leave it for the birds

I've always been infatuated by birds. In fact I have one on me, but that's a secret.

Barn swallows, geese, red wings, sparrows, even pigeons, I'm a fan of them all. Something about them intrigues me. I could watch them for hours, they are almost as fascinating as watching people. One of the things I find most intoxicating about our flying companions is their freedom. All they need is a little flap of the wings and they are off to a new and better place. Watching them glide effortlessly through the sky lets my heart find the freedom it needs sometimes. I don't like being tied-down, but sometimes life calls for it. I'm still wildly protective of what little freedom I have left and will often turn the dogs out when I feel like someone or something is infringing on those freedoms.

I was told Monday that I probably won't be allowed to cross the border into Mexico. I held myself together, but after the meeting I threw some things and yelled some choice words and let my heart break. I don't know what it is but something is pulling me to that border. How can a program that is trying to tear down walls and bring people together give into this boundary thing? It just didn't make sense to me. In all reality is was probably because I don't like being told what to do. Regardless I convinced myself that they were just doing the business part of the church's job. They were trying to keep from being liable for any issues, but that is one part of the church that I hate.

I hate to say it (actually I don't) but I am so over the church. At least our human definition of the church. The building and everything that goes with it has lulled us into complacency. A lesson can be learned and applied so much easier when instead of just listening to a sermon, you are getting your hands dirty. Tithing is a lot easier to do when you know you are actually helping someone and not paying an electricity bill. And sharing the gospel is a lot more productive when someone sees Christ in you, rather than shoving him down their throat. Don't get me wrong, I know a lot of these things are crucial to keep the church functioning, but what happened to the church in Acts where everyone shared what they had? Opened their homes, shared meals, served together, actively waited for the second-coming? That's the kind of church I live for and I feel pretty strongly that that church wouldn't feel the need to stay on only one side of the border...

*as a disclaimer...yes I know the risks and dangers that are happening in Mexico right now. I know it isn't safe. I'm not dumb. I'm just also, like those birds, not willing to be tied down and told where to go, or not go for that matter.

Hey-oh looks who's still in Wichita...

Restless would be an understatement. Frustrated would be much too weak. Unsettled wouldn't quite do it justice. Throw them all together and you would be getting closer, but still no cigar.

If you haven't picked up by now, I'm still in Wichita. Something about paperwork and insurance and yadda yadda.... translation: Still here.

So in an angry rage at the world, and because my dog ate my new shorts, I went out on the town. Wichita has some great gems including...

A store that sells caskets and urns in the west mall.

Water-logged bike paths

A store for all your home brewing needs

Enough orange construction cones to wrap around the world 30 times, or at least seriously divert all the traffic between here and China

A restaurant that only sells hotdogs, but does them about 60 different ways

Quality drivers who stop on entrance ramps to the highway

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Gotta love your hometown, right? Right?

great big gobs of greasy grimy gopher guts....

One year ago today I was returning from my first experience with a Portuguese beach. The sun, the sand, the people, the food, everything was fabulous.

Today I am back in Wichita, be it only temporarily, where the closest thing to a beach is the puddle on the side of the street from the thunderstorms last night.

Sunday I leave for Texas. Not so much beach there either, but definitely another adventure.

Just gotta say it's about damn time.
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in other news... I was at the grocery store last night for a late night oreo's and milk run. I've spent the last week enjoying this delectable treat with a variety of folks. We have discussed the different dipping methods, and the optimal time for the perfect smooshy cookie. However through all of this I have always found someone to drink my dipping milk. When I was seven I ate some oreo's drank my milk, then threw it all up. My mom blames it on the fact that I had strep, but I know the real culprit is the gritty grimy milk full of the oreo's discards and leftovers. Well after receiving much teasing over my inability to drink the milk, I gave in and drank it. Yes, for all you skeptics out there I drank the oreo milk. I didn't like it but i drank it. And the whole time I just kept thinking about the song we used to sing when we were little...

Great green globs of greasy, grimy gopher guts
Mutilated monkey feet
Chopped up baby parakeet
Great green globs of greasy, grimy gopher guts
And me without my spoon

It made the milk go down a lot easier...

bridge to who knows what

My calves screamed. My lungs pulled in the sticky air in heaves, and yet my legs continued their steady plodding. My Ipod turned off blocks ago and every muscle wanted to join the dead ipod, but I kept running, listening to the steady beat of my new purple shoes slamming the pavement, and the matching pace of my overworked lungs. I forced myself to go just one more block. Just to the next light pole. To the bridge.

As per the rules in high school, bridges are for walking, but after crossing the third one of the evening I was too busy watching the baby geese chasing after their mother to think about walking. Then I was across the bridge and only a block from home. But I was on the wrong side of the river, a toxic river not meant for swimming.

So I another mile and a half to get to the next bridge. Only this time I was too busy thinking about those physics problems about two trains approaching each other on the same track. One going 30 mph and the other going 45 mph and how soon they would meet, and what the calculated force of their impact would be. And before I knew it there went another bridge and I had no idea how far I was from home.

I knew exactly how far i was from my old house. Sixteen blocks. A mile and a half, if the blocks are long. But my parents moved four blocks east and I was way west. So that would be 20 blocks. A mile and three quarters maybe. They moved four short blocks.

And then I ran into another bridge. This time I walked the entire length of the bridge and realized I was a college graduate. I didn't have to think about how a group of geese is called a gaggle, or the formulas needed to calculate the velocity of trains, or how many blocks make a mile. Nope, don't have to do that anymore.

