My Academic Reason for Going to Oxford

.:The following text (except the essay) was written 8 March 2011 after I finished my final Oxford tutorial:.

Below is the paper that I came to Oxford to write. At least, it was the one (topic-wise) that I had envisioned. Getting to this paper took a lot of reading and ate a lot of hours of sleep. It is certainly not my best writing (I wrote the whole paper in 3-1/3 hours before my tutorial this morning), but the essence of this paper is the question I wanted an answer to when I had to pick my primary topic for Oxford "way back" in November.

The paper was well-received, my final tutorial went well, and I am sitting in disbelief realising that the term is over. It is a day of bittersweet feelings and thoughts. It is a day of sunshine and a few tears. I am very pleased, and very humbled at the kindness of the LORD.

And now, my final History essay for Hilary 2011:

Revolutionary Reflections

Why Did Edmund Burke Aid the American Colonies but Oppose the French?

“The fresh ruins of France, which shock our feelings wherever we can turn our eyes, are not the devastations of civil war; they are the sad but instructive monuments of rash and ignorant counsel in time of profound peace.”1 This says Edmund Burke early in his treatise, Reflections on the Revolution in France. Over and again in this work Burke chastises the French for the revolution they are staging. His above testimony is an incrimination of their deficient cause for revolt, something Burke decries loudly. Throughout Reflections he criticises the French on many points, chiefly the following: replacing the government without sufficient cause; lacking a moral and religious foundation needed for any sustainable government; and rejecting the rule of law, erecting instead the rule of man.

Burke’s reasons for denouncing the French Revolution are sound, yet they raise a valid question: why did he assist the American Colonies in their War for Independence but reject the French Revolution? The answer to this question lies precisely in Burke’s arguments given in his Reflections. Let us now consider those arguments more in depth.

Firstly, Burke is adamant that a nation’s government not be changed for ‘light and transient causes’2. He says, “The speculative line of demarcation, where obedience ought to end, and resistance must begin, is faint, obscure, and not easily definable. It is not a single act, or a single event, which determines it. Governments must be abused and deranged indeed, before it can be thought of; and the prospect of the future must be as bad as the experience of the past.”3 Here Burke is asserting that if one wishes to change their government there must be something vastly wrong with the government or with the individual. All other resources must be expended, other options pursued, and the future must look at least as bleak as the past before the thought of revolution should even be entertained. To underscore his point, Burke says that, “A revolution will be the very last resource of the thinking and the good”4.

Was the French Revolution founded upon such an egregious break in trust that the only response was revolt? Looking at the events leading up to the Bastille and the action at Tuileries Palace one would be hard pressed to find a series of offences worthy of rebellion. The elite resented their exclusion from the government of the country, the peasants felt the strain of an outmoded feudal system, crop failure led to the further poverty of the poor, all while the revolutionary ideas of humanist philosophers rang in the ears of the people. None of these things, separately or collectively, constituted a justifiable reason to overthrow the monarchy. France failed the first test of legitimacy for a revolution.

The second criterion for establishing or reshaping a government is a moral and religious underpinning. “All other nations have begun the fabric of a new government, or the reformation of an old, by establishing originally, or by enforcing with greater exactness some rites or other of religion.”5 This, at least, is the case of lasting governments. During the Revolution those in power took vengeance upon the church, executing the clergy and appropriating parish land. Though Burke could not see around the bend in the course of history, France would soon dispense with traditional religion to worship a Supreme Being with pagan ceremonies. More subtlety, the French had already traded the glory of God for the glory and adoration of man. Yet again, the foundation for erecting a new or altered government was made of sand.

The third thing Burke eschews in France’s Revolution is the replacement of the rule of law with the rights of man. As we have already seen, these rights of man superseded religion, it is only logical that they would displace law as well. Though France was ruled by many factions after deposing her king - some of whom penned a constitution and The Rights of Man and of the Citizen - the ‘law as supreme’ postulate was displaced. Yet Burke clearly says of a people that, “It is therefore of infinite importance that they should not be suffered to imagine that their will, any more than that of kings, is the standard of right and wrong.”6 A good portion of Burke’s treatise is dedicated to the importance of law being transcendent, not created by the will of man, as if such a thing were possible.

