"Now you know I can't smile without you."

I never thought it would be so hard to write a play.

I'm working on a project for my Rhetoric And Writers class, and we were given the opportunity to write in any format we wished, saying really anything we wished rhetorically.  Stupidly, I thought this was a great opportunity to try writing a play.  I've always wanted to, so I figured I would just go for it.

I forgot to look before I jumped.

Maybe it's not even the play format itself, but the content that's bothering me.

I decided I would write about a priest who is young and fresh, but already tired.  He is beginning to think of his relationship with God as more of a dutiful marriage that he is committed to instead of the fiery passion he once had.  A young nameless woman comes to confessional one day and tells the priest that she is dying and is scared.  Through conversation, the priest realizes that this woman has a passion for God beyond belief, but has let her passion go so far that she can't work out her own death. 

I was proud of this story when it first came.  Now I just want to be done with it.

But I can't stop.  Even if my story is crap, it's become a symbol to me now.  I feel like I quit when things get old, I can't quit this.

I think I have a problem attaching symbolism and metaphors to everything I do.

In other news, keep calm cause Neville got sexy.

Four Years Of Silence Is Still Hurtful

You'd think that as much as I've moved and changed and altered life, I'd be used to loosing friends and making new ones and letting things go.

Nearly 22 years and I'm still bad at letting people go.

Some days it's fine and the people I used to know but life has happened or we've gotten into fights we couldn't work our way out of or other friends have gotten in the way or business has gotten in the way or we just don't acknowledge each other's presence anymore and we both look straight ahead when we pass each other, some days these failed relationships are alright.

Some days I look back on all the people that have come in and out of my life - or maybe I've come in and out of theirs - and I can just smile and fondly remember when we were happy and life was good with them.

But then some days, days like today when I have my iPod on repeat one for hours on end and the sun goes down far too quickly and I've been alone for awhile, these days it's not okay.

It's not okay that I didn't fight harder for some friendships.  It's not okay that they didn't fight hard enough for me.  It's not okay that they just decided to move on to "bigger and better things" and leave me behind.  It's not okay that by sticking up for what is right for me means that we can no longer be friends.  It's not okay that you just suddenly and without warning stopped talking to me. 

It's not okay that our friendship is reduced to silence. 

I know that it's just life and sometimes people fade in and out and sometimes you just loose contact with people.  I know this.  I really do know this better than some.

But how is it that sometimes people can just stop loving each other?

How can people who love Jesus just stop loving each other?  This is probably a very naive sentence, but it has been playing over and over in this old head for several days now. 

If we really want to be like Jesus, if I fervently pray that I will become less and less of myself and more and more of Jesus, then why are the people around me not overcome with love from me?

I started this with every intention of venting some frustrations out about a few people I have apparently lost over the years and months and weeks and even days.
But I understand that if I want the life around me to change, I need to start with the change inside of myself.

In between the silence, I'll be fervent in asking for Jesus' love.  And maybe one day when I see you again, sweet old friend, my smile will reflect Jesus and you will realize that you didn't loose me as a friend, you lost the reflection of Jesus in me.

Until then, I'll sit in the silence and love you, friend.

"Puzzles and codes, I imagine they lay down to you like lovers."

Last night I decided to be social, so I went to a friend's house with a couple of friends.  We all decided that it was the perfect movie-watching night, but we had some disagreements on which film to watch.  Some people wanted to watch a scary film, while one wanted to watch a Disney film. 

Somehow, we decided that The DaVinci Code was a compromise on these two things.

I'm still not really sure how that worked.

Anyways, we watched The DaVinci Code.  And in between squirming when Paul Bettany tortured himself "for Jesus' sake", wondering why Tom Hanks thought having long hair would ever be a good idea, being generally confused by the complexity of the plot, and questioning what was true history and what was "true" history, I found myself questioning how the filmmakers wanted me to feel by the end of the film.

The point of the film seemed to me to be that Jesus was married and had a child by Mary Madgalene, which apparently meant that Jesus was not divine, but just a regular Joe. 

This just seemed like the strangest point in the world to make.  Of all the reasons you could think of to "prove" that Jesus was not divine, really?  That's the one you chose?

 
Here's my thing: say Jesus was married to Mary and say he was just a man and say God doesn't exist and say we are all just hanging out on earth until we die and say there's nothing after we die, just blackness and the end.  Say all of that is true.  Say it's all true, and that believing in God and Jesus is stupid because there is no God and no Divine Jesus and nothing but us.

