‎"Learn from every single being, experience, and moment. What joy it is to search for lessons and goodness and enthusiasm in others." -Eve Carson

A Summer of Ambiguity

Just like Voldemort learned when he had his body back that life is messy and complicated and that killing people doesn't make them like you, it just makes them dead, I learned some things this summer. This being the second year of the blog, I figured it's time to start some traditions. A Summer Well... Spent meet A Summer of Ambiguity. But I can't make you a nice list because this summer wasn't like that. And this post might be helpful to no one but me. To address that possibility, please scroll down to the last comment and pray for me, that I may be a more faithful disciple who doesn't need an entire summer to learn to love again.

If there's one thing that I've learned, it's that I like to define my life and that my life likes to defy definition. What would I want to call this summer? "The half-summer", where I spent some time being me at home and some time being me at college? "The summer of continuations", where I let go of nothing and simply held on tightly to all the wonderful things that have passed my way? "The summer where I took that online class, when I went to Tennessee and took two trips to Boone, when I stayed half at home and half in Chapel Hill and got to see kids from the camp I used to work at"? Yeah, that'll fly. That's a great definition. But that's not what the summer is, it's just the events that make it up. "The summer when I watched the all the episodes of The Office and bought a subatomic physics book thinking that I'd actually excel at a physics class for once. Hahahahah. Hahah. Hah."

Maybe "The summer when I learned how to depend on people." I stayed with a wonderful roommate when I came back to Chapel Hill, a sister of mine who waited patiently on the rent and woke up in the middle of the night for a panicked text and let me play Zelda all the time. The apartment was in Glen Lennox which is far enough from campus to depend on a bus or on rides from other people. It's weird how it gets easier and easier to ask people for things even though you know you can't repay them. It's frustrating how easy it is to take money even when I don't need it to get by, just to allow me to have the same level of luxury that I've had in the past. Yeah, things would have been tight this summer, but they should have been tighter. I should have been better. I've been depending on people's kindness for rides places, for shower curtains and white shoes, for mouthpieces and shorts and shirts and all those random little things that you don't even know that you forgot. I need to be more responsible, but at the same time, I am uniquely blessed by wonderful friends who gave me the opportunity to learn these lessons without ever seriously endangering myself.

Or maybe "The summer when I learned about home." I learned a little bit about where I'm coming from this summer. I love my bed at home, have I ever mentioned that? I talk about it a lot. It's my substitute lover- I always look forward to sleeping with it. I love my room with the glow in the dark stars that me and my brothers put up back when it was their room. I love love love having my own bathroom and my own space and I love my horribly out of tune piano that I got from my church and the dresser and vanity that I got from my relatives in Pennsylvania and I love how my room really seems like it would be my room. I love my creaky old house (I'm going to sound like the "I like my whole house!" girl for a little bit) and I love my yard and I love my family and I love my church and I secretly love how it sounds like that place I'm from and not the place where I am. And I love Camp Joy. But you all knew that. I also had to a community profile project for my education class and so I drove around and took pictures of places around the area and learned that Hildebran connects to Connely Springs and I did not know many of these things beforehand. I also found these awesome abandoned houses out in the middle of nowhere. One day, when I'm a photographer/writer and still living in my parents' attic since the basement is taken, I'm going to go back and take pictures and make book out of them:

These kinda don't have much to do with back home, but sometimes when I think about my life, I think about these old dead houses. At first, I was really angry when I saw them, thinking, "Who let people let their houses fall into disrepair like this? Who didn't value the beauty they'd been given to leave the paint to bleach and chip away and the land to care for itself? Why are these houses here?" Then I started to imagine the things you could do in houses like this- there's maybe ten or twelve abandoned houses in the middle of nowhere by a body of water. You could go fishing or play an epic game of hide-and-go-seek or sardines or tell ghost stories in the dark houses at night before running outside to take solace and comfort in the stories of the stars above. In short, it could be wonderful, if you were in the mind to let it be. And then I thought of what these houses might be like restored and I wondered who was at work here and if they were serious about the signs they left up. Then again, it was Burke county, so they were probably waiting for me and my green minivan to pull away quickly and so I remembered that no matter what something can be, you can't separate it from what it is now. And I don't like stories about falling, I like stories about redemption, about how people are a work in progress. And so I think I stared at these dead houses with a fascination that one can only have when looking at oneself and I drove away because I couldn't see anyone working.

Maybe it's "The summer when I learned things about myself." I learned which things mean something to me and the things that mean something to you are indicators of who you are.I also learned what's on the periphery of my life. I love random sci-fi shows. I watched all of Firefly and then Serenity (WASH!) and then I watched all of the revived series of Doctor Who and some of the older ones and I learned that these things are not vital to me. I love them, but I can live without them. I visited camp and I worked at a camp and I went on tour and I like reprisal roles. I like doing things again, I like being familiar, I like having that power of knowledge that makes me in some ways better than you and in some ways not. I like having keys, but I like doors that are open better.I like ice cream. I hate scooping ice cream. I love to talk, but silence was wonderful for me. The longest conversation I had with God was on the rock face side of a mountain, interrupted by a woman trying to steal my flip flops and a kid walking more boldly toward the edge than I ever will. The conversation ended abruptly with worry over a friend's ankle but I was kinda okay with that. I must be the only person to climb a mountain and feel like a giant.

Give me the stars and I don't feel small. I know I am, but I don't feel it. I watch my shadow stretch down the grey of the mountain and my soul shrinks in shame because my pride swells as the area of land that I block from the light grows. I didn't read any this summer and I learned that I am a snob when it comes to the difference between movies and TV and books. I feel much less accomplished than last summer. I'm sure no one else is inwardly squirming when they say that they had a good summer. I just don't want to look at myself after this summer. And that's something to know about yourself as well.

Listen, it's all tied up in a mess, you know? I am inextricably connected to people who I may never see again in a web that's just as complicated as convoluted group of connections that makes up my daily acquaintance. And I'm never going to look at the sky and just see lights ever again, because there's so much up there that people have seen and then beyond that, there are just things that we can't see, that we have to tell machines to look at for us because these things had to be revealed to us in time and I can't decide if this was all good, but it must be. I might not be able to tell you how I have such faith that despite everything, there is still good and so much good, but I imagine that it's the same way that Toulouse knows about love.