From the above points, one finds a deplorable lack of legitimacy in France’s Revolution. It is no wonder that Burke opposes their uprising. Further, it becomes clear that the very points Burke states as warranted grounds for resistance and the institution of a new form of government are precisely the foundation of America’s War for Independence. The Colonies had grounds for separation, clearly stating them in the Declaration of Independence. This declaration was only given after multiple pleas to the law were made, many attempts to reconcile were sought, and a final outright refusal to obey unjust requirements brought more penalties. Finally, the Declaration of Independence appeals to God as the One who endows men with rights. From letters, speeches, and other historical documents, we see that the Founding Fathers based their decisions - and the governing Constitution - on the law of God. This dichotomy between the French and the American colonists is clearly why Burke fought for the colonists in Parliament but rejected the French Revolution.

Endnotes:

1. Burke, Edmund: Reflections on the Revolution in France Dover Publications Copyright ©2006; page 37
2. This phrase is from the Declaration of Independence, obviously showing how the Americans felt about the gravity of a change in government
3. Burke; page 28
4. ibid
5. Burke; page 35
6. Burke; page 93

Reflections and the Blessing of Solitude

After a whole week of lovely sunshine and zephyrs, I woke to distant fog this morning. Since my final tutorial last week I have been a bit melancholy; today's weather is much more fitting for pondering than the recent glorious Spring days.

End of term at Oxford is filled with a bittersweet feeling of relief from intense days of study, yet missing those very hours upon hours spent expanding my mind and asking questions of the texts. It is as if a continuing conversation has come to a premature end. There is so much more that I want to know about Romantic poetry and its authors. And I have only just begun to understand the philosophical, political, social, educational, and spiritual climate of the American Colonies and France in their respective "revolutions". Eight weeks were not enough to uncover the answers to all of my questions. Nor were they enough to learn the rest of the questions.

Then there is the loss of fellow-minded conversation and lectures at the C. S. Lewis Society each week. Even more acute is the void in the evening from 6.00-7.00, normally filled by evensong at New College (and on occasion at Christ Church Cathedral). That is a blow from which I might never recover.

This week I have spent hours walking around parts of Oxford I had never yet seen, since they were not on the way to the library or chapel. I have visited many magnificent and beautiful colleges. I have meandered down Addison's walk with a select few friends, purchased a first edition Lewis book, scouted out new places to visit, and sought solitude in familiar haunts. It has been a week of much needed stillness and time alone. Reflection on the last eight to ten weeks of work and adventure is vital.

These past few days have afforded me space to pray aloud; to speak of my faults and failures to the One who knows them, yet is big enough to hear them again. Indeed, He is the only One who can take my angry, unfiltered words of frustration and hurt. He is great enough to love me in spite of me. He is merciful to not simply leave me to suffer the consequences of what I have done. He is kind enough to change the desires of my heart. He is Love; and that means He will prune me in order to make me better. He will allow suffering and sorrow to forge me. He will not placate my sin, but excoriate me for it... Or it from me, as it were.

Where, oh where, would I be without stillness and solitude? No phone, no music, no chorus of voices ringing through the flat... Just silence and the steady footfalls of thoughts as they pad toward my pen or lips. If we did not have these times of solitude our souls would be impoverished. We would be but ephemeral bits of persons, not solid humans seeking to be more fully alive.

~ Johanna

Things considered whilst walking in the drizzle

{Written Monday, 21 February 2011}

Today I walked down the sidewalks of Oxford and realized that it rather frustrates me that the British (and visitors to Oxford) don’t understand order. If you drive on the left side of the road, it should logically follow that you walk on the left side of the sidewalk. Ah, but no... Too often I find myself nearly having my head smashed by an unseen bus mirror because I am obliged to walk with traffic, rather than against it. Then there are those mental conversations about which way I need to sidestep to avoid oncoming pedestrians which result in a funny little dance. Left... No, right. No really, left. *Sigh*

Whilst observing my fellow travellers sloshing through the drizzle I learned that one ought to take a course in order to properly wield an umbrella. The girl ahead of me collided her umbrella with another woman’s, nearly removed a young man’s head by holding her rain-repeller at his neck’s height, and did not succeed at making it easy (or even possible) to pass her on the sidewalk.

