life is full of chances

Why did I buy a motorcycle? I never intended to. I thought I just wanted to learn how to ride (collect-a-skill, you know) and the next thing I knew I was riding to and from work and making weekend forays into scenic Ohio. Frances and I had a great summer.

When people find out that I ride a motorcycle, most take it as a cue to make some sort of comment on my character - I am brave or stupid, tough or reckless, interesting or childish. I can't really argue with any of these assessments because I am probably a little bit of all of those things. But I'd like to address them anyway, because time spent on the bike, without the radio, phone, and "frames" to distract me, is time spent in direct contact with the world and my own thoughts; it's the perfect place to expand one's philosophy of life*.

People say that riding is dangerous. A motorcycle has no frame or roof. It is balanced precariously on two wheels, and is more precarious in the case of precipitation. It has no seat belt. It has no airbags. When I climb onto my bike and take off, there is nothing but me, whatever gear I choose to wear, and the road, and then I travel at roughly 55mph, taking turns and dodging potholes, and being passed by vehicles that weigh five or ten times what Frances and I do.

I suppose you could call that dangerous.

I think this is an opportune moment for me to comment on the fact that motorcycles aren't the only dangerous way to travel. When you're driving down the road in fair weather I doubt that you think very much about it, but what exactly would you call "safe" about traveling at 80mph? Even if you are absolutely certain that you will do everything right, can you say that about the people around you? In fact, now that Pennsylvania is getting back to cold mornings and weather advisories this may be the perfect time to mention that weather alone has the ability to put our best intentions on their butts in the snow.

On a related note, at Christmas my family was talking about travel and the problems that it could create for your health insurance. "Are you sure that your health insurance will mean something in London? You make a mistake, step off a sidewalk wrong, eat the wrong food, and you could be in serious trouble." That sort of thing. In the middle of the conversation I found myself wondering how it came to be that risk elimination became the name of the game. Isn't life really about risk? Should you really not take a chance, or a trip, because all of the angles might not be covered?

I'm not saying is that riding a motorcycle isn't dangerous, I'm saying I could argue that driving a car is just as dangerous. I'm not saying don't think about the insurance, but should insurance really be the thing you think about first? If you believe in a God whose care for his creation is providential and omnipotent, do you really think that the presence or absence of airbags (literal or metaphorical) are going to make that much of a difference?

Life may be dangerous, but God is good. What do I have to fear?

I don't want to convince the world to drive recklessly, drop their insurance, or buy motorcycles. But here are some things I wish I could explain to the people who call me stupid, reckless and childish: The smell of the air when twilight touches the hills. The temperature drop that tells you there is water nearby. The soaring feeling in your soul when you drive over the crest of a hill or lean perfectly into a turn. My motorcycle is a practice of freedom and joy, not rebellion.

If you look at the world fearfully, it will seem filled with danger. You'll build up walls to insulate you from relationships, weather, experience, from all of the things that seem to make life dangerous. But if it's ultimately God's world... you can forget the danger and burn the insulation. Danger is opportunity in disguise, and life is full of chances that you never saw before.

And I think that's why I bought a motorcycle.

*case in point

auld lang syne

It seems to me that we pay a lot of attention to the passage of time: years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes. They're all measured and counted, recorded in our planners, wall calendars, photographs and timelines. Sometimes we have parties for them, like birthdays and holidays.

For thirteen years now I have spent New Year's Eve with my family and our neighbors - we play board games, we play pranks, we eat seafood, and we gather around the television to watch the ball drop at Times Square. On the one hand, it's a night like any other because we are simply enjoying each other's company and renewing relationships that might have been strained by distance and time (especially for those of us in school). On the other hand, I can't help but wonder if it's something more. Or if it should be.

I don't know about you, but sometimes I have to wonder what it all means. What is the significance of a day passing, or a month? Or even a year - why does it matter that I know how many years I've been alive? Once upon a time I'm sure that it did, when months meant planting and harvesting, and each year passed was an achievement, something to be grateful for. But what does it mean now?

