Going the Way of the Oxford Comma

Today on this page I take up pen again (metaphorically; my handwriting is atrocious and who would scan in a handwritten page as a blog post, anyway?) and will attempt to do so regularly, largely in defense of my profession and my passion.

Briefly: among other things in my four-year hiatus, I obtained a masters degree in library sciences - something that, I am told by countless faceless others in my field, many of whose work and accomplishments I respect - was useless and pretentious of me because good librarians don't need those extra letters, don't need to know how to catalog, and certainly don't need anyone to tell them how to manage information.
I have moved out of my parents' home. I have interviewed more than a dozen times for the job I think I really want and have failed every time, but I am currently inhabiting a place in the library-verse that suits me perfectly, and am humbly content to wait for the right time to achieve higher. In the meantime, part-times and multiplicities [ideas and oddments of things, hey?] are my modus operandi, and, yes, it is trying but, yes, I am learning every day. Patience used to be my virtue, you know, but I sent her away some time ago... I am trying to entice her back now via mimicry. It's working, a little.
I have become more cynical and judgmental, both of which I regret. I want to lose some of that.
I got married. This was my A-list, top-spot highlight and remains my daily bright spot; in the working, driving, cleaning, shopping, laughing, fighting, and occasionally sleeping, I have a best friend and a Barnabas. He keeps me sane and drives me crazy; he is sweet and thoughtful and maddening. He is younger and wiser than me; sometimes he is so old, and has so very much left to learn.
It is his fault you are reading this; thank-yous and hate mail may be sent to him c/o me.

Today, in the September 2014 edition of Library Journal, I read an article on citations. It's only an opinion piece; anybody can write one. His piece is published, though, which means that a lot more people will read and ingest it than will, say, this blog.

Essentially, the author argues for the death of the traditional citation, suggesting a simple ISBN or hyperlink (functional, of course) as a replacement. This in itself is not startling, nor even important - I can see the eye-rolling and shrugging now: works cited? Bibliographies? Who could care any less?
Bear with me; what is disconcerting is the logic behind this challenge.
Stephens mulls over the necessity of citations, and attempts to elicit ...pity? for students undertaking their graduate studies:

shouldn’t we be teaching soon-to-be librarians how to cite properly so they in turn can deliver the gospel to their young charges in the university? And grading them down for every missed period or italicized article title? I’d argue that instead of citation fixation we promote reflection and consideration of the ideas presented in our courses. To synthesize is a sometimes overused verb in higher education, but it works in this instance. Students encountering new ideas and voices of any discipline are better served by someone who can nudge them toward critical examination and combining ideas into cohesive structures that help them understand the world. From that understanding should come new ideas, not a perfectly cited reference. (32)

I'm sorry; I don't understand. How does properly crediting the source material for our new ideas detract even the slightest bit from our understanding and innovation? Why can't we promote (demand?) proper technique along with "reflection and consideration of the ideas"? The two are not mutually exclusive, folks.

Stephens makes another emotionally-driven plea with the diamond-in-the-rough card:

what are we missing when the focus lands on correct citation style and not the content students are creating? It might be hidden diamonds in the rough, ideas that, with thoughtful critique and revision, could truly shine. See the citation project for some recent research concerning student writing skills... (32)

His assertion is empty. Maybe what we are missing "when the focus lands on...citation" is a decent writing style. Is content. Is substance. If all a professor can see is the negative, perhaps the student hasn't given anything positive. Maybe, of course, the student simply does not understand how to cite, and that is okay! There are tutors, webpages, grammar books - help is never far from our twitching fingertips, if we can overcome our shame in asking for it.

As a Millennial, I am sick to the teeth of being branded as lazy, entitled, unreliable, slipshod. I am tired of taking punches for the slackers of my generation - many of whom are all of those discouraging adjectives.
I work hard.
I apply myself.
I take responsibility for my work and my mistakes. I pay attention to details.
I want to excel in my field and I want my accomplishments to be my own, honestly come by, hard-won and respectable. I want to take advantage of my upbringing and circumstances, to do my heritage proud, and to live out an American dream.
These are qualities which will serve me well in the future; of this I have no doubt. I am not worried about whether or not I will achieve; I am only curious as to when.
Do you know why?
Because I had teachers and exercises and assignments that enabled me to learn, and to do so fully. I know how to cite, but when I made mistakes on papers, I was docked for them, and I acknowledged that I should have proofed my paper more carefully. People didn't make allowances for me. I never - ever - whined and complained that the technical aspects of the paper had prevented me from doing a good job on the content.
When you undertake to write, you do so lock, stock, and barrel. Deliver the whole package, or don't bother sending it.
I guarantee students worth their snot do not sit up at night fretting over citations. If by their fifth, or sixth, or seventh year of higher education, the future librarians and academics of the world have not yet learnt to cite their primary sources, God help us all when they enter academia or public service because they will be just as useless to everyone else as they are to themselves.