When I wasn’t plotting my course or dodging mad bumbershoot-ists, I had a moment to think about my weeks in Oxford. Tuesdays and every other Friday are my favourite days. Tuesday mornings I have my History tutorial, where I often learn much about how to conceive questions that the text failed to ask. Midday on Tuesdays is made for walking all over Oxford in the spirit of exploration. I have nowhere to be in a hurry, I can literally stop and smell the flowers if I’d like. Evenings may be my very favourite, though, because I go to the C. S. Lewis Society. I don’t even pretend to be pretentious enough to ask a question, I just listen to everyone else’s. I wonder about my own questions, sometimes gaining the courage to ask them of the speaker afterward. Pondering ideas by Lewis or his contemporaries, meeting new people, talking with Jake (who usually goes with me), and setting up chairs for the evening are curiously rewarding events.

Every other Friday is rather different, but they all begin with me writing or editing my paper due at 9:30am. Sometimes I race to the OSAP office, sometimes I saunter; always I leave something essential back at the flat (quite usually my bus pass). My English tutor is patient with my terrible papers, teaches me more about poetry than I knew, connects things I might never have seen, and gives me a deep appreciation for imagination and vision. He has taught me much more than that, though. This tutor, like Dr. Bauman, has taught me that academics are good, important, and worth pursuing, but not at the cost of the individual. I am humbled at the time taken by these men to ensure that I grow as a person, not merely as a student or a writer.

I have made it to the New College cloisters, where I watch streaks of rain dash at the ground whilst pondering the things learned on my walk. It is a perfect day for reflection, reading, and writing. This is good, because my dabbling at writing has already begun with these thoughts, and must continue in earnest with my History paper that is due tomorrow morning. Farewell from this quiet place on this lovely rainy day!

~ Johanna

*Edit* You can also find this blog post on the Summit Ministries website.

Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places

"You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts and civilisations–these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit–immortal horrors or everlasting splendours."
~ C. S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory

It is fitting that I open this entry with a quotation by C. S. Lewis. You see, it was because of Lewis that I was out tonight. Do not panic, I am not seeing dead people. Tuesday nights are when the C. S. Lewis Society meets here in Oxford. I officially joined the society for the term this evening. That is beside the point. What matters is that neither you nor I have ever talked to a mere mortal.

The streets of Oxford offer plenty of mortal woes. They are often cloaked in flesh, have a dog at their feet, and are trying to sell you a British tabloid (the Big Issue). I do not know how to act when walking past a homeless person. My self partitions into two camps. One feels true pity or compassion for those in need, the other cynically wonders how that man will spend the change tossed in his coffee cup. Is he financially better off than the average tax-paying college student?

Dusk had come and gone, the stars could be seen from Christ Church courtyard, and I was on my way to the Lewis meeting. Granted, the time between Evensong and the meeting would put me there 45 minutes early - the only thing I would be early, or on time, for this whole day. Then I walked passed Christ.

No, really, I did. The man was sitting on the ground by Trinity College, asking for change. Unsure of my joining the Lewis Society or just paying the 2 quid fee for the evening, I knew that my pocket change added up to 2 quid 36p. So I smiled and said no. I stopped, thinking I had food with me, but I had the wrong bag. Offering my apologies I told the young man I didn’t even have food (meaning, to share). I doubt that even in my rain-splattered or windblown states I look homeless. Never-the-less the fellow misunderstood me, thinking I had no food at all. Out of his poverty (legitimate or self-imposed) he offered me his pack of biscuits. I tried to dispel the confusion, explaining that I had no food to give. I wished him a good evening and slowly walked away.

"And our charity must be a real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinner–no mere tolerance, or indulgence which parodies love as flippancy parodies merriment."
~ C. S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory

I had been offered true charity in the young man's gesture. My steps slowed even more as I recalled to mind the Scripture I read yesterday in Matthew 25, “Whenever you have done it to the least of these, my brethren, you have done it unto me.” At the corner I stopped, internally arguing that I still had 45 minutes. I could turn around and at least go talk to the fellow for a while. The words, “the face of love” played in my mind. I almost turned around. Instead, I darted across St. Giles to avoid the bus, the shadowed face by Blackwell’s imprinted on my mind.

