screened-in porch.
hazy sounds of dogs barking, lawn mowers mowing.
70-degree weather. in November.
stockinged feet curled under me against the chair.
cream-laced coffee.
fumbling attempts to listen to God.
and the gracious gift of confirmation.
that God is next to me, listens to me, and wants to talk back.

saturday

7:55 AM
















2:00 PM





















2:30 PM




















9:00 PM



















11:00 PM

boldness || trust

{ my room }

Home, familiarity, surrounds me as I sit cross-legged on my unmade bed. I can hear the rustling of plastic packaging and the clink of plate hitting counter as my dad gets breakfast downstairs. Beloved and worn books still sit in haphazard stacks on their white bookshelf. My final to-do list before leaving for D.C. is still written on my chalkboard: Call Dr. S... clean bathroom... work on testimony...

Time has stood still in this room.

And yet.

I return to this room, this home, this family, as a different person. And yet not a different person but so very much of the same old me. Merging the new identity with the old never fails to have its bumps and jostles, its angst and fretting. But (I am telling myself) it is also an opportunity -- for growth, and greater closeness, and... more.

How have I changed? What is different?

I am not sure I even know yet. But I think I am learning that living a deeper life of faith asks for increased boldness and greater trust. A boldness that comes out of trust. I have never considered myself a fearful person, but I think I often am. Fearful of not pleasing others. Fearful of appearing stupid or inadequate or broken. Fearful of being alone. Fearful of what life will (or will not) hold. Fearful of not being successful, of not expressing myself well to others, of not being everything for everyone.

And in this fear, I am coming to realize that I lack trust in God. Like those building the Tower of Babel, who tried to make a name for themselves rather than trusting in the name of the Lord, I am trying to construct my own security, trying to protect myself from those things I fear. I am mistrusting God's promises. His promise to delight in me, to work in me and through me for His glory and my good, to grant me peace and joy no matter the circumstances, to be enough for me -- always.

I am learning, too, that God wishes to do amazing things in this world, in our communities, our relationships, and ourselves. Things more amazing and wonderful and astonishing than I have imagined. If I believed this, and if I trusted that God is not only able but desires to display His power, glory, and love, imagine the boldness I would have. Imagine the boldness I should have.

My expectations of God have been far too limited, I believe. I want to live into a place of deeper trust, of more audacious expectation of God's work, of boldness to love and be loved.

God
is
so vastly
wonderful,
so utterly
completely
delightful
that He can,
without anything
other than
Himself,
meet
and overflow
the deepest
demands
of our total nature,
mysterious and
deep
as that nature
is.

(found poem from quote by A.W. Tozer)

It has been over two months since I began the Fellows Program and I have yet to write a word about life as a fellow or what I am learning and thinking about.

There has been so much... newness. A barrage of new people, new places, new experiences, new ideas, new lifestyles, new challenges. I have found it difficult to remove myself from this newness enough to write about it. But I think I am beginning to understand what it is that I am thinking, processing, and learning, so I hope to begin to articulate those thoughts here.

Thus far my experience, in brief, can be described as...

Life-giving

Humbling

Enlarging

I will dedicate a post to each of these words and tease apart their relevance to my experience soon. But for now, I will simply say that I feel so blessed to be here, in this community, and I have no doubt whatsoever that God has called me to this place and is doing wondrous things.

the momentous

May I find myself believing that nothing is impossible with God -- as Mary did. May I respond with simple faith and trust. May I be open to the momentous.

Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

Mary Oliver

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the veil of the almighty

-
In the past few days I feel I have been plunged into autumn. Driving home yesterday, I noticed haphazard trees taking on a orange or red or yellow tint. My mumsy and I sipped pumpkin spice lattes. I scoured the basement and the far recesses of my closet in search of sweaters, scarfs, flannel pajamas, and coats. There is a glass of apple cider beside me. Cornfields are now a yellow-brown with a gray-blue sky as a backdrop.

In the midst of the death and decay that is fall, beauty is made: in cornstalks that dry up to create a homey tan color, in leaves that turn a stunning orange as they fall to the ground. Right before a brown or white or gray winter, there is a burst of vividness and color.