Millennials and the generations below us are made much of and given free passes. Too many of us know how to do hardly anything for ourselves; we have been told that we are too smart, too important, and too busy to take time to learn the minutiae of various fundamental processes. We are all equal achievers; none of us does better at anything than our peers. We move as a unit. We have no sense of competition. It is frightening and disheartening.

This seemingly insignificant issue, like so many others, may easily become a landslide into failure; start by eliminating requirements for proper citations, and too soon we will deem proper grammar unnecessary. After that, spelling will become subjective. From there, we have but a short jump to the use of pictures and symbols instead of words, and then where are we?
Maybe that sounds ridiculous. Maybe, though, I'm not totally wrong.

Please don't advocate for any more anarchy in an already crumbling area of human development; don't give us any more leniency than that to which we are already disgustingly accustomed. I say bully for the professors who hold their charges to a higher level of completion and competence, who instill the importance of doing something well and all the way, of adhering to a rubric and of meeting parameters.
As students in higher education, we should no longer expect to operate on a kindergarten level; our ramblings and creatively written pieces must achieve beyond cute, beyond precious, beyond imaginative and inspired. They must be scholarly, well-researched and able to be proven so, and above all enduring.
The standard is the standard, and it exists for a reason: meet it and achieve; don't and fail.



Stephens, Michael. "Citation Fixation." Library Journal 139.15 (2014): 32. Print.

The Great Equalizer

What if the Mayans are right? Er. Were right.[..?]
What if their calendar's abrupt cessation in 2012 is a true foretelling of the Apocalypse?

Then again,
"He said to them: 'It is not for you to know the times or dates the Father has set by His own authority..'" ~Acts 1:7
"...you know very well that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night." ~1 Thessalonians 5:2
"Who has known the mind of the Lord?" ~Romans 11:34a

Because of Scriptures like those, I tend to think the rumor-mongering has no basis in reality. I came across a smart alec-y quip on Dear Blank, Please Blank the other day that said something to the effect of "we stopped making calendars because our people were overrun by foreign mercenaries." Sounds reasonable to me; we couldn't expect the Mayans to continue recording the calendar forever anyway, could we?

Even so. What if it's true? What if the year 2011 is the last for this planet, and for all of us?
I know where I'm going post-end times. I'm not worried about that:

"When He comes for His own, He will have no trouble recognizing me...because my banner will be clear." ~Adam Young

"...His banner over me is love." ~Song of Solomon 2:4b

I do have a lot I want to do here...not that it's my call when I die, or that I dictate what happens in my life, but...you know. Hopes. Dreams. One has them, inevitably. I do want to grow up, have kids, see the world -- that kind of thing. The idea of the world actually ending -- second coming, rapture, Armageddon, holy-moly-on-a-sourdough-rolly: the earth is NEW and I am too -- while I'm alive? And young? It's fascinating. And slightly really terrifying. It makes me wonder what, exactly, might be my purpose here.

To live my life for His glory and to praise Him in all that I do.
'Sunday School,' perhaps, but true. That's why I'm here. There may be a specific, a 'mission,' as it were, but that's the general idea, right? Use your life to glorify your Maker.
I'm not doing a very good job of it.
I've been home for my long (delightfully, deliciously long) Christmas break for just shy of two weeks now. It feels like much less. It feels like I just got here, just caught my breath a little bit, but I'm already in panic mode about finding my books for next semester, getting my passport for the intercession trip that's happening right after that semester, getting some reading for classes done so that I'm not swamped, accomplishing all the nothing I wanted to do over break, and in general having enough time. The end is in sight, and so far, I have done nothing with the time I've had to rest. I've watched television. I've read a few books. I've baked and gone out and had one wine cooler too many and danced and laughed and gotten angry and slept (alot) and talked to a few people but really? What have I done? Where is this break going? I have so much left to do...
Sometimes I'm afraid of not having enough time.
And that's wrong.
"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself." Not Biblical, but a good motto. As a redeemed daughter of the King, I have absolutely nothing to fear from anything or anyone.
Anyway.
Time.
"It hangs. It weighs. And yet there is so little of it. It goes so slowly. And yet, it is so scarce." ~from Wit, by Margaret Edson
It's true; time slips away from us. Before we realize what's happened, it's gone; fortunately, everything happens in God's timing.
That assurance, to which I return so flippantly and so frequently, does carry a mandate: get moving. I spend far too much time sitting around thinking about the things I need and want to do rather than just doing them. Too often, I take advantage of God's promise [that my life will unfold according to His plan] to indulge in apathy and laziness. 'Why worry? Why bother? God's got it,' I'll think. Terrible idea. Get. Going.
Life is too precious, our commission too important, to sit by idly.
I've been blessed, haven't I? I've been afforded a life which allows me to know the grace and sacrifice of my Savior; I've been given certain circumstances -- opportunities to reach out and affect many lives. What right have I to hoard the Gift to myself? I need to share Him: by witnessing, by asking Christ to shine through me, by living as He would have me live.
It is wrong to waste precious time. Wrong to watch it pass by. There's something to be said for stillness; how can we hear God when we're too busy speaking ourselves? But the point at which stillness becomes inability or unwillingness to act? Before then, it's time to do.
Perhaps this is the last year of my life. If it is? I've got to make it the best -- and I don't mean 'have the most fun; do all those things I've always thought about doing and never had the guts to try; make the most friends and read the most books.'
I mean make it so transparently evident to all I encounter that Christ is my Savior, the Lover of my Soul, that there can be no doubt in anyone's mind that I am ransomed and redeemed.
That God will one day "look me right in the face...sinner though I am, and say 'righteous'"(~John Piper).
That He loves each and every one of them as inexpressibly much.
That this Gift "of great joy that will be for all the people...a Savior, who is Christ the Lord," wants them to know Him and receive Him as their own.