I think you can learn from everything. I leave you with an extended football analogy (spoilers), because summer ends, as it always does, with fall. Sometimes you spend months being excited about something only to find out that it's not as great as you thought it would be. Maybe someone ruined it for you. Maybe things continued to get worse, until something like this is really the only thing that can make you laugh about the whole situation (dear goodness, and it was made by a State fan, so you know my soul has to be dead for me to be able to share that). Still, through all of this insanity and all of this doubt, you still stick with it, because, hey, it's Carolina. You are not proud of what's happened, you wish that someone would have told these people what was expected of them when they agreed to wear that blue jersey, but what else can you do? You hop on a bus to Atlanta knowing that you're missing ten starters, fully aware that you're probably shucky-darn out of luck. No, you probably don't deserve a miracle. You expect less and less from the team as the day goes on. At the end of the first half, you want to pull out your hair and the one sane part of you wonders what football demon has possessed you because you probably scared your freshmen out of their minds. But really, 3 touchdowns in 6 minutes? I don't care if the entire defense had to stay in Chapel Hill, you must have played football at least once in your life, you ridiculous... And so you shut down for the third quarter, because if you can't say something nice, you better stop yourself from screeching obscenities.

And then, after a scoreless quarter, there is a beautiful score. You hold your breath, because light is peaking through again. Oh, by the name of everything that is beautiful, they score again. And by some kind smile from above, they get the ball back and it's close enough and you don't dare breathe because then they might not pull it out. Part of me wants to leave you there, on the six yard line with less than ten seconds on the clock. I don't want to let you see the ball slip through Pinalto's hands because that doesn't make a great story. But you have to know that that's how the game ends, 30-24, with a one in the loss column and a long trip back home. But the score isn't the point here. The point is that people deserve to have their faith rewarded. The point is that you should focus not on the people who've let you down, but on the people who lifted you up. Because somewhere out there, there are people who are going to renew your faith in the good things in this world and though you might feel dead on the inside and sick and tired of all of the mud that is slung around, you need to know that people, though imperfect, don't have to be bad and that they can get better. They can surprise you with wonderful things.

For a year, maybe, for me, the church has been Carolina football. I've been frustrated, excited, disappointed, angry, all of these things. And now, I'm hopeful. The problem with having to see God through the church is that the church can really suck it up sometimes and the entire world will mock it or be angry at it and you have no good defense for it, and you loose sight of the Good Things. I've wandered and I've waited and now, I'm ready to see Good Things again. I'm even ready to work for them. So even if this summer was only purposed for me to see this analogy, I'm glad it happened.

Sorry to be selfish.

Shoulda Coulda Woulda

I'm one of those people who wants to know what they should do so they can go do it. These people are the natural teacher's pets and overachievers because someone somewhere along the way figured out how to manipulate us by making us think that we should do everything we can to help out everyone we can in every organization that we can find. What blows my mind is that this is not what I have to do, it's not something like eating or breathing or singing, but rather it's something that I'm supposed to do, that I should do to be successful in life or fulfilled or something. Nobody made me be in the band, nobody made me be in SAI, no one forced me to play handbells, no one pressured me into joining a committee, no one pushed me into one organization over another. No one's making me consider my future and plan it out. It's just what I should do.

It's an interesting line between should and must. There are quite a few things that I must do now because I'm so invested in them, I don't know that I have a choice in the matter. I mean, a while ago, say three years or something like that, I'm sure I had a choice but now I'm so caught up in the workings of the organizations that if I left it'd feel like a cog was missing from the clockwork and I'd be so jealous I couldn't stand it. I'm trying to remember that I'm replaceable, because everyone is, but I love this feeling of necessity and importance. I'm in charge of things. I get to decide things and do things. I get to guide and lead and help shape and form and I love that. I'm terribly afraid that if you take away the frilly words, I just like being bossy. And I like it so much that taking away all these things that I should do would be pulling the crutch out from underneath my recently restored happiness. Admittedly, it hasn't been all that recent and the injury wasn't that bad and so the crutch should not be as necessary as it is but there you are. [Blogger's note: I promise I'll deal with things more directly in the future. I'm even getting a little confused with the extensive imagery.]

So I do all of these things and I fill up my calendar and I feel quite accomplished because I should be doing all of this. I should be living my life to the fullest because I will never have another opportunity like this again. I should be enjoying every last toll of the bell tower because it will only be around in my life for another school year. I should have meetings and plans and things because that's how I'm going to leave a mark on this wonderful place that's left such a mark on me. I should be doing all of this and I am and at the end of a busy day, I'm smiling because this is what I'm best at. I'm accomplishing things. I should be doing this.

But there are also these other things that I should be doing that I am not and the little guilt monster that lies hidden in my stomach jumps when I think about these things. I should be looking at applications. I should be writing essays. I should be asking for letters of recommendation. I should have this all figured out with a plan, because that's what you do when you're a senior, is you have a plan and you follow it through and you have a backup plan and you follow that through if you need it and at the end of the day, you're really just planning what stuff you can take with you out of your parents house because you are actually moving out because suddenly it's May and you're on the field in Kenan at graduation and the real world is actually at your door step because you cannot hide in college any longer and what are you going to do since everything you know and know well has now become obsolete knowledge because there's no more time for you here and there's going to be another freshman turned senior in your place in four years and where will you be in four years aaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheout. Sigh. And I know that other seniors don't have it figured out either, but you're supposed to, you know, successful people have a plan and I am a successful person and I have a plan.

I do have a plan. In my other window of Firefox there are several tabs concerning certain theological schools and I have a couple of dates boxed in on my calendar for visits to schools. I'm also finishing all those exciting education classes and student teaching in the spring, so the backup plan is in full swing as well (though I feel like you shouldn't teach in a school unless you have a passion for teaching in a school and I can't say that I've grown that yet so I shouldn't teach, right? Right). I like to daydream about staying right close to Chapel Hill because I am in no way ready to leave this place yet. I love North Carolina. I love our green state and our mountains and our beaches. I love walking in the quad listening to the music of southern accents as they float along in the general symphony of speeches that only campus affords. I'm not sure if I could be happy anywhere else. It's funny, four years ago I was looking at out-of-state colleges because I had no desire to be stuck here forever. Some things change. And even if that daydream bursts at the seams, I still have plans for other places and it'll be good to go somewhere different and experience a different life and all that jazz. The problem is, I'm happy here. I don't want anything else. I'm one of those seniors who is stolidly ignoring graduation day because I think my heart might actually break. I should move on to other things and I do have a plan for that. But this might be the first time in my life when what I should do is different from what I want to do a large, painful way.

I start to think about this post-college life thing and I want to do something impulsive like move to a large city and become a bartender and spend my days reading and writing and sneaking peeks at astrophysical journals. Sometimes you want to go where no one knows your name. I want to be an effing mystery for ten seconds, some enigma that no one can figure out, from the name that I use to the place I say I'm from. I want to run away and find myself and see if there's anything to me beyond the choices that I make and the plans that I lay down.

Then again, I have never been a nomad- where I'm from is who I am. I have the feeling that I'd scream North Carolina even if I went to live in Illinois or California or Alaska. There are chunks of me that are unexpected, like chocolate chips in pancakes, but all in all, you'd look at me and say, Yup, that's a pancake. Most of me is happy with that- what would I be if I wasn't this? But I have this little restless part of me that thinks that adventures are still to be had, that thinks you should run out your door without your handkerchief or walking stick because life only happens to those people who live and I want to live. But I look at me and I see a pancake. Pancakes don't have adventures. Well, Pancakes might have adventures, but he's led a much more exciting life than me. But the point is that I'm not sure that I'm suited for the outside world. I'm a church mouse. Some people are just like that.