Perhaps this is why I take such delight in autumn. Even in the midst of decay, there is great beauty. It makes me wonder how much more beautiful heaven will be? As I drove along the turnpike yesterday, I was overcome by the way the sunlight glistened off red leaves, the way fields seem to reach into the horizon, the richness of a clear, blue sky. And I found myself wondering about the beauty of the Creator, the source of all the temporal, material beauty surrounding me, and anticipating the time when I will not simply see as if through a veil, but face to face.

Struck with deep joy... as I have stood,
Silent with swimming sense ; yea, gazing round
On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem
Less gross than bodily ; and of such hues
As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makes
Spirits perceive his presence.

(from "This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge).
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muffin-making

I spent this afternoon baking morning glory muffins. They turned out beautifully and taste delightful, as well. I'm especially grateful for the latter since they will likely constitute my breakfasts and lunches this entire week.
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let not my labor be in vain

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I am sitting at my desk, a stack of journal articles, books, notebooks, and flashcards piled high before me. Tomorrow brings an exam, a final draft of a research paper, and a draft of my honors project methodology.

Overwhelmed.

Weary.

Floundering.

This is how I feel. But I am trying to remember that this work is not my own. I do nothing by my own power, but by the Power that dwells in me.

My prayer for today:

Let me not labor in vain.
Establish the work of my hands for me --
Yes, establish the work of my hands.
(Psalm 127 & Psalm 90)
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give thanks always

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It is shaping up to be a frenetic semester. But in the midst of e-mail overload, article after article on religious communication, deadlines, meetings, dirty dishes, forms, and a looming and unknown future, I have continually been returning to 1 Thessalonians 5:16.

Be joyful always;
pray continually;
give thanks in all circumstances,
for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus.

Though I am not certain where God is leading me after graduation, though our kitchen floor needs a cleaning, though I don't know how exactly to direct my senior project, I can know what God wills of me this moment, this day. To be joyful. To pray. To give thanks.

These things are tangible. Wherever I am, whatever I'm doing, whoever I'm talking to, these words can recenter and refocus me. They provide direction for the moment, which is what I so desperately seem to need right now.

So I want to share with you all some of the little -- and big -- ways God has been blessing me -- the things for which I am thankful...

:: deer springing through the air besides the wooded path Jo and I run on

:: the grace to pull myself out of bed to exercise

:: a friend who remembers me daily from the far reaches of New York and speaks words of wisdom and truth into my life

:: supervisors who share their insight with me and guide and encourage me in how I should act

:: people who ask me how I am and truly mean it

:: the smile of a friend across the room

:: quiet moments in the apartment with my journal and Bible

:: the window directly in front of my desk that splays light across my books and lets in a cool breeze

:: hearing the familiar voices of loved ones over the phone

:: the pale purple flowers tucked into a cream mug on our kitchen table

:: Saint-Saen's third organ symphony

:: the conviction of the Holy Spirit

:: the sound of pencil against page

:: lunches outside under the sun and conversations with my roommate

:: anticipation of what life will bring

:: the inspiring faith of two friends who are going through trials and difficulties

:: ice cold water with a splash of lime

:: psalm 131

:: warmth: sweatshirts, my fleece blanket, and steaming mugs of tea

:: the truth that Christ is all, and is in all (Colossians 3:11)

May God continue to reveal to me the multitude of ways He is working in my life and the lives of those around me.
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an encouraging inadequacy

While reading this afternoon, I found a passage in L'Engle's Walking on Water that expresses one of the main lessons I learned during my time in Oxford:

In a very real sense not one of us is qualified, but it seems that God continually chooses the most unqualified to do his work, to bear his glory. If we are qualified, we tend to think that we have done the job ourselves. If we are forced to accept our evident lack of qualification, then there's no danger that we will confuse God's work with our own, or God's glory with our own. (p. 62)

My time in Oxford taught me one thing: I am not qualified. As I am, I am not adequate. I frequently experience this feeling, but in Oxford it was intensified. I felt it in almost every conversation. In eavesdropping on the people walking the streets with me. In reading my papers aloud to Dr. P. In comparison to others in the program who evidently hold a deeper passion for the Lord than I do.

But this intense experience of inadequacy was good for me. It served as a reminder that any success I may find, any knowledge I can claim, any skill or talent I might possess, is not my own. It comes from someone greater than me; I am only enabled to do, or know, or achieve.