I'm not one for making New Year's resolutions; somehow, they always fall apart two or three days into the year. But this year...maybe I have made one.
To live unashamedly. To live truly. To live well.
To make my Father proud.

"Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom." ~Psalm 90:12

When Your Heart Has Expired

Sometimes, I forget why I love to dance. Just occasionally, and usually not for very long. I don't mean that I don't like to dance anymore -- how could I not? but I do lose the joy of instinctual response to melody and rhythm, I lose the excitement of movement as a result of emotion, and I lose myself, a little bit. It's scary. I feel small. Insignificant. Ill-equipped and unprepared. Worthless.

It makes me panicky and anxious. I think, "If I can't remember why I love this, why am I even doing it?" And then I realize that if I have to remember why, I wasn't doing it for the right reasons in the first place.

This feeling of fulfillment, of satisfaction, of completion, even, that I am blessed with when I dance? It's not something I created for myself, by myself. It is given to me of God. It is hardwired into my chemical and emotional makeup. I do not enjoy anything on this earth without His providence -- He made me the way I am! He made my eyes to be comforted by deep, lush greens, to delight in the bluest blues, and to seek out violently vibrant purples; He fashioned my ears to receive certain sounds and pitches with pleasure; He arranged those tiny nubs on my tongue so that I love the taste of pumpkin, of vanilla, and of grapes. And these physical qualities, characteristics that help to define me to my friends and family, are really only a very small part of me. With even more detail and finely wrought subtlety, my soul blossoms apart from -- but momentarily tethered to -- the body I have been given.

Albert Einstein is credited with saying that dancers are the athletes of God. When I first came across the quote, I was pleased. Flattered. Yes, of course we are; what physical exertion is more laudable than dancing? Thinking over the words later, in a slightly less self-satisfied manner, I realized it could be read as a mandate, rather than a commendation.

"Dancers are the athletes of God." We belong to Him. We dance because to dance is to exhibit ability, strength, and endurance that only come from God. We dance, and this is our offering; the dance is the blessing, and it is what we must give back in order for it to be what it is meant to be. It cannot be beautiful, or complete, or worthy of anything unless it is not for our glory but for His alone.
His glory alone.
When I lose sight of that, of my reason for breathing, for working, for playing, for dancing -- then do I loathe myself and cry out to God, crushed and overwhelmed by my smallness.

All my life, I have danced for myself. I danced because I loved it. I loved the way I felt, and I loved the community of which I was automatically a part when I was dancing.

Over the past two and a half years, I've finally discovered that I am happiest when I am not dancing for me. When I dance for God or for another person, to show them how very much I love them, that is when dancing is the most fulfilling.

Sometimes now when I dance, I allow myself to be excited. It's okay, I have finally realized, to get caught up in the movement, and to forget the steps.
Be in the moment. Live in it. Enjoy it. What are you saying? What is the purpose of your art?
In performance everything is choreographed [usually]. Everything is prescribed. The freedom isn't utter, in that you can do whatever you feel whenever you want...but you can still let go. Trust your muscles to remember the steps, and just move. Revel in the movement. Fall in love with the moment. True, technique is always nice, but to be communicative, you have to go beyond that. The audience doesn't care as much about what your feet are doing as what your face, your body language -- your heart -- is saying. Is dance just the regurgitation of steps and directional movement that somebody else has dictated? Shouldn't we take those movements and ingest them and make them our own, find the meaning behind them and then spit it out and say "Look, this is what I'm saying to you; do you understand?"