It has been my tradition to spend a significant portion of the week following Christmas journaling. It's not my normal style of journaling, where I wax philosophical and pretend that my stories are funny (you thought I only did that online, didn't you?). No, that week is about looking forwards and backwards, as if the stroke of midnight on the 31st is a street about to be crossed, and crossed safely.

Perhaps it is. You probably know the song Auld Lang Syne, which was written by Robert Burns in 1788. The song has a nostalgic quality that, for me, puts it up there with Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas when I want to be melancholy about the holidays. Both songs are about remembering what came before - the joy and the pain and the years gone by.

It wasn't until this year that I realized that Auld Lang Syne is about more than remembrance; in its solemn Scottish way, it is about hope for and confidence in the future. What I always imagined were statements: "If old acquaintances are forgot..." are actually questions: "Should old acquaintance be forgot?" It is a small difference, but it means everything to me, because the answer to the question is and should always be a resounding "No."

To answer that question of significance, I hope that I will learn to mark the passing of a year with solemnity and contentment, gratitude that recognizes that these days are gifts. I hope that I will not celebrate by force of habit, but because of real joy. I don't know about other holidays, but I hope that my new years are more like the questions in this song - times of remembrance, but also of making new memories. Who will I be in the year ahead? How can I honor the memory of those who were with us in the past? I want to learn to cross the street well.

About Christmas

Once upon a time, there was a girl who didn't particularly like Christmas. Every year she thought she would like it, she remembered what it was like to smell cookies and listen to Christmas music and buy presents, and then something would happen. The something was different every year - the headache of trying to find just the right presents, the way people tend to argue at family parties, or the painfully empty chairs that reminded her of the people she'd lost - but inevitably she would turn into a grouch between December 1st and 25th each year. She may even have been called "the grinch" by a few disgruntled friends and sisters.

And then one year... it just didn't happen. She couldn't explain why, because all of the usual things happened: shopping was a nightmare, politics and religion were visited in the same conversation, the best (or worst) family gossip was shared and picked over, and the chairs that should have been filled by the most loving and caring people were conspicuously empty. On top of all of this, the sickly-sweet bubblegum joy of Christmas radio was practically inescapable no matter where she turned. It should have put her off and she knew it, in fact she was waiting for it... only to discover that it didn't.

It wasn't a Christmas miracle. There wasn't any magic, no one fell in love, and she didn't start believing in Santa Claus again, but for the first time in a long time she was able to be with people and share the gift of togetherness instead of focusing on the headaches and stress and expectations.

She wasn't sure what made it so good. Maybe it was maturity. Maybe the desperate wishing for something to change had an effect on her subconscious. Maybe she was feeling sappy and simply didn't notice a lot of the things that should have sent her over the edge. Whatever it was, after five or six years of verifiable grinchiness, she was able to be especially grateful for the family and friends who helped her decorate, played the sickly-sweet bubblegum-joy songs, and chose to spend time with her before and during the holidays. They make life beautiful and make her feel worthwhile, and she can never thank them enough.

And she wanted me to tell you all that. Merry Christmas.

Beginning a Blog (after the fact)

It occurs to me that while I have a cute tagline to my blog title, I've never really taken the time to explain what "The Cross and the Sword" really means, and why I think it's such a big deal. To be honest, it's an idea that has been evolving for a few years now and I was afraid, at first, that it would be a passing thing and I would end up changing it a few times. If you've been with me for a while, you know that the tagline itself has changed a bit over time; somehow, though, the spirit of the cross and the sword have stayed with me, so here is an exploration of their roots and what (I hope) I can do with these themes in my life.

