After a whirlwind tour of goodbyes yesterday and this morning (most of which were comfortably casual and callous, and a few of which were uncomfortably tearful and painfully real), I set out today for Johnson City, Tennessee, to begin an internship which will last...all summer. Not so excited about my first summer away from home, but looking forward with nervous anticipation to what God is going to do through the whole experience.

As I was driving the six hours from Lynchburg, Virginia to Johnson City, Tennessee, I passed several interesting signs that deeply impacted my inner psyche in ways that I still have not fully processed.

For example, I passed one sign on the outskirts of Johnsonville that read "Leave Johnsonville." So I did. But secretly, I thought it a rather rude sign.

Further along, as I continued to drive down the road, eating blueberries out of a carton and thinking about how driving in the mountains is a hair-raising experience at times and pondering the rudeness of the Johnsonville sign painter, I saw something else that was just as fascinating as the Johnsonville sign, albeit in a slightly more abstract sense. It was a white picket fence, with huge white painted lettering:

MYTHIC ALPACAS

My knowledge base doesn't extent to the realm of the mythical alpaca, so I texted my handy little sister, Michelle, to ask her expert opinion:

Michelle: Um. I think they don't really have alpacas. It's just a myth. But they really like alpacas, so they put up that sign...

Great. I really like tea. I'm gonna start a mythical tea farm where glass cups and china pots grow on trees...and then I'll invite all my friends over to drink imaginary liquids with me. Dude, I thought people in the North were weird...

Mother's Day Reflections

I woke up this morning feeling keenly aware of--and incredibly grateful for--the fact that nearly 22 years ago, my mother was willing to give me life. And I was brought to tears by the fact that in the decades since then, she's continued to impart life by nurturing me spiritually, preparing physical nourishment for me, and guiding me to grow academically and personally--my mom and dad are awesome, and I think the world of both of them--even more so now that I'm in this frightening balancing act which the world refers to as "young adulthood." Independence is often times a terrifying reality, but you take that for granted when you're a little kid and your parents are there to face it first and break the ice...I'm so thankful that they were.

All of these thoughts were going through my mind as I rolled over and jumped off the top bunk onto the linoleum to start the day. I was feeling pretty mushy and sentimental as I walked across the tiny dorm room to grab a washcloth from my dresser, which serves as a night stand/dressing table/dish & food storage unit, and a few other things besides. I was still a wee bit drowsy and not quite fully alert as I glanced over the random assortment of things on top of the dresser...and that's when I noticed something strange in my glass cereal bowl. I had washed it before going to bed, and left it to air dry on my dresser. And for some ridiculous reason, a centipede had decided that my bowl would be a really dandy place to camp out for the night and just make himself right at home.

Ew.

My sentimental feelings don't extend to the insect world...and I really wasn't thrilled to see this little thing...at the same time, I wasn't sure how to discretely dispose of him. I flicked the bowl. He didn't move. Rats.

So I turned the water on in the sink and let it get as hot as it would...and put my bowl in the sink. The centipede didn't seem to be ok with the hot tub concept. So he died. It was tragic.

An hour later, I was sitting in church, listening to the children's choir sing, looking around at all the beautiful women beaming beside their husbands as they sported corsages on the lapels of their brightly colored dresses...and I thought to myself what a beautiful thing it is that God allows us to live in a multi-generational context, where we have this incredible opportunity to learn from those who are older and wiser, and minister to those who are younger and filled with uncertainty. I wished quietly in my heart that my mom could have been there. I miss her.

Later still, in the Sunday school class that I attend, we were told that one of the class patriarchs had been diagnosed with prostate cancer. My heart bled for Dick and his gracious wife, Jean, as they continue to deal with this diagnosis...and I was struck by the irony of the fact that those upon whom we lean most heavily will at some point need to lean on us. I thought of all the people on whom I have leaned--sometimes desperately--throughout my life...and I was grateful and saddened at the same time. Grateful because they'd been there. Saddened because I know I've taken them for granted many, many times.

I found one of the other girls from the class crying in the bathroom. She'd been really close to Dick and Jean, and this was the first that she'd heard of his illness. I don't know her very well, but sometimes, it really doesn't matter...I put my arms around her, and we just cried together. Because sometimes, life hurts.