One of my friends grabbed my hand as we were talking after a show this semester and she said "Sam, I want you to know how much I love your dance. I cry every time, because... it's real. I see you do a move, and I think, 'I know that place. I've been there. I understand, and I feel what you're feeling, and I know what you're saying.'" That was one of the best, most unbelievably gratifying things anyone has ever told me.
Isn't that the point? I want to be able to connect with people on an emotional level, to go to a place with them that is so gut-deep that there are not words expressive enough in existence to discuss it, so you don't even really try to talk about it. So you don't talk. You just do, and afterwards, you look into someone's eyes and you see the same look that is in your own, and you know. You just know. They are right there with you. You have communicated with them. You have shared a gift, and the sharing makes it all the more wonderful and precious to you.
Doing something you love shouldn't be -- isn't! -- something that requires mental consideration, logical analysis. You don't love it because you have to think about it. You love it because you don't. You love it because you cannot help but love it. You don't have a choice in the matter, and if you did, you would choose to love it anyway. To think about life without it is ...unthinkable.

Tinted Lenses

Eyes are the windows to the soul, and photography is a doorway to the mind.
Pictures give you access to another person's eye -- not their eyes, so not their soul, but their creative point of view, so...maybe a little part of their soul.
Pictures tell stories and speak volumes about so many things -- a person's outlook on life, his focus, his sense of color or sense of style. Even his sense of humor.
I spent an hour and a half tonight browsing a friend's photos on Facebook -- profile pictures, artsy albums, fun collections. The differences between his albums and a different friend's shots are the differences between the two. One takes a lot of black and whites, a lot of low level lighting, high-contrast pictures; still life shots, self-portraits, close-ups and awkward angles that somehow turn out beautifully. The other takes dozens of pictures of the everyday, of people and places and things that are constantly coming and going and changing -- flowers, landscapes, insects.
Photography takes a minute, a moment, a fraction of a second that is past before you can blink, and freezes it. Stills it forever. Makes it something you can go back and look at always. A smile, a giggle, a shout of surprise, a solitary tear that escapes a half-closed eye. The moments you choose to capture, the ones that aren't accidental, say so much about the way you look at life. The angles you use, the lighting you seek, the segment of a landscape or the characteristic of a person's face on which you choose to focus explain your point of view more clearly than your words might do.
So what am I postulating? What have I gathered; what life lesson have I perceived to be flung out to me; what half-baked, crackpot wisdom or insight as to the meaning of life will I thrust into cyberspace, regardless of its insipid and preposterous qualities, or the self-contradicting nature possessed by most of my musings?
I don't know. I have nothing to offer. I'm merely curious.
I want to look at more pictures; I want to understand [you] more.
That's all.

An Open Heart

I am melting; I am a statue. I am rigidity and limpidity. I'm exhausted. I am a glass, and full of the most delicious brew of emotions. joy, curiosity, temerity.
abandon: the trait of lacking restraint or control; reckless freedom from inhibition or worry. 
That. That is what is overriding every other sensibility right now. It has surpassed the arena in which it was supposed to function and it has applied itself to my outlook on life. I don't want to do homework. I don't want to take a shower and wash the grime and the sweat off of me. I don't even want to sleep.
I just want to be. I want to watch the clouds for days and days and days, and I want to count the stars. Conversely, I want to run around the world. I want to hurtle towards somebody a continent away and launch myself into him, and not care about the way I may fall or the way I am placed. It doesn't matter anyway; he would catch me no matter what -- I know that now. Within my sphere of existence, I can let go of myself and open both arms wide to receive, and yet hold out both hands to give. Sweet, sweet abandon. True and utter trust. How can something so terrifying, so counter-intuitive, make me feel so good? Because it does. I feel good. I feel like I just want to relax into someone's arms and let him hold me still, or let him manipulate my limbs and use me -- make me into a living marionette and move me about for his amusement.
This new concept that is whirling so slowly, so softly, in the base of my brain -- tickling the nerves there, pressing itself into previously hidden sensors, triggering the untried reactors that skirt the edge of more conscious mechanics -- it is fascinating and beautiful and totally overwhelming. It seems that I've forgotten how to breathe, but I don't need to; my everything is absorbed in trying to imbibe an idea that is mentally comprehensible, but that is nearly impossible to physically apply.
Let go.
Let it go. All of it.
Impressive, yes? Such a simple phrase, but so threatening, so confusing. As intelligent humans with a basic knowledge of vocabulary, we understand what the phrase let go means, but as those same fallen humans with nearly unconquerable impulses to control and to cling, we will not acknowledge the command -- let go.

Dance is something intuitive, is something emotional, is something internal. It is technical, structured, and controlled. It is then, paradoxical -- how can something be predestined yet free-form? How can you say to me, 'Look, I want you to move your left arm here and put your right arm there and hold your left leg behind your right ear which is also moving within this prescribed sphere,' and expect to feel anything in that? And yet you do. And it works. Somehow it all makes sense, and a movement you are given becomes your own and you embody it and you let it be seen, instead of you; you are the conductor of the medium.