Jake found me on a park bench trying to read Money, Greed, and God for Friday’s Summit class. I was sitting 20 feet away from a panhandler who had walked up less than five minutes after I sat upon that bench. I watched people ignore him as he called out to their shoes, “spare change for the homeless?”. Jake and I walked passed, not truly acknowledging him. In part this was due to his very different attitude from the young man I had seen a few minutes before. But the other reason was because I was still struggling with knowing how to show love the homeless. Do I take the time to talk with them and hear their stories? Do I offer them food? Do I pray for them as I walk by? How do I discern between the con and the man who, in spite of his best efforts, can’t get a job? Who are the homeless? Aren't they my neighbours, the ones I snub?

“Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is —Christ
—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not His
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.”
~ Gerard Manley Hopkins ~

Where else do I see Christ and walk away? I know a few people I have done this with lately. I was looking for something else and missed those right in front of my eyes. How often am I missing the very face of Christ in the features of men’s faces?

“You have never talked to a mere mortal... [Only] immortal horrors or everlasting splendours.”

~ Johanna

Final Day to be 25

Tonight in Oxford I am aware of the smells. Between Cornmarket Street and the theatre, scents of old smoke and grease hang like nearly forgotten memories in the air. Closer to the Thames the smell of wet wood being burnt mixes with spicy Asian food. On street after street persons young and old light cigarettes, laugh with one another, duck into restaurants, or jog to catch the evening bus. Near the train station the smell of damp earth and Spring coalesce with a woodsmoke.

This evening I notice the sights in Oxford. How could one miss them? Spire after spire rise in the evening skyline. I step into the quadrangle of Christ Church College and see stars breaking through a patch of sky overhead. I see the fountain, the globed lights, and a small group of persons milling in the entryway to the cathedral. Inside my eyes land upon vaulted stone ceilings. On the floor a slab tells me that John Locke was a student at Christ Church. Robes, candles, and ecclesiastical icons greet my eager eyes. I close my eyelids to drink in nothing but the sound of the choir.

Today I hear the sounds of Oxford. There are shouts in the open market. Men and women are calling out the prices of their wares. I hear the rustle of pages in the library. Birds chirp at all hours or the day and night (which is a bit unnerving in the dark). I listen to rain on the wood shingles of the Cloisters. The Thames gurgles along, lapping at its muddy banks. Homeless men are heard on nearly every street corner, "Big Issue, miss?" they ask.

Now I am home. Time to read and catch some sleep before tea tomorrow with my Summit Oxford friends. The final day of being 25 is drawing to a close. It has been a good day, a good year. Here is to all that 26 holds!

~ Johanna

Rid Me of Myself

Today has been "one of those days". It began as a chill Saturday with my roommate and I trying to discover the source of a very unpleasant smell in our kitchen (we've been noticing it for a few days). Unable to find the location, we went our separate ways to avoid being in the flat. I chose the New College Library - one of my favourite places in Oxford.

This is where the day began to become less than I wanted... My concentration dropped off the face of the planet. None of my books were useful. I read one Encyclopedia Britannica article, a few pages of my books, and got annoyed enough to head home. I went to the grocery (a wretched idea on a Saturday - just so you are aware) to grab a few ingredients for guacamole. The first store was out of corn crisps, so I had to go to a second grocery. Finally I made it home with the crisps (chips) and sour cream/yogurt. Jacqueline made yummy guac that we shared with the guys over a few laughs and free-for-all conversation.

Jake, being the fabulous neighbour that he is, offered to help us find the source of that smell in our flat. He and Stephen spent about half an hour trying to locate it last night, as well. Between Jake and Kasey, the offending odor was discovered in the overflow of our fridge: rotten milk. Let's just say it smelled like death. The fridge still needs some extra cleaning, but we are all happy to have the smell eliminated for the most part.