As I stood outside the door to our tutorial room, waiting to go in to my second tutorial with Dr. P., I felt discouraged. After my last tutorial I had felt like crying. This second essay I wrote seemed even worse than the first. I leaned against the wall and envisioned my GPA sinking ever lower. But then a question drifted through my mind: Why am I here, in Oxford? What do I want to get out of this experience? Is my time here only about sustaining my GPA or is there something more? No, I thought, I want more from this. I want to grow in understanding, I want to learn -- about myself, about others, about God. Right before I went in, I handed the upcoming hour to the Lord and asked him to teach me what he would, to make it not a time where I could impress Dr. P (because there was no way I could!), but a time where I would learn and reach a higher level of understanding.

Would you believe we had a fantastic tutorial? We most certainly did. I felt I learned so much about myself and about God in that hour, through our conversation, and even -- or perhaps, especially -- through my inadequacies and my questions.

And it moved my heart to praise. As I walked back along St. Giles and Banbury, the only words flowing in my spirit were thank you. The paradox of realizing one's unqualified nature, as L'Engle points out so adeptly, is that it points us to the one who is qualified. As we realize our limitations, our failures, our inadequacy, we need not be discouraged; we can be encouraged in the glory and wonder of seeing God display his adequacy, his involvement in all aspects of life, his boundless ability.

Thanks be to God.

(photo: stained glass in Holy Trinity Church, Coventry)
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through my eyes (#4)

1 // A view of the Taylorian Library, where I worked on my last two essays. The desk I worked at was located right in front of the crescent window farthest on the right, which looks out on the Ashmolean Museum and the many tourist groups roving about.



















2 // The entrance to the Botanical Gardens (which I unfortunately did not go in). However, Becky and I perched on the little curb and ate crepes we had purchased at the Covered Market. So delicious!














3 // My roommates and I, all dressed up for our final tea, standing in front of the Radcliffe Camera.























4 // Just a portion of the breathtaking "stained glass" mosaic at Coventry Cathedral.



















5 // Becky and I during intermission at a production of Romeo and Juliet, put on in the ampitheatre you can see behind us. It was a welcome break from researching and essay writing.

reflections

The past two weeks have been entirely consumed with researching, writing, and tutorials -- hence the lack of recent posts. But essays have been written, tutorials gotten through, and consequently I am free from work during my last week here in Oxford. Though I am happy to be able to sleep again and not feel the nervous pressure twisting in my stomach, I am also sad to be so close to the end. There is no longer any reason for me to go study in the Taylorian or the Lower Camera. I likely will never have another tutorial in my life. My mind is not overwhelmed with Jane Austen's portrayal of duty and family, Lewis's ideas on getting to heaven and hell, the problem of suffering, or the feminist nature of Jane Eyre. And, likely, I won't have the opportunity to study in such a way, and in such a place, ever again.

But, for the little taste of Oxford that I have been granted I am infinitely thankful. So many times throughout my stay here I felt entirely undeserving of being labeled a student in this city. Next to nearly everyone here I seem to know nothing. My hard work and mediocre brains are no longer sufficient for getting a "well done!" at the bottom of my paper. In casual conversations, words and ideas I am unfamiliar with get thrown around. Intimidating, yes. But not discouraging. Rather, I find it to be an invigorating and inspiring atmosphere. It makes me want to learn more. People are so passionate about what they are learning and studying and that excitement is contagious. And there is a sense here that everyone is, in some form or another, a student. It is truly a community of learning; some are just much farther down the path than others (such as myself).

Being here has also forced me to question what sort of person I am and whether I am doing what it takes to become the sort of person I want to be. If I want to consider myself an avid reader, am I truly reading enough? If I want to consider myself somewhat intellectual, am I immersing myself in the things necessary to become one?

Perhaps I am not. And perhaps this is because I am still not entirely certain what sort of person I want to become. It seems I should know by now but somehow I don't. Switching to HDFS was the right choice; I felt God's affirmation in that decision. But whether or not I want to continue down the path of human services and therapy, I'm not sure. Do I want to go that path or do I want to find my way into the world of the humanities again? Literature is truly what I love. Oxford has certainly reminded me of that. But I also love the idea of being there for people and talking through their problems with them. Where do I go from here? I'm not sure... and I am trying to trust that God will guide me to where he would have me go.