The metaphor of a cross and a sword began for me when I was at Miracle Mountain Ranch, 17 years old and newly graduated from high school. It is a long time since I looked like the stereotypical homeschooler, but not so far under my socially adapted exterior is a deeply committed nerd: a devoted Lord of the Rings fan (and fan-fiction/RP writer, she said with a nod to The Plaza), constant reader of 18th and 19th century literature, and a self-fashioned wanderer in search of chivalry, honesty and honor. That year at the Ranch I was the model apprentice, but there were a few people with whom I felt I could be myself. During training demonstrations in the barn we would sit in the loft and I would use graph paper to sketch fantastical coats of arms and brands, mustering all that I knew of heraldry to lend significance to the images and colors used in my creations.

One creation in particular stayed with me, because of its beauty and simplicity. The vertical line was too long to be a cross, the horizontal too plain to be a sword. I wrapped a casual line of color around it, from its arm to the point, then back to the other arm. I attempted to add plumes, to put it on a shield, to incorporate it into the Lion Rampant or some more glorious emblem, to use it as the "l" in my name, but in the end I found that none of the embellishments improved it and I resolved to leave it alone. Besides, the summer was approaching and I was far too busy wrangling my landscaping volunteers to be worried with developing my personal coat of arms any further.

After the Ranch, real life hit abruptly. For lack of a better idea, I found myself enrolled at a little school called Geneva College in Beaver Falls - for all that it was 12 miles from home, I had never heard of the city or the school before my mother suggested them - and I was "undeclared," which was code for: I want to know everything and I have commitment issues. Because of my interests in high school, I took a serious look at History and Creative Writing as majors, with Student Ministry thrown in there as a potential interest because I really wanted to impress a certain person from MMR. The college setting was a shock to my system, but in the honors program I found a few people with whom I felt safe enough to mention my love of imagery, icons and latin mottos. I sometimes wonder if they thought me crazy.

The battle to choose a major (and escape the incessant coddling of those in charge of Undeclared L&T "Focus Group") was intense, but brief; in the end, Terry Thomas's storytelling won me over and in the space of eight weeks I had declared for Student Ministry. I loved every one of my major classes, but I couldn't shake the desire to know everything, especially about the way people work. I have always been a people-watcher, and this tendency was incubated through the time I spent eating alone in the cafeteria and hanging out with Debbie in the Student Min Office.

You didn't know you had signed up for the story of my life, did you?

Contrary to what some people believe, student ministry isn't (all) about campfire songs and ice-breaker games. In addition to "ministry" classes concerned with the history and development of ministry, special studies in specific ministry models and situations, and three unique practicum experiences, we take quite a few Bible classes, along with theology, philosophy, and psychology. On top of this, I was at a liberal arts college with traditional "core" requirements: humanities, social sciences, political science, etc. I will never regret the time or money spent on these, ever. However, as I began to connect the dots of my learning and reflect on my experience as a homeschooler, an apprentice, and now as a college student, some difficulties became apparent.

When I say "difficulties," please know that I mean "things that are profoundly distressing"; so profoundly distressing that I don't really know how to properly express them most of the time; not in person, and not in print. At its heart is the question of Truth; in my Bible classes I was taught that Jesus said "the Truth shall set you free" (John 8), but in my experience Truth has been most associated with right and wrong. Beyond that, right and wrong often demarcate "us" and "them," "in" and "out," "valuable" and "valueless"; these in turn help "us," who are "in" and "valuable," to determine what should be cared about and who should be ignored.

We come to "know" what sin is and we believe it is our duty to preach against it; we come to "know"that sin is an abomination to God and we make it our duty to be appalled by it; we come to "know" that we have been redeemed... and we decide to cast the unredeemed world into hell's fire prematurely. Who made me the judge? What pride is it that rejoices in my personal salvation and then refuses to give that grace to others? I am not saying this of all Christians, or even all American Christians, but the pervasiveness of divisive, ignorant, and ungracious behavior within the church is well documented by recent research (i.e. You Lost Me and UnChristian). This should not surprise us, given the doctrine of the Fall.