Today was enlightening. It is a cliché to use that word, but it fits. For maybe the second time in my life, something that has always been concrete to me -- no mistake, it has always moved my soul and my heart -- what was defined within a real space and operated within a set of rules, has been rejuvenated, revealed to me as something new.
Through the exercises we did today, and because of what Meredyth said, the emotive aspects of the art were suddenly opened up to the cerebral. I allowed myself to think about what I was feeling. Yes, the idea of 'just go for it, just do what comes naturally,' was certainly employed; what made it wonderful and exciting was that we were thinking through it. Why did we do that? Why did you guide her there? Why did he choose this motion? All our movement and the way we were interpreting and hearing the music was stemming from something else -- whether something we saw a fellow dancer doing, or something on the brain from this morning, or something we've been thinking about, mulling over for a while. Even our levels of sleep were affecting choices we made in this arena. It was fascinating to think about; I loved it. I loved being probed, explored, and I loved having the ability to do that for my friends.

I fell once. It was great. In what felt like suspended animation -- slow motion, I guess -- I felt my shoulders slip between Kaitlin's and Meredith's. I felt (my eyes were closed. I didn't see this happening.) their bodies seize, and quick, able hands moving to hold me -- not quickly enough, though. I had too much momentum, and their protecting arms merely slowed me down, preventing me from smacking the floor at all. I landed gently, with a muffled fwump, and I opened my eyes and giggled. They looked so alarmed! I was excited: this was the point. We were trusting one another, learning to anticipate, to expect, to sense, to feel; to attune ourselves to one another without words -- fantastic! They hadn't dropped me or failed in any way; they had done exactly what they were supposed to. I have never been more proud to fall on my butt in the middle of dance class. After that, the exercise was even more fun, and easier. The worst had happened -- I'd fallen. The rest was just being tossed from person to person with no idea whose hands were on me or whose body was supporting mine.

This sense of release, of relaxation into the wills and whims of my classmates, was delightful. Relieving, even. I didn't have to think about anything; things just happened. I was open to new ideas, open to being guided and led, open to others.
Shouldn't I do that with my God?
Shouldn't I let go? Release everything I'm holding onto? Release my fears and anxieties, my hopes and dreams and schemes and plans and desires? It sounds so simple, but it is so difficult to do. I know I've  quoted this verse before, but it's nudging me again:

But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." 

...

That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

2 Corinthians 12:9a & 10

This idea of giving up, of being helpless and turning everything over to God, is not a new one for me; it is a very old struggle, one that continuously turns up. Lately, everything reminds me of how very much I need Him to hold me; try as I might, I can't let go though. It's so stupid. If I could just...
but I can't. That is part of my nature as a fallen woman. This control, this fierce protection of my own wants, is something that I must always fight against.

Total release is not something that will happen overnight, and never on this earth; we are too broken. It is, however, something for which we can continually strive; it is a beautiful idea, an awesome goal. It is the sweetest surrender, letting go.

Overwhelmed and Overjoyed

I came back to campus this afternoon with a tattoo. Two, actually.

More important than the too-faint and quickly fading ballpoint and marker scribbles on my forearm, however, are the marks on my heart -- faces, names, questions and their answers, laughs, hugs, kisses, realizations.

I have realized

That God's Love is indescribable and amazing; His thoughts are higher than mine, and His plans and His wisdom unsearchable.

That I had not known, had not comprehended, and still do not fully grasp the range and depth of the Loves accessible by human hearts.

That it is entirely possible to have your heart and your mind altered irrevocably within thirty-six hours. 

This weekend, I had the privilege of spending a day and a half with thirty beautiful children and a dozen or so of their counselors and mentors. The kids come from varied, tumultuous, and often unhappy backgrounds; the purpose of their time at camp is 'to give them a future and a hope.' The owners are fascinating, passionate people; the counselors are joyfully and wholeheartedly invested in their charges; the campers themselves? Oh my stars.

Yesterday started with a note of apprehension; we were cautioned in our debriefing not to touch the children unnecessarily, and never, under any circumstances, to touch them in anger. For me, physical touch is a way of expressing affection, and I worried that I'd forget that that might frighten the kids, or that I'd try to befriend them too quickly for their liking. My nerves were on edge for the first fifteen minutes of interaction with them -- I stood in a corner of the basketball court with my arms folded tightly, smiling for all I was worth as one boy sank basket after basket (He is so talented; he wants to play basketball when he grows up, and I bet he can do it. I hope he does.). Another boy joined the game a few minutes later, and after making an impressive shot, he jogged past me; I reached out to pat his shoulder, and, when he stopped short, checked myself with my hand already extended toward him. Sheepishly, I asked if I could have a high-five. He complied, then planted himself in front of me with his head tilted. I asked how old he was. 