(photo: Trinity Church, C.S. Lewis's home congregation and place of burial)
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the kilns

On Saturday afternoon, a group of us made our way to the home of C.S. Lewis, the Kilns. We happened to time our visit during the one week the house is empty, and thus we had the great privilege of wandering inside the house. After a tour of the house by Nicole, we spread out on the lawn for a picnic dinner, and then ended our evening by walking down to the church where Lewis worshiped regularly and is now buried.

The beauty of the home and grounds surprised me -- it was an aching sort of beautiful, the kind that evokes a melancholy sort of delight. Perhaps this was partly due to a knowledge of the joy that occurred amongst those walls and gardens, but also of the pain, the struggles, the mental wrestling, the deaths that also took place in that home. It seemed to be a rather sacred place; God's presence seemed near, evidencing itself in the carefully cared for home, the heavenly pink flowers on the lawn, the notes left on the fridge speaking of the communal atmosphere that has inhabited the home for many years.

To commemorate my visit (and the fact that I have been spending significant amounts of time with his writings the past few weeks), here are some of my favorite Lewis quotes.

The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through the was longing. These things -- the beauty, the memory of our own past -- are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the things itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshipers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never visited.
-- from "The Weight of Glory"

Ah, the Saved... what happens to them is best described as the opposite of a mirage. What seemed, when they entered it, to be the vale of misery turns out, when they look back, to have been a well; and where present experience saw only salt deserts, memory truthfully records that the pools were full of water.
-- from The Great Divorce

Heaven will solve our problems, but not, I think, by showing us subtle reconciliations between all our apparently contradictory notions. The notions will all be knocked from under our feet. We shall see that there never was any problem.
-- from A Grief Observed
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homely musings

Should I ever have a house, I would love for it to have...

1. a small pathway leading up to the front door

2. lavender bushes surrounding the pathway

3. a gate, slightly open, beckoning people to come in

4. a front door with the door knob in the center

5. windows surrounded by ivy that bounces and springs about in the breeze

6. ancient trees forming a covering over the house

7. a blue door with an arched top

8. window boxes with flowers of every color and light, vivid green leaves popping out

9. a small, spacious back lawn with benches tucked into corners, behind hedges

10. white, lacy curtains fluttering about behind open windows

(photo: a home on the Vicars Close, the oldest preserved street in England, located in Wells)
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more than simply seeing

Ah, but we want so much more -- something the books on aesthetics take little notice of. But the poets and the mythologies know all about it. We do not want merely to see beauty, though, God knows, even that is bounty enough. We want something else which can hardly be put into words -- to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it.
-- C.S. Lewis, from "The Weight of Glory"

This passage puts into words the feelings I experience when I look at trees like this, or fields of bobbing grass, or magnificent scissor arches, or ivy drooping to cover open windows. Lewis puts it so perfectly and succinctly that I shall leave it at that.

(photo: a grouping of trees at Glastonbury)

a song of magic

As a little treat to myself, I ordered a copy of A Severe Mercy to be delivered to me in the Lower Reading Room of the Bodleian along with several large volumes on the philosophy of religion. After sludging through an essay on "Evil and Omnipotence," I picked up Vanauken and flipped to the chapter where they arrive in Oxford. It seemed so much more alive and meaningful to me since I now understand the Isis, the Trout, Woodstock Road. I can envision where they walked, biked, and talked. I can now see, more clearly, why this is a city they would have loved.

I also learned that some of Davey's ashes were scattered at the little church, St. Margaret's, in Binsy. Hopefully, I'll be able to find time to make a vist there and read 'Under the Mercy,' just as their friend did as he spread her ashes about.

Several passages from the chapter on Oxford seemed to capture some of what I am feeling and experiencing in this city...

On our crossing of the Atlantic... we had wondered how it would be to come to the England that we knew so well in books... would it be, essentially, a foreign country, or -- well, not foregin? But by the time the ship was coasting along the white cliffs and then proceeding up the Thames, we had begun to think what we later found to be true: that coming to England was like coming home, coming to a home half-remembered -- but home. (p. 75-76)

Coming back to oxford, we were always, it seemed, greeted by the sound of bells: bells everywhere striking the hour or bells from some tower change-ringing, filling the air with a singing magic. We explored every cranny of this city of enchanted crannies and unexpected breathtaking views of towers and spires. We were conscious all the time of the strong, intellectual life of a thousand years. (p. 79)
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today's pleasures

// Making coffee in a French press -- so exciting! I plan to purchase one when I return home.

