm an introvert.  I'd always just sort of thought that if you were an introvert, and you pushed yourself too far, you just got crabby and mean.  That's usually about the time when I curl up with my favorite TV show, and 4 episodes later I'm good as new.  But I guess if I can't be crabby (and I couldn't last week, since I was doing important stuff), eventually my body is just like, "Okay! Enough! Now we're gonna cry for 3 1/2 hours straight!"

And that's the story of how I had an emotional breakdown the day of my high school graduation, and why I had ugly, puffy, stinging eyes the next day at my graduation party.  If Introvert Identification Cards were actually a thing, I think that I've officially demonstrated my introversion enough to earn one.

And in case you were wondering...

Yes, I did end up having two bouncy houses at my graduation party.

Wednesdays

Wednesday.

Another day of school that rises from the week to be experienced in a moment, and then falls back into the forgotten days.  These sorts of days never begin and never end; they are lived, but never remembered, lost in the crowd of experiences that didn't matter, don't matter, and never will matter.  Like so many rectangles in a false brick wall - never acknowledged except as a whole, and never touched lest we realize how artificial they are. 

But the strangest thing about these sorts of days is that even as they don't matter, even as they disappear without a thought, they do matter. Even as I'm drifting through classes, mindlessly interacting with my classmates, I am still there, thoughts consciously sifting through and organizing all fo the information I'm hearing.  Even though my thoughts aren't profound, and my words are massively forgettable and totally unimportant, it's still me.  These empty, spacey days are my life - pushing at me, pulling at my mind, and changing me when I'm not looking. 

Each second that opens seems the most important, and when it closes the most insignificant.  Each day, when it ends, seems real and momentous, but almost every one of these supposedly memorable days has been erased.  My memory is not a timeline with each event laid out one after another.  It is a patchwork of hastily selected experiences basted together, vainly waiting for someone to force it to last forever.  

It's hard because you know, in the end, Wednesdays will simply be forgotten.  They aren't necessarily bad, and they aren't necessarily good - they just are.  But I want to remember them all.  I want every single day to be important not only while I'm living it, but when I look back on it.  I want to be able to look back on it. I wish every day could be more than a day, more than just life. Sometimes, just life seems so boring.  Sometimes, life is like Wednesdays, coming and going before you've turned your head, and forgotten before you've realized it's happened.  

Today? Today was Wednesday. 

Almost Eighteen

Tomorrow, actually.  That's when I'll be eighteen, I mean.  Today, I'm not.  Today, I'm simply 17.

When you're seventeen, you can be irresponsible and make bad choices, but eighteen seems to carry a different weight.  Of course, being a simple seventeen year old, there is absolutely no way I could possibly undertake to understand the importance of eighteen, but tomorrow, tomorrow, I'll understand.

Or at least, I think that's the way it works.  This whole growing up thing is pretty complicated to be honest.

My Inner Chinchilla-Staffed Library

Sometimes I feel like my brain is this vast library of information staffed by a small army of chinchillas.  These chinchillas are tasked with cataloging my thoughts and manning my mental library of information.  About a third of the chinchillas are on my side, but the majority of said creatures are evil little furballs who enjoy torturing me.  As rulers in the library of my mind, the mischievous chinchillas are equipped with long range water balloons that they use transfer information.  So when they need me to think of one thing or another, they throw a water balloon at messenger chinchilla (a confused young animal who represents me).  So whatever information the messenger chinchilla is bombarded with is what I (the victim in this scenario) am forced to think about.

Because of this, when I say that I have words spilling out of me, I don't mean this in an "i'm-gonna-write-a-book-cause-i've-got-so-many-ideas-floating-around-in-my-head" kind of way, nor in an "i'm-about-to-have-a-philosophical-epiphany" kind of way.  It's more of a "my-head-is-about-to-split-open-from-the-over-abundance-of-stupid-ideas-thrown-at-me-by-the-rebel-chinchillas-who-run-my-brain" kind of way.