But.


I'm not sure that I should be.

CTOPS Kvetching Board

Dear CTOPs parents:

1) If there's a couch in front of a door, chances are it doesn't actually open. Stop trying the handle behind my couch in Graham Memorial.

2) Authentic Chapel Hill cuisine? Top-O and Peppers. Authentic college kid food? B-Skis. Where you actually want to eat lunch? How should I know? I stopped trying to understand people's tastes a long time ago.

3) Stop judging me because I'm taking a class during the summer. I didn't fail, I'm just making time for my excessive extracurricular activities, which are much less important in college than they are in high school because grad schools want to know that you're smart. Aaaaahhhhh I don't want to decide my life!!!!!

4) I woke up at 6:45 this morning to catch a bus to come work so I can pay my rent. Don't judge me as I nap on the most comfortable couch that higher learning has to offer.

5) You should file a complaint because no one told you where the admissions office is. You should grow a brain cell or two because you can't use a campus map and have an amazing knack for finding yourself a good twenty minute walk from where you want to be.

6) I dearly hope your child is smarter than you are.
 As a side point, I hope you know that college is a world unto itself, with its own humor and own existence, really (see http://survivingtheworld.net/ for proof). Your child will thank you for the money you're spending not only to introduce them to this new world, but also to hopefully better prepare them for the job that doesn't await them after graduation.

7) I had hoped I'd be back longer than two days before you swarmed my campus and took away my happiness.

Carolina Testing and Orientation Programs. So much more scarring when you're working them than when you're attending them.

Make Every Place Love

[I don't think this one needs a warning. Maybe a strong caution?]

Love is a place. And I think I just left it.

I came back home after work and washed the last of the pool out of my hair. Don't get me wrong, it's been a comfort these past couple of shifts to have that familiar yet vaguely unpleasant smell in my nose as I wash dishes and scrub floors and occasionally serve people ice cream, but I don't love it so much that I'd keep it around. After the shower, I sat down to my computer and began searching for someone else's words to describe what it's like to love a place.

No one talks about that. Well, and then some do. But you can't quote James Taylor unless you're talking about Carolina (dark and silent late last night I think I might have heard the highway calling) and no one seems to really talk just about loving a place in general, they just talk about the place they love. So I guess three pages into "place quotes" and one awesome youtube video with Ten/Rose and the song Love is a Place later, I'm stuck having to find my own words to describe what it's like to love this place.

I just don't want to fail at telling you what it felt like to leave camp for the last time this summer, knowing it's the last. There's the camp sign that says Never will I leave you. Never will I forsake you and I couldn't even look at that. Pray for a thousand years that He'll be faithful to that for these wonderful little people who take my heart away. I'm hiding under my sunglasses with the air conditioning on high and the green leafy dark of a Thursday afternoon out in the woods is peeking in through my windshield. It seems like every curve of the road that's taking me away is fighting against me. There's this tug on my stomach, something pulling me back all the time. I absolutely hate that this isn't the first time I've felt that.

I thought about saying good-bye to everything. I'd drive up to the gazebo (What's a ka-see-bo? One of my favorite camper questions) and sit on the swing and just feel the Spirit move the air around. I'd walk into the back of the Lamb's Chapel and the Shepherd's Shed and I'd pay my respects, remembering so many different songs. I wonder which ones I'd pick to play through my head as I find the exact corners that I see God in these spaces. I'd be tempted to walk up to the cabin, but I know it's not mine now. The poster I left two summers ago is as much a part of the upstairs wall as the second half of the God is Great! poster that's lived there ever since I've seen the place, but I can't take the cabin away from the counselors who stay there now. And I'd want to say good-bye to the campfire and remember its laugh. I'd want to go to the pond and feel its peace once again and go to the creek and let its waters freeze my bare feet one more time. I'd smile at the pool and the field where my campers fell asleep as I spent entirely too much time looking to the stars and not to them.

That place is never empty. It's like the ghosts of campers past float around and rustle the leaves (Have you ever seen a tree laugh?) and whistle through screens and windows. "There is nothing like returning back to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered" - Nelson Mandela. Even though I know it's not, I feel like camp is eternal and changeless. The faces change, the staff comes and goes, but if you told me God was hiding in one place, this would be my first guess. He touches somewhere and the feeling remains. You could take away the cabins and the road and the pool and the barn and camp would still be there.

OK, this is dumb. But how else do you pay tribute to the place where you grew up? What else do you say to commemorate four summers (five summers if you count where my brain was last summer... six if you count the all-too-short time that I spent there these past three weeks)? Beautiful souls. Maybe it's a trick of the light out there, but I feel like anyone who walks in there has a beautiful soul again, no matter the mess we make of it when we walk out.

Listen, I just wanted it to know how much it meant to me. The summer before my freshman year, I went to CTOPs in the middle of the summer, in the middle of camp. While I was at orientation, my heart was at camp, for a thousand confused reasons, and for a thousand more clear ones, and I spent my free time writing notes of encouragement to the staff members that I'd give to them when I got back in a few days. Now I don't think my senior year will be long enough to fill my heart with enough Chapel Hill to last me a lifetime (goodness knows I'm going to try) but I really think in some weird way that I've had all I need of camp, and someone determined a while ago that it had all it needed of me. Someone else needs an incubator for their soul, a reminder that God loves them too (that God really, truly, deeply, honestly, faithfully, courageously, unforgivably loves them too) and a reason to stand up for people whose legs have been knocked out from underneath them, to speak up for people whose voices have been weakened and to work for those people who deserve more out of life than life's seen fit to give them. Someone else must need a living bible to teach them the important things about faith, and the fun things about faith, and the awesome and unspeakable joys that faithfully doing work with God can bring.

Someone else must need to feel like they're worth something again.

God, take that place and make it beautiful for someone else. Keep my campers safe. Be with the staff. Work through my beaten down words to find the heart that's forgotten to praise You and make it whole again. God, I wince to see the Jesus camp that this whole story is going to be reduced to. Breathe into my life. What a miracle You'll work if You can make every place Love.

Basketball Guilt

Welcome to my morning-after. My throat is still sore and the only words that come out of my mouth come out in a raspy low register. I sit down to listen to the post-game conference and to read Adam Lucas' latest piece of wisdom and I smile and laugh because last night was wonderful. I watched my Heels play in Carmichael. I watched them win in Carmichael. I shouted the words to Victory and I swayed with pretty much complete strangers singing Hark the Sound.