My mind was churning, and my heart was full as I drove home alone this afternoon. And as I sit here now, I write this with tears in my eyes and a smile on my face...because life is beautiful and complex and painful all at the same time. And because, as humans, we're broken and hurting and often lonely...and yet, in that very moment when we stand despairingly on the brink of our own personal hell, we find ourselves face-to-face with the gracious, loving God who made us and longs to redeem us, heal us, and transform us.

I'm thrilled to be alive today. I'm grateful that we're given so many second-chances to learn from our mistakes. I wish that I had always appreciated my Mom the way that she deserves, but today, I want to say to her, and to the rest of you moms out there, Happy Mother's Day. Because what you're doing matters, and it's infinitely more important than what people give you credit for. :-)

I love you Mom.

Magical moments

You know how at the check-out lines in WalMart, they always surround you with tempting little items that might lead to a last-minute impulse buy before you walk out the door with the 257 things in your cart, 5 of which you actually needed?

Yeah. They do the same thing in cafeterias. I'm not sure why they push the sweets, but seriously? I'm convinced that they do. Because in order to walk out of LU's cafeteria, after you walk the gauntlet past all of the people-watchers who just sit there for two hours every meal time watching people and commenting on their hair styles (or lack thereof), the first thing you come to is the cookie island.

As if one kind of cookie weren't enough temptation to resist, they usually have two or three different kinds--every dentist's nightmare.

And if you make it past that, then there's the icecream machine. With six different flavors. Well, actually, usually only three, but still...that's three more than zero, so...that's pretty decent.

While approximately 50% of LU students (I reached this figure by joining the people-watching crowd for an afternoon and staring at my fellow students for uncomfortably long lengths of time) successfully make it past the cookie island without snitching, only a rough 15% make it past both the cookie island AND the ice cream machine. Huge percentages can't resist the temptation to grab that little soft-serve cone to enjoy as they walk around campus. Or, in the case of a surprisingly high number of LU students, a soft-serve cone to throw at the nearest squirrel as soon as you exit the building (this is the only thing I can think of to account for the ridiculously high number of yucky ice cream cone puddles around campus).

Two days ago, I was NOT one of the 15% who exited the building without icecream or cookies. That is to say, I found myself in line for the ice cream machine. And for whatever reason, that particular day, we had some very little members joining our cafeteria, so the little dude in front of me was an adorable black boy who was maybe about six years old.

He courageously approached the machine, quaking as he faced the steely grey monster with his rather unimpressive empty icecream cone. I watched as he lifted it gingerly to place it under the spout, as he pulled down on the lever...pooof! the icecream machine sometimes attacks people and tries to blow the cone out of their hands by spewing out icecream in such high volumes at such high velocities that the person drops the cone. And this time, the ice cream machine was sure giving it a valiant effort.

To his credit, the little man held onto his cone. But he didn't end up with the great and glorious glops of icecream on top of that cone that he'd clearly anticipated in his sugary dreams as he entered the cafeteria. As I stepped up behind him, he looked up at me with a somewhat pitiful expression, unsure of what to do with his unsatisfactorily-small cone.

I had an empty cone too. And I wanted to put a little bit of ice cream in it, because I wasn't planning to plaster any squirrels, and I simply hoped to eat it. But the icecream machine was still pretty excited, so when I pulled down on the lever, it came out really fast. And I ended up with a really BIG cone...one with nice, even glops that glooped smoothly and deliciously in large even layers.

The little kid's eyes popped almost out of his head, and his mouth formed a big O.

"WOOOOWWWW!!!" he said, looking in amazement from my cone to his.

I laughed, and then I had an un-nurse-like thought (it didn't involve germs, for a change).

"Hey buddy," I said, "Do you wanna trade?"

His face lit up. "Yup! Sure!!!" he beamed enthusiastically, handing his cone over like it was yesterday's moldy toast.

I left the cafeteria laughing inside. And he probably left it with a MAJOR sugar buzz, and his mom may not be my friend for a very long time. But she has one super cute little man to call her own, and talking to him made my day.

P.S. It was really good icecream.