The chinchillas aren't completely evil.  They don't always douse me in totally irrelevant information or purposely distract me from the situation at hand, but I think that they're a little over-caffeinated.  I enter some new situation, and instead of complacently storing away all the information they collect, they insist upon immediately soaking the poor messenger chinchilla with informational water balloons.

As you can clearly see, my general social incompetence really isn't my fault.  The real problem is that my chinchillas overwhelm me with information, and then the messenger chinchilla curls up into a ball because he's wet and sad, and as result, I do the same.  The chinchillas ensure that I always have too much to say, and at the same time, absolutely no idea what I'm trying to say.  So it's not really ideas, or even concrete feelings, but words, phrases, and fragments of thoughts that are endlessly running around and around.  It's simply my furry librarians endlessly reminding me about the current situation, the past situations, myself, and the future.

The worst part is that I can't even stop it.  The stupid chinchillas are so set in their ways that no amount of employee training can get them to cease their overabundant water-balloon-throwing ways.  I'm forced to relive every social interaction at least 5 times, and I'm only released from the endless playback once I've fully recognized any social misdemeanor that I committed in the situation.  But it doesn't end there!  No, as soon as I see a person (any person), the chinchillas mentally accost me with every social misstep of mine that said person has ever witnessed.  Thus the person begins our conversation whilst I am still helplessly reliving my past slip-ups.

Despite the helplessness of the chinchilla library situation, this post is really an attempt at encouragement.  If, like me, you ever feel overwhelmed or annoyed by the magnitude  and endlessness of your thoughts, just remember:  it's probably not your fault.  Most likely, it's simply those darn chinchillas.  

LookLook! Me Big Kid!!

The mature response to accidentally getting the truck stuck in the driveway:  An apology, then a laugh.

Instead, I wasn't even out of our neighborhood before my eyes were all hot. Soon stupid, frustrated tears were building up.

I don't think I've cried so hard since reading The Fault in Our Stars.

I turned up the radio as loud as it could possibly go.  I didn't sing along; I screamed along while crying.  It sounded horrible, but that was the point anyway.  The stuck truck didn't really matter, but it still felt good - just to cry about stress and school and life and having to make decisions and just doing stupid stuff.  It felt nice to see the world a little more blurry and hear my own off-tune, cracked voice breaking through the blasting noise.  I almost enjoyed looked in the rear view mirror and seeing my own freaky red eyes staring back.  I enjoyed being immature and stupid and melodramatic.

Fact:  Sometimes, I'm not a big kid.

A Brief List of What Not To Do in College

• Eat carrots in the library
• Sit in a left-handed desk
• Stupidly decide that you don't need a folder for each class and just let all of your papers mix together in your backpack
• Sit in the front row
• Single-space your papers
• Forget to update your schedule, and thus end up in HC415 instead of RC405, and be late for your first day of class
• Be sarcastic
• Unconsciously stare unsmiling at the same person in class for too long 
• Forget to drink your daily mug of coffee
• Take a nap in the library without setting an alarm
• Tell ANYONE that you were home schooled.  Legit. 
• Tell anyone that you are PSEO - they will never treat you the same
• Go to the midnight premiere of a major movie the night before your final exam
• Be in-class partners with that one kid who constantly falls asleep during lecture
• Forget your coat when it's like -40 outside
• Be more than 10 minutes early for class
• Go on pinterest.  AT. ALL.
• Be an introvert and miss Welcome Week.  Seriously.  Just go.
• Ramble.  It's better for people to think you quiet than to think you crazy.
• Forget to sharpen your pencils for two months, and thus be forced to spend the first half hour of your class trying to use your fingernails to expose more lead. 
• Tell someone you are reading Shakespeare for fun
• Tell someone that you are reading anything for fun
• Make weird faces at people while they talk to you
• Forget the name of someone who you've been in class with for 3 semesters
• Write stupid blog posts to put off school work you should be doing

The Lord of Sacrifice

When I was thirteen, I was an awkwardly tall introvert with a loud laugh and an absurd love of fantasy books.  I live in a small town, but I am lucky enough to be within a half-mile of the library.  My library is small, but every week I used to comb through the books in the juvenile section and bring home two or three.  I lived for stories, loving each one I found.  It was at this time, when I was thirteen, that I discovered three old paperbound books with taped-on covers and broken spines titled The Lord of the Rings.  Seeing that they were fantasy – and classic fantasy at that – I decided to read them.   