'Ten.'

He continued to look at me for half a beat, then leaned up casually, craning his torso so his little elbow could reach my shoulder (which had to be about a foot above a comfortable level for him). He said, quite distinctly and with no trace of shyness, 'What I want to know is: how old are you?'

I tried not to smile. 'Twenty.'

'Oh.' Thoughtful pause. 'I'm twenty-one.'

'Twenty-one? Really now?'

'Mmhmm.'

And suddenly we were pals. He patted my arm and started chattering with me and the boy next to me, a friend from school. The three of us talked for a few minutes (we discovered that our new friend aged more quickly than any little boy ought to; within seconds he was 'ten hundred thousand'), and then he trotted off to finish his game.

This story repeated itself in variant forms for the rest of the afternoon. The kids were (mostly) shy at first, but once we called them by name a few times, or played a game of GaGa Ball with them, they were giggling and smiling and calling out to us. At one point I noticed one of the smaller girls, whom I'd met earlier in the afternoon, wandering over the playground; she was asking herself distractedly 'Where'd my new friend go?' She turned toward me as she queried, and I was surprised and thrilled when she skipped to me, exclaiming 'Oh! There you went!'

Later, before dinner, the kids were split into cabins -- two for the boys and three for the girls. I volunteered (perhaps over-eagerly...I don't even care. I was excited.) to be one of the 'big girls' in the cabin. Once Cabin Two had been named and numbered, they came bounding and screaming over, and one grabbed my hands and yelled eagerly into my face 'Are you one of our counselors??'

I am not and never have been a camp counselor, but I now believe that I want to be. A lot. I felt the dorkiest smile spread over my face as I responded 'Yeah, I'll be your counselor,' and when six little girls erupted into delighted shrieks, joy and love such as I have never felt filled me. They didn't overflow, or pour out of my heart, or come bubbling and gushing out of my eyes as big, salty teardrops; they warmed me. It was as if someone had suddenly put a hot potato or a toasty brick, deep, deep in my heart -- in a place in my soul I had never felt, hadn't even been aware of, somewhere between my lungs and above my stomach -- a place I didn't know existed -- and it felt as though I were glowing, as though the intensity of the emotions was changing the very color of my skin and lighting me up from the inside out. 

That sensation, that new and intoxicating sense of being in the presence of a love so intense, so much bigger than me, hit me again and again yesterday and this morning. I reveled in it; it was glory. These children...these tiny people...they are all so beautiful and so precious; each child has a story, a story I want to know. Each child has hurts, has brokenness; each one has a reason to hate the world, to be bitter and angry, yet they don't. I walked into camp expecting to have to minister, expecting to pour love out onto hearts that might not have received it; instead, I was loved. I received the benefits of ministry. Love washed over me not in rivulets or streams, but in huge tidal waves; had it been water, I would have drowned. There was so much of it, and each surge surprised and enchanted me: walking down to the main lodge from the cabins for dinner, one of the campers slipped her hand into mine, chattering about nothing in particular. During our chapel time, another little girl asked to sit on my lap; the boy next to us rested his head on my shoulder. 

Over and over, something small from one of us -- a shoulder squeeze, a pat on the back, a ruffling of hair, a smile -- would trigger an outpouring of love from them; hugs and kisses were lavished on us, and I've never seen so many snuggle monsters in my life. These kids were not empty of love; they were full to bursting with it; it seemed that they'd been waiting their whole life for someone to receive all the love they have to give.

As I watched the kids running and playing all day, my heart broke, but my soul sang. Here were beating strong hearts that had been hurt, but that had received into themselves the love and healing power of the Savior. They are not unbroken, but they have been told that there is One Who holds them in His arms, and Who never stops loving them, and they cling to that promise, believing in it wholeheartedly.

In addition to interacting with the kids, we got to hear them sing all weekend; what a privilege and a blessing. Birdsong, the laughter of children, and the noisy water running outdoors have always been some of my favorite sounds. Now topping that list is the music of children lifting their voices with all their might and energy to sing praises to the Living God. There is nothing else like it; it is breathtaking. To God be the glory.

Between church services, one of my the girls who had been spending the most time with me looked me in the eyes and said 'You'll remember me, won't you?' I could have cried. I assured her that I would, and she asked if she could give me her phone number and email address; she wrote them down on my arm.

Before the kids clambered into their vans for their journeys home, another girl wandered from counselor to counselor, writing her name on all of our arms or hands. 

These and so many other brief but charged occurrences are burned into my memory as things precious and significant; could I forget these children even if I wished? Never.

