As always (except for the time I was in Tokyo), I spent Thanksgiving in Pella, Iowa. As always, we spent the time with extended family, feasting, talking, holding a trapshoot, and playing games. What made this year unique was the unseasonably spectacular weather and the lack of mashed potato explosions.

My cousins stayed through Friday, which left time for movie watching, disc golfing, indoor swimming, dress-up playing (My grandma’s dress up box is stocked with old bridesmaid dresses that we have just recently grown into.), and pizza eating. That night, my cousins said goodbye and went back to their home.

The rest of the weekend, we did some Christmas decorating, went bowling, did a little homework, and relaxed. On Saturday night my parents hosted a party with their high school friends. On Sunday we went to church and ate a delicious dinner (carved above.) That afternoon my family and I also departed. My parents were going to have to bring me all the way to Trinity, but I got a guy we saw on the interstate to bring me.

Getting together with the extended family is marvelous. Having to say goodbye at the end of every time together makes me wish that we lived closer. It makes me daydream of us all setting up permanent residence there. Like a commune, with cousins as close as siblings, and shared resources, and more time to play balderdash together.

What a college kid can accomplish in 61 hours, starting on a Friday morning:

Go out for breakfast with cousins Matt and Laura. Eat yummy stuffed french toast and talk about Trinity.

Go to an international teaching job fair. Ask recruiters what credentials they look for. Ask about student teaching options.

Try to take a nap. Fail.

Do a little homework.

Go to a talkback after that night’s showing of A Plague of Angels to discuss theological and ethical implications of the plot.

Party at the Art Raid to Save. Listen to live performers at the open mic. Watch people knit and crochet like no tomorrow.

Drink hot apple cider. Color a picture. Buy an appliqued t-shirt. Not know how to dance. Play Apples to Apples.

Sleep.

Go to the Palos Heights Library with several friends. Get a library card. Borrow “The Very Best of Artie Shaw.”

Hang out in Alumni 221 with a few upperclassmen friends (Allison, Caitlin, Liz, and Roz). Drink hot chocolate. Talk.

Do a little homework.

Run fun errands with Allison and Caitlin. Buy roller blades at Salvation Army. Buy rice, tortillas, and tea at Trader Joe’s. Plan a
pre-Thanksgiving meal of rice and beans.

Attend a gospel choir concert. Damage my ears. Enjoy it anyway.

Do homework.

Sleep.

Congregate with Hope Church in Oak Forest. Sing. Listen. Read. Eat cake.

Do a little homework.

Have my family over. Have them bring me food and an internet cable that is long enough to wrap around the outside of the
room so I don’t have to duct tape the shorter one across the ceiling to reach my desk.

Attend Eric’s senior recital. Listen. Laugh. Hear him sing in his bass range and his soprano range.

Visit my cousins. Savor soup and sandwiches. Swing little boys around by their feet. Bounce them on knees. Bake bread with a bigger boy, the big brother. Eat pie and ice cream. Inspire Jonathan (first grader) to ask his dad if he could get a laptop too.

Ride back to campus. Sing Keith Green songs loudly. Discuss global warming.

Write a blog.

I’ve been losing my voice over the past few days. Today it was gone. I think it is on vacation in Hawaii. I think the weather from Hawaii was on vacation in Palos Heights today. We benefitted from the tourism.

So anyway, my voice is gone. I never realized how many people I chat with every day and how important working vocal chords are for those interactions. My friends thought my whispering amusing, yet they sympathized.

In a noisy environment I was trying to sign what I was trying to say. It wasn’t working. My friend intervened and said, “She can’t talk.”

“Why not?”

I tried to explain, but when they heard the first frog-croak noise they said, “Oh! You really can’t talk.” So true.

What if I could never talk again. What if I had that strange disease that systematically shuts down your vocal chords. What if there was a reason for my building interest in sign language. What if I had to decide to be an author instead of a teacher.
What if I could never sing again.