I still haven't been able to study and comprehend anything today... I'm going to hope that tomorrow is better for that when Rose and I have our study date. We are also having the girls from the flat below come up for tea and scones in the afternoon tomorrow. So, it promises to be a good day in a few regards.

But that is all tomorrow; this is today. The day I have felt cranky and easily offended. The day I have run on my own strength and found it sorely lacking. The day I've tried to be witty and live up to others' standards and failed. The day I left the flat without having quiet time... There is no substitute for not spending time in the word. No replacement for conversing with The Word.

Depending on my flesh rather than God's Spirit has certainly made today frustrating. Oh, there are days when I do have time in prayer and Scripture and still get cranky or run on my own strength. Yet it seems much harder to throw off my bad attitude and arrogance when I haven't spent any time hearing from the LORD. When I haven't committed my steps, my day, and myself to Him I run amok. Life is His to begin with, why do I think I get to use it as I see fit? Isn't that like stealing from God?

Thanks to my flatmates I started listening to some Hillsong music this week. One is a song I learned at Summit this summer; I found these lyrics quite fitting to the attitude I want to have:

Saviour I come
Quiet my soul remember
Redemption's hill
Where Your blood was spilled
For my ransom
Everything I once held dear
I count it all as lost

Lead me to the cross
Where Your love poured out
Bring me to my knees
Lord I lay me down
Rid me of myself
I belong to You
Lead me, lead me to the cross

I'm making this my prayer for the upcoming week... And my remaining time here in Oxford.
What prayers are you praying now? Are you expecting God to answer them?

That's it for this night.
I remain, ever under The Mercy...

...Johanna

Oxford Life

Our flat shakes like an earthquake when fast trains go by. At least, I assume that's what a minor earthquake would feel like. The nice thing about living next to the railway is that British trains don't really whistle, they merely honk on occasion. Living near the railway station is often useful when lost, as well. Usually a sign or a person will point the way towards the railway, even if they cannot help you get anywhere else.

This week I've begun to feel less overwhelmed and more at home in Oxford. Walking in the rain at 40-50 degrees isn't too bad, the birds sing rather often, much of the shrubbery has leaves, and everything is green (a sharp contrast to Colorado). Including my lemon and over-ripe tomatoes. *Sigh*

Speaking of produce, as I was walking 'round Oxford yesterday, I happened upon an open air market. I bought 200g of cheese, about a dozen clementines, and four avocados for 3 quid (pounds). Not a bad deal, really. This was after my wandering around the New College (where I am an associate member) grounds and library. Upon my walk back, I stopped in Blackwell's booksellers for my very first time. I was a little disappointed that the first floor looked very much like a Barnes and Noble. The upstairs, however, had a vast array of used volumes, many were quite pretty and inexpensive. Hm, how could I pack more books for my return flight?

Books get heavy, you see. This I realised (yet again) as I carried around two books given to me by my tutor, Mr. LeMay, this morning. I am to write about the reasons behind the American's desire to separate from England, or 'What drove the colonists to rebellion?', as my tutor put it. This essay is due Tuesday morning. Mr. LeMay seemed rather gracious about the whole war and its outcome; perhaps it is because he grew up in South Africa.

I would write more, but I have an article and chapter to read for class with Kevin Bywater (taking place tomorrow afternoon), two books from one tutor, and some background info regarding the romantic period for another tutor.

Things I'm looking forward to in the next week: a free trip to London with OSAP on Sunday (if I get enough homework done on Saturday); evensong at New College; turning in my first two papers (Tues - History, Fri - Literature); a possible visit to the Eagle and Child; and all of the antics of my flatmates.

Ever under the Mercy,
Johanna

A New Year, A New Place

4th Day in the England Adventure

Delayed flights, trotting through O'Hare to barely catch my international flight, touring around Heathrow to find other students, a bus ride to Oxford, a cab ride to Eynsham, meeting 9 fabulous students and 7 Bywater family members, church in a building founded before America was, buying groceries at the co-op and Sainsbury's, class, reading, and getting to know folks over meals and games... The days have been full and good.