As soon as I’d finished all three books, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was the story I’d been waiting for.  It was as though all of the other books I’d read were simply the appetizers, and I’d finally gotten to the main course.  I couldn't put my finger on it, but this story filled me up and made me feel whole.  It was as though it managed to show me everything evil in the world without filling me with despair.  It convinced me that no sacrifice for the sake of good is ever in vain.  Suddenly, it seemed to me that there was no darkness so big or so formidable as to make me despair of doing good.

I was inspired.  I was unstoppable. And I promised myself that I would be one who fought for good, no matter how great the sacrifice. 

   

As the years passed, however, I began to see more of the world.  Despite my inner promise, a despairing fear crept into my mind.  I saw that although some people were willing to sacrifice a little, or sometimes even a  lot, it was never enough.  People are selfish, and I was selfish, and I began to suspect that the sacrifice embodied in Tolkien’s book, though inspiring, wasn't realistic when applied to the real world.  I just wanted confirmation that my courage wasn't misplaced, that what I had so firmly believed in for so long wasn't impossible - that somewhere, in some time, there lived a person brave enough to sacrifice for us.

As I realized that such a person doesn't exist, my thoughts and expectations gradually changed.  I began to think, "If our sacrifice is never enough, is it really worth it?  If true sacrifice – sacrifice brave enough to change the world – was impossible, was any other kind of sacrifice nothing more than a kind action?" Our world, I knew, was broken and dying, and so gradually the optimistic courage of thirteen was replaced by a despondent longing for what I knew could never be.  

If only, I thought to myself, there was someone who could sacrifice enough to save us all.  The world needs someone to hope in, someone to believe in, someone real and true enough to save us from ourselves.  This change in my worldview wasn't intentional.  It was gradual - so gradual that I didn't even realize it was happening until it'd already happened.  I read stories differently, with a sort of bittersweet knowledge that I didn't have a hero like that to believe in.  As cheesy and unrealistic as it sounds, this is really what I thought, and how I felt - I promise I'm not exaggerating.  

Then I suddenly connected the story of Jesus to Lord of the Rings.  I had always known and believed the story of the cross, but suddenly, it hit me in a way it hadn't before.  Jesus was the hero, the ultimate hero, proof that true sacrifice is not only possible, but has already been done.  Jesus destroyed the ring of power, rose to the throne as Isildur’s heir, battled the balrog, and rid the world of Sauron.  Perhaps it doesn't seem important or revolutionary to you, but to me, it did.  If there was someone, someone, who could be the sacrifice, then I didn't have to lament the inability of humans to be the perfect hero.   

The satisfaction and bravery I felt at thirteen returned to me in a rush, and I realized that if such sacrifice was possible, I no longer had to despair at the darkness in the world.  Instead of acting as though sacrifice is something to be avoided, and darkness is reason for despair, I suddenly felt that it is these things that give us a chance to do, and be, something of purpose.  

And that is why The Lord of the Rings has always been more than a story to me – it is a reminder of the good left in humanity and a call to sacrifice everything to preserve this good.  The story of the ring of power is more than simply an inspiring story of heroism – it is a reminder of the true and concrete heroism of Christ.

Ironically, it was fantasy that helped me to see past the hopelessness of humanity to the reality of true sacrifice.  

Adventures in Puke Puddles (or why I would be a horrible mother)

I awoke to someone screaming three feet from my head.  My immediate thought process was, "Either the world is ending, the house is on fire, or someone's been stabbed to death."  Then I realized it was Kallie standing in front of me. Why was she standing screaming right by my bed?