The Bible calls the Word of God a "double-edged sword" (Heb 4:12), and I think we can agree that the simplest statements have been as destructive as a broadsword when used in the wrong place or time, or with the wrong attitude. Never in opposition, but certainly in contrast, Jesus tells us that knowing the Truth sets us free - and a few short chapter later he announces exactly what he means: Jesus said to him, "I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the father except through me" (John 14:6).

What is the truth that we are commanded to know? What did the Word of God (John 1:1) do with ultimate power? He loved. He sacrificed. He redeemed.

Redemption cost all of him. How can I do less?

In the last few years, this has been the story of my life. I believe in truth. I believe that there are such things as right and wrong. I believe that it is vitally important to preach against sin, to teach what is right, to avoid what is wrong. However, my studies and experiences almost daily remind me that I was redeemed in spite of my sin, and it is not for me to withhold that redemption from others; in fact, it is my responsibility to share redemption with the world.

For the word of God is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges thoughts and attitudes of the heart.
Hebrews 4:12

Tempting as it is, I cannot run into the world waving a bright sword and pretending that all things said in truth are just. This kind of power cannot be wielded by a child like me, unless its every move is constrained also by the love of Christ, the love that willingly approached the cross. And so, once in a while I practice drawing my childish talisman, a reminder to me that God has been weaving his plans into the fabric of my life since the beginning and will continue doing so until the end. I approach life with a cross and a sword... and every day I learn more of who I am between the two.

Big Questions, Worthy Dreams

As an undergrad in student ministry, I never imagined that I would be pursuing a degree in education, and even less so that I would love it. Most of my thoughts on formal education systems seemed to circle around to my favorite Captain America line in The Avengers: "Hulk, SMASH!" You can blame it on my homeschooliness, but you can't deny that there are some pretty messed up things going on in our schools. Education majors often get on my nerves, putting together their cute little lesson plans and focusing on the how-tos of teaching instead of dwelling on how the system as a whole must and could be reformed.

I am able to acknowledge the fault in my logic, however, when I also say that college is one of the best things that ever happened to me. College gave me access to information, not in the sense that the internet does so, but information mediated by wise adults whom I trust to direct me in ways of thinking and discerning between what is important and what is not in most fields. Not all students feel this way; many of them love the people they lived with, or the co-curriculars they participated in. For me, however, stepping on to Geneva's campus was stepping into a wonderland of opportunity for learning and growth.

Geneva College and the amazing friends and mentors with whom I have studied during the past six years were an excellent backdrop to my reading of Sharon Parks' book Big Questions, Worthy Dreams for the 52x52. Parks' target group is "young adults," by which she means "twenty-somethings," and it was interesting to read her perspective and research on people like me. I believe I am in a unique position, however, to compare her observations to my own, and I was glad to say that for the most part I felt well-represented in both theory and practice.

Parks spends the first half of her book explaining and maneuvering through developmental learning theories in multiple areas to describe "young adults" as a group who have exited adolescence, but have not yet reached mature adulthood. She talks about development in terms of a journey (that is, movement away from what is familiar in search of truth) as well as homecoming (that is, discovering how each of us may be at home in the world and in our communities as we continue this search for truth). Her conclusion is that thing we need most to reach mature adulthood are good mentors and mentoring communities. The second half of the book is devoted to descriptions of the benefits and possibilities of these mentoring relationships.

As a student of higher ed, I was excited to read this because it gives me a more manageable perspective on my students and peers. Many of the learning theories that Parks works with have been presented to me in classes and I feel as if I finally understand how theory can be used in meaningful ways. Parks' illustrations and anecdotes from her interaction with students were excellently chosen, and I looked forward to block quotes (craziness!).

The thing that really stood out to me about the book, however, was the recurring theme of journey and homecoming, and how deeply those ideas resonated in my experience. When I was just a freshman in HUM103, I wrote a paper for the end of the class wherein I described my sense of my own narrative as that of "the wanderer," a character without a home and with an uncertain future, looking for something of deep meaning and content with a meager portion in the meantime. This is still very true of my perspective. Through the last five years, however, more has been added to the narrative - people and places have brushed, bumped, and sometimes taken up residence in my life in such a way that I have come to know the value of a mentoring environment and community. Not only do I know its value, I cannot imagine leaving it. In higher education, the wanderer caught a glimpse of home and began the long walk toward interdependence and community.

