The world experiences change in all kinds of ways.  A tree begins as a small, unnoticeable, acorn into a symbol of strength and beauty.  An infant instantly begins growing after leaving it’s mother’s womb.  Though only touching on the physical in these examples, in my opinion, change is a part of every facet of life.  Change manifests itself in the most ordinary part of our lives and the extraordinary.  No place is untouched by the Creator who gave us, as the creation, the ability to touch and to change.  With this in mind, change is something we can never escape from, but does that make it necessarily bad?  Obviously there are numerous types of change.  Since the beginning of the world, men have strived to change their surroundings.  Historically, countries have gone to war for change.   Whether on a battlefield or in the capital, people have fought for equality and life.  C.S. Lewis likened us and our resistance to change to an egg that refuses to hatch.  “We must hatch or go bad,” remarked Lewis. 

         I flashback to earlier times when I believed change to be curse.  The change that was occurring in my young life rocked any foundation I had formed.  My vision was weak on who I was individually.  I sat on the country-styled couch as I listened, horrified, to the news of our impending move to the South on one particular day in 2002.  I didn’t know how to handle the news.  I wasn’t about to smile or celebrate the news that would completely change the life I had known for years.  I remember mom’s expression as she searched my face for any sign of hope.  The only emotion I felt was rage.  Where was the justice?  This question and others characterized my naïve thoughts.  As humans, we don’t truly learn to accept change until it slaps us in the face.  We seek to live simple lives, far from harm and the storms of life, but is that why we were created to live?  As a twelve-year-old, the end all was moving.  The bigger picture of life holds the hand of change.  There is no simple life.  This shouldn’t lead the reader to think that I believe every life should evolve into celebrity status.  What I mean is we were created for so much more than we truly understand, and that should give us an appreciation for the change that occurs in our lives while living and breathing.  

          I love my dorm room, and of course my roommates.  We lovingly call it the "Stronghold."  The girls are many the hugs are huge.  We listen well, and love each other well.  All of our beds are arranged with our different taste, and fashion.  I love the community and the relational aspect of this place.  

Above my head hangs a beautiful branch chandelier.  The long branches hang quite low and sway to any movement felt within 10 feet.  There are twinkling lights hung sporadically from random branches.   

Dishes around sprawled around the sink which smells of a pungent cleanser used only a few hours ago.  Oatmeal sticks tightly to the rim of a colorful bowl.

In the middle of our table sits a lopsided lamp that must have been purchased at a antique store.  The shade specifically tilts to the left. 

Pieces of popcorn are arranged in a very random fashion on the coffee table which signals that a movie must have been watched in the commons earlier.  There are also several editions of “People” magazine.

In the corner are pieces of luggage left from Move-In Day back in August.  There are also miss-matched boxes that are filled with Chi Alpha memorabilia dating back to the late ‘90’s.

On the central wall in the commons hangs a crinkled map that shows the expanse of The United States.  It must have been folded tightly because the lines show clearly as it seeks to separate itself from the cinder-block, white-washed walls.

There is a rug beside the long couch which has a cream, maroon design that is quite feminine in its design. 

A yellow mug contains a two day supply of tea that must have been forgotten amidst the business of a college student day.

Next to the yellow mug sits a box of “Grape-Nuts” with the top wide open—asking for someone to eat it.

The lighting of the commons signs fiercely down on its inhabitants like it is desirous to turn our eyes red from the florescent streaks shining from it.

Smelly socks lay together directly beside a computer charger in relaxed manner.

Multiple laptop computers are jumbled in a mass on the table with chords all tangled together making one big chord.

The table cloth is blue with yellow flowers found in the far-away country of China that was retrieved by a fellow hall-mate while studying abroad.

A garland of notes cards hang from rope.  Each card has a note that recounts a blessing the Lord has bestowed upon that person.  The notes were written by widows down in the Chattanooga area.

A brown bag overflows with colorful, textured yarn next to an ordinary college chair that matches the other furniture perfectly.  

The Mountain Opry

             Beginning around 8:00 on Friday evenings, a golden piece of folk-music Heaven arises.  The Mountain Opry is a good ole time with grandmas who shout "amen" to an old John Denver tune being played, smiley farmer people who've worn suspenders all of their lives with pleasure, the smell of popcorn coming from the old concession stand, and music that has the ability to fill your heart with American pride.  As one watches the people, listens to the tunes coming from a well-played mandolin, whispers sweet nothings into their dates ears, and claps to the rhythm of the strings, the spirit surrounding the old auditorium speaks to the soul. 

            Picture this: As one enters into the auditorium your senses are filled with folk smells that entice the mind and body as one finds their way to an old-rickety chair.  Once seated your eyes are unable to focus on only one aspect of the glory that is the Opry.  The event is hosted by a tall man in his seventies who probably founded the Opry with his buddies.  As he meanders up the stage steps, you can hear the strings fluttering in the next room as the first band tunes their grand-daddy’s instruments.  Over the loud speakers comes the host’s southern draw announcing the name and minor credentials of the first band to take the stage.  