Friends, let's talk about basketball a second. It should make some of you happy, seeing how the mighty have fallen. It might make you angry, knowing that the win last night was something that just happens in Carolina basketball. It's one of those games where the fans are loud, the refs are as terrible as the fans shout that they are, and the team plays until the very last second of the game. We haven't seen anything like that, not for a while. And it's good. It might not be the NCAA, but the National Invitational Tournament is still post-season play for a team that might not have started to play until after their season is over. It's a second chance, a fresh start as Marcus said. Everyone deserves a chance to fly. Again.

But, see, redemption doesn't make the rest of the season go away. They still screwed up against Duke. That stings. They still dropped the Georgia Tech game. Three times. Three times. They still lacked intensity and focus and they still drove me insane. People can still point to this season and the blemish will still be there. Even Roy is disappointed, though I think more in himself than in the team. My mom said that Dean Smith knew how to make a team a team and that just hasn't happened this year. The last thing Roy said at the press conference was something like, "It's my job to get them to play better and I just haven't done a good enough job at that this year." He was talking about the team caring, that when you play Carolina basketball, you have to have a passion for what you're doing. You have to have a passion. You, the player, the one on the court. And Roy is sure it's his fault that his players don't have a passion.

After I spent last night abusing the refs, I turned the abuse around. I gave up yelling at basketball games for Lent. Lenten vow broken. Massively. It's like giving up chocolate and then going and stealing all three of the chocolate Easter bunnies that your parents had bought for your family and eating them in one binge night with a chocolate milk shake to wash it down. Pent up basketball related things just poured out of me for hours last night, often leaking over into my description of the rest of the world. Please, if you have any kind of respect for me and don't want to loose it, stay away from me during a game. I'm a terrible person. And I carried that conception into the rest of my life.

I wonder if you know how much guilt is associated with this season? I broke a vow, that really I made in order to address the beast inside of me but was completely ineffective in that regard. I care. A lot. And I shouldn't. I don't know who this person is that screams at the television and at the court, but I can't just out of hand reject her. She's a part of my season. I just wish that she could apply her adrenalin rush to things that actually help. Not that Carolina basketball doesn't help. I think the world would be a much worse place without Dean Smith. But me yelling at a game doesn't feed anyone, it doesn't encourage anyone, it doesn't free anyone. The only positive consequence is that I get my anger out in one place so I can think about everything else, but even then, there are some things that are worth getting angry about.

I came in hoarse from the game and my roommate asked me if I had been yelling. I said some expletive and then yes. And she joked and said that Jesus died a little just then. And I said that Jesus had been dying since about the 12 minute mark of the second half.

Let's face it. Jesus has been dying my whole life.

I want to make Him live.

Breaking News!

Blah, sorry with all the links, I have three posts in my head and none on the computer screen. However, as this article is a definition of my life (the next to last paragraph about women hitting the library, that's the story of my life), and as it sets up well the disgusting and pathetic endeavor that having a nice day on single's awareness day always is, I figured I'd share with the world. I can't say enjoy, but read away!

Thanks, NY Times, I needed someone to tell me this.


"Where are all the single, attractive, straight guys hiding?
In Narnia!
Isn't that in a closet?"

"Cold Snap"

Dear Adam Lucas,
I want your job even when the team is bottom in the ACC and losing frustrating games. If this is not devotion, I don't know what is. Please continue to be awesome, and one day, let me know how you got to where you are.
Love,
Addie Jo


70-74.

Please Tell Me I'm Not Destined for Apologetics

To avoid getting emotionally involved in the slaughter that is occurring right now on my television (gotta hate those orange teams), I'm going to write. You know, trade one passion for the other. Because I got something on my mind and I don't think it's going to go away.

So I'm in this religious studies learning community, right? It's supposed to be supporting a pluralistic way of life. I didn't know what pluralistic was at the beginning of the year and I had to look it up. Religiously, it's the view that all religions are equally valid, without anyone holding the market on truth and rightness, and it pushes coexistence. Now, currently, I'm all for coexistence because, as Voldemort said in a Very Potter Musical, "You think that killing people would make them like you, but it doesn't. It just makes them dead." And then it makes their descendants bitter and then any chance at reconciliation and understanding is put off for millenniums, and that only if neither one of you does anything to make the other mad.

But, you know, I'm realizing more and more that I don't think that all religions or lack thereof are equally valid. Now, before you go hating on me, I'm not going to judge anyone on their religion. I'm reading God is Not Great by Christopher Hitchens and he said something like religious people can't leave other people alone. Maybe this is one of my failings as a Christian, but I can leave people alone. If there is not something about my life that sets me apart, that makes me different, something that I have that you don't that you want, if you are completely content in your religious choice, then I'm not going to offer any advice or leave you with any statements. Now, I might pray for you, but that's between me and my God, who is working in you and has been working in you since the day you were born, whether you want Him to or not.

I'm not going to sit back and bash all other religions. I'm not. I think there is value in different religion. I don't think that they're all basically the same, but I do think that things like doing good and searching for truth and being moral are all of merit. I like the Muslim's devotion and I think the practice of praying five times daily is a beautiful thing. I like the Buddhist meditation idea. I love the bittersweet faith of Judaism, the Psalm that comes out of exile, the way of living with a life that's not going to treat you right. And honestly, I love seeing beauty and wisdom in every day life and thank God you don't need a knowledge of Him to see that there is good in this universe.

I said something tonight that I couldn't believe once it left my mouth. We were going around saying our favorite spiritual quote of the moment and the guy next to me quoted LBJ: "Sometimes you have to hunker down and take it like a jackass in a hailstorm." Solid. True. When we were explaining to the larger group the most talked about quote in our smaller group, we had to explain what the group liked about it. Our group used the LBJ quote because it was funny and I happened to justify it by saying, "You know, it's good to hear things like God created the heavens and still cares about man, but sometimes you just need something practical for your everyday life, you know, step down into the real world." Callous. Dismissive. The guy next to me said, "My thoughts exactly."

We went onto the next group and one of the guys I know is Christian said, "Well, I don't know if I can agree with that last statement." They went on and talked about their quote ("Those who don't know how to weep with their whole heart, don't know how to laugh either." -Golda Meir, former Israeli prime minister) and the meeting carried on. I shook my head. I don't know if I can agree with my last statement either.

You know, I was just saying it to be rational. I was just saying it to make a Christian seem like a reasonable human being instead of someone who's got too much heaven on their minds. I'm a practical person. You can't feed your children on God and the heavens, try as I might later in life. And John Wesley was a proponent of meeting people where they are. That's totally what I was going for, right?

Incorrect. I was saying something that I knew would be popular. It was accepting. It was understanding. It was me being a pansy and denying what I should have said. The take home message from Passion is that it's all about God's glory. God is glorified in many wonderful things. In every beautiful things that a human being can do, God is glorified. In every preserved bit of this great creation, God is glorified. In the pristine, thankfully untouchable stars, God is glorified. It's all about the Creator who loves us with an unfathomable love and we only get our significance through that.

