This One's for Free.

I've noticed lately that one of my bigger interests is bookshelves.

My Christmas Gift to the Internets.

I had my wisdom out this week. I'm a teense swollen.

I'm sore, and I keep throwing up.

But it's not so bad.

Merry Christmas!

(That is really a real me when I was a baby.)

You're the Prickliest Pear.

This. Is. Incredible.
Ivory Road.
King Charles.
Please look at the lyrics.
Here are a few:
You're my mind's rest
You're the strings on my guitar
You're the wax in my moustache
The keys to my car.
...
And I know that you glow
From the inside out
You can keep it for yourself
And I'll go without.
...
Well you're the Oscar Wilde short stories in my bookcase
You're positively 4th street isolated in my itunes
You're the word in the dictionary that I can't spell
Can't describe, can't put in a sentence but use all the time.
...
Your own pair of trousers look better on me
The boots of spanish leather
And the bottom of the sea
Every symbol of love that doesn't relate to a meaning
Every feeling, every sensation
Only real when I'm dreaming.
...
I'm the elephant in the circus
Oh, you're my trainer
You'd never let me go
But if you did I would stay here
In love there is freedom
But it must be returned
There must be sacrifice
Love must be learnt.

A Suggestion.

Hey. Um, go read this beautiful beauty of a blog post. Feel it.
It touched me.
well, bless my soul.
That there's the link, pookie pie.

Even Though We Know It's Not.

I know you almost definitely have read this quote before, but I had, too. Let it rock your world for a minute, baby doll.
"If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world. If none of my earthly pleasures satisfy it, that does not prove that the universe is a fraud. Probably earthly pleasures were never meant to satisfy it, but only to arouse it, to suggest the real thing. If that is so, I must take care, on the one hand, never to despise, or be unthankful for, these earthly blessings, and on the other, never to mistake them for the something else of which they are only a kind of copy, or echo, or mirage. [Here's the kicker.] I must keep alive in myself the desire for my true country, which I shall not find until after death; I must never let it get snowed under or turned aside; I must make it the main object of my life to press on to that other country and to help others do the same."
C.S. Lewis.

I've been listening to Wild Sweet Orange a lot lately. It's been good...
"Oh my God, is this really what You want? Would You tell us if it's not? And could You rewrite the plot, and come and get us? Cause we can't stop doing what we think we want, even though we know it's not. This place is merely a subplot. Come and get us."


See?

The Highest Form of Flattery.

Once a little boy sent me a charming card with a little drawing on it. I loved it. I answer all my children’s letters — sometimes very hastily — but this one I lingered over. I sent him a card and I drew a picture of a Wild Thing on it. I wrote, “Dear Jim: I loved your card.” Then I got a letter back from his mother and she said, “Jim loved your card so much he ate it.” That to me was one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received. He didn’t care that it was an original Maurice Sendak drawing or anything. He saw it, he loved it, he ate it.
—Maurice Sendak

People just don't understand these things like Maurice Sendak and I do. Biting really does mean I love you. Promise.

We Didn't Light It, But We Tried to Fight It.

I love this so much.

I Laugh in the Face of Danger.

Hi there.

Well, something I've learned from camp training is that you're always supposed to begin these sort of things with saying that everybody's fine. Cause I guess when parents get a call from camp they think their child must be hurt. So, you begin each call home with, "Hi Mrs. Dillinger. This is Becca from camp. First, I want you to know that Johnny is fine..."

So, I will begin this blog with this:

Hi everyone that loves me. First of all, I'm fine. Everybody's doing great. We are all okay. Praise the Lord, right?

(Although, this would totally make for better writing if I saved the "Everybody's fine" for the end. You guys would be on the edge of your seats.)

And so we begin.

Last night, November 12th, 2010, started as any Friday night would. I spent a few hours at Barnes & Noble; I worked on homework for a while in my friend's room; some friends came over to watch a movie, although we ended up talking instead. Then, of course, we made a Taco Bell run.

Taco Bell runs are a blessed sacrament, particularly at one in the morning. This particular holy rite included:

1. Myself. You know me.

2. Peter Blankenship. Peter is a funny guy. He's always cracking jokes. Especially this one: Two fish are in a tank. One turns to the other and says, "Do you know how to drive this thing?" Classic Peter. (Also, if you think about it, he looks like Anne Frank.)