            The stage is one of the best parts of the Opry.  As the first song plays, the lights coming from the front highlight the shining faces of the singers.  With smiles, nods, and tapping feet they look out to the crowd as if they were having a conversation with us.  “Little Ernest” who ain’t so little smiles revealing several missing teeth.  He shouts on about his Savior while playing his “geetar.”  He is a crowd favorite.  Additionally, every folk band seems to have a motherly-looking lady that stands a few inches shorter than men like “Little Ernest.”  She is the smiley one who plays the fiddle.  All good fiddle players seem to be women at the Opry.  And let’s not forget the smell.  The old building contains the numerous smells of old wood that has layers upon layers of history.  Burnt popcorn pervades one’s nostrils once walking through the old oak doors.  A purplish-colored mold sticks to the ceiling in one accord; however, its more endearing than sickening.  The hand-sewn curtains expel the goodness of home, and the love of a hometown wonder. 

            As you get comfortable and enjoy the music, three hours pass like a swift strum of the guitar.  New-comers may wonder at the continual interest they inhabit for this treasure of a place.

The most favored band members are the elderly who’ve played since their mama’s taught them how to walk.  They play with the passion of a revolutionary as they give all they’ve got in the fifteen minutes allotted to each band.  As time ticks on that fateful Friday night, you are transported into a world of folk that even hard-techno lovers could find enjoyable.  That being said the music is obviously the best part.  Song content ranges from the good Lord’s goodness to the girl who broke your heart down by the river with the yellow lilies shining in the moonlight.     

            As the last song ends and you realize its long after your bedtime, everyone files out of the old Opry wishing it were Friday again. 

Yakama

I'm preparing for my trip to Yakama.  The room is clean, the laundry is washed.  I can't believe its Spring break.  I pray this week is filled with many blessings, and good adventures.  I can't wait for the day that I experience the West.  Here I come!

Perpetua

           In the book of Philippians, Paul states that, “to live is Christ, and to die is gain.”  If Lucretius and Perpetua were to read this they would most likely disagree, and agree though not in the same way.  For the Epicurean believer Lucretius, life derives and should flourish from a naturalistic, materialist point of view.  Living for the pleasure, and joy of life because nothing is after death is the key to a life well lived.  “Grim religion” is a description used in his writing, On the Nature of Things.   In his opinion, men are too hard on themselves and should remember to enjoy as much pleasure as possible so as to rest knowing that though tomorrow may not come, at least they experienced “life.”  The notion of giving of oneself in death for their belief in God is perhaps ludicrous to Lucretius.  Death means nothing but the end of life.  This is definitely  an idea many hold to today.  Death is certainly not gain.

      Perpetua, a martyr for her devotion to Jesus Christ, would agree wholeheartedly with the words of Paul.  This life holds nothing to being in the presence of God in Heaven.  She holds to the truth that we are sojourners.  We should not root ourselves in this world.  Her actions and statements in the account, The Passion of Perpetua and Felicity, hold to the belief that there is life after death—life in the truest form.  Dying for her faith meant the complete discard of this world’s joys and pleasures for the everlasting joy and pleasure of being with her Creator forever therefore inheriting the promises

of Christ.

       For  the Christian Missionaries facing death, Lucretius would advise them to renounce their beliefs for the reason that it is not good to live for a higher being that’s calling them to persevere in hardships.  He would instruct them saying something to the extent of, “This world is all we’ve got, so better to stay and live here then be anywhere else.”  Cue Perpetua who would praise God along with the Christian Missionaries for the opportunity of living and dying for Christ.  She would implore them to hold fast to the words of Christ and the fellowship of the saints.  Who knows, their testimonies and complete joy in persecution could bring Lucretius to Christ.

Profile Exercise

Here is an excerpt on the profile I wrote on my boss:

 

Four more hours.  I look around the corner in a moment of distraction to comment on her ability to look like she’s walked off of a J-Crew spread.  A pencil skirt, navy cardigan, and an Oxford are the chosen items of the day, and I can’t help but look at my lowly rags. Her signature is the buttoning of the top button.  I think this action may give her special Admissions Representative powers because I’m under its spell.  All I want is an Oxford to button up every day.  I dream about it.  Even over Christmas break I found my little brother’s blue Oxford from elementary school—he was always abnormally small sadly.  The top button was the only button I could manage to get through the hole.  I brought it back nonetheless, and just put a sweater over it to hide the smallness of the Oxford.  I also see that she’s sporting her Valentines gift from her husband, Chris, a necklace off of Piperlime, and type in the search box of Pinterest for the jewelry section—DIY is my friend in these penniless situations I realize.  My stomach signals the dawning of lunch, and she smiles around her own cubical wall as if she’s been signaled herself.  “Lunch,” she asks.  “Don’t have to ask me twice,” I say grabbing my wallet and jacket