And that's not accepting of all other religions. I need that glory in my life. I don't think I realized how much my religion needs a heart, how much I have longed to long after God until I went on Passion. It's good for that. It's also good for falling into the emotional high trap and thinking that loud music and good speakers is what modern Christianity is all about. But the people who spoke I truly believe really meant what they were saying and really believed in God. Really believed in God and His great ability to redeem and restore, to prepare and repair. And it's hard to sit back and say that there is meaning in atheism. I love the idea in The Shack, that all roads don't lead to Jesus, but He will walk down any road to find you. He's searching for you more than you could ever search for Him. God wants us more than we could ever want Him.

Sorry that this has just been a rant, but, goodness, I am frustrated by people who believe that they are their only god because I think the bigger picture of humanity forever escapes them. I am frustrated by my willingness to concede to everything when I know that one day I am going to have to stand up and say what I really mean and that means that the lies will come forward. Listening is good. Understanding is good. You can't take Christ to people without knowing where they are. But it's God we're talking about here. I'm not going to let Him be lowered in my speech for the benefit of someone else's confusion.

Call me crazy.

Call me a Christian.

But I Don't Want to Be Quiet

Saturday, I vacuumed up the needles and shards of colored reflective sharpness from the tree, dumping the last insignificant bits of Christmas out of the house in a pine smelling hurricane of dust and ornament debris. Happy end of Christmas break.

I had a 4 o’clock exam on the last day of exams. I walked into Phillips for my 12 o’clock around 11 and walked out afterword to miss the snow and eat pizza and walked back in around 3:30. The world got dark, my weekend plans at home were ruined by a lack of desire to drive up the mountain in the snow and I followed friends around until the Love Feast came Sunday evening and then we drove home. Me and my little brother bought the tree on Tuesday. Between decorating it and taking it down, I spent less hours with this tree than any before it.

Christmas doesn’t really start until I get home. I force my little brother to help me get the boxes down from the attic (that was a party this year with my back), I ask incessantly about the tree and I decorate it and the living room by myself after my older brother puts the lights on the tree. I got home really close to Christmas this year and I left the day after. I missed my tree time. At least one night a year, I turn on the best oldies station I can find and sit and watch the lights of the tree in the window, thinking about the reflection of my life in the music. It’s sappy and wonderful and my soul feels more (or less) human after my time with the tree.

But I just feel tired now, I think. Package me off, shove me in a freezing stadium to watch another great Carolina loss, drive me up to Chapel Hill to play basketball game after basketball game, drive me back and pack me up to head off to Atlanta, bring me back and watch me sleep. I learned a good little bit about driving in Charlotte and about the stadium there. I learned that it is not the best idea in the world to leave me by myself for the vast majority of a couple of days and so shall be seeking company for most of the rest of my life. I learned that I missed my best friend, that I’m insanely jealous of her life in Chile and that it’s not just my father that has a pile of physics questions to ask me. I learned that three nights with 5 hours of sleep pushes a person to the exhaustion point but not to the habitual life of the living dead that a week does. I learned that I listen to sermons and I respond better to worship music when I can worship through a sermon. I learned that January 2nd 2010 was a palindrome. And I learned that even though my heart breaks, I can walk by the pile of packaging that I know is a person frozen more deeply to their bones than I am by the piercing cold snap wind. That tires me.

I loved going on Passion. It was 21,000 Christian peeps descending on Atlanta for a Friday night, Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday morning of worship and concerts and workshops. Wonderful. We had this thing set up downstairs where you could package bibles, pay for translations, fund small business loans for women in South America, help pay for a well, package meals, do so much more. We did great stuff there. But we clapped for it like we had cured cancer or solved global poverty. And I’m not saying that we should expect to do something like that, just a bunch of college kids in town for one weekend, but then again, shouldn’t we? Should we really limit God like that?

And I’m guilty too. I’m jealous of the time I didn’t have for my weakness, pretending that time spent in front of the bright bulbs of a Christmas tree is more important than the host of other things that I could be doing. I was recently told that I needed to be more positive about myself and I’ve thought about that. You know, humility is easy when you don’t think much of yourself, but they normally call it self depreciation at that point. I feel like it’s time for an inspirational turn-around statement. Too bad I don’t have one.

Like, I feel like I should be eternally proving myself to God, but that’s not what I’m doing when I feel like doing good in the world. It’s like I’m driven to it. I hardly ever plan on it and it’s generally given out of my ridiculous overabundance. And I don’t talk to Him because I feel like I have to (and my stomach twists around a little at the remembrance of days when I have), I talk to Him because I need to. Sometimes I need to get out anger and frustration and sometimes I need to work something out in a prayerful state because it’s a little easier to see the lies then. Oil and water. And thank goodness I’ve gotten to the point where I can’t give Him lip service. If I can’t mean the words of a hymn or a song, I won’t sing it. I don’t think the little bundle of resentment and questioning is much better but I won’t pretend around the One who knows it all anyway. I want to be honest. It’s a new feeling.

One of my favorite little things about being home is that my windows in my room face west and in the afternoons light streams in, glorious and gracefull, and the frigid white and navy of my room warms up and admits a heart again. It’s not the cold morning light that demands faithfulness and exacts guilty penance on the tired soul, it’s light that’s grown up, having lived a full day, to send love back out on the world just when it needs the confidence and strength to face the light’s absence. And there may come a day when I understand morning light, but I’d rather be afternoon light. My brain might say that the added redness is just the scattering of the longer wavelengths of light in the additional atmosphere that the light must travel through to reach my eyes later in the day and it may explain the weakness of the sunlight on a winter’s morning due to its changed angle and intensity on the ground and it may object to even presenting the idea that afternoon light is older, as if the photon that finally got released from its long journey from the sun’s fusing core is any different in the evening than in the morning, but my heart tells it to shut up just about now. One of these days, our understanding of nature is going to stop being just science and the afternoon light will help us see the worth of everything, everyone.

Ever see the brown of a normal North Carolina winter as the earth sleeps and the sun bathes a river with its last light of the day? Quietly glorious.

It's OK, Chick-Fil-A, I didn't want to go to your dumb bowl anyway

Because I'm going to be in Atlanta in two days! I'm going on Passion 2010, and, as David Crowder has been involved with Passion stuffs, I figured I'd post some lyrics which make me feel better.

There’s a darkness in my skin
My cover’s wearing thin, I believe
I’d love to start again, go back to innocent
And never leave

Don’t give up now
A break in the clouds
We could be found

There’s nothing wrong with me
It’s just that I believe things could get better
And there’s nothing wrong with love
I think it’s just enough to believe

Don’t give up now
A break in the clouds
We could be found

Rescue is coming
Rescue is coming
Rescue is coming
Rescue is coming

And there’s nothing wrong with you
And nothing left to do
But believe something bigger
And there’s nothing wrong with love
I know it’s just enough to believe

Don’t give up now
A break in the clouds
We will be found

Rescue is coming
Rescue is coming
Rescue is coming
Rescue is coming now

-Rescue is Coming, David Crowder* Band

Two Points

Welcome to basketball season.