I'm still processing all this; it seems that I left for camp a month ago, not yesterday morning. How could so much have possibly occurred in such a very short span of time? How is it possible? I am amazed, astounded, and awed. 'Words are slow' -- I do not know enough; I cannot arrange them so skillfully as to communicate the tremendous and excessive joy and incredulity that overcame me this weekend. The intensity and concentrated quality of the changes wrought in my heart have terrified and blessed me; I can't thank God enough for giving me the opportunities this weekend presented, and I pray that He sees fit to grant me many more. I pray that I will be of use in His kingdom and show the world -- and especially little ones, whether 'mine' or others -- His unconditional and unfailing Love in the way these children have shown it to me.

Heavenly Father, You always amaze me.

Let Your kingdom come in my world, and in my life.

...

The kingdom of the heavens is buried treasure;

Would you sell yourself to buy the one you've found?

Your Love is strong.

There is no one like our God.

For greater things have yet to come; 

Greater things are still to be done in this city.

'Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.'

~Matthew 19:14

The Art Institute

Long road trips taken by the modern family are often portrayed as these terrible, confined, bad energy generators; to my great shame, my family proved itself a prime sample of Tourist Americana on our last trip, and it was with much grumpy mumbling and wholly scowling countenances that my family trooped (death marched. My mother does not believe in cabs, buses, or trains if the distance to be covered is less than...eh. Five miles.) over to the Art Institute of Chicago last Thursday evening, after arriving at our hotel disheveled, odoriferous, and bleary-eyed from lack of sleep and backseat navigating. We were disgusting. I desperately wanted a shower and a lie-down, but the city never sleeps and so, of course, neither could we. Checked in, unpacked, and regrouped (ehh...), Mum dictated the plans for the rest of the evening: AI now, Zocalo for comida mexicana después.

Thursday nights boast free admission at the Art Institute; Mum figured a quick, two-hour tour would be a great introduction to the city -- a little taste of what makes Chicago Chicago. We walked the mile-ish over, stood in a long. long. like a block long line, but only for fifteen minutes, then beelined for the Impressionist gallery, on the hunt for Claude Monet. The museum was startling. Having lived in Pittsburgh my entire life, I am quite used to and comfortable with our art museum's massive rooms, vaulted ceilings, and overall open and intimidating -- yet inspiring -- flavor. The galleries into which I now strode were small, personal... intimate. It was like going to a mansion and viewing a rich widow's personal art stash, but without her express permission. I began to creep (yes, creep.) around the rooms, hugging the walls and avoiding eye contact with the scores of other patrons around me.

Free admission is an ingenious publicity stunt. There were absolute gaggles of people strolling the galleries. University kids with sketch-pads, chewed off, nubby pencils, and dreadlocks (totally clichéd...totally legit.). Mothers with two and three and four small, bored, and irritable children. Asian teens with big, fun cameras with lots of external next-tech gadgets and gizmos. Middle-aged men on duty dates with their adorable, tottering fathers. Bedlam. Mayhem. Too many people. And yet, even amidst all the chaos, hullabaloo, and claustrophobia-inducing closeness of these strangers, I felt like I was intruding on something private. It was as though the artists might at any second come chuffling back to their breathtaking canvases -- after a quick visit to the lav or something -- and give me the evil eye for having dared to peer at the bits of soul they'd splashed, brushed, dashed, and dotted onto the myriad fabrics surrounding me.

I felt shy. Insignificant. Scrutinized and found lacking. I felt myself begin to retreat, to fade into the beige walls.
I adored it.
This feeling of being on the sidelines, moving about off-stage, wall-flowering -- this is what I'm good at, what I love to do. Outside any circle of lamplight, one is free to observe, to listen; to muse to think to breathe in and digest and live and love both art and artist.

I escaped from the first gallery; people were rubber-necking and gawking, loudly analyzing and wildly gesticulating. There weren't any Monets featured there, anyway. I scanned the next room as I entered, quickly maneuvering through that, as well. Too realistic, this room in the Impressionist wing. Give me suggestion, brilliant interpretation. I wanted my Monet.
Treading ever-so-carefully, nearly holding my breath, I wove between more open-mouthed observers, tiptoeing in too-big gladiator sandals that required constant attention, lest they slap the light hardwood floors beneath me.
A painting on the left-hand wall of the next room caught my eye. Target lock.