Alright, that's fine.  I'm still going to follow God, even if he is just make believe.

Here's why: if there's nothing more beyond us and life, then that means we are all living a pretty hopeless life.  And we're all just going to become nothing after we're done here.

If that is the case, I don't want it.  I don't want life.  If this is it, why keep living this?  There would be absolutely no point besides self-gratification.

So I'll just keep sticking with God, even if there is no God, and even if Jesus isn't Divine.  At least by believing in Him, even if it wasn't real, I'd be living for something besides my own self-gratification.  I'd be living for some kind of purpose.

And if God isn't real and it's all made up, it's not going to make a difference whether I believe in it or not, right?  I'd still become nothingness when I die, so why does Ron Howard care if I believe in it or not?

At least I have more hope and a point to my existence than he does.  At least I wake up in the morning and can embrace the day with a fake sense of security and hope, instead of waking up thinking, "One more day closer to becoming nothingness."

I wish I was as creative and brilliant as C. S. Lewis was and could say this as beautifully as he did, but I don't think I can.  So I'll just write out what he said:

"Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things - trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important that the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well it strikes me as a pretty poor one... I'm on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lean on... we're leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland. Not that our lives will be very long, I should think; but that's a small loss if the world's as dull a place as you say."

I'm glad I have hope.



 

Well you're hot, hot, loaded like a gun

I'm questioning if there is anything more peaceful than sitting in the School of Religion's Reading Room, listening to the rain, and wearing my comfy-but-cute clothes.

I think not.

Well, if you add sushi in the mix, it would make it perfection, naturally.

It's days like these, when there's lots to be done but time to just sit and listen to the rain and talk to God for a little while, these days are the days where it's just good to be alive.

Even bad hair can't get you down on days like this.  These are the days that headbands and bobby pins were created for.

On days like today, I wish I lived in France, and I wish I could dance. Or at least could make an attempt at dancing.  When I dance now, I just look like a dying animal.

I want to dance like Gene Kelly.  Is that possible? 

Storytelling

Sometimes I feel like being a journalist means I get to experience the things that other people do without actually doing them myself.

I can't decide if this is a good thing or not.

I interviewed an actress today.  Secretly, I've always wanted to act.  You know how you have those plans that you will never follow through with, but you know that if you could do anything in the world, you would do x?  I've always thought acting in plays is like that thing for me.

So I was excited to interview this actress.  And in talking with her and listening to the fluctuation of her voice and the way she spoke in hushed tones about becoming her character when she is on stage, I imagined myself in her shoes.  For that eighteen-and-a-half minute interview, I personified myself as an actress.

And then I came home and wrote the story.  And turned back into the storyteller I am inside.

Does that mean that a good storyteller puts on different hats in order to tell the best story possible 

Maybe not.  But I think that's what I'm finding myself doing.

Maybe it's hard to see anything negative about this.  But at times, especially the past month or so, I've found myself backing out of activities and living (in certain ways) because I have to interview someone or write a story or whatever.  And while I am talking to them or writing their story, I feel like a part of something huge, even if it's just talking to an actress who shaved her head for a play or a lonesome man who drives a trolley.

But sometimes when I'm done writing the story or talking to them or I put away my storytelling pen, I am reminded that I forgo certain aspects of life in order to tell others' stories.  I have at times put aside my own life in order to tell someone else's.

Is that sane?

"This is my rock and role face. Millions of women find it very sexy."

It's funny to watch people's reactions to you smile at them. 

That's one thing I've noticed about students here.  You can tell a lot about a student by their reaction to your smile. 

Maybe people do this everywhere, and I've just noticed it since I've been at Lee.  But when people see someone else walking towards them, they look at everything in the world they can possibly look at to avoid eye contact until the most opportune moment.  

Then, when the timing is right, when you are both passing each other, you look up and acknowledge their presence. 

It's an odd system to me, but I've found myself following this unspoken rule while I've been here.  If you deviate from this rule, it really throws people off.  

What throws them off even more is when you smile as broadly as you can to someone you don't even know.  Or, Heaven forbid, when you speak to them. 

I tested this theory the other day.  I was walking past a girl I had seen around but never actually met.  She has one of the best senses of fashion I've ever seen, and I'm constantly jealous of her outfits.  