So it was forty-five minutes before class started, I had a fifteen minute presentation due, and I had no voice to speak of. That’s when I realized that the wind had slammed my door shut so hard it had locked itself and all my materials were inside.
Thank God for suitemate’s friends, bobby pins, and a sympathetic professor.

And by the way, I had a dream that I learned how to fly. It was rather easy. In my dream I thought, “Millennia ago scientists were trying to figure out how people could fly. But they gave up and made planes to fly for them. If they had only known more about aerodynamics, they would have seen how easy it is to fly just with your own body.”

Then I woke up and found out that those giver-uppers were right and that I couldn’t talk.

If you had to say what you say in a whole different way,
what would you use? 
If you had to give up something to speak,
what would you lose?
If you had a choice between flying and talking, 
what would you choose?

It’s been too long since I have written, which makes writing one more difficult because something makes it seem like I should write something profound or at least important. As if I had needed the past week and a half to gather my thoughts.

Which could be true. There is not enough time to think. We could all get more out of life if we just stopped to reflect more often. And sleep more while we are at it.

But I’ve found many chances to reflect while I am out doing things. It is not very quiet type of reflection. Kind of a “community reflection,” a bouncy ball of ideas and opinions, which can be used as a weapon, but is usually a lot of fun.

I love college. I love having all these people around. I can walk out into the hall and poke my head in peoples rooms and ask them questions and tell them what I am excited about at any hour of the day. My roommate Lori and I can talk about random topics until two-thirty in the morning. We can encourage each other and identify with each other. I have learned so much from the people I have met already this year.

I love college.

This video got an A and is now the teacher’s favorite video to show off to people in his classes. Thank you to an amazing team! Group projects actually can be fun.

There’s something about all those trees that makes the ground spring up into crunchiness this time of year. That noisy texture comes with a particular smell, which is a good smell that you’d like to keep if it wouldn’t go bad.

I’d like to keep this beautiful weather, but I know it won’t stay. Soon I won’t be comfortable without five layers wrapping me, the top one being a winter coat. I’ve heard that South stays pretty warm through the winter. I hope that the person who says that has the same definition as I do. Seventy-five is a good temperature. Eighty is good if it’s a sit-around-and-do-nothing day. But I haven’t had many of those!


Today I decided to hang out with a couple of my friends, seniors Esther and Josh, and go to Reba Place, because it sounded interesting in the email they sent out about it. But by this morning I had forgotten the details of the email (such as that it’s a Christian, largely Mennonite community in Evanston). So when we got there, I didn’t really know what to expect.
First, we did church. The service was globally focused, as in they were very aware that their congregation was just part of the world-wide body of Christ. The people were diverse and they didn’t were bonnets or aprons or black suspenders. We shared in communion with them. I shied away from the common-goblet and opted for a dixie-cup.
Afterwards there was a potluck. Mennonites cook good food. We talked about England, studies, and migration of ethnic groups throughout Chicago.

Then we went to the house where Tatiana and Chico live along with seven other young adults. We rode bikes (which they had taken off the streets and fixed up) to their garden plot which they rent from the city. We talked about our economical choices and how they affect the environment and those working in third-world countries. They shared with us some delicious cookies.
We all know that the food we eat comes from places all around the globe. What we buy at the grocery store has been shipped, using expensive resources, for thousands of miles. And it’s often still cheaper than the stuff grown locally. Which means that the laborers who raise our tomatoes so we can eat them fresh (although fakely ripened) in the dead of winter are getting paid next to nothing.

Unlike the rest of us, Tatiana and Chico allowed this information to affect there daily choices. They and their housemates eat organic, fair-trade, and locally grown food. And their grocery bills have actually decreased because they are making use of plant proteins and shopping wisely. Because meat is an inefficient use of land and energy resources, they don’t buy it.
They told us what they struggle with about communal living and what they’ve learned from their struggles. They showed us that consciously striving for holy living means being different, radical, set-apart. It’s in the definition.

What a beautiful day to sit at a picnic table in a flourishing garden, talking about things that matter with people who aren’t just talking. It makes me want to sing.