3. Rachel Wilder. Rachel is a hoot. She is the one who was a part of my first pumpkin carving/first pumpkin funeral.

4. Ezekiel Bandy. More commonly referred to as Zeke. Zeke has a mustache. He's a real class act. I actually don't know what that phrase means. But I'm sure he is one.

5. Jane Roommate. She's my roommate. She likes Dr. Dog.

Well. The five of us were practicing the holy rite of the late night Taco Bell run, and I hit my tire on the curb of the drive-thru and got a little worried about my tires. So Peter got out and looked at it, because all men know things about cars. I think it's in their blood. He said it was fine, but it felt weird, so I started driving extra carefully. This proved to be our saving grace (foreshadowing!).

As it was now two in the morning and our Taco Bell had not fully settled, we were still doing a little meandering. Peter wanted to show us his house, so we went with it.

Twenty minutes later, we're on the interstate, driving (carefully, you'll remember) and listening to slow jamz. Okay, that part about the slow jamz isn't true.

Regardless, we were driving, having loads of good clean college fun.

Suddenly, a car comes flying in front of us. Literally, feet in front of us. Now this, this is a dramatic moment. I braked and avoided a collision, but the car bounced off the wall and was coming at us again. I quickly swerved to the left lane, saving us from a crash, but not saving the side of my car from the flying debris.

Okay.

Okay.

Okay.

After getting us away from that car, my brain stopped working.

Uh... what?

Then, as if Hercules himself was in the back of the car, Peter took over like a hero. He said in the most calming voice possible, "Okay. It's okay. Becca, turn the music off and pull over. I'm calling 9-1-1."

I pulled the car to the shoulder and turned on my hazards. Peter was on the phone with the emergency operator. She was asking him so many questions, "Is the passenger bloody? Is anyone pinned?"

"I don't know, ma'am. I'm not really that close to the wreck. Do you want me to go look or something?"

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, aka in the driver's seat, the slow realization of what had just happened was dawning on me. Thoughts flashed through my mind like the blue lights did in my rearview mirror. We could have died. What if we had been a millisecond closer? I think I just witnessed someone die. How did we not get hit? And something between hyperventilation and crying erupted from me.

Then, somehow, all of my friends were hugging me. Sort of. I mean, as much as you can hug someone among all of the obstacles in a car. Regardless of the degree of hug, it was a very, very comforting moment. And there's the cheese for you.

So after our beautiful moment, we emerged from the car to check if the passenger was bloodied or pinned, and to make sure she was comfortable, which I always thought you weren't supposed to do. So, we walked. We walked along the side of I65 shaking, partially from the cold, and partially from the still dawning reality of our scrape with danger.

We found the car and talked to some guys who had seen the girl. The driver of the car had fled the scene. She'd pulled herself out of the car, said, "I can't be seen here," and she'd run. There were police cars checking the Sonic parking lot for any sign of her. I couldn't believe she was able to move, much less flee the scene of an accident.

So, we were almost hit by a fugitive. Okay.

The policeman "took my statement," I suppose. That just sounds like a strange phrase to be an actual part of my life. Regardless, he got me to tell him what happened. And then he got my address. And my phone number. And my social security number, which seemed like overkill, but that's his thing. Brentwood's finest. Gotta love 'em.

We all filed back into my car with Zeke driving this time. I felt like I'd filled my successful driving quota for the night. "If you want, we can go to my house and have some hot chocolate," Peter offered. I loved the idea of hot chocolate, and everyone needed to use the restroom, so off we went.

Once at Peter's house, we discovered that he didn't have a key. To his own house. Awesome.

Okay, so we'll just call his mom? No answer.

Let's knock on the front door. No answer.

Twenty-five or so minutes later, we were ready to give up. Peter murmured, "Let me try..." and disappeared behind the house.

We kept expecting him to reappear, and when he didn't, we plunged into the dark caverns of his backyard. And, sure enough, we found him, talking to his parents through a window.

We decided it might be nicer to talk inside the house and met at the front door.

Peter's mom is a wonderful, wonderful woman. She goes to the church I've been going to, and every time after church, we talk for like fifteen minutes. She is so sweet and so caring. I just want to keep her. She's a beaut. His step-dad is really excellent, too. And they are both amazing to let us barge into their house at three in the morning and drink their hot chocolate.