While I should be reading instead I'm writing out some thoughts for those anxious to hear what England is like. I'm also writing for my own memory. The days have blurred together slightly. The tea here is lovely, as is the company.

Time for reflection doesn't happen quite enough. I can see the need to build in regular time for solitude, walks, prayer, writing, and Scripture reading. Some of those things may overlap, but none of those things will happen without careful planning and arranging. Except walking - that is done in great regularity.

I have barely begun to read a few things for one of my tutors, but I thought I would share one thing with anyone who might read my blog:

I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.


To her fair works did nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it griev'd me my heart to think
What man has made of man.

~ William Wordsworth

Though short, a few lines from the poem cause me to ponder a bit. Why is it that the trill of a bird in early morn can make the heart soar, yet bring tears of sorrow, melancholy, sadness, or pain? How does sweetness cause pain? Is it the pain of Beauty which Sheldon Vanauken talks of in A Severe Mercy?

Out of the stillness broken by birdsong, and perhaps tears, one can certainly be led to ponder what man has made of man. Nature can seem unspoiled at times. The Beauty of the magnificent or overwhelming, the sharp thrill we receive when we hear the chatter of squirrels and birds is juxtaposed with the reality that human relationships are messy. Some men enslave others through hardship and toil, some persons oppress others' thoughts, writings, or speeches, and still others suppress through condescension.

But what has man made of man? Surely each of us can think of a great teacher, a book that has shaped our thinking or who we are, an employer who has helped us learn a skill or lessons of other sorts. What has man made of man? It is often because of someone else's help or encouragement that many a person has pressed on, has done more than they thought they ever could. Oh yes, this too is what man has made of his fellows.

It was God who placed us in communion with one another and with Himself. This poem is a good one, but could it have been great if Wordsworth had gone further, asking what God has made of man? I submit that it could have been.

That's it for tonight, another day of classes (and creme tea) comes tomorrow. Off to the land of dreams I must go!

~ Johanna

P. S. My address for the term is as follows, please feel free to send me mail!
*Note the address correction since yesterday*

86 Venneit Close
Chancellor Park - 2b
OX1 1HY
Oxford, UK

Further Up and Further In

Learning lessons is a slow process for me. There are so many facets to a lesson that I often have to be taught the same thing from multiple angles. Perhaps this is why I never went to college; I was too busy re-learning lessons others learned the first time.

Christmastime has arrived in yet another year of my life; a perfect time revisit a lesson. If you are like me, you vacillate between hating the trappings of Christmas, yet loving the reason Christmas is celebrated. How does one explain this dichotomy?

Too often it comes out of my mouth as, “I hate Christmas.” Inaccurate. I hate ridiculous noise labeled “Christmas songs” (carols and hymns are fine, the Winter Wonderland and the Santa variety are not). I despise whiny children in retail stores and nasty grown-ups in the same (at any time of year this is true, in my experience it happens more at Christmas). I loathe the guilt and pressure to buy someone a gift because they are related to me, bought me a gift, or because I “have to.” Like most of my fellow Americans, I deplore the near-inevitable sugar rush and weight gain that takes place during the “holiday season.”

Do the above reasons really mean that I hate Christmas? Well, no. There are good things about Christmas: watching White Christmas with my sisters, making Mexican wedding cakes with my mom, building fires (as taught by my dad years ago), Christmas Eve midnight service with my dad and grandma, reading Christmas stories that make me cry, getting songs from The Muppet’s Christmas Carol stuck in my head, a plethora of good Christmas albums to listen to, spending time with family, etc.

Does this last list mean that I love Christmas? Again, no. Amy Grant’s Tender Tennessee Christmas and the smell of the woodstove burning while making Christmas decorations don’t make Christmas what it is. Reading Luke 2 with the family doesn’t either. Contrary to what many persons, even Christians, believe, Christmas is not about being with family. Christmas isn’t based on how I feel or if things are “like they were” when I was younger.

I’m not the first to say that what we call “nostalgia” is really a horrible imitation and corruption of one of God’s greatest gifts: Joy (as titled by C. S. Lewis) or Beauty (as described by Sheldon Vanauken). I probably won’t be the last to say such, either.