That thrilled me, and scared me all the same.

Then I ran home the long way, and avoided all the bridges...

rain and redemption

She walked into the restaurant two steps behind him in an oversized t-shirt and sweats. Her hair was cut short and was meant to stick out in all directions, but instead, due to the pouring rain it lay plastered to her round oval face. It acted like an arrow, immediately drawing one's eye to the fading mark on her upper cheek. It was still black and blue, but rimmed with the yellow that comes with time. She acted as if nothing was wrong, yet there was something unsettling about the way she interacted with the man she walked in with. She stayed at least an arms length away from him. She picked the seat as far from him as possible, while still at the same table. She was skittish and flighty. Or maybe it was all in my imagination.

The mark on her face made me think about what I'm going to be up against. It made me wonder if she screamed when it happened. Or if the tears she shed were from anger, or pain, or a combination of both. It made me wonder if she took the person back into her life. Or if maybe she was just clumsy.

It made me wonder if she knew that for every man out there that hits and beats a woman, there is another who wants to whisper sweet nothings into her ear and hold her close.

For every person causing a bruise, a broken bone and a shattered heart, there is another waiting to soothe, heal and pull together the pieces. One who accepts, who encourages, who loves.

One who sees beauty when all we see is brokenness and weakness

It scares me to think that this is what I get to fight against this summer, but I think I'm ready.

They fight with fists. I'm fighting with something much more powerful. I'm fighting with love... well, lvoe.

for all you nerds out there....

This story requires a couple of sidebars. I couldn't decide if it was better to put them next to what they pertained to or to at the end. So they are at the end. You can decide to read it however you wish.****
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I found it fitting that I spent my last class of my undergraduate college career surrounded by freshmen. It was a Calculus 2 class. It's a requirement for me to graduate, and while all of my peers found ways to fit it into their schedule in the early years of their college experience, i couldn't find the space until this semester. I've always been one to live on the wild side and wait for the last minute anyway. And besides, who doesn't like taking four year hiatuses* from math before trying to pick it back up again?

We went over the test we took on Wednesday, worked over some examples, and then reviewed a little for the final. The last example took only five minutes. We went through step by step a rather complex problem requiring a few derivatives, a couple theorems and a handful of algebraic tricks. As we neared the end of the problem, i realized the answer was going to break all the rules**.

So I realized. In my last math class. We were about to divide by zero. I sat up straight. Put both hands flat on the table, and clenched every muscle as the professor started putting a zero in the denominator. I'm pretty sure i even closed my eyes in anticipation. After a few seconds of silence, i opened them slowly, looked around and tested to see if my language predominately involved the third letter of the alphabet.

It didn't. I lived. And divided by zero.

Take that Mrs. Herter.***

*this is in fact the appropriate plural form of hiatus. I had to look it up. College hasn't taught me everything.

**I was one of those kids that never questioned math. It always made sense to do exactly what the teacher said. I was trusting and willing to believe them. So when I was taught never to divide by zero, i knew that meant to NEVER divide by zero. It was one of those things that could bring the world to a screeching halt. Like a tower of babel type situation that resulted in everyone's language, everywhere to be only words that start with c's. If we divided by zero, we would all be saying... car cotton clamor conundrum, which literally translated would mean, what the hell did we get ourselves in to?

***Mrs. Herter was my third grade math teacher. We did mad minutes and learned our times tables. She told me never to divide by zero. Because it wasn't allowed. She also pointed at things with her middle finger. It was kind of unsettling.

****who explains blog posts? .....however I do need to note, for all those who know math. Dividing by zero actually is not valid, however it was applicable in this case seeing as we were taking the limit and applying L'Hopital's rules. So dividing by zero works. But only in that case. Still awe inspiring. Or at least a cause of self-implosion.

when the words don't come

As I sit down to write what could possibly be the last paper I turn in for a non-science class at Jewell, I find myself drawn here to express myself rather than the cold empty page on which my assignment will be turned it.

It's an odd feeling to be sitting this close to the end.

I've drawn away from those who still have years to put into this institution. I can see their immaturity from miles away. It's something I've never noticed before.


The reflection process is something strange to begin. As I walk through the buildings that I've called home for the past four years I find myself remembering small memories of things that happened in certain rooms, people who have occupied them, even the crazy things I have thought in them. It's almost like i'm floating through this dream world, picking items up, taking in their worth and saying goodbye before setting them back down.

Goodbye chair, goodbye lab where I put in hours of heartbreak and sweat, goodbye favorite pipetteman that fits in my hand perfectly.

The library is humming tonight. No voices raised in laughter or small talk, just the hurried rushed voices that feel the stress of the impending deadlines. It sounds a little like a beehive. Work is being accomplished at a dizzying rate by people who haven't been in the library all semester. And still my paper has a few lines splattered on it in reference to the first journal I have to review.

Goodbye rocker that held me every time I cried. Goodbye awkwardly large toilet bowl, goodbye bricks worn smooth by the trudging of college students. Goodbye bell tower...

The library siren beeps, pulling entire groups away from their presentations and papers. False alarm. The work continues... and still I have two lines.

Goodbye favorite toilet. Goodbye plug-ins in the Perch that I fought administration for tooth-and-nail, goodbye not-so secret Senate office.

The deadline looms closer, and yet I can't pull my thoughts from the silly unimportant things here that will be missed. Maybe you have to start with the little things before you can begin to say goodbye to the bigger ones.

Maybe you just have to tough if up and rip the bandaid that covers it all off.

here goes nothing.....