So we all calmed down over a good homey conversation and headed back to campus.

I do feel like I should say that in the amount of time that I was driving, I managed to save all of our lives, and in the comparatively small amount of time that Zeke was driving, he managed to kill a baby bunny and run a red light. Makes you think twice about who you want driving your car, right?

At five AM, I got a call from the officer letting me know they found the fugitive. She was fine, but drunk. Surprise! But seriously, praise Jesus we are alright. It was a close one, I tell ya.

We got back to our rooms around five thirty, and Jane and I ended the night by watching the sunrise.

How Long Will I Carry These Bones?

And I'm so far from not caring.

And I'm so far from not caring.

And I'm so far from not caring.

And I'm so far from not caring.

I miss:

wearing my hair in a ponytail.

walking barefoot.

rain.

my beautiful Youth for Jesus family.

children.

being outside of this country.

biting people.

silence being okay.

watching Gilmore Girls with my mom (and dad).

Grandmama's cornbread.

ribbons that lead to a "water bed" at Christmas.

babysitting.

Zaxby's.

not having bangs.

inside jokes I've had since kindergarten.

"Once upon a time, a goose drank wine, a monkey chewed tobacco on a street car line. The car broke. The monkey choked. And they all went to heaven on a billy goat."

Gulf Shores.

Target pizzas.

I'm thankful for now because of:

writing letters.

good music.

Sierra Mist in the caf.

gazebos and tulips and gardeners.

soteriology.

declaring a double major in religion and English with a writing emphasis and a minor in education.

Marcus the pizza guy.

Milky Way Midnights.

the picture of my mom next to my bed.

crochet.

writing and rambling.

the cold.

good movies.

nice friends.

the thing that I use to wash my dishes. It's so handy.

getting good at talking on the phone.

autumn.

my Oxford sweatshirt I stole from my mom.

For God Alone My Soul Waits in Silence.

I have labored in vain.
I have spent my strength for nothing and vanity.
Yet surely my right is with the Lord,
and my recompense with my God.

"Then you will know that I am the Lord;
those who wait for Me shall not be put to shame."

"Behold, I have refined you...
for My Own Sake, for My Own Sake, I do it."

Amen.

Uncle.

This is a picture that my friend Haley took of my hands. She’s a genius with a lens. Anyways, for a long time I’ve thought that this picture tells a story. And even though I know exactly what was going on when this picture was taken, I felt like this picture tells some bigger grander story. Like it tells the truth. But I couldn’t find it.

Tonight, I found it.

Tonight, I feel very dirty. In light of the purity of the holy One, I find myself shamefully unclean. Not only the dead in my transgressions bit of me, because, hallelujah, I am raised to walk in newness of life.

The newness of life bit of me is the dirty part.

I am supposed to be freed from futility. And yet in my striving, and sometimes in my not-so-striving to become worthy of the One, I fail.

I fail, I fall, and my hands get dirty.

Tonight, I just looked at this picture for a minute, and I saw it.

My hands are dirty. Hopelessly.

They reach out, trying to grasp, well, anything.

They are weak.

But on my finger, my Jesus has placed the sparkling and pure beauty of his love.

And though my hands get dirty, his love remains. Clean enough for my hands.

And in the End.

Today. Steve died. It could have been yesterday, but regardless. Steve is dead.
The pumpkin, of course.
He grew mold and just sort of smushed up, just like Rachel's plague. It was terrifying.
We buried him unceremoniously in the hall trash can.
The End.

Here's to Steve.

Tonight, I carved my first pumpkin. It was a night among nights, to say the least. If you have never carved a pumpkin before, let me tell you: you are missing out. Just kidding if it's because you're not allowed. You should submit to your parents.
Anyways. This has been a beautiful evening. My Christian Doctrine professor, Dr. Steve Guthrie, invited us to his home tonight for a little Halloween shindig. He is the kind of professor who tells you you can call him Steve, and I am the kind of student who just can't bring herself to do it. To his face, at least.
He is a wonderful professor. Christian Doctrine is probably my favorite class.
So. He invited us to his house, and we went. I went with my friend Rachel. She's a new addition. And she's a laugh a minute. (I always wanted to be described that way, so I thought I'd throw it out there.) We drove the twenty-five minute trek to Pegram. (Not Pea-gramm. It's Peh-grum. Apparantly.) And then we settled in with other Christian Doctrine students and Steve's kids to carve pumpkins.
This is the fruit of my and Rachel's labor:

Yes. He has a mustache. This guy was a beauty to behold. So, we took him outside and lit him up:

I have never felt so magical. Okay. Maybe I have. But this was pretty darn magical.