Can I tell you what a miserable day it is outside today? It's rainy and cold but not cold enough to deliver the promised snow. I haven't seen the sun since yesterday and the trees shake bony fingers at me as I watch the wind push their bare branches around. It's miserable, borderline depressing. Any day that makes you grateful for artificial lighting and an allergy-inducing heating system has to be miserable.

Now Tuesday, that was a fine night. The moon was full and high in the sky with a lovely ring decorating it as we walked out of the Smith Center, warmed by friends and a pretty great game. It was still cold, but it wasn't miserable. And of course, it helped that we won.

But you know, I'm not as upset about today's game as I could be. I mean, we're a young team and Kentucky's in the top 5 for a reason. Excuses aside (because we're not as bad as we played in the first half, as Roy said), I'm glad because it was just a 2-point loss. I'm glad because they fought back and they worked and even if they didn't get all the way there, they tried. The effort wasn't the best in the first half, but they came back from that. We didn't lose by 19. And that's my point.

Just in case you thought I was only going to talk about basketball, I'll throw in a little bit of a life lesson at the end, just to prove that I can tear myself away from our boys on the hardwood. Life can be compared to a lot of things, but my recent life was like that basketball game: it started out decent, fell completely to pieces while somebody beat me at my own game, and came back together towards the end. And, like my poor Heels, I just can't seem to win this game. No matter how I try, the attempts aren't falling the way they should and I walk away slightly dejected. But only slightly. Because I tried and because I learned. Because I fight and because I come back and because I'm not going to let this get me down forever. That makes the difference between losing and being a loser.

So, in a couple of games, if they still haven't figured out the whole turnover thing and the whole let's-make-a-gosh-durn-free-throw thing, I'm going to point back to what Roy said after the game: "This is North Carolina. We're supposed to come back. There are no moral victories in this." And there's not. But there's the chance to be better and there's the knowledge that they can come back. It's not a hopeless cause. And as everything reminds me that exams are around the corner, I need to know that life, even beyond exams, isn't a hopeless cause.

Because My Blog was Feeling Lonely

I'm a terribly inconsistent blogger. If it makes you feel any better, you're mentioned in the novel I wrote this past month. I spoke to my dear readers quite often when I couldn't for the life of me think of anything else to say. You served to be my outlet of literary analysis. Unfortunately, I feel like all my intelligence went into writing this thing (which is hardly worth reading, much less printing, though if you want a laugh bad writing and a nonsensical story line you're welcome to it- I'll fix it up one day) and so my everyday thoughts were much stupider. Some of my favorites:

Where is my notebook?

I should really give up Facebook. Right about now. Nope, not happening.

I wonder if I could give up basketball for Lent. Hahahaha.

Why do I do my best writing between 11-2 at night/morning?

Why is my best writing so terrible?

No, seriously, where is my notebook? Ahhhhhhh....

Why do I consistently fail at English?

Why is occasionally so hard to spell?

Haha. Lettuce. Haha.

But seriously, lettuce? It doesn't even look like...

Notebook? Notebook notebook notebook?

Screw physics. I'm going to drop out of college and... well, drop out of college at any rate.

Also, screw boys. They're jerks.

PS- Love of my life, you're not a jerk. You're just very confusing. Please don't walk out of my life again. Love, Addie Jo.

I hate football. And bowl games. I hate the football team. Eff eff eff. Gee.. eye...

How do you say H phonetically? ache? ... incorrect.

Maybe I left my notebook in Phillips? In Hill? At the Planetarium?

How have I never seen a complete Bond movie?

Sometimes I think people just cut their hair for attention. But mine bounces now!

Taking apart your TV is fun!

Studying for exams is not!

I always feel so productive when I write out my schedule.

And now I don't, because I haven't done a thing on it.

Blogging isn't on my schedule. Maybe I should write that down.

How does your building not have a lost and found? I need my notebook!!!!

Also, snow? Haha snow. Snow and lettuce and icicles. And two cool points for those people who are laughing right now. And two innocent points for those of you not.

And, sadly, I probs won't be blogging much until... well, when life gets less busy. So we're shooting for late April. Don't hate me. I'll probably procrastinate, so that's four posts in the next two weeks alone. Bon courage, mes amis! The time is at hand! Happy Advent, kids!


A random sign from my first group of kids over the summer. Enjoy the random.

Falling

The nature in Chapel Hill wishes us a happy fall. It's been freezing some mornings, but the trees are pretty, when the sun decides to show his face. And of course you know it's only this cold because we don't have a football game this weekend. We'll have a heat wave come Thursday. But for now, the cold that tends to seep into your bones, only banished by hot coffee and warm blankets makes me want to write.

I'm a sucker for fall, I'll admit it. I fall back in love with the world in this season. I live in the summer, but I love in the fall. That's probably what stirs up what is most likely an unfortunate desire. I want to tell stories again as the leaves change. I want to gather around a camp fire and let the ghosts that hide in my mind run free. I want to sit under a tree and watch her leaves fall as my pencil records the stories in my head. I want to give voice to the wind and life to the characters waiting in the wings. I want to be poetic, sarcastic, creative, effective, amusing, intelligent, true. I have a story that I think should be told, because it's too good to be sacrificed to the whims of my inhibitions. I have a story that I know should be told, that's been told thousands of times and hopefully will be told thousands more. And there's so much else to distract a person!

There's my religious studies class, for example, Intro to the Hebrew Bible. Did I mention that my professor, who has spent the entire semester so far convincing us that every word of the Bible cannot be historically accurate and who references Harry Potter at least once a week, is an ordained Baptist minister? Did I also mention how much hope this gives me? I mean, he said, "I'm a Baptist," not, 'I was a Baptist but now I've seen the light.' I just needed to know that it's possible to sit in light of all of these difficult issues that intense study of the bible brings up and still have a faith. It gives me hope.

Or how about Carolina basketball? Late Night this year was pretty expletively fun, I must say. It's about that time. Time for me to try to hide the fact that I adore Carolina basketball montages and their sappy music and time for me to attempt to once again keep my sports-related temper on the DL (which is going a lot better during football-- I haven't thrown my hat once). Also, I had a friend who Patrick Moody said hey to after Late Night. And I looked up at the stars as I walked up from the Dean Dome with a couple of friends and I gloried in the night and wondered what I had done to be happy again.

There's fun times with Christine and Pam, there's an awesome, awesome Birthday, there's Wesley lunch on Mondays, there's SAI (and then some more SAI and then after that I might have some more SAI), there's House, there's band, there's football, there's the planetarium and laser shows and observing next Saturday night at Jordan Lake you should totally come it'll be tons of fun and hopefully not super super cold, there's Caribou coffee and classes. All these wonderfully positive things in my world are such fantastic distractions from that fleeting urge in my soul to soar invisibly through time and the world I see to the places it will be from.