To be honest, I don't remember which painting it was that I saw; they've rearranged themselves in my mind.
My only certainty is that I stood in front of that first one for but a moment, then moved on, slipping out of the way of an excited Japanese couple to give them a closer look. I stepped to my right, focused on the next piece. Lovely. Next. And next. A wall, a corner, another wall, another gallery, another universe. I was gone. Longer and longer I began to stop in front of each work, peering at individual brushstrokes, absorbing their shapes and tasting their textures with hungry, insatiable eyes, sometimes stepping back far and long enough to glimpse an entire scene, then sidling up close again to be washed in the motion, to let the sensation of rocking overwhelm me. I didn't know where my family was; I didn't care. I assumed they were still in the building, and if they weren't, I was lost in an art museum. Far worse fates have been endured.
I finally lost all connection with time and space when I stepped in front of this piece.
Cliff Walk at Pourville.
Isn't it heavenly?
At a dead stop, I bathed in the sheer magnificence emanating from this portrait. I was reveling in its beauty, gorging myself on the mastery -- I mean, do you see it? Just look at his clouds -- it's like he looked up, yanked some wispy cirrus and some cottony cumulus right out of the stratosphere, mixed them, and said 'Hey you. I'm painting this landscape and I need you to sit there and be clouds over the ocean, right? Great.' They're delightful. Genius. Look how imperfect -- no fluffy, scalloped edges, no uniformity, no interpretation. They're just...real. They're clouds. They are beautiful. They're glowing, for goodness' sake. No really, look. Can you see the light coming off them? It's brilliant.

I've always wondered what it is about Monet that is so...compelling. Magnetic. Delicious.

It's his light. He gets it. He interprets and portrays light -- and all sorts and all seasons and all times of day -- in such a perfect, real, hopeful way that you can't help but reach up to one of his paintings and say 'Oh. Please, let me go there, just as it is. I want to stand there and stretch my arms to those heavens and feel that sun on my hands and my face for forever.' Light. It can makes or break a piece, and control of it is highly sought after and difficult to attain; yet light was Claude Monet's medium. He took it in both hands, poured it out and let it flow over him, crumbled it and sifted it, worked it through his fingers. He dipped his paintbrush into it, and marveled at its glory. Light. The presence of all the colors; the full spectrum. The ultimate palate. It was his. He churned out dozens of canvases -- the same scenes, over and over and over again. Slightly different angles or minute shifts in focus; these are not the only variants in his works. It is the light. His eyes did not seem to see plain colors as revealed by light, but rather the light and the color of the light itself.
Look at it. Spend as long as you can, as long as you must, before his art. Immerse yourself, and you'll feel that light as real; you will be transported.

Another facet of Cliff Walk that I loved was his flowers. In this piece, if you walk up to it, you may look at it and say 'There's a bunch of weeds growing on this cliff.' Well, yeah. Move closer, and they become empty dots and slashes. Blink, look again. Suddenly there's this gorgeous field of wildflowers, so incredibly detailed in its very absence of exactness that you shake your head, startled; then it's gone. It's the dashes and spots again. But you saw it. By his deliberate ignorance of outline, the neglect of definition, his subjects become unequivocally and unerringly exactly what he intended them to be. He does the same thing in this one, titled, very simply,
Iris.
What? What irises; there aren't any. Look; do you see how many there aren't? Particularly the one in the upper right-hand corner; as far as I can tell, it's the most not there of all.
I was positively giddy by the I came to this one; drunk on impressionist magic and high on images I could only begin to grasp. This piece pulled awestruck, stinging tears from my gut, and they balanced on my eyelids and made it impossible to see. I swiped them away and looked closer. Beautiful. His harsh, direct emphasis of the leaves and stems actually forces you to look at the blue blobs, which can't in any sense be called petals. They are blobs; they are dead on. There are no irises, and because there aren't any, that's all you can see. The suggestion -- again, manipulating the light so that it hits the apex of the petal-shapes with full force, then creating a shadow in the blob where the petal would dip down, valley, and be hidden from the light by the hilly part of itself near the pistil -- this is what creates the flowers.
I shivered with delight, wriggling impatiently as I waited for the teenager and her mother next to me to move on, so that I might gaze in adoration at this piece for a while -- weep a little more, if I wanted.

Art. It's moving, inspiring, breathtaking, etc. There's so much to express, yet so little that can be said about it. I love the way it makes me feel; I love doing my best to delve into an artist's psyche, and I love the exasperation that comes with concession of defeat. I love looking at a piece and trying to coax out motive, emotion, or message, and being blocked at every turn; I love the frustration because it provides a means to understand and interpret the piece in a whole new way every time I lose. I know I'm wrong. I know I have no idea, no clue, what the artist was thinking or feeling when he put paintbrush to canvas; but I also know I'm right. I know what I think and what I feel when I gaze at a work of art and feel that tiny, still tendril of my being that is entirely attuned to the aesthetic, that usually rests so quietly deep inside of me, snap to attention and do its best to absorb every detail and every emotion flowing into it from the canvas or the marble. I love it; and most of all I love that just maybe, that's all it requires of me.

“People discuss my art and pretend to understand, as if it were necessary to understand, 

when it is simply necessary to love.” ~Claude Monet

And, because he is beautiful, here is More Monet at AIC. Enjoy.