We spent the rest of the night talking and eating and watching "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown". All in all, a good night.

Also, we got to play with his kids. And it made me realize how very much I miss kids. It's a lot. For some reason they don't keep kids at college. Whatever.

I talked to his daughter Sophie. She was the coolest thing.

I miss babies.

The end.

Then, we named my pumpkin, (Steve, of course.) and were on our way. With all safety measures carefully taken:

Thank you to everyone who made my first pumpkin carving a success!

You Were Made to Meet Your Maker.

"For of what use is the existence of the creature if it cannot know its Maker?"
St. Athanasius.

Well, hello there.
So, I've been thinking lately.
A lot has been about that there quote up there.
A lot has been about some other things.

I think I have a little bit of a confession. Or something.
I think I like to put things on here that I think about, and that should change me, and that could change me. And I think I like to make observations about my life and how it should be different. And I think that I like sometimes for this blog to look like I am really thinking things that are affecting me and effecting change.
And I do think those things. Otherwise, they wouldn't be here.
But a lot of the problem is the effecting change.

For example, a couple o' blogs ago, I talked about doing things to help the poor and the orphan and the widow. You know, James 1:27.
But I didn't do anything.
I didn't do anything.
I didn't do anything.


I've been reading loads about poor people in Isaiah, and God's heart for them is so evident.

For the fool speaks folly, and his heart is busy with iniquity, to practice ungodliness, to utter error concerning the LORD, to leave the craving of the hungry unsatisfied, and to deprive the thirsty of drink.
Isaiah 32:6.

On my way home from home last week, my iPod went out and on the radio there was this cheesy preacher talking. But for some reason I stopped and listened for a minute.
And he said something quite poignant, "Prayer can become a copout for not offering direct aid."
I think that is a very true thing.
A lot of times we offer prayer or money for those who are doing something, and those things are wonderful and marvelous. Truly, almost no one could really help someone without prayer or money.
But, I think it's very important to actually help out, to get your hands dirty, to do.

So this is me. Telling you.
I'm going to do something.
Sure, I can offer excuses. (I have a list of them forming in my head right now.)
But I won't. I'm going to move.
I won't leave the craving of the hungry unsatisfied or deprive the thirsty of drink.

I should probably tie that first quote into this now.
Here it is again so you don't have to scroll back up.
"For of what use is the existence of the creature if it cannot know its Maker?"

St. Athanasius.

The more and more I think of it, the more I want it tattooed across my forehead.
I am nothing if I cannot know my Maker.
If I am not living and doing for Him alone, I am nothing.
What's the point? It will all amount to empty earthly dead praise and love and pride.
But I don't want to see me from earth's standpoint.
I want to see me from my Maker's standpoint.
And my Maker's standpoint, at least in part, is telling me to love the poor, to love the ones I don't want to love, and to live a life contrary to the empty and futile one into which I so often fall.

"In these bodies we will live;
In these bodies we will die.
Where you invest your love,
you invest your life."

"Awake, my soul. You were made to meet your Maker."

Awake My Soul. Mumford & Sons.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Chia!

Look how much my hair has grown since I've come to college.

And apparently it changed colors. Go figure.

Deliver Me.

"We all have emotional needs: the need to love, to be loved, to be accepted, to feel a sense of accomplishment, to feel a sense of self-worth, to feel important, to feel needed, to protect ourselves, to attain status in our own eyes and in the eyes of others, to be secure."
That is from my rhetoric book. Highly insightful for a book on debate.


This is a prayer.
We prayed one very similar to it at a prayer walk at that church that SMI partners with during Easter. And I suppose always.

Lord deliver me from the desire to be noticed,

                from the desire to be loved,

                from the desire to be exalted.