Oh, but then there's doubt. Then there's the deep questions, the Traveler Unknown that I wrestle with until the break of day, the One whose name I know is Love but I can't seem to make real. I don't understand, I don't see why when I call out through the desert, I only hear my echo. I don't see why when I seek, I don't find and I don't find and I don't find and I can't live my life like this. If I immerse myself in the night sky, will You be there? If I sing all those songs that twist my heart into pieces, that used to mean You were standing right beside me, will You be there? If I force myself back into Your words with a heart open to everything, will You find me here, speak to me, take my breath away? Will You tell me if I'm right? Will You fix me if I'm wrong? Will You love me and let me see it and show me how I can know that You really love every
one
else
too?
Will You show me how to fight for You and for justice and how to be righteous? Will You explain to me why You saved me? Will You come back to me? Will You bring me back to You? Because I've got to know if this is real, or I've got to at least find the faith to be able to live it until I know it's real. God, Lord, I've wanted to shout with joy for such a long time. Do my chains fly off, too?



Life is a tragedy full of joy.
Bernard Malamud

A Day in the Life

Scheduling may just be the bane of my existence.

It's 9 o'clock and get down off of Prometheus (my bed), stepping next on Maxwell (my chair) and landing a little less than solidly on Hades (the floor). I next walk over to my closet, hitting Paul (the shelves) with the door, possibly knocking Maurice (the microwave) and Victor (the refrigerator) a little out of place. I make sure that George (my window- Christine's is Fred) is closed before I change and make my way out the door, laughing a little at Clifford, the futon with a blue cover, whose alternate personality is the Enterprise when the red cover's around. You might say my room has a little bit of personality.

I head out across campus up to UUMC, which is a lot closer than it used to be, so coming in for morning prayer on Wednesday mornings is a lot less of a big deal. Since I don't have class until 2, I contemplate walking over to Hill to get PMA grilled cheese but decide that it's probably better to get back to my room and do some reading. I glance at the random quote of the day as I open my door- it's Beatles week this week. Then, for the next couple of hours, I dive into Joshua and Judges for my Hebrew Bible class, as well as some extra readings that have to be done before I can write my paper that's due Friday.

I start packing in a panic around 1:15, grabbing book after book off of Albert (my bookshelf) and cramming them all into my backpack. Feeling like an unbalanced turtle, I leave my room again and walk out of Grimes, behind Hamilton, behind Lenoir and in between Greenlaw and Bingham, weaving in and out of crowds in front of the UL and down, across the street in front of the Bell Tower, to the Stone Center for Reli 103. After a decently interesting lecture (my professor had on the most awesome coat the other day, so today's normal attire was a slight disappointment) at a whirlwind pace about the history of ancient Israel from the time of the patriarchs to the time of the judges (with a little bit of an overview mentioned these guys named Saul, David and Solomon, whoever they were), I motor out of Stone Center, up past the construction, through the arch in Caudil Labs and into the bottom of Dey Hall. I slow my power walk down in Dey to listen to snippets of French and Spanish as this is the more pleasant part of my marathon from the Stone Center to Phillips. Up, out of Dey, around the back of Gardner, cutting in front of Carrol while admiring the new journalism hangings between the columns and over and up three staircases to make it to the second floor of Phillips.

Ah, Phillips. Who can help but appreciate your exposed pipes and wires, your less-than-bright lighting, your freezing classrooms and your colorful personalities? I drop off my bag in 265 and rush over to the bathroom and am reminded of the kvetch I keep meaning to send in- 'You erased the bathroom graffitti in Phillips! Now where am I going to find amusement and solace in the midst of my physics induced panic attacks?' I was my hands thoroughly, because the sign on the door told me that this would stop me from getting the death plague (also know as swine flu) and walk back into class to collapse between two friends on the front row. After a decently boring lecture on the statistical probabilities involved in thermodynamics at various levels of particles, I dash out of 265 to make it down the hall to 275, where I have my Astro 291 problem solving session. We talk about the differences between frequency and wavelength in the various forms of the Planck function and get hung up on parsecs and AU in an easy question about parallax and then I leave early to speed over to the Kenan music building, walking into Symphony band rehearsal late.

I sigh a small sigh of relief- Symphony band, like bell choir, is what I do for me, the little bit of stress relief and entire lack of pressure for a couple of hours a week. Even though I utterly fail at parts of the Holtz suite in F and mess up large parts of the Esprit de Corps, even though I've played it before, I'm still a little bit happier walking out of symphony band than I was rushing in. If we had had bell choir practice, I would, at this moment, be figuring out my position and learning to read below the bass clef, since I'm (crosses fingers) switching bells. But, since we don't start until next week, I have a second to come here and give the world an excuse for my lack of contemplative thinking. In a world of emails and instant messages and texts and Facebook (and blogs), where am I supposed to sit back for ten seconds and give my heart a rest from the weight that's sitting heavy on it? Where do I go to get away from a hall that is wonderfully social yet never peaceful? Out on campus at night? To a library? To a study lounge? By the time I've got time to stop and breathe and wonder, the sun is far gone and the stars are blocked by the lights that make campus that much safer.

So I stop and I breathe and I wonder at my life. Then I dive back under the water, reading, writing, talking, thinking until there's no point in keeping my eyes open and I crawl back up on Prometheus, who may have just used the day to regrow his liver instead of the night. I think tomorrow I'll let fire burn during the day and find a chance, just some small chance, to think about better gifts to humanity.

Thundering Whispers

I've been racing in front of the storm for a while.

It's my favorite kind of weather, right before a storm. The wind picks up, huge clouds billow around, the air smells like rain and the world waits, anticipating the rain that comes to clean the ground and the thunder that comes to shake loose our hearts. I love the smell of rain, especially summer rain, coming down onto hot pavement and giving the world a momentary reprieve from the sun. It makes me feel alive, to listen to the electricity crackling in the air and let the wind blow through my hair and the rain kiss my face. I know that one day, far too soon, these things will abandon me to the deadness of the dull winter sun or the chillness of a sad winter rain. I hang onto my summer storms, running out from the dry safety of a building to dance in them, sing in them, stand in them, as long as the ground holds me up and the air lets me breathe. How much more do I hang onto those fleeting moments before the sky opens up, when you can still see a little bit of the blue heaven before the clouds cover it entirely, when the wind greets you like an old friend and challenges you to a race before the world? These things, my friends, are glorious and come into my life just rarely enough to be always welcome.