// Our lecture this morning on Spirituality and the Metaphysical Poets. I do believe my face glowed with happiness the entire hour. John Donne, George Herbert, Richard Crashaw... it doesn't get much better.

// Picking out postcards at Blackwell's Art & Poster Shop

// Having dinner in the backyard with my lovely food group

// Studying in the Upper Reading Room at the Bodleian. Whenever I looked up from A Grief Observed, I could see statues perched on top of the building across the street set against a sparkling blue sky. And the room itself sported old portraits in gilded frames, stained glass, and many academics typing away on their laptops with piles of books at their side

// A nutella and peanut butter milkshake from Moo-Moo's (per Derek's recommendation) -- delicious!

(photo: Becky (middle), Lauren (right), and I enjoying our milkshakes outside of the Bodleian)
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gaudy or glorious?

Throughout the past three weeks I've spent in Europe, I've visited several cathedrals and churches, all of which have been beautiful, grandiose, and awe-inspiring in some way. This morning I attended St. Andrew's, a less formal and more homey Anglican church. As we walked in, we had to wade through a sea of children and young parents, which was certainly a welcome sight. The liturgy was also slightly more similar to American Anglican form. For instance, when the vicar says "The Lord be with you," the congregation responds "And also with you," as opposed to "And with thy spirit," as the church we attended last week did.

Despite the little differences, it's a reassuring and comforting feeling to know that around the world, we are all speaking the same words, praying the same prayers, greeting each other with the same words, being charged to "go in peace to love and serve the Lord." The liturgy unites people in a beautiful way.

But as I've been snapping photos of these cathedrals and marveling over the intricacy and magnificence of their architecture and design, I also find myself wondering if God is pleased with them. Is God glorified when a beautiful building is constructed and dedicated to his use, or would he be better pleased if his people assisted widows and orphans, fed the poor, comforted the brokenhearted? There is something about an ornate cathedral that lifts my mind, that reminds me that "the world is charged with the grandeur of God," that turns my thoughts toward the beauty of the Eternal One.

Yet sometimes it also feels pretentious. I remember that Christ was born in a lowly manger, that he lived among the margins of society, that while these cathedrals were built, the poor continued to suffer. How do we reconcile our desire for and delight in the beautiful with Christ's example of humble, ordinary, and service-led living? I feel there must be a balance... yet I'm not sure what form that balance takes.

(photos: left, Bath Abbey; right, Canterbury Cathedral)
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through my eyes (#3)

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photo 1. my roommates and I at Stonehenge (Becky on the far left, Alyssa in the middle) -- they are both incredibly sweet and lovely.
















photo 2. Salisbury Cathedral. We took a tour with a charming older gentleman, who wore knee socks, a plaid shirt tucked into his shorts, and said "chums," "chaps," "gents," and other amusing and adorable terminology. he took us up to the tower, basically the top of the square part of the tower... right before the spire begins. the spire, interestingly enough, is the oldest surviving spire in England, dating back around 700 years.

















photo 3. small children at the entrance to Old Sarum, a ruined Iron Age hill fort, reenacting a battle. there were many shouts of "kill the vikings!" and other war cries. this photo marks the beginning of the charge of the shielded children. adorable.








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little joys

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:: vivid fuschia roses on my way to town from WH

:: bells that can be heard throughout the city at the turn of every hour

:: the blue and red doors on almost every house

:: bikes of all colors propped up against fences, houses, walls, poles

:: the confetti dotting the street as students' exams finally come to an end

:: g & d's banana ice cream in a waffle cone

:: drinking milky tea as the sun beats on my back

:: curling up on a bench under the shade of a giant tree with a book

:: walking everywhere

:: our lecturer this morning -- an almost 80 year old gentleman who wore a teal striped shirt, coral slacks, a suit jacket with a navy handkerchief tucked in the pocket, and who had a personality to match his clothing
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