Lord deliver me from the desire to be favored, 

                from the desire to be popular,

                from the desire to be chosen,

                from the desire to be acknowledged.

Lord deliver me from the fear of being wrong,

                from the fear of being forgotten,

                from the fear of being ignored.

Lord deliver me from the fear of being humiliated,

                from the fear of being left behind.
Grant that I may seek to comfort rather than be comforted by others.

Grant that I may understand and love more than be understood and loved well.

Lord deliver me from the desire to be noticed and encouraged.

Lord deliver me from the desire to be appreciated and included.

Lord deliver me from me.

Lord deliver me to You.

That is just something I need sometimes. Like now. And always.

This prayer is beautiful, I think.

Lord, deliver me from the desire to be noticed.

How to be Alone.

This is Haley.

This is Haley.

She is one of my favorites.

She is my best beast.

This picture is blurry because she did not take it.

I did.

If she took it, it would have been beautiful.

I would put her flickr thing on here so you could believe me, but I don't really know if that's my place.

Haley's got brains AND brawn.

She's the whole package.

Quite truly I would like to tell you about my Haley.

This story has several different beginnings, but we can start in Costa Rica. Because so many good things start in Costa Rica.

Haley went on a mission trip with me to Costa Rica. That week was a hard and beautiful time of my life. There's nothing like working side-by-side with someone for Jesus to weld your souls together. And that's what happened. Before Costa, Haley thought I hated her, and I thought Haley hated me. Then, miracle! Friends Forever.

In Costa Rica, we depended a lot on each other.

And after Costa Rica, we depended a lot on each other.

Haley shows me what it means to be known by your love.

She shows me that it's possible to be selfless.

And she shows me that breaking can be really, really good.

Haley is someone who knows what it means to be loved and redeemed by Christ.

She belongs to the Lord.

She knows what I am feeling sometimes before I feel it.

And she knows how to say words that sometimes I can't.

And she is blessed with marvelous gifts and talents. She is gifted and talented. Put her in a special smarty school.

She takes pictures that mean things and say things and are a beauty to behold.

She loves like other people don't.

She has a way of understanding and desiring scripture in a beautiful way.

She is wise beyond her years.

I love her as my friend and as my sister.

This is Haley.

Amen.

This Blog is About the Bathroom.

Tonight, I had to go to the bathroom. My friends and I were watching a movie, Donnie Darko, and it was after visitation hours, so we were sitting outside trying to shield ourselves from the elements, aka the ever sprinkling sprinklers and the newly arriving cold. But, I simply had to go.
So, I got someone to let me into a dorm building so that I could go to the basement restroom and relieve myself. I walk down a flight of stairs and search the basement, with the constant fear of that creepy bunny Frank from Donnie Darko popping up around each corner. No bathroom.
Luckily, there's a creepy tunnel passage to a place with a bathroom. A long creepy tunnel passage that seems to extend with the ever growing urgent urging of my bladder.
Finally, after what seems like a mile's fidgeting awkward dance to the bathroom, I push open the stall door to find..
No TP.
Maybe in the handicapped stall?
Nope.

At this point in the story, the main character is at a crossroads. She is really in a Catch-22. There is no way to tell her bladder no, and yet there is no way to get to an appropriate toilet in time. Please bear this in mind as you take in the next bit of the story.

Well, after much deliberation that took place in the accelerated but convoluted state of reason that is imminent urine mind, I came to the relatively reasonable conclusion to use the men's restroom. I'm in the basement, so who's gonna come in here, right?
Well, as I am making use of the gentlemen's facilities, I hear the honking creak of a door desperately in need of WD-40.
creeeeeonkeeeeeonkeeeek.
ziiiiiiiiiiiiip.
ziiiiiiiiiiiiiip.
tinkletinkle.
tinkletinkle.
"So, how's it going, man?"
"Doing alright, how are you?"
"I'm good. And, man in the stall, how are you?"
Silence.
"He must be sick or something... Man in the stall, you doing alright?"
Silence.
Silence.
With the realization that these guys are not going to leave until they've smoked me out, "There was no toilet paper in the women's bathroom, okay? I had no choice!"
Stifled laughter.
"Hey, that's alright. I use the girls bathroom ALL the time."
Me, silent, waiting for the sound of zipping to ensure my safety from the view of any undesired images.
Finally, ziiiiiiiiiip.
ziiiiiiiiip.
And they were gone.
And then came the awful walk of shame past the bathroom boys and back to Donnie Darko with color rising in my cheeks every minute.