And yet, tonight I wanted to run from the storm, from any indication of a storm. The story starts mundanely, as all the best ones do- business wasn't exactly booming on Franklin and I left work early. On the way out, I passed the homeless man sitting on the bench outside of the store, almost hid my face from the two down the road because I had bought them dinner last Monday and didn't have the same means tonight and power walked down to the corner before the lightning caught my eye. My heart sped up, my chest felt tight and I'm sure a little panic flashed over my face. I cross the street and another glance up at the sky finally links back into my mind that my bike is sitting behind Graham Memorial with its seat rain-cover on, waiting on me to save it from the storm. Thunder cracks, and not too far in the distance as I speed down the other side of Franklin. On the steps of University United Methodist, the homeless man from in front of Cold Stone fluffs his newspaper pillow and settles down behind a column. At the bus stop in front of the church, the pregnant lady I served chocolate with marshmallows and roasted almonds to sits and laughs with her mother, unaware that someone behind her won't be listening to the sounds of the rain on his roof, safe from the wet, as she will be as soon as the bus pulls around to take her home.

My heart still beating entirely too fast for the simple approach of a storm, I almost fly across a darkened quad, mistaking the lights of cars going down Cameron for fireflies and wishing that there really were lightning bugs to distract my attention from their namesake. The quad is quiet- for all I know, it could just be me, the quad and the storm stealing minutes from eternity. Keys out, I unlock my bike, take off the rain cover and actually hop on, pedaling like crazy to outrun the downpour, to escape the clouds, to hide in safety from the still-distant lightning. I speed by Hill Hall and perhaps on another night I would be struck by its proud stance in the face of such a storm, but not tonight. My mind is racing as fast as my bike, jumping from seventeen to nineteen to twenty and the things I would take back and the things I would keep and everything that I would have done. I'm coasting down the small hill across the street from Phillips and Peabody before my mind takes up the idea that my fear, my urgency, my race is quite ridiculous. The thunder, right on cue, claps again, and I wake up and pedal faster.

Across Columbia, flitting by frat houses and my bike begins to feel like my noble steed, carrying me far from the troubles that chase me. Victorious, I come down a hill and turn on to Pittsboro, pedaling like a child who rides his bike fast just because he can or who stands at the top of a hill on her rollerblades, taking a breath just before she starts down, flying into the grassy bank at the bottom, speeding up on the way down just to say she did. It's the only kind of speed I indulge in these days, the kind that says that I can but choose not to, the kind that lets you feel empowered because you and nobody but you taught that bike how to fly or those shoes how to soar. I run to feel the power in my legs, not because I need to. Needed to.

Lightning flashes in front of me as I swing into the driveway by Wesley but no matter- I'm back now, I'm safe. I wonder why I don't just sit down on the picnic tables, wait for the storm to come before heading inside. I lock up my bike and suddenly the urgency's back. I fumble with my keys before opening the door in a hurry and almost run up the stairs once I'm inside. I could sit in the sanctuary and listen to the storm before darkness takes over the world, but I don't. I'm safe, inside, doing household chores for a quarter of an hour before my heart slows down and I stop listening for the rain. I don't understand my panic, the need to run away from the storm instead of just dancing in it. Storms scare us all, as kids, even if it was only the first time we heard the thunder and didn't know what it was, but I've long since learned that there are much more terrible things in the world than summer thunderstorms. Why should I want to hide from one?

I'm not courageous. Sometimes I think I'm the most cowardly person I know. But then again, I always doubted whether the Cowardly Lion was just faking when I was little. I mean, sure, the Tinman couldn't help that he didn't have a heart, poor dear, and the Scarecrow didn't have much choice, with straw for brains, bless his soul. But the Cowardly Lion never made sense to me. Where does courage come from anyway?

Storms mean change. The world is never quite the same after its been rained on. Every good story needs a storm. Maybe that's why I love standing in front of one so much- it's like reading a book when you know what the end must come out to be, but you have no idea how it will get there. Before a storm, you know that things are going to be wet, that there will be puddles to jump in, but you have no clue how the clouds are going to achieve this. Will there be torrential downpours for a few minutes or light drizzle with a good solid rain near the end? Will the wind pick up and sling the drops invasively into people or will it lie low once the rain has started, letting it drop gently onto the waiting earth? Before a storm, existence is uncertain expectation with an end in mind. I think that I would love to live life that way.

Sometimes I think the thunderclouds know the great questions in my life. Maybe I stand in front of them because I want to listen. Maybe I ran because I've heard them talking and I'm not ready to do what they say. You know, when you hear, there's no excuse not to do.

Are you going to leave Me? No? Then do you love Me? More than you know?

Then follow Me.

Where? Does it matter? You're with Me. I'm not going to let you get lost. I love you. How will we get there? You'll see. Do you trust Me?

Then come.

Champions

I want to remember this forever.

I want to smell like the smoke from Franklin Street. I want to keep the sound of the bell tower, chiming constantly for an hour after the game, in my ears forever. I want to feel the rush of the wind again, see the clouds over the moon as I walked up from the Dean Dome. I want to remember dancing to Jump Around in the Dean Dome as people rushed the court in front of a screen playing a game so many miles away. I want to remember cheering at the beginning of every Carolina possession starting at the 1:30 mark. I want to remember screaming for Bobby as he made his basket of the evening. I want to remember Tyler hugging Roy. I want to remember dancing and screaming and cheering and looking as awkward as Tyler when he came out of the game. I want to remember this forever.

This is redemption. This is seventeen points worth of victory that sprang out of twenty-eight points of defeat. Sports writers said that this game was as heart-warming as a demolition derby, and they're probably right. That didn't stop me from jumping up and down every time Wayne and Danny hit threes and screaming every time Tyler made a basket. It wasn't a gorgeous game and I'm sure some people turned it off because they could only take so much punishment. Everyone wants a close game, a good game. This is what I expected out of my team. They have worked too long and too hard for this and after four years of running sprints up and down that court, these seniors deserve a game won their way.

I'll miss them all- Mike, Tyler, Danny, Bobby (and Patrick Moody, among others). I'm sure I'll be missing Ty come this October, and maybe Deon or Ed. But tonight, they are my team. When, years down the road, someone asks me which was my favorite Carolina basketball team, I'll smile and say, 'The 2009 National Championship team.' I'll tell my kids that I was at Carolina when Tyler Hansbrough won player of the year and came back for an extra year, when Danny Green danced to Jump Around (and when he didn't), when Ty Lawson raced like a light beam across the court and when Roy Williams led a team to a National Championship four years apart. I'll tell stories. I'll inform everyone of the amazing and unappreciated of Bobby Frasor and I'll recommend that they all read whatever glorious piece of writing Adam Lucas puts out about this team. My team.

So forgive me if I talk about this for years to come, even as Roy recruits a new class and I learn new names and Carolina basketball moves on. Forgive me if I wear this Jump Around shirt to pieces and forgive me if I show off every time I wear my national championship shirt for this year. I'm not trying to be haughty or proud or stuck up or anything.

I'm trying to remember this forever.

Much better than last year

83-69.
Happy Palm Sunday, everyone!