And then I understood.  Zeke had been sick, so it seems likely (even probable) that she was sick as well.  Just my luck that she'd choose my room to disturb with her unearthly (legitimately unearthly) cries.

I tumbled out of bed, turning Kallie around and push/leading her toward the door.

Me: *mumbling* "It's fine, Kallie, we're just gonna get you to the bathroom and everything will be fine..."
Kallie: *incoherent screams*

Unfortuantely, since I had been awake for roughly10 seconds at this point, I wasn't exactly watching where I was going.  The next thing I knew, my feet were stepping in something warm, wet, and textured.

Me: "Ohmygosh, Kallie.  Ohmygosh. This is so disgusting.  OH! KAAALLIE!! Grossgrossgross! I can NOT believe I just did that!  ohmywordohmyword..."
Kallie: *Soggy screams broken by ragged breaths*

Despite my unfortunate encounter with my sister's vomit, I knew I still had to get Kallie to the bathroom in case she decided to throw up again (all though judging by the size of the puddle, there wasn't much left in her stomach at this point).  I stumbled into the lights of the bathroom, still shoving Kallie until we reached the toilet.

Kallie: *in between sobs* "I'm noooot siiiiick!"
Me: "Yes, you are! Look, if you need to throw up again, do it in the toilet, alright?"
Kallie:  "I"M NOT SIIIICK!!"

Alright, I would just like to remind you of the situation at this point.  I awoke to this child screaming, proceeded to shove her (still screaming) through the hallway in the dark, walked through her vomit in bare feet, and she has the nerve to tell me that she isn't sick?

Me: *leaning a little closer and gesturing for emphasis* "Kallie! You just threw up all over the floor, remember? YOU ARE SICK!! So just sit there while I go get Mom, ok?
Kallie:  *huddles by toilet sniveling and whimpering*

At this point, I officially realized that I had just stepped in throw up.  In bare feet.

Me: *hopping around the bathroom wiping my feet off on towels* "I can't believe I just stepped in throwup! Nasty! Nasty! OhmywordthatisSOgross!That is so gross!!"
Kallie: *still whimpering by the toilet*

Finally remembering the sniveling child who just threw up, I stumble out of the bathroom, narrowly avoiding the puke puddle.  Downstairs, I stand in the doorway to my parent's dark bedroom.

Me: "Mom?"
Mom: *sounding very tired* "Yes?"
Me: "Kallie is sick and she threw up and also I stepped in it."
*brief moment of silence*
Mom: *sigh* "I'm coming*

Upstairs once again, I turn on the light in the hallway and point Mom to the vomit and the whimpering child.  I now see that the vomit leads back to my room, in the middle of which a second small puddle of puke sits.

Me: *standing with back of hand shoved in mouth* "Mom! I stepped in that!  Ohmygosh, I think I'm gonna throw up that is so nasty.  Ew!Ew!Ew!Ew!!! Will you clean it up?"
Mom: *trying not to laugh* "Yeah."

So Mom consoled Kallie and cleaned up the vomit with bleach, while I paced around the kitchen re-cleaning my feet.  Before I went back to bed, I actually grabbed a bucket just in case I thought about my misadventure later and threw up.

The best part about this entire situation?  The next morning, Chloe walks into my room laughing.  Laughing.  She's all like, "Hey, so last night I wake up to this screaming, and then the next thing I hear is like, 'Ohmyword! That is so so so nasty! I can't believe I just stepped in it! Kaaallie!' So anyway, I thought about getting up to help you, but then I was like, nah."

Nah.  As in "Nah, I won't get up to help my saintly sister who's sacrificing her comfort (and sanity) to minister to the crying, sickly child.  Instead, I'll just lay in my bed, warm and comfortable."

Nah.

Yes.  My siblings were just laying in the room next door laughing as I traipsed through puke puddles and shoved screaming children about.

#1 thing I won't miss when I move out?  Screaming children who can't aim their own puke.