So the other day, as we walked past each other, I looked at her until she looked up from the ground, and smiled my most friendly smile, then said, "I love your dress." 

I thought she was going to fall over in shock or something.  

I took her so off guard, I heard her utter an, "Um, thanks," after we had already passed each other. 

It made me laugh that such a simple, friendly gesture would shock someone so much. 

It also made me want to break the unspoken rule more often.  Just to see people react as if the world has just been shaken and confused. 

Attribution for the title: Hugh Grant in Music And Lyrics

Trolley Drivers And Truth

The thing I learned today is that things don't just happen.

I had been working on a story for my university newspaper.  The story itself wasn't bad, but I just kept feeling like I was writing stories just to have words on a page so my managing editor wouldn't yell at me. I knew this was not how a journalist should act, but I just couldn't seem to help it.  I felt stuck as a writer.

I was zoning out a little during an interview for this particular story.  I couldn't seem to get motivated to be a journalist, I was just hoping to squeeze by.  And then my interview-ee changed everything just by a simple sentence.

"I never did figure out the trolley system."

I'm not even sure why this particular sentence made me sit up and start listening.  But thank God it did.

Even though this statement had nothing to do with my particular story, I stopped asking my questions on my list and started asking my interview-ee about this trolley system he couldn't figure out.

The more he talked, the more deeply I could smell my next story.

I decided I would figure out this trolley situation, no matter what.  I was determined.  I felt like I had this breaking story, even if it was just about a trolley.  Or so I thought, anyways.

I did something that is rare for me - I talked to everyone I could think of about this trolley.  I had talking to administrative people, but I didn't really seem to care when it came to this trolley.  I wanted to know.

And then I felt like I hit a wall.  I couldn't find anyone who really wanted to talk to me.  I talked to three or four admin people, but they just didn't seem to see how this story was relevant, even though I was determined.

So again, I did something that all journalists do, but that I typically avoid like the plague.  I ran after my story.  Quite literally, actually.

I saw the trolley sitting on campus as I walked out from a class.  I hadn't prepared for an interview, I didn't even know what kinds of questions I would ask, and I hadn't spent the typical twenty minutes I normally spend mentally preparing for an interview.  I just decided to get on the trolley and start talking.

I could hear the trolley motor from several hundred feet away, and I suddenly was hit with a terrible thought; it is about to drive away.  I might miss it.

So I literally ran from my class to the trolley. It was exhilirating running after a story like that.

I smiled at the driver and he kindly opened the door for me. I didn't know what to say, so I just started talking.

"I'm a writer.  I mean, I'm an editor.  For the Lee Clarion.  The school newspaper, I mean.  Well, it's called the Lee Clarion.  Can I talk to you?  I mean, for a story.  Cause I'm writing a story about the trolley.  Well, not the trolley itself, but like the trolley system. Oh, can I record this?  I have my recorder."

This is literally what I said to the poor man. And even though I blubbered all over myself, he agreed to talk to me.

I was embarrassed by my outburst, so I decided to be incredibly professional.  I stood right next to him on the trolley, my recorder practically in his face, doing the Journalist Nod as he talked and doing the Journalist Ear, which means that I was half listening half thinking up my next question.  After getting all the Important Facts from him, I wondered if maybe our interview was over.  I mean, it had only been 6 minutes and 14 seconds, but I seemed to have all the Important Facts I needed.

And then told me I should take a seat. I sat down.

An hour later, I stood up and got off the trolley.

It's not that the trolley driver and I had an especially deep or theological conversation.  We just talked.  About life.  About people.  About goals and dreams and hopes and places we've been and places we hope to go.

And through this incredible hour long conversation with a kindhearted, God-filled trolley driver, I remembered why it is that I am a journalist.

I am a journalist because I love stories.  There is nothing that makes me happier than listening to someone just talk.  It doesn't have to be particularly powerful or life-changing, it's just truth.

For that brief hour, the trolley driver and I made a difference in each other's lives.  He told me that he had been feeling depressed, that he had been wondering about his life and what God was up to, but that I refreshed him.

And even though I didn't say it to him, he refreshed me as well.

So if you are looking for me around campus and you can't seem to find me, just look for the trolley.  I will probably be on it, just riding around with the trolley driver, my new friend, and talking.