Often we long to go back or we wish that certain events were like they were when we were in our rosier days (what ever and when ever they might have been). We want what movies call “magical” moments. What we really want is not the experience, but the feeling that went with the experience. This is not magic or nostalgia. Inside we truly and desperately crave Joy or Beauty.

In Pilgrim’s Regress, Lewis captures well what happens when we revisit a place or memory, or attempt to recreate an experience: lust or idolatry. The two are really the same and neither are good or truly desirable. You might think that you are a “good person” who has not done such an atrocious thing, but tell me, do you ever desire to revisit special memories? Do you remember the excitement that went with many “firsts” in your life? Those were special things or times, but neither your nor I can live in our memories or go back to our “firsts.” When we miss out on the here and now for either something good in our memories or some hoped-for thing in our future, we make the past or future an idol. We lust after what we do not have rather than enjoying what we do. Lust and idolatry ensnare, whereas Joy and Beauty bring freedom.

How does one pursue Joy or Beauty when it come to Christmas? Should one abandon traditions? I’m not going to quit watching my favourite Christmas movies, or making cookies, or listening to Christmas carols. I may not send cards at Christmas (letters throughout the year are more preferable for me anyway), and I may not purchase gifts (even for the persons I am “supposed” to) unless someone is in need or I find something fitting. Of course, none of those things are particularly related to Christmas.

I can’t go backward seeking a feeling. I could just sit idly by as the whirlwind of Christmas passes me. Thankfully I am not limited to two options. I can do something rather different from what the majority (of Americans) does: I can move forward. I can go further up and further in to the life and world that God has created. But more than that, I must go further up and further in to the LORD Himself.

Even as I type I am moving further up and in. I wanted this essay to somehow capture a conversation about this very idea that I had in the Autumn. But that conversation was a one-time gift. I do wish it had been recorded so I could remember all of the neat things I was learning. Conversations are like much else in life, they are fluid. You can’t take a snapshot of a conversation. They live and breathe as-it-were, they move, they finish and die away. All of these things are natural.

Perhaps I am learning a little of what it means to go further up and in. I will miss new thoughts and feelings and vistas if I remain where I am or forever try to recreate something past. I must reach higher. I must look further. I must learn not to be afraid of losing what I had, rather, it is time to rejoice in what I am being given and what I will be given.

Come friends! Let us go further up and further in!!

Somthing like a Fairytale

It is December. When did that happen?

I suppose it's time to refresh my blog to reflect all of the changes that are happening in my life. A map in the background is fitting. Until now my life has been charted; from here on out it will continue to be recorded in scribblings of ink. The jottings of words, the ink of photos - colours vibrant, some, shades of grey - will certainly be used to capture whatever is left of my time on this rolling sphere.

A map is apropos in other ways, as well. I'm about to make my first venture out of the country. I am glad that my first passport usage will be to England rather than some other part of the American continent.

Yes, the winds of change have blown away frustrating and confusing relationships, the routine of life, and have brought more favourable opportunities. Or perhaps I should say, the One behind the wind has done this. In the span of four days I went from, "This is my pretty chill Colorado life" to, "I'm going to Oxford!"

The story is one for fairytales or those books where you think, "Yeah, too bad that doesn't happen in real life." An anonymous donor offers to send the house-cleaning girl to Oxford. The folks in Oxford make an exception for the girl's lack of college credit. The girl is shocked (of course, who wouldn't be?). She buys a plane ticket to England. The mother of the girl has a friend who offers to purchase a computer for the girl. And then reality hits, the stacks of books grow and time shrinks. The girl has to learn how to manage time well (after many mishaps) and gets to know the Maker of the Story better in the process.

At least, that's the rough sketch. It really is a fantastic story. I wouldn't believe it... If it hadn't happened to me. The stack of books certainly is real. The plane ticket truly is purchased. The adventure has only just begun. I cannot wait to read this entry in 5 months knowing what I know then, rather than knowing what I know now.

Yet I'm glad to be here now... Glad to be in the state of awe and praise to the Author of a story so incredible it must be real life. My life. I think I shall muse on this and turn out the light on yet another wonderful day.

~ Johanna