They don't have yellow covers, I promise

What do we gravitate toward when we are tired and want light reading? Novels, of course.

Jim: Moby Dick, by Herman Melville. 758 pages.

Me: The Way We Live Now, by Anthony Trollope. 802 pages.


I have this funny feeling that it might be incurable.

Some larger way/ Where many paths and errands meet...

It occurred to me the other day as I exited the 10 West to take the onramp to the 215 South. People talk about "the intersection of this freeway and that freeway," but it's not really true. Freeways never actually intersect.

They go over each other. Under each other. Parallel to each other. Around each other. They have precisely arranged entrances and exits linking them in an efficient system. But they never actually meet. Intersections are inconvenient and slow us down, and so they are carefully avoided.

Must be a pretty lonely thing to be a freeway.

The younger* members of the family

Our six year old is throwing tantrums. Kassie can keep going at a great pace for a long time on amazingly small amounts of sustenance, but she requires constant attention. We are hoping that one of these days she will settle down and learn some endurance.

Meanwhile, our twenty year old is behaving responsibly. Hwin is reliable and, though she doesn't have the boundless energy and agility of Kassie, gets the job done as expected.

And we aren't even paying for her university education.


*also internally combustive

A toast, rather belated

Not long after my arrival at Biola, wide-eyed as ever a freshman could be, I remember listening in to a conversation about finding husbands (surprised that lofty sophomores would condescend to include me!). Heather commented dreamily, "I think I will know he's the right one when I can talk to him freely without feeling nervous. There aren't very many people I can talk to..."

Joel, thanks for being "the right one." God's richest blessings on you both-- and enjoy your honeymoon!!!

History repeats itself

December 2003: Jim's graduation from Biola. I think this may be the only graduation speech I have ever heard which survives the test of being memorable three and a half years later. Either of us could still tell you, in detail (and sometimes verbatim) what Phil Vischer said. I suspect we are not the only ones. It was a riveting account, not of "you have a bright future and can do anything you want to do for the Kingdom of God," but of what happens when you fail and every wonderful thing you were planning to do for God crashes down around your ears. Vischer had just come through the court case that, for the moment, seemed to have utterly ruined Big Idea, and all he did was tell his story genuinely, humbly-- and hopefully. And we listened.

Last night: Jim gave the charge to "his" seniors as they graduated from PCA. He, too, avoided the cliches of rosy futures and glowing opportunities. He, too, talked about defeat. And he, too, told stories. About the composition of the great hymn "Be Thou My Vision" in Ireland, when it looked like Christianity was about to be crushed between Islam from the south and Vikings from the north. About the triumph of Amroth and Nimrodel, which consists not in a happy ending but in a hope that will not die. And about the ultimate symbol of defeat, the hideous Roman method of criminal execution, which has become the most glorious symbol of victory there ever was. Because our God has hallowed defeat, and death itself died.

The point? Despair without guarantees would leave us sitting in beanbag chairs, sipping Starbucks and playing video games all day long, because who cares?-- defeat is probably imminent. But what we have is hope without guarantees. That is why we live, and love, and laugh, and try, and learn, and face failure. And that is worth hearing on the cusp of adulthood.

An open letter to my husband's high school students

Dear students of P------- C------ Academy,

Though I do not approve, I understand the instincts that go into defacing your classroom. I think. But in the future, will you please make it more interesting to clean up?

What is the point in crumpling up little pieces of blank paper to stuff into the crevices in the wall? You should at least write your secret hopes and dreams on them first. Or perhaps funny limericks. Or even notes labelled "to whoever finds this." But blank? Why?

And if you really want to draw with ballpoint pens on the white wall, then you could at least prove that you are literate high schoolers instead of kindergartners. Anyone can do scribbles. I had a little bit more appreciation for the person who wrote (upside down) various notes to his/her significant other, inviting phone calls, but could you find no other endearing name besides "sexy"?

Then, too, there is the case of the file cabinet. Or more accurately, the two inches of space behind the file cabinet. I'm sure there is something more creative to throw behind a file cabinet than spit wads. But as it was, spit wads far outnumbered coins, marbles, college brochures, mouse pads, potato bug skeletons, or live spiders.

Cleaning your classroom could have been an anthropologist's dream come true. Won't you consider leaving more evidence of your real lives next time?

Sincerely,
your teacher's wife

Myself, I always wondered why we didn't have boyed cheese sandwiches

Or, The Phenomenon of Transposition in Marital Communication

Jim: "Maybe someday we'll have a little girl, and then--"

My inner commentary: "Awww! Jim wants a daughter!" (melts in sappy puddle)

Jim: "--we can cook outside on the patio, maybe do burgers..."

My inner commentary: "Oh..."

Here's to my brother

All my humorous "tips," either for Boot Camp or for Cameroon, seem to have deserted me. So I will just say this: I'm proud to be your sister, and I wish I were going with you (at least to Bamenda)! --Oh, and kill LOTS of mosquitoes.

God be with you, Nat. You'll be in our prayers.