As I think about this read for the 52x52, I would say that it was helpful personally, in that I was able to reflect on my experience and growth, as well as the long trudge still ahead of me on my way to maturity. However, it has also given me a better perspective on the bigger picture of education; as much as I still want to shake it up (a little revolution now and again is a good thing), I can no longer say, "Ceci, SMASH!" Since it may someday pay my bills, I suppose that is a healthy improvement.

rain and Frost

Will I sound like a total nerd if I say that I love the scene in Daredevil when he walks out into the rain and realizes that he can see wihout his eyes? Ever since I saw it the first (well, the only) time, I have been fascinated by that image of living in a way that recognizes its dependence on a sense of touch.

Not that I have ever wished I was blind, but I want my life to be like that, and rain reminds me of that. No matter how cold and miserable it seems to be, whether it is those first few drops or the walk back to my apartment in a downpour, rain reminds me that there is a great big world out there that will keep spinning no matter how tragic my own problems are. And it will do more than keep spinning, because the feel of cool water on my skin reminds me that it will also continue to be full of beauty and wonder.

I have been one acquainted with the night
I have walked out in rain and back in rain,
I have outwalked the farthest city lights...

I've been told that Frost was depressed and is depressing, but I love to read and memorize him. He knew about the rain. And who knows, maybe a little bit of rain (or depression) is good for us. Maybe I'm crazy, but it reminds me to stop, and to feel.

(I stop here to spare you all of my favorite country songs)

code name verity: definitely a book review

In a world where young adult books and media are filled with romance, angst and sex, I was in search of an "easy" read to kickstart my fiction reading for 52x52, and I wisely approached my good friend Anna for a recommendation to help me avoid being dragged into another Twilight experience. Somehow in my teen years I skipped right over the young adult fiction section of our library in favor of high fantasy and historical adult fiction, with the exception of that unfortunate saga, and I am wary of wandering in that direction without assistance. True to form, Anna was most helpful - I was given my choice of seven books, each with its own unique recommendations and warnings. Being in a thoughtful mood, I gamely selected the volume associated with "beautiful friendship" and "deep emotional trauma." It was that, and so much more.

Elizabeth Wein's code name verity is the first person narrative of a British intelligence officer caught in German-occupied France in the throes of WWII. Knowing that a bullet to the head is the most likely end to her time with the Gestapo, and in order to avoid (or at least lessen) the torture inflicted on her, she agrees to write down everything she knows of the British War Effort, although not quite in the way her antagonists might expect. Doing justice to the literary traditions she loves, the story she weaves is full to overflowing with love, joy, sorrow, and pain... and a deep, abiding friendship that comes more fully to life with each successive page.

If I tell you any more, I will have said far too much. The first reason I loved this book was because it gave me new insight into the European arena of World War II, in part because it was a woman's perspective, but also because of its attention to geography. In this book, as in the war, more than winning and losing are at stake; the enemy threatens the very things that make us human, and casts a pall over the glory and beauty of the country it invaded first: Germany.

Anna was right - emotional trauma is the best way to describe the experience, but not in a depressing way. Wein's writing is open and honest; her characters' personality and pain are intertwined on the page, and are a reflection of the hope and pain combined in the allied forces whose job it was to fight the Nazi regime. And all of it is made possible through the breathtakingly poignant story of two girls who had the sense to realize that they had met their best friend.

And they make a sensational team.

*****

As an aside, I hope I don't insult anyone by saying that I wish Suzanne Collins had given her brilliant idea for the Hunger Games books to Elizabeth Wein, because code name verity accomplished everything that the Hunger Games promised but failed to deliver in terms of emotional impact, character development, and cultural critique.