Thank you, bathroom boys. Thank you.

Homeward, These Shoes.

Sometimes, I google earth my house.

That was just a little confession.

But here's the great news: I'm coming home! For the last week or so, pretty much every song that has flitted through my head has been about home. And my dreams, too. It's like thoughts of home are tangled in my hair, and they just keep slipping back through into my brains.

What I'm saying is there's been a lot of Iron & Wine in me.

Like "Homeward, These Shoes" and "Love Vigilantes".

And "Paint Me a Birmingham," but you don't need to know about that.

Things at home that I can't wait for:

1. Hugs. I really miss knowing people well enough to do hugs.

2. SMI. I miss my family there. Church is not the same without them.

3. Watching football with my dad.

4. Target. They have them here, but it's just not the same without Haley.

5. Eating dinner with my family. That my mom cooked.

6. Jonathan and Kristin Owen. And that kid of theirs.

7. Driving in Birmingham. And being able to park. Somebody should tell Nashville about parking lots.

8. Having real conversation with home people. Talking on the phone is kind of iffy for me. And skype is just weird.

9. Comfort. Don't seek comfort. But hey, it's nice sometimes.

Here is what I am up to:

We played intramural kickball. We dominated in spirit. (In reality we lost 20-1.)
I went to a movie. It was expensive and ehhhh.
I had a chemistry test. Still no idea how I did.
I have to memorize the Apostle's and Nicene Creeds by Wednesday. Too bad I didn't grow up Methodist.
I watch Alabama football by myself.
I really am liking the friends I am making.
Jane Roommate forgot she had toes.

Mostly I do homework. And eat. And sleep.

We went to a really cool church on Sunday. The service was long and beautiful.

"For God alone my soul waits in silence." Psalm 62. That is being a real big part of my life right now.

Something else is that I keep trying to write. And it just comes out all squashed. I think it is because I feel a little squashed. By which I mean... Well... I think I mean that I don't feel full right now. I haven't found a church which is really throwing me off. And I just feel that I'm in between. In between what? I don't know. But there it is.

I want to write something like this:

"Homeward, these shoes worn to paper, thin as the reason I left here so young."

Iron & Wine.

Or this:

Pioneers! O Pioneers!

Or this:

Having A Coke With You

Or this:

Annabelle Lee.

Mostly i just want to write, but it's stuck in me.

Last thought. Today, I was reading my Christian Doctrine textbook. We are talking about humanity right now. You know, what it means to be made in the image of God, sin nature, the lot of it. And this bit struck me, "To be in God's image means to hear God's word and to respond obediently to the will of God, living one's life coram Deo, before the face of God, faithfully reflecting God's character and concerns in the world." Faithfully reflecting God's character and concerns in the world. Am I doing that as a Christian?

What is God's character? That question is beyond what I can answer, but there are a few things I do know about Him. He is beyond and within, above and beside. He is holy, perfect, glorious. He is beyond our conception. He is a mystery. He is kind. He is love. He is humble and huge, patient and jealous. He is paradoxical and yet He is the only way that things make sense. 

Perhaps the most important way we should convey His character is by love. Christians are to be known by their love. (John 13:34-35) So I suppose it would be good for me to start by loving fully and unconditionally, to focus less and less on myself and my needs and wants and desires and more and more on the needs and wants and desires of others. I really suck at that.

What are God's concerns? He has many of course, but to me, some of the most prominent ones in scripture are for the poor, the orphan, the widow. (James 1:27)

What am I doing for the poor, the orphan, the widow? Not much. I have been spending most of my time trying to make friends so that I would feel comfortable, trying to live so that I don't have to face anything beyond me. I'm far, far too focused on me.

Forgive me, Jesus. And use me, please.

Sorry this blog is so long.

There's No Way To Grow That Don't Hurt.

I feel very.. feel-y.
And I miss the people that know me.







"There's no way to temper your thirst
With lasting impressions or pictures of home
There's no way to grow that don't hurt"
She growled from the station then hung up the phone.
~Iron